Musings on a Sunday Afternoon Filled with Heat, Lethargy, and Ennui: or writing when you’re not a writer.

Apparently, I’ve had my start logic account for a year. They’ll be billing me for the annual fee this month (and probably overdrawing my account in the process): I’ve made five posts and uploaded two pictures in that time, and all of that was fairly recently. The service sat there for months and months while I either forgot about it or dithered about how to do it. The dashboard for it is way above my knowledge. Wordpress and my friend Amber to the rescue.

So, along with a renewed interest in actually doing something with my site, my husband’s interest in adding his site to my service, and a need to have somewhere to air my ramblings, I’m back. Or here. Or something.

I used to fancy myself a writer. I’m not, at least not a writer in the sense that my friend LDA is(she has a nom de plume, but I won’t tie her to this post, if she reads it, she’ll know who she is). She’s a real writer, with two nonfiction books published and a novel in the pipeline. (It’s finished, now she’s trying to find an agent.) She has this way with words that I just don’t possess. I’m good technically and used to be able to write a damned good essay, but the prose, not so much. My stuff is kind of plodding…plod plod plod. My daughter has a flare for words, too, if she’d only admit it.

The things I really have talent for, sewing, drawing, creating things with my hands…I can’t do so much anymore. My hands are numb most of the time, making it really hard to do things, and I did something stupid way back in November of 2005. I used to be really near-sighted; I took my glasses off to see things up close. Then I had Lasik and now I can see mostly okay at a distance, but have to have reading glasses to read and work on the computer, and +4.00 lenses to do the kind of thing I used to be able to do “bare-eyed,” as it were. I gave up any sort of desire to do the sort of things I have for which I obviously have no talent for years ago. I’m not athletic, I can’t sing worth doodle and public relations is right out.

What do you do when you discover that you can’t draw anymore and weren’t really a writer to begin with and all the other things you did with your hands are painful to do? You read a lot (but even that hurts because of the hand issues), you watch way too much TV, and sleep and daydream. Or you bore the poor college kids at your office with endless chitchat…I’m sure they appreciate that. There’s confusing the cats, or running the puppy silly with the laser mouse (actually, I never tire of that one; it’s hysterical).

Or, you can stare at the mounds of clutter and crap, knowing you can handle it, but not knowing where to start. You annihilate the laundry amoeba, and hope it never grows back again, you doodle and toss aside your lame attempts at art, where once there was talent. You stare at the wall where the shelf used to be and think, I need to paint and patch that, and keep typing.

I’ve deluded myself for over a year now into thinking that I finally have friends and a life. But the friends don’t call me, they call each other. The life is one big boring pile of wastedness. A house full of fabric, art stuff, craft stuff, nifty stuff that is absorbing dust and turning yellow with age. There are times when I just want to put on the old print muu-muus and admit I’m middle-aged and boring. Dish up that goulash and let’s see what Dr. Whoozen of…egads, I don’t even know the titles of any soap operas.

Perhaps there’s hope for me yet!

Cinderella and Prince Cleanemup

My foray into humor yesterday left me wondering, why IS my house such a wreck? Yes, I’ve always had issues with being tidy, but the underlying house was always clean and it really only took a short time to tidy up, once I got around to it. But for the past 15 years, I’ve had increasing issues with finding that round tuit and things get dirtier and pile up. I’ve tried FlyLady (I think the crappy fuchsia and purple layout keep me at odds, I'm not sure), I’ve tried treating my ADHD, I’ve laid out plans, lists, and routines, given stuff away, thrown stuff away, and stored things until I could deal with them…but it just gets worse.

For the last eight years, I’ve given myself a break because I was diagnosed with ADHD at 49. Then I determined I cannot form a habit, even a bad one. Fly Lady says it’s perfectionism, and I agree to some extent on that—I find myself looking at something and thinking, oh, I could pick up that little bit, but rationalizing, “I can’t do it all right now, so that won’t really do any good.” I’ve called myself every ugly name in the book: fat, lazy, worthless, stupid, inept…

But this week, a couple of things happened that made me re-evaluate the situation. First, my daughter’s best friend since high school came in town for their 20th reunion. I adore (I’ll call her Annie) and always want to see her when she comes in town, so I met the two of them at a local Austin café, Thunderbird Coffee in Brentwood. We spent a lot of time talking about parents, and Annie’s mom, who was my best friend for years, but we’ve drifted apart since she moved away. I can’t divulge what was talked about, but suffice it to say that things weren’t always rosy between Annie and her mom. I stopped and asked them something like what was the biggest life lesson you learned—one way or the other—from your mother. Annie talked for a bit. My daughter kind of clammed up, so I was thinking okay, she probably doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. So, being the kind who sticks the needle in the wound to see if it still hurts, I asked…and you?

What she said made me deliriously happy. She said the main thing I taught her was that you get up and get what needs to be done, done. Regardless of what else is going on, some things have to happen, and I always did that. I thanked her later; if the best—or worst—thing that could be said about my parenting is that? Then I did just fine.

The other thing that happened was that my husband went on a business trip for the week. I dropped him off at work on Monday at 7:25 in the morning and won’t see him until tomorrow afternoon. And, while I cannot say that I was a tornado of cleaning efficiency, or even that I got that much done, I can say I did some things I was dreading and I got up on time, kept a regular schedule with the animals and felt like I could physically handle things that I would normally defer to him. For instance, it took me about 10 minutes to move several of the roughnecks full of stuff off the patio, sweep it, and hose it off, then I loaded the roughnecks in the van and later took them to the storage unit (yeah, I have one of those again). I had been waiting for a good time to ask him to carry them. Guess what? I can do it myself. Yes, my hips and upper back are bitching at me today, but I don’t really care.

I told my daughter that I think I have CDCS (Co-Dependent Cinderella Syndrome). Subconsciously I keep expecting someone to rescue me. Insert confused dog head-tilt here. No, I don’t expect him to clean up my crap, but I do sit around and wait for him to do things or ask him to do shit that I could very well get up and do myself (feeding the dogs, for instance, which means they get fed “whenever” instead of on the schedule that I set). My crap gets piled higher and deeper, but he doesn’t ever say anything about it. I also get resentful when other than taking out the trash and occasionally mowing the lawn, he won’t initiate doing anything without being prompted, but that’s a whole other issue….or is it? Is my resentment boiling over into what used to be an “I can do anything” attitude? Some things, I cannot do any longer. I simply do not have the strength that I used to have, but, as with the roughnecks, I obviously can do some things. And those things take a lot less time than I thought, and certainly less time than waiting for Prince Cleanemup to come to my aid.

The funniest part about this is that I’ve actually imagined what it would be like if Niecy Whatsername from Clean House showed up.

Knock knock knock (they are knocking because I took the plate loose on the doorbell in 1995 to paint and have never screwed it back in—even though I’ve actually bought a new one—so people don’t know if it works, will electrocute them, or connect them to the Whitehouse)

I open the door and give them the haven’t you read the fucking “No soliciting” sign? glare.

“HIIIII! I’m Niecy Whatsername from Style Television’s Clean House!”

Deadpan. “And?”

Flummoxed look. “Well we’re here to save your bacon!”

“I have no bacon that needs saving. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Oh, well..that was just a figure of speech. Have you heard of our show?”

“Yes. And a) I don’t have enough stuff to sell for 2-, 3-, 4, 000 bucks…heck I don’t even have enough to fix the drain for the bathtub and replace the tub and surround, which all needs to be done before I can even think about flooring in the greatroom, and that’s another 1200 to 2000…unless you’re giving money away?”

“Um, no. But you neeed us…”

“…who sent you? I want to take a contract out on them.”

Slight look of panic. "Well, we..uh…can’t we just come in and take a look around?”

“No. I don’t want you telling me what to do with my things. I’m not going to negotiate to keep my Golden Retriever furball collection.”

Blank stare.

“I kid. But seriously, who sent you?”

The entire crew breaks for cover as Niecy shouts over her shoulder, “Martha Stewart!!!”

And another one bites the dust....

(I don't feel like writing today, so I'm handing the reins over to my new life coach. Please welcome Miss Prissy Spiffup, my guest blogger.)

To say the least, I was just not prepared for what met me when I stepped in Madame B's sty home. To be fair, it doesn't quite qualify for Clean House or the BBC's How Clean is Your House. There's still walking space, the kitchen is usable and I did not feel the need to use a fire hose. But...the woman does need help.

After what I thought was a tiny dog attacked my purse, I decided that the pets needed attention first. (Later I discovered that it was just a rolling ball of Golden Retriever fur that had self-animated. No teeth.) Five...yes, count them, five cats. Oh.my.gawd. Cats. I rounded up the cat cages and was attempting to remove these offenders from the premises when simultaneously, one of them sunk four-inch long claws (I swear I saw these things in Jurassic Park) into my back, another one defecated in my purse (and then chased the fur ball across the great room), and yet a third vomited on my Pradas, whilst the two Siamese sat atop the china cabinet and laughed at me. Why was I suddenly reminded of Lady and the Tramp?

Okay, so the cats stay, but I banished them to the garage and turned around and was promptly knocked on my derriere by a black and tan fur-covered projectile...with teeth. I think I might have cursed...or passed gas, I'm not sure which. After I peeled the creature off my face, I realized it was a puppy. Ew. I stuffed the puppy into a large crate, presumably meant for just such an occasion and gathered my pearls up from the four corners of the house. Again, ew. More fur balls. Giant fur balls. Immense...oh, wait, that one was a Golden Retriever. He was nice and looked at me with large brown eyes...and then sneezed in my face. After I went home and showered...

Next day. Arrived. The cats were out of the garage and man, were they angry. The Siamese were back up on the china cabinet and I could swear....do cats whisper? The ancient black one was determined to trip me, presumably to make me fall where the puppy could lick me until I drowned or the Golden Retriever could sneeze on me again. Who'd have though such a sweet face was hiding such a sinister mind? I thought quickly and threw handfuls of dog and cat food out in the back yard and then locked the door behind them all.

Dusting off my hands in triumph, I proceeded to face the daunting task ahead. I realized I was still surrounded...not by animals this time, but by mountains of clutter, buckets of dog fur, and dust thick enough I could have sprouted seeds. I pushed up my sleeves, gritted my teeth and set to it.

I paused a moment and looked around...and panicked. Born Organized People like myself were not supposed to quake with confusion like this. Where.to.start? I scowled, I stared down the clutter. It stared back. It howled.

No, that was the dogs at the back door.

I fell back on basic training. One.thing.at.a.time. I put a wadded up paper towel in the trash can and beamed with pride. And then remembered I hadn't put on my rubber gloves. After scrubbing my hands relentlessly for 15 minutes, I returned to the scene of the grime.

The dogs were hurling the cats at the back door.

Okay, logic. I got dusting supplies from my tote and found a step ladder. Dust the ceiling fan, dust the bookshelves. Dust the electronics. I stepped outside to shake out the dust cloth.

I did not know dogs and cats were so fast. Nor that they knew how to work sliding door locks. Yes, those were my keys the Siamese just flushed down the toilet...and my cell phone the puppy was teething on.

Five hours later, when Madame B found me...digging for scraps in the compost heap...I was quite fine, no, really...

Happy Vegesaurus Mouth :)

One of the things I really miss about becoming a vegetarian is good ol' Texas Tex-Mex food. Ground or shredded beef or pork, and chicken, (and things like menudo that you do not want to know what they are) are essential ingredients of Tex-Mex and it's hard to just do refried beans (making sure to either make your own or find the ones without lard in them...lard is an essential ingredient of Tex-Mex, too, after all).

In the past week I've made two discoveries that bring one of my favorite food categories back to the forefront. One is vegetarian chorizo from HEB and the other I just invented tonight: vegetarian enchiladas. Now, you say, many restaurants have vegetarian enchiladas, and you'd be right. But these are ones that I invented and I can make at home and they made my mouth very happy. I made them deep-dish like my grandmother's enchilada pie.

I'm guessing on the amounts, because I had to work with what I had, so these are approximations for three layers in a 9x9 glass baking dish--your mileage may vary, as they say.

1 lb. white mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
1 medium onion, diced to your choice
1 bag fresh baby spinach, chopped into a chiffonade; divide into 3 equal portions
5-6 garlic cloves, finely diced--or the equivalent in a bottled, minced garlic, about 2 heaping tsp.
Salt, cumin, and chili powder
1 doz corn tortillas
1 lb of Colby longhorn or Colby jack cheese, grated (I was not picky about this, but if it matters to you, find a rennet-less brand)
1 can vegetarian enchilada sauce--I used Rosarita. My old time fave, Gebhardt's, it turns out, has rendered beef fat in it.
1/4 cup vegetable oil
butter
1/3 cup red wine (I used Shiraz because it's what I had.)
Optional: cilantro, cayenne, sour cream topping,, diced avocados (for a topping)

Preheat the oven to 400˚ F.

Melt the butter in a large skillet, sauté the onions, garlic, and spices until soft. This would be the time to add the cilantro and/or cayenne, if you wanted them.

Add the mushrooms and a bit more butter. Cook the mushrooms for a few minutes, then add the wine, keep the mix moving and cook the mushrooms down until they are soft and well-coated in the onion-wine mix. I like my mushrooms cooked a bit more than I think a lot of people do--just remember that you don't want them crunchy, but they will be in the oven for awhile, too. Just make sure the wine is cooked down...you might even want to add it to the onion mix before adding the mushrooms.

*With your fingers, coat the tortillas, one at a time, with the oil and tear them in roughly 2-inch pieces. Place one layer of the tortilla pieces in the bottom of the dish. Overlap the pieces and cover the bottom. Place one portion of the spinach on the tortillas in an even layer. Layer 1/3 of the mushroom/onion mix on top of the spinach.

Layer 1/3 of the grated cheese on the mushrooms, then pour 1/3 of the enchilada sauce on that.

Repeat from the * two more times and top with a bit more of the grated cheese.

Pop in the 400˚ oven for 15-20 until it's bubbly on top. Remove from oven and allow to cool/set for 10-15 minutes. Cut and serve like lasagna and top with sour cream, fresh cilantro, and/or avocado, if you like.

Happy vegesaurus mouth!

Why web?

It’s a fair question. Why do a web page? Because everyone’s doing it? Because it’s a free, fairly safe way to express your exhibitionism? An outlet for frustrated authors? A venue for your repressed need to teach? Someplace to thrust the kabillion pics of your grubby toddler on the world? All of these?

My friend who helped me connect up WordPress to my StartLogic account (why is everything now XxxxXxxx?) asked me this same question, “Why do you want a webpage?” Well, more correctly, she asked me what I was going to use it for. I had to think about it for a moment. At one time, I was an active costumer in the SCA and wanted to post photos and “this is how I did its” on my site. Maybe force some of my pathetic writing on people. Although, it’s very difficult to force anything on anyone on the web, since you can always navigate away from the page—that solves the grungy toddler pics right there.

This made me start thinking about why the average Joe, or Jo-Anne, puts up a webpage. I think we have something to share. Even if it’s some crackpot notion like the faking of the moon landing or bizarre conspiracy theories. After all, the person posting those sees them as valid and something worth sharing with the rest of the world. I’d like to find some tranylcipromine and share it with them, but that’s for another post.

Some bloggers have huge following and their lives become endlessly fascinating to their fans, so they put up a website. Witness “Dooce.” At one time, Dooce was hilarious. Her rants against motherhood and other institutions were infamous. But then she went commercial, and even worse…she got pregnant. During her pregnancy, she was still funny, but afterwards…it was kind of like after Kathleen Woodiwiss got religion: her novels sucked. Heather's (Dooce) angle has changed (she had a nervous breakdown, too) and I would imagine that for the most part she now has an entirely different fan base. She must have one, since she’s still up and running and has two (count ‘em) books out. And, just be damned if she didn’t drop another spud this month, too. Life is odd.

Why do you web?