Merry F***king Christmas: Yogurt Edition

 

When I was a kid, my brothers, sisters, and I loved Christmas. The anticipation, the lights, the nearly two weeks off from school was special. Life seemed so wonderful in those days immediately before the big day. However, it was not so great for my dad. We didn't know he had to pay for all of the stuff that showed up under the Christmas tree. I never thought about what a bitch it was to lug that big tree home, set it up, and then drag all the decorations down from the attic crawl space. So at some point in the days before Christmas something would set him off. Dad would blow his top and in his thunderous big man voice, burst into a symphony of profanities. It could be a burned out string of lights. It could be something that happened in traffic on his way home from work. It could be me saying just the right thing in front of him. All I knew was to get the hell out of the way. I'm not much different. I've had my Christmas disasters that have turned me into a raving maniac. Disasters that send me screaming every foul, nasty curse word I can muster at the top of my lungs. One year in Florida it was an open window that allowed the tropical breezes to topple Mark's beautifully decorated Christmas Tree.

I make my own yogurt. Every eight days or so, I pour twenty four ounces of milk into the six hundred dollar Vitamix blender that Mark made me buy for him one Christmas. Then I add my live yogurt starter and blend it at the very lowest speed for a minute. It takes about eighteen hours to cook and then you have yogurt at a third the cost of buying it pre-made. Today was yogurt day. After pouring the milk and the live yogurt starter into the blender, I turned to throw away the yogurt carton. At which point some part of my body brushed against the blender and flipped the on/off switch to on. In a panic I flipped the wrong switch and turned the speed up to 500,000 rpm blasting all the milk and yogurt straight up onto the cabinets, walls, floor, and me. Immediately the dogs came running in to help clean up the mess. Just as immediately they ran as I burst into my impression of my dad.

It took about an hour to clean it all up. I think I got it all, but it's hard to tell. White milk, white yogurt, white kitchen cabinets and counters. I may have missed some. I'm sure I'll know if I did in a day or so. That's when the aroma of sour milk will make it known.

Busy Week

 

I've had an odd week that could have been overwhelming. However, if I break it down into smaller compartments I can deal with it all. I'm babysitting my sister's dog. Two of my sisters are in the hospital. I got a new housekeeper. I lost Dennis.

First off, the dogs. My older sister had surgery this week so I took her dog in while she recuperates. Nothing funnier than watching me walk three barking, snarling dogs down our street. Snarling because the two smallest dogs seem to think that every approaching human is a threat, and every cat or squirrel needs to be chased. Scout, the big girl of the group, has been an angel about the whole deal. By the way, finding tiny small dog turds among the fallen leaves of autumn is quite a challenge.

The housekeeper. As for her cleaning abilities, she's great. Very diligent, which can be a drawback since she spent four hours cleaning my bathroom and kitchen. I had to stop her at four hours because I am paying her by the hour. But that bathroom is spotless and the kitchen shines. I'll have her start in the living room next time she's scheduled.

Dennis. No, he's not dead. Literally, I lost him. On Tuesday I dropped him off at his doctor's office for an appointment. Around three in the afternoon I texted him, "Do you need me to pick you up?" Crickets, no answer. At five I tried calling him, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Then for the next three hours I kept calling every half hour or so, and every time straight to voicemail. I was getting worried about him. No doctor's office is still seeing patients at eight in the evening. After checking the bushes in front of the house to see if maybe he fell into them while coming up the stairs, I decided to call the hospital emergency room by his doctor's office. "Oh yes, Dennis is here in the waiting room. He's been here for four hours." So relief and panic all rolled into one. HIPAA rules and his phone taking me straight to voicemail meant that I had no idea why he was there. Which is where he stayed for over thirty hours. Finally the next evening, the dogs started going batshit and I looked out the window. Two men were helping Dennis up the porch stairs. A taxi driver and a stranger who helped pick Dennis up after he fell getting out of the taxi.

So, Dennis is fine, the dogs are fine, and I surely hope my two sisters are/will be fine. Meanwhile the two smallest dogs have staked out their sleeping positions on my bed, inches from my face.