The holiday was nice. I didn’t have to leave the house once. To me, that’s perfect no matter what we’re eating.
But yesterday, post-Thanksgiving, was another story. Like Emma, I had to go to Lowes. I do so hate that store, what with its impossibly high ceilings filled to the brim with boxes that just wait to fall on your head. We went there for what is the the fifth time in less than a month. We’re doing that little bathroom project where we’re ripping out the vanity and medicine chest and replacing it all with items from Lowes. But first we need a floor covering replacement. We’re going with vinyl, and the labor cost is five times the materials cost. Not that I mind paying for good labor.
Before we got to Lowes, we had a two-hour tax projection appointment with the CPA. This annual meeting with the very competent yet extremely bossy and paternal Mr. W plunged shards of glass into my neck–that’s how painful that much time with him is. Mr. W would fit right into a Dickens novel, so insistent he is that we fire every professional we know and do everything (except, ostensibly) tax preparation and projection. If I wanted to manage my own investment portfolio, I would have gone to school for finance. To be fair, he does a good job and he’s honest. He did, last year, have a picture of George W in the office, but that has somehow been swept under the rug. And to his credit, Mr. Tree made a little pointed remark about the folly of the war, but Mr. W. just glossed right over it.
We went to lunch at a deserted Italian restaurant. The waiter, who I believe is probably the owner’s son, was disheveled and hung over. He could barely follow the conversation. The food was good. I had a chicken parm sandwich and a Corona with lime, which helped the Advil take my headache away. We were the only patrons. So it was kind of romantic. But only kind of.
After lunch, we went to the inlaws’ house. Mistake. They were not, to put it mildly, in the mood for a social call. Lots of illness and depression. For everyone.
We got home around 3, and the rest of the day was spent doing nothing much. We watched the Forty-Year-Old Virgin on cable and called it a day.
But did you make the rolls and did they turn out????
Orb, I DID make the rolls and I think they turned out, though I think I should have let them raise a bit more–they were dense. Also, I had no real skill for cutting the dough into triangles, so I ended up using half the roll for cinnamon rolls, which was easier to do, and the other half, I rolled up into balls. They were misshapen, but everyone ate them and enjoyed them. 13 said I should definitely make the sweet rolls again sometime, and so I shall. Thank you for the recipe!
use the full half cup of sugar for a sweeter dough… They should rise to double in size
it sounds like they came out just fine though
“He did, last year, have a picture of George W in the office, but that has somehow been swept under the rug.”
At least he’s a Republican that can leran from mistakes
Emma said, “At least he’s a Republican that can leran from mistakes.”
You’d think I would, too, but I still love her…
Yes, but you’re not really a republican, so much as a contrarian.
First I was going to make a rude joke. But as I was repenting of the rude joke, a polite variation suggested itself.
We should all be countrarians. Meaning, we should all love and support out countries.
But this becomes a meaningless sentiment, because we would be right back where we started, each of us supposing that “my way” is the best way to run the country.
So maybe I should stick with being a cuntrarian…
Moosey,
Hey ask Mrs Moose if she likes this TAR. I can’t stand those Barbie girls….now that the Chos and Kentucky are out, I’m not that excited about it.
I don’t want the male models OR the Barbies to win
I shall get back to you on that, Emma. She watches it faithfully and I just as faithfully ignore the hell out of it. Rigged Reality…
Emma, I have been told that she gives you a big amen on you posted sentiments and she wishes the six-pack was back together. If this means anything to you, please keep it to yourself.