Julia

This That And A Margarita Recipe

Does anyone know how I can get Packy to stop re-opening a scab on his cheek? He got a mosquito bite there A MONTH AGO, scratched it until it bled one night, and has subsequently taken the little scab off over and over and over and over.... it's disturbing. I have tried BandAids. I have tried super-adhesive BandAids. I have tried super-adhesive BandAids covered with athletic tape. I have tried three different brands of liquid bandage. And he has managed to remove and/or scratch through them all. Should I take him to the doctor? Can you suggest anything else (besides oven mitts. Steve suggested we render his little hands inoperable but I just cannot bring myself to do it. what if he wants to work a little scrimshaw during the night?)

As befits my generation of latch-key kids and punk rock, I am quite cynical. So no one was more surprised than I was to discover myself fighting back the tears during yesterday's 4th of July parade. It was so WHOLESOME and SWEET. Hundreds of little kids lined the road, grabbing at the candy thrown from the floats. Boys scouts marched by. Convertibles were packed with tiara-ed princesses. A flatbed truck full of men in drag went by with the sign "REALLY Desperate Housewives" and it was funny because, of course, they were just kidding. They don't actually like wearing makeup and wigs and pretty dresses. Hell no. Then we went to a barbeque (barbecue?) along the parade route that we had been invited to by a local architect who keeps providing these professional-social events that baffle us (are we friends? potential clients?) yet offer us beer. Then we hooked up with the Margarita Neighbors and compared pantry stores and decided that between our assorted buns and meats and dips and limes we could swing an early dinner in their back yard as planned. Whereupon Patrick promptly fell head first (with Bear!) into their unbelievable new waterfall-creek thing (how does someone get a NEW waterfall-creek thing? John Deere and about a billion dollars, is our guess. it is absolutely beautiful and, Patrick assures me, very splashy) and I had to drive back home (yes we drove. to our next door neighbors. in our SUV. God Bless America) for dry clothes for both of us. So that Patrick spent the next hour and a half talking about that time he fell in the water and splashed and got wet and Bear got wet and he splashed too and then Patrick had to wear orange shorts not blue shorts and his sneakers got wet but he only wears sandals at the beach and Bear went into the drier and now they are both nice and warm and dry.

Have I mentioned that Patrick never shuts up?      

It was a nice day and, in honor of it,  I give you the margarita recipe I have worked out:

Fresh squeezed juice

Cointreau

Tequila

Simple Sugar (2 parts sugar 1 part water. Bring to a boil. Cool. Keeps forever in a jar in the refrigerator.)

Squeeze two limes or one grapefruit (I love the grapefruit) or puree and strain a couple of cups of cubed watermelon or maybe use an orange. If you microwave the citrus for 30 seconds it juices easier, compliments of my best friend F.  Add one ounce of Cointreau (or triple sec) and two ounces of Tequila. Taste. Add a tablespoon of simple sugar if needed. Taste again. Repeat until it is sweet-tart enough for you. Shake over ice and strain. Ole.

Now could someone please tell me, and I am serious here, how can we get the neurotic cat to stop relieving himself on the new basement carpet? It started about a week ago when Steve put the newly polyurethaned baseboards up and it is a PROBLEM. Mostly poop, which is weird, and we have caught the urine (we hope) immediately and cleaned it before it set but... come on, cat people, help me out here. Any thoughts? 

On The Other Hand

I will not continue to harbor delusions about my husband.

I will not continue to harbor delusions about my husband.

I will not continue to harbor delusions about my husband.

Steve does not read this blog (usually) but I do like to while away the summer evenings describing what I wrote and then what you wrote and then what I thought and... you get the idea. Which is how he came to learn that I am pining from marital neglect over here. And he asked, lovingly but firmly, that I tell you good people of the internet that I am utterly, perhaps dangerously, deranged.

For Exhibit A he requested that I draw your attention to the June calendar, a month in which he took a week off from work to frolic with not only his own in-laws but his in-laws' in-laws. Exhibit B contains the airline tickets that clearly indicate his intention to spend the last two weeks of July working via carrier pigeon while holding my hand during IVF. Various other evidence includes the annual park access window sticker purchased last week when he took the morning off and went to the lake with me and the child; the itemized receipt from last night's dinner at my favorite wine bar (Patrick demolished the Wine Lover's cheese plate and then ate my salad;) and the fact that I need to hurry to finish writing this as we are all going to the town parade followed by a barbeque with the Margarita Neighbors. Finally, I am supposed to tell you that I only sent him an email once asking for an appointment and that he does keep an open office door within reason, but sometimes it is essential that I be put into a metaphoric closet with a sack over my head because otherwise I would just never stop talking. It is a kindness, he says, like putting a green baize cloth over a parrot cage or giving an over-tired baby the chance to put themselves back to sleep without poking them every five seconds.

(Huh. I posted prematurely. That NEVER happens to me.)

Anyway, although I am absolutely certain I have been pitifully neglected this week it is just possible that I might be extrapolating unfairly from there. Maybe.

If I Used Categories This Would Fall Under "Marriage"

Well, thank you. It is nice of you to try to cheer me up. If I follow you (and I do! like a lynx!) either a) everyone is boring and I am therefore in excellent albeit mixed company or b) I am not boring but perhaps my mother just doesn't like being called at the office every 15 minutes. Good to know.

I don't feel bored, for what it is worth. I feel as if every day is packed like an olive, full of exciting challenges (you know, if challenges were pimentos or, better yet, cloves of garlic.) Obviously, I have a very low threshold for feeling breathtakingly accomplished with minimal effort, which is why I rarely feel dissatisfied with myself or ask how come I dropped out of all those graduate programs or if this is what I want to be doing at 40. Heavens, just today I re-organized the troublesome tea/spice cupboard to the left of the stove and have felt like the Shah of the Universe ever since. All of my spices are now in a drawer to the right of the stove (very handy) and the loose teas, as you can see, are neatly stacked with the black teas to the left and tisanes to the right. Infusers and tea pots on top and measuring cups and, hey look at that! garlic! we were just talking about garlic, in the middle. Oh, and the dry erase board where I write out the weekly menus and note that we need more American cheese hangs inside the cupboard door, out of view but quickly accessible. Isn't it lovely?

OK. So I have some time on my hands, it is true. Naptime, specifically. I blame Steve, or I would blame him if I could find him. What's the deal with my husband? I am utterly bewildered. When we started dating he played ALL THE TIME. He traveled. He went running. He was always willing to go look at living room furniture in the middle of the day.

Then... then I don't know what happened. Somewhere along the line he decided he needed a purpose or something and now I can no longer ignore the fact that he officially works all of the fucking time. I married this lovable slacker and in a few short years he has morphed into a steely-eyed executive who is always taking a business call in the middle of dinner. It's eerie. It has also gotten so bad in the past month or two I find myself sending him emails to ask for an appointment when I need to talk during the day. His office, in case you were wondering, is located about thirty feet north-north-west from where I am sitting but apparently he no longer welcomes walk-ins.

It has not escaped my notice that I am the passive beneficiary of all this industry so I certainly do not want to sound like I am complaining, I just wish that someone had given me a heads-up first. Is this his version of a mid-life crisis? He already has a fast red car and, please, what would he do with a mistress? Get some rest, most likely. Anyway, do all men (people, excuse me. just because I do not have an ambitious bone is my whole body does not mean that I should resort to stupid gender stereotypes) hit 35 and start building empires? Is he going to snap out of it anytime soon or do I need to finally put some effort into finding a female friend to take his place at the lamp store?

I kinda miss him, but don't tell him I said so. I prefer to let him think he is expendable so that he lives in fear I will one day take these divine organizational skills and depart. And then what  will happen to the teas and spices and outgoing mail? Chaos and anarchy. Apres moi, le deluge. And whatnot.