5 Gallon Bucket

Ok, Tom said to use a bucket, Rick said to use a bucket, and Alton Brown said to use a bucket. Looks like we're going to use a bucket. It's not supposed to be cold enough Wed. to leave it outside our door (and I could just see one of our neighbors kicking it down the stairs . . . a flying turkey . . .), so we're going to use Alton Brown's method of icing it in the tub. Actually, AB has a great brine recipe using water, brown sugar, salt, vegetable stock, and black peppercorns that I may try. If my stockpot is big enough.

Brine 'da Bird!

I almost titled it "Brine 'da Byrd." Am I thinking of "tyger tyger burning bright?"

Sweet relief. I began and finished a paper today. I have so much to do - part of me wants to start the next thing, and part of me wants to say "It's 7:00 on a Sat. evening, you just wrote an 8-pager, go watch a movie." Which I can easily do here at work - I rented "In Her Shoes." To top off the lovely feeling of accomplishment, I think it's a pretty good paper. I felt that my fiction work sucked, but that this social analysis somewhat redeems it. It makes it seem so much deeper than I truly intended. :-)

Yes, I desperately want to brine our turkey. Except I need a container that will hold 2 gallons of water, completely submerge our turkey, and fit in the refrigerator. I've been racking my brains, but I don't think it's going to happen. Even if I buy a plastic bin at Walmart - how am I going to wrestle it into the fridge? What am I going to do with the stuff that's been displaced?

I had the same problem with the Christmas tree. I really really really want a Christmas tree, ever since Mom asked a slew of questions pertaining to the holiday and I answered each one with a gloomy "no." She finally asked if we're going to have any holiday spirit, which I answered with a tentative yes. So it propelled me into plotting how I can get a Christmas tree into our house. I finally solved where our box of ornaments can go - somewhere in the top of the closet. Then I figured that we don't really need to open our dresser drawers for a month, so the tree can go in front of the window in our bedroom. The hitch came with the tree itself. If we get a fake one (one that already has lights on it, preferably), then where the heck do we keep it until June (unless we become those tacky year round Christmas lovers who never open their dresser drawers)? I had the brilliant idea of a real tree, but my brilliance has yet to be followed up with practical answers as to 1. where do I buy a real tree? and 2. how do I transport it our apartment and up our steep, narrow stairs? 3. do I really want pine needles everywhere?

Then I realized that I was potentially more excited about the prospect of buying an incredibly festive candy-cane patterned tree skirt than the tree itself, and I began to wonder if maybe I should scratch the whole idea. I stopped myself short of googling Pool Cities in the Lexington area.

So I'm back to a too-small refrigerator with a too-big container of a dead bird soaking in a salt solution.

Movie Movie Movie!

I finished a BOOM question on evangelism; now I'm pondering my understanding of the teaching office of the commissioned and ordained, particularly in regard to the Bible.

Rick thinks I use semi-colons wrong, and I suspect my Strunk & White is locked away in the bottom of our closet, so I can't peruse the riveting punctuation chapter.

Rick and I have Blockbuster Online. Once you figure out how to navigate the site (it took us awhile), it's almost idiot-proof. Sometimes I still get a surprise, though, when I log into our queue and see titles have been added, like "The Tale of Ichabod and Mr. Toad" and "Rocky (25th Anniversary Edition)." I guess better a jolt here at the screen than at the mailbox. At least now I know not to get my hopes up for the next movie . . .

Cheeeeeeese

I'm hesitant that someone will find this journal . . . but my delight for the background and font outweighs my most intimate experiences being discovered, so here goes.

Last night, Rick and I went to Buffalo Wild Wings. I'm not sure what the big draw is; it's so loud that we have to scream at each other to be heard and even then, our conversation is like something out of a comedy movie. So really, Rick tuned into the football and basketball games, and I played the trivia thing which wasn't as much fun because the first 15 questions were all sports related. But it's worth it for the two tubs of blue cheese dressing. Yea, I know, most people go to wing places for the wings.

I know what my thing for blue cheese dressing is. It's the anticipation over biting down on an actual piece of cheese. My family is wild over cheese. Even Lailee is nuts over it. All you have to say is "Lailee . . . cheeeeeeeeese?" and she goes bonkers. Actually, so do we. I thought all families had our bordering-on-obsession-compulsion for cheese, until I realized that every other family I knew didn't take an annual trip to a cheese factory, lugging coolers with them to carry home the maximum amount of curds. For Keith's 18th birthday, I bought him blocks of different cheeses. Last year when Mom came to visit, she didn't bring anything useful for her cash-strapped, dish-washing-for-a-living-daughter, nope I got an expensive block of hickory smoked cheese. Which was incredible. I discovered last week that I can now buy these gloriously creamy, soft hunks of pepperjack in bags.

So I nursed my blue cheese dressing, occasionally taking a bite of a wing not smothered in it, and then Rick and I went to the Liquor Barn. The Liquor Barn is fabulous because it has fresh breads and aisles of items you won't find in your typical grocery store. Like Asian ingredients and an entire chocolate aisle. Really, I'm surprised they don't specialize in cheese, to go along with the 1000 varieties of wine you can indulge in. I found something new - endangered species chocolate. The wrappers have pictures of adorable but endangered animals upon them, and part of the proceeds go towards foundations dedicated to the endangered animal cause. I wanted the Otter Chocolate Bar just because she (he?) was so cute . . . ah, a reason to go back!

Rick bought rye grain whiskey (he let me taste it - which I spit out - disgusting!!). For some reason or the other, he looked incredibly hot last night. He was wearing black, that's why. And he shaved his beard down to a goatee yesterday, which makes him look years younger and gave an additional cuteness to him. So I suggested he jump me. He did . . . let's just say it was a very . . . squeaky experience.

But to tell the truth, it was invigorating and exciting. Our sex life so far has been rough, because of me. I've been having trouble getting my mind into it - getting past that "sex before marriage is bad" mentality. It's not like flipping a switch once you're married, you have to recondition your entire thinking on the subject. So I've been dealing with these guilty feelings every time we get down to it - and really just wrestling internally.

I was pretty loose last night. I asked Rick what his favorite thing about me is. He said my humor - that while he's never sure where I'm going to go with it (and apparently that's dangerous), he said I'm pretty funny most of the time. I've noticed that I can make him laugh, and keep him laughing, while no one else can. It's something I've sort of prided myself on. I guess we are a match made in heaven.

Fall Foodie

Yesu, where did October go?

(It just ocurred to me that I may have taken the Lord's name in vain in Spanish . . .)

Rob visited mid-October, we spent the evenings bowling on his Wii and the afternoon at Shaker Village. My parents also came down that weekend, and I attempted to knock everyone's socks off with a cranberry-orange pork roast, rice pilaf, and a braised fall vegetable medley of carrots, celery, apples and raisins, with a freshly-made home-churned pumpkin bourbon ice cream for dessert. For those counting calories, I whipped up a lower-fat chocolate cinnamon carob chip ice cream. To compliment dinner, I simmered a mulled spiced apple cider and served my gourmet meal on bright blue plastic plates with non-matching pink napkins. It was elegance at its finest. However, I'm not completely lazy - I allowed everyone to use real silverware. Rob treated Rick and I to lunch at Ramsey's Sunday after church, and then he headed home.

Two weeks later, the 'rents came again because Keith told them he's having problems with drinking. So of course everyone fell apart and I found myself hosting guests during what was quickly becoming the busiest part of my semester . . . It was one of those time where I just had to forget about the mounting piles of work I had to do and concentrate on my family. Ironically enough, Keith physically looks the best he has since he started college. He looks like he's lost weight . . . Mom tried to give me some sort of speech on the phone about "now, I know you've lost patience with your brother, you've had a right to, but now is when the family needs each other the most and you just have to . . ." I cut her off at that point, a bit annoyed, because I haven't lost patience with Keith. Contrarily, I'm waiting patiently on the sidelines until he decides he wants to have a meaningful relationship with me. Oh, and I made meatloaf with creamed corn and mashed potatoes. Now, meatloaf may sound boring, but sautee thyme with the onion and garlic, use bread crumbs as the binder in a beef and pork mixture, bake the loaf free-form, and top it with a secret glaze that includes cider vinegar - and you have a culinary delight that will burst on your tastebuds. It is indeed one of my typical recipes - that is, recipes that require a minimum of twenty ingredients.

Tomorrow night I'm a-fixin' seared pork chops with a cranberry-apple compote and a sweet potato mash with an undecided vegetable. Tuesday night is slow-cooker chili with buttermilk biscuits and again, an undecided vegetable. Thursday night will be lemon piccata chicken with rice pilaf and green beans.

Tonight we're going out to Buffalo's Wild Wings. I'm thinking a nice, deep, honey barbecue sauce to compliment the crisp fall day outside will celebrate the season properly.

Things Keep Falling Apart

I've worked four evening this week, and gotten little homework done. Crazy situations. Like spending an hour on the phone today trying to get ahold of maintenance (the beeper wasn't . . . well, beeping) while the Wilmore Fire Department kept calling me (they needed to get into Palmer, where a fire had started). Then I had to clean rooms. Then I just had situation after situation . . . fridges for diabetics, a reservation that I had to divide into 5 different payments, a clogged sink, burned out lightbulbs, and an elevator that fell apart. Yes, our elevator fell apart. Brian fixed it in a jiffy . . . I've had rooms that weren't checked in so I couldn't check them out so I couldn't check in the reservation after those rooms . . . I've talked to Betty at least a half dozen times this weekend, and Dan three or four.

All I wanted to get done was a devotional internalized, some Tarzan read, and wedding pictures chosen.

Rick, my handsome, wonderful, beautiful, caring, sweet, husband, that sweet husband of mine, brought me dinner. He went to Nicholasville and bought it for me (I requested a mandarin orange chicken salad from Wendy's). He walked in looking like someone died. So I asked "who died?" He replied, "Marley." He just finished reading Marley & Me. He said he cried his eyes out.

We ran into Jen Underwood at church today, and Rick said something else that surprised me. He opened up to her and said how difficult my candidacy transition has been so far, and that he's really upset with his conference. He took my side. I'm always surprised when this happens. But when he takes my side, I feel like I have this knight championing for me. I asked him at lunch if he really meant what he said (or if it was just of those venting moments because of the UMC's lack of organization), and he said, "Yea, I hate it when people don't treat you right."

Awwww!

I had a stroke of brilliance at church. The sermon was about supporting the new Andover Campus (a branch of 1st UMC over in Hamburg), and a sort of testimony about how they have seen God working in it already. I asked Todd after church if there will be SMIN opportunities, and he said absolutely. So I mentioned that I'm definitely interested and will contact him when Rick and I get back from DE. The only hitch would be the cross-cultural requirement. But I'm willing to . . . lie. As long as Claire doesn't find out, I don't think anyone else will even notice.

Grandpa

Grandpa has Alzheimers.

Don't want to talk about it.

Just marking it.

Marking a death sentence.

A long, tortuous, painful, degrading death sentence.

Wonder Pig

Isabelle loved the german chocolate icing from my birthday cake. Amusing - since it's not the thing that tickles the palate of pigs.

But german chocolate icing was NOTHING compared to the way she inhaled CHOCOLATE PUDDING. Devil's Food Chocolate, to be exact. She was so intent on trying it, that I let her (she's intent on trying anything you eat). I didn't think she'd take to it . . .

minutes later we had to pry her off the spoon, and I unsuccessfully attempted to sponge it out of her fur, paws, nose, and it was even in her nose.

That's our Izzy. She needs a theme song. Wonder Pig! Give her pudding 'cause that's what she'll dig! OOOOOOhhh, oooooohhh . . .

I'm so glad this is a private journal.

ICE CREAM!!!!

With my birthday I bought . . . DRUM ROLL PLEASE

. . . 1 Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream and Dessert Book . . .

. . . 1 Williams Sonoma (pronounced So No Ma in Lindsay Land) Ice Cream and Sorbet-Something-or-the-Other Book . . .

and . . .

******** 1 ICE CREAM MAKER!!!! ********

I bought the Kitchen Aid Attachment Ice Cream Maker. Rick thought I was a little nuts (so did Mom - who never said such, but I could hear it in her voice), but he didn't protest. So I began with Alton Brown's premium chocolate ice cream recipe (which was at least 2 cups half-and-half, a cup of heavy cream, 8 egg yolks, and over a cup of sugar) and crossed my fingers. It was unbelievably delicious. The base itself was as thick as pudding, and thus was even thicker once it churned and some air whipped into it. Frozen for four hours, it was like a velvety thick frozen custard. Overnight, it turned a little bit icy and was the consistency of hard ice cream. Amazing.

Rick no longer thinks I'm nuts and is looking forward to trying to de-fatten all the recipes in the afore-mentioned books.

The General Public

A woman pushed a luggage cart out of the elevator while I was sweeping. "Do you want this?" she asked. Yea, sure, let me just shove it in my back pocket so I can commence with the vacuuming.

I finally posted a sign on the ice machine instructing people to push the button to get ice. Yes, they had difficulty with that. THERE'S ONLY ONE BUTTON ON THE ENTIRE MACHINE.

Don't get me started on the hot water valve.

It irks me that people tease me when I make a completely innocent mistake and I'm the one who suddenly has no common sense. I wish my taunters would work with the general public for awhile and then see what they think.

Shoe Complaints

What's up with shoes?

Yes, shoes. I am a size 8. Up until this past year, I could buy any size 8 without having to try it on. Sneakers, heels, flats, loafers, you name it - I could wear it. Of course, I always sensibly did try shoes on before I bought them - but it just proved time and again I was a standard size 8.

Now, my wedding shoes did not fit right. The manufacturer warned that they ran big, but even when I got down to the right size, the shoes were still quite long that tapered off a half-inch (at least) behind my heel. Rick and I shoved 2 sets of heel pads into each shoe and called it a fix. It probably would have been a comfortable fix if I hadn't stood in them for something like 6 hours straight. I chalked it up to an anomaly. Sunday, Rick and I went shoe shopping, and every shoe I tried on did the same thing. They're made extremely long so that my heel continually either a) pops out or b) is giving me blisters. I finally bought 2 pair, which I though fit, but I've discovered I have painful blisters on the back of each heel.

What's with un-standardizing shoes?? Is this because of people of . . . shall we say, more generous proportions? Is there actually a market for this?

I Adore You

Last Monday was my birthday. I hope I remember all the details I had wanted to write!

Because it was Labor Day, USA Network ran a marathon of SVU. Yes!! I was able to watch tv for Rick worked overtime, and even read a bit of Beowulf. Then we went BOWLING. I dressed as pretty as I could - my white skirt (which I realized I wore two years ago for my birthday), and my pink scoop neck top with the sequins, my sand-dollar necklace, and I pulled my hair back with my Swarovski crystal comb. I found a lovely 8 lb. swirled pink bowling ball to complete my ensemble (and of course, the very sexy blue velcro bowling shoes). My first two games were pathetic (under 100), but so were Rick's. Then I changed up my form, and bowled so well (150, baby!), about 5 strikes (maybe more?) and at least two spares, that Rick thought I had "played" him. He actually thought that I had thrown the first two games to lull him into a false sense of security! I was amazed, because what would I gain by doing that?? Rick just gets all the more competitive, and all the more accurate, when he's threatened. So of course, he stepped up a notch and still beat me with a 177. My last game was around 125, but Rick snagged a blazing 200 and we decided it was time to leave the smoke-filled alleys and do our grocery shopping for the few items we had forgotten earlier in the weekend.

I snuggled up on the couch with more SVU, while Rick went all-out making enchiladas. My cake sat comically on the counter, a domed German chocolate concoction (baked at too high of a heat - our oven is psycho, we finally figured out that it runs about 90-95 degrees hot) that had two cans of icing sliding off of it. Every once in awhile, Rick would stop paying attention to the enchiladas so he could scrape icing up off the platter and deposit it on top of the cake, where it would begin its precarious descent all over again. It was still very festive and celebratory, though, sitting next to the vase (yes, we have to pronounce it with a short a since its my birthday, a very elegant affair) of lovely white roses, gorgeous pink gerbera daisies, and purple "fill-in" flowers that I couldn't identify (looked similar to a dried lavender). The daisies became a source of entertain because for three days, they couldn't decide if they wanted to droop or perk up. They finally decided on the latter (I'd lost hope - so was pleasantly surprised), but couldn't straighten their stems all the way at the top, so I had zig-zagged daisies that looked very avant-garde. Or just plain silly (how I usually equate the two, anyway).

I had talked to my parents on the phone who were at Aunt Chris's and Uncle John's for a picnic, which means I got to talk to everyone, including Cassidy and Katie (who was very excited that chocolate cake was being served at their picnic). After I talked to Bob and Beth on the phone, we got to PRESENTS. I had been wriggling with excitement for 3 days over the PRESENTS that were innocently sitting beneath our tv, driving me nuts. Rick gave me a snappy denim jumper that I had once tried on for him, and he matched up two shirts for underneath (he was very proud and proceeded to tell me EVERYTHING about that shopping trip - I had to stop him when he got to the part about one of the shirts being on clearance). Mom and Dad sent the never-ending box of fun that worked just like a magician's top hat. I kept pulling stuff out of it. I'd get to the bottom, and more stuff would appear. It was amazing. But Mom sent some jewelry of hers that no longer fit (turquoise), stamps (including Jimmy Stewart), a build-a-bear and panera gift certificate, dark chocolate, and other things that I can't conjure up, presently. In the end, the PRESENTS were better than I ever could have imagined.

Rick and I watched JAG, having to scratch our plans of My Fair Lady (3 freakin' hours long!). I'm hoping to watch MFL tonight. Then we went to bed. There was no birthday play, because, of course, I didn't feel like it. :-(

An ethical dilemma: I amassed $170 (not counting the money Mom gave me to buy loafers, something I had expressed an interest in). Do I put it towards a years supply of contacts, or do I go to Kohl's (using the $25 gift certificate the Wessell's gave me and the 15% off coupon Kohl's sent as an apology) and buy AN ICE CREAM MAKER (they have a Cuisinart that is very similar to the Krup's model that Alton Brown recommends). I don't know! I want to be fiscally sensible now that Rick and I are strapped for cash (and we had to shell out for plane tickets this month, AND I have an eye doctor appointment with a contact purchase coming up, AND a physical I need, AND the car needing new brakes), but on the other hand, it's my birthday money! Of which I will have plenty left to put towards all those expenses . . .

My favorite part of the day? While Rick was making dinner, he just stopped and looked at me, and simply said, "I adore you." I never got out of him what precipitated that. I adore you. It made me tingle to my toes. That was the ultimate part of Lindsay turning 26 - a man, while making her dinner, uses three words to mean more than he could know.

FLUSH

At 2:30 am, I woke up with throbbing pain . . . in my ovaries. I got the bathroom, and waves of nausea swept over me as the blood just came pouring forth. My period has never started in the middle of the night before. I've never had such intense, stabbing pain, before, either. I took PMS medication, which never kicked in (or in other words, the pain was so severe that I couldn't tell when the meds had taken effect). I thrashed for another 2 hours in pain. It felt like organs were being ripped ruthlessly from my body. Rick finally took up the couch. I was still awake, and very nauseous but out of pain, at 7:30 when sleep finally stole over me for 50 deep minutes. Every 5 minutes I was cursing the birth control.

Sally told me that Tressa had to quit Ortho because it gave her heavy periods and bad cramping. Which, obviously, isn't good, since birth control is supposed to lighten periods and PMS.

Now, the hundred dollar question, is Dr. D going to believe me? I know my body. He doesn't. But he's the doctor. I refuse to take Ortho anymore. It's going down the toilet, little pill popped thru foil followed by little pill popped through foil.

Lesser of Two Evils

I've been married for a little over a month. Rick and I didn't have sex before marriage. But oh did we want to - stopping my sex drive was like trying to stop Niagra Falls. Rick, being a completely-normal-previously-unsexed-male (i.e. 13 years of pent-up horniness), his drive was 10 times worse than that. So in the past 32 days, when I can finally strip the clothes of my man and make up for lost time, have I wanted to? No. Not at all. Well . . . maybe once or twice. I first blamed it on the pain. Sex, the first dozen times, was an exercise in how much agony I could tolerate. Really, I mean, tolerate. I had to act like it wasn't there - otherwise Rick felt like it was "sanctioned rape." So for his sake, I mustered up all the pain tolerance I had (which is a considerable amount - so you can imagine how bad it was to break through my defenses). Therefore, I deduced that my lack of sex drive came from my body knowing that more pain was inevitable. A few nights I declined. Most nights I gave in (why punish my husband?). That didn't end up so well - this past Thursday, I realized at that crucial point when one can't curl up in a fetal position and protect herself - that I didn't want him on top of me, in me, or anywhere near me. I panicked, my body responded, and I broke down in a flood of tears. I curled up and away from him, and tried to breathe. It terrified Rick. And I could not explain. How do I say to my husband that I felt like I was being raped - and that I allowed it?

A thought sneakily surfaced in the back of my head - and I pushed it away for about a week. But I couldn't help but note the obvious - the lack of sex drive also coincided with something else that's only been part of my life for one month. Birth control.

So I set out online to find out if any other women have the same complaint. I found a slew of recent surveys (winter 2006) in which research indicates that birth control not only decreases sex drive (meaning arousal, lubricant, the whole nine yards), but over a long enough period it could permanently damage it. I also found plenty of other women wondering precisely the same thing I am. There was a half-hearted piece of advice to switch birth control. But it was apparent that the medical givers of this advice didn't have too much faith in it. More promising was the "find another type of contraception" advice. Like what? Diaphragms and condoms that don't guarantee unwanted pregnancy? Patches that one can't hide too well (or shower in successfully?)?

On the plus side, I've been wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I can now fall back on the idea that nothing is wrong with me - I've been hormonally altered. I suppose I can quit the pill and see what happens. Or I could talk to my gynecologist, who has never been helpful in the few years I've been seeing him. I've talked to him about two serious problems - all of which he dismissed out of hand and lectured me for. 2 years in a row he lectured me about drinking more milk. I asked him how much he wanted me to drink beyond the 3 glasses I down everyday. I guess I could start with him, and if I get nowhere, hit planned parenthood (I've already paid for one gynecological visit this year - I'm not shelling out another $75 that Rick and I don't have).

Or I could just quit and Rick and I can lay our fate in the durability of condoms (the idea that birth control can permanently affect my sex drive is a scary idea). Can we afford to be pregnant in the next two years? No. Can our relationship survive this damaging lack of intimacy? No.

Russian roulette time.

Just for me!

It's been a long time since I've written just for me. My last journal was a pathetic attempt at it. I thought I could keep friends updated and write what I wanted (I began it because old acquaintances were clamoring for me to join the recent wave of online sharing, something I discovered I'm not good at). But things often snowball out-of-control, don't they? Soon so many people had my livejournal link that I couldn't be myself. That left me in the predicament of having a wide audience to share my life with . . . a life that wasn't truly me. So I tried my hand at wit and entertainment. It was a fun attempt, but was not the outlet I craved. It didn't give me a product that helped me to reflect upon my latest life lessons and predicaments, or a place to grieve fresh pain and properly bury sorrow. It wasn't a forum to vent, perchance someone think it about them (especially when it was . . .!). It wasn't a place to be truthful - that hard, glaring concept that I already have trouble swallowing - do I really want to share that with a melee of close friends, past friends, and strangers? It was not a journal I could look back upon and truly remember what I was experiencing. God has gifted me the ability to forget the past and forge on with the future. Writing is my tool for remembering the emotions, the lessons, the trials endured and the battles won. Writing keeps my experience archival - for the times when I need to draw upon my past and use it in my present. Journaling gives me a reality-check. But only ONLY if I can be myself. I'm reigning in my fear that other people will stumble upon this (once I figure out how to use the security settings, I'll feel much better), and I'm trying to remember how to be myself. Isn't that silly? Almost 26 years of being Lindsay, and I don't think I know how to tap into her anymore. I need to find that girl again, the girl who wrote with a passion and a veracite.