Notice....

how the unkymood says I have a headache? And, lucky me, the work being done on our house today requires a lot of loud banging. Yay! And, since even the smell of coffee lately makes me ill, I can't go hide out at Starbucks to escape the noise. Where else can one loiter aimlessly for hours without gathering suspicion on oneself? I guess the mall it might have to be.

Crap. Is this some kind of conspiracy to drive me insane? Ever read the Yellow Wallpaper? I'm beginning to wonder.

The South & Being Poor

This one is a little preachy-- I was disturbed the other day by this talking head guy on one of Andrew's news shows who caustically called the red states "parasite states" and implied that nothing at all good could ever come out of them. His attitude was painful to watch, and I wondered how much someone like that really knows about the places he is talking about. Probably very little. I remember a girl explaining somewhere (maybe a blog?) that some friend of hers from Paris, watching the little cities go by on the train outside of either Chicago or New York, thought all those little cities were "suburbs" of the bigger city. Not even knowing what those places outside the window were like. How someone like that would react to a train ride through Mississippi boggles the mind.

I think that most of the people who read me are either from northern climes or more urban areas, even if they now live in quiet places. I was thinking a little bit about the South, growing up here (mostly) and living here now. Texas is the South, even though it is also its own place, with a very different sort of pride and attitude, it is very different too. (More on that another time!) I was really frustrated when all those maps came out after the election implying negative things about the South because a large portion voted Bush because growing up here, I know that there are lots of variations here. The funny thing is, if you look at USA Today's map that breaks the vote down by county, you find it wasn't nearly that clear cut-- lots of places in the north voted Bush too. But that's not the point of this post....I digress. :)

I was actually born in Illinois-- my mom is from there, and my Dad is from New York. When I went to Buffalo last year, I was amazed that everyone sounded like my Dad-- I had never realized that's where his accent came from. I always thought it was Chicago, cause that's pretty much where he lives now. But fairly early in my life, from job moves, we moved south to Kentucky; then, when my parents split, all the way down to Mississippi. We also lived in Louisiana, and Florida (the northwest portion, which many call "Lower Alabama"-- which is true in some ways and not true in others. The beach areas, and areas near military bases, are a lot less rural than the others.) So I pretty much grew up in the South.

Being really poor in the South is pretty rough; a lot of people don't realize exactly how difficult it can be. At least when you are poor in an urban area, there are resources to help you, people who are concerned that you don't miss out on things like parks and culture, free museum trips with your school, etc. Programs like Boys & Girls clubs. In the more rural south, there's just nothing. You have to make your own amusement-- and it is pretty hard to do. Especially when the nearest place to "do" something is miles and miles away, and there is no public transportation at all. It took me almost an hour to get from home to school on our school bus in Louisiana. And that wasn't even to a city, but a small town.

And the schools. Jeeez, don't get me started on that! Because the areas in general are filled with poor folks, many of whom do not own their own property, the taxes that pay for teacher salaries are just not there. So there aren't very high salaries, which of course does not attract a large amount of the most ambitious of teachers most of the time. So the schools pretty much are there as a form of babysitting. When I was in second grade, I was given a reading comprehension test by some teachers. I was reading at a 12th grade level (remember-- I was in second grade!)-- the teachers looked nervously at each other and said (and I am quoting because I remember this!) "Let's just stop there." They didn't want to know if I could read better than that cause maybe they would have had to have done something about me. Like put me in gifted classes or something (which I never managed to get-- always missed the testing dates cause I was moved around so much). That would have required work, and for a poor kid like me, there just was no advocate. I had this same thing happen when I was older, in high school. No one ever informed me (guidance counselors? what guidance counselors?) that because I was as poor as I was, and had grades as good as I did, that I could get help. With the help of a job where I could buy my own clothes sometimes, or borrow from friends, I "passed" as middle class, and so everyone assumed that any help I needed I would get from my family. I even remember that this one school secretary was openly hostile to me once when I tried to apply for a special gifted summer program, because, I guess, she didn't know me, she assumed that I was not the right sort of kid to do this thing. Because of her attitude about it, I never applied; I was too embarrassed.

Anyway... the point is not to talk so much about myself but about the gulf and the resentment that has grown up for many people because of this, which talk of the "red states" being parasites on the "blue ones" only makes worse. Even middle class folks don't quite get it. If you grew up never really having to worry about food, or you had a family that helped when times were tough, if you got "new school clothes" every year and all the school supplies you actually needed, and you were never evicted and homeless because of non payment of rent or had your power turned off because you couldn't afford it, or went to a food bank cause you had no food or money, you weren't really poor in the way that some people are. (You don't have to have had all of those things, although I did).... You might not have been rich, but you had something more than the majority of the rural poor have. My mom was, most of the time, too proud or too tired to go apply for welfare, so though we could have gotten help, we never did. And this is true of a lot of people in the south.

Again, back to the point-- this is why when you see the most idiotic southerners on TV, they almost always have that deep accent, and no idea what the world really looks like out there. They haven't ever seen a city larger than the nearest small town, and many of them don't even care to. And there isn't much chance that anyone will ever hear the other side of the story, the suffering and the struggle, because most of these folks do not become writers or TV people. Many of them hardly make it through the rotten school system.

There is a resentment born of people who never have had anything, including hope, but it's not as simple as just racism. They may have been told "anyone can be president" but they certainly knew that they weren't going to be. They never believed that Bill Gates' success could be theirs cause Gates at least grew up wealthy enough to have a chance to go to college. The main chance a poor kid from the rural south gets, if they can't play football like a god, is to join the military. They see people on TV talking about how bad they are, how bad and ignorant and backwards the South is, how enlightened the urban areas are, and they just learn to believe these things are true. And they never get a chance to learn anything else-- even the schools are so poor that the books are ancient, and torn up, and the teachers bored and exhausted and not that wonderful to begin with.

It's pretty rough. The main thing that saved me was the public library, and the fact that my mother grew up middle class and inspired different ambitions in me. So when I am around people in academia, where as far as income growing up goes, I represent a full 1% of the people in grad school (as far as people from my background go) and people talk about how poor they really were, I always feel like either laughing or crying. Most of the people who make it to grad school were middle or upper class. It's just the stats, folks, I don't make them up. And these are the people who teach the teachers... they have no clue what those classrooms I grew up in look like.

This isn't a "Poor me, look how much I've accomplished" contest. At the same time that I say these things about the rural south, I also say that there is a fierce pride, and many really good people, of all races. Just as I can't say "all northerners are XYZ" and know it to be true, it's important to not think of all southerners as ignorant rednecks who would rather have "sexual relations" with a farm animal and take the hard earned tax money from the hard working Urban areas to buy moonshine.

Anyway. Just a rant about something to make you think. I know this is probably true of a lot of rural areas-- the rural north, as I've seen it, isn't as different as people like to think it. We were in a bar in Washington state once & Andrew & I observed that you could pretty much pick it up and drop it in lower Alabama and not notice much difference. But the biggest difference is that label. Southern. So many people automatically assume certain things about you if you say you're from the South, based on a history at least 30 years old, that there's an added stigma attached. And many times, that's just not at all fair.

Crisis of Dinner Proportions

I have a problem. The hubby is working very late. I have a headache and don't feel at all like cooking. But I really don't want takeout either. Whine whine. And I can't exactly make the man who has now worked more than 12 hours with only a short lunch break stop and pick anything up.

Someone please tell me why they (and by they you know who I mean. THEY!) haven't invented that food replicator thing they have on Star Trek yet*!!!!!!!

You know. The one where Picard says "Earl Grey. Hot." In the sexiest way possible. (I've become distracted.)

What to do? Sigh.

*and do not get me started on the Jet Packs. I expected a Jet Pack years ago. The Jetsons promised!!!

Pet Peeve

It really annoys me when someone asks you an opinion on how to do something, because you have knowledge that they don't, and then they do it the way they were going to do it before ANYWAY! Dude. Why did you waste my time asking me if you were going to ignore what I had to say? GRRR. They don't realize that, combined with the annoyance of dissertation editing, my hormonal fluctuations make them take their very lives in their hands when they do such things.

Example: We are rebuilding our deck in our back yard. Part of the process meant that we had to cut down a bunch of bushes. These bushes are now brush. Our neighborhood collects brush on SATURDAY. See what today is? Monday. Yes. So my handyman said "do you mind if I use this trashcan to put out this BRUSH for the garbage men to pick up TODAY?" I told him that they would probably not pick up the brush today. It has happened before. So he said "Okay." I went back to writing, then looked out the window and there is the brush sitting in a recycling bin in the front, which I am quite certain someone will have to drag in (notice I said someone. NOT ME)later today. ANNOYING!!!!!!

Anyway. Back to the dissertation writing. I'm thinking later today I may do some work on the Buffy chapter, which means watching the season seven episodes I'm discussing over & over again. If it sounds like fun rather than work, it is, in some ways. It also is work. But perhaps work I'm more in the mood for than typing. Pfffhhhhtt! :)

No Wonder the Swiss can Stay Neutral

FONDUE!!! Who can be angry when they have a belly full of swiss cheese dipped crusty bread and chocolatey dipped various things (pretzels, strawberries, shortbread, cookies, apples, pound cake, etc!)

Yum.

Memoir Musings

I've published a good amount of what I've written thus far on my little story. Eventually, I'd like to shape it into something that's less about my own life and more fiction. But I haven't done that yet. What strikes me is how often people comment on how sad the memoirs are. I don't really mean them to be sad, but I did have a fairly rough childhood. It's not easy when your family splits and your mom has very little visible means of support. There were happy times, but I haven't written too much about them yet. I suppose part of this is that the bad things that happen to us probably stick in our heads more than the regular, boring, blah days, or the sort of good ones. But you know, I wasn't really a sad kid, despite all the things that I write about. I am a very happy person, and not just because my life is happy now. But I've been, for a long time, a very cheerful person. I used to be told all the time back when I worked in malls (as a retail clerk, and as a waitress) that I ought to work at the Disney store-- cause they're always so perky-cheerful there. It's not fake; it's really the way I feel most of the time. When I don't, it's more often a crankiness that is lack-of-food induced or "hormonal" or it passes very quickly. Of course, like everyone, I've had my moments of "deep despair." But they pass; they always do.

I guess all in all this is a little defense....the story I've been writing here is not the whole story. It is a story that has a lot of sad moments, but it ends up pretty darn "happily ever after". It could have been very different, I realize. And I think, perhaps, that is part of the point of writing about it... to come to some sort of equilibrium with the universe. Plus, writers have to be unhappy at some point. How many great writers can you think of who never had any hardship in their lives? I couldn't think of any either. :) At least I'm not a great POET. Those folks are all pretty much in need of some anti-depressants. I know back when I was a pretty good poet, I certainly had my share of miserableness. (Generally related to guys I was dating, yes.) :)

School

Back to the story again: it's been a few days, so here is some more from my little memoirs:


Gulfport
I am not fond of the school where it feels to me like I am the only poor kid. When Christmas comes, all the other kids bring elaborate presents for the teacher, wrapped in pretty packages, which she opens one by one and exclaims loudly over. I squirm in my seat because I didn’t know we were supposed to bring presents. During the lecture on recycling, I tell my teacher that me and my family pick up bottles which we return for money to buy food. I mean it as a way of sharing in the discussion, but my teacher gets a funny look on her face and I feel like I’ve said something wrong.

I spend several weeks out of school. I don’t think I was really sick, but that is what my mother tells the social worker who comes to our house to investigate my absences, the claim that we pick up pop bottles for food. I am asleep, bundled in blankets, on the floor in front of the television and my fish tank. I wake to hear voices, a strange woman, who I peek at from beneath the blankets and the fringe of my bangs. I hear my mother angrily explaining that I have been sick; she usually handles situations like this with loud voice, anger, hostility. The social worker probably is uncomfortable. It’s obvious that I am not being abused, but just as obvious that the place is not exactly Beaver-Cleaver land. My mother resents the meddling. We are poor. she says. Not abusive.

The lady upstairs who my mother leaves me with when she goes on shrimping trips likes to kick me in the butt, hard, if I scuff my shoes. She says Your mother doesn’t work hard for you to scuff those shoes all up. She plays Family Feud, the board game, with me, and doesn’t let me win. She is hard, her mouth a thin line and her hair scraggly. She will not let me bring my cats upstairs, but lets me sneak down and feed them, pet them, play in my own apartment alone. Another babysitter gives me tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches and chocolate Pepperidge Farm layer cakes, and demands her babysitting money. She says I don’t babysit you for the pleasure of your company but she is an old lady, and spends most of her time on the couch. She doesn’t kick me so I consider her a step up.

Eyes Up, Please

Yesterday's dinner went very well. Smashingly. My turkey cooked to perfection (I use one of those bags for roasting, and then a huge vat of chicken broth in the bag-- it sort of bastes itself). All the side dishes, which I got from Rachel Ray, were yummy with a capital YU.

It turned out that all the other "womminfolks" were not in attendance. So it was me and seven "men." The funny part is that the youngest nephew, who I guess is now 11, was sitting next to me. All of the nephews are quite the handful-- they've been known as screaming banshee types since practically birth. They were pretty well-behaved yesterday. Except, the 11 year old has apparently moved into the area where he's started to notice boobs.

In between discussion of his favorite "first person shooter" computer games (I think they have an XBox for those who know the difference) his eyes would do that nervous flicker thing that young men who have no clue do. Up for a second at my face, then down at my chest area. It wasn't so obvious as to make me say something, or really need to cover up. But it was a bit noticeable. I'm sure he has no clue that women know what the eye flicker is all about. Yet. He'll get a smack one of these days, I'm sure. Dude. I'm your AUNT. I mean, not by blood or anything but come on.

You can't really blame the poor kid though. With the pregnancy hormones raging, the girls are presenting quite a nice package at this point. Since I still don't look really pregnant in many other ways, I get a boob job that gives me quite a good bit of cleavage. So he was, poor thing, helpless to resist.

But it was still a bit on the creepy side. Important lesson. Boys, look your older relatives (even the hot ones like me!) in the eyes. Pretend they're the same as your mom. Cause otherwise, it gives them a strong urge to smack the crap out of you.

Family? Movies? Turkey-Fest?

What are your plans for Thanksgiving tomorrow (if you're a Canadian, I know, you already had it...) Are you going to hang out with family? Have a big meal with pie and all the trimmings? Flock to the movie theater with the rest of us lemmings and watch something? (What's coming out tomorrow, anyway?)

I'm cooking Thanksgiving dinner for Andrew's immediate family at our place. A big 20 pound turkey is waiting to be seasoned and popped in the oven tomorrow at 7:30 am. Then there's sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes & gravy (I know, I have to have both!) green beans, stuffing (home-made!) rolls, and pie. I'm making a chocolate pecan pie, but I'm cheating on the pumpkin and bought a "Cheesecake factory" pumpkin cheesecake. Did you know that the average Thanksgiving dinner is more than twice the calories you require per day? For Americans, it averages 4500 calories!! Seriously!! So after the meal, we're going to drag Andrew's nephews down to the basketball court down the street, and try to burn some of those calories. I'm also cooking some of the items a little lower than the traditional calorie count by substituting some of the higher fat things for lower fat.

But then we're going to the movies later in the day. I don't know what we'll see-- I don't actually know what's out and our friends will have some say in it too.

So that's my plan. I always watch the Macy's parade-- it's one of the few family traditions my family has, and darn it, I stick to it!!! There'll be some family visiting, cooking. Eating. I have to bake the pecan pie today....do some other "day before" things. It'll be a nice day.

Whatever you all do, be safe on the roads, and take a walk after those 4500 calories!!! Or something!!

Two Things

Point 1: Today, I have stayed all day in my pajamas. I did shower, but put my PJs back on afterwards. They're not "sexy" jammies-- the pants are from a Dr. Seuss book (they have "Red Fish" on them). And a white half sleeve shirt. Comfort is important when:

Point 2: You have the feeling of having a perpetual hangover. What sucks about this is that as the concerned "with child" woman that I am, I am not given the pleasure of the night before the hangover. No drinking. But the hangover. That's what my child's "morning sickness" phase feels like. You know how when you have that medium-bad hangover you just can't bring yourself to do anything useful? And you want to lie on the couch (and or bed) and simply moan quietly. Perhaps have some chicken soup?

I think it's probably very appropriate, fitting even, for the child of Andrew & me to begin its first few months of life as a vague feeling of hangover-ish-ness. Given that is probably how said child will spend its entire college time if he/she is anything like his/her father. (I on the other hand was a perfect angel the entire time of my undergraduate career. Made almost all As. ((except for the evils of math. and a couple of science courses which required math.)) This is the God's honest truth, although I know you're smiling and saying "yeah, sure." I was sort of boring in college, really. Still am.)

Anyway. Point 2 is the reason why I felt it perfectly appropriate to stay in my PJs all day. Tomorrow I will have to attempt to be a responsible human being and go teach my aerobics class. But for today, nothing worthwhile has been accomplished. I am very hopeful that when the "first trimester" is over, I will be fatter but back to more like normal. As in, no more hangover feeling.

Anyway. You feel sympathy for me I'm sure. And I have something to "lord over" the future child... "darling, when I was pregnant with you I had a hangover for three months"..... Hmmmm. I probably will have to save that one till they're in college. When they will sympathize. And I'll cook them bacon every morning. ::evil grin::

Blog Slog

I know, everyone sort of has these phases. Since I got back into blogging in October of 2003, I haven't really had a period where I haven't had something to blog about most days. The last week or so I just haven't been in the mood to sit at the computer. I'm sure it's hormones--in fact, I'm sure of it since listening to songs that previously would not have bothered me have made me weepy. (I won't tell you which song. It's actually quite embarrassing.) And last week, watching The Incredibles, I was weepy. I mean, it's a cartoon movie. And it's not a hankerchief movie for anyone not crazy with female hormones.

But that's my excuse. I'm sure loyal visitors will forgive me and if you're not a loyal visitor, you can read my archives and become one. :) Today only for the low low price of only... ah, I don't know. General Protection Page Fault in Memory Module "Wit." Please reboot brain and start again.

This also explains why I haven't been commenting on my normal blogs much either. I promise to get with the program soon. But in the meantime, if you haven't read the "favorite posts" over there in the sidebar, go check them out. Or read my poetry on my Women Writers page. That'll keep you busy. They're sort of old poems. But like old friends, they still have something to say.

Ick

Today it is flooding raining storming in San Antonio. Andrew was wise enough to buy our house not only NOT in the flood plain but on a hill. So we're perfectly safe (although our sidewalk is flooded-- the poor mail lady got her feet very wet delivering a book.)

But as a result (maybe it's also the hormones) I am in a "nesting" mood. Going to go make banana pumpkin bread. Sit on the couch in front of the fire with an afghan and maybe watch a movie.

I worked on the dissertation this weekend. Now, for yummy baking. :)

Overheard

"She only likes food other people order".....

It was a big, boisterous family at Quizno's; it looked like they were feeding the youngest only-- he of "college funds" as one said. They breezed in, crowded up the place, talked happily, so loud you couldn't help but listen to them. Eavesdrop.

I am admiring those "fully loaded chips" from afar.

I tried to concentrate on my sandwich instead of wondering about them but it pretty much was a lost cause. The entire restaurant was empty; they picked the two tables next to me. Picking at my chicken carbonara sandwich and cup of chili I caught bits of conversation. Nothing particularly interesting, but still, you just couldn't stop listening.

On a Saturday, in jeans and an embroidered hippy top I bought in London on "Bond Street", I felt messy next to this family dressed to the nines. Shirts ironed, skirts neat. Perhaps going to a college graduation ceremony? Another coffee-shop friend is getting her Master's Degree in Physics today. (Physics. Gasp.)

I wondered a little if a big group like that even notices someone like me-- sitting there alone (but not completely!) :) trying to mind my own business and failing. Destined to write about them. Magpies. That's what they reminded me of. And I, the lone nesting sparrow watching, watching.

November in Texas

Grackles
stalk like dinosaurs
pecking death from above into
the flower bed. Find grasshoppers. Seeds.

Here--it is still intensely green
white and purple lantana peeks from between weed and tall grass
and
leaves surrender to gravity.

This is autumn, but a milder ending.
it is harder to believe in the story, here,
of Persephone's loss underground
Demeter's unending grief and a world shrouded in ice.

The loss seems casual, gentle.
The old myth sounds like histrionics, dramatics, over-
done again. Hades could not have been that bad. He was a
God, after all. And all those diamonds underground, tucked into
pomegranates. A surprise for a young woman.

The sun breaks through a cloud
pulses gold through the grayness of afternoon storms
and a grackle swoops down.

You spot him out of the corner of your eye.
He looks at you, considering, feral, vicious.
And you shiver, cold enough,
and glad you are not a moth on a branch.

KAW Nov 04

Road Trip, and a Story About my Dad

Today, a road trip. It will be the first time we've gone to Shreveport since I found out I am pregnant, and I'm not actually looking forward to the drive. Since Andrew has to work all day, I am the one who has to drive us the 7 hours, through the dark. I don't get too tired, but I am not really thrilled about the prospect of all that time away from a bathroom. You know, late in pregnancy, I can understand the mechanics of there being less room in that area and squeezing and having to run to the bathroom every five minutes. But at this stage it is just baffling why there is constant pressure and the need to pee all the time. Ah well. Again, probably TMI!! :)

To make up for it, I'll post a bit of my story. It's earlier than some of the stuff I have posted before but I couldn't post this bit till you knew the one little detail there... couldn't let the cat out of the bag too soon. More on my Dad, here. The funny thing about this is that I was thinking last night while restless about things I wanted to write, about my days as a band kid in high school and some of those little humiliations one experiences at that stage in your life. And I actually felt my cheeks getting warm over one event from my senior year! It must be almost 15 years, yet it still has the power to make me feel a little bad. Anyway. On with the story. And never fret, because there is a coffee shop to visit and write more tomorrow, even if I will be drinking tea. :)

Food

Today I remembered that as a kid, living still with a full family, I loved Philadelphia Cream Cheese. My father would give me little squares of it, still in the silver foil wrapper, and I would bite into the soft white goo, eat the entire square all by myself. I did not have to share. I remember this as I scoop big gobs out onto a bowl of strawberries, raspberries, blueberries and bananas because I am eating healthier, but need the fat for a balance. I remember this as I feel a bit nauseous from my very early pregnancy. I think of the child, unknown, as of today something that looks a bit like a tadpole. Its heart is developing this week. The little bits of DNA that are scheduled to beat out rhythms of love, betrayal, fear, and pain are clustered in place, ready to form life and death for a new being. One who will bring both intense joy and probably pain to my life. The future often seems very far away, but sometimes, it is literally right inside you.

The raspberries are too tart, and my morning tummy will not tolerate them. I spit them out and focus on cream cheese and more memories. Digging into the bowl, I dig into the past. I do this in order to free myself for a future that grows closer each day.

Another memory surfaces because of the blueberries. I am twelve, and I am visiting my father. He and his new wife joke at dinner about a surgery that "didn't make his eyesight any better." I ask them when he got his vasectomy, and they look at me shocked that I got the joke. They give me ice cream laced with peach brandy. As he drives me back to my Grandmother's house, we stop at a pancake house. I order the blueberry pancakes, and they come loaded with jellied blueberries in a thick, sugary syrup. I find that I do not like blueberries– something I will believe for another ten years until I have fresh ones. I will not eat the pancakes and they sit, sodden and neglected, as my father gazes with brown, mournful eyes at the waste. I feel resentful that he cares, this being the first (and last) meal he has bought me in years.

This process, this digging, is archaeology– you never know, once you are in the pit, what bones will surface, what layers of ancient history will be revealed by a careless pass with the small paintbrush you use to clean away dust and grit. My father lies mostly in the past... what memories there are of him are artifacts that will be placed on a platform, in my own personal museum, backlit and roped off from sticky hands.

A political chart I can really understand

Yesterday, paging through the "Things You Didn't Know Existed" catalogue, I saw a t-shirt that I probably ought to own. It said "5 out of 4 people have a problem with fractions." Cause I do. I hate math. It's personal. Math is the reason I have problems with IQ tests, in spite of knowing how damn smart I actually am (and humble too.) Math kept me out of the NASA space program and Math is the reason why I have a big pimple in the crease of my lip that won't heal. Math is the antichrist. Math truly doesn't understand.

Wait. I had a point. I was reading my daily blog reads and as usual got sidetracked. So much for my new re-dedication to not procrastinating. Hey, it's pre-10 am! I'm doing just fine!!

So in the process, I blogged on over to the Comedy Central Indecision 2004 blog. Yes, I know it's late to read it but I don't generally do political blogs, so I hadn't realize there was a blog making fun of that sort of thing (although I should have. It's math's fault).

This is a cool pie chart. Mmmmmm. Although, as the typical swing voter I am, I fall in the middle of pumpkin and key lime. I can't decide between the two, although I do vary based more on seasons. Key lime is summer; pumpkin is fall and winter. (I particularly like the mumbo jumbo under the chart. Mostly because it taunts the evilness that is MATH!!!)

Well Duh!

Another quiz to reinforce my already held beliefs:

You Are a Life Blogger!

Your blog is the story of your life - a living diary. If it happens, you blog it. And make it as entertaining as possible.

What kind of blogger are you?

News, Maybe a New Blog?

Well, I know I've been being all mysterious and vague about why I had to quit caffeine. A few of you probably have already guessed, and I was waiting to officially say anything until today cause I had my first Dr.'s appointment and saw "evidence" and stuff. I even got a photo.

Of what?

Well, I'm "in a family way." Knocked up. Preggers. I'm just barely, (officially, based on the size of what I've been calling "the alien", it's 6 weeks and 6 days old, which, due to the bizarro-world math of pregnancy, means I'm 8 weeks-ish pregnant. Don't ask if you don't already understand. Let's just say it's "new math.") and it seems weird to tell everyone this early, but my local friends have basically known since I first knew cause of Halloween. Why Halloween? Well, I had taken the test a few days before, and knew I couldn't drink on Halloween. So I knew people would ask, since I'm normally such a lush. So I had to think of a good reason and the truth seemed fine. So it seems like I've known about it forever, even though it really isn't that long at all. Partly I've been being superstitious about the "first visit" cause I knew I'd get to see the hearbeat (I don't think you can hear it yet, but you can see it) and the websites all say the chances of anything going too wrong after there's a heartbeat are low). But I'm also being a little gung-ho about telling people because I feel like in asserting the YES that it's happening, I will make some sort of karmic resonance that requires it to happen properly and healthily and all that.

I got to see the little "speck" that represents a future-little-red-headed-reason-to-quit-procrastinating over my dissertation. I even saw its little heart pulsing away, a bright little pulse in the middle of the speck. I'd post the picture I have but isn't that a little too much information? Probably you don't need to see my uterus at this point in our blog relationship. It's probably too much. :) You can't see much anyway-- if you squint you can pretend that you see a head, and a little curvey back. But it's mostly kind of like an alien at this stage, and it even still has a tail.

And s/he refused to smile, and is a little pouty. (Okay, so he or she doesn't have lips yet. But I'm assuming he/she would refuse to smile after being poked with that wand-y thing. I know I wasn't feeling too smiley). Basically, it's about 3/4 of an inch long, and really a tiny thing to cause (in me) so much puffiness, sleepiness, and sore sore sore boobs. (There, now I've chased away all the rest of the people who didn't leave cause of the Republican thing.)

So now you know. I now have to get off my puffy butt and go write on the dissertation. It must now be done by July, or really damn close to done. I think that's do-able, as long as "the alien" doesn't make me sleep every afternoon for the next few months. (S/he makes me take lots of little cat naps.)

So I might make a new blog to write about pregnancy things, I don't know. I don't want to overwhelm this blog with TMI* but I'm not sure I'll write all that much about it anyway. I mean, how much would you really want to hear, anyway?! Probably not nearly as much as I'll be tempted to talk about. So self-control might be the thing. We'll see.

But thankfully, my caffeine deprivation headaches are gone, and I've adapted, rather in a surly fashion, to drinking peppermint tea instead. Just don't go trying to tell me I have to give up chocolate, cause I will not be happy about that.

One cool side effect of pregnancy (besides the bigger boobs of course) is that now Andrew has to change the cat's litterbox. Woooo!! A good reason to rejoice, ladies. When the automated thingy gets jammed, as it sometimes does in the middle of the night, I poke Andrew and tell him it's good practice. He's been quite the trooper so far. Just wait till I make him go get me ice cream at 2 am. (mwah ha ha hahahahahahahahahaah!!!!!)

*Too Much Information

When is a Cookie Collection NOT a good thing?

I deleted all my old computer cookies yesterday in a bout of Internet SPAM hacker paranoia. I get those now and then. Mostly because I am a simple cave-woman and I don't understand your modern things like "computers" and "the internet." It frightens and confuses me.

So today, all my cookies and log ins are gone. And I have to freakin' remember the various passwords and usernames. I got it wrong four or five times on the UNKYMOODS site. Then I got it right. Cause I'm also persistant.

But now, I need a REAL cookie. Maybe one of those 300 calorie chocolate chip ones. ::drools a little::

Ego Fine, Thanks for Asking....

Okay. So you folks petted my ego enough yesterday. Today, I figure I'll share a short clip of my writing with you again for being so good and tolerating my whining. So far, most of the fiction does fall into a fairly melancholy mood; I'm sure eventually some happy stuff will come out, but if it doesn't, hey, there's a market for melancholy too. :) Right now I am just writing the things I think about, not shaping past the basics, not really purpose-driven. That should come eventually, I reckon.

Gulf

Once, living in another slum nearer the Gulf of Mexico, within walking distance from the salty warm water; it is a trashy apartment, paint peeling, hallway carpet smelling of piss and mildew. I gather hermit crabs from the beach. I place them in a bowl of salty sea water with rocks and sand. But there is not enough dry land and the hermit crabs drown. I am inconsolable as the crabs begin to smell and my mother tells me to throw them away. At the same time the crabs die, someone who has been staying at our house and is ostensibly babysitting me constantly leaves small plates covered in sugar, with deep gouges in the sugar from where he has been rolling something around to coat it with the grains of sweetness. I keep putting the sugar back in the canister. He sits in the living room on the couch with his shirt off and I sneak into my room to read the porno book titled Fran I found in the dumpster next door-- purple cover and naked woman with her ankles and wrists tied up. I come to the kitchen to look at my dying hermit crabs and put another plate full of sugar back into the canister. I do not remember his name but he is not one of my mom's boyfriends. I still do not know what he was using the sugar for.

I have a birthday; we go to Pizza Hut and I am having fun. I get a blue bike with my grandmother's birthday check, and I have a tank full of neon-striped fish. The kids who live across the hall are weird; they like to play "Mommy and Daddy" which entails lots of deep throat tongue-kissing between the two older sisters. I always have to be "baby" which doesn't require kissing, so I'm happy about that. But as weird as they are, they are my friends. They do not come with to Pizza Hut, but my mom has a friend with us. The two of them share a pitcher of beer. Or two. I don't count them, but I am happy-- with pizza and the aura of "going out to dinner". I get a couple of dollars to play the jukebox. Just around the time it's getting close to the end of dinner, the man begins to choke on some pizza. He thrashes with his hands as he tries to clear his throat, knocking over the last of a pitcher of beer with his panic, soaking the last of the pizza and making a mess. He clears his throat, but my mother is angry with him. She scolds him as we walk home for ruining her birthday. I pout, and we walk along the street in the thick fishy salty-aired darkness.

The Nature of Blogging

So I write my blog for myself. I know everyone probably says that, but when you start to creep up in numbers of visitors past the few local friends you tell about your blog, and people who are strangers start to comment & become blog-friends, you can sometimes forget that. I think it's possible that I alienated a few of my normally regular readers with my post about being a Republican last week. Well, I had to write it, and I did, and from Terry's comments that he had already figured my political persuasion out from former posts, I am surprised that the ones who left did. But it does make me a bit sad. And paranoid. Why did those few readers really stop commenting? Do they hate me now? Am I shunned, am I still linked on their blogs, am I.... (you see the neuroses at work here, right?) If I'm really writing for myself, I shouldn't care right? Well, I'm a big liar too.

I fall into patterns of reading one or two blogs every day, and clicking only every couple of days on others. Sometimes I'll realize it's been a week since I read a blog that I normally read, and then I feel guilty. I don't comment every day on the blogs I read; sometimes, the comment would be an inane "wow, me too" or something lame like that. But then I get depressed when no one comments on my blog. I've had a pattern, lately, of more male commenters than female, and that leads me to wonder why. I have, in my own life, often had more male friends than female, so it's not a huge surprise. But it still makes me think. Is my writing alienating to women? Or do they just not have anything to comment about today? Or are they skipping me cause there's no way you can read everyone and still get work done? Sigh. I'm hopeless.

And therein lies the point of this post. Blogging is a weird public/private act. In a graduate class I once had, another person called the personal affirmation type things that sometimes show up inappropriately in classroom debate "Howling at the moon." I laughed, cause I knew what she meant, but sometimes I think of blogging that way. The moon is up there, doesn't notice us, but we feel compelled to howl anyway.

Comments on some blogs can become ugly-- I've seen it happen on other blogs, and have had one snipey little wench make a mean comment about me (and got herself banned) one day. Some bloggers get in the hundreds of commenters. I usually comment a "related" point-- and sometimes it's just encouragement, or "me-tooism."

And then I feel sometimes that my post is banal and stupid and boring. But it's a daily log of what I do, and sometimes I look back at it and it reminds me of my daily life, the things I haven't written about, the things I do write about.

What I had for lunch today: Spagettios. I miss spagettios. My hubby always scoffs, says he'd rather have real spagetti. But Spagettios are NOT meant to be real spagetti. They are another form of food altogether. There's something in that little can filled with various sized pasta O's and that oddly orange tomato sauce that evokes for me teenager-hood. There were holidays that my mother had to work and I ate nothing but spagettios for dinner (before you think that sounds awful, it WASN'T-- it was my choice, my favorite, and we had the turkey on mom's next day off).

So that's a blog entry in a nutshell-- it evokes a sensory memory for some. It might be disgust. It might be "me too" which inspires them to comment. It might be "bleah. I am not reading this chick again, she's banal and boring. I'd rather read about the Sex in the City, Bridget Jonesish exploits of cute New Yorkers".

But it is a quick little snapshot of someone else's brain, thoughts of the day, a little bit of voyeurism and a little bit of community. Some folks are reading from work cubicles, some are at home with kids, some are working on various projects (novels, dissertations). Some are political; I like to get my daily dose of young idealism from them and it makes me sad when they are clearly exhausted of it.

Blogging. It's the new black. And mine has cat hair and fuzzies from the couch all over it.

Monday morning

Blech! Even for those of us who don't have to go to a special building to work, Mondays suck. My printer isn't working, Andrew didn't make me my decaf latte this morning, and I've had too much work to do already. Complaints abound. But all in all it's okay, I reckon.

Sorry I didn't write yesterday. It's harder to write on weekends and think of something good to say. It was a very rainy, cold day* and we spent most of it on couches watching movies and/or getting ready to eat good stuff. The fireplace was going, and the faux-snow-leopard blankie was dragged out of the living room to make me snuggly warm on my couch. We watched Star Wars, since the collector's edition was one of the presents I got for my birthday. I add my voice to the lamenters that the last few haven't been as good as the first, but at the same time, if you haven't watched the first one in a while, you know, it does sort of drag there at the beginning. Maybe that was stuff Lucas added to the new release-- I dunno.

I dreamt all last night about zombies from Dawn of the Dead. Dammit, I regret watching that movie! It's not that it scared me, or that the dreams are terrifying, but my brain wants to pick over the details. I realize that it's an unrealistic scenario, but my mind wants to say "oh, here is a detail that is implausible". And by that I mean within the world the movie makes happen here is something that just doesn't work. Plus, it's a creepy movie.

And just now, as I was writing that bit about zombies, a little brown squirrel poked its head down the fence by my window, which is just out of peripheral vision, and scared the daylights out of me. I think that when I start jumping at zombie squirrels, it's probably time to quit.

*And I realize that our definition in Texas of cold is wimpy compared to you folks up north of the Mason-Dixon, but it was still cold.

Story Posting

I think what I'll try to do is post a piece of my story-in-progress every other day or so. I agree that the daily stuff is often less interesting, but I also don't want to overdo it with the fiction, either. I suppose I gotta save some of it so you folks would buy it if it were ever really out there. :) But I do like posting something every day-- even if it is somewhat banal.

There's a really cute "vintage" Bloom County today that is exactly how I feel about continued political conversations... it really made me laugh, and it also gives one perspective. I mean, this was published back in 1986 and yet is still relevant today. Hopefully if we all realize politics is ALWAYS filled with crankiness then we won't be out trumpeting the "coming Civil War" crap I've seen posted on some websites. The culture wars really should just stay in academia, please. (By the way, if you wanted Bloom County delivered in your email, you can get it from ucomics.com. Public service ad over now.)

Caffeine Headaches

This will come as a shock to some of you who know me best... but I'm trying to cut back on caffeine, for various reasons, which I will not go into here. I haven't gone "cold turkey" but am cutting back, which is what the "experts" online suggest; do it slowly and it hurts less.

Today, right this second, I have a headache. I already took a nap, so that hasn't helped. I'm drinking a lovely Blueberry herbal tea along with a very tasty blueberry cookie. That has only helped a little bit.

It really is for the best for me to cut back a bit on the caffeine. This is my mantra. Can you hear me yell-chanting it from where you are? You probably could if you can shut the person in the cubicle next to you up for a second. Tell them to go get a cup of coffee. THEY won't have a headache.

So I went to this article to see if there were other strategies. And the funny thing that happened? The "Sponsor Ad" was from guess who?*

Give up?

I'll give you a hint. They're on every other corner in any city. And even in many stripmalls across "The evil red states." (I'm going to use humor to get past the negative stereotypes. Damnit.) And the sign has a mermaid on it. And it's green.

Still can't guess? Where the hell have you been in the last couple of years? Hiding from the commercial coffee giants will not make them go away. You'll just get a headache.

*It's different the second time I go there. So don't try to cheat by looking.

Parfait Cups

Sorry no post yesterday-- it was a holiday for Andrew & we went to the lake... but I do have a teeny bit of writing from my childhood story.... more later maybe. But definitely more another day.

......


I remember I used to love to look in the weekend newspaper circular ads from Sears and JC Penny at the pictures of the refrigerators. Other kids might gaze rapturously at the ladies in padded or strapless bras and white panties; I was fascinated by what those mock-ups of refrigerators held: entire roasts on a platter surrounded by fancy potatoes, puddings in fancy parfait cups (even though I didn't know that's what the cups were called then.) Frosted three layer cakes topped in the center with a cherry. Gallons of milk and entire meals arranged on clean shelves. There were never any condiments in those advertisement refrigerators, and in contrast, all that there ever seemed to be in our refrigerators were condiments and leftovers going dry. Leftover hamburger helper, macaroni and cheese. Maybe a six pack of Dr. Pepper, definitely a six pack or two of beer. The advertisement refrigerators reminded me somewhat of my grandmother's fridge-- when we would visit (which was rare after my parents split and our move south because she lived so far away) there would be frosting in light blue containers that I would dip my finger into and lick off. Diet Rite sodas that tasted sweeter somehow than regular sodas and were in flavors like "apple."

But the ad refrigerators were exotic. Panties I had seen. Refrigerators like that were erotic.

Once when I was about eleven I spent the night at one of my school friend's houses. She was a Girl Scout (which my mother refused to let me join, saying she had done that already with my sisters). The girl had short blonde hair and was taller than me. We ate dinner around their mahogany table; fancy china that matched, silverware arranged out to the side of the plates, with real place mats and everyone gathered around the table, talking. There were courses; the TV was far away and no one resented not sitting in front of it. Everyone in the family was there. I don't really remember what the food was; apparently that was not the most eventful moment of the meal. But what I do remember, very clearly, is that at the end of the meal the mother brought out chocolate pudding in those fancy parfait cups, chilled, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. A long spoon that reached all the way to the bottom of the cup. Surely, had I been privvy to the workings of the refrigerator in that house, there would have been a striking resemblance to the advertisement flyers I poured over every Sunday. I knew that somewhere there were entire roasts waiting to be eaten, and never any half-eaten hunks of moldy cheese.

More Layers

You will, of course, recall that I was sharing some writing I have been doing with you guys back in October. Well. Since I have nothing good to blog about today, I thought perhaps I'd blast you with another bit of that writing. Much has been skipped-- stuff that is too personal. You will undoubtedly think "holy crap, what is worse than this stuff she's sharing today?!?" Well. Trust me that there are things that are far less nostalgic and much less like the lives of most folks who grew up in the 70s. :) Anyhoo. Here is a bit... enjoy may not be the right word, but whatever. (I've been watching Foamy cartoons, so I have a bit of a Squirrely Wrath attitude. Sorry 'bout that.)


......

I see my mother in the morning, still wearing last night's makeup and hair still slightly styled, sprayed with Aqua Net but sticking out a bit. I sometimes now see that same wild hair in my own mirror, waking up to feed the cat, open the door to let her meowingly out. Mom's eyelids are a bit crepe-y and the blue shadow brings out the lines. I always remove any eye makeup because I am afraid to see that same face. She looks tired, and smokes her morning cigarette while I crunch on sugary cereal. I also see her pulling the stolen food out from under her yellowbeige trench coat. She has a severe kidney infection and cannot work but we do not qualify for food stamps so she must steal packets of instant mashed potatoes and flour to make lumpy potato soup and drop biscuits. I steal matchbox cars from the same store, and a tube of flavored lipgloss she makes me throw away because I tell her I found it.

We move into a house in a row of rundown slat houses, painted yellow-green, with a refrigerator that still has good grapes in the bottom drawer, which I eat. It is the last fruit I will have for a long time. My sister, then about 16, gets a job as a waitress at a BBQ joint and when the manager, sexual advances rebuffed, fires her, sister's boyfriend steals loads of BBQ which we eat in front of the TV. It is the best thing I have ever eaten, and I lick greasy sauce from thin, tiny fingers. There are spiders in this house that bite me as I roll over on them in bed at night; I wake with tiny red welts and a crushed spider body sticking to my sweaty arms, legs.

Around this time my sister calls my father, who is living with his new wife, to ask for help, some money for food, for rent. He tells her Ask the guy you're fucking to give you some money. She will not speak to him for years, and even then, she does not accept his guilty apology. My father lives with a woman who has a silver metal Christmas tree, who alternates the colors of the Christmas lights and garlands and balls every year. One year hot pink, the next deep electric blue. Then red, gold. Finally, she mixes all the colors on the tree which spins on a little electronic platform. He goes on a vacation to Bermuda, and while he's there, a hurricane trashes the island. We are happy, think of that ruined vacation while we pick up return-deposit bottles alongside the road for money to buy food. Five cents a bottle. Ten cents for certain bottles.

I lie on the floor and look up to see my sister's boyfriend's balls, red and squishy, protruding from the holes in his cutoff denim shorts. He shifts and sees me lying there. Crosses his legs. But the balls do not hide, but pinch, blue-purple, in the corners of the crotch. I peek again; the denim is frayed and the shorts very short. My mother, sister and their boyfriends smoke pot while listening to Three Dog Night and Pink Floyd. I am probably about six years old. This boyfriend and his friend who my mother covets and sometimes thinks she loves (he is younger, has a diamond earring and blonde hair) will cross paths with drug dealers who come by, angry at some payment not made, and shoot bullet holes in our house. I am lying in the porcelain, clawed foot bathtub, lined in foamy mattress. The boyfriends hide in the abandoned house next door and fire a sawed-off shotgun at the ineffectual drug dealers. They do not see, until it is too late, the boyfriends hiding in the abandoned house, where we kids have been forbidden to play because its slat wooden floors are breaking-through to the lower crawlspace in spots. My mother and sister say the shotgun lights up the dark Mississippi night. The drug dealers leave us alone.

The abandoned house smells of rat turds and rotting figs from the overgrown tree that pokes its wild branches into the front window. The unripe figs drip a gluey substance on your fingers if you pull one from the branch; there are never any sweetly ripe ones; they seem to go directly from gluey-green-hard to rotten on the ground. The smell of the house is strangely a cross between black pepper and sweetness. This house has cut glass doorknobs which seem like magic and I find a rhinestone button on the floor in a huge pile of debris-- old newspapers, rotting clothes.

Later those two boyfriends, returned to Kentucky, will try to rob a liquor store with the same sawed off shotgun. My sister's boyfriend falls into a ditch, breaks his leg. The one with blonde hair and diamond earring is not caught, immediately. They both end up in prison and my mother no longer covets his youth and blondeness.

.......
People ask me: is this fiction, or real? I reply A little of both. What is real, to a six-year-old lying in a room filled with 1970s pot smoke? What can you remember that you do not embellish? I ask them back What was your childhood like? I really want to know.
........

Surprise Party

I didn't really want a fuss. And by that I don't mean the typical women's thing where she says she doesn't want a fuss but gets mad if you don't make a fuss. I really did not care to have a big party or anything.

Yesterday I was apparently not my normal clever self. There were lots of signs that, in retrospect, I should have seen. The hubby bought two huge batches of Baklava when we were at Sam's "in case people come over." He made the bed! He "cleaned up a little." Andrew's dad showed up with presents (very very cleverly he brought me 35 Susan B. Anthony dollars. He said "Well, I know you're a woman's libber and all and I thought you'd like them"--women's libber. Big huge belly laugh). He asked Andrew "where's this cake I've been hearing about."

My friends Aaron & Nissa were supposed to come over but they were taking forever. I began to get a teeeny bit suspicious when it had been at least an hour since I called them and they weren't here yet. Then the entire crowd of our friends showed up, bearing gifts, with our good friend Keval in front(who lives out of town; is a pilot; cute & single, ladies).....

I was surprised. Everyone kept saying "Are you sure you didn't know?" Really. I didn't really have a clue, in spite of very odd behavior on the part of Andrew. And his Dad.

Vicki (also known as La Vampira) brought a lovely chocolate cake. There was champagne for those who wanted it. It did not go into the wee hours, which is good cause folks had to work early. But it was a super-nice surprise and I suppose I set myself up for those things if I don't ask for something specific (a fuss.) Fabulous friends cannot bear to let a happy day go by without sharing it. So I truly appreciated everyone coming by and bringing chocolate.

It was a very nice fuss.

Birf-day Presents

Andrew just gave my my birthday sparklies. Caw Caw!! I got a very pretty ring with a big peridot (a green semiprecious stone) in the middle of two amethysts and a cluster of tiny diamonds, a pair of peridot earrings with again a little triangle of tiny diamonds & a necklace with a peridot pendant with the requisite cluster of tiny diamonds. Very very cute. Funnily, it sort of goes with the dress I am wearing too! Hah! The Peridot was pretty inside, and when we walked outside the green was very flashy. I like it!!

But then again, I adore sparklies of all kinds.

Now, to show them off. I doubt that I can get my camera to take a good picture-- it doesn't do closeups very well. But altogether, I got some good booty this year. :) (And by booty, I mean Pirate-style stuff, not as in big booty-- which I already have enough of thank you very much!.)

Very Sad

As part of the deck re-building process, a bunch of trees & shrubberies are being cut down in my back yard. This makes me very sad. We usually have dozens of beautiful birds popping around, including Cardinals and some brown bird with a very orange beak. (Maybe a female Cardinal?) Squirrels, and a possum that makes a rare night appearance.

The guys are back there with chainsaws cutting things down. I saw the bird with the orange beak earlier, and she gazed in at me as though to say "Dude! What's the deal?"

We're going to plant more stuff! Really! But for now, the back yard is not the green happy paradise is usually is. And that is very sad.

Sunday Plans*

Andrew is working this weekend which means I'm on my own for the day. Yesterday I squandered that time-- read too many political blogs, got a headache, watched bad TV, read a little of my chapter in progress, (and I mean a little). Went grocery shopping. Organized cabinets a bit.

Today, the plans are to get out of the house more. I am inviting some friends over to eat this dinner, and I need a few ingredients the Super Target did not have. I also have been looking for an acrylic spaghetti holder like the one I used to have that, after 11 years of hard use, has died. But I don't know where to find one. POOEY!

The cat is whining, planning to call Amnesty International about her wrongful imprisonment in the house because of the piles of nail-studded wood from the old deck in the back yard. She feels her rights to be squished are being infringed upon by an unfair dictator (me.) Poor kitty. I must get away from her some today or I might go insane from hearing her whine and meow all day.

Do you ever think "wow, that would make a good blog entry, I need to remember that idea" and then find that when you sit down, all you can think of is mundane everyday crap that really is probably not very interesting to anyone? Yeah. Me too.

*Did you know that tomorrow is my 35th birthday? I'm getting old, man! :)

PS

And my husband said "Maybe you shouldn't put that post about Being A Republican out in public just yet. People might not be able to see it as the helpful note it is, and will think you're attacking them, and they might decide you're bashing in return."

And I do feel anxious-- sort of like I've "come out of the closet" admitting to my mostly liberal group of readers that I have been "passing" for a long time.

And that makes it even more important that I leave the post there. If it drives anyone away, and anyone takes it as something other than an observation trying to point out something that is fundamentally a problem for people who believe in equality and kindness to others, then I don't know what else to do.

It's sort of like being at a party with someone you've always liked who says something offensive. You don't want to be complicit with their comment, but it's really awkward to say something outright about how saddened you were by their comment. And so you risk losing a friendship. And that makes me feel very tense, but I'm leaving the damn post up.

A Thought

I was looking forward to the election being over for many reasons, but one of them was this. I am really saddened by outright anti-Republican bashing. I was hoping it would stop; but it just seems to go on and on. I am not speaking to any particular person here-- but I just spent several minutes on a message board I used to really enjoy as a cool place where fun people hung out and at least half the topics were seriously negative and bashing. It made me very sad. It made me leave. I'm tired of it.

Listen. It's as as bad as any kind of bias to bash an entire group, which is made up of millions of people, and which is just as horrified by the vocal kook section which many people associate the whole group with as any other.

Are you a feminist? Do you hate it when people say "oh, well you must be a man-hating non-bath taking chick who doesn't shave and wants to abort babies daily"? Yes. It probably bugs you. And you probably say "Not all feminists are represented by the radical wing of feminism that you speak of. There are many of us who are moderate in our beliefs and just want a certain principle of fairness and equality."

Listen. NOT ALL REPUBLICANS are card-carrying evangelists and right-wing nut jobs with a gun-rack who shop at Wal-Mart and weigh 300 pounds, and until you can understand that, there will never be real understanding in this country, let alone for people outside who don't get Americans.

How do I know this? I am actually a Republican. It is mostly because when I first registered to vote, at the tender age of 18, I didn't really know the difference between the two parties. The League of Women Voters came to our high school and we had to pick one. I picked the one my family was. In the intervening years, I have decided to stay this way despite being more liberal than the typical picture of Republicans because I feel a moderate voice NEEDS to remain in the party to keep the kooks from taking over completely. I have also stayed registered this way because as a Libertarian (which is more my philosophy) I pretty much waste my vote. I'm tired of voting for someone who doesn't have a chance, and there's not really much hope for third parties in the US. I also am sort of contrary, and since, in Academia, pretty much everyone is a liberal Democrat, I stay this way just to spite the "herd."

But here is another good reason for moderate to liberal folks to stay where they are, and the reason I'm most proud of being here:

When there is word that there is a chance a radically right-wing policy might be used as a "litmus test" I write to my representatives. As a Registered Republican, they actually listen to me a little bit; my voice gets heard cause I am their voting block (or so they think). I am a member of the group Republicans for Choice. I am veryliberal socially, but I believe it is up to the individual to choose their path-- not the state to force it on anyone. That actually fits very well with the official party of what Republicans are supposed to be. It wasn't until the 1980s that the radical kook factor took over with a loud voice, and there are many people who refuse to give up and try to change FROM WITHIN.

I have voted for Democratic presidential candidates in virtually every election I have voted in. And Nader. Which was a waste of time, unfortunately. So I am the coveted "SWING VOTER." My voice gets heard a bit.

So every time someone outright bashes every single Republican, it only serves to reinforce frustrations and division from the moderates and liberals who really really are a part of the Republican party, making them more firmly to believe that other groups hold an entire body of people in contempt, dislike, even hatred, simply for the reason that THEY BELONG TO A DIFFERENT GROUP. And that the other group is totally different and never can the twain meet.

The first step to making war against, and hurting another person, is to dehumanize them. To make them into something BAD, EVIL, OTHER. When you say things like "Repugnicants" or "Republican'ts" or whatever, you make the human beings like me feel like you hate us; it hurts me every single time. And even worse, it also only makes those who are kooks feel justified in their kookiness. It makse the smug jerks like the dittoheads feel justified in their smugness.

And it makes those of us who are really here, trying to fight the good fight to drag the country back to the center where more of us live than on either of the radical wings (either left or right) feel more frustrated that it's a lost cause.

Think of it this way, if I have not yet convinced you. Substitute my group membership in a party that really is NOT that different from the other party in many ways with any other "Group" that one might bash. Would it be okay to use nasty, hurtful, divisive names for say Blacks? Latinos? Jewish folks? Gays? Catholics? the British? You get the picture.

If it's not okay to judge every single black person if one black person has done something you disagree with then it's not okay to judge every single Republican for something you disagree with. Be mad at the Rush Limbaugh's, sure! Fine! I don't like him either! Be mad at Bush if you're upset with his war principles! Fine! I'm not thrilled with it either! But those two folks do NOT represent every single person in the party!! There are many of us who are NOT kooks and we try our damndest to keep our party from going insane.

Conservative religious philosophy as a political litmus test? NO WAY! But neither should there be anti-religion as a litmus test. Choice in everything is crucial.

Abortion? Ought to be up to the individual, and the Feds should protect the rights because each state cannot be trusted in this case.

But should you, who have worked hard all of your life to make a good living have to pay for it all? Should health care become this huge bureaucracy that will be worse than any government office you've ever been in? If you've ever been on welfare or government assistance, or gone to a free clinic, you know how bad, how frustrating, how dehumanizing and alienating that system could be. YES we should have health care for everyone. Now let's think of a way to make this a centrist issue, and not continue to create a divide between two groups that aren't really as different as naming names and creating hateful labels make them out to be.

Yes, they each have the crazy uncle who gets drunk at family gatherings and spouts off. But that doesn't represent the entire family.

My Hubby's Caca may-mee Schemes

I adore my husband for many reasons. One of them is that he's always coming up with some idea that might just make us a lot of money. We've had a number of web-based businesses, (most of which meant I had to do a lot of work). Most of them have not worked out-- YET. I say yet because I am quite certain that one day one WILL work out.

Last night, we watched a pretty cool movie called BAAADASSSSS! Which I recommend. But after this scene that showed the young entrepreneurial protagonist when he was a kid learning how to deal with his "little business," Andrew told me a story about himself when he was a boy.

His Aunt Geneva owned a ranch out in the hill country. Young Andrew heard his mother discussing how cow poo was the best thing in the world for a garden. So, already the man he would be in many ways, young Andrew went around and collected cow poo in bags. Then, when he returned home to suburbia, where "everyone had gardens" he put said cow poo in his little red wagon and went door to door selling it for fifty cents a bag. He sold out of his product and made a pretty good penny. He figures the folks who bought his coveted fertilizer probably felt pretty good about the deal they got. And he, young salesman, felt pretty good about the money he made.

Did he become Cow Poo king of the subdivision? Nah. I guess one time was enough for him. But I love this story because it is so him. He's always thinking of something that might make some cash, and he will try pretty much anything, and he's unembarrassable.

One day, he's going to be a crazy old Ross Perot type of rich guy, out there talking his talk cause he's going to have found some cockamay-mee scheme (ca ca may mee maybe). And no one who knows him will be very surprised.

Books to Read & "Bedlam"

One of my dissertation texts, and a favorite book in general, is called Galveston by Sean Stewart. If you're a fan of magical fiction (and by this I don't mean Dungeons & Dragons/Arthurian tales but more "magical realism" which places extraordinary events in a realistic world) then you would probably really like Sean Stewart's work. Galveston is in my dissertation partly because it has this "trinity" of strong women who use partly magic, partly mundane things (like politics) to influence & help their communities.

But that is only the dry, academic version of the story. It's a really interesting story, with history of Galveston, TX (where I've never actually been, but isn't far from here) Mardis Gras, gods, apocalyptic swells of magic that change the world. There's a really cool character in it named Sloane who ends up being what I call kind of the Goddess of Personal Assistants (that's exaggeration, but it works).

Anyway-- I am sitting here planning to go work on the CHAPTER of my dissertation, and Galveston is staring at me, saying "Get busy miss." I like other books by Stewart too; his most recent, Perfect Circle, is kind of like an episode of the X-Files (in a way.) It has this thing about ghosts, and the main character sees them and gets himself into a lot of trouble with them. It's quite good.

The only complaint I've ever had about Stewart's work (and I think I've read most of his books) is about a scene in Mockingbird involving a woman having an ultrasound; something happens within the scene that any woman would recognize as impossible to EVER happen in a situation like that, and it pulled me right out of the narrative when I read it. But it's a minor thing. Very few guys would even realize it was so wrong.

Mockingbird has these pseudo-voodoo (hey that rhymes!) gods, takes place in Houston, and basically is, at its core, about mothers and daughters. Sort of Ya Ya Sisterhood plus magic... in a way. But better. Infinitely. Anyway. If you're looking for something cool to read, get one or more of Stewart's books. I promise that if you're into magic, and strong women characters, and good intense writing with characters who you want to get to know but who aren't always "good" you will like his work.

On a different but vaguely related note, one of the things I love about the book is that the mockingbird is the state bird of Texas, and they're "Tricksy" and I love seeing them bounce around in my back yard. It always makes me think of Stewart's books to see a mockingbird perched somewhere in the back yard. One time, a bored mockingbird tried, by pretending its wing was hurt, to lure Tituba into attacking it. Then, I'm quite certain, said tricksy mockingbird would have rained down fury upon the little black furry kitty. Tituba, clever cat that she is, did not fall for the playacting and bored mockingbird left. (I'm quite sure there was no nest to protect because Tituba was not prowling-- just lounging in the sun on our deck.)

And finally, speaking of decks-- our deck is currently being ripped to shreds. It's been falling apart, and the jacuzzi in it has been broken and unfixable for years, so we're pulling it all up and building a new one. But the back yard is in quite a state. The cat is upset cause she can't go out. It's bedlam. Bedlam, I tell you.

My Own Political Career in a Nutshell

All this election hoo-ha reminded me last night of my own ill-advised forays into politics (of a sort). When I was in Jr. High, poor little girl from the wrong side of the tracks in a shithole tiny town in Louisiana (no, I’m not bitter) some strange idea possessed me that I should run for some office in the school’s Science Club. Apparently, and I don’t remember why, the Science Club was very popular at this school (although I don’t recall us ever doing any science). It was a terrible school– my history teacher pronounced Michigan “Mitch-i-gan” and we had a band teacher who was clinically insane (IMHO). I don’t actually remember what I ran for– I think it was Treasurer or something. I think I’ve probably blocked out some of the exact details in the horror of what was to follow.

Now, I did have friends at this school. A few of them were “popular kids” even though I may not have shared the popularity. (This is important detail for later).

I made cute little posters. My maiden name was Murphy, so I made some signs that said things like “Be Smurfy, Vote for Kim.....” (The Smurfs were VERY big back then). “Don’t be a Gargamel, Be A Smurf” and then the best one, on a lightbulb shaped poster “Don’t be dim, vote for Kim!”

There was a lot of “buzz.” Exit polls had me doing well. My posters were a hit with cute little Mike McWhatshisname. (Freckled and sweet faced, Mike was a Calvin-and-Hobbes type kid).

On the day of the election, the large group of science clubbers assembled in the cafeteria. When it came time for the vote, people were asked to stand up for the candidate they wanted. As I sat in front of the masses of people, some of whom were supposed to be my friends, no one stood up. Someone said something about me not even voting for myself, but it was mortifying to stand there all alone. I looked at my friends, and asked them later why they didn’t vote for me, and they said lame things like “Oh, really, I didn’t realize it was your turn”. The resounding silence in the room apparently confused those friends. Sigh. The reason? The few popular kids who were in the crowd (Kim was the name of one of them– and she ruled with a chiffon fist) stayed firmly planted, and all those minions followed her lead, apparently. So clearly, there was something there about elections not really being about fairness, or whatever the political science books would have us believe, but about popular kids, and what they tell us we “ought to do.” And the fear of going against the popular kids is strong, even when other things might need to come into play.

It was pretty miserable. I vowed to not ever do something like that again.

In college, people wanted me to run for President of the Honors Program. I really did NOT want to, but college was a totally different place– I was cute, not so obviously poor, apparently living on a good side of the tracks. In this election, I won hands down. There were no campaign signs (although I did have a reputation as being “that Alien chick” from a dramatic skit we had done...). The exit polls were right (for once).

It still didn’t completely make up for the experience in Jr. High.

I don’t think I’m going to be running for any major offices in the future. The memory of all those closed faces, looking at me, asking me why I thought it was even possible that anyone would go against “the popular kids’ votes” is just too much to get over.

Politics is Hell, people. Even with a catchy, Smurfy election campaign.

Did You Vote?

With all apologies to my Canadian readers, but hey, I hope you all voted! I went today and we had a very quick visit to the polling place. I didn't know Texas was using fancy little electronic voting machines-- they were pretty neat-o. I went very fast, having decided to vote "straight ticket party" and all I really had to do, therefore, was click one little button and then read over the "pages" to make sure everything looked right. Kinda cool.

My only real complaint: THEY DID NOT GIVE ME THE COOL "I VOTED" STICKER!!!!!! Every time in the past I've voted, I've smugly lorded my cool little sticker over all the other people who didn't have one. How could I prove my elite voterly status today without my sticker? It's terrible. I'm all twitterpated about it.

I think my friends are coming over tonight for pizza and "official election results" scoffing. I don't know for sure that's a great idea since I'm fairly certain said friends probably voted for a different party than Andrew & I (yes, I know who he voted for too) and it could be awkward if there's any kind of either 1. landslide or 2. really close race. Which I guess means either possibility. But we're grown ups. Whoever wins must promise to not be sarcastic & bratty about it. No "nyah nyah nyah ya big LOSER!" from either side. :)

Sorry I didn't post till very late; I know some of you read me at work and probably checked back a few times. I have had a very busy day, starting with getting up too early and now I'm getting ready to go to bellydancing class. Oh, and I didn't tell you all-- last night, I TAUGHT my very first bellydance class. My normal instructor, Debbie, had something she had to do so she asked me to "substitute." I think it went very well, actually, once I figured out what I was going to do.

I am, yes, I can say it, A true Goddess. (And modest too).

Party Pix

So if you want to see all of the great costumes and how well I decorated the house and stuff, you can look on OFOTO here for all the pix. I do NOT have time to make a huge gallery of all the pix by myself, and Ofoto is very easy.

There were some really cute, very creative & original ideas this year. We had a pretty large crowd show up, too. For a while, the area around the bar was so crowded I had a hard time getting from one room to another!

Here are a few photos for those of you who don't want to make the trek to OFOTO, (although I don't see why. The link up there doesn't require you to create an account, actually.)

This is the "Theme Cake!" and the reason for the theme cake-- a fun & silly cake topper I found online. I actually had seen it for very expensive on this wedding cake topper website, and after Liz posted a comment about it on her wedding blog, realized it was available on E-bay for much cheaper. I don't think it would be right for a "normal, everyday" wedding, but it was a hoot for the idea of having our costumes fit the evening. Andrew is the "Grave Groom" and I am "Skeleton Bride."

I did the makeup, and boy am I good or what? Andrew & I have been married a long time, but on our tenth anniversary, when I was going to have a special cake, we didn't get to do that. So this time, I had a special "wedding theme" thing going, with our costumes & stuff. We decided to get cutesy and cut it, as though we were really at a wedding. It was a really delicious cake-- chocolate with a strawberry filling. I had a hard time not having cake for breakfast today. :) We also have a picture of us feeding each other a piece of the cake. When we really got married, I said "ooh, I want the big piece with the frosting" and apparently Andrew had never seen what one does with frosting covered cake at a wedding. So I smeared it all over his unsuspecting face while he gently fed me. Poor thing. Sucker! So when we did it again, this time, we behaved cause it really would have messed up the makeup. Later, when Andrew washed the makeup off, it took forever to get all that black stuff off our eyes, and we both looked very very Goth, like we were about to pop over to the nearest Rave. We're soooo cool. This morning, he actually had a teeeeny bit of it still left on one eye. Since he's in the military (sort of) I wondered whether anyone would say anything. Heee Heee! Next year, I'm going to try to get him to be Frankenfurter. Since he's shown a willingness to wear makeup, then I think it would be fun!

Now here are pictures of the two costume contest winners. The first one actually catches them standing next to each other (what a coinkydink) but you can't really see Steve in the background, so I have another later. Jeffrey was "Jesus Christ, Superstar" and it was such a clever costume (he went around acting like a superstar all night, saying "I'll have my people call your people" and stuff like that. I really liked his shepard's crook, which was covered in sparklies. It's also good to have Jesus "owe you one" so I figured there was an added bonus in giving him one of cute little first prize ribbons I found. It was hard, actually, because everyone who came to the party made an effort, and most people's costumes were so cool! But I did warn them on the invitation that judging would be totally unfair. :)

Then Steve was the guy from The Jerk*, in the scene where he says "All I need is this remote control. And my dog Sparky, and this chair, and this magazine" etc. etc. He went around ALL NIGHT with his pants around his ankles (which you can't really see in this photo but was hilarious.) And he carried the chair, remote, etc, all night too. This was a major high-maintenance costume, and very funny!

*And in fact, if you look at the IMBD listing linked there, the movie poster has the picture of what Steve was going for.

Coming Soon

Photos for the Hallowe'en party are loading to Ofoto right now... I'll post the link, but I'll also post a couple for those of you who feel uncomfortable registering with ofoto (although it IS free, and they don't ever spam).... It was a fun party, lots of people came, and there were very clever costumes. The rain, which was a deluge when it came, was kind enough to wait till the party's end to come barreling down, after we had taken down the cute little paper lanterns and everything inside.

I must get lots of dissertating done today since the party (and other issues) interfered radically for several days with my writing last week. Ah Monday, day of new possibilities when your week can go well or you can get absolutely NOTHING accomplished. Let's hope this week is one of those good ones.

(My birthday, by the way, is next Monday, so I have one more week of being in my "early" instead of "mid" thirties. Piffle!! :)