And you thought reading/watching Lord of the Rings obsessively would be pointless.

So...JedI has survived his recent surgery.

I say this largely because (I think) he was not sure he would.  And he did.  "Hey, what's up?" was the greeting he gave me coming out of anesthesia. And he sat there, perfectly cognizant and waiting for them to check him out, drinking Coke and snacking on animal crackers...because he really might be Wolverine, with his healing powers.

 Because it was just a vasectomy, according to my female sensibilities, and The Potential End of the World, according to the male perspective.

I admit it; as a female I lack the true understanding that comes with something like this. I know it is scary...well, I in theory know it is scary.  As reality, it is kind of hit-and-miss.  I was always assured that when "the time was right" I would find it within my heart to want to procreate.  I spent many years, in fact, dealing with the fact that I did NOT want to procreate.  I adore my nieces and nephews; I would go back in time only to relive spending time with the Nutz Brothas and doing MORE for them.  But that maternal instinct?  Not so much.  I adore playing with babies.  I will even change diapers (and I am pretty sure Whit left a particularly vile diapered child to me ON PURPOSE); but there is something in me that lacks the need to procreate.

That being said, despite his attempt at dignity the JedI has given in to my suggestion, and now can be heard chanting "Grond! Grond! Grond!" with me as we place the large metallic bowl over his nether regions, in order that the cat might not leap upon his loins and undo what has been (horribly expensively) done.

He is still not fully at ease with Feral Fawcett; I am not sure that either of them will ever achieve full symbiosis.  Nevertheless, I have been really, really glad that I insisted on the biggest aluminum bowl we had, rather than a smaller one.  When Feral leaps up and sneers at us, at least she isn't causing JedI pain.

Can ANYONE explain to me why, with insurance, it cost us almost $800 to have his squirmies secede from the Union?  Am I racist for even questioning this?  Because really, after the laws being passed and the requirement that WE ALL SHALL HAVE INSURANCE, isn't NOT having children something that should resonate deeply with insurance companies?  As JedI has suggested, why don't they offer an incentive/bonus amount for people who are trying to do the responsible thing and NOT have children?

This is me, signing off and not thrilled with the fact that if I don't sign up for local health care, our tax refund may be in jeopardy.  Yer kidding me.

"I have no concern about those teams to get in there and pull a stunt overnight"

So, there they were.

"There have certainly been no breakouts of violence," said the sports announcer, who CLEARLY is a moron for the above-referenced statement.  Outbreaks of violence?  Violence?  About a fucking FOOTBALL TEAM?!

I'm sorry.  I thought that the disparity between commercial sports personalities and those of us who merely ate a bagel as breakfast and didn't kick through our rental walls was far, far less.

Great news for the 49ers.  The weather is apparently supporting them.

JedI is a huge sports fan.  So huge that when one of the only sports in which I remotely showed an interest was tennis, he started learning names and stats, to the point that I have NO idea to whom he is referencing when he shrieks from his earbud-laden world about how someone's second set totally decimated the eighth seed.

Feral Fawcett, by the way, has taken the opportunity to be absolutely FILTHY in her litterbox.

Remember when I was the queen of eschewing sports?  What happened?

Oh, Freddy Mercury, you knew what you were singing about...THANK GOD IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!!!!

When the JedI  and I decided on the menu for this year's Thanksgiving, it was based on what we wanted to eat rather than necessarily the 'traditional' meal.  We decided on a ham, which naturally led to scalloped potatoes (gruyere and extra sharp white cheddar, thank you very much).  I wanted my mother's dressing, because that is the Thanksgiving taste of childhood (other than Aunt Jane's divinity).  The menu quickly filled up with the ubiquitous green bean casserole, only made from scratch and with fresh green beans and mushrooms...peppered chicken gravy to go on the dressing...cranberry yuzu chutney with candied ginger...a pumpkin pie (my first time making one ever!)...chocolate pot de creme...lemon chiffon pudding cake...

All of this may explain why I now fit in "big girl" clothing.

Nevertheless, it was wonderful.  When I saw the ham, it was cradled tenderly in JedI's arms like Baby Jesus--and was about the size of the Baby Jesus.  "Why would you order eight pounds of ham for two people?!" I demanded, and  he was quick to point out that he had only requested that his boss order us in a ham, and had not specified quantity.  Apparently my love of any type of pork product is well known for knowing not only no bounds, but no weight requirements either.  I did try to get JedI to take a picture of it, possibly with a tea towel over his head like the Virgin Mary mantle.  "We could use it for our Christmas card," I said, using the most persuasive argument I could think of.  He very nearly agreed; but I think I ruined it by suggesting that the child had obviously taken after its father in the chin area.

And with Thanksgiving over, we move on to THE CHRISTMAS SEASON.  I am so excited for it this year!

We still have no floor space for a tree, and even if we did there is still Feral Fawcett and her 3:47 a.m. Formula One racetrack, as well as her midnight crazies.  And her midafternoon fury. And her early morning rumpus.  And her late afternoon sulky rampage.  And her daily taunting of the squirrel outside the window who does something to cheese her off and sets the tone for her whole attitude for the day. JedI says that having a cat is like having a teenage daughter.  He works hard, he supports us, he comes home and wants just a little affection, and instead she attacks his feet, hisses, and rolls onto her back so when he tries to pet her belly she can turn into the feline equivalent of a bear trap.  He maintains that it's like walking into a room and having your teenage daughter look up from her cell phone (that you pay for) and saying "Suck it, pops."

So I have done a Christmas tree out of lights on the wall, and hung ornaments on it, in the first stages of Christmas JOY.  JedI came home early a few nights ago and found me with the lights on the wall (held up with masking tape so I could see how it would look) and the new Christmas bedding on the bed.  Since he is firmly of the belief that Christmas season begins THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING, I was a little worried; but he sighed, and said with that husband-weary tone that means I am Not Actually In Trouble "I have realized you have absolutely no self control when it comes to Christmas."  He did still ban Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving...but he can't stop me now!

Trifecta Week 78, Arthurian Fashion: A Discussion (of Sorts)

                We are at our favorite restaurant.  The waitresses’ skirts are all at least two inches shorter than the aprons they wear, which is one reason Arthur loves it.  “I think I’m in love,” he says, leering.

                “Which one?  The one whose thighs meet at the knee?”

                “No, the one with the tube socks pulled up.”

                I look.  “She’s got a plastic flower in her hair.”

                Arthur shrugs.  “I’m a sucker for tube socks..  Oh yeah, and remember that girl in my class?  The one with the retainer?”

                I remember.  He had shown up at my house a week before, prancing.  It’s a revolting activity for anyone, but particularly nauseating when performed by a thirty year old single man.  “She has a retainer, that’s almost as cool as braces,” he had reported gleefully between prances.  “I’m so going to make her date me.”

                “How’s the romance of the Orthodontic World going?”  I say now, squeezing a lemon into my iced tea.

                “Well, I’m not asking her out after all because I found out she’s lactose intolerant.”  He picks up his menu and studies it.  “Do you think the steamed vegetables will have cauliflower?  I hate cauliflower.”

                “You’re seriously not asking her out because of that?”

                “Of course.”

                “And you accuse me of harboring phobias and quirks?”

                “You were the one who rejected a guy for leaving his participles dangling.  God, you're pedantic.”

                “”I’m not dating a dangling-participler.  And before you even bring him up, we will not address the man with split infinitives.”

                “I don’t care if a girl communicates in grunts and obscene gestures, as long as she can eat cheese with me.”

                “Ah, the romance of cheese.”

                “In fact I’d almost prefer that she exclusive uses obscene gestures, now that I think about it.”

                “I can’t believe you’re so prejudiced you won’t go out with someone because she can’t have dairy.”

                “It’s important.  Yes, even more than retainers.”

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/ 

Sorry, dude.

For this one?  Totally crossing the streams.  I am sorry if it doesn't meet up with expectations.

http://www.surlytemple.blogspot.com/

It's the Staff of Life, People.

The thing about our E-Z Bake Oven we have squatting in our luxurious studio flat is that:
1.  It has only three working burners, which are the burner size of...;
2.  Since Keebler Elves are clearly its target purchasing demographic, it fits a standard cookie sheet pan...if you don't go for highfalutin' extras like edges;
3.  If you have the oven on, do not expect the bottom right of the aforementioned 3 burners to work, because clearly you are expecting too much out of life;
4.  The vagaries of its oven temperature and my oven thermometer are constantly in the kind of d'accord usually found after treaties are signed and both sides figure out that the other one was compromising in a way they never intended to honor, but before each one has deteriorated to open "suck it, sideways" hostilities;* and,
5.  Its constantly-burning pilot light makes a ROCKING dough-proofer.

This doesn't mean I don't want to set it on fire, constantly.  Or suspect that it wants to do the same to me.  Believe me, the kitchen rant is coming.  And when that rant comes, I want none of the following to detract from its well-deserved kick in the metaphorical Y, wherever an oven's Y is found.

But...I can't afford a proofer.  Not monetarily, not counter-wise (I can't afford the room or the Union Dues for three tapdancing Smurfs, counter-space-wise, if we're being honest, here).  I want a proofer, just because I get into these bizarre obsessions and naturally assume that nobody, EVER, has gone through this same thing.  The people at The Fresh Loaf?  I love 'em; I stalk 'em; I am intimidated as HELL by them.  I am a novice and a dilettante once again on the home ground of people who have spent their whole lives learning to do what I want to do maybe one or two afternoons a week.

We also are looking to save money; newlywed under a year, I bake our bread.  ALL of our bread, barring the occasional Sunday-eating-what-we-want splurge or the JedI bringing home a treat from the restaurant.  I try all kinds of recipes, and am a huge, huge, HUGE fan of http://www.artisanbreadinfive.com/.  Sweet crunchy cracker, is it gorgeous, and seriously?  No kneading?  WHY DID WE GET TO KNEADING AS A SPECIES, ANYWAY?!**

So tonight, as I made a bread that totally decided on its own to be a total ahole, the only thing that made me want to not slice open the dough and bewail its lack of entrails, was that my E-Z Bake Oven does appear to be every bit as forgiving and possibly a bit more maternal than the mini-cake packs, icing-pack debacles, and neighbors whose parents clearly make more than yours and give you really awesome shit like an E-Z Bake Oven.

I loathe my E-Z Bake Oven.  It is a total dick, and anybody who says differently heats up those Ramen packet noodles and doesn't even bother to put butter on them and sprinkle the seasoning packet over it.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.

*A great deal more on this in an upcoming post.  The oven, not the treaties not honored.  I have no effect upon world politics, less so over my personal domain which includes the aforementioned rat bastard oven, as well as a cat that thinks, well, exactly like a cat.

**Is this simply people trying to make people who haven't the patience necessary to knead something making everybody else feel like an asshole, thereby assuring job security?

Four Calling Birds (Are Too Many) Trifecta Challenge Week #75

     "YOU WILL BE PLEASED TO KNOW," I informed my husband via text, "That I believe I have  identified That Bird."
     "I am so proud of you, honey," he said as he walked in the door that night.  "I can't believe it.  How many online birdsongs did you have to listen to?"
     "No clue."
     "Over twenty?"
     "Easily."
     "So now what?"
     "I've already scoped out my sniper's nest.  But first I need to make myself a gilly suit."
     "I know how to make a gilly suit," he volunteered, deliberately oblivious to the hilarity that should have ensued at the mental image of a woman in a gilly suit sitting in a bay window on the second floor of a converted whorehouse in California.
     That Bird first became known to me during a bout of insomnia.  As I lay there in the predawn light, listening to its monotonous ‘twoo-whoo’  that surely had to stop sometime soon, surely, it will stop, I had no idea at the time that this bird was to become a nemesis.  Later, I charitably thought it must have just been a transient bird, and that of course it would move on and we could also move on to other irritants, like the neighbor’s tetchy car alarm or the midnight crazies of our cat, Feral Fawcett. 
     One week later, I elbowed my husband in the ribs.  “That bird,” I announced, “is an asshole.” 
     “It’ll quiet down,” he said sleepily, no doubt mentally wishing his wife would do the same.
     Six weeks later that dream has also died, for both of us.  The offender has been (in theory) identified, the plans have been laid, the doors of retribution kicked wide as a practice maneuver for when I find the bird and kick it in the tailfeathers.
     I’m on to you, some-type-of-dove.  For now, I have your real name.  It’s Latin.  And it’s Assholus Maximus.  Until we meet on the playing field…oh, yes.  Until then.

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/