Stars, Not Maps

I like this secret. Whether it's we, you, or me, really, no map is necessary. If I had one, I'd miss my next bus while looking for the "you are here" arrow and trying to determine the appropriate destination and it's exact mileage.

Recent spaces that I never would have seen on a map:

~The foreign country that is my mailbox holding Pearly's maiden mail. But wait, I've been to foreign countries, and this seems vaguely familiar.

~Surly gang member, giggling over easter egg dyes. "Do we get to hunt for them too?!?" You bet.

~Explaining to a new crowd how my ex-husband's nephew became one of my best friends. His people, "you're bringing your divorced aunt to the bar?"

~Fielding the question, "Could I have your phone number, so I can ask you out sometime?" Censoring my initial response of, "What? Why are you asking me that? What the hell?"

~Speaking such sentiments somewhat publicly.

Five Gallons of Ham

I'm making 24 hour Ham Hock Soup, right this second. At least, I think that giant bone is a hock. I simmered the bone and meat with navy beans, celery, onion, and spices for the last eight hours at work. The catch is that it is illegal to put any food in the work fridge that is not in a sealed plastic container, and this concoction sits in a five gallon steel vat. So, I sloshed it home where it will sit in my fridge until tomorrow. I shall shlep it back again for tomorrow night's dinner. Don't you think it would be more sanitary just to leave it at work untouched and unshlepped in the vat? I do. I love how delicious it tastes while looking so vomitish in the shiny vat.

Un-Stick Thyself

~ Toss cave-dwelling paranoia, and make blog public. Done. Bring on the freaks.

~ Bitch out the landlord, touting legal rights and basic respect. Done. Weirdly effective. My shit is fixed with an apology and a smile. Guilt level is surprisingly low.

~ Transform two unfinished baby quilts into a full size, fuck-all, awesome quilt for myself. Sorry, potential recipients. Your time will come.

~ Finish boring paper and name change crap. Like this week. Serious.

~ Bake a ham. An Easter Ham, with tators, pie, the works. In two hours. I've never baked a ham before. Seems that you take it out of the wrapper and put it in the oven. I thought it would be more intense, oh well.

~ Hunt for eggs in the rain. I took this photo from my back door. I'll bring my mudruckers.

~ Technically, I'm not really stuck. I'm just impatient and Transition has worn out it's welcome.

Where I am, I am, was and will be

Thing for to dig food - spoon - is where I am - I'm not normally a simpson's quoter, but that one applies here. ------->with sticky tape, but stuck on your jeans first, so it's not overly sticky as to pull of bits of the substrate. Process needs patience, is patience, and creates patience. Process vs. content, process vs. product, processssssss is infinite and active, product is done and still. Content is noisy and muddled, process is quiet and clear.

Really Rosie Loves Yarnwhore

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7mSseAx6rg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fsgk8LNEs7o&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GC1MndHfig&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlZbguxRlIU&feature=related

Filler Blogging

Too long since the last post. That chicken was scrumptious, and the carcass became chicken soup with rice, which always makes me sing Really Rosie to myself. Is this all I have to say?

Yep.

Always an Upside

I just hopped a mini-jig when I remembered that I get to cook two whole chickens today. Whole, with the head and innards being replaced by yummy spices.

Spit Ball

It's 1:43, when it should be 12:43, but I've already complained about that, and I need to accept what I can not change. My body is satisfyingly sore from hard-core basketball last night. For nearly 2 hours straight, my coworker and I took on 3 wily boys who are just a wee bit better than us on the court. I want to say that she or I made at least one basket, but no, we did not, in 2 hours. However, we did successfully keep these boys out of the house, out of each other's faces, and thoroughly entertained until it was time for bed. One thing that, no, two things that trip me out about basketball. First, damn, there is a lot of contact. How do you play with no contact? How do I play without getting hurt as much? Second, why does basketball make so much spit?

In other non-spit related news, this has been a crazy week. My name is now officially restored, my work has been politically insane, and I had an intense conversation that seals the rightness of everything happening now. I even may go public with my blog here. I don't feel the need to hide as much as I did. Though I still wish it was an hour earlier like it's supposed to be.

Missing Hour

It's not fair that it's about to be 3 am instead of 2 am. I mean, I have an ice cream sandwich, and that helps, but, it still gets me down. Every year, both the falling and the springing, I resent it, and it was one of the few plusses of Arizona living. The longer days are handy, I suppose, but it all feels so contrived, because it is, duh, but it just gets me bogged down in the concept of time, and dammit, there it goes now, it's 3 am. It bugs me that my computer and cell phone know this. It even bugs me that it bugs me, but it bugs me and I can't help it. That hour was just stolen, like I slipped unconscious for 60 minutes. But, what a sturdy ice cream sandwich that didn't melt while I was absent.

The Fish Knows

Fishy, fishy, do you know it's bait? Do you see the juicy blowfly bobbing just above and feel a twinge in your fishgut? Do you tell yourself that the metallic glint on the edge is not a hook, but just an exceptionally shiny, silver wing? You skirt the familiar pylons and I hear the barnacles laughing.

Confused Villagers

First, there are a few typos I always make. One is favorites. I always write favorities, which sound like the name of a delicious cereal.

But, to the point, these respectable English villagers in The Upfold Witch are reminding me of those in Sarum, by Edward Rutherford. Spooky covers draw me, and when they hold a thousand pages of historical fiction inside, I'm sold. His book, London, is also great, but is so similar, it's almost interchangeable and therefore annoying.

Bring on the book suggestions. I'm open. I may have to plug Amy's mom next time too, unless that would be inappropriate.