Riddle Me This
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How is placing a portion of one's income tax into the stock market any different than a portion of our taxes subsidizing the stock market? How does this tactic not artificially bolster our American stocks?

So The Teenager
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Yesterday
The phone rang as L was getting ready for school. It was Amylinn, calling to see if I had plans for the day. She wanted to go window shopping and show off her new car.
"Woo Hoo!" I thought, "I get to see my friend!"
So we went shopping. Because, you know that window shopping always results in bringing home something. I brought home chocolate.

We went to Starbucks, and she bought me a toffee nut latte with organic milk. Yum. Then we drove all around the Arnold Mega Multi Strip Mall. Words cannot describe how disgustingly overbuilt this place was. They had like 12 anchor stores. Herds of SUV's roamed the asphalt prairie, while suburban mothers browsed one store or another.

The two of us decided to window shop in Gordmans. I had been there before, but all I could remember was that I liked the place.
Yeah, I still like Gordmans. Everything is affordable, and the patrons are quiet, the employees are unobtrusive -yet visible, in case you need help, and they carry everything you could ever want to decorate your home. They also sell clothes.
Needless to say, we spent hours browsing Gordmans. It was lots of fun.

After endless shopping, Amylinn drove me (and my chocolate) home. I turned right around and headed off to pick L up from school. When he came out, he looked kind of grumpy. He opened the door and dropped his backpack into the truck while saying, "You are so in trouble."
I looked at him and said, "Uh?" I was baffled.
He exclaimed, "I was sick today! They would have sent me home, except you didn't answer the phone! Not any of the FIVE times I called!"
And then he gave me the "I'm very disappointed in you" look.
It was really funny, but I'm a good mom, so I didn't laugh. Instead, I said, "Oh, honey. I was out all day. I wasn't home. ...Why didn't you call your dad's cell phone?"

He'd forgotten the number. And he was so full of angst, that it didn't occur to him to ask Mrs. W to look it up.

CSPAN
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I was watching C SPAN, because, you know, I'm a geek groupie or something. Anyway, I was watching a Democratic Representative give his lone voice of dissent on a bill that would clarify a law passed in 1991. Way back then, around the time my son was discovering his toes, Congress passed legislation that created research funding for advanced computers. Now they want to clarify where our tax dollars should go.
I have no problem with this, and neither does Mr. Lone Voice of Dissent. He just wanted to throw in a line asking researcher to think about how to deal with self-aware computers, before such self-awareness becomes reality.

He specifically referenced DARPA, and said they were working toward a computer that could think, learn, and reflect on it's self.
You can read about DARPA's mission here. I'm too lazy to troll all around their site. Their main mission statement doesn't say anything about making a self-aware computer.

But it got me thinking... We as people take our bodies for granted. We might think of ourselves as organic machines, but it rarely occurs to us to compare ourselves to computers. So think about this:

We are covered with data receptors, both inside and out. An unimagineable amount of data constantly pours into our brains. Stuff we never think about. Think about just your skin. Your skin alone feels the seat your sitting in, the air around you, every place where your body presses against itself, every drop of sweat, even the light sheen of oil on your nose. In addition, your skin is constantly testing the ambient moisture and temperature around you. And that's just the beginning.

Consider that you have multiple receptors sending this data, not just one. Each one sends data packets multiple times per second. And your brain deals with it all. It takes in all that data, makes decisions, gives orders; and once in a while it flags something for you to actually notice. That's when you decide to scratch an itch, or shift your position in the chair.
Amazing.

Sorting a genome seems simple by comparison.

The Handcuffed 5 Year Old
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When a child is refusing to behave -tearing pictures off the wall, throwing toys in the trash, standing on tables and desks, and taking swings at an assistant principal- What should you do?

What if the mother of this child left written instructions that her child was not to be touched; that the teachers were not allowed to lay a hand on her child... not even a restraining hug?

One school finally gave up and called the police.
When the police officers arrived, the girl calmed down; but the police handcuffed her anyway. Then they took her to a car and let her sit there until her mom came to get her.

The mom is taking it to court, which is the only reason we know about it.

And now for my opinion.
That mom needs to be smacked upside the head.

Ok, not really. But someone needs to sit her down and talk with her until she understands the extreme disservice she is giving her child. Children need to know the rules that govern our society. They need to learn how to behave at an early age, or else their adulthood will be an endless litany of failure.

You cannot stand on a table at work. You would lose your job. You must learn another way of getting your point across. If you go through life declaring yourself untouchable, a lot of people are going to touch you anyway.

Which brings to mind my son's second grade teacher. Early in the school year, her father passed away. Shortly after that, she started abusing the students. It started with yelling and singling out students for ridicule. This teacher and I butted heads at least twice a month. She would tell me some awful thing L did in school -like getting out of his desk and laying down on the floor- and I would ask her, "What is going on in the classroom? L doesn't do this at home, so there must be some underlying factor. Is he being picked on by another child?"
She always said the rest of the class was fine, it was only my child who was a problem. I might give that some credence (no matter how well behaved he is at home) except I'd hear her saying the same things to a different parent the next day. Blah, blah, blah, your child is broken.
Us parents would stand outside and chat before the bell rang, and would you believe that 90% of our kids were ADD? According to this teacher, they were!
At her insistance, we had our children tested. Lo and behold, the majority were totally normal children.

I believed that the way to deal with a grieving, bullying teacher, was through discussion. No matter how much I wanted to be a mamma bear and attack her, I knew I needed to stay calm. Getting angry would only make it worse for L at school.
But one day he came out of the building in tears. The kinds of tears that wrack your body, and make it hard to breathe. He had a nasty red mark on his throat, where his teacher had poked him. I lost my willingness to discuss his behaviour. I also lost my temper.

I laid it out on the table for her. Touching my son was unacceptable, because apparantly she couldn't control herself. She was letting a 7 year old frustrate her to the point where she had to strike out at him. She needed to get control of herself, not the other way around. And. If my son came out of her class with one more mark, I would not sue her. I would break her arms. And then I poked at her throat to show her that I meant it. I didn't touch her, I just came close.

Then I took L up to the principal and said much the same thing. I had tried to keep things pleasant. I had tried to give his teacher the leeway to teach as she needed to. And she crossed the line. Crossed it so far she was in another country.

L really suffered for my loss of temper. He spent just about every recess "standing on the fence". He was not allowed to play with the other students. The students were told not to talk to him.

So I had to intervene again. I cornered the teacher... (knowing how cornered animals behave, but it was the only way to talk to her anymore. She had taken to avoiding me.) So I approached her until she had nowhere to go, and I let her know that I had discussed this with a lawyer. (I hadn't.) And that I had a legal right to sit in on her classes. I told her that I didn't know how that might affect her class, and I didn't much care.

I never did sit in on a class. The other parents beat me to it. There were only 6 weeks of school left at that time, and there were more parents willing to sit in class than there were weeks left in the school year. So thanks to those wonderful mothers and fathers, my son got to spend his last weeks at that school playing at recess and actually learning something in class.

The next year we transferred to St. John the Baptist. I took L there after his first day at the bad school. When I found out that his 3rd grade teacher was the same monster who had "taught" him second grade.

St. John's was awesome. The admitted L that day. Didn't even wait for the paperwork to transfer before they stuck him in a class. And now he's graduating and going to one of the finest college prep high schools in Missouri. I'm very, very proud of him.

Extreme
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Once a week, I cry at the TV. Because I watch Extreme Makeover -Home Edition.
I've watched a whole bunch of very deserving families get the perfect shelter; and I usually wonder about how hard it would be to live in a grand building, when you used to live in crap.

This week's family... wow. They were living in a 2 bedroom shack. It was so run down, the demolition crew didn't bother with heavy equipment. The attached ropes to the place and pulled it down.

Wow.

The commercials are over, so I'm going to stop blogging and finish watching the show.

The Continuing Saga of Bread
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I made bread yesterday. Note that I made bread, rather than just trying to make bread.
I've always avoided adding milk. I think bread should be simple. But yesterday I thought I'd try adding some milk to the recipe. I made two loaves. One looked like a french bread baguette, the other was 4 ropes braided together.
I baked them at different temperatures, for different lengths of time, just to see what would happen. The braided bread had a thick, yummy crust. The french bread had a thinner, crispy crust. They both tasted like Wonder brand bread.
(bleah)

So there you have it. I made "perfect" bread, and it was bland. The hubby-man and son agreed that it was bland and uninteresting; as they gobbled it all up.

If you want to make your own bland, uninteresting white bread, you'll need:
1 package of dry active yeast that has a "best if used by" date of 2002
6 cups of all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons of butter
5 teaspoons of salt
2 tablespoons of sugar, plus another tablespoon of sugar
1 1/2 cups of milk
1/2 a cup of warm water

stir the ancient yeast and a tablespoon of sugar into the 1/2 cup of warm water. Let that sit while you put the milk, butter, salt and additional sugar in a saucepan. Heat it just enough to melt the butter.
While your wet ingredients are warming up, check your yeast. If there are tan bubbles sitting on top of the water/yeast/sugar mix, and if the bubbles are 2 inches (5 cm) high, then your yeast is usable. Yay!
When the butter is just barely melted, dump the wet ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Whisk it around to make sure the sugar and salt are dissolved, then start adding flour.
Put one cup of flour in the wet stuff, whisk it around, put in another cup and whisk that around too. You should have goop that looks like pancake mix. Add the yeast and water.
Listen intently as you whisk in the yeast/water mix. The little yeasties will be screaming, "Curse you Breadmaker! Curse you and your wire whisk of doom! Curse you for destroying our bubbly little houses!... Oh, wait... We can move into this nice flour instead... Nevermind."

Gradually stir in your last 4 cups of flour. You'll reach a point where it would be easier to stick your hands in there, rather than try and move a spoon or whisk around. So grab a cutting board, lightly flour it, and dump the flaky, sticky blob of dough onto the board. Knead thoroughly. Within about 5 minutes, the dough will stick to the ball instead of your fingers. Knead it some more, until it looks somewhat like a ball of dough.
Cut the ball of dough in half. Set one half aside and work on the other half. You can knead it a few more times for good measure, but this time you want to try and tuck all the ugly bits inside or underneath. When the top half of your dough ball is reasonably attractive, put it in a lightly greased container, grease the top of the ball, cover it with a warm, damp towel, and stash it in the oven.
Do the same thing with the other half of the dough.
Now find something to occupy your time for an hour or so.
Your yeasties will spend that time making babies and learning about urban sprawl. Little do they know, the apocalypse is looming...
After an hour or so, check on your bread. It should be twice as big as it was when you started. It's time to destroy civilization. (muahaha)
Punch down the dough. Literally. Drop your fist into the middle of your bread. I don't care for large air bubbles, so I also poke my fingers all around the edges of the bread.
Shape the bread however you want, place it on whatever you're going to bake it in, and cover it with a damp towel.
Again, find something to amuse yourself with for 45-90 minutes.
Before baking, beat one egg with a little water and brush it over the tops of your loaves. I have no idea what this does, but the recipe suggested it, so I tried it.

I baked the braided bread for 40 minutes at 375 degrees. It came out a little over done.
I baked the french bread at 425 for 20 minutes and it came out perfect.

I think my bland white bread will be perfect for cinnamon rolls. I might try that for my next bread-baking experiment.

Understanding The End Times Movement
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I didn't get it. I didn't get why there is such a hope for the end of the world. Then I stumbled across this short article, and I began to understand.

I'll gladly stay behind

By BRENDA PETERSON
GUEST COLUMNIST

A neighbor recently insisted I read the Left Behind series. "Especially now after 9/11," he said, "and the blessed countdown for the Rapture has begun."

"Why are you so ... well, cheerful, about the end of the Earth?" I asked him.

He gazed at me with the true alarm of deep pity. "I'm afraid you'll have a rough time of it here during the Tribulations -- plagues of locusts, frogs, viruses ... the Earth attacked by tsunamis, volcanoes, dark legions of the unsaved."

"Don't you love any of us you believe will suffer so?" I said.

This gave my neighbor a moment's pause. But then he admitted with some chagrin. "You can't blame us born-agains for at last getting our heavenly rewards. We've waited thousands of years for End Times."

There's more, of course. Including this line; the one that brought me understanding:

In complex and challenging times, apocalypse is such a simple answer. This fight-or-flight fear is hardwired into our reptilian, forest-slashing, migrating, pioneering species -- leave the Old World behind, find a New World.

It's not just the belief of fundamentalist Christians, either. Countless new-age groups believe they will soon ascend to a higher state of being, leaving behind this sorry material planet.

I wonder if there is bird song in heaven? Are there summer breezes and autumn leaves? What about snow? I wouldn't want an eternity without snowflakes. And people! Wow, people... I know a lot of you out there think humanity sucks, but I disagree. If you were given a higher state of being, through Rapture or alien intervention, or what have you; you would leave behind more than this blue and green planet. You would leave behind laughter, and that wonderful feeling when someone snuggles you. You would leave behind the simple day-to-day joys of this existance.

So I ask you, those of you who believe the end is near... What are your goals? What is it you hope for that makes it worth leaving everything you've been given?

!

There's a wonderful thunderstorm brewing outside. I was walking through the house closing windows, when I heard the tiniest little knock on my front door. I went to the door, peeked through the eye hole thingie, and saw a girl! A girl wearing a SJB uniform! A red headed girl, even!

Let me say that again...

!

She had brought a friend. So there were 2 girls on my doorstep, looking for my son.

I have carpet burn on my chin from how hard my jaw hit the floor.

I was suddenly embarrassed that I was wearing size 16 sweatpants and an ancient tie dye t-shirt. I was also barefoot, and hadn't put on deodorant (because I was planning on shaving my pits, if you must know...)

Fortunately, they were interested in my son, and didn't spare me a second glance.

So There's A New Pope
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When a man becomes the Pope, he chooses a new name. Sometimes he will pick a name with political significance. More often, he will choose the name of a person or saint he admires. Cardinal Ratzinger chose Benedict. Here's some tidbits about Saint Benedict:

Benedict means blessed.
He was one of the earlier saints (c. 480-547 AD) and his life is the stuff of legends.
Supposedly he was of noble birth. He had a twin sister who became a nun. Their mother died in childbirth. He studied in Rome, but ran away to live in a cave when he saw how undisciplined the other students were. He was fed by a raven for the three years he lived as a hermit. He left the cave to lead an abbey, at their request. While there, the other monks came to despise his discipline; so they tried to poison his drink. He blessed the cup, which rendered the poison harmless. He left the abbey and went back to his cave, but people wouldn't leave him alone. He had attracted a following. So he started a monastery, which eventually became 12 monasteries. His sister (Saint Scholastica) once summoned a raging thunderstorm, in order to keep him from going home. Three days later, he saw a dove fly out of her nunnery window, and he knew she was dead.
Legends say that Saint Benedict could read consciences, make prophecies, and forestall attacks of the devil. He was known for driving demons from sacred Pagan groves, and he liked to destroy their icons and altars.

Symbols that are used in conjunction with St. Benedict include a bell, a broken cup (with or without a serpent), a crozier, a rod of discipline, and the raven.

He is the patron saint of farmers, coppersmiths, monks, speliologists (cave explorers), schoolchildren, dying people, and servants who have broken their master's belongings. You should pray to him if you're having a problem with any of the following: nettle rash, poison, witchcraft, fever, gall stones, inflammatory diseases, kidney disease, or temptations.

Needless to say, I hope the new Pope chose his name for some reason other than a desire to be like St. Benedict.

A pagan eye for Confirmation part two is below A pagan eye for confirmation. I hate reading the end of a story before the beginning, so I put them in order.