Count Down to Chicago

2 days!

Trouble in River City

I have issues. It centers around dirt. And my huge aversion to it.

For a while I thought that I might have OCD*. When I see dirt, mess and clutter in the house, I have a physical reaction to it. My body tenses up and my blood starts to boil. MRN says that he can see it building up and he hightails it to either tidy or to get out of the room (the latter is probably the better option...). I try to hold it in-- I know that it's happening, and know that it's irrational but I can't help it. I hate dirt and I hate things to be dirty.

This does not bode well for a super handy and wonderful husband who is single-handedly renovating our really old house.

Yes-- rationally I do understand (and endlessly appreciate) that construction yields mess. And that all the mess is for the good and it's making this house more live-able (and ultimately sale-able). And the fact that MRN does the work himself saves us loads and loads of money. And the reality is-- he is NOT messy. He's extremely, extremely clean, in fact. He always, always cleans up the building mess and he even does laundry and cleans the bathroom (well, every once in a while). He's actually a much more thorough cleaner than I am. But even with all this, when the dust, dirt and grime starts blowing all over my clean house, I go a little crazy (okay-- a LOT crazy).

The most recent blow-up (it really is the only time we argue-- and poor MRN, it's due to my crazy) was about dirt from a project he did in the attic. He was fitting a new fan in the bathroom and spent 2 days in the cramped and really, really dirty attic / on the roof putting in new ducts, vents and the lot. And there was dirt EVERYWHERE-- all over the walls, dark streaks an inch thick ground into the tan carpet in the hall and all the way down the stairs-- all over the kitchen-- floors, counters, EVERYWHERE. Even though the sane side of me knows that it has to be done and it's going to make our house so much better (and fix the damp problem we have upstairs due to the lack of an extractor fan in the bathroom), I only saw red (or in this case-- black). I needed to clean. MRN's argument is that you wait until the end-- or else the project takes forever. My argument is that you clean as you go-- it saves time at the end and creates less mess that you can't get out at the end. I've even tried to clean while he's doing the work, but it drives him crazy (and admittedly, I can get in the way and stop progress altogether). An argument I will lose every time.

Soooo-- in order to appease my crazy, MRN thought it would be a good to take our fancy vacuum in the attic to, well, vacuum some of the dust away. Disaster. Not only did it break the vacuum-- it actually created MORE mess, with the exhaust fan from the vacuum blowing more dust out of the attic into the house. Plus it clogged up the filters making it unusable and covered the actual vacuum in filth. Good intentions... poor results. Now, my shoeless house is so dirty that my feet are black from walking around-- despite scrubbing the floors. Ugggghhhhh... not good for my crazy.

On a happy note, reading the vacuum manual I was not only able to fix the vacuum myself (go me and the DIY) but also discovered that the whole darned thing comes apart so you can SCRUB IT CLEAN!! MRN came home to me doing just that... and it looks brand new (to his credit, he just shakes his head and stays quiet. I'd like to think it is because he is affectionately bemused, but I think it may be more him wondering what he's gotten himself into with me). Once the filter is dry (12 more hours), I should be able to vacuum up the rest of the dust (come on Dyson! You can do it!). Bonus? I think this recent bout of crazy has finally justified a carpet cleaner to boot.

The lesson? Happy wife=Happy husband.

*Don't worry-- concerned that I had OCD, read a bunch of books about it a few years ago and have self-diagnosed that I do not; I'm just really, really, really--annoyingly so, anal.

What's the point...

... of making anything from scratch when you can just buy this? Seriously-- it's the best brownie ever. Especially if you make them just a tad underdone. But the best-best part? The chocolate chips that are already in the mix. I buy this from Costco. Yes, everything is better in bulk.

It's what's for dinner

*****UPDATED*****
The brown butter tarragon sauce turned out to be my favorite part; the monkfish was delish, but MRN was suspicious of the artichoke hearts. Leftover polenta from last night's dinner. Broccoli was uninspired, but still yummy... esp to mop up the brown butter sauce...

*********************
Trying to keep the menu varied and still good can be a challenge-- especially when you work for the man and want to pull your hair out 10 times a day, leaving very little time or energy for creativity. Not to mention, I am a creature of habit-- I can eat the same thing everyday for months and months and be perfectly happy (case in point: in Chicago I ate Chipotle every single day for lunch... the exact same order. It got to the point that the staff would have my lunch ready for me by the time I made it through the crazy long line-- complete with my preferred idiosyncrasies... light on the rice and meat, heavy on the veggies, a bit of pico and a bit of hot sauce. Once in a while I'd break it up with a veggie sandwich from potbelly's, but pretty much for the 2 years before I moved, it was all Chipotle, all the time).

Now with someone else to feed (and I demonstrate my love through doing things for the ones I love!), I can't eat the same thing every day (although we eat a lot of the same thing a lot...)-- so I'm constantly on the look out for new recipes or ways to change something old to something new. But equally important (because of the aforementioned working for the man), the recipes can't be too complicated or time consuming or else we'd eat at 10 p.m. every night (which unfortunately for MRN is a lot of nights because of HIS crazy working for the man job). With my job becoming more and more uncreative, I have to look elsewhere... and with artistic inspiration fewer and further away, I'm turning to food (although trying to keep it healthy because I don't want to weigh a million pounds!). On the menu this week:

1. Turkey chili with herbed polenta and roasted vegetables
2. Prosciutto wrapped monkfish stuffed with sundried tomatoes, spinach and artichoke hearts with a brown butter tarragon sauce and a side of broccoli
3. Pasta fagioli (hoping to stretch it last at least two days-- thanks, AB!)
4. Mediterranean meatballs (ground lamb, garlic, red onions, sundried tomatoes) with a spinach, roasted pepper and goat cheese salad
5. Polenta pizzas (pepperoni and sundried tomato, anchovy and olives, artichoke heart and roasted garlic)

To be fair, the turkey chili was actually last night, but since it was done (and super easy) I thought I'd include it. Either MRN is lucky, or cursed... he keeps complaining about his growing belly... time will tell!

Mallard

We've all heard our fair share of odd terms of endearment. "Pookie," "Snookums," "Bubs." Then there's your more standard fare, "Baby," "Babe," "Sweetie" or "Dear." But I don't think there's one so strangely endearing as one previously dubbed upon me:

Mallard.

Yes. As in the duck. Why, you ask, would someone call me a duck? Weellll-- it starts with a not so funny story (well, at least it wasn't to me...). It was 1997 or 1998 (holy crap that was a long time ago) and I was out to dinner with friends in New York City. We were going to a friend's play following dinner, so we were in a bit of a rush to get through the meal (although I seem to remember this was also the night of the telling of the "Jesus is Coming Subway Story" which I'll have to remember to retell in another post because it's freaking funny...). We made it to the play on time, but I was starting to feel not so good. Throughout the first act, my upper lip started to itch and I was having a bit of a hard time catching my breath. When I tentatively touched my lip I realized that it was swelling-- I didn't know how much until intermission when I rushed to the bathroom and saw that it was indeed swollen-- to about quadruple its normal size (You see where this story is going...).

I went out to find my friends and with my hand covering my mouth, made excuses and dragged my unwilling boyfriend out of the theatre. Upon getting in a taxi I uncovered my mouth and he burst out laughing. (Yeah-- thanks.) "You look like a mallard."

Lots of liquid Benadyrl and a trip to the doctor the next morning for a shot, my lip eventually did return to normal, but the nickname stuck. Used mostly in times when I was particularly pathetic or sad, but always affectionately. It always pushed me out of whatever doldrums I was in and made me laugh. And it was rather endearing.

I'd been having a particularly pathetic, self-pity kind of week when I happened across this sweater on my favorite store's website tonight. I started to laugh. I'm thinking of getting it so whenever I'm having a gloomy day I can whip it out. It would always make me smile.

















Migrating Mallard Sweater from Anthropologie.