Well, this is a quandary...

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.

Moving into the New Year

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

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.

Endings

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.

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

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.

Meme time, again!

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.

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

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?

Learning moderation

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...

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!

Exciting Culinary Adventures!

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

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 ;-)

Have you seen my taste buds?

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

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!

Mix carefully

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.

I lied...

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.

Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life, Uncovered

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...

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.

Muthah Fuckah!

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?

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

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!