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 :)
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