erisiansaint

I'm trying to reach for the gratitude of having a life today, because I'm just not feeling it, I'm cranky and whiny and trying not to cry.

My car died, yesterday. Surprisingly, it wasn't the tires, and it wasn't the oil, it was the transmission that blew. To fix it would cost about 2800 dollars, although that's apparently from a rebuilt transmission, not from getting one out of a junker and having that installed. I also can't actually afford insurance AND a car payment

This has me in a bit of a panic, because I have to have a car, I'm not working a job that's on a bus route, and it's one where I have to be there at 7 am, it's part of the job requirement. D is being kind enough to loan me her car for work purposes, on days when she's not going on an interview and she's going to drive me on interview days.

So, the gratitude.

I have an awesome roommate who's being insanely kind.

The way my car went out (on a highway, no less,) didn't kill me. It didn't even hurt me, it just inconvenienced me.

I have options of which kind of broke I want to be.

My ex was kind enough to come get me yesterday morning when I was having hysterics and drop me off at home.

I was only an hour late for work yesterday, thanks to the fact that I'd gotten a very early start.

AAA is a fucking BRILLIANT organization and thanks to the fact that we had AAA+, I could have my car towed to the auto place, and then back home when it turned out that there's no way I can get it fixed, and I didn't have to pay for that.

And I have a job.

Ok, that's it, that's about as grateful as I can manage, given that I'm still flipping out. But I needed to remind myself of the good facts.

I am officially moved in. My computer is set up (although not yet plugged in.) I have a bookcase, (partway set up,) a bed, (completely built and made, with sheets and pillows and comfort,) a rolling cart with wire baskets for my clothes and a basket on top for my dirty clothes, and a night stand.

Most of my kitchen stuff is in the kitchen. I have a lamp on my nightstand and I'm on my laptop.

I'm not standing. I'm not walking. I'm not packing things. I'm not stressing. It's freaking awesome.

I've got a job. I've worked there since Monday, I really really like it and I'm starting to feel competent at it.

Tomorrow, I get an IUD inserted. I'm looking forward to this, too. Since I'm not with someone with a vasectomy, it's time I take control of my own reproductive system again. Also, it might make my periods lighter, which would be nice, given that they're generally so heavy that I've been anemic for years.

Speaking of, today has been such that I've seriously considered a home hysterectomy with a grapefruit spoon. Ow. Which is probably why I'm having the kind of night where I listen to "Being Alive" on YouTube, every freaking version I can find. I love you, Mr. Sondheim, for the songs that reach in and rip my guts out.

Also, lately, I've been thinking that if I were any more straightforward, I'd probably be downright transparent. I've also been talking to a lot of people who challenge me mentally, to the point where I wonder if my brain really is made of swiss cheese and how it is that I've been not-thinking about some things that used to be very important to me, for years and years. It's not bad, it's more like...waking up. Or something. But it makes me wonder how long I've been asleep and think that no wonder I needed such a damned huge kick in the pants to start the process. It's a good process. I needed it. This isn't easy, but it's necessary and will ultimately be very rewarding.

Also. No matter how many times I watch Up, that damned movie makes me cry EVERY TIME.

So, as some of you know, in an effort to start being healthy, I joined a gym on Sunday. (GREAT deal, too: one dollar signup fee.)

And I finally got my ass in gear today. (I figured out I either needed new sweatpants or I needed to shave my legs and get a combination lock. Locks are cheaper and don't require hemming.) Mind you, my legs are EYE-BLINDING, FISHBELLY WHITE, and I hadn't gotten around to shaving them, but I figure if I could just freaking get over myself, it'd be better for me in general. Besides, when one is fat, frumpy and forty, the only person caring about lightly hairy, blindingly white legs is the owner of said legs, no one else gives a damn, they're too busy thinking "why did I eat that damn cupcake?" Well, maybe that's just me.

Anyway, I went, I did some stretches that I remember from my days of being 125 lbs and taking a LOT of karate, (which got me a lot more strange looks than the legs, does no one warm up before walking anymore?) and then went on a treadmill.

It wasn't much of a workout, all things considered. I'm out of shape and I know it. It was a 20 minute walk at about 2.5 mph for the vast majority of it, which ended up being 3/4 of a mile. I worked up a sweat and felt good. And man, did I grove to the playlist I made. Some songs are just made for working up a sweat! (Diary of Jane by Breaking Benjamin, for instance.)

What I also discovered is this: I am a LOT more flexible than one would think, for fat, frumpy and forty. Those stretches I mentioned? Think kinda like karate kicks, front/side/back, but instead of kicking, you're just swinging your legs. Except I can still get my legs to waist level on side kicks and higher for front kicks, and almost at waist level for back kicks. I keep this up and I might get back to almost being able to do a full split again!

Anyway, that's my reason to feel good, today. And it felt GOOD to move.

Yesterday, I woke up and the first FB status I saw, when I checked FB, was that of a dear friend of mine telling me that a mutual friend of ours had died. She was in her forties, which is to say, our age. My friend had been much better friends than I had, but we'd both lost touch years ago, and it hit me very, very hard.

Most of the rest of the day wasn't better, since I spent most of it either crying or on the verge of tears and the world kept deciding to intrude, yesterday. I kept sort of almost coping.

Yesterday was also my roommate's birthday party, so I was aware that I was going to have to be social. And right as I was getting dressed for that, my sister called and reminded me that today was her best friend's birthday. (That's my sister's gentle reminder that today is the anniversary of my mom's death.) My mom died 13 or 14 years ago, I've lost track. But probably because of Stephanie, it's hitting me exceptionally hard, today, so if you me and I don't answer, or call me and it goes to voice mail, that's why. I'm not looking for sympathy and hugs, either, it's just that I have a thought process going on and it's not comfortable.

On the plus side, last night, I had a REALLY good time. I saw people I love, and I had an entire two drinks and sips of others. (For you people who know me, you know I'm an extreme lightweight, so that's sort of unprecedented. It also made me pretty damned tipsy. But I was sober before bed, so no hangover.)

I made baked beans yesterday, and I thought I'd made enough for everyone to have a good helping and then we'd have enough for dinner for days.

I was wrong. And I was really ok with being so wrong. Because by the time we got done decimating the beans, there was one helping left. One. And this was a BIG pot of beans!

So, the beans:
A 1 lb package of navy beans, soaked overnight
1 large onion, diced
2 12 oz. packages of Hormel Salt Pork, with the rinds cut off and also diced.
1 cup of Grade B maple syrup
1/3 cup of packed brown sugar
1 tsp of dry mustard powder
a big pinch of ginger
a small pinch of salt

I drained the beans, and tossed them in a pot, then covered them with water. I only simmered them for about 20 minutes, as I made these beans on the stovetop anyway. Then I drained them again, and reserved the cooking liquid.

In my big, cast-iron dutch oven, I layered the beans, onion and salt pork.

In a bowl, I mixed the brown sugar, the mustard, the ginger, the salt, and then the maple syrup. I mixed that with a bit of the cooking liquid to dissolve the sugar, and then poured it over the beans. Then I covered the beans with most of the cooking liquid and saved the rest for later, when the water cooked off a bit.

And I simmered those things on my lowest setting on the stovetop for about five hours, mixing at least once an hour to keep the beans from sticking to the bottom. (That was only marginally successful.) At one point, I poured the rest of the cooking liquid in, and for the last half hour, I took the lid off to boil down the liquid a bit and thicken it up.

Oh, god, they were SO GOOD. My son agitated at me from the time he came home until the time they were done and insisted on trying a bean and some of the sauce, and then later, stealing a few more from the pot while I was cooking them down. They were still a little firm, but not crunchy, none of them. The salt pork melted away into deliciousness on the tongue, they were sweet and tangy and with a tiny bit of a bite, and they were a little complex. They made me REALLY happy. And everyone else.

And then, later, I walked into a bedroom with a DISTINCT odor, from a man who really needs to have his intestines cleaned out with a bottle brush, (which the beans tried to do, I suppose.) Ooof. Still, it made for some funny moments. And dinner was worth it.

Current Mood: happy

It's another year and Tadlet is now twelve, today. And he's still generous and smart and frustrating and thoughtful and inconsiderate and all those other things kids are. And he called his dad because it's his birthday and Tadlet was asked what he wanted for his birthday and did he want Skylanders.

Not my kid. I overheard him telling his father that what he wanted was on ThinkGeek.com. And what he asked for was Ten's Sonic Screwdriver.

MY KID IS A GEEK.

So fucking proud.

Happy birthday, Tadlet.

Current Mood: pleased

This is going to be a bit rambly, I'm trying to organize my thoughts, here.

( The long story )
The moral of this story? "No means no" doesn't go far enough. "No means /stop/. Silence isn't consent. Only a yes is a yes. Gentlemen already know this. Creepers don't, and they exploit that there aren't enough gentlemen out there, and that women are scared to come forward.

Current Mood: frustrated

Ok, so, while the entire world is going ga-ga over Prometheus, (a movie I have zero interest in, because I am a fan of sleeping and my suspension of disbelief is awfully good,) I waited eagerly for Rock of Ages.

If you're looking for an intelligent movie with an insanely good plot, and the best covers of 80s hair rock that you've ever heard...this isn't it.

If you're looking for cheesy fun, with 80s montages, one of the funniest sex-scenes I've ever seen, a feel-good ending, and a soundtrack that's going to make you want to headbang and sing along? This is your movie. It was insane amounts of fun, with plenty of silly, and the actors looked like they were having a blast. If it took itself seriously, it'd be Xanadu, but it didn't, and therefore, it's more reminiscent of the Broadway musical version of Xanadu.

Everyone was every bit as good as you'd expect them to be, and sometimes better. There were interesting cameos, (D spotted Deborah Gibson next to Russell Brand in the sing-off against the fake PMRC, for instance,) and I have no idea how Paul Giametti can pretty much turn his eyeballs into dollar signs like in old Bugs Bunny cartoons, but his facial expression was perfect. (When you see it, you'll know what scene I mean.)

Just...go see it. Expect a piece of fluff and enjoy it as such, and you won't be disappointed.

The tradition in this house is that the person celebrating the birthday gets to choose what I cook for their dinner.

Today is

amezuki's birthday and he refuses to decide on a dinner. All he wants is homemade cheesecake. I'm really, really flattered by this. (For my sister's birthday, she's getting potato kugel.)

So, since he wants a fruity one, I'm going to dice up an apple or two and cook it in butter and brown sugar and cinnamon and cloves and ginger. Then, when I pour the cheesecake mixture, I'll pour half of it, toss in a layer of apples, then pour in the other half and bake. Apple pie cheesecake.

Well, not actually band camp. Just went to a major band concert for the schools.  All the elementary schools, the middle school and the high school. It only lasted an hour, and Tadlet sat in the front row, showed off, talked a lot, and actually played his flute. (I was really proud of him, in spite of the teasing. My kid?  No stage fright WHATSOEVER.) But he needs to NOT sit next to his friend during a concert, it's amazing they stopped talking long enough to play.

But seriously, remember the end of "The Music Man"? The part where the kids start playing and they're SO BAD and the parents are kvelling anyway?  Well, these kids were much, much better than that. But we parents were still the same. "THAT'S MY FRANKIE! PLAY TO ME, FRANKIE!"

Next week, he has off: mid-winter break.  (I honestly think kids get more vacations than when I was a kid.) But the band concert's over and I'd very much like him to continue playing music in school.

I like band geeks.

Current Mood: amused

So, as anyone who's been reading me on LJ (or is reading this now,) I have a son, who I've nicknamed "Tadlet." And he's eleven.

Yes. He's actually eleven.

And for some time, he's been bugging me to know why I cry when I cut an onion and bragging that he's immune, because he's never cut one before, and doesn't know what it's like. Until today.

I'm making corned beef, today. (My usual MO for corned beef is one onion, rough-chopped, the pickling spices in a cheesecloth bag or, (as today,) a fill-your-own teabag, and a few spoonsful of brown sugar to offset the salt. Boil until tender. Serve with mashed potatoes.) And so, I cut the onion in half, and then had him peel them and rough-chop them. (Yes. I supervised.) And at first, he didn't get it. Then he started to, as his eyes started to burn. Then it dissipated, and he complained vociferously. So he voluntarily held his head over the pot with the onions in, until his eyes started tearing up, and then he started rubbing his eyes and then I realized that he needed to wash his hands free of onion juice, so I sent him off to do it. Then he came back and declared that he was wrong, he's not immune.

I'm still giggling over this.

Finally found the first post, so anyone who wants to start this blog from the beginning and go through to the end, start here: http://longforgottenhauntedmansion.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2010-04-25T19:40:00-07:00&max-results=1

(Yes, I just linked it AND posted the link. Shut up.)

Man, I feel like I could tell people far more about this ride than anyone cares about, and I haven't even read the book that got written about it. (Although, I now want to.)

So, I was reading TheBloggess.com, a wonderful blog that usually makes me laugh myself silly, and she put up a post about something I've seen before: some of the artwork from the stretching portraits at the Haunted Mansion ride in Disney. (The post in question is here.)(First note: I've never been to Disneyland, just Walt Disney World. And I never went to this ride until Grad Night, in high school. What I discovered that night is that the ride is /charming/. I also discovered that it's a good ride to make out on, as long as you don't get so engrossed that you forget to keep an eye out for mirrors.)

And that post had a link that led me to a blog that is entirely about the Haunted Mansion ride, an utterly fascinating blog that analyses nearly every single thing about that ride, from the Imagineers who created it, to the characters that they wrote and the way that the gags have to be humorous moments that you can pick up on in less than five seconds, to the very wallpaper and the throwaway tidbits that people might not even be able to see, but are there to add to the feeling of the ride.

I do find it fascinating, what people will choose to geek out over, and the fact that the workers on this ride loved it so much that some of them wrote fanfiction about some of the ghosts, which is why the three hitchhiking ghosts, (all three are built around hitchhiker tropes: the Travelling Man, the Escaping Convict and...and the bald one who got named Ezra. And I have just lost what trope he is.) There's also a bride ghost, and the speculation about whether she's one of the ones from the stretching portraits and the family graveyard outside, (although that graveyard has been replace. I never knew that the headstones were either characters or tributes to the imagineers who made it, but either way, I always loved those fake headstones.)

Anyway, the blog is called Long-Forgotten, and it's utterly brilliant. I spent FAR too long reading it last night and plan to go back and read more of it today.

Also, go read the saga of Beyonce, the 5 foot metal chicken. You're welcome for that link.

It's been about a year and a half or so, since I posted here. (I'm not really sure how long, I am having massive brain drain and math is NOT my friend.) (Dreamwidth post, btw. I'm erisiansaint over at DW.)

But what with LJ fun all over the place, I'm thinking this is a good place to be. I should post on my LJ to let everyone know who I am over here, too.

Let's see. In knitting news, I'm working slowly on the Darrin cardigan from Knitty.com. Except I screwed it up and have to rip out pretty much everything I've done except the ribbing. Siiiiiiigh.

In cooking news, on Sunday, we'll be making a ton and a half of ribs, because we all decided to say "screw tradition, we want RIBS." I see no problems with this. Also, sadly, I tried making Smitten Kitchen's maple-nutmeg butter cookies. It was not a good idea. That much nutmeg just tastes WEIRD to me.

I know there's something on BBCA that I want to watch tonight. Now ask me what. Go ahead. I dare you. Then I shall laugh at you.

That's about it, for the moment. I'm going to go have cramps and wait for the Tylenol to kick in.

I am terrified of knitting socks.

I don't begin to understand this. I've knitted 2.5 pairs of Knitty's Twinkletoes, and those have a heel and a toe, and I shall be finishing the end of the third pair as soon as the recipient has tried them on. (If they're too big, which I expect they are, I shall either rip this one out and redo it in a smaller needle size or finish it in this needle size and give them to a different recipient. I haven't decided, yet. Either way, I am dissatisfied with the way the edging turned out, I may knit that back and redo it.)

And yet, I have never knit a pair of socks. Or a sweater. Scarves, shawls, hats, slippers, lace.

Tags:

knitting

The cake ended up getting 2 cups of blueberries in the cake itself, instead of half a cup. The agreement on that side is all positive, we LIKE it that way. (That's not counting the half cup sprinkled on top, so there's a LOT of blueberries in this cake.) The cake? Scrumptious. And a lot like coffee cake. Just talking about it has me wanting some.

Next. I have a cyst on one eyelid, my right one. It hasn't gone away, in spite of doctor's visits and lancing it. I get to visit a specialist to get rid of it, and that's already scheduled, but not until 7:15 am on Aug. 16th. In the meantime, if I sleep lying down, and sometimes when I sleep sitting up, the goddamned thing ends up pressing down on my eyeball and it HURTS, which means I wake up, have to pry the eyelid open with my finger, and then hot compress it. I am also officially sick of feeling like there's a grain of dirt in my eye all the time.

(I woke up that way again, this morning, so I am kvetching.)

That is all.

So, I want to make a cake, Blueberry Boy Bait from Smitten Kitchen. And it's the right time, the You-Pick is open, so yesterday, my boy and I ventured out to go get blueberries. (They're infinitely cheaper when you pick them yourself.)

First stop: the store, for cash and a drink. Next, the farm. Except most of the blueberries were either withered or not ripe yet, so we picked about a cup's worth, checked out, (thirty-six cents) and while it was a lot of fun, we ended up hot, a little tired, and without enough blueberries. Which meant back to the store for blueberries and dinner. (Luckily, the blueberries were on sale.)

I still haven't made the cake yet, I can't bear the thought of turning on the oven, it's too hot.

I went to bed far later than I should. So, that's number one and a given.

Then, my son had a nightmare, two hours after that and woke me up by peering at me and whispering "Mom?" which meant I jumped. I got him settled on the couch and went back to bed.

Half an hour after that, the cat knocked a container of LEGOS off the headboard, causing my SO to yell and jump out of bed, which, (since I had just gotten back to sleep) caused me to scream. It took me a solid half hour to calm down, and another half hour after that to go back to sleep.

Two hours after that, the alarm went off.

One hour after that, I ended up holding a conversation about laundry with my SO.

An hour after that, the cat decided that if he headbutted me enough, I'd let him out. It didn't work.

Half an hour after that, the phone rang.

Another hour after that, I became aware that my son was coming into the bedroom, repeatedly, to see if I was awake, yet. He was very quiet, but I was still noticing.

By which time, my cat had decided that, since I hadn't let him out, yet, he'd start walking around on me.

I have now given up, but I am NOT sentient. And I'm mean. Excuse me, I've got to start laundry.

I'm sure most of you have read about the AAP and the ritual nick rather than actual female genital mutilation. And I've seen a lot of arguments against it.

Some of them are from people I respect, whose arguments I respect, even if I disagree. Some, I respect less, while still disagreeing.

Here's my take on it.

This ritual nick means antiseptics, it means medical supervision, it means less girls taken to other countries to be treated worse than the cattle. If it saves ONE baby girl from being mutilated, it's justified its purpose. If it saves ONE girl from sepsis and death, it's worth it. If it saves a lot more girls? Then it's even more justified. Some things are non-negotiable in our culture.  But by the same token, some things are non-negotiable in other cultures, and if this opens a point of negotiation, isn't that a good thing?

Because, until we find the lever that will force the other countries to stop brutalizing their women, shouldn't we, as thinking people, be doing what we can to find ways to protect them? Even if it means giving a little on things we find horrible, isn't a single drop of blood better than mutilation and possibly death? And please don't give me the 'slippery slope' argument. I don't buy it. There /is/ a line. The line is where you actually start mutilating people.  THAT'S the line, for me.

(And if you want to bring circumcision into it, yes, I have a son. Yes, he is circumcised. Yes, it was done in the hospital, by a doctor, and not by a mohel.  Yes, I do consider it to be a form of mutilation, as it is, in fact, the changing of the body with outside tools. And yes, I've been wondering ever since, if I would have it done again if I had to choose now.  I'm up in the air about it.)

I welcome thoughts, but if you want to flame me, be aware, I flame back.

Edited to add: Thanks to

eevieivy , I can offer this article on female genital mutilation, it's not pleasant, and it's what the ritual nick is supposed to be preventing. It's text, and it's...unreal. I could only scroll down so far, and now I need to go throw up and cry for a while. Yeah. I'll take the nick over this.

A quick update, car related.

Moving.

Job. Period. Stuff.

First day workout.

Death.

Beans of love.

SO PROUD OF MY KID.

Gaming, Rape Culture and You

A belated post: Rock of Ages

Birthday baking

Heee! Band Camp!

Tadlet vs. The Onion.

Haunted Mansion blog first post.

Fascination with geekery.

Huh, it's been some time.

Shhhh, don't tell anyone, it's a secret.

A note about the cake, and eyes.

Amusing story, Blueberry style.

Funny notes in why I never get enough sleep.

The AAP.

Profile

Syndicate

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags