Yesterday there was a lemony pale light creeping cautiously across the gnarled branches and frost whitened leaves outside, landing delicately on the upper cabinets and then sliding slowly down across the oven hood and onto the counter. And why wouldn't it? The poor sun hadn't been out in soon long, I'm sure it had to feel its way around the unfamiliar landscape.
Today the clouds have come down again with iron fist and everything is dismal, as per usual. Today I took a pregnancy test and I am not pregnant. I still have to fight off the lingering urge to go back upstairs and retrieve the test from the waste paper basket, just to check and see if the second line has only just now appeared. Which would be absurd and I am so not doing that.
I'm beginning to think that pregnancy isn't really real. It's not something that actually happens, not in real life. All that fuss about bassinets and swelling ankles and food cravings and stocking up on tiny little diapers is never actually going to happen, they're just stories from somewhere far away and I'm only hearing the echoes.
Also, to compound the misery, I am dreading New Year's Eve. We have plans to go visit one of Keith's friends, who has plans to build a bonfire, which means that every one there will get plastered, as soon as possible and late into the night.
I know this is the point, on New Year's Eve and that is why on New Year's Day no one stirs until 1pm in the afternoon, except the chipmunks and chickadees. (Seriously. I once had the opportunity to walk the streets of Boston early on New Year's Day. It was like the movie "Twenty Eight Days Later: Boston Edition.")
Anyway, my childhood experiences of New Year's Eve were of all night prayer meetings and home baked snack foods that included popcorn and Coolaid. Since then, I've usually been in an apartment somewhere, struggling to stay awake long enough to see the ball drop on TV and drinking one class of affordable champagne or sparkling grape juice.
Part of my dread of this party is due to the fact that I've already seen how a party goes down at this particular friend's house. We arrive and I wander around sticking close to my husband, stiff and awkward and shy. Everyone else has known one another since elementary school.
Other guests arrive who all know one another and who don't know me. They all proceed to get smashed, trade insults and sexual jokes while I sit, awkward and stiff and sober, on the couch and hope not to get noticed. I remain permanently stuck in what I was raised to believe was acceptable social behavior, even though it's clear that there is no need for it in that environment and that I should cast off the restraints and enter the general mayhem with vim and vigor. That, in fact, my remaining hopelessly polite and formal and given to spontaneous displays of naive goodwill (that I hope will make up for my reserve) make me instead appear a complete idiot.
I don't mean to be a snob, I really don't. I want very much for those people to like me, which is why I light up like a stupid Christmas tree if there is a comment or a topic that I can respond to, or a chance for me to display how much I really would like to participate. But in order to fit in, it seems that I must give up who I am. Or at the very least, to get drunk, which is easy enough, one bottle of beer would do it. But frankly, I'm too terrified to get drunk there.
Lastly, it seems the basis for guy/girl interactions is always going to be sex. If I should enter that kind of exchange, even once, it shows clearly that I am open season and I'm really not. I really don't want to flirt with someone who is not my husband. I don't want to receive crude, sexually charged insults, or for that matter, compliments.
So on will go the night. The others will get drunk and begin to pass out, some with snot running down their faces, to the amusement of their companions. Fights, unfocused, between couples, between friends, will begin and end. Someone might propose to someone else, half heartedly, and get half heartedly rejected, the recipient vaguely recalling that perhaps this might not be the scenario of their dreams.
People will go in and out of the house in small groups, looking for more liquor or beer or food or lighter fluid or blankets. The guys, in drunken bravado, will drive small construction utility vehicles around in circles in the mud of the back yard, they will get the golf cart stuck, they will break things. Someone will try to hit on me. The girls will ignore me. Keith will come check on me frequently.
I will remain sitting on the couch until past midnight, watching Reality TV Crash and Burn or Destroyed in an Instant shows, because that was what was on and because I don't know where to sleep. Everyone else will pretty much pass out where ever. Eventually Keith will come and claim me and we will sleep where ever too.
That was just a random party. This is going to be New Year's Eve, for goodness' sake. With a bonfire. It's not going to be better, folks. Maybe I'm just being pessimistic. I certainly feel pessimistic. I'm beginning to wonder; is there any one out there like me? Is there anyone who might enjoy throwing a dinner party with linen napkins and a game of Sorry or Charades afterward? Maybe a nice bottle of wine? I have some French Lick Red, which is heavenly stuff.
On a completely different note, why is it that as the day goes on, the music on any classical station only gets worse? Early in the morning, it's all baroque and Mozart and later in the evening rush, Vivaldi and lovely little string quartets. However, in the barren stretches of mid day, it's as though the jockeys decide, while we are all presumably chained to our desks, to force on us discordant, emotionally bombastic pieces of modern crap.
"They'll never listen to this otherwise," they plot. "Surely if they listen to "Fanfare for the Common Man" enough times they'll like it. I mean, it works for Brittany Spears. Let's foist it on them again...whahahahahaha!"
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
December 28th
A Christmas Retrospective
Things to do:
Plan in advance how much to spend and on whom, add up amount. Divide amount by eleven months. Put resulting sum in special savings account each month so that next Christmas, half the stress can be eliminated.
Shop for Christmas decorations right now, while they are on sale.
Needed items: several long strands of white, outdoor lights and/or net lights. More candle lights to put in windows. Greenery. Christmas cards?
Buy weekly organizer to hang on wall. Use to plan out weekly menus and to organize shopping trips. Buy more recipe cards. (Done...well, couldn't find the weekly organizer. Will think of something.)
Things that worked:
A huge Christmas breakfast. That was awesome, we can do that every year.
Having Keith pick out his own presents and then taking them away and hiding them. This requires fielding many, many insistence queries about said gifts.
Listening to a mix of Classical and Country Christmas carols every morning throughout December. Usually, after Christmas, my biggest regret is that I didn't sing along with and enjoy the carols enough and now the chance is gone for another whole year. This year, however, I was replete with them. (How's that for a sentence?)
Things that didn't work:
Baking a lot, unless I know exactly who is going to eat them, and that person had better not be me.
Going to midnight service. We never made it. I feel fine about not going, but it still remains a pleasant possibility.
Things to try next year:
Picking out large, mutual Christmas gifts, such as a camping tent and ordering or buying them early.
Going to some kind of musical Christmas performance. I miss that.
Things to do:
Plan in advance how much to spend and on whom, add up amount. Divide amount by eleven months. Put resulting sum in special savings account each month so that next Christmas, half the stress can be eliminated.
Shop for Christmas decorations right now, while they are on sale.
Needed items: several long strands of white, outdoor lights and/or net lights. More candle lights to put in windows. Greenery. Christmas cards?
Buy weekly organizer to hang on wall. Use to plan out weekly menus and to organize shopping trips. Buy more recipe cards. (Done...well, couldn't find the weekly organizer. Will think of something.)
Things that worked:
A huge Christmas breakfast. That was awesome, we can do that every year.
Having Keith pick out his own presents and then taking them away and hiding them. This requires fielding many, many insistence queries about said gifts.
Listening to a mix of Classical and Country Christmas carols every morning throughout December. Usually, after Christmas, my biggest regret is that I didn't sing along with and enjoy the carols enough and now the chance is gone for another whole year. This year, however, I was replete with them. (How's that for a sentence?)
Things that didn't work:
Baking a lot, unless I know exactly who is going to eat them, and that person had better not be me.
Going to midnight service. We never made it. I feel fine about not going, but it still remains a pleasant possibility.
Things to try next year:
Picking out large, mutual Christmas gifts, such as a camping tent and ordering or buying them early.
Going to some kind of musical Christmas performance. I miss that.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
December 23rd
Christmas Itinerary '09
Today:
Face up to my craven Christmas cookie fear and actually decorate them. (Yes, that's right. I haven't finished them yet. Sigh.)
Clean up resulting chaos.
Eat leftovers (made roast last night).
Christmas Eve:
Bake some kind of cake, recipe as yet unknown, for unexpected dinner guests. I'm thinking, like a cinnamon coffee cake? (Keith, though he is still officially going through inprocessing himself, has been put in charge of it, as everyone else is off on block leave. He met this young soldier who just came back from Korea and reunited with his wife, who was waiting for him with her family in another state. Together, they have absolutely nothing and have been here only five days. We gave them our extra furniture and invited them to dinner tomorrow. They're good people, a little younger than we are, with a toddler.)
Wrap gifts that Keith picked out for himself and has now forgotten ( Ha, btw. I am a clever, clever wife. All I had to do was convince him not to use the objects and after I hid them for a day, he forgot what they were.)
Prepare dinner meal:
Merlot or Sparkling Cranberry Cocktail
Cranberry Glazed Pork Loin Roast
Whole Wheat Dinner Rolls
Yam and Apple Bake
Velvetta Broccoli or Green Beans saute with Sweet Onions
Some Kind of Cake and Sugar Cookies
Coffee
No one will be suffering from constipation after that meal, let me tell you. And I haven't done the Loin Roast before, so here's hoping it will come out right.
Christmas Morning:
Open gifts.
Prepare Christmas Breakfast:
Buttermilk Pancakes with maple syrup or cranberry glaze.
Maple Sausage
Maple Bacon
Tropical Fruit salad with fresh mangoes, kiwis, pineapple and oranges.
Orange juice and Coffee
Clean resulting chaos.
Bake Cranberry Orange Loaf for Keith's mother's Christmas and the brownies for the Double Chocolate Mocha Trifle that is destined for Keith's father's Christmas.
Make Pinapple and Pepperoni Pizza for a laid back Christmas dinner.
Collapse and drink cocoa.
Day After Christmas:
Finish Double Chocolate Mocha Trifle.
Drive up to Indiana and play a Yankee Gift Swap at Keith's mom's house.
Go immediately to Keith's father's house for massive dinner and probably some poker.
Return home and collapse.
Months later:
Still be trying to work off the extra Christmas weight.
After I figured out that for me, some of the best parts of celebrating Christmas are centered around good food, I decided to make sure and provide some. I have already done all my shopping and I feel this wonderful sense of peace and anticipation. As I wrote all this stuff out, though, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I have a little too many cranberries on the menu this year.
Today:
Face up to my craven Christmas cookie fear and actually decorate them. (Yes, that's right. I haven't finished them yet. Sigh.)
Clean up resulting chaos.
Eat leftovers (made roast last night).
Christmas Eve:
Bake some kind of cake, recipe as yet unknown, for unexpected dinner guests. I'm thinking, like a cinnamon coffee cake? (Keith, though he is still officially going through inprocessing himself, has been put in charge of it, as everyone else is off on block leave. He met this young soldier who just came back from Korea and reunited with his wife, who was waiting for him with her family in another state. Together, they have absolutely nothing and have been here only five days. We gave them our extra furniture and invited them to dinner tomorrow. They're good people, a little younger than we are, with a toddler.)
Wrap gifts that Keith picked out for himself and has now forgotten ( Ha, btw. I am a clever, clever wife. All I had to do was convince him not to use the objects and after I hid them for a day, he forgot what they were.)
Prepare dinner meal:
Merlot or Sparkling Cranberry Cocktail
Cranberry Glazed Pork Loin Roast
Whole Wheat Dinner Rolls
Yam and Apple Bake
Velvetta Broccoli or Green Beans saute with Sweet Onions
Some Kind of Cake and Sugar Cookies
Coffee
No one will be suffering from constipation after that meal, let me tell you. And I haven't done the Loin Roast before, so here's hoping it will come out right.
Christmas Morning:
Open gifts.
Prepare Christmas Breakfast:
Buttermilk Pancakes with maple syrup or cranberry glaze.
Maple Sausage
Maple Bacon
Tropical Fruit salad with fresh mangoes, kiwis, pineapple and oranges.
Orange juice and Coffee
Clean resulting chaos.
Bake Cranberry Orange Loaf for Keith's mother's Christmas and the brownies for the Double Chocolate Mocha Trifle that is destined for Keith's father's Christmas.
Make Pinapple and Pepperoni Pizza for a laid back Christmas dinner.
Collapse and drink cocoa.
Day After Christmas:
Finish Double Chocolate Mocha Trifle.
Drive up to Indiana and play a Yankee Gift Swap at Keith's mom's house.
Go immediately to Keith's father's house for massive dinner and probably some poker.
Return home and collapse.
Months later:
Still be trying to work off the extra Christmas weight.
After I figured out that for me, some of the best parts of celebrating Christmas are centered around good food, I decided to make sure and provide some. I have already done all my shopping and I feel this wonderful sense of peace and anticipation. As I wrote all this stuff out, though, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I have a little too many cranberries on the menu this year.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
December 22nd
On making sugar cookies:
If the recipe calls for five and a half cups of flour, you might want to take note and consider the very real possibility of producing at least two dozen or so more cookies than you might need.
Even after chilling overnight, the dough is still going to be so sticky that it will require at least a cup more flour on every surface that touches the cookie dough. Eventually, that flour will be everywhere, from the handle of the stove to your clothing to the oven mitt.
Before beginning cookies, make sure you have all the proper utensils, or you may, like myself, find yourself rolling out the cookie dough using an aluminum Ozark Trail water bottle. Now, this may work well enough, but it's just not the thing, if you know what I mean.
Now I have countless sugar cookies overflowing my largest container. They sit on the counter, waiting for me to gather my courage to tackle the next phase: frosting and decorating.
Here's the plan. I will toast the coconut flakes I bought a few days ago on a whim. I will look up and make some kind of delicious frosting. I will frost the cookies and place cookies frosting side down onto plate of toasted coconut. This will produce a very elegantly decorated and scrumptious cookie creation with the crisp white of the frosting contrasting with the golden texture of the coconut in a modern twist. Or not.
That's the plan but I don't mind admitting I'm frankly scared to begin. I mean, what awaits me in the midst of that process, bound to take up an entire afternoon? Doubtless frosting will get everywhere. Doubtless I will not toast enough coconut and will need to toast more half way through the process, slip on frosting and burn the house down. Or something.
If I manage to survive that step and actually decorate them all, where will I lay out the finished product? I don't have enough flat surfaces; I foresee cookies covering every inch of counter, on baking sheets and in nine by thirteen casserole pans, enveloping the dining room table where the dogs will get at them.
And last but not least, what in the name of Pete will I do with all the cookies when I'm done? Keith doesn't really like sugar cookies, though I almost won him over with this recipe. The good neighbors Larry are no longer next door to receive extra baked goods. I have no work to bring them to, in order to fob them off to co workers. Same goes for church.
At least I'm thinking through these things now, instead of half way through. And I'm already thinking about the wonderful layer of memory that will unfold next year, when I pull this recipe card from the box and dust it off.
Suddenly I'll remember vividly that first real Christmas of ours, down deep in the woods in Kentucky, when all it did was rain and we were stressed to the point of bursting by the adjustment to work and a new house. I'll remember the chaos over the gifts and hours spent over the stove, making way too many sugar cookies.
But by then it will be amusing and I'll think tenderly of us, young and bumbling about, trying to make traditions and order, adjusting to one another and the new setting. And that year, next year, maybe I'll remember to halve the recipe.
If the recipe calls for five and a half cups of flour, you might want to take note and consider the very real possibility of producing at least two dozen or so more cookies than you might need.
Even after chilling overnight, the dough is still going to be so sticky that it will require at least a cup more flour on every surface that touches the cookie dough. Eventually, that flour will be everywhere, from the handle of the stove to your clothing to the oven mitt.
Before beginning cookies, make sure you have all the proper utensils, or you may, like myself, find yourself rolling out the cookie dough using an aluminum Ozark Trail water bottle. Now, this may work well enough, but it's just not the thing, if you know what I mean.
Now I have countless sugar cookies overflowing my largest container. They sit on the counter, waiting for me to gather my courage to tackle the next phase: frosting and decorating.
Here's the plan. I will toast the coconut flakes I bought a few days ago on a whim. I will look up and make some kind of delicious frosting. I will frost the cookies and place cookies frosting side down onto plate of toasted coconut. This will produce a very elegantly decorated and scrumptious cookie creation with the crisp white of the frosting contrasting with the golden texture of the coconut in a modern twist. Or not.
That's the plan but I don't mind admitting I'm frankly scared to begin. I mean, what awaits me in the midst of that process, bound to take up an entire afternoon? Doubtless frosting will get everywhere. Doubtless I will not toast enough coconut and will need to toast more half way through the process, slip on frosting and burn the house down. Or something.
If I manage to survive that step and actually decorate them all, where will I lay out the finished product? I don't have enough flat surfaces; I foresee cookies covering every inch of counter, on baking sheets and in nine by thirteen casserole pans, enveloping the dining room table where the dogs will get at them.
And last but not least, what in the name of Pete will I do with all the cookies when I'm done? Keith doesn't really like sugar cookies, though I almost won him over with this recipe. The good neighbors Larry are no longer next door to receive extra baked goods. I have no work to bring them to, in order to fob them off to co workers. Same goes for church.
At least I'm thinking through these things now, instead of half way through. And I'm already thinking about the wonderful layer of memory that will unfold next year, when I pull this recipe card from the box and dust it off.
Suddenly I'll remember vividly that first real Christmas of ours, down deep in the woods in Kentucky, when all it did was rain and we were stressed to the point of bursting by the adjustment to work and a new house. I'll remember the chaos over the gifts and hours spent over the stove, making way too many sugar cookies.
But by then it will be amusing and I'll think tenderly of us, young and bumbling about, trying to make traditions and order, adjusting to one another and the new setting. And that year, next year, maybe I'll remember to halve the recipe.
Monday, December 21, 2009
December 21st
Bah and humbug.
Such are my sentiments on the darkest day of the year. Gosh, where do I begin? How about with a cry from the depth of my very soul:
"Someone, for the love of Pete, send my husband back to work!!!"
He was recently given the position of platoon sergeant. This is great and unexpected. But it doesn't start until January 4th and until that time, the only person my husband has available to whip into shape is yours truly.
Case in point: this morning. Now, since I wasn't naturally falling into a good rhythm, Keith decided it would be good just to impose one. A tenant of this rhythm is waking up at eight am.
Cue the lights:
Wife asleep in bed at five thirty, being woken up by husband expressing remorse for being hyper and exuberant night before, which kept her up past midnight. Wife mumbles acceptance of apology.
Husband heads off to work....
Wife woken up by husband pounding on the door and leaning on the doorbell just one hour later.
"I'm home for good!" cries husband, to his sleep walking and yet horrified wife. Husband then bursts into wide grin..."Just kidding!"
Wife drags her weary self back to bed. One hour later, she's woken by the bedroom door flung open, the lights flipped on and her husband barking at her that it's time to get up, get up, get up, get up! Rise and shine! Wakey wakey!
"Go away!" shouts wife, to no avail.
Husband leaves several minutes later, reluctantly, and with the threat that he will return in exactly eight minutes and if wife is not out of bed by then, he will absolutely tip her and the mattress over onto the floor.
"Just see if I won't," growls Staff Sergeant.
Wife drags her ass out of bed, washes face, brushes teeth and makes bed. Staff Sergeant returns to tell her that he is going back to work and wants good bye kisses.
And that was just this morning. I thought the weekend would never end.
Case in point: yesterday morning.
"What do you want to make me for lunch?" calls husband from couch.
"What time is it?" queries wife, startled, looking up from her coffee and reading. It's ten forty five. Oh well. "How about tuna fish?" she offers. "Or, we have bacon...how about BLTs?"
"How about both?" asked husband, excited.
"Fine, fine," agrees wife, who gets up to begin process of preparing two different lunches. She realizes the bacon is frozen and will have to be dethawed. She has yet to figure out how to use the dethawing option on the new microwave and knows that she will end up half cooking the bacon, but there's no use, in it goes.
She opens cans, slices tomatoes, checks on bacon, still manages to half cook it, and then begins the process of officially cooking it, five slices at a time. She gets out bread, mayo, baby spinach. She assembles one tuna sandwich the way husband prefers: with nothing but mayo.
She hands over said sandwich to reclining husband and returns to the kitchen, where she prepares to chop a small pickle for her own tuna sandwich.
"This is the worst sandwich I've ever had," husband calls to her from couch. "If I weren't so hungry, I wouldn't even eat it."
Wife pauses and wonders what response she should give to this little gem. "That's because there's nothing on it," she offers, eventually. "I offered to dress it up for you."
The BLT sandwich she soon presents him with gets his full approval. "This is the best sandwich I've ever had. Seriously. The best sandwich. Can I have another?"
She gives him the next one and then finishes her own tuna sandwich, with pickle, onion and cilantro, baby spinach and tomato. Husband tastes it and likes it so much that he then wants the rest of that sandwich. Wife, knowing she is going to have a BLT, gives him the rest of her tuna and goes in to finish her next sandwich.
Husband eyes her BLT from his couch when she emerges from the kitchen, but wife defends her bacon by glaring at him. After she has eaten, wife gets up to begin cleaning the wreck of kitchen, while husband snuggles back down into the couch.
End scene.
And that was just lunch. This house does not suit us. Before, Keith had the entire two and a half car garage as his castle, his domain. He spent hours in there, doing what exactly I have no idea. But content.
Now, he has his man room and it's just not the same. The only thing he can do in the man room is watch TV or play video games. There's only so much of that an average human can take in one day.
Before, he had work to take some of the energy out of him. But since August all we have had is moving, block leave and half days. That is a ton of free time. That is three months more of free time than any couple should have to handle.
Normally, I love cooking, cleaning, preparing food. Normally, I wake up at eight thirty, ready to begin the day. Normally, Keith came home for lunch or breakfast and then disappeared again until dinner. This delightful schedule gave me time to get stuff done, find my center, and be productive in many different ways, from writing to dusting. Most importantly, it engendered appreciation for the returning husband, weary from work and pleasure in presenting him with clean house and hot food, fait accompli.
However, nothing is normal anymore. He comes, he goes. Mostly he stays. And when he stays, he needs to be fed and entertained, all day long. He pays close attention to everything I do and tells me I should be doing it another way, or not at all, or a lot more of it.
I think he's jumpy about his new job; he's a young platoon sergeant and will be supervising other men his own rank, some of whom will be older. He's the kind of guy that wants to dive headfirst into any challenge and beat it into submission with the force of his will.
It makes him an excellent NCO. And normally, I find this John Wayne-esce masculinity very attractive; in fact, I still do. I just wish it weren't so focused on me twenty four seven, thank you very much. Just in case anyone wonders, by the way, of course I am incredibly grateful that he's here with me, even if he's annoying the very stuffing out of me, than away Over There. It's just not even a question.
We have the rest of this Christmas week to finish up, visits to family and then another week. Heaven help me. At least from here on out, the days will begin to grow longer. And we figured out the gift situation and the Christmas party situation. And I have sugar cookie dough waiting for me in the fridge, with brand new cookie cutters.
I bought those at the enchanting all purpose store I blogged about a little while back. Love that store; the cashier remembered me. Also, I think they remembered me at the grocery store as well and the matronly cashier there set me up with a store card.
"We all can use a little extra savings," she said warmly, woman to woman.
"Isn't that the truth!" I agreed, grinning.
I must away, to dethaw ground beef for a Mexican dinner day and to begin Christmas cookie therapy while my husband is away at work. Oh, blissful serenity!
Such are my sentiments on the darkest day of the year. Gosh, where do I begin? How about with a cry from the depth of my very soul:
"Someone, for the love of Pete, send my husband back to work!!!"
He was recently given the position of platoon sergeant. This is great and unexpected. But it doesn't start until January 4th and until that time, the only person my husband has available to whip into shape is yours truly.
Case in point: this morning. Now, since I wasn't naturally falling into a good rhythm, Keith decided it would be good just to impose one. A tenant of this rhythm is waking up at eight am.
Cue the lights:
Wife asleep in bed at five thirty, being woken up by husband expressing remorse for being hyper and exuberant night before, which kept her up past midnight. Wife mumbles acceptance of apology.
Husband heads off to work....
Wife woken up by husband pounding on the door and leaning on the doorbell just one hour later.
"I'm home for good!" cries husband, to his sleep walking and yet horrified wife. Husband then bursts into wide grin..."Just kidding!"
Wife drags her weary self back to bed. One hour later, she's woken by the bedroom door flung open, the lights flipped on and her husband barking at her that it's time to get up, get up, get up, get up! Rise and shine! Wakey wakey!
"Go away!" shouts wife, to no avail.
Husband leaves several minutes later, reluctantly, and with the threat that he will return in exactly eight minutes and if wife is not out of bed by then, he will absolutely tip her and the mattress over onto the floor.
"Just see if I won't," growls Staff Sergeant.
Wife drags her ass out of bed, washes face, brushes teeth and makes bed. Staff Sergeant returns to tell her that he is going back to work and wants good bye kisses.
And that was just this morning. I thought the weekend would never end.
Case in point: yesterday morning.
"What do you want to make me for lunch?" calls husband from couch.
"What time is it?" queries wife, startled, looking up from her coffee and reading. It's ten forty five. Oh well. "How about tuna fish?" she offers. "Or, we have bacon...how about BLTs?"
"How about both?" asked husband, excited.
"Fine, fine," agrees wife, who gets up to begin process of preparing two different lunches. She realizes the bacon is frozen and will have to be dethawed. She has yet to figure out how to use the dethawing option on the new microwave and knows that she will end up half cooking the bacon, but there's no use, in it goes.
She opens cans, slices tomatoes, checks on bacon, still manages to half cook it, and then begins the process of officially cooking it, five slices at a time. She gets out bread, mayo, baby spinach. She assembles one tuna sandwich the way husband prefers: with nothing but mayo.
She hands over said sandwich to reclining husband and returns to the kitchen, where she prepares to chop a small pickle for her own tuna sandwich.
"This is the worst sandwich I've ever had," husband calls to her from couch. "If I weren't so hungry, I wouldn't even eat it."
Wife pauses and wonders what response she should give to this little gem. "That's because there's nothing on it," she offers, eventually. "I offered to dress it up for you."
The BLT sandwich she soon presents him with gets his full approval. "This is the best sandwich I've ever had. Seriously. The best sandwich. Can I have another?"
She gives him the next one and then finishes her own tuna sandwich, with pickle, onion and cilantro, baby spinach and tomato. Husband tastes it and likes it so much that he then wants the rest of that sandwich. Wife, knowing she is going to have a BLT, gives him the rest of her tuna and goes in to finish her next sandwich.
Husband eyes her BLT from his couch when she emerges from the kitchen, but wife defends her bacon by glaring at him. After she has eaten, wife gets up to begin cleaning the wreck of kitchen, while husband snuggles back down into the couch.
End scene.
And that was just lunch. This house does not suit us. Before, Keith had the entire two and a half car garage as his castle, his domain. He spent hours in there, doing what exactly I have no idea. But content.
Now, he has his man room and it's just not the same. The only thing he can do in the man room is watch TV or play video games. There's only so much of that an average human can take in one day.
Before, he had work to take some of the energy out of him. But since August all we have had is moving, block leave and half days. That is a ton of free time. That is three months more of free time than any couple should have to handle.
Normally, I love cooking, cleaning, preparing food. Normally, I wake up at eight thirty, ready to begin the day. Normally, Keith came home for lunch or breakfast and then disappeared again until dinner. This delightful schedule gave me time to get stuff done, find my center, and be productive in many different ways, from writing to dusting. Most importantly, it engendered appreciation for the returning husband, weary from work and pleasure in presenting him with clean house and hot food, fait accompli.
However, nothing is normal anymore. He comes, he goes. Mostly he stays. And when he stays, he needs to be fed and entertained, all day long. He pays close attention to everything I do and tells me I should be doing it another way, or not at all, or a lot more of it.
I think he's jumpy about his new job; he's a young platoon sergeant and will be supervising other men his own rank, some of whom will be older. He's the kind of guy that wants to dive headfirst into any challenge and beat it into submission with the force of his will.
It makes him an excellent NCO. And normally, I find this John Wayne-esce masculinity very attractive; in fact, I still do. I just wish it weren't so focused on me twenty four seven, thank you very much. Just in case anyone wonders, by the way, of course I am incredibly grateful that he's here with me, even if he's annoying the very stuffing out of me, than away Over There. It's just not even a question.
We have the rest of this Christmas week to finish up, visits to family and then another week. Heaven help me. At least from here on out, the days will begin to grow longer. And we figured out the gift situation and the Christmas party situation. And I have sugar cookie dough waiting for me in the fridge, with brand new cookie cutters.
I bought those at the enchanting all purpose store I blogged about a little while back. Love that store; the cashier remembered me. Also, I think they remembered me at the grocery store as well and the matronly cashier there set me up with a store card.
"We all can use a little extra savings," she said warmly, woman to woman.
"Isn't that the truth!" I agreed, grinning.
I must away, to dethaw ground beef for a Mexican dinner day and to begin Christmas cookie therapy while my husband is away at work. Oh, blissful serenity!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
December Something-th
I think maybe the fifteenth.
I am tired. It's that time of the month for extreme tiredness to hit home and it sure has. It doesn't help that today is like the hundredth day in a row for it to be dark, cloudy and dreary with no chance of snow. It is so dark right now that Direct TV cannot pick up the satellite signal.
I feel like everything is catching up with me, all the unsettling things that happened in the last half a year. Catching up might not be the best phrase, maybe more like "hitting me broadside like a wrecking ball." Even Keith asked me yesterday if I was depressed and I didn't like to admit that I am, even though I know this is also just partly my cycle.
But it's more than that, its the time of year, the distance from family, the short, dark days, the upheaval and surprisingly, I think it is also the lack of anything to do.
I mean, I have stuff to do, but it isn't pressing. Stuff like cleaning the bathtubs. It's not work.
A few days ago I got all caught up in the idea of doing foster parenting. Like, to the point of finding all about the first step, where the information meeting is held in our county and reading all kinds of articles and stories from case workers and foster parents and children who went through the system.
I looked through the faces of all the waiting children; those children who are in the foster system but want to be adopted. Naturally, this made me cry and I immediately wanted to adopt several of them, mostly twelve year old boys whom no one else would want, because they're already too old and probably difficult.
It was all sheer insanity, of course. I can't possibly begin the process of foster parenting, one that would take four to six months, while at the same time attempting to get pregnant for the first time. It wouldn't be right for anyone and Keith was helpful in reminding me of this.
I was heart broken all the same.
Since high school, I've held a job. I've been a preschool teacher's aid, worked the double weekend shift at a rehabilitation center for physically and mentally handicapped children, taught English in South Korea and been a care taker for those with Alzheimer's. The one job I had that did not involve taking care of people in some way was when I worked with my father as a upholsterer.
Clearly, I have realized lately, I am drawn the to the human service industry. It wasn't just chance, it must be that I have a drive to invest myself in the lives of other people, especially people that I see as vulnerable.
It must be that I cannot simply and happily check out of the working world in order to become a housewife, though this has been a glittering and elusive goal of mine during the entire time I was working. Which goes to show that one should be grateful wherever one is, the grass is always going to be greener on the other side.
The other thing that I understood better from all of this was that I'm tired of being self absorbed. Self absorption is not always such a bad thing; when going through therapy it is essential and two or so years ago, it was where I needed to be.
Trauma therapy is especially difficult and even after leaving active therapy, I frequently needed to "check in" with myself and puzzle something out.
This need, however, has been steadily dwindling. I'm beginning to be less and less interested in myself. This has coupled itself with a growing awareness of how much resource I have in my life. I have a commited, wonderful husband and a solid marriage that continues to grow and challenge us both. I have a three bedroom, three bathroom house. I have a savings account, I have time on my hands, I have emotional stability and insight. I have all this stuff, and I want to invest it in something worthwhile.
Hence the headlong plunge into foster parenting and/or adoption.
So, what should I do? Should I look for a job in the human services field here? But I'm no longer able to do lifts, because of my back. I know this disqualifies me from most positions and Keith would prefer me to stay home anyway.
Should I just wait and hope for a baby to come and take up all this space and time I have right now? But who knows how long that will take?
Should I just invest myself in being the absolute perfect housewife ever? I'm thinking that's not so realistic. I mean, I am domesticated and organized, but filling the hours with miscellaneous, knit picking tasks? Not so compelling.
You know what the other thing is; the other thing is lack of control. I can't control getting pregnant, damn it. I can't make it happen and it's driving me nuts. If I could just get pregnant, suddenly longed for vision, goals and tasks appear, all of which blend perfectly with current circumstance.
I'm thinking the only real answer is the boring one of acknowledging my lack of control, investing in the present instead of constantly longing for the "perfect" future and deciding to live in the question; the question of what I should be doing until I figure it out and/or God makes it clear for me.
It might take some time and living in the question is always uncomfortable, but that's where I am so I might as well face it. That little song comes to mind, that one I used to sing at early Summer Conventions and during Sunday school:
"This is the day that the Lord has made; I will rejoice and be glad in it."
So on that note, I will go joyfully take the dogs for a walk and be grateful I live in a beautiful place full of oak trees and moss, and glad that I have the leisure to do so, even if the moss is from all this stupid rain.
I am tired. It's that time of the month for extreme tiredness to hit home and it sure has. It doesn't help that today is like the hundredth day in a row for it to be dark, cloudy and dreary with no chance of snow. It is so dark right now that Direct TV cannot pick up the satellite signal.
I feel like everything is catching up with me, all the unsettling things that happened in the last half a year. Catching up might not be the best phrase, maybe more like "hitting me broadside like a wrecking ball." Even Keith asked me yesterday if I was depressed and I didn't like to admit that I am, even though I know this is also just partly my cycle.
But it's more than that, its the time of year, the distance from family, the short, dark days, the upheaval and surprisingly, I think it is also the lack of anything to do.
I mean, I have stuff to do, but it isn't pressing. Stuff like cleaning the bathtubs. It's not work.
A few days ago I got all caught up in the idea of doing foster parenting. Like, to the point of finding all about the first step, where the information meeting is held in our county and reading all kinds of articles and stories from case workers and foster parents and children who went through the system.
I looked through the faces of all the waiting children; those children who are in the foster system but want to be adopted. Naturally, this made me cry and I immediately wanted to adopt several of them, mostly twelve year old boys whom no one else would want, because they're already too old and probably difficult.
It was all sheer insanity, of course. I can't possibly begin the process of foster parenting, one that would take four to six months, while at the same time attempting to get pregnant for the first time. It wouldn't be right for anyone and Keith was helpful in reminding me of this.
I was heart broken all the same.
Since high school, I've held a job. I've been a preschool teacher's aid, worked the double weekend shift at a rehabilitation center for physically and mentally handicapped children, taught English in South Korea and been a care taker for those with Alzheimer's. The one job I had that did not involve taking care of people in some way was when I worked with my father as a upholsterer.
Clearly, I have realized lately, I am drawn the to the human service industry. It wasn't just chance, it must be that I have a drive to invest myself in the lives of other people, especially people that I see as vulnerable.
It must be that I cannot simply and happily check out of the working world in order to become a housewife, though this has been a glittering and elusive goal of mine during the entire time I was working. Which goes to show that one should be grateful wherever one is, the grass is always going to be greener on the other side.
The other thing that I understood better from all of this was that I'm tired of being self absorbed. Self absorption is not always such a bad thing; when going through therapy it is essential and two or so years ago, it was where I needed to be.
Trauma therapy is especially difficult and even after leaving active therapy, I frequently needed to "check in" with myself and puzzle something out.
This need, however, has been steadily dwindling. I'm beginning to be less and less interested in myself. This has coupled itself with a growing awareness of how much resource I have in my life. I have a commited, wonderful husband and a solid marriage that continues to grow and challenge us both. I have a three bedroom, three bathroom house. I have a savings account, I have time on my hands, I have emotional stability and insight. I have all this stuff, and I want to invest it in something worthwhile.
Hence the headlong plunge into foster parenting and/or adoption.
So, what should I do? Should I look for a job in the human services field here? But I'm no longer able to do lifts, because of my back. I know this disqualifies me from most positions and Keith would prefer me to stay home anyway.
Should I just wait and hope for a baby to come and take up all this space and time I have right now? But who knows how long that will take?
Should I just invest myself in being the absolute perfect housewife ever? I'm thinking that's not so realistic. I mean, I am domesticated and organized, but filling the hours with miscellaneous, knit picking tasks? Not so compelling.
You know what the other thing is; the other thing is lack of control. I can't control getting pregnant, damn it. I can't make it happen and it's driving me nuts. If I could just get pregnant, suddenly longed for vision, goals and tasks appear, all of which blend perfectly with current circumstance.
I'm thinking the only real answer is the boring one of acknowledging my lack of control, investing in the present instead of constantly longing for the "perfect" future and deciding to live in the question; the question of what I should be doing until I figure it out and/or God makes it clear for me.
It might take some time and living in the question is always uncomfortable, but that's where I am so I might as well face it. That little song comes to mind, that one I used to sing at early Summer Conventions and during Sunday school:
"This is the day that the Lord has made; I will rejoice and be glad in it."
So on that note, I will go joyfully take the dogs for a walk and be grateful I live in a beautiful place full of oak trees and moss, and glad that I have the leisure to do so, even if the moss is from all this stupid rain.
Friday, December 11, 2009
December 11th
The hubby is away on a four wheeler trip with his brother and won't be back until Sunday. It's the first time we've been away from each other overnight voluntarily. It was like playing at goodbye when he left late this morning, all the increased tingling feeling and yummy tiptoe kissing without any of the agony.
I heard something lately that helped illuminate my own point of view on the health care reform and that is: heath care is a commodity and not a right. I keep hearing how health care should be the right of every American citizen.
Why? If health care is that important, then why isn't food or shelter? If the government is going to provide health care, shouldn't it also ensure a chicken dinner and a two bedroom bungalow with attached garage?
Of course the system needs reform. But not on the basis of a new governmental and unconstitutional right. It should be market based to lower the cost of health care.
We don't need more insurance, insurance is a third party. Everyone knows third parties drive up costs, that's what makes whole salers so successful, they cut out the middle man. We need insurance for catastrophic events, to cover for anything that would bankrupt a person such a cancer. We need to pay out of pocket, directly, for regular health services.
It's like car insurance. We don't buy car insurance for oil changes, that would be crazy. We just figure to pay that out of pocket and we look for the service that we like best. We can go to the person around the corner that we know or to the national chain or to Walmart to save money. The insurance is to cover for car wrecks and major damage.
Same deal should apply to health insurance. But it's not a right. And if it was a right, wouldn't the right to food or to shelter be even more important to assure? If it's a crime for an American to be without health insurance, what does it mean that so many are homeless?
Also, as it comes closer to passing, I'm beginning to look seriously at the possibility of my tax dollars going to pay for someone else's abortion. It makes me want to commit tax fraud for the first time since I began earning a wage.
I don't like talking about abortion too much, as it is a hot button issue. If someone says they're pro choice, I don't engage them in a discussion on the topic. I used to; I used to debate this in middle school, when my father was a pro life lobbyist in the New Hampshire Senate.
My friends were mainly pro choice with a liberal mind set in general. The things about their arguments that bothered me most were the statements that a fetus is not: a. human or b. alive.
They had this point of view that, especially early on in pregnancy, during the first trimester, the pregnancy is mainly a bunch of cells. It doesn't have a soul, it's not a person; you'd have to use a microscope to see it.
This still bothers me. If it's not human, what is it then? Sex's sole biological purpose is for reproduction. Two human beings who have had sex and conceived are not going to give birth to a species of plant. Does a fetus assume humanity at some point in it's cellular development? If so, at what point does the product of human reproduction become human?
It's a ridiculous argument. Of course a fetus is human. He or she has human DNA. And not the mother's DNA, not just any DNA. Her very own DNA, the unique code of human life that will guide her growth in life from conception through childhood, adolescence, early adulthood and into old age. She will go through many different physical stages in life, a life that started at conception.
And of course the fetus is alive. From the point of conception the human is developing exactly as planned, cells dividing, growing. That's life. If she were dead, it would be called a miscarriage.
Pro choice defenders often use the phrase that woman should have control over her own body. I absolutely agree. A woman should. But a fetus is not a part of her own body, a fetus is another person entirely. A person that didn't ask to be conceived, that was conceived by an action of the mother.
At this point, my friends would raise the ever present question of "What if the fetus is the product of rape?" If a person has been raped, they should not be forced to carry that pregnancy. No one questions this being a horrible and emotionally gut wrenching situation.
But firstly, only about two percent of all abortions are due to rape or incest and secondly, let's not close our eyes to what it would be; we would be allowing the death of an innocent human because of the violent act of another. It is a terrible and sobering choice.
That's the main thing about the whole situation, I guess. It's closing one's eyes to the reality of what abortion is. Legal abortion is allowing a mother to have the right to kill her own offspring before she brings that offspring to term.
If this is what we want, if we have decided that the unborn have no rights, are not human, not somehow fully alive, then fine, look that straight in the face and agree to it. But let's not hide that truth behind some high sounding rhetoric and stirring calls for "woman's rights" as though the woman were the only human whose rights are involved.
It amazed me, by the way, when Hilary Clinton referred to the death of so many unborn Chinese girls as "infanticide."
Wait a moment while I close my mouth........ So, abortion is infanticide only when the abortion involves only female fetuses? Where is the logic? I venture to say, there is none. Either unborn children have a right to life or they do not. Gender does not make a difference to the morality or amorality of the choice.
Pro choice supporters will never agree with me. My friends and I never reached a lasting compromise and that was fine; we continued as friends. Maybe legalized abortion will continue on indefinitely in this country. I resigned myself to this a while ago.
But don't ask me to help pay for other people's abortions, because that's crossing a line I can't live with. And now I'm going to my lonely but snore free bed.
I heard something lately that helped illuminate my own point of view on the health care reform and that is: heath care is a commodity and not a right. I keep hearing how health care should be the right of every American citizen.
Why? If health care is that important, then why isn't food or shelter? If the government is going to provide health care, shouldn't it also ensure a chicken dinner and a two bedroom bungalow with attached garage?
Of course the system needs reform. But not on the basis of a new governmental and unconstitutional right. It should be market based to lower the cost of health care.
We don't need more insurance, insurance is a third party. Everyone knows third parties drive up costs, that's what makes whole salers so successful, they cut out the middle man. We need insurance for catastrophic events, to cover for anything that would bankrupt a person such a cancer. We need to pay out of pocket, directly, for regular health services.
It's like car insurance. We don't buy car insurance for oil changes, that would be crazy. We just figure to pay that out of pocket and we look for the service that we like best. We can go to the person around the corner that we know or to the national chain or to Walmart to save money. The insurance is to cover for car wrecks and major damage.
Same deal should apply to health insurance. But it's not a right. And if it was a right, wouldn't the right to food or to shelter be even more important to assure? If it's a crime for an American to be without health insurance, what does it mean that so many are homeless?
Also, as it comes closer to passing, I'm beginning to look seriously at the possibility of my tax dollars going to pay for someone else's abortion. It makes me want to commit tax fraud for the first time since I began earning a wage.
I don't like talking about abortion too much, as it is a hot button issue. If someone says they're pro choice, I don't engage them in a discussion on the topic. I used to; I used to debate this in middle school, when my father was a pro life lobbyist in the New Hampshire Senate.
My friends were mainly pro choice with a liberal mind set in general. The things about their arguments that bothered me most were the statements that a fetus is not: a. human or b. alive.
They had this point of view that, especially early on in pregnancy, during the first trimester, the pregnancy is mainly a bunch of cells. It doesn't have a soul, it's not a person; you'd have to use a microscope to see it.
This still bothers me. If it's not human, what is it then? Sex's sole biological purpose is for reproduction. Two human beings who have had sex and conceived are not going to give birth to a species of plant. Does a fetus assume humanity at some point in it's cellular development? If so, at what point does the product of human reproduction become human?
It's a ridiculous argument. Of course a fetus is human. He or she has human DNA. And not the mother's DNA, not just any DNA. Her very own DNA, the unique code of human life that will guide her growth in life from conception through childhood, adolescence, early adulthood and into old age. She will go through many different physical stages in life, a life that started at conception.
And of course the fetus is alive. From the point of conception the human is developing exactly as planned, cells dividing, growing. That's life. If she were dead, it would be called a miscarriage.
Pro choice defenders often use the phrase that woman should have control over her own body. I absolutely agree. A woman should. But a fetus is not a part of her own body, a fetus is another person entirely. A person that didn't ask to be conceived, that was conceived by an action of the mother.
At this point, my friends would raise the ever present question of "What if the fetus is the product of rape?" If a person has been raped, they should not be forced to carry that pregnancy. No one questions this being a horrible and emotionally gut wrenching situation.
But firstly, only about two percent of all abortions are due to rape or incest and secondly, let's not close our eyes to what it would be; we would be allowing the death of an innocent human because of the violent act of another. It is a terrible and sobering choice.
That's the main thing about the whole situation, I guess. It's closing one's eyes to the reality of what abortion is. Legal abortion is allowing a mother to have the right to kill her own offspring before she brings that offspring to term.
If this is what we want, if we have decided that the unborn have no rights, are not human, not somehow fully alive, then fine, look that straight in the face and agree to it. But let's not hide that truth behind some high sounding rhetoric and stirring calls for "woman's rights" as though the woman were the only human whose rights are involved.
It amazed me, by the way, when Hilary Clinton referred to the death of so many unborn Chinese girls as "infanticide."
Wait a moment while I close my mouth........ So, abortion is infanticide only when the abortion involves only female fetuses? Where is the logic? I venture to say, there is none. Either unborn children have a right to life or they do not. Gender does not make a difference to the morality or amorality of the choice.
Pro choice supporters will never agree with me. My friends and I never reached a lasting compromise and that was fine; we continued as friends. Maybe legalized abortion will continue on indefinitely in this country. I resigned myself to this a while ago.
But don't ask me to help pay for other people's abortions, because that's crossing a line I can't live with. And now I'm going to my lonely but snore free bed.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
December 10th
Today the downstairs carpet gets replaced. Subsequently, the entirely living room and dining room has been shoved into the kitchen. It's pretty impressive, actually.
Keith told me this morning that I could still make coffee, I would just have to jump over the couch. Jumping over a couch is no great feat if coffee is the goal, so I tried it, but then I realized that I would have to crawl over the dining table to get to the sink and back again for water and a mug. So this morning, I have jumped a couch for no reason at all.
So, I am up here in Keith's man room where at least I have the Internet and Old English Christmas carols sung by choir boys. It doesn't fit in too well with the decor, which includes a shirt nailed to the wall that reads "pitcher of beer: $8.00 chicken wings: $6.00 t-shirt: $15.00 Seeing my buddy strike out with the Hooters girl....Priceless."
Yup. That's how my hubby decorates.
Not only do I have no coffee this morning, but I had to be awake at the stupidly early hour of seven thirty, since the window for the carpet guys to come was between eight and ten am.
Naturally, it is nine and still no sign of them.
I saw a poll a few days ago that I found reassuring. In the poll, 71 percent of Americans are angry at their government, forty some percent of them very angry. Great to know I'm not alone. I can't talk about this much or else I become a raving idiot, foaming at the mouth with my inarticulate frustration over their arrogance and stupidity. I'm just trying to hold it in until I can vote on the 2010 elections.
Expect to hear a lot from me about the candidates as that comes closer. In fact, if you are also one of that majority that would like to entirely sweep out all of the idiotic 111th Congress, go to BlowOutCongress.com. They will show you who your representatives are and how long they've been in office. One of mine has been in office for his fifth term.
Now, he seems to be a nice guy and all and is currently standing firm with the rest of the Republicans in the Senate against the Health Care Reform. In fact, I frequently see him on Fox news, speaking up in a slow, gentile kind of way.
But I think it's time for him to move on. I think there needs to be fresh, young blood up there; people who are connected to the real world, who have real world business experience, who were sent to Congress by the people living in their districts, not the Party interests who poured money into the race in order to put Their Guy in the seat so that he can contribute to their Party Politics.
Ok, so the carpet people didn't arrive until past eleven. They got lost looking for our address. This is not uncommon; it has happened to everyone. GPS systems, phone companies, Google Earth, all of them are lost when it comes to our address.
Why, you might ask? It was the 9-1-1 people who changed all the road names around here. It's nice to know that in an emergency the ambulance would be able to find my house. I just wish everyone else could, too.
The carpet wasn't completely put in until past three thirty, by which time I was perishing of coffee withdrawal symptoms. Seriously, if you are going to get carpet put in, be sure that access to provisions has been assured. I mean, I moved chairs, boxes, desks and angled the dining table just to be able to reach the coffee, all while in a haze of pounding headache.
But those first few sips of coffee....sheer heaven. If you are wondering, my dear readers (by the way, you number about seven, all total and I enjoy all of you, the known and the unknown), why I am drinking coffee while trying to conceive, well, that's a good question.
I talked to another Army wife about this late this summer. She said her doctor told her she could easily have one cup of coffee all the way through her pregnancy and that really, one would have to take six cups to have a negative effect.
I've heard different sides to this, but I'm going to stick with my one cup, unless told otherwise by my own doctor. I mean, French women smoke and drink (in moderation, one assumes) all the way through their pregnancies. Maybe that explains...no, no, that's a silly joke. Anyway, so far, I'm thinking coffee is ok. If it turns out not to be, I'll cut the amount in half and drink cafe au lait.
I'm not pregnant, by the way. That I know of. I'm riding the upward swing of the monthly expectations roller coaster; a couple of weeks left before the pivotal moment of the cycle.
We have everything set back up in the living and dining rooms and hopefully that's the last time I have to move the poor Christmas tree.
Keith told me this morning that I could still make coffee, I would just have to jump over the couch. Jumping over a couch is no great feat if coffee is the goal, so I tried it, but then I realized that I would have to crawl over the dining table to get to the sink and back again for water and a mug. So this morning, I have jumped a couch for no reason at all.
So, I am up here in Keith's man room where at least I have the Internet and Old English Christmas carols sung by choir boys. It doesn't fit in too well with the decor, which includes a shirt nailed to the wall that reads "pitcher of beer: $8.00 chicken wings: $6.00 t-shirt: $15.00 Seeing my buddy strike out with the Hooters girl....Priceless."
Yup. That's how my hubby decorates.
Not only do I have no coffee this morning, but I had to be awake at the stupidly early hour of seven thirty, since the window for the carpet guys to come was between eight and ten am.
Naturally, it is nine and still no sign of them.
I saw a poll a few days ago that I found reassuring. In the poll, 71 percent of Americans are angry at their government, forty some percent of them very angry. Great to know I'm not alone. I can't talk about this much or else I become a raving idiot, foaming at the mouth with my inarticulate frustration over their arrogance and stupidity. I'm just trying to hold it in until I can vote on the 2010 elections.
Expect to hear a lot from me about the candidates as that comes closer. In fact, if you are also one of that majority that would like to entirely sweep out all of the idiotic 111th Congress, go to BlowOutCongress.com. They will show you who your representatives are and how long they've been in office. One of mine has been in office for his fifth term.
Now, he seems to be a nice guy and all and is currently standing firm with the rest of the Republicans in the Senate against the Health Care Reform. In fact, I frequently see him on Fox news, speaking up in a slow, gentile kind of way.
But I think it's time for him to move on. I think there needs to be fresh, young blood up there; people who are connected to the real world, who have real world business experience, who were sent to Congress by the people living in their districts, not the Party interests who poured money into the race in order to put Their Guy in the seat so that he can contribute to their Party Politics.
Ok, so the carpet people didn't arrive until past eleven. They got lost looking for our address. This is not uncommon; it has happened to everyone. GPS systems, phone companies, Google Earth, all of them are lost when it comes to our address.
Why, you might ask? It was the 9-1-1 people who changed all the road names around here. It's nice to know that in an emergency the ambulance would be able to find my house. I just wish everyone else could, too.
The carpet wasn't completely put in until past three thirty, by which time I was perishing of coffee withdrawal symptoms. Seriously, if you are going to get carpet put in, be sure that access to provisions has been assured. I mean, I moved chairs, boxes, desks and angled the dining table just to be able to reach the coffee, all while in a haze of pounding headache.
But those first few sips of coffee....sheer heaven. If you are wondering, my dear readers (by the way, you number about seven, all total and I enjoy all of you, the known and the unknown), why I am drinking coffee while trying to conceive, well, that's a good question.
I talked to another Army wife about this late this summer. She said her doctor told her she could easily have one cup of coffee all the way through her pregnancy and that really, one would have to take six cups to have a negative effect.
I've heard different sides to this, but I'm going to stick with my one cup, unless told otherwise by my own doctor. I mean, French women smoke and drink (in moderation, one assumes) all the way through their pregnancies. Maybe that explains...no, no, that's a silly joke. Anyway, so far, I'm thinking coffee is ok. If it turns out not to be, I'll cut the amount in half and drink cafe au lait.
I'm not pregnant, by the way. That I know of. I'm riding the upward swing of the monthly expectations roller coaster; a couple of weeks left before the pivotal moment of the cycle.
We have everything set back up in the living and dining rooms and hopefully that's the last time I have to move the poor Christmas tree.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
December 8th
I keep waking up tired and it doesn't help that the sky continues to be cloudy and dark. Colorado spoiled me for life, I'm afraid. It's very expensive to live there; the state taxes are killer, but there are about three hundred days of sun shine in a year and the air is crisp and dry, summer and winter.
I miss it. I miss being able to see the Rockies from the deck, watch the weather come tumultuous over the peaks and down into our little valley.
What I don't miss is the dust. I haven dusted since we moved in and I haven't needed to. Instead of dust, out here they have moss. At first I found it picturesque. However, now that I understand it is the product of five days a week of rain, I find it less so.
At least we won't have any problems growing grass. In fact, I think in the bluegrass state one would have to work hard in order not to have a lawn.
Christmas keeps creeping up and we still haven't decided or know what will happen. And we haven't attempted yet to do our Christmas shopping, as we don't have the money for it. I hate this part of Christmas. Who to buy for and what to buy and at what cost?
It gets even more complicated between Keith and I. After all, we have a single budget and a single account. If money comes out, we each of us knows it, so how can we surprise each other with gifts? Even if we tried, Keith buys himself everything he needs right when he needs it, making gift giving almost impossible.
Case in point: the watch we bought last weekend. His old one, the one that carried him through two deployments, literally fell apart. The watch band was canvas and it just wore right through.
I found the perfect replacement at the PX and he promptly bought it. It will end up being my Christmas present to him, but there won't be anything under the tree on Christmas morning indicating this and in reality, the money was ours so how could I really "buy" it for him?
On the same day, I found a Crabtree and Evelynn lotion scented "Summer Hill." I thought they had stopped producing it years ago. I love that fragrance. Years ago, as a teenager, I had bought a tiny bottle of scent and had been so frugal with it that I had the bottle years after the scent had evaporated.
And there it was, years later, at a PX in Kentucky! A large bottle! So I bought a bottle and it's now in my Christmas stocking.
This is how Keith and I give each other gifts. It's not very magical or romantic really. I'm not sure, exactly, if that should be an issue. Should we try and make a production of Christmas? If so, to what extent? What do I expect from him and vise versa?
We were talking about this the other day and all we knew is that we were confused. Sometimes we want to have extravagant holidays. Other times we would rather be entirely pragmatic about it all, take the expectations out of it entirely.
All I know is, when I think of my best and most moving experiences during Christmas, they none of them have anything to do with gifts. I think of walking home from an evening piano lesson, looking up at the frosty, clear stars and singing "O Little Town of Bethlehem" to myself, hands jammed in my pockets.
Or the flurry of changing into the formal black and white outfits in the woman's changing room during the Messiah festival, the high necked white lace blouse and the brand new stockings and later on, the gold heat of the lights, the clear, resonant sound of the harpsichord, which stood right before my folding chair and standing up straight, holding the score high, to sing the Hallelujah chorus with two hundred or so other enthusiastic amateurs.
Christmas is the house quiet, all my brothers tucked into their beds and the dark house lit up still with lights; the blue candelabra in the hallway, the golden glitter of the Christmas tree in the living room and the pure white of candles in the dining room.
Christmas was putting on the tree that little blue velvet house ornament that my father had made as a child and then day dreaming about the tiny family that lived in it, the glass icicle ornaments and the ancient baked clay monstrosities that we had made as very small children.
The best of Christmas day was not the gifts at all, but the food. The breakfast with muffins or coffee cake and a huge plate of bacon, endless heaps of bacon. As children, my brothers and I could never get enough bacon to eat.
And then Christmas dinner and running around the house finding various beautiful, mismatching dishes for things like butter and gravy and digging around in old cabinets for cold, clean linens or red and green silks. Later, our fingers over the rims of the glasses to make joyful discordant sounds and playing endlessly with the candle wax and then cleaning up all together, hands in the soapy water.
Keith and I still aren't sure what Christmas means to us, but we have a few things down. The white Christmas tree, for example. I'm certain that I want to try making a lamb roast for Christmas eve dinner, which I would like us to have all to ourselves. And I want to try one of those midnight Christmas eve services, where everyone holds candles with those paper sleeves to catch the wax and Christmas carols like "Joy to the World" and "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" are sung.
That would be a good place to start, I think. The rest of it we can figure out by trial and error.
I miss it. I miss being able to see the Rockies from the deck, watch the weather come tumultuous over the peaks and down into our little valley.
What I don't miss is the dust. I haven dusted since we moved in and I haven't needed to. Instead of dust, out here they have moss. At first I found it picturesque. However, now that I understand it is the product of five days a week of rain, I find it less so.
At least we won't have any problems growing grass. In fact, I think in the bluegrass state one would have to work hard in order not to have a lawn.
Christmas keeps creeping up and we still haven't decided or know what will happen. And we haven't attempted yet to do our Christmas shopping, as we don't have the money for it. I hate this part of Christmas. Who to buy for and what to buy and at what cost?
It gets even more complicated between Keith and I. After all, we have a single budget and a single account. If money comes out, we each of us knows it, so how can we surprise each other with gifts? Even if we tried, Keith buys himself everything he needs right when he needs it, making gift giving almost impossible.
Case in point: the watch we bought last weekend. His old one, the one that carried him through two deployments, literally fell apart. The watch band was canvas and it just wore right through.
I found the perfect replacement at the PX and he promptly bought it. It will end up being my Christmas present to him, but there won't be anything under the tree on Christmas morning indicating this and in reality, the money was ours so how could I really "buy" it for him?
On the same day, I found a Crabtree and Evelynn lotion scented "Summer Hill." I thought they had stopped producing it years ago. I love that fragrance. Years ago, as a teenager, I had bought a tiny bottle of scent and had been so frugal with it that I had the bottle years after the scent had evaporated.
And there it was, years later, at a PX in Kentucky! A large bottle! So I bought a bottle and it's now in my Christmas stocking.
This is how Keith and I give each other gifts. It's not very magical or romantic really. I'm not sure, exactly, if that should be an issue. Should we try and make a production of Christmas? If so, to what extent? What do I expect from him and vise versa?
We were talking about this the other day and all we knew is that we were confused. Sometimes we want to have extravagant holidays. Other times we would rather be entirely pragmatic about it all, take the expectations out of it entirely.
All I know is, when I think of my best and most moving experiences during Christmas, they none of them have anything to do with gifts. I think of walking home from an evening piano lesson, looking up at the frosty, clear stars and singing "O Little Town of Bethlehem" to myself, hands jammed in my pockets.
Or the flurry of changing into the formal black and white outfits in the woman's changing room during the Messiah festival, the high necked white lace blouse and the brand new stockings and later on, the gold heat of the lights, the clear, resonant sound of the harpsichord, which stood right before my folding chair and standing up straight, holding the score high, to sing the Hallelujah chorus with two hundred or so other enthusiastic amateurs.
Christmas is the house quiet, all my brothers tucked into their beds and the dark house lit up still with lights; the blue candelabra in the hallway, the golden glitter of the Christmas tree in the living room and the pure white of candles in the dining room.
Christmas was putting on the tree that little blue velvet house ornament that my father had made as a child and then day dreaming about the tiny family that lived in it, the glass icicle ornaments and the ancient baked clay monstrosities that we had made as very small children.
The best of Christmas day was not the gifts at all, but the food. The breakfast with muffins or coffee cake and a huge plate of bacon, endless heaps of bacon. As children, my brothers and I could never get enough bacon to eat.
And then Christmas dinner and running around the house finding various beautiful, mismatching dishes for things like butter and gravy and digging around in old cabinets for cold, clean linens or red and green silks. Later, our fingers over the rims of the glasses to make joyful discordant sounds and playing endlessly with the candle wax and then cleaning up all together, hands in the soapy water.
Keith and I still aren't sure what Christmas means to us, but we have a few things down. The white Christmas tree, for example. I'm certain that I want to try making a lamb roast for Christmas eve dinner, which I would like us to have all to ourselves. And I want to try one of those midnight Christmas eve services, where everyone holds candles with those paper sleeves to catch the wax and Christmas carols like "Joy to the World" and "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" are sung.
That would be a good place to start, I think. The rest of it we can figure out by trial and error.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
December 6th-December 7th
The guests have gone.
I am a hundred times more comfortable being the hostess than the guest. So much easier.
While waiting for family to arrive, I made a batch of snickerdoodles. I grew up on the campus of a very small, private Bible School and the students would bake cookies frequently; I think about once a week. They were stored in a large pantry off the kitchen. It was one of the delights of life to go in and snag a cookie or two on a slow afternoon.
The recipe called for Cream of Tartar. I had to call my mom to ask what the heck was it, what did it do and could I replace it with anything? Also, if the white power is the cream of the tartar, what does the tartar itself look like and how does it get creamed?
It makes egg whites stiffer, it's not necessary, your dad and I have no idea, were the answers. Cream of tartar: one of the great mysteries of life.
Unless I want to Google it.
Anyway, we stuffed our guests on cookies, the guys went upstairs for some sound pumping, Adrenalin rushing Modern Warfare 2 or 4 or whatever the heck the newest one is and we girls sat around looking at the Snapfish story book albums that describe how Keith and I met and our first Christmas.
Then we all ate nachos while the girls watched Christmas movies and the guys got drunk while watching Ironman. My husband's tolerance for whiskey is, I have to say, of John Wayne proportions. Not so much his brother, who managed to upchuck over the rail and not onto the deck, which was considerate of him.
Then we all had casserole, Velveeta broccoli and salad, all sitting around the dining room table. The men sobered up, the women helped clean up. The dogs got theirs and everyone collapsed into the various living areas to digest.
In being the hostess, I get to be busy all the time. It gives me a purpose, which helps take the tension away from socializing. I ended up being in the kitchen most of the time, chatting away with my sister in law as though I'd known her all my life. It was downright fun.
Also, as soon as I made sure everyone was comfortable for the night, as hostess I could say goodnight and retreat to my own private abode, knowing my guests had their beds, sheets, towels, soaps, snacks and glasses handy and the general run of the place. I, on the other hand, had my book, glass of water and large bed. It was marvelous.
From the sound of it, the guests all had mad fun for hours after until I put my earplugs in and fell asleep, to be awakened hours later by my husband crawling into bed with me.
Lately, I've been rereading "Prodigal Summer." Love that book. I re-read it now very slowly, trying to savor each chapter. In the book, one of the characters losses her husband right off the bat. In the past week since I began reading the book, I have welcomed Keith with an added touch of gratitude.
Deployment has left a lasting sensation of hunger for my soldier that hasn't quite gone away, despite the petty annoyances of every day living and the adventure that is a marriage.
We curled up together on the couch late this morning, after the guests had departed and after we had put the house back in order, and drowsed off. It was sunny and peaceful and the girls were both quiet; probably worn out as well. I could hear Keith's heart thumping away steadily under his worn work shirt.
Those are the moments.
December 7th
I think I must have gotten the date wrong a couple days back.
On cable TV, I have found the "Holiday Pops" channel. Now it feels like Christmas.
Early this morning, I was woken up by this huge soldier bending over to kiss me before heading off to work. Yum.
Later on, I woke up to a dusting of snow. I must still be adjusting to the slight time change between here and Colorado and/or just generally worn down because I can't get out of bed any earlier than nine.
Now that normal life has commenced, that will change.
Yesterday Keith and I went out to look for a professional folder that he could carry all this papers in as he goes around signing into his new post. This took us into the small, local grocery store for the first time.
Oh my goodness, how it took me back to my childhood in New England. It was something about the narrow, towering isles of food, the variety, the small town look of the shoppers who popped out unexpectedly from corners and behind food displays.
We didn't find it there, though they did have a small selection of school supplies which included those mottled black and white notebooks of yore. I wrote a journal in one of those, long long ago and some fairy tales.
We went one store down and into what we figured must be a hardware store, though we weren't sure. It was sheer enchantment, is what it was. My goodness. Everything, I mean, everything, was in the that store.
Snow shovels, fabric swatches, mops, buckets, Christmas toys, Chicklets, holiday patterned pencils with green and red erasers. There were Chocolate candies and dolls for dress making, kitchen mats and dog houses. There was a whole isle devoted to the American flag, the entire back wall was lined with various cleaning implements, solid tools made of wood.
Officially, I will now eschew Walmart. (Isn't that a marvelous word, eschew? Sounding so like a sneeze.) I am supporting my local economy and America in general. I've been on the fence about this for a while, since despite my interest in politics, I have always been a little dubious about cases in general and cloudy on the effect of Walmart on America in general.
I'm still not entirely sure, to be honest. All I know is, that little General Store now gets all my patronage. Everything in it makes me feel nostalgic.
I am a hundred times more comfortable being the hostess than the guest. So much easier.
While waiting for family to arrive, I made a batch of snickerdoodles. I grew up on the campus of a very small, private Bible School and the students would bake cookies frequently; I think about once a week. They were stored in a large pantry off the kitchen. It was one of the delights of life to go in and snag a cookie or two on a slow afternoon.
The recipe called for Cream of Tartar. I had to call my mom to ask what the heck was it, what did it do and could I replace it with anything? Also, if the white power is the cream of the tartar, what does the tartar itself look like and how does it get creamed?
It makes egg whites stiffer, it's not necessary, your dad and I have no idea, were the answers. Cream of tartar: one of the great mysteries of life.
Unless I want to Google it.
Anyway, we stuffed our guests on cookies, the guys went upstairs for some sound pumping, Adrenalin rushing Modern Warfare 2 or 4 or whatever the heck the newest one is and we girls sat around looking at the Snapfish story book albums that describe how Keith and I met and our first Christmas.
Then we all ate nachos while the girls watched Christmas movies and the guys got drunk while watching Ironman. My husband's tolerance for whiskey is, I have to say, of John Wayne proportions. Not so much his brother, who managed to upchuck over the rail and not onto the deck, which was considerate of him.
Then we all had casserole, Velveeta broccoli and salad, all sitting around the dining room table. The men sobered up, the women helped clean up. The dogs got theirs and everyone collapsed into the various living areas to digest.
In being the hostess, I get to be busy all the time. It gives me a purpose, which helps take the tension away from socializing. I ended up being in the kitchen most of the time, chatting away with my sister in law as though I'd known her all my life. It was downright fun.
Also, as soon as I made sure everyone was comfortable for the night, as hostess I could say goodnight and retreat to my own private abode, knowing my guests had their beds, sheets, towels, soaps, snacks and glasses handy and the general run of the place. I, on the other hand, had my book, glass of water and large bed. It was marvelous.
From the sound of it, the guests all had mad fun for hours after until I put my earplugs in and fell asleep, to be awakened hours later by my husband crawling into bed with me.
Lately, I've been rereading "Prodigal Summer." Love that book. I re-read it now very slowly, trying to savor each chapter. In the book, one of the characters losses her husband right off the bat. In the past week since I began reading the book, I have welcomed Keith with an added touch of gratitude.
Deployment has left a lasting sensation of hunger for my soldier that hasn't quite gone away, despite the petty annoyances of every day living and the adventure that is a marriage.
We curled up together on the couch late this morning, after the guests had departed and after we had put the house back in order, and drowsed off. It was sunny and peaceful and the girls were both quiet; probably worn out as well. I could hear Keith's heart thumping away steadily under his worn work shirt.
Those are the moments.
December 7th
I think I must have gotten the date wrong a couple days back.
On cable TV, I have found the "Holiday Pops" channel. Now it feels like Christmas.
Early this morning, I was woken up by this huge soldier bending over to kiss me before heading off to work. Yum.
Later on, I woke up to a dusting of snow. I must still be adjusting to the slight time change between here and Colorado and/or just generally worn down because I can't get out of bed any earlier than nine.
Now that normal life has commenced, that will change.
Yesterday Keith and I went out to look for a professional folder that he could carry all this papers in as he goes around signing into his new post. This took us into the small, local grocery store for the first time.
Oh my goodness, how it took me back to my childhood in New England. It was something about the narrow, towering isles of food, the variety, the small town look of the shoppers who popped out unexpectedly from corners and behind food displays.
We didn't find it there, though they did have a small selection of school supplies which included those mottled black and white notebooks of yore. I wrote a journal in one of those, long long ago and some fairy tales.
We went one store down and into what we figured must be a hardware store, though we weren't sure. It was sheer enchantment, is what it was. My goodness. Everything, I mean, everything, was in the that store.
Snow shovels, fabric swatches, mops, buckets, Christmas toys, Chicklets, holiday patterned pencils with green and red erasers. There were Chocolate candies and dolls for dress making, kitchen mats and dog houses. There was a whole isle devoted to the American flag, the entire back wall was lined with various cleaning implements, solid tools made of wood.
Officially, I will now eschew Walmart. (Isn't that a marvelous word, eschew? Sounding so like a sneeze.) I am supporting my local economy and America in general. I've been on the fence about this for a while, since despite my interest in politics, I have always been a little dubious about cases in general and cloudy on the effect of Walmart on America in general.
I'm still not entirely sure, to be honest. All I know is, that little General Store now gets all my patronage. Everything in it makes me feel nostalgic.
Friday, December 4, 2009
December 4th
I spent this afternoon decorating for Christmas. The white Christmas tree is up and placed within the large entry way from living room to dining room. I have white lights entwined with silver tinsel up and around the opening, with silver ornaments hanging down.
Also, I finally found a use for two of the beautiful saris Keith sent me from Iraq last year on my birthday. The silver spangled blue one is under the Christmas tree and the gold embroidered red one is being used as a runner for the dining room table.
It looks very nice, but every room is missing window treatments, which are waiting on the sewing machine, which is waiting on fabric, which is waiting on me.
In the meantime, several members of Keith's family are coming down to visit tomorrow. They will arrive in the late afternoon and stay the night, leaving on Sunday morning. This provides proper incentive to finish up all the unpacking.
I plan to cook the same very easy and yet really delicious ham and potato casserole that I made for Keith last week out of left over ham. I also have a roast and some pork loin fillets in case I change my mind and want to cook something else.
After having spent so much time in other people's houses, I am eager to return the favor and be the hostess for a change. I'll be washing all the sheets and leaving towels and soaps out tonight, tomorrow I will start cooking. Maybe I will make some cookies or a cake or banana bread or something, just to keep busy.
It seems as though Keith's side of the family is coming to our house for their Christmas celebration as well, later on this month. I'm looking forward to this as well and have already done some menu choices.
I like roast pork loin, I found one with an easy cranberry glaze that I like. Pepperoni stuffed mushrooms seem like a good starter, along with cheese and crackers or something easy like that. That's as far as I've gotten, I can't decide on what side dishes. I could do something really easy like broccoli with cheese sauce or a butternut squash bake. Or just twice baked potatoes, or green beans.
Or a salad, I could do a pear walnut salad with blue cheese and a vinaigrette dressing. Or, instead of salad, I could do a soup, like pumpkin or creamy spinach soup. I've always wanted to try one of those.
Actually, I think I did try pumpkin soup a long time ago, in my early twenties. I was working as a waitress in a Chinese restaurant and wanted to cook a genuine New England meal for the owner and cooks, in return for the turtle soup and stewed duck's feet and the like that they offered me on the nights I worked. If I recall correctly, the pumpkin soup was impressive only in the amount of mess it left in my kitchen. It was also my first and last attempt at Boiled Dinner.
Anyway, I doubt I'll make either a soup or a salad. When it comes right down to it, I'll be nervous and distracted and so I should prepare in advance and just keep the menu simple stupid and remember that the side dishes must be cooked at either the temp of the roast or on the stove top.
We don't know for sure yet what will happen, but it would be fun to host Christmas.
Keith got his hair cut today. He's so cute when he's up there, draped and sitting patiently. He got his hair cut "high and tight" as they say in the good ol' Army and with his beard shaved, he looks like the soldier he is. He'll head off in ACUs on Monday morning to officially sign in at his new post and the transition will be complete.
Last night he nearly drove me crazy. If there had been a frying pan handy, I'm not sure I could have restrained myself. He insists that he does not snore. He insists this. I don't know why this annoys me as much as it does, but it really does.
"I don't snore, honey," he'll say, ever so sweetly.
"You snore!" I'll snap back at him.
"No, honey, I really don't..."
Or, he'll come at the issue from the angle of being able to stop his own snoring.
"Don't worry, kitty, I won't snore tonight. I promise."
"You can't control your own snoring. You're asleep. It's impossible." Exasperation.
"I can, sweetie. I give you my word, I won't snore..."
The point of all this is to prevent me from wearing my ear plugs and that's just not going to happen.
And anyway, two minutes later he's dead asleep and snoring. And me? I'll be putting in my ear plugs.
Also, I finally found a use for two of the beautiful saris Keith sent me from Iraq last year on my birthday. The silver spangled blue one is under the Christmas tree and the gold embroidered red one is being used as a runner for the dining room table.
It looks very nice, but every room is missing window treatments, which are waiting on the sewing machine, which is waiting on fabric, which is waiting on me.
In the meantime, several members of Keith's family are coming down to visit tomorrow. They will arrive in the late afternoon and stay the night, leaving on Sunday morning. This provides proper incentive to finish up all the unpacking.
I plan to cook the same very easy and yet really delicious ham and potato casserole that I made for Keith last week out of left over ham. I also have a roast and some pork loin fillets in case I change my mind and want to cook something else.
After having spent so much time in other people's houses, I am eager to return the favor and be the hostess for a change. I'll be washing all the sheets and leaving towels and soaps out tonight, tomorrow I will start cooking. Maybe I will make some cookies or a cake or banana bread or something, just to keep busy.
It seems as though Keith's side of the family is coming to our house for their Christmas celebration as well, later on this month. I'm looking forward to this as well and have already done some menu choices.
I like roast pork loin, I found one with an easy cranberry glaze that I like. Pepperoni stuffed mushrooms seem like a good starter, along with cheese and crackers or something easy like that. That's as far as I've gotten, I can't decide on what side dishes. I could do something really easy like broccoli with cheese sauce or a butternut squash bake. Or just twice baked potatoes, or green beans.
Or a salad, I could do a pear walnut salad with blue cheese and a vinaigrette dressing. Or, instead of salad, I could do a soup, like pumpkin or creamy spinach soup. I've always wanted to try one of those.
Actually, I think I did try pumpkin soup a long time ago, in my early twenties. I was working as a waitress in a Chinese restaurant and wanted to cook a genuine New England meal for the owner and cooks, in return for the turtle soup and stewed duck's feet and the like that they offered me on the nights I worked. If I recall correctly, the pumpkin soup was impressive only in the amount of mess it left in my kitchen. It was also my first and last attempt at Boiled Dinner.
Anyway, I doubt I'll make either a soup or a salad. When it comes right down to it, I'll be nervous and distracted and so I should prepare in advance and just keep the menu simple stupid and remember that the side dishes must be cooked at either the temp of the roast or on the stove top.
We don't know for sure yet what will happen, but it would be fun to host Christmas.
Keith got his hair cut today. He's so cute when he's up there, draped and sitting patiently. He got his hair cut "high and tight" as they say in the good ol' Army and with his beard shaved, he looks like the soldier he is. He'll head off in ACUs on Monday morning to officially sign in at his new post and the transition will be complete.
Last night he nearly drove me crazy. If there had been a frying pan handy, I'm not sure I could have restrained myself. He insists that he does not snore. He insists this. I don't know why this annoys me as much as it does, but it really does.
"I don't snore, honey," he'll say, ever so sweetly.
"You snore!" I'll snap back at him.
"No, honey, I really don't..."
Or, he'll come at the issue from the angle of being able to stop his own snoring.
"Don't worry, kitty, I won't snore tonight. I promise."
"You can't control your own snoring. You're asleep. It's impossible." Exasperation.
"I can, sweetie. I give you my word, I won't snore..."
The point of all this is to prevent me from wearing my ear plugs and that's just not going to happen.
And anyway, two minutes later he's dead asleep and snoring. And me? I'll be putting in my ear plugs.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
December 3rd
Lesson from yesterday on making home made cole slaw: Don't and/or buy a food processor.
My husband now realizes it can be made at home, instead of never thinking beyond the carton in the deli section and also realizes that it's much tastier when it's fresh. There's a lot of chopping, grating and mincing in my future now.
I'm finally getting back to my pre-move workout routine, but very slowly. My slipped disk has retightened the muscles in my lower back and thighs. The pain has gone away, but my toes have slipped farther and farther from my reach.
The length of the bedroom is perfect for walking lunges, but from now on I'll wait until my husband heads off to work before doing them. Otherwise, he assumes the sergeant and critiques. He can't help it, I know this. It's kind of cute, actually. I inspired him to do one arm push ups off the foot of our sleigh bed just to show off.
We've reached that point in unpacking where all the vital things have been discovered and placed but all the other stuff just sits around, waiting for initiative. There are stacks of opened boxes upstairs in the hall way that need to be sorted, but don't really have any place to go, the dining room table leaf sits against the wall, that sort of thing.
I finally discovered the Christmas decorations; they were mixed in with documents and pictures left from my time in Japan. It was an emotionally strange juxtaposition and I was suddenly caught up reading a short story I'd been working on during one of my visits there.
The story is about the marriage between an American woman and a Japanese man who have recently moved their four children from an ancestral rice farm in northern Japan to a larger farm in upstate New York. The dialogue is at times a little off, it needs editing and redirection, but really, it was an appealing story. The characters were true and well drawn.
Or maybe just to me, as I am the author of it. What was fascinating to me when reading it over again was noticing how even then, my longing for farm life imposed itself over my temperary fixation on Japan. Also, it caused me to notice that I haven't written anything fictional in a long time.
I think it must be easier to write fiction when one's real life is mostly made up of empty spaces and conjecture, as it was during that time. I'm fully engaged in my life now; I'm living the life that years ago I could only write about, I'm just living it in a different setting.
Still, I feel like writing short stories again now; I had forgotten about the compelling combination of hard work and ebullience that is imaginative writing. And what happened to my writing poems? I realize that normally only intensely aweful emotions evoked them, but still. It's been almost a year and I haven't written a single one.
My husband now realizes it can be made at home, instead of never thinking beyond the carton in the deli section and also realizes that it's much tastier when it's fresh. There's a lot of chopping, grating and mincing in my future now.
I'm finally getting back to my pre-move workout routine, but very slowly. My slipped disk has retightened the muscles in my lower back and thighs. The pain has gone away, but my toes have slipped farther and farther from my reach.
The length of the bedroom is perfect for walking lunges, but from now on I'll wait until my husband heads off to work before doing them. Otherwise, he assumes the sergeant and critiques. He can't help it, I know this. It's kind of cute, actually. I inspired him to do one arm push ups off the foot of our sleigh bed just to show off.
We've reached that point in unpacking where all the vital things have been discovered and placed but all the other stuff just sits around, waiting for initiative. There are stacks of opened boxes upstairs in the hall way that need to be sorted, but don't really have any place to go, the dining room table leaf sits against the wall, that sort of thing.
I finally discovered the Christmas decorations; they were mixed in with documents and pictures left from my time in Japan. It was an emotionally strange juxtaposition and I was suddenly caught up reading a short story I'd been working on during one of my visits there.
The story is about the marriage between an American woman and a Japanese man who have recently moved their four children from an ancestral rice farm in northern Japan to a larger farm in upstate New York. The dialogue is at times a little off, it needs editing and redirection, but really, it was an appealing story. The characters were true and well drawn.
Or maybe just to me, as I am the author of it. What was fascinating to me when reading it over again was noticing how even then, my longing for farm life imposed itself over my temperary fixation on Japan. Also, it caused me to notice that I haven't written anything fictional in a long time.
I think it must be easier to write fiction when one's real life is mostly made up of empty spaces and conjecture, as it was during that time. I'm fully engaged in my life now; I'm living the life that years ago I could only write about, I'm just living it in a different setting.
Still, I feel like writing short stories again now; I had forgotten about the compelling combination of hard work and ebullience that is imaginative writing. And what happened to my writing poems? I realize that normally only intensely aweful emotions evoked them, but still. It's been almost a year and I haven't written a single one.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
December 2nd
December already.
It's a rainy day down here in Kentucky and somewhere in the cupboards a small devise is giving off a high pitched sound meant to drive the mice back into the cold and dreary woods from which they came. Any that did not earlier eat the poison bait, that is.
Keith has gone off to help paint a friend's house and consequently, our house is so silent I can hear the ticking of the clock. Outside, the rain has streaked the boards of the deck and brought out all the marvelous colors of honey, rust and sage green, all glossed over.
A few days ago I turned thirty two. Thirty two feels stabilized; caught completely in solid adulthood. I feel some sadness about that. Am I really this old? Now that I am this old, what should I be doing?
But these questions don't hold much weight, because I suspect I am doing exactly as I should and I don't feel that old. I am keeping house and writing. I am disgustingly domesticated, and missing only a child. Maybe Santa will bring me one...
Speaking of Santa, I should go down and root around in the basement for the Christmas decorations. Also, I should get dressed and go walk the dogs.
First, a few thoughts.
On Climategate: Ha! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. When I first wrote about the possibility of their being no global warming, I felt like a crazy person. Now I feel like a sane person freed from the crumbing edicts of a crazy person's environmental religion.
How about let's start over now, and do it with logic and cross checking and raw data and without political agendas and then see what we find?
On the Surge: If the point is to build trust, build up the Afghan forces and be able to leave so they can do the job, well, the three month lag in order to decide this brilliant strategy I'm sure is going to be incredibly helpful to that end, and more importantly, how is it going to be possible to do it in eighteen months? There was infrastructure and better ruins in Iraq upon which to build up a better government/army and that took years.
Now we think we're going to do it in eighteen months in a country far more devastated and corrupt and three months after we should have started, during which the Taliban have gained momentum?
I don't think so. I think thousands of young American fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, daughters, mothers are going to die under supported, in the pursuit of an impossible goal. How about let's just skip the battlefield entirely and just slaughter them on the alter of political posturing?
I suggest let's give Obama some tin soldiers that he can move around while looking solemn. He can make pretty speeches off the teleprompter about sacrifice while the knocked over toys return home to the darkness of the toy box. It will be a great photo op for him.
What should he have done, perhaps one asks. He should have done what his own general asked him for, at the time he asked for it. Obama is a community organizer; he doesn't know how to run an army. He should defer to those that know what the hell they are doing.
And if he wasn't going to do that, then he should have pulled those men out. He should have stood up, said we cannot win this war, thanked the men and women for their service to their country and then taken them home.
But no, he chooses some weak ass middle of the road crap. Angry much, Jenny? you might ask. Hell yeah, I am. That could be my husband trudging along out there, in the dust and the heat, taking shots and unable to shot back for fear of hitting a civilian, under manned and knowing that he cannot achieve his goal and therefor it is pointless for him to be there. Oh, and watching his buddies being taken out by roadside bombs, ambushes and sniper fire.
This guy says it better than I could:
"Our president is setting up our military to fail -- but he'll be able to claim that he gave the generals what they wanted. Failure will be their fault.
He's covering his strong-on-security flank, even as he plays to our white-flag wavers. His cynicism's worthy of a Saddam.
Obama's right about one thing, though: The Afghans "will ultimately be responsible for their own country." So why undercut them with an arbitrary timeline that doesn't begin to allow adequate time to expand and train sufficient Afghan forces? Does he really believe that young Afghans are going to line up to join the army and police knowing that we plan to abandon them in mid-2011?
Does the 2012 election ring a bell?
What messages did our president's bait-and-switch speech just send?
To our troops: Risk your lives for a mission I've written off.
To our allies: Race you to the exit ramp.
To the Taliban: Allah is merciful, your prayers will soon be answered.
To Afghan leaders: Get your stolen wealth out of the country.
To Pakistan: Renew your Taliban friendships now (and be nice to al Qaeda).
This isn't just stupid: It's immoral. No American president has ever espoused such a worthless, self-absorbed non-strategy for his own political gratification.
On the other hand, the stage lighting and the camera angles at West Point were terrific. Our president looked good. Jaw jutting high (in his "hope" pose), he decried political partisanship -- but spent more time blaming Bush and Iraq for our Afghan problems than he spent blaming the Taliban (check it with a stop-watch)."
-Ralph Peters, Setting up our Military to Fail
And on that note I'm going to go walk the dogs.
It's a rainy day down here in Kentucky and somewhere in the cupboards a small devise is giving off a high pitched sound meant to drive the mice back into the cold and dreary woods from which they came. Any that did not earlier eat the poison bait, that is.
Keith has gone off to help paint a friend's house and consequently, our house is so silent I can hear the ticking of the clock. Outside, the rain has streaked the boards of the deck and brought out all the marvelous colors of honey, rust and sage green, all glossed over.
A few days ago I turned thirty two. Thirty two feels stabilized; caught completely in solid adulthood. I feel some sadness about that. Am I really this old? Now that I am this old, what should I be doing?
But these questions don't hold much weight, because I suspect I am doing exactly as I should and I don't feel that old. I am keeping house and writing. I am disgustingly domesticated, and missing only a child. Maybe Santa will bring me one...
Speaking of Santa, I should go down and root around in the basement for the Christmas decorations. Also, I should get dressed and go walk the dogs.
First, a few thoughts.
On Climategate: Ha! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. When I first wrote about the possibility of their being no global warming, I felt like a crazy person. Now I feel like a sane person freed from the crumbing edicts of a crazy person's environmental religion.
How about let's start over now, and do it with logic and cross checking and raw data and without political agendas and then see what we find?
On the Surge: If the point is to build trust, build up the Afghan forces and be able to leave so they can do the job, well, the three month lag in order to decide this brilliant strategy I'm sure is going to be incredibly helpful to that end, and more importantly, how is it going to be possible to do it in eighteen months? There was infrastructure and better ruins in Iraq upon which to build up a better government/army and that took years.
Now we think we're going to do it in eighteen months in a country far more devastated and corrupt and three months after we should have started, during which the Taliban have gained momentum?
I don't think so. I think thousands of young American fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, daughters, mothers are going to die under supported, in the pursuit of an impossible goal. How about let's just skip the battlefield entirely and just slaughter them on the alter of political posturing?
I suggest let's give Obama some tin soldiers that he can move around while looking solemn. He can make pretty speeches off the teleprompter about sacrifice while the knocked over toys return home to the darkness of the toy box. It will be a great photo op for him.
What should he have done, perhaps one asks. He should have done what his own general asked him for, at the time he asked for it. Obama is a community organizer; he doesn't know how to run an army. He should defer to those that know what the hell they are doing.
And if he wasn't going to do that, then he should have pulled those men out. He should have stood up, said we cannot win this war, thanked the men and women for their service to their country and then taken them home.
But no, he chooses some weak ass middle of the road crap. Angry much, Jenny? you might ask. Hell yeah, I am. That could be my husband trudging along out there, in the dust and the heat, taking shots and unable to shot back for fear of hitting a civilian, under manned and knowing that he cannot achieve his goal and therefor it is pointless for him to be there. Oh, and watching his buddies being taken out by roadside bombs, ambushes and sniper fire.
This guy says it better than I could:
"Our president is setting up our military to fail -- but he'll be able to claim that he gave the generals what they wanted. Failure will be their fault.
He's covering his strong-on-security flank, even as he plays to our white-flag wavers. His cynicism's worthy of a Saddam.
Obama's right about one thing, though: The Afghans "will ultimately be responsible for their own country." So why undercut them with an arbitrary timeline that doesn't begin to allow adequate time to expand and train sufficient Afghan forces? Does he really believe that young Afghans are going to line up to join the army and police knowing that we plan to abandon them in mid-2011?
Does the 2012 election ring a bell?
What messages did our president's bait-and-switch speech just send?
To our troops: Risk your lives for a mission I've written off.
To our allies: Race you to the exit ramp.
To the Taliban: Allah is merciful, your prayers will soon be answered.
To Afghan leaders: Get your stolen wealth out of the country.
To Pakistan: Renew your Taliban friendships now (and be nice to al Qaeda).
This isn't just stupid: It's immoral. No American president has ever espoused such a worthless, self-absorbed non-strategy for his own political gratification.
On the other hand, the stage lighting and the camera angles at West Point were terrific. Our president looked good. Jaw jutting high (in his "hope" pose), he decried political partisanship -- but spent more time blaming Bush and Iraq for our Afghan problems than he spent blaming the Taliban (check it with a stop-watch)."
-Ralph Peters, Setting up our Military to Fail
And on that note I'm going to go walk the dogs.
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