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Yesterday, when I was driving home, I passed one of those road signs — the big light-up kind where they can print sentences telling you when to merge and what to watch out for.

The one I passed just said:
YES.

Lesbians’ brains react differently!

Lesbians’ brains reacted somewhat, though not completely, like those
of heterosexual men, a team of Swedish researchers said in Tuesday’s
edition of Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.

A year ago, the same group reported findings for gay men that showed
their brain response to hormones was similar to that of heterosexual
women.

In both cases the findings add weight to the idea that homosexuality has a physical basis and is not learned behavior.

Well, dur. Lesbians’ brains different? No! Still, anything that pushes a little nature-not-nurture out there in the news is fine by me.

But hey, this may explain why neither of us can remember a birthday to save our lives…. (Seriously, that’s one of the reasons why we got married on April 1st — so that if we DO forget an anniversary, we can "April Fools!" our way right out of it. "Ha! Gotcha! Betcha thought I forgot! No, I got you this, this, errrrr….  ballpoint pen! See? Barely used! Happy Anniversary, babe!")

https://rachaelherron.com/lesbians_brains/

Lala and I are having the BEST time EVER! Maryland Sheep and Wool rocks! I’ve been hanging out with all my friends, and spinning and knitting, and cleaning out all the vendors of all the fiber they brought. I’m so glad we’re here! This afternoon I plan to eat a lamb gyro followed by cotton candy followed by a fried Twinkie. Yay, us.

Well. Okay. We can’t have ALL the fun this year — we have to leave some for the other people, I suppose (although I firmly believe there’s always enough fun to go around). Photo carefully transferred in from last year, when we WERE there. Or I could have brought in the year before that when Bethany and I were there:

 

So, nope. Oh, well.  I’m at work today. Lala’s digging holes in the garden, probably. I’m wishing I were at the Sheep and Wolf Festival, but mama really does need a new pair of shoes (or at least her boots need new soles, fer real, I walked ’em OFF in Canada), so here I am.

Savin’ money. Yep. Hoo-ray. Isn’t this fun? Not buying new, happy, bright fiber. Not dropping spindles. Not finding secret spots behind market stalls to make out with my girl. Not driving to New York to show off my purchases.

Small sigh. A very, very small sigh, one that I’m rather ashamed of. It’s a long day, and I have cramps, and I’m fighting off a migraine that ate my head last week and is still lingering and I’m just vaguely grumpy. Grump.

Isn’t that dumb? That’s dumb. And I’m dumb for feeling bad about feeling grumpy.
Dumb.
Grump.
There’s something rather satisfying and cheerful about putting those two words together. Grump dumb.

I’m gonna knit. Sheesh.

There is, in American suburbia (which is I suppose where we live, albeit with occasional gunfire mixed with the firecrackers), a marriage legend that all subscribe to: The little housewife, making the fancy dish for her man. And then, tragedy: the flan flops, the roast wrecks, the fish flounders. There are tearful apologies, but then he chucks the little woman under the chin and tells her he loves her for SO many other things. Years later, in the glow of candlelight and a perfect souffle they laugh about those years and burnt casseroles gone by, while the grandkids chuckle underfoot.

Yeah. Okay.

I had high hopes. Spanish Chicken and Rice Casserole (recipe here). I was going to impress Lala when she got home from work (I had also worked a 12 hour shift, but that was behind the point. (That was a typo: I meant beside, but I think I really like behind instead)). I would whip out this little taste treat, and she’d fall at my knees.

‘Course, Lala doesn’t like chicken. So I bought ground turkey, because that’s all my market had. And she doesn’t like peas, so I bought green beans. (She’s really not that picky — those things are all I really have to avoid — pity they were BOTH in my Recipe for Romance.)

Then I couldn’t find quick-cooking brown rice (WTF?), so I bought short brown rice. Short equals quick, right?

And then I FORGOT the big ole 14 ounce can of stewed tomatoes, so I substituted tomato sauce.

Cooked it all up, for about 50 minutes, and know what? The RICE didn’t COOK. So we had a fine meal, nice and tasty, or it would have been, had it not been filled with CRUNCHY RICE.

Thankfully, I made a nice caprese (tomatoes, basil, olives, fresh mozarella, drizzled with olive oil and salt), which Lala LOVED because she’d never actually been exposed to real, fresh mozarella (wait till it’s buffalo!), so that was all right.

There’s ice cream for dessert, so I suppose the little woman made out all right in this chapter, but yes, I know I’ll be laughed at for this for years. It’s a curse to be married to a good cook, I tell ya. Hey, it’s been a month already, can you believe that?

Pick that rice up, baby, you’re gonna need it later….

On a Sunday afternoon, when you smell smoke, and your brain panics, and you think wildly to yourself, "It smells like burning flesh! Oh, quick, for the love of cashmere, call 911, and scream about the burning!" I’m going to suggest that you take a moment and a breath. I know it’s been months, perhaps decades, since the sun’s been out, but that smell? It’s something known as a barbeque, and it’s not threatening you in any way, unless your brother is out there playing with the lighter fluid, in which case I suggest that you keep the phone handy.

(Last week our next-door neighbor was having a barbeque, and the smoke was drifting across the porch. I placed myself on the swing, right in the smoke’s way, on purpse. I LOVE the smell of it so much I wanted to trap it on my clothes, my hair. Yum.)

Lala and I have been enjoying this blog about doing up a Victorian in nearby Alameda, and she just sent me this page: Crimes Against Victorians. Enjoy.

Lala is mowing the lawn.

This is remarkable, because 1: we have a LAWN! and 2: we don’t own a lawnmower. We have a pushmower, but the rain fell a lot while we were gone, and the grass grew too fast, and it was just too high for the pushmower to deal with.

So Lala did this with gardening scissors, on one side.

Really, she did. Isn’t that amazing? But while I was inside recovering from a grass-allergy attack, I heard a neighbor talking to her. We don’t know many of our neighbors, so it was nice that he stopped. And he offered her the use of his lawnmower. I heard her pause and almost refuse, and then she thought better of it and said yes. She’s out there putt-putt-ing now, and that side that she did earlier with scissors does look more professional now, but I’m still highly impressed with her earlier effort. It’s a nice day.