The Ephedra Ban
The Bush administration announced Tuesday it is banning the sale of ephedra early next year, and urged consumers to immediately stop using the herbal weight control supplement that has been linked to numerous deaths and other harmful health effects.
(According to an AP report.)
I didn't realize the White House had the authority to ban things. Don't get me wrong, I think some people are stupid or desperate enough to take massive doses of ephedra to help them lose weight. I think that as long as companies offer it, fools will buy it, convincing themselves that it is safe. I think it sucks for a few holistic health practitioners who use ephedra containing herbs. I think it sucks that a law has to be passed to protect people from endangering themselves. And I want to rant about the use of the phrase, "The Bush Administration...banning the sale of ephedra."
The President does not write the laws. The President approves or vetoes the laws Congress writes and approves. The Supreme Court decides whether the laws are valid or not. Therefore the President cannot ban the sale of ephedra... Or is Congress part of the Bush Administration?
In another foolish case of overzealousness, a Nebraska woman was ticketed for being nude. The overzealousness reared it's ugly head when the owner of the bar called the police to complain about the nude pictures. The police department plans to send a letter to the state Liquor Control Commission to see if the bar violated any state laws.
sigh
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Monday, December 29, 2003
Charity Options
Itemizing your taxes? Looking for some last-minute charities to donate to? May I suggest this non-political, non-sectarian charity:
Direct Relief International spends less than 3% of their funds on administration and fundraising.
How about a charity that transports children from their small town to a major children's hospital, so they can recieve superior medical care for their open heart surgery/ transplant/ cancer treatment? Help me out, Chasmyn. I thought it was Flight For Life, but it's not.
Consider a good local charity that meets the needs of your neighbors.
How about the YMCA? You wouldn't believe the services they provide. They rate an A+ from the American Institute of Philanthropy, not easy to do.
Hm. I was going to say -Think of a worthy cause...any worthy cause, like the preservation of the domestic cat gene pool. After all, in spaying or neutering your cat, you are removing those genes from the gene pool. In 50 years all we will have are overbred, sickly but pretty! "purebred" cats. Meh.
But I couldn't find a single charity dedicated to maintaining a healthy feline gene pool.
Oh Well. If I win the lottery, I'll start one myself! :)
Itemizing your taxes? Looking for some last-minute charities to donate to? May I suggest this non-political, non-sectarian charity:
Direct Relief International spends less than 3% of their funds on administration and fundraising.
How about a charity that transports children from their small town to a major children's hospital, so they can recieve superior medical care for their open heart surgery/ transplant/ cancer treatment? Help me out, Chasmyn. I thought it was Flight For Life, but it's not.
Consider a good local charity that meets the needs of your neighbors.
How about the YMCA? You wouldn't believe the services they provide. They rate an A+ from the American Institute of Philanthropy, not easy to do.
Hm. I was going to say -Think of a worthy cause...any worthy cause, like the preservation of the domestic cat gene pool. After all, in spaying or neutering your cat, you are removing those genes from the gene pool. In 50 years all we will have are overbred, sickly but pretty! "purebred" cats. Meh.
But I couldn't find a single charity dedicated to maintaining a healthy feline gene pool.
Oh Well. If I win the lottery, I'll start one myself! :)
Friday, December 26, 2003
Things Mothers Should Tell Their Daughters
My friends and I have been having a discussion (for a couple of weeks now) about things mothers should tell their daughters. Things our own mothers never bothered to tell us, and should have. This is my top 5 list:
5. Puberty is wonderful and you should talk about it.
4. Masturbation is healthy.
3. No one can smell your period or see your maxi pad
2. Your insides are moist for a reason.
1. All vaginas have a fragrance. It's normal. No one can smell it but you, and you wouldn't smell it either if you weren't worried someone else might smell it.
My mom described menstruation, ovulation and hair growth in intricate detail to me and my sister. She thought she had covered all the bases. She even drew pictures. I still stressed over the top 4.
My friends and I have been having a discussion (for a couple of weeks now) about things mothers should tell their daughters. Things our own mothers never bothered to tell us, and should have. This is my top 5 list:
5. Puberty is wonderful and you should talk about it.
4. Masturbation is healthy.
3. No one can smell your period or see your maxi pad
2. Your insides are moist for a reason.
1. All vaginas have a fragrance. It's normal. No one can smell it but you, and you wouldn't smell it either if you weren't worried someone else might smell it.
My mom described menstruation, ovulation and hair growth in intricate detail to me and my sister. She thought she had covered all the bases. She even drew pictures. I still stressed over the top 4.
Post Christmas Clean up
Christmas day was spent with friends, and it was wonderful. The Madman and Persephone put out a spread to die for. Turkey and pork loin, stuffing, home made mashed potatoes, spaghetti squash with sauteed portobello mushrooms, fresh baked bread, green beans(bleah), real cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie, tarts, spiced wine with little almond slivers, and more. I don't know how they did it. They didn't look like they'd been up all night baking. I barely had time to make gingerbread. I bow down to their superior cooking and time management!
This morning, Hubby-man picked up all the wrapping paper that had been strewn about the floor. Poor Friday, no more wrapping paper to play in. For a wonder, the rest of the house is pretty clean. It's usually trashed the day after Christmas.
I hope everyone else had as much fun as I did this year. :)
Christmas day was spent with friends, and it was wonderful. The Madman and Persephone put out a spread to die for. Turkey and pork loin, stuffing, home made mashed potatoes, spaghetti squash with sauteed portobello mushrooms, fresh baked bread, green beans(bleah), real cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie, tarts, spiced wine with little almond slivers, and more. I don't know how they did it. They didn't look like they'd been up all night baking. I barely had time to make gingerbread. I bow down to their superior cooking and time management!
This morning, Hubby-man picked up all the wrapping paper that had been strewn about the floor. Poor Friday, no more wrapping paper to play in. For a wonder, the rest of the house is pretty clean. It's usually trashed the day after Christmas.
I hope everyone else had as much fun as I did this year. :)
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
A happy Christmas Eve
This years gathering was at Aunt C and Uncle G's brick Victorian mega-home. No one got drunk. No one argued. Uncle J dressed in a Santa costume and was swarmed by the newest generation of children. He handed out candy, then Christmas crackers, and finally, presents. The little ones sat in a double semi-circle around him, opening their gifts while the older children stepped over and around them carefully. I don't think I've ever seen so many well behaved kids in one place before. Where did all these children come from? Certainly not my families gene pool!
The gifts were well thought out this year, too. L received a fabu Sonic game for his gamecube, a Harry Potter poster book, a microscope, a Vampire game, gift certificates, cash, and -his favorite- a gorgeous howling wolf sculpture.
The Hubby-Man got season 4 of Babylon 5 (from my sister and her Hubby-Man) and from his secret Santa (my mom) Robert Heinlein's The Moon is A Harsh Mistress, with a library binding. This is one copy that won't fall apart.
My secret Santa gifted me with a wine rack, 3 bottles of reserve wine, 2 beautiful wine stoppers, 1 corkscrew, and a really cute sweater. (Thank you, cousin M)
I gave her 2 bottles of red wine, Seven Deadly Zins and colossi. I also gave wine to the person I was secret Santa-ing. She got Fat Bastard Shiraz and a great Reisling. I buy one every year. It's from a small artist owned vineyard. He paints a watercolor every season with the reisling that's being currently bottled, and the picture is stamped on every bottle. It's great! And tasty too!
Anyway, this should be my last post of the night, so MERRY CHRISTMAS!
This years gathering was at Aunt C and Uncle G's brick Victorian mega-home. No one got drunk. No one argued. Uncle J dressed in a Santa costume and was swarmed by the newest generation of children. He handed out candy, then Christmas crackers, and finally, presents. The little ones sat in a double semi-circle around him, opening their gifts while the older children stepped over and around them carefully. I don't think I've ever seen so many well behaved kids in one place before. Where did all these children come from? Certainly not my families gene pool!
The gifts were well thought out this year, too. L received a fabu Sonic game for his gamecube, a Harry Potter poster book, a microscope, a Vampire game, gift certificates, cash, and -his favorite- a gorgeous howling wolf sculpture.
The Hubby-Man got season 4 of Babylon 5 (from my sister and her Hubby-Man) and from his secret Santa (my mom) Robert Heinlein's The Moon is A Harsh Mistress, with a library binding. This is one copy that won't fall apart.
My secret Santa gifted me with a wine rack, 3 bottles of reserve wine, 2 beautiful wine stoppers, 1 corkscrew, and a really cute sweater. (Thank you, cousin M)
I gave her 2 bottles of red wine, Seven Deadly Zins and colossi. I also gave wine to the person I was secret Santa-ing. She got Fat Bastard Shiraz and a great Reisling. I buy one every year. It's from a small artist owned vineyard. He paints a watercolor every season with the reisling that's being currently bottled, and the picture is stamped on every bottle. It's great! And tasty too!
Anyway, this should be my last post of the night, so MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Hoosier Girl vs. The Man in the Santa Hat
Before I describe today's people-watching, I feel the need to clue-in the non-St. Louisans. "Hoosier" means urban trailer trash; it has nothing to do with the proud residents of Indiana. "Cain't" is a mix of can't and ain't. It means cannot, do not, must not and will not. It's all the negatives rolled into one. "@#(&!%$" means the act of coitus, except with Hoosiers. Then it means, "Pay attention to me, I said a bad word."
Now that people with class can enjoy the story, onward ho!
Today I delivered soda and a secret santa gift to the sponsors of this years family gathering. I also delivered secret santa gifts to the Hubby-Man's selected person. Then I went to the grocery store to buy pudding and lunchables pizza. My keen observational skills noted the lack of available parking. Hmmm, not good. The store was exceptionally crowded. The little Scotty in my head said, "The shields won't hold, capt'n." So I staggered around the store with an awful headache. Too many people, too many thoughts, way too chaotic for my tender senses.
I snagged the goodies I'd come for and headed for the checkout.
And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but 18 lanes open, no waiting. What a beautiful sight. I made it through the checkout in about 30 seconds. It made my day.
I in my scarf, but not wearing a hat, had just dropped some change in the bell ringer's vat. When out in the lot there arose such a clatter, I looked toward my truck -in case it would matter.
I couldn't not notice Hoosier Girl. From her faded jeans to her red dyed hair, her whole being screamed "Hoosier". If that wasn't enough to clue you in, 2 seconds of listening to her verbal diarrhea would do the trick.
Yes, the whole time it took me to walk the Wal-Mart sized parking lot and load the goodies in my truck, I got to listen to:
You cain't hit my @#(&!%$ car! You don't hit my @#(&!%$ car. Nuh uh! You cain't hit my @#(&!%$ car!
And who was she assaulting with her poor grasp of grammar? (besides all of us normal people) A man in a Santa hat. I believe the man would have explained about the store having a telephone and calling to report the accident, if Hoosier Girl had taken a moment to breathe. I saw the man turn and walk toward her, palms up in a universal gesture of "Let's discuss this reasonably" and I noted how Hoosier Girl started walking backward, still spewing venom. She had to keep at least 20 feet between her and the man in the Santa hat, because he was black. Isn't that pathetic?
I really felt sorry for the poor guy.
Before I describe today's people-watching, I feel the need to clue-in the non-St. Louisans. "Hoosier" means urban trailer trash; it has nothing to do with the proud residents of Indiana. "Cain't" is a mix of can't and ain't. It means cannot, do not, must not and will not. It's all the negatives rolled into one. "@#(&!%$" means the act of coitus, except with Hoosiers. Then it means, "Pay attention to me, I said a bad word."
Now that people with class can enjoy the story, onward ho!
Today I delivered soda and a secret santa gift to the sponsors of this years family gathering. I also delivered secret santa gifts to the Hubby-Man's selected person. Then I went to the grocery store to buy pudding and lunchables pizza. My keen observational skills noted the lack of available parking. Hmmm, not good. The store was exceptionally crowded. The little Scotty in my head said, "The shields won't hold, capt'n." So I staggered around the store with an awful headache. Too many people, too many thoughts, way too chaotic for my tender senses.
I snagged the goodies I'd come for and headed for the checkout.
And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but 18 lanes open, no waiting. What a beautiful sight. I made it through the checkout in about 30 seconds. It made my day.
I in my scarf, but not wearing a hat, had just dropped some change in the bell ringer's vat. When out in the lot there arose such a clatter, I looked toward my truck -in case it would matter.
I couldn't not notice Hoosier Girl. From her faded jeans to her red dyed hair, her whole being screamed "Hoosier". If that wasn't enough to clue you in, 2 seconds of listening to her verbal diarrhea would do the trick.
Yes, the whole time it took me to walk the Wal-Mart sized parking lot and load the goodies in my truck, I got to listen to:
You cain't hit my @#(&!%$ car! You don't hit my @#(&!%$ car. Nuh uh! You cain't hit my @#(&!%$ car!
And who was she assaulting with her poor grasp of grammar? (besides all of us normal people) A man in a Santa hat. I believe the man would have explained about the store having a telephone and calling to report the accident, if Hoosier Girl had taken a moment to breathe. I saw the man turn and walk toward her, palms up in a universal gesture of "Let's discuss this reasonably" and I noted how Hoosier Girl started walking backward, still spewing venom. She had to keep at least 20 feet between her and the man in the Santa hat, because he was black. Isn't that pathetic?
I really felt sorry for the poor guy.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Cookies!
Welcome, Winter! It's about 13 hours past Winter Solstice, and I'm making ritual cookies. So here it is, my favorite cookie recipie, swiped from The Joy of Cooking and modified by me.
In cookie making, I cannot stress enough the importance of real butter. Fake butter in any form ruins what should be good cookies. Forget your cholesterol level and use real butter. (note: real butter is rich in good fats)
Rich Roll Cookies
cream: 1 cup softened butter and 2/3 cup sugar
beat in: 1 egg and 1 tsp vanilla or almond extract
combine and add: 2 1/2 cups sifted all purpose flour and 1/2 tsp salt
That's it. There is your basic dough. You can roll it out or use a cookie press.
bake at 350 degrees for about 8 minutes, depending on the thickness of the cookies.
For ritual cookies add 1 to 1 1/2 tblspns ground basil.
For espresso cookies add 3 or more tblspns finely ground coffee
Experiment and enjoy!
Welcome, Winter! It's about 13 hours past Winter Solstice, and I'm making ritual cookies. So here it is, my favorite cookie recipie, swiped from The Joy of Cooking and modified by me.
In cookie making, I cannot stress enough the importance of real butter. Fake butter in any form ruins what should be good cookies. Forget your cholesterol level and use real butter. (note: real butter is rich in good fats)
Rich Roll Cookies
cream: 1 cup softened butter and 2/3 cup sugar
beat in: 1 egg and 1 tsp vanilla or almond extract
combine and add: 2 1/2 cups sifted all purpose flour and 1/2 tsp salt
That's it. There is your basic dough. You can roll it out or use a cookie press.
bake at 350 degrees for about 8 minutes, depending on the thickness of the cookies.
For ritual cookies add 1 to 1 1/2 tblspns ground basil.
For espresso cookies add 3 or more tblspns finely ground coffee
Experiment and enjoy!
About the Santa Story
Reading that story, I think it's the most melodramatic thing. All I can say is, I was a melodramatic kid. I'm not very good at writing fiction. Fortunately, I'm blessed with a near-photographic memory and a penchant for sharing my memories with others.
I copied the Santa Story over to RandomRedhead, even though it won't go into the book. Since it's a pre-neighborhood story, you have my permission to copy it if you want. The RandomRedhead version leaves out the "Holy Sponge" rant.
Reading that story, I think it's the most melodramatic thing. All I can say is, I was a melodramatic kid. I'm not very good at writing fiction. Fortunately, I'm blessed with a near-photographic memory and a penchant for sharing my memories with others.
I copied the Santa Story over to RandomRedhead, even though it won't go into the book. Since it's a pre-neighborhood story, you have my permission to copy it if you want. The RandomRedhead version leaves out the "Holy Sponge" rant.
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Santa Stories
I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.
He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.
Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.
Christmas rolled around and Mom, sister and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone.
I'm going to break here to comment on the decline of the Holy Catholic Church in America. As a kid, we would enter church and dip our fingers in a marble basin full of water, and dab a bit on our forehead, chest and shoulders -making the sign of the cross. The water practically glowed with good energy. The whole back of the church was filled with the energy coming out of the bowls. At some point, the water was replaced with a damp sponge. Why? Did they become afraid people would steal the water? It makes no sense. Every Catholic Church has a tank full of Holy Water, free for the taking. It's not like Holy Water is expensive, either. Tap water and a pinch of salt, combined with a priest drawing down God is all it takes. Why did they replace such a beautiful conductor of energy with a sponge? Should I refer to it as a Holy Sponge? Maybe I should ask a priest. Ok, back to the story.
We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.
After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.
I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got cool gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.
I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "Cousins One and Two will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."
Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.
The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.
I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.
He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.
Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.
Christmas rolled around and Mom, sister and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone.
I'm going to break here to comment on the decline of the Holy Catholic Church in America. As a kid, we would enter church and dip our fingers in a marble basin full of water, and dab a bit on our forehead, chest and shoulders -making the sign of the cross. The water practically glowed with good energy. The whole back of the church was filled with the energy coming out of the bowls. At some point, the water was replaced with a damp sponge. Why? Did they become afraid people would steal the water? It makes no sense. Every Catholic Church has a tank full of Holy Water, free for the taking. It's not like Holy Water is expensive, either. Tap water and a pinch of salt, combined with a priest drawing down God is all it takes. Why did they replace such a beautiful conductor of energy with a sponge? Should I refer to it as a Holy Sponge? Maybe I should ask a priest. Ok, back to the story.
We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.
After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.
I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got cool gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.
I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "Cousins One and Two will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."
Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.
The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.
Santa - Myth, Legend, Deity
The other day, a child asked me, "...Do you believe in Santa?"
What a question! I have a reputation for blunt honesty. I will tell you if your butt looks big in an outfit you're trying on. I'll answer almost any question asked of me. I don't lie. My friends know that asking me something is akin to stepping into a tornado. It may pick you up and set you down unharmed, it may leave you injured, it may drop a house on you. Apparently, even children understand that I have an obnoxious trait for honesty.
So, my friend's 9 year old asked the Santa question; and as usual, my mouth moved before my censor kicked in. "Yes. I absolutely believe in Santa." I said.
I looked at her mom, realizing that I had no idea what her Santa-policy-for-nine-year-olds was. I may have just stuck my foot in my mouth BIG time. Mom-friend was looking at me with huge eyes and a slack face. I wasn't the only one who had been blindsided. Heh. Then what I'd said sunk in, and Mom-friend smiled and gave me the slightest of nods. And the truth shall set you free!
I turned to the child again and asked, "Why?"
She began telling me all about her friends not believing, or at least saying they didn't believe, and how she knew Santa was real, and all the reasons why her mom wouldn't be able to pull off the stuff Santa can do. Her words were so eloquent, so well thought out, that I knew she must have been carrying the weight of the Santa question for months. She poured out her stress while we marveled at her. Both her Mom and I felt extreme empathy for her. During her releasing, I could feel right where she was at. I had forgotten how mature you think you are when you're 9.
Thank you, Persephone my friend, for having such wonderful children.
The other day, a child asked me, "...Do you believe in Santa?"
What a question! I have a reputation for blunt honesty. I will tell you if your butt looks big in an outfit you're trying on. I'll answer almost any question asked of me. I don't lie. My friends know that asking me something is akin to stepping into a tornado. It may pick you up and set you down unharmed, it may leave you injured, it may drop a house on you. Apparently, even children understand that I have an obnoxious trait for honesty.
So, my friend's 9 year old asked the Santa question; and as usual, my mouth moved before my censor kicked in. "Yes. I absolutely believe in Santa." I said.
I looked at her mom, realizing that I had no idea what her Santa-policy-for-nine-year-olds was. I may have just stuck my foot in my mouth BIG time. Mom-friend was looking at me with huge eyes and a slack face. I wasn't the only one who had been blindsided. Heh. Then what I'd said sunk in, and Mom-friend smiled and gave me the slightest of nods. And the truth shall set you free!
I turned to the child again and asked, "Why?"
She began telling me all about her friends not believing, or at least saying they didn't believe, and how she knew Santa was real, and all the reasons why her mom wouldn't be able to pull off the stuff Santa can do. Her words were so eloquent, so well thought out, that I knew she must have been carrying the weight of the Santa question for months. She poured out her stress while we marveled at her. Both her Mom and I felt extreme empathy for her. During her releasing, I could feel right where she was at. I had forgotten how mature you think you are when you're 9.
Thank you, Persephone my friend, for having such wonderful children.
Friday, December 19, 2003
Double Damn
A here's my life bitch-rant
Last night my cousin called, and I agreed to baby-sit her youngest before I understood what I was agreeing to. I could have backed out. I could have said, "...babysitting? I don't do that." And I didn't. She needed me, I said yes, that was that.
Later that night I went upstairs to go to bed. I saw light around L's doorframe and thought, "Ha! I'm gonna bust him for being awake at 12:30 at night!" I opened his door, got as far as the "you're" in "You're busted kiddo!" and saw that he was sick.
Damn.
Today was supposed to be a half day of Christmas partying at school, and he's sick. I dosed him with liquid ibuprofen and crossed my fingers. I'd hoped he would be good for school in the morning. No such luck. He was up at 5 in the morning. He didn't wake me, he just turned his light on, spritzed his throat with Chloraseptic, and sat at his computer; waiting. (He's really growing up. I'm so proud of him)
So now I'm in a quandry. I have committed to babysitting. It's the last day of school. I have my first non-hubby honest to goodness real massage in a month, and my son is sick.
I don't want to share his stuffy, runny nose, horrible throat irritation and hacking cough with anyone. What do I do?
I have commitments, damnit! And my son is my most important commitment. Everything else is secondary. (Well, ok... Son and Hubby tie for first place)
I called my cousin and told her L was sick. She got mad, but otherwise took it well. She has commitments too. She's room mother for her eldest child. She promised to be there for his Christmas party. She can't bring her toddler to the 5th grade party. This cold's timing has screwed her too. My whole day has changed direction.
I meekly bow my head and say, "Thank you, Eris."
A here's my life bitch-rant
Last night my cousin called, and I agreed to baby-sit her youngest before I understood what I was agreeing to. I could have backed out. I could have said, "...babysitting? I don't do that." And I didn't. She needed me, I said yes, that was that.
Later that night I went upstairs to go to bed. I saw light around L's doorframe and thought, "Ha! I'm gonna bust him for being awake at 12:30 at night!" I opened his door, got as far as the "you're" in "You're busted kiddo!" and saw that he was sick.
Damn.
Today was supposed to be a half day of Christmas partying at school, and he's sick. I dosed him with liquid ibuprofen and crossed my fingers. I'd hoped he would be good for school in the morning. No such luck. He was up at 5 in the morning. He didn't wake me, he just turned his light on, spritzed his throat with Chloraseptic, and sat at his computer; waiting. (He's really growing up. I'm so proud of him)
So now I'm in a quandry. I have committed to babysitting. It's the last day of school. I have my first non-hubby honest to goodness real massage in a month, and my son is sick.
I don't want to share his stuffy, runny nose, horrible throat irritation and hacking cough with anyone. What do I do?
I have commitments, damnit! And my son is my most important commitment. Everything else is secondary. (Well, ok... Son and Hubby tie for first place)
I called my cousin and told her L was sick. She got mad, but otherwise took it well. She has commitments too. She's room mother for her eldest child. She promised to be there for his Christmas party. She can't bring her toddler to the 5th grade party. This cold's timing has screwed her too. My whole day has changed direction.
I meekly bow my head and say, "Thank you, Eris."
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Wow
I was checking out Riverbend's recipies page, and was amazed at the similarities to my grandma's cooking. For those of you who don't know, my grandma made traditional Sicilian meals every other day. She and my grandpa had reached an agreement, you see. Sundays was spaghetti (except it was vermicelli), and the rest of the week alternated between Sicilian food for grandpa and American food for grandma.
You could convert nearly any of Riverbend's recipies into Sicilian recipies by trading the curry for oregano, and the cumin for basil. Amazing.
I knew the countries were geographically close, but I didn't know how close.
I was checking out Riverbend's recipies page, and was amazed at the similarities to my grandma's cooking. For those of you who don't know, my grandma made traditional Sicilian meals every other day. She and my grandpa had reached an agreement, you see. Sundays was spaghetti (except it was vermicelli), and the rest of the week alternated between Sicilian food for grandpa and American food for grandma.
You could convert nearly any of Riverbend's recipies into Sicilian recipies by trading the curry for oregano, and the cumin for basil. Amazing.
I knew the countries were geographically close, but I didn't know how close.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Me At My Finest
If you've never met me, you are so missing out. This week has been a great example of me in true ME mode. I haven't called people on the phone. I found drawings of an uncircumcised Pness (freaks B gone), and the high point -I think-
I found myself laying on the floor of a thrift store, freeing toys from the dark recesses of Beneath The Shelving.
Thank you, thank you. I accept accolades in the form of comments, flowers and chocolate.
If you've never met me, you are so missing out. This week has been a great example of me in true ME mode. I haven't called people on the phone. I found drawings of an uncircumcised Pness (freaks B gone), and the high point -I think-
I found myself laying on the floor of a thrift store, freeing toys from the dark recesses of Beneath The Shelving.
Thank you, thank you. I accept accolades in the form of comments, flowers and chocolate.
How Disappointing
This morning I watched CNN broadcasting live from Kitty Hawk. I enjoyed their discussions about the measly 12 hp engine the Wright Flier had. I was amused that the plane needed a 20 - 30 mph headwind just to get off the ground. I waited for Bush's speech, hoping to hear in it some commitment to spaceflight.
That smug little bastard acknowledged the presence of a number of astronauts and NASA officials, rambled on about history, and never said what I wanted to hear. The closest he came was his assertion that America would remain the leaders of flight.
I wanted to hear something, anything about high tech flight. I would have been happy with a comment on ballistic shuttles. I would have preferred a strong commitment to NASA. Best of all (and most appropriate to his speech) would have been the expression of his support towards commercial spaceflight.
He could have talked about enterprising men and women facing down the so-called "impossible"; succeeding despite the voices of the experts. He could have acknowledged the Wright brothers creation of something that went on to be a valuable addition to our nation, and our world. He could have go on to say that there are people right now taking the next big step, the step from the sky to the stars. He could have pledged his support of the American teams competing for the X-Prize.
He could have. He didn't.
This morning I watched CNN broadcasting live from Kitty Hawk. I enjoyed their discussions about the measly 12 hp engine the Wright Flier had. I was amused that the plane needed a 20 - 30 mph headwind just to get off the ground. I waited for Bush's speech, hoping to hear in it some commitment to spaceflight.
That smug little bastard acknowledged the presence of a number of astronauts and NASA officials, rambled on about history, and never said what I wanted to hear. The closest he came was his assertion that America would remain the leaders of flight.
I wanted to hear something, anything about high tech flight. I would have been happy with a comment on ballistic shuttles. I would have preferred a strong commitment to NASA. Best of all (and most appropriate to his speech) would have been the expression of his support towards commercial spaceflight.
He could have talked about enterprising men and women facing down the so-called "impossible"; succeeding despite the voices of the experts. He could have acknowledged the Wright brothers creation of something that went on to be a valuable addition to our nation, and our world. He could have go on to say that there are people right now taking the next big step, the step from the sky to the stars. He could have pledged his support of the American teams competing for the X-Prize.
He could have. He didn't.
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Aimless Chatter
A question about capturing Saddam Hussein. Why is it that only one newspaper had the headline, "Ace In The Hole"? I think that's funny, er punny.
I don't think it's funny that they caught him. I really thought that the day they caught Saddam Hussein would be a happy day. Not so, sigh. Bush does not need that kind of good PR.
I'm glad the people of Iraq who were fearful of President Hussein's return have less to fear now. I'm glad the man will stand trial for the crimes he is (and will be) accused of. I'm glad Amnesty International has evidence to submit.
But I'm not happy that he was caught.
How much ya wanna bet Bush wants to have the trial in America? Saddam Hussein, President of Iraq, needs to be tried by the United Nations for crimes against his people or he should be tried in Iraq, and punished by Iraqi laws.
A question about capturing Saddam Hussein. Why is it that only one newspaper had the headline, "Ace In The Hole"? I think that's funny, er punny.
I don't think it's funny that they caught him. I really thought that the day they caught Saddam Hussein would be a happy day. Not so, sigh. Bush does not need that kind of good PR.
I'm glad the people of Iraq who were fearful of President Hussein's return have less to fear now. I'm glad the man will stand trial for the crimes he is (and will be) accused of. I'm glad Amnesty International has evidence to submit.
But I'm not happy that he was caught.
How much ya wanna bet Bush wants to have the trial in America? Saddam Hussein, President of Iraq, needs to be tried by the United Nations for crimes against his people or he should be tried in Iraq, and punished by Iraqi laws.
Saturday, December 13, 2003
Sometimes I Wonder
Sometimes I have moments (or days or weeks) of self doubt. I suppose it's human. I suppose it's normal, and usually I laugh about it later. My most recent doubt is about the book I'm writing. I have so many questions in my head about it. Will I actually finish it, or will I toss it aside like so many other projects? How much will I have to dump during the editing process? I already have enough material for 4 books. Is my writing too wordy for this modern, instant-gratification based world? Will potential publishers put my stories -my life- in the recycle bin as too tedious?
And then I find, quite by accident, sites like Guardian Unlimited Books. I had typed my URL into Google, and clicked on "sites similar to this". It's usually pretty amusing. I have no idea what criteria Google uses, but it's normal to find sites completely unlike my own.
Anyway, there on the list was Guardian Unlimited Books. I thought, "Hey. This could be a good chance to see what is being published that's like my memoirs." It was worth a shot, at least. So I clicked the link and found myself on an excerpts page.
The first paragraph had me staring slack jawed at the computer screen. The book is titled: "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers
Long title, but "Memoirs from a South Side Neighborhood" (my working title) is pretty long too. The first paragraph reads: "Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the trees calligraphic. Exhaust from the dryer billows clumsily out from the house and up, breaking apart while tumbling into the white sky. "
I find the imagery difficult.
I realize Guardian is in the UK, and perhaps the British prefer difficult imagery in books. Perhaps not... look at any of the Harry Potter books. They are also filled with lengthy verbal imagery, but in J.K. Rowlings' work things flow.
I'm not writing to put down the author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. He's published, I'm not. I'm just commenting on how I don't have to be J.K. Rowling to get a book contract. Yay!
So anyway, if you'd like to read some stories about growing up in a rough urban neighborhood, hop on over to My rough draft blog then drop me a line. I really enjoy the feedback, even if the feedback is "you suck". :)
Sometimes I have moments (or days or weeks) of self doubt. I suppose it's human. I suppose it's normal, and usually I laugh about it later. My most recent doubt is about the book I'm writing. I have so many questions in my head about it. Will I actually finish it, or will I toss it aside like so many other projects? How much will I have to dump during the editing process? I already have enough material for 4 books. Is my writing too wordy for this modern, instant-gratification based world? Will potential publishers put my stories -my life- in the recycle bin as too tedious?
And then I find, quite by accident, sites like Guardian Unlimited Books. I had typed my URL into Google, and clicked on "sites similar to this". It's usually pretty amusing. I have no idea what criteria Google uses, but it's normal to find sites completely unlike my own.
Anyway, there on the list was Guardian Unlimited Books. I thought, "Hey. This could be a good chance to see what is being published that's like my memoirs." It was worth a shot, at least. So I clicked the link and found myself on an excerpts page.
The first paragraph had me staring slack jawed at the computer screen. The book is titled: "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers
Long title, but "Memoirs from a South Side Neighborhood" (my working title) is pretty long too. The first paragraph reads: "Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the trees calligraphic. Exhaust from the dryer billows clumsily out from the house and up, breaking apart while tumbling into the white sky. "
I find the imagery difficult.
I realize Guardian is in the UK, and perhaps the British prefer difficult imagery in books. Perhaps not... look at any of the Harry Potter books. They are also filled with lengthy verbal imagery, but in J.K. Rowlings' work things flow.
I'm not writing to put down the author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. He's published, I'm not. I'm just commenting on how I don't have to be J.K. Rowling to get a book contract. Yay!
So anyway, if you'd like to read some stories about growing up in a rough urban neighborhood, hop on over to My rough draft blog then drop me a line. I really enjoy the feedback, even if the feedback is "you suck". :)
Friday, December 12, 2003
CBC
Our son wants to go to Christian Brothers College High School. Why would a Pagan sent their child to a Catholic high school? Two reasons:
1) St. Louis public schools suck. If you want your child to experience life-threatening danger, drugs, teachers who don't know the material they're teaching, and classes of 60-85 children, then by all means send them to a St. Louis public high school. If you want your child to have an education that's at least worth the effort of driving them to school, send them to a private or parochial school. Private schools are not within our budget.
2)CBC has service requirements. That means the students must perform volunteer services in order to get credits toward their grades. CBC has their own soup kitchen. They also have a computer lab where students can tutor adults, giving them computer skills to re-enter the workforce.
Now, why does my son want CBC in particular? Three reasons:
1) The school loves diversity
2) The campus is brand new
3) Incoming students receive a laptop as one of their school supplies
If that weren't enough, there's another reason I like CBC. Freshmen with standardized test scores of 90 or higher get a $1000 scholarship. L's standardized test score this year was 93. Last year's was 97. Woot!
We may qualify for financial aid, and with his test scores he may get a half or full scholarship. The tuition is about $10,000 a year, and we all want CBC to be L's school.
Since I'm a stay-home mom, I can get a job to cover the tuition costs.
Our son wants to go to Christian Brothers College High School. Why would a Pagan sent their child to a Catholic high school? Two reasons:
1) St. Louis public schools suck. If you want your child to experience life-threatening danger, drugs, teachers who don't know the material they're teaching, and classes of 60-85 children, then by all means send them to a St. Louis public high school. If you want your child to have an education that's at least worth the effort of driving them to school, send them to a private or parochial school. Private schools are not within our budget.
2)CBC has service requirements. That means the students must perform volunteer services in order to get credits toward their grades. CBC has their own soup kitchen. They also have a computer lab where students can tutor adults, giving them computer skills to re-enter the workforce.
Now, why does my son want CBC in particular? Three reasons:
1) The school loves diversity
2) The campus is brand new
3) Incoming students receive a laptop as one of their school supplies
If that weren't enough, there's another reason I like CBC. Freshmen with standardized test scores of 90 or higher get a $1000 scholarship. L's standardized test score this year was 93. Last year's was 97. Woot!
We may qualify for financial aid, and with his test scores he may get a half or full scholarship. The tuition is about $10,000 a year, and we all want CBC to be L's school.
Since I'm a stay-home mom, I can get a job to cover the tuition costs.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
J.C. in the morning
Hubby-Man wakes to J.C. on the radio alarm clock. J.C. has a tendency to say things he shouldn't. Because of that, he changes stations every few years. Wherever he goes, his listeners follow. He may be changing jobs again soon.
This morning he was talking about St. Louis no longer being the gonorrhea capitol of America. (Well, thank goodness for that) He and his crew were discussing how strange it seemed that a medium sized city was, for a while, the gonorrhea capitol. Then he said, "You'll never guess what is the syphilis capitol. It's another unexpected city." Chatter ensued, and they finally got around to the name of the city. It was somewhere in Oregon. From there he read bits from the article about V.D. capitols.
If you heard the whole show, you know he's reading. But if you missed the start, you'd think he was expressing his opinion. I expect he will get a lot of hate mail over this. The article blamed the rise in syphilis on a gay spa. I don't know what he was reading from, but it was borderline derogatory; describing all the stereotypical bullshit about gay men. To give J.C. credit, he did say that articles like that don't do anything to remove stereotypes.
FYI, the number of syphilis cases in Oregon was 47 in 2002. It's not like a pandemic or anything.
Hubby-Man wakes to J.C. on the radio alarm clock. J.C. has a tendency to say things he shouldn't. Because of that, he changes stations every few years. Wherever he goes, his listeners follow. He may be changing jobs again soon.
This morning he was talking about St. Louis no longer being the gonorrhea capitol of America. (Well, thank goodness for that) He and his crew were discussing how strange it seemed that a medium sized city was, for a while, the gonorrhea capitol. Then he said, "You'll never guess what is the syphilis capitol. It's another unexpected city." Chatter ensued, and they finally got around to the name of the city. It was somewhere in Oregon. From there he read bits from the article about V.D. capitols.
If you heard the whole show, you know he's reading. But if you missed the start, you'd think he was expressing his opinion. I expect he will get a lot of hate mail over this. The article blamed the rise in syphilis on a gay spa. I don't know what he was reading from, but it was borderline derogatory; describing all the stereotypical bullshit about gay men. To give J.C. credit, he did say that articles like that don't do anything to remove stereotypes.
FYI, the number of syphilis cases in Oregon was 47 in 2002. It's not like a pandemic or anything.
I've slept on it. The morning greeted me with a beautiful sunrise, and now I can say more.
When I found the paperweight, the pain was sudden and bright. I burst into tears because it hurt. The loss hurt. I added the title later. I wasn't crying because they can't bring him home. I wasn't thinking of anything, I was just crying.
Hubby-Man didn't really understand why I found a simple poem so offensive, but he gave me some space anyway. Good man.
When I found the paperweight, the pain was sudden and bright. I burst into tears because it hurt. The loss hurt. I added the title later. I wasn't crying because they can't bring him home. I wasn't thinking of anything, I was just crying.
Hubby-Man didn't really understand why I found a simple poem so offensive, but he gave me some space anyway. Good man.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Because they can't
I was looking for a gift for my in-laws (who have everything). I was looking in the gadgets section of Marshall Fields, since they have a Marshall Fields in Savannah. They have a paperweight in the gadgets section. It looks like a garden stepping stone, and says,
"If tears could build a stairway
And memories, a lane
I'd walk right up to heaven
And bring you home again"
I read it and started bawling all over my keyboard.
I was looking for a gift for my in-laws (who have everything). I was looking in the gadgets section of Marshall Fields, since they have a Marshall Fields in Savannah. They have a paperweight in the gadgets section. It looks like a garden stepping stone, and says,
"If tears could build a stairway
And memories, a lane
I'd walk right up to heaven
And bring you home again"
I read it and started bawling all over my keyboard.
The Sushi Experiment
I went to the grocery store to pick up a newspaper. L and I were hungry, so we browsed a few aisles. I snagged some shrimp for the Hubby-Man and looked in the other cooler for some fresh tuna. (my favorite) There were no happy tuna steaks, but there was prepackaged sushi. My brain said "Ewwwww" but my tummy said "Yes!"
I know people who have eaten prepackaged sushi and lived to tell about it. I know it can be done. But this stuff looked... prepackaged, to say the least. What I saw was a plastic tray with 8 rice squares and some packets of stuff that wasn't ketchup. The packaging read, "Fresh Gourmet Sushi" and along the side was, "With Wasabi!" As if wasabi was some sort of limited-time bonus product.
It gets worse.
Lets look at the "sushi" again. Each rice square was holding a circle of stuff. The tray labeled "california rolls" had a piece of artificial crab meat, a bit of what I assumed was avocado, and some green leathery-looking stuff (exactly the same shade as the avocado), surrounded by seaweed, which was surrounded by the square of rice. And the rice had toasted sesames decorating it's outside edge.
Another tray held "spicy crab sushi". This was the leathery green stuff and what looked like pink crab cakes, surrounded by the rice cube.
Dubious but desperate, I bought them both. Once at home, I began the experiment. Each tray held three condiment packages. Soy sauce, wasabi paste and ginger. I opened the packet of wasabi and squeezed it out. It was exactly the same shade as the avocado. I dabbed my finger in it and tasted. The wasabi was tasteless. It did wake up my sinuses, but taste-wise it was bland. I added all the soy sauce in an attempt to give it some flavor. The ginger was in a liquid. Sampling it showed the liquid was sugar water. Hmmm.
On to the sushi! I tried the spicy crab first. It wasn't very spicy. The sticky rice was ok, but a bit chalky. The pink crab stuffing was decent. The green stuff was wet, crunchy and without taste. I smothered it all in my wasabi/soy sauce mix. I offered some to L, and he surprised me by taking one. He liked the rice. He liked the crab. He spit out the green stuff and the seaweed.
This looks like a good place to discuss the seaweed. It was ultra-thin and falling apart. I decided it wasn't really seaweed, but some sort of black dye that had been airbrushed onto the rice square.
I gave my son the rest of the (not so) spicy crab, and opened the california rolls. They must have been older than the crab, because the rice was stiff and cakey, not tender like it should be. After the first one, I amused myself by trying to removing the rice from the airbrushed-on seaweed in one piece. After a few attempts, I just started pushing the crab/green stuff/avocado mix through the rice and into the wasabi. I then put the mix atop the remaining spicy crab squares, and ate it that way.
After finishing the "sushi", I summoned up the courage to read the ingredients. The sticky rice was saturated with high fructose corn syrup and corn starch. "Well, that explains the stiffness." I thought. The black dye was actually seaweed, surprise, surprise. The green leathery stuff was -brace yourself-
green beans
Lords, Gods and Minor Deities! green beans!
No wonder L spit them out.
I went to the grocery store to pick up a newspaper. L and I were hungry, so we browsed a few aisles. I snagged some shrimp for the Hubby-Man and looked in the other cooler for some fresh tuna. (my favorite) There were no happy tuna steaks, but there was prepackaged sushi. My brain said "Ewwwww" but my tummy said "Yes!"
I know people who have eaten prepackaged sushi and lived to tell about it. I know it can be done. But this stuff looked... prepackaged, to say the least. What I saw was a plastic tray with 8 rice squares and some packets of stuff that wasn't ketchup. The packaging read, "Fresh Gourmet Sushi" and along the side was, "With Wasabi!" As if wasabi was some sort of limited-time bonus product.
It gets worse.
Lets look at the "sushi" again. Each rice square was holding a circle of stuff. The tray labeled "california rolls" had a piece of artificial crab meat, a bit of what I assumed was avocado, and some green leathery-looking stuff (exactly the same shade as the avocado), surrounded by seaweed, which was surrounded by the square of rice. And the rice had toasted sesames decorating it's outside edge.
Another tray held "spicy crab sushi". This was the leathery green stuff and what looked like pink crab cakes, surrounded by the rice cube.
Dubious but desperate, I bought them both. Once at home, I began the experiment. Each tray held three condiment packages. Soy sauce, wasabi paste and ginger. I opened the packet of wasabi and squeezed it out. It was exactly the same shade as the avocado. I dabbed my finger in it and tasted. The wasabi was tasteless. It did wake up my sinuses, but taste-wise it was bland. I added all the soy sauce in an attempt to give it some flavor. The ginger was in a liquid. Sampling it showed the liquid was sugar water. Hmmm.
On to the sushi! I tried the spicy crab first. It wasn't very spicy. The sticky rice was ok, but a bit chalky. The pink crab stuffing was decent. The green stuff was wet, crunchy and without taste. I smothered it all in my wasabi/soy sauce mix. I offered some to L, and he surprised me by taking one. He liked the rice. He liked the crab. He spit out the green stuff and the seaweed.
This looks like a good place to discuss the seaweed. It was ultra-thin and falling apart. I decided it wasn't really seaweed, but some sort of black dye that had been airbrushed onto the rice square.
I gave my son the rest of the (not so) spicy crab, and opened the california rolls. They must have been older than the crab, because the rice was stiff and cakey, not tender like it should be. After the first one, I amused myself by trying to removing the rice from the airbrushed-on seaweed in one piece. After a few attempts, I just started pushing the crab/green stuff/avocado mix through the rice and into the wasabi. I then put the mix atop the remaining spicy crab squares, and ate it that way.
After finishing the "sushi", I summoned up the courage to read the ingredients. The sticky rice was saturated with high fructose corn syrup and corn starch. "Well, that explains the stiffness." I thought. The black dye was actually seaweed, surprise, surprise. The green leathery stuff was -brace yourself-
green beans
Lords, Gods and Minor Deities! green beans!
No wonder L spit them out.
Well, it's Wednesday
And I still have a pile of presents to wrap. I haven't tackled edible railings or sugar windows. The 30 feet of pine roping is laying coiled up in the living room, And I ruined a double batch of cookie dough. I, um... well... (sigh) I kinda forgot about it. So this morning I had to throw it all away. I learned that The Joy Of Cooking's rich roll cookies don't like to sit out overnight in a mixer. The only part that bugs me is the wasted butter. Butter is like gold in fat form, you see. I just hate having to pitch it in the trash.
Also, last night L got yelled at for eating gingerbread too loudly. Hubby man got yelled at for yelling at our son. :)
We were watching the second half of Battlestar Galactica. (which was surprisingly decent, if you live like the story has nothing to do with the original story)
A commercial came on, and L snagged a gingerbread man to eat. He started making loud licking noises, running his tongue up and down the gingerbread man's back. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eyes, and he started to giggle. I got a clear image in my head of SpongeBob SquarePants eating ice cream, and smiled. L really got into the SpongeBob mode then; wrapping his lips around the gingerbread head, slurping with a blank look on his face, the whole 9 yards. We were both giggling pretty loudly, and I guess Hubby-Man had enough. He said, "L!" and after a pause, "I think you've had enough gingerbread, Mr. I-Don't-Want-To-Finish-Dinner."
L dropped his cookie holding hand and looked crestfallen. So I said, "What?! It's a commercial! And he's only had 2 pieces of gingerbread!"
See, I believe people should play with their food. I saw nothing wrong with the fun we were having. I think Hubby-man saw nothing wrong with it either, but the noise was bugging him. Anyway, L resumed eating the now headless cookie, and eventually I got him giggling again.
Mommy always wins.
And I still have a pile of presents to wrap. I haven't tackled edible railings or sugar windows. The 30 feet of pine roping is laying coiled up in the living room, And I ruined a double batch of cookie dough. I, um... well... (sigh) I kinda forgot about it. So this morning I had to throw it all away. I learned that The Joy Of Cooking's rich roll cookies don't like to sit out overnight in a mixer. The only part that bugs me is the wasted butter. Butter is like gold in fat form, you see. I just hate having to pitch it in the trash.
Also, last night L got yelled at for eating gingerbread too loudly. Hubby man got yelled at for yelling at our son. :)
We were watching the second half of Battlestar Galactica. (which was surprisingly decent, if you live like the story has nothing to do with the original story)
A commercial came on, and L snagged a gingerbread man to eat. He started making loud licking noises, running his tongue up and down the gingerbread man's back. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eyes, and he started to giggle. I got a clear image in my head of SpongeBob SquarePants eating ice cream, and smiled. L really got into the SpongeBob mode then; wrapping his lips around the gingerbread head, slurping with a blank look on his face, the whole 9 yards. We were both giggling pretty loudly, and I guess Hubby-Man had enough. He said, "L!" and after a pause, "I think you've had enough gingerbread, Mr. I-Don't-Want-To-Finish-Dinner."
L dropped his cookie holding hand and looked crestfallen. So I said, "What?! It's a commercial! And he's only had 2 pieces of gingerbread!"
See, I believe people should play with their food. I saw nothing wrong with the fun we were having. I think Hubby-man saw nothing wrong with it either, but the noise was bugging him. Anyway, L resumed eating the now headless cookie, and eventually I got him giggling again.
Mommy always wins.
Monday, December 08, 2003
My friend has a good ear and a kind heart
And I thank her for that. I got to rant about my parents today. You'd think I was 16 again. :) Highlights of the rant follow:
The last time I saw my dad in person, I was 9 years old. He drove my sister and I to camp and left home the next day. I did see him again on television. I saw him on the Jerry Springer show maybe 8 years ago? Chasmyn asked me if I had ever tried to contact my dad, and years of repressed stuff started spewing out of me. I don't want to find my dad until I can talk to him without making him wrong. Anyway, talk turned to my mom. Heh.
My arthritis acts up every year around my birthday. Today Chasmyn helped me figure out why. The pain is a manifestation of my repressed emotions. It hurts around my B-Day because of the crap I've heard from my mom every year since I was 10. I get to hear how dad chose to name me after the valley in Wales that his grandparents came from. Except he made it all up. I get to hear how boys will want to date my sister because she's fun, and they'll want to date me for my body. As an adult, she instead tells me how great it is that I found a man who loves me for my brain and my body.
Mom still tells the story of how I was called "butterball" so often that I used it as a name in kindergarten. And she tells it with me standing right next to her, as if I wasn't there. She tells lots of stories about me. They're rarely flattering. I find that I'm a bit resentful.
Somehow I survived this (and so much more) with a reasonable level of sanity and a passion for life.
Oh, and today I made 2 batches of cookies, wrapped some presents and found room in the closet for a dozen or so sweaters. I'm proud of me.
P.S. Just read Abbreviated Abstractions. Roberta has given me all kinds of great things to think about. Fortunately, I've got the domesticity thing covered. The couch is plenty big enough for snuggling, and we own a massage table.
Tonight L took the snuggle spot, and we got to cuddle for almost 2 hours while watching Battlestar Galactica. What other mom gets to snuggle with their 12 year old? I'm so lucky!
And I thank her for that. I got to rant about my parents today. You'd think I was 16 again. :) Highlights of the rant follow:
The last time I saw my dad in person, I was 9 years old. He drove my sister and I to camp and left home the next day. I did see him again on television. I saw him on the Jerry Springer show maybe 8 years ago? Chasmyn asked me if I had ever tried to contact my dad, and years of repressed stuff started spewing out of me. I don't want to find my dad until I can talk to him without making him wrong. Anyway, talk turned to my mom. Heh.
My arthritis acts up every year around my birthday. Today Chasmyn helped me figure out why. The pain is a manifestation of my repressed emotions. It hurts around my B-Day because of the crap I've heard from my mom every year since I was 10. I get to hear how dad chose to name me after the valley in Wales that his grandparents came from. Except he made it all up. I get to hear how boys will want to date my sister because she's fun, and they'll want to date me for my body. As an adult, she instead tells me how great it is that I found a man who loves me for my brain and my body.
Mom still tells the story of how I was called "butterball" so often that I used it as a name in kindergarten. And she tells it with me standing right next to her, as if I wasn't there. She tells lots of stories about me. They're rarely flattering. I find that I'm a bit resentful.
Somehow I survived this (and so much more) with a reasonable level of sanity and a passion for life.
Oh, and today I made 2 batches of cookies, wrapped some presents and found room in the closet for a dozen or so sweaters. I'm proud of me.
P.S. Just read Abbreviated Abstractions. Roberta has given me all kinds of great things to think about. Fortunately, I've got the domesticity thing covered. The couch is plenty big enough for snuggling, and we own a massage table.
Tonight L took the snuggle spot, and we got to cuddle for almost 2 hours while watching Battlestar Galactica. What other mom gets to snuggle with their 12 year old? I'm so lucky!
Sunday, December 07, 2003
This Week's Anal Retentiveness
Boy, do I have plans this week. I'm going to:
*make gingerbread
*eat gingerbread
*learn through trial and error how to make edible railings and clear sugar windows
*make (and eat) my wonderful Espresso Cookies
*experiment with chamomile tea cookies (I'll need some taste testers. hint hint)
*make a batch of Ritual Cookies
*wrap presents
*find something to do with 30 feet of live pine roping
*actually put the ornaments on the tree
and to top it all off
*polish the hardwood floors
Why am I doing this, you ask?
Why, because it's Christmas Time! I respond.
Oh, and I've promised to quit smoking by December 25th.
And if you want my recipies, you'll have to leave a comment. Muahaha.
Boy, do I have plans this week. I'm going to:
*make gingerbread
*eat gingerbread
*learn through trial and error how to make edible railings and clear sugar windows
*make (and eat) my wonderful Espresso Cookies
*experiment with chamomile tea cookies (I'll need some taste testers. hint hint)
*make a batch of Ritual Cookies
*wrap presents
*find something to do with 30 feet of live pine roping
*actually put the ornaments on the tree
and to top it all off
*polish the hardwood floors
Why am I doing this, you ask?
Why, because it's Christmas Time! I respond.
Oh, and I've promised to quit smoking by December 25th.
And if you want my recipies, you'll have to leave a comment. Muahaha.
Friday, December 05, 2003
Free Issues
I like that I can categorize my posts. That way my readers can skip the bullshit and go straight to the rants. This particular rant is about a free issue of a magazine my mom received in the mail. The Latin Mass is supposedly a Catholic Magazine filled with interesting and well researched articles. Yeah. Uh huh.
My mother, the devout Catholic, who prays daily for my Pagan soul; skimmed the magazine and decided it didn't concur with her beliefs. She wants to read the whole thing through, though; because of the 7 page article (in small print, even) about Goddess Worship.
Yesterday mom handed me the magazine, folded open at the start of the article. She said, "I haven't read more than the first few paragraphs of this, but I find it offensive."
What? My mother finds something Catholic offensive? This I have to read! I will link to the article in it's entirety whenever I get around to putting it on the Bitparts website. The gist of the article is that "Goddess Worshipers" are trying to take over religion. It's rather fear oriented.
I found it interesting that they carefully explained the history of modern Wicca, and then shoved in blatant lies in psychologically approved sections. The whole thing seemed designed to suck otherwise intelligent Catholics into the history of the neo-pagan movement, and then make them afraid.
I don't understand why Catholics should be afraid of a mere 2% of the American population. And a peaceful 2% at that. (Based on a stat in the article of 735,000 pagans in the US)
The article asked these questions: "What is this 'Goddess'?" "Who are her apostles?" "What do they evengelise for?"
The "Goddess" does not have apostles. Pagans do not evangelise. Pagans don't like evangelism. Scary stuff. Of course, what do you expect from a publication endorsed by Patrick J. Buchanan ?
I like that I can categorize my posts. That way my readers can skip the bullshit and go straight to the rants. This particular rant is about a free issue of a magazine my mom received in the mail. The Latin Mass is supposedly a Catholic Magazine filled with interesting and well researched articles. Yeah. Uh huh.
My mother, the devout Catholic, who prays daily for my Pagan soul; skimmed the magazine and decided it didn't concur with her beliefs. She wants to read the whole thing through, though; because of the 7 page article (in small print, even) about Goddess Worship.
Yesterday mom handed me the magazine, folded open at the start of the article. She said, "I haven't read more than the first few paragraphs of this, but I find it offensive."
What? My mother finds something Catholic offensive? This I have to read! I will link to the article in it's entirety whenever I get around to putting it on the Bitparts website. The gist of the article is that "Goddess Worshipers" are trying to take over religion. It's rather fear oriented.
I found it interesting that they carefully explained the history of modern Wicca, and then shoved in blatant lies in psychologically approved sections. The whole thing seemed designed to suck otherwise intelligent Catholics into the history of the neo-pagan movement, and then make them afraid.
I don't understand why Catholics should be afraid of a mere 2% of the American population. And a peaceful 2% at that. (Based on a stat in the article of 735,000 pagans in the US)
The article asked these questions: "What is this 'Goddess'?" "Who are her apostles?" "What do they evengelise for?"
The "Goddess" does not have apostles. Pagans do not evangelise. Pagans don't like evangelism. Scary stuff. Of course, what do you expect from a publication endorsed by Patrick J. Buchanan ?
It must be one of those nights
First, I was reading The Redhead Wore Crimson. She blogged several days ago about AIDS day. She included a cute little poem. "Don't be daft, Don't be silly. Put a condom on your willie." Which reminded me of something I'll tell you about in a bit.
Next I read another blog, with a link to something titled "Puppetry of the Penis"
Of course, I had to see what the scary heck that was. Being penis related, it reminded me of something I'll tell you about in a bit.
Now I'm scared to read any of my blog links. I'm worried the Universe is trying to tell me something. (tee hee)
Now, to the thing I was going to tell you about...
The garbage truck comes on Tuesdays and Fridays. It rumbles down the alley picking up dumpsters and emptying them by turning them upside down over the opening in the top of the truck. I firmly believe it summons up a stiff breeze whenever it has ahold of a dumpster. Maybe the city invested in wind generators for their garbage trucks. It seems like the kind of thing they'd waste our money on.
Whatever the air-moving method, every Tuesday and Friday afternoon, I get to pick up trash from the yard and parking spaces. I really hate touching the old fast-food bags, plastic soda bottles and used paper towels that have blown into my yard. It's generally innocuous enough stuff, but last week I found a condom.
(sigh)
At first it was just a little condom doughnut, all neatly rolled up, but out of it's package. I spotted it while getting into the truck. We were short on time, so I decided to throw it back in the dumpster when I got home. However, when I came back, I parked on top if it and forgot all about it. A few days later, one of the children in the neighborhood unrolled it.
Right, if my son had touched a condom he had found in the alley, I would have grounded him for a week. And scoured his hands with lye soap.
So then I had to look at an unrolled condom lying on the ground like some sort of ribbed snake skin. It was disturbing. Yesterday, I muttered about having to pick the nasty thing up sooner or later; and my genius son says,"Use a stick."
Now why didn't I think of that?
The condom and the stick I picked it up with are both in the dumpster now. I hope the mystical wind generating trash truck doesn't blow it into my yard again.
First, I was reading The Redhead Wore Crimson. She blogged several days ago about AIDS day. She included a cute little poem. "Don't be daft, Don't be silly. Put a condom on your willie." Which reminded me of something I'll tell you about in a bit.
Next I read another blog, with a link to something titled "Puppetry of the Penis"
Of course, I had to see what the scary heck that was. Being penis related, it reminded me of something I'll tell you about in a bit.
Now I'm scared to read any of my blog links. I'm worried the Universe is trying to tell me something. (tee hee)
Now, to the thing I was going to tell you about...
The garbage truck comes on Tuesdays and Fridays. It rumbles down the alley picking up dumpsters and emptying them by turning them upside down over the opening in the top of the truck. I firmly believe it summons up a stiff breeze whenever it has ahold of a dumpster. Maybe the city invested in wind generators for their garbage trucks. It seems like the kind of thing they'd waste our money on.
Whatever the air-moving method, every Tuesday and Friday afternoon, I get to pick up trash from the yard and parking spaces. I really hate touching the old fast-food bags, plastic soda bottles and used paper towels that have blown into my yard. It's generally innocuous enough stuff, but last week I found a condom.
(sigh)
At first it was just a little condom doughnut, all neatly rolled up, but out of it's package. I spotted it while getting into the truck. We were short on time, so I decided to throw it back in the dumpster when I got home. However, when I came back, I parked on top if it and forgot all about it. A few days later, one of the children in the neighborhood unrolled it.
Right, if my son had touched a condom he had found in the alley, I would have grounded him for a week. And scoured his hands with lye soap.
So then I had to look at an unrolled condom lying on the ground like some sort of ribbed snake skin. It was disturbing. Yesterday, I muttered about having to pick the nasty thing up sooner or later; and my genius son says,"Use a stick."
Now why didn't I think of that?
The condom and the stick I picked it up with are both in the dumpster now. I hope the mystical wind generating trash truck doesn't blow it into my yard again.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
What I'm Reading
Oh. my, god. I just read the funniest thing on Abbreviated Abstractions. You must go read "THE SAGA OF PLOOF'N'STUFF". It is bizarre, vivid and hilarious!
And in the news, I found this:
If the US government claims to know nothing of aliens, U.F.O.'s, or anything pertaining to them, then why did they make up the 'Extraterestrial Exposure Law'? It is found in Title 14, Section 1211 of the Code of Federal Regulations. It is the law that made it illegal for the public to come in contact with extra-terrestrials or their vehicles. The law states that Anyone found guilty of such contact could face up to one year imprisonment as well as a fine of $5000. Also, any individual who had been "exposed" could be quarantined under armed guard by the NASA administrator without a hearing.
The law was passed originally to protect Earth from possible biological contamination resulting from the US Apollo Space Program.
Oh. my, god. I just read the funniest thing on Abbreviated Abstractions. You must go read "THE SAGA OF PLOOF'N'STUFF". It is bizarre, vivid and hilarious!
And in the news, I found this:
If the US government claims to know nothing of aliens, U.F.O.'s, or anything pertaining to them, then why did they make up the 'Extraterestrial Exposure Law'? It is found in Title 14, Section 1211 of the Code of Federal Regulations. It is the law that made it illegal for the public to come in contact with extra-terrestrials or their vehicles. The law states that Anyone found guilty of such contact could face up to one year imprisonment as well as a fine of $5000. Also, any individual who had been "exposed" could be quarantined under armed guard by the NASA administrator without a hearing.
The law was passed originally to protect Earth from possible biological contamination resulting from the US Apollo Space Program.
Is This Particular to St. Louis?
Tonight I made pizza, but I couldn't find the pizza cutter in the overstuffed drawer of utensils. I chopped the pizza into slices with a knife instead, while commenting, "I can't find the pizza cutter, and I'll be damned if I'll use scissors."
This innocuous statement had my husband rolling with laughter. He's been married to me for 14 years, and he's never heard if pizza scissors???
For those of you who don't live in St. Louis... or for those of you who do, but have some class; here's the deal. South Siders will go and buy a knife block at K-Mart or WalMart or wherever, and the knife set comes with a pair of scissors. Now, I know, and you know that the scissors are for cutting things open. South Siders, however, seem to think the scissors are for cutting pizza. Everyone in my neighborhood had a pair of pizza scissors. I'd have friends over, and make pizza, and they'd ask, "Where's your pizza scissors?" To which I'd reply, "I dunno. Use the pizza cutter."
I refuse to use kitchen scissors to cut pizza. Yes, I do use tools for things they weren't designed for. I'm silly that way. The ice cream scoop has a dent in it because I used it as a hammer. I've mangled knives by using them as screwdrivers, and one of the teaspoons has nicks all around the edge for some reason. But really... I would never "slice" a pizza with scissors.
Tonight I made pizza, but I couldn't find the pizza cutter in the overstuffed drawer of utensils. I chopped the pizza into slices with a knife instead, while commenting, "I can't find the pizza cutter, and I'll be damned if I'll use scissors."
This innocuous statement had my husband rolling with laughter. He's been married to me for 14 years, and he's never heard if pizza scissors???
For those of you who don't live in St. Louis... or for those of you who do, but have some class; here's the deal. South Siders will go and buy a knife block at K-Mart or WalMart or wherever, and the knife set comes with a pair of scissors. Now, I know, and you know that the scissors are for cutting things open. South Siders, however, seem to think the scissors are for cutting pizza. Everyone in my neighborhood had a pair of pizza scissors. I'd have friends over, and make pizza, and they'd ask, "Where's your pizza scissors?" To which I'd reply, "I dunno. Use the pizza cutter."
I refuse to use kitchen scissors to cut pizza. Yes, I do use tools for things they weren't designed for. I'm silly that way. The ice cream scoop has a dent in it because I used it as a hammer. I've mangled knives by using them as screwdrivers, and one of the teaspoons has nicks all around the edge for some reason. But really... I would never "slice" a pizza with scissors.
Monday, December 01, 2003
Thank you, Mother Earth
I've really gotten into shea butter as a base for massage cream. Shea butter is kind of expensive, and is currently very popular in high end salons. I really want to use a good quality shea butter, but I was leery of buying it because of it's popularity. I'm well aware of how fashion trends can devastate the economies of the small countries that produce the item du jour. I want no part in that.
Today, I found some great news. The shea tree grows wild in Sub-Saharan Africa. The fruit is harvested by illiterate, generally disempowered women; who process the nuts with the most basic of machinery. In the last century, most shea butter exports were sent to Europe as a food product. The women received very little money for a lot of labor. That's the bad news. The good news is that in the 1990's, the UN got involved.
In 1994, UNIFEM, the women's rights branch of the UN, took a far more proactive role with African women and their production of shea butter. They have provided villiages with better quality manual presses, water filters and business courses.
UNIFEM's assistance is changing their culture. And it's a change I support. In addition to helping them earn more money with their businesses, UNIFEM is teaching them about AIDS, and how to stand up to abuse.
I can buy shea butter with confidence, as long as I find a distributor who shares my ideals.
As for thanking Mother Earth, shea butter is rich in allantoin. (Woo Hoo!) I've been searching for a lotion base for my Comfrey arthritis formula. It works great in olive oil, and I wanted something less messy. Shea butter will be perfect, and the scents blend nicely together :)
I've really gotten into shea butter as a base for massage cream. Shea butter is kind of expensive, and is currently very popular in high end salons. I really want to use a good quality shea butter, but I was leery of buying it because of it's popularity. I'm well aware of how fashion trends can devastate the economies of the small countries that produce the item du jour. I want no part in that.
Today, I found some great news. The shea tree grows wild in Sub-Saharan Africa. The fruit is harvested by illiterate, generally disempowered women; who process the nuts with the most basic of machinery. In the last century, most shea butter exports were sent to Europe as a food product. The women received very little money for a lot of labor. That's the bad news. The good news is that in the 1990's, the UN got involved.
In 1994, UNIFEM, the women's rights branch of the UN, took a far more proactive role with African women and their production of shea butter. They have provided villiages with better quality manual presses, water filters and business courses.
UNIFEM's assistance is changing their culture. And it's a change I support. In addition to helping them earn more money with their businesses, UNIFEM is teaching them about AIDS, and how to stand up to abuse.
I can buy shea butter with confidence, as long as I find a distributor who shares my ideals.
As for thanking Mother Earth, shea butter is rich in allantoin. (Woo Hoo!) I've been searching for a lotion base for my Comfrey arthritis formula. It works great in olive oil, and I wanted something less messy. Shea butter will be perfect, and the scents blend nicely together :)
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Putting it out there to the Universe
My little family of 3 is looking for a specialty kitten. Somewhere in or near St. Louis, there is a pregnant cat in a happy home. She is not feral, and has both people and other cats to keep her company. Her family is willing to have prospective kitten owners visit a few times while the kittens are growing. Her family will also understand that we want to wait a few months before having the kitten spayed or neutered.
Does that sound like a big request?
Here's the background. Yellow Kitty (deceased) became lonely when we moved from my mom's house into our own house. He had gotten used to having Lady to groom and play with. So we rescued Friday from the APA. How could we not, really? She was beautiful and playful and needed a home, or they would put her to sleep. It being just after Halloween, nobody wanted a black cat. Friday and Yellow Kitty got along great, but there were some problems. Friday was a feral kitten, and has trouble bonding with people. She just didn't get enough contact as a kitten. Also, she was spayed at 8 weeks. I think that was too early. I believe a cat can be spayed at 3 months, but no sooner. My Gods, let them grow a bit!
Anyway, it's been a few months since Friday became an only cat, and she needs a friend. We don't want another feral cat. We want one that likes people. When we had other cats in the house, Friday would snuggle with us more often. It was almost as if she saw how the other cats behaved, and thought maybe she should cuddle too.
My little family of 3 is looking for a specialty kitten. Somewhere in or near St. Louis, there is a pregnant cat in a happy home. She is not feral, and has both people and other cats to keep her company. Her family is willing to have prospective kitten owners visit a few times while the kittens are growing. Her family will also understand that we want to wait a few months before having the kitten spayed or neutered.
Does that sound like a big request?
Here's the background. Yellow Kitty (deceased) became lonely when we moved from my mom's house into our own house. He had gotten used to having Lady to groom and play with. So we rescued Friday from the APA. How could we not, really? She was beautiful and playful and needed a home, or they would put her to sleep. It being just after Halloween, nobody wanted a black cat. Friday and Yellow Kitty got along great, but there were some problems. Friday was a feral kitten, and has trouble bonding with people. She just didn't get enough contact as a kitten. Also, she was spayed at 8 weeks. I think that was too early. I believe a cat can be spayed at 3 months, but no sooner. My Gods, let them grow a bit!
Anyway, it's been a few months since Friday became an only cat, and she needs a friend. We don't want another feral cat. We want one that likes people. When we had other cats in the house, Friday would snuggle with us more often. It was almost as if she saw how the other cats behaved, and thought maybe she should cuddle too.
Friday, November 28, 2003
Look, I'm sorry, alright?
I'm sorry for the nuisance, but I just have to blog about this. Bush has Thanksgiving dinner in Iraq. Is he perhaps thankful for their sacrifices? Or was he just looking for some good PR?
Note the info on the side bar. Bush went to Iraq, Senator Clinton went to Afghanistan, and the troops in Bosnia ate alone.
Most of the 1,500 "US Peacekeepers" are from the Minnesota National Guard.
And here I was thinking that the National Guard was designed to guard our nation.
I'm sorry for the nuisance, but I just have to blog about this. Bush has Thanksgiving dinner in Iraq. Is he perhaps thankful for their sacrifices? Or was he just looking for some good PR?
Note the info on the side bar. Bush went to Iraq, Senator Clinton went to Afghanistan, and the troops in Bosnia ate alone.
Most of the 1,500 "US Peacekeepers" are from the Minnesota National Guard.
And here I was thinking that the National Guard was designed to guard our nation.
The Post-Thanksgiving Trip To WalMart
I'd love to tell a story about fighting off hordes of middle class housewives to get to the last Nintendo Gamecube. I'd like to share how I beat them off of my cart with a display Christmas tree. I want to explain how I put the truck in 4 wheel drive and drove over the grassy knoll, because the lot was so full, people were parking in the lanes too.
Sadly, none of that happened.
I slept 'til 9 o'clock. I took time out for coffee. I stared out the window at the cold grey sky, and meditated. Then I was ready to face the mob.
I put on some (gasp) make-up. For some reason, you get noticed more easily with make-up on. Since I'm only 5'4", I need all the help I can get. Red hair not withstanding, I just don't stand out in a shopping crowd. As I was applying mascara, I called to L; asking if he wanted to come with. I was expecting an eyeball rolling "no", but he jumped at the chance. So off we went to WalMart.
On the way, I guided him in a shielding meditation. I get bad in shopping crowds, too much bitterness and desperation around me. L gets worse. He hasn't had the years of practice I've had. So I taught him the mirror shield. It's a good, basic shielding technique. You surround yourself with mirrors facing outward. When dealing with crowds, you put an extra layer of mirrors around your head.
So, shields in place, we turned into the parking lot... and saw plenty of parking. "Bonus!" I thought. We drove down by the garden entrance, pulled into a parking space, and went inside. It was a copper top kinda day, At the door, we crossed paths with a pair of redheaded twines (purposeful misspelling -pervs B gone!) and their mom, also displaying the melacortin 1 gene. I spied at least 5 other naturals. Ahhh, it's good to have company. Enough about the redhead cluster phenomenon, though. On to the shopping!
The store was crowded, but not as crowded as the day after Christmas. We rushed to the electronics department. We couldn't get down the games aisle, it was packed. But that was ok. We had Matt, the WalMart guy to do our work for us. Because we had arrived so late, they were sold out of the Game Cubes. But that was ok. Matt had noticed one, and only one, sitting in the returns cart. He fetched it for us with a smile.
That's right. My son got the last Game Cube in the store! Muahahahaha. I didn't even need to hit anyone.
From there we hit the center aisle, snagged the Lion King Platinum Edition for $11, and breezed on down to the sports department. I tossed a bow and arrow set into the cart, saying, "My cousin will love this," so that L wouldn't know it was really for him. Then we were back in the garden department. We grabbed the 6 foot fiber optic Christmas tree that L had been lusting over, and threw in some wrapping paper and tape for good measure. Every checkout lane was open, and there was no waiting.
Total shopping time: 25 minutes.
Total amount spent: $180 (the game cube wasn't the kind that was on sale, oh well.)
Buying everything on your list without killing anyone: priceless!
I'd love to tell a story about fighting off hordes of middle class housewives to get to the last Nintendo Gamecube. I'd like to share how I beat them off of my cart with a display Christmas tree. I want to explain how I put the truck in 4 wheel drive and drove over the grassy knoll, because the lot was so full, people were parking in the lanes too.
Sadly, none of that happened.
I slept 'til 9 o'clock. I took time out for coffee. I stared out the window at the cold grey sky, and meditated. Then I was ready to face the mob.
I put on some (gasp) make-up. For some reason, you get noticed more easily with make-up on. Since I'm only 5'4", I need all the help I can get. Red hair not withstanding, I just don't stand out in a shopping crowd. As I was applying mascara, I called to L; asking if he wanted to come with. I was expecting an eyeball rolling "no", but he jumped at the chance. So off we went to WalMart.
On the way, I guided him in a shielding meditation. I get bad in shopping crowds, too much bitterness and desperation around me. L gets worse. He hasn't had the years of practice I've had. So I taught him the mirror shield. It's a good, basic shielding technique. You surround yourself with mirrors facing outward. When dealing with crowds, you put an extra layer of mirrors around your head.
So, shields in place, we turned into the parking lot... and saw plenty of parking. "Bonus!" I thought. We drove down by the garden entrance, pulled into a parking space, and went inside. It was a copper top kinda day, At the door, we crossed paths with a pair of redheaded twines (purposeful misspelling -pervs B gone!) and their mom, also displaying the melacortin 1 gene. I spied at least 5 other naturals. Ahhh, it's good to have company. Enough about the redhead cluster phenomenon, though. On to the shopping!
The store was crowded, but not as crowded as the day after Christmas. We rushed to the electronics department. We couldn't get down the games aisle, it was packed. But that was ok. We had Matt, the WalMart guy to do our work for us. Because we had arrived so late, they were sold out of the Game Cubes. But that was ok. Matt had noticed one, and only one, sitting in the returns cart. He fetched it for us with a smile.
That's right. My son got the last Game Cube in the store! Muahahahaha. I didn't even need to hit anyone.
From there we hit the center aisle, snagged the Lion King Platinum Edition for $11, and breezed on down to the sports department. I tossed a bow and arrow set into the cart, saying, "My cousin will love this," so that L wouldn't know it was really for him. Then we were back in the garden department. We grabbed the 6 foot fiber optic Christmas tree that L had been lusting over, and threw in some wrapping paper and tape for good measure. Every checkout lane was open, and there was no waiting.
Total shopping time: 25 minutes.
Total amount spent: $180 (the game cube wasn't the kind that was on sale, oh well.)
Buying everything on your list without killing anyone: priceless!
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Happy Thanksgiving
My son should be a stealth bomber when he grows up. I've actually begun to think of him as "The Stealth Bomber" on mornings like this. See, what he does is "stealthily" open his bedroom door and "stealthily" creep into the hallway and "stealthily" hover by my bedroom door, waiting for me to wake. Of course, it doesn't work that way in reality.
What really happens is I wake up because I feel my son pressing on my mind. I was sleeping, my shields are not in place, and he's my son; so I'm aware of every little nuance of L-ness outside of his room.
The second he heads for his door, I can feel him testing if I'm awake. It starts as a light pressure in my head. By the time he's made it to the hallway, it's grown to a full-blown invasion of my senses. I can feel him breathing. I pick up little snatches of thought. "...quiet...I want... it's important... important enough?... shhh... I really do need..."
If I ignore all that and feign sleep, he begins making real noise. He will say what he wants aloud, but so quietly I can't catch it. What I hear is mumble mumble mumble, followed by an expectant pause. He will shift his feet, sit down in the hall with a sigh, knock quietly on the bedroom door, and poke his head in my room.
I always love that one, because by then, I'm waiting for it. His peek into the room is met by my staring eyes. This particular morning he needed to play Sim City, and it didn't auto-install so he was stuck. Gods, I love my son.
My son should be a stealth bomber when he grows up. I've actually begun to think of him as "The Stealth Bomber" on mornings like this. See, what he does is "stealthily" open his bedroom door and "stealthily" creep into the hallway and "stealthily" hover by my bedroom door, waiting for me to wake. Of course, it doesn't work that way in reality.
What really happens is I wake up because I feel my son pressing on my mind. I was sleeping, my shields are not in place, and he's my son; so I'm aware of every little nuance of L-ness outside of his room.
The second he heads for his door, I can feel him testing if I'm awake. It starts as a light pressure in my head. By the time he's made it to the hallway, it's grown to a full-blown invasion of my senses. I can feel him breathing. I pick up little snatches of thought. "...quiet...I want... it's important... important enough?... shhh... I really do need..."
If I ignore all that and feign sleep, he begins making real noise. He will say what he wants aloud, but so quietly I can't catch it. What I hear is mumble mumble mumble, followed by an expectant pause. He will shift his feet, sit down in the hall with a sigh, knock quietly on the bedroom door, and poke his head in my room.
I always love that one, because by then, I'm waiting for it. His peek into the room is met by my staring eyes. This particular morning he needed to play Sim City, and it didn't auto-install so he was stuck. Gods, I love my son.
It is proving to be an interesting morning
Last night I set the alarm for too-early-on-a-vacation-day, and put myself to sleep with visions of stuffing dancing in my head.
This morning, I woke before the alarm. I woke because my son used the bathroom. No biggie, I think. It's only 15 minutes 'til the alarm goes off. He was just my pre alarm. I lounged in bed until the alarm went off, and even hit the snooze button. I was living on the hopeful side.
I switched the alarm off a few minutes later, got out of bed, and realized my hubby was trying to wake himself too. I petted his back and told him he didn't have to get up. After all, it only takes one person to prep a turkey, and the rest of the cooking would be done later in the day. to tell you the truth, I was really looking forward to doing the whole Thanksgiving dinner myself.
So, I installed Sim City on my son's computer and fetched the turkey from the downstairs refrigerator. 5 days ago, I had set the bird on an empty pizza box in the fridge. There was a method to this madness. If the turkey bag had a hole in it, the pizza box would absorb any juice that might leak out. This would save me endless cleaning troubles. I was being prepared, you see.
The bag was hole-less, and the pizza box was nice and stiff instead of soggy and pink. Woo Hoo, I thought. For once, I'm going to have a mess free thanksgiving morning! But when I pulled the turkey out, the bag caught on the pizza box somehow, and tore a tiny little hole. I found that I had cold pink juice pouring on the floor.
I plugged the leak with my finger, rushed the bird upstairs (while trying not to trip over my skirt) and dumped it in the sink. Then I cleaned up the mess. You would think the Honeysuckle company would use sturdier bags.
Actually, they do use sturdy bags. I had a tough time cutting the rest of the bag, although that may have had something to do with trying to cut the bag, but not the bird. Meanwhile, the cat is prowling under my feet, meowing and looking hopeful. She does this whenever I have meat around. I always throw her a scrap or two, and she always sniffs it and tries to bury it. But if I toss it far enough away from my prep space, I don't have to worry about stepping on her.
I decided I'd offer Friday the liver. She might really like it. I gave her some chicken liver once, and not only did she eat it; she licked the floor afterwards. I opened the giblets bag, and there was no turkey liver. (sigh) I offered Friday the kidneys on a plate instead. She sniffed the plate and reached out her paw to bury the kidneys, so I snatched the plate away from her.
Meanwhile, some buttwipe is squealing his tires through the neighborhood. At 9 o'clock in the morning.
So the turkey is in the oven, the giblets are simmering their way to broth land, and I have a good half hour to blog before decorating the dining room table. I'm blogging away when Hubby's cell phone rings. One of the servers is down. He'll have to go in to work and fix it. I can imagine him harvesting bits from less important computers as I type. My poor hubby.
Yes, I believe this will be an interesting day.
Last night I set the alarm for too-early-on-a-vacation-day, and put myself to sleep with visions of stuffing dancing in my head.
This morning, I woke before the alarm. I woke because my son used the bathroom. No biggie, I think. It's only 15 minutes 'til the alarm goes off. He was just my pre alarm. I lounged in bed until the alarm went off, and even hit the snooze button. I was living on the hopeful side.
I switched the alarm off a few minutes later, got out of bed, and realized my hubby was trying to wake himself too. I petted his back and told him he didn't have to get up. After all, it only takes one person to prep a turkey, and the rest of the cooking would be done later in the day. to tell you the truth, I was really looking forward to doing the whole Thanksgiving dinner myself.
So, I installed Sim City on my son's computer and fetched the turkey from the downstairs refrigerator. 5 days ago, I had set the bird on an empty pizza box in the fridge. There was a method to this madness. If the turkey bag had a hole in it, the pizza box would absorb any juice that might leak out. This would save me endless cleaning troubles. I was being prepared, you see.
The bag was hole-less, and the pizza box was nice and stiff instead of soggy and pink. Woo Hoo, I thought. For once, I'm going to have a mess free thanksgiving morning! But when I pulled the turkey out, the bag caught on the pizza box somehow, and tore a tiny little hole. I found that I had cold pink juice pouring on the floor.
I plugged the leak with my finger, rushed the bird upstairs (while trying not to trip over my skirt) and dumped it in the sink. Then I cleaned up the mess. You would think the Honeysuckle company would use sturdier bags.
Actually, they do use sturdy bags. I had a tough time cutting the rest of the bag, although that may have had something to do with trying to cut the bag, but not the bird. Meanwhile, the cat is prowling under my feet, meowing and looking hopeful. She does this whenever I have meat around. I always throw her a scrap or two, and she always sniffs it and tries to bury it. But if I toss it far enough away from my prep space, I don't have to worry about stepping on her.
I decided I'd offer Friday the liver. She might really like it. I gave her some chicken liver once, and not only did she eat it; she licked the floor afterwards. I opened the giblets bag, and there was no turkey liver. (sigh) I offered Friday the kidneys on a plate instead. She sniffed the plate and reached out her paw to bury the kidneys, so I snatched the plate away from her.
Meanwhile, some buttwipe is squealing his tires through the neighborhood. At 9 o'clock in the morning.
So the turkey is in the oven, the giblets are simmering their way to broth land, and I have a good half hour to blog before decorating the dining room table. I'm blogging away when Hubby's cell phone rings. One of the servers is down. He'll have to go in to work and fix it. I can imagine him harvesting bits from less important computers as I type. My poor hubby.
Yes, I believe this will be an interesting day.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
I'm a patriot, take II
I don't like George Bush. I don't like our predominantly Republican Congress. More accurately, I'm nearing a point of 'fight or flight' mentality. Other countries are looking good to me. I have awakened in the middle of the night from dreams of Bush getting re-elected. I've studied enough history to see how quickly a country can go from free to hell. All it takes is fear. Right now, Americans are afraid they will lose their jobs and be unable to find new ones. They're afraid their teenagers will be gunned down by a crazy student, teacher, sniper, or pack of ravenous wolves. They pray for the rapture to take them away. They would rather have the world end, than look at their fear.
At least, some of them would.
Some, but not all.
Some Americans face their fears, tackle them like the intruders they are. Some Americans write their congress people, sign petitions, protest, or just plain blog. There's a stealthy flow of information circulating the net, undermining the media; Thanks to an educated and inspired few.
I don't like George Bush. I don't like our predominantly Republican Congress. More accurately, I'm nearing a point of 'fight or flight' mentality. Other countries are looking good to me. I have awakened in the middle of the night from dreams of Bush getting re-elected. I've studied enough history to see how quickly a country can go from free to hell. All it takes is fear. Right now, Americans are afraid they will lose their jobs and be unable to find new ones. They're afraid their teenagers will be gunned down by a crazy student, teacher, sniper, or pack of ravenous wolves. They pray for the rapture to take them away. They would rather have the world end, than look at their fear.
At least, some of them would.
Some, but not all.
Some Americans face their fears, tackle them like the intruders they are. Some Americans write their congress people, sign petitions, protest, or just plain blog. There's a stealthy flow of information circulating the net, undermining the media; Thanks to an educated and inspired few.
An Interesting Sight
Every morning, I drive past the fire house. Every morning (unless it's raining) they have the flag up. If you can see the sun, you can see the flag. Except this morning. Today, they didn't put the flag up until I was driving home from dropping L off at school.
I turned off of Holly Hills, onto Michigan, and spotted one of our firefighters just beginning to raise the flag.
A motorist had been driving toward me. When he saw the flag being raised, he stopped dead. He sat in the middle of the street, with a slight smile on his face, watching the flag go up the pole. I noticed this as I drove past the fire house. At about the point where I was level with the other driver, it clicked. He was showing respect. And I, like a damn fool, was not. A line of cars came down Michigan, and every single one of them drove around the man watching the flag.
The flag-respecting driver didn't make anyone wrong for passing without stopping. He was doing what he wanted to do, and nobody else mattered. I thought his simple gesture was really cool.
I told the Hubby-Man about it when I got home, and he took all the magic out of it.
He said, "He must be former military." He explained that in the military, whenever the flag is raised or lowered, everyone stops.
Mystery solved, but I still think it was neat.
Every morning, I drive past the fire house. Every morning (unless it's raining) they have the flag up. If you can see the sun, you can see the flag. Except this morning. Today, they didn't put the flag up until I was driving home from dropping L off at school.
I turned off of Holly Hills, onto Michigan, and spotted one of our firefighters just beginning to raise the flag.
A motorist had been driving toward me. When he saw the flag being raised, he stopped dead. He sat in the middle of the street, with a slight smile on his face, watching the flag go up the pole. I noticed this as I drove past the fire house. At about the point where I was level with the other driver, it clicked. He was showing respect. And I, like a damn fool, was not. A line of cars came down Michigan, and every single one of them drove around the man watching the flag.
The flag-respecting driver didn't make anyone wrong for passing without stopping. He was doing what he wanted to do, and nobody else mattered. I thought his simple gesture was really cool.
I told the Hubby-Man about it when I got home, and he took all the magic out of it.
He said, "He must be former military." He explained that in the military, whenever the flag is raised or lowered, everyone stops.
Mystery solved, but I still think it was neat.
Sunday, November 23, 2003
This always happens
I stop reading the news for a few days, and newsworthy stuff happens.
The 4th amendment guarantees us the right to be secure in our persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures. Warrants shall only be issued upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and the warrant must particularly describe the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
As if that weren't enough, the 5th amendment covers that again with, "No person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law."
So WHY did a joint House-Senate conference committee approve a provision in the 2004 Intelligence Authorization bill that will permit the Federal Bureau of Investigation to demand records from a number of businesses--without the approval of a judge or grand jury--if it deems them relevant to a counter-terrorism investigation?
Do they think our Supreme Court is underworked? Do our congressmen not understand the constitution? It's not like it's a large document. You can breeze through it in less than an hour. It's not like a proper warrant is difficult to obtain, either.
The provision is absolute rubbish. Our congresspeople should not waste their time on it.
I stop reading the news for a few days, and newsworthy stuff happens.
The 4th amendment guarantees us the right to be secure in our persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures. Warrants shall only be issued upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and the warrant must particularly describe the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
As if that weren't enough, the 5th amendment covers that again with, "No person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law."
So WHY did a joint House-Senate conference committee approve a provision in the 2004 Intelligence Authorization bill that will permit the Federal Bureau of Investigation to demand records from a number of businesses--without the approval of a judge or grand jury--if it deems them relevant to a counter-terrorism investigation?
Do they think our Supreme Court is underworked? Do our congressmen not understand the constitution? It's not like it's a large document. You can breeze through it in less than an hour. It's not like a proper warrant is difficult to obtain, either.
The provision is absolute rubbish. Our congresspeople should not waste their time on it.
Saturday, November 22, 2003
a Bit of Writers Block
I'm in the middle of writing the tale of how my sister's hand got caught in an escalator, and I keep getting distracted. I wrote out the first block last night, and it flowed beautifully out of my fingertips. It was getting late, so I stopped after writing about the nurse pouring iodine on my sister's hand. It seemed like a good place to take a break. I had a nice little cliff hanger in my drafts page. "They took my sister to the nurses office and poured iodine on her hand. I sat on a chair in the dimly lit hallway, listening to her scream."
Isn't that picturesque? Now, this morning, I was committed to finishing the tale. I played with L, had breakfast, watched some cartoons, then (finally) opened up Blogger and got to work on the happier part of the story. The part where I get a gimpse of the legal system, as we sued the store; and the part where my sister goes on to be a Physicians Assistant -with full use of her hand.
The problem is, my memory is a bit blurry about the hours after the incident. I remember the dry details, but not any of how I was feeling. I can't remember little things, like what the nurse said to my mom about the accident. Things don't start getting really clear until the moment we saw the cab pull up to take us to the hospital. The rest is just bits and snatches.
It's frustrating.
I feel like I'm cheating my readers because I can't remember every emotinal detail. I know I could make stuff up that would go well with the story. I know they would never know... but it seems so dishonest.
So here's my quandry. Do I write a good story, or do I tell it like I remember?
I'm going to have to go with the tell-it-like-I-remember side. Perhaps my readers will be interested just because it's the only place where my memory is that spotty.
I'm in the middle of writing the tale of how my sister's hand got caught in an escalator, and I keep getting distracted. I wrote out the first block last night, and it flowed beautifully out of my fingertips. It was getting late, so I stopped after writing about the nurse pouring iodine on my sister's hand. It seemed like a good place to take a break. I had a nice little cliff hanger in my drafts page. "They took my sister to the nurses office and poured iodine on her hand. I sat on a chair in the dimly lit hallway, listening to her scream."
Isn't that picturesque? Now, this morning, I was committed to finishing the tale. I played with L, had breakfast, watched some cartoons, then (finally) opened up Blogger and got to work on the happier part of the story. The part where I get a gimpse of the legal system, as we sued the store; and the part where my sister goes on to be a Physicians Assistant -with full use of her hand.
The problem is, my memory is a bit blurry about the hours after the incident. I remember the dry details, but not any of how I was feeling. I can't remember little things, like what the nurse said to my mom about the accident. Things don't start getting really clear until the moment we saw the cab pull up to take us to the hospital. The rest is just bits and snatches.
It's frustrating.
I feel like I'm cheating my readers because I can't remember every emotinal detail. I know I could make stuff up that would go well with the story. I know they would never know... but it seems so dishonest.
So here's my quandry. Do I write a good story, or do I tell it like I remember?
I'm going to have to go with the tell-it-like-I-remember side. Perhaps my readers will be interested just because it's the only place where my memory is that spotty.
Friday, November 21, 2003
This week's Friday Five
Is a toughie. I mean, listing 5 things in a category??? I'm lucky if I have 2 things I want at a time. (sigh) but I'm going to tackle it anyway. :)
1. List five things you'd like to accomplish by the end of the year.
*massage enough people to pay for L's school. That's 10 measly full body massages, done in your home, for the reasonable fee of $30 per massage. With Christmas stress leering at you, it's a bargain!
*Find a great gift for the person I'm secret santa-ing.
*Decrease my wrinkles a little bit. (can I do that without smearing stuff on my face?)
*Take my coat to the cleaners.
*Find a good Christmas tree.
2. List five people you've lost contact with that you'd like to hear from again.
Tough one, this. If I'm not talking to you, there's a reason ;)
*Nikki
*Jon
*Barry
*Blaine & Gina
*Cara in St. Charles
3. List five things you'd like to learn how to do.
Only 5? I can't do it. I want to learn almost everything.
4. List five things you'd do if you won the lottery (no limit).
*Donate to every charity that has helped me and my family.
*Build a castle
*Open a coffeehouse
*Pay off our debts
*Pay my friends' mortgages
5. List five things you do that help you relax.
*Blog
*Play games
*Read
*Meditate
*Smoke (cigarettes)
Is a toughie. I mean, listing 5 things in a category??? I'm lucky if I have 2 things I want at a time. (sigh) but I'm going to tackle it anyway. :)
1. List five things you'd like to accomplish by the end of the year.
*massage enough people to pay for L's school. That's 10 measly full body massages, done in your home, for the reasonable fee of $30 per massage. With Christmas stress leering at you, it's a bargain!
*Find a great gift for the person I'm secret santa-ing.
*Decrease my wrinkles a little bit. (can I do that without smearing stuff on my face?)
*Take my coat to the cleaners.
*Find a good Christmas tree.
2. List five people you've lost contact with that you'd like to hear from again.
Tough one, this. If I'm not talking to you, there's a reason ;)
*Nikki
*Jon
*Barry
*Blaine & Gina
*Cara in St. Charles
3. List five things you'd like to learn how to do.
Only 5? I can't do it. I want to learn almost everything.
4. List five things you'd do if you won the lottery (no limit).
*Donate to every charity that has helped me and my family.
*Build a castle
*Open a coffeehouse
*Pay off our debts
*Pay my friends' mortgages
5. List five things you do that help you relax.
*Blog
*Play games
*Read
*Meditate
*Smoke (cigarettes)
Thursday, November 20, 2003
How L acquired a snake, and the amusing results
When L was 5 or 6 years old, he wanted a pet snake. I told him he would have to buy it with his own money, but that if he did, I would buy the tank, heater and food. I had owned a snake before, but gave him away after L was born. I didn't have the free time to handle the snake and care for a newborn. So Sinbad the Western Garter Snake found a new home.
L saved his allowance, report card and b-day money, and we went to the pet store. He bought a Bananna King Snake, and promptly named him Sinbad. We had him for almost 6 months, then he escaped while we were on a camping trip. L was pretty upset about this. I'd catch him looking at the empty tank, asking God to bring his snake back... or at least keep it warm in the winter.
We replaced Sinbad II with a hamster. That lasted for nearly a year. We found it one morning (dead) with it's nose pressed against the glass, looking like it was trying just one more time to escape. We buried the hamster in the back yard, between the lavender bushes. As soon as it was warm enough, we went to the Reptile store to buy a new snake. Snakes live much longer than hamsters do. I'll probably still be caring for this snake when L goes off to college. (good thing I love reptiles)
At the Exotic Amphibian and Reptile Center, they had a cage full of eggs with a sign reading, "Hatching Now!" L went into spasms of delight. "Can we buy one, can we? Pleeeeease? Can we buy an egg and hatch it at home? Pleeeeease?"
We did not buy an egg, but L picked the egg he wanted, and every day we went back to see if it had hatched yet. (He couldn't actually remember which egg it was, but I pretended like I remembered. I'd pick an egg at random and say, "There it is!") The third day we visited, we spied an egg with a black snake nose poking out of it. L cried out, "That's him! That's my snake! he's being born right now!"
We got lucky that day, because the owner was the one behind the counter. He told my son, "As soon as he gets done hatching, I'll put him in a box for you. You can't take him home until he sheds his first skin, though. So you come back in a week and pick him up. OK?"
When we showed up a week later, there was a round plastic case with my son's name on it, waiting for us. L gave me his $24 to pay for the snake, and took the box from the guy behind the counter. L said, "You're very beautiful, and your name is Sinbad."
I asked, "What if he's a girl snake?" While trying not to laugh. The salesman said, "It's young yet, let's find out." He explained that when snakes are babies, their sex organs are easy to reach. It's much harder to identify the sex when they're adults. He took the snake out of it's enclosure and squeezed around the area they poop out of... and it's stuff popped out!
That was probably the grossest thing I'd ever seen. L and I were both fascinated. I wanted to ask the guy to do it again, but I knew snakes aren't squeeze toys, so I kept my mouth shut.
Sinbad the Third, no bigger than a nightcrawler, came home with us that day; and I promptly put 10 pounds of rocks on top of the cage. This snake wasn't getting away. 'Locking lid' my ass.
Every September I take Sinbad to the pet blessing that L's school holds out in the playground. Every year, we get swarmed with children wanting to see, but not touch, the snake. Every year, I turn a few more kids into snake lovers.
I love being a stay-home mom.
Oh, yeah. Sinbad III now weighs over 2 pounds, is about 4 1/2 feet long, and would eat every 3 days if I let him.
When L was 5 or 6 years old, he wanted a pet snake. I told him he would have to buy it with his own money, but that if he did, I would buy the tank, heater and food. I had owned a snake before, but gave him away after L was born. I didn't have the free time to handle the snake and care for a newborn. So Sinbad the Western Garter Snake found a new home.
L saved his allowance, report card and b-day money, and we went to the pet store. He bought a Bananna King Snake, and promptly named him Sinbad. We had him for almost 6 months, then he escaped while we were on a camping trip. L was pretty upset about this. I'd catch him looking at the empty tank, asking God to bring his snake back... or at least keep it warm in the winter.
We replaced Sinbad II with a hamster. That lasted for nearly a year. We found it one morning (dead) with it's nose pressed against the glass, looking like it was trying just one more time to escape. We buried the hamster in the back yard, between the lavender bushes. As soon as it was warm enough, we went to the Reptile store to buy a new snake. Snakes live much longer than hamsters do. I'll probably still be caring for this snake when L goes off to college. (good thing I love reptiles)
At the Exotic Amphibian and Reptile Center, they had a cage full of eggs with a sign reading, "Hatching Now!" L went into spasms of delight. "Can we buy one, can we? Pleeeeease? Can we buy an egg and hatch it at home? Pleeeeease?"
We did not buy an egg, but L picked the egg he wanted, and every day we went back to see if it had hatched yet. (He couldn't actually remember which egg it was, but I pretended like I remembered. I'd pick an egg at random and say, "There it is!") The third day we visited, we spied an egg with a black snake nose poking out of it. L cried out, "That's him! That's my snake! he's being born right now!"
We got lucky that day, because the owner was the one behind the counter. He told my son, "As soon as he gets done hatching, I'll put him in a box for you. You can't take him home until he sheds his first skin, though. So you come back in a week and pick him up. OK?"
When we showed up a week later, there was a round plastic case with my son's name on it, waiting for us. L gave me his $24 to pay for the snake, and took the box from the guy behind the counter. L said, "You're very beautiful, and your name is Sinbad."
I asked, "What if he's a girl snake?" While trying not to laugh. The salesman said, "It's young yet, let's find out." He explained that when snakes are babies, their sex organs are easy to reach. It's much harder to identify the sex when they're adults. He took the snake out of it's enclosure and squeezed around the area they poop out of... and it's stuff popped out!
That was probably the grossest thing I'd ever seen. L and I were both fascinated. I wanted to ask the guy to do it again, but I knew snakes aren't squeeze toys, so I kept my mouth shut.
Sinbad the Third, no bigger than a nightcrawler, came home with us that day; and I promptly put 10 pounds of rocks on top of the cage. This snake wasn't getting away. 'Locking lid' my ass.
Every September I take Sinbad to the pet blessing that L's school holds out in the playground. Every year, we get swarmed with children wanting to see, but not touch, the snake. Every year, I turn a few more kids into snake lovers.
I love being a stay-home mom.
Oh, yeah. Sinbad III now weighs over 2 pounds, is about 4 1/2 feet long, and would eat every 3 days if I let him.
Poor Friday...
I think our cat is preparing to hibernate. She's chunked on 4 pounds in the last month. Yep, she'll be sleeping any day now.
The other pet in the house is also slowing down for the winter. Even though the temperature in Sinbad's tank is 80+ degrees, he's gotten lazy about eating. That's saying a lot for a snake that usually eats 1 large mouse or 2 smaller mice, then searches the cage for more. I bought him a mouse last Saturday, and he finally ate it on Tuesday. Last winter, he went on a 6 week hunger strike. We tried everything we could think of, and he just wouldn't eat. We finally had a warm spell, so I took the snake to the Exotic Amphibian and Reptile Center and asked them to look at him.
The EARC is a fabulous store on Lemay Ferry. It's where I buy most of Sinbad's food and bedding from, and it's where we bought the snake himself, too.
Anyway, they said Sinbad was fine. Sometimes in the winter snakes won't eat -something about preparing for the mating season.
I think our cat is preparing to hibernate. She's chunked on 4 pounds in the last month. Yep, she'll be sleeping any day now.
The other pet in the house is also slowing down for the winter. Even though the temperature in Sinbad's tank is 80+ degrees, he's gotten lazy about eating. That's saying a lot for a snake that usually eats 1 large mouse or 2 smaller mice, then searches the cage for more. I bought him a mouse last Saturday, and he finally ate it on Tuesday. Last winter, he went on a 6 week hunger strike. We tried everything we could think of, and he just wouldn't eat. We finally had a warm spell, so I took the snake to the Exotic Amphibian and Reptile Center and asked them to look at him.
The EARC is a fabulous store on Lemay Ferry. It's where I buy most of Sinbad's food and bedding from, and it's where we bought the snake himself, too.
Anyway, they said Sinbad was fine. Sometimes in the winter snakes won't eat -something about preparing for the mating season.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
the stealthily added title:
And 3 paragraphs in, you'll find out what the hell I'm talking about
I'm at a site named "Surviving to Thriving" and clicked in the link to survivor stories. I think maybe the story I wrote in RandomRedhead would be a useful addition to the site, but I wanted to check the other stories first, to make sure mine wasn't too vivid. The survivor stories page has links to 51 pages of stories. It horrifies me just how many women there are out there... and those are the ones who are able to write about it.
.
Some of the stories there just seem unreal. Some of them seem way too real. Interestingly enough, the too real ones don't make me uncomfortable. The horrible vividness is comforting. It's almost pleasant to know that I'm not the only one who remembers it like it was happening right now. (but with that wonderful distance of time, knowing that I'm 34 and sitting in my nice safe home, with 18 years of history between me and my rape)
It's also comforting to know that when I froze during my rape, I wasn't being a doofus. Apparently it's a normal response.
and Wow! The site has a copy of confessions of a date rapist! I didn't read the article when it came out, but now that I have read it, I'm going to make sure my son reads it when he starts dating.
And 3 paragraphs in, you'll find out what the hell I'm talking about
I'm at a site named "Surviving to Thriving" and clicked in the link to survivor stories. I think maybe the story I wrote in RandomRedhead would be a useful addition to the site, but I wanted to check the other stories first, to make sure mine wasn't too vivid. The survivor stories page has links to 51 pages of stories. It horrifies me just how many women there are out there... and those are the ones who are able to write about it.
.
Some of the stories there just seem unreal. Some of them seem way too real. Interestingly enough, the too real ones don't make me uncomfortable. The horrible vividness is comforting. It's almost pleasant to know that I'm not the only one who remembers it like it was happening right now. (but with that wonderful distance of time, knowing that I'm 34 and sitting in my nice safe home, with 18 years of history between me and my rape)
It's also comforting to know that when I froze during my rape, I wasn't being a doofus. Apparently it's a normal response.
and Wow! The site has a copy of confessions of a date rapist! I didn't read the article when it came out, but now that I have read it, I'm going to make sure my son reads it when he starts dating.
I'm reading a blog
and it makes me very sad. Chasmyn told me about this blog, how the author was dealing with having had an affair, how real the blog was. Eventually, I took her advice and wandered over to read it. I came in at the end of her story, and had to read the archives to catch it all. The next time I visited the blog, she had a new post about remembering sexual abuse. I don't talk about abuse very much on this blog, and (other than the rape) I don't mention it at all on my other blog. Most of my family lives in denial, and the few of us who bring it up are told to not discuss private matters. So I keep quiet around my family, and I wonder about my sister and my cousins. I wonder what they're keeping silent in their heads. What monsters do they have to smother daily, in order to keep that happy smile fixed in place?
Anyway... I read her post about remembering, and after a lot of thought, sent her a comment. Here it is:
"Somewhere down the road, you're going to get angry with yourself for forgetting what happened. You might see yourself as weak for not tackling the recovery process sooner. When you feel like that, know this: forgetting is not wrong. Forgetting gave you a childhood of joy. It was simple defense. Isn't it amazing, the things we do to protect ourselves? Forgetting WAS your recovery. You're remembering now because you finally have the tools you need to heal.
Thank you for sharing your story. You make a world of difference."
I felt kind of guilty, because everyone else was posting about how sad they were for her, or how much they loved her, or how they just know she will get through this -because they had. I felt guilty for not saying those things, yet I felt that I really needed to say what I did. Someday she will get mad at herself, and when that someday comes; everyone else will have forgotten.
So I sent off my comment, visited other blogs, and thought no more about it. I visited her blog maybe one or two more times, but generally went on with my life. Today I saw that her site had some referals to my site. I couldn't remember who it was, although the name rang a bell, so I clicked it to see who liked me enough to link to my blog.
The second her blog came up on screen, it all came back to me. Her whole story, the phone calls with Chasmyn, the comment I had left... everything. On her blog is this: " Thursday, 13 November 2003
I always wondered what my last entry would look like.
this is my last entry" and a good last entry it was, too. She explains why she's ending the blog and discusses her past. It's beautiful and heartbreaking. I read more. She is so depressed right now. Not in the hollywood-movie sense, hers is a true depression.
I want to drive to Ohio and find her. I want to knock on her door and say, "I'm here, and you're not alone." I want to hold her and rock her until she cries. I want to take her to her life and get them re-acquainted, because they're both lost right now. She's living in a void, separate from her life; and her life is nothing without her in it. And I know that I can
Then I think, maybe I'm crazy. I mean, I know I'm not going to drive to Ohio, but I know that I can make a difference if I did.
Which reminds me of when I was a teenager. I was dealing with a lot of stuff. The sexual abuse as a child, the rape at 15, the abortion and subsequent dumping by my boyfriend at 17, getting kicked out of high school for being pagan, all served to usher in the Great Depression for me. I had gotten to a point where I'd filled the bathtup with warm water, and I was sharpening my athame to cut my wrists with. (I figured the tub would be easier to clean. When you cut an artery, blood spurts everywhere, y'know?) I had turned off the water, and was finishing the sharpening when the phone rang. It was a girl from my first high school. I hadn't seen her in almost 2 years. We worked at the same mall for a brief bit of time, and I had given her my phone number. So out of the blue, she calls me. She asked how I was doing. She said she had been thinking about me, and really, really felt the urge to call.
She saved my life.
When she asked how I was doing, it snapped me out of my depression. Suddenly the world had color again. Suddenly, I felt alive! Just knowing that there was someone out there who didn't have to care about me, gave enough of a damn to pick up the phone, somehow gave me the ability to cope again.
Thanks to the blog I've been reading, I've remembered my saviour's name. It's Diane. So If you ever run into a blonde woman named Diane, who used to go to Visual and Performing Arts high, (Central High) Tell her thank you for me.
and it makes me very sad. Chasmyn told me about this blog, how the author was dealing with having had an affair, how real the blog was. Eventually, I took her advice and wandered over to read it. I came in at the end of her story, and had to read the archives to catch it all. The next time I visited the blog, she had a new post about remembering sexual abuse. I don't talk about abuse very much on this blog, and (other than the rape) I don't mention it at all on my other blog. Most of my family lives in denial, and the few of us who bring it up are told to not discuss private matters. So I keep quiet around my family, and I wonder about my sister and my cousins. I wonder what they're keeping silent in their heads. What monsters do they have to smother daily, in order to keep that happy smile fixed in place?
Anyway... I read her post about remembering, and after a lot of thought, sent her a comment. Here it is:
"Somewhere down the road, you're going to get angry with yourself for forgetting what happened. You might see yourself as weak for not tackling the recovery process sooner. When you feel like that, know this: forgetting is not wrong. Forgetting gave you a childhood of joy. It was simple defense. Isn't it amazing, the things we do to protect ourselves? Forgetting WAS your recovery. You're remembering now because you finally have the tools you need to heal.
Thank you for sharing your story. You make a world of difference."
I felt kind of guilty, because everyone else was posting about how sad they were for her, or how much they loved her, or how they just know she will get through this -because they had. I felt guilty for not saying those things, yet I felt that I really needed to say what I did. Someday she will get mad at herself, and when that someday comes; everyone else will have forgotten.
So I sent off my comment, visited other blogs, and thought no more about it. I visited her blog maybe one or two more times, but generally went on with my life. Today I saw that her site had some referals to my site. I couldn't remember who it was, although the name rang a bell, so I clicked it to see who liked me enough to link to my blog.
The second her blog came up on screen, it all came back to me. Her whole story, the phone calls with Chasmyn, the comment I had left... everything. On her blog is this: " Thursday, 13 November 2003
I always wondered what my last entry would look like.
this is my last entry" and a good last entry it was, too. She explains why she's ending the blog and discusses her past. It's beautiful and heartbreaking. I read more. She is so depressed right now. Not in the hollywood-movie sense, hers is a true depression.
I want to drive to Ohio and find her. I want to knock on her door and say, "I'm here, and you're not alone." I want to hold her and rock her until she cries. I want to take her to her life and get them re-acquainted, because they're both lost right now. She's living in a void, separate from her life; and her life is nothing without her in it. And I know that I can
Then I think, maybe I'm crazy. I mean, I know I'm not going to drive to Ohio, but I know that I can make a difference if I did.
Which reminds me of when I was a teenager. I was dealing with a lot of stuff. The sexual abuse as a child, the rape at 15, the abortion and subsequent dumping by my boyfriend at 17, getting kicked out of high school for being pagan, all served to usher in the Great Depression for me. I had gotten to a point where I'd filled the bathtup with warm water, and I was sharpening my athame to cut my wrists with. (I figured the tub would be easier to clean. When you cut an artery, blood spurts everywhere, y'know?) I had turned off the water, and was finishing the sharpening when the phone rang. It was a girl from my first high school. I hadn't seen her in almost 2 years. We worked at the same mall for a brief bit of time, and I had given her my phone number. So out of the blue, she calls me. She asked how I was doing. She said she had been thinking about me, and really, really felt the urge to call.
She saved my life.
When she asked how I was doing, it snapped me out of my depression. Suddenly the world had color again. Suddenly, I felt alive! Just knowing that there was someone out there who didn't have to care about me, gave enough of a damn to pick up the phone, somehow gave me the ability to cope again.
Thanks to the blog I've been reading, I've remembered my saviour's name. It's Diane. So If you ever run into a blonde woman named Diane, who used to go to Visual and Performing Arts high, (Central High) Tell her thank you for me.
A funny thing happened on the way out of bed...
This morning I was rudely yanked from a dream involving men and I can't remember what else. I think I was teaching them something, because I remember that all the men around me were really paying attention to what I had to say... anyway...
The alarm buzzed at me, so I smacked it into submission, in order to gain a few more minutes of snooze time. As I was closing my eyes, I realized it was dark in the house. Damn! This meant it was still raining.
After a few hits of the snooze button, I hop out of bed, grab L's gym clothes, knock on his door, and enter his room. Tuesday mornings are always the same. I've washed his gym clothes the night before, so I get to wake him by tossing the clothes atop his sleeping form. He almost always jumps, hee hee. I left him to get dressed and remembered that I'm out of coffee. This just isn't my day, but for some reason I'm in a good mood anyway.
We get out of the house on time for once, and the second I step out the door; I realize it's a beautiful day. It's grey and wet and the birds are quiet, but it's beautiful anyway!
As I'm driving us to school, I comment, "Today is a good day." L responds, "You're right. Today is a good day." Then we both say together, "I can feel it in the air."
It was great.
.
.
.
On a side note, after Hubby-man left for work, I went into the basement to clean up the rain water that had flooded the downstairs bathroom and got some bad news. The rain had bled under the drywall and soaked the horrible shag rug in the family room. The entire 10x12 carpet is wet. grumble
And it's still a good day.
This morning I was rudely yanked from a dream involving men and I can't remember what else. I think I was teaching them something, because I remember that all the men around me were really paying attention to what I had to say... anyway...
The alarm buzzed at me, so I smacked it into submission, in order to gain a few more minutes of snooze time. As I was closing my eyes, I realized it was dark in the house. Damn! This meant it was still raining.
After a few hits of the snooze button, I hop out of bed, grab L's gym clothes, knock on his door, and enter his room. Tuesday mornings are always the same. I've washed his gym clothes the night before, so I get to wake him by tossing the clothes atop his sleeping form. He almost always jumps, hee hee. I left him to get dressed and remembered that I'm out of coffee. This just isn't my day, but for some reason I'm in a good mood anyway.
We get out of the house on time for once, and the second I step out the door; I realize it's a beautiful day. It's grey and wet and the birds are quiet, but it's beautiful anyway!
As I'm driving us to school, I comment, "Today is a good day." L responds, "You're right. Today is a good day." Then we both say together, "I can feel it in the air."
It was great.
.
.
.
On a side note, after Hubby-man left for work, I went into the basement to clean up the rain water that had flooded the downstairs bathroom and got some bad news. The rain had bled under the drywall and soaked the horrible shag rug in the family room. The entire 10x12 carpet is wet. grumble
And it's still a good day.
Monday, November 17, 2003
Stuff I didn't know about Scientology
I've been reading more on FACTnet, and I'm pretty impressed. They're not full of hype, they aren't trying to sell any books, they seem straightforward with their info. Yep, impressive. Right now, all I know about scientology is that they advertise, they sell books, and lots of Hollywood stars are scientologists. Lets see what I know after I read for a few hours.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I found a breakdown of the personality test they offer. It's rigged. Several teams of psychologists went to different locations, took the test with a pre-defined set of answers, then analyzed the 'results' of their tests. They found the test to be highly inaccurate. There were also lots of choice comments about the recruiting tactics used.
Another test scientologist use is the "E meter". FACTnet has a techincal breakdown of the machine, which sums up to the machine doing exactly what it's supposed to do, which has nothing whatsoever to do with what they say it's doing. (note the vagueness there... I still haven't figured out what Scientologists use the machine for. I think it's meant as a sort of biofeedback or something)
I also found this very amusing website about the Fishman Affidavit, explaining why it's famous, and the song and dance certain people have gone through to keep it from being read. (tee hee)
It also shows the affidavit itself.
...except I'm having a damned hard time getting the pages I want to load. I get 404 errors, or other "page unavailable" errors. Hmmm.
I've been reading more on FACTnet, and I'm pretty impressed. They're not full of hype, they aren't trying to sell any books, they seem straightforward with their info. Yep, impressive. Right now, all I know about scientology is that they advertise, they sell books, and lots of Hollywood stars are scientologists. Lets see what I know after I read for a few hours.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I found a breakdown of the personality test they offer. It's rigged. Several teams of psychologists went to different locations, took the test with a pre-defined set of answers, then analyzed the 'results' of their tests. They found the test to be highly inaccurate. There were also lots of choice comments about the recruiting tactics used.
Another test scientologist use is the "E meter". FACTnet has a techincal breakdown of the machine, which sums up to the machine doing exactly what it's supposed to do, which has nothing whatsoever to do with what they say it's doing. (note the vagueness there... I still haven't figured out what Scientologists use the machine for. I think it's meant as a sort of biofeedback or something)
I also found this very amusing website about the Fishman Affidavit, explaining why it's famous, and the song and dance certain people have gone through to keep it from being read. (tee hee)
It also shows the affidavit itself.
...except I'm having a damned hard time getting the pages I want to load. I get 404 errors, or other "page unavailable" errors. Hmmm.
More on the Forum
That post was running long. The only drawbacks I found in doing Landmark stuff were these:
1. When I stopped going to seminars, I got a lot of phone calls letting me know which seminars were coming up next. My answer is always the same. "You know what? That isn't what I'm looking for right now, but please do call me back in 3 months and let me know what's next, ok? I may want to take a different seminar." I mean it too. Most of the seminars they offer don't appeal to me. I don't want to look at my weight and connect it to fitness or health. I don't think it's a good idea for someone with a touch of body dismorphic disorder to delve too deeply into the "fat" issue. I don't want to look at most of the courses they're offering right now. They say that if you think about doing a seminar, and get really uncomfortable with the idea, then that's the one you should take. I looked at how I am about commitment, and it made my skin crawl, while filling me with dispair, so I took the Commitment Seminar. I'm glad I did. I still have commitment issues, but I don't get in dispair about it anymore. I tackle it instead.
2. Here's the reason I don't do Landmark stuff anymore... I lost my magic for a while. Landmark gives you words for all the different ways you "be", and it rocks. But it's hard to look at magic and find yourself wondering if it's just an act. I found myself wondering if 'magic' was just a thing I pretended I was, in order to think I was better than other people. I ruthlessly shut down all the bits of myself that I had come to identify as magical, and I became very, very unhappy. There was no joy in Mudville, so to speak. Landmark did not ask me to do this. I did it to myself. But for me, Landmark was not a support for my magic, and magic is what I am. When I take that away, I can use their "technology" all I want, and I'm not fulfilled. Fullfullment comes with greeting the morning sun, feeling the breeze, listening as the world speaks with myriad voices, -whispering- I am!
That post was running long. The only drawbacks I found in doing Landmark stuff were these:
1. When I stopped going to seminars, I got a lot of phone calls letting me know which seminars were coming up next. My answer is always the same. "You know what? That isn't what I'm looking for right now, but please do call me back in 3 months and let me know what's next, ok? I may want to take a different seminar." I mean it too. Most of the seminars they offer don't appeal to me. I don't want to look at my weight and connect it to fitness or health. I don't think it's a good idea for someone with a touch of body dismorphic disorder to delve too deeply into the "fat" issue. I don't want to look at most of the courses they're offering right now. They say that if you think about doing a seminar, and get really uncomfortable with the idea, then that's the one you should take. I looked at how I am about commitment, and it made my skin crawl, while filling me with dispair, so I took the Commitment Seminar. I'm glad I did. I still have commitment issues, but I don't get in dispair about it anymore. I tackle it instead.
2. Here's the reason I don't do Landmark stuff anymore... I lost my magic for a while. Landmark gives you words for all the different ways you "be", and it rocks. But it's hard to look at magic and find yourself wondering if it's just an act. I found myself wondering if 'magic' was just a thing I pretended I was, in order to think I was better than other people. I ruthlessly shut down all the bits of myself that I had come to identify as magical, and I became very, very unhappy. There was no joy in Mudville, so to speak. Landmark did not ask me to do this. I did it to myself. But for me, Landmark was not a support for my magic, and magic is what I am. When I take that away, I can use their "technology" all I want, and I'm not fulfilled. Fullfullment comes with greeting the morning sun, feeling the breeze, listening as the world speaks with myriad voices, -whispering- I am!
Mind control, cults and sect, oh my!
Today I wanted to explore more conspiracy theories, so I typed HAARP into google. I figured that would be a good place to start, since I don't know squat about the HAARP array. Anyhow, I got my questions answered and wandered off through the forest of conspiracy sites, looking for just one healthy tree. At present, I'm looking at FACTnet and browsing their list of cults that use "coercive persuasion mind control techniques".
I've never heard of most of the groups on the list, but a few jump out at me. Like Amway. Mom sold Amway for about a year before deciding there was no profit in it for her. When she walked away from it, several people higher up in her pyramid pestered her to come back. When she flatly refused, some of them became rude; but that was it, and after a few months they stopped calling her. Amway makes some really good products... it's the promise of riches they give their salespeople that's problematic. I well remember going to their meetings with my mom, and watching people get all excited about the $500 worth of stuff they sold. Amway meetings are kind of like church revivals, only without the singing.
Another name on the list is Landmark. I forked over my $300 and did the Landmark Forum, complete with a ten week seminar afterwards. A year or so later I invested another $90 in the Commitment seminar. It was some of the best money I've ever spent. Prior to doing Landmark, I was lazy, screwed-up and unhappy. After Landmark, I was lazy, screwed-up and unhappy, but I now have a way to recognize it and deal with it. They speak positively and never tell you you're wrong. Most of their work involves putting your control over your life back into your own hands. Here is my favorite example:
You're driving down the highway and someone cuts in front of you. You get mad and cuss out the driver. (we've all done it) Immediately, you have given your power to the motorist ahead of you. You are no longer driving your car... The other guy is! And, of course, the other guy is oblivious to the fact that you've given your control over to him. (p.s. These are my words, not Landmark's) You could spend the rest of your day being pissy over a 2 second incident, or you can take your power back.
The act of realizing you've given up your power enables you to get it back. "There goes my power, driving down the highway... Hey wait a minute... It's my power." poof. Just like that, you're back in control of your life.
Landmark's concept is that we all make choices, all the time. You pay them money to take classes on recognizing your choices before you make them. They also teach you how to dig yourself out of a hole you keep falling into. My biggest pit is what I now call "the underwear argument"
-don't drink any milk before you read this... you'll snort it outta your nose-
Way back in the first few months of my marriage, my hubby and I were poorly dealing with us both being slobs. I'm the kind of person who will polish the windowsills while ignoring the over-full trash can. Hubby is the kind of person who will take out the trash, but ignore the 12 Pepsi bottles on the computer desk. It's quite frustrating. We both have a problem with laundry. So. In our first apartment, my hubby would leave dirty clothes on the floor, and I would pick up some of them, but leave the ones I thought of as 'his problem'. That means underwear. I wouldn't pick up his undies. I'd step over them, pretend they didn't exist, spray them with Lysol, and keep on walking. (not really Lysol) Eventually, one of the cats would drag the undies out of the bedroom. I don't know why cats do that, they just do. Now the underwear is an attractive nuisance. We can't have company over if there's a pair of briefs lying in the hall. I still ignore the underwear, and stop inviting friends over. It's not my problem, you see. My darling husband also ignores the underwear. They've migrated to the hallway, so it's my job to pick them up. I won't pick them up, so he stops doing the dishes. Now I have 2 things to be upset about. We have a sink full of dishes and a pair of mens panties in the hall. So I stop cleaning the cat litter and start doing artwork on every available surface. My hubby can't have that, of course. I'm staking too much turf, so he starts leaving Pepsi bottles everywhere. Pretty soon, we have an overly cluttered house that reeks of cat litter, and pizza boxes on the floor because the dishes aren't done and the tables are covered in artwork and used soda bottles. All because of a little pair of underwear.
I've done the Forum, and I see where I could choose to just wash the damn things instead of letting it escalate into a full blown disaster. The solution is to say out loud, "I'm doing some laundry, could you dump everything down the laundry chute for me please?" I have to say it without making him wrong, of course, otherwise it doesn't work. We do still have the underwear argument. It doesn't have to start with a pair of undies, either. Any bit of mess will do, but now I see the argument, and get to decide whether I'll argue or not. I have a bit of control over the issue. Thank you, Landmark!
I don't think Landmark is a cult, but I can see how it would be perceived as one. Seminars start every 3 months or so, and they encourage you to take their seminars, for which you pay $75-$100 or so. They encourage you to "share" and bring guests who might want to do the Forum. -They encourage that one a lot.
However, they heavily discourage "fixing" people, and they won't let someone with a mental illness do the Forum. They are not looking for broken, co-dependant people who will get sucked into their program and spend every dime they have for more.
Today I wanted to explore more conspiracy theories, so I typed HAARP into google. I figured that would be a good place to start, since I don't know squat about the HAARP array. Anyhow, I got my questions answered and wandered off through the forest of conspiracy sites, looking for just one healthy tree. At present, I'm looking at FACTnet and browsing their list of cults that use "coercive persuasion mind control techniques".
I've never heard of most of the groups on the list, but a few jump out at me. Like Amway. Mom sold Amway for about a year before deciding there was no profit in it for her. When she walked away from it, several people higher up in her pyramid pestered her to come back. When she flatly refused, some of them became rude; but that was it, and after a few months they stopped calling her. Amway makes some really good products... it's the promise of riches they give their salespeople that's problematic. I well remember going to their meetings with my mom, and watching people get all excited about the $500 worth of stuff they sold. Amway meetings are kind of like church revivals, only without the singing.
Another name on the list is Landmark. I forked over my $300 and did the Landmark Forum, complete with a ten week seminar afterwards. A year or so later I invested another $90 in the Commitment seminar. It was some of the best money I've ever spent. Prior to doing Landmark, I was lazy, screwed-up and unhappy. After Landmark, I was lazy, screwed-up and unhappy, but I now have a way to recognize it and deal with it. They speak positively and never tell you you're wrong. Most of their work involves putting your control over your life back into your own hands. Here is my favorite example:
You're driving down the highway and someone cuts in front of you. You get mad and cuss out the driver. (we've all done it) Immediately, you have given your power to the motorist ahead of you. You are no longer driving your car... The other guy is! And, of course, the other guy is oblivious to the fact that you've given your control over to him. (p.s. These are my words, not Landmark's) You could spend the rest of your day being pissy over a 2 second incident, or you can take your power back.
The act of realizing you've given up your power enables you to get it back. "There goes my power, driving down the highway... Hey wait a minute... It's my power." poof. Just like that, you're back in control of your life.
Landmark's concept is that we all make choices, all the time. You pay them money to take classes on recognizing your choices before you make them. They also teach you how to dig yourself out of a hole you keep falling into. My biggest pit is what I now call "the underwear argument"
-don't drink any milk before you read this... you'll snort it outta your nose-
Way back in the first few months of my marriage, my hubby and I were poorly dealing with us both being slobs. I'm the kind of person who will polish the windowsills while ignoring the over-full trash can. Hubby is the kind of person who will take out the trash, but ignore the 12 Pepsi bottles on the computer desk. It's quite frustrating. We both have a problem with laundry. So. In our first apartment, my hubby would leave dirty clothes on the floor, and I would pick up some of them, but leave the ones I thought of as 'his problem'. That means underwear. I wouldn't pick up his undies. I'd step over them, pretend they didn't exist, spray them with Lysol, and keep on walking. (not really Lysol) Eventually, one of the cats would drag the undies out of the bedroom. I don't know why cats do that, they just do. Now the underwear is an attractive nuisance. We can't have company over if there's a pair of briefs lying in the hall. I still ignore the underwear, and stop inviting friends over. It's not my problem, you see. My darling husband also ignores the underwear. They've migrated to the hallway, so it's my job to pick them up. I won't pick them up, so he stops doing the dishes. Now I have 2 things to be upset about. We have a sink full of dishes and a pair of mens panties in the hall. So I stop cleaning the cat litter and start doing artwork on every available surface. My hubby can't have that, of course. I'm staking too much turf, so he starts leaving Pepsi bottles everywhere. Pretty soon, we have an overly cluttered house that reeks of cat litter, and pizza boxes on the floor because the dishes aren't done and the tables are covered in artwork and used soda bottles. All because of a little pair of underwear.
I've done the Forum, and I see where I could choose to just wash the damn things instead of letting it escalate into a full blown disaster. The solution is to say out loud, "I'm doing some laundry, could you dump everything down the laundry chute for me please?" I have to say it without making him wrong, of course, otherwise it doesn't work. We do still have the underwear argument. It doesn't have to start with a pair of undies, either. Any bit of mess will do, but now I see the argument, and get to decide whether I'll argue or not. I have a bit of control over the issue. Thank you, Landmark!
I don't think Landmark is a cult, but I can see how it would be perceived as one. Seminars start every 3 months or so, and they encourage you to take their seminars, for which you pay $75-$100 or so. They encourage you to "share" and bring guests who might want to do the Forum. -They encourage that one a lot.
However, they heavily discourage "fixing" people, and they won't let someone with a mental illness do the Forum. They are not looking for broken, co-dependant people who will get sucked into their program and spend every dime they have for more.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
Yep, I'm gonna go there
I'm debating buying this for my mom, from Christian Toiletries... the "bar of faith prayer soap". Hey, it's a bargain, only $15 for cleanliness that's next to Godliness.
Geez, it gets worse! The Soap Opera Soap Company offers the mother soaperior and the immaculate consoaption. This is just wrong.
The Greek Soap Co. offers Christian Cross soap, cross soap holders and picture-and-prayer soap holders. Just what I always wanted!
Novelty Soap lets you buy bars in the shape of the Christian fish symbol. Well, ok... this company really does offer some cool soap. Like soap in the shape of fossils, or soap that looks like a cluster of gemstones. Unfortunately they're a wholesale company, but you can order smaller amounts retail.
I'm debating buying this for my mom, from Christian Toiletries... the "bar of faith prayer soap". Hey, it's a bargain, only $15 for cleanliness that's next to Godliness.
Geez, it gets worse! The Soap Opera Soap Company offers the mother soaperior and the immaculate consoaption. This is just wrong.
The Greek Soap Co. offers Christian Cross soap, cross soap holders and picture-and-prayer soap holders. Just what I always wanted!
Novelty Soap lets you buy bars in the shape of the Christian fish symbol. Well, ok... this company really does offer some cool soap. Like soap in the shape of fossils, or soap that looks like a cluster of gemstones. Unfortunately they're a wholesale company, but you can order smaller amounts retail.
at Under Reported:
According to a Nov. 13, 2003 Washington Post article:
The scene was a public library branch in Silver Spring. As Cathy B. Johnson entered, she was "astounded" to see a television set in the main lobby. It was muted, but it was very definitely on, and it was spewing pictures as only a TV set can.
Cathy saw red. She marched over to a librarian and asked why library patrons -- and young patrons in particular -- "couldn't have one place in the world where they were not bombarded by TV."
According to Cathy, the librarian pointed out that the set was aimed at a waiting area, where people sit until they get a crack at a public computer terminal.
The TV was on, Cathy says the librarian told her, so that those lying in wait "would have something to do."
Open mouth.
Gape in astonishment.
As Cathy promptly said to the librarian: "They couldn't read a book?"
Sorry, your gaping isn't done.
Cathy quotes the librarian as replying: "Internet users don't like to read."
also
According to a Nov. 14, 2003 UPI story:
The number of U.S. casualties from Operation Iraqi Freedom -- troops killed, wounded or evacuated due to injury or illness -- has passed 9,000, according to new Pentagon data.
In addition to the 397 service members who have died and the 1,967 wounded, 6,861 troops were medically evacuated for non-combat conditions between March 19 and Oct. 30, the Army Surgeon General's office said.
Medically evacuated for 'non-combat conditions' they said??? Are they seriously trying to say that nearly 7000 service members were so badly wounded that they had to be removed from the country, but it's not combat related? What, they all got heat-stroke? Starvation, maybe? Perhaps complications from unhealthy living conditions??? Ooooh, I'd better stop. I could rant all night over this one. If you want to make yourself sick, read the article, then scroll down to the two pictures of young men with that physically fit, fresh scrubbed, just-out-of-boot-camp look... and note the missing parts. That bit particularly upset me, because both men look a lot like my hubby did when he got out of the military, except he still has all his bits.
According to a Nov. 13, 2003 Washington Post article:
The scene was a public library branch in Silver Spring. As Cathy B. Johnson entered, she was "astounded" to see a television set in the main lobby. It was muted, but it was very definitely on, and it was spewing pictures as only a TV set can.
Cathy saw red. She marched over to a librarian and asked why library patrons -- and young patrons in particular -- "couldn't have one place in the world where they were not bombarded by TV."
According to Cathy, the librarian pointed out that the set was aimed at a waiting area, where people sit until they get a crack at a public computer terminal.
The TV was on, Cathy says the librarian told her, so that those lying in wait "would have something to do."
Open mouth.
Gape in astonishment.
As Cathy promptly said to the librarian: "They couldn't read a book?"
Sorry, your gaping isn't done.
Cathy quotes the librarian as replying: "Internet users don't like to read."
also
According to a Nov. 14, 2003 UPI story:
The number of U.S. casualties from Operation Iraqi Freedom -- troops killed, wounded or evacuated due to injury or illness -- has passed 9,000, according to new Pentagon data.
In addition to the 397 service members who have died and the 1,967 wounded, 6,861 troops were medically evacuated for non-combat conditions between March 19 and Oct. 30, the Army Surgeon General's office said.
Medically evacuated for 'non-combat conditions' they said??? Are they seriously trying to say that nearly 7000 service members were so badly wounded that they had to be removed from the country, but it's not combat related? What, they all got heat-stroke? Starvation, maybe? Perhaps complications from unhealthy living conditions??? Ooooh, I'd better stop. I could rant all night over this one. If you want to make yourself sick, read the article, then scroll down to the two pictures of young men with that physically fit, fresh scrubbed, just-out-of-boot-camp look... and note the missing parts. That bit particularly upset me, because both men look a lot like my hubby did when he got out of the military, except he still has all his bits.
Friday, November 14, 2003
Chess
Yes, I still like chess. We have 4 real chess sets and at least 3 more crappy plastic ones.
The breakdown is thus:
1 hand carved jade chess set from Japan, bought while Hubby-Man's dad was stationed there, gifted to my hubby.
1 hand carved onyx chess set, bought at Gringo Jones Imports for $30, gifted to my son.
1 plastic Camelot style chess set dated 1963, bought at a yard sale for $5, gifted to me.
plus 1 hand made coffee table with a chess board inlay, $10 at an estate sale. (they were astounded that I wanted the thing)
1 plain wooden chess set, belonging to Hubby-man for gods know how long.
1 travel chess set, magnetized, bought at the dollar store.
1 plastic chess set with a cardboard 'board'.
1 larger magnetized travel chess set, $2, Wal-Mart.
various and sundry chess bits living out their lonely lives in the bottom of the toybox, and only dug out when a pawn is lost.
sundry chess bits in my jeweler's lab, of various materials, waiting for me to complete a set.
It seems I can't walk past a chess board without wanting to buy it. Do you think I'm weird?
Yes, I still like chess. We have 4 real chess sets and at least 3 more crappy plastic ones.
The breakdown is thus:
1 hand carved jade chess set from Japan, bought while Hubby-Man's dad was stationed there, gifted to my hubby.
1 hand carved onyx chess set, bought at Gringo Jones Imports for $30, gifted to my son.
1 plastic Camelot style chess set dated 1963, bought at a yard sale for $5, gifted to me.
plus 1 hand made coffee table with a chess board inlay, $10 at an estate sale. (they were astounded that I wanted the thing)
1 plain wooden chess set, belonging to Hubby-man for gods know how long.
1 travel chess set, magnetized, bought at the dollar store.
1 plastic chess set with a cardboard 'board'.
1 larger magnetized travel chess set, $2, Wal-Mart.
various and sundry chess bits living out their lonely lives in the bottom of the toybox, and only dug out when a pawn is lost.
sundry chess bits in my jeweler's lab, of various materials, waiting for me to complete a set.
It seems I can't walk past a chess board without wanting to buy it. Do you think I'm weird?
My Gods, what a beautiful post!
This morning I'm blog hopping "pagan mommy blog". I'm currently browsing the blog, Practical Wicca. In this post, she gives an exercise that just rocks. She talks about the "K" that people add to "magic", to distinguish it from sleight of hand, et al. I loved it!
Now, I've never been one to deliberately misspell words. As a matter of fact, it drives me up a wall when I've found that I've accidentally misspelled a word. And, I never looked beyond my insistence for spelling magic, "magic". Somewhere deep down, I know that I spell it that way because I see no significant difference between pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and pulling a need out of thin air. Both magics need set up, clarity of mind and practiced skill.
Go read the whole post. Here's a teaser:
"Yet, we're still complicating matters by adding a 'K' onto the end of the word 'Magic'. Even though we've taken on a great deal of perception-changing ideals, we can't manage to bring ourselves to change our own perception of the word 'Magic', much less anyone else's.
The simple fact that we have a special word means that we have special jargon, and the only reason that jargon has ever existed is to make other people feel left out, or in the dark. It is the reason that people in marketing use words like 'Dashboard' and 'Bird Seed' when they could simply say 'Agenda' and 'Legal Text' and still get across exactly what it is they are trying to say. The jargon makes them feel bigger and other people feel as if someone just tried to give them directions to Timbukto with a ball of cotton in their mouth. Confused. "
This morning I'm blog hopping "pagan mommy blog". I'm currently browsing the blog, Practical Wicca. In this post, she gives an exercise that just rocks. She talks about the "K" that people add to "magic", to distinguish it from sleight of hand, et al. I loved it!
Now, I've never been one to deliberately misspell words. As a matter of fact, it drives me up a wall when I've found that I've accidentally misspelled a word. And, I never looked beyond my insistence for spelling magic, "magic". Somewhere deep down, I know that I spell it that way because I see no significant difference between pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and pulling a need out of thin air. Both magics need set up, clarity of mind and practiced skill.
Go read the whole post. Here's a teaser:
"Yet, we're still complicating matters by adding a 'K' onto the end of the word 'Magic'. Even though we've taken on a great deal of perception-changing ideals, we can't manage to bring ourselves to change our own perception of the word 'Magic', much less anyone else's.
The simple fact that we have a special word means that we have special jargon, and the only reason that jargon has ever existed is to make other people feel left out, or in the dark. It is the reason that people in marketing use words like 'Dashboard' and 'Bird Seed' when they could simply say 'Agenda' and 'Legal Text' and still get across exactly what it is they are trying to say. The jargon makes them feel bigger and other people feel as if someone just tried to give them directions to Timbukto with a ball of cotton in their mouth. Confused. "
I'm actually going to do a Friday Five here
Shame on me :) ... I mean... Get to know me better! Yeah! That's it!
1. Using one adjective, describe your current living space.
cluttered
2. Using two adjectives, describe your current employer.
sleepy redhead (see, it's funny 'cause I'm a stay-home mom)
3. Using three adjectives, describe your favorite hobby/pasttime.
tiny artistic creations
4. Using four adjectives, describe your typical day.
sunny, caffeinated, talkative (thank-you-Alexander-Graham-Bell)
5. Using five adjectives, describe your ideal life.
free, joyous, learning, living brightly
thanks to b. for this week's questions
Shame on me :) ... I mean... Get to know me better! Yeah! That's it!
1. Using one adjective, describe your current living space.
cluttered
2. Using two adjectives, describe your current employer.
sleepy redhead (see, it's funny 'cause I'm a stay-home mom)
3. Using three adjectives, describe your favorite hobby/pasttime.
tiny artistic creations
4. Using four adjectives, describe your typical day.
sunny, caffeinated, talkative (thank-you-Alexander-Graham-Bell)
5. Using five adjectives, describe your ideal life.
free, joyous, learning, living brightly
thanks to b. for this week's questions
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Psychic Chess
I used to play chess with my friends. We had 3 chess boards and 6 or 7 players. All of us were newbies to the world of magic, so chess wasn't just about moving pieces; it was about psyching your opponent too. "Pay no attention to the queen" was a common mantra. If you could read your opponents' mind, more power to you! If you could cause a chess piece to stand out and draw attention to itself, so that you could conduct a 3 move sneak-attack; no problem! It was, absolutely, no-holds-barred chess, and I miss it.
I used to play chess with my friends. We had 3 chess boards and 6 or 7 players. All of us were newbies to the world of magic, so chess wasn't just about moving pieces; it was about psyching your opponent too. "Pay no attention to the queen" was a common mantra. If you could read your opponents' mind, more power to you! If you could cause a chess piece to stand out and draw attention to itself, so that you could conduct a 3 move sneak-attack; no problem! It was, absolutely, no-holds-barred chess, and I miss it.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Hmm.
I lit a stick of incense in the basement and turned off the lights so it would be dark like on Halloween night. I stood about 18 inches away from the incense smoke and snapped a handful of pictures. Whatever I got a photo of, it ain't smoke. The incense smoke was grey, not blue-white like in the photo below, and the smoke lines were thin and clear, not blurry like the ghostie pic. They also appeared as clearly nothing but incense smoke. I'll keep trying to reproduce the effect, though. I'd like to believe I accidentally photographed something unique and special, but it really does look like smoke. :(
I lit a stick of incense in the basement and turned off the lights so it would be dark like on Halloween night. I stood about 18 inches away from the incense smoke and snapped a handful of pictures. Whatever I got a photo of, it ain't smoke. The incense smoke was grey, not blue-white like in the photo below, and the smoke lines were thin and clear, not blurry like the ghostie pic. They also appeared as clearly nothing but incense smoke. I'll keep trying to reproduce the effect, though. I'd like to believe I accidentally photographed something unique and special, but it really does look like smoke. :(
What is this?
This photo was taken on Halloween night with my digital camera, and other than shrinking it to half-size, it is untouched. I promise I didn't go into photoshop and draw a blurry wolf thing. I also promise I didn't add the weird smear thingies on the left hand side.
I think it looks like a running wolf. I can clearly see (imagine) his head, just above the girl with the red hair, and his tail hanging down over the baby. I was trying to get a shot of the cool yard display. It was a skeleton sticking out of the ground. Instead, I caught this. No one was smoking near me, so it isn't smoke. It was not foggy or even relatively humid, so it's not fog or mist. All the other night time pics are darker than this one, so the camera's flash bounced off of something. Does anyone know if ghosties are reflective? This is the first time I've caught more than orbs with a camera, and I think orbs are dust motes.
This photo was taken on Halloween night with my digital camera, and other than shrinking it to half-size, it is untouched. I promise I didn't go into photoshop and draw a blurry wolf thing. I also promise I didn't add the weird smear thingies on the left hand side.
I think it looks like a running wolf. I can clearly see (imagine) his head, just above the girl with the red hair, and his tail hanging down over the baby. I was trying to get a shot of the cool yard display. It was a skeleton sticking out of the ground. Instead, I caught this. No one was smoking near me, so it isn't smoke. It was not foggy or even relatively humid, so it's not fog or mist. All the other night time pics are darker than this one, so the camera's flash bounced off of something. Does anyone know if ghosties are reflective? This is the first time I've caught more than orbs with a camera, and I think orbs are dust motes.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Have I been living under a rock?
WTF is narcoterrorism?
The American Heritage® Dictionary defines it as "Terrorism carried out to prevent interference with or divert attention from illegal narcotics trafficking. "
By that definition, drive by shootings are narcoterrorism. (Not that I disagree. Drive by shootings ARE an act of terrorism, in my opinion. But why bother with the narco specification)
The same dictionary defines terrorism as "The unlawful use or threatened use of force or violence by a person or an organized group against people or property with the intention of intimidating or coercing."
I think that's pretty straightforward. Playground bullies engage in terrorism, as do drug dealers, militant groups, activist groups and entire governments. Why do we turn a blind eye to some of it, and bomb the snot out of people for other acts of terrorism? Why is it acceptable for a child to be abused at school (or home) by another child, yet unacceptable for a small group of people to blow up a bus? Why do we smile at Greenpeace, laugh at PETA, ignore the inner-city, and squash Afghanistan? Why do we need to add cute little prefixes to terrorism? If it's ecoterrorism, is it somehow more special than just regular terrorism?
WTF is narcoterrorism?
The American Heritage® Dictionary defines it as "Terrorism carried out to prevent interference with or divert attention from illegal narcotics trafficking. "
By that definition, drive by shootings are narcoterrorism. (Not that I disagree. Drive by shootings ARE an act of terrorism, in my opinion. But why bother with the narco specification)
The same dictionary defines terrorism as "The unlawful use or threatened use of force or violence by a person or an organized group against people or property with the intention of intimidating or coercing."
I think that's pretty straightforward. Playground bullies engage in terrorism, as do drug dealers, militant groups, activist groups and entire governments. Why do we turn a blind eye to some of it, and bomb the snot out of people for other acts of terrorism? Why is it acceptable for a child to be abused at school (or home) by another child, yet unacceptable for a small group of people to blow up a bus? Why do we smile at Greenpeace, laugh at PETA, ignore the inner-city, and squash Afghanistan? Why do we need to add cute little prefixes to terrorism? If it's ecoterrorism, is it somehow more special than just regular terrorism?
Monday, November 10, 2003
That's it! No more ice cream in the living room!
This ban is effective immediately!
I tried to take the cordless phone out of it's cradle this morning, and found it glued in place. SOMEONE (who isn't me) dribbled chocolate chip ice cream down the front of the phone, and it welled up in the cradle. My $85 phone does still work, but I'm going to have to clean the corrosion off of the terminals. Disgusting.
I know how it happened, too. I found an empty ice cream box sitting on the end table that holds the phone. I was balanced atop the phone and an empty pepsi bottle. grrrrr. I remember because at the time I'd said, "Are we out of ice cream?" Looking pointedly at my husband...
From his spot on the couch he replies, "Sorry."
I say, "that's ok," and take the leaking, messy box into the kitchen before saying, "No, I didn't want any. I wanted you to throw the box away instead of letting it sit out."
You see, we had just had a mis-communication. I thought he was apologizing for eating all the ice cream, he thought he was apologizing for eating all the ice cream, but when I said "it's ok" what I meant was, "I know you're sorry you ate it all, not sorry that you left a mess, and it is ok, and I love you."
The end result was that he felt guilty, I felt like walking away, and we both forgot that ice cream drips.
This ban is effective immediately!
I tried to take the cordless phone out of it's cradle this morning, and found it glued in place. SOMEONE (who isn't me) dribbled chocolate chip ice cream down the front of the phone, and it welled up in the cradle. My $85 phone does still work, but I'm going to have to clean the corrosion off of the terminals. Disgusting.
I know how it happened, too. I found an empty ice cream box sitting on the end table that holds the phone. I was balanced atop the phone and an empty pepsi bottle. grrrrr. I remember because at the time I'd said, "Are we out of ice cream?" Looking pointedly at my husband...
From his spot on the couch he replies, "Sorry."
I say, "that's ok," and take the leaking, messy box into the kitchen before saying, "No, I didn't want any. I wanted you to throw the box away instead of letting it sit out."
You see, we had just had a mis-communication. I thought he was apologizing for eating all the ice cream, he thought he was apologizing for eating all the ice cream, but when I said "it's ok" what I meant was, "I know you're sorry you ate it all, not sorry that you left a mess, and it is ok, and I love you."
The end result was that he felt guilty, I felt like walking away, and we both forgot that ice cream drips.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
