I Need More Cowbell *

She Lives!

2010-08-13T22:05:00.001-07:00

Not to be confused with the religious hymn, similarly titled.

I've been missing out on all of your lives ... unless you're on Facebook, or dabble in Gmail video. You know who you are. And you've been missing out on me bitching about the requisite lack of sunshine, the infamous This Old Motherfucking House, and other adventures in the land of rain.

I ask you simply this: is it so wrong to consider up and leaving TOMH and moving to Costa Rica? For reals, people. Also, it appears that your favorite bitchin' blogger (yes, both meanings intended) may be, finally, working on her love life. But it's complicated.

Also, I've lost 37 pounds, can run almost 3 miles, and will be happy as hell in about 20 more pounds. Although the aforementioned love interest says, stop now. Seriously, cariño ... stop now. Gotta love THAT, eh ladies? Yes, it seems that military training has kicked in, overpowered that Seattle slump that was clinging to my ass like a Puget Sound barnacle, and I'm currently kicking my own ass all the way to finish line.

Hoooah, bitches.

I leave you with these thoughts, for now I must make the rounds and catch up on your lives. I have missed you, contrary to my apparent slackassedness and lack of interest, and will return shortly.

Where's My Fatted Calf?

2010-03-21T12:30:00.000-07:00

And lo, the Prodigal Blogger hath returneth. Actually, you can scratch that fatted calf deal, given my vegetarian status. After a record hiatus, I figured I at least owed you a catchy title.

And by record hiatus, I mean I haven't hollered at you all since Santa swept down my chimney. In my defense, it's been hard for me to tell the difference, given that my Christmas decorations are still up. Don't judge me. It's been that kind of a year. After a while, I quit seeing it, to tell the truth. Every once in a while, I'd be sitting here doing homework, and suddenly realize that a troop of nutcrackers was staring down at me from over the stockings. Like a festive line of Chuckies illuminated by Christmas lights, which, by the way, are still going strong, and do give a nice ambiance, if I'm honest about it.

Yes, by record hiatus, I mean it's been about 3 months. Exactly the length of, oh ... say, winter quarter at one's local community college. This non-traditional student gig sucks ass, people. Especially when you're doing it at your place of employment. Yeah, the instructors also being your colleagues ... just a little added fun.

I don't know why I thought taking a full load this quarter, on top of working full time, This Old Motherfucking House, the Offspring, and the four-legged beasts was a good idea, but I did. Even then, it would've been okay had one class not turned out to have a two-legged beast of a brutal-grading instructor. Do NOT let anyone tell you that Graphic Design is a fluff class, or "just an art class", people. This was the most time consuming, stressful class I have ever taken. And that includes organic chemistry, as well as advanced anatomy and physiology. Yes, worse than cadavers staring up at you while you examine their muscle fiber. Graphic Design was no joke, people. I wanted to pop my instructor over the head with my final portfolio by the time it was done. If I even think about taking GD II, somebody slap the shit out of me. Hard.

Anyway, I knocked that out, along with Networking (computers, not people), and Spanish III. This quarter, there isn't much available for me to take, so I'll work on finally getting all my other credits pulled in from overseas and other places, which will move me closer to the 4yr, which, happily, is a branch located right on our fair campus. Thankgawd. I don't need a commute on top of this shit.

It sure would be great if experience and accomplishments counted for as much that goddamned piece of paper officially certifying you as educated, but whatever.

Side note: Dear Mom and Daddy, you were right. I should've finished school when I had no other responsibilities. You were also right about that: I had no responsibilities then. Also, you were right when you said that if I got married young, chances are I would not finish school. You were also right about that whole getting married young thing, just as a bad fucking idea in general. As well, you were right when you said I should have my own money and make an emergency fund for myself, if I was going to insist on getting married young. You were also right about my pride being my downfall with that whole, "I don't need your goddamned alimony! Just take care of your children!" thing. It is true that going to school later in life is fucking hard, and worse when sitting in a classroom of bored 19-yr olds who think their lives are hard, while staring at an instructor who is also your colleague, and who is secretly wondering what the fuck you're doing there. It makes me feel even older than I am, which is quickly becoming "pretty fucking old". So basically, you were right. Even though you're now crazyass teabagger right-wingers, you were right about school. If I could go back in time and kick my own ass, I would. I'm surprised you didn't.

OK so, in other news, I will also be spending this next quarter researching the ins and outs of foreclosure. Yes, you heard me right. That whole, "You can never go wrong buying property" thing? Bullshit. Worst decision of my life. I haven't decided for sure yet, but the more I research it and run the numbers, the more I'm having to face the fact that there doesn't look to be another solution. My credit score was almost 800 when I bought this bitch. That's about to change. Anyway. That's all I have to say about that.

Male Offspring switched to the Running Start program, which is where high school students can take college classes for joint high school/college credit. This means he is also attending classes at my place of employment. Of course, I don't see him in any of my classes, him being in the engineering track. He's about to take the 3rd level of chemistry, and has moved past pre-calc to straight up college calculus. I'm still contemplating that "Math Anxiety" course. On the bright side, he's a reasonably good shot at financing my beach house when I'm old and infirm. He's also discovered swing dancing. Pretty cool. He actually dons suit and tie, and goes with his friends down to a ballroom in Seattle for swing and salsa. He helped start a swing dance student club, and even started taking classes at a local ballet company and is taking a swing class on campus. They love having a wrestler-slash-football-player who can actually lift the girls and do the steps! So if the engineering gig doesn't make the boy rich, there's always Dancing With the Stars.

Oh, also, all that community work I've been doing the last few years? The son is about to take on the school board with his own cause. Next Tuesday he will speak at the board meeting with other students from the gay-straight alliance, asking the board to allow high schoolers to talk to the middle schoolers about the National Day of Silence, and for staff/administration to support student participation. They made a video they want to show to the middle schoolers, but the m.s. principals are not all down with that. Feels pretty damn good to just attend the meeting, and not have to do a thing but watch certain principals and administrators squirm.

Teen Demon (who is now 2yrs past teenhood) is back in school, has transferred out to a university in central WA, and is doing well. For those who didn't know, she was in a horrible accident at the end of summer, in which she made it out, but lost her best friend. I don't have any words to describe that tragedy, and the effect that it has had on TD and her friend's family. I don't even want to try, here. I just want to let you all know she's back in school and seems to be healing, as well as can be expected. She likes her classes, she's been getting outside in the sunshine, and got a job working with young children in an after-school program. That ties in with her major (education) and she's making a difference with the kids -- they are mostly Latino kids, and she was warned that the kids were "hard to handle" and that she'd need to "take a firm hand" to get them to "behave". TD is having none of that, says the kids are great and just want someone to actually give a shit and be a mentor. Plus, Spanish is her minor, so she does well with the communication. Super proud of her. I don't know how I'd do, going through what she went through. She is something. Tomorrow is her friend's birthday. Today is mine. I'm really sad about that.

The Bohemian is about to graduate college. I know. She's trying to decide whether she'll go straight for her masters, or ... y'all best sit down. Sitting? OK, she's trying to decide whether to go straight to grad school or join the military to pay for it. I know. I told you to sit down, didn't I? She's been on a full academic scholarship the past 4 years, with a stipend, and has gotten used to that. She says if she doesn't get grants/scholarships to cover grad school as well, it's ahoy matey she goes. I suspect it's less about paying for grad school and more about her dream of running away to sea that she cooked up when she was 10 or 12. She was one of those kids who, in addition to inventing her own language for the fantasy stories she wrote, and keeping a sketchbook, also kept a journal of life goals that she swore she'd never forget like people tend to do when they grow up. Like Peter Pan without that racist bullshit of the Lost Boys or chasing after Wendy's lame ass. I suggested that she become the musician for a cruise ship for the summer, put that fancy piano degree to use, but that suggestion was met with disdain. Cruise ships are about as far away from the pirate's life as you can get and still be on water, I guess. Cruise ships are not badass. Also, they tend to be overrun with rich white people. Yesterday, she called me, and I was having trouble hearing her.

Me: Where are you?

Bohemian: What?!

Me: Where are you? What's going on?

Bohemian: Oh, I'm at a protest.

Me: A protest for what?

Bohemian: An anti-war protest.

Me: ... you do see the irony here, don't you?

Bohemian: Yes, yes, I see it, OK?!

I worry about how an anti-war protesting, outspoken, progressive extremist, kick-ass, openly pan-sexual young women will deal with shifting herself enough to deal in the military. I have no doubt she will succeed, I just worry about what it will cost her. Not to mention what our government -- yes, the current government, not just the old one -- is doing with the troops. I can't even think about that. Going to college was supposed to keep her from that life. She spent years in a military environment, it's not like she's clueless about military life, and she's grown now. She's done well with everything in her life, and regardless, I'll support her ... I just don't want it to cost her too much. Plus, you all know I will have to mock her for being a Navy puke. I mean really, the Navy? They can't even march in cadence. And those dungarees. Please.

In other news, it looks like there's trouble in paradise for the Ex and his bride of not-quite-three years, but I'll have to update you all on that another day if you know what I mean, and I think that you do. Hang tight.

So that's my update. I should be around more often now. There's been a lot of bitching building up, and you all know I can only go but so long before it spills out. Happy Spring Equinox, by the way.

On a Cold Winter's Night ...

2009-12-26T00:41:00.000-08:00

Another Christmas come and gone. Sitting here with the Bohemian, bathed in the glow of Christmas lights and our computer monitors, Nora Jones adding to the late night ambiance after a long and good Christmas day. The Ex is back at his hotel, Male Offspring and Not-So-Teen Demon are dreaming of sugarplums snug in their beds, dishes are done, dogs are tuckered out, wine is poured ... it was a good day.

Tonight, during a break in the dinner preparations, I went outside for a few minutes, and thought about passing time. It was one of those rare Seattle nights - crisp, clear, glowing moon, twinkling stars, the whole bit. Maybe the rarity is a good thing; when you add Christmas lights, slightly chilled Shiraz, and the distant sounds of a busy kitchen to the aforementioned twinklyass stars, it all adds up to one tall glass of melancholy. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, I'll leave it at that, and just say I'm exceedingly glad for the time with my family today, glad that we're healthy and together. I'm thankful for my children. I'm thankful that their dad could come spend Christmas with them. I thought about people I miss today, and people whom I know only via the wonders of The Internets. I'm a slackass blogger; you all know this. I entertain myself with thoughts of you accepting this as an endearing foible. Hey, my blog, my fantasy. Whatever. Seriously though, merry merry to all my cyber friends. Connections are important, whether in the flesh, or in the heart. So here's to making it through another year, and to connections that help maintain our tenuous hold on sanity. Merry thoughts, all.

Verify This

2009-12-10T01:13:00.000-08:00

Goddamned spammers have found me. They started with the This Old Motherfucking House series. Bastards. Then it was like the hounds of hell had been unleashed. So I've jumped on the word verification bandwagon, even though I hate it. Bastards. Carry on.

In My Blood Like Holy Wine

2009-11-27T21:44:00.000-08:00

Damn you, Joni Mitchell.

Just ... why?

2009-11-08T17:19:00.000-08:00

Why would a foreign language instructor assign her class to write a paragraph about "a place you'd like to go", when we haven't yet learned future tense, and we're supposed to be practicing two different past tenses that we HAVE learned? I mean -- and I'm just coming up with this off the top of my head here -- wouldn't it have been better to write about a place we've been?

Just wondering.

Saturday Morning

2009-10-31T10:50:00.000-07:00

Remember Saturday morning cartoons? I'm one of those tiring old-schoolers who misses the cartoons from back in the day. Today's robots, wide-eyed manga chicks and evil aliens with their hulking metal chests, weapons of mass destruction, and gleaming helmets do nothing for me. However:

1. The Penguins of Madascar rock. Hard. I Love the penguins. Best cartoon ever. I actually set reminders on my TV so as not to miss them.

2. Nothing is more humbling than watching Go, Diego Go, or Inspector Gadget in Spanish. Spanish-speaking toddlers would hand my ass to me on a platter in a conversation olympics.

3. I have no idea why Sponge Bob SquarePants continues to reign as Male Offspring's favorite cartoon.

That is all.

All Hail the Power

2009-10-23T22:19:00.001-07:00

You know, I'm really fucking sick and tired of "God" getting all the credit for anything good that happens, but none of the blame for any of the bad shit that goes down. Am I the only one who notices the disparity here? What kind of sense does that make? Seriously. It's bullshit, people. You can't have it both ways.

So anyone who wants to tell me that bad times are the perfect times to turn to some spiritual guidance, you know what? Fuck you. And the cloud you rode in on. If your deity isn't man enough to step up and take responsibility for the bad shit, then he's apparently not allfuckingpowerful enough to have had anything to do with the good. And if he was responsible for the good, that means he could've damn well prevented the bad, but didn't. Seriously, could it be any more clear? So no, thank you -- been there, done that, woke the fuck up.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Just Call Me the Snug Meister.

2009-10-18T17:24:00.000-07:00

I bought a Snuggie, people. Yes, as seen on TV. This accursed PNW weather has finally pushed me into the the desperate realm of the oft maligned Blanket With Sleeves.

I know. I hear you mocking me. It's OK, I understand. Until a few days ago, I was a merciless mocker of Snuggies myself. Besides, the offspring beat you to it. They were first, second, and third in the mockery line. And you know those kids were raised on the milk of sarcasm, so it's been more like running the damn mockery gauntlet around here.

It's all good though. Mock away, bitches, this thing is warm. I mean warm. Like swine flu fever warm. Like I-have-to-crack-a-window warm. Bite my snug ass, Seattle weather -- go on, bring your best. Rain, sleet, snow, never-ending dampness, go ahead. Because this winter I'm armed with the chocolate brown folds of the sleeved shield of glory. That's right. Just call me the Sleeved Avenger. Yeah, you heard me. Let's go, Seattle weather. Consider yourself served. By a Snuggie. We'll see who comes out ahead this spring.

Columbus: Still a holiday. Still a Genocidal Asshat.

2009-10-12T13:05:00.000-07:00

I'm humbled and, frankly, shocked shitless, that many of you apparently remembered my 2007 rant about Columbus, bold discoverer of genocide and thievery.

If you want some truth about Columbus, check it out: Columbus: Bold Explorer or Genocidal Asshat? I even reread it my damn self, just to see if it still had the same effect on my blood pressure. Check.

Also, as some of you know, I've been attempting to ~~butcher~~ learn the Spanish language. As such, I've plowed through some simple articles, most of which kicked my non-comprehending cerebrum in the dirt, but I laboriously learned some cool stuff about various revolutions and other historical tidbits.

Like the fact that in Venezuela, Hugo Chávez renamed it Día de la Resistencia Indígena in 2002. A couple of years later, some students celebrated that auspicious October day by toppling the statue of Columbus that had stood in Caracas. Nice. One year on Oct. 12, Chávez gave 1.65 million acres back to some of the indigenous peoples in particular areas. I think it'll be a cold day in Alabama before we see anything like that here, but it was nice to hear that someone somewhere realizes that celebrating this man's "contributions" to the world is just a shameful way of condoning genocide.

Anyway, click the link if you haven't read it. No, you know what? Click it if you have. We all need to remember...

'Tis the Season.

2009-08-29T17:49:00.000-07:00

You all know what time it is.

Mom? Is That You?!

2009-08-22T00:58:00.000-07:00

My mom is on Facebook. See previous post for relevance.

Yeah. Some of you understand my dilemma. Sis friended Mom. Sis and I are friends, both relatively new Facebookers. Sis and I are both friends with Atheist Uncle, Mom's estranged elder brother by 11 months, and his heathen, albeit hilariously witty, wife and kids. Yeah. I'm sure that's already caused some family drama under the surface, which will assuredly be masked by LOLs and :-)'s. Mom refused to attend cousin's wedding because it was performed by a Wiccan priestess in a deconsecrated Catholic church. Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. That whole atheist-evangelical dynamic? The proverbial oil and water.

So, I'm a horrible daughter if I don't friend my own mom, and I risk letting myself and possibly the Freedom School kids in for some hurtful comments if I do. And truth is, I would love to be friended up with Mom to share pics, small life details, and overcome that blasted time-zone + work hours communication differential. I just don't want it used as a platform to force my ass to see those political/racial/religious emails that I delete without reading.

In fairness, I don't know that my mom would do that. Maybe I'm just being a bitch. She misses us, she feels out of contact with me and the kids. And I'm the first to admit that I suck ass big time at keeping in touch. I'm really shitty in that department. I should do better. My mom is sporting major stretch marks because of my ass. Well, more specifically my head, but you get my gist. Facebook would make it much easier for me not to suck at that.

I friended her. Yeah. I think she's already got her privacy ettings up though, because neither I nor Sis can write on her wall. And Sis is a religious Repub, although a very cool open-minded one.

I have adjusted my privacy settings accordingly until I can ascertain her intent. I hope I'm just being a pessimistic bitch of a horrible daughter. I really do.

Dear Mom, Yeah, It's Racist.

2009-08-07T11:09:00.000-07:00

Recently I opened a FWD'd email from my mom. And felt so sick I couldn't sleep.

It was titled What Every White Person Needs to Hear. I knew I shouldn't open it. I never open them. But we'd recently had an OK conversation about race, and I thought, maybe I can use it as a jumping off point for another conversation. Get an idea of where she's coming from.

I knew I shouldn't have opened it.

And now, I can't erase from my brain what my mother, my children's grandmother, really thinks. What she thinks I should think. It was pretty awful. A video, a Black guy, a pastor at some Harlem church. J@mes D@vid M@nning. I won't link to him.

Think Rush Limbaugh + internalized oppression, and imagine how that might look. Makes Clarence Thomas look like a progressive Panther. The things this guy was saying, the words he used, the way he stirred White people to action, to knock the chips right off those Black folks' shoulders! Knock 'em OFF!! To hear this man, telling White people they didn't need to put up with the attitudes and arrogance of Black people, that they're justified in stepping up to do whatever needs to be done in order to feel comfortable around Black people, to stop walking on eggshells ... I don't even want to write more about what he said. It was sickening, in a literal way.

It made me wonder, what has happened in that man's life?

When something like that is floating around the Internets, you can click it closed, shake your head, and move on. When something like that comes from your mother ... what do you do with that?

I know my mom would say it's not racist, it's someone's opinion. She'd say we're all the same, all given the same opportunities, that race shouldn't be a factor. In fact, how can it be racist, if a Black man said it? How could I possibly find fault with it?

It's weird how people are willing to listen to Black man's point of view, even use the speaker's race to validate his words, IF it's supporting what they already think. There could be 1000 other POCs, with studies and evidence and data, with researched, logical, statistically supported points saying the opposite, and the Right will come back with that doesn't count, they're just saying that because they're Black. They're biased. But let one Black man come along and echo their bootstrapping, assimilation, racism-is-over, the-system-is-fine rhetoric, let one Black man come along and say that you don't have to change anything, that it's Black people who need to do the changing, and watch how quick they laud that Black man's point of view.

Yes, I've let her know how offensive the religopolitical email stream is to me. I've let her know it doesn't help to "bring me back to the Light", and if anything, pushes me irreconcilably farther from it. I've let her know that the racial "jokes" and commentaries are hurtful and damaging. That I don't want to see them. I've said to her, Mom, your grandchildren are Black ... they are not exceptions, they are the people targeted in these emails. I've written her long and heartfelt letters on more than one occasion asking her to stop sending FWDed things to my work email. She finally did, but I think more about inappropriate use of state resources threatening my job, rather than the fact that it was hurtful to me. When I wrote to her I did not tit for tat. I've never sent her anti-conservative, anti-religion emails in return. I've asked her to please respect my values and beliefs as I have respected hers. I've done unto others, and I'm not the Christian here!

And still, she sends these things to my home email. Why? Seriously, Mom ... why?

My mom used to be a left wing, war-protesting, agnostic. Then she was a mainstream caring Christian. Now ... somehow my parents have come to be of similar thoughts as the Birthers and Tea Baggers. It's taken me some time to admit that to myself. How do I reconcile that?

She's my mother. I love her. I miss her. A lot. She was a fantastic mom, I had a good childhood. If you've got some image of a crochety mean old lady stewing with hate in her housedress, you'd be wrong. Someone knowing nothing other than The Emails, wouldn't know the whole of her. My mom is lovely, young looking, with a radiant smile and laughing eyes. My mom is hilariously funny. She's kind and smart. And yeah, she was a big reason why I came up believing racial prejudice was a bunch of bullshit. How does that change so drastically?

And it's more complicated: my mom was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis years ago. Stress can easily present in the form of physical exacerbations, causing the MS to hit her body harder, even to the point of hospitalization. I can not be a cause of stress for my mom. So a big lay-it-on-the-line discussion is just not the way to go in this case.

I don't have the $ to fly me and the kids out for regular visits. My mom can not travel. She's an early-to-bed person, I'm always out late for work or community meetings or kids' sports, and I'm on the wrong end of the time zones. So we do weekend morning phone calls. Not even every weekend.

It's hard to discuss things like race on weekend morning phone calls, from opposite ends of the country. From opposite ends of the political, religious, and ideological spectrums. Without causing that dangerous stress.

But it is so deeply hurtful. It hurts me to my core. I look at my children, I think of the things they have experienced, and it just kills me to know what my mom thinks White people need to know. And I don't know that there's much that can be done. Which makes me incredibly, broken heartedly, sad.

Adventures in Spanish Class

2009-08-01T21:13:00.000-07:00

So I'm taking two classes this quarter, including Spanish. Given the work I'm doing with the school district and the commissioner thing with the city, I figured I need to get off my ass and hablo. My German and Hungarian aren't doing me much good these days.

This is the first time I've tried to learn a language without living in a country where that language is spoken, though. It's harder. Immersion is the way to go, folks. Also, having learned other languages is an advantage in that the concepts are familiar, but it's a disadvantage when the teacher calls on you, and you want to pop out with something like, "Igen, tengo harom Kinderek." or some other fucked up linguistic amalgam.

The instructor is fantástico. He's a native Spanish speaker who doesn't baby people or move at a snail's pace. Thankgawd. My kids' high school Spanish teacher was this white lady with the absolute worst American accent ever. I mean the kind where you jam pencils in your ears just to make it stop. It's amazing how school districts won't hire qualified native speakers, but will hire less proficient people to teach a language. All of my school district's foreign language teachers are white Americans, other than the Chinese teacher, and I bet you $10 that's only because they couldn't find a non-Chinese person who speaks passable Chinese. Sounds kind of like affirmative action for white folks. Huh. I know my four years of high school French at the hands of a non-native speaker didn't do jack shit for me in the way of language skills. Way to prepare our students, America.

But I digress. So, my class. It's amazing, the comments that fall out of people's mouths. The instructor sometimes mutters under his breath that he only has X number of years before he can retire. I don't know how he does it. If I had to teach beginning English year after year after year and the majority of people don't even give a shit, they just need the credit, I'd lose my mind. OK, so the instructor gives "cultural points" for extra credit. You have to write about one of his recommended books, films, restaurants or dance places.

I wish he'd never assigned that shit.

Classmate 1 (raising hand in class): So, for the cultural points ... does Azteca count?

No. Not even kidding. But hey, that was fine, compared to what came later.

Classmate 2 (to me, after class): Well, for my cultural points, I went on a coffee date with a Spanish man!

Me: (ohmyfuckinggod) I ... didn't realize you had a friend from Spain.

Classmate 2: Oh, he's not from Spain! I wish!

Me: (here we go) So, he's not Spanish, he's Spanish speaking.

Classmate 2: (blank stare) Um ...

Me: If he's not from Spain, he's not Spanish.

Classmate 2: Well, he's ... where is he from? Oh! Brazil! He's from Brazil.

Me: Brazil? And he speaks Spanish? That's interesting ...

Classmate 2: Well, not really, seeing as he's from Brazil!

Me: The main language in Brazil is Portuguese.

Classmate 2: (blank stare) Well ... I don't know about all that, but a date with a Spanish man should work for cultural points! And, he was caliente!

Yeah. Then there was the time she slipped me a note about our instructor that said, "He's such a Latin macho! But I like him!!" Yeah, I'm sure the professor will be thrilled that he meets with your approval in spite of his alleged machismo. The reason he has been pegged as such is that he insists on proper grammar and pronunciation, and doesn't do a lot of hand holding. I'm thinking that makes him a "good instructor" rather than a "Latin macho", but what do I know.

So I go to this study group the other day. I was invited by a woman who speaks English fluently after only being in country about 2 1/2 years. Spanish will be her 4th language. I figure she knows how the hell to learn a language, I'm studying with her. Another woman in the group, a self-professed conservative Republican proceeded to trash President Obama, informing the younger students that the President is a socialist who's gotten the country into debt. Yeah, honey, I think the last 8 years had something to do with that, actually. Anyway, she had these gems to offer:

Classmate 3: Well, my introduction to this culture was dating a Spanish man for 5 years. I was practically a member of his family! But I never learned the language.

Me: (here we go with the Spanish man.) So ... he was from Spain?

Classmate 3: Well, he was half Mexican and half Apache on his father's side, so you know ... [waves hand, dismissively] but his mother, she was born in Spain, so ...

Me: So he was Mexican as well.

Classmate 3: Well ... anyway, you know how most Mexicans have, you know, Aztec or Maya background? Well, he had Apache, so he had the very defined cheekbones. He never cut his hair ... his father told him never to cut it because he was a warrior, you know. I got in touch with him some time later, and asked if his hair was still long, and he was all [mimes annoyance] "Yeeesss...", and I was like, dude, you're 55 years old now!

Me: That's his culture, it doesn't have an expiration date.

Classmate 3: Oh totally! I know! He was just beautiful! Anyway, the reason I'm taking this class is so I can move somewhere and teach English as a Second Language. I want to get certified to teach Spanish too.

Another classmate: Really? Where?

Classmate 3: Well, I lived in Arizona for years, but never even crossed the border, because you know, [dismissive wave] Mexico, I just didn't care. But Spain, or Argentina, or Peru ... I'd love to go there! Yep, much more interested in Spain or South America than Central America or Mexico. But I wouldn't say that to my friend!

Everyone else: ...

Classmate 3: In fact, another friend -- he's a very wealthy Argentinian -- actually said to me [mimes snootyassedness] "You're speaking with a Mexican accent!" But I wouldn't say that to my friend, the one I was telling you about!

Me: What friend? (wondering how this chick is even picking up a Mexican accent when our instructor is Puerto Rican)

Classmate 3: Oh, my friend who helps me with my assignments. She checks all my homework for me. She's Mexican.

Are you fucking kidding me? So ... your friend is good enough to check your homework, work on your assignments with you, and basically help you get an A in the class, but you don't want to pick up her accent or visit her country? In fact, you want to learn her language in order to move to one of the countries with a higher population of what you consider white people, and get paid to teach. Probably in a position where your friend, the native speaker who helped your ass pass this class, wouldn't be hired. What the hell, people?

Needless to say, she clammed up when I started up about how great it is that our instructor is a native speaker, because some schools pass over the native speakers to hire Americans, and then you don't get good instruction, because they're, you know, [dismissive wave] not as qualified.

I'm going to go off before I hit Spanish III, I just know it.

Help! I'm Being Held Hostage by Facebook!

2009-07-20T23:11:00.000-07:00

I'm still alive. I've even been online. Just ... not here. OK, let's just get this over with. I'm a Facebooker. I know. I KNOW! Resistance was futile.

I only did it as a way to connect with a group of kids who went through this year's Freed0m School. But it kind of sucks you in. Like the Borg. I was all, "I'm only going to friend the Freed0m School kids. Oh ... and the adult community organizers, I guess they have to be on there, too." But then, I realized I can't NOT friend my kids. And then these requests started coming in from real-life-friends who were already FBing. So it was like, ok, but only these friends, it will be a great way to stay in touch, since I suck ass at that kind of thing. Then my uncle, aunt, cousins and sister were on, and then folks I used to hang with in Hungary, and then ... yeah. Snowballed.

It's kind of chapping the ass of my comfort zone though. You can't be anonymous on FB. Blogging, yeah, anybody can see your blog, but they don't know it's YOU. Unless you tell them. And with a pseudonym, no one can search for you. It's safe. Like you have control. You don't have to worry about pissing off the mayor or your coworkers or your mom with your "crazy Left Coast notions". You may piss off strangers, but who the hell cares?

I found myself wanting a compartmentalized Facebook experience. Like, one FB window for my ultra-liberal homies, another FB for family who just want to know what the kids are up to but don't want to hear about universal health care, another FB for the official city/county people I do work with, another FB for the old crew, another FB for the youth we're mentoring ... you know, like that.

But no. That's not the way Facebook works. Oh no. It's one big old cyberfest. La-di-da-di, everybody. It brings all your circles of contacts crashing into each other like a giant cyber pileup. So the atheist uncle is BAM, right there with your conservative Republican relations. Your anti-racist friends? BAM! Right there with that guy you knew in the 90s who says "Heil Reagan!" Your kids, right there with the folks you used to hang with in that little bar with the ... well, you get the picture.

So I'm adjusting. It's completely different from blogging. And I've missed being here in blogland. I feel relieved to be back in my Cowbell world, actually. But FB has it's own place, and ... I guess it's cooler than I thought it would be.

Holy hell, people, I'm a facebooker.

What Hath Bitterness Wrought?

2009-06-28T10:54:00.000-07:00

OK. Which of you bitches snapped? Recently, a fellow bitter blogger, who shall remain nameless, but lives at the aforepasted link, posed a question. Basically, who is the more deserving recipient of a single bullet, with a choice of the Sham-Wow guy or the OxiClean Guy.

OxiClean Guy is dead. Coincidence? You tell me.

When the po-po comes, I'd like the record to reflect that my original comment was the one NOT condoning murder.

History

2009-06-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

So this isn't so much a post, more like commentary to point you toward two others' posts.

Not long ago, I read a piece at PPR Scribe's place that shook me. The piece was about taking her two young daughters to the Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati, Ohio.

PPR Scribe does these black and white photos on her site. They are always striking, but the photo of her daughters, in this place, taking this wicked history into their tender hearts, just wrenched my guts. I started to comment that it made me think of the Bohemian's trip to Ghana because ... but I couldn't make it mean what it means, so I deleted it and just said, "Thank you for sharing this" or some such lame nothingness.

Today, Scribe commented about the Bohemian, mentioning her own daughters, and the importance of role models. It got me thinking again about the histories that our daughters share. The Bohemian wrote quite a few posts about Ghana, but there were two that to this day make me feel like my insides are falling.

Yesterday we went to the River of the Last Bath. Basically, when the Europeans had marched their captives through Africa, they dunked them in this river so they'd be clean when they got to the coast, where all the buying was going on. A clean captive brings more money.

All the towns we passed through on the way had the the word "Assin" before the name of the town. In Twi, it means "passing", because the men and women the slave traders captured walked through there in chains. [snip]

I was afraid to go down there and look that in the face. I wished I could refuse to go. I wished that option was there. But of course it wasn't.

If you want to understand why people "can't just let it go", read about the River of the Last Bath.

After that, if you want to know why history still hurts, why it's not all-over-now-anyway, read about Elmina Castle, that splendid structure where the Portuguese, Dutch, and British processed enslaved Africans for their passage to the New World. The photo above is from Elmina.

Whenever we pull up to these places I'm never ready. I'm like, could we come back and do this later? After my lunch has settled - after the air gets cooler - after I take some pictures of the harbor - just hold on a second. But we go in anyway and see the castle, and because of the river I handled it better than I thought I would, but it wasn't something you could look at every day and still be human.

I don't know how anyone can read the rest of those posts without having a perspective shift, without having the air sucked out of them, but reading the words from my daughter ... holy hell, people. That hurts. More so knowing that I can't even understand it. Not really. She is my child, of my body, but as a white person, I can never know the pain she felt. Not really. I'll never be able to shield her from it or take it from her. It was her history, her experience, not mine -- she had to walk there without me, get gutpunched without me, internalize it, mourn it, fight it, and (try to) heal from it without me. She walked with her friends, her sisters, who carried that horrible heaviness with her. I can imagine it, I can think I understand it, but I can not. Not really.

When I read Scribe's post, read about her daughters' tears, about looking out the windows across the Ohio, another River, it hurt my heart to think of all the little girls and boys who have to face this history, reconcile it. Other little girls and boys get to choose whether or not to face it - and their part in it. But it made my heart glad to read about a parent who is teaching her daughters, who is there to walk with them, to share the weight of it. To arm them.

It must've been hard for PPR Scribe and the Bohemian to write these things down, to share them. I hope you take the time to read their posts. And teach your children. Thank you, ladies.

Pride Profiles, Bohemian Style

2009-06-18T11:46:00.000-07:00

The Bohemian is doing a Pride Profiles series on her blog. For those of you who somehow missed the incessant, shameless bragging about the Offspring up in this joint, The Radical Bohemian is my eldest daughter, just finished her junior year at Howard University and currently working as an intern for NPR. She's a music major, kickass on the piano and her own vocal pipes, an activist, organizer, professional protester, world traveler, non-revisionist history buff, an artist, a reader, a lover of puppies, and general all around badass.

Anyway, I'm really liking her series, and thought you all might too, even if you're not as biased as I am. Which is pretty blatantly biased.

Here are her first two profiles:

Gladys Bentley

Dr. Sara Josephine Baker

Click, learn, enjoy.

Empty Nest. Sort of.

2009-06-13T22:57:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday I put Male Offspring on a plane to 0man. Took him about 18 hours and two layovers to get there. Before he even got off the ground, he was stopped by Seattle security, on account of he had two rolls bagged up in his pocket, courtesy of his friend who works in a bakery. "Hey Fred! Come take a look at this! This guy's carrying two big round things ... in his pocket!" The rolls were X-rayed and examined. Fred determined they were only rolls, after all. Homeland Security, working for America.

The Son called the next day, around noon.

Me: So, how hot is it over there?

Male Offspring: About 85F.

Me: Oh, that's not too hot, considering it's 0man in June.

MO: It's midnight here.

Oh.

Yes, I am jealous, thanks for asking.

So he'll be there at least until the end of the month. He may stay longer, but hasn't decided yet. The Ex has some fun stuff planned for him, like getting him certified for scuba diving, riding ATVs in the desert, and the like. Very cool stuff for a kid. They may even visit the Rich Man's Paradise of Dubai, where they can indoor ski and visit man made islands.

So, of course, a day or two after Male Offspring's arrival, Somali pirates conducted their first ever attack on a ship in 0mani waters. Wonderful. What are the odds? I just hope the kid wasn't scuba diving in the vicinity.

The Bohemian won't be home much this summer, seeing as how she got a paid internship with NPR and is currently kicking ass doing all sorts of web stuff at her new J-O-B. She is also preparing for her senior recital (!!!) in the fall and hanging out with her significant other. She called me the day her brother left.

The Bohemian: Oh, you'll be all alone in the house ...

Me: Your sister comes home tomorrow night, so there's actually only one night overlap.

The Bohemian: Like I said, you'll be all alone in the house.

Teen Demon is home for the summer. So to speak. Can she already have finished her first year of college? Kids, a little consideration, please -- you're making Mommy feel old. Not cool. So the Demon has a summer job as a cake decorator, making use of her awesome cake decorating skillz. She brought home a buttload of stuff, spent a day in cleaning mode getting her old room back in order, which included hanging a giant shoe holder and a Tupac poster up on her pink walls. Then she left to go camping and fishing.

My ass has been too damn busy to feel lonely though. Besides, the dogs are still here with me. Never underestimate the value of a captive audience.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VIII

2009-05-31T13:22:00.000-07:00

Episode VIII: Shiver Me Timbers

Thanks to those who thought to call the authorities. I am not rotting among the worms and beetles in the crawl space. It's been sunny here.

Enough said.

My time in the sun, while incrementally addressing my Vitamin D deficiency, ultimately pulled me into yet another episode of housing woes.

OK, so there's this planter box in my front yard, about 8'x8', framed by landscaping timbers. The timbers go on to form a retaining wall that runs the length of my driveway. The previous owner -- you all remember him -- the guy who made $100,000 profit from a scant 2 years' of home ownership? The guy who sold me This Old Motherfucking House about a week before the housing slump was announced? Yeah, well, that guy allowed grass to completely overtake the planter box. Since moving in, I've been showcasing an 8'x8' square of monster grass. Oh, and a Japanese Maple tree. It's in the box, too. I wonder if my neighbors were ever able to reconcile their envy?

Male Offspring, adjusting his iPod about halfway through the de-grassing.

Male Offspring dug out all the grass for me, on account of my lameass Frozen Shoulder that can't operate a simple manual shovel. Grass roots run DEEP, people. Good thing the boy's got first class tickets to the gun show. We found Hens & Chicks (the plants, not the animals) buried in the grass. I saved them, and replanted them. Took forever. Anyway, my yard was finally going to look nice! I bought plants. Perennials. Forget that annual shit. Go with the ones that come back every year. I also got mulch and peat moss and gardening gloves. Cute ones. The plants are still babies, but by midsummer should have that box bursting with bloomage.

Yeah baby, time for a little respect from the neighbors. That's right.

Right: rescued, replanted Hens & Chicks, plus other formerly buried plants.
Left: monster grass.

Anyway, everything was going fine, until I noticed the retaining wall was falling out toward the driveway at the point where it's supposed to connect to the planter box. Shit. Also the timbers at the front of the planter box were looking dicey. We took out a few pieces to assess the extent of damage, and found some serious rot going on.

Holy hell. I just wanted to plant some friggin' plants and lay some mulch. But nooo. That's not how This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

So I spent about $60 on galvanized steel brackets, a drill bit as long as my forearm, and some hugeass galvanized screws. The plan was to remove enough dirt that we could pull the retaining wall back in place, reattach everything with the brackets, and call it a day.

Long story short, it didn't work. Apparently, a wood retaining wall is supposed to have vertical support posts sunk in concrete OR these things called "tie backs" -- pieces of wood attached to the wall's backside, buried in the ground, anchoring the wall in place. My retaining wall, of course, had neither.

Who chooses wood in this never ending rainhole anyway? CheapAss former owners who make a quick profit and leave you with a fucked up house, that's who.

De-grassed dirt and rotting timbers exposed. See the wall falling out toward the driveway?

So we're going with the interlocking concrete block option. The DIY ones that don't need mortar. Yep. Time all is said and done, probably about another $400 dropped on This Old Motherfucking House. At least they won't rot before I sell this joint.

This shit was not even ON my summer project list! Here's what WAS on my summer project list:

1. Retile moldyass shower tiles (this is going to be a bitch of a job).
2. Replace 80s wood vanity and fixtures, along with the cracked sink.
3. Replace linoleum floor with tile, and paint bathroom walls.
4. Install blinds on the windows.
5. Replace rotting front deck.

Yes, CheapAss Former Owner used 1/2" thick untreated boards to build the front porch. Bastard. New lumber and a nail gun or drill that can handle wood screws is going to be several hundred right there. I did not need another outdoor project, people!

Other possible items for the summer project list included:

6. Refinish wood floors formerly covered by urine-spotted burgundy carpet (another bitch of a job)
7. Replace fucked up mismatched tiles of fireplace hearth.
8. Paint over the uglyass dining room paneling
9. Paint TeenDemon's pink and orange walls. This requires some kind textured paint skills, since her walls were spackled by a blindfolded drunk at some point in TOMFH's history.
10. Install closet organization systems.
11. Replace1980s ceiling fan in dining room.

None of this even touches my 1950s kitchen with its ancient wood cabinets shellacked in Paint Coats of Many Colors, and its olive green and brown laminate counter.

Seriously, I did not need this retaining wall bullshit! And it's got to be scheduled when Male Offspring is home, but he's working overtime on homework and finals so he can leave school early to go visit his dad in friggin' 0man until sometime in July.

Really, Son? You chose world travel, diving certification, and adventure over building a retaining wall?

For now, the front of my de-grassed, soon-to-be-beautiful planter box is not filled with gorgeous trailing plants. Rather, it is being shored up with big bags of mulch, so as to keep the remaining dirt and new baby plants from being washed into the street. Hello, Tackmeister? Nice yard.

I guess I'll have to wait a while for that respect from the neighbors. At least my new roof looks good.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VII

2009-05-06T12:01:00.000-07:00

Episode VII: Where's the Heat

It's been a while between TOMFH posts, in part because I apparently skipped the mother of all disasters. I realized this today, upon trying to figure out what episode I was on. (Had I known this was going to be a friggin' series, I'd have paid more attention to the numbering from the beginning.) Click the home.improvement tag for the big picture of my lovely abode.

Anyway, while cleaning up the series numbering, I realized I'd never even blogged about replacing the gutter that fell down in front of my garage door, let alone replacing the roof. Yes, the roof. Last October I actually had to replace the entire roof. I'm sure you all can imagine the cost. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction to discovering the sound of steady dripping, one rainy night at 2am, as I crawled through the attic portal in my closet, juggling my flashlight, plastic buckets, and the wood planks that served as a makeshift crawlway to prevent me from falling between the rafters and crashing through my living room ceiling. Yes, it would've been one hell of a ranting, railing, TOMFH post, but apparently I was too traumatized to write about it.

So. Let's move on, shall we?

Today's episode. My water heater is having performance issues. As in, it's not working at all.

Yesterday I was home sick. That's another thing -- looking back over my TOMFH series, I realized these things often happen while I am sick. Just one more way this house sticks it to me.

Anyway, a sick day seemed an opportune time to address my maddeningly slow internet, so I called the cable guy. Then I realized he'd have to get behind the TV cabinet. Seeing as there was enough dog hair back there to build another dog, I got out the vacuum. And promptly blew a fuse.

So when Male Offspring said the water wasn't very hot for his shower, I figured I'd blown the water heater fuse too. No biggie. We flipped the breaker switch, figured we'd be back in hot water by morning.

You know where this is going. It wasn't the fuse. Of course it wasn't.

It won't surprise you to know that my water heater, like my furnace, is located under the house. Of course it is. I crawled into the dark maw this morning, but couldn't actually get to the damn thing, due to to the expert job Teen Demon and I had done wrapping it in its own special "water heater blanket". So the damn brokeass thing is warm and cozy, while I am reduced to scrubbing my goosebumps in a cold shower.

No, I am not yet that desperate. I stink. You all know how I am about the cold.

So I am now "troubleshooting". The son and I remembered that the water had seemed unusually hot the last couple of days. Best case scenario, it overheated, tripping its auto shutoff dealy thing, and I just need to reset it. Those of you who are longtime TOMFH readers know that this most certainly will not be the case. Mid-level scenario, I will need to replace the thermostats, or possibly the elements. As with the oven, I think I can do this myself, although draining the thing will be a bitch, seeing as how it's in the crawl space, below ground level. Worst case scenario, I will waste my money on replacement elements, and after much aggravation, end up buying a whole new water heater, paying some guy with plumber's crack $5000 an hour for installation, and crawling back under there to wrap the new heater in a new cozy insulation blanket. It's a given that no one will be available for install for at least 3 days, and I will freeze my ass off taking cold showers, because that's the way This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

If you don't hear from me, tell the authorities to look under the house.

Luis Ramirez's Murderers Walk

2009-05-04T17:45:00.000-07:00

Last August I wrote about the murder of Luis Ramirez. Today I read that his murderers, local football heroes in the small town of Shenandoah Pennsylvania, have been officially deemed not guilty of murder by an all-white jury. Apparently they are merely guilty of "simple assault".

I am sickened, but not surprised.

My original post was called Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football, because it was as much about the particular dynamic between small rural communities and their football heroes as it was about the brutal murder of Luis Ramirez. When I read the details last summer, my first thought was, these boys are going to walk.

Shenandoah is a small town of 5,000 in Pennsylvania. I went to high school in a town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. When I read the quotes from local police, the histories of the accused boys, and the comments of some of the townspeople, it was familiar territory. Not the murder, but that certain feel within an insulated community of "born 'n raised" folks and the relationship they have with their football team. It's not something that can be found or understood in cities, or even the suburbs. It's not something easily explained. But it is real. Real enough that I knew - and I bet the people of Shenandoah knew - that in the end, these boys would walk.

What message does this verdict send, as our country becomes more and more polarized, the anti-immigration crowd becomes more strident, and Swine Flu is associated with a nationality, a skin color? What message? Will the next drunken mob of high school heroes, amped up on testosterone and hate, take heed from this verdict, or will they feel righteous and invincible?

Last August I hoped justice would win out in the end. I hoped I would be surprised by the verdict. In the end, those boys walked. And I am not surprised.

Photo: Joe Spring, New York Times, Sep-07

The Brick on Bionics

2009-04-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

So I bought a new computer. Finally. There was a suitable mourning period for The Brick, longer than most, but considering that he served faithfully - if not always efficiently - for what, 9 years, it was the least I could do.

I hope he isn't looking down from eHeaven, betrayed that I moved on too quickly.

Anyway, my research into different brands, models, and options was all for naught, seeing as I suddenly developed what my Dad refers to as a hair up my ass. Mainly because I have to do a PowerPoint presentation for my advocacy group by the 16th, and I have to do my damned taxes. By the 15th, as you all know. Yes, I procrastinated the taxes again. So what. That shit is stressful.

So, with the proverbial hair chapping my ass, I got off work Friday afternoon, rushed to Costco before they closed, and just picked one. While Costco has great prices and customer support, they do not have a lot of choices. I think there were maybe 9 computers, total. The huge $1150 top of the line and the tiny netbook were out of the question. Two others were Acers, which the Costco guy said were actually more dependable than HP in his experience, but I just couldn't imagine crowing, yeah baby, bought me an Acer! So that left roughly 4 HP models and 1 Dell.

If my IT buddies from my old job had seen me choosing this computer, they would've called me a girl. And not in a good way. Bastards. Of course I looked at specs first. Both the Dell and one of the HPs had roughly the same specs. So what was the final hand wringing about? Important stuff, that's what. The so-called girl stuff.

The HP, while smaller, had these very cool and funky graphic designs on the outer lid and below the keyboard, where your wrists rest. The Dell looked plain and clunky, but had a backlit keyboard. Ooh, handy for typing in the dark. Also a bigger monitor screen, but let's not lie - the real issue was backlit keyboard v. cool designs. Also, the HP touch pad was that shiny glossy silver. Fingerprints and grubby smudges all over it. Gross! You could practically see Little Johnny's booger trails overlaying the evidence of Uncle Frankie's earwax exploration. Nasty! The Dell's touchpad was silver too, but slightly textured, more matte, kind of a slick Teflon feel. No fingerprints, no greasy trails of Costco customer nastiness.

In the end, I went for the Dell Studio 1537. Intel Core2Duo, 2GHz processor, 500GB drive, 4GB RAM, wireless N, 64bitOS (yes, Vista, dammit, but I was at the point of ohfuckit. I'll upgrade to 7 next year).

I was pissed off, however, to later find that this particular model comes in colors. Granted, it's not the funky graphic designs of that cute little HP, but still, I can handle clunky a lot better if it's lime green clunky. Or orange. Or red. Yes, I could've gotten colors at Best Bitch, but that's a shopping experience for those who 1) walk in knowing exactly what they want, or 2) are willing to put up with sales bullshit from some teenager who's working part time for weed money. Oh, and 3) are willing to pay out the ass for the same model that Costco sells for cheaper. That too.

So here I am on my plain, black, no-nonsense new Dell. Clunky, as opposed to funky. Like a sleeker, lighter, powerhouse version of The Brick. (Gentlemen, we can rebuild him, we have the technology. Better than he was before. Better. Stronger. Faster.) Maybe it was some weird subconscious way of holding on to The Brick. You know, like when people pick boyfriends who are really like their fathers?

I know some say Dell sucks ass, but The Brick did last over 9 years. He was the Methuselah of laptops. I know people who've had 4 or 5 computers over the course of The Brick's lifespan. Of course, The Bohemian also had a Dell, and it gave her the blue screen of death in it's 3rd year or so, but that happened immediately after she lent it to a friend who is not above surfing spammy porny sites. You figure it out.

Anyway, it's got decent enough specs to last me a good while, I can blog, I can do my PowerPoint, and I can do my goddamn fucking sonofabitching taxes.

But ... I am really pissed off that the backlit keyboard turned out to be white. WTF, Dell? Everybody knows you use blue for some shit like that! At least red, damn. Anyway, this could be a major issue. Good thing Costco has that 90 return policy.

The Hell That is Frozen Shoulder

2009-03-28T12:31:00.000-07:00

I have Frozen Shoulder. Again. I had a it a few years ago, before I started blogging. Never heard of it? Neither had I. It's officially called Adhesive Capsulitis. See, your tissues freak the hell out and form bands of tight, inflamed adhesions throughout the capsule surrounding your glenohumeral joint. The scarred and inflamed capsule constricts the joint, locking it into its own private hell. Range of motion is severely restricted, pain is basically comparable to having your shin broken with an axe, and duration can range from a few months to 2 years or more.

This shit hurts, people. It has 3 stages:

FREEZING: this is when you're basically wracked in pain. All the fucking time. Two kinds of pain, actually: chronic pain that is worse at night, and acute just-kill-me-now pain when you accidentally move past your ever-decreasing range of motion. This is where I am now.
FROZEN: this is when the pain supposedly starts to fade, but the capsule has basically locked your arm into a very limited range. This is the time to introduce excruciating physical therapy, in order to try and coax your shoulder into moving again.
THAWING: this is where your motion is supposed to gradually come back. It's not very common to regain your full range of motion. The agonizing PT is continued through this phase.

So yeah, I had this 3 or 4 years back. Took over a year and a half to run its course. I remember when I was diagnosed. I thought Frozen Shoulder sounded stupid. Like some wimp-ass diagnosis for big crybabies or hypochondriacs. Adhesive Capsulitis sounded better, but still. Didn't sound like a "real" condition, like a torn rotator cuff, or bone spur, or something badass like that. I soon found out different.

Frozen Shoulder is not for pussies, people.

Put it this way, I had 3 babies with no drugs. The offspring weighed between 8lb 10oz, to 9lb 1oz. No drugs. I made it through shin splints in Basic Training with only Ben-Gay for relief. I had two wisdom teeth pulled with only local anesthetic. I can do pain. I'm a woman. But dealing with that Frozen Shoulder wore me down. It was rough. And it's back.

The other night my shoulder suddenly seized up in a cramp. (This would be the aforementioned "acute pain".) I screamed like a girl and cried. Literally. Screamed and cried. Male Offspring was about to take me to the emergency room. Of course, he probably just wanted to drive, but still. He gave me what he called Hug Therapy afterward. This is from a teenage boy, folks. If I had to deal with that pain for the length of a labor ... I couldn't do it. I'd be screaming for the drugs in 5 minutes.

When my shoulder started hurting a few months back, I figured I had wrenched it somehow, you know, with my active lifestyle and all, and didn't think much of it. But as time went on, I had to face the fact that I was having a relapse. According to the literature, relapses are extremely rare. Surprise, I'm one of the lucky few who get to experience that rare treat.

Whee.

This time is worse, in a way. Worse because I know what I'm in for. The first time, I could trick myself. You know, say things like, "Maybe I'll be one of those people who heal in a few months." or "The physical therapy will speed up the process." Complete bullshit, but it had a psychological placebo effect. This time, I know what's up.

I don't think I can do this again, people. It's like getting scared of childbirth once you're already pregnant. Ain't no getting out of it now - you're in it for the duration. And my neck's not long enough to gnaw my arm off.

I can't tuck in a shirt, let alone reach in a back pocket. I can't hook my bra. I can't reach across to wash my other shoulder. Shaving under that arm is a joke. Deodorant, too. Taking a coat off sucks.

Washing, drying, and styling my hair mostly one-handed is frustrating, painful, and makes me mad at hell. It also renders me unable to let go of my anger and resentment toward Laura, the bitch who butchered my hair. Every day I hate her more, and I'm not generally into hate, except for George Bush. I'm telling you, every day it festers, and that shit's not healthy. Catching her in an alley while armed with a pair of pinking shears has replaced winning the Lottery as my main fantasy.

Showering has become a dreaded ordeal and leaves me feeling like a big crybaby. I've considered going to work in pajamas rather than face getting dressed. And my pajamas aren't pretty, people. Sleep is difficult. That's an understatement. I'm ODing on Valerian and Unisom. I don't want to go on prescription pain relievers or sleep aids, because of the length of time involved with this thing. I mean, popping hard drugs for a couple of weeks or even a month is one thing, but when you're talking upwards of a year, that's something else. Who wants to end up like Rush Limbaugh?

The worst is making involuntary movements - like if you stumble and try to catch yourself, or automatically reach out to catch something, or if something startles you and makes you jump. Agony. There's a fraction of a second between the time you make the movement, and the time that agony slams you like a rabid water buffalo on crystal meth, when you realize what you've done. That's the fraction of a second you consider bashing your head on concrete to knock yourself out. But there's not enough time.

To add to the fun, it's my right shoulder, and I'm right-handed. I already mouse left-handed at work, so that's ok, but I'm starting to do other things left-handed. I'll be ambidextrous by the time this shit's over.

I've heard of some people who get bilateral FS. That's right, both arms at once! How do those guys wipe their asses? Or drive? Or eat? Or do anything? Holy hell. If that happens, you'd better hope you have a partner or a live-in aide, because I don't see how you'd manage. It sucks having FS as a single person, even with only one arm affected. Basically, I can reach forward, to a certain height, with no problem. Any other direction is a definite no-go. At least I can type. Good thing -- that's pretty important for my job, hello. Like anyone needs a reason to stand out in this economy.

There is a surgical treatment option, but my HMO wouldn't go for it. Likewise the cortisone injections I've heard some patients get. Cheapass bastards. The only treatment my HMO approves is physical therapy. Last time, they did a few initial sessions with me, but basically handed me some papers with instructions and cartoon illustrations and told me to go home and do it on my own. Then they collected their co-pay. But hey, we've got to guard against the evils of "socialized medicine", because American medical care is the best in the world!

Actually, maybe I was better off doing it at home. Check out this poor bastard. I can't even imagine being able to move my arm up that high, so he must be coming along nicely. Pay no attention to the screams. It's all about progress in physical therapy. No pain, no gain.

Brutal. My former drill sergeant is probably a physical therapist now. The one who got kicked out for trainee abuse. Anyway, this whole thing is making me really pissy.

I mean more than usual.

The Bohemian's Travels

2009-03-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

Speaking of soccer ...

The Bohemian is back from China. Yes, she went to China, and no, that has absolutely nothing to do with soccer. Don't rush me, I'm getting there, ok? So the Bohemian went to China with a small group of singers from her University choir, sponsored by the State Department. Ten cities. That child has been more well-traveled than I am for about 8 years now. She was in Ghana over the summer, and now China. She's also been to Venice, Belgium, and Toronto without her dear mother. I'm hoping she'll move to Costa Rica one day and buy a house with an extra bedroom, but hey, that's just me.

Anyway, she and the rest of her singing crew were such a hit that they bagged an invitation to sing at another venue.

South Africa, 2010.

Yes, the World Cup, people - the friggin' World Cup.

The Bohemian is beside herself. Naturally.

Seattle Sounders FC: Real Sound Football

2009-03-24T18:46:00.000-07:00

Seattle steps up with some real football. Fußball, fútbol, foci, fotbal, or - as we Americans insist - soccer, it doesn't matter what you call it, "the world's game" has finally come local.

Actually, I lie. I do care what you call it. I hate calling it soccer. I think it should be "football" and "American football" or "US football". Are we the only country in the world that doesn't recognize it as just football? OK, never mind, that's another rant. I'll call it soccer so everyone will know what the hell I'm talking about, and so I won't look like a pissy, purse-lipped grammar-control-freak pain in the ass. Even though I pretty much am.

Soccer is here, and in the big leagues, too: a brand spanking new MLS expansion team. For you US football fans, that's Major League Soccer. Pretty much analogous to an NFL team. Yeah, baby. That's right.

So I'm pretty excited.

I remember the '06 World Cup, not so long after I moved here. I was using vacation hours to go home and watch those matches. And I didn't have that much vacation time saved up back then, either. I was stoked. I was also floored that no one seemed to know what the hell I was talking about! I got comments like, "World Cup, what is that, sailing?" or "Oh, I didn't know soccer was that popular." What? Sailing? Are you serious? You didn't know it was that popular? Um, the World Cup final is THE most watched sporting event ever! It's actually US football that's "not that popular", in the big scheme of things, people. Jeez. Some perspective, please. Don't get me wrong, I love American football too. Go 'Hawks.

In fact, what is it with this either-or thing with US football fans? The whole soccer v. American football thing? It's like you can only like one or the other. If you ask someone whether they like soccer, the reply is likely to be, "Nah, I like real football." Yeah? Me too. I like real football and American football. What does one have to do with the other? US football is not a replacement for soccer. It's not even similar. It's not like baseball and softball, for Pete's sake. You might as well say, no, I don't like golf, I'm a croquet man myself. Or, nah, I'm not much into tennis, ping pong is my game! Oh, that sounds silly? Yeah, well that's about how related soccer and US football are, people. You don't have to choose. I've always thought that was some kind of weird sports dichotomy.

Anyway. They won their first regular season game 3 - zip against the New York Red Bulls. Hell yeah.

They're apparently the first football club to have their own marching band, Sound Wave, which is pretty friggin' awesome.

They've already sold more season tickets than any other MLS club. New as they are, too! That's impressive. Apparently the fans did Qwest field proud, rivaling Seawhawks fans in noise level, and standing practically the whole time. Yeah, baby. Hoo-ah.

Anyway, MLS in Seattle, folks. Next game is this Saturday. Bring beer.

Xylitol: Sugarless Gum Can Kill Your Dog

2009-03-23T18:46:00.000-07:00

Last week Batman ate some Orbit Sweet Mint sugarless gum. The rogue canine taught himself how to pull open the junk drawer - yes, it's the top drawer. He pulled out a box of gum from Costco, along with a bag of hinges, instructions for the thermostat, a couple of magic markers, and some pizza coupons. I don't know how many packs of gum were left in the box, but in hindsight, I don't think it could have been many.

Oh. No wonder you look so guilty. Foolish labradog, how much gum did you eat? Did you learn nothing from that emergency surgery situation? Yeah, that's right, hang your head, I'm talking about the Great Tampon Escapade, not to mention the Toothpick Incident. You'd think that would've cured you from indiscriminately snarfing down whatever you come across.

Well, when you're blowing bubbles out your ass, don't come whining to me.

But then, I thought, I'd better look this up. Just in case. And I was stunned. Orbit has an ingredient called Xylitol, a natural sugar alcohol, first harvested from the bark of birch trees in Finland, and found in various fruits, vegetables, berries, even mushrooms. Xylitol has been used in Europe for some time now, but didn't find its way to the US market until about 2003. It's used in sugarless gums, candies, and in some baked goods.

Xylitol is great for humans -- it's natural, has no aftertaste, is as sweet as sugar with only 40% of the calories, and studies have proven it actually reduces cavities. Something about the way it interacts with bacteria in the mouth. It's a godsend for diabetics, as it does not require insulin to metabolize, therefore does not impact blood sugar levels. And it tastes great. There are even studies suggesting a possible use in fighting osteoporosis! Great stuff, right? So what's the catch?

The catch, for dog owners, is that it can kill your dog. And it doesn't take much. I was lucky I didn't come home to a dead dog last week, people.

Dogs metabolize Xylitol much differently than we humans do. We process the stuff slowly. Dogs' bodies metabolize it all once. Xylitol tricks the dog's body into dumping massive amounts of insulin into the system, but guess what, there's no actual sugar there for the insulin to act on. The dog's blood sugar levels plummet, and acute hypoglycemia sets in.

Within 30 to 60 minutes, a dog can present with lethargy, ataxia, seizures, and even unconsciousness. Basically a diabetic coma. If it is not addressed quickly, the dog can die.

The other problem dogs face, in addition to the hypoglycemia, is liver failure. This can be accompanied by internal bleeding, due to clotting abnormalities. Even a dog exhibiting few hypoglycemic symptoms can end up with liver damage, or even acute hepatic failure. The liver damage may not manifest until 12 - 48 hours after ingestion, and it can be permanent.

There is no antidote for canine Xylitol poisoning. The acute hypoglycemia can be countered by inducing vomiting if the ingestion is discovered quickly, and/or by administering a dextrose IV solution. However, if the hypoglycemia is not treated quickly, liver damage or failure can follow, and vets are not able to do as much for that.

If you see any of these symptoms in your dog, especially if you suspect your dog may have had access to sugarless gum, candy, or sweets, get your dog to the vet immediately:

Weakness or lethargy
Pale gums
Ataxia (uncoordinated movements)
Depression
Vomiting or diarrhea
Hypokalemia (decreased potassium)
Seizures
Collapse
Unconsciousness
Liver dysfunction and/or failure

If discovered quickly, and you're sure about what your dog has ingested, you can induce vomiting using fresh hydrogen peroxide, 1tsp (5cc or 5ml) for each 10 lbs of body weight. (I've done this with Batman before, and it took 4 or 5 tsp. He weighs nearly 70 lbs. I did it with Mason once, it only took 1 tsp.) CALL YOUR VET FIRST: depending on your dog's symptoms, s/he may advise against inducing vomiting to avoid possible aspiration into the lungs, or if more than 2 hours has passed since the ingestion. Activated charcoal does not effectively absorb Xylitol in the stomach.

After hours, you can call the ASPCA 24-hour emergency poison hotline directly at 1-888-426-4435. They may apply a $60 charge, but you don't have time to waste if your dog has eaten this stuff. If this happens after hours, take your dog to a 24-hr emergency animal hospital. You guys know I don't say that lightly -- I know how much that costs.

What happened to Batman? He showed few symptoms, but that is apparently NOT typical. He was lethargic, but not terribly. I paid $160 to have the vet run complete blood work and liver enzymes on him, and tell me he was going to be fine. My vet said a few dogs seem to react more mildly to Xylitol than most. Apparently Batman is one of those few. I feel like he cheated death. I'd swear that dog has 9 lives.

Let me stress, that is not the norm. I read story after story on the Internets about people coming home to dead, unconscious, or seizing dogs. Dogs DIE from this. Not just a few here and there, either. Others are euthanized because the damage to the liver is too severe in the end. Some dogs are under critical care treatment for days or even a week. This is nothing to mess around with, folks. It happens fast, and it doesn't take much. A couple of sticks of some gums can kill a smaller dog. Batman is the exception - extreme illness or death are the normal results. I read about a dog named Copper who died from eating the exact same gum that Batman ate.

By all rights, Batman should've been dead by the time I got home.

Most Americans don't know about Xylitol. Many vets are still unaware of the dangers. The number of cases is rising quickly, as more and more products use Xylitol. If the owner is unaware that Rover got some Tic Tacs from the car, or snatched some gum from an open purse, those incidents get chalked up to an unknown cause, so the number of deaths is probably higher than reported.

For the record, other sweeteners like sorbitol and mannitol are not harmful to dogs. The gum Batman ate had Xylitol listed as "less than 2%", with sorbitol as the first ingredient, and mannitol also listed. Other gums, like Trident, have higher amounts. Orbit made a new line called Orbit Complete, in which the main draw is the high levels of Xylitol. Like I said, it's great for human teeth.

There is pressure on the FDA and manufacturers to use warning labels. The FDA says they're in the business of people, not animals. The manufacturers are afraid people will think the product itself is bad, when actually it's just the way dogs process it. So, no labels yet. Greedyass corporate bastards. Capitalism at its best.

So no cookies, gummy bites, muffins, mints, or gum for Fido. I'm glad we still have Batman. I read a lot of heartbreaking stories about people who lost their animals. Be careful with your canine friends, people.

Steele - They Love Him, They Love Him Not.

2009-03-13T17:57:00.000-07:00

So Michael Steele is having to backtrack again. Remember when his party got their panties in a bunch about his "sea of white faces" comment at their convention? Then recently, he had to apologize for calling Rush Limbaugh's rhetoric "incendiary" and "ugly". Now he's in hot water for saying maybe abortion should be left up to the states, and implying that it's a matter of choice. Mercy. The Repubs had him backtracking so fast on that one, I'm surprised the man didn't trip over his shoelaces.

Watch out Mr. Steele - the far Reich isn't down with that whole marching to a different drummer thing. They prefer a nice uniform lockstep. Like the Borg. No dissension in the ranks.

I really don't see what all the apologizing is about. I mean, come on, Rush Limbaugh is a right-wing radio host. He gets paid to be incendiary. Saying he's incendiary is not an insult, it's a job description. And the Republican convention WAS a sea of white faces. I mean, damn, I'd have been scared to be there, and I'm white.

And states' rights -- aren't the Repubs all about states' rights? Wasn't that whole "war of Northern aggression" thing over states' rights? Well, when it comes to women's bodies, they're apparently not for states' rights. My bad. I guess big government up in your business is OK in that case.

Yeah, I'm pretty disgusted with that slum love comment he threw at Bobby Jindal, and some of the ways he's going about his mission of Republican change make me cringe, but I have to admit, I feel for the man. The Repubs are just salivating all over themselves, they can't wait for him to fail. They are on his ass like, well, white on rice.

I'm sure Steele knows what's up. Whether he can say so publicly or not, he's got to know the Repubs didn't give a good goddamn about diversity in the ranks until they saw the Dem candidates for president. Then all of a sudden, up they pop with Palin, Jindal, and Steele.

Kumbaya, y'all.

I think Steele genuinely does want to bring change to the Right. Granted, his methods are odd, but let's face it, ANY way the Right tries to bring hip hop to the ranks is going to seem odd as hell, right? I don't agree with most of his views -- hello, Republican -- but I can see that he sees his party imploding. He sees they need to branch the hell out, quit letting the wingnut evangelicals run the joint, bring in the young people. Balance out the old white men. So he's trying to make change to save his party, poor guy.

Problem is, the GOP doesn't really want to change. They know they need to -- thus their new shining stars -- but they don't want to. They don't want Steele to actually do anything different. They just want him to stand there, look diverse, and do what the hell they tell him to do.

Gee, Michael, we didn't expect you to take this Change thing seriously! Stop fooling around and get in step!

So as much as I'm delighting in the ongoing right wing implosion, I'm thinking what they're doing with Michael is pretty fucked up. They put him in place to illustrate change, but that's all they wanted to do - illustrate it. Once they saw him taking it seriously, using his position of power to do things differently, they got nervous. Now they're circling like sharks, waiting for him to step too far out of line, and at that point, it's win-win for them: they get that cookie for hiring the Black guy, without actually having to deal with him being in power. They can say it's not their fault. They tried, but gee, he just wasn't up to the task. The unspoken message being, of course, those people just aren't up to the task. Which allows the good ol' boys to get back to normal. I can see them now, mopping their brows with their handkerchiefs, "Whew! That was close! I thought he was one of the good ones, too!"

I'm no more a fan of Mr. Steele than I am any other right winger, but I hope he hangs tough. Either way, his party is pretty much in the toilet for the forseeable future. Come on, Mr. Steele, look around. Those old white dudes are basically pushing you out on a plank. If you decide to jump ship and come to Blue side, let us know.

Steele Yourself for Some Slum Love.

2009-03-08T12:08:00.000-07:00

(The last of the drafts from my sick day. It's outdated now, but what the hell, it's a post.)

So, did you all catch Michael Steele, newly minted chairman of the Republican National Committee yukking it up with a white conservative talking head about giving Bobby Jindal some "slum love"?

Curtis Sliwa: Now, using a little bit of that street terminology, are you giving him any Slum love, Michael?

Michael Steele: (laughter)

Curtis Sliwa: Because he is -- when guys look at him and young women look at him -- they say oh, that's the slumdog millionaire, governor. So, give me some slum love.

Michael Steele: I love it. (inaudible)...some slum love out to my buddy, Gov. Bobby Jindal is doing a friggin' awesome job in his state. He's really turned around on some core principles -- like hey, government ought not be corrupt.

WTF, Michael? You think that's acceptable? You think that's funny? Why would you not call his ass on that? What kind of message is that to send out to a national audience?

Sadly, there's more. Click on the link up there to catch Steele's comments about Obama having bling-bling in the stimulus package, Sliwa imagining Mitt Romney high-fiving Ludacris, offering to play Jay-Z while Steele exits, and more condescending banter.

I find it hard to believe that Michael Steele didn't recognize what Sliwa was doing - almost every word out of Sliwa's mouth was that patronizing crap White folks do when they want to show they're Down With Diversity. Here's the thing, it's good to see Republican POCs in leadership positions within their party, but if the Republican party will only choose those who tout the far-right party line, people who are safe, who will laugh this kind of racist bullshit off -- who will participate in it rather than call it out -- I don't know. I mean, congrats on your new position and all, Mr. Steele, but I'm thinking that in some ways, you're doing more harm than good.

I've written before about the difference I've seen in my son since President Obama's election. I would like for my son to see POCs in leadership positions across party lines. It's healthy to hear differing opinions, apply those critical thinking skills. What's not healthy is for young people of color to see the results of internalized racial oppression played out on a national stage like it's comedy hour or something. What's not healthy is for young white kids to see the flip side of that and get a nice confirmation for their internalized racial superiority that they're probably not even aware of.

How many Indian kids in our high schools and middle schools are catching slumdog jokes this week? Do you feel OK perpetuating that, Michael Steele? Participating in it?

I've heard a lot of talk about how we're now in a post-racial society. Really? Because I'm having more conversations than ever with my son about all of these things. Seems like every time I turn on the news, something else needs to be addressed: the RNC's Magic Negro Christmas CD, the infamous Post cartoon, the backlash to AG Holder's "nation of cowards" speech, Miley Cyrus' I-wasn't-mocking-Asians bullshit, Michelle Bachman's "you be da man" gushing to Michael Steele, the slum love thing ... just to name a few.

Basically, that slum love situation sends a message to young people of color that you'd better step in line, ignore racism, even participate in racist jokes if you want to get anywhere, at least on the conservative side of the house. And you'd best suppress any pain or anger or resentment -- laugh that shit off, because hey, you know we're just joking, buddy. You know we don't mean you. Golly, we don't even think of you as Black! We don't even see color!

Well I'm sorry, but that interview was bullshit. And yes, I know it's easy for me to pontificate from my couch, to criticize, when I'll never have to live Steele's reality as a man of color. Fair enough. But when my son sees Michael Steele laughing with some White conservative hack about Bobby Jindal being a slumdog millionaire governor, my son needs to know that is not OK.

I've a feeling this is just the beginning of a long line of fucked up racist situations to be paraded across our nightly news, as the Repubs get Down With Diversity. Lately, I feel like it's all I can do to keep up, and honestly, you're making my job harder, Michael Steele.

I understand that arming my son with the knowledge to recognize and work against systemic racism is my responsiblity, not yours, but damn, I sure wish he could've seen YOU call it out, Mr. Steele. We expect that stuff from the Rush Limbaughs and the Curtis Sliwas out there, but having to battle against your example with my son ... that's something else altogether. It matters.

Bobby, You're Doin' a Heckuva Job!

2009-03-03T17:41:00.000-08:00

Stardate: Monday, March 2nd. Cowbell's Log: Male Offspring is home from school now, but (shh) hasn't taken his computer back yet. I'm assuming this means he doesn't have any homework, not that he isn't doing his homework.

So I'm blogging. I know, I just blogged this morning. Crazy, right? It's almost like having a computer again. I feel like one of those monkeys with unlimited access to cocaine who keep pushing the button until they're coked out. Pace myself, I know. I'm saving this one and another as drafts to publish later. Dole it out. Make it last.

Guys, there have been so many things I've wanted to blog about. When I do get some time, it's hard to write about anything serious, because I know I'll only have the computer for a limited time. Pressure. Like a timed test, but without the number 2 pencil. Of course, now that I have a computer in front me, my mind is a complete blank, but trust me, there's a lot I wanted to blog about. The Inauguration, for one. OK, never mind, too much pressure to put THAT into words. Male Offspring will be here any minute. What else?

Oh, I know.

Fast forward to President Obama's speech last week. How good does it feel to have a competent leader at the helm? And how good does it feel to watch my son watching the President's speech? Every time the man speaks, Male Offspring is right there. He watches the news more now, too. Discusses issues. Ask questions. Talks about his opinions. Says his President rocks. To those folks who "just don't see color", and think it doesn't matter if a role model is green, purple or polka-dot ... it matters. It matters a lot.

So the son and I watch the speech. Then comes the Republican response. People ... what the hell was that? I'm sorry, but Bobby Jindal looked like one of those dolls where you pull a string and he talks. I think they wound his string too tight.

You know how, when people are on stage -- singing, speaking, playing violin, whatever -- and it's so bad that you're embarrassed for them? It was like that. It reminded me of high school, when Scott Fitzgerald sang I Got Rhythm at the spring concert. Except he didn't. Have rhythm, that is. Sweet boy, but ... no. It was excruciating. I remember squirming, watching him stiffly snapping his fingers off the beat while singing at the floor, his voice occasionally cracking. God, I wanted to disappear in a hole for him.

Bobby Jindal was about like that, on the stiff and awkward scale. I kept waiting for someone to use his tie like one of those big stage hooks, and reel him off stage.

He started off like he was in some weird "who's the most ethnic" contest or something. Did you all catch that? He's all like, oh yeah, keep your Hawaii and Indonesia and Kenyan father -- MY parents were immigrants! My mom was 4 months pregnant with me when we got here, so I was like a pre-existing condition! [stretch lips over teeth, force chuckle, hold for 2 beats]

Really? So ... in the Republican response, you not only want to bring up immigration, but immigrants entering the country shortly before giving birth to a child who will then be an American citizen, via the US health care system? Look dude, maybe nobody briefed you, but your party is against immigration. And immigrants having babies here. And immigrants having access to health care. Yeah, it's kind of a major party platform. So ... where were you going with that? And the Hurricane Katrina bit? Whose brainchild was that? Psst, Bobby: your party blew the whole Katrina thing. Bad. It's true. You guys were basically a laughingstock. Not sure where you were going with that one, either.

So I'm sitting there asking, where's the response? He's supposed to be responding to the President's speech. Did he even listen to the President's speech? Did no one forward them a transcript? Did his staff set him up? Because really, there's a bit of a disconnect here.

Male Offspring didn't respond to my questions right away. He was sort of entranced, mouth half-open, brows furrowed. I think the tie hypnotized him.

I really was expecting more. This is the great hope of the Republican party? If he and Sarah Youbetcha Palin are the rising stars ... oh hell yeah, we've got our 8 years in the bag. Bobby you're doin' a heckuva job!

Stalking Anthony Bourdain

2009-03-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

I'm home with a roiling gut today. This is what it takes for me to get time on Male Offspring's computer. Hey, anything for you guys.

No. Still no replacement for The Brick. I got a hellacious heating bill I wasn't expecting, and Teen Demon surprised me by being unable to pay for her 6 months of car insurance. Yeah. The Partying 101 that "isn't affecting her school work" is sure as hell affecting her financial acumen. At this rate, Windows 7 will be out before I get a new blog machine. Silver lining and all that.

So anyway, I'm dividing my time between the couch and the bathroom. I'll spare you the bathroom nitty gritty, and stick with the couchside goings on. Because that is where I'm hanging with my man, Anthony Bourdain. Yes, the Travel Channel. I know, right? With a cuisine twist thrown in, no less. But trust me, this guy is no Rick Steves or Samantha Brown. No offense to Rick or Sam. Just not my thing.

I watched Samantha once. Destination Ireland. The whole time, I was like, OK, is she really trying to do a fake Irish accent? It was intermittent, but definitely there. Weird! And what's with the cheery, eager beaver act? Girl would be perfect working the Starbucks drive-thru speaker at 5am. That brand of perky just pisses me off. But guess what came on right afterward? Anthony Bourdain's Ireland show! I know, too good, right? I don't know what those folks at the Travel Channel were thinking - are they going for a mass exodus of SamFans over to Anthony's side of the pub? Basically here's the difference: kissing the blarney stone with an affected faux-Irish accent complete with cheesy soundtrack, versus quaffing Guinness in a smoky bar after a walk through Belfast, Northern Ireland, touching on the not-so-cheery history between the Protestants and Catholics.

Yeah, pour me the Guinness.

Most travel shows work my last nerve with their exoticism and touristy bullshit. I will actually set a reminder for Tony's show. There I said it. I'm addicted to a travel/foodie show.

He's so goddamn appealing.

This guy is the only smoker and pork ~~eater~~ worshipper that I could consider dating. Or marrying. Or stalking. Whatever. Those of you who know how extremely anti-cigi I am, in addition to my vegetarian status, will appreciate the depth of my obsession, here.

Anthony's show, No Reservations, comes with a parental warning. A deliciously sardonic New Yorker, the FCC's obscenity rules are clearly not foremost in his mind. He tends to drink a lot. I don't mean like sampling a good Cabernet with dinner. I mean like slamming it back and dealing with the hangover later. He also says "fuck" a lot and is basically irreverent, caustic, and sexy in a tall, slightly bowlegged, boots-and-leather-jacket kind of way. He's likely to bust out with a "holy shit!" while masticating a juicy mouthful of meat, and you'll never catch him with an umbrella in his drink. And yes, he can occasionally slide toward disdainful when it comes to his travel and food compatriots:

I think the Travel Channel knows it's not getting Jamie Oliver or Rachel Ray when they throw their lot in with me.

Even Samantha Brown would have a hard time summoning a "wow" for this.

He eschews the tourist traps and 5-star restaurants, heading instead for street vendors, family meals, and, as a self-described aficionado of the dive bar, any place where local home brew and home cooking can be found.

He will eat any local specialty, from seal eyes to chicken anus to still-squirming octopus tentacles. What's cool about that though, is that he doesn't do it in that "Ohmygod this is so exotic and freakish, watch me gross you out!" kind of way. (Andrew Zimmern, I'm looking at you.) No, rather than playing the obnoxious dude-check-this-out American, Tony, for all his general snarkiness, is all about genuine learning, about respecting and honoring the people, cultures and traditions of the countries he visits. He uses his show as a vehicle to challenge assumptions and stereotypes. You can see he is honored that people would invite him to their tables, share their food and their stories.

So yeah, I'm smitten with a travel show foodie. I was considering becoming a full time groupie, when my stalking turned up the inconvenient fact that he's now married, and has a little girl. He's apparently a very proud parent:

...she goes absolutely bat shit over risotto made with wild nettles. And when her Mom dips a finger in the local red wine, she greatly prefers it to juice. This makes me very proud.

Damn. I missed my window. Word on the street is, he even gave up the smoking in the interest of extended parenthood. Cruel irony. Guess I'll have to be content with the window of my TV screen, like the rest of the fans. Stay sweet, Tony.

OK, stay snarky. Whatever.

Love's Recovery, Redux.

2009-02-15T12:11:00.000-08:00

I'm not one for reposting. I figure asking you guys to digest my rants and occasional introspections more than once is a sure recipe for losing one's blog buddies. Kind of like never posting, but hey, what do you want with The Brick dying and all? Come on people, Male Offspring practically has me on a timer with his machine. I only get the laptop itself, not the cable. My thoughts must be contained within a single battery cycle. That's some pressure. Talk about blogger's block.

Anyway, I was going to throw up a bitter blurb about Singles Awareness Day, to combat the saccharine dregs of those sexist PajamaGram and Vermont Teddy Bear commercials still clinging to my neurons, so I clicked through my archives to ensure I wouldn't end up repeating myself too much. You know, like a blogger version of Uncle Frankie or BoBo who tells the same stories over and over. There's one in every family. I thought last year I'd just posted the requisite anti-Valentine's Day rant, yada yada, but it turns out I wrote more than that. Yes people, I waxed nostalgic. It happens.

Today, the day after Valentine's Day, is Singles Awareness Day. It is also my ex-anniversary. Somebody call Alanis. I daresay that last year I did indeed move beyond rant to introspection, and y'all know that doesn't happen every day around here.

So. much like Uncle BoBo, I'm doing a rare repost, because it did me good to reread this today, and I think I'm not the only one who could do with a counterweight to the pinkery vomited over us during Hearts & Teddy Bear season. Plus, I'd forgotten about it. So, from the archives, a Cowbell journey through love, life, and wising the fuck up:

--------------------------------------------------------

This post is a day late and a dollar short, which is perfect, considering the subject. Yesterday, February 15th, was Singles Awareness Day. It was also my former anniversary. I know, right? We didn't have rain on our wedding day, but really, one's former anniversary falling on Singles Awareness Day is even better. We were supposed to be married on Valentine's Day, but had to wait a day for the license. Every year people asked, "Why didn't you just get married on Valentine's Day?"

I think it worked out perfectly. Single's Awareness Day was just waiting to amuse me.

Lots of single folks bemoan the existence of Valentine's Day. The flowers, the chocolates, the jewelry, the surprise dinners, the chipped teeth from hidden rings in cakes and champagne. Even partnered people hate Valentine's Day. The pressure to think of something unique with which to prove your unflagging love. The unspoken competition to outdo your girlfriend's girlfriends' boyfriends. The whole thing seems a cunning conspiracy meant to torture partnered men and single women alike, stamped with the Hallmark gold seal of approval.

Whatever, I say. Valentine's Day does not find me tracing the tracks of my tears to the strains of old love songs, it does not find me lamenting lost relationships through the sad filter of a lone wine glass. Valentine's Day, these days, is just another day. If anything, it reminds me that I am strong, that I have choice, that there are many things worse than not having a partner. It reminds me that being alone does not have to mean being lonely. Singles Awareness Day falling on my former anniversary is just a deliciously ironic twist.

And you all know I love some twisted humor.

Back in the 80s the Ex and I, soldiers both, in the service of Uncle Sam, were dating. We met in communications school, after Basic Training, through a twisted course of mistaken identities, which is another tale altogether. Anyway, after a few months, our class came down on orders. His orders were for Germany. Mine, Ft. Huachuca, Arizona. Now those of you familiar with my sun addiction, know that Arizona could've well been the best thing to ever happen to me. Being embroiled in the throes of young lust, however, we were devastated. Long convoluted story short, we made the only choice that kids who think they know everything could make: "Let's get married! Then we can apply for the Army Married Couples program and be together forever!" So we did. My orders to Arizona were changed to Germany, and the course of my life was changed forever.

Three years later, the Bohemian was born, and not long after, Teen Demon made her raucous entry into the world. After a suitable time of recovery, the Male Offspring finished off the fruits of my labors. These are the positives I took away from 10 years of marriage, and the reason I can't regret the choice made on a long ago February 15th.

The 11th year found me back in the States, by choice, after discovering that the "forsaking all others" bit had fallen by the wayside along about the time I'd been laboring with Male Offspring. February 15th of that 11th year brought, not an anniversary, but a legal summons delivery, informing me that the Ex had changed his mind on our agreement. He now wanted full custody.

I came away with custody and a load of debt that took years to repay. The Ex and I got past our differences, I went back to Europe and we had a great co-parenting relationship for about 8 years, all told. That was actually a best-of-both-worlds deal; the kids had both parents, we each had a built in babysitter for hot date nights or weekend trips. Those of you who know the rest of the story are aware that this, unfortunately, did not continue. The Ex now lives 12 time zones away rather than across town, co-parenting has gone the way of the dodo, and he brings his new family along for his annual week with our kids.

All of this leading to the point that things change, and we get through. The Valentine's Day - February 15th combo has run the emotional gamut for me, over the years. From new love and happiness, to security, to devastation, to bitterness, to indifference, to wry humor. I came out the other side, and can laugh now, because time allows me to see that what I once believed was the worst thing that could happen to me, was, in actuality, the best. Once, I was devasted to the point of being unable to function. I couldn't comprehend how my heart could continue to beat, how my lungs could continue to draw breath, how my organs could continue to function minute by minute in the face of such unimaginable pain. Seriously, I wondered how my body didn't just die.

It didn't. These days, what seems unimaginable to me is the thought of still being in that marriage, and I mean even if the vows had remained intact. What's unimaginable these days is the thought of not going through that, of not knowing myself. We made a damn good go of it ... we were 18 year old foolish kids from different cultures at opposite ends of the country, who'd known each other 3 months. We made it 10 years and 3 fantastic kids on that platform, far from friends and family, with minimal support. We had a good run, and the kids, the lasting proof of that erstwhile union, are already making a positive impact on society. But the marriage was not the right place for me to be.

So Valentine's Day and February 15th aren't much more than a blip on the calendar for me these days. A toast to choices made. No regrets.

Hindsight is a clearsighted bitch, y'all.

Happy love yourself day.

There I am in younger days, star gazing
Painting picture perfect maps
Of how my life and love would be
Not counting the unmarked paths of misdirection,
My compass, faith in love's perfection,
I missed ten million miles of road I should have seen

Indigo Girls, Love's Recovery

Dear Split End Salon

2009-02-13T20:05:00.000-08:00

Dear Split End Salon at Aurora Village in Shoreline WA,

Thank you for the complimentary hair cut I received at your shop yesterday. Of course, the term "complimentary" loses its value a bit when it means free because we fucked your hair up so badly that we couldn't, in good conscience, charge you.

Please let your stylist Laura know that the Kristy McNichol look is over. As is the Florence Henderson mushroom top with accompanying flip. It wasn't cute then, and it's really just laughable now. The short choppy layers, the butchered bangs, the feathering? Not flattering, and so not necessary. Let it go. Yes, I admit, I was crushing on Shaun Cassidy in the 70s, but do you really think I want to see an older, fatter version of him staring back at me from my mirror? That shit's not funny. This morning, while brushing my teeth, I had the overwhelming urge to pull a crazyass Britney Spears move with my son's clippers.

Also, I'd like to point out that the last thing a client wants to hear, while sitting in one of your vinyl chairs, is the stylist sucking in her breath with an, Oh Jesus! I'm so sorry... Yeah, really, that sentence should just never be uttered in a hair salon. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's legal cause for a justifiable beatdown.

Apparently, your current hiring practices include taking on the layoffs from Super Cuts, because I haven't had such a bad haircut since my mom swindled me into getting the Dorothy Hammill in 4th grade. Even the basic training cut I got at Fort Jackson worked better than this. Truth be told, my drill sergeant's cut worked better than this.

When family, friends and colleagues do not reassure you with the requisite Bad Haircut Platitudes, you know it's bad. When your new haircut draws no comments at all, and you work around all women and gay men, it's a sure sign something has gone awry.

When the comments you DO get are So ... what made you cut your hair? or Are you going to grow it out again? that's a clue that someone with some scissors fucked up your head in a major way. (I'm looking at you, Laura.) My own son brought me pity-coffee at work today. He also snapped a picture of my head with his cell phone before running away. I'm pretty sure it's already been sent to his sisters at college, or possibly posted on the Internets.

A military high-and-tight suddenly doesn't seem quite so drastic. I will not, however, be coming to your shop to get it. In fact, I will never set foot in your salon again. I've made sure to tell anyone who asks, exactly where I got my "interesting haircut". Nothing like a living, breathing - and yes, crying - advertisement, is there?

In closing, may I suggest you screen your stylists a little more carefully? In this economy, I'd imagine you have lots of potential hires to choose from. A little quality control would be nice. You had a good thing going - Adrienne, Halona, or Nicole M. would never have let this shit go down. Your standards have slipped.

And Laura, honey, you need to know that being apologetic and friendly does not make up for me living with this fucked up feathered shag on my head. I'm sure you're a nice person, but you should not be wielding scissors in a professional capacity. If I were you, I'd cross the street if you see me coming any time in the next few months. If I knew where you lived, I'd put Nair in your shampoo bottle. That may sound bitchy, but really honey, don't you think you have it coming? You fucked up my hair. Someone actually used the word "bouffant" in a conversation with me today. Again - that shit's not funny.

Split End Salon, I spit in your general direction. Thanks for the memories.

Disgruntledly Yours,
A Former Client

What, a Fat Chick Can't Be a Superhero?

2009-02-12T10:52:00.001-08:00

Yes, The Brick is still dead. No, I do not have a new computer yet. Who has the time? No, seriously. I'm a busy girl. And how am I supposed to research the newest computer chips and whatnot without a friggin' computer? When I do get to hop on the son's computer for a hot minute, I'm dealing with the lethargic, slothful ways of Vista. Nothing like surfing via Vista for a while to turn you off from shopping for computers, let me tell you. So, still computerless, still cut off from my cyberlife. But hey, as soon as I can employ a personal shopper to handle that shit for me, you guys will be the first to know.

So I'm not in the office today. Thus the blog entry. Male Offspring is at school, so I jacked his computer. I hopped around to a few of your sites (Yes, I'm woefully behind on all your lives, again) where I found this whole superhero thing going on. Always something in the blogosphere. Hmm, make my own superhero. OK. That could be empowering. A Super Cowbell. Hell yeah. So I click on over the superhero site. While I was waiting for Vista to load it up, I made coffee and fed the dogs.

The superhero site was kind of fun. So many options. Different hairstyles, accessories, skin tones, outfits, wings, capes, gloves ... you can make your superhero be anything you want.

Except fat.

Here's my superhero.

Girl needs to eat a hamburger. And that's coming from a vegetarian. The only reason her hips and thighs look like a size 6 instead of a size 2 is because I chose these armor-like superhero pants. Or tights. Whatever. They look like they'd actually protect her while she's out kicking villian ass. All the other lower body options made her look like an even skinnier bitch than she already is.

I actually like the chunky lime green boots. Provides that visual balance to the wasp waist and Hello Kitty bedecked breastage, don't you think? They did not have any armor-like upper body wear to match the lower bits. They did, however, have little half shirts and sports bra type deals. Because that offers so much protection for superhero work. I guess protecting The Girls also means obscuring them. Can't have that now, can we? It's fashion over function in the superhero world, ladies, especially when it comes to the Wonder Jugs.

I like my superhero. I love her colors, I love her wings, and hey, there is nothing like combining Hello Kitty with a magic whip to keep the bad guys guessing. That's when you unload a major ass-kicking on the villian; when he's gawking at the Kitty, trying to figure out what your whip is for.

But. This superhero doesn't look like me. Actually, her face kind of does, which is pretty creepy, but that's beside the point. Why can't my superhero be a size 14? OK, fine, 16. Whatever. I'm not saying every single size should be available, but damn, if they can offer 57 hairstyles, 25 skin tones, and 8 different eye patches, they could at least offer small, medium, large, and super phat for the bod, right?

Maybe when the clothes manufacturers start making decent clothes for fat women, other places will follow suit. Like the Make Your Own Superhero site.

Ding Dong, The Brick is Dead.

2009-01-26T11:45:00.000-08:00

It's true. After years of long and faithful service, The Brick is beyond resuscitation. And I do mean years. For a laptop, The Brick was like that old dude in the Guinness book of world records who lived off yogurt and goats' milk his whole life. Seriously, The Brick is like 114 in laptop years. I think he's 9 or even 10 in people years. He was given to me in 2000 or 2001, and even then, he was a hand-me-down from my boss.

He was practically state of the art at the time. He had a docking station, so I used him at home and at work, toting him hither and yon in a stylish, if clunky, Dell laptop case. This was quite convenient for my boss, what with all those extra hours. Overtime? What is this, the States?

The Brick went about his duties, sitting proudly in his docking station, drawing oohs and ahhs from my buddies working for other subcontractors, still chained to their desktop towers. But that was another era. A time of floppy drives, hard-wired Ethernet connections, and 256MB of RAM. A time when Windows 98 was still kicking ass and taking names, and a GB was just a twinkle in some techie's eye.

In recent days, The Brick plodded along, with his old version of Explorer and his chunky plug-in wireless card, fans blowing hell bent for metal. Plugging in a flash drive caused him to warn me that I was about to use a USB 2.0 device with a USB-Methuselah port. Photos eventually had to be stored on an external hard drive. Also USB 2.0. iTunes was out of the question. But he bravely chugged along even as new computers took up residence for the Offspring, each more advanced than the last.

My frequent outbursts of frustration and yes, even rage, at his sluggish ways, his tiffs with the wireless router, his short memory, and the death of his battery didn't phase him. He just kept plodding along. Well, unless he shut down or refused to connect, but hey, he tried.

He outlasted The Bohemian's laptop, new to her in 2005. And I'd still put him up against that Vista crap on Male Offspring's flashy machine, any day. (Yes, even dead, I'd put him up against Vista.)

So, no, I haven't been blogging, checking emails, or twittering. The Brick has finally given up the ghost, and I am without technology. Reduced to watching bad TV and (gasp) reading books. Call it a mourning period. Or call it being cash-strapped after the damn Roof Debaucle of 2008. Whatever. I am working on procuring a new computer - not that any new machine, with its megabytes and glossy widescreen could ever truly replace The Brick, but my blogging career is suffering, and I feel cut off from the information highway. I never realized how many questions I pose to the Oracle of the Googles every day until The Brick's untimely death. Well, I guess it wasn't really untimely, but you get my meaning.

Please keep The Brick in your thoughts, as he journeys to the next phase of the cyber realm. May he have Explorer 8, many gigs of RAM, and USB 2.0 in the afterworld. Rest in peace, my boxy, recalcitrant friend ... your work here is done.

As for me, never fear, I'm sure I'll have much to bitch about. One word: Vista.

So I Lied.

2009-01-14T18:43:00.000-08:00

"So, I'll probably actually be blogging again for a while."

Yeah. So I lied.

If anyone knows what it means when your computer powers up, the background picture shows up, but nothing else on the desktop does, let me know, mmm-kay? Yeah, no task bar, no icons, no Start button, nothing. This happened after I got 2 quarantine notifications from Norton. Damn Trojans. Always slipping in and making trouble.

Those notifications came after a certain Teen Demon used my computer to "communicate" with her friends. I put forth a mandate, long ago, clearly stating that no AOL, MySpace, chatters, or their ilk shall ever be installed or accessed from The Brick. Henceforth and whereas. Put that crap on your own machine. Mine can't handle it. But, being snowed in, and her computer having access problems after coming back from the college network, she ignored my edict and indulged in a day's worth of friending, chatting, and LOLing. The next time I powered up, hello Norton notification, goodbye desktop.

I told you! But noooo, Mom's just being silly. She doesn't know what she's talking about. AOL never hurt anyone. MySpace doesn't spam. Look, I may not be the world's foremost computer expert, but I know The Brick. It's a very sensitive machine. Only the basics. If I say no crap spam-meister LOL OMG stuff, I mean it. Damn it.

SO not ROFLing here, folks.

So if anyone knows what the hell that no-desktop business means, or how to fix it, let me know.

Oh, and Happy Friggin' New Year.

Christmas in the Northwest

2008-12-24T12:04:00.001-08:00

It snowed last night. Again. They've predicted another wave for this afternoon. We're way past White Christmas here, folks. Picture, thousand words, enjoy.

Holly berries

The little apple tree in the side yard.

Snow on green leaves

A lone leaf hangs on.

Bird house

Icicles over the back door

A side street in our neighborhood.

The main highway being cleared didn't help this semi truck.

And from the archives, especially for Yellow Dog Granny, who asked where the heck our snowman was, a snow goddess from Christmas past.

Snowbound

2008-12-22T23:03:00.000-08:00

Well, my two week vacation has turned out to be more like house arrest. And if you've never been under house arrest with 3 teenagers bouncing off the walls from cabin fever, let me tell you, it's no Norman Rockwell here, folks. And to think, just a week ago, I was excited at the prospect of finally, just once, Christmas shopping during the day, like a person of leisure, instead of battling the mobs after dark with all the other frazzled, bleary-eyed, homicidal After-Work Shoppers. Sounds like a little thing, but I was really fucking looking forward to that. But no.

You may have heard, since we apparently made it onto the national news, that Western Washington got a visit from Jack fucking Frost.

Snow doesn't bother me. I was practically born with a snow shovel in my hand. I've spent 95% of my life in big snow areas. Areas that actually have snow plows. And salt. Areas that know how to deal with snow. When it snows someplace like Seattle, it basically shuts the joint down. Seattle has about 25 plows for the entire metro area, which is akin to putting out a fire with spit. They ran out of de-icer, and their next shipment can't make it over the pass from eastern WA.

I live north of Seattle, where there are even fewer resources to battle the white stuff. The idea of a snowplow making it even to the main roads where I live is a crap shoot, and I've never heard of regular neighborhood streets getting plowed here. Also, if you are lucky enough to live near a street that does get plowed, they don't put the blade all the way down. They leave about 2" of snow, which, of course, gets compacted and turns to ice. Oh, and they don't use salt here. Apparently, it "damages the roads". Much like snow plow blades, I guess. Maybe so, but places like Ohio and Minnesota and friggin' Kaposvár Hungary seem to do fine with the damn salt, and come on, how often would we even need to salt here in any given winter?

It started snowing about a week ago. Christmas is Thursday, and I've been stuck in the house for a week. Worse, everyone else in the PNW has been stuck inside as well. IF I do make it out to shop before the fat man drops down my chimney, the crowds will make those days of After-Work Shopping seem like a friggin' spa treatment by comparison. That's doubtful though: we're supposed to get more snow starting tomorrow night.

Fuck you, Jack Frost, and the cold front you rode in on. Seattle is NOT the place for this level of Winter Wonderland.

The dorky channel 5 weatherman is in his element. He's practically sporting a snow boner every time the news comes on. He's one of those guys who fancies himself suave and debonair. He's got a 70s moustache and somehow manages to swagger from behind his big weather desk. He wears a leather jacket on-air sometimes. I bet he was a football player back in high school. I can just see him reliving the glory days with the guys over a case of Bud Light. I'd also be willing to bet he uses the term "little lady" as a term of endearment. Anyway, he's a headliner now. Forget the anchors, bitches, Local Weather Guy's at the top of the hour now. Yeah. I watch the other channel with Steve Pool and his Double Doppler Radar.

My normally cynical friend remarked that it must be so cozy being snowed in with family, "with all your babies surrounding you". Why no, as a matter of fact, she doesn't have teenagers. She, incidentally, is house sitting for a mutual friend in a gorgeous abode perched atop one of Seattle's famous hills, with no cable or internet access. Fantastic view, though. She's going nowhere except out of her mind.

Let me tell you, my "babies" have no interest in kicking it with dear old mom in the midst of this frost fest. I haven't even had the nerve to suggest popping corn and bringing out ye ole board games. Male Offspring has followed the siren song of his PlayStation, cloistering himself away in his ~~hermitage~~ room.

Early on, there was the requisite fighting with Teen Demon about taking her car out in this mess. She is somehow under the impression that the ability to drive in snow is genetic. An inherited trait, like curly hair. Or sarcasm. After the first day or two, she quickly realized that the hills are alive with the sound of crunching metal, and left her car safely buried in the driveway. Not to be deterred, however, from the critical activity of Hanging Out, she donned her little felt boots and cute little fashion coat that literally does not cover her navel, and her cute little yarn gloves, ready to set out hiking and meet her friends. Five miles away. Yes, of course I tried to stop her. Words were exchanged, shall we say. You forget, she is over 18, and therefore knows everything. I did make her trade her faux boots for my hiking boots, causing much eye rolling and gnashing of teeth.

Then, the Bohemian, who is usually sensitive to my concerns, and whose time in DC has raised her awareness of risks to one's personal safety, hears that Main Street has been closed to traffic. Due to snow. Like you didn't see that coming. Main Street is a colossal hill, or, more accurately, series of hills, descending all the way down to the ferry docks. She shrieks this news to her younger brother, announcing that they HAVE TO go sledding on Main Street! It's a once in a lifetime opportunity! I, boring mean mother that I am, crankily brought up such foolish notions as, how would they get there, what about the fact that we have no sleds, that Male Offspring has no boots, that Main Street is about 5 miles from our house, and the like. No matter. Once in a lifetime opportunity! Adventure! Thrills! A journey of exploration and discovery! (Yes, she actually said that to me.)

Yeah. Main Street shrouded in snow. The gateway drug to skydiving and bungee jumping.

I'm so done with snow. I just wanted to go to Zoo Lights, plan some fun outings, and have a normal Christmas shopping experience. Is that too damn much to ask? Whatever. Anyway, for your viewing enjoyment, here's a taste of the past week's snow extravaganza.

Batman & Mason playing Find Your Toy in the Snowdrift

Mason

It's never too late to support your local legislators and judges.
In fall, a campaign election sign. In winter ...

... custom candidate snowboards.

Male Offspring shredding the slopes on a piece of Formica.

Little brother gives the Bohemian a push as Batman looks on.

Batman isn't the most effective sled dog.

Teen Demon gives the Bohemian a good pull.

Male Offspring rides his Judge Lucas sign down an unidentified hill.

Aaaahhh.

2008-12-19T14:27:00.000-08:00

I'm off work. As in actually OFF WORK. I'd planned to take two weeks off during the break between quarters anyway, which is something for me. But seeing as how Seattle has been hit with snow -- or, if you're the Seattle news media, a BRUTAL WINTER STORM SYSTEM -- I ended up with additional days off. So, not only have I been off since Wednesday, I'm basking in the knowledge that I don't have to go back to work until January.

Hold up, let me say that again: I don't have to go back to work until January.

Before the Bohemian got back, I had told her I'd take some time off. She sighed and said, "Anyu, you always say that. Every year. And you never do." I started to say, "Yes I do!", but then I realized she was right. I do take time off around the holidays, but it's piece meal. A day here, a day there, decided at the last minute. Completely different than knowing you have a solid stretch of time. A day here and there doesn't give you the same mental break. Which I really need, being basically mentally unstable.

So, I'll probably actually be blogging again for a while. I know. Close your mouths.

I even have pictures to post. And not from the Internet, either. Seriously, close your mouths. I even have pictures of a meeting with a totally awesome fellow blogger that should've been posted months ago. Oh well, all the better to surprise you with, my dears.

So. I feel like my whole body has heaved a sigh of relief. Later, bitches, I'm off to play in the snow.

Cakes or Consequences

2008-12-02T19:25:00.001-08:00

Occasionally, whilst engaged in the business of parenting, you get to witness your child absorbing a life lesson with no input or effort on your part whatsoever. Consequences, for instances. One of the toughest lessons to drill into a kid, right? I mean, let's face it, how far into adulthood do most of us get, still struggling with the concept of consequences? Reaping what one sows, and all that.

Male Offspring started wrestling season a couple of weeks ago. Last year he wrestled in the 152-lb weight class. (For young blokes from 145 -- 152 lbs) This year, as he's still a growing boy who drinks his milk, he's been weighing in at a steady 157 lbs, meaning he'll move up to the 160-lb weight class for his sophomore season.

Doesn't sound like much of a difference, but moving up a weight class is tough, especially when first breaking into the new class. Often, but not always, it means wrestling older, more experienced guys. He's been lifting the weights and practicing hard in anticipation of going up against those 160-pounders.

So today, he goes for a hydration test and a weigh-in.

163 pounds. Uh-oh. Up 6 pounds in less than a week. Shot right past his new weight class.

Think the Great Cake Fest of 2008 had anything to do with it? *

Unless he wants to jump TWO weight classes, and suddenly be wrestling those 172-lb boys, I'm thinking he'd best jettison the remaining cake bits still populating my kitchen.

Good luck, Son. And let that be a lesson to you. Consequences. That's right. Cake Karma. The hard truth is, Son, that cake is evil. That icing may taste sweet going down, but it's Satan's ambrosia. It will cling to your ass like a bitter conservative clings to guns and religion. It's time you knew the truth: the wages of cake is death, at least on the wrestling mat.

Welcome to the hard reality of consequences, Son. Now you understand why I can not allow Oreos into the house.

*At least I hope it was the Great Cake Fest of 2008. If not, that means it was the Thanksgiving food. And I've been eating that mess like a mo'fo for days.

UPDATE:

It seems I was somewhat mistaken. The lesson on consequences did not have quite the lasting impression on my son as I'd been led to believe. Oh, he did learn about the consequences of eating multiple cakes on top of Thanksgiving leftovers. He learned a right hard lesson when he stepped on the scales that first day back to practice.

For about a hot minute.

Then he lifted some weights. Then he rode his bike from his high school to the neighboring high school for the required early-season hydration test. Probably 10 miles, round trip. Then they wrestled. Then he weighed himself again.

159 lbs.

I'm sorry ... what? What is there, a tapeworm in there? Who gains six pounds in less than a week, then loses four of it in a few hours? So apparently, he's fine. Good to go. Ready to wrestle.

Brat. Mark my words, Son, in real life, there are consequences. Serious consequences. That's right. Consequences for cake. Mark my words.

Sixteen Cakes. I Mean Candles.

2008-11-26T23:01:00.000-08:00

Today Male Offspring turned 16. He was born on Thanksgiving Day, 16 years ago. He was overdue, and a big baby, so I'd been saying for a couple of weeks that I wish he'd just get on with it already or I was going to start charging him rent. We'd been invited to Thanksgiving dinner at a friend's house. For the first time in my adult life, I didn't have to do the cooking! Or the dishes! I was bursting at the seams, waddling like a lame duck, and I was about to be pampered! I said, the night of the 25th, "OK baby, I know I've been willing you to make your blessed appearance and all, but I really hope you just hold off until Friday, because I am SO tearing into this dinner tomorrow." That whole no dishes thing really had me going, too.

Of course, I jinxed it. Later that night, watching a movie, I felt the first contraction. I spent Thanksgiving day in a hospital bed. At least the Ex and the girls smuggled in some food from the friend's house, but I wasn't much into it at that point, after 5 hours of back labor from a just-shy-of-9-pounds bundle of joy.

So that's how Male Offspring made his grand entry on Thanksgiving Day. And I've been (mostly) very very thankful for him ever since. Love that kid.

Sixteen years old. It was weird when the girls hit that number -- The Bohemian because she was the first, and Teen Demon because she was the first one to drive. But it's weirder when your "baby" hits 16. I don't have kids anymore, I have young people. Next year, I won't have a single Child Tax Credit left. It's an odd feeling.

Teen Demon made him a chocolate cake with a big "16" spelled out in chocolate sprinkles. That was in addition to the multiple cakes, cookies, and brownies that accompanied him home from school. There was a donut cake, a little miniature round cake, a giant cake with some kind of food color swirled glaze contained by a taped-on lid, a heart-shaped cake, and the aforementioned cookies and brownies. "Hey, where'd this cornucopia of cakes come from?" I inquire. I'm informed that they were kindly provided by his "awesome friends". Namely Sophie, Kristen, Hannah, Lindsay, Trinity, Sylvia, Hailey, and Kiahna. Seriously? Why did we even bake him a cake from home? His cynical aunt queried, "Ask him did any boys make him a cake?"

See, this is what Hungarian schools do for a kid. Seriously. In Hungarian school, students moved together as a class from 1st through 8th grade. Like a cohort. For the first four years, Male Offspring and his classmates were even in the same room, with the same teacher. In 5th grade, you get different teachers for each subject, but you still move as a group to each subject. Classmates are seen more as cousins than as potential love interests. Crushing on a classmate? That's just one step away from incest. Eeew. By the time 7th and 8th grade roll around, students look out to OTHER classes for their crushes, and to their own class for support, friendship, and bickering.

There was none of this "Girls have cooties!" or "Boys! Eeeeew!" business. Male Offspring used to go to sleepovers at his little friend Viktor's house, where half the attendees were girls. It wasn't a big deal. Girls and boys changed for gym class together right there in the classroom. Even in 8th grade, the Bohemian and her classmates would change into their dress clothes for choir performances all together. Zsuzsi has pink panties? Who cares, she's like your sister, dude. The kids watched out for each other. It really was similar to familial relationships.

So, fast forward to 2003, when a very un-American Male Offspring hits American school for the first time in his life. Being a naturally social and adaptable kid, he makes friends easily. Since he was unaware that girls have cooties, he made friends with girls too. The other boys started to notice. In 6th grade, he'd hear from guys he thought were his friends, smirking, "Dude, are you gay or something?" He kept being nice to the girls. They thought him adorable.

Fast forward to 2005. Middle school. The guys, exchanging their smirks for scowls, no longer threw around the G-word. The girls thought him really adorable. Once, I was sitting in the stands for a wrestling match, and heard a gaggle of girls behind me.

Oh.My.God, he is So.Cute.

Yeah, but he's super sweet! It's so funny he's like, a killer wrestler!

Ohmygod, I KNOW!

Is he coming out yet?

OK, seriously? We have to yell, like, really loud, so he'll see us.

Ommygod, I know! It's going to be so funny!

He'll be so surprised by our sign!

Ohmygod, I KNOW!

How cute, I think. Young crushes. Poor guy won't know what hit him. Back to the match. Male Offspring's turn, he's out on the mat. Suddenly, the gaggle of girls behind explodes into a cacophony of girlness.

WE LOVE YOU MALE OFFSPRING!!!

Oh. Oh! Is there another Male Offspring on the team? There is not. I turn around to see them furiously waving their glittery sign at my son. Then they're looking me, wondering why this white lady is staring at them. "I'm his mom," I tell them. They blanched. (no one ever suspects I'm his mom. I get to hear all kinds of interesting tidbits that way.)

Fast forward to the present day. He still has tons of girl friends (as evidenced by this year's cake-fest), and has had 3 serious girlfriends since 8th grade. Well, as serious as it is at that age. He's kept his head about him, for the most part, and continues just to be a kid who's very sweet to young women. Which they find adorable, lord help me.

That's what Hungarian schools will do for a kid. Being handsome, sweet, smart, and living in a household of women doesn't hurt either. Lord help me.

So the boy fell hard via sugar crash last night. He said it felt like everything just slowed down. Like the Matrix but without the badassedness. You don't feed an athlete's body that many cakes with no repercussions.

Happy Birthday, Son. Still thankful for you.

Generation Text

2008-11-22T15:34:00.000-08:00

It's time for an impulsive new feature 'round this joint. That's right, even more cowbell for your reading pleasure. Besides, I don't have time today for a real post (shocking, I know), as I've got projects for work and school both due on Monday. But I need a break, i.e. I'm procrastinating. I have no idea what the hell I was thinking adding classes to my schedule, but there you go.

I've probably mentioned Teen Demon's documented addiction to text messaging. When I say addiction, I mean in the literal sense. Last month the girl had 10,000 messages to her credit. Even the US Texting Champion only runs about 8,000 per month. On the rare occasions her phone malfunctions or runs out of juice, she displays classic signs of withdrawal: anxiety, shaking hands, irritability, inability to focus, clammy skin, the whole bit. It was the facial tics and repetitive hand motions that made me consider an intervention.

She sleeps with the thing under her pillow, for 24/7 access. I'm pretty sure she and her friends will become the next Borg Collective, phones melded to skulls, unable to make a move without the input of the Collective. I once asked her if nighttime texts couldn't wait until morning. After all, if it's an emergency, they'll actually CALL you, right? Anything else probably doesn't warrant waking up at 3:37am. Her eyes about popped out of her head. "Yeah, right!!" she scoffed, clutching her phone possessively. "I wouldn't be able to sleep!" But seriously, is it really crucial to see, "OMG im so bored. r u sleeping?" before you wake up in the morning? It's like when she was 4 and thought she'd miss something after going to bed.

Teen Demon is always on the go. Even before she left for college, a goodly portion of our relationship was predicated on texting. Now that she's at college, she's stepped it up to the next level. Things that would be discussed vis-a-vis in most mother-daughter relationships, are presented to me on a handheld LCD screen. That tinny alert from the depths of my purse could be anything.

Like these:

So im thinking of getting a tattoo.

So i don't actually need to pass math to graduate.

Nose piercings r so cute.

Going to a hookah bar.

I'm getting my belly button pierced.

L8r, im in court now.

Court sucks!

College has so many parties!

Seriously? If you just went by her text history, you'd wonder just what kind of wild delinquent hooligan I've raised, here. Anyway, I was thinking recently I should be compiling these nuggets of history. Like a baby book, only more stressful. Those are among the more ~~traumatic~~ memorable communications, but hundreds more are forever lost from the memory stores of my brain.

Enter my new feature, Generation Text. A compendium of treasured communications with a loving daughter. Today's entry:

I'm thinking about getting a motorcycle license. It's only $125.

Like I don't have enough to worry about with two of the little devils off to college. My reply? "Tuition is a better investment. Especially since you live in the rain capitol of the universe."

So welcome to Cowbell's text hell. I'll keep u posted, LOL. L8r!

Go In Peace, Cadbury.

2008-11-13T18:42:00.000-08:00

Today was a sad day. Our rabbit, Cadbury died today. He was 8 years old. The Bohemian got him for her 13th birthday. (I was thinking her 12th, putting him at 9 years old, but she says 13th, and her memory on these things is better than mine.) What's really sad is that she's due to come home next week. Teen Demon said it's probably better though, that the Bohemian didn't see him sick. I guess that's true. You can read more about him, here. It has some funny parts, because he was a funny rabbit with a distinct personality.

He was acting sick yesterday. He wouldn't eat - completely unlike him - and wasn't hopping around. He drank a little chamomile tea last night, and today I fed him some with a syringe, but he really just didn't want anything.

This morning I wrapped him in a towel and took him outside. I just had a bad feeling. We sat in the sun for a while, and I held him his favorite way - cradled like a baby. He was just so still. I think he liked smelling the fresh air and being in the sun though.

After we came in, I picked Male Offspring up from school, and he went straight to see how Cadbury was; that's when we found he had died. He just looked like he was sleeping. It was almost like he waited until after he'd been outside and cuddled one more time.

It's times like this when it's really nice to have a son. He called his big sister. I couldn't have done it at that time. He went and got the shovel, chose a place in the yard under the trees and near where the rhododendrons, bleeding hearts, and bluebells bloom in spring.

We buried Cadbury with his hay, his toy rabbit that looked just like him, some of his food, and some lavender sprinkled over him. The son arranged big rocks over the top in a circle. We each said things we liked and remembered about Cadbury, and said goodbye.

The Bohemian with Cadbury at about 2 years old.

Cadbury shaking open his treat box, as a much younger Male Offspring looks on.

Scratching an itch

Santa Rabbit with Teen Demon

Bad (but clever) Rabbit!

Moving day, heading back to the States. The kids had marked items (Go or Stay) for the movers. Teen Demon wanted to make sure the movers knew that the rabbit was definitely in the "Go" pile.

Cadbury jumped up on the back of the couch.

The Bohemian, age 15 or 16.

Rest in peace, Cadbury. You were good, bold, funny, and loyal. We'll miss you.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VI

2008-11-12T12:35:00.000-08:00

Episode VI: Tank Trouble

At least I think it's Episode VI. I haven't named them all in sequence, so those of you who are thinking that there have been more than 6 lousy episodes with This Old Motherfucking House, you would be correct. Had I known it was going to be a friggin' series, I'd have started naming them in sequence from the get-go.

First off, I'm home sick today. Not at death's door, but feeling crappy just the same. So I drive Male Offspring to school in my pajamas with the full intention of returning to my nice warm bed. Upon my return, I hear water. NOT good. It's the toilet tank, overflowing. This is infinitely better than the lower portion of the toilet overflowing, trust me. At least it's clean water. But still, it's not doing my subfloor any favors. This happened a few weeks back, but I hadn't really had any problems since taking the tank lid off and yanking up part of the toilet's innards. Apparently my toilet was just biding its time. Waiting for a sick day. A rainy, cold, sick day.

Long time readers may remember the son and I installing this toilet not long after purchasing TOMFH. (You know, right before the housing market crashed. Yes, I am bitter, as a matter of fact.) New toilets are not supposed to cause problems.

So who knows how much water flowed out of there before I got home. Also, the tub was partially full of water. Not sure how that relates to the toilet tank overflowing, since this shit never happens when I'm actually home, but there you go. So I take the plunger, go out to the back yard, where the grass is growing to jungle-like status due to the never-ending rain and my still-broken lawnmower (I was going to get it fixed until I had to pay for the new roof), open the overflow pipe and plunge the hell out of it until I hear the requisite loud sucking sound that is the water flowing freely.

Kind of reminded me of the sucking sound of consumer confidence draining out of our economy. Or the value being sucked out of our houses. Or the jobs draining out of the market. Or the Republicans draining out of the legislative and executive branches of our government. Yeah, let's stick with that one.

I think the pipe is starting to get those damn roots again. Fuck. Like I need a big ol' root system growing into my pipes again. Always leads to trouble.

AND, I still haven't changed the furnace filter for this winter. I've been putting that off as long as possible. No, I am not looking forward to skulking down to the dark maw of hell that is my crawl space, nor am I looking forward to skyrocketing electric bills. All hail the fireplace and my $50 Costco heater. Also, I've decided we're going back to our European habits - the dryer has been off limits except for extreme emergencies. No son, "But I like the black sweatshirt better than the brown one" does not qualify as an emergency - hang those clothes up to dry.

Hey, it adds up. Just like turning off lights and not running the water when you brush your teeth, right? I figure with all these little efforts, I can have the roof paid off before I have to buy my first walker or dentures.

Oh, and I think our rabbit is sick. When it rains it pours.

Thank You, All Who Serve.

2008-11-11T22:18:00.000-08:00

Today is Veterans Day. Last week I went to a Veterans Panel at my place of employment, made up of students and staff who are veterans, and one staff member who is a veteran's mother. I was not on the panel, but all the veterans had to stand up and be recognized. Yes, even after this time, it felt good to know that people are proud and appreciative of those who have served, more so during this current climate of polarization this country has come to. It means something.

One of my colleagues is a Vietnam vet. He talked about how different it was, returning home then, from how it is now. It was hard to hear him talk about it, a man I know and respect. But it was good to hear that those returning from service today are largely supported, respected, and welcomed by their countrymen. At least we've come that far. I'm a veteran, but I never had to serve in a war. Those who have, and those who are serving in harm's way right now, deserve our highest admiration and respect, whether or not you agree with the current administration's actions. One of my most fervent hopes for the new administration is increased support for our veterans and their families.

One of the younger vets on the panel talked about the red poppies worn by many on this day, the meaning behind it. Willym wrote about that very thing on his site. Please take a minute to read it.

Double-Oh-Bama

2008-11-10T12:51:00.000-08:00

I don't know how I'm going to get through the next eight (yes, I said eight) years. Everything I see and hear about the new First Family makes me either tear up or smile so big I'm in danger of losing my cynical status. The whole First Dog story? With my rescue mutts sitting here beside me? Please. Water works. What school will the girls attend? Grandma moving in for family support? The little girls living in the bedrooms that the Kennedy children lived in? All of it brings about much sniffling and wiping of the eyes, accompanied by the requisite, "Aaaww". Pass the syrup. Goodlord, I'm worse than a 10-year old at a Hannah Montana autograph session. To wit:

The Secret Service has assigned code names to the new First Family:

President-elect Barack Obama: Renegade
Future First Lady, Michelle Obama: Renaissance
Malia Obama: Radiance
Sasha Obama: Rosebud

Yes, the Secret Service code names turned Cowbell a bit misty. Yeah, yeah, I said it was bad. But come on, is that not perfect? Radiance? Rosebud? For those precious little girls? And Renaissance for one of the classiest first ladies we'll ever hope to see in the White House? And both mom and dad's names bring to mind their overarching theme, change. So yeah, what of it if I get emotional over code names? At least I'm not clinging to my religion or my guns.

They've also assigned the VP and ... Second Lady? Is that the term?

Vice President-elect Joe Biden: Celtic

Jill Biden: Capri

Those are nice, too, aren't they? Didn't make me tear up, but they did make me smile. (It will, however, annoy the hell out of me to hear people pronouncing it "Seltic". You know, after the basketball team.) Compare and contrast to the names for the outgoing couple:

Dubya: Tumbler

Laura Bush: Tempo

Dick Cheney: Angler

Tumbler? Angler? Boy they do tend to get it right with these names, don't they? And Tempo, well, she did try to keep him in balance, bless her heart. Wonder what the code names would've been had McPalin won? Come on, too easy: Maverick and Mavericker.

President-Elect Obama

2008-11-08T14:29:00.000-08:00

I just like saying that. I still can't say it without my throat closing up a little bit. Yes We Did, and all that. I have so much to say about this historic event, and yet, as you can tell by my cyber-absence of late, I can't seem to write anything of import. I know, right -- Cowbell without rambling and ranting is just off, but I just haven't been able to.

It's too big, too much. I can't make it fit into words. And I kind of don't want to. Maybe later, but right now, the thought of trying to express what this means to me, to my children, let alone the country, Black America, the world ... I can't fit any of that into words yet. Not really. I mean, I can write this post about how wonderful it is, where I was that night, how I felt a little bit, but the bigger picture, how do I really express that?

When it was announced, all the stress and adrenaline I'd apparently been holding for months just fell away. Like I'd imagine a body would feel after running a marathon. I could not get a hold of myself. It was too big to even fit it into feelings, let alone words. It hasn't completely sunk in. I still find myself on the verge of tears, just hearing bits of the speech on the radio, or looking at the pictures online, the faces of people's reactions -- Jesse Jackson, ohmygod, did you all see Jesse? What this must mean to him, and Andrew Young, and all the people who were there during the Civil Rights years ... I can't even think about that without my heart feeling off beat.

I was on the phone with the Bohemian when it was announced. (Her thoughts on that night) The networks were counting down the seconds until the Western states' numbers would be released. We were wondering how long we'd have to wait, contemplating (cynically) whether there would be vote tampering, whether there would be problems, when all of a sudden there was an explosion of noise in my ear through the phone, as the students at Howard University reacted to the news that Barack Obama would be the next president of the United States. At that moment it flashed across the TV, Barack Obama, projected winner -- it happened so fast -- it took a few moments for either of us to realize it was real.

Hearing those Howard students, even just over the phone, had me laughing and crying at once. I will never forget that. That, I really don't have words for. The Bohemian said people were pouring outside, literally dancing in the streets.

Then Teen Demon called, Teen Demon who is not given to exuberant displays of emotion, called laughing and shouting and so happy, caught up in a student mob that was parading around campus and through the surrounding neighborhoods. Later she sent me a video link of students breaking into an impromptu version of the Star Spangled Banner. As a former soldier, that song always gets to me anyway, but to hear young people spontaneously singing on their own, reacting to the election of the first African-American president, that means a lot more than hearing it at a sporting event or a parade. It meant something.

Male Offspring was at an election party at the high school with the debate team (he joined this year), and when I picked him up, he was practically bouncing out of his shoes, said he needed something to focus him (of course, he was referring to driving us home) because he was so hyped up from the excitement. Hugging him, I could only think about President-Elect Obama's mother and grandmother, how proud they would be, and how their son/grandson has made the future a different place for my son.

Earlier that night, I had been a little sad that we'd all be in separate places, but then I thought about how this election was so much about the young people this time, and I wanted my kids to have that memory, to experience this in crowds of young people who helped make this happen and who are our future. What I heard in my daughters' voices that night, what I saw in my son's face, means more than I can explain. It is too big to fit into words.

You go, President-Elect Obama. I'm proud and honored to have you as my president.

The Countdown Continues

2008-10-12T11:51:00.000-07:00

You would think that I'd be posting more than ever right now, with all the current political goings-on. You would think the past few months would've provided enough fodder for non-stop bitching up in here. A rant a day. No. This whole Grampy McSame and his hypocrite Barbie-girl sidekick is just more than I can stomach. Every time I think about getting a good old Cowbell rant on, my heart threatens palpitations at the mere thought of Team McFreak running this country. Because you know after they're sworn in, she'd be slippin' him some poison also, and end up being Mayor in Chief of the whole goshdurn country, just leadin' the good people of this great land, also.

If I hear ALSO come out of her empty head one more time, I'm going to pull my hair out, also.

The hypocrisy is just amazing. All of it, the big issues, the scandals, the little dramas. Just today I was amazed that after all the Right's shrieking to LEAVE THE KIDS OUT OF IT, Palin admitted dressing her youngest daughter, Piper, in a Philadelphia Flyers jersey, and bringing her out on the ice to "drop the puck" for the start of the team's season, in order to quell the expected booing from the crowd.

But what I thought I’d do is I’d put Piper in a Flyers jersey, bring her out with me. How dare they boo Piper!

What? I guess using your little kid as a political prop is OK when it benefits you. But don't bring it up, Dems! The kids are off-limits! And yeah, the crowd still booed. No tomatoes though.

I don't often have occasion to use the words flabbergasted or aghast, but the past few weeks have found me existing in a constant state of flabbergastedness. Like when the good Guv'nuh says she's so happy that the Tasergate (Yeah, that's Troopergate for the rest of the world) investigation cleared her of all legal wrongdoing. Whaa...? That's what she got out of it? What about her schtick of reforming and changing politics as usual? What about not understanding how those Washington Insiders do things? What about ETHICS?

Sometimes I even wake up aghast in the middle of the night, with questions such as, "Did they really say that Obama is putting personal ambition ahead of the country? Seriously?" Listen honey, take a look in the mirror, mmm-kay? Or, "Are they really saying Obama is going to screw me on taxes, when they want to tax my health care benefits?" Yeah, that'll help Joe Six Pack, tax his health care benefits. IF he has health care benefits, that is. Or how about this bit about the Right now crying about voter fraud -- WTF? I'm sorry, did you guys miss what was happening on YOUR end during the last two elections? Ohio? Florida? Hypocrites!

I think the McCain campaign strategy is to line up their own fuck-ups and shortcomings on a sheet of paper each day, then cross out their own names and write in "Obama". It's ridiculous.

Every time they come out with more bullshit, I'm left thinking, "Wait, wasn't it THEM who did that shit, not Obama?" I mean, come on, the Troopergate investigation -- which, in my mind, is between the people of Alaska and their governor so the McCain campaign needs to butt the hell out -- finds that she abused power, McCain's got that whole Keating 5 deal in his closet, McCain fucked around on his first wife after she became disabled and gained weight from an accident and ended up marrying his mistress who just happens to be an heiress who could finance his political campaigns ... and they want to trot out character? Seriously? They screech about the Troopergate investigation being "partisan and unfair" (even though the Legislative Council had 10 Republicans to 4 Democrats), but then they turn around and drag out this tired Ayers story a month before the election, and they don't see THAT as "politically motivated", they don't see that as a "smear tactic"? Hypocrites.

The whole thing is just crazy. And this new bit about their rally crowds turning all scary ala the old school lynch mobs or Nazi crowds ... all joking aside, that's frightening. I mean really. Things have turned an ugly corner. They are squealing about terrorism and stirring up their base with the fear stick -- you know, kind of like the Bush administration did over those non-existent Weapons of Mass Destruction that turned out to be a LIE. They know exactly what they're doing, also. They know how to push the buttons of that crowd, and they were very skillful at doing it while simultaneously disavowing the inevitable responses.

They are deliberately creating an us-them dynamic, and not based on issues, based on who we are. Patriot or not. And if not, you're probably a terrorist. Not a real American. "He doesn't think like we do." We? Who's "we", Sarah? If you're not with us, you're agin' us. Sound familiar?

This wide-eyed surprise at their crowds' ugly responses is phony. This line about "we don't condone those statements" and how the campaign may have gotten a bit out of control, but John McCain himself didn't know anything about it is straight up bullshit. For one thing, these aren't amateurs here, people, these are professionals, campaign experts hired to do a job, they know exactly the effect it would have on the racist, uber-religious FOX-news following portion of their base. And as far it being the campaign and not McCain himself? Bullshit. Who's in charge over there? Is this how McCain would handle the presidency? "Oh, damn, I didn't know Palin was going to invade Pakistan ... she must've gotten a little enthusiastic there, and things got a bit out of control, but my friends, I didn't personally know anything about this, and I don't condone this action".

Oh, well, it's ok then, if he says he didn't know about it.

And do not even try to sell me on this newest thing where McCain "defends Obama", brought on by some ignorant woman at his rally who said she couldn't trust Obama because he's "an Arab". McCain corrected her by saying no ma'am, in fact, Obama is "a decent family man", not an Arab. WTF? So ... what, Arabs aren't decent family men? The crowed booed him even for that lame-ass veiled statement. So he gets the best of both worlds. He gets the press saying he took the high road to defend Obama, but his crowd stays riled up, secure in the notion that Arabs are not decent family men.

Oh, and he only rose to this defense after days of him and Palin blatantly ignoring the frenzied shouts of Terrorist! and Kill him! and Off with his head! in their rallies. No, that was fine and dandy until their polls started sliding even faster, then all of a sudden they needed to rein in their supporters. Not impressed -- you correct that shit because it's wrong, not because your ratings are falling. Hypocrite.

Anyway, as you can see by this long-winded diatribe, I can't even write coherently about this, in fact, I can't take time to write about it much at all, because I"m spending what little online time I have checking every available source to see what's going on with this mess of an election. I'll be glad when it's over.

Plus, I'm having major internet problems the past few weeks, and don't have time to find out what the hell is wrong with Comcast this time. My connection drops like every 15 minutes. Bastards.

Too lazy to link, but you all get on the Googles and read about the latest PalinGate story -- looks like there may have been some impropriety and campaign kickbacks and links to the infamous Wasilla Sports complex with ... the building of her house. That's right folks, the scandals just don't stop in Palin Land. Check out Mudflats or the Village Voice or Daily Kos, it's starting to make the rounds ... it would be nice if they could uncover some facts before the election, but you know the McCain Campaign will be up there scrubbing everything.

Well, I've got a test to study for, still need to run to Costco, get gas, do laundry, and I'm still working fairly long hours (but that's getting better), have mega meetings with my advocacy group, the city and the commission, but that should slow down somewhat too. And you all know the Rainy Season cometh to this part of the globe, so of course at that time I will be holed up in This Old Motherfucking House with my computer and will return to the blog world with much more regularity.

I'm not proofreading. Less than a month to go ... VOTE.

Get Your Debate On

2008-09-26T09:20:00.001-07:00

So the debate is on. McCain decided not to cut and run. Damn right, I've got my popcorn ready, my calendar cleared, and my tv screen dusted.

Seriously people, this was nothing but a ploy - McCain wasn't helping bring about resolution. He's just scared, for himself and his ~~pit bull~~ cowering lap dog.

He’s slowed it down. The next thing we know, he’s in a position frankly where he’s making it harder to get things done, rather than help us negotiate differences.
~Barney Frank, D-Mass

John McCain hasn’t voted in the Senate since sometime last April. And I say very sincerely that he has done nothing since he’s been here the last few hours to help this process.
~Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-Nev

This whole "I can't debate until this crisis is solved" bullshit was nothing but a longer range plan to get Little Miss Palin out of her scheduled debate with Joe Biden. Did they seriously think McSame could get away with rescheduling his debate to the night of the VP debates and delaying hers indefinitely? Do they think we're stupid?

Sorry, Johnny, we the people expect your ass to be there. Man up. Debate. See you tonight.

Early to Bed

2008-09-25T23:26:00.000-07:00

Yeah well, the path to early bedtime is paved with good intentions.

Anyway, I'm back, sort of, still insanely busy, not quite SO much, and am trying to get caught up on everyone's site. Again. That's a lot of reading. And I'm earnestly trying to turn over a new leaf and get my ass in bed before 11:30 every night, so I'm cutting myself from clicking on another site.

Something's gotta give, folks. What I wouldn't give to be a morning person.

Presidential debates tomorrow night, people. McCain may not be there, but I sure as hell will be. parked in front of my TV. I expect you will be too.

Ohgod, I just saw the Palin interview w/ Katie Couric again, the bit about Putin rearing his head and being right there at Alaska. ("I can see Russia from my house!") This is insane, people. I can't even get started on it.

I'll write something of substance later.

US Troops to Protect Us from Civil Unrest

2008-09-24T13:54:00.001-07:00

Remember those conspiracy theories that started some time after the '04 "election"? You know, the ones that predicted the Bush administration would find some sort of crisis serious enough to warrant declaration of martial law, thus enabling them to hold on to power past 2008?

This from the Army Times: The 3rd Infantry Division's 1st Brigade Combat Team will be assigned here at home beginning October 1st. This is the first time that an active duty unit has been given a dedicated assignment - as opposed to temporary orders, as in Katrina - under the control of NorthCom. What's NorthCom? That would be Northern Command, a joint command established in 2002 to provide command and control for federal homeland defense efforts and coordinate defense support of civil authorities.

It's expected to be a permanent change. Among the things they may be called upon to handle, besides natural disasters or terrorist attacks, are civil unrest and crowd control.

Civil unrest? Crowd control?

You mean Americans might be getting pissed the fuck off about this Charlie-Fox of a mess we're in, thanks to the rich bastards in charge? Or maybe some upcoming election fraud might not go over so well the third time around? Like the people might rise up and cause a disturbance that needs to be controlled ... by our own military? Oh, and then there's this bit about the nifty non-lethal package:

The 1st BCT’s soldiers also will learn how to use “the first ever nonlethal package that the Army has fielded,” 1st BCT commander Col. Roger Cloutier said, referring to crowd and traffic control equipment and nonlethal weapons designed to subdue unruly or dangerous individuals without killing them.

"It’s a new modular package of nonlethal capabilities that they’re fielding. They’ve been using pieces of it in Iraq, but this is the first time that these modules were consolidated and this package fielded, and because of this mission we’re undertaking we were the first to get it.”
The package includes equipment to stand up a hasty road block; spike strips for slowing, stopping or controlling traffic; shields and batons; and, beanbag bullets.

Sounds like we won't need to worry about things getting out of control, come Oct. 1st. It made me think back to that conspiracy theory, and how folks said it sounded a little crazy, a bit far fetched. Then I thought about the current economic crisis, and how we're hurtling along toward this election in the midst of it all. So if I start hearing talk about protecting the people, I'm not buying it for a second. Martial law here at home? Crazy? Maybe. Maybe not. Just sayin' ...

The Real Sarah Palin, Straight From the Alaskan Mudflats

2008-09-08T10:12:00.001-07:00

Hey all -- yes, I'm still alive and kicking. No, I have not given up blogging, despite evidence to the contrary. Very quick and dirty:

Teen Demon is leaving for college soon
This Old MF'in House needs A NEW ROOF (yes, I'm serious)
I got a new position at work, and have been absolutely swamped with the transition (no, it will not even come close to paying for the roof)
I am now officially Commissioner Cowbell

So, some good, some bad, but with all the everyday-life things added, I just haven't had time for beans, let alone blogging. How Sarah Palin would have time to wipe her ass as VP, I have no idea. Maybe her nanny would take on that duty, whilst a-wiping little Trig's ass, or she'd just have an Official Ass Wiper on staff.

Anyway, I am dropping in here today to exhort you to immediately check out an Alaskan blog that has been one step ahead of the media, and right on time with accurate info. Maybe you all have already found it -- I haven't made the rounds at all, so my apologies if you all have already jumped on this train.

The Right is falling down at this woman's feet as if she were the Second Coming. I've been researching the hell out of her, and she scares the bejeezus out of me. If the Right would actually look into her a bit, instead of fawning and drooling based solely on the fact that they're so goddamned relieved to have someone with a little spunk and personality to prop up Corpse McCain, they'd be scared as well.

Click, read: Mudflats

Check it out. Very reasoned, fair, informed and accurate writing.

Looks like Ms. Lipstick finally agreed to an interview, under the mounting pressure to come out from behind Grandaddy McCain's skirts. 'Bout damn time. I read a comment online somewhere that I wish I could take credit for -- something to the effect of the Pit Bull turning out to be more of a cowering Chihuahua, when it comes to the press. Lipstick still kicks ass, though, I'll give her that.

I have already written Charlie Gibson, asking him to please hit hard on this interview, and not softball it.

Wake up, Americans -- the Right is trying like hell to cut the brake lines on this hand basket ...

Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football

2008-08-05T23:47:00.000-07:00

On July 12, Luis Ramirez was viciously kicked and beaten by at least six white teenagers in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania. The attack left him bleeding, convulsing, and foaming from his mouth. He died of head injuries on July 14th, the imprint of his crucifix still indelibly stamped into his chest by an attacker's boot. He was 25 years old.

Three of the attackers were finally charged for the crime on July 25th. Colin Walsh, 17, who punched Ramirez in the face, causing him to fall and hit his head, and Brandon Piekarsky, 16, who kicked him in the head after he lost consciousness, were charged as adults with homicide, ethnic intimidation and related offenses. Derrick Donchak, 18, who apparently chased Ramirez down and tackled him, was charged with aggravated assault, ethnic intimidation and related crimes.

Luis was engaged to Crystal Dillman, with whom he was raising three young children. Luis supported his family by working two jobs: one in a factory, the second picking strawberries and cherries.

Despite the fact that there were eyewitnesses to the brutal attack, including a retired police officer and Arielle Garcia, a friend of the couple who went to school with the attackers and named them to police ... it took two weeks for the charges to be made.

Each of the eyewitnesses heard racial slurs directed at Ramirez throughout the fight, yet town officials were not convinced that the attack was racially motivated.

Retired Philadelphia police Officer Eileen Burke, who lives on the street where the fight occurred, told The Associated Press she heard a youth scream at one of Ramirez's friends after the beating to "tell her Mexican friends to get out of Shenandoah, or you're going to be laying next to him."

~The Morning Call

Now, you all know my dad was a cop. Cops, in general, don't like to go around telling tall tales about racially motivated attacks in their communities. It makes their jobs harder, and lots of times, brings the spotlight on them and how they handled things. They'd prefer that racial disputes never happened, regardless of their personal views on anything. They are not prone to go 'round crying wolf about this, trust me. If anything, they tend to downplay it. So if a cop says this attack had racial motivation, guess what, most likely, she's not saying that just for fun.

The investigating officers though, were apparently not so keen to listen to witnesses, even those who could actually identify the perpetrators. Check out Democracy Now's interview with eyewitness Ariella Garcia. She went to school with the attackers. Knew them by name. Saw where they ran.

The police, however, decided to stay and search her husband's car for guns. Her husband is -- you guessed it -- Latino. So instead of going after the white attackers whom an eyewitness named and pointed out the direction of escape, the police stayed to search the witness's car for a non-existent gun, and rough up her Latino husband a bit.

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Shenandoah is a small coal town of 5,000 about 80 miles from Philadelphia. All six of the young men who carried out this crime were on the high school football team.

I went to high school in a small farm town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. Football was big doin's, let me tell you. Friday night lights, baby, nothing like it. Of course there's high school football where I live now, and I'm at most games because of the kids. But here, it's a high school thing. Most fans not directly connected with one of the high schools are more interested in the college Huskies/Cougars rivalry, or the Seahawks.

Small town football though, that's different.

It's a community thing. The whole town comes out, every Friday. In my town, there was the fish fry early in the season, second only to the county fair as far as social events. Later in the season, even the smaller surrounding towns would turn out on Fridays to watch us march our way to State, game by game. Our football team was the pride of that town, hell, the county. Those boys got free tickets at the local movie theater, and free pizza slices at the Wig-Wam, so named to match our high school's mascot, the Indians. (I know. That's another post.) Anyway, our football boys were local heroes. If they got caught driving too fast while cruising on Saturday nights, the cops - whom we all knew by name - would issue only a stern warning, with an admonition to "pay that off with a win this Friday, y'hear?"

The basketball team enjoyed notoriety too, but there's just something about football in a small town. The marching band, the lights, the crisp cold air, moms and dads reliving the glory days in their own letter jackets from 20 years back. In a small town, the thing is, all the adults graduated from that same high school. They all knew each other in their day, and they know everybody's kids now. They all remember sitting in those stands or riding the away-bus. When the town turned out to that field on Friday night, there was connection. Pride. History. Shoot, you didn't even need to show up to the class reunion, just show up on Friday night.

I don't know that I can even properly explain what football means to a small town. Truth be told, I'm not sure I can fully understand it, seeing as how I wasn't "born and raised". I think that's one reason my parents were still seen as "the new folks", even years after we'd moved there, and sis and I had long left home. Not being raised that way, they didn't understand the thing about Friday football. They didn't have any kids on the team or in the band or the cheer squad, so why would they go freeze their butts off in the stands? Didn't they go to all my concerts and watch me sing? Daddy could watch the Bengals on Monday night from the comfort of his own chair. Real football. They thought it was just a high school thing. But it wasn't.

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So, back to Luis Ramirez and the young men who killed him. As I read different articles, and the comments to go with them, all of those memories came rushing back. Folks in Shenandoah are not only reeling from a brutal murder in their town, they've also been blindsided with the fact that it wasn't a bunch of thugs who did this, hell it wasn't even the white trash who live in that sorry shack out yonder on Route 82 past Pea Ridge Drive, no, this was the football players. The good boys. The quarterback even, who's off to college come fall.

Seriously people, this is a big deal in a small town.

So it didn't surprise me that the charges were so long in coming. It didn't surprise me to read that the beating was not recorded in that night's police log. Yes, I'm serious. "Standard practice", according to police. It didn't surprise me that "despite the witness statements, Borough Manager Joseph Palubinsky said he doesn't believe Ramirez's ethnicity was what prompted the fight," or that the police chief doesn't think it has anything do with racism either. (AP)

I have reason to know the kids who were involved, the families who were involved, and I've never known them to harbor this type of feeling.
~Borough Manager Joseph Palubinsky

From what we understand right now, it wasn't racially motivated. This looks like a street fight that went wrong."
~Police Chief Matthew Nestor

I think any time there's a fight, and any time you have one ethnic group fighting another, there's going to be racial slurs. I've seen that since I was a kid on a playground 20 years ago, but they never called it ethnic intimidation until very recently.
~Roger Laguna, Walsh's lawyer

All quotes from the Associated Press

A street fight that went wrong? Are you kidding me? What kind of boys-will-be-boys bullshit is that? And I wonder, Mr. Laguna, if your school yard scuffles would have been called "ethnic intimidation" in your day had someone died on the playground?

Damn. I don't know about you, but I'm not feeling real confident about justice being served here, people.

Neither did it surprise me to read the horrible, hateful comments following the local articles, although in fairness, they were balanced by plenty of folks who were horrified by the blatant racism and cruelty, shocked at the hate that's crawled out into the light for everyone to see.

That's another thing about life in a small town. Things can seem fine on the surface, especially if you're white. Underneath though, it's very carefully balanced. As long as everyone acts right, life goes along just fine. Folks are friendly. And if you're making big yards for the football team, it doesn't much matter what color you are. Whoo-eee, that boy sure can run, cain't he? Only color anyone sees when you're driving down the field with that ball tucked under your arm, is the red and white of that uniform. Until you start dating Judge Hapner's niece. Then it matters a whole lot. Folks see color real quick then.

I bet a lot of people in Shenandoah truly do not understand how this possibly could've happened in their community. They're good hearted, well intentioned people who have never had to see things any other way, because life has always gone along according to their way, and they don't even know it. I can well imagine how this has torn through this little town.

I also know there are plenty of people there who know exactly why this happened. People of color who have to be hyper aware of their white neighbors' approval and comfort level every day of their lives. You can bet they're under no illusions. But also people who left comments like these in the local paper's accounts of the story:

TNT: Nothing he did in the U S was legal! Now my taxes are going to investigate his death and prosecute his assailants > Parasitic even in death!

Mary: Illegals...the name says it all ...goodbye and good riddance!! Those kids did us a favor, too bad they will have to face unpleasant consequences

Deer Hunter: Follow the leads of the good Sherrif and Hazleton's honorabe American leader. Nobody wants these illegals in town. Nobody! ... They have no rights. They are in your town and are bleeding it dry. Shenandoah residents should legally carry cocealed weapons to protect themselves, their property and their young women.

Tina: If these children were such cold blooded murderers they would have killed him there he died later on, yes because of the injuried these kids inficted on him, but they did not intend to murder him, it was an accident.

ddd: These boys are not cold blooded killers it was just an unfortunate mistake. Yes they must pay for their actions but if you knew them and their parents you would not be making such harsh statements against them.

John: Every city in America has a bad section. It usually has a high amount of minorites. When minorites move into a predominately white, safe and quiet town like Shenandoah, people are only assuming the worst because their reputation speaks for themselves.

Dakota: heres my 2 cents the big question ...Does his being illegal mean he deserved to be beaten to death.... YES!!! HAHAHAHAHAAH!!!!
~Comments from articles in the Pottsville Republican & Herald

You get the idea. Tip of the iceberg. Many seemed to regard the death as secondary, with Luis's immigration status firmly establishing itself as the real topic of discussion. In a nutshell: if he wasn't here illegally, this wouldn't have happened.

Again, other commenters did talk about how much more difficult the immigration process is now and how it's not really possible to "do it like our grandparents did" any more. Some commenters even brought up globalization and US corporate colonization as the real issue behind modern immigration. These commenters condemned the beating and the boys responsible, they called it out as racism, and were candid about the ongoing racial tension in their town. I was actually somewhat relieved to see a number of comments in this vein.

In the end though, it comes down to the fact that people were justifying murder of a human being, because they disapproved of him being in the US. A man was killed by some angry racist teenagers with Town Hero complexes, and the biggest discussion point was the dead man's immigration status. There's something very very wrong with that.

Did They Just Say ... Extraordinary Nut Sack?!

2008-08-03T12:22:00.001-07:00

So I'm sitting here on a Sunday morning, still in my version of pajamas, putting off updating my resume, swilling coffee, listening to my dog snore, trying to catch up on blogs and half-listening to the news in the background, when the end of a commercial belatedly breaks through my consciousness ...

... True North. An extraordinary nut sack.

By the time my head snapped up to the TV screen, CNN was back to droning the news. Did they just say nut sack?? I asked myself. Surely not. True North is kind of a classy bag of nuts, after all. I mean, we're not talking about the Planter's peanut man elbowing a roasted almond saying, "Dude ... get it? Nut Sack?" This is True North. Muted colors. Minimal design. No anthropomorphized mascots.

Now being one who well appreciates a witty phrase, particularly when employed in an original advertising campaign, I was impressed. It sure made me take notice. Caused me to remember the company name, look it up on the Internets, even. In fact, the next time I see True North nuts in the store, I'm likely to think wryly to myself, "Now that's an extraordinary nut sack." Very savvy, True North advertising team. Genius, even. That Planter's guy should tip his hat.

No, seriously. Here, listen for yourself.

Oh, my bad. That was "extraordinary nut snack".

Whole different ball of wax, there, people.

House Apologizes for Slavery & Jim Crow

2008-07-29T22:49:00.000-07:00

The US House issued a formal apology today for slavery and Jim Crow.

So everything's fine now. Move along, nothing to see here.

My gut reaction is to snort and say, "Gee, mighty White of them. An apology. That helps."

On the other hand, they can either apologize or not apologize. It's not like the choice is apologize or ... go back in their magic congressional time machine and just nip that nasty little horror in the bud before it starts. Oh, and while you're back there time traveling, guys? Don't colonize. Just don't colonize this time around, mm-kay?

Unfortunately though, that's not the choice. The choice is to apologize or not. And we will not be able to move forward to address the system that was born from that "peculiar institution" until we publicly acknowledge our part - as a nation - in slavery, and the fallout that still affects our nation today. So let me put my disgust and cynicism aside for a minute and say yes, I'm glad they apologized. It's a step, as they say.

So after stumbling across this news online, I made the mistake of trying to find out more. Inevitably, there were a whole lotta online comments. Those in the "against" crowd, predictably, had the same tired arguments. Like these:

I believe the blacks owe America an apology for tearing our moral, economic and social fabric. The illegal immigrunts can join them.

My ancestors owned slaves and I have no desire to apologize for the actions of my ancestors. In fact, I think that the federal government should give me reparations for the lost assets caused by emancipation and the confiscation of my ancestors' lands as a result of the War of Northern Aggression. How about that?
Wonder what the black folks in Africa think of the living conditions of blacks in America? They might say you were done a favor.

How many times do these people have to be apoligized to? They were apologized to at the end of the Civil War, they were apologized to during civil rights movements, again during the intergration of schools and all other places. I never owned slaves and neither did my parents. I don't think anyone alive today was ever a slave. It seems to me that the race card is being played only by the African-Americans who just want more and more free handouts from the government. I am sick of it.

Tell all those a-holes to vote to drill for oil and forget about the apology.

I haven't done anything to apologize for. Blacks have got it made here in America and they know it. Everything gets handed to them. They work for nothing and I'm sick of it. Like someone else said here, where are the "thank yous" from these people.

These people couldn't care less about equality, they want DOMINANCE!

Who gives a rats-rear what happened to the slaves over 150 years ago. Where is my apology from them for me having to listen to this bullsh-- on a daily basis living here in Atlanta? . . . Get over it. The Civil War is over. Get a job. Get a life and stop throwing slavery up in my face. You may not like what you hear if you don't. Idiots...

We are going to make a black man king of America. When is enough enough.

You White people better wake the hell up or youll be the next American 'negros'.... Im not apologizing and I'll laugh at the faces of these inadequate and inept beings and hope it ****es them off enough so I can practice my second amendment against them. What a glorious day that will be!!...

You get the idea.

So the argument of the day is -- say it with me, boys & girls -- I didn't own slaves, my grandparents didn't own slaves, I had nothing to do with slavery!

Any time the subject of race relations comes up, so too does this argument. Even "nice White people" use this one. I used it too, back when I believed myself to be colorblind. Why, I remember when the Bohemian was a 4-year-old little tyke, and we were reading My First Book of Africa from the library. Everything was fine until we turned to the double page spread of a slave ship cut-away. I was not prepared at that moment, to see my daughter go very quiet, touch the pages with her little fingers, and ask me, "But ... who would do that to people, Mommy?" So, in trying to explain this atrocity to my 4-year-old daughter, my African American daughter, I heard myself saying, "... but Mommy's family didn't believe in that. Remember Mommy's family came from Norway? Well, they lived in the North, they came much later, after slavery was over." Then I launched into how lots of White people were abolitionists, lots of White people fought against slavery, not all White people's families were slave owners ... ad nauseum.

I needed to justify it. I needed to remove myself, in my daughter's eyes, and my own, from that horrible history. It was important to me that she know that I, and by extension, she, had nothing to with this. It was those bad White people what did that. The racists. Not us. Not me.

Here's what I didn't understand: it is not about individuals. It's about a system. It's about laws.

Let me be clear -- this is about the legalized system of oppression put in place by our government, not about whether individual White folks owned slaves or not. If you think we became a superpower so quickly because we're just that good, think again. We got there by stealing Native land, working it with free human labor, and enacting the laws to back it up. No start up costs, no overhead, just pure growth and profit. That's what put us on the fast track to superpower status.

Here's what else I didn't understand: if you are a White person in the United States, you and your family have benefited from this system.

It doesn't matter whether Grandpa Orville's grandaddy owned slaves or whether his house was a station on the underground railroad. The laws were on his side. Grandpa Orville, if he so chose, could read. Go to college. Live where he wanted. Get a loan to buy land, a house. Pass that property down to his children who then start off a little bit farther ahead in life than he did. And Grandpa Orville likely wasn't worrying about being lynched, either.

Land and education. White folks had access to it, Black folks were legally excluded from access. Property equals wealth. It appreciates and is sold for profit or passed on. Education equals opportunity and increased wealth. It increases the fact that your children will also be educated. Now, would you rather be the great-grandaughter of the guy with access to the land and education (not to mention better health care), or the guy who didn't have jack shit and wasn't allowed to build it? Which side of that system would you choose?

Oh please. Don't even play like you're hesitating.

Which brings us to our next recurring theme: They just need to work harder and quit expecting handouts. Nobody gave me a handout, everything I got, I earned with hard work and effort.

I'm sure you do work hard. And I'm sure you believe no one ever has given you anything. Did your grandparents pass property on to your parents? Did your parents go to college? Do they own a home? Do you? Do people really believe that two men -- one Black and one White -- both equally motivated and working equally hard, would get the same results while operating under the legal confines of this system in 1910? How about 1940? 1960? Today?

What about the 2000 Housing Discrimination Study? They sent out 4,600 pairs of testers, separately, in 23 US cities. The testers were identical on paper, but one was White, the other Black. Consistent preferential treatment for white testers occured 21.6% of the time.

Now ... if you rented an apartment tomorrow, you'd have no way of knowing if a Black applicant with your same qualifications had been turned down the day before, would you? You'd have no way of knowing that you'd just benefited from a racist system, would you? You didn't choose to benefit from it, you didn't put it in place, you may even be outraged by it, but that doesn't matter. You'll sign that lease thinking you got that apartment solely on the basis of your good credit and consistent work history. But did you earn it? Did you earn it any more than the Black applicant who was told it "wasn't available", or who was quoted a price $400 higher than yours?

And did we really work for everything we have? What about unearned wealth?

[As of 2002], 24% of whites receive an inheritance, just 11% of blacks do so. Among those who get an inheritance, whites receive $115,000 on average compared to $32,000 for blacks.15 And these figures do not reflect the gifts children receive during their parents' lifetimes.
To illustrate the significance of these disparities, whites on average are more than twice as likely as blacks to be able to provide a healthy downpayment on a home even in the nation's most expensive housing markets or to pay tuition for four years at almost any college or university for one child from an inheritance.

~Gregory D. Squires, Reintroducing the Black/White Divide in Racial Discourse

OK, I know some of you are like, "Shoot, I never got $115K, or even $30K, you're crazy!" We're not talking about individuals -- everybody has a story -- we're talking about a system set up to benefit some and oppress others over time.

My own story, you all know: I'm a single mom, 3 kids, money problems, yada yada. But even with all that, I've benefited from a system that has historically been better to my family than families of color. My dad lent me money to put down on my house. Without that, I never could've owned a home. And without his college education and occasional loans from his parents when he was young, he probably wouldn't have been in a position to loan me that down payment. No idea how I'm going to pay him back now that the market has tanked, and I can't imagine ever being able to help my kids like that, but I'm in the house. And I was approved for a loan, even though I probably shouldn't have been. (excellent credit, shit for income, but hey, White! Just don't let Citimortgage see the kids.)

How about this one: OK, things may have been bad after slavery, or even in the '50s, but now there's affirmative action! Now I'm the one discriminated against! Where's my apology? A white man can't get a job these days!

I'd say check out the 2005 Princeton University study in which they had White, Black and Latino men with comparable resumes apply for jobs. You know what they found? Employers would hire a White convicted felon before they would hire a Black man with a clean record. Yes. This was 2005, people. That playing field is not level.

And then there's the always dependable: Slavery ended 143 years ago! It's over! Why can't they just move on and get over it?

Yes, technically slavery ended in 1865. The system did not magically change with that announcement, though. Matter of fact, new laws were put in place to strengthen the system! Slavery was over, but it gave birth to segregation, unequal education, Jim Crow, sundown towns, redlining, and lynching.

Michael Donald was lynched in 1981. This was during my lifetime, people, not ancient history. It was my 15th birthday to be exact. Of course, I didn't know that at the time; I was obliviously blowing out my candles in small town Ohio, comfortably deluded in the belief that slavery was over and things were fine now, the day 19-year-old Michael was hung from a tree in Alabama. In 1998, James Byrd Jr. was chained to the back of a truck and dragged for miles until he was decapitated. One of the guys who did it had a tattoo of a Black man hanging by a noose. 1998. Just ten years ago! This was during my youngest child's lifetime, people. 1998.

And our President vetoed the Hate Crimes Act just last year. Slavery might be "over" but the fallout poisons this country to this day. Is a lousy apology really too much to ask?

Anyway.

Today's apology is not about whether individual White people owned slaves or not. It is about our government acknowledging that the racial inequities existing today are a direct result of slavery and the legalized system of oppression that came from it.

It's about how that system has affected people over the course of generations.

It's about facing the uncomfortable reality that some people continue to benefit from this system today -- whether we choose to or not, whether we consider ourselves "racist" or not, whether our people owned slaves or not.

Judging from the last 4 statements from our online commenters above, it's also about fear, power, and not wanting to shift the existing arrangement. Usually the people who want to keep a given power structure in place are the ones sitting on top of that structure. Just sayin'.

That's why this apology was so long in coming, and why some people feel so threatened by it.

A Couple of Months in the Life

2008-07-25T13:43:00.000-07:00

So how long has it been since I've written about anything of import? Where are the posts about politics, the media, race, current events, and assholes?

I'm turning into a fluff blogger. And that's not going to change today.

Trust me, I'm still ranting about all those things, but I've just got too much going on right now to write a coherent piece about any of it. So today, continuing in the vein of bees, rats, and weather, I'm going to touch on all the little things that have been happening at Chez Cowbell, as Tony puts it, while I've been non-blogging. An update post, if you will.

MILESTONES

Teen Demon graduated from high school. She looked beautiful and happy. I was so proud of her. How did this happen? Even with 18 years to prepare, there's a lag in the parental brain. You end up sitting there during the ceremony, remembering the first day of kindergarten and trying not to rush the stage shrieking, "Give her back, I wasn't done yet!"

And those of you who think it gets easier after the first one, let me just quash that rumor right here. When the first one graduates and leaves home, it's a shock. It's hard in its own way. It's like your first break up -- the punch to the gut you never saw coming that sucks the breath from your lungs. But it seems more like an anomaly than a way of life. You come back from the airport to find that nest still plenty full with the raucous activity of the remaining fledglings. You can pretend the family is still intact, but one of you is off having a grand adventure. Or protesting the White House. Whatever. When the second one graduates though ... that's a tipping point.

By summer's end, I will have more children away in college than I do at home. I'm having some trouble with that. Anyway, congratulations baby -- you haven't always had an easy road, which makes me even more proud of your drive and motivation. I know you'll kick university ass.

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Male Offspring got his learner's permit. Willym, light a candle, please. You know how some people get addicted to gambling or crystal meth, and it takes over their life and they can't think about anything else, and if they go too long without it, they get shaky and kind of psychotic? Yeah, like that. Except without the physical and financial ruin. This boy thinks he was born to drive. Like it's his whole raison d'être. If financial success was determined by interest in driving, he'd have passed Bill Gates last week. I mean, the boy is like, "I'm going to check the mail." What? He's volunteering? Maturity is kicking in! "Can I have the keys?"

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Remember me writing last year about the advocacy group I helped start? Suffice it to say we've been insanely busy. We've been really proud to have helped bring about a couple of events for students and community recently that have had a big impact, and are gearing up for next year. All of that work has indirectly led to something else. I am currently going through the process of applying for my city's D!versity Comm!ssion. (excuse the googler protection, there) I've been through the first 3 steps, the latest being an interview with the mayor. Next step is the interview with City Council, and then they vote on me at their next meeting. So if you hear about a Commissioner Cowbell being appointed, that's me. We'll see -- send good thoughts.

HEALTH AND WELFARE

The Bohemian got stitches for the first time in her life. She, unlike her siblings, has no interest in driving. She bikes or does public transit. Last month she wiped out at the bottom of a hill -- on a curve, on a road with no shoulder to speak of -- slamming her head and various appendages into the ground. She nearly lost consciousness. She soaked a Good Samaritan's pink bath towel with blood. She scared the crap out of both of us.

The doctor, after reaming her a new one about not having her helmet on, scared us even more. "Eighty percent of bicycle head injuries are fatal," he intoned. Yeah, so are heart attacks, doc. Thanks for that tidbit.

The Bohemian is a responsible biker. She wears her helmet at all times in DC. The same helmet that is still sitting in DC, awaiting her return. She tried to wear her brother's helmet that morning, but it didn't fit over her hair. Reasoning that the park she was heading for had nothing on the mean streets of DC, she left without it. I'm so fucking grateful that she didn't come out with some kind of brain injury. That she came out of it at all. Make your kids wear their helmets, people. You can't count on them always being part of that lucky 20%.

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Male Offspring wiped out on his ripstick. Personally, I don't see how he rides that thing at all. It's got 2 wheels. That's it. Skates have more wheels than that, and you get one for each foot. In addition, the torsion bar that joins the 2 sections acts as an axis allowing each section to rotate. If that's not enough, the wheels themselves rotate. 360°. At will. The only thing that would make this thing any more unstable would be if they added a pogo stick component to it.

Anyway, the son wipes out, tearing up his hand and both knees. I get the following text message: "Can you bring home some of those really big Band-aids?" This is not the first time I've received such a text message. Parents, you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, the poor thing is unable to do dishes, with his injured hand and all. I'm sure his road to recovery will be long and arduous.

TRAVEL

The Bohemian is in Ghana. We took out a home equity loan for the clinic to protect her from malaria, yellow fever, typhoid, hepititis A, and the common cold. Oh wait, we don't have that much equity in our home -- better sell those shoes, honey. The clinic advertised "sliding scale fees". After the shots and pills were dispensed, they informed us that doesn't apply to voluntary travel. I guess they consider it akin to elective surgery or Botox. She's on a study trip for school, lady, not summering in a French chalet with her butler in tow.

Anyway, yes, she's there with a small group of music students and a couple of professors. She spent last Sunday in NYC, waiting for the rest of her group to arrive from DC. They missed their flight. Which means, of course, that they all missed the connecting flight from NY to Morocco, which led to them missing the weekly flight that goes from Morocco to Ghana. The Bohemian was not amused. I get a phone call as she's (finally) getting on the plane to Morocco, the following day.

The Radical Bohemian: (dramatic sigh) So, we're leaving. Finally.
Me: Oh good. Did they find another flight from Morocco to Ghana?

RB: No. As a matter of fact, they didn't. There is no other flight from Morocco to Ghana. We're now flying from Morocco to Togo.

(I can practically feel her eyes stabbing daggers into her professor's back)

Me: Togo? So ... how will you get to Ghana?
RB: Apparently, we're going to drive.

Me: Oh. Who's driving?

RB: I don't know.

Me: What kind of vehicle?

RB: I don't know.

Me: Well, is it a bus or private vehicle? I think that's a pretty rough drive. What about visas? You guys don't have visas to Togo.

RB: I don't know. I don't think anyone knows. Hey, we're boarding, I have to go ... I'll try to get in touch with you somehow...

Yeah. High times and adventure under the watchful supervision of responsible university staff. Anyway, she called yesterday, so I only had to worry for about 5 days. Actually, the Bohemian is a highly resourceful and experienced traveler, I wasn't too worried. She's having a fantastic time and they did actually make it to Ghana. She was on a shared phone card, so I think she crammed about 10 minutes worth of info into 2 minutes, but she sounded thrilled. Can't wait to get the full report.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Male Offspring went to football camp in eastern WA last month. Fortunately, yellow fever was not a concern. He gloated about temperatures in the 90s and constant sunshine. He did this, of course, with a mountain range between us so I couldn't actually lash out in a moment of temporary insanity. The kid's no fool. He came back sporting the now traditional 'fro-hawk, but the guys kind of messed up with the clippers so it didn't have quite the shock value as last year's event. I am gearing up for another football season in the stands.

AT LEAST THEY'RE NOT ON DRUGS

Teen Demon got a tattoo. I'm not sure if it was at the same place where she got her belly button pierced. She'd been telling me she was going to do these things after she turned 18. In fact, she'd informed me of this fact many times, via text message. Teen Demon tells me all her important news and asks all the dicey questions via text message. Her generation should be called Generation Text. I fully expect to receive a text message rather than a wedding announcement.

Anyway, it's been nearly a year since Teen Demon turned 18, so I suppose one could say she's showed incredible restraint. It could be worse. One of her friends recently got a guy's name tattooed below her belly button. A couple of weeks after her 18th birthday. In big, capital, Olde English letters. The guy in question is a sweetheart. I like him. I met him when he was here visiting from Massachusetts. No, he's not from here; they met on the internet. Oh, he got her name as well. Same place, same style. This girl is a smart cookie and beautiful and funny to boot. So what happened? Young love, people, young love. It bites us all in the ass, doesn't it?

Anyway, Teen Demon got stars. Not sure what they represent, other than being cute and sparkly. Her reasoning involves stars "never going out of style, like some stupid fad". Or a guy's name. Hey, at least she's employing some sort of logic, here. And she didn't end up with a sun-turned-spider tattoo either, so there's something to be said for that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The Bohemian attended Pride with her friends, as per usual, with one small twist. She went in drag. She insisted on me calling her "son" that day, so she could get into character. Not sure what Male Offspring thought about me suddenly having two sons, but he said her goatee was pretty cool. To me, she just looks like the Bohemian whether she's manning up or wearing her trademark Bohemianesque skirts, but then, I'm her mom. She said she was actually passing, and even got a few looks from the ladies. The straight ones, I mean.

NEWS FROM A BROAD

Betty called from Iraq. I was so relieved. I'd been emailing her, and hadn't heard a word back. Now I'm not one to freak about that, and I know she's just a touch busy over there, but still ... I was a little worried. OK, a lot worried. Anyway, she called the other day, and we talked for about an hour, which was wonderful. She's doing well, but when I asked her how things really were, I got a long pause, a sigh, and "It's very stressful. Very stressful". She couldn't go into too many details, OPSEC and all that, but I could tell it's wearing on her. She's got 5 more months of the 15 month tour. If Dubya and crew don't extend them before that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

OK, that's enough news for now. I know, how to handle all that excitement, right? Good point. Time for a beer

Beelzebub's Minions

2008-07-21T02:38:00.000-07:00

There is a nest of bees under my back deck. I use the term deck loosely, as it brings to mind an elevated structure that one can actually get under. The only thing that fits under my deck are the dogs' toys. I often find myself in the prone position, trying to scrape out a rubber ball or bone from under the "deck" with a rake. So no, my deck is not a traditional deck, per se, and I can't get under it to address the bee problem.

A friend of mine has a deck. Her husband built it. By himself. It's huge, overlooks their yard, and could be featured in a how-to manual for container gardening. You know those pictures with the flowers pouring out of the pots in a cascade of color? Like that. Also planted by said husband. He also trims the gorgeous tree with the dark purple leaves overhanging a portion of the deck, and handles the grill action, also located on the deck. Yeah. If you're going to have a husband, folks, find one of this guy's brothers. They're in California. I asked.

Could you imagine what a different experience life in This Old Motherfucking House would be with someone possessing those skillz in residence? No. Neither can I.

So anyway, bees under my deck. Porch, whatever. These bees are vicious. I had to get on The Internets to see if the much feared Killer Bees had somehow made it up to WA state without me knowing it. (They haven't.) No, we have a strain of regular old bumblebees, Bombus Vosnesenski, which, according to the Internets, spend their lives merrily droning from bloom to bloom like hairy diminutive Goodyear blimps. Under normal circumstances, they're all about the pollination, and are not vicious.

Unless you are close to their nest. Seeing as how their nest is located right at my back door, they're getting a might testy.

The other day, several of them had targeted me for annihilation. After pulling out a few ineffectual Bruce Lee moves I didn't even know I had, I somehow made it back into the house. Damned if the little bastards weren't furiously flinging themselves up against the glass door, still trying to take their ounce of flesh from my hide. The next day, The Bohemian got stung on the cheek, and Mason got stung on the leg.

The Internets told me I needed bee dust, applied with a bee duster at dusk. My hardware store didn't carry these items, so on the advice of some guy sporting a buzz cut and a red apron, I settled for wasp & hornet spray. I'd thought to go for this foam stuff instead, but Mr. Aprons insisted the wasp & hornet spray was the weapon of choice. The can claimed a 27-foot directed stream. This, as you may have guessed by the name, is intended for wasps and hornets, which tend to build their nests up high, like in the eaves of your house. One can stand well back, direct a stream of potent potion at the nest, and run like hell before they know what hit them. Bumble bees, however, tend to nest down low, like under a board or cheap-ass low-rider deck wannabe.

The only way to hit this devil's brood nestled under my decklet would be to settle into the prone position on the opposite side, shine a flashlight under there with one hand to mark my target, let loose with the 27-foot directed stream, deftly get to my feet and make like a gazelle without falling on my ass before they swarm me. I wasn't really feeling this plan, being nowhere as nimble or quick as I was before moving here and getting my fat on. Also, according to The Googles, these guys can lock on to the flashlight beam, and use it to hone in on one's ass like a squadron of pixie sized Stealth fighters, so I'd need to have the presence of mind to turn off the flashlight during all this. Better yet, just drop it, like I'm deploying chaff and flares to draw the little bastards to a false target.

Regardless, I needed some protection. Not owning a bee keeper's suit, I made do with what I had lying around the house.

I went to the garage and dug out the camping poncho I once bought during a miserable rainy "summer vacation" (air quotes intentional) on the lovely Washington coast. In lieu of an apiarist's veil, Male Offspring kindly provided the protective headgear seen to the left.

Grabbing my flashlight and Mr. Aprons' Aerosol Death in a can, I went out to do battle. I stretched out on the grass, clicked on my light, and surprise -- my "deck" was apparently built over what used to be a concrete porch. My beam reflected back at me from a concrete barrier wrapping entirely around the area where Beelzebub's minions had made their land claim.

I'd underestimated the enemy. They'd chosen a fortress from which to make their stand. This would be close in, hand to wing combat, requiring me to stand over their entry point and aim the stream directly down into the cracks of the deck. Miraculously, I made it back in with no stings.

This morning, I found my weaponry was deficient. Mr. Aprons clearly needs to refine his pest eradication skillz. The bees are not resting in peace, but are plenty pissed off. Instead of waking to find a field of wee casualties, I found instead a whirling dervish of frenzied collective rage. Berzerker Bees, if you will.

I'm going back this afternoon for the foam.

Vivisection

2008-07-15T22:26:00.000-07:00

Do you all remember The Rat? If not, click and go read -- absolutely essential backstory for today's tale of intrigue.

What? You think I don't see you trying to skip ahead? Please, I can hear the heavy breathing from here. You probably read Cliff Notes as a kid. To quote the Brady Bunch dad, You're only cheating yourself Bobby; and cheaters never prosper. In fact, sometimes they end up divorced with an ex-wife who suddenly develops a penchant for voodoo dolls. That's right, Bobby. Think about it.

I'll wait.

OK, so the other day I come home from work, open up the fridge to grab a beer, and come face to face with ... The Rat. Like you didn't see that one coming.

Yeah, OK, you got me. Ha ha, very funny, son. But wait ... what's that red ... holy scalpels, Batman! The Rat had been stitched up like a grisly FrankenRodent! It's true. The Rat was sporting an I-incision with bright red stitching, complete with decorative beadwork. Apparently, my eldest and my youngest spent the afternoon in a study session reviewing Male Offspring's freshman Biology lab notes.

Here are the gory details. My kids are nothing if not creative. And twisted.

Warning: This presentation is intended for mature audiences and contains disturbing elements of extreme violence, blood and gore. Animals were definitely harmed for this presentation. Procedures not carried out by licensed medical personnel.

Bittersweet Anniversary

2008-07-11T12:00:00.001-07:00

A summer of sorts has arrived in the PNW. Yes children, July has arrived, and you know what that means: vegetarian hot dogs, fresh tomatoes bursting with the threat of salmonella, broken lawnmowers, neighborhood streets littered with the detritus of DIY fireworks, and that wonderful summer weather -- partially sunny and only marginally chilly. You all know how I love only having to wear my undershirt 'neath my outer layers, as opposed to my normal undershirt, jacket, and knee socks.

July also means that most hallowed of all summer events, the annual Cannonball & Bellyflop Contest at our local pool. The Bohemian and Male Offspring are psyching themselves up for competition as I type. In fact, I can not do justice to the Bohemian's blog entry about this event -- I nearly peed myself reading it this morning. Totally worth the click. Just utilize the latrine before you read, soldiers.

The Bohemian and Male Offspring compete every year. So does the current (and past) reigning champion, their nemesis, Steve. Last year the Bohemian came in 3rd in the adult division. She's got pictures up from last year's showdown at her site. She found them on the web. Who knew she was famous? Steve is hot, truth be told. Not that that fact makes it any easier to come in 3rd behind him, but at least it gives you something nice to look at as you're hating him.

Steve, King of the Bellyflop

For me, the contest not only brings back memories of tender flesh smacking against a wall of water and tattooed hotties rotating through the air Greg Louganis style, it also brings back memories of a more bitter nature. Those of you who've been around for a while know of what I speak.

Last year's contest was when Dear Camera met his demise, thanks to that teenbitch careening down the stairs like she was late to retrieve a text message. I paid homage to him this morning by re-reading his tribute. Camera, though another now rests in your little case, you have never been forgotten. Canon really fucked up when they took away the 50 ISO option for all the upgrades following you, so trust that you can never really be replaced.

If you'd like to see some of Dear Camera's best work, just scroll down last July's posts - they're all there, starting about halfway down the page. Camera kicked ass. Yes he did. Only the good die young. Those of you who were around last year may remember the deep pit of depression I fell into following that fateful night.

Anyway, tonight the Bohemian takes on Steve in a contest of guts and glory in the adult division at our local pool. Male Offspring will bide his time in the teen division. I will be there with my new camera, guarding it more closely than Karl Rove guards the truth.

I leave you with pics of the offspring from last year. Keep in mind that these were taken after Dear Camera's LCD screen was crushed like the nation's hope after a stolen election. I was, for the first time ever, using the "view finder", and had no access to settings or controls. I was effectively shooting blind. Like Dick Cheney in autumn. So before I overdose on bad analogies, here are some shots from Dear Camera's last hurrah.

The offspring, sizing up the Kiddie Division

The Bohemian, coming out of a somersault in the Cannonball event.

Male Offspring, getting some height

So send your good vibes this way, folks. I'll let you know how it goes tonight.

Happy Independence Day*

2008-07-05T12:42:00.000-07:00

Hope you all had a happy 4th. I offer you my warmest Independence Day wishes:

*Unless, of course, you happened to be enslaved, native, or female at the time our founding fathers declared this land to be an independent sovereign nation.

I Won! I Won! Penny Candy All Around!

2008-06-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

I won the Lottery.

My dad is fond of saying, "A buck's a buck." True, but somehow this win just didn't live up to my dreams of how winning the lottery was supposed to go.

Those of who are long time readers know that I never used to play the lottery, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that. The first time I did, probably a couple of years ago, I had to ask the clerk how to buy a ticket. I didn't even know there was more than one kind of lottery ticket. I was raised to avoid throwing away good money on harebrained schemes or useless crap. Of course, that didn't stop me from buying those pink high-top Reebocks in the 80s, but whatever.

Anyway, now I buy tickets probably every other week, if I remember. I spend either $2 and $3, depending how lucky I feel that day. I usually buy one Mega Millions ticket, and one or two regular Lotto tickets. I tell myself that the fantasy value alone is worth it, as it chips away at that chronic financial anxiety and is cheaper than Wellbutrin. Besides, lottery money goes to the state's educational system, so I consider it my contribution to the bright young minds of tomorrow. As Whitney Houston says, I believe the children are our future.

I buy my tickets at the grocery store. Since I'm already getting screwed with the price of eggs, might as well make it a twofer. Anyway, there's a machine at the grocery store that reads your tickets and tells you whether or not you won. Checking one's tickets via this machine has got to be the one of the most disheartening experiences there is. If you do not have a winning ticket, the machine displays the following message in bright red text:

Sorry. Not a Winner.

Yeah. Thanks for letting me know that, you little R2D2 wannabe. Look who's talking.

Not "Sorry, Better Luck Next Time!" or even "Sorry, Not a Winning Ticket", no, this damn thing has to aim for the soft spot. Sorry, not a winner. In other words, go home loser, and keep clipping those coupons and buying our shitty store brand.

Anyway, the other day, I checked my Mega Millions ticket, and felt that familiar dejection as the machine silently spewed the familiar refrain, "Sorry. Not a Winner." Then I ran my regular Lotto ticket under the little bastard's red beam and saw something different ...

Winning Ticket!

For just a fraction of a split second, my future flashed before my eyes: a working furnace, travel to hot places, actual retirement! Then I saw the rest of the message:

$3!

As the clerk congratulated me, I came down to earth, handed her my ticket, and said, "Yeah, no cash -- I'll just take one Mega Millions ticket and two Lottos, please."

That's called rolling over your investment, folks.

Some Rain Funk for My Rain Funk

2008-06-10T13:12:00.000-07:00

I need some Wellies. Cute funky ones. Maybe a cute rain coat, too, but definitely the boots. It would distract me and make me happy about jumping in puddles. Like that's fun or something.

Actually, it is fun, when you live in a place where it "rains occasionally". Like when it's warm, and you have a lot of sun for a long time, and then there's a big storm with thunder and lightening, and it's cozy inside, and then the sun comes out again, and that ozone smell makes life seem fresh and bright and green, and you go out and splash in puddles under a rainbow with a unicorn. That's fun.

What's not fun is when it rains every friggin' day for weeks and weeks, it's cold, everything smells of mildew, rainbows are the stuff of legends, and the unicorns have gone to live in Arizona. What's not fun is when something called a sunbreak is what "happens occasionally".

Some cute Wellies would be a spot of brightness in a landscape of grey. The resulting lift of spirits would, much like my sunlamp, basically be a heavy dose of the placebo effect, but who the hell cares.

I have a picnic to attend today people. Yes, I said a picnic, an event for some of the kids in the school district. No, the weather has not changed, thanks for asking. Now ask me if I feel like going and standing around outside in the rain, in my poncho and scarf, eating potato salad, acting like I'm friggin' happy to be there. I need the rainboots today, goddamnit.

Seriously, aren't these just too adorable?

Bill Cunningham, NY Times

See? Cute! In boots like that, you might actually enjoy the rain. Even a rainy picnic. Then again, they probably live in a place where rain "happens occasionally". One of those places where you can say things like, "Yeah, it rained this afternoon." Inferring, of course, that rain is an event that doesn't happen all goddamn day, all fucking month long, 10 months out of the year.

You see why I need the cute boots?

These babies scream SPRING!

That's hot.

Love these funky pink and black twirls.

And if the rain's really got you down, and you're looking for a whole'nother kind of pick-me-up, you can always go for something like these:

Personally, just looking at those makes me cold, but hey, if you live in a place where you actually experience that phenomenon known as a "warm summer rain", these might be right up your alley. So to speak. There is no such thing as a "warm summer rain" here in Seattle, not even in summer, let alone June -- or as they've been calling it, Juneuary -- so I will not be sporting these hot cloppers, but I may show up to work one day in some of those other puddle stompers.

Nothing like a bright and shiny distraction to keep a girl from flying into a homicidal rain rage.

The Never Ending Story

2008-06-09T08:28:00.000-07:00

Cloudy and 52* with light rain this morning here in Seattle. Looks like the rain and chilly temperatures will be continuing throughout the week, so don't put away those umbrellas yet!

It's apparent to me that weather announcers here in the Puget Sound region are either 1) from here, and this seems normal, 2) are getting paid obscene amounts of money to chuckle and sound cheerful, or 3) are operating on heavy doses of Prozac.

Theoretically, they could also be sun-hating, fun-sucking vampires.

There's pretty much no other way to explain how a person can actually chuckle and engage in light banter about this situation. Like it's normal. Since moving here, what's become normal for me is to flip obscene hand gestures toward my radio and loudly curse it while driving through drizzle in my always-on heated car seat.

My personal reaction to this morning's weather report was to grab the plastic butter knife in my desk drawer and start sawing away at my wrists, but it wasn't very effective, and the weather gods apparently don't give a shit that I'm about to flip the fuck out because it's still raining.

They're probably up there chuckling too.

So I tighten my winter scarf (thanks Tony), turn on my sunlamp and check my email to take my mind off things. Oh look, some friends have written -- let's see what RG has to say, he's always good for some conspiratorial bitching. What's this? Oh ... it's a link to Boston weather ... looks like folks are getting sunburned and having sweatfests there. Thanks, RG. That's fucking great. Hope you had fun at your softball game. Sun, beer, and hot guys ... this isn't helping, goddamnit. Watch it buster, or Cheery Radio Bitch won't be the only one on my short list for a healthy bitch slap.

At least he took up a "sunshine collection" for me on his site. It's not working, but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?

Salt in the Wound...

2008-06-06T19:28:00.000-07:00

Also, this morning I attended a staff meeting in our coldass conference room where I had to take my blanket (yes, we keep blankets at work here), and learned that a colleague who has been on sabbatical for the last academic year is not coming back.

She's staying in Costa Rica.

Hide the sharp objects people, I'm about to hit my limit.

You Wanted a Rant?

2008-06-06T13:19:00.000-07:00

Still raining this morning in the Seattle area, we're expecting a high of 56* today, with clouds and continuing showers throughout the day.

I am about to SNAP here, people. I'm am seriously feeling fucking FOUL. As in a weird version of claustrophobic, no joke. Like I'm on the verge of suddenly breaking into a full out scream and running until I pass out or hit sun. I think we all know which would happen first, which is the only thing keeping me on this side of sanity.

I'm not kidding here, people, I wonder if I'm skirting around the edge of a panic attack. I've never had a panic attack, but if it's something like you want to jump out of your skin and the whites of your eyes are visible and there's a scream stuck in your throat which keeps you from breathing, then that's it. How stupid would that be? "Seattle area woman's panic attack resulted from excessive rain." Right. I handled divorce and all other kinds of shit, but no, it's the never ending wetass grey that's about to put me over the fucking edge. How lame is that. I don't need anti-depressants, I need some sort of sun pill.

I know you all think I'm extreme on this subject, but come on -- we are exactly 14 days from Summer Solstice, and we were arguing about turning on the heat last night. If it wasn't so goddamned expensive here, I'd seriously have it on at least 10 months of the year.

I was watching Candy Crowley on the news last night. She was stalking Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, to see what their secret meeting was all about. (Hilarious how they duped the media and gave them the slip! hahahaha! Score one for the candidates.) Anyway, it's the middle of the night there, and she's standing around outside Hillary Clinton's DC home, I think.

There were bugs flying around her. At night.

That means it's HOT where she is. As in actual summer.

It looked weird. Just seeing those few little bugs flying around made me think of warm nights on my old terrace, where at 11pm the big tiles still felt warm under my feet, and my beer would sweat, and the bottle would feel good against my forehead, and I could sit in the chair in nothing but shorts and a strappy top, and the chair wouldn't be wet or cold, and the breeze was warm, not wet and cold, and I could spread out and breathe without having to pull into myself or wrap up in something. It even smelled warm there.

That was back when I owned a fan.

Anyway, I was surprised at how seeing those bugs flying around at night hit me, how foreign that looked to me now. It was seriously depressing. Such a little thing. I wouldn't even have noticed it before.

This morning as I was getting out of my car, fumbling with my book bag, purse, coffee, umbrella, and car keys, feeling my hair go limper and flatter by the minute while a big drip of water slid down my neck, I had the urge to just sit down in the parking lot and cry. "OK! I give up you fucking rain god, you fucking broke me, UNCLE for godssake, now just bring the goddamn sun out."

Of course I didn't. But that's what I was thinking. You never know what's going on inside people, do you?

Then, I make it into the building and am feeling so foul and discombobulated trying to hang on to everything and close my umbrella at the same time that I only glare at the 3 flights of stairs and head straight for the Fat Woman's Lover, aka the elevator. Which only makes things worse.

I'll never make it until Male Offspring graduates.

A Weather Rant.

2008-06-05T21:31:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Melanie Connor, NY Times

Here's what I heard on the radio on my way in to work this morning. This is before caffeine, people -- keep that in mind.

Cloudy and showers continuing today and on through the weekend. We're looking at possible highs in the upper 50s this afternoon.

I'm sorry, did you say upper 50s, Cheery Radio Bitch? What is this, March?!

Nope, guess again. That's right kids, it's that suckass time of year again in Seattle: June! That magical month where the rains continue and the cool maritime breeze sets your teeth to chattering. The time of year where, approaching the summer solstice and full of hope, you shed your knee socks, shave the bottom of half of your legs, paint your toes, and, like a dimwitted Pollyanna, don your kicky capris and a filmy summer top ... only to see your exposed sickly pallor break into a landscape of goosebumps.

Yeah, that little summer fit lasted about 5 minutes. About as long as the "sun break" that brought it on. Ah, June in Seattle!

That would be summer for the rest of you in the Northern Hemisphere. And those of you from Alaska, don't even try. It's supposed to get up to 70* in Fairbanks today. I hate you. Even those of you in Greenland don't have a legitimate gripe: yes, we're at about the same temperature today, but you bitches are under "partly sunny" skies, while I haven't seen so much as a "sun break" in days. So take your partly sunny and shove it where the sun doesn't shine. Oh, that would be Seattle!

Actually, you all may be interested to know that the place most similar to Seattle's weather is Iceland. No, I'm not joking. Reykjavik could be our sister city today, with 52* and overcast.

Oh wait, they have higher humidity, so it feels warmer. My bad.

Oh, wait again ... it just started raining here. Are you kidding me?

So, with 52* and overcast -- as opposed to Seattle's 48* and pissing on my head -- Iceland's weather is a better bet than Seattle. I'm thinking Cheery Radio Bitch was working under a heavy dose of optimism with that "upper 50s" bullshit.

And you all wonder why I'm a bitch?

She's Alive!

2008-06-03T17:51:00.000-07:00

Hi. It's me. Let's cover the obvious first: No, sadly I have not taken up with a trapeze artist from Cirque du Soleil, turned into an exercise addict or won the lottery. This Old MF'in House has not yet fallen down around me. Johnny Depp has not come to his senses and spent the last month ravishing me. I did not get arrested for sending rotten eggs to Dubya via the US postal system. I did not snap and order a home tanning bed or run away to Arizona. And no, neither Prince Charming nor Calgon has taken me away from all this.

On the other hand, I'm home sick today, my lawnmower broke after less than a year (friggin' Craftsman) which is so not good in this area of the world (lush and verdant my ass), and a branch from a bigass tree is resting on my roof. It hasn't exactly fallen, but it's just kind of laying there, half attached, laughing at me and my short ladder.

I've been crazy busy. I didn't plan to unplug, it just kind of happened. Hey, I'm not superwoman, one of the balls had to drop. OK, two -- my house looks like shit, but I think that ball basically dropped last year, and I'm kind of used to it now.

So, sorry I haven't been around to anyone's cyberhouse in like, forever. The longer I was unplugged, the more daunting the thought of catching up became. Anyway, I'm not trying to do an out and out Real Post today - just wanted to say hey, let you know I'm still kicking, and quell the above rumors.

I do miss you all. I'll get back on soon, and likely become a slothenly netaddict once more.

Tennessee Principal Outs Gay Students

2008-05-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to find this news. High school principal Daphne Beasley, Memphis TN, was tired of all the PDA happening on school grounds. (That's Public Display of Affection, for those of you not living with a middle/high school student. Or those of you who've escaped military influence.)

Ms. Beasley was none too pleased with the apparently excessive PDA occurring within the vaunted halls of Hollis F. Price Middle College High School. (Middle College High School? What the hell does that even mean?) Ms. Beasley decided to take the public watchdog and humiliation route to address these nefarious goings-on. She asked her staff for the names of all student couples, in order to compile a list. All the better to keep an eye on the eager little darlings, you know.

Problem is, she posted the list. Publicly. Teachers, students, custodial staff, la-dee-da-dee everybody could see who was joined in lunchroom liplocks. But wait, there's more! She'd also specified to the staff that she wanted both hetero and homosexual couples named, which means, of course, that The List outed some gay students.

In a high school in Tennessee.

I'm sure that made for a wonderful learning environment for the outed students. The students say they are now being "treated differently" by students and teachers. I just bet they are.

And Ms. Beasley didn't stop there. Apparently she also called the mother of at least one of the gay students, an 11th grader who'd just made the Dean's list, and outed him to Moms as well.

Now, I'm all for high school kids being open with their parents. I'm reasonably sure my kids would be able to tell me should they be any version of "not straight". The Bohemian, in fact, hasn't quite nailed down what she considers herself. Whatever. Labels schmabels. But we are a progressive left-leaning household in the Seattle area. There are many out gay couples in my kids' high school. I would venture to say it's not as big of a deal here for those students who choose to come out. Not that those kids don't have to deal with ignorance and prejudice - of course they do - but there is a good deal of support in this area, should a student choose to come out at school.

I'm not foolish enough to think that every family or high school environment is going to be supportive for a young gay person. The parent in me thinks yes, I'd want the school to tell me what's going on with my child, but that may not be advisable or even safe in every situation. Did that principal stop to think about the consequences of her actions in calling those parents? Did she talk to the student beforehand? Did she think about the effects on his life? You don't know how those parents are going to react. That kid could end up getting his ass beat, or kicked out into the streets. Hey, it happens, it's not that far fetched. Even if not, coming out is a big deal. How these parents experience The Big Revelation will likely have an effect on their reaction to it. I'm betting that kid would've liked to have some control about how he came out to his parents, classmates and teachers.

This student was scheduled to go on a school trip to New Orleans to help rebuild houses. After the posting of The List, he was told by a teacher that he would no longer be going, due to the possibility he might "embarrass the school by engaging in gay affection."

Are you kidding me?

What this kid wanted to engage in was some public service, being a responsible and contributing member of society, caring about something bigger than himself, building community. You're going to tell a kid who just made the Dean's list and who was going to rebuild houses in a place our own President has all but abandoned, that his services aren't necessary because he has a boyfriend?

So, according to this teacher, being gay is supposed to be the negative aspect in this young man's life? What effect are those words, that rejection, going to have on this young man, on this citizen of our society? (and when I say citizen, I do not mean in the legal sense, I mean as in a contributing member of community.)

You know what? This kid is not "embarrassing", but Principal Beasley's actions are. That teacher's comments are. Shame on them.

I was talking to the Offspring about this story. OK, ranting. Whatever. Teen Demon made the point that it wasn't fair to any of the kids, gay or straight. She said in her school there are kids from traditional Asian families who are not allowed to date, even in the upper grades. If those students were "outed" to their families, it could be disastrous for some of them.

Again, I'm not advocating teenagers keeping major secrets from their families, but hey, things aren't always how we wish they were. In the example Teen Demon brought up, say you've got a good student, a 17-year-old kid who has a boyfriend -- one whom she basically sees only at school -- and this kid gets "outed" simply by virtue of being "part of a couple", whether she has engaged in PDA or not, because some principal put her on a List ... that doesn't seem right.

Male Offspring wondered about kids who may be falsely identified as being part of a couple. What if the staff is wrong in their presumptions?

Seems to me that a little PDA is part of high school life. Come on, did Ms. Beasley never swap saliva by the lockers? Yes, there are limits, and yes, students should practice at least a minimal level of decorum. We're talking affection, not pop, locking and dropping. If things get to that point, seems to me it still could've been handled in a more constructive way.

Seems to me the decision to come out is a personal decision, not one for the schools.

FOX Noise: Lincoln-Douglass Debates

2008-04-30T06:53:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit late to this party, as it's already out on the Internets, and our man Keith Olberman already busted this out on the airwaves, but it was too good to pass up.

You all remember when Hillary Clinton challenged Barack Obama to some good old fashioned, unmoderated, Lincoln-Douglas style debating? Now, I assumed she was referring to this:

The Lincoln-Douglas debates were a series of 7 political debates that took place across Illinois in 1858 between Abraham Lincoln and his opponent, Stephen A. Douglas, in the race for an Illinois seat in the US Senate.

Apparently, the folks at FAUX News were a mite confused at the Douglas part of that deal, as seen in their "reporting" of Senator Clinton's suggestion:

This is the split-screen from the FOX version:

Oh yes they did.

The Douglass to which they referred, of course, is Frederick Douglass -- abolitionist, author, lecturer, newspaper publisher, international traveler, former slave. Black man.

And here on the right, we have Stephen Douglas, Abraham Lincoln's opponent in the aforementioned debates. Senator, pro-slavery politician, racist, unsuccessful presidential contender. White man.

Different guys. Different beliefs. Different locations. Different jobs.

Hey FOX, I'm pretty sure Stephen is your man.

Of course, this begs the question: are the folks at FOX really that ignorant? Did they seriously think that Lincoln debated Frederick Douglass in a series of debates that focused largely on the issue of slavery? Did they really not know the difference between these 2 radically different men? Did they simply not pay attention? Not catch it?

Or, some proffer, did they do it on purpose?

Neither would surprise me. Lord knows that the "history" taught in our schools is Eurocentric and leaves a whole lot of information out. I can certainly believe a future FOXer could make it to graduation without having more than a vague recollection of Frederick Douglass's name. On the other hand, I can also believe they'd pull that shit on purpose.

I just continue to marvel at the fact that the conservatives expect people to take FOX seriously as a news source.

What the Hell?

2008-04-29T22:26:00.000-07:00

Created by OnePlusYou

Apparently, the average cussing percentage is around 9%. Pansies. This from the site:

Around 57.8% of the pages on your website contain cussing.
This is 542% MORE than other websites who took this test.

542% more? Well goddamn. And let's be clear, that's 541% above average. That's right. I said above average.

That's what rocking the F-bomb on a consistent basis can get you, people.

Soldier of Fourtune

2008-04-26T23:46:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm still behind on this meme thing. People, I have no problem being tagged as long as you all don't have a problem with a possible months-long lag time. Also, with me not remembering who the hell tagged me for what. If I don't write it down, there's really no point in deluding myself as far as remembering jack shit about the details.

I do remember one thing about this particular meme, thanks to Sling. No, he's not the one who tagged me, (you know who you are. I don't.) but he added one bit to it that, well, just needed to be added.

Anyway, here's the Four Things I've Whatevered In My Life meme:

Four jobs I've had in my life (prior to this one and other than "mom"):
1) Chief bottle-washer, camp store operator, and port-a-potty cleaner at church camp
2) Top Secret communications bitch in the US Army.
3) Telemarketer. (double shifts of saying the same script for the Sears Credit Protection Plan. Over and over and over and over and over and...)
4) Human Resources manager

Four movies I would watch/have watched over and over:
1) Chocolat
2) The Birdcage
3) Charlie's Angels (Shut up. I know.)
4) The Bodyguard. (hahaha! Kidding, people, kidding.)

Four places I have lived:
1) Junction City, KS
2) Hillsboro, OH
3) Ludwigswinkel, Germany
4) Kaposvár, Hungary

Four people I want to bitch-slap right into the middle of next week!: (thanks, Sling.)
1) Gee-Dubya
2) Email spammers
3) Hillary Clinton
4) Tyra Banks

Four people who email me regularly:
1) a woman I used to work with who send lots and lots of FWD'd messages. Rose of Friendship. Jokes. Teddy Bear Hug Chain. Like that.
2) My mom. Sometimes "real" emails (love it), more often political and religious emails in the hopes of bringing me back to the fold. (shoot me now.)
3) Red*
4) Al*
*until I turned into a slackass non-blogger non-emailer.

Four places I have visited:
1) Monastir, Tunisia
2) Tuzla, Bosnia
3) New Orleans, LA
4) Crater Lake, OR

Four TV shows I watch:
1) Brothers & Sisters
2) Medium
3) Moonlight
4) Wife Swap (Shut up. I know.)

Four favorite foods:
1) Burritos
2) Vegetable Korma
3) Any kind of pasta
4) Potatoes in any form

Four places I'd like to be right now:
1) Lake Balaton, Hungary, with a cold beer and a slab of grilled fish
2) Cheers, Kaposvár, Friday night with the old crowd
3) The coast of Spain, Italy, Brazil -- anywhere hot and sunny.
4) My old terrace, about 11pm on a hot clear night, in the green chair with a cold beer and still-warm tiles under my bare feet.

Four things I'm looking forward to this year:
1) Indigo Girls summer concert
2) winning the Mega-Millions
3) summer
4) wow, this one's harder than I thought. I need to get a life...

So there you go.

Come Rock Out With Me

2008-04-23T23:46:00.000-07:00

Some of you feared I had met some unfortunate end. Most of you - generous, kindly souls that you are - assumed I've actually been engaging in something called "having a life".

Well, I wouldn't exactly go that far. It's not like I've been getting laid or anything.

Things have just suddenly gotten insanely busy. Deadlines at work. Pretty insane there. But mostly my advocacy group has pretty much exploded into activity. Too much to write about, but suffice it to say we're getting a taste of some minor fame. Not fortune though. Damn. Interest from the state superintendent (I got to be on a conference call w/ her), upcoming presentation to one of the WA state House committees, 2 upcoming award ceremonies and rumors of a third, requests from surrounding school boards, even an invitation to co-sponsor some community forums with established ("real") community organizations. Which will mean our name on flyers and posters, and more connections. Pretty cool. Best of all, though, all that means people are listening, which means better things in store for the kids.

So yeah. Either we're friggin' geniuses and the Obama campaign should snap us up and start paying us the big money, or, more likely, there is an incredible heretofore unmet need for what we're doing.

Yeah. The latter. I know.

Anyway, I've been breathing this stuff lately, so I'm not writing more about that. And I'm feeling the brevity tonight, people. Shocking, I know. So, in keeping with that rare event, here are a few bullets from the last few weeks of my life:

--- My gutter was finally felled by the heavy, wet issue of a freak snowstorm, trapping my car in the garage. We tried to cut it down with a branch trimmer, but couldn't get the leverage. Male Offspring wrenched it out of the way so I could get the car out. Our house looks like an ad for that "You might be a redneck if..." deal. I haven't had time to research finding someone to fix it who won't rip me off.

--- The Bohemian is considering becoming a drag king.

--- The first issue of my group's joint newsletter with the district will be coming out in May. You should've seen all the editing going back and forth on that venture, let me tell you. Our side had to go out for margaritas after final approval. It's going out to all district parents as an insert in individual schools' newsletters. Shit, meet fan.

--- Teen Demon broke up with her boyfriend. A couple of months ago.

--- My house looks like shit.

--- OK, I was up late computering into the wee hours one night, TV mindlessly blaring in the background. The Bodyguard came on, you know, with Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston? I know. It was either that, religious shows, or FOX. Anyway, something weird happened: Kevin Costner seemed so goddamned appealing to me. WTF? Seriously, not a Kevin Costner fan, here. I mean, I don't hate him, but just ... meh. So what the hell? I finally figured it out. It was the whole superman thing. Whitney did not have to worry about one goddamn thing with Kev around. The man took care of business. Didn't make a big deal about it, just took care of business. He had Whitney's back. Was prepared for every possible contingency. That's hot. I have too much shit going on. You can bet Whitney's gutter wouldn't stay wrenched over onto her porch, looking like hicksville. Not with the Bodyguard on the job. Hell no.

Anyway, that freaked me out. Kevin Costner now, people. Weird.

--- Teen Demon cleaned her room. I may post pictures. You have no idea how huge that is.

--- Male Offspring is becoming a Guitar God, thanks to Guitar Hero. I suck ass at it. It's a weird society we live in, when you're working away out in the living room and you get a text message from your son. Who's in the next room. Playing with a toy guitar. "Come rock out with me." I think that might be Teenspeak for "I sorta like, love you, Mom, I guess." He also kicked my ass at Guitar Hero. I don't actually "rock out", per se. It's more like a frenzied plinking.

--- Teen Demon's prom dress arrived today. She tried it on, complete with accompanying jewelry. She looked stunning. Like she walked out of some 1940s movie. Her girlfriends got dresses the same day. They haven't settled on dates yet.

Me: You girls could just all go together -- you've done that before, you always have so much fun doing that.

TD: (looking down at the dress) Yeah right! A date is an accessory that this dress needs.

--- I had to file a tax extension.

--- The Bohemian made it into the Chicago Tribune. For protesting the IRS. They quoted her full name, the fact that her mother, a former soldier, was fully supportive of her protesting the war in Iraq, and that she was even wearing her mom's Army pants. Fuck. If my broke ass gets audited, I'll grow a long arm and choke that child.

--- I'm dangerously close to bitchslapping Hillary for her antics. I'm seriously getting sick of it.

--- An old army buddy we hadn't seen since Male Offspring was 6 months old came to visit another old army buddy whom we hadn't seen since before Male Offspring existed, and who, it turns out, lives less than an hour north of me. We all had dinner together the night of the freak snowstorm. They live in a tiny Georgia town. They brought their 3 kids, only 1 of whom existed last I saw them. The kids had never before been on an airplane. It was great to see them, but very weird.

--- I am way too fucking young to be saying shit like, "It's been almost 20 years since I saw Albert," Aren't I? That's the kind of shit my parents say. Fuck.

So anyway, that's a snapshot. OK, fine, it's not brief overall, but considering that normally I could drag any one of those tidbits into a fullblown rambling post, I think it's pretty goddamned impressive. OK. I think I'm going to bed "early" for once, though.

Dissent

2008-04-11T00:10:00.000-07:00

I'm back. I'm so glad we went. It made a measurable, concrete difference. You know when you're on a jury, and most of the jurors think the verdict is obvious, but there are those few holdouts for justice whom the other jurors want to strangle and leave for the rats? Like that.

Now I need to sleep for a week to recover from Cognitive Overload.

Ooh! Ooh! Pick Meme! No, Don't ...

2008-04-06T13:28:00.000-07:00

So I've been reminded on more than one occasion that I am derelict in my memery. As in meme-ery. I've been tagged a couple of times in recent ~~weeks~~ months, agreed to do it, then ... well, let's just say the road to completed memes is paved with good intentions. On some of these, I was tagged by more than one person, so hopefully I'm snagging several birds with one meme.

Here's the first one: Seven Weird Facts About Me. I know what you're thinking. "Damn, that should take Cowbell about 7 seconds. She's pretty weird." The problem is perception. What is weird? And how do I choose 7 things?

1) I have a weird little toe on my left foot. My sister dubbed it "Shrimp Toe" in our childhood years. It looks like a pink curled shrimp. I'm talking popcorn shrimp, people. The little worthless ones. It doesn't really move much. It's more like a vestigial toe than a real one.

2) I still kind of think my stuffed animals are alive. Of course, logic tells me this can not be, and I realize that they are, in fact, sewn together of cotton and fake fur, but ... still. I can't rid myself of the idea that they somehow have feelings. I can never throw a stuffed animal away. Not even the cheap icky ones that you win at the carnival. I feel guilty about it. (I even felt guilty writing "cheap" and "icky".) The most I can do is give those unfortunate souls to Value Village and tell myself they will be adopted by some little child who love them. Like the Velveteen Rabbit.

3) In that vein, I sleep with a large polar bear named Bed Bear. He has beans in his feet which make him comfortably heavy, and he has a nice expression. I picked him out of a huge bin of bears in Tesco at Christmastime, particularly for his expression (he called to me), and paid the princely sum of $25 for him -- a fortune for a stuffed animal by Hungarian standards. He is due for the washing machine, which makes me nervous, though he always comes out fine.

4) Now you've got my brain going on the stuffed animal track: When I was four, my grandparents gave me a stuffed panda with a red sweater for Christmas. He remained my favorite stuffed animal, kind of like kids do with their MySpace #1 slot nowadays. I took Panda to Basic Training with me, and he followed to my job training (AIT) where he became our room mascot. My roommates once kidnapped him and left a ransom note. I paid it. He is now fragile, and still has a Bandaid I put on his ripped ear decades ago, because I hate sewing.

5) I can not watch movies or read books that are heavily focused on the devil or Satan worship.

6) I abhore shopping. Of any kind. I'll eat that can of peas from the back of the cabinet before going to the grocery store.

7) I can wiggle my eyes. It's almost like they vibrate. It's fun to freak people out by wiggling them for just a couple seconds with a straight face, then act like nothing happened.

OK. One down ... two to go. Crap. I'm not tagging, but I love to read weird facts, so feel free to throw some up in the comments. Consider it your "I didn't tag your ass" tax.

----------------------------
Now, in reference to #6, I have to go to the mall now. Crap. It enrages me to even write that. God I hate shopping, you have no idea how much I hate shopping. I'm sitting here writing a meme rather than shop, mmm-kay?

I have to find some pants that aren't falling apart to take to this conference, because I'm thinking jeans and sweatshirt may not be the the general attire for the week, and I'm down to one (that's 1) pair of work pants that still fit my burgeoning ass, and they're probably not long for this world. I had to color some of the threads with a black Sharpie before our presentation. Those kind of pants. Since my room will most likely not be equipped with a washer and dryer, I need some new pants.

The washer would probably wash out the Sharpie, so I'm screwed either way.

It was part of my plan, see, to get down to nothing that fits me so I'd be forced to get off my ass and lose some weight, or go naked, which will never happen in my current state and in this climate. Never, ever buy Fat Pants, or your ass will expand to fit them, that's a cardinal rule. I'm pretty sure there's a scientific formula that covers that. And yes, I am fully aware that as a fully aware woman who rails against the fucked up standards of beauty in this country, I am not supposed to give a shit about surface bullshit or use the term "Fat Pants", but hey, lecture me another day. I have to go the mall right now, and I can't handle both.

And let me tell you, if I have to go into Lane Bryant today, you bitches are not even going to want to deal with me. Your monitor may glow red just from clicking on my site alone, such will be my rage in that case. I'm just giving you fair warning, because I will be in one foul mood if I'm holding onto a pair of pin-striped plus-sizers with a price tag by this evening.

If you hear yet another report of mall violence tonight, don't be so quick to flip the channel ... send bail money.

Sleep is for Pansies

2008-04-05T03:03:00.000-07:00

I keep thinking I'm going to have time to update. Also, monkeys could fly out of my ass, but I don't think either one is actually going to happen. So here's the quick and dirty run down. Probably more dirty than quick. (No, RG, it does not involve a lascivious tryst.)

Things with my advocacy group are snowballing -- so much so that I will not be using the name of the group in this blog, lest my secret identity be outed to the locals who've been asking the Googles about us. Not just the locals, actually, as we're garnering notice in ever widening circles. Apparently our work has been creating a buzz in the surrounding school districts. This was news to us. Anyway, it's like these lines we've cast out are suddenly all being reeled in at once. Exciting, but tiring.

So we got invited to present at the county N@@CP meeting, which surprised us, but not as much as the invitation to have dinner beforehand with Dr. Name Withheld (Googlers), one of the state superintendents, and the keynote speaker. Alrighty then. Best come up with another Powerpoint, wheee.

Every surrounding school district had sent their brass to the meeting. (You could pick most of them out ... the white guys in suits.) We've heard tell of communities meeting opposition in some of those districts, so I was glad for them to hear about what we're doing firsthand. We got a lot of positive comments afterward, even from the aforementioned brass, so I'm hopeful about that.

Before the meeting ended, the governor's appointee to the State Commission on Hisp@nic Affairs took the microphone and said, "Ladies get ready for your phone to start ringing, because I will be using you as model ... at the state level,"

What?

Dr. Name Withheld spent a lot of time talking with us at dinner and after the meeting, gave us a lot of good insights, and said he would also be using us a model.

Not long afterward, he called our superintendent to "congratulate him on the wonderful work" happening in our district. Our super was apparently quite "honored" to be working with us. I just bet he was, with Dr. Name Withheld on the line!

Also, we later received an invitation from him to apply for a state committee working to set standards for alternative assessments to the W@SL. That is the statewide standardized test, now required to graduate, put in place and driven by our boy GeeDubya's No Child Left Behind act, so you can imagine how effective and beloved it is. Anyway, there are all kinds of issues there, but it's really important that there be people on the committee representing the perspective of diverse students.

So, two of us applied, and will be in Olympia most of next week at the invitation of Dr. Name Withheld. The 2nd best part? There is an honorarium, a decent one, plus all expenses, so for the first time I'll be paid in dollars as well as the intangible payoffs for doing this work. (Also makes it worth using the vacation days.)

The actual work we've been doing would truly make this The Never Ending Story, but I'll put the link to our group's site here soon, for those who are interested. (I wrote about how we got started last August, I think; I remember they were pretty long winded posts though? Totally unlike me, I know. Our group's blog is, oddly,very brief.). One thing I'm really excited about is that we are working with our district, surrounding districts, and community organizations to bring this to our county for the first time ever.

Anyway, the group has been taking up so much of our time, but we're making contacts and things are really starting to grow.

Also, tomorrow is Caucus Day. No, I have not moved to Pennsylvania, tomorrow is the day that WA state Dem delegates will continue the process of moving Barack Obama into the White House. No, I'm not being presumptuous -- Sen. Obama took every single county in the state, so WA's role will indeed be assisting him to that end. (WA superdelegates, do not even try, unless you want an asswhuppin' from one end of the state to the other.)

I've made a decision the past couple of weeks though; I'm not going to be gunning for a slot at the National Convention. I'd been committed to fundraising and shameless self promotion, anything to be part of that history, but I've had to rethink things. As a good friend said recently, there are millions of people across the country helping Sen. Obama, but only 4 of us steering this advocacy group, and it's really starting to take hold. The students in our district need this work, and there aren't millions out there volunteering for them or sending in huge amounts of fundage, I'll tell you that right now.

But you know, Barack Obama himself feels very strongly about community organizing, and his history of community work is one reason I believe so strongly in him. So, I most likely will end my delegate run tomorrow, unless the crowds swarm me, pleading, "Please, Cowbell, we don't care that you haven't put any time into campaigning -- we want YOU to go to the state convention, not these folks who have written delegate resumes for themselves and practiced their speeches in front of the mirror!"

Yeah, like I said, tomorrow's probably the end of the glory road.

I feel good about it though; I think Sen. Obama would be proud of the work we're doing, and our commitment to it. Don't get me wrong ... if the other delegates don't seem solidly committed, or if they need folks to fill the slots, I will absolutely step up. I have a feeling that won't be the case, though.

Also, Male Offspring and Teen Demon purchased Guitar Hero, so my house is filled with the strains of "rocking out". A far cry from the days of the Bohemian's Chopin filling the house, but hey, I'm flexible. Slow Ride is my song. I'm pretty sure it's the easiest one. Even so, my rockometer sometimes dips into the red. The other night we had 9 teenagers in the house "rocking out" and watching teen movies. Yes, actually, Teen Demon did clean her room for the first time in over a year so that she can have people over. It took many days, but she did it. Don't worry, I have before pics. Anyway, every mother loves quality time with her kids, right, but while phrase, "Hey, why don't you come rock out with me for a while?" may be music to my ears, my attempts on the "guitar" are not.

So, between the group, home, Guitar Hero, and the end of the fiscal year at work fast approaching, things are feeling as though they're bordering on the insane, not to mention a bit out of control. It's a good kind of out of control, though.

It's like my life has two modes of operation:
Mode 1) Ain't Shit Going On
Mode 2) I Need a Clone

I am currently in Mode 2.*

So next week I'll be in Olympia. Not sure what the WiFi situation will be. Also, I will be operating via The Brick, my ancient laptop, rather than Teen Demon's speedy machine of several tech generations later, so who knows how that will go. It's got one of those removable external WiFi cards. I'm surprised I don't have to carry a modem for the damned thing.

OK, time to grab 3 hours of sleep before the alarm goes, whoo-hoo! I'm going to need an IV caffeine drip.

---------------------
*Disclaimer: Issues with This Old Motherfucking House can crop up in either mode. Ain't Shit Going On refers to the social and professional aspects of my life, and trust me, TOMFH can pop up with an exploding oven while I'm experiencing a dearth of activity in social and professional arenas.

Unnatural Causes for the Rest of Us

2008-04-02T00:24:00.000-07:00

Tonight's the night. Regular folks can now catch part 1 of PBS's series, Unnatural Causes tonight at 11pm (PST). If that's too late, it also airs Saturday at 1pm (PST). No HDTV needed! This is the 4-part series addressing health inequities in the US that I wrote about last week. Please consider tuning in, it's supposed to be a fantastic program.

That's the info about tonight, now on to the related rant:

The viewing schedule has been a bit confusing. I was all stoked to watch it last Tuesday, at the convenient time of 7pm. I saw the little "HD" added to the listing, and assumed that meant that if you had HDTV, you'd get to watch a sharper more detailed version of the show, while the untechnologied masses would see the same old dull and fuzzy picture we've always had. (which has always worked just fine for me, by the way.)

That was not the case.

When a cynical friend reported that it was not showing up on our local TV listings, I called PBS to find out why. I was informed that the initial airing was for HDTV customers only. Well, la-dee-fucking-da. So if you were somehow squeaking through life with regular cable or, godforbid, the doomed technology of analog, you were out of luck last week.

I told my local PBS station (I'm talking to you, KCTS Seattle, Channel 9) that I found it quite ironic they would air this fantastic program addressing socio-economic and racial disparities in health, yet make it available only to the wealthier set among us.

What's up, PBS?

I'm thinking that the people who are most affected by these socio-economic and racial inequities do not, in large numbers, enjoy the benefits of HDTV. I know my ass sure as hell can not afford HD anything. Even the picture in my bathroom mirror is framed in old school wood-grain from the 80's. Further, the PoFolks' version airs at 11pm on a weeknight. I'm also thinking that a large majority of people who can not afford HDTV are hard working people who might be too damned tired to tune in at 11pm on a weeknight. How come the HDTV folks got to watch it earlier?

What I'm really thinking though, is this is just one more subtle step in the cable companies' quiet drive to roll high-end costly options into what they call "basic service". See, I view HD as a luxury, not a necessity. Hell, I view most of the hundreds of channels I get in my basic cable package as a luxury and not a necessity. Remember when basic cable really meant basic cable? Limited, but cheap.

Nowadays, "basic" cable runs $50 a month and includes individual channels for bass fishing, QVC shopping, and other worthless crap. I do not fish for bass, nor do I purchase bric-a-brac from QVC. The bass fishing channel is the albatross of my cable package.

Why can't Comcast and their ilk offer custom packages? Custom, of course, meaning customized according to the needs of the consumers who are paying for them. I would be happy as hell to have a package that included PBS and the NFL channel, but did not include QVC or Outdoor Life. That, however, would benefit the customer, not Comcast's bulging pockets, so it will probably never happen. When a customer feels that basic cable means 22 channels as opposed to several hundred, it's harder to justify charging her $50 a month for "basic cable", isn't it?

The NFL, many of you will be pleased to know, created an NFL channel last year. I know, exciting, right? When it first came out, it was available in my basic cable package. Then it disappeared. Turns out my cable company (that would be you scumsucking bastards at Comcast) pulled it from the basic line up and rolled it into a "for pay" sports package. To get it, customers must 1) upgrade from basic cable to the digital package, and 2) also pay for the new sports add-on. Why? Because the NFL channel didn't have a broad enough audience base to support it being offered (for free) in the basic line up.

Excuse me?

The NFL channel does not have the viewer base to support it, but the fishing & hunting channel does? Please. I call bullshit. The NFL fan base in this country is huge. In fact, I'm betting that a goodly portion of the hunting/fishing crowd are included in that fan base. I'm also betting that a much smaller portion of NFL fans are bass fishers. I'm sure I could draw some bastardized Venn diagram to illustrate that, or get Leonard Nimoy to verify that Comcast's position is not logical, but Comcast wouldn't care. Because they know good and goddamned well that there is a huge NFL fan base in this country, which is exactly the point: they stand to make a shitload of money off of that fan base.

Why give your customer something for free if you can convince them to pay for it?

So the HDTV thing? Same deal. Mark my words, Missy, the cable companies will slowly and quietly work it so HD becomes the norm, not a luxury. They will keep pulling stunts like this, and I'm betting there will come a day when a wonderful informative program like tonight's offering will be offered only to the HDTV crowd. Not as in "offered to them this week, and you can watch it next week", but offered only to them, period. You want to see it? Get up off some dollars. Upgrade your cable subscription and purchase the compatible equipment.

Now that's bad enough when it comes to me missing a playoff game (oh yes they did) that was broadcast on the NFL channel because I have not paid for a sports package, but if it gets to the point where informative and educational programming is only available to those who can afford it, that's where I really develop a case of the ass.

So tune in tonight or Saturday afternoon while you can folks; right now this information is still considered "public broadcasting", but next year, who knows.

Photo Credit: Michael Sears

Gmail: Big Brother in Your Sidebar

2008-03-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

Things have been busy in the land of Cowbell. I'm going to try and update about what's been going on, and also get some of these drafts posted before they die the quiet death of forgotten drafts. Who knows how many of these things are languishing in the nether pages of the Edit Posts tab. Anyway, here's one from a day when Gmail was chapping my ass.

----------------------------

I'm about over Gmail. Never mind that their whole "conversations" organizational method is, in practice, annoying as hell. Ever notice those helpful links over to the side? Ever wonder how the links are always mysteriously related to whatever you've been writing about? Yeah, the text in your emails triggers some kind of freakish link recommendation autobot. Like Match.com for email or some shit. It's disturbing in a 1984, Homeland Security, Big Brother kind of way. Like Halliburton is running Gmail or something.

For instance, if you send an email to your friend asking for a recipe for cupcakes, Gmail might hook you up with some links like these:

Make Fun, Cute Cupcakes
200 Piece Kit from Betty Crocker

Decorate Cupcakes, Cakes and More
DecoratorKit.com
www.LINK.REMOVED because I'm not advertising for them.

Buttercream Frosting
Watch Amazing Cake Decorating Tips Tricks & Secrets Of The Pros
Try it out now!
www.LINK.SIMILARLY.REMOVED .

Disturbing, right? Look Gmail, I appreciate the suggestions, but I prefer to keep my cupcakes to myself, thank you! I guess this advertising method enables them to offer free email. OK, fine, whatever. But Betty Crocker isn't the only one profiting from Gmail's linky love. I discovered this about the time I wrote the post on Sales Genie's racist Superbowl commercials. There was some email traffic regarding that post making the rounds of my inbox then, and Gmail took it upon themselves to provide me with some helpful linkage.

Things like this:

Funny Foreigner Jokes
It's Not Because They're Different, We Laugh Because They're Inferior.
http://www.CanYouBelieveThisBullshit.crap

Are you kidding me? "We laugh because they're inferior"? Who is Google hiring these days? Nice, Gmail. But hey, let's not stop there. It seems the current political climate is having an ugly effect on what's considered appropriate in the world of corporate advertising:

Guantanamo Bay T-Shirt
"Come for the beaches... Stay for the waterboarding."
http://www.BushCo4u.crap/

Yes, that was actually in the sidebar of my Gmail account. I'm sorry, but didn't the Google folks hit the big leagues some time back? I'm thinking they can afford to be a little more choosy (and responsible) regarding their advertisers. There's just no excuse for that. But hey, since our Commandant in Chief doesn't classify waterboarding as actual "torture", I'm probably just being overly sensitive, not to mention unpatriotic. Alright, how 'bout this one:

Funny Chinese Ringtones
Ringtones in 30 seconds!
Download Funny Chinese Ringtones
http://www.NotReallyFunny.crap/

I guess foreigners are not only inferior, they're also here for our entertainment. Funny! But if it's a different kind of entertainment you're after, there's always this site:

Get a Chinese Wife

Meet Chinese Wives Near You Today.

100% Free. Join Now!

www.CulturalExoticaForYou.crap

Or, if you want a broader pool from which to pull your multiculti romantic experiences,

Interracial Relationships

Start A Interracial Relationship!

View Profiles 100% Free. Join Now!

www.exotic.excitement.crap

OK, the Chinese Wife site, self-explanatory on the fuckedupness scale. That is something I'd expect to find on some $1 per click site, not in my own friggin' Gmail account.

If you're scratching your head over the Interracial Relationships site, thinking, "What the hell ... where does Cowbell get off griping about an interracial dating site? Aren't her kids biracial? What a bunch of bullshit," I don't blame you. Good point. It's a complicated subject that is not the point of today's bitchery, so for now I'll leave it at this -- when I delved headlong into marriage, I was blissfully ensconced in the whole "we all have the same hearts" deal, completely clueless as to the historical issues around the Black/White relationship paradigm. My Ex was, in hindsight, affected by some of those very issues, but I was clueless about that as well, and wasn't able to face that reality until years later. Also, I was a child who had no business getting married in the first place, but hey, I was 18 and knew everything, so on we charged.

Anyway, no, of course I am not against interracial relationships. I'm not against any type of relationship between consenting adults that is based in equality, honesty and respect. What I'm against is specifically seeking out an interracial relationship around some fucked up fetish deal, or as a public display of being Down With Diversity, or an attempt to somehow assuage liberal guilt, or because it seems "exotic", or whatever, just to touch on some reasonings from one side of the equation.

That's a whole different deal than a relationship eventually developing with a real person you've already met and with whom you share a connection.

Whew, this needs to be a subject for another day - sorry.

What I'm getting at is that this advertisement in my Gmail sidebar reduces people's relationships to one thing, race, largely by capitalizing on the whole Exotic Experience thing. Sure, it's usually framed in kinder gentler terms like, "Everyone has their preferences, just like hair color!" or "I just find dark skin so beautiful!" or "I just don't even see color!" Well, yes, actually you do if you're signing up for an interracial dating site: you're looking to purposefully hook up with someone you haven't even met yet on the basis of one thing -- race. And stepping into a culture for no other reason than to satisfy your own "preference" is ... just bullshit.

Anyway, by itself I likely wouldn't have paid that one much mind, but when combined with all the other unwelcome links in my mailbox, it annoyed me along with the rest of them.

OK. On to the next link to arrive unbidden in my email. Since we're on the subject of relationships, you may be glad to know that when it comes to holding on to your man, Gmail has your back, ladies.

Understand Why Men Leave?
Learn The Real Reason Why Men Leave
And How To Become Irresistable!

http://www.dr.laura.crap/

Wow. If only Eliot Spitzer's wife had had Gmail. Because we all know when a man leaves a woman, it's because she has somehow been found lacking in appearance, desirability, and effort. I mean really, why should men be villified for leaving our asses? If we were more irresistible, they wouldn't! Boys will be boys, ladies, best keep up on the waxings and step it up a notch.

Come on Gmail, if I want to hear that kind of crap, I'll tune in to Dr. Laura's show and listen to her blast resistible women for causing their men to lie and fuck around without protection.

Better yet, I'll just click this link in my sidebar:

Ann Coulter's Column Free
Get Ann Coulter's weekly column delivered to you
Free via email!
www.KissMyAssGmail.crap

Blech! My eyes felt violated. No wonder Blogger -- Google creation that it is -- won't let me change the email address that was used to register this blog -- they know their next ad would have to be:

Understand Why Gmail Subscribers Leave?
Learn How Not to Piss Off Your Customers!
http://www.GetOutOfMyInbox.crap/

Bastards.