double duty double deals!

Well, at least that's what the headline touts from the right-hand page of the Woman's Day magazine to my right.

The magazine - It's a gift from my mommy. Y'all shut about about how only old ladies read Woman's Day because Family Circle is too 'young' for them. Just shush. I'd read Cosmo, but the scratch and sniff perfume ads give me headaches and the models make me angry.

My brother gets Smithsonian each year as one of his Christmas gifts. I wouldn't mind that either. I could learn some things that don't involve the latest in decorating trends or how to wear this Spring's makeup or what kind of lunch to pack for maximum belly-blasting punch. It might be fun to lean back with a good magazine that engages only my brain and not some languishing feeling of inadequacy, but that's OK. I'm actually fining new things to cook and I rather like the craft ideas (I don't do any of them) and some of the product things are really great, plus which there are some really great columns by very good writers and NO perfume samples.

It's a lovely little mag, really. Not one I'd buy for myself, which is good because if I was left to only buy magazines for me I'd wind up with "Steampunk Weekly" and "Gross Things Our Bodies Do" and the like.

It's better my Mom gets me a subscription to a magazine that reminds me that I am a woman and as such have certain standards to adhere to that don't revolve around toilet humor, science fiction, and ghastly things that should remain firmly bound up in a notebook someplace.

The bright colors of this monthly infusion of ladyness in our home is good for me. And our family. I get inspired by it, and as such might EVEN do a craft with doilies and spray paint and mirrors. It's really pretty cool.

But that is not what I came here to talk about tonight. Nope.

I came here to talk about RAISIN BREAD. The recipe for which I found on FARK.

Seriously. FARK.

This is the most bestest bread I've ever made in the raisin variety. It has a SUPER rise, is moist and tender, slightly sweet, and does 'oven spring' like nothing I've ever seen before. So, here's the recipe, in case you want to be all down-homey and Woman's Day-ey like me (ey):

Awesome FARKIN raisin Bread, with tweaks by Tiff

You'll need:

1 cup water
1 cup 1% milk
2 packages active dry yeast (or 2 level TBSP instant yeast)
6-7 cups all-purpose flour (6.5 for a nice firm-soft dough)
1/2 cup white sugar
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/4 cup oil (I used cheap olive oil, regardless of virginity, regular veg oil works well too)
2 eggs
1/2 to 1 cup raisins, depending on your raisinattude.
extra cinnamon/sugar for sprinkling.

A big bowl
a small bowl
a big spoon
measuring cups and spoons
a big cookie sheet of any shape.
some dish towels.

How to do it:

• Turn the oven on to its lowest setting. Once it's preheated, turn it off. You just want it warm.
• Heat the water and milk in the big bowl until it's warm as your index finger when you dunk it in there. Don't worry. you'll know.
• Add the yeast, give 'er a stir. Let that sit for 10 minutes until you see lil bubbles breaking on the surface.
• Add the sugar and salt and cinnamon to the liquid.
• Add a cup of the flour to the liquids, whisk until smooth.
• Add the oil and the egg. Stir until smooth.
• Add 2 more cups of flour, one at a time , whisking until smooth each time.
• Dump 3 more cups of flour on top, and start kneading in. We use our Kitchenaid mixer for this. You can do the workout thing though and go old-school with hands and strength, turning, folding, and smooshing until the dough is a silken ball that separates easily from a well-floured surface and can hold its shape if lifted up high like you were baptizing it in the light of a Serengeti sunset.
• OK, now drop that dough in the big bowl (after lightly greasing it) and wash your hands. Then take a clean dishtowel and run some hot water through it and wring it out, then drape it over the top of the bowl.
• Put the big bowl in the oven you heated earlier. If the bowl is plastic, put it in a pan of cold water so the base doesn't melt. Now go do something else for a couple hours while the bread proofs.
• Once the loaf has plumped up about twice what it was, (and when a finger poked into yields a hole that doesn't fill in at all), punch it back down. Let that poor sad mass sit quietly under a moist towel like before for about 10 minutes to rest. It's going to need that time, as you're about to Work It Out.
• Once the dough is rested, punch is down again to get rid of errant air bubbles.
• Shape into a flat rectangle about a half-inch thick, cut in 2 pieces, spread with sugar, cinnamon, and raisins. Roll each piece longways into a loaf, pinching seam to seal. Place in prepared pan (that means greased, y'all) seam side down. Don't worry about the rolled edges - they're fine to leave 'open.' I made one in a loaf pan and one like a giant sweet raisiny croissant in a pie dish. Both worked.
• Preheat the oven again while you're doing this.
• Place the loaves in the warm oven.
• Once the loaf has doubled in size, take it out, leave lightly covered with a dishcloth.
• Preheat the oven to 350F. Put the loaves back in to bake for ~30-35 minutes. DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN for at least 25 minutes. Peek after that and begin softening some butter for when the bread is ready. If you've done it right, a steak knife will slide in and out clean in the middle of the loaf.
• Leave the bread to bake for until such time as the tops are the color of a nice glass of bourbon (neat), then pull out and let cool for 10 minutes in the pan. Maybe slather the top with some melted butter. It's up to you.
  
• Then tip out onto a cooling rack and let cool as long as you can stand it.

EAT.

---

So, yeah. ME being all weird AND domestic. It's just how we do roll.

Tiff out.

A time or two ago

When I was less then half as old as I am now, I had dreams (or practical plans) of being a teacher.

It didn't work out. I wasn't nearly as responsible as I needed to be to teach the kids who I met during my student teaching. I was 23. There's nothing more be said about that, except that I'm a late bloomer and as such didn't even think about ordering big-girl panties until I was about 30.

I got to thinking tonight though, about a couple of things.

One is that I've not shared with you a couple of good books I've had the pleasure to read, if you're into 'hillbilly scary OMG is that the way it is' story telling.

Now y'all know I love a good spook story. But this gal, Emory Raxter, does it so gruesomely and well that there's no candle I could begin to hold to her tales.

Disclaimer: I had the pleasure of editing her novels, through the odd auspices of my ex-husband, who worked with her to get publishing. I know, it's weird, But it works. Life is strange, ain't it?

ANYHOW.

Emory. She's the deal. She knows what she's talking about. She lives in the byways and shadowy hollers of the past and the odd angles of our strange present. She takes words and corrupts them to her pleasure, wending bright stream of hope through black holes of despair, until I as a reader could NOT put the dang books down until I knew how they ended.

The first book was...graphic. The second, enriching, in a truly dreadful way.

Read 'em.

And while you do, look here, to understand, fully, that the rough and tumble everyone for himself life she describes so lovingly and horrifyingly is real, right now, in YOUR country.

Not that it's bad, but that it's real. Those people are us. They are tough, strong, and smart. And have almost no truck with us. It would behoove us all to know that tucked into the deep mountains of the eastern United States there are people who are fierce, noble, sometimes dirt-poor, and utterly capable.

I know. I taught them back when I had dreams of being a teacher a million years ago. From those kids in my classes I learned that the folds of earth they called home were as inscrutable as their attitudes toward school and those of us that came from the Flatlands. The ice-blue eyes and scruffy go-at-anything attitude reminded me of my gramma, she of the poor Irish of New York. I'll bet we're related. (Mom, are we?)

No matter. Just go read Emory's books. You'll get the idea.

And have a happy weekend.

strength training

It was a lovely day yesterday in Wake County. Sunny, slightly breezy, and warm-ish. Just the right kind of day to get out and take a lovely walk.

So we did.

Biff and I strapped on the gear and headed to the a greenway we walked part of a couple of weeks ago. This time we started about at the point we stopped last time, hoping to make it down under some RR tracks and a major highway before heading back to the parking lot. On the maps it looked a touch under 2 miles each way, so, about 1.5 hours total walking time (including gawking stops and such).

Easy peasy.

Except...about half a mile into it I got the first hints from my bladder that something was going to need to 'go on' before too long. 'Surely not!' I thought. 'I did my business before we left the house, and it's only been half an hour since then!'

But lo, bladders will have their way, and by the 2-mile mark there was clearly a need to find a facility.

However, and I'm sure you could feel this coming a mile off, there ARE no facilities on the greenway. No toilet, Port-a-potty, not latrine. Not even a nice secluded ditch with a roll of TP on a stick. NOTHING. Not even very many good places to go 'exploring,' (if you get my drift) as the trail sits between the river and, usually, housing developments.

Which is why, if you'd been under a footbridge with me at around mile 2.25 of our walk, you'd have sympathized with me, I'm sure, and turned the other way for a moment as I relieved the pressure.

Or TRIED to.

Because, for those moments under the footbridge, my bladder suddenly became imbued with super-hero strength and NOTHING came out. Not a drop. Oh, I could feel it wanting to, but damn if that sphincter was locked up tight in what I can only assume was a case of 'shy bladder.' Well, that's never happened before, so I gave it a bit, nothing more happened, and that was that. There's only so long a gal wants to be hanging out under footbridges trying to pee, is what I'm saying I suppose.

Once we resumed out walk back to the car, it quickly became evident that the job had clearly not been done under the bridge and it was also becoming clear that it was going to be a LOOONG walk back to the car in the face of mounting pressure in the nether bits. We couldn't walk too fast, or the bladder would jostle, then spasm, and I'd have to pause on the side of the trail in thoughtful contemplation of some bit of nature while the spasms subsided, at which point we could walk again. This went on for about 40 (or 50?) minutes. I think I might have groaned a couple of times, and said a few naughty words more than a couple.

(I would have gratefully welcomed even this on the trailside-->)

The situation was getting really desperate. I was contemplating many a tree by the time was were 3/4 of a mile from our destination. By the last half-mile I was convinced I was going to just wet myself and be done with it, but by the last 500 feet fortunes turned a bit and I began to think I could make it. However, the spasms struck once more and by the last 100 paces it was nearly a sure thing I'd be riding home butt-nekked due to having let loose the tidal wave of pee that was sure to break free from my poor beleaguered bladder. By the last 15 or so paces I was doing the peepee dance, hand firmly in place, while carloads of people drove by looking for parking place.

It is hard to walk unobtrusively with your hand in the peepee dance place, but it didn't matter. That hand NEEDED to be there, atl east until I reached the van, at which point I would have been happy to strip off and have at it in the peeing department and not care who saw...

Thank GOD I didn't need to drop trou on the side of the parking lot, though, as Biff had gone ahead and prepared a place for me in the back of the van. A resting place, if you will, consisting of a hurriedly-emptied trash can and just enough squatting room amidst all his band gear to do the deed that needed to be done. One firm roll-shut of the van door and I was peeling off those lounge pants and letting it rip. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....

Whew.

Next time we go hiking, this is the plan: I'm just going to put on a Depends and pee at will on the trail. 'Squish your way to Fitness,' I'll call this program. Farther, faster, and longer, through absorbent undergarments, it's the workout program for the very middle-aged lady.

Yep. There's only so many times I want to feel THAT panicked about possibly peeing in public, and that number is exactly once. Wearing an adult diaper is a sacrifice I might just be willing to make.

(BTW - I have the best LOML ever, as he not only got the van ready for me as I hobbled up on crossed legs, he handed me the TP when I was done, then sympathized and celebrated with me as we rolled off from our now suspiciously wet parking spot. Isn't that sweet? I think so)

Hope all is going as well as can be expected for all y'all. Tiff out.

truth is immutible (*table?)

Six years ago, I wrote this.

It is still true.

It's not encouraging news, but it is the way of things.

---

In the swing through the archives just now (yes I do sometimes go back and read who I used to be), it's apparent that I used to put a lot more thought into writing. Why, there are stories there, and almost-fully-baked themes!

Not so now. The devolution of this blog is nearly complete, but not entirely back to the larval stage. There is a chance it could re-evolve through several instars and then decide to re-emerge as a beautiful butterfly (or full-grown roach, who knows?) sometime in the near future. Anything is possible.

One thing I won't do is to let it wink completely out of view and consciousness. Too many good 'personal' bloggers have done that (for which I thank them because it leaves room for the middlin' personal bloggers like me), and though I am conflicted regarding the ratio of 'good' content versus 'this blog's' content, I do think there is room in the internet for personal blogging that's not gone commercial or isn't crowded by hundreds of commenting fans pouring accoladinal gloop over every squint and fart the adored one deigns to record.

So, for those of you who still keep a personal blog - please don't quit. PLEASE. I love reading your stuff, I enjoy the relationships we've created through nothing but a few quarky oompohs of mutual goodwill, and I'd hate to 'lose' you entirely if you quit.

And don't for a SECOND think Facebook is an acceptable equivalent.

For my part, I promise that in 2012 NAY will seek to establish a resurgence in relatable content, interesting tales, snortable linkage, and shocking insight. It's been too long since we were all young and stupid together, hasn't it?

---

Tiff out.

if you don't already know, I'm not all sunshine and light.

Introit to a little something about me, which you might not know if we've met recently: There's something 'wrong' with me.

'Wrong' being a term people use for folks most folks ain't like, which is all of us, I guess, but is some of us in particular who are just a titch outside what is considered to be nominally charming and 'off-beat.'

To wit:

Longtime readers of this blog know that when I go to write fiction from a piece of art, almost nothing good can come from it. I kill off people, mostly, or sew them to ceilings, or sell them off in terrible human trafficking schemes. If they're not human then they're certain to be running from something awful or getting lost in the great outer reaches of space. One time, I even had me being attacked by radioactive spiderlings in a TB hospital in Russia.

True, all.

Obviously, there is in my mind a definite bent toward the dark and gruesome.

I thought I was sort of alone in this dense dark space of dreadfulness, until I discovered the artwork for the original 'Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark' series, which features some of the most 'me' artwork I've ever seen. These are the drawings that scared the snot out of legions of young kids back when they were published (starting in 1981), and which because of my age (graduated HS in 1980, so too old!) I missed out on entirely. I would have LOVED these books, and stared at the illustrations lovingly until they were embossed on my retinas to the point where I could close my eyes and see them in negative.

So, now, OF COURSE, I want all three books. And they are, OF COURSE, out of print.

Oh, you can buy the stories, but just not with the Stephen Gammell illustrations that made the books so ghoulishly memorable. Because, you know, why include the iconographic art? Why the heck would you print out a 30th anniversary edition of the books with the original illustrations, the ones the made such reluctant fans of so many young kids? It would be foolish to include them, right?

(insert loud 'gah!' here)

Harper-Collins thought it would be fine to just switch out illustrators (GAH!), and thus have included illustrations from another artist (A really good one, mind, but not SG!) in their re-distributions, thinking that of course because it's a BOOK the words are most important, thereby forgetting it's a KID'S BOOK and therefore, because children are visual, it's the illustrations are what moves the stories into hive-mind memory. This new version is not the same, doesn't evoke the same feelings, doesn't promote the same sense of 'out there' the old one did, isn't the same squidgy morass of fear and fascination the old one was, and so I don't like it even if I HAVEN'T EVEN READ EITHER VERSION.

Sheesh, people! Let children be scared. Let them chase their fright down long passageways into shady corners while in the comfort of their own snug beds. Let them be terrorized at home, safe, where there's a warm lap to snuggle into if needed and a word or two about 'overactive imaginations' to wrap around themselves before trundling off to bed, knowing that even the terrible things in those pictures aren't real. Don't water it down, mostly because for hte people who 30 years ago had the wits scared out of them by mere illustrations and who commented on the sad lack of them in the re-release there is no clear message that the mystical terrible pictures that accompanied them did anything but heighten the appreciation of the story, and give each cowering child a little bit of horrifying reminiscence to their younger selves.

Of course, you must remember that this message comes from me. The one who wrote this. And who dreamt of her sunny bedroom walls eating her alive with their gulping malodorous mouths and soil-stained knife-like fingers.

When she was 4.

Yes. I might indeed have some issues, but it's all given me some wonderful ideas for completely dreadful new stories to tell. Perhaps (dun dah duuuuun!) in the dark.

OooOOOOoooo.

Tiff out.

---

(That up there is one of the illustrations in question from the books on question, which I recognize as one of the staircases in the house of the my dreams. It goes to the attic. AND BASEMENT. At the same time.

Sweet dreams!

Mwuahahahaaa.)

I can see clearly now

Two words:

COMPUTER GLASSES.

And thus I find my way one step further into old age. But it's OK. At least I can see what you cretins are up to out there now. What was before a smeary gray blob of amusement has crystallized into a brilliantly crisp landscape of WTH was that?

Good on ya, internetly friends. You have made the purchase of a pair of cheaters worth the money and shame.

Also, I can see every crinkle on the back of my hands. Lord love 'em, they're almost ready for 'make a handbag of them' category.'

Mmm, crinkly handbits. Delicious.

---

We struggled a bit with what to have for dinner tonight. There was NO MEAT, dear Lord have mercy, and so it was a Bit Difficult for a while.

But lo, a bit of sausage (AKA- meat that'll do) reared its head from the 'things to make sandwiches from' drawer of the 'fridge and thus we did declare it the night of beans and rice. And sausage. And homemade what-might-be tortillas.

Funnily enough, for a weird-ass make-do meal, it was good. Second-helping good, AAMOF. I blame the Adobo for this, as it's loaded with salt. Get you some. It comes in handy.

----

Line of the night: "just because we go to the same church doesn't mean we share the same politics." Hoo boy, might we not.

Something to keep in mind.

---

I hear folks in the PNW are getting some snow. Feel free to send it here. We are bereft of it, BEREFT, say I, and it's about time to make with the winter around here before Spring comes creeping in.

You heard me, Winter. I just dared you. Bring it. I am ready.

---

To that lady (term used loosely) who felt it was OK to be a complete twatwaffle on the way to work this morning: Your Hairdo Sucks.

It was in fact possible to examine each strand of it while you were hovering mere inches from Jiminy's back bumper today. Each lovingly shellacked strand. Like a hair-helmet.

Do you use it to keep out the alien messages? Is it maybe a weapon (are you secretly a ninja, slaughtering the unworthy with your pilia of peril)? Does the unholy bleach job somehow convey upon you the same paint-huffing glow a vagabond might have after a can of 'gloss gold #20'?

We might never know, but one thing we do know is this: you are an ass. A big ol' stiff-haired, shiny-truck-driving, texting, wheel-gripping, ass.

Even now, 14 hours later, I hope someday you get caught in a stiff breeze and your hair just cracks off.

In sincerest flusteration, Tiff.

---

And that's it, mah internet buddies. Tiff out.

gentler pillowy doom

This post is nothing more than to say that the person who created the phrase gentler pillowy doom is a genius, and awesome.

That's Kap.

She hates everyone.

Except maybe you.

Sometimes I feel the same way.

--

You will of course have noticed that I'm not posting here as much anymore. This is a sucktastic turn of events, much like my promise to me to walk 2+ miles a day at the beginning of this year. Turns out, walking that much means you have to devote time to it. Time that, as it happens, eats into the sleeping and the lazing about and the gaming that I've come to define my life by,

HOWEVER.

I read the other day that at 40 we start to lose muscle mass.

I? Am almost 50. Schnikes!!!

It's a fair guess that by now I can't do a regular pushup to save my life, given my advanced age. Shit, just getting out of the shower some days is enough to make me cringe, and for some reason my SHOULDERS now hurt when I do crap like....close the car door.

F-ck getting old. I hate it. And I once again am angry at it. (This is a recurring theme. If you've read me rant about geting old, you've no doubt heard this all before. Clue for the newbies - It's bound to be full of fist-shaking and onions).

Because NOW, instead of just having to live and be strong and awesome like I was until I was about 24....I have to work to maintain muscle. MUSCLE. The shit that lets you hold your arms above your head, or get out of a car gracefully. That stuff. That stuff that used to form a really nice mound on my bicep when I flexed, is now no more than an anthill.

It's going.

Dang it.

So, yeah. Me ain't sissy, but I'm lazy, How's a lazy old gal supposed to keep her schwerve if it all comes down to WORK?

I'm open to suggestions.

--

Also - it's been too long. Let's do lunch soon. All y'all.

Tiff out.

all these changes can't be good for a body

Gmail wants me to change to the 'new look.' Google+ is trying to hijack my homepage. Work is moving to Windows 7. The new training page is chock full of new features, and the expense reporting system at work is upgrading to met up with the new Sunshine law that demands we reveal everything but the size of what we keep in our underwear.

And, like usual, I keep saying 'no thanks.'

Three years ago I said that to the company that bought us when they offered a new business credit card that demanded we put our personal credit scores at risk through some crazy-assed bookkeeping scheme that must have made it better for the company to have their people assume risk and debt instead of them covering a possible small risk that whoever would be stupid enough to charge personal items on a company card would default on that debt. I, therefore, did not get a company card. Even though that now means I can't host my own telecons because all that is charged through the company card.

Thank heavens we're now using free services. Once I learn how to use them for TC's I'll be a mad rush of techno-geek! Until then, I call no meetings. Or I do so and make someone else put it on their card. That's the beauty of my job - our issues are almost always someone else's priorities.

The deployment of Windows 7 to the work environment though might be a little happier story. Shoot, you can do cool things like bump and grind, or whatever, and suddenly desktop items fly off your screen or resize or go get you a caramel macchiato, and who would not like that? Nobody, that's who, so I embrace the OS, until it eats my history and swallows whole my will to live.

In other news, my left ear is buzzing like the morning after an Death Metal concert, and I hate that. Everything I hear from it is muzzy and bloated, like a salamander is living in my ear canal and frothing goo all over people's words. Bad job, body! Give me back my tinnitus-ravaged ears and leave the rest alone.

Crap - I already have varicose veins and crepey skin and weird vision issues and a receding hairline. I'd thinking the freaking EARS would leave well enough alone. Getting old sucks. There's no part of me that's not being ravaged by time, except maybe my navel. It's still pretty cute. But getting deeper as time goes on. Still not echo-y yet, but that' only through my amazing powers of belly-sucking-in. Tones the tummy.

And this one was about nothing much. Sometime that happens.

Shit, someone I know wrote a post about nothing but farting today. Consider THIS post, therefore, a gift.

And have a lovely day.

Can't go a month without posting

Since I last checked in here, a lot has gone on. Perhaps the most enjoyable aspect of the goings-on is that I've not stepped foot into my place of work in over 2 weeks. A trip to California the week before Christmas, then the week between Christmas and NYE as a company shutdown, then 3 extra days off this week ('use it or lose it' vacation) makes for a nice long respite from the commute and cube-claustrophobia.

Thursday is therefore going to suck, and heartily. I'm trying to keep the level of dread down by vigorously ignoring the impending re-start of regular life. The internet helps, as do adult beverages and the usual long list of 'crap to do around the house,' which I am also vigorously ignoring. The list is why we now have the A.N.T. board (ANT = A Nice Thing), on which I post daily chores for the Things to do. This helps me out by shifting responsibility on to them for a least 2 things a day. Sometimes, if I'm feeling particularly Mean-Mommy-ish, I make them each do 2 things each a day! The horror!!

It's kind of nice to have these couple of extra days off, because one of them (TODAY) is the anniversary of the day Biff and I got hitched. It's been 3 years, which I'm having a hard time believing. We are, I think, settling in nicely to this marriage thing, and hardly ever fight, and when we do it's because I start them, which is shameful because he's about the nicest guy you'd ever meet and doesn't deserve friction, at all. Sometimes I just lose my mind and get all testy. I'm sorry for that, LOML; you deserve better.

BUT! Anniversary! Exciting! What are we doing to celebrate it, you ask? I do not know, I answer. He is working today, while I am not. This should mean that I need to do up something nice for this evening, but he has band practice from 7 to 10 and it's 45 minutes away which means he'll be gone by 6 and back at 11. This makes 'doing something nice' rather an issue of timing, and what can you do that's memorable in 15 minutes (keeping your fool minds OUT OF THE GUTTER!)? Perhaps I shall make a delicious cake and put our wedding cake toppers on it, recreating the magic that was our dreadful-looking homemade wedding cake, this time without the black decorative icing, because, newsflash! It bleeds. Yes, a nice cake seems a requirement. And maybe a meal on the table for when he gets home from work, which means we will be eating about 3 hours before our normal 8 p.m., but it's all for LOVE, right, and he is worthy of the effort. Why, I might even do my hair nice and put on something pretty! Goodness, this is starting to sound like a lot of work. Clearly, I'm not really big into celebrating, or I'd have put much more thought and effort into this whole anniversary thing. Which is why I'm writing a post, so I can end it thusly:

Dear Biff

I began a poem with numbers
Counting minutes, hours, days
But numbers couldn't capture
The myriad of ways
Your love has recreated me
Opened up my heart
Changed my way of being
Offered a fresh start

It's impossible to make a sum
Of what you are to me
To put a simple number on
What it means to be
In this richest love with you
The very best of men
Who is my strong supporter
And a trusted loving friend

Counting up my blessings
Is impossible to do
There aren't numbers big enough
To describe how you
Have worked a miracle in me
And truly changed up my life
So words will have to shout it out
When integers won't suffice
I wish you a googolplex of love
From me, your lucky wife.

:)

(Happy Anniversary, you big ol' hunka adorable dork. You rock.)

1348

10 things I dislike (if you care or were wondering):

Beets
The sound of people typing on super-clicky keyboards
When stuff explodes in the microwave
Laundry
The funk on laundry left in the washer too long
Scabs
Canned asparagus
Shirts with too-small neck openings
My double chin
The sound a dog makes when it's licking itself

In truth, I could go on and on about the 'noises that bother me,' because it seems I have very little ability to sift unimportant sounds out and also I have a medically proven issue with sound dampening (if you hear a loud sound in one ear your body (not mine) protects against damage by tightening up BOTH tympanic membranes, keeping them from slamming your middle-ear bones around. It's helpful, that function, and yet I do not have that particular bit of wiring) that makes everything just a little more exciting when things go BOOM. Or click. Or wheeze, whistle, snap, rustle, yadda yadda.

The beets speak for themselves.

---

Biffster and I will be winging our way to the left coast next week. I'd normally be excited, but on this trip I'm a-havin' to be dragging my computer along with me and, well, actually do WORK while there. A little research shows that a reliable wifi signal is readily available, so I'll be spending some (a lot) of time at the local library trying to get caught up. Again.

It's a never-ending cycle. Runrunrunrun to try to catch up while folks throw more stuff on the pile. Getting out from under is a continual effort, Sysiphussian in scope and near-impossibility.

Job.Security. THERE'S the positive spin.

---

I hope all y'all are keeping well, and that you've carved out a nice big hole in the end of your year to stuff in some relaxation.

Tiff out.

Now I'm only a week behind

If all goes well, by the end of today I'll only be about a week behind in stuff for work. This is, shockingly, an improvement from last week when I was about a month behind. Delivering initial drafts of large projects has been an issue of late, as little, more urgent, things keep popping up and taking time away from the big-ticket projects that of course are important and urgent as well, just not AS important and urgent at that exact moment.

Once I get today's items off into the ether for people to take a gander at, I shall begin doing work that might actually be on TIME, and maybe even a little AHEAD of time, just in time to take back possession of the late work and do the second round of edits and updates.

Don't you wish you were me right now, all glamour and glitz and high-living? Why, it's almost criminal how deeply satisfying this is, the working. It's like creating fine art from human hair and grass clippings, or writing the best poem about spinach and grits that was ever written, or crafting a sonata in 6/4 time to be played by sackbutts and ocarinas, it's that good.

In other news, the Christmas tree is up!! We went out last night and fetched us a 6-foot Charlie Brown tree, with one smooshed side and a low price tag (less than 40 bucks around here is considered cheap). The smooshed side fits nicely into the old fireplace wall, which allows us to keep the furniture arranged in its usual place instead of moving stuff around so we can walk into the kitchen. So far the cats have not interacted with the tree at all, and do no have a history of being really pesky with the pines, so I'm hopeful this year will be more of the same. That being said, most of our ornaments aren't fancy-dan things of high value, so I'm not concerned if things get busted, mostly. Some of what we hang are things the Things and I have made over the years, and I do try to hang them in spots that seem less vulnerable, and there are a few sentimental items that I'd be sad to see broken, but overall they're just 'things' and can be replaced. We'll decorate it tomorrow night, I'll make some garland from the boughs we picked up at the tree lot for free, the Nativity will be installed, and then we'll be ready for Santa to come, for the baby Jesus to be moved into the manger, and for us to avoid the Krampus.

Whew - busy busy busy!

Hope y'all are keeping well and that your holiday season is gearing up nicely. Tiff out.

Shake up the tastebuds

Tonight's dinner was pretty good. So good, in fact, that I'm posting the recipe here so at some point, if I want it, and remember I've posted it here, I can find it again.

Apologies to those who wanted something of more substance. This one's all about me and my for-crap memory.

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Tiny House orange sesame chicken (or pork, or tofu)(and not that breaded deep-fried crap that supposed to be 'Chinese food,' because, bleah), serves 4.

This is a step-by-step recipe, so read through if you want the full ingredient list before starting.

Start 1 cup Basmati rice to cook according to package instructions.

While rice is cooking, cut up 1 chicken breast (or 8 ounces pork, or tofu), in thin 1" long pieces.

In a medium bowl, mix 3 Tbsp sherry, 2 Tbsp low-salt soy sauce, and 1/2" ginger root, chopped fine. Add chopped chicken (or pork, or tofu), stir and let sit.

Cut 1 onion in 1/4-round thin slices, 2 carrots in 1/4" dice, and 2 cloves garlic in tiny dice. Set aside.

In a small bowl, combine 1/4 cup Tahini (if you don't have Tahini (and WHYEVERNOT? It's great stuff!) then combine 1/4 cup peanut butter with enough warm water to make a pourable liquid), 1/4 cup orange juice, 1 Tbsp soy sauce, 1 Tbsp brown sugar, 2 Tbsp warm water, and 1 Tbsp corn starch. Mix well with whisk until smooth.

In a large pan or wok, heat 1 Tbsp vegetable oil over very hot fire until shimmering. Add onions and carrots, stir, add 1 tsp cilantro if you have it, then cook for 2 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more. Return to bowl.

Heat pan over very hot fire again, add 1 Tbsp oil, heat until shimmering, then add chicken (or pork, or tofu) and marinade. Be careful, this might spatter. Stir constantly until liquid is reduced by half.

Add onion/carrot/garlic mix and 1/2 cup frozen peas, cook for 2 minutes until heated through.

Add marinade, cook for 2 more minutes until almost absorbed, then add tahini sauce. Cook for another 2 minutes, stirring constantly, until thickened.

Plate out rice, then top with some chicken goo, and eat. Goes well with a dash of Sriracha!

About 530 calories a serving. Very low sodium, high in niacin, high in Vitamin A. Just about 1/3rd your daily recommended fat intake, as you might expect.

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I found that this dish starts with a great orange note, mellows in a second to the sesame, and finishes really smooth. I think kids would like it, even with all the veg, because it's not hot or sour, especially if you don't add the Sriracha.

So, yeah. That was dinner. And it was good.

What'd YOU have?

it's been that kind of a time

Tonight I drove home, in the dark, through a vicious rainstorm.

It was 64 degrees here this morning at 8 a.m., and it is now 48 degrees at almost 10 p.m. Can you chant me Cold Front, Cold Front? Yeah, baby, I thought you could. Meteorological serendipity, thy name is 5 p, TODAY!!

As it became all too soon all too clear, the cold front and I were commuting partners. It swept the streets of debris and dust, poured gouts of rain to clean the streets of distracting flotsam, wiped leaves from the surface in tumults of blinding scree, apparently trying to be helpful. RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, THE WHOLE TIME.

Well, no. Not so helpful.

The windshield wipers on RED ALERT did nearly nothing to unobfuscate the wretched scrim of droplets pushed against the glass almost immediately after every pass of the blade. The road markings were visible only because they're made of tape and therefore stick up enough to divert water from its naturally falling path enough to provide some miniature dam-like, and therefore topographical, effect. Approaching cars blared headlights over the flopping greasy efforts of the wipers, blazing smears of unwelcome lights across the entire view like a blast of sun under a visor in late afternoon. Seen, known, but unexpected and tremendously irksome (and dangerous).

Dear God how I hate driving in the rainy dark.

Even more so when there is a passenger in the car.

Which, there was.

On the plus side, he is a GOOD passenger, and only made note of his discomfort ONCE when I may or may not have almost not stopped in time at the new crazy-assed intersection at that bridge over that main highway not far from here, so it's cool. We'd come so far in the deluge up to that point that missing the stop by 1.5 car lengths could be forgiven, so hey it's OK.

Crazy stupid cold front. Racing through here like you have a RIGHT to change this weather, impact my ride, endanger my life, and douse this bit of world with sloppy wet.

If it weren't for the dangerous nutso life-threatening commute, I might love you a little. You're just THAT wicked.

Now blow me a breeze to take me to morning, and we're all set.

Staring into space

Once again, me plus copious time alone proves that I am the most boring person on the planet. I fall asleep early, talk with nobody, do almost nothing, and can't even be bothered to cook anything. It's as though I just go on 'hold' until something or someone comes along to jump-start the life engine. Otherwise, I get stuck on idle (metaphor, beware!), just gently reverberating while waiting for something to push me forward.

Shoot, the past 2 nights I didn't even bother going to BED to get my night's sleep. That recliner is proving far too comfy, particularly when there's a blanket and a cuddly cat at hand. It's a rule that once a cat falls asleep in your lap, you're not allowed to move, right? You're stuck there until the cat decides it's time to get up. Cats are like that, the little tyrants.

Today's the day though that things will get done, as Biff returns home tonight (at nearly midnight. I might have to take a nap before then!) and I really ought to vacuum up the potato chip crumbs in the living room, do some laundry, wash the dishes, take a shower, sort the mail, and follow-up on all the little things I've not done in the past couple of days while I was practicing being a flesh statue. It's just that bad, folks.

It's always been this way. When I was single and living alone I would let things go a dreadfully long time. There were weeks when I couldn't find the time or energy to even put sheets on my bed. I'd just sleep right on the mattress with a comforter or 2, and usually more than 1 book. I'd eat apples and cheese and bagels almost exclusively because they required no dishes. I wouldn't even use a knife on the block of cheese; I'd just tear off a hunk and go at it peasant style. Housekeeping was similarly spare - it was only when there were, say, more leaves in the living room that on the ground outside that I'd break out the broom and tidy up. I'd just spend a lot of time hanging out, reading, watching the sunbeams move across the room, waiting for something to happen.

I am a person who needs outside influence in my life. Self-motivation and me don't really even have a nodding relationship. Without pressure to perform, I simply don't. It would be nice to think that I'm not alone in this, and that when y'all are on your own with not much to do you don't go whizzing around creating chores or hyper-dialing friends to do stuff like 'go out' or 'get together' or whatnot. Maybe if I was single I would do that, because I'd be forced to make my own entertainment, but for me, right now, a couple of days of nobody around equals me being ultra-boring.

I have, however, paid the bills today, so that's something. And I'm about to get all crafty and holiday-ish with wreaths and lights and whatnot, and then I have to crank out a bunch of stuff for work, not to mention the aforementioned housework and showering, so today's shaping up to be The Day I Should Have Been Having All Along.

What are YOU planning on accomplishing today?

Dear Bank that just cut my credit limit by 75%

So, Hi, BTJCMCLB75,

I thought I knew you. I thought that, because I've dealt with you and you many fine offerings of loans, mortgages, and insurance over the years and have happily availed myself of them for a very long time to what I would like to think is our mutual benefit, you would at least give a sister a shout-out before pulling the financial noose a little too snug for comfort.

I thought that because I didn't carry a balance on your credit card, and because, in fact, you right now OWE ME 20 bucks because I overpaid a month or so ago, that you would look kindly upon me as a responsible citizen and one of your best customers, who should be allowed access to a certain amount of credit if something should go horribly wrong, and not like someone who needs to have their hand slapped because of what some bimbo reporting agency has to say about me and who doesn't even know me.

I do, after all, hold a mortgage with you that I pay EXTRA on every month. I do, after all, insure my home with you. I do, after all, hold a credit card account with you that, as mentioned, carries a zero balance and has done for at least a year.

I thought that meant something.

But no.

I was wrong.

Because, based on what some BITCH named Experian told you, you no longer hold me in as high regard as you did. No matter that what that bitch told you is wrong on at least 2 of the 4 counts (what the fuck is 'level of delinquency on accounts' mean? I'm current on everything that I know of! And seriously, 'time since delinquency is 'too recent' or 'unknown' '? WHAT? If you don't know something for a fact, then you're just spreading rumors.).

Never mind that 'amounts owed on revolving accounts is too high.' Did you not notice that in the last year I've paid down that debt over 12 THOUSAND dollars? Did you? Do you now know how much sweat and sacrifice has gone into that paydown? Just look at my paltry savings account to know where my financial cushion has gone, it's right under your bloated corporate ass!

Never mind that 'proportion of balances to credit limits on bank/national revolving or other revolving accounts is too high' - do you know why this is? I do - It's because another bank last year dropped my credit limit to exactly what I owed on it, therefore making it look like I was 100% in debt to them. No fighting that one either. Just nose to the grindstone, and pay out, pay out, pay out.

OK, bank. I know I owe too much on credit cards. I know I did it to myself. I know that financing not 1, but THREE moves and new households on you and your kin was a lot to ask. At the time there was no choice. At the time I was in dire straights and needed to use you, and for that I suppose I should be sorry. Nobody should ever feel like they've been used, I suppose. I know that carrying a LOT of debt on those cards isn't a good idea, and you can believe right now that I have woken up in a cold sweat more than once under the weight of that obligation, and even CHANGED JOBS to get more dough to hand back to you to get out from under, but you clearly haven't taken that into account nor have you noticed that YOUR card is at a zero balance and the others were decreased by 1) HALF and 2) a THIRD from last year.

By the way, assholes, I now make about 30K more a year than I did when you were handing out all that debt. I'd think that that, coupled with my decreased debt load overall, would make me a more attractive target for your cards, not a less attractive one. Also, notice just how much I've charged on you in the last 2 years. That's right, a big fat fucking nearly NOTHING. I have, in fact, paid down the debt on your revolving merry-go-round of grim despair, while also paying off 2 cars and buying another, WITH CASH (thanks to my wonderful husband Biff for the help with the car thing. You, I love). Irresponsible to do those things? That doesn't seem to be the case to me.

I have played your game, took the interest rate hits when I knew I deserved them, coughed up the cash time after time, and now you tell me that it wasn't enough, not nearly enough, not by a long shot, and you're through with me.

Thanks to you, my credit rating just took a nosedive. Thanks to you, I probably can't get a loan on a bad idea, much less anything of worth. Thanks to you, and that other bank that robbed me of creditworthiness, I now look like a total no-bill-paying douchenozzle who games the system and steals candy from babies.

I hate you, I hate all of you, I hate feeling powerless, I hate being stomped on like this.

So thanks for nothing, you soul-sucking beast. I thought I knew you, we had some respect, and that no matter what, that whole 'respect' thing you tout as a draw to your company was a real thing, and not just some wisp of advertising meant to what the appetite of the people hungry for a decent relationship with their bank.

Guess not.

There was something about flying monkeys, and then it got weird

Hey! So it's been a while since I posted anything, eh? Over 2 weeks, which is something of a record for me, but of course I'm far too lazy to look up my previous all-time high posting gap.

What's been happening in your world since a few days before Hallowe'en? Doesn't Hallowe'en seem like a long time ago already? It does for me. The candy was gone within days, thanks to the hard work and effort put in by the Things, who didn't even go trick-or-treating (too old for that sort of nonsense anyhow I guess) but did find the bag stash and applied themselves to ridding the Tiny House of candy, one handful at a time.

I think I was something like 14 the last time I trick-or-treated. Is that too old? It didn't seem too old at the time. Certainly 15 was too old, but 14 seemed OK. Thing 2, who is 14 this year, hasn't made the rounds in like 3 years. We had parties in '08 and '09 but not last year, and if memory serves we MIGHT have gone door-to-door in 08, when he was 11, but I can't remember.

This was an off Hallowe'en to be sure. Oh, we decorated and put up the giant spider and such, but I didn't have a costume (no reason for one) and very few kids came by the house. Biff did dress up to hand out the treats, which did make the evening somewhat more festive, but the drizzling rain and the early dark just took the wind out of my sails, and I normally LOVE Hallowe'en.

Maybe I'm saving energy for Thanksgiving? Don't know. We are travelling ot NoVa this weekend for a quick family visit, as my older brother is going to be up there and my younger borther lives there near Mom and so my Mom wanted to see if we'd like to come up for a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving. We, naturally, said yes. Then we realized that Biff is playing out on Friday night, so the quick trip turned even quicker, with possibly just a one-night-stay at Mom's. So, OK, fine, that's cool, because that will be a nice time and with the turkey and all we'll be coma-ed out and time will pass more slowly thereby making it feel like we'd been there much longer.

Then Monday I put Biff on a plane so he can go eat turkey with the MI family. The Things and I will turkey it up here Thursday, then I send them back to their Dad's and I come home to sit and stare at walls until Saturday when Biff comes home again.

I'm sure he's rather be flying his own airplane, but as he doesn't HAVE one yet it still makes more fiscal sense to buy a ticket to fly on someone else's plane. Too bad, really, as when you fly your own plane you can do exciting things like play 'spot the airport!' on dark nights.

Like so - Spot the airport in this picture I took coming back from Richmond Sunday evening (hint: this is Louisburg, NC)!



Did you see it?

No?

How about now?

See? Fun game! You'll have to take my word for it, I suppose, that not only IS there an airport down there, but it's in approximately the position circled and that it is remarkably visible the closer to you get to it. From about 15 miles out though it can be tricky to spot, even in the daytime. And this airport is reasonably sizable, compared with some others we've flown into! :)

Flying at night is great. The air is way less bumpy, it's so much easier to spot other aircraft, and the little yellow blobs on the maps signifying where towns are really DO look like that at night. Very helpful navigation aid, that. I'm a fan of the umbumpy air, which was a very lovely perq and really helped me, after a while, to not feel like I was about barf from sheer terror. This was, you see, my very first night flight, and I had no idea what to expect. Shit, I don't even like driving a CAR at night, and Biff's talking about being 4500 feet in the air at night, for over an HOUR? Someone hand me the Ativan! As it was, once I shook off the 'ohshitohshitohshit'-edness of it all and talked myself out of the crazy tree, everything went great. I'd do it again, is what I'm saying.

Now, some of y'all are probably thinking I'm nuts to get in a small aircraft in the first place (Hi Mom!), and you might be partially right, but here's the thing: I do NOT intend on being in the old folks home and not having interesting things to look back on. In other words, as I told Biff the other night: "I'm not going to look back on raking the yard in 30 years and think 'Oh, what a special moment that was.' " I will, however, look back on a semi-spontaneous trip to Richmond to have dinner with one of my oldest friends VERY fondly, and be proud of myself for conquering something that had caught me in a mental rictus of fear. We need to keep challenging ourselves in this life, I think, or we just kind of fade away, becoming a very uninteresting obituary at the end. While my being a passenger in a small aircraft on a short night flight won't likely make it into any memorials that might be had for me after I'm gone, at the very least it keeps the adrenaline flowing and opened up a new experience, one I found I liked and would do again.

Can't say THAT about raking the yard.

Tiff out.