I didn’t sleep peacefully last night. I don’t know why. It wasn’t psychological angsty stuff, I wasn’t fretting about anything, I just kept waking up wanting to move around. I probably gave Terry an awful nights sleep with all my coming and going, but there it was.

Thanksgiving is upcoming soon. The Outla…I mean, Inlaws will be here probably Wednesday before, maybe stay until Friday or Saturday. It has been determined that It Will Be So. I am glad to have that not up in the air. Sometime during that time Bro. Scott and family will be here as well. So I guess I need to go find a turkey, a fresh one would be good. I’m even pondering the possibility of ordering a deep fried one through Ellis’s, thus freeing up the oven and grill for other things. The menu is flexible. I mean, Thanksgiving Dinner has a certain sameness to it, what with mashed things and green things and the ubiquitous cranberry stuff. I like homemade cranberry stuff and goodness knows it’s easy. Mom makes this cranberry stuff every year that I know how to make by heart and am able to avoid entirely. I prefer mine cooked, with a touch of orange peel and some sugar. (mom eschews sugar as if it were arsenic, and cranberries without sugar are…hm)

Here’s what she does: Food processor, throw in a bag of cranberries, 2 oranges, and 2 apples (whole and unpeeled, even the oranges) and grind them up together. The apples are (theoretically) sweet enough to balance the cranberries, and we all know orange peel is a good flavoring, so more orange peel is even better flavoring! Right?! RIGHT! Ok yes, its a very easy recipe. But easy does not translate well into ‘good’, in this case. So what I intend to do is what my grandmother taught me: a bag of cranberries in a pot, 1 cup of orange juice, 1/2 cup sugar, and the zest of 1/2 an orange, and a dash of salt. the cranberries have enough pectin in them that as you cook it, it thickens up nicely.

Then when you chill it, it gels. It also tastes delicious. *and* a pot is way easier to clean out than the food processor. Terry’s family prefers the cranberry jelly from a can, and I can do that as well. Here’s how: Open the can, slide it onto a plate. Garnish with a twist of orange peel, or not. Perhaps slice it first, or not.

It’s a simple enough choice and I can make everyone happy.

A question: do they have cranberries in Australia? I honestly don’t know! They are the sorts of things most people around here only eat at Thanksgiving, but wouldn’t consider the meal complete without them. Cranberry sauce and leftover turkey make a fantastic sandwich the next day. And with Terry’s mother’s stellar chicken dressing, it’s amazing. AH-MAY-ZING.

There’s always cranberry bread. I love cranberry bread. When I find the recipe (usually on the back of the cranberry bag) I’ll post it, after I make some and eat it with a generous smear of real, unsalted butter…maybe even FRESH butter made by me because I Know How. Only I don’t know a cow who will give me some cream. Ok probably it will be butter from the store but that doesn’t mean I *couldn’t* have fresh butter made by me, if I wanted to.

I made some biscotti a couple of years ago that featured dried cranberries. Dried ones are sweetened because the corn syrup or whatever they use softens them as well. unsweetened dried cranberries are like little rocks. I tried making them once and for some reason even reconstituting them didn’t have good results. So I get the “craisins”. They’re good in oatmeal cookies as well, a nice little zing of tart. Oh! You know what I might do! I might get a couple of fresh pomagranates to put in the cranberry sauce! that would taste good, doncha think? And they’re in season right now!

Cranberries: It’s a lovely thing.

*or anyone else with a tender stomach, or under 21

I try to be proper, and y’know…all “I’m The Southern Wife and Mother and wear clothes from Talbot’s” and such but sometimes, the mind takes over and the mind-mouth filter doesn’t work so well. I have this thing in my head that takes a situation I’m in and twists it into the Absolutely Worst Thing Possible. It’s a defense mechanism of sorts, albeit a Stephen King flavored one. If Terry doesn’t call during the day, I assume that the ammonia chamber on his machine ruptured while he was standing next to it, and his skin dissolved and El Presidente is too much of a chicken-shit to call and tell me. If it’s 6 pm and I haven’t heard from him, then someone at Plant 2 went postal and drove over him with a fork-lift and he’s..well, you get the picture. If someone really *really* pisses me off, which hasn’t actually happened in a while, but if I am deeply and egregiously offended, I’ll picture them…well…kind of…dead, like they’ve been that way for a long time. *sigh* My mother would say that it’s not very lady-like of me. Dad would want to make sure that their deadness was biologically sound, like the festering of their corpses was something ecologically feasible. y’know, if it had bones showing then the blow-flies would be done with and have moved on, that kind of thing. Sorry, I warned you.

I suppose the whole thing is a consequence of reading too many gross novels, listening to too many late-night radio mysteries, watching too much CSI (tho not CSI Miami, the redhead irritates me). I sort of have some anger issues, but having been brought up that anger isn’t ladylike, and being ladylike trumps every other behavior, the manifestation of anger has moved into my head. When I was about 25, and first started really showing life-altering symptoms of mental illness, I tried very hard to control my rage, with dire consequences. As my preacher (part of the team who was helping me get a grip) explained it, the rage was like steam in a teapot. I was the pot, and if I stopped up the usual outlet, the steam would come out somewhere else, and if I kept blocking it, eventually the seams would burst and mayhem would result. So what I needed to do, he explained, was find a logical and reasonable outlet for the rage. Something physical, perhaps.

So there is the physical ,and it takes on a very real appearance that Terry and the boys have learned to recognize and they sort of evaporate for the day. Part of me wishes for a sparring partner that would let me beat the sh…er…stuffing out of, because when it kicks in I become 10 feet tall and bulletproof, but the other part knows it wouldn’t really be fair to the other person. Did I ever tell you about the time I made the mistake of going into public like this, and picked a fight with 4 college-aged men in a parking lot? Terry and Will actually picked me up and stuffed me in the car. In retrospect it was kind of funny because those 4 fellows were all “I can’t hit this woman but she’s like a banty rooster!” Rum and music soothed the savage beast that evening. I can tell when The Hulkstress is emerging, and have medication if I can nip it in the bud, but if it gets past a certain point no amount of valium will sooth the beast, and I end up sequestered for the day, no contact with the outside world. Not quite in chains but I do get alot of wood chopped and holes dug.

I’ve always had a morbid mind. Forensic science is a direction I was seriously considering way before CSI made it hip. There is something fascinating about the progression of degradation an organic creature takes on it’s way toward becoming One With The Earth. It’s an orderly process, and I like order. That’s probably why I think zombies are so dumb…not dumb as in “they’re dumb because they can’t think” but dumb because they are impossible. Zombie movies don’t scare or gross me out, because they aren’t possible like Mothra isn’t possible. The movies that scare me the most are the ones that *are* possible, and delve into the realm of spiritual. You start messing with the spirit…that’s creepy. That’s why the real freaks and scary people are the ones who cause spiritual damage in folks.

So I suppose the Worst Thing Ever isn’t necessarily the thing that causes physical harm, but the one who causes the damage you can’t see, that people hide with smiles and pretension. What really worries me is wondering if I ever did that kind of damage to someone else.

Terry had to be at work at 6 this morning. He has this crazy work ethic that says if he requires something unusual of his people (like being there at 6) he requires it of himself as well. He’ll probably buy them all biscuits, too. Anyway, this meant getting up at 5. Being a Good Wife I (of course) got up as well and cooked him a hearty and complicated breakfast (pig-in-a-pokes- canned biscuits wrapped around precooked link sausage. Slaved hours and hours over a hot stove fixing those, doncha know) and saw him off with a kiss and a smile. Aren’t I speshul, yes I am.

Anyway, now it’s 20 after 6, and #4 is muddling around with his morning ablutions and chores. I, MultiTasker Extraordinaire, am supervising him, blogging, and yelling at the dog to quit stealing socks out of the laundry basket, and sort of planning the day. Here’s what it looks like:

Must Do’s:
Take Will and AstroGirl to lunch someplace cheap (probably Southern Palace, who doesn’t like Chinese?)
Sweep the floors
Walk the dog
*whew* that’ll wear a girl out!

Should Do’s and might if Virtue Takes Hold
Iron Terry’s shirts…however, most of them are short sleeve and he won’t wear them again until Spring…so…looks like I just talked myself out of it! Cool!
Dust, only company isn’t coming until 2 weeks and if I dust now I won’t feel compelled to do it again then because I won’t, so maybe I’ll just wait and do it then. If you leave it long enough, you can spritz it with a little water and peel it up like a felt mat. Plus, it’s Mother Outla…I mean, Inlaw who’s coming and her housekeeping methods rival mine, so I don’t feel necessarily motivated to clean up deeply because she’d be uncomfortable in a house that was “too clean”.

Maybe this morning, after walking the dog and giving the floor a sweep, I’ll go make Joseph. I’ve tried twice now, and both times I got the armature wrong and he fell over on his face in the oven. While I suppose one could interpret that as worshiping the baby Jesus, it actually just looked like he’d had too much brandy. Which could have been the case, there’s not much mention of Joseph before his dream and they all hoofed it to Egypt, and I’d probably fall over on my face if my wife was giving birth to a child she said was conceived by a Holy Spirit. At any rate, by all accounts, Joseph was a good and decent man, and I’d like to do him more honor than making him look intoxicated. Third time’s a charm, right?

AND! It’s FRIDAY! Which means, even though Terry has to go to work tomorrow, I don’t have to get up early unless I absolutely want to. It could happen, but the “wanting to” is all the case here.

Let me be clear. This is NOT my father’s leftover soup. There are no leftovers in it, only stuff that I found in the pantry.

Pantry Soup

1 pound hamburger, browned in a large pot
1 can each: pinto beans
black beans
hominy (or corn)
1 large can petite diced tomatoes
1 large can of water
1 heaping teaspoon beef broth concentrate
seasonings:
a package of onion soup mix
chili powder
garlic powder
toasted ground cumin
dried oregano
(sorry, no measurements, I kinda just dumped until it smelled right)
Drain the beans and hominy and rinse them off. Then put everything in the pot, stir it good and adjust the seasonings to your taste. Simmer for a bit and serve on fritos.
I’m also going to put shredded cheese and sour cream on the table, and maybe salsa. If I had an avocado, I’d put that too. But I don’t. Oh well. #4 opined that ranch dressing would be good on it as well. We might just try it.

I want you to share 5 things you love when they’re new (idea stolen from Sophia’s Call)

1.bagels, especially the Everything from Panera, all chewy and warm, no need for decorations.

2.a white blouse, still crisp, perfectly fit and not blasted from the laundry yet

3.a hot Krispy Kreme doughnut. You know what I mean. If you don’t, I’m sorry for you.

4. a bright red mushroom just sprouted overnight in the yard. I don’t know why, maybe it’s their inherently ephemeral nature.

5.a morning glory blossom at 8 am. The violently purple kind “Granpa Ott” that look practically nuclear purple.

See, this is why I knew I needed to get into a group of like-minded Christian ladies. You non-Christians out there can roll your eyes all you like, but I’m telling you, I needed it.

,

Yesterday I went to prayer group. There’s generally 5 or 6 of us, and I’m fairly new to it. Most of the women are a bit older than me- maybe 10 years or so (I’m 44), one is my age, and one is younger (maybe 30). When they asked about prayer requests, I told them of my situation with CJ, and how I wasn’t sure if the whole thing might be my fault, as I’d been told in the past that I must have surely brought him up wrong for him to be this way.

Well bless their hearts and God love them! The older women jumped straight down my throat on that one! “Oh NO!” they said, “He’s an adult now and makes his OWN decisions on his behavior!” Then the preacher’s wife told the story of how they’d kicked out their son and he lived in his truck for 2 weeks, Jan talked about her son and how in a huff, he joined the Marines “just to show them”(they’re committed pacifists)and the letter she got from him during boot camp. Beth commiserated because her son refuses to actually *do* anything for himself and she’s close to kicking him out. Comfort, y’all, is in numbers.

The older women talked about how we see the fruits of our labors not in our children, but in our grandchildren. One of them said that their daughter was as flaky as they come, aggravating as she could possibly be as a child, but is now a fantastic mother, patient with her children as her mother never was.

People, you have NO IDEA how this comforted me. I am still worrying about CJ. I still halfway expect him to not make it to graduation, but I have heard from the voice of experience that it won’t be the end of the world. The young man who lived in his truck is now making 4.0 at the police academy, and lacks just a semester from graduating, and already has a job offer. The one who joined the Marines is climbing the achievement ladder there, and is in a position of authority, and now treats his parents with respect.

I would still experience frustration and angst, that’s all a part of being a parent. I would never get over worrying about my kids when I think they’re screwing up. But, with God’s help, I would come to trust Him that it’s all a part of His greater plan. What I *really* needed to do was to quit trying to tell God what was best for my kids, and listen to what He had to say about it all. Well, that’s the problem, I think. Letting go of the controls has never come easily.

I think we all need a support group of people who hold us accountable in the kindest possible way. This is something that has been missing from my life the past 4 years. After they fussed at me, they fed me lunch and we talked about draperies. Women! Fussing then feeding! can you imagine such? The last group of women I had *anything* to do with, fussed and held grudges and gossiped… which is why it took 4 years to get the nerve up to be around some more. I need love and accountability. I need to be able to *give* love and accountability. Now, I don’t know these women all that well yet. It’s going to take a while before I will be able to open up to them. I haven’t quite gotten to that level of trust yet…I mean, I’ve only been there 4 times. But, if one can tell me about kicking her son out, I am fairly sure I will be able to open up. I still have to measure the gossip factor. So far there’s been very little of it…the malicious kind of “can you believe that so-and-so…” There’s plenty of the “this person needs a job and that person needs to sell their house” sort of thing, but none of the “guess what! Sue’s crazy!” So I’m starting to trust a little bit. Maybe one day I can tell them I’m bipolar, but not yet.

A couple of weeks ago, Terry was rear ended by some sweet young thing trying to text and drive at the same time. Now his truck, bless his heart, looks like it got kicked in the butt, which I guess it did. Anyway, insurance did it’s thing and now his truck is in the shop getting fixed. They are providing him with a rental (they’re paying, of course) for the 8-10 days (which probably means 14-20) he’s truckless. Only boy is he ever NOT truckless. Seriously, this is one great big truck. A crew cab- which he requested, because we won’t all fit in Carmina, and it had to be a truck and not a car because I’m not hauling garbage in my car, oh no. So Terry shows up in this TRUCK! The Big Damn Truck of Sheer Manliness, it is o yes! Except that it’s a Ford and everyone knows Real Men Drive Chevys. But that doesn’t make it any smaller. I have trouble getting into it unless Terry grabs my butt and gives me a boost. “it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make, but only for you.” he smirks. Bless his heart he has to take the bypass around town because they’re doing stuff to the sidewalks in town and this thing is too big to squeeze through if another car is coming. Forget parking. He goes way out to the nosebleed section to park because backing it out is treacherous. So now the neighbors think we’re crazy and Lisa is clucking about our carbon footprint because it’s not exactly fuel efficient. However, you *can* run over things in it. Like those irritating riced-out Hondas with the strange exhaust cans, or the Walmart Streetcorner Preacher who calls women whores if they wear pants. *bump* “did you feel something?” “nope…”

#4 and I were sitting on the porch this morning, waiting for the bus. I announced that it would probably rain all day, and he expressed frustration, as he was wanting to play in the yard. Not feasible, really, as the yard becomes a swamp when it rains. Anyway, I said “play on the porch, or in the game room, or up in your bedroom.” “Not enough room!” he declared. Which launched me into a diatribe about thankfulness and how some people would LOVE to have as much room as he has to roll around in. I mean, really…the game room is HUGE! Bigger than some folk’s houses! He felt appropriately chastised, and apologized for his ingratitude. The conversation (diatribe) got me to thinking about being thankful.

It’s something I’ve tried hard to do recently. What with CJ being stupid and all, I’ve tried, rather than focusing on his boneheadedness, to be thankful for the bits of my family that are really good. They’re all healthy. CJ may be stupid, but he’s not in jail or the hospital. Will is back on the internet, which means he has the money to pay the bill, which means I have a way of contacting him again, and that’s very good. David has decided, since he’s finished the entire semester’s worth of work for his classes (only 2 months ahead of time) to spend the remainder of the time teaching himself PEARL (that obscure and inscrutable coding language), and going to the gym. he’s always happier when he’s going to the gym, burning off that ADHD energy and enabling himself to focus. #4 actually got a perfect behavior thing from school this week- NO MARKS! That’s a first! I may even lift his grounding early for that. Maybe. Terry is employed, still. Ok, so is El Presidente, and that’s a pain in the ass, but Terry is bringing home a paycheck, we have food to eat and the bills are paid. His arm is healing, slowly and with a few hiccups, but it looks like he won’t need a third surgery. All of these are things I am very thankful for.

I refuse to whine. I may think I have reasons to whine, but not really. I am in excellent health, and my doctors are all very happy with the way things are going right now. I have plans for Christmas gifts for the family, and will get cracking on those right after Thanksgiving. The iron works, yes, I can iron my clothes. I am trying, people, to find things to be thankful for here, so quit rolling your eyes about the iron, ok? The meds are stocked, the pantry is stocked, we have plenty of toilet paper. Come what may, we’re set for an entire month.

My friends are all ok, mostly. They have the difficulties, but the ones who have been hurt or sick are improving. They have food to eat, and toilet paper, and a roof over their heads.

I am a very localized sort of person. I feel sympathy for the people at Fort Hood, but since I don’t actually know any of them, I have trouble being upset in the same way I was when JC’s #2 was HIT BY A TRUCK! It’s bad, yes, but…I can’t think much beyond my own immediate sphere. Anyway, everyone in my orbit is doing ok. There’s things to be optimistic about (Bro. Scott, his Incomparable Wife and Two Fine Kids(tm) are coming sometime around Thanksgiving for a Visit Sans Parents! Woo!

BTW Bro Scott…I told them that “we were getting with Terry’s family” which is probably true, I just didn’t tell them where. I also told them that we’d want to spend Christmas with just us at our house, but we’d have to see what Terry’s work schedule was before we could make other plans…planting seeds doncha know. I reminded them that y’all would be extremely busy before Christmas with all the music programs and dance recitals and stuff, and might need personal down time afterward…and maybe not pushing the whole “Christmas At The Family Farm” ideal would be the most diplomatic thing to do.

Anyway…I am Thankful today. It’s good. I have prayer group at noon, and get to spend an hour being intimidated by the eloquence of 4 other ladies who’re well practiced at the art of Praying Out Loud. I’ve always held to that bit where Jesus fussed about people praying out loud, telling them to go into a closet instead, but then He was talking to the really public dudes, who rattled on about how holy they were and all, and didn’t really mean a group of 5 ladies in a kitchen, who get encouragement from each other by knowing other people understood their issues and had their back on them. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one with an idiot son. I am thankful for that (the sharing, not the idiot).

AND another thing! today is Veterans Day! Thank you, all you people who’ve served in our Armed Forces over the years, for everything you’ve done!

It’s raining today, so the dogs stay in, except Roxie, who’s not afraid of the water. The weinerdogs, they make me thankful I have hard floors because I am finding puddles, They also have bladders the size of basketballs and can hold it for hours. Bless their hearts, and I can never figure out who did the deed because they all look guilty. Putting them outside sets loose high pitched squeals and yips that set off the neighbor’s alarms and cause mayhem. Roxie, on the other hand, has good sense enough to go out. I know she does because I saw her, and her wet foot prints in the kitchen. You should see her coming through the dachshund sized pet door, it’s as if the door is giving birth, this head comes through, then a leg and a shoulder, and another leg, and she groans as she squeeeezes through. 60 pound dog coming through a 15 pound hole. Bless her heart, but she does it!

Terry is probably having dinner out tonight. The Owner Of The Company, He Who Lacks Cojones, is in town, and Terry usually has a dinner meeting with him. Poor fing, he’ll miss out on my fabulous beef stew and cheese straws. Recipe follows, of course. The house smells…well, not to brag or anything, but it smells right nice. I wonder if they make a beef stew candle.

Rootie’s Beef Stew
2 pounds stew meat (or a 2 pound roast cut into bite sized bits. Whichever’s cheaper)
1 quart low sodium beef broth
2 packages good quality (no msg) brown gravy mix
3 inch stem of fresh rosemary
small handful of fresh thyme
slightly larger handful of fresh oregano
1 tablespoon dried onion
1 teaspoon garlic powder
Of course, if you want to, you can cut up a small onion and smash a couple of cloves of garlic, but all the effort of dealing with the herbs left me winded, so I opted for the dried stuff.
Stir the beef broth and brown gravy mix together in a large crock pot, and add everything else. Cook on high for 2 or 3 hours, then add:
5 medium potatoes, peeled and cut into bite sized chunks
4 carrots, peeled and cut into bite sized chunks
Put the lid back on the crock pot and simmer another couple of hours until the taters are tender. Pick out the herb stems (I didn’t chop them, just chucked the whole things into the pot) Season with salt and pepper to taste.

I like to serve it with those expeditious cheese straws. It’s also good on top of rice, tho with the taters that’s alot of starch.

My children, I am encouraged by #4. He is my last hope that this time I’ll get it right. CJ has been stupid enough to end my patience with him, having gone out and torn up his truck Yet Again, a mere 2 weeks after the last time, which I paid for the parts, and I’m not helping him again. He seems to have in in his head that if he tears up his truck utterly, I’ll go out and buy him a shiny new Z-71 4X4 like his friends all drive…tho how he came to that conclusion is beyond me entirely. The fact is, he doesn’t live here anymore, and if he tears his truck up that’s his problem. He can find his own way to school. If he doesn’t go to school, Uncle NavyDude will throw him out, and he’ll have to live in his little useless truck, because he can’t move back here. He’s 18, and a big boy now. It hurts me some to say all that, but that’s how it is. Now that his truck won’t go, he’ll have a hard time getting to and from a job, living way out there in the boonies with UND, which will make it hard to get the money to pay for truck repairs (some $350 or so) but golly, I’ve paid for repairs twice now and he’s turned right around and dome something else to tear it up. I just don’t think it’s fair to expect me to keep bailing him out. It’s time for him to face the very real consequences of his stupidity. Don’t get me wrong, I love him dearly and want nothing more than to see him succeed, I am simply tired of singing the same old song over and over, and he never seems to get it. Maybe it’s harsh of me, but being sweet has accomplished nothing.

So now #4, I’m trying to do all the stuff I didn’t do with the other 3. Private school perhaps for middle school. Middle school sucks and blows. it was extremely hard on the 3 older boys, and my hope is that getting him into a really small school (the 6th grade at this school we’re looking at has 15 students) perhaps he can avoid some of the social crap the other boys went through. I’m spending more time with #4 than I did with the others. We read every night, play games every day, do the things that are hard to do when you have 3 together so close in age. Maybe, this time, I can get it right. At least I can try, anyway.

And not just because my favorite man of all time is just this very minute in the kitchen making grits and (applewood smoked!) baconjiu..pardon, Roxie’s trying to help me type…anyway. Men! yes.

Here’s what I like about them. And yes, perhaps I’m stereotyping but I am basing this on my experiences, growing up with 2 of them in the household, having dated a few, and marrying one and giving birth to several more.

Men are pretty easy to please. They’re uncomplicated. You feed them a nice meal, make them feel strong and important, and they’ll do backflips to keep you happy. Making them feel strong and important could be as simple as making them feel needed. “Would you get that big heavy thing off the top shelf please?” For me, it’s changing light bulbs. He’s tall and can do it standing on the floor. I have to get on a stool and that makes me dizzy. He can paint the ceiling, I can’t. There’s plenty of things I *can* do that I choose to let him do. Changing the oil or spark plugs in the car, dealing with large dead animals, digging a posthole or roofing the carport. I am perfectly capable of doing them, and have in the past. However, it makes him feel needed, and I believe that’s important to a man. I also firmly believe that asking him to do them is in NO WAY implying weakness on my part. I’m not a mealy little doormat when I let him do the heavy lifting, and in fact, he comes home frequently from work to find the furniture completely rearranged, even to the piano and that massive sideboard, weakness is not mine. But, I’ll also have him a scotch poured and a roast in the oven when he gets here, because he’s been working all day to pay for my ability to stay home and rearrange furniture. (It helps that we have hard floors and not carpet. I totally couldn’t do it if we had carpet.)

I think the thing that annoys me about the Feminist (particularly the Radical arm) movement, is the implication that asking a man to do anything automatically implies weakness from the woman. how silly! How does making a person feel good about himself reduce the person doing the asking? Does telling another woman she looks pretty in that outfit mean that you think she looks better than you do? No, it just means what you said. Ergo, telling a man he’s strong does not automatically imply that you think you’re weak. Let the man open the door, or help you carry to boxes into the post office, or bury the possum that died on your patio! There’s no implied weakness, and it makes him feel good that he helped you!

I think this whole feminist thing of NO! I can do it myself! is causing men to shrug their shoulders and say “screw this”, which leads to men who don’t support their families when babies are born, or turn into that caricature of “gurly-men”..I mean, why be strong when you don’t have to, right? Then women go on and whine about men who aren’t men and start turning to what they think men are- these greasy bad-boys who are all tough and irresponsible, then the women whine about being ill treated and boy- we just can’t be satisfied, can we!

I have the phenomenal good fortune of having married a Man. I can’t say that I’ve always kept him truly happy, but for the most part, I know how. He treats me gently, I well…maybe I don’t, but I do encourage him to indulge where I can- he has a love of fancy bourbons, and fine cigars. Many women (I’ve heard them!) say “YUCK! I’d never let my husband do that!” I say why not? For one thing, they smell fantastic. The finest man’s perfume ever is scotch and lingering smoke from an Excalibur. Ok maybe not 2 day smoke, but fresh, oh yes. And he’s happy. Is there a better aphrodisiac in this world that straight up happiness and contentment? Absolutely not. As for “letting” your husband do anything…WHAT? He’s a grown man, right?

Awright, a confession. For most of our years together I have refused to let him get a motorcycle. My thinking was this: we had children, I don’t have the ability to have a high paying career. If he was killed or disabled from a motorcycle accident, I’d be up a serious creek. Anyway, I finally relented. After requiring him to take out plenty of life insurance, and once our children were old enough to fend for themselves, last year I told him I was ok with him getting a motorcycle. No, he didn’t run out and get one, but the look of shock and absolute JOY on his face was priceless. He’s had more fun going to the dealerships, weighing his options (Electraglide or Goldwing? Silver or white? Long distance touring bike, or bad-ass rumbly thing). He’s fantasized about starting at a new industry, riding up as the Boss Of The Plant on his bad-ass motorcycle, ready to kick tails and take names. All that because I’m letting him realize a dream…what power! He does the same sort of thing for me, never ridiculing my perpetual search for the perfect touring car (today’s flavor: that ‘70 Chevelle, tho I’m not particularly wanting a 454 SS).

There’s been conversation recently about the Man’s Man, that Steve McQueen/Yul Brenner/John Wayne ideal of a man who shoulders his responsibility and takes the arrows of life quietly and without whining. I like that ideal. I think I live with one. and I don’t find it oppressive in the least, to the contrary, he allows me to be exactly who/what I want to be. We complement each other, like 2 halves making a whole. There’s an unspoken agreement between us. Only one of us is allowed to be hurting (either physically or psychologically) at a time. He’s dealing with a broken arm that refuses to heal properly, and unreal garbage at work. Therefore, I am doing fine. Everything’s great at home because he has enough other shit to deal with without having to deal with whatever drama I might cook up here. A couple of years ago, I was dealing with some physical infirmity, and work was fine, he carried his load and 3/4’s of mine for 10 weeks. Granted, I tend to create more drama than he does, because I’m…who I am, and he honestly carries more of a load than I do, given the crap at work, but he’s good at it and I do whatever I can to help him lay it aside when he gets home.

It’s not implied weakness to make him feel important, or needed. That idea needs to simply go away. Men! I love them! Making them feel strong and needed, it makes me feel important, and useful. It’s a very good thing.

*this just in* “Would you go out and get my therapy hammer?” I love men.