Assorted quotidian tedium in The Big, Blue House, year one.

I bought an air fryer. I’m generally no good at cooking, so the hope is that it would allow me to cook my own food. Constantly asking Don to fry me some eggplant or catfish when he doesn’t eat those things himself seems rude. He’s always done it, of his own volition, but I’m fifty for crying out loud. So far I’ve successfully prepared rotisserie basket fries, and whiting. Go me.

This whole sexist notion that women are supposed to be good cooks just infuriates me. I can repair computers. I’ve fixed toilets, sinks, watches, MP3 and MP4 players, cassette decks, fans, etc. But I can’t cook my way out of a brown paper bag. lol

I mean I can follow a recipe. Baking isn’t so bad. But frying things in a pan, like my mother used to, where you have to constantly watch it, turn it, and adjust the heat and oil - That’s an art that requires a faster processing speed than I possess.

I might be able to manage it had anyone bothered to try to teach me when I was younger. But my mother thought I was too incompetent, and would always grab the utensils away from me. Snatch the fork or the spatula right out of my hand, when I was trying to learn, and say “Gimme that, Cindy!” with a growl, and do it herself, in a slamming, angry motion.

Then I would say “I’m not stupid!” And she’d snap back, “I don’t think you’re stupid!” (Then why won’t you ever let me do anything, you crabby, now thankfully dead, old bat?!)

Ah, childhood horrors.

As far as plumbing and small machine repair, I just take naturally to that sort of thing. Yay for autism.

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I discovered cheap moissanite on AliExpress, and found a few sellers with 99-100% positive feedback. I bought a 5 carat pendant. I’ll update in a month or so when it gets here. I figured why not, life is short.

I wanted to get Don a nice ring, but he has what I consider an odd perspective on moissanite rings. He says “no one will believe it” if he has a big solitaire ring. To him the most important thing is having strangers think it’s a diamond ring.

I don’t get it. All I’m interested in is looking at the light refraction compared to my diamond rings and cubic zirconias. I collect mineral specimens, and polished crystals. I love big polished quartz crystals. (I collect a lot of things. But I digress.)

Moissanite is a perfectly decent gem for jewelry in its own standing. It has greater dispersion, it’s nearly as hard as diamond, and it can stand heat up to 2000 degrees. So it’s effectively prettier, and could survive a house fire.

All that makes diamonds comparatively special is DeBeer’s marketing campaign, convincing everyone that diamonds alone symbolize lasting romance.

I would compare it to buying a Gucci bag, or a Polo shirt, or expensive selvedge jeans. It’s about perceived status, not utility.

But Don just cannot explain his feelings on anything whatsoever, unless he’s angry. So he can’t explain to me his thinking. So I have to guess. And my guess is that he doesn’t really like shiny jewelry. I think to him it only serves as a status symbol?

Which is confusing because he has a sterling onyx ring I bought him back in 2004, that he’s worn nearly to death, that certainly doesn’t confer any particular status upon its owner.

Or maybe he thinks that strangers will think it’s cubic zirconia, and therefore trashy? Yeah, probably that.

But I suggested he could just wear it around the house, and he said, “Why?”. I said “To look at it, because it’s pretty?”. He had no response.

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So I dunno. The next time he’s mad about something I’ll ask him. That’s worked in the past, though he hates it when I interrupt his angry yelling with a question about something else. He’ll say “It doesn’t work like that! Leave me alone!”. Except it does. That’s how I found out why he stopped going to visit his mother, long, long ago. And why he hates his sister. And why he stopped eating steak for a while. Yell about it, like I’m mad, when he’s mad, and he’ll tell me. It’s weird, but it works.

Like getting him to do something. I learned long ago that if I tell him something is going to be too hard for him to do, that I’m worried he could hurt himself trying to do it, he’ll suddenly take it upon himself to go and prove me wrong. It never fails. I think he hates to have his masculinity questioned.

Last week I was talking about how heavy the old trunks in the attic over the garage are. How I thought the lids alone weigh at least 50 lbs each. How we might need a come-along and some rope to get them down. (I want to turn one into a coffee table.) He got up, put on his coat, said he was going to go check something in the garage, and came back twenty minutes later saying the trunks were down.

I wasn’t trying to manipulate him into risking life and limb. I was honestly concerned he could herniate a disk, so I wanted to buy a come-along. But saying so got the desired result, and he’s alright, so I guess that’s all that matters.

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I should probably crash. Therapy is supposed to be tomorrow. The therapist missed an appointment two weeks ago because of newly discovered heart issue. She says she’s having palpitations, and sudden fainting. She had an appointment with a cardiologist, then she missed another appointment. - O_o

So here’s hoping she’s alive, and improving. Scary sh!t.

I finally find a therapist I like, and she might very well literally drop dead. Like so many things in my life, it’s like a morbid comedy.

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Thanks for reading.

Last updated January 24, 2023