I wasn't going to take time to post today

So this will be short.

Today on Twitter Brent Spiner (yes, that one) let loose this piece of mild snark:

BrentSpiner
RT @renee29404 @Anopsis I believe in taking care of our own before taking care of another country--Then here you go. FeedingAmerica.org

It's something I've always wondered about. How many people who spout on about taking care of our own first actually make an effort to help our own themselves? And I have to say, most of the people I've met who say such things are averse to "Big Government" of any sort anyway. They seem to say, as a unit, that churches and charities should be the ones to take care of those who are wanting. Well, you know, the churches and charities simply don't have enough money. Because not many put their money where their mouths are. And I would put $1000 down that none of these people were forced to live on assistance like I was as a child. Food stamps. Government cheese. My mother bringing leftover school lunches home at the end of the day because they would be thrown out, and we could eat on them for a week.

So you know what? Put up or shut up. It costs $5 at the grocery store to buy a box of food for those in need. And it's good karma.

And to those of you who take issue with it all I want to extend my gratitude for your tax dollars that fed me as a child. Thank you.

Have a good Thanksgiving.

I need to vent

This post is going to be full of anger and disgust, so if you wish not to read such things, move along.

Over the past week I have been alerted to four separate instances of Motherhood Most Foul. Some are far worse than others. My issue is that I simply don't understand how a person can give birth to someone and then turn her back on them. Or worse.

A very good friend of mine has come to the realization that she is not welcome any longer in her family. Her mother and brother, who are all she has left, have made that quite clear. Assumptions were made about her character, and rather than going to her for the straight dope on the situation they simply cut her off. She's putting on a brave face, and handling everything with her usual (and famous) brand of sarcasm and wit, but I can't even imagine how deeply this hurts. How do you go through life knowing that a choice was made between two children and you were the short straw? I simply don't know. Along those lines-

My father's niece who is in her 60s (my parents had me rather late) had four daughters. The oldest daughter was belittled from the time she was tiny. They told her she was fat. They told her she was stupid. They called her names. You know what? She believed them and reacted accordingly. She became the family fuck-up. Self fulfilling prophecies and all that. She got knocked up while unwed, and even though she and the father have been together for 2 decades and eventually married and had another child, the family pointed to that as proof that she was No Good. She's been a waitress her entire adult life. A damn good one. Her mother and three sisters prefer to pretend she doesn't exist. At one point they even tried to take her kids away from her for not providing a "good enough life." Both of her children are smart and her oldest, a boy, works hard for what he wants. So, my cousin, who is a couple of years older than me, was told recently that she might have breast cancer and would need a biopsy. She asked her mother to take her and was informed that she would drop her off but she would have to "find her own way home."

How do you do that? How do you let your own daughter go into the most terrifying day of her life without offering comfort when she leaves that office? To say I'm seeing red is an understatement. My cousin is the only one of the four girls who looks even remotely like me, and even though she did some fairly bad things in her younger years, I'm partial to her. The rest of the girls, entitled blonde princesses who look down their noses at everything, can suck it. I don't even acknowledge them as relations most of the time.

I want to beat my father's niece within an inch of her life. And then leave her in an alley downtown so that Bad Things can happen to her.

Bitch.

(I fear no repercussions for telling this story, because they will never read it. As far as they're concerned, I don't exist either. Besides, I haven't said a single thing that isn't true).


I'm not going to go into the details of the two episodes I heard about on the local news this week. I can say that the first episode involves the prosecutors seeking the death penalty against the mother, and the second episode should.

I am, as I said previously, not the best mother on the planet. Hell, I'm not even fond of babies. Kids? Yes. Babies? Not so much. But even when I dislike my children for how they're behaving, the love I have is deep and terrible. I say terrible specifically, because if anything ever happens to them, woe to the person who caused them harm. I'm talking massive amounts of woe. Nothing mild about it. I own a replica Narsil (it's a sword, hush), and I mentioned to Rich that if anyone comes in after the kids or us they will find it used on them. He told me I couldn't swing it because it's too heavy, and besides, it isn't sharp. I told him that I've actually practiced swinging it and can even lift it above my head. Then I told him, "I wouldn't swing it anyway. I'd hold the hilt at my hip tightly and ram them with it." He said I could probably get two good hits in that way, and I told him, "Oh no. I'd impale them on the dull blade, which will hurt like hell, and then I will yank the blade to the side to unbalance them. When they fall, I'll kick their head in. Over and over and over."

And then I laughed. And Rich was slightly frightened.

Do NOT fuck with my kids.

Drive By Blog Post

Quickly-

Our friend with the farm, because she's the most freaking resourceful chick on the planet, has already moved her husband and herself and what little they have left into a rental a half mile from the farm. Thanks to everyone who was concerned about her.

We've moved about 12 boxes and some sundry other things into the new house already, and the fun continues today and the rest of the week.

I am incapable of packing one of those big Home Depot moving boxes to weigh less than 75 pounds.

We were going to decorate the kids' bathroom in Finding Nemo to make Livvie more inclined to potty training, but due to the fact that she's a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse addict, I'm going that route instead. And that will be her Christmas. A bit early.

Jonas took his first nap in the new house yesterday. On the floor. Woke up with carpet marks on his face.

The "convenience" store just up the road from us has a small grill with hot dogs and sammiches and stuff, so when I drove up there yesterday to see if I could grab us some food and discovered the grill closed up I asked about it. I was informed, "Yeah, sometimes he opens it. Sometimes he don't. Depends on how he feels. If he opens it it's usually around 10." I'm starting to like the neighborhood. A lot.

The dog gets a bath this morning so as not to take her current level of stink to the new house. Wish me luck.

I am tired.

Can I get you anything?

As I sat and read the Harry Potter series, from at least Chamber of Secrets on, I wanted to be only one character.

I wanted to be Molly Weasley.

Oh hell NOES about the seven kids. I did, though, want her ability to provide for those she loves. Why am I bringing this up now, when the series is over, the next movie installment isn't released yet, and I've never even mentioned the Potterverse in this blog except to essentially say, "Got my hands on Deathly Hallows. Be back later. Go away?"

We're closing on a house today with four bedrooms.

Molly Weasley is kind and loving and nurturing and fierce... and Molly Weasley feeds and shelters. I didn't grow up in the kind of house where if someone walked in the door food was slapped down in front of them, and they were ordered to eat. I developed that mentality sometime in my mid-20s. I couldn't even tell you why it started, but at some point I started shoving food at people, at least with plenty of advance notice most of the time, and if I lived somewhere with a spare room I urged people to stay. If there was no spare room my sofa was always available. Quick stopover on your way up the East Coast? Here's my sofa. Really frigging drunk and lack of motor skills means you can't get home? Dumbass, you drove. But here's my sofa. Oh, and in the morning there will be coffee. Now hush. Here's a blanket and a pillow. Don't mind the cat on your head.

Our intent in purchasing this particular house with four bedrooms was to have a room for each kid, one for ourselves, and an office for Rich to work from home. When I opened the door to the master bedroom to have a look I discovered that you first enter a sitting room that is partially walled from the rest of the room. The sitting room is almost as large as our current bedroom. This suite (oh how ritzy*) is on one end of a 76 foot long house and the other three rooms are alllll the way at the other end. When Rich got a look at it he realized he could put his office right in there, and we could, oh my goodness, have a guest room. When the reality of having a spare bedroom with actual bedroom furniture in it dawned on me I simply went berserk. Almost anyone who mentioned the house to me got hit with an invitation. Or three. I think my poor friend in Seattle has been bugged even more than three times. Even local folks got invitations. Just in case episodes of really frigging drunk lack of motor skills arise.

As I scrolled through Craigslist searching for the cheap recliner for rocking Jonas that I mentioned in the previous entry, my eyes kept leaping to the listings for larger tables with seating for many. I'm particularly drawn to the simple wooden tables with plain chairs. Gigantic ones. Last night I saw one with seating for up to 10 people, and the fantasies began. Holiday dinners. Eventual friends of the kids eating breakfast after slumber parties. Gatherings for no other reason than to eat good food and relax in the kitchen. Molly Weasley's kitchen in her home, The Burrow, is a mismatched cluttered nightmare for someone with OCD. Whenever I see it in the films, though, it warms my cockles. Yes. I have cockles. No, there's no cream for that.

Last night while Rich and I were outside I said to him, "Can I go all lame and name our new doublewide?" and he said, "No. And if you do, I don't want to know about it." I said, "So I can't get someone to use one of those wood burning pens to make a small wooden sign with the house's name and hang it from the mailbox?" and he said, "Um, no."

Bummer dude.

In five and a half hours we will be handed the keys to The Burrow. It has an extra room, you know, just for future reference. If I have my way, fairly soon it'll also have a table large enough to feed an entire army. Of course, there won't be any other furniture for seating because we won't be able to afford it. Over my whole life, though, everyone always ended up in the kitchen anyway.

Stop on over. Sit down. Here's some pie. Bring your dog.

The more the merrier.


*It's a doublewide mobile home, folks. But it's the nicest house I'll have ever lived in in my life so far.

Primitive Screwheads

prim·i·tive (prm-tv)
adj.
1. Not derived from something else; primary or basic.
2.
a. Of or relating to an earliest or original stage or state; primeval.
b. Being little evolved from an early ancestral type.
3. Characterized by simplicity or crudity; unsophisticated: primitive weapons...

Yada.

I'm not really up on the latest trends. It's not even something that bothers me. Usually.

I have a bread kneading bowl that was carved from a block of wood. It used to belong to someone very special to me, and using it while I pound dough and manipulate it into loaves makes me feel a connection. Mine looks a bit like this one. -----> Coyote mentioned recently that she wanted to start making bread, and as her birthday was fast approaching I figured I'd find a dough bowl for her on eBay. I didn't expect them to be super cheap or anything, but I wasn't expecting what greeted me when I clicked Search: "Wooden Dough Bowl PRIMITIVE!" "Primitive Dough Bowl" and my perennial favorite in such searches, "Wooden Dough Bowl PRIMITIVE! L@@K!!!!!" I clicked on several of them despite my better judgment, and I was, well, horrified. They were insanely expensive. And most of them were useless. Cracks, warping, suspicious discoloration, entire chunks missing. Almost none of them could be used to actually make bread. When I began reading the descriptions I realized that people are using these as knick-knacks in their homes.

Two hundred dollars for a broken piece of wood in order to satisfy a "theme."

I thought about the people, most likely women, who had been the original owners of these bowls, and I could see the eye rolling and behind-the-hand snickering over this obvious sign of mental unbalance in our society. I pictured them thinking, "Oh hell (if they were cussers), you want primitive? I gotcher primitive right here," as they started piling on lapfuls of non-hinged clothespins, wedding ring quilts, hooked rugs, and gingham.

Because you know what I discovered? "Primitive" is the new chi-chi word city people are using for, "Country."

Ok, I'm going to put aside my distaste for that idea in general and how much it gets under my skin. I am, however, going to mention my amusement over yet another scenario that took place in my head.

"Oh! Your place looks so nice! I love country!"

"What? NO! No no no. This is PRIMITIVE."

People will buy anything if you market it to them correctly.

As an illustration, here is a "primitive" cabinet someone was hawking on Craigslist while I was attempting to find an inexpensive recliner. Doesn't it look like they got it at Target? They made sure to mention that the door is an "antique shutter."

I facepalmed.

According to a Craigslist search pie safes are now primitive. So is an old, wooden student desk with an inkwell like my mom used when she was a kid. Outhouses? You betcha. Especially if they have stars on them.

These people would have a heyday in my grandmother's basement. But my grandmother would slap me upside the head if I took advantage of these people. Seriously, from beyond the grave she would let me have it.

Too bad my last name isn't "Barnum."

Flags of Our Fathers

I love photo editing software. While I love you all to bits, it's really none of your business why my father was discharged from the Army. All you need to know is what it says at the top of the form. "Honorable."

My dad didn't go to Korea. He was stationed in a tech environment once he completed Basic. His assignment was as a photolithographer. This involved engraving patterns on circuit boards. My dad started out his adulthood as a computer geek of a sort. It's too bad he couldn't stick with it once he was discharged. However, if he had he wouldn't have ended up at Campbell's Soup where he met my mother and I wouldn't be here.

My dad was the only person I have ever met who loved Army food. He spoke of it fondly many times. Two of his favorite meals when I was a child were Spam and eggs and SOS. SOS is more commonly known as Creamed Chipped Beef. I still eat it. When I was small we had to buy dried beef in a little jar and make it from scratch, and my dad would go gaga these days over the fact that Stouffer's sells it frozen.

My dad eventually ended up working for the police department in the next town over as a dispatcher. Back then 911 didn't exist, and each department had folks on the force whose job was to answer the phone and direct the officers in the field. They were required to wear the standard uniform of the department, and if I shut my eyes I can see my father, having come home on a dinner break, standing in the dining room with his shiny black leather shoes that squeaked. I can see his belt holding his holstered revolver and his pair of cuffs. I have the cuffs right here. He had used an etcher to imprint his name on them, and one of the Es in Summerell is printed backwards. I have no idea if he had done that on purpose. I never got the chance to ask him.

On the day of his viewing I walked into the funeral parlor with my mother, and I saw two uniformed men, one on either side of his casket. I asked my mom why they were there and she told me my father had a 24 hour honor guard. I asked her why, and she told me it was because he was loved and respected. I was so proud of him. In a small way having those men there through the night made me feel better, because I didn't want him to be there all alone.

No one had given me a single heads up prior to the actual funeral, and I was surprised again the next day when I discovered his casket draped with the Flag. Again I questioned my mother, and she told me that he was being given a military funeral because he had been discharged honorably, and having served his country in whatever capacity he deserved one.

I was ok until the riflemen started firing their volleys as a salute. When I heard those guns crack through the air the tears started. To this day I cannot stand the sound of a rifle shot. On one New Year's Eve I spent the night at a friend's house, and her dad was a hunter. At midnight he took his rifle outside and fired it a few times. With each shot my heart hit my sternum and I had to go inside and sob in the bathroom.

When my dad's funeral ended they folded his flag and walked over to my grandmother. The soldier holding the flag said to her, "As a representative of the United States Army, it is my high privilege to present you this flag. Let it be a symbol of the grateful appreciation this nation feels for the distinguished service rendered to our country and our flag by your loved one." I stood there as straight as a pin. The tears had stopped, and by this point I was numb. My grandmother then did what might have been the kindest and most thoughtful thing she had ever done in her life. She turned to me and handed me the flag. She said, "This should be yours."

And it is. I clutched that flag to my chest as tightly as I could. I placed it in a cedar chest when we got home, and it stayed there until I moved out of the house. My mother bought me a display box for it to keep it safe. When I have room to display it I do. Otherwise it is stored carefully in a closet. I pulled it from the closet the other day to pack it for our move, and I already know exactly where I'm putting it once we get there.

The kids will have to fight over who gets it someday. I refuse to make that determination. Maybe they can share custody.

Happy Veterans Day, everyone.

I know you don't actually know me from Adam

At least many of you don't.

But I'm going to ask you to place your trust in me just the same.

My friend Coyote was roommates in college with this absolutely fabulous chick. I met her when she came back to the East Coast and worked with us for awhile. This woman has had more than her fair share of shit in her life. The details of the shit are unimportant for this tale, and I wouldn't provide them anyway as I do not have her permission to do so. What I can tell you is that she plugs through all of the heartache and roadblocks with tenacity that I have found totally inspiring. She's funny and strong and smart and resourceful and beautiful and all of those things that make insecure women envious.

After she had been back here for a few years she decided to pursue her dream. Many of us have dreams. I sure do. She went for it. She did everything necessary to buy herself a farm. I'm not talking about some pansy-ass "gentleman's farm" either. She bought herself a working farm and got to work. Because it would take awhile for this farm to actually provide her and her husband with a living she also worked actual jobs. She busted her ass on the farm every day and then dragged it to work to bring home a paycheck. On the weekends she would hit a local farmers market and sell fresh eggs and vegetables. She was the first person I had ever seen with the ingenious idea of selling a "subscription" service to folks to have local produce in season delivered to their homes.

Did I mention she's wicked smart?

On Sunday morning while she slept the wiring under the house apparently sparked for some reason. The smoke alarm did its job and she escaped. Most of her pets made it out safely. Not all of them did.

Everything is gone.

Her husband had joined the reserves and is currently overseas, but they're sending him home. In the meantime she's staying with his folks about 3 hours away. That is one hell of a commute every day to make sure the farm keeps going. But she'll do it.

Now here's where I ask for your trust. Thankfully they had insurance, which will cover replacement of the house and the larger items in it. I'm not going to toss a Paypal donation button up on my sidebar unless enough of you ask me to. I don't know that she'd accept the funds anyway. What I am going to ask for is gas cards. The cost of fuel to drive back and forth is going to be absolutely insane. If any of you have even a few dollars to send me prepaid cards to some of the big stations, Texaco, Shell, yes, even Exxon, shoot me an email and I will send you my address so we can get these to her. I'll get them to Coyote and she can pass them along.

I'm asking for a rally, folks. The small farmer is a dying breed, and I for one want this one to make it.

EDIT: Wild Onion Farms