the dustbunnies are revolting

ink

2010-08-25T15:17:00.000-05:00

the ink, it boils black inside my heart.
bubbles rising from the deep.
turn my face and thoughts to no avail;
steady burns the hole you've placed.

the slow and creeping tendrils
press my screams into my lungs,
slice my tears into my skin,
draw the dark across my eyes,
numb the sound of my own sobs.

so twist my heart and bury deeper,
deeper still than words can pierce.
let the ink dissolve your face, your voice
and your every poisoned lie.

Stoney River

2010-02-28T20:06:00.003-05:00

So, there's this thing that people do, I think it's called "going out on dates." We did that. I know, right? We got all gussied up with neckties and high heels, left the kiddies at home with another adult and everything. The planets aligned just so and out we went to a restaurant rather new to our area; newer than us anyway. Being from Nebraska, I was raised on good steak. Not just any steak. The word "steak" itself on the menu does not guarantee its quality. It's the high quality, grain-fed beef that I miss, and where we went hit "fabulous" right on target. Enter Stoney River Steakhouse of Towson Town Center.

We walked in from the mall entrance and it felt like we walked into a fairytale ski lodge. The mall cacophony was unbelievably hushed. The decor was warm and inviting, with large stone fireplaces, mountainside greenery and candle-like lighting from sconces and chandeliers. Seating was arranged around the dining room at different heights, with seating in the center of the room on soft patterned sofas at low tables. Rising to the edge of the room, cozy semi-circle booths were set on pedestals, overlooking the quiet bustle of patrons. We were seated toward the back of the restaurant in one of those elevated booths, which suited us just fine. The mall was forgotten, but for a split-second view of the escalator through the large front window.

Our server, whose name I have forgotten only because I took so long to sit down and write, was awesome. Our young Tom Cruise look-alike was charming, knowledgeable and didn't bat an eye when I purposefully asked for a Pinot Grigio instead of a proper red wine to accompany steak. He was attentive enough to our table, without dropping by every five minutes. He answered our questions about the menu without hesitation and his enticing descriptions convinced us to order an appetizer.

Our Whiskey Shrimp arrived at the table perched on thick slices of lightly toasted garlic bread, the creamy Jack Daniel's grainy mustard sauce drizzled lightly across the platter. The sauce had a nice tart bite to it and the jumbo shrimp perfectly matched the crispy toast. I have never been a seafood fan, but I swore that night, this very dish would be served at our daughters' weddings; it was that good.

Perfectly timed at the finish of our appetizer, our steaks arrived. My 7 oz Cabin Filet was done to a turn; medium well all the way through and slightly more well done on the outside, just the way I like it. It was moist and juicy, which is difficult to achieve sometimes because I like my steak so well done. I selected the baked potato, due to my issues with dairy, and as potatoes go, it was certainly a potato. The Coffee-Cured Filet was divine. Marinated in coffee and then grilled to a medium perfection, this fork-tender steak had the texture of pot roast. It had a dark and nutty flavor that fared surprisingly well with the beef. Absolutely, no-holds-barred, the best steak I have ever tasted in my life. The string beans were light and crisp, and I'm told that the au gratin potatoes were tender, creamy, and flavorful.

We were too full for dessert, but the Triple-Layer Chocolate Ganache Cake covered in chocolate shavings almost won me over. Stoney River will be seeing me again. Count on it.

the long and the snow of it

2010-02-07T19:23:00.002-05:00

so the forecast was big.

thursday afternoon, there was a rainbow ring around the sun at about 4pm. it's actually called the 22 degree halo and it occurs when there are ice crystals in the atmosphere. right before a blizzard is a great time to see one.

i packed a suitcase. i packed the crockpot. i packed 6 camp cots, courtesy of members of cub scout pack 475. i packed snacketies, boots, a shovel, four uniforms, and more. i forgot the camera and the swimsuit. not bad.

friday is my day off, usually. because of the enormous storm on the horizon and the fact that it would begin on my "monday, " i volunteered to come in a day early to ride the storm out like i had in december. i anticipated that a hotel would not be available or accessible (thus, the camp beds) and was pleasantly surprised to find one offered to me before 6 am. a total of six of us from my shift were staying in the hotel. we clocked out at 12:30, like usual, and went our separate ways for the time being. after all, the gentle flurries were not sticking to anything, let alone looking much like the snowpocalypse predicted. our co-workers mocked us, saying they would see us in the morning.

by check-in time, we saw how wrong they were. by dinnertime, there was already more than 3 inches on the ground.

we all caught up, miraculously on the same floor, changed into swim gear, threw my spaghetti in the crockpot and headed to the pool. i was chased around by a mob of children, whose mother explained to me three different times, that they did not make their flight to florida due to the snow. after my long day of work, which wasn't actually longer than normal but busier than normal because of everyone trying to beat the storm out of dodge, all i wanted was some quiet time to relax in the hot tub. so i left the pool and crashed for the night. sort of.

the evening shift arrived, drunk and banging doors and proceeded to carry on until well past midnight. then, at 0140, our third roommate arrived. five minutes before my alarm went off, of course. so we got up and got ready for the day while she got ready for bed. the roads were bad... it took her over 30 minutes to make the five minute trip from the airport on the hotel shuttle. there was over a foot on the ground already, and visibility was a few blocks at most. i was afraid of that. fortunately, one of our six had a 4x4 truck that could seat all six of us. i say that because when we all reported to the lobby to catch the shuttle, we were informed by the hotel staff that the last shuttle was about to leave until 5am, possibly for a very long while. she also courteously informed the 30 workers waiting on the promised transport that we "should have thought about that before checking in."

backing up.... this is the same mouth that said the same thing in december. we were told the shuttle would run 24 hours for us so we could get to work. i double-double checked that at 3pm the previous day, and so did my manager. needless to say, her snotty attitude did not start the day off well. needless to say, the shuttle driver got stuck in the snow twice. i feel for the guy, really, but that chick pissed me off. we trundled through the snow in the truck, passing the shuttle and getting to the timeclock only 9 minutes "late." late is a relative term in a blizzard, by the way.

with no flights going out and a state of emergency declared by the governor, we settled in for a long day of not letting anyone in. the most fun thing ever, let me tell you. we watched the snow fall, roamed around, took turns doing computer training, watched the snow removal (which is a lot more interesting than it sounds), took pictures and secured the homeland. no one came into work that wasn't in the hotel friday. our menu choices were subway and starbucks. hoooray for pre-planning!!! at least they didn't run out of food like last time! midway through our day we were told we'd get to work 12-hour shifts instead of eights. oookay. not a huge deal i guess. then they didn't know if we were supposed to work the same shift the next day or not. gotta love management. we adjusted plans and met at chili's for dinner. i turned in earlier, hoping for more sleep.

i got it, but was still awoken by the evening shift. the loud guys downstairs and our roomie again. this time she flipped on lights and talked on her cell phone while we tried to sleep. um, yeah. thanks, babe. i got a text from the boys' room at 3am.... apparently after i went to sleep, management made up their minds. we were supposed to arrive at 4am after all. shit. we found out that management was calling people and telling them not to come in to work... even some of those staying in the hotel. they then had to re-call them back to tell them that they did actually have to go to work. really, i have to ask, does the left hand know what the right hand is doing? does the left hand know that there is, in fact, another hand at all? because that is how sunday went.

another 12-hour shift of not letting anyone in.... almost. we heard they were letting flights out.

wait a minute, did the governor not shut down the airport until noon on monday? i swear those were the words used.... "closed" "noon" "monday". so, how is it that the airlines up and decide that the airport is open? and who in their right minds would want to get on a plane and drive it over 200 mph on a solid sheet of ice? really? is your destination more important than your life? perspective, people!!!!

since the airport was closed, there were no vendors. well, except one newsstand, starbucks and subway. no, really. i'm not kidding. so passengers are showing up at the airport wanting to go down the pier to eat. well, it's um closed. closed. yes, i said closed. no you can't go in. nothing is open. becuz it all closded. lady. don't make me smack you with this stanchion. you don't even have a ticket. no, you can't get in without a ticket. no i can't print you a ticket. because i don't work for any airlines and i don't book reservations and i don't have a computer and there aren't any flights scheduled for 5 hours anyway and NOTHING IS OPEN BECAUSE OF THREE FEET OF SNOW. did you drive here today? so you know it snowed outside? sohelpmegodsomeoneelsetalktothisbitchiamsofinished.

my sunday ended with a bag check and a definition of water being a liquid.

flights are scheduled for monday before noon. how, i don't know. those of us scheduled to work our regular hours on monday morning are dreading the dawn. we will be slammed and overwhelmed by nine million people wanting to get out of baltimore days ago. my patience is thinner than the ice i just scraped off my windshield. but at least my car is dug out. i spent some serious effort and cursed a nice blue streak in the employee lot. and at this point, i think i shall turn in... less than 4 hours until the evening shift arrives and wakes me up for my shift.

more TSA Muzak

2009-12-18T11:54:00.003-05:00

inspired by nikya one busy knife-ful monday morning. to the tune of "jingle bells"... you know you want to sing it aloud.

Dashing down the pier
with a suitcase full of knives.
I have to catch this plane
which leaves at half-past five.

I've flown with this before.
I don't have time for this.
Why do you people pick on me;
do I look like a terrorist?

Oh, TSA, TSA: all you people suck!
Thousands Stand Around all day just to make a buck.

TSA, TSA: all you people suck!
You only Throw our Stuff Away just to make a buck.

I wrapped my cash in foil
and shoved it down my pants.
You made me take it out;
what the hell is wrong with that?

You stripped me of my watch,
my cell phone and my shoes.
What else should I take off today?
Do my shirt and pants go too?!

(chorus)

TSA Holiday muzak

2009-12-12T01:24:00.000-05:00

many people comment about how cheery i am at work. little do they know that it is a grand facade, designed to get me through the trying times, so i can go home and make fun of the stupidity in song. what i'm really thinking....

'The Christmas Song'
adapted for the workplace by kate

Laptops rolling down the x-ray belt,
crashing right onto the floor.
Gallon jugs of expensive shampoo
and strollers wedged in x-ray four.

Everybody's brought some kind of present wrapped up tight;
we can't see what is packed inside:
knives with keys next to wires on block cheese
with vibrating slippers aside.

They know it's time to board their plane.
Their bags are stuffed and loaded 'way beyond what's sane.
We know that every child is gonna cry
'cause mom packed Play-Doh & pudding (those can't fly).

And so I'm offering an Excedrin
Cause headaches shortly will ensue
May your lunches be long enough and your patience run thick:
Merry-happy-Christma-Channu-Kwanzi-kah, to you!

Twelve Pains of the Holidays
adapted for the workplace by kate

twelve things at christmas that are such a pain to me:

12 unwashed patdowns
11 pocket knives
10 zippered pockets
9 children screaming
8 folding strollers
7 foreign tongues
6 ladies corsets
5 No ID's!
4 ounce bottles
3 chainsaws
2 live rounds
1 cat in the x-ray machine

a two-way street

2009-11-12T09:01:00.003-05:00

I've been mulling over my first week on full-time status and a few incidents and passenger statements have really just wedged in my craw. Everyone thinks that they, themselves, are infinitely special and should be allowed to skip the screening process just on their say-so. Really? A terrorist would completely agree with you on that one. Right. Self-screening on the honor system. Go ahead, pat yourself down and just tell the police you have an IED strapped to your thigh. I'd give terrorists about 32.7 minutes to jump on that one and then everyone would blame the government for not protecting them again.

According to the Transportation Security Administration's Civil Rights Policy Statement, "the public we serve are to be treated in a fair, lawful, and nondiscriminatory manner, without regard to race, color, national origin, religion, age, sex, disability, sexual orientation, status as a parent, or protected genetic information." What a mouthful. I have interpreted that statement to mean, "everyone," which expands back out to mean, "I am screening all of you to the same degree. None of you are exempt."

You have the right to be treated respectfully. While I cannot vouch for every one of the other 42,999 officers, everyone I work with treats passengers respectfully while maintaining the standards we are required to uphold. That little blue statement goes both ways.

* When you roll your eyes at me after I've suggested three times to put your cell phone through the x-ray machine and then you call me a bitch, you are the one out of line. Dude, I even said "please."
* When you slam your luggage on my hand and yell at me for "making you miss your flight" while I am trying to help you, you'll be unloading your belongings by yourself at the other end. I got up at 2am; I was here on time. I am not to blame for your initial tardiness.
* When you say to me, with your condescending smile, that I am ineffective and that making you disrobe completely before boarding your flight is a waste of your taxpayer dollars, I am more likely to remind you that There's Still Avis. And if you didn't wear 19 layers of clothing and boots that lace all the way up to your neck, accompanied by a collection of no less than 29 bracelets, necklaces, and earrings that could be used as paperweights, you would have far less to divest. Try one layer of clothes, a sweater, slip-on shoes, and pack the bling.
* If you can read your boarding pass and navigate the internet well enough to book a flight, you can read regulations on what to bring and what not to bring from TSA's website. Most airlines have links to that page from their websites as well. If you "haven't flown in years" and haven't educated yourself, then your bag check is your education.
* When you mis-read the website and decide that you can bring anything you like as long as it is in a plastic baggie, you will be given your options: go to the ticket counter and check your bag under the plane; mail each item to yourself at a ridiculous cost of $20 per item (the checkpoint mailers company is not in any way affiliated with TSA or any individual airport); take it out to your car if you can, or give it to someone who may have dropped you off; or voluntarily surrender it. That's right, I said surrender. No one is forcing you to throw it away. You can always just miss the flight, if your shampoo is really that important. Once you scream at me and throw that shampoo, you have just stepped into the bounds of "assault." Keep that in mind. Because if I'm not allowed to swear at you and throw things, I certainly will not stand by and wear my BarbieTM smile and let you. I can pretty much guarantee that my swearing will trump yours. Don't test me.
* Go read this. Then go watch that. Please step back and get your liquids, gels, creams, and aerosols out of my face. Even if it didn't happen here in America, it is still a legitimate threat. A terrorist can just as easily declare, "It's just hand lotion. What's so dangerous about hand lotion??? You people are so stupid."
* I am treating your grandmother with the utmost respect, but she is not exempt either. She may not want to harm a fly, but the truth is, other people in the world could care less about their elders, or family members who cannot protest or fight back. It's old news, but still relevant every day.
* When I tell you what is involved in the additional screening I am about to perform and ask you if you'd like a private screening in a provate room BEFORE we start, that is the best time to say yes. While you are still encouraged to tell me when and if you are uncomfortable, when we pick up all your belongings, haul them into a private (yes windowless) room and begin the process all over again, you can just hold on to all the complaining about how inconvenient it is to start over. You requested it.
* When you wrap wads of money in aluminum foil and tuck it into your underwear, I'm not going to ask you to drop your drawers to see it. I'm going to deny you entrance to the aircraft until you leave, with all your belongings, and remove it. Yuck. (And yes, I use hand sanitizer after handling money ALL THE TIME now.)
* When you deliberately wrap your box cutter or cologne in your dirty underwear to deter me from searching your bag, guess what? Your dirty underwear will be on display for everyone on the checkpoint to see. I will fan that bad boy out and run it through the x-ray so everyone can see what a pig you are. Then I will change my gloves, sanitize my arms and hands AND the bin AND the table befouled by you and move on with my day.
* Please do not attempt to interpret my x-ray images of your bag. You can't even see the screen. Crossing your arms over your chest, checking your watch, sighing dramatically and telling me that I am "a waste of time" does nothing more than distract me from clearing your bag. Most of the time I'm not even looking at the bag of the person making the loudest noise and insisting that "it's just a cell phone; my god, do you need better glasses or something??" So, um, yeah. It's not actually a cell phone and you wouldn't know, since it isn't your bag. I especially love to tell that passenger when it was a training bag and I actually caught a simulated IED. Eat that, buddy.

You have the right to be treated respectfully. And so do I.

caramel apple cake

2009-11-08T16:00:00.006-05:00

from Easy Cooking the Costco Way, 2009

this cake was quite literally the perfect end to a fabulous fall day in our house. the sweet-tart of the apple combined with the creamy sweet caramel glaze had my i-don't-like-apples-boy begging for a second piece. the recipe calls for 5 apples, but i don't think i could have squeezed more than four into the pan without making it "apples with cake stuck to the sides." also, i baked mine in a bundt pan for look-at-me points. made the glaze look prettier than on a standard rectangle too.

cake
1 C packed light brown sugar
1 C granulated sugar
1-1/2 C vegetable oil (we use sunflower)
3 eggs
3 C unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
2-1/4 tsp vanilla
4-5 granny smith apples, peeled, cored & chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
1-1/4 C chopped pecans or walnuts

1) preheat oven to 325* (300* for a dark pan). butter & flour a 9x13 pan.
2) beat sugars and oil until well blended and creamy. add eggs, one at a time beating well after each addition. stir together flour, and spices. gradually add to wet ingredients, mixing until just blended. stir in vanilla, apples & nuts.
3) bake for 50-75 minutes, or until a wooden toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. a darker pan or bundt may take a bit longer with a lower temperature; check frequently. let cool in the pan (for 15 minutes and invert bundt cake onto serving platter.)

glaze
4 tablespoons butter
1/4 C sugar
1/4 C light brown sugar
pinch of salt
1/2 C heavy cream

4) melt butter in saucepan over med-low heat. stir in sugars and salt; cook for 2 minutes. add cream and boil for 2 minutes, stirring constantly.
5) poke holes in the cake with a wooden skewer. pour glaze over top. serve warm (divine!!) or at room temperature.

coupla camp'n recipes

2009-10-16T07:04:00.002-05:00

at the behest of more than one reader, here are a couple of my kids' favorite camping recipes. judging by the number of requests for the soup, it looks like several families will be partaking of chicken noodle soup at our next pack trip!

*Creamy Chicken Noodle Soup*
2 C chicken stock/bouillon
2 cans cream of chicken soup
1 clove minced garlic
2 C chopped cooked chicken
1 C sliced carrots
1 C sliced celery
1/2 C chopped onion
1 T parsley
1/2 tsp thyme
salt & pepper to taste
2 C dry egg noodles

home prep: (i always freeze the meat and veggies i take camping because they double as ice packs in the cooler that way. i can re-use their dishes if i have any leftover soup as well.)
1) cook, chop & freeze chicken.
2) chop & freeze veggies.
3) cook & cool noodles. store in plastic baggie.
4) if using chicken stock, freeze that in quart-sized freezer bags. if using bouillon cubes, never mind.
5) combine dry spices in small tupperware container or snack-size zipper bag.

camp prep: (either propane stove or over the fire)
1) heat frozen stock first, if necessary. otherwise, combine 2 C water & bouillon cubes, add 2 cans of soup. stir til combined.
2) stir in dry spices. add veggies & chicken. heat through. add cooked noodles last.
3) heat 'til bubbly; it shouldn't take more than 10-15 minutes on a good fire. serve with biscuits or toast. serves 6.

FABULOUS on a cold, rainy trip. you can change up the veggies to your family's liking, of course, and if you prefer your soup thinner, just add more liquid. we like ours thick enough that it doesn't run off the spoon on its own. you can easily convert this recipe to a beef stew by changing the stock, veggies, & meat, but keeping the same measurements.

*Backpack Fudge*
1/2 C cocoa
16 oz powdered sugar
1/2 C butter
1 tsp vanilla
3 oz cream cheese

1) combine butter, cheese & vanilla in a gallon FREEZER bag. when squished together, add cocoa & sugar.
2) pass around the campfire and knead in the bag for 30 minutes. knead carefully so the bag doesn't burst! spread in pan and let rest for about 10 minutes. cut & serve. makes about 1 pound. VERY good.

"hi. i'm New."

2009-09-30T08:55:00.002-05:00

so i've raised my hand and volunteered for something again. at least this is something i can do while sitting on my butt in front of the tv. see? i'm making time for *me* to sit and relax! i know, i know... but someday i can put all these valuable service hours on a resume, right? yeah-no. not this one. see, this time, i've volunteered to be the Clippin' Queen. that's right, cow-tow and grovel at my feet which, incidentally, are covered with little scraps of trash. behold Her Royal Hiney, Queen Kater, counter and compiler of Boxtops for Education, Campbell's soup labels, and Tyson's chicken labels. oh, and more stuff that i have yet to discover, i'm sure.

so here's what i do: i open the collection boxes in the school lobby, check the expiration dates, count the labels, send them in, and the school gets money. easy, right??

i expected a pretty big haul after the summer months of diligent label-watchers such as myself. and then i got a 30 gallon trash bag half-full from the last label Queen. OMFG doesn't begin to describe it. if i didn't respect the position of the Clippin' Queen before, i sure as hell do now.

first and foremost, what, in the name of prince albert's socks, would possess someone to re-use a plastic zipper lunch baggie to send labels in to the school???? is this personal? because we can meet at the bleachers after school if that's all it is. you pack a ho-ho for little suzy and she brings half home in her peanut butter sandwich bag and you think it's all good to send that sticky bag in to school the next day full of labels that need to be counted? REALLY? that's taking recycling a bit too far. so guess what? i'm not counting it. your effort goes right into the trash.

speaking of "in the trash," those Boxtops have expiration dates. out of the thousands of Boxtops in my living room, i've tossed about $20 worth that are expired. those Pillsbury tube biscuits all expired in june 2009. so did a lot of Old El Paso products. no good, guys. products you buy this week have dates far into 2011, 2012, and even 2013. so, um, where are all these products coming from with dates of 2008, 2007, and even 2006? if the Boxtops expirations are *that* old, you prolly shouldn't be putting that food in your mouth. just sayin'.

being a mother of four, i can totally understand not knowing where the scissors are at every given moment. i have torn the labels off the cans and chunked those boxes up to collect the miniature $.10 school prize. however, could we at least make an effort to cut along those dotted lines that the company so lovingly provides on the label? the little fat Campbell's guy by himself is not the part needed, folks. on some labels that isn't exactly clear, but i really don't need the whole label. especially the food service labels that are the size of an 8x10 sheet of paper. scissors are our friends. just, you know, trim a little bit?

and our final public service announcement goes out to the people who are sending in just random food boxes. check what i got today: Little Debbie cosmic brownies, PastaRoni, Lipton dry soup, Popsicles, Mott's sliced apples (the sticky bag! oooh, fun!), Mini Oreo go-pak, Quaker granola bars, a single Quaker instant oatmeal packet, (insert store brand) toasted oat cereal, Fiber One, Annie's shells & cheddar macaroni (the club store size box), and Land-O-Lakes fresh eggs.... i'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that this family is either new to school and has no idea what "Boxtops for Education" or "Campbell's Labels" are or possibly is new to the country. either way, it looks like i have a flier to create.

after 15 (non-consecutive) hours, i have grouped the labels by point value into gallon-size zipper bags. seven one-gallon-sized zipper bags and a couple of quarts, to be exact. i have counted 2,000 water bottle labels, 3,600 boxtops, and less than 500 soup labels. (i have to cut most of the soup labels out myself because following the dotted lines seems beyond the ability of some label collectors). and after all that counting, i discovered that the water label campaign was finished in april 2009. i did those labels first because they were the most difficult - sticky plastic things that refuse to lie flat for counting. *sigh* that is what my efficiency got me.

and i've taken a leaf out of another Queen's book: i'm sending out for help. "wanted: someone who likes to sit and watch tv and count little sticky scraps of trash." hm. somehow i don't think that want ad is gonna generate much interest. i need to re-work that baby into something like: "assistants needed to sort school labels for cash redemption. no cold calls." that might work. just get here soon. please.

pumpkin pancakes

2009-09-24T13:13:00.000-05:00

3 C unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 C sugar
1/2 C packed brown sugar
3/4 tsp salt
3 tsp baking powder
3 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp cinnamon*
3/4 tsp ginger*
1/4 tsp nutmeg*
4 eggs
1-1/2 C sour cream*
1 can of pumpkin
1 C milk
3/4 tsp vanilla

1. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, baking soda and spices.
2. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs, adding sour cream, pumpkin, milk and vanilla. Mix well.
3. Pour the egg mixture into the flour mixture and stir until just blended. Spoon a scant 1/4 cup batter onto a preheated, buttered griddle (or a heaping tablespoon for "silver dollar" size). Cook pancakes slowly over a low-medium heat for approximately 4-6 minutes, flipping after 3 minutes, when bubbles break on surface and edges are dry.

yields 36-40 regular pancakes

*for sweeter pancakes, substitute 1-1/2 C french vanilla yogurt for the sour cream and decrease the sugar to 2/3 C. you can also sub in 2 tsp pumpkin pie spice for the 3 spices listed here.

(this recipe feeds 6 dinner-size portions, plus two breakfast leftovers. usually. i don't bother with anything smaller , so i've converted all my recipes to "jumbo-size." you may need to adjust the amounts. or just keep a stack in the freezer! these are pretty thick pancakes too, so you might want to add a dribble of water or milk before cooking. sometimes i do, sometimes i don't.)

marbeled peanut butter fudge

2009-09-20T16:06:00.000-05:00

4 C sugar
1 can evaporated milk
1 C butter (i only use butter, but margarine can be used)
1 (7 oz) jar marshmallow fluff
3 C chocolate chips
1 Tbl vanilla
1 C peanut butter (i use super chunky)

1. In a heavy saucepan, boil the first three ingredients for 8 minutes, stirring constantly.
2. Add the next three ingredients, stirring well after each addition. Remove from heat (keep stirring frequently).
3. Pour half of the chocolate fudge into a buttered 9x13x2-inch pan.
4. Dollop peanut butter around pan, and pour the rest of the chocolate fudge on top. Swirl with a knife or offset spatula.
5. (Optional) Place a sheet of wax paper on top of the surface (to keep it from drying too much while it cools) pressing it all the way into the corners of the dish.
6. Chill until set. Depending on the humidity, it could take a couple of days. Slice into bite-size squares. This is a very rich fudge. Makes about 5 pounds.

avast, me hearties

2009-09-19T13:56:00.000-05:00

t'day is national talk like a pirate day, see? the flyin' spaghetti monster deity tells tha' the lack of pirates on the high seas is the cause of global warmin', so help yer environment and be a pirate fer a day, see? iffn' ye can't figger it out, hie thee to a translator. stripes, eye patches, hooks and peglegs encouraged. long waxed moustaches preferred. ye've got no exuse fer avoidin' yer duty to yer planet t'day, mates.

git yer landlubbin' arses inta motion er i'll make ye walk the plank!!!

UQ 1998-2001

2009-08-30T14:02:00.000-05:00

we lived in the united queendom (because there hasn't been a king in the kingdom for such a long time!!) for about 3 years when stationed there in the air force. we were dirt poor, being the junior-most ranked people, not only of the us air force members, but the entire base. most of the time we were advised to stay confined to our dinky little base in the middle of sheep farm country because of protests against the americans "spying on the british." we lived 3 miles from the nearest village that had more than a post office, 17 miles from the nearest city with a "mall" of sorts, and 2 hours by flying scotsman to london. all that during the petrol strikes and mad cow to boot. the smell of burning flesh will haunt me to the ends of my days. so my opinion of the country is probably a bit jaded, to say the least.

we acclimated to driving on the other side of the road pretty well, but i could not for the life of me handle a left-handed stick, so we were really glad we brought our american saturn with us. i only drove that, but dh could switch between my car and his mini quite well.

the first few months we lived there, we got to know the area, learned some of the history and many experiences we deemed "quaint" and "new." by the end of our first year, many of those things we called quaint were now small daily annoyances. i didn't like being called "duck" or "hen," and i visibly bristled at being called a "colonist," as the locals were want to do whenever i was seen in my humungous 4-door american sedan, or if i opened my mouth. our bank didn't communicate with other branches except by post...even though they could see we had money in our bank account on their computers, they told us we would have to drive to the bank where we originally opened the account to withdraw funds. i didn't like being expected to fix tea for the repair people who were in my home to - gosh, repair things, not gab! the hot and cold water came out of separate taps, so one couldn't wash the dishes without alternately scalding and freezing one's fingers with each rinse. summer was the last 2 weeks of august...and that was it. i went through a more-than-mild-but-not-severe depression every winter when the sun came up as we walked to school at 9 am and the streetlights came on as we walked home at 3 pm. the cold, wet, damp weather seeped into my bones and settled there that first winter and i never quite warmed up again until we'd fried in the arizona sun for a week or so after our return. and the only snow we received was a paltry dusting, so we couldn't even enjoy any actual "winter."

we found the food to be very bland, even at the finest restaurants, although i fell in love with just desserts and their chutney and cheese sandwiches. they make the only chutney i have ever liked. i've tasted others since, and none hold a candle to the nectar from this little coffeeshop specializing in tea, sandwiches and sweets. the combinations of food offered elsewhere blew our little american minds: tuna and sweetcorn pizza? baked bean pizza? ice-lollies? mr. brain's pork faggots - what?!? steamed spotted dick? (no thanks, i'll have apple pie.) fish served wrapped in newspaper from a truck - and the fish was fried whole, eyes and all! broiled tomatoes and cold baked beans on toast - for breakfast? i went into the kitchen and showed the chef at our hotel how to mix up a box mix of aunt jemima pancakes for breakfast. and i bought our own syrup from the commissary to go with it. he tasted some and found them "delightful."

we got a membership to the national trust to tour the history of the country that has been around for centuries and often found that a castle we had driven 2 hours to see was actually only a pile of old stones and a brown sign that said (site of). too many of those disappointments and we stopped going out in search of castles altogether.

BUT.....

we loved nottingham. we couldn't make the 2 hour drive often, but every time was well-worth the trip. we picnicked in sherwood forest and toured the art exhibits in nottingham castle. i miss biking the fen roads through village after village, over fjords, passing fields of wheat with no other sound than our wheels and the occasional car. i miss our house in the village, when we would wake up to the sounds of the horses in their back pasture in the mornings. i miss the fresh produce at tesco. i miss roundabouts. i miss the quiet. i miss the occasional high tea, sitting down with friends for a cuppa and watching the world slow for an hour, because we were all sitting down having a cuppa. i miss the christmas faire. who knew that toting a stein filled with hot mulled cider (or cocoa for the kiddies) and munching fresh roasted or warm, candied chestnuts during a light snowfall could be so magical?

we attended a fabulous medieval banquet, the likes of which i have not ever seen stateside. we dressed in medieval garb and the table was served by bustier-busting wenches laden with pewter pitchers of mead and ale. we were served soup in bread bowls and no utensils, so we sopped the thick heavy stew up in bites of bread. one person carved the several chickens at the table and we ate with our hands, as traditional medieval diners would. i had to scoot down the bull hotel's back stairs on me arse to the waiting car so i wouldn't fall to my death that night. it was fun - and it wasn't just the mead.

we had a wonderful time in our brief visit to scotland. the staggering beauty of fresh snow on ben nevis every morning was a sight to behold. we stopped for tea every couple of hours up there, just to keep warm! and that was in april!! loch ness surpassed my imagination in scope and beauty. we tried haggis on toast that week, and although i won't eat it again, that decision has more to do with how it's made than how it actually tastes.

we loved visiting our friends in knaresborough, in the yorkshire dales. our friends could actually see that bridge in the website's pic from the end of their street. we went to the fall festival and regularly bought the queen's "pink lady apples" at her winter residence in sandringham. we did actually make it to london on a few occasions. we hung out at the zoo in london and hit the hard rock cafe once, also visiting the sherlock holmes museum on baker street. and stonehenge is breathtaking at sunset. that is not a postcard; i took that shot in january 1999.

but we shallow americans pined for our pizza delivery, 24 hour stores, ATM's on every corner, restaurants without any smoking at all EVER, sun, chocolate chips, and proper cake. (sponge and rolled marzipan just never did it for me.) like i said, we miss some things. we plan, someday, to make england a stop on a tour through europe...for a chutney & cheese at just desserts! it's a great place to visit, but i couldn't live there.

getting ribbed in america

2009-08-19T12:57:00.000-05:00

"I just ate the most wonderful meal at the Officer's Club," he began -- in Arabic, of course. The students who didn't understand were scribbling notes and frantically flipping through the dictionary. He was late. He was always late for his right-after-lunch class and we just dealt with it. Those of us who could not afford to eat in the Officer's Club even if we were allowed in, just rolled our eyes and prepared for the story of privilege that was about to unfold. He had the flair for the dramatic, from the sharp angles of his eyebrows, down his regal nose, all the way through to the crinkles at the corners of his mouth. He was known by that smile as easy-going, even if strict. His grammar was better than most in his field, and he was respected by student and colleague alike. He was going bald and he was not fighting it. His comb-over looked more as if it was out of respect, to deflect the light from the students' eyes, rather than trying to hide the pate shining beneath that fading rug.

"The meat, she was falling from the bone. The flavor of the ribs was like nothing I have tasted before. That wonderous smoked meat was so good, and so fabulous, I had called to the, the chef to come to my table and I told to him that he was the best chef in all California."

Bjurstrom glanced up from his paper. "You ate ribs at the Officer's Club today?" he asked, with a strange look in his eyes.

"B'il arabia, min fudlik," insisted Dr. Asfoor, which we all knew by now translated to "in Arabic, please."

"You have eaten the ribs in your lunch at the Officer's Club today?" he managed, struggling with the past tense. He licked his index finger and started thumbing through his dictionary, a smile tugging unprofessionally at the edges of his mouth. Those of us who knew him well, knew something was up. We took our direction, however slight and unspoken, from the former Airborne Ranger designated as our class leader.

"Do you want to know where I ate this fabulous meat?" Dr. Asfoor teased the class into conversation. He drew us in, one by one, including us in the details, teaching us phrases and helping us talk around words and verb conjugations we had not yet learned. That is probably why I loved conversation so much. I loved diving right into the unknown and muddling around learning.

Bjurstrom carefully placed his dictionary in the corner of his desk and arranged his notes, while waiting for a lull in the conversation. "I ate ribs at the Officer's Club today, too," he said as proud as a five-year-old holding his first school painting.

Dr. Asfoor, turned to him with a big smile and asked, "Yes, and what else did you eat? Tell us because we cannot go inside, ya rafiq," he joked.

"I ate a salad and some milk. Milk makes a soldier strong. It was a good meal and my stomach is full. I do enjoy a tasty pig."

Dr. Asfoor broke into peals of laughter. "You are a funny student!" he exclaimed. "I love to hear my students tell jokes to me! I could not eat a pig!! They were beef ribs!" He was laughing so hard he was holding his belly and wiping tears from his eyes. I told you he was drama to the core.

Bjurstrom looked around the room and we could see the smile screaming behind his eyes. He was trying so hard to hold it together and it hit me. Dude. Our Muslim teacher just ate pork ribs. And on a Friday, no less, their holy day. And he liked them. The only thing that could make this worse was if he had somehow managed to eat them with his left hand.

"No, really," Bjurstrom brought out the English. "Those were pork ribs."

The classroom got deathly quiet. "No. You are mistaken. They were the beef ribs. Surely they would not serve pork ribs on this army base." He paused for a moment, and before anyone could take another breath he stated, "I must leave."

And leave he did.

He didn't return until Monday, when we heard from all the teachers about Poor Majid Asfoor getting poisoned sick at the Officer's Club on bad meat. He had to go to the hospital and have his stomach pumped. Our entire class snickered and elbowed every time it was mentioned. We tried explaining how much he liked the ribs and how tasty he thought they were, and the conversation was simply derailed, every time. Dr. Asfoor himself, brought in a new lesson plan altogether and dramatically changed the subject permanently. He even pretended not to understand either Arabic or English when the subject was brought up for the remainder of the YEAR.

I guess there are some things better left unsaid.

crockpot chicken cacciatore

2009-08-03T21:41:00.000-05:00

from the crockpot cookbook (we have a 5-qt. model)

1 med onion, thinly sliced
3 lb chicken, cut up
12 oz tomato paste
4oz drained mushrooms (or about 3/4 C fresh)
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
2 cloves minced garlic
2 tsp crushed oregano leaves
1/2 tsp basil
1 bay leaf
1/2 C dry white wine
1 lb cooked spaghetti

(NOTE: i added 1 can undrained diced tomatoes and about 1 C thinly sliced yellow zucchini because i like my cacciatore veg-ful)

place onion in bottom of crockpot, with drained mushrooms, drained (reserve juices) tomatoes and zucchini. place chicken atop veggies. combine tomato paste, wine, and spices, adding reserved juices from tomatoes if needed. pour atop meat & veggies. place bay leaves in sauce. cover & cook on low - 8 hours or high - 4 hours. serve atop spaghetti.

alcohol screaming

2009-07-03T13:13:00.000-05:00

I remember it like it was yesterday. No blacked-out pieces, no waking up in strange places, no cautious uncertainty....I remember just about every detail. After all: most of them went into the police report. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

July 1997. Sweltering heat of Maryland. Plenty of booze laid in from the Class Six. Jello shooters mixed and frigidated the night before. Good friends re-uniting from several bases on the eastern seaboard at my house. Promises of good food (always, i can't let them down), good music (as dh could never let them down either), good drinks and good laughs, plus the added comedy of three dogs and a baby. Bring on the birthday party already.

We invited neighbors, thereby notifying them that we'd be rowdy for a while. But strangely none of them showed up. We cleaned the house like mad, opening windows, re-arranging furniture for the maximum party atmosphere, and cleared out all the land mines in the back yard. Music cranked, bodies arriving, food being eaten...all signs of a rockin' party. Still no neighbors, even though they said they'd come. Strange bunch of co-street-habitants we live amongst. *shrug* Oh well. Their loss.

Nigh about 10:30, I toddled across the street to ask the friendly beings there if they'd like to join us for my champagne toast. I don't know why. It just seemed like the thing to do at the time. I walked in (their front door was open) to a full-blown screaming match between Navy member wife and paraplegic husband. Drunk and giggling, I still decided to ask them if they wanted to come over. Wife responded with a resounding, "Yes. Anything to get away from him!" Back across the street I shuffled, crystal champagne flute in hand, concentrating on making it ring around the edge as I walked. The shouting match followed behind me. And then I heard the screams.

I lurched around (in my own yard by now) to see husband in his wheelchair with a death-grip on wife's hair trying to twist her head off. Literally. In the middle of the street. Her voice was becoming more strangled-sounding when I burst into my home, snatched up the phone and dialed 911. Other neighbors came out of other homes, separated husband from wife on opposite sides of the street and locked his wheels while we waited on the phone for the 60-120 seconds it took for the base police to arrive.

Navy wife was taken into custody "to cool down" (WHAT?!? The victim gets in trouble? Oh, no, it's the military member who gets in trouble, i see.....not) and husband is sent back into the house, under surveillance for a while. Or something. And then the head police dude comes into my house to take the official report from the person who called. Yup. Drunk Katerooni.

He took a long sweeping gaze at the detritus of a former good time strewn from one end of the room to the other. Don't get me wrong. It didn't look like a crack-house, but every horizontal surface was covered with bottles, glasses, and flutes of varying fullness alongside empty jello shooter cups and paper plates of birthday cake and hors d'oerves.

I wiggled my fingers in response to his stare and giggled, "I'm 21 today. I'd offer you a drink, but I know ya just can't stay. Too bad for you, huh?" He chuckled and smiled and began his report.

"Awe you da miwitawy membow?" he Elmer Fudd-ed. oh. my. god. It was all I could do to not laugh in his face. It didn't seem like a good idea. The room was deathly quiet, and I imagined I could hear the sounds of twenty people biting their tongues until they bled. It was the longest drunk twenty minutes of my life and although I couldn't stop smiling, I never managed to laugh outright at the officer's serious lisp. We all waited a full minute after the car door slammed and had driven away before breaking into thunderous peals of laughter.

And the lesson I learned that night? Not "Don't beat your spouse." I already knew that. Not "Don't invite the neighbors." I'm glad I had intervened and was able to call for help when I did. It was simply "Don't drink so much that you can't fill out a police report with a semi-straight face." And the Kater was careful in her drinking habits ever more.

The End.

broccoli stuffed flounder

2009-06-25T12:59:00.000-05:00

modified from the Better Homes & Gardens cookbook, 1999

4 to 6 4-oz fresh or frozen skinless flounder, sole, or other mild fish fillets, about 1/4” thick

1-1/2 C frozen broccoli, thawed & finely chopped

1 beaten egg

12 oz onion & chives flavored soft cream cheese OR

12 oz brick style cream cheese, whipped with dried minced onion & chives added

1/3 C grated parmesan cheese

1 C herb stuffing mix

¼ C milk

¼ C dry white wine

1. Thaw fish; rinse & pat dry with paper towels.

2. Drain broccoli, squeezing out excess liquid. Combine egg, half the cream cheese, and parmesan. Stir in the broccoli & stuffing mix. Spoon stuffing onto wide end of each fillet and roll up, securing with toothpicks as necessary.

3. Place toothpick-side up in a greased glass baking dish. Bake at 350* for 30 to 35 minutes or till fish flakes easily with a fork and stuffing is hot.

4. Meanwhile, cook remaining cream cheese, milk and wine in a small saucepan on med-low heat until heated through, stirring often. DO NOT BOIL. Serve sauce over fish.

Extra sauce is tasty on steamed broccoli. Make more if you want to save some for another meal in the week.

WD-40 and needle nose pliers

2009-06-13T14:18:00.000-05:00

in case you haven't heard before, i am pretty independent. my mother was always the hand-wringing waif on the side of the road, waiting for a nice strong man to come change her tire. except that she didn't talk to strangers. so it was usually a long wait until my dad could get off work and come rescue his fair maiden. my father wanted me to be different, and i quote, "no daughter of mine will stand helplessly on the side of the road." before i was allowed to take my driver's test, i had to demonstrate my knowledge of the inner workings of my own car. i had to change a tire and the oil & filter. and that included getting the motha f#%*^% jack back into it's place. i had to know how to check for a bad spark plug and maintain the fluid levels in my car. the only time i called for help was for two busted tie-rods in the middle of a busy intersection in the heat of friday night rush hour. tow truck time.

the "knowledge is power" that my father instilled in me carries on to this day. i've trouble-shooted (is that the proper past tense?) my washing machine, bikes and a ceiling fan, ordered parts online and repaired them myself. and when i get stuck, i have friends to help me figure things out. they are the good ol' google-meister, and my favorite book:

Dare to Repair, A Do-It-Herself Guide to Fixing (Almost) Anything in the Home, by Julie Sussman & Stephanie Glakas-Tenet.

i bought the book the day after we signed a contract with a realtor to start looking for our very own house. with no on-call repair folks included in the monthly mortgage payment, i thought it best to figure out how houses work so to better decide when to call a repair person. i read the book cover-to cover in a couple of days. not necessarily an interesting read, but it was well worth stocking up on the info. i called the rental office and asked for a work order on my bathroom sink to "replace the broken clevis strap on the pop-up stopper." when dude got there, looked under the sink and confirmed my diagnosis, he was 1) shocked that i had known the names of the parts and 2) wanted to know how i'd figured out that was the problem, and not a clogged drain. i beamed.

i've used the book quite a lot in the past 3.5 years, and it isn't just repairs. it also has lots of tips on what maintenance needs to be done when, including cleaning dryer vents, refrigerator maintenance and gutters. the last time i picked it up? just this morning. i've never heard of anyone breaking their key off in a lock before. i remember glancing over that and thinking, "if you're breaking keys in locks, there is a lot more wrong with you than just needing a locksmith." well, *ahem* i tripped coming in the front door this morning and bent my key in half, mostly because apparently i decided that the little key would hold me up. in trying to ease it back out again, it snapped. i swallowed the panic rising in my throat, calmly walked three feet to the bookcase, and pulled out my little book of friends.

page 154 had all the info i needed. if you can see the key sticking out, gently spray the keyhole (around the key, not pushing it further in) with WD-40 (or cooking spray, in a real pinch) and use the needle-nose pliers to gently free the key. and don't fall on the keys again. and if i couldn't see the key? i would have called a locksmith for an estimate, and determined which would cost less: extracting the key professionally or running to home depot and replacing the deadbolt altogether. i've done that before. it's cake.

i've just learned today that the same ladies who wrote my favorite chick-book also have branched out into specialties: plumbing and car repair. since we most often call experts to our house for heating and plumbing issues, i'll be requesting that book really soon. and both of our warranties just expired on our 6+ and 7+ year old cars. barnes & noble, here i come!

mocha shortbread rounds

2009-06-08T12:40:00.000-05:00

Sophisticated enough for a grown-up tea party, sweet enough to serve for an afternoon snack. Fantastic dunkers, whether in milk, coffee, tea, or cocoa. They also make great gifts, stacked in a plastic bag and tied with festive ribbon.

1-1/2 C unbleached flour
1/2 C cocoa powder
1/4 tsp salt
1 Tbs instant espresso OR
2Tbs instant coffee
1 C (2 sticks) softened unsalted butter
1C firmly packed brown sugar
1/4 C toasted finely chopped hazelnuts (optional)

1. Sift together dry ingredients. Cream butter and sugar on medium speed until fluffy, 2-3 minutes. Add the dry ingredients and mix just until dough forms...do NOT overmix.

2. Separate dough into two sections. Turn onto wax paper and roll into a 2-inch log shape. Use empty paper towel roll for a guide, if necessary. Repeat with the second section of dough. Roll in toasted chopped hazelnuts to add crunch, if desired. Wrap the dough in wax paper and plastic, place in fridge for 1-2 hours, no more than 24. (Logs can be frozen and will keep for one month.)

3. Preheat oven to 250*. Slice the dough into 1/3-inch thick rounds and place them on parchment paper lined cookie sheet. Bake cookies until they are dry and firm, about 45 minutes; do NOT overbake. Let stand on cookie sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack.

din-din is what again?

2009-05-30T13:59:00.000-05:00

tonight we are eating "but nobody likes it."

yeah. i have 2 extrememly pick y kids and they have to deal with whatever it is i decide to cook. i am the provider and i provide. nowhere in my contract does it say i have to be a short-order cook or fix everyone something that they will like. with the 2 littlest ones, that would be pizza and chicken nuggets for every meal, day in and day out world without end amen. for the record, i fix A LOT of varied meals; the younger ones are just so vocal about their dislikes (which they find after they taste the food, is actually yummy), they never give it a chance without an argument. i have come to the conclusion that they are simply drama whores.

so we have a lot of conversations that go like this:

mom: foooooooood.

child: what is it? ew. i don't like that. i'm only going to eat bread.

mom: how old are you again?

child: five.

mom: then you'll take five bites of each thing on your plate, just like you're told to do every night. (fortunately for them i only put the number of bites they are required to take on their plate, so they usually end up cleaning their plates anyway. sooooo clever.)

child: nooooo! i don't wannnaaaaa! i don't want dessert! punish me with bread and butter! (for clarification, that is what they get if they take one bite of everything and refuse to eat anything more. i will not starve them, but i will not cater to whims either.)

mom: sit down and eat or stand in the corner and you can eat cold nasty food when the rest of us are done.

child: okaaaay. yuck. (pouting. faces from calvin and hobbs cartoons appear, accompanied by gagging sounds.) (or , pouting. then, hey!! this is really good. i don't like it, but i love it.)

i have a take on the classic green bean casserole that makes it into a one-pot meal. i add cooked ground turkey and toss in some rice. one night, i discovered i was out of ground turkey, so i tossed in some frozen pieces of chopped cooked chicken instead. i answered the question of "what is it?" with "nobody likes it so it doesn't matter what i call it." i waited for the gagging sounds to commence and they all went. "wow, mom. this is the best casserole you've ever made!"

so we are having "but nobody likes it" for dinner tonight. and the kids are actually cheering.

webster's ninth

2009-04-16T16:00:00.000-05:00

of all the four-letter, one-syllable f-words in webster's ninth (out of date, yes) collegiate dictionary, face fact fade fail fain fair fake fall fame farm fart fash fast fate faun fawn fear feat feed feel feet fell felt fend fere fern fess fete feud fice fief fife file fill film find fine fink Finn fire firm fisc fish fist five fizz flab flag flak flam flan flap flat flaw flax flay flea flee flew flex fley flip flit floc flog flop flow flub flue flux foal foam foil fold folk fond font food fool foot forb ford fore fork form fort foul four fowl frap Frau fray free fret Frey frig frit froe frog fuck fuel full fume fund funk furl fuse fuss futz fuzz fyke, only fuck makes me feel better when i am having a bad day. see, i'm not uneducated. i'm a wordsmith; the words just come to me.

check your mirror

2009-04-07T14:07:00.000-05:00

I have been trained to listen.

I had the distinct displeasure of having a supervisor give me a link to a Fox network show "Freedom Watch" video entitled "Man detained and harassed at airport for carrying cash." Forgive me for not knowing the names of any of the gentlemen in suits. I don't watch tv and they aren't wearing name tags. Fox network spliced up the 25-minute audio into a little over 1-minute sound byte to make it sound like just TSA personnel are "interrogating," but if you listen to the whole audio cut, as I have, you will hear that TSA (which actually means Transportation Security Administration, not safety) stops their questioning and calls in the Missouri police. Ninety percent of this takes place between a single police officer and the passenger....not with the TSO (that is, Transportation Security Officer).

I can hear the sound of metal detectors in the background, as well as the sound made by luggage on the rollers exiting the x-ray machines. This conversation took place in a private screening room, located on or adjacent to the checkpoint, specifically designed for passenger privacy.
I can hear that there is one passenger in the room.
I can hear that there are two voices belonging to Transportation Security Officers, of unknown rank.
I can hear that there is one Missouri police officer in the room, who communicates to dispatch via radio.

A man comes through the security checkpoint in St. Louis with a metal box in his carry-on. The metal box is removed from the carry-on for additional inspection and the TSO sees a large amount of money inside. For the safety of the passenger and his belongings, the TSO is required to ask if the passenger would like to continue in a private screening room. The private screening room is indeed "windowless," thus also rendering it "private," which is out of the public eye. The TSO is required to take a supervisor into the private screening room. Once in the private screening room, the passenger refuses to answer questions about the amount and origin of the cash. Although it is not illegal to carry cash on an airplane, large amounts are considered suspicious and worthy of a second look. Since the passenger refused to divulge how much cash was there, that made him look more suspicious. The passenger refused to answer questions about his business in St. Louis, or why he was traveling with the cash to Virginia. He would not answer whether the cash was his or not. That is also suspicious. Why do they want to know? Well, they bring up the DEA. That is a big fat clue. I determined that they think he was selling or smuggling drugs....which is an illegal activity.

The Missouri police officer contacted dispatch to determine if the passenger had a criminal record. While waiting on the report, a further investigation of his belongings ensued. Once they discovered checks, pamphlets, and other merchandise from the political organization "Campaign for Liberty," it was determined that he did not present a threat to the aircraft. Only AFTER the TSOs and Missouri police found all of this other stuff, did the passenger finally decide to answer some questions. Ultimately, a three-minute discussion would have stopped this whole 30-minute escapade. Dispatch reported a negative outcome on his criminal record check and the passenger was told he was free to go. The TSO then followed proper procedure in contacting his Screening Manager - the man that the Fox network dubbed the "plainclothes agent."

The passenger repeatedly refused to answer questions....stating, "Am I legally required to answer the question?" It is not my place to interpret Missouri law from here, but I can safely say that it would have been a lot easier on him to just answer about the campaign contributions...or sales, whatever he wants to call it. He had no problem announcing his activities to the nation at large, but he couldn't do it in private. Hm. That makes it more suspicious after the fact. As a matter of fact, the last words recorded by the passenger, spoken to an unknown companion as he left the private screening room, were, "That, sir, is damn good recording right there." Sounds to me like it was planned.

After playing this doctored clip for the masses, without distinguishing who was doing the bulk of the interrogating...and placing all blame squarely on the shoulders of the TSA, the Fox network show's host goes on to state that the passenger was arrested, and ultimately "a plainclothes agent" appeared and magically made all the problems go away. False. The passenger was never placed under arrest. He was never threatened with arrest. He was told that due to his uncooperative attitude, he could be detained at the police station for further questioning if necessary. Because of the passenger's continued feigned ignorance, he was also threatened with a pair of handcuffs, should he decide not to walk to the station of his own will. The passenger was free to go mere minutes after the criminal record check was completed. The host of this Fox network show then went on to say, "Put his [the passenger's] picture back up there." A rich old white guy in a suit puts up a picture of a young white guy in a suit and has the audacity to ask, "Does he look like a terrorist to you? I mean, does he look dangerous? Come on!"

There is a messy legal term for looking at someone and determining if that person is a threat: "profiling." The Transportation Security Administration has specific training regarding its anti-profiling policies. It does not appear that the Fox network has such anti-profiling policies, as demonstrated by the words and actions blatantly displayed on this show. The Fox network clearly panders to an audience that wants to think it is being persecuted by some unneeded bureaucratic agency. So, to the people of Fox network and the writers and staff of "Freedom Watch": show me the face of a terrorist. Can you recognize a terrorist? You have to be able to show this terrorist face without incriminating any race, any religion, any sex, any age, any income level....can you do it? I bet not. Because there is no "face of terrorism," TSOs every day face unknown and unknowable threats, from basically harmless, yet spiteful passengers looking for a fight to the very real and continued threats that go unsung and unseen by the public.

I am secure in my training and my beliefs. You want to see the face of a terrorist? Check your mirror. I don't trust anyone.

sweet potato biscuits

2009-03-30T12:25:00.000-05:00

a martha stewart show (~2002) recipe i originally scribbled onto a
school menu with a purple crayon....and later got sick of trying to
decipher the crayon and looked it up on the net. yums warmed and with
butter. goes perfect with a sunday or easter ham dinner.

bake your yams! you can nuke them in the microwave & puree them in
the food processor or blender, but it works so much better to prick
them and wrap them in foil, tossing them in the oven to bake just like
regular potatoes. when they are nice and soft, i simply beat the hell
out of them with the electric mixer. no need to dirty all the blender
parts.

2 C unbleached flour
1 Tbls baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp ginger
3 Tbls brown sugar
grated orange zest
6 Tbls melted butter
~2/3 C buttermilk (or sour milk*)
1 C cooked, pureed sweet potato

(*sour milk = pour 1 T lemon juice into a glass measuring cup. fill to
the 1 C line with milk and let sit @ room temp for 5-10 min. it will
curdle.)

1. mix first 6 dry ingredients together. Add melted butter and blend until it has a crumbly texture.
2. stir in sweet potato until well blended.
3. add enough buttermilk to make a soft texture. knead a little more flour into the dough if it is sticky.
4. pat (don't roll!!) the dough to 1/2" thickness. cut with 2 " biscuit
cutter dipped in flour. place on parchment-paper-lined pan.
5. prick lightly with fork. brush with ~2Tbls melted butter.
6. bake @ 350* for 15 minutes.

do NOT re-roll dough! it makes the 2nd batch of biscuits tough. roll
the leftover scraps in cinna-sugar, twist and brush with butter, baking
on parchment as above to use the scraps. the more the dough is handled,
the tougher they taste.

What A Deal!!

2009-03-10T13:41:00.000-05:00

Rock that economy, folks, wooooooo! Have you ever sat and actually read the fine print on your junk mail? I was in the mood for some light reading, and man, this just hit the spot. I needed that laugh.

First Premier Bank of South Dakota wants our business! It’s true. They specialize in account holders with less-than-perfect credit. (Wait, what are they trying to say about my bill-paying abilities?? Bite me!) So get this, we’ve been pre-approved for a credit limit of a whopping $250! But wait…there’s more!

We have 25 days to pay First Premier back in full, or we can get charged some fees. And that 25 days is from the date we make the first transaction, not 25 days from the billing date. Remember that, mmkay?

0% introductory APR (which is the fee First Premier charges for allowing us to borrow the credit) for a whole year, then 9.9% until they decide they want to change the rates, which can happen any time they choose after allowing us to open an account with them. If our account goes delinquent ONE time in 12 months, our APR jumps up to 19.9%. But we can talk them back down to 9.9% after we make on-time payments for 3 consecutive months after that.

19.9% APR (plus a $5 or 3% fee for each transaction) if we want to spend our credit like cash from an ATM. But we can’t get more than $25 in cash within the first 90 days of the account opening.

$95 one-time Program Fee as a condition of extending credit to us…well, for letting us borrow the money. Okey Dokey. Guess that makes up for the 0%APR.

$29 one-time Account Set-Up Fee as a condition of extendin…wait, then what was that first $95 for?

$48 Annual Fee for allowing us to borrow…I just said that.

$7.00 Monthly Servicing Fee for …can you guess that one? This is getting tedious.

$.50 minimum monthly finance charge. A finance charge is what the bank can charge us for allowing us to borrow the money. Kind of like an APR, right? So much for that 0% introductory APR. I thought zero meant none.

$3.00 monthly account maintenance fee (for closed accounts with a balance of $20+). Um, which is somehow different from the minimum finance charge. Because the account needs maintaining. Like a pool boy or something.

But wait….there’s still more!

$29 for a payment made one day late…plus the APR bump mentioned above.

$29 if we spend any amount over our gargantuan credit limit. I am challenged to find a place where I would not actually spend it all.

$25 if First Premier decides we are good enough for a credit increase, they will automatically deduct that bad boy whether we want the increase or not. And they don’t have to tell us when we get that increase.

$11 if we want to pay them through an autodraft service through First Premier.

$7 if we want to pay by phone or internet through an autodraft. Um which one is it, $11 or $7 guys? Wouldn’t this actually fall under the account maintenance I’m already being charged for? You are maintaining my account by forcing me to pay for it, right?

$5 imposed by First Premier if we want to send our payment by wire transfer.

$3.95 annually if we want to use the internet to access account information , and ostensibly to make payments….which we’ll be charged $7 or $11 a pop for, if they can figure out which one to charge…or maybe it’s both? Who the hell cares at this point?

$3 if we lose our statement in a pile of junk mail and need another copy….wouldn’t I just rather pay another buck and print it from the web anyway?

So, in summary, let’s tot that up, shall we?

Credit Limit: $250
Program fee -95
Account Set Up -29
Annual fee -48
Monthly - 7
First finance charge (minimum) -.50

Available to borrow $70.50 (or less.)

Pay by internet -3.95
Autodraft (rounded up for safety) -18

Now available $48.55 (or less.)

For a single year, it would cost a minimum of $273.04 just to have this line of credit, and that doesn’t include any interest, over-limit fees, limit increases, internet or autodraft charges or anything. If we really needed $250 that badly, we wouldn’t actually have $250 after opening this account. And then to get penalized every month? Just opening the account and leaving it open for 6 months without making a single transaction would give us an over-limit fee in month 5. We have moved on. We live by cash on the barrel now. You can keep your exclusive offers, First Premier Bank of South Dakota, but thanks for the laugh!

charm city, hon? i think not.

2009-02-23T15:20:00.000-05:00

assholes are everywhere. i've lived in four different time zones, and yeah, they're everywhere. but i will swear to all the gods and goddesses that be, that the largest collection of assholes spread across every faith, color and generation are situated here. in charm city.

the place where people routinely drive 20 mph over the speed limit in the slow lane and qualify in the fast lanes while talking on their phones, eating and/or drinking, all while flipping me the bird because i'm actually only going 70 in a 60 mph zone. well, yeah. screw me then. the place where you actually get run off the road while you're lawfully riding your bike. where people honk at you while you're crossing the road during the "walk" light - every time. the place where people leave their grocery carts in a parking space adjacent to the cart corral, then get mad at me when they roll into their own cars. where the four seasons of the year are ravens pre-season, FUBAAA!!!, bowl season, and post-season. if you don't wear purple every friday to school in january, you get kicked for not supporting the ravens. i hate football. i don't care what team it is. i really could care less if the whole bloody team walked off the face of the earth and never returned. keep your stupid red-necked purple crow wearing brats off my kids. the place where you can't back out of your own driveway (or pull into it) without getting honked at or someone screeching around you in a rage for making them slow down to 30 mph on a residential street.

i can't find any info on how baltimore got it's witty little nickname - probably a marketing scheme similar to the one that gave us our 2007 multi-million dollar tourist-attracting motto: "Get In On It." a-wha? your tax dollars at work, folks. can i just have the road fixed instead? the money's already spent? wow. too bad that's all you guys could come up with. i wish i could get paid for absolutely no work. my kids have better ideas than that. but they're getting kicked, so they're busy right now.

i have news for charm city and it's inhabitants. there's more to life than baltimore. i get the weirdest looks when i say things like, "my parents live in another state," or "i really can't wait to go back to arizona." they generally completely lose their eyebrows when they hear we've lived in england. and i still get the question, "so if he was born in england, why doesn't he have a british accent?" please remain seated until the ride has come to a complete stop. and put down the cheese whiz and crab cakes.

baltimore is charm city? i don't think so, hon. if this is charm, i'd really hate to see the out-right hositlity. because that seems to be all i ever see anyway. no offense to anyone i have met personally, because if i've met you, and we're still friends...you obviously aren't who i am referring to anyway. apparently you-all need to start giving charm lessons to charm city!

good morning to the greater bal-wash area

2009-02-04T09:54:00.000-05:00

ahem.

due to the large number of accidents on the streets and highways of the greater bal-wash area this morning, i must say that i am ashamed to live in a state that receives one inch of snow overnight and the residents lose their minds. right out the window. hey, i just had an epiphany: schools are closed and delayed, not because of accumulation, but because of all the bad drivers on the road that put the kids in danger. wow.

apparently those $500 driver's ed classes which are required before taking the written test don't actually teach anything, based on the number of drivers who can't drive in good weather, let alone throw some precipitation and/or darkness into the mix.

rule number one: there is no such speed as mach 50 in a land vehicle. stop trying to achieve it on the way to work.

rule number two: you should arrive to work on time in good weather so you have some credibility when the weather is bad and will not get into trouble for arriving late. then you can take your time and point & laugh at all the fools in the ditches.

rule number three: scrape all of your car windows before attempting to drive. a 3-inch hole over the steering wheel does not count. you need all your windows clear so you can see that mack truck when you change lanes suddenly without using a blinker while attempting mach 50. otherwise your car would only have a three-inch hole above the steering wheel instead of all those blasted windows to scrape.

rule number four: residential streets (that's a long word for "streets with houses on them") have slower speeds than multi-lane highways. people who live in those houses need to get into and out of their driveways without being honked at, run down, and/or killed. drive slower and it won't seem like that bitch just cut you off.

rule number five: ice and snow do not automatically melt when they hit the ground, even if that is what happened yesterday at noon. sometimes the ice and snow make a weird covering on the ground that makes it difficult to drive a car. again with the "slowing down" theme. (do i sound like a CD with a scratch in it yet?)

rule number six: if you are tailgating, that means your car is too close to the one in front of you. "too close" can generally be defined like this: the driver cannot see the license plate, grill, headlights, hood, or windshield wipers of the car in their rearview mirror, but can read their lips and see that they are being cussed out
for being too slow. tip: peeps who slow down are trying not to wreck. back off or change lanes.

rule number seven: you shouldn't be talking on your cell phone and drinking coffee while trying to drive, even when the roads are stellar. um, that goes double for texting and/or catching headlines on the blackberry. if it's not important enough to pull to the side of the road, it's not that important.

rule number eight: blinkers are your friends. the rest of us kinda need to know what the hell you're doing, since you and your phone are obviously not paying attention to the road. especially if you drive in the fast lane and wait until the yellow "exit only" sign comes up before you decide to exit.

rule number nine: your road rage means nothing to me. yes i did just take a picture of you and your license plate number. your ass is on platewire.

rule number ten: just because you pay taxes doesn't mean you own the road. and just because we all pay taxes doesn't mean we have to all drive like we own the road. here's a crazy idea: if we all start earlier and slow down when the weather is bad, chances are there will be fewer accidents and we'll get to work without having to sit in miles of backed-up traffic due to accidents. full circle, huh? whooooa.

Introduction to Using a Bathroom Door

2009-02-02T10:41:00.000-05:00

so i wasn't feeling well. which meant i needed to make many trips to the bathroom over a couple of days. you needed the backstory, short as it is.

Introduction to Using a Bathroom Door
(complete with hands-on practical application)

Please gather 'round. Can everyone hear me? Good. Good. Welcome to Introduction to Using a Bathroom Door. We'll start with a lecture and move on to practical applications. That means we're going to play with the door at the end. OK?

You are in a bathroom. What do we generally do in a bathroom that would require the door to be closed? Right! Use the toilet. Very good. Now, When we use the toilet, we close the door because our pants are down and we have things hanging out that we don't want everyone to see, like penises and butts or vaginas, right? That includes me. I close this door because I don't want you to see my butt hanging out. Yep. Gross. That's why there's a door.

Now when I am in the bathroom and the door is closed, I do not want you to barge in at a headlong run yelling, "MOOOOM!" If you have something to say to me, you need to knock on the door and simply tell me. You can't press your mouth against the door and mumble; you need to speak up and be very clear. I don't need to hear a long story. Tell me why I need to pull up my pants and tell me fast. Now let's do a practice with knocking.

Close your fingertips up against your palm, very nice, and put your thumb across them, just like that!! Now, this is how you knock. (knocking) Practice right here on the wall. I want to make sure that all four of you know how to do that part before we move on. (lots of knocking and giggling) Good. Excellent, Not too hard, we aren't a demolition crew. Yes. That's it.

Now that we know what knocking is, and that we knock when we see that the door is closed, and we have practiced knocking, we will talk about the reasons why you might need to actually bother me while I'm taking a dump. Do you have any ideas about that? Should Mommy need to find your most favorite lego out of the 8 million legos in our house while she is taking a dump? How about pigtails? Should Mommy need to put your hair in pigtails while pooping? No and no. Very good. I am not going to make you a sandwich from the toilet, either. We are talking about emergencies. If someone has had their hand lopped off by Darth Vader, yes, Mommy needs to get off the pot. If there is a Mack truck crashing into the living room, yes, Mommy needs to pinch off that loaf and call the insurance company. If the ceiling fan disconnects from the ceiling and turns into an Indiana-Jones-style projectile weapon, yes, Momma should be interrupted to fix that. Pretty much anything not involving injuries or damage to the house is a 'No.'

OK, now here is the fun part. Think of a reason why I might need to be bothered on the toilet. Everyone have a reason? Good. Out. Pretend I'm on the toilet. Oh, No!! Whatever shall we do? The bathroom door is closed!

(knocking) "Yes? I'm on the toilet. The stove caught fire? Damn! Stay away from the stove 'til I wipe my butt!!" Excellent! Next.

(knocking) "Yes? I'm on the toilet. Oh, No! The dog escaped the backyard! I'll be right there!" Good one.

(knocking hard, til the door opened up) "Fail. You opened the door. Go to the end of the line and try again."

(knocking) "Yes? I'm on the toilet. Darth Vader is climbing in through the window? I'll grab my lightsaber and be right up." Nice.

(knocking) "Yes? I'm on the toilet. You were playing America's Top Chef and cut your finger? That wasn't very smart. Lemme get my draws on. I'm on my way."

Now we all understand what a bathroom door is for, why it is closed, when we should bother Mommy on the toilet, how to knock, and have practiced doing it the right way. Does anyone have any questions?

Thank you for your time and attention. You can go play now.

not not not

2009-02-01T20:40:00.000-05:00

OK.

breathe with me.

hold my hand. please hold my hand.

it’s not a date. it’s NOT a date. it isn’t a date....is it??

my eighth-grade daughter came home from the boy scout family camping weekend with stars in her eyes. wearing someone else’s hat. not responding to any teasing about “her new boyfriend.” and hadn’t responded in any way all weekend long. oh, my.

she showered and changed into in cards-wear, brushed her hair out long and didn’t put it into her signature ponytail. and then we painted her nails cardinal red and i put teeny tiny C-A-R-D-S on her nails in white. she is right this minute at the home of a fellow scout-mom. a boy-scout mom. wait, i have it wrong. she is at the grandmother’s house of a boy scout. he, the boy-scout, wanted to invite my baby girl to a family gathering “to introduce her.”

please tell me it’s not a date.

please.

traditions & thoughts

2009-01-02T16:52:00.000-05:00

goodbye & good riddance, 2008. we opened the door politely for 2009, carrying hope and peace on its strapping new back. we rang in the new year pretty quietly, since i was supposed to get up at 2 and go to work today. i never did fall back asleep after midnight and flew through my day tanked on starbucks. we traditionally eat snackie-poos all nite, nibbling and watching movies to pass the time until The Hour arrives. then we don coats and shoes and run up and down the front yard making noise with our neighbors to drive out the old year and bring in the new. the kids & boys watched movies (while i slept) until The Hour and for the first time, all four kids made it. yay!!!

i await the hope that breathes through the nation this month - not just from one direction, but from all directions. i believe that we, as a nation, can heal our hundred wounds. it will take time, perseverance, and we'll have to dig in and hold on, but 2009 brings more than just a regime change - it is a change in the state of mind.

holiday aftermath

2009-01-02T13:54:00.000-05:00

the thought just occurred to me that, since the kids are entertained elsewhere with the boys, and the house is quiet, and i have no responsibilities (save ironing tomorrow's uniform), dude. i can write!! it's been such a while since i have had the time, quiet, and motivation. so here i iz. writing. sweet.

there are a great number of incidents at work that pass by me on a daily basis that merit a head shake, a small chortle into my sleeve or a guffaw after the passenger is out of earshot. those are the passengers who, after going through the metal detector six times, realize that their cell phone has metal in it. those are the ladies who thought that the liquid restrictions only applied to water. those are the dudes who look me in the eye and place their boarding passes underneath their laptops - under their laptop bags - and then roll their eyes when we have to go fetch it all back again. and then there are the truly stellar dumb-fucks. i write about those. people do some crazy shit over the holidays. i mean, peeps lose their cotton-pickin minds.

there were a couple of individuals (on different days) who warranted a second look. mannerisms that just weren't quite right for various reasons. like....ShoeMan, who was talking to his shoe and then licked it before sending it through the xray. yeeeah-no. and then there was Jesus Freak who claimed to have diplomatic immunity because he was a man of the cloth. he went ape-shit after being selected by his airline to undergo additional screening, calling my colleagues names like "fucking arab scum" and "low-life government monkeys." he was trouble from start to finish, telling us that we did not have his spiritual permission from his god above to touch his holy book. it was a bible...wrapped in dirty underwear with cheese slices used as bookmarks. i wish i was kidding, folks. he sprinkled as many merry-christmases as he did fuck-all-of-yous into each sentence. the last thing i heard from him was, "you do not have the right to treat me like a criminal!!!!" as he was being cuffed for threatening to blow us all away. that guy didn't make his flight.

then there was the day that we had some interesting ladies entertain us. Light-Fingered Susie was wearing four shirts, three pair of jeans and a skirt....all with security tags attached. because she set off the metal detector (um, duh) and we could not clear her to pass to the airplane, she (along with her two bags stuffed full of merchandise) was asked to leave and return without security-tagged clothing. the same day, while observing my trainee complete a bag check, a sweet little cockroach crawled right up out of that handbag - purse, folks! used every day!! - and scared the piss out of my trainee. i took the woman's wallet and smeared that little fucker all over the inside of her purse. then we changed our gloves. and both washed our hands. twice. and bathed in alcohol.

of course, it wouldn't be christmas without all the pissed off passengers who wrap their stupid prezzies and send them through the xray. man, i rip through those bad boys like they were wrapped for me. makes a sucky day brighter to open presents, especially since i can't keep them. and then we have the odd assortment of people who simply must bring their own 20 pound christmas ham in their carryon. and cell phones removed from their clamshell cases and wrapped in newspaper, walmart sacks and duct tape. stacked with 8 jars of kimchi. or a five pound brick of cheese with watches scotch-taped to it. wait, what?? yeah, send that guy into the box and check all his stuff. cheese and watches don't make good appetizers.

and it isn't just the passengers. the crew members, unfortunately, must go through this set of hoops as well. the ones that make me mad are the ones that know the rules and just ignore me. metal detectors don't care if you fly the plane. neither do i. empty those pockets into the bowl and take your electronics out of their bags. and for the love of socks, to the skycaps who push wheelchairs through the airport 700 times a day: GET SOME PANTS THAT FIT!! your belt has to come off, your pants always fall down and i am done, past done, with your boxers.

but the very tippety-top this year, the custom, hand-sculpted topping on the lemon-chiffon-with-ribbons-of-cream-cheese-and-whipped-lemon-curd-icing-cake, was Chainsaw Sally (and Friends). because really, who brings a chainsaw on an airplane? anyone? anyone have that answer? Chainsaw Sally not only brought her tool, but lube for it, and fuel as well, and was completely aghast at being told to pack her shit and check that bag. and no. no one offered to help her re-pack. in the wise, wise words of supervisor Patty: "you should know better than to bring that on a plane. you got it in there in the first place. you figure out how to get it back in. now go." that was a first for every single solitary person on the checkpoint. but it doesn't stop there. in the past seven days, we have had not one, not two, but three (count 'em!!) THREE chainsaws through our checkpoint. a record for the airport. ever.

cotton-pickin minds.

stupid questions of the season (asked by grownups, i shit you not):

what's a boarding pass?
what i said: um, that paper thingy with your name and that special place you want to go printed on it. it's prolly in your bag because i asked you to hold on to it.
what i thought: that piece of paper that you just had in your hand less than 5 seconds ago, dumbass.

is that mine?
what i said: well, it doesn't look like santa's. his has white fur on it.
what i thought: how the fuck should i know? do i look like your fucking babysitter?

where did you put my bag?
what i said: i did not at any time place my hands on your belongings. where did you put your bag?
what i thought: up your ass, next to your head.

what happened to my shoes?
what i said: that depends on where you left them.
what i thought: your feet stank, so they totally left you behind to fend for yourself.

how does it go in? (pointing to the xray machine)
what i said: um, when i'm ready to press this button, the black part moves and your suitcase rolls in like magic.
what i thought: ask your mom. she has lots of experience with things that go in.

(from a woman with no foreign accent whatsoever, prolly 2nd gen, born & raised red, white & blue...)
are we in america? are you sure? because the water here tastes like mexican water. i went to the university of maryland and the water tasted good there. it didn't taste like this water, so we must be in mexico. are you sure we are in america?
what i said: yeah. you're definitely in america. matter of fact, i'mma get you someone to help you with that question. he's a nice man. we call them police officers in america.
what i thought: you are off your meds in a serious way, lady. no one in that state of mind should be able to get on a plane.

cotton-pickin minds.

creamy baked mashed potatoes

2008-12-03T22:03:00.000-05:00

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

2008-12-01T23:04:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-27T11:41:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-11T18:45:00.001-05:00

{{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

2008-10-11T16:21:00.002-05:00

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

2008-09-29T10:12:00.001-05:00

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.

2008-09-23T19:49:00.000-05:00

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

2008-08-06T10:27:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-29T21:18:00.001-05:00

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

2008-07-24T21:17:00.001-05:00

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

2008-07-21T21:17:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-15T21:15:00.000-05:00

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

2008-06-09T21:13:00.000-05:00

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

2008-05-31T21:13:00.001-05:00

...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

2008-05-14T21:08:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

2008-04-25T21:06:00.000-05:00

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

2008-04-21T21:00:00.000-05:00

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

2008-04-15T20:59:00.000-05:00

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

2008-04-15T20:43:00.000-05:00

l'eau de twat

2008-04-14T20:47:00.002-05:00

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

2008-04-10T20:25:00.000-05:00

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

2008-04-07T13:18:00.000-05:00

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.*

eating it with a big fat spoon

2008-03-28T14:16:00.000-05:00

let's see...generic downplay.....i've wanted to get this off my chest for a while. so here it is. in an ice cream dish. because today, it got sweeter.

i had a screaming match with a co-worker last month. i called him an asshole. he is an asshole. he always seems to be in a bad mood and he takes that funk and spreads it around to everyone working with him. he belittles the passengers. he can't seem to figure out how to stand up straight, (ie, he is always leaning on something, anything nearby that can support his weight. and i'm not saying he's fat. he's not.) he is frequently sighted walking away to talk on his cell phone (which no one is supposed to carry with them anyway) and sometimes someone has to go looking for him when he is needed and can't be found. once, i asked a person of management why he is so grumpy all the time and she simply stated, "he is miserable here." well. that makes one hell of an excuse for surliness, doesn't it? i have tried being more sympathetic with him but it is really hard to be nice to someone who is snarling and asking you to do their job for them at the same time, while walking away.

on the day of the aforementioned tantrum, we were working with two other individuals. these two don't often work with us, as they are "overnighters" pooled from several different stations and rotated around the airport as needed, or so i understand it. these two people were berating passengers to their faces, purposefully making fun of them and their clothing, being loud and obnoxious and the three of them put together made for one helluva lousy work environment. by the time we got our breaks, i had had enough and needed somewhere to vent. i informed my supervisor of their unprofessional behavior before i went on break. in the break room, i let a bunch of people know that i had spoken to the supervisor about the demeaning attitudes of the overnighters. a few people nodded in agreement and voiced their opinions about their conduct at that time. in a low voice someone mentioned mr. surly and his usual helpfulness in holding up the metal columns. that is when i opened my big fat mouth and said, "he's just being an asshole. that's normal for him."

i could have said jerk. i could have omitted the first sentence and made a non-committal "psh. yeah." i could have stuffed a mouthful of oatmeal in my maw and nodded furiously in agreement. but i said asshole. and all hell broke loose. see, i didn't know he was in the adjacent room.

he came screaming around the corner, demanding to know what makes him an asshole. i proceeded to tell him. did i mention that he's about 15 inches taller than me? he interrupted me often, not letting me finish one sentence, (thereby not actually hearing what made him an asshole) until it boiled down to him stating an ominous "let that be the last time my name comes out your mouth," with his arms raised over my head. yes. i felt threatened. six people watched him leave the room and immediately said, "yeah. i saw that. yeah. you can use my name." one person continued to eat her breakfast in silence as if she hadn't seen a damn thing. and i'm OK with that too, i guess.

ten minutes later i went to find him to try to talk calmly to him and apologize for shooting off my mouth. i don't like bad blood, no matter how it starts. he was already filing an incident report. and the overnighters? every other sentence out of their mouths in my earshot was, "don't act like an asshole. nope, can't be an asshole here. no assholes on this lane. are you being an asshole?" and on and on and on it went. at least i had the decency to swear in private, not in front of the passengers. no wonder we have a bad name, right? no, nothing was said or done to those two.

i was asked to provide a written statement. i did, including all of the things that qualified mr. surly as an asshole in my book (as stated in paragraph one). i got a talking-to. i was told i would get some sort of punishment because they have to do something when a complaint is lodged, if for no other reason than to say, "see? we did something. we washed her mouth out with soap" i never got to see his statement.

until this past weekend.

he pulled the race card.

may i be permitted to say, "asshole?" just one more time? just once?

needless to say, i did NOT sign the letter admonishing my behavior. i told them i refused to be accused and take responsibility for actions that did not take place. i also said i had six witnesses that were just waiting to be called upon, if necessary. there is more. but i am unsure about what i am allowed to say, since the "more" is currently wrapped up in a neat little bow a few desks up from my supervisor.

on to today and my big fat spoon.....

mr. surly has had an exceptional past month. always on time. rarely seen on his phone. running bins back and forth and almost anticipating when he's going to be called to help out with something. gee, it's almost like he's doing his real job, for real! i have been working OT as often as i can, just so i don't get assigned on a part-time lane with him. i can ignore someone to a point. when we have to communicate, we do. succinctly. i asked to be assigned somewhere else (not on his lane) this morning, and i am so glad i did. i think he has reached his limit of goodliness. four separate complaints were lodged against him today (TODAY ALONE!) for being off-site when he was needed. FOUR. and none of them were from me. he had to be hunted down (guess where he was hanging out? with his two buddies, maybe??) twice yesterday as well.

my supervisor's sup has taken note of my professional behavior both with the passengers and with my co-workers, including mr. surly, in the past month. none of my behavior has changed at all. well, except that i look around the room very carefully before i open my mouth to say anything while on break. not even "how is the weather?" he has also taken note of mr. surly's behavior. i feel like a little kid gloating, "you're gonna get in trouble...you're gonna get in trouble..." but i am actually just letting him knock himself out. and you know what? because i'm generally a nice person (who happens to swear a lot) i almost *almost* feel bad for him.

but i am not a racist and i never will be. that will stick in my craw for a good long while. so go rot, mr. surly.

seriously, an inch thick every week now

2008-03-24T20:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Responsible Credit Holder,

We have been digging around in public financial records and discovered that you have excellent credit, including many high revolving balances, on-time payments and early pay-offs. Even though your current account managers send out worthless pieces of paper once or more often every year vowing to withhold your credit information from other credit providers, like us, there is a line of small print in the many pages of legal rambling allowing them to share this information "with other parties of similar interest." That would be Us.

Since we already know about you and your fabulous record of making purchases and making timely payments, we would like to offer you the opportunity to share your paycheck with us as well, in the form of "low" interest rates for an unspecified period of time, but less than the time it would take you to pay off such a line of credit. We will offer you in return a little plastic picture of your choice with a long string of numbers on it, miscellaneous finance charges, the threat of lawsuit should you pay us one day late, and we will of course, reserve the right to send your financial information to other parties of similar interest. This includes any and all charitable organizations operated by for-profit call centers, which are not banned from using the "Do Not Call List."

Please take a moment to fill out some of the little boxes in this pre-printed form, like how much money you actually make, so we know how high to set your credit limit. We want to make sure you are spending every liquid asset you have every month. Gotta keep up with the Joneses, right? Please provide a valid email address and phone number so we can send you spam and call you repeatedly to offer you more credit while you are eating dinner or tucking your children into bed.

If you decide not to reply right away, we will start mailing these letters twice a month to you and the other responsible credit holders at this address. That way you will know how dedicated we really are to getting our grubby fingers on your cash. We look forward to seeing your checks in the mail and watching your balance rise every month.

Sincerely,
Every Major Credit Card Operator In The United States Of America

soup & bread on a coooooold day

2008-03-12T12:12:00.000-05:00

Ham & Navy Bean Soup

1 C dried navy beans
1 meaty ham bone
1-2 bay leaves
minced garlic
onion (to taste)
salt & pepper to taste
1 C chopped potato
1 – 1 ½ C diced carrots & celery
1 C chopped ham

1 – Soak beans in cold water overnight OR bring beans & water to boil for 5 minutes. Remove from heat and let soak, covered for 1 hour.

2 – Drain and rinse beans. Return to pot with the hambone and cover with water. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer 45 minutes to1 hour, until beans are desired softness. ( I like squishy bean soup.)

3 – Measure out 6-8 C of the bean water into the crockpot, adding more if necessary (1 use a ½ C ladle and just spoon it hot into the crockpot). Place minced garlic and bay leave(s) in the crockpot, season w/ salt & pepper. Add chopped veggies, beans and ham.

4 – Cook on high for 4 hours, then reduce to low. Add water when reducing heat, if needed. Discard ham bone and bay leaves, tearing off chunks of meat and adding them back into the soup. Mash beans a little to thicken just prior to serving, if desired.

*Note: All measurements are approximate. Keep in mind that I have a 6 qt crockpot and make 8+ servings, so halve if necessary for your fam! Serve with hot fresh bread or rolls.

Sour Cream, Onion & Chives Bread (2# bread machine)

1 lg. egg, room temp + enough water to equal 1 C liquid
¾ C room temp sour cream
2 Tbl oil
2 ¼ tsp salt
2 T sugar
4 C bread flour
1 ½ Tbl dehydrated onion
2 Tbl dried chives (4T fresh)
2 ¼ tsp active dry yeast (I think that’s 1 pkg)

Layer in your bread machine pan according to its instructions. Set on the regular / basic / white bread cycle and wait. I love my bread machine!!!

house-hunting in the UQ

2008-03-11T20:09:00.002-05:00

for those clamoring for another united queendom epistle: i dedicate my words to you.

for new readers: you can enjoy it too.

The new-ness of staying in a hotel wore off rather quickly. After staying in a hotel stateside for a good three weeks prior to shipping out, we now had to dine in the hotel dining room during specific hours accompanied by probably the worst examples of parenting I have ever met in person. We had no real place to relax, aside from lounging on the bed and watching tv. Everything there was to be seen in walking distance of the hotel was done in less than a week. And I was itching to prepare my own food that had actual taste.

The chef was completely boggled by my request for pancakes for breakfast; toast, baked beans, and broiled tomatoes just don't cut it for me. In France, pancakes are a fruit- or chocolate-filled dessert, not a breakfast food. Frustrated, I brought in a "just add water" Aunt Jemima pancake mix from the commissary and proceeded to teach the four-star chef how to make my breakfast. It was OK. He added too much water and they turned out like rubbery blintzes. Because that's how the French make pancakes. *sigh* So I really really wanted my own place again.

We hired an estate agent to show us some rental properties since there was a waiting list to live on post. Apartments, or flats, were really hard to come by, and in most cases were too far away from post to be worth the hassle. We wanted a house. Our estate agent had a nasal twang akin to Julie-Andrews-meets-Fran-Drescher that just set my teeth on edge, but she had several properties that might interest us. Based on the notes I took and their *ahem* distinct "charms," we gave them each their very own name.

the "red room" house. An older three-bedroom bungalow, one of three properties between two farms just outside of Welbourne. Newer carpeting throughout most of the house featuring an attached dining room, double-glazed windows, a spacious sitting room, and a newly-fitted power shower. A power shower sounded heavenly compared to the hotel tub baths torturing my long long long hair. (Power showers are electric-powered, gas- or electric-heated wall-mounted shower systems that do not rely on gravity to pull the water through the pipes.) No improvements to the property allowed. No shelves or pictures allowed on the walls. Nice house. BUT.... one of the three bedrooms, coincidentally the one big enough to hold the master bedroom furniture, was red. Red carpet. Red walls. Red ceiling. Red door. Red fixtures. Blood red. I was creeped out just peeking inside the room from the hall. I bravely walked inside, turned slowly in a circle and then ran out clutching my child to my breast and holding the rising scream in the back of my throat, fearing that blood would rain down on my head.

notes: the Red Room. NO.

the house of the locked door. This beautiful gem is nestled away in a field, about eight miles from the post. Mature poplars line the property, creating a beautiful backdrop and windbreak across the farmlands. There is a circular drive from the carriageway (highway), so no backing out into high-speed traffic required. The carpeting leaves a little to be desired, but with a toddler in arms and planning for a second baby in mind, old carpet is good carpet, so long as it can be steam cleaned. It is a two-bedroom bungalow and it looks like our California King bed set will not only fit through the door, but we might even be able to fit a wardrobe or two (because we found no closets in British bedrooms) alongside. BUT..... at the end of the hall was a locked, nay, BOLTED door. It had steel plates securing it closed from the inside of the house. Ummmm. Excuse me. Explanation please?

"Oh, right, that's the laboratory," (pronounced la-BOR-a-tree). Oh, right, the laBORatree. Of course. Ah-what? "There is a stipulation that this door stays locked because the owner lets this room to a scientist. He can't get in the house. You'll be perfectly safe. He just does his work here occasionally. He has his own door and his own drive, even; he'll never bother you. You won't even know he's here." Sure enough, outside there is a little dog-leg off the circular drive around back to this little room. A pair of wellies, a pile of used rubber gloves, a bucket, and a box of odd-shaped dirty glass bottles sits outside this door. We can't even peek in the window to see what kind of "work" is being worked upon.

notes: mad scientist next to m-bedroom, locked room. 2 big b-rooms, beautiful prop. TREES!! 8 miles. NEXT.

the dog house. A large, beautiful, stone two-story house with three bedrooms and a study, located a twenty minute drive from the post. No visible neighbors. Large garden in the front and an obvious dog run in the back. Bay window in the front sitting room. Large electric appliances in the kitchen, washer and dryer included. BUT....it was a former kennel. Dog hair was so ingrained into every carpet in the house, that after having been cleaned, it still looked like dogs had just rolled on every surface. The whole place smelled of dog ass. We were told that close to twenty dogs were kept in cages inside two of the four bedrooms. It was obvious that the cooker was seldom-used because there were puppy-sized hunks of fur inside the oven and burned to the cooker's burners. Every cabinet in the kitchen was furry, inside and out. We've had dog fur before. In fact, every year, we find another Dino-Dog hair on the Christmas tree since he left us in 1998. But that.....was disgusting.

notes: dogs. pretty, but smelly. maybe a prof. cleaner?

the skinny house. This bright white plaster three-story town house is located on the corner of High Street and Church Lane in South Kyme. The property consists of just enough space to park an Austin Mini on the pavement, without actually blocking traffic, and a clothesline from a second story window to the next-door neighbor's fence. Sits across the street from the chip shop (read: fried fish stink) and one must drive over a quaint, one-lane wooden bridge into town, visible from the third story. Front door opens one step down from street level into a sitting room barely large enough for a settee (loveseat). Eat-in kitchen boasts a traditional refrigerator under the counter (you read that correctly: three-feet high, including the freezer) and hot and cold running water. (Wow hot AND cold??) all that lovely detail... BUT...stairs to the upper floors were 18 inches high. You read that right too. There were 2 giant steps up, turn; two giant steps up, turn; two giant steps up, second story: one bedroom, one bathroom. Repeat to third story which housed only the master bedroom - and it even has a half-closet.

notes: no room to breathe. no.

the village house. Our sponsor got a lead on a three-bedroom duplex in the village just off-post. We met with the estate agent (not ours) and fell in like with the property immediately. It was on the very end of a friendly cul-de-sac with a fully fenced (odd-shaped) yard, bordering on a horse farm complete with chickens, ducks and a pond visible from the master bedroom. It was newly painted, came with most appliances and a hookup for a washer/dryer unit. It had a wall-length wardrobe in one of the bedrooms. It had an unattached garage at the end of the shared driveway. The grass in the large landscaped garden was over two feet high. We determined that we could wrangle our mattress up the stairs. Our tiny dining room table just might fit with the microwave cart in the dining room. And we could, in all actuality, make do with a refrigerator in a closet under the stairs on the other side of the dining room from the kitchen, if we wanted a bigger fridge. We took it. There ended up being only 29 giant black yard bags full of grass. We lived there for a whopping six months before the cold wind whistling through the cat door in the kitchen froze me out and we finally got to the top of the waiting list for base housing.

Now THAT was a house. It even had real closets.

creamy skillet chicken

2008-03-01T17:08:00.000-05:00

a lipton recipe!! i can no longer find lipton soup mixes, so their recipes are gone, too. i have been using knorr dry soup mixes and they have worked just fine in all my lipton recipes.

4 chicken breasts, cubed
1 envelope dry vegetable soup mix
1 C milk
1 C water
4 oz cream cheese, cubed

1. Brown chicken in canola oil in a large skillet. Remove from heat & keep warm.
2. Blend soup mix with milk & water. Bring to a boil.
3. Stir in cream cheese until melted. Add chicken back into skillet and cook until hot, about 5 minutes.

Serve over hot cooked noodles or rice, or with biscuits.

*usually i add some frozen mixed veggies or broccoli before i stir in the cream cheese because, let's be real, the dried veggies in the soup mix are in no way any kind of vegetable serving!

drink dranked drunkened

2008-02-21T23:09:00.000-05:00

i fergot to post the myspace bulletin from the other night. i giggled while i wrote. but then, i was drinkening. *hic*

1. Have you ever been drunk?
~me? nope, never, nuh-uh, not even last night. not even right this second with this tasty woodchuck in my fist. oh. wait. i had to put it down to type. bad form. *glug*

2. Do you prefer liquor or beer?
~i never prefer beer. now, cider is something else.

3. Can you handle shots?
~depends on the size of the shot. i can't take much more than a swig, most times.

4. What's your poison of choice?
~that depends highly on the mood, the occasion and the funds. and the stash for that matter. the fridge is a bit on the dry side since i started working. because i can't imagine anything harder than getting up *drunk* at 2:30am to go to work.

5. What type of drunk are you?
~giggly. loud. bouncy. talker.

6. Ever hooked up with a stranger while drunk?
~er, no. he was familiar, but he was strange. so what does that make it? new year's eve.

7. Ever peed your pants from being so wasted?
~a resounding no.

8. Are you a barfer?
~only when i chase champagne with about 10 tequila jello shooters. in a word: once. ever.

9. Do you turn into a chain smoker while drunk?
~um, since i don't smoke at all, that would be no.

10. Do you know your limits?
~absolutely. when the floor begins to move slightly off center, then it's time to eat something with starch before the next round.

11. Ever woken up asleep on the bathroom floor after a wild night out?
~nope, but i had a mark around my forehead from falling asleep with my head on the edge of a tiny little trash can. that was after the medieval banquet in england. i like mead too.

12. What alcohol makes you sick?
~crown royal. well, pretty much anything that has the look, the viscosity, and the smell of a furniture polish/urine blend.

13. Ever chipped a tooth from praying to the porcelain god all night?
~no. we already went over that. me no barfy.

14. Do you crave fast food when you’re drunk?
~nope. doritos. then again, i always eat doritos.

15. Do you tend to hug more than normal when you’re wasted?
~i don't know. anyone? is the kater a drunk hugger?

16. What's the biggest bar bill you've racked up in a night?
~*sheepishly* i've never been to a bar since i've been old enough to drink. i went with all my af friends 'waaaaaay back in the day, but i was the designated driver and i got free sprites. i think i got a really fucking awesome chocolate martini at a french cafe once and it was like $8. yeah. i agree. i need to get out more. but who's gonna pay for the sitter?

17. Do you have any hangover remedies??
~stop drinking heavily when the floor tilts. stay hydrated with something other than hooch. oh. you meant AFTER the fact.

18. Who is the funniest drunk you know?
~um, i don't know.

19. When's the last time you were completely hammered?
~date unknown, but surprise surprise, it was here in the house before i started working. i got sloshed because i knew i wouldn't be able to for a while. vodka and strawberry-banana V8 fusion.

20. Got any friends who can drink like nobody's business?
~not any more. but back in cali, man, we had some bottles to answer for in the mornings, didn't we?

21. Are you a loud or quiet drunk?
~fantabulously loud. the more i drink the higher the volume.

22. Are you a blackout drunk?
~never done that.

23. Do you like Smirnoff Ice?
~not that i know of....

24. Ever drank and drove?
~drove - as in a large group, swarm, herd, horde or crowd? or driven - as in the past tense form of the verb "to drive"?

let's try that again...

24a. Ever drink and drive?
once. on accident. honest. i ordered a virgin drink and (since i'd never had a loaded one) i didn't realize it was full up with hooch. i was the designated driver. halfway home i realized that i felt really strange (now i know i was just a little buzzed) and i pulled off the highway and took back streets home.

25. At what age did you start drinking?
~sometime in my junior year, someone handed me some kind of "light" beer in a solo cup from a keg. it was nasty. i tasted coors and rolling rock a couple of times before my senior prom. never got any kind of close to drunk. my first REAL drinking was done in cali, when i was just legal enough to be out of the house on my very own.

26 Ever been in a drunken fight?
~never.

27. Do you have a nice pair of beer goggles??
~no. i don't think they'd go well with my hair.

28. Ever passed out outside?
~you drunk or something? already went over the passed out thing.

29. What's the drunkest you've ever been?
~it's a dead tie between the medieval banquet and Y2K millenium bash. curious. both in england.

30. Have you ever been drunk with the person who posted this before you?
~nope. we were too young and law-abiding way back then.

31. Which one of your ex's had the most problem with you drinking?
~none. well, tad thinks i don't get schnockered nearly often enough. does that count?

how i spent my election day

2008-02-13T17:03:00.000-05:00

i sat bolt upright in bed at 03:30am thinking i was late for work. then i remembered i had the alarm set for 04:30am for election day. and i couldn't get back to sleep.

i dinked around for so long, taking my time because i had hours to get ready, i didn't leave nearly enough time to pack my "lunch" for 12+ hours.

i was the first one in the parking lot, at 05:56.

the school looks really odd when it's all dark with no kids inside.

you can only vote in the maryland primaries if you are a registered member of the republican or democratic party. i am amazed at how many lifetime residents of this state still don't know that.

even if you register by the 22 january deadline, you most likely still won't be in the system. wake up sometime during those two years between elections and get your business done.

if you aren't in the system, are registered in another precinct, are registered in an "other/unaffiliated" party, or wish to change your party designation on primary election day, you can only vote by paper provisional ballot. in the even of a tie or if the board of elections deems the provisional ballot count "necessary," your vote will be counted. again, wake up sometime during those two years between elections and get your business done.

i was not the youngest person on our election official team this year. i was second youngest, by 14 years.

once you get all the machines synchronized, it is best not to rearrange furniture. it would be bad to kink or displace cables. we "always do it this way," due to outlet shortages and placement, not because we are sticks-in-the-mud resistant to change. ummmm, i told you so.

it is a slap in my face to tell me that you require another judge to sit and monitor me while i load ballots. i am UNAFFILIATED. why would i lean one way or the other and try to skew votes in a primary election? and why am i the only person who needs to be watched? fuck off. do it yourself, then. i am not a toddler.

oh...now you need my help because you don't know what you are doing. hmmm. interesting.

keep your old, outdated, racist, bigoted, sexist, partisan, not-funny, generally-fucked-up uber-christian-reich comments to yourself. people like you are the reason WHY i am unaffiliated. i will not be aligned with people who sling racist remarks as jokes. no matter how many times you repeat it, i still won't find it funny. yes. it was something you said.

people who smoke heavily stand out, even in a crowd, and it is a herculean effort on my part to not curl my nose up at the stink. but i do try to keep my "game face" on.

only 21% of our precinct turned out, even though the weather didn't start to get bad until late in the afternoon. i was surprised at the low voter turnout. i hope that means everyone else is registered as unaffiliated, but i know better. most are just too lazy. our precinct voted more than 2 to 1 democratic.

no matter what type of voting system is in place, there will always be an angry mob of people who think the voting system itself is flawed. well, so are you. if you have a better idea, fix it.

apparently chief judges "don't get paid to know how the machines work." so they all come to me to figure out what they are supposed to do to open the polls on time. i'm planning on getting the big bucks as chief in november because i DO know how the machines work and that is important knowledge to have. especially if one has been "chief forever" and is not much into change.

most of the people working with me as election judge this year agreed that i should bring that up to the election board. they said they would support my shifting to chief.

people who try to register to vote or change their party designation on election day and then get mad at me because the system doesn't work that way need to shut the hell up. i registered in 2005, called the board to confirm 2 weeks later and haven't had any troubles. if you've let your registration go for 6 years, that's not my problem. let me reiterate: wake up sometime during those two years between elections and get your business done.

i am small, but i am mighty. don't you dare tell me i can't do something because i am a woman. i know my own limitations, unlike you old bravados. now, stand back before i hit you with this 75-pound voting machine.

whatever jackass decided to keep the polls open another 90 minutes due to bad weather needs to be stripped naked in front of beehive and shot repeatedly with an orange-filled cannon. most of the election judges are past retirement age and should not be expected to walk on a sheet of untreated ice to their cars and skate home after being in the polls for 16 hours.

the younger volunteers spent well over an hour warming cars, scraping windows and walking judges to their cars for safety.

1/4 inch of ice doesn't sound like a whole lot...but try standing on a solid sheet of it and scraping it from your windshield. i couldn't get a grip on the ground and every time i scraped, i slid away from the car. it was brutal.

metal folding chairs are really hard. i mean really hard. i didn't fall down on the ice at all yesterday, but it sure feels like i did. my ass hurts.

i was the last one in the parking lot at 11:21 pm. it took me 10 minutes to drive home 1/2 mile.

dogs are not cats

2008-02-10T20:08:00.000-05:00

in case you hadn't noticed.

but then again, my dog doesn't really qualify as a dog anyway. she is rather felis cattus in many ways. she doesn't fetch balls. she lays in the sun and expects a good scratch and gives nothing in return. well, there is the walk thing and the chew-on-bones thing. hmmm. and she wags her tail. we'll call her dogg-ish for now.

we have a mouse. in the house. dr. seuss i am. our mouse does not like peanut butter. our mouse does not like tuna fish. our mouse does not like chocolate, cheese or any combination of the aforementioned foods. it does, however like jelly bellies. but i'm not about to part with any more of those. i keep finding poops in odd places. places where we don't have any food. we rinse out our recyclables, so the jars and cans are pretty clean. we have a really TALL trash can with a lid, so it can't get in there. we don't generally leave food sitting out and i am a former tupperware representative, so we have very little food sitting in plastic bags or boxes. dude's running out of options. especially now that i know it's here...thus i am being more scrupulous in my cleaning efforts. *sporfle* as if i make any effort to clean.

we have bars of soap in our bathroom for the first time ever. EVER, ever. i'm a liquid soap snob, preferring the pretty scents from bath & body works over anything else. the boys recently earned their whittling chip in boy scouts by carving shapes into a bar of soap; so they are proudly washing their hands with their creations. i found gouges in the soap one morning and i thought one of the kids had used my hair brush to make scratches into the wet soap...but they must have washed it off really good, because i didn't find any soap in my brush. so i decided not to yell at them. which was a good choice.

three completely unrelated paragraphs right?

my alarm chirped me awake at 2:30am again today. metric friday. i stumbled towards the green nightlight in the bathroom. i nudged the door open in time to see a long tail attached to a black body scurrying off my bathroom sink. who really knows about the color of the body though, because the color of the nightlight makes everything freakish. i only saw the ass and it moved so fast, i couldn't really judge its size. i did not scream. i did choke out a semi-muffled "oh FUCK," but i did not scream. (please hold your applause until the end of the program.) barefoot. bare legged. i pulled the door shut so it could not leave the bathroom and as my husband leapt from his slumber, (as fast as he leaps at 2:30am, anyway; i was pretty impressed with his distance) i heard it go splat and chitter-scratch onto the tile and under the baseboard heater.

when all was silent we managed to drag the dog into the bathroom by the scruff of her neck to investigate. the dog. my protector. the canus ridiculous who goes absolutely apeshit over the squirrels that dare to climb into her tree in the back yard, the freakazoid who barks at the sewer rats scuttling on the other side of the fence from her. this dog o'mine couldn't be arsed to check out the bathroom and make sure it was free of rodentia. what a total bitch. our last dog actually caught a mouse in his mouth, mid-leap. i let him outside and he spat it into the yard and chased it away with a series of barks that i assume amounted to, "get thee hence, little fuck, and if you return i shall unseam thee from the nave to the chaps." we never did have to set traps for that one. it never came back. so i suppose my expectations for trixie-poo may have been a bit high.

after a short investigation (and a bit of a wash for the sink), we determined that mousie has been eating soap. oooookay. i guess when one runs out of food, one must resort to....soap. when i returned home from work, around noonish, i found a poop on the sink that had not been there first thing this morning. so mousie came back for seconds. we're changing our bait to ivory shavings tonight. and locking up the soap.

my failure

2008-02-04T18:46:00.000-05:00

i can hear you.

you don't need to tell me again.

i admit that i've made a mistake
and i can see the mess in front of me.
i can see the cracks in the surface
and i know the cause.

the cause is me.
i've failed again.
no matter how hard
i try, i try again;
i can't get it right.

the cause is lost,
the lines are drawn.
the die is cast,
i haven't won.

i can't make a proper cheesecake.
i don't think i ever will.

can i interest you in a cookie instead?

scientology application

2008-02-04T16:34:00.000-05:00

• Have you ever enslaved a population?
~i'm sorry, did you mis-read my surname as "bush"? i didn't think so.

• Have you ever debased a nation's currency?
~just that one nation that doesn't exist anymore. they were bought out by google.

• Have you ever killed the wrong person?
~nope. just the right ones.

• Have you ever torn out someone's tongue?
~with my teeth. i was really horny. it was a real mess until it stopped bleeding. i decided not to do that again.

• Have you ever been a professional critic?
~i criticize a lot. but nobody pays me for it. or are you offering me a job?

• Have you ever wiped out a family?
~the national enquirer has dubbed them "abducted by aliens." we'll leave it at that.

• Have you ever tried to give sanity a bad name?
~you know, i can't come up with anything witty to answer this stupid question. that's so sad.

• Have you ever consistently practiced sex in some unnatural fashion?
~come on. you were there! it was your farm!!

• Have you ever made a planet, or nation, radioactive?
~just a couple of planets. sheesh. a few botched science experiments resulting in massive death and destruction and ya hold it against me for eternity.

• Have you ever made love to a dead body?
~OK, that's more unnatural than i care to get into. what the hell is wrong with you??

• Have you ever engaged in piracy?
~aye, matey. 'tis the only way to get baptized under the almighty flyin' spaghetti monster. don' tell me ye've ne'r heard of him....

• Have you ever been a pimp?
~just for your mom.

• Have you ever eaten a human body?
~not the whole thing. thighs are pretty filling.

• Have you ever disfigured a beautiful thing?
~like cutting that one cake i made. yeah. that was hard to do. i cried.

• Have you ever exterminated a species?
~see question about radioactive planets.

• Have you ever been a professional executioner?
~one must be paid to be professional, yes? i'll stop there.

• Have you given robots a bad name?
~no, but i gave love a bad name. i bet "love" would be a bad name for a robot tho, now that you mention it.

• Have you ever set a booby trap?
~hmmm. that would be cheaper than getting a boob job. once one traps the boobies, how does one go about installing them on one's person? more thinking involved on this one before i act...

• Have you ever failed to rescue your leader?
~i haven't had any leaders worth rescuing. let me know if you see one. i'll form a committee and we'll get that decision out in a few years.

• Have you driven anyone insane?
~naw, my mom was more than halfway there before i came into the picture.

• Have you ever killed the wrong person?
~did you lose your place? i already answered that one.

• Is anybody looking for you?
~no. they all know i'm on the computer. i can tell because they keep interrupting me.

• Have you ever set a poor example?
~i don't think i have the moolah to set a rich example.

• Did you come to Earth for evil purposes?
~no, actually. i was looking for a salve to clear up some barnacle-looking rash on my ass and i liked the weather patterns so i decided to stay. now i'm emotionally involved with one of the natives and have started a family.

• Are you in hiding?
~technically, no. they know i'm here. but if i leave i'm in big trouble.

• Have you systematically set up mysteries?
~yeah. they call it "clue" here.

• Have you ever made a practice of confusing people?
~only the ones that aren't smart enough to figure out biting sarcasm.

• Have you ever philosophized when you should have acted instead?
~that is a pretty big jump. i never really considered acting classes. nor philosophy ones for that matter. can i interest you in a cookie instead?

• Have you ever gone crazy?
~count my kids. count them again, that's right. now answer that question for me.

• Have you ever sought to persuade someone of your insanity?
~that would be counterproductive. they already know i'm half-gone.

• Have you ever deserted, or betrayed, a great leader?
~show me a great leader and we'll talk.

• Have you ever smothered a baby?
~with kisses. he giggled until his cheeks turned red. i miss that giggle.

• Do you deserve to have any friends?
~fuck you.

• Have you ever castrated anyone?
~keep up your insults and you'll find out.

• Do you deserve to be enslaved?
~does it involve binding my wrists and wearing black leather? hmmm. i am intrigued.

• Is there any question on this list I had better not ask you again?
~the one about deserving friends. because then you'll find your tongue missing.

• Have you ever tried to make the physical universe less real?
~it's all in my head anyway. all i have to do is blink and i can blow it all away. that scares you doesn't it?

• Have you ever zapped anyone?
~with my special issue illudium Q-36 explosive space modulator. ooooh, so now you recognize me, huh?

• Have you ever had a body with a venereal disease? If so, did you spread it?
~well, i don't like to talk about it. most people don't go around talking about their discarded bodies. i'm sure you don't bring it up at thanksgiving, either.

chicken fried junk

2008-02-02T16:57:00.000-05:00

my aunt calls it "candy." my mom calls it "death by cholesterol." i don't care what it's called, i call it; it's mine. step away from the chicken pan and no one will get hurt. now before you all gag and put up the little guy, let me explain.

i am an omnivore, but i am not a bone-picking animal-skinning kind of girl. i buy my meat boneless, skinless and mostly cut the way i want it so the less i have to touch it, the better. i also tend not to deep fry anything except the occasional batch of indian fry bread or fritters. so when i talk about my fried chicken, i'm talking about a seasoned, breaded chicken breast baked in the oven with salt-free butter. but when the chicken has been served and eaten, when the leftovers are put away, when it's time to wash the dishes, you'll find me picking the fried seasoning stuck to the butter in the edges of the pan. oh my goddess, it is soooooo awesomely good. my teeth close on that satisfying little crunch of bread crumbs, seasonings and butter....

excuse me. i need to be alone with my chicken pan.

**golden oven fried chicken**

by popular demand, the kater-modified version of an iowegian favorite....

1/2 C unsalted butter, divided
1 tsp minced garlic
1 C dry bread crumbs
1/4 C grated parmesan
2 Tbsp parsley
1/2 - 3/4 tsp garlic salt (to your taste)
1/4 tsp thyme
dash pepper
4-5 boneless skinless chicken breasts

*sometimes, i slice them into chicken "fingers" or halve the breasts so they cook more evenly). i also measure my dried green herbs into my hands and "press" them as i sprinkle them into my recipes...it brings out more flavor in the dried spices...or so i've been told.

1 - heat oven to 400*. melt 2T butter in a 9x13 glass pan (to coat the bottom for "frying"). melt remaining butter with garlic in a bowl for dipping.
2 - combine bread crumbs, parmesan, and spices in a flat or wide bowl. dip chicken into melted garlic butter, coat with crumbs and place in glass baking dish. drizzle any reaming butter atop the breaded chicken and sprinkle with any remaining crumbs. DO NOT re-use crumbs later.
3 - bake for 45min to an hour (depending on the thickness of the breasts,) or 15-25 minutes for sliced chicken "fingers".
4 - pick the fried bits out of the edges of the pan after dinner when nobody is looking.

*note - it's gooey as a leftover, so only make what you need.

i can't drive 55

2008-02-01T18:35:00.000-05:00

Where to even begin? Jeez. I just don't know. How about the weather first? That'll do. It's just above freezing. It's raining. Thow'in' down rain at times, with areas of dense patchy fog, bringing visibility down to less than 1/4 mile in those places.

The posted speed limit is 55, which in Maryland means 75, unless there is a visible cop car and then it's 50. Goddess above deliver you if you attempt to go slower than the assumed speed limit of 75 in a posted 55 zone.

Combine the above two situations and you have the reason why the price of car insurance in this state is astronomical. Maryland drivers can't use turn signals, parallel park - hell, park in one single parking space between the lines! - leave a safe following distance, stay in one lane for more than three miles, and generally simply cannot drive. Of all the places I have lived and driven, (which is not a small number of states....I can list them all when provoked), Maryland is by far the worst hands down, no doubt about it, there is no other contender for worst drivers in the world. Period. Shall I tell you how I really feel? today was no different.

Extra-Cautious-Red-Hyundai-Man: OK, I realize they delayed schools for two hours, but it isn't that bad. It's just rain. Sprinkles, really at this point. You could prolly go hmm, maybe 40 mph in a 55 zone. Really. I think your tires can handle it. Your accelerator is the tall pedal on the right.

Navy-Blue-Souped-Dodge-Ram-Bastard: We've met before. Once in the tunnel. Once in the snow. On this same road. You were an ass then, too. When I drive through dense fog, I slow down. When I drive through dense fog in the rain, I slow down more. When there is an accident and two police cars and an ambulance have one lane blocked, and everyone is merging left, and the people in front of me are slowing down, *ummmm* I slow down. Those flashy red things in the back of my car?? Those are brake lights. They aren't red-hot for your bod. My car is stopping. You know what? Flash your lights at me all you want. Honk your horn. Go on, do it again. Just ram me. Save some time. I have really good insurance and you are completely at fault, assbasket. And then, when we clear the accident, make sure you rev that engine of yours as you go around me and flip me off (while drifting into another lane, mind you) to make sure I'm good and told off for slowing down. I really would have no qualms about seeing your pretty truck upside down in the median and a big red smear underneath it.

Box-Truck-Who-(Almost)-Missed-the-Exit: Has anyone in this state heard of going to the next exit and turning around and heading back to the one you missed? Anyone? Do we all just dive for the exit from the middle lane now? "Shit, that's my exit number and I was talking on the phone and missed it. I think I can still make it if I can levitate over this steady stream of traffic....oops. I can't levitate the whole vehicle. Damn. Guess I'll just barrel through to the grass and then back up until I can make a 110-degree turn onto the exit ramp. Yeah. That works." Except for all of us who are in the way.....

Mustard-Yellow-Xterra-Speed-Demon: a word, if you please - phrase, rather. Toll booth. When you exit the tunnel, you have to go through the toll booth. The posted speed limit through the toll booth lanes is actually 15 mph - on the EZPass lanes. I loved it when you zoomed out of the tunnel three lanes to my left and totally cut me off to get in front of me. That bus thought it was pretty cool too. The whole swerving thing was our token "swerve of appreciation" for a job well done. You sure did get through the tolls faster than me. The only way you could have improved your game is if you had honked or flashed your lights. Maybe next time you can be as good as assbasket up there.

Southbound-in-the-Northbound-95-Freak-of-the-Moment: All I really have to say at this point is "What. The. Fuck." Headlights facing me do not belong on this side of the concrete barrier. How in hell did you manage to get into that spot? No apparent damage to your car, no break in the median...I guess some things are better left unknown. And there was a state trooper right behind me just then to assist you. How fortunate.

But I made it home today. The colorful parade of idiot drivers let me live to see another day of idiot drivers. I need a nap.

vegas demons

2008-02-01T16:56:00.000-05:00

i don't know how i should feel about this.

my mother has a lot of fears. fear of spiders. fear of cars. fear of other people. fear of germs. fear of flying. fear of wild animals. fear of doctors.

my mother didn't come to see me married in a beautiful candlelight ceremony under a full moon on the california beach because off her fear of flying.

my mother never came to see the births of any of her four grandchildren because of her fear of flying.

my mother turned down every invitation to come visit us in a foreign country, and four different states because of her fear of flying. we've always had to come to her.

and just today, she asked me to alter my vacation plans. plans to visit the place i desperately want to live, the great american desert. plans i've had to scrimp and save and work my butt off to get into place. plans that were originally scheduled for christmas 2007, but had to be postponed due to a severe money shortage. plans that the kids actively gave up christmas presents for to make sure that we'd have enough money to go forward. big plans. six airline tickets to phoenix arizona for 10-14 days, plus the rental van to haul our carcasses around, plus the food and activities, plus the three-day trip up to the grand canyon. not small plans.

she's made plans too, apparently. my parents are flying to vegas to renew their wedding vows on the bridge of the enterprise. did you see that word? flying.

i'm sorry, what?

you want me to take time off of my vacation and drive a total of 600 miles out of my way to watch you perform some silly 20 minute star trek thing, when you couldn't be arsed to show up for my real wedding? and then make it sound all sad because "it looks like there aren't going to be any guests anyway to watch the ceremony." you know, i'm sure my kids would absolutely love it. they are as big of trek geeks as my parents are. whether or not it would be fun is not the point. it would not be very practical. it would, in fact, be pretty expensive for us to add to our itenerary.

i'm feeling angry that she would wait until now, after my important life events are done to decide she wants to fly. i feel like nothing i have ever done is important enough to warrant any special treatment or ceremony or attention. i have bent over backwards, made and rescheduled things to suit her needs and work around her crap. ultimately, i will be made to feel like the villain for not supporting her decision. i will be told i'm being selfish and petty. i will be bashed for not standing up and applauding her for fighting her demons and getting on an airplane.

dude, that's not the point though anymore. you're fighting your demons 13 years too late. i am being stubborn and immovable. after all, i learned from the best.

just might slay someone

2008-01-31T14:52:00.000-05:00

the mouse for sure, no matter how many of them there are, they are going down.

but i'm gonna take someone else out along the way. i remember getting up for work last week sometime and finding the front door open. in the dead of winter. in the middle of the friggin night. we're talking 3am, and i have just spent the better part of half an hour mostly naked, now i'm looking at an unsecured front door. not wide open and snow drifting in, but open nonetheless. someone got an earful when they got home from work that night.

i remember finding what i thought was a snipped candle wick on the counter top this weekend. it was smallish. it was blackened. it was next to a candle. i finished cleaning off the counter and thought nothing of it. until today when i found three of them in the same spot. and another in the recycle bin. and another on the floor. and the last straw was in the muffin tin. THE MUFFIN TIN. it then occurred to me that we haven't lit any candles in god knows how long. therefore they have not been recently snipped. and then i found the half-gnawed jellybean under the toaster oven. definitely gnawed. we gobble jelly beans whole in this house.

apparently someone came inside that night. so the mousie(s) has/have been here for about a week. at least. F*U*C*K. it had better be a mousie. it had better not have a long naked tail. i shit you not.

i am armed with crack sealant and caulk. i have tuna and peanut butter for bait. now all i need is a big asshole to bring home some traps and help me move the large stuff ('cause i'm not doing it alone, nope nope nope) and hand me tools.

...please be just a mouse, please be just a mouse, please please please...

still of the night

2008-01-31T09:31:00.001-05:00

The alarm clock chirps insistently at 0230. The hum of the fan threatens to lull me back to sleep, but the alarm is quite adamant about waking me. I stumble through the darkness, slapping the right button to reset the chirp for tomorrow and head in the general direction of the bathroom. I crank the little space heater while I get ready for my day. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is the cold. The coffeemaker burbles none too quietly on the other side of the door. I bundle into my coat and boots, wrapping my scarf around my cheeks, hot mug of fresh coffee in my gloved hand, and I am ready to leave, walking out of the sleeping house at 0315.

I flip on the outside light so i can see to get down the steps. The cold compact fluorescent bulb does little to fight away the darkness, and as I get to the top of the steps I look down instinctively. The steps disappear into total blackness. I pause to let my eyes adjust. The barest of fingernail moons clings to the star-speckled sky, its watery light too feeble to clear my path to the car.

I know that there are rats in our suburban neighborhood. I have seen them scurrying around in our yard in early morning and in the cat’s light. I have seen evidence of them in our trash, prompting me to install a more durable trash can in our yard. Our dog barks inanely at them as they shuffle past our fence. Yes, I know they are there.

But when I set foot on the bottom step and heard a rustling in the pile of dry leaves, mere inches from the toe of my boot, I still let out a bloodcurdling scream that shook the windows of the nearest three houses. In the instant that the scream was dying in my throat, the soft sound of feathers whooshed over my head, ruffling my hair into my eyes. A bird roughly the size of a cat swooped down and carried off the rat, squirming in the bird’s claws, across the lawn, over the streetlight and into the blackness once again. Accompanied by yet another shriek of surprise, followed by a resounding “oh my fuck,” that echoed off the houses and bare concrete for at least a block in all directions.

I expected to be chagrined, and explain with reddening cheeks, my sudden fright to my sleepy neighbors, grasping frying pans, shotguns and metal baseball bats. I expected my husband to arrive post haste on the front porch berating me for screaming in the middle of the night and pooh-poohing my foolish fears. I expected a police cruiser to pass slowly by and ask if I had seen or heard anything strange in the past few minutes. Not a light snapped on inside any home in any direction. A single car sped by, taking no note of the 30 mph speed limit sign. I gulped the cold night air and with shaking knees, sat down in my car.

Well damn. It’s a good thing I wasn’t being murdered. It’s a good thing to know that one’s screams will go unheeded at 0330. Now I’ll know not to waste my breath. I’ll expend that energy doing something far more useful. Like summoning that freaky bird to peck out my assailant’s eyes.

don't stand so close to me

2008-01-30T16:40:00.000-05:00

it´s a simple request, really.

it starts out in a polite tone of voice: ¨i´m sorry, would you mind not standing directly behind me? it really un-nerves me to have someone right there where i can´t see them. thanks. i appreciate it.¨

then it moves into the realm of slightly annoyed with a tight smile: ¨no, i really am not kidding. i did ask you nicely to step to one side or the other. please don´t stand directly behind me.¨

then it gets ugly. ¨i am not overly concerned with why you think you have the right to stand behind me and breathe down my neck when you know i am uncomfortable. no i will not run this x-ray machine until you step to one side or the other. now i am really freaked out by your presence. please. yes, do call a supervisor over here. explain to them and me and all these passengers why you cannot take one step to the left or right. i am not holding up the line; i am quite willing to do my job as soon as you get out from behind me.¨

for some reason, this particular dude has issues with female co-workers. he likes us quiet and submissive; two things i am not and likely will never be. while i have not had this particular run-in with him, a friend of mine did today. she is neither quiet nor submissive. in fact, she is quite possibly one of the most outspoken women i have ever met. however happy or angry she may be, her tone is always the same: level and loud.

i just don´t understand why dude couldn´t take one step to the left or right. did he enjoy making her uncomfortable? was it a power trip thing? did he think that since there was a long line of passengers she would just acquiesce and let him settle under her skin like a little parasite?

i heard her ask dude politely twice to step aside. he dismissed her by telling her to just do her job. he even waved his hand at her like she was a little bug. and remained in place. which was actually in pretty much everyone´s way. i had to duck through the conversation no less than four times in the 2 minutes it took to get a supervisor involved. and there were about eight other people in that area trying to ¨do their job.¨

the supervisor arrived on the scene. she told him her problem. ¨i would simply like him to move slightly to one side or the other. it really bothers me to have someone standing directly behind me. that´s all i´m asking. if the president himself were standing here, i would ask the same of him.¨ the supervisor asked dude to move. he did not. so the supervisor took over the x-ray machine. and asked them both to leave. dude was pissed.

it really was a simple request.

and i pretty much would have done the same thing.

mother's fodder

2008-01-26T21:54:00.000-05:00

1. Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal(especially his favourite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.

i already plan enough. i plan out the menu for two weeks, make the grocery list, read the circulars and shop the sales, buy, lug and put away $300+ worth of food twice a month. the least he can do is make some of it, especially on the days when i've been up since 2:30am and i'm still on my feet when it's dinner time.

2. Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work weary people.

he's already told me i could wear nothing but mud and fuzz and he wouldn't mind. why should i bother freshening up? and what is more work weary than four kids? please enlighten me.

3. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

that's what the laptop is for. just ask him. he'll tell you.

4. Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.

i do nothing but clear away clutter all day. it's still there when i'm done. i've concluded that the clutter is actually breeding behind my back.

5. Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper etc and then run a dustcloth over the tables.

that's part of the clutter. i could stand at the front door and literally move my kids' arms and legs putting away their clutter and by the time he gets home, it's all on the floor again. and i don't have end tables either.

6. Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

he's already decided all he needs in life is a beer hat, the laptop and a colostomy bag. who am i to quibble over a fire? haven of rest and order? count those kids again. the only rest and order occurs when they are unconscious in their beds. and my immense personal satisfaction comes with a AA battery and is hidden in the back of one of my drawers.

7. Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces(if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.

we're lucky if we can wrangle the kids to run in a circle under the running water in the shower once a week. they are little treasures. that's why they are covered in dirt.

8. Be happy to see him.

i am happy to see him. except when he's late. then i'm furious for being put off again.

9. Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

since he usually arrives mid-way through dinner, it's usually a smile around a mouthful of peas. or something.

10. Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first- remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

his topics of conversation are generally classified. i've learned not to ask.

11. Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.

if he's coming home late, or going out to dinner or other entertainment, he'd best just not come home at all. we don't have the money for him to do all that and if he comes home after spending ripping wads of cash, i'm cutting up his cards again.

12. Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

again, that's what he has the laptop for. as long as he can get online, he's tranquil. comatose, for the most part.

13. Dont greet him with complaints and problems.

when he's home on time, yeah. once he's late (and made me late) that's all there is. complaints and problems.

14. Dont complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day.

what did i just say? excuse me. i have places to go. i have commitments. every time i'm late, i look bad. i realize he could care less, but i have a lot resting on my shoulders.

15. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

dinner's on the stove. i'm doing homework with the kids while washing dishes, getting my uniforms ready and packing my gear for work, opening bills and recycling junkmail....if he walks in on all that, guess where's he's headed? to a comfortable chair or the bedroom with......drumroll please......the laptop.

16. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

i don't touch his sweaty nasty lump of fabric he calls a pillow. i won't even touch it to wash its pillowcase. that's his thing. and shoes go into the closet when he walks in the door. what? now i'm supposed to drop everything and run to the front door too? puh-leeeez. i've got real things to do.

17. Dont ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfullness. You have no right to question him.

ha. double haha. if he's master of the house, i guess that makes me the supreme ruling goddess of the domicile. since i'm the one who knows all the passwords, account numbers, balances, where the food is, where dishes are kept, and how to clean the toilet and clothes. without me, he'd be penniless, naked, hungry and prolly have a wikkid CD collection and a staph infection.

18. A good wife always knows her place.

damn right. first place. wearing the pants. and looking damn hot in them, if i do say so myself.

stromboli

2008-01-25T18:53:00.000-05:00

stromboli, if you've never had it, is kind of like pizza. in a roundabout sort of way. i use leftovers for the "toppings," because we often have extra chicken, salmon, ham or sausage, steamed broccoli or carrots, sliced green peppers, mushrooms, black olives, and various shredded cheeses in our refrigerator. i let the kids pick their toppings and they "make" their own stromboli. if you use parchment paper, you can write the creator's name next to their own stromboli so there's no confusion come serving time.

you can purchase bread dough in the freezer section of the grocery store. make sure you thaw the dough completely according to the package directions. i've included my 1-1/2 pound loaf bread machine recipe for white-wheat bread dough. it's my kids' favorite.

1 cup + 2 Tbsp of warm water
1-1/2 Tbsp oil
1-1/2 tsp salt
3 Tbsp brown sugar
1-1/2 Tbsp dry milk (*i use dry unflavored creamer)
1/3 cup whole wheat flour
2-2/3 C bread flour
1-1/2 tsp active dry yeast

layer in your bread pan according to your bread machine instructions and set to dough cycle.

you can divide your dough into serving sizes or make one giant loaf of stromboli. i found that smaller loaves tend to bake better. roll dough out into a 12" x 15" rectangle. or divide into 6 smaller pieces and pat out into 6" x 8" rectangles. sprinkle toppings onto dough to within 1" of edges. roll up from the shortest side, jelly roll style. place seam side down on cold greased or parchment-lined cookie sheet. bake for 20-30 minutes at 350*, or until crust is golden brown and crisp.

serve with warmed pizza or spaghetti sauce or alfredo sauce for dipping. serves my hungry six with maybe one leftover lunch-sized serving.

apple cream crumble pie

2008-01-23T23:48:00.000-05:00

1 9-inch pie crust
1 8-oz pkg softened cream cheese
1/3 C sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 egg
2/3 C sour cream
3 med apples, cored, peeled & sliced
1/2 C flour
1/4 C sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
1/3 C butter

1 - roll pastry out to 12 inches. line a 10-inch tart pan with pastry. trim edges even with the top of the dish; flute if you like. pierce crust with fork and bake at 350* for 15 minutes. cool.
2 - mix cream cheese, 1/3 C sugar, and vanilla on medium until blended. add egg; mix well. blend in sour cream. pour over crust. top with sliced apples.
3 - combine flour, sugar & cinnamon. cut in butter until crumbly. (stir in 1/2 C chopped nuts, optional). sprinkle evenly over pie.
4 - bake 350* for 50 minutes. cool COMPLETELY before serving. (this pie tastes nasty when warm. just FYI.) keep refrigerated.

you can use lower fat cream cheese and sour cream, but it will affect the texture of the creamy layer. lower fat products will make the creamy layer taste grainy.

il niege beaucoup

2008-01-17T15:45:00.000-05:00

my first grader had a field trip today. it’s his absolute favorite place in the world. he asks to go there every year for his birthday, so we get the family membership every year. he has been impatiently waiting for january for the entire school year, because he knew that all first graders go on this trip every january. today was baltimore aquarium day. i signed up to be a chaperone and go play with my son, who loves to find the poison dart frogs hiding in the foliage and watch the turtles paddle happily through their underwater jungles.

it was perfect. i was scheduled to get off work at 9:30. they were supposed to board the bus at 9:30. i was planning to take the light rail from the airport and get off three blocks from the aquarium, meeting the school buses right out front. we’d play and talk and have mommy-son time. i’d pack him back onto the school bus, take the light rail back to the airport, get my gear out of my locker, and have the employee shuttle drop me off at my car. by the time i’d get back home, i would have maybe an hour to myself before the kids got out of school.

i ended up leaving work about 15 minutes later than i meant to...mostly because no one told me when it was 9:30. i hopped on the light rail and made it to my stop. i overheard snatches of conversation about snow accumulation. i walked to the aquarium and popped my phone out, hoping i hadn’t arrived too too late. it was 10:21. i noticed i had a voicemail. it was the school, calling to tell me that the trip had been cancelled due to inclement weather. as the phrase entered my ear canal, i counted three snowflakes drifting gently from the sky.

i trudged slowly back to the light rail. as i stood waiting for the southbound train, the sleet mixed with light snow began. by the time i got my gear out of my locker and hopped off the employee shuttle at 11:30, i had to scrape my car clean. i drove 10 mph under the speed limit the whole way home. impulsively, i stopped at the elementary school to see if they were closing early, since i hadn’t heard a single word on that subject on three different radio stations. i signed my three elementary kids out of school and arrived home at 12:45. i was expecting my daughter to arrive via bus around 1:00-1:15.

at 2:09, as the last fingernail was chewed off my pinky and spit into the trash can, my cell phone rang. a mom in my girl scout troop just found out that the bus hadn’t even arrived at the middle school to pick kids up. bus drivers were pulling off of roads into parking lots and refusing to drive any further with high school kids still on the bus. she actually drove past her son’s parked bus, not realizing it was his and she had to go back and get him. she called me half-way to the middle school and volunteered to pick up my daughter along with hers so i wouldn’t have to load up my other three and drive out there, since she lives a block away from me anyway.

dismissal was at 12:40. not a word from the school.

at 2:25, girl scout mom called. the school needs my permission to let her pick up my kid. but apparently they don’t need my permission to keep her there indefinitely without a way home.

daughter arrived home safely at 2:46pm cold, frustrated and hungry. they made the kids stand outside and wait for a bus that wasn’t coming. ass monkeys. the drivers and the school admin. they should be smeared with raw meat and peanut butter, hung by their toenails over a pit of rats and cockroaches and slowly lowered an inch for every five minutes every parent has had to spend waiting for a word from their kids. and when they reach the bottom of the pit?

let the screaming ensue. i’m going to throw rotten eggs.

yakkity-yak!

2008-01-14T14:10:00.000-05:00

Today on Kater’s Duh of the Day, we will discuss “What is a trash can and how do I use one?”

Noun 1. trash can - a bin that holds rubbish until it is collected
link for household trash cans: http://www.kitchensource.com/trash/
link for recycling bins: http://www.kitchensource.com/trash/d/recycling/

Trash cans are found in many areas in the common American household. The rooms that use a trash can most frequently are the kitchen and bathroom. Most trash cans have special disposable plastic liners that are thin, yet durable. The purpose of these liners is to keep the trash can itself from harboring great amounts of sticky waste that could produce a bad smell or grow harmful bacteria. These liners, often called “trash bags,” are as varied in size as the trash cans themselves. Some people re-use plastic store bags for their household waste and still others purchase larger commercially available trash bags.

Kitchen trash cans hold food waste as well as paper wrappings, plastic containers, and cardboard boxes used in food preparation. Kitchen trash cans are usually between seven and thirteen gallons in size. If a trash can was much bigger, it would not fill up fast enough before the waste inside began to smell bad . Kitchen trash cans often have lids to keep the smell in and small children and/or pets out. Bathroom trash cans tend to be smaller because far less waste is produced in a bathroom that cannot be flushed down a toilet. Some people do not use a liner in their bathroom trash can; they simply empty it into the larger kitchen trash can before placing it outside for weekly collection.

Many communities are reducing their consumer waste by implementing recycling programs for glass, paper, metals and plastics. In communities with recycling plans, each household is responsible for separating their participating recyclable items from general household waste and those items are collected at different times.

To use a trash can or recycle bin, one must first recognize what items are actual trash. Plastic containers contain a specific code stamped into the form. Depending on your community, you may have to distinguish between certain types of plastics, based on their code, to decide which ones go into the regular trash can and which ones are rinsed and placed into the recycling bin. Either way, plastic containers should not be left on the floor under the dining room table or kicked under the edge of the lower kitchen cupboards. Empty milk cartons are not actually placed back into the refrigerator. They are rinsed out and the cap or lid is thrown away into a trash can while the bottle itself is placed in the recycle bin. Glass jars and bottles are not left on the edge of the sink. They are rinsed out, (some communities require that the labels be removed at this time as well), and placed in the recycle bin. Lids to glass jars are usually thrown away. Cans, such as those used for soup, evaporated milk, and vegetables, are not left on the countertop next to the stove. They are also rinsed, labels removed, and placed in the recycle bin. Aluminum beverage cans are not left in the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. They are rinsed and sometimes crushed before being placed in the recycle bin. Paper and cardboard without food waste are broken down flat and nested together to prevent them from blowing around the neighborhood during collection times. Some communities require paper and cardboard items to be tied with twine. Post consumer waste such as used napkins and tissues, paper towels, paper plates, plastic cutlery, cleaning cloths, and sanitary items are never recycled.

It is important to note that once a trash bag is full, it needs to be taken out of the house. A trash bag can be removed from the house before it is full if it has strong-smelling food waste inside such as onions, meat products or spoiled food. Once the trash bag leaves the house, it should be placed in a large container with a tight-fitting lid. The lid serves two purposes. One, to keep the smell of rotting waste from circulating around the outside of homes and neighborhoods. Two, to keep neighborhood animals, birds and bugs from attempting to eat the waste and possibly spreading it around, attracting more types of pests.

Now that you have a basic overview of what trash is and where it goes, you can use this highly important information to keep your home clean and smelling fresh. Trash cans should be cleaned periodically with commercially available household soaps or cleaners, or the more environmentally sound approach of a vinegar-water solution or a baking soda and water paste. A sprinkle of baking soda in the bottom of a completely dry trash can before the liner is inserted also works to deodorize for a while. Remember: the more often you take the trash out of the house and place it into a large, covered container, the less often your home will smell like a rotting meat factory.

author’s note: i am continuously amazed at how difficult it is for anyone in my house to
a) put trash into the can or bin,
b) empty the bag when it is full (or smelly), and
c) get it to the curb when i am not home.
how hard is it, guys? i mean, really.

yakkity-yak!

2008-01-14T13:48:00.000-05:00

today on kater's duh of the day, we will discuss "what is a trash can and how do i use one?"

trash cans are found in many areas in the common american household. the rooms that use a trash can most frequently are the kitchen and bathroom. most trash cans have special disposable plastic liners that are thin, yet durable. the purpose of these liners is to keep the trash can itself from harboring great amounts of sticky waste that could produce a bad smell or grow harmful bacteria. these liners, often called "trash bags," are as varied in size as the trash cans themselves. some people re-use plastic store bags for their household waste and still others purchase larger commercially available trash bags.

kitchen trash cans hold food waste as well as paper wrappings, plastic containers, and cardboard boxes used in food preparation. kitchen trash cans are usually between seven and thirteen gallons in size. if a trash can was much bigger, it would not fill up fast enough before the waste inside began to smell bad . kitchen trash cans often have lids to keep the smell in and small children and/or pets out. bathroom trash cans tend to be smaller because far less waste is produced in a bathroom that cannot be flushed down a toilet. some people do not use a liner in their bathroom trash can; they simply empty it into the larger kitchen trash can before placing it outside for weekly collection.

many communities are reducing their consumer waste by implementing recycling programs for glass, paper, metals and plastics. in communities with recycling plans, each household is responsible for separating their participating recyclable items from general household waste and those items are collected at different times.

to use a trash can or recycle bin, one must first recognize what items are actual trash. plastic containers contain a specific code stamped into the form. depending on your community, you may have to distinguish between certain types of plastics, based on their code, to decide which ones go into the regular trash can and which ones are rinsed and placed into the recycling bin. either way, plastic containers should not be left on the floor under the dining room table or kicked under the edge of the lower kitchen cupboards. empty milk cartons are not actually placed back into the refrigerator. they are rinsed out and the cap or lid is thrown away into a trash can while the bottle itself is placed in the recycle bin. glass jars and bottles are not left on the edge of the sink. they are rinsed out, (some communities require that the labels be removed at this time as well), and placed in the recycle bin. lids to glass jars are usually thrown away. cans, such as those used for soup, evaporated milk, and vegetables, are not left on the countertop next to the stove. they are also rinsed, labels removed, and placed in the recycle bin. aluminum beverage cans are not left in the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. they are rinsed and sometimes crushed before being placed in the recycle bin. paper and cardboard without food waste are broken down flat and nested together to prevent them from blowing around the neighborhood during collection times. some communities require paper and cardboard items to be tied with twine. post consumer waste such as used napkins and tissues, paper towels, paper plates, plastic cutlery, cleaning cloths, and sanitary items are never recycled.

it is important to note that once a trash bag is full, it needs to be taken out of the house. a trash bag can be removed from the house before it is full if it has strong-smelling food waste inside such as onions, meat products or spoiled food. once the trash bag leaves the house, it should be placed in a large container with a tight-fitting lid. the lid serves two purposes. one, to keep the smell of rotting waste from circulating around the outside of homes and neighborhoods. two, to keep neighborhood animals, birds and bugs from attempting to eat the waste and possibly spreading it around, attracting more types of pests.

now that you have a basic overview of what trash is and where it goes, you can use this highly important information to keep your home clean and smelling fresh. trash cans should be cleaned periodically with commercially available household soaps or cleaners, or the more environmentally sound approach of a vinegar-water solution or a baking soda and water paste. a sprinkle of baking soda in the bottom of a completely dry trash can before the liner is inserted also works to deodorize for a while. remember: the more often you take the trash out of the house and place it into a large, covered container, the less often your home will smell like a rotting meat factory.

author's note: i am continuously amazed at how difficult it is for anyone in my house to
a) put trash into the can or bin,
b) empty the bag when it is full (or smelly), and
c) get it to the curb when i am not home.
how hard is it, guys? i mean, really.

OMFG

2008-01-13T16:41:00.000-05:00

my husband.

gave sharpies to my children.

who colored with them.

as if they were regular markers.

washable ones.

my $1900 dining room table (which is not even three years old) is now ruined.

ab-so-fucking-lutely fucking ruined.

IQ infusion at 10 am, please

2007-12-26T16:25:00.000-05:00

i swear GNC or some organization of that persuasion was selling stupid pills in bulk on sale last week.

i swear the majority of people flying out of the greater bal-wash area this past week were hopped up on stupid pills.

i swear i speak english 99.9999999% of the time, so it can't be me that is the problem.

where did all the stupid people come from? really. i seriously need to know before i go back to work again tomorrow. we are talking about a bigger breed of stupid than usual. it's less responsive to the spoken language. it's more resistant to reason. and, (i have to know this also) how can i actually feel my IQ dropping after 10 am when the stupid people enter the airport?

when you see a rope stretched across an area, and right next to that rope is a kind of a doorway, and on the other side of the doorway is another rope..... where should you enter? i mean really? should we limbo? maestro... a calypso beat, if you don't mind. maybe that's part of the test. you can't get on the plane if you can't crawl under this rope. my money's on the magic doorway, personally. and then you won't have to push on grandma's head to get her ducked under the rope. i'm so not kidding. keep laughing.

the guidelines for carryon luggage are actually posted on the internet on every airline's website and the website for tsa. really. go look. unless you live under a rock, you know that there's some kind of deal with liquids and there has been some kind of deal with liquids since 2006. so you'd know to either not bring them with you at all or find a way to get the guidelines and figure out what you can and cannot bring. (and if you live under a rock, you probably can't operate a seatbelt, telephone, or a mouse and therefore shouldn't get on an airplane anyway.) now that you're in the airport with things you cannot have, you need to follow the rules and not argue with those of us that do not live under rocks and know the guidelines inside and out; especially those of us that have the power to take your airline tickets away from you if you threaten us with bodily harm. i need a supervisor and a law enforcement officer on lane two, please.

stop the x-ray machine, please. we have four options here for that duffel bag, miss. we can continue to try to balance that bad boy on top of two grey bins. or we could line up four little blue bowls and see if it fits any better on top of those. we could put the bag directly on the x-ray belt, since it clearly is too big for the bins and bowls. or lastly, we could stand two bins up on their edges and squish the bag in between them, kind of like making a box. i'm gonna go for option c, but that's just my expert opinion. you do what feels right to you, mmkay? roll the belt and let's see what she decides.

if you have a prescription from a doctor for an over-the-counter bottle of liquid, you pretty much need the little sticker part that says RX on it for it to be a prescription. if it came in a box with a sticker..... you pretty much need the box with the sticker. the phrase "prescription strength" doesn't cut it. buh-bye. in the trash. yes, even $20 tubs of butt-cream and $68 bottles of acne wash.

you can be angry. but do not be angry at me for your ignorance.

i told you not to wrap those presents. i totally wasn't kidding. no, i don't have any scotch tape.

"please take your large electronic items out of their bags." "put them into a grey bin all by themselves, lonely, alone, scared and afraid." "all by themselves means nothing on top or underneath." did i stutter? did i accidentally slip into swahili? what part did you miss? the pronoun? it was implied. it was you, plural, meaning all of y'all. if you take a laptop out of it's bag, and then put the bag on top of it........ wait for it........ this is good, i promise....... it, uh, looks to me like it's still in the bag, folks. that's why i said "all by itself." don't make me come out there and teach bin 101, using your laptop as an example.

honey, i'm wearing shoes. i'm not trying to take your shoes. you and your 8,122 bags are seriously clogging up my lane and i want you to move faster. here are your shoes. next time, i'd opt for slip ons, as opposed to those thigh-high lace-up jobbies. and what the hell is the deal with all the 2 year olds wearing metal-studded belts? yeah. it has to come off. it's made of metal. it can't come through the metal detector any more than your cell phone can. duh. do you have to put the belt back on the 2 year old right here? can't it wait until you get your junk together?

lordy lordy lordy, i go back again tomorrow.

pray my sarcasm wears off by then, or some peoples are gonna be flying outta here with their skin flayed off.

teaser

2007-12-13T17:48:00.000-05:00

you may want a little alone time...i know i need some now.....

sipping hot chocolate, steaming in a tall ceramic mug, soft sage microfleece shrugged about my shoulders. thoughts of you fill my head. a long sip, savoring the heat and sweetness on my tongue; a long blink, savoring the heat and sweetness of your touch. longing for another stolen moment.

imagining your long fingers and wide palm gliding down my hourglass curve. the light grasp of your hand as it reaches my thigh. the anticipation of your fingers loosening their grip, but still in light contact with my trembling skin. one finger slides underneath the seam of my lace and grazes the very outer lips, hidden between my thighs. my breath catches; your finger presses. within those folds, you find a deep well of warm honey, the center of my passion. my eyes flutter as you thrust another finger inside and turn your hand just so; your fingertips alternate against a secret place while your thumb busies itself against my pearl. i writhe for you, breathy sighs escape me in my pleasure. i feel your grin against my thigh as you nibble, hot breath spilling over my moist skin. i shudder. i hold your head in my hands, threading my fingers through your hair and moaning as you add a flash of heat from your tongue to my swollen trembling.

sweet release breaks upon me, crashing from my core and rippling out to the ends of my toes, my fingers, each strand of hair on my head. ragged panting, i scream, quivering and tense, your fingers and tongue slowing with me. light kisses fall on my unsteady thighs, my pink and pulsing lips, my heaving breasts, neck and chin. my mouth devours yours, tasting my own slightly sweet tang as our tongues dance.

i shake myself from this reverie, a glance out the window at the darkening skies. you´ll be here soon enough. and then i won´t have to wait.

make mine extraordinary

2007-12-05T01:22:00.000-05:00

soft rustling, crackling.
hiss of the broken seal
and rent plastic wrap.

cool square between my fingertips.
my tongue awaits the first
exquisite
taste.

cold pressed on lips,
teeth close firm.

*break*

gooey drip of caramelized
sugar escapes to rest on my
lower lip while decadent
creamy milky solid slowly
melts onto my tongue.

a slow minute, dissolving.

liquid silk spilling over edges.
luscious fingertips capture
sticky
dribbles.
warm tongue sweeping cold
sweetness into dark.

*slowly licking lips*

last morsel savored.
crinkled wrapper flutters
out of sight.

make mine extraordinary.
i’ll have ghirardelli, please.

november sunset

2007-11-29T19:06:00.001-05:00

over my shoulder the cold of autumn
creeps in with clouds
covering chill, clinging
smokey skies at dusk.

fingerholes of sunset peer
through the thickness,
turning leaves burnt rust;
crimson crashing gold and ochre
tumbling from limbs onto
damp,dewy dying grasses.

sun settles herself
beyond the horizon.
clouds catching ever deeper
shades of slate and ash,
blending blues and blushing pinks.
speckled spatter-drops
trickle swiftly from the sky
and usher in the quiet nightfall.

pods

2007-11-29T19:05:00.000-05:00

We’d lived near the water for some time when the children were struck with the idea to take a boat out of the harbor, and make a day trip of seeing what there was to see. We’d been to the Aquarium many times; in fact one of our sons maintained that going there for his every birthday was the best present ever – since he was two years old.

We looked up some information and found a relatively inexpensive day trip. It was a new kind of trip though. It was a program run by a local University. The Engineering students created not boats, but “pods,” while the Computer Science techs wrote code and programmed them to follow a specific route. The Marine Biology students mapped out that route and recorded information relevant to life, both plant and animal, that was likely to be seen along the way. Then they let the Marketing students do their work.

We arrived at the University’s “Jump Point,” they called it. We took public transportation in through the downtown area, like we always did. We stood in line and presented our online booking voucher, together with our Aquarium membership card for a deeper discount. As we waited for our pod with other groups of excited people on the covered docks, my nose twitched. It was brief, but I told my husband I would be right back. I stepped out of the shelter into the warm late summer sunshine, faced west, closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I could still smell it. My eyes popped open and I spun around narrowing my eyes, searching the horizon for the source of the smell that hit me like a brick in the hazy, summer heat. My husband gestured at me from our place in line to hurry back. I smelled thunderstorms. Not just regular ones, the storms that turned the skies green. My eyes searched to the skies for any sign of disturbance found a calm sea, bright blue arching up from the grey and dusty blue that stretched before me. My nose was raised in the Midwest, with the rest of me. I knew that smell. Nine times out of ten, I had the windows latched, all the furniture and toys in the back yard stowed, and the kids in the basement before the weather people here cottoned on to the danger and issued a watch. I knew; I don’t know how, I just did.

We discovered that we would have to be broken up into two smaller groups to more evenly distribute the weight of the six of us. I did not like the idea of being sealed into some kind of pod for hours all by myself – with the boys. Or the girls. The students assured me it was safe, taking our family out of line to show us a board of safety features, obviously created to soothe the fears of raging hydrophobes like myself. Daddy took the girls and I took the boys.

The interior of the pod was small, about six feet in diameter, and smelled of new rubber and salt water. The windows went all the way around except in two places; one about a foot wide which was the obvious anchor point for the sealed glass and the other was the curved submarine-like door which hissed as it sealed itself shut. The seats reminded me of classic diner booths; the boys could easily move about the pod and see in virtually any direction at once. I took note of the first aid kit, packets of small paper bags just the right size for puking into, and a tightly sealed bucket bolted to the floor in the center of the little round room. Upon lifting the lid, it became abundantly clear that the thoroughly scrubbed bucket was for the used paper bags.

We lurched sideways – forward –whatever. Five minutes out from the land, I could see the skies to the south of us were churning black. Something didn’t look right in those skies, although I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I tried to calm my gnawing stomach by chewing a hole through my left cheek. The boys were still jumping from seat to seat, literally crawling around me in their excitement. The calm voice of the narrator droned on about sea life under the water before maddeningly explaining that we were preparing to dive. Just then the little pod sloshed to a halt and paused. The recording stopped. I held my breath, as if I would have to hold it the whole time we were underwater. It waited a breath longer than I could, then lurched forward again, turning exactly 180 degrees. Back towards the coast.

At first I thought there was a malfunction. Or maybe we didn’t pay for the whole cruise, but I saw all the little black pods shuffling back to the shore all at once. A woman’s voice came over the sound system, not nearly as calm as the recording blathering about sea kelp. “Everyone has been ordered ashore by the Transportation Authority. Stay calm and do not attempt to leave the craft for any reason.” Leave the craft….why? And as I thought those words, as I spoke them aloud at the very instant I thought them, as my head turned south while the words tumbled from my lips, I already knew the answer. Waterspouts. Tornadoes on the water. Oh. My. God. That is what had looked different from so very, very far away. The rain was not just coming down. It was also going up.

I crushed the rising panic hard into my stomach; packed it into some kind of box and locked it down so I could deal with my sons. My younger one, the marine enthusiast, was starting to realize we weren’t going to dive anytime soon, and had already begun his protests. I told them there was a storm and we had to go back to be safe. My older son must have seen through my locked box, seen the panic in my eyes, because he looked directly south and asked in a very small voice if it was a bad storm like from when I was little. I could not answer him. I did not know how bad it would be and I could not lie to him. I scanned the little room once again and discovered a cubby in the seats for life jackets. Just four. That’s why we had to split up into two groups. I prayed my husband wasn’t just sitting there looking out the window and was fastening the girls into the lifejackets as well. I clutched my boys to me and we watched the skies tumble in.

The pod stopped moving at some point, but the water was so choppy we hadn’t noticed exactly when. Three little paper bags had already made their way into the little sealed bucket on the floor and my stomach was contemplating a fourth. I then noticed that we were the only pod left that I could see. That did it. I pressed the panic button – well it was labeled “For Life Emergency Only – Coast Guard.” A red light flashed above our heads on the top of the pod’s exterior, but we could see it reflected off the water and the raindrops trickling down the windows. We waited some more. I wondered where my husband and the girls were. My little son started crying. I closed my eyes on my own tears and cuddled him as close as I could around the bulk of the life jackets. I left my other arm around my other son, who had lain down with his head on my lap. We stared out at sea and waited.

The wind was picking up and I could clearly see two waterspouts to our south. One was far out to sea, but the other was massive and near the coastline. I could see that it was still some distance away, but not knowing the wind speed, nor how far down the coast it actually was, that distance was no comfort to me. The waves around us had little foamy caps on them. I was watching the little crests and humming softly to the boys when we were bumped. I craned my neck and the boys jumped up. There was a tug pushing us to shore. The relief spread from my crown all the way to my feet in one hot instant, and I felt very faint. I slumped down on the floor shoved my head between my knees and breathed. My frightened sons copied my movements, thinking that was what we were supposed to do. I supposed it saved them from thunking their heads against the glass with every nudge from the rescue tug. My stomach emptied once again and the boys made fun of me; at least they were back to normal.

The sight of the Jump Point as our pod turned in sight of land again was the sweetest conglomeration of molded metal, painted steel and spotlights I had ever seen. Bar none. They had trouble opening the seal on the hatch because of the increase in pressure caused by the storm. I screamed into the cracks to stand back – I would kick this door down if I lost both legs doing it. And kick I did. The boys jumped and cheered as I bustled them out of the pod, throwing our life jackets into the arms of the nearest person wearing a University Sweatshirt. A quick scan of the small number of people on the dock showed no other members of my family. Water sprayed into the covered dock from the open sea. The rush of the wind and water was so loud no one could even attempt to tell me where my family had gone, if they had been able to hear me ask. We all struggled against the wind, holding tight to the rails, down the metal stairs into a building. I glanced back over my shoulder some 50 yards to where we’d just been standing and watched our pod get flipped up and out to sea again as if it were merely a loose bottle cap on the side of a busy road. The rescue tug tipped onto its side and the edges of my world bled black, my last fleeting thought for the safety of my girls as well, as the Coastie behind me caught me and rushed the rest of us inside.

**********

and that is when i woke up. i couldn’t breathe. i put my head between my knees and inhaled until my lungs could hold no more. i exhaled slowly and picked at a thread from the bedsheet. the moonlight cast a mournful glow upon the trees outside my window. i stood slowly and made my way to the childrens’ rooms. i sat on each of their beds with them, kissing and holding hands, not waking them. and trying so very hard not to cry.

so no. i can’t go on a cruise yet. i still haven’t gotten over my fear of the water. i still can’t stand the thought of being too far from the land to “make it back” – even without the terror of the uncommon waterspouts. i just can’t.

half-gone

2007-11-17T21:52:00.000-05:00

my shift was half gone when i realized that the sun had come up, i hadn't had a break, and i was suddenly starving. good thing i was tapped to go on break just then. and this is just pre-thanksgiving. next week should be REAL fun.

the day was half gone when i woke up from my nap at noon today, ready to get started on everything i have on the calendar for today, after work, that is.

my cold is half gone. well, prolly more than half gone; i'm just feeling tired and headache-y.

my brain cells are half gone because my dear darling dickhead of a husband thinks he's sick too and has decided to bury himself in bed, blaring dream theater's new album from his laptop for hours on end. it was blasting when i arrived home at 11, it was still going when i woke up from my nap at noon, and i imagine it never shut up the whole 2 hours i was at the cookie booth sale. it's still going. i've even shut the office door. i think he just turned it up. call me old, whatever, i listen to my music loud too, just not ALL THE DAMN TIME!!!! moderation is the key.

my patience is half gone, with trying to run a household in a fog half the week, not getting any help from dh or the kids, and the dog begging to be walked 24/7. ok, maybe not that much; maybe 14/7. she doesn't even move at 3:00 when i'm leaving for work. i'm trying to make things work, i just feel run-down and tired all the time and i wish i had a second or third pair of hands sometimes. like now. i need to walk the dog and make dinner, but i'm still freezing from being outside all afternoon and all i wanna do is join everyone else under blankies and veg.

*sigh*

off to make dinner. i guess the dog will wait until dishes are done.

2007-11-12T15:42:00.000-05:00

with the onset of the major travel season spiraling towards us, i feel the need to blog about the top things i say daily in my job:

1) are you aware of the restriction on liquids, creams, and gels in carryon luggage aboard the aircraft? if you can pour it, dribble it, squeeze it, smear it, squirt it, gargle it, spray it, or gloop it, it is a restricted item. even if you purchase a bottle of water or juice in the airport, if you are on the outside of the checkpoint with said bottle, it goes in the trash. you can carry containers labeled up to 3.4 fluid ounces, so long as they can ALL fit into a quart size clear plastic zipper bag. we do not provide clear plastic zipper bags at the security checkpoint. they cost about $1.50 for a box of 50. make the investment before arriving at the airport. key word: LABELED. if the toothpaste tube says 8 fluid ounces and there's only 4 squirts of toothpaste left in the tube, it still can't go. period. if it's a 12 oz spray can of olive oil, it can't go. even if it's the uber-expensive proactiv -- facial care products, if the container states more than 3.4 fl oz, it's not getting on my planes. check it under the plane or prepare to toss it out.

2) please take all large electronic items such as CPAP machines, laptops, dvd players, and video game consoles out of their bags – completely out – and put them into a bin on their own. "on their own" means nothing on top, nothing underneath. if you place these items inside a bag or place items on top of them, they will have to be removed from the x-ray machine and re-run, causing a delay for all passengers, not just you.

3) please keep your boarding pass in your hand. your left hand, your right hand, both hands; doesn't really make a difference to me. don't put it in your mouth, please. that's just nasty. i must view your boarding pass before you can enter the secure area of the airport. if you leave it in your coat pocket or bag, someone has to stop the flow of customer traffic and hunt it down for you. keep it on your person.

4) please remove all metal objects from your body before walking through the metal detector. unless your cell phone is made of wood, it is a metal object and it will alarm the metal detector. if your belt buckle is the size of a dinner plate, yes, it will set off the metal detector. some underwire bras, coupled with closed loop bracelets or heavy earrings, will pack enough of a punch to require additional screening after setting off the alarm on the metal detector. my advice? let the boobs sag and pack the jewelry. it's a plane ride, not a fashion show.

5) if you have bags that can zip, buckle, snap, tie, velcro or somehow close themselves, please do not use a bin for these items. likewise, if your bag is so large that it doesn't actually fit into a bin, don't use one. these bags can be placed directly on the conveyor belt, flat on their sides.

6) all outerwear, heavy jackets, sweaters and hoodies must be placed through the x-ray machine. yes, even the babies' favorite stuffed animals and blankies. all footwear must be removed and x-rayed. footwear includes boots, running shoes, slides, mules, slippers, sandals and flip-flops. the conveyor belt is actually much cleaner than the floor - the one you're walking barefooted on because you decided against wearing socks in public for some ungodly reason. people got some smelly feet and you're walking barefoot through all that foot-funk. i suggest slip-on shoes or clogs and socks or those little medical footies.

7) do not attempt to put your child or pet into the x-ray machine because you don't want to "bother them" by removing them from their carseat or carrier. no exceptions. wake them up or book a later flight.

8) do not get special custom wrapping on gifts, hand carry them onto a plane, and then fuss at security when it must be unwrapped and viewed. we unwrap the prezzies as if they were for us. *rip rip tear!* we get so little joy. security is in no way responsible for reimbursing wrapping fees or re-wrapping prezzies at all. if it looks ugly on the x-ray, it will be opened. it doesn't matter what you say is in the box. it will be visually inspected.

9) for heaven's sake, pack light. you don't need a kitchen sink in your carryon. or a fan. or a wii. check it under the plane or ship it via commercial carrier to your final destination. if you think it will take too long to ship, you can most likely live without it for the duration of your trip. most, if not all delays at the security checkpoint can be avoided if you just pack what you will physically NEED on the plane.

these and many more travel tips are available at TSA's website or by looking up your departing and arriving airports for specific local information. this public service announcement has been brought to you by your friendly, neighborhood katerooni, the *fnc.

*i've been dubbed the fucking new chick.

brush

2007-10-27T16:38:00.000-05:00

holy.

mother.

of.

socks.

i had to do a double take. then a triple take. i looked around the room. i stared hard into his face to see if i was really seeing this face. he wasn't much taller than me...maybe 5'9". he was wearing the darkened wraparound glasses. his unshaven face and intentionally mussed hair. his casual glance around the room. he was with another dude, well over 6 feet tall, hard edge to his face and wearing a faded blue tee sporting the union jack.

i got three words for you.

larry mullins. bono.

and me without a camera on my fourth day on the job. they noticed that i recognized them. and they noticed that i hadn't started jumping up and down and screaming. they both looked directly into my face as they gathered up their bags, put on their shoes and belts, and walked down the pier to their plane. bono nodded and winked as he turned away.

and me without a camera.

i swore on my grandmother's grave to my supervisor that i had just seen bono. she had a good look at him as he walked away. "a lot of celebrities come through here in early morning, hoping that no one's had enough coffee yet to notice them. it very well could be him. he has a nice face," she added.

and me without a camera. *sob*

un.be.liev.a.ble.

2007-10-20T19:44:00.000-05:00

unbelievable.

it started last friday. not a couple of days ago....LAST last friday. yeah. i been busy. from the top, with feeling.

sometimes, the dog doesn't eat her breakfast. for whatever reason, she decides internally that she does not require sustenance at this time and does not eat. inevitably the puking starts about 2 pm. when my oldest had not yet arrived from middle school via her consistently-tardy bus, i tossed the dog in the car for the 1/2 mile trip down the road to the school so i wouldn't have to clean up cold vomit after picking up kids from school. although, in hindsight, as i drove down the road, i really would prefer cold vomit on a hardwood floor than warm sick on the van carpet. oh, yeah, and i forgot a bunch of stuff i needed to give another parent TONIGHT. so i drove around the block to get my stuff and aforementioned daughter had arrived. i dropped off the dog and left to pick up kids. when i returned, a strange woman walked out of my home.

my dog had bolted from the house, had been hit by a car and she and her husband "hoped i didn't mind" that they came in to bring the dog home. holy shit. $450 later, the dog is deemed "sore" by the vet ER doctor and we decline overnight observation (to the tune of an additional $1K.) saturday went a bit better, aside from the fact that the pain meds apparently took away the dog's ability to control her potty functions. we dealt. oh, and my husband bit his tongue. i prescribed a swipe of brandy on a cotton swab.

if you know me even partly well, you might know that i have a little anxiety problem. as in, when i get nervous or upset, my head shuts down everything except the "diarrhea" and "nausea" functions in my body. well, i was nervous AND upset about becoming a member of the working world again, after being barefoot and pregnant for most of the past 10 years. quite nervous.

sunday, i began orientation for my new job with the department of homeland security. please hold your applause until the end of the program. i learned that, not only will my first paycheck not come until 8 november, but i have to shell out money for a parking pass ($33 for the last 2 days of october plus another $33 for november) before i even get that check - oh, and i have to buy clothes too since the uniforms typically take 2 weeks. or longer. and at some point i decided to let a big fat nail puncture one of my tires. joy. now i have to drive the husband's POS car, while he finds someone to repair my tire.

my stomach calmed down by wednesday, but the training is pretty intense. i have been unable to eat breakfast since saturday. i managed to choke something down about lunchtime, to keep from passing out, but it was a rough few days, also taking into consideration that members of this class were subject to the airline restrictions on liquids past the security checkpoint - basically, we had to buy most of our lunches at the airport kiosks...prior to that first paycheck, of course.

we traded cars for a few days to get a check-up for the POS, to discover he has a major transmission leak. yay. meanwhile, my house is deteriorating before my eyes. this must be what it looks like when dh comes home from work and i've been playing on the computer all day. or maybe not. at least he's making dinner from the menu i made, following the recipes and getting the kids to school on time. no one's had a bath all week (because it's not on the list, see) and every night i come home, he tells me more vociferously how much he's glad i've done this part for the past 11 years. he's doing much better than i thought he would. but the fact remains.....he's doing maybe half of what i typically do each day. maybe.

the end of his tongue is now a gargantuan pus-filled glob and he insists that if he puts brandy on it (like i told him to do days ago) it will hurt. well, no shit, sherlock. it hurts because it's killing the germ-nest built there when you bit it and didn't immediately put a cotton swab of brandy over the cut. fucking duh. he walks around the house, acting like he's been hit by a car, taking frequent naps and complaining of the noise. dude has had the house to himself for 4 days, doing next to nothing and he's acting like he's been this powerhouse of activity and just can't stand the thought of one more domestic chore. matter of fact, friday's dishes are still stacked on the counter because i put my ass to bed early last night. and he did too. lightweight.

i am now a bundle of nerves. i am hemorrhaging money this week. and although i have put in 54 hours, we won't see the results of those hours for weeks. today is testing day. tomorrow is my first day "on the job." i went to bed earlier than i had the rest of the week (before 10:00, ladies...) and i woke at 2:30am. and 3:30am. and 4:30am. and 5:22am. the alarm was set to go off at 5:25 so i sat and stretched for a moment, deep calming breaths against the nauseous waves of panic rising in my gut. odd. the radio wasn't on yet. upon closer inspection, the alarm light was blinking. and no sound was coming out. i walked over and checked the volume and got the quiet "shhhhhhhhhhhhh" of radio static. the radio station was off-air. holy mother of socks. if i hadn't awoken 3 minutes early in a panic, i'd have slept late. yay stupid stomach, i guess.

on my way in to my last class today, the check engine light comes on in the POS car. i am only a few miles from my destination and i soldier on, praying that what ever is wrong, the car won't die on me before i hit the employee lot. it didn't. i nervoused my way through three bathroom trips (in three different bathrooms, even!) before the test began at 9am. i later found out that i aced both written portions and scored a 90 on the visual portion. please hold your applause until the end. our class had to finish up some mandatory updates to the curriculum we just passed and in the middle of it all, the entire system crashed. so now we get to come in, on our own time, off the clock, and finish it. more joy.

when i got home early, due to the system crash, i found out that the minivan (which i hadn't gotten to drive all week...i miss my van!!) has a busted rim. yes, i said busted. as in irreparable. tad was driving down the freeway and there was a manhole cover missing (on a highway???) and the tire busted and the rim is bent all to hell. yes, in fact, it was the tire we just paid to repair.

so now i have two shit-cars to choose to attempt to get my ass to work by no later than 4 am tomorrow morning. not one place would help us out. no one could help us find a rim, let alone install it, before close of business saturday. and no one is open on sunday.

i think i am going to cry. because hopefully, when i arrive home after my shift around 10am on sunday (and wash the one pair of black pants and one white shirt i own to take the place of the uniform that i won't have for two+ weeks), this ten-day-long-week-from-hell will be over. then we can start creating a new schedule to call "normal."

you can applaud now if you feel the need, or even remember what there was to clap about. i forgot.

Hercules

2007-10-01T20:41:00.000-05:00

God help me, the child was sitting on my sciatic nerve. Again. I stood up, shook my leg and walked in a small circle around the waiting room to increase the circulation and tried to perch on the edge of the uncomfortable chair. That hurt worse and made the baby shift. It beat its head into my bladder and stuck one stubborn baby foot under my ribcage and pushed. I waddled up to the nurses station, kicking my leg out to one side again, thinking that I must look like some kind of deranged, plucked and stuffed Thanksgiving turkey.

"Hi, I'm going to pee on the floor here. Can I just pee in the cup and write on it with a Sharpie? Better yet, just look at the records from the past 8 months and the two previous normal pregnancies. Nothing is going on in there that shouldn't. Just write 'ditto'. Trust me. I just need to go. Now."

She took a blank label off of a stack, glaring at the printer out of one eye and me out of the other. I snatched the label out of her hand, as well as the pen, and ran at top speed for a 38-week pregnant woman with one leg. Well, one working leg. I sat down on the toilet, peed in the cup, sealed the jar and for the next five minutes, wrote my entire life history onto a military-issue one-inch by three-inch envelope address label. And then I took another five minutes to finish peeing. I told her I had to go. She was standing there waiting with my label stuck to the edge of her index finger when I got back, almost triumphantly. Whatever.

The appointment went like all appointments did. I peed. They stabbed my arm and wrapped number tapes around my girth. They had no idea when I was due and I had already used my one allowed ultrasound. One week the child was measuring big, the next week they said I had gained too much weight. (Way to go doc, I'm already feeling like a pregnant elephant. Let's play "Make the Hormonal Preggo Lady Cry.") We're all winging it here. Every single one of the doctors who had been assigned to me over the past 8 months had been deployed. I had no idea who was going to deliver this baby. The thought occurred that it might even be me.

We lived 79 miles from the nearest American base with maternity hospital facilities in the United Queendom. That is a two-hour drive on a good day with clear weather and little traffic, meaning NO farm equipment on the roads, and no lorries (tractor trailers) blocking all lanes of traffic going 10 kph to protest the staggering rise in the cost of petrol gasoline. We had used the nearest A&E hospital before, which certainly had a maternity ward and it was a mere 14 miles away. However, since we, and everyone else we knew, left the Accident & Emergency Centre in much worse condition than we arrived, we opted out of the National Health System. We decided that the risks were about equal in delivering a child in the car on the side of the road and delivering a child in a hospital that did not use an autoclave or any other sterilization equipment and had a blood poisoning record that would shock the settlers of this fine country.

So I packed my baby bag. I had the diapers and wipes. I had the gender-neutral homecoming outfits - two of them in fact. I had the freshly laundered baby seat, a new backpack diaper bag, and the receiving blankets that were just for this new little bundle. I packed my overnight bag. I had warm socks, jammies, a stress ball, toiletries, my teddy bear ready at the last instant and sweats for the grueling two-hour ride home. I had my kids go-bags ready. I had some favorite books and toys, a gift for each of them from their new sibling, and a pair of jammies and change of clothes each, in case of a middle-of-the-night or mid-afternoon run. And then I had the delivery bag.

An ER nurse friend of mine helped me assemble what I would need in case of an emergency delivery. I had an ironed sheet, folded and sealed into a zipper bag, likewise a few receiving blankets washed, dried, ironed and zipped up for sterilization. I had a pair of extremely strong scissors that could cut through denim and seatbelts. I had a big silver mixing bowl for fluid capture, washed and placed in a fresh plastic garbage bag. I had an umbilical cord clip for the baby. I had extra blankets and a freshly laundered stock of donated black towels (so they wouldn't stain.) I had flares and a gallon jug of water that had been boiled. I had a book on emergency deliveries with the chapter clearly marked and accessible with a binder clip. All this was carefully packed into a large paper bag and stowed in the trunk, "just in case." On the outside of the paper bag, I had written the on-call OB pager, the American military hospital OB line, and the base police, in case we decided we wanted an escort. I diligently kept my phone charged.

After one exhausting false alarm that began at 3 am in my 38th week, I got sick. Monkey-bad sick. I could not breathe for coughing. I could not cough without peeing. So I basically just walked around wearing wet pads. I kept a change of underwear and pants in the diaper bag, it was that bad. Exactly one week later, I timed the very strong contractions at seven minutes apart when I called the OB ward to tell them we were two hours out. We drove through the fine mist and gathering fog for 2 hours and 20 minutes. I was timing at four minutes by the time we arrived at almost 7 pm and there was a wheelchair waiting for me at the door. I mostly wheezed through my breathing, trying hard not to cough on anyone, but I was surrounded by hospital personnel. I had a temperature of 102 degrees, and I was already exhausted. I don't know what they put into the cocktail flowing into my arm, but the pain started to go away, and my breathing eased for the first time in days. They brought in a nice man with a long name who told me about a fabulous place called "Intrathecal." If I wasn't already married, he'd have been mine.

At 9:50 pm, there was an audible *pop* and the air pressure in the hospital decreased somewhat when I delivered a 9 pound 15 and 3/4 oz baby boy with blond peach fuzz and bright blue eyes. He wanted nothing more than to climb back into that nice warm place away from all the bright lights and cold February fog, and he screamed loud enough to tell the whole base. He was the only blond and by far the biggest baby of the five on the ward, so he quickly earned the nicknames "Hercules" and "Peach Fuzz." He knew my voice from the start. He screamed while they weighed him and I sang his name over the cacophony of instruments and vitals stats being flung about the room. He calmed immediately, but only when he could hear my voice; which prompted me to shush everyone in the room, so I could sing. Hey, I was high. Step off.

My little Hercules is now six and a half, and he is well on his way to success in first grade. He is still blond and his eyes have stayed the same remarkable icy-blue, unlike the other three kids, whose eyes changed before they hit one year. He is still louder than he really needs to be at times. But he is sweet, funny, smelly, handsome, quick to laugh, hard to please, and most of all, he's mine.

inspiration by mommymatter. verbiage by kater.

political activism in my driveway

2007-09-28T12:21:00.000-05:00

In the past week, Congress has voted down three separate proposals that would have supported our troops and helped end the war. But Wednesday, the House did manage to join the Senate in condemning MoveOn.

When the only thing our elected representatives can agree on is to silence war critics, it's time to get louder.

Congress may not be doing its job. But that means it's all the more important for the 3.3 million of us to do ours. We need to make it crystal clear that we will not stand down or relent until the war ends.

So we're launching Americans for Exit, a powerful new project that will remind our representatives that those of us against the war are America—we're teachers, factory workers, lawyers, moms, dads, students, secretaries, and dog owners. We're 70% of the country, we vote, and we're fed up with the war.

Here's how it works: You send a picture of you which shows how you feel about the war. Then, you'll record a voice message to Congress. We'll put together a big unveiling, use your photos and words in an ad campaign and deliver them to your members of Congress. We'll make it impossible for them to ignore you.

It’s really easy and it’s a powerful way to send our message to Congress. I already joined in—you should too.

Click here to get started:

http://pol.moveon.org/photo

i sent in my pic:

and left my Congressman a message, too:

Congressman Sarbanes,

You seem to have lost your voice…at least the voice that is supposed to represent the people who elected you.

Can you hear me? Because I will not be silenced.

Your efforts and skills belong to the people of Baltimore County. We want the war to end. We want our families back. We want the lies to stop.

Step up and do your job. Can you hear us? Support Us. Support our troops. BRING THEM HOME.

now it's your turn....

what the hell was that thing?

2007-09-24T19:36:00.000-05:00

did you hear that? that sonic boom around 5:20 EST....that was my head. it leapt clean off my body at some point and exploded. i shit you not. i'm still looking for my left eyebrow. let me know if it turned up in your yard or something. i look really weird with only one eyebrow.

it all began around 5:00. i had just finished homework with the lartian, which in itself is just short of a miracle because neither one of us ended up screaming or crying. i put a pound of bacon in the oven to cook.....yes, i put bacon in the oven, so sue me. i turned on the stove to start making french toast. i was whisking eggs and milk in time to the dishwasher-water noise, when i had the urge to look out the front window. i left the kitchen and rounded the corner of the dining room to find schmoo's best friend's mom on my front porch. apparently over the fork and water medly, i failed to hear her knocking. her son had forgotten his spelling book at school and they wanted to come in and do the homework real quick before dinner. um, okaaaaaay. so her older son sat down to do his spelling at my desk while her other 2 sons ran screaming through the house, causing my children to break into a loud frenzy and follow them. and then the phone rang.

it was the coordinating-chair-type-person for the scout pack-group-den-thing we are trying to join. a new one, not the over-zealous name-calling uber-christians. so now i am trying to write down contact information, dates and the *gulp* astounding price of becoming a boy scout, while seven children run around my home and oh shit!!!! i forgot to turn off the frying pan! i checked on the bacon while i was in there and mentally figured how much blood we might be able squeeze out of the proverbial turnip for dues and the required uniforms. after a twenty minute "we empathize with each other because we have many kids in many different scout troops" talk, i remembered the bacon again. it was half-burnt. and then someone let the dog out as i hung up the phone. have i mentioned that we live on a busy street and i have shit myself numerous times when people don't slow down for me to turn into my own driveway, let alone tap the brakes for an animal? fortunately the dog has grown a brain in the past couple of months and ran into the backyard instead of the street. unlike the visiting boys. i'm still not kidding.

schmoo's best friend's mom told her kids (and i quote) "this is the last time i'm going to tell you that we are leaving," no less than eleven times. yes, i counted. at 6:05, i was allowed to start making dinner again. with the help of my two older kids, who acted as butter-ers, cutters, and silverware fetchers, i managed to have food served and lips smacking by 6:15.

i am currently enjoying a stiff cocktail of cran-peach and smirnoff, heavy on the latter. no i will not do the dishes or share my drink. nyah.

pronouns and piggies

2007-09-21T08:51:00.000-05:00

I took the kids to school today. I do it every day. I wasn't feeling particularly peppy, and I threw on some really old jeans with both knees blown out, a tank top and a black zipper hoodie, and flip-flops. I didn't even bother to run a brush through my hair, since I was planning on showering after I got home again. I walked a little way with the kids and there was a group of three dads talking and watching their kids go into the building. As I passed, one of them said, "Yeaaaaah. I could wake up next to that every day," to the delight of his pals, who were murmuring in agreement.

I smirked for a split second and then stopped, trying to determine if it was a compliment or a slam. I decided to take it as a compliment, but I was a little peeved that he referred to me as an inanimate object. I am anything but inanimate. The kids were well on their way to their classes and I had already said my goodbyes, so I turned back to confront the piggies.

"Hmmm. Part of the reason why you may not be able to wake up next to something akin to 'that' (gesturing to myself) might have something to do with your poor use of pronouns. I'm pretty sure 'that' is a gender-neutral demonstrative adjective. You were looking for the word 'her,' which is a feminine pronoun. Basic grammar, taught in elementary and middle school, can go a long way toward gettin' some."

And I walked away. His pals were dying with laughter. Whether at me or at their buddy who'd been 'told,' I don't care. I said my piece and I counted to three.

damn, i have a soapbox??

2007-09-12T10:21:00.000-05:00

I have just finished reading The Worst Person in the World - and 202 Strong Contenders, by MSNBC's Keith Olbermann. It's not a "new" book, but it's new to me. It probably didn't take much time to write; it is a collection of "Worst Persons in the World" from his nightly Countdown show. Not all are famous, but they have all said or done something so spectacularly stupid, that they warrant a place in at least one book with history in it. Documented factual history, that is, not something made up on-the-fly to get better ratings. With actual reports to back up the aforementioned history. Of some of the nominees, I am sickened. Just that.

I'd like to admit that I am a true Independent, one who votes not necessarily for a candidate because of the (letter in parentheses) behind their name, but who looks to the views and platforms for guidance. I'd like to say that I don't "take sides" on political issues because I believe, for the most part that both "sides" usually have it all bass-ackwards. (Damn I love that word.) But truth be told there is a dark place in my heart and psyche for the big Republicans. They could all go to that dark place and never return, and I would not miss them. Some Democrats, too. I listen faithfully to both sides until someone dredges up their biased religious views and ruins their objectiveness. I try to discount their silver-spoon-fed short natural history (because what percentage of our Representatives and candidates have actually lived in their constiuents' shoes - at least this constiuent's? Ha. That's a pretty small number that I don't have in front of me right now.) I do try to give every candidate a fair chance to tell me how wonderful they are; they just all fail miserably to convince me. They all have pretty tasty feet and nice-sized mouths. As Keith Olbermann points out every night.

The most sickening thing I thing I discovered in this book, is that I still hate Republican radio and TV talk show hosts. I was officially introduced to Rush Limbaugh in 1994, in the form of my supervisor's radio, which I was not allowed to turn off or even down during the morning show...which droned on for decades every day. I actually listened, hoping that he was going to say something positive, and tell both sides to the story - any story, but alas, it was not to be. About the middle of the third day, I started not listening, and my supervisor decided I was one of Them. A Democrat. Since I was not yet old enough to vote, it burned me that he would declare someone who disagrees with him to be completely against him. But I've gradually learned over the years that that's the definition of a Republican. No offense to any of my (R) friends out there....I'm just calling 'em like I see 'em...as Rush would say.

So here again, I am introduced to another madman of the mouth, Bill O'Reilly. I have heard some of the things he has to say, and know he is employed by the Fox "If It Isn't Far-Fetched Yet, We'll Make It So" News team, so basically, I've already named him as a Republican whack-job akin to Rush Limbaugh. And then I read some of the things that he has said, denied saying even though there are official transcripts proving his tongue-slippage, and recanting that he didn't say he said. Whew. Almost derailed my train there. I change my mind. He's worse than Rush. Except he's not tanked on painkillers. He's just normally that stupid.

People make mistakes. I make them all the time because my mouth moves faster than my brain sometimes. I have given out the wrong phone number, paid the wrong amount for a bill to the wrong company, given out the wrong dates of Girl Scout meetings, and I apologize quickly and profusely for any mistake I make. This guy, this person self-proclaimed to be a "fair and balanced" (TM) journalist, not only spouts off incorrect, unsourced and undocumented information, but will not admit when he's made a mistake nor apologize for his lack of journalistic research or tact. Sounds like another major Republican of which many disapprove.

The epilogue names Bill O'Reilly, oft-times known as "Big Giant Head," "Billo" or "Bill-O," "Falafel," "Papa Bear," and "Ted Baxter," as Worst in Show for the whole bleeding book. It seems Mr. Bill not once, but twice mis-quoted history on-air by declaring at least 84 surrendered American WWII POWs slaughtered by the Nazis, to be war criminals. Once could have been a mistake, twice in nine months using the same mis-quoted information is inexcusable, especially when no apology was ever made to the families of the slain servicemen. Sickening. And he's allowed to use his First Amendment rights to misquote all the history he wants. And wrap it up with a neat little bow and call it "journalism."

Bill, you make your News service, your political party and your country look the worse for wear. Not to mention continuing to look like a man walking around bent over with his head up his ass. How about coming down out of your own inflated head and giving us all a rest, eh?

inquisition

2007-09-04T13:39:00.000-05:00

1 - who vacuumed up the blue plastic clothespin?
i'll rule out the 5-yo, 6-yo, and possibly the 8-yo, since the vacuum is quite heavy, and the clothspin is not in a postition where it could have been "pushed in" and forgotten. it did done got sucked there. that leaves the 11-yo and the 35-yo.

2 - how long ago was it sucked in?
i'm gonna go with....saturday, because i remember emptying a full cup o'hair the week before when i vacuumed the upstairs. there was a goodly amount of hair puppies backed up in the tube and the motor was burning hot, so i imagine it was one of the first things sucked up on saturday. the 35-yo vacuumed the couch and the upstairs before bringing the vacuum down to the 11-yo's bedroom. i used it last.

3 - do ya know how much damage a clogged hose can do to a $500 vacuum?
i remember thinking that it was very kind of someone to empty the cup for me when i was finished on saturday. my allergies have been acting up and i was glad not to have to do it. i now know that no one did such a nice deed. if i hadn't noticed that the cup was suspiciously empty after vacuuming up where the dog sleeps, we could have gone another FULL house-vacuum session and completely burned out the motor.

4 - why in the name of all that's oscar meyer would you feel inclined to vacuum up a clothespin??
it never would have made it past the beater brush - it had to go in through the nozzle. which means someone had to deliberately unhook the nozzle and aim it at a certain angle to suck it up. your back busted? can't bend over? wanted to hear it go clickety-clackety-thunk? yeah. that was funny, wasn't it?

5 - you know what's even funnier?
watching mommy dig the thing out. busting a nail, dribbling dust and hair puppies all over the floor i thought i'd just vacuumed. a large hunk of debris raining onto my hands, yet creating a fine mist cloud for me to inhale. sneezing into that dust cloud, but unable to hold my face (because it's full of dust and hair, you see) and then peeing my pants while walking and sneezing into the bathroom. fun. ny.

6 - would you like a demonstration of things that are small enough to fit in the vacuum?
hold out your finger. any which one you want. stick it in your nose. anything bigger than that hole must be physically picked up off the floor.

bend over and pick it up, you bum!!!

circle

2007-08-31T23:36:00.000-05:00

i hide from the dark.

it seeks me out and
i shut my eyes to
its creeping shadow.
i turn my face from
its sharpened claws.
i blot the darkness with
muffled giggles and
sunny days.

still it comes.

i drop into exhausted
sleep to busy the dark
from my head.
but once i stop to
rest, it flows around me
seeping into the cracks
upon my soul.
it weighs me down
bleeding into my dreams and
splintering happy memories
until i spill the dark in
wet tracks down my cheeks.

then it begins anew and
i hide
from the dark
once again.

the dustbunnies are revolting

ink

Stoney River

the long and the snow of it

more TSA Muzak

TSA Holiday muzak

a two-way street

caramel apple cake

coupla camp'n recipes

"hi. i'm New."

pumpkin pancakes

marbeled peanut butter fudge

avast, me hearties

UQ 1998-2001

getting ribbed in america

crockpot chicken cacciatore

alcohol screaming

broccoli stuffed flounder

WD-40 and needle nose pliers

mocha shortbread rounds

din-din is what again?

webster's ninth

check your mirror

sweet potato biscuits

What A Deal!!

charm city, hon? i think not.

good morning to the greater bal-wash area

Introduction to Using a Bathroom Door

not not not

traditions & thoughts

holiday aftermath

creamy baked mashed potatoes

the birthday girl

the unexpected holiday

Confection in the box

chocolate hazelnut truffles

medieval mud-fest

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

nissan vs. mack

useless

vernacular bonbons

weekly wrap

suicide bombers, gasoline, mosquites, mice and trees

summertime boys, or tucking in

i thought i'd try

ponderings

pride, honor, discipline

charlie foxtrot

few and smallish

begging

begging

l'eau de twat

my missy

atypical, really

eating it with a big fat spoon

seriously, an inch thick every week now

soup & bread on a coooooold day

house-hunting in the UQ

creamy skillet chicken

drink dranked drunkened

how i spent my election day

dogs are not cats

my failure

scientology application

chicken fried junk

i can't drive 55

vegas demons

just might slay someone

still of the night

don't stand so close to me

mother's fodder

stromboli

apple cream crumble pie

il niege beaucoup

yakkity-yak!

yakkity-yak!

OMFG

IQ infusion at 10 am, please

teaser

make mine extraordinary

some swearing? not when it comes to money.