Happy Meal - 4 nuggets, 12 fries, horseradish goo, diet white soda
Grandson A ate the apples. We all played with the wee Barbie doll.
I told the boys my story about breaking into my house; they had to see some of the bruises. Little boys are more fun than anything, especially when it concerns daring-do. I got to the point where I had fallen through the window, on my head and had my legs stuck on the sill and B looked at me, pointed to his head and said, "Helmet." My Buddha Boy is a lad of few words, but all of them hysterical.
A small, frozen pizza, insanely thin crust and not much on top, but it was delicious. I ate half at the table and the rest over the remainder of the evening. Total yum. Totally not anything I should be eating, unless you count the ounce or two of pepperoni and what I think was bits of sausage. It was so delicious that I almost bought one on my way back into town this afternoon, when I stopped for groceries.
I drove up to my daughter's home in the morning, played with everyone and sent mom and dad off to look at a potential house (turned out to be an over-priced really weirdly constructed house, cottage and a garage so big that it has its own tax bill. After that interesting visit, they went to dinner and a movie. They watched Guardians of the Galaxy, I think that is what it is titled. It made them smile, but they thought it not nearly funny or interesting enough and that it might not be appropriate for some of the little kids in the theater, one of whom is a classmate of my oldest grandson.
By the time they get home from these dates I am ready for bed, but they want to talk, so we do that and I am always so glad that I gave up a bit of sleep; it is nice to have adult...mostly...conversations with them.
Earlier in the day I fetched the request for my participation in that big funding organization's 2014 fund-raising web site project, hoping that it would open a dialogue between the two of us. I was recruited for this thing because the director of the shelter where I lived when I was homeless, and where I now work, used an essay I wrote to support their most recent grant proposal(s). I was feeling as though I could do this sort of thing now, even though one of my ex-brothers-in-law works as an administrator in this organization.
Then, I read the thing the director wrote and it is based so loosely on my experience that if she had not given me a copy of the e-mail from the organization I might not have recognized myself. Well, so much for supporting a conversation between us. Although, it did help me to understand how traumatized she still is about this whole mess. I had to assure her that her father did not attack me with a knife, one of the disguising scenarios written by our director. But, her discomfort supported my belief that it is proper to not share any of this with her, because what her father did to me was much worse than a simple knife attack. I can hardly believe that I am actually writing and kind of thinking that an attack with a big knife would have been preferable to what really happened.
Life sure is interesting, especially this healing crap. I always thought, held the hope that if she wanted to ask me about all of those years that I would find a way to answer her without demonizing her father, or even making him look bad. Yeah, I know how lame that sounds. But, you know, I thought there would come a time when if she asked, it would be because she was ready to hear the less onerous parts. I was wrong, perhaps for just now, but I suspect that this could be a forever kind of never-happening conversation.
I wanted to scoop her up and hold her and tell her that everything was fine. Could not. She knows enough about her father that she could not effectively discount anything in that narrative for the organization.
I wish that I had never been asked, that I never knew what our director had done with my experience. I understand her desire to keep us (me and our women) safe, and there must be some benefit to create this kind of amalgam of the experiences of many women into one story, but it seems disingenuous to me, a level of dishonesty that I find disturbing.
Now, given my ex-BIL's connection, I would not want to use my real story and my real name (not used in the story submitted). It would have the extreme potential of being shared with others in a way that is not supportive of any of us. The truth, and I have said this over and over again to those who believe that telling everything would be an essential part of my healing. However, I will never tell those things to anyone. Never. Ever.
The options for this story being used in the funding project are any singular use or combination of the following:
My real name
A current photograph of me
A statement that I would feel comfortable making, to go along with that story.
I am not comfortable doing any of them, much less in combination.
I am trying to think of why my standards for truth are so high now. In that other life, lies are what allowed me to survive. Never tell. Never share. Support the lies that he told about me. Never talk or act back, which is a huge lie, an enormous dishonesty in itself.
I am not sure that I can make a comment about where I am now, keeping that pseudonym and my privacy, not being photographed, all that jazz.
And, where do I fit in an organization that uses those methods for promotion or for grant proposals or even that damn art exhibit? I wanted to help, just not sure how I will manage to do that. I have to decide by next weekend. Fuck.
Egg casserole (no carbs)
tiny pieces of each of the strudel and coffee cake that two of my friends made
about, maybe, 4 strips of very crunchy bacon
The breakfast was in my honor, because I am rarely able to meet my friends anymore, due to my weekend job, the one that has an actual paycheck.
I was on time, leaving my daughter's before any of the boys were up, forgetting my fiber crafts bag, for which I had to return after the breakfast thing. I stayed behind to help put away all of the outdoor furniture; met the new next-door neighbors, dad, oldest daughter (absolutely wonderful) and the dog. Then M and I sat and talked for an hour, something we rarely have a chance to do.
She may be my best friend.
a green bell pepper, munched on the way home from the market
bag of salad with thousand island dressing, because I think I left my vinaigrette at work.
The meat was on sale and I decided whilst wresting with my self at the meat counter that I would have one of those little steaks every week. As long as they are on sale. It was a little tough,which is probably why they held the sale. I am guessing that they are sort of at the whim of whatever quality meat is available from wherever they source the meat. So, no problem. It tasted nice and is all protein, little fat, and a nice treat, one that I intend to have more than a couple of times a year.
I will be making a potato-less version of my favorite potato/kale/hot sausage soup on Monday. The kale was glorious, also on sale, and I bough two huge bunches. I will be subbing cauliflower and firm tofu for the potatoes.
They had lots of stuff on sale and I save a whopping 25% of my total bill on just the sale stuff. I do not use coupons because none of the foods I buy ever have any. Between the big pot of soup and the left-over ham, I should be good to go for at least two weeks, including work lunches.
Church tomorrow, followed by work.