Peevish

Well, this is a quandary...

2010-06-15T14:29:00.000-04:00

I really don't live here anymore. I live on Facebook and in the real world. I don't share much of my thoughts with the outside world. Privacy has become a good thing.

I've had what you could call a tumultuous past four years, what with all the changing going on with my body and the consequent changes it wrought in my psyche and my behavior. There were days where I loved being me and days when I absolutely loathed it. I think I've reached a comfortable landing point, though. I can be me, authentically, and not feel like anyone else's opinion is going to invalidate my own. I don't seek validation from others anymore: it has to come from within. It's easy to say that, but it's harder - much harder - to feel that in the marrow of your bones and to trust its source. Now, I do.

The changes in my health have been overwhelmingly positive: I no longer go to sleep at night fearing that I might not wake up in the morning due to sleep apnea. I'm not depressed anymore. The joint pain that was starting to settle in my knees and ankles has disappeared, as has the foot pain that had me wincing every time I stood up. My high blood pressure is out of the stratosphere and hovers near normal with a very low dose of one medication opposed to the higher doses of three medications it took previously (as hypertension is genetic in my family, it may never be completely normal without medication).

The changes I've experienced mentally are akin to a roller coaster ride - all kinds of thrilling twists and turns, sometimes feeling like I had no brakes, routinely making me dizzy, but all the while knowing there was an end to the ride coming. I've had way too much attention from random men, to the point where I don't do a Girl's Night Out with single women any more. It's got to be all of us old married hens sticking together, as I get approached when left on my own as the single girls find dates. Since I've been married for almost all of my adult life, I hardly know how to handle this and it makes me uncomfortable having to fend them off. I'd like to say I haven't ever been tempted by any of them, but that would be a huge lie. I've been tempted plenty. PLENTY. Which leads me to...

The changes that have been wrought in my marriage have been, for the most part, constructive and positive. I am completely unwilling to settle for third place in my husband's affections - that's lower than the dog, folks - and have let him know in no uncertain terms that that shit shall not continue. If there has been one good thing that's come out of all of that random male attention, it's that I've realized my own worth and power. I was, yes, a fool to not realize it earlier. However, I've got a handle on it now, and it's not going anywhere. We're celebrating our 20th anniversary in two weeks. I'm happy about that now.

So, as of right now, it looks like the future may be fairly smooth sailing. There may be some rough waters ahead as our daughter enters adolescence, and menopause sounds like a blast , but for this moment, I'm optimistic. And that seems like a pretty good place to leave things.

Today, I am peevish about...

2010-01-12T09:29:00.000-05:00

... relatively little, really.

It's midterm week here at my school, so I have students taking tests and generally behaving in the mornings, and then afternoons for grading with no students. Granted, I have a metric shit-ton of papers to get through, so I can be righteously peevish about that. It's still a pretty sweet schedule.

I also get to go out to lunch with some of my colleagues, which I usually enjoy. The work-husband is usually in fine form over lunch, as is my new work-boyfriend (OMG, hello? I've somehow picked up a work boyfriend - a 27-year old flirt who has relatively few social boundaries and a thing for "older women." Does that mean I'm cheating on my work husband? And wait - I'm now an "older woman?!" Fuck me running! Oh, the tangled web we weave...). Plus, I have my favorite girlfriend teachers around if I get my stuff done, so it's all fun and games by Friday.

So, no peeves here today, really. Hope your day is relatively peeve-free, too.

Today, I am peevish about...

2010-01-07T22:56:00.000-05:00

... the fact that I have a cold. Again.

It started as a tickle in my throat, then a chesty cough, and now congestion everywhere. My head is a snot factory, to which my nose is the spigot. I have lost my senses of taste and smell, and I'm sure I have Zombie Breath of the Undead. You think that's redundant? Nope, merely uber-descriptive.

It's not as though this was the first cold of the season, either. I was sick over Thanksgiving, up until a few days before Christmas. Then, I caught this beauty just after we rang in the New Year. W.T.F?!

I would really like to catch a break and get some immunity from these farking miserable colds. 'Scuse me, now, as I go gnaw on some vitamin C.

Today, I'm peevish about...

2010-01-06T10:29:00.000-05:00

... my trousers.

They are a size XS (Extra Small) yet they are at least two inches too long. Honestly, I'm not that short!

Moving into the New Year

2009-12-31T16:09:00.002-05:00

So, here we all are, perched on the precipice of a new year. A brand new year, full of promise and possibilities, that's just itching to get started - a blank calendar ready to be filled with appointments, memories, dates, and events.

The WCM and I had an epic argument about a week ago. It was the most powerful argument of our entire marriage, indeed, because the marriage itself hinged on that argument. It lasted two days. Those were tense, miserable days indeed. I am not a confrontational person by nature. I tend to pull back and wait things out - not the best strategy when dealing with my bullish spouse, who will make a big noise, pawing and stamping, charging to get his way. This time, though, I stood my ground and got what I needed. I said my piece - reiterated it, restated it, rephrased it until it was completely understood - and finally won my concessions.

We will be starting therapy this year. We need it. I will no longer accept coming in last in my husband's attention. He will endeavor to remember that intimacy in marriage is as important as companionship. Without the former, one might as well have a roommate.

Peevish Place will be starting out 2010 at the bottom of the hill. It's a good place to start, in my opinion, as one can only climb up.

Choices and Changes

2009-12-23T11:03:00.003-05:00

I've made no secret that I've been having troubles with the WCM lately - mostly because I refuse to accept that what I've currently got is going to suffice for the rest of my life. There are choices to be made, and changes that come with them.

One of the things that I've always believed is that people don't change who they are. You must accept them for who they are and not think that you can change their personalities, their appearance, or any of their less-than-perfect aspects. Sure, they can try to change what you don't like, but when they do, you run the risk of them resenting you for it. The WCM and I have embroiled ourselves in a bit of a power struggle, where I think I've been the one doing all the changing and accommodating, and I find myself resenting him for it. I also resent that after all the things I've changed for him, there is always something else he wants me to change, something else that's wrong with me and I need to fix, before I'll become acceptable. And lastly, I resent that he expects me to do all the changing, and won't honor the one simple request that I've made at least once a year for the last 18 years. It's a request that most men wouldn't mind in the least. I dare say, most men that have been married 20 years would be thrilled that their wife was making this request. But then, the WCM is not most men.

I played a very dangerous game last month. I went out to a bar with a friend and flirted. A lot. I collected phone numbers from very interested men. I heard all kinds of ridiculous flattery, drank lovely coctails that I didn't have to pay for, and had a lot of fun.

At the end of the night, when I was throwing the phone numbers away - because at the heart of it all, I wouldn't do that to the WCM, even though some of them were REALLY tempting... - I couldn't help but hear that cynical bitch that lives in the back of my mind as she snarked "well hell, honey, there were at least seven men that you wouldn't have to change shit for."

I honestly believe I've reached my breaking point. There are choices and changes in store for me in 2010. I just hope that I can live with them.

Heart Dog

2009-12-10T20:20:00.002-05:00

I was never a dog person, much preferring cats. Who wouldn't prefer sleek feline independence to slavish canine slobbering? Cats are much neater and far less demanding than dogs. A cat is never going to wake you up at 3:30 in the morning because it has to pee. A cat won't bug you for a game of fetch, barking at you endlessly to throw the frisbee, Throw the Frisbee, THROWTHEFRISBEE!!!!!!!!! No, indeed. A cat has way too much dignity to lower itself to ask you for anything. Cats are cool.

Imagine the surprise felt by my family when the WCM and I went and got ourselves a puppy. It was September 1996, shortly after a shocking and emotionally traumatic miscarriage. I needed desperately to mother something, anything, to help heal the huge hole left in my heart from losing a baby I'd barely known existed but had wanted with every fiber of my being. The WCM suggested a puppy.

I'd long loved the look of the big-eared, short-legged Welsh Corgi. Having found a breeder, I learned that she had only one puppy available: a little black-headed tricolor boy. We went to visit him that night, and I fell instantly in love. He was a charmer - playful, affectionate, loved to cuddle. The WCM wasn't exactly convinced, as he wanted a larger dog - a Lab or a Shepherd - but he caved instantly when I found out that this puppy and I shared a birthday.

We had to name him after a dance, according to the breeder, so we named him Electric Slide and called him Slider. He became my firstborn, my furry son, my heart dog. I taught him to catch treats out of the air, to play fetch with a frisbee, and to sit on command. He used to snuggle up on my lap and fall asleep as a puppy, and would always come over if I sat on the floor, giving me his belly to scratch. He used to love riding in the front seat of the car. Too short to get his head out the window, he'd press his nose up against one of the air vents instead.

As he got older, we got him a pet - another corgi that we named Zippy - so he wouldn't be lonely while we weren't home. Zippy's a trip. Where Slider thinks he's a furry human, Zippy knows he's a dog. Make no mistake, Zippy's an animal, and he's happy to be one. For ten years, they have run the house together, and I have loved every minute of it. I, who was never a dog person.

Slider is now thirteen and a half years old. He's got arthritis, has gone deaf, and is going blind. Today, we found out conclusively that he has lymphoma and hasn't got much longer to live. I do not know what I am going to do when I have to take him for that final ride in the car. I can't stop crying.

My heart hurts.

Mirrors

2009-12-08T12:07:00.002-05:00

She was a small child, dark haired, with big eyes. More used to speaking to adults than to other children, her speech often surprised grown-ups, as she used words that to them, sometimes, were unfamiliar. The playground was a strange place for her, and negotiating those first friendships wasn't easy. She didn't speak the language that the other kids rattled off so fluently. School was a place that she went during the day, where she got to go to art and music classes, had to learn boring math, and was always sent to the library during reading and spelling time, as her own reading level was several grades above the rest of the class. There, she would pore endlessly over the stacks, losing herself in new and different worlds, inventing her own, authoring her childish fantasies in volumes bound with construction paper and yarn.

When things interested her, she was very involved in them - to the point of leading the group work, bullying the others into doing things her way. When she was not interested, however, you often found her ignoring the task at hand, staring out of the window daydreaming, or lost, once again, in a book. Her parents, feeling she needed structure, provided lessons of all sorts - ballet, piano, gymnastics, girl scouts. She did all with some degree of success, ultimately discontinuing all but piano. She was good at it, and it provided her with some degree of identity - The Girl Who's Good At Music.

Her parents, still unsatisfied with her inconsistency, had her tested psychologically. The tests revealed above-average intelligence and an eye for details, but no more. She had a very vivid imagination, and needed to be motivated to learn what didn't interest her. Learning for learning's sake was not something she thirsted for.

This little girl grew into a woman, married, and had a child who is almost a clone of herself. With a few differences, such as more ability and interest in math and art and less in reading, her child's elementary school experience is mirroring her own.

***

Today, I took Miss Peanut to a psychologist to be tested for Attention Deficit Disorder - something that they really didn't know about when I was a child. Her last three teachers have all suggested, some more gently than others, that she should be tested. I finally caved, knowing the kind of child I was, and knowing just how much she is like me. It's been very difficult for me to do this - nobody wants to think that there could be anything wrong with their precious perfect angel. In this, I am no exception. I was prepared, though, to hear the worst. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised.

The psychologist asked, after interviewing both me and Miss Peanut, then Peanut on her own, if I'd ever had her intelligence level tested, as she seemed to be off the charts (in a good way!). She said that without further testing, her diagnosis at this point would be inconclusive, but that it could be that Miss Peanut does indeed have some ADD. This, when combined with an overactive imagination and high intelligence, leads her to be distracted in class when she's bored. Having heard that countless times from parents of students (and having mentally rolled my eyes every. single. time.) I felt compelled to point out that even if the work is boring, she needs to do it and understand it without the distraction of ADD symptoms. The psychologist agreed, and we're going to explore further testing, to either rule it in or out.

It's an interesting nature versus nurture question for me, though. I've been raising Miss Peanut in a much more open and much less strict environment than the General raised me. Mr. Peevish and I are still married (for better or for worse, it seems), where my parents were divorced before I reached Miss Peanut's current age. She is an only child, where I had a pesky younger brother. I went to private school, and she does not. Yet, we are, it seems, still as alike as we look..

Endings

2009-12-02T21:14:00.003-05:00

I've never been so happy to see a month end. This past November was one of the worst months of my life, and I've lived a few doozies, let me tell you.

I missed a very important deadline in the academic world, thus ending my streak of always having my grades in on time to date. I was officially called upon the carpet for it and have officially apologized to parents and students alike. Safe to say, I will never make that mistake again.

Also ending this month was any free time that I ever had - now with another person hanging around the house, an adolescent person who needs a ride to and from work, swim practice, and school, I've found I've less time to indulge in my afternoon winding-down rituals.

Scarily, almost ending this month was my marriage. For nearly 20 years now, my union with the WCM has been stable - boring at times, irritating as sand in your swimsuit at others, but always stable. It was rocked hard this month, and the sad part about that is that he doesn't even know it. Suffice it to say that I should have a fucking Oscar on my mantelpiece for the acting that I can do. Believe me when I tell you that he knows what the problem is. He just doesn't know the magnitude to which it affects me. I've told him. Repeatedly. He just. doesn't. get. it.

Lastly, a few of the illusions I've had about myself have ended. I've had the chance to look clearly at myself in the mirror and examine the parts of me (physical and not) that have been giving me agita for a while. I've accepted that I'll never wear a bikini, but that I can look damned sexy with the right lingerie. I've accepted that I'll probably never find what I'm looking for within my marriage, but I don't know what I want to do about that at this point. I've accepted that I could and should work a little harder at my job, but am not sure what I'm going to have to give up in order to do that.

So many endings without subsequent beginnings. No wonder November was bleak.

Friends and laughter

2009-11-14T16:30:00.002-05:00

I have a long road ahead of me, teaching this new course. Already, I've had some bumps on that road, and will now have to redouble my efforts just to stay on target. I know that this uncertainty about my abilities has played a part in my depression this last month.

For my whole life, I've both judged myself and been judged on what I can do - my worth was always measured by my intelligence. Twisted as it sounds, it was one of the things that allowed me not to care about how I looked: as long as I was "worthy" inside my skin, it really didn't matter what the outside of me looked like. It reinforced my belief that putting emphasis on one's looks made one shallow. I've since achieved a slightly less skewed balance on that viewpoint. Because my self-perceived worth has been challenged this school year, I've dropped into this depression.

Today, I spent the afternoon surrounded by friends at a bridal shower. Tonight, I'll be helping another friend celebrate his upcoming 40th birthday. I'm thinking some friends and laughter will be just what the doctor ordered to drag my out of this.

On the verge

2009-11-13T17:21:00.002-05:00

For the last month, I've felt as though I've been constantly on the verge of tears. I usually only get this way a couple of days out of the month - why, hello, Aunt Flo. So miserable to see you. - but this went far beyond those days. This was systemic. It affected my work and my relationships.

I'm familiar with depression and how it feels - like being constantly shoved underwater, unable to surface through the thick barrier of ice above you. I've been there. This is similar.

I've deliberately kept myself busy, attempting to push through the feelings and come out on the other side of this mini-depression. That has failed, colossally. I've tried to smother those feelings in chocolate. That was a major disappointment. I've tried losing myself in the internet. Nope, didn't happen.

So now I have to feel these feelings - and just what am I supposed to do with them?

Enough is as good as a feast

2009-11-12T22:20:00.003-05:00

Recently, Mr. Peevish and I adopted a 16-year old.

Not formally, you know. Just, informally, as her mother is having trouble providing some of the basic requirements of parenthood - things like transportation to and from school every day, meals, and emotional support. Her mother, the lawyer, is doing interesting things like locking her child out of the house, not allowing her to eat anything unless she pays for it herself, and refusing to take her child to school every day. So, I've pretty much just adopted the kid.

I pick her up for school every morning and drop her off at one of her two part-time jobs after school. On days when she doesn't work, she comes to our house for dinner and to do her homework on my computer (and to raise her crops on Facebook's Farmtown, but hey, we all play there, right?).

She's a good kid. And I have enough of everything - food, support, time - that I can be generous with what I have. For that, I am thankful. I'm glad that I have the luxury of being able to give to those who need it. I hope that it makes a difference for her.

And what does Big T eat with Mac and Cheese?

2009-07-25T15:17:00.000-04:00

That's right, y'all: Stewed Tomatoes. Big T is a former colleague of mine who was always ribbed over the loudspeaker about his "favorite vegetable" when my pal Hoedje read the day's lunch menu to the school. Me, I'm not so much a fan of stewed tomatoes, but the WCM has been clamoring for them ever since the tomato plants began to yield. S, I went out to the garden yesterday morning and plucked some green peppers and some tomatoes - Roma tomatoes and some grape tomatoes, too, since they were ripe.

First, I filled my saucepan with water and started it boiling. Then, I cut a shallow X on the bottom of each tomato, because who wants stewed tomatoes with peels in them? Ew! I gave each tomato a quick bath in the boiling water - about 30 seconds each, really - then plopped them into an ice bath.

While I was letting them chill, I started cutting up my peppers and onions. I needed about a third of a cup of each.

I had way more green pepper than I needed, so I slid the rest into a freezer bag and let them chill with their previously frozen brethren. I always overestimate the amount of green pepper I'm going to need, and I hate to see it go to waste. So I stick it in the freezer for when the price goes up over the winter and I'm going to want some for my tomato sauce.

Thrifty, eh?

So I dumped this into my saucepan with some olive oil, salt, and pepper to get it all softened and flavorful while I went about peeling the tomatoes. The hot bath followed by the ice water shock allowed them to slip their skins easily, and I was left with a bowlful of plump rosy naked 'maters.

I cut the Roma tomatoes in cross sections and halved the grape tomatoes. I dumped them into the pot with the softened pepper and onion, and added some dried basil and oregano. If I'd had any fresh herbs, I'd have added them instead, but alas, I was without.

Aren't they pretty? I let them stew for another 5-10 minutes, and they got nice and soupy. The WCM was exceedingly complimentary, so I think this recipe's a winner.

Cheesiness!

2009-07-24T20:15:00.000-04:00

One of my mother's best Sunday dinners came from cans and boxes - it was better for all of us that way, as there were clear instructions, times and temperatures given, and very little room for improvisation allowed. She'd make a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, dump a can of stewed tomatoes into it, and boil a few hot dogs. Voila! Dinner!

Quite frankly, I learned how to cook because I have a strong survival instinct and refined tastebuds. Thankfully, I was only subjected to my mother's "cooking" two weekends every month, since I lived with the General and my stepmother. Not-quite-feigning an interest in all things culinary, I pored over my mother's cookbooks and gently took those reins out of her hands. Sometimes, I'll still find myself cooking dinner if I'm invited over to her house. She's a piss-poor cook, but she's quite clever, huh?

Anyhow, I make my macaroni and cheese from scratch, since it just tastes so much better that way and isn't loaded with mono-whatever and hydrolyzed-whatsit. It's also quite speedy, if you can plan it.

Tip #1: when you're cooking pasta, cook the whole pound whether you need it or not. Once cooked, put whatever you're not using into a gallon sized ziploc bag, add a glug of olive or canola oil, shake it about to coat the pasta, and throw it in the freezer. When you need cooked pasta to add to hot sauce sometime, you take the bag out of the freezer, empty the frozen brick of pasta into the colander and run hot water over it.

It thaws in a flash!

Tip #2: when you're making cheese sauce, do as I did and make a monster batch. Freeze the leftover sauce. You can thaw it in the microwave, dump it on the pasta, stir, then bake. You've got homemade Mac & Cheese in under 30 minutes, which includes the baking time.

Tip #3: when you go to Costco or whatever huge warehouse store you may frequent, and you see the packages of ham steaks, don't think "Jeez Louise! Who the hell is going to eat that freakin' much ham?!" Instead, throw one into your cart. You've got 3 ham steaks in there - that's 3 mac & cheeses, or 2 mac & cheeses and one ham & cabbage soup, or breakfast for a family of 9 minus the eggs and homefries. Just buy them. They're lovely.

Ok, tips done, time for some fun! Ingredients - Half & half (not necessary, but nice!), milk, cheese, flour, salt, Colman's dry mustard. Note the number of open bags of cheese I have. It would seem that instead of looking for an open bag, a certain spouse instead just finds any old bag of cheese and rips it open. So, if you have one of these spouses, you may find yourself in a similar situation. This is a great way to use up all of those bags. I'm all about space consolidation.

So, first, melt you some butter. Plop a whole stick of the stuff into your saucepan.

Let it melt all the way, then dump in 8 tablespoons of flour, one teaspoon of salt, and one teaspoon of Colman's dry mustard. Whisk the bejesus out of this, because you don't want it to burn!

Then, add 4 cups of the white stuff. I used one cup half & half and 3 cups of milk. You can do it however you like, though. Go wild. Once again, stir it like crazy, otherwise you're either going to have lumps or you're going to burn it. Neither scenario is desirable. So stir. You'll be stirring until this comes to a near boil and gets quite thick. I recommend using a whisk, since it eliminates the lumps better than a wooden spoon.

Now, take it off the heat and dump in as much cheese as you think it can handle. I thought my bechamel could handle about 6 cups of cheese. I was right.

Once again, sing it with me, you've got to STIR this shit until it's smooth and velvety, because lumpy cheese sauce is nasty. Once it looks like this:

then you've got something.

So you reconstitute your pasta that you'd made sometime last week, easy peasy. If you're a vegetarian, you can add the cheese sauce and continue living your virtuous meat-free life. If you're an unrepentant carnivore like me and cannot imagine a meal that doesn't feature some slain animal carcass, then continue on to the next bit.

Ham! You remember that ham steak? Cube it, then throw it into your casserole with the pasta, cover the whole mess with about a third of that cheese sauce, give it a stir, sprinkle it with more cheese, cover it with a sheet of aluminum foil, and bung it into a 350 degree oven for about 30 minutes.

This was before Miss Peanut and the WCM went back for seconds. There's enough left for Miss Peanut to have a meal of it tomorrow. The WCM accompanied his Mac & Cheese with my homemade Stewed Tomatoes. I'm going to save that recipe for tomorrow. Lord knows, I've little else to report on!

Ratatouille

2009-07-23T19:29:00.007-04:00

So, I've been telling you all about the lovely garden produce I've been harvesting from my garden. I figured it was time to show you some. After watching Remy the rat assemble a beautiful ratatouille in the movie by the same name, I thought that, as I had a smallish skinny eggplant, a zucchini, and several tomatoes, that I could do approximately the same thing. So I did.

Now, I have to tell you that the ratatouille of my childhood was always an aromatic soupy mess, served alongside some kind of meat. It was not a meal in and of itself. Nor was it ever so artistically arranged - the General had better things to do with his time than fiddle with the placement of vegetables in crockery.

Be this as it may, I have to avow that half my intent in arranging it thusly was to entice Miss Peanut to try some. She's a picky little thing, turning her nose up at all vegetables that are not asparagus. Let me tell you something else: it did not work. It wasn't half bad, though, so I'll share with you how I made it, just in case you find yourself with a free afternoon, some veg, and a burning desire to arrange circular veggie slices with mathematical precision, shall I? Ok, then.

You'll need one skinny eggplant, one skinny zucchini, and about 3 skinny plum tomatoes. They should all have roughly the same diameter. It will make your life easier if you plan it this way. In my case, serendipity played a part, since that's how they grew.

You'll also need one large-ish shallot, a clove or two of garlic, kosher or Maldon salt, freshly ground black pepper, a few healthy glugs of olive oil, and an ample handful of herbes de Provence.

Peel your eggplant. Whether you peel the zucchini is completely a matter of preference. I prefer not to, so I didn't. I'm lazy. Slice all the veg in damn-near paper thin slices, making neat cross sections. Put the zucchini - and only the zucchini - in a large bowl.

Finely chop the shallot and mince the garlic. Throw this in the bowl with the zucchini. Add the salt, pepper, herbes de Provence, and olive oil, and toss well, making sure that all the slices have some specks adhering to them. Oh, and since you're wondering why I'm picking on the zucchini here and not the eggplant, it's because eggplant is like an oil sponge. You put the oil on the eggplant and you're going to wind up emptying the entire bottle in there. It's not a good idea!

So then, into the casserole. A slice of eggplant, herbed zucchini, then tomato. Repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeatrepeatrepeat until you've either filled the casserole or run out of vegetables. If you've got any residual specks of herby goodness left in your zucchini bowl, scoop them out with the side of your hand and sprinkle them lovingly all over the assembled loveliness before you pop it into a 350 degree oven for about 30 minutes. If you were me, you'd throw some grated parmesan cheese over the whole deal after you take it out of the oven. But you're not me, so you'll do what you want.

On the whole, I prefer the General's fragrant soupiness, but this is really pretty.

Facebook ate my brain...

2009-07-18T19:15:00.002-04:00

That damned Facebook done ate my brain! I spend waaaaay too much time there these days, frittering away my summer vacation.

I've also been cooking and baking a lot, since our garden started producing vegetables - tomatoes, bell peppers, zucchini, and eggplant. Our blackberries are ripening now, the strawberries are flowering, and the raspberries are just putting out fruit. The fledgling fig tree has a few figs on it, but, as I am not a fig fan, I refuse to wax rhapsodic about them. I couldn't give a fig. (har, har, har... groan...)

But mostly, I've been reading like a woman possessed and making ice cream. I've gone through a book a day for a whole month, pausing this last week to collect myself before launching into another spate of devouring pages. The ice cream, well, let me justify it this way: I have an ice cream maker, see? Why should I pay for inferior ice cream when I can make delicious additive-free confections at home?

So far, I've made chocolate, vanilla, mint chocolate chip, cappuccino chip, and butter pecan. I've been all over foodgawker for recipes - next up is peanut butter with chocolate covered peanuts and fudge swirls or fresh strawberry. I really don't know which one I'm going with, but whatever it is, I can guarantee that it won't last long in our house.

The Best Damn Apple Cake Ever.

2009-06-17T12:10:00.005-04:00

So, ever since my brother-in-law, AC, got divorced a year or so ago, my husband has taken to inviting him over for dinner every now and then. Yesterday, we had a surfeit of bratwurst, so the WCM invited AC over. I sauteed a lot of sliced onion, then simmered them with the bratwurst in lager for about 40 minutes. I made my very favorite red cabbage with bacon and goat cheese, and whipped up my late mother-in-law's famous mashed potatoes. That woman was a nasty piece of work sometimes, but she made ass-kicking mashed potatoes.

So, the mind wandered a bit while I was mentally making preparations to produce this epicurian feast, and asked my consciousness what I was going to serve for dessert with this meal? Hmmm, said consciousness, how about an apple cake? You've got lots of apples to use up, why not make them even yummier with cake? Mind responded with a mental two-thumbs-up and we were all resolved that apple cake it was to be.

So here's how it was accomplished:

I preheated my oven to 350 degrees.

Then, I took a stick of butter and melted it in my medium-sized frying pan. To this, I added six peeled, cored, sliced apples, and sauteed them for about 5 minutes. Then, I added one half cup of white sugar, 2 tablespoons of ground cinnamon, and one quarter cup of packed brown sugar, and let this bubble away for a while - about 15 minutes - until there was a lovely cinnamon caramel sauce. I turned the heat off, arranged the apples with two forks so that there was a single layer in a rough concentric-circle pattern, and prepared the cake batter.

You need:

1 stick of butter
1.5 c. sugar
1/2 c. canola oil
1 teaspoon vanilla

3 eggs

1/2 c. milk
1 teaspoon vinegar or lemon juice

1.5 c. flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
dash ground cinnamon

(See how those ingredients are separated? There's a reason for that!)

Cream the first set of ingredients together until you've got a smooth mixture. Add the vinegar to the milk. Combine the last four ingredients together in a smallish bowl. Then, you're going to add these ingredients in a round-robin fashion in three batches: one egg, stir, a splash of milk, stir, a bit of flour, stir, and keep going until you've used up all your eggs, milk, and flour. (a normal person would've said to combine, alternating wet and dry ingredients, but y'all know that I'm not normal!)

Pour the cake batter on top of the apples in the skillet and spread it out until it covers them completely. Put the whole shebang in the oven for about 40 minutes, or until the top's a golden crackly brown and you can stick a toothpick in the center of the cake and have it come out clean.

Let the cake sit for about 15 minutes and try not to pick of the crunchy edges. I know, they're damn near irresistible, but you're going to have to try. Slap a platter on top of that skillet, flip it, and unmold the cake. Be careful, because the caramel on the bottom of the pan is still liquid and you don't want to scald yourself!

Let it cool all of the way - or, if you're like me, most of the way - before slicing it up and devouring with with your choice of beverage. I recommend milk, personally, but it would pair wonderfully with tea (Earl Grey. Hot. Make it so!).

Hey, didja hear that?

2009-06-10T20:41:00.003-04:00

Didja? Huh? Didja hear that?

Listen very closely, now, as you'll soon hear it again.

Wait for it...

Here it comes...

AAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..........

Summer vacation is here.

Tomorrow is a day where I have NOTHING to do. Nothing planned, nothing required beyond a few phone calls in the morning. NOTHING.

I'm looking forward to it.

So, how've you all been?

Small Change

2009-05-20T21:16:00.004-04:00

Standard disclaimer: not my real life, this is a strict work of fiction, from the fertile and twisted brain of a very horny woman...

Usually I am the dominant one - the one who cannot sit still or wait to touch. I approach, reach out, capture and still with my body. Impatient to feel, craving the silken burn of his hands and lips, I rush to begin and take the aggressor's role. Rarely is satisfaction so pleasingly wrought as when I work for it thus. The control of it calls to me, the power and mastery of the situation fulfill me. Almost as rewarding as my own climax is the knowledge that I caused another's.

This day, though, he made me wait. Not physically restrained, but held off by his regard and posture, I waited, wondering what lay unsaid between us. Head to the side, I stood in my delicate heels, attending his desire. An eyebrow arched, a devilish smile, his hands lifted and caged my jaw, angling my head and drawing me forward to meet his mouth. One hand slid further into my hair, firmly anchoring my mouth to his. The other hand traced down my back, pulling me closer to his promise of pleasure. My own hands flew to his shoulders, seeking balance, and searched for his shirt buttons, fumbling ineffectually at my attempts to uncover his body. Breaking the kiss, shaking his head, he murmured a playfully disapproving "no." He slid his hands around my waist and untied my dress. As it unfolded and slid noiselessly to the floor, he slipped my lacy camisole over my head, tossing it carelessly on the puddled dress.

He stepped back to survey his work, and I ducked my head and fought to keep my hands by my sides instead of crossing them protectively over my scarred midriff. Two fingers on my chin raised my face. his gentle "stop it" rang loudly through my head - loud enough to straighten my spine and square my shoulders. "We'll keep the heels," he stated decisively. "Everything else goes." My eyes, shocked, flew up to his. Never had I bared myself completely to him. I had always covered part of myself. My fingers trembled as he stepped behind me to unhook my bra. As it slithered down my torso, he cupped my breasts from behind, feeling their weight, teasing their sensitive tips with his thumbs. My head fell back against his shoulder as I absorbed the caress. his lips cruised my shoulder up to my ear, leaving a tingling trail that tightened those peaks further.

His palms flattened on my ribcage and slid inward and down, firmly pressing my soft abdomen, feeling the scarred ridges left there, holding me immobile. As his one hand quietly made its way under the elastic of my panties, the other cupped my jaw and twisted my head, granting him access to my mouth. I welcomed his tongue as I welcomed his long fingers, both thrusting inward, invading my body. My hips gyrated with the rhythm he set, brushing his hard length behind me. I sagged back against him as he withdrew his fingers, but jerked upright when he knotted his hand in my lacy underpants and ripped them from me.

"The bed," he muttered and tilted his head toward the snowy duvet, soft as a cloud. Not sure of his intent, I perched my bottom on the edge of it. "Further back," he instructed softly. I watched, fascinated, unsure, as he sat on the edge of the bed and slid his hands from my ankles to my knees. As he parted them, arranging them akimbo, I fell back, supporting myself on my elbows. The delicate, tentative swipe of his tongue against my most sensitive flesh raised gooseflesh and pulled a moan from deep inside me. Murmurs, pleas, exhortations to the supernatural passed my lips in no random or coherent order. I could only feel his mouth and hands on me, lips sure and firm one second, soft and tender the next, slowly building the pressure within me.

The burn began at my knees, slowly surrounding me in torpor. The slide of two long fingers inside me released the burn, and it streaked like wildfire up my legs, coalescing at the juncture of my thighs. My head thrashed on the pillow, my body convulsed helplessly, consumed completely by the stark, sheer pleasure he brought me. As I regained enough strength to lift my head and peer down at him, I saw more of that impish devilment in his eyes and wondered idly what more he could have in store for me...

Runaway

2009-05-09T21:05:00.002-04:00

Whoops!

See the thing is, I got really busy recently. First, I took up this running thing (still not a fan, by the way), and then I got a social life with some visiting friends, and then I got sick (upper respiratory infection, ick!), then I found this trilogy of cowboy romances and just didn't even turn on the computer for, like 2 days, and do you know how many Facebook notifications you get if you don't log on for 2 days?

And don't even let me mention how busy May is for me in school terms - and the last two weeks are killer, what with Senior Final exams, being a single parent for a weekend while the WCM goes searching for the preserved remains of deceased crustaceans in upstate New York, then regular final exams, then packing everything up, then getting my grades in, then finally, about the second week of June, just being able to lean back and go "AAaaaahaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh" with a tall glass of iced tea and a cookie.

So, I'm ready to run away for a while and hope I don't wig out too badly before that blessed second week of June.

Running

2009-04-25T12:14:00.002-04:00

In the past, if you've been reading a while, you may have heard me wax rhapsodic over Pilates. I've enthused about the Wii fit, as well. I may even have penned a sonnet or two about walking, though it was more on the ability to do so than on any enjoyment received from such.

Just recently, I've started running, as I want to do that 5 K. I can promise you, I believe, to never wax lyrical about the joys of running. Quite frankly, it's almost more than I can manage to get one foot in front of the other in a synchronized fashion and propel myself forwards into motion. I can just about run a quarter of a mile all at once now. While shamefully proud of this rather negligible accomplishment, I will tell you that the joy is only in the accomplishing it and not in the actually doing it.

Frankly, I have always thought that the process of doing something - for a hobby, mind you, not professionally - was far more important than the end result. For me, I have always found more enjoyment in the creation of a scrapbook page than I ever have in regarding the finished page itself. The crocheting is more fun than smoothing the finished afghan on my lap, and the reading of the book, getting lost in the words and the story, are far more delectable than merely finishing the requisite number of pages.

I am struggling, therefore, with running. I want to like it, as it's a very healthy habit that I'd like to be able to adopt. Many of my friends are running now, and I'd like, literally, to keep up with them. However, for the life of me, I can find no joy in doing it.

GTFO!!

2009-04-23T19:48:00.003-04:00

You know, sometimes I really wonder why certain people became teachers. They whine, bitch, moan, complain, kvetch, and kvell so damned much about every little stinking thing - the students included - that you don't half think they'd have made far better use of their lives doing something like, oh, selling insurance or cleaning the streets or scooping poop in public dog parks.

See, there was this faculty meeting after school today. It was unusually long, as there've been a lot of issues raised recently regarding our governor's controversial wage cut for all state employees. People are understandably grumpy about it - after all, who in their right mind ever welcomes a ten percent reduction in salary? Yeah, that's right: nobody. However, there was one ~~complete castrating bitch~~ strident harridan today that just had to pipe up about the plight of the teacher. You know, how we don't receive paid holidays, take work home all the time, and are generally unappreciated.

Ok, so sure, she has a point. However, there are some perks - at least for me, personally - that make up for those things.

One, I don't ever have to work on my birthday. It's during the summer. I have a whole summer free - sure, I don't get paid for it (although it seems like it, since I elect to spread my salary over the 12 months instead of taking it only during the 10 months of the year that I'm in the classroom), but then nobody can compel me to set foot into my classroom on that day.
Two, I get to exercise my creativity on a daily basis. I'm not stuck in a cubicle, chained to a computer, slogging through reports and figures. I tried the cubicle-farm wage slave thing and didn't like it. The soul-deadening experience was not an experience I want to repeat.
Three, I actually get paid to do something I love. During my very first teaching job, where I didn't have direct-deposit and had to pick up an actual paycheck every week, I routinely forgot about payday. The school secretary would chase me down to give me my money. It was, and still remains, somewhat of a bonus to me - I get paid to come to school every day.

All of this doesn't mean that I don't actually work, because I do. I work hard. It just means that I love what I do. This colleague of mine, well, let me just tell you that this is her second career. She started in industry and has come to teaching through the alternative route to certification. I think it's time for a reminder to smack her upside the head: if, once you've been teaching for a couple of years, you find yourself lamenting the downsides of the classroom and longing for the cubicle, just remember - you're not tied to the profession. If you don't love it, then do us ALL a giant favor and GET THE FUCK OUT ALREADY!!!! Quit your goddamn bitching, STFU, and get on with your life. Nobody wants to hear it, I promise you! You are obviously not cut out for teaching and should do something a little more ~~personally~~ financially rewarding for you.

Thus endeth my rant. Thank you for listening.

Hot and Delicious

2009-04-20T21:05:00.003-04:00

Did you ever have a day when you got exactly what you wanted and needed at exactly the moment you both wanted and needed it?

I had that day today. It was a Professional Day, which meant no students in the school so teachers could get their grades in the computers. After a morning of hard graft grading papers, I stumbled down to the Work Husband's classroom nearly incoherent with hunger, and stood in front of him, wild-haired and dead-eyed, mumbling "Food. Me. You. Now."

Bless him, he chuckled at me and took me to lunch at the diner down the road. A quick glance at the menu inspired me to order the Cheesesteak Wrap. Now, if you're not from around Philly, you're not going to know the glory of a cheesesteak. This is a sandwich made from very thinly sliced beef that's been thrown on a grill and shredded by two metal spatulas until it resembles a pile of brown rags. This is then slathered in cheese and cushioned on a soft long Italian roll. I prefer mine with fried onions, American cheese, and thick lashings of ketchup. This was what I had today, but in a wrap, not a roll.

People, it was hot, juicy, meaty, thick, salty, greasy, and delicious. It was everything I needed in that exact moment, and completely satisfied me in a way that very few things have ever managed to do. Gawd. I'm shaking right now just remembering it. Mmmmmmmm...

So, fortified by both the food and the convivial conversation - the Work Husband is not the Work Husband merely for his looks alone, you see - I was able to very nearly finish my work today. All in all, it was a very nice way to come back to school.

There is no internet in Europe

2009-04-19T22:23:00.002-04:00

I just got back from chaperoning a 10-day school trip to London and France. A colleague and I took 14 students with us and pretty much had a ball. Sorry I've been incommunicado, but, as the title says, there's no internet in Europe.

Well, there is internet in Europe, but none that I could easily access. So, instead, I saved it all up and wrote it down in an actual pen-and-paper type diary. Can you believe that?! How retro!

I'll give you the highs and lows here, briefly. First, the low:

We had to send a student home from the trip for misbehaving. Trust me when I tell you that his misbehavior was repeated, flagrant, and over the top. I feel bad for his parents.

Then, the highs:

Oh. My. GOD!!! LONDON!!! I went back to the Motherland! I saw all the sights - how touristy! - and even ate fish and chips. I rode the tube, peered through the gate at Buckingham Palace, and thrilled at hearing the bells chime at Westminster Abbey. From there, I took 11 of the kids on a bus trip to Windsor Castle while the other chaperone took the other 4 into London to Camden Market. Windsor was where Incident Number 1 took place with that student I talked about above.

And then we went to Canterbury - on Easter Sunday - where we visited Canterbury Cathedral and ate Hot Cross Buns. The bus then took us to the white cliffs of Dover, where we boarded the ferry bound for Calais.

Hopping off in Calais, we made our way to Rouen and snapped photos of the uber-Gothic cathedral there before partaking of a truly international dinner: Spaghetti Bolognese at a Chilean restaurant in France. That was a true WTF moment on the trip. That night, a group of students and I ventured out and walked around Rouen as it got dark - surprisingly, we had a pretty good time just goofing around, and wound up at Quick, which is like a French Burger King. My students were thrilled as anything to order their hamburgeurs et frites in French, and they were really cute! Then, Incident Number 2 took place.

The next day, we got on the bus again and made our way to Caen where we stopped at the Peace Memorial. That was a sobering event, but not nearly as heart-stopping as what followed: visiting the American cemetary and Omaha Beach. It's absolutely staggering to stand at the corner of the cemetary and see all the white grave markers stretching far beyond the reach of your vision. Somehow, all of the kids and I ended up on the beach at the same time. After dipping my fingers into the English Channel and taking 16 pictures of the group assembled in front of the water (one with every camera). We boarded the bus, yet again, for the tiniest town in France, where we were to stay for two nights. Let's just say that the hotel was lacking, the town was dead, and there were no communal meeting facilities for our students. This was NOT a good combination. It led to Incident Number 3, from which there was no coming back. It was decided that our Troublemaker would go home when we got to Paris, as we had to give his mother time to buy a ticket for him.

The next day, we visited Mont Saint Michel, which was awesome!! I got to be our tour leader, since our guide had some bad knees and couldn't climb the bazillion steps up to the top to buy the tickets to the Abbey there. It was amazing - the view is spectacular - and the architecture is just gorgeous! From there, we went to St. Malo, which is a really cute little town in Brittany. We had galettes and crepes, learned about the history of the town, and bought a bunch of souvenirs. Then, holy crap, we headed back to the hotel for the worst meal in the history of France. The kids, though, rose to the occasion, and we had the most hilarious conversation ever around the table. Afterwards, I wandered Plancoet (the town) with a bunch of students. During the evening before, we'd found a condom dispenser outside a pharmacy - which they'd found uproariously funny. It was decided that a packet was to be purchased with pooled euros, and that the condom fairy was going to pay a visit to some of our party that evening. The strawberry condom apparently made its rounds under the doors of our rooms that evening, until it was discreetly left in a bedside drawer.

Then, finally, we were headed to Paris, but not before we made a stop at Chartres to see the amazing cathedral there. Lunch there was also the best meal we'd had in France. One of my kids, H, ordered escargots and salade nicoise for lunch. She loved the escargots. I'm so proud! Another, A, ordered one of the specials of the day - rabbit leg and tagliatelle - and declared it to be the best thing he'd ever eaten. We arrived in Paris that evening and ate at a Moroccan restaurant. From there, I took our group on the metro to Notre Dame and then for a wander around the Latin Quarter. We encountered possibly the most polite Parisian waiter in the 2000+ year history of the city. Sixteen people ordered fancy coffee drinks, pastries, desserts, and crepes in a Parisian Brasserie, and this man was nothing but pleasant and congenial.

After arising the next day at four fucking a.m. to take Troublemaker to the airport, I had a bus tour followed by a walking tour of Paris. Pictures, pictures, pictures!!! All of the kids were exhausted by the time we were finished, and we decided that we'd just have ourselves a little dance party in the hotel cafeteria. A bunch of the kids came with me to the mall next to the hotel, where, after a little dress shopping (I got a dress and one of the other girls got a skirt outfit), we went to Auchan for some party supplies. We got different kinds of chips, crackers, cheese, candy, a baguette, and some sparkling cider for variety. We got into our pajamas, slapped our iPods into portable speakers, and played card games until we were too sleepy to continue. We bonded. Awwwwww.

Friday was the Louvre in the morning, then shopping in the afternoon. I had a group of kids that I affectionately called my Ducklings following me around the Louvre, as they have really strict rules about the under 18 crowd. We saw the main highlights, but then walked to a cafe and had a delicious lunch. We walked through Les Halles, where we saw a bunch of people lounging on the grass and came across a group of old men playing boules, which is pretty typical in a French park. I took pictures, but one of my kids got video of it. We did some shopping, finished our souvenir buying, found a bakery (one of our kids hadn't had an authentic pain au chocolat since arriving in France), got some bread and pastries, and wandered back to the park. Once there, the other group found us, and we all had a nice flop on the grass. We met the rest of the tour group at the Centre Pompidou, and then made our way to dinner. After that, we went up the Eiffel Tower and saw the city from the birds-eye perspective. After that, we got on a Batobus and had a tour of Paris by Night from the river Seine.

After a 3.5 hour nap, we got up and headed for the airport. Then home. And here I am.

I wanna go back!!!!!

Switcheroo

2009-04-07T20:59:00.005-04:00

Typical - I say it's slow these days and all of a sudden, I've got loads of backed-up writing pouring out of my brain... Standard creative writing disclaimer...

*****

He needs me, and he hates that he needs me. I represent his weakness, his craving for closeness and comfort, his pent-up desire, and his neglected wants. I am his shame and satisfaction clothed in flesh. He alternately turns to me and spurns me, as his shame waxes and wanes. I can read it in his eyes when he comes to me, in the stance of his naked body as he stands still and waits for me to approach.

I know that he thinks of his wife when he closes his eyes. When he feels my touch, I know he wishes it were her fingers trailing along his skin, her lips teasing his nipple, her teeth gently nipping his thigh. My body becomes hers when seen in his mind's eye, and he resists touching me intimately, confining his hands to safe areas where there are no obvious differences - my sides, the flat of my back, the swell of my calf. He comes to me because she won't give him what I willingly surrender.

Even though his touch is neutral, I still receive pleasure in his embrace. It's a twisted pleasure, though, more mental than physical, though the physical is intense. It's a triumphant fist in the air ever time he throws his head back in ecstasy. It's fireworks exploding on the Fourth of July when he groans my name. I celebrate the fact that I can produce that euphoria, that I can bring him to that peak, as my own husband finds little use for my talents.

For my husband, I am a figure, a symbol. I am a wife and mother, no longer a lover. Our trysting days are long past. The tender explorations of our courtship have been long since relegated to memory. I am the drudge that cooks and cleans. I hang his laundry and do his shopping, my womanhood sacrificed on the altar of his comfort. He wastes no affection on me. Weeks will pass without a kiss, the merest sign of matrimonial contentment, let alone anything greater. Sex requires too much time and exertion more fruitfully spent on other activities.

And so we close our eyes, my lover and I, each yearning for the ones who vowed before God and Man to have, hold, and love us until death do us part to do exactly that. We close our eyes and have each other in the way that lets us both stay in those marriages. Sweet kisses temper the bitter truth that a marriage can last longer than the love that inspired it.

Perhaps the last bit of creative writing you'll see from me

2009-04-06T15:32:00.003-04:00

So, I've been fiddling about with this creative writing for a while now. It comes in fits and starts - more fits recently - and this whole "bien aime" business has gotten a bit stale. So, I'm fictionally saying goodbye to him. I had this strange epiphany about it at Target the other day when I was trailing Miss Peanut around the dollar section, watching her select bits of cheap tat on which to spend her allowance and thought that, you know? it was really time to be done with this.

*******************

Crying doesn’t help. It doesn’t take away the humiliation, the feelings of failure and inadequacy, or the helplessness you feel at being unable to smile. Crying doesn’t remove that nagging ridicule gleefully dancing a malicious flamenco on your psyche with its pointy stiletto heels. Crying resolves nothing, fixes nothing, and helps no one.

Finger-pointing is equally unproductive. After all, I am the only person in the room. I am the guilty one: guilty of prolonging the affair long past its viability; of placing more value on it than it deserved; and of assuming too much about my place in his life. Granted, I didn’t act alone, but there is no one but me who can take the blame for my actions.

I was the one that initiated our trysts. I was the aggressor. I sought him out when I felt lonely, and hinted, intimated, slowly seduced him into my arms. If he had qualms, I crushed them. I inveigled and invited, drawing him to me with promises of pleasure. What he needed to hear from me, I willingly told him, though, in my heart, I didn’t always mean it. I schemed for this man. I had to have him. And, for a short while, I did have him.

I loved sliding my arms up his back while I kissed him, feeling my neck stretch as I tipped my head back for his lips to join with mine. Feeling so small, so tiny, next to his tall strength was a gift I’ve never before had. I would breathe in his scent – spicy, fresh, male – as I dropped kisses on his chest and feel intoxicated by it. The softness of his lips as they twisted with mine made me shiver with need, and the silken swipe of his tongue anywhere was enough to raise gooseflesh.

Later, pulling groans from him as I used my mouth to tease his proud member or sheathing him inside me to ride astride, I would feel triumphant, powerful. He filled me completely, with not a fraction to spare. Pushing, grinding, swirling my hips produced twin moans from us both. His strained exhortation to slow down would drive me to use my hand to gently massage my own proud flesh so that we could finish together. Rocking slowly, incrementally, I teased myself with him, loving the friction and his sheer size, waiting for the moment when I felt the wildfire begin to coalesce at my knees. Streaking its way towards the point where my hand would be working, it bathed my whole body in its fulminating warmth. Stars exploded behind my eyes as I collapsed, helpless, on his chest where his final shout still reverberated.

But no more do we meet. No more do we talk. All communication is ended, and I am bereft. Our orbits, which once intersected, are now completely separate. Part of me feels discarded, left behind, destroyed. The greater part of me, though, feels resigned and calm, even. That is the part of me that believes that I can move on from this. That I can learn from it. That someday, I will no longer be sad that this part of my life is over, but will instead smile because it happened.

Peanut Prose

2009-03-29T20:23:00.002-04:00

My daughter, Miss Peanut, has been coming out with all kinds of funny stuff recently. Oddly enough, I often hear my own words coming out of her mouth. I guess I can't say she never listens to me, huh? She hears me all right.

So yesterday, we were getting ready to go to a birthday party. Miss Peanut had been parading her various sartorial choices past me, checking for my opinion. She decided on a pink dress with a cupcake print (gotta love Gymboree), pink socks, and white sneakers. When asked for my opinion, I said "Looks cute. How about a necklace, too?" Her hand fluttered up to her throat in that quintessentially feminine way, as she said "Oh! Good call!" and whirled around back to her room to further bedeck herself.

Earlier this week, I'd gotten a cryptic behavior report from her teacher, stating that there was a "kicking incident" between Miss Peanut and another student. When I asked her about it, she said that when they were sitting "criss-cross applesauce" (this is the modern PC euphemism for what we all called "Indian-style") one of the boys accidentally kicked her when he was getting up. She further elaborated, saying "and I accidentally forgot and kicked him back."

There's been other stuff, too, but these little PeanutBytes come so fast and furious that I can't remember them all. She's growing up, that's for sure!

In which I am all thumbs and spasms

2009-03-23T22:01:00.003-04:00

Not only am I an inarticulate knitter, I am a profanely clumsy one, too. At least I know how many stitches I started with, and haven't dropped one yet, so nothing's really lost. I very nearly lost my shit though, when I had a freaking spasm in my hand and yanked that slippery green metal needle completely out of the row. I have about one inch of sock cuff knitted, for those who are keeping track. Nothing much, really, but for me, quite an achievement.

I also ran today for the second time in several hundred months. I was a little sore and stiffish today at work. I can tell you this, though: sore and stiff though I was today, I'm likely to be thrice that tomorrow! Christ on a cracker, I am actually hurtin' right now. I'm also a weensy bit impressed with myself. Only once did I give up in the running, and that was on the last stretch of it, uphill, and for the last seven seconds. I counted. Knackered, I am, but come Wednedsday, I'll be doing it yet again.

School today was hard. We're just all getting back on track after the chaos that was the State testing program. After seven days of laxity, it's very difficult getting anything closely resembling work out of my students. Even the rocket scientists were ridiculously chatty and difficult to corral. That's only to be expected, though.

I have a few friends, who all independently of themselves, have recently suffered personal setbacks. I want to hug them all, shelter and shield them, fight for those that need it, and let the others weep on my shoulder. Unfortunately, not all of them are geographically close enough to me to do that. For those of you that aren't, expect a phone call soon. For those of you that are, you may find yourself taking one for the team - even though you personally don't need a hug, you may find yourself receiving one intended for another. Please accept it and karmically pass it on. It's well-intentioned.

And hell, while I'm giving out the karmic hugs, if anyone out there would like one, I'm sure I can pass one on to you. All you have to do is ask.

The Bucket List

2009-03-22T21:51:00.005-04:00

I've started Bucket List. I'm not in imminent danger of death - that I know of - but I figured there was enough stuff that I haven't done in my life that I should do, that I should organize it. This weekend, I got a start at two of my Bucket List items.

The first, Run a 5K, will happen this July. Since I am about as out of shape as Jabba the Hutt, I figured I'd better get started on this now. I downloaded an interval training podcast and began the arduous task of running and walking. I looked like a complete ass, alternating between minutes of walking and mere seconds of running, but I did it. I'll keep doing it, until I can run five bloody kilometers. It's more than I've ever run continuously in my entire life, but I'm determined. This will happen. Even if I hate it. Which I currently do. Hate running. Yuck.

The second item begun is slightly more fun and entirely more sedentary: Knit a Pair of Socks. My grandmother taught me how to crochet, embroider, cross stitch, needlepoint, and sew. My mother taught me how to knit a scarf. Socks, however, are something that I've wanted to do ever since I saw my friend Cathy doing it. I asked her to teach me, and she has graciously acquiesced. Today, with another Kathy, we had our very first Stitch-n-Bitch.

Today's Stitch-n-Bitch deserves its own paragraph, as there was quite a bit of bitching. Kathy and I are pretty much rank beginners, able to turn out a mean scarf or potholder. Socks, however, reduced us to language that would do any dockhand proud. Or, at least they reduced me to this language. Kathy may have been a bit more appropriate and ladylike. I do believe we two are the founding members of the First Guild of Inarticulate Knitters, as much of our frustrations were expressed in wordless utterances - "Whaaaaa? Gaaaah! Meh! Feh! Bleaaaaargh!" Of course, we were trying to knit both socks at the same time on two circular needles. Glah! Eeep! Floooo!

Two weeks from now, at our Second Stitch-n-Bitch, I imagine we'll be slightly more articulate, as I intend to practice and get a few more inches done on these two socks. Maybe I'll be ready to turn the heel by then. And then? After I finish these socks? I'll never have to do another pair. But who knows? I might! Why? Because I'll know how. Further down on my Bucket List is to pass the knowledge on to my daughter, should she want to learn - not just socks, but all of the nearly lost feminine arts I learned from my grandmother. But that's not something I'll be doing on my timeschedule.

So what's on your list?

Supporting McCain

2009-03-17T20:50:00.002-04:00

Meghan McCain, that is.

There's been a recent kerfuffle involving Meghan McCain, Ann Coulter, and, most recently, Laura Ingraham. The most recent bit is what left me temporarily speechless. I'll elaborate, shall I?

Now, we all know that I am not a Republican. I do not tend to follow politics as a rule and know very little about the various right-wing pundits. Rush Limbaugh and Bill O'Reilly are pretty much the sum total of my right-wing pundit knowledge. I do not call Ann Coulter a right-wing pundit. I call her a reactionary, whack-a-doo, heartless, worthless Grinch of a creature. Next to Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh seems like a jolly avuncular teddy-bear of a man that would give me a Werther's candy and a pat on the head. So, when Meghan McCain seemingly came out of nowhere attacking Ann Coulter, my response was definitely positive. I was frankly glad to see some young Republican women acknowledging that this woman was not a positive role model for them.

So I just read on Big Fat Deal, a size-acceptance blog, that Laura Ingraham made no substantive rebuttal to McCain's comments, but instead chose to make belittling comments about McCain's weight and "plus sized" status. Excuse me? What the FUCK does Meghan's size 8 behind have to do with the validity of her comments? Never mind the fact that a size 8 is only plus sized in an anorexic's head, when did the size of a woman's ass become an inverse measure of her brain? Um, never, thank you very much.

Another thing that just gets under my skin about this whole interview thing is that it's another woman who is perpetuating this sizist crap. I mean, if it were some male chauvinist that were spewing this garbage, I could just write it off as typical male conservative sexism. Yes, it exists. Yes, I've encountered it in real life. However, for this to come out of another woman's mouth - for her to skip right to the ad hominem attack instead of examining the value of the argument put forth just reeks of the whole catty female politics that we, as women, have striven to rise above.

Shame on you, Laura Ingraham.

My Boyfriend

2009-03-12T22:24:00.003-04:00

I've had a boyfriend for a while now.

Don't wig out - my husband knows! He even thinks my boyfriend's adorable. He is, too. He's three years old and lives with one of my best friends (who happens to be his mother, see). His name is Max and he's just been introduced to someone new - his baby brother.

Max, I have news for you, boyfriend. This squawking little blanket burrito will completely change your life. He will drive you nuts, yet at the very same time, can be your best friend and biggest ally in the world. You will share a lot: clothes, toys, parents, to be sure, but also the family slang and inside jokes that you will have a large part in teaching him. Oh, I didn't tell you that yet! You get to teach this little critter, this baby brother, all of that stuff. You have now gained some responsibility.

Yours is a very important role, Max! You are the BIG brother. I'll bet you're more apt to be the voice of reason in this duo than the one who charges headlong into trouble. I'm also pretty sure you'll receive your share of hero-worship, noogies, wedgies, and flying tackles. You'll also get a friend for life, a partner in crime, and someone to watch your back from here on out.

In short, Max, you've got a brother. Treat him well.

(PS - hi Robbie!!!! Can't wait to finally meet you in person, pal! And you know everything I just said to Max? Goes double for you, shorty. Oh, and your job as the little brother? Why, to give your big brother hell, of course!)

Potty Mouth

2009-03-11T20:53:00.002-04:00

Ok, so I have quite a potty mouth. I keep it leashed at school, for the most part. When I do let fly, it's usually in French, so the kids don't always understand it. Mostly, though, I make do with substitutions, like "shoot," "dagnabit," and "mother-of-pearl." Not quite as satisfying as the real thing, but they get the job done.

This video, though, made me giggle and wonder "what if... ?"

Swear Jar--Funniest Commercial Ever! - watch more funny videos

The Adventures of the Courageous Masked Jones in Montreal

2009-03-10T20:13:00.004-04:00

~~It was a dark and stormy night~~

~~Evil lurked in the shifty dusk~~

Courageous Jones hauled her sorry ass out of bed at 4 am one dark and gloomy Friday morning.

"Time to go fight the evil noxious plague of ignorance that runs rampant in our ~~school system~~ city," she grumbled sleepily. Staggering her way to the bathroom, she pulled on her mask and ran her fingers through her short crop of hair. Business transacted, teeth brushed, and slightly refreshed, she shuffled back to her bedroom to ditch her monkey slippers and trade them for her slinky spandex travel gear.

Moving swiftly and silently through the house now, lest she wake its slumbering denizens, Courageous Jones swiftly stowed a few necessities in her utility belt and coiled her laser wit whip about her waist. She slinked down the stairs, keeping to the shadows, and waited, poised, for The Principal to arrive.

Their journey was short, and soon they were in the vaunted Tower of Learning in Canuckland, or, as it was know to the natives, Le Centre Sheraton. Yet there was no battle to be fought that day. Jones and The Principal chose to scope out the territory, joining forces with the WonderTwins from their same team. Disguised as mild-mannered teachers, they roamed Vieux Montreal, eyes constantly scanning for foes of all sizes. None, save the Foul Poutine, were to be found, though.

Courageous Masked Jones let her guard down that night and felt the beauty of the city around her. Little did she know that she would feel its crushing weight upon her the next day.

Madame Firebrand began her tutelage the next morning. If Courageous Jones had ever felt that she was up to the task of scourging ignorance from her ~~classroom~~ city, Madame Firebrand would soon extinguish that confidence. Madame Firebrand ran Jones through her paces, test after test, until she was ready to drop from the exhaustion and felt weak and trembling from the mounting fear. Mockery and self-doubt slipped from the shadows and fell upon her. Worse, ~~her fellow participants~~ the rest of the Justice League were succumbing to the same foes. It was time, thought Courageous Masked Jones, to butch up and face things.

Loosing her whip, Courageous Jones lashed out at the debilitating demons that diminished her self-worth and beat them back with the sure knowledge that, while there was always room for improvement, there was also the ability to improve within her. Everything she needed was at her beck and call. Calling it forth from every fiber of her being, Courageous Jones took the lessons that Madame Firebrand had provided and worked on them. She toiled, slaved, wiped her damp forehead, and then toiled some more. Pages of notes and plans appeared before her - the product of the sweat of her brow and the magic of her mind.

Courageous Masked Jones has a plan.

Now, does she have the power?

Stay tuned, superfriends, stay tuned!

Back, Incognito!

2009-03-09T21:58:00.003-04:00

Thanks to my girl On The Curb for this one!

It really seemed to fit today, as my friend Hube, Colosssus of Rhodey contributer, Iron Man enthusiast (and major comic-book ~~geek~~ afficionado in general) decided to start up a side-blog (because obviously he has nothing better to do...) and is now writing at Comics of Rhodey. Feel free to check him out. If you'd like to make your own hero, go here.

I think I may write about the Adventures of the Courageous Masked Jones in Montreal a little later this week. She was, of course, incognito.

Off to the Frozen North!

2009-03-05T21:06:00.002-05:00

I'm away to the Canada!

One of the few perks of being a teacher in an International Baccalaureate school is the opportunity to travel to conferences on how to teach effectively in this milieu. As I've only taught the middle grades in this system, I'm now going to be trained in teaching the upper grades. As I teach French, I chose training located in scenic and fashionable Montreal, Quebec, where ze frenchies are still prezent!

I get to go with my Principal - he seems fairly cool for an administrator - and with one of the middle school French teachers. I think we'll have a great time kicking back after the conference sessions are through for the day.

Have fun without me!

Updates, long overdue

2009-03-02T22:12:00.002-05:00

It seems that with the new year, many of my favorite reads have decided that they'd just close up shop and feck off. Being a ridiculously sentimental sort, I've waited an unduly long time to delete them. But, alas, the time has come to clean house in that regard. Soooooo...

Goodbye to my old friends, and hello to some new ones. Please check out my sidebar for some new reads.

One of the Stupidest Things I've Ever Done...

2009-03-01T23:38:00.002-05:00

...is not what you're thinking.

One of the stupidest things I've ever done is learn to make microwave cake in a cup. Now, I am no more than 5 minutes away from cake at any given time. Goddammit.

So of course, I feel honor-bound to share this recipe with you. But, be warned - you must love chocolate.

Get a large mug (beaker to you Brits) - the bigger the better - and a fork for mixing. Then find your measuring teaspoon.

Into your mug, measure 2 Tablespoons of All Purpose Flour, 6 Tablespoons of Sugar, and 3 Tablespoons of Cocoa. Stir 'em up just to get the lumps out.

Then, add a splash of vanilla, 1 egg, 3 Tablespoons of oil (I used Canola, since it's got no flavor), and 3 Tablespoons of milk. Mix this all up until it's amalgamated and smooth. It should have a stiffish brownie batter consistency. (Nom, nom, nom!)

Then, for the coup de grace, throw in a handful of chocolate chips and give it a very cavalier stir. You don't want them all falling to the bottom of the cup, so be a lazy person and half-ass it. Pitch the fork into the sink and bung the cup into the microwave for 4 minutes on high.

Let the cake sit for about 2 minutes before tipping it out onto a plate and digging in. You don't want to burn your mouth while it's piping hot.

Or, if ~~burning your mouth seems like a really good idea to you~~ you just can't wait, don't tip it out onto a plate and plop a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it instead. It's a substantial cake, so it can take the moisture of the ice cream.

It's enough for two people to share, or for one really greedy person to enjoy in the privacy of her own kitchen. I'll let you figure out which one it was for me.

Dammit.

Meme time, again!

2009-02-19T19:38:00.004-05:00

Lifted from Dooce.

What are your middle names?
My middle name is Hope. The WCM's is Barry.

How long have you been together?
We've been married eighteen and a half years, together for twenty.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
About two minutes. Or at least it seems that way now. Between our first glimpse of each other and our first actual date was about a month and a half.

Who asked whom out?
He asked me.

How old are each of you?
I'm 38, he's 44. That age difference was a serious issue when we first met - my father FREAKED!!!

Whose siblings do you see the most?
The WCM's. I have one brother, and I see him rarely, as rarely is when he's sober.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
The division of labor in our household, as evidenced by yesterday's post. The WCM's parents were old, and consequently, Old School. He never did anything for himself, and I married him too young to know that I should stand up for myself early and not start doing anything for him that I wasn't prepared to keep doing for him. Getting the man to pick up his own shit is harder than getting Miss Peanut to do the same chore.

Did you go to the same school?
We both graduated from UD. He got a BS in Biology in 1986, I got a BA in French Education in 1992 and a MA in Foreign Languages and Literatures (French) in 1996.

Are you from the same home town?
Sort of. I grew up here, but I was born in a neighboring state. The WCM is from here and has never lived anywhere else.

Who is smarter?
Hah! We're opposite sides of the same coin here - he's more science and math, and I'm more arts and humanities. Our intelligence level is about the same.

Who is the most sensitive?
Definitely me. I'm moody.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
There's a neat Thai restaurant close to us called Sweet Basil that I absolutely adore. I try to get the WCM there as much as I can.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
California. Although, if we're still married next year, the plan is to go to London.

Who has the craziest exes?
I guess he does, although I've never heard anything about them.

Who has the worst temper?
Hands down, the WCM. He has the foulest temper and has broken more objects in our house as a result of that temper than I can count. I've learned two things, though - one, if he breaks anything, it gets replaced by a far more expensive model out of his pocket, and two, if I get all up in his face with equal noise and fury, he'll back off and STFU. Since I'm basically non-confrontational, it took me years to figure that out.

Who does the cooking?
Me. Every goddamn day. Except Saturdays.

Who is the neat-freak?

Hahahahaa. That's a good one. Nobody is. I have a "dirt problem," remember?

Who is more stubborn?
He is. Although I can hold a grudge longer than anyone I know.

Who hogs the bed?
He does. Although it's usually in the name of snuggling.

Who wakes up earlier?
The WCM. He's an annoyingly perky morning person.

Where was your first date?
We watched a movie at his house - The Holy Grail. One of our favorites.

Who is more jealous?
He is, by a mile.

How long did it take to get serious?
Not long at all. We were engaged after four months, and the only reason we weren't married until a year after that is because I wanted to dispel all of those nasty pregnancy rumors. Bitches were trippin' about the early engagement!

Who eats more?
He does, now. I think there was a time when I out-ate him, though.

Who does the laundry?
C'mon, didn't we just go over that whole division of labor thing? I do, of course.

Who's better with the computer?
Once again, opposite sides of the same coin - he's better with hardware, I'm better with software.

Who drives when you are together?
He does, most of the time, unless we are taking my car. Then I drive. Because it's my car.

Listen up, menfolk.

2009-02-18T22:30:00.002-05:00

I've a wee bit of advice to offer to all of the menfolk out there. Save yourself the trouble of arguing with an extremely testy spouse, and do the fucking dishes when your woman has cooked you a meal. Capisce?

See, here's the deal: I cook. I cook every goddamn day - barring Saturdays, when we go out to eat - and I don't use mixes or pre-made, reheatable crap from a box. I cook real food from scratch. I pare, slice, dice, cube, mince, julienne, sear, roast, saute, sauce, steam, broil, bake, and nap all of the raw ingredients and turn them into dinner. The WCM is always unstinting in his praise, but the man will not WASH A FUCKING DISH after I cook unless he's been prodded into it.

I resent like hell the fact that I have to work the same number of hours as yon asshole spouse, but then still come home, cook dinner, supervise homework, do laundry, tidy up, fetch and carry, and generally be his frigging mother when he just comes in the door, throws his lunchbag on the counter and plops his ass in his recliner, squawking about "When's dinner going to be ready?" When's it ready? When it's ready, motherfucker! If you don't like it, here's a can opener and a tin of beans. Go for it!

So then, well, after slaving away, I find myself muttering streams of vicious obscenities as I'm bending over loading the dishwasher. I get it all loaded, but then am called away to put the child to bed - yet another chore too complicated for the feeble-minded twat I foolishly shackled myself to for life - and come back to find that the WCM has bestirred himself to put a detergent cube in the machine and turn it on. This time, he even remembered to unwrap the cube. (Yes. Yes, he did actually put a wrapped one in there once. It chills my blood to remember that I have willingly passed this man's DNA on to another generation.) And do you know what he has the sheer unmitigated gall to tell me then? Do you? Do you really?

He told me that he did the dishes.

I think that it would be classed as a Justifiable Homicide, don't you?

American Idol

2009-02-17T21:09:00.003-05:00

When Paula Abdul goes hard on you, you're pretty much fucked. So far, about halfway through, there were a couple of really regrettable performances.

I didn't jump on the Idol train for a couple of seasons - took me until Season 4 (the Carrie Underwood season) to get me to watch it. I can feel the excitement waning in my house now - the WCM will no longer watch with me. Not a big deal, though, as we have a lot of separate interests. He's been plucking my nerves recently, so I'm more than happy that his ass is upstairs watching Andrew Zimmern eat some bizarre crap while I'm planted smack-dab in front of the giant box, listening to contestants make some really, er, interesting song choices.

I like the new judge - Kara - so far. I think she provides what Paula was meant to give - a meaningful feminine perspective. However, this woman is two things that Paula is not: competent and cogent. Ooh, I take that back - three things: competent, cogent, and coherent.

Oh, and memo to a friend of mine - one of the contestants is named Brent Keith. He's from Ohio. He doesn't sing musicals, though. He's a country singer. Freaky, eh?

Lazy day

2009-02-16T13:35:00.003-05:00

There are a few wonderful perks in my profession - not working on holidays is one of them. I'm at home with Miss Peanut, enjoying a beautifully lazy day.

We both slept laaaaaaate this morning - arising at 8:30ish, I poked my head into Miss Peanut's room to witness her sitting up in her bed, rubbing sleepily at her eyes. She hurdled out of it, flung her arms around my waist, and gave me the sweetest hug. We both climbed into my big bed and had a snuggle to plan our day. Miss Peanut made me squeal by placing her "cold feet of DOOM!" on my bare legs while we decided that the first order of the day would be a walk to Dunkin' Donuts to get breakfast.

One Waffle sandwich later, and we're walking back home, me clutching my iced coffee - yes, iced coffee. I'm not much of a hot beverage drinker these days, even my beloved Tea. Earl Grey. Hot is not doing it for me now - and Miss Peanut clutching a bag containing a Triple Chocolate Muffin for our afternoon snack.

On the docket is a little bit of reading, some web surfing, some TV watching, some scrapbooking, and a whole lot of lazing about in pajama bottoms. I'm making a chicken stew and scratch biscuits for dinner tonight, so I'll be about that a little later this afternoon. But for now?

Pajama bottoms, TV, book. Check.

This one's for you, Noz

2009-02-13T10:19:00.000-05:00

So a week or so back, my friend Noz lamented the death of the "Random Playlist" post, where people would post the last 10 songs that played on their iPod. Mah gurl On The Curb seems to have one-upped that phenomenon with this meme. So, to give Noz some hope, here's my version.

**Note: this is a Facebook thing, apparently. Since I cherish my relative anonymity, I'm not on Facebook and have no plans to be on it in the future. Like most Facebook things, this was probably written by a teenager...

Guidelines:

1. Put your iTunes or Windows Media Player on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your next answer.
3. You must write that song name down no matter how outrageous it sounds!
4. Tag friends who might enjoy doing the game as well as the person you got the note from.

IF SOMEONE SAYS, “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY?
“Short Trip Home” - Meyer. (No, because only a trip home would make it ok)

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
"Life's Incredible Again" - Michael Giacchino (How uncanny! It's from the Incredibles Soundtrack. You know, the Disney movie?)

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
"You & Me & The Bottle Makes 3 Tonight" - Big Bad Voodoo Daddies (apparently I like a really strong liver and obnoxious behavior!)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
"The Four Seasons: Spring, Danza Pastorale" - Vivaldi (Um, my life's purpose is to dance in the fields in spring. Yeah. Sure. Whatever.)

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
"Who Will You Run To?" - Heart (Because I'm there for everybody, even when they're not for me. That's some true shit right there.)

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
"Una Voce Poco Fa" - Rossini (The Barber of Seville) ("One Voice Does Little" - so I guess my friends think that I need to shut the hell up about my unpopular opinions. Or something? A general STFU?)

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT OFTEN?
"Zombie" - The Cranberries (Yes, the fear of zombies keeps me up at night, listening for shuffling and moaning. Oh yeah, and waiting for that new Zombie Jane Austen book...)

WHAT IS 2+2?
“Eleanor Rigby” - John Bayless (because I'm random like that. Albatross!)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
“This Love” - Maroon 5 (Freaky!)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
“If I Never See Your Face Again” - Maroon 5 (sorry, honey...)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
“Concerto #2 in C minor - 2. Adagio Sostenuto” - Rachmaninov (perf. by Vladimir Ashkenazy) (I'd say that my life story would be the whole concerto, as it's full of fire and pathos. It's gorgeous, full, open, lush, and great music to have sex to. Hmmmmm.)

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
“Donde Lieta Usci” - Puccini, La Boheme (I want to be a tubercular seamstress who selflessly abandons her lover for his own good so he won't have to see her die. I fucking hate sewing.)

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
“The Four Seasons - Summer, Allegro Non Molto” - Vivaldi (Fuck! What is with the classical music shuffling today! Y'all are going to think I'm some Merlot-swilling, Opera-loving, bleeding-heart liberal or something... wait... shit. Ok, so when I see the person I like, I'm thinking "Fast, but not too fast." Ahem. ;-) )

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
“Nothing Lasts Forever” - Maroon 5 (It's also, apparently, Maroon 5 day on my iPod. That's kind of funny, actually.)

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
“Jump, Jive, an' Wail” - Brian Setzer Orchestra (I would have danced to this, and happily, had it even been recorded at the time of my wedding.)

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
“Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring” - J.S. Bach (Shit. They did play this at my wedding.)

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
“Shiver” - Maroon 5 (I SWEAR, I have other music on my iPod. I swear. But I am currently spending a lot of time shivering.)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
“Bring Me To Life” - Evanescence (Ah, my friends. They make me so happy!)

WHAT’S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
“Go Daddy-o” - Big Bad Voodoo Daddies (True. I don't want anything to happen to my Daddy-o.)

HOW WILL YOU DIE?
“A String of Pearls” - Glenn Miller Orchestra (Either I'm gonna be garrotted or it's wild sex gone wrong. I'm hoping it's the latter.)

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
“C'est Trop Beau” - Tino Rossi ("It's too beautiful." There are some things I've done that have made all others pale by comparison. I've been spoiled by having some really wonderful experiences. I'm jaded. True story.)

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
“Bridge Over Troubled Waters” - Simon & Garfunkle (Oh Christ. This should be the answer to the next question, really. This was one of my grandmother's favorite songs - it reads like the story of her life. My father sang it at her funeral, even though he'd divorced her daughter over 25 years prior. I still can't sit through it without weeping.)

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
“Good Enough” - Evanescence (It's definitely a poignant song. I love the last line "So take care what you ask of me, 'cause I can't say no.")

WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
“Last Chance on the Stairway” - Duran Duran (Does that mean there's another chance for me, or that I already used the last chance I was going to get? I dunno...)

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
“Off to Work” - Michael Giacchino (Another one from the Incredibles Soundtrack, and really kind of funny in response to this question.)

DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?
“In Between” - Duncan Sheik (That's kind of funny, really. In between what, exactly?)

Medically-induced melancholy

2009-02-12T08:27:00.006-05:00

I picked Miss Peanut up from her after-school care on Tuesday evening and noticed that she was a tad subdued. "My throat hurts," is what I got from her. I didn't think too much of it, but told her I'd check it out when we got home.

On the ride home, however, I began to be concerned, as my Miss Peanut is normally a loquacious individual, prone to rattle on for hours if unchecked, and she was remaining uncharacteristically silent save for an intermittent sharp intake of breath. I wasted no time in grabbing the flashlight when we got home and peered down at her tonsils. Whooo, boy! Her throat and tonsils were swollen and inflamed, and there was a tell-tale white patch on one of the tonsils. She was running a low-grade fever, and I figured it was Strep. I did all of the Dr. Mom steps - Children's Motrin for the fever, chicken noodle soup and peanut butter crackers (traditional family invalid food), called in my sick day and arranged sub plans, and then cuddled the invalid until she fell asleep.

At seven years old, Miss Peanut is just shy of four feet tall. She's small for her age, and as she's my only child, I tend to baby her a tad. Times like these, when she's sick and her natural vibrant independence has been dampened, usually find her in my lap with her head tucked between my shoulder and chin so I can rub her back. This clinginess often fuels my melancholy.

You see, it's times like this when I remember that I will never cuddle another infant of my own body. I'll never count another set of fingers and toes or cradle a downy head in my palm while I make loony faces to a baby of my own. While, intellectually, I don't think another baby is a good idea for me, emotionally - and hormonally - I find myself suddenly grieving the loss. My uterus is now just so much useless real estate. It makes me sad and angry by turns.

My amateur diagnosis was confirmed the next day by Miss Peanut's pediatrician - Strep Throat. We spent all of Wednesday - save for the doctor visit and the resulting trip to Target for antibiotics and pudding - lolling about in our pajamas. There were naps, movies, and Spaghetti and Meatballs for dinner. There was medicine, bedtime stories, and snuggles until she slept.

Today? Fresh pajamas, same agenda, with, hopefully, less melancholy.

Learning moderation

2009-02-07T21:28:00.011-05:00

So, I'm getting this whole "moderation" thing down. Instead of being either insanely deprived or insanely indulgent, I've been treading the middle ground recently, and been very happy with it. One of the things I've done, is gone back to using Bento Boxes for my lunch.

I use Japanese Bento boxes that I get online from either eBay or from ichibankan. Here's an example of what one of my lunches would look like:

I had a small tub of peanut butter and half an apple in the top half, along with two wedges of Laughing Cow French onion cheese. There's a crispbread under the clear lid to that container to smear my cheese on. The bottom of my bento contains Apple-Walnut Chicken Salad. I've got half a protein pita to eat it on, too, but no container to put it in.

It's not much food, but since I've been surgically altered, it's plenty for me. Now, before I happened on this particular bento - this is the first bento that I purchased - I'd been looking for an old, old Tupperware-style bento. Like this one (photo not mine - I found it at this blog):

Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may be, I was woefully inept in my internet searching and didn't come across a single one - despite the dozens currently available on eBay... *facepalm*

What I did come across, though was the Laptop Lunchbox. It's a tidy enough system, what with the different sized containers, hard outer shell, and nifty carrier. Here's what it looks like:

I think it's quite nifty, if a little large, which is what my basic problem with it was. See, being surgically-altered, I wouldn't have the room to eat all of that. That's a lot of food - quite a bit more than my typical Japanese bento holds. They market this lunchbox toward getting kids to eat healthy, too. Now, I'm about to have a bit of a rant here, so hold on to your hats.

It has been shown - but damned if I can find it right now - that children learn to eat what's in front of them. They learn their portion sizes in childhood and carry them into adulthood - ergo, if you serve a child a lot and tell them to clean their plate, then expect that they're going to expect proportionately larger servings into adulthood. And those proportionate servings are going to be much larger than the actual recommended serving sizes. Do you follow me?

By serving a child a large lunch, using a box like the one above, you're encouraging them to eat outside of appropriate caloric bounds. You're showing them amounts of food - they aren't sophisticated enough to calculate calories, so while they might be eating an appropriate amount of calories through eating lots of veggies and fibrous fruits, wholegrain bread, and other nutritious staples, they can be learning inappropriate serving sizes. Of course, the other problem here is that not every child has a lunch of nutritious staples. Twinkie, anyone? Our caloric intake in this country is out of hand!

You may find that your child is satisfied with less food than you're serving. Of course, if they tell you they're hungry, then feed them! I don't advocate putting children on diets - just serving them appropriately. That's a lesson I know I'll flub somewhat, given my own food issues. But I can tell you that my child is as yet a normal weight for someone her height. When she's hungry, I feed her. She eats all kinds of stuff - although, I'll admit she doesn't care much for vegetables other than asparagus. We eat a lot of asparagus here at Peevish Place. Ok, rant - and subsequent digression - over (well, almost).

Well, as it happens, I was in Barnes & Noble this week - I go there to sit in the cafe and read the magazines for free - and I happened upon this book: The Nine Inch Diet. The basic premise is simple - over the years, our dinner plates have grown in the same geometric slope as our nation's obesity crisis. In the 1960s, a dinner plate measured 9 inches. Today, a dinner plate measures 12 inches. The author suggests that if we all went back to 9 inch ,and serving sizes appropriate to those plates, then we'd all, as a nation, lose weight.

It looks simplistic, but you know? I can totally see it. If you, like me, were conditioned to clean your plate, not to waste food - there are children starving in China! - and eat what was put in front of you, then today's gargantuan serving sizes are quite a challenge. The WCM's parents went through the Great Depression as children - wasting food was anathema in their house. Consequently, it used to drive the WCM nuts when I leave anything on my plate. Since my subsequent alteration, he's learned not to say anything. Who says old dogs can't learn new tricks?!

Well, when I told the WCM about this whole 9 inch plate deal, he smirked at me. Being a scientist, he was quick to remind me that correlation does not equal causation (although he was quite a bit more pithy in his reminder...). He did, however, hypothesize that, using the same logic, perhaps the cold winter we're experiencing is due to the increase in pirates in Somalia.

My laughter, I'm sorry to say, was immoderate.

Skiving...

2009-01-30T21:48:00.002-05:00

Ok, see, the thing is this - there has actually been so much happening around here, that if I concentrated long enough to write it down, I'd be writing for hours. I'll try to nutshell it for you, though.

It was midterm week this week. My lovely students were indeed lovely, and took their tests without too much bitching and moaning. My lovely school district gives us half-days during midterm week, so that we can grade our tests in the afternoons and get the grades in tout de suite. Lovely thing, that.

Well, we had ourselves a bit of weather here this week, too. We got about 3 inches of snow, topped by about a half-inch of ice. My northern friends scoff at this kind of snowfall. I admit to scoffing slightly at it, myself, but it got me a snow day, so I ain't scoffing too loud, ya know?

****

I've also discovered that I can't do the South Beach thing anymore - the Phase One brought out all of my disordered eating tendencies that the DS had put into remission. Pair those tendencies with a strong Oppositional streak, and the outcome of a week of sugar/starch deprivation was a carbohydrate orgy that would make Caligula blush and stammer. I need to skip Phase One entirely. It's not good for my mental health.

****

Last weekend, the WCM and his brother, AC, and I all went up to NYC for a Saturday. After an amazing lunch at the Carnegie Deli - seriously? who needs a sandwich that's 8 inches tall? - we went to an antique show at the Armory. This was kind of a "walk and gawk" event, as nobody had the thousands of dollars necessary to buy even the smallest of trinkets on display. I cut out of there a little early, as the boys were talking scrap metal with an armor dealer, and headed up to Madison Avenue, where I could continue the walking and gawking.

I love Madison Avenue. I stopped in a few couture houses where the price of a gown is more than my car and did a bit of salivating. My main destination, though, was La Maison du Chocolat. I sat in their teensy cafe section and had a cup of hot chocolate and a selection of chocolates. The price was exorbitant, but the taste... simply exquisite. The hot chocolate was thick and rich, hot and sweet, dark and spicy - every good combination in one cup. I bought a tiny box of chocolates to go home with me, too.

Once I was fortified, I paid up and continued to hoof it up Madison until about 75th, where I turned left, found Fifth Avenue and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I met the boys there in the gift shop, then we hit the Arms and Armor exhibit. They really can't help themselves. They love that shit. We strolled around, made a few gift shop purchases, and then caught a cab to our restaurant - Churascaria Plataforma. If you, like me, are a carnivore of the highest order, then this is your Nirvana. It was a celebration of roasted meats, of seared outer surfaces with juicy red centers. Delicious. Pricy, yes, but still delicious.

****

American Idol has come on, taking a bunch of time that I previously put to better use and rendering me a slack-jawed, mouth-breathing slave to the giant box. I've discovered over the last year or so that I can go for days without turning the thing on, if left by myself. There's just not much I want to watch.

****

Oh, hey! Speaking of watching things! I watched the whole of the Inauguration, from soup to nuts. Our whole school did, too. We dedicated the day to it. I really liked being able to do it, since I voted for this one, and since it represents such a turning point in our nation's history. Two things, though:

1. Aretha Franklin's unique phrasing of "America, the Beautiful." "My Cunt Tree 'Tis Of Thee" was rather, well, unfortunate. I just shook my head at that and the ginormous gawdy church hat she was sporting.

2. The poet. What. The. Fuck. Is. Up. With. The. Expressionless. Over-enunciated. Recital. Of. A. Fairly. Uninspiring. Frankly. Boring. Poem.? Praise. For. The. Day. When. She. Learns. About. Phrasing. And. Intonation.

Do you know when you dial information and the automated voice comes back with your number? You know the one, where the lady has recorded all the numbers using different inflections and the computer sorts them all out and assigns the inflection relative to the number's position in the strand to make it sound natural and comprehensible? Well, the automated telephone lady sounds more natural than this poet's rendition of her own poem.

****

The scrapbooking has gone pretty well. I've continued to play with my supplies in the basement, but honestly, it's pretty freaking cold down there. I have a space heater turned up to "Bowels of Hell" and it's just rendering it tolerable.

****

Ma Dawgs be illin'. Unfortunately, Slider, my old doggie has suffered a bout of intestinal distress, and has shat copiously all over the kitchen floor. He's been on the rice diet for the past two days, and seems to be recovering nicely. Zippy, the slightly younger and ever-so-much-more-spry doggie, decided not to be outdone in the excrement department, and one-upped his brother in a most spectacular fashion.

See, Trader Joe's makes Candy Cane Joe Joe's (think Oreos with bits of candy cane in the creme) once a year, around Christmas. I love them soooo much that, this year, the WCM went and bought me a case of them, so I would not have to suffer without them at any point in the year. He can be such a sweetheart sometimes.

Anyhow, they are usually kept locked in the basement. A couple of days ago, I found that I had neglected to lock the basement door and a certain little red dog had not only made a trip down there, but had chewed a hole through the side of the cardboard case, gnawed the side off a box of cookies, extracted the plastic tray of 30 Joe Joe's and eaten every single one. He, also, now has the shits.

So, I now have the joy of wiping two corgi bunny-butts every time they come in from outside. I've also mopped the kitchen floor at least 6 times in the last 4 days. I love my dogs, but I'm done with canines. I'm getting a cat the next time the maternal urge hits.

****

I think that's enough for now. Hope y'all feel updated!

I've been cheating...

2009-01-20T20:12:00.002-05:00

I had to make a very uncomfortable phone call yesterday afternoon. I called my husband to tell him that I've been cheating with an old friend, who will be identified here as D.

See, it's been a while for me. I was fine with the lack, but then yesterday, there was D. I was there, D. was there, and the next thing you know, I had D. in my mouth, glorying in the taste and texture. D. was so sweet, that I couldn't stop, and I swallowed him all. I'm not sorry. I'd do it again. I may do it again tomorrow - you just never know.

The WCM wasn't too upset, stating that he, too, loves D. and wouldn't mind breaking off a piece of that himself. However, being a man, he has more restraint. The mind boggled at his attitude, but when he came home, the WCM proceeded to tease me unmercifully about my slip with D.

Oh, Donut. I could never stop loving you.

Exciting Culinary Adventures!

2009-01-14T19:46:00.003-05:00

So, since the New Year began, the WCM has been feeling a scoche pudgy. He decided that he'd like to do the South Beach thing again, and as I am, of course, a nice and thoughtful wife, I decided that I wouldn't tempt him, and would go along with Phase One. Phase One is two weeks of complete carbohydrate deprivation.

They should just call it Phase Hell and dispense with the euphemisms altogether.

So, we started the South Beach Diet on Saturday, figuring that the misery that is the first couple of days of that diet were best accomplished at home, where one could whine and complain of headaches and fatigue without repercussions to one's employment. On Monday, I must admit to not yet being equal to the task of actually teaching and being nice to my students at the same time. One of my aides, a sweet and funny young man, asked me why I felt so crappy, so I told him about my pledge to help my hubby. He replied "So, then, he's on the 'South Beach' diet, and you're on the 'South Bitch' diet, huh?"

Yep. That's about right.

Now, granted, due to my unique digestive situation, I am not doing this diet strictly by the book. I have added lots of fat into it, by using full-fat dairy products and supplementing with the daily Slim Jim (heh heh heh). I also think that, given the sheer volume of sugar that I consumed over the period between Thanksgiving and New Years', the carb/sugar detox period is doing me a lot of good. It doesn't hurt that, since Saturday, I've already lost the 5 pounds that I put on in that extended holiday gorge-fest. It's also forced me to be a bit more creative in my culinary efforts, hence the title of this post.

Tonight, I made Pecan-Encrusted Chicken Bosoms. They were yum-o-licious! Here's the recipe:

4 chicken bosoms, pounded to 3/4 inch thick
1 egg, beaten, for wash
1 c. pecans
1 t. rosemary
1 pinch cayenne
1 clove garlic
salt
pepper
olive oil

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees, and get out a big ol' baking dish. No, bigger than that. Huge.

If you haven't pounded out your chicken yet, get to it. Season it on both sides with salt and pepper.

Haul out your food processor and dump in the pecans, rosemary, cayenne, and garlic. Pulse until it looks finely ground, but still a bit crumbly-looking. Dump it all out on a dinner plate.

Dip your chicken bosoms into the egg wash one by one, and then dredge in the nut mixture. Press firmly to adhere the nuts.

Place in the baking dish and bake for 30 minutes.

Get out the mop and a bucket, because you're gonna be mopping up drool puddles as the aroma wafts about your house!

*~*~*~*~*~*~

I had yet another culinary adventure tonight, as I tried Queso para Frier (cheese for frying, for the Spanish-impaired). This stuff is pretty tasty, if you like relatively rubbery tasteless cheese that manages to be just a bit salty. Being a huge fan of Mozzarella sticks, I am indeed fond of relatively rubbery tasty cheese that manages to be just a bit salty.

You slice this stuff, fry it in a pan with some olive oil - just to coat the bottom, we're not talking deep frying here - and it browns up nicely, but still holds its shape. If I had some Marinara sauce, I'd be ten kinds of happy! It's Mozzarella sticks without the carbs - gotta love that!

Now, if only I had the same kind of inspiration for a South Beach Phase Hell dessert.

Christmas Break Recap

2009-01-05T20:08:00.003-05:00

So my break was pretty nice, all in all.

The first three days were all eventful, with visits and parties and feasting and presents for everyone. It got a little old by the third day, let me tell you. I'm normally a solitude-seeker, and all of that "family togetherness" was starting to get to me. However, since Miss Peanut wanted to go play with her peers at daycare for a couple of mornings, I was able to grab some quietness with the WCM and recharge my batteries a bit.

I scored some good loot from Santa this year: a Wii Fit, which is really all kinds of fun. I deplore exercise in most forms, but have really enjoyed doing Yoga, Balance Games, and a few of the Aerobic Exercises on the Wii Fit. I mean, any time I'm allowed to Hula hoop for aerobics is a fun time in my book.

Together, the WCM and I bought one of those Keurig Coffee Makers - the one cup at a time deals. I like a mild brew, like you can get at Dunkin Donuts, and the WCM likes the kind of java that will chew through your tooth enamel and put hair on your chest. Not being a fan of a hairy chest (on myself that is...), I was thrilled when he agreed to this purchase. We've tried out some of the flavored varieties, a few of the Extra Bold flavors for the WCM, and a light roast for me. It's working!

In other news, during our time together, the WCM and I started cleaning up the basement. This has been on our TO DO list for the last 2 years. I set up my scrapbooking space down there, giving the WCM the impetus to clean up his fossil table/gravel heap. It's almost looking respectable down there! I've already done a bunch of scrapbooking, something I haven't done in about a year (oy, the pictures have piled up...)!

Getting my creative mojo flowing has really made me feel good. I've gotten quite a lift from it - playing with paper, creating havoc and mayhem with my inkpads, it's been eye-opening. It has, however, prevented me from playing much on my computer. Hopefully, I'll find a balance sometime...

yeah, right ;-)

A Very Crappy Christmas to you, too!

2008-12-23T13:30:00.002-05:00

So a friend of mine is going to Barcelona with her fiance over the Christmas break. While there, she told me, she plans to purchase a Caganer.

Or, in the vernacular English, a Shitting Shepherd.

When she told us about this at lunchtime yesterday, one of my colleagues and I exchanged incredulous looks and in unison said "did she just say...?" and, oh, yes she did. Apparently, this is a Catalonian traditional addition to the Nativity Scene - a shepherd taking a crap in the presence of the Holy Family.

I'm... amused by this, now. At first, I wasn't sure how to feel - I mean, I was raised with the Christian traditions, devoid of the Christian religion. We did Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy (although, I'm not too sure that's a Christian one) just to appease both my grandparents and our childhood greed. Who doesn't like presents, right? So the little Pooper by the Manger seemed, well, vaguely sacreligious to me. Then, I considered that Spain is largely a Catholic country, and figured that if they didn't have a problem with it, far be it from me to take issue with the l'il pooter.

Ah, yet another quaint European custom...

Communique from Cookie Central

2008-12-16T21:32:00.002-05:00

Hello everyone! I'm still alive, but I'm baking cookies and not to be disturbed. So far, I've made Fudge Drops (a new recipe, and OMG yummy), Russian Tea Cakes, and Gingerbread People. I've got another couple of batches of yumminess still to go - Chocolate chip, Peanut Butter blossoms, Pretzel Snaps, and Iced Butter Cookies.

Can I just say here that this level of holiday baking is decidedly NOT NORMAL for me, and I'm wondering where it's all coming from psychologically? I've even managed to keep my hands out of the cookies, except for the obligatory Quality Control check from each batch. This is also NOT NORMAL for me.

Hmmmmmmm. Pondering... Could it be? Perhaps?

Sublimation?

The Return of my Bien-Aime

2008-12-09T10:27:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: this is not my real life. I've been reading so much, er, fiction, recently, that I have to have an outlet. This is it - my fiction. Enjoy it or run screaming from your computer screen. Either way, it's better than that pic of Bourdain that I had up here for a couple of weeks...

It has been a while, and we are awkward as we negotiate our encounter. Who is responsible for making the first move? Who is the taker and who is the taken? Questions, second-guesses, the uncertainty begins to set in as no one will move. In the end, it is more than I can bear, and I step up to him, a silent plea in my heart for his response.

The softness of his lips against mine is like balm on my soul. Gently catching and parting, we communicate our desire through their tentative and tender movements. Our eyes are closed as our mouths mesh and meld, blinding us as we slide our eager fingers over one another’s familiar contours.

Mine is the first moan to escape, as my spirit flies free and wild, exulting in the joy of being wanted. His follows soon after, as my hand cups him boldly through his jeans. I topple my bien-aimé back onto the bed with a grin. Shoving up his shirt, I busy my mouth with dropping open-mouthed kisses on his stomach. His sighs as I press my face to his abdomen are sweet to my ears. My fingers slide further up under his shirt to sift through the hair on his chest, raking a flat nipple. Leaving a damp trail, my tongue skims up the ridge of his ribs to toy with that nipple, provoking a stronger response – a groan pulled from his throat is my reward.

Eyes open this time, I straddle his hips and lean in for a blazing kiss. Tongues that were timid earlier are now venturesome, and strain against each other, twisting in the passion now ignited. His mouth is delicious, minty and male, but it is a different taste that I crave today. Gliding my mouth south, pausing to leave my invisible mark here and there, I feel his body jerk as I imprint a soft kiss at the crease where his leg meets his groin, just visible above the low waistband of his jeans. Almost gleeful in anticipation of his reaction, I undo the button and zipper, and smooth my hands down his thighs as I smother my smile low in his stomach.

Ah, my bien-aimé, it is good to have you back.

Christmas Meme

2008-12-08T20:20:00.002-05:00

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Wrapping paper with ribbons unless it's an awkwardly-shaped gift.

2. Real tree or artificial? Real tree.

3. When do you put up the tree? Early to mid - December.

4. When do you take the tree down? As soon as I can get away with it.

5. Do you like eggnog? Yes, but only the non-alcoholic kind.

6. Favorite gift received as a child? None of them stand out, really. I got a bicycle one year.

7. Hardest person to buy for? My stepmother - she's a tricky one.

8. Easiest person to buy for? My stepfather - get him a Border's gift card, and he's a happy fellow.

9. Do you have a nativity scene? Nope. Not Christian. I do Christmas for Santa.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail, when I remember.

11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? Exercise equipment from the WCM.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie? There are lots. I've been watching "The Holiday" recently. I like Miracle on 34th Street, Love Actually - but it's not really Christmas until I've seen Frosty the Snowman.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Black Friday.

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Um, guilty. But it's always in addition to whatever else I'm giving that person, and not as a substitute for a proper gift. Does that make it better?

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Christmas cookies, and whatever my Dad's making for Christmas dinner. The man's an amazing cook.

16. Lights on the tree; colored or white? White

17. Favorite Christmas song? Oh Holy Night - Modern; In Dulce Jubilo - Classical; Dominic the Italian Christmas Donkey - Zany.

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? Stay home.

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer's? yep.

20. Angel on the tree top or a star? Star.

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? The WCM & I exchange one on Christmas Eve. We open the others with Miss Peanut as a family.

23. Favorite ornament theme or color? We're girly in my house - our tree has white lights, pearl garlands, and Victorian doll ornaments.

24. Favorite for Christmas dinner? Whatever my father makes - seriously. Usually, though, it involves some variety of Roast Beef.

25. What do you want for Christmas this year? I have every material thing I could ever want already.

26. Who is most likely to respond to this? Anyone needing blog fodder, like me!

Complimented

2008-12-03T13:12:00.001-05:00

A student of mine just paid me a very nice compliment. She said:

"Madame, you've got mad dress game."

I'm glad I speak teenager.

Have you seen my taste buds?

2008-11-28T20:14:00.002-05:00

They've gone MIA - my taste buds, that is. This cold has knocked them right out of my mouth. I can feel the textures of what I'm eating, but the flavor is gone. Let me tell you, it kind of took the wind out of my Thanksgiving sails.

I'm not loving this holiday, what with all of the sickness and such.

Today, being Black Friday, was a day of conspicuous consumption. I went out and joined the post-festive throng, but I bought fairly modestly. I hit Gymboree when they were still having their 30% off sale, and got a bag brimming with clothes for Miss Peanut for nearly half-price, once I used my 20% coupon. I love a score like that! I have to still find something for my mother and my stepmother, but other than that, I'm all done my shopping. The WCM and I agreed yesterday that we didn't want our gifts wrapped. What's the point of adults giving each other wrapped gifts? It's just a pointless waste of paper and effort. Feh.

But that's all I did today, other than slapping together some turkey sandwiches and smashing them in the George Foreman grill. They would have been fantastic if I could have tasted them...

But, tomorrow? Tomorrow, I take Miss Peanut down to her grandmother's for a sleepover, and the WCM is taking me out to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra! And then? We're going out to dinner at a really neat Brazilian restaurant!

For years, this man has refused to go to any sort of cultural event. See, if you didn't have anything tangible to take away, then it wasn't worth spending money in his opinion. I was raised on what seemed like a never-ending series of cultural events - ballet, opera, museums, shows, recitals, culture, Culture, CULTCHAH!!!! - so it's been a quiet 20 years with the WCM. He's just now gotten around to realizing that sometimes you just don't need any more stuff and can just have a nice experience. Quite a reversal in his thinking.

So please, if you're of the prayerful bent, lift one up that I get my tastebuds back in time for the Brazilian Barbecue? Or swing a chicken for me. Or take the pin out of the voodoo doll's mouth!

Ah, Blessed Wednesday

2008-11-26T09:12:00.003-05:00

It's a lovely quiet Wednesday in my house. There's nobody here but me and my dogs, and we're all vegging contentedly in the bedroom. I have tentative plans to bake some pies later, and possibly put together a pan of brownies and a small pumpkin cheesecake. Today is the warm-up for tomorrow's sybaritic feast.

Yes, I'm going to my brother-in-law's. To his credit, he hasn't poked me even once about the outcome of the Presidential election. This bodes well for our peaceable consumption of roasted fowl tomorrow. Happily, I'm not responsible for cooking the entire dinner - I just have to make dessert and a couple of side dishes - stuffing, green bean casserole, and mashed potatoes. My BIL is doing the turkeys. His job gave him a 13 lb bird, and I got a 21-lb turkey for free at the grocery store. My grocery store (not the lovely one with the Starbucks - I had to give them up because their prices were a scoche to dear for my pocketbook - but the cheapie one with the best deals) has a program that they run around every big holiday where if you spend over a certain amount in a given amount of time, you get a free turkey/ham/whatever is the traditional meat for that holiday. Since I hit the market every week, I spent the right amount and got a free bird! (FREEBIRD!!! HAHAHAhahahahahaha... or not so much...) Since Thanksgiving is all about the leftovers for me, we're cooking both turkeys. We're going to have grilled turkey sandwiches, turkey soup, turkey salad, turkey croquettes, and hot turkey sandwiches in gravy. Mmmmmm, tryptophan coma, here I come!

In other news, I've been sick as a dog for the last 2 days. No fever, but nasty sinuses, no voice to speak of, sore throat, and no appetite due to horrific post-nasal drip. Ew. It was bad enough on Monday for the WCM to actually nurture me! I had picked up Miss Peanut from her after-care, pulled out some beef stew that I'd defrosted that morning, and then come upstairs and laid down on the bed, not intending to sack completely out, but in reality, doing exactly that. When the WCM got home, he not only took my temperature, but went out and bought me medicine, and then, unbidden, made me a cup of lemon-ginger tea with honey. I know, I know, my expectations are ridiculously low if an unexpected cup of tea qualifies as a huge nurturing gesture...

Thankfully, it's been a quiet two sick days, though, because we've had parent-teacher conferences. I had four very quick and painless conferences, and one nightmare one. There's always one parent who wants to blame me for their child's poor performance, but this one? Her son failed spectacularly, with a 32 percent, and she wanted me to justify how I taught vocabulary. Um, 'scuse me? Grab some reality, along with a marker and some index cards and lemme explain about the use of flash cards, lady. Sheesh. When your kid fails because he hasn't turned in over half of the homework assignments or any of the projects that I've assigned, has failed or barely passed four of the five tests I've given, and shows no interest in my subject, my methods of teaching vocabulary are not the issue.

And now, I've decided to get back to the vegging. I'm going to do some online shopping in a bit, and cross everything off my Christmas list. Then, since I'm still in my jammies, I think I'll coddle myself a little and have a nap.

Happy Thanksgiving Eve, y'all!

Meme

2008-11-18T19:44:00.002-05:00

1. When you buy a greetings card are the words or the picture more important to you?
Words.

2. What's your favourite kind of cake?
Cheesecake

3. Do you ever make gifts for people, if so what, or do you buy them?
I've made some - crafty stuff, like cross-stitch or jewelry.

4. What's your favourite holiday - i.e. Christmas?
Halloween

5. Are you going on holiday this year? If so, where?
Spring Break 2009 - Paris & London (chaperoning a school trip, if there are enough students - keep your fingers crossed!!)

6. What was the best party you've ever been to?
Brother-in-law's 50th birthday party - Renaissance theme

7. If you are married, describe your wedding. If not, what would your ideal wedding be like?
Inexpensive and unpretentious was what it was. Ideal, it was not ;-) I was only 19 when I was planning it, though, and I had to pay for it myself. The attendees should consider themselves lucky that they weren't eating Fritos right out of the bag in my mom's back yard.

8. What's the most romantic thing that's ever happened to you?
The WCM's marriage proposal, by far.

9. What's your favourite romantic song?
Slave to Love by Bryan Ferry

10. Which celebrity would you like a dream date with?
Johnny Depp

11. Which female celebrity do you find beautiful?
Angelina Jolie - I told the WCM the other day that I'd go gay for her in a heartbeat. He was intrigued ;-)

12. Which male celebrity do you think is attractive?
Oh, loads - Orlando Bloom, Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, George Clooney... the list goes on and on and on...

13. If you could be a fictional character from a book who would you choose?
Claire Randall Fraser from the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon.

14. If you could be in a television sit-com, which would you choose?
Absolutely Fabulous

15. Which character would you like to be?
Edina Monsoon, of course!

16. What's your favourite girl's name?
my daughter's name

17. What's your favourite boy's name?
Graham

18. What's your supermarket of choice?
Super G

19. What is your best character trait?
Patience

20. What is your worst habit?
Procrastination

Asstacular

2008-11-12T15:43:00.003-05:00

Once upon a time, I had a pilonidal cyst. It was ridiculously uncomfortable, then downright agonizing. I went three rounds with this thing - once in 1988, once in 1996, and once in 1997. I haven't seen or heard from it since. I, of course, got proper medical care for it all three times, including antibiotics and a visit to a surgeon to have the damn thing lanced and packed. This, though, brought back memories

We were all sitting around the kitchen table watching this show one evening when Kelvin laughed and said to his brother "Hey, aren't you glad you don't have to squeeze his butt anymore?"

I was shaking, snorting, and crying with laughter last night while I was reading the whole story.

Ah, good times. Good times.

Not All There

2008-11-09T12:35:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I have days where I'm not quite all there. This is one.

The best way to describe being in my head right now is to imagine yourself in a turbulent ocean, clinging to an inflatable dinghy. You may catch this wave or that, be borne forward a little while, but be sidetracked by another. You also never quite know when one big sneaky wave is going to crash upon you from behind and sweep you under. There are bits of flotsam and jetsam in the water, detritus from the last time I was caught in the undertow. I'm collecting pieces of it now, with the intention of making a fabulously abstract sculptural post with it later on.

Flotsam

A very Happy Birthday to my friend Melanie! Hope the iPod that you got for your birthday is working wonderfully. Mine isn't!!

The WCM and I were trying to get all of my music on my laptop from my iPod. In the end, we had to use floola, and I have the sinking suspicion that it's going to be a lengthy and plodding process of adding each song individually.

Speaking of the WCM, he's outside right now assembling a second-hand behemoth of a swing set for Miss Peanut. It looks like a bitch of a job, and I'm really happy to be a delicate flower who has no appreciable body mass behind her. Since I've become all small and such, the WCM doesn't expect me to be as physical as before. Ironic, really, since there's far less danger now that I'll keel over from exercise-induced hypertension. But then, irony, it is by far the predominant spice in my life.

Ah, yes. Once again with the combining of the physical and the irony - you know that lube? The one I spent so much time and embarrassment picking out? Haven't needed it. Mother Nature has provided.

Well, Mother Nature also provided a visit from my Aunt Flo. Have you seen these new "Always" pads? They look like the next best thing to sliced bread! I don't know about you, but I've never liked tampons. My friend Monica always referred to them as "Peter Cheaters." I've only ever worn them if I've had to go swimming during Aunt Flo's visit. I may be hypersensitive in this particular area, but I can't seem to forget about that thing. I feel it there. DO. NOT. WANT.

Jetsam

One of my coworkers just sent an email telling me (well, and a bunch of other people) that she'd lost her grandmother. I had to send her one back offering my condolences. I still miss my grandmother every damn day.

And I cried when I saw this, because I'm a big sap:

That's Obama and his grandmother, who passed away right before the election.

And the election tension continues at Peevish Place, from many quarters! While I still don't discuss it, the WCM can't seem to let it drop. It's one of the reasons that I've been "frumious" recently. I may be running away for Thanksgiving, since the family I'd be spending it with may behave like the WCM, and needle me with snide republican remarks.

I also recently pissed off a friend by making a comment on his blog - he's a very political guy, and very conservative as well. Let's just say that it upset my personal apple cart when he snapped at me, and I haven't felt quite easy with him since. I probably just shouldn't have commented at all - after all, that strategy serves me pretty well at home.

And home is where I am right now. I should probably clean it up some, but I'm still being inundated with boxes from the after-halloween internet sales. The WCM can't seem to resist the deep discounts on fake skeletons and giant radio-controlled spiders.

Treading Water

In case my dingy gets sunk, I've been reading a bunch recently. It seems to be my escape. It's the end of the marking period, I've got a ton to do, and I don't wanna!

Ok, let me stop procrasturbating and go accomplish some stuff.

Remember, "just keep swimming, just keep swimming!"

Mix carefully

2008-11-05T10:21:00.002-05:00

The thing is, and I've said it before: I'm not a politically-minded person. I've got my issues and I vote with them. I'm happy with the outcome of yesterday's election.

Some in my household and in my circle of family and friends, are not so happy. Yes, I have a "mixed" marriage - the WCM is a Republican, and I am not. I am not one that says that birds of a feather necessarily have to flock together. I am more a variety is the spice of life kind of girl - and I enjoy my life spicy! Too much of the same thing can get bland, you know?

The last six months have been very tense at Peevish Place. I have managed to hold it together by simply refusing to discuss it. The only times I've strayed from that policy have been when directly provoked by the WCM's closest brother - possibly the most ardent Republican I've ever known. Believe me, it took A. LOT. of provocation to pull me out of my cone of silence, politics-wise, but it was what prompted my one and only post about politics. I certainly don't fault the WCM's brother for needling me. I should thank him for it, instead, for it made me look very deeply into the politics of all parties concerned. I found that all of my vague suspicions and intuitions were, actually, right on the money as far as my issues were concerned. So I voted with the full force of my convictions behind me.

This Thanksgiving holiday is going to be an interesting one, to say the least, as, traditionally, I spend it with the WCM's large, loud, Republican family. I daresay I shall be the only one not mooning into my cranberry sauce. It's said that elephants have long memories - I hope they hearken back to how they treated me when they learned of my Democrat status during the 2000 election, for it was not exactly kind.

We mix carefully in my family, but give us some credit - we mix.

Halloween Frightmares

2008-11-02T15:15:00.003-05:00

There has been a lot of talk on the Weight Loss Surgery boards about Halloween Candy and the inherent evils thereof.

Pish posh, say I. And fiddlesticks, to boot.

I mainly roll my eyes at grown women (and to a lesser extent, grown men) who talk about candy like that. If they want to live their lives never tasting the glory of a Reese's cup again, then good for them - all the more for me, I say. What irritates me, though, is when they talk about completely depriving their children of candy. Oh, they say, my child never gets candy at home. We don't have cookies, chips, candy, or soda in the house ever. They have healthy fruit and whole grain snacks. They hear all the time from me how bad sugar is for them and how they should NOT eat it. Pardon me, but Get Real.

That shit gets on my nerves.

I understand the reasoning behind it - these are people that, like me, resorted to drastic measures to curb or cure their obesity. They don't want their children to suffer the same fate, naturally, so they eliminate all temptation from their homes. I get that, and I applaud the sentiment behind it. I don't want my Miss Peanut to have to cut out the majority of her stomach and reroute her guts, either.

That shit still gets on my nerves, because I want to scream at them that it won't work! Behavioral extremes rarely work. I should know - I grew up in a house like that. Sweets were rare - my tall, slender stepmother grew up constantly surrounded by them, and was a little chubby as a child. I've seen pictures - she was cute, and not at all heavy. Her family were what I call "pushers," though. If you didn't take seconds, you had to be feeling bad. You were sick, obviously, because you didn't want any more of the good food available. So my stepmother was probably a couple of pounds over where she should have been as a child. She was nowhere near obese. She, however, felt fat and phobic, so as a result, our sweets were severely limited. The only time we had cake, ice cream, or soda in the house was when it was somebody's birthday or a holiday. Even then, soda was rare. Cookies were limited to one a day, for dessert, after dinner. Halloween candy was severely rationed, and usually pitched by Christmastime, as it got old before we could eat it. Because I am a perverse creature by nature, I naturally rebelled, and ate all of the forbidden foods I could once I was able to purchase my own. Yeah, I developed "issues."

It didn't help that my mother, who was a stunningly beautiful woman, started telling me I was fat when I was seven years old. I have pictures. I wasn't fat. I was growing, and I'm built solid, like my father's family. My mother, raven-haired, ivory-skinned, fine-boned, and petite, was a delicate fairy to my sturdy gnome. I'm afraid I was a constant disappointment to her, rounded where she expected me to be slim, quiet when she expected me to be vivacious, clumsy where she expected me to be graceful. Our relationship has never really been mother-daughter, as my stepmother did the majority of the childrearing that I received. Even so, my mother's disappointment only reinforced my issues - even though I looked normal, because I wasn't slender, but instead sturdily built, I was fat.

So now that I have a daughter of my own, a normal-weight daughter, mind you, I am very careful not to forbid the candy and not to push it, either. I want her to learn how to live with it, and not to have to ban it from the house just to feel safe from it. I want her to know about moderation, and that no food is bad or good, but is all part of a balancing game that we play every day called "Healthy Nutrition." My daughter is all but a clone of me as a child - she's got the same big bones and chunky muscles that I had as a little girl. She's not a waif, and she'll never be a ballerina, but she will be healthy. She will have a positive body image. And as the Flying Spaghetti Monster is my witness, she will be allowed to eat her Halloween candy, as part of a balanced, healthy, realistic diet.

Just not before I've mined all the Reese's cups out of it. Motherhood has its privileges.

Delving deeply into TMI territory

2008-10-29T20:52:00.005-04:00

Ok, so here's the thing: apparently, as women age, certain areas of our bodies become, well, slightly less tropical, to not put too fine a point on it. Things are becoming a bit more arid in some of my regions. As a matter of fact, the WCM noted upon his last foray into the bush, that there was some danger of a brush fire. I did, in fact, feel the effects of this relative drought, later that evening, as the friction involved during his expedition left the area rather, ahem, scorched.

Upon realizing that the situation was, in fact, dire, I resolved upon the spot to find a solution to this problem. If there is to be a raging inferno in my loins, I'd rather it be the kind that leads to mind-numbing, bone-melting orgasms, and not to walking spraddle-legged and saddle-sore later. So I girded the aforementioned loins and decided on a sortie to Target - specifically, to the "feminine products" aisle.

My mission of finding lubrication became much more complicated than I had orginally anticipated. I had no idea of the scope of the product. Did I want a regular bottle of clear liquid or did I want a can of lubricating mousse? Or, perhaps, a mist application? Did I want a scent? And if so, did I want it fruity, flowery, or something entirely different? Did I want one large bottle, or did I want an assortment of smaller bottles, each with a different property? Oh, and speaking of properties, did I want it to warm me, cool me, soothe me, or make me tingle? Then, there is the brand issue - would one be considered the Ultimate Cheapskate if one purchased store-brand lube, as opposed to a brand name? We are in a recession, after all. Where, exactly, does one draw the line, if there is indeed a line to be drawn in such matters?

In the end, after spending ten minutes blushing and tittering in the aisle, I purchased a variety pack of individual packets - some warming, some tingling, some soothing, and two fruity flavored ones. That should make for some interesting moments, eh?

An intriguing culinary experiment

2008-10-28T20:54:00.003-04:00

So I was browsing about the internet the other day, and I came across this site. It proposed the most intriguing combination of flavors I'd yet explored - a Bacon Cinnamon Roll.

Well, today, just for kicks, I tried putting these suckers together. I only needed 5 strips of bacon, so with the rest, I made Pig Candy.

I experimented a bit, and I microwaved the bacon to partially cook it before I rolled it into the pre-made cinnamon rolls. I followed the baking time suggested on the can, salivating all the time at the aroma wafting around the kitchen. I don't know who was worse, me or the dogs, but the mop has to come out in a minute to take care of the drool puddles.

Well, the result was somewhat disappointing: the pastry was delish, but the bacon was still undercooked, despite partially cooking it in the microwave first.

The pig candy, though, was exquisite.

Ah, well, I'm chalking this one up to a lesson learned.

I lied...

2008-10-27T21:29:00.002-04:00

So, I lied about only having one vice. I have another.

Kissing.

I love the moment just before our lips meet, the quiet anticipation hanging still in the air. The softness of his mouth, tender and gentle on mine, is smooth as balm and warm as brandy. The soft silk of his inner lip as I swipe it teases my tongue, and I swallow the murmur of pleasure he makes. My nerve endings burn and tingle as he glides his mouth along my jaw, tracing a feather-light touch on my skin. The subtle scrape of teeth on my neck hardens my nipples and raises gooseflesh on my thighs. I surrender to my love and close my eyes completely, a blind slave to sensation.

As our kisses grow hotter, our tongues get bolder, tangling and writhing against one another as our bodies strain beneath our clothes. Our mouths, once soft, harden and thrust against one another. His hands mold my flesh and his arms pull me close, even as he tips my head back with the force of his embrace. A hand in my hair tugs my head further back, and I capture his lower lip between my teeth, gently trapping him to me as he pulls me away. Giving himself to me completely, he nuzzles my face, kissing around my mouth, tantalizing and teasing. Delicious.

Kissing is passion and tenderness, dominance and surrender, carnal and cerebral. It is the beginning and the ending, the pure and impure expression of love.

Mmmmm.

Everybody's got one

2008-10-25T16:32:00.002-04:00

Vices, that is. Everybody's got at least one, and mine's food.

Still.

I suppose it could be worse, though. I don't smoke, I don't take drugs, and I rarely drink. What else is left, really?

So, yesterday, I took Miss Peanut to her Nana's house for the weekend. I asked the WCM if he'd like to, perhaps, be a grown-up with me and go do some fun stuff. You know, just the two of us. After he'd finished with the Groucho Marx eyebrows, he told me to find some stuff to do.

I came up with going on a trip into nearby Philadelphia - hitting Tony Luke's for lunch and doing either the Italian Market or the Reading Terminal Market for some interesting afternoon shopping. I'd also found a Dracula Festival, but the WCM put the kibosh on that, for whatever odd reason.

After our Saturday Morning Trader Joe's expedition, we unloaded quickly, then set off for Tony Luke's. If you've never been there before, you really need to go and get a Roast Pork Italian. Their cheesesteak is good, but honestly? Don't even waste your stomach space if you can get the Roast Pork Italian. You've got juicy sliced roast pork, liberally seasoned with salt and pepper, sharp provolone cheese, and garlicky broccoli rabe all nestled in a soft italian roll. Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

I nearly orgasmed after the first bite.

The WCM got the cheesesteak. He thought it was tasty, so after I'd finished about a third of my sandwich, I offered to trade. I ate what amounted to a quarter of his cheesesteak before my stomach told me to stop. It was good, but the Roast Pork was better. Seriously - if you get the chance to have one of these, you should.

The Reading Terminal Market - a foodie mecca. They had all kinds of cuisine, including my very favorite place in the world: Termini Brother's bakery. I love Termini's for the cannoli. They make, quite literally, the most mouth-watering cannoli that it has ever been my privilege to taste. My stepmother used to work in Center City, so every now and then, she'd stop into the market and pick up a couple of cannoli to bring home. Ah, memories... I got eight, had them box up six, and then the WCM and I ate the other two right on the spot. My God, but they are good.

We also scored an incredible stuffed pork roast - a gorgeous pork loin butterflied, then stuffed with spinach, provolone, roasted red pepper, and mild italian sausage. I'm going to roast that sucker tomorrow and serve it with some asparagus and some roasted garlic mashed potatoes. At another butcher's stall, we found some incredible-looking sausages: I got a pound each of Luganega, Sage Breakfast Sausage, and a Pork Broccoli Rabe sausage. I'm so ready for dinner this week!!! I found avocadoes for fifty cents apiece, too. Looks like there's guacamole in my near future. I bought a small container of organic raw milk, just for fun and botulism, from one of the Amish stands.

We tootled off down the road after grabbing some coffee, just in time to wonder what's for dinner.

Yeah, I've got a vice. And it's a tasty one!

Feeding my addiction, plus a PSA

2008-10-20T22:09:00.006-04:00

So, a couple of weeks ago, I went to Melting Mama's site, where she was having a contest. The only thing you had to do to enter was to tell her how you liked your coffee. Since I'm a caffiend, and extremely free with my opinions, I told her all about how I liked my coffee.

Well, I won! She sent me a canister of Click, a coffee-flavored protein powder. Vanna White, eat your heart out.

Being a former Starbuck's 'ho and a current Dunkin Donuts regular, I was all over this. Please note the appliance closest to the canister.

Now, I just started having protein shakes recently, since I prefer to chew my calories. However, whenever I feel like something sweet, my Banana Scream shake (made with ice and half&half in the blender) is a bit healthier for me than the Oreos I'm likely to reach for instead. I've been curious about this Click stuff ever since Melting Mama started talking about it. Well, it arrived in my mail today, so I got busy with the blender!

I started out with about 2 cups of crushed ice, and wound up with about that same amount of half and half. Now, see, I know that most people are not going to use half & half with which to make a "healthy" protein shake. With my surgery, though, I won't absorb 80% of the fat I eat, so I make my shakes with half & half so I get enough fat in my diet. Wild, eh? My cholesterol at last check was 90. Ninety. Unreal. Anyway... I used 4 scoops of Click (30 g protein in all) and 2 scoops of UpCal D (Calcium Citrate with Vitamin D), then blended the stuff until it was all nice and shakey. Putting it into a rinsed-out Dunkin Donuts cup is key to my enjoyment - I'm passing for "normal" here! Nobody knows I'm drinking something good for me!

Holy Noms, Batman! The stuff tastes every bit as good as an Arby's Jamocha shake!

I'm giving Click a big thumbs up! Thanks Melting Mama!!

Never say I don't honor requests...

2008-10-19T19:37:00.004-04:00

So a very lovely friend of mine emailed me and told me that she's tired of seeing Bourdain's puss on here when she visits, and could I please post something to push him further down on the page. Well, it was really about time, I s'pose, so here's a little something to shove him on down.

I went to a reunion yesterday. It has been 20 years since I graduated from high school. Twenty years. It's funny how those years seem like a lifetime, yet also like the blink of an eye. Some of my classmates are barely touched by those years, and others have been transfigured. Some things and people, though, haven't changed a bit.

One of my friends, perhaps the only one with whom I've tried to keep in contact, hasn't changed one iota. He's still the same quirky, funny, perceptive guy he always was. Possessed of a genuinely kind heart and married to a positively saintly woman, he let me tag along with him last night. See, my high school experience pretty much peaked in my freshman year. It was all downhill from there for me, with my senior year being, well, Hell with all its requisite emotional torment. I don't know how much he knows this, but he pretty much kept me afloat that year.

It was nice to see everyone again, and humbling to realize what a small life I've led in comparison to some. I've never lived outside the boundaries of my very small state. I've traveled fairly little in my 38 years. I got married extremely young, thereby de facto abdicating my independence and all the opportunities it could have brought. Don't get me wrong - I certainly could have done worse! But I had a wee bit of envy last night, chatting with my former classmates and catching up on what's they've been up to for the last two decades.

While I chatted, though, I realized something about that envy. It really was only a wee bit. Over the last year, I've grown into myself some. I'm comfortable, even happy at times, with who I am and what I've accomplished. And while I've led a fairly small life, it's been a rich and rewarding life. It's a life of relative contentment.

I got home really late, and found my household asleep. The WCM woke up a bit for me, snuggled me in tight to his nice solid warmth, and asked me if I'd had a good time. And you know what? It hit me then, that, yes, I had. I genuinely did have a good time. I might do it again, too, and not wait for another 20 years.

Oh so wrong, but...

2008-10-07T22:04:00.002-04:00

Do you know that of all of the Food Network "personalities" out there, I find Anthony Bourdain the most repellent? I think he's an arrogant douchebag and wouldn't want to waste any time on him.

That said...

Just exactly how fucking wrong is it that this picture of him makes me want to get down on my knees and do dirty, dirty things with him?

Pretty fucking wrong, that's how wrong.

But I'd bet it would be oh so good...

A Toast - to Kicking Obesity's Ass

2008-10-05T20:33:00.003-04:00

Ok, so all of you who are heartily sick of hearing me prattle endlessly about once being fat and then becoming unfat through the rather amazing Duodenal Switch surgery can just hit your back button now. Of course, you'll miss hearing about some really great bonding, a few personal triumphs, and the pseudo recipe for a truly incredible Martini. And also? My first experience with being a stalker.

Oh, still with me? Excellent.

The day started off pretty well - driving out to Conshohocken on the Blue Route, I recognized my friend Shari's car, and nearly scared her off the road by beeping and waving like a maniac. Because I'm related to Sammy Hagar (no, I'm not, really), I passed her and led her to the hotel where the Obesity Help conference was taking place. Having originally been dubious about the usefulness of a conference that was pitched to the mainly RNY crowd, I'd decided to go check it out, check out the vendors, and, failing any useful activity, hang out in the hotel bar with mah peeps. I was expecting to see my girl Shari, of course, plus my girl Sharon, my man Tom, and the amazing Melting Mama and Eggface.

The vendors turned out to be a bit of a disappointment - they'd had some no-shows and some pull-outs, so there were precious few freebies. But, I soldiered on, resolute. First thrill of the day? Melting Mama recognized me! "Peevish!" she said. Holy crap! thought I. But I managed to converse without sounding stupid. There's Personal Triumph Number 1. Then, I found that Tom had scored us a table in the back corner. The OH people had put out little goodie bags, with a folder, pen, and two bags of Kay's Naturals Protein Snacks. We busted out the protein chips and started sampling. Not bad. I also saw that two more of my peeps had arrived - Hedy and Heather.

Here's Hedy and me outside the conference.

Sharon had just arrived when they started the official introductions. The nice coordinator lady, Joanna, introduced our speakers: a well known plastic surgeon (who showed us some saggy nakey pics of the now nipped and tucked formerly obese), the "motivational speakers," the people I came to see (i.e., Beth & Michelle), and a bariatric surgeon who did "all the surgeries: RNY, Lap Band, and Revisions." Sharon & I exchanged a glance, and I just knew we'd be having a nice little "chat" with that particular surgeon later... We sneaked out a little early, because I couldn't take any more nakey pictures with boxy boobies, under the pretense of getting more coffee and had a nice girly hug and chat. You know, sometimes, when you meet someone and you just *click*? Well, that was Sharon. To quote my friend Shari, "Sharon's cool as ballz."

We made it back to the conference hall just before Beth & Michelle started their cooking demonstration. When we were walking through the room to get to our table, I noticed how small Sharon and I were compared to the rest of the attendees. At that point, Sharon turned around and said "Is it wrong of me to feel good..." and I knew she'd totally had the same thought. Nothing like shared schadenfreude. Beth gave a shout out to the DSers in the room - we hooted and hollered like baboons, except for Tom. Tom was an oasis of sanity (and testosterone) in our crazed midst. Tom also brought snacks. If anyone hinted at hunger, Tom hit them with his nuts - chili-lime Cashews or Trail mix from Trader Joe's. Nobody goes hungry when Tom's around, dammit. After the cooking demo, though, even Tom's nuts weren't hitting the spot. Spurred on by hunger, Sharon, Hedy, and I sallied forth to scout out something edible. It was then that we saw the Bariatric Surgeon from earlier.

Did I say we were like baboons earlier? Because at that point, with a glance and a raised eyebrow, we shifted species and changed from baboons to predatory lionesses as we went to beard this lion(ess) in her den. The poor woman never stood a chance, as she was stuck between two tables, and Sharon, Hedy, and I formed an impenetrable wall of DS might in front of her. I believe I may have fired the opening salvo by asking if she'd ever consider doing the DS. To her credit, she did not diss the surgery one bit, and merely stated that it was the next level up in technical difficulty from the RNY, and that she wasn't ready to start it yet. She seemed startled when I revealed to her that we three were all DSers, blurting out "and you're three of the thinnest people here!" Hello, personal triumph number 2.

After winding up our ~~kill~~ chat, we ~~wiped the blood from our mouths~~ split up to ~~hunt solo~~ accomplish some things: like visit the potty. There was, of course, the inevitable line. Having consumed about 3 large cups of coffee at this point, trying to scout out another potty was out. of. the. question. Sharon, meanwhile, having been fed up, or rather not fed up, ran across the street to Wawa and scored us some tubs of pepperoni & cheese. LOVE HER!!

The first of the motivational speakers came on, with a powerpoint that would do any seventh grader proud. Sharon, Hedy, and I made it through about 5 minutes of that lady before we had to bail. Back out we went and decided to check out the plastic surgeons giving consults. Hedy signed up for an appointment, and Sharon, Heather, and I decided to crash it. By this time, Beth & Michelle were out in the hall giving out samples. Beth had brought some awesome chewable vitamin samples from Celebrate. I'll vouch for them: they were delish! The cocoa flavored calcium? Nom nom nom. And also? Samples of the new sweetener Truvia, being offered by Coca Cola. Not bad at all.

'Cuz DSers loooove salad - NOT!

We hovered a bit around the banquet tables while they were putting out the food - very healthy fare: deli meats and cheeses, a selection of breads, grilled chicken breast, grilled vegetables, and salad. There was fruit and a teensy pudding parfait for dinner. I'd heard it was sugar-free, so I passed on it. Tom, however, got one. I think the expression on his face says it all.

The general concensus on that pudding parfait was not only did it taste like ass, but most of us had had ass that tasted better, and it had a nasty aftertaste, which we dubbed the "asstertaste."

The plastic surgery consult was next, and it was hilarious. While we were waiting, we showed each other, as well as several perfect strangers, our scars. I bared my scarred-up, stretch-mark-blasted midsection for the camera even. Yeah, say it with me "sex-ay!"

Baring my gut to perfect strangers! Shameless hussy!

The surgeon was so nice and patient with all of our questions, that I gave him all of my information, and will even call my insurance company to see what, if anything, they'll cover.

At that point, we gave up on the conference and hit the bar for the most perfect martinis ever.

Sharon (Cosmo), Hedy (Chocolate Martini), and me (Naples Martini)

I had a Naples Martini, which was Stoli Razz, Limoncello, lime juice, and simple syrup all shaken up and served in a chilled glass. I believe there were two of them during that afternoon... *hic* Shari and Ray found us there, as did Beth a little later.

Sharon, Shari, Beth, me

We all headed back to catch the end of the conference, when they were giving away the door prizes. Sharon and I got no joy, but Shari ended up with a toaster, that I traded away for a jar of chocolate PB2. Sharon and Shari took off for home, but since I had nobody at home to worry about, I hung around and chatted with a couple of Delaware people that were waiting in the lobby.

It was then that I experienced Personal Triumph Number 3: while chatting with Hambear, a lovely lower Delawarean, another older lady approached me and said "Do you mind if I ask you, I've been wanting to ask you since I saw you this morning, did you have weight loss surgery?" Well, damn if that didn't about blow my mind. Then, once she'd received my affirmative, she asked if I'd had plastics. She just shook her head in disbelief when I told her no. I took that opportunity to "Pay It Forward," and told her all about the DS.

At that point, I pretty much attached myself to Beth and became her personal stalker for the evening, trailing her to the bar (where I said "buongiorno" to Naples Martini Number 3), her hotel room (total stalker!) and then to dinner. I called it a night at about 9:30 and headed down the Blue Route to home.

Overall, I'm sad that there weren't more vendors - they had a captivated and eager audience they really missed out on capitalizing upon - but thrilled beyond belief with the opportunity I had to meet and connect with others who've lived this same experience.

Here's to kicking Obesity's Great Big Ass. To your health!

Meme

2008-10-01T22:06:00.002-04:00

You can only type ONE Word! Not as easy as you might think.
Now change the answers to suit you and repost it in your journal.Remember-- only ONE word!

1. Where is your cell phone? Charging
2. Where is your significant other? Lounging
3. Your hair? Dark
4. Your mother? Self-absorbed
5. Your father? Erudite
7. what was your dream last night? Confusing
8. Your dream/goal? Love
9. The room you're in? Bedroom
10. Your hobby? Defunct
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Chair
13. Where were you last night? Home
14. What you're not? Republican
15. Favorite person? Loads
16. One of your wish list items? Maid
17. Where you grew up? Here
18. The last thing you did? Pee
19. What are you wearing? Jammies
20. Your TV? Ginormous
21. Your pet? old
22. Your computer? Pink
24. Your mood? Cynical
25. Missing someone? Yes
26. Your car? Spacepod!
27. Something you're not wearing? Underwear!
28. Favorite store? AnnTaylorLOFT
29. Your summer? Lazy
30 Love someone? yes
31. Your favorite color? Emerald
32. When is the last time you laughed? today
33. Last time you cried? Onions
34. Who will repost this? Somebody
35. One word to best describe yourself? Nurturing

Thanks to my friend Melanie for this one.

The idea of a bath

2008-09-28T18:50:00.003-04:00

You know, I don't really enjoy taking bubble baths. I enjoy a shower more. But I really like the idea of bubble baths - the hedonistic pleasure of soaking in warmth, unable to accomplish anything much beyond rendering one's skin pruny. I love the scents of bath products, the colors of the gels, and the density of the perfumed foam floating on the surface of the water.

Usually, I approach the tub with an open mind, filling it with hot water and bath salts. Sometimes, I try a bath bomb - sandy scented spheres that fizz in contact with the water and release their aromas on the steam to float about the room. Other times, I am content with a generous squeeze of bubbling bath gel.

I slip in, wincing at the heat of the water, gingerly lowering myself into the scalding liquid. I savor the first few minutes of complete warmth, as I am usually cold. Settling into a quiescent recumbent posture to calm the waves that lap at my thighs, I let the water settle all about me. I scoop ambrosial bubbles to mound upon my breasts. And then? Nothing. Boredom.

I've tried reading in the tub, but I've ruined more books that way than I care to divulge. Washing, of course, ruins the bubbles, and really isn't the point of a bubble bath. Music in the background will either lull me to sleep or make me want to dance. The bath isn't conducive to either of these activities. A glass of wine? Snoozefest. But still, the idea remains.

Maybe someday I'll find the secret to enjoying a bath. For now, it's just a fragrant waste of time.

Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life, Uncovered

2008-09-25T11:09:00.003-04:00

Ok, so follow along:

* irritability and mild depression suddenly descend,
* concurrent ingestion of sweet & salty foodstuffs increases,
* disdain for my spouse multiplies exponentially with every breath he takes,
* overnight (and I mean literally overnight) five-pound weight gain, and
* major intense case of accelerated sex drive... (yeah, TMI, but still germane)

I am an idiot. PMS. Duh.

You'll want some cheese with this w(h)ine...

2008-09-24T15:26:00.004-04:00

So recently, I've started to feel a little blue, a little melancholy, a little down. I've had the urge to shut myself off a bit, to close people out, to retreat into my shell, not unlike the astrological crab that represents me. It's a defense mechanism, this withdrawal, to use that hard shell while I recover from my wounds.

It's no one person that's hurt me, it's no single event. It's nothing I can pinpoint, except a vague feeling of dissatisfaction with almost every aspect of my life. My job is major-league stressful, even though I love my students. The WCM is a nagging thorn in my side, for whom I can do nothing right. My house is a wreck and I hate cleaning. I've been rushed off my feet every day for the last three weeks, spending hours after school just keeping current with grading, yet I'm still responsible for everything at home, from Miss Peanut's homework, to scrubbing the toilets.

I need a break. I want to rest. I can't take all of this whirling about any more. I want somebody to do something for me for a change, without asking for or expecting recompense, instead of having to take care of all and sundry.

That's not likely, given who I married and the nature of my employment. So, I'm just going to cocoon a while, pull back and watch the world go by for a bit, until I feel like myself again.

Bits and Pieces

2008-09-20T22:53:00.004-04:00

Because my mind is working in fits and starts these days - divided among school, family, friends, and hobbies, and not necessarily in that order - I offer you these bits and pieces of cognitive detritus. Do with them what you will.
*

So far, I've heard loads of funnies in the hallways of my high school. One girl was chatting cattily with a friend about another girl when I happened to be within earshot, and I overheard the truly priceless description of "she thinks she's Queen Shit on Turd Island." Well, that was worth a giggle - and not a detention - that day.

Another student's parting shot as he sailed out of school for the day was "I'm OUT, like titties at a strip club."

***

Cake has gone stale in my house. I baked one on Wednesday night, because I was trying out a cupcake recipe for a new colleague's birthday (more on that later) and only needed to make 6 cupcakes. I poured the rest of the batter in a smallish square pan (8x8, if you must know) and baked it. After I was done working cupcake magic, I frosted the cake (chocolate! even!) thickly with the rest of the (chocolate! again!) frosting. Nobody, including me, has touched it.

There is a half-gallon of ice cream - Edy's Loaded Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup - that has been in the fridge for 2 weeks, similarly untouched.

The WCM bought a tub of scrumptious coconut macaroons at Trader Joe's a week ago, and aside from the obligatory one-macaroon sample - necessary to declare them scrumptious - they are still sitting in their clear plastic tub on the counter.

WTF? I am perplexed, yet not particularly hungry. Maybe that's why I'm sitting at a new record low weight for me. It makes me nervous and more than a little insecure, body-image-wise. But, hey - I know that if I'm too nervous about it, I certainly know how to make the number on the scale move UP.

*****

My legs hurt - pleasantly so, though - from some fairly athletic and bendy canoodling I was doing the other day. Ha ha! I canoodled! I am smug with my canoodling! And also yoga.

*******

Those cupcakes I was talking about? Deeeeelicious. This is what I did - I baked 6 chocolate cupcakes. Then, I popped them out of the silicone liners. After that, I cut the tops off ("Off with their heads!" - I am a French teacher, after all). Following that, I cut the bottoms off and replaced them in the silicone muffin cups. I put four of the lovely middles ~~into my mouth~~ in the freezer. I then softened a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and layered some over each of the cupcake bottoms. I replaced the tops and froze these mini ice-cream cakes until they were solid. Once they were solid, I frosted them, and put them back into the freezer. They were yummy. Very yummy. And appreciated by my whole department. All 6 of us.

*********

And that's all I have to show for my last 2 weeks of toil and travail. Perhaps y'all did better.

In which I dabble in political thinking - Part One

2008-09-07T12:00:00.009-04:00

I'm not a politically-minded person. I have my issues and they figure heavily into how I vote. That's pretty much how I've always been. There are those people who can effortlessly keep track of candidates' voting records, their attendance at the Capitol, and their - sometimes waffling - opinions in all things. I can't. I'm not that left-brained. I'm certainly left-leaning, though.

The current political choice in front of me makes me want to scream in abject frustration. I really don't care for any of my choices, and, like Oliver Twist, want to line up a the ballot asking plaintively "Please, sir, may I have some more?" I'm just not enamored of any of them.

Here is what I want in a candidate - someone who is honest and genuine; someone that I consider to be more intelligent than I am; someone with some governmental experience; someone who supports teachers and education; someone who acts with the best interests of America's children in mind; someone who won't tell me what I can or can't do with my own body; someone who will keep my nation from being attacked, and also won't go attacking other nations without direct provocation; someone with a viable plan to pull us out of the recession that Republicans swear we're not in; someone who won't cave to the interests of Big Business and the Wealthy while the middle class and the poor suffer; and someone who will protect our natural resources and wildlife, preserving the beauty in every sector of the vastly differing landscape of this enormous country. Did you follow all of that? I want a lot, I know.

McCain, someone I feel great respect for as a person and a true American Hero, is not who I want governing my country. He's spent nearly 27 years inside the Washington Beltway, yet still wants to call himself a Maverick. Eighty-eight percent of his votes have been in agreement with the current administration. He's voted for the No Child Left Behind testing program, yet has also voted to undercut the proposed funding for this program. He has voted against funding teacher training and other programs aimed at bettering instruction for our children. In a move that blew my mind, he also voted against funding the Head Start program, one that benefits poor children nation-wide. That move, to me, seems at odds with his staunchly pro-life voting record. I would think that someone who cared so much about unborn children would care equally about them once they're born. I guess not, since he also voted against legislation that would expand funding for the State Children's Health Insurance Plan. He did, however, vote for legislation that would ensure an unborn fetus for medical care, but NOT THE MOTHER of that fetus. Apparently, to McCain, once you're born, you're on your own.

McCain's Anti-Choice voting record is extensive. Not only does he oppose a woman's right to choose, he has voted against legislation that would provide information on contraception, in favor of abstinence only programs. He has stated his opposition to Roe v. Wade numerous times, and has voted against legislation aimed at keeping Family Planning Clinics in operation.* He cosponsored the Federal Abortion Ban, a bill aimed at criminalizing some abortion services without regard to the health of the mother. Read the information for yourself. It's a matter of public record, and it's waaaaay to lengthy for me to go into here.

McCain's military service was distinguished and his conduct admirable. Just looking at the list of some of the medals on his uniform will tell you that - Purple Heart, Silver Star, Legion of Merit, Distinguished Flying Cross. They don't hand those babies out in a box of crackerjacks, let me tell you. I'll grant you, he might know what he's talking about when it comes to keeping our nation safe. I can't help that I've opposed the Iraq war since it was being discussed in the news as a possibility. I can't help, also, being lukewarm toward a candidate that voted time and time again against setting a timetable for withdrawal from Iraq.

As for the budget plan, two different sets of experts have reviewed both McCain's and Obama's plans, and have pronounced them both inadequate. However, they said that McCain's plan would be more costly to the middle class - hey, that's me! McCain also declared that anyone making $5 million or less to be middle class. Five million? Really? Damn! I know that inflation's a bitch, but come on! That's just a warped perspective, fiscally speaking. I can't see how that kind of thinking's going to pull us out of this putative recession. And just how many houses do you own, Senator McCain? Seven? Wow.

And now for something positive: McCain has an outstanding record on environmental issues. He has voted consistently to protect and preserve our natural resources. His running mate, however... well, that's a different rant for a different day.

All in all, John McCain is the kind of man that I'd love to sit down with over a cup of coffee. However, I wouldn't want him in charge of my body or my bank account. Luckily, I'm not deciding to marry the man - I'm deciding not to vote for him, instead.

***

*For those of you thinking that Family Planning Clinic is a euphemism for Abortion Clinic, you're incorrect. I went to a Family Planning Clinic for years when I was in college and grad school, because the cost of going to a proper gynecologist without extensive health insurance is outrageous, as are the prescription costs of the pill. Without those clinics, I'd have had to rely on condoms or abstinence, which, given the fact that I was married for 4 of those 6 years, is unrealistic. I got regular check-ups, pap smears, and birth control, and that's it.

I scream for ice cream

2008-09-01T18:24:00.002-04:00

I've just been told to stop fellating my ice cream cone.

I can't help it, though! Ice cream is such a sensual treat for the mouth - creamy, unctuous, smooth - that I just enjoy it a shade too much. I can't help it that my eyes slowly close in ecstasy when I lick the ice cream from base to tip. Flattening my tongue and laving it around the base - better to stop the drips, see - leaves it covered in sweetness. When I close my lips around the tip of my cone, I get a mouthful of delicious cream. What a reward!

Man, I love me some ice cream.

The Omnivore's Hundred

2008-08-26T19:38:00.004-04:00

Ok, so I love to eat. Even with a stomach whose capacity has been forcibly and greatly reduced, I still love to eat. I believe I have documented my love of flavor right here on this very blog. So, the sheer magnitude of bold items on the following list should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me. I left the Wiki links in so you could unlock the mysteries around some of these foods.

Here’s the deal:

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.

The Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. ~~Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper~~
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. ~~Whole insects~~
43. ~~Phaal~~
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. ~~Fugu~~
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. ~~Kaolin~~
64. Currywurst
65. ~~Durian~~
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Thanks to Elastic Waist and to Very Good Taste for the list! It's no small wonder I weighed 300 pounds!

Latest news from DS Land

2008-08-21T22:49:00.002-04:00

This just in - the fucking vampires went after my inner arm again and withdrew 15 vials of blood for lab tests. In a couple of weeks, I should know if I'm deficient in any important vitamins and minerals. I have a bruise the size of a nickel where the phlebotomist punctured my vein - he was rough with me, after I asked him to be gentle. I hate when that happens.

After waffling for half a year over who I was going to have replace my surgeon for follow up care - the guy moved to Florida, for crying out loud! - I've decided not to go with the more local surgeon and to stay with the NYC practice that my surgeon used to lead. After speaking with some of his patients, I deduced that the local guy and his nutritionists are still on the low end of the DS learning curve, as far as post-op care goes. I don't have time to educate a nutritionist on the vastly different vitamin and nutritional needs of a Duodenal Switch patient, as compared to a standard Roux-en-Y Gastric Bypass patient (think Carnie Wilson or Al Roker). Judging from the comments I heard, the local guy's patients are constantly educating their nutritionists. An added benefit is that I can schedule my appointments to visit my NYC peeps.

I'll be going up to New York again this weekend to hang out with my girl Crystal and one of the OH DS board "celebrities," Miss LeaAnn and her husband. There's going to be a huge group of us going out to lunch on Saturday - this should be a hell of a party! It's kind of bad timing for me, since school starts for me and Miss Peanut on Monday, so I'm coming back Saturday night or Sunday morning. I've got a hella busy day tomorrow, finishing up my classroom and getting my syllabi together (I'm teaching 4 preps again this year - ugh!), but I've been at school bright and early every day this week, staying until at least 5 pm every day, so I should be in good shape.

So, the news from DS Land is good and hopeful. I look and feel healthy, and hope that my bloodwork confirms that.

"She is tolerable, I suppose..."

2008-08-18T21:34:00.003-04:00

Take the Quiz here!

From Alison.

I've read all but one of Jane Austen's books - Northanger Abbey. I've been saving that one forever, because once I read it, there will be no more Austen left for me to read. And that, dear readers, would be a tragedy.

Having read all but one book, I have to say that the quiz is easily manipulated. You could be any heroine you wanted if you thought too hard about your answers. I tried to answer honestly, and I got my favorite heroine. The General gave me a copy of Pride and Prejudice when I was eleven years old and at the end of my juvenile library. I was almost instantly swallowed by the book and have made it a point to read it once a year, every year since. I also watch the A&E version (with Colin Firth! YUM!) while I'm folding laundry.

Extra points to anyone who can give me the context for the title of this post.

In which I have a WTF moment

2008-08-17T21:39:00.003-04:00

Ok, so you know school starts in a week, and that I'm a teacher, right? Do you also know that high school students can't keep track of a goddamned pencil to save their lives? You may also deduce, at this point, that I keep a lot of pencils in stock in my classroom so that they don't have to interrupt class to get one from their locker, their neighbor, or their other teachers. It's not too expensive, if you get your pencils at the Dollar Store, like I do.

So yesterday, I headed to the Dollar Store. I was making the short walk from my car to the door when I caught sight of an elderly woman with a walker (that'd be a Zimmer frame, if you're British) signalling me. Having been taught from the cradle to respect my elders, I headed over, ready to lend any assistance necessary.

She smiled kindly and said "Listen, I heard a good one..." and proceded to tell me a really raunchy dirty joke.

WTF? It must be the face...

Seriously, though? It was a good joke.

High Maintenance

2008-08-15T21:16:00.008-04:00

Yep, no point in denying it any further: I am now a High Maintenance Woman.

I have really short hair, most of the time. It hasn't always been that way - for years, I wore it about shoulder-length, in a fairly nondescript bob with bangs. It was easy to maintain, especially if I trimmed my bangs myself - which I often did. When my gray became noticeable, I'd grab a box of whatever brown dye was on sale and take care of it. I've grown it long, down to about the middle of my back, and about 2 years ago, I cut it all off, almost boyishly short.

It requires some degree of maintenance now, my hair does. I see my stylist once every five weeks for trims, dye, and the occasional highlights. I've let it go for nearly 7 weeks now, and I feel unbearably shaggy and unkempt. It certainly wasn't intentional: my stylist was on vacation, and has just returned. Tomorrow, once shorn and freshly colored, I shall feel ever so much better about my appearance.

My hair is not the only evidence of my High Maintenance Status - my nails, both finger and toe, are now carefully shaped and lacquered. Every two weeks, I waste an hour at the nail salon while little Vietnamese ladies labor over my digits. I always feel outrageously spoiled and pampered. It's such an unnecessary expense and extremely vain, but I've gotten used to it. I like how it looks. And, thankfully, I can afford it. Believe me, if it was a choice between getting my nails done or feeding/clothing my daughter, well, I'd be slapping on some Sally Hansen myself. Besides, Miss Peanut likes getting her nails done, as well.

Every now and then, I indulge in a facial. It's relaxing, and I always leave with a glowing complexion. Plus, my aesthetician usually gives me a massage, too. I recently upped the Maintenance ante by going to an actual Massage Parlor (Massage Envy) and getting an actual massage. For 90 minutes, a very nice lady worked over my muscles. That was divine, especially given the state of my very sore legs and feet (I'd been dancing in some very pointy 4-inch pumps just a few days earlier). They offer a monthly plan. I'm considering it.

This seeming fixation I have with my appearance - because I can hear some of you thinking really loudly right now - is definitely not new, although it's definitely more pronounced than it has ever been. I used to dye my own hair, trim my own bangs, and, more rarely, paint my own nails. Now, though, I view my exterior as an extension of my interior, and accord it the care and consideration that I accord my health.

You see, now, I think more about myself than I did before. I think carefully about what I eat, what vitamins I take, and how much exercise I get. I'm much more conscious of my body than I ever was before I decided to let a very smart man slice me open and rearrange my insides. I think it's finally sunk in that this amalgamation of bones and flesh is just as important as the brain and heart that it houses. I think because I take care of it now, I take pains to ornament it to the same level.

So, something that's always come hard for me, acceptance of my body for what it is, has now happened. I'm far from perfect physically, but I'm happy enough with what I've got for it to count as acceptance. You be the judge: do I look happy?

Just when I thought I was out...

2008-08-15T21:14:00.002-04:00

...they pull me back in again!!

I forgot that the Women's Gymnastics still have the individual finals to go. Dammit! I'm using my DVR.

The US Women's Gymnastics team is trying to kill me...

2008-08-15T10:27:00.003-04:00

Ok, so, I love gymnastics. I can cartwheel, roundoff, and do splits like every other childhood gymnastics fan. Since the Olympics have been on, I've been glued to the television, staying up well past my bedtime to catch all of the gymnastic goodness. It's been making me cranky of a morning.

My favorite part of the Summer Olympics has always been the gymnastic competition. Swimming? Bah. Fencing? Mais non, imbecile! Water polo? Surely, you jest. It's been the tumbling and twirling that has set my senses aflame for the last 30-odd years. The combination of balance, strength, and flexibility, so difficult to master, is just a joy to watch. And our women's team? Formidable, they are.

I had the opportunity to go to the Women's Gymnastics Finals in Philadelphia this year, where the team was chosen. Because of that, I feel like I have some kind of tie with those girls - like I know them better than the average Jane TV Viewer. I saw that Chellsie Memmel's ankle was giving her trouble at the Finals. I saw Alicia Sacramone perform a perfect floor exercise routine, and scratch with a laugh on uneven bars. I saw that Shawn Johnson could work a balance beam like it was made of metal and her feet were magnets. And I saw that Nastia Liukin moves like a dancer and springs like a coil on floor exercise.

While I've been thrilled to watch these ladies during this Olympics, I'm now just as thrilled that they're done competing. Now, I'll be able to get some sleep!

Girls do make passes...

2008-07-30T00:02:00.002-04:00

I have a confession to make: I love the way men look in glasses.

What brought on this confession, you might ask? A friend of mine, a man who doesn’t like his glasses, is talking Lasik. Now, I’ve got nothing against Lasik surgery. Another friend of mine, a woman, had it done a couple of months ago and just loves it. She raves about being able to buy sunglasses at the drugstore, not worrying about her vision disappearing from condensation when moving to and from air-conditioning to the Mid Atlantic Summer Steambath that passes for weather here, and being able to function immediately upon waking without a frantic nightstand search for her “eyes.” Sure, these are all valid points. I’m happy for my friend that she can see clearly.

Sometimes, though? Those glasses can turn a handsome man irresistible. Well, irresistible to me, at least. Take David Tennant, for example. He’s, well, gorgeous normally: tall, brown hair, brown eyes, high cheekbones, wide mouth. When I heard that he was going to be The Doctor, well, it made this Whovian sit up in eager anticipation. Now, you take this exceptional specimen and add the dorkiest glasses imaginable – because, really, these glasses are nothing short of math-league standard – and he becomes, to me, mouth-wateringly sexy and intense.

So what is it about a man in glasses? For me, personally, I think it’s the “glasses equals brains” stereotype at work. I’ve always found intelligence to be sexy. The WCM, neither a spectacle wearer nor anyone’s idea of a Sex Bomb, becomes very alluring when he tells me about any new experiments he’s running at work (he’s a Molecular Biologist, dontcha know?). Gives you some insight as to why we’re still together, eh? Give me a man who can talk tech, quote Yeats, or speak another language or two, and I’m hooked. Add a pair of glasses and I’m lost.

I think another part of the attraction is that, to me again, when a spectacle wearer removes their glasses for a bit when they talk to you, it becomes as intimate as when your lover removes their shirt. They've moved ever so infinitesimally closer to you by removing that barrier. They've become a bit vulnerable, they've exposed their weakness to you. Showing that softness, that trust, is so seductive to me. Not so much with the women, mind you, as I'm quite heterosexual. But with men? Ooooooh, baby - take 'em off slooooowly, slide the earpiece along your lower lip before you fold them, and lay them softly on the nightstand. Oh, is it hot in here? Just me, then? Damn!

Now, I’ve got no logical problem with my Lasik-bound buddy losing his glasses. It’s bound to be more convenient, and believe me, he’s more than handsome without his specs. But the boy sure is sexy with 'em.

Bibliophile

2008-07-29T19:56:00.003-04:00

I took this from Allison, who took it from someone else. I have to thank The General, my father, for instilling a love of reading and literature from my infancy, and also for introducing me to Jane Austen.

Here are the instructions:

1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.

2) Italicize those you intend to read.

3) Underline the books you LOVE.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare (I haven’t read them all)
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald (a seriously overrated writer, if you ask me)
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 Emma - Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte's Web - EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

Muthah Fuckah!

2008-07-26T23:35:00.004-04:00

So, here I am, back from a day and a half spent with my girls Dawn & Crystal at Crystal's home in Staten Island, NY. Can I just tell you this? Crystal is a tiny little thing with an attitude the size of, well, freakin' Jupiter, for chrissakes. I do believe she has rubbed off on me and my propensity to avoid conflict. The evidence is only anecdotal, but compelling nonetheless.

You see, most of the time, I strive to give others the benefit of the doubt. For instance, if I see someone in the motorized shopping cart, I don't assume they're being lazy - I think "Oh, maybe they just had knee surgery" or "maybe they have a medical condition." I try to think of possible justifications for others' rude behavior. Tourettes Syndrome? Raised by wolves, perhaps? And, if possible, I usually just try to ignore what I can't help instead of getting worked up over it. Maybe it's not the best solution, but it's been working for me.

Today, though, the WCM and I were doing some errands. We stopped at Target to get a prescription, ran my vehicle through the Magic Car Wash, and then stopped at Trader Joe's for provisions. As I was driving down the aisle looking for a parking spot, I notice a middle-aged lady with an expensive handbag - I have an eye for these things, and very expensive taste in handbags, to boot - transferring her bags to the trunk of her Jaguar. While waiting for another car to pull out, I notice that she's not going to walk her cart back the 25 feet to the cart stand, and is instead going to leave it between the passenger side of her car and the driver's side of her neighbor's car. "Oh no she didn't!" I breathed. The WCM, eagle eyed as usual, had also noticed this, and affirmed "Oh, yes she did." I swung into my parking spot, collected my own expensive handbag, and noted, in a somewhat detached manner, that my blood seemed to be boiling over this grocery trolley debacle.

As we neared the cart, I felt a very strange, almost liberating, certainty that I was going to do something hitherto unknown to me. I let go of the WCM's hand and informed him to please "excuse me, I'm going to go be an asshole."

I marched up to the cart, flung my bag in the top of it, and wheeled it out of the awkward spot the ~~bitch~~ Jaguar woman had left it in. As I was moving it, for the benefit of Jaguar lady (who had her windows partially open) and any other interested passers-by, I very loudly stated that "I can't stand people who can't be bothered to take their FUCKING CARTS BACK!"

For the record: I do not condone using coarse and profane language in public, within the hearing of young children. That is why I made sure, once I was positive I was going to be an asshole, that there were no young children present.

That said, the smiles and nods I got upon entering Trader Joe's from the witnesses of my assholery made the whole episode worth it. That and the shock and awe that registered on the WCM's face. I either made his day or completely mortified him. But, hey. Who gives a fuck?

Cannonball!

2008-07-21T23:10:00.002-04:00

My father, aka The General, has nicknamed my daughter "Cannonball." She is so called for her propensity to jump into the deep end of the pool from the three meter board.

The General is ridiculously proud of her, seeing as her mother flatly refused to jump from the three meter board until she reached, oh, say, puberty. He walks about with his chest puffed out with grandpaternal pride, boasting to all that will listen of his wee intrepid daredevil of a granddaughter.

I, however, am now suffering from heart palpitations and the cold sweats. I'm having visions of bungee- and base-jumping, of hang-gliding and parachuting, of cave- and cliff-diving in remote locations. My nightmares now include telegrams from Borneo informing me of tragic accidents.

My heart! My nerves! My baby!

As my friend EN likes to say, at this point, I'm going to go indulge in a large spiritual beverage to calm my nerves. Fill the pool with tequila, y'all, 'cause I'm going to do a cannonball right into it.

One for the Bucket List

2008-07-14T18:31:00.002-04:00

So Miss Peanut turned 7 years old yesterday. She's a running, swimming, sassing dynamo and the apple of my eye. For her birthday, the WCM and I decided to buy her a bike, since she's been asking for one for a while. I haven't ridden a bike in years, since hey, Super Morbid Obesity and bike riding do not generally go hand-in-hand. The WCM hasn't ridden a bike in years, either, but that's just because he didn't want to. He's fairly fit, for a geezer.

So today, Miss Peanut and I went to the bike shop and purchased two bikes. A smallish purple bike for her, complete with bell, basket, and fancy streamers on the handlebars, and a largeish blue one for me. I took mine out for a test ride before deciding on it, being unsure of the return of my abilities. There's a good reason people say "It's just like riding a bike" though, because once I got started, I remembered the rhythm and balance of it instantly.

It was like going back 30 years in time. I was 8 years old again, riding my bike around the neighborhood, no helmet - because we were tough in those days! - feeling the wind riffle through my hair and the warmth in my legs from going uphill. I was sold. I was buying myself a bike. The WCM gave his unstinting support to the idea, as he is not the WCM with Miss Peanut. He will spend freely for her.

So now, I have a bike. I can also ride that bike. I don't plan on entering the Tour de France or anything, but I can ride my damn bike and feel the wind on my face.

The Dog Days of Summer

2008-07-11T10:45:00.003-04:00

My two dogs, Zippy and Slider, are acting very strange right now. There is nothing untoward happening in our house - no loud noises, no strange odors (except for them!), no bright lights, nada. However, since I arrived back to the manse this morning after chauffeuring Miss Peanut to Summer Camp, they have been all but glued to my side.

I was working on the couch this morning, fingers whirring on the laptop keys, and Zippy kept encroaching upon my personal space. After shoving him down on the sofa about five times, I finally ordered him off. Very reluctantly, he complied, only to spring back up again a minute later. "Hmmm" thought I, "this is an interesting development."

Arising to visit the bathroom, I was trailed by my two furry beasties all the way up the stairs. Now, my house is old, and my bathroom door doesn't completely shut. You kind of have to wedge it in place and hope that nobody barges in on you. Since I was the only human in the house, I didn't bother wedging it down, figuring I'd be left in peace. WRONG! I don't know how they do it, but two smallish corgis can turn into an ankle swarm. Fierce orders of "OUT! OUT!" unheeded, they crowded my legs until I had to arise from my semi-recumbent posture and, in an ignominious waddle, panties about my calves, shoo them out and wedge the door.

Business transacted, I began putting on my makeup - I have to go out later, otherwise I wouldn't normally bother with makeup in the summer - only to hear the insistent brush of fur against the bathroom door, coupled with some soft whining. Oh, curse my soft, soft heart. I let them in, only to be subjected to the ankle swarm again. Once my brows and lashes were darkened and my lips deemed suitably glossy, we all paraded downstairs again.

We traipsed from room to room, looking for oddities, listening for anomalies. Zilch. We all sniffed in unison, perhaps to detect something that didn't belong. Nope, just dog. Is it a ghost? Is it a gas leak?

Stay tuned...

Smatterings

2008-07-09T19:11:00.004-04:00

Once again, I haven't enough brain to make a lovely full-length LP of a post, so you'll have to do with this selection of 45s until I can get my brain to work again. It's fallen into a lovely summer torpor from which it is loathe to rise.

***** ***** ***** *****

At dinner tonight, our server was wearing both a stud through his lower lip and a retainer. Dude. The two appliances counteract one another, leaving you with negative cool points. Kind of like an eyebrow ring with bifocals. Just. Not. Cool.

**** **** **** ****

Yesterday, I went and had my pedicure re-done, after a tragic accident which left the enamel on the tip of my right big toenail on the bottom of my brother-in-law's pool. I am a fiend for pedicure maintenance during sandal season. It's a holdover from the Days of Obesity when all I could really maintain with any success were my nails and hair.

Anyhoo, I had Tammy the Pedicure Dominatrix working on my tootsies. In reality, her name is probably something relatively unpronounceable in Vietnamese, but she chose Tammy as her nom de nailfile. Tammy was ruthless toward any idea of a hangnail, and a ragged cuticle stood no chance with her. She snipped, scraped, and nipped her way through the basic maintenance and then moved on to the razor and pumice stone portion of my ~~punishment~~.

First, it should be noted that I am pretty ticklish in the center of my foot. My heel? Not so much. Tammy pretty much went for the ticklish spot with the razor, shaving off a quarter inch of my height, I'm sure. Then, out came the pumice stone. Oh. My. God. As an aside, my late Mother-in-Law was very fond of the saying "Just put a little Elbow Grease into it!" She'd have been very impressed with Tammy. So Tammy sanded my feet with the vigor of ten men. Ten big burly men. Who demolish things for a living. Well, at least it didn't tickle. That's all I can say about it.

My feet now look fabulous again, and are as soft as a baby's bottom. I think Tammy and I are going to have to start seeing other people, though.

*** *** *** ***

Miss Peanut has started going to Summer Day Camp. Having spent the last summer entertaining her, I kind of figured I didn't want to do it again, especially given the sheer amount of work I have to do in order to feel comfortable teaching the upper levels next year. So, I enrolled Peanut in camp.

I attended summer camp from the age of 7 until I was old enough to work there myself. I worked at two different summer camps. The first was a YWCA camp - the same one where I had been a camper. The second was a YMCA camp, which was more structured and better organized - and also paid minimum wage! It is that second camp where Miss Peanut is currently a camper. It's funny how life turns in circles sometimes, isn't it?

I last worked there 19 years ago - or half a lifetime ago, in my case. There have been some real positive changes, like the new pool equipment and new basketball courts. It's nice to see, though, that some things don't change - they're still singing the same camp songs that I sang as a girl, and Miss Peanut is bringing home the same goofy crafts. I can't wait for her first Ojo de Dios. I don't think a summer ever went by without making an Ojo de Dios. Yarn and popsicle sticks, man. Good times.

** ** ** **

Books are taking up a lot of my time these days. I've gone through piles of them, and still have a huge book basket to go. I've also bought a few books and jumped them to the top of the pile, too. These days, my tastes run to the paranormal romance, so here are a few recommendations:

Kim Harrison's new one, The Outlaw Demon Wails is completely worth paying the hardback price. This is the sixth book in the Rachel Morgan series, and it really delivers. It's full of adventure, vampire politics, and witchcraft, low on romance, but ends in a very satisfying twist.

Vicki Pettersson's The Touch of Twilight is a paperback, and the third installment in the Zodiac series. It was satisfying, but you definitely get the sense that it's an installment book, just kind of bridging the way to the next one. A good read, but you definitely get the same sensation as watching The Two Towers. Fun, but a tad unsatisfying. (Yes, I did just display my geekdom to you with the Tolkien reference)

For sheer unadulterated sensuality, Gena Showalter's Darkest Series (the Darkest Night, the Darkest Kiss, the Darkest Pleasure) is a must-read. An added bonus is the Greek mythology added into the plot. The sex is HOT. Just sayin'.

Also hot? Lara Adrian's Midnight Series. Whoo! Don't read this without a seriously bone-jumpable man around, 'cause jumpin' will occur shortly upon finishing each book, lemme tell ya! And the vampire angle is well done, too.

Um, bone-jumpable vampires abound in JR Ward's Lover series. Yikes. Take the same precautions as above and make sure you remove all flammable substances from your bedroom, because these books will send you up in flames.

Now, not all of the books I've read this summer are this great. I've plowed my way through a few that were a bit tedious. Some were just plain boring, others were really rife with inconsistencies, or what a friend of mine calls "WTF moments."

Then there are others I read out of duty, which include Laurell K. Hamilton's The Harlequin. I think it was Anne of Elastic Waist that said it best. I'll quote her here for you:

I tore through the series, and started to look for others. The concept hadn't quite caught on yet, so I kept buying the Anita Blake books, even as they started to go...horribly awry, is the only way really to put it. Suddenly, Anita Blake was not just a federal- marshal-slash-vampire-executioner. Suddenly she was a psycho hose-beast who was doing it in the butt with 83 werewolves and a goat and adding superpowers to her brand-new superpower arsenal at an alarming and improbable rate (...more improbable, I mean. You know what I mean!) and every single male in her books was madly in love with her even though she was really nothing more than a horrible, wretched, unpleasant, whining, shrieking harpy asshole. And I kept reading them because--I don't know why, exactly!

And that pretty much sums up my experience with Ms. Hamilton. On the upside, A Lick of Frost, the 6th of her Merry Gentry series wasn't horrible. And Anne and I have the same taste in reading material.

* * * *

I won second place in a bathing suit competition this summer. Of course, the contest was on a website for people who've had Weight Loss Surgery, but still. That's progress, I think. Also of note on the bathing suit front: I've spent enough time in bathing suits this summer, exposing my delicate white flesh to the sun, to actually have a suntan! Compared to some, I'm still ghoulishly white. However, if you are privileged enough to view my tan lines, you'll note a slender pink crescent on each buttock where virgin skin was gently spanked by Apollo. My back is currently rubicund, and my chest and shoulders are also attractively flushed. I'm tickled about it. Tickled pink, if you'll pardon the pun.

And that is all I have for you today. Upon reflection, it was quite a lot, wasn't it?

Oh for the love of Pete...

2008-07-05T20:24:00.003-04:00

For the last 15 minutes, my dumbass neighbors have been shooting off fireworks. I currently have a vibrating corgi practically attached at the ankle, because he's freaking terrified of loud noises. Ironic, really, since Zippy the vibrating corgi is the master of the armor-piercing bullet bark, able to rupture an eardrum at 10 paces.

Do you know how difficult it is to pee when you have a corgi twined between your calves? Imagine having a pair of imploring brown eyes staring up at you from between your knees while you try to tinkle. It's not easy, I'll tell you!

Nor is typing on a laptop when you have a 35 pound corgi trying to occupy the aforementioned lap. Trying to dislodge him while not deleting all your work is similarly challenging.

Slider, being the elder statesman, is nonchalantly flopped at the top of the steps, disdainfully regarding the little red dog. Slider doesn't particularly like loud noises either, but at 12 years old, he's learned that they probably won't affect him. He raises an eyebrow now and then, but his days are more productively occupied by snoozing, napping, and taking the odd siesta. He's a dear old dog, and I will miss him more than most people I know when he goes.

Whew. The fireworks have stopped and Zippy has been lured downstairs with the promise of a cookie. That action captured Slider's interest, too, as few things interest him more than cookies. But now that I have an unobstructed, unmolested chance at the keyboard, I find that I have nothing to say.

Except, bye!

Baseball, Mom, and what my kitchen smells like...

2008-07-03T22:36:00.003-04:00

Mmmmmm, apple pie!

Tomorrow, the WCM, Miss Peanut, and I are all heading over to the WCM's brother's house for a Fourth of July Pool Party. Since my brother-in-law, we'll just call him AC for now, just got a divorce and moved into his new house, we're not expecting much in the way of refreshments. The WCM procured a lot of wine (including my favorite, which tends to get me in trouble...) and bade me prepare potato salad and broccoli slaw. Since I had a fruit bowl brimming with uneaten apples, I threw together two apple pies, too, since there's no other dessert as American as Apple Pie, now, is there?

There will be much frolicking in the pool tomorrow, I can foresee, as there was frolicking this afternoon. I went to an el cheapo store yesterday and bought a couple of inflatable rafts and an inflatable pool chair so people could laze about in the water. Miss Peanut and I had a blast propelling ourselves around the pool on them after I'd gone nearly cross-eyed blowing them up. She's not a half bad little swimmer now. I still don't trust her in the deep water, though. She'll have to work a little harder for that.

Hope you all have a lovely holiday!

The Missing Piece

2008-07-02T21:26:00.002-04:00

Do you remember reading that book, "The Missing Piece?" when you were younger?

I do. I remember reading it when I was in third grade, when the rest of my class was taking a spelling test. I never had to take spelling tests, as I was reading (and spelling) at the high school level in third grade. I always went to the library during spelling time instead. Anyhow, the librarian, Mrs. Lyons, introduced me to Shel Silverstein on one of those days, and I vividly remember reading about the Missing Piece.

The protagonist, whose startling resemblance to Pac Man cannot be overstated, rolls bumpily about everywhere looking for his Missing Piece - the piece that would complete him. Happily, he eventually finds it. That's the wonderful part about most children's stories - there's a happy ending. The protagonist and his piece merge, becoming a harmonious whole.

Why am I nattering away about a children's book, you ask? Simple, say I. Listen:

For the last eleven days, I have been missing a piece. My daughter, the wondrous - and admittedly occasionally bratty - Miss Peanut, has been tearing up the coast of South Carolina with her grandparents - Grandma and The General. This is the longest I have ever been separated from my child in her nearly seven years of existence. While I will not lie and tell you that my existence has been barren and soulless in her absence - I had quite a bit of fun, actually - I have to admit that there was a certain amount of melancholy each time I passed her bedroom door.

I missed our nighttime snuggles and questions. I missed her crackling vibrance every morning. The house was quiet, tomblike even, without the noise a child brings. There were no new discoveries of commonplace phenomena. No new stories? told in questions? ending in laughter? Even the dogs moped about, flopping by my feet when I chanced to sit down, wondering where their tormentor had gone.

Well, today, she's back. We talked, we laughed, we snuggled, and we made lots of noise. We've made plans for tomorrow which involve a trip to the supermarket and an afternoon break with cartoons (the General doesn't have a television - Miss Peanut went through cartoon withdrawal) before a dip in her Uncle's pool.

I'm a happy mama again. My missing piece is back.

An afterthought

2008-06-30T16:40:00.002-04:00

Today marks the day of the WCM and I celebrating 18 years of not killing one another. It hasn't all been bliss, but it hasn't completely sucked either.

So "yay marriage" and all that.

Water, water, everywhere...

2008-06-30T11:28:00.002-04:00

... and nary a drop to drink!

The water is shut off in my house to enable some lovely burly workmen to rip out the radiators. I must now shuffle off elsewhere to work, as I have to pee and cannot flush! Eeep!

All Intestine, All the Time!

2008-06-29T22:58:00.003-04:00

Wow, this seems to have turned into a bit of a weight loss surgery chronicle recently, hasn't it? I promise I'll get off of this subject soon - it's just been weighing on my mind these last couple of weeks (no pun intended, I promise) since my surgery anniversary.

I went to a party today with a bunch of people who have all had the DS (Duodenal Switch) or are going to have it. There was one woman there who was only two weeks out of surgery, and one man who is having his DS this Wednesday. Boy, what a good time we had! We talked, ate, laughed, and took pictures of each other in our bathing suits. Yeah, it's for a contest on one of the weight loss surgery support boards I participate on. I think it was good for all the pre-ops there to see what you can accomplish, because you're not hiding much in a bathing suit.

It was fun, even with the bathing suits.

Ellie and I are cool again

2008-06-28T22:23:00.002-04:00

So Ellie, or as she likes to be called "Ms. Roosevelt," and I are cool again.

It seems that the WCM was trying to be cute and said the opposite of what he meant - do you get that? Sometimes I don't quite understand the man, and I've been his Significant Other for nigh on 20 years. But, you know, when you're all dressed up and someone says something like "Well, don't you just look awful today! You should've made an effort!" and you see they're smiling? You kind of know that's a compliment, right?

Well, the WCM hasn't quite mastered this kind of compliment, so it came out wrong. That's his story, anyway, and he's sticking to it.

And after a nice long swim, a glass of merlot, and a fabulous steak dinner prepared by both me and my brother-in-law (he did the steak and potatoes, I did the Caesar and Caprese salads), everything seems just about 100 percent better.

I still have the odd insecure day, every now and then. Even though there are tiny, tiny pants in my closet that fit me, I will never quite leave the 300-pound woman behind. She's still with me, she still thinks in my head, and sometimes, she whispers her neuroses in my ear. I wish she'd have left me some of her self-confidence and a bit more of her sass, because I could have used those earlier.

To anyone who ever thought Weight Loss Surgery was easy, well, it's not, really. It comes with its own set of mental challenges and emotional hurdles. Today, I stumbled over one of them. I expect I'll have a few more stumbles in the future before I can run around with my head high. But I'll get there.

Eleanor Roosevelt can fucking kiss my ass!

2008-06-28T17:00:00.003-04:00

You know how Eleanor Roosevelt said that "no one can make you feel inferior without your consent?" Well, I've had me an Eleanor kind of day so far.

First thing this morning, right? I was getting dressed and the WCM pops out with "gained a little weight back, chubby?" I'm all "What the fuck? Did I?" so I ran off to the scale and hopped on. No, goddammit, I hadn't. As it happens, I'm on the low end of my normal range. So I spent a couple of naked minutes in front of the mirror checking for stray lumps and bulges. Nothing out of the ordinary presented itself, but let me tell you: the tone for the day was set.

So next, I head downstairs and scavenge some ice for a protein shake, since my fridge has been out of commission and I have no eggs. Plus, I'd started feeling fat. Yeah, rationally, I'm not - lumpy, yes; fat, no - the WCM's needling had actually affected me more than I wanted to let on. While I'm at the computer drinking a shake that tastes like Strawberry Monkey Butt (don't ask me - you don't want to know) my fridge arrives. I IM a friend and we start "talking" about this and that. I wanted to get his opinion on my relative fatness, as he'd seen me recently, when he started raving about a current popular actress. Well, shit.

Now, normally, that wouldn't have bothered me at all, seeing as I look nothing like said actress and actually like her a lot myself. However, my self-confidence had taken a bit of a beating already, and now I was hearing all about another woman's hotness. "OK. FINE. I GET IT. SO NOT HOT." is playing in my brain and I just had to go. I couldn't even sign off with my customary cute bye-bye.

Feeling more than a bit peevish and out-of-sorts from having my two favorite men indirectly (and unintentionally, I'm sure, on my friend's part) slap me down, I spent part of the afternoon looking for a plastic surgeon who can remove this extra skin I've got and possibly make my breasts look normal. A word of advice? If you're ever trying to feel better about yourself, DO NOT DO THIS.

Now, my brother-in-law has invited us for dinner and a swim in his pool. I hauled out my bathing suits from last year - the first time I'd comfortably worn a bathing suit in years, mind you - and find that they're all just a bit baggy now. After I slid into my favorite one, I took a good long look in the mirror. My ass is gone, my tits are saggy, my stomach looks like a can of freshly-opened Pillsbury biscuit dough* and I wonder why nobody finds me sexy?!

So now I'm going to haul my sorry wrinkly ass over to the pool and try to hold my shit together. Hopefully I can blame my bloodshot eyes on the chlorine.

Not a US Geography Whiz...

2008-06-27T20:46:00.002-04:00

In 3m 19s

Click here to Play

Thanks to "Might I Add..." for this one. I am not a geography whiz, as the last state I named was New Jersey - a state I seem to be in very frequently. Also? Colorado? I forgot all about it. And Mississippi, a state that's very easy to spell, was very hard to remember.

Give it a whirl, why don't you?

Aw, crap...

2008-06-27T15:56:00.002-04:00

I just found out that my wonderful magnificent neighbor, a man who has been like a parent to the WCM and me and a grandfather to Miss Peanut, has cancer. It's in his prostate and kidneys, and has even spread to bone and lymph nodes.

I love this man and his wife - they're truly kind, generous, warm-hearted, funny people. To think that we might lose one of them, that one of them might lose the other, is heartbreaking.

There's hope that they might arrest the spread, but there's no hope for a cure or remission. I have to go get a tissue now, because my heart is leaking out my eyes. So sad.

Birthday imps...

2008-06-26T16:47:00.003-04:00

So it's my birthday today - 38, to be exact, and I've had a wonderful day of it. The WCM is on his way home now to take me out to dinner. I've chosen a very expensive, but exquisitely delicious, steakhouse to go to, all because they have Bearnaise. I love that sauce... but I digress. I was telling you about my birthday.

I woke up late, skipped exercise class - because it's my birthday, dammit! - and received online b-day wishes from one of my closest friends. After taming my mane - I went to bed with wet hair last night and was rocking a sweet faux-hawk this morning, I took myself off to Starbuck's for an indulgent breakfast drink. I hit the nail salon next, and got a mani/pedi, and felt completely spoiled.

Lunch was yummy - a turkey artichoke panini from Panera with a caesar side salad. Strangely enough, I had enough room to finish the whole meal - that's rare. It was packed in Panera, though, and I had snagged a little 2-person table. I don't know what imp suggested it, but I invited a perfect stranger to sit and eat with me. She was a very nice lady named Sue, and we had a great chat about everything and nothing. I wished her a good day and she wished me a happy birthday, as I continued my shopping.

I hit Goodwill - or "The Clothing of the Dead" as my friend Shari calls it, looking for a denim jacket. Normally, I don't find much at Goodwill, but Oh Holy Shit, did I make the find of the century today. Now, I have to tell you about my Favorite Pants Ever. I found these great cargo pants at Ann Taylor Loft about 40 pounds ago, and bought them in a size 10, because I didn't think I'd ever get any smaller than that. "Psyche!" said the Weight Loss Fairy! And I had to give those pants away. Imagine my surprise when I found those very same pants - not the same pair, mind you, because that wouldn't have been very fun - in a different color and a smaller size today at the Goodwill! I ran into the changing room, gave them the quick once-over, and tried them on. They fit! Score! And they're a size 2. Double score! Are you ready for the slam-dunk? They were $3.50!!!!! Thank you Birthday Gods! And the Weight Loss Fairy!

But the imp was not to be silenced. Oh no. That freakin' imp got me into big-time trouble in the next store I entered. See, up by the Goodwill there's a little "adult" store called the Birds 'n' Bees. I've been curious, and since my anniversary's coming up (18 years with the WCM, oy!), I figured I could probably pick up a little something for that occasion. Well, I went in and looked around, trying valiantly not to blush and totally failing. I was also trying to ignore the guy trailing me around the store, but I eventually shook him. Ew. I found a little something in black that I thought might work, but had to try it on, and got the sales guy to open the dressing room for me. Yes, sales guy. Unlocking the door, he asked "A little surprise for the hubby or boyfriend?" Well, that goddamn imp twisted my tongue and when I opened my mouth, it said "both."

I don't know what possessed me - other than the imp - but I knew I was in for it after I got out of there. (The outfit worked, by the way.)

Sure enough, the sales guy hit on me. Now, answer me this: if I had both a husband and a boyfriend, do you really think I'd have enough time and energy to juggle another man into there? Um, no. I had to decline his most thoughtful offers. I guess I won't be shopping there in the future...

The birthday fairy took me to a Spa for a facial next, where my fantastic facialist spent nearly two hours going over my skin with this unguent and that potion. She massaged my face, neck, shoulders, chest, arms, hands, legs, feet, and scalp. I glow, people, with total relaxation and satisfaction.

I'm now going to step into the shower and sluice myself with other potions and lotions. Bring on the bearnaise, people, and put a candle on my steak. I'm doing my birthday in style!!