Employment Opportunity?

From time to time (read: almost every dang day), I find myself stroking my chin thoughtfully (or, more likely, in pensive confusion over the Universe and its shenanigans).  As the years have fallen behind me, I've noticed a disturbing trend.
Wiry little hairs.

Wiry little hairs on my chin.

Dark wiry little hairs on my chin.

Now, what with being a witch and all, I suppose I should expect a few hairs and warts.  Aren't we supposed to have hairy warts?  Or moles?  Or...something?

Being distinctly lacking in green-hued skin and warts, I feel as though I'm coming up aces in the hairs department.

There are two or three (Or a million, who's counting?) pernicious little buggers that love to mock me, lurking in curled anticipation of my wandering fingers and springing forth to tease my fingertips with derisive laughter at my dismay.

Evil things, I loathe them.

As soon as I detect the telltale feeling of steel wool sprouting from my flesh, I begin to tug at them, desperate to pull them out and send them down the sink in a swirling death spiral, or at least cast them to the floor with a triumphant smile.

The hairs resist.

They are rooted deeply, at least three or four feet in, and my too-short fingernails aren't sufficient for the job.  Eventually I resort to the Tweezers of Tweezering Doom (TM, patent pending) and the Terribly Bright Spotlighting Flashlight of Brilliance (also TM, patent pending), shining said light under my chin and highlighting the horrors of time, weight loss, and hairy hellions.

I must be careful with my approach - come at them from the wrong angle and they slip free, and sometimes they manage to get a bit of skin in the tweezers as they dodge.  Ouch!  Sometimes I manage to get them square in the sweet spot of tweezery vengeance, but they simply let their upper part shear off, remaining a tiny black stump too short to grasp but long enough for me to see and feel for days, weeks even, as I wait for them to grow out again.

Sometimes I'll get on with nothing more than slightly longer than usual fingernails and determination, and then?  I want to hold it aloft and parade around the house to be admired with wonder and awe.  Alas, no one really cares, or can even really see the itty-bitty black curl, smaller than a 10 point comma, resting on my fingertip.

Sigh.

I could let them grow, multiply, takeover.  I hear there's good money in being a bearded lady, these days.

My vanity, however, says "Nay!", and so I stroke, and pluck, and cuss, and pluck, and occasionally feel sorry for myself and the swiftly dwindling remains of my scant femininity.

I'll let you know when I hit the freak show circuit.

Night Noise

Tink (wooden bead on the end of the fan pull, hitting the light fixture)

Tink-a-tink

Thunkatythunk (cat jumping down from somewhere she probably shouldn't be)

Snort (human, snoring lightly)

Tink

Tink-a-tink

Sktch-shktch-sraaaaaasktch (cat claws scrabbling on hard surface floor)

Skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch (cat trying to bury something in the litterbox by scratching the bottom, sides, top, and even outside of the box)

Hng, hrck, unga, hrn, kha, hurg, hork (cat barfing soewhere

Tink-a-tink

Clackety whoosh clack whoosh whoosh clickety-clack (unbalanced fan at highest speed)

Snort, skng, sknnnnxxxx (more snoring human)

Sknnnxxx, snort, kah, SKNNNNNNXXXXXXXXXXX

Tinka-tinka-tink

Drip, drop, drip, drop (shower dripping)

Meow?  Mow.  Myow?  Mrrrrow.  MRRRRROWWWWWWW!!!!!  (cat announcing her kill of the water bomb ball she found on the floor)

MMMRRROOOWWWWW, MOOOOWWWW, MYOOOWWWWW, MRRRRRRRR!!!!! (cat announcing her desire for company in feasting on said water bomb ball)

Sssssst!  (human trying to quiet the cat)

Mrr...?  (cat wondering where the water bob ball went)

SKNNNNXXXXXXXXtink-a-tink-myow-dripetty-drop, snort, tink, Sktch-shktch-sraaaaaasktch, snort, kah, SKNNNNNNXXXXXXXXXXX, Clackety whoosh, Clackety whoosh
Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (cats crowded onto the bed, content)

Sigh  (me, hoping to get back to sleep sooner rather than later)

Ink

I have tattoos.

Six of them.

I want more.

Many, many more.

There is something addictive in tattoo ink, I'm almost certain.  Ever since the first buzzing zing of the needles on my skin, I have wanted more, bigger, better.

Each of my tattoos has meaning to me - I don't just get ink for the sake of ink.  Each of the tattoos I'd like to get has meaning to me.  I am patient.  I can wait.  I prefer to ponder my ink art for a while, to be certain it's what I really want indelibly placed just beneath my skin surface to blaze out for all to see for the rest of my life.

I have a routine, when it comes to being inked.  When I find a design that I like, that resonates with me, I will think about it for a year, at least.  It's not a whim, for me.

It is sacred.

On her last cruise, my mother found a symbol that struck me to the core, and lately I have been noodling with ideas for a tattoo design.  It will have to wait, to ferment, to percolate, because tattooing isn't cheap, and I need to be sure.  Meanwhile, I have a few other ideas on the back burner.

Why bring this up?

Because I crave ink.

I spent about an hour this evening perusing designs and daydreaming about where to put them, and from whom to get them.

I'm going to need a lottery win to fund all the ink I want.

Are you tattooed?  What do you have, where, and why?  If not, do you want to be?

Fa La La La La, La La La Blah

I'm struggling with myself right now.  I'm feeling tired and worn, not entirely physically and in ways that mere sleep cannot mend.

Because he's on probation, there are things that Someone is not permitted to do, a curfew he must adhere to, and things that he must do to satisfy the terms of his plea agreement and his probation.

There are varying consequences for failing to do what he must or for doing what he mustn't.  They call these consequences "sanctions".

He was doing well enough, but in the last month he's had four sanctions.  He used substances bot unlawful and prohibited by probation.  The first sanction was extra community service and extra AA meetings.  The second sanction was 24 hours in jail.  The third was 6 days in jail.  Now he's on his fourth, a probation violation, and I'm told he'll be in jail until at least January 3.

He's barely been home and he's gone again.

Once again he will not be with us for Yule.  It is possible that he will miss both children's birthdays as well.  I am once again a single mother.

This has an impact on me, on my children, on our collective lives.  Not only do we not have what income he may have earned because he cannot work while in jail, I have the added expense of paying for phone calls and commissary if I choose to do so, and I can't just leave him in there without the means to communicate, at least.  I won't make the kids do without anything, but it does add to my struggle.  This on top of it being a time for spending on gifts and whatnot.

I hate feeling like I can't give my children very much when it comes to prezzies.  Luckily there are others in their lives who make up for my slack, people like Mom and T and K2 and Mizz A, and many more, all of whom love my children and spoil them silly.  At their ages, keeping the power and water on (not a given on a good day) and food available aren't awfully interesting or important, and honestly I don't even do that on my own, so I can't take credit.  Anyway, it's difficult to wrap the power, but sometimes I'm tempted to put a bow on the faucet.

I suppose I am just feeling the usual ebb that comes with this time of year.  I'm so frustrated by my inability to earn income, to manage finances like a wizard, to keep up with myself...everything seems so bleak to me.

I know it's crass to talk about money, but it'd be easier to avoid talking about if so much of one's value didn't hinge upon one's financial worth and if so much of our life in this country wasn't centered on income, on cash flow.
To help combat these feelings, I'm spending as much time as I can manage in the kitchen for the next few days.  It's cookie season, and while I don't have the demand for them that I used to, I still like to make up plates of cookies and give them to people.  I can still manage a little holiday cheer, even when I'm feeling rather in the dumps...and if making (and saying the name of) Snickerdoodles doesn't bring at least a small smile to my face, then I know things are dire, indeed.

Seriously.  Say "Snickerdoodle" without cracking even the tiniest grim.  Betcha can't.

Mondaying

Well it started nicely enough with a long snuggle with Sprout on the big comfy bed and a slow wake up.

She asked for a bologna sandwich for breakfast and I obliged.  Heated some sausage biscuits for me.  Poured some OJ.  Settled at the table for a bite and some dinking around on the computer.

But then...

Then the cup of OJ levitated itself, turned over, and send an orange wave of utter, citrusy destruction flowing across the table and onto my computer, phone, and plate of biscuits.  Before I could even reach for a towel, juice was dripping onto the floor. And my feet.

One dishcloth and half a roll of paper towels later, it seemed like I had it all cleaned up, but my computer had a black screen and wouldn't talk to me.  Oh.  No.

As I ate an OJ infused biscuit, I pondered what to do.  Screaming and crying seemed like good options, but maybe I shouldn't just leap right into panic mode.

By the way, slightly orange juiced sausage biscuits are not horrible.

I decided to turn off Albino Bob and restart him.

So far, so good.  My keys may be a little sticky because they're the recessed kind and I can't pop them off for cleaning, but I'll live...and so, I believe, will Bob.  Now to finish breakfast and see what else Monday wants to throw at me.  Oy.

In With the New

I have a new boyfriend.

I met him at Lowe's a couple of months ago.  Mom was with me, and she thought he was pretty nice, too.  She approves of him.  She thinks he'll be a huge help with getting chores done around here.

Do you believe in love at first sight?  I don't know how I feel about that.  I think we can convince ourselves that we're in love only to find it fading as quickly as it came over us.  But this?  This is The One.  I knew as soon as I saw him.  After we met, I spent hours daydreaming about him as I stood at the sink, stared out the window, and washed some of the unending piles of plates, bowls, cups, cutlery, and goddess knows what else was in the sink at any given moment.

He's not flashy, but he's nice to look at, he's quiet, confident, he works hard, and he does dishes.  He does dishes!  Eeeeee!

He's also nice to touch.  Smooth, firm, steady on his feet, well  leveled.  He moved in yesterday and is already integrated into life at Casa de Crazy.

He's not camera shy so I took some photos of him just after he got settled.  He's quite comfortable and I think he means to stay.  He fits right in, and I'm hoping that this will last a long, long time.  
Even the kids are delighted to have him here with us.

Would you like to meet him?

Have a look:

 Oooh, sexy devil...

 Hmm...so strong...

 He has a big heart...

Oh, yeah...

Wait, what?  You thought I was talking about a person?

Oh...umm...no...no...but I guess I can see where you might think that.

Sorry 'bout the confusion.

Now if you'll excuse me (and even if you won't), I'm going to go fondle my new love, push a few of his buttons, run my hand lovingly across his front, and see how much of my dirty (dishes) he can handle at once.

How're YOU doing?

Spending the Lottery Winnings

Wait, what do you mean I have to buy a ticket?

Well.

That explains a lot.

Ahem.

One of my little pastimes is to imagine what I might do with a lottery windfall.  Not a paltry million or two, I'm talking something along the lines of the recent Gabillion Dollar Lottery Extravaganza (now with more Holy Wow power!)

First and foremost, I'd pay off the mortgage on Casa de Crazy, then fix the old girl up inside and out.  Then, buy land up by my mother's place and build my dream home.

Next I'd zero out all of my mother's debts.I'd buy an RV and travel a little with my family.

Next would come creating a trust for me and my family to live off of.  I'd need it, as I am not so very good with money and would hate to wind up like one of the people on that show about the lottery ruining their lives.

Then I'd set up trusts for my kids and a few other kids.  These trusts would be to pay for education either in college or in trades.  The idea would be to make it so these kids could go and learn without worrying about how to pay for it or carrying a huge debt load after finishing their education.  If any of 'em don't want to go to school, the trust will vest in their late 20's or early 30's and they can use it to fund their lives for as long as it lasts.  For the ones that do go to school, anything left when they graduate is theirs for the keeping.

Then I would set up a scholarship fund of some sort, maybe more than one - something in the sciences, something in music

Next comes what I like to call a reset, or setting back to zero - paying off the debts of friends and family so that they are essentially no longer in the negative but are back to zero debt.  Houses, cars, student loans, all that sort of thing, paid off.   Maybe even pay utilities for a year.  Imagine what you could do with your life if you had no debt to worry about, if everything you earned was yours to do with as you wish.  I would do this one time each, but hopefully that's all it would take.  I know more than a few people who could soar on wings newly freed from the fetters of debt.

If it's a big enough win, I would make an official charity out of Everybody Eats, helping folks with no or low income keep their pantries full, helping people get back on their feet, working towards wiping out hunger.  Maybe I would set up a funds-match for Heifer International.

I would also create and maintain The Last Chance Ranch, a place for critters and people who have been written off to get back on their feet again, a place to heal minds, hearts, and spirits.

Once my family was squared away, I wouldn't need a bunch of money sitting around, making me weird in the head - I'm already weird in the head, I don't need more of that - I'd want to give it away and would likely have a very good time carefully, quietly, helping people rebuild themselves, rebuild their lives.  That would make me happy.

How about you?  Do you have lottery dreams?  Do tell...

Gremlins, We Has 'Em

Casa de Crazy is a wealth of electrical oddities.

Half of the electrical outlets in my kitchen don't work.  Neither do half of the ones in the dining room.  They all blew out when I plugged something in in the kitchen a few years ago.  I checked the circuit breaker and none of them were tripped.  Also, none of them are labelled so I have no idea which does what or where and electricity makes me nervous so...umm...I just adjust.

One of the outlets in the children's bathroom doesn't work.  There was an incident with a nightlight, a steel wire spring, and an arc about eight years ago.  Don't ask.

The light in my bedroom blew out and it was a coupe of months before I could get a bulb to change it.  No problem for me, I usually don't use it anyway - I like wandering around in the dark barking my shins and stubbing my toes.

The downstairs hall light has been burned out since early last year.  I have a bulb for it but the person who said they'd change it never did and I have this thing about ladders.  I'll get to it...eventually.

The foyer light eats bulbs like a kid munching Doritos, and it's a really awkward light to change the bulbs on so it's been dark for maybe two years now.  Every time I manage to change the bulbs, they last a few weeks, maybe a few months, then fizzle and pop and fall dark again.

One of my kitchen fixtures acts like it's in some kind of sibling competition with the foyer.  I thought I'd put some of those compact fluorescent bulbs in it one time, maybe they'd do better.  Nope.  Lasted a couple of months at best and we were back to darkness.  It blows through bulbs faster than the foyer!

My dishwasher makes a noise.  Not the usual whoosh-swoosh-skoosh-shush noise, more of an a-hunga-hunga-unga-urrrrnggghhh sort of sound.  When it transitions between stages, I have to turn it off and then on again or it will just sit and grind and groan without doing anything.  I don't even put detergent in it, just wash dishes by hand and use the dishwasher to sanitize and dry 'em.

The light in our dining room, not to be outdone by foyer and kitchen, has decided that it won't always turn on when it's turned on.  Sometimes, for fun, it will turn on when the switch is flipped, then turn off despite the switch being flipped, then when the switch is bumped a little it will turn on again.  Good times.

The clothes dryer has lately decided to  join in the fun.  It makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a buzz, with a little rattle tossed in from time to time, which it will do until I go open the door and then close it again, then restart it.

And those are just the things I know about.

I think I need an electrician.

Or an exorcist. 

A Glimpse

I have a doctor's appointment today.  Nothing untoward, just a simple check-up.

I will make it a multi-purpose trip - the doc is up near mom's place so I'll go wash my shirts in her laundry machine (mine eats my shirts, hers is far kinder to them) while I'm at it.

My brain is screaming at me, telling me to cancel, not to go.

This is nothing unusual.  It is why sometimes I don't listen to my instinct, because my instinct is often irrational.  My instinct is in league with my Variety Plate and cannot always (or even often) be trusted.

Don't get me wrong, when it comes to confrontation or real, imminent danger,my instinct doesn't mess around.  It does a good job and, when I don't ignore it, saves me a good deal of grief.  But I am not currently in imminent danger.  What is wrong is, I have to leave the house.

Going to the doctor for a simple check-up begins with an internal fight the moment the appointment is made.  A small voice tells me "That's a bad day to go, you should cancel" as soon as I walk out of the office.  Then, as the day approaches (and it's every six months I go, so there's lots of approach), my mind tells me all kinds of things that mean I'm too busy to go.  When I refuse to cancel, things escalate.  I start to think about my horrible diet and how I am not at all practicing self care and he's going to yell at me.  By the time it's the day of the appointment ohmygosh I have to leave the house help help help I am, internally a mess.  The xenophobia and agoraphobia kick in and I don't even want to go into the garage, let alone all the way out into the world.This appointment is going to suck.  I have not taken my meds as I should.  I have eaten and drunk many things that I shouldn't.  This is part of a self-destructive cycle, and it will mean I shall be chastised by the doctor (who is really a terribly nice fellow and very good at his avocation and I did warn him that I am a difficult patient at best).  The cycle has to stop.  The way I am eating, the way I am living, will kill me.

So today I am fighting with myself.  No kidding, my heart is pounding!  I wasn't always like this.  Depression, yes, and then OCD and paranoia, but this...this...anxiety...is only a couple of decades old.  It's probably the youngest of the things on the plate.  It is mighty big sometimes, and vigorous, and just going to the grocery store can feel like a trial.  Leaving the house to be confronted by my own actions?  Too much.

My new shrink says I have anxiety and depression with a psychotic element (but I'm harmless, really!!!) (it's the paranoia, my old and faithful bugaboo, that is the element, in case you wondered) and my counselor is helping me sort it all out, but I have to leave the house to make things better.

My brain doesn't seem to grasp that logic and is screaming at me as I type that I have other things I need to do and can't I just this once reschedule and look, the sky may fall at any moment and people are horrid and there is gun violence and religious hatred and politicians run rampant in the streets and...and...pant...pant...pant...

My mind goes around and around and gnaws on itself, and this is constant, constant, every damned day, exhausting and occasionally overwhelming, and it's all internal so nobody sees it and it's easy to dismiss as not-real, irrelevant, because the cracks and leakage and rubble from past tussles are all in my head but if you could see in there, just catch a glimpse, it would rival any photograph of war-torn landscape you've ever seen!

I know it's not real.  It feels real enough, but I know it isn't.  It is my imagination on steroids.  It is the voice of the child I was who had no control over what others did to her, said to her, made her do.  It is the voice of fear trying to shatter the seemingly fearless shell I wear and I cannot let it win, not today.  Other days I can choose to change plans and stay in bed or curled up on the lounge with my kids watching movies, but today I can't.  Today I have to gird up my loins (which sounds much nicer than "suck it up, buttercup") and adult.

I don't want to adult.

I don't want to do anything.

Up and at 'em.

If Only Catching A Lottery Win Was This Easy

I have caught yet another cold.  I must say, this is something of an oddity for me.  I don't usually catch colds, but in the last three months I seem to have had enough for a decade.  Every few weeks...

It starts in the sinuses.  They run.  No.  Not run.  This is to running what Niagara Falls is to a trickle down a rock.  A box of Kleenex, a few rolls of toilet paper, and then I move on to the towels.  I sleep with wads of toilet paper shoved up my nose.  Glamorous, me.

After a day or so, it decides to do the grand tour and works its way down my poor sore throat and into my lungs.  It likes the surroundings so well, it stays for a while.  This brings on the ceaseless coughing, spasms wracking my body day and night with very few pauses for breath.  It leaves me weak and slow and feeling more useless than usual.  Throat still raw, head full of concrete and Jell-O, I weave about like a drunkard and need frequent naps.  Need but don't often get.  Sleeping at night is either a patchy affair punctuated by sudden onslaughts of coughing, or a drug induced, NyQuil fueled weird-dream fest ending in confusion and a sense of what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-my-mind muzziness that can only be dispelled by two or three cups of strong tea and a nap.

My usual difficulty motivating myself to go outside, out into the world, is compounded by these colds until I am content to remain in the same clothes for days and eat stale bread with the bottom-of-the-jar scrapings of peanut butter rather than go out.

Don't worry, the kids eat regular foods...I won't let them do without just because I'm not feeling like life is worth the effort right now.

Sadly, I am now out of NyQuil or its generic equivalent and am left to my own devices until I win the lottery and can buy more.  Holy cats, one could make a house payment for what that stuff costs!  And?  At least around here, one must produce one's identification to purchase, and even then may be denied if it's deemed one has been buying too much of the stuff of late.  This isn't the same as showing ID for the stuff they make meth from...this is because some teens somewhere figured out that swallowing an entire packet of those little gel-capsules would induce some kind of moderately enjoyable, drug-taking effect...just before it causes all kinds of havoc on their body and possibly damages their brain or kills them outright.  Fun!

If I could win the lottery as easily as I am lately catching colds, I wouldn't mind so much feeling like a bucket of fresh-brewed hell.  As it is, I am simply thankful that Campbell's makes pop-top soup cans and my kids don't mind oven baked chicken nuggets more than one night in a row.

If you'll pardon me, dear reader, I have to go hunt down another roll of toilet paper...or a clean towel.  How's your health?

Right?

Rights are rights, right?  I mean...if we say that people have the right to free speech, we aren't saying only SOME people have that right...right?  We aren't saying that only the people we agree with may speak freely...right?  We aren't saying that free speech is only for people who say nice things, right?  We are saying that every person has a right to speak, plain and simple.  Rights are a sort of equal thing - woman, man, trans, gay, straight, bi, asexual, black, brown, white, whatever one's social status or financial status, whatever religion or politics one may practice...rights are rights.  Right?

So if I may speak freely, so should you be able to.  If you may marry and have protections and privileges under the law, so should I be able to.  If I may worship the grass or trees or whatever gods I please, so should you be able to.

The only time I can see rights not being rights are when they interfere with the rights of another - certainly, I may drink alcohol but to drive and endanger you is not acceptable.  Certainly I may own a firearm, but discharging it in a way that interferes with the life, liberty or other rights of another is not acceptable (unless in defense of my own life, or the lives of my family, but that's another question entirely...isn't it?).  That is part of living in a society, right?  We agree to certain behaviors and boundaries in exchange for the benefits that come with banding together?  But those behaviors and boundaries apply to everyone within the society, not just a select few, right?

I believe in equality.  I believe that there should be no laws or rights that only apply to some and not all.  I believe that to stand in favor of equality, to speak in favor of equality, to act in favor of equality, should not be some tremendous thing to be marveled at, and it should not be considered brave or dangerous, it shouldn't be frightening.  It should be as common as oxygen, and as essential.

So...why is it that rights aren't rights?  That's not right.

Peace in Pieces

I am wondering how it is I can feel both immensely heavy and entirely empty at the same time.  Every movement is leaden - I feel as though I am striving against some sort of invisible force, an insignificant little bug fighting its way through a sea of resin even as it hardens into amber.

Only I find the results less lovely than amber, which I always want to lick or suck on as if it were some sort of candy.  

At the same time, I am poking around inside myself and find...nothing.  Well, perhaps not nothing.  There are the children, a suffusion of love drenching every part of my psyche.  My mother.  My friends.  If not nothing, then certainly there's a great deal more emptiness than fullness, and there is a veil both ephemeral and impenetrable between me and what/who I love.

If I could be still and quiet for a bit, a statue of myself stowed in some dark corner, disregarded, I feel I could perhaps reach within and twist things around a bit, remove or bore through the veil and energize my limbs so that I am human again, not shambling stone.

There is no peace.  I am, for all intents and purpose, a single mother with two children who don't know or understand the value of a few minutes of peace or silence, who both feel the need, are driven, in fact, to speak every thought that goes through their heads whether the listened wants to hear them, and both insist not only on pouring out their nattering thoughts in a ceaseless tumble of words, they require interaction and response to even the most inane things.

They do not respect meditation, reading, conversation with others, or even sleep.

This adds to the heaviness, to the emptiness, because I feel I should want to hear them, want to interact, should feel delighted and honored to have two articulate, creative, imaginative children.

There's a thumping refrain in my head...like the bass thudding relentlessly from some trendy club, spilling out into the streets and causing nervous twitching in passersby.  Peace.  Peace, peace, peace...

In bits and pieces, moments, minutes, I just want a little peace, and then a bigger peace, and then a surfeit.

Perhaps then I will find what I need to set aside this dense nothingness, this heavy lightness of being.

Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum

I smiled today.

Big deal, right?

Well, yeah, kinda.

Not tired, wan, sad, fleeting, this smile.

It was genuine.  It made it all the way to my eyes and hung around for a while.

Those smiles, the ones that go all the way through and up and into, those smiles are rare for me.

It felt light.  It felt peculiar.  It felt good.

Us Lava, Already

Y'all, I am near my breaking point.

Tell me a joke, or something funny, wouldja? See if you can put a smile on my face, because I'm tired of crying.

Ham It Up

Last Saturday our neighbors gave us a ham. A random ham. Weird, no?

Not really. He works at the local food bank, and when they have food that is close to or just past the expiration date, they send it home with employees.

We've received pizzas larger than manhole covers, pork chops that weighed more than Sprout, and once a rib-eye that fed several of us for a month. Okay, maybe not a month...but it was huge and more than enough for three meals (I et it when Someone was away, and it lasted through dinner, breakfast, and lunch, with scraps for the outdoor cats). I am happy to receive it - with a freezer, expiration dates hold less meaning for me, and I believe expiration dates are not the definitive factor for determining food freshness anyway.

This time, a boneless ham.

I turned into into dinner on Sunday - baked ham, mashed potatoes with home grown dill, and steamed, home grown green beans.

There was a lot left over, so ham and eggs were on the breakfast menu, ham sandwiches for lunch, and...umm...am I starting to smell like pork? I think I just felt myself break out in glaze...

What do y'all do with leftover ham? And how do you feel about expiration dates?

Want, Need

When I was in the fifth grade, I had a teacher who thought our class could use learning the difference between "wants" and "needs".

Needs, he said, were what we couldn't live without.

Wants, he said, were what we could live without but would like to have.

In life, he said, needs come before wants.

He defined needs as food, clothing, and shelter. These are things without which we cannot get along. I would argue today that food and water are necessary to life. Shelter, while mighty fine, can be got along without in many places if needs must. Even clothing is extraneous - just ask a nudist!

I often think the human world could use learning the difference between what it wants and what it needs.

The denizens of Casa de Crazy have been watching documentaries on Netflix, of late. With satellite gone and the DVD player on permanent fritz, Netflix is our entertainment buddy. Thanks to T, who lets us use his account!

We seem to have a few basic topics that interest us right now: food (growing, harvesting, processing, nutrition), water (bottling, cleanliness, scarcity), marijuana (the disparity between public will, state law, and federal law, growing, medicinal uses, prohibition in general), and corporate culture (companies that are aware of and work to minimize their social and environmental impact, companies that seek to show a clean, compassionate public face while in truth they have little concern for anything but the lining of their pockets, and companies that don't even try to hide their ugliness).

Oddly, many of the subjects overlap.

Common to many of the shows we've seen is privation. If you live in North America, chances are you have, or can fairly easily find, food and potable water. Chances are also good that you have or can find shelter and clothing. In the US, a couple of dumpster dives can garner perfectly good food for a month. A few more in the right place can garner meat for a year. I am seriously considering my local markets and their dumpsters. In the US we throw away 3,000 pounds of food a second. Throw away. We don't even compost it or feed it to pigs; it all goes into landfills.

In other places, though, people feel lucky to eat a few times a week. Potable water is a pipe dream, let alone clean, clear, easily accessible water from a convenient tap. Often, governments and corporations make it difficult or impossible for the poorest, most desperate of people to meet their own needs, instead fostering dependence on aid from others; usually the very governments and corporations that seek to (and often do) control natural resources and the generation of wealth.

Now don't get me wrong, I actually aspire to wealth...but not at the expense of others or the environment.

So many people in this world can't even meet their own needs. We do without a lot of wants (while I may joke that I need the Internet to live, life goes on without it) but we have plenty of clean, fresh water on demand, and while we may get tired of leftovers and cheap foods, we don't go hungry at Casa de Crazy. No one has yet mandated that we choose between drinking toxic ground water or paying with our lives for dubious tap water, or decreed that we can't grow our own food, or passed laws that said we cannot collect rain water for our gardens (sorry Arizona, Oregon, and...umm...I can't recall who else had rainwater collection bans).

I want many things - to be able to buy nappies for Sprout, to go to a movie sometimes, to pay the phone bill, to be free (if only for a little while) of my first-world worries about paying car insurance or the Internet bill without having to borrow (borrow, borrow, borrow, but never able to pay back) from Mum to do it. Folks, I pure loathe being an Albatross.

Need though? I think we've got that covered in spades.

How about you?

Nothin'

Casa de Crazy, before breakfast. Subject has been awake for thirty minutes.

*What do you do all day?*

Nothing. Well, I guess you can't...hold on...the washer stopped, I need to start another load...

5 minutes passes.

So, where were we?

*Discussing what you do...*

Yeah! So it's not really true that...oh, nuts, wait a sec...

Fifteen minutes pass as the subject collects garbage bags from around the house, goes outside and rolls the rubbish bin to the street.

Okay, sorry, what was I saying?

*"Nothing..."

Oh, right. I guess you can't say I do no...hold on again, the baby's hungry.

Fifteen minutes pass as the subject prepares and serves fruit, cheese, and crackers to the toddler.

Sorry about that...I think she's in a growth spurt. As I was say...um...hang on again...

Another twenty minutes pass as the subject scoops food off of the floor, changes the toddler's nappy, washes her face, and engages her in some play before washing the high chair tray.

Okay, so as I was saying, you can't really call it nothing, because...uh, hang on, the washer stopped again.

Ten minutes pass as the subject removes laundry from the dryer, puts another load in and starts the washer again.

Whew, sorry - seems like the laundry is endless around here. I don't know how so much clothing and so many towels can get dirty in a day! So...wait...uh...dang, sorry...

Twenty more minute pass as the subject changes the toddler again, empties the dishwasher, and hand washes the dishes in the sink.

*Why hand wash?*

I'm out of detergent, haven't had the time or the budget to go get more. Sometimes I think they get cleaner this way, anyway!

*Back to the original question, you were telling me about "nothing"...*

Of course! So...sorry...

Another fifteen minutes pass as the subject makes toast for the nine-year-old boy who has just risen, then carries his bedding downstairs to wash. Forty-five minutes more elapse as she sets him to a history lesson - she home schools him.

Anyway...whew...do you mind if I get a drink of water? I forgot to, this morning. That's what comes of doing nothing all day, you know...

The subject goes to the kitchen to get some water, but is stopped by the boy who asks if he has any clean cups despite the fact that he is standing in front of the cupboard and the dishwasher, both easily within his reach. Subject hands him a cup, puts away a few dry dishes, washes up after the boy's toast breakfast, makes some more toast for the ever-hungry toddler, and returns to the couch without having gotten any water. Thirty minutes have elapsed.

Right, so it's not really fair to say I don't do anything all day, I mean sometimes I...excuse me again...

The dryer has stopped, and the subject goes downstairs and once again shifts loads around, this time bring a basket of clean laundry up with her. She sits and begins folding. Ten minutes elapsed.

Sometimes I do get...baby girl, stop helping Mama fold...something...baby girl, please don't, that's not really helpful...every once in a while, anyway...baby girl, c'mon now, if you grab everything I fold and wave it around like you've captured the flag, it isn't actually "helping" Mama get this done! Grr...excuse me, please...

The subject removes herself and the clean laundry to another room where she folds it and puts it away, all while the toddler stands in the blocked doorway and whines for attention. Twenty minutes go by.

Can I offer you something to eat? Drink?

No, thank you, I'm fine. Could we return to the question of "nothing"?

Sure, sure. I think I was saying that "nothing" would be an unfair...oh, hang on...

The subject prepares a snack for the toddler, who is becoming cranky. When the child finishes her food, the subject rocks the toddler in her arms until the child is asleep. This takes half an hour.

Whew, sometimes she put up a fight and it takes forever to get her to sleep. Boy, talk about grumpy! So as I was saying...oh, pardon me...

The nine year old wants to know where his shoes are. The subject helps him find them, still cradling the toddler in her arms. She then looks around for her cup of water, only to realize she never got one. She juggles the sleeping toddler and a cup, realizes she can't reach the faucet, puts the cup on the counter and sits back down. Thirty minutes elapsed.

*Are you feeling alright? You look a little peaked...*

Oh, sure, fine. I'm pretty sure I had something to eat this morning...or was that yesterday? Anyway, I got five hours of sleep last night, so I'm good to go. Are you sure I can't get you anything?

*No, thank you. Can I get you some water, since your hands are full?*

Oh, no thanks, I'll get some when she wakes up. So, about "nothing", I...oh, hang on...

The toddler has awakened and wants a drink, and something to eat, and to be held while she enjoys her snack. The subject changes the toddler once more, places her amidst a pile of toys to play, and steps into the kitchen to finally get her water. She takes a sip, swears softly under her breath, and fetches a broom - the floor is crunchy. Forty minutes elapse as she sweeps, chases the toddler away from her sweep pile, moves toys, sweeps more, and eventually manages to use the dustpan to get the worst of the mess into the trash. She sits down with a sigh.

I guess it depends on how you define "nothing", really. I mean, an anyone truly say...

The toddler thrusts an empty cup at the subject, demanding another drink. The nine year old wants to know where a particular toy is. The subject refills the toddler's cup and tries to help the boy find his toy in his bedroom, which seems to have a carpet of nothing but toys, stuffed animals, and clothing. She admonishes him to get his clothing into the hamper and if he kept his room tided up he wouldn't have trouble finding his toys, and didn't he have that particular toy in the garage yesterday, anyway? He runs to the garage without cleaning anything up, and she returns to her seat where the toddler clambers onto her and demands attention. Thirty minutes have elapsed.

I'm sorry, but will you excuse me? I need to...umm...

The subject retires to the restroom for a few minutes. The toddler whines at the blocked door.

Whew, that's better! I never went when I got up...oh, wait, sorry, TMI! Anyway, I do sometimes manage...excuse me...

Things continue in this fashion into the evening. For the sake of brevity, we will now skip to the end of the interview. The telephone has rung and been answered a number of times. Several puddles of cat vomit have been cleaned up. Nappies have been changed. Snacks have been prepared, eaten, and cleaned up. Lost items have been searched for, some have been found. Laundry and dishes have continued to be done throughout the day. The toddler is sleeping fitfully, occasionally waking and crying until the subject rocks her back to sleep. Dinner has been cooked, and haphazardly eaten. Toys are scattered throughout the house, despite the subject having continually picked them up throughout the day. The floor is once more crunchy, despite several sweepings. The nine year old is in his room, playing before bed. The subject is sitting on the couch, eyes drooping. She yawns.

Wow...so what were we talking about?

*You were explaining what you do all day.*

Right, right! So I don't think you can say I don't do anything. I mean...even just sitting here all day, my heart beats and my body processes things, so I don't think "nothing" is a fair assessment. And anyway, sometimes I go get the mail - that counts as something, right? Nah, okay, I guess maybe I really do nothing all day - I'm lucky that way.

End interview.

I Quit Counting At Fifty

My name is not Steve.

There is no portion of my anatomy that needs lengthening, hardening, or improved endurance.

I don't know who "she" is or why her enjoyment hinges upon my performance, and I don't care. "She" can take care of herself - I have a family to look after.

I don't care about what's left of Victoria's secrets - those scraps of fabric wouldn't cover my big toe, let alone the rest of me.

I don't need to find someone's phone number via a shady Internet service. I have a phone book.

If I need pharmaceutical aid, I have a doctor and a pharmacy that can oblige me - I won't be going anywhere I need a passport to get my medication.

I don't care how wonderful your computer program is, I am not interested in it. My laptop is full. Full I tell you! It will not hold a jot more, not one little bit.

I don't care to see your new pictures or live web-cam. I certainly am not interested in seeing you in your underwear. Have we met? What makes you think I give a rat's patootie about your anatomy - if I want nekkid or barely dressed, I have children who will oblige me whether I like it or not. Underwear does not turn me on - it reminds me of laundry I haven't done yet.

I think Pandora jewelry is several kinds of hideous and wouldn't wear it, let alone advertise it, without being paid huge, disgusting, truly obscene amounts of money, and even then I would still say I thought it was hideous. It is not improved by being presented in another language (especially a language that I barely speak). If you love it beyond measure, hurrah for you, you can have my share and godspeed - we each have our own tastes and mine don't run in that direction.

Whatever you think I want to get up to in a photo booth, you're wrong. Just wrong. Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

If I want pictures of hot nude men and male celebrities, I will Google search them, thanks anyway. Also, I do not want pictures of hot nude men or male celebrities.

I neither desire nor require a payday loan. In case you haven't read this blog (and clearly, someone hasn't), I do not have paydays. And if I did, I would know better than to get loans predicated on money I haven't earned yet, with huge interest rates and usurious terms.

I don't need nude models. I have children. I see all the anatomy I care to (and plenty that I don't) on a regular basis, with bonus poop! I go to clothing optional events to sell...er...clothing, actually (hmm...), so I am not in need of any adult bits-n-pieces either. Also, I have Someone, who provides all the fun bits-n-pieces I want on demand and without requiring a credit card or loading a virus onto my hard drive, so thanks but no thanks.

I was gone for ten days. I returned to an e-mail box full of notices of blog comments. My heart did not go pity-pat. I know better. Of nearly two-hundred e-mails, more than fifty were blog comments. Four were from actual people-type people. The rest were what I will generously call "spam". This has only started since I disabled word verification on comments.

My blog is a tiny speck in the Blue Nowhere - why am I one of the lucky spamees??

I will no longer permit anonymous comments. Sorry. If you want to say something on my blog, you will have to identify yourself, or at least make an effort to amuse me by making up a false identity. C'mon, pseudonyms can be fun!

Spam...bah!

Anybody Home In There?

I am a little concerned about the Evil Genius.

Either he's suffering from a traumatic head injury that he failed to tell me about or...oh, yeah, wait...he's nine. That explains it.

He is forgetful. To an exasperating extent.

He leaves lights on that should be turned off. He leaves dishes and cups and crumbs on the table and dishes out huge servings of attitude when reminded to clean up after himself. Likewise with the empty wrappers and containers. He leaves clothes on the floor, and toys, and books and...is that Jimmy Hoffa???

He leaves toys at other people's houses, including the iPod Touch his father gave him and the cell phone that he's supposed to keep charged and with him when he's not home. He leaves his cell phone off or uncharged most of the time. He leaves doors open that should be closed, leaves things withing Sprout's reach that should not be there.

He forgets things I told him only moments ago. He forgets to brush his teeth or clear off his bed or flush the toilet. Sometimes he forgets to comb his hair or change his clothes for days on end unless I remind him relentlessly to do so.

And he's not even a tween yet, let alone a teen.

I'm going to need Xanax...

And We're Off!

Sometime this evening, Someone will be home. Whew, we've missed him!

As soon as he gets home, we'll have to get his laundry done and packed, because tomorrow morning at the crack of ohmygodit'searly! we are pulling out of Casa de Crazy and heading for the wilds of Earlville, Illinois. That's about a fourteen hour drive if we don't stop to eat, pee, fuel up, or let the Sprout run a little.

Eek.

Although I am game to try making it in one go, I am fairly certain we'll be stopping before we get to Earlville. Between Sprout, who only puts up with that car-seat nonsense for a minimum of time, and Someone, who will just have finished a fourteen-plus hour drive, I think the tolerance for van sitting will not permit more than a ten-hour or so haul. We'll see...

Earlville...sounds like a thriving metropolis doesn't it?

I wouldn't be going, but the band was hired to perform at an event there...and it's kind of difficult to sing in Illinois when I'm in Ohio (which is where I WOULD be going if we weren't singing in Illinois). Anyone know the trick to bi-location??

Today will be busy here - I need to get all the little (and not so little) last-minute things done. Sprout is likely to spend most of the day disgruntled, as she will have to play by herself for a while - T picked the Evil Genius up last night, which made the boy happy but left me without entertainment for Sprout, who adores nothing better than to play with her Big Brudder.

Oh, well...

If I have time later I'll pre-post some things...otherwise, y'all are on your own until I get back. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge, stay out of the liquor cabinet, and for the love of all that's holy, wouldja please flush this time?