Sundays are my favorite.

Sometimes I think about some of the things I've written about Mormon women and realize I've got it mostly wrong - they're much more than the box I put them into when I first started learning more than what the missionaries teach.  If I've offended you, I'm sorry.  I don't mean to be an asshole, but sometimes I am.

I made some amazing vegetable soup last night.  Remember the brisket Jimi made for work and then wasn't going to share?  He brought some home.  It was delicious, and then it became soup, along with the last can of green beans and the last can of corn and some old potatoes that were starting to turn soft and a jar of tomato juice someone gave us back in the summer.  There were other things too, of course, but you don't want all the details, do you?  I was particularly proud of this batch, because I though I needed to make a trip to the grocery to make it happen, then just pulled together what we had and made it work instead.  Very frugal and smart of me, if I do say so myself.  Jimi made pretzel bread rolls and they are delicious, but they were finished too late to marry up with the soup - they'll meet tonight!  I guess we're on a baking kick, because I also made a pumpkin german chocolate cake, but we've only shared one piece of that.

This morning I got up and started on laundry, only to find we were out of detergent.  So I made some more, at 7:30 a.m..  Like a boss.  I've said it before, but I'll say it again - that shit feels like making money.  Putting together a batch of laundry detergent that is as good or better than something I'd pay nearly $20 for at the store - it feels awesome.  I wish I could be more go-get-'em when it comes to other aspects of my life.

For example:  Bossman's birthday was yesterday.  I decided a week or so ago that part of my gift to him was going to be some awesome fudge.  I made the fudge today, because I'm all on the ball and shit.  So I start making the fudge, add the evaporated milk and butter and sugar to the pot, bring to a boil, then reduce heat and wait for it to get to soft boil.  It nearly boiled over.  It was in a 3-quart saucepan, as required per the recipe.  Something didn't look right.  I thought.  I pondered.  I calculated in my head.  And I realized, FUCK, I have WAY too much evaporated milk in there.  I checked the label on the can - sure as shit, my recipe called for (2) 5-oz cans and I'd added (2) 12-oz cans.  Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.  I considered dumping it all out the back door, but then calculated some more and figured there was already too much invested to give up.  I hollered for Jimi and set him to task buttering more foil in another 9X13 while I found another two and a half sticks of butter and 5+ cups of sugar.  By chance, my habit of over-buying paid off this time - I had exactly enough chocolate on-hand to make this thing work.

I'm really glad I caught my mistake when I did - if not, and chocolate and such had been added, disaster would've ensued.  As it stands, the fudge has firmed up beautifully, and the worst sin may be that I failed to add enough nuts.  I'll take it.

Other noteworthy items:  I purchased 2 lbs. of whole, in-the-shell nuts, along with a cracker and some picks.  Do you know what I'm talking about?  Part of Christmas memories from my childhood will always include my Papaw, sitting at the dining room table, shelling nuts and shoving them in his mouth as quickly as they could be freed from their hulls.  He taught me how to do it.  I think Bob and I tried to recreate this tradition once-upon-a-time, but what may have happened to that set of crackers and picks is anyone's guess - I'm glad to have a new set for my new life, to remind me of another time when I was as happy as I am now.

Granny and Papaw were part of the definition of Christmas when I was learning the meaning of the season.  Every Christmas Eve was spent at their home, opening presents, feasting gluttonously, singing joyfully.  It seemed that the heart of the entire world must have grown three sizes each year simply from the good tidings radiating from their home.  I miss them so much.  Christmas lost part of its magic when we lost them.

But it's still mostly happy and joyful.  The circle of life, and all that.  Stacy was over last night - she's got five weeks till her due date.  Five weeks!  We'll blink and that brand new little girl will be here.  I can't wait to meet her.  I was able to feel a knee or a foot or something last night as it pressed out the side of Stacy's belly; there's a whole another person inside of her - it's mind-blowing.  Stacy was wearing a much-too-big for her ICP t-shirt left over from her college days and a pair of baggy gray sweats.  She looked super comfortable, and not even a little pregnant, unless you know she's normally the size of a twig.

We've rearranged more furniture and I've finally repotted the aloe plant and the bromeliad - there's a good chance neither will survive the transfer, but we'll see.  Fingers crossed.

I asked my cousins via Facebook if our grandmother, Mamaw (my Daddy's Momma), had a good singing voice - if anyone remembered.  No one remembers her singing.  I asked Daddy, too - he doesn't remember either.  For some reason, that strikes me as tragically sad.  Was she sad?  Is that why she didn't sing?  Or was she shy, or did she just not carry a tune?  Her life was hard and fraught with loss, but beyond that, I don't know much.  I know she made great fried chicken, according to Daddy, and amazing banana pudding.  What did she love, though?  What made her happy?  My most vivid memory of her involves her tears of frustration as she tried to communicate with me; I was 9 or so, Brother was a new baby, and she had already suffered a stroke or two and her verbal skills were very much affected.  I remember at her funeral, Daddy hugged me and told me that my Mamaw had loved me very much - I remember wishing she'd not been such a stranger to me, though it was obviously through no fault of her own.

Christmas cheer, eh?

Sorry.

The weekends go by so quickly - it's already 6 o'clock on Sunday night, which means I'll be awake and starting my workday in 12 hours or so.  Fuck.

It's fine, though.  Monday through Thursday this week, they can have me.  After that, I'm gone - off for 11 days.  11 DAYS!!!  OMG, I cannot wait!  I don't know how I'll spend the time, but it'll not be answering phone calls in the middle of the night or putting out fires before my first cup of coffee.  I fully intend to at least finish reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and these two new-to-me classic anti-Mormon autobiographies (Deborah Laake and Sonia Johnson) drunk-me bought me for Christmas last week.

Happy Week-Before-Christmas!  May the Force be with you this week as you navigate the malls and shops. (And remember, Buy Local!)

In pictures...

Thursday, Thursday, gotta get down on Thursday.

Rebecca Black had it all wrong - my understanding is that THURSDAY, not Friday, is THE day to party.  In our first year, Jimi and I referred to Thursday as High Friday - we'd fill our house with friends and laughter and junk food and watch TV or play games and drink booze and pass the peace pipe and all was right with the world.  We don't do that anymore - four years later he's got the 'betes and nights of diving face-first into cartons of ice cream had to be cut way back.

See?  I start typing and then I hit a brick wall and everything that comes into my head sounds stupid and ridiculous and I don't want to write any of it.  So I write nothing instead, which I know probably isn't the right answer, so fine, here, i'll just write it all and if it sucks it sucks.

(Usually, you'd hope an outburst like that would lead up to some awesome drama, like maybe I found out Jimi's having an affair or my boy dog used to be a girl dog, but sorry to disappoint, that was just a random outburst directed completely at myself and there's no good dirt to follow the build-up - I'm such a disappointment.)

I'm taking Stacy shopping this weekend to buy her a BellaBand - she's something like 14 weeks now (15?), and none of her pants fit anymore.  Hopefully this will get her through the next few weeks and give her a chance to collect a new wardrobe with room for her growing belly.

When we were little (4 and 5?  5 and 6? 3 and 4?), Papaw hunted squirrel and rabbit and deer on the Property.  I hated that he hunted - oh, it just seemed so cruel and horrible and awful.  Had he not seen Bambi?!  Did he not see how adorable and sweet and cuddly those little animals were?!  There wasn't even that much meat on them, and McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't have any squirrel/rabbit/deer nuggets to offer, so obviously it wasn't even REAL food.  The hunting and killing of such innocence was wholly wrong, and I wasted no opportunity to inform my loving, impressionable, younger cousin of my deep thoughts on the subject.  I indoctrinated her with the utter injustice of the entire situation - I secured a promise from her that she would never again eat the flesh of those innocent little creatures.

But one morning, she found herself at Granny and Papaw's breakfast table, and in front of her was set a plate piled high with piping hot fried rabbit - her personal favorite before my "Save the Woodland Creatures" campaign.  She looked longingly at the plate of meat, then at me.  "Stace, go on and have some," says Granny, getting up to lift a piece onto her plate.  "I can't," Stacy says, loyally, "Natalie says those are God's creatures and we shouldn't kill God's creatures."  Granny launched into the reasons why my logic was right and wrong, and then told Stacy if she didn't want to eat any rabbit, she didn't have to.  Stacy again stared at the plate of hot battered rabbit - legs that had once hopped along the prairie.  Finally, her restraint broke - she reached for a leg, "They may be God's creatures, but they sure do taste good."

****************

I've been at work for an hour (I started that part up there at home), and already I've apologized twice today for being a bitch.  Maybe today isn't going to be my day.  Maybe I need to chill the fuck out. 

Okay.  Starting over - do-over! 

It's Thursday.  It'll be a good day - I mean, it has to be, right?  It's practically Friday. 

Things I remember better than what I did yesterday...

...The time my Momma's Oldsmobile was hit by that lady who ran the stop sign.  It was 1983; I was three and seat belt laws didn't exist yet.  I think car seats were optional for toddlers.  I was in my car seat, with its brown padded bar that came down over my head to form a sort of tray in front of me - I loved to beat my hands on that, I still remember the way it felt and sounded - but the bar wasn't there that day.  We weren't going far, so Momma had put me in the car seat, but I wasn't buckled or fastened in any way.  I was just hangin' out.  And then the car lurched and I somersaulted from my car seat in the back over the middle console and came to rest with my back to the dash and my legs over my head.  I was confused - what just happened? - and I looked up and over at my Momma.  Her forehead was full of blood; the windshield was cracked.  I have fuzzy memories of an ambulance arriving to take Momma to the hospital, and Granny staying behind with me; I wasn't hurt, just confused.  

...Running down the short hallway of our apartment to greet Daddy at the door when he came home from work. Many days, he was carrying a 40 oz. beer, usually a Budweiser.  I'd beg for a sip and he'd give in - it was the nastiest taste ever, but Daddy liked it so I wanted some.  I was 4.

...Wearing my Momma's bowling shoes and trying to imagine a day when I'd be able to lift that big heavy ball.  

...The feeling of terror and incompetence that came over me the first time I walked into my 3rd grade classroom and saw a cursive alphabet circling the room.  My Daddy was holding my hand, and I looked up at him and whispered, "Daddy, I don't think I can do this."  "Yes you can," he whispered back.  He was right.

...That time in 4th grade when we were saving cans to recycle to earn money for our class trip - we poured out bags and bags full of cans on the concrete basketball courts outside the school and had a can-crushing party.  I'd worn sandals that day - cheap one made of white fake-leather laces - and a can I was trying to crush cut my instep deeply.  I didn't tell anyone because the other kids made fun of me enough as it was, and I worried for days about the possibility of infection.  

...That time in 5th grade when Wendy Wilson pushed me into a table while Ms. Dixon was out of the room.  I was the class tattle-tale, and Wendy didn't care that I'd been left in charge as room monitor.  I remember her pushing me, I remember falling into the table, I remember knocking things over with my flailing arms, I remember feeling embarrassed and wanting to cry but not quite daring to - but I can't remember if I told on her.  I don't think I did.  

(In response to RemembeRED - because I read Ixy's and Katie's and they're brilliant and they inspired me to remember.)

Sweet baby squirrel!

Oh Emm Gee!!!

This cracked me the fuck up this morning.  I literally LOL'd.  I did it again just now, watching the video for a second time.  Everyone should watch this video - that little girl is so freakin' adorable.  (And I really like the part where the Mom says "fuck".)

Stacy reminded me of the lucky squirrel tails our Papaw gave us when we were kids - they came from a couple of the animals he'd hunted and killed down on the Property.  I have a hard time figuring out how we came to actually get to play with those squirrel tails - my Granny and my Momma and my Aunt Pam, they weren't germophobes or anything, but they weren't the sort to let us girls play with dead animal parts, either.  I've convinced myself that Papaw must've somehow sanitized those tails before they became mine and Stacy's; to believe otherwise just confuses me.

That story reminds me of the time he gave us rabbits feet, also fresh killed off the family farm.  Remember those dyed rabbits feet people used to carry around on their keychains (or, if you're living in certain parts of the South, the dyed rabbits feet your friends still carry around on their keychains)?  I thought those were pretty hot shit, and I really wanted one.  (I went through a phase where I collected keychains, specifically ones that said "Natalie" and the name of whatever tourist place someone who loved me had visited - even though I now realize most were likely purchased at Pilot truck stops.)  Anyhow, the rabbit foot.  I wanted one, and Papaw was always good about making sure I got just about everything I wanted, so he killed a rabbit, and before he skinned and butchered it, he cut off it's leg and gave it to me.  Now, I know that he somehow cured that leg before it came to be mine, because even if my Momma let me play with a squirrel tail, there's no fucking way she let Papaw give me a bleeding rabbit's foot.  (Also, I don't have nightmares about it, so I know it didn't go down that way.)  But I remember that rabbit's foot wasn't pink or green or purple, and it wasn't little, either - it was a big brown hind leg that once belonged to a living creature, and frankly, it freaked me the fuck out, but probably not for reasons you're thinking.  See, I wanted a cute dyed rabbit's foot that I could hang from my key-less keychain and dangle from the side of my little empty purse to show off to all my friends.  This hideous brown thing had a fucking bone sticking out the top of it!  There was no shiny silver cap to cover that reality or through which to thread a chain.  Of course I was grateful to Papaw for his efforts, and I thanked him profusely, but I never tried to show that shit to my friends in a "Look at the awesome rabbit's foot my Papaw got me!" sort of way.

Did you play with dead things when you were a kid?

Images from the Upstairs

The room is small, and in desperate need of things to go on the walls (especially to cover the attic access - where the raccoon lives.)  But it's cozy and perfect for our needs.  We probably could use some proper window coverings.  Finn destroyed the blinds the first time we left him home alone with access to this room - he NEEDED to see outside, you see.  NEEDED.  Blinds be damned.  I use that old blue sheet to cover the windows at night - to keep the peepers out.  We don't own curtains, other than the sheers that cover the windows on the front of the house (sheers that were here when we moved in); well, Jimi "made" some light-cancelling drapes for the living room. (By "made", I mean he found some burgundy corduroy and cut it to length and hung it on a curtain rod via those rings that have clips on the bottom.)  Basically, we suck at decorating.  We live in a world of hodgepodge and I love it.

This is Squiggs.  He was Jimi's before we knew each other and he's one of my favorite pieces of art that we own.  He's had a rough go of it (note the flaked paint around his neck, where he's been folded for moving and storage), but I think the marks add character.  

Everybody needs a little Buddha.

 Hobart belonged to my Granny, and I've loved him since I was a small child.  I'm amazed that his ears haven't been destroyed over the years, but Granny was sure to let us know what was and was not appropriate when handling her breakable things.

 Hobart became mine after Granny died - but I wasn't able to take him home to El Paso with me.  For one, I'd flown to Kentucky, and while these were the days when you could still check most bags for free, trying to check a two-foot tall ceramic owl seemed a little intimidating.

And my husband (ex-husband) - he said the owl was ugly, and he didn't want it in his house.  This was all happening, I later learned, about 6 months after he'd decided he didn't want to be married anymore - just over a year before he would tell me his decision.  Looking back on much of the way he was to me during this time period, I can only conclude that he was trying to be as big a dick as possible, in hopes that I'd ask for divorce and save him the trouble.  That's the only reason I can imagine he would've used such mean words with me the day after we'd buried my beloved Granny, in regards to something that would always be cherished and remind me of her.

Jimi, though - Jimi was helping me get the last of my things that were stored at my Momma's house, shortly after we'd signed the lease on our first place together.  I'd shown him the owl sheepishly, apologizing for its appearance, but shyly explaining that it was my Granny's, and that it'd been one of my favorite of her possessions when I was a child.  Could we maybe find a place for it in our new home?  Somewhere out of the way, but a place where I could see it every now and then?

Our rental was a shotgun in the ghetto between Old Louisville and Germantown, and our master bedroom was the living room and held the entryway once-upon-a-time.  As a result, there had originally been no closet in the room, but somewhere along the way, someone built one out into the room - a 6' x 6' x 3' box that took up a corner, with plenty of space on top for storage due to the fact that the house had 12' ceilings.  We'd already piled up there disassembled chairs and boxes of crystal and such that had no place in the small confines of this new abode.

"We'll call him Hobart," Jimi declared.  "Hobart the Hoot Owl.  And he can live on top of the closet in our bedroom, and watch over us while we sleep to keep the bad things away."

This man makes me swoon.

Patty thinks I'm sweet.

(Don't tell her the truth, okay?)

She gave me this:

She blogs over at Another cookie, please! - we found each other through For The Love Of Blogs, and she's the best bloggy friend.  She leaves the best comments and she said that she'd cut my hair if I go to her and she shoots too!  Chicks with guns - automatic awesome.  

Now I'm supposed to tell you five random things about me.  I'm hoping I can come up with some things I've not told you before.  Give me a minute...

1.  I sucked my thumb until I was 9 years old.  I had a blankie (an old crib sheet) that went everywhere with me, and I held it wrapped over my first finger so I could smell it while I sucked.  I moved the blankie around often - like the other side of the pillow, a cool spot to breathe on the sheet was the best.  I tried to quit a few times, but finally my dentist told me I'd need braces if I didn't give up my habit, so I wore socks on my hands for about 6 months and was cured!  Kinda - I've woken up with my thumb in my mouth at least twice since then, but not since I was a teenager.  

2.  I started trying to read Stephen King when I was 10.  His stuff was a little advanced for me then - but I finally got through Pet Semetary for the first time when I was 12.  (It was the first book that ever made me cry, true story.)  After that, it was on - I read every King book I could get my hands on.  I read The Stand, all 1300 pages, in 3 days, taking breaks only to eat and pee and sleep.  At 13, I read 'Salem's Lot...and promptly rearranged the furniture in my bedroom so I could face the door even while asleep.  I also slept with a light on for 6 months after that - that book scared the fuck out of me.  I think Mr. King's quality declined with time, but I recently read Lisey's Story, which is a relatively new (within the last 10 years) release, and it was really good.  I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for this master of horror.

3.  I have a memory of when I was little (whether I was 9 or 13, i don't know), I went to the Property with Granny and Papaw - Papaw was working on the barn in some such way or another, and Granny and I were hanging out in our lawn chairs over in the shade.  She'd brought her boom box, and there was a blank tape from somewhere.  She sang Cowboy Jack and I recorded it - later when I played it back, Papaw's hammer was a sharp staccato in the background, totally not in time.  There were birds chirping, and Granny's voice warbled a time or two and I'm pretty sure she got choked on a high note and coughed.  I'd pay $5000 to have that tape in my hands right now. 

4.  Another being-little memory:  I was 5 or 6, and I'd found a pair of nail scissors, and they were fascinating.  I wanted to cut something, so I went into Papaw's bedroom, shut the door, walked around to the far side of the bed, and cut a square of fabric out of the flat sheet on the bed.  I thought no one would ever notice.  Granny did, nearly immediately.  (Turns out, the sheets were new.  Like, it was the first time they'd been on a bed, new.)  Stacy and I were the only ones there; one of us was guilty.  She asked us, I lied, Stacy denied.  Granny asked again, our little selves lined up in the hallway.  I kept thinking, "Eventually, she'll give up.  Or Stacy will confess."  She didn't, and neither did Stacy.  She pulled out the Bible - the same one that's downstairs in my Momma's house right now, on the end table, with Granny's obituary inside.  Granny held the book out to us, told us to put our hand on it and say if we'd cut the sheet or not.  We both said we hadn't.  Granny knew it was me, but she didn't call me a liar; she said one of us was hurting God and Jesus very badly and that we would have to live with that.  What I wish more than anything is that I'd told Granny the truth before she'd died.  

5.  Brevity?  It's not my thing.  No, really - I can't tell a story to save my life.  I get caught up in the background and the details that don't matter and forget to focus on the point. 

And now I'm going to introduce you five blogs I love (and the timing is great, because I ran out of steam working on that shout-out post the other night and didn't get to several I wanted to name):

1. Clean Sheets on Sundays

2.  Not About Cake

3.  Grown Up Rachel

4.  My Eye On Things

5.  La Dulce Vida ~ The Sweet Life

And now I'm going to get back to work.

Happy Monday, Friends!

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Everywhere but my house, at least.  We've not put up the first decoration, and I'm honestly leaning toward just not bothering with it this year.  I've got a box, somewhere, full of the ornaments I've collected since I became a grown-up and started putting up my own tree each year.  Inside are the hand-crocheted bells and snowflakes my Granny made, starched, and hung on her tree every year before she died.  That box hasn't been seen since it was put away after Christmas 2008; last year, 2 weeks after we'd moved to our new home, I went searching for the box, ready to decorate our new live tree - and it was nowhere to be found.  I tore through every square inch of our home looking for that box of sentimental treasures.  I don't care about the airplane ornaments left over from my ex-husband's hobby, I don't miss the Cinderella trinkets I'd collected over the years - but those snowflakes and bells lovingly made with my dear Granny's painfully arthritic hands, I've cried real tears over the loss of those.  My Momma says "I have some, Nat, you can have some of mine", but it's not the same. 

So it's been a year since the ornaments went missing, and I'm still mourning their loss.  I feel very Bah Humbug every time I think about it.  Christmas was so magical when I was a child, and it just doesn't feel that way to me anymore.  Now it's full of social engagements and present-buying and cookie-making, all of which cause me stress because we're supposed to look forward to this all year long and when it arrives I always find myself overwhelmed and broke and grumpy and short on time. 

Bah humbug. 

Maybe I'll have Jimi put some lights around the porch.  Maybe that'll help get me in the holiday spirit.  I've pretty much decided against a tree this year, as my ornaments are still lost, live trees are expensive, and fake trees are not real.  I keep asking Jimi "What do you think - skip the tree?" secretly hoping he'll be all "NO! We MUST have a tree!  We'll get all new ornaments and start our own decorating traditions", but he'll never do that, cause he's all Buddhist and shit and only says "Whatever you want to do, sweetheart.  This is your holiday, not mine."  And even if he did say we should get all new stuff, I'd still not want to because it would cost a fortune and we can do that after Christmas and save a million dollars. 

~sigh~

I do love the lights, and the good cheer, and the baking, even if it does stress me out.  I love spending time with my family, and watching everyone open the gifts I picked for them, and playing games, and laughing, and eating.  I love the fact that this is the ONLY time of the year where I can take a full week off work - 5 whole days in a row with a weekend on each end - and I love that with the way the holidays fall this year, I'll take 3 vacation days and be off work from 12/23 until 1/3.  That's a win, and there's no way to be sad about it.  And maybe the company will treat us all to a fancy-shmancy dinner at an expensive restaurant again - last year we went to Rivue, a revolving restaurant on top of the Galt House overlooking the Ohio River and downtown Louisville.  We felt like big shots for a few hours. 

So yeah, ho hum, Christmas time is here.  I'll get with the program soon.  I'm sure of it.

Meanwhile, today is Bodhi Day.  According to the link, "It is the Buddhist holiday that commemorates the day that Gautama is believed to have experienced enlightenment.... According to tradition, Siddhartha had recently forsaken years of extreme ascetic practices and resolved to sit under a Pipul tree and simply meditate until he found the root of suffering, and how to liberate one's self from it."  In celebration, I'm going to perform random acts of kindness.  That may just mean buying Kim's lunch and not telling an employee to go to hell, but it's a start.  :)  Happy Bodhi Day!

Thanksgiving 2004 was the last time I saw my Granny alive.

Thanksgiving day at my Momma's house, then the Sunday after at Acton, at Grandma Edwards' celebration.  Maxine was there with her guitar; Maxine played while Granny sang "I'll Fly Away".  I sang with her.

I saw "O Brother Where Art Thou" a few months after Granny died.  My ex-husband and I bought the soundtrack; "I'll Fly Away" always brought me back to that day in that church  meeting hall, singing the song with my Granny that I grew up listening to her sing.

I had no idea that day would be the last time I'd hug her, kiss her cheek, feel her hand in mine.  I didn't know it would be the last time I'd hear her sing.  I didn't know it would be the last time we'd have a face-to-face conversation; I don't remember a thing we talked about that day.

I remember talking to her when we knew she was dying.  I asked her if she was afraid.  She wasn't.  I was.

Thanksgiving isn't the same without her.  It's still full of good food, loving family, laughter, singing, smiles, happiness.

But it's not like it was when Granny was here.