Only half over, but today has been pretty good. Earlier this week I saw a man wandering the stacks and I offered my help. He seemed humble, looked like he worked with his hands; carpenter maybe or machinist of some sort. He wanted to know the 'poverty salary'. I assumed he meant 'where is the poverty line' and I was able to interview him and found out he was going to ask his boss for a raise and he planned on showing his boss the stats and asking him if he thought his workers should earn below the poverty line. I said, "You know, that's pretty smart. Management people like numbers. Your request will carry a lot more weight with this chart. " I showed him a chart that not only showed where the poverty line was, but showed how it was derived and also showed different lines for various circumstances (like family size, disability, etc.; Gouldie, you probabaly see this everyday). So today, I see him walk in and you can see he's beaming all the way across the room. He comes up and tells me he just got his raise; his boss was impressed. Ah, that's why I get up in the mornings.
Also saw a wedding today at lunch. Well, a pending wedding. I could see the courthouse from my perch and there was the windswept bride waiting in the foyer. She was actually wearing a bridal gown and veil and everything, but with tennis shoes. You rarely see courthouse brides with all the regalia. I'm not picking on her for the shoes, I mean at least they weren't flip-flops, for God's sake. It may be all she owns. She was awaiting the groom, I guess or maybe the family, I'm not sure. There was a young man there who looked obviously uncomfortable in his Sunday best. You've seen them on Easter Sunday, I'll bet. An ironed pair of jeans and a polo shirt and a belt and shoes borrowed from someone who wears such things to work. I silently telepathed best wishes their way.
Started on the Kidlet Tank for Super Giant Killer. I'm not making it as depicted, I'm using a solid color (Cherry Moon). I only have two skeins of the yarn and I had to search about a thousand magazines, pattern books and websites until I found something that fit all the requirements: free pattern; a top; for girls; correct size; correct yarn weight; and coming in under 430 yds. It's a surprise, but she'll figure it out. I was going to try the 10 Minute Tank, but since it took 20 minutes to read the instructions, I figured it would only lead to aggravation.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Saints Preserve Us
I had to hang my head out the window on the way home from the Last Public Place In America to see if it was a full moon. We had some doozies today, God love 'em.
My first call of the day was from a dear woman who rang us up at the stroke of 9:00. She quite eagerly introduced herself with that squeak that octogenarians get when they are really excited, "Good Morning! This is Mrs. John Doe and I have a question!! I would like to know... I would like to know... Oh dear me. What did I want to ask? Oh! No... 'twasn't that." I tried my best to oil the hinges; I asked if it was something she'd read in the paper, seen on TV, a book she wanted to read, was it a phone number? Nothing rang a bell. She finally gave up, poor thing, and said she'd call back when she remembered. You've gotta love the optimism.
Later a guy called on behalf of an incarcerated young woman who had 14 books which were quite past due - to the tune of hundreds of dollars. He wasn't asking that she be forgiven the debt, he was just letting us know she wasn't going to be getting out until January 2007 and we didn't need to send any more invoices to her. I told him if he just brought the books back, we'd call it even. He then explained therein lay the problem - the books are gone. Apparently what happened was she had a creep boyfriend who was a burglar and he piled his loot up in her apartment, so she was sent up the river for 2nd degree burglary and possession of stolen property. On top of that , the apartment complex emptied her place after non-payment of rent and locked all her belongings up in storage. Then the boyfriend somehow got in and took her purse and the books. At first, I thought, "Yeah, right. you said the stuff was all locked up." But then I think, oh yeah - burglar. The gentleman I talked to informed me that he was her guardian angel. I said "Oh, is that like a program to help incarcerated people?" "No", he said. "I am an angel." "OK," I said. "Not with wings or anything," he tells me, "that's all just a myth; God uses real people." See, that's funny because I know the Pope's astronomer recently suggested that angels were actually aliens. I didn't bring that up. The thing is, though, I actually believe him. The story of what happened, I mean. I've seen so many times here what happens when people make a couple of wrong turns here and there and before you know it their lives are a train wreck. After I hung up I pulled up the record and sure enough, all 14 books were on witchcraft and the occult. I have never understood why the 130s are the most stolen books.
On the next shift I was downstairs and I kept hearing this shouting between a man and one of my co-workers upstairs. And I can't hear it perfectly, but I know I'm hearing 'murder' and 'kill her' and lots of other unpleasant things. So I move to a place I can hear better and I realize it's a guy who's nearly stone deaf trying to communicate to a Lipstick Librarian that he's looking for a newspaper article about a friend of his he heard had killed a woman. The funny thing was she kept asking him to spell the last name of the perp and he kept avoiding it. She would ask and he would answer a non-sequiter like, "Oh yeah, I've known him since 6th grade." LL has a stubborn streak and she dug her heels in; he was going to spell that name or die trying. He never did. I finally called up there and told Purple Bunny to ask LL to quit flirting with that guy and give him the damn article. Library hijinks!
Then I had this guy call who kept repeating everything I said. I was getting really annoyed with him, but he was awfully respectful and well-mannered. He finally told me he was blind and he was taping the info I gave him so he could have the Library for the Blind record the books for him. These were books about a particularly brutal sex crime. I don't envy the reader at the Library for the Blind. In addition to all that, though, the guy was apparently a little paranoid and he wanted to make sure that they didn't end up at the circ desk because the man who works there has a grudge against him and won't let him have the books. I finally determine he thinks he called our nearest sibling to the south. He is blind after all. I didn't explore the nature of his discontent, though, I'd had enough.
My last one was another sad one. The woman calling must have had that larynx surgery or had been smoking five packs a day since birth; or both. It was painful to listen to her. Her circumstance was that her book was stolen from her berth at the local rescue mission. She was desperate to get back in to use the library, but now she wouldn't be able to because she didn't have the $14 to get back in good graces. I told her there really wasn't anything I couldn't do since the managers had gone home, but tomorrow's a new day and all that. She lost it after that. She told me she didn't want to be at the mission; she had a job and a house and her husband got sick and before she knew it she was at the shelter. I pulled up her record while she was talking and the book was an inspirational paperback about getting your life back together. Shit. I mean consider the irony. She just needed an ear and, you know, that I could do. And tomorrow when she comes in, if it doesn't work out for her, I'll pay for the book myself. I mean, there but for the grace of God, right?
My first call of the day was from a dear woman who rang us up at the stroke of 9:00. She quite eagerly introduced herself with that squeak that octogenarians get when they are really excited, "Good Morning! This is Mrs. John Doe and I have a question!! I would like to know... I would like to know... Oh dear me. What did I want to ask? Oh! No... 'twasn't that." I tried my best to oil the hinges; I asked if it was something she'd read in the paper, seen on TV, a book she wanted to read, was it a phone number? Nothing rang a bell. She finally gave up, poor thing, and said she'd call back when she remembered. You've gotta love the optimism.
Later a guy called on behalf of an incarcerated young woman who had 14 books which were quite past due - to the tune of hundreds of dollars. He wasn't asking that she be forgiven the debt, he was just letting us know she wasn't going to be getting out until January 2007 and we didn't need to send any more invoices to her. I told him if he just brought the books back, we'd call it even. He then explained therein lay the problem - the books are gone. Apparently what happened was she had a creep boyfriend who was a burglar and he piled his loot up in her apartment, so she was sent up the river for 2nd degree burglary and possession of stolen property. On top of that , the apartment complex emptied her place after non-payment of rent and locked all her belongings up in storage. Then the boyfriend somehow got in and took her purse and the books. At first, I thought, "Yeah, right. you said the stuff was all locked up." But then I think, oh yeah - burglar. The gentleman I talked to informed me that he was her guardian angel. I said "Oh, is that like a program to help incarcerated people?" "No", he said. "I am an angel." "OK," I said. "Not with wings or anything," he tells me, "that's all just a myth; God uses real people." See, that's funny because I know the Pope's astronomer recently suggested that angels were actually aliens. I didn't bring that up. The thing is, though, I actually believe him. The story of what happened, I mean. I've seen so many times here what happens when people make a couple of wrong turns here and there and before you know it their lives are a train wreck. After I hung up I pulled up the record and sure enough, all 14 books were on witchcraft and the occult. I have never understood why the 130s are the most stolen books.
On the next shift I was downstairs and I kept hearing this shouting between a man and one of my co-workers upstairs. And I can't hear it perfectly, but I know I'm hearing 'murder' and 'kill her' and lots of other unpleasant things. So I move to a place I can hear better and I realize it's a guy who's nearly stone deaf trying to communicate to a Lipstick Librarian that he's looking for a newspaper article about a friend of his he heard had killed a woman. The funny thing was she kept asking him to spell the last name of the perp and he kept avoiding it. She would ask and he would answer a non-sequiter like, "Oh yeah, I've known him since 6th grade." LL has a stubborn streak and she dug her heels in; he was going to spell that name or die trying. He never did. I finally called up there and told Purple Bunny to ask LL to quit flirting with that guy and give him the damn article. Library hijinks!
Then I had this guy call who kept repeating everything I said. I was getting really annoyed with him, but he was awfully respectful and well-mannered. He finally told me he was blind and he was taping the info I gave him so he could have the Library for the Blind record the books for him. These were books about a particularly brutal sex crime. I don't envy the reader at the Library for the Blind. In addition to all that, though, the guy was apparently a little paranoid and he wanted to make sure that they didn't end up at the circ desk because the man who works there has a grudge against him and won't let him have the books. I finally determine he thinks he called our nearest sibling to the south. He is blind after all. I didn't explore the nature of his discontent, though, I'd had enough.
My last one was another sad one. The woman calling must have had that larynx surgery or had been smoking five packs a day since birth; or both. It was painful to listen to her. Her circumstance was that her book was stolen from her berth at the local rescue mission. She was desperate to get back in to use the library, but now she wouldn't be able to because she didn't have the $14 to get back in good graces. I told her there really wasn't anything I couldn't do since the managers had gone home, but tomorrow's a new day and all that. She lost it after that. She told me she didn't want to be at the mission; she had a job and a house and her husband got sick and before she knew it she was at the shelter. I pulled up her record while she was talking and the book was an inspirational paperback about getting your life back together. Shit. I mean consider the irony. She just needed an ear and, you know, that I could do. And tomorrow when she comes in, if it doesn't work out for her, I'll pay for the book myself. I mean, there but for the grace of God, right?
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Ennis and Jack and Hank and Slim
BananAppeal: Brokeback heartbreak
In light of Adjective Queen's poignant post, I have to admit that I am still somewhat reluctant to watch this movie. Not for reasons you might think, though. It's hard to really put into words, but I don't want to watch it for the same reason I'll probably avoid 'United 93' - I prefer my own personal myth, thank you very much.
Three generations of my family grew up in western Oklahoma and I spent many many summers and holidays there. My mom's parents retired from farming around the time I was born and moved to a 'city house' on the edge of the nearest metropolis - population 500. Well, across the road from my grandfolks place was this ramshackle old house, almost a shed really, which was teetering on the edge of a red dirt bluff. It couldn't have been more than 500 square feet; no running water; outhouse in the back. Scrub oaks, sandburrs, yuccas and tumbleweeds littered the sandy yard and an old truck sat rusting alongside. Inside lived Hank and Slim. "Just a coupla ol' drunks," my mom said. "Don't let me catch you over there," my dad warned. "See that 'No Trespassing' sign? They mean it." He might even have told me they would shoot me.
My grandparents didn't talk that way, though. My grandpa would look out for them, leave cigarettes and liquor on their doorstep, turn their horses out in the mornings. My grandma would do their 'trading' for them 'uptown' and since she knew how much food they had, when she figured they were low she'd cook extra dinner that night and carry it over.
The interesting thing is that I never once - ever - saw Hank or Slim outside of that shack. Finally, on one the many drives I made with my grandpa to the county dump or to see how the sharecroppers were treating his land I asked why Hank and Slim drank so much. Also were they vampires. He didn't know what a vampire was, but from my description he said, "Doesn't sound much like Hank. Slim on the other hand.." He said they were just ol' cowboys that wouldn't hurt no one - but it was best if I didn't go over there. Of course, I was fascinated with them. I thought about them all the time when I would visit and I always kept one eye on the shack. The mystery was too compelling. I knew it had to be more than drinking because there was plenty of that around. My Uncle Ray always had a bottle of scotch within reach and I used to marvel at how Aunt Freda could work a room with a highball and a lit cigarette in the same hand, leaving her other one free to gesticulate wildly. Slim and Hank were married. I just knew it.
Twenty years later, I asked my mom if she thought Hank and Slim were gay. She shrugged and said probably, but nobody cared. She said when she was little the next farm over was run by two women that she always thought were sisters. They looked manly, but she figured the hard life of a dirt farmer could do that to you. At any rate, my mom would walk the mile or two over and visit and bake cookies and read their city magazines. Years later she mentioned the sisters to her mom and my grandma laughed and said, "They wasn't sisters, honey! They was married!" Apparently one of the women inherited the farm and had been corresponding for awhile with the other and ultimately they moved in together. They were members of the community like everyone else and apparently raised no ire.
I guess that's where my reluctance to watch comes in. My grandparents painted for me a picture of western life as being one of tolerance where hard work and diligence was the standard and where charity began at home and in one's neighborhood. I haven't seen Brokeback Mountain; I don't know any more than the basic plot. But I know I can't see it with the eyes of a New Yorker or a transplanted Arkansawyer from San Antonio. I know Brokeback is in Wyoming not Oklahoma, but cowboys are cowboys wherever they are. We always overlay our own experiences and feelings when we read fiction or see a film and right now I don't want to examine or question the affection I have for my ancestors and my homeland. I also want to leave Hank and Slim where I left them - cuddled up, stone drunk, teetering on the edge of a red dirt bluff in Northwest County.
In light of Adjective Queen's poignant post, I have to admit that I am still somewhat reluctant to watch this movie. Not for reasons you might think, though. It's hard to really put into words, but I don't want to watch it for the same reason I'll probably avoid 'United 93' - I prefer my own personal myth, thank you very much.
Three generations of my family grew up in western Oklahoma and I spent many many summers and holidays there. My mom's parents retired from farming around the time I was born and moved to a 'city house' on the edge of the nearest metropolis - population 500. Well, across the road from my grandfolks place was this ramshackle old house, almost a shed really, which was teetering on the edge of a red dirt bluff. It couldn't have been more than 500 square feet; no running water; outhouse in the back. Scrub oaks, sandburrs, yuccas and tumbleweeds littered the sandy yard and an old truck sat rusting alongside. Inside lived Hank and Slim. "Just a coupla ol' drunks," my mom said. "Don't let me catch you over there," my dad warned. "See that 'No Trespassing' sign? They mean it." He might even have told me they would shoot me.
My grandparents didn't talk that way, though. My grandpa would look out for them, leave cigarettes and liquor on their doorstep, turn their horses out in the mornings. My grandma would do their 'trading' for them 'uptown' and since she knew how much food they had, when she figured they were low she'd cook extra dinner that night and carry it over.
The interesting thing is that I never once - ever - saw Hank or Slim outside of that shack. Finally, on one the many drives I made with my grandpa to the county dump or to see how the sharecroppers were treating his land I asked why Hank and Slim drank so much. Also were they vampires. He didn't know what a vampire was, but from my description he said, "Doesn't sound much like Hank. Slim on the other hand.." He said they were just ol' cowboys that wouldn't hurt no one - but it was best if I didn't go over there. Of course, I was fascinated with them. I thought about them all the time when I would visit and I always kept one eye on the shack. The mystery was too compelling. I knew it had to be more than drinking because there was plenty of that around. My Uncle Ray always had a bottle of scotch within reach and I used to marvel at how Aunt Freda could work a room with a highball and a lit cigarette in the same hand, leaving her other one free to gesticulate wildly. Slim and Hank were married. I just knew it.
Twenty years later, I asked my mom if she thought Hank and Slim were gay. She shrugged and said probably, but nobody cared. She said when she was little the next farm over was run by two women that she always thought were sisters. They looked manly, but she figured the hard life of a dirt farmer could do that to you. At any rate, my mom would walk the mile or two over and visit and bake cookies and read their city magazines. Years later she mentioned the sisters to her mom and my grandma laughed and said, "They wasn't sisters, honey! They was married!" Apparently one of the women inherited the farm and had been corresponding for awhile with the other and ultimately they moved in together. They were members of the community like everyone else and apparently raised no ire.
I guess that's where my reluctance to watch comes in. My grandparents painted for me a picture of western life as being one of tolerance where hard work and diligence was the standard and where charity began at home and in one's neighborhood. I haven't seen Brokeback Mountain; I don't know any more than the basic plot. But I know I can't see it with the eyes of a New Yorker or a transplanted Arkansawyer from San Antonio. I know Brokeback is in Wyoming not Oklahoma, but cowboys are cowboys wherever they are. We always overlay our own experiences and feelings when we read fiction or see a film and right now I don't want to examine or question the affection I have for my ancestors and my homeland. I also want to leave Hank and Slim where I left them - cuddled up, stone drunk, teetering on the edge of a red dirt bluff in Northwest County.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Irish Creel, Baby!
Tomorrow is our 7th anniversary. Every year we eat at the same table at Keller in the Kastle. It's a German restaurant in the former storybook home of the founder of Manhattan Construction. OK, yeah, it has always bothered me that it spells castle with a 'k'. I mean it really weakens the impact of the fine cuisine served there; it's as if you were going to a convenience store or a photocopy shop. And the word for castle in German is Schloss to boot. Anyway, we didn't go this year because...ah the hell with it - it's not important.
You may not realize it, but at the moment I am Bess Truman. The Killer bought a $3.99 book of the presidents at Borders tonight and so now we are the Trumans. And please don't ask me why I'm not Harry Truman. She just told me that she was Margaret Truman and I am Bess Truman. Lord help me. Please don't let me become Betty Ford.
I had a vision while laying in bed yesterday morning and staring at the ceiling fan spinning and it enabled me to see a way to bypass the crap directions in the creel pattern and find a better path to stitched enlightenment. So I stayed up til 2:00 am and finished the SOB. Here 'tis:
For the curious, here is the silky wool tank deal I just finished:
You may not realize it, but at the moment I am Bess Truman. The Killer bought a $3.99 book of the presidents at Borders tonight and so now we are the Trumans. And please don't ask me why I'm not Harry Truman. She just told me that she was Margaret Truman and I am Bess Truman. Lord help me. Please don't let me become Betty Ford.
I had a vision while laying in bed yesterday morning and staring at the ceiling fan spinning and it enabled me to see a way to bypass the crap directions in the creel pattern and find a better path to stitched enlightenment. So I stayed up til 2:00 am and finished the SOB. Here 'tis:
For the curious, here is the silky wool tank deal I just finished:
Thursday, April 20, 2006
A Depiction of Nothingness, Complete In Every Detail
Not much going on these days. Which means something bad is about to happen...
I did finish knitting a nice silky wool sweatery top thing. I think it looks pretty good actually, except a a knitter can always spot the mistakes. Next up I am going to try and finish the Ol' Albatross - an Irish creel I started about a year ago. It has an incredibly hard stitch pattern (which is why I wanted to try it) that looks like a basket. It's not the basketweave stitch, which is actually kind of easy, but a stitch which really looks woven and thus is a good tight pattern for a satchel. I got through the stitch pattern alright, but the finishing instructions are a m-f. It's not that they are cryptic, they just make a lot of assumptions. Like they tell you 'start on the wrong side, picking up stitches as you go'. OK, there's three separate pieces - which piece do I start on? And I know that when I get it finished - WHEN - I get it finished, YHWH will leave the cap of an inkpen inside and it will have a nice big blue inkspot on it.
Also finished what is probably the best book on race I have ever read - Magnus Mills' Explorers of the New Century. It's a fantastic book in the style of Kafka or Beckett, both of whom I adore!
Super Giant Killer has begun requesting World War II stories for bedtime lately. So far we have covered Pearl Harbor, Midway, Coral Sea, The Bataan Death March, D-Day, and Operation Market Garden. Probably I'll do Sinking of the Bismarck next. Oh, and the other day she came in with one of those short black licorice pieces held under her nose and saluted. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm afraid if I ban him, he'll be more attractive.
I'm pretty sure The Self has decided to pass on having a childhood. Who knew a hedonisitic life free from want or responsibility could be so depressing?
Anyone know why myspace blocks the sites of killers and other criminals after the fact? I mean that with genuine curiosity. I just can't come up with a compelling reason. Seems like it could be valuable info for society.
I did finish knitting a nice silky wool sweatery top thing. I think it looks pretty good actually, except a a knitter can always spot the mistakes. Next up I am going to try and finish the Ol' Albatross - an Irish creel I started about a year ago. It has an incredibly hard stitch pattern (which is why I wanted to try it) that looks like a basket. It's not the basketweave stitch, which is actually kind of easy, but a stitch which really looks woven and thus is a good tight pattern for a satchel. I got through the stitch pattern alright, but the finishing instructions are a m-f. It's not that they are cryptic, they just make a lot of assumptions. Like they tell you 'start on the wrong side, picking up stitches as you go'. OK, there's three separate pieces - which piece do I start on? And I know that when I get it finished - WHEN - I get it finished, YHWH will leave the cap of an inkpen inside and it will have a nice big blue inkspot on it.
Also finished what is probably the best book on race I have ever read - Magnus Mills' Explorers of the New Century. It's a fantastic book in the style of Kafka or Beckett, both of whom I adore!
Super Giant Killer has begun requesting World War II stories for bedtime lately. So far we have covered Pearl Harbor, Midway, Coral Sea, The Bataan Death March, D-Day, and Operation Market Garden. Probably I'll do Sinking of the Bismarck next. Oh, and the other day she came in with one of those short black licorice pieces held under her nose and saluted. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm afraid if I ban him, he'll be more attractive.
I'm pretty sure The Self has decided to pass on having a childhood. Who knew a hedonisitic life free from want or responsibility could be so depressing?
Anyone know why myspace blocks the sites of killers and other criminals after the fact? I mean that with genuine curiosity. I just can't come up with a compelling reason. Seems like it could be valuable info for society.
Monday, April 17, 2006
You Can Pry It From My Cold Dead Fingers
For some reason we are having cable difficulties, so my posts will likely be spotty for the week (OK, cut it out). It's one of those classic Brazil situations. For one thing the cable in our bedroom has been slighty snowy since we moved in. Then Sairdy the modem goes out and the den cable goes out and now the bedroom one is fine. I called to report it and they said it would be Thursday. Thursday? I'll bet if I wanted to sign up they'd be right over. Anyway, I made sure to remind them I'd need to be credited for the time I had no service. They said OK, and the credit I get is $1.66. That's funny because I'm pretty sure I pay $100 for a month which comes to what $3-something a day and I won't have it fixed for five days, so it ought to be $16 or $17. Oh good, I get to make a call to customer 'service' now.
I did have something happen that was really creepy, though. I was driving in outer suburbia at dusk and I saw in the road what looked like a handgun. Naturally, when you see something like that you tell yourself either a)it wasn't what you thought it was or b)it was a toy. But I have seen real guns. I own real guns. And it looked real. So I spun around and went back toward it and opened my door and trawled slowly until I could see it. Yep. It was real. It was an automatic, probabaly 9mm. Then I got real panicky. I had the instinct to pick it up, but mid-reach I thought, "S**t, I'm not getting my prints on this. Probably a murder weapon or something. Probably thrown out the window during a getaway." Yeah, I know, too much CSI. So I drove off. Got about a mile and a half away and I started thinking, "S**t some kid is going to find that and blow his friend away. Or it may help convict someone." So, I turned around again. I figured I would pull off the road by it and call 911 on my cell and meet a cop out there and show him. And of course...I get there and the g-d thing is gone. Someone else got it. So all weekend I am obsessed with this. Did I even really see the thing? Who got it? Did the perp go back for it (not likely)? You're going to feel like hell if you find out a kid was killed by a gun his friend found on the road. Here's the real kicker. I finally got calmed down about it and rationalized it away (I figure that there was a car stolen nearby and the thieves threw out anything that would be traceable and put them at the scene or worse, they get pulled over and there's a gun in the car they can't explain). Then Sunday night we get into bed, YHWH turns out the light and we lay there for a minute and she goes, "Do you think we'll be judged harshly for the things we didn't do in this life?" Great. Thanks a lot.
I did have something happen that was really creepy, though. I was driving in outer suburbia at dusk and I saw in the road what looked like a handgun. Naturally, when you see something like that you tell yourself either a)it wasn't what you thought it was or b)it was a toy. But I have seen real guns. I own real guns. And it looked real. So I spun around and went back toward it and opened my door and trawled slowly until I could see it. Yep. It was real. It was an automatic, probabaly 9mm. Then I got real panicky. I had the instinct to pick it up, but mid-reach I thought, "S**t, I'm not getting my prints on this. Probably a murder weapon or something. Probably thrown out the window during a getaway." Yeah, I know, too much CSI. So I drove off. Got about a mile and a half away and I started thinking, "S**t some kid is going to find that and blow his friend away. Or it may help convict someone." So, I turned around again. I figured I would pull off the road by it and call 911 on my cell and meet a cop out there and show him. And of course...I get there and the g-d thing is gone. Someone else got it. So all weekend I am obsessed with this. Did I even really see the thing? Who got it? Did the perp go back for it (not likely)? You're going to feel like hell if you find out a kid was killed by a gun his friend found on the road. Here's the real kicker. I finally got calmed down about it and rationalized it away (I figure that there was a car stolen nearby and the thieves threw out anything that would be traceable and put them at the scene or worse, they get pulled over and there's a gun in the car they can't explain). Then Sunday night we get into bed, YHWH turns out the light and we lay there for a minute and she goes, "Do you think we'll be judged harshly for the things we didn't do in this life?" Great. Thanks a lot.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Rowing Changes Lives
I had the day off, so of course I got up before sunrise. The Killer is ill with a mysterious virus and she and Nurse YHWH (hey, the kid asks for her) were up off and on all night so they slept in. Thankfully, Genie was available for Panera, so we breakfasted and knitted a couple of hours.
Also spent time with my teen today. She was out of school for April Day - as they now call it - and wanted to go thrift store shopping. I decided to take her to one of the ones that are in a different country and took the long way through Mulligan Flats, pointed out where the hobo camps were along the North Canadian - er - Oklahoma River before the sculls and Chesapeake Boathouse erased all traces of them. By the way, I can't tell you enough how much these recent geographic crimes annoy me - renaming a river something else for five miles (and picking something really mundane at that) and then plopping something called Chesapeake on a river 1500 miles from the bay. And to top it all off, the coach of the junior crew has the first name Tempe - yeah let's throw a desert town in there as well. The tagline for junior crew is 'rowing changes lives'. And from the kids I see depicted there it must be true because I'm sure that a Fortune 500 company would do everything in it's power to grab some of the kids from nearby Walnut Grove or Riverside and do some life changin' and yet the kids look like they arrived by SUV from Edmond - so rowing obviously does change lives. And yes, I know I'm judging a book by a cover and no, I don't know the life history of every kid in the photos. Work with me here. (EDIT - It does say in the Gazette that they have an at-risk program - they need to put that on their website!). Anyway, so I took the Self through Mulligan Flats, the ruins of Community Camp, and then Will Rogers Courts hoping for some kind of impact or reality check or I don't know what. Spur some charity, empathy, something. Can she come intern with you for the summer, Gouldie?
We had fun, though, we hit a couple shops and she found a flashy red number to wear to her first formal dance. I got The Killer some summer duds, though the coup de grace (already picking up that French) was a Green Lantern shirt big enough to be a sleepshirt. We were looking for a non-chain restaurant to dine in and decided on an unnamed gyro hole-in-the-wall in a largely deserted strip center. Though unnamed, it did feature advertising by the ubiquitous Gyro Girl. The new posters feature a Nia Vardalos lookalike, but I'm still partial to the wide-eyed pita-munching poster girl of the 80s. It was actually a disturbing dining experience, though. When we walked in there was a guy gesticulating and talking really loudly in Arabic on a cellphone (it was the bellicosity not the language that was off-putting) and of course, I'm always paralyzed when I go in one of those places because I know how gyro is pronounced 'over there' and I also know how it is pronounced 'over here', but I never know which one I should use because you either sound like a snob or a hick. Thankfully they had a dry erase board that outlined a special of the day so I triumphantly requested, "Two specials, please!" Huh? Pretty smoove, I must say. Well anyway, they had on some Iranian satellite TV thing and it was scary folks. I mean FDR put people in camps for less than what I was seeing on there. They did this one weird thing where they would show their armies marching (like the old Soviet Mayday parades) and then superimpose a scene from some old movie of Immortals marching. I guess what we thought was a vial of enriched uranium somehow was a Lovecraftian potion to reanimate Darius the Great. I'm betting their history books don't cover Marathon, Salamis, or Gaugamela. Anyway this went on for the hour we were there and included nukes and dead babies and all the usual Great Satan stuff and they kept running a number in Dallas across the screen (presumably to donate money). Not very appetizing.
I enjoyed being with my teen, though.
Also spent time with my teen today. She was out of school for April Day - as they now call it - and wanted to go thrift store shopping. I decided to take her to one of the ones that are in a different country and took the long way through Mulligan Flats, pointed out where the hobo camps were along the North Canadian - er - Oklahoma River before the sculls and Chesapeake Boathouse erased all traces of them. By the way, I can't tell you enough how much these recent geographic crimes annoy me - renaming a river something else for five miles (and picking something really mundane at that) and then plopping something called Chesapeake on a river 1500 miles from the bay. And to top it all off, the coach of the junior crew has the first name Tempe - yeah let's throw a desert town in there as well. The tagline for junior crew is 'rowing changes lives'. And from the kids I see depicted there it must be true because I'm sure that a Fortune 500 company would do everything in it's power to grab some of the kids from nearby Walnut Grove or Riverside and do some life changin' and yet the kids look like they arrived by SUV from Edmond - so rowing obviously does change lives. And yes, I know I'm judging a book by a cover and no, I don't know the life history of every kid in the photos. Work with me here. (EDIT - It does say in the Gazette that they have an at-risk program - they need to put that on their website!). Anyway, so I took the Self through Mulligan Flats, the ruins of Community Camp, and then Will Rogers Courts hoping for some kind of impact or reality check or I don't know what. Spur some charity, empathy, something. Can she come intern with you for the summer, Gouldie?
We had fun, though, we hit a couple shops and she found a flashy red number to wear to her first formal dance. I got The Killer some summer duds, though the coup de grace (already picking up that French) was a Green Lantern shirt big enough to be a sleepshirt. We were looking for a non-chain restaurant to dine in and decided on an unnamed gyro hole-in-the-wall in a largely deserted strip center. Though unnamed, it did feature advertising by the ubiquitous Gyro Girl. The new posters feature a Nia Vardalos lookalike, but I'm still partial to the wide-eyed pita-munching poster girl of the 80s. It was actually a disturbing dining experience, though. When we walked in there was a guy gesticulating and talking really loudly in Arabic on a cellphone (it was the bellicosity not the language that was off-putting) and of course, I'm always paralyzed when I go in one of those places because I know how gyro is pronounced 'over there' and I also know how it is pronounced 'over here', but I never know which one I should use because you either sound like a snob or a hick. Thankfully they had a dry erase board that outlined a special of the day so I triumphantly requested, "Two specials, please!" Huh? Pretty smoove, I must say. Well anyway, they had on some Iranian satellite TV thing and it was scary folks. I mean FDR put people in camps for less than what I was seeing on there. They did this one weird thing where they would show their armies marching (like the old Soviet Mayday parades) and then superimpose a scene from some old movie of Immortals marching. I guess what we thought was a vial of enriched uranium somehow was a Lovecraftian potion to reanimate Darius the Great. I'm betting their history books don't cover Marathon, Salamis, or Gaugamela. Anyway this went on for the hour we were there and included nukes and dead babies and all the usual Great Satan stuff and they kept running a number in Dallas across the screen (presumably to donate money). Not very appetizing.
I enjoyed being with my teen, though.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Parallel Lines
I just spent a sick hour taking rapid personality tests. Hey it's one of the interests in my profile, for God's sake. Here are the results:
Brain Pattern: Your brain is always looking for the connections in life. You see the world in fluid, flexible terms. Nothing is black or white.
Japanese Name: Senichi Kato
Seduction Style: Fantasy Lover
Age I Act: 30
Hillbilly Name: Squirrel West
Weirdness: 40% (thought it would be higher)
Type of Ex: Friendly
Color of Green: Apple
Love Element: Water
Power Color: Indigo
Elf Name: Freckles Fluffernutter
Sellout Price: $235,939
Part of Fall I Am: Changing leaves – pretty, but soon dead
Which Reindeer: Vixen – the one all the other reindeer dream about
Who Should Paint My Portrait: Picasso
Language I Should Learn: French
Cookie I Am: Chocolate Chip
Boyish/Girlish Ratio: 60/40
Ideal Career Type: Investigative (duh)
Inner Blood Type: A - cool and collected, a bit shy, creative and artistic, very unique person who doesn't quite fit in. People accept you more than you realize, seeing you as trustworthy and loyal.
French Name: Denis Rioux
Type of Writer I Should Be: Sci-Fi (wrong!)
How Open-Minded: 80%
My Birthdate Means:
You understand people well and are a natural born therapist.
A peacemaker, people always seem to get along when you are around.
You tend to be a father figure to friends, even to those older than you.
You enjoy your role, and you find that you are close to many people.
Kissing Purity Score: 37% - You're not one to kiss and tell...But word is, you kiss pretty well.
People Envy My: Compassion
Lucky Underwear Color: Blue
How Scary Am I: A Little
What Kind of Kisser: Playful
How Quirky I Am: 78% - so quirky you don’t know from normal
In A Past Life: I was a lazy undertaker in North Africa hung for treason.
What Crappy Christmas Gift Am I: Fruitcake
Muppet: Rowlf
Winter Sport I Am: Curling
European City I Belong In: Amsterdam
Weather Personality: Lightning – beautiful but dangerous (hey I just report this stuff)
My Summer Ride: Beetle Convertible (whose isn’t?)
Sexy Brazilian Name: Felipe Montenegro
Soda I Am: Dr. Pepper (??!!)
My Best Match: Root Beer
Stay Away From: 7 Up
Which Brady Am I: Peter
What Rejected Crayon Am I: McDonald’s Burger Gray
My Hidden Talent: You have the natural talent of rocking the boat, thwarting the system. It's people like you who serve as the catalysts to major cultural changes. You're just a bit behind the scenes, so no one really notices.
My Hair Should Be: Orange – Expressive and deep, you pull off "weird" well - hardly anyone notices.
My Superhero Profile:
Your Superhero Name is The Gorilla Bull
Your Superpower is Electrocution
Your Weakness is Meat
Your Weapon is Your Flash Shield
Your Mode of Transportation is Capsule
What Your Sleeping Position Says: You are calm and rational. You are also giving and kind - a great friend.
Your Scholastic Strength Is: Developing Ideas
How Irish Are You: 30%
What Kind of Pie Are You: Mud Pie - you're the perfect combo of flavor and depth
How Do People See You: Slow and Steady
What Donut Are You: Boston Crème - You have a tough exterior. But on the inside, you're a total pushover and completely soft.
Kind of Coffee Are You: Black coffee - low maintenance, friendly, and adaptable
Temperament: Melancholic
Candy Bar: Snickers
Self-Esteem: 88% (yeah but that other 12% is a doozie)
Who Were You In High School: Arty Kid
Simpsons Personality: Krusty
What Kind of Friend Are You: You Are A Good Friend - Many people consider you their "best friend"What Your Face Says to Others: At first glance, people see you as warm and well-balanced.
Monster Name: Ultima Murderer
Gay Childhood Icon: Velma
Age at Death: 73
What Number Are You: 7
Your Dominant Intelligence is: Linguistic Intelligence
Your Inner European is: Italian
OK, you can all begin the mockery and refutation of how great a friend I am now!
Brain Pattern: Your brain is always looking for the connections in life. You see the world in fluid, flexible terms. Nothing is black or white.
Japanese Name: Senichi Kato
Seduction Style: Fantasy Lover
Age I Act: 30
Hillbilly Name: Squirrel West
Weirdness: 40% (thought it would be higher)
Type of Ex: Friendly
Color of Green: Apple
Love Element: Water
Power Color: Indigo
Elf Name: Freckles Fluffernutter
Sellout Price: $235,939
Part of Fall I Am: Changing leaves – pretty, but soon dead
Which Reindeer: Vixen – the one all the other reindeer dream about
Who Should Paint My Portrait: Picasso
Language I Should Learn: French
Cookie I Am: Chocolate Chip
Boyish/Girlish Ratio: 60/40
Ideal Career Type: Investigative (duh)
Inner Blood Type: A - cool and collected, a bit shy, creative and artistic, very unique person who doesn't quite fit in. People accept you more than you realize, seeing you as trustworthy and loyal.
French Name: Denis Rioux
Type of Writer I Should Be: Sci-Fi (wrong!)
How Open-Minded: 80%
My Birthdate Means:
You understand people well and are a natural born therapist.
A peacemaker, people always seem to get along when you are around.
You tend to be a father figure to friends, even to those older than you.
You enjoy your role, and you find that you are close to many people.
Kissing Purity Score: 37% - You're not one to kiss and tell...But word is, you kiss pretty well.
People Envy My: Compassion
Lucky Underwear Color: Blue
How Scary Am I: A Little
What Kind of Kisser: Playful
How Quirky I Am: 78% - so quirky you don’t know from normal
In A Past Life: I was a lazy undertaker in North Africa hung for treason.
What Crappy Christmas Gift Am I: Fruitcake
Muppet: Rowlf
Winter Sport I Am: Curling
European City I Belong In: Amsterdam
Weather Personality: Lightning – beautiful but dangerous (hey I just report this stuff)
My Summer Ride: Beetle Convertible (whose isn’t?)
Sexy Brazilian Name: Felipe Montenegro
Soda I Am: Dr. Pepper (??!!)
My Best Match: Root Beer
Stay Away From: 7 Up
Which Brady Am I: Peter
What Rejected Crayon Am I: McDonald’s Burger Gray
My Hidden Talent: You have the natural talent of rocking the boat, thwarting the system. It's people like you who serve as the catalysts to major cultural changes. You're just a bit behind the scenes, so no one really notices.
My Hair Should Be: Orange – Expressive and deep, you pull off "weird" well - hardly anyone notices.
My Superhero Profile:
Your Superhero Name is The Gorilla Bull
Your Superpower is Electrocution
Your Weakness is Meat
Your Weapon is Your Flash Shield
Your Mode of Transportation is Capsule
What Your Sleeping Position Says: You are calm and rational. You are also giving and kind - a great friend.
Your Scholastic Strength Is: Developing Ideas
How Irish Are You: 30%
What Kind of Pie Are You: Mud Pie - you're the perfect combo of flavor and depth
How Do People See You: Slow and Steady
What Donut Are You: Boston Crème - You have a tough exterior. But on the inside, you're a total pushover and completely soft.
Kind of Coffee Are You: Black coffee - low maintenance, friendly, and adaptable
Temperament: Melancholic
Candy Bar: Snickers
Self-Esteem: 88% (yeah but that other 12% is a doozie)
Who Were You In High School: Arty Kid
Simpsons Personality: Krusty
What Kind of Friend Are You: You Are A Good Friend - Many people consider you their "best friend"What Your Face Says to Others: At first glance, people see you as warm and well-balanced.
Monster Name: Ultima Murderer
Gay Childhood Icon: Velma
Age at Death: 73
What Number Are You: 7
Your Dominant Intelligence is: Linguistic Intelligence
Your Inner European is: Italian
OK, you can all begin the mockery and refutation of how great a friend I am now!
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Jason and the Golden Fleece
I made another Jason White siting today. This time at City Bites. He had the usual small group of suits around him yammering boisterously like they're just kickin' it around the dorm room - only this time Jason is really here with us!
The hardest thing about seeing him around, and I see him alot, is the pathetic hangers-on he seems to attract. I actually met him once. I was peacefully eating my lunch when a glib securities huckster recognized me from the Last Public Place in America. I had once, as he would soon tell Jason, "saved his bacon" by getting a historical stock quote for him from back in that mystical time before the internet. So he starts yucking it up with me and before I can tell him he has nothing to gain by gladhanding me, he sees Jason stroll by and calls him over. Jace is apparently going to be a stockbroker. We're introduced and I nod and he nods, both of us hoping this is going to be short. And it is. They quickly go off together undoubtedly with Jace receiving the umpteenth free lunch of his lifetime.
So today I see him again with another group of under-30s in suits and I really fight the urge to lean in and say, "You know he's a loser, right? Not only that, but he lost famously, in grandiose fashion. Like Napoleon at Waterloo. Custer at Little Bighorn. Our children will try to convey to their children the sheer scale, the enormity of how big a loser he was." Unlike Patton's 'brave bunch of guys' he can say, "I shoveled shit in Louisiana." Because frankly, it really wouldn't inspire me to know that on the big day - when the market is shaky and it takes guts and fortitude to stay in there and make the good trades - that Jason White might be handing out my retirement savings to a bunch of defensive backs from Southern California. And yet here they are trying to identify with him. And the company that hired him - what are they thinking? You want a winner to represent you - Barry Switzer or Josh Heupel - not a big loser. The saddest thing is that the company that hired him actually says, "There's a lot of people in the state of Oklahoma who have money who like OU football." That's it. That's their rationale. That is so sad.
This isn't an attack on Jason White as a person, so don't anybody get upset. When I say loser, I mean that he quite literally lost every big game he played in at OU. I'm sure he's a fine person. This is more an indictment of those parasites. If I could, though, I would tell Jason if you want to be a winner, dust off your Sociology degree and get a job helping people. Use your name to open doors for the poor and the downtrodden who buy the OU hats and shirts, but can't afford a ticket to a game; let alone pay for college.
The hardest thing about seeing him around, and I see him alot, is the pathetic hangers-on he seems to attract. I actually met him once. I was peacefully eating my lunch when a glib securities huckster recognized me from the Last Public Place in America. I had once, as he would soon tell Jason, "saved his bacon" by getting a historical stock quote for him from back in that mystical time before the internet. So he starts yucking it up with me and before I can tell him he has nothing to gain by gladhanding me, he sees Jason stroll by and calls him over. Jace is apparently going to be a stockbroker. We're introduced and I nod and he nods, both of us hoping this is going to be short. And it is. They quickly go off together undoubtedly with Jace receiving the umpteenth free lunch of his lifetime.
So today I see him again with another group of under-30s in suits and I really fight the urge to lean in and say, "You know he's a loser, right? Not only that, but he lost famously, in grandiose fashion. Like Napoleon at Waterloo. Custer at Little Bighorn. Our children will try to convey to their children the sheer scale, the enormity of how big a loser he was." Unlike Patton's 'brave bunch of guys' he can say, "I shoveled shit in Louisiana." Because frankly, it really wouldn't inspire me to know that on the big day - when the market is shaky and it takes guts and fortitude to stay in there and make the good trades - that Jason White might be handing out my retirement savings to a bunch of defensive backs from Southern California. And yet here they are trying to identify with him. And the company that hired him - what are they thinking? You want a winner to represent you - Barry Switzer or Josh Heupel - not a big loser. The saddest thing is that the company that hired him actually says, "There's a lot of people in the state of Oklahoma who have money who like OU football." That's it. That's their rationale. That is so sad.
This isn't an attack on Jason White as a person, so don't anybody get upset. When I say loser, I mean that he quite literally lost every big game he played in at OU. I'm sure he's a fine person. This is more an indictment of those parasites. If I could, though, I would tell Jason if you want to be a winner, dust off your Sociology degree and get a job helping people. Use your name to open doors for the poor and the downtrodden who buy the OU hats and shirts, but can't afford a ticket to a game; let alone pay for college.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Those Germans Have a Word For Everything
Well, Super Giant Killer did make it. She controlled herself well enough to qualify for a birthday party. Wheww! I was pretty damn sure I didn't have the guts to carry out that threat. I knew it the minute it came out of my mouth. But she was a good soldier for 10 days. This kid impresses me everyday. She elected to give up candy for lent and she has not succumbed to temptation once. If she's not sure, she asks for a ruling, "Do fruit snacks count?" "What about red and whites (starlight mints) - are they a mint or candy". I just say, "What do you think?" and she says, "Better not then." If some unknowing candybearer offers her something she just says, "Can't. Lent." The other two? Well... The Self proclaimed an 11:30 bedtime regimen for the season. It's been honored once or twice and has been famously broken a few times to the tune of some 5:30 am bedtimes. YHWH has given up saying 'yes'. It's been moderately successful.
One thing about this Lenten season is that it uncovers the weaknesses (I'm sure there are many) of my bad theology and sola scriptura theology in general because SGK asked me what happens if you don't come through on your Lent promise and I realized that I did not know the answer. I was told that you do it to be reminded of Christ's sacrifice, so if you don't come through, then you're making a mockery of Jesus dying on the cross. That's probably a little strong. Failure to comply and the realization of the difficulty of Jesus' choice should be enough, but it seems like the older, more traditional theologies probably have a punishment figured in there somewhere. Any pastors reading this could do a great service to this backslider by providing a ruling here. I have given up candy in support of SGK (though proved unneeded), but where I have really grown is by showing remarkable restraint in not ridiculing The Self for showing an inability to do something hard, that requires giving of oneself, or does not require batteries or an alternating current. YHWH, too. I mean it seems to me you shouldn't offer to give up something which by giving it up you actually benefit, thereby making your life better. It's a sacrifice - not a New Year's Resolution. But no, I have not said a word. OK, but here's the sick thing. I actually feel good that I have 'grown' in this area and shown remarkable restraint and maturity (about time), but then nanoseconds later I feel guilty for feeling good via the failure of others. What a wimp. I really hate religion.
I meant to talk about the birthday party, but I rambled too much. More on that later I guess.
TODAY BY THE NUMBERS
Triumphs via reference mantra: 1
Bugs smashed: 0 (!)
Innings of Indians game listened to: 1
Innings of Dodgers game listened to: 5
Episodes of Sopranos watched: 1
Cups of coffee: 2
Draperies hung: 2
Lawnmowers fixed: 1
One thing about this Lenten season is that it uncovers the weaknesses (I'm sure there are many) of my bad theology and sola scriptura theology in general because SGK asked me what happens if you don't come through on your Lent promise and I realized that I did not know the answer. I was told that you do it to be reminded of Christ's sacrifice, so if you don't come through, then you're making a mockery of Jesus dying on the cross. That's probably a little strong. Failure to comply and the realization of the difficulty of Jesus' choice should be enough, but it seems like the older, more traditional theologies probably have a punishment figured in there somewhere. Any pastors reading this could do a great service to this backslider by providing a ruling here. I have given up candy in support of SGK (though proved unneeded), but where I have really grown is by showing remarkable restraint in not ridiculing The Self for showing an inability to do something hard, that requires giving of oneself, or does not require batteries or an alternating current. YHWH, too. I mean it seems to me you shouldn't offer to give up something which by giving it up you actually benefit, thereby making your life better. It's a sacrifice - not a New Year's Resolution. But no, I have not said a word. OK, but here's the sick thing. I actually feel good that I have 'grown' in this area and shown remarkable restraint and maturity (about time), but then nanoseconds later I feel guilty for feeling good via the failure of others. What a wimp. I really hate religion.
I meant to talk about the birthday party, but I rambled too much. More on that later I guess.
TODAY BY THE NUMBERS
Triumphs via reference mantra: 1
Bugs smashed: 0 (!)
Innings of Indians game listened to: 1
Innings of Dodgers game listened to: 5
Episodes of Sopranos watched: 1
Cups of coffee: 2
Draperies hung: 2
Lawnmowers fixed: 1
Monday, April 10, 2006
How Strange It Is To Be Anything At All
Strange synchronicity. I wanted more flexibility in posting so I decided to try MS Word to type this post and it asked me if I wanted to open the last thing I typed: Gram’s obituary.
It was strange because the night before at dinner YHWH asked me whether I still ‘feel weird’ about my mom being gone (6 years now). Or whether I still grieved and whether I think about her all the time. Good spouse that I am, instead of answering how I felt, I asked, “Are you feeling bad because after six months, you aren’t grieving or really even that upset by your mom’s demise?” I told her how I had thought a lot about the issue because of what I call the ‘tyranny of grief’ – internal and external pressure to grieve. At first I was demonstrably sad and after it wore off a little and I felt better, then I would think I had to act a certain way or others would think I didn’t love my mother enough; you know, how can I be happy when my mother is dead? She admitted that was pretty much where she was and I gave her ‘permission’ to take off the sackcloth and clean the ashes from her forehead.
Besides, I told her, I encounter my mom almost everyday, several times a day. Mainly in dealing with the kids. My mom was very…uhh…somewhere between firm and mean. She was very open and loving and affectionate. But you often got no quarter and no second chance if you crossed a line. On the mercy/justice continuum her slider was way over to the justice side – swift, furious, permanent. No pardon. No parole. Stuff like missing a week long Webelo camping trip for ‘backtalking’. I left my model airplane kit on the car one summer and some leaky glue left a small spot on the hood - I was banned from models for a year. I never made another one after that. So yeah, every time the Killer acts up I get as far as, “OK for that attitude you’re going to get…” And then I stop myself and think, oh, man, I’m just like my mom. That’s not uncommon – who else would I be like? Especially since my dad was never around.
In fact, the next Sairdy I found myself in that situation. We let each girl have a friend overnight Friday and SGK was really in high spirits. The next day, mainly because she didn’t get enough sleep, she was a poophead. She gets that way. Usually it manifests itself by her being ruthlessly scathing to her friends. She and her friend were going to go to a tea party and I warned her a couple times to chill and finally I heard her tell her best friend, “I don’t want you to go with me to the party!” in this horrid tone. So I called her away and I told her for that action she wasn’t allowed to go. I wish I had videotaped the reaction. Finally, after the Killer’s hyperventilation subsides, YHWH begs me to give her another chance. I really didn’t want to, but I had a mother on my back so I relented. But – I made Killer a deal and we shook on it – if it happens again in the next couple weeks she gets no birthday party. What do you think – too much or not enough?
To be fair to my mother, because it was mostly good growing up, I will give a positive example as well. I really love doing hard crosswords. I’m not tournament level, but I can do the NY Times Sunday puzzle in about an hour in ink. And it was my mom who taught me how to do crosswords and we would work on them together. She always filled out the grid and she had a special penmanship she used only in crosswords. Not really her own script, but just a way she wrote that helped her read them better. To this day I use that same script and just recently I started teaching the Killer how to do them and I caught myself teaching her the script. So, yeah, they never really go away
It was strange because the night before at dinner YHWH asked me whether I still ‘feel weird’ about my mom being gone (6 years now). Or whether I still grieved and whether I think about her all the time. Good spouse that I am, instead of answering how I felt, I asked, “Are you feeling bad because after six months, you aren’t grieving or really even that upset by your mom’s demise?” I told her how I had thought a lot about the issue because of what I call the ‘tyranny of grief’ – internal and external pressure to grieve. At first I was demonstrably sad and after it wore off a little and I felt better, then I would think I had to act a certain way or others would think I didn’t love my mother enough; you know, how can I be happy when my mother is dead? She admitted that was pretty much where she was and I gave her ‘permission’ to take off the sackcloth and clean the ashes from her forehead.
Besides, I told her, I encounter my mom almost everyday, several times a day. Mainly in dealing with the kids. My mom was very…uhh…somewhere between firm and mean. She was very open and loving and affectionate. But you often got no quarter and no second chance if you crossed a line. On the mercy/justice continuum her slider was way over to the justice side – swift, furious, permanent. No pardon. No parole. Stuff like missing a week long Webelo camping trip for ‘backtalking’. I left my model airplane kit on the car one summer and some leaky glue left a small spot on the hood - I was banned from models for a year. I never made another one after that. So yeah, every time the Killer acts up I get as far as, “OK for that attitude you’re going to get…” And then I stop myself and think, oh, man, I’m just like my mom. That’s not uncommon – who else would I be like? Especially since my dad was never around.
In fact, the next Sairdy I found myself in that situation. We let each girl have a friend overnight Friday and SGK was really in high spirits. The next day, mainly because she didn’t get enough sleep, she was a poophead. She gets that way. Usually it manifests itself by her being ruthlessly scathing to her friends. She and her friend were going to go to a tea party and I warned her a couple times to chill and finally I heard her tell her best friend, “I don’t want you to go with me to the party!” in this horrid tone. So I called her away and I told her for that action she wasn’t allowed to go. I wish I had videotaped the reaction. Finally, after the Killer’s hyperventilation subsides, YHWH begs me to give her another chance. I really didn’t want to, but I had a mother on my back so I relented. But – I made Killer a deal and we shook on it – if it happens again in the next couple weeks she gets no birthday party. What do you think – too much or not enough?
To be fair to my mother, because it was mostly good growing up, I will give a positive example as well. I really love doing hard crosswords. I’m not tournament level, but I can do the NY Times Sunday puzzle in about an hour in ink. And it was my mom who taught me how to do crosswords and we would work on them together. She always filled out the grid and she had a special penmanship she used only in crosswords. Not really her own script, but just a way she wrote that helped her read them better. To this day I use that same script and just recently I started teaching the Killer how to do them and I caught myself teaching her the script. So, yeah, they never really go away
Friday, April 07, 2006
Entomophobia
I’ve been less than enthusiastic about writing after the clog post reaction, but seeing that Adjective Queen penned her Mein Kampf for the ant population over at bananappeal, I had to chime in. I believe our own tale of interspecies warfare will outdo hers. Our mornings, noons and nights, are pierced by the primordial screams and foghorn bleats of our children as they discover the latest incursions by our foes - blatta orientalis. Oriental cockloaches.
As YHWH is quick to interject when the Super Giant Killer mentions this to everyone we meet, these aren’t the insidious American or German cockroaches, these are Oriental ones who have mistakenly bumbled into the house. These are not, she affirms, the kind that inhabit poorly kept homes.
Nonetheless, if you should find yourself in residence at our residence, you will be startled by the most horrifying scream arising from primitive depths in the psyche. This is a scream that’s difficult to describe, but I imagine it to be similar to one uttered by the first humanoid to come across one. That’s if SGK sees one. If The Self sees one, you see her speed by at Mach I. I know it’s Mach I because seconds after she goes by you then hear a foghorn sound which makes you fear for the safety of the fishing smacks off Cape Cod. Also hard to describe. What can I say. The kid doesn’t scream. Never has.
Of course, I think it’s hilarious. I mean, yeah, these things are gross – if you’ve never seen these kind they have a glossy back and look all slimy – but they are pretty harmless. They don’t eat anything or get in your bed or cabinets. They really have just gotten lost on the way to the woodpile. But to see how these girls react to them is sheer comedy. I have to admit to tomfoolery, though. These guys are really slow and you have plenty of time to find a shoe or something to squash them with – they may be lost, but I’m damned if they ever see the light of day again – so I’ll grab one of the girls’ shoes and press down until I hear the tell-tale crackle sound and then just leave the shoe there. Later I’ll get all parental and bark, “Get your shoes out the hallway! Now!” Then I count to three and … eeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! Oh, the hilarity.
We had an exterminator lay down some organic pesticide, though and it worked for a month, but they still keep coming. Hmm…I’ll bet if I get rid of that mountain of leaves up against the house, they’ll go away…
Found an interesting item in the October 18, 1918 newspaper…
She Buys Buttons; Police are Called
A woman residing in the 1100 block on West Nineteenth Street called at a department store here yesterday, purchased eight small buttons for seventeen cents, paid cash for the buttons and then asked that they be delivered at her residence, according to a report made to a member of the police force.
The woman, at the time she asked that the eight buttons be delivered, explained that she did not like to carry bundles on the street. The police were informed.
As YHWH is quick to interject when the Super Giant Killer mentions this to everyone we meet, these aren’t the insidious American or German cockroaches, these are Oriental ones who have mistakenly bumbled into the house. These are not, she affirms, the kind that inhabit poorly kept homes.
Nonetheless, if you should find yourself in residence at our residence, you will be startled by the most horrifying scream arising from primitive depths in the psyche. This is a scream that’s difficult to describe, but I imagine it to be similar to one uttered by the first humanoid to come across one. That’s if SGK sees one. If The Self sees one, you see her speed by at Mach I. I know it’s Mach I because seconds after she goes by you then hear a foghorn sound which makes you fear for the safety of the fishing smacks off Cape Cod. Also hard to describe. What can I say. The kid doesn’t scream. Never has.
Of course, I think it’s hilarious. I mean, yeah, these things are gross – if you’ve never seen these kind they have a glossy back and look all slimy – but they are pretty harmless. They don’t eat anything or get in your bed or cabinets. They really have just gotten lost on the way to the woodpile. But to see how these girls react to them is sheer comedy. I have to admit to tomfoolery, though. These guys are really slow and you have plenty of time to find a shoe or something to squash them with – they may be lost, but I’m damned if they ever see the light of day again – so I’ll grab one of the girls’ shoes and press down until I hear the tell-tale crackle sound and then just leave the shoe there. Later I’ll get all parental and bark, “Get your shoes out the hallway! Now!” Then I count to three and … eeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! Oh, the hilarity.
We had an exterminator lay down some organic pesticide, though and it worked for a month, but they still keep coming. Hmm…I’ll bet if I get rid of that mountain of leaves up against the house, they’ll go away…
Found an interesting item in the October 18, 1918 newspaper…
She Buys Buttons; Police are Called
A woman residing in the 1100 block on West Nineteenth Street called at a department store here yesterday, purchased eight small buttons for seventeen cents, paid cash for the buttons and then asked that they be delivered at her residence, according to a report made to a member of the police force.
The woman, at the time she asked that the eight buttons be delivered, explained that she did not like to carry bundles on the street. The police were informed.
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