Dear Dear Diary
I listened to the radio today.
I made blueberry jelly and emptied a jar of raspberries because the berries got all mushy.
I made lasagna the hard way. Making the noodles first so they can dry, then the sauce, then the meat, then mixing the cheeses and then layering, then bake. I almost made the cheese too, but I have to put a line somewhere. Frank doesn't like it when I leave hard cheeses ripening around the house, and good parmesan takes *years*. Ricotta of course is a simpler thing that can be done in half an hour, but I am never sure if I have cheesecloth or enough milk, and the varieties of vinegar change the favor, and I didn't want to ruin the lasagna. Never ever make ricotta with chocolate milk. Your lasagna will be positively awful, I assure you. Nor should you use mint vinegar. And other flavors can mess with the sauces spices. You *can* have too much basil.
I made blueberry jam cookies, like tiny little pies, after Frank came home. He loves coming home to a kitchen smelling of cooking. He says it feels more like home.
I found time to make a small batch of fudge for Frank to take to work tomorrow before we went to bed.
But that little pile of ingredients on the counter stayed put. Frank asked about it. I told him it was a project I just didn't get to do today. He smiled and kissed me, and promised I'd have time tomorrow. I did not explain.
Nor did I react at all when Tony's songs came on the radio often, and I heard him whisper my name.
I cannot make lasagna again tomorrow. Perhaps I will sort the linen closet instead. Maybe I should do it alphabetically this time. I will think about it.
Angie's mother called me today. She was very polite and as rushed as ever. She does all of the talking, and will not let me say much more than hello. I am always reminded of a peacock crying "Lookee me! Lookee me!" when she talks, because she only thinks of herself. Well, okay, I don't know very many people who aren't thinking of themselves all the time.
She had a mission as always. She had to tell me that Angie could not come for a few days, and I was not to expect her until next week. And if she showed up on my doorstep, I was not to let her in, but send her straight home.
I get this phone call once a month. I could almost set her cycle on it. Angie usually shows up the next day, and we make brownies together.
I don't know though. She sounded more serious, more harried than usual. I managed to ask if everything was okay over there. I think I pushed a button and the guts fell out. She told me all about her job and her husband and her ex-husband and how she was going out of her mind. I did not tell her it's okay to go out of your mind for a while. It's very relaxing and the white-coats take care of everything. But I was tempted!
Then she started talking about Angie and how sick Angie was.
Angie isn't sick. She is fine. That's not right. She shouldn't project her anxiety onto Angie. That's not fair to Angie.
When I got off the phone I baked 3 cakes and a pie. Chocolate, carrot, banana, and boston cream.
Frank thought it meant I was happy, and was pleased. Silly man. I hope Angie shows up. I have the brownie supplies set out on the counter already.
Frank does not like fried tomatoes.
I really can't blame him. They really aren't terribly tasty. And they look so forlorn and soggy when presented next to his eggs and toast. I never served him tomatoes when he was still allowed his bacon or sausage, because the meat gave enough of a color contrast to where one had a pleasing ensemble when one viewed the completed plate. But just eggs and toast? The yellow of the margerine on the toast is just like the yellow yolk of a fried egg, and that's just two eyeballs staring at you every morning. No one really needs to look at that first thing in the morning when they barely have their eyeballs open to have their breakfast staring right back at you!
Frank says the tomato would end up as a nose. But I am very careful to set it to one side, like I used to do with the meat. The only one who could see it as a face that way would be that weirdo artist guy who let his grandchildren dictate the physiology. I really don't believe that artist could be permitted to make money these days- we have stricter child labor laws now, or so I do hope!
Yet still, these arguments do not weigh well with Frank. He will not eat his tomato. He is often vociferous on the subject on why are we wasting money on the things.
So I have to lie and say I like them. And I kindly retreive it off his plate once he's eaten half the eyes staring at him. It does not go with my fruity cereal, and often gives me heartburn. But I think it's worth it. We argue over the tomato in the morning, instead of worse topics. It has become safe and comfortable to argue about the damn fried tomato.
And today I saw my horse.
My favorite Christmas when I was small, my gram had spent $5 on all of us kids at various garage sales and auctions that she went to over the year. She wrapped everything with newspapers, so she didn't have to spend money on fancy paper, which meant more for gifts. I received several horses because I loved horses then.
One of my favorites was Duchess. She was bronze, heavy, and with full tack embossed into her hide. And there was a smaller version of her too, that I named Princess.
But what I saw in silver shining on top of the big rig driving on the highway was my Duchess. I saw the wind streaming through her mane as she went galloping through the countryside going places I never dared to go, and I was proud of her.
Carry my dreams away, Duchess. Carry them far, far away.
I can always tell when it is that time of the month, because I dream about toilets.
I wander the halls of a large house, looking for the bathroom. I find spas, hot tubs, whirlpools, jacuzzis, showers with deformed and exaotic nozzels and plain showers. I find turkish toilets that expect you to squat, rows of public toilets like the movies, Japanese exotic squirting toilets, those weird French things, toilets so large you could fall in and drown, port-a-johns, privies, stalls with the pluming ripped out and just an empty hole in the floor, tiny cubicles no one can fold into, vacuum toilets for sucking out your soul... but I never find one in perfect working condition that I can use.
It's probably just as well, because if I did, I would use it, and end up wetting the bed.
I dream about Tony more now. I do not know why. The couch doctor said dreams were important and that I should write them down. But Frank reads my dream diary, like he tries to read everything. Angie found a filter on my computer that tracks my emails. So he could read anything he wished. So I don't email anyone any more.
It's just as well. Some of those email groups are scary. They know too much about Tony. They know how he goes grocery shopping and when. They know the color of his bedroom walls as well as they know the color of his eyes. Someone ought to warn him to be more careful. They are watching. Just like Frank is watching me.
the kiss we never shared
I cannot regret
I think of it often
I practice in my dreams
so when you look for me
taste the quiver in my fingertips
invite me in with your smile
and when we part again
with no real kiss
on my lips
forget me not.
I dreamt of Tony again last night.
I have spent too much time with medical texts of late.
"Testes descended bilaterally." A common phrase in medical texts. Why not say any other phrase? They move from within the torso into the scrotom as the fetus develops, and this is normal for male development. But we do not say the scrotal sac contains both testes, or that the testes are appropriately located. No, we state with pride that the testes are descended, like God and all His Angels descending from the Heavens to fill the scrotal sac with Maleness.
"No masses were appreciated." Well, hello? If it's an extra piece that was never meant to be there, how on earth would it be appreciated? Well, ok, I imagine if it looked like an extra breast with a nipple, it could be appreciated by many males. Or if it was an odd mass on a penis. Wait not- cannot have strange lumps on penile things. Men would completely freak out about aliens bursting forth from their private parts and fear they may turn chartreuse and fall off or something. That of course would be a bad thing.
Sigh. I hate doctors.