Franny: Mom, do you think pineapple is a “pimp” fragrance?
Me: Honey, when you get home we need to talk about your use of the word pimp.
Franny: Oh I don’t like talks.
Me: Well, I don’t like you being ignorant.
Franny: What does ignorant mean?
Me: (Spits tea back into cup.)
Strudel: I am looking up PIMP in the dictionary!
Me: You should look up “ignorant.”
Strudel: (Frowns) I know what that means.
“I hate writing, I love having written.”
― Dorothy Parker
Sometimes, not very often (I hope), I am in denial about something pretty major. This is typically when I am in some kind of holding pattern, waiting for something to change. I think that’s somewhat normal–do you want to spend a bunch of time really chewing at something if you know it will go away in a month or two? You have to decide how to aim yourself, how to prioritize.
I think that’s what happened with this court thing. It all flared up, like the worst case of roids ever, in the fall of 2011, when SeaFed arbitrarily decided it would be marvy to have Franny half of the time again. Then I had a date dangled in front of me: October 2012. That would be the trial–the final, drop dead, leave no forwarding address because this would be OVER. And then we got probably the world’s worst GAL in the history of them. I am not talking about any kind of judgement or decision against me, since I see that on legal bulletin boards around: “How do I get rid of my GAL (who is finding against me).” No. There were no findings at all. Poof! She vanished.
So we continued, and continued…got passed to another commissioner. Franny is now so old she needs to sign the court paperwork as well, at least some of it. My lawyer, Lady Jesse Pinkman, has found a new GAL, who is also a lawyer and who I hope understands professional integrity and shit. “Yo this new GAL totally has her shit together BITCH.” I have not met with her just yet because I found out SeaFed is holding things up.
The emails that are flying around tell kind of an interesting story. Last week I get a forward from my lawyer and it’s a conciliatory communication between her and the court, apologizing that deadlines have not been met, and asking if we’ve done everything we needed to, and no, she has not heard anything at all from Mr. SeaFed. He’s missing deadlines and ignoring emails. The new trial date is set for June, but he fuffed a deadline last month for signing off and any GAL, our pick or otherwise. He did not suggest his own, as far as I know.
I think something else is going on, besides his attention span waning. I keep hearing sad reports from the other house about empty refrigerator and her stepmother sleeping until noon, which, I know at one point she held down a nine to five. I am obviously projecting so hard that hang up a sheet, I can show Life of Pi out my ass, but it sounds like 2003 at my old house over there. How can I describe to you the feeling of having a body next to you who acts human but isn’t really there? Like some kind of meat golem who can, when prompted, carpool children and make easy dinners (assuming there is more than one potato and a couple of backyard eggs in the fridge), but who you can’t really connect with. Is something missing? What could be wrong when you have everything? Is it your fault? Do you really need that intimacy with someone (A: yes).
“They talk about money, money, not enough money, I spent the money, oldest daughter over there [name redacted], money…and that’s about it,” Franny told me one night in the car when I gently suggested that maybe her stepmother was not “lazy” but sad instead. “I think my stepmom doesn’t cry ever because she knows it won’t help anything and my dad won’t do anything about it. Well, she cried when her dad died, but that’s about all I’ve seen.” I bet she cries.
Anyway, here it is 2013, and I am still in that holding pattern. I killed my cookbook in 2011 when court came up, prioritizing Franny’s happiness over creative endeavors. My heart broke over that a little, but my heart was breaking over all kinds of things, so I let it go. You know, I have not done a fucking thing since then. Um, okay, bought a house and that has sucked up some time. But I’ve had a million ideas for terrible short stories, blogs, projects, etc. And here I stew in my own juices.
So, out of denial I guess. There is a part of me that is tiny depressed because I have nothing outside of work and the girls. Getting out of denial is kind of an extra pain, like scraping yourself while shoving through a hole in a fence. I am practically a hermit this winter, which I am enjoying fussing with my house, yet, where did that extroverted asshole go who can accept social engagements and meet new people? I am very quiet and my shadow is very light. I am having nightmares about not creating anything. I think about painting, like I used to do one million years ago. I got a book on home taxidermy. My consolation right now is that I am tearing through books like a fiend, which tells me something may turn around soon. At my nadir last fall I was not even reading anything of substance. At least I am getting interested in the world again. I think I am operating at about 40% of my capacity. My businesslike self that can deal with children and bills and work and my core friendships is doing pretty well…it’s just the creative side of me that’s depressed.
Recently I steeled myself and finally walked into Book Larder, which, yes, is a very Seattle bookstore that sells mostly cookbooks. I dreamed of having my cookbook in the front window as they were opening. I walked in and I immediately encountered someone’s books who had broken out chapters of Beeton’s book in an small and easily-digestible format. Beeton’s Book of Desserts, Beeton’s Book of Meats, etc. It was okay to see that. I found a terrible update of the book of household management that was Frankensteined into something 1920sish well after her death. It was very expensive as it was a collectible and irritated me, as if someone was selling paintings done in shit that were supposed to be reinterpretations of Sketches of Spain. SIT DOWN, syphilitic Samuel Beeton.
But something good happened there at the Book Larder, and it was this painful week that I was crawling out of denial that my creativity, at least, was depressed, when my eye lit on a book about beekeeping for beginners, which is something I have been thinking about since I lived in Fremont. I think this is the year. I have energy to give to bees, and in a couple of years, they will have honey to give to me. And someday this whole court thing will be over and I will be on fire again.
The apple tree’s rot went through to the middle. But I am resilient as ever.
Love,
SJ
Coda
My cookie Horace rolls on the rug after a bath to dry himself off. He runs when he hears the water running because he knows he gets a cookie afterwards.
It’s blurry but you get the idea.
@hovy and I were at the 13 Coins, after a night with Miss Coco Peru, who is amazing live. I thought I was going to have one drink and then turn into a pumpkin as usual, but LO there was an amazing singer there belting her face off doing jazz standards. It was like my own personal playlist.
I ordered an old fashioned, and it came back in a martini glass with only a cherry, which I thought was a little strange. It tasted weird, too. I’m kind of used to them being abused, though. It happens. The waitress came around again to check on us and asked if we wanted another round. “Yes,” I said. “Can you do this again but on the rocks with an orange added?” She didn’t bat and eye and said, “Sure.” I got the bill and it said “2 Manhattans.” Well, that explained that. I am hopeless.
Thing two is Edmonds. We were noodling around the art galleries and other shops there and I asked a clerk where to get a drink. He recommended an Irish pub up the street. “It’s dark but the bartender is really nice,” he assured us. It was dark as promised and they had potcheen on the menu. “Irish moonshine” it said. I’d never had it, so naturally I ordered one. Since Hovy was driving and we weren’t going to stay for too long, we closed out the bill right away. The bartender was an older guy–a very jovial fellow and insisted on “buying” me another shot of Bunratty. “If that’s okay with you,” he said to Hovy.
“I hope I don’t turn you straight,” I said to Hovy as we were leaving. “Everyone today thinks we’re married. We need to cover you in giant sequins before we come in next time.” We had a conversation about how weird it is to ask someone permission to give your “wife” another drink. I can drive my own vagina AND liver. I’ve been spending a fair amount of time lately wondering what it will be like when the old timers aren’t around anymore and I am the old timer.
Sometimes I think things deserve a nice, archival-quality frame. Original artwork, duh. When you are giving a framed gift. But sometimes you don’t want to drop, what, like $150 to have something framed.
The Northend KMart is closing quite suddenly. Holy cats it is a clusterfuck up there. I stopped in on Friday evening for some slumber party snacks for Number One Daughter and an outlet splitter for Our Lady of Feralness and I ended up coming home with a lot more than I planned. But there were some smokin’ deals.
I got this print a few days ago–could not resist it.
And then I found this boring frame at KMart.
White mat, that kind of silver paint that looks sort of like some unfortunate person spat it onto the frame and then maybe a bird pooed on it and they rinsed it but it was too late. I don’t know what’s up with that bad gritty-looking low end silver paint that’s on everything. Who decided that?
With the theory that I could not make the mat worse, and I could buy a new one if need be, I borrowed some of Franny’s crayons to find a close-enough compliment to the cheetah’s suit. Bang: wild blue yonder. Then I rub and buffed the frame, not too neatly. The silver comes through in places and it looks old.
It took me fifteen minutes and now I am happy enough. I made a deal with P. that over time I would swap out some of my more horrendous velvets from the big living room wall for a different variety of art. I am keeping my end of the bargain. His end of the deal is that he does not snap and put me and all of my hideous things on the lawn with MAKE OFFER stickers all over us.
“BONUS”
Matilda likes to sit in front of the projection screen and even watch with us, but sometimes she just likes to be in the way.
DOWN IN FRONT, MATILDA. Hawk will trip over you when he goes to cut Harold Smith down.
Why do I have hair in funny places? Is it wrong to want to look under the vicar’s cassock? CAN I GET ASS PREGNANT BY SOMEONE OUTSIDE OF MY PROFESSIONAL FIELD, i.e. DMV WORKERS?
I have something to add to the annals me not being able to figure out what is happening to my body. I think I mentioned recently I hurt my shoulder in September and that I was going to physical therapy. I think I hurt myself in yoga, which is like the most pathetic white lady thing that could ever happen to anyone, except for recently when my heels were too high and I edged off the sidewalk and went ASS OVER TEAKETTLE and splashed my face with my short double soy mocha, why no lid? PNW white lady environmentalism. Flying Spaghetti God smite me now. I went down like LiLo after you tell her you think you dropped some crack crumbs in your pubes.
Wow, where was I? After Christmas my shoulder was slowly improving week by week, but I was afraid I was broken. Numbness, pain at rest, trouble sleeping, limited range of motion in the arm, an inability to lift it from a laying position. I was literally moving my arm around at times with my right arm, which is not so great itself thanks to carpel tunnel (en Francais: tunnale with cheese). My co-dependent dog slept with Franny the other night and was FRANTIC about seeing me in the morning after an excruciating separation of 8 (unconscious) hours. I was turned away from him on my side and he was dancing and snuffling and whining to try to get me to turn over so he could lay on my (bad) arm. Horace is the king of spooning.
I lifted my arm slowly and carefully as I rolled over. When I got about halfway there, I heard this incredible CRACK in the joint–the loudest pop I have ever heard in a joint in my body. That knuckle cracky-endorphin feeling flooded through my entire body. I sat still for a moment, trying to figure out what happened. I moved my arm slowly and it moved, without help. I stood up and my range of motion was back. I was still kind of sore in the joint, but it felt like residual soreness and not like something that continued to be cranky. The next day was even better. I have discovered something, though, in walking around work yesterday. I’ve stopped swinging my arm when I walk. And I hold it differently when I stand and type. I’ve been swinging my arm around (gently) for no real reason. And you know what else? In about a week these five or so months will be forgotten because that is how I roll.
Confidential to someone who would probably be embarrassed if I called her out by name. *cough* Here is a boring set of charts about employment outcomes for people during this depression we’re in. I know a lot of people are underemployed, but some work is better than no work? I know, I know, who knows what things will be like in 4 years. College isn’t for everyone, nor is it needed by everyone. But hey, you are already there.
In summary:
1. What else could you be doing right now? If you answer “chick sexor” then can I job shadow you and you have my permission to drop out, but this is the only exception. Stay warm and dry while you’re sucking up some learnings and not just trapped behind a cash register with little hope of improvement.
2. College can make you interesting. Yeah, you can absorb up learnings on your own, but those survey classes you are suffering through now will get you into the pants of someone at a party later, or get you a job because you can talk about a breadth of subjects. It’s great for making connections. You will have depth of whatever your focus was to keep that job once you get it.
3. Seattle sucks in January. Everyone knows it. It can really fuck with your perspective and energy. Look at me. My Halloween post is still visible on my blog and that’s sad, but I am out of gas. I go to work, I come home, I try to let my friends know I am not dead and make sure they have not died under hoarder piles or something. I will come out of my crypt again in April.
Complain about it like we all do, drink juice, visit the Sun Shoppe, take your vitamin D and pray for Pineapple Express in February this year. Listen to your body–schedule more sleep when you need it, but try to exercise too. Things will start blooming very soon, which is so cool.
ALSO STAY OFF THE PCP. SANDY, BE A BUMMER. WHEN YOU MAKE YOUR FIRST MILLION, CUT ME A CHECK. BECAUSE I WILL BE LIVING ON CAT FOOD THEN.
Toasting Strudel welcomes you in to a POST HOLIDAY FUCKIN WONDERLAND.
Well! It is January again. I was thinking there would be Polar Bear dippery by my people again on New Year’s Day, but much to my amusement it was completely forgotten about until midday. Whoops. I was in bed before midnight, but at 12 there were fireworks and gunshots. A friend made me feel better later by gently suggesting they were firing blanks. I was refreshed on New Year’s and not at all hungover or underslept.
The same could not be said for Xmas day. I had my sister over for dinner and stayed up waaaay too late watching The Big Lebowski, which is Morgan’s favorite of all time. It’s safe to say the Dude blew Franny’s mind. “This is the coolest movie I’ve ever seen,” she said reverentially, as if some secret had finally been revealed.
Franny and I popped out after present opening on Xmas morning to see Les Miz. I saw Les Miz for the first time when I was 13. I tend to agree that you may be more vulnerable to being hooked by it if you’re a teen girl. We got to sit side by side in the theatre, crying silently and sharing a pack of tissues. By Xmas night I was really sick–my immune system’s tipping point is often when I’ve had less than 6 hours of sleep and am fighting it off.
Something funny happened on the way in to the movie. We were one of the first people in to the lobby and had come almost an hour early for the 11 a.m. showing. I figured it would be full of the die-hard since it opened on Xmas Day, and that was the first showing (other than the midnight opening the night before). We made our way up to the fourth floor of the googleplex and I said, “Let’s get seats now and snacks later.” Franny agreed with me. As I passed concessions, I could see a man and a woman standing there, waiting for popcorn. The woman turned her head towards us and a group of two other ladies and I could see her eyes pop wide in horror. Someone was going to beat her in! Our theatre was really close to concessions and I could hear her RUNNING up behind us, but would not elbow past us. Franny and I got the front and center seats on the raised tier, which I think are the best seats. I could see the shoulders of the woman behind us visibly sag as we sat down. She and her companion sat close to us and were very polite and said nothing to us. I pretended I didn’t see her silent drama, since I didn’t want to tussle over the seats, but hey, I am a superfan too.
I took a week and a half or so off through the holidays so I could hang out with the girls and bake and play with the Wii. Not much happened, which was awesome, except my lawyer finally decided to properly fire our guardian ad litem. The trial is now pushed out four months, since we will need a new one to assess us.
I did a lot of cooking for my sister’s visit. I considered making some kind of sumptuous yule log, but I got a wild hair and decided to make four kinds of dessert: apricot, blackberry, and strawberry pâtes de fruits, brandied fruit tarts, peanut brittle, and to put out my scotch truffles.
P. got involved since he wanted to make gingerbears. The recipe turned out a little oddly–they swelled and puffed more than gingerbread should, but they tasted nice.
Franny thought they looked a little pedobear. It was fun to eat their heads.
Here’s the table all set before the devouring began. I set out potted “hare” and quince jelly.
In between all this I kind of rested up and was pathetic, like everyone else in Seattle. I swear everyone got this cold. Franny left on the 26th. Then I started cooking again.
A craving for non-sucky Moroccan led me to get my own checkstub. And buy rosewater. And isn’t the bottle pretty?
P. made a pattern in parchment for cinnamon. A cinnamon snowflake.
Bastilla!
The table is laid again:
Today Franny is coming back early. Today has been deadly boring, which is pretty awesome. Her early return has been happening almost every weekend for the past little while. It’s nice–I miss my kid who will correct my middle finger from the generic old man flip off into something with flair.
WARNING, Season 3 spoilers a-ho (fun ahoy, TM).
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Sat Dec 29
I’ll fix your broken sauce (belowstairs) pic
A gentleman of respectable station with a reasonable face seeks a lady fair of face and disposition with a view to matrimony. Must enjoy lectures about proper saucemaking and must meet the approval of my esteemed but assertive aunt. Kindly include the phrase “Nice Guy” in the subject line so it is known that the lady is no trifler. Might I entice thee with my meritable whisk menagerie?
A young career-minded lady of position (Downton)
Would like to correspond with a Man of a Certain Age, who is a city gentleman with affectionate ways and financial solvency. The lady is opinionated and attractive from certain angles and in particular lighting conditions. Preference given to impossible marital situations and balkers. Glass eye acceptable. Do you have a motorcar? Serious correspondence first; no triflers.
War hero amiably disposed towards the Mandrakes and a bit of the old clipclop (Cupid’s Wink) pic
No longer in the first bloom of youth and manhood, I am nonetheless in a position to provide for he who is. Well-traveled, worldly cad who returned from the trenches a decorated hero. If you’d like to make progress with this rake, please reply if you are attractive in person. Enjoying being kitted out as a footman who resembles a ventriloquist’s puppet-doll A+. I’LL LET YOU STICK IT IN ME HANDHOLE
Latterly awaken’d in me is a Sapphic desire (behind the stables)
Care for a mint? After a chance encounter with a lovely and estimable young lady, I find my heart plucked by Sappho’s bow. I am a gentleman of somewhat advanced years with injuries honorably sustained in the Boer War, with a sturdy and tolerant wife who is fairer of face than I. Though I may not be as ambulatory as a younger gentleman, it is not said that the fair maidens still yet come to dance around the maypole?
Recently widowed lady of distinction (Downton) pic
Highly respectable young lady, kettle drums non-pendulous thanks to PaPA’s having arranged a wet nurse. Seeking late-night, clandestine amusements–should trouble arise I have in my employ a discrete and strong lady’s maid. NO PAMUKING ON THE FIRST DATE.
I have been playing Kingdom of Loathing since 2005 with some breaks. I discovered it in June, a few months after Strudel was born. It was nice to have something free to do for a short part of the day.
Now she plays.
And she sends me messages in-game sometimes.
It makes me happy. THE END.
This weekend I did putt putt putter around.
My good friend Simichrome came over, and we had a fumey good time. I wear gloves but my hands end up dry anyway and I end up coughing. I’m doing a little at a time.
Before and after:
After and after:
I can see my house from here.
Speaking of brass things, I was at the Value Village recently and I found a nice fireplace screen. Mine was okay, I did not love it. It was the replacement since during closing our real estate agent brought her grandson and he fully broke the fireplace screen that was up here among other things. He was kind of an unsupervised brute. Ah well.
FEETS IT HAS FEETS I LOVE THEM.
WHAT IS GOING ON HERE A MASONIC SYMBOL WHATEVER IT’S CUTE
I do like this better than the old one I pulled up from the basement fireplace. I’ve kicked it back down there now.
I made some scotch truffles…well, they are part way through. Most of them have been rolled in pecans at this point. So if you are “lucky” enough to be invited over in the next two weeks, you will probably have these very truffles foisted upon you. I made a double batch.
First you mix the cream and the chocolate and the scotch. GANACHEY!
WHIP WHIP WHIP til it is smooth, like on the smooth scale if it one [1] is gravel and ten [10] is opium den hosted by Jesus, then this ganache was probably a seven [7], or Jay Smooth‘s Cousin Who People Say Looks Like Jay Smooth and Gets Drunk And Rants a Little And Sometimes Accidentally Pulls Girls That Way.
Then you measure out even tablespoons and firm them up more before rolling them in pecans. I made a butt ton so I did a double decker thing with shot glasses and a second cookie sheet. Still probably more stable than some of my old Sim houses. R.I.P lot where each room was separate and joined by a catwalk, while all the property was flooded. Yes, that’s practical. I still want to live there, though.
Anyway I don’t have any pictures of them nutted, but I will.
Do you remember the NOOK? Sure you do. Baby, don’t be like that.
I found a free-standing counter I liked and painted it, and changed the hardware. I even painted the little spats it is wearing on its legs. Yes, that is our old friend Rustoleum rosemary. I took the extra spats and put them on my ye olde butcher block table, which is generally home to fruit and plants nowadays. In this way, if I ever need less cooking space (HA) it can be a nook again.
I think it blends fine. I cook on it a lot and look out the window and think about internal and external space and the pantyopticon and semiotics and crap. And crab dip.
V’s Herbie asked about court. Yes. Court. I’ve been pushed out to January 22nd now due to still no GAL report. Guess what though, my lawyer, Lady Jesse Pinkman, totally subpoenaed the GAL though for Tuesday. So it’s like, cough up report or come in and testify. Either way, that’s medium bueno. I bet we won’t continue-ants again.
