sueeeus

It was a normal morning. I was late, as usual. I could have left tried to leave earlier, but I wanted to spend some time with my scrumptious little munchkin. Plus, I needed to give get some extra snuggles and cuddles after the harrowing nose aspiration grapple of the morning. Call me overbearing, but I want my child to be able to breathe. I’m just that way. Oh, how he doesn’t like the aspirator! My, oh my, is he a strong little guy. And fast, too. He can grab that little blue bulb, yank the tip out, fling it away, and yank my finger backwards (the one that’s attached to the hand that is trying to hold him steady) all in the matter of a split second. He. Does. Not. Like. It. Understatement. Thankfully he’s all smiles the second it’s over. He will even try to play with the bulb, stick it in his mouth, or even put it to his nose. To which I give much encouragement. Good boy! However. If I get anywhere near his nose with that thing, all hell breaks loose. I’ve tried making a game of it. I’ve tried to gently sneak it to him while he’s sleeping. He’ll have none of it. Sigh. We had a nice little bit of play time, snuggles, bounces and jumps (still his favorite thing to do), and I handed him over to Mr. Gadget, the morning daycare express driver.
I picked up my bag, reached for my keys, and didn’t find them. I could have sworn I put them on the hook. It’s part of my routine. Routines are important in my world. I’m not overly obsessive (IMHO), but there is something to be said for routine, for order. Without order there is chaos. With chaos there is stress. Stress is bad. With order, there is harmony. Harmony is good. Order is good.
I checked all the surfaces downstairs for where I might have left my keys. I checked again. I went upstairs. I went through the laundry basket. I was getting frustrated and I suppressed the natural blame response thoughts that were welling in my mind. No, I’m not going to blame Mr. Gadget for this. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. I could have left them on my desk. (I didn’t.) I could have left them on the kitchen counter. (I didn’t.) I could have put them on the cedar chest and Boo might have found them, played with them, and dropped them in the freshly folded laundry basket. He was, after all, helping me*. (I didn’t. He didn’t.) Or, he could have dropped them in the diaper bag. (He didn’t.) Still suppressing the blame thoughts, but not quite as much, I decided to check Mr. Gadget’s pockets. I felt a bit guilty when they came up empty. I was ready to say, AHA! Upstairs. Again. Downstairs. Again. I checked my bag again. Did I leave them in the car I’ve never left my keys in the car. Ever. I checked anyway. No keys. Upstairs again. Laundry basket again. Diaper bag again. Downstairs again. Office again. Laundry room again. Breathe deeply. Remain calm. Stress is bad. (I read only yesterday that stress, and the stress hormone cortisol, play a major role in obesity, even in people who don’t have horrible eating habits, thank you very much.) Breathe deeply. I dumped out the entire contents of my purse, in the off chance that I overlooked the keys. Nope. No keys. Upstairs again. And the phone rings. “Hello ” It’s Mr. Gadget. “Ummmm… You have my keys, don’t you,” I ask, nicely, softly, slowly, calmly. “Sahwwwy,” he says weakly, quietly. “Just take my keys,” he says. “Yes, well. You don’t have a key to my office cabinet, where I keep my computer, the one I need to do my job, now, do you ” “Sahwwwwy,” he says again.
And that is why I was late (today).

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*He especially loves finding the socks in the basket. He gets one, flings it behind him with a flourish, and reaches for another. He likes to help with things that are already folded too. In the kitchen we have a lot of small multi-purpose towels, stacked neatly on a shelf. He likes to pick them off, one at a time, and fling them, just like the socks. We also have face cloths that I use to wash his face and hands after eating. They’re softer than the others. I usually drape them over a rail to dry after use. Sometimes while I’m wiping down surfaces in the kitchen, he grabs the face cloth and starts scrubbing things he can reach. He’s such a good helper, I tell him, and thank him profusely. One of these days, when he’s older, I hope this encouragement will click and he will be happy to help clean up his room. 

If it’s your dad’s 80th birthday, and you call him to wish him well and ask how he’s been, don’t ask about the diabetes. If he mentions that his toes are numb, and that his quack of a doctor thinks he should see a specialist and start insulin injections, and you say, humbly, that it’s not as bad as it sounds, because you yourself were faced with just such a need. When you say that yes, it’s traumatic at first, and no, it’s not convenient and yes, it is annoying that the necessity exists, but no, it’s not that bad once you get used to it, and yes, it’s worth it if it helps preserve your health and life, don’t feel snubbed if he completely ignores you. Or if he sounds surprised. Oh You had diabetes When did you have diabetes
If you try to explain that one shouldn’t ignore signs like numbness in the toes, and he says you are no better than his quack of a doctor, don’t let it get you down. If you offer to take time off from work to travel 300 miles and take him to the specialist, to which he restates that they are all quacks and the bittermelon he is taking now will surely put all things back into balance, you might want to let the conversation end. But if you are a fool and try to reach past the denial, because you are truly concerned, because you’ve had this conversation before, a year ago, and the toes were numb then, and dare you mention that one could lose ones toes, if the numbness goes unchecked, and God forbid, you mention the g word (gangrene), and all hell breaks loose and you are called uncharitable and malicious, just like your mother, don’t take it to heart. If he says that you say these things in the guise of concern, just like your mother, but at the core are simply wicked and malicious, just like your mother, and don’t mean well at all, just like your mother, and if he makes reference to being intellectually superficial, just like your mother, ignore it (just like your mother). If he goes on to say more admittedly bitter things, just interrupt and say Happy Birthday in a bright voice, and that you called to wish him well for his birthday. If he says “Bye” and hangs up on you, don’t cry or feel bad. Just know that, all the same, he was delighted to hear from you today. He is 80, after all.

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.

www.craigslist.com

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.