sillsby

Does it seem silly to you that my place of employment would rather give me a brand-spanking-new macbook for use at home instead of a blackberry? The macbook is in addition to my desktop at work. And not a "sign-out from IT when necessary" situation. Just all mine, all the time. Complete with a wireless aircard. 

chillsby

Boston.com has a feature called "Your Comments" where they post current events and topics and readers respond with their thoughts and opinions. A few weeks ago, the topic concerned the rising home heating costs in tandem with the shriveling economy and with the first cold night upon us, it asked whether people would start to nudge up their thermostats or wait it out.

Wait it out?

Let me qualify this by saying that growing up, our house was heated all winter long by a wood burning stove in the family room on the first floor. My sisters' rooms were directly above the fireplace, while my room along with parents' were on the other side of the house. The heat upstairs was not to be turned on above 60 degrees or Dad would have a full on fit. "A waste of money! Toughen up! Put a sweater on." We got used to doing our homework in our rooms under the covers or downstairs at the kitchen counter. Sitting upstairs under the covers would only lead to two things - a cold nose and a nap. Sitting at the kitchen counter was a minefield for me, getting critiqued from all sides. And Mom loved to pull the ol' "do over" on homework assignments. But, this is how I learned to cook too - instead of doing my math problems, I'd watch Mom as she fussed around the kitchen. At least my ADD was good for something.

The morning hours were the worst. It was nearly impossible to drag myself out of bed into the frosty air to get into the shower. Many times I would sneak out of bed to nudge the heat up to 64 degrees and pop back into bed for a few minutes, just long enough to no longer see the breath eeking out from my chattering teeth. Within minutes, Dad would emerge from his room and turn the heat back off. Showering was a struggle, because we were limited to being in the shower for five minutes and half of that time you were waiting for the hot water heater to kick on. "You're wasting water! Cut your hair!" Once barely rinsed, I'd pop back into bed to apply makeup with a handheld mirror.

At UMass, the heat in the dorms cranked and there was no way to adjust it. I'd crack our windows for some relief, but as they were right next to our beds, the cold would seep right into your ears and - like magic - you'd be sick all winter long. When we moved from the dorms to our off-campus apartment, we had control over our heat which was included in our rent. Since I was used to bundling up in the winter, it was quite a luxury - one that Eliza would take full advantage of. As there would usually be three feet of snow on the ground, I'd be bundled head to toe for a day of trudging around campus. I'd arrive home and immediately start pouring sweat because it was 80 degrees in the apartment, and there's Eliza bopping around in nothing but a t-shirt and shorts. "Isn't it great?" she'd ask. Well yes, if it didn't require stripping down to our skivvies to then have to layer it all on again in an hour. Can we make it a more tolerable temperature, say 72 (which was still even a little too warm)? "I love it," she'd say. So we'd launch a thermostat war - down, up. Down, up. All winter long. It was so dry in there that I'd wake, parched, gasping for air in the middle of the night, nasal passages constricted and tight.

Living on the Cape with the boys, we had a coal burning stove. If you've never lived with a coal burning stove, you cannot imagine how nasty of a thing it is. The coal was stored in the basement and brought up one dirty, heavy bucketfull at a time. About once an hour, you'd throwa  shovel full into the fire and the house filled with the aromatic stench of rotten eggs. Constant nausea. Not to mention the fine black soot that covered every inch of every surface of the living room - the walls, the curtains, the sofa, the tv screen, the dogs. And not unlike after riding the Tube in London, blowing your nose was an ashen surprise.

Now, in Southie, we have forced gas heat complemented with a space heater. Kevin, the firefighting brother, is constantly reminding us of the hazards of space heaters and we never sleep with it on through the night. (Anymore.) Michael is a breaker of the thermostat rules, much like Eliza. I frequently come home and turn the heat down from 72 to 65. Tsk tsk.

Back to the question that started this post... wait it out? Dad, lover of playing with fire, would start a fire in the fireplace the day the leaves would start to change. His comments would range from, "a great day for a fire in the fireplace" to "it is hot as a cannon in here" an hour later while he opened the slider. So despite being toasty in front of the fireplace or sweltering through college, this question is not something to which I'm accustomed. Several people commented that they make a bet with themselves to see if they can wait until November 1st. That's aggressive, I thought. November 1st!? It has snowed before then! But ok, I'm up for a challenge.

I have not touched the thermostat yet. I have, I will admit, plugged in the space heater the past few nights. I've also broken out the fleece pajamas and socks. But it also drives me to the kitchen. I love my tea before bed, but I've also been finding reasons to turn the oven on - I mean, bake. The other night I made crescent rolls to go with chili and last night I made banana bread. Takes the bite right out and injects the scent of cozy, homey nights right in.

Eight days and counting...

a little song called denial

This song from the 80s just about sums it (denial) up. Poignant in so many phases of life.

I'm not in love, so don't forget it.
It's just a silly phase I'm going through.
And just because I call you up,
Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made.
I'm not in love, no no, it's because...
I like to see you, but then again,
That doesn't mean you mean that much to me.
So if I call you, don't make a fuss -
Don't tell your friends about the two of us.
I'm not in love, no no, it's because...
I keep your picture upon the wall.
It hides a nasty stain that's lying there.
So don't you ask me to give it back.
I know you know it doesn't mean that much to me.
I'm not in love, no no, it's because...
Ooh, you'll wait a long time for me.
Ooh, you'll wait a long time.
I'm not in love, I'm not in love...

texting

How the auto-spell feature in text messaging can be funny:

K: I'm going to cool club tonight.
M: Where?
M: So when did you join the cool club? lol
K: Lol, book. I am pretty cool though. And funny.

i heart sausage

Tonight, I had that urge - no, that neeeeed to cook. My day left me a little bananas and I had to flex my creative muscles to help shake it. To the kitchen, Martha!

This recipe is a take on a dish called Sinatra Pasta from Alberto's Ristorante in Hyannis. As I tend to do after I've enjoyed a new tasty dish, I did a little surfing for similar recipes, considered what I liked about them and what I had on hand, and came up with this:

1 lb. Italian sausage (spicy or sweet, to preference)
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. red pepper flakes (optional)
1/2 tsp. dried thyme
1 cup chicken stock
1 6-oz. bag baby spinach
1 can cannelini beans, drained and rinsed
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 lb. farfalle, cooked

Heat large skillet over medium heat. Remove sausage from casings and brown, breaking up the sausage with the back of a spoon. While browning, season with garlic powder, red pepper flakes and thyme. When browned, add chicken stock, baby spinach and beans and simmer for 5 minutes, allowing the spinach to wilt, some of the broth to cook off and the flavors to blend. Add grated cheese and simmer on low for 10 more minutes. The beans will start to break down and, in addition to the cheese, will help thicken the sauce. Toss with pasta and serve.

I inhaled it. I like my version better than Alberto's! I did realize I forgot to add white wine - next time I will add a couple tablespoons while it's simmering.

Bellisimo!

working

The receptionist called to inform me of guests.

Patti: "There are a couple people here from Douche Bank."

me: [hysterical laughter]

Patti: "Oh, Kate."

me: [in throes]

Patti: "Uh, I mean Deutsche Bank."

for the record

The definition of gloating is "malicious satisfaction."

So really, were you gloating?

Because I guess that would make sense in a different way.