In which two bulbs of garlic are rendered* unto Casa Steele………

Garlic Spaghetti Sauce is one of the greatest joys of any human’s life. Of course, if you are eating it you’d best make damn sure that your friends and family are eating it too. Otherwise no-one will be able to stand being around you. You will literally ooze garlic smell for a day or so.

But its worth it.

Lightly saute your garlic first in olive oil before mashing the cloves. It gives the garlic a more rounded, less bitter flavor.

* – I like the usage of “rendering unto” as a euphemism for sacrifice. In this case it means to peel, fry in oil, mash and then cook for three hours in a tomato based sauce.

This morning as we were on our way to drop The Girl off at the YMCA I asked her if she had had good dreams last night.

“Oh, yes. I dreamt of bunnies.”
“Oh? Big bunnies?”
“Tiny little bunnies.”
“What color were they? Were they pink? Blue? Orange? Polka dotted?”
“Snow-white bunnies. And they made me their queen. And then, I became the sun.”

After we’d dropped her (with many admonishments to “have a fabu day!”) we continued on to T’s work. Somehow we got into a discussion of Toys That Are Evil and That Shouldn’t Be Given to Children. Ever. A lot of what we talked about had its roots in toys that go bad, esp. in movies. But I got to thinking and I realized that there are many toys that are evil.

Here, for your edification is a partial list:

Teddy Ruxpin: What were these people THINKING? A doll that talks, that you put tapes into? Uh-huh. Every parent knows (as Robin Williams once said) that that thing wakes up at night and says things like “You must kill Mommy and Daddy.”

My Mom once gave Summer a doll that said things like “I love you Mommy” in the most evil, insinuating voice, ever. I swear it rolled its eyes at me every time it said that. As you can imagine, that doll got lost *very* quickly.

Actually, just about any talking toy should be avoided. They’re creepy. What’s worse, is that they have a tendency to go off in the middle of the night while you are checking on your child. Picture this: you’re bending over the bebe, smoothing ruffled hair back off her forehead. Suddenly from underneath the bed comes this bright, perky voice. “Mike Wyzowski…on the job!” it declares. Loudly. Right next to your foot, where its poking under the dust ruffle.
“AAAAAAAAARGH!”
Why do these things go off spontaneously like that? Do the toymakers think its funny? Is there a little extra (a ‘daemon’, if you will) bit of programming included? (Subroutine F93Z, “scare the living shit out of the parents”, enabled….GO!)

Barbie clothes/shoes: Actually its more for two reasons. One – its not like the damn Barbies (at least in our house) *wear* clothes anyway. And two…”Barbie shoes” is actually a Swahili phrase that translates roughly as “Foot Mines”.

Polly Pockets. Anything in this line of toys should also be banned from sane households. They have thirty squillion parts and they’re all TINY. More foot mines and possible animal choking hazards.(*)

Matchbox cars Who besides me thinks these are just a prat fall waiting to happen? Hardware floors, staircases-you name it. Mark my words — one step onto a Matchbox car on a slick surface and you are doing a Three Stooges floordive.

Ello Essentially girl Leggos. These should be banned. Why on earth do we need gender-based leggos? *shakes head in disgust* Besides, they don’t work right. The little connectors fail after about the third time you use them.

* — my cats aren’t the brightest and Macha will try to eat anything that isn’t sealed into lead-lined containers.

Wow.

To call last night “interesting” would be to also say that the Inquisition lasted a couple of years. Not that I’m comparing the two, cause last night wasn’t bad, per se. Just..not at all what I had expected.

Confused yet?

I’ll ‘splain.
No wait, there is too much. I’ll sum up.

So yesterday evening, I got home from work and as per my usual routine, checked my email. Lo and behold!, there was an email from MOM@ohmygawd.net (not the actual email address) entitled “Your Journal”. Naturally, I panicked. I freaked. I went back through several days worth of journal entries and was more than a little alarmed at what I’d written. Innermost secrets! Stuff that I don’t talk to them about! Yikes! Froth! Dogs and cats living together…mass hysteria!

Wait…perhaps I should, you know…read her email before going into Batshit mode. Hrmm…interesting idea. It would certainly save wear and tear on the carpeting and walls. Alrighty then.
*readreadHEY!readreadI DID NOTreadreadooh,she’sgota pointreadreadhrmm…read…*

Oh, dear. Well. Its not as bad as I thought it was gonna be. And she made a couple of valid points. Maybe I should call her? I screw up my courage (and believe me, it *does* take some courage) and call them at home.

One ringie-dingie. Two ringie-dingies. (bonus points if you know that reference)…Answering machine. Either they’re not home or they saw my name on the caller id and are postponing chatting with me. Fair enough. I leave a bland message and disconnect.

Now some of you may be wondering..why on earth would my Mom reading my journal cause me to go into full fight or flight mode? Well, here neatly bullet-pointed for your convenience are the reasons:

* Parental units and I are JUST now getting over some of the emotional scarring left over from my formative years.
* In spite of … or, hell I don’t know maybe because of our past I *adore* my folks. I don’t always get along with or agree with them but I do love them very much.
* That being said there was LOTs of things that I haven’t been telling them (oh, EVER) because I knew that they would freak out, hire hitmen to come and de-programme me or simply withdraw from my life.

Because I could just imagine *that* scene.

“Hi Mom. I’m bisexual, kinky, waaaaaaaay flirtatious, poly and oh, by the way am raising your grandchild in a non-traditional manner/household.”
***THUD****
“Mom? Do you need help off the floor?”

And as you know Gentle Readers, I have been *very* open about myself here in journal land. Which is at it should be. This is not a fictional space for me. I don’t always post deep, meaningful things but its always me.

*sigh*

She did call back. We talked and talked. I explained my point of view. She explained hers. It wasn’t bad. I came away with a few things from that conversation:

a. They love me very, very much and worry about me
b. No, they do not approve of my lifestyle choices but amazingly DO feel that I am adult enough to MAKE those choices w/out condemnation from them
c. Why aren’t I a full time writer? (*)

All in all, not bad. And mostly, I feel relieved. Relieved that I don’t have to smokescreen my life anymore. Well, at least not with Mom and Dad, et al. Grandma (paternal) is an entirely different story.

“Grandma..I’m poly, kinky, bisexual…”
***THUD!!***
“Do you need help off the floor?….Grandma! Stop crawling away! And…Put. The. Bible. DOWN!

* — seriously, this was brought up again and again by Mom. She feels that I have “great potential” as an authoress. Dad has always felt that way. I can’t begin to list the times he’s told me that he thought I had several books in me.