I went to The Dubliner last night, for my first night of karaoke of the new year. It was moderately quiet, with a rotation of perhaps ten singers (several of the strangers were doing duets and groups, and that made it hard to judge the numbers). One of my pseudo-resolutions this year is to try to learn a new song each month, and to try new songs, just for the hell of it, so last night, I tried Bowie's "Life on Mars," and did a pretty good job with it. It's in my range, and it was run to experiment with adding a more nasal sound to my voice. (My major vocal weakness is that I tend to try for "pretty" tones, which leads to my tightening up and trying to control my voice more and more, until nothing comes out. It took me years to internalize the fact that you have to breathe and let the noise out first, and then you can work on making it pretty/rough/smooth/whatever.)

I also sang "Ordinary World" and "Linger." The "everybody" songs were "Land Down Under" -- and about half the people onstage didn't know what "chunder" means (what are they teaching in school these days?) -- and "If I Could Turn Back Time." Being on stage with a group of people imitating Cher is a perversely pleasant experience.

Earlier, Vonda came over for dinner, bearing single-malt Scotch. Because she is a wonderful person, she left the bottle of Laphroaig with us, but took the Glenrothes that Ursula had given her back home. Roast chicken, dressing, steamed broccoli with hollandaise sauce, conversation -- and now I know where the half-eaten apples that keep showing up on the porches are coming from. (Opossums, raccoons, and squirrels working on the tree in Vonda's yard.)

And earlier than that, I did multiple loads of laundry. Rather than sorting my clothes by color, this year (well, much of last year, too) I am primarily sorting by weight and delicacy level. This is making my tights last much longer, which is a good thing.

Tags: domesticity, sung jan-jun 12

I'm trying to reconstruct -- and improve -- my mother's meatloaf recipe. I remember that it started with ground beef, plus ground lamb and ground pork; it probably had Lipton's onion soup mix as well. My version started with onions and many crushed garlic cloves sauteed with diced carrots in butter and sherry, to which I added freshly dried oregano, and julienned basil, which I let cool for a bit. I mixed the three meats with two eggs and some bread crumbs, then added the vegetable mixture, shaped it into a loaflike object, and cooked it at 350 degrees F, until the internal temperature reached 160 degrees F, let it sit for five minutes or so while I finished up the rice and cooked corn, then served it.

My test subjects enjoyed it, and said that the lamb flavor was prominent and good. I think more garlic and basil, and perhaps some hot pepper flakes and celery sauteed in the vegetable mixture, next time. Maybe studding the loaf itself with small cloves of garlic?

Tags: cooking, domesticity

Let's see... on Friday, we went to Patrick and Teresa's open house, where we had much good food and conversation, a chorus of "Steam Heat" and other singing, and some serious discussions of language, aphasia, and such. The only down side of the day was that my bottle of Omas Gray ink seems to have developed SITB*, which I didn't discover until I'd already started loading up my favorite vintage Sheaffer; I have to get a new bottle, and watch the pen carefully, to make sure it's not infected.

Saturday was a thoughtful day, with some serious discussion, followed by goofy discussion and an amazing potato-bacon-arugula-kale soup. On Sunday, Soren's computer died The Hard Drive Death From Which There Is No Return, it seems; fortunately, Patrick came over and did arcane rites to make sure all the laptops were up and running, including figuring out why Mirror** wouldn't connect to our wireless network. That took most of the afternoon; Soren also started the unthrilling process of drinking a gallon of Golight-G to flush out his system before yesterday's colonoscopy. He did have a couple of hours of visual hallucinations and giggle fits from the bisacodyl, though (effects that don't show up in the usual lists).

Yesterday, of course, was the colonoscopy, and the discovery that my beloved is an unmitigated smartass and joker. And no, that was not an effect of the anesthesia -- that was Soren being a smartass at me. (The technician thought we were an adorable couple, though, even when I was threatening to squeeze him like a bagpipe to see what sort of sounds all the gas they'd pumped into him would make.) After the procedure, Soren wanted FOOD, so we stopped at Five Guys and acquired burgers and more french fries than I would have thought we'd manage to eat, but we did. And after that, I made him a chocolate coke, and added chocolate ice cream, which he enjoyed immensely.

Today, I have been a couch potato, rereading bits and pieces of books, and puttering about. Laundry, cooking dinner, more chocolate ice cream, and now we're at our respective computers, trying to figure out how to get Thunderbird to work on the computer Soren's using, so he can get to his mail. I suspect that that will wait until tomorrow night, or even this weekend; and tomorrow I go back to the office, which will be oddly pleasant.

* SITB is "Shit In The Bottle," the precise technical term that fountain pen geeks use when ink becomes contaminated and starts growing strange things in it.

** My ThinkPad's name, thanks to maryread, is "a mirror made of words," a beautifully evocative phrase.

Tags: domesticity, fountain pens, soren's stroke and recovery

HOWEVER:

Afterwards, the technician told me that Scraps was resting in the recovery room after the colonoscopy, so I went in to see him. He was sprawled on the bed, with his eyes mostly shut, and when I came up to the bedside, he slurred, "I had a stroke."

Then the bastard opened his eyes and laughed at me.

A few minutes later, he told me, "They brought me back from the operating room, and I'm fine, except that I have no arms."

And a few minutes after that, he told me that the doctor gave him the news, put on his most solemn face and voice, and said, "I have cancer."

It's a good thing I love him. Otherwise, I'd have to beat him to death.

Tags: domesticity, soren's stroke and recovery

I've been spending this afternoon puttering with my journals, taking a few photos of them as I put them back in order on the shelves, and listening to music. I'd forgotten that we have Petra Haden Sings THE WHO SELL OUT -- her completely a capella version of "I Can See for Miles" makes me incredibly happy. (Yes, it's a completely a capella recreation of the album -- right now, I've gone back to "Our Love Was," and am giggling at her singing the bass line.)

It will be a quiet weekend, I think, which is good. I wonder if I can find the photos I took a few years ago of the journals piled on a table, back when there were probably only about a hundred-fifteen of them. At any rate, here are the hundred-thirty-seven handwritten books, and the seven or so bound or loose-leaf-held volumes of typed/computer generated entries, plus a messy stack of unused blank books that I will sort to keep or give away shortly. This is my paper soul:

Tags: domesticity

We've been home for a while now, for a change. I left work at 5:30, and met Soren in the Slope at 6:18; we had a good dinner out for fun (steak and arugula salad, swiss burger with shoestring fries -- which we both prefer -- and no desserts, as usual) then came home and played Scrabble while listening first to the Burh Bacharach collection, and then to The Magic Garden. The closing of that album still brings me to the verge of tears, just as it did almost thirty years ago. Back to pain ordered and made beautiful.

A friend from two other online communities sent me a Speeno fountain pen. It's tiny! Both in actual pen size, and nib size. I don't think I'll write much with it, but it's seriously cool, in a tangential way to the Rotring Core: if you like them, you'll really like them.

I have touched base with my sisters, and possibly resolved some major banking issues, which makes me happy. And now, quiet conversation, and perhaps another game of Scrabble.

Tags: domesticity, fountain pens

Getting a bit giddy with the cleaning, perhaps. I started with the goal of clearing my corner desk -- which, for the record, has lived in the middle of the living room since we moved, and for all but perhaps forty-five days of that time, has been too cluttered for me to actually use as a desk -- and have progressed to moving my computer table, rearranging bookshelves, and deciding that, since I've been writing by hand at my lap desk happily, that the poor corner desk has outlived its usefulness. I shall look for a narrow table that could become both a computer and writing table instead.

In working my way through clearing the corner desk and the shelves, though, I have found blank books. I think there's been one in every stack of papers I've sorted through, and the total of unused books is thirty. I'd taken five into the office this week, thinking that one would become my current journal book, and the rest would be given away, but all five went away, as none of them took fountain pen ink to my satisfaction. That's the trouble with notebooks: stores don't have samples of the paper available to test with wet- and dry-write fountain pens, so I never know whether one will work for me until I get it home and can test it. Harrumph.

(Data point for pen and paper geeks: many of the Japanese notebooks -- Maruman, Kokuyo, Oh Boy -- are fountain-pen friendly, with minimal show-through, and narrow rulings. Of course, if Clairefontaine would ever produce a narrow-ruled notebook, I'd buy nothing else -- I adore their smooth, bright white paper.)

So, sorting papers and filing... the decision to discard the corner desk (which I've never quite felt the same about since we dropped 1,500 CDs on it, and broke the drawer fixtures, which have since devoted their time to attempting to slice my thighs open) came after I concluded that I could discard the rubber stamps that a friend gave me, that I've never used. I'd kept them out of sentiment, but they were one of those awkward gifts, of the "I know you like this general sort of thing, but I've never been curious enough to find out more specifics" variety. "While you're discarding things that you don't use," a little voice murmured, "why not take one more step towards decluttering, and chuck the desk? It was good when you had a corner for it, but there isn't one here, and it's not that stable on its own. And you'll stop getting bruises and scratches on your thighs -- wouldn't that be nice?"

Meanwhile, Soren is cleaning, and music is playing, and we're talking about writing, and music, and cheerfully reminding each other to add things to our little books. His is "gratitudes," and mine is "brightnesses," but it doesn't really matter what we call them, does it?

One thing I've found over the past three days of noting things is that there are a lot of brightnesses that remind me of others. A song that Soren introduced me to will bring me to other songs, and to other people who took the time to share music with me, to musicians, to the recording industry, to hearing -- and it takes longer to type that list than it does to think of them.

Tags: domesticity, home life, paper soul, simple joys

On and offline. Soren is cooking dinner, having delivered a Neko Case CD to Bunche*; I actually remembered that there was a red pepper in the vegetable bin while it was still good, so we can add it to the sauce. (We have a bad habit of buying too many vegetables for one meal, and leaving the unused ones in the vegetable bin until they become slime. This is particularly revolting with scallions and peppers.)

I've been chatting with redbird sporadically, rereading old posts of mine, and thinking about relationships, and love that lasts, and what can make me decide, "No, I will not go back," as opposed to "I'll leave the door unlocked." I have a glass of white wine, there is a baritone jazz singer's voice coming from Soren's computer (making me long for Arthur Prysock, so that Soren can hear his voice; I grew up with Prysock's jazz and standards, and miss those albums), and conversation and pasta in sauce will be ready shortly.

The less happy parts of the day have mostly consisted of the Debriding Ointment from Hell -- but the wound is now perhaps only two centimeters by three, which is a good thing -- and I'm resigned to that every so often. I'm hoping that when I next see Dr. Whittle-Away, he'll agree that a skin graft will not be necessary.

Periwinkle blue sky outside the window, with leaves that appear not-quite-black; I don't know whether it's the light, or the memory of green that keeps them from being black shapes rustling in the wind. Good news from the Worldcon -- congratulations, y'all! -- and Soren's voice.

I am a quietly happy, very blessed woman.

* whoops -- forgot footnote: Bunche is the main cook at our local den of iniquity. He's a former comic book editor, serious music/movie/comic book geek, and blogger. Highly opinionated, cranky, and sweet; his blog is http://buncheness.blogspot.com/. Definitely not to everyone's tastes, but if you know him in person, the voice sounds slightly different.

Tags: domesticity, simple joys, soren
admissable state: in love

It's been hectic at work, as one of our team is on a week's vacation, so we're at 50% of our theoretical strength, and large numbers of things are coming up. Still, we're managing, and with fairly good cheer. I keep sending out emails to the larger team, pointing out that when they want our help, it's best to write things down, and they're actually listening, which is good.

Meanwhile, I've decided to invest a certain amount of energy in an ongoing discussion with someone about behaviors, reactions, and consequences, if only to clarify for myself some of my reactions and practices. Possibly in balance, I'm letting go of the dream? hope? that a relationship that had seemed to be in a coma will ever come out of it. And yeah, that hurts, but while love is infinite, time and energy aren't.

Home life continues good, with cooking together, eating meals at the table and talking, Scrabble games, conversation, and the continued realization of just how stressful being on opposite schedules was, and how good it is to sleep together.

I'm writing a lot in my paper journal, both with the "new" pen (I should try to find out just how old it is) (this is the grey striated Sheaffer Balance 875, for those of you keeping track) and others, mostly Sheaffers, though. Lately, the only other one I've used is the Pelikan with the Binderized needlepoint nib. The tiny cursive italic with the Omas Grey ink gives me delightful line variation and shading, and I keep coming back to it. (Today, though, I'm using a Sheaffer No Nonsense with an extra-fine italic nib, and the discontinued Sheaffer Lavender ink -- of which I think I have three more cartridges, andone small bottle. Oh no!) I rummaged up some old stationery, so perhaps letters will go out this weekend.

So: situation fairly cheerful. State of the Velma: continued serene, goddamnit, particularly at work.

Tags: boundaries, domesticity, fountain pens

Yesterday was a people-full day, between work, hanging with Fred in the afternoon, then hanging with Soren, Fred, my sister, and my niece at Bar BQ (whose pulled pork with Carolina-style vinegar-and-pepper sauce has been voted the best in the city by Time Out New York) in the evening, and having them crash here overnight, before going to Melanie's maid-of-honor gown fitting. Helen gave me a CD of photos she's taken over the past few years with her digital camera, which include many amazing ones of the demon godchild, and the one which looks, for all the world, like I'm being goosed by Denzel Washington.

Today, I've felt peopled out. I've poached some chicken legs in spices for Soren to do something with the meat, but the main thing we've done is finally move my computer out of the middle of the living room to one of the corners. This entailed moving three bookcases (two of which we unloaded before moving them), and my corner desk (which last appeared in a post when I crushed it nearly beyond repair by dropping two CD shelf units, with about 1,500 CDs in them on it), sweeping, and refinding the box with all the pens and pencils. (The hundred twenty-eight books of my paper soul are now hopelessly out of order.)

(Tangentially, Melanie (niece) went serenely through all the unused journal books I could find, and claimed a nice selection for herself. I'm amazed that she managed to get her clothing and shoes into her rolling suitcase with all the blank books, but she's good at packing. Either that, or I'm going to have to mail clothes back to her on Monday.)

Right now, though, the corner desk is in the middle of the living room. Which is all well and good, but it's a three-legged desk, and is happiest when braced against at least one wall, and preferably two. If I can learn how not to lean on one corner before I send something glass flying through space, that will be good.

In a little while, I shall go to the current incarnation of my paper soul (which, after a month of use, still has no name, which worries me ever so slightly), and write for myself. Soren will come back from the store, and cook, and we will sing together at home.

Tags: domesticity, family
admissable state: turmeric and industry
sounds around me: "Alright Jack," Home Service

And nothing like being passionately kissed by a gorgeous half-naked man wielding a very sharp knife, either.

(Said knife is actually being used to cut beef and vegetables, and was held far away from my body, for the record. Still, realizing that I was tilting my head and baring my throat to a knife-wielding man is a weird image.)

Tags: arousal, desire, domesticity

Kitchen of the deSelby apartment: the most noticeable feature is a table with only one-third of the surface usable; the rest is covered with books, pens, papers. Soren is at the computer (yes, there's a computer in the kitchen. deal with it.); Velma is standing over the ironing board, pressing a half-dozen handkerchiefs and her shirt. Background music: The McGarrigle Hour

Singer: Dig my grave both long and narrow
Make my coffin deep and strong...

Velma: Why does he need it long and narrow? Is he a vampire? Is it because he doesn't want to get out? Is it because he wants leverage climbing out?

Soren: looks slanchwise at Velma, raises one eyebrow, says nothing

Singer: Dig my grave both long and narrow
Make my coffin deep and strong...

Velma: And you're awfully picky, buddy. What do you care how deep your coffin is? You're dead.

Soren: smiles, types

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Not that I would corrupt the youth of America (much), she said casually, but if I were to bring a book of werewolf erotica to Rose's, would someone be interested in borrowing it?

Just curious....

Tags: domesticity, family, home life, simple joys

Home, after eleven hours in the office. On the other hand, a lot of work was successfully accomplished, no one's head is on a pike, everyone on the team is still speaking with everyone else, and my boss is very pleased with me. This kind of compensates for the loss of the rest of my day.

I called Soren, but he wasn't home; however, I glanced across the avenue into the pasta shop, thinking that it was a long shot, but a familiar figure in a green leather jacket was contemplating sausage (no, my vision is not that good -- I just know the layout of the store well). I waited, jaywalked, and tried to sneak up on him, but the man behind the counter -- who's used to seeing us come in together -- said hello, and gave me away. We walked home together, picking up unfiltered sake, and port, and he cooked dinner, while I looked at some of the photos . . .

. . . yes, I finally got the four CDs of photos from the shoot with reive, ladypeculiar, and sykii. They have brought it home, undeniably, that I have gained weight, and that I am not a young woman any more. And some of them are just plain weird, but others are quite nice. My favorites are from my third costume, courtesy of ladypeculiar and sykii; eventually, Soren and I will probably post some.

And I'm now home, eating pasta, and listening to the wonderful album Soren found and bought for me yesterday: The Magic Garden, by the 5th Dimension.

I don't care if anyone thinks it's naff, or seriously uncool. I grew up on their music -- it's probably one of the reasons I sing, and why I adore group singing. Five part harmonies, three members of the vocal group with four or five octave voices, Bones Howe producing (I was delighted to find out that he also produced the music for Grace of My Heart) -- and a concept album written, arranged, and conducted by Jimmy Webb.

This was their second album, recorded in 1967, and a daring move, to ask Jimmy Webb to write a concept album for them; and he wrote it while in a major depression, and dealing with the breakup of a serious relationship (which is reflected in the songs.

(It's a rerelease, and I didn't know, until I read the liner notes, that "The Worst That Could Happen" was originally on this album, and covered by The Brooklyn Bridge, who had a hit with it. Billy Davis, Jr., though, does a much better version of it.)

Anyway, my parents bought this album when I was a kid (bought, or acquired: my father was an executive in a record pressing plant in the 60s, and brought home albums regularly; we had all the Bill Cosby albums before they were released to the public), and I fell in love with it, and played it as often as I could get away with it, losing myself in the music and the lyrics. As I got older, I understood more of the lyrics, and dreamed of being in love, of having someone in love with me intensely enough to want to take me to their magic garden, of carousels and cobweb shadows, long-distance phone calls, and dying for love.

Around 1983, I lent my copy of the album (vinyl, back then, for you youngsters -- heavy plastic, the sort that broke and shattered if dropped, none of this flexy plastic stuff that djs use *harumph*) to a friend, and never got it back. So it's been almost twenty years since I last heard it -- I could never find it on CD.

But yesterday, Soren was in a CD shop, and, on a whim, looked in the r&b section, which he usually doesn't there. And he saw it, as well as The Age of Aquarius -- and remembered that I'd mentioned loving this album once -- and brought it home for us to share. And he loves it too.

Soren remembers what I love, and loves bringing things I love to me.
I am blessed.

Tags: domesticity, life and life only, music, soren
admissable state: blessed
sounds around me: "Requiem: 820 Latham" by The 5th Dimension

I'm seriously considering this weird National Novel Writing Month project, in which the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel between 1 November and 30 November. It's weird, but it might jumpstart me back into fiction writing more effectively than my attempts to date.

Last night, I sat at the kitchen table, writing in my journal, fast, careless; Soren was online nearby, so that I could look up and smile at him

You know, sometimes I worry that people are going to be bored, or somehow embarrassed for me because I'm always writing about Soren, how much I love him, how much I love being around him, being able to see him, or touch him, or hear his voice. But to hell with that. Ultimately, this is my journal, a chronicle of my life and what I value -- and some of the things I value are Soren, and our relationship, and how amazing life has become with someone who actively wants to share it with me. If people are bored, or embarrassed by love of this sort, they can look away. No one's compelled to read this.

...Anyway, I was there, scent of Shaeffer red ink rising from the page, scent of port spiralling in the scent of heated air (the radiator had kicked on), yellow-white light bouncing off the page, off the tawny shades of my arms and Soren's pink-gold flesh, and I started feeling, "Hey, I could do this. I really could."

So I think I will.

Tags: communication, domesticity, soren, writing

First idle request: will whoever keeps popping off and on my friends list kindly cease and desist? One morning there are 77 of you, next morning, 76, that afternoon, 77 again. A woman might go mad. (short trip)

Soren is asleep, in the chilly bedroom, soft green blanket pulled up to his chin. As usual, my body tossed me out of slumber into something resembling consensus reality a while ago. Reheated coffee -- I'll make a fresh pot when he wakes up -- and fortified it with chocolate syrup for silliness, brushed teeth, washed face, and caught up with four of my online communities. Will I last till 9 before I turn music on? We shall see (and hear).

In a little musical brightness, the cd-single that a friend sold me, which got damaged, played perfectly last night. We'd given up on it, after cleaning it repeatedly. It's Mark Aaron James -- I've mentioned him before -- and the song, "Little Space," just perfectly describes that moment after you've said those irrevocable words:
there's just this
little space
this little trace of doubt
this little bit of wonder
as time starts to wind down
and you hold your breath
I can feel it falling
and I kick myself
for saying
anything at all
The first time I heard him sing it, I was with Soren, some time after we'd first said it to each other, and he -- how to say it -- his phrasing, his voice, were perfect for the description of the feeling of that moment.

Okay: I am not going to try putting a link in, but his website is www.markaaronjames.com; the song is from the upcoming album, Adventures in a Plastic Bag, which will be somewhat different from the last album, Mr. Wirehead. The most common comparisons, I suspect, are to Elvis Costello and John Wesley Harding -- and there are similarities in the intelligent lyrics, the deep rich voices, and the melodic structures. (There aren't that many people who could plausibly get a Studebaker and Danny Glover into an honestly sincere love song, either.)

*****

I've been going through some intense emotional stuff, mostly in my head, but with some amazing clarifications from Patrick and Soren. It's going to be an odd fall.

On the worrisome side, though, while Mom is now talking, her memory is, in fact, full of holes. My older brother reported that she's asking when my father will come to visit her. Dad died in September of 1996. How do we answer that? (On the other hand, this was the first year since then in which I didn't go into too much of a funk between the 22nd and the 25th.)

And on the very weird side, when my brother was talking with Mom about the World Trade Center, Mom said, "I know -- I was there." He thought that she was disoriented from seeing too much television coverage -- but she was telling the truth. She goes -- or went, rather -- for dialysis twice a week, one day being Tuesday mornings. Her dialysis center is at New York Downtown Hospital, at the south end of Manhattan. And she got down there between 9 and 9:30 on the morning of the 11th.

Almost 9. Put up water for coffee, go in and kiss the beautiful man on his cheek, and watch the slow sleepy smile bloom in his eyes, as he stretches and reaches out to me. I am blessed.

Tags: domesticity, family, soren