Housework, etc.

The invisible stuff, of course, was that he's been working his tail off for the website for votania's jewelry, and the other associated things.

There is now a nice and happy housework schedule drawn up. I'll be working it up into a nice printable form, so that we can print up and easily change stuff, and leave the whiteboard for one-off tasks, the irregular ones, like washing cats, cleaning the tupperware closet, organizing & cleaning under the sink, cleaning the shed, feeding the hummingbird, and the like.

Fresh Meme: How many of these have you read?

This is BBC's "The Big Read", which you can find here.

I have in bold the ones I have read.

( Read more... )

Gargh.

You'd think that I'd make *sure* that something like that was on private.

If you happened to reload at the right instant to see the conversation between iroshi and me, be aware that it ought not to have been public, and should not be further discussed with anyone but me.

Housework:

My responsibilities for today: Dishes, vacuuming, and tidying the living room.

I've done almost all the dishes (not enough to run it yet), and I'm doing pre-vacuuming tidying by picking up the cat-toy socks that never get played with anymore, untying them, and converting them to useful rags, courtesy of the happy scissors.

Must reach a saturation point on scissors, evidently -- they keep going missing. Therefore, a couple dollar-store packages of kid-scissors will be located.

Already folded the blankets that make the couch liveable.

Regression

eris_raven got all excited when she saw I was eating salad, and wanted to share. Dubiously, I set a little fragment of the lettuce on the floor for her.

She sniffed it, licked it, and put her paws on my leg, clearly certain that there was something in that bowl that she wanted.

Silly, silly kitten. My silly Calico-cat/fayoumis.

Stereo on and cookin' bacon (never came back to tell us why)

I have, evidently, hit upon the way to make sure that the smell of cooking bacon does not become a problem. Cook it while everyone is gone, with the front and back doors wide open, incense on, and the fan above the stove turned to high. Cats to be shut in a room.

This adds a few flies, but removes bacon-scent well. When votania came home last night, she wondered why the fume hood fan on the stove was on, and turned it off.

Household thingy: we may wish to replace the filter on the stove fan.

shammash, the mighty hunter

votania, marxdarx, and Little Fayoumis were heading out this morning. They went out the door, and so did shammash, zipping after the pigeon he saw. He almost caught it, but votania yelled at him, and he went back inside.

I picked him up and washed him. Not thoroughly, just sticking him under the cold water in the kitchen sink. He knows he's not supposed to go outside, no matter how delicious it looks.

Forgiveness, responsibility.

There's the idea that when someone does something terrible to you, that you are obligated, if you ever want to get anywhere in your life, to forgive them and move on.

But when you don't forgive them, can't forgive them...

It's bad enough that they've done something that's made you miserable and furious. It's bad enough that you had to suffer through the pain it all entailed, and live with it, while they got off relatively easily.

But on top of that, you know, somewhere deep down, that everyone around you, everyone who hasn't gone through the same bullshit, is wondering why you can't just forgive them and move on with your life. Maybe if you loved yourself more, you would be able to find the strength within yourself to forgive the rat bastard? It's what's expected. It's what's done. It's what other people have done in the same circumstances. It's vile and unthinkable, is what it is, and they're expecting you to forgive this ratassed monkeyfucker for existing, and coming in contact with your life? I think not!

Yet the expectation is there. Forgive them, and move on. You won't be whole until/unless you do. And then there's the guilt. Is there something wrong with me, that I can't forgive this person, even though they are an asshole loser? The guilt becomes more damaging than the anger.

Sometimes an unfelt forgiveness is extracted. They kneel at your feet, begging forgiveness; you are pressured into saying, "I forgive you," just so they'll leave you alone. But you don't. You haven't. You can't. It's impossible.


If you don't forgive them, don't forgive them. It may take a lifetime to feel like you might forgive them. But until you do actually feel no rage, no anger, no resentment, no deep-lasting hurt... you haven't forgiven them, and to say you have, or feel you should, would be a dangerous lie, an evil self-deception.

OK.

*Now* I go grocery shopping. Yay, me!

Yay @ self:

Dishes are mostly in dishwasher. Entire house is vacuumed. Living room is way tidy.

Those were all my chores for the day.

Go, me.

Ahh, meatloaf.

What *do* you get when you put together one five-pound roll of hamburger that needs to be used before it goes bad, one hungry Lunatic, and a nice day off?

A huge pan of meatloaf, that's what.

In case this actually turns out all right, here are the components:

5 lbs ground beef (rather too much fat on the fat/meat ratio, but hey)
3 packets onion soup/dip mix
4 eggs
1 pound or so of mixed frozen veggies
2 handfuls rolled oats

These were all mixed together, and now it's doing happy things in the oven at 350° F; it should be ready in half an hour. Mmmm. ...Or maybe somewhat longer, thanks to it taking up a whole cake pan...

Revenge is best served left-over, online, in a public forum.

So.

My good old high school best friend That Idiot Shawn (now known as Fuzzy) broke my heart once, or twice, or a dozen times. I stuttered for years as a direct result of events that were deliberately caused by him and deliberately shared with me by him.

Finally, though, I have forgiven him.

But not before some very tasty revenge.

It so happened that he was getting married, and I was invited to the wedding. I attended, wearing my most formal outfit (the fact that it was all black was incidental). As his bride walked down the aisle and past me, I tossed off a covert gesture behind the pew.

His little brother noticed, and giggled, and told me that Mrs. Fuzzy had obviously seen it, because of the glare she'd given me. The memory kept me warm for several years.


Fast-forward.

Fuzzy and I are chatting online, and the topic of embarrassing/worst sex stories in the forum he frequents comes up. He invites me to go, take a look, and contribute. I do so. I share my worst sex story, which happens to feature him and his wife, and ends with my lovely gesture of "Fuck You!" at her, just before she took her vows.


Fuzzy was dumbfounded. I have never heard him quite so incoherent before. It was priceless.

Ahh, sweet revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.