I have actually declared this a day of mourning on Facebook because of the weather (down around freezing tonight! I posit this is proof there is no benevolent supreme being). But I’ll do the thankful for thing because I just came up with a biggie, I mean, I just had a mad epiphany, and because I’ve never actually made a list of things I was grateful for. Typical me.
So, the epiphany first, I have to get it out, get it down . . . The Mormon Church doesn’t owe me an explanation. It doesn’t owe anyone an explanation. It’s a religion. It is a belief system, administrated by humans who believe they have supernatural powers. Before they gained this belief, they had flaws. Just because they believe they now have powers, doesn’t mean the flaws went away. In some cases, it brings the flaws to the fore, under a guise of holy imperiousness. It is what it is. Maybe there are people who faded into and out of my life that owe me or Jesus some kind of apology, but the Church is not guilty. It isn’t even really complicit. Bad people are going to do bad things, they will find an excuse. This is huge.
Do you know what this means? I can let go of the anger and the hatred I have had for this blind institution of faith for 30 years. It wasn’t the cause. It was just the setting. I can’t blame it any more than I can blame the couch for an argument with Doc. There’s nothing there for the angst to cling to. It just slides down into a receding puddle on the floor of my brain. So, it was just people. And there’s no point in hating them. I’ll never see them. They’ll never hear my words. They’ll never care. I know this from my parents. They don’t care. It is what it is. Bad people will be bad.
That doesn’t mean I am bad. And I have to stop thinking of myself as that. I have to stop identifying first as “damaged” because, though I am, it is not me. Does that make sense? I feel like I’m getting kind of New Agey, Self-Help, here. I didn’t want to do that.
What I want to do is talk about what I am thankful for on this frigid freakin’ Viking weather day.
Doc – that’s a given, he is my world, such as it is
Kelli – my partner in crime, come back to us
my meds – for finally being the right ones and giving me part of my life back
the animals – for keeping me closer to sane with all of their needs and such
the roof over my head – and everything it covers, we’ve got some nice shit for broke ass people
my brain – you wouldn’t think so, but yeah, it’s where my creativity comes from, if you could see my notebooks
our Kindle – because bathtime
my freedom – yes, I am aware that I am one lucky bitch that gets to do exactly what I want most times
A Woman Named Sharon – who lets me keep a hold of a tiny bit of my childhood by being my friend on Facebook
I think that does it. I think that blankets everything, so you don’t get an exhaustive list of my art supplies or kitchen inventory. I am thankful for this house and everything/body that is in or on it right now (Vader and Teeny are up on the roof playing what sounds like freeze tag, how appropriate). Do is sleeping out here today. Because he is only sleeping until noon-ish. He leaves at 1:30, as we discussed last night. He’s coming home with company. So I have to clean the shit out of the house while he is at work. I can do that, no problem.
And I should cook something. I think I have all I need for pumpkin pie. I’ll make one of those. And some cookies. I’m down to one cookie sheet until Saturday. But I have my mixer and my sifter, and Doc picked up a basting brush and bowl scraper for me, and I have a Gorgeous! candy thermometer, so I’m pretty well set, culinarily.
Doc and I have started facing each other’s weirdnesses. Like, I make a scary noise when coughing up phlegm, and he says I manhandle the Feta, when I don’t, I just treat it like a crumbling cheese. You shouldn’t cut it, you should always crumble it. I have a secret belief that the metal of the knife messes with the flavor of the cheese, but even if that were true in the past of goat’s milk feta and pure carbon steel knives, it wouldn’t be true today. He’s just weird about it. It really bothers me that he slices feta and tries to melt it like a mild, soft cheese. He also tries to melt Parmesan, which drives me crazy. So we’re working these things out. Trying not to do them in front of each other. Letting each other know when one is petting the other’s peeve, as it were.
I hear a cat snoring. I hear Doc snoring, of course, but under that . . . the heater is running . . . no definitely a cat-snore. Someone is under my couch, sleeping. Bagira’s on his back in the middle of the floor. Vader is sleeping along side Doc’s couch, odd. Felix is next to me on my couch, soundlessly cleaning himself. Teeny and Vader on the roof . . . Simon near the food. Major must be in my bedroom. Freddie locked in Doc’s bedroom. And that leaves Boo – Boomer, to be under the couch. I know we named her Boomer, but I have been calling her Boo, and it is kind of sticking. She doesn’t react to it, but she didn’t react to Boomer, either. She reacts to “beautiful grey girl”. Oh – wait! Freddie on the comfy chair, not locked in Doc’s room. Hmm, someone is locked in there, must be Major. He loves to sneak in, though he has no idea what to do when he gets in there. Nothing smells familiar because he doesn’t like Doc.
An hour and a half until the parade. I have crescent rolls, I have cinnamon and sugar and butter, and chocolate, I could make some breakfasty confectionery things and some sausages and some bacon. Chocolate Chip Cinnamon Rolls? Is there a reason why no one has done this before? It seems so obvious. Especially if you are a fan of Mexican cuisine. They put chocolate and cinnamon together all the time. Their hot chocolate has cinnamon in it! That’s it, I’m making chocolate chip cinnamon rolls with the crescent rolls. And bacon and sausages. Why has Cinabon not done this? I can see no down side to it at all. I haven’t even seen it attempted on Pinterest, and those women bloggers come up with some whacked out shit. Not this. My mom was right, I was born to be a pastry chef. There’s just so much math involved. I have a pastry cookbook where every ingredient is weighed out, except of course, the liquids, they are measured. But every dry ingredient is measured out by weight. If you ever see a really fucked up recipe with strange quantities listed for the ingredients, chances are some chef translated it with some software (or by brain) from weighed measure. I used to have a program that would do that.
I need a cigarette. And I need to stop typing, it is waking Doc up.
