Life is a Banquet

My Husband, The Velociraptor

I love everyone's suggestion about making & freezing food. I can't take it though. Why? It's certainly not from lack of freezer space--we are blessed with a separate freezer in the garage. Nor, is it from lack of plastic containers--I live with he-who-shall-not-throw-anything-away. No, it's because of what I like to term the dinner time black hole effect. Any quantity prepared shall be devoured immediately.

To wit: I make two salmon burgers, two ears of corn, and steamed broccoli (last night). I am thanked for a lovely and filling meal. Seconds aren't requested b/c the law of sauce has not been activated.

The law of sauce: I use my largest skillet, and make curry with 1.5 lbs of chicken, cauliflower, carrots, and onions all swimming in a coconut based sauce. The recipe feeds 6-8. I make a stack of potato roti to accompany the feast, and plan on freezing half the curry to have with instant rice post-Beta. We sit down to dine, and I am just helping myself to a roti, when I hear a giant slurping noise followed by footsteps beating a path to the stove.

Me:  "Oh, by the way, I'm hoping to have lots of leftovers." Him: "Oh." Me: "What do you mean, 'oh?" Him: "I suppose there might be enough for your lunch tomorrow." Translation: There are enough scrapings left in the bottom of the skillet to feed your average female sparrow for a snack. Cue me smacking my head against the table. Him: "You should make more next time."

The law of sauce in brief: If it has a sauce, it will be gone before you are done chewing.

Corollary to the law of sauce: The tastier it is, the faster it disappears. If there is a meal gone wrong, it will linger, and linger. Feel free to freeze the craptastic leftovers as they will endure until the next ice age.

Second corollary to the law of sauce: The longer it takes to make it, the faster it will disappear. Butter Chicken which marinates for 6 hours, then broils, then simmers in sauce? 25.5 seconds to an empty pan.

Third corollary to the law of sauce: Doubling the recipe results in the same amount of leftovers. The last time you made peanut sauce, you had 1 serving left. This time, you double the recipe, doubling sauce, chicken, and vegetables. The result: 1 serving left.

The law of not-for-you: The law of sauce is not the only law operating in my kitchen universe. The law of not-for-you states that if you make something specifically for someone, it is highly probable that their tastes have changed, they are not in the mood for it, they have sprung an allergy, they had it for lunch, or the dish fails. You will be stuck with leftovers for a near eternity--and just when the last is fed to the dog, you will be asked, "why don't you ever make X anymore?"  If in your frustration, you determine to cook ONLY FOR YOU, beware of the law of not-for-you.

For example, your spouse dislikes sushi in any way shape or form. You make six cooked-fish &  veggie rolls, hoping to get several meals/snacks for yourself out of your efforts. Four rolls will disappear while you are hunting for your adorable little Japanese plates that ABV gave you as a wedding gift. "This is fabulous!" your sushi-hating spouse will exclaim while eying the two remaining rolls with lust. The law of not-for-you has struck again.

Second example, your spouse is allergic to dairy. You purchase sugar-free chocolate pudding cups, intending to save them for chocolate emergencies. Result: They disappear along with your spouse's allergy.

Our third example is guaranteed to take years off your life: You are making a large batch of banana bread. Your spouse requests that one loaf not have chocolate chips or nuts. You oblige even though you hate to divide dough, imagining that your reward will be a loaf of your very own. Predictable result: The chocolate & nut loaf disappears first. If you are lucky, you got a piece.

Corollary to the law of not-for-you: The person you most need out of the house will return at the least opportune time. Are you cheating on your spouse with a gluten free eggs Benedict for one? He will emerge, ravenous from his cave right as you are about to take the first bite. He will shake off hours of inattention and shower you with love and compliments until half your brunch is on his plate. His gratitude will make you feel like a wench for wishing him gone. 

Second Corollary to the law of not-for-you: Male pattern blindness/memory loss will strike when you least expect it.  Say you freeze two servings of a spicy black bean soup that your spouse claims gives him heartburn. Your freezer is also stocked with husband friendly pizzas, burritos, and other nasty pre-wrapped items which you can't eat.  When you arrive in the kitchen to the smell of soup with your spouse poised with spoon in front of the microwave, you can expect one of the following responses: "There was nothing else to eat!" "I never said I didn't like it!" "It didn't upset my stomach!" "You weren't eating it!" and/or "I didn't want it to go to waste." It is hard to reason with such logic.

Third Corollary to the law of not-for-you: Party food as irresistible as freezer-destined food. If you make hummus for dinner, you will be questioned as to where the rest of the meal is. Make hummus for SOMEONE ELSE though, and you will be bombarded with questions as to why you didn't make more, and why do we *really* need to bring a dish when a package of crackers might suffice.

Fourth Corollary to the law of not-for-you: You will pay for missed opportunities. Does your spouse hate pesto? Do you turn down a bag full of basil b/c you're the "only one who will eat it," and instead, buy a small jar that costs as much as face cream when you have a craving? You, my friend, have just guaranteed that your husband is now a pesto-lover who will lick the inside of the jar. Spouse not a watermelon fan? That personal size watermelon you just bought? It's now serving two.

After all this, you're probably wondering, why cook? Actually, I wonder this on a nightly basis myself. But, the answer is quite simple: It's no fun cooking just for me! Men are like puppies--they're so adorable when they've just eaten something they shouldn't have, and so completely lacking in malice that you end up apologizing to THEM for your fit of temper. And there is no greater compliment than someone who loves your cooking enough to have seconds. Or twelfths.

Anyone have any leads on industrial size cookware? Perhaps that might thwart the black hole effect temporarily?

The Week that Wasn't!

Ye Gods, it's Saturday already. I have no idea where the week went. Perhaps it's hiding under my bed, or napping with the cats. One of my favorite bloggers & due date twins gave birth yesterday: Go welcome baby drab. I'm trying not to twitch with jealousy because I know that my time is coming. Also, no one deserves this more than Ollie.

Although my main accomplishment these days has been hibernating, napping, and web surfing, here's what's getting me through the waiting:

• Cooking. Freak hasn't eaten this well in months. Also, whatever the books say about loosing your appetite in the final weeks of pregnancy just isn't true. 7-8 pounds of Beta = Constant hunger. Rice pasta with pesto, rice noodles with roasted peppers, chicken curry, beef with pan roasted cabbage, beef stroganoff (gluten free). Does cooking = nesting? I'm not sure, but it sure is tasty.
• Birth Art. Birthing from Within should be mandatory pregnancy reading, but I didn't really "get" the whole birth art thing until this week when I decided that perhaps meditation and gratitude lists weren't enough to get me in the right mental space. My drawing suffers from years of neglect, but it's incredibly freeing. I'm considering doing a second body cast Wednesday to celebrate my due date.
• Reading: Floating to the top of the TBR pile this week: On Borrowed Wings (review coming next Thursday), Never Seduce a Scoundrel(Five Stars), What an Earl Wants (Five Stars), The Leopard Prince (Five Stars), and Bite Me if you Can (Four stars). Thank the goddess for good books.
• Journaling: My ability to write fiction is shot to hades at this point, but I've had fun with some non-fiction stuff, and lots and lots of journaling.
• Cleaning. Major cleaning for me translates into "everyday adult responsibilities" for the rest of the world, but hey, better late than never, right? We won't discuss how long it had been since I last dusted.(Hint: 3 microfiber clothes and 2 swiffer dusters later, my house looks like others' "before picture.")
• Spider: Um. Yeah. Cards. They help with the contractions. Total guilty pleasure. Can't stop playing.
• Feeling Beta Move: This continues to be my constant joy. I can suffer hip pain, contractions, fatigue,and crankiness as long as I get my "show and tell" with Beta.
• Cheering section. My mother, my amazing doula, and my friends (including YOU!) are amazing. Don't have contractions  for week without packing your peeps along for the ride.

What helps you wait? What time suckers help you when you're feeling a bit under the weather? Are you a productive waiter or do you suck at it like me? Inquiring minds want to know.

Male Pattern Blindness

Attention Pharmaceutical Companies: You're overlooking a common condition that affects millions of American men and their long-suffering spouses! This is the untapped market opportunity you've been waiting for--a disease that afflicts men (easy drug approval!) but affects women enough that they'll drag them in for a prescription (Male medical phobia overcome!). And when you launch this wonder drug, I'm going to be first in line.

Until that blessed day arrives, I'm going to help raise awareness of this dreaded condition. Male Pattern Blindness has a slow onset.  Some mothers report seeing early signs in sons who lose treasured items, permission slips, homework, and younger siblings with alarming regularity. But, it is not until marriage that the condition truly manifests. The early symptoms arrive during courtship, but most women ignore these signs. "How cute that he respects my privacy," the besotted heroine swoons when her hero asks where she keeps the towels, knives, peanut butter, and remote control.  Riding the monkey-sex phase high, she eagerly fetches the requested item. Little does she know that she's paving the way for Male Pattern Blindness run amok.

Given free reign to infest the brain of the hapless male, Male Pattern Blindness begins to show its most troubling symptom: Inability to find one's own items. The male may misplace his keys the second he passes through the door. Cell phone hunting replaces those hours of snuggling on the couch. In today's modern household, the male usually has his own dresser, closet, and workspace. Yet, men afflicted with Male Pattern Blindness suffer from a paradox: they wish absolute control over the items in said space (Woe to ye who throws out the t-shirt from 1987 or who culls the back issues of Science Digest) yet they cannot keep up with their own organizational scheme.

Thus, the woman of the house moves from finder-of-the-keys to walking blackberry. "Where's my work shirt?" can no longer be answered with a simple, "Same place it always is."  Male Pattern Blindness has ravaged the male brain until he no longer has any knowledge of such a place. In fact, he will deny that such a place ever existed. As the disease progresses,  "In the cabinet"  is heard by the Male Pattern Blindness brain as "X#@!  Blah! !@#$!"

Many women give up at this point. They stop requesting items or they enroll in Air Traffic control school. "Now turn 45 degrees to the left. Your other left. Stop. Bend down. Approach the target item. A little further now, then move in for the landing." Other women try to stem the course of the disease. They label drawers. They buy expensive key finder gadgets. They affix sticky notes to everything that moves. They single handedly keep the Container Store in business.

But, even these women are no match for Male Pattern Blindness. New symptoms emerge: illiteracy-- the male can no longer read labels or directions, spatial distortion--the male no longer recognizes common items or receipticles, tiny-sightedness--the male's field of vision is limited to items measured in pixels, and finally, total blindness.

The cunning nature of the disease means that total blindness usually does not emerge until the marriage is well established, and offspring are arriving. But, once it occurs, total Male Pattern Blindess is swift and irreversible. The male will look directly at the item he seeks and not recognize it. Case in point: Male is sent to attic for box. Male returns 15 seconds later unable to find said box. Female gives surgically precise directions. Male returns 3 minutes later: "I looked everywhere." Female hauls herself up to attic. Box is literally first thing she sees. It is so close to the stairs that one would have to step over it or push it aside to enter the attic and look elsewhere.

Incidents like this occur millions of times each day in American homes. Peanut butter, dog medicine, tools, bread, socks, shoes--all rendered invisible to the male eye. Countless female hours are wasted pointing out the obvious and hunting down items which are not missing. Think of work American wives could accomplish if they weren't spending so much time combating male pattern blindness. One wonders how many marriages are lost to Male Pattern Blindness. How many arguments start: "But it's right there!"  How many women are right now secretly shacking up with the organizational consultant down the street?  How many women fantasize about that stranger buying four kinds of labels and a package of sharpies?

I shudder to think about the inevitable progression of the disease. Men wandering around helpless, women unable to communicate with them, themselves rendered invisible by the disease.

Please do your part and spread awareness about this terrible disease. Together we can find a cure. Or some really good drugs. I'd settle for some really good drugs most days.

She works hard for the money

The groundhog saw its shadow on Friday--three more weeks of cast and non-driving and more rehab in store.  Nov. 13 will mark two months of this home imprisonment.  Blah.

The two month mark also marks another anniversary---my last paycheck.  I've sold a few articles in the interim, but these checks have not seen an ink pen yet, let alone my bank account.  I'm strangely okay with this forced poverty--my writing is going really good and I'm reluctant to add additional obligations or take on a roommate again.  On Friday, I mailed off several resumes looking for adjunct instructor positions for the spring.  While I want to get back in the classroom, I have no intention of taking on so many classes again.

Everything I read about writing fiction says not to quit your "day job" too soon---or even at all.  Something like 15% of writers make a living at it.  This is in contrast to the 95% of my graduating law class making a comfortable living doing law--a few solo practitioners like the brave ABV making a go of it, a number of stay-at-home parents taking time off, a few who got bested by the bar exam beast, and me. I'm determined to be part of the 15%. Absolutely committed. BUT I still struggle with the recurring issue of choosing this life of teaching and writing, maybe a little contract legal work here and there, of choosing to live without predictable income. 

I can't think in terms of facing down years of this, of the long-term ramifications of these choices. Freak put it best, "I understand why writers always dedicate the book to their spouse or their parents." In simple financial terms, the whole family (assuming your last name is not Trump or Bush) makes the vow of poverty with you, gives up comfort for creativity.  Still though, and this is perhaps what I feel the most guilty about--I don't feel bad about this anymore. I don't WANT this to be any other way right now. I really don't MIND how stretched the budget is.  (I do write fiction after all, which gives me the unique ability to look at the numbers as flexible rather than finite). My new goal is not to earn more money, but to stop feeling so darn guilty for my choices.   

It's probably a symptom of our modern predicament that being selfish feels so darn good.  What are you selfish about?  Have you set aside the guilt? 

Wisdom II

Law Three: The law of an old(er) house:  If your furnace won't start, and you try EVERYTHING to make it start and it still won't go, and you call the repair guy, and he asks, "Is there oil in the tank," and you say "yes," you better really mean yes.  Because otherwise, the price of your repair (because oh yes, it still needs a repair) just doubled.  If you merely THINK there is oil, there is not.

    Corollary to Law Three: If there is no heat, the cats will rename your WIP EeeeEEeeeEEee.doc and manage to change every setting on your laptop while napping on your keyboard. 

Law Four: The law of revision. If a page took you X amount of time to right it will take you 10 times X to revise it.  This law is absolute.  If you are absolutely, positively, certain that your character speaks only in active voice and really never overuses totally lame adjectives, she does not. 

    Corollary to Law Four: Each pass results in a better document. Really glaring errors like saying a missing NOUN or worse a missing VERB will not be discovered until pass five or greater. 
    Corollary to the corollary: Truly glaring errors will not be discovered until you hit send. 

Wisdom of Wavybrains

Law One: The Rule of Finite Resources:  If you have a certain amount of cash for the entire week's cab rides to and from medical appointments, you will leave your keys at PT on Monday morning, necessitating a round-trip return to retrieve them, and use up your entire allotment of cash in the span of 30 minutes.   

• Corollary to Law One:  If a balanced budget is achieved, new expenses will crop up within the hour.  The more tightly balanced the budget, the larger the expenses.  Furnaces and pets laugh in the face of budgets.
• Corollary to the Corollary:  If you have no room for extras and are forgoing personal treats, your pets will pick up on this. If you sell an article, expect two back to back vet visits equal to the amount of the article. 

Law Two:  Supply and Demand:  If your previously docile cat starts hunting small things to leave as presents for his owners, and you dispose of said "presents," eventually he will assume that you require larger tokens of appreciation.  Thus, when he lays an entire SQUIRREL in the doorway to Freak's office (how he managed to bring it in unnoticed is a separate issue), neither owner should be surprised. 

• Corollary to Law Two:  Neither running shrieking from the room and hiding in the pillows while continuing to scream (wavybrains) or bursting out laughing (Freak), will deter the cat from strutting like a rock star through the basement like he da man.  Which can only mean that he infers a great demand for his services in the future. Bletch.
• Corollary the second: Immediate demands for the cat's removal as a family member will cause a marked decrease in the supply of love in the house. 
• See Law One: If you are a wee bit late in cat vaccinations due to law one, your cat will kill a squirrel elevating the need for vaccinations to def-com one, terror alert red, damn the cost. 

What laws of the universe did YOU discover this weekend? 

Back to the Future

2006 was supposed to be better.  Better than what I am still not sure as the year is only 11 days old.  But, I am trapped in a revival of my high school years--aimlessly waiting for the next big thing and hacking up my left lung.  Yes, that's right.  I spent my formative years sounding like an emphysema patient awaiting transplant.  I have no idea how many bouts of chronic bronchitis I suffered--10? 20?--just that my winters were defined by barking like a seal and being ungodly tired. 

Now, I have spent the least week and a half sounding like a seal, canceling appointments, being a bad wife and friend and citizen.  It has rained 23 out of the last 24 days.  Scratch that.  It rained this morning already.  It has rained 24 out the last 25 days.  The dampness seems to have infiltrated my very being.  I feel moist and spongy like a moss-covered wavybrains. 

In my case, bronchitis is brought on by something else--a cold, an aftermath of a cold, a sinus infection, alien invaders.  It is viral, not bacterial, and my long experience has shown me that antibiotics do little more than make me bat-shit crazy.  Ditto all cough syrups.  (Hello, Loopyville!).  Hot showers help.  Sleep helps (but my god, the weirdness of my dreams . . . .). 

I am such a sad specter of my usual wenchy self that advice has come raining down on me from all corners.  Freak is running the dehumidifier, urging me not to go out in the swampy January chill.  My mother, even knowing the past failure of modern medicine to cure me in all arenas, urges a trip to the doctor.  Mr. 37 has brewed me a Chinese herbal medicine akin to used motor oil in looks, smell, and taste.  The scientist has plied me with Gilmore Girl DVDs. 

This is starting to feel like 2003 re-deux as well.  I am depressed, not to the point of the dark place, but apathy has taken over my body.  My muscles hurt in strange new ways, ways that were supposed to go away once the doctors figured out that I don't have MS.  My blood sugar is acting up.  Exercise is forgotten, eating atrocious (as much as wheat-free, sugar-free eating can be).  I am a mess.  Which, really is nothing new at all.

New Year, New Closet

So the whole pink office was a little bit of a bust, mainly due to a lack of windows.  But, the room IS right off our master bedroom AND right near the laundry area/clothing storage area. And, since I didn't get my 2nd bathroom for christmas, I decided the next best thing would be an old-fashioned boudior.  And, finally, I think the space has come into its own.  Come, marvel at my organization. 

Wavybrains tells all . .

So, ergonomic solutions aplenty have I, including Dragon, a new spilt keyboard, and a very empty bank account. My tendonitis is slowly getting better, although I will have to be disciplined to keep it that way. Boring stuff out of the way, let’s have some of the great gossip and rumors swirling around Casa Wavybrains these days. 

 

1) A certain ponytailed heartthrob is about to embark on a major life change. This ponytailed hottie is swapping keyboards for schoolbooks and halo for paintbrushes? Can it be? And what does this mean for his buxom lass?  Stay tuned . . .  

2) A wannabe novelist was spotted reaching 15,000 words on her NaNoWriMo entry, although her golden heart entry appears to be missing in action. 

3) A little black feline has strayed from his happy home. This nad-less tomcat was last spotted on Saturday. His mournful shadow has been seen hitting the fancy feast in recent days, and his canine love bunny is keeping the hope alive by scouring the bushes and barking at closed doors. 

4) Someone over-taxed their roomba, necessitating an early morning visit to Target, phone calls to Irobot, and many Freak-ish heart palpitations. All is apparently well as in recent days the roomba has been spotted out and around eating cell phone chargers and dragging socks through the fireplace. 

5) A scooba is on the way! That’s right. A little bundle of joy is expected in eight to ten weeks. The bump on the credit card is just beginning to show. 

6) Sssh! That might be the sound of chalk on a chalkboard and an apple for teacher! Keep your fingers crossed and stay tuned. 

7) Love is in the Air! Mr. 37 inches closer to bringing his lady-love from

China

here, and the Scientist has a mysterious someone who is loved by all, especially the black beasts of the household. 

8) Rumor has it that a certain Wavy person is about to have a birthday . . . in NY! Yes, folks you heard it here first. There will be a huge shin-dig at Nana’s place, complete with sugar-free ice-cream and low sodium meats.  

9) On a more somber note, pills have been popping with new frequency and blood has been let. Our sources at the endrocrinologist’s office tell us that a certain blogger’s PCOS and diabetes is not behaving. Condolences on the loss of more carbs is appreciated. 

10)  Desks were spotted leaving the basement a few weeks ago. We have concluded that certain work-from home persons have moved out of their pink offices for the SAD season. 

 

Be sure to keep reading . . .Wavybrains tells all.*

*Many apologies for falling down the email replying front--will be trying to use Dragon more.  Your comments have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated.  Also, even if I comment less, I am still reading my blogroll.  Your juicy gossip is duly noted! 

Vigilant Gourmet

Eating is the most political, most expensive, most time-consuming activity I engage in these days.  It is also single-handedly the most frustrating and depressing part of my life.  And I know that I am not alone. Not at all. My ex used to remark that he wished humans could just take a pill for nutrition and forgo the burden of eating. I never used to agree, but now I think there may be some logic to that wish. Eating is scary act, where even drinking tap water is a risky proposition. Eating “right” changes daily and becomes an uphill battle of money, willpower, and time.