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Conversation before bed one night:
Her: What happened to the toilet?
Me: I cleaned it.
Her: Huh. Weird.

It’s 10:30pm and I’m waiting for bread to rise. Way back in the pantry, I found a “European Cheese and Herb” bread machine bread mix. I don’t even have a bread machine. There are instructions on how to make it without one, so I followed those. The house is pretty much an icebox, so I actually started some laundry so I could run the dryer so I could put the bowl with the rising dough on top, where there might be a tiny amount of warmth to help it rise. It still struggles to bulk up. And now I’m wondering if the yeast might have kicked the bucket ages ago, and it may never do the job. Where’s the bread-dough Viagra??

I love to cook at night. To do anything at night, really, because I am rarely a morning person. Puttering around in the kitchen is relaxing and I think about things, mostly unfocused daydreaming. Not really unusual though, because I’m pretty random most of the time. I have an organizer that is still tabula rasa because I keep forgetting to write things down, so my nights are still mostly unproductive in the ways of daily living.

Conversation driving back from Austin:

Me, driving: Look at the … things in the sky. [Unable to place the word for skydivers]
Her: Oh, yeah. Remember that time we saw the…[pause]
Me: OMG YES! That was terrible.
Her: I still wonder if he lived.
Me: Should we stop for coffee? I hate it when you steal the blankets.
Her, ignoring me: Why do you think some people jump from airplanes? Is life not exciting enough driving on I-35?
Me, gesturing, over-dramatizing: It’s enough of an adrenaline rush when trying to wrestle a shred of blanket away from your death-grip at night. GOD, I HATE THAT.
Her, calmly: You’re a poopy-head butthole.
Teenager, from backseat: Will you guys shut up? GOD!! [not even a pause for a breath] I’m naming my future kid Jesus Christ, by the way. Hyphenated, Jesus-Christ, with the middle name Anthony.
Me, looking at her in rear-view: I swear I don’t know where you got your weirdity. Hey, remember in the movie Little Miss Sunshine when the van wouldn’t stop honking that pathetic honking and the cop was in the back looking at the gay porn and the dad is all, “That’s if you like something a little different …”
Teenager: The grandfather was funny.
Her: It was fun singing Christmas carols with Jay today, even though he wasn’t actually singing with us.
Me, ignoring her: Yeah, it’s more fun when I get to give you guys a hard time and you end up apologizing to me for it. I love that! It’s just like the movie we saw last night. Not the movie, um, the comedian guy what’s-his-name.
Teenager/Her: Mmhm. Great for us.

So anyway, I am such a huge fan of those laser-focused, single-minded, hard-working women that stay busy and accomplish a lot. I’m just not one of them, but I volunteer to be a muse, a cheerleader, a peanut gallery, one of those girls who will carry the torch and the banner and and and … well, pretty much everything except do it myself. That’s not exactly true – I will eventually do it myself, but I would rather thrash around with it for a while before I do. I like to learn new things and all, but it’s hard to get out of routine in order to be FABULOUSLY OVERACHIEVING!

But I digress. Where was I again? Oh, and I almost forgot. One of my best friends showed me a video/song that is so peppy and happy and wonderful (goes against my personality TOTALLY) that I have to share. Oren Lavie – Her Morning Elegance. Hope it’s welcome here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_HXUhShhmY