Just Hear Me Out

I am thinking about forgoing holiday decorations this year.

Trees are expensive. We have cats who view ornaments as their personal playthings, and a baby who will be eleven months old when the holidays roll over us in on us, and she's very...umm...grabby. And Put-it-in-my-mouth-y. There will be a tree and decorations at Mum's for Yule, and a tree and decorations at T's mother's house where the Evil Genius will celebrate Christmas. The Evil Genius will not miss out on sparkly wonderment just because there isn't any all up in our house. Sprout will not notice or remember - I love her and think her the cleverest Sprout ever, but right now she has the attention span/memory of a goldfish.

Half my lights, decorations, garland and bows for the outside of the house are trashed and I can't fix or replace 'em with wishful thinking. Wal Mart is so unreasonable - they actually want me to pay for that stuff. Imagine, a business wanting to make a profit - the nerve!

And, if I'm being honest? I ain't feelin' it. Usually, I have stuff started by now, if not done. Usually, I am feelin' it.

If I were to tart Casa de Crazy up to match my mood these days, I'd need an accelerant and an ignition source. Or a manure spreader.

Since I'm the one who puts up/takes down all that happy crap, I figure it'll keep until next year, or whenever I feel like dealing with it.

So general "poor me, I'm feeling sorry for myself" tuff aside, I can skip it, right? Does anyone really care??

Happy Thanksgiving

Thankful

I have a few traditions on this day. Not many - the menu, recording the Macy's parade so I can watch it and fast-forward through all the crappy pop music, commercials, and talking heads to see the twenty minutes of balloons, floats and high school bands I'm interested in hidden among all that junk, and my list of some things for which I am thankful, in no particular order and in no way complete:

The house in which I live
The Evil Genius

Mum
Someone
Sprout
Gypsy, K, Kit, Sam-I-Am, PJ, Mizz Beth, and all of my friends who put up with me when I am most myself and therefor least likable. They are the net beneath me when I fly and fall.
Bread
The scent of leaf loam and woodsmoke in the crisp autumn air
Books, music, and art
Clean, plentiful water
Clean air
Clean clothes
Freedom
Nature and the way she finds to show me something new of herself every day
Words
Song
Dance
Adversity, that joy is all the sweeter
Every creature and plant that I consume to sustain myself, because without the life I take, there would be no life to live
Love - that it exists at all is a wonder, and I feel blessed to know it in many forms
Chocolate, gift from the Gods (yes, even the perversion called "candy bar") (Mmm...candy bar...)
Strong hands
Strong spirit
Strong will
Laughter
Cussed determination not to curl up and die just because life can sometimes be a succession of truly awful, bleak, and desolate days...but sometimes it isn't.
The Internet
You

I hope you have a blessed day, and that you the things you're thankful for outweighing the things for which you're not.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all, from us at Casa de Crazy to you out in the Blue Nowhere and beyond

There's An Art to This

I know it's probably not as interesting to y'all who aren't in the mix, but I'm writing about the poly thing again.

Someone is learning that being poly doesn't mean a relationship and some extra nookie on the side - it's work that grows exponentially with every new facet added to the stone.

I am learning that each time there is a new interest, there's some adjusting to do. Now, don't get me wrong, it's not like there are new interests every day; so far, there are two besides me who have found a place into Someone's heart, and one of them is so new they've only met in person once. They don't know what their relationship is, yet, besides nascent.

You know how new love/attraction is, right? All that anxiety, all that drive to be together all the time, the drive to attract and hold the other - songs, flowers, poetry, prose, the showing off of one's best self.

The trouble with that is the attention and effort going into the new love/interest is time and effort NOT going into what's already there, and that can hurt.

I am woman enough to admit that, yeah, I want that kind of attention, too. I want songs carefully chosen for how they speak of the interest/attraction someone feels for me. I want e-mails or Facebook posts of flower photos gleaned from the Internet just because they're my favorite kind, or because they remind someone of me. I want the sweet words of longing, the poetic phrases the tell me how he sees me (which is always so much nicer than how I see myself).

It's not that I am not loved, or even loved the less because there's another woman catching Someone's eyes...it's that I am a known quantity. I am home, I am comfortable, I am the warm presence that never leaves him, wherever he may be. When he is hurt, it's I who gets the call or holds him close. When he's lost, it is I who he calls to guide him where he needs to be - usually home. If pressed to choose, there would not be a moment's though - he would choose me above all others. The others know this...not because they need to be "put in their place", but because it is the truth...just as we all know that if Lady R was made to choose between her J and our Someone, she would not think twice - it would be her J, hands down.

While I'm being honest, I wouldn't mind if I didn't have to be the one to deal with the meltdowns, the fugues, when his other loves don't call, write, message, or otherwise communicate with him when they say they will...or when they don't respond when he reaches out for them. Their silence always leads to the worst conclusions in his mind, and he is anguished, which turns to anger, guilt, and self-hatred, and those things are abundant enough in this house without others' carelessness adding to them.

So Someone had this new interest. I shall call her Lily, as that's her flower of choice and how he refers to her online.

I don't know her well enough to say if I like her or not, but I am leaning towards interest in finding out more about her, intrigue at her life and personality - she must be special to have caught his eye - and curiosity about her ethics, her ethos, who she is when no one's looking.

They can only communicate via Facebook right now as she is in an untenable domestic situation and can't openly have a love/lover, a complication that I don't like one bit because it violates our first rule of open, honest communications at all times. I understand her need for discretion, given her situation, but I am troubled by this lack of honesty that is mandated by her situation.

Through Facebook, they send each other songs all day long, songs of love and longing. They post photographs and artwork meant to express their yearning to be together. They send messages that keep the fires burning.

I was hurt by this. Was. I've had time to think about my response, and it's not that I grudge her the sweetness...it's that I grudge the loss of effort on my behalf. More than me, though, Lady R is hurting over this, and for much the same reason - all the effort he puts into Lily is effort we don't get. I hurt for Lady R...I have already been through this when she and Someone met...but she's not experienced what it's like for her lover to be interested elsewhere like this, yet.

Last night we were discussing Lady R and her pain (if I were to tally the hours spent discussing relationships, I think most of them would be dedicated to Lady R and her J, or Lady R and Someone, and lately, to Lily and her place in this puzzle, something both of us know we need to remedy - we have to work on US, too), and I told him my thoughts on all this mushy Facebook stuff: He thought he was making an effort for Lady R, but I pointed out that he's posting messages of love for all three of us at once (say, one photo addressing all of us in the post), but not individually. Individually, for every song he sends Lady R, he sends six to Lily. . For every picture of a certain color rose (Lady R's flower) he finds and posts online, he finds and posts a handful more lilies for Lily. Since we share so much music and art here in person, I am trying not to have ruffled feathers over the scarcity of such things on my behalf, but as I'm fighting social conditioning, I occasionally have a little sniff, snuffle, whimper myself.

I can't grudge them what little they get of Someone - after all, he is HERE, with ME, and happily so - but I DO think it's important to work equally at maintaining the established and the new.

It's a work in progress, this picture we're painting - sometimes, it feels like we're choosing colors in the dark, brushing them on blindly and hoping for the best.

There Is No Prince Charming

I know, the song doesn't match the blog title...but it's the closest match I could find, and it may be apropos after all.

I can't speak for other cultures, or even for the male half of this one, but little girls in this country are raised to believe in a myth that (I believe) can be devastating - the myth of Prince Charming.

We are given frilly little dresses and shiny shoes and taught to dress up and pretend.

We are taught that our very own Prince Charming will one day sweep us off our feet, best any dragons, ogres, or sorceresses we face, and give us our happily ever after.

If we aren't popular, it's okay - Prince Charming will be along and all will be well.

If we are the girl in the corner, the one in the shadows, the one who is not invited to dances or parties, the one who is awkward or not as pretty as the others, the overlooked one, the shy one, the fat one, the gawky one, the tomboy, the one the boys walk past to get to her friend or the girl beside/behind her, it's okay - Prince Charming will see us and in his eyes we will be beautiful, wonderful, perfect.

So we wait for him. We sit in our corners, watch from a distance as others laugh and love, smile when the man we were interested in walks past us to get to another, try not to show our hurt when he doesn't even see us there, and we cling to the idea that our very own Prince Charming will soon be along and we'll get our day in the sun.

What we aren't taught is that we don't need Prince Charming to rescue us and the idea of happily ever after is a fairy tale, nothing more. Don't get me wrong - I believe that we can be happy in our lives, but forever? In that storied kind of way? No...no I don't.

We also aren't taught that sometimes Prince Charming doesn't come along...or that he, too, will pass us over...or that he's gay. We aren't taught that love comes along every day, in many ways...aren't taught how to recognize and honor it. We don't know what to do when we get older and older and our own Prince Charming is nowhere to be seen...so we sit and wait to be rescued and flounder in our lives and wonder what's wrong with us...why does everyone else have what we long for...when will we be seen?

I will not be teaching Sprout about Prince Charming. I will, instead, teach her that princesses (and Sprouts) can damn well rescue themselves. I will (I hope) raise her not to depend on some mythical One True Love, but rather to take joy and pleasure in even the smallest loves. I hope she will learn that she is visible, even if she's hiding in the shadows, and that it's okay to be seen and be different, to be her wonderful self without worrying about whether or not someone - male or female - comes along to notice her. I hope that she will believe that she doesn't have to have a partner, lover, husband, or wife to be fulfilled, that as long as she is living the life she loves, society's definition of happiness is moot.

If I can teach her those things, maybe I will come to believe them myself - but as for Prince Charming...I'm done believing in/hoping for him; I love and most of the time even manage to believe that I am loved, and that's more than enough for me.

Thank You

Work

These relationship things are work, I tell ya.

When you open them up to polyamory, it raises the stakes, and the workload, considerably.

This is why we need communication, even when we'd really like to crawl in a hole and lick our wounds. Silence fosters negative thoughts - it's the perfect growing medium for fear and doubt, kind of like the jack-o-lanterns on our steps are for growing funky red mold.

Add to that the fact that it is sometimes difficult to separate where we have issues - it it because of a new/other relationship, or is it something internal? And can we really separate them, after all? Is the issue mine, yours, or someone else's? If it's someone else's, are they working with us to find a resolution, or just dumping it on our laps and letting us do the work?

Sigh.

Open, honest communications at all time and with all involved. Not negotiable.

Part of what has caused some hurt around here in the last few days is a lack of communication, complicated by a veil of misunderstanding and hurt that alters everything we hear and experience. Because Someone and I both have quite a bit of negative history from before we met, we have to be aware of this filter and work extra hard not to take things at their worst. Most of the time, we do fine...but now and then one, or the other, or both of us, will be in a bad headspace and take everything wrong. It all becomes a judgement of how worthless we are.

We've had a sort of perfect storm of that kind of thing here at the Casa. We're recovering, but only because neither of us is willing to let anger or hurt break us. We're still a little prickly, a little sensitive, but we're getting better by the minute.

Even when we want to hide from it, even when we really don't want to get into the murky darkness and feel around for what's really hurting us, we put our big-kid panties on, hitch up our britches, and (eventually) wade in...because yeah, it's work, sometimes nasty work, but it's absolutely worth it to know that there is nothing left to question, that we know where we stand - side by side.

There Are Not Words

I wish I had the words. I just don't. I'm out of words. They have proven useless, anyway, impotent. The words that were once valued, prized, lauded, are now ashes and dust to be swept away, unheeded. I wish I could convince you that I am honest, and true, that I do love you and that I am happy that you love - me, other women, our daughter. I wish you believed in me.

What hurts is not that you love others. Polyamory isn't the issue. I like Lady R, and I am sure that, given time and opportunity, I will like H as well. I don't think one should limit love, and I won't ask anyone to pretend that they can just because my feathers are ruffled.

What hurts is not that you seem to save your anger for me. I get it - I am safe, the one person who will face it, absorb it, stand toe to toe with you, show you your anger and what it does, and won't throw you out, throw you away, because you are feeling what you feel.

What hurts is not that the sweetness, the softness, are reserved for others, but not for me.

What hurts is something that comes from within me...from a place of envy, of wishing that I was the one who inspired the search for the right picture to post, for the right song to share, for the sweet words to flow. I wish I was the source for the anticipation, the giddiness, the excitement, the laughter and delight. I wish I was the one you were trying so very hard to make smile, that you so wanted to touch, taste, smell, be with. I wish I didn't feel as though all I have left is this tired old love that doesn't shine any more, but is staid and dependable and...boring.

And sometimes...if I am being honest (which I strive to do, even when it hurts and costs me dearly), sometimes I wish there was someone who looked forward to seeing me, speaking to me, the way you used to...the way you do with the new ones, but not, it seems, me any more. There isn't anyone else, though, and I don't believe there ever will be.

This is the down side to polyamory. The new beginnings that sometimes...okay, usually...leave me feeling left behind, dusty and dull and unwanted. I have no new beginnings. No one looks twice at me. Why should they when there are so many brighter blossoms to pluck?

It passes, this wistfulness. It passes when I remember that as often as you may take wing, fly away from me, you always come back...so there must be something worth coming back to. Maybe I am not exciting in that shiny, new way, but I'm where you want to be or you wouldn't return. If I can't have that new-love feeling, that bonfire conflagration, I have the long, slow heat of the hearth to call my own.

I Used to Believe That Could Be Me

I once posted this song with the admonition that one should not play it unless they meant it.

I used to hope that one day, someone would hear it and think that's how they felt about me...as if my dreams not only had meaning, but were inportant to themselves as well.

I believed. I thought music had power and meaning to it.

I loved this song...loved playing it, singing along, and I never once played it for anyone without meaning it - that I would be here, helping them reach for (and hopefully achieve) their dreams.

I still mean it...I am still striving to find ways to help people with their dreams.

I just don't think it's meant for me. I don't believe, any more, that my dreams matter. I don't believe, any more, that anything I do matters. I don't believe that anything I say matters. I truly believe, here in this moment, that what I feel absolutely doesn't matter in the slightest.

Such a happy place.

Pennies

I am sitting on the floor, surrounded by patina-ed copper circles. They click as I move them about. I am watching for any that may roll from the depressingly small heap - this is where the baby plays, and she thinks the world is something to savor in a literal sense. Choking hazard aside, I can't help thinking these little metal discs are crawling with who-knows-what kind of copper fed super germs.

Carefully I count them out, making rows of five piles of five. They're slippery in my fingers. Sometimes I drop one or two. See them fall? They land flat, or on edge. They thud, or plunk, or clack. They land back in the pile or they knock themselves into my neat rows and scatter my patient work.

They aren't all mine; I've had to raid my son's piggy bank, too. I asked him, first. He knows we're cash strapped, and we need things like nappies, wipes, toilet paper, and dish soap. He doesn't know what a maxi-pad is, but he knows Mommy needs some of those, too, because she can't quite make it through the week with six of 'em.

As I count, stack, and roll them, my fingers take on a grey tinge. I can taste copper in my mouth. It is an unpleasant tang on the edges of my tongue, and I imagine for the moment it's the taste of failure, of disappointment. It will linger long after the little rolls are spent, a reminder.

I remember when I was a little girl, going down the stairs into the living room of the town house in Florida (3522-B, Gardens East Drive, Palm Beach Gardens, Fl, I have never forgotten that address, place of so many experiences) and sitting at the low coffee table, helping Mum count, pile, and roll coins. I was in awe of her ability - she could scoop up the right number of pennies in her hand and slide them right into the roller, seemingly without effort. I couldn't manage it, and had to put one coin at a time in the paper sleeve. She always had to fold the ends, because I'd end up dropping all the pennies out one side while trying to fold the other.

I thought it was fun. I imagine she was hoping it was enough.

I love rolling change - it appeals to my inner accountant...or banker...or whatever it is that likes rolling change. I also hate it, because these days it means we're down to the wire, or well past it, and have no hope of paper money coming our way in the near future, or at least the near enough future.

So I am on the living room floor, wondering how much lower I will be sinking before I find "up" again, wishing I could just keep sinking down below ground where no one can see me or my shame at the rolled up currency that will make the cashier sigh, brighten her smile a little, and start weighing (they weigh the rolls to be certain they're right, no faith in my damned OCD and inability to mis-roll change. I've never had a short roll, ever) and cause the customer behind me to groan, sigh, shuffle their feet, glare, mumble, mutter, and give me the stink-eye because I'm slowing them down with my archaic method of payment.

The US Mint will be glad to have all those old copper pennies back, I'm sure. I hate giving them up...the new coins are not as nice, don't have the same weight or feel to them. They roll just fine, though.

Bye-bye, pennies. The jar is empty again. Time to wash my hands, try and brush the taste of this unhappy pastime from my mouth.

*In the end, I had enough fro nappies and wipes. I will have to improvise for the rest. Mother of invention, right?

Time Travellers

We are all of us travelling through time. Generally, we're doing it in an orderly, forward fashion, although some folks manage to go backwards on occasion.

Waking from a long coma must feel like having jumped through a time portal. How strange to wake up and find everything different, including one's body, when one's mind is still stuck in a time long past.

It's a human construct, this "time" thing. I don't much like it.

Then there's this clock thing, this daylight savings thing.

I never have gotten it, not really. Oh, I understand the history of it, have heard the reasoning behind it, but...nope, don't get it. If people are so concerned about using daylight, then why can't we just adjust schedules instead of mucking with clocks? Don't want to miss out on afternoon daylight? Instead of working from 8 - 5, work from 6 - 3. Whadaya mean that's not practical? And changing clocks will-he-nill-he, is?

Tell the sun what time he's rising and see if he complies. Tell the moon when she may sail through the stars and hold your breath until she minds you. You look good in blue.

Babies don't know about time in the same way we do. Babies and animals have "now". There is no tomorrow, and yesterday is some kind of hazy memory that isn't the present.

I like the book Einstein's Dreams. It's a lovely little fictional exploration of time. My favorite piece is about how there are two ways to live in time - one may abide by the clock, each day regimented into hours, each hours with its appointed purpose, or one may wake when one wakes, eat when one is hungry, love when one loves, sleep when one is tired, abiding by the more fluid time of one's own rhythm. It postulates that the two cannot ever really meet - I disagree a little, because I try to live a timeless life but I have clocks and calendars to help me when I must take part in this odd fracturing of the day called "hours" and "minutes".

We took a little jump in time this morning, didn't we? Setting clocks back, we got an hour to re-live. Here at Casa de Crazy, we set the clocks before bed (because who wants to get up at two in the morning, bleary-eyed, to set a bunch of clocks, all of which have different means of setting?), so our "gained" hour was used for sleeping.

What if we could bank this "savings"? What if we could deposit it, earn interest on it maybe, spend it when we wanted. How much would you save? What would you spend it on? Would you use it in minutes here and there, stretch out a deadline maybe, or a special moment? Or a big chunk, a sort of vacation or addition to the end times? Could you borrow against it in some way, maybe make mid-life longer so you can enjoy it more?

Could you bank more, maybe take time away from unpleasant things like illness, sorrow, or incarceration, and shorten that experience, add the time to happier things?

Often, when people ask me if there's anything I need, I answer "a winning lottery ticket", but sometimes I say "more time".

How curious it would be if we could reach in out pockets, fish out a few spare minutes or seconds, and drop them in the hat of the man on the street corner who is staring at his end and hoping to stave it off a little longer.

So tell me - how do you feel about this DST thing, and time in general?

Samhain

Partial reprint with some new stuff mixed in, just to keep you on your toes.
~~~~~
Samhain. All Hallows Eve. Hallowe'en. Halloween.

While little (and not so little) people are out extorting candy from strangers (On the one night a year Mum and Dad aren't telling them NOT to take candy from strangers, and isn't that a mixed message?)(And if you don't think it's extortion, think about it - "Give me a treat or I'll play a prank on you" is exactly that - extortion), more than a few pagans are spending the evening in an entirely different fashion.

Samhain (pronounced "sawin") is sometimes called the Witches' New Year. It's thought to be the time of year when the veil between the worlds is thinnest, and so best suited for speaking with our dead, with those who passed on in the previous year.

On Samhain, our living God dies, and until he is born again on Yule the Goddess and all the world mourns him. Poor Goddess, carrying her child alone for the next two months - throughout eternity she must suffer this loss before she can know her joy once more. Don't worry if you don't get it - it's a cyclic thing, a nature thing, and a deeply, weirdly Pagan thing.

Some will have large meetings, solemnly chant and circle the fire, call upon the gods of old. Some will dance wildly around bonfires, drumming, singing, shrieking, leaping the flames, looking for all the world like the imps and devils we were once purported to be. Some will just hand out candy and let the night pass, and some will put out the lights, draw the blinds, and pretend not to be home. A few (Pagan and non) will look for and find trouble. Many will feast, drink, and hold the dumb supper - the meal placed out for the those who've gone through the veil - whether alone or in numbers. These days, none who are truly Pagan will sacrifice anything more than a glass of wine and/or a plate of food to the fire, the earth, the old gods.

This year it's just us Casa de Crazians. T will come get Bird after the boy makes the rounds in this neighborhood, and they'll go raid another neighborhood or two. We've carved pumpkins, one for each of us.

Of course we'll roast the pumpkin seeds because I adore them.

At dusk, we'll light the jack-o-lanterns and take the kids (or the kid, anyway) out for their bit of begging. If the night is fine, we may fire up the outdoor fireplace and sit out on the drive reminiscing about the past, about family and friends long gone but not forgotten. I may or may not mull some cider and have some cups to ladle out portions for the adults trailing the kids who will start coming around soon. Heh - come and drink my Witch's Brew - you won't fly or turn into a newt, but it'll take the chill off. I may or may not have a bit of whisky or rum to add medicinal value to the drink.

I will make a special dinner for Samhain night. I don't have anything traditional - this year it's spaghetti and meatballs, salad, and garlic bread. I try to make something that my ancestors or anyone I've lost in the previous year would like to eat. The first portion of each item is carefully plated and placed at the head of the table or on the altar. A bit of whatever's to drink will be placed with the laden plate).

Later tonight, after we've eaten, handed out candy, taken the kids out for some socially sanctioned begging, we'll take food and drink down to the woods and leave the contents for our ancestors. We may or may not name them. We may or may not sing a song for them. We will honor them, wish them well, and remember. We will ask their blessing in the coming year. It will be short, but heartfelt - we don't need a lot of ritual, these days, just a few quiet minutes with our Gods.

It's an odd hodgepodge of a night - some modern traditions that were founded in the old, and some straight from the days (and nights) when our people could be openly themselves, could worship the gods of field and wood, river and rock, without fear of censure or death.

Blessed be those who have gone before; blessed be those who live now; blessed be those who will follow after. The wheel turns once more, and blessed are we who turn with it. Blessed be.

This year, I celebrate: two years year ago, Someone made his first visit to Casa de Crazy, began the process of coming Home.

This year I honor: my friend Lo, who passed through the veil last November, and my friend Jenny, his wife, who passed through the veil this past June on the day we were to honor Lo and place his ashes; my grandfather, who passed many years ago but whom I still miss.

Shaving the Stove

I? Am sore. My arms ache, my elbows tingle when I straighten my arms up, my wrists are creaking, and my hands are alternately cramping, burning, and throbbing. My poor fingers...they may never be the same.

It's all because of shaving the stove.

Gripping a razor blade can play hell on the fingers, even when it's not a double-edged blade. After a while, it plain hurts, especially with the constant pressure and scraping. Shaving a stove requires a little brute strength.

Yes, I said "shaving the stove".

If you have been reading for any length of time, you know that this past Spring we had a tragic death here at Casa de Crazy - the drop-in stove/oven appliance gave its last gasp just as I was attempting to bake some brownies. After I drove like a loony to K2's house to borrow her oven, I had to figure out how the hell we were going to cook stuff here at the Casa.

Mum heroically offered to buy a new one, but that didn't sit right - we had a stove/oven in the garage acting as a shelf, one Someone earned with sweat equity when he helped K2' family move into their new digs. A perfectly nice ceramic top, in fact. Why couldn't we use that?

Well, because it was a slide-in, not a drop-in, and those are two different critters.

Luckily we had a friend (Handy Joe) who sweat, bled a little, finagled some wiring and a saw, and got her done.

The stove was a used one, but in fairly good nick...it just had some...er...schmutz around the two left burners. A bit of elbow grease would deal with that. Or would it?

Apparently, not so much.

For months, I have waged war on the stove top, scrubbing until I hurt, and the schmutz remained undaunted, unimpressed, and un-removed.

I remembered, finally, that Mum had a ceramic top stove, and she had a razor thingy with which she scraped it from time to time.

I have no razor thingy, but thanks to the card-making and photo-mounting I do, I have razor blades.

I grabbed one and set to, and wouldn't you know it? The schmutz came off. It came off in large, cone-shaped curls. It came off in powdery poofs. It came off as crispy flakes. It came off!

I spent a fair bit of time yesterday shaving the stove, and it is almost done.

As soon as I can feel my fingers again, I'm going to finish the job.

Thoughtfetti

Someone was gone for nine days. I didn't get a lot done because one parent, two kids? not conducive to online productivity.
~~~~~
Sprout has a tooth, in case I haven't mentioned. Just one, but it's a mighty tooth.
~~~~~
I am doing battle with a raging case of the beiges. Since it hasn't managed to off me yet, I am winning. Baby love and Little Dude love are good stuff and help immensely.
~~~~~
AT&T charges an extra fee for paying at the store with cash. Using a credit card is free. I call bullshit!
~~~~~
I owe the bank a pantload of money (made a mistake, got overdrawn, whoopsie) so I have to use cash until I can pay back what I owe in fees and whatnot. Guess I'll have to suck up AT&T's little love bite. Sigh.
~~~~~
Sprout refuses to eat baby food. Baby food is for chumps with no tooth, she claims. She has a tooth, therefor she demands steak and lobster tail...or at least chunks of stuff she can pick up her own self. Corned been, loaded potato soup, helpless fruits and veggies that didn't flee fast enough...all fodder for the Mighty Toof!
~~~~~
There's been some bullying going on in the neighborhood. Little Dude is the prime target. The parents and I are working on it...peacefully. Little Dude is philosophical about it all, mostly, I think, because I am backing him all the way and he sees me working with the parents of the other boy. We'll see how this goes...I'm hoping for a positive outcome.
~~~~~
Spout has also decided that napping is for chumps. Sigh. I'm trying to convince her otherwise. Losing battle.
~~~~~
What's happening in your world?

It's Not Exactly In the Oxford Unabridged, Now, Is It?

Got this from a friend:

Ineptocracy(in-ep-toc�-ra-cy) - a system of government where the least capable to lead are elected by the least capable of producing, and where the members of society least likely to sustain themselves or succeed, are rewarded with goods and services paid for by the confiscated wealth of a diminishing number of producers.

Whatcha think?

But I'm Perfectly Me

I yelled at the baby last night. She was fussing and struggling, tired and fighting sleep, whining and making that half-cry of hers that just drives to the center of my brain, so I yelled at her. She stopped, stilled, stared at me with huge, wet eyes, and then her face crumpled up and she cried in earnest, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and onto my shirt.

Eventually I rocked her to sleep, and wondered what the hell was wrong with me that I would yell at a baby.

Yeah, I'm tired. Yeah, I'm stressed. Yeah, I'm struggling. Yeah, I haven't slept well the last couple of nights. Yeah, I have been a single parent since last Thursday morning (last Monday if you figure Someone was busy packing and getting ready for his trip), and yeah, I have been trying to catch up with housework that has been left undone for far too long (and is easier to do when no one else is home, like mopping the floors).

So what?

She's a baby. She laughs, she cries, she occasionally shrieks with fury or delight. She can't tell me she's hungry, or uncomfortable, or tired; it's a guessing game. She resents falling asleep. She fights it until the last moment, struggling until she drops off, suddenly limp and warm against me, and that's some of the best stuff right there.

So I yelled at her.

And I felt like crap for it, and cried right along with her.

I held her while she slept that deep, profound sleep that only babies know, and reminded myself that she will not remember, that she will not be scarred for life. When she woke up at three in the morning and wouldn't let me put her down, I carried her into my room and let her cuddle up to me until she dozed off and then woke again at eight. Much of that time, I was only half asleep, aware of the little girl next to me, aware of her breath on my neck, aware of her soft little sighs, aware of her warmth and weight...aware, and grateful.

I do my best, and I am so very aware of how often it is barely, or not quite, enough.

My poor kids...I'm not perfect...

Black and White Soup

Back when I was single and had spending money, I would occasionally have a meal at The Bridgetown Grill. My favorite thing on the menu was their Black and White Soup, a combination of black bean and white cheese soups, served in a single bowl. They would make a Yin-Yang pattern out of the soups and add a dollop of sour cream topped with a sprinkle of fresh salsa.

I haven't had it in a while, and I've missed it. Lately, it's been on my mind, so I finally decided to have a bash at replicating it at home.

It's not exactly the same, and there's some tweaking to do, but I do believe I have the gist of it. Someone liked it three bowl's worth, anyway!

Want to try it? Okay.


The players:

Black Bean Soup

1 pound dry black beans, soaked overnight

4 teaspoons diced jalapeno peppers
6 cups chicken broth

1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
3/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon hot pepper sauce

Drain black beans, and rinse.

Combine beans, jalapenos, and chicken broth in a slow cooker. Season with garlic powder, chili powder, cumin, cayenne, pepper, and hot pepper sauce.

Cook on High for 4 hours. Reduce heat to Low, and continue cooking for 2 hours, or until you are ready to eat. For black and white soup, blend before serving. I wish I had an immersion blender for this; the regular blender worked fine, but it was more to wash up.

White Cheddar Cheese Soup

1/4 cup butter
1 cup onion, diced small
1/2 cup celery, diced small
1 teaspoon garlic, minced
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons dry mustard
1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon ground white pepper
1/2 cup dry white wine
1-1/2 cups chicken broth
1-1/2 cups whole milk
1-1/2 cups heavy cream
4 cups good quality sharp, white Cheddar cheese, grated (12 oz.)

Sauté onion and celery in butter in a large pot over medium-low heat.

Cook for 10 minutes; add garlic and sauté 1 minute more.

Stir in flour, dry mustard, salt and white pepper. Stir constantly for 2 minutes to prevent scorching.

Whisk in wine; the mixture will be thick..

Whisk in broth, milk and cream, scraping the bottom of the pot. Bring soup to a boil, reduce heat and simmer 15 minutes.Remove from heat and stir in cheese. Continue stirring until cheese is completely melted.

Ladle equal parts of each soup into a bowl. Garnish with a dollop of sour cream and a bit of salsa. Yum!

Unless you serve this at a party or have a large, soup-hungry family, you may have a lot of leftovers. I imagine if you blend the two together, it will freeze just fine.

Let me know if your try it, and how it turns out for you!

Aural Stimulation

I am far too busy to blog, really. There's the laundry (always the laundry) and the dishes (so many dishes) and the groceries and cooking to take care of for Someone's looming journey to our spiritual home in Ohio. There's flooring to clean, and there are cat boxes to clean, and counters to clean, and if I'm naming things I should clean but am slack about, there are a LOT of windows here at the Casa, and they would all like a good washing, thank you very much.

Instead I am blogging, because of sound.

Auditory input.

Beautiful noise.

Last night, it was the baby laughing. She was watching Maya climb the cat tree, and giggling at the kitty looking down at her from so high up. She loves to watch their tails swish, twitching back and forth, and her giggles rolls around the house and bumble into us from around corners, eliciting smiles as they go.

There was a light rain all yesterday afternoon and evening, getting heavier towards dawn. We've got windows open to let in the good, fresh air, and the soft, pattering whisper of the falling drops is pervasive, the pianissimo background song of Autumn.

There were coyotes singing last night. A few ridges away, over by the farm where the wild geese sometimes nest. There won't be any geese there now - our lot have flown to their fall nesting grounds and our winter lot have not yet arrived. The coyotes will run along the ridge lines, playing call-and-repeat until the wee hours. Last night was just singing. By their song, we can tell if they are playing, hunting, or have cornered their prey. Heralding Autumn this time, I should think, a few last choruses before high-tailing it to winter quarters.

The small breeze makes a counterpoint to the rain, causing the trees to shake their heads at this modern music - who can understand it? The leaves know what it all means, and they sigh and let go of their grip on what is, spinning and falling in graceful arcs towards what will be.

The Casa is humming - occasional heat flicking on, not cold enough for full-on rush, just enough to take the edge off early morning and late night.

More laughter as the Evil Genius dons his guise of Super Brother and distracts Sprout from parental absence - we're trying to get things done around here, a challenge when the baby wants company all the time. The Evil Genius likes to play with Sprout, and she adores her Big Brudder, and they laugh a lot as she scrambles to keep up with him with her crab-crawl.

The cacophony of her musical toys is silenced now, and the song of the Casa is down to the tapping of two keyboards and her soft breaths on my shoulder as she naps limp and warm in my arms.

How is your day sounding?

Thoughtfetti

We had a visitor over the weekend - Someone's mom came for a couple of days. It was good to see her again, and we had, overall, a nice time. I was not online much - novel!!
~~~~~
There's a chill in the air and the sky's a little grey - soup season!! I am attempting to mimic a soup recipe from a restaurant. I adore this soup, and hope it comes out reasonable. It's called Black and White Soup. If it isn't horrid, I will post a recipe.
~~~~~
Broken people have to work hard not to break the people around them. Sometimes it's exhausting. Two broken people trying to sort themselves out can make for some awfully hard days. Not-broken people have no idea, and while that can be annoying sometimes, it's just fine by me...there are enough broken people in the world...
~~~~~
Sprout ate broccoli for the first time yesterday. The results today are...erm...festive. Still, she loves her veggies. Heck, like both her parents, she loves just about everything we put in front of her. I hope she stays that way.
~~~~~
Why do we celebrate Columbus Day? He didn't discover the new world; there were already people living here. Shouldn't we be celebrating Migratory Indigenous Tribal Persons Day instead?? Or, if we're going to be excited about Europeans tromping about the globe, perhaps Lief Ericson Day? Oh, wait...that's today. Well...at least it's in the right order - Lief Ericson ran into North America before Columbus, it makes sense his day comes first
~~~~~
If grilled cheese isn't on the top-ten list of comfort foods, I don't know what's wrong with the world.
~~~~~
Casa de Crazy will be a wee bit less Crazy for a few days - Someone is heading to Ohio for a festival, a bit of camping with his girlfriend, and some quiet time in the woods. I'll miss him, but at the same time, it will be good for us both to have a bit of time when we're not all up in each other's business. The next few days will pack in the madness, though, because we have a lot to do to get him ready for the trip.
~~~~~
You know the season's turning cold - I am practically wearing the cats around the house. I can't sit or lie down without being nested on by at least three of them.
~~~~~
What's a ghost's favorite food? Halloweenies.

And Miss Out On This??

I logged on to check e-mail and was smacked in the eye by some headlines.

First there was the woman who tried to sell her newborn for fifteen-grand o she could go to Disney with her other two kids. Oh, man, if I was Disney, she'd be banned for life.

Then the man who killed his pregnant wife.

And finally the guy who broke his girlfriend's baby's legs.

Y'all, sometimes I miss my time, sleeping in, independence, and sanity. Sometimes I get tired of the whining, crying, constant demands for my attention, laundry, and the smell of poop, pee, and other effluvia. Sometimes, I would give just about anything for some peace, to sleep late, eat something hot or cold rather than tepid. But if I had to trade in one of my children?

No way.

There's nothing on this Earth worth this*:

Or this**:

How 'bout you?

*I practically had to beg him to stand still for a picture. Suddenly he's camera shy. Oy.

**If you look carefully, you can almost see the vestiges of her tooth on the lower left center of her gums.