more squash soup. yum. and some more ranting or panting

Emboldened housewife. ha ha. takes on the challenge of conquering a fridge devoid of all but olives that were harvested with the best of intentions and then forgotten, like most things, half a squash and a splash of milk that _someone_ left out. Using my secret mommy powers (because it is always me who is somehow responsible for the feeding of the child _even_ if I get home at 8...) I guiltlessly plagiarized a recipe from the internet, and what I lacked in spices (I guess the cardamom and coriander got left behind) I made up for with panache and pumpkin pie spice. I was even able to dig up the ends of shredded mozzarella to throw in for good measure. Kudos to whoever the author was;)...and thanks, because once again I got to eat a real meal (albeit liquid) instead of just beer. We have a closet full of Guinness (left over from last weekend - after being accused of not planning for enough drinks) - oh wait - I hate drinking beer, unless I am pounding it shamelessly to lose myself in a drunken stupor - which hasn't happened, truly, since the night that J.J., M.A, and N. and I finished a whole bottle of "Cabritos" reposado in a half-hour. It ended badly, N. and I. on the bathroom floor, sharing girly "secrets", then all four of us in the bed that was mine and JJ.s and then split in half, and mine and MA.s I couldn't purge the noxious alcohol and was still moaning drunk, wimpering on the Zebra couch of my furnished apartment, and JJ ignoring me, and MA playing the eternally sensitive and understanding pretendiente (but who was then jealous of the boyfriend that was mine first (and heartlessly discarded) and the girl who had stolen away with me... and all I wanted was to be young and free:(

I should have just gotten out when I had the chance. That was the house with the balcony, that is where I waited to be rescued. That is also where I probably got pregnant, and then never got roaring drunk again, even after the behemoth party that I threw as a departing "gift" to the evil upstairs inhabitants. If you have never thrown a party so big that there are people who you have never met (and none of your close friends have either) still sleeping in strange and uncomfortable positions when you awake in the morning, I don't recommend it, especially not when feeling conflicted about a "surprise" pregnancy and looking madly for an ex-pat doctor. No good, no good at all. So do the math and consider that my dining prospects were indeed looking slim.

Now I am happily fed and Isabella is being baby-sat via video chat with her Bobie, across the country. Amazing what some nourishment can do for the body and the soul. That and being left alone, with no guilt trips about not paying enough attention to others and spending all my time in front of the screen... I am making up for five lost years, dammit! I was meditating on the perfection of the burrito for lunch. Truly it has everything one could need...but I seemed to have lost my train of thought. I could take the Isabeline approach and anounce I love you to everyone or no one, and then start over. Yes, I think that is exactly what I will do.

So, to continue my incited rant, why is it that invariably _all_ (I believe that I have incontrovertible evidence, supported by longitudinal studies across cultures) men expect us to work around their schedule, their needs, their desires? Sisters, we should really move on... But as a very sexy sister reminds me on a daily basis (and we never get any work done in our office, but we do drink a lot of mate) there is this je ne sais quois... about men. I think it must be the eternal mother in us that genuflects to the eternal infantile, nipple-sucking child. We've been duped. I swear. But plastic tools are just not the same... not even strapped on:( (or should I try?)

Shall I stop now? I fixed a big problem today at work and generated "eternal" gratitude (from a man - nothing is eternal), and at the same time, was warned that I needed to be less aggressive in pursuing my goals in Academia, or at least we should practice interviewing so that I wouldn't piss off or frighten the stodgy old farts that will be judging me eventually. Ha. maybe they'll all just die by the time I get there, and then the women will be in charge. Of course, then we will start by tearing eachother down one by one. No such thing as female solidarity, not in any unifying sense. When will we learn that the old boys are just covering up for eachother's inadequacies while we are eternally doubting and trying to ameliorate ours? Fixing our hair or our lipstick, wondering if we are too fat or too thin to be loved or respected. We should just start covering one another's asses, or breasts or whatever it is that we have left hanging out and flapping about and causing shame.

I refuse, yes, refuse to be broken. Fuck the system, if I waste the next six years of my life and no one ever hires me... who fucking cares anyway? I will still be alive and capable and I will still have my scathing tongue and razor sharp analytic (hee hee) scythe... Head of Holofernes anyone? I am feeling a bit like Judith tonight. Or perhaps I will be Delilah, and cut off his hair while he sleeps... Remember Lorena Bobbitt? I bet I know how she felt...

Ok, ok. words are much stronger than they should be. But lacking any physical outlet for all this frustration, all I have left to adorn my naked body are argent, dripping, beaded and beautiful words of anger to chase away the shame.