I have things to say.
I have, well, SO MANY things to say.
I am rapidly reaching the point where my tried-and-true, taught method of Listen, Acknowledge, Try To Make Aware is becoming...
No.
Just, NO.
EVERY PART OF THIS, NO.
I am liberal.
Shocker to NO ONE who knows me, and yet saying it feels like a declaration of war.
The world, right now, is quivering in anticipation of the next blow against the fragile global unity that HAD existed.
The United States is being systematically divided by a man who was bought, and is currently owned, by Russia. His rank stupidity may or may not be a ploy; either way, he is the single instrument that (thus far) is bringing down democracy in the West. Bought, or not, he is sowing chaos, destruction, and discord.
I honestly think he is stupid enough that he doesn't believe that he was purchased by Putin; I sincerely believe he is so egotistical, so megalomaniacal, that his sole motivation (since he can't pass policy that gives him accolades) is to break the entire United States.
Because after he does, we pick up the pieces. And EVERYTHING is defined as "before" and "after" Trump.
What more could he want?
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Politicus Omygodhe'sbatshit-icus.
I have never, in my entire life, been what anyone would call political. In fact, if you wanted to draw anything from a diagram to a political satire while making sure they had nary a connection, I am absolutely your focus (except for the part where nobody knows who I am).
Things have changed.
Embarrassingly enough as it is for my age bracket, I recently attended my first actual Protest. With good reason. With the kind of reason that, when I used to say to my mom "I wish I were born in the '60s so I could protest", has actually become reality.
Our reality has become frightening. I used to think that automated answering systems, and, well, reality TV was the dowfall of civilization. Now I know reality figures are Fx office and polls are fake news. Next stop, sorry fascist...totalitarian...used to be America.
Things have changed.
Embarrassingly enough as it is for my age bracket, I recently attended my first actual Protest. With good reason. With the kind of reason that, when I used to say to my mom "I wish I were born in the '60s so I could protest", has actually become reality.
Our reality has become frightening. I used to think that automated answering systems, and, well, reality TV was the dowfall of civilization. Now I know reality figures are Fx office and polls are fake news. Next stop, sorry fascist...totalitarian...used to be America.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
No matter what happens...
When I was eleven, my father recommended James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking series.
Oddly, when I think back on all the books my father and I read together, there tends to be a trend...some of which was definitely Native American. One of my favorite memories from childhood is him coming into my bedroom to share a biography of Chief Black Hawk; I remember the book, hardback with a grey cover and the title stamped in black along the spine. He would sit on the edge of the bed, and reading to me using the light that spilled in from the hallway (because there might be monsters, we always had the hall light on) we would discover an entirely new way of life; one that didn't involve sherbet-colored bedspreads or elm bugs as pets. This was something different, something primal. I remember wishing I could have lived then; even using brains to tan a hide sounded awesome, the way dad read it.
Someone else recommended and gave me a copy of Black Elk Speaks; but I think he would have gotten there if I weren't such a Pernicious Toad. (Pernicious Toad was the award of the week to the child who had been the most obnoxious. Sadly, I excelled at this, which at one point led to him bouncing a radish, and then an empty milk jug off of my head.)
ANYWAY.
Back to Leatherstocking. It was after I had read Red Badge of Courage, which I wish I had NEVER read and to this day regret wasting time, effort, and brain cells upon something so horrible. The fact that I read it three years before it was required reading only gives me a bigger rash, to be honest. The only thing worse was Stephen Crane's perpetration upon humanity with his short story The Open Boat, which was featured prominently in my senior English class and the teacher of said class not just loved Stephen Crane, but failed to realize my sincerity in suggesting in an assigned essay that Stephen Crane would have benefited tremendously by dying before he could write something so horrible and gave me a grade that would make one assume that I would lose in a vocabulary contest with celery.
So. Leatherstocking.
I read them all. I liked them, well enough; struggles with opportunistic monarchs, antagonists with shady intentions, American history (one of the only times I was exposed to it, sadly; my American history teacher felt that movies spoke a thousand words, and that Lonesome Dove spoke a thousand more than that).
OK, people. Daniel Day-Lewis movie? KINDA ROCKS. Seriously. I love it. Yes, it is like almost 15 years since it came out. No, it doesn't follow the book. Yes, I have problems with the dialogue. Yes, Uncas is the hottest adopted brother known to man. No, you may NOT interrupt me when Daniel Day Lewis says "No matter what happens..."
I remember when it came out. I saw it three times, IN THE THEATERS. Johdi May's look when she steps off that rock rather than succumb to Magua? His blood-flecked hand, gesturing her toward him, after he's done something so horrible but he is NOT A MONSTER, not completely? Madeleine Stowe was kinda a throwaway for me, as far as I was concerned. The secondary characters were so incredible. Duncan saving Cora? Are you KIDDING me?
I took dad to see it.
"That is the biggest magnolia tree I've ever seen," he said, exiting the theater. "Where was this SUPPOSED to have been filmed?"
Oddly, when I think back on all the books my father and I read together, there tends to be a trend...some of which was definitely Native American. One of my favorite memories from childhood is him coming into my bedroom to share a biography of Chief Black Hawk; I remember the book, hardback with a grey cover and the title stamped in black along the spine. He would sit on the edge of the bed, and reading to me using the light that spilled in from the hallway (because there might be monsters, we always had the hall light on) we would discover an entirely new way of life; one that didn't involve sherbet-colored bedspreads or elm bugs as pets. This was something different, something primal. I remember wishing I could have lived then; even using brains to tan a hide sounded awesome, the way dad read it.
Someone else recommended and gave me a copy of Black Elk Speaks; but I think he would have gotten there if I weren't such a Pernicious Toad. (Pernicious Toad was the award of the week to the child who had been the most obnoxious. Sadly, I excelled at this, which at one point led to him bouncing a radish, and then an empty milk jug off of my head.)
ANYWAY.
Back to Leatherstocking. It was after I had read Red Badge of Courage, which I wish I had NEVER read and to this day regret wasting time, effort, and brain cells upon something so horrible. The fact that I read it three years before it was required reading only gives me a bigger rash, to be honest. The only thing worse was Stephen Crane's perpetration upon humanity with his short story The Open Boat, which was featured prominently in my senior English class and the teacher of said class not just loved Stephen Crane, but failed to realize my sincerity in suggesting in an assigned essay that Stephen Crane would have benefited tremendously by dying before he could write something so horrible and gave me a grade that would make one assume that I would lose in a vocabulary contest with celery.
So. Leatherstocking.
I read them all. I liked them, well enough; struggles with opportunistic monarchs, antagonists with shady intentions, American history (one of the only times I was exposed to it, sadly; my American history teacher felt that movies spoke a thousand words, and that Lonesome Dove spoke a thousand more than that).
OK, people. Daniel Day-Lewis movie? KINDA ROCKS. Seriously. I love it. Yes, it is like almost 15 years since it came out. No, it doesn't follow the book. Yes, I have problems with the dialogue. Yes, Uncas is the hottest adopted brother known to man. No, you may NOT interrupt me when Daniel Day Lewis says "No matter what happens..."
I remember when it came out. I saw it three times, IN THE THEATERS. Johdi May's look when she steps off that rock rather than succumb to Magua? His blood-flecked hand, gesturing her toward him, after he's done something so horrible but he is NOT A MONSTER, not completely? Madeleine Stowe was kinda a throwaway for me, as far as I was concerned. The secondary characters were so incredible. Duncan saving Cora? Are you KIDDING me?
I took dad to see it.
"That is the biggest magnolia tree I've ever seen," he said, exiting the theater. "Where was this SUPPOSED to have been filmed?"
Saturday, February 15, 2014
And you thought reading/watching Lord of the Rings obsessively would be pointless.
So...JedI has survived his recent surgery.
I say this largely because (I think) he was not sure he would. And he did. "Hey, what's up?" was the greeting he gave me coming out of anesthesia. And he sat there, perfectly cognizant and waiting for them to check him out, drinking Coke and snacking on animal crackers...because he really might be Wolverine, with his healing powers.
Because it was just a vasectomy, according to my female sensibilities, and The Potential End of the World, according to the male perspective.
I admit it; as a female I lack the true understanding that comes with something like this. I know it is scary...well, I in theory know it is scary. As reality, it is kind of hit-and-miss. I was always assured that when "the time was right" I would find it within my heart to want to procreate. I spent many years, in fact, dealing with the fact that I did NOT want to procreate. I adore my nieces and nephews; I would go back in time only to relive spending time with the Nutz Brothas and doing MORE for them. But that maternal instinct? Not so much. I adore playing with babies. I will even change diapers (and I am pretty sure Whit left a particularly vile diapered child to me ON PURPOSE); but there is something in me that lacks the need to procreate.
That being said, despite his attempt at dignity the JedI has given in to my suggestion, and now can be heard chanting "Grond! Grond! Grond!" with me as we place the large metallic bowl over his nether regions, in order that the cat might not leap upon his loins and undo what has been (horribly expensively) done.
He is still not fully at ease with Feral Fawcett; I am not sure that either of them will ever achieve full symbiosis. Nevertheless, I have been really, really glad that I insisted on the biggest aluminum bowl we had, rather than a smaller one. When Feral leaps up and sneers at us, at least she isn't causing JedI pain.
Can ANYONE explain to me why, with insurance, it cost us almost $800 to have his squirmies secede from the Union? Am I racist for even questioning this? Because really, after the laws being passed and the requirement that WE ALL SHALL HAVE INSURANCE, isn't NOT having children something that should resonate deeply with insurance companies? As JedI has suggested, why don't they offer an incentive/bonus amount for people who are trying to do the responsible thing and NOT have children?
This is me, signing off and not thrilled with the fact that if I don't sign up for local health care, our tax refund may be in jeopardy. Yer kidding me.
I say this largely because (I think) he was not sure he would. And he did. "Hey, what's up?" was the greeting he gave me coming out of anesthesia. And he sat there, perfectly cognizant and waiting for them to check him out, drinking Coke and snacking on animal crackers...because he really might be Wolverine, with his healing powers.
Because it was just a vasectomy, according to my female sensibilities, and The Potential End of the World, according to the male perspective.
I admit it; as a female I lack the true understanding that comes with something like this. I know it is scary...well, I in theory know it is scary. As reality, it is kind of hit-and-miss. I was always assured that when "the time was right" I would find it within my heart to want to procreate. I spent many years, in fact, dealing with the fact that I did NOT want to procreate. I adore my nieces and nephews; I would go back in time only to relive spending time with the Nutz Brothas and doing MORE for them. But that maternal instinct? Not so much. I adore playing with babies. I will even change diapers (and I am pretty sure Whit left a particularly vile diapered child to me ON PURPOSE); but there is something in me that lacks the need to procreate.
That being said, despite his attempt at dignity the JedI has given in to my suggestion, and now can be heard chanting "Grond! Grond! Grond!" with me as we place the large metallic bowl over his nether regions, in order that the cat might not leap upon his loins and undo what has been (horribly expensively) done.
He is still not fully at ease with Feral Fawcett; I am not sure that either of them will ever achieve full symbiosis. Nevertheless, I have been really, really glad that I insisted on the biggest aluminum bowl we had, rather than a smaller one. When Feral leaps up and sneers at us, at least she isn't causing JedI pain.
Can ANYONE explain to me why, with insurance, it cost us almost $800 to have his squirmies secede from the Union? Am I racist for even questioning this? Because really, after the laws being passed and the requirement that WE ALL SHALL HAVE INSURANCE, isn't NOT having children something that should resonate deeply with insurance companies? As JedI has suggested, why don't they offer an incentive/bonus amount for people who are trying to do the responsible thing and NOT have children?
This is me, signing off and not thrilled with the fact that if I don't sign up for local health care, our tax refund may be in jeopardy. Yer kidding me.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
"I have no concern about those teams to get in there and pull a stunt overnight"
So, there they were.
"There have certainly been no breakouts of violence," said the sports announcer, who CLEARLY is a moron for the above-referenced statement. Outbreaks of violence? Violence? About a fucking FOOTBALL TEAM?!
I'm sorry. I thought that the disparity between commercial sports personalities and those of us who merely ate a bagel as breakfast and didn't kick through our rental walls was far, far less.
Great news for the 49ers. The weather is apparently supporting them.
JedI is a huge sports fan. So huge that when one of the only sports in which I remotely showed an interest was tennis, he started learning names and stats, to the point that I have NO idea to whom he is referencing when he shrieks from his earbud-laden world about how someone's second set totally decimated the eighth seed.
Feral Fawcett, by the way, has taken the opportunity to be absolutely FILTHY in her litterbox.
Remember when I was the queen of eschewing sports? What happened?
"There have certainly been no breakouts of violence," said the sports announcer, who CLEARLY is a moron for the above-referenced statement. Outbreaks of violence? Violence? About a fucking FOOTBALL TEAM?!
I'm sorry. I thought that the disparity between commercial sports personalities and those of us who merely ate a bagel as breakfast and didn't kick through our rental walls was far, far less.
Great news for the 49ers. The weather is apparently supporting them.
JedI is a huge sports fan. So huge that when one of the only sports in which I remotely showed an interest was tennis, he started learning names and stats, to the point that I have NO idea to whom he is referencing when he shrieks from his earbud-laden world about how someone's second set totally decimated the eighth seed.
Feral Fawcett, by the way, has taken the opportunity to be absolutely FILTHY in her litterbox.
Remember when I was the queen of eschewing sports? What happened?
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Oh, Freddy Mercury, you knew what you were singing about...THANK GOD IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!!!!
When the JedI and I decided on the menu for this year's Thanksgiving, it was based on what we wanted to eat rather than necessarily the 'traditional' meal. We decided on a ham, which naturally led to scalloped potatoes (gruyere and extra sharp white cheddar, thank you very much). I wanted my mother's dressing, because that is the Thanksgiving taste of childhood (other than Aunt Jane's divinity). The menu quickly filled up with the ubiquitous green bean casserole, only made from scratch and with fresh green beans and mushrooms...peppered chicken gravy to go on the dressing...cranberry yuzu chutney with candied ginger...a pumpkin pie (my first time making one ever!)...chocolate pot de creme...lemon chiffon pudding cake...
All of this may explain why I now fit in "big girl" clothing.
Nevertheless, it was wonderful. When I saw the ham, it was cradled tenderly in JedI's arms like Baby Jesus--and was about the size of the Baby Jesus. "Why would you order eight pounds of ham for two people?!" I demanded, and he was quick to point out that he had only requested that his boss order us in a ham, and had not specified quantity. Apparently my love of any type of pork product is well known for knowing not only no bounds, but no weight requirements either. I did try to get JedI to take a picture of it, possibly with a tea towel over his head like the Virgin Mary mantle. "We could use it for our Christmas card," I said, using the most persuasive argument I could think of. He very nearly agreed; but I think I ruined it by suggesting that the child had obviously taken after its father in the chin area.
And with Thanksgiving over, we move on to THE CHRISTMAS SEASON. I am so excited for it this year!
We still have no floor space for a tree, and even if we did there is still Feral Fawcett and her 3:47 a.m. Formula One racetrack, as well as her midnight crazies. And her midafternoon fury. And her early morning rumpus. And her late afternoon sulky rampage. And her daily taunting of the squirrel outside the window who does something to cheese her off and sets the tone for her whole attitude for the day. JedI says that having a cat is like having a teenage daughter. He works hard, he supports us, he comes home and wants just a little affection, and instead she attacks his feet, hisses, and rolls onto her back so when he tries to pet her belly she can turn into the feline equivalent of a bear trap. He maintains that it's like walking into a room and having your teenage daughter look up from her cell phone (that you pay for) and saying "Suck it, pops."
So I have done a Christmas tree out of lights on the wall, and hung ornaments on it, in the first stages of Christmas JOY. JedI came home early a few nights ago and found me with the lights on the wall (held up with masking tape so I could see how it would look) and the new Christmas bedding on the bed. Since he is firmly of the belief that Christmas season begins THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING, I was a little worried; but he sighed, and said with that husband-weary tone that means I am Not Actually In Trouble "I have realized you have absolutely no self control when it comes to Christmas." He did still ban Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving...but he can't stop me now!
All of this may explain why I now fit in "big girl" clothing.
Nevertheless, it was wonderful. When I saw the ham, it was cradled tenderly in JedI's arms like Baby Jesus--and was about the size of the Baby Jesus. "Why would you order eight pounds of ham for two people?!" I demanded, and he was quick to point out that he had only requested that his boss order us in a ham, and had not specified quantity. Apparently my love of any type of pork product is well known for knowing not only no bounds, but no weight requirements either. I did try to get JedI to take a picture of it, possibly with a tea towel over his head like the Virgin Mary mantle. "We could use it for our Christmas card," I said, using the most persuasive argument I could think of. He very nearly agreed; but I think I ruined it by suggesting that the child had obviously taken after its father in the chin area.
And with Thanksgiving over, we move on to THE CHRISTMAS SEASON. I am so excited for it this year!
We still have no floor space for a tree, and even if we did there is still Feral Fawcett and her 3:47 a.m. Formula One racetrack, as well as her midnight crazies. And her midafternoon fury. And her early morning rumpus. And her late afternoon sulky rampage. And her daily taunting of the squirrel outside the window who does something to cheese her off and sets the tone for her whole attitude for the day. JedI says that having a cat is like having a teenage daughter. He works hard, he supports us, he comes home and wants just a little affection, and instead she attacks his feet, hisses, and rolls onto her back so when he tries to pet her belly she can turn into the feline equivalent of a bear trap. He maintains that it's like walking into a room and having your teenage daughter look up from her cell phone (that you pay for) and saying "Suck it, pops."
So I have done a Christmas tree out of lights on the wall, and hung ornaments on it, in the first stages of Christmas JOY. JedI came home early a few nights ago and found me with the lights on the wall (held up with masking tape so I could see how it would look) and the new Christmas bedding on the bed. Since he is firmly of the belief that Christmas season begins THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING, I was a little worried; but he sighed, and said with that husband-weary tone that means I am Not Actually In Trouble "I have realized you have absolutely no self control when it comes to Christmas." He did still ban Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving...but he can't stop me now!
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Trifecta Week 78, Arthurian Fashion: A Discussion (of Sorts)
We are
at our favorite restaurant. The
waitresses’ skirts are all at least two inches shorter than the aprons they
wear, which is one reason Arthur loves it.
“I think I’m in love,” he says, leering.
“Which
one? The one whose thighs meet at the
knee?”
“No,
the one with the tube socks pulled up.”
I
look. “She’s got a plastic flower in her
hair.”
Arthur
shrugs. “I’m a sucker for tube
socks.. Oh yeah, and remember that girl in my class? The one with the retainer?”
I
remember. He had shown up at my house a
week before, prancing. It’s a revolting
activity for anyone, but particularly nauseating when performed by a thirty
year old single man. “She has a retainer,
that’s almost as cool as braces,” he had reported gleefully between
prances. “I’m so going to make her date
me.”
“How’s
the romance of the Orthodontic World going?”
I say now, squeezing a lemon into my iced tea.
“Well,
I’m not asking her out after all because I found out she’s lactose intolerant.” He picks up his menu and studies it. “Do you think the steamed vegetables will
have cauliflower? I hate cauliflower.”
“You’re
seriously not asking her out because of that?”
“Of
course.”
“And you
accuse me of harboring phobias and quirks?”
“You
were the one who rejected a guy for leaving his participles dangling. God, you're pedantic.”
“”I’m
not dating a dangling-participler. And
before you even bring him up, we will not address the man with split infinitives.”
“I don’t
care if a girl communicates in grunts and obscene gestures, as long as she can eat
cheese with me.”
“Ah,
the romance of cheese.”
“In
fact I’d almost prefer that she exclusive uses obscene gestures, now that I
think about it.”
“I can’t
believe you’re so prejudiced you won’t go out with someone because she can’t
have dairy.”
“It’s important. Yes, even
more than retainers.”
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