fivebyevif

I started this post earlier. I ended up killing the original because it was full of wailing and teeth-gnashing, and wallowing isn’t my thing (if I can help it).

There was one thing I liked about it, though. This:

So there’s nothing to say other than that this has been a crap month, and if I were Buffy the Calendar Slayer, I’d have staked February several times over.

True dat. February’s been a crap month. But for others I know and care about, February was an even crappier month. I’m giving them my support in any way it can come. It’s all I can do.

Here is the one bright point: contracts came in today for “Midwinter Gifts”, so by December 2009 I will once again be a published writer. Go me.

Next week is work. And more work. And still more. I have been blessed by years of strong ties to amazing people. This week has emphasized that and once again reminded me that I am blessed, even when I’m losing some of the things I cherish most. I’ll try not to take the refresher in that lesson for granted.

The radio silence might continue a while more. I hope not. I still want to post pictures of Mexico, but right now I need sleep, which has been in short and restless supply of late. I need to think about solutions, not problems. I need to not dwell on everyone and everything that February has taken from me.

I need to love, and let go, and be strong for the people who need me to be me.

Back, but unfortunately I now have a story to finish, which is where my writing attention is focused. I promise a longer post (or two) when I have the time and photos to draw upon.

Despite rain, injury, and high surf (the cause of the injury), we had a great time. Next time we have decided to be a bit more adventurous and break away from the all inclusive, but I think it was a great way to get comfortable visiting a foreign country. We can already tell that Mexico makes a decent getaway for us since it’s 3 hours away by plane, the people mostly know some English, and it’s not expensive if you know what you’re doing.

I also think I am going to wind up being the language-speaker on these trips. Not that I exactly have a gift for language (or, god help us, pronunciation), but I can usually order us food and know what we’re getting. Which is really, really important in the country that invented menudo (the stew, not the band — though they invented that, too).

Peace out, girl scouts.

I’m not prone to “I have a great guy” posts. Not because I don’t, but because when I was single and reading the posts of other women talking about their great guy, they always sounded slightly…defensive? Territorial? Smug? Bragalicious?

I agree: probably jealousy on my part. But I’m not prone to bragging. I’m far too modest for that.

There is another reason not to write these posts: superstition. It’s like the old adage from knitters: never knit a sweater for your boyfriend. You’re guaranteed to break up a week after you block the damn thing.

But screw that, because you know what? I have a great guy.

I could tell you a lot of ways in which he is great, but I was thinking about two examples this morning as I was doing some chores that needed to be done due to the impending Mexicopalypse.

Reason Number One: The Teapot
I realize this is a material reason, but bear with me. For Christmas, he got me a teapot. Not any teapot. He got me a patina green, cast iron dragonfly teapot. I don’t even want to think about what it cost, because I know what it cost, and it’s why I never bought one for myself. And when I opened it up, I nearly started crying. Dude, I have wanted this teapot for years and just never bought it because it was such a frivolous purchase. But it’s gorgeous and it’s mine and it’s because of him and we are using it for dinner tonight because he looked at me all excited last night and said, “Are we going to have tea? In the teapot?”

Yes. Yes, we are going to have tea. In the teapot.

Extra added bonus: the thing is heavy enough that any burglars had better watch out. That’s how we like our teapots around here. Green and lethal.

Reason Number Two: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
I was making dinner last night, which was Thai-inspired and thus entailed a lot of chopping. Jalapenos, cilantro, onions, cucumbers, mint. As I was mixing up the cucumber salad dressing I heard behind me a scrape (of a chair), then a thump (of him sitting down), and then: “The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village….”

You see, I once confessed to him that I hadn’t read the entirety of the Hitchhiker’s Guide. He was mortified and, in turn, tried to lend me his copy, but I refused stating that every copy I had ever owned had vanished under mysterious circumstances, and his copy is very nice (it’s like a Bible: leather bound, thin pages, satin bookmark) and I did not want this to happen to it.

“Fine then,” he said. “I’ll read it to you.”

So that’s what we’re doing. While I prep meals, he reads me chapters of the Guide.

I don’t want to gloat or brag or smirk smarmily, but come on: that’s awesome.

I’m wrapping up chores this morning. So far I’ve scheduled a cab, prepped Miss Geriatricat’s medicated food, started a load of laundry, cleaned up the kitchen, a half dozen other little things, and even managed to eat breakfast. Next up: finish the rough draft of the story I want to have done before the trip.

When I get back, I hope to have Dr. Siler’s diagnosis and some medication waiting for me. I woke up three times last night that I can recall, and wandered out into the hallway at some point. Honestly, I don’t know why I woke up at 9 AM like I did; probably just too much to do, and the brain won’t shut down as it should.

Have a lovely week, all.

So I’m going on a great vacation (I am convinced!) starting Sunday. This is why I scheduled my sleep study for the Thursday before we left. The contrast seemed appropriate.

During a study, you get numerous electrodes glued to your face, arms, legs, and chest. If you are lucky, you get Doug the Awesome Technician to be your handler, and you both talk about all your favorite sf and fantasy novels while he’s using the air compressor on the glue. Then wires are connected to boxes, adjustments are made, and you are put into a bed and told to go to sleep. At 9 PM.

This clearly did not work for me. Despite an initial lulling off, I woke up at 12:30, and stayed that way until 1:30, which is about when the Ambien Doug gave me kicked in. Ambien, for the record, is Good Shit and I wholeheartedly would be a poster girl for it.

But I don’t need to be, because once the doctor reviews my records he’s probably going to recommend a sedative. The theory is that it’ll relax me enough during those first two hours to stop the wake-up-screamings. And I will experience full nights of sleep once more.

So that wasn’t the sorrow, actually. It was uncomfortable at times and I’m yawning like a starving Venus flytrap, but that’s not the sorrow.

The sorrow is Bart, who was my first Aikido instructor. Massive heart attack. Coma. And the news is that after today, “nature will take its course”. Which I think is the gentle way of saying he’s going to pass sometime this weekend or earlier.

And god. damn. it. Healthy man, couldn’t even be far out of his 40s, sweet guy who scared the crap out of me when I first met him, a brisk but technically brilliant instructor.

God damn it. Too young. Too young.

Anyway.

I have a huge list of things to get done today. And a few more tomorrow. Saturday night, as promised, I will likely organize my pantry. Gleeheehee! You all thought I was crazy when I organized my freezer and put it all into a spreadsheet, but who’s crazy now, hunh? Hunh??

Take care all. See you when I get back from Mexico. Perhaps even with pictures this time!

Back in 1996, my grandmother collected some of the more memorable recipes from her and Papo’s collection into a book for all the kids and their grandkids.

Some of the books got a little lost along the way. I’ve been wanting to collect the recipes online for a while, but I’m only now getting around to it.

Looking through my copy, I see that I actually have some of the originals for the Beer Cheese and Antipasto and the Beef and Mushroom Soup. That should help.

Anyway, here is the index page for the collection. I have four up so far. I’ll try to get the rest up by the end of January.

So here we are at one year. He’s currently snoozing in the room next door and I am up early, not taking a shower like I should.

There is a temptation in me to do a recap, because that’s what bloggers do, but no. We are still laughing. I think that is the only thing that matters after one year together.

Tonight we’re going to the lovely and posh Niche for dinner; normally I make dinners on Wednesday (it’s kind of a ritual around here) but since it’s a special occasion I’ll let it slide. Here instead is what I made last night.

Spinach and Red Pepper Pasta with Smoked Gouda
Lifted from: Simple Vegetarian Pleasures
[Read more →]

It may not have played out exactly like that, but it was close.

Also, I promised her next year I’d come up with a better joke.

At some point I said to myself: “Self, it is time to eat lunches in again and go back to the gym.”

So Self and I talked about why we weren’t doing these things. Why not the gym? Well, because we used to do that at night, but we’ve been trying to do dinner at home. Depending on the day, I get off work at 7 or 8 and I want dinner on the table by 9. For some of you, this is bedtime. Ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Anyway. I like making meals for Mike and me. It saves us money, it brings us together, and it guarantees that he’ll eat at least one vegetable a week. (If Mike read my journal, he would protest this flippancy loudly. He likes vegetables, he swears! But when was the last time he ordered a salad for lunch? Hmmmm?)

Anyway anyway. The making dinner thing is an iron rule. For his benefit and mine. So Self and I decided to kill two birds with one stone: medicate my hypnagogic hallucinations with Benadryl, and start going to bed before 1 AM.

Hey, guess what? It’s working. If I take a pill at 11 PM, I have no choice but to be in bed by midnight or so, because I’ll pass out on the living room floor if I don’t. Awesome! Self and I are now getting a full 8 hours of sleep (very important to Self), and we’re getting up at 8:30 9:00 okay, 9:10 AM and going to the gym. In the future, Self hopes to haul the elliptical machine that Mike has at the old house into the current one and start using that instead of having to get up so damn early. Self likes her shower, and carpooling with her honey.

Great. We’re going to the gym. What about eating in lunches? Self admitted that Self a) hates sandwiches and can only stomach at most one a workweek and b) hates Lean Cuisine. Self and I have struggled with this for years now. Every Saturday, I buy lunch meats. Three weeks later, they hit the garbage. I can’t. Eat. Sandwiches. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but if I pack a sandwich, 9 times out of 10 I’m doomed to throwing it out a week later.

Equally doomed is preparing something for lunches (like a delightful noodle salad, or a casserole). I get through one, maybe two days before I want something different. Or it starts to smell. Breakfast is the only meal I can eat day in, day out, the same thing without changing often.

So variety, I say. Be honest. You like variety at lunch.

Yes, Self replied. But I can’t stand Lean Cuisine’s mushy chicken. Or Smart Ones and their faked sauces and gummy pastas. I stood staring at the frozen aisle and wondering what I was going to do, when I remembered: hey, I kind of liked that Amy’s frozen meal I had that one time.

Which leads to this: I pretty much like all the Amy’s frozen meals. I don’t know what they’re doing to them, but they taste great and since they’re vegetarian, there’s no cheap, mushy meat to ruin. I eat the mashed potatoes without guilt.

That’s the state of things. That’s how my life is better today. The Amy’s meals cost more, but they taste great, and I actually eat them. And I’m getting 8 hours of sleep. And I’m not waking up and running around the house screaming that the Knights of Transylvania are trying to cut off my tail. And I’m exercising. And I still seem to have time for everything else. And DELL FIXED MY COMPUTER.

So, like, things are going great. How are you?

We did stuff with our vacation. Most importantly: we did not work. Which is not to say we couldn’t have, but after two months of overtime…eh. I think we deserved a break.

So we went to Iowa, and after we got back we did things with the house. Thanks to Mike, our windows are now shrinkwrapped against the cold. And thanks to both of us, we’ve moved my office to my bedroom, which had plenty of room once we reorganized it. My former office is now both Amber’s room and a future exercise room.

The only thing I didn’t get around to was making a list of the contents of my chest freezer. Next weekend.

Oh, and in addition to traditional and non-traditional date-nut bread, I made these: Black Forest Chocolate Cookies, mainly because it was time to clear all the chocolate from my pantry, and this recipe is nothing if not a chocolate overload. Please note, I made a half batch, and it still came out to well over a double dozen, so whatever the recipe’s yield says — it lies. They are stupidly good. They’re going to work tomorrow so Mike and I will stop eating them.

Made a maple-pecan pie. Made stuffing. Made dinner. We’re driving to Iowa tonight (in my car) and tomorrow I get to see Thanksgiving through the eyes of Mike’s family. Hurray!

We moved him in about two weeks ago. This was a somewhat stressful thing, as my car was the moving vehicle for the bed and anything else bigger than the breadbox that is Mike’s car.

We needed the bed because we sleep in separate bedrooms. Lest you think us virtuous, no, this is not an attempt to avoid living in sin. Rather, we have acknowledged two things: he is an insomniac who requires perfect stillness and a certain level of white noise to drop off. And though I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, quite often I get up about 30-60 minutes later, proclaiming there are spiders in the ceiling, or the King of Prussia is my father, or shrieking about goblins in tophats.

This tends to be disruptive to the insomniac.

For the record, I am Seeing Someone about the above situation, though I suspect the answer will be “stop being so stressed, yo”. To which I say: “I don’t feel stressed, dawg!” I am not particularly keen on taking more medication for this condition, though I admit that the idea of actually getting a solid 7-8 hours of sleep without commercial interruption would be nice.

Annnnywho, we are cohabitating, and so far I have discovered this: his Order of Operations is not mine. To whit: I wake, I hit the john, I take my drugs, I brush my teeth, and only after these three vital and crucial things are accomplished do I contemplate the next act (usually: a shower). He, on the other hand, wakes (grudgingly), wanders into the bathroom, and heads straight to the shower. Teeth-brushing only figures in later, which I find bewildering. What, I wonder, have I gotten myself into? A man who does not brush his teeth on waking? Sacrilege.

So Iowa for November, California for December, and Mexico for January. Yes, my life is one long advertisement for Airborne.