Granola nut

So, another entry in `phfina cookbook — granola:

• 2 cups old-fashioned Quaker oats (although Amish oats could work, too, I guess)
• 1 cup almonds, chopped
• ½ cup honey
  
• 1 cup (cran)raisins
  

1. Preheat oven to 400°F
2. Roughly, lightly chop almonds (if they are chopped too fine, they burn ... I know @_@)
3. Mix almonds and Quaker/Amish/Unitarian oats on a cooky sheet, toast in oven until toasted, not burnt (like my first time) ... 10 minutes or so should (over)do it.
4. While toasting the Presbyterian oats, heat honey in pan, bring to a boil (I'm fo' realz here: really boil it)
5. Remove almonds/oats from oven, remove honey from heat. Quickly mix in the toasted Heavenly oats (that you didn't burn the Hell out of, geddit? Heavenly/Hell? *sigh*) into the honey, add the (cran)raisins. Mix until completely assimilated (like the Borg, but not)
6. Press mixture into a pie pan. And when I say 'press,' I mean press! so that it's all smooshed together, smooth and completely flattened and fills the pie tray.
7. Let cool for a while. Eat, every morning, by slicing out a `phfina-sized wedge. Leave time, after, in your morning routine for ... you know ... because they keep you regular. *ahem*

You like? I could write my own recipe book. That way I'd sound all grown up. A grown woman: me! `phfina! :D

I do sound like a grown woman, don't I? Or am I not even fooling you? :(

I would wonder if grown women wonder if they are grown women, but I already know that isn't true. Grown women don't wonder that. They don't have time to: I've watched them, I've heard about them, ... but I don't see them in the mirror. Grown women sternly shepherd their children from place to place: soccer club, the Cornish Pasty shop, the Memorial Day parade in the (sun)burning hot sun, never thinking of themselves and their tired feet, but watching over their brood like hawks and rolling their eyes at their husbands. Grown women cook supper of matzo ball soup for their sick kids, vomiting all over the place, neverminding the fact that they want to puke too: they just bear down, cook the soup, clean up the messes, the puke, that is, and comfort their crying babies to sleep, then do the laundry before dropping of, heavily, to sleep next to their snoring husbands.

Grown women have exactly 2 minutes 37 seconds to have a microburst conversation with their friend on the phone, and all the while, their children are tugging at their skirts, moaning: 'Mo-o-o-o-o-om-m-m-m-m!' and rolling their eyes at their grown women mommies so embarrassing them and when can they play on their mom's phone is the real question.

Grown women don't wonder if they are grown women. They simply are. They aren't little babies pretending to be independent because they haven't (yet) been kicked out of their apartment, because they just made rent payment, again, and published a silly little recipe to show the world, "Look, mommy, I'm a grown woman, I can write a recipe that is just one step above 'cold cereal and milk'!"

I do wonder, sympathetically, if grown women ever wish they were little babies, like me, again. But I know that's not possible ... for either of us: grown women, all grown up and mature, handling everything the world throws at them with grace, dignity, and hard, hard work, just like my Nana did, to her last day,

... and little babies, like me.

Fox Supple (French cooking, `phfina-style)

I hate French cooking, okay? Here's why. It's called 'soufflé,' but it really should called 'French Egg Torture' as opposed to 'Chinese Water Torture,' 'cause that's what it is.

Here's the 'real' recipe for a Soufflé ...

No, wait. I guess I have to explain why I'm writing this recipe. So, I don't work all the time, you know. And I don't just go home and hide under the covers or go to group ... which I'm not anymore. So, like, if I were to become a coffee master at sbux, which I won't, I'd have to know what else is out there, I guess, so I went to Panera and had their soufflé, and the way it went is that they took a 4-cheese soufflé off their hot plate and served it to me. And I was like: 'This is easy! I could do this!'

So I did. That's why. So here's the recipe.

1 1/4 cup milk
3 Tbsp butter
3 Tbsp flour
2 tsp dry mustard
6 large eggs, separated into yolks and whites in two bowls
3/4 tsp salt
ground black pepper
cayenne
1 1/2 cups grated sharp cheddar

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 375°F


2. Make sure eggs are well-separated and beat the whites into a froth.


3. Heat milk (don't boil); set aside


4. Melt butter and mix it together with the mustard and flour


5. beat egg yolks with a fork and pour into heated milk mixture


6. Beat egg whites with a whisk until they form peaks ... make them nice and foamy


7. Fold the egg whites into the sauce, sprinkle in the grated cheese, mix together


8. Bake in a greased pan for 35-40 mins, serve immediately

Sounds simple, right?

But here's the catch, that 'beating the egg whites until foamy''? That's a lie ... or it doesn't tell the whole story. What should really be said is:

Beat egg whites until your arm falls off. Switch arms. Repeat until you run out of arms.

My arm fucking hurts. Even now, hours later.

The French.

My dad is French(-Italian), and so I have my whole experience of the French from him. His strong Gallic face. His joie de vivre. His love of food. His ... 'original' ... sense of humor.

He would create these Dad things in the kitchen, ... mostly pancakes flamés ... and proclaim his victory: "This is chicken coq au vin in wine ... get it? Chicken coq au vin in wine?" And then wait for us to admire his sense of humor.

Well, I had made the soufflé by the book, but I'm not going to do that again. Yes, it was light and airy. For like one minute, and then it deflated: a flat tire.

So here's my 'fox supple' ("faux soufflé") as my dad would say.

1 microwavable bowl, greased.
3 eggs, well-beaten.
cheese, grated (whatever's in the fridge, muenster, usually)
Milk
salt and pepper. garlic powder

1. combine ingredients.


2. microwave for 1 minute


3. It should be a bit runny. Remix in the bowl.


4. microwave for 1 minute


5. serve, don't burn your tongue

You can add sautéed mushrooms or whatever you'd like, but that's it, and the result? Indistinguishable from the 'real vrai egg soufflé.'

Well, there is one difference. About an hour of preparation time not wasted and an arm that doesn't have tennis elbow.

I did put in some flour the first time I tried my faux alternative, but then, you see, I'm sometimes on a health-food kick, and I never get off these things, so I was on the carrot diet so now I have carrots for juicing, and I have wheat bran, unprocessed, and I was on this unbleached, unprocessed, whole wheat flour so I have that instead of that other stuff, so when I did put that in that flour my fox supple (faux soufflé) tasted kinda ... wheaty.

Yuck.

So, live and learn, you know? So I got rid of that ingredient.

Call me Joan d'Arc and burn me at the stake, but my recipe takes all of ten minutes, tops, to make and to eat.

Kay. Nighty-night.

Carrots

So, ... I like to eat. And to cook. And to eat.

So, but I'm not a like health nut, but I'm not a junk-food junkie.

ARG! This post is just so hard to start.

Okay, so certain foods remind me of certain ... girls.

So, like, for Julia, there's the potato pancakes, because her husband, Jeff, made them when I visited two Christmases ago. But there's also carrots, because Julia was a red head, a carrot top, just like (that Wild) Cate. So I like to juice carrots with an apple and then, from the separated, shredded, carrot leavings, I make carrot-nut-raisin bread:

Preheat oven to 350°F

In a bowl combine:

1½ cups flour
½ teas salt
1 teas cinnamon
1 teas baking powder

In another bowl, mix together

1 cup vegetable oil
3 eggs
½ cup sugar
¼ cup molasses
½ teas vanilla
1½ cup shredded carrots
1 cup raisins
1 cup chopped walnuts
(optional: ½ cup chocolate chips)

Stir in the flour mixture into the carrot one, pour contents into a bread pan, and bake for 1 hour.

This recipe has been a work in progress. The last time it was too salty, so this time I reduced the salt from 1 teas to ½ teas and that worked much better.

And I have yummy, (sorta) healthy, carrot-nut-bread dessert.

Kate also gave me radishes. She always had a fresh bag of radishes, and she would just take one out, wash it, and eat it, raw, just like that, at her apartment, when I was ... visiting her. So I have a bag of radishes with me, and whenever I eat one, I think of her.

She would have a cigarette after sex, too, and she just thought it was so funny when I took a drag from her fag and coughed and coughed. It tasted minty. She wouldn't let me smoke after that one drag.

Both Kate and Julia were shorter than me.

So, what's my type?

Red heads? Shorties?

I had a fifth grade teacher, and he would always proclaim: "I'd rather be dead, then red ... on the head!" He grew up during bomb-shelters and the Cold War. I just thought that was so mean to Julia, but Julia and I were just friends in 5th grade, so I never did nor said anything.

Or, I must have an infatuation with blondes, right? 'Cause of my Rosalie-fixation and that film noir post. I was just about to say I never had a blonde, you know, as a ... special friend, but then I remember Brenda.

Brenda was a blonde, in every sense of the word: leggy, curvaceous. Brenda introduced me to wine, and cooked me these lavish dinners, like grilled steak served with brussels sprouts. She would say, 'have another glass of wine, Melissa,' you know, in that pleading, possessive, hopeful voice of hers, which, reflecting on how she said that, she really meant, 'stay a bit longer.'

And now I know she meant, 'don't leave me.' That is: 'don't leave me to be alone.'

Brenda ... loved me. They all did. They all do. She loved me as a mother loves a child, and she taught me so many things in the bedroom. She would curl me around her and I would hold onto her for dear life and I would just lose my mind, and then she would turn around and hold me so tightly for a moment, and then turn me away and just hold me as I fell asleep in her arms.

I never really felt that until Brenda. I mean, she was a total femme, and she just wrapped me in her embrace, and I never felt so ... what is the word? protected? just cocooned in her arms like that. It was like I was her baby girl and her teenaged daughter and her lover all at the same time, and she just so needed that, after her husband died, I guess, she just so needed me.

And I did leave her. I did leave her to be alone.

So, it's white girls, then, that are my preference? No, because there was Melanie. And yes, nothing happened, but it very nearly did and it wasn't for the want of desire on either party's part, let me tell you.

So, then you don't go after the Asian chicks, then, eh?

Oh, my goodness. You would not believe the number of Asian girls in college that were ... exploring their sexuality, being away from home for the first time and all that. In fact, I was accused of being an asian-lover in school! They called me an 'egg'! You know: white on the outside, yellow on the inside. I mean, there was Grace, and Amy, and Sue, and ...

And ... *whew*! Um, excuse me a moment ...

Okay, I'm back now.

Um.

So, a type? Okay, so, now you've got me: I only go for the brainy ones.

Yeah, okay. There was this knock-out girl who instantly turned me off when she opened her mouth and out came all this racist stuff. Two girls, actually: Tanya and ... hm, forgot the other girl's name. So, brainy girls, right?

Well, okay, so how do you explain Brenda? She was matriculating, and her prof told her that all she could ever be was a B-student.

Good thing I never met her prof. I would have kicked his teeth in. Or hers. I was furious when Brenda told me that. Listen, if you're a prof, don't do that to a student, okay? And if you're a student, and a prof does that to you, take those words and say: 'okay, I'll show you!' And show him. Or her.

Brenda wasn't smart in that she claimed she wasn't smart. But she was kind. And motherly. And ... well, a survivor, and ... she took care of broken little me when I was so far down and made me feel special and wanted.

And, so, well, beautiful, then, `phfina?

Sure, looks can draw me in. I'll admit that.

But, funny thing. Beauty, ... well. So I went back home after college and I ran into Chris (no, not Chris) and I always looked at him (yes: him) as this big, dumb sports jock. And always in the hunt, cruising for chicks for an easy lay.

He never hit on me. I guess I wasn't an easy lay. For him.

Anyway, he met this kindergarden teacher at a bar, and next thing you know, when I met him again, he was just gushing, you know, and they got married and had a kid and he's now a proud papa.

Anyway, I said hi, and we talked and I mentioned something about Julia, and he say, 'Oh, yeah, you two were like ... you know? weren't you?'

I was like shocked. I mean, Julia was my world, but to other people they could care less and totally forgot about it.

And then he said the real shocker: 'She was kinda skanky.'

I was like, what?

And he was like, 'Yeah, that nasty, freckled, red-headed thing!'

And ... well, the conversation moved on, but that was the first time I ever saw Julia from somebody else's eyes. Somebody who didn't love her or care about her. Julia, to me, is beautiful, and that's all how I'll ever see her.

And maybe that's all how I ever see anything. I look and, yes, I have my prejudices, but when I see you, and I love you, and you love me, does it matter what type you are? how smart you are? how (ill-)tempered you are? I am me. You are you. And I love you for you being you, and I get so, so furious when you don't see me as me, or when you refuse to see you as you.

I'm going to go off now and have a salad with grilled salmon steak. Salmon: smart-people's food.

Potato pancakes, Phở, and ... p.r.0.n.

Okay, y'all, you really have to stop. I'm supposed to be finishing Bloodbuzz, giving somebody her Birthday, no: Christmas present (*blush*), and helping my beta-ee with hers (today for ch 2, swears!). Pitchforks and brands, girls, right outside my door, but you keep giving me these entries I must write, and I keep on living.

Oh, well.

Anyway.

Latkes

Okay, so, this morning I made myself potato pancakes (latkes). They're so easy to make; here's the recipe:

1 potatoes
½ onion
¼ cup flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg

Put the potatoes and onion into a food-processor; grate. Pour mixture into a bowl, stir in flour and salt, then beat and add eggs. Heat frying pan with a thin layer of oil (I used extra-virgin olive oil), then pour in pancakes and brown on each side (like cook for 5 or so minutes per side).

Serve with: sour cream, or applesauce, or fruit preserves (like ... sylt lingon), or nutella.

What's a little Irish girl serving herself latkes? And in the morning, no less? Am I exploring my inner Jewishness? Well, perhaps I am.

(Hi, Lupera!)

In my defense, I do have a character coming into one of my stories, and, well, latkes are made of potatoes and I'm Irish, so that makes it okay, okay? So there!

This brings back several memories. And for me, memories are painful things, and am I ever 'blessed' with a perfect memory. I remember everything, like one time when I was a little girl, and daddy was talking about the huge influx of Irish to the New World caused by the potato famine, and how stupid the Irish were, for they are an island nation, and had all the bounty of the sea, but they wouldn't touch fish, because that means they would have to be fishermen: poor people. So they'd rather starve to death or die of cold or disease crossing the 'pond,' than suffer to eat fish.

And I just took in what he said, so you know what that makes me in my dad's eyes? Little Irish me?

Too proud and too stupid for her own good.

I don't remember what my mom had to say about his lecture, because, well, she didn't say anything. My mom never said anything around or about or to my dad. Ever.

But there's another memory that's even more painful for me, if that's possible, and even more recent.

You know I do go home to visit my mom and, well, my dad, from time to time, don't you? I mean, I don't just go to work and then come home and hide under the covers, you know that, don't you? And what would ever give you that idea?

And, well, it's a dicy affair, going home. 'Cause all those dead bodies I left back in CT? Well, they're still there, you see, and I do, too. I do see them from time to time. And, well, some have moved on, like Angela to Texas, and Karin to Florida with her husband, and Jennifer to ... hm, where is Jennifer? but Carla's still there, and newly divorced and ... looking, and Cate's still there, still going to twelve step, and still ... wild, and Brenda's still there, because, well, OMR, she and mom are such good friends going to book club and everything (oh. my. God! that is so g.d. embarrassing! I so hope to God Brenda never 'slips' in that vicious way ex-g.f.s slip and 'accidently' reveal to my mom), and ... Julia.

So I got this recipe from Jeff. Yes, him. Jeff. Julia's husband. And 'Jewish'? You can't get any more Jewish than Jeff. I mean, not Orthodox, but he's really ... kind, and gentle, and soft-spoken, and they live in Stratford, you know, 'Stratford, CT,' or 'NYC's ultra-rich hang-out place' so I was like 'Doctor, or stock broker?' and he gave me a funny look and said, no, he was in the restaurant business, and I asked what kind of restaurant he owned, and he gave me another look and said kindly that he own several restaurants. And, well, they are so ...

God!

And. and. and. God, Julia and Jeff? You couldn't find a happier couple. I mean, like joyful, peaceful, calm happy. And little Annie? She's not a baby anymore, and if I didn't have my nieces to compare, I would have said you couldn't find a prettier or smarter girl. And I didn't have to ask Julia if she were happy, because I have never seen that soft, heart-shape face smiling so much in my life, and it wasn't because she had me over her CT mansion (although she was happy to see me, and that was so, so sweet, and hurt so much, inside, too), no, it was because she was with Jeff, and when she was with Jeff, she was with Jeff, and Jeff, with his easy way of making the Latkes, showing me how to make them, and the tender looks toward her, Jeff was with her. And they were just so, so happy, being together with each other.

I felt kind of like I was a fly on the wall or something, you know? Not really there; that's how intimate they were with each other, and not in an 'Eww, gross! Get a room!' kind of way, but just in their looks to each other across the room, you know?

And I didn't have to ask how they got along in the other departments. Annie was proof enough that things were going well there. And, well, you know how it is to have me as your lover, so anything's a huge improvement on that.

Yes, Julia's happy ... that is: now.

And as I ate the latkes this morning — I really like them best with the sour cream — I remembered my visit 'Up North' last Christmas. And was I crying this morning, my dears?

Heh. I'm crying now, remembering that cry, and what caused it.

Cute Girl Interlude

You know, I find you beautiful, right? You do know that, and if you don't, it's time for you to do some mirror work, with a good swift kick in the heinder from moiself if you get down on yourself. But I noticed today, like it really struck me, that a beautiful girl, sitting by herself at sbux?

Doesn't that just sit wrong for you, when you see that?

I mean, why is it okay that a guy can come in by himself, order a coffee and stay and work on his computer or go back to the office, and nobody thinks anything about that?

But a girl? She has to be with somebody, and then she's okay, and not just okay, but alive. I mean, she's either with her girlfriend, and they're talking-talking-talking away so happily, or she's with her boyfriend and she's looking at him adoringly, hanging on his every word. Or she's with her children, looking harried, and that's okay, too.

But if she comes in alone? And sits alone?

So, okay, I was on frikken break, okay? And some random blondie is hanging on bf's every word, and then she (well, actually, 'they') comes up to me, and she gives me the g.d. big eyes and says in a wispy voice, 'Would you watch my stuff, so nobody steals it?' and she doesn't even wait for an answer but she and bf go out for a smoke.

Good thing she didn't wait for an answer, 'cause I was all like, 'Yeah, what about me stealing you, sweetheart?'

The 'ladies' was unoccupied. I would've handed her back to bf pretty much unchanged ... if she actually wanted to go back to what's-his-name, which given what I can do (do do ... have done), she may never think straight again.

Nah, I wasn't going to do that (I like 'em with brains), but two things, okay? I was on break! And. Okay, AND! Why the big pleading eyes and breathy voice, for crying out loud? She was just asking me to watch her stuff, and I mean, I wasn't Lauren Bacall and, as far as I know, I'm not starring in a film noir, so why bring out the big guns like that? Was she practicing on me, or something, for goodness sake?

News flash: whatever you were practicing, sweetie ...? It worked, okay?

Jeez!

Phở

I have many comfort foods. And the Washington D.C. area isn't really all that cosmopolitan, did you know that? In fact, the nascent nation was embarrassed to have this backwater city as the Capitol, and it still trails the original (Philly) and NYC, by quite a bit. But we do have some things here ... like sbux, I guess, and a few Phở places. And today I went right after work to one of my favorite haunts ('cause it's close and ... cheap), and for the first time noticed they have 'Happy Hour' from 3 pm to 8 pm.

So I asked.

'Happy Hour' is just for the drinks. $2 beers on tap and $3 labels.

And I was like 'nah,' because ... well ... I can't afford that.

And, also, this'll be my eighteenth day sober.

Christmas pensées interlude

Hm. I wonder how Christmas will go.

Actually, I know how Christmas will go: sbux is open 'til 6pm Christmas day, and guess who's closing?

And some people, some *ahem* partners of mine are bitter about working on Christmas day, but I'm not. I'm actually grateful.

What I really am? I'm scared. 'Cause after I close, there's still another six hours to that day. Six hours. And me, all alone on Christmas day? And what, you say, go over to bb's? Me? And do what? Pretend to be happy? Make small talk with his wife? Who won't be alone in a room with me? And won't even be in touch that she freaks out when I watch their kids? And speaking of whom: shall I watch my nieces open Christmas presents? Seeing them so happy finding what they got? Seeing them so happy in giving me their homemade presents for me? And then do what? After visiting a(nother) happy, happy family? Go home? And do what?

And do what?

You know that suicide hotlines are jammed during this 'most wonderful time of the year,' did you know that?

Heh. That's funny. 'Somebody's thinking about committing suicide, and they call the hotline, and they get a busy signal, or are put on hold for twenty-four minutes.

Not that I have personal experience with that. I'm just saying and ... 'wondering,' is all.

Back to Phở

Anyway, Phở. Phở brings up somebody I met, and thank God, not at sbux, but through bb. Laura is like this really ... hm, how do I say this. She has very strong opinions, which aren't opinions to her, but the way things are, you know? And, oh, it was through Church that I met her, and she was like, 'What do you do, Melissa?'

(I fvcking hate it that she know my name.)

And I told her I was an sbux barista and I had to fvcking explain what 'sbux' is, and she was all like 'Oh, how interesting,' in a very certain, bored way that spoke volumes to me, so I called her on that, and asked her how is that interesting.

She didn't have an interesting answer. 'Oh, I just hearing what people do for work, is all.' Like I was so lower-class trash or something. She doesn't work, you see. She stays at home, doing what, I don't know. Being rich, I guess.

I'm not being very charitable, and I'm sorry about that.

But she was like, 'you're very pretty, but I have this skin treatment system that will really help, it's dermatologically safe and have you heard of the Artistry brand? Would you like to get together to talk about it sometime?'

And I don't know why I agreed to meet her, ... I guess I'm afraid of saying no, you know? And she was kind of insistent.

Anyway, the meeting was like, omr, her husband shows up in a suit and tie! and he goes on for about two hours about this 'business,' and it turns out to be this multilevel, that I'm not going to write the name of, 'cause I don't need to be in a lawsuit, thank you, and they are like, so you want to sign up?

And I'm like, 'no.' I was like definitely no.

And they were like, 'why?'

And, okay, to join their business, I have to sell stuff and I have to talk to people.

Are you laughing yet? Me, talk to people?

Here's me getting read to talk to somebody.

Me, in bathroom: HURL!

Me, running away to another State, and possibly country, before the meeting.

And me, sell stuff?

And Laura was like, but you sell coffee already to lots of people. And I was like, no, I take orders ... they buy the drinks.

So then she wants to sell me this skin care system and the asking price was all for the low, low price of how much? And how much do I make in a week?

But, Melissa she said in that reasonable, irritating nasal whine of hers, this is less than half the price of Lancôme ...

Like I look like the girl who uses Lancôme. You know what kind of girl I look like?

Interlude: group

So, last week in group, we had Donna, this international supermodel and actress, fly in from Hollywood and lead, can you believe it? And she asked for all the young women under twenty-one to stand up, and she made me stand up, and I was like, um.

And so we had a 'conversation' out of that. She made me stand in front of everybody, and said, 'Look at how you're dressed ...'

And I said that shouldn't matter. And she countered right away that it does, and me, in blue jeans and a power blue sweater and sneaks?

She didn't stop there. She brought up a seventeen-year-old girl from Salt Lake City, and this girl was wearing a red cashmere sweater and a black skirt with black pantyhose and black boots. She looked like an office exec, and Donna said that this girl looked mature, somebody you would take seriously and listen to, but me?

And Donna said that I looked like the (immature) seventeen-year-old, and Donna could get away with wearing what I wore, but leading groups? She's had people walk out because she likes mini-minis to show off her long, long legs, but if she's going to reach people where they are at, she has to dress professionally, a minimum of make up, not no make up like me, heels and carry herself like somebody who's up to something, not somebody who's wallowing in suffering, hiding behind that tight smile as she'd being spoken to in front of everybody.

And she looked at me really, really hard and had me sit down.

Yeah. It's been a good week.

Really back to Phở

Whew. Back to Laura. Hm, actually, why did I bring her up?

Oh, yeah, because one day, she made this pronouncement, like, "Oh, do you like fo-o-o-oh, and it's this really good soup, and it's like, fo-o-o-oh!"

And I was like, um, I think it's pronounced Phở (fuh)...

And Laura very decidedly said, "No! It's 'fo-o-o-o-oh!' And it's really good!"

So I was like ... um, ... okay ... (whispered: whatevs)

So today, I ordered Phở Tai Sach, Cha Goi and café suda, and the Vietnamese lady smiled at me and said how well I spoke Vietnamese, and I smiled sadly at her and said now nice she was, because ...

Because when she shouted the order to the cooks, 'Cha Goi' sounded nothing like I said it, but something like 'shza (g)uh' or ... I can't even write it, because there's no way my little Irish mouth can even come close to saying what she said.

Whatever it is, and however it's said, it's a comfort on a cold winter day with an inch of snow still clinging to the ground.

p.r.0.n.

Okay, now, girls, wipe that drool of your chins! So unseemly!

And actually, I'm not that much into p.r.0.n. Really!

(Oh, yeah? How much is 'not that much,' `phfina-dear?)

I do so hate my little Muse when she gets all uppity like that, speaking out of turn. I mean, like, really! Who's in charge here?

Smugly quoth my Muse, soto voce: Me!

ANYWAY!

And Saga is so going to kill me for this reveal, but I did warn her ...

Saga, I did warn you, sweetie, I'm a writer, and what a writer does is she writes.

So, anyway, I mean, really, okay, you want a link? Here, have a link.

You have to be really oblivious to follow that link if you are at work or school, okay?

So, what just happened? Nothing, right? Wasn't that a huge disappointment? All of two minutes and it was just two girls in a tub.

But 'nothing'? Here's what I saw.

You ready? Here's what I told Saga what I saw.

"Did you see me in that vid? I mean, guys are all like, so g.d. serious and ... idk ... about smex, but here were two girls, and they were laughing and having fun and making light of it all, so much so that I smiled, and I wanted to cry.

... And then BOOM. I mean, the subtext. They were having fun, and then all of a sudden, that look of pure lvst crosses her face when n1pple touched n1pple, and wait, was there grinding going on, just instantly, just like that? And then, the playing was over, and now it was time for what was coming next, were it was very, very serious, and needy, and demanding, and loving, and forceful, and tender, and sweet, and longing, and sad, and caring. Did you see that look in her face, that she was trying so hard not to be overcome by, so all she could do is press her lips together, hard, and look, a bit confused, at her lover, and ask, with her eyes: 'what's this?' or 'now? you mean now? are you sure? but I thought we were just playing for each other and for the webcam, and now ...'

So, 'nothing' happening in this vid? Actually, for me, most p.r.0.n, there is absolutely nothing going on in there, except for the actresses trying not to roll their eyes at the ridiculousness of the scenario until actual mutual attraction and bodily need kick-in to help the fantasy.

But here, there was no ridiculousness. I mean, it was ridiculous: 'oh, wow, two girls in a tub; let's fvck.' And they were absolutely fine mocking this absurdity, and that, for me, was so real. They weren't pretending at all: they were making fun and having fun, and then WHAM! it hit them, just like it SO hits me. I'm shy or I'm silly, and then it's suddenly very, very serious and there's no stopping me taking her and her taking me taking her. And her, letting me take her, and letting me into her to take her, past those walls that everyone puts up to keep everyone at bay ... That SO fvcking turns me on.

A short, sweet little vid, that I really liked, ... it talked to me as I am.

... Um. God! I've done it again. A sweet little vid, and I got all ... `phfina."

Do you know how Saga answered me? She told me she wished she had my eyes, even for just a few seconds, to see what I could see, to see beyond the filth and the lies.

And do you know my answer to her, to you, to anybody?

Please.

Please take my eyes. Here, have them. That I could rip my eyes out of their sockets and give them to you, or that I could just cast them from me.

But then what? Be Homer? and be lead about by his teenaged p!mp, wh0ring out the great old man for his stories? Or be Sappho, Lady Melissa's servant, the last thing she saw was her daughter being put to death, before having her eyeballs ruptured by her dead Xeno's dagger?

And ripping out my eyes ... it doesn't make it stop, this seeing.

I'm seeing things now. I'm seeing things now.

I'm hypersensitive to my body right now. I feel everything, standing or sitting or lying down to sleep, and the thinking doesn't stop, eyes wide or eyes wide shut. And I just know sightless `phfina would be even more cursed with clear-seeing.

Because seeing past all the bvllsh!t?

You think that's a gift?

It's a curse, because what if you see past all it? That's not accurate. You see through it ... and through it to what? You ever wonder that?

And seeing through all that ... stuff. Well, ...

You know it doesn't turn off. It doesn't turn off watching p.r.0.n. just trying to blow off some steam but instead seeing two girls suffering poor plot and poor company (that is: each other) and still having to 'put out' for the camera? And ...

And it doesn't turn off in front of the mirror, or when I'm writing a PM, or when I'm reading a PM.

And I see me. I see me so clearly: a little, scared, vicious, poor and lost girl.

And you wonder why I want to die all the time.

And you wonder at how I write Alice so well, ... and Rosalie. My girls. My girls. One who is cursed with clairvoyance ('clear-seeing') and one who sees all the bvllsh!t, and you wish I had my gift for writing, and my gift for seeing.

You know, I wish I could say I wish you had my gift, too, and take it, please, but that's a double-lie.

Firstly, because, well, you do have my gift. You all do. Each of you are living your lives or not living your lives and so aware of that, and so honest and real about that, and lyrical, and poetic, and direct, and honest, and beautiful, and I wish I were the reader and you were the writers, because everything I read from you, dear readers and correspondents, when you get honestly really real about your life, is so, so beautiful, and I want to read that, read you, and not me, and my sh!t.

I hate my sh!t. I hate me.

So that's the first lie: 'I wish you had my gift,' because there's no 'wish' to it. You do have my gift. More than me.

So those of you who have an ounce of self-doubt: put that in your pipe and smoke it!

(Oh! I can't write! you lament. And I'm like, excuse me? What did you just, *ahem* write to me?)

And the second lie is this.

When I was in that hospital bed, and under sedation, and taken care of, and there were no demands on me, I was nothing, I was ...

I was nothing, and nothing mattered, and I was nothing in the matter. I would have been better off dead, and I swear, by God, I will die before anybody puts me back in there, because if I had been dead, at least I wouldn't have been aware that I was 'a ward to society,' 'in the care of ...,' 'convalescing' or whatever you want to call it. If I were dead, at least it wouldn't have mattered that I was just a void, sucking in air and food through an IV at times and excreting fluids that were so kindly removed from me and the sheets by caring healthcare providers, and then I still saw, a little bit, I saw just enough to keep me out of trouble, keep my quiet instead of spouting more nonsense that would extend my stay from weeks to then months to then years.

Yeah, I'm smart. A genius, even, so I learned after my first weeks with me saying stuff that extended my stay, to keep my mouth shut when I wanted to volunteer the 'wrong' answer and then I learned to say the things they needed to hear to nod their head dully and understandingly ... you know, 'in sympathy.'

So, my clear-seeing ... did it put me in the hospital? Maybe. Yes. Yes, I guess it did. And did it abandon me there? No, not really. It showed me what I was when I was there. A vegetable. A potato. A wee Irish potato. And now, it's back, full-force, flooding my poor little brain with so much to say about everything, what I'm doing, and what I'm not, and I can't turn it off, and you say you want this? You're envious of my talent, and grateful to me for daring to say the things nobody else does that touches your heart? So much so you're afraid to review my work, because you're afraid your own sh!t will show, and I'll call you on that?

Yeah, good call, actually.

But do I not want this 'gift'?

You know, Alice would trade her eye-teeth, and more, not to have been clairvoyant. You know, she saw a future where vampires ruled, and fought each other, and she saw Jasper be destroyed in WWV ('World War Vampire') and she saw herself, running toward her reason, her being, her Jasper, and being caught up in that maelstrom, and she saw no way out of it.

She saw that. She saw all the Cullens, dead. She's seen a lot, and you're envious of her because you want that stock tip. And she has to be chipper through all that, and you complain that somebody gave you a funny look in class today.

And then Rosalie would trade what to be human again, and, but, as a human was she happy? Was she ever happy?

Would I trade away my 'gift'?

No.

You cheer. Yay for me.

But being dull? Dimming my senses? I know how that feels like, being dead, walking around, being of no consequence to anybody, being dead, and useless.

And now, seeing, and being a cause in the matter, writing something that touches your heart, saying 'I love you' and being loved in return, and seeing that, and knowing that, and experiencing love, real love, so much so that it hurts, because it means that little lost me does have a place in this cold, callous, careless world, and that place is in your heart?

I really, really, really, wish y'all would leave off so that I could write my stories, and not these heart-wrenching self-revelations.

Yeah, right: and how many times did I check my inbox today, and yesterday, and the day before, and ...

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who met Aphrodite.

Once upon a time, there was a pretty girl who married her Prince Charming.

Once upon a time, there was an sbux barista.

We all find ourselves in history, living our lives.

"And they lived happily ever after."

You know what I'm coming to realize? That ending? That can be said of those who look back on their lives, and, looking back, choose to look at what happened, the good and the bad, happily. Not with Rose-colored glasses, but, 'oh, this happened, and that happened, and now here we are, happily ever after, through that all.'

Alice has something to tell me. She was in the hospital, and now she's happy. She had the hardest life as a human, and as a vampire, with her cursed 'gift,' she's seen the worst that could possibly happen, and she's seen some really bad stuff go down (she does have Jasper Whitlock as her sweetie, after all), and she's living her happily ever after, through it all, despite of it all, and because of it all.

And, well, Esme, right? She lost her child, too, `phfina, right? and then she tried to kill herself, but who is so happy now that nobody know how to write her properly? She's so happy because she is exactly where she is now, right in the now. Being a mommy, being a wife, being so proud of Bella's bravery in just daring to saying hello. Surviving all that to what? Survive? No, prevail and triumph, and not like "so there!" but like, "ah." and just and only that. Esme. Esme and Carlisle. Carlisle and Esme. Who can write them?

Somebody that centered and happy, I guess.

And Rosalie has prevailed, forever, and why? Because she can and she does, and she is rewarded for prevailing, and not quitting, and she's never done it for anybody else or for what anybody else thought, she's always soldiered on, doing the best for herself and, importantly for her, for everybody in her concern, despite what they say to her and about her.

You read ExB reviews with Rosalie chapters on ffn? I have. Saying 'they aren't kind to her' would be stretching the limits of understatement. I bet Rosalie doesn't even bother to read them. Her 'list' is already long enough. Besides, why would she read an ExB fanfic, anyway?

And then there's little me. With something to say. And with the ability to say it well.

And there's you.

It's like ...

*sigh* ... I guess I'm giving myself my Christmas present: a reason to go on. Hope.

So obvious. So simple. All I have to do is not to fight it, but to accept it. And I do. And I don't. I let love in, and then I go have a pity party.

It must be so frustrating, reading me, seeing me struggle so much over something so simple.

Hm. I wonder if they have a recipe for simple acceptance? I am, after all, a simple wee Irish lass, it should go down easily on my tongue.

Swedish Chef(ess?)

Babysitting the nieces, as bb and his wife are out on a "date."

When I came over this morning, I looked up into the crisp, clear blue sky and saw a transparent half-moon. You know the one? The one where it's so stark, yet so diaphanous, so floating up there as if it weighed less than a feather, as if it didn't belong in the sky, yet there it is.

My nieces love to read, so after I cooked them "eggie" and "corn beef hashi" and peeled and cored them apples, I can write this entry as I look at them so transported into their own private worlds.

So then, well, they'll be hungry in a while (children seem to do that: to become hungry again, even after you've fed them), so I've done the dishes from breakfast, and I've prepared what I call "Swedish Chicken," and I've read the recipe somewhere before but I can't for the life of me find it anymore on the web so here it is:

1. package of boneless, skinless chicken breast slices
2. 2 cans of cream of mushroom soup
3. A splash of milk
4. 1 can of french-cut green beans
5. whatever veggies are in the fridge (but don't over do it, I used half a bowl of peas and some pre-sliced mushrooms ... carrots should be okay, I guess)
6. 3 slices of (muenster) cheese

Preheat oven to 350°F. Drain the green beans and in a baking pan mix them with the cans of cream of mushroom soup and the splash of milk. Add in the extra veggies. I carefully laid out the cut mushrooms, but whatever, you know? Layer the chicken on top of that base, then half the cheese slices and lay them on top of the chicken.

Cook until done. I put the timer on an hour, then I'll peek in on that, cover it with tin foil, and then add another half hour on top of that, just to be sure.

It's very important that as you're doing this, you sing: "Urba-shure, dee-dup-dee-dur, lalala-lure, durp-dee-dur, urb-bee-dur-dur-bee-dur-dur bork! bork! bork!" gleefully cavorting about the kitchen and (pretending) to throw about cooking utensils pel-mel.

The result of this is the nieces put aside their precious books and demand to know what I'm cooking for lunch, which I willfully don't tell them. I took great delight in their impetuous need to know and the twenty questions we played (where the rules changed, like, seven times during the game). They still don't know that I'm cooking "Swedish Chicken" for them for lunch, but they still are going to love it when I serve it, all hot and piping from the oven.

All this doesn't mean I'm going all domestic and submissive-femmy, does it?

p.s. Day two alcohol-free