Evolution

I was brought up firmly planted between Mainline Protestantism and Midwestern Morality. There were many things that were not discussed explicitly, but I knew that certain things were Wrong, among them premarital sex, politicians, and abortion.

I remember the night I made some statement at the dinner table, assuming that the familial position was pro-Life. My mother, a plain, god-fearing, black and white kind of woman, was horrified to find one of her children turned against her. I was horrified to find my mother one of the enemy.

Mom took it upon herself to instruct me in the Way Things Were before abortion was legal in this country: the women who died, were maimed, or otherwise had their lives changed forever. She was the one who introduced me to the "not for me personally, but for anyone else who needs it" position.

I went to college and learned there were different ways to see things. I started to come around to my mother's way of thinking. I had my first scare and it taught me a little of the ache of the decision, and gave me compassion for those who truly have to make it. I began to call myself pro-Choice.

I grew even older, and my father's Libertarian views began to grow on me. On an individual level, I saw abortion as a personal moral/ethical decision. On a legal level, I couldn't comprehend making it illegal. I simply could see no compelling reason why it was any of the government's damned business.

I thought the question was settled in my mind. I thought I was decided. I thought I was certain. Then a few years ago, a friend came to me. She was on powerful prescription meds and had been warned against trying to get pregnant. Now she was late. She could not afford an abortion and had come to ask me for a loan. I had no financial reasons to object, but I didn't feel entirely comfortable giving her the money. It looked like things weren't quite as settled for me as I'd thought.

Last week, one of our friends asked me if she could request a favor. It's a little early to make the call, but it seems she's pregnant, and for a variety of complicated and personal reasons, this is not a child she can have. "I know what I need to do," she said, "but I don't think I can go by myself." This time there was no hesitation, no second thoughts. "No worries," I told her. "I'll take a day off and we'll do whatever you need to do."

Last Saturday marked the 32nd anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision. For practically my entire lifetime, women have been called to make their own decisions and to come to grips with the consequences of those choices. I hope my daughters will have that same freedom, that same power.

Is this high school?

Several months ago, I ran into an ex-lover online. We did a brief catch up thing during which he mentioned that he was looking for a new job. Long story short, one thing led to another and now he's working at my company.

Shortly after he started, he came down to thank me (and I'm sure to see what I look like these days). That was a few weeks ago, and I hadn't seen him again until yesterday.

Yesterday he came downstairs to shadow a coworker that sits near me. I walked by him on my way to the bathroom and we exchanged a little wave. When I got to the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and this little inner dialogue ensued:

"Oh my god! I think this is what I was wearing the last time he saw me. Now he thinks that I only have one outfit." etc., etc.

Apparently, I really need to get a grip.

Present

Sometimes it seems to me like the true secret to a long-term relationship is simply showing up over and over again, day after day.

Love feels nice and it's beautiful and it makes the world go 'round and all that, but Love doesn't really help when it comes to putting up with my mood swings. Love doesn't take out the trash. Love could care less about planning for retirement.

The only real work Love does in a relationship is to trick you into being present. Then when you get there you find out there's real work to be done if you want to stay. You work and you work and then you wake up the next morning and discover there's still more work to be done. But when you continue to show up every day, when you stay committed, when you keep bringing your best to the table, things tend to work out ok.

I'm blessed with a husband who comes to our marriage every day in all of his him-ness. No matter what happens, he's there and ready to work it through. He's appallingly honest and one hundred percent committed. He's always ready to try a little harder to give me whatever it is I think I need.

He's an awesome man, and I'm lucky to have him.

Happy birthday, love. I hope you have a wonderful year.

My name is Trish and I bought 102 skeins of yarn.

Last Friday I went to Hancock's and bought 102 skeins of yarn. I'm not sure who I blame.

See, I was there earlier in the week with a friend and noticed it was on sale for $1/skein, which is a great price. We both bought some for miscellaneous projects that might come up.

Thing is, when I got home, I started thinking (always dangerous). Then I looked on-line and found a pattern for a quick/easy afghan using the yarn. There's 13 rolls of yarn in each 'ghan, and I told myself, "Hey if I could get some Christmas presents done for thirteen bucks, that would be a deal!"

So Friday I trucked my butt back over there and bought enough to make 8 afghans. (If you're doing the math, you know that would be 104 skeins of yarn -- apparently I counted wrong somewhere while I was pulling colors).

You know, it's not unusual for my husband to think I've lost my mind when I start a craft project. But when you're at the craft store and the employees and all of the people there think you're nuts, you should know you've probably lost it.

The good news is that all of this disparagement has made me stubborn, so I pretty much used all of my free time in the weekend to work on the first afghan and it's probably about 2/3 of the way done now. Hopefully I can keep up the pace and prove them all wrong. Although the bigger it gets, the harder it is to make any noticeable progress. Last night, it was taking me an hour to get through a round. I've still got eight or nine rows to go before this one's done and I can start #2!

"Whenever I go to the bathroom, I remember our honeymoon"

Last weekend Pukka walked into the bedroom as I'm putting away laundry.

Pukka: "I'm so glad we got that Irish Spring."
Me: "I'm glad too, baby."
Pukka: "Because now whenever I go to the bathroom, I remember our honeymoon."

(Yes, this is actually what the man said. For his sake, I'll fill in the gaps and tell you that our hosts at our honeymoon cottage had stocked a half metric ton of Irish Spring in the bathroom. So it's now a scent with a very strong honeymoon association for us. But still . . .)

Pause. Pause. Then:

Pukka: "This is going in the blog, isn't it?"
Me: "Of course!"

Toddler Politesse

When I married Pukka, I got a niece, Bucho. Unfortunately, she lives half a continent away, so we don't get to see as much of her as we'd like. But in early December, we got the chance to spend a week with her. Our conclusion? She's three years old and more polite than Pukka and I put together.

We first noticed it when we found that in almost every instance where I would've broken out with a hearty, "Du-uh!", Bucho says, "Of course!" with this little upward lilt that just melts your heart.

A day or two later, she and I were working puzzles. She had just finished her number puzzle, naming the pictures as she did so: "Four apples!" "Six frogs!" When she got to three, she said, "Three bananas!" Now I must tell you, this puzzle had the sorriest depiction of three bananas I'd ever seen -- all mottled brown and shortened. So when she announced it was my turn to do the number puzzle, I put some pieces in, then placed the three saying: "Three plantains!"

She looked at me with her serious face and said, "Aunt Trish, I think those are bananas."

Of course!

But the absolute best Bucho moment was at the end of our time at their house. Earlier in the morning, Kelsey, a preschool classmate of Bucho's had been dropped off for carpooling. When Kelsey arrived, she had started talked to me about her purple boots. Now, I would've called these boots pink (they were actually sort of a magenta color), but I was not about to pick a fight with a three-year-old, so I didn't say anything to her about her apparent color-blindness.

It's about a half hour later and the two girls are putting on coats and various accessories while getting ready to leave. Bucho notices Kelsey putting her boots on and says, "Oh Kelsey! You have such pretty pink boots."

"They're not pink," says Kelsey. "They're purple boots."

There's a moment as Bucho ponders this with a concerned look on her face. Then she smiles and asks in the high bright voice adults tend to use for animals and small children, "Sooo, what color are your gloves?"

Life Lesson

When you use profanity to refer to the snow removal people, you shouldn't be too surprised to find your car plowed into its space in the parking lot two days later.

Notes from this morning

Several inches of snow on the ground, and it's supposed to continue into the wee hours of tomorrow morning.

• If it's going to snow, fine, whatever. But why does it have to rain first so that I have a nice layer of ice on my car under all the fluffy stuff?
  
• Last night, I dreamt that my mother bought me a remote starter for my car. Given the amount of time I spent scraping ice off my windshield this morning, I really wish it had been prophetic.
  
• Thing #56 I will not miss about our current place when we move: The landscape company our landlord contracts with appear to believe that snow removal is a 8 - 5, M - F job. Fuckers.
  
• Last night, I was planning to write a post about the reasons I love my husband. One of them was going to be because he scrapes the ice off my car for me. This morning he abdicated his position as scraper. Ironic, eh?
  
• When you're driving in snow/ice, you can either change direction or change speed. You can not do both at the same time. Please don't kill the rest of us by trying.
  
• My inner nine-year-old should not be allowed to stay up late hoping for a snow day when my grown-up selves know there's no chance in hell. (She's still hoping to get sent home early from work today though.)
  

Enough of my griping. Back to work.

Anthropomorphization is fun!

So everytime I clean the lint trap, the bottom layer is solid cat hair. Which always strikes me as funny because it makes it seem as though the dryer is prioritizing.

Dryer: "Hmm, more laundry. What should I do with it first? I know! I'll strip off the cat hair. That will make her happy!"

Thanks dryer. You rock!

Guest Starring

Last night my dreams included appearances by Charlotte Rae and Aries Spears' Shaq.

As you may have already guessed, it was not the world's most restful sleep.

Snow on the ground this morning. Yesterday it was ice. Poor Pukka fell and hurt himself. Let's pray he does better today.

Why is it that the days are supposed to be getting longer, but every morning when I wake up, it's darker than the day before? Do you have any idea how annoying that is?

The more things change . . .

I've just not had the desire to sit down and write something for you all lately. So let's try going to back where things seem to have started -- food!

New Year's Eve, Pukka and I went to Fired Up for a little nosh and glazing action. We took a bottle of Pukka's new favorite wine (wrong vintage, but I can't find the right one, so close enough), as well as some Balsamic Mushrooms and my latest concoction (see "recipe" below). Pukka glazed a bizarre and user-friendly mis-shapen cup while I gussied up a bowl for my newest niece. A good time was had by all, and really, what more can you ask for?

a bread and pesto kind of thing

a couple of packages of refrigerated crescent roll dough
3/4 c. ish pesto (homemade if you've got it -- it's like summer all over whenever you eat it)
some grated parmesan cheese

Create a layer of bread dough in the bottom of your casserole or baking pan. Cut to fit to fill in your cracks. Mush together the seams so your pesto doesn't escape.
Coat with a fairly thin layer of pesto (don't want to overpower anyone) and sprinkle with parmesan cheese.
Make a second layer of bread dough. No need to worry about the seams so much this time. Coat with pesto and sprinkle with cheese.
Top with a last layer of bread. Sprinkle with cheese.
I cooked mine at 350 for about 20 minutes. It was fine, but probably could've used a few more minutes. Your cooking time may vary depending on the size of your pan. Oh, and the cheese on the top tended to fall off, so maybe a wash is in order next time.
Cool and cut into squares. Yummy!