Just A Sip

Two food-related items...

We religiously attended Moe's Southwest Grill every Friday night for over a year, but last week the unthinkable happened. After a couple months of estrangement from Moe's, we have discovered our new favorite restaurant. Viva Mexico! No, that's the name of the place, not pro-immigration sloganeering. I heartily recommend it. It's the kind of Mexican food I imagine certain Mexicans would eat. I say that because I'm not exactly sure what Mexicans consider comfort food, but if I were a Mexican, this is the kind of food I would dodge a couple Minutemen to go home for. The main thing that has endeared me to the menu is the inclusion of two or three pork dishes. You rarely see pork dishes at the big Dallas chains that prey on Northwest Highway diners, but this place has them. They have all the regular Tex-Mex stuff, too, but I love the carnitas. Oh, and tres leches, too. It's on Northwest Highway near May in the cavernous building that once housed Tony's Via Roma and a number of Chinese and Mexican enterprises. The family that runs it is great and YHWH has already chatted them up and gotten everyone's life story. The atmosphere is a little different, kind of like a community center with TVs and a pool table and there're always people walking around chatting. The place is so big, though, you can always find a quiet spot.

The second item is in response to the inquiry about Quik Trip by the Maryland Crab on my previous post. QT is the shining oasis, the pot o' gold, waiting at the eastern terminus of the Turner Turnpike in West Tulsa (actually they are all over Tulsa and nine states). It was our all-night hangout when I was a disaffected youth roaming the streets of Tulsa in my sleeveless Army surplus shirt. Back then it was cigs, Sweet-Tarts, and Koolees. But today they have an awe-inspiring beverage array. A man stumbling into a Quik Trip in Dalandzagad after crossing the Gobi could die of thirst before deciding on just the right drink combination to quench his thirst. Here is the lineup (and these are all from the fountain, not cans, etc.): 24 soft drinks, 3 hot chocolate varieties, two kinds of steamed milk, two kinds of frozen steamed milk, 6 cappuccino flavors, 8 kinds of creamer (dry or liquid), 4 kinds of coffee, 6 flavors of smoothies, 2 kinds of energy drinks, 11 flavors of sports drinks, 7 flavors of freezonis, and three flavors of shakes which you can mix yourself to any consistency. The beverage center has achieved cult status and employees and loyal customers are encouraged to provide recipes for delicious combinations of all the above. This is free market capitalism as Adam Smith envisioned it, folks. Jefferson was probably even thinking of a Blue Thunder when he wrote about the pursuit of happiness.

Here's a couple recipes:
Yellow Snow
1/2 White Cherry Freezoni
1/2 Minute Maid Lemonade
Stir well

Fruit of the Loon
1/4 Blue Raspberry Freezoni
1/4 Juicy Orange Smoothie
1/4 Burpleberry Wally Smoothie
1/4 Puckerberry Wally Freezoni

Colaccino
1/3 Cola Freezoni
1/3 Frozen Cappuccino
1/3 Frozen Steamer
Stir well

Annette Frappacello
Frozen Cappuccino
5 Shots Amaretto Creamer
from Flavor Center
3 Shots Chocolate Syrup
from Flavor Center
Stir well

Kiss the Rooster
1/3 Puckerberry Wally Freezoni
1/3 White Cherry Freezoni
1/3 Rooster Booster Fountain
Stir well.

More here.

The Colaccino is my fall back position when freedom of choice is too much.

Now, here's the problem. They are nowhere near our market. I would love to know if and who they collude with because no one around here is even remotely competitive with Quik Trip. My dad the groceryman used to tell me all the time about collusion in the grocery biz. For example there is (or at least was 20 years ago) a line somwhere around Ardmore and north of that is OKC territory and south of that is Dallas territory. So, some stores and products (seems like maybe Winn-Dixie and Mr. PiBB come to mind), could be sold in one market and not in another. It's illegal, but companies get around things, of course. I'm not accusing - no libel here - just wondering why QT won't enter our market. It can't be the demographics because we are Tulsa only bigger.

Wake up! This post is over!

It Wasn't My Baby

Well, if I, the father, was not slain last week in The Great Sledding Episode, then this afternoon I was laid in the grave. I attended a baby shower. I don't do baby showers. And wedding ones are even more huh-uh. Ask Purple Bunny. She loves to recount how I didn't even attend the shower people at work hosted for Killer's birth. I may be edjumacated, but I still retain a few selected redneck qualities and an objection to men and women showering together is one them.

I was not planning on going to this thing. The shower was for my nephew and the female carrying an embryo to which he has contributed DNA. He's the second of my nephews to forego such inconveniences as wedding vows or any other public committments to care for his family, but that's irrelevant here. It was in Tulsa and the girls were going to be gone all day. Even though I desperately need some time alone to recharge, I felt guilty for not spending the day with them, so I decided I would go with them and drop them off then go kill a couple of hours. I should have applied the sage advice of SAT coaches and stuck with my first answer. C. F. Kats opted out of family life anyway because the dirge of daily life has become just too much. So we other three journeyed down the turnpike with only the promise of Quik Trip's gleaming cornucopia of mixed drinks to pull me onward.

Upon arrival, my nephew came rushing out to great us. I couldn't even begin to relate to you how much I love this nephew and what a wonderful guy he is (despite that other stuff). Suffice to say, he is as good a nephew as you could get -- he was born on my birthday. And his daughter may pull off the trifecta since she is due to arrive very near our birthday. He is as near a human clone of me as the current administration would allow, so it would be really cool to see how close a girl would end up being like us. Anyway, he and his dad were both there and gave every indication of staying. I was in a tough spot. If I called them sissies for attending a baby shower, they would have beaten me to a pulp. Finally I asked him if he was staying. "Yeah," he said. "I want to be here." Damn. What has this world come to.

So not only did I stay, I played a shower game. I won the shower game. It was a game where you try and match kinds of candy to the peculiarities surrounding the birth process. My prize was a bag full of about 20 kinds of candy. Somehow Raisinets and Milky Ways are less appetizing now. Before long I was talking about how much better Avent bottles are. I extolled the virtues of the ever-versatile receiving blanket; listing its many uses as every thing from burping rag to vomit cleanup. Cradle cap. Booger removal via squeezy rubber thing. I ruminated on how the cuter the little outfits are, the less time they will be able to wear them. Not having been to one of these before I kept a wary eye on my escape route because I was pretty certain that women tell war stories involving epidurals, blood, guts and all that rite of passage stuff. Luckily that didn't come up. And I thanked every deity I could imagine that I wasn't at one of those showers in England they have after the baby arrives and snack on the placenta.

But who knows, instead of slaying the father, maybe it's a new paradigm. Maybe Killer will reject a suitor who refuses to go to a friend's shower, thinking if it was good enough for her dad, why isn't good enough for him. Nahhh...not likely.

Think I'll go have a Skor candy bar now...

That's No Moon

Sunday I officially became old. I still remember the day I witnessed my own dad's fall from immortality and I think he was the same age I am now. I'm not sure if girls share this phenomenon about their mothers, but with boys it often happens that there is a defining moment in their lives when they slay the father. I say boys, but it may not happen until midlife or ever in some cases.

For most boys, your dad is always bigger, faster, stronger, smarter than you and by the time you reach puberty it appears he always will be. It's not just physical prowess either; non-physical dads can be just as alpha through being revered, successful or powerful. In most cases you aren't even aware you're competing with him. But then one day you have a moment of crystal clarity and you realize the old gazelle has lost a step to the lions.

For me this happened when I was 14. Gym class at the cult school was frequently led by visiting parents and other virile male cult members and on this particular day my dad ran the recreational activities. Flag Football. I was in the slot and my dad was covering me on a simple out route and I picked up a step on him when I made the turn. I made the catch and ten yards before going out. That was it. A first down. But I beat him. Not two days before he had me in an unrecoverable headlock. For years I was wrestled into panic-stricken positions on the living room floor ("Get off!! I can't breathe!" "If you can't breathe, how are you shouting?"), regular footrace challenges left me gasping for air, he could make me kneel down by doing something to my pinkie. I was bested in dinner discussions, he could fix anything, he always knew when I was lying. But on this day, I beat him. I hadn't even known I'd been competing with him for ten years. But I realized it then and it was sweet.

By the way, if you're male and you haven't slain your father yet, I suggest you savor the moment when it happens. It doesn't last long. You immediately become emboldened by your new found chest-beating and begin to challenge him at every turn. Victory gets easier and easier. And before you know it you realize they are hollow victories. He's not fighting you anymore. It's like Obi-Wan turning off his lightsaber once he sees Luke safely aboard the Falcon. His job is done; he's shown you the basics, and yeah, his voice might pop into your head when you need him in a crisis, but it's you v. world now.

So Sunday, I was out in the yard showing SGK how to use a snow shovel for a sled (like the one George Bailey rides into the icy pond). It didn't work very well, so I got a cardboard box and flattened it out. We have just enough slope on the driveway to make it fun for little ones, but she still wasn't clear on the concept. So I did what we poor kids did in the winter, lay a box on the ground, get as much steam up as you can on the slippery surface, and dive head first on the box. It worked great when I was six. Sunday, I hit the ground and I was suddenly aware that I couldn't hear anything. I looked up at SGK and I saw her little cherubic visage begin to be encircled by a ring of bluish white squirmy things like flagellants under a microscope. I was really confused and then, still unable to make out any sounds around me, I heard a very small, clear voice calmly say, "Don't forget to breathe." I rolled over and sucked in as much air as I could get. The little blue things were still wiggling, but quickly fading. Whew, I thought, I'm not dying -- just got my bell wrung. Pretty sure I bruised my sternum and those little knobby things on the breastplate up where your neck starts. I know if I had a son who'd witnessed my buffoonery, that would've been his moments. For now, I assuming little girls don't want to slay their fathers.

Once I got my hearing back the first thing I heard was YHWH bleating, "I don't think that box is big enough! And that hill isn't steep enough, either!" At least she didn't laugh at me. I'll take henpecking over humiliation any day. I quickly picked myself up and carried myself into the house under false bravado. YHWH plaintively apologized as I walked through the garage begging me not to go inside and, closing the door, I heard SGK saying, "You made daddy mad, mom!" I paused to consider refuting the charge that I was going inside to pout but thought, what the hell, better to be thought of as a pouter than a mere mortal.

Ice Ice Baby

A couple of days ago I was going to blog about how the local weather guys did their usual local news fearmongering and stirred everyone up into a frenzy over something that turned out to be nothing. But half-way through blocking out the post in my mind, I realized that is a terribly provinicial way of thinking. It suddenly struck me that what I think of as the local news station is actually THE news station for two-thirds of the state. One of those things I knew but didn't think about.

It really struck home yesterday when I finally got through to my dad and learned that he has been without power since Friday night and facing 'a week or so' more in the cold and dark. They have closed off the kitchen and dining room by hanging blankets and have been running the fireplace nonstop. He said it's 'kind of fun' except for the harrowing KRAK! in the middle of the night as tree limbs and telephone poles snap. Then in the mornings he goes out to assess the damage. So far, a storage shed has a good-sized oak limb across it, his stockade fence has buckled over, and his driveway is blocked by a snapped power pole. Apparently, a glance down the street at the power poles looks like sappers from the French Resistance have been busy. His resolve? "I didn't have any electricity for the first 20 years of my life. A lot of that is coming back to me now." So add to that that a dozen or so people have died in the area and it's hard to criticize the newsfolks for overplaying the preps. He got extra wood, extra food and water, propane for his camping stove, and made sure his cell phone was charged. It paid off. And that is absolutely the last time I will say anything remotely nice about the local news people.

How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Will Rogers

It's out there; everywhere I look. Every blasted magazine, newspaper, guidebook, handout, museum, billboard, and local newscast has the words plastered across some or another headline. I tried in vain to avoid it for a week, but that was like trying to avoid stepping on poop in the dog park, being runover by a mallwalker, or driving on a street named for a pop culture figure in Bricktown. The fact is I can run, but I can't hide. Because unfortunately it has become my job - my life.

Oklahoma Centennial

There, I said it. I am currently involved in no less than five regular gigs churning out state and local history. I was contributing a quarterly article to a magazine, but now it's monthly. I've been assigned to write 48 short vignettes on state history. Text for bookmarks, displays, statues soon followed. I'm also involved with two large grant projects.

It's only January 6th and already I'm sick of it. I get home from work, head straight for the toilet and puke up Sooner trivia for an hour. Family members bang on the door, "Are you alright, Dad? It smells like Conestoga wagons in there!" My doctor tells me to try and get some rest and lay off the Dust Bowl, "Take a couple of Will Rogers before bed; you'll be fine in a few days." Now my teen daughter won't be seen in public with me because my tirades about how we aren't Okies (the Okies were the weaklings who left!) embarrases her.


It's not like I didn't see the Centennial coming. Being a historically minded guy, I knew all about the semicentennial in 1957 and even lived through the depressing, obscure, trinket-generating Diamond Jubilee in 1982. But in the end, it was as though I had been standing on the curve of a railroad track - you can see and hear the 3:15 out of Ardmore coming, but it looks like it's heading in another direction until it plows you under.

I should be happy to part of all of it in the small way that I am. After all, I love my state and its unique history. We've got to be top ten all-time for state history. We might not be able to challenge New York, Texas, California and Massachusetts, and probably Virginia, but we're top ten. In fact I am happy to be part of it. I just want it to end.

To be honest, this all has to do with bad attitude. Mine. When I was one of a dozen or so people writing regularly it was fine, but now it's everywhere and I don't like sharing topics and even worse, I hate reading bad history. Myths and non sequiturs abound these days, not to mention squeaky clean (i.e. cutesy boring) politically correct revisionism. But, if I were a true Sooner patriot, I'd be excited about the attention history is getting. I would embrace it all and invoke the more-merrier directive. But the sad fact is I'm intensely competitive (internally) and I have that stubborn Gen-X trait of wanting to be a dazzling unique individual. So, there I am, engine of my own unhappiness.

Sigh...I guess I'll just write about land runs, cattle trails, removals, football glory and (ugh) oil until this all blows over like a hot wind in the Dirty Thirities.

When Doves Cry

You may think you've had family game night, but you haven't had family game night unless you've squared off against wife and daughter in Disney Princess Spinning Wishes Game.

I was at a decided disadvantage before we even laced 'em up. Obviously, I didn't have the right equipment to play this game. Hey, guttermind, I'm talking about cognitive equipment! The game's box subtley states the only requirement for this game is that one has reached the age of four. It doesn't say anything to warn people who have glitter allergies, people who have an aversion to pink and purple blends, people who do not have a degree in quantum mechanics, or people who have mastered logic.

So the other night YHWH, Killer and I plopped down on the living room floor to play this soon-to-be-classic from Milton Br...er..Hasbro. When you play with Killer there are certain guidelines to follow when selecting a venue for game play: the play site must have an unobstructed path to the restroom to accomodate the frequent diversionary trips when it isn't her turn; the play site must be removed from the line of site of Barbies, Polly Pockets, etc. so as not to tempt her during the times when it isn't her turn (this also prevents cross-species interaction between brands; before long Polly Pocket would be introducing herself to Snow White and they would go to lunch to get to know each other better and then I would be called on to orchestrate the remaining three princesses and provide dialogue for their resentful vitriole at having been dumped for that little blonde b**** so that Polly and Snow could return and they would all make up and be BFF); finally, the play site must also be on the floor (this is so she can drape herself off the furniture or stand up and do a couple of karate moves when it isn't her turn.

The game requires extensive assembly, including a large sheet of small stickers which have to be applied to a number of small pieces. YHWH began reading the instructions while I placed the stickers on the die, markers and wish-spinner. The directions made no sense when read aloud. I assumed this was because I was distracted by the impossibility of determining where each sticker went or maybe the translation from Chinese was outsourced to India, but when I finally hit the wall and snatched the rule book from YHWH's hands, I realized the reason is that it was all written in princess lingo. Normally, I process rules with my left brain, but once I switched over it began to sink in. I just had no precognition of the Ray of Enchanting Light. Now I do.

One of the first mistakes I made was assuming that Disney Princess Spinning Wishes Game was in fact the same as Pretty Pretty Princess Game or any of the myriad other girl games I have played in which competition has been very carefully excised from the experience. Most girl games lead you on some labryinthine chase through a disorienting emotional...oh wait, that's real life. Therefore, I did not formulate a strategy to trounce my opponents. And let me just stop right here to announce I never 'let' anyone win. No quarter asked and none given. No victory is too cheap. Likewise, I also did not try and size up my opponents' strategies, although I knew YHWH would do what she could to enable Killer and I to somehow share a victory and Killer would cheat like a dog to win.

Here's how the game works. Four princes have hidden a gift for each of their princesses in one of four castle towers. Each princess leaves her Rapunzel-like encampment in a tower and parades Gideon-like around the castle wall until she accomplishes her task of getting her three wishes granted. This is done by spinning the wheel with a mesmerizing spiral lightning sticker until a wish lands within your Ray of Enchanting Light which emanates from below the wheel in the color corresponding to your princess' dress. The wishes are on little stands and they rise like pillars out cavities in the wheel. This is important because when you get down to the last wish or two, you have to understand centrifugal force (which I don't) in order to retrieve it because it always lands opposite you when the wheel stops. This fact adds about thirty minutes to the game. Once a princess has her wishes, she enters the castle and walks around inside it looking at all the presents until she finds the one intended for her by her prince.

I'm constantly criticized for thinking too much, and this was no exception. I still haven't come to grips with the unwieldy name. It seems like it should be Disney's Princesses' Spinning Wishes Game, but since the majority of the target market lisps from lack of front teeth, I guess I see why they sacrificed proper grammar for a less humiliating pronunciation. A lot of my overthinking, though, had to do with the lack of symmetry. That always bothers me. Take a gander at the game board:


You can see the Ray of Enchanting Light coming out from under the wheel, but only the blue light from Cinderella's ray bathes her castle in a glow. Also, the two gray miss-a-turn spaces are on the same half of the board and there are only three wish spaces on that side as opposed to five on the other, so Belle in her yellow castle has a statistically greater chance of going home empty-handed - probably because she was originally trailer trash unlike the high-born others. All the castle gates have spires, but only one set of towers does.

And then there are the philosophical questions. Why do your wishes have to be material objects? Why not an end to starvation, global domination, or a declining teen birthrate? Why are all four couples in one castle? Why is Snow White's gift from her prince an apple when the others get glass slippers, a gold crown and a rose? Hasn't Snow had enough of apples already? And if I'm anyone but Sleeping Beauty, I'm making off with crown. Screw the rose.

The good thing about thinking too much is that you can always find a way to rationalize. I finally just told myself it's only a game. It's not whether you win or lose, blah, blah, blah. After I relaxed, I then proceeded on two victorious marched through the magical kingdom. The first was a dramatic thriller in which Sleeping Beauty and I snatched victory on the final roll before Killer opened her prince's gift. Then Cinderella and I romped on the next game.

So here I sit undefeated in Disney Princess Spinning Wishes Game. I wish I could say the same for my college bowl pool. Makes me long for a glittery die roll.

You Say You Want A Revolution?

By popular demand, here is the communist incense... just follow the link - I'm too lazy to scan the box.

Disclaimer: Dear Big Brother, I am not nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party (I just like the Soviet Realist art).

So Fair To Be Seen

Merry Christmas every one!

I thought I'd post before my usual post-Xmas funk sets in. I just pulled the pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie out of the oven and put the ham in which gives me two hours. We're also having yam puff, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, and hot rolls.

We've had a pretty good Christmas so far. Yesterday Killer was so wound up I took her out for a long walk to try and wear her down. It didn't help much, but we did get to see the Grandmother of Europe, resplendent in crimson holiday vest. Last night we all watched Holiday Inn and It's A Wonderful Life and then YHWH and I were up making preps until about 1:30am. There is some wack TV on at 1:30 Xmas Eve. There were all manner of cheesy choirs and even a really lame unmelodic Native American Christmas chant. Finally I switched over to QVC for awhile. I can't help it, I love watching QVC. I have never purchased anything, but I love the crazy personalities and the washed up celebs trying to hawk their wares to the shut-in set. Last night there was a middle aged guy and his perfect whitebread family sitting on the floor in front of a fake fireplace and Christmas tree on a set. He had a box of ornaments hidden behind his back and he pulled them out one at a time and gave the complete history of each little dowdy dangly. "And this was just after we moved to Huntsville from Montgomery," he intoned as he swung a cotton ball bedecked football player on a gold cord in front of his daughter. He trotted out First Christmases, great grandmas, ones he just liked, it went on for over an hour commercial free. It was a sentimental train-wreck and I couldn't turn away amidst the carnage.

We finally crashed about 1:30, but Super Giant Killer woke me up about 6:15 and said she just couldn't try and sleep anymore. C. F. Kats was ill, but she rallied long enough to unwrap. They cut a wide swath as depicted below. Here is the peaceful scene moments before (note it is still quite dark outside):


Click for larger to see the large coral-ish snake Killer got from Santa. Here's some of the carnage:



It's actually not as bad as it looks. Our girls are scarcely materialistic and didn't ask for anything big. So they got lots of books and art supplies and clothing staples. Killer got a Marie Antoinette doll from the fat man as well (click for larger):



I got some nice Communist incense and a box of exotic beef - er, well, jerky anyway. It's really stuff like emu and gator. I also got a nice cigar and some cognac. No sign of a smoking jacket, tho.

Off to finish lunch preps...

Merry Christmas!

Is Christmas Safe For Animals?

Well here's the layout (click for larger). Those are penguins, reindeer and hallelujah snowmen in the red and green shortbread; they look pretty tasty up close, just don't photgraph well. I couldn't fit the 8 loaves of pumpkin bread and 7 loaves of chai spice bread (Killer snagged one of those before I could stop her) in the picture. When she walked in and saw all the stacks she said, "Dad! It's a holiday wonderland of cookies!" I ran some stocking stuffer errands this morning so I didn't get to the CCD cookies or the pain d'epice. There's always tomorrow. I was pretty proud I only made two mistakes - that I know of. In one I put in 2 tsp of baking powder instead of soda, but I was able to spoon it out before it was mixed in and I was baking some pumpkin bread in a coffee can like mom used to and I inadvertently used a 5# can instead of a 2# can and when the top browned I pulled it out and it was a big soup inside. No prob, just poured it into a loaf pan and it came out alright, just ugly.

Since the breads took an hour each to bake, I had time to watch Santa Claus Conquers the Maritians with Killer while I waited. It's a classic, y'know. How can you argue with Pia Zadora's debut?

Merry Xmas!

The Boys in the NYPD Choir Were Singing 'Galway Bay'

I can't believe it's raining today and may be tomorrow. The magic of Christmas is alive! All December I've been singing, "I'm dreaming of precipitation this Christmas..." Ok, it's not Christmas, but I'll take two days of rain. And there's s'posed to be more this weekend.

That part actually irks me. My dad annoyingly wants us to drive to Tulsa on Sat nite for our family Christmas dinner. Since I'm currently in disconnect mode with them, I'm not het up about driving out there in a wintry mix for a 7:00 dinner and driving back at 9:00 at the earliest, arriving home at 11:00ish. Not the least, it's irritating to give up an entire day of Xmas prep.

I accomplished much on day one of holiday baking:
4 doz shortbread (1 red, 1 green)
2 doz minty middles
4 doz pfefferneuse
4 doz spritz
1 tray of peppermint bark
2 doz Russian teacakes
3 doz chocolate crinkles
8 maids a-milking

Tomorrow is chai-spice bread, pain d'epice, and pumpkin bread in a coffee can. Then packaging, then delivering, then I need to bake a few dozen for our annual Christmas cookie decorating (CCD) partay. And mebbe some Chex Mix.

We watched Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol tonite. It was a pretty accurate retelling - unfortunately. I'm simply baffled at why they had Mr. Magoo playing Scrooge straight. I mean the possibilities are endless (as they always are with Mr. Magoo). I can picture a scene where one of the spirits tells him to look over there and he can't see anything or he thinks the ghost of Christmas future is a wild bear and he beats him with his umbrella. Oh, well.

All the Lights Are Coming On Now

I spent the day with my mom's sister. She had a box of photos she salvaged from the house of my aunt who died a few months ago and we went through them together - I digitized them and she helped me identify who everyone was. This aunt was like Mary Poppins when my sister and I were little. She was a single mom and moved to our town because my mom and she were close. Even though she had a son my age, she kind of adopted us and took us on all kinds of adventures. Since we were all broke, she would come up with all this wild - but free - stuff for us to do.

One day we had a picnic in the grass as close as you could get to the airport runway. I was only about six so I'm not sure how close we actually were, the ear-splitting, chest-crushing sonic extravaganza was mind-blowing. The sandwiches weren't bad, either. She worked in the gorgeous NBT Building in Tulsa and one night she convinced the janitor into letting us go out onto some platform as high as you could go without safety gear. Pretty thrilling to a kid. Another time we were sitting around and she said, "I'm sick of this room. Let's redo the floor!" So we drove all over time and dumpster-dived behind carpet stores looking for sample squares and other usuable scraps of carpet. It didn't matter what color or pile it was, we tossed them in the backseat of her VW bug with us and away we went. When we got back to her house we put them all together into a crazy quilt carpet for the new look. We went storm-chasing, all kinds of stuff.

Today was great, too. She showed up at my door with a box of photos and a picnic lunch and we laughed and cried as we talked about my mom and all the stuff we used to. The most priceless treasure I pulled from the box was the only known set of pics of my mom holding Killer. She died a couple weeks after Killer was born and she was only strong enough to hold her that one time. I didn't know my grandma had snapped pics, so these were news to me.

Got new glasses, too. I look (and the girls say I act) like this guy now.

I finished the Aran winter set, but you'll have to ask the Grandmother of Europe if you want to see them. I gave them to her for Secret Santa and I forgot to take pics first. I was making them for her all along and then when she dissed me and quit carpooling with me I decided I wasn't going to give them to her after all. Then I drew her name for Secret Santa so I got to give them to her anyway. I Also finished a set of legwarmers for my yoga instructor sister-in-law. I stitched an 'om' on one and the sanskrit word 'namaste' on the other. Here they are (click for better view):













I made them from a vintage Jane Fonda-era aerobics pattern (except for the emblems - did those myself), and they are pretty bunchy. This gal I made them for is pretty toned, so I hope these don't just drop right to her ankles. I'm pretty proud of the design, though.

There's Been A Hoot-Owl Howlin' By My Window Now

cab·in fe·ver ('ka-ben 'fE-v&r), n, a condition in parenting which causes an increase in the child's energy level and a proportional decrease in the parent's patience. In extreme cases, the parent is given to horrifying thoughts, though rarely acting upon. These may include, but are not limited to: euphoria brought on by hopes that one will have to go to work (this requires professional treatment); search-engine lookups on the amount of time you can lock your child out in 12-degree cold without noticeable frostbite; cursing Laura Ingalls Wilder for not indexing her books while you look for guidance on what the hell to do with little girls who have cabin fever; taunting little girls as you trample them in game after game of Life, checkers, Mille Bornes, Payday, Trouble, and Parcheesi.

I'm still about 10 years old when it comes to snow days. I love any unscheduled day off work (well, scheduled, too) and all the attendant things like hot chocolate, fires, naps, bundling up and, these days, knitting. Did I mention not being at work? But then there's Killer to contend with. She's actually above-average in categories like attention span and ease of entertainment, but even on warm spring days in May (usually very early on a Saturday morning) she wants you to do whatever it is with her. Can you fathom the audacity?

When I woke up Thursday morning I just knew it was going to be a long one. I tried to mentally sketch out what to expect so I could be prepared. I thought I had a handle on it. I realized I'd have to entertain her all day. I realized she would start begging to go outside the second she got up; that she would underdress; that she had no winter gear like boots; that it would take 20 minutes to get her ready to go out; that she would actually be out about 5 minutes; that our wood floor would soon become a warped puddle of melted snow; and that no matter how many packages of Swiss Miss I opened, she would eat the marshmallows, and like Goldilocks, deem the chocolate too hot and skip off to do something else.

Early that morning, I wouldn't let her go out in the sleet. She had to wait until the snow started. So, we had some pumpkin bread and looked at catalogs while I drank my coffee and she ate the marshmallows out of her Swiss Miss. Then we started a game of Mille Bornes and she was being really good and hadn't even asked to go out. Then the death knell toned. The neighbor girl, Jasmine, rang the doorbell promptly at 9:00. I now had two of them to deal with.

A note about the neighbor girl. She and her sister are close in age to each of ours and they have a working single mom and a deadbeat dad. So the older is essentially raising the younger. The thing is Jasmine and Killer fight like they were sisters. Constantly. No matter how many times we split them up, they say they like each other and they are best friends, but from the moment they look at each other they begin an unceasing tirade of snipes and territorial scrapes. Jasmine has been coming over increasingly anyway (poor thing is looking for a family, I think) and with her mom at work, I realized she was going to be here all day. Hell had frozen over and I was in it.

I'll spare you the details, but it was 12 hours of misery. For one thing, Jasmine's mom 'went over to a friend's house' until 10:00pm and we couldn't send her back home because the 13-year-old caretaker had walked over to her boyfriend's house to watch a movie. Finally, it all collapsed around 9:00pm when Killer crossed the threshhold and went into one of her blind rages. She does this when she gets too tired and stressed and she makes these primal guttural howls and her face gets blood red and she wanders the halls pushing people out of her way. She literally 'isn't herself' and all we can do is put her in her room and close her door. It's over in about 10 minutes. I had to make Jasmine go in the other room and put Killer to bed.

Friday I was disgustingly glad to be going to work, but we were closed again. So when the doorbell rang again that morning. I told YHWH, "Let's go to the mall." So we let Jamsine stay an hour and left Killer with C.F. Kats and we walked to the mall. We had a great time together and we actually got a majority of our shopping done. At first there was no one there, but by time we left it was positively packed. We did get one call from Killer while we were out. She could barely talk because she was sobbing deeply that the snow was melting and it made her terribly sad and Sissy was making fun of her for it. I told her to watch Frosty the Snowman and tell me the moral when I got home. I was having too much fun being FREE!!

Didn't We Almost Have It All?

Apparently I clicked "save as draft" instead of "publish" last week, so here's my Thanksgiving tale.

I have dubbed this year's Thanksgiving as Thanksgiving Inchoate. I knew that if I squawked enough before my inevitable and involuntary attendance at the Rebs' Thanksgiving dinner, it wouldn't be nearly as bad as I had imagined it to be. I had imagined being set upon by Harpies, picked at for being a male knitter, or forced into a small corner with some other exile, compelled to discuss the weather and the Sooners' chances. So I was actually chipper that morning when I awoke to find that YHWH was fully ill with a cold. Surely she would be unable to endure a full afternoon of the Extended Family Plan.

That morning I took a pre-emptive three-mile walk through the neighborhood at a brisk pace so that I would be in a good mood. I hate to admit that, because a) I loathe exercise; 2) I loathe sunshine; and d) I'm really uncomfortable being in a good mood. But I thought it might help because I was resigned to go to YHWH's family gathering and I didn't want her to feel like she had to choose me or them. Even so, just before leaving the house I reached into the top cabinet and sipped a shot of relaxing cognac.

There were about thirty people there, but I was only related by blood to one of them. I just sat on a couch and watched the football game and simply nodded and waved to everyone when they came in. I didn't even have to converse about the Dolphins' defense or the Sooners' chances. No one asked how work was going or what grade Killer is in now. I just sat there with a nice relaxing grin on my face.

When dinner came, it was a free-for-all seating arrangement spanning four rooms and I was somewhat taken aback by the number of people who made no effort to sit anywhere near their nuclear families. I immediately regretted not having eaten a hearty breakfast. Here it was 1:00 and I had only consumed a cup of coffee and a shot of 'yac and there was very nearly nothing I wanted to eat on the harvest smorgasbord before me. There were steamed whole green beans, not green bean casserole with fried onions on top; the dressing was not stuffing and looked like a large, full bedpan from a hospital influenza ward; there were thick cut roasted sweet potatoes rather than candied yams with melted marshmallows on top; the mashed potatoes were garlic-saged with the peels swirled in as opposed to the stiff white potatoes which can hold a reservoir for white gravy (of which there was none); and the Pillsbury crescent rolls simply paled in comparison to my sister's butterhorns. As I'd hoped, YHWH only held out through lunch and within a half-hour we were excusing ourselves to go over to her aunt's for dessert and then home to bed.

It all had the ethos of attending one of those dinners you get at a banquet or some other workplace function held at a hotel. No one wanted to be there. There was no enmity, no strife, but no affection or love or filial piety or desire to relate beyond the agreement to meet annually on the third Thursday in November. Definitely not Thanksgiving.

Forget, Hell!

I'm sure glad I have that History degree. A solid grasp of history and knowledge of the Zodiac can sure help explain a lot of everyday life's tribulations. For example, I'm reminded of the great War Between the States as our annual Thanksgiving skirmish unfolds.

Just after Halloween every year I literally feel the pall cast over the fun as we turn toward Thanksgiving. And like the portent of John Brown's raid on Harper's Ferry, I can hear the distant rumble of cannon and the rippling of musketry along the picket lines: What are we going to do for Thanksgiving?

For starters, I have already given up on Thanksgiving. So Norman Rockwell were the feasts of my youth that to even try to recapture them invites domestic disaster. But like a dreamy abolitionist, I tried this year anyway. How about a cozy afternoon with our best friends? They would love to escape the clutches of their families as well, I'm sure of it. And so I was. I made up a menu - and even allowed cornbread stuffing to pass the threshold of my kitchen. We were going to watch the parades. Play football out on the street. Watch movies. Play board games. I and The Queen were even going to cook the whole dinner ourselves. This was all something new. If this thing went off alright, it could become the new tradition - we might even look forward to Thanksgiving next year (picture a tall, thin depressive guy with bad acne, a beard and a very tall hat).

A student of history knows that about this time the old line plantation families in the South were not going to let this happen. When the news hit Charleston about a week ago, it was made clear: if that tall sad sack gets elected there's going to be trouble. The politics began in ernest. At first shock was displayed that we would even want to do anything different. Then the smoky room stuff started. Attempts were made to use the children as leverage; a well-timed call from a sibling; a seemingly unrelated letter came with the salutation, "We will miss you at Thanksgiving."

A poll was taken. None of us wanted to have dinner with the extended family. I'm not going to run down the laundry list of reasons why, but they are sufficient to motivate anyone to look for alternatives. My declarative was, "Why would I want to go there?" But we have a Copperhead in our home and a Libra at that. For days, YHWH wrung her hands and bore the thousand-yard stare. She saw both sides of both sides, but in the end, like Robert E Lee ( "I have not been able to make up my mind to raise my hand against my relatives"), she couldn't shake the bonds of tradition.

It's all about the stuffing. In Oklahoma, I-44 bisects the state diagonally. If you hail from south of I-44, you're likely a Reb and you eat cornbread dressing; north of I-44, you're likely a Yankee and you eat stuffing made from bread crusts. If you're from OKC or Tulsa, you're likely to find both on offer. And there you have it. YHWH, with an honest to goodness Yankee pedigree (she actually descends from an in-law of Jonathan Edwards) and wife of a good Nickajack man (my ancestor stole over the Virginia border to fight for East Tennessee loyalists), supports the cause of her Reb stepfamily and their cornbread dressing.

I know you've pensively read this far with bated breath, knowing full well this analogous account leads to secession. Nothing so dramatic as that happens. In this scenario, there is no Gettysburg Address. We skip right to act III, scene 2 of Our American Cousin.

Finally finished the sweater for SGK...



And the om hat for my SIL. I made it a little too long on the top and not enough ribbing on the bottom, but I'm happy with the way the design turned out.

I Went To a Garden Party

Yesterday the family ventured out to Downtown with the intent of seeing the OCMoA's loaner exhibit from the British Museum's Egypt collection. Arriving on the scene, we found parking spaces to be at a premium and we had to park a few blocks over. I answered curious enquiries as to why by mentioning the peace festival, held annually in the Hall of Mirrors, was the likely draw. This was met with great interest, so we went there first.

If you haven't been, this is an event which features information tables and various wares offered by the deepest indigo blue-staters in the metro area. All the heavy-hitters were there including Amnesty International, Sierra Club, Green Party, Greenpeace, etc. plus a few local flavors. As I am in so many places, I was def a fish-out-of-water. I immediately had an allergic reaction to the whole place - mainly at the practitioners. I have struggled with this affliction for years. I walk into assemblages like these and I am bombarded by emotional responses I can't understand. It makes me appreciate the difficulties faced by SID folks.

It's frustrating because I can't quite get a handle on it and that annoys me to no end. I feel contemptuous, judgmental, confused, stubborn, schadenfreude; all these and more all at once. I'm confused because I agree with the sentiment of probably 80% of the people in there (in fact I knew three of the people manning the booths), and yet I'm compelled to roll my eyes and laugh at them. My initial analysis is that it's some sort of deep conditioning I got as a child growing up in a cult, going to gunshows, hoarding weapons, ammo, precious metals and pennies. But I have overcome so many other elements of that conditioning, it seems too easy an explanation. I've even wondered if seeing Vietnam War protesters and civil rights activists beaten up on the nightly news as a four and five year old somehow conditioned me to feel that way. I discount that because I don't and never have felt violent toward anyone in my whole life, but maybe there's something there.

Another thing is that it seemed like such a club. I always hate that. For one thing I don't really like any of the uniforms available (e.g. tie-dye, long scraggly hair, saffron robes). There tend to be a lot of intractable holier-than-thou positions to take, many of them hypocritical, and therefore not unlike those folks on the other side. The difference is those folks on the other side used to be my folks. I guess I've already picked and chosen from them and fought the battles so I'm either more tolerant or at the very least, not passionate in my opinions regarding them anymore.

I couldn't make it in the club because I would be paralyzed. The concession was selling Starbucks coffee and I felt like if I walked around with a cup the anti-globalization guy would get on me. I only hoped the socially-responsible investing guy and the Fair Trade guy would come to my rescue, but if the investing guy came to my aid, he would risk getting sucker-punched by the Socialist Youth guy. So I just went without coffee. And the ham sandwiches. Forget it. I mean, they put the vegan table right by the exit, how was I going to get out of there alive?

And then there was sort of a general disdain I picked up for America and American culture and a corresponding heightened interest in exotic cultures. There is def a lot of baby-bathwater tossing I think. Just because America may have been co-opted by robber barons again, doesn't mean we the people are bad people and doesn't mean we shouldn't make lionize the ideals of the white males up on Mt. Rushmore. I couldn't help thinking that if some of these causes started adorning their material with American flags and using words like heritage and freedom it might be a little more palatable to the great middle in this country. Maybe they don't want that. Maybe that would dissolve their raison d'etre.

In my defense, I want to remind you that I do not act on these impulses. I don't laugh at people I don't know. I don't treat them poorly when I interact with them. I picked up their pamphlets and read them. I engaged a couple of booth-manners on the issues. The fact that I'm there proves I'm open-minded. But why does it bother me so much? If you know me, go ahead, take a whack at me; leave a comment.

The funniest thing was when I turned the last corner and saw one of my best friends at the World Neighbors booth. She was shocked that I was at a peace festival. I was shocked that she was shocked. I said, "I'm all about peace. Fair Trade, non-violence, justice, unions, condoms, environmental protection; what's not to like?" She just smiled and said, "Just by yourself, right." She knows me all too well...

My Heart Could Use Some Glasses

Well, I just wrapped up a week of single-dadhood. YHWH attended a week-long retreat at a bucolic haven in western Oklahoma. I'm not sure I ever got a handle on the stated goal of the event and even though it featured two high-profile prophets, I think not being around the rest of us was the ultimate end of the exercise. So to that end, it was highly successful.

At first I was dismayed that such an event would be held for a full week and in the off-season, but later I learned that most of the attendees were pastoral types with irregular work hours. Pastors are quite acquainted with overlooking the well-being of their families for the needs of the flock, so I could see the rationale. It was pretty disruptive to the rest of us but we got a lot of help from Mimi, who came in from out-of-town, and it was only a week and you can do anything for a week. The greatest benefit was that Mimi now understands how complicated our daily lives are.

I was also reassured in my staunch belief that the Catholics are right to have an unmarried clergy, especially monks and nuns, of course. Ya can't serve two masters and all that, ya know. I had to work hard to not be jaded about the whole thing. It seemed really ironic to me that peace and harmony are achieved by disrupting the lives of so many other people. The girls really didn't understand it and were kind of disturbed by it. They got over it, but they just didn't get it. In the end, though, YHWH felt like she needed it, so I'm glad she found what she was looking for.

I was very careful to avoid letting myself whine about it and I tried to take the opportunity to observe and reflect while I was in the middle of it. A nice luxury since most times when your patterns are disrupted you don't have time to plan or you're so busy trying to cope you can't see the forest for the trees. The most powerful insight I gained was a better understanding of the single parent. I'm pretty empathic and Pisces (if you believe) are very good, dangerously good, at being consumed by role-playing and my only respite at times was knowing it would all be over in a week. Real single parents can't say that. The other thing I learned from that was the importance of one's social network. I found myself making contingency plans for contingency plans; if she can't pick up SGK, I'll call him, if he can't, I'll call... Thanks to Mimi I didn't have to use them. I'm glad because I also learned from this that I am very loathe to ask anyone for help. I guess I would get over that quickly if it were for real.

I also feel like I can better understand my mom and therefore my own childhood after this week. For most of my early life, my dad was in route sales and he would leave on Sunday night and come back Friday night. My mom had to be good cop and bad cop, make lunches, get us ready for school, and everything else alone. Some years she worked while we were in school. My dad came home to a hero's welcome every Friday night. I already knew all this, but I took the time to think about how she must have felt during those years; she was probably pretty resentful for one thing and I'm glad she didn't let it color her relationship with us -- too much. This also made me think a lot about the spouses and children of our soldiers, especially with so many Guardsmen having to stay in rotation. One of Killer's classmates has a father on active duty in Iraq and her mother's Guard unit was sent to a base on the east coast. This happened nearly two years ago. She's been living with her grandmother.

Despite all those things, I feel pretty good about saying I could do it if I had to. I guess you figure out something that works, get in a pattern and go with the flow. Build up your social network, don't be too proud to ask for (or accept) help, make contingency plans as best you can, and hold on loosely. Famous last words, huh?

Strike A Pose, There's Nothing To It

OK, OK, I won an award at work.

The thing is, I don't remember any of it. I remember dressing up and going to the banquet facility. I remember I had my lovely daughters with me. It was appropriately Oscar-night themed as I remember because we walked in on a red carpet and there were people greeting us and handing me things and then I stopped for my photo op and then my publicist swept in and ushered us over to our table.

I remember the director was reading off some introductory remarks about the winner and then everyone around me started prodding me and saying, "It's you. It's you, man." And I think I heard someone say, "Get up there, man." So, when my name was announced I zoned out and just focused on getting up to the front without tripping or anything. I picked up my oversized check and crossed the stage and while there I heard the director say, "Let me tell you a little about St. Fiacre." That's all I heard, so discomfitted was I. No chance of a big head here - I didn't even find out what I'd done to win it!

Super Giant Killer was mightily impressed with the gigantic check. On Sunday morning Molly, Nellie, and Kit reenacted the cermony and the winner made several large purchases befitting such a large check. Later that day, she observed that southern Europe and southern Asia have similar shapes and so she drew a map of Italy and neighbors and compared it to another she drew of the similarly dangling Malay Peninsula. Not exact of course, but I do see what she picked up on. These were drawn on the back of my check.

I Want To Be A Football He-ro

Adjective Queen likes to joke that I am her son Sport's Football Dad. Actually what she says is he is my Football Son. This isn't usurpation of Sport's bio-dad or an attempt at compensating for my having only girls, but rather a simple meeting of minds - he and I are the only members of our circle of friends who like football and sports in general. In our respective nuclear familial units, football is a bane of the first order up there with Dubbya and evangelicals.

I have never fully understood the loathsome regard blue-staters have toward football. I can name several reasons why I believe it to be, but I always come away feeling like I've diagnosed the symptoms rather than the disease. I think they don't like it because athletes are ascendant in most American high schools and the most dominant, almost iconically so, are football players and their female counterparts, cheerleaders and by contrast blue-staters, as individualistic, geeky, brainy, and largely unathletic, tend to be quite a bit south of there hierarchically. They prefer baseball because it has a solid literary tradition. They prefer soccer because they can comfortably root for the snobby Europeans or the noble post-colonial indigenous peoples' teams.
Probably most telling is they don't like it because 'everyone else' likes it, especially unthinking red-staters. It's also violent and there are those pesky cheerleaders to remind women of their eons of subjugation.

I'm confused because I think they should like it. In both the way it is played and the way its league is structured, it embodies the very community ideals and socialist economics they often tout in their ideology. In baseball, individual contributions are toted up to arrive at the final result. In football, everyone moves down the field together or not at all. The teams are made up of players with diverse skills and abilities. The professional league is structured so that revenues are split evenly among all teams, parity is highly desired and achieved so that all the teams and their fans have fair chance at glory, and players have both a minimum wage and a salary cap to prevent any one player or team too great a share of that society's riches. These seem like a blue-state dream, but I rarely see it celebrated.

I really didn't mean to go off on that tangent. It just occured to me as a thought about this post. I mainly just wanted to report that I took Sport to several local small college football games this year and he seems to have enjoyed it, as did I. We talked about plays and strategies and had some dogs and stuff. I almost asked him about the cheerleaders, one of whom looked like a dead-ringer for Kirsten Dunst, but I stopped myself because I thought he was probably too young to have checked them out and my own particular living arrangements have drubbed out any habit I might have of making public comments about a female's appearance - unless I am telling my three how spectacular they look.

I mentioned that Queen calls me Football Dad and I have to admit it makes me feel weird because it makes wonder sometimes how I would do if I had also had a son. I always wanted to have girl children because I knew how hard it was to grow up as a boy. Of course now I have the perspective that they both have their own brand of hellishness. The main thing I figured would be hard about raising boys is that they never talk. Girls talk constantly, so I figure I will at least know what is going on most of the time.

So anyway I was reminded of this during halftime at Saturday's game. We were sitting back shootin' the breeze and I started asking him stuff:
"So have you thought about where you want to go to high school?"
"Nah."
A plane flies over.
"Hey, that could be Lego Guy someday."
"Yeah."
"Do you think he'll fly someday?"
"I dunno."
"So, does he have a girlfriend?"
"Nah."
"What about you?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, yeah. Do you talk to her and stuff?"
"Some times."
"Is she pretty?"
Shrug.
"What's her name?"
"I'm not tellin' you!"
"You're not? I thought we were friends!"

That pretty well sums up my history with my dad, too. We would drive for two hours and not say a word and he'd say, "Enjoyed being with you, son." So, I hope I did OK this season, Queen, in my limited capacity as Football Dad. Oh, and by the way, he hasn't ever heard of Jim Thorpe. What the hell kind of family are you running over there, anyway? Never heard of Jim Thorpe, sheesh.

I'm All Lost in the Supermarket

There was one more episode about the New York trip that I forgot to disclose - mainly because I was hoping it was just a nightmare which would pass like bad gas in the morning. But it didn't. At LaGuardia getting ready to board the flight home, YHWH lost her organizer. Nothing big really, just her driver's license, health card, credit card, and other sparkling gems of the identity theft gold mine. She didn't realize it until the next morning, and so we weren't sure where it was lost - or stolen. I had just been to a short workshop on i.d. theft and so I was sure the prospects were pretty grim. So that first day back, YHWH cancelled all the cards and notified the credit agencies and got the defensive ball rolling. Meanwhile we turned every pocket, every bag inside out hoping it was stashed somewhere. All airport and airline lost-and-founds were called fruitlessly.

Everyone had a theory. YHWH's sister was sure that it was stolen from her purse at O'Hare. In fact, she recreated an entire narrative in which she selected a half dozen swarthy immigrants who worked in the food court and had been taking a break nearby as the perps in this crime drama of her own making. Sadly, this is a woman who doesn't get out much and her world view is largely formed by the local news. To me it just didn't add up. Mainly because they didn't have two key crime elements: motive or opportunity. And because I think profiling is really pathetic.

YHWH thought the missing piece was flung from the underseat nest of her purse when our tiny jet made a rather abrupt touchdown and overbraked to a stop on the runway at Will Rogers in OKC. As to its current whereabouts, she had no answer and by the end of the day I ruled that one out because the cleaning crew sweeping in after our departure would have picked it up and if they were going to turn it in we would've known by the end of that next day, they being local and all.

I, however, knew what happened although I could not say where exactly the organizer was. When we got to LaGuardia we had to check our bags at the curb. The airlines now charge two dollars a bag for this. It was really chaotic at the checkstand, so I gave YHWH $12 for our five bags and her sister's and then took the girls inside the terminal to try and thin out the crowd on the curb. Apparently, the baggageman took the $12 and said, "This is for the airline. Now another $12 for me." YHWH didn't have it so her sister had to crack open her wallet; this was its virginal opening on the trip I'm pretty sure. I mention this because I think this was the first of a succession of mental distractions for YHWH, who is very easily distracted. So, after the bags are gone, her sister tells her we owe her $10 for the bags. OK, she stayed at our house, our friend took us to the airport, I paid the $12 in OKC to have the bags loaded, I bought her two drinks, she doesn't spend one dime on the whole trip, I had just paid the $12 to the airline and not only will she not get the tip, she prorates it. This took YHWH aback and rattled her a little bit. Understand, it's not the money, it's the principle.

We then proceed to the TSA line to get screened and all of a sudden the line gets really chaotic and some heavily armed dude shows up and starts rerouting people through other lines. And this isn't like three parallel lines. This arrangement looks like that universal symbol for USB ports you see on computers. Anyway, in a scene out of a Holocaust movie, before I know it, right in front of my eyes, Killer gets pushed into a line by herself and YHWH and I get pushed to another and the sister and C.F. Kats to another. I can't even see Killer from where I am and this SWAT-looking guy with a machine gun is in my way. I decided to just get through the line as fast as I can and keep an eye on that line. Unfortunately, the reason for the commotion is in our line. YHWH and I turn a corner and there at the conveyor belt are two young women with a baby and two freakin' cats. These idiots were bringing cats as freakin' carry-ons! And the cats were not having any of it. Do they not know people who can feed their damn cats at home? Mind you, they have shoes all over the floor, their bags aren't zipped up, nothing is in baskets - it's a g-d TSA training video is what it is. And all I know is I can't see my child. So, one woman carries a cat through the metal detector. She has to wait for the cat's bag to go through the scanner and then fights with the cat to stuff it into a bowling-type bag. Then she tries to go back for the other cat, but the TSA lady stops her and says you can't go back through once you've passed. The baby is, of course, crying it's head off by now. The TSA lady tells the other lady to come through with the cat, but she says she can't leave the baby!! So we're at an impasse. No way, they claim, will they put the cat through the scanner thing. And the TSA lady is stumped. So finally I say, "Just carry them both, lady! The cat and the baby!" Everybody just stopped and looked at each other. YHWH was not looking too good. Very frustrated. At that point I just walked up to detector and went through without looking back, praying I wouldn't beep. I grabbed all my stuff of the conveyor belt and frantically searched for Killer. There she was, sitting on a bench putting her shoes on like nothing ever happened. Looking back at the scene I'd left behind I saw that YHWH had cleared and then I saw another SWAT guy approaching - with a big German Shepherd on a leash. Wouldn't want to be there when the dog showed up.

So, I think she lost her organizer there because she had to get it out to show her ID to the TSA people and I think she got so frazzled that she left it around there. For the last two weeks we heard nothing about it and I was pretty sure YHWH was in denial about it. And then today she got a small, thick envelope with no return address and a postage due stamp on it. It was the innards of her organizer, apparently unmolested. Where it was found, who found it, where the actual organizer is, we do not know. Might have been one of those cat women. Might have been one of those boys at O'Hare. All we know is there are still good people around this country of ours.