Are you gonna eat that?

Packing My Shit and Heading Out

2009-12-29T12:41:00.000-05:00

I'm moving here. Jennyquarx recommended I make this move, and I figure, New Year, New Start.

The site is still under construction, so be patient. Thank you, one and all, for making my stay here so awesome. My love for you is larger than the biggest stars. Or something.

Post to follow tonight. I would love to see you there.

-Julie

http://sheltergirl.wordpress.com

Everybody Lies

2009-12-27T11:35:00.000-05:00

I'm just not good at it.

I've attempted a couple of lies in my past, as a child and as an adult, such as: "Julie, what are you doing in there?" "Nothing!" *bathroom door slams open, and my father enters to find me with a sink full of water, stirring baby powder into it with the toilet brush*

My parents pounded into my head that lying is absolutely unacceptable. You get in far less trouble if you simply tell the truth from the get go. That, my friends, is a fact.

I've attempted to live by the axiom that Honesty is the Best Policy, but I do know the merit of lies of omission. I once ran into someone I used to work with and he looked like sixteen locomotives had run over him over the past few years. I simply avoided making any comment on his appearance. No, "You look great!" or any such tripe. An ex-boyfriend was an absolutely lousy kisser, and I merely avoided ever bringing up the topic.

I got my first tattoo at the age of 20 knowing that it would upset my mother hugely. I never told her I was going to get one, but after it was done I felt I had to show her immediately rather than spend years hiding it from her. She reacted, well, horribly. Hysterics. Spoke with her monsignor about it. I felt better not hiding it though.

Yesterday I looked at Livvie's fish, Hungry Arthur, and I knew he wasn't long for this world. He was hanging out at the bottom of his tank, and he didn't look like himself. Please don't ask how a fish can manage to not look like himself, but after almost two years of living with him and caring for him daily I could tell something was wrong. I told Rich last night that I didn't expect him to make it through the night, and I was right. Livvie woke up crying at about 4am, and when I went in to care for her I checked on him. He was still around. By 830 this morning he was gone and beginning to turn gray.

Rich and I discussed the matter, and he felt we should switch him out for a new fish without her finding out. I was weighing the options in my head, and I originally agreed with him. Livvie isn't at a place cognitively where she can understand the finality of death. Her only knowledge of the word "dead" in general is in relation to AA and C batteries. So I agreed with him without liking it one bit. I did know, though, that I didn't want her to catch a glimpse of her already decaying little buddy who has watched over her every night while she sleeps. While she wasn't looking I managed to scoop him out and remove him from the premises. I turned off the light on the tank, and went about my business, albeit with my stomach starting to knot.

Rich left to do some work at the other house, and my mother left for Mass. Livvie was playing in her room. My chest kept tightening and my stomach kept roiling until I simply couldn't take it another second. Was it for my benefit or hers? I don't know. I simply felt she deserved to hear the truth, regardless of whether or not she would truly understand it. So I led her to the fish tank, turned the light back on, and pointed and said, "Honey, I have to tell you something. Your fish is gone." She said, "Fish is gone?" and I told her yes he was. Then I said, "Honey, your fish got old and sick, and he died. He passed away. He won't be here anymore." She was puzzling it out in her head. I could see the wheels turning. She knows what sick means. Not so much the dead part. So I said again, "He passed away honey. He died. He couldn't stay with us anymore. If you want one, we can get you a new fish." She looked up and said, "A new fish to put in the water?" I told her yes. I told her she could pick one out. She said, "New fish!" and moseyed off.

Nope. Doesn't really get it.

I have no issue with lying about Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny, and even the Tooth Fairy. I don't know why those things are different to me, but they are. I simply couldn't mislead my kid in this instance. I decided to take a chance and see how it went. It could have blown up in my face. I know I should have called Rich and told him my intentions. I simply couldn't hold it in another second.

Yeah, I probably did it for me.

Lies weigh heavily on my heart. They always have. They crush me with their weight into millions of pieces until I start crying on a regular basis. The biggest lie my mother ever told me was on the day my father died. She came home that night, told me Daddy was gone, and that they had done all they could to save him. Several months later I heard her sobbing and went into the bedroom. She looked at me and said, "I lied to you. Daddy was already dead when we got to the house. There was nothing anyone could do."

And then over the years she managed to file that little tidbit away into the recesses of her mind so that when I brought it up years later she had no idea what I was talking about. It had upset her THAT much.

Yeah. No. Sorry, folks. I won't ever do that to myself.

I carry enough guilt for things I've said and done out in the open.

I'm Not Going to Lie to You

2009-12-24T11:57:00.000-05:00

Christmas really is more fun when there are kids involved.

However, my entire life I have refused to actually become apathetic about Christmas. Granted, Halloween is my favorite holiday, followed by Thanksgiving. Terrible things have happened in my life on and around Christmas, but I will not let them ruin it for me.

I worked in one form of retail or another for a total of 17 years in my life, and every year I would grumble about how much I hated Christmas. I didn't. I hated the shoppers, and the nastiness, and the lady that threw an ornament right at the head of one of the cashiers when I worked at Shoddy, Overpriced Decor for Your Home. I hated that it took me 30 minutes to walk from the only parking spot I could find at the mall to We Suck Records where I worked. I hated the woman who was shopping at Very Large, Now Defunct Record Store who walked up to me at 11pm and asked me if we were going to have extended holiday hours. I hated the woman who threatened my mom in the parking lot at the mall because Mom had taken "her" parking spot, and when she called my mom a bitch I launched myself at her and her two overdressed, overmadeup, overhairsprayed friends and my mom had to physically hold me back.

But I didn't hate Christmas.

In January of 1983, January 15th to be exact, my father died suddenly. Our tree was still up. His presents were still under the tree, as he had not taken them home yet. Our usual tradition was to put the tree up on December 11th, Mom's birthday, and take it down after January 5th, Dad's birthday. For some reason we had not taken it down yet. When my mother came home that night and told me he was gone I flipped right the fuck out and started throwing every gift he had given me, and I even kicked some of them for good measure. I did actually ask my mom if we were taking the gifts for him back to the store, and she said some of them.

I didn't hate Christmas.

When I was 19 years old my grandmother had been lying in a nursing home bed for 5 years. Christmas Day 1990 I went in to visit her with my mother. I hadn't been in for quite some time, as the whole situation depressed me utterly. She hadn't spoken a word in 5 years, and she spent her days sleeping or staring into space. We walked into her room and I walked around her bed to her right. Christmas cards were all over the bulletin board above her head, not that she ever saw them. As she cast her eyes in my direction her entire body stiffened and she went into arrest. A nurse ran in and shooed us out and called a code. A few moments later my grandmother was gone. I was directed by my mother to call some family members to help us out, and I spent my day deflecting family holiday greetings with, "Grandmom just died."

I didn't hate Christmas.

I have no memory of any Christmas Eve that didn't take place at the Neale residence. Mr. Neale had passed away the year I was born, but he had been my mom's boss at Giant Soup Company with Amazing Stock Returns for 20 odd years. My parents were very close with his family, and every Christmas Eve my mother would haul me to 5 o'clock Mass, we would grab something small to eat, and then we would head over to the Neale house. Every year Mrs. Neale would have the TV set tuned to the burning fireplace thingy with the carols playing in the background. At the Neale house I was introduced to caviar for the first time. My verdict was that it tasted like wharf. Easy Cheese in a can every single year. I think she kept it on hand for me. I loved pushing the little sprayer and making designs on my crackers. The adults sat around and had adult conversation that went over my head, but everyone always made sure I had a good time since I was the only child there. When Mrs. Neale's son was 44 he finally met a fantastic woman and got married. We loved her, and seeing him so happy was just an amazing thing. Her son, Roy, was one of the quiet types who only opened his mouth if he had something worth saying, and in my memory most of what came out of his mouth was laugh out loud funny.

Monday morning my mother called me to say she was getting on the road to head down here, and she choked up. She said she had checked the obituaries, as everyone over the age of 50 is required to do daily, and Roy was dead. I was utterly devastated. I sobbed off and on for hours. Christmas week? Seriously?? That man is in every memory I have of Christmas until I was almost 20. I called his older sister to let her know I was thinking of her and to let her know I love her. She told me she thinks about the Christmas Eves of the past every single year. We cried together.

I still don't hate Christmas.

I have had a tree every single year that I've been an adult, even when I had no one around and no plans. No matter what has been going on, no matter how shitty my life is at the time, I decorate. The first year I was divorced and spent the day by myself eating cream cheese frosting from the can and every other crap thing I could find, I still had gone to a local tree stand and found a very small, live tree and decorated it. I can't believe how quickly the holiday comes and goes each year now. It seems to blow past in a hurry and there hasn't been much time to savor it. I told Rich last night that Livvie is going to be very surprised to discover that it actually ends. I'm pretty sure that the day the tree goes out there will be tears. This year I have started the new family traditions. Cookies again after years of not going near the oven. Making crafts with my mom to decorate the house.

Someday I would like to have the house where small children try new things to eat and are warmly embraced by the adults who don't find them annoying. Someday I would like to be the destination spot for many families to gather every Christmas Eve while I put on the ridiculous burning fireplace on the TV. I want to walk people to their cars after midnight and tell them I'll see them next year; hopefully sooner, while gleefully yelling, "Merry Christmas!!" to the small ones.

This year, though, I am content to make a new batch of chocolate chip cookies, make sure the turkey is thawed, start the stuffing for tomorrow, get my kids to bed, and put the absurd amount of presents provided by the grandparents under the tree.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Stay warm. Stay safe.

Cheese (being the post in which I actually discuss cheese)

2009-12-17T10:57:00.000-05:00

Part Skim Mozzarella, well, sucks.

I'm a cheese snob. I really am. I love cheese almost as much as I love beer. Cheese and beer is actually a favorite meal. Forget the wine. Although I do love wine. Mmmmmm. Shiraz.

My absolute favorite cheese is white extra sharp. It has to be white. I'm a cheese racist. The yellow just doesn't have the same texture. It's a bit softer. A little bit greasy. Cheap extra sharp cheese for those who know no better. Why does anything need annato anyway? The white extra sharp crumbles when you slice it, which can piss a person off sometimes. However, the more aged it is the more likely it is to crumble. Really good extra sharp has a salty tang that isn't found in any other cheese. It is the perfect heavy cheese for a Triscuit. It's also very good to pack for hikes along with a bag of small, chewy rolls and a penknife.

Mustard is good on extra sharp, but it isn't necessary.

My cheese experiences as a child were limited to the sharps, the Hickory Farms boxes, and a little tub of something called Wispride Port Wine Cheese Spread. There was always Wispride in the fridge at my grandmom's house. It was the perfect cheese to spread on water crackers or Sociables. Grandmom even had an actual cheese spreading knife. I was allowed to use it because it was dull. I remember being thrilled that I was eating something with wine in it. I don't know why this mattered, as if my parents were drinking something they always gave me a sip if I requested one. This would be why I had a taste for good scotch at the age of 6. Mmmmmmm. Dewar's.

Pepper Jack made it into my life sometime around my adolescence. My mom brought some sliced home from the local deli, and we were all over it. I remember us slathering brown mustard on seeded rye bread, slapping some Pepper Jack on it, and calling it lunch. Lunch was also occasionally a little trick my mom walked in on one day. I was taking slices of German Bologna, spreading mustard on them, and tearing slices of Cooper Sharp into tiny pieces and scattering them on top. She said, "What are you doing?" I said, "Making pizzas." Then I would roll them into tight little tubes and enjoy. Along those lines, my friend Ann introduced me to the concept of smearing cream cheese on thin Genoa Salami and rolling those up into tubes.

Tube food is good. Screw the nitrates.

I tried blue cheese as an adult. Prior to my Food Epiphany blue cheese scared the ever living shit out of me. There's mold in it for chrissakes. One day someone offered me some sliced French bread and had some blue cheese to spread. I was hooked. MAN, was I hooked. As a matter of fact, when my daughter was born Coyote did as requested and provided a wedge of blue and a bottle of wine after I got home from the hospital since I had been allowed neither during pregnancy. I had asked that it come to the hospital, but this was fine. Blue cheese is just- musty, rank goodness. I will eat any of the blues and be a happy chick. Stilton is frigging amazing on sourdough bread, and a few years back I discovered the joy of Gorgonzola on pizza and lost my mind. I'm still working my way through them. The blues seem to go best with crusty, chewy bread for me, but I am all over the blue cheese dressing on Buffalo Wings. Mmmmm. Tangy AND musty.

Back to Mozzarella. My husband, whose preferred cheese is processed singles in cellophane wrappers, also knows very well that the only good Mozz is whole milk Mozz. He's an ex-pizza man though. Ricotta should really be whole milk as well. It is incredibly hard to find whole milk Mozz these days, so when Rich makes stromboli or Long Island Rolls he usually stops at the Italian restaurant we discovered (that's owned and operated by several old and young men who barely or don't speak English) and purchases a container of cheese and some dough balls. This costs a fortune, which is why we don't often have stromboli. I've considered learning how to make mozzarella on my own. It doesn't look difficult; simply time consuming. I know I can do it. The only way I really like part skim mozzarella is as string cheese. String cheese is a fabulous idea, and it's fun to play with when drunk on margaritas and bourbon. Trying to peel down the thinnest strands of cheese can become a fabulous challenge when one's motor skills are impaired.

I'm at a point where if it's a cheese I'll try it. I have discovered that I find goat cheese to be meh on my palate, and I am not a fan of most soft cheeses. Most of them remind me of sinus infections to start, and I find them somewhat bland. I am, though, all over feta. The day I first tried feta with cracked black peppercorns in it I was floored. I also adore the milky, white cheese used by our favorite Mexican place and would love to make my own chicky nachos with it.

Two things-

Although I am essentially a Philly girl, do NOT come anywhere near my cheese steak with Cheese Whiz or I will slap you upside the frigging head. It's Provolone or nothing.

and

I find it highly disturbing that my daughter will pull the melted cheddar cheese off of her broccoli, eat the broccoli, and leave the cheese.

Does anyone else peel the crispy, greasy, brown melted cheese off of a cookie sheet and snarf it down like manna? Or is that just me?

Character Assessment

2009-12-13T11:23:00.000-05:00

On November 27, 2006 I posted this on a message board:

I'm inventing a new game.

Currently I am

Level 2
SAHM

I am

-2 for Endurance
+4 for Patience
+5 for Comedy
-2 for Hygeine

Detect Hunger
Detect Soiled Diaper
Summon Binky
Summon Bottle
Create Giggles

Alignment- Lawful Good

Rich
Level 2
Working Dad

is

-4 for Endurance
-1 for Patience
+2 for Comedy
+5 for Hygeine

Detect Fussing
Summon Beer

Alignment- Neutral Good

Things have changed in 3 years due to time spent in the game and the addition of another kid. I've leveled up, and so has Rich. We've increased the number of things we can do as we've gained experience.

Level 7
SAHM

I am +12 for Endurance
+5 for Patience
+8 for Comedy
-1 for Hygeine

Detect Hunger
Detect Soiled Diaper
Detect Mood Swings
Summon Binky
Summon Bottle
Summon Bourbon
Summon Electronic Entertainment
Create Giggles
Create Meals with Limited Resources
Create Activities
Heal Booboos
Dispel Evil
Hand of Protection

Bag of Holding
Finger Paint of Hilarity
Cookie Recipe of Delight
Perpetual Crockpot
Grocery List of Doom

Alignment- Lawful Good

Rich
Level 7
Working Dad

is

-2 for Endurance
+10 for Patience
+12 for Comedy
+8 for Hygeine

Detect Fussing
Detect Mood Swings
Summon Beer
Summon Pizza
Create Giggles
Create Resources from Nothing
Heal Booboos
Dispel Evil
Hand of Protection

Pen of Perpetual Bill Paying
Power Drill of Major Repairs
Allen Wrench of Cheap Furniture
Igloo Cooler of Adult Beverages

Alignment- Neutral Good

Does this count as coming out of the closet?

Carols?

2009-12-12T22:32:00.000-05:00

For the length of this song, every time I hear this I am a Christian again.

I offer you the Bing Crosby rendition because Bing was the frigging bomb. If you don't think so, well, bugger off.

It really doesn't matter who is singing this though. We were running errands today, and I would lay money on Celine Dion being the vocalist. I was sobbing my eyes out while driving. I listen to these lyrics, and I simply want to throw myself at Christ's feet and repent for everything. Including simply being an asshole. Holy Mary, I DO want to fall on my knees and beg.

When the song is over I resume my bound for hell, heathen philosophies.

NO other religious carol affects me the way this one does. Not Silent Night. Not O Little Town of Bethlehem. None of them. Just O Holy Night. Is it the music? Is it the lyrics? I have no idea. This goes all the way back to childhood. Being a former Catholic raised in a fairly old parish I am used to the old hymns and prefer them. Throw some "Christian Rock" at me and I want to barf into my shoes. Churches have their ways, but I've noticed a whoooole lot of guitar etc. in the music of Catholic churches down here. No. A thousand times no. Hymns are meant for organs or orchestras. End of story.

Almost immediately after O Holy Night ended today they went into It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas. I used to DESPISE this song. I grew up in the Philadelphia area, and the Thanksgiving parade each year was hosted by a department store called Gimbels. On Thanksgiving Day the commercials would start, "It's beginning to look a lot like GIMBELS!"

I was like, 7. I wanted to shoot myself. This continued all season.

Turns out that none of those commercials exist on Youtube. Consider yourselves lucky. Oh, I was gonna include it. You know I was.

After the radio folks played that little ditty I was hoping for a trifecta, but I didn't get it. My favorite secular Christmas song:

I grin like a complete fucking idiot every time I hear this song. And I'm dating myself. So what. Screw you. For all I know, you think episodes 1-3 are where Star Wars actually begins.

This song ROCKS. It's cheerful. It's fun. It's absofuckinglutely happy.

I love happy.

As far as I'm concerned it's Billy Squire's best work. Kind of sad, kind of awesome.

An ex-boyfriend of mine went to the ends of the earth to find me an 80s Christmas compilation CD that included this song. It's the only reason I don't hate his guts after he dumped me three times. Three.

My most hated secular songs are Santa Baby and All I Want for Christmas. Flames shoot out of my head when I hear them. So far I haven't seen that godawful Victoria's Secret commercial yet this year. I'm waiting though. Remote in hand.

So. Carols. What are yours? Discuss please. Links to videos would be nice.

Happy Birthday, Honey...

2009-12-11T22:37:00.000-05:00

Since I couldn't afford a gift this year, here, take my identity instead.

Kidding. Partially.

When I married my Ex I was 24, and I took his last name because I loved his family, and the idea didn't really bother me at first. Turns out there was only ONE person in the area with my first and maiden name, me, and in one physician's practice alone with my married name I was one of ten.

That was a bit annoying. I put it aside.

One thing that did bother me a bit more as time passed was that I had been the last member of my family with my maiden name. There were no boys to pass it down. I don't know why this matters to anyone, let alone to me, but it did. When we finally divorced one of the very first things I did was to take my paperwork down to the county courthouse and get my name back. I swore with God as my witness I would never go hungry again give up my name again.

This apparently bothered Coyote, as my previous married name went well with Julie (The Weasel). Eventually though, Summerell gave her the chance to create the moniker, Summerkins, which is much more fun anyway.

It was a bit of a pain in the ass to get my name back and have to contact everyone under the sun and provide proof of the action so they would change my name on accounts etc. As a matter of fact, my bank has Summerell on all of my accounts, even on my online banking page, but every email I receive from them is addressed to Julie (Former Married Name). THAT pisses me off. No one there has any idea why.

So when Rich and I decided to get hitched I told him flat out I was keeping my name. I could tell he was a bit hurt, but I informed him that I had done too much work to get it back and I wouldn't be giving it up again. I refused to hyphenate because my name already has nine freaking letters in it and barely fits on signature lines. My mother, who works in a school system, strongly urged me to take his name since we planned on having a kid. She said it's a total pain in the ass dealing with multiple names in a household. I didn't care. MY name. Mine.

When we had Livvie, however, her name was hyphenated up until the moment I filled out the birth certificate in the hospital. Rich wasn't there, and when I got to the box for last name I simply used his. My mother's plea had sunk in, and I was imagining a school system dealing with three last names. Yeah. No. I also pictured HER having to sign all of that in the future if they hadn't yet gotten around to microchipping and scanning us all. When the horrid woman who deals with those matters brought the certificate copy to me Rich told me I had forgotten to hyphenate her. I told him I had done it on purpose.

Jonas, naturally, was given Rich's last name alone from the get go after that.

So for the past 4 years of marriage I've been puttering around with MY name. Everyone was informed I was keeping it. All of my correspondence includes it. Am I addressed this way? Most of the time. However, every older member of my family, and ALL of Rich's family, sends me mail and checks written to Julie (His Last Name).

Holy Shitballs did that piss me off. Every check I had to endorse pissed me off. I eventually just resigned myself to the whole deal until one day I was depositing one, and the teller helpfully said, "We have name change forms in here if you need to fill one out," and I said, "No. I did not change my name. They're ignoring that."

She (helpfully) shut up.

Many doctor visits since Livvie and Jonas were born have resulted in many phone calls, and every single time I pick up the phone I hear, "Mrs. _____?" In the beginning I would say, "This is Ms. Summerell, _____'s mother," and they would apologize and continue the call. After Captain Reflux was born, however, I was dealing with doctor calls constantly. I got to the point where I stopped correcting them and simply sighed and said, "Yes." Utility companies too. It was just easier.

The other day a package for the kids arrived from Rich's dad's girlfriend, and it was addressed to Julie _____. I picked it up and yelled, "FINE!!!!" I'm sure our new neighbors were delighted.

So today I sent a check for certified copies of our marriage certificate to take to Social Security. When I get my new card I can then go to the DMV and get my new license. Then I get to again contact everyone under the sun to inform them of the change.

And it doesn't bother me in the least. It will be nice having the same name as my kids. I'll have a signature that fits on charge slips. I'll also have a somewhat silly last name. That bit sort of doesn't matter, though, as I am using mine for writing purposes and on Facebook and the like. Rich's company used to check potential employees out, and if they had social networking pages they didn't hire them. I don't know if that's still the case, but I don't think they need to find his last name on my pages. I am also leaving my email address the same.

But-

He came home today and said, "Hello Mrs. _____."

I told him to shut up.

I'm still not comfortable with the whole "Mrs." thing.

Mah Bukkit

2009-12-10T12:51:00.000-05:00

The other day Coyote posted something of a Bucket List on f445. She finished by asking what everyone else wants out of life.

It's taken me a few days to really decide.

Naturally I had flashes of irrationality. "A pony." Well, we have no place to put a pony. So that would have to be followed by, "a barn," which would then be followed by, "enough money to build a barn and feed a pony and get it regular vet checkups," which was then followed by, "a winning Powerball ticket." Reality always injects itself into my pipe dreams.

Turns out a whole lot of the things I want out of life could be managed by the purchase of one decent, winning Powerball ticket.

So my Bucket List is going to begin with the things I would do with a winning ticket and end with the things I want from life that are attainable without large sums of cash.

I want to pay off the mortgages of all of my friends. Most of my friends would have ample funds to get through daily life if they didn't have that nasty, monthly payment to make. If certain friends wanted out of their Hell Homes, I would buy their homes from them and purchase another for them instead. I want to buy a tremendous amount of land and build a commune of sorts for any friends and relatives who would like to pitch their suckass jobs and work the land with me. I would study modern agriculture at NC State to make that easier. I would build homes for my mother and Rich's mother wherever they wanted them. I would make sure they were handicap accessible just in case. I would send my mother to Germany to find her long lost cousins. I want to take flying lessons for small planes and purchase one. I want to build a free standing stone pub with loads of parking and two fireplaces and WiFi. Every October I would hold an "Atrocious Poetry Slam," and the writer of the most obnoxious piece of crap would receive a free bar tab for a year. I would build a house for myself on the coast of Maine or Nova Scotia. I would fly us there at least three times a year. I want to donate five hundred thousand dollars to my local animal shelter, wherever that might be, in order for them to better serve the community. Every year I would put aside one hundred thousand dollars to help people pay their heat and power bills, because I've been there. Three million would be divided between Alzheimer's, Breast Cancer, and Diabetes. I would buy a really, really, honking big telescope and live somewhere it gets dark enough to really use it.

Now I offer my list of attainables.

Someday I would like to be able to cook any food that I was craving, and do it well. A pony could actually be an attainable someday as Rich can build anything, and a barn wouldn't be that difficult. Once I go back to work we could afford vet care and food. I want to learn how to use a lathe properly and work with large blocks of wood to make dough bowls. I want to keep writing and keep learning how to do it better. I want to learn how to grow basil successfully. I want to get to the beach more often. I really want to raise my children to not be brats. I want to try star fruit. I want to try a persimmon. I want to visit Iceland and New Zealand. Someday a trip on Amtrak is in order. With a sleeping car. I want to drink a glass of Johnny Walker Blue. I don't need a whole bottle. I want to be able to buy potted, live Christmas trees and plant them in the spring. Imperative is the purchase of a better camera and learning to use Photoshop. My creative attempts with my current camera are always thwarted by its limited technology. I need to learn to ride a horse well. I'd also like to learn to joust. And fencing. I once dated a guy who took fencing classes, and I was terribly jealous. I need to get over my fear of electricity. I want to take shag dancing lessons and have Beach Music parties on the deck every summer. I want to learn to cook the perfect medium-rare steak on the grill. I want to learn how to operate a Bobcat. I want to start a monthly poker or rummy game and have at least 2 card tables to accommodate everyone. I want to get a pair of glasses decent enough to allow me to hit a baseball with a bat. I want to teach my kids how to actually play baseball. And basketball. And football (Rich's job). I want to grow a really big pumpkin patch and hope it's the most sincere. I want a really awesome iPod so I can read books at night in the dark. I want Rich to teach me to play the drums. I want a third, and final, tattoo. I want to learn how to make my own pizza dough and hoagie rolls. I want to make my own panzarottis and cheese steaks (so I need to buy a fryer and a griddle). I want to learn to make really good biscuits, Brunswick Stew, and hush puppies.

Think I have enough time?

Who Needs Flexible Flyers When You Have Cardboard?

2009-12-09T21:24:00.000-05:00

Everyone these days talks about the fact that it just doesn't snow anymore the way it used to when we were kids. My mother, when I was a child, used to say the same thing. I know some people who despise snow, and I happen to think they're crabby, crotchety young men who need Gro-Lites in their homes and to take more Vitamin D.

I know some people who find amusement in the Southern reaction to snow. Snow is to the Upper Midwest as rain is to the Pacific Northwest. I know that they are sick of it by spring. Their Parking Lot Monsters can grasp on with their talons until May at times. Granted, I am not Southern, although I have been here for almost 15 years. I can tell you, though, that the South does not have the market cornered on bread and milk runs when snow is in the forecast. It happened all of my life in the Northeast too. In the South we have no fleets of snow removal equipment, and because the events happen so rarely many people don't know how to drive in it (which is ironic given that the area is swarming with Northerners). Every time we get a dusting I giggle over the folks who think that having a Canyonaro will render them immune from driving difficulty. I see most of them flipped or in ditches. Everything closes. EVERYTHING. Except convenience stores. They know that folks like my husband will be willing to trudge over a mile through 22 inches of snow in order to get beer and cigarettes. Deep in my heart I suspect that everything closes down here because people want to revel in the day. Even when we get several inches, chances are that the next day the temp will shoot up into the 50s and the snow will disappear.

As a child growing up in the Delaware Valley each school district was assigned a School Closing Number, and parents would tune into KYW early in the morning to see if their child's number was read off and they would have to make other arrangements for the day. Our number in Oaklyn is 592. Every time we got measurable snow my mother would lie awake in the dark and listen to the numbers droned out. She would hear, "590. 591. 593. 594..." and she would call up the stairs, "Get up. You're going in."

Bill Thompson wouldn't shut down school unless it was The Day After Tomorrow. And even then he'd be more inclined to cancel bus service and tell the rest of us to snowshoe it in.

The night of the Super Bowl in 1996, my first winter down here, I received hourly phone updates from my mother as to how many inches were on the ground at home. If I recall correctly, their final tally was 26. I was seething with envy. I was thisclose to telling her to put a sock in it and slamming the phone down. I heard glee in her voice. I heard the silent reprimand about moving over 400 miles away.

I still get snow envy, although it's balanced by the fact that we can put tomatoes in the ground in late April and have fruit ripe in June.

In the winter of 2000 we had 22 inches of snow dumped on us, and that was absolutely delightful. For awhile. I was living in a small town that was neglected by the plows, and I was stuck at home for almost a week because I couldn't get out of the driveway, and my tires sucked. At one point I tried to back out of the driveway and slid into the lawn. My rear tire got stuck. If they had forecast that correctly and not called for a "dusting" I would have backed into the driveway beforehand.

It snowed one time while I was working for Very Large Bookstore with Very Small Inventory, and several of us took some gigantic merchandising banner signs, attached cords to them, and used them to sled in the parking lot. There weren't many customers anyway.

Livvie has no memory of this day, Inauguration Day, 2009. I'd say that's sad and a blessing in some ways. On the one hand, it was a spectacular day. We all had an absolute blast. I really wish she could think back to that day and relive her joy over it all. On the other hand, the kid is obsessed with snow, and she asks me to make it snow nearly every single day. If she had a memory of this it would be hourly I'm sure. I think we got about 4 or 5 inches around our neighborhood. By the next morning it had melted to about an inch and a half, and the next day it was gone.

In the South, at least, snow forces everything that isn't life or death to come to a halt. Neighbors wake up in the morning and walk outside and grin at each other. People who normally run themselves ragged are required to stop for a day and relax (at least once the shoveling is done). Folks go outside all freaking night overnight and snap photos to send to the local news station. I did it. I got all artsy with our floodlight and the falling flakes. If you aren't in emergency services or medicine or driving a plow or salt truck you stay home and watch bad TV between trips outside. There's usually a run on sleds and shovels at Ace Hardware the day before, and these purchases might be used once in 5 years. No one cares.

In our house these events will be treated with all of the kidtastic joy we can muster. Several inches? Snow forts. Snow men. Snowballs saved in the freezer in a Ziploc bag. A dusting? Catching flakes on our tongues. Dancing in it. Many, many photos.

It's not often one gets the chance to just stop everything and chill out. Although snow more often would be nice, at least it stays special and never becomes de rigueur.

I really, really hope we get a good snow this year.

Crap. I don't have boots.

An Object in Motion...

2009-12-08T21:19:00.000-05:00

You know how if most sharks stop moving they stop breathing and die?

I seem to operate under that restriction as well.

When both of my kids were born my mom came down to help out and got Very Angry that I, "wouldn't let her do anything." I told her she was doing exactly what I needed her to do: hold the baby while I do my job.

She gets aggravated over the fact that I apparently can't stop moving for even a moment. She would tell me to sit down and relax, and I would sit on the sofa for maybe 3 minutes before hopping up again to take care of what needed doing.

You know how many people go off and sulk when they're mad or upset? I clean. Rich always knows when something is really bothering me because he'll find me scrubbing the baseboards. I usually don't even remember the baseboards are there.

I am my grandmother. In this respect at least, I channel all of her German-ness and never rest.

I get up in the morning when the kids wake up, and I do not usually stop for more than a moment or two until after they have both gone to sleep for the night. Not that Jonas (or Livvie sometimes) sleeps through the entire night. Jonas has had a habit lately of waking up every 10-20 minutes overnight for some reason I can't fathom. He doesn't want food. He doesn't want his binky. It takes me upwards of 30 minutes at times to get him settled enough so that he'll sleep again, only to start the whole thing over 20 minutes later.

On top of not really being able to stop and relax, I have a tendency to multitask. If I can accomplish three things in the time it takes to do one thing I'm all over it. Yesterday, for instance, I was baking cookies, talking on the phone, brewing tea, and loading the dishwasher.

I envy people who can actually take relaxing baths. I am completely incapable of it. I will waste a metric ton of water by drawing a bath, getting in, lying still for 22.8 seconds, and then fidgeting. If I make it ten minutes I consider it a successful bath. I worked in a day spa for a time, and one of the free treatments I was offered was a bath full of all sorts of seaweedy cleansing goodness in a tub with jets. The treatment was scheduled to last 25 minutes. At the 15 minute mark one of the estheticians came in to check on me and found me sitting up and cleaning the water spots off the sides of the tub with a rag.

I have tried to do yoga many, many times. Several times I have been bent into a stretch only to discover that my eyes are open, and I am thinking, "Holy shit, this rug needs vacuuming."

Which I then get up and do.

I have no sedentary hobbies. I cannot do jigsaw puzzles. Knitting makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Anything crafty that I do is something that can be accomplished quickly. I used to do a sort of decoupage thingy on large brandy snifters where I would take a holiday, decorative cocktail napkin, cut around the design, peel the top layer free, and use watered down glue to affix it to the snifter. Then I would paint the whole thing with more watered down glue and cover it with clear glitter and allow it to dry. Voila. Instant holiday candle holder. It took about 15 minutes, tops.

Works great on plain, glass ball ornaments too.

I lie. I do have one single, sedentary hobby. I have not been able to enjoy it since Jonas was born in May. Reading. I would kill about 6200 dehydrated koalas right now with my bare hands if it meant I could read a book for several, uninterrupted hours...

I cannot tell you how many times in my life I've been offered a seat and replied, "No thanks. I'd rather stand."

Things are so bad recently that on Saturday and Sunday nights I got Jonas to sleep between 745 and 800, and I literally dropped. Saturday night I woke up at about midnight on the sofa having no memory of lying down. Sunday night I laid down on our bed, took Rich's hand, and woke up face down, drooling, sometime after 11. Rich was gone. Bet I was snoring, too.

Even as I type these words one of my legs is bouncing.

And folks wonder why I can't keep weight on.

Confessions

2009-12-05T14:09:00.000-05:00

I have a confession to make.

Chocolate is okay. Don't get me wrong, there are certain times of the month when I absolutely have to have some chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup and chocolate chips or I will die. In our house that would be referred to as The Deanna Troi. On a day to day basis, however, I don't even give chocolate a thought.

I happily refer to myself as a "chick," and not a woman. This used to bug the daylights out of an ex-boyfriend who thought he was being progressive when he told me that it's a degrading term. I, for one, think chick sums it all up perfectly. I don't really understand modern womanhood. Or even womanhood of the past. To put it bluntly, I don't enjoy being a "girl." I don't think I ever really did.

Granted, it's better than the alternative to me. I certainly don't want to be a dude. First of all there's that whole business of having your personal parts hanging loose and being all vulnerable. Does anyone understand WHY a boy's bicycle has a cross bar and a girl's doesn't? That doesn't make a damn bit of sense to me. The other reason being a dude would suck is because of the expectations. Oh hell no. There's just too much they're expected to do and be, by simple dint of having a Y chromosome.

Every year I get closer to simply handing in my Girl Card and calling it a day. I realized this when we were packing up our closet, and I noticed that Rich's clothing occupied 3/4 of the damn thing. The other day when I finally busted through 3 weeks worth of laundry, when I got it all folded and placed on the bed I had a small pile consisting of two sweat suits, a thermal shirt, and one pair of jeans. Oh, I also had 6 pair of underpants. Everything else belonged to Rich and the kids. I own, basically, two pair of shoes that I actually wear. My Doc Martens and my flip flops. I do own a couple pair of dress shoes and heels, but I couldn't even tell you the last time they were applied to my feet.

I really, often feel like a fish out of water. The thing is, the older I get, the less I care.

Confession #2- My mother's wedding gown wouldn't button closed because my torso is larger than hers was. I was secretly delighted, even though it's a beautiful dress.

I have a friend, Nina, who occasionally manages to guilt me into proper skin care. We were conversing one day, and when she discovered I was using Dove bath soap on my face I heard the shriek all the way from Manhattan. She told me she could hear my face cracking all the way from Raleigh. So based on her recommendations I got on eBay and purchased some items to more properly take care of my skin. I used them. For a few weeks. Then I discovered that Livvie's Burts Bees baby shampoo makes a delightful face wash in the shower. I was packing the bathroom closet to move, and I discovered bottles and tubes and small tubs of things I didn't even remember I had. There was stuff to help clarify. There were exfoliants. There was cream to provide light moisture.

I chucked most of it into a trash bag and reapplied Neosporin to my split bottom lip (baby skulls can do some serious damage).

I wear makeup only when I am going to be seen in public with Coyote. When we go out together she always looks nice. It's embarrassing. The problem is, when I wear makeup I feel like I'm in drag. I always feel like I'm drawing way too much attention to myself. And forget lipstick. I own some. It doesn't get worn. I usually slap on some lip balm and call it good.

Confession #3- I watch Legally Blonde every time they show it on TV simply so I can feel inadequate. Every time I watch it I am overcome with the desire to purchase anything I can in pink, up to and including kitchen utensils. I never do though.

Ok, that's not true. When Rich bought my iPod Shuffle for Mother's Day a few years back I asked for the hot pink one.

I know nothing from handbags. My friend Jennyquarx rattles off brand names in conversation and my eyes glaze over. I have no idea what she's talking about. The only reason I know as much as I do about shoes is because it took me months to find the pair I wore on my wedding day. I like jewelry okay if it's simple and unobtrusive. I haven't painted my fingernails in years. Lingerie? Nope. Try sweats in the summer and fleece footie pajamas in the winter. I have known women who lived on ramen so they could afford the $100+ to get their hair cut and colored every 6 weeks. I color my own hair for the simple reason that when it's too dark people ask me if I'm not feeling well. I think I manage to get it cut 4 times a year.

Confession #4- I do not usually use shopping as therapy. Not in the way most women do. I have bought things as therapy. I cannot, however, abide shopping for hours at a time in stores or malls the way some people do.

My "retail therapy" has involved only single, big ticket purchases. While down in the dumps I have bought: a trip to Mexico, a trip to Ireland, a Sony Vaio laptop, a surround sound system, a DVD player, an Xbox, and a Nissan Frontier pickup truck. As a teen in NJ we did the requisite hanging out in the mall thing, but more often than not I'd park myself in B. Dalton or Waldenbooks while the other folks I was with roamed the rest of the mall. I know it drove them crazy. It even drives my mom crazy. She can wander outlet malls for hours. Every Saturday morning she feels the need to read the sale circulars to me. I make appropriate "mmhmm" and "oh cool" noises, but I barely listen.

Confession #5- Anniversary gifts and birthday gifts mean nothing to me. Having enough money to pay the cable bill does.

I have known many, many women who compare the sheer spectacularity of gifts received from their men as if it's some type of contest. I've known women who only consider men who make X amount of dollars a year, and I even know women who use blow jobs on their husbands in order to get permission to spend money. Then again, I seem to have met a lot of women who don't actually enjoy sex in the first place. At all. Not only with a particular partner.

Weirdos.

And forget about bringing me flowers for any other reason than you simply saw them in the yard or in the woods and thought of me. Coyote has a fabulous post about apology flowers. I can't even count how many women I've known who believe them to be their right and downright expect them after a perceived affront.

One would think that it might bother me that Livvie is completely into the idea of princesses, to the point where for about a week recently we were directed to address her as Princess Livvie. It doesn't bother me a bit. In fact, it makes me happy that what I have is apparently not contagious. Knocking around on this planet at this time uncomfortable in my own skin is for the birds. Not that I want to do a complete 180 and turn into a superficial twat, but at least caring about my appearance might be nice. Occasionally buying myself new clothing that actually fits me would be a good idea. Spending money on myself before putting money into something the kids don't actually need would be nice every now and then.

I could start small. Move from only owning one pair of jeans that is a size too big into owning two pair of jeans that fit. Wear actual shoes every so often. Wash my face twice a day instead of only when I shower.

Baby steps, man. All suggestions are welcome.

Show, Don't Tell...

2009-12-03T20:31:00.000-05:00

Being the post in which I brag. Some.

If the road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions, then I can identify at least 15 people over the past year who are riding that hand basket.

I mentioned last year that Livvie didn't really start speaking until she was 27 months old. Given that her grandfather didn't speak at all until age 3, I wasn't especially worried... at first. I figured it would come in time. Once she got frustrated enough about her lack of ability to communicate her needs she'd give in and speak. However, once enough people, with "your best interests at heart," begin pestering you about anything, a person will start to worry. So I took the advice of everyone and their pet duck, and I called the state in for an evaluation. I was concerned with nothing but her speech at that point, because she was quite good at many things. My kid is an absolute genius in some areas and not all that bright in others. It's called being human.

When the state came out to see her she wasn't willing to perform like a ball balancing sea lion, so they scored her low, VERY low, in several areas. According to the woman who became her developmental therapist, they essentially indicated that she was autistic. I had had a gut feeling that this would happen. I really despise labeling, and I abhor trying to pigeonhole children into little boxes based on brief interactions. The state began to push me, and push me, to get her services to deal with her perceived needs. They flat out told me that she had Sensory Processing Disorder, even though they were not qualified to make such a diagnosis. The reason they gave me was that back then she preferred to eat Cool Ranch Doritos and garlic dill pickles, and she wasn't a cry baby when she hurt herself (oh for those days). Also, she liked to rough-house. So for a brief period of time I considered their point of view, and then after doing heavy reading on my own determined that their heads were up their asses and she was again, simply human. I am not a person who will live in denial when it comes to her kids. Livvie was, and is, behind in many areas. Here's where the title of this entry comes in.

Kids aren't going to learn anything they aren't taught.

When the state evaluated Livvie they seemed to place great stock in the fact that she couldn't kick a ball. Well, it hadn't occurred to us to even show her how to do that yet. She wouldn't stick coins in a bank. Again, it never dawned on us that this was something she needed to know how to do right then. Anything that I told them she could do, like the fact that I had caught her under the kitchen table unscrewing all of the legs, was taken with a grain of salt. According to them, she had the fine motor skills of someone about a year old. After they left I showed her how to kick a ball. I only had to show her twice.

Maybe I'm wrong, I've certainly been wrong before in my actions, but I follow her lead and her interests. Last winter she discovered the alphabet and colors and shapes thanks to a website that has games for toddlers. She became an addict. She's very much like me in that if she develops an interest in something she will consume as much of it as possible. So last winter I spent about 3 months writing the alphabet for her. Over. And over. I wanted to jump off a bridge. She watched carefully. Again and again she directed me as to which letter I should write next, which color marker to use, how many to do.

This meant that by the age of 33 months she began spelling a few words on her own, could identify some words spelled to her aloud, and by 36 months started writing her name. Roughly, but it was her name.

I have had so many people, attempting to be "helpful," try to gently nudge me into getting her even more services than we ended up using. I'm sorry, but I was looking over age based developmental milestones today, and she's meeting or exceeding most of those for her age. The milestones she has not met are things she has not been taught and some speech issues. How is that a problem?

Why is there a race here?

And it is a race. Don't ever let anyone tell you differently. When I was a child parents let babies be babies, and they let us develop naturally and simply taught us things as they came along. Now, suddenly, being a strong, healthy baby isn't good enough. Now everyone is required to be exceptional. My mother had never even heard of many of the milestones that doctors are now expecting their patients to meet on time or early. She laughed out loud at many of them. She said, "Gosh, babies were boring back in the day. It was kind of nice." In looking over the list today I found milestones Livvie has been doing for ages that I didn't even KNOW were milestones. Shit is getting out of hand. Totally.

I recently left a forum for mommies that I had been on for years due not only to some drama that pushed me over the edge, but also to the fact that everything had become either a brag or a panic. Sitting up at night wondering why Livvie isn't doing such and such when so and so already has does NO ONE any favors. Explaining to someone that she is doing certain things when their kid is not simply because she was taught repeatedly, and it was something she took an interest in, no your kid is not mentally retarded, oh hey, I'm talking to a wall here... that shit gets old.

We learn what we are taught. We learn what we are given the opportunity to practice. We learn what we enjoy.

As parents we do best to step back and see how our child learns best. We've discovered that since Livvie is still obsessed with the alphabet her pronunciation improves dramatically if we say, for instance, "No, use your B. Use your P," when she mispronounces something. More often than not she immediately gets it right on her second try.

I see a whole lot of laziness going on around me. I see a lot of expectations that haven't been met with no effort made to see that they are. I also see children, even babies, pushed ridiculously hard by their parents to become tiny Einsteins instead of letting them really enjoy each day of babyhood.

They seem to forget that Einstein didn't speak until he was four, and his father referred to him as, "the retard."

So tomorrow Livvie and I will once again work on developing her hand strength by squeezing tubes of glitter glue so that the next time we try scissors she won't get upset because she didn't do it perfectly on the first try.

Because it's not that big of a deal. I'm fairly certain she'll be able to use scissors by the time she gets to college.

To Each Their Own

2009-12-01T01:02:00.001-05:00

I might offend here. It is not my intention.

I do not understand theme Christmas trees. I know people, people I love, who change their tree every year.

I don't get it.

I see trees like this in the stores and they just flabbergast me. Seriously folks, what. The fuck.

First of all, looking at this particular one, I can't even detect the presence of a tree. There might be one lone needle showing. There. To the right. See it?

Me neither.

The first thing I'm going to mention is that having been a buried pagan my entire life, and a not so buried one now, the tree is important. It's life. In your house. Even a plastic one is a perfectly acceptable representation of the green goodness that the planet provides for us.

Ok, now that that's out of the way, bless all yer hearts, but what on earth compels people to change their tree every year? Aside from the expense, where does it leave your heritage?

I was standing in front of the tree today, and as I looked at the ornaments I could remember the circumstances surrounding the acquisition of each one. Nothing really matches. It's a giant hodge-podge (this is the first time I've ever typed that phrase. Basking in it) of my last 38 years here.

If some moron assigned a theme to it they would probably call it, "eclectic," or some other such nonsense. I hang candy canes every year, because really, the idea of plucking candy randomly from a giant tree in my home makes me happy. To be honest, this is the first year in about forever that the tree has been taller than myself. I do have enough ornaments for the frigging thing if I were to pull out the fragile ones packed away in plastic bins, but they aren't toddler friendly. I have not used really fragile ones in years. Clancy used to climb the tree too. Brought it down more than once.

So the front and sides are adorned, and the back against the wall is not. This year the tree is so tall that our colored lights, while they did manage to stretch from the top to the bottom, were skimpy looking when I plugged them in. So I wrapped our white lights in between the colored. Good to go. Because Livvie begged for every pink foil and silver foil tree she saw, I bought silver garland at Family Dollar and wound that around the tree as well. We used silver garland instead of tinsel every year when I was a kid, and each year it would be carefully packed away for reuse the next year. When I removed the garland from the packages this year I saved the cardboard flats they were wrapped around. Mom taught me right.

My grandmother had three of these sheet music ornaments on her tree. This is the last surviving one. It has tiny seed beads glued to it that keep falling off over the years. If they ever all come off I'll redo the whole thing. I think this ornament is about 50-60 years old. I place it up high on the tree despite its size in order to keep it safe. This particular one is Silent Night, and I'll tell you what... when we were only having one kid the idea of passing it on was a lot easier to imagine. Now I'll have to figure out where it goes.

I was up in NJ visiting with my mom one year and we happened to go into Strawbridge's. You know, back when it existed. They had several of these little brass ornaments, and my mother bought me The Philadelphia Museum of Art (pictured), Independence Hall, and Barnegat Light House.

One year I couldn't find Independence Hall, and I nearly lost it. Each of them gets packed carefully each year now so I don't come unglued again.

Each of those three places is incredibly special in my life, and seeing them every winter makes me all kinds of warm and fuzzy.

"Cross stitch" on plastic canvas was The Thing for crafty people back in the mid-80s, and one year my mom went berserk and made about a billion ornaments. When I moved out I snagged the Hickory Dickory Dock clock. Check it, she glued a tiny plastic mouse to it. When Livvie saw it the other day she went wild, so it too is up near the top of the tree. No way, kid. This one is mine. I also managed to grab some smaller plastic canvas ornaments she made to hang at the very top of the tree. And seeing this is inspiring me to grab a can of gold spray paint and a bunch of sweet gum balls. Don't ask.

Santa here on the ladder placing the star hung on my grandmom's tree forever. As a kid I always placed him on the tree near the top so that he actually was placing the star on the tree. He's made of wood, and somehow he's managed to make it through several moves without a bit of damage.

To his right is a tiny bell and glass police officer my mom bought me a couple of years back. She meant it, she said, as an homage to my dad. Sometimes it mocks me because I'm not allowed into the force, being all crazy and whatnot.

The glass heart was etched in 2004 in the mall when my very romantical husband took his butt there and had them make this for me. "Our First Christmas 2004." The gold bow came untied the other day, and I nearly had a coronary. I managed to tie it again with no ill effects. It's up near the top of the tree too.

You know, there hasn't been much in the way of romantical lately. Unless you count him asking the folks at McDonald's to make my Quarter Pounder with Cheese onion-free with no prompting from me. Seriously, those onion chunks are vile.

Emma had a small stocking that hung on the tree that had her name on it, and when Ginny came along, naturally, there were no tiny stockings with her name on them.

So I bought her this.

It doesn't look a thing like her.

She's way cuter.

But it stays.

Our first Christmas together Rich and I were poor. Even more poor than now, which is crazy considering we now have two kids. He owned the bait shop, and one day I went in on my day off from work and bought some bobbers from him, actually paid for them, and took them home and threaded them onto paper clips. It didn't occur to me to go to the mall and have something made. I hung them on our first tree. They have been on every tree for the past 5 years. If anything ever happens to those bobbers I'll be crushed. I could buy a pack of ornament hooks, but I really don't want to. The paperclips will remain forever.

A very good friend of mine, knowing my absolute lust for popcorn and beer, sent me a set of 3 ornaments several years back. A box of popcorn, a bottle of beer, and a TV set.

Perfect.

Livvie is also in lust with popcorn, and informed me the other day that the popcorn ornament belongs to her.

That's fine. I'm keeping the beer and the TV.

This is a hedgehog. I bought him one day on a whim because he was cute. Then I noticed he had a small loop attached to the top of him. Voila. Instant ornament.

The cats used to snag him every year and bat him around the house. Every January I would have to search under appliances and furniture to find him again.

I miss that.

In the meantime, his name is Gerald. Livvie hasn't spotted him yet.

Livvie has been begging for "rainbow stars" for over a month. She saw Mickey Mouse and friends walk a path of rainbow stars and demanded that I provide some. I had to tell her they were pretend. We went 'round and 'round.

The other day at Family Dollar she gasped and said, "Rainbow stars!!!" I looked to my right and saw a pack of 4 ornaments for $1.50. They're plastic. They were probably made in China. I forgot to look. All I know is that for $1.50 I could finally give my kid rainbow stars. They will be carefully put away each year. She has about a billion and one ornaments already, but these were the first she chose herself.

My life is on this tree. My life is on every tree. My aunt and uncle have 2 trees each year since their home is large enough to do so. One tree holds their lives. The other tree is beach themed since they have a home down the shore.

That idea might be doable someday.

I will always, though, decorate with the full chaos of my past.

I just don't see the fun in any other way.

Can You Dig It?

2009-11-29T13:29:00.000-05:00

The people who lived here before us apparently used the yard as a dump. For a loooong time. When we walk the perimeter of the yard, and even some of the interior, we find all kinds of interesting and potentially dangerous items.

Dirt has covered a great deal of things out there, allowing grass to grow on top of the detritus. When you walk around you never know what kind of sound will come from under your feet. The crinkle of leaves? Or the hollow sound of a vinyl rain gutter?

We are going to need to do some major excavating to make the yard safe for kid and dog. Right now I am entirely uncomfortable with the idea of Ginny running the yard loose in the dark. I'm not even comfortable out there when I can't see where my feet are stepping.

This morning I performed a small photographic archaeological survey of the yard while I smoked.

There are bags of topsoil buried everywhere, but many of them appear to be at the base of small, ornamental trees. Whether they were tossed there out of laziness or to weigh down the roots, we have no idea.

This is a fiberglass bathtub that is now, either intentionally or not, a planter.

I have no idea what the hell this rusted out hulk is.

If you look in the center of the leaf fall you'll notice some metal pipes and whatnot.

Many, many plastic bags everywhere.

Again, what this is? Dunno. Big and metal.

That would be the vinyl rain gutter.

Apparently a dog was chained here at some point. Really can't figure out why there are scraps of the flag scattered there, though.

Plastic chicken wire.

Rusted old paint can. There are several.

Apparently the dog tethered here didn't require an actual chain, so they wove fabric scraps into a rope. More flag scraps.

Random piece of PVC. You'll find all of your plumbing needs in this yard.

Metal straps from a pallet or appliance carton. Those are always nice.

A faucet. Looks like it's for a garden hose. Or a washing machine.

All of this was found this morning during a 3 minute walk of the yard. I imagine we'll have to pick a nice weekend and walk the yard and toss everything onto a pile, and then we'll have to call someone to come get it all.

In the meantime, we're simply being careful.

Green Acres, We Are There...

2009-11-27T20:33:00.000-05:00

We pass no less than three horse farms between our new house and the grocery store. It's basically a straight shot from our house down the road for about 15 minutes. This doesn't count the single homes with horses grazing their properties.

Today Livvie and I drove out to get a couple of things at the store and pick out a Christmas tree. She's been begging for a tree for months now, and the Friday after Thanksgiving is THE earliest I will allow a tree into my life. Needles on the floor. Watering the thing. Extra power expense from the lights. I'm always happiest in the house with a tree up though. It breaks my heart to take it down. The house looks totally barren and lonely when the tree comes down.

While we were driving to the store we passed one of the horse farms, and at least a third of the horses in the pasture were conked out on their sides (like <-- that one). The others were sort of slowly moseying around. I said, "Good God, what the hell did you all get into last night?"

I could seriously live out here forever. Maybe not in this house, but somewhere, out here, away.

The older I get the less city I am. It's almost like my cells themselves are calling a retreat. I had moved into a very country area with my ex in my late 20s, and when we divorced I was forced by finances to move back into town. I hated every second of it. I was in a unit of three apartments on the corner, and the bus stop was right on that corner. Even though I wasn't in the end unit, every single morning I heard the loud release of air as the bus pulled to a stop, and it drove me right up a wall.

I hate traffic. I hate being on top of other people. I hate being forced by geography into knowing everyone's business.

We are currently about 20 minutes or more away from the nearest Target. This bothers me not one bit. We no longer have our choice of convenience stores to dash to if we run out of smokes. We have to plan ahead or go without. Even the grocery store, at 15 minutes away or so, is far enough that I won't be running there more than once a week.

There is no "culture" out here. There are no museums. There is no hipster district.

There is air. There are trees. Huge, green pasturelands. Cows a brief walk away, if so bold as to walk it.

The people. The people are nice. When we went to the store the other day I was treated fabulously. Everyone went out of their way to be friendly. Today when Livvie and I chose our tree I told her to come on back to the car so I could get her buckled in, and I'd drive the car over to the tree to load it. When I finished fastening her seat I looked up, and an employee was crossing the parking lot to our car carrying our tree. I said, "Dude. You're on your smoke break. It's ok," and he said, "I'm still smoking it. Not a problem. Want this in the back?"

If I stay out here long enough I might have to turn in my Misanthrope Card.

That might not be a bad thing.

Welcome Home

2009-11-25T10:20:00.000-05:00

So our new home is a flipped foreclosure, which is why we got such an awesome deal. Rich had researched the loan amount the seller had borrowed this past summer, estimated how much money was spent to flip it, and made the offer accordingly so the guy would make some profit but not take us for a ride.

I feel bad. I am loving this house, unforeseen problems and all, but for some reason the thought of benefiting from someone else's misfortune is eating at me a bit. It'll pass, and no doubt more quickly than it should. :)

We're finding some really weird things as time goes on. At the back of the property there's crap buried under the leaf fall all over the place. There's an old bathtub out there. Rusty old paint cans. I took Ginny through the yard on leash our first day here, and she stepped on a leaf pile and I heard a loud crack and her foot went through. Who knows what's under there. Thank goodness she didn't get hurt.

The previous owners had satellite and we're trying to figure this out. Did they install the dish and then plant the tree right there? Or did they install the dish right behind the tree? Did they have daily conversations about how much their reception sucked?

According to the agent the yard prior to the flip was the shrubbery and plant equivalent of the yard on Pee Wee's Playhouse. She said there wasn't a square inch of yard that wasn't choked with deliberately placed vegetation, and there was nowhere to walk. The flipper spent quite a bit of money, apparently, having most of it yanked. We're positive they couldn't get it all, especially since summer had come by that point, and we're curious to see what pops up in the spring. On Friday when I was out back with the cable guy I saw some morning glories blooming. In late November. I took Ginny out to the back of the yard later that day and found one, lone periwinkle blossom next to a tree. Since periwinkle is invasive and beautiful I told Rich to avoid it with the lawn mower if possible.

There's a very pretty white cat with gray patches that keeps crossing our yard and driving Ginny crazy. I'm wondering who she belongs to. She's sleek and is absolutely not a stray. I'm just getting a bit aggravated that I have to walk outside and scan the yard quickly prior to taking Ginny out every time. She loves "her" cats, and treats them very gently, but she does have a very high prey drive, and I fear for the cat if she's out there when Ginny gets set loose.

The thing that strikes me most strongly about this house is the peace. I sit in the chair by the living room windows to rock Jonas for his naps, and I watch the front yard through the blinds. The Bradford Pears are happy little starter trees, and I can't wait to see them bloom in the spring. I occasionally see a car doing the posted 15mph past the house, but mostly it's totally serene out there. We're two houses in from the corner, which is the highway, and if we go outside we do see crazy people taking those curves a bit too quickly. Our street, though, is simply fantastic.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving here in the US, and I'm cooking. Today I will make pie and prep everything for the Most Awesome Stuffing Ever. The house will smell amazing. When the sun finally peeks out we'll all go outside so Ginny can run for a bit and we can walk back in to the smells of nutmeg and cinnamon and vanilla and cloves.

Is there anything better than walking into a house full of good smells?

Yep. I'd say it's passing more quickly than it should.

Cheese and Cheese?

2009-11-23T14:05:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-18T18:28:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-16T10:13:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-15T08:37:00.000-05:00

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?

2009-11-13T08:36:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-12T01:22:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-11T11:23:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-10T09:05:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-08T00:03:00.000-05:00

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...

2009-11-07T11:29:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-06T15:24:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-05T18:16:00.000-05:00

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...

2009-11-04T22:48:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-11-03T15:12:00.000-05:00

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)

2009-11-02T12:23:00.000-05:00

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?

2009-11-01T11:18:00.000-05:00

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?

And a Happy Halloween to All

2009-10-31T13:58:00.000-04:00

It's gray and rainy here in central NC today. When I was a kid there was nothing that could crush me more than rain on Halloween. Halloween has been my favorite holiday for as long as I can remember, followed by Thanksgiving. I loved dressing up, and I still do. I used to start planning my costume in June. It drove my mother nuts. Trick or Treating was fabulous, but I never really ate much of the candy. I'd pick out the Reese's and eat those, I'd eat the Mary Janes (LOVE THEM), and I'd eat the Tootsie Pops. Pretty much everything else went to my mom.

I think my favorite thing to receive in my pillow case was the coupon for a small fry at McDonald's. Do they still sell those?

When I was at Target yesterday I was looking over all of the bagged things they sell these days to put in Trick or Treat bags. Tiny boxes of crayons, small cheap games. Loads of fun things. My mom used to give out nickels, because she figured kids could go to the Manor and buy their own candy. And they could have. They still had "penny" candy when I was a kid.

I know the other kids hated her for that. I knew a lot of kids who hated the people who gave out coins. Weirdos.

Remember Whistle Pops? I wonder if they still sell those too. I still remember the commercials for them that they would show during It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

I never ever had the opportunity to cut holes in a sheet and dress as a "ghost." In retrospect I wish I had at least once. In junior high I dressed as the Grim Reaper one year and went to the dance with a scythe that I had fastened black electrical tape to so the blade wouldn't hurt anyone. They confiscated it until the end of the dance anyway. I argued my case, but I lost. These days I would have been arrested for walking into the building with it.

No one Halloween stands out in my head as the best. I loved each and every one for different reasons. Actually, that isn't true. I remember the worst Halloween of my life. It was 9th grade, and my best friend and I dressed up and started our trip from house to house. After the first several houses greeted us with, "Oh I'm sorry, we're only giving to the little ones this year," we went home. I walked into my house and sat down and cried. It wasn't the candy. The candy wasn't what mattered. All I could think was, "NOW what do I do on Halloween?" I think I was crying for the loss of childhood. The loss of my favorite day of the entire year. At that point it hadn't occurred to me that I could do many many things to make the day special as I got older. I didn't yet understand the real meaning of the holiday.

As an adult I threw a Halloween party one year where I went all out. I roasted a turkey, and I filled tiny little gourds with a barley and sweet potato concoction and basically went nutty. It was fun, but I'll never do that again. I spent so much time working on it that I didn't get a chance to really enjoy it. With the move to the new house I do plan on Halloween parties again, but smaller ones. And we'll be far enough out from Raleigh in most folks' eyes I don't know if anyone would attend.

Today we carved the big pumpkin into the standard Jack-O-Lantern face and then I handed livvie paint and a brush and let her paint on the small one. I went out in the rain and collected leaves into a bowl and I'm letting them dry a bit before we glue them to paper and make leaf collages. I've got a pot roast in the crockpot, and there's beer in the cooler. I'm contemplating making a loaf of bread or some cookies. I've decided the extra place at dinner tonight will be Emma's. I miss her so much. I'll put her bowl down by the kitchen door where she used to eat, and will not actually fill it due to Ginny being a food hound.

It's chilly and rainy and gray out there, but it's warm and light and smells good in my house. This is as it should be.

Happy Halloween. Happy Samhain.

I dissed you all yesterday

2009-10-29T16:30:00.000-04:00

In order to watch baseball. I hope you'll forgive me, but goldang if that wasn't one of the most enjoyable games I've ever watched in my life.

I don't really get to "see" too many actual ghosts. I usually end up seeing or feeling stuff happening rather than getting a peep at an image? whatever you want to call it.

Shortly after my father died, I'd say a few months later, every night once I went to bed and shut my eyes I would feel the edge of the bed on my side press down as if someone was sitting on it. I was fairly freaked at first, but when I realized what was going on I was ok with the situation. It went on for quite awhile and then stopped. I was a bit sad when it did.

One day, I guess I was about 15, because my Grandmom had already gone into The Pit of Despair Nursing Home, and I was all by myself, I was sitting in a wing chair in the living room and I sneezed. A very deep, loud man's voice said, "Bless you." I launched myself out of the chair and ran to my friend's house until my mother got home.

My mom used to bowl every Wednesday night in a league. I slept upstairs, and I always knew when she was home because of the sequence of events that would take place. One Wednesday night I heard the front door open, and all of the doors moved in their frames as they usually did. I heard the door shut and I heard her keys hit the dining room table. So I went to the top of the steps and called, "Mom!" and there was nothing. So I went down and everything was dark. I opened the front door and the driveway was empty. So I went back upstairs and laid back down. A few moments later I heard the same series of events, and this time I went straight downstairs. This time she was home. I told her what had happened, and the only thing we could come up with was that she had been exhausted and in a hurry to get home... so part of her had.

In my bedroom in the one apartment I lived in my outlet was halfway up the wall, and there was no overhead light. I had a torchiere lamp plugged in, and I, being an intelligent person, had hung a shirt on a hanger on the plug so I could wear it the next morning. I was reading a book in bed, and I saw something from the corner of my eye, so I looked over the book. The shirt had moved about 5 inches away from the wall, hovered, and then fell to the floor.

In the same apartment I was walking through the hallway and passed the living room doorway and I saw an old woman sitting in our rocking chair. When I backed up to look again she was gone.

Very recently I was sitting on the bed in Jonas's room, and the book Fool by Christopher Moore was on the top of the 6 ft bookcase so Livvie couldn't get to it and screw with it. It tossed itself at my head. It didn't slide off onto the floor. It launched itself about 3 feet away from the bookcase before dropping to the floor.

There are a few more, but these are the things I remember most. What are yours? I know you have some.

And so we begin theme week...

2009-10-27T13:10:00.000-04:00

Or we did last night. Hush.

I like to present myself as a very rational (shut up Rich), scientific minded person who prefers fact to conjecture. When the subject turns to ghosts, though, I go all Fox Mulder. Or worse. I don't want to believe. I do believe (I also try to believe in the Chupacabra because the idea of a Mexican Goat Sucker tickles me to no end).

I'm going to tell you right now. Tennessee is haunted.

Not just a little haunted. Not just a spectre popping up here and there. The Native Americans referred to Tennessee as "The Dark and Bloody Ground," and they pretty much hauled ass out of there and left it to its own devices. And then the idiot white folk stumbled upon it and went, "Oooooo. Pretty." and set up house because Captain Obvious was not around to slap them silly.

The first time I drove to visit my friend in Tennessee I started through the Smokey Mountains and instantly felt something watching me. It wasn't a pleasant type of something. I did not know yet about the history of the area, and I thought I was crazy. As I drove through the state on my way to Nashville, though, I noticed more and more areas where I simply felt uncomfortable. Even one place as innocuous as an overpass near a field. Nothing felt right.

I mentioned it when I got to her duplex, and she told me that the land was absolutely batshit crazy, and I had not been imagining things. So we went ahead and got drunk on loads of Jim Beam, and I went to bed on the futon in her living room. In the middle of the night I heard a noise from upstairs, and it sounded like she had fallen. So I got up and went to the stairs and looked up, and there was a dark gray mist hovering at the ceiling. As I stood there she came to the top of the stairs and asked if I was ok because she had heard a noise. I pointed. We sort of simply nodded and both went back to bed.

On that trip she took me to the oldest cemetery in Nashville. I try to visit cemeteries everywhere I go. The headstones fascinate me. I used to take rubbings before I discovered that the process is bad for the stones. "Common" understanding is that cemeteries and the like shouldn't be haunted, because by the time the bodies make it there anything that inhabited them is long gone. Before that excursion my camera was working just fine. These are the photos from that field trip.

When I got my photos developed everything taken outdoors in Tennessee was like this. All photos from before and after the trip on that roll of film (film?) were fine. I would LOVE to go back with a digital camera and see what happens.

On my second trip to visit her the babies had been born and I was there for 9 days helping her out. She was in a new house in a different part of town. One day I was walking through her hallway and a small dark figure trotted past me and into nothingness. I barely blinked, and when I returned to the living room I said, "So who's the little dark guy who just ran past me?" and she told me she figured it was her brownie. Apparently someone kept ripping down the kitchen curtains and screwing with the silverware drawer. This was my first real introduction to the fey. Looked them up when i got home. Some are not so bad. Some are very, very bad. In fact, at her previous house she had dealt with at least one who looked like an oversized, pitch black Jawa and it tried to push her down the stairs.

She's had some really crazy shit occur over the past several years, and I believe her completely. This woman is a very intelligent, educated person with a background in science. If she's willing to believe what she sees, so am I.

So my next entry will be what I've seen, outside of Tennessee. See you tomorrow.

The Veil is Thinning

2009-10-26T21:54:00.000-04:00

If you believe in such things.

Death is odd, to me. Not that it happens, because goodness knows it has to happen or we'd be stacked like cordwood on this planet. But for some reason I have mixed feelings about the act of dying itself.

Everyone really would like to simply go to sleep one night and not wake up. Hopefully at a ripe old age. How old? That's a matter of personal opinion. I used to think 80 would be long enough. But my mom is 79 this year and she's still working full time and driving over 800 miles round trip a few times a year to visit us. When I think of possibly living to 100 I think I would be far too tired to even get out of a chair. But I read about a woman a few weeks ago who is 100 and is the secretary for her son's business. When is an appropriate time to die? While you're still healthy and hale and enjoying life? Or after becoming sick and starting to burden those around you?

And I often wonder about sudden death, and those who say, "Well it was his/her time I guess." Why would that even be? Is it that hourglass that has a certain number of grains in it? Could that even possibly be the case? Does Terry Pratchett have it right? (Actually, I'm sure he must. That man has a greater understanding of how everything works than anyone else I've ever read.)

I've noticed the veil thinning on our march to Halloween (because I do believe in such things) so I've been thinking about these things.

Let me give you an example. Today my mom told me that 60 kids in her school were out sick with the flu. Friday it was 28. Tomorrow will probably be worse. Now, we haven't been wigging about it too badly. We still go out. We wash our hands several times a day, maybe a bit more than normal if we've been out, but nothing excessive. We avoid folks who are coughing or sneezing. The issue is, Jonas is the most at risk person in this household, being under the age of 2. He cannot be vaccinated because he's not old enough. I will not be vaccinated because of my reaction to the regular vaccine on October 1st. I was going to get Livvie done, but then we pulled her from school and we really only play outdoors. I do not work. And Rich's only real interactions with people take place outdoors in the smoking area at work. Then I read that everyone here is running out of vaccine anyway. And then I read that doctors are saying the vaccine basically came too late. So my mom and I were discussing all of that, and then I hung up.

There are thoughts that are my own, I know I'm thinking, I've done it for 38 years. I know what it "feels" like. And then there are those times when a thought slams into my head so hard that I know it isn't mine (stay with me. I'm not schizophrenic). During the ice storm of 2002 at 9am I heard a crash and what slammed into my head was "That was your car." Now, it wasn't a feeling of dread, or a freakout, or anything pessimistic. It was a matter of fact, slam to the skull, "That was your car. Go look." I've always assumed it's my dad, but I guess it could be anyone. I'm pretty frigging sure it's my dad though.

After I hung up with my mom I was grabbing the laundry and suddenly my skull filled with, "Do not take those kids trick or treating on Saturday." So I played along this time and thought, "Why not?" and then I had an image of strangers handing over candy from their households. And only THEN did it occur to me that all of these little petri dish incubators with no idea they might be sick could potentially infect my kids.

Must protect The Jonas (as Livvie fondly calls him).

There have been other things going on this past week as well, but I won't get into them. I will, however, work on a way to honor the New Year coming as well as I can for cheap or free, and figure out how best to honor my ancestors who keep hitting me upside the head with bricks but seem to have moved to cinder blocks to get me to pay attention.

Happy Samhain Season.

Could I Be Any Cooler?

2009-10-24T13:41:00.000-04:00

The first thing I'll say is that even though my mom is a Depression baby and saves EVERYTHING in case it might be useful someday, I am not quite that bad. I have a tendency to toss a lot of stuff because I hate clutter. I've been saving more lately, due to the economy and our financial situation. I now hold onto Smart Balance containers and sour cream containers to store stuff in the fridge. But I'll be damned if I'll ever start saving used bread ties.

Livvie has become a giant fan of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. I don't know what happened. I had turned on Disney one day, and she was hooked. So I had to start DVRing them. Is that even a verb yet? Her favorite episode involves a treasure hunt. It was full of rainbows and shapes.

This morning I saw her come out of her room with a zippered plush bag that had contained small toys. It's roughly shaped like a house. She told me it was her treasure chest. I said, "That's great! Good thinking!" and then something clicked in my head and I said, "Do you want a real treasure chest?"

When Rich owned the bait shop he sold fine cigars from a humidor. When we unloaded the place I held onto a Mantequilla Tapa Negra box. It is, in fact, a tiny wooden chest with a hinged lid and latches on the front. I remember thinking that dangerous thought, "This might be useful someday." And I stuffed it away for the future. Really hadn't thought about it since then.

So I went and got it and handed it to her. I flipped the lid open. And she literally squealed, "TREASURE CHEST!!!!" and started putting things in it. I was impressed with myself and went about my duties. And then she came to me a few minutes later and said, "Key?"

I sighed. And then I told her it didn't have a key. And then I told her to wait a second.

You see, I have a treasure chest too. When I was a kid it was a regular cigar box. When I grew up everything moved into one of those cheap jewelry boxes where you lift the lid and the drawers slide out. Some of my treasures are these:

A small ceramic heart pin with a rainbow and my name on it that my dad gave me when I was little.

The ID tag my dog Bailey wore when we lived in Cary.

The charge plate from the record store I worked in when I was in my late teens and early 20s. The store was bought out by a large chain, and I snagged the original plate from the trash.

Many, many concert and movie ticket stubs.

The ticket stub from the Phillies game my mom took me to on my 21st birthday because I wanted my first legal beer to be at a game.

Perfect skipping stones.

The tiniest acorn I ever saw.

Small, green seashells that had been punctured by gulls.

The pin that US Cellular gave me when I had been there one year.

Actual jewelry.

A band-less Fossil watch.

and

A tiny, silver cash register key that says MGR that I was allowed to keep when I left my favorite job ever and moved to NC.

So I got it out of there and gave it to Livvie and she was delighted that her treasure chest now has a key. She's been playing with it all morning, sticking "treasure" in there and getting it back out. I'm sure one day she'll need a larger box for everything that she keeps for nostalgia. Right now this is fine. Although it would be interesting later on to see what she chooses to hold onto, I would never go through her box unless I suspected something terrible was going on.

What types of treasure have you kept over the years? What do you store them in?

Back in the day...

2009-10-23T23:04:00.000-04:00

Am I the only person on the planet who actually liked the school lunches? Or was my school cafeteria simply that bitchin?

We were poor. I was on the free lunch program for awhile, and then I was on reduced price. The problem for my mom developed on those days when I required two lunches. Yeah, some days the menu was so good I'd get two.

The grilled cheese was spectacular. It was served with buttered corn and apple crisp. The sammich itself was crisp where it needed to be and never soggy. The cheese melted perfectly. I got two of those.

I also got two of the stuffed pita pocket lunches. Those were essentially tacos stuffed in pitas to reduce the mess. Fabulous. Pizza day was a two luncher as well. The pizza looked just like that photo.

I remember there was this kid who would scoop chocolate pudding onto a potato chip and pile corn on it and eat it. Our superintendent freaked on him for it. I tried it. It wasn't great, wasn't bad.

On days when I didn't buy two lunches I'd pack an extra. And as indicated, I'd ask folks for whatever food they weren't going to eat. Apparently my dad used to do that at bowling banquets. Ah well.

There was a lunch lady/monitor named Mrs Johns and she carried one of those Tupperware yellow plastic orange peelers in her apron and would loan it to kids in need. I was so impressed that it was one of the very first Tupperware items I ever bought.

When I got to high school the food sucked. It really, really sucked. I got a meatball sammich once and when I bit it there were green things I assume were supposed to be fennel etc. It didn't look like fennel. The pizza there was ok. It wasn't the same as our elementary/junior high cafeteria's. They were going for "french bread" pizza but it was always limp and soggy. I didn't get two lunches anymore. I wasn't that impressed. And when I finally started driving and had a morning study hall I would skip out and go to Taco Bell and basically eat lunch at 10am.

I've looked over the menus of school cafeterias these days and they are boring as all get out. Nuggets didn't really exist yet when I was wee, but damn if these kids don't seem to be getting them constantly. I might have eaten them as a kid. Probably not. I wasn't a fan of mystery bits of meat ever. My school gave us pot roast on occasion. Sometimes beef stew. We always had real vegetables. And oh yeah, there were no vending machines until high school.

Some days I really miss that food. It was good. It was cheap as dirt. Even if the cafeteria staff hated us they never showed it, and it was a pleasant atmosphere. Except that time Keith Gibbs punched me in the stomach and I smeared my peaches down his back. Keith, if you're reading this, you were a douche.

I often wonder what's going to be offered to my kids. Maybe I'll just have to pack their little lunch boxes with fabulousness that keeps well with only ice packs. I only have 3 more years before we find out.

Today's ingredient is corn. Fresh or frozen. Livvie is corn crazy. Gimme some ideas.

Stream of Consciousness

2009-10-23T14:46:00.002-04:00

Someone posted something like this today, so I'm going to do one of my own. My food post will come tonight.

I do not like a lot of things. I'd say more than is entirely necessary. We'll start with Do Not and end with Do so as to send you all off on a happy note.

I do not like the current culture of "____-nazis" At. All. I do not appreciate breast feeding nazis, or attachment parenting nazis, or food nazis, or book nazis, or film nazis, etc. See "Self Important Busy Bodies of the New Millenium." The great thing about opinions is that everyone is entitled to their own. Quit telling me mine is wrong. Stumbled across a message board a few months back where nearly every chick wanted formula to be prescription only to force women to breast feed. Let me tell YOU what to do with your body and see how you like it. I do not like being incorrect about something when I was certain I was correct. Over the years, though, I have learned to eat my crow sammich like a good girl and move on. I do not like having severe pain. I do not like creatures with more than 6 legs. I especially hate those with over 100. I do not like not being able to afford even the smaller things I would like, but I've learned to accept it and deal. Since I grew up that way from the get-go, I think it's easier. I think having to be the Bad Guy 80% of the time in this household sucks. I'm not very fond of disrespect. In anyone, to anyone. I absolutely hate liars, cheaters, and thieves. And if a person ever accuses me of any of those 3 they will feel a wrath unlike any they have ever known. I'm not a fan of most sitcoms. There have been a few over the decades that were stellar. I really can't stand pretentious "films." They remind me of The Emperor's New Clothes. On the other hand, I don't like most romantic comedies because I think they set too many gullible chicks up for disappointment. Plus they make me gag. I hate feeling the need to defend my love of old musicals and Disney flicks. So I no longer bother. I think the media's panic mongering sucks. I dislike when people don't have the balls to come right out and tell me how they feel about something they don't like about me. I really can't stand people who are "celebrities" for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I despise the vehicles that race past our house as loudly as they can. If you need to make that much noise to prove that you have a dick, you probably don't. I hate people who hurt kids or old people. I hate people who hurt animals. Doing any of those three simply proves that you are a giant pussy. I do not like humidity. There really is no escape from it on the east coast. Mosquitos, fleas, and ticks make me want to nuke the world sometimes. I think clowns are the epitome of evil. I suspect Hitler used to dress as a clown before he shtupped Eva. I really don't like things that are askew. Really. Don't. Like. I hate that a lot of folks who have met me originally liked me because I'm crazy, but then when they learned that's not going to change they retreated. Along those lines, I don't like when people expect me to be "on" all the time. My name isn't Robin Williams, and I don't have a coke habit. I don't like people who spend more time on their hair than they do on their responsibilities. I do NOT like people who make extended cell calls out in public. Loudly. I HATE bluetooth technology. People look like they're talking to the Great 'Possum who asked them to kill their neighbors. I don't like the fact that I never really got a "higher education." But I still loathe that woman whose coffee table I carried to her car who told me that "they" hadn't marched and protested for me to do manual labor. I told her I thought they had done those things so I could do and be whatever I wanted. I am mortified by some of the mistakes I've made in my life, even though learning from them made me who I am today. I don't like California. I really don't know exactly why. I think the designated hitter is a ridiculous idea. I don't like generalizations of any sort and try very hard not to make them myself. Sometimes I fail. I hate failing. I think people who believe there's only one way to be intelligent are sadly mistaken. I hate stainless steel appliances. Too OCD to deal with the smudges. I hate James Patterson's 2 page chapters. I really, really don't like people who equate "country" with "stupid." Or "southern" with "racist." See generalizing. I despise Greedo shooting first. I loathe "SyFy." I don't like watching Rich do risky or dangerous things. So I usually don't watch. I really hate that I stopped wearing earrings when Livvie was born so she wouldn't rip my lobes open, and the holes closed up. I think it's annoying as ass when Rich steals the covers. I simply can't stand spilling food on myself. I hate that so many I've loved in my life have died.

I love the fact that I was directed to Harry Potter before the hoopla that would have discouraged me from reading them. I like finding tiny strawberries in the lawn. I think that the simple, circular, rubber disk jar opener is one of the most brilliant inventions ever. I love food. I love drink. I love smoking (sadly). I think the smell of a fireplace is awesome. Especially when it's far enough away that you only get an occasional surprise whiff. As far as smells go, I think the greatest one on the planet is that of tomato plants on your hands after pinching off the suckers. I love that the growing season in NC is so long. I think it's awesome that I can grow every plant but basil. Why not basil? I don't know. I love reconnecting with old friends and making new, good ones. I love my crockpot. I think it's great when things don't turn out as expected, but in retrospect are better than expected. I like the fact that I can cry over movies and books without feeling shame. I really like the marks left behind in a freshly vacuumed carpet. I find great happiness in beating the shit out of other characters in fighting video games. I adore the afghans my mother has knitted for us regardless of the fact that they're acrylic. I'm ecstatic that I quit biting my nails when I was 22. I love it when life gives you proof of the absurdity of it all. I love card games, but pinochle gives me a headache. I think it's great that I once installed a new phone jack in my old apartment and that I can change the battery in a car all by myself. I think the sharp, metallic smell of snow is fabulous. Especially on mittens for some reason. I think the Tom Collins is the perfect drink on a hot summer's day, followed immediately by the gin and tonic. I love Shark Week beyond belief. My heart gets all happy when someone sends me a card for no reason, and I need to send more cards of my own. Bacon. I love opening the dishwasher and sticking my face into the steam on cold days. I really like the fact that Jack Bauer does all the things I'd like to do to some people and Gregory House says all the things I'd like to say to some people, leaving me somewhat karmically safe. I really dig books that hook you so hard you suck them down in hours, sometimes reading all night. I love me some movies where shit blows up or giant animals eat people and those that have incredibly non-PC humor. I think the internet is fabulous because I've "met" so many different people who do so many different things. Plus without it, I'd have never met Rich. I love having intellectual disagreements with people when the disagreements don't become emotional. I love learning. I really like it when people make me think. I am exceptionally happy that my father taught me enough about boating that I could take a boat out crabbing in my 20s and still find my way back to the marina. I loved the smell of my Uncle Eddie's cigars but his sarcasm was even better. Dry humor rocks. I appreciate wit, but I'll still laugh at a fart joke. I think the critters found in tidal pools are amazing. The teeny clams that dig back into the sand after a wave breaks make me squeal with glee. So do Horseshoe Crabs. I really liked it when living with my mom I was receiving mail from The Institute for Human Origins and she was getting mail from The Society for Creation Research. On the same days. I think it's awesome when people in any service industry take the time to remember you and what you like. I'm really happy when Rich brings me flowers from the yard instead of spending obscene money on a florist. I was utterly thrilled when my brand new wedding ring started getting scratched and dinged. I love catching episodes of much loved TV shows in the middle of the night. I love listening to my mom's stories of the Depression and the War, and I hope I remember enough of them to pass them along. Her story of being sprayed by a skunk is legend. I love romance, and I love reality, and I'm absolutely thrilled when those things intersect. I love being in my 30s, and I wouldn't go back to the 20s for a million dollars. I love that I can't wait to see what's next.

Oh the Fantasy

2009-10-22T10:29:00.000-04:00

My mother has pretty much hated the Yankees for her entire life, because she's always felt they are a bunch of entitled, stuck up fucktards who are so full of themselves they're more like bloated ticks.

Her hatred was cemented during the 1950 World Series.

She and every other good citizen of the Delaware Valley were forced to watch Satan's Team sweep the Phillies in 4 games.

Bitterness? Check. Resentment? Check. Gut seething fury? Checkity check.

Whitey Ford can suck our left ones.

As a child I was raised with Yankees hatred which I accepted in good faith until I was old enough to understand that yes, they are a bunch of entitled, stuck up fucktards who are so full of themselves they're more like bloated ticks.

And then I happily hated them all on my own.

(At this point I feel it is my duty to report that we've already trained Livvie to say, "Boo Yankees!" with glee. Someday she'll understand).

As an adult I've actually been tempted to snatch Yankees caps off of people's heads and piss on them. So when the Sox beat them down in 2004 I was absolutely delighted.

One thing that bugs my mom and me is Jeter. We agree that he seems like such a nice boy, and we can't for the life of us figure out why the universe would allow him to embrace the Dark Side.

Oh sure, there's the monies. And I guess there's the whole wanting to play for a *gag* winning team. But truly, wouldn't such a nice boy want to uphold balance in the universe?

Yeah. Shut up.

So last night the Phils took the National League again. In this family we've got the joy joy joy joy down in our hearts.

On the one hand, it would be poetic justice for the Angels to defeat The Devil's Own. On the other hand...

We want a rematch.

We want a rematch so badly we can taste it. We want Hamels to shut those fuckers out. We want to flip NYC the bird and dance on the batting helmeted skulls of our enemies. We want to beat their kneecaps with Louisville Sluggers and stuff their faces full of Citizen's Bank Park.

The Angels would probably be an easier win. But we need revenge.

I'm going to be pulling for the Yanks. This curdles my stomach. But I want to see them go down hard in the City of Brotherly Love.

Do it for Harry, boys. He's watching.

You Break It, You Buy It

2009-10-21T11:33:00.000-04:00

We walked the inside of that doublewide yesterday. I should say Livvie ran the inside of that doublewide yesterday. It's 2052 sq ft. She ran. And ran. And then she flung open the front door into the wall, the ONLY door without a door stopper, and she took a chunk out of the wall.

I guess we're required to buy it.

It is probably the nicest home I've ever looked into living in. I know Rich's house prior to this one was far nicer, but for affordable housing this thing is the shiznit. It's a happy place. It's warm and inviting. It has kitchen cabinets out the nose. It has 4 bedrooms, and considering the master bedroom is the size of Alaska and has a sitting room attached to it, Rich's office will go in there, and we'll actually HAVE 4 bedrooms.

It has a heat pump. The song in my heart due to potentially never having to deal with the propane company again is the sound of trumpets and angels.

The master walk in closet is of a size that Jonas could live in there. We don't even have enough clothes to fill that closet. There are no linen closets, but honestly, with that walk in they aren't even needed.

We don't even have enough furniture for this house. We have a minimum of furniture here due to living in less than 1000 sq ft. When we move this stuff over there the house will still echo. Crazy. The place has a "formal" living room when you first walk in and a family room off the kitchen. Our furniture would go in the family room. The living room would be bare until the Christmas tree goes up.

Speaking of, the thought of putting up a tree without blocking the front door makes me giddy.

The agent and I were talking about the kids, and she made a remark about still having room for more. We told her we were done, and I mentioned that we're done for sure, as I'd been snipped. She told me she had done that after her second too, and in talking I mentioned that I'm 38. She did the legitimate double-take that I've gotten used to over the years, and she told me she thought I was about 24. Which would have made my white-haired husband a scoundrel. She was actually the only real estate agent I've ever met that I liked. She was very country, and showed up in jeans and a sweatshirt instead of all dolled up the way they usually do. She and I went out to smoke in the driveway, and she was loads of fun to talk to.

All of the appliances are new, and I double checked the oven interior to make sure there was room for turkeys etc. It's a closed surface stove, and while I really prefer gas stoves, the thought of simply being able to wipe it down is squee inducing. The very idea of having a built-in dishwasher and not having to push and pull Ole Bessy around made me almost wet my pants.

I've already decided where the new herb garden will go. The veggies are another matter.

I called the utilities today to get an idea of what goes on out there. The power bills, summer and winter, have been lower than ours are here. The neighborhood actually IS in the cable company's service area, so we'll be able to simply transfer our service. Good news, because we had signed a 2 year contract.

So now we make an offer and hope it's accepted. I sure hope it is. I can see us being very happy there for a few years at least.

Anyway, to those I know, a guest room means come and visit. You're always welcome.

Our time is short

2009-10-20T14:16:00.000-04:00

Given that your projected life span is 10-12 years, that means we probably have 4-6 years left.

Which means our time together is simply too short.

You didn't walk into my life, you were carried in inside a wire crate with your litter of puppies. You looked like absolute shit. Your black hair was gray, every bone stuck out, your eyes were bulging from your skull, and your nipples were practically dragging the ground. Our eyes locked and you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I knew you were MY dog, even if you went home with someone else.

You bugged the shit out of every roommate you had, and they all got adopted, but you stayed. I managed to finagle you into my home by begging the landlord. When I brought Emma to meet you first you did everything right. You deferred to her and ended up keeping to yourself and not bugging the shit out of her. I brought you home with me, and you destroyed my living room one day. So I hid things all over the apartment for you to find. It never happened again. I think it dawned on you that I would be coming home.

You raised every foster kitten I brought home as if it were your own. You pottied them, scolded them when they were assholes, gently, and kept them warm and loved. The things you put up with without ever showing aggression were astounding.

For a dog that requires as much exercise as you do, you've been remarkably good about being an indoor dog whose exercise is a walk at the end of a 6 ft leash. It tickles me to no end that you had been a starving street dog and your breed is intended for outdoors, but your favorite place is in front of a space heater.

I thought when the kids were born I had lost you to them, because you always have to know where they are and what they're doing. It hasn't escaped my notice, however, that at bedtime you are wherever I am. I think your bed in the kitchen as new and fun for awhile, but I've noticed that you will park yourself on the hard floor if it means being near me. In Jonas's room at night when he's been a handful and I'm barely sleeping, it makes me feel a thousand times better to toss my hand over the side of the bed. I know that even if you're half asleep, you'll know it and snug up under my hand while I scratch your head.

You have been taken for granted over the past few years. Part of it has been parenting stress, but I think a lot of it is that you've been one healthy animal, even though your start was rough. It rarely occurs to me that one day you won't be here. I need to rectify that.

Yeah, you can be a pain in my ass. You're always right underfoot, and you're a sneaky bitch who will snag food just as soon as my back is turned. You hate to poop in the rain, and it leads to annoying trips outside. It delights me though, that Livvie is finally, desperately in love with you. Yes, she needs to stop slipping you french fries and pizza at the table. But she throws her arms around you and kisses your face and every inch of me melts.

I need to get this house for you. The thought of turning you loose on so much room to run is joy. The thought of being able to open the door for you to let you escape when the kids are losing their minds makes me so happy. I need to stop taking you for granted and enjoy every year I have left with you.

I had a cat of a lifetime once. You might not be my first dog, but you're my dog of a lifetime. I couldn't ask for better.

Thanks for choosing me.

(In honor of Emma, Dante, Zoe, and Jinx)

Zen and the Art of House Hunting

2009-10-19T15:23:00.000-04:00

It's odd, the things that will do it for you.

We went to see the other house yesterday. When we got there we noticed that the entire acre was fenced. The front and one side were chain link, the other side where there was a neighbor had a wooden privacy fence running to the back, and across the back property line was a stock fence that was bent down in several places. So I walked back to check it out and determine how many rolls would be needed to replace it, and when I got to the wooded area back there my feet crunched.

I looked down and saw thousands upon thousands of acorns.

When I noticed the acorns it occurred to me that the fence was bent due to the deer jumping it to eat the acorns.

I couldn't tell you why, but it was a very peaceful realization. Even though that fence must be replaced to make sure Ginny doesn't jump it, and even though the deer will most likely beat the new one down too, for some reason I got warm fuzzies.

When were were done checking out the yard and exterior we drove down the rest of the street to the circle to get an idea of what the neighbors were like. All homes were well cared for, the yards looked nice, and I saw zero Beware of Dog signs. On our way back we noticed a carnival ride on a trailer in someone's driveway. That was pretty cool. At the very next house we noticed they had hung actual traffic lights on their carport.

We really don't know why, but that's our kind of bizarre.

This house is about 15 miles from the closest Target. The nearest grocery store is about, oh, 8 miles away. There's essentially nothing out there but a Tractor Supply Co.

We have no problem with that.

I made a note of where the ABC store was. Not close enough to be dangerous, but close enough to not be a pain in the ass.

The entire front fence is covered with 30 foot arborvitae that block the view from the street. I could see us losing our minds and deciding to light them at the holidays.

The agent called, and she's walking us through it Wednesday afternoon.

Bite My Shiny Metal Ass

2009-10-18T10:39:00.000-04:00

I do not like the way Vicodin makes me feel. If I take it before bed I never really sleep. I drift in a sort of daze like I'm half in a dream. I don't like having to take it during the day, either, because I have 2 kids in my house that might require emergency transport somewhere at any moment.

So to the pharmacy tech who rang up my refill yesterday and gave me a Look, I say, "Fuck you."

I've had some pain off and on in my life, but chronic pain is a new and different animal. When Livvie was born they gave me a scrip for Vicodin and I took a few after I got home and then didn't touch them again until about 8 months later when my migraines came back and I had no meds in the house for them. It has driven people to the verge of bitch slapping me because I'll mention that my head hurts and they'll say, "Did you take anything for it?" "No."

Last fall I had serious pain. The docs could only assume that the pain was being caused by the re-absorption of Jonas's twin for some reason. They gave me Vicodin. Eventually that pain went away. I thought I was in the clear, and then for some reason in late winter I developed something called ligamentitis. The ligaments connecting my crotch area to the tops of my thighs were inflamed, and I could barely walk. For awhile I tried a cane to help me, and then the doctors took pity on me and prescribed Vicodin again. By the time Jonas was due I was freaking out that so much had been pumped into his system during the pregnancy, and I asked for an induction so my pain would leave and he wouldn't be getting anymore. The nurse I spoke to told me he wasn't likely harmed. It didn't really make me feel any better.

After my C-Section I had some pretty severe pain. Other than wisdom tooth removal I had never had surgery in my life. And abdominal surgery fucking hurts. This time I took my pain meds until I ran out. I started to go through what I can only assume was withdrawal. I felt like shit. I was happy that I didn't have to take meds anymore, though. When I was a kid my parents couldn't get me to take pills. I was a liquid meds kid. I used to gag on pills.

By August 19th, though, my back was in severe pain. I had assumed it was from trying to sleep on a cramped little sofa with Jonas trying to push me off it all night for a couple of months. But then my legs went numb. Yeah, no. Marched my ass to Urgent Care and the doctor pointed out that the locus for the pain was right where the idiot had repeatedly jammed my epidural catheter when she couldn't get it placed correctly. I wasn't given any meds. It was recommended that I have an MRI.

The details of the next month are boring to even me.

Chronic, unceasing pain basically leaves you wanting to put a bullet in your head. It leads to depression. Having reduced mobility and being unable to complete even simple household tasks leads to deeper depression.

I finally saw a back pain specialist and got some pain relief. I am aware that taking pain meds on a constant basis can lead to a rebound effect, so there are days when I push through it and then pay dearly the next day. There are days when it doesn't hurt badly enough to require meds at all. There are also days when the prescribed dosage won't even touch it and I have to take two at once. Instead of the big guns she prescribed the Fisher Price My First Vicodin. 325mg. I really don't think that's a bad thing, because it probably won't lead to as many problems. Although I fully expect one day to see my liver leap from my throat and scuttle down the road.

So, yes, holier-than-thou pharmacy tech. Fuck You. Try living like this someday and see how you end up.

Well Sheeyit

2009-10-17T18:05:00.000-04:00

It's a lovely house, isn't it?

We need to move. NEED. To move. Rich has hated this house since day one. I did not, but we have something around 1000 sq ft, 2 kids, and a 54 lb dog. The house is early 60s bullshit, in that it's laid out terribly and everything is falling apart. Rich has looked at houses online almost every night since I met him. The other day he sent me the link to <---- that one.

Screened in porch. Fireplace. Wet bar. Yeah yeah, nice. Our primary wants are space, land, and privacy. This one has 1500 sq ft, is on four (FOUR) acres, and is surrounded by trees. And it was about $88k. Score.

So today we drove on out there. It's in the county just north of us, and it isn't really near a whole lot. That really isn't a problem. We figured we'd have to go out of county to afford anything we wanted anyway. We drove up the highway and started looking for the street, which was supposed to be right off the highway.

We couldn't find it.

So there was another street intersecting the highway, and we turned there. Got to a T crossing and I told Rich to go right. We traveled a ways and Rich told me we were looking for Scarlet. We reached a street. There were two very large black dogs guarding the street, and as we approached they made damn sure we knew they saw us. I assumed that their other two heads had been removed for cosmetic purposes. I looked at the sign. Scarlet. Naturally. So my first thought was that if we got this house there would be massive vet bills in my future as a result of taking Ginny out on leash and having her rushed by marauding dogs.

Livvie yelled, "DOGGIES!!!! Go see doggies?" and I said, "Um, no."

So we turned into the compound. Really, that's the only word for it. The road was clay. No gravel even. Just clay. And all I could think about was the fact that neither of us has 4WD and if it snows or ices we'd be fucked. The road was full of craters. Not potholes. Craters. And lining each side of the road were trailers surrounded by fences and EVERY SINGLE ONE had a sign that said "Beware of Dog(s)."

I have absolutely nothing against trailers. They are fabulously cheap housing that can suffice perfectly well as opposed to an apartment. If you're ok with being picked up in the wind and tossed a few counties away. However, when you see chain link everywhere, and warning signs, you start to fidget. And then Rich said, "It's right up ahead on Rhett."

"Wait, we turn off of Scarlet onto Rhett?"

"Yes."

"Then Scarlett is spelled wrong."

"What?"

" Oh look! It's right after O'Hara Court. Of course it is."

So we found the house. And it was the only house I could see that had any trees or privacy at all. There was no For Sale sign. The listing had mentioned that there was something pending, so apparently it went through.

I wasn't all that upset.

At lunch I said to Rich, "Just how insular do you think that little neighborhood was?" And we discussed that they were either tight-knit as hell, or they all hated each other's guts.

We just found another one online. Country? Yes. One acre. Over 2k sq ft. A little over $100k. We're going to go see it tomorrow. It has a fenced in yard, so I won't be as worried about loose dogs getting to Ginny or my kids.

If we get it I'll probably hang a "Beware of Dog" sign on the chain link.

Constant Vigilance?

2009-10-17T09:34:00.000-04:00

On Livvie's birthday Rich's dad took us all out to dinner. While I was getting dressed I wondered where my license was, found it, and stuck it in my pocket. Rich asked me if I was planning to drink. I told him no, but if we were in a bad enough car accident they might need something with which to identify me. He told me I was morbid and that I thought too much.

I disagree. I think "morbid" would be assuming we were all going to die and worrying over it to the point where I couldn't enjoy myself. All I do, every time I leave the house, is slide my license into my pocket as a precaution. It's something I've always done.

When I was a small child our local police came to our school and fingerprinted us all. They sent the cards home with us for our parents to keep on hand in case of emergency. My card is in my firebox. I've carried that card around for decades, and I've let everyone I've lived with know that it exists. I don't belabor the point, I simply pull the card out of the box, say, "Just in case anything ever happens to me, this is available." Is that morbid or macabre? I really don't think so. If the police in this area do the same sort of thing I am absolutely getting my kids printed. I don't dwell on these matters daily. Sometimes, though, when I am not managing to avoid the news and a story comes up about a missing kid it flashes through my mind that my kids need printing. Then the thought is gone.

I mentioned to someone the other day that an added benefit of having tattoos is that you have very distinguishing characteristics in case something terrible happens as well. I very much doubt that most men even consider these sorts of things. I'm a woman, and one time when I was walking to the train after class at Rutgers some guy tried to grab me. He reached for my necklace as if to admire it and his other hand went for my arm. I yanked myself from him and yelled, "Asshole!" to get attention and he scurried off. Broad daylight.

I'm a big fan of "managing the situation." In pretty much all areas of life I take steps to make things easier in the long run. I really see nothing different about any of this. None of it consumes my every waking thought, simply because I have put measures in place.

Why am I bringing this up? Yesterday Rich went under the house to try to fix our heater, and he took his hunting knife with him in case he encountered snakes or critters. Smart. This morning when I got up and went outside to smoke I discovered his knife sitting on the railing at the top of the steps. Not smart. He was exhausted when he left it there, so I'm not blaming him. But flashing through my head was the fact that if someone came to the house for any nefarious purposes whatsoever, and had not thought to bring a weapon with them, we had provided one for them which could only be more obvious with balloons and a spotlight.

Is that morbid?

Oh No He Di'nt...

2009-10-16T11:45:00.000-04:00

Since it's essentially all I'm thinking about these days (ok, sleep too. but talking about sleep is boring), I have decided to designate every Friday as Food Day here. Food fascinates me. People's tastes fascinate me too. So off we go.

When I was growing up I thought I had a fairly developed palate. I ate clams and oysters. What could be grosser than that? One day when I was not yet 20 my then boyfriend Mike (hi Mike!) took me out for Middle Eastern food. Falafel sounded ok. Chick peas? I loved chick peas. FRIED chick peas? I'm there.

He ordered stuffed grape leaves and offered me some. I think I made a face. I'm pretty sure I made at least a small face. It was probably a split second, but he noticed. And when I declined he literally snarled, "You are SO fucking pedestrian."

Wait. Whoa. Back the fuck up there dude. Me? Not on your life. So I glared at him and grabbed one and ate it. And then I ate another. And his nasty little dig was one of the best things ever said to me.

It took some practice. A friend tried to talk me into sushi and I thought he must be joking. But I tried it. And I loved it. Miso soup? Oh yes. It has tofu in it? Alrighty then. Not a problem. The first time I tried Indian food I thought my body would melt into a wet spot on the chair.

There are things I do still refuse to eat. I will not eat anything that I have baited a hook or crab trap with. That means no squid. No octopus. No sardines because they look like minnows. I will not eat organ meat because I actually paid attention in bio and remember that the organs are where the body's toxins are processed.

Ok, that's a lie. Once every few years I absolutely must have a liverwurst and onion sammich with yellow mustard or I will die. And I do very much love the giblet gravy that BFF made.

I dated a douchebag guy who made pizza for a few years and learned to try odd things on pizza. I still prefer regular old boardwalk style pizza that you have to blot with a paper towel to avoid a coronary, but he made some pretty good pizza. My favorite ever was a regular cheese and tomato sauce pie with pepperoni, banana peppers, and feta cheese crumbles. Try it. Seriously.

For about a year Livvie survived on soy chik'n nuggets and some form of potato, and I was terrified. But then one day she was watching us eat and she wanted some. I can't even remember what was for dinner, but it was a step. She kept trying new things. If we ate it, we offered it to her. Currently her favorite vegetable is brussels sprouts. Seriously, if I ask her what veggie she wants with dinner she asks for those. It took me 26 years to like brussels sprouts. She eats green and black olives. She picks onions out of food to eat them. I'm so thrilled I could plotz.

So my tastebuds are currently eager for the new. I'm going to ask for recipes. Each Friday I will toss out an ingredient (allez cuisine!!!!) and request that you respond with something for me to try.

Today's ingredient is... the lowly russet potato. Honestly. What, you thought I was gonna say chard? Lob some potato creations in my direction. I have a billion potatoes that need going into something.

Cosmic Wonder

2009-10-15T20:29:00.000-04:00

<------ See that fabulous redhead in the picture on my sidebar? That's Heather. She was my very first friend in North Carolina, and for awhile she was my only friend. I ended up marrying and divorcing her cousin, but that's neither here nor there. We met in Ireland in 1994. Know what I remember? At the pubs the men were all over her. And some drunkard looked at me and told me I needed a haircut. I'm pretty sure he thought I was a guy. She and I actually held hands and skipped through portions of the country, we were so happy to be there. And we were in our 20s.

There's a photo of her that I have where she's walking through a graveyard and her hair is blowing in the wind and it's just earth shattering. That photo is tucked into an album which is itself tucked away though. This one will have to do.

Heather loved to cook and I loved to cook, so we bonded over food. She invited me to dinner at her apartment and I was stunned and envious that someone even younger than I could have so much on her own. But she had an education and a good job, and that made all the difference in the world back then.

My first Christmas here we spent together, eating junk and watching a movie. We went to Waffle House. If you don't know Waffle House I suggest you check it out, if even only once.

Life interfered, as it almost always does. We spent less time together. I remember though that when she met her totally awesome husband I marveled that you could meet someone on the internet and fall in love. Ha ha. Ha.

Her cousin and I did not end up divorcing amicably, so I figured that was that. There was also my horror at being unable to attend their grandmother's funeral, as I had a raging case of mono at the time. I adored their grandmother, and I was heartbroken.

Why am I writing about Heather today? Yesterday I was going through my grandmother's recipe box, trying to find something I had written down so I could pass it to a new friend, and I came upon a folded sheet of paper. I unfolded it and it was an email from Heather containing a recipe for German potato salad. I looked at it and wondered how she was doing.

Today I remembered to check my gmail for a change. Heather had emailed me. Yesterday.

Our paths shift and meander through life and we never know where we'll end up. People come and go, but I like to think that the folks who have been the most influential and special are always connected by even the most fragile thread.

I'm really looking forward to seeing her again.

Should I Do It?

2009-10-15T07:47:00.000-04:00

Should I just change the name of this blog to "What a Size _____ Looks Like?"

Because that is the number one searched phrase that lands folks on this blog. I'm talking several times a day. People from everywhere. Two days ago someone in Delhi searched a version of that and ended up here. Because of this.

So in the spirit of things I'm going to update everyone on the matter.

I had a hard time gaining weight while pregnant this last time. To be honest it was freaking my bean. I was searching Dr Google for all types of issues that could arise from lack of weight gain. Stay away from Dr Google. Dr Google is like that quack who hands over the good pills when what you need is better nutrition and more exercise.

So Jonas was yanked out of me, and he was a decent size. I guess. Seemed small to me, but not overly so. Apparently he was average weight and above average length. Not bad, as I had only managed to shovel on 26 pounds this time. A couple of weeks later after the majority of the swelling went down I figured I'd squeeze into my size 10s and that would be it. I was tired of wearing maternity jeans, and they were starting to bag in the ass. I got out the 10s, put them on, and could have managed to shove Jonas inside with me too. Oops.

I felt rising panic and dug through the closet shelf. I had managed to hold onto ONE pair of 8s. The rest had gone to Goodwill. I put them on and they fit. They didn't fight tightly, they FIT. So I got on the scale. Folks, I'm not going to tell you what it said. I will tell you that the panic worsened. I was trying to eat. Jonas was a handful, but I was managing dinner and several grazings a day. Or so I thought.

I started paying attention. Nope. Eating dinner, sure. Other meals and/or snacks? Not so much. I was busy, but if I could manage to get lunch on the table for Livvie I should certainly be able to stick a yogurt down my throat. But I hate yogurt. Turns out I'm not fond of most types of convenience foods. I had bought some Hot Pockets, but they were morphing into dessicated bricks that would almost certainly leech all of the fluid from my body in order to replenish themselves. Hot Pockets are scary critters. I don't think I'll buy anymore.

I've been a natural Atkins since I was a toddler. If you offer me protein and carbs I'll go for the protein. I like carbs ok, especially in the form of beer, but my body demands protein or Bad Things Happen. Trick or Treating and Easter baskets were a waste of time. Every Easter there would be nasty, stale candy left from Halloween, and every Halloween the reverse. It drove my mother crazy.

So I started stuffing myself with carbs this summer. And I obsessively weighed myself every morning. The number kept going down. Full blown, nail biting dread. When I was 21 I had a friend who would lift me and do arm curls with me. I didn't want to go there. I mock the deliberately skinny, having been a not so deliberate one. The LAST thing I wanted was to walk down the street and hear, "Eat a donut!"

I managed to hit a plateau. The issue is this: those 8s are now bagging on my ass. I only own that pair. I have refused to go buy new jeans because I'm terrified that I will require a smaller size.

I miss my size 10 ass. I miss having a booty and the strut that comes from being womanly. There is no photo of my current ass in this post because, frankly, I don't want anyone seeing it. Besides, asses in baggy jeans = not sexy. Asses in baggy jeans = Stacy and Clinton arriving at your door to throw away your super hero t-shirts.

Don't fucking touch my super hero t-shirts.

Slinging some bull

2009-10-14T14:47:00.000-04:00

Ok, let's be honest. If it's October, I am GOING to go all Taurus-y and consume everything in my path. Beer, food, men. It really hasn't mattered. If I'm going to get in trouble at all, you can bet it's October.

I'm not sure if I believe in the Zodiac. I know for sure that I think my horoscope is usually bunk. I also know that if you look up "Taurus" in The Big Book O' Sun Signs or whatever it's called my photo is right there.

So it's been somewhat strange. I don't know if October figures so prominently because Taurus is right overhead, hoarding the seven sisters from Orion, and I go outside, look up and see those horns, or what. I do know that back in the day, one had better lock up their boys and their liquor cabinets. And the pie closet.

I met my husband in October. I actually met him for the first time at a greenway so we could take a walk. I had pulled my truck over to park and wait, and he swung himself out of his Silverado wearing jeans and chewing gum and he had that same deliberate walk that Henry Fonda did. I managed to behave myself until the end of the World Series, but the Sox were up against the Yankees in the rematch of the century, and I told him if the Sox won he'd be a very lucky man. I don't think he believed I was serious. Yes, I do hate the Yankees that much. The Sox won.

Even if I've been cooking the basics up to that point, in October I start following my taste buds and my capacity. Last week I bought 2 turkeys. Oh you can bet they'll be gone by the end of the month, even though one weighed 16.5 pounds and the other weighed 20. I also snagged everything I need to make a sage sausage stuffing. And 10 pounds of potatoes.

I've been drinking Yuengling Light with Rich all summer. Today I walked into Total Wine and bought Old Rasputin imperial stout, La Fin du Monde triple, Victory Storm King stout, and Left Hand milk stout. These will not be sipped from their bottles. They will be poured lovingly into their proper glasses that pretty much only leave the cabinet for a couple of months each year.

I have realized that if I lived in Ireland I would devour everything in sight, essentially because for several months a year their weather mirrors east coast autumns precisely.

My son is a Taurus, and he's an abnormally large boy. When he hits puberty I might issue a PSA urging folks to hide their beer, food and women.

Put it this way- today I passed a large deer carcass on the roadside and mourned the loss of edible meat.

Now I have to go get that turkey out of the freezer.

"Beware the Autumn People..."

2009-10-13T11:47:00.000-04:00

I know what Ray Bradbury was talking about when he put those words to paper. And it wasn't me.

Autumn, though, does things to me. A very good friend of mine doesn't do well in autumn. I feel bad about that, because it's the only time of year I might even be halfway close to normal. I react the way people are supposed to in spring. My mind is sharper. More cleaning gets done. The small things outdoors get noticed. Last night I caught an earwig on the deck staring at me, so we had a conversation. The quality of the light and the position of the sun in the sky give me clarity. I feed on this time of year.

To be honest, this probably isn't normal. It's probably hypomanic. I've been this way every fall since childhood though. My favorite month for as long as I can remember has been October. I have incredibly distinct memories of walking through crunching leaves on my way to school and the smell of the mold underneath the wet ones. I love that smell.

Last autumn I was in physical hell with my pregnancy, and it was the only year in my memory that I took no enjoyment from it. Last autumn I lost my faith in the Universe. I felt nothing. I had no connection to anything bigger than myself. I don't know if it was the constant pain dragging me down, or if it was the fact that I was a few months into a surprise pregnancy that scared me to death. I don't know if it was because I was still carrying a dead twin inside me. I only know that it festered and blackened into hatred because I wasn't used to feeling so alone.

I let my garden go to shit last fall. I didn't cut back a single thing. I would walk outside with the dogs and see the sage turning brown and crunchy, and I'd simply turn my back.

It comes as no surprise to me, this year, that it was October 1st when I nearly died by almost blacking out behind the wheel. My initial reaction was to curse the start of the month and call it foul. A funny thing happened though. I felt a tingle. My memory sharpened. I can remember exact details from that day that have nothing to do with the emergency workers or my ER visit. I can tell you how the light was falling onto the sign at the entrance to the dump. I can tell you what the gravel looked like under my feet when I stepped out of the Ford. I know exactly which trees were on the opposite side of my car.

I can feel my body going cold and breaking into sweat and the gray take over my vision. And I can feel the struggle in my brain as I fought it. It felt like swimming in pudding.

For a few days after I was a joy to be around, according to Rich. He didn't put too much stock in it, because he's learned over the years that the downturn follows quickly. And I did fall into despair for a few days. The cats had stopped eating, and the house went berserk, and I couldn't keep up with anything. He pointed out to me that I was in a fog and couldn't think. He was right. So I decided to fight it.

I go outside to smoke several times a day. I generally smoke and come back inside as quickly as I can. I've made the effort over the past couple of weeks to pay attention while smoking. Even to the act of smoking itself. My connection is returning. I notice that I'm not alone anymore. It's a good feeling, that sense that everything is connected. I couldn't tell you what's out there, but it's something.

I'm an Autumn Person again. And now I'm going to go start some bread.

I'm Back

2009-10-12T22:05:00.000-04:00

Are they gone yet?

The ones who were beginning to creep me out for some unknown reason. Are they gone?

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

I was 6 years old.

My father took me to the movies. Mom took me to see Bambi and Snow White et al. Dad? He took me to see Bond films and Airplane and a little movie called Star Wars.

Back then, you see, it was simply Star Wars. You said those words and everyone knew what you were talking about. A single movie in which a whiny little punk got hisself the Force and saved the day. No one asked you which episode. The titles were the titles. Everyone knew what "Empire" was. Everyone knew what "Jedi" was.

In my fantasy world of rainbows and unicorns Episodes 1-3 do not exist.

So Dad took me to the movies, and I came out of it changed for life. If you're in your late 30s or early 40s it's pretty much a given that it changed you for life. Unless you have a heart of stone. And if you do, I don't want to talk to you.

I wanted to be that whiny little punk. Leia was ok, and back then I had no idea that Carrie Fisher was to become my goddess of all things crazy, but I really wanted to be Luke. I got Star Wars people. Did anyone call them action figures yet? I don't think so. Everyone I knew called them Star Wars people. And they got played with. Holy hell they got the kid treatment. I walked down the street one day and discovered that my friend Alan had hung one of my Luke guys by the neck from the sycamore tree in his front yard. If I recall correctly, he got a beating for that. They went on mad adventures in my head. I was too self-conscious to have them speak aloud to each other, because I always got caught. In my head though they had deep, meaningful conversations along the lines of "what shit do we blow up next?"

And I was a girl.

Circa 1982 my father bought me the Millenium Falcon. Oh that toy was rad. I carefully applied the decals to it, being OCD even then, and loaded it up with guys and they would fly around my house like crazy until the sheer size of it would prove cumbersome and the whole thing would crash to the floor. I lost a windshield panel. The dish on the top of it broke. I played with that thing until it essentially fell apart. I was in my 20s.

But I still have it.

In the late 90s when they rereleased the violated enhanced versions of the movies they reissued the toys as well. The action figures were oddly buff, but I bought some anyway. I bought an X-Wing. And I bought a Falcon. I justified these purchases by claiming that they were for a kid I knew I would never have. They got packed away, from place to place, until they ended up in the attic here. I never even considered trying to sell them someday. Toys are for playing. Even if I dug them out at age 60, they would be played with.

Along came Livvie. I decided they would be hers. Every September brings me closer to the day I hand them all to her and tell her to go to town. Today she had no interest in the movies yet, but hey, she's 3. I figure when she's 6 I'll sit her down to watch them. I'm halfway tempted to give her the Falcon now. I know it would end up destroyed though and not be available when she finally gets it. So I occasionally cast my eyes to the attic steps and feel a niggling sensation in my chest. It will happen someday.

And Jonas is gonna be so pissed.

Dear Great Spaghetti God-

2009-09-20T20:55:00.000-04:00

Why you gotta hate?

I try to be a good person. I work hard at it, as my natural tendency is to run the other way. But, honestly, this is getting retarded.

Yes. I used the R word. The one the PC police want abolished from the vocab. Suck it.

I have a toddler who is sick, getting better, but sick. Bad enough, as she's 3 years old, and she doesn't understand why she feels like shit. So the tantrums yesterday were colossal. But she's also performing various tricks she's learned from the little shits at preschool. It's a lot of fun.

I have an infant with reflux who is refusing to eat because he has teeth coming in. So on top of the teething pain we have I AM FUCKING STARVING tantrums. He's 4 months old. Cause and effect is not in the lexicon yet.

My husband? He's ready to put a bullet in his head because he has an open tooth with the nerve exposed. Shit keeps getting into it. Massive pain ensues. Did you know that when you feel pain your blood pressure rises? His BP was high enough already, thank you. He's filching my vicodin so he doesn't jump into traffic. My vicodin? Oh that would be for...

My back. My fucking back that the godawful moron anesthesiologist fucked up when she tried multiple times to jam the catheter into my spine for my epidural FOUR months ago. I had 2 decent days this week, O Spaghetti God, but thanks to stress and very bad sleeping arrangements it's about a 7 on the scale again. Take the vicodin? I can't. Someone has to be functional in case anything happens to the kids.

Shall we extend the radius?

My husband's sister has breast cancer. Thanks for that. Selfish, maybe, but since my mother only developed breast cancer because of the ginormous amounts of hormones they put her on so she could get pregnant with me, I don't really truly consider it to run in my family, so I figured Livvie was mostly safe. Nope. Not anymore.

My mother, 78 years old and working full time, is having to take care of my dad's sister who has Alzheimers and is getting way worse. She's getting lost in her own house. Has ZERO clue where her own bedroom is if she wanders out of it in the middle of the night. Puts food from the freezer on the counter and leaves it. Sticks things in the microwave and forgets them. Mom had to remove the knobs from the stove because of An Incident. So thanks for that too.

Dunno what to do here, at this point. Mom says the shit storm is because I'm an agnostic. I find it hard to believe that others would be punished for my "failings."

That is all.

'Scuse you, Butt...

2009-09-01T22:46:00.003-04:00

Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us. -Pride and Prejudice

Someone I love, and I will not name names, taught me how to burp. I mean, REALLY burp. Like a 7th grade boy who just guzzled a Coke.

I am not a lady.

To go back, I used to burp this little squeak of a sound and say, "Excuse me." It was mortifyingly pathetic. But through careful study and watching (and listening) I figured out how to burp for real. And since I learned I have been working on the alphabet in privacy.

Livvie has decided it is absolutely hilarious. I have noticed that kids become like pets. You do stuff in front of them that you wouldn't even consider doing in front of your mate. You scratch your ass. You pee with them standing RIGHTTHERE staring at you waiting for the chance to flush. And you emit methane gas. It just happens. It goes back to when they were infants and had no clue. Suddenly, they're toddlers, and they GET stuff.

Ok, I do scratch my ass in front of Rich. That isn't the point.

When I burp in front of Rich like that it bothers him. He does it and laughs. But if I happen to open my mouth and shatter the windows he's somewhat put out. Folks, he knew I wasn't a lady when he married me. Trust me (Ok, in the interest of full disclosure he just said to me, "It doesn't make a shit to me. I just roll my eyes to make you think it's inappropriate. Just don't do it at Angus Barn").

Where was I? Livvie? When I burp now Livvie pretends to burp too. Loudly. And she laughs her ass off. Also, a few months ago whenever she farted she would say, "'Scuse you, butt." I have no idea why she started that, but it made us laugh. So now she giggles like a fiend when she says it.

I was burping Jonas tonight, and he finally let out a great one, and I said, "Good job!!!" So I'm wondering how we go from encouraging infants to raise the roof to thinking poorly of it after a certain age.

I'm certain as all get out that Livvie is not going to be a lady. She already can't keep her shirt on, even in public. Forget sitting properly with legs placed together. I guess what we have to work on now is that there's a time and a place for everything. And we have to work on the alphabet.

Family

2009-08-29T08:01:00.004-04:00

When I got divorced I moved into a miniature shit hole apartment close to work. I spent my first Christmas alone, well, alone. Christmas Day 2001 found me sitting on my sofa with oodles of junk food watching all 5+ hours of the A&E Pride and Prejudice. It's never been said directly to me, but apparently that wasn't acceptable. Because I never spent a holiday alone again.

Right there <------ is Livvie and Jonas's Gramma Jess. Gramma Jess is of no relation to us, but I trust her with my children more than anyone else. Even blood. I couldn't tell you why, because I haven't analyzed it. Maybe it's because she raised two amazing kids who aren't even close to being as fucked up as Rich and I can be. I do know that while I've felt minor tugs of misgiving or irritation at handing my children to other people, I've always been able to just offer them to her, let go, and not have a worry in my head. To offer an example, yesterday Livvie tried to drown herself in the pool. Her Gramma Jess plucked her out of the water, and while she was wigging out and saying, "All done???" Gramma Jess kept her in the pool and let her realize nothing bad was going to happen. No coddling. Just a matter of fact, you're ok. My cortisol levels didn't even raise a hair.

When she took Jonas into the pool -----> I actually ended up having to take Livvie in the house for awhile and had no worries whatsoever.

I haven't been the best of adopted daughters since Livvie was born. I have no excuses. There really is no excuse for not being there more often. For awhile I didn't want to impose. And then simply staying at home became easier. They live less than 1o minutes away. Yesterday I realized that the relationship I have with this family is one of the main reasons why I haven't come apart at the seams on occasion.

I would rather that home be where they choose to take me in than have to take me in.

The past few holidays we've stayed home and celebrated alone. It's nice, but it isn't the same. Livvie's first Christmas was spent at that house. Hopefully this year Jonas can at least spend part of his first there. I think he'll love it.

Besides, I want Green Bean Casserole.

Lunacy

2009-08-28T11:24:00.003-04:00

I lost my ever loving mind the other night. It was like a tornado or freight train. I saw it coming and there was no way to stop it. So I stood outside myself and watched myself snap at everyone in the house, and when that drove everyone away from me physically I watched myself throw things around as hard as I could. NOTHING had set me off. There was no trigger. It just happened. Rich said, "What's going on? You were smiling and happy 15 minutes ago." and I snarled, "No I was NOT fine. I am NEVER fine!!!" and he picked up Livvie and carried her into our room and shut the door.

And I finally ate some food for the first time all day and then held it together long enough to calmly get Livvie to bed.

So I was simmering instead of boiling. And I went to apologize to Rich. I apologize more than any human I have ever met.

And then my brain stretched past my skull and it was physically painful. And I only wanted to die. And somehow an apology turned into an argument, and I blurted out that I had to die.

And my husband stood his ground. He told me exactly where talk of that type would lead. And he let me sink into a sobbing puddle without bending to me once. He was a thousand year oak, and I was a sapling. And I wallowed. Still he stood. And while this was going on something amazing happened.

I tapped into his strength of will. I could feel my brain feeding off of it. And I calmed down. And then even more amazing, my brain shrank back to normal. Normal human brain right here. Not happy, not sad. Just being. So when I was clearly sane, he held me in the dark and we just breathed.

And yesterday morning I woke up feeling better about myself than I have in who the hell knows.

He is one of the smartest men I have ever met, in thousands of different ways. But his ability to react, or not, in any situation is something that I find astounding. Three days ago I would have thought that I don't deserve to be so lucky. Today I find myself thinking that I need to start proving that I do deserve it.

I will be starting to do yoga every night, for at least 30 minutes, after Livvie goes to bed. There are corners of my mind that need to be cleaned out. I will not automatically assume I will fail. If I do fail I will try again.

I can do this. And I have the best possible trainer.

Truly the End of an Era

2009-08-26T09:24:00.004-04:00

I was in Dublin in November of 1994. Some of us were sitting at the bar in our hotel when a bunch of very well dressed people came into the lobby surrounded by law enforcement. We were curious, so one of us asked the bartender what was going on. He told us the government had just fallen. And then we finally looked up at the TV screens around us. A few of them were turned to a soccer (football) game, but the rest were turned to a news channel. So we got to talking with the bartender, and he laid it on the line. He said, basically, that the problem with Americans is that when it comes to politics most citizens are completely apathetic. The Irish, however, eat, drink, and breathe politics. Even the most lowly and poor citizen with no access to the wireless world knows exactly what's going on at any given time.

And this is one of the reasons that back in the very early part of the 20th century the Irish in America bludgeoned their way into government.

Maybe bludgeoned is a poor choice of words. No wait, it's precisely a good choice of words, because the Irish were not averse to using less than honorable means to their ends. In the beginning it meant physical force. And then it meant money.

Joe Kennedy Sr. made a lot of money. Regardless of the fact that he was so fortunate financially, he dealt with anti-Irish bias regularly. But like any "good" Catholic man, he knocked up his wife a bazillion times and had 9 kids. And by the grace of God, 4 were boys. So he set about making sure, by any means possible, that his son would become President of the United States.

Oh no, not that son. Joe Jr. And then Joe Jr. died in a plane crash in WWII. But he had emergency backup sons. So attention and money and power turned to Jack. And it worked. An Irish American man became president. A little over 60 years prior there had been signs posted in shop windows saying, "Help Wanted- Irish Need Not Apply." But now here he was, a Catholic boy with even bigger financial reserves than his libido. And he was the most powerful man in the world. And then in November of 1963 some fucktard gunned him down. BUT. There were still 2 more emergency backup sons.

So son number 3 went for it. And Bobby, who had been, regardless of questionable behavior regarding the opposite sex, probably the best example of humanity that Joe Sr. produced in his sons, was also gunned down in 1968. And oh Dear God, that left Teddy.

Everyone has a Teddy in their family. I don't care who you are. If you have more than 2 kids you get the baby of the family. And the baby ends up with certain issues. If you're the youngest SON, well goodness knows... So everyone turned to the baby boy of the family who had grown up protected and coddled the way youngest boys can be. And wouldn't you know it? He fucked up. It was a colossal fuckup. SO colossal that the incident became synonymous with politicians' fuckups to this day. At age 37, old enough to know better, he let a woman die. Unfortunately he had no brothers left to fall back on for help. So he had to dig himself out of the mess himself. And he did.

Teddy Kennedy went from being a joke to being one of the most respected senators in the history of this country. 47 years. FORTY SEVEN YEARS the people of Mass. kept him in office. He pushed the Civil Rights Act into law. He pushed the Voting Rights Act into law. The Americans with Disabilities Act. The Family and Medical Leave Act.

There were still jokes made about his obvious love of alcohol and his rather amusing accent. But they came fewer and farther between. Because this man had realized he needed to do a job. And he got it done.

Looking back, he was the lucky one for more reasons than having had the chance to die of natural causes at a somewhat elderly age. He got to spend decades affecting change and serving the public to the best of his ability. If he had been elected president? What, 8 years at the most? Followed by the public speaking circuit? Oh I'm sure he would have done something good. Foundations and charities etc. But almost 50 years of pushing the government to do what was right instead of what was easy is an awesome legacy to have.

So we've lost a prime example of the Irish passion for politics and government. And what it can lead to in the best and worst of circumstances. Safe Journey, Teddy.

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Everything remains as it was.
The old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no sorrow in your tone.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.
There is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again.

Life is so bizarre

2009-08-24T10:57:00.003-04:00

Shiva speaks to me. LMFAO

I have lost every modicum of spirituality I ever had, and I'm a selfish white chick who was raised Catholic who really likes to eat cows.

But there's this God in the Hindu pantheon who likes to give me a nudge now and again. It's annoying sometimes. But it always works out for the best. Dammit.

I generally operate under the opinion that people who say they talk to God are crazy or dangerous or both. And I still believe that folks who claim to have full on conversations with him in English are batshit demented. I'm not talking about prayer. I'm talking about, "Oh, you say all gays are damned to hell so I should assist them on their way by blowing up this nightclub? Done."

The first time I ever heard of Shiva I was about 9 years old and reading my first Destroyer novel. The main character is believed by another major character to be an avatar of Shiva. So I looked him up, because even then I was a hopeless info-nut and since Google didn't exist I had to go to the library. Turns out this guy Shiva is believed by many to be the supreme and one of a trinity. He's not one to fuck with. "In the Mahabharata, Shiva is depicted as 'the standard of invincibility, might, and terror,' as well as a figure of honor, delight, and brilliance." I think he might be Bipolar.

Many years ago I found myself burning myself constantly. Every time I turned around I was burning myself in the oven, on the stove, with steam, pretty much anyway one can. And then one night I had a dream that I was in bed with Shiva and his wife walked in and said, essentially, "Who is this bitch?" I was terrified, and he basically told me that I knew what I had to do.

So I overhauled my life. Out with the crap. I embarked on a new me. I met Rich and married him and had Livvie. I eliminated a lot of the bullshit that had been tying me down. Shiva creates from destruction. So I would too. Things went pretty well.

Lately he's been popping up again. I'm not burning myself, but I've been in serious pain for almost a year now in one way or another. It's an attention getter for sure. And then recently I've been seeing his name everywhere. In an effort to avoid another nocturnal altercation with Parvati I'm listening now, before things progress.

The irony of being someone who no longer believes in God and yet is taking to heart headbutts from the divine is not lost on me. It's aggravating. But then, none of this began this time until after I had settled in my heart that we are truly alone.

So I'm about to start a new journey. I don't know where it will lead. But I'll keep you abreast of all developments.

Dumb Shit I Did

2009-08-23T12:59:00.002-04:00

The earliest memory I have of being stupid involved turning a bicycle over onto its seat and handlebars and pumping the pedal to spin the wheel. Did you ever do that as a kid? Well, I had it going really fast, and the spokes became invisible. Something, probably being descended from my dad, prompted me to stick my right index finger in. THWACK-SPURT. I cut my finger down to the bone. My father asked me what I was thinking. I'd have the chance to ask him that exact same question a few years later.

Our neighbors across the street had been painting the house with white latex based paint. They had paint trays in their garage on a shelf with paint congealing in them. For some reason I rounded up every kid about my age on our street and we decided to paint each other with it. I got the worst of it. It was all over my face and in my hair. And my dad took a rag soaked in turpentine to me to get it off. God that shit burned. I was crying. We all got grounded. Every single one of us. And having been the ringleader, I got a spanking.

My dad used to snag refrigerator boxes from the hardware store for me to play with. I figured out if you got inside of it at the top of the front steps on my porch and had someone else push it over you could roll down the steps in it without getting scraped up. So we did that. A lot.

We had a crabapple tree in the side yard that I used to climb almost every day. And one day I climbed it and the limb I was on broke out from under me and I threw myself against the tree and clung on like a lemur. And yelled for dad. Over and over again. I don't know if he hadn't heard me or was just screwing with me, but I hung on for over 15 minutes. And he had to climb the tree to get me back down.

I had a 3 speed purple bike with a banana seat and hand brakes. Our street was a hill leading down to an intersection that led to the crick. And one day I was riding my bike downhill and hit the hand brakes as hard as I could, and I flipped over the handlebars and landed on my back in the street in front of my bike. RIGHT in front of Johnny Palin. Who was my arch-nemesis.

I was over my friend's house swimming one day and I decided to do a back flip off the board. So I bounced a few times and leaped backwards. And slammed my spine into the board, knocking the air out of me, and slipped into the deep end. She jumped in and dragged me out. I should thank her for that again.

There's a whole list from the adult years as well. But I think this is enough for now.

Stolen

2009-08-22T10:50:00.003-04:00

I have stolen the idea for this entry from my best friend.

Early childhood memories. What are your strongest?

I posted on her blog that I remember vividly falling out of my crib at around age 2, landing on my head, flopping over onto my back, and staring up at my parents' concerned faces and saying, "Hi Mommy!!"

I remember when the wooden railing on the front porch gave way while I was leaning on it and I fell through and landed in the fire thorn bush. Also age 2.

I remember at 3 I hopped down the front steps on my hoppity horse and landed on my head. I did a lot of landing on my head as a kid. Imagine that.

I told my mother today that one of my strongest memories is of hearing about midnight snacks all of the time, and how I said I would never get to have a midnight snack. So one night at midnight my mother woke me up and led me to the kitchen where a peanut butter sammich was waiting for me. Have I ever mentioned how awesome my mom really is?

There was a radio in my room above my bed. And they had it set to a local AM station. And every night at 10pm they would play "Honey." Do you remember that song? Manipulative piece of bullshit it was, but I sobbed every night when it came on. I dreaded 10pm. I would watch the clock and tense up and then "Honey" would start. And I'd bury my face in my pillow and cry my eyes out. I hate that song.

One day while I was not at home
While she was there and all alone
The angels came
Now all I have is memories of Honey
And I wake up nights and call her name
Now my life's an empty stage
Where Honey lived and Honey played
And love grew up
And a small cloud passes overhead
And cries down on the flower bed
That Honey loved

Seriously. What the hell?

My mother used to cut out shapes from construction paper and glue them onto a larger piece of paper for me into little scenes. She did a Christmas scene one time complete with fireplace, stockings, teeny candles on the mantel, and a small orange cat in front of the hearth. I loved those.

When I was 3 years old one of the bigger kids across the street put a tack in the front tire of my tricycle, and I cried and cried. It was a solid wheel. It didn't matter. He abused my property. That stuck with me my whole life. I have never harmed anyone else's property because I remembered how that felt.

I remember when our cat Butch bit me and I ran crying to my mom. "Butch bit me!!" "Oh yeah? What were you doing to him?" Ah. Yes.

I remember VERY vividly being at a 4th of July party at my aunt's house, and I ran to my Uncle Joe and gave him a big hug. Then I looked up and it wasn't Uncle Joe. I think it was one of his brothers who I didn't know. I burst into tears and ran off and hid.

The first fish I caught, at age 3 in the crick in my aunt's backyard, was a pregnant catfish who proceeded to give birth while I had her on the hook. Talk about freakouts. Gross, man.

I wonder what my kids will remember.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's post, titled "Dumb Shit I Did."

Feck

2009-08-15T22:52:00.003-04:00

Apparently instead of discovering colossal typos on NPR's website such as this one tonight:

Webb met with Myanmar's reclusive Senior Gen. Than Shwe in Myanmar's jungle capital of Naypyitaw and came away from that meeting with Yettaw's release. It was the first time the reclusive general had met with a senior U.S. official, according to The Associated Press.

The senator is expected to take Myanmar to Bangkok on Sunday.

And getting peeved about it because this is a NEWS website for crying out loud and there's no way in hell I can get a job proofing for the idiots who enter the text into these websites (huff puff puff)...

(Seriously. I see this crap on WRAL's website all the time too)

Rich thinks I need to just STFU and start writing.

Where the hell would I even start?

I have nothing to write about.

Nothing.

What am I good at? Catching retarded mistakes in articles.

What am I bad at? Ideas.

What pisses me off? That the dope who types up the stories for the reporter will insert some words twice, neglect some completely, or even, on occasion, repeat entire PARAGRAPHS makes more money than I ever did in a year.

I have no idea where I'd even begin.

Friends

2009-08-11T14:05:00.003-04:00

Golly. Where do I start?

Last week I said to Rich on the deck, "Why do I have so few friends? I just can't relate to most people and feel uncomfortable."

And he said, "Because people suck."

And yeah, my entire adult life I've operated with the mantra that people do suck. Individuals surprise me all the time. But in general I'm socially retarded. I've never been comfortable meeting new people or going to parties with a large attendance. I always feel like I'm faking it. And I know people can tell.

I have very few close friends who know a great deal about me. And I'm not comfortable with superficial friendships. I never have been. I'm almost at 120 on my Facebook friends list, and I think I can count on one hand how many people on there I would call if my shit hit the fan. I'm sure more than that would be happy to help, but I'm not comfortable letting too many people into my business.

I've only had one long-term relationship with a guy who wasn't anti-social too. And I married him. We got divorced.

It's been tough having a toddler and not being comfortable in the company of others. Most of the moms I've met I haven't been able to relate to at all. I don't know if it's a lack of shared life experiences or what. I recently found two moms who can get me. One was Livvie's developmental therapist. The other is the office manager at her preschool. I'd say both of them are as screwy as I am. In the best way possible of course. And both of them are blunt, no bullshit women who I would describe as broads.

Maybe that's the issue. There's a decided lack of broads these days.

There's something decidedly refreshing about tossing a Starlight mint to a chick so she can go pick up her kid from preschool without reeking of the beer she just slammed with you in your kitchen. Or knowing that I can casually drop the F or C words in front of them and not risk horror. It's hard to find that in a person.

I remember back in 1999 I interviewed a broad for a job at Borders, and during our lengthy conversation I realized I had found The One. No pressure, Xris. When I was talking to her I sensed deep down that A.) we'd get along fabulously, and B.) she was No Bullshit. I was tired of bullshit.

As of this month I will have called her my friend for 10 years. This is the longest friendship I have ever had. There has been no drama. If I act like an ass she calls me an ass. I do the same.

Maybe if there were more chicks like this I'd have more friends.

Mawwaige

2009-08-09T10:41:00.002-04:00

If I weren't already married I would never do it again.

I was adamant about having a small "wedding." The wedding was not nearly as important to me as marriage itself is. I had been screwed royally by my ex, and if I was going to do this again I wanted it to last. I even distinctly remember when Rich and I started seeing each other that I said I had no interest in ever marrying again and he agreed. Apparently though, according to his mother, shortly after we began seeing each other he told her he wanted to marry me. Everybody say, "Awwwww."

Right now it seems like I'm getting bombarded with failing marriages.

There are multiple reasons these marriages are failing, but I would say that the deep down reason is lack of proper love. I remember when I asked the ex for a divorce he said, "Don't you love me anymore?" and I said, "That isn't enough." And I did love him on some level, but not in the right way. I know that in a marriage there are times when you're "in love," and times when you are not. But at its heart, the love you have for your spouse should surpass the type of love you have for your friends. And mine did not.

Rich and I have had our share of issues, almost from the very beginning. It didn't help that he married a crazy-woman. In the beginning he thought my lunacy was endearing I think. But it gets old rather fast. And I managed to marry a man who will flat out tell me when I'm being a complete moron. And it happens often. One has a tendency to try things that have worked in the past, and I've tried my special brand of bullshit on him on more than one occasion. He doesn't let me. He's blunt and to the point, and while I get absolutely furious at being called ridiculous and accused of not making sense, after I storm off to cry I realize he was right.

We have never not hugged and kissed after a fight.

I'm not saying we haven't gone to bed mad. Because we have. But even when that happens we make sure to kiss goodnight. And THEN turn our backs on each other until the morning when everything looks different, the anger has passed, and half asleep one of us will reach out and put a hand on the other.

We also never call each other names angry. We call each other plenty of names in jest. But except for once, very recently, I have never insulted him in anger. This matters.

I consider us very lucky these days. We're still crazy about each other. It's been 5 years. Universe willing we will still be crazy about each other in 40 more. So I sit here and look at my husband, who is an amazing Daddy, the best provider he can be in this recession, and a fantastic life partner.

And I think I'll make him a lasagna.

Kaboom

2009-08-08T11:41:00.002-04:00

My mother is here.

She arrived Tuesday afternoon.

Bless her heart for attempting to help. Seriously. However.

I called Rich yesterday and informed him that we were filling the beer cooler and moving to a motel until Monday. Unfortunately we don't have the funds.

Last night at 3am when Jonas woke up to eat I had to deal with the dulcet tones of Fran Drescher blaring from the living room.

If (when) my hearing starts to go I will be marching my ass out to get a hearing aid post haste. I refuse to put anyone through this.

Jonas gets upset and starts fussing and Mom refuses to take any of my advice on how to calm him. So she keeps trying different things that don't work. Including jiggling him on her knee right after he eats. Which ends in barfing.

She keeps pestering Livvie to completely finish her meals. As long as Livvie at least tries everything on her plate I'm ok with her not eating all of it. I do not require a clean plate for her to leave the table.

She gets on my case because I had a second glass of wine.

I didn't tell her it was my third.

Well folks

2009-08-07T10:35:00.002-04:00

I'm going to be taking this blog private soon.

If you would like to remain a reader, please email me at marinavert@gmail.com.

I think Safari fixed the problem where it kept crashing my browser.

When I get your email address I will add you as a reader.

Thanks to all. :)

Burned

2009-07-29T20:15:00.003-04:00

From Wikipedia:

Faith is the confident belief or trust in the truth or trustworthiness of a person, idea, or thing.[1][2] For example, the word "faith" can refer to a religion itself or to religion in general. As with "trust", faith involves a concept of future events or outcomes, and is used conversely for a belief "not resting on logical proof or material evidence."[3][4] Informal usage of the word "faith" can be quite broad, and may be used in place of "trust" or "belief."

A couple of weeks ago my 3 year old daughter had inflammation "down there." When she was 5-6 months old she had a UTI that got up into her kidneys and gave her a fairly high fever. Antibiotics kicked it out, and she had no more. So I was understandably worried. I called her doctor and they said to "pack it with cornstarch" because it was most likely diaper rash. So I listened.

And things got worse. And then she was crying when she peed and telling me that it hurt while bending at the waist and turning red. So we ended up in an Urgent Care on Saturday morning. I'll let the email I sent to the CEO, the Director of Medical Operations, and the Director of Medical Operations- North Carolina, speak for itself.

Dear Sirs-

My three year old daughter, Olivia XXXX, had been presenting with
symptoms of either vaginitis or a UTI for over a week. Her primary
care physician instructed me over the phone to treat her for diaper
rash when the symptoms first developed. Nothing improved, and by
yesterday, 7/25/2009, she was complaining that urinating was painful
and was crying when it occurred. She is not potty trained yet, as
we're currently in the process.

We arrived at the XXXXX location at 1:04pm. I went through
the process of registering her as a new patient. We waited to be
seen, and a nurse collected us at 2:02pm. She led us to an
examination room and got my daughter's temperature, and then asked me
to describe her symptoms. I informed her that my daughter's inner
labia had been red and irritated for over a week, let her know about
the doctor's diaper rash instructions, and then informed her that
over the course of the week her symptoms had been getting more severe
to the point of painful urination. I informed her that at about 5 or
6 months of age my daughter had developed a kidney infection with a
fairly high fever and I was worried that this would progress. She
jotted things down and then told me the doctor would be in shortly.

In about an hour Dr H walked in and asked me a few questions.
He then informed me that since my daughter isn't potty trained and
can't leave a sample in a cup there was no way for them to treat her.
He informed me that I could go to Quest or LabCorp and get a bag from
them, take it home, collect a sample, and then return the bag to the
lab. I asked him when the lab was open, and he informed me that they
were open until 3pm. Then he realized that it was after 3pm, so he
left to get their information for me. He spoke with us for less than
3 minutes, and he never performed a physical exam.

He returned a few minutes later with a slip of paper with
instructions for the lab. Then he left again. He was with us for less
than a minute.

Another nurse arrived a few moments later with a slip of paper
containing the phone numbers for both labs so I could find a location
and get their hours.

We were then directed to leave. It was 3:23pm.

Today I took my daughter to a children's urgent care facility here in
Raleigh, and upon collecting a sample from her they discovered that
her urine is full of leukocytes and contains blood. They're having
the sample cultured.

At issue is the fact that Dr. H neglected to even perform a
physical exam. Another issue is that if we had been alerted earlier
in our visit that the office couldn't make accommodations to collect
a sample from a toddler we could have gone to a lab prior to their
closing time. The concern is that if she does in fact have a bladder
infection the longer she goes without antibiotics the more likely it
is to get into her kidneys again.

I will be contacting my insurance carrier to alert them of this
situation. If they decline to cover Dr. H's charges and the
bill is submitted to us, we will be declining to pay it as well.

I received an email Sunday night from the NC Director saying he would address the matter promptly, but have received nothing since.

Last week I was on the phone with the nurse in my mother's school discussing an entirely different matter involving Jonas when she inquired about his diet. I told her since he appeared to be lactose intolerant he was on "sensitive" lactose-free formula. She told me it was impossible for babies to be lactose intolerant and that he must have a milk protein allergy. She told me to switch him to soy. I told her that anytime we had given him soy he had vomited giant amounts. She made a noise. When I told her he was also getting rice cereal in his bottles to help with his reflux she said, "Did your pediatrician tell you to do that? It can lead to obesity." I told her that the doctor had indeed suggested we thicken his feedings and that it seemed to help. I heard another noise.

So today I tried to give him some soy. I honestly should have backed off when he pushed the bottle out of his mouth. But I offered it again. Over the course of an hour he took 3 oz. And then he fell asleep and I put him in his swing. An hour later he projectile vomited all over himself. So I thought, fine. I was right. I got him out of the swing and laid him down to get him out of his pajamas. He barfed again while on his back. He choked on it and turned purple. No air was getting in or out, and I threw him over my arm and beat him on the back until he started coughing and tossed up the rest of the fluid.

And then I sat on the sofa and cried. Because I knew better, but I didn't trust my gut, for the second time in as many weeks, and I almost killed my son.

Faith? I have to learn to have it in myself.

The End

2009-06-26T08:57:00.002-04:00

I saw the Victory tour in a stadium in Philadelphia that no longer exists.

When I was a teenager at the end of our dance recital all of the dancers from the different pieces of the program assembled on stage and we all did Thriller. We rocked it. My best friend and I were wearing felt poodle skirts and we still rocked it.

I own the Thriller album on nothing but vinyl. It never seemed right to replace it. After that album the full on trainwreck began, and it seemed like holding on to the good times.

We'll never know what went on between him and those kids. Not for sure. My gut feeling was always that parents were taking advantage of a fucked up man who was making very poor choices. My feelings for him have alternated between revulsion and pity for many many years. No matter what, though, he rocked. He was The Bomb. Pure and simple. No one can touch him.

Last night my boy wouldn't go to sleep and I spent hours with CNN on because I couldn't change the channel. Turns out that Billie Jean will calm a screaming baby fairly well.

On our local 6pm news they reported that he had collapsed. I said to Rich, "He's number 3." Katie Couric then opened the news with the announcement. I cried.

At least his psychic pain is over.

Exhaustion

2009-06-19T21:53:00.000-04:00

Jonas woke up for good around 9am after having been merely dozing all night and eating essentially 3 or 4 sips every 10 minutes. Today he took a 32 minute nap, a 13 minute nap, and a 25 minute nap. Otherwise he screamed. All day. ALL DAY.

He screamed because he couldn't bear to eat more than a few sips at a time because it hurt him. So he was starving. And tired.

He's been barfing again. 3-4 times a day we've been getting some heinous barfs. Otherwise he's gagging and choking independent of eating. He can't sleep on his back longer than 5 minutes without waking up screaming. Last night overnight he was making the cat pre-barf noises but nothing happened. His sinus congestion is out of control. Overnights he's having breathing issues. So he's been sleeping on me.

The doctor called me at 5 today and we got our first dose of Zantac into Jonas at 6pm. She hustled getting the pharmacy to fill the scrip.

Zantac. All the cool kids are doing it.

Neither Rich nor I have showered or brushed our teeth yet today. We've been trading off one kid for the other all day. Livvie was especially needy today, naturally, so other than intensive childcare today was a total bust.

At 820 I changed Jonas's diaper and put pajamas on him and then got him almost to sleep. I swaddled him. He fell asleep at 829. Against all rules he is sleeping on his Boppy in order to be elevated a bit. He's been making noises for the past 5 minutes now, on and off. Regardless, this is the most sleep he's had all day. I don't know if it's the Zantac or what. I don't care at this point.

The past week has been such a frigging nightmare that I'm smoking again. Rock on. Way to fail, Jules.

Pictures

2009-06-14T07:23:00.006-04:00

Adventures in Raleigh

2009-06-09T13:19:00.003-04:00

This morning I had to go downtown to get copies of Livvie's birth certificate so she can attend Wake County preschool this fall. I printed directions to the Vital Records office and headed into Raleigh.

So when I found the place I knew exactly where it was. Used to be a diner there but now there's a motel and a Quiznos. It's on the way back out of town, and I used to see it every day on my way home from work and never knew what the building was.

There's 30 minute parking on the side of the building, and we go in with the hoss of a double stroller, and the dude tells me to sign in. I see on the paper that it's $30 per cert. I said, "I thought the cost was $15?" he said, "It's $30 if you want it today." I said oh ok, I thought they meant that it was $30 + $15 extra. so he says, "what county?" I said Wake. He said, "Go down to the Register of Deeds. It's $10, and they give it to you right there." Woohoo. So he gives me printed out directions and explains how to get there.

I follow the directions, and I parallel park on the first try one inch from the curb in that Escape. We get to the sidewalk, and I look at the map. A guy comes up and says, "Need directions?" I told him I needed to go to the Bank of America building. He says he's going there too so follow him. So I do. We get there, and there's a HUGE staircase and an escalator. No ramp. Fuck. So he says there's a side entrance, and we go around that way. HUGE hill that I have to push 2 kids up. Get to the top. More steps. He's like, "Whatever." and grabs one end of the stroller, and I grab the other end, and we carry it up. I thank him, and he goes off to help another damsel, I'm sure.

So I go to the 3rd floor and walk into the office, and there's no one else there. Yay me. The dude tells me what he needs from me, and I hand him the letter from Wake County Public Schools. It gets me a free one! So I've paid $10 for 2 certificates instead of $60 at this point.

On my way out I notice a small elevator that says "garage" over it. BRILLIANT. I use it and go to street level parking. There's an exit that I need, but it has caution tape. I ask the guard if I can use it and he says no, go use the other one. So we cross the garage and come out on another street. I have no idea where I am. I take a guess and turn right and start walking. Then I start recognizing stuff, and lo and behold there's my car. Woohoo.

I get us in and I think to myself, ok, I need McDowell. How would one get there? So I go to the next street and turn right, and then I mosey along and make another turn, and then up aways there's McDowell! I did it! All by myself!

Whew.

My thighs, calves, and biceps hurt from that hill, but otherwise rock on man.

Hey Nina

2009-06-08T13:47:00.000-04:00

Julie's Dewey Decimal Section:

107 Education, research & related topics

Julie = 01295 = 012+95 = 107

Class:
100 Philosophy & Psychology

Contains:
Books on metaphysics, logic, ethics and philosophy.

What it says about you:
You're a careful thinker, but your life can be complicated and hard for others to understand at times. You try to explain things and strive to express yourself.

Find your Dewey Decimal Section at Spacefem.com

Dear Fucktard-

2009-05-26T04:48:00.002-04:00

You of the "Unknown Name/Unknown Number" pussification...

It was 430am, asshat. Let's leave aside the fact that I have a newborn and sleep is a precious commodity. Let's ignore the fact that I was finally back to sleep after the 230 feeding and woke up my son when I had to leap up and check the display on the phone, which was all the way across the room.

And I did have to check it.

My mom is 78 and lives over 400 miles away. When the phone rings in the middle of the night I can't help but panic.

The Boy is now still awake. As am I. So thanks again, moron. I swear to dog if your number had come up I would make sure to set an alarm to call you at 430am sometime over the weekend.

Ass.

He's Here

2009-05-12T14:35:00.006-04:00

Jonas was born at 11:41 am via emergency c-section because of a prolapsed cord. Mama and baby are doing fine. He is 6 pounds 12 ounces and 21 inches long. Send them your good wishes. Welcome to the world little man!

No Baby Yet

2009-05-08T20:55:00.002-04:00

I was "scheduled" to be induced on Wednesday. Turns out they set it up like triage, in that those who have more urgent needs get priority, and my painful legs and limited mobility are not life threatening so I've been neglected.

Apparently Rex hospital schedules on average 6 inductions per day, 6 C-Sections per day, and then they have the pesky women coming in who go into labor all by themselves.

So right now we're in a holding pattern. They don't induce on weekends, so since I have yet to receive a call if I don't go into labor on my own this weekend we're looking at next week now.

My due date is Tuesday.

In the meantime I have been given permission to keep taking my Vicodin for the pain. I'm not all that happy about it, but whatever. There's nothing I can do.

My bag is packed. I keep getting everything "done" so I can leave the house without wigging about stuff being left for Rich and my mom. The laundry is once again complete, the dishes are all done, the house is vacuumed, etc etc etc...

The only thing that I'm even remotely happy about in this is that I've been given extra one on one time with Livvie. I will never again have that luxury.

Swine Flu, Shmine Flu...

2009-05-03T14:05:00.002-04:00

Facial secretions are gross.

We were all at the grocery store today, and we were in the ethnic food/seasonings aisle and one of the store employees came walking up the aisle. He was sneezing. Repeatedly. Could be allergies. Could be cooties. I'm having a baby on Wednesday, and we had a toddler in the cart, so we decided not to take any chances and we went to the next aisle.

While we were in that aisle the employee walked past and we got an eyeful of him wiping his nose with his bare hands and then wiping his hands on his clothing.

In a grocery store.

Then, with horror, we realized he was approaching the check out lane where we usually go. He was the bagger. Which meant he would be handling the purchases. With relief we noticed another lane open, and we continued into the produce area.

As we approached produce we spied another employee and a manager having a conversation. While they were speaking the employee was biting his nails. We couldn't tell if he was spitting them out or swallowing them. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes, and then were stunned when they walked over to where the greens are displayed and he started HANDLING THE PRODUCE. With spit hands. And the manager said nothing.

I bought a bag of apples and 2 bags of potatoes. Today, if it didn't come in a bag it wasn't getting purchased.

And yes, God only knows what happened with the folks who actually PUT the produce into the bags, but that's why I scrub my food with soap and water before I use it.

Cooties man. They're everywhere.

Not Quite Godzilla...

2009-04-26T11:10:00.006-04:00

But this morning I happened to look up at the kitchen window in time to see the tops of several bamboos marching past the house. So I grabbed my camera and ran out the door to come upon this:

What he said: "This is hard."

You have to admit his method for moving them is pretty smart.

And yes, he's the only intelligent person I have ever met who is deliberately planting bamboo near the house. He's digging it out of the woods next to our driveway. However, we live next door (on the other side) to the county's ugliest single wide trailer that has entire sections of siding missing, and over the years more and more junk and trash has collected in their yard and in front of their house than can be a good idea. It drives Rich bugshit because he works so hard to keep our yard and property nice. So one day last summer it occurred to him that bamboo spreads fairly rapidly and will soon choke an area completely. And there was a free supply of mature trees in the woods that just required digging. So there you have it.

Just cross your fingers that he doesn't give himself a stroke doing this in this heat today.

Merit Badges

2009-04-24T10:18:00.006-04:00

<------- Varicose Vein- Grown July, 2006

For some reason none of this is really bothering me. At least not in an esthetic sort of way. The varicose vein freaked me out at first because of the threat of blood clots and poor circulation etc... But I realized that being a pack a day smoker actually put me at more risk for those anyway, so STFU, you know?

Anyway, when I was in my youth I was famous for my legs. To toot my own horn, I was rocking some serious gams. Know what though? The cause of that giant ripple of blue on my leg was just holding my palm to her face saying, "I love you more." So fuck it. It's a leg.

When I was very pregnant with Livvie, my doctor was measuring my belly and he said to me, "You don't have any stretch marks." That's the big secret that the cosmetic industry doesn't want you to know. You either get them, or you don't. I didn't apply any cocoa butter. I did nothing. I got no scarring. That's not to say I hadn't acquired any in my life. I grew so fast as a child that my thighs are covered with strands of scars encircling them like the rings of a tree. You don't see them in the winter, but when my legs tan in the summer, boom, there they are. When I was 25 I finally "filled out," and my hips spread. Ta da. Have some giant scars on your hips to mark that rite of passage as well.

The other night I got out of the shower and was toweling off. I glanced up at the mirror and noticed a splash of purple on the underside of my belly. Granted, it wasn't a very large splash, but it was there. I used my fingers to pull the skin up, and there they were:

I had a brief moment of shock. Then I started grinning. I ran to Rich and said, "Look look!" and showed them to him. He thought I was silly, but he humored me anyway.

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's almost like acquiring a new tattoo to mark a specific event in your life. For the rest of my life when I look down and happen to catch a glance at these marks I'll be reminded of carrying these children. It's incredibly cool to me that each put their own stamp on the process so there will be no confusion.

Wish me luck in the coming days. Jonas is almost here. I'll be sure to toss some pics up for you.

gigglesnort

2009-04-19T14:50:00.003-04:00

<--------- NmG

We were behind one of these on the way to the grocery store this afternoon.

It was purple.

It looked like it was held together with rivets.

The turn signals worked.

When it made a right turn we waited for it to tip over, but it remained upright.

It pulled into the parking lot at Home Depot. I assume they were buying one screw. Or something. It has no trunk.

It was seriously one of the cutest things I have ever seen.

Here's some info on it from Myers Motors:

Myers Motors has just delivered the nation’s first all-electric (110 volt outlet charging), highway speed (76 mph), lithium battery powered, sub-$30,000 vehicle. This new battery system, electronically managed by a system developed in conjunction with Akron University for MM’s prospective entry into the Progressive Insurance Automotive X PRIZE, is the next step towards realizing the dream of electric vehicles: inexpensive travel that avoids the geo-political and environmental ravages inherent in America’s total dependence upon oil for its transportation needs.

If I had $30k lying around I would totally get one for Rich to drive to work.

LMFAO

2009-04-18T18:12:00.003-04:00

I was raised to believe that the American League is evil and the Yankees specifically are Satan's team.

So pardon my hilarity over this. THIS is fucking beeyootiful. I think this might be one of the best things I've ever seen.

If you can see that, it says that in the 2nd inning the Indians (The Indians!!!!) scored 14 runs.

Oh Happy Day.

I wish I were physically capable of skipping right now.

The End of Another Era

2009-04-13T16:11:00.002-04:00

Harry Kalas was the voice of the Phillies since the year I was born, 1971.

When I moved down here to NC I literally could not watch Phillies games on TBS or ESPN because the broadcasters didn't sound right. Harry's voice was so distinctive and wonderful, and he'd get so freaking excited. He was adored.

He had a heart attack today in one of the broadcast booths at the Washington Nationals' ball park. He died. He was 73.

I would really, really like to see how the team handles this tonight during their game. But since the game won't be broadcast, I guess I'll do some Googling tomorrow.

Safe Journey, Harry.

Happy Easter

2009-04-12T21:12:00.009-04:00

Navy SEALS took out the pirates and freed the captain and it's a glorious day.

Here's some of my joy from today. I hope you all had some as well.

Easter Basket

Easter Outfit

The house in bloom

Watering the baby Cypress

One of the azalea stands

The Kid and her Dog

Today was my favorite Easter ever. If they could all be like today I might actually start enjoying it as a holiday. I have 4.5 weeks left of being pregnant if this takes the requisite 40 weeks. I am trying to pack as much Livvie time as I can into my world since fairly soon we will no longer have each other to ourselves. I'm a bit bummed about that. I guess we'll see what happens though.

My mood has improved greatly. Thanks everyone for caring. I'll try to be better at keeping you all updated on things.

Have a peaceful one.

List

2009-03-13T11:21:00.003-04:00

Ever just want to walk outside and scream, "Leave me the fuck alone?"

Yeah, that's where I am.

I was on my daily morning phone call with my mother this morning, and she was irritating the fuck out of me to the point where I literally said, "You know, I'm in a really bad mood, and I don't feel like talking right now. I'm gonna go." and I hung up.

Of course, I've been awake since before 3 this morning. So that MIGHT have something to do with things, but it's been coming on for a few days now.

I am sick of being pregnant. I'm tired of the physical problems it's causing. I'm tired of feeling like an invalid.

I'm tired of laundry. ALWAYS fucking laundry. It never ends. Ever.

I'm tired of bending over backwards to try to find food my kid will eat and having her either try it once and snub it or snub it entirely. I wasn't like that. Ever. So I can't relate.

I'm tired of being broke.

I'm tired of people not listening to me fully and reacting based on what they think I said / am going to say.

I'm just fucking tired.

Good things: Livvie can now read the words CAT and DOG. I have to find some more 3 letter words to teach her that she might find interesting.

Her "preschool" classes start next Wednesday.

Rich still has a job for now.

That's about it.

Now what

2009-02-28T21:19:00.002-05:00

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harp-string, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning?
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

It's over. I started to become depressed. I went back on Lamictal 4 days ago.

Now I'm manic.

So the box of Lamictal is in the closet now, and I have no way to combat this.

I said very ugly things to Rich tonight.

This afternoon our kid yelled at us because we were raising our voices at each other. Awesome.

I'm lost.