Cleolinda everywhere

So Sister Girl called me this afternoon, just for a brief chat, from Savannah. She said they'd probably have dinner at the Pirate's House tonight, and that they spent part of the day on River Street, and did, in fact, swing by River Street Sweets. She said she liked it and that "there was some cool stuff there," although a lot of it did seem kind of tourist-oriented, but they'll definitely go back before they come home and buy some things to bring back. But then:

"Yeah, about the pralines... You know how Mom makes them, and sometimes they crystallize and they're kind of cloudy, instead of shiny? The River Street pralines are like that. They're good, but Mom's are better."

I. Well. Huh. I'm starting to understand why the tins of fudge she used to give to all our teachers at Christmas were legendary in the Jefferson County school system, though.

( Major wtfery in the linkspam )

So, a general update:

I can't be too specific because you never know who's reading, but things are going well on the jobsearch front for my mother.

(Speaking of things you can't talk about: I finally realized why I'm always talking about 1) my health, 2) my dogs, 3) the weather and 4) food: once you get enough readers to make it dangerous to gripe about your sister/uncle/professor/employer/boyfriend's dog's best friend, that's all you've got left.)

Sister Girl has had a hard time of it with the wisdom teeth. On the surface, everything's fine--we have a good family surgeon, she hasn't gotten dry socket, she's not jonesing in the street for Percocet, and so on. However, she doesn't deal with pain well, and she's had a lot of that and nausea; the medications made her slightly psychotic early on; she puffed up like whoa; she was deeply depressed at said puffing. Also, in the course of surviving on pudding, jello, and mashed potatoes, she had a life epiphany and realized that she's lactose intolerant, and always has been, and just hadn't made the dairy + suffering connection before.

I was on night shift Sister Nurse duty for a couple of nights, and now my sleep cycle's all messed up and I'm cranky.

Easter was nice; quiet. Just my grandmother, as my aunt's in-laws got custody of their family this holiday (we alternate). My mother will probably put together Easter baskets for us until the Second Coming (at which point we will probably get really, really good baskets); in mine, I got Fuzzy Navel lipbalm, a pound of cotton candy jellybeans, a vanilla-mango candle that smells awesome, and a couple of pairs of really cute (inexpensive) earrings that now also smell like vanilla mango, because I've been keeping them in the candle jar. Also, we got tons of Reese's peanut butter eggs, which are to Cleo as donuts are to Homer. Unfortunately, they turned out to be white chocolate peanut butter eggs, and I think you all know my feelings on white chocolate, which is that it is neither white nor chocolate, not to mention NOT OF THE LORD. So we're looking around for the right kind, but haven't found them yet.

It turns out the Garage National Falls were caused by a water filter that cracked and burst--suddenly those little details in the story about having done a load of clothes and the dishwasher being finished has a much more sinister import, because if she ran them together (which she did), I could see how that might have been the final straw for the filter, as both appliances sit right on top of the garage, where the filter was. Fortunately, it was actually under the ceiling, in the open air, rather than in the ceiling, so we just had to call our long-suffering plumber to come replace it and let the water drain out into the driveway, no harm done.

The air conditioner is being pissy. Again, we've got a whatsit on that one--the jellybeans have gone directly to my brain and I can't remember the--service contract. We have a service contract, so it can blow sky high and we won't be charged a dime for repairs, but still. It's hot.

Easter Turducken. Be afraid.

Worst. Kingdom of Loathing Publicity. Ever.

Gwyneth Paltrow: Better than you.

Hey, Snakes on a Plane fans: Samuel L. Jackson is watching. "Jackson, in his first interview since the Snakes craze went national, has tracked activity on such sites as Snakes on a Blog — the homemade trailers, the suggested soundtrack tunes, the gently mocking T-shirts. Most intriguing [to him], however, have been the fake movie posters." Apparently he feels some chagrin that fans view him as a scary guy. Dear Mr. Jackson: it's not that we think you're evil; it's that we think you're awesome.

kosher_jenny, re: Suri Cruise and her crazy father: "You know what the best thing about placenta is?" Here's the best part: check the date on the comic in the URL. It's nowhere even near recent.