Lunches With Wolves

Weddings I Would Pay to Attend

2011-02-24T05:49:00.000-08:00

Here's an excerpt from the "Celebrations" page in Sunday's edition of the Green Acres News & Astonisher. The accompanying photo was unfortunately an engagement portrait, not from the wedding itself, so no need for the link.

"The Bride wore a two-piece string bikini
that was white with yellow and red flowers,
and a white peasant skirt with crochet trim."

It really is just too easy, but I can't help myself.

1. In her defense, it was a TWO piece.
2. Vera Wang?
3. I wore 13 yards (approx. 30 pounds) of satin bouffant skirt, in May, in 98degree/ 99% humidity Carolina spring sunshine. She is waaaay smarter than me.
4. It's a toss-up whether my MIL would have shot me or herself. Maybe she would have shot The Him as well, for good measure.
5. I am experiencing morbid curiosity about the groom's attire. It's high time that was included in these announcements.
6. Give me a minute.

Okay. Let's continue.
7. Tuxedo Speedo?
8. I'm going to trademark that.
9. I am experiencing morbid curiosity about the minister's attire.
10. And that of the wedding party. Were the bridesmaids swimsuits really awful? Was gold lame involved? I want the group photo.

More fun facts, in the "of course" category:
The bride has a bachelor's degree in psychology and is studying for her master's.
She and the groom are co-owners of a tattoo studio. [Judging by her ink, I'm guessing he's the artist.]
The photographer's name is Buffy.
The reception was held at a restaurant called Bovine's.
*******

I leave you with an image of Queen Victoria in her wedding bikini.

Are you checking out my ass? You are. If not, I'll have you executed.

Thank you, God.

2011-02-23T08:11:00.000-08:00

Microexpression: YEEEEHHAAAWW!

Two hours after that last pityfest I posted, they called. I got the job.

Dear God: it's a really bad precedent to reward that kind of whining. I'm sure my mother has mentioned this. But thank you, thank you, thank you.

Some days you're the shoe, and some days you're the gum.

2011-02-22T06:40:00.000-08:00

That's what you're wearing?
Seriously? We need to talk.

Friday was a bad day. I entered the nadir zone of the 'flu on the same day that I was supposed to hear the verdict on a job I interviewed for in December that I really, really want. I recommend avoiding this conjunction of events if it ever comes up on your radar. Bad, bad juju.

I say "supposed to hear" because I didn't. Interviewing is like dating, isn't it? The nervous sweat; the inner monologue about body language, manners, grammar, coordination (I am prone to dropping things, knocking things over, or tripping. Never accept coffee or spaghetti sauce. Avoid stairs); the flashes of paranoia about hygiene issues. So you wait by the phone, willing it to ring, and it does, and it's your dentist reminding you of your appointment next week.

At one point my husband said, "honey...they're just not that into you."

Add fever, muscle aches, coughing, watery eyes, sniffling-sneezing-so-you-can't rest etc, and Friday was a Pity ParTAY. I demanded lavish and audible pity from everyone within reach. I may have called some friends just to insist they pity me. By 5 p.m. I was about as much fun as a wounded feral pit bull. I could hear my husband and daughter quietly conferring on a strategy to lure me into the back yard and trap me in the crawl space to await the Animal Control truck.

I know it's not just crazy people who endure the litany of despair and self-loathing prompted by the interview process, but being a pity junkie I insist that it's worse for Us (me). We (I) am special, and need more understanding and reassurance than others, DESERVE more, it's my RIGHT to expect it and your responsibility to provide it...

Aren't you glad you don't live with me? That I can only torture you in print?

Sunday night the fever finally broke. I realized this after the fact when I noticed I was wearing several layers including fleece pjs and had cranked my electric blanket up to 10 because I couldn't get warm with 2 regular blankets even though the ambient temperature was above 60. So, Monday dawned bright with promise. Freed from bodily misery I had nothing to distract me from wracking my nerves about the job. And I had a little epiphany about the upside of mental illness:

Since my perceptions about myself, other people, and the world in general are so unreliable, when I think it all sucks, chances are I'm wrong.

Le Chaim, y'all.

[Possibly contributing to the bleak mood was my involvement in a local production of The Diary of Anne Frank. Which may have been a bad decision given my vivid imagination, compulsion for historical research, proclivity toward nightmares and sleep disorders, and the fact that I have a 13 year old daughter. Dope slap me upside the head.]

[Furthering Friday's self-loathing was the moment about 11 p.m. when I realized it was Athena's birthday and I had not called or nothin.]

They're Coming For Me...

2010-11-04T06:56:00.000-07:00

This morning, I woke to the alarm, turned it off, turned on my bedside lamp, and was greeted by this sight.

[It's deliberately blurry. My vision uncorrected is 20/600]

WHOA!
Whuh...Whuh...

Eyeball?
Hairy....?

????????

With my glasses on, the image resolved to this...

Oh. Okay.

************

Life Lesson: Clean up your clutter before it starts spontaneously generating new life forms.

Department of OMG

2010-09-28T09:19:00.000-07:00

I think the guy taking notes is one of the Afghanis

A group of Afghani officials are touring South Carolina prisons this week. The visit was arranged "so Afghan officials can see how the state maintains a modern prison system while spending less per inmate than nearly every other state in the country."

"We're going to learn some more, have some more experiences from here, and then we're going to implement it in Afghanistan and use it in our system," Lt. Gen. Amir Muhammed Jamsheed, director of Afghanistan's prison system, said Monday through an interpreter. "South Carolina is an American prison system, but...it's probably somehow similar to the Afghanistan prison system."

******
Things that almost happened to me when I heard this on the radio:

Aneurysm
Grand Mal seizure
Other types of brain explosions
Ruptured aorta
Collapsed lung (s)
Traffic accident
Incontinence

*******
The brain explosions were caused, understandably, by all of the obvious jokes rushing the exits in gleeful abandon.

Two unexpected thoughts:
1. I'm kind of.......proud.
2. The Afghan officials don't seem to be in any danger. (That's progress.)

OCD Friday - Wait, Monday. Is today Monday?

2010-09-20T08:32:00.000-07:00

Today's OCD Kodak moment:

My friend Jen gave me 2 lazy Susans. FREE. Marred only by ugly industrial-looking label/stickers around the sides. But FREE.

Three weeks later, (or so) still sitting on my counter, taking up space rather than maximizing it.

37 minutes, one razor blade, half a roll of clear packing tape, slightly bloody fingers later, shelf-ready.

* * * * *

In related news, when Tigrrl went back to school this fall, excuse me SUMMER, as in August 16 this state is insane, I was ready to tackle the housework. NOW I will be able to keep ahead of the curve. Or the tsunami. All those chores beyond the bare minimum that I tend to put off are now going to get done regularly. Efficiently. Without franticness on rare occasions (major holidays). Things will be KEPT NICE. Not real estate open house Nice, but regular nice.

Someone might, say, drop by for coffee -- because I will now cultivate the kind of friendships wherein this is a possibility -- and I will pour them some in a cup that is already clean, and find the sugar bowl without having to clear the counter or the table with a sweeping motion onto the nearest chair, and then pile it all back on the counter so she can sit in the chair...

I think we understand each other.

On the day Tigrrrl went to school, I came home and mopped the kitchen floor. And the downstairs bathroom floor. And it felt good.

Note today's date. Apparently that rush of endorphines cured my sense of purpose.

Four and Twenty Blackbirds

2010-09-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

This recipe post was inspired by Rae over at Us In Tejas, so she can live in peace with her dove-hunting neighbors.

What I love about this recipe is the evidence that it was written at a time when the idea of standardized measurements was newfangled. That and the fact that I feel all Little-House-On-The-Prairie knowing I'm cooking something brought down by my own Man with a gun. I got it from my mother-in-law, and the recipe card she gave me notes that it came from Charleston Receipts (p. 141). I like that too -- I've never had a cited and footnoted recipe card before or since. I'm not kidding when I say that attribution of cooking authority is serious business around here.

MRS. H.C. MAZYCK'S PARTRIDGE PIE
[See -- again with the attribution]

12 partridges (dove, snipe, etc.)
1 bunch minced parsley
1 onion chopped fine
3 whole cloves
Salt & pepper to taste
1/2 lb. salt pork, diced
2T. browned flour
Butter size of an egg
1 pt. potatos, diced small
Rich pie crust

[my handwritten notes on the back of the card say: "Peggy says -can use up to 24 birds -a little bacon instead of salt pork - brown flour in a dry iron skillet." Another, later note: "COOK the potatos beforehand." ]

Split birds in half, put in saucepan with about 2 qts. of water.
[Note: birds have to be plucked, skinned, cleaned, and de-boned before you do this. I insist that the person who shot them do that part.]

When it boils, skim off all the scum, then add salt and pepper, parsley, onion, cloves, and salt pork. Let all boil until tender, using care that there be enough water to cover the birds.
Thicken with flour and let boil up. Stir in butter. Remove from fire [!] and let cool.

Line sides of a buttered pudding dish with the crust. [I think this means a pie plate -- deep dish works better. BTW I think "rich crust" means you make it with lots of lard. I don't know where to buy lard, and my historical geekiness does not extend to spending hours over the cauldron rendering pork and beef fat. So just use crisco, okay?]

Lay in birds, then some of the potatos, then birds and so on until the dish is full. Pour over the gravy. Put on the top crust with a split cut in the center and bake in hot oven 15-20 minutes.

Serves 12. [It's up to you to find 12 people who will eat dove.]

*************

I have a friend who has an antique wood stove that he actually cooks on (he and his wife own a fantastic B&B, and he is a mega-history geek, and the results are awesome) and I am determined to cook this recipe in his stove some time. Probably in my 18th century re-enactment garb. Actually my 1850s outfit would be more appropriate. I'm sensing that this doesn't interest you.

A regular oven works just fine, too.

The Name of This Post is Talking Dogs

2010-09-14T07:33:00.000-07:00

WHAT I WISH I HAD NAMED MY DOG, BECAUSE THAT NAME WOULD MAKE ME SEEM CLEVER(ER), AND "Brutus" IS KIND OF BORING, THOUGH NOT A BAD AS "Spot" OR "Rex":
(IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

1. BUCEPHALUS. Greek for "Big ol' Head." If you'd seen him, you'd understand.
2. HASENPFEFFER. And I would say it like the king in the Bugs Bunny cartoon, every single time.
3. HAIR OF... Get it? snork, snork. Okay, but I think it's funny, and he's my dog, so shut up.
4. MERGATROID.
5. AMBASSADOR.
6. *ERIC. "Are all your pets named Eric?" "Kamal Attaturk had an entire menagerie named Abdul."
6b. ABDUL. (this wasn't on my list when I started it, I just thought of it).
7. MEGAHERTZ.
8. COMA .
9. SIRIUS.
10. GUMP.

ALTERNATIVELY, THINGS I SHOULD HAVE NAMED MY DOG BECAUSE THEY'RE WHAT I ACTUALLY CALL HIM:
(IN DESCENDING ORDER OF FREQUENCY)

1. You.
2. SHUT UP!
3. &*$%^#@ (Usually swearing, but also a good approximation of apoplectic gargling sounds I make when I'm angry.)
4. No.
5. GET DOWN.
6. Dammit.
7. Sh##head
8. Dumba&&
9. Idjit
10. Brutappotamus.
11. Pig.
12. Lump (This is actually what my Dad calls him, but I started using it too.)

*"Eric" is a reference to the Cat License skit from Monty Python. We had a wonderful cat named Eric, for that very reason, yet we never could remember to name our other pets Eric.
**I just noticed that the last item on both lists rhyme. This is entirely coincidental.

Fabulous (Pity Party) Hat, Part II

2010-09-03T06:15:00.000-07:00

SPOILER ALERT: Downer ahead. Bleak.

Death by cancer sucks. That is such an inadequate word, but no synonym I can think of works any better to express the suck factor. A woman I know has been poleaxed by cancer, diagnosed just a couple of months ago and the damn stuff ate the chemotherapy for breakfast, it didn't even hiccup. Having gotten used to uplifting, movie-of-the-week candy-ass depictions of "living with cancer," I am (ludicrously) surprised and bewildered by the reality of cold, implacable and painful death.

So I pray for her every day, for undending blessed morphine, for enough ease of physical and mental pain that she can listen to the voices of family and friends and delight in their presence.

I am embarrassed by my need to say things that are morbidly humorous (to me), because I know that others don't necessarily find them funny. And most of them involve self-pity, which is so appallingly inappropriate, but be fair, I KNOW that, and it deflects some of the pain, and I hate it when people put on their Holy Angel Don't-Look-At-The-Cancer Face and Blessed Pathos Terminal Illness voice when speaking of (or to) the impending dead. Get angry, for God's sake, for their sake, I mean, there's this ghoul in the room -- I'd rather spit at it and make fun of it than tiptoe around it. It's awake, all right? Whispering and cringing won't make it step out of the room.

Ovarian Cancer

None of which I can say, because being mean to sad people won't make it leave, either.

Sorry. I'm not angry at you. You're just here, you know?

In this case the #1 item on my self-pity and recrimination list is that I don't know her very well. Our social orbits intersect at various places. She's intelligent and puckishly witty and kind, makes me feel warmer and a little less dark whenever the orbits coincide. We're going to be friends. I would enjoy trying to make her laugh, and she would lean in with that conspiratiorial tilt of her head and confide some wicked and charming bon mot and make me laugh. She has a gift for being kind that I lack.
Only, we never did that. I don't know if she wanted that, so it also pisses me off that I won't have the opportunity to be pissed off and chagrinned when she gracefully dodges my friendly overtures.
Or did she? Hmm.

What kind of idiot thinks the universe is going to go along with such procrastination?

So. More practice in losing a friend to cancer. I found a good hat after the last lesson, [yes, I'm pitying myself for having to go to another funeral, I already said I know it's inappropriate, so I have a free pass for the remainder of this post. Get off my back.] Maybe gloves this time. Or I could go with the goth black lace parasol like Abby's on NCIS, and draw cannon fire instead of small darts. I wish I knew what the guest of honor will be wearing, I don't want to clash.

Where do you buy black gloves?
******
[Lucy passed away Sunday morning, September 12, sleeping peacefully, with loved ones present.So many people will miss her.]

Nobody Makes a Cake as Tasty

2010-08-28T06:25:00.001-07:00

It's been a cake sort of week. Started with a big cake for a funeral luncheon, mid-week I was experimenting with red-velvet cake recipes for an upcoming event, and I wrapped it up with this morning's indulgence in a nostalgic snack cake, procured from a recently discovered source. (Tastycakes are a regional delicacy where I grew up but are not widely available outside of the Philadelphia area.)

The funeral cake was supposed to be a slam dunk but ended up "giving me fits," as my neighbors would say. Late last week a member of our church passed away; my Circle was at bat for the funeral luncheon on Sunday, so I spent Saturday making a large sheet cake as my contribution. Nothing I haven't made before, but as I had been asked this time, the pressure was on, and OF COURSE things did not go smoothly, requiring 11th hour -- literally, as in I finished frosting the repaired cake at 11:45 -- alterations.

Pride was on the line, as well as respect for the deceased. I was pleased as punch that I had been asked (ordinary Request, not a Special Request, see below for the distinction), and eager for the chance to improve my place in the rankings. The whole experience led me to pondering the intricacies Public Cooking as a competitive sport.

Public Cooking is nearly synonymous with Church Cooking, at least around here. There are very few secular events other than the occasional company picnic, office party, or PTA gathering, mostly in the Level 2 category of difficulty. The religious connection invests it with overtones of social service, of Mission, if you will; one reason why amateur status is a matter of pride. It is distinct from catering, which is a professional endeavor. Though it's not unheard of for a Public Cooking star to cross over, the true believers' reward is honor and glory, unstained by filthy lucre.

P.C. is also quite distinct from Competitive Barbecue, which is a loud testosterone-driven crowd-pleaser but the object of secret derision amongst Public Cooking competitors. "Entrees:Meat" is considered one of the least interesting categories, (although purists point out that it is rarely well-done, even by seasoned competitors) and making the physical act of cooking part of the presentation is well, vulgar.

So here it is, my Competitive Public Cooking Primer.

Level 1: Ordinary Potluck dinners. The openest of Open events. A mix of mere Entrants (obligation-driven or simple masochists) and actual Competitors. Mostly social, like a neighborhood 5k. A good way for beginners to get their feet wet-- work on their timing and presentation, tweak content, get some feedback from the judges. Alongside the storeboughts and instant-mix entries, scratch-cooking always shows to it's best advantage, which is a confidence-builder.

It's also the venue for ranked competitors to try out a new entry, or change course category (from, say, Side Dish:Vegetable to Entree:Meatless). Occasionally you get to witness a top seed signal intent for a run at dual-course standing.

On the social side, a good place for divorcees to troll for pity dates with deliberately pathetic cooking as bait.

*Some aficionados class kids birthday parties as Level 1, but I consider them semi-public at best. If your social circle is competitive and upwardly mobile, and has a significant one-upmanship component, then do class them as Level 1.

Dos and Don'ts for Level 1 Beginners:

1) DO make your first few offerings in anonymous serving dishes -- either disposable, or something like the ubiquitous pyrex 13x9. Deniability is important. Judges have long memories. Even pros use disposables if they're too tired to do their best and just want to fulfill the social obligation without working too hard.

2) DON'T debut with an exotic ethnic dish if you're new to the community, even if it's superb. Try it out at private venues, to gauge the community palate. If you garner a Request you can leapfrog to Level 2 events.

3.) DO cultivate Insiders and longstanding Judges as taste-testers. The feedback is valuable, and the flattery will bank some goodwill points. It might also generate some buzz if you're campaigning for a Special Request.[See Level 2:Special Potluck Dinner, below].

4.) DON'T debut with your version of a regional specialty, if you are an Outsider of any sort. It will be interpreted not as homage but as hubris of the worst kind. After a suitable length of time, you'll be able to finesse it as long as you attribute the recipe to a credible authority, like an old Junior League cookbook, or a distant relative who was an Insider. CAUTION: before you undertake such attribution be very sure about the credibility of your chosen authority. For instance, in many regions celebrity chefs have no credibility with Public Cooking consumer/judges.

5.) DO bank goodwill points. Always be gracious, flatter whenever possible, deflect credit to someone else somehow, and above all, ask for other Competitors' recipes, even if you secretly hate their entry or are allergic to the ingredients.

6.) DO consider underrepresented entries, such as Beverage or Bread. Recipes are easier, Judges are more lenient, and even storebought can win you praise.

Lastly, NEVER offer anything but glowing praise for any other entry. Even storeboughts. Even behind the entrant's back. Even to your most trusted friends, your therapist, or a cabdriver when vacationing on another continent. Every consumer is a potential Judge, and it WILL get back to them.

Once you've tried your wings, you're ready for

Level 2: Specialty Potluck

There are more secular events in this category than any other. As with Level 1, Specialty provides opportunities to rub elbows with stars, solicit advice, hone presentation etc. These events often draw greater attendance, so it's a chance to work out doubling or tripling your recipe. Specialties are the first opportunity to fulfill a Request, i.e. someone asks you to make your signature entry. If someone in charge asks you, then it's a Special Request, and automatically confers ranking. Subdivisions are:

2A Winter Holidays: It is possible (though still somewhat risky) to debut an exotic ethnic or regional dish here, in the ecumenical spirit of the season. Winter holidays are also excellent debut venues for Comfort Food entries, giving them polish in preparation for Condolence events. Some classify Easter as a Winter Holiday, but in the Southeast it's an event with a very narrowly defined menu, therefore public meals are reserved for Level 4 Competitors (see below) and Caterers.

2B Cocktail/Appetizer: affectionately known as "Finger Foods," this Specialty draws the risk-takers. Lots of room for creativity: judges will try anything if its bite-sized or fried, and are surprisingly open-minded. Some Competitors train exclusively for this event, but many view it as cross-training for their "big plate" entries. Receptions:Non-Wedding often appear in this category. CAUTION: In some regions there are "Heavy" and "Light" Appetizer divisions, so be sure to ask for clarification.

2C Picnics: Sometimes called "Summer Holidays." Very popular with family teams and doubles partners due to the BBQ connnection. If Barbecue were to be included in Public Cooking, it would be here; but in reality, a Picnic is a dual, or rather parallell, competition. Amusingly enough, BBQ competitors view Picnic PC as "side dishes," willfully ignoring the crowds continuously grazing the table and going back for third helpings of ambrosia salad. Picnics are not recommended for PC beginners because of food safety issues, unless you have trained extensively on the private/family level in this event.

*Tailgates are an up-and-coming subdivision of Picnics, but to my mind they are simply private/family venues conducted in public, like a kid's party held at a public park. Competitive, to be sure, but still a leisure activity and a training opportunity rather than a serious PC venue.
I consider lavish football tailgates and the droll champagne-and-caviar offerings of the steeplechase set theater, not Public Cooking.

Level 3: Hospitality Committee [Name varies regionally and denominationally]

Invitation only, for top seeds and rising ranks. Any event important enough to have an official command structure is an HC event. In some areas many Level 4 events are subsumed into this category, especially Funerals. Menu is usually dictated, so a Competitor is likely to be chosen based on past execution of the relevant entry. CAUTION: HC events are compulsories, not freestyles. There is no room for innovation: conformity with tradition and expectation is required. Often several Competitors will be asked to make the same dish, and they will confer to establish conformity of ingredients and presentation if these are not dictated by the organizers. Given such constraints, competition at this level is extremely subtle and technically challenging.

Condolence/Sympathy subdivision: these are small events that can fall into HC or Specialty. In private or semi-public events the level of competitiveness is subtle, and unsung. They often afford only the satisfaction of a Personal Best performance, and some points toward future Requests. Comfort Food dominates the entries.

Level 4: Life Passages

Christenings, Weddings, and Funerals. (a.k.a. Babies, Brides and Bones). There are some other special subdivisions, (e.g.Retirement Dinners, Sports Awards Banquets), but the Big 3 dominate. LP is the most idiosyncratic category. The competitiveness of any given event is dependent on so many variables that generalizations are difficult. Some are so small and relaxed that there is hardly any competitive merit, yet tensions can run so high at LP events that both Judges and Competitors become unpredictable, which makes this category very popular with spectators. So much so, in fact, that many families now opt for Caterers; as a result, the most demanding and prestigious division - Weddings - has almost died out as a PC event. CAUTION: beginners should not attempt a Level 4 event, no matter who asks. Even Caterers are cautious with LPs. It's popular with spectators because it's DANGEROUS. With so much emotional investment, the most minor mistakes are magnified, and things can get ugly very quickly.

Competitors, start your ovens; the dishtowel will drop in 5, 4, 3, 2......

Rebel Breakfast

2010-07-22T13:11:00.000-07:00

Around these parts people know how to do breakfast. Breakfast here makes me want to have been born Southern, it makes me so proud. Waffle House is a particulary good iteration of the category restaurant:diner:breakfast. I don't know if its a southern-based chain, but for the most part they have a Southern [perfect] understanding of what should be on a breakfast menu, and how it should be cooked.

1. They give you a sturdy, laminated menu that doubles as a placemat. I am all about multi-functional, and it's nice that they don't presume to tell me when I'm done with the menu. AND, the menu has some pictures of the food, so there's a standard of accountability, and you know up front what you're getting.

2. Coffee. (They even fill up my favorite pint cup.)

3. Carbohydrates with various combinations of sugar, salt, butter and cheese.

4. Eggs any style, with various combinations of salt, butter and cheese.

5. High-fat meat products. Note they have both kinda ham, there. [Country and City.]

On our most recent visit to breakfast heaven, however, I encountered an abomination. A fly in the proverbial grits. Because of their wonderfulness, I am not going to hold it against Waffle House. I am convinced that some marketing reptile dreamed it up and foisted it on franchise managers. To wit:

That is described as a sausage biscuit. (Modeled by The Him). Let me make this clear: THAT IS NOT A SAUSAGE BISCUIT. It may involve something like sausage, and something like a biscuit, but its just NOT RIGHT, at all.

Hillshire smoked sausage links. WRONG
Sausage links of any kind: WRONG
"Grilled" biscuit. WRONG . I don't even know what this means. How can you grill a biscuit? I don't even want to know.
Mayonnaise. SO WRONG.

This is a for-real sausage biscuit.

Note absence of mayonnaise.

Note the correct sausage.

Note lack of "grill" marks.

If your mama loves you, she may get fancy and make you a biscuit with sausage gravy, like this one here. In a pinch you could get away with calling that a sausage biscuit. Note there is no other condiment.
It's a little too glisteny, but this was the best I could find. Sausage gravy is a little bit of heaven, but it's not what you'd call photogenic. Gooogle it. Go on.

Marketing reptiles, you leave my breakfast alone.

Relationship Paradigm #327

2010-07-20T06:05:00.000-07:00

Did you know that Jimmy Cagney never actually said, "You dirty rat?" I didn't.

I was about 14 when I discovered, quite by chance, that it was possible to hook a boy's interest by liking the same music he does, and that common interests can backfire.

John Zimmerman and I were sitting in the hall outside the principal's office at the elementary school, which means either that we had come over there from the Jr. High in order to work on some project, like a drama performance, or that this took place much earlier than I first thought and I was actually 10. Entirely possible.

John was humming a tune which I recognized as "Today's Tom Sawyer" and I started singing the lyrics to his accompaniment. He looked up with awe and wonder in his eyes, and said, nearly breathless, "You like Rush?"

One millisecond prior to his question I did not feel any particular attachment to either that band or that boy. But at that moment, the epiphany of social possibility claimed me as surely as Paul's conversion on the Damascus Road.

I said, "Yeah!"

I think I sat up straighter, which was pure instinct but in the near future would become a deliberate tweak to my curb appeal [breasts].

Looking into his shining eyes I knew that I loved Rush more than any other band, and noticed that John was suddenly covered in a shimmery golden haze of delicious cuteness despite the fluorescent lighting.

I went home and listened to more Rush lyrics until I had them memorized. I probably made my brother tape Rush songs from the radio for this purpose.

(At present I can't recall the title or lyrics of any other Rush song.)

Sadly, our love lasted only about a week. I lamented this sad fact when I told my friend Ivy this story, and she said, "Well, hell, when you're 14 that's about as long-term as you can get," which is true, even more so if you're actually 10.

The turning point in our relationship happened while we were walking home from school together. Okay, now I'm sure that I was 10, because we didn't walk that route in Jr. High. Having the same walking-to-school route was another point we had in common, and it's these little things that cement a relationship. Except that on this day, we came upon a dead rat by the side of the road. It had announced it's presence blocks away, naturally, so we had followed our noses with growing dread and anticipation. We found it.

In a moment of ignorance and distraction, I made the fatal mistake: I did not get shrieky. I did not cry, or hold my nose, or make throwing up noises.

Instead, I picked up a stick at the same moment he did, and poked at the rat.

He didn't notice right away, but at some point it registered and he looked at me. He said nothing at the time. Being a novice I did not understand the import of That Look. Within a couple of days I discovered that it meant I had crossed over the line of acceptable common interests with my beloved.

I am still in awe of the haiku-like perfection of a relationship arc that begins with Rush and ends in a dead rat.

And "Today's Tom Sawyer" still makes me smile and get a bit misty.

[Note: The Him is Mr. Literal-and-factual and is the sort of guy who memorizes liner notes. He is raining all over my memory parade. Today's Tom Sawyer was released in 1981, which doesn't coincide with my memory of chronology. So I was 16 rather than 14 or 10, still within the realm of possibility given my level of relational cluelessness. Unless the song was not Tom Sawyer. But it was definetely a Rush song. I think. I hate it when he does this.]

Green Acres is the Place for Me

2010-06-11T05:03:00.000-07:00

I want this book. And there's and indie movie based on it, Red Dirt Rising.

I'm too lazy to come up with something original today (week, month fine, okay) so I want to share with you a tidbit from the Green Acres News & Astonisher. Names have been changed to protect me from imagined liability.

Usually, action at the local dirt track [Green Acres Speedway] is limited to Friday and Saturday nights. But this week was special:

"...the high-speed action was on Tuesday, when employees of a sprinkler service company decided to drink beer[s] and take a turn on Green Acres' dirt track, according to a Green Acre County Sheriff's office report. The report said Darryl Jr.,28, was riding home from work with his boss, Darryl, 40, [no relation. On second thought, I don't really know that] when they stopped and bought some beer[s].
... Darryl[s] decided to go to the Speedway. Some workers preparing the red dirt [I'm not up on the finer points of dirt-track. I'll have to find out if red dirt has special qualities. Other than being red, which by the way it's really red, which is pretty cool in it's own way] for Saturday's racing saw the work truck that Darryl and Darryl were in enter the racetrack, speed up, and lose control in turn two of the track.
[Did they make a complete lap, and then lose control? If so I'm impressed. But I'm thinking it's more likely that Turn Two was the first non-linear challenge they encountered.]
...The truck hit a wall and nearly hit a motor grader in the area, [just missed it by like, that much] and then left the track. [Intentionally? Or did they just get lost?].
...One of the track employees followed in another truck. The [miscreants'] work truck stopped outside the track and the track employee spoke with [shouted WTF you #$%*& morons? Is that you, Darryl? Does your mama know you're out here?] Darryl and Darryl, who then ran into the nearby woods. [When the track employee went to get the rifle from his gun rack. Plus, they really had to pee.]
...Deputies responding to the incident [were laughing their butts off as they] spoke to Darryl the younger [and slower. Or maybe just more drunker. Same thing] who, according to the report, "was very unsteady on his feet and the odor of an alcoholic beverage was emanating from his person."
[I think we're going to invite this deputy to dinner. I greatly admire that sentence.]
...Damage to the [miscreants' employer's] truck was estimated at $10,000. [Make that unemployed miscreants]. There was no damage to the race track. [Dirt, wait, red dirt, and concrete. Check. Thank God they didn't total the motor grader, or there would have been serious hell to pay. Haven't even finished paying that off yet. They'd a had to go to Darryl's mama with that, and you know she would have fried his bacon but good, especially after that thing right before Easter, run his sister's ATV off the boat ramp at the river? 'Member that? Damn.]
...The report said a deputy talked to Darryl the elder [and faster] by phone. [Mama answered but they didn't mention why they were calling, figured he had enough trouble already. So he'll be buying a few extra plates of barbecue at the next fundraiser]. Darryl admitted to driving the truck and was also charged with trespassing.

Social Anthropology

2010-04-01T05:36:00.000-07:00

See 14. below.

There are a number of interesting things I've learned from Athena. Granted, some of these things shouldn't be extrapolated from a sample of one, but what's the fun in that?

1. German keyboards are not "QWERTY" but "QWERTZ." I understood that there would be different lettters, but this fact surprised me.

2. There are no tornados in Germany.

3. Or hurricanes. (Actually I kind of knew that, but it had to be confirmed before I could really believe it.)

3.b. I don't know about flash floods, I'll have to ask about that.

3.c. The prospect of an event of this type is very alarming to Europeans.

4. Power outages are so rare that a person can live 16 years in Munich and never experience one.

4.b. Power outages are very alarming to Europeans.

4. c. Not knowing how long the power will be out causes distress as well.

5. There is no emergency alert system for the National Weather Service on the radio. I guess they do have a National Weather Service, but then again without tornados, hurricanes, and flash floods who needs those creepy robot-voice alerts?

5.b. NWS radio alerts are alarming to Europeans. Or maybe that's just a manifestation of 3.c.

6. The southern pronunciation of the word "brrrrr" (as in, it's cold outside) is hilarious in German. Or, to Germans.

7. Everything in America tastes or smells like it has lots of sugar in it.

7.b. Including things like shampoo.

8. It is virtually unheard of in Germany for a person to teach himself to play a musical instrument.

9. In German, "Schmooze" means to snuggle up or cuddle someone you love.

9.b. There is no negative connotation to the word schmooze.

10. "Pups" means farts in German.

10.b. Maybe that's where the whole thing about blaming the dog came from.

11. Churches in Germany do not support themselves through tithing by members. All church members pay a tax to the government, who [which? whatever] then distributes the money to the denominations proportionally.

11.b. If someone were to applaud in church, something bad would probably happen.

12. In Germany, only crazy people and religious fanatics homeschool their children. Although it could be argued that this is the case in the U.S., also. Anyway, I think it's illegal to homeschool in Germany.

13. There is no Autobahn. There are any number of autobahns, it just means "highway," and most have speed limits.

14. The symbol or mascot of Munich is the Munchnerkindl, a little child dressed as a monk. Its a medieval thing. Since the 13th Century. Really.

14.b. Maybe the whole Atlanta Braves kerfuffle will seem quaint in seven or eight centuries.

15. Someone might be able to make a fortune introducing snickerdoodles to the German public.

16. Germans do so have a sense of humor. At least one does, anyway.

16. b. Sorry, that was probably very un-p.c. and culturally insensitive.

16.c. And they don't all wear lab coats and carry clipboards and a spray bottle of bleach.

16.d. See 15.b.

Q.E.D. #1

Heloise Meets Kliban

2010-03-26T13:59:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I like to offer household tips, since I am 20-50% housewife (depends who you ask). I will say I have experience. "Expertise" would be going too far.

CLEARING THE AIR: You know that funky smell under the kitchen sink? It's possible that it's not coming from the garbage can. Sometimes it's coming from the mousetrap that you set last week and kind of forgot about after checking it faithfully for a few days.

To Peeps With Love

2010-03-06T06:34:00.000-08:00

Like Persephone returning to the sunlit world, my beloved Peeps* have arrived. The True Peeps, that is, the chickie Peeps. Christmas trees and pumpkins are just not the same.

My first blue Peeps, and first Peeps of the Peep year.

Peeeeps! Peeeeeep Peeeep Peep Peep! Daffodils soon to follow.

My Peep face impression

[* I was a bit chatty in that post. Scroll way down to Effervescent Moment #2 to experience more Peep love.]
[In the future I think I'll shower and dress before I show my face to the world. Maybe do my hair.]

The Crabapple Cove Courier

2010-02-25T05:32:00.000-08:00

Couldn't find a photo of him reading the paper.

I read yesterday's paper this morning. I often delay the pleasure because there are only three per week, actually because I often forget what day it is. Anyway.

The choice item yesterday/today (WHATEVER) is this classified notice :

"Epson Printer/Scanner
scanner works great,
printer doesn't work
the greatest, been
told it is something
simple if you know
what to do $40 o.b.o.
[tel #]"

Musings:

1. After you read it a couple of times, it's like haiku.

2. Small town newspapers rock.

3. Hawkeye would definitely read this one out loud.

4. I bet I could fix it.

{Sip coffee.}

Questions:

1. Who told him it was something simple?

2. Did anyone proofread this and gently suggest different wording?

3. Will he get more than one offer?

4. What would my $ offer be?

{Sip coffee.}

Sanity, i.e. meds reasserting executive function:

1. I don't need a printer.

2. I would never get around to fixing it.

3. I have plenty of broken stuff already.

4. I'm broke.

Bonus points if you comment in haiku form. This means you, Rae.

My Valentine

2010-02-19T06:53:00.000-08:00

I sat down next to The Him at his desk and asked him to bring up a photo he has on his laptop. (He is very obliging.) As he was tapping away I noticed he was shifting in his chair to block the blast of sunlight pouring over his shoulder from the east-facing window, so that he could see his computer screen.

You have to nip this sort of thing in the bud.

"I am not hanging curtains in that window until you put the casing around it," I responded firmly. I was perfectly pleasant about it.

"I haven't asked you to...did I say anything? I did not even say anything. No, " He protested.

"A good wife..." I started to say --

feeling the faintest twitch in the musculature of his arm, I quickly added, "LIKE ME --anticipates her husband's needs..."

At which point we both leapt on the obvious conclusion like cheetahs on a wildebeest,

"So that she can deny them immediately."

I love this man.

And Then What Happened: Part Second

2010-02-11T07:21:00.000-08:00

So, Tuesday's to do list was :
1. Bury the dog.
2. Dentist appointment.

Can I have your pity now? K, Thanx. #2 didn't really bother me, but it sounds pitiful so I threw it in.

This past weekend Lucy developed a paralysis of one of her hind legs, a result of nerve damage from an old back injury. Since she was 17, blind, deaf, confused, and toothless -- I wavered only because she was, despite all of that, apparently happy and not in pain -- I decided that crippled was one decline too many, and made the decision to euthanize her.

The Him and I were out at first light digging a grave out back where our other bygone pets are interred. Thinking of that departed host I sniffled, "I hope that Dog Heaven is pretty close to where I'm staying, because I'll be visiting a lot." He smiled sadly. He feels my pain, but he is an atheist, so he can't really say, "of course."
I like to tweak him about it.

"You, on the other hand," I said, "will be in Hell. With the cats."

Rest in Peace, Lucy. You've earned it.

And Then What Happened

2010-01-28T16:40:00.000-08:00

Our friend Cee died last Friday. So, not weeks, but days, unless you count the preceding 16 months. She was 46.
Getting dressed for the funeral on Monday, I thought, well, it's a good thing it's cold out, since my only black dress that's not a Little Black Dress wouldn't be too comfortable on a hot day.
Then I wondered if I had a hat that would go with it, since I've always wanted to wear a fabulous black hat with a veil. Then I wondered what the hell I was thinking.

I left the house a little late. I really wanted a hat. The only one I could find in my box of vintage stuff was a little 50's headband-type thingie, too Vegas cocktail lounge for a southern funeral. Especially a Lutheran funeral.
Five minutes into the 1 1/2 hour drive and my bottom lip is already doing that spastic thing it does when I'm trying not to cry.
I should have worn the headband thing. It even had a little veil. Cee loved hats. Maybe the navy blue velvet one. Didn't I have a red cloche somewhere? Dammit, I need a fabulous hat. She would have loved it, and I owe it to her to wear one. Because face it, I am not going to be able to sustain emulating her in any other way -- she was organized, driven, positive, athletic, successful, and never even glanced over her shoulder at the past -- but by God, I can and will wear hats.

No, I cannot turn around, because my dithering has caused me to cut the time a little too fine.

By now I am imagining something akin to that huge serving platter hat Kate Winslet wore in Titanic. With maybe a few more plumes, and some artificial fruit and birds.

Some women hereabouts wear traffic-stopping hats to church on a regular basis. This is a benefit of living in the South. I may not wear them to church, but I know where I can find them, you betcha. So, as I pass the shopping center and see Belks [department store] I know what I have to do.

I am going to find me a hat. I am going to go in there and find the foofiest Sunday-go-to-meeting hat they have, if it matches my outfit, and I will buy it, and when I get to the church people will raise their eyebrows at me. And I will square my shoulders and sail on in and they will know that I am thinking,"Shut up! She would have loved this hat, and you know it."

Hah!

As I pull into the parking lot my phone rings. It is my husband, asking if I have left the house yet and if I am bringing the shoes, to which I reply yes, I have and no, because he told me he'd found a pair of shoes. Well, they're Dad's and they don't really fit, have you really left the house?

By that last question you can tell that we have been married eighteen years and he knows me pretty well. "I'm already passing Belks now," I lie as I ease into a parking space. "Can't go back. Bye."

Can I find and purchase the hat in under 5 minutes? Of course. God will help me, because God wants me to wear that hat. He will lead me to it. It will be there, fabulous, the first thing I set my eyes on.

Except, of course, Belks doesn't open for another hour.

As I pull away I toy with the idea of a detour to the mall, and then tell myself to stop being ridiculous and get your ass to the funeral. If God wants you to have a hat he will have to drop it onto your head. Step on the gas, girl.

No one seemed to notice that I wasn't wearing a hat.

PS The other great moment involved the minister cracking a diet Mountain Dew in the pulpit to toast Cee. It came very close to being a Chuckles the Clown moment. I'm wondering if she paid him to do it.

Myrna Loy would have kicked ass at a funeral. Even Lutheran ass.

Damn Punks Get Off My Lawn

2010-01-18T07:55:00.000-08:00

The Him and I have come to understand that we are now grownups in the chronological if not intellectual sense.
We are slightly post-Boomer so we have been used to being either granchildren or younger siblings in the greater schema of American culture. This has tended to compound the natural human delusion of perpetual youth.

But the wolf is at the proverbial door.

The principal delusion-puncturing device is our
Hold on a minute.
***

Thanks. The dogs were into the trash, I hied thence and banished them to Padua.
Close approximation of their work

I was trying to say that lately we keep hurting ourselves in the most laughably mundane ways.
A sampling:
-sneezing
-turning over in bed
-carrying a pillow
-turning around
-yawning
-standing up
-folding a shirt

None of these injuries requires medical treatment or even a bandaid, but when performing an action as simple as the above causes something to go sproink and all hurty, I can't help but be astounded and a little angry, I mean

WHAT THE HELL?

Suddenly the comments of elderly friends and relatives take on sinister hues; one extrapolates the trend and realizes that when they say it hurts to walk, they may mean it HURTS. As in actual, nauseating, I'm-not-getting-out-of-this-chair-and-you-can't-make-me PAIN.
Empathetic fear is a good thing, I guess, if it makes us more compassionate. What I regret most about my sense of humor and my impulse-control deficits is that the combination makes me seem callous.
My mordant sense of humor does help me cope but sometimes it opens a little window on something frightening. I've noticed that as the decades accumulate the "firsts" among one's peers get darker. That joke about introducing the person you're married to as your first spouse gets more painful, making it either truly funny or tasteless, depending on one's disposition. When we were thirtysomething a friend died in a car accident and I made the comment that this was our first dead friend. Fear that deep makes me laugh, I don't know why, maybe it's chimp wiring that makes a scream indistinguishable from laughter.

In a few weeks we will know what it's like to lose a friend to cancer. It is essential to acknowledge that what is happening to her is far more important than what I feel about it, I'm not asking for sympathy. I'm laying the groundwork because this is the place where I can blurt those awful connections my mind makes, so that I don't blurt them at a time or place that severs yet another relationship.
So I'll be getting back to you soon. It will be something really, really funny.

2010-01-06T06:12:00.000-08:00

In celebration of the New Year, some things I am thankful for.
The Him and Tigrrl top the list, of course. And I am thankful to have my parents close, 5 minutes close. And now my brother and sister-in-law and their remaining nestlings are living a mere hour away: that is high on the list of thankings. We hosted the mob for Christmas dinner and I seated twelve people around my dining room table, which makes me a bit misty just thinking about it.

But wait, there's more...
Note, at left, a new photo: as of August we are parents to a remarkable young woman who came to us fully formed, like Athena from the forehead of Zeus. Except without the armor and thunderbolt and stuff. Athena is on loan from Munich, ostensibly for a year, but we think we will have to keep her. She is much, much smarter than us, and also much nicer than we deserve. She thinks we're crazy but she's even nice about that.
She makes coffee in the morning.
She makes dinner whenever I ask for help.
She makes wonderful food, dumplings and apfel thingies and chocolate stuff -- there's this one called chocolate sausages that are AWESOME, no actual sausage involved, trust me

-- and bredzels, and gingerbread hearts for Octoberfest.

She is witty and asks lots of questions about American popular culture and language -- is there anything The Him and I love to talk about more, than our observations on these topics? Can you see that this is a match made in heaven?

Athena is also endlessly patient with Tigrrrl, okay not endlessly, she's learned the necessity of setting firm limits, but WAY more patient than I am, which sets a good example for all of us, and makes Tigrrl happy. After four months T has not yet tired of saying, (to Athena, about us) "do you SEE what I have to put up with?!"

I am in awe of her parents, and more than a little jealous of the wonderful job they have done.
Welcome, Athena. We are not worthy.

Play it, Sam

2009-10-08T10:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, that was a downer. AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH.

No pun intended

Today I'm in a piano sort of mood, postwise. One item has been in my blog/photo stockroom for a few weeks, and the other I found today webfishing.

I'm teaching Tigrrl the rudiments of music theory, while I'm trying (theoretically) to find a piano teacher for her. Notes, octaves, bass and treble clefs, chords, and so on. Which is the limit of my musical knowledge.
Let me stress "rudiments."

This undertaking (teaching ANYTHING to her) must be approached cautiously. In the past when we have suggested "learning how to play the piano" she has responded, "Why? I like how I play."
One time she said, "No. My voice is my instrument."

Anyway. Not long ago I was walking past the piano --

by the way none of us play the piano. It was handed down from the Him's aunt --

and something caught my eye.
(This, to be exact.)

Hmm.

What....?

I recall that a few weeks ago she came to me and said with what appeared to be sincere contrition," Mom, I have to tell you something. I wrote on the piano. I'm sorry."

At the time I was so shocked that a) she had confessed something and A.) she seemed SORRY about it, that I became befuddled and might even have patted her on the head.

I need a closer look at that.

Yup. And it's Sharpie. Not C#, I mean the ink.
Frankly, I'm pleased that she was interested enough to do this. I'm going to leave it there.

That particular stunt was really not so bad.
Case in point: Here's one that she didn't do. Its at the other end of the spectrum my friends and I call "you have to tell them EVERY DAMN THING not to do..."

Sunday evening I'm at church shepherding a group of middle-schoolers. ("PresbyTweens." I thought of it, but they bought into it. Their choice.) In another wing there is a meeting, attended by my friend... I shall call her Ivy. Ivy has two adorable children, a daughter who is Tigrrrl's age, and a son who is younger. Say 7 or so. He has a sweet, innocent face, and really is a good kid at heart, but things happen when he is around. He is waiting in the hall for Ivy to finish her meeting.

Let's call him Calvin.
Me and the 'Tweens are in the kitchen working on our loaves and fishes made from crescent roll dough, when our ears are assaulted by the fire alarm. Several women come hustling down the hall and tell us we gotta go outside.
Not a drill...
As I'm herding the 'Tweens across the parking lot to safety, the women are asking me "didn't you smell that? Didn't your hear that?"

Well, no. What?
Really I'm just stalling, because I'm convinced that the alarm is somehow my fault, because after all I was the one who was in the room where fire stuff happens and had, in fact, turned on the oven (for the loaves-and-fishes), and baking was going on, okay potential rather than kinetic but still... am I so accustomed to burning smells that I didn't notice.....? Maybe?
Remember this?

And I haven't even told you about this yet.

By the way where's Ivy?
She's calling the fire department, they say.
Instinctively - knowing that Things Happen when Calvin is present -- I ask What did he do? Where is he?

I am led to understand that Calvin is being held in the tractor-beam of Mom's Evil Eye Glare while she calls 911.

The 'Tweens require attention for a few minutes, first to be extracted from the magnolia tree before they break it or themselves, and then to be restrained as they rush toward the approaching fire engines in an excess of emergency excitement.
Once the firemen have secured the area, and confirm that the church will not erupt in flames, and I get the 'Tweens rounded up and the loaves-and-fishes into the oven, I get the scoop.

Whilst kicking his heels waiting on mom, Calvin chanced upon a key in his pocket. Being a smallish boy, he spent some time exploring the possibilities of key-related activity. Then, because he knew that one must never, EVER put a key, or a fork or anything that is NOT A PLUG into an outlet - (Not a pin either. Or your sister's barrette.) Calvin did not put the key into an outlet.
The wall switch, however, proved irresistible.

Those in the meeting heard a loud zap and smelled something burning.
Ivy leapt from her chair, having no illusions as to the source, and they discovered Calvin standing agog in the hallway, hair smoking...
The wall switch continued to produce an impressive amount of sparks, zapping and smoke. Ivy unleashed a fire extinguisher (on the fiery bits, not Calvin), but that just seemed to make it mad.
Hence the alarm, and the fire engines and all. But he's okay, just a bit singed.
So I'm thinking a little bit of sharpie, not so bad.

The Other Piano Thing: You thought I'd forgotten.

Happy Thursday.

2001

2009-09-11T09:19:00.000-07:00

photo source www.keenlive.com

7:59 a.m. American Airlines Flight 11 departs Boston Logan for Los Angeles.
81 passengers and 11 crew.

8:01 a.m. United Airlines Flight 93 Newark to San Francisco leaves the gate. Delayed by air traffic congestion on runway.

8:14 a.m. Five hijackers who boarded as passengers take control of AA 11 to LA. Two flight attendants are able contact American Airlines operations center and relay some information.

8:14 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175 departs Boston Logan for Los Angeles.
56 passengers and 9 crew.

8:20 a.m. American Airlines Flight 77 departs Washington Dulles for Los Angeles.
58 passengers and 6 crew.

8:42 a.m. UA 93 Newark to LA finally departs New Jersey.
37 passengers and 7 crew.

8:46 a.m. AA 11 crashes into 1WTC (North Tower). All 92 on board die. Full tanks of jet fuel explode.

8:47 a.m. Five hijackers who boarded as passengers take control of UA175 to LA. One flight attendant and two passengers make several phone calls. Another passenger makes 4 attempts to call his wife.

8:51 a.m. Five hijackers who boarded as passengers take control of AA77 to LA. One flight attendant called her mother; a passenger was able to make 2 calls to her husband.

9:03 a.m. UA175 crashes into 2WTC (South Tower). All 65 on board die. Full tanks of jet fuel explode.

9:28 a.m. Four hijackers who boarded as passengers take control of UA93 to San Francisco.

9:30-10 a.m. Passengers and crew aboard UA 93 make 37 phone calls and numerous attempted calls using GTE on board phones and 2 cell phones. One passenger who reached his wife at 9:37 remained connected until the end of the flight.

9:37 a.m. AA77 to LA crashes into Pentagon. All 64 on board die. Full tanks of jet fuel explode.

9:57 a.m. Passengers and crew on UA93 attack hijackers in an attempt to regain control of plane. Flight data records sounds of struggle and voices of passengers, crew members, and hijackers until 10:03. Hijackers are heard frantically debating whether to crash the plane immediately.

9:59 a.m. South Tower 2WTC (the second target hit) collapses.

10:03:11 a.m. UA93 Crashes in a field in Stony Creek Township, PA. All 44 on board die.

10:28 a.m. North Tower 1WTC (the second target hit) collapses.
The fall of North and South Towers destroys 6WTC, 3WTC (the Marriott), and St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church immediately. Other nearby buildings are heavily damaged.

5:20 p.m. 7WTC collapses.

In addition to those on board the four planes,
2,603 were killed in New York
125 were killed at the Pentagon crash site

For more information go to

http://govinfo.library.unt.edu/911/report/911Report_Ch1.htm

Every Little Thing She Does

2009-09-08T06:17:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, okay. Fine. I know. Sorry.

I've been mulling over ideas to win my way back into the graces of my adoring public. Many amusing ideas have suggested themselves. Or mildly interesting ones anyway.
But not today.
Today I received news that makes me want to find my blankie and spend the day eating Froot Loops and sucking my thumb.
A lovely, talented, intelligent, and (obviously) accomplished Latina has been named Treasurer of the United States.
Why, you ask, Why on earth would this make you want to curl up with many Premium Eating Disorder treats and render yourself insensible?
The lovely Ms. Rios is known to me, you see. Only a nodding acquaintance, my knowledge is of the conocer and not the saber variety, but nonetheless. I saw her on a daily basis, once upon a time. We ate three meals a day in the same cafeteria.
Yes.
Someone I went to college with has achieved National Importance.

Those things in the middle are deep fried Twinkies.

This is not unexpected, and I have been preparing myself for this day ever since graduation. And I mean no disrespect to friends and classmates who have become Reasonably Important or even Famous. My husband went through this a while ago when Conan O'Brien hit the big time. But I'd never met him or had a conversation with him (Conan, I mean. I do converse with The Him, though perhaps not as often as I should).

Actually I can't recall having any conversations with Ms. Rios. That's beside the point. Stay with me here. The point is, I might have, and I could have, if I'd had the foresight to befriend her then.
Actually I shared no interests, educational or recreational, with Ms. Rios, and was not, shall we say, in the same social orbit which is why we were not, and are not, BFFs but that is BESIDE THE POINT.
The point is, she is making me feel inadequate, just by being alive and pretty and accomplished and now the freakin' TREASURER of the UNITED STATES of AMERICA and I deeply resent it, and her.
All right, that's stupid, I'm alive too.
Since I can't be funny about this, I'm going to quote one of my friends, because she is way funnier than me anyway, and she sums it up very well, and I love her.

Says M:
"I don't think it's fair that she gets to sign the money. I can't even write a check without saying a few Hail Marys! Plus we have this bazillion dollar ginormous deficit, so how come she can still go around signing money? And I bet she doesn't even have to sign the money herself, I bet she has her own signature stamp and her own personal assistant to stamp it. Hmpph.
By the way, I already was feeling inadequate enough and now this? Do you think she would feel sorry for me and send me some free money?"

And here's the cherry: Ms. Rios graduated a year AFTER me.

Now excuse me, I must find my Little Debbie Swiss Rolls.

Calling an E and E

2009-06-20T18:48:00.000-07:00

SPOILER ALERT: I'm going to complain about having big breasts. DO NOT post comments about how I shouldn't complain because you always wished for bigger ones. That's your problem.

Actually it's mostly bras I'm going to complain about.

But before we go any further, an auxiliary rant.

ATTENTION ALL ASPIRING SCREENWRITERS: IF YOU INSIST ON BEING OBSSESSED WITH BREASTS, HAVE THE DECENCY TO LEARN THE INTRICACIES OF BRA SIZING.

Now back to original (bra) tirade.

Before we even get to the problem of bra shopping, there is the issue of measuring. Measuring yourself for a bra is only easy if one's breasts are a)reasonably sized, b) newly hatched, or c) plastic. To measure a large, gravity afflicted bosom, one needs to be wearing a well-fitted bra.

Chicken and egg thing.

So what you really need is a good friend, a blackmailable friend, who can stop laughing long enough to measure you whilst you support your own breasts in a position approximating where you want them to fall while wearing the Theoretical Bra. Yes I said fall. Pay attention.

Alternatively, husbands and boyfriends are very obliging when asked to serve as what I affectionately call the Living Bra, but their minds wander.

Theoretical bra size in hand -- wait, let's talk about the whole sizing thing. Lingerie manufacturers appear to have the literacy skills of preschoolers. After the letter D the little dears get very confused. They start doubling letters randomly.

Or maybe they're size pleats. I don't know.

Anyway after D comes DD. Usually. Most brands reserve the full weight of ponderous E for the next size, which should logically or at least alphabetically be F. Then they throw in DDD, or EE, or F, or whatever. Bra sizes in this range are sort of like the more esoteric domains of particle physics, where the likelihood of practical consequences is so low that noone understands or even gives a damn how the grant money is spent.

Now the shopping part.

It goes like this.

I see a little lace confection, and then I look for my size...

Bras, for some reason, are displayed with the smallest sizes on the top hooks and the largest at the bottom. At least they are where I shop, which is admittedly low-rent.

If my size is represented, it is at floor level. To find it, I have to get down on my knees, occasionally on my stomach. I am 5'8" and 160 lbs, so this is not a comfortable or dignified position. Thanks to yoga it's still possible.

With my arm fully extended to the back of the rack , I find the tag I seek and bring it forth into the light -- and recoil.

No. Way.

The cups are the lingerie equivalent of big floppy clown shoes. I double check the tag. Yes, way. Now to put on the bra. (In the dressing room. Trust me.) A little guidance as to technique.

Slide the straps onto your arms. Lean forward until you are hanging upsidedown from the waist. Manuever stuff into the cups with the help of gravity. While upsidedown, bring the band around your back and secure the row of hooks -- 3 is the minimum, six is best -- before returning to an upright position. Again the usefulness of yoga is proven.

Stand in front of the mirror and shove a hand in each cup to adjust alignment. Check for containment around the periphery. Put on heels and practice keeping your balance.

Am I whining? Yes. Will this kill me? No. Do I secretly enjoy having cleavage? Yes, of course. There had better be some compensation for this kind of annoyance.

Rage Against the Machine

2009-06-11T11:14:00.000-07:00

I am a rebel. Don't let my geekly demeanor fool you.
Oddly, most of my outrage is reserved for fashion injustices, but nonetheless. My rebellious nature killed any hope of becoming a lawyer, or for that matter my chances of being well paid in any field.

Chapter One
When I was seven, I went to a boarding school. My parents are not cruel, and I have many happy memories of this school, EXCEPT it was the kind of school where girls were required to wear dresses. Jeans for either sex were not even discussed. But girls above all must not wear slacks, as they were called in that eon.
So okay, I wore dresses. I was seven. I liked dresses. Still do, actually.

EXCEPT I was the only girl in first & second grade combined. And I played kickball -- remember that game with the red rubber ball? And dodge ball, and kick-the-can. With the boys.
Because there were no girls my age.

Jumped rope, swings, monkey bars. Anyway, the point being, that the little perverts would do their best to make me achieve positions that would expose my panties. Not difficult since I was WEARING A SKIRT.
[Also sliding into a base was a problem, but only secondary since I didn't have the inclination to do much of that.]
After a few days of this, I started wearing shorts under my skirt.

Which worked fine for a couple of months. The perverts must have gotten resentful, because someone told teacher. Guess what? It was against the rules to wear shorts under your dress.
Really. No seriously.
I was required to take them off if they were discovered. (Not the panties, just the shorts.) I stopped for a week, then kept on wearing them. I kept getting caught. Then I figured screw it --

wait, I didn’t learn that expression till later...
but that was the precise moment I learned the sentiment. I refused to play. Sometimes I played jacks, but mostly I just sat in the classroom every day during recess. Looking back I realize that what felt like giving up was actually sweet revenge, because I’m sure I made that teacher’s life hell every day at recess for the rest of the year. She stayed in the classroom to get work done. She didn't get a lot done. Good for me.

Chapter Two
The bloomers.
I felt you needed to see these to capture the full weight of the humiliation being inflicted by the authorities. But wait! Not at aforesaid stalag boarding school. We’re talking public school, United States, late seventies.

Now, here’s what the boys wore.

Uh huh.

(borrowed photo. Not mine in any way.)

Okay. Now, this is what female students were required to wear for gym class in jr high and high school.

These had to be purchased at a sporting goods store in town that special-ordered them every year, because these were not going to be stocked by any store interested in a profit margin. One could order the required "your name embroidered in gold on breast pocket" when you placed your order, or if you were handy with embroidery -- and I was --- you could embroider it yourself.

Mom took one look at this and howled. With laughter. Apparently they were similar to what she had to wear -- in the FORTIES. And they were outdated then.

Now, most of you remember what gym class was like, right? I think Mengele came up with this idea. Make young adolescents undress and change in front of each other, sweat like pigs, and then give them two options: take a group shower, or change back into your clean clothes without one and then go back to class either way.
So, for the girls, this was the coup de grace. When you change, you have to put this on, and then appear in public, in front of boys that you hope will one day ask you to the prom.

You have to do sports wearing this.

You have to stand in line by the fence and get picked for teams --- wearing this.

I can’t remember exactly when but I think it was eight grade -- so, three years into this daily torture -- that one of the girls said SCREW THIS, I am not going to wear it.
By this time I knew the phrase but I would never, ever say it out loud, because I couldn’t pull it off.

Ironically, she was one of those girls -- we all know who they were -- who could make boys drool wearing this. She could get that belt just tight enough to make the fabris stretch over her dumbells and make the third snap threaten to pop --- oops! There it went, giggle.
So anyway she got detention. The next day, her friends refused, and they got detention.

Now, that girl was not me. Nor was I one of the friends, but in (silent) solidarity I also refused to wear The Bloomer Gymsuit. (I was so, sooo trying to be one of the cool kids. But I was also sincere.)
And I got detention. First ever.

That was in itself an exhilarating experience for a goody two shoes. Liberating as well, since I learned that it was just a room next to the office with about two dozen heavily graffitied desks, and a sweaty tuna fish kind of smell. And you could read the whole time and no-one told you to put the book away.

Anyway they called our parents, and they sent a note home with each of us. The next day Mom drove me to school, and I waited in the outer office while she went in to talk to the principal. After a while she came back out, kissed me goodbye, and the principal sent me back to class. He looked a little pale. At the end of the day we were told that girls must wear shorts and a t-shirt for gym class.

Chapter Three
There seems to be a pants theme here.

My third sartorial challenge came in the late eighties. I was employed for a few years at a law factory. I was fresh out of college, discovering that an Ivy League degree meant precisely snap if you didn’t know what you wanted to be when you grew up, and had no marketable skills.

So, I’m making about $11,000 a year after taxes, which even then was a pittance, and one-eighth the income of brand-new associates for whom I drafted entire documents because they didn’t know what the hell they were doing. I have one good wool “interview” suit and a couple of wool skirts. It is winter. It is Philadelphia. I hike half a mile from the cheap parking to the train in the suburbs, and eight blocks from the train to the office. There is often a foot or more of snow and slush and wicked ice chunks thrown off by passing cars.
I splurge one whole paycheck on two pair of lined wool trousers, some sturdy but fetching boots, and some wool cable-knit tights, the kind I used to wear under plaid skirts in grade school.

I wear my toasty trousers.

I am invited into a conference room by the personnel manager, who confides in hushed tones that trousers are against the dress code. He says almost apologetically that I must wear a dress, skirt, or suit.

I am so stupid that at first I think he means I have to get a jacket to match the trousers. Then I get it. A few hours later I even get angry.

But I fail to protest. Such is the real world. Even passive aggression will get me fired; though I do consider wearing shorts under my skirt. Nor can Mom come ream out my employer, not that she wouldn’t, but I would still be jobless.

So I sigh. Next morning, I put on my cable knit tights, and trot off to work: glum, shivering, but solvent.

After lunch the PM stops me in the hall and gives me a copy of the employee handbook. Meaningfully. When I get to my office I notice that there is a page dog-eared. It opens to the dress code. Under the section for Female Employees, there is a paragraph describing what a Female Employee must wear or not wear under her mandatory skirt.
Bright panties under light colored fabric were inappropriate. I agree, although the partners weren’t complaining about the secretaries who did that. [Interestingly, it was nowhere stated that panties were mandatory. At the time I figured it was implied.]

It seems cable-knit tights are unprofessional. Who knew?

So I went home that night and said, “screw this,” which by then I could say pretty convincingly, at least when alone in the confines of my little apartment. And I started filling out applications for grad school.

Chapter Four
Right now I’m wearing a sarong. Life is good.

Oh What a Beautiful Morning

2009-05-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

This morning's dip into the interwebs found me Pink Raygun, which will be high on my rotation list for a while. In celebration of Zombie Week, I found a video for my favorite zombie tune. There are other videos for this song, but I am understanding of those with weak stomachs, so I opted for cute rather than graphic. I give you, Re: Your Brains, by Jonathan Coulton.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dGF0DsL5K8

Mothers and Chocolate

2009-05-12T06:17:00.000-07:00

Tigrrl wore an utterly fabulous dress to a fancy Mother's Day luncheon with my MIL. Fabulous. White satin bouffant skirt, pink silk bodice, silk chiffon overskirt. A confection.
Of course, chocolate happened.
I know I am getting better at mothering, because I was amused rather than upset. An even funnier moment: Tigrrrl met up with a couple of other grrrl acquaintances at the luncheon and I noticed that all three of them had chocolate syrup stains on their special, impress-grandma dresses.

Back at chez In Law, I am sitting in the upstairs bathroom with the dress on my lap, patiently sponging the stains with a washcloth and a lot of cold water. As I work I am bemused. Kids, I think, when will she learn, she's so grown up and such a little girl, chcolate on her face.
Bit misty at this point. Sigh. Well, she'll learn eventually.

I feel very, very wise.

Then I notice that I have been sponging the (dark, very dark) chocolate with one of my MIL's monogrammed washcloths.
The white monogrammed washcloths.

Blankety Blanking Blank

2009-05-02T06:21:00.000-07:00

Saturday, 9:00 A.M.
I have already burned dinner.

OCD FRIDAYS

2009-05-01T15:25:00.001-07:00

So I was putting away groceries, except somehow in the middle of that it was necessary to load the dishwasher, and then in the middle of that it was suddenly imperative that these be scrubbed. Thoroughly.

Immediately.

Help.

What I Did For Love

2009-04-29T06:15:00.000-07:00

[edit 4/30: according to one reader --who shall remain nameless but you'd think he OF ALL PEOPLE would get the joke --I was way too subtle about the point of this monologue. Cliffs notes are in italics.]

When I was a kid, everyone I knew including me pronounced the class of frozen dessert shown at right "sherbert."
[The author opens with a seemingly random thesis. But is it? ]

I started buying my own groceries when I was eighteen. Which was, coincidentally, right about the time when ice cream decided to be scandinavian, and faux scandinavian at that.
[This elaboration of the thesis is a red herring, to heighten the impact of the punch line, and also provide an opportunity to try and be funny. Haagen Dasz, Frusen Gladje...]

I didn't notice until my mid-twenties that there was no R in the second syllable. Which was, coincidentally, right around the time when pasgettees became "pasta." Although to their credit, spaghetti manufacturers didn't jump on it -- they kept calling it "spaghetti," and still do.
[Ibid. Thought "pasgettees" was cute. My bad.]

I was in my late twenties before I realized that sherbet is an anglicization of sorbet. Right around the time when sherbet got jealous of pasta being all euro-chic and everything, and told everyone that from now on it would only answer to Sorbey.
[Ibid. Thought jealous sherbet was funny. Maybe only to me.]

PS I really hate lime sherbet. Orange is okay. Lemon is best, of course.
[Here's the wind-up. Only the first sentence is relevant.]

PPS The Him really loves lime sherbet.
[Second stage wind-up.]

PPPS I just got dressed, and decided to wear my key lime pie colored shirt. (I love key lime pie).
So of course I had to wear just the right bra, because this is the only item of clothing I own that I can wear this particular bra with. Because the Special bra is the color of lime sherbet.
[The last sentence is the PITCH. The implication answers the question posed by the title: The author purchased lingerie in a color she hates and can only wear with one item of clothing because it is a color that suggests a particular food favored by her spouse.
And I want credit for passing up the obvious vulgar play on ice-cream/bra TWO SCOOPS. ]

[ Sheesh.]

No More Wire Hangers

2009-04-28T06:54:00.000-07:00

Diagram of the currents feeding the Pacific Trash Vortex.

(If you don't want to know how depressing the PTV is, don't click on the image.)

Discovering the PTV this morning cheered me up because it is far more depressing than what I'm struggling with at the moment, though eerily relevant.

My parental irresponsibility is coming back to bite me in the ass.

My daughter's room is an appalling mess, and has been so for pretty much her entire life. So is her understanding of respect and responsibility. We are once again tackling the messy room issue, and simultaneously tackling at least one larger issue, that of respectful compliance when we ask her to do something.
It is excruciatingly painful for all of us. We have created a monster, and to subdue it we have to become monsters. The only effective tactic at the moment is taking away stuff she loves, really, really loves, which is genuinely excruciating for her even though her reactions secretly amuse us sometimes. Which makes me feel like even more of a monster.

Worse than feeling like a monster is the misery of knowing that all of it boils down to my failures as a parent. The Pacific Gyre driving all of the crap into one big, painful, toxic mess -- both material and emotional -- is my total lack of consistency.

These are some of the things I've failed to do consistently:

Define expectations.
Articulate expectations.
Define the relative priority of said expectations
Demonstrate the contexts that determine the priority
Notice that things aren't being done
Care that things are or aren't being done
Enforce expected behavior
Continue enforcing over time
Use consistent tactics and intensity of enforcement, whether reward or punishment
Model the desired behavior myself
Model the desired behavior myself [see Surface Detail, April 7 2009. Q.E.D.]
Model the desired behavior myself....

Do not, I repeat do not, tell me that all parents have to grapple with this.
OF COURSE THEY DO.
Duh.
Eye rolling.
Disrespectful, sneering expression.

I would very much like to play the Crazy card. Because after all, its a really good card, it trumps everything but cancer and death, and it explains all of these failures.
Except that it doesn't excuse them. Parenting is my job, and good parenting is 1 part love to 450 parts consistency. And I haven't done it. I have to do it whether I'm good at it or not, whether I want to or not, whether its rewarding or not, when it hurts me, when it hurts her, whether I'm sure its right or not, whether other people criticize me or not.

As I have to tell my daughter with frustrating regularity: it sucks, and it's hard, but you still have to do it.

Now! Missy.

ANSWER ME WHEN I AM SPEAKING TO YOU. DID YOU HEAR ME? REPEAT TO ME WHAT I JUST TOLD YOU. NOW DO IT.
Right NOW.
Every single time.
Or else.

Now I need to call Greenpeace and discuss her room. I'm hoping they have some tips.

Feminine Mystique

2009-04-23T06:13:00.000-07:00

I took this photo a while ago and then forgot to use it. Or something else became more interesting.

Exactly, you say. Pointedly.

My amusement began at the checkout line at the SupahWa'Mart. I noticed a theme amongst my purchases. So when I got home and unloaded everything, I set up this little still life.

I call it Time of the Month Club. Coming soon to an FTD Florist near you.

Today My Jurisdiction Ends Here

2009-04-17T08:23:00.000-07:00

I've been way too preachy lately. I'll give that a rest.

All the other Home-Family-and-Isn't Life-Strange blogs that I read seem to have some themed feature, like "Thousand Word Tuesday" and "Haiku Holiday" and so on. Since I can't remember to participate in those, I've created my own.

Manic Monday was too obvious a choice, and besides, then I'd have Susanna Hoffs' adenoidal lisp twanging through my head all day, and I can do without that.

So.
May I introduce

OCD FRIDAYS

When I woke up this morning, I did not know that today would be the day on which all the crayons
must
be
sharpened.

Shadowlands

2009-04-12T14:21:00.000-07:00

(Very) early this morning I was up, prowling for coffee and preparing for the day. I turned on some music.

This was the first song that greeted me on Easter morning. I have been singing it all day.

No hay que temer si sola no estoy

La vida nunca es facil pero se a donde voy

Siempre llena de preguntas asi es como soy

Pase cada momento buscando algo en que creer

There is no fear, if I'm not alone

Life is never easy but I know where I'm going

Always full of questions like this because I am

Passing every moment searching for something I believe in

Desde la oscuridad

veo el sol de un nuevo dia

Naciendo en mi

Desde la oscuridad

el amor me a salvado

Ha sido de ti

Out from the darkness

I see the sun of a new day

Being born in me

Out from the shadows

the love that has saved me

was given by you

Vuelvo a empezar de nuevo otra vez

Con tu mano en la mia mas fuerte estare

Quizas mi paso es lento pero yo llegare

Caminemos juntos quiero compartir

El milagro que has hecho en mi

I return to try anew one more time

With your hand in mine I will be stronger

Sometimes my step is slow but I will arrive

We walk together, I want to share

the miracle that has been made in me

Por siempre, por siempre me aferro a la luz de tu amor

Por siempre, por siempre me aferro a la luz

Por siempre, por siempre me aferro a la luz de tu amor

For ever, for ever I am held fast by the light of your love

For ever, forever I am held fast

For ever, forever I am held fast by the light of your love

Desde la Oscuridad, by Gloria Estefan Click title to listen.

(Thanks Mom, for help with the translation.)

FundaMentalism

2009-04-10T06:59:00.000-07:00

Not me. Not my peacock.

How much time do we all spend explaining and resisting and contradicting all of the assumptions people make about us?
Can't we all just get along?

May I rant just a little bit?

Yes. Yes I may. My blog.
Mine.

1. I am a Christian.
YET I accept and defend the theory of evolution, the big bang theory, historical analysis of the scriptures, the validity of other faiths' perception of God, and the biological basis of mental illness. I support vaccination against childhood diseases, stem cell research, gene therapy, the legal right to abortion, and gay civil rights including marriage. Oh, and I'm a feminist.

2. My parents were Baptist missionaries.
BUT they did not teach me to condescend to people of other faiths or nationalities. They taught me that belief and faith should be held lightly, because nobody has a monopoly on the truth, or on God, and we're just as likely to get it wrong as the other guy.
Oh and I'm not Baptist. Neither was John the Baptist, by the way. At least not denominationally speaking.

3. I am a Presbyterian Elder.
YET I'm under 50, and I'm not a model of perfect behavior. I have a drink or three once in a while. [Not Mint Juleps. We'll get to that later...] I swear too much. I have an irreverent sense of humor. I don't iron my clothes.

4. I am a U.S. citizen.
YET I welcome immigrants. I speak more than one language. Sort of. I have a pretty good grasp of geography. I don't think all Muslims are terrorists and wifebeaters. I don't mock the French very often.

5. I am a Harvard graduate.
YET I'm not rich. I'm often unemployed. I count on my fingers sometimes, and I sing the alphabet song when I'm using the dictionary. I can't describe"what it was like" to go to Harvard, because that implies that I know what it's like to go to other colleges.

6. I live in a small town in a Southern state.
YET I am not a Klan member, nor do I own a Confederate Battle Flag. I know how to load and fire a rifle and a shotgun, but I don't own any guns, and I don't hunt. I have a full set of teeth.
Okay, some have been repaired extensively. Okay, okay, my Christmas lights are still up on the back porch. But not the front.

7. I was born in New York and grew up in New Jersey.
BUT I don't think New York City is the center of the universe, the greatest city on earth, or the sole arbiter of fashion or culture;
AND the town in NJ where I grew up was far more rural and isolated than the quaint southern town where I now live,
AND I don't speak like a Yankee (much. Only when I'm talking to a Yankee.) I can hear the differences among Southern accents, and I can cook grits. I know the difference between the Stars and Bars and the Battle flag. All of this applied before I moved south.

What I didn't know was that a Mint Julep is a slammin big wallop of bourbon over a few ice cubes with a spoonful of sugar and a few mint leaves.

Mojito = pearl handled revolver; Julep = AK47.

8. I am a housewife.
BUT I'm pretty bad at it because I dislike housework. I also write. I think I'm better at that. I hope.

9. I take 2 anti-depressants, a mood stabilizer and an ADD medicine.
BUT it's not because of #1-8, 10, 0r 11, or any combination thereof.
AND why do I never hear anyone say to a Type I diabetic, "if you tried harder and really put your mind to it, that insulin problem would resolve itself. It's all about willpower." Or, to a person with a broken limb, "That cast is a crutch. And so is that crutch."

10. I homeschool my daughter.
BUT not for religious reasons. Nor for racist reasons. Her teachers were not stupid, I think they were heroic. I'm not always a great teacher. Did I mention I'm NOT HOMESCHOOLING FOR RELIGIOUS REASONS.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Some of my best friends do so. They're really nice people if you take the time to get to know them.

Oh, hell. I'm done wore out. How about a julep?

Surface Detail

2009-04-07T05:27:00.000-07:00

SPOILER ALERT: I am going to complain about all the stuff my grubby materialistic resource-hogging ugly American self has accumulated. Spare me the lecture about materialism. I will post it and mock you.
* * * * *
I have this problem with horizontal surfaces. Not a falling down sort of problem, but a management problem. With the surfaces above floor level. Or ground level, I suppose.
The problem is this: I lay objects upon them.
This should not be a problem, you say, because after all, this is the raison d'etre of such surfaces. The shelf, the table, the mantlepiece, etagiere, kitchen counter -- great advances of civilization.

Here is a lovely dining room table. This is in a much better state than usual, as 2/3 of the table surface is still visible.

I lay things upon horizontal surfaces, and I do not pick them up again.
I do not pick them up again because once they have landed on a surface, I do not see them.

Therefore I don't put them "away."

Here is a bathroom countertop. I dislike the countertop, but that is no reason to abuse it in this way. Also, why TWO bottles of rubbing alcohol?

I don't like "away," because once something is put away I forget its existence. Hence thirteen to sixteen wristwatches, at least 5 of which are nearly identical.

I found these (there are more) while cleaning out two drawers in my bedroom. Two small drawers.

One could argue that it would be better to forget the existence of hidden objects, than those in plain view. Someone might have said this to me. I can't imagine who, as there is no one presently in my range of vision.
Why are there 4 videotapes of a Civil War documentary on my sewing table? I think that's my sewing table.

I keep boxes and baskets handy to sweep off a surface when I need to use it. Those tend to fill up quickly.

At last, a surface clear of extraneous objects! Lamp, phone, intercom -- wait, the intercom became obsolete when a working phone was acquired, so that is extraneous. Damn.
Dust accounts for more mass than I want to think about.
Note: this surface is 18"x 18."
The Him made that table. It deserves better care.

Here's another surface, about two feet away from the above.
It's 17" x 28."

Yes, that's dust. All will be explained shortly.

I have been sneaky. Those last two photos were not really about the dust.

Look closely for a pair of baby shoes, and a baby bonnet.

1) My daughter is 11. 2) The shoes are mine, not hers.

They were about that pile. All of it rested upon those two smallish horizontal surfaces until about an hour ago.

Having consolidated the objects into one pile on the bed, I immediately
a) sorted them out and put them away? or
b) took a picture , and then some other pictures, and spent 45 minutes blogging about them?

Extra credit points: When next I venture upstairs, will I be surprised by the pile, having forgotten its existence? [edit: Yup. 11:42 p.m., my reaction was "oh, sh#$!" blogging about it for 45 minutes did not help me to remember.]

Fractal Action

2009-03-31T05:11:00.000-07:00

I started a post entitled "Bipolar 101," and there were so many, many vibrant metaphors that became increasingly more apt and enlightening the more I considered them...
Be very glad I did not post that. It was a long post, a manifesto if you will. Downshifting continues.

CLICK PHOTO FOR INFORMATION ABOUT THE ARTIST

To avoid getting lost in words, here is a photo summary.

Order, peace, efficiency.

Depressive Episode. Go the #$&% away.

Manic Episode>

LET ME TELL YOU

HOW BRILLIANT I AM.

Okay, now back to the entertainment portion of our broadcast.

Primary comment: Wheeeeerrreee's Lucy!? Find the beagle in this photo.

Secondary comment: How can three people generate that much laundry?

Imperatus

2009-03-20T11:51:00.000-07:00

So, back after a bit of a sabbatical. I check out (of my life) once in a while, usually in conjunction with a change in one of my dosages. This month's sojourn has been an obsessive interest in 1st century BC near east politics and the finer points of the end of the Hasmonean dynasty in Israel, and the rise of the Herodians, pursuing the Messianic story in terms of the wars of succession. Imagine my delight when I discovered that the entire text of Josephus' Antiquities of the Jews (c. 90 AD) and Dio Cassius' Roman histories, all 88 books, or a least the extant fragments (c.220 AD) online!

So much fun! Who wouldn't want to spend 10 hours a day reading this stuff!

manic episode....

Its a sign that the meds do help, that I have not embarked on learning Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic, Persian, Arabic, and Latin,

right. this. minute...

because who can do primary research on this otherwise, right? Even though Dad volunteered his Greek textbooks, when he heard how excited I was about this stuff.

I thought about it.

In some ways, the internet is a blessing, because it provides enough sublimation that someone in my state of mind doesn't buy plane tickets, hire an archeological crew and hop the next flight to Lebanon. On the other hand, it allows someone in my state of mind to have 24 hour access to things that perhaps would be better left unread by someone in my state of mind.

Anyway.

Tigrrrl is cranky because I haven't been paying her much attention, and The Him is cranky because I haven't been very diligent about her schoolwork for the past two weeks, and I'm not doing the dishes or cooking dinner very often, and I'm not paying him much attention either, and I'm getting cranky because they're cranky, and because I'm deeply resentful that they just don't get it, can they not stop interrupting me every three to six hours? That if I wanted to say, eat, or sleep, I would? Could someone else not cook dinner this...year?

So I'm taking a break.

Let me share a few happy moments that emerged amid the wreckage of history.

Effervescent moment#1:

Tigrrrrl turned 11 on Friday (the 13th. No lie). We held a party on Saturday for several friends. The theme: Fairies.

My neighbor Robin does beyoooootiful delicious cakes, so we collaborated and created this magnificent fairy-themed testament to the baking arts:

And guess what : I MADE THAT DRAGON!
(I bought the little fairy figures, however. There are limits.)

Effervescent moment #2:

I left poor benighted Hyrcanus in the hands of Herod and Antigonus, and betook myself to the grocery store, where I discovered that Spring is verily upon us. Heralded by my favorite explosion of seasonal color. No, not daffodils, nor azaleas -- though their blooming has always seemed to me akin to fireworks, explosions on an herbal time-scale. To be my favorite, the harbinger of spring must of course be edible.

PEEPS!

The Peeps have hatched, encamped on grocery shelves soon to advance rank upon rank into our homes, our Easter baskets, and our mouths. There are more colors of Peeps every year. I love Peeps. The delicate crunch of the sugar coating, the sweet, yielding marshmallow goodness. But I love also the personality of Peeps, although it is an iconic, a collective personality. There are no individuals, only The Peep. The shape, the posture, the hint of facial features, combine to imply resigned humor, tinged with irony or perhaps vague irritation.

"Bring it," they seem to say. And they wink knowingly.

When I saw them I became happy. I ran over to the shelves where the legions were arrayed and said, "peeeeps!" in a very tiny, happy, high-pitched voice. And then I got embarrassed, and wondered if anyone was looking at me.

I gathered my ration and slunk away, wondering. That little exclamation had been compelling and irrepressible. I couldn't not say it. I wanted to say it some more: "peeps! peeeeeps! peeeeps!"

It was the Peep Imperative.

I was familiar with this compulsion in a different form. The Him and I have for quite a while been aware of the Moo Imperative, that compulsion to bellow "mooOOOOOOOoo" at every cow I see. (Usually when I'm in a mooooooving car. I can't see them from planes, for which my fellow passengers no doubt thank their blessed stars). The Meow Imperative? Well, more accurately the Urgent Meow. Not quite a compulsion. There is no Woof Imperative that I'm aware of, which is a good thing since I have so many dogs. Its possible that I woof a lot, but I'm likely to just view it as conversation, so its hard to tell.

No, that's disingenuous; I do woof quite a lot, and it is conversation.

I guess all these imperatives, manic or otherwise, are a little odd, but they seem harmless. Other than making me a bit furtive at the grocery store, they don't seem to impede my living, in fact they're pleasurable. Like greeting friends.

Back to Josephus and Cassius Dio.

Shut up. I've already started dinner, and the dryer is running.

peep.

Excuses, Excuses

2009-03-02T05:50:00.000-08:00

Recently, less than three weeks ago because I am a Luddite at heart - fine, a Luddite who blogs, I get your point -- I jumped into the social internetworking pool and signed up with Facebook. It's one of those pastimes that can easily become addictive if one is very, very bad at creating structure for one's life and managing one's time effectively. Not naming any names.
Now that the initial high is passing, and the frenetic exploration of applications and miscellaneous side doodles (Dogbook, anyone?), I have time to reflect on some of the things I've ingested.

This isn't mine. It belongs to Wikipedia, or whoever.

One meme I particularly enjoyed was the 100 Books List -- don't Gooogle it right now, it'll keep. I have yet to find the original context of the list, ascribed to the BBC ("The BBC thinks you haven't read more than 6 of these..." ). The list is popularly interpreted as something like "The 100 Greatest Works of Literature, Which, if You Have Not Yet Read, You Must Begin to Do So Immediately Lest Your Brain Decompose and Dribble Out of Your Ear Like Oatmeal, You Colonial Imbeciles."

It seems pretty arbitrary to me, with The Five People You Meet in Heaven right in there with War and Peace and the Complete Works of Shakespeare. Some of them are new, and while pleasant and thought-provoking, will not qualify as Great Works for another century or so. I did note that all of the books have been made into movies (I think), or in the case of the newer titles, have movie versions in the works, so I'm guessing that the original context was something innocuous like "have you read these, or did you see the movie?"
Now, I certainly believe the BBC would shake its manicured finger at us for not doing our homework, but I hesitate to ascribe to the Beeb anything more sinister than the lecture we all received from our high school English teachers about how the movie is DIFFERENT THAN THE BOOK and there will be questions on the test that will tell me if you've ACTUALLY READ THE BOOK, and the same goes for CLIFFS NOTES ...
We know that our teachers hated us, but do you think that this is why? Because we reduced them to begging? They gave us finely wrought gems, immaculate pearls, and yes, oh yes, we were swine.

All of this aside, at first I was very pleased with this list, and with myself, and gloated just a teeny little bit because I had read many of the books on the list, and got to put many little x-es in the left hand column. MANY books. Did I say many?
No, I really shouldn't. Well, okay, more than 50. I wont say how many, but it was approximately 83.75%
On the surface of course I was -- well, not falsely modest, but casual, so as not to appear to be gloating.
Then I realized how shallow and needy I am, my little Gollum mind.
Now I'm realizing how pathetic it is to blog about this, an opportunity to casually mention how many MANY little x-es I marked, and then to be clever and amusingly self-deprecating, and then falsely earnest about how its not really important in the grand scheme of things, to foster the impression that I'm a good person who will do better in the future, which excuses the gloating.

Shut up.

The 100 Books meme got stirred into the Bucket List meme in my mind, and I began to resent both of them for the same reason: not my list, monkey-boy, as Lord John Whorfin would say.
The books on the List that I haven't read yet are probably going to remain unread, with the exception of The Kite Runner and maybe His Dark Materials. Some of the books I have read I didn't like, some I hated, many bored me to tears but I slogged through because I'd be tested on it or I just wanted to say I'd done it, some I love so much I've reread them dozens of times.
Hey, blog fodder! I'll make a Bucket Book List! Post it and compare with friends! Kicky!
Here's the part that disturbs me: when I sat down to attempt a Bucket Book List for myself, I couldn't think of any.
Any.
Over the course of a day I was able to come up with several possibles, but each one resulted in, "Not really." Simone de Beauvoir, The Faerie Queen (I did try it), Gravity's Rainbow, all meh.
Today I thought of Virginia Woolf, whom I've somehow bypassed, and she went on the list, but that's it so far.
I've lost my appetite for books.
This is an appalling discovery for a book person, akin to realizing that one has lost the sense of touch, or the desire for sex or chocolate.
"Are you feeling well?" I asked me anxiously, "I told you not to go out in that sleigh with Bezukhov."

Perhaps I am merely grown wise with the passage of years, I thought, I know what I like, I don't waste my time.

Waste? Reading is a waste of time?

"Do you think that you've read all the good books? You're not that well read," I said to me with a sneer. "Getting lazy?"

No, and yes. Not lazy, precisely, or not just lazy. I still read, but things like short stories, and my Dad's poetry, and blogs, and trashy novels that I can blow through in a couple of hours.
I can't blame it on my kid, she's ten. I was still reading when she was a toddler, why not now that she doesn't need my undivided attention?
I can't blame it on work, because I'm home, and though there's a lot of work to do, I often blow it off for worse reasons than reading a good book.
I could blame it on psych meds, but I'm better and more focused now than I ever have been, and the reading ennui predates the drugs.
These days even thinking about reading a whole book makes me feel tired. I'm impatient with fiction, and no longer have the attention span to comprehend plot. I do still read some history and biography, maybe because the plot is pretty narrowly defined.
Is that it? That's the best I can do? What's going on here?

Yes, I do blame the Russians.

Hungry Like the Wolf

2009-02-27T06:12:00.000-08:00

Wednesday I had lunch with someone (postworthy in itself), and that someone is one of the eponymous wolves of this blog, in fact the wolf. Lunch was at Sushi 101, also postworthy since sushi is a rare fish indeed in rural South Carabunga. And it was delicious. But I digress.

This particular friend, whom I shall refer to as Best Writer Girl Friend (or BWGF), became my friend in the early '90s. If you think waaaaaay back to that era, you might remember the two titles that were violated to form the phrase in question. They are Women Who Run With The Wolves, and Dances With Wolves. The former was the female empowerment bible du jour, and the latter was -- in case you were unborn or living on the moon at the time -- a wildly popular movie. The title refers to the protagonist's honorary Native American name. No doubt in PC-world I should be able to name the tribe/nation and dialect, but excuse me, I haven't seen the movie. And it was a movie, people.

[Oh, and anyone who confuses wolf-bitch with that appalling pop-culture artifact, cougar, should expect to be mauled in a dark restaurant sometime very soon. We are watching you from the shadowed booth in the corner, and we are sharpening our pencils. ]

Women Who Run With The Wolves' popularity coincided with the advent of female friendships in my life. Prior to my thirties I had had only one or two close friendships with women. I was profoundly distrustful of women, whether because I am one and know too well our faults and duplicity, or because I was raised with brothers, by a mother who was beautiful, intelligent, briskly efficient, and keenly sarcastic. She had no patience with the girly life (simpering and eye-fluttering produced a snort of derision) hates fussing over clothes, thinks makeup is a chore, and would rather read a good mystery than go to the mall.

Entering my thirties I had the good fortune to encounter a therapist who had a practical approach -- she encouraged me to find emotional sustenance in people other than my therapist and my husband, in activities other than therapy or marriage. She also gave me homework: read Women Who Run with The Wolves. So yes, ma'am, I did. The book has endured some backlash but I think it has held up well, and it will always hold a place in my heart and my psyche. My affection for it may have to do with my childhood obsession with The Jungle Book. NOT the Disney mishmash; but the authentic, humid, deeply British yet anti-colonialist Kipling original, beloved by my passionate nine-year-old heart and woven deep into my subconscious.

As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled
Once, twice and again!
And a doe leaped up, and a doe leaped up
From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup.
This I, scouting alone, beheld,
Once, twice and again!
As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled
Once, twice and again!
And a wolf stole back, and a wolf stole back
To carry the word to the waiting pack,
And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track
Once, twice and again!
As the dawn was breaking the Wolf Pack yelled
Once, twice and again!
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
Eyes that can see in the dark--the dark!
Tongue--give tongue to it! Hark! O hark!
Once, twice and again!
Hunting Song of the Seeonee Pack, by Rudyard Kipling

Having done my homework, I set out into the wilderness of suburban life. One community theater audition later,* I had several friends, all women. I nurtured these friendship all the more fiercely for the novelty of sisterhood. I am very glad that I did. Two of those friendships (hi Tinkerbell) have lasted fifteen years; without the two of them, I would have missed out on a great deal of joy, and the best things that have happened to me since have been all the sweeter for sharing with them. One of the two is BWGF, without whose support I would have given up on writing long ago.

Fast forward a couple of years. BWGF's then boyfriend, who had been taught to understand the importance of sisterhood and not get in our way, referred to her circle of friends/writers as "that pack of wolves you run with." Which phrase, being pretty funny, lodged itself in our lexicon.

Another coupla years, and a glass of wine or two over lunch with the wolves, and I went home to report on the state of the pack. During that post-prandial post-mortem, I received my honorary faux Native American name: I am Lunches With Wolves.

I am not entirely sure whether the phrase was uttered by me or The Him. I have a tendency toward confabulation and often co-opt his stories, as he co-opts mine. So I will split the difference and say that we came up with it. (but I'm sure it had to be me.)

To BWGF and my she-wolf friends, old and new, and a nod to Kipling:

Here's to the she-wolves who've kept me sane,
the sisters who ward from impending pain,
who welcome the night with a wild refrain:
Once, twice, and again!

When's the next full moon?

[*The show was Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and I was Emilie the courtesan. You know, the writing desk.]

What Do You Take In Your Coffee?

2009-02-25T05:40:00.000-08:00

In case anyone is still unconvinced, today I will relate an anecdote supporting the contention that coffee is a drug. Albeit useful, legal, and available at most beverage purveyors throughout most of the world.
Because of the sensitive nature of the topic of addiction, and to protect persons depicted, we will refer to the addict in question as M.E.

Said addict keeps (or kept) her coffee in a heavy glass mason jar, the kind with a hinged clamp-type lid thingie. That is, the already ground coffee -- like many addicts, she insists that the best coffee is freshly ground, and buys her black smack uncut: whole-bean French Roast is her preferred fix.

M.E. is clumsy, which she attributes to congenital dorkiness but this observer suspects may be a symptom of brain damage caused by her addiction. Yesterday she dropped the jar of coffee and the lid broke. Because of the clamp thingie the lid remained in place and she chose denial rather than dealing with the situation immediately (another likely symptom of brain damage). She put the jar on the shelf.

This morning she shuffled into the kitchen (six -o-freakin'-clock), dazed, hands almost imperceptibly a-tremble, and pulled out the stash and the joe-bong. When she opened the jar, the cracked lid finally fell apart. She stared in dismay at her stash, noticing the flakes and bits of broken glass that had mixed with the grounds by the action of the original impact and subsequent handling of the jar.

Here is where the ugly truth of addiction asserts itself.
This was good coffee, M.E. thought, the organic stuff from Mexico that Beth gave her for Christmas.
There was no other coffee in the house.
She hadn't scored any at the grocery store because it was the end of the month and she was broke and this jar was supposed to last her one more week until she could afford more.

Yes.

She did.

M.E. brewed it knowing that her joe-bong, a cheap $10 made-in-china model, had a tendency to back up and send the grounds flooding over the filter and into the pot.

She brought some back from

Honduras last summer.

Which it did.

Having one or two brain cells left, she chose not to drink this brew (and by "chose" I am indicating that she thought about it). She dumped it in the sink and carefully rinsed out the pot and the basket, and wiped out the basket tray and the water reservoir (for the uninitiated -these are components of the joe-bong, known as a "coffee pot" in the medical literature ). These actions indicate that she understood the potential danger of ingesting broken glass.

At this point I expected M.E. to dispose of the rest of the tainted coffee. I'm sure you would think the same. Those of you who are not twitching husks of your former selves.

No.

She did not.

M.E. carefully adjusted a new filter, fiddled with the basket mechanism, and checked the position of the pot several times to ensure adequate filter function. She brewed another pot. Successfully filtered (we hope).
And drank it.

Don't let this happen to you.

J.G.tR.

*ps - does anyone else savor the delicious irony that coke is smuggled in huge honking crates of coffee?

Mayhem in ImaginationLand

2009-02-20T09:23:00.000-08:00

I've resisted posting about Tigrrrl's antics because I swore to myself that I wouldn't, and I struggled mightily to resist but as it turns out, here I am exploiting my child. I promise this will be the ONE AND ONLY time. I've made a deal with Rae at Us In Tejas. She will handle future Tigrrrrl awesomeness, and I will preserve the fiction of parental responsibility.

But just this once.

FYI: a) I did ask for, and receive, the author's release for the short story. Not the vocabulary list, but I feel that was implied; b) all spelling and punctuation (including quotation marks) is true to original; c) we recently watched The Civil War as part of American History, and are covering Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome this month, along with the Civil Rights Movement;

d) Tigrrrl refers to her own private world as ImaginationLand. Where animals talk, women wear whatever they please any time of day, words may sound like English but have meanings known only to native speakers, and men are accessories. Also beads and sequins are major food groups.

First, "Use the word in a sentence" exercise from 2/06/09

1. Interrupt: "Do Not interupt Me, John."

2. Support: "Why did you support Them, Bregro?"

3. License: "Show me your license."

4. Cunning: "You Ain't As cunning As my cat, Bob."

5. Marriage: "Marriage is a Pain, Carol, I Know That."

6. Publish: "You Ai'nt gonna Publish No book, even in Fifty years."

7. Minimum: "Your Minimum is just one I bet."

8. Supply: "Don't you dare supply Them with ammo!"

9. Naturally: " Naturally, it'd be Nice if you were gone, Troy."

10. Bluff: "You are Soooooo gonna have To bluff, Cassie."

Comments:

Points for use of contractions, and a fine ear for dialect. We'll work on "ain't" and "gonna" next week.

Thoughts:

#1. John must be her future husband.

#2 " Them" is possibly a new political party in ImaginationLand. There are several already. Bregro is a new stuffed animal who is currently headlining in her war games --I mean fantasy world.

#3 The light was yellow when I entered the intersection. ALCOHOL NOT A FACTOR

#4 "But then so few people are, Bob."

#5 This is fiction, right? Therapy will help, right? Maybe Carol is Bob's wife.

#6 I take this personally, since i'm the only aspiring writer in the house. Not only will she publish before me, she might have a Pulitzer before she finishes college.

#7 I really hope she's not taunting Bob and Carol about their inability to hold their liquor.

#8 An alarming turn of events. Looks like Them is trying to stage a coup.

#9 Troy is either her second husband, or the captured leader of Them. I'm guessing about this. I'm afraid to ask for clarification, don't want to open that whole Extraordinary Rendition/ Waterboarding can of worms again.

#10 Poor Cassie. You are in soooooo far over your head.

In some ways being her teacher sucks, because I have to correct things like spelling, grammar, capitalization, and punctuation, and who wants to mess with this kind of perfection?

And it's obvious I'll be scheduling a parent-teacher conference for a little chat about some more therapy sessions with Dr. Pat. Homeschooling is not for the faint of heart.

Next, A vocabulary exercise from 2/13/09, "Use five of this week's words in a story." FYI: We do not live in or near Tulsa. We have never lived there. We do not know anyone who lives there. Ditto Oklahoma. Okay, She has a great-uncle in Tahlequah, but that's a stretch. We live far, far east of the Mississippi. Why Tulsa?

Let me set the stage first. Here's what I'm picturing:
Late afternoon settling into dusk. Action: A crowd of townspeople carrying torches and pitchforks, led by our protagonist Bregro- a sergeant in the local National Guard unit, "Sarge" to his friends -- has laid siege to the IRS office.

In Tulsa, Oklahoma.

"I'm To struggle To Adjust To This New Tax?!" said The sergant. "am I To suffer unwillingly and unneedingly?!" He said. "You government Tax People are just Plain vulgar, no other word for you!?" said a woman in The crowd. "You Tax People are unjust!" said a 15 year old boy. "Obama must Change Tax amounts or we strike!" said The Mayor. The result of That day was agonizing.

[the last she threw in for extra credit. She can count to 5, I promise]

Here I thought she didn't pay any attention when I listen to NPR. In six sentences we have unfair treatment of military personnel, class warfare, the rise of political consciousness among the nation's youth, pressures of interest groups on the transitioning administration, labor activism (or possibly civil disobedience), the influence of local government in the democratic process, and lastly, historical commentary.

I think I'll put off teaching about the French Revolution for a couple more years.

The storming of the Bastille.

The Long, Dark, Nap-time of the Soul

2009-02-15T12:04:00.000-08:00

Sunday afternoon is naptime. Sundays are in a different space-time continuum than other days: you can nap for three or four hours and wake up and it's still not suppertime.

Every nap-moment is 24k gold. Just so you know that I am sacrificing precious napping minutes posting this.

"Oh, you really shouldn't," you say. "Really. Please."

Nevertheless.

Before I go to my not-eternal rest, I give you two totally unrelated items.

Appearances to the contrary, this is not something I ordered by mistake at a sushi bar. Sushi looks waaaaaay better than this, and I'm not just saying that 'cause I like it.

Exhibit A.

This, good friends, is SCIENCE. By resident (mad and rad) scientists Tigrrrl and Me. On the left, meet Model of Animal Cell. Right, Model of Plant Cell.

Exhibit A (1): ANIMAL CELL

Not quite clear enough... let me adjust the magnification here... Aah. Better.

Cell membrane (saran wrap) CHECK

Nucleus (grapefruit slice) CHECK

Nucleolus (green olive) CHECK

Cytoplasm (peach gelatin) CHECK...

Also included in this smorgasbord are peanuts, mandarin orange slices, gumdrops, wild rice, spaghetti and a few of those little hot peppers from a bottle of pepper vinegar.

Those were the ribosomes, I think. No...mitochondria.

Exhibit A (2): PLANT CELL

Wait... let's get a closeup of Plant Cell...

Mmmmmmm.

Nucleus (lime slice. --lower left. The lime was a little gnarly, so it fell apart. This may indicate cancer.) CHECK

Nucleolus (black olive) CHECK

Chloroplasts (pumpkin seeds dyed w.green food coloring) CHECK
Vacuole (grapefruit section) CHECK

Golgi Bodies (flat rice noodles) CHECK

Endoplasmic Reticulum (wiggly rice noodles) CHECK

Cell wall (brown tissue paper) CHECK.

Cytoplasm (grape gelatin) CHECK

These have been sitting in my freezer for...well, a while. Let's not go into that. Mostly they were just too cool to throw away at first. That and I couldn't stomach taking their photos when they were newly formed because they were gelatin and that was just too disturbingly...glisteny.

So I saved them just for you.

Homeschooling is awesome.

And in closing, our regular feature...

You want another look at those SHEWS
Dontcha.

Today's Shews: western stitched flats by Mootsies Tootsies. a.k.a. HA!chacha Redneck New Yorkers

Mood Implications: Outta my way; or I-can-just-sit-here-and-still-be-dancin.

These were rechristened last night when me and my friend Holly were looking at them and her sister said hey, they're red and black, and I turned my tootsies to this fetching pose and said, "No, they're red-and-yellow-and-black-and white......"

Whereupon Holly and I looked at each other and sang in unison, "They are precious in His sight!"

(Church can have that effect on some people.)

So these are now my Jesus Loves the Little Children shoes.

And yes I wore them to church this morning, because after all I was ushering.

Nightie Night.

Get Out Your Insulin

2009-02-14T09:48:00.001-08:00

A Valentine's Soliloquy

I am going to take a break from the snark, just this once, to thank all my friends for being my friends,

[not really us. Although if it were, I'd be the girl in the middle.]

and also to my family for being my family,

[not really us. Probably.] photo by Gregory Perez

click photo link to KEXP Blog.

and to both groups for putting up with me. I acknowledge my many flaws, among them

saying unkind things,

forgetting important things a LOT,

saying I will do things and then not,

being loud and angry,

being loud and happy,

being loud in general,

saying embarrassing things that make others cringe,

saying vulgar things that should make me cringe,

oversharing in general, [this blog is an attempt to divert some of that from y'all]

being a slob,

making everything I do wrong someone else's fault,

rarely admitting when I'm wrong,

creating needless drama,

talking about my dogs all the time,

saying things that sound like I'm one-upping you,

talking during movies,

talking while I'm eating,

talking when I should be doing something else

going on and on about stuff ....

Okay we don't have time to finish this list here.

This is not a substitute for trying to improve my behavior. I'm just saying thank you, and I'll try harder, and I love you all and don't deserve you, and I know it.

I would like to say to those friends who have stayed around for a long time (though you may often wonder why you have): one of the joys of growing up is having friendships that can be measured in decades. It still astounds me whenever I think of it. Such friendships are rare, and I savor them all. Thank you.

[also not me. But it should be.] photo by Emilie Wood. Click on image. Go look at more of her gorgeous photos

Gotta go. I've got something in my eye.

Back in the Saddleblog

2009-02-13T04:23:00.000-08:00

Brief but ghastly and violent bout of something (food poisoning? flu? cholera?) silenced me for a few days. (NOTHING can shut me up for very long.) As I'm too weak to type -

no, seriously.

(Exhibit A)

I'll stick to pictures, mostly. Just for today.
Exhibit B: Define"promotional."

"Promotional Ficus"
1. It was at the very back of the SupahWa'Mart
2. Between the Plastic Slippers Final Sale and the cargo door to the Way, Way Back (Authorized Personel Only),
3. On a shelf containing 2 other lonely ficii, and nothing else,
4. With no explanatory signage, posters... nothin.

So, help me out here...?

Continuing Features:

Yesterday's Shews: gaga-geometric canvas sneakers.(a.k.a. Barbie Bowling Shoes). Comfy and perky.
Mood Implications: Perky, "Look at my sassy li'l self!" attention- seeking; or, conversely, "very bad day ahead, these might sustain me."

Today's OoA: B/W photo of Grampa Alberto and family.
Coral Gables, Florida. c.1942(?).
That's Daddy on the right. The little scamp.
[Edit: he does not have a black eye. Bad photo of photo]

Exhibit A is an illustration from The Window at the White Cat by Mary Roberts Rinehart (publ. 1910)

Sigh.

2009-02-09T06:52:00.001-08:00

1) I really need to do something about that.
2) It's Monday.
3) Again.
4) On the bright side, we got the Christmas tree taken down yesterday.

Pop Culture Maven

2009-02-08T11:01:00.000-08:00

It says something (not anything good) about the level of cultural discourse that is my natural milieu, that I recently had the honor of explaining the meaning of camel toe and polterwang to my circle of friends. On the same day.
I am not going to define these terms here, because my Mom reads this, so look at the links if you want clarification. (Mom, I'll tell you in person if you're curious.)
When the first of these terms dropped and met with confused silence, The Him's guy radar went off and he left the room very quickly. I ordered the other males to leave then, so I could utter sacred words of revelation, so they'd hear it from their wives later and not from me.
This event illustrates the downside of being a word junkie. I am attracted to unusual words, slang, acronyms, jargon, and all of that. I derive pleasure from knowing just the right word. This may sound very scholarly and elevated, but seems to result in me being the one who knows all the bad words. Is there such a thing as borderline Tourette's? Granted I take a childish delight in being the one knowing, but as I am a blurter, opportunities for saying EXACTLY the wrong thing to the wrong person are exponentially increased.
On the upside, it will generate myriad opportunities for embarrassing my daughter when she is a teenager.

Today's Shews: (post-church): black leather thong sandals. It's 72 degrees here, people. BTW my feet are not hairy, the sandals are a little frayed. Oh and you can see what I was talking about viz. wide feet.

Today's OoA: brand new Calphalon cookie sheets, a Christmas gift from my BIL. Those cookies are tasty, let me tell you. I'm eating one right now. Not a single one burned. Thank you, Hank.

I've Got Bette Davis Eyes

2009-02-07T05:44:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Amy for putting me onto this Quiz, and to HelloQuizzy.com. Ava Gardner would have been my dream self, but Bette kicks butt, so I'm happy. Soooooo thankful I'm not Joan Crawford.
I've followed Amy's prescription and highlighted the most important element.

Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz...

You Are a Bette!

You are a Bette -- "I must be strong"

Bettes are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective.

How to Get Along with Me

* Stand up for yourself... and me.
* Be confident, strong, and direct.
* Don't gossip about me or betray my trust.
* Be vulnerable and share your feelings. See and acknowledge my tender, vulnerable side.
* Give me space to be alone.
* Acknowledge the contributions I make, but don't flatter me.
* I often speak in an assertive way. Don't automatically assume it's a personal attack.
* When I scream, curse, and stomp around, try to remember that's just the way I am.

What I Like About Being a Bette

* being independent and self-reliant
* being able to take charge and meet challenges head on
* being courageous, straightforward, and honest
* getting all the enjoyment I can out of life
* supporting, empowering, and protecting those close to me
* upholding just causes

What's Hard About Being a Bette

* overwhelming people with my bluntness; scaring them away when I don't intend to
* being restless and impatient with others' incompetence
* sticking my neck out for people and receiving no appreciation for it
* never forgetting injuries or injustices
* putting too much pressure on myself
* getting high blood pressure when people don't obey the rules or when things don't go right

Bettes as Children Often

* are independent; have an inner strength and a fighting spirit
* are sometimes loners
* seize control so they won't be controlled
* figure out others' weaknesses
* attack verbally or physically when provoked
* take charge in the family because they perceive themselves as the strongest, or grow up in difficult or abusive surroundings

Bettes as Parents

* are often loyal, caring, involved, and devoted
* are sometimes overprotective
* can be demanding, controlling, and rigid

Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at <

Velcro Words

2009-02-06T06:53:00.000-08:00

I have just coined this term, if anyone else has already coined it too bad. Mine.

[ It occurs to me I'm going to get legal hate from the Velcro people.
Oh like they're going to notice. I wish. Anyway "Hook-and-Loop fastening Words" has no panache.]

Etymology: derives from "velcro tune, " another term I like to think of as mine, those little melodies that once lodged in the brain become a form of torture.

Its a small world after all, its a small world after all...

You're welcome.

Velcro words are, however, largely benign, and the associations are pleasant if distracting. They are words that stick to the brain. Little cockleburrs attracted to our mental fluff, our grey matter (so much less icky to think of it as fur)

xanthium strumarium

The generation of Velcro Words is user specific. They are attracted to whatever makes you tick: hobby, vocation, belief system, anything. If you're a word person it can be any savory word, snood, archipelago, mortician, rampart, imperative. For me its usually costume related: textiles, sewing tools and methods, archaic garments, accessories, fastenings...

No wonder I chose "velcro." A reflexive Velcro Word!

Photo from Wikipedia. Caption reads: The hairshirt of St. Joseph of Leonessa (d. 1612) in the Church of Giuseppe in Leonessa, Italy.

aka cilice [SILL-iss], hair-cloth, sackcloth....! So that's what sackcloth is.

So the word that prompted this musing was "hairshirt." [Thank you, Word Mechanic] I first encountered this word, I don't know, junior high? I ran to the dictionary. I was that kind of kid. A word nerd. Dictionaries, encyclopedias, smart people, the Bible -- these are all we had before Google and Wikipedia. For those who are not word nerds, religious fanatics, or seminary students, a hairshirt is a purposely uncomfortable garment worn in penitence for real or imagined sins. Popular in the Old Testament, and the Middle Ages, when guilt was an international sport. The Hebrews wore them publicly as part of the mourning ritual [the sackcloth and ashes thing]. In the Middle Ages you were supposed to wear them secretly, under your clothes and armor and whatnot, but I'm betting that penitents engaged in hairshirt oneupmanship.

Enough about that. Back to the velcro. Velcro Words become enmeshed because they excite the imagination and stimulate a cascade of questions. Little bolts of electricity go darting off to other word files. Smoke rises from your brain.

Mine went something like this:

Hairshirt...was it kind of like burlap? what kind of hair? human or animal? camel hair? [I preferred to think human. As it turns out, I was wrong. Usually goat hair] whose hair? did it have to be your own, or a family member's? did people sell their hair to hairshirt makers? [bzzzzt bloodbank spermbank ] did one donate it to the cause ? is that what they did with novitiates' hair when it was cut off?[bzzzzt A Nun's Story audrey hepburn romanholidaygregorypeck tokillamockingbird ...] RESET

who made hairshirts? did you have to make your own? did someone make a living selling them, and did they sell other penitiential gear? [bzzt cat-o-nine-tails, thorny crown] was the shirt woven or knitted? how thick was the yarn? how was it spun? [bzzzt drop spindle, dreidel, lap loom, pot holder] was it dyed, or was that considered frivolous? maybe they dyed it with blood? did they come in sizes? were the sizes deliberately mislabeled to maximize discomfort? did you wear it bathing, not that there was much bathing going on...did one forswear bathing to keep the shirt dry, or use hot water to make it shrink and embed itself...let's not go there/RESET wait, did anyone die from a hairshirt, like an infection or something?

I should note at this point that I'm not Catholic. Why I knew things like all that when I was 11, I have no idea. I used words like forswear in conversation. I did not get asked out a lot. A word nerd is above all else a nerd.

One of the joys of velcro words and the questions they raise is that the questions are often subliminal. Years later, one reads or sees something and BLAM you think "So that's what that was referring to..." [Note: "sackcloth" above was a BLAM].

The Him refers to these as "lightbulb moments" and did so long before Oprah sullied it with self-improvement (go wear a hairshirt and leave our words alone!). His favorite involved a Monty Python bit, "...are all your pets named Eric? ...Kamal Ataturk had an entire menagerie named Abdul..." which produced a BLAM decades later when he read an article in National Geographic that biographied Kemal Ataturk.

Yes I just used biography as a verb. Horrible but oh so satisfying. I will get hate mail for that. GOD I love English.

In closing, this is not a cockleburr [source]:

I thought it was an animal, perhaps related to this. And I was scared.

Ahoy, it's me Meme

2009-02-04T05:02:00.000-08:00

Got this blog-tag-meme thingie from Rae --I guess the purpose of these things is random rambling fodder, right? --
The game rules are as follows : Goto photos>goto folder 6>goto photo 6>upload/ramble/post>exe.tag (6)
I am incapable of executing any set of directions (most people who know me would stop me right there) without finding multiple interpretations. This means that I am impressively analytical, or that looking for an out is a reflex. (The search for the Letter of the Law Defense is ingrained.)
Or that I'm pig-headed and contrary.
Or that I'm a youngest child.
So here are two, with their respective rationalizations.

Literal Interpretation of Rules.
6th folder "Animals" : formerly entitled "Wildlife" because that was one of the sample folders on my new laptop and it amused me to put pictures of my dogs in it next to the Wildebeests or Thompson's gazelles or whatever they were. I felt that a little hard time on the savannah would make the dogs more appreciative of their cushy life here.
6th photo: Oreo. July 2008. Oreo belongs to someone else. (Zat is net meyh ket.) This photo was taken 6 months ago (appropriate) at a friend's lake house. Not her cat either. Lake House Friend Susan and Cat Friend Loren were both members of the team (me too) that went on our Presbytery's Honduras Mission trip last June. We all gathered at Lake House in July to debrief and re-une, eat, water-ski, swim, eat, look at pictures, etc. Loren brought Oreo because we considered him our mascot, because...
In May we had all gathered at fearless leader Rev. Fred's church to pack the crates of supplies and equipment for the trip. Families and friends participated in packing and then we all sat down to dinner and then Communion, a very moving experience in such a small and informal group. After dinner the kids ran around outside and Loren's younger brother found Oreo wandering, weak, and pitiful on the church grounds. Since the kitten was dehydrated, and tiny, a search was conducted for mama cat and other kittens, but none were found. Loren's family took the kitten home, and kitty's health and prospects were of much concern to Loren during the trip (okay, us too).
All of this explains why Oreo was at the Lake House. But the reason I have a picture of him (more like 6 or 8) is that he was appallingly cute and was at that precise moment playing with a giant bug. How could I not?

OPTION 2:

Possible Interpretation of Rules:
Folder #6 AFTER the "Date Taken" folders: Family
Surprisingly, there is no "Me" folder, so this ended up here.
Photo #6: pre-haircut mugshot. January 2009. Whenever I'm contemplating a change (house or self) I take some Before photos so that when InStyle or People wants to do that photo spread I'll be ready, you betcha.
Before pictures of self must be sans-makeup, in bad light, with uninspired expression, thereby maximizing the After effect. The left side of my face truly would have created maximum Beforage since it's sporting dermatitis (again). But I decided that it was about the Hair, not the Face, so there was my out. (See what I mean? Always an Out).
This particular look (taken 2 weeks ago) is the shattered remains of my pre-missiontrip haircut in May, which was quite kicky and carefree at its inception but had been rendered much less so by the predations of overgrowth, DIY trimming, and rancid degeneration of abandoned color and highlights. I surrendered to gray about a year ago because I'm too lazy and too broke to maintain the red I like.
I am happy that this is the Before picture.
BONUS: this gives me a justification to post my little slideshow of the NEW kicky and carefree 'do. A sample at left in my ID photo.
Proper After photos are taken in good light, with working-it-girl! expressions, and as much makeup as my irritable skin will allow.

Grab Bag

2009-02-03T06:56:00.001-08:00

Today's Shews: Teva river shoes. Drip dry, aerated, excellent traction, all-weather vehicles.

Mood Implications: Brisk Efficiency mode, vaguely techno-eco-chic

These little gems are almost bare-foot comfortable. I have big, wide feet, my Dad's genetic inheritance, and most shoes hurt, so I go without most of the time unless the temperature goes below freezing, it's snowing, or I'm in church. I often kick my shoes off in the car and put them on only when I have to go into a place of business. I take "No shirt, no shoes, no service" very personally -- though I have always wanted to see how fast I'd get served if I was shirtless, or if doing so would be worth it to get away with the barefoot thing.

Also they're so ugly they make me feel very European, which helps on some days, since I don't smoke.

OoA: Thomas' English Muffins

Dad is forgiven for the giant-feet DNA, because he is generally awesome otherwise such as bringing lovely and thoughtful gifts like this. Daddy brought me these from Town when he was last that way. [Women in the South are allowed to call their fathers "Daddy" all their lives without censure. So its a good thing i live where I do.] We don't get Thomas' here in these parts. The indigenous brand is "Bays"which are innoffensive - they do not sink to the level of, say, Hydrox -- but just not up to the gold standard. Thomas' are part of my family's birthright courtesy of Dad's brief but gloriously remembered employment at the Thomas' bakery in NYC. The Thomas' Stories are part of our holiday repertoire, like 8 part harmony hymns, Uncle Ray's jokes, and the entire score of The Music Man. Thank you, Daddy.

And I confess I kind of like the big feet, they make me feel sturdy.

Last but not least, Must Look:

http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/astropix.html

[Blank] of the Day

2009-02-02T12:05:00.000-08:00

Today's Shews: brown leather driving mocs w/shearling lining, supinate wear, paint splatters. Default shew setting.
Mood Implication: (+/-), have not yet left house at time of post.

Today's Object of Affection: [henceforth OoA]

"Bonjour" coffee bowl. 4 for .49/ea. at GoodWill. This holds more than a pint of coffee. And it has French on it.

Dog Reference Page

2009-01-31T14:33:00.000-08:00

This is really, really not going to be a dog blog. (a dlog?)

But I am a DOG PERSON.

In deference to those who are not, tho I doubt I know you, I'm just putting all the doggy backstory on one page so I don't go on ad nauseum, in future posts I'll try to refer to this page rather than repeat myself.
So.

I like and have owned cats too, but I still relate to them as if they were dogs, like very sarcastic and aloof dogs, because cats are much funnier that way, and more likable. If I relate to cats on their own merits, I wonder why I'm paying for food for this creature that doesn't seem to like me much. Sort of like doing book reports for the cute boy even though he still won't talk to me at lunch.

Which I did, I think. Maybe not. I'll post about the phenomenon of Confabulation later.

These are the hounds at present time.

A) house dogs, also know as The Inner Dogs

Brutus (left) beagleoid mutt, son of Lucy. aka "Brute Squad," "Brutappotamus," "Dumba**"

I make disgusting baby-talk when addressing him. He and Ouachie developed a mutual loathing and try to kill each other whenever they meet. Not hyperbole, we have the vet bills to prove it. Suffice it to say that they no longer meet. Brutus being otherwise not aggressive, and of a sleepy and sweet disposition, is allowed in the house.

Like his sister, (see Brot) Brutus intercepted a car one day. Suffered a modest hematoma on his brow, and a dislocated hip. The Vet and I speculate that if it hadn't hit his head first (his densest and least used appendage) the car would have killed him. Hip ball later removed without any apparent loss of function.

Lucy Goosey (right) street beagle, aka "Babymama," "Bag Lady," "Dollface," "Scarface"

The source of Brutus and Brot. Lucy was adopted by me (sucker) one cold February day, when I found her scrounging in a restaurant dumpster, so pregnant her belly could not clear the ground. At the time she still had both eyes. (she's not winking.) Happiest dog ever, despite being mostly deaf, mostly toothless, and increasingly blind (she often mistakes coats hanging on hooks for actual human beings. Maybe she's being sarcastic.)[Edit: Maybe she's a cat.]

B) And these are the outside dogs, aka The Outer Dogs, The Dogs of Insanity:

Ouachita (left). aka "Ouachie," "Catkiller," "S***head!"

(Ouachie is pronouced watchee -- when they were younger my nieces kept calling him Lookit)
Labbish mutt. Maybe Chowish. Stray acquired in Arkansas. He was my darling boy in younger years but through mismanagement has become aggressive, therefore canis non grata. Still love him but he's been banished to the kennel and is largely my husband's dog now, keeps him company in the shop.

Brotweiler (right) aka "Brot," "Magic Jumping Dog" A beagleoid mutt. Lucy's daughter. The name was a toss up, we tried "beagleweiler," but "Brot" won, mostly because it was a matched set with "Brut", her brother. This dog jumped --not climbed --a five foot fence a number of times. Since recovering from a car-induced broken pelvis, her superpowers have been reduced to that of mortal dogs. I saw the x-ray. I still can't believe she can walk, much less run, cavort, and tackle Ouatchie and Brutus. She is crazed and inexhaustible but good-natured.

B & B s car traumas make me wonder --- how many bones does a dog really need? How many do you have to remove to render them non-functional? I'm not saying I want to.

Item the First

2009-01-31T12:09:00.000-08:00

Why does my dog want to eat this?

This is he. (Brutus). Unlike all other dogs of my acquaintance, he is deeply cautious about ingesting the time-honored and definitively-carnivorous comestible -- raw meat.
He does partake of other dog-favorites like other species' scat, very ripe road kill, and anything left unguarded on the counter.

But...
soap?