In the interest of posterity

I was re-reading the "so much to say, so little space!" entry, and realized my family history isn't yet recorded here. Thus, in the interest of posterity (if not in the interest of my readers); here is a bit of family history.

Great Grandma Laura went to the 1904 World's Fair with her friend, and was miffed that her mother would not let her see the Hoochie-Coochie girls dance. Her mom said she was too young. (note: call mom and get birthdate info) She was around 10-12 years old, and I suppose in 1904 that was indeed too young to see real live belly dancers, with real bare bellies. I don't know if great grandma resisted the mores of society before the Fair, but photographic evidence says she certainly resisted it afterward. We have a photo of her wearing trousers, for gosh sakes! And yes, Laura was a suffragette. She made signs and protested and passed out petitions, and St. Louis City took very little notice of the whole thing.
Great Aunt Mary learned to play the saxophone, and she and her friends started a band. They wore skimpy clothes and sang dirty songs in smoke filled bars. They were "The M&M Girls", they were lesbians, and they made no secret of it. Mom took me to see Great Aunt Mary play once. We rode a bus to the downtown bar where they were playing, and I got to hear their "dirty" songs. Mom sang along with them. Her favorite song was the "oh I wish I was..." song (as mom called it)

It went like this:
Oh, I wish I was a little bitty girl, and I had a whole lot of money
Then I would marry a carpenter, 'cause he's as good as any.
And he could nail, and I could nail, and we could nail together
and wouldn't we have one hell of a time
a nailing one another....

The verses were endless. The crowd could shout out an occupation, and the M&M Girls would come up with a suitable phrase. Each of the 3 girls had a verse that they sang all alone. Great Aunt Mary sang the verse about marrying a saxophone player (of course) ...and he could blow, and I could blow, and we could blow together... The piano player (play together), and the crowd favorite -the drummer "...and wouldn't we have one hell of a time a bangin' one another"

Grandma was pretty tame, compared to the rest of the family. All she did was get married and have a baby "early". And then she had 7 more. Of course, nobody had pre-marital relations in 1945. So I won't even hint at that being the reason my mother was born 2 months early, but was still almost 7 lbs. at birth.
The Sicilian immigrant with whom grandma was doing nothing improper at all, asked for her hand in marriage. He was a tailor. He made suits for a specific group of Sicilian men, but we don't talk about that. "Mafia" is never, ever mentioned at family gatherings.

Mom followed the long-standing tradition of proving your fertility before saying your marriage vows, but her guy did not offer to marry her. So Grandpa threw her out of the house. She spent the last two months of her pregnancy in a home for unwed mothers. Grandpa would not speak to her, and forbade the rest of the family to talk about her in his presence. He forgave her when Grandma forced him to go see his granddaughter, (my sister) who Mom had named Josephine. How could he refuse his first grandchild, especially when she was named after him?

So, when you put it all in perspective; me giving up a child or two for adoption is nothing special. You could say I'm just keeping the family tradition of being unique. Someday I'll write about all my Aunts and Uncles. I'm proud of them. They are each their own person, in unique and fascinating ways.

So Much to Say, So Little Space!

I started off all ready to rant about the pro-choice rally in DC, but then I read my blogroll. So, in no particular order, here are the things that are crowding my mind. Someday, my grandchildren (If I'm gifted with any) will read this and perhaps know me a little better. What I wouldn't give to have my grandmother's diary. (sigh) ok, on with the randomness:

(1) This morning, I turned on FreeSpeech TV just in time to see Whoopi Goldberg lift a wire coathanger and say, "Remember this? Do you remember the purpose of this? ... Never again!" L was late for school because I wanted to watch as she forgot her prepared speech and shook that hanger, chanting, "Never again! Never again!"
I thought of my great-grandmother (as I often do, these days. Thank you President Bush for being such a bad president, that you've given me the space to remember everything my ancestors fought for.) My great-grandmother who really was a suffragette; who risked her dignity, and possibly her marriage, to buy me the right to vote. I thought of my great-aunt; who, back in the 1920's, took the "shame" of being a lesbian -and turned it into a career. I thought of my mother, who gave birth to my sister in a Salvation Army shelter; because her out-of-wedlock pregnancy "shamed" her father.
And I realized something. It's not about pregnancy, it's about empowerment. Without rights, there is no recognition. Without recognition, there is no power. And without power, there is no freedom. Women are not chattel, and should never be treated as such. There is a much deeper picture here.

(2) Having "overweight" friends has really helped me sort out my own body issues. I'll never be a size 8 again. It's unlikely I'll get down to a 10. And you know what? I'm fine with that. I'll always have stretch marks, and wrinkles. Menopause lurks in the shadows, threatening my very definition of myself. What's a little weight? Nothing.

(3) There really is nothing like playing mini-golf in the rain. You should try it sometime.

(4) Scary thought from Marian: The vote for the President of the United States is only 5 months away. Stand up, shout out, VOTE, boot bush!

Mr. T has Tall Teeth

What's that? You don't remember The Letter People? Ok, then. I'll write about something else instead.

I have very good teeth. I still have my wisdom teeth, too. Way back when they came in, a dentist wanted to pull them. I asked, "Is there room in my mouth for them?" He said, "Yes, but they're hard to brush; you'll get cavities, they'll get rotten, and then you'll have to have them pulled. So why don't we just pull them now?"
I asked, "What makes you think I'll get cavities? I don't have any now. Why should these teeth be any different?"
He shook his head, and I left the office with my brand new wisdom teeth intact. I don't do unnecessary procedures. :p
Anyway, a year or so down the road, I got pregnant. When I went to Massachusetts to give my son up for adoption, I drank filtered water. Their water quality is so poor, you can't drink tap water there. The combination of unfloridated water and pregnancy took it's toll (I guess); because when I came back to St. Louis, I had tooth pain. I went to a dentist who said I had cavities in my top wisdom teeth. (damn, and double damn) So I got my first and last set of fillings. That was almost 15 years ago. The web says most amalgam fillings last between 5 and 10 years. I guess I'm doing well!
Yesterday, I bit down on a popcorn kernel and a filling popped out. It was really creepy. I was afraid it was a piece of my wisdom tooth, (having no idea what a filling actually looks like). I was afraid my wisdom teeth were falling apart or something. I called my mom and told her what happened, and she said, "It's just your filling."
So now I get to go to the dentist, and have him tsk tsk over my brushing habits. (sigh) I need to decide whether to have it refilled, or yanked. I have a lot of confidence in my dentist. We talked about possibly pulling my wisdom teeth the last time I saw him. He said, "You're 34? You've had those teeth a long time. I think they should stay where they are, unless there's some need to pull them." Good man!

...so I told her she was stupid.

I have this friend. She's really smart, and sometimes she's really dumb. It took me 2 months to convince her that Bush is bad, and her vote does count. I want to reiterate... she's very smart. But sometimes she says things that make me wonder why I ever talk to her. Of course, there are lots of reasons why I talk to her; and this story is not about one of those reasons.

We were chatting on the phone about things we don't understand. Neither of us understand serial killers, for instance. We could read about the motivations of a rapist until we're blue in the face, and still never understand them... and don't even get me started on ped0philes. Here's where I throw in odd spellings, in an attempt to foil sick google searches. Bear with me, ok?

So we were talking about this and that, and she said, "Well, it's like those pri3sts. They (expletive) those kids because they're g@y."
I was aghast. I couldn't believe those words came out of the mouth of someone I willingly talk to.
After a moment of stunned silence, I decided to tackle that statement head on. I said, "Homosexuality has nothing to do with ped0phelia."
And we began to argue. She tried saying the same shit in a different way. I wasn't having any of it. Sorry, bubby... there's no connection. I know of which I speak. There are things in my past that I don't blog about because my family would be mortified. I respect their discomfort, although I think it's kind of funny that half of St. Louis knows; but heaven forbid I should publicize it on a blog that gets a few dozen hits per day.
Anyway, back to the argument. Her stance was that the Church told g@y men that they were wrong, but they could be fixed by becoming a pri3st. Then the Church taught them how to act on their desires with children, because it's easier to keep them quiet.
My stance is that the Church did tell young g@y men that the pri3sthood might be their calling, and that G0d would help them resist 'temptation', but sexuality has nothing to do with insanity. Also; the whole nonsense about kids keeping secrets better than adults is just that. Nonsense.
I know she knows g@y people. She must, because we know the same people! How can she be unaware of how close-mouthed they can be? How protective they are of each other's privacy? How understanding of persecution?
She didn't get it. She also didn't want to hear about the pri3sts who attended to the "spiritual needs" of the single mothers in my neighborhood. She insisted it was all about the g@y. So I yelled at her. I told her she was being stupid, parroting the stupidity of others. I declared that she was smarter than that, and I was offended by her stupidity.
I tried instead to discuss the problem with the culture of the pri3sthood. "Perhaps it is a cultural issue," I suggested?
But no matter what, the argument returned; in all it's radiant ugliness; to the statement she'd first made.
In the end, we agreed to disagree; but (clearly) it still bothers me. I won't throw away our friendship over it, and I'll never be ok with it. I won't just accept her blind bigotry. I can't!
Which leaves me between a rock and a very hard place. I know I'm going to bring it up again. And again, and again, until I get her to see the light. I also know that's not how you behave in a friendship. Therefore, I must not be her friend right now. I'm just an annoying pit bull who has locked her jaws on a comment she can't let go of.
Hmmm. I wonder if she wonders why she ever talks to me?

The Thing About Hoosiers

I've taught my son a bad word, and I'm not proud of it. It worked it's way in when I wasn't looking. It never even occurred to me, because it's such a common term in St. Louis.
The word is "Hoosier", and it doesn't mean "A graduate from the Universtity of Indiana". At least not in St. Louis, it doesn't. All my life, I've heard this word used daily. I never thought twice about it. Hell, I never thought once about it; until I met someone who was born and raised in Indiana. I was chatting with this person, when a car full of young adults came down the street. The radio was blaring Black Sabbath or some such, every person in the car was smoking, and the vehicle was more rust than steel. I muttered the phrase I'd heard my entire life, "Goddam hoosiers."
My friend from Indiana lifted his eyebrows and said, "...Um... I'm a Hoosier."
I said, "No you're not! You have a college degree. You have a good job. You own your own home, for god's sake. You are not a hoosier."
This led to an edifying conversation. I learned that, outside of St. Louis, "Hoosier" is something to be proud of. My friend learned that, within St. Louis, "hoosier" meant "lowlife caucasion scum with no ambition". Yes, St. Louisans have a different phrase for non-caucasions living below the poverty level. I won't go into them here. They are all derogatory. And that's entirely my point. My mother taught me to judge a person by their actions, not their income or skin color. But when she was teaching me that, she meant that I should not judge anyone but hoosiers. Anyone with a clear ethnic background was potentially a human being, but when you see someone with pale skin and an indeterminate ethnicity -the judgement is on.
It's what I was taught. It's ingrained in me, and I'm not proud of it. I resist it. And every time I think I've got it conquered, every time I cease my vigilance; my bigotry sneaks in the back door.
Over the years, it's snuck in often enough, that my son has a clear definition of the word "hoosier", and it's not pretty. To be fair, the only time I've heard him say "hoosier" is when talking to grown-ups. So I hope his definition is not as restrictive as mine. But it galls me that I've been oblivious to my bias for so long.
Even my friend from Indiana uses "hoosier" now. I asked him why, once; and he responded, "When you don't say hoosier, people see you as an outsider. It's clear you're not from St. Louis. When I say it, I'm accepted."
He now says it as casually as the rest of us do.

Goddam hoosiers.

Not A Bush Rant

Searching L's room for gym clothes to wash, I came across the most expensive of the 3 X-Men compilation comics that we own. Perhaps I should say I came across the cover of this $25 book.
Look, I'm a dragon at heart. I don't hoard gold or princesses. I hoard books. It's my treasure. I read and re-read them until they're worn out; and then I put them on a shelf and buy a replacement copy, which I read until it is worn out. I've got books that I've re-glued because the bindings were falling apart, books with half the cover torn off, books that fell into the bathtub and books in pristine condition, waiting to be cracked open for the first time. (because I haven't quite worn out the original)
Books get ruined. It's a fact of life. A well loved book should be frayed at the edges, it's pages yellowed with time, creased at the bindings, and heavy with memories. Can you pull a book off the shelf and remember the first time you read it? I can. That's why it's treasure.
Anyway, I bought the X-Men books for L and introduced him to the wonderful world of superheroes that are fallible. The books, all 3 of them, live on his bed like stuffed animals might live on another child's bed. Clearly, he loves the stories.
But something had to be said about that empty cover.
So I said stuff.
The funny thing was, I wasn't mad. I should have been mad, or at least sad. But 'mommy mode' kicked in before my temper took control. I called his attention to the empty cover in my hand and said, "These books mean something to me. Don't they mean something to you?"
Now I was handling the situation, I really was. There was no need for the Hubby Man to step in, but he didn't know that. He heard my aggrieved tone, and did not see the grief etched on our son's face. He did not see that I was in the process of giving my son a lesson he should have learned a long time ago, but somehow missed out on. He didn't see that I wasn't really upset, but that I had to pretend to be in order to drive the lesson home. And he didn't see that I was succeeding. So, from his spot on the sofa he declares, "No more books in bed."

Oh, the horror! Not reading in bed?!? Without reading in bed, what else is there in life?
I carefully said, "You mean no sleeping with books, right? Not that he can't read in bed, but that he has to put them up when he goes to sleep? Right? Because you wouldn't tell your son that he can't read before bedtime..."
This was accompanied by much wiggling of eyebrows and expressions of surprise; with me praying he'd get the hint. L was so slow to take to reading; please don't take it away from him. hint hint hint.
My hubby is a good man, and he got it right away.
"Right. No more sleeping with books. You can clear a place on your dresser for them." He said.

They're here!

The boys are playing Army Men. The younger girl is playing The Sims Unleashed on L's computer, and the eldest is playing Baldur's Gate 2 on the PS2 in the basement. Yes, every room that isn't already a mess will be by 6:00 tonight.
We will be eating carmelized garlic chicken, homemade mashed potatoes, and broccoli with cheese sauce.
Would anyone like to help me clear of the dining table?
Please?


I'll pay you... (charming smile)?

Ok, now for the fun part. We arrived at the school early, surprising the heck out of the eldest; who thought she would have to walk the twins home, and meet me there. Ha! I hung out with eldest and her friend, whilst L hid from them. I made the mistake of saying, "He just doesn't want to be told how cute he is... at 13, it's gotten a little old." So, of course, eldest's friend had to go look him in the face. L wrinkled up his nose, bared his teeth and made saliva foam. (sigh) He just doesn't know how to deal with them yet. That will come with time and hormones. Better to let him enjoy what childhood he has left.

When the twins got out of school, we all crammed in the new truck and I drove to QT to buy drinks. Drinks which were promptly opened. First Born Twin starts burping. "Braaaap. Excuse me, I'm sorry."
"That's ok." I reply, trying not to laugh.
FBT:"Braaap. Pardon me, I'm sorry."
Me:(internal laughter) "Burps happen."
FBT: "Braap-aap. Excuse me!"
Me: (suddenly realizing what soda could do to a brand new truck interior) "You guys aren't going to spill any soda in my brand new truck, right?"
All of them, almost in unison: "No way! We are being very careful, and keeping our sodas very tightly capped!"
.
.
.
"Braaap. Excuse me."


What great kids!

You Call This A Break?!?

In case you weren't paying attention, L attends a Catholic school. This is all well and good until spring break time rolls around. You see, public schools have their spring break at the same time every year. Someone works out the number of school days in a semester, and plants spring break in the mathematical center of the second half of the school year.

Catholics take the easier route. They just give the kids a block of free time on both sides of Easter. This really sucks for my son, because all his friends attend public school. To make matters worse, half his friends go to school in the county, and half attend school in the city. One of those two had a teacher's strike, and started school late; so their spring break was late as a result. Thus my son missed out on vacationing with his county friends, and missed out a second time with his city friends. Now he's on Easter break and has no one to play with, and I have a 9-5 job. From 9 in the morning 'til 5 at night, I get to entertain a bored and frustrated 13 year old. (Don't get me wrong, I love my job... it's just that I'm not his ideal playmate)
He wants to run around outside and roll down the hill. He wants to play every video game ever created -except the ones he owns, of course. But there's no one to roll with, and no one to borrow games from. They're all busting their butts trying to get decent grades in the last quarter, so their parents won't ground them for the whole summer.

You know how it goes. Parents dangle rewards before their children's eyes. Rewards the kids will only get if their grades improve. The promise of a swimming pool, or a season's pass to Six Flags can make for some pretty hard working children. Suddenly, studying has merit.

Tomorrow is the last day of L's (incarceration) vacation, and it's definitely ending on a bright note. Persephone's kids are coming over to play! Woot!
I wonder if I'll need to help them with their homework.

Sometimes The Drama Doesn't Come To The Party

I expected we would sit down and discuss the Grandma situation while 30 children scrambled around looking for eggs. I expected at least one child would get a finger smashed in a door. I expected tears and arguments. After all, isn't that what family gatherings are for?

My expectations were not lived up to. Instead, a few people looked at the new truck; grandma stayed home; and I shared comfrey with anybody I could pin down. It was actually fun.

Doris Haddock aka Granny D

On January 1st, 1999, an 89 year old woman began walking. From Pasadena, California, she walked 10 miles per day for 14 months, arriving in Washington, D.C. on Feb. 29, 2000. She was hospitalized once, in Arizona, with dehydration and pneumonia. She walked 3,200 miles.
Why? To demonstrate her concern for the issue of campaign reform.
She didn't stop there, and I don't see her stopping any time soon.
You can read the story here.
When you're done you can visit the Granny D website. You can read her weblog. And you can participate.
There's a need for artists to design "vote for me" bracelets. This idea is so brilliant, it's blinding. The bracelets say "Vote For Me" and have a picture of a civil rights leader who has passed away. They are given to newly registered voters as a reminder to vote, along with a bio of that leader.
So many people in this country register, but never vote. If you can't get out and vote for yourself, good Lord -vote for them. Vote because you can. It doesn't matter who you vote for; as much as it matters that you VOTE.
The feeling of empowerment is astounding. If a 93 year old woman can spend the (probably) last years of her life touring the country and registering voters, can't you show up and pick a name once every 4 years? Is that really too much to ask?

The Presidential Visit

The man who thinks he's the second coming showed up yesterday to throw out the first ball on the Cardinals' opening day. This resulted in a little bit of chaos. While some people were excited about his visit, others were not so pleased. Excerpts from the above linked article:
"The home opener is always a big deal in St. Louis, a rite of spring and proof of the enduring passion for Cardinals baseball. The talk in and around Busch was about pride or irritation over the president's visit - and of the unmixed joy of having baseball back in town"
"Waits of 90 minutes were common, and a few fans said they were in line even longer.
"[name] said he won't vote for Bush but didn't mind the long wait, adding, "The lines on bobblehead days are awful, too."

"[name], who wears a leg brace because of polio. ...usually gets to ride the stadium elevator, but the Secret Service made it off-limits. [She] had to walk slowly up the ramps to reach their upper deck seats."
""He's messed up a perfectly good day," said [name] of St. Louis. "Half of the festivities are shut down so we can get into the stadium early."
"I'm here in spite of him because I'm a baseball fanatic," said [name] "I resent that he turned opening day into a campaign thing. Baseball is a religion in this town, and this is one time when you shouldn't mix religion with politics."
The Republicans had a voter registration van on Walnut Street, and members of a local group that supports the likely Democratic nominee, Sen. John Kerry, held signs at Kiener Plaza and tried to sign up volunteers.
[name], who heads the local Instead of War Coalition, was arrested about 1 p.m. for refusing to leave the Newstead Avenue overpass at Highway 40. The president's motorcade used Highway 40 to get downtown from Lambert Field.
Vendors weren't allowed to sell baseballs until after the President had left. It's a shame, too. I would have paid $12 for a baseball to chuck at the shrub. It would have been worth every penny. And the media would have loved it too!
Parking prices were as high as $25 for opening day. Bear in mind, you can usually park for $2 -$5, or $8 for parking within a block of the stadium.
Also, a light helicopter was forced to land when the pilot tried to fly his family from St. Charles to Spanish Lake. For those of you who don't know the metro area, let me elucidate. St. Charles is way up north of St. Louis. Spanish Lake is way west. But apparently, the flight plan brought them within 10 miles of the Prez. A pair of f-15 fighters circled the helicopter until it landed.
The news is putting an interesting spin on the guy with the shotgun, too.

What really happened was the guy couldn't use the overpass, because it was blocked off during the presidential visit. The police escorted him back to his house. When they didn't leave right away, he came out on his porch with a shotgun. Realizing that this was downright stupid, he put the gun away and let the police arrest him with no trouble.

The April Fools Joke

A few years ago, on April Fools Day, the Hubby-Man taped the handle of the sink sprayer, so that when I turned on the water it would spray me. This is one of the oldest tricks in the book, and he got me good.
The problem is, I forget that the first day of April is prank day. I don't do practical jokes. (Because I'm no good at thinking up good ones. I know it.) So I'm a very poor sport about it. Especially when the joke involves a face full of water. I declared the house an April-Fools-Free-Zone, after rejecting a half dozen revenge pranks as too vicious.
I mean the worst I've ever done is stick a "load" into a cigarette to make it explode. I'm no good at this joke thing.
Faking a heart attack would be cruel, as would sneaking outside late at night and letting half the air out of hubby's tires. I can't think of a prank that isn't just plain mean. And I don't want to be mean to my hubby, there's no humor in that.

I've plotted revenge year after year, and I just don't have the heart to go through with it...


So this year, I got help.

Yesterday, muahaha, I was over at Persephone's house. muahaha. With the brand new truck. muahaha. She called him. muahaha. And told him he needed to come over and get me, because I was a wreck. muahaha. Because some teenager came down the street too fast and knocked the mirror off the truck!

I was listening on the other line, and waited for his strangled exclamation of "Gaaaah!" before I said, "April Fools!"

Y'know what? It wasn't very funny.

How We Did It

I picked L up from school, and we drove to the Lou Fusz dealership at Manchester and Lindbergh. We were supposed to meet the Hubby-Man there. We arrived, but the Hubby-Man was nowhere in sight. It seemed a useless excercise to look for his car. After all, his 8 month old Toyota Matrix wouldn't stand out at all on a lot full of Toyotas. So we headed inside. We passed a saleswoman, who declared, "Hi!" as she put license plates on a newly sold car. I mentally marked her, so I could find her later. I knew we were actually buying, and I wanted this friendly woman to get the sale.
Inside the dealership, and a variety of salesmen perked up; but none dared approach me. I laughed inside at what they must be thinking... "A woman and a child... are they buying or just looking?" " Does she have money?" I had dressed specifically for the occasion. (my friends are laughing as they read this, I know) Instead of my usual sweats or yoga pants with an oversized t-shirt, I was in jeans and a silk t-shirt. I had straightened my hair. I wore make up. And, as always, I walked upright and with confidence.
Not one salesman approached. Fine. The friendly saleswoman gets my business. :p

Except the Hubby-Man was nowhere to be seen. That could only mean one thing. He was out on a test drive. Without me.
He got here first, found a salesperson, picked a truck and was probably halfway to buying it. Without me.
I was miffed. I wanted to do all that stuff.When he climbed out of the truck, I went up to him and started whopping him on the arm. Totally playful, of course. I doubt he even felt them through his leather jacket.

We debated getting the 4WD that he'd just driven, vs getting a 2 wheel drive with a double cab. Those bonus doors would come in handy, and the colors were better. It might be worth it to give up 4WD, just to have the extra cab space.
The gas mileage was the deciding factor. I begrudge every MPG. We couldn't wait 6 years for Toyota's promised hybrid truck, and a truck is what we need. But Gods, do I resent the gas use. How can I bitch at SUV drivers, when a truck is almost as wasteful?

I test drove the 4WD, and got maybe 600 yards before I'd made up my mind. It drives so beautifully! We bought a gold Tacoma with an extended cab and 4 wheel drive. Other nice features include tilt-steering, power windows and mirrors, cruise control, 6 speaker surround sound, cd player, alarm system, and truly adjustable seatbelts. No seatbelt scraping my neck, thanks!