Heat Wave

It was 103 degrees here over the weekend. I know because people kept asking…"do you know how hot it is!?!??” Given how few houses have air conditioning (including this one), the heat tends to make San Diegans a bit inelegant. [Molly has been walking around with an ice pack on her back for 3 days.] Rita and I spent half the weekend trying to steal air conditioning from other places. I’ve never been so happy to go to Williams Sonoma in all my life. But after driving around in the car’s air conditioning for 3 hours, my roommate Al Gore was starting to feel a little guilty.

Needless to say, Rita was a convert on using the recently installed portable air conditioning in the house. We sealed up one room and turned that portable jobbie up as high as it would go. And I mean sealed up. Every window was closed, the French doors locked tight, even a towel stuffed under crack of the door to the hallway to keep one iota of Freon from escaping. One of my friends called it the panic room…and he was right. If you open that door and let out 30 minutes of coolness…I. Am. Going. To. Panic. By the middle of the afternoon, Molly had her legs crossed, Rita was battling frostbite and the French doors were covered in condensation. [I thought about tagging the window with a “Wash Me” scrawl…but decided the hottest day of the year probably wasn’t the best time to test how funny I am.]

When I finally did leave our walk-in cooler for provisions [trips to the wine room being replaced by trips to the popsicle drawer], I opened the hallway door to a complete wall of heat. It was like a scene from Backdraft. [And just for the record – popsicles last about 13 seconds in that heat, so enjoy your soon-to-be kool-aid.]

Well, gotta run…Rita's out of town, so Molly and I invited ourselves over to the air-conditioned neighbors for breakfast.

Born Loving Flannel

I didn't get around to writing anything for the blog today...so instead I will just include another clip of one of my friends from her comedy routine. I think I can relate.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_K0fG0B8sQ

Molly's check-up

I hate taking Molly to the vet out here because I always feel like they are trying to “upsell” me into some platinum-like procedure for Molly Magoo. [C’mon guys, she eats poop. Of course her stomach is going to be upset from time to time – no need for that MRI.] Not that Molly doesn’t deserve it, of course, but this IS the puppy that attempted suicide on at least two occasions. [Who knew that rat poison was so downright yummy to dogs?] For much of her life [the Tennessee years], platinum health care meant access to a stomach pump after she had consumed whatever toxin her mother had inadvertently left lying around. [Mother of the Year]

But I try to make sure she at least stays healthy. So I found myself at the vet last week getting her little back-side blemish checked out. First of all, let me just report that Magoo is down to a very svelte 25.3 lbs. [if this adult calorie dog food continues to work like this..I may give it a try].

Imagine my surprise when the entire check-up cost only $36 [the blemish-rating was “harmless”]. However…..the vet DID recommend that we do “some serious dental work on this cute little girl.” [Apparently, they noticed the breath too.] And by serious, they mean "would you like to hear about our finance plans." Aye yi yi. For the money involved, I keep wondering if she’s going to end up with a gold grill when they bring her back to me after “surgery”. [Maybe I can customize the grill to say “grrr” when she opens her mouth]. I'm all for pearly whites...but do they have to be made of real pearls?

Well…I gotta run so I can work on competitively bidding my dog’s health care.

'Twas the Night Before Kickoff

It is officially only two weeks til the start of football season and the anticipation is killing me! I am channeling that anticipation in the little poem below:


Twas the Night before kickoff, when all through the borough
All the creatures were stirring, especially the pro’s
The banners were hung from the rafters with care,
In hopes the Lombardi soon would be there.

The linemen were primed, too hyper for bed
While visions of tackles danced in their head
And you in your jersey and me in my gear
Had just settled down for a quick pre-game beer

When out in the sports den there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter,
Away to the TV I flew like a dart
Gawked at the Sportscenter and held onto my heart

When, what to my curious eyes should appear,
But a story of grit, of spunk and Colts’ fear.

It was a brilliant old coach; a strong, clever mister
I knew in a moment it must be Jeff Fisher
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them to fight;
“On Collins, on Bullock, on Boiman and White”

“To the top of the zone, to the top of the wall
Now pound the ball, pound the ball, pound the ball all!”

He spoke not a boast, but a pledge to be kept
And dis’d on his critics with joy and with jest
“The Titans will win it, and win going away,
Happy Season to all and to all…let us play!”

Pizza, pizza, pizza

I told you Rita’s nephew and I had a lot in common. The thing I forgot to mention is that we are both excellent pizza makers, as demonstrated by the pizza night that he and I hosted during his visit. Let me just tell you that I have proven sooooo inept in the kitchen that making pizza is now seen as a major accomplishment. [Ohhh…the soft prejudice of low expectations =) ]

To celebrate the the first meal I have made since she met me…Rita enthusiastically contributed a pizza stone from Williams Sonoma to the cause. [Apparently, even pizza gains culinary legitimacy with Williams Sonoma.] I love the thing because it practically forbids you from cleaning it…"do not soak or wash stone in water, nor use detergent, soap or other cleaning fluids as stone is porous”. I read that to say…in the interest of avoiding Palmolive-flavored pizza – do NOT do the dishes. Done.

My grueling preparations for pizza night included finding the pizzeria that sells already-made dough. That’s right…pizza doughballs that are just waiting for the hand-tossed moves of this Noble Roman’s alumnus. Once you settle on pre-made dough…there are only…like…FOUR ingredients to pizza. Nonetheless, Rita’s nephew and I somehow needed to hit six different grocery stores before we had the pepperoni-and-cheese bases covered (there’s no side items on pizza night!).

So let me just get this right…all of the ingredients are pre-assembled…you are forbidden from cleaning the cookware and the only hard-to-emulate cooking technique involves food flying through the air. Is there a cooking genre I am MORE suited for?

Julia Child it ain’t…but blog-worthy it is.

Labor Day

Apparently, Labor Day is the new Christmas. Rita’s family and mine are each getting together for separate Labor Day gatherings. My family is gathering in Nashville and renting a pontoon boat on the lake. Rita’s family…meanwhile…is planning a 3-day rafting trip down the Deschutes rapids. That’s right, I’m a pontoon-boat McConville mixing with the rapids-rafting Pirkles. [But please note that my whole family is going to be on a lake during daylight hours. Now may be the time to pick up sunscreen stocks.]

Rita keeps promising that the “camping” excursion is catered. The outfit running the trip is supposed to “set up your tent and have it waiting for you”, which ought to be especially handy after the water rescue I will undoubtedly require. Last week, however, Rita’s sister sent an email asking if anyone had an extra sleeping bag because “we have one kid’s bag that will probably work for Rita, but we still need one for McC [well…she didn’t call me McC – but I still have to make sure this blog doesn’t show up when you google my name]. Schlepping for sleeping bags does NOT bode well for our “catered” camping excursion. “I told you so” is NOT going to be any consolation when the self-constructed tent collapses on us at 3 in the morning. [oh, who are we kidding – our tent won’t make it to midnight before it collapses.]

I can’t help thinking that my invitation is centered on sheer entertainment value. Tall girls in water wings are always hooty. [I bet you will be able to trace the outline of my water wings from the trail of mosquito bites.]

And just imagine the blogs.

Family visitors

Rita’s fifteen year old nephew came down to visit us from Portland last week. It was a fun week. I realized, however, that I share a lot in common with a fifteen year old boy…:

• Exactly the same palate. Cokes + Pizza – Salads = breakfast
• Have both seen Dog the Bounty Hunter [much to Rita’s dismay]
• Neither one of us knows our way around San Diego
• We can both kick Rita's butt at domino's
• He is, however, a better cook and decidedly less messy

I actually thought Rita was going to hyperventilate from laughing when, during dish-washing, her nephew spontaneously said…."Maeve, we have a lot in common because we both have trouble focusing on things we don’t want to do.” So young…so wise.