Just Another Cottage in Blogville

Blog Reminders

Wow, I actually received a blog reminder in my inbox. I came back feeling ready to crack my knuckles and blog, and didn't realize that I would have automated messages to remind me. Honestly, why can't I have more reminders in other areas in my life -- like, say, in the kitchen when I have to re-do an entire batch of pastry dough because I forgot the eggs?

Yep, that was my flop of the day. However, I did remember it before I refrigerated it for an hour, and threw it out, starting fresh. The crust this time was for treacle tart. My dad had a jar of golden syrup stashed away for goodness knows what, so I used it and made an exceptionally citrus-ey treacle tart. Dad and I prefer English puddings chilled, so we'll see how it tastes tomorrow.

Also, I made a second batch of iced coffee, and I am preparing to make "Bread and Butter Pudding" and "Peach Princess" within the next few days. Hopefully Dad and I will get to the grocery store and get the ingredients for "Cottage Pie" (aka what I grew up calling "Shephard's Pie") so I can make that for dinner in the near future. There is also a recipe for a vegetable mix that looked pretty good, too, which we'll also have to try.

Today was an exceptionally productive day. I woke up after eight hours' sleep shortly before nine-thirty, thinking it was noon (my usual wake-up time). But I rolled out of bed with no desire to return, which is a first in years. -- I think the last time I experienced that was on a trip to the UK in summer of 2008. -- To be honest, I think it was because I had a mix-up with my meds yesterday. I accidentally took my night meds, which help with sleeping, in the morning, so I had trouble standing up while working. My mother flipped out, and I can't blame her, because I have always been very sensitive to my med changes. But I did manage to fall asleep with my morning meds -- much easier than I thought it would be -- and actually think I might be slightly over-medicated. My parents tell me off for oversleeping, which I can't help, and now I see why. Unfortunately my ninety-day supply of meds arrived in the mail yesterday or the day before, so if my doctor changes my meds Wednesday, my mother will hang me by the noose. Again, I can't blame her.

As for my weekend, it had its ups and downs. I'm not going to publicly complain about my job; that's just reckless; but it's safe to say that it's upsides mostly outweight the downsides. My colleagues, whether out of good humor or mean humor, all find me hilarious for my little quirks. For instance, seeing guests fingerprint the glass on the doors is like having someone give me a papercut under my fingernails; I am instantly up at the door with Windex-and-towel at hand, wiping them down till they shine again. Also, I have a habit of using British slang that I heard either from my obsessive Harry Potter fascination or my dad's English-Canadian family, and blurt things out without realizing no one else is familiar with the words "poppycock" or "Bob's your uncle" until I get blank stares and the comment, "You make up the weirdest words." One waitress said to me, "Every time I see you walk in that door I laugh because I know something weird is going to happen that night." From her, it's probably mean humor, because I'm not sure I've ever heard her say anything particularly pleasant.

This weekend, however, a waitress and a manager, who happen to be sisters and two of my favorite colleagues, began a conversation about Daniel Radcliffe (*grabs desk to keep from fainting*) because I'd made a Facebook post about the Harry Potter theme park in Florida. It's embarrassing to admit, that although Dan and I do not see eye-to-eye on probably the most important things married couples should, I tend to flush and suffer hot flashes whenever I see him and hear his husky, London-accented voice (*sighs, wipes brow and recovers*). The pair of them found this highly amusing, and laugh and use "I-won't-say-his-name-because-you'll-get-all-flustered" when they now talk about Harry Potter. Maybe it's the orthodox Roman Catholic in me, waiting till marriage and all that good stuff, that gives them such great joy to laugh at this. My dad and uncle, who went with me to the UK two summers ago, also got a kick out of my mini crush, and did me the kindness of pointing at large masses of people hording across the London streets and shouting: "LOOK THERE'S DANIEL RADCLIFFE!" Of course eager little me began bouncing, "Deathly Hallows" book and Sharpie in hand, searching frantically just in case they weren't kidding. I mean, you never know!