Alone is not a dirty word, y’all. Be a Rogue Planet – why not?

Where have I been? Why, I’ve been here, there, and yonder! I’ve been working on my new novel. I’ve been editing other writers’ books and novels. I’ve been working on Edge of Arlington website. I was asked to be a regular contributor to Writer Unboxed (poor thangs – they don’t know what they did – I’m hillbilly’ing up they’s space; I’m dirty-footing up they’s respectable blog. Dang!). It’s an honor to write for such a prestigious group and I am grateful. My latest is: Grocery Store Glory (& Angst), (and earlier: A Writer’s Tombstone, Giving Up & Giving In, and as an earlier guest: The Isolated Author).

As well, from November through January, Lil Bear and I traveled by plane to Oregon and stayed 6 whole weeks! Wow! And from there we flew to Arlington, Texas, where we visited a bit, before I rented a Nissan Rogue and drove back to my mountains. It was so danged good to be home but I’m glad I traveled through the holidays instead of . . . being *gasp* ALONE FOR THE HOLIDAYS! That’s not my emphasis, since it wouldn’t have bothered me to be alone for the holidays. I do have friends. I do get out. I’m not completely reclusive. *laugh*

It looked just like this! Snazzy!

How appropriate that I rented a Nissan Rogue—for that’s often how I feel. As if I am a Rogue Planet, spiraled out and beyond away from the Mother Star of its birth, away from other planets, away from the security of that comforting planetary orbit. Wandering through space and time—that word again: Alone.

From Phenomena A SCIENCE SALON: “Rogue planets are homeless worlds. They have neither sunrises nor sunsets, because unlike the planets we’re more familiar with, these lonely worlds aren’t tethered to a star. Instead, they travel in solitary arcs around the Milky Way’s core. Earlier this week, Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey, introduced many of its viewers to the concept of these lonely planets. ‘The galaxy has billions of them, adrift in perpetual night. They’re orphans, cast away from their mother stars during the chaotic birth of their native solar systems,’ Neil DeGrasse Tyson says, as a planet emerges from the darkness. ‘Rogue planets are molten at the core, but frozen at the surface. There may be oceans of liquid water in the zone between those extremes. Who knows what might be swimming there?’”

photo credit: NASA-JPL-caltech-R.Hurt

How bleak and sad that sounds. Yet, yes, who knows what might be swimming in there? And until there is someone who wants to find out what is swimming inside of me, who sees my inner self and not just “this body” and who is not afraid of the challenge of someone who is “like me” (for I will never be boring), who can see that I am molten at my core but may sometimes seem to be frozen at the surface, who is kind and trustworthy, a grownup and not a little boy, but please believe me when I say: not perfect for I don’t trust perfection (in looks or manner/personality)—then I prefer to be Alone. Not only prefer it, but desire it, want it, embrace it. It suits me. For even if I find that person or that person finds me, I am not so sure I want to give up my freedom. Perhaps they will feel the same way: yay!

Scientists have discovered many of these rogue planets—some as big as Jupiter. Wandering through space, seemingly lost and without anchor. But who is to say those planets aren’t happy drifting languidly through space? Going where they want when they want. Doing what they want when they want. Continue reading

Tuesday Morning Coffee: getting your groove on or back or sideways or however a groove works – haw!

When Angie’s nekkid husband comes in (but we didn’t get to see him – lawd!) and Ann says she flaps around her house like a bird – well dang — and I receive texts that Ann interprets as inappropriate (because they usually are – teehee). But we do manage to stay on topic, a little anyway.

And yes, I have neglected my blog and for that I offer up only discombobulated grunts. One day my life will fall back into place, but won’t that be boring? haw! My life, right now, is all about exploration and discovery and wild rides and meeting new people and seeing new (and old) places and experiencing things I’ve never experienced because I’ve been afraid or busy or made excuses or was hiding — now, well, WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HAAWWWWWWWWWWW! watch out, Kat (or watch out, World – maybe I should say!). All many of these experiences will go into my new novel. Yeah. WHUPOW!

This old marriage thang: When Kat has the little log house to herse’f

GMR just returned from a trip to South Louisiana–Baton Rouge & Paulina–where he visited with friends from his high school days at Fortier HS in New Orleans, and even more important, where he saw for the first time his son’s new baby Ian Paul. Now between us we have four grandkids!

I wasn’t able to go on this trip, and while here alone, I notice how without GMR goading/reminding me to eat (or to cook it himself *haw*) I do not do so well with eating “right.” In fact, I was watching OWN’s Super Skinny vs Super Size and when the doctor told one of the young women she was eating an amount a four year old would eat, I noticed it looked more than I’d had – lawd!

Mostly, I ate sandwiches, followed by baked potato, followed by canned soup/tuna. In other words, the quickest crap I could pull together. Now, less you think I ate unhealthy crapadoodle-doodoo; I really did not, for I had yogurt and lots-o-fruit and such. But, I just do not eat enough or a variety of foods when left to my own devices.

While he is gone the house stays spotless. He’s going to read this and go, “Hey!” and give me one of his looks of disbelief and woebegonity and all that jazz. But it is true. I clean the house the day he leaves and it stays the same until he returns when all hell breaks loose. Quit looking at me like that GMR. It’s true.

On the flipside, he does his own laundry (but hey, so do I, just sayin!), and there are things that I don’t have to do because he most all the time does them first: empties the dehumidifiers, puts out and takes in the bird feeders and such and all, cooks real food, puts gas in my car, “makes groceries.” That’s another thing—when he isn’t here I become completely reclusive. I mean more than usual. I will walk the dogs in the cove, but my car does not move from its spot the entire time he’s gone unless there is some really important reason for me to leave—and not having any real food in the house wouldn’t be one of them, for I’d just find some sumpin to throw on a plate.

He returned last night, and already this morning he is itching to go to The Grocery. He calls it “the grocery” – I hear that in New Orleans people a lot. “I’m going to The Grocery now.” When I wrote “going to grocery” in my novel(s), a beta reader said, “don’t you mean “to the grocery store?” Naw. Just to The Grocery, or to Make Groceries, because I am honoring GMR and his late momma, who also said “zink” instead of “sink.”

While he is gone, I have the entire bed to myself. Thing is, I really only put a foot or arm over there every so often just because I can, but mainly I am so used to being scrunched on one side I sleep like that even when he’s gone. But, it’s the IDEA that I have the entire bed to myself where if I wanted to wallow around and toss about and flail and spread out by golly gee I could!

One morning I was late with the squirrel feeder seed and the bird seed. I slept in until almost eight—yeah “slept in” means different things at different ages, huhn—so, this bird kept screeching outside my window, “GET UP! GET UP! GET YOUR LAZY ARSE UP!” I stumbled to turn on the coffee, and in my robe and slippers, went out to feed the critters. There was a little red squirrel sitting on top of the sunflower seed can, eyeing me pitifully as if to say, “YOU LAZY ARSE! FEED ME FEED ME!” He jumped to the side when I opened the can, and then proceeded to hang on the edge, looking down into the can in a, “Hurry it up, woman,” I said, “Well, geez, give me a chance . . .” Then he followed me across the railing as I deposited King Squirrel’s breakfast upon its throne. Geez. It looked at me as if to say, “GMR would NEVER sleep in. He delivers our victuals promptly.”

GMR says I never miss him while he’s gone. That’s not true, but it sort of kind of is true (oh oh, he’s going to read this and get that look!). I love GMR, but I am a creature who must have her Space. I must have alone time. I require being Very Very Much Completely Alone, and I do not have that often because GMR is always here (that look again). So, when he goes to Louisiana, I kinda sorta don’t miss him but instead revel in my complete aloneness—unless I have a nightmare, then I am lying in the dark going, “Wish GMR were here. Dang. Sure is dark. Dang. That nightmare skeered the beejeezuz out of me. Dang.” But when morning shines, I’m all, “Aw, who needs GMR? I got this.”

Right now, I’m feeling like that squirrel. GMR is going to The Grocery to make groceries (sometimes pronounced “Grot’tries”) and I am sitting on the edge of the feedcan looking down going, “Hurry up! Whoop! Where’s my food? Hurry hurry!” So, I guess he’s okay to have around and all—you know, at night when I have a nightmare, and when I should be eating regular meals that consist of something cooked hot and steamy on the stove. I suppose it’s okay to have someone to go, “Did you see that? Omg! Hahahaha! That was funny!” or “Did you hear that? I can’t believe he/she said that! Omg!”  or “Hey, I’m hungry.”

I guess this old marriage thing has its purposes.

(photos by Kat, friend, or purchased from istock)

Does the marriage between writer-character & reader-writer come between a real-life marriage?

Only in books can you be married to them all.” –James Salter

At a party, a woman tells me how she has decided my husband is a saint, and I’d better never ever complain about him. I say, “Huh? What do you mean by that?”

“He puts up with your craziness; he cooks you dinner.” She sniffs. “And, you said he even does his own laundry. You can sit there and write all the live-long day and never have to worry about your husband yelling for his dinner and a clean pair of underdrawers.” She glares at me, dares me to deny.

I’ve heard this before. It doesn’t stop me from rolling my eyes. “Well, you live with him and then see if you still think he’s a saint. No one is a saint. Maybe I have my good points, too . . . huhn.” I sniff, just a little. “Maybe he thinks I’m . . . I’m . . . all that and then some.” I take a hah-uuuge bite of cheesecake, to stop any other words from spilling out. I know it’s true; GMR cooks, he does his own laundry, and he is self-sufficient in a way some spouses are
not, if what I hear about some spouses is true. I know he puts up with my . . . ways.

Besides, harumph, I can cook; I just choose not to. Truth is: I become dazed and restless and remote and strange, and therefore food at times becomes only something to sustain me so I will not shrivel up from hunger. And, okay, I admit it: I am ashamed to say, I sometimes treat marriage the way I treat food: I can relate conversation; I just choose not to. I become dazed and restless and remote and strange, and therefore GMR at times becomes someone to sustain me so I will not be unloved.

And, GMR has competition for my affections: All the stuff in my pea-head. He competes with the crowd of “people” swirling around me like worrisome, but invisible (to him), gnats. It’s not just my characters I can look inward to, but all of You out there.

I can ignore the real world around me for long enough almost to lose who is important to me—my family, my friends, my town. Yet, even as I write that, I know how I need all of You to be important to me. But even more, I want to Me to be important to You. A long-term relationship. A marriage bond between writer and reader, between editor and writer. A contract. An understanding. A promise.

We need each other, don’t we? We are important to each other, aren’t we? We can’t live without each other, can we? Tell me you love Me and I will show you I love You by offering you what I offer best: My words, the love between the covers of my books, my care in reading your stories you submit to Rose & Thorn Journal. It is a marriage weaved together with words and promises of more words. We stand before the alter of Language and Literature, and we brace ourselves against the years, and we give and give and take and take, give and take. A love that never dies, even in the lean and hard and mean years. Not even until death do us part—for written words never die.

[And even as I post this here, I know I will be ‘leaving’ again- ‘leaving’ GMR, but even ‘leaving’ all of You for a while, for the latest manuscript calls for my attention. Play time is over. Deadlines are deadlines. My editor can see me here and lift an eyebrow, “Kathryn IS writing isn’t she? hmmmmm. . .” I have to kick out some of the crowd in my head and leave only the world of Virginia Kate.]

What about you? Is the Real World, the tangible one you can touch & see, at times less real than it maybe should be?

Scene from a Marriage: A Fairly Fair Fairy Story by Queen Kat Magendie

Once upon a time, in a land up high, there lived a Queen. This Queen’s King was on a trip to a mysteriously eerie swamp-land of his birth called South Louisiana (pronounced: “South Loose-ee-an-uh).

Well, whilst the King was away, the High-Hillbilly-born Queen danced and sang, for there were no King’s cooking fingerprints upon the appliances, no dribbles upon the counters and cabinets, and to booty-boot, the ennnnnn-tire bedchamber was Queens and Queens alone, whereupon she could flop and toss about to without obstruction from the Wall of King taking up near the whole bedchamber. *Waltz waltz; waltz waltz*

Then (*Thunderous Music!*) came the morning when the Queen looked upon her larder in the Frigidaire, and noticed there were no more greens!, there was no more grapefruit juice!, and on the royal counter, there were no more apples!, and in the most high royal pantry, there were no more Special Granola! and Cocoa Pebbles (pronounced Ka-Koah Pebblees)! and Dark chocolate with Almonds! The Queen, in a panic, summoned her minions, “Minions, ho!,” but realized she had no minions to ho, just two near-to-chubby lazy dogs who, by the way, were almost out of their royal pain dog food!

Oh, but the Queen fretted and moaned and gnashed her teeth. Where did these wondrous and nutritional items come from if not from minions?, she pouted. Surely they did not just appear out of the misty mountain air?, she poodled. The Queen then flopped her quite-shapely-for-her-age-if-she-says-so-herself-and-she-does rump upon her stately throne and thought and thought, and the thoughts became more thoughts, and those thoughts went off into tangents of thoughts until her brain squeezed and she had to blink and give her head a shake and pronounce, “Where were art I?”

She recollected her mind, and sighed, “Oh but yes, my larder is bar-ed. I have none of the precious foodstuffs that I daily enjoy.” Then with a start, a horrified, “Augh!” The Queen also realized there was soon to be no more Charmin (pronounced Shar-meen) to be had in the Land of Mountains for her humble Toiletateree

“Oh, Oh, whatever will I do?” The Queen sobb-ed. The Queen pondered and pontificated and gasped and ballyhooed. She paced the little log royal castle, wringing her royal hands. Then! (*Hopeful Rising Music!*) it came to her, how these things suddenly appeared to the royal homestead. The King! Yes! The King went to the village and pillaged the Ingles Supermarket and brought forth his bounty for the Queen’s enjoyment so the Queen never had to leave her mountaintop.

And when the King returned from his quest from the wet mooshy land of yore, she ran to him and rained upon his face kisses, or at least one kiss that reached almost to his lips, and said, “My King! My King! Get thee to Ingles quickly, for my cupboard (Pronounced “Cub-ard”) is bare-ed!” And the King set off without complaint, off to the village to pummel and plunder for his Queen. And his Queen was ever so ever grateful, even if she sometimes doesn’t show the King thusly so.

The End.

(a version of this was in our YOG blog originally)

Scenes from a Marriage: Morning

Eyes open. Heave out of bed. Feet in slippers. Coffee pot turned on to grind beans and start brewing process. Me makes up bed while GMR puts seed out for birds/squirrels. Wash face . . . etc.

There is a dance and rhythm to the morning.
Me and GMR want to get to that pot of coffee as soon as it finishes brewing, pour a cup (black for me; cream and sugar for GMR).

Me trudge trudges to coffee pot; hair askew, face dragging the ground.

Chipper Dipper GMR is between coffee and Me.

Me: “Urghhhherrrghhhhhh . . .” *Imagine Frankenstein asking for coffee*

GMR: “What?”

Me: “Ugrreehhrhhrhrhrgrhhhhhgrrrr . . .” points to coffee cup. *translation: Me want coffee now, move outta way. Me want coffee NOW!”

GMR: “Well, Good Morning to you, too!” (said a bit snippity high horse if Me asks me). Pours Me a cup and hands it over.

Me: “Ugrhh . . .” then, “I couldn’t sleep . . . I’m discombobulated. Coffee. Need.”

GMR: Said uber concerninglingly and innocentinglyly: “Did your back pain keep you up, hmmmmmmmm?”

Me: Gives him That Look. “Um, noooo. Your noises kept me up.” *AGAIN is implied here*

GMR: “Noises? I made noises?”

Me: My inside voice: *OMG! How many times do we have to go through this? How many times I have to tell him?* “Yes, your noises.”

GMR: “Me or the (cpap) machine?”

Me: *how . . . many . . . times . . . must . . . we . . . go . . . et cetera . . . * “Both! I was awakened about fifty-galleven million times …ughrhhhgrrrr.” (Just want coffee).

GMR: “I made noise?”

Me: Gives That Look again. “I can’t remember when I’ve had a full good night’s sleep. I mean . . . it’s like this:” *Me mimics the sound of gale force wind gusting through a narrow lead pipe.*

GMR: Says nothing. But his inside voice is saying, *Boy is she cranky! Oh well, doop doop, beep beep blorp blick flickering inner television screen….. She’ll get over it. Do do do do do la la la..images from Law & Order, Food Network, Jeopardy … blip blorp… ….Well, I’ll just be the best ole husband I can be the rest of the day and she’ll forget about all this can’t sleep because of some noise that’s probably nothing at all and she’s making a big deal of out of what’s nothing at all business. *** white noise white noise white noise white noise****

Me: Takes coffee and sludgers away to her laptop. *I swear! I can’t sleep! I’m sooooo tired! I’m soooo sick of whooooosh whoooooosh WOOOO WOWOO WOOOOOwhooooshhh, and another thing, while I’m at it . . . hey, SHINY THING SHINY THING SHIINNNNNYYY THINNNNNGGGG IS DISTRACTING ME — and . . . that . . .who what where when how why . . . did I do those edits? Hey, here’s some email, oh wait, there’s a facebook message, oh, twitter . . . ***music music earworm music ….* and boy he makes me mad when . . . where did I put my . . . I’m hungry** *

GMR: GMR has his cup and goes to his computer. **white noise white noise white noise white noise white noise . . . online crossword puzzle white noise puzzle white noise**

How it Could Go, and Perhaps A Version of How It Has Gone:

Me: “Good Morning! That coffee sure smells good!”

GMR: “Well, here’s a nice fresh cup!”

Me: “Thank you! *sip* hmmm doggies! That’s some good coffee!” Big Fat Morning Smile.

GMR: “Uh huh.” Fiddle dee dee with his cream and sugar.

Me: *takes a sip of good ole coffee* “Hey, by the waysies, GMR ole buddy, ole pal: I had a hard time sleeping last night. Maybe it’s time to have that ole zippity do dah day cpap machine fixed, or something, tootle lee doo? Might be a good idea to look into it!” *Big Arse Happy Go Lucky Ain’t Life Grand Smile*

GMR: “Huhn . . .uh huh. Maybe so. I’ll look into it. Yessirree indeedy do!” GMR’s inside voice says, *I don’t want to deal with that; so I’ll just be the best ole husband I can be the rest of the day and she’ll just forget about all this can’t sleep stuff, fix the whatever ***Flickering TV Screen, crossword puzzle, blip blorp . . . White noise white noise white noise white noise*** . . .

Me: Walks away with coffee. Inside voice: *I am SOOOOO tired. Unghhhh. I’m so . . .. SHINY THING SHINY THING . . . *

*sighhhhhhhhhhh*

In the Car: Scene from a Marriage

Me: OMG! Watch out! You’ll hit that squirrel!

GMR: It’ll move out of the way.

Me: but what if it doesn’t? You didn’t even slow down! What if it isn’t paying attention and you run it over . . .

GMR: It didn’t; look, it’s running off.

Me: But you COULD have run over it is what I’m saying. You didn’t even slow down is what I’m saying. It could have happened because you don’t slow down but instead just barrell on ahead, oblivious to things in your way.

GMR: *his inside head: – but it didn’t happen, so there!* His outside mouth saying: *sigghhhhhh*

Later:

Me: OMG! You hit that bird. Omg omg! Poor little bird! You didn’t slow down and see see seeeee! You hit it! I TOLD you this would happen.

GMR: I hit it? Did I? Are you sure?

Me: Yes! I saw it… oh oh ugh – ohhh, poor little bird. I told you and told you to slow down when you see critters! *unnghhh unngghhh* poor bird. I can’t stand it.

GMR: I’m sorry! *said in a not really THAT sorry voice; the bird shouldn’t have been that stupid, and in fact it wasn’t, for that bird got out of the way, so there*

Me: When we drive back this way, I hope I don’t see that bird with its guts hanging out. Ohhh ughhnnnnn.

Later:

No dead bird is seen.

GMR: *doesn’t say anything on the outside, but on the inside is going nya nya nya – no bird with guts hanging out – so it flew off nya nya*

Me: I bet it dragged its little self off in the grass somewhere. I bet it’s cheeping out its last breaths out of its bloody beak as I speak. Ugnnggghhh. Poor little bird. I told you to slow down!

GMR: sighhhhhhh.

Later:

Me: Why do you always back into the parking spaces?

GMR: because it’s faster when I pull out.

Me: But, it takes longer to back in, so doesn’t that make it a wash? I mean, if you spend extra time backing in, it nullifies the pulling out quickly, doesn’t it?

GMR: Sighhhhhhhhhhh. Okay, I won’t back in next time.

Me: No, don’t just agree with me. I’m asking because I am curious. What I’m saying is: I’m asking you: Is it really faster? I’m curious. If you back in to get out faster, is it really faster in the Long Run . . . you know, if the time is added up ToGether. Not just pulling out, but the action of backing in AND the action of pulling out added together. Is that faster or is that a wash, thereby nullifying your theory of it being faster?

GMR: Huhn?

Later:

Me: OMG! You almost killed us! You need to pay attention! That truck is three times our size! SPLAT KABLAM, we could be dead right now! I haven’t finished the edits on my novel – I’ll be dead and with an unfinished work – oh no! Unngghhhhh. I wonder if my friends or family will know to look in my hard drive . . . If we’d burst into flames, that saves my cremation cost, right? Oh, but maybe not… OH! I don’t want to think about that! Gross! Stop my brain from thinking about it! This is what happens when you almost get hit by a big truck thrice your size! Be careful, okay? That’s all I’m saying, just be careful. We could be dead Right Now!

GMR: But I didn’t kill us. Um . . .

Me: But you COULD have!

GMR: sighhhhhh.

Later:

GMR: #*#*$& MOVE!!! #*#@*$#! *races up to the bumper of other car, angrily flicks his blinker, careens around it, then as he passes, he gives them the look, aggressively unflicks his blinker, and then races in front of them to haul ass away with a “that’ll show em attitude”*

Me: OMG! Are we running a race? I mean really? Are we? Running a race? this is a small town; we don’t have to go ninety to nothing down Highway 19, okay?

GMR: They were (out of towners from a certain state that NCers have a rivalry with) and they pulled right out in front of me and then go slow and it drives me crazy! I hate that—they could have more courtesy; they don’t own the roads here! – actually GMR doesn’t SAY all this aloud, actually, he just gets THAT LOOK and says, “O’KAY, All RIGHT…” *sighhhhhhhhhhh*

Me: Still. Huhn.

Later:

Me: OMG! Do you have to race up then slow down, race up then slow down, race up then slow down? Drives me insane!

GMR: I’m not doing that.

Me: Yes you are, too! Stop it . . . drives me in-SANE.

GMR: okay okay *inside voice says I am SO not doing that* sighhhh.

Me: Well, I dreamed we got into an accident so you have to be more careful.

GMR: *inside voice: not those dreams again . . . * outside voice, “Okay.”

Me: You SAY okay, but are you really listening?

GMR: I’m listening. I said okay.

Me: But I mean LISTENING. Not just hearing words come out my mouth and hearing those words, but actually HEARING them and then PROCESSING them so that you UNDERSTAND them!

GMR: uh huh

Me: Sigghhhhhhh.

Vomitus americanus & a man a woman and a marriage

I’m going to Re-Blog from a post that I’d written from my MSN blog, before I began my Tender Graces/Virginia Kate Sagas blog. I’m not there much, at Howling from my Mountain. I wrote nature-inspired themes a lot. I wrote about how I was in a play (Bat Boy The Musical). I started a “novel to blog” there. I wrote about rejections letters. I wrote about my writing journey. All kinds of things I’d like to revisit and write about here at my new blogspot home.
Don’t forget to scroll down and leave your link for the shopping at blogging community “stores” and local community vendors!

———

One evening GMR was at his theater rehearsal. I savored the quiet house. I fell upon the floor and made a dust angel. I went about touching things. Bored and a bit hungry, I went to the pantry and retrieved a can of Campbell’s Vegetarian Vegetable soup. I said, “Hmmm, what can I do with this soup?” (And yes, canned soup, when I have a “Chef” in the house…stop, don’t . . . DON’T JUDGE ME! Stop it now!)
That soup needed something, so why not be creative! Yes! Who needs Chef Ramsey? Who needs Chef John Besh? Okay, I do, but that’s another story, teehee.

I remembered the roasted cauliflower GMR prepared the day before. I could add that to the soup (so as not to recognize what it really is: canned soup). I had a momentary thought, “I wonder what GMR would prepare if he weren’t at the theater? I bet some tall blond is all going, ‘oh GMR, you are sooooo wonderful! Ohhh, I wish you were MY husband! I’d sure enjoy your food love….ohhhh your wife is a FOOL munch munch mmmmmm yummmm ummmm ohhhh ummmm!’” *sigh*

I slooshed the soup from the can, added the roasted cauliflower, a little pepper, and then swirled it with the puree thingee . . . hmmm, not quite. I opened the fridge. AHA! Sour cream! I added a dollop of that—Oh! I was clever! And black beans! Hey! I added a few spoons of those. Then I swirled it all about with the puree thingee. Well. Now. There.

Um. Okay. I placed a napkin over it and put the bowl in the microwave. 3 minutes later—KaDing-Done!

When I took off the napkin, what greeted my eyes was what looked exactly like vomit. Yes, Vomitus americanus. Spew. Hurl. I tried to pretend otherwise. I sat down with my spoon and bowl of “Soup” and took a bite, then another—tasted like . . . tasted like . . . the bottom contents of my stomach; yes, just as it looked is what it tasted like: as if I’d eaten it hours ago, let it ferment in my belly, then brought it back up into the bowl. *sigh*

I threw it away, and oh I hate wasting food.

There was a time I cooked, I thought to myself, as I watched the gloppy glunk sludge away, I just choose not to. And, besides, every time I’d cook one of my “specialties” GMR would outdo me—huhmph. Why bother? I can’t win. And we all know it’s about winning, right? We all know marriage is one big ass competition to be on top. To be the best. To be the one everyone says, “You know, She is okay, but HE is wonderful! He is sooooo perfect. SHE doesn’t deserve what she has. Lucky Her. But, she’s okay, I guess. But if he was my husband, I’d appreciate that cooking. But, bless her little heart.”

Later, GMR came home, and in his hand he held the most glorious cinnamon bun I’d ever seen. He said, “Look what I brought you.” I nonchalantly grabbed it out of his hands and scurried away on all fours, growling and sniveling and drooling, “Food! Food! Snnnarrl.” Then I peeled that bun and ate it layer by sweet wonderful layer…ahhhhhh. Twas sweet.

I don’t even know the point to this post. Though there are all kinds of lessons and all kinds of “the moral to this story is . . .” and all manner of women wanting to bomp me upside my head for having a husband who cooks for someone who has become bored with food. I can hear them, “Send him to my house, bee-otch!” And I just smile that smile, that patient one, that one where I know what it means, but they don’t know what it means . . . and then I shrug. Because, really, no one knows the whole story of Man And Woman And Marriage, do they?