Wedded Bliss

Yesterday was our two-year anniversary. If you're playing along at home, the traditional gift for the second year is cotton. Perfect, since we needed new sheets. I can't guess how old our current sheet sets are. One fitted sheet has an ever-growing hole, while the other set is a those t-shirt sheets which cause me to sweat like Heidi Fleiss in a synagogue.

When we went to buy the sheets at Target (5% savings with our Target card!), we found a comforter we both liked--no small feat in itself--on sale. I wasn't sure and asked Husband, "Do you want to be stuck with this in our bedroom every day for five years?" He looked at me like I was a crazy person and replied, "It's $22. For that price, we can get something new in a couple years and put it in a garage sale if we get tired of it."

Indulge in a modest splurge. Of course, he was right. It's a pretty comforter and a pleasant change to see every day. And talk about an inexpensive anniversary gift! But there is a part of me that feels a little guilty--mostly because I feel like we indulge too many modest splurges. Husband and I are wired differently when it comes to this concept. To him, everything is "only $x," whereas I always think "if you didn't spend that $x a week you'd have $x*52 after a year." It's a delicate balance between being a killjoy and ending up with less money than you started the month with. And I don't always make the right decision--I'm still not 100% convinced that we made the right decision this time, but I will take comfort in my nice new comforter. Besides the countdown in on to cinch up my belt starting in October.

I also made spaghetti sauce to freeze yesterday. It could've been almost free sauce since my folks have been heaping tomatoes from their garden on me since mid-summer. I had stacks of tomatoes from the Hen House Growers Alliance CSA and from my parents' visit this weekend. The tomatoes from the CSA (They were hydroponic hot house tomatoes. You know the kind that seem really good in the spring but are poor imitations after a summer's worth of vine-ripened goodness. My brother calls these cardboard tomatoes.) cost about $4.00 so I ended up with a Ragu sized jar of tomato sauce that cost a little over $4. Not at all cheap when you compare it to the the sale price of a jar of Ragu. But it is worth it knowing that I didn't end up composting $4 worth of tomatoes that I would have left until all the *good* tomatoes were gone and the cardboard tomatoes went rotten on the counter. Plus it was easy and made the house smell pretty darn good for the evening.

Spaghetti Sauce
A bunch of tomatoes: 5-6 big cardboard tomatoes and 4-5 small garden tomatoes
4-5 cloves of garlic, peeled and sliced
Olive oil
Italian herbs, salt, pepper, onion powder

Cook the garlic in the oil. Peel the tomatoes and add them and the seasoning. Cook until the tomatoes break down and are mushy. This filled up a Ragu jar that I saved and washed out. I put in in the refrigerator overnight and pureed it in the blender the next evening. (I waited mostly because the blender was getting clean in the running dishwasher.) Then I put it back in the jar and put it in the freezer.

Update: Squirrel and Short-Cut Chicken Soup

Those things are unrelated. Although I do know some people who eat (or used to eat) squirrel. Not in "chicken" soup, though. I think they got mad-squirrel disease. Not to worry, they're ok now.

And so is the squirrel. He's being raised with other fallen baby squirrels at a nearby nature park. I'm very happy that Husband spent the gas money to take him to the park instead of buying the puppy formula. It's so hard to raise a squirrel right these days.

Other than that, we're having a rockin' Saturday night. I'm checking to see if a new episode of "Project Runway" is available on lifetime.com and Husband is playing a game on his DS.

I just finished making another delicious bowl of short-cut chicken soup for lunch tomorrow. Here's why: I just got a whole chicken in the CSA that Aspiring Maven and I split. I cooked it, freaking out step-daughter as I took it out of the oven and she stared into the cavity. "Eeew, gross. I'm not eating that," she proclaimed. She ate the legs and thighs, even though the recognizable chicken leg bones had already fallen out. Also, had some frozen chicken broth in the freezer from old...it is freezer burned and needs to be used up. Also, we had butter-garlic noodles without chicken last night. Mix it all up--instant chicken soup for lunch.

Update on the Update: We just told step-daughter about finding a home for the squirrel on the phone. She had visions of raising the squirrel to adulthood and it would come back and visit us every now and then. Her response to the squirrel being gone: "NEVER TALK ABOUT THE SQUIRREL AGAIN. EVER. GRRR." Seriously, she growled on the phone.

Notes on our Labor Day Weekend

Sunday as I was picking up sticks to mow the yard, I saw this ball of fur and an eye staring blankly from the base of one of our trees. I went to the open window to our bedroom and said to Tim, “There’s a dead animal out here.” Tim came out with a plastic bag and heavy garden gloves to pick it up and throw it in the unsuspecting Chinese restaurant’s dumpster (where all our stinky trash ends up). Then he says, “It’s alive.” Then he picks it up and starts walking to me, “It’s a baby squirrel.” I back up and say, “Don’t bring it near me.”

So I went and got the squirrel a box and a towel and Tim wrapped him up to warm him up. He had been out of his nest for awhile. We had a little thunderstorm that night—maybe the squirrel fell or was blown out during that. Then we mowed the yard.

Then Tim tries to climb the tree and return the squirrel to one of the two nests in the tree. But, the nests are too high and the squirrel isn’t going anywhere on his own. He’s returned to his box so Tim can Google.

Google teaches us that we can give it Gatorade through a syringe to hydrate the squirrel. We only have Zero-Calorie Powerade, but what the hell, right? Squirrel hydrated. Also, thanks to Google, we know that the mom squirrel won’t come get the baby if it’s cold. Hot water bottle goes into the box.

Google also tells us to build a nest in a box and put the box in the tree and make him make squirrel noise so his mom will find him and come get him. Except baby squirrel won’t make squirrel noise, not even if you hold him up by his hind paw. So my laptop goes outside and plays squirrel noise.

Night falls. Squirrel is getting cold and no parents have shown up to claim him. After I patently refuse to let the squirrel in the house, “even if it is zipped up in Rosabella’s (the guinea pig) carrier in the basement” the squirrel goes into the garage. Zipped up in Rosabella’s carrier, I assume.

Day two, Monday: Squirrel gets more Powerade and goes back into the tree in his squirrel-box-nest. We all go about our business. Evening comes and the squirrel is still hanging out in his box-next. Dang it. Squirrel goes back into the garage for the night.

Day three, today: I think my husband is a baby squirrel father. All he needs to do is sign the squirrel adoption papers. Squirrel’s parents are presumed dead. Google says we have to buy puppy formula to feed the squirrel.

Next time, I’ll know to get a shovel, scoop up the animal, and put it in my neighbor’s yard. I mean, just last month Terry’s little girls accidentally killed a baby rabbit. Problem solved.

A Long Absence

I started a post about Ash Wednesday at work. I was writing it on scratch paper during lunch and then I left it there. I don't want to try to reconstruct it so I'll post it on Friday and we'll all just pretend like it's Ash Wednesday.

So first things first. I don't have cancer. I have atypical cells that were connected with suspicious-looking mole. There are more atypical cells still in my arm. They will have to be cut out later this month.

Second things second. I was going to make a joke about how I got food poisoning because the last post I wrote before I fell off the face of the planet was about my tendency to eat food that has been in the fridge too long. But I didn't really have food poisoning and then I waited too long and then it seemed wrong to joke about food poisoning when atypical cells were involved. Not wanting to invoke the wrath of bad joke karma (when your bad joke comes true), I decided to just be honest. This is more along the lines of what happened.

True story! And not just in my blogging life, but in everything. The only goal I made any headway on during the month of February was reading a bunch of books. I also took lots of long, hot baths. I wish that were one of my goals because I'd be 3/5 finished with it by now. Yep, read, bathe, age--that pretty much sums up my February. (Other than the most awesome trip to Savannah. But you don't have to take my word for it. Others think so, too.)

In "this is March and the first quarter of the year is almost over and we all should start freaking out about personal finance" news, Husband called our phone/internet provider today to negotiate a lower rate. He spent 45 minutes on the phone and we got our bill cut in half. Like $36 a month savings. And we get call waiting now, too. So all you have to do is call and say, "Yeah, I want to pay you less money and I think you should give me more services for it." And it works. Who knew?

"The Margins Are Involved"

"The margins are involved." I think that's how she said it. That's how I remember it, anyway. It was less than six hours ago, but I couldn't have repeated it word-for-word after just six minutes.

I can't imagine a less human way to say it. It sounds like a error at the print shop. It doesn't sound like biopsy results. It doesn't even really convey any meaning to me, whose margins those are. What were they involved in? A torrid affair with the neighboring non-suspicious-looking mole? A wild party near the elbow? Certainly no one dropped the c- bomb and no one whispered "it" over the phone.

I couldn't even think to ask the question. I was too busy looking for a pen to write down the phone number for the Skin and Cancer Clinic. A specialist. I got the news too late to make an appointment. The making will have to wait until tomorrow. The appointment is a bigger question mark. Surely not long, right?

Right now, the suspense of not knowing what my margins are up against is worse than having a plan of attack. But, I hope suspenseful is as bad as it gets. What I do know is that my 1 inch by 1/3 inch by 1/4 inch of flesh did not equal a pound and more will have to go. At best, more local, more cutting, and more stitches will go in to get more margins out.

It's scary, you know, but it feels like it shouldn't be. Why make a mountain out of a mole? Maybe it's not malignant. Maybe it's just a few more weeks with stitches and a wicked-ass scar. But right now there are so many possible maybes that they are weighing heavy. Sometimes it feels like I have to lift them all with my chest just to create the space to breathe.

I really want to shake the pressure this weekend. I don't need it dogging me like a Charlie Brown cloud on happy fun girls' weekend. So I'm putting it out here, kind of like therapy. Maybe the internet can think about my margins for me--just until I get back home. Then I'll pick up where I left off.