Beets, Chocolate, Bread and Dill, Bread and Dill...

Every now and then, Julie and I go on cooking benders. They can last a morning, an evening, an entire day or, in severe cases, several days in a row. After a solid week away from home, today was prime time for a good one.

So far today we've made:

Chocolate Zucchini Cake

Fruit Salad

Pork and Veggie Stir Fry

Pickled Beets

Dilly Cucumber Salad

Cumin and Tandoori Spiced Garbanzo Bean Salad

2 Loaves of Sourdough Bread
(I let them rise outside instead of in my proofer box, since the conditions outside seemed PERFECT- 85 degrees and humid-- and I can't wait to see how they taste. If appearance is any indicator, they're gonna be good!!)

Honey Teriyaki Grilled Chicken Thighs

We're thinking we'll pack a bunch of it up and head down to the Waterfront Green tonight for a picnic and magic show. Hopefully this also means that it will be several days before we have to do a lot of significant "What's For Dinner??" cooking and planning.

Luckily, I don't diet

I work out for a lot of reasons. I work out because I like to be strong. Because I like the challenge. Because it helps quiet the voices of the demons that kept me on a 600-800 calorie diet for most of high school. Because I like the people. Because I enjoy doing bizarre things like Spartan Races and mud runs. Because it gets me out of the house and separates me from my demanding toddler for at least 6 hours a week. Because it's part of my routine. Because I like to eat and, yes, because it burns calories and helps me attain and maintain an appearance and level of fitness that makes it easier for me to negotiate sanity on a day-to-day basis.

On Thursday afternoon, between mini vacations to Rhode Island and the Catskills, I saw the following picture (with the accompanying caption as a comment) posted on FB. It was posted by a fitness trainer and casual acquaintance, and, though it clearly wasn't her intent, it seriously annoyed me. I've been thinking about it pretty frequently since then.

Uh Oh! Don't ruin your diet! You work so hard... Dont ruin it cause its 4th of July. Stay strong!

I find this problematic on many levels- the grammar to begin with (but I've often been told not to be the Facebook Grammar Police- so I'll let it slide). It's insulting. It's misleading. It's belittling. It is not inspirational. It's just plain wrong.

The majority of the women whom I've come to know at the gym, and to whom this FB post was largely addressed, go to the gym the way they go to work, the way they pick their kids up from daycare, do laundry, cook meals, keep appointments, pay bills, cut the grass or take the dog to the vet. They do it as part of their day, part of their routine, part of what they just do. They have gone to the same classes or machines week after week, stood in practically the same spots evening after evening and morning after morning through relationships, marriages, divorces, deaths, injuries, surgeries, pregnancies, miscarriages, births, high school, college, job changes, relocations and hardships that I'm sure I don't even know about. To tell people who are so committed to a part of their lives that it could be in jeopardy from a single hot dog (or an entire plate full of them) is ridiculous. And it's part of what is wrong with the "diet culture" in our society. It's not a fucking diet. It's just life.

I'm coming off a span of nearly 3 months where I decided to kick up my exercise/weight loss efforts for a little while. I set a very attainable goal, took very careful-but-doable measures to reach it, battled a few demons along the way, patted myself on the back for gettin' it done and then settled immediately into a week (A WEEK!!!) that started  on Saturday with pizza and Nutella fudge brownies for my daughter's 3rd birthday and segued into meatballs and baked ziti, potato chips, more pizza and cake at her official party on Sunday. On Monday we killed the leftover pizza and cake before hopping in the car for a 3 hour trip up to Rhode Island to rendezvous with my sister and brother-in-law and meet my 4 month old nephew. Tuesday started off with a 60 minute hotel workout (SO SORRY to my sister and brother-in-law for the 6:30 AM jumping jacks- I didn't realize you were right below us!!), followed by a hotel breakfast, our yearly pilgrimage to Iggy's for fried seafood and, later, a homemade clam bake-- complete with giant chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Wednesday, another hotel workout, another hotel breakfast, off to the beach- where I worked up the metaphorical balls to wear a two piece bathing suit in public for the second time in 14 years- with deli sandwiches before afternoon wine and a dinner of lasagna, garlic bread and more cookies...and then ice cream. Thursday, breakfast, Wendy's, home, grilled chicken salad for dinner. Friday morning, 6 AM, bowl of cereal, mug of coffee, back in the car- this time up to spend the day in the Catskills at the home of new friends where there was a breakfast FEAST awaiting us (fried ham, sausage, cheesy eggs, pancakes and COFFEE) before a lunch of homemade guacamole and chips and then an amazing July 4th (one day belated) BBQ with all the trimmings-- right down to coleslaw, a hearty bacon cheeseburger and s'Mores before a long, dark, quiet ride home. I guess, to the original poster of the image, it wouldn't just look like I ruined my "diet". It would look like I blew it out of the water, gathered up the remaining bits, ground them into a fine paste, squeezed them into a sausage casing, grilled it over a fire and ate it on a hoagie roll with fried peppers and onions.

Luckily, I'm not on a diet.

10 years from now when my snuggly, cuddly, precocious and curious toddler is an angsty hormonal teenager and I'm looking for reason NOT to seal her in her room with nothing but basic cable and a feed slot, I'm not going to look back on this past "birthday week" and think, "Damn. That was the week of my undoing. I shouldnt'a eaten that clam cake." Because my life is going to have gone on from this week. It's not even a matter of picking myself up, dusting myself off and slinking, shame-faced, back into the studio to hide the indiscretions of my first week of summer. I'm just gonna change into my gym clothes, drop my kid off in the nursery, and hope that no-one settled into my favorite spot while I was away.

Death And Taxes

Over the past 10 years, Julie and I have given numerous speeches in defense of marriage equality. Most of them have been casual--  impromptu arguments and explanations around the dinner tables of family members or in the living rooms of friends. Several have been public... snippets of a few have made the local morning news.

Thinking about the DOMA decisions this week, I keep coming back to the final paragraph of a speech we gave at the Community Unitarian Church of White Plains (entire text at the bottom of this post). In this speech we talked about the challenges of securing our two domestic partnerships-- one in New York City and the other in Westchester County. We wound up the talk by explaining:

We could stand here today, painting marriage equality as being about the simple need to have our love and commitment recognized and validated, but as Unitarians, and a Welcoming Congregation at that, recognition and validation are already a given here. Take this issue into the community at large, however, and it is death and taxes which really get people’s attention; the extra penalties levied on health care coverage, the loss of a pension , the denial of a deathbed visitation in the hallway of an Intensive Care Unit, the grieving partner unable to collect the ashes of his beloved. Such tragedies regularly invoke in even the most tepid of supporters, those who are squeamish about notions of "gay marriage" and made uncomfortable by Tango the penguin, a recognition of inequality and the stirrings of outrage.

We said this about 5 1/2 years before this week's SCOTUS decision. It seems premonitory  now. Take even a cursory look at the case of US v Windsor. What won us the right to have our marriages recognized by the federal government? Death. And its accompanying taxes.

Thank you, Thea and Edith. I'm sorry one of you had to die for so many people to get it.



January, 2008

On June 20th, 2007, almost 4 years to the day after I called in late to class in order to show up in Bronx County Court to hastily sign the paper work for our first Domestic Partnership Certificate, Julie and I received our second Domestic Partnership. The unceremonious process had started months earlier, in April, when we took a day of our spring break to go hunting, first for the appropriate paperwork for the County of Westchester and later for a notary public to authorize the document. It was two weeks later when we finally found the notary, our form by then crumpled and misshapen from spending a week floating around Julie’s shoulder bag. We stashed the signed, notarized document in my glove box, assuming that I’d eventually make it to the Westchester County Court House to file our paper and pay the requisite fees. It wasn’t until I had to visit the Court House to dispute a traffic ticket that I had the time to visit the County Clerk. So what benefits do we reap from our Domestic Partnership?


Well – it’s tough to say. Depending on the town we’re in, the benefits, if any, will vary. Of course, for each locality, a brand new certificate becomes necessary – imagine being married in Westchester, but not in Putnam etc. – and you begin to get the idea. With a New York City domestic partnership certificate, we were entitled to a smattering of rights assuming that either or both of us were residents and/or employees of the City of New York. One of the supposed benefits of this arrangement was full healthcare coverage for both partners under the City of New York Employee Benefits Plan, so long as one of us was employed by the City of New York. We’ll elaborate on that in a bit.
Uncertain of our official domestic partnership status after both leaving our jobs in New York City 2 years ago, we were compelled to seek out a second domestic partnership issued by the County of Westchester.
And what have we gained from this? We have only found two benefits that directly affect us; the right to visit each other if hospitalized at a county (not town or privately) owned hospital and the ability to apply for a Family Parks Pass to the Westchester County Park System. In addition to these, Andy Spano recently made the “possibility” of health care available through the county for the registered domestic partners of county employees – however the language of his statement was vague at best and relied heavily on the word “may” – as in may provide, may allow, may guarantee, may or may not. It does not impact us, as it does not apply to public school teachers in Westchester County. Neither one of us can receive domestic partnership benefits from our employers. In Christi’s case, it’s because HealthNet does not allow businesses with fewer than fifty employees to extend partnership benefits to individuals; in my case because our Union did not see fit to make it a priority in last year’s contract negotiation.
In 2005 I left my job in NYC to begin a teaching job in suburban Westchester, while Christi continued her employment with the New York City Department of Education. When it became clear that my new health insurance plan would require me to “pay in” a bi-weekly contribution (whereas my former city plan was absolutely free and covered by the City of New York Employee Benefits Plan) – it seemed only logical for me to opt out of this new insurance program and seek shelter under the umbrella of Christi’s remaining City of New York policy, which for all intents and purposes was supposed to welcome me with open arms as her official registered domestic partner.


In order to make this happen I requested all of the appropriate paper work, before the October deadline, and began filling out forms. While going through the packet, I came across a form for the United Federation of Teachers Welfare Fund that walks you through the process of completing each page. I quote: 



Step 5-Section E: Spouse/Domestic Partner Information

- Please remember if married, you must attach a photocopy of your marriage certificate.
- For Domestic Partnerships you must attach the following:

IF YOU RESIDE IN NYC:
- Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program AND/OR
- Domestic Partnership Registration Certificate

IF YOU RESIDE OUTSIDE NYC:
- Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program AND/OR
- Alternative Affidavit of Domestic Partnership

PLEASE NOTE FOR DOMESTIC PARTNERSHIPS ONLY: if you are NOT applying for city health benefits, you must also submit a "DECLARATION OF FINANCIAL INTERDEPENDENCE" form. 


Right off the bat, married couples need to provide one photocopy of a document, please. Me, I have no idea what an "Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program" is... so I pick up the phone.


"Hello, UFT Welfare Fund."

"Hi. I'm trying to fill out my enrollment packet, and I'm not sure what an "Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program" is. Can you help me?"

"Sure. We don't handle that. You need to call this number."

"Ok, now, is the letter mandatory, or is just the Registration Certificate sufficient?"

"No sweetie, you need to have both."

"Oh, because the packet says 'and/or' so I thought I might only need one."

"Just call this number and they'll help you out."

"Ok, thanks. bye.” I dial the second number. 


"Yes?"

"Hello, is this the NYC Employee Benefits Program office?"

"Yeah."

"OK. I'm trying to get information on the 'Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program' that I need to submit to the UFT Welfare Fund."

"Uh-hu"

"Can you help me."

"Yeah."

"Ok... What do I need to do?"

"What are you tryin' to do?"

"I need to submit the letter in order to put my domestic partner on my health care for the City of New York."

"OK, so you want to put him on you plan."

"Ummmm... yeah..."

"Ok, we'll send you an approval packet and you gotta fill that out."

"What does the approval packet consist of?"

"You gotta have it to get the letter."

"And what does the letter mean?"

"Listen honey, you just fill it out and get it notarized and send it back to us."

"Could you please tell me what the purpose of this packet is?"


Needless to say, the conversation got me nowhere, so I asked to speak to a supervisor. The supervisor, however, so amazingly belligerent, even suggesting that my sole intention was probably to enroll my mother or sister, that I asked to speak to HER supervisor and, after about 25 minutes, managed to uncover the fact that, despite giving out Domestic Partnership certificates in the City of New York, The City Of New York does not consider a Domestic Partnership certificate to be satisfactory proof of a Domestic Partnership. In order to enroll Julie, I would need to provide bank records, credit card statements, lease agreements and utility bills in both our names, along with the ORIGINAL copy of our Domestic Partnership Certificate, 2 photocopies and a Notarized affidavit stating that all stated information is true. All told, this would have cost about 50 dollars (if not more) that married couples wouldn't have to pay, and then it was possible that New York City could DENY the domestic partnership benefits for not being enough of a domestic partnership despite having the Domestic Partnership Certificate from the city of New York. The lady was, however, sympathetic enough to promise that she would mail the appropriate forms in an unmarked envelope so that nobody would have to know what was inside. In fact, she added, she does this sort of thing all the time.


When the forms finally arrived in their unmarked envelope, Christi and I were puzzled by a page long disclaimer explaining in all kinds of legalese, that once we were co-insured, that because of the Federal Defense of Marriage Act (Kudos to the previous Democratic Administration... btw) any medical costs incurred by the secondary policy holder would become the taxable income of the primary insurance holder. Hypothetically speaking, if I were to require 50k worth of chemo, that amount would be added to Christi’s income and thusly taxed.


Another unmarked envelope arrived in the mail exactly a month ago today, on St. Nicholas Day- a day when a stern Santa-like figure, dressed in red robes, traditionally visits good children to deliver treats of candy and nuts and naughty children to deliver a light beating. After my mom passed away in August of 2006, the same month that we purchased our first home together, Julie and I decided that it had become imperative that we begin compiling legal documents to approximate a handful of the crucial rights bestowed upon those entering a civil marriage. Sitting now beside my computer are two Powers of Attorney, two Health Care Proxies, two Health Information Release Forms, two Disposition of Decedents’ Remains forms, two New York Living Wills and two Last Wills and Testaments. The number of lines on which we have to sign is astounding; you only have to sign a marriage certificate once.


So, in talking about domestic partnerships and marriage equality, why aren’t we up here waxing poetic about how much we love each other? Christi and I have known each other for over ten years, and have lived together for at least eight. We could stand here today, painting marriage equality as being about the simple need to have our love and commitment recognized and validated, but as Unitarians, and a Welcoming Congregation at that, recognition and validation are already a given here. Take this issue into the community at large, however, and it is death and taxes which really get people’s attention; the extra penalties levied on health care coverage, the loss of a pension , the denial of a deathbed visitation in the hallway of an Intensive Care Unit, the grieving partner unable to collect the ashes of his beloved. Such tragedies regularly invoke in even the most tepid of supporters, those who are squeamish about notions of "gay marriage" and made uncomfortable by Tango the penguins, a recognition of inequality and the stirrings of outrage.

Can I get a do-over?

I've recently come to the conclusion that, at some point in my late teens or early 20s, I must have missed the intensive weekend retreat where women are taught skills like reinserting padding into bikini tops without breaking a sweat, purchasing make-up and choosing underwear that doesn't create ridiculous lines in whatever pants or dress they decide to wear over it. I imagine that this clandestine meeting took place in some ritzy hotel and spa where high school and college age young women signed up for seminars with titles like, "Making The Most of Your Manicure," "Up Dos, Down Dos and Don't Dos", "Thinking About Thongs", "Putting Padding in its Place", "An Eye for Eyeshadow", "Mixing It Up: The Art of Finding Your Perfect Foundation" "Blow Drying Without Frying Your Brains," and "Purses, Pocketbooks, Packs and Pockets: A Guide To Carrying Your Life On Your Hip." I have no idea why I didn't get the memo the first time around, but I really wish they would offer a make-up class (no pun intended).

I have no idea why so many of these concepts seem so incredibly foreign to me; I honestly believe that I would have an equally difficult time conjugating French verbs (I took Spanish) and choosing mascara (forget applying the stuff- I start flinching the second that fuzzy caterpillar like thing gets anywhere near my face). I'm only slightly more competent at bra shopping than a 12 year old boy would be and just about as embarrassed and there is something about the mere thought of having to get my hair washed at a hair salon that convinces me that growing it all the way down to my ankles is TOTALLY the way to go. The list goes on an on and I don't understand WHY I feel so incredibly incompetent at these seemingly innocuous female rituals. I've managed to cultivate an attitude of disinterest or outright distain as a coping mechanism, a way of masking my utter confusion and discomfort, but it's totally a front. How do women do it? Hell, how do cross-dressers, trannys and MtF transexuals (whichever term is most respectful to you in your particular situation- no offense intended!) do it? Did they get the memo?

I think I need a tutor. Or maybe an evaluator. Someone who can design something akin to an IEP, complete with benchmarks and goals, and help me address in the obvious holes in my knowledge. Or a mentor or an AA style sponsor. Someone who is paid to take my panicked phone calls at 8:45 AM on a Sunday morning when there is something wrong with my bathing suit top and I can't for the life of me figure out which direction that little foam triangle is supposed to go and how the hell I'm supposed to get it back in through the minuscule slit in the side of the fabric. Someone other than Julie who is responsible for talking me down off of the ledge in times of feminine crisis.

 From time to time I've definitely benefited from pity of friends and the kindness of strangers. 4 years ago, before my sister's wedding, I went into The Body Shop in Danbury, CT and tried to explain to the nice lady that I needed to buy make-up. No, not just a new eye liner or something. Everything I would need to be in a wedding party. Because I didn't own any. And had never applied more than a hesitant smattering of lipstick and mascara. Ever. No. Seriously. Stop laughing and just TELLMEWHATTHEFUCKTOBUYANDHOWTOPUTITON!!! That was the last time I bought make up and the jars say that it expired a couple of years ago, so now I'm afraid to use it even if I want to. Does it really expire? And does it expire the way milk expires or the way a bottle of ketchup or mustard expires? Cause those are two very different things. But it is really, really embarrassing to have to ask for help on things that seem so basic. I mean, I imagine it must kinda be like the average person standing in the "paper goods" section of the supermarket and turning to someone to say, "Excuse me, but which of these do you use to wipe your ass? The napkins, the Kleenex, the toilet tissue, the paper towels or the handi-wipes? I know I'm in the right vicinity here, but beyond that, I'm totally lost."

Do you know what kind of look you would get? I do. And it's awful. 'Cause that is something you are just supposed to KNOW.

Damn... pretty sure I was about to say something...

About 5 years ago... no, that was supposed to say hours ago... I intended to sit down and write a post about the groceries I bought for a family that was panhandling outside the local Stop & Shop and the Catch-22 to the second power that I felt like I was in-- ignore them and I feel heartless (they had a toddler with them), give them cash and wonder if it was spent on alcohol (there's a liquor store right there)-- buy them a bunch of healthy stuff (salad greens, fruit, milk, frozen veggies, lean meat, beans etc) and fear that I came across as "holier than thou"or that they don't have the means to cook or buy them a bunch of processed stuff and feel like I'm just contributing to a million other societal problems. How the hell is it that a good deed gets so complicated? (In the end I got roast turkey and chicken cold cuts, a loaf of white bread, a can of tuna, goldfish crackers, Lunchables snack packs, Capt'n Crunch cereal, peanut butter and something else I can't remember-- just enough food to keep 3 people somewhat afloat for 2 days)

But then, running from the house to the car, M got stung by a bee (or, I think, a wasp). Not once. Not twice. But 3 times. Possibly 4. She was a trooper about it. Didn't cry (though she yelled a lot) and even stopped to pet the neighbor's dog. Curled up on the couch with ice on her inner thigh. Bedtime went quickly out the window. Our plans for dinner nearly went with it, though I managed to throw together Thai Basil and Chicken with Rice while Julie ran household interference. The time I was going to use to watch MasterChef got replaced with The Wizard of Oz and, as usual, no matter how tired she was, M would not let go and give in to sleep. Over 2 hours later I finally scooped her into my lap and settled onto the couch under her and rocked her until she couldn't hold on any longer. Got her into bed, had a little dessert, sat down to write my intended post (and maybe this week's Pasta Night post, since it seems pathetic that I can't even keep something going two weeks in a row), and realized that my ability to string together coherent sentences is essentially non existent. Might as well obliterate it with a glass of wine and some sleep...

Snuggling with Mama after being assaulted by a bee

Pasta Night

By the time I was 15, I had pretty much taken over dinner preparation for my family on all weekdays but those when I had away games. A number of things contributed to this development-- some of it was a sincere interest in cooking, some of it was a sincere interest in my newly established eating disorder and a lot of it was the simple fact that if I didn't cook dinner, dinner might not get cooked. To make life easier, I imposed a weekly menu pattern that would get food on the table quickly and make sure I didn't run out of key ingredients. Monday was pasta night-- a box of Barilla covered in Classico with fried sausages or meatballs on the side. Tuesday was some kind of chicken or pork chops... baked, grilled, roasted, in pieces or whole. Wednesday was easy... pizza night. The local place gave away a free mini pie with every order (I still have the number memorized. 914-735-1881. Wonder if they're still a pizza place...). Thursday was one of those "just add meat" stir-fry mixes that were new and popular in the 90's and Friday was generally steak (or lamb chops or more chicken) thrown on the grill with veggies and mashed potatoes. Easy. Predictable. Done. 

This past winter we had to fall back on my old patterning strategy. Despite being home all day, I was drowning in the process of cooking dinner 5 nights a week, mostly because I was over-doing and over-thinking it. In our newly established pattern, Monday is still pasta night, and Pizza Night has been moved to Friday. Wednesday is now stir-fry (though we tend to use fresh veggies instead of bagged. Usually.) Tuesday is "Some sort of soup or crockpot or grilled thing" night and Thursday is salad. These are, in part, very strategic. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday we do Family Dinner. We need Pierre to learn to like pasta because it is served in nearly every restaurant of every ethnicity we visit and it would be great if she would learn to eat it. Similarly, stir fry is full of veggies, and we'd like her to learn to eat some of them, even if she is just picking out the carrots. And pizza is a breeze. She'll eat it. Take out or homemade. Easy. 

We've had the most success, so far, introducing Pasta Night. Last Monday she took about 4 bites of the pasta in our Paella. This week we more than doubled that with Chicken Cacciatore Bake. 

(Adapted from Rachel Ray's Chicken Cacciatore Subs- which are also really, REALLY good)

Ingredients
4 pieces boneless skinless chicken breast, 6 to 8 ounces each

Half a box of pasta, cooked (we used Rigatoni)Extra-virgin olive oil, for drizzling, plus 2 tablespoons
Grill seasoning blend, or salt and pepper
2 cloves garlic, cracked away from skins
1 teaspoon red crushed pepper flakes (we omitted this and and added it individually later)
2 large portobello mushroom caps, sliced (we omitted this)
1 green bell pepper, seeded and sliced
1 large onion, white or brown skinned, sliced
1 teaspoon dried oregano, 1/3 palm full
1/2 cup dry red wine or stock -- chicken or beef flavor
1 (14-ounce) can, crushed tomatoes
2 to 3 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley 
1/3 pound deli sliced provolone

Directions
Heat a grill pan or large skillet. Drizzle chicken with oil, to cover,and season with grill seasoning blend or salt and pepper. Grill or pan-fry 6 minutes on each side. Chop into cubes. 

Heat a large skillet over medium high heat. Add 2 tablespoons oil, garlic, crushed red pepper flakes, mushrooms, peppers, onions and oregano. Saute veggies and season with salt and pepper. Cook 5 minutes, then deglaze the pan with wine or stock. Pick up tasty bits off the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon or heat safe spatula. Add tomatoes and parsley to the sauce. Add the chicken and cook about 5 minutes more. 
Turn off heat and mix in cooked pasta. 

Put half the pasta/chicken/veggie/sauce mix in the bottom of a casserole dish. Top with half the provolone. Then add the other half of the pasta/chicken/veggie/sauce mix and top with the rest of the provolone. Bake in a 400 degree oven for a few minutes... we did about 15... until everything is melted together and just a bit brown on top. 

You could also skip the whole baking thing and just serve the sauce over pasta and put some provolone on top. It's cut so thin, it will usually just melt. Or toss it in the microwave. 

Read more at: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/rachael-ray/chicken-cacciatore-subs-recipe/index.html?oc=linkback

The Slinky Man

Night time in my own home generally feels like the least safe time and place on the planet for me. I can't quite pin down why... put me out in the middle of the woods in a flimsy tent with the bears, wolves, coyotes, foxes, spiders, raccoons and other creepy crawlies and I'm fine. Hotels, other people's houses, the back seat of a sedan in the WalMart parking lot-- these are all fine. But my own bed? In my own house? It's like playing Russian roulette.

Primarily because of the Slinky Man.



Who is the Slinky Man? The Slinky Man is the scary, homicidal maniac that might be hiding in my closet or bathtub or crawlspace or under the couch on any given night. He's patient and methodical. He gets his jollys by waiting for his victims to come to him. He sneaks into your house at some point during the day, finds a quiet corner and waits for you to go to bed. Just as you're starting to fall asleep he takes out his Slinky and starts playing with it, letting the metal rings slink back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. You hear it and sit up slightly, wondering what that sound is. It's familiar... you can't quite put your finger on it. A running toilet? Something wrong with the air conditioner? You get out of bed to go investigate and, eventually, you find him. He's dressed in a long gray trench coat and an old fashioned grey rain hat. He's unshaved with a scraggly beard and surprisingly tall. His eyes kinda glow. He allows just enough time for the fear to register fully, for you to try and scream or run before he pulls out a knife, slices you up, and leaves. He might kill you, or he might not. In the morning, if you survived, when they find you, it's just gonna sound like a hallucination. No one's going to believe that the Slinky Man did it.

The Slinky Man, and others like him, keep me up. I can imagine all of the other characters who might have snuck into and hid in my house during the day and are just waiting for me to fall asleep. Several times a week I reevaluate my options for grabbing the sleeping toddler and barricading us all in the bedroom if I hear them coming. Could we move the dresser in front of the door fast enough? Am I positive that the door swings inwards? Would hiding in the bathroom be safer than the hallway, or could a crazy person just burst through the adjoining bathroom wall? How much would it cost to plate one room in Titanium?

I'm pretty sure this has to be some form of PTSD... or the beginnings of a new RL Stein series. Not sure if I need a therapist or an an agent.