Evolution

My little black cat is named Kira (a reference to both the Celtic name Kiera, meaning the dark one, and Kira Nerys, a Star Trek character). When I started spending time with my boyfriend, I found that he likes to play with her name; he'll make little alterations to it to suit his fancy.

One of the first such alterations was Kira Wildebeest. Apparently her manner struck him as wildebeest-like one day, and he's stuck with that ever since. Then, we discovered that she loves the taste of duck, so she became Kira Duck Wildebeest.

When we play with her feet, we talk about her toepads as "beans," and today I was chattering at her about her beans, li'l black beans, frijoles negros, and then the idea of her being a Black Bean Burrito hit me, so I told my boyfriend.

"Wildebeest and Black Bean Burrito," was his response. "Gotta have some meat in there!"

So now my little black cat is Kira, Wildebeest and Black Bean Burrito.

Because life is too short to not embrace a little absurdity now and then.

Fridge Forager

Those moments when I throw open the pantry and fridge and try to pull together something easy and tasty are always exciting. Will I come up with something amazing? Will this be a meal that even the racoons won't touch? It's like my own personal episode of a cooking-related reality show!

Tonight's "episode" was born of necessity; the meal needed to be quick and easy, include protein, only use one pan, and not involve pasta or rice. If I could avoid opening new containers without immediately emptying them, so much the better.

I won. It wouldn't be to everyone's liking, but I was thrilled with the result: scrambled eggs with sprats (similar to sardines) and beetroot-and-horseradish chutney that's been in the fridge since before I moved in. The chutney lightened the oiliness of the fish, the savoriness of the fish played well with the eggs, and it all just worked.

Happy cook, and happy cats who got to lick off the plate.

Section 8

When I started at my current job, I was in a difficult housing situation and trying to pay off a small mountain of debt as quickly as possible. As my coworkers got to know me over those first few months, they heard the horror stories about my then-housemate, and sympathized because most of them had been in similar situations at one point or another.

Since then, things have improved considerably -- I've moved away from the now-ex-housemate, have no housing expenses thanks to the generosity of my partner, and am making headway on my debt -- but there are a few coworkers who haven't heard about the improvements because we work on opposite sides of the building now. One of them came to me this morning to offer me an application for Section 8 (low-income) housing in the town I used to live in, because she thought it might help me get out of the awful situation I'd been in.

I'm touched that she's looking out for me. I'm also dismayed to learn how many of my coworkers are in subsidized housing. To my mind, it speaks poorly of an employer when a significant number of their full-time employees have to rely on social welfare programs to survive. It's a clear sign that wages are too low, and that the employer doesn't actually value his employees.

So... looks like I'll be hitting the job listings again. I wasn't looking forward to seeing how winter weather affects my new commute anyway, so I guess it works out.

Hot Stuff

When you've got a fire going and it's not quite as active as you'd like it to be, sloshing gasoline from the can on the fire will give it some extra oomph... and also set the gas can on fire. The scorch mark in the back yard is evidence of my housemate learning this lesson the hard way.

Principalities

There's a company in Florida called Prince of Palletees. I came across one of their pallets in the course of my work today. Giggled for a solid minute. It's nice to be easily amused.

Skill Set

Sometime last year, I watched Mudbound on Netflix. It was well-done, if uncomfortable at times, as period pieces dealing with racial and class issues should be. For some reason, while the rest of the movie has faded into a fuzzy memory, one scene, of a woman slaughtering a chicken, is still vivid and sharp in my mind. She used a technique I hadn't seen before, one that wasn't bloody, and didn't require tools.

I put that technique to use for the first time today. Shortly before I moved in, my housemate bought a bunch of chicks, five of which were supposed to be pullets (females). Four of them turned out to be cockerels (males). She slaughtered two of them about a month ago, and the other two have been living on borrowed time... and crowing at 5am.

Knowing she's about to start a full-time job and won't have as much free time, she spent a few minutes trying to catch them this morning but wasn't quick enough, so I grabbed a helper and got both of them. After one escaped her grasp and the other drew her blood, I did what needed to be done and handed them back to her for plucking.

I'm proud of myself for being able to do something I find difficult (not physically challenging, but emotionally -- taking a life is no small thing), but upset that I was in a situation where I felt I had to be the one to step in and do it. I've been in too many situations like that over the years, heard that voice in my head saying, "if I don't do this, nobody else will, and it needs to be done." It's a rough way to build experience and toughness. The scar tissue never goes away.

People who can't imagine having to step up like that will glorify it and call me courageous. I hate it. I hate that people like that are the reason why I have these scars. I do what needs to be done because they won't, and I resent their weakness. Don't praise my strength, develop your own.

Pumped

I knew my Jeep's fuel pump was dying, it was just a question of when. Today is when, turns out. It's not an expensive part, but it's a pain to replace (the gas tank needs to be "dropped," which means it has to be almost empty, and it's currently almost full), and there's no workaround that will get me on the road in the meantime -- if the fuel pump isn't getting gasoline to the engine, the engine doesn't run.

Lovely.

Gone Fishin'

When you have the opportunity to run off to Lake Champlain for a few days, you take it. Even if you don't particularly like boats or fishing, and the fella you're with is a fisherman... with a boat... and insists on taking you out on the water. And then you discover that you actually like being out there, except for the part where he makes the boat go fast.

Check out the rest of my pictures here!

Remembering A Life

I've been trying to write a eulogy for days and having very little success. A dear friend, who had been my best friend from age four 'til sometime in our 20s, passed away last week after a short but valiant battle with cancer. We had grown apart in the last decade or so, and the last time I saw her was at her wedding in 2010. Since then, we'd talked only a handful of times, and the most recent phone conversation was the one where she announced the cancer diagnosis and terminal prognosis. That news came as my move was getting down to the wire, and I didn't really have the brain space to process it fully, but I made a point of sending her an email every day (or nearly every day -- I missed a few in the whirlwind of life) so she'd know I was thinking about her.

The day came when, several hours after I'd sent my daily greeting, her friend emailed to say she'd passed. I was in the middle of doing something else when I got the message, and again, I put off processing it until later. I knew I couldn't afford to fly down for the service, so I was readying myself to deal with it in small doses over time, which was about all I could manage with the other stressors I'm faced with.

Then another friend made it possible for me to go to the service. That offer was unexpected and heartwarming, and I jumped at it... but it puts a time limit on how far I need to get in the grieving process in order to make it through the service without having a meltdown. So there's work to do.

And I feel like an ass for making it all about me, because that's not the way this is supposed to be... but I'm beyond overwhelmed, and the process of getting through it all is the only thing I can think about unless I force myself to take a little energy from all of that and put it into remembering what a marvelous person she was. And that little bit of energy turns into a massive drain as I connect with the feelings of loss and love and regret and every other complicated, messy bit of it.

Her husband called her an angel, and he's right -- she was the kind of person who exuded and attracted goodness in all its forms. She had her issues and her struggles, and she came through each challenge with a deeper sense of grace and peace than she'd had before. I was struck by the tone of her voice as she talked about her prognosis... I didn't hear sadness or regret or self-pity, I heard acceptance and calmness, and I was in awe. Having known her for so long, I had the privilege of seeing her grow from an awkward, struggling child into a capable, brilliant, joyful woman, and it's bittersweet that the world felt the warmth of that joy for such a short time.

I remember marching with her in the Memorial Day parade, representing our 4-H club. I remember the birthday sleepover she threw for me (because my mother always found reasons not to let me have a party), where we played MarioKart and baked a cake... forgetting to add the milk until the batter was already in the pan. I remember her acidentally knocking over a cup of lemonade in her dorm room and exclaiming, "THIS IS WHY I CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS!!" I remember standing in her grandmother's house, braiding her hair for her as we got ready for the renaissance faire. I remember how radiant she looked at her wedding, and how happy I was that she'd found someone who saw her for who she was and loved her for it.

I remember how she scrunched her eyes when she laughed, how she wagged her hand in front of her before she sneezed, how she never took herself too seriously... and I remember unhappier things, too... but they all made her the brave, loving soul she was. I miss her, and always will.

You Keep Using That Word...

Seen on the internet:

"Exclusive pure lenin sarees"

I bet they only come in red.

Age Is Only A Number

Him: "You don't have the face of a 41-year-old."
Me: "That's probably because I'm 37."
Him: "...You don't have the face of a 37-year-old, either."
Me: "I'll take the compliment."

Jump!

Parking out in the boonies to cuddle and listen to the radio is a lovely experience on a warm spring evening, right up to the point where you go to start the vehicle and find that you've drained the battery. Trying to flag down help in an area with little vehicular traffic and no houses is also problematic. Luckily, one of the cars that passed without stopping called the cops, so a State Trooper came to check things out a few minutes later, and he had a portable jump-starter with him, so we were on our way in short order. As adventures go, it was on the mild side, for which I'm thankful -- more fun than scary is always preferable when it comes to unexpected situations.

Innards In and Outards Out

Things you learn living on a farm: how to deal with vent prolapse in a chicken who laid a gigantic egg. Our little Leghorns aren't supposed to pop out eggs that look like they came from a goose, but one of the girls did it, and her innards took a beating as a result. So we got out the hemorrhoid cream, gloved up, and tucked her bits back where they're supposed to be. We'll keep an eye on her for the next few days, but she ought to be okay.

That egg, though... yikes!

Road Trip

A while back, a window colleague in Detroit bought some glass from a deconstruction job site I was working on in Vermont, with the understanding that she and I would see each other at a conference later that year, so I could deliver the glass to her. I ended up not going to the conference, and our schedules got complicated, so the glass moved with me when I relocated to Connecticut a few weeks ago. We finally got our schedules to synch up for a day, so we drove to a halfway point in the middle of Pennsylvania for the hand-off. The trip went splendidly, the glass went home with her, and it's one less thing for me to stress about, finally.

Back when I thought I might be driving all the way out to Detroit to make the delivery, I mentioned the trip to someone who didn't know me very well, and he asked when I'd be going so he could put it on his calendar and come with me, phrased in such a way as to suggest he was making this offer for my benefit, as if I needed help. I scoffed a little and told him I'd be making the trip alone, and he seemed taken aback. I'm far happier driving by myself most of the time -- having all that time to myself without having to strain to hear what a companion is saying or force myself to be social is part of the joy of long trips. I can listen to whatever I like, chatter to myself, admire the scenery, stop when I need to, and not have to worry about anyone's needs but my own. It's wonderful! So his "helpful" offer was an unwelcome imposition, especially given that he didn't ask whether I wanted company first.

Yesterday's trip was lovely, but for the intermittent rain that pestered me all day. Getting on the road at 5:45am on a Sunday made for a traffic-free drive out, and even the traffic I encountered on the way back wasn't too bad. Part of the trip was through an area I've never travelled before, and I loved broadening my range. I did discover that Pennsylvania is awful about picking up roadkill -- I must've seen three dozen deer carcasses, and about as many birds (hawks, vultures, and turkeys), in addition to occasional coyotes and opossums. I passed the hospital in which I was born, stopped for dinner a few miles from where my father grew up, and marveled at how much things have changed.

I'm a little sad that I don't have any other long trips to look forward to in the near future, but I'm sure I'll come up with something. And I'll do it alone, because, for me, that's the best way to travel.

Adrenaline Rush

I have a long day with a very early start tomorrow, so I got up early today and have been keeping active to fend off a mid-afternoon nap. Just as I was feeling my energy start to wane, I glanced out the window and saw one of my housemate's dogs roaming free.

We got her back after a block-long chase, but my heart's still pounding. I'm awake, for sure!

Just My Luck

I've been out of town visiting a friend for a few days, and, as a result of my fussy body not liking beds that aren't mine, not sleeping well. I rather assumed that when I got home today I'd take a short nap, do some chores, putter about until my normal bedtime, and then get a proper night's sleep.

That's more or less what happened, except for the proper night's sleep bit. I've been staring at the ceiling for two hours now, yawning every few minutes, but unable to fall asleep.

Anybody got a brick they can come hit me with? Please?

Mother Clucker

We have chickens. We have one chicken in particular, Violet, who, as we discovered today, has a skill: escaping.

The chickens are in a pen with six-foot-tall chain-link walls. I was working in the yard earlier today, and out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of white. I take a closer look, and there's Violet on the wrong side of the wall. I catch her, put her back in with the rest of the flock, and go back to my work. A few minutes later, there she is again, outside the pen. I get her back in again, block up a couple of spots where she might be squeezing through, and go back to work. Not two minutes later, I learn her secret -- I happen to look up just as she's going over the wall. With cat-like skills, she's catching quick claw-holds on the chain link to power herself up and over whenever she wants to get out.

The other surprise was when I found out why she's been getting out. She kept going for this one spot tucked behind some boards leaning up against a wall, so I pulled them back and found... eggs! Nine of them! All fresh (passed the float test with nary a bobble)! Apparently she doesn't like laying in the nesting boxes with the other girls, so she's made her own spot.

Normally we'd turn a problem chicken into dinner, but those eggs? They're jumbos, some of them double-yolkers. It means she's one of our best layers.

She lives. She's in detention until we can figure something out, but she lives.

Life with chickens never ceases to be entertaining.

Grrrrrrump

The move is complete. I'm settling in a few blocks from where I grew up, boggling at how many changes have happened in the four years since I last lived here, and trying to decide what to do next.

In looking at my options, I'm feeling more defective and dejected than I usually do. There are jobs I could do if I weren't autistic, if I didn't have a hearing disability, if that car accident a few years ago hadn't damaged my knees. The ones that remain viable despite those handicaps aren't terribly appealing, and the thought of getting back on the treadmill of working to pay bills to work to pay bills fills me with a sort of existential fury at the futility of it all.

Add to that my lack of ambition, or at least ambition in the modern sense, and I'm feeling stuck. I don't want to pursue any particular career, I don't want to go back to school... those options feel pointless in this swirling cloud of nihilism that's been getting thicker and more oppressive the older I get. I want to live a quiet, agrarian life away from other people, away from red tape and bureaucratic bullsh*t... but that option isn't available to me, because there are always taxes and fees and regulations and forms that require funding on a personal level, and those funds have to come from somewhere, which, in my case, means a job. With my resumé, it means a job that barely pays the rent and leaves me too exhausted to do anything else.

It's hard to keep one's chin up when it feels like the entire world, the era and culture in which one lives, is toxic to one's very existence.

The Smallest Beast I've Ever Seen

Yesterday, on my way to Connecticut with a trailer full of stuff, I was passed by a little red Fiat. The license plate said "666." Apparently Lucifer drives a 500 with Vermont plates.

Cookies!

My sister is in Florida visiting our grandmother this weekend. I'm at home frantically packing, hoping I can get everything out by the end fo the month. So I'm more than a little jealous of her, but I figured I'd try to find a silver lining by asking my sister if she could casually find a way to ask Grandma to bake cookies so sis could bring some home for me.

My sister asked me what kind of cookies I wanted, so I told her my top three, figuring she and Grandma would pick whichever one they had on hand or had the ingredients for. The next email said, "so grandma and I are making cookies on Monday, because she doesn't have all of those and wants to be sure you get all that you want."

I... um... okay! I keep forgetting that Grandma's the giving type. Mum definitely isn't, and I didn't see Grandma for many years before last summer, so I'm re-learning how to interact with someone who's more than happy to go out of her way to make someone else happy. It's a nice problem to have.

For The Birds

A flock of birds lights in my front yard, and Maeve takes up defensive position at one of the windows in my office.

"Mer-er-er-er-er!!"
"You tell 'em, kitten."
"Merrrrr-er-er!"
"Are they dastardly birds?"
"MEW!"
"Silly question, since all birds are dastardly, right?"
"Mer-er-er!"
"Pity there's a window between you and them, or you'd show 'em what's what, right, Maeve?"
"Mew."
"You would. I know. Fierce huntress."
*Maeve looks at me like I'm crazy*

If there were any doubts about me being a crazy cat lady, let this put them to rest. I am, clearly, a crazy cat lady. Even my cats think so.

Gadget!

I'm in the process of moving to Connecticut, there being no suitable work that I can find where I live in Vermont, and today's tasks include packing up my bed to go into storage, because I'm borrowing a smaller one to fit into the tiny room I'll be inhabiting for the next six months or so.

My mattress topper needed to be rolled up, so I got the first tuck going and sort of leaned my chest against it while I reached out to keep the corners tidy, and a gleeful voice in the back of my head shouted, "GO GO GADGET BOSOMS!!!"

Keep in mind, I've never actually seen more than a few minutes of anything in the Inspector Gadget franchise, but the "go go gadget [body part]" phrase is such a part of pop culture that it's part of my personal vernacular, too.

I'm glad I'm finding things to giggle about, because, for the most part, this move is saturated with sadness, regret, and a sense of failure. So I'll take my mirth where I can.

Beat It

When you raise, or know people who raise chickens, you sometimes (frequently, even) find yourself in the position of having an abundance of eggs. You may also, if this happens a lot, be sick of quiche, egg salad, and scrambled eggs. This was where I found myself recently, and so I started asking everyone I knew if they had any favorite ways to deal with tons of eggs.

My grandmother, who grew up on a dairy farm in upstate New York and remembers a life without electricity or indoor plumbing, provided the most helpful response for my lifestyle: pound cake. With a recipe taking four or five eggs per loaf pan, it burns through eggs quickly, and it also freezes well. She cuts her cooled cake into individual portions and then freezes them for later use. A little pound cake, some fresh fruit, some whipped cream, and voilà, easy dessert!

To the best of my knowledge, I had never made pound cake before. Maybe once, twenty-five years ago, for 4-H, but not more recently than that. So I didn't really know what to expect, either with the preparation or the result. I picked the older of my go-to cookbooks, a monster of a tome from the 1960s, since pound cake is a fairly old-fashioned thing, and followed the directions, using my stand mixer.

After it was in the oven, I checked my other go-to cookbook, and realized my mistake. The secret to good pound cake is: beat it. Beat it to within an inch of its life. The wet ingredients should have so much air beaten into them that you worry they'll float away, because between two sticks of butter and two cups of flour in that one little loaf, it's going to be a solid brick if you don't.

So my first attempt came out a little... dense. Still quite tasty, but decidedly solid. I vowed to try again, new knowledge in hand, and see if I couldn't do better. My second attempt is currently in the oven, having been beaten like crazy with my hand mixer, and it's already got considerably more loft than its predecessor.

If at first you don't succeed, find more reference material and try, try again!

Cardigans

My father was an old-school professor, and dressed like one: tweed blazers, patched elbows, corduroy trousers, though not necessarily matching or in good repair. He had a bunch of rather bland-looking cardigans, too, which I've just inherited as part of my sister's effort to get Dad's house emptied and on the market. Up 'til now I've been using hooded sweatshirts as an extra layer in my chilly house, but they have their shortcomings, and Dad's cardigans are a much better fit, so I'm thrilled to have them.

I'm discovering, as I catch myself in the mirror, that there's a firm line between looking academic and looking like a bum when it comes to cardigans, and it has a lot to do with whether the shirt under the cardigan has buttons on it. Buttons: academic. No buttons: bum.

Today I look like a bum, but a warm one, so I'll take it.

Provenance

In cleaning out the house we grew up in, my sister has run across all sorts of strange things. The other day, we found a box labeled "historic utensils," which contained half a dozen egg beaters (anybody want some vintage eggbeaters?), some random bits and bobs (including glass straws that are going straight into active use at my house), and a few pounds of silver-plated flatware.

As I'm polishing the flatware, I'm doing a little research on it, and I discover that I've got a dozen large spoons made by Victor Silver Company, which primarily (solely?) did flatware for hotel/boarding-house use. The pattern doesn't match anything I've found pictured so far, so I can't pinpoint a location or year beyond the 1920s-30s, but they came from Dad's parents' house, which suggests downstate New York.

In any other family, it would be safe to assume that these dozen spoons were bought or gifted, but in our family, that's less likely. Our grandmother was a known kleptomaniac. The one memory I have of her is from when my parents took her and us out to eat, and after the meal she opened up her gigantic handbag and began loading it up with anything that would fit, from salt shakers to salad plates, and even the vase and artificial flowers that adorned the table. My mother was embarrassed, Dad was used to it, and I was too young to understand, but that was the first and last time we went out with her.

So, looking at this silver, the most likely explanation for how it got into the hands of a working-class immigrant family is that Grandma pinched it. I'm not sure how a story like that would play on Antiques Roadshow, but I think I'll plead honest ignorance if/when I get to the point of selling them, and simply say I don't know where they came from before my Grandmother.

Kinda wish I knew, though.

Familiar Faces

I've been running out of good things to watch on Netflix lately (suggestions welcome), so I'm down to shows I wouldn't ordinarily have watched past the first episode. I'm in the middle of Gotham right now, sort of a prequel to the Batman series, where we get to see all the familiar characters before they became iconic. The dialogue and cinematography are done in a comic book style, which makes it feel rather juvenile despite the blood, gore, and swearing, so I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't love comic books to begin with, but for me, it has one wonderful thing going for it: familiar faces.

I grew up watching Doctor Who. While Peter Davison was my favorite doctor (both because of how he interpreted the role, but also because I loved him as Tristan on All Creatures Great and Small), Jon Pertwee was a close second, with his floppy perm and velvet suit. Jon's son, Sean Pertwee, is also an actor, and while he tends to play grizzly, sharp, angry characters, he shows up in Gotham as Alfred, Bruce Wayne's butler. The character starts out a little rough, but becomes quite the endearing father figure, and every time Sean smiles, I see his father, and it warms my heart.

Gotham is full of other familiar faces, even if they're only around for an episode or two. Paul Reubens (Pee Wee Herman) shows up as Penguin's father, which made me giggle, and Morena Baccarin, who played Inara on Firefly, gets a lot of screen time as Gotham's medical examiner. Apparently one of my all-time favorites, Alexander Siddig, shows up in season 4, but I think Netflix only has three seasons available right now, so I may have to wait a while for that treat.

For a show about a comic book series, done in a style I don't particularly care for, I'm enjoying it more than I thought I would, thanks in large part to the work of the casting director.

Poorhouse Pies

On a quiet country road in Underhill, Vermont, there's a little self-service pie stand. If you don't know to look for it, you might not see it at all, but if you know about it and can find a place to park, you're in for a treat.

My sister and I made our way to Poorhouse Pies yesterday, went a little crazy (because, with the wide variety of flavors, how do you choose?), and came home with four boxes of yumminess.

My "compensation" for helping navigate was a big slice of each flavor. Nice work if you can get it, right?

Top left is Raspberry-Peach Crumb Pie, one of their "combo" flavors. I think I would've liked it better if a) the raspberries had been strained to eliminate the seeds, b) if the balance of flavors had leaned a little more toward the peach side, and c) the crumb topping had been applied with a slightly lighter hand (alternately, a little more of the fruit filling). That said, it's seriously yummy. Good crust, good firmness (I hate sloppy pies, and this one held itself together quite well), and good crumb topping.

Top right is Raspberry Chocolate Cheesecake Pie. The raspberry is tart, the chocolate is dark, the cheesecake is creamy, the crust is crumbly... it's almost perfect. As with the last one, I'd prefer it without the raspberry seeds, but even so, it's a fantastic pie.

Bottom right is Key Lime Pie. There are two things I look for in key lime pie: tart, sock-you-in-the-face flavor, and NOT GREEN. This pie is perfection. No food coloring, not too sweet, potent lime flavor, crumbly crust, utterly wonderful. This will be one we go back for next time.

Bottom left is Maple Cream Pie, which was our choice after a coin toss between that and Chocolate Cream (which we'll get next time, if it's available). Y'know how maple sugar candy tastes? This pie tastes like that, only creamy instead of gritty. It's got that super-strong maple sugar flavor, almost too strong for me, but I'm a little wishy-washy about maple in certain forms, so that's just me. The consistency is perfect, the whipped cream topping cuts the sweetness a little (yay!), and the crust is lovely.

All in all, these pies are worth the drive. We'll definitely be going back at some point, trying other flavors (I'm hoping for Blueberry-Peach next time), and spreading the word. If you're within an hour or two, go check them out. You won't be disappointed.

Thaw

Today is one of those days where the cats and I take turns jumping out of our skins every time a chunk of snow falls off the roof. We got about a foot of snow last week, but now it's warmed up considerably, so everything is melting and releasing its hold on whatever it landed on. My driveway is a puddle on top of ice.

But hey, with the forecast saying it'll be warm-ish the rest of the week, maybe I'll get out to my shop and do some window work.

Getting A Feel For The Place

One of the things I like about renting from an out-of-town landlord is that, when it comes time to show my house to prospective tenants, sometimes I get to do the showings myself. Having spent four years in this house, I know its strong points and its quirks, and I enjoy playing tour guide.

Today I did a second showing for the couple who will probably take it, and it went really well until just before the end. The husband asked the wife what sort of feeling she got from the place. She sighed heavily, gave a sort of wan, apologetic smile, made eye contact with me, and said, "loneliness."

Sad to say, she was right on the money.

Solid

It's hard to pour cream into your tea when the cream is frozen solid.

It might be time to call my landlord about a new refrigerator.

Public Service Announcement

If you happen to get into a tax dispute with the state of New York, do everything you can to address it before they issue a tax warrant against you. Because once they do that, as soon as your warrant comes up in the queue, they will find out where you do your banking and take however much they say you owe them, all at once. If you don't have enough, they will drain your account to zero and anything else you put into the account will go to them until they have what they want. If you're very lucky, you might be able to talk them into sorting out the problem in a less cash-intensive way, but it will take several business days to process everything between the tax department and the bank, and in the meantime, you have nothing.

I really, really hope I don't run out of heating oil this weekend.

Mother

My mother taught me how to lie.

I don't think she realized she was doing it. I don't think she realizes, to this day, how frequently she lies. I think it's as natural to her as breathing or sleeping, and she doesn't even think about it. But I saw her do it time and again, and learned, by her example, that the easiest way to get out of certain situations was to "tweak" the truth just enough to dispel doubt or encourage sympathy.

When I was in elementary school, I was having difficulty with another student -- an imposing, outspoken, African-American girl with a posse of supporters. This girl was picking fights with me simply because she could. I was shy and quiet, but smarter than her, and that made me a target. As her bullying got worse, I brought it to my mother's attention. I recounted some of the hateful things the girl had said to me, and my mother made an appointment with my teacher. Afterward, the teacher met with me, because what my mother had told her seemed a bit off. My mother, it seems, had decided that the issue would be taken more seriously if it were a racial one, so she made use of my small amount of Native blood and turned the girl's statements into slurs. She accused the girl of calling me "squaw girl," among other things, and threatened to bring the issue to the school board.

I don't remember how the issue was ultimately resolved. I do remember that teacher being in a difficult position -- on the one hand she had a bright but underperforming student (I had just changed schools and was no longer in gifted classes, so I was bored and didn't do the work), and on the other, she had an overbearing, accusatory parent. Following my mother's example, I unintentionally made the teacher's job even more difficult. Every time I failed to turn in a homework assignment, I told the teacher that my mother cared more about my 4-H projects and forced me to work on them rather than my homework. I told my mother that my teacher kept "losing" my assignments because she didn't like me and/or Mom. Both believed me, or at least didn't express doubts in my presence, and went to war with each other. My teacher thought she was protecting a vulnerable child, and my mother thought she was working to improve the school system by rooting out a bad teacher.

Given this sort of history, I shouldn't be surprised at any discovery of another lie my mother has told. She never had the epiphany that I did (brought on by, of all people, my abusive stalker ex) about the toll lying takes on a person's life. I put myself on a new path, but in doing so, my relationship with my mother changed. After our catastrophic trip to Florida last year, I thought it was about as bad as it could be, but I was wrong.

My grandfather passed away last week, and when Grandma sent me the obituary, I was confused. Mom had told me about my great-grandparents many times, how their names were Axel and Ingrid and they came from Denmark (where they were distantly related to the royal family) to settle in New Jersey where Axel was a doctor. In talking with my grandmother about the information in the obituary, I found out that their names were Matthew and Sophia, they came from Poland, and Matthew worked in a textile mill after they emigrated.

To me, this is a whole new class of lie. This isn't exaggeration to make a story more interesting, it's not a little tweak to make things sound better, it's outright fabrication, and it's about something I care very deeply about -- family history. I'm livid, and hurt, that my mother would take such liberties with our family tree. Both my sister and I are named for our Danish "ancestors," I have a set of Christmas ornaments that depict the Danish royal guards... and it's all a lie. And for what? Because my mother is embarrassed to be half-Polish? Because she wanted to make herself feel important by being distantly related to royalty?

Before this, I was disappointed in my mother, sad for her, because she grew up with psychological issues in an era when they couldn't be properly addressed, but then failed to address them when the opportunity arose. Now? I'm ashamed of her, and terribly worried that her issues may be far deeper and more damaging than anyone thought. A teenager inventing that kind of story to cope with feeling worthless is one thing, but an adult, not only telling the story but passing it onto her children, knowing that the right question to the right person could bring it all crashing down... I can't wrap my head around it.

When Needs Must

"Witching-hour diesel run" makes it sound almost charming, but having to go out at 3am because you've run out of heating oil, and discovering that the gas station you thought was open 24 hours wasn't, making the trip twice as long as it should've been, is no fun at all. It's especially not fun when the alarm clock will be going off at 6:30am because the handyman's coming over "at some point," which means any time between 7am and 6pm.

It's enough to make this hermit long for a housemate.