It’s one of the commandments. The ones that most people remember. I was watching this cooking show on TV. Why, I have no idea. I like cooking shows, but I don’t tune in. It must have been while I was waiting for my show to come on. Whatever show that was. Anyway. The wonderfully voluptuous Italian woman was preparing some sort of fresh pasta dish and it was the first time I’d seen a porcelain covered cast iron pot in action. I was mesmerized. It was beautiful. BEE.YOO.TI.FUL. And I began to covet. What a great pot. A great everything pot. I’m all about the everything pot. So. I Googled. But I could not find it. I found something similar, but not the same.
This is by Staub, and it’s called a bouillabaisse pot. It has a volume of about 5 qts. And a price tag of about $200. TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS?!! For heaven’s sake! Good Lawwwwwd, that’s some crazy talkin’ crazy money. Mercy sakes alive, child! And the one she had was bigger, more mesmerizingly blue (with gradation, swoon). I mean it. It was a beautiful piece of kitchen ware. It’s that shape, that most captured my attention. That, the volume, and the beautiful white interior in contrast with the jeweled exterior. I fancied one in chartreuse.
I found this. This is made by Lodge. Whimsical on the ragged edge of tacky, but I like it. Also about 5 qts. Also about $200. TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS?!! Other bloggers I enjoy reading might say WTF, but I, I don’t use those words. But if I did, this would be an opportunity. (Even the abbreviation is making my ears turn red. I’m that tender about certain colorful words.) As usual, I digress.
This is made by Innova. The cheap rendition. It can be found for $40. I’ve read good reviews and bad reviews. I’m trying to figure out how it compares to Le Creuset and company. Some say well. Some say not well. I suspect it’s every bit as functional. It’s now gracing my stove. But it’s not nearly as beautiful as the original coveted piece. That shape. Sigh. Those colors. Sigh. Are they worth $160 (or more) more I could never justify such an expense. And, of course, it’s doubtful that I will be performing as fantastic works of culinary art as those I witnessed on TV. I’m sure this piece will suit me just fine. It’s quite gorgeous if it’s not being compared to the others. Sigh.
enamored, in love, besotted, bewitched, captivated, charmed, crazy about, crazy over, devoted, dotty, enchanted, enraptured, entranced, fascinated, fond, hooked, nuts about, silly about, smitten, stuck on, taken, wild about, beguiled, dazzled, delighted, all over, attached, big, big for, caring, crazy about, crazy for, crazy over, dear, devoted, doting, fond, friendly, huggy, lovey-dovey, loving, mushy, nutty about, partial, soft on, tender, warm, warm-hearted, apple of my eye, cherished one, angel, beloved, darling, dearest, fair-haired boy, favorite, honey, light of my life, loved one, object of my affections, pet, sweetheart, treasure, cherished, darling, dear, dearest, doted on, endeared, esteemed, fair-haired, loved, precious, prized, respected, sweet, treasured, my boy, my child, my half-pint, my lad, little guy, my sprout, my squirt, my lovebug, my Buggaboo, my Boo, my son
I won them on eBay. I bought a pair in late 2001 from one of those roadshow vendors who set up shop in the mall during the holidays. The first pair cost $100, which was much much much more than I would normally ever spend on a pair of shoes, but it was Christmas time, I was in love, and I decided it was okay. I wore those boots nearly every day for three years. My feet swelled too much in pregnancy and I couldn’t fit them any more, and the soles cracked where the foot bends, so they were no longer water proof. Not the prettiest shoes, but the comfort, weight, all-purpose usefulness, and easy to slip on/off features more than made up for the looks. And they don’t look so bad. Nice and nondescript. The manufacturer touted the sole as extremely long wearing, and it was. The surface was barely worn at all. But it did eventually give way from the act of stepping. I’ve been looking for a replacement pair, and trying to spend less than $100. Almost all the options that I could find ended up being $100 after postage. It appears to be a competitive market. Or, at least, the competitors keep track of each other’s prices, so there’s very little variation. Good for them, not so good for me. I finally won a pair on eBay, but I had to get up at 4 a.m. to finish the bidding, because it was closing on Australia time. The postage cost as much as the shoe! But well worth it. I spent about $45 US total. A deal! They arrived yesterday, and I’m so pleased. 
I got a half size bigger, to accommodate my post pregnancy shoe size. A half size is significant in AU sizing. It seems much more dramatic than a half size US. Needless to say, there is plenty of room in this new boot. It feels a bit different. Tighter in the heel. (Not a bad thing.) Maybe a bit more narrow in general, but that may be because my others were well worn and broken in. The leather’s not as shiny, but again, I had been regularly polishing the others. I’m pleased. But I still like my first pair better. Maybe it’s a first love kind of thing.
Emily Post (1873–1960). Etiquette. 1922.
Chapter XXVII.
Notes and Shorter Letters
Never under any circumstances address a social letter or note to a married woman, even if she is a widow, as Mrs. Mary Town. A widow is still Mrs. James Town. If her son’s wife should have the same name, she becomes Mrs. James Town, Sr., or simply Mrs. Town.
Dear Mom,
I know you mean well, and that you make every effort to be proper and to do the right thing. All that said, I can bite my tongue no longer, and must let you know that I most passionately disagree with Emily Post’s letter addressing etiquette, and would much rather you address me using my own name, rather than that of my husband. Consider it a matter of practicality in this modern age. The only form of identification I have that has my husband’s name on it is my marriage license, and I normally don’t carry that with me. When an item of mail requires a signature receipt, the postmaster must see some form of identification to ensure that the individual receiving the post is, in fact, the intended recipient.
My husband might be able to sign for the letter. Although the postmaster will surely recognize that he is not, in fact, Mrs. Cool Cat Gadget.
I could try to sign for the letter, but as I mentioned earlier, I’m not accustomed to carrying my marriage license with me.
Perhaps the thing to do, to avoid any wasted trips to the post office, is to go together. That way we could explain that I am the Misses and he is the one named Cool Cat Gadget. Ah, but it is not very convenient to visit the post office as a couple. After all, the post office is closed by the time he returns from work, and since he works on Saturday, we can’t go then either. He does have Mondays off, but then I work. If I could make it home on a Monday before the post office closes, I could get my letter.
You see, if you would address the letter to Sueeeus Gadget, there would be no question.
Using my name is no insult to the man I married. Using his name when addressing me is an insult to me. I took his name (in retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have, considering the hassles this decision has spawned), but I didn’t want to lose myself in the process. Etiquette, schmetiquette! I don’t care what Emily Post has to say on this matter! I wouldn’t mind so much if I received something addressed to Mrs. Cool Cat Gadget from a complete stranger, but when it’s from my own mother (and grandmother), it is most annoying and insulting. I’m sorry to say it, but that is how it is. I am still ME! I am not a shadow of the man I married. He is not my provider, he is not my protector, he is not my guide. He is my partner. Partner! Please. Please use my name.
Sincerely,
Sueeeus Gadget
It’s very effective. I took some digital photos of things I wanted to be rid of last Thursday evening, posted ads on Friday morning, and had most things sold and out of my house by Friday evening. How efficient is that It’s a rush! Free, easy to use classified ads. I love it! Of course, it helps to price things so low that people will snap them up in a heartbeat. Still. It’s a great service, and I am pleased. I don’t know if it’s as effective everywhere as it is here in the Squished Piggy suburbs, but they do have ‘branches’ all over the world. Too. Cool.
A first. A very good first. Last night the beautiful boy spent the night, alone, in his own room. He fell asleep very early, around 6 p.m., because we got off schedule during the weekend. So he awoke around 10 and played for a while. We took him to bed around 11 and both of us lay down with him, hoping for him to settle. With no bottle. He squirmed, he squirmed, he tossed, and turned, he whined and fussed, he… This is starting to sound like Dr. Seuss. Anyway, it went on. And on. We finally caved and gave him half a bottle. He inhaled it and was none too happy when it was all gone, but I did the deft binky switch maneuver, and he went for it. It helps to be too tired to fight. I tiptoed out of the room, but he heard me, lifted his head, and started to cry. Oh, the most heart wrenching how could you leave me cry. So I lay back down and got snuggly buggly again. Which I like very much. It only took an extra 5 or 10 minutes, and I tiptoed back to my room. His door is open and gated, my door is open and down the hall. The monitor is on. I can hear him if he needs me. He slept until morning. Ahhh, bliss. I’m crossing my fingers that it wasn’t a fluke and that he’ll make it through the night tonight.
When I awoke to whimpering at 4 a.m. the other day, and found my child lodged beneath my dresser, I decided it’s time for him to learn to sleep in his own room. We had his room ready when he came home from the hospital with him, over a year ago, but never actually used it. It began to collect things, until it was filled with bags and boxes and ribbons. It had become, and stayed, the gift wrapping room. We moved all the non-baby things out, and I put a cube shelf unit in his closet for his clothes (which were conveniently in the laundry room until now). We gathered most of the toys from around the house and arranged them on shelves for him. We left a few of his favorites downstairs. I put a queen mattress directly on the floor and finally found a use for the crib bumper that I’d worked so hard to make him, over a year ago. It is now a queen mattress bumper. It’s just a bit longer than the two sides of the mattress that meet the wall, and they provide a little amount of cushion when he’s scooting himself across the mattress in the middle of the night, half asleep. He does that. Like a little mole. His face is down and he scoots on his stomach with his butt up in the air, scoot scoot scoot, here, there, back again. He moves quite a lot in his sleep. We’re working on a night-night routine, and I’ve been sleeping with him until he is familiar with the room. I’m also weaning him from night time bottles. This is alot to throw at him at once, but I’m tired of washing sheets every single day, if I don’t wake up at 2 a.m. to change him (and risk waking him as well).
He likes to have me right where he is, so it’s hard to get anything done. I’ve been trying to clean out my spare room and turn it into my craft room, thus giving myself precedence over my non-existent guests. I finally got him to take a nap, and he had a nice long rest. He just woke up and I’m marveling in the moment. I can hear him happily playing and singing and cooing and having a good time. I don’t want him to see me and decide he has to cry until I come be with him, so here I am, blogging, but more importantly, hiding from him. Hiding from my own son!
It’s been about twenty minutes. He’s been alone long enough now, and is starting to lose interest with the things in his room. I must go snuggle my Boo!
Okay. I’m back. And I’m feeling much better. A thank you to all the people who post such warm and nice things.
I find that one of the hazards of blogging is that it’s so in the moment. That’s all fine and good when the moment is good. But when the moment is dark. Well. Not so good.
I will first say that I like myself. Whew! I tried to ponder it more fully last night, and the night before, but I fell asleep. I wanted to ask myself to try and put together a mental list of why I liked myself, in that moment, so I could make those thoughts more concrete and perhaps file them away for times of darkness when the goodness escapes me. But I fell asleep.
I know that I mentioned earlier that it’s probably hormones, and in the moment when I was writing that, I was in a dark place and commented that it’s such a copout to say that. I have to say, now that I’m in a more positive place, that there is some truth to that. Hormones are these crazy little brain chemicals that wreak utter chaos if something disturbs their fragile balance. I know this. I know this. I lost a brother to the imbalance. And I’ve spent a lifetime drifting in and out of darkness, and when I get stuck there, it feels like deja vu and I get disgusted with myself for getting stuck there again and not being able to find my way out and only recognizing enough to know that I’ve been there before, thus giving myself more reason to despise myself. Magnifying silly superficial things beyond all reason. It’s that broken record sensation I spoke of earlier. If we were talking classical control systems theory, it would be called positive feedback, which leads to instability and ultimate destruction. Now I have a visual of Galloping Gerty, which fell victim to harmonic frequency. (Umm, nerd alert. So I majored in Control Systems. Woop. Dee. Doo. I even actually used a teensy weensy bit of it in my professional life. But anyway, I digress. I was just attempting to express an analogy.)
So anyway. Hormones. A cacophony of hormones. That, and a yawn of excuses.
I could just delete the posts of darkness, but it wouldn’t be altogether honest, so I think I’ll leave them be. It sort of fits the SPT All of Me theme.
But right now The sound of exploding glass has just interrupted all other trains of thought. That, and somebody wants his mommy.
I know the personal history theme is over, but I found this picture while digging through some old boxes of things. I’ve been on a sort of a downer lately, feeling anxious about things in general. Too much work. Not enough family time. Not enough baby time. Not enough me time. Thinking about self image and wondering why it is so easy to magnify the flaws and disregard the features. I’ve been feeling frustrated with myself for not being physically what I would like to be. Today, I would leap for joy to have the look that I had 25 years ago, in this picture. Yet in this picture, I remember the person I was then. And I had the same self image. I wasn’t satisfied. Oh if only. Such a tiresome and most shallow expression. Where is the thankfulness for all that is good in life So easily taken for granted.
I was nominated for Homecoming Queen that year, the fall of my Senior year. I don’t know why. I wasn’t crowned, and that didn’t bother me. I remember feeling so uneasy being the center of attention. I don’t like that feeling at all. I try to stand to make myself look as small as possible, so self-conscious of the midsection and the legs. My calves were so big I had to take my boots apart and re-sew the zippers in to give me a little more room, as much as I could possibly get. I was always in danger of them exploding from my legs. Now that would have been a sight! 
I’m the one next to the king. A bit heavy, and very much aware of it. Today, there is much more of me. A hundred pounds more. 
What an awful thing to put in writing. What a shameful thing. Four pounds a year for twenty five years. It can creep up on a person, and it wasn’t a bit hard. I actually wear it rather well, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. It makes the denial just that much easier. I wonder why the person in that picture couldn’t be happier with herself. How shallow was she There were probably people who would have loved to have her face, her skin, her eyes, maybe her hair. But she didn’t pay much attention to those features. They came with the package. She didn’t ask for them. They were just part of the genetic roulette. As were the legs. How foolish is it to let such a thing contribute so much to the total sum of self worth
Very foolish. Very shallow. There are some things in life that the girl in the picture can control. Self worth is a choice. What a shame that she keeps forgetting this. She flashes a toothy smile, tosses her head, and is on her way, pushing those thoughts behind her for another day.
I dreamt that I had sleep apnea and I was a doctor, looking at myself (you can do this in dreams, be more than one character), and I put the stethoscope to my chest and realized that I was missing 3 beats for every 4 beats, so I wasn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain, which explained why I so often wake up with excruciating headaches. I guess that also means I’m ¾ dead. I do get an inordinate number of headaches. I probably do have sleep apnea, actually, because I’m told I snore like a sailor, and sometimes I find that I wake myself up, choking and coughing. I should go get it checked out.
I had another dream that I belonged to this huge powerful company and everyone was in a big auditorium. There were food tables here and there and people were lining up to grab something before sitting down for whatever was to come. I wanted to get in line but somebody needed me, and when I could finally get to the table the meeting was about to start and I had to sit down, but it was too late anyway, because all the food packets were gone. One of my coworkers found me and told me about a design that another coworker was pushing, and he was very upset, saying it would be creating some troubles down the line because of inconsistencies between models. We need to keep options consistent across the board, for simplicity, for configuration control, and also to keep costs down. I told him not to worry, I completely understood, and I’d find my other coworker and let him know we had to work out the design requirements a bit more, to make it consistent. It meant a lot more work on our parts, up front, but it made things smoother in the end. Later, in the dream, it was like being on trial. I didn’t want to stand out or have any attention brought on me. People were being called accountable for things and they were made to be seen as they were. I cowered, hoping I’d not be called, but I was. And I was told I was a… …I stuttered and mumbled and tried to deny it, something about not being a Squished Piggy (really, it was just like that in the dream, literally those words), but the verdict came out as I felt my form change to that of a pig, and I was horrified to feel my nose change to a snout and the rest of me follow suit. So there it was, plain as a day. I’m a pig. I didn’t like that dream very well.
Another one. This one morphed from the pig dream. My company was on the verge of announcing a brand new product. The biggest personal transport ever. It might have even been meant for space travel, or something, but it was a gigantic ocean liner that had the hugest seating capacity; a great many abreast on the top deck. It was all hush hush. I might have had a premonition about it, that it was a doomed venture. It was perhaps a dream within a dream, but I saw several of these ocean liners on the high seas, being tossed to and fro by the gigantic waves, and they were straining and out of control, subject to the fury and whim of the sea. I awoke just as they were about to be clashed together on a huge wave. I was strapped into my seat and remember seeing part of the hull of another ship, painted a nice shiny blue. Part of it was silver, towards the top. There was work that needed to be done – some metal had to be spliced in, where there was corrosion, as though an old ocean liner had been used for the frame and parts were rusted out. It looked so out of place, to see rusted through patches on this sleek new ocean liner.
Note to self. Consider not having caffeine and/or chocolate after 6 p.m., because face it, it sometimes affects me.
