Cheese and Cheese?

For some reason Livvie refers to the yellow cheese singles as, "cheese and cheese." All other cheese is simply cheese.

I am a sucker for the cheese moments in movies. I don't necessarily mean the crappy dialogue moments that some people fall for, like, "You had me at 'hello,'" or other such nonsense. I mean those overtly manipulative moments in movies, usually "guy" movies even, where it's completely intentional on the part of the filmmaker. At least I think it's intentional. Regardless, I fall for almost all of them.

I was thinking of this in the middle of the night last night while I was lying on the sofa in the dark feeding Jonas. I had left TNT on when I fell asleep, because in the morning I can wake up for good to Angel, and that's a pretty nice way to wake up. So I was fuzzily staring at the TV screen, and they were showing The Patriot for the 5,932nd time, a movie I own by the way because I'm such a sucker for this crap, and I looked just in time to see one of the cheesiest, most manipulative moments in cinematic history. The men are retreating and the French militia guy points that out to Mel Gibson's character. Mel says, "Oh fuck that. Nuh uh," grabs the flag from some hapless dude, and charges back in the other direction to rally the men to fight again.

I fell for it again. I choked up like I was watching a Hallmark commercial from the 80s. Or that freaking Folgers Christmas commercial they still run with the little girl seeing her brother in front of the tree after he's come home as a surprise. Where was I? Oh. EVERY TIME I see one of those on my list of favorite cheese moments I come apart. Mel Gibson is a prime culprit in this, as every time I watch Braveheart I lose it completely at the end when he yells, "FREEEEEEEEDOMMMMMM!" with his last breath, and the King of England has to take that sound with him to the grave.

Every single time.

I know better. I really do. It's even sadder when I know it's coming because I've seen the film before, but I get all teary anyway. My all time worst was not, to my knowledge, crafted in any nefarious fashion. I am very sure that Tolkien was writing from his heart. The filmmakers had to keep it. They really did. If they hadn't, fanboys (and fangirls) everywhere would have lost their bleeding minds. Without fail, whenever I watch Return of the King and Sam lifts Frodo to carry him up the mountain I come apart at the seams. I can't help it. The first time I saw it, in the theater, I have to admit that I (and many other folks in the theater) softly chanted, "Rudy! Rudy! Rudy!"

Yeah, that scene from that flick gets me too.

Of course, the matter is not helped when I happen to be hormonal, as I am right now. At least dudes don't have to put up with their emotions about films being at the whim of a calendar cycle. At least I don't think they do. Since last night I've been trying to figure out if I'm a sucker for any of the gratuitous moments in chick flicks, and I can't think of a single one.

But I sob every time the dude in Volcano dies while saving the folks from the subway car.

So. What are yours? I know you have them. Dish.

I wasn't going to take time to post today

So this will be short.

Today on Twitter Brent Spiner (yes, that one) let loose this piece of mild snark:

BrentSpiner
RT @renee29404 @Anopsis I believe in taking care of our own before taking care of another country--Then here you go. FeedingAmerica.org

It's something I've always wondered about. How many people who spout on about taking care of our own first actually make an effort to help our own themselves? And I have to say, most of the people I've met who say such things are averse to "Big Government" of any sort anyway. They seem to say, as a unit, that churches and charities should be the ones to take care of those who are wanting. Well, you know, the churches and charities simply don't have enough money. Because not many put their money where their mouths are. And I would put $1000 down that none of these people were forced to live on assistance like I was as a child. Food stamps. Government cheese. My mother bringing leftover school lunches home at the end of the day because they would be thrown out, and we could eat on them for a week.

So you know what? Put up or shut up. It costs $5 at the grocery store to buy a box of food for those in need. And it's good karma.

And to those of you who take issue with it all I want to extend my gratitude for your tax dollars that fed me as a child. Thank you.

Have a good Thanksgiving.

I need to vent

This post is going to be full of anger and disgust, so if you wish not to read such things, move along.

Over the past week I have been alerted to four separate instances of Motherhood Most Foul. Some are far worse than others. My issue is that I simply don't understand how a person can give birth to someone and then turn her back on them. Or worse.

A very good friend of mine has come to the realization that she is not welcome any longer in her family. Her mother and brother, who are all she has left, have made that quite clear. Assumptions were made about her character, and rather than going to her for the straight dope on the situation they simply cut her off. She's putting on a brave face, and handling everything with her usual (and famous) brand of sarcasm and wit, but I can't even imagine how deeply this hurts. How do you go through life knowing that a choice was made between two children and you were the short straw? I simply don't know. Along those lines-

My father's niece who is in her 60s (my parents had me rather late) had four daughters. The oldest daughter was belittled from the time she was tiny. They told her she was fat. They told her she was stupid. They called her names. You know what? She believed them and reacted accordingly. She became the family fuck-up. Self fulfilling prophecies and all that. She got knocked up while unwed, and even though she and the father have been together for 2 decades and eventually married and had another child, the family pointed to that as proof that she was No Good. She's been a waitress her entire adult life. A damn good one. Her mother and three sisters prefer to pretend she doesn't exist. At one point they even tried to take her kids away from her for not providing a "good enough life." Both of her children are smart and her oldest, a boy, works hard for what he wants. So, my cousin, who is a couple of years older than me, was told recently that she might have breast cancer and would need a biopsy. She asked her mother to take her and was informed that she would drop her off but she would have to "find her own way home."

How do you do that? How do you let your own daughter go into the most terrifying day of her life without offering comfort when she leaves that office? To say I'm seeing red is an understatement. My cousin is the only one of the four girls who looks even remotely like me, and even though she did some fairly bad things in her younger years, I'm partial to her. The rest of the girls, entitled blonde princesses who look down their noses at everything, can suck it. I don't even acknowledge them as relations most of the time.

I want to beat my father's niece within an inch of her life. And then leave her in an alley downtown so that Bad Things can happen to her.

Bitch.

(I fear no repercussions for telling this story, because they will never read it. As far as they're concerned, I don't exist either. Besides, I haven't said a single thing that isn't true).


I'm not going to go into the details of the two episodes I heard about on the local news this week. I can say that the first episode involves the prosecutors seeking the death penalty against the mother, and the second episode should.

I am, as I said previously, not the best mother on the planet. Hell, I'm not even fond of babies. Kids? Yes. Babies? Not so much. But even when I dislike my children for how they're behaving, the love I have is deep and terrible. I say terrible specifically, because if anything ever happens to them, woe to the person who caused them harm. I'm talking massive amounts of woe. Nothing mild about it. I own a replica Narsil (it's a sword, hush), and I mentioned to Rich that if anyone comes in after the kids or us they will find it used on them. He told me I couldn't swing it because it's too heavy, and besides, it isn't sharp. I told him that I've actually practiced swinging it and can even lift it above my head. Then I told him, "I wouldn't swing it anyway. I'd hold the hilt at my hip tightly and ram them with it." He said I could probably get two good hits in that way, and I told him, "Oh no. I'd impale them on the dull blade, which will hurt like hell, and then I will yank the blade to the side to unbalance them. When they fall, I'll kick their head in. Over and over and over."

And then I laughed. And Rich was slightly frightened.

Do NOT fuck with my kids.

Drive By Blog Post

Quickly-

Our friend with the farm, because she's the most freaking resourceful chick on the planet, has already moved her husband and herself and what little they have left into a rental a half mile from the farm. Thanks to everyone who was concerned about her.

We've moved about 12 boxes and some sundry other things into the new house already, and the fun continues today and the rest of the week.

I am incapable of packing one of those big Home Depot moving boxes to weigh less than 75 pounds.

We were going to decorate the kids' bathroom in Finding Nemo to make Livvie more inclined to potty training, but due to the fact that she's a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse addict, I'm going that route instead. And that will be her Christmas. A bit early.

Jonas took his first nap in the new house yesterday. On the floor. Woke up with carpet marks on his face.

The "convenience" store just up the road from us has a small grill with hot dogs and sammiches and stuff, so when I drove up there yesterday to see if I could grab us some food and discovered the grill closed up I asked about it. I was informed, "Yeah, sometimes he opens it. Sometimes he don't. Depends on how he feels. If he opens it it's usually around 10." I'm starting to like the neighborhood. A lot.

The dog gets a bath this morning so as not to take her current level of stink to the new house. Wish me luck.

I am tired.

Can I get you anything?

As I sat and read the Harry Potter series, from at least Chamber of Secrets on, I wanted to be only one character.

I wanted to be Molly Weasley.

Oh hell NOES about the seven kids. I did, though, want her ability to provide for those she loves. Why am I bringing this up now, when the series is over, the next movie installment isn't released yet, and I've never even mentioned the Potterverse in this blog except to essentially say, "Got my hands on Deathly Hallows. Be back later. Go away?"

We're closing on a house today with four bedrooms.

Molly Weasley is kind and loving and nurturing and fierce... and Molly Weasley feeds and shelters. I didn't grow up in the kind of house where if someone walked in the door food was slapped down in front of them, and they were ordered to eat. I developed that mentality sometime in my mid-20s. I couldn't even tell you why it started, but at some point I started shoving food at people, at least with plenty of advance notice most of the time, and if I lived somewhere with a spare room I urged people to stay. If there was no spare room my sofa was always available. Quick stopover on your way up the East Coast? Here's my sofa. Really frigging drunk and lack of motor skills means you can't get home? Dumbass, you drove. But here's my sofa. Oh, and in the morning there will be coffee. Now hush. Here's a blanket and a pillow. Don't mind the cat on your head.

Our intent in purchasing this particular house with four bedrooms was to have a room for each kid, one for ourselves, and an office for Rich to work from home. When I opened the door to the master bedroom to have a look I discovered that you first enter a sitting room that is partially walled from the rest of the room. The sitting room is almost as large as our current bedroom. This suite (oh how ritzy*) is on one end of a 76 foot long house and the other three rooms are alllll the way at the other end. When Rich got a look at it he realized he could put his office right in there, and we could, oh my goodness, have a guest room. When the reality of having a spare bedroom with actual bedroom furniture in it dawned on me I simply went berserk. Almost anyone who mentioned the house to me got hit with an invitation. Or three. I think my poor friend in Seattle has been bugged even more than three times. Even local folks got invitations. Just in case episodes of really frigging drunk lack of motor skills arise.

As I scrolled through Craigslist searching for the cheap recliner for rocking Jonas that I mentioned in the previous entry, my eyes kept leaping to the listings for larger tables with seating for many. I'm particularly drawn to the simple wooden tables with plain chairs. Gigantic ones. Last night I saw one with seating for up to 10 people, and the fantasies began. Holiday dinners. Eventual friends of the kids eating breakfast after slumber parties. Gatherings for no other reason than to eat good food and relax in the kitchen. Molly Weasley's kitchen in her home, The Burrow, is a mismatched cluttered nightmare for someone with OCD. Whenever I see it in the films, though, it warms my cockles. Yes. I have cockles. No, there's no cream for that.

Last night while Rich and I were outside I said to him, "Can I go all lame and name our new doublewide?" and he said, "No. And if you do, I don't want to know about it." I said, "So I can't get someone to use one of those wood burning pens to make a small wooden sign with the house's name and hang it from the mailbox?" and he said, "Um, no."

Bummer dude.

In five and a half hours we will be handed the keys to The Burrow. It has an extra room, you know, just for future reference. If I have my way, fairly soon it'll also have a table large enough to feed an entire army. Of course, there won't be any other furniture for seating because we won't be able to afford it. Over my whole life, though, everyone always ended up in the kitchen anyway.

Stop on over. Sit down. Here's some pie. Bring your dog.

The more the merrier.


*It's a doublewide mobile home, folks. But it's the nicest house I'll have ever lived in in my life so far.

Primitive Screwheads

prim·i·tive (prm-tv)
adj.
1. Not derived from something else; primary or basic.
2.
a. Of or relating to an earliest or original stage or state; primeval.
b. Being little evolved from an early ancestral type.
3. Characterized by simplicity or crudity; unsophisticated: primitive weapons...

Yada.

I'm not really up on the latest trends. It's not even something that bothers me. Usually.

I have a bread kneading bowl that was carved from a block of wood. It used to belong to someone very special to me, and using it while I pound dough and manipulate it into loaves makes me feel a connection. Mine looks a bit like this one. -----> Coyote mentioned recently that she wanted to start making bread, and as her birthday was fast approaching I figured I'd find a dough bowl for her on eBay. I didn't expect them to be super cheap or anything, but I wasn't expecting what greeted me when I clicked Search: "Wooden Dough Bowl PRIMITIVE!" "Primitive Dough Bowl" and my perennial favorite in such searches, "Wooden Dough Bowl PRIMITIVE! L@@K!!!!!" I clicked on several of them despite my better judgment, and I was, well, horrified. They were insanely expensive. And most of them were useless. Cracks, warping, suspicious discoloration, entire chunks missing. Almost none of them could be used to actually make bread. When I began reading the descriptions I realized that people are using these as knick-knacks in their homes.

Two hundred dollars for a broken piece of wood in order to satisfy a "theme."

I thought about the people, most likely women, who had been the original owners of these bowls, and I could see the eye rolling and behind-the-hand snickering over this obvious sign of mental unbalance in our society. I pictured them thinking, "Oh hell (if they were cussers), you want primitive? I gotcher primitive right here," as they started piling on lapfuls of non-hinged clothespins, wedding ring quilts, hooked rugs, and gingham.

Because you know what I discovered? "Primitive" is the new chi-chi word city people are using for, "Country."

Ok, I'm going to put aside my distaste for that idea in general and how much it gets under my skin. I am, however, going to mention my amusement over yet another scenario that took place in my head.

"Oh! Your place looks so nice! I love country!"

"What? NO! No no no. This is PRIMITIVE."

People will buy anything if you market it to them correctly.

As an illustration, here is a "primitive" cabinet someone was hawking on Craigslist while I was attempting to find an inexpensive recliner. Doesn't it look like they got it at Target? They made sure to mention that the door is an "antique shutter."

I facepalmed.

According to a Craigslist search pie safes are now primitive. So is an old, wooden student desk with an inkwell like my mom used when she was a kid. Outhouses? You betcha. Especially if they have stars on them.

These people would have a heyday in my grandmother's basement. But my grandmother would slap me upside the head if I took advantage of these people. Seriously, from beyond the grave she would let me have it.

Too bad my last name isn't "Barnum."

Flags of Our Fathers

I love photo editing software. While I love you all to bits, it's really none of your business why my father was discharged from the Army. All you need to know is what it says at the top of the form. "Honorable."

My dad didn't go to Korea. He was stationed in a tech environment once he completed Basic. His assignment was as a photolithographer. This involved engraving patterns on circuit boards. My dad started out his adulthood as a computer geek of a sort. It's too bad he couldn't stick with it once he was discharged. However, if he had he wouldn't have ended up at Campbell's Soup where he met my mother and I wouldn't be here.

My dad was the only person I have ever met who loved Army food. He spoke of it fondly many times. Two of his favorite meals when I was a child were Spam and eggs and SOS. SOS is more commonly known as Creamed Chipped Beef. I still eat it. When I was small we had to buy dried beef in a little jar and make it from scratch, and my dad would go gaga these days over the fact that Stouffer's sells it frozen.

My dad eventually ended up working for the police department in the next town over as a dispatcher. Back then 911 didn't exist, and each department had folks on the force whose job was to answer the phone and direct the officers in the field. They were required to wear the standard uniform of the department, and if I shut my eyes I can see my father, having come home on a dinner break, standing in the dining room with his shiny black leather shoes that squeaked. I can see his belt holding his holstered revolver and his pair of cuffs. I have the cuffs right here. He had used an etcher to imprint his name on them, and one of the Es in Summerell is printed backwards. I have no idea if he had done that on purpose. I never got the chance to ask him.

On the day of his viewing I walked into the funeral parlor with my mother, and I saw two uniformed men, one on either side of his casket. I asked my mom why they were there and she told me my father had a 24 hour honor guard. I asked her why, and she told me it was because he was loved and respected. I was so proud of him. In a small way having those men there through the night made me feel better, because I didn't want him to be there all alone.

No one had given me a single heads up prior to the actual funeral, and I was surprised again the next day when I discovered his casket draped with the Flag. Again I questioned my mother, and she told me that he was being given a military funeral because he had been discharged honorably, and having served his country in whatever capacity he deserved one.

I was ok until the riflemen started firing their volleys as a salute. When I heard those guns crack through the air the tears started. To this day I cannot stand the sound of a rifle shot. On one New Year's Eve I spent the night at a friend's house, and her dad was a hunter. At midnight he took his rifle outside and fired it a few times. With each shot my heart hit my sternum and I had to go inside and sob in the bathroom.

When my dad's funeral ended they folded his flag and walked over to my grandmother. The soldier holding the flag said to her, "As a representative of the United States Army, it is my high privilege to present you this flag. Let it be a symbol of the grateful appreciation this nation feels for the distinguished service rendered to our country and our flag by your loved one." I stood there as straight as a pin. The tears had stopped, and by this point I was numb. My grandmother then did what might have been the kindest and most thoughtful thing she had ever done in her life. She turned to me and handed me the flag. She said, "This should be yours."

And it is. I clutched that flag to my chest as tightly as I could. I placed it in a cedar chest when we got home, and it stayed there until I moved out of the house. My mother bought me a display box for it to keep it safe. When I have room to display it I do. Otherwise it is stored carefully in a closet. I pulled it from the closet the other day to pack it for our move, and I already know exactly where I'm putting it once we get there.

The kids will have to fight over who gets it someday. I refuse to make that determination. Maybe they can share custody.

Happy Veterans Day, everyone.

I know you don't actually know me from Adam

At least many of you don't.

But I'm going to ask you to place your trust in me just the same.

My friend Coyote was roommates in college with this absolutely fabulous chick. I met her when she came back to the East Coast and worked with us for awhile. This woman has had more than her fair share of shit in her life. The details of the shit are unimportant for this tale, and I wouldn't provide them anyway as I do not have her permission to do so. What I can tell you is that she plugs through all of the heartache and roadblocks with tenacity that I have found totally inspiring. She's funny and strong and smart and resourceful and beautiful and all of those things that make insecure women envious.

After she had been back here for a few years she decided to pursue her dream. Many of us have dreams. I sure do. She went for it. She did everything necessary to buy herself a farm. I'm not talking about some pansy-ass "gentleman's farm" either. She bought herself a working farm and got to work. Because it would take awhile for this farm to actually provide her and her husband with a living she also worked actual jobs. She busted her ass on the farm every day and then dragged it to work to bring home a paycheck. On the weekends she would hit a local farmers market and sell fresh eggs and vegetables. She was the first person I had ever seen with the ingenious idea of selling a "subscription" service to folks to have local produce in season delivered to their homes.

Did I mention she's wicked smart?

On Sunday morning while she slept the wiring under the house apparently sparked for some reason. The smoke alarm did its job and she escaped. Most of her pets made it out safely. Not all of them did.

Everything is gone.

Her husband had joined the reserves and is currently overseas, but they're sending him home. In the meantime she's staying with his folks about 3 hours away. That is one hell of a commute every day to make sure the farm keeps going. But she'll do it.

Now here's where I ask for your trust. Thankfully they had insurance, which will cover replacement of the house and the larger items in it. I'm not going to toss a Paypal donation button up on my sidebar unless enough of you ask me to. I don't know that she'd accept the funds anyway. What I am going to ask for is gas cards. The cost of fuel to drive back and forth is going to be absolutely insane. If any of you have even a few dollars to send me prepaid cards to some of the big stations, Texaco, Shell, yes, even Exxon, shoot me an email and I will send you my address so we can get these to her. I'll get them to Coyote and she can pass them along.

I'm asking for a rally, folks. The small farmer is a dying breed, and I for one want this one to make it.

EDIT: Wild Onion Farms

I Want You to Go Get a Peanut

Seriously. Have any peanuts in the house? Salted, Boiled, Spanish, it really matters not. If you have any go get one. Get a few so you can eat some while we talk. I'll wait.

Ok, if you followed instructions and got the peanut(s) (or even if you have no peanuts) I want to ask you a question. Did you know that Santa Claus hides inside peanuts? I do because my mom told me. Even better than telling me was the fact that she showed me. Open a peanut. Gently. Pry the two halves apart and have a peek inside. Do you see him? His tiny little face and beard and hat? Etched in nutmeat in greater detail than any sober person could possibly manage in those dimensions is Santa. If you are a person who has no peanuts available at the moment I will show him to you myself.

Ta Da.

My friend Coyote and I were talking one night about how it's the small moments that matter to kids more than the overblown gestures. I, for one, have always felt that it was more important to have a great Mommy and Daddy than Mother and Father. I had both. My parents were very good at the serious business of parenting, but what stays in my heart and fills it to bursting are those magical moments they gave me. I believe wholly that childhood should be a time of magic, and not simply in the Trips to Orlando kind of way. The serious business of parenting, the rules, the protection, actually parenting instead of chickening out and trying to be best buds is very necessary. If done correctly, those things do a slow burn in a child's character. The tiny little things, however, are those that will be pulled front and center to a child's brain when a parent leaves this world.

My mother was the first person to really show me an example of physics, which is mildly amusing since she failed physics. I do not remember a specific day, or what month it was, or what I was wearing. I do remember, though, my mom pointing to the maples in front of the house and saying, "Look! They're tiny helicopters!" I ran down the steps and looked up at hundreds of tiny maple seed pods fluttering to the ground, spinning as they came. The wind calmed, and my mom came down the steps as well, picked some up in her hands, and tossed them in the air to fall again. My toddler disappointment evaporated, and I joined in. I watched the tiny pods spin in their circles to the ground over and over again, and when my attention began to drift my mother took me over to the neighbor's maple, which was a different type. She picked one of the larger, green pods it held and used her thumbnail to slit the base. She spread the base open and applied it to my nose and told me I was Pinocchio.

My dad was actually pretty good at that whole "pulling a penny from your ear" thing, and it tickled me to no end whenever he did it. In fact, when I became pregnant with Livvie I informed Rich that he was going to have to learn how to do that correctly. It's a Dad Thing. I haven't known many moms that can pull it off, but almost everyone I know remembers their dad doing it. My dad was a gift giver. He was one of those dudes that would stop and pick up flowers for no reason, and he always remembered birthdays and anniversaries. After he moved out his gifts to me became more grandiose, and I have a sick feeling he was trying to maintain my affection for him by buying it. To his credit, he was a fabulous trash picker, and he would snag me some truly fabulous things that way. His gifts to me, in more ways than one, included a telescope he plucked from the side of the road and a microscope he bought for my 8th birthday. One of his best gifts to me ever, though, was a broken prism. It had a small chunk missing from one corner, and he brought it to me and showed me that you can hold rainbows in your hands. Livvie is absolutely enraptured with rainbows right now, and although her Christmas will be small this year, at least on her parents' part, there will be a prism in her stocking. I can get a bag of them for $8.95. So can you. Go Here. They were local folks in Barrington, NJ for ages, and they gave my uncle his first decent job as a teenager.

I received a bit of magic as an adult to pass on to my kids as well. Coyote, mentioned earlier, and I were outside one night when the moon was low and large. She bounced on her toes once and yelled, "Bunny on the moon!" I turned to her with the eyebrow up and she pointed and asked me if I hadn't heard about the bunny on the moon. I told her I certainly hadn't, and I turned my head this way and that for a few seconds, and then I saw it. The trick is to get past seeing the Man in the Moon. Erase it from your head. Widen your vision a bit and there's the bunny. Do you see it? I squealed like a girl and she told me a version of this story:

(From Wikipedia)

In the Buddhist story "Śaśajâtaka", a monkey, an otter, a jackal, and a rabbit resolved to practice charity on the Uposatha, believing a demonstration of great virtue would earn a great reward.

When an old man begged for food, the monkey gathered fruits from the trees and the otter collected dead fish from the river bank, while the jackal wrongfully pilfered a lizard and a pot of milk-curd. The rabbit, who knew only how to gather grass, instead offered its own body, throwing itself into a fire the man had built. The rabbit, however, was not burnt. The old man revealed himself to be Śakra, and touched by the rabbit's virtue, drew the likeness of the rabbit on the moon for all to see. It is said the lunar image is still draped in the smoke that rose when the rabbit cast itself into the fire.

 I never see the Man in the full moon anymore. I only see the bunny. I think I like that very much.

I'm discovering magic along my journey with these kids as well. I am absolutely not the best mother to walk this planet. Oftentimes I downright suck. I'm trying as hard as I can, though, to be a good Mommy. Livvie cannot sleep without the light in her fish's small tank on to chase the dark. I feel bad for the fish, because I assume he gets no sleep and is about to go berserk at any moment. The other night after I got Livvie tucked in I went to her dresser and pushed the button on the back of the tank. Nothing happened. The last time his bulb burned out she woke up hysterical off and on all night, so I told her I'd be right back and went to look for a new bulb. I thought I had purchased a two pack, but I was mistaken. I was poking around in the cabinet where we store bulbs, and I saw a small box of white Christmas tree lights. I think it's a strand of thirty. I grabbed the box, ripped it open, and tore that annoying little baggie full of spares off of the strand. I went to her room and told her we had no more fish bulbs, and that she'd have to make do with these. I draped them across the windowsill and plugged them in. She sat up and said, "It's beautiful!! It's rainbows and unicorns!!"

Ta Da.

We're going to be installing one of these in Livvie's new bedroom before she moves in. It's a fairy door that a friend of mine sent to her. It's about 12 inches tall, and it's going to go on a wall near a small cypress tree decorated with white "fairy lights" in a corner. When we move her to her new room the fairies will have already moved in ahead of time. Hopefully it will distract her to some extent, as the last time we went to the house she asked to "go home" after awhile.

If nothing else it'll be a little bit more magic in my own world.

Love and Other Indoor Sports...

Remember that little phrase from Starring Sally J. Freedman As Herself? I remember when I read that book and the meaning of it dawned on me I blushed as red as a tomato.

But then Judy Blume made me blush regularly.

I am by no means a prude. Really. You can ask my best friend. We've discussed some serious raunch over the past 10 years, and I can come out with some wicked nasty. I do, however, still blush. Easily.

Yesterday I was packing up the closets because I figured that the best course of action was to start with packing the things we don't need over the next couple of weeks and end with the items that are still in use. I was going through the closet in the living room, and that happens to be where we stashed everything from our wedding. The fancy shmancy "marriage certificate" is in there. You know, the one suitable for framing? It's um, sort of crumpled now. And I never filled it out. So I took 2 minutes yesterday to do that. It was in a giant gift bag that was itself inside a large, open cardboard box. Other things had tumbled into the box over the years, so I decided to sort through everything and re-pack the box with only wedding nostalgia.

My hand fell upon a wad of white lace and I pulled it out to find a thong (actually more of a G-String) with a musical crotch that plays the recessional music from weddings when pressure is applied. My face burst into flames.

Now, you have to understand that I never wore it. I really, really can't stand thong underwear in the first place, and the LAST moment I want something wandering up my rear end is when I'm trying to concentrate on being happy. I like being happy. I do not like wedgies.

I am convinced that had I lived in the days when the wedding party would crash the honeymoon suite after the wedding took place, strip the bloody bedding, and parade it around the reception I would have slit my own throat.

I am perfectly comfortable discussing sex as a concept. I REALLY enjoy making jokes about it in general (when I turned 21 my roommates gave me a Very Penis Birthday. Let's just say I had no idea there were that many items of that theme in existence). There is also one particular topic from my past that is between the best friend and myself, and it never fails to inspire hilarity. In general, though, I really, really, honest to God truly do not like anyone knowing about my own particular business. Or even thinking about it (and I know that right now you can't think about anything else, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice of my dignity for this entry).

People who give the kind of gift that plays music in your crotch are thinking about your particular business. I flamed when I first unwrapped it just as badly as I did yesterday. I'm the kind of person who spent all of both pregnancies once I began showing thinking, "Oh my gawd. Everyone knows I got laid." When the kids finally figure out that act had to occur to get them here I might very well run shrieking into the night.

I've had moments over the years when I've had to stuff my mortification and ask people for advice about certain issues, and each and every time I've wanted to crawl into a very dark cave and die.

While I have a thousand and one issues that do bug me, such as the OCD thing and really hating to drive at night, I actually don't mind this personality quirk too much. The primary reason is that it allows my husband to still have the ability to make me blush. There's something fairly delightful about that.

Since the theme of today appears to be shame of one sort or another, I'll go ahead and link you to the essay I wrote for my assignment for Chuck at Terribleminds. It is a far more depressing piece than the above. Enter at your own risk.

EDIT: Odd that I have not tagged this post at all, and yet technorati sent someone here because I supposedly tagged the post as "3 D S e x G a m e s." Sometimes I hate the internet.

There Is No Post Today

One of my very best friends lost her dog of almost 2 decades today. He was awesome. On the day I met him he jumped on my bare legs and gave me a 6 inch gash that left a scar for over 2 years. I used to look at that scar fondly. I sure wish I still had it now.

<------- Please notice on the sidebar I have created a wall for those dogs we have lost in our lives. So many gone this year alone. If you'd like your dog on the list, or even one you've known, simply give me a heads up.

Thank you. Hug your dog. I'll be back tomorrow.

I fibbed the other day

I have more than one treasure chest.

I was going through the kitchen cabinets this afternoon determining what would be moved and what would be tossed. And I reached into the back of one cabinet and pulled out <---this bag.

This bag contains Clancy's last morning.

When I pulled it from the cabinet my face must have changed, because Livvie said, "Ommy's sad." and I choked up and told her that while I was sad, it was an ok kind of sad. I told her to go play in the living room. Only then did I let the waterworks go.

On the morning I fought to save Clancy and had to admit defeat and give up, I drove home from the vet and placed his entire morning in a freezer bag. I took the bag and placed it in the cabinet where I would be able to simply open the door and see it. His entire morning. A single, one gallon sized bag.

The bag contains the puppy pad that I placed on the floor when I was desperately trying to get him to pee as his kidneys shut down. You'll also notice the empty Ringers bag from my last attempt at giving him fluids in order to help that process of peeing along. The small object on the puppy pad is the wrapper from the needle used on the line. 19 gauge. I had some 20s, but I wanted that fluid in him as quickly as possible.

The needle is still attached to the line. Capped, but attached.

I did look at that bag. A lot. Over time though, my pain eased and I didn't pull it out as often, and it got pushed to the back of the cabinet behind baby food and dog supplements and heart worm preventative (I know I'm not the only one who keeps the pet stuff with the baby stuff. And if I am, too bad).

After I pulled the bag from the cabinet today I pushed aside the Interceptor and the Advantix and all of Jonas's new, uneaten baby food and I pulled out The Box. The Box contains the rest of Clancy's last few  months.

An open box of lancets. His glucose meter. The silicone gel I used on his ears to help the blood bead for testing. The last bag of syringes. Cat treats. Rescue Remedy. And his last, open vial of insulin and the unopened insulin that had been on standby.

I could have given away the meter. I could have given away the syringes. At the time of his death we had a cat at the shelter who was diabetic and on the same insulin, and I could have certainly given the unopened vial to them.

I couldn't part with any of it.

I don't know why any of this helps me, but it does. I don't know if I'm completely fucked in the head for caring about one particular cat as much as I did him, and I don't care.

He was my cat of a lifetime.

And every single bit of this is going with me.

I'm still not ready.

I have a growing suspicion...

That I know exactly what's going on here, folks.


If you'll take your mouse and click on your scroll bar and zip yourselves alllllll the way down to the bottom of this page you'll see a little box that says SiteMeter. Go ahead. Click it. Get a good look.


I know exactly where all of you are. Move your mouse over to "Location" and you'll see that I can even see your desktop from here. Close that window full of Furries. Your mom is looking.


Kidding. Only Rich can do that. But are you wigged out yet? I am. Here's why. Along with viewing your location and which OS you're running and how many pistachio shells are currently next to your keyboard I can view exactly what brought you here. Do you love and know me and have me bookmarked? Did you click my link on Facebook? Did someone email to you the link to one of my entries? Or was it a random Google drive by? A few weeks ago I mentioned that the number one googled phrase that lands people here is "What a size _____ looks like." Google leads them to this entry. I updated all of you on the fact that I was unfortunately no longer a size 10 as my stress and lack of opportunity to eat much are whittling me away to a pencil.


So everyday at least once I click on SiteMeter and check out where all of you are coming from. I'm nosy. What the fuck can I say? I love to see the geographical locations of everyone and play guessing games about who is whom. It's fun, and I'm lame and I have no life. Shut it.


Since I opened my blog to the public again my hits have exploded with versions of that search. Sometimes it's simply "Size 10." I'll let you know right now that It's a bit disturbing to me that those mere words will bring you right here. My ass has apparently gone global. Mexico. Hungary. Someone in Australia today wanted to know what "a size 10a breast looks like," and landed right here. When I saw that it clicked, and I remembered this comment someone had been courteous enough to post:

Anonymous said...

I'm feeling a little guilty here.

I actually did a Google search that said " what is a size 10".

This nice girl I met online said she was a size 10 and I had no clue what a size 10 looked like.

After seeing your bum I think I'll propose.

Great post....and great bum.

This is all of you, isn't it. All y'all are ending up here because you've been trolling for chicks online and having met one who gives you her stats you feel the need to check up on what that might look like. I applaud the fact that you all seem to have the presence of mind not to approach your female acquaintances and ask them what size they wear to find an example. I do want to provide an answer, though, to the dude who googled, "What does a size 2 look like." One word. Ghastly.


In an effort to assist you all I'm going to present you with this primer on what certain sizes CAN look like. Your mileage may vary.

Marilyn Monroe - Size 16

Emme Aronson - Size 14

Lizzie Miller - Size 12

Whitney - Size 10

Cindy Crawford - Size 8

Jennifer Lopez - Size 6

I refuse to post sizes 0-4. If you're trying to figure that out, go to the news stand and pick up a chick rag. Or you could, you know, ask the chick you're trying to hook up with for a photo. 

Assclowns.

(Except Mr. Anonymous who took the time to write...)

What. The Hell.

Ever have one of those moments when you wonder just what the fuck you've gotten yourself into?

I've had several in my life, the most famous involving an inflated balloon and a can of spray paint.

Recently, very recently, as in just the other day, I ended up with my head spinning yet again. I had thought I was simply interjecting something into an online conversation. Apparently my contribution kicked some butt. And I won myself an opportunity to write a piece on THIS website (and seriously, I know I keep pimping him, but if you haven't yet toodled over there, do so. You won't be sorry).

As always, my mouth hung agape and my brain screamed, "NO!!" That's gratitude for ya. It was akin to the time in Junior High when my ass won a pair of Flyers tickets because it was sitting on a specific chair during assembly. And being that I was a baseball person my first thought was, "What the fuck am I gonna do with these?" I suddenly acquired a lot of friends for a few days. Back to topic.

I darted off a message to Chuck letting him know that I don't do fiction. I received a reply letting me know that I couldn't weasel my way out of this that easily. Write whatever. 1000-2000 words. No hurry. Kind of. Get cracking, bitch (ok, he didn't call me bitch. but he could have). I've never felt authentic in any attempt to write fiction. I can write the hell out of a research paper. I might have been the only person in school who internally squealed with glee when a research paper was assigned. The whole process delighted me. I loved going to the library and using the microfiche and putting all of my information on index cards so I could lay them out on my bed in the order they would appear in the paper. I loved entering footnotes and sorting my bibliography. And I really, really loved getting my papers back with a big, red A at the tops of them. I became an English major with the primary goal of teaching in university but being expected to publish critical papers or lose my job. I wanted to write. My college teachers loved my work and one of them even submitted to a contest a bullshit analysis I had written of Reynolds Price's A Final Account. It was bullshit because I didn't believe a word I had written, but I knew intuitively what the teacher desperately wanted from his students in regards to an understanding of the story. Personally I think Reynolds Price is an overrated douche. Is that libel? Screw it. I hate him.

As a young adult I wrote trainloads of juvenalia. My first truly manic episode that lasted awhile hit at around age 21, and I would stay up until 4am, hunched over my computer, chain smoking and writing poetry. My favorite poet of all time is Ogden Nash, so there was nothing navel gazing or brooding about any of it. One night I decided to say, "fuck it." I think I even said it aloud. I stuck one of my poems in an envelope with a nicely written letter and mailed it off to The New Yorker. I received a letter back awhile later letting me know that they appreciated my interest, but my style wasn't suitable for their publication. I refrained from writing back that I understood completely, as their usual offerings WERE written by a bunch of navel gazing brooders who used "free verse" as a method of disguising the fact that they were talentless hacks on Xanax.

I hate free verse, because only a very few have the talent to make it lyrical. Everyone else ends up sounding like a wingnut. Here's an example:

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

pray that the road is long,

full of adventure, full of knowledge.

The Brownings and the Mossbergs,

the angry Colts -- do not fear them:

You will never find such as these on your path,

if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine

emotion touches your spirit and your body.

The StrapGuns and the Uzis,

the fierce Technines you will never encounter,

if you do not carry them within your soul,

if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long....

© 1999 by T Y Alevizos, ty@well.com. All Rights Reserved

Of course, a great deal of the rhyming poetry I've read these days could only be improved by the addition of musicians playing thrash metal behind it. Truly. Google "Bad Rhyming Poetry," and pick any selection. Now imagine it performed by James Hetfield. It works.

Did I digress again? Damn. One day I simply stopped writing. I would say this happened in 1999, if I recollect correctly. Everything I was writing was ending up in the trash icon on my computer, and I was convinced I was shit. I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. You could lead me to the keyboard but you couldn't make me write. My brain was as useless as tits on a bull. Cliches ad nauseum.

I sucked. I had no degree. And in the back of my head I tucked the mantra, "I can't write." So I stopped pursuing it. I canceled the subscriptions to writing publications. I stopped buying The Writer's Market each year. I took most of my reference books to the library and donated them. I saved a few. I kept Strunk and White. I held onto The Transitive Vampire. On Writing by Stephen King is still on the shelf, because it's actually a fun read. Everything else got gone. I went to work every day and came home every night and wasted my time in front of the TV or devoured other people's work.

Occasionally I felt pangs. I'd read something exceptional and think, "Gosh, I wish I could do this." But I sucked. I had no degree. I was a hack. I couldn't write.

In 2006, because I'm always late to every party, I discovered blogging. I've never been good at keeping a journal. I have at least a dozen boxed up that each has maybe 20 entries completed. A blog seemed like the perfect idea because I could post whenever I felt the itch, and there would be nothing staring me in the face taunting me unless I clicked on my bookmark. I never expected anyone to actually read the damn thing. I began filling it with mundane crap, rants, and commentary. This was my first entry. Mundane AND a rant. Two birds with one stone.

I never really considered blogging writing. I considered it a way to dump my brain, and that was pretty much it. Recently I had occasion to remember that I had received a response from Robert McCammon to a fan letter I had sent him after I read Boy's Life. In it he essentially told me that writing IS hard. He also told me that if we want to succeed we have to keep writing, all of the time, especially when it's hard. He wished me luck and thanked me for taking the time to write to him. I received that letter in the mail on my 21st birthday, and to this day it's my favorite birthday gift ever. Remembering all of this made me decide to no longer ignore my blog when it's inconvenient to write in it. The itch had come back, but this time it was no longer in the back of my brain. It is front and center on a constant basis. Actually, it burns. To paraphrase Madeline Kahn, "...it-it- the f - it -flam - flames. Flames, on the front of my brain..." And then I opened my email one day and discovered that I was "Made of Win," and I was to produce something for someone.

What. The hell.

Fuck.

So my stomach knotted and I fretted and gnashed my teeth. Was there tearing of hair? Oh yes there was. Was there rending of clothing? Not so much. Did I open Facebook on more than one occasion to send a message back saying, "Please bestow this honor on someone else?" Why yes I did. But I never typed the message.

And then yesterday a woman I worked with in the past read my blog entry and commented to me, "I didn't know you were a writer."

I am. I'm a fucking writer y'all. Even when it's shit. Even when it's hack. Language is my plaything and it's more fun than a barrel of Cooties. It's tastier than buffalo wings. I don't think it's better than sex.

I just counted. I've got 1467 words here. But I'm going to call this entry a day and get to work tonight on what has been requested of me.

See you all tomorrow.

I Will Not Go Quietly (anymore)

If all my friends were to jump off a bridge, I wouldn't jump with them, I'd be at the bottom to catch them.
-- Source Unknown



Sometimes, no matter our best intentions, we cannot make the catch. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try anyway. And if we do fail to make that catch, we should still be there to pick up the pieces.

Remember this little nugget?

"If you love someone, set them free. If they come back they're yours; if they don't they never were"


I call bullshit all over that. That isn't to say that if someone needs time and space we shouldn't give it to them. I've had to do that more than once. But I think too often these days people are subscribing to the notion that people come into our lives and leave whenever they're done being "useful" to us. I'm not talking about useful in the, 'Hey, can you help me move this sofa to the curb' kind of way. I'm talking about this idea that people move into our lives, enrich them, we learn things about the world and ourselves, and when the "teaching moment" is over they leave. Ok, I'm sure that the other person is doing their share of learning as well. And maybe I'm misunderstanding the notion. I'm not speaking of acquaintances here. I'm talking about those folks we've befriended deeply.

There are, granted, people who do move into and out of our lives briefly, and they can make a world of difference. Circumstances can sometimes intervene to make maintaining a relationship difficult. And many times people move in different directions and on different paths. All valid. My concern is over people who take this to the extreme of "out of sight, out of mind." I've grown apart from many friends over the years, and I sure as hell haven't been the best friend a person can be. But I hold them in my hearts and think of them quite often. If any of them needed anything that I have the power to provide, even if it's just an ear to hear them, I'm available. In my 20s I was a self absorbed twat, and I let a lot of people slip away from me because I didn't yet understand how to perform this delicate trick. All I can say is, Thank Goodness for Facebook.

Granted, there are times when people can be toxic to each other, and in those cases yes, you need to separate yourselves post haste. And we've all experienced those folks who are essentially emotional vampires who suck us dry before moving onto the next victim. In the best of friendships though, things will not always be rosy. But petty arguments can happen without destroying a friendship. Disagreements happen. The rule here is to never, ever say something that can't be taken back. Think before you open your mouth and shove your size 10 down your gullet.

If you care, really really care, do everything you can to hold onto those you love. Yes, that's selfish too, if you simply look at that statement. I'll elaborate. Give them what they need from you without enabling bullshit behavior. What they need from you might not be what they actually want. If that means taking them aside when they're being the biggest bonehead on the planet and bricking them upside the head with reason, do it. If the planets have decreed that you will be moving in different directions, give them a holler now and then to find out how that path is working out for them. I do not believe in my heart that the teaching moments ever end. More than once in my life after I've re-established contact with someone they're given me news that I've greeted with essentially, "Holy shit. Really??" and it's been an eye opening experience. I've discovered many times in life that divergent paths often simply detour right back again. Be open to that. Greet each other again with joy and laughter and bone crushing hugs. Show your love for your friends as often as you can. Be kind to each other. Do not expect things they are unable to provide. Get to know them well. Ask them how they're doing as often as possible before telling them how you are. Listen with your whole heart. Minimize distractions when the shit hits the fan and they really need you. Be as honest as Abe. In return, do not ask any questions for which you do not want to hear an honest answer. Do not expect more of them than you expect of yourself.

Never require that they will catch you or pick up the pieces, but if they do, love them and be grateful.

Pay the Ferryman? Or not?

I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go

Walkin' with a dead man over my shoulder

Waiting for an invitation to arrive

Goin' to a party where no one's still alive

I was struck by lighting

Walkin' down the street

I was hit by something last night in my sleep

It's a dead man's party

Who could ask for more

Everybody's comin', leave your body at the door

Leave your body and soul at the door . . .

(Don't run away it's only me)

All dressed up with nowhere to go

Walkin' with a dead man

Waitin' for an invitation to arrive

With a dead man . . . Dead Man . . .

Got my best suit and my tie

Shiny silver dollar on either eye

I hear the chauffeur comin' to the door

Says there's room for maybe just one more . . .

I was struck by lighting

Walkin' down the street

I was hit by something last night in my sleep

It's a dead man's party

Who could ask for more

Everybody's comin', leave your body at the door

Leave your body and soul at the door . . .

Don't run away it's only me

Don't be afraid of what you can't see

Don't run away it's only me . . .

(Oingo Boingo- Dead Man's Party)

I prefer All Soul's Day on November 2nd to All Saint's Day on November 1st for what are probably obvious reasons. If it's not obvious, today those who have passed and have seen the light of heaven are celebrated. Tomorrow those souls who haven't quite made it there yet are. They're probably sitting around drinking beer and playing cards biding their time. Regardless, every November 1st I dance to Dead Man's Party (although this year due to my back it's more like a subdued shuffle). I'm pretty sure the Mexican celebration of Dias De Los Muertos is the coolest idea ever.

To be honest, I don't believe in "heaven" the way that They tell you to. I've always figured that everyone's heaven is what they would prefer the most. I guess if you'd like to spend eternity basking in the light of God that's your prerogative. If your idea of heaven is sitting on a lake catching fish after fish while watching the sunset, with a decided lack of biting flies, then that's good too.

When I die what I want most of all is to laugh for the rest of eternity. I'd like moments of deep belly laughs, and quiet moments of silent chuckles. I want to see pratfalls and hear sarcasm and lowbrow humor and watch cats miss the countertops and walk away with the "I meant to do that" strut. I want to occasionally reach that intensity of laughter where if you keep it up you'll start sobbing. Without the sobbing bit.

I'd like to spend that time smiling constantly. With my teeth. I stopped smiling with my teeth when my 4th grade photo came back and it looked like my teeth were the size of Texas. On Livvie's birthday this year the waiter took a picture of the two of us and when I saw it I realized my teeth were showing. At first I was horrified. Then I made the decision to do it more often.

I want to play pranks on the living. I've been a prankster my whole life, and the possibilities for afterlife shenanigans are endless. Socks, cellphones, keys, wallet condoms, oh, all will go missing. You can believe that.

What does your idea of heaven look like? How will you want to spend your time?