Domesticity/Endless occasions of sin

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Sometimes, I get the feeling I’m not in control of the universe.

I can’t be sure, anymore. Weird things happen. Like having to take apart my vacuum cleaner to clean it after lending it out, or like how the kitchen faucet sprang a leak that was reflected under the cabinet.. eventually. It’s waiting. For something. Maybe time.

Or like the brand new storm door (to replace the one missing since the second fall’s rehabby need to be able to enter and exit as unimpededly as possible), ordered by someone who has built entire houses and/or ordered every possible accessory for them, inside and out.

It doesn’t fit (this house he’s had for 3.5 decades). It almost got something. But now, it’s waiting. For something. Maybe time.

The dryer door doesn’t shut without a novena, now, thanks to a hefty toddler who found it a great little recliner while Mom was stuffing the nearby washer. Same for the ‘fridge, brought low by a slammy teen. One little spring and piece of plastic the size of my baby fingernail is all that stands between the annoyance of manually sliding left door into the track so that the right side door can close firmly atop it all, and not having to be as mechanically inclined as hungry. It’s all waiting. For something. Maybe an answer.

I set about earlier to clean off the deck. The universe would’ve done so, eventually.. , but it’s ferociously windy today, and there’s snow coming. Plus, I needed to bring in the little brown table out there to thaw out in time to go under a short Christmas tree. Well, I moved things around, at least. A lot. It’s all waiting. For something. Maybe muscles to hide it all better.

Then, while admiring my handiwork, I saw the red squirrel whom I thought had commandeered the garage corner (via a nasty, waiting hole), dash across the deck like a big ol’ leaf, and head right for the part of the dining room wall where I heard an odd scritching yesterday. I stood waiting. For something. Maybe a really bad idea.

While waiting, I microwaved something I hope won’t annoy my already twinge-y gut. A vegan patty. They vary greatly, don’t they? This one tastes like 80% diatomaceous earth and 18% potato bug. (2% is mystery vegetable.) It’s waiting. For something. Maybe.. no, it’s too early for merlot.

Now, WordPress insists it is providing a “new editor to level-up” our layouts. So far, I can let it wait.. For something. Maybe new swear words.

How’s YOUR day? 🙂

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Passages

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Sometimes, enough
is like a warm paw
dozing happily near–
a sudden look, a stretch
and a smilish invitation
to open your own
unworded dreams.

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Bread follies

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“Let me tell you about the very bread-rich. They are different from you and me.”

Yes, I paraphrased F. Scott Fitzgerald, whom I love like a brother (and his sad and brilliant wife like a sister). It wasn’t so much that he could write — many could write — but that he could really think. (Zelda, too.) He could really think but not lose his heart for mankind; rather, he lost it only for his self. That is all we are allowed to lose heart for, and even that Disappoints.

However, this post is indeed about something else. Bread. I hold silent monologues with each loaf. Well, “with” isn’t the right word, but we’ll pretend for the sake of brevity.

 

“I have always depended upon the kindness of bread-slicers.” — Tennessee Williams via Blanche DuBois (paraphrased)

I depend upon bread the way some folks depend upon an unending supply of beef cattle.. and bacon.. bacon wrapped beef cattle. Unlike those lusciousnesses, I have fat-free bread (for untold sandwiches). I will surely lurch around one day to be whisperingly known throughout town as The Gluten Beast — and I will own that. Just don’t throw any fat into my bread, and I will leave your household alone.

Each loaf presents potential problems, because I get a sliced Vienna loaf. Hence, the monologues no one will ever know about: “These two slices here are only good for toast. Bah, these two as well. Now, to count potential sandwich-makers.  Two, four, six, eight, ten..oops.. 9 and 1/2 sandwiches, unless I use this ugly thing here. I can powdered-peanut-butter that, and grape jam it over with a larger slice. Dammit.”

I finally cleaned out the ‘fridge and freezer drawer from before summer (but surely not as far back as Easter…) and have room to freeze a loaf, and this way, I won’t have to die from consuming white-bread-with-fat, something I always keep on hand for the kids, because their mom and granddad buy brown breads which do not great Fluffernutters make after school.

As I alluded, however, I am not the very bread-rich — and may never be. Someone or other throws cartons of ice cream into the potential bread corner of the freezer drawer faster than I can yell at them for it. I’ve had to use the above pretend-bread to get me through a night of work. Or a morning of rain.

(It’s alright. The very bread-rich are kinda snooty. I have enough flaws.)

 

Hell is yourself and the only redemption is when a person puts himself aside to feel deeply for another person. — Tennessee Williams

 

It was only a sunny smile
and little it cost in the giving,
but like morning light
it scattered the night
and made the day worth living. — F. Scott Fitzgerald


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Twigs, logs, abundant hearths

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Yesterday, I forced myself out of weekend slug mode to go out to a little country store. I’ve been trying to square away Christmas gifts before DH and I fall out of a plane later this year. (That has indeed been my mindset. I’ll blame it on the Irish blood, if you’ll let me.  Just let me finish this Christmas madness first. Almost done..)

I also knew I’d enjoy the long drive over through the less and less citified. The moment I arrived at the store, I took out a little black notebook, ever waiting in a flip top car compartment, and jotted down what had toggled pleasure. Little things matter.

Bright sun and clear blue above the cold but still green fields; massive bundled hay cylinders in their white vinyl jackets backed up against the barn; a rural mailbox planted in a milk can; the beautiful wrap-around coves of a bay; lilypads on a pond; tall fronds I’d have once gathered to bring home.

Vintage pricings are high. Neo-vintage pricings are frightful, but a frugal shopper can still score something unique, not least of all in the penny candy room. That was my main reason for going — I wasn’t going to go the other way to the Irish store’s candy for eldest granddaughter to flesh out her box. Suffice it to say I even got her some oversized wax lips, there in that little brown bag. Flying saucers, Toxic Waste, Sixlets, you name it. She’s used to me being weird.

I also got some other things, for others — perfectly-suited little other things! Plus, our here-daughter had asked me to pick up a hunk of penuche fudge while there, and that solved the candy portion of her Christmas box — she’ll be pleased to find another hunk of penuche come Christmas. Son will appreciate the gigantic chocolate covered peanut butter ball, too.

I try not to be blown away by such things, but $27 worth of purchases all fit into that small brown candy bag. (One beloved mid-westerner came awfully close to receiving a weather stick, but that would’ve rearranged the packing of a box, and that would indeed blow my mind.)

The store was jam-packed with shoppers. As I perused the unperusable, I overheard the cashier talking with customers. “That’s it? A PICKLE??” “Yep — a pickle! I came all the way over here for that!” “ALRIGHT!”  Another lady and I got into an oohing/ahhing session before all the displayed hunks of fudge of so many flavors. “Look — there’s pumpkin,” I said. “Ooh, look, honey.. there’s pumpkin!” Moments later I heard,  “Are either of you folks Veterans?” She-with-he replied, “He is.” “10% off your purchases, sir.”

(And, really, what newly 21-year old relative of mine is going to be able to resist a selfie with gigantic red lips?)

Later came Mass. A cantor who hurts my ears and a foreign-born celebrant I can’t understand while sitting where I do, out in left field. I worry about the couple in front of me. She has a permanent sweet smile, and he is a hulk of a man suddenly leaving once or twice during Mass of late. They never receive. (It’s none of my business. It’s none of my business. It’s …) And as for my silent intentions? Always this, every Mass: That my children come back to your Sacraments, Lord.

I just sat there letting the words flow over me, knowing the priest was saying something Good. Knowing he was giving away little bits of his own heart before giving away Jesus’. Thank you, and thank You. You, Lord, are brilliant. Utterly, utterly brilliant.

Then, home — to stinky candles, weird jazz, supper, and other sweet people.

A good day.


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You know you did, you know you did, ..

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Oddly enough, or maybe not, a blogger here inadvertently gave me permission to vote only in my soul this time around. I am registered as “Undeclared” after a brief stint as a happy Democrat eons ago. (How could I square my take on the Holy Trinity, with being part of the abortion party?  No can do!)

In the last Prez election, I broke with my soul (rather than writing in my choice as usual) to help try to keep out the worse evil for these once United States. I was one of the two million citizens whose vote for H.C./against D.T. didn’t even count.

I really didn’t want to do that this time. I really don’t want to do that ever again. The Dems need to lighten up on the abortion doggedness. Like with gun ownership (APPARENTLY), there needs to be SOME regulatory limits.  They can’t come too soon. Meanwhile, Republicans are doing their best worst to get us all killed– and then some. I would advise others to always vote Democrat rather than Republican, but I myself can’t do so. (Yet.) In this lesser election, there was no sense in voting for a moderate. (Yet.) It was not an elect-the-best-persons race. It was a partisan showdown, and that failed for 2 million voters in 2016, one of whom tried not to meet in spirit the eyes of babies-to-be in ashy landfills. It failed millions of others as well, everywhere.

NO vote-less apologies, here.  I have to live with my soul, now and eternally.

In other news, I have two tabs open (not counting this one!) this morn: One is “Trusts, Estate Planning & Probate.” (We are totally remiss in that area.) The other is this. Maybe I’m amazed at how deeply some read into the Beatles. Maybe I missed a lot, back in the day of dancing!

Peace to you. His. (And, for whatever it’s worth, mine.)


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The caravan passes by sympathetic Mexicans. Photo by Moises Castillo/AP . As a battered procession of up to 7,000 hungry, thirsty, blistered, desperate Central Americans fleeing violence and poverty continues slowly streaming hundreds of miles through Mexico and toward the U.S. border, Trump’s fear-mongering machine has reached newly hysterical heights. The refugees from Guatemala, El […]

via Abby Zimet: On the Migrant “Army” of Poor Brown People — This Comes From Hunger — Vox Populi


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Abby Zimet: On the Migrant “Army” of Poor Brown People — This Comes From Hunger — Vox Populi

*Treasures to die for

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Every now and again, the Lord says something in His way. The badda boom badda bing is silent; only those with eyes and ears will see and hear it.

Or perhaps it’s more along the lines of one of my Mom’s smiled phrases that was geared to gather others into the glee, “Whaddya think of THEM apples!”

I had to sit out Communion this Sunday, again, until I get my Irish blood to behave. Actually, there’s a good dose of Fr. Canadian in there, too.. I think it’s all waiting for Trump to be deposed. At any rate, my being out of communion with Him and His (and sheepishly admitting so to Himself) brought me a blessing nonetheless.

A few Sundays ago when I did receive, I saw a fellow sitting it out. Looked like he just strolled in from the alley, having put down the brown paper bag. He’s older, his coat is ratty, hair even rattier, and as my line passed him slowly, I thought as I often do with sitters-out, “You come, too.” I knew he couldn’t do so that day, but I prayed a soon for him — as I always, always do. As many of us do, without a doubt!

Knelt in my lonesome pew, I looked up Sunday in time to see him coming back from receiving the Lord. His coat is still ratty, his hair, too — but he’s royalty, again.

Badda boom, badda bing! I like them apples just fine!

❤ ❤ ❤

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