So, work has been busy this week, what with closing out our spring Book Fair, getting orders ready by the end-of-the-month, use-it-or-lose-it budget deadline, and various other things that must be done to keep the cogs of the media center running smoothly. By noon on Tuesday, I informed my media assistant that I had done enough stuff to fill a whole week already, and that I would like to start my weekend early, please. She just laughed. So it was with great anticipation that I headed home today, Thursday, for my one night a week that is unscheduled, with nothing to do but change into my yoga pants and putter away the evening.
But then. . .
I got home and headed to the back of the house to slip into the aforementioned yoga pants, when our dog comes limping up to greet me.
Uh oh.
We've been dog owners for a couple of years now. Oreo is actually my first dog, as we had a wide assortment of cats as I grew up. I actually consider myself a cat person, but I promised Jerry that we could get a dog after our last cat had gone to kitty heaven. So, we have Oreo, and although she doesn't purr and snuggle on my lap, I enjoy her company. I do not, however, enjoy her vet bills.
I've decided that Oreo is accident-prone. Shortly after we got her, she cut her leg open (on what we still don't know for sure) and required staples. So now, I'm watching her limp towards me and thinking, "Dog, what have you done to yourself now?" I start running my eyes and hands over her legs to figure out what is wrong, when we see it:
One of her toenails, or more correctly, her toe itself is sticking out at a 90 degree angle to her foot. We call the vet, and he says he'll stay there until we get there, so we put the dog in the car and head over. I send Jerry a text -- one of those that you can't ever imagine sending when you are thinking about how life might go next -- "The dog has broken her toe. We are at the vet."
After a closer examination, the vet decides that she has actually popped her toe bone out of joint, and that to pop whatever back into place, they will need to sedate her. I decide to take Oreo home for the night, and bring her back in the morning, when we can be sure she hasn't eaten anything, and they can keep an eye on her as she recovers from the anesthetic. Maggie and Gracie have been out in the main room looking at the cats awaiting adoption while I talked to the vet, but Maggie pops her head in the room and asks what is going on.
And that is when I make a very unfortunate choice of words.
"Oreo's toe is out of joint, so I'm going to bring her back tomorrow morning so they can put her to sleep and pop it back in." Only Maggie hears "put her to sleep" and thinks I am talking about putting Oreo down. For good.
I wasn't looking at Maggie at the moment - I was still looking at the dog. The vet says, "Um, I think we have a misunderstanding here. . ." I look up, and Maggie is holding back sobs. "No, no, no! Not that kind of sleep. . . Good grief, it's a TOE. We aren't going to put the dog to down for a TOE! I may not be a dog person, but my goodness, I'm not that heartless!" Now she's laughing and crying. Gotta love those teenage years. So we left, and I'll be back bright and early tomorrow for Oreo's "procedure".
We got home, and started to work on dinner. Maggie has become a big Pioneer Woman fan.
I mean, I was already a fan, and have been ever since I saw a post many, many years ago where she contemplated the antics of her sons and wondered if it was nature or nurture that made them wrestle so. That's neither here nor there. The point is, I found out that Maggie can be swayed to eat (*gasp*) VEGETABLES if they are in a Pioneer Woman recipe!
Several months ago I was making a recipe for black beans, and Maggie came in and saw what I was cooking and begin that lovely commentary that all moms love so much, "What is that? What are those green things?" when suddenly, she saw the recipe sitting beside the stove.
(*Gasp*) "Is this a Pioneer Woman recipe?"
"Yes."
"Yea!"
She ate every bite. Even the green things. With no complaints. She even liked it. I began to contemplate printing all future recipes on letterhead with the Pioneer Woman logo at the top. Deceptive? Yes. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
This week she asked me if we could make Chicken Pot Pie -- PW's of course. So tonight, she and I cooked from scratch, the Pioneer Woman's Chicken Pot Pie from the recipe in the book pictured above. And for the very first time, I made a pie crust from scratch. Here's the proof:
Beautiful, it wasn't. But yummy it was! Everyone wolfed it down. Even the green things! It's amazing what the mere mention of PW will do.
It's all about knowing the right words to use.
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