creamy baked mashed potatoes

we're not big fans of "plain." everything from our pancakes to our mashed potatoes general has some kind of fixer to enhance flavors or to dress up the mundane. i'm the first to admit that sometimes some combinations don't work out, but here is a combo that we love love love. in fact, we don't serve our thanksgiving potatoes any other way.

Creamy Baked Mashed Potatoes
yields about 8 servings

4 cups hot mashed potatoes
1 envelope knorr or lipton dry vegetable soup mix
3/4 and 1/4 cup shredded cheddar or swiss cheese
1 egg, slightly beaten

1) preheat oven to 375*.
2) in lightly greased 1-1/2 or 2 quart casserole dish, combine all but 1/4 cup cheese.
3) bake, uncovered for 40 minutes. top with remaining cheese and return to oven to bake for 5 minutes or until cheese melts.

*NOTES* this recipe doubles easily, but does not freeze well. you could add cooked crumbled sausage or chopped ham to this. we sprinkle french fried onions on with the last bit of cheese as well. this recipe works as well with both mashed real potatoes and instant potatoes. it makes a great breakfast, if you're into hearty potato breakfasts, that is. enjoy.

the birthday girl

it is december first. it's a special day in our house. you see, we have a dog. and when we found our trixie, she had been shuffled from one shelter to another. they say she was about 18 months old when we got her, but there was no way to know for sure when she was born. so we arbitrarily chose december first for her birthday bash.

today i got a little silly and baked her a cake. not a people-cake. a dog-cake. of course i googled. i found several sites touting recipes for dog cakes, that were, um, people cakes without sugar. "there's no way my pupperoo can eat that garbage; it'll make her sick," thought i. so, i kept searching.

i found one. yay!! i followed the recipe, sort of. the prep instructions were pretty vague, but i managed to get it mixed. and although the batter had the consistency of puke, and smelled a lot like puke with butter in it, i think she'll love her little cake. after baking it, i decided the recipe needed a little modification...for example ½ cup each butter and oil was far too much. so here is an updated version. if you have reason to celebrate with your dogger, feel free to rip off this recipe i found somewhere and revised. and i'm pretty sure you can sub-in cat stuff for felines. not sure.

1 cup dog food, processed into powder
½ cup flour
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
¼ cup softened butter
¼ cup oil
4 eggs, slightly beaten, room temp
2.5 oz jar of meat baby food (any flavor)
4 bacon treats, chopped into smaller squares

1) combine first four dry ingredients.
2) beat butter until creamy and add oil, eggs, and baby food. add dry ingredients and mix until combined and barfy-looking.
3) pour into greased 9x5 loaf pan and lightly press bacon treats into batter. (make sure they sink under or they will burn.) bake for 35-45 minutes at 350*. cool on wire rack.
4) frost (if desired...we didn't go that far) with plain yogurt or cottage cheese.

*NOTE: do not let your dog eat the whole cake at once. refrigerate leftovers, with or without frosting. you can make these into cupcakes, but remove paper cups completely before serving; dogg-o will likely snarf down the paper and not know it. you can add carob chips as a "chocolate-chip" addition.

and i baked a spice cake so us peoples can celebrate with her.

happy birthday to my trixie-loo!

the unexpected holiday

it began in july. about a week after our return from a much-needed trip to phoenix, my mother called to tell us that "the fam" is having a reunion in the mini-apple over thanksgiving. the fam i haven't seen in over a decade. to which i replied..."you realize that thanksgiving is on my monday, right? and that i have absolutely NO seniority at work, right?" we decided to see what we could see. turns out seniority really has no bearing on leave. it's first come, first serve. and no leave was being approved for after 15 october, due to the end of the fiscal year...on 15 october.

i priced airline tix. i priced hotels. i priced a minivan. we were looking at almost $5K for a 5-day trip. that was more than twice the price of our 16-day phoenix jaunt. no way. there was no way we could afford this trip. but, come october 15, i had that leave form turned in. first in line for the week of thanksgiving. and promptly forgot all about it.

in the past 14 days, ticket prices, hotel prices and even rental car prices dropped like a rock. we prolly could have afforded the trip now, had we not run into numerous unexpected medical expenses and some new car parts. oh well.

i have been sick off & on for the past five weeks. my supervisor mentioned my week of leave and asked if i realized that it had been approved. i generously scratched my name off every day - except thanksgiving. there was no point in taking off a full week when we weren't going on the trip. i got sicker. and sicker. and landed in the hospital the day we were to take off. seems i hadn't been sick off & on. i was just flat-out sick the whole time. my white blood cell count was off the hook, i needed IV meds and bedrest. wanna guess how long? five days....right through thanksgiving day.

i had to cancel my participation in parent-teacher conferences, a class party and a field trip, along with being out of work for three work days. bed rest is a hard concept for a mom of four to wrap her head around. but apparently i have been sick enough to actually get in the bed every few hours. i really needed it. i even broke thanksgiving prep into two days, baking ahead a lot of things so i can tend to the turkey and last minute details, as well as putting up the christmas tree. i can't believe it all got done.

on our menu for today is pumpkin cream cheese coffeecake for breakfast, a roasted 14-pound turkey with homemade sage stuffing, creamy baked mashed potatoes, broccoli & cauliflower in cheese sauce, green bean casserole, pumpkin-sage cloverleaf rolls, (2) pumpkin pies and pear crumble pie. the pre-lit tree is up and ready for decor, while the turkey roasts. and this year i feel i have so much to be thankful for, after my week of recovery.

i am thankful for my husband, my rock, who forced me to get back into bed, and played the part of my minion bringing me tea, medicine, extra blankies and foot rubs, among all else this past week. our housemate, brent, for picking up kids, comforting them when they were scared for me, and buying pizza friday night so i could bury my head in my pillow and ignore the world for the pain in my head. my four fabulous kids who feel like the world is going to end if mommy doesn't make them lunch, but will accept a substitute dad and brent in a pinch. my friends who have called, texted, and emailed to check up on me - especially the ones who stepped up and re-arranged their schedules to take my place at school events this week. it's nice to know that i'm missed. and my trixie-dog, for putting her chin on my bed and waiting patiently for her scratch while i slept.

there's nothing like being sick-sick to help one realize the joy of normalcy. i'll be back in the swing on friday. i've missed you all, too.

Confection in the box

{{names have been ever-so slightly changed. but if you work with me, you'll know who they are.}}

muffled snickers.

i can tell that the sound i hear is of several people covering choked laughs behind cupped hands, faces turned slightly away.

a smile plays at the corner of my mouth in anticipation of being let in on the joke as i step through the gate. a brief moment of cold fear slices through me in hopes that i am not the joke. my hands automatically check zipper and buttons to make sure nothing is presenting itself that should not. uniform is intact. i casually walk through the checkpoint to the time clock and swipe my card through the slot, waiting for the green blink and small chirp letting me know that i am officially here. the time is 0342 on a saturday.

i turn around to face my workplace, to greet my friends and survey the passengers already crowding the first lane.

oh.

my.

god.

whatinhell is in the box with maxine?

my eyes, unbidden, follow the flesh in form from ultra-processed-drying-bad-dye-job crown to flat-footed-brown-running-socks-over-fishnet toes.

my jaw drops in disbelief. snickers turn to outright guffaws. from other passengers.

s/he presents him/herself as a she. which explains maxine in the box. but it does not explain whatinhell is in the box with her. by now i have control of my facial features. a few of the men nearby are gagging. i have officially dubbed her "Confection." all i hafta say is that s/he really needs to hang on to that day job. the get-up for her night job is not cutting it.

turning and walking from the right to the backside, which is all i care to see of this particular Confection, her hair falls limply to her shoulders, covering far more flesh than the actual stitches of clothing cinched about her ample form. the blood-red corset oozes breasts like a mottled, pus-filled wound, her skin sporting a jagged almost digitized pattern of freckles. or age spots. or, maybe body paint - attempting leopard spots?? down under, rolls of chub squirm from their holding pen as she twists and holds her arms up. the hand held metal detector screams around the metal support frame of the corset. the gauzy, filmy, filthy swatch of black lace dangles from the edges of the corset in a sad attempt to become some kind of skirt. it fails miserably. as the hand held metal detector follows the fishnets down to the grubby brown stained running socks, i overhear a snippet of conversation from over the top of the glass enclosure.

"...just got off work from my part time job and had to come right here to catch this plane..."

no. really? one of her thigh high go-go boots falls haphazardly from the x-ray belt and sighs in a heap on the floor. "...and what exactly is a private screening?" asks the Confection timidly, as maxine and a supervisor, donna, lead her out of the public eye to resolve a particularly difficult alarm.

as she crosses my path, i can clearly see nip as her girls struggle to free themselves from the iron grip of the corset. eyeliner painted on thick and exaggerated, lipliner accentuating a not-quite-feminine mouth, glistening under glitter and gloss. with every flat-footed step, her breasts jiggle dangerously close to spilling out completely. maxine's face is cold and solemn as stone. donna is a half-step behind the Confection, eyes rolling and head shaking. behind the trio wafts a smell. not a scent of perfume, or lotion, or body spray. not a trace of sweat or body heat. it is a smell. it fills the nose and leaves no doubt behind as to whatinhell that stank could be. it reeks of wet garbage, armpit, and putrefaction reminiscent of, well, someone who has just left their part time night job.

woof.

and my day hasn't even started yet.

chocolate hazelnut truffles

it was a day.

we, in general and out of character today, received many compliments from passengers on how organized we were; i got a few for being courteous. yay us. i am focusing on those ever-so-brief and never documented bright spots to end my workday. and then there's the Big Blemish of the morning, trying to tarnish it all.

when someone gets angry with me for their failings, i am supposed to take it. i am actually trained to take a step back and empathize with the person who is angry with me and calling my intelligence into question. i am supposed to think about the day they are having, and suppose that they have a great deal of stress on their minds, which is causing them to act in an unfriendly manner. regardless of the comments raining upon my head, i must be nice. whether my day is going well or not is never an issue. no matter how many passengers tell me that *I* am personally ridiculous for creating the standards of the airline industry, no matter how low my blood sugar dips while waiting for the line to lessen to go on a much-needed break, no matter how many people accuse me of stealing their belongings (that they have voluntarily surrendered to me, have either checked at the ticket counter or left at home), a tight smile graces my lips and the words, "have a nice flight" tumble from my mouth, unbidden at times.

i received compliments from both a passenger in passing and a fellow officer, one that i have watched to emulate dealing with difficult passengers. they both said i did a good job keeping a cool head with the angry "Cruise Couple," who were, of course, late for their flight. funny. i was seething and seeing red. it didn't feel like i kept a cool head at all. but i guess on the exterior i simply went cold as stone and maintained an icy bearing that got me through without managing to bite the passengers or bite off any of the comments running through my head. because there were some doozies in there.

the line was long. it generally is, late-morning. a lady was getting the standard patdown required for processing for additional screening. i got the attention of my fellow officer and told her to send the passenger to me so i could get started with the additional testing of her luggage. the woman dropped into a chair with an annoyed sigh, then rolled her eyes and flung her hands into the air when told she didn't have to sit down. i asked her to identify her property without touching it and she promptly began touching her bags and trying to lift them. i reminded her that she should not touch her belongings before i finished screening them. i again asked which items were hers. she gestured vaguely at the x-ray and stated, "all of them." i was looking at three bins, containing several sweaters and small bags and two pairs of shoes and two suitcases. i again asked her to clarify which items were hers. she answered me the same way, touching all of the bins and pointing to a suitcase half out of the x-ray saying, "mine mine mine mine, all these are mine." i reminded her a third time to not touch her belongings until they were cleared by me.

another officer picked up the second suitcase and asked, "is this one yours as well?" at which point she snarled, "no. i said all these were mine!" i stopped what i was doing and asked if she was traveling with anyone else. she flung her hand in the direction of a man behind her and said, "YES! my HUSBAND." as if he were wearing a sign.

i hmmm'd and felt my lips pressing into my annoyed face. "with all these items and extra shoes, can you see why i asked you to be more specific? i wanted to make sure that i retrieved the correct belongings. do i have everything yet? thank you, please follow me."

Hubs joined Wifey. i began the standard examination and testing of the passenger luggage and assorted belongings. behind me, Hubs reached around me and tried to grab his shoes. i reminded the couple, since Hubs hadn't heard the prior three warnings, "please do not touch your belongings until i have finished screening them. i will have to send them back through the x-ray again if you touch them again." as the machine cleared Wifey's shoes, i handed them back to her.

"that wasn't screening?" she asked. i was confused. "that wasn't screening, what we just did through the x-ray? if that wasn't screening then why bother? when can i have my shoes back?"

"ma'am," i tempered, "your airline selected you for additional screening. x-raying your property is the first step of that process. getting a patdown is the second." i answered several other snide questions one from the left, one from the right for the next five minutes. "they printed a code on your ticket to let us know." "they don't tell us why they select their customers; although there is a short list of reasons we have come to understand, but nothing official is communicated to us." "i have a set of procedures i must follow to inform you airline that you have been carefully screened before boarding your aircraft." "if you wish to ask your airline about their selection process, i suggest you seek out an airline representative." "yes, that might entail going back to the ticket counter. you might have an 800 number on your ticket. i'm not sure." "i have not charged you any fees today, ma'am. i do not work for any airline."

in between sniping at me and sarcastically asking if they could have each and every item that i finished screening, i discovered that they quite literally missed the boat at the port of baltimore. Wifey had "had a bad feeling about all this" that they should have listenend to earlier. (whatever that meant.) they booked the first flight to their cruise line's next port destination to see if they could board there. the flight they booked at the ticket counter was scheduled to depart in less than 20 minutes. Wifey had to pee. they had been charged a large amount of money for heavy bags that they never intended to check on an airplane. i imagine they were pretty stressed out.

if it weren't for all the hurtful remarks and general ass-holish-ness, i might have felt sorry for them. what an awful way to start a vacation. and then she said it.

"you are going to make us miss our flight. we already missed our cruise and you are delaying us."

i stopped what i was doing. i looked at the grey wall in front of me and blinked slowly, once. i inhaled the warm, stale, recirculated air of our checkpoint. i plastered on the fakest barbie smile i could muster. i raised my voice slightly so that other officers could hear me, and maybe flag down another to assist me or get a supervisor.

"i have not delayed you in the slightest. would you like me to fetch you a supervisor? i would be more than happy to stop what i am doing right now and have someone else assist you. of course, they would have to start all over. i am working on your belongings no slower, no faster than anyone else. i genuinely want to get you to the gate for the flight that you are late for. i've been here since 0345. i'm not late. i can be more thorough for you, if that is what you really want me to do. if you want to make that flight, please step back and let me finish my job."

at which point, Hubs says, "will you just shut up?? let her finish so we can make this flight. you're always so negative!!!"

my hands shook in anger. i controlled my breathing. i finished up their belongings. i glanced at my watch. less than 7 minutes from start to finish. i placed the last suitcase on the floor, flipped the handle up out of habit and turned my back on them, biting out, "i sincerely hope you make it to your flight on time." in sotto voce, i finished, "because i certainly won't be helping you make another one."

i earned my chocolates today.

medieval mud-fest

the day began wrapped in a cloak of warm fog. i rejoiced in the lightening sky all morning; the rain was clearing off and we would have a gorgeous day out in the no-doubt moist woodlands for the renaissance faire. just as i set off from work, the sky darkened again and abruptly opened the heavens upon us all. not to worry. we have rain slickers and wellingtons (boots to all you colonists) a-plenty. well, i opted for sandals, knowing that my feet would be wet. and it poured the whole journey to the festival grounds. good. get it all out of it’s system now!

we were greeted by costumed lords and ladies, advising us that the king of france delivered abundant gifts of mud, plenty for all to be had. and how. we tramped right through the muck, unlike the unprepared who tip-toed in their bright white (for now) street shoes along the very edge of edges of the shops. we pointed and laughed. we took in the shows, laughing at the “hey nunnie-nunnie!” song about the constipated men in the bible and marveling at the jugglers and their knives, glinting in the afternoon cloud-shine. we ate chicken and steak and cheesecake on stakes. and no one poked their eyes out because we are well-behaved savages who eat sitting down. we suffered not one, not two, not three, but FOUR more torrential downpours that afternoon. after the first one, people began to leave in droves. BYE! good riddance, weenies! leaves more dry space for the rest of us! fortunately the temperatures were moderate enough that we were not cold. as far as rainy weekends go, we could not have asked for nicer weather.

we mucked about, spending far too much money on our fun, but not caring this time. how often do you get to wander around in the rain and mud, watching your imps love the fact that they are filthy and allowed to be so? lars enjoyed the mud far more than the rest of us, leaping into and out of puddles and bogs the whole day. he was mud up to mid-thigh. the girls all got henna tattoos, the boys got new sword/shield combos, all the kids got to take a ride on a pony, and we grownups had some quiet moments while the kids played in the wee bairns tot lot. at one point i just gave up and carried my sandals. really. what is the point of sandals in the mud? we ran into a few acquaintances from work and scouts, finished up the day with warm apple dumplings and cinna-buns and headed home into a clear sunset.

how ironic.

i have put up all the slide shows i have neglected to put together since june. you're welcome to view them all at http://katerooni.slide.com/

*some* swearing? not when it comes to money.

I’ve been away.

To save you the boring (and probably flawed) math equations, (I won’t pretend that I’m good at balancing our budget) I will simply say that we’ve been working our asses off. The raise and unexpected bonus on Tad’s side, and the increased hours on my side have merely done one thing: kept us from going completely underwater.

Our grocery bill has gone up – almost double – in one year. ONE YEAR. We spend one of my entire paychecks feeding our family every month. Fuel expenses for our cars and our home electricity and comfort have doubled in one year. ONE YEAR. My other entire paycheck every month pays for those. We lowered our thermostat to 65 degrees last winter to save money on heating expenses. We raised our thermostat to 83 degrees this summer to save money on a/c expenses. Did you just read that? Our bills went higher despite our discomfort.

We scrimped and saved for more than 2 years for a family vacation this past summer. We stayed within our budget, skipping dessert and canceling a few excursions when we spent more than we planned.

But do you know what we have not done? Defaulted on our loans. We have kept current. We haven’t eaten dinner “out” in a month. Unless you count fast food. I shopped online and found bargain basement prices for my kids’ birthday prezzies. We do without. We pay our bills and try to have fun with the pittance that is left over.

So please, somebody, please explain to me, Joanna Q. Public, why the fuck I should give a good goddamn if the rich have dropped the ball.

I’m waiting.



The private financial institutions that decided it would be a good idea to give out mortgages like cheap Christmas candy to any and all who could sign their own names, (regardless of whether or not they could prove they could actually pay for said mortgage) now need public government funding (provided by whom, children? me? a responsible account holder???) to balance their books. Fan-Fucking-Tastic.

Spread that government cheese this-a-way. I was in debt first.

You know what those companies would do if I couldn’t pay? They would take away my possessions and sell them to pay for my mortgage. My ass would be out on the street without even so much as a backward glance. I think there are more than a few fat fucks who need to be sold. Aerosmith really had it right when they said, “Eat the rich; there’s only one thing that they’re good for...” Take that $700 billion balance out of the paychecks of the boards of directors and move on. They screwed up, make them pay for it.

Our elected government officials are stepping back and asking for more information. I am floored. For the first time in a very long time, I applaud their actions. Go get that info, dudes. Ask those questions. Hang onto that caution; it’s pretty windy up there on Capitol Hill. “One key demand (being made by our lawmakers) is that Wall Street executives not be allowed to walk away from the mess with multimillion-dollar severance packages.” [ABC2news.com] Demand that those wall street execs get kicked to the curb with nothing but the shirts on their backs. Severance packages for failure? Kiss my dirty broke ass.

“The legislation the administration is promoting would allow the government to buy bad mortgages and other rotten assets held by troubled banks and financial institutions. Getting those debts off their books should bolster those companies' balance sheets, making them more inclined to lend and easing one of the biggest choke points in the credit crisis. If the plan works, it should help lift a major weight off the national economy that is already sputtering.” [Jeannine Aversa, AP Economics Writer]

Hold the mayo. So, the gub’mint is going to bail them out so they can lend more money? To whom???? I certainly can’t afford any more credit, especially since my taxes are going to go up to pay for all the slobs who didn’t pay for their homes in the first damn place. And dudes, it gets better.

“Sen. Jim Bunning, R-Ky., said, ‘This massive bailout is not a solution. It is financial socialism and it's un-American.’” [Ms. Aversa again] You’re damn right it’s un-American. Can you believe it? I’m siding with a Republican. Somebody take a picture.

“Paulson was asked repeatedly why taxpayers should accept the burdens of a bailout.

‘You worry about taxpayers being on the hook?’ he replied at one point. ‘Guess what — they're already on the hook.’ Paulson suggested that the fallout from the credit crisis would hit almost everyone in the pocketbook unless forceful action was taken. Moreover, the flawed and outdated regulatory system, which didn't catch abuses, needs to be overhauled, he said.” [Ms. Aversa again]

So, wait a minute......I’m fucked either way.





I say let them sink. They would absolutely do the same for me.

nissan vs. mack

The bright orange construction cones have been up on our street for about twelve days. Crews began tearing out the gutters and sidewalks, then re-setting and re-pouring them within 48 hours. This is the fastest-moving construction project I think I've ever seen. I mean, lightning fast. I didn't even get a chance to tear out our crappy, old disintegrating steps (that are being torn down this weekend anyway) before they started to lay concrete forms. I had to call in the county inspector to ask them to pour the new sidewalk far enough away from our mess so that we didn't crack the brand new concrete while digging them out.

The flag-persons are stationed on either side of the project on our narrow-ish road, directing traffic into the one open lane. The backhoe and concrete trucks try to wait for a lull in the traffic before switching places, but it is a narrow street, with many one-way streets leading off of it. There's gonna be some stoppage at some point. Every resident got a message that the street would be under construction through August 15th. Last time I looked, it still wasn't the 15th yet. You'd think people would alter their routes, even slightly, to avoid the delays...nope. They just honk. Because they live here.

*beep-beeeep*

*beeeeep-beeeeeep*

The honking gets longer as the car gets closer to where the cement truck is maneuvering to pour the curb down my stretch of block. There is a newer machine available, originally invented to create the jersey barriers along highways, modified to pour square-edged curbs quickly without needing to lay concrete forms and cutting manpower hours and labor. Man is that thing fast. But not fast enough for some people. The backhoe is acting as a crane right now, the heavy concrete-and-metal sewer sidewalk block suspended from the backhoe's bucket by a strong chain. The crew is guiding the sewer cover into place on one corner as the curb-spreader is crawling around the other.

The tan Nissan stops momentarily in the street being blocked by the giant green Mack cement truck and beeps again. A plaintive bleat under the large grumbling machinery in its way. She beeps again. And again. She inches closer to the still moving truck. As if her pathetic little piece of shit is going to stop the massive several-ton monster. And she beeps again. Really, who the fuck does she think she is?? The concrete truck cannot pause, or the concrete will pile up and bunch out the back where it is being poured smoothly, like delicate grey frosting piped on a black wedding cake. Nissan lady moves forward again, beeps, then throws her car into park and opens the car door. Literally everyone (except the still-creeping Mack) stops and gapes at this woman. She walks towards the Mack truck gesticulating at her watch and the front of the truck, and back at her car. Like that's gonna do anything. She stomps back to her car, leans inside and beeps once more, pointing at the truck and making "move!!" arm-swings.

Mack beeped back. No, Mack laid on his horn authoritatively, still closing the distance between her little piece of nothing and his giant moving mountain.

She schmacked her head on the roof of her car in surprise, jumping about ten feet in the air and meekly returned to her seat, backing up a respectable distance, and finally waiting in silence. The whole exchange took three minutes. Another 30 seconds and the Mack cleared the corner, leaving that one lane open for traffic again. Before the Nissan had a change to step on the gas, two cars behind her and the Mack all honked simultaneously.

Just desserts.

useless

Our world is diverse. That is an understatement.

Our country combines slivers of our world, infusing richness from cultures, languages and cuisines that is not available in such quantities elsewhere. The "melting pot" phrase is crude, but we, America, meld these differences into our everyday lives, as we should. It is our position to accentuate, celebrate and integrate, teaching our children about our past and lineage while looking forward to a hate-free future. Smoothing the lines between our differences is the easiest way to begin.

I imagine that people who actively discriminate or commit hate crimes see nothing wrong with their position. I imagine they are just acting upon what they have been raised to see, the striking differences in people rather than focusing on the benefits that the blending of cultures provides. I imagine someone explaining to their young child that people with different colored skin are full of poison just as calmly as I explain to mine that the color of one's skin is much like the color of one's car: it's just there to cover and protect the important things on the inside. But who is really carrying the poison? It flows out in smooth insults and in the form of prayers, sullenness, glares, and wide berths as if diversity were contagious.

Differences make life less boring, less predictable, less like lemmings heading over a cliff. Different religious and political beliefs spark raging debates and even wars between countries; but why shouldn't we all be allowed to think? Why is one person supposedly always right and another person supposedly always wrong? Why do people think this way? Your latte is not better than mine; we have differing tastes, so you can have your french vanilla and I will keep my caramel. There's no reason to argue.

I guess it all culminates to this: the poison I have seen in the past few days has always been there, but because I am not looking for it, I just don't notice it. The color of skin, the political view, the religious talismans, I merely see them as part of someone's description, as in the red-haired lady with the star necklace or the dark-skinned dude in the green shirt. I see no other real distinctions. But those filled with hate do. And someone will just as easily tell me to my face that they do not trust me or think that my beliefs are bringing the entire nation to its knees.

I refuse to accept the poison in your veins. You cannot make me hate you. You can stand and pray for me all you want, while insulting my intelligence and my choices. They are my choices and I choose to see you as a sad sack of society, bundled up into your own importance and filled with, not the love you proclaim through your scripture, but pure, driven, venomous hate. What a proud thing to declare of your own beliefs. hate that drips from your sarcastic smile and the way you hold your head, arms folded defiantly across your chest. Hate that is shared by some of the very people you hate, because you both hate each other's skin.

I will not react to your hate, thus rendering you -and your whole sense of being-

USELESS.





dedicated to the high-and-mighty racist woman in the purple shirt, sunday, 7-27-08, at noon at BWI and the UU church gunman in TN the very same day.

vernacular bonbons

the phone rings insistently on the checkpoint and joan answers it with the standard greeting. a small, tense voice on the other end says, "uh, yeah, i'm um, stuck in the elevator."
thrown for a loop by the obviously nonstandard reply at 0415 in the morning, joan asnswers, "excuse me?"
"yeah, i'm in the elevator and it's not moving. i'm trying to come to work," says the phone. "this is terry."
the first thing on joan's mind is to find out if the employee is even in the airport at all, and to which elevator to send a rescue team. then basic troubleshooting took over, and she asked, "do any of the buttons work in the elevator? can you push the alarm button?"
"oh, yeah," says the voice. "i guess i forgot to push the button, huh?"



wait for it....








and i work with this person?????? how in god's ninety green hells does this person still have a job?? someone please put that oxygen-depleter out of our misery already!!!



and then just after break....
I♥
VB

that is what the teeshirt said. being on the exit lane, i couldn't exactly go and ask the passenger what VB was. i was mildly curious and repulsed at the same time, because it just sounds so dangerously close to "VD." and no one has to ask about that. so i grabbed a pen and began scribbling my thoughts VerBatim...

venitan blinds vatican bibles venerial bologna vexed bulls voratious bitches velvet bedsheets vegetarian bedwetters voluminous belches vericose buttcheeks veriagated blossoms vegan bovines verified beefsticks vernicious buffalo voluptuous bodices vaccinated bellybuttons vintage beer virginal babes velociraptor blood vandalized braziers vanity books varlets blasphemed vanquished bloodlines velveeta bricks venturesome broads vexing Bahri veiny broccoli... and at some point it dawned on me that it prolly meant Virginia Beach... but i was having too much fun to stop. i'm sure i can come up with more, but i'll stop where i left off when i was tapped. feel free to add on - no repeats of words already used, though.

weekly wrap

since my weeks are a little skewed from all others'.....a few words about this week...

the boys have sleeping troubles. the older one frequently sleep-walks to his little brother's bed and kicks the younger one out to sleep on the floor. sometimes one or both of them end up on the couch. one morning, boy the younger says, "i thought i felt something crawling on me last night and i whacked it with my hand and then i came upstairs to finish sleeping on the couch." i immediately threw the boy in the hot shower for a thorough scrubbing. see, that was also the same morning mister tad-the-dad discovered the dead body of our little mouse squatter on the floor of the laundry room, not far from where my boy-o sleeps. what a $500 12-month exterminator contract, a hunting dog, about 20 baited traps, 9 containers of poison, and umpteen glue traps cannot do, leave to Boy the Younger. my sleeping hero.

five quarts of baby formula. twenty-five 4-ounce jars of baby food. four 12-ounce bottles of chocolate ensure. one child under two en route to detroit. hello? in your carryon? if you don't want to check the bag, you have no other options. no, your child is not going to eat all of that food in two hours. no, it doesn't matter if it's sealed. no, i don't know where grocery stores are in detroit either, but i'm sure you'll manage; if you are so scared to leave your hotel in detroit, why in hell are you going there anyway? no, you can't take all of it with you. no. let's hear it once more. no. please continue arguing with me; i like this game.

try checking your kids bags (that they packed themselves) to make sure they aren't bringing things they shouldn't, like, oh, i don't know, huge bottles of lotion, gatorade, realistic replicas of weapons. no, really, that replica isn't actually the funniest thing i've seen in a while. your teeth come pretty close, though. yes i am serious when i say you can't take that on an airplane because other passengers would panic if they happened to see it in your possession. no i am not kidding. you should have stopped while you were ahead. do not ever swear profusely at an airport employee, nor stick your fat finger nor shake your fist in the face of said employee, especially if that airport employee is in a supervisory capacity. do not take pictures of your relatives being questioned for swearing profusely at an airport employee. you have no one to blame but your magnificently stupid self if you miss that flight. and, uh, good luck being allowed on the next one. if i was in charge, your ass'd be on the no-fly list.

when your child is throwing sand and hanging on every rope at the pool, and the lifeguards are blowing their whistles at your kid every 5 minutes, it might be a good idea to leave. no-no-no! i meant for your family to leave, not for you to wander off and go talk to someone and then realize your son is missing. yeah, the lifeguard whistle did get pretty quiet for a good long while. after you discover your kid is missing, it would also be a good idea to actually LEAVE THE FUCKING BEACH TO GO FIND HIM. and when strangers bring him back and tell you they found him in the men's room, ya might try looking or acting like you were worried...maybe a 'thank you' or a little grace or tact because you were totally in the wrong. oh, and yeah, go home now. WITH that kid. the one that is half-way to the volleyball pit, goddamn, woman, are you stoned? how the hell did you manage to reproduce with your mind like a steel sieve? how did you remember that tab A goes into slot B? sounds a little complex for you....

a man with fourteen toes. another way: dude has seven toes on each foot...an extra big "thumb-toe" and an extra pinky toe on each.

if you do not bring federal or state-issued photo identification with you to the airport, there is a chance that you could miss your flight. see, because i am charged with verifying your identity, grandma's vivid description of your birth into the world isn't cutting it for me, darlin. so then we fill out this form and make some calls to the state (hope they are open in your time zone) and then we wait for verification. i highly suggest investing some time in the department of motor vehicles, even if you don't drive. especially for the chain-smoking dude without any ID except for a casino (ummmm "frequent better"?) card. because every time you leave the secure side of the airport, you have to show some ID to get back in. even just to smoke a ciggy. you still don't have ID? guess what? we have to make some calls again. and yeah, we are just picking on you because it's fun. the highlight of my friggin day.

why do people abandon their elders in the airport? are they too lazy? can't be arsed to walk with them or push the wheelchair, exchange some conversation or just plain keep an eye on their aging kin? i can't count how many confused individuals come through every day simply because they can't hear or see me, don't really know what is going on or why they have to be able to take off their shoes. and really, i am truly sorry that i have to take away their belongings...maybe if they had some kin there to help out, it wouldn't be so difficult. is it that big of a waste of your life to sit with them for two hours? what if someone becomes ill, like my gentleman in line today? sweet old geezer. he knows it's monday; knows his name; can squeeze both of my hands equally strong; no slurring of speech; steady pulse; had a normal-sized breakfast for him; no history of medical problems related to diabetes, poor circulation, or heart trouble; and utterly alone in the airport. i talked with him for a while along with the police officers while waiting for the medics to arrive. i just can't believe how many grandparents (and astounding numbers of great-grandparents) are simply dumped at curbside check-in with a skycap, and left at the gate until their planes take off, sometimes for hours. heartless.

here ends the gossip of our goddess. (woooooweee. that was blasphemous weren't it?)

suicide bombers, gasoline, mosquites, mice and trees

my thoughts for today:

"Iraq Suicude Bombers Kill 28 Army Recruits" that has worked more than a half-dozen times now. ummm, hello? i have an idea to help out there. how about, "all recruits must pass through a metal detector and have a pat-down before milling about, to make sure one or more of you isn't toting a death-jacket." how about that guys? a little initiative here? not everyone standing in line to be an army recruit necessarily has the best interests of all recruits in mind? think like a terrorist for god's sake. or for allah's sake. that one is working..."kill them before they are trained to take up weapons against us." so prevent that!!! i hate having to do all the thinking here.....


mosquitos must die. all of them. insecticide to the Nth degree. do mosquitos actually have a purpose? dung beetles move poop around and help break down yucky things, as do flies, i suppose. worms fertilize soil with worm poops and aerating. bees fertilize trees and flowers and make honey and wax. ladybugs eat aphids. spiders eat ofther insects, like mosquitos. what the fuck are mosquitos for??? aside from biting both of my legs four times while i drag my friggin dog inside. DIE DIE DIE!!!!!


someone i know just got a new vehicle. he traded in his truck for a new SUV. what? i'm sorry. are you smoking crack? he is single, lives with his mother, has no real bills or responsibilites. and then he has the audacity to sit and complain about how much it costs to fill his tank. the second that statement came out of his mouth i shushed him. you. you are arrogant and think you have something to prove to the world, hence your SUV. in times when gasoline is not only expensive, but is in part driving up the prices of everything else, putting our nation into an economic slump, you make the decision to purchase a vehicle that depends upon more of that gasoline, and then choose to complain about how much it sets you back. it makes you feel tall and important to drive a big fancy car. you actually look like an ass. because what you are proclaiming to the world is this: "i have money to burn and you don't. so watch me burn my money in the most arrogant way possible, aside from actually setting fire to cash on the street corner." you have no right to complain. suck it up and drive...since you're stuck with your pretty guzzler now. good luck trading that thing in.


the other night, we locked a mouse in a closet. we lined the doorway with glue traps and peanut butter baited snap traps. around midnight i heard an awful shreik and i thought it must have tried to pull itself off a glue trap, hoping that it failed. in the morning, one of the glue traps was fuzzed. it got away. grrrrrrrrrrr. i should have gotten up and checked right away. i might have caught it limping down the hallway. but last night we caught a mouse!!!!! FINALLY. well, killed one anyway. looks like it ate some of the poison i've had out for months and passed out (thankfully) in the middle of the laundry room floor. now we clean like mad and see if more poop appears again, signaling more than one uninvited inhabitant. our mouse-man seems to think we have more than one, but then again, he claimed we didn't have any mousy evidence in the attic. i tend to disagree, since there are shits all over the place up there. whatever the case, these rodents are seriously smart. we have blocked holes and set out bait, snap traps, glue, elaborate tunnel traps, and everything is carefully avoided. i have been looking for some sort of indoor bomb to let off and then we move out for a few days, but those appear to be only for outside use. damn and blast. we have even been looking at a bleach-ammonia mix, but haven't yet, because we're afraid it will discolor our fabrics. off to clean.

it looks like a third of our ginormous tree came down in a storm this weekend. not the case. we felled it on purpose. i think our tree was planted before power lines. in which case, i seriously hate the basterd who put the power lines so close to our tree. on two sides, the branches cannot grow out from the trunk more than 10-15 feet. poor tree. the utility companies come out once every 3 years to trim, but they have been studiously ignoring one branch, which got so heavy it was pulling the line down. (it's not a power line; everyone except verizon claims it belongs to verizon.) we sawed that one off yesterday, and i noticed (just in time) that the branch has actually grown around the line. nice, guys. way to do your job. so there is a hunk of branch now hanging from the line - at least my tree won't take it down in a storm now, which has been my worry for some time. but we have 500-600 pounds of tree to clean up now. i need to hack up the smaller branches and tie them up for the recycle truck and then cut the larger branches into smaller chunks and let them dry for our fire pit. manual labor clears my head like nothing else. i swear i was a pioneer or something in a previous life. sometimes this sedentary bullshit just gets on my nerves, and sends a funk creeping through me.

after i'm done cleaning, i'll be outside. wearing lots of bugspray, putting out rat bait and attacking the dead tree parts with a hack saw and nippers (no extra drain on the power grid from me.) and thinking like a terrorist, no doubt.

summertime boys, or tucking in

a touch of floral underlies the coconut,
tang of sweat lies sticky upon it all.
dirty creases between fingers,
streaks of watermelon rivers,
wads of socks just fallen from the bed.
red bug-eaten welts, plastic ships
and paper airplanes,
belly hanging out of rumpled shirt.


my kisses fall upon you,
eyes closed, unknowing, while you sleep.
the deepest of sighs escapes
as i brush your twisted locks
and run my finger down the smoothest of cheeks
where the shadow of a man will grow
and hide the dimples that i gave you.


and when your little paws outstrip mine;
and when your smile winks above me;
and when we disagree because you have my
stubborn streak,


i will remember the little boy who mumbles,
“i love you, mama,”
and rolls over in his sleep.

i thought i'd try

...to educate the masses, that is. I can but try. Please pass this on; the general traveling public should know, whether they actually want to or not. Summer schedules are here and the longer the lines are, the more upset all the passengers get. Please educate yourselves. I'm so tired of explaining for the ever-present whining "why." If you don't like the rules, there's always Greyhound and Amtrack. You can catch the light rail to both stations downstairs, just outside customs in the international pier.

Nine bag checks in a row. IN. A. ROW. Nine. For the same exact reason. *whipsers "nine"*

And it wasn't even nine people in the same family, it was nine separate travelers, in a row. They all spoke perfect English, so there wasn't a language barrier. They could all ask and answer questions readily, so no hearing impairments or readily visible cognizance issues. So, someone please explain to me why we had the same conversation nine times in a row?

When I try something new for the first time or for the first time in a great long while, I ask a lot of questions. More than once, of more than one person. Call it "information gathering," if you will. It's all old news, really.

I have passengers on both sides of me grumbling louder and louder about the long wait in line. At bag check number seven, I lost it. I have to stop the x-ray machine every time a bag check is called. While all three of my bag checkers are engaged in checking bags four, five, and six, I can do nothing but wait for the next available pair of free hands. Because of the negligence of the passengers to inform themselves about their trip. Does that make the wait in line my fault? Hell no. I don't bring this shit to the airport because *ding ding ding* IT'S NOT ALLOWED!!! Give me a cookie, someone.

On 8-10-06, a plot was discovered involving liquid explosives disguised as sports drinks being brought aboard several aircraft simultaneously. As a result of that discovery, absolutely NO liquids, creams, gels, aerosols, or pastes were allowed in accessible passenger luggage aboard the aircraft. That ban was semi-lifted and these items were then restricted to one quart-size bag per person with containers marked 3.4 fluid ounces or smaller on 9-25-06. It doesn't matter if you just bought it and it is still sealed. It doesn't matter if you just bought it at Starbucks 30 yards away. It doesn't matter if you tell me there's only 2 squeezes left in the tube if it says 8.0 fl.oz on the side. I don't have a scale. And I don't know what is inside, either. No I will not sniff or taste it. You forgot you had it? It's been in that bag forever? Wow. Does "forever" keep your Diet Coke cold? Because the Diet Coke I'm holding is still cold, reminiscent of a cold soda recently plucked from a fridge. Huh. Weird, isn't it? No, you may not drink it here; you may not open an unknown liquid in my presence. Sure you can tell me it's a Diet Coke. You could tell me it's purple fairy piss for all I care. So could anyone else. Including a terrorist. I'm not taking that chance. Leave and drink or chuck it in the trash. The grumbling behind you is getting louder and I have another bag check.

Since 12-22-01, when Richard Reid packed the thick rubber soles of his hiking boots with the sticky clay-like explosive called PETN and led a fuse out the sole and through his shoelaces, all footwear has been required to be removed for x-ray inspection. That word is ALL. Bedroom slippers, bunny slippers, ballet slippers, dress shoes, tennis shoes, flip flops, sandals, high heels, flats, hiking boots, snow boots, cowboy boots...need I go on? That basically includes anything on your foot that is not a sock. You "can't" walk on the floor with other people's feet? Well, can you hover? Huh. Should have thought a little about that when you got dressed this morning. No, I don't have any socks for you. I bought my own, and actually chose to wear them. No I will not remove my boots and share my socks with you either. Shoes off. And yes, your funky shoes with electronic widg-e-ma-doos, light-ups, massagers, wheels, whistles, drinking flasks (yes, that is what I said), and other various unnecessary doodamajigs will be scrutinized longer than regular shoes. I will not hurry up simply because you don't like being barefoot in public. By making a big stink over your feet, you are making yourself look more suspicious. Is that what you want? Stick your shoes in the machine so people behind you can get moving too.

Since 9-11-01, no knives of any size or type have been allowed to pass through the security checkpoint. That word up there was NO. I am not amused by the sheepish grin and the statement, "I thought i'd try." Oh. Did you now? So you deliberately tried to circumvent security, did you? You do realize that is a crime, don't you? Kevin Brown thought he'd try to circumvent security too on 4-1-08. He only wanted to smuggle pipes and endcaps, BBs, unknown liquids, batteries and bomb-making literature onto an Air Jamaica flight from Miami. If he had succeeded, where would those passengers be today? Did you want to trade your boarding pass for a set of pretty bracelets? I can arrange that. I'm not kidding. Oh. Not so funny anymore? Yeah. Thought that would wipe that stupid grin off your mug. I really don't want to hear about your very first Boy Scout knife's long and involved history; so long and involved you claimed to not own a knife just a minute ago. Are you checking it at your ticket counter, Fed-Exing it to yourself or can I toss it into a locked bin and move on? Make up your mind, other people behind you are bitching about the wait.

*sigh* I sound like a broken record. I sound like a broken record. I sound like a broken record. I sound like...

ponderings

How many times have you heard someone say that they were late because their "alarm didn't go off" or their "car broke down" on the way to work? You might be able to blame the person if it happens every day and they don't fix the problem. And if they don't have the money to fix the problem, maybe they should just scrap the old machinery and get something new...which also costs money. But if the machinery malfunction only occurs every once in a great while, the delay is only a few minutes, and the job still gets done, is there a reason to get really angry with that person for running a few minutes behind?

Have you ever stood in a long line somewhere, let's say a fast food joint or ice cream stand, where the menu is plainly visible? We all have. While in line, patrons talk amongst themselves, mostly deciding what to order and getting their money out. When the customers in front of you finally make it up to the head of the line, they stop, scratch their heads in wonder and ask, "What do you have to eat here?" and proceed to have the entire menu read to them. Is that frustrating or what?

There is a sale going on at your favorite store. When the cashier goes to ring up the little old lady in front of you, there is a problem. The computer doesn't recognize the bar code, or the wrong item keeps popping up; something odd is tipping off the machine. The cashier explains that it isn't an equipment failure, but a manager needs to have a look and see what is going on. The little old lady is furious at being put out, yelling at the cashier that she has an appointment in five minutes and she has to leave now, just to give her her item so she can leave. But the machine has to resolve the price issue so that the lady can pay, or she'll have to leave the sale item behind. If the lady knew she had to leave at a certain time, why didn't she allow herself plenty of extra time to complete her shopping, just in case there was a long line or problem?

You know that kid who never listens, even when he asks a question and someone immediately answers it? Isn't it frustrating for someone to ask you a question and then continue about their lives doing what they want without listening to the answer? Especially when the answer to the question will determine what action they should take next? Um, yeah. Thanks for listening.

When you go to a circus or fun-fair, you usually buy tickets for each attraction. Or at least that used to be the way things went. When you get up to the head of the line you give your ticket to the guy in the funny hat to go inside the tent to see the fattest bearded lady in the world. You can't go inside without a ticket, or maybe a special hand stamp. Everyone in the line is doing the same thing. Until the dude in front of you reaches the front. He throws his hands into the air and gets mad at the man in the funny hat. He yells things like, "You never told me I had to have a ticket!!" and stomps away to go buy a ticket. Isn't that behavior rude and just flat out ignorant?

What about when you're at the grocery store? When you stand in line forever, people tend to jump out of the line. When you get up to the cashier and start unloading your cart, you find out that the reason the line is taking so long is because the person who is being rung up is taking one box or can out of the cart at a time and waiting for it to be rung up before they take out another. The cashier keeps telling the patron that she can empty her whole cart at once, but the lady insists that she has to keep an eye on her groceries in case the cashier steals them or breaks them open while she's not looking. Wow. Now that is confidence. Why bother coming here at all if she feels that way?

Or how about this one....you're stopped at a red light near enough to a police officer who has pulled someone over and you can hear the conversation. The driver is yelling at the officer who is calling for backup. The man has made an illegal right turn on red in front of a posted sign. The officer is explaining the law and why the man is getting a ticket as the driver gets more and more angry. The driver is clearly in the wrong. Why do some people think that the rules do not apply to them?

Just one more.




You know what is really really REALLY weird?

Have you ever been in a long line at the airport and been really ticked at the officers who are working there because you perceive them as slow, shady, inefficient, lazy, and rude? Read all those scenarios again and picture an airport checkpoint instead.

I can help who is next in line, please.

pride, honor, discipline

a friend's blog touched a nerve the other night. no, i'm not mad at him; the subject just got me thinking and i've been a little bit ticked ever since. the words "Pride, Honor, Discipline" are stenciled across a banner on my basic training t-shirt. it is old, fading, holey, and i generally don't wear it anymore, but i will keep it forever. those three traits have always been around the top of my personality, floating just beneath the surface, yet visible in my daily actions and my words. my parents ingrained them into me long before i heard jody calls and the ringing of 50 heel beats on hot asphalt. how many of those traits do we instill in our kids? how many of them are demonstrated as well as taught? methinks our generation of kids is seriously lacking in more than one of those areas. and that is what has me thinking. and ticked.

"Pride." i think we've all pretty much got that covered. with our heritage months and our t-shirts and bumper stickers proclaiming our religious beliefs and value systems. or lack thereof, in some cases. it gleams in our walls loaded with trophies, certificates, medals and ribbons for all of the things we have accomplished, no matter how small or whether it was for an outstanding individual effort or if the whole team gets one fat happy pat on the back.

or is that all? shouldn't real Pride bleed into the way someone carries themselves? and i'm not necessarily talking about posture; some of that is just hereditary. however worn and used one's clothing may be, however poor and tired one is, effort should be expended to keep noticeably clean and fresh. shouldn't real Pride come from the unnoticed good done every day, for the sake of doing good, not for a special award? a true sense of Pride should come from the accomplishment of doing the best, recognized or not, and wanting to do it again tomorrow.

"Honor." we have that one mostly in sight. there's the biblical "honor thy mother and father," "...to honor and to cherish so long as we both shall live," honorary diplomas and graduation certificates. yeah. and if we don't screw up too badly we can't bring dishonor to our family.

but true Honor comes from being able to make the right choices, whether they are the choices we want to make or not. we know we can get to work faster if we speed, especially when there is little traffic around. and we know where to slow down to avoid the speed traps. but we should just allow enough time to get to work, right? Honor is knowing you don't have enough money in your bank account, and deciding you can go without those shoes until you have enough saved up, rather than writing a bad check, or using money earmarked for something more important to pay for them. Honor is volunteering to help someone and actually following through without making up excuses. c.s. lewis put it quite well when he said, "we laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst." indeed.

"Discipline." that is the one that really sticks in my craw. as parents, we are no longer in control of our own families. everyone has become so nosey in everyone else's business that the slightest form of Discipline is now interpreted as abuse. we are only allowed to speak to our children in low, hushed tones and use kind words to admonish bad behavior. i call the bullshit flag on that one. nothin' like a good loud bellow every once in a while to put a child back into his/her right mind. and god/goddess forbid anybody gets a good old fashioned ass-whuppin' anymore. i can think of a great number of politicians that missed out on this rare staple of childhood and seriously need a severe kick in the pants today. with steel-toed boots.

i see the lack of Discipline every day. every single day. at my work, children blithely ignore their parents when asked to sit down or put something away. they walk away from their parents into someone else's way or into the path of something dangerous and the parents tell them once again in hushed, bored voices to comply. or better yet, they just let them go. again, no response. at this point, i would have my child sitting at my feet, speaking to them in a low stern voice about the dangers of their actions, their consequences. then they would have some sort of privilege revoked. period. there is no discussion, debate, or further questioning. why? because my children have been raised to understand that there are consequences to every action, and i mean what i say. it's called Discipline.

in the schools, students are running wild, hitting teachers and classroom aides, swearing at each other and purposefully damaging school property. teachers aren't allowed to single a child out for punishment. and why? because the child's precious self-esteem might be damaged. well, how about using that sense of shame they are feeling to Discipline them, showing them that they need to Honor the rules and have Pride in themselves to obey? children have learned that our generation of parents (who were raised on time-outs, cartoon network, and self-esteem building) are nothing but a bunch of pushovers. i have seen kids talk their own parents out of punishments as smooth as a greasy lawyer taking a deposition. not in my house.

"i just told you NOT to ride your wheeled toy next to my new car. someone has already put scratches in the paint. you listened to me tell you not to ride there and immediately drove your toy right where i said not to. your consequence: you will still go on the walk with us, but you will not be allowed to ride. you must walk with me now." no buts. lots of tears and howling for 20 minutes. but i stand my friggin ground. i will not be walked upon. *I* am the parent. more parents need to realize that. those tears are not of pain. it's to get their parent to back down, feel sorry for the poor sad little kid. which is exactly what i will not do.

and my kids will be stronger, full of "Pride, Honor, and Discipline" later in life because of that.

charlie foxtrot

yeah. cute shoes. *gritting my teeth in pain* let's just say they look a lot cuter than they feel. even after practicing. even after sitting most of the day. even with bandaids plastered to my feet. "i can make it up the stairs. i can make it to the checkpoint. i can make it to the employee bus. i can make it to the car...." and then the day got longer.

as i arrived home, i heard the last ring of the phone before the voicemail kicked in. it was an unrecognized number. i ignored it. i let the dog out, checked the mail. checked email. checked voicemail. i had a message from my oldest daughter. "mom. <\\wind blowing fuzzed out message//> something wrong at the school. there's gas or something coming out of the school and you need to come get me. i'm on <\\static's//> cell phone. and 'stefanie' wants you to pick her up too because her mom's not home."

i didn't even put the dog away. i grabbed my purse, shoved my throbbing feet back into my shoes (not thinking to change shoes, of course) and ran back out the door.

i arrived on the scene to find mild chaos. three news stations on the sidewalk, several fire trucks and ambulances, firefighters exiting through the front door with masks on, and a helicopter overhead. students were milling around in loose groups with teachers that i assumed were individual classrooms. i could not see nearly enough students to see that the whole school had been evacuated. maybe 200 students in all. so where's my kid and how do i find her and my god why didn't i put on flip-flops? someone pointed me to a long line of irritated people clutching ID who were most likely trying to sign kids out of the school. my ID was still conveniently clipped to my shirt. i quickly snatched it off and tucked it into my purse before stepping in front of the tv cameras.

i snagged a couple of familiar faces and asked the kids if they'd seen my daughter. a loud-mouthed mom kept informing me that the line was far behind her. at some point i turned around and snapped out, "obviously i'm not looking for the line or i'd already be in it. and if you were in charge, your ass wouldn't be all the way back here either." halfway through the line, i took off my shoes and stood barefoot in the grass watching the students disappear back into the school. i overheard a teacher telling the students they were going back into the school to get their belongings and be dismissed from their mod nine class. what?? mod nine. is that gym today? or, um, music? is it an A-day or a B-day? knowing which day it is on this FUBAR schedule is really important if you need to find your kid.

so has there been an all-clear sounded? what happened? why are they outside to begin with? does anybody here have a bullhorn? could we find one and begin communicating with the growing numner of parental units in the grass?

i buttonholed a firefighter who explained to me that some students were in the nurse's office with breathing problems. she called for paramedics. by the time they arrived (literally minutes, the station is closer than my house) several more ill students had arrived. some were treated on the scene, some were taken to the hospital and the school was evacuated. but nothing registered on the instruments when the firefighters went inside, so they authorized the kids to get their stuff and then leave again.

so is my bus-riding kid taking the bus home? the school staff did not know. they said that bus riders would be put on the bus unless someone was here to sign them out. um. hello? body in front of you? so.... my kid thinks i'm coming to get her. and i stupidly left the phone number from the cell she used at home. so i can't call her back. they could net tell me where she was. obviously. and now all the parents are being shuffled across the street behind the buses where we can't see kids exiting the school and they can't see us either. but the staff were more than willing to let me hoof it into the school to find her.

wait. hold the cheese here a second. i have to stand outside in a line to show my ID before being allowed to walk the perimeter of the school, but it is perfectly OK to just waltz into the school unchallenged with my bloody bare feet in search of one short blond kid?

so this is the action plan i signed millions of colored sheets of paper in the fall to implement? my daughter standing outside borrowing a cell phone and asking me to get her? and when i arrive i never even find her? i would hate to see an actual real-live emergency. this charlie-foxtrot bullshit is not an action plan. about the only thing to happen on cue was the arrival of medical personnel and media. the rest can go hang, right? i mean, who needs to actually communicate with a large number of parents when said parents are frantically lokoing for their kids? not me. not them. not the media. not the helicopter. it's all good.

i closed my eyes, had an oooohhsaaaaah moment, and made a command decision. if i left the middle school now, i would have time to pick up my three elementary kids on time. i would then give the middle school 30 minutes to send my child home safely on the bus before heading back to the school to look for her. as i was leaving the elementary school, my girl's middle school bus was coming down the street dropping kids off. less than 15 minutes later i was hugging my baby in our front yard.

it's all good now. ooooooohsaaaaaaaaah.

few and smallish

in maryland, when someone slows their car at a stop sign, crosswalk, or when traffic in front of them has for some reason stopped, it is OK to simply screech around the slowing vehicle, even if it means they will more than likely hit a pedestrian, another car, or the car that was originally in front of them. really. it is. i watched it happen four times today alone. i was the slowing car in every instance. therefore i am a bastard.

our house is actually a giant trash can. we live inside it. it doesn't have a flip-top lid, though. it is pretty convenient to live inside a giant trash can, especially for my offspring. that way they can just spit food onto the floor, we never have to clean or bathe, any toys or books or clothes on the floor can be broken or dirty or not. whatever. such is the life in a trash can.

when you travel by air, make sure you wrap small electrical devices in lumpy masking tape packages with odd ends poking out- for security, so they don't bounce around inside the luggage with all the other electrical devices. when wrapping the tape around and around, make it as uneven and make-shift as possible. that way, when someone checks inside your bag and they immediately call for a supervisor and everything you own is pulled out to be indiviually inspected while you look on behind a glass partition, you will have an exciting story to rant about when you finally arrive at your destination. beacause those airport security guys just profile the hell out of everyone, huh?

when you break your state or government issued ID card by using it improperly to, say, open a locked door or entertain a small child or animal as a chew toy, make sure you wait until it actually expires before getting a new one. it couldn't possibly look fraudulent when it's only snapped into two pieces. and it costs a fortune to replace: $15 and a whole afternoon at the department of motor vehicles. i mean, it is a lot to ask to have valid-looking ID for identification purposes. oh, and that line on the passort that says "not valid unless signed" means abolutely nothing. especially to theives who can make about $25K on each passport they can lift without a siggy.

if you work at a job that requires the use of a writing utensil, it is a great idea to actually have a writing utensil on your person when doing your job. for instance, if you are paid to initial small pieces of paper to identify them as being valid pieces of paper for travel, you must certainly have something with which to make your initials on said papers. like a pen. or a pencil. a sharpie or highlighter might work well, although not usually a first choice. so when you show up for your job without a writing ustensil, you need to find one. borrow one. go to the shop 15 feet away from the break room and buy one. bite off the tip of your finger and write with your blood i don't care but do not under any circumstances continue to do your job without a writing utensil and expect everyone around you to "assume" you have done your job even though you have no pen to make your initials. hold still while i show you what my pen looks like by stabbing you in the eye with it. that is what happens when i have to re-do your job (with my very own pen, even) and have 100 angry passengers in front of me and 20 angry co-workers behind me who all think I am failing to do my job because i am busy re-doing yours while doing mine at the same time. *ahem* deep calming breaths......

i have been informed that when wearing "business casual" attire, one must not wear a work uniform, jeans of any color, any type of open-toed shoes, stockings with seams, sleeveless shirts, blouses that allow pachangas to jiggle out, skirts shorter than one's ass, any type of athletic shoe, or any kind of tee-shirt. so i went out in search of clothing for a two-day training class that requires business casual attire since i only own the aforementioned types of clothing. after spending $80 on a pretty sundress (with a short-sleeved cardigan to cover the spaghetti straps), a nice skirt and short-sleeved button shirt combo and a pair of chic white pumps to match both outfits, i was dismayed to learn that dresses are not considered "business casual" attire either. nor are white shoes with or without heels. you know what? fuckit. i'm wearing the clothes i bought. if they don't like it, next time i'll just wear my uniform.

someone i know had a massive "failure to communicate" moment at her job the other day. it wasn't me for a change. "joan" was screening a passenger wearing a large amount of jewelry. everyone i know already has the understanding that one should put the bling-bling away before walking through a metal detector. this lady is someone i do not know. joan calmly informed the passenger that she would be patting down her arms, torso, and a portion of her legs. the woman burst into tears and cried, "you're going to cut off my ARMS???" in between one blink and the next, joan's head whirled with thoughts. thoughts that she did not speak aloud. joan thought, "of course we're going to cut off your arms. that's what happens when you wear a lot of jewelry, dumbass. after we cut your arms off, we're going to x-ray them and then beat you with them. that way only your fingerprints will be on your body. what you do with your bloody stumps after that is your choice. your gate is on the right hand side." joan said, "uh...no, ma'am, i will PAT your arms." she didn't even laugh in the woman's face. joan showed great professionalism by remaining calm and not cutting off the woman's arms, even after she deserved it. she exceeds the standards set by this organization and is presented with the "ooooosaaaaah award for cool thinking under the influence of stupidity." congratulations, joan.

here ends the rant. nothing follows.

begging

my son is begging to take the little clear plastic bag to school, crinkling the cellophane in his grubby fist as he pleads with me. "i promised i would," he blinks his steady blue-grey eyes at me, "i promised. please? how about if i just take one?"

i look at the calendar. "not during testing week. you're not supposed to have that stuff at all, but not this week. next week you may."

"YESSSSSSSS." he leaps into the air, pumping his fist triumphantly.

booger.
black pepper.
earthworm.
dirt.
ear wax.
sausage.
grass.
vomit.
soap.
sardine.
pickle.
rotten egg.

those are what the little man is so happy about. he's sharing a bag of bertie bott's every flavor beans with his classmates, currently manufactured by the best of the best: jelly belly. so you can guarantee your vomit bean will actually taste like vomit. with a candy coating. for some reason, my son is the only kid in the third grade who has heard of these raunchy candies from the harry potter series, and santa claus himself delivered small pouches of them into stockings this past christmas. i haven't yet figured out if they were inplace of coal or if they were actually supposed to be a good gift. after the first few "ick" faces, the novelty of the bertie bott's wore off and only one child continued to eat them. and now all the third grade boys are begging - BEGGING - for a taste of earthworm and dirt mixed together. maybe a rotten egg and sausage? sardine and pepper, anyone?

ah, yes. fifteen minutes of fame indeed.

begging

my son is begging to take the little clear plastic bag to school, crinkling the cellophane in his grubby fist as he pleads with me. "i promised i would," he blinks his steady blue-grey eyes at me, "i promised. please? how about if i just take one?"

i look at the calendar. "not during testing week. you're not supposed to have that stuff at all, but not this week. next week you may."

"YESSSSSSSS." he leaps into the air, pumping his fist triumphantly.

booger.
black pepper.
earthworm.
dirt.
ear wax.
sausage.
grass.
vomit.
soap.
sardine.
pickle.
rotten egg.

those are what the little man is so happy about. he's sharing a bag of bertie bott's every flavor beans with his classmates, currently manufactured by the best of the best: jelly belly. so you can guarantee your vomit bean will actually taste like vomit. with a candy coating. for some reason, my son is the only kid in the third grade who has heard of these raunchy candies from the harry potter series, and santa claus himself delivered small pouches of them into stockings this past christmas. i haven't yet figured out if they were inplace of coal or if they were actually supposed to be a good gift. after the first few "ick" faces, the novelty of the bertie bott's wore off and only one child continued to eat them. and now all the third grade boys are begging - BEGGING - for a taste of earthworm and dirt mixed together. maybe a rotten egg and sausage? sardine and pepper, anyone?

ah, yes. fifteen minutes of fame indeed.

l'eau de twat

So I worked five whole days – in a row – for eight hours. Wow. How do you people DO that???? But then again, I don’t get a reliable nap when I get home and I have to keep on going until 8-9pm and then get up and do it all again 5 hours later. “Hit by a mack truck, several times over” is how I would describe my Sunday afternoon. And to top it all off, I woke this morning to a very angry wrist. It’s not swollen or anything, but it is definitely insulted. It is wrapped nicely and I’ll heat it this evening. I’m going to wager that it was l’Eau de Twat’s stupid green rolling carryon that did it. Oh, yes. Story time with kater.

It is a crack to noon. Almost quittin’ time.

“Bag check.”

That’s me: kater, bag-checker extraordinare. Upon the screen, I see many many many glass bottles. 20, maybe 30 of them. With little sprayers. It is a full-size carryon. No friggin way. The three of us working this lane shake our heads in disbelief. I begin to laugh. “Someone needs to take a trip back to the ticket counter. Who belongs to this lovely green bag?” I ask the room at large. Aah. The well-dressed gentleman hasn’t gotten through yet. “Hold the mag, please. That gentleman and I need to have a little talk.” I am not even going to open this bag.

“Bag check.”

That’s not me, because I’m still busy with l’Eau de Twat over here. “Sir, you’re not going to be able to take this bag with you on board the aircraft.” He smacks himself in the forehead. I smile tightly. “You know why, don’t you?”

“Oooooah,” he groans, “it is the perfume....” he continues groaning to himself. He stands there looking dazed and chewing on his lip.

My bag-checker-in-arms approaches me. “Hmm,” she says. “Sir, is this your bag as well?” He nods sheepishly. She looks at me and shakes her head again. “Hmph. Let him in. We got a mess to deal with in here.”

I heft the bag again and we head to our table at the end of the lane to wait for l’Eau to get through. The metal detector beeps wildly and several bowls parade down the conveyor belt holding his belongings: change, wallet, keys, a pen, chewing gum, chewing tobacco, two cell phones (each in it’s own bowl), a belt. Finally he has divested himself completely and he shuffles to collect his flotilla of pocket-stuffings and shoes.

“You knew,” she begins, pulling out her momma-voice, “you knew you couldn’t take alla this on the aircraft with you. How many bags have you checked? Two? Looka here. You need to take this big green bag back to the ticket counter. The airlines charge a fee for checking extra bags.” She begins unloading liquids out of his black backpack. Hair cream, two bottles of juice, lotion, hair spray, toothpaste, more lotion. He gestures to all of them.

“They cannot go?”

“No, sir. They can’t. This is a liquid. This is a cream. This is a paste. This is an aerosol. Liquids, creams, aerosols, gels and pastes have been restricted on flights since 2006. But you knew that as soon as we pulled out your bags.”

“But I will miss my flight?” he flounders.

She glanced at his ticket and briefly at her watch. “Yessir. You might,” she tells him, matter-of-factly.

I’m just standing here, next to my girl, hands on the suitcase, forcing my smirk into the back of my mouth. If I talked to the man this way, I’d be sacked. But her momma-voice is something to behold: firm, full of respect, and no-nonsense.

At this point I tell him, “You can put all of these items from your backpack into this suitcase and only have to check the one bag, but I’m telling you right now, this suitcase is stuffed so full, I am not going to open it, or try to close it back up again.” My girl starts stuffing the prohibited items into the backpack.

“But I can’t throw them here?”

“Nosirree. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” she taps the items as she puts them away. “They are right here on top. You’re gonna take this here bag out to your ticket counter. You’re gonna pay that fee. Or you’re gonna dump these items in the trash can. You get those items into one bag if you can; you dump the things you can’t fit and can live without. I don’t care what you do and how you do it, so long as these liquids don’t come back through my checkpoint, y’hear?”

“Yes’m.” He tips his head to her, mumbling to his feet.

I zip his backpack shut and throw it onto my shoulder, pulling the handle out of the carryon and setting it on the floor to pull behind me. “I’m doing a walk-out,” I call to my lead, as I escort l’Eau de Twat to the exit. When I get to the drop-off point and hand his bags back to him, his eyes get wide.

“I have to come back through security???” he asks in horror.

“Yes sir. We’ll see you soon.” And as I turn to walk back to my lane, he breaks into a full run to his ticket counter.

Can you imagine the smell in there if we’d dumped all that perfume? That stuff is flammable, so we would have to classify it as hazardous. Our haz-mat bucket is not nearly big enough to hold all those bottles. Again I shake my head and ask, aloud this time, “What the hell was he thinking?? Who needs all that??? I don’t think I’ve owned that much stinkin-pretty in my entire life.”

We keep an eye out for him. Sometimes people go out and then try to sneak back in without getting rid of anything. They just go to a different lane, thinking they won’t get caught by someone else. As I’m leaving the break room to go clock out, here he comes, puffing down the pier to his plane, still at a full run. I’m pretty sure he made it, with only moments to spare. And I sincerely hope he’s not going to try to do that again.

my missy

for my great-aunty. who left me her beautiful life-size lioness, missy, because six years ago i refused to walk around her house and mark her things with my name on a piece of masking tape.

My only Great-Aunt Elaine,

It is spring. Although the air is cold and biting where I am sitting, the frosty white petals of the cherry blossoms softly whispering of snow on the tips of twigs, spring really is here again. Somehow I think that all of the cold is not just the wind this year. Many, many hundreds of miles have separated us throughout the years, and yet I am reminded of you every morning when I wake up. Even in the still quiet darkness when all the world is sleeping, I can see the silhouette in the moonlight of a graceful lioness, her green and steady eyes always watching near my bedroom window. Missy is safe, here, in her third home with us.

My children have thrown pillows at her feet by the fireplace and read stories. The littlest ones, barely walking, held onto her strong back, creeping around her stillness, standing nose-to-nose and hugging her fiercely about the neck. The older ones draped their arms off the end of the couch and absent-mindedly rubbed her head and back while they read. I have removed sloppily-dressed cowboys from her back more times than I can count, and really, you would laugh at all the hats she has worn. She still looks dignified, even with a purple clown wig tied with a pink scarf while sporting a sparkling rainbow cape. Trust me.

As the winter winds warm, and the leaves burst out of buds, green and new, the days will grow longer and deeper. I will remember reading and drawing in the sticky afternoons on your deck and sitting under the umbrella on the patio. I will remember long walks around the neighborhood in the setting sun, up the tall hills, pausing sometimes to listen to grownup chatter along the way. I will remember how the crickets came out to sing, the fireflies came out to dance. I will remember the deepening night sky when we would watch with muffled gasps and wide eyes as the raccoons invaded the yard from miles around to eat the loaves of stale bread you gave us to scatter for them. I will remember the way you would proudly play any of your beautiful music boxes on request and set your Woodstock chirping in the kitchen window.

I have a little piece of you embedded in my heart. And really, that is all anyone could ask for in the end.

atypical, really

so, like, it is a typical saturday. by 5am, there is a line so long, i can’t actually see the end of it. and more passengers are pouring around the corner to join them every minute that ticks by. there are a couple of passengers acting weird, so we are keeping an eye on them. i’m making announcements and checking IDs against boarding passes. some people are ticked at the long wait in line. some people are just sour people to begin with. some people are bored & sleepy. some people are begging me to make “them” move the starbucks onto the other side of the checkpoint. as if i’m that awesome. if i could do, i already woulda did-done. some are pleasant and wide-awake and really don’t need that second coffee, from as far as i can tell. and some people just are.

i’m checking an ID against a ticket and noticed that they are pre-selected by the airline to undergo additional screening. as i’m explaining the highlighter on the ticket to the dude, who has a very striking face (that i’m sure i’ve seen somewhere, but i can’t quite recall why i think that), my co-worker strikes up some idle conversation with him and we learn he is in a band from seattle that played john-hopkins on friday night. my head snaps up and i look directly at him, the name on his ticket, and then behind him and sure, enough....my lips form the name of his band as he’s speaking it to my co-worker.

it was everclear. i personally signed their boarding passes. how friggin’ cool is that?

why is it that i am sooooo intent on maintaining a cool professionalism, that i never think to ask for an autograph or something? why?? maybe it’s because i’m afraid the person will get all snooty and say no, like jack nicholson does. i suppose it’s because deep down, i guess they are just people too, and who wants to be pestered all the time? they got through security without anyone else so much as batting an eye at them. i waited until they were long gone and at their gate before mentioning it quietly to anyone else. they were probably glad to not have to deal with screaming throngs of people at 6am in between transcontinental flights between shows. (because they were coming back from seattle to the east coast again the very next night.) i just want a little something for me. maybe next time i can ask discreetly.

*memo to self: get small notebook to keep in pocket for next celebrity run-in.*