Annabelle Lewis's Blog, page 11

Annabelle Blogs Cioppino Anyone? Pudding Shots?

It’s Cioppino Night! Yay and boo. I hate fish. This was a special scallop and clam recipe my daughter, her boyfriend, and George decided to cook. Our daughter gave George a couple of beautiful cookbooks on fish for Christmas. I guess she feels sorry for him. Oh, hell, everyone does.

Despite the dinner menu, I was looking forward to the get
together. We were going to play cards, cook the fish soup, have a fire, and
watch A Star Is Born. Sounds like fun,
but what was I going to eat? Not to be outdone by their creative kitchen moves,
I decided I’d make something special too. Pudding shots.

One of my best friends whipped up a batch of pistachio ones
the other day, and they were kick-ass cups of delight. Served cold with a tiny plastic
spoon, they made me smile. The quality of the spoon was also important. No
ridges, not cheap, just a sweet little thing, soft and smooth. I got a 200 pack
of these bad boys at the store.

Spoons and individual-sized cups purchased, I was feeling
confident I would wear the sash home for best happy hour appetizer—Cioppino be
damned. I bought my cool whip, graham crackers, limes and pudding and told
George, who was going to the liquor store to pick up a special wine for the
Cioppino, to pick up a bottle of the key lime vodka. George came home with regular
vodka and chocolate liquor.

Negative two hundred fifty degrees below zero outside, I fumed as I realized I had a choice to go back out that day, or deal with it. This probably doesn’t seem like a real problem, but the thing is, George has a maddening habit of twisting any list or task. His methods are purposeful and devilish. He always apologizes when he screws up, but I don’t think he means it. The twists are just subtle enough to make it hard to complain. People pause and question me. Annabelle, it’s not that bad, why are you so upset?

Tell him to get paper plates which he has seen many times at the cabin, and he will come back with a pack of the cheapest, flimsiest plates, which you need a knife to stick between the layers to pull them apart. Like a biscuit. The layers are all naturally stuck together. Tell him to get toilet paper, (need I say it? A product he is familiar with), and he will come home with some one-ply stuff which you can use to exfoliate with. Tell him to get milk, he will get the wrong percent. Yogurt…the wrong flavor. Apples…the wrong kind. Tea….a green box doesn’t mean green tea, George!

It’s so hard to be angry over pudding shots. It almost
screams fun. But there I was, fuming as I mixed my pudding listening to the
Italian cooking music while the other three giggled and laughed, chopping fresh
parsley, garlic and peppers. The elitist group didn’t offer help as I over poured
the vodka and made the pudding too thin. They glanced at my outbursts of
profanity with pity as I dished up the shots into their tiny cups and put them
in the refrigerator. And when I pronounced that it was time to eat them, by my
calculations, two hours later, they were still sadly runny. Luckily, we managed
to suck down a few, but then I cussed and threw them in the freezer.

Cioppino served, games played, movie watched, I reluctantly looked into the freezer and there they were. Lined up like good little late-night soldiers. Frozen, not sad at all. PJs on, we finally ate them by the fire. I went to bed with my consolation crown, not for an appetizer, but for best dessert.

I win this round, George.

WINNING, WINNING, WINNING, WINNING, WINNING, WINNING, WINNING! (I wrote this last bit so I could get a better word cloud—can’t believe how many times I had to write it for it to overpower the word George. And then the tool at Prowritingaid.com kept placing the word Winning above or below George which was definitely unacceptable! Argh!)

Annabelle Blogs Taxes are Hard

George and I are arguing. It’s tax preparation season. It’s
a similar experience when you sit down with a shrink. You cannot lie. Actually,
that’s a guideline, but only for the shrink. If you lie to your therapist, then
what’s the point? Unfortunately, I can think of a whole list of reasons why you
would do that. Embarrassment, awkwardness, guilt, shame, nerves, fear of
judgment. Now that I look at it, I’ve got the same list of problems when George
and I do the taxes.

We gather up the receipts and fill out the preparatory forms
and send it off to the accountant to figure out the damage. You’d think we’d
have a good idea which way the numbers will come out, but sadly, no. When the
big envelope comes back, ready for our signatures, we open it with a drink in
our hands. Sometimes it’s good news, sometimes it’s bad.

During the prep, one of the many things George and I judge each other on our organizational
skills—or lack thereof. We gently remind the other of the rules we vowed to
keep so as not to experience a repeat of the previous years brouhaha. Reminders
are difficult pills to swallow. Then there are the mistakes. Specifically,
deductions not taken advantage of during the time of relevance. I liken it to
receiving a coupon the day after a big purchase, or when something goes on sale
immediately after you bought it and you were the last schmuck in line paying
full price.

I did this once at a video store. They asked me if wanted to buy their lifetime membership which would give me discounts on future purchases. I had to pay for the membership, but if I used their services a lot, it would pay for itself. This was a store where I was slowly bringing my priceless home movies on VHSs to be converted to CDs. It was expensive. After George found out how much it cost, he went out (without consulting me) and purchased a machine so we could do the job ourselves. The machine cost a fortune, was impossible to figure out, and time consuming. I recently donated it, and the unused stack of pretty colored CDs George bought for the transfers. “Do you remember this event, George,” I asked sweetly? It was nice to still have that bullet in the gun.

But blowback came to my parlay. George reminded me what happened with my membership to the video store. I’d gone over there with my stack of precious VHSs and found the place shuttered. I was caught again, one step behind. The relevance of the place was gone, just like poor Blockbuster. (Who, if my recollection serves, also tried to sell some premium upgrade to me before they closed their doors. I gave the kid a “oh, please” look. Even I saw that closure coming).

Here’s my advice. Keeping score in a marriage is not a good
idea. Blogging about their idiot purchases is.

Annabelle Blogs Will You Help Save a Homeless Pet?

Every time I go to my local pet store and shove my card into
the credit card reader, I get this prompt. Every time I gnash my teeth in
frustration. It is a terrible question. Let’s break it down. That question is a
trap, and I resent it.

It forces you to reply either yes or no to the question
before you can move on with your transaction. Let’s try out the responses and
see how we feel.

“No. I will not save a homeless pet.”

Feel good?

“Yes. I will save a homeless pet.”

Which one should I choose? Either one is bad. If I say no, I
get to feel guilty. Thank you for making me feel bad pet store for driving to
your store in twenty below zero weather to get my puppy a hundred bucks of your
merchandise. If I click yes, then I feel like I am succumbing to the pressure.
Giving in to their extortion. They are betting the odds that I Can’t Say No.

They haven’t met me. I can say no. It’s my favorite word.
I’m always amused by articles which pep talk people about using the word more
in their lives to reduce stress. Come to me. I’ll say no to your face. No
problem.

But as I laid out above, when I say no to this prompt it
leaves me feeling bad and angry. Why can’t the prompt ask if you’d donate a
dollar to help save a homeless pet? Who is going to say no to that? It’s a set
amount. It won’t hurt and I’ll bet the analytics would come back with a 90% yes
response rate. That’s a whole lot of one dollars. I’ll bet it would add up and
there would be less resentment.

Now let’s look at the word, pet. Dictionary.com defines it as: Any domesticated or tamed animal
that is kept as a companion and cared for affectionately. Soo, a homeless pet
would mean a domesticated animal that is cared for. But it is homeless. It is
not cared for. They contradict one another. The two words together do not make
sense, right?

Before you throw out the obvious response, I realize there are lots of tragic scenarios where a former pet was made homeless, but I’m addressing the actual language of the prompt. Maybe they’re just trying to be optimistic. I’m nitpicking here—don’t get in my way while I rant. Or when I’m hungry. Or when my technology breaks. Or when my husband agrees to help dust and does so over the printer buttons, and other electronics, forcing a necessary reset because they are messed up. I could have dusted myself in the time it took to fix the stuff on the desk. Did you do that on purpose so I would never ask you again, George? Was the whining you endured that accompanied the discovery worth it? Was your passive aggressive ploy to undermine my future beg for domestic help worthwhile? Did you feel successful? Was it good for you?

Yes or No!

It’s a trap! I am
the pet store. It always comes full circle.

Annabelle Blogs Hey Dan, Call me.

I get a lot of e-mail from a childcare site where I worked in the past. It pops up periodically with messages from parents, searching for babysitters or to fill nanny positions. I usually open them without thought, curious what the request is and why after so many years, the cookies on this site still have me listed as a sticky candidate.

So I open this e-mail from a guy named Dan. He’s looking for
a babysitter for next Friday night. The time states, “6-11pm or possible
overnight?” So I’m looking at this and thinking, Dan, you hopeful fella. You’re
seeking a babysitter who has the flexibility to stay the night, just in case
things progress nicely on Friday?

I was so curious. I wanted to reach out and reply, but I had the feeling that Dan, having never even met me would instantly, without an interview, give me the gig. And then I’d be stuck….possibly sleeping on sweet Dan’s couch. Or not sweet couch. That’s the double-edge sword thing. For all he knows I might be a bad babysitter (I can assure you I am not). My side of the blade could mean he has a house that smells like a dirty litter box with fur on every surface and children who I wish I could rescue.

Dan, Dan, Dan. The ad is gone now, and I’ll never know how
Friday night went. Please post again. This time I will respond. My curiosity
may be my undoing, but I’ve got to know.

Annabelle Blogs My Litmus Test. Can we be Friends?

Don’t worry, it’s a short test, but it’s graded on a
pass/fail. Did you know this test has a scientific origin from the 14th
century? Back then, I doubt people had the time to use it for the purpose we
typically wield it with today. It all started from a compound called lichen
which is like a fungus that grows on rocks or trees. A mixture of lichen ook
turns either red in acid solutions or blue in alkaline solutions. So a cool
sciencey thing. In addition to that, we use it as a test for character.

I will not touch the obvious, wildly politically divisive,
elephant in the room, although it is an effective use of the litmus. No. I will
stick to my old test which I have recently modified. Unfortunately, half of the
two-question test can only be conducted in person. So that rules out me judging
almost all of you. Most of you who know me have already taken the first part of
the test, but like I said, I’m adding an addendum.

The first—and previously only—question on my litmus test was
whether or not you liked Uga Muga’s Dip. My grandmother from Sweden, lovingly
called Uga Muga, made a special dip, which has been served throughout my life.
It’s one of the better memories of my growing-up years. My mother used to make
The Dip every Sunday. We’d lie around the pool and come inside occasionally to
read the National Enquirer and eat
The Dip. We’d gorge ourselves on it and feel sick to our stomachs when it was
time for dinner. On each occasion, my mother would threaten us she’d never make
it again if we continued to ruin her dinners, but then, every Sunday, we all
breathed easier when we opened the fridge, and there it was.

After I had children, I spread the love of The Dip and made it for my daughter and her friends. I’d knowingly smile with delight when the requests came in to have The Dip ready by not only my daughter, but by her friends. I became synonymous with The Dip. When I’d enter a room, people would light up on the off chance I came with The Dip. I made the requested batches many times for graduation parties and presented it with the recipe card. I am a pusher of The Dip. One sweet girl even made a bowl for me with the name, The Dip, proudly painted on the side.

You’re dying to know what’s in it. Aren’t you? I will tell you. But here’s my test. If you don’t like it, I will not like you. It’s a tricky system of character evaluation, and I worry about my relationship status to those who have failed, but oddly, I can only think of a few people who have not taken to The Dip like animals. It’s got four ingredients. Do not modify it. Philadelphia Cream Cheese, sugar, scallions, and milk. Serve it with a strong ruffled potato chip. It’s a salty/sweet combo of heaven. (For each brick, I usually throw in a handful of scallions, three tablespoons of sugar and milk for texture. Keep it thick. You’re welcome for the recipe. Just give Uga Muga credit.)

Now to my addendum. There are people who like The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and those who
do not. I adore it. So, choose your team now, but choose wisely. I haven’t
figured out how to categorize those people who don’t like it. You’re an odd
specimen. Like lichen. If you also failed The Dip test, there is no hope for
us. And Scott, my dear brother-in-law, you’re not going to use this as get-out-of-jail
free card. We’re related. You’re stuck with me.

Annabelle Blogs Punctuation

Exhibit A – the title of my blog.

Is blogs a verb? I
suppose it has to be here, right? A sentence must contain at least one noun – pronoun in this case, (Ha!) and a verb.
Is that right?

Could blogs it be
a noun? Blogs – like newspapers, magazines – those are nouns.

How am I going to get past this so I can write the actual
blog? I feel stuck.

And when that happens, I typically lose all pretense of
caring and file it under the handy, ‘who cares’. I mentally flash to a gun rack
behind me on a truck I don’t own and think of myself as smoking and drinking a
beer, careening down the highway with the tunes cranking.

But then I land. Books have been written about this grammar shit.
Think about the incredible Eats, Shoots
& Leaves, The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation book by Lynne
Truss. I’ll bet she’d care. Yes, I read the book, loved it actually, but I’m
not sure all the lessons stuck. It was a fascinating read about how the use or
improper use of punctuation can set the world on fire. (Editorializing here….
Sweet!)

There are tooools on-line I could run this thing through, in fact, I subscribe to one. But what if I don’t want to? When is it okay just to freeform? Go commando? (N-e-v-e-r). Why do I need to worry about perfection of form when I’d rather use my blog space to ramble. Let her off the leash!

Surprising twist. I suppose this periphrastic composition is actually a blog. And there it is. Our
word of the day:

Periphrastic. Awesome word meaning circumlocutory, or
roundabout. Boom. A bonus word- circumlocutory.

Your welcome.

Shit.

You’re welcome.