off my game

It seemed to be a bit of an epidemic among the Corey girls, this dropsiness. There were a couple of days when we all shared reports of having smashed things to bits in our respective homes. Ellie's was a much loved bowl, Julie's was something big that her husband tried to pretend was NOT a murder attempt on their poor old dog. Mom reminisced about the time when Dad broke a special bowl. It was a thing. It was amusing to me as a bystander, right up until the first crash.

It's rarely something you hate that smashes, isn't it? This was a piece that came with my lovely yellow house. It's a small corningware container from the cornflower collection. You know it well

 

aw. 

It's the perfect size and style for microwaving without the use of vile plastic. It's perfectly sized for a portion of leftovers that need to be zapped for Clara's thermos lunch. It's just perfect. So perfectly perfect.

It was the lid that smashed. I will never understand how something approximately 8 inches square can break into such a mind boggling multitude of horrific fractals that could cut a bitch. It was tragic. A casual observer might very well suspect that I had been plotting my own canine murder plot, as my steadfast sidekick was in her usual position at my feet, snout to the ground hoping for a stray scrap, at the precise moment when the skies of horror opened upon her fool head.

Sigh.

Shortly thereafter, I brought home groceries on a weekend morning, and went to put the 12 pack of seltzer in its rightful place on top of the fridge. Of course, I had a second 12 pack already up there (what? I'm supposed to run out? It's like a desert in here). I used the new box to give the old box an ever so gentle scootch to make room, and it proceeded to sail whimsically right to and over the edge of the top of the fridge, straight into the abyss.

I used a combination of brute force, contortion, and a broom to retrieve all 12 cans, and none were much worse for the wear.

still functional

Take a good look at the above photo, will you?

Do you see that full bottle of delicious enchilada sauce that sits in a perfectly reasonable spot on the kitchen counter?

Do you see the abyss?

Oh yes. It did. 

Did it ever. 

So for the *second* time that morning, I pulled the fridge out from the wall. This time I had to get in there, no broomstick would serve to get that shit off the walls.

Fun fact: while I was back there, I found quite a few leftover fractals from the smashed corningware lid.

I was off my game.

It changes your perspective when objects you've always known to be inanimate suddenly come to life and turn against you. Then the check engine light came on in my car.

Was this a leeward phase of the moon? Karmic payback for some neglected infraction? The end of days? Or was I just off my game?

I made decisions in this state. I bought a whole new car! It was madness, man.

I'm happy to report that this destructive disequilibrium did  not last forever. It lifted, much like the spell of a bad mood breaks when something makes me laugh. Things started to feel like it was falling back into balance, to the point when I forgot to catalog and document the strange fog of those dropsy days.

Last night I put away some groceries after work and saw that my coffee jar was empty of ground beans, so I threw some in the grinder, but it was too much to fit back into the jar so I thought I'd just prep tomorrow's brew. Inspired, I decided to put in some overnight oats to soak for an easy Friday morning breakfast. I put in the oats and the yogurt, then grabbed the almond milk from the fridge, enjoying the gorgeous scent of freshly brewed coffee as it bubbled into the pot. When I measured the almond milk into the jar I had two simultaneous thoughts:

1. I brewed the fucking coffee

2. That was chicken broth

I'm off my game, man.

Get er done

I'm a little overwhelmed lately.

I just saw this quote, and well, it pretty much fits.

As does this one.

Here's to getting shit done.

Madness

Oh, these hoops. Oh, how they slay me.

Tonight the UConn women go against the upstart Oregon Ducks. And although I know everyone thinks UConn women win all the time, well, don't think that means it's *easy* on us, the fans. It's not. It's the opposite of easy. It's hard.

It's exhausting.

So. Go UConn! I feel confident that Huskies can, um, beat? eat? the Ducks. I hope so. I do always enjoy duck 'orange.

And those other Elite Eight games?

That Stanford / Notre Dame game?

That Mississippi State / Baylor game?

Holy Madness.

And the men?

Can you believe Gonzaga?

Can you believe the Tar Heels?

Can you believe the pesky Ducks?

Can you believe the incredible Gamecocks?

March Madness, baby.

Bring it.

Go Huskies!

the blue eyed man

In the last few weeks, I have continued to share my leftovers with hungry folks around town. It has become a regular part of my morning routine to poke around the fridge for anything that might be a viable and deliverable meal or snack. One day this week, I warmed up some delicious turkey chili that had been forgotten in a far corner of my fridge. While it was in the microwave, I mentioned in an email to my family that I had concerns about the spiciness, which was the real reason that this delectable mini feast had languished in the fridge so long. Clara can’t handle the truth, man. I didn’t eat it either, but that’s because it had black beans and we all know* that I should NOT eat black beans.  Anyway. I thought about finding a little container to put some sour cream or yogurt in for cooling purposes, but then I got a hold of myself and remembered that I had to pack a lunch for myself and get my weird ass to work.

I do put thought into how these meals go together, though. In addition to being tasty and nutritious, I want them to be in the right kind of container, with utensils, and a napkin. I stop short of putting in a little note of encouragement like I used to do in my kids’ lunchboxes, but why?

Okay, so maybe I’m getting a little obsessive about this. Maybe it’s partially about my kids getting older and needing me less and me really liking to take care of people. I don’t know, but I do know that the day I delivered my chili was profoundly moving to me. I did my usual lap around the transit station parking lot, and saw a guy that I’m pretty sure I had given something to before when he was sleeping, because I remember how blue his eyes were when they flew open. On this day he was sitting up on a low wall, thumbing through his wallet. When I walked over and asked if he was hungry, he stood up with a huge smile and those bright blue eyes and seemed so genuinely happy, and in my perception it seemed that he had been sitting there hungry and wondering how he’d get food just at the precise moment that I walked up to save the day.**

This morning I had a nice batch of rice, beans, corn, and chicken with some masala sauce. I was chagrined not to have a proper container to put it in, and had to settle for a zip lock bag. Unsatisfactory. I found a SeaWorld gift bag (thanks Beth!) and put the zip lock bag inside along with a rejected half bag of whole grain cheez its (spoiled jerks) and one remaining green pistachio muffin from St. Patrick’s Day. I also threw in a fork and a bottle of water that would have been really helpful with the spicy chili.

As I drove toward work with the intention of a quick detour to the transit center lot, I thought about the blue eyed man and wondered if he’d be in his usual spot. I let my mind wander to a story about having an arrangement where I brought him food on a regular basis, and thought I should leave the house earlier so I could talk with him for a few minutes rather than swooping by with my weird deliveries and then racing off to work without even knowing his name. I started to wonder about this man and his life, and how he came to be where he is today.

I arrived at the lot and did a lap, but the blue eyed man wasn’t in his spot. I made another turn looking for a good place to drop off the shamu bag, and saw two men talking on the sidewalk next to their belongings. I pulled over and grabbed the bag, asking out the window if they were hungry. One man turned to walk toward me and I was pleasantly surprised when I saw his blue eyes! He stumbled a bit on his way to meet me. When he took and thanked me for the bag, he flashed that big smile around the impossibly long line of snot that ran from his nose to…. I don’t know where, I kept my blue eyes locked on his.  We maintained that eye contact right up until the moment he fell over, clearly hammered, and stayed on the ground, still smiling.

I should have thrown a few aspirin in the bag.

Isn’t life weird?

*Seriously, how does anyone eat black beans and live to tell the tale? They are kryptonite to my GI tract

**foreshadowing of my humblebrag hero complex

Green thumb

Ok, my gardens for the last two years were total fails.

But who says I can't grow anything?!

Happy Spring.

Okay, We're Finally Done.

It's been a marathon of St. Patrick's Day Festivities around these parts...

. . . I mean, every day, we don the beads.

We don them to serve . . .

. . . we don them to partake . . .

It's been super fun . . .

. . . and we've had some celebrity guest stars pop in to visit . . .

. . . Scottie! . . .

. . . Louie! . . .

. . . Larry! . . . 

. . . and two of my favorites in all the Land . . . 

But, man.

Between the boozing . . .

. . . and the parade-going . . .

 (this time all the way over in Mystic)

. . . and the bag-piping . . .

. . . and all those celebrity guest stars! . . .

. . . well, I think we've all worked hard, and we've all had just about enough . . .

. . . well, okay, maybe not these guys . . .

. . . these guys don't seem like they've had enough yet.

But for the rest of us? It's been a great couple of weeks celebrating our Irishness with music and Guinness and corned beef and soup and jigs and parades and love.

And now we're done.

See you next March.

Sláinte!

Photo Friday

I Love A Parade

Oh, I love a parade . . .

. . . as long as it's the St. Patrick's Day parade in New London.

Because, right?

I'm not much for military-might. But the Coasties?

Oh, we here in New London love the Coasties.

Okay, okay, we love the Navy, too . . .

. . . oh, and look! These guys. We love these guys, too.

But mostly . . .

. . . we love the family with which we watched the parade . . .

. . . I tried so hard to make this kid smile . . .

. . . close. So close.

. ..  and then his sister walked -- nay, marched -- by.

And then?

Our most beloved State Rep Mr. Chris Soto marched by, too. We are lucky to have this man working for us in Hartford. He is good, good people . . .  

. . . plus? He can do an Irish jig.

The Green Street contingent. The zero-degree weather scared away the masses. Did the weather scare us away?

As if.

Because we had a trombone . . .

. . . and a non-tuba.

Wouldn't this kid's mom love this photo?

The Hibernians, godblesstheirsouls.

. . . and the Hibernian's girl. Only in New London do you get half-a-head-a-cabbage as a parade treat . . .

Don't you think for one second I didn't serenade the Scarecrow as she walked down the street . . .

I could while away the hours, 

conferrin' with the flowers 

Consultin' with the rain. 

And Dorothy? With the shoes?

And Toto too? 

And Toto too.

Oh, wait. I think the kid is finally smiling . . .

. . . must be the pony.

Bye-bye Parade . . .

. . . and hello Mr. Dibble!

Look at these two -- adorable, right?

I mean, can you stand it?

Frankly, the adorableness abounded . . . 

. . . aw . . . 

. . . aw . . . 

. . . aw . . .

. . . aw . . .

Top O' the Mornin', y'all.