St. Pat's x Three

Third time I'm posting this, but why mess with perfection, eh? Why do I hear crickets...?

~~~~~

I'll be cooking corned beef and cabbage, much to my family's delight. I'll try to remember to take some up to Mum on Monday...if there's any left... Bird likes the meat fine, but not the cabbage, and he doesn't want the potatoes, which leads me to wonder if any of the one-quarter Irish in my veins made it to him. I get not liking cabbage, but potatoes? Something's not right with the child. Someone will happily scarf the lot, because he's a good Irish lad.

Seeing as I'm Pagan, you wouldn't think I'd celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Better than most, I know what St. Patrick did to get famous and earn his sainthood. However, I'm also part Irish, and I happen to love corned beef and cabbage. Also, I consider it a reclaiming of the day for Pagans, or some junk.

A bit of rather bent history (that has, I'll grant you, been mangled in my head over the years and is rather truncated because I'm not writing a book, here)(I'm writing a book somewhere else). When I was a child, we were told that St. Patrick's day was to celebrate his chasing all the snakes out of Ireland. It is an historically serpent-free bit of earth, and the church attributed this to St. Pat and his efforts...kind of overlooking that there weren't any of the slithery things on the island to begin with, if you ask me. Which they didn't, because I was a kid and most grown-ups weren't prepared for my staggering logic and keen grasp of history but rather appalling lack of respect for theology .

Many years later, people were saying St. Patrick's Day was a celebration of all things Irish, like green beer (wait, isn't beer German??) and green clothes, and green hair, and green mashed potatoes (which I won't eat on a dare because, really...green potatoes???), and rivers dyed green (I'm sure the fish are all so very thankful to be included...like Fridays and Lent weren't enough for them!)(that might only be funny if you're Catholic)(or not) and exclusionary parades, and funny little men waving their shillelaghs about (look it up you pervs!!) and that sort of thing.

In none of the many different explanations for this seemingly random holiday did anyone mention pagans. A most curious oversight of you know what St. Patrick, who was just Patrick at the time (not really, I have no idea what his real name was. For all I know, it was Fred), was actually doing on the Emerald Isle.

He was born and lived sometime between 490 and 461 AD, give or take. Around age sixteen, he was either sent or stolen and taken to Ireland where he spent some time hanging out with sheep and being lonely. He talked to God a lot. You may notice that lots of shepherds do that. You would too if all you had for company all day was a bunch of mutton-heads. Christianity was rolling along like a snowball in those days, spreading out all over the dang place. Good grief, it was getting so that a simple Pagan/Heathen (there's a difference between the two, not that the church cared much) couldn't get any peace any more. Everywhere they turned, there was a church being built where a sacred grove used to be, from the trees that used to be the sacred grove, or a church going up on a sacred hill, or someone bathing their dirty feet in a sacred stream. To be fare, there was a lot of real estate lumped under that "sacred" heading in the pagan world. We're like that - we just love our planet so. Plus, you know, all those gods needed housing, and they don't do the roommate thing very well. So the pagans were running out of places to have sex on the ground, in the woods, up a tree - they were big on the sex, those little devils - and to read entrails in their spare time.

I digressed. Sorry.

So there was this lonely kid, Patrick Whatsisname, hanging out with sheep and pondering life, the universe, and everything. He got the idea, somewhere along the way, that maybe other folks should share his God. He got out of his contract (OK, probably slavery) and went around telling folks how terrific his God was, and how he reckoned they should convert.

It seems that polite conversation wasn't doing it for the pagans, who tended to stare at him, or point and laugh. Rude beggars, huh? Now young Patrick (or middle aged Patrick, or old Patrick, I have no idea) decided he needed to be a bit more...persuasive. He had noticed something common among the pagan big-wigs. The guys at the top of the food-chain, magic/spirituality wise speaking tended to have a symbol on them somewhere...usually around their wrist. On the wrist that indicated their "hand of power", or the hand which they believed their "magic" flowed from. If it wasn't a tattoo, it was a torque. Guess what the tattoo/torque was? A critter called the oroborus. For them as what doesn't ken what that critter is, it's a snake eating its tail, and often represents eternity.Pat realized that if he took away this "power", he took away their mystique and leadership ability. So he removed the snakes - often with something edged and unpleasant. Yes, he whacked off their hands. Or branded their skin. Or took their trinkets. Converting Heathens is such messy work!! It was for their own good, of course.

Some pagans today go on "snake crawls", a sort of pub crawl where they wear snakes and proclaim their paganism. I'm not quite that...er...proactive. I also don't necessarily think old Pat went around mauling everyone he met in an effort to build church membership and win a nifty prize. But it's the bloody aspect of what he did that earned his name in Christendom and for which his holiday is celebrated.

So again, why would I celebrate the day? Well, I'm all for a day when families get together and discuss history, theology, spirituality, and the like. Traditions are important - they give us a foundation on which to build our lives. People should discuss their history so they don't repeat it - whatever side of the issue they're on. Also, as I mentioned, I am part Irish. I can celebrate that heritage even as I acknowledge its imperfection. And I am Pagan - and I am celebrating the fact that I can be pagan today without (much) fear of having my (largely not visible when I'm clothed) tattoos painfully removed and other unpleasantness (except for the odd zealot who thinks I'm fair game, but I'm used to that. I live in the Bible belt, after all). Precisely because we didn't get wiped out, I celebrate. And have you ever had a really nice corned beef and cabbage dinner? I mean, yum!

Oh, but I won't be wearing green. I wear blue. Don't even think about pinching me

Wave, Pulse

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

~~~~~

I miss the sea.

I grew up in New England, on the coast, with a stint in Florida for added flavor. Not until I moved to Redneck Central in my middle teens was I ever land-locked - there had always been the sound, the scent, the sight of Mother Ocean somewhere nearby.

Summers spent on Martha's Vineyard with family (hold-overs from whaling days and times before the island became a playground for the rich and supposedly privileged) meant weeks on end of beach and boat time. My father's small house had one bedroom, a bath on the hallway, a wee living room, a small kitchen, and a constant sound track provided by the ocean that I could see from his back door - if distantly. A twenty minute or so motorboat ride would have my feet on the sand, feeling the rhythm of the water as it met the land.

I slept in what could loosely be called a shed, separate from the house and largely weather proof, my own little haven that today might be called child neglect but at the time I loved beyond measure. At night, rather than use the house toilet, I would find a patch of poison ivy to pee on. Thunder storms were rare, and awesome when experienced in a garden-shed sized space made of MDF and shingles.

Calm or stormy, I went to sleep hearing the susurus of surf in the distance. No sleep can compare to one accompanied through the night by that lullaby.

I cherished those summer weeks because they were the only time I had with my father and the ocean.

On rare occasions, he would take me out on his boat. I loved that. On one journey, we were floating out in deep water, relatively motionless, and we were joined by a basking shark. The shark was longer than the boat (32 foot, as I recall), and still in the water. It was almost surreal. I wanted to get in the water with it - they are vegetarians - but my father wouldn't hear of it. Captain runs the boat, so I stayed dry and encounterless, but I'll never forget how beautiful and terrible it was.

While I very much enjoyed swimming off a boat in deep water, the beach was where most of my polliwog time was spent. I would swim in water that could keep beer perfectly chilled and be sorry when it was time to come out. I would swim in glass calm seas or dive through waves that kept more timid swimmer on shore. I was pulled under and pounded in the washing-machine plenty of times, but never got out of the water because of it. I never met a wave I was afraid of. While others would be on the sand eating lunch, I swam. Building sand castles? Nope - swimming. Tanning? I was the only kid in our town who could spent weeks at the beach and still be fish-belly white.

Water, particularly the sea, is sacred to me. It is a place of healing. It is, I truly believe, where I will die in the distant future, swimming home at last.

I miss her, Mother Ocean. Don't get me wrong - I love Redneck Central and am happy to be living here...but my heart and soul are salt tinged and my pulse thumps to the deeper songs she sings, and I will always be most peaceful, most serene, most whole when on or near big water.

What about you? Where does your heart yearn to be in the quiet moments?

Here We Go

Click, click, click, click, click, clickety, click, click, click...click......click...

Clank...

Clicketyclackityclickclickclickclackclacketywhoosh!

For thirty seconds, maybe a minute, of free falling, stomach rolling terror, people stand in line for hours. Bone rattling rumbles, hip bruising turns, hands clutching the paint peeling, germ-and-sweat-and-fear-covered safety bar, or flung high and wide in a show of bravado and faith in the maintenance man over entropy, they clench their teeth and scream silently, scream aloud, laugh and puke and wonder how long until it ends.

Guess what?

Sometimes it doesn't.

Umm, Guys...

...I don't really need Reader's Digest to tell me which one I am...

Anticipayayshun...

...is makin' me wait...

And wait.

And wait some more.

Still no modem. AT&T cannot explain it. We get the telephonic equivalent of a shrug when we ask about it. When Someone called late Wednesday, the customer-no-service person could only say "Oh, no, it's not supposed to be on today - it will be on Friday."

Y'all, I wouldn't mind if I didn't KNOW that all anyone has to do is flip a figurative switch! We don't need anyone to come to our house, don't need any special equipment - just need the modem turned on at their end.

Sigh.

So far, no Net today, either. I am not holding my breath, but I AM cradling my aching head...

Around the Ass to Get to the Elbow

Have you ever been working with a company to attain a product or a service, and the representative of that company can't seem to get the computer system to understand what's wanted, so you spend more than an hour trying every damn thing, only to find that the system isn't having it and now you have to start over and instead of just using the old account, you have to create a whole new one and instant gratification is denied?

No?

Just me then...

As I mentioned recently, we at Casa de Crazy have been without land line, cell phone, TV, and Internet for a while. We were managing to keep the land line on sporadically, but eventually AT&T decided that they were tired of our sporadicality (is too a word!) and decided that we couldn't turn the house phone back on until we paid them ALL of what we owed them. Imagine!

A few tears, a phone call or three, and another chunk of debt added to the pile I already owe my Mum, and things are slowly coming back on.

We could not just turn our cells back on - something about being deadbeats for so long that the numbers were now back in circulation, no longer ours. We had to get new cell phones, but once they arrived I could, if I liked, have the new number transferred to the old phone. I wondered why that couldn't just happen without the new phone, but apparently some mystical force won't let the computer do that sort of thing.

Once the cells and house phone (which is still the same number, thank goodness) were restored, I set to work on the Internet. In theory, it should have been on when the house phone came on, but for some reason their computer didn't recognize that the bill was paid and so would not turn on the modem. No matter what we did, it wouldn't work...so we had to open an entirely new account, get a new number for the modem, and are now waiting for new cables because they are apparently a greater power than the AT&T computers can resist and will magically make the modem work again as soon as they are in the house - we don't even have to use them!

Today is the projected "your modem will now work" day. I am running the children to the Pediatrician for their annual poke and prod, and then have rehearsal, so I won't know if it's on until I get home.

With all the things that can be done remotely, we still have to go around our ass to get to our elbow...hopefully this time we can reach, because I really would like to avoid jumping through any more hoops for a while. I'm exhausted...

Fifty Cents Was Never Better Spent

We've had financial difficulties, as I may have mentioned. As such, there isn't any wiggle room in the budget. Every cent is accounted for and spent almost (and sometimes) before we have it.

On Saturday, T brought us a bit of cash, bless him. I know it's in short supply for him, too, so I don't like to be bitchy (although I've been told I need to be bitchy...but tell water to be dry and see if you get a better result) about it.

It couldn't have come at a better time - we were in dire need of a few items, so while the Evil Genius ran wild in the neighborhood, Someone and I snagged Sprout and headed for the Evil Empire. We were really good, eschewing anything not on our list...until Someone walked down one isle looking for...something...and found the balls.

He handed one to Sprout, and she smiled. Huge smile. Then he found a green ball. I looked at the price. Fifty cents. I decided that it wouldn't break the budget.

Holy carp, you have never seen a smile like Sprout's when she is playing with it. It's her ball, man, her ball! So I figure it's okay that we went off budget. Honestly, it's the best fifty cents we've ever spent.

Thank You, Downtown Redneck Central

Here in Redneck Central, we have to pay our tag fee on or before our birthday. I believe it is an unfair taxation, but so far the State is refusing to see things my way. Sigh.

As I did not have the money, I didn't renew mine when I should have, which meant I was, for a few days anyway, a scofflaw. Rebel! Fighting the good fight!

I borrowed the dough from Mum (poor Mum) and pottered over to the one remaining tag office in our county. This is a big county, and the satellite offices sure were nice. One of 'em was only a short jaunt from Casa de Crazy, and I was quite sorry to hear it had closed.

So off to the city I went, oddly childless as Someone elected to keep both spawn with him rather than subject anyone to Children at the Tag Office Hell.

The only remaining tag office is, it turns out, part of the courthouse complex where T and I got our D-I-V-O-R-C-E, so I knew where the parking deck was and didn't have to turn around and get lost a whole bunch. Score! The parking deck is (gasp) free. Yes, you read that right - a municipal parking deck that's free. And it's usually not very full. I got a terrific spot near the stairs and I didn't even have to run over any little old ladies for it!

The tag office was busy - they were calling for number fifteen when I walked in and I drew number forty one from the little number dispenser. Good thing I had my i('m not a)Phone with me - I put on the ear buds and listened to tunes while I waited and people-watched. Tag offices and DMVs are such splendid places to people-watch. I had several occasions to bless Someone's soul for keeping the children at home.

I was fined for renewing late, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been - I drive an old van and the trailer isn't considered very tax-worthy, I guess, so after handing over a handful of green and getting some bits of silver and a couple of stickers in return, I was done.

As soon as I got to Rosie the Mule, I redecorated the license plate. Now I'm tagged and legal again...yay...

Getting out of the parking deck was as easy as getting in - they have made the streets one-way so there's no turning against traffic.

I so appreciate when a city government acts the way it should - as though it is there to serve the people and not the other way around, don't you?

And Out We Come

So February is over and I have survived. It wasn't even as horrid as it has been in the past. Not that I plan on making friends with February or anything...it just wasn't as awful as it's been, is all.

We lost home phone service, got it back, and lost it again in the span of days that made the month. It's on again, for now, but if T doesn't pay child support in full and on time (which he hasn't been because he's only working sporadically and you can't squeeze blood from a turnip), I can't pay the phone bill on time, and it all goes down hill from there.

We have no cell or Internet services, but that may soon change. I will be glad to have a working cell phone again, because being on the road without a phone isn't fun...especially given how often things go wrong for us when we travel.

We have no TV. Actually, we have two televisions, but cannot watch anything on them, as the satellite was turned off and it's a luxury anyway and we have friends and family who are letting us borrow movies so we can watch something if we want, but I must admit it's a bummer not to be able to watch current events on the rare occasions I care to.

I have been dealing with a nagging illness - just when I think I'm okay, my throat gets sore and I start coughing, and I sound like I've been crying or am upset because it gets all rough. Sometimes I HAVE been crying or am upset, but really, I don't need to constantly reassure people that no, really, I'm fine, just have aliens in my lungs.

A few days ago I had a truly awful day, the kind of day that makes me feel like crawling under the bed and crying until I am shrivelled up and the world is nice to me again. One of those days when I feel useless and stupid and pointless and like I'm a great, fat lump of worthlessness that would be doing the world a favor if it melted down the drain. Usually I start feeling like that around February 1 and don't feel better until mid March.

It isn't a nice feeling to believe, utterly and to the bone,that one has no value...that one's children would be better off with ANYONE but one's self, that one has nothing to offer the world and even if one did, the world doesn't want it.

There are so many people who write it better, who handle it with better grace. I'm not them. I just muddle through until I'm out the other side and hope this isn't the time that kills me.

One long tunnel of misery, it is...but there's the other side...

Just Remember It Was My Idea That Saved the World

So there's this global warming thing going on - have you heard of this? Apparently all the cow farts and car exhaust we're generating (don't get me started on the cow farts happening at Casa de Crazy - and we don't even have any cows!) are turning up the heat around the globe, and I guess that's a bad thing. What? You'd think people would be happy they don't need four pair of socks in January!

Well, I have a solution. You can thank me with cash - don't be shy of handing out large denominations, I'm a big girl and can handle 'em. I'll take my Nobel prize in blue.

Here's my fix, and it's so simple I bet you kick yourself for not thinking of it first:

Paint everything white.

No, seriously, that's it.

You see, dark colors absorb light/heat and make it hotter. Light colors reflect light/heat and make it cooler. As the snow and ice sheets melt, there is less to reflect sunlight back into space and out of our greenhouse, and it gets hotter and hotter, melting more ice and therefor reflecting less sunlight, and...umm...viscous cycle.

Want a graphic demonstration? Oh, c'mon, this is fun! Get two Popsicles (flavor doesn't matter - just use the ones no one else wants). On a fine, sunny day, place one Popsicle on a white car and one on a black car. See which one melts fastest. Make sure you use the neighbor's cars...neighbors you don't like. Or have a hose or some wet-wipes handy.

So - think about what it would do to paint everything white. Everyone can wear white or reflective clothing. All cars could be white. Houses, sheds, barns, and roofs could all be white. Roofs could be white or mirrored.

Brilliant, right? Right!!

People could be given rewards for not tanning...or would that be unfair because some folks can't help they've got naturally environmentally unfriendly skin? George Hamilton would have to pay fines. Lots of fines.

Imagine the difference it would make in a very short time - why, we could be using the back porch for cold storage in no time, and the fur industry would be back to a booming trade! Oh, wait...maybe not so much on the fur, because wouldn't that sort of negate the whole effort to be nice to the planet and future generations by nixing man-made global warming effects? So the Thinsulate industry will take off again. Thinsulates aren't endangered and are cruelty free, aren't they?

I am aware that not all warming effects are man made. I am aware that the planet is naturally cyclic and has patterns of warming/cooling that take eons to complete. I am aware that some folks don't think global warming is a matter for humor and won't appreciate my idea. Oh, well. The thing is, my idea is simple, safe, and based on sound scientific principle. There is no reason it could not work...and probably make a lot fewer people unhappy than if we banned beef or automobiles or industry or electricity...but I bet any one of those latter things will happen before anyone ever thinks to simply, literally, lighten up.

Meanwhile, I am going to corner the market on white tarps before anyone jumps on my brilliance.

Even In Cartoons...

...there are preppers.


Also, just so you know, I love this movie...it makes me giggle.

'Tis the Season

Gathering season is coming upon us in a hurry. My band has a couple of gigs lined up for April and June, so we'll be rehearsing on a weekly basis and hopefully not sucking. We wanted to make a new CD over the winter, but that didn't happen...sigh...

I will be glad to make some music again - I'm usually really ready for winter's respite, but once spring rolls around I'm glad to get musical again. As much as I am disheartened by the process, I am invigorated, and in the end it's really less about performing and more about getting into what is, for me, sacred space. I so rarely feel powerful in my life...heck, usually I feel powerless...but when I'm singing I feel strong. That's good stuff.

What gives you that sense of strength in your life?

Want

This? Is ingenious...and I want. I want mucho.

Apollonian

Serene; harmonious; disciplined; well-balanced.

Yup...almost exactly what I am not. But I'd like to get there - I hear it's nice...

Birthday Eats

I know it was a few days ago, but I had to wait to post this until I could invade K2's house and glom onto her Internet to post these - birthday eats:

We worked together in the kitchen, something I adore. Country/Chicken (depending on where you're from) Fried Steak, mashed taties, white gravy, and fried, homegrown okra for dinner - yay for death on a plate! The potatoes were from a box, the gravy from a packet, but the rest was home made. I was at the stove with the meat and whatnot, and Someone ran the fryer.

Meanwhile, I made my new favorite cake, a many-flavored pound cake with many-flavored glaze. I got the recipe from Someone's mother, and I adore it. She gave me the bundt pan - it's got a family history - and the first time I used it (for Sprout's birthday), I didn't flour it and there was something of a cake tragedy - but it tasted just fine and everyone liked it. This time, I used Baker's Joy and I am a convert...look at how nicely it came out:

Y'all have no idea how freakin' amazing this cake tastes...the glaze soaks in and makes a sort of uber-moist, slightly crunchy, intensely flavored outer edge and bottom. Whooooeee.

For the most part, it was a quiet day - the Evil Genius was with his dad until late afternoon, Someone got up with Sprout so I could sleep in (which was awesome because I was up with her for four hours in the middle of the night), there were a few phone calls (the Evil Genius called and sang to me - awesome!!), and we watched random movies and chilled.

I don't feel any older...but one of my hips is acting like it's twice the age of the rest of me, and we need to have a serious heart-to-hip about that...

So what kind of day/dinner do you like for your birthday?

Can, Can

I've been recording a show at Mum's, something on National Geographic about Doomsday Preppers. More on that some other time - I only mention it here so you have some idea why prepping has been on my mind of late.

We don't have a shipping container, or a building, or even a whole room dedicated to our preps. We have a closet. Hey, it's a start!

I wish I had some of those wonderful steel shelves - the shelves that Someone put into our closet are good, but they are wooden and are beginning to bow under the weight of canned and dry goods.

Canned and dry goods are at the heart of many a prepper's stores.

Which leads me to a big, fat, hairy minor complaint.

When I was a child, I remember stacking cans in the pantry. The bottom of one can fit neatly into the top of another, making it easy to keep them orderly.

What the hell happened??

These days, I have to perform a small animal sacrifice and chant a cantrip to get the soup cans to stack (I'm lookin' at YOU, Campbell's!)! The same with vegetables, fruits, broths - you name it, it won't stack nicely. Who decided it was a good idea to make cans un-stackable?? I'd like a word with that person...a word in my preps closet where I have to worry about unevenly stacked cans crashing down on my toes when I accidentally brush them with my elbow as I try to stack more cans.

If they won't change their wicked ways, I wonder if I can talk canned foods manufacturers into giving me a few dozen of those nifty can holders - you know, the ones where you drop the can in the top and it rolls down to the bottom where you pull it out when you need it? So you always use the oldest items first? Then I might be mollified...

A Love Letter

Dear Publix,

Long ago, in my misspent youth, I shopped at any old grocery store. I didn't care if it was national, local, or international - I was all about the convenience. If it was close, I shopped there. I am mortified to admit that sometimes I didn't even care how clean it was. The horror! I often wandered thoughtlessly through the local Kroger, Big Star, or Food Lion without giving a though to you, humbly waiting in the next town or a few blocks away for a token visit.

O! The time wasted with other, inferior stores! Alack! Alas! Ahem...

I started shopping with you when you built a store near the track. How convenient, to be able to buy groceries when I got there instead of carting them from home! Then, when I moved up to the area, that store was the closest, and it was familiar to me, so it became my default.

A few years ago, Ingles and Kroger both tried to woo me away from you by building huge monuments to excess, also called "super stores", between you and I. I admit, I paid them visits - especially Kroger, who sought to tempt me with a Starbuck's kiosk - but they weren't you, dear Publix.

Since our beginning, you have gone far beyond mere customer service. Your pharmacy has been stellar, and your cashiers and stockers are wonderful - kind, cheerful, helpful without being intrusive - so much so that I now drive past Kroger and Ingles and eschew the Evil Empire for you. You even accept their coupons! Marvelous!

Why, I didn't even complain - much - when you rearranged the entire store to meet a nationally standardized layout. I simply wandered about, lost, until I was familiar with the new product placements. Now I can once again shop in my sleep, blindfolded, should the need arise.

I have mourned when the people I know have quit, retired, or been fired. Your employees are so nice to me, I feel valued, special. You may not know this, Publix, but an agoraphobic like me takes comfort in familiar places and faces, and even on days when I didn't want to walk to the end of the drive to collect the mail, I could come visit you without too much effort on my part. Your people have made some of my bad days better simply by being their wonderful selves.

Recently, you held a promotion - buy so many dollars or more of groceries, get a gift card for x-amount. I bought well over the minimum amount and figured I'd get a card. Your employee, though, asked the manager if it was one card for the whole order, or one card for every so many dollars. You, dear Publix, despite the careful wording of the promotion to make it clear a shopper got ONE card, you said "Eh, give one for every time they reach that amount", netting me several cards which ultimately let me buy a few luxury items like toilet paper and cat food. You are awesome that way.

Some day, hopefully in the near future, I will be moving up to Mum's place. There is no Publix here. There are only a rather inferior Ingles and an Evil Empire. Not to worry, beloved Publix - I will be loading coolers and bags into Rosie the Mule and driving down to visit you for my grocery needs. Yes, really - I would rather make a forty minute drive than have to tolerate anything less than you, Publix.

Thank you for not becoming one more in a string of retail disappointments - your constant drive to remain service-oriented is a wonder to me in an age of chains that seem to think I am here to serve them, not the other way around.

I love and adore you, Publix...

Yours as long as you'll open your doors to me,
K

What?

I turn forty today. Shh...don't tell anyone...

V-Day

A bit more than two years later, I'm still very much in love with Mr. Someone. Crazy in love. Want-to-spend-ninety-more-years-with-him in love. Whew. It's exhausting and exhilarating. Happy V-Day, lover...*




*sadly, he can't read this because we have no Internet and I'm pre-posting this from a friend's house, but the sentiment stands.

Muice

While I was pregnant, and then after I had Sprout, I was urged to join WIC (Women, Infants, Children), a federal program geared towards low/no-income pregnant women and children up to the age of five. It's supposed to help ensure proper nutrition all around. I resisted until after she was born, then signed up...because have you SEEN the price of formula? Holy carp, you'd think it was liquid gold! WIC involves classes, vouchers, and visits with nutritionists, and I must admit it has been a boon given our struggles.

The variety of folk who utilize the program fascinates me. That I seem to have more than the average number of teeth alarms me. I don't mean to sound uppity, because I DO call my region of the world Redneck Central, and I fit right in...but there really is a stunning lack of dentition in the WIC waiting room. There is also a marked lack of English spoken, but that's par for the region as well - there is a booming Latino population in the area thanks to both agricultural and industrial concerns. I am one of the very few people in my neighborhood who does not bad-mouth immigrants of legal or illegal status. I am learning Spanish, bonus for me!

At our one-year visit, the nutritionist declared the end of formula for us, and on to solids and milk drinking. I didn't see that as too much of an issue, as Bird had been weaned from the bottle on his first birthday and never looked back.

Sprout, on the other hand, took exception - not to the lack of bottle, but to the milk. Milk, it seems, is beverage-non-grata in her lexicon. Oh, dear...now what?

We decided what the heck, we'd mix in a little juice and see what happened.

We call it Muice (sounds like moose), and she thinks it's just fine. She'll drink up to three cups of it in a day. The ratio, at the moment, is four ounces of milk to two ounces of juice. We'll start using more milk, less juice, as time goes on. I wonder how anyone expects a baby to drink 24 ounces of milk day - good grief, she won't have room for food!

Odd combinations are the order of the day, for our Sprout. She changes her mind about what is good eats on a regular basis, keeping me on my toes. Some things make a good hiding place for less popular foods - you can hide a world of food-sins in mashed up apples, pears, or blueberries.

Our vouchers permit us to purchase a certain amount of produce ($6.00), bread-type foods (up to two bread, tortillas, brown rice, or whole-grain sandwich buns), beans (1 pound or four cans), a dozen eggs, and four gallons of milk and two jugs of juice a month. The milk is insane - we can't use it all up! I'm actually drinking milk - and I loathe milk. Bleh! My bones have a different opinion, though, so I man up and drink the vile stuff...

So thanks for the groceries - if you pay taxes, you're buying food for my baby, and I appreciate that. She's raising a cup of muice in your honor.

Help Wanted (SO Series)

There's a sign in the window - "Help Wanted, Apply Within".

He's seen it for a few days, finally made up his mind to go inside and see if...

He's wearing his best shirt, button-down denim, and his best pants, the jeans that don't have holes or stains and the zipper still works fine without help from a safety pin.

His hands are clean, his hair cut and combed neatly, no dirt under his fingernails. He trimmed his beard and shaved his stubble this morning. His face is carefully set in an expression of pleasant neutrality - if he is hopeful, it does not show, nor does the weariness that has dogged him for the last few years. It's just an application, nothing more. He keeps telling himself that.

Before coming here, he drove around the area, checked out the nearby neighborhoods and businesses. He has to be careful that there are no churches, daycares, schools, parks, bus stops, playgrounds, or other amusements, businesses, or attractions for children within so many feet of the business.

He takes a steadying breath and walks in. With the economy still in the tank, he figures there will be plenty of people lining up for a job, but he's the only one in there at the moment. There's a man at the register, looking bored. There are motes of dust floating through the air, tiny glinting reminders that the sun is still shining in the world. Sometimes he's surprised by that light, as if the shadows that envelop him must surely have devoured the whole world by now. When they part and let the brightness in, it is almost painful to his dark-adjusted heart.

"Help you?" the man at the register asks?
"Saw the sign..."
"You able to do heavy lifting?"
"Yes, sir." He is always polite.
"You able to work weekends?"
"Yes, sir."
"You have transportation? Can you be on time?"
"Yes, sir."
Okay, then..." he waves a handful of paper in the air before slapping it on the small counter. "...fill this out."

It's the usual thing - name, date of birth, tax information, work history, on and on. He wonders, as he always does, about the thirteen year gap. Will they notice? Will it matter?

Then there's the question that he dreads most on job applications. "Any felonies?"

He is honest. It's a matter of pride for him. Plenty of people lie, and some of them don't get caught, but he won't do it. He writes "Yes", signs the application, hands it to the man at the counter.

Sometimes they look over the application right away. Sometimes they say "We'll call." Sometimes they do call. Usually they don't. This time, the man looks over the papers while he stands there. He pauses and looks up.

"Long time out of work."
"Yes, sir."

The man at the counter finishes, looks up again.
"Got a felony?"
"Yes, sir."
"What for?"
"Sex offender." He doesn't give details. They never care.
"Sorry, can't hire you. Wish I could, you're the best applicant we've had, but there's a home daycare one block over."
"Thanks anyway."

That's it, then. Another waste of time. Maybe there's really a daycare, maybe not. The man at the counter seemed genuine, but you never can tell. They've lied, before, to avoid the awkwardness or because they don't think he deserves the courtesy of the truth. He's not sure what's worse, the ones who look him up and down and purse their mouths like he's dragged some kind of stink in with him and they want to block the smell with their upper lips, the ones who lie and don't care he can see they're lying, or the ones who are honestly sympathetic.

He used to try and get jobs in his old field. He's educated, skilled, should be a good hire. No one was interested, though, when they saw the felony staring at them from the paperwork. He looked for work in other fields, other industries, crawling down the ladder until he reached the bottom, always hoping that someone would give him a chance. He's had some odd jobs, a few cash-under-the-table things, some construction clean-up and floor sweeping work, but nothing steady, nothing that pays the bills when they need paying or feeds his family. He's taken up, and then quit, drinking several times. It's an expensive habit (although cheaper than many others), one that helps kill the hurt and resentment for a little while, even as it fuels them.

Sometimes a friend or family member will tell him about a job, a place where they hire ex-felons. He applies, but there are so many men and women like him, it's like one drop in the ocean hoping to be noticed.

Fifteen years ago, he made a bad decision. He was young and high and she was flattering with her attention and admiration. He knew she wasn't adult, but he didn't know she was considered a child by the law. She looked like that in-between age that isn't quite woman, isn't quite girl, that age when they're legal, just. She liked his attention, like touching him and the response it engendered, and he liked the way she looked up to him and made him feel strong, capable, and even wise. When she asked him up to her room, he didn't think about it, just said okay and let her take his hand, lead him up the stairs and into a shrine to the years between child and adult, a place where adolescence is just beginning to give way to more grown-up things.

Fifteen years ago, he was caught with a girl who was not, it turned out, seventeen two weeks ago. Her parents came home early, saw his truck in the driveway, walked in on them cuddled on her bed. So what, he was fully clothed and she was mostly dressed? So what, they never got to anything more than a few tentative touches, a little exploring? So what he was little more than a kid himself, four years older than she said she was? So what? No one cares.

No one cares that he isn't interested in children. No one cares that he would put a child molester under the ground in a heartbeat. He's lumped in with the rest of them, top of the list every time a child goes missing or is found harmed or dead in the area. DNA sample, fingerprints, and has to prove it wasn't him, he's never again innocent until proven guilty.

He climbs back into his old, beat up car, cranks it up, prays he can find a job before he needs gas. Someone, somewhere will see more than that "SO"...won't they? Before he gives up entirely and lets himself sink into the quagmire of drugs, alcohol, and self-loathing that is always there, always happy to suck him in and hold him under...

Pulse

Being disconnected from the world as we are, the denizens of Casa de Crazy aren’t exactly up on the latest news and world events. I had to call a friend just to find out what time and channel the Super Bowl (or, ad-stravaganza, as I like to think of it) came on!

Bless her heart, Mizz B was kind enough to oblige me, and we chatted a bit before she found the info I needed. She mentioned something about an EMP (ElectroMagnetic Pulse, likely caused by detonation of a nuclear device in the atmosphere), and I laughingly said something about not being worried, I have a large umbrella.

Then I asked if there was actually the threat of such a thing, and she told be about the tests in Iran, how the Iranian government is working on/has a missile that can reach the continental US.

Hmm.

We discussed, for a moment, what an EMP can do, how it could affect us as individuals and a nation, and talked a little about prepping. It reminded me of the show coming on Discovery in the next week or two – Doomsday Preppers. It also reminded me that I need to be re-stocking our preps, as we’ve had to tap them a bit during our own personal recession.

Preppers.

I’m a prepper, he’s a prepper, she’s a prepper, we're all preppers, wouldn’t you like to be a prepper, too?

Sorry, couldn’t resist.

I’m not an Alfred E. Neuman, “What, me worry?” type, but neither am I a Chicken Little, “The end is nigh!” type – I tend towards a middle ground of “It’s just a good idea to have a little extra put aside”.

I suspect that the whole Mayan Calendar, Iranian Missile confluence is going to inspire a great deal of prepping in the next few months. Companies will spring up like mushrooms selling everything from food-safe storage bins to complete food supplies, from assorted seed packages to build-a-bunker-in-the-woods. Shoot, companies like that already exist – surf the Net and you’ll find ‘em by the score!

I grew up in a bad weather area – everything from hurricanes to blizzards were on the menu – and we didn’t have the Internet, or pizza delivery, or SUVs and the like. We knew we could go days or even weeks without access to stores and supplies, so it made sense to have a few cans of soup and some crackers around. We had fireplaces and wood stoves, so cooking wasn’t a concern, and since it got mighty cold in winter, if there was no power the porch became our refrigerator.

These days, my own prepping habits center around three concerns (in no particular order):

1. Our finances are so uncertain as to be non-existent. Buying storable food when I can means I’ll have it when there’s no money for groceries. I’ve had to rely on stores/preps in the past when I was between jobs, and my squirrel-hoard meant I didn’t go hungry.

2. While I no longer live in blizzard/hurricane territory, one snowflake can bring major metropolitan areas to a screeching halt around here, and tornadoes fancy our landscape for their sinuous dance of destruction, so weather can affect one’s ability to dine – keeping things on hand that don’t need cooking, or can be cooked over fire means not having to go out among the bewildered when foul weather strikes.

3. These are socially and politically unstable times. While I’m not one who believes the end will come on 12/21/12, and I don’t believe we’ll be nuked/EMPd/Drugged/Mass Hypnotized out of existence, I do have some concerns about the availability of basic goods and our ability to fetch them home when they can be gotten. Soaring food prices mean that the money that used to feed my family for months now lasts a couple of weeks – and while we may eat better than we deserve, we’re not living high on the hog either. Having a stock of staples like flour, sugar, corn meal, and salt (to name a few) is useful now and a hedge against the possibilities of later unavailability.

An EMP could certainly rearrange our lifestyle for a while, but it doesn’t have to be a disaster – as I understand it, electronics not in use/turned on when a pulse hits are largely unaffected, so as long as there are back-up electronics and systems waiting quiescent in the corner, and auxiliary hardware for the grid, we wouldn’t be too awfully stressed. Think of the jobs generated by the need to get things back up and running in a hurry! All the folks who love their good old cars and trucks would be mighty popular, too, since the strictly mechanical vehicles wouldn’t be effected at all. The Amish and Mennonite communities probably wouldn’t even notice.

Am I worried about an EMP? Not really.

That Mizz B and her husband are concerned enough to have begun prepping themselves tells me something…they’re pretty level-headed folks who don’t jump on the End of the World bandwagon every time there’s a saber rattled, so if they’re genuinely concerned then it’s worth worrying about…but I just don’t see Iran or any other nation being that stupid.

The threat of a strike has long been a popular tool in international politics. The use of violence is a whole other critter, though, and while something like an EMP or nuclear strike would certainly put a hitch in our gitalong, it would also deeply piss us off as a nation – and while we appear weak and unwilling to strike back, that’s an illusion. We have a deep reserve of anger, irritation, and resentment to draw upon, and a sub-strata of society that is well armed and happy to have a target to focus all that agita on, so it won’t take long for us to rally and (to sound a little redneck) git to whompin’.

How Dry I Am (Or the Laundry Is, Anyway)

Our electric clothes dryer bit the big one a few weeks ago. Yeah, it never rains but it pours at Casa de Crazy, and old Aunt Entropy decided to remind me that she's boss, I'm her bitch, and I better mind her or she'll smack me around some more. Sigh. I love you, Aunt Entropy...

So the dryer went caput...quietly, without a hum, a buzz, a fizzle, a pop, or a wisp of smoke. It just...didn't dry. We think maybe a new heating element will right the poor thing, but given our current economic status, that'll be a while in coming.

Luckily, last year Someone installed a solar dryer for me. Yay, Someone!! I've been wanting one for a long while, and he obliged.

A solar dryer, for those not in the know, is also known as a bit of rope and some trees or posts. You know, a clothes line?

Even my better-than-well-off grandparents had one when I was a kid. We dried sheets on them, mostly, especially in the summer time.

Ours has been somewhat patchy in use - after all, a solar dryer can only work when there's sun. With no Internet and no television, and no radio reception in the house (I'd give just about anything for an old-fashioned transistor radio in the kitchen), we don't get a weather report unless we call a friend or family and ask for one, so I have to look out the window in the morning and determine if I think it's a laundry day.

I can get four or five loads washed and dried on a good day - the solar dryer is faster than the electric one, hands down (when it's working, that is). It's been quite warm and sunny lately, rather spring-like, so I've been doing laundry like mad and hoping for no sudden onset precipitation.

I like the way clothes and linens smell when they've been dried on the line. Sometimes they're a little stiff and raspy, but I don't mind. The only things that really want drying in a machine are Someone's socks. Socks dried on the line are not so comfortable - so socks come with me to Mum's once a week for a run through the machines. I'd use a laundromat, but Mum's machines don't demand quarters...

Luckily, Someone has lots of socks, so he doesn't have to recycle dirty ones or go without. I never knew anyone so fanatical about his socks!

When the sun is not obliging and I simply MUST have something washed, we hang it over the Evil Genius's shower rod and turn a fan on it to dry. Not exactly optimal, but it works in a pinch.

Things will get back to what passes for normal around our place one of these days...but in the meantime, we'll muddle through somehow, just like we always do. It's not so bad...except for desperately missing the Blue Nowhere and you folks, that is...

Shrimp Curry

Someone's mother brought us a blast from his past last year - curry mix. She used to make it when he was a kid.

Last October, a friend brought me a whole mess of shrimp he'd caught, as a gift. They've been lurking in the freezer.

Last week, tired of soup, tired of rummaging through various remnants in the fridge and freezer, Someone said "Shrimp curry..."

And so we did.

We peeled and de-veined some shrimp together - he peeled, I de-veined - and I chopped some onion, carrots, and celery as well. I adore cooking with him - and I love the fact that he's an adventurous eater, will try anything once, and doesn't complain about my often cockeyed cooking. This time, I followed the directions because curry is a little out of my element in the kitchen. I've eaten it, just never made it before.

We had saffron rice and something called "Japanese Blend" vegetables from the freezer section to go with it.

May I say "Yummy!!" Because...yummy!!

We will be having it again.

The Bench (SO Series)

Her head hangs down. She seems unaware of her surroundings, unaware of the children laughing and playing a few yards away, unaware of the dappled sunlight that plays across her hair, unaware of the people moving through the park in their various orbits. If anyone notices her, they don't show it.

She's been crying. Look closely enough and you'll see the scant evidence - wet eyelashes, a hint of red around the outer edges, a slight pinking of her nose. She isn't loud, or showy, but she doesn't try to stop the tears, either. She knows no one will see. No one ever does. She is gifted at being unseen. Gifted and cursed.

She got a phone call from her brother yesterday. He told her he doesn't want his family associating with hers. He found out her partner is a sex offender, did an Internet background search, and that's that. It doesn't matter that it looks worse than it is, that her partner didn't do the things the charges would have one believe he did. Her brother doesn't care, isn't really interested in knowing what did happen. As far as her brother is concerned, her partner is a bad person and is not to be associated with - as if it's a stain that will spread.

So now she can choose - go to family events without her beloved or stay away and not see half her family ever again. Her children will not meet her cousins. She will be a stranger to her nieces and nephews. Her kids won't know their uncle or aunt. It's an untenable position to be in.

The crime for which her partner was convicted looks awful, on paper. In reality, a girl lied to him about her age when he was a young man, and he was foolish enough to believe without questioning. Her father saw him driving away one afternoon, didn't want to believe that his sweet baby girl would behave that way, wouldn't hear anything but that the young man was older and had kissed his little girl, touched her breast, didn't matter that she said she liked it. Daddy called the authorities, who knew this girl, knew this family, had been through this before with other young men.

The courts don't care if the alleged victim invited the attention. She's too young to know what she wants, the courts say. You can't show that she's had a pattern of this behavior - that would be blaming the victim for the crime, wouldn't it? You can't say she lied, and even though she's willing to say so, she's not allowed to speak because she's too young to understand what's happening. The girl will suffer no consequence for her serial behavior, will simply go on with her life careless of the lives she's shattered all around her.

So now the woman's partner is punished every day for a crime he served a prison sentence over - a sentence that should have ended it, should have been his punishment, except people won't look beyond what's on paper or their own prejudices.

The woman sighs, wipes her eyes. It doesn't matter. In the end, there's no choice, really - she won't abandon her partner, so she'll add one more name, one more family, to the list of people who want nothing to do with her. It hurts, but the hurt is less with every repetition.

She takes another deep breath, plasters a smile on her face, and calls to her children. She has taken some photos for her partner - he can't come to the park with her, the law won't allow it, so he has only seen their child swing, go down the slide, and ride the see-saw on a screen at home. He has seen swimming lessons and play dates through her lens. Sometimes she would like to just uncomplicatedly enjoy her children, but she can't bring herself to deny her partner this little bit of joy.

She thinks life can be awfully difficult, and that people can be cruel, but what can she do? Hide her tears, wear a false smile, and get on with it...

What Say You?

Happy Birthday, K2!!

So, yeah, happy birthday to K2, sister of my heart, who is 13 days older than me, so for the next two weeks I can tease her mercilessly about how she's forty and I'm not. Yeah...

Also, happy Imbolc - the sun's visiby growing stronger, the god is thriving, the goddess is happy, and Spring is showing signs of emerging from winter's rest. Yay!

What're y'all up to?

Three Things

Three names people call me: I'm guessing nice ones are in order so...hmm...Kyd, Flower, and Mommy.

Three places I've lived: Misery, Confusion...oh, wait...Rhode Island, New Hampshire, and Florida

Three places I have worked: Work? Me? Hmm...At a Montessori school (teacher), Michael's (framer), and Denny's (world's worst Denny's waitress).

Three shows I love to watch: No TV right now, but I WAS fond of Man vs Food, Dirty Jobs, and Any of the Blue Planet/Planet Earth type shows on Discovery.

Three places I have been: Hell (and back). Okay, really...hmm...Bunker Hill, Kennesaw Mountain, and Normandy.

Three things I love to eat: Food, food, and more food. What??

Three things I look forward to: Having the Internet back some day, being able to pay bills without wondering if it means going without toilet paper, shampoo, or cat food.

Three people I get regular e-mails from: Mum, Kerri, and Rachel.

Three places I want to go: Australia, Ireland, and Hawaii.

Feel free to take a turn...

What Say You?

Who Wants Music on Monday?

Hey, don't get excited (or horrified), I'm just pre-posting some things so I don't feel like it's all echo-y and tumble-weed-y in here.



Some day I wanna sing with this woman...

If I can Keep From Killing Anyone, It'll Be A Miracle!

With the Internet on endless hiatus at Casa de Crazy, phone service on permanent vacation, and the satellite service gone the way of the Dodo bird, we're on the road a little more, visiting friends, visiting Mum, visiting anyone or anywhere that may have wifi I can hunker down on and use for a few minutes.

On the road means dealing with other motorists and their...erm...foibles.

I am fascinated by the habits of the modern motorist - it's like this vast, diverse tribe wherein the only commonality is a propensity for rudeness and inattention.

A motor vehicle is a ton or more of metal, plastic, fuel, and trouble. Why don't people drive as if they know that??

There's the fellow who never uses the blinker. Never. Ever. It's like he was bitten by the blinker wand as a child and now bears severe emotional scarring from the incident. He just changes lanes without letting anyone know he's going to, but we should all be tolerant because he's got that blinker-trauma going on. The rest of us, however, better not try the same thing on him, or there will be hell to pay. Hell, I tell you!!

There's the gal who can't let anyone pass her. She's going ten under the limit until someone tries to get by her - then she's Mrs. Mario Andretti, Jr. Try to ease past just a few MPH faster than she? No way, pal - she'll edge up and block you. Try to kick it up a little more? Sorry, buster, not gonna happen today! Slow down and she'll pace you. If you think you'll get ahead of her because she's approaching slower traffic, think again - she'll hit the gas, jump in front of you, and then slow down again. Life's a race, and if she can keep you from finishing before her, so much the better.

There's the woman who's texting, reading a catalog, and eating at the same time. No, really - I saw her. Luckily, I made it past without incident, but it was a near thing. She doesn't much care about the safety of the people around her - her car is like her house, she can do what she likes and no one has any say in it because this is a free country and fuck you if you think she's not allowed to swing wildly from lane to lane because she's trying to find the umlaut on her Blackberry.

There's the kid who only wants to drive fast, faster, fastest. He'll run right up your tailpipe, honk his horn, flash his lights, drop back and run up on you again. He thinks you're a Water Buffalo in the Cheetah lane, and nothing pisses him off like not being able to go Mach seven at will - never mind that you're in the left lane because you're going fifteen over the limit and passing right-laners like they're parked over there. Junior thinks you're a tortoise and he's about to run you down.

Let's not forget the motorcycles. Crotch rockets. Death on two wheels. Lest you get your knickers in a bind, I know many responsible riders who don't countenance shenanigans on the highway. I'm not talking about that kind of rider. I'm talking about the short-sleeved, short-pantsed, weaving-in-and-out-of-traffic, riding between the lanes, no-turn-signal-using, engine revving, helmet-scorning, no-mirror-using, speed-limits-are-for-chumps, let's race through rush hour traffic kind of rider. The kind of rider who bitches because people in cars don't make way for them or anticipate their every move, who wind up with head injuries and extensive road-rash scarring and mended bones (if they survive), the kind who cause others to have accidents and keep right on their merry way without concern for the mayhem they've wrought.

And finally (for now), the big trucks. Tractor trailers. Usually, I adore these guys. If I'm on a long haul, I'll tuck in with one going my speed and draft a little, let him clear the way for me. If I am in gnarly traffic, maybe four lanes going down to one because of construction or an incident, I will make a truck-sized space for them to get over - especially if they are using their considerable bulk to block the closing lanes and keep assholes from running all the way up to the head of the line and jumping over. Still, there are a few out there who need a bit of...help. Swaying from lane to lane is bad enough in a Nissan - that Peterbilt scares the crap out of me when it starts rocking over into the space my Astro is trying to occupy. Sudden lane jumps are not fun, either. It is especially frustrating when a truck leaps into the left lane like the driver was bitten, only to slow down to a crawl while attempting to pass the truck in the right lane that's moving only slightly faster than Congress passing a tax cut.

Share the road, people. We all want to get there as quickly as possible. We all want to get there alive. Driving is not, contrary to what people seem to believe, is not a right. It's a privilege. Act like you give a damn about that privilege before you kill someone. Or at least, before I finally go entirely off the deep end and decide to defend my piece of road with vigor and possibly a 12 gauge Mossberg. Fair warning.

One Year? Really??

One year ago, there was this:

Today, there is this:

Holy carp!!

She's one today...wow...

A Letter

Dear AT&T,

A long while ago I had an account with your competitor, a carrier that was well known for having excellent customer service and competitive rates. I was happy with my cell phone company.

As with all good things, though, it came to an end when you bought them out. I was not delighted.

I stuck with you, although it was more from habit than from any sort of desire to be loyal. Honestly, it felt more like deciding the least horrid of the lot.

I will admit that you have surprised me over the years - your customer service and tech support people have gone above and beyond on many occasions...once I could reach them. May I suggest that you market your automated phone system to Guantanamo Bay and other places where prisoners of war are being tortured? It believe it would be most effective. Or, if that does not appeal, you could use it as a sort of psychological test. I am certain many interesting things can be revealed about one's personality if you recorded one as they spoke to the recordings. Or am I the only one who talks back to the computer?

May I also note the irony of telling a customer they can look up and/or deal with their bill online when they cannot, in fact, get online to begin with and that's why they are calling? Also, I am aware that I have called AT&T - never once have I suddenly cried out "Oh, my goodness, I thought I was holding for the Lottery Commission! How silly I feel!!" I don't need reminding every few seconds. Neither do I need to hear you tell me my call will be answered in the order it was received. I've always wondered why companies feel the need to tell us this - is there a company out there that is answering calls randomly, then?

I have had wonderful experiences in your stores, too, although I must say I get little frowny lines on my face when I am told I must pay an extra fee for using that archaic cash to pay bills. Cash is instant, hard currency, irreversible, unarguable - unlike a credit card on which charges can be argued for years before payment (if any) is finally made. So why penalize me for using it??

Lately, you have turned off my cell phone and Internet*. I don't blame you - you do actually expect to be paid occasionally for your service and I didn't keep up my end of that bargain (silly me - how could I think toilet paper and cat food were more important than my beloved Blue Nowhere??), so I understand completely your sudden cessation of service.

That said, I do wonder what you were thinking when you called me last night.

Really, AT&T, you want me to sign up for DSL? I was under the impression that I was not at all a desirable customer, but your employee (if her bruised, battered, broken, thoroughly demoralized English was to be understood) said otherwise. She exhorted me to sign up for DSL...or maybe she was telling me to go to Hell. Or perhaps she was saying I should ring a bell. Or that her feet were starting to swell. I'm not certain - I don't know that she actually knew what she was saying. I am half convinced she was reading something phonetically for two cents an hour and all the Aloo Kachori** she can stomach.

Here's a hint - if you really want me to to purchase a product or service, try making certain that the person selling it speaks the same language that I do. I can muddle along in a few languages, especially if I use them all together in one sentence, but I am primarily an English speaker. Yes, yes, insert your favorite elitist jokes here, but the truth is, there are what? thousands? millions? of languages in the world (including dialects and patois)? Is it really reasonable to expect that I speak/comprehend more than four or five at once? And you called me, after all - so it would behoove you to do me the simple courtesy of attempting to fleece me in my language of origin. For the record, I am fluent in both English and Bad English, with fair vocabularies in Slang, Typo, and Gibberish as well.

In addition, given the state of the economy and my distinct lack of employment (despite a shocking amount of effort on my part...although, if I am being honest, ANY effort on my part is a shock to those who know me, because I haven't worked in some 20 years for one reason or another, and am not terribly good at being employed anyway), having someone who is clearly not working inside the boundaries of the nation (let alone state) in which I reside, call me to sell me something displays a lack of wisdom on your part. Outsourcing is not MY friend, as I am not share holder in your company, and I am disinclined to reward it with my custom.

Clearly one branch of your company is not aware of how the other branches are bending in the breeze...and you a communications company! Save yourself two cents and a bowl of curry and quit calling customers that you've cut off in the first place.

Thank you - and by the way, it will be a minute before I can pay what I owe you, but I fully intend to as soon as I sell one of T's kidneys when he's not looking.

Cheers!

* Which is why I am once again borrowing Mum's.

**I am not bashing anyone, here...just playing on the fact that the woman was quite obviously Indian, and, at the same time, enthusiastically unable to speak even basic English but delighted to be giving it the old college try all the same.

In Brief

I am at a friend's house, borrowing a few inches of Internet to do some writing for her and to catch up a little on my electronic life. Funny how one doesn't think about how much the Internet is woven through one's life until one cannot use it.

Sprout turns one in a week-and-a-half. Holy crap. She is walking, trying to climb everything, rolls and bounces a rubber ball with great vigor and glee, and has several "words" with distinct meaning - "Daaaaaaaa" is for cat, "Da, da, da" is for bounce , and "Eh, eh, eh, eh" means pick me up and feed me or I will commence to make your life a living hell. Wordy, is our Sprout!

The Evil Genius just turned nine. Nine!! That means that next year he will be in the double digits, and soon after a teen. Oh, my aching head. He is so tall, now, and riding his bike with confidence (all over the neighborhood, which sometimes scares me, but I won't clip his wings) that amazes me. He is a great help with his sister, often playing with her for an hour or more so I can get some housework done - she is a social critter and won't be left alone.

I feel steam-rolled, aching from keeping up with the baby, climbing the various fences and gates that keep her from rolling down the stairs or getting into places we don't want her, holding and rocking her to sleep (which is bending my spine into all sorts of nifty ways), bending over to clean up her toys or wash the poor, abused floor. Whew.

I'm looking for work, but it's a wash so far. After twenty years out of the employment scene, it seems I'm not a desirable employee. Sigh.

We have managed to help curtail the kitty population thanks to Mum, who payed to spay two females, then gave one of them a home. I'll miss the springtime fuzz balls, but it's for the best.

I do not know when we will have phones and Net back - it depends on what kind of income I can manage and whether T can find the resources he needs to pay his bills AND child support (he is in arrears, but there's little I can do about that - can't squeeze blood from a turnip, and he's in much the same boat we are). I'm hoping we won't have to go past February...I know the Net is a luxury to many folks, but it's what we use to find work, advertise services, keep up with family, and even sell artwork and freelance writing, so it is a useful tool around the Casa.

Meanwhile, I am gypsying around from WiFi to Wifi, leaning on friends and family for bits and pieces of Internet access. My friend K2 is being terribly sweet, allowing myself and the kids to invade at least once a week, as is Mum. Thanks!!

See y'all soon - tell me how you're doing in the comments!

Speak Your Piece

I believe in freedom of speech. I believe that one should be free to say what one thinks or feels without fear or repression, opression, or cencorship. Though I may not always like what another has to say, I will stand up for their right to say it.



Sometimes I will say things that annoy, distress, or anger others. Sometimes I may say things that offend. Sometimes others annoy, distress, or anger me, and I don't always like what they say or how they say it...but never would I tell them they cannot speak their mind. It's counter to my very core, to the basic idea of freedom that I hold dear.



Why bring this up, you ask?



It would seem that there are many folks in the world who would very much like to silence the voices they don't like.



Whether it's a song, a poem, a book, a political point, radio talk show, blog, or other means of expression, if someone finds it disagreeeable they begin to whinge about it being offensive, or hateful and mean, or encouraging "wrong" thinking, and try to shut it down.



Listen.



Hear that silence?



That's the sound of voices quashed, keyboards gone doormant, music muted and hampered by the wet woolen blanket of "for the public good".



I am not a white supremecist. I can't stand 'em, actually. I think they're crazier than shithouse rats and often question the hatred so frequntly spewed forth by their front men/women. Try telling hem they can't have or express their opinions, though, and I will, I must, defend them. Please don't make me do that.



Even if it's abhorrent to me, I will not seek to silence another's voice.



I don't mind telling someone "Hey, I find that offensive" or "I disagree", but that's a far cry from telling them they can't have their say.



It's freedom OF. folks, not freedom FROM.

Away, Away, For a Year and a Day

Well...I hope it isn't that long!

Alas, despite my hope to start daily blogging again in 2012, I am thwarted by the mighty dollar...or, rather, by the lack thereof. The Internet and phones are shut off until further notice at Casa de Crazy, which makes it bloody difficult to blog! I'll be back and blogging daily when I can pay these unreasonable people - imagine, demanding money for their service! The unadulterated gall!

I miss you folks...I miss the Blue Nowhere...and I hope you won't all drift away while I'm floundering here in reality. I may have access once in a while when I am visiting Mum (like I am now), but it'll be sporadic at best.

See you again soon...I hope...

Soup, Why Not?

I woke up yesterday with a hankerin' for soup. I winged it. Didn't turn out too bad, at all.


The players:
1 lb Great Northern Beans
1 lb Chourico (spicy Portuguese sausage)
1 Medium Onion
8 - 10 Baby Carrots
2 Stalks Celery
4 Cloves Garlic
Liquid/Stock of your choice


Begin by soaking the beans overnight, or by quick-soaking (place them in a pot with 8 cups of water, bringing to a boil, boil for 2 minutes, turn off the heat and let sit for an hour before draining and rinsing). I quick-soaked this time because it was a last-minute souping.


Drain and rinse the beans. Set aside.

Chop onion, carrots, celery, garlic, and sausage.

Heat some olive oil and butter in a pot. Saute onion/sausage mix until onions are softened.

Mix in the beans, then cover the lot with liquid - I used a mix of chicken stock and water, enough to cover the solids plus an inch or so over. Shake in a little cumin - maybe 1/4 teaspoon or so.

Cover. Bring to a boil, then simmer for several hours or until beans are cooked.

You can healthy it up a little by adding spinach, Kale, or cabbage at the last minute if you want.

Salt and pepper to taste. I served with corn bread. It was nicely spicy and flavorful, and hearty enough that I only ate one bowl.

Yule

Annual re-post freshened up with current info.
~~~~~
Happy Yule, y'all!

Wait, what? Yule - you know...Yule? The holiday that some people celebrated waaayyy before that poor wee baby was born in a pile of hay? Evergreens ring a bell? Holly? Ivy? Mistletoe??

OK, go get a snack and a nice beverage (eggnog on the right, pink punch in the center, pick a bottle from the high chair to spike it with)(yes, the high chair is our bar - the Evil Genius doesn't need it any more, Sprout is getting a new one that's a little more stable and able to handle her wiggling without that alarming creaking noise, and it's an heirloom that I want to keep on display - so why not??) and get comfy. All set?

Yule, or Winter Solstice, is a celebration of the returning light.

Yep, it's that simple.

The God is reborn today, and the days will lengthen with his growth, into the fullness of Summer. In some villages, way back in the past, hearth fires would be extinguished (a brave thing when you didn't have Zippos or matches or even two sticks to rub together). They would be relit from brands taken from a community balefire, lit by the sun himself with a little help from some glass (or a hidden coal or two - c'mon, we weren't above a little showmanship, back then), thereby bringing the sun (and, one hoped, his blessings) into the home. It also kept the community united, because everyone shared the same fire, the same light and heat. Cool, huh? Gotta love a religion that encourages playing with fire. Ahem.

The fir tree was (and is) a symbol of life lasting even through death, the promise of life and light renewed, and a reminder that beneath the snow, the Earth-heart beats on. Holly and Ivy were green, too, but they were also symbols of the Green Man, the Forest Lord, Jack o' the Green - the God primeval. The Holly King and the Ivy King, the old and the young, the constant, changing balance. Deep stuff, yo.

Mistletoe is still used in a fairly traditional way, although it wasn't always just kissing done under the stuff. I still use the leaves and occasional berry when I make love bundles for people (Note - a love bundle isn't a love spell, it is meant to strengthen what is already there, not coerce or sublimate the free will of another. I don't DO love spells, so don't even ask.)(I mean it.), and it's a terrific symbol. It was also a fertility and aphrodisiac herb, but only symbolically - even wigged out Druids knew the stuff was toxic!

We light a yule log, in our house one that's cut from the trunk of last year's tree (the rest of which is providing habitat and nutrients in the woods out back). Old tales say if it lights on the first try and burns for twelve hours, we'll have good luck...this year, I'm soaking one end in water, first. What? We need all the good fortune we can get...don't you??

This year we are spending Yule at Mum's, lighting the burn pile, celebrating the returning light with a little spark of our own. We'll collect some of the ash and bring it home to add to the ash jar and sprinkle around the foundation for a blessing.

Sometimes a group of us will get together and just spend a quiet day nibbling snacks, enjoying each other's company, and taking a break from the holiday insanity out there among the English. If we exchange gifts, we try to make them ourselves, or give things that encourage and nurture our spiritual or creative selves. Things will be a little sparse this year, and Someone and I have agreed not to exchange anything...we want the kids to have a nice holiday, although Sprout wouldn't know or care if she got a gift as long as there was a box and some ribbon to play with.

But mostly, it's a celebration of the returning sun, the waxing light, the cycle renewed.

Happy Yule - When the days be cold, may your hearth be warm. When the nights be long, may your fire burn bright. When the wind blows, may you find snug shelter. When tree and field are bare, may your larder be full. May you never know Winter's chill a moment longer than you care to, nor hunger nor want, and should you find you have all that you need and a bit more besides, may you find someone who will gladly take what you offer and live better for the receiving. Blessed be.

Let the Caterwauling Commence!

Since we're so close to Yule, I thought I'd be ridiculous and re-post some videos of Yule caroling. They aren't top quality, but they're what I have - between cats meyowling along because they thought I might be injured, the clock bonging away, the TV randomly coming on, the Evil Genius randomly wandering through, and the phone ringing, I had to reshoot a number of times, and my voice went away after an hour or so.

Anyway, here are three for your amusement.







If you want the lyrics, I'll e-mail 'em to ya. As always, I shot these with my trusty Kodak Easy Share CX7525 (now with a new! rechargeable! battery!!). Kodak doesn't know I exist, do for FTC purposes, I ain't disclaiming anything.

Pimpin' My Pal

Well hey there!

Ohmuhgoodness, look at the dust in here! I don't know what just brushed my face - it was either a cobweb or a gauze curtain.

Cough.

Is anyone still here? Looks like my little shanty in Blogopolis has been abandoned.

Is that...wildlife...I see creeping in the corners? Augh!

I need to get this place back in order, huh? M'kay - while I'm out renting a Blue Nowhere rated wet-dry vac, how about I give you a link to follow?

Trust me, this is a good link. I don't share it with just anybody. No - you're special!

Looking for a holiday/birthday/special occasion/no reason at all gift? Go see my friend, sister of my heart, and a talented-as-heck artist K2: Unleash the Goddess. She makes beautiful, unique, wearable art - and sometimes she lets me play with her glass.

Glass, people, glass!! Geeze...

Meanwhile, I am going to find an air filter and a giant incense stick - this blog smells stale...

I'll be back soon, just in case you have missed me...

In case you were wondering...

...Bob the Wonder Computer has a full memory and can't get online. A friend has offered to try and help clear the hard drive, but until that happens I have limited online access, so not much blogging is going on around here. I miss the Blue Nowhere and y'all...