A lost in translation compliment

Today I spent some time helping someone new to the area get settled, which included me spending some time in my car telling them about our last eight years here, and some suggestions to help their family integrate with ease.

We discussed the differences in our lives back home–him from LA, and me from New England, which couldn’t be more different, though we spent a lot of time discussing our mutual love of the ocean, the woods, animals, etc.  I told him how his family would love the food festivals, the proximity to other countries, the wine festivals, summer trips to local lakes.

We discussed how his baby is due in two weeks and his boys will be only 14 months apart. I told him about the boys and how at 20 months apart, they are more fun than I could have imagined, if he doesn’t mind a year of sleep deprivation.  I talked to him about us having dogs and country v city life, how to find a second car and where I thought his wife would like to travel with the kids in her first summer weeks.

“You and my wife are going to get along so well,” he said optimistically, and I was happy to have made a connection to make him feel welcome.

“Really, she’ll love you.  You’re very similar—both athletic (which I assume is code for not stunningly gorgeous), outdoorsy, stocky and outgoing.”

I was smiling politely and listening until he said stocky.  He used stocky as the third adjective to describe me, in such an enthusiastic manner that I will choose to believe this is perhaps a complication of learning English as a second language.

Seriously.  A whole twelve minutes into knowing him and he went with stocky.

The domestic misadventures continue

You know who I will never be? The mom that brings something delicious and homemade to a birthday party or holiday gathering. I will never have that thing that people call and say, make sure you bring your potato salad or famous chocolate cake or deviled eggs, and I seriously love deviled eggs enough to make them for other people if I were good at making them.

So today I’m like, i’m going to be all domestic, not my strength, and make some deviled eggs and stuffed mushrooms and bulgogi. Right, three things that do not belong together, I know, but I realized we have three packages of eggs because every time I go to the store I think, I better get some eggs to make sure we have some, and yes, I’ve done that three times in a week sober, so I needed to do something with the eggs and I figured it was about time I try again to boil eggs and see if today would be the day I would succeed for the first time in 4 decades.  Last time I tried a few weeks ago, I cracked into soft boiled eggs, tried to put them back in for a second boil and the whole damned pot ended up in the bio and I pretended like it never happened.

Then I was like, but I also need stuffed mushrooms in my life, so let’s make some, because I’m not working and I’m also not day drinking so I figured cooking a few snacks would keep me busy.  The bulgogi was just because I like to put shit in the crock-pot and I had three packages of meat that needed to be used or shamefully tossed and so the kids are having beef and broccoli tonight.

I’d like to announce that I not only made all three recipes, but everything appears to be edible, and I’m sure of the tastes at least because I spent the better part of lunch eating egg and mushroom cap fillings with a spoon like the attractive woman I am.

Speaking of attractive, it appears as though I alarmed some people with my WebMD questions yesterday regarding the wounds I have on my legs.  Maybe I should clarify.  I’m fine.  I was hobbling around and they are all sore and red and now scabbing but I highly doubt I’m going to end up with red lines shooting towards my heart or amputation or sepsis or whatever additional nightmares people commented yesterday.  Here’s a picture of what it looked like when I kept bandaids and neosporin on them last week.

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I’m sure we all remember one of my favorite hobbies is to exaggerate and we’re all positive I’m not a medic, which I’d like to take a timeout to note that my husband, the Army medic, was actually not helpful at all in this entire two week injury situation and so I determined myself that it would take a lifetime for these wounds to heal so I ripped the bandaids off and allowed the wounds to air dry and fingers crossed my legs don’t scar, not that it matters because no one in all of history has ever liked me for the looks of my legs.

Anyway, yesterday after a few days of air drying and walking around screaming in pain for no reason, I finally begged him to carefully pull up my stretchy pants to tell me if we’d need to cut my legs off, and he took one look, smirked and called me a name meant for cats and said I’d live and then I wanted to question his training but instead decided to remind him not so gently that TWO LARGE HEADED KIDS BLASTED OUT OF MY VAGINA SO I WOULD SLOW DOWN ON THE NAME CALLING.

But apparently I’ll live, and I’ll note that no, I did not get those wounds from falling around after drinking. Well, I was drinking when I injured myself, but I was actually trying to get all sexy with the Mr in the garage and it obviously went terribly wrong and that’s why vodka and sexing only worked out in my 20s. I’ll save the extended story for a combined piece about how I broke both legs and ended up in a wheelchair in Alexandria after the horse races in 2008, but not today because this story was supposed to be about cooking.

That’s about all that’s been going on.