Emily and I are staying at a friend’s house this weekend while we’re in Modesto, and they’re out of town. Said friend runs a web hosting company, and is uber-tech-geek. He can do all the Linux stuff, including connecting to a computer remotely from the shell program on his cell phone. So, I walked into the garage (where the office is) this morning to look for a lighter, and saw this on one of the computer screens:

Even though I know how it got there, it’s still just a little bit creepy.

Update:

I sent him a text message and told him his monitor is creepy. A little while later, I went back in the office and found this: (sorry for the blur)

I’m really frustrated with teachers/instructors who can’t be bothered to offer the help I ask for.

In one of my early classes, we had a teacher’s assistant from the writing center whose sole responsibility was to help with the research paper we had to write. I’m terrible with citations; I can cite everyone and their brother on sources I’ve used, but I stumble a lot with the correct format for them. (I have so much trouble, in fact, that I bought a program into which I enter the author’s name and all that jazz and it automatically formats the reference in APA format for me.)

Before I found that program, though, I asked for help several times. When we submit our papers, there’s a comment box that we have to put something into in order to submit. I always asked that, if any of my citations were wrong, that they tell me what I did wrong so that I’ll know in the future. Without fail, every single time, the writing assistant would tell me my citations were improperly formatted, and to check my handbook for the correct procedure.

I e-mailed her and told her that I was really having a hard time getting the formatting down, and that a lot of my references were odd types that weren’t covered in the handbook. I asked that she please just tell me what I did wrong. Once again, she referred me to the handbook. Exasperated, I finally asked (sarcastically) if there was a writing center or something that could help me. She never responded.

Not long after that, I had a math class in which nearly ALL of us were struggling. The instructor was fond of telling us to look at the book and, when we pressed for more help, he’d copy the examples from the book. Sigh.

Now, I’m in a nutrition class that requires us to do a PowerPoint presentation. Essentially, we have to summarise the chapters in our textbook, creating at least two slides per chapter. The instructions also say that we should incorporate Bloom’s Taxonomy in our summaries. Because the first several chapters of the book have very little to do with education or learning (they’re mostly about transitioning to parenthood, foundations for emotional health, etc.) I’m having a bit of a hard time with the integration. I said as much in the comments when I submitted the first half of the presentation, and asked if she could give me any ideas about how to do it.

Her response was for me to make sure I remember to incorporate Bloom’s Taxonomy in my slides.

-headdesk-

Okay, the polls over at Marx Foods are officially open, so please, pretty please with sugar on top run over there and VOTE! (Preferably for me!)

I got the sausage from Marx Foods on Wednesday afternoon – it’s Lamb Merguez. I’ve never even heard of it, but it sounded tasty. Originally, I was going to make ravioli, but when I thought about how difficult it would be to roll out the pasta without a machine, I changed my mind. I decided instead to make the same stuffing and put it in puff pastry pockets.

Measurements are approximate; as usual, I didn’t use measuring cups.

Pastry Pockets with Asiago Cheese and Lamb Merguez Sausage (there has to be a shorter name for this.. suggestions?)

1/2 C freshly shredded asiago cheese
1/4 C freshly shredded parmesan cheese
2T cream cheese
4 links Lamb Merguez Sausage
2 t fresh rosemary
2 t fresh thyme (I love having an herb garden!)
4 sheets puff pastry
1 egg, beaten with a bit of water

Take the puff pastry sheets out of the box and separate them; let them sit about 20 minutes to thaw. They’re easier to unfold if they’re still just a tiny bit frozen.

Remove the sausage from the casing and brown in a skillet. Since I’d never had it before, I didn’t salt or add anything to it. Drain the fat off the meat (I rinsed it, too, but that’s a personal preference.) The sausage was kind of hard to break apart while it was cooking, so after I rinsed it, I tossed it in the food processor and gave it a few whirls just to break it up into smaller pieces.

Mix everything together in a bowl except the egg.

Cut each sheet of puff pastry into nine sections.

Place a small spoonful of the mixture in the center of each square.

Brush the edges with the egg/water mixture.

Put another square of pastry on top, pinch the edges together, and brush the top with the egg wash.

Bake in a 350-degree oven for about 15 minutes, checking occasionally, until the pastry is tall and fluffy, and the tops are golden brown.

Eat like a pig. Holy cow, I don’t normally toot my own horn, but hello. Oink.

(P.S. This isn’t part of the recipe, obviously, but it was so pretty I had to take a picture. Mixed organic baby greens and rainbow chard with tomatoes – I love all the colours!)

…and so are the folks over at Marx Foods.

The last challenge I entered was the morel mushroom challenge. This time, it’s surprise game sausage. Surprise because I won’t know what kind I get until it arrives tomorrow. I’m actually surprised I got picked, because I participated in the last challenge. Yay me! (And thanks, Justin and Justina!)

So keep an eye out; I’ll be posting a new recipe for a sausage I’ve never cooked before soon!

It’s hard to believe that it’s been three years since we lost you.. but in a way, it feels like you’ve been gone so much longer. I’m embarrassed to admit that sometimes it’s hard to remember what it was like when we had you here, what it was like when mom had you and all was right with the world.

But then I walk past some silly golf-related trinket at a store and immediately I think “oh, he’d love that!” Then I remember that I don’t have you to buy silly stuff like that anymore and it makes me sad.

Emily is growing so very fast – you would hardly recognise her these days because she’s so tall. All the hints of baby are gone from her face; she’s slender and so tall. She’s growing out her hair, too – she asked me not to cut her bangs anymore because she wants her hair all one length like mine. There were a few months were I had to threaten daily to cut it off if she didn’t pull it back out of her eyes, but now it’s long enough that it stays out of her face most of the time.

Emily still doesn’t let most people touch her belly button – I’m one of the few who can, but when I do, she always, always reminds me that it’s not my belly button. It’s Poppy’s. She’s proud of that.

She’s doing well in school, and so am I (despite the bloody B I got in that math class.) I applied to Stan State; I’m hoping I can start there in the Fall and reduce my education expenses by about half. The hard part about that is that it’s so far away from where we live now, and I’ll probably be staying a few nights a week with a friend who lives closer to the school. Spending that much time away from Em will really suck, but I keep telling myself it’ll be worth it in the end.

My hawks visit me often, especially when I’m driving, and I know that you’re watching over us, keeping us safe. We miss you somethin’ awful, and wish that you were here.

Love you,
Shylah

“Your drunken wife spilled my green drink.” -me

(There’s really no such thing as too much tequila, but you get my drift. Bwaha, I managed to fix all my typos in that sentence. Bwahaha.)

Steve: Oooh, you have “super high vision”
Lorei: Mmhmm
Steve: What is it?
Lorei: I don’t know.
Steve: Well you paid $61 for it!

Fat ass.

I almost always refer to myself this way. I never say “They can kiss my ass.” I say, “They can kiss my fat ass,” or, my personal favourite, “They can kiss the fattest part of my ass.”

You’re not worth it.

This is a huge recurring theme in my life. I have stopped and started the process towards gastric bypass surgery so many times I’ve lost count. Without fail, every time I’ve stopped, it’s because I don’t feel like I’m really worth all the effort it requires to have it done. Not only that, but I don’t think it would make one bit of difference about how I feel about myself. I hear all the time people saying that they lost X number of pounds and even though their body is healthier, they’re just as emotionally miserable as they were before they lost the weight.

You don’t deserve it.

I don’t like asking people to do things for me – even little things like watching Emily so that I can take something for my splitting headache and lie down – because I don’t think I deserve such a luxury. I buy myself things like new shirts, not because I need them or think I “deserve something special” or even want them.. but because I delude myself into thinking that a pretty shirt will make me feel pretty. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. It never works. I never feel better or prettier or happier.. in fact, I usually feel like crap because I just wasted that money.

I told Royce about the needing-to-set-boundaries thing, and he reacted just like I thought he would. He threw a big guilt trip on me by telling me how hurtful it was to everyone, and seemed convinced that I did it because I was uncomfortable on the couch while he was here. It’s like he didn’t even read my letter. And I just gave in. Gave up. Told him to forget I’d even said anything. Because I don’t think I deserve anything more than what I have now. One minute, I feel sorry for myself because I want more, and the next, I’m angry with myself because wanting more surely indicates that I’m not grateful enough for what I do have.

They don’t really love you. They tolerate you.

There’s only been one person in my life that I believed wholly when he said he loved me. I never understood why, but I believed him. And in the end, he left, too. I think everyone else just puts up with me. I convince myself that my friends don’t really care one way or the other, and just allow me to be around because it’s easier than hurting my feelings by telling me to go away. I have to earn their love/friendship. I have to do things for them, give them things, help them somehow, so that I can feel okay about them putting up with me. I tell myself that my mother loves me because I gave birth to Emily – her grandbaby, the light of her life. She kind of has to love me for that. I can find a way for almost anything my friends say to me to be somehow negative. I read in to every little thing, looking for – and usually finding – some way for it to validate all these thoughts in my head.

You’re not good enough. You never will be.

I’m taking out thousands of dollars in student loans that I’m terrified I’ll never be able to repay because no educator in their right mind will ever hire me. I would be a total hypocrite to walk in to a preschool at my size and try to teach children things like proper nutrition. I am in my 30s, I have no career, I have no real skills to speak of, and I’m not convinced that having a degree will change that. The only reason I haven’t dropped out of school already is because I don’t have any way of repaying the loans I’ve taken out thus far. And I can pretend I’m a good employee, but I think my boss is frustrated with me more often than not. Truly, I think he keeps me around because he doesn’t have the time to find someone else. Someone qualified, talented, useful.

I could go on forever with all the negative self-talk. That’s almost redundant, because there’s no such thing as positive self-talk inside my head. Or outside it, for that matter.

I feel completely hopeless, very “what’s the point?” I live my life for everyone else, everything else. I get up in the morning because Emily has to go to school. I do my homework because doing so puts off repaying my loans for another day. I cook dinner because everyone else in the house has to eat. I clean up because it’s what I’m supposed to do. I shower because I don’t want people to have to smell me. I put a smile on my face and play with my child because she does deserve it.

(*It’s funny, because if anyone else said any of these things to me, I’d get all indignant and fuck-you on them.)

Me: Good morning, sunshine. It’s time to wake up.
Em: Uh-uh!
Me: uh-huh!
Em: no!
Me: -tickletickle, singsong voice- get uuuup!
Em: I will never clash your revenge!

Okay, voting has officially begun over at Marx Foods for the morel recipe challenge. I need all four of you to go vote for me! (Okay, well, vote on the dish you’d order first, like the poll says.. and then just tell me it was mine. )

Chip is one of several hummingbirds that love our little feeder out front. He has a buddy I call Chatter, and there’s another one Emily has named Isabella. They drain that feeder about every two weeks. The three of them are cute, friendly, and mouthy.

Speaking of mouthy, a new hummingbird took up residence in the crape myrtle yesterday, and he’s a little shit. He’s beautiful – green and black with a blazing red stripe that goes from his throat up over his head to the back of his neck. He’s decided that’s HIS feeder, and he sat in the tree all yesterday afternoon/evening, chip-chip-chirping and running off the others. I moved the feeder from the tree to the porch, hoping that would dissuade him, but it didn’t work (although Chip was able to come up and get some of the nectar.)

The sun isn’t even up yet, and that little bastard is back out there in the tree already, flitting around and chip-chipping his little head off. He’s scaring off the other hummingbirds, and he’s pissing me off.

Anybody know how (if?) I can run this little guy off so that he doesn’t bogart the food and prevent the other – nicer – hummingbirds from eating?