a Papa John's travesty

Last night we called Papa John's to order in pizza for dinner. They were out of Italian sausage, ham, garlic sauce, and some other stuff that I didn't catch.

How can that be?

Then when we tried to order their version of the meat lover's pizza, which should have included the missing Italian sausage and ham, and asked that they include mushrooms in lieu of some of the missing meat, they said they could, but we'd have to pay extra.

How can that be?

I don't think Papa John would be very pleased...

tomorrow is a very important anniversary...

... of the day I got my new eyes!

Even though I looked like this for 6 hours of recovery, it was worth every embarrassing second. I HEART my year-old "new" eyes!

Happy (early) Birthday to me...

Today I got an Amazon package in the mail and the Customs form said "printed book". I don't order printed books anymore -thank you last year's birthday present Kindle - so naturally I ripped right into the box to see this book.

And I met a wrapped present with a card on top that said "Happy Birthday! Love, Moma".

So I didn't open it because it's not my birthday yet and I'm Type A and I like to have order in my life. Opening a present early reflects a total disregard for the order of the universe.

I sent my mom an email to thank her for what I thought was a cookbook. I measured the girth, felt the heft, looked at the height and it screamed cookbook.

I also told my mom that I was going to try and wait until my birthday to open it.

I finished up work, came home, and could not stop thinking about what I knew was a cookbook.

It weighed on me.

It begged to be opened.

It really spoke to me from behind that generic Amazon wrapping paper.

I decided not answering a talking package reflected a greater disregard for universal order than opening a package ahead of its due date.

So I opened it.

And guess what my Moma sent me?????

Only the brand spanking new Pioneer Woman cookbook!! Are you jealous of me? Because I'd be jealous of me, unless you've already bought it for yourself.

Hurray for me and hurray for having a mom who knew what I'd love more than anything. (Between you and me, that's why I opened the package. I really felt an unnaturally strong belief that The Pioneer Woman was inside.)

Oh my. I'm one happy girl and cannot wait to start reading it.

Thanks, Mom, for a PERFECT gift!!

Back to "Normal"

Mac came down with the dreaded strep this weekend. I put on my doctor hat, got out my flashlight which I used to examine the strep-infected throat, and declared my diagnosis.

That pesky, villainous, evil strep.

And this being Bogota, I then went next door and bought a course of Amoxicillin - sans doctor's prescription- so I could get my boy on the road to recovery.

I tried to look up the correct dosage for Mac's weight, but let's be honest. I didn't really know what his exact weight was in the first place. And the equation I found on the Internet used kilograms and even had I known Mac's weight in pounds, I would have had to calculate what that was in kilos to make that equation work and I always have to think hard whether you multiply by 2.2 or divide by 2.2. It seemed like a lot of work so I emailed a friend whose child had recently had strep and just used his dosage.

So Mac got a dose on Saturday afternoon, two on Sunday and one this morning. But he still wasn't where I thought he needed to be after so many doses, so I took him to the health unit this morning. Turns out my skills as a diagnostician are spot-on. But my skills as a prescription writer need some work. After four doses of antibiotic, he still tested positive for strep. I under-medicated him (but at least I didn't get yelled at for giving him antibiotics unnecessarily).

Mac came home after that to be babied by "Ms. Ruth", who made him soup, bought him a 12-pack of BBQ potato chips (because that apparently is a home remedy for curing strep), and let him eat ice cream. Oh, and she gave him that extra dosage of medicine that I neglected to give on Saturday and Sunday. By the time I got home at 4:45, my boy was brand new.

Do you want to know how I knew he was back to normal? He was playing and talking to himself. Or talking to the imaginary person he was playing with, I'm not sure which. But he talks to himself or that imaginary person a lot when he's well and he hadn't done that at all since Saturday, so I knew he back to normal. Or as normal as someone can be who talks a lot when there's nobody else around.

And that makes me very happy.

I have a confession to make

My name is Susan, and I am addicted to the Pioneer Woman.

When that will change to "recovering addict" is not on the foreseeable horizon.

I don't know how I missed her for all these years. Surely if you had known about her, you would have told me, right?

My discovery of her happened because my boys play tennis on Saturday morning. It's not a direct correlation, but I often use that time to watch a little uninterrupted Food Network. And it turns out she started her show on one of those Saturday mornings that I tuned in. And I was hooked.

Since then, I have periodically checked her blog - thepioneerwoman.com - and tried a few recipes but I would classify my obsession as mild.

Until now.

A week or two ago, I stumbled on a story on the sidebar of her blog that honestly could have caused me to wet my pants had I had a semi-full bladder. I read it and re-read it and every time, I laughed out loud. You can check it out - go back a few posts on my blog and you'll see a very short post. But this post spoke to me because a) I LOVE anybody with a self-deprecating sense of humor and b) I could see this whole scene play out in my head and could imagine the horror of it all.

Who was this woman?

Since then, I've become addicted. Seriously addicted. As in, could we plan a summer vacation to Oklahoma and find her ranch and just show up on her doorstep? I think she'd invite me for an iced coffee and I could help her cook dinner for the Marlboro Man, aka her husband, and all her kids.

Since then, I downloaded her book and read it in what seemed like minutes. And I laughed out loud at parts of it. I've also subscribed to get all her blog posts as they come out. I have only subscribed to two other blogs and those are of dear friends with new babies and I need/must see the developments of those sweet babies as soon as they are made. The Pioneer Woman competes with babies. She might be winning in the popularity contest.

Just kidding. I love those babies and will always be more interested in them than her.

I think.

Anyhoo, I cannot get enough of this woman. I'm off to make some of her fried rice for dinner tonight. I do, after all, have to feed my own Marlboro Man....

Teaching Mac to Cook

As many of you know, the Giginator, aka my mother, was a home economics teacher for 20-something years. As part of her teaching responsibilities, she taught what must have been 1000s of Berkeley County middle schoolers how to cook. Let me just tell you right now: after two consecutive nights of Mac insisting he help me cook, I am pretty convinced I would have to be heavily medicated on happy pills to teach children how to cook day in and day out.

The mess.

The extra time it takes.

The incessant questioning of "how much longer till it's ready?"

And did I mention the mess?

Last night we made really quite a delicious baked orzo dish (Mac cooked the bacon, sautéed the onions, chopped the basil and measured out the liquids) and tonight we baked homemade biscuits of which Mac has already eaten 2 and declared delicious (Mac measured the flour, whisked the dry ingredients together, mixed the liquid in, kneaded and cut out the biscuits).

Sweet Lord, grant me patience to continue these lessons.

And sweet Lord, put a bug in Mac's Bubby's ear to teach him some cooking when she comes to see us next week. He will have off two full weeks for Spring Break and that would provide lots of quality cooking time.

And also sweet Lord, put a bug in the Giginator's ear to follow up on these lessons when Mac goes home this summer ahead of Jimmy and me. There could be 3 weeks of good bonding time over a hot stove.

I may not need the extra patience after all if I can get these grandmothers on board....

Another thought on the facial

One thing I keep remembering from my facial was how nice and clean and fresh my facial techician's hands smelled. She must never cut up onions or garlic because her hands would never smell that nice. I wonder who does her cooking????