with friends like these…

I sent the following text message to a friend, not so much to console her, as to console myself:

Julian of Norwich said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

She responded with the following:

“Julian of Norwich was hallucinating in her tiny cell and anorexic probably. But if that is what it takes to have a good attitude….”

This is why one must have friends. She knows what I need.

 

 

 

 

 

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Day 9 of the Great Bell Pepper Explosion

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I haven’t quite figured out what to do about this bumper crop of bell peppers.

Currently, my plan of action is to eat my way through it. Kind of what I did with the berries until it got so out of hand I actually tried my hand at canning.

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Not sure that’s what I want to do with peppers.

Thoughts?

I’m open to any suggestions.

In the meantime, as a Facebook friend suggested:

You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, saute it. Dey’s uh, pepper-kabobs, pepper creole, pepper gumbo. Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried. There’s pineapple pepper , lemon pepper ,coconut pepper, pepper soup, pepper stew, pepper salad, pepper and potatoes, pepper burger, pepper sandwich. That- that’s about it.

Yep. That’s about it.

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Pass the Tums.

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let’s talk about toothpaste

Toothpaste has really gotten under my skin lately. I mean, I’ve actually had a little bit of aggression as I face down my morning ablutions with this uncooperative and sinister part of my personal hygiene routine.

I’m used to this old-school aluminum tube that you squeeze from the bottom up. Okay, let me take that back. I squeeze it from the middle until it becomes a kind of lumpy uneven mess. Then I wake up in an OCD mood and decide that is the day I must squeeze from the bottom and get every last drop of Crest or Colgate or Superman bubble-gum flavored atrocity (I have little nephews).

That works for a while, and then, I get to what I think is the end of the toothpaste and that last inch seems to last for three years! Well, perhaps I may have a little problem with hyperbole…but it lasts for a really really long time.

So I switched to a different approach and bought this nifty little contraption which I believed would be the solution:

It wasn’t. Oh sure, it has a nice neat appearance, and sits up straight all important-like. But I can’t tell how much toothpaste is in there. I guess air squeezes out the toothpaste, so there’s no collapsing of the container. After a week, it weighs the same. Every time I brush my teeth I have this anxious moment where I wonder if this could be the last time. If next time I won’t have any toothpaste left because this insidious design is obviously a master plan to get me to purchase multiple bottles and keep them stored away. No! I will not be manipulated like that.

And anyway, those squirreled away tubes of toothpaste are in case of the zombie apocalypse and I won’t break into that stash.

So it finally happened and my worst case scenario became a reality. This morning I squeezed out the last bit of toothpaste in a rather unceremonious burp that splattered the paste onto my toothbrush and my shirt. Good riddance weird and unfriendly toothpaste container thingie.

Hello stash of half-used toothpaste left behind by college kids, visiting nieces and nephews, and numerous trips requiring travel-size tubes.

Pray for me.

“Is that a poor man’s smore?”

Yes. Yes it is.

I make no apologies.

I have these reports that are due tomorrow, and I’ve been plodding along to finish. It’s a weird kind of writing. Let’s call it, validating something that’s already written. It’s a tedious job to rewrite stuff, but that’s not even the point of this post.

I don’t feel well…I have a migraine that is giving me some great disco lights in my peripheral vision and the disco beat behind my eyes…and I have a weenie cough that I thought was just a weenie cough, only, now, it’s gucky. Gross, and TMI. Sorry.

So that brings me to my snack. I was making coffee, hoping the caffeine might help to a) wake me up, and b) tame the headache, when I saw there was one lonely little graham cracker on the counter. I picked it up and studied it, and lamented it’s naked state, when I announced, “I could spread some fluff on it and squeeze chocolate syrup on it! I can make a pseudo smore!”

My kid looked at me sadly and said, “What is that? A poor man’s smore?”

Yes. Yes it is. Nom nom nom.

Ack! My back!

I am lumbering around the house looking like a wounded Varactyl.

You must be wondering what that is. Here ya go:

I know, a little overly dramatic. My other choice would be to cover my lower back in Ben Gay. I tried that yesterday. It was not a good choice for a number of reasons I will not go into publicly. Thus, I am back to lumbering around and whining loudly.

And begging for your prayers.