Lost and Found
Man, it’s been busy around here. Bunch of crazy people keep registering for stuff. We’ve processed over 1100 memberships, have over 1700 registered for the RRS and over 1100 ladies doing Women Run/Walk Memphis. I worked 60 hours last week. But we’re on the downside now and it’s only like this once a year. Kinda like being a tax accountant on April 1st except I get to sit at home drinking coffee in baggy shorts and my oldest softest t-shirt and I can flip over to Facebook (my water cooler) to visit whenever I get bored looking at numbers and names.
Plus I have a bullshit button and a Grumpy Cat coffee cup so what more could I want?
Well, a Brain. I could want one of those.
I just don’t remember being this disorganized when I had four kids doing fortyninety things. Maybe I was and I’ve forgotten — this would not surprise me. I have to count back on my fingers from 2013 to the year they were born to remember how old they are. Oh, forty. or 25. It’s a constant little irritation in the back of my mind, a steady little thread ‘what did I forget now? what did I forget now? what did I forget now?’ I recently bought a fluorescent yellow/green purse – the color of the shirts the guys building highways wear so you can see them from Italy – and a matching wallet. I’m pretty proud of myself for this stroke of genius as I haven’t lost my purse since then. And the electric bill should look good too, since it lights up one entire floor of the house.
I thought of trying to find some kind of clap on/clap off key ring but it occurred to me that, as loud as I play Rock 103 in the car, it would burn out in one trip to the store.
I need to go to the store today, as a matter of fact. Soon as I find the damn grocery list. One good thing about getting older and set in our ways, the grocery list is pretty much the same. Milk bananas oranges apples lunch meat bread diet coke.
That could be a clue. Maybe I need a bit more variety in my diet? Oh, well, I take a lot of vitamins. Like, once every week or two. When I remember.
So someone, I can’t remember who, shared this awesome recipe with me. 16 calories per 1/4 cup, supposedly. You can use it as a side salad, a dip, or you can put it on hamburgers as a relish. This is good because now I don’t have to remember what it’s for.
Cool Cucumber Relish
2 cups finely chopped seeded peeled cucumber
1/2 cup finely chopped seeded tomato
1/4 cup chopped red onion
2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and chopped
4-1/2 teaspoons minced fresh cilantro
1 garlic clove, minced
1/4 cup reduced-fat sour cream
1/4 cup Hellman’s Olive Oil mayo
1-1/2 teaspoons lemon juice
1-1/2 teaspoons lime juice
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon seasoned salt
Mix. Grab some baked Tostitos and chow down. Or make hamburgers and chow. Or just stand at the sink and shovel it in, which is my preferred method of delivery.
So, for the 4th, I wanted to make the salsa/relish/salad to take to a friend’s house. I’d bought all the ingredients and was set to go. Got out knives, chopping board, bowl, ingredients…
…Dammit. Where’s my cucumber?
I wandered about the kitchen looking for my cucumber. Where the hell is my cucumber. I NEED my cucumber.
Not in the refrigerator. Not on the counters. Not on the table. Not on the island.
How. The. Hell. Do you lose a cucumber you were just holding five minutes ago?
Hubs saw me. “What are you looking for?” (he knows the look)
I can’t find my cucumber.
“where did you see it last?”
In my OWN HAND.
“well, it’s not there, now. Did you set it down somewhere before you wanted to use it?”
apparently so, since my hands are empty, here, see?
I NEED the damn cucumber. I WANT my cucumber.
I roam the house. Did I leave it in the bedroom? Nope.
Laundry? Nope. On my desk? OH baby Jesus in the crib your daddy made, please not on my desk, I’ll never find it.
Back to the kitchen. “did you find your cucumber?” inquires hubs.
Nope. I NEED MY DAMN CUCUMBER. NOW. How am I going to get anything accomplished without my CUCUMBER.
For the fortieth time I wander, forlorn, sad, dejected, unfulfilled without my cucumber.
Oh, wait, there it is, with the mail. Well that’s anticlimactic.