Just got a call from the hospital. Whiny’s on his second liter of saline (He had an IV? Ick! I’m gonna faint…), and they are waiting on the results of his strep test. Don’t think they’ll keep him overnight.
Whiny’s supposed to be studying for his CCNA exam on Wednesday. So, what does he do? Goes and gets himself taken to the emergency room. Uhh.. actually his mother took him. I’m manning the fort, waiting for news.
It doesn’t seem to be anything too serious. He might have strep throat, but the doc-in-the-box wanted him to go to the hospital, since he was so dehydrated.
Will keep you posted.
My mother was not a great chef. She was a good cook (especially with desserts), but not a purveyor of haute cuisine (Dad wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.)
Our weekly supper routine is ingrained into my brain like a strange (yet somehow comfortable) dream. It was always the same. Simple foods that were cheap and easy: mac ‘n’ cheese, fish sticks, American chop suey… In fact, when I was 10, I was sick in the hospital for seven weeks. I called home crying one Saturday night, because I thought I could smell baked beans and hot dogs and wanted to come home.
Yet, an entry over at Brian Kane Online reminds me that no one (and I mean no one) made whoopie pies like my mother. My wife has come close at least once, but she agrees that there was something incredible about them. They were nothing like the nasty things you can buy in the store these days (assuming you’re in Maine and even know what the hell I’m talking about). The cake was brown, not black, more like chocolate cake than dark fudge. The filling was pure, evil Fluff-based goodness, not whipped sugar and egg whites. Each one was Heaven.
The news story Brian found in the Portland Press Herald has a history of the whoopie pie, including its supposed origin at a bakery in Bangor. My mother worked at a bakery, but I don’t think it was the same one. Still, the recipe they list gives me hope that we can recreate these awesome treats. I’ll give it a shot. Even while my inner child insists that they won’t be like mom used to make.
Frickin’ frackin’ rastafrazzin’ WKIT won’t come in… tonight of all nights… grrrr….
Last night we went to see Lost in La Mancha at the Enzian Theater. Now, in spite of my outwardly hip appearance (shut up), I’m pretty much a basic, American suburbanite. We go to the mall for our movie watchin’. We don’t do alternative cinema. But the Enzian is practically across the street from where I work. I pass it at lunch time almost every day. So, it’s been calling me to give it a try ever since we moved down here in 1994. We keep meaning to go to the Florida Film Festival, but it just hasn’t happened.
Finally, the trigger came in the form of Terry Gilliam. Even if he weren’t one of the comic geniuses behind Monty Python, I love the movies he’s directed since then: Time Bandits, Brazil, Baron Munchausen, The Fisher King, and Twelve Monkeys. (I still haven’t seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but I’ll get to it eventually.) So, when the Enzian booked Lost in La Mancha – the documentary based on his disastrous attempt to film a version of Don Quixote – and when my ultra cool son said, “We have to see this movie,” we decided it was time to venture into the land outside the multiplex.
Will Rogers said, “Everything is funny as long as it is happening to somebody else.” Never is that more true than with watching this documentary. It chronicles the ill-fated Quixote production from mishap to mishap. As one of the crew put it, “You couldn’t have scripted more disasters than this movie had. Nobody would believe it.” Everything from booking a god-awful sound stage (the last one in Madrid) to having the opening days’ shooting take place near an active NATO base with jets constantly flying overhead to a flash flood washing away the equipment to – finally – the incapacity of the film’s star doomed this picture. It was like watching a train wreck. Yet, through it all, Gilliam keeps pressing on, finally admitting defeat when the Assistant Director quits and the insurance company takes possession of the production.
It’s too bad really. From the brief snippets that were completed, it looked like this would have been another Gilliam classic. You can see some of it in the trailer for Lost in La Mancha.
As for the Enzian… At the risk of sounding like an even bigger rube than usual, why didn’t someone tell me you could go to a movie theater that serves Guinness?! I’m in Heaven!
Now that the kids are old enough to enjoy it, this is our new cool thing to do. We’ll still have to go to AMC to get our X-matrixhulkinator fix. But from now on, when we say dinner and a movie, we’ll be dining at the theater.
The latest insanity from Weird Al is in the stores. I get the playlist for the upcoming Dr. Demento show each Friday. That’s how I know where I’ll be on Sunday from 10pm to midnight – listening to WKIT – The Rock of Bangor on my PC as the Good Doctor features an interview with Weird Al and songs from Poodle Hat.
Dumb like a moose. Not stupid like a moose.
For over a year I’ve had the quote wrong, and not one person corrected me. They just left me to my…
She’s only had a blog for a month or two, yet she’s already prone to do things like strip in public just so she’ll have blog fodder.
Welcome to the club, Elizabeth. When you get your horn fixed, I’ll teach you the special honk.
This entry is not designed to make sense unless you visit Solonor’s Aortal Site of the Week: Busy Mom Blog.
In case you couldn’t tell, Oklahomans are a hearty folk. I’ve been in Edmond when tornadoes were flying by. There’s no way I’d be able to take it every year, much less joke about it like some of my OK friends. This is from an e-mail one sent me.
Excuse me.
There has never been a better singer of tortured love songs than Patsy Cline.
Thank you for your time.
