The Destruction of the Throne of Power

Or, the Downfall of Sports in Hell's Vestibule


Well, there's little joy in New England this week--aside from all the snow, rain, and more snow, the Patriots lost on Sunday to the Jets.


I couldn't be happier.



Now, I (usually) am a home town supporter; I certainly am NOT a Jets fan, not after their utter lack of sportsmanship (although the Pats don't have a great rep with the coaches spying on other teams, etc.), but I also can't stand the way the city erupts whenever there's a championship here. I mean, I understand getting excited about the Sox. We waited a longass time for that World Series in '04, and after the division win over the Yanks, that Cinderella comeback... That was a glorious year, the one that left all of us saying, "I wish *insert dead dear one's name here* was alive to see this." Then 2007 was just the icing on the cake, y'know? But the stupid behavior in the streets... *sigh* I hate it. I REALLY hate it.



It doesn't help that I don't have a lot of respect for the way the team owner has held the state hostage for money to rebuild the stadium, not to mention the fact that I won't patronize the place--what they want for parking is obscene. And I really, REALLY hate football. I mean, I was cool with the Pats for a little while--seeing Teddy Bruschi playing with his kids on the field right before that first Superbowl win softened my attitude towards them, but after he retired... And let's face it, Hollywood Tom is the NFL's version of the blonde joke. What a fuckin' IDIOT. He opens his mouth, and it's like, Dude, are you retarded and just got lucky that it doesn't show in your face? Wow. That, and the fact that he dumped his pregnant girlfriend to shag a supermodel... Ug. Classy guy. And the fact that the city almost shut down because he had a little fender-bender on Cambridge Street... Please. WHO FUCKING CARES?!?!?!?



I mean, if it was Jason Veritek or Jonathan Papelbon, I'd worry a little. Ditto if it was Papi.



I also don't give a hang about basketball. I used to like basketball--I came of age in the era of Larry Bird, Robert Parrish, Kevin McHale... Decent gents who played the game with style, class and skill. Now... thugs, the lot of 'em. I gave up on basketball after Charles Barkley made the announcement that he was a basketball player, not a role model. Sorry, for the money they're paying you, you can behave like a decent human being and shut the fuck up about it.



Whatever happened to the concept of citizenship? Explain that to me.



Ditto for football. Thugs. I mean, how many convicted felons are playing in the NFL today?



We won't discuss the prices they charge for "official" team gear. Jesus wept. I was actually having a convo with an idiot in Sbux last week, and he tried to give me shit for wearing "official" team gear (I had my pink Red Sox fleecy scarf that Vicki made for me for Xmas). It gave me a tickle to say, "Hate to tell you, but all of my 'official' gear has come from Canadian thrift shops. I've never paid more than $5 for it."



It was funny to watch his jaw hit his chest and try to recover. I LOVE doing that to idiots. That conversation was a trial; not only does he worship Radiohead *gak*, but he needed to one-up everything. What was funny was when he switched the topic to autism and how a "guy he knew" could pass for normal because "he'd learned scripts." When I replied that I could always spot it, he was like, no, I doubt that. The exchange went on for a bit, and I had to bite my tongue from saying, "ASSHOLE, I KNOW YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF!!!" Fucking retard. Two decades working at an education school with an LD program, yeah, I know how to spot.



I'll talk about retards at another time. I have one in my family; I hate his guts. He's an asshole. Not because he's retarded, but because he's a fuckin' retard. If you're one of those apologists who think that just because someone has a handicap, they're a saint, please... fuck off. Go read someone else. Please. Being retarded doesn't exempt you from being human. Don't believe me? I'll introduce you to my older cousin. Actually, I won't. I don't speak to him.*



Going back to the Red Sox in '04, my *insert dead relative here* was my mother's father, Jack. He was a die hard Sox fan, definitely one of the faithful. Never went to Fenway; I don't think I can ever recall Jack going to a live sporting event, but by God, that TV never went off, and if it wasn't the news, it was sports. *slams head on the desk*



And where he watched was from the Throne of Power.





I hadn't thought about the Throne of Power for years (probably because I'd deliberately blocked it out), but Celebricrush's story about his mother (yeah, the fat joke that still makes me howl) and the Throne of Misery brought back all the horror of the Throne of Power. I promised you guys a Jack story a couple of weeks ago, and this is the one that came to mind...

And now… the Saga of the Epic Battle



In Hell’s Vestibule, the Throne of Power was the Center of the Universe. Jack always had a chair, a recliner covered in naugahyde (what the fuck is naugahyde? Has anyone ever seen a nauga?). God help you if you sat in His Chair, even if he wasn’t home. Ever seen All in the Family? My grandfather made Archie Bunker look like a flamin’ liberal, I shit you not. My grandmother had her chair, too—always a fabric-covered rocker, sometimes with a foot rest that popped up, sometimes not. Their chairs were side by side in The Den, and the narrow path between them was the only way to get into The Parlor. Directly across from the chairs was the TV, to the right of the kitchen doorway. The TV was the High Altar of the household—Jack’s constant companion after he retired. That goddamned thing never went off, I swear, and if it wasn’t news on the box, it was sports.

If you ever wondered why I am not a professional sports fan (with the exception of the Red Sox, but then, that’s a religion; and hockey because he never liked hockey) it is because of Jack. If there was a football game on, he’d find it. If there was no football, there was a boxing match. If there was no boxing, there was baseball. Basketball. Gymnastics. Horse racing. Billiards! Shit, the Olympics were like Christmas for him, TV wise. Didn’t matter that no one else wanted to watch it, it was HIS house, HIS TV, get the hell out if you don’t like it.


Yeah.

Anyway, Himself went through a couple of Lazy Boys and fuck knows what else. After my grandmother died in ’85, he decided to get himself a NICE chair. Her rocking chair was moved to the parlor, and he bought himself a Craftmatic Contour Recliner.

With heat.



With massage.



With a fucking remote control.



It was warm beige. Naugahyde. Wooden arm rests. HUGE.


And it was FUGLY.

And uncomfortable.

This was a $1000 chair, and the damn thing was the worst piece of shit to sit on. There was no way to get comfortable on it unless you used a mound of pillows and covered it with a sheet. Any bare skin stuck to it otherwise, and peeling yourself off of it was painful, like ripping off a bandaid times ten.

And he loved that chair. It was his Throne. He watched TV in it, he read in it, he ate in it, he slept in it.



Well, he and his love affair with the chair lasted until he went into the nursing home in 1989.
When it was well and truly established that he was not coming home, the decision was made to dismantle the chair.



We tried to do it properly. We did. Rick (my ex-husband; he'd earned a shot at it--he'd done more to take care of the old man towards the end than any of his miserable sons, including bathing and dressing and generally dealing with him when the rest of us were considering calling Dr. Kevorkian, or just grabbing a hammer) pulled out his electric screw gun and tried to find a way to take it apart piece by piece. However, the chair would not cooperate because even though the motor had gotten cranky and the heat didn’t work any longer and the massager made an ominous grinding noise that made the monstrosity dance across the hardwood floor, it was actually incredibly well constructed.


So we decide to take it apart.

Fuck that—we decided to massacre that damn thing.

Picture this: three adults (myself, St. Teresa and Rick) armed with a crowbar, a hatchet, and a saw, approaching the Throne of Power like we were stalking a wild boar, ready for it to turn on us and gore us bloody. It took all three of us to turn it upside down, legs in the air, helpless as a turtle dropped on a rock by a hungry eagle.

And then… then we fell upon it. Every scream of a screw being ripped from its anchorage made us cackle in fiendish delight as the Throne protested its demise. Every wire torn from its housing, every mechanism levered out of its safe niche… the Throne of Power put up a hell of a fight, but three hours later, covered in sweat, dust and sawdust, the three of us stood over the pile of scrap that had been the symbol of ultimate control in the house, gripping our instruments of destruction, panting with exhaustion, glowing with triumph.



The Throne of Power was dead.



And the oppressed celebrated! We howled in jubilation over the pitiful remnants of the instrument of our subjugation. We patted each other on the back, complimenting ourselves on our fortitude and grace under pressure, for not bowing before our stubborn foe.



Frabjous Day!

And then, of course, we had to haul the parts out to the side of the house to wait for garbage day. But that bit of drudgery didn’t matter—we had prevailed.



And you can be DAMN SURE not a scrap of it was allowed to be squirrelled away and taken back in.



I'm also willing to state that, with the exception of the occasional Bruins and Red Sox game, professional sports has not been allowed on our TV since the day he left the house.



I'm good with it.



* I used to work in a theatre company with someone who would deliberately cast at least two of the LD students per production. It was good for the company. The only problem was that, rather than treat them like they were human beings, this person would speak to these kids like they were three-years-old and hard of hearing and thinking, rather than just in possession of a learning disorder. I don't see that as a positive thing; I see that as just another form of stupid prejudice. I mean, yeah, you make allowances for the LD, but at the same time, the whole point of the program they were enrolled is was to prepare them for independent living and functioning.

Ever Have One of THEM Days?

Today has not been the best of days.

The migraine started last night around 6ish, before I even left the office. I slept a lot last night--got home about 8ish, got into comfy sweats, and instead of making dinner, I took a nap for an hour and a half. The cat wasn't happy when I woke up, but hey, food was necessary. I managed to sleep another 9 hours, and woke up feeling like I had a family of gnomes inside my skull, trying to get out with hammers.

I called in. I am not going to increase my suffering unnecessarily.

Well, I woke up a few times after that, registered my pain level, and curled back up. This made Piddy very, very happy. She's old--she likes the extra warmth in the bed. The purring helps the headache, too.

The past few days have been stressful. I really didn't want to come back from PA. I can't tell you guys how much I miss having KJ in the same city; we had some damn good times back in the day, and during the bad times, there's no one better to have on your team. Plus the fact that Hayden is the bee's knees... I love that kid. He's too freakin' cool for words. I can even forgive him for waking us all at oh-dark-stupid because he's actually really sweet in the morning. I could handle sharing digs with the two of them; I would love to be helping to take care of him and raise him (I actually enjoy dealing with small boys--I think I've mentioned before how much I love small boy logic. "Because..." and the big eyes... :-). Plus, it would be helping her, and I'd be near another really good friend... *sigh* If I got back there before the 22nd, I could catch Eddie Ifft's show at the Rex in PGH, & would be closer to Jim's show in Jersey... And without the full-time job, there would be time to do other things. Like research agents, write query letters, the synopsis, and the sequel. And build the military jacket I've been designing in my head for the past six months... and the shrine projects, and altered art bits...

OK.

So I got back around 2ish on Sunday night--did the drive in seven hours with multiple stops (needed to pee a lot, for some reason; *shrugs* I'll blame being north of 40, but it was odd). I was also texting with Teacher Man who has mysteriously reappeared. Evidently, I was one of his big highlights of 2010. Who knew? His schedule is still mad, but we'll see. I'm hopeful, but not holding my breath. He's attractive, intelligent, funny, and we get into the same music. Plus, he teaches history. Perfect. But busy. And not looking for commitment. I'd be happy with regular sex and hanging out.

Monday... I did some stuff on Monday, culminating in spending two hours in the driveway, going through the 15-odd contractor bags taken out of the dining room & kitchen. I ended up bringing back in a full one and roughly ten reusable shopping bags (all taken out of the contractor bags) of stuff. Stuff like family photos. New hardcovers (like the latest Dresden Files novel that I haven't even read yet). Research. Papers--like my paper on King Lear and one of my philosophy papers on religion and the purpose thereof. Lots of Shakespeare articles. Brand new sewing supplies, still in sealed packages. An envelope--clear glassine envelope--of new postage stamps. Recipes. Including the annotated page on Guinness mac & cheese. Stuffed animals. Jewelry. A bag of groceries--BRAND NEW BAG of groceries, unopened, just brought into the house, all of it dry goods--intact, as it had been sitting in the dining room. A gorilla costume. The shawl Vicki made for me. Presents. Unopened Xmas cards. CDs. DVDs--Futurama, still in the plastic slipcase.

I could go on, but if I do, I may throw something, and I'm sitting in Sbux. It wouldn't be polite.

I spent Monday night not writing at the write-in at Andala, having a blast with Leesh, Tom, Steve & Emily, just chilling and hanging and laughing. I needed that so badly--I needed to be with others and just forget my stupid life. And then was up until 4 having an anxiety attack about returning to work.

Tuesday was OK. Fucked about on Twitter with the Haters Club (that's what I'm starting to call the little group of us writers who hate our jobs and post silly things to keep ourselves amused). Great to see Jaime--she is a rare gem of a human being.

In short, I was reminded of the good things about my life here.

And then today happened.

So, I'm lying in bed around 1ish, and I hear a banging on the front door. Dipshit answers the door--it's the cleaners, coming to help him. Well, the cleaners took a tour through the first floor and started discussing the house:
"Someone put up a Christmas tree."
"Must have been The Daughter."
"Look at this. All my work..."
"Is The Daughter home?
"Hey, Daughter, GO FUCK YOURSELF!"

At which point, from the front room, I say, "The Daughter IS here--I'm home dealing with a migraine."
Silence.
I call their boss. After telling the story, he goes mental on me and reams me a new asshole--evidently, I am lying and not cooperating and he's going to do his job whether I like it or not.
He hangs up on me.
I sit there, my head throbbing, numb, in shock, and wishing to fuck I had listened to KJ and not come back.
I don't know what I did then. I just tuned out for a bit.
Then the phone rings. Bob calling back--falling all over himself to apologize: he called his guy, the guy owned up to his behavior, and how can we fix this?

*slams head on the desk*

Ma calls 45 minutes later. She's at Lawrence Memorial emergency--she fell before dialysis. The clinic made her go to the hospital after dialysis. Can I come and pick her up?

*slams head on the desk*

So, while I am not moving immediately, I am soon. Because I am numb. Really, just numb. I've hit the place where all of this has gotten so ridiculous, I can't get angry. I'm just... darkly amused.

I think the blog needs to become a memoir and a one-woman show. Because I crack people up when I tell these stories--it's the looks I get on my face, the inflection, the timing... and honestly, this has gone so far over the top, it IS funny.

Unless you're living it.
*slams head on the desk*
Until tomorrow, my blurking darlings. I am going to go home, eat some chicken pie, and soak in a hot tub with a Lush Boog bomb. Because I deserve it.
Much love,
Your Empress

Cookin' Up a Storm!

So let’s talk about the POSITIVE side of the holidays!

I have been doing a truckload of baking. I actually LOVE to cook and bake for other people. There is nothing happier for me than having someone gush over my cooking. Really. It’s a simple thing, a little thing, but there is something really satisfying about baking a really great cookie or cheese wafer or whatever, and having the recipient a) get excited about receiving homemade yummies, and b) later on, praising them. There is a real satisfaction in feeding people.

When I finally finish the cookbook (which is not a priority project—it’s an accumulating project because all of my recipes are mine, some of them from the ground up, some of them adapted from other people & enhanced, tweaked and just made better). My cooking talent is inherited, both genetically from my great-grandmother Lyons (“she was five-by-five, and had a left on her…” who came to the U.S. from Newfoundland as a cook on her father’s fishing boat) and osmosis from my Nana Risley (my dad is adopted, but I learned to love food in her tiny galley kitchen in northern Missouri. I knew I was a great cook the day I tasted one of my sugar cookies, and it was better than hers. One of these days I’ll develop the intestinal fortitude to attempt a proper fruit pie from scratch. Her pies… OMFG... her PIES… ULTIMATE comfort food for me because it brings her back for just a few bites).

This is the time of year that I bake up a storm. This year, I did snickerdoodles for the first time (thanks to Heather, who told me they were just sugar cookies with cinnamon. Not bad, actually—I’m not too fussed on cinnamon, but they were good); mint chocolate chips (although my recipe didn’t come out like it usually does. They were good, but not as good as I’m used to coming out of my oven); chocolate (and chocolate pecan) banana bread; peppermint bark (a mix of milk, bittersweet and unsweetened chocolate… none of that grease called “white chocolate” PAH!); and the piece de resistance, violet shortbreads. I have discovered my newest favorite ingredient (and finally bought myself a pastry blender—the old “two knife” method of incorporating butter and flour just ain’t cuttin’ no more). Violet syrup from France… *dreamy smile* OMFG… the shortbreads were a masterpiece.

And, of course, my cheese wafers. I still have to make another batch of cheese wafer dough. People don’t know how lucky they are that any get out of the house—I am covetous of those things. Utterly, utterly DELISH… Mind you, I use at least five different kinds of cheese in them and more cheese than the recipe calls for, because let’s face it, you’re eatin’ ‘em for the cheese, not the flour.

One of the last happy memories I have of my marriage happened in the kitchen. It was a Saturday night during the last six months Rick and I were together. I was experimenting with a wok and wonton wrappers—different fillings, savory and sweet. I was standing in the kitchen, in my grubby sweats—no underwear, no bra, hair shoved up in a pony tail, zero make-up, futzing back and forth from the table to the stove as I chopped, mixed, stuffed, sealed, prepped… all the crap that goes into cooking, and I looked up, my face furrowed in concentration, and happened to catch Rick just staring at me with a smile on his face. And I’m like, “What?”

“I love to watch you cook.”

“Well, yeah, of course—it means you’re getting a good meal.”

And he shook his head. “No, you are so beautiful when you cook.”

And I looked at him like he’d grown another three heads. “Are you serious?” I mean, I already told you guys what I was wearing. I’m sure I did not smell like a bouquet of roses—I mean, I’d had a shower that morning, but hot oil tends to make everyone around it smell like a fast food joint.

And he shook his head again and laughed. “Yeah, I’m serious. You get so into it—you focus so hard, and you just create… You LOVE to feed people. And you’re good at it, Lee. It’s so amazing. You’re so amazing.” And he took me in his arms—dripping hot wonton, sweaty sweats and all—and kissed me.

I may curse his memory, but I will always love him for that gift of a moment and a compliment from the heart. Whenever I think about shelving the cookbook, that memory comes back, and added to it are the piles of compliments that have come over the years from the folks who’ve had my cooking. I always love passing on a recipe (and yeah, I will keep my promise about posting the recipes from this year, as well as the Guinness mac & cheese once I finally get around to making it). A former co-worker (whom I really miss!) posted the loveliest compliment on FB last week—she still has the little cookbook I made up YEARS ago and uses the recipes.

The teacher in me comes out, too, when I write them up. There’s nothing I hate more than incomplete instructions—I think that’s why so many people get intimidated by the idea of making things from scratch, whether it’s cooking or crafting. Many of the books out there don’t give you ALL of the details, and let me tell you… details are important, especially if you’ve never done it before. I was lucky—I had a Nana whom I got to watch cook, and ditto my mother; I was introduced to the secret of good Italian bolognese sauce (or "gravy") by my childhood best friend's mother, may she rest in peace. I was sent to my first cooking class at age seven. And because I’m such a picky fucking eater (I am, I admit it, and the allergies and gastric bypass are only a part of it—I am FUSSY, Gods damn it, FUSSY about what I put in my body, and it had DAMN well better taste FABULOUS) I had to cook for myself from a very young age.

It also doesn’t help that I have a really highly developed sense of smell & taste—I am one of those “lucky” people who can taste something and analyze the spices. I can tell the difference in certain types of salt (Alea sea salt… *sigh* may I never eat a steak that is not graced with a light sprinkling of Alea sea salt…), a tomato ripened in a field vs. a greenhouse, a Pink Lady apple grown in New Zealand vs. Chile (Chile = #fail—BITTER!), and a Honeycrisp grown in New York or Vermont vs. one grown in Nova Scotia (NS = #WIN—gotta be a difference in the soil and pollution levels). I can tell the difference in quality of chocolate—Cadbury from England = bliss, whilst Cadbury from the U.S. (unless it’s been imported from Canada) = eh; which is why if you have one of my Christmas chocolates (my peppermint patties are legendary; still haven’t decided if I’m making them this year or not), you will have very happy taste buds and tummy. I don’t use those @#$%^&*( candy melts. They are CRAP—grease with chocolate flavoring. I use top quality choccie because dammit, I like to snack on them too!  My snobbery = #win for everyone.

We won’t get into me and cheese. Mmmmmmm… cheese. Cheese is one of the happiest foods on the planet. The last time I crashed up at Camp Atherton, I happened to have some Spanish Mahon cheese with me. Ferd and Laura had never tried it. They happened to have a beeeee-aaa-yoooooooteeeful tomato, the last of the summer tomatoes… OMG, that tomato… (Yes, I haunt the farmers market in July for the first of the summer tomatoes. Because with summer tomatoes comes tomato pie!) The three of us were having a foodgasm over the combination of that tomato and the Mahon cheese with a sprinkle of salt… Heaven. Bliss. In-fucking-credible. And made for a really happy memory, the sharing of really excellent food with incredible friends. One of the reasons I want to do book tours—I want to explore local food, find different tastes… I have more bookmarks in my web browser from magazine articles about some place in East Bumfiddle that makes an incredible jam from berries grown ONLY there, local cheese, a sausage speciality, bread, fruit, cheeeeeeese…

(Am currently munching on leftover chopped pecans… Food Nirvana, thy name is Trader Joe’s. My dessert after having some of the leftover white truffle mac & cheese from Tavern… I may have to invest in a bottle of white truffle oil. We’ll see how the Guinness mac & cheese comes out.)

And now… now I have to bottle up the ginger-infused plum cordial. And maybe start the pear cordial fermenting. Hmmmmmm… I wonder how that would mix with St. Germaine….