Staying Home and Doing Stuff

It's been a bit and I don't have a real reason for not writing other than laziness (and the Sims) and general MEH-ness.  I want to write more and I think it would be good for me, but I'm not going to make any promises I can't keep and will just make me feel bad for not keeping them.  A vague half assed commitment is the best I can muster at the moment.

As is the new normal these days, we have been home...a lot...a WHOLE lot. My Beloved rather thrives on this kind of thing, he's very project driven, I'm more of an idea kind of gal.  I'll come up with a great idea, get all ready to execute said idea and then wander off after something shiny.  I'm going to do a cleanse and admit to some of the projects I have started during the "Stay Home" part of "Stay Home Stay Safe".  

First, a disclaimer, all the COVID stuff started as I was recovering from a concussion (cheese injury, don't ask) so I can claim and blame some of this on a brain injury.  Not as much as I'd like, but some.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it so shut up.

Inspiration #1: MINIATURES

This all began when something called "book nooks" started popping up all over Pinterest. They are small, narrow dioramas that slide into a bookshelf and look super cool.

OMGYASINEEDONENOW!!!

You can find these magical slices of tiny amazingness on Etsy and such but they're pretty expensive and I can't justify spending a whole lot of money on something as frivolous albeit adorable thing.  So, I decided that I could totally make one myself and took a dive into the world of miniatures and tiny world building.  Holy crap the scope and expanse of the miniature building world is a wonder to behold.  Being bored as hell, housebound and, currently, possessing the attention span of a toddler living on a diet of Froot Loops and RedBull, I hit Amazon.  In short order, I found ALL THE THINGS, and they were so cute and tiny and I can totally do that, how hard can it be and OH MY GOD THEY HAVE KITS!  A entire room in a box that I can build and that's going to be my new best thing and I'll make one for everyone and I'll even maybe take orders or give them as gifts and COOL!

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 YAAAASSSSSS!

Gonna be here on Wednesday and I'm going to have so much fun!

In the box:

-Claire's Room Kit (a super adorable bedroom with books and a cozy chair IT'S SO PRETTY)

-Pastry Shop Kit (IT HAS TINY CAKES AND STUFF)

-two bottles of glue

-a teeny tiny tool set

-a "room box" (for displaying my new skill and I'm going to need MOAR SHELVES!)

 

Saved For Later: (because this is going to be my new thing and I'm going to do this forever!)

-1 miniature shop with bay window

-1 miniature shop with double windows

-1 miniature bookshop

-847 different books and book sets for above bookshop

    -Including: 

        -Harry Potter

        -Anne Of Green Gables

        -The Complete Works Of William Shakespeare

        -Chronicles Of Narnia

        -16 Assorted Classics

        -a Set Of Encyclopedias

        -Gray's Anatomy

        -The Iliad

-wallpaper and fabric (tiny, tiny patterns!)

-bookcases and furniture

-itty bitty LED lights

-magnifying glasses of varying strengths

-1,281 other items I'm not willing to admit to desperately wanting

CART TOTAL: $4,322.63

(If I bought the original item that inspired all this madness on Etsy, $325.00)

This is a tiny, adorable rabbit hole that I promise, you will thoroughly enjoy falling down.  I will readily admit to spending some hours happily wading through and building an elaborate fantasy of what I would be creating.  

Yeah, the stuff I actually bought is still in the original boxes.  I got distracted because the world needed masks and I felt compelled to answer the call.  

Which brings us to the next stroke of inspiration...

Inspiration #2: SEWING!

This is something I actually know how to do and had most of the stuff I needed except the elastic.  Tracking that stuff down became a project in and of itself, but I prevailed and acquired 120 yards in relatively short order. 120 yards is one hell of a lot of elastic and I was off to the races.  Happily, this was something I was able to do and fairly quickly master mask making 101. After a few days of humming away with my trusty Brother sewing machine, I had enough masks done for my nearest and dearest as well as my staff and assorted others that needed them.

Thank Goodness For YouTube Tutorials

Inspiration #3: PAINTING

My Beloved and I have been talking about painting the kitchen and the bedroom for ages and now seemed as good a time as any to finally get on with it.  As usual, easier said than done because choosing a paint color is a process BEFORE the painting process.  Bedroom color? Not a problem (you're asleep most of the time in there anyway so BOOM, color picked. Kitchen color?  That one is a fraught and emotional process.  It can't be too dark, as the window faces north and the room is small.  It can't be too light as that shows dirt too easily.  I hate painting trim, so it has to look good with the natural wood that's in there.  It can't be blue, because blue isn't a hungry color.  It's can't be green because we already have a lot of green going on.  It's already yellow so that's out because why would you paint it yellow again?  Gray doesn't work with the cabinets (no, shut your damn mouth, I'm not painting cabinets). Beige is, well, it's beige.  Screw it, we'll come back to the kitchen.  OH LOOK SOMETHING ELSE!

Since we're in the bedroom, we should probably clean out and reorganize the closets and dressers, don't you think?  This is the sneaky spiral they don't tell you about when you buy a house.  No projects ever go as planned, there are pitfalls and distractions around every corner.  If you actually want to accomplish anything, keep your head down, your resolve firm and NEVER deviate from the plan.  Do not open any closets, do not look at any other areas of the house, do not let your mind wander from the task at hand.  That, my friend, is the path to damnation.

THREE HOURS LATER:

I'm sitting on the floor of the closet, wearing two summer straw hats, a set of mardi gras beads, sunglasses with a lens missing, one pink high heeled shoe and a sequined scarf of unknown provenance flipping through my highschool yearbook with a cat on my lap.  Surrounding me are boxes, bins, empty hangars, a disarrayed heap of clothing, a pile of shoes, a disturbing number of purses and assorted hats, sweaters, blankets and a largely unexplored box of God knows what.  My Beloved fares no better as he tackles the two dressers in the room, determined to weed out any and all interloping clothing of no use.  He's actually worse than me when it comes to getting distracted.  He's currently sitting on the bed, reading old mail and rummaging through the firebox of files and documents intermittently muttering to himself and asking me random questions like: "When was the last time we used the shop vac?" or "Did you ever call the guy about the thing with the whatever that was?" and "What is that chicken doing in there?" (It's not like that, it's a ceramic chicken I found at a yard sale, brought it home and forgot about it until it reemerged on a shelf in the hall closet.)

The haul from the closet was wide a varied, some things making perfect sense with logical reasons for being there and a number of artifacts for which there is no earthly explanation.

-The aforementioned Mardi Gras beads (I've never been to a Mardi Gras soiree)

-A green plaid stuffed pig (I have no idea where it came from)

-Shoe box of Legos and crayons (I haven't had a Lego builder around for years)

-A bin of yarn and crochet hooks (I actually did crochet at one point)

-Three sets of long johns (all different sizes)

-A box of picture frames (I got them on clearance, settle down)

-Two bottles of glitter (one silver, one blue)

-A plastic horned helmet (think Ride Of The Valkyrie)

- A bottle of bubble stuff 

-Half a dozen golf balls (why? what? we don't golf)

-A cowboy boot I swear I've never seen before 

-One dead mouse

Yeah, my closet looks nothing like this

At this point, I decide it's time to leave for a long time while my Beloved disposes of the desiccated husk that was once a rodent invader of the inner sanctum.  

Having managed to get the closets done but still nowhere near doing the planned project of painting, both my Beloved and I decide it's time to reassess.  Translation, binge watch Deadliest Catch and eat snacks while we discuss our lofty house painting goals.

It's June, nothing has been painted yet.  We'll get there, sure we will.

During this time of staying home, I have also:

     -killed a dozen small succulents (the plastic ones look just as good)

    -made terrible pie crust (I have no earthly idea how I went wrong)

    -colored an entire swear word coloring book (I can art)

    -moved furniture (I have no eye for what will fit where)

    -moved it back (it was fine, best left alone)

    -bought new pots and pans (Calphalon...I'm goddamned fancy now!)

    -moved my eldest to a new city (that was weird, being the only cars on the road for miles)

    -utterly destroyed any illusion I have that I can draw (yeah...ew)

    -read a dozen or so books I've been meaning to read (and have a dozen more waiting in the wings)

    -thought about taking up knitting or needlepoint and laughed and laughed (seriously)

    -organized my iTunes music collection (weeded out some seriously whiny early 90s shit)

    -cleaned out the kitchen pantry (when did I buy that many crackers?)

I have learned a lot about not being busy all the time.  It's okay and I kind of like this forced solitude.  I've allowed myself to be comfortable being alone without the need to be anywhere.  I look forward to having places to go and people to see, but I've also become more at ease with being alone than I used to be.  I am pretty good company, after all.

A Bolt From The Blue

I rarely have those "holy crap" moments hit me like a ton of bricks but one did this week.  I was talking with a friend about pop culture and such (mainly TV and movie watching habits) and I mentioned how I just couldn't with Game Of Thrones.  He asked why I didn't watch it and as I answered was when the lightning bolt hit me.  I don't watch GOT because I am so ooked out by the prevalence of rape and the overall treatment of women across the board.  I get that it's accurate for the time portrayed, yadda yadda yadda but it's just not my gig. 

The lightning bolt is how abruptly I realized that my viewing habits have changed completely over the past few years.  My eldest son loves to tease me about the number of "White People Renovating Houses" shows I watch and I think, deep in my brain, there is a reason for my obsession with home makeover shows.  The reason is a simple one, no one gets hurt and everyone is happy at the end and that is what my soul needs these days.  Pretty houses, neato furniture and cool ideas that I will never manage to do in my own house are the ultimate happy place.  Even if the homeowners are obnoxious at the beginning and give the designer ten kinds of shit throughout the process, everyone loves everything at the end.  The biggest problems encountered are inadequate HVAC, outdated wiring or shoddy prior work and all are resolved and made pretty by the end.  I need that sort of thing as a soothing balm for my brain.

I ADORED "Criminal Minds", "CSI", "SVU" and the like for years and just kind of tapered off watching them.  It wasn't a conscious decision, it just happened.  Those shows are all going strong but I simply can't any more.  I can't watch rape and torture and death as entertainment anymore.  Probably eight out of ten episodes of any of these shows, the victims are women.  I get that they are "ripped from the headlines" and all the but when did it become entertainment for us?  How is it that we don't get our fill of this kind of awfulness from the daily news that we turn to it for our escape?  Our free time is so precious these days and this is what we're spending it on?  How did that happen? 

It seems like damn near every woman I know has been touched by sexual assault.  I am one of four sisters, the aunt of nine nieces and have innumerable female friends and acquaintances, so many of whom have been assaulted in their lifetimes that it makes me wonder why we women haven't burned the world to ashes by now.  We fight, we march, we stand up and say we're not gonna take this shit any more but yet, we continue to watch our horror played out as entertainment.  What the hell is wrong with us that we accept this?  I know, "if you don't like it, don't watch it" and I don't.  I'm not calling for all television to consist of the pretty and happy, I just have to wonder how we came it this place.

I'm not sermonizing, just musing today.

It's Quiet...Too Quiet

After the chaos and upheaval of the past couple of years, some down time and prevailing quiet was the best thing for all of us.  Clearly, I can handle only so much of that nonsense before I start getting twitchy.  I had this nice, mellow job where I could read, do crossword puzzles or indulge my virtual hoarding prelidiction on Pinterest.  Drinking on the job was not only okey dokey, but part of the job duties when you run a bottle shop.  It was a good gig, didn't pay much, the hours were tailor made for someone as un-go gettery as me and I enjoyed it.  Things have been peaceful for a while, calm for everyone in the house and smooth sailing as far as the eye could see.

So I decided to throw a rock into the middle of it and take a high stakes (for me), high demand and high pressure job and take over as the general manager of a rudderless, chaotic and throughly mismanaged shitshow of a store.  Turning it around and rebuilding the reputation of this business are the two main expectations for me and I'm not entirely sure I know what the hell I'm doing.  I've done retail and I've done quick serve food but this is entirely uncharted territory for me but apparently taking a deep breath and jumping in is my best course of action.  Training out of town for two weeks and we're off to the races.  It's been a hell of a ride so far, but I think I'm actually enjoying myself.

It's been interesting from the get go, the interview was an entirely unique experience as I was totally in charge of that meeting.  I drove the bus from the start and the two people interviewing me seemed to have no problem with it, it was weird.  After the initial get to know you back and forth, I was asked if I had any questions and both seemed a bit taken aback when I flipped open my notebook to two pages of questions I had prepared.  My first question of "What kind of goals or benchmarks would I be expected to meet in my first six months?" Was met with what seemed like befuddlement followed by casting about for an answer.  They both seemed relieved when I said "Okay, we can come back to that later." And I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound and continued to steam ahead and show them all my cards.  There is a certain freedom in interviewing for a job you don't actually need, the pressure is completely off and you can absolutely be yourself.  It obviously did the trick because twenty minutes into the interview, the district manager (my now boss's boss) asked, rather incredulously, "Where the hell were you a year ago when we opened this store?"

That question made me pause for a minute before I answered her.  Where WAS I a year ago?  My answer to her was simply, "I wasn't the person you needed a year ago." And briefly explained about my parents' decline and deaths in a shocklingly short period of time, a life changing medical diagnosis and a whole lot of life piling in on me at once.  Reflecting on that later, I realized how true that simple statement was, I WASN'T what they would have needed a year ago but I absolutely am now.  I got involved in organizing and executing the biggest event my town as ever seen (by involved, I mean my best friend told me we were going to do a thing and we did).  In that year of brainstorming, planning and pulling it all together I rediscovered both a skill set and a passion for getting shit done.  Managing people, coming up with fresh ideas and getting people excited about acheiving a goal is something I am good at and I enjoy doing.  Planning that event was restorative, confidence building and made me into the person who is ready to take on this kind of a challenge.  Thank God for best friends who drag you, kicking and screaming, out of your comfort zone and into a whole new thing that turns into another whole new thing.

Here We Go Again

It's that time of the year again.  It's not pumpkin spice season, it's not Halloween or Thanksgiving or Election time, it's hunting season.  It's the most wonderful time of the year, according to my beloved and our offspring...one of them anyway.  Eldest boy is a bit more like his mama, hunting is awesome but I really, really don't want to do it.  Son the Younger has been an enthusiastic participant in this yearly adventure since he was about eight years old.  

Hunting season is a multi phase event, each phase is distinct and as important as the hunt itself. The following is a chronicle of this annual undertaking:

Phase One: Discussion

This phase consists of an extensive rehash of the previous year's hunt, topics include:

Deer seen

 Trail cam photos referenced

     Annual claim that deer are living in the back yard

     Occasional claim that a bear is living in the back yard

     My interjection that someone is drunk or insane

     Topic tabled

Deer not seen

     Lengthy exchange about deer others have seen

Deer seen and not shot at

Deer seen, shot at and missed

      ALWAYS a gigantic, monster, Bigfoot buck that can read and drive a car

Deer seen, shot at and hit

     Quality of hit

     Crappiness of missed shots

     Spirited debate about who had the crappier miss

     Consultation with other hunting party members about the crappiness of same

     One party deciding the other party and the rest of the hunting party are full of shit

     Discussion Tabled after offense is taken

Deer hit with Elder’s car that one year

     Elder is still salty about it

     Reminder that he has a different car now

     Description of that deer grows exponentially with every retelling

Other wildlife seen

     Usually mundane stuff, birds and such

     Discussion of asshole squirrels that warn the deer away

     Guilty admission of unloading the shotgun at offending asshole squirrel

     Spirited insult throwing that one or the other didn't even hit the squirrel

Poop sightings

     Debate over origin of sighted poop

     It’s not a bear, Bigfoot or dinosaur

     Might be a bear

     Probably a moose

     Turns out it's a dog

     I cannot believe how long the poop discussion has gone on

     Debate over use of the term “scat”

          Stop it, you’re not Jack Hanna

          Debate over the supremacy of Jack Hanna vs. Marlon Perkins vs. Steve Irwin vs. Wild Kratts

Phase Two: Strategy

This phase usually involves analysis of weather forecasts, trail cam video, water levels in ditches, maps, satellite imaging and input from Stephen Hawking.

Who

     How many said they’re going

     How many are actually going

     Someone is bringing their cousin/nephew/co worker/idiot brother in law/some guy

          Detailed dissemination of everything we know about the potential interloper

          Assumptions made, debated and discarded

          Grumpy acceptance of new person

     The traditional and ceremonial insistence that I come hunting this year

          I politely decline

          My beloved pushes the issue

          I decline, less politely this time

          My beloved insists

          Son The Younger suggests dad shut up now

          Dad doesn’t shut up

          I decline through clenched teeth with a hissed threat to drag him to Lowe’s again

          My beloved drops it

What

     The recitation of what we need vs what we have begins

     This is repeated three to twenty times over the next two weeks as items are stored in multiple locations that make no sense to anyone but my Beloved

     I refrain from pointing out that the large ORANGE Rubbermaid tote purchased by me for the hunting gear several years ago is currently occupied only by one pair of boots of unknown provenance

     A list is not made, my Beloved insists he’ll remember everything

    Things are forgotten or double counted

     The same question is asked repeatedly

     The mere suggestion of writing things down is treated as an insult

     Three more boxes of shells are purchased

          The three boxes from last year are found

          As are the three from the year before

     Buck scent (yes, a bottle of pee) is not located

          Bottles are bought

          Other bottles are found

           We have many bottles of pee

          I again question my life choices as two of the members of my household have a lively debate about deer pee.

     What is happening here?

     A list is made, lots of muttering and dirty looks, I try not to look too smug

     The Blind is examined

          87 things are found wrong

         Options are discussed

          New blinds are priced out

           Blind is reassessed

           Duct tape is deployed

          The blind is actually fine

     The Guns are brought out

          Commence lecture about cleaning 

          Commence lecture about touching

          Commence lecture about shooting

          Commence lecture about deer

          I Commence drinking wine

               Continue drinking wine

               Fall asleep and insult my Beloved

     Blaze Orange Bonanza

           Six hooded sweatshirts

          Two vests

           Seven and a half pairs of gloves

          Four sets of long underwear

          I question the necessity of blaze orange underwear and am shot a quelling look

          Eight pair of socks

               I do not say a thing

          127 hats, I swear to God

          Eleven full face masks

All of this is hung outside in the universal sign that hunters live here, I think there is a deeper code here but cannot get confirmation.

     Commence lecture about neutral smells

     I do not roll my eyes during the no laundry/no shower/no shampoo talk.

          Yearly reminder from me that no shower = no physical contact

          I’ve insulted him again, not sorry

     I put my foot down about the purchase of another blaze orange item.

          Three more show up the next day

          Both deny any knowledge

          They’re colluding, I know it

How

     Can’t tell you a thing, my eyes have glazed over and my brain is currently rejecting any hunting related talk.

     My Beloved just asked me a question, he’s looking expectant

          I panic and say yes

          The surprise and delight on my Beloved’s face tells me I’m probably in deep trouble

          I just agreed to buy a license so we can get an extra deer

          The implications are horrifying

               I will have to go

               We could potentially get THREE deer

               I'm going to have to empty the chest freezer

               I'm going to have to buy a new chest freezer

          Steps must be taken

               I need a way out of this

               My brain whirls with ideas

                    Coming up with nothing

                    I'm struck with inspiration

          Sacrifices must be made

               This is every man for himself

               I point out that Elder Son has never been hunting

               The look of betrayal flung my way does not sway me

               My Beloved is delighted at the thought

               I have no regrets

               I'm going to have to make amends at some point but today is not that day

Phase Three: Preparation (you thought the preceding was the prep? Silly rabbits)

This phase covers food shopping, the Laying Out Of The Gear, Blind Assembly and a lot of storming around the house in one’s underwear while attempting to communicate to the second floor of the house from either the garage or the basement.  This is a delicate phase and must be navigated with caution, diplomacy and quite a bit of finesse as the participants are nervous and easily startled.

Food Shopping

     This is usually the extent of my involvement, I buy food and cook it

     The wilds of the grocery store is as far as I venture

     Trust me, it’s not all that civilized in those days before 

          Bread, lunch meat and certain snacks are at a premium and their purchase can only be done in dark alleys out of the back of trucks from sketchy box boys and carry outs with a bad attitude and an ax to grind against the man.

     Portable food that doesn't smell like anything is not easily achieved

     Baked goods are treated as manna from the Gods

     Noisy food is banned

     Nothing can smell like anything, this cannot be overstated.

     The list of specifications is extensive

          Fine, Fig Newtons, one banana, soy milk and lefse it is

         Don't give me a look, that’s all that fits within your goddamned parameters

Blind Assembly

     This takes place the week before and involves a lot of argument that I am not privy to, I have no information on this ritual

     Someone usually comes home and stomps upstairs for a while

The Laying of The Gear

     This is done over the course of the three days (or weeks, who can say?) before The Hunt

     Finding ammunition in the bathroom and deer pee in the bookcase is not considered strange during this phase

     The dining room table disappears under a pile of orange accessories

     Long guns on the couch is par for the course

     Panic ensues when the key for the gun locks is temporarily misplaced

     Hence, the shouting up the stairs while in underwear

     My work done, the food laid in, I'm for bed

Phase Four: The Hunt

The Wee Hours

     They’re up and moving before God is awake to head off into the woods

     Despite the elaborate and extensive preparations, many questions seem to linger

     Many, many trips up and down the stairs

     Seriously, stop turning the hall light on when my door is open

          Please shut the door if you need the hall light

          Please turn the light off before you leave

          That does it, light bulb removed

               Now the light switch is being flipped on and off repeatedly

               OH GOD NO He’s looking for the bulb

               He’s standing next to the bed, isn’t he?

               He KNOWS

               Bulb? What bulb?

               WHY DO YOU NEED IT?

          Muttering

          The distinct crash that indicates a fall down the stairs

               More muttering and some very creative swearing

     Many trips in and out of the garage

     Door slam

     Into the house again

     Back to garage

     Door slam

     There’s the back door

     Door slam

     I'm in hell

     HOW MANY DOORS DOES THE CAR ACTUALLY HAVE????

          Twelve. The number is twelve based on car door slams

     The car has started, we’re so close.

     Don’t turn the car off! Why are you turning it off?

     You were almost gone. Go!

     Garage door slam

     House door slam

          Someone is getting the guns

     Car starts again

     They’re away!

     Time to go back to sleep

          …

          …

     What’s that noise?

          They’re back?

          They’re back.

          Car door slam

          Garage door slam

          House door slam

          Muttering

          Light switch flipped on and off and on...and off

                More muttering

           Ammunition is located and taken

           House door slam

           Garage door slam

           Car door slam

           Please God let them be gone for real this time

           … 

           … 

           … 

          Okay. Gone.

                But I’m awake now.

                It's 4:30

                That sucks

There you have it, this is what takes place in my house every year during the run up to hunting.  My Beloved is a low key guy that turns into a complete lunatic once a year but as he tolerates and even embraces my everyday insanity, I totally roll with it.  There are only a few things that he gets this worked up about, hunting with his boy (or, this year, boys) is one of his very favorite things. My kind of crazy is all day, every day, his comes only once a year. 

Disaster Kitchen

I want to cook like Trisha Yearwood, Giada, Ree The Pioneer Woman and a host of other TV chefs.  I have accepted the reality that I never shall.  That's just fine, if ever I get my own cooking show, it's going to be called "Disaster Kitchen" and it will show every step of the new recipe process, not just the ready for prime time bits.  Let me preface all of this by saying that until about seven years ago I was a competent, but not particularly inspired or skilled cook.  Then I quit smoking and needed to fill the time between getting home from work and dinner time. That was the hardest cigarette to give up for some reason so I decided to make food that kept me busy for the danger time.  I needed recipes that required attention to detail, I wanted to chop and dice and simmer and blanch and all those cool things that I watched on Saturday mornings.  In my head, that dangerous phrase formed, the one that has been the downfall of greater men than I. "How hard can it be?"

Harder than you think, it turns out.  I knew the basics, I could make hamburger gravy and (boxed) mashed potatoes, I was a whiz at making Kraft Mac and cheese all fancy by adding a few chunks of Velveeta and sticking it in the oven for ten minutes and my addition of a shake each of garlic and red pepper flakes to a jar of spaghetti sauce bordered on genius, but that was pretty much where my culinary inspiration ended.  This was it, my time had come and I was about to become master of my kitchen domain.  Or I was about to get my ass kicked by a metric fuckton of potatoes.

At that point in time, my beloved worked for a company that, among other things, makes French fries.  This meant he had access to huge bags of potatoes for just a couple of bucks.  I'm talking 50 to 100 pound bags for $5, needless to say, we were the go to whenever our kids' sports teams wanted to do a baked potato fundraiser.  This meant that on any given weekend, my kitchen was host to enough potatoes to have saved my people from the Famine.  Occasionally, my beloved would randomly bring home 50 pounds of spuds just for the sheer joy of eating our body weight in potato.  Slowly but surely, I started to notice that friends and family had begun to avoid eye contact and declined invitations to the house for dinner.  As it turns out, a menu comprised solely of potato dishes wears on the palate and the belly after a while.  Perhaps finding potatoes in their purses and slipped into their coat pockets put them off but I was desperate to unload the damn things as my house did not come equipped with a root cellar.  

Determined to maintain healthy, non potato based relationships with the people in my life, I needed to figure out what to do with mass quantities of red potatoes ASAP.  Searching YouTube yielded a blanch and freeze method of preservation, so I set about peeling and cutting a pile of potatoes the size of a VW Beetle.  I can see why this was used as punishment back in the day.  There are few tasks quite as tedious that cannot be done mindlessly as you risk slicing off layers of skin and flesh from your fingers as the price of inattention.  The onerous chore completed, I set about the blanching process, this involves the biggest pot you can find (borrow one, seriously, because if you buy one, you will likely never use it again and it will stare accusingly at you from whatever dark cabinet or basement shelf you exile it to after this one ill conceived experiment), a shitload of salt and a week's worth of water.  You get that giant pot of salted water to a lusty boil and, risking life and limb, dunk batch after batch of potatoes in to cook partway.  Part way being the keyword here, as what what actually means is "Just cook them all the way because what you saw me do on YouTube is nothing you're going to be able to accomplish in your entire pathetic life, you silly little amateur."  Then you let them cool, vacuum seal them and pop the tidy potato packages in your freezer for convenient use whenever you need them!

Wrong, you've never been so wrong in your life.  Two weeks later, you'll go down to the basement freezer to begin your new life of preserving your own food only to find how terribly wrong this whole process can go.  You see, if the potatoes aren't blanched for EXACTLY the right amount of time, something horrible happens in the freezer.  Your careful vacuum sealing can't save it, your best intentions are not going to help you or the stacks of now gray/green/black/blue/whatthehellisthatcolor potatoes that cringe away from the light of the open freezer door like some kind of swamp dwelling, previously unknown creature that will forever haunt your dreams.  Twenty five carefully labeled, stacked and sealed packages stared defiantly back at me, mocking my inexperience and daring me to step into the ring with my own kitchen for another go round. So "blanching" actually means "just cook the damn things, you'll thank me for it later".  So noted.

We started our own compost in the back yard that day so it wasn't a complete waste.

My sister in law offered to come over and make salsa some months later, she's done it before and it's easier than I'd ever imagine.  That's what she told me, that's what she said.  And, I can use that giant pot that I've done nothing but move from place to place because I can't seem to find a permanent, out of my way, WHY IS IT SO DAMN BIG home for it.  So, salsa, is it?  She, my beloved, her beloved and I spent an enjoyable couple of hours chopping, seeding and prepping our tomatoes, onions, peppers and the rest while imbibing in a beer or maybe some bloody Marys with beer backs...my memory is a little fuzzy for some reason.  Brenda claimed that we didn't need to boil the jars for canning, we just need to run them through the hi temp cycle in the dishwasher and that serves the same purpose.  Having never canned anything in my life, I demurred to her experience and superior knowledge which turned out to be kind of helping her mother in law and seeing someone do it on TV once.

DO NOT DO IT THIS WAY.  Not ever.  Also, make damn sure you fill the jars almost to the brim.  Why, you ask?  Because the dishwasher method creates too much of a vacuum seal that eventually compromises the structural integrity of the lids and they pop.  And by "pop", I mean they fail completely, make a noise that I don't not have the vocabulary to describe and launch the contents of the jar skyward until they inevitably encounter the barrier to the open sky that is your kitchen ceiling.  You and your helpers will stare at a ceiling that now resembles nothing as much as a murder scene for a very, very long time as the reality of what just transpired takes a loooooong time to register to a vodka and beer soaked brain.  Once it does, however, much hilarity ensues and the stain never quite goes away.  Side note, tracking down and bathing your now salsa covered cat who was unlucky enough to have been in the kitchen at the moment of impact takes a lot of coaxing, chasing and eventual capture that involves brooms, tennis rackets and a bedsheet you're willing to sacrifice for the cause.  He also won't speak to you for several days and when he does, you know you'll never be completely forgiven for this transgression to his person.

We did manage to seal the remaining jars properly and the salsa was delicious.

Fine, we'll start a little smaller than 500 potatoes and a couple dozen jars of salsa.  Let's take a whack at something we can eat right away and enjoy the fruits of our labor immediately. I know, poached eggs!  I always considered poached eggs to be a super fancy, special occasion kind of food that it never even occurred to me to try making at home as it seemed solely the domain of seasoned chefs and Saturday morning Food Network stars.  I set my pot of water to a hearty simmer, got it swirling to the recommended velocity and carefully cracked an egg into the vortex. I could see immediately that this was not going well, the white of the egg spun wildly out of the grasp of the vortex to morph into jelly like tentacles that slithered to the edge of the saucepan in a desperate attempt to escape.  The timer dinged and I gamely scooped what I knew was not a beautifully compact poached egg out of the water that was now cloudy and speckled with bits of gluey, semi cooked egg.  It's okay, I know what I did wrong that time.  Attempt number two was equally as unsuccessful as the first but my determination was not to be swayed by two failed attempts.  Number three had me hopeful that this would work until the poached looking egg disintegrated into the water as I lifted it out, rendering the boiling water into an Irish girl version of egg drop soup (see what I did there?).  Attempts four through nine involved vinegar added to the water as recommended by several chef types but yielded soggy jelly like messes that smelled strongly of pickles, this will not do.  By now, I have abandoned even the pretense of wanting the damned eggs and am committed exclusively to the principle of the project I had set for myself.  To hell with ever eating the damn things, I WILL WIN, THESE EGGS WILL NOT DEFEAT ME.  Eighteen eggs, prolific swearing and three eggs that may or may not have been thrown at the wall (much to the dog's delight as he happily licked away the evidence of my burst of temper) I came to the conclusion that the perfect poached egg was a myth, some kind of culinary unicorn that only exists in story and song and I would never achieve this magical food in my lifetime.

One week later, I stumbled upon a poached egg cheat that actually did produce that perfection I had only dreamed possible. A ramekin, lined with plastic wrap, sprayed with nonstick spray, the egg nestled inside and tied into a little bundle with a bit of string and tossed into a pot of boiling water for three minutes and there is was, sexy, silky, creamy perfection in a gorgeous little bundle.  It was glorious and I made it myself.  The angels raised their voices in a magical chorus to this vision of beauty as a ray of golden light shone upon my plate as I raised my fork to pierce the lovely yolk, freeing it to fill every nook and cranny of the waiting English muffin, toasted for just this occasion. I took a moment to record my hard fought success with the perfect picture to share with all those who ever doubted me and watched in horror as my precious, gorgeous, perfect egg slid off the plate on its English muffin raft to the floor and the waiting jaws of my eternally patient yellow lab.  That was it, it was over, I was done.  I can't reproduce this result, or can I?

Turns out I can, and I do on a regular basis because poached eggs really are that good.

There you have it, the basis of my cooking show would show all the disasters in the first half and THEN the carefully crafted successful execution in the second half. I think it would be a smash hit.

I Have A Great Idea

I am not crafty.  I do not quilt, paint, woodwork or any of that stuff. I know how to sew, I know how to crochet, but I don't do much of it on a regular basis.  That said, I am periodically struck by inspiration and leap in with both feet. These are some of those stories.

  Once upon a time, I went to a stamp party (if you've read previous posts, you know how I feel about those "parties") and spent practically a month's rent on stamp sets featuring teddy bears, ribbons, balloons and a load of other girly shit that is totally NOT my style but I was riding the euphoric wave that accompanies a fair amount of Moscato, snacks, chocolate and LOOK AT HOW CUTE THAT IS YOU'RE RIGHT I NEED IT! Okay, the classic Winnie The Pooh stamp set is still one of the cutest things I've ever owned, but once my babies became full on kids, my opportunities to use them faded fast. I was going to scrapbook my ass off, I was going to make my own greeting cards, invitations, calendars, I was going to be a stamping, fancy scissors wielding, ribbon tying, hot glue master GODDESS. Or my kids were going to discover sports and hunting and I was going to realize, once again, that I am not that kind of girl.  Not even a little. I'm not even sure what happened to all the stuff I acquired in my scrapbooking fantasy fueled frenzy.  I think they're still in a box somewhere but haven't seen the light of day in probably fifteen years.

I could have done this, I'm that organized, really.

From stamps, I moved on to crocheting.  This was actually a hobby that lasted for a good while but once you've made an afghan for pretty much everyone who has passed through your life since the fifth grade, your enthusiasm tends to fade. As does everyone else's once you've gone completely round the bend and started making holiday themed afghans and afghans for the dog.  My yarn stash reached a problematic level when my unsuspecting beloved opened the wrong closet door and unleashed a seemingly unending cascade of bundled yarn in every possible shade and thickness.  Once he was extracted from the softest, fuzziest avalanche in history, he sat me down for a rather stern discussion about what he called "a giant addiction" but really was maybe a tiny bout of overenthusiastic sale shopping, idea formulating, someday I'll make it, I love this color and will make a thing, did you see that one, I know the perfect....okay, FINE I NEED HELP.  The ensuing purge went down in the annals of our family history as "Yarnmageddon", a combination of returns, sales to friends and strangers and a copious amount of donating, we pared the stash down to a manageable level. (Note, the following is NOT my stash, but my God LOOK AT IT)

Sweet Martha, I just had a yarngasm.

After Yarnmageddon, things were quiet for a few years, at least as quiet as things get around here which really isn't all that quiet come to think on it, but you get the point.

Then I quit smoking.

When you quit smoking, you have to find things to do that aren't lighting a cigarette so a few things crossed my path in relatively quick succession:

 I made my own earrings for a while, some that I still wear to this day but the magic wore off before I could become truly dedicated to the lifestyle. I still have the beads and some wire, I make a pair from time to time but honestly, the bloom fell off that particular rose pretty quickly. My beloved and I do not share the same aesthetic, never more clearly displayed as when he asked when I became interested enough in fishing that I was making fishing lures for him.  And that's how that fight started.

Y'all are jealous now, right?

Woodburning appealed to me for a fair bit but as I'm not particularly artistic, there was a limit to what I could create.  A person only needs so many cute little signs and nameplates, after all.  I did sew, but really only ever mastered rod pocket curtains and hemming things so that got pretty dull after a while.  Decoupage, cross stitch, collages and mosaics all came and went until I realized that I was having way more fun cooking that anything else.  Better yet, my younger son liked to join me.  He's adventurous and has really good instincts when it comes to food.  Hitting on something like that was very satisfying and everyone in the house breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't gone completely off the deep end again.  The stuff I'd buy to indulge THIS obsession weren't insane and actually served a purpose.  I've learned my lesson, I don't have drawers full of lovely, single use kitchen gadgets but I will admit to a weakness for cool serving pieces and storage items. I found an extra large metal Calumet baking powder can that holds all my long spoons and such that is AWESOME and the greatest deviled egg plate that looks like a painter's pallet but both of those are useful. Don't look at me like that, a deviled egg plate in the shape of a painter's pallet IS a necessary kitchen item.

These days I don't become obsessed with an all encompassing hobby so much as I am struck by inspiration.  I tend to formulate a plan, work it out in my head and then go for it.  My beloved has declared a moratorium on my drinking coffee and browsing Pinterest on Saturday mornings because that has come to mean we're at Lowe's by noon.  My family's reaction to "I have an idea." is "uh-oh" followed by a hasty exit from whatever room I'm in.  They love to bitch and moan but we're three for three so far this summer.

Our first project started with Charlie's and my shared love of cooking.  I have a decent kitchen but it lacks the counter space needed when two people are trying to cook everything from scratch and have two cutting boards going and such.  We were doing a lot of moving one another out of the way or one of us would end up doing our thing at the dining room table.  I found a long double dresser for $50 on the local sell/swap site and snapped it up.  Two weeks later, I was the proud owner/creator of a movable, five foot by two and a half foot long wood topped kitchen island with three shelves, a cabinet and four drawers.  Granted, it did take multiple trips to local hardware stores and an aborted attempt at using flood coat (side note: that stuff will freak you out when it's been spilled on the basement floor because it forever looks like a puddle of water), but three days of sanding it off and about ten coats of polyurethane later, the damn thing is GORGEOUS!

Still can't believe this worked.

A couple of weeks later, after I had killed off the herbs I was trying to grow in cute little pots on the kitchen windowsill, I had another idea.  I caught my beloved before he could flee the room and we headed to the building center once again. Ten feet of rain gutter, two end caps, a mess of drilled holes, four screws and a bracket later:

That's right, I have herbs.

Not long after the herb garden triumph, my beloved and I were sitting on the deck listening to the sprinkler running and he mentioned how soothing the sound of running water is and how we should dig a creek into the backyard.  This lead to a discussion about Koi ponds and how that was not going to happen because I'm not spending the winter with giant goldfish swimming in the bathtub.  However...

My beloved has come to recognize the signs, there's apparently a look in my eye that portends a trip to Lowe's.  He's learned resistance is futile and is just giving himself over to it at this point.  He is a wise man. A few hours later and we return home with the gathered supplies.  We're making a fountain for the deck.  Both my sons just shake their heads when I tell them my latest plan but they dive right in because they know their involvement is inevitable.  A large ceramic planter, a planter bowl, a plastic plant bucket, a medium sized pond pump and a T shaped nozzle and we're off to the races.  I came into this one so optimistically but it almost got the best of us.  Note for future fountain making: BUY A PLANTER WITHOUT DRAINAGE HOLES IN THE  BOTTOM.  Four dime sized holes became the bane of my existence for the next two weeks.  We tried that aerosol rubber stuff, other than making us high as a kite and creating a mess that had to be sandblasted off, it did nothing.  Next we tried spraying that crap onto some wine corks and stuffing them into the holes.  I'll give the corks and E for effort but ultimately they failed.  Next up were boat drain plugs but they didn't work with the bucket that was necessary to hold the pump in it with the inverted bowl on top.  Finally I ordered rubber laboratory stoppers online.  My hopes were high until we realized they were just a shade too big for to GODDAMN DRAINAGE HOLES.  Unwilling to admit defeat, my beloved dug out the Dremel tool I bought when I was going through a glass etching phase.  I have never seen him take a project quite so personally, but he was quite offended at the resistance we were encountering with the freaking holes.   Did you know that both the Dremel and the ceramic start to smoke after a while?  They do, a lot.  He did it, though.  The stoppers went into smooth as butter, followed by a copious amount of Gorilla Glue...they'll outlast us all, I'm fairly certain.  

Two days later, as we sat on the deck listening to the bubble and gurgle of our wonderful fountain, sipping wine and basking a bit.  My beloved sat down next to me on the loveseat, pulled me close and whispered in my ear "I've changed your Pinterest password, my dear."  Silly boy, he doesn't know about Instructables...

My Happiest Place

Anyone who knows me, or who has spoken to me for more than five minutes in the past few weeks knows of my deep and abiding love for the Minnesota State Fair.  For ten days at the end of August until Labor day, the state of Minnesota gathers in Falcon Heights, just a shade outside of the neighborhood where I spent my formative years. Some of  my happiest and most vivid childhood memories revolve around the fair.

My father, his brother, and their father were fair fanatics.  I imagine the familial obsession went further back in the annals of our history as we are a St. Paul family from way back when.  My dad would go multiple times, always with the whole family, with just one or two of us and at least once on his own.  My mother came along when we were all little, but never had the passion for the fair that dad did. We had routines and rituals at the fair, some of which I follow to this day, it feels natural and comforting that some things truly never change.  Dad taught us early on that the only acceptable hot dog on a stick was from the yellow and brown Pronto Pup stand (the wiener dun in a bun) and no other would do, don't even think it. To this day, the first thing we eat at the fair is an official Pronto Pup, it does not matter what time we arrive, that is first.

That's the ticket!

I don't know what magic is imbued in that fluffy yet crunchy coating but it envelops the dog in a loving embrace of pure wonderfulness, a corn dog just won't do, it MUST be a Pronto Pup.  Generally there is a root beer barrel located in close proximity to the Pronto Pup booth so I naturally associate the two.  The last time dad and I went to the fair together was in 1992, a month before I got married and we managed to hit every single Pronto Pup booth on the grounds (eight, I believe) and washed a few of them down with root beer.  The sight of those booths and that first bite will always and forever bring me back to my father's side.

The other must is the All You Can Drink Milk booth.  When I was a kid, it was all you can drink for a quarter and boy, did we take advantage of that deal.  The milk was ice cold, foamy and somehow tasted a thousand times better than the milk from home because fair milk is special.  We'd hit it every year, just about first thing as it was near the entrance on Como Avenue where dad always magically managed to find parking.  That is until one fateful year when I was about nine years old.  Imagine a 90+ degree day, not a breath of breeze and packed fairgrounds.  Combine those conditions with four children drinking their body weight in milk followed by a trip to the livestock barns and I'll leave out the details of the horror that followed but a speedy departure and a change of clothes was required for all of us.  From that day on, my father issued a decree that the All You Can Drink Milk booth was off limits until we were on the way OUT of the fairgrounds, never again to be visited on the way in, and that rule stands to this very day.

Aaaahhhhhh!

The fair is a constant, comforting, familiar but ever changing piece of the Minnesota landscape and I am always shocked when I meet someone who grew up here but has never been.  That's the strangest thing I can imagine because missing the fair is simply not done.  In my family, fair time is our holy season.  Vacation days are taken, all other plans and obligations are put on hold, strategies are laid out in the days and week preceding the fair.  The new food list is pored over and disseminated in loving detail and with palpable anticipation.  New walking shoes are broken in well before the start because wussing out over a blister or sore feet will result in years of ridicule, a stock of sunscreen is laid in and appropriate headgear is tested and made ready.  Children of the family are indoctrinated from birth that these are sacred days, not to be fraught with whining, fighting or pooping out early.  If we had an official family religion, the Grandstand is our cathedral, the crowd noise our hymns and the Space Tower our ascent to the heavens.

There's me!

While the food is, obviously, a huge draw, the fair has innumerable attractions that truly requires more than just one trip to appreciate them all.  The Creative Arts building houses everything from needlework and woodcraft to Bundt cakes and jellies, all lovingly created and proudly displayed.  I am overwhelmed every year by the incredible beauty created by people all over the state.  Exquisite handmade lace, gorgeous embroidered table linens, jewel colored jams and jellies displayed and lit like pieces of art and baked goods nestled behind a frustrating glass barrier that keeps you from burying your face in the deliciousness that they promise.  You could spend the day in that building and still not see everything, it is a museum in its own right.

They kick you out for licking the glass.

Gorgeous!

 

Being a farm-centric state, the Agriculture/Horticulture building is the centerpiece of the fairgrounds, an enormous and beautiful art deco exterior holds many strange and mysterious things for a child raised in the city.  To me, it was like visiting a foreign land, complete with a language all its own.  To this day, I come out of that building knowing something I did not know when I walked in.  This year I learned about the gladiator style fight to the death between old and young queen bees and the shifting political scene inside a beehive. Apples, flowers, grains and sugar beets are displayed as lovingly as the quilts and cakes in the Creative Arts building.  This building also houses one of the more unusual art mediums you've ever seen...seed art.  Unbelievably detailed, painstakingly executed and sometimes surprisingly political, this is a wonder of creativity that I could never begin to accomplish.

Yep, all seeds

The Fine Arts building is more like an art gallery, again I marvel at the huge amount of beauty created by the people of my state.  While I cannot create art, I am an appreciative and mesmerized audience.  You move seamlessly from the hustle and bustle of the fairgrounds with the noise and crowds to a collection of art that rivals high end galleries.  It's a different atmosphere in the Fine Arts building, the pace is slower, it's quieter and even a bit reverent in those rooms.  I always find the Fine Arts building calming, a nice little quiet time in the midst of the fair.

There is some really beautiful stuff in there.

The Dairy building is where you find the quintessential Minnesota fair thing...the butter busts of Princess Kay and her court.  Seriously, life sized busts of 7 young women carved from butter.

Nope, not a metaphor, butter busts.

You can visit the booths of a variety of politicians, home improvement services, foods and products from all over the world.  The Miracle of Birth center is the cutest place in the entire grounds, the grandstand houses world class musical entertainment and a host of gadgets, tcotchkes and stuff you never knew you needed but you must bring them home NOW.

My little family has our own carved in stone tradition, we go to the fair early in the morning on the first Monday of the fair.  There is no better event that takes place during the entire fair than the herding dog trials.  I adore this event, not because the incredible skills of these dogs are a wonder to behold, but for the rookie class.  I love, love, love the rookies. Don't get me wrong, the experts are ah-mazing, but my heart will always by firmly held by the rookies.  These dogs are VERY new to the world of herding, most have been at it less than a year and it shows.  The dogs and their handlers have four minutes to get three uncooperative sheep through a series of obstacles and into a small pen.  The experts practically snap their fingers and the sheep obey immediately.  The rookies have not earned the respect of the sheep and it shows.  First of all, the rookies get SUPER excited to see the sheep when they are let  into the ring, the sheep are not nearly as happy and initially do their damndest to get the hell out of there with a lot of milling about and bumping into each other.  The rookies do a lot of romping about punctuated with belly crawling and straight up laying down (this is hard work, y'all).  Usually the sheep split off and then all hell breaks loose as the hapless rookies have no idea how to handle three separate sheep when the single cluster of sheep was barely manageable.  The handler tries to communicate commands to the rookie either through whistles or voice commands.  It goes well for the first thirty seconds or so but deteriorates quickly once the sheep realize they're dealing with a newbie.  By about 2:30, the handler has usually resigned him/her self to the fact that those sheep are not going into the pen.  The rookies are usually having too much fun to notice that they've failed.  This year, two handlers decided that it would be a good idea to train Corgis to herd sheep...it was not.  The sheep seemed confused as hell as to what they were even seeing, much less that they were supposed to obey it.  The Corgis, to their credit, did their best to keep up but have you EVER seen a Corgi's legs?  By the end of the four minutes, each on of those poor little guys had to be carried out of the arena, probably to nap for the remainder of the day.  However, the Corgis were no match, entertainment wise, to the clueless trainer that attempted to train a Husky as a herding dog a few years ago.  Huskies are working dogs, yes, but herding is definitely not in their wheelhouse.  Not. Even. Close.  This dog was so damn happy to see the sheep, there was barking, there was cavorting, there was that thing dogs do with their head and paws at floor level and their butts wiggling in the air.  The sheep were having none of it, moving as a group, they led this Husky to every part of the arena, managing to miss every single obstacle.  The even tried taking refuge by surrounding the handler for a moment until the Husky, barking happily hurtled toward them with reckless abandon, stopping only after a graceful leap over two of the sheep and literally scaring the pee out of the third.  The clock ticked down as the sheep leaned into the handler, the Husky danced and barked and the handler reassessed his life choices.  Time ran out and Dot, the expert clean up dog, shot into the arena to restore order.  The sheep seemed glad to see her and dutifully followed her out of the ring.  The handler called his dirty, happy, goofball of a dog to his side and gratefully acknowledged the largest and loudest applause of the day.  The Husky seemed to be satisfied. 

So there you have it, my loving ode to the Minnesota State Fair, start making your plans now for next year.

Thank You For Playing

I'm pretty savvy about stuff.  As a natural born skeptic, I don't fall for much.  In this day and age, more and more scams and rip offs emerge on an almost hourly basis.  Sadly, a lot of people get taken for a ride and, in some cases, lose everything.  I recently saw a story about a computer programmer that someone tried the IRS scam on and he turned the tables in delicious fashion.  Those stories are awesome and hopefully, a lesson for all of us.

Once upon a time, we'd get the odd call on our home phone.  My method of dealing with them when they'd call for my beloved (usually butchering pronunciation of our last name, a tip off) was to burst into noisy tears and demand they tell me where the son of a bitch got himself off to leaving me alone with all these kids and no car and who the hell did he think he was anyway. The response from the other end of the line usually ranged from apologetic to sympathetic to extremely uncomfortable stammering but the end result was the same: I'd never hear from them again.  Bonus that I'd get to hone my acting skills at the same time.

I got a good one the other day, I'm sure you've heard of it, the "Windows Tech Support" call.  My call came in the form of Todd (I'm betting not his real name) who magically detected a serious problem with my computer and needed remote access to fix it. It being a bit of a slow day and this kind of shit pissing me off to no end, I decided to have a little fun with ToddNotTodd.
Our journey together begins when he tells me to get in front of my computer so he can talk me through the next steps, I happily comply (honing my acting skills again, YAY!). I immediately interrupt ToddNotTodd to tell him I turned it off because that's what they say to do on TV shows if your computer is broken and that ALWAYS fixes everything.  ToddNotTodd tells me I didn't need to do that but okay.  So we wait together while my imaginary computer reboots, I whistle tunelessly and he sighs a few times.  My imaginary computer rebooted, ToddNotTodd starts his instruction again, telling me to double click on "My Computer" on the start menu.  I say okee dokee and tell him that I've opened the start menu and clicked restart because I know that's different than turning it off and on again.  ToddNotTodd says "No!", and rather sharply, I must say.  I apologize profusely and tell him that it's showing the Windows picture and that's a good thing, right?  ToddNotTodd says that's fine, he seems a bit bothered at this point but is determined to help me.  I tell him about my five cats while we wait. ToddNotTodd seems less than enthusiastic to hear about about Boots, Sassy, Fluffy, Miss Priss and Tim.

My computer freshly rebooted, we are ready to proceed.  ToddNotTodd, a new spring in his step, gets back to the business at hand, getting me to allow him into my financials.  We move through the process slowly and on step two, I interrupt to tell him to wait a minute, Miss Priss has pulled the mouse cord loose and it doesn't work.  I tell ToddNotTodd not to worry, I can fix it by turning my computer off and on again.  I receive an anguished "DON'T DO THAT!" from the other end of the phone.  I tell ToddNotTodd it's okay, the computer will be ready in a couple on minutes.  ToddNotTodd thinks I'm low hanging fruit, too dumb to function, so he hangs in there for another restart.  I tell him how I tried to make a standing rib roast last night and after it came out of the oven, two of the cats and the dog knocked it onto the floor and we ended up having Taco John's instead and I don't usually eat that kind of food because of my digestion. ToddNotTodd is disinterested and is muttering continuously, I think it might be some kind of calming mantra.
Fourth restart finished, ToddNotTodd decides to sally forth, he has a mission to complete and failure is clearly not an option.  We start over, as I've forgotten by now what it was he wants me to do and we get three steps in when I tell him my computer just made a beep sound and I know that can't be good so what should we do? At this point, ToddNotTodd loses his head completely and shouts "DON'T, WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T TURN IT OFF!" I respond with "Turn it off? Whatever you say, Todd!"

Who he thought he was dealing with.

Who he WAS dealing with.

Perhaps ToddNotTodd made a tearful plea to his God for a moment or two because there  is a long pause before he speaks again.  In very careful and measured tones, he starts again, enunciating every instruction as clearly as he possibly can while I make him repeat every single direction three times before acting on it.  I make him start over twice.  I believe ToddNottTodd has begun drinking from a hideout flask at this point because all the life has gone out of his demeanor, he seems sad and a little defeated.  I ask him if he's accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior.  ToddNotTodd does not respond.  I tell him I accidentally turned to computer off again and ToddNotTodd becomes more than a little put out.  By now, we've been at it for almost 30 minutes and I have an appointment in less than an hour.  While ToddNotTodd weeps and bangs his head on his desk, I reveal my true nature and tell him that there was no way in hell this was going to end with a success on his part.  I tell him I hope I gave him a migraine and he should find a more honest way to make a living.  ToddNotTodd called me a foul name and hung up on me.  I don't think we're friends anymore.