••• Friday, September 29, 2006

Did You Know? 

Eye Candy is the leading cause of eye cavities.
And it can happen in a blink.

Yesterday I had to fax a report to another district. I pulled the report from the file, took out the staple, made a copy of the report, restapled the original copy, then faxed the second copy to the intended recipient.

Think about it...

...Like I've been thinking about this all week:

Thanks for the nice words yesterday. I really wasn't looking for goodies, but I really do appreciate them. Lately this blogging stuff has seemed like a lot of work, too much work, and I'm not sure where it's coming from. I've been feeling like running away from it all, which makes me feel sad.

And to my fine-breasted commentors: Don't ever settle for small potatoes.


••• Thursday, September 28, 2006

Post With No Name 

Tuesday night I sat down to write a quick little post. But I couldn’t. Write.

Then I decided I needed a special link, to get me started on my quick little post. But I couldn’t. Find it.

And then I got distracted.

And then I got tired.

And then I looked at my blog and saw that it was already the day before WTF Wednesday and I had only posted once since the last WTF, which would make my last post a WTF Post Sandwich.

For some reason, a WTF Post Sandwich about a crazy dead cat named after a shriveled fruit sounded like a beg for bad luck.

And then my brain felt like it was going to melt from all the internal sweatin’and frettin'. So I stopped thinking about it.

Still harboring a strong need to worry about something totally senseless,I got to stressin’about my visitor stats. And comments.

And even though that felt better than worrying about a WTF Raisin Post Sandwich, it still didn’t fit the bill.

So I decided to worry about someone else’s blog problems,and rested my worried mind on JenLa’s bleeding bloglines, which reminded me to wonder about something else: If a woman has her period all the time, can it still be called a period? And if not, what should it be called? Infinity? Ellipses?

And then, in a burst of selfishness, I brought the spotlight back on me, to wonder, in a worrying kind of way, why can’t I blog like I used to?

Was I past my post prime?
Had my wad done blowed?
My ship done sailed?
Had the best I got to give, done got given?

And then I wondered if I was really wondering if it's better to read the writing on the writing on the wall, and dump the guy before he dumps you, even if it's sure to break your heart?

And then I went to bed.
And then I got up.
And then I went to bed. Again.
And then it wasn't WTF Wednesday. Again.

Now here we are.


Tuesday's Post or WTFYF or What to Feed Your Family

Last weekend I whipped up a batch of La's Drunken Bovine Stew, ::It’s the shit, I’m tellin’ ya. :: and Monday I went with Carole's American Chop Suey ::Yes, we all know we’re talking about goulash. Because the local Bostonians have a history of getting their beans all up in a bunghole, on the issue, we’ll just wink and play along. Mmm k?.::


I haven’t had American Chop Suey ::wink:: since I was a kid. My mom used to make it but never worked from a recipe. When I asked her about it a couple of years ago, she laughed and said there was no way she could remember what she put in it, except for a plop of brown sugar.

I was very excited to try Carole's recipe, and am happy to say I wasn’t disappointed. I did add salt, pepper, paprika and a plop or two of brown sugar. I may add a little bouillon or broth next time. Minus my generous helping at dinner, my husband ate the entire batch within a 14 hour period.

In a gesture of good blog karma, I’ll now share with you, one of my favorite, easy, culinary comforts. Not only is it tasty it only uses one pan. I don’t have a name for it yet, so I think I'll call it...

Rosemary’s Chicken. Yeah.


4 chicken breast halves, with skin and bone-in.
Baby redskin potatoes
Baby carrots from a bag*
Olive Oil
Dried or fresh rosemary
Up to ¼ cup of white whine
Large, shallow roasting pan (size matters here.)

Preheat oven to 400.

1) Wash and pat dry chicken and place in roaster.

2) Wash veggies and halve potatoes

3) Put 1-2 Tablespoons of olive oil in a large sealable storage bag. (enough to lightly coat veggies**)

4) Put potatoes and carrots in the bag with oil and shake until coated.

5) Arrange vegetables in pan around chicken.

6) Brush chicken with olive oil.

7) Season chicken and veggies to taste with salt, pepper and generous amounts of rosemary (well, don’t actually taste the chicken at this point, just imagine with your mind's tongue.)

8) Place in oven.

9) Bake for 45 minutes or until chicken is proper temperature, per meat thermometer.

10) About halfway through baking time, remove pan from oven and turn the veggies.

11) After chicken is done, increase oven temperature to 425 and remove pan from oven. Remove chicken from pan and keep warm on a plate, under foil.

12) Pour 1/8 to ¼ cup*** of white wine into the still hot pan and stir to mix with chicken juices and to loosen bits on bottom of pan. After wine and juices are mixed, toss with vegetables until coated evenly. Return pan to oven for 10 minutes or until most of liquid is absorbed or evaporated.

*The baby carrots in the bag is most convenient but fresh carrots taste noticeably better with this recipe and are worth the trouble to me. Just watch the size. If the pieces are too small, they will kind of meld with the bottom of the pan.

**You can use skinless/boneless chicken but it won't provide as much juice, so add 1/8 cup of chicken broth to the olive oil when tossing the veggies. Chicken broth can also be added to the pan during the bake, to replace fluids.

***If using a smaller than large roasting pan, use less wine. The more area there is to cover on the pan for stirring the bits, the more wine you need. Since we're on the subject of size, the veggies should not be crammed together in the pan but have a little breathing space. Choose pan size or quanity of veggies accordingly.

P.S. I've used chunks of red onions and whole garlic pieces with the veggies. If you add extra anything, just be sure to leave breathing room.

P.P.S. If you have big breasts, you may need to cook them a bit before adding the veggies. If your breasts are small, cut the veggies smaller.

P.P.P.S. It’s not as complicated as I make it sound. The recipe, that is. Not my brain. My brain can complicate dust bunnies.
I may have some knitting updates soon. Or maybe not. I’m still fibrous. I promise.
College Boy is coming home for the weekend and I’m sure he’s going to want to spend extended amounts of quality time with his momma.
Or at least her computer.

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••• Sunday, September 24, 2006

R is for Raisin 

Raisin was a cat.
But not anymore.
Now he's dead.

When he was alive, I called him Raisin Hell.
After his unfortunate demise, he was Raisin the Dead.

It's kind of hard to know where to begin, when telling the story of Raisin. So I'll just start where I do with most of my meaningless musings: Ramble.

When I was married to that other guy, we lived a life of emotional, environmental and financial frugality. Throughout most of that marriage, I talked myself into believing that I was living a pretty good, albeit anxiety-riddled life. I had a sweet, easy-natured baby boy, a large circle of marriage-induced friends and a job that gave me satisfaction.

The one thing I knew was missing from my life back then, was a pet. Even though he grew up in a home that always included dogs and cats, my husband-at-the-time always said "no" to my request.

He said that we weren't home enough. And they were too expensive. And too messy. It wasn't until later that I realized his denial of my request was about control and more specifically my punishment for being less clean than his ideal. Okay, I was a slob. Okay, I am a slob. But a happy, loved slob.

Every once in awhile I'd get a little cocky and ask what would happen if I just came home with a cat?

His answer every time: Divorce.

This was also the response he had to my other frequent flyer, authority-testing inquiries: 1) What would happen if I came home with a tattoo? and 2) What would happen if I opened a Spiegel charge account?

::I used to fantasize about ending it all by coming home donning a fresh tattoo of a cat, paid for with my secret Spiegel charge card. Yes, I really had a secret Spiegel account. To be the first one home from work every day became my new religion.::

Just a few weeks after I was divorced and in my new place (divorce and house closing were on the same day), an adorable, black kitten found me. He was a stray, rescued from a tree on the property of my place of employment.

At first glance he looked like he was black, but in the sunlight you could see that his overcoat was actually a deep, blackish brown. Like a raisin. In a very certain light, you could even see hints of stripes.

Raisin was beautiful. And he was affectionate. And he was mine. Actually, I should say he was ours. Cam always wanted a pet and was beyond thrilled when I surprised him with this prefurred fringe benefit of what was otherwise a very difficult period in his life.

A Raisin and the Son.

The three of us soon set about building a new life together. Raisin took turns sleeping in my bed or with Cam. Raisin was quite the snuggler, with a purr that was palpable two couch cushions away.

Cam adored him, as did I.

I will admit that beyond my affection for this happy little fluffnugget, Raisin was a symbol of freedom; a defiant gloat to flaunt in the face of my ex.

::And yeah, I did kinda love it when Raisin ran to the door to greet my ex, when he came by to pick up Cam. Spiteful? No. Gleefully Defiant? Okay..::

And then one day, with absolutely no warning, our sweet little Raisin dropped his basket, lost the plot, went totally bitchcakes.

In other words, my sweetly perfect Puss de Triomphe went suddenly sour. As follows:
1) Stalked and attacked Cam when he walked down the hallway. ::Raisin was not de-clawed. Or de-pawed, as I use to threaten.::

2) Stalked and tried to attack a child on a tricycle.

3) Stalked and tried to attack any other animal he saw outside, including a Rotweiller. The owners happened to see Raisin running up on the dog, and slapped on the safety chain. Good thing too, the dog went all Raisin when he saw him.

4) When I pulled into the driveway, he would jump on the hood of the car while it was still moving, and ride it into the garage.

5) He chased people on bikes.

6) The smell of chicken made him even crazier. Raw chicken was the worst but even cooked chicken set him off. One time I was standing in the kitchen snacking on a chicken wing. I didn't notice when he jumped on the counter. Next thing, he was flying through the air, toward the hand holding the wing. He was trying to disarm me of my chicken wing. And almost suceeded.

7) I tried to train him with squirt bottles. It just made him mad.

8) I tried to train him with a super soaker squirt gun. He tried to disarm me, a la chicken wing.

9) From about 10 feet away, I once yelled at him to get off the dining room table. He looked at me like, "You talking to me, bitch?", jumped off the table, walked the 10 feet to where I stood and bit me on the foot. Swear. To. God.
Obviously, I couldn't let him around Cam anymore. I knew I needed to get rid of him, but I hated to think of putting him down and if there was a place he could be happy and alive, I'd like to find it.

In the meantime, whenever Cam was with me (we had joint physical custody, which entailed four-night weekends with his dad, every other.) the cat stayed in the basement or outdoors, until Cam was safely in bed.

To keep the neighborhood safe, I tried to keep Raisin in the house until after dark, whenever possible. He was definitely an outdoor cat with an attitude, so this was not an easy task and sometimes I caved and let him out during the day.

One Saturday, I was in the shower, Raisin was outside and Cam was heading out to the car to fetch something. Next thing I know, Cam is in the bathroom screaming and thrashing about, with a big ass black cat on his head. While Cam was nosing in the car, Raisin had entered the vehicle and, well, it was like shooting ducks in a barrel.

There I am in the shower. Naked. Trying to figure out the best solution to this unprecedented dilemma. My first concern, of course, was my son's well being. A close second in the list of concerns was how to address the issue of my son's well being without inflicting further psychological trauma by letting him see me naked.

Good thing I do all my best thinking in the shower. From behind the curtain I called Cam over, and revealing not a nip, I reached out and swiftly de-Raisined the situation.

And there I was in the shower. Naked. Holding a crazy ass, un-de-pawed cat. Fortunately for me, my cat-tusslin' skills were by now, well-honed and I got out of the situation unscathed.

Cam's father soon heard about the incident and raised a logical flag of concern for our son’s safety. As difficult as it was to do, I had to agree with him, that the situation was untenable and promised to take care of it soon.

Heh. So much for all that flaunting of my independence shit. I think I drank that night.

A couple of days later, after dark, a neighbor lady came pounding on my door. She was not happy. Raisin was in her house and she couldn’t get him out.

Of course this was a serious situation, but I had a hard time keeping a straight face as she told me how she had tried to swish him out with the broom, but he had just grabbed the broom head and rode the bristles until she dropped it in exasperation.

After that, he walked around the kitchen like he owned the place, hissing whenever she got too close. I apologized and went to fetch him.

Two days later, she was at the door again. It was pretty much the same story, except with more swearing and this time he was in her car.

At this point I realized that Raisin was deteriorating and there was no place on this Earth where he/we could be safely happy. I decided I would keep him in the house until I could get him to the vet. But Raisin had a different idea, and the next day he ran out the door when I came home from work.

Later that evening, there was the knock at the door. Shit. Here we go again. Expecting the same angry neighbor, I opened the door. It was a different neighbor. A friend. She said she was sorry to tell me that she just struck my cat with her car, and he was dead.

After saying she was sorry, she gave me a hug and told me what happened. While slowing down on the approach to the stop sign, Raisin just appeared in front of the car and stared at it head-on. And then, she said, it was the weirdest thing. She swears he tried to jump on the hood of her car while it was still moving. Unfortunately, his speed estimating skills were a little off and it ended badly.

She helped me scoop him into a box and the next day a friend helped me bury him on some rural property. My big, beautiful, deranged symbol of freedom had gone out of this world much as he had lived in it; in a crazy blaze of weird.

Ever once in awhile Bella cops an aggressive attitude, with a surprise wrap-around-arm-bite-and-kick move. As I deftly extricate myself from her grip, I always say, "You are not worthy of being smacked by the angry paws of cats with whom I've showered."

Okay. Maybe I don't say that, exactly. But I could.


••• Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Hump Roast 

Last week I saw a what must have been a public service announcement about September being Menopause Awareness Month. WTF? If you have it and/or live, work or sleep with someone who does, you are aware. Take it from a woman who spent most of the day dealing with crises and the administrators who administrate them, with her ears glowing a monkey-ass red.

Awareness? Got some.

In fact, this makes about as much sense as Jart Embedded in Skull Awareness Month.

Do you suffer from any of the following symptoms?
-Searing headaches, often isolated to one area.
-Neck Pain.

-Loss of balance.

-Constant feeling that people are staring and/or children crying, wherever you go.
-Difficulty getting in and out of cars.

-Discomfort riding in cars.

-Seeing a bright color out of corner of eye, but when you turn to look, nothing is there.

-Near constant feeling of something weighing heavily on mind, but can't quite pinpoint what it is.

-Irrepressible urges to get drunk and poke someone's eye out.

If you experience at least 8 out of 9 symptoms, you may be one of the 17 estimated people in the world with Jart Embedded in Skull and are advised to seek immediate medical attention or a large family reunion.
Whether it's Menopause or Jart Embedded in Skull, if you got it, no further awareness required.

P.S. I am getting about 30 minutes of blog/email time a day during the week, so I'm sorry I haven't been able to reply to comments and stuff. I wish Haloscan didn't hide the email addresses, would make life much easier. This weekend. Yeah. That's it. Sarah, I'd love to see her again, but we're going to the cottage that weekend.

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••• Tuesday, September 19, 2006

WTF's Wrong With Blogger? Tuesday 

I know there's not really such thing as WTF's Wrong With Blogger? Tuesday. Seeing that Every Day is WTF's Wrong With Blogger? Day, that would be redundant.

Today's WTF Blogger Du Jour: Okay, We'll Give You a 10-minute Window to Load Pictures, But You're Not Going to Like It. Comes with a side-dish of fucked up margins when you use italics.

Here's a Trudie Jacket sleeve that is now prit near done.

I'm not getting much knitting time these days. And it feels like I'm never going to finish this sweater. I think I need a weekend at the cottage.

Oh, did I mention I'm rambly today? Or is it gassy?

Anyway. I still haven't found my autumnal schedule sync. It seems that every night after work for the past two weeks, there's been something I gotta do, or some place I gotta go.

Last week Tuesday was a cut-n-color. ::I went back to my natural state of un-bling.:: While there, I found out that my beloved stylist ::I lurve her.:: has been seeing another school soshul werker behind my back. From a rival school. I even know her. She a B. With great body. She showed up a little early for her appointment, an act I'm sure was fully intended. They were soo busted. My girl couldn't look me in the eye and was totally off point on the final spritz.

Thursday was the Carnival at Cakers' school. Oy. Remember the days of school carnival? The ol' Fishing Booth with poles made up of dowels and string and clothes pins? The ol' Ring Toss? The Cake Walk? The Dig For Quarters in Mr. Pzyrski's Pocket?

Well, let me tell you. This carnival was not my daughter's mother's carnival. This carnival had a climbing wall. You needed 47 tickets, to climb. And a helmet. And a harness. And a signed waiver of liability. For a four-year-old.

And there was The Inflatable Bouncy Basketball Court of Death, where more heads were bounced than balls or ass. And there was a D.J. playing children's dance music, like the Chicken Dance and Macarena. I hope someone dropped a bug in this guys' ear that just because Pass the Dutchie is sung by kids, doesn't make it a kids song.

My very most favorite booth was the Bobbing for Ritalins. Having a psychiatrist for president of the P.T.O. can be annoying at times, but it definitely has its perks. Especially for those of us with limited capacity for watching tiny children fall from heights of 30 feet, or so.

From the carnival we went to a Kindergarten Graduation open house at Cakers' former daycare. That was a snotfest. I could hardly speak most of our time there, from looking at all the babies that have come into the home since; replacements for my baby-now-so-grown. It just goes so fast. I wanted to yell at their parents "Beware of the climbing wall! It cometh! Fasteth!"

It was a long ass night.

Remember, I warned I was rambly.

And, I can't even remember what we did over the weekend. Something. I know.

And last night was the Open House at my school, so I worked from 7:30 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. Last night my husband went to a Roger Waters concert in Detroit. Last week I had this terrifying vision that my husband died, so was convinced it was going to happen on this trip. He told me he was so worked up and anxious about going that he thought of driving off an overpass just to get it over with. But damn if I wasn't happy to see him, this morning.

And tonight was the Open House at Cakers' school.

And...and...I just ran out of gas. Or is it rambles?

I guess I'll wrap this worthless post with a little Frosting on the Cakers.

Two nights ago at dinner, while speaking to my husband, I noticed The Cakers repeating everything I said, in that annoying way that kids do. I stopped the conversation with my hub and entered another:
You can play the repeat game with your friends, but you should never repeat after adults like that. It's disrespectful and bad manners. Okay?


Thank You.

Thank You.
I know. We're in trouble.

I know. We're in trouble.

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••• Saturday, September 16, 2006

Right on Q. 

Q is for The Quiet Child

This picture was taken at my church, when I graduated from the nursery/pre-school program into Kindergarten Sunday School. They called it The Cradle Roll and the pictures of all the graduates were displayed in the lobby of the church through the summer.

The following story was not the one I planned on telling with this picture, although I can now see that it is a better fit, in a contexually immediate kind of way. In fact, the other story was already about half done. But this one seemed to need to be told today, for some reason. So here it is.

When I picture myself as a young girl, I see a quiet, watchful thing. And more than a little anxious. I never much took to hanging with large groups of kids and that's still my social preference, as an adult. While I had a handful of trusted playmates in my childhood years, I mostly played alone, wandering the neighborhood and exploring. ::This was to be the jumping off point for my original story. I'm just laying some referential groundwork in the event I ever get back to telling that one.::

At home I was pretty quiet too. There are many reasons for this, most of them are unpleasant to speak of. I know that my parents loved me, but times were different then. Where I came from, kids weren't treated as precious treasures to be nurtured and protected. Where I came from, children were: 1) Things that happened to you. 2) To be ruled.

It didn't take me long to figure out that in my family, the louder the child, the more likely he or she would be sought and ruled by a parent or teased/smacked/terrorized without mercy by a sibling.

So I took to being quiet. And I watched. And listened. And for the most part, this M.O. served me well. But there was one drawback I hadn't anticipated. If you're so quiet that your family often forgets you're there, it's not a huge leap to just forget you, period. Which is exactly what happened to me when I was about 7 years old, when my big sister walked home from Sunday School without me.

At first I wasn't worried. We attended one of the largest churches in the area (it has now grown to what they call a mega church, with its own traffic light.) and it was hard to get through the crowds of people milling about, so it was a safe assumption, at first, that my big sister was trying her best to get to me.

The place my sister and I were supposed to meet was near the hall where all the old ladies, with their leathered skin and feathered hats, gathered to gossip and cluck at one another. For some odd reason, I found the sight, sound and smell of those ladies, oddly comforting, as I waited.

When that crowd thinned out, I relocated to stand by the doors in the front lobby, through which a steady stream of families flowed. After several minutes there, I developed a sick feeling in my stomach and a thickness in my throat, like I couldn't breathe real good. A couple of kids from my Sunday School class passed by with their parents' and stopped to ask if I needed a ride. I was so mortified at the mere thought of the possibility of having been left behind, I could only shake my head no. Accepting a ride home would be an admission that I had really been forgotten, and even worse, that I was forgettable.

Besides, as my fear grew, I still believed in my heart of hearts that someone was coming for me, any minute. How could they not? And if I wasn't here waiting when they arrived, there'd be hell to pay. Even on a Sunday.

Family by family, I watched the lobby empty out completely, until there was nobody left but me and the janitor/church photographer who was waiting to lock up. My eyes were now aching from fighting back tears, while scrutinizing traffic for our white Buick station wagon.

And then I started to cry, which caused the janitor/photographer to come over and see what was wrong. Through slobbery snot blobs and hiccups I somehow managed to tell the guy that I was just waiting to be picked up, any minute. He wasn't convinced, and insisted on giving me a ride home. While I'm sure he was concerned for me, I imagine he mostly wanted to get home. To his wife. And her Sunday rump. Roast.

Truth is, the guy was kind of creepy. And smelled of mothballs. But with his being an adult and all, he was an automatic authority figure and it would have been wrong for me to disobey and stand my post. ::This was the mid 60's, times were different. All adults had dominion.::

As we rode the few blocks to my house, I scoured the sidewalks for any sign or evidence of an ensuing family rescue effort. I'm not really sure what evidence I was looking for, maybe a trail of tears, or a path of discarded clothing, freshly rent in despair. Some blood would've been nice. Just a few little splatters, from grief- induced, self-mutilation. Nothing much.

Ahh, no.

I saw nothing but Crazy-Guy-Cussing-On-The-Freeway-Overpass. This was a local who would stand for hours every day on the overpass, swearing and staring at the traffic below, while obsessively wiping the inside of his bottom lip on his coat lapel, an average of 37 times per minute. Between cuss words. ::Yes, this was actually a fairly scientific study performed by me and my friend Eddie Tipton. I counted the swipes and swears, while he counted to 60, a la Mississippi.::

After getting dropped off in front my house, I braced myself for The House of Hysteria, and went so far as to envision my poor mother, sobbing on the floor in a heap, while the rest of the family fell on me with hugs and kisses and tears of joy, at my safe deliverance. And maybe there would even be presents.

Ahh, no.

I walked into the house to find the entire family just sitting down to Sunday dinner. When my mom saw me come through the door, she initially looked confused and quickly took a head count around the table, as if to figure out what the hell was going on.

Her confusion quickly turned to compensatory anger. "Where've you been?" She demanded, acting as though she knew all along I wasn't here and all along she had been truly miffed.

"S-s-someone left me at Sunday School," I blubbered. We all knew who that someone was, as that someone nervously glanced at mom and dad.

During those several seconds of silence, I waited for the mighty sword of my father's vengenance to smite my sister well into next week. But it never came. The next thing I heard was my mother snap, "Wash your hands and come to dinner. And you can clear the dishes for your punishment."

I knew better than to argue at this point, but it was the gleeful snort of a brother that drove home the reality that no one would be stepping forward to comfort or defend. Or be happy I was okay.

This incident was not discussed again until I was in high school. Somehow it came up in conversation, which caused my sister to apologize and give me a hug. To this day, my mom swears it never happened and that I imagined the whole thing.

I know my parents did the best they could with what they had. And lawd knows I've made my share of parenting goofs*. So I'm not writing this to blame.

So I'll just leave you with this:
Your Kids always count.
Always count your kids.
*In the event my son ever writes his memoirs, I want to go on record to say that under no circumstances did I ever leave my three year old boy at Blockbuster Video. While leaving the store, my son and I were separated by the exit door. He was in, I was out. Because it was the exit door, it was locked from the outside, so to get back into the store, I had to run out the second exit door and run to the In door, to fetch him. He seems to blank on the "fetching him" part, and all he remembers is seeing the bottoms of my pink Reebok high tops, running away. I. Did. Not.


••• Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Follow the WTF Road 

Yesterday morning, on my way to work, I saw a woman driving about 65 mph down the beltway, while eating a bowl of cereal. It was big bowl. White. And the spoon was stainless, not plastic. Bowl in her left hand, spoon in the right. She set the spoon in the bowl only when she needed to shift gears, otherwise both hands were fully engaged in the act of consumption.

I rode along side her for a 1/4 mile just to watch. She never took her eyes off the road ahead and neither did she put her hands the wheel. She couldn't. They were full.

She wasn't steering with her knees either. I know this because I could see down into her car. Besides, it would be impossible to do while operating a clutch. And here's the most amazing thing, as she sped away from the our last shared stop light, her car never even shivered in her lane. She just blew away, straight as an arrow.

Either that was a bowl of Wheaties she was eating, or she stayed at a Holiday Inn Express. Regardless, WTF?


••• Sunday, September 10, 2006

Sunday Sundries II 

I have about half a dozen unfinished posts in my draft que. ::Why do we say half dozen, when it's easier to say six?:: Some of the posts aren't worth the finish, but a few of them hold enough meaning for me (i.e., they were almost ready to go to press), that they were worth revisiting.

P is for The Poopman
I know I already went P. Evidently, I have to P some more. And maybe some poo, too. Actually, the Poop Pump was my original plan for P,which I thought was pretty clever. But then the Present idea presented itself, and the rest is historpee.

Those of you who have been reading me for awhile know of my fear and dread of poop tank failure at the cottage. My fear is that there will be some sort of breakdown of the YOU ARE FULL OF POO warning system, which will result in one flush too many, which will cause all three tanks to simultaneously blow poo chunks all over the cottage neighborhood.

Now, I know the tanks won't actually blow up when overfilled. But the possibility scares me. I do think they are capable of leaking. Or squirting, if you will. Whether a major blowout or minor squirtage, the thought of our most private assemblage of humanity being publically revealed in any form, and causing just one neighbor to stop and sniff and look at their dog, is too much imagination for my delicate sensibilities.

Fortunately, we have so far been able to flush with impunity. And when we drop a dime to the Men in Blue, Who Pump the Poo, they are immediately at our service. And while I very much appreciate the consistently prompt and courteous response, I do have one tiny piece of feedback for our friendly neighorhood hosers. Could we be a little more discreet?

Here we have a picture of Mr. Pumpy backed right up to our Mount Poo. ::Picture was taken last winter, when the idea for this post was first hatched. I was studying for that damn test and things got away from me.::

Once he gets in range, he pulls that lovely, glow-in-the-snow-green hose from the back of his truck, removes the top from tank one and commences to sucking shit. He then moves on to tank 2, etc. On a lovely, quiet winter afternoon, the sound of Mr. Pumpy sucking our shit can be heard for probably a mile. Or 3/4, at least.

At the risk of sounding like an anally spoiled city slicker, I find the whole thing kind of embarrassng.

I mean, when the pumper shows, every body knows your business. Your private business. And the other weird thing is that until just a few weeks ago, we have never witnessed any of our neighbors getting pumped. I know. Three summers. This only added to my feelings of excretory self-consciousness. I mean, what do people think when they see the big truck rolling up to our place, again?
Honey, listen. They're doing it again.

Man, those people are really on the go.

I have it on good authority that they flush on yellow and never mellow.

Well, I've heard them flush at all hours.

Midnight flushers? I've heard of people like that, but never thought we'd have them right next door.

Tsk. Tsk. Such a waste.

Did you hear those chunks? Sounds like someone's been passing small woodland creatures.
I think you get where I'm going with this. I need some privacy. It's human nature to turn away from others when we're doing our business. There's even a word for it (and one of my favorites): Absquatulation. Look it up. I'm tired.

I'm saying that the same discretion and care should apply to the waste management system.

Here's what I'm thinking: Privacy curtains.

It's not a perfect solution, I know, but at least it's discreet. I mean, we all know what Uncle Snooks is doing in the can after Thanksgiving dinner. It doesn't mean we need to see it happen.

My other idea is a bit on the sneaky side. Kind of like the person who likes to pretend she is above shitting, and flushes every three seconds so one will hear what she's really doing.

A Disquise.

Beautiful, no? I mean they have the hoses, they make the noises. They could even set up a little portable potty fire thingy, for authenticity.

I was so confident in my ideas, that I was planning on presenting them at a future township board meeting. But just a few weeks ago, a proposal was made to build a community system, for about 25 cottages to share. Off site. (yippee). I guess it's kind of an experimental program, with some funding. I was so excited when I heard, I coulda just...spit. And the program could be in place as early as next summer.

It makes me smile to think of the sense of community this will bring. The lake is always such a happy place to visit. All the kids splashing and playing and frolicking in the water, together. And to think that just a half mile down the road, all our kids will be splashing and playing and frolicking in the, well, stuff together.

I'm pumped.

Q is for Que?
It's qumming. I promise.

Trudie Scrumptious
Last week I finished both front pieces on the Trudie, thus and so:

I've not knit a stitch for days, but hope to resume this evening. The casting on for the ruffled edge is kind of a motivation slapper, but I just need to do it.

I had hoped to get one more item off my list of Sundries today, but it will have to wait. Between my back to work schedule and my suddenly high maintenance daughter, my blog posting and blog reading and emailing may be a little slow. And now I gotta go.

May all your toilet papers hang right.


••• Friday, September 08, 2006

Diff'rent Pokes 

A few years ago there was a popular Friday MEME about Five Things. I thought it was called Five-Things-You-Should-Know-About-the-Ice-Pick-In-My-Eye. I did a google but couldn’t find anything about it. Maybe it was dropped because people couldn’t see the point.

Too bad, too. It would have been a fitting post for today. Now I'm stuck having to explain how I’m feeling.

In a nutshell: I'm not fit for human consumption.

This ennui feels different than my usual adjustment to work after summer break. I think it's the Cakers and Kindergarten. Don’t get me wrong, it seems to be going very well. In fact, yesterday she dismissed her daddy at the corner, to walk to the line with her friends. This morning, she dismissed him before they were off the block, so she could walk the whole way with her friends (and an adult).

But it seems this little change in this little person’s life has taken a not-so-little-yet-hard-to-describe toll on the household.

My work schedule is the same. And Cakers’ is spending the same amount of time away from us as she did when she was in daycare.

Yet somehow, it all feels different.

She is different.

She looks different.
She smells different.
She knows different people.
She smells like different people.
She talks different.
And she knows the words to a fight song.

It’s changed the rhythm of all our lives.
Our sync is sunk.
Our homeo's lost its stasis.
There’s a disturbance in the family force.

And it’s making my husband different too. He’s kind of edgy and distracted and has been showering daily for the walk to school. This is a man who may not have showered for our wedding. Okay, maybe he did for the wedding. But he's never been the showering kind.

Every day he's called me at work, to tell me how she let go of his hand a little further from the school than she did the day before. And then there was the big blow today. Poor guy, dissed in front the neighorhood by daddy's little girl.

And this was just the first week. What's next? She's moving into a neighbor's basement apartment with a bunch of wild 1st graders? Or running away to join a Disney girl band?

Of course this is not a traumatic or life altering event. It’s just a little limp in the family cadence. But it hasn't helped that there have been a bunch of changes at work, a few of which caused me to start the year already behind, while the rest of the changes have made my work place feel, well, different.

But enough of this whinery. It's Pull The Ice Pick From My Eye Candy Friday!

And in a couple of hours I hope to turn this stark, dark mood to a pickled pink. With a lovely red.

Enjoy yours.


••• Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Wash Your Face in Gravy 

Trying to calm a nervous babe on the first day of kindergarten...

...can be a daunting task.

Or not.

He We She got through the day with no reported calamity. In fact, there has been no reported anything. She's not talking about it. Period.

Before she went totally clam, she did identify Quiet Time at her new day care as her favorite part of the day. I found this somewhat disturbing, since my daughter is the Anti-Quiet. Something tells me my life will never the same.

Speaking of my life, I'm having a difficult time adjusting to this world of work shit. I'm tired. I can't sleep. And I'm consumed with whiny thoughts of days gone bye.

Later this week: Knitting and a Q.
As for now, I bid thee adieu.
I was coming home from kindergarten - well they told me it was kindergarten. I found out later I had been working in a factory for ten years. It's good for a kid to know how to make gloves. --Ellen DeGeneres

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••• Monday, September 04, 2006

Got Teach? 

I've been working on a post that doesn't want to be posted, apparently. And it seemed to simple at the start...

In the meantime, I give you The Cakers.

Is it me, or does anybody else see images of imploding Crayolas and Calendar Day weather icons?

Mmm Hmmm. Just as I thought.

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••• Friday, September 01, 2006

Eye Like Candy 

Cat: One hell of a nice animal, frequently mistaken for meatloaf.-Kliban
The Weakened
Yesterday marked the conclusion of three full, back-to-back days of state mandated inservice for me. By the third day, it always feels like they're just making shit up, to pass the time. Or maybe that's just me, just making shit up, to pass the time.

I do know that I'd rather squeeze butt glands on labradors, than sit through another moment of it. And really, I'd rather not that. Either.

Anyway. After work, I tumbled home to pack for the cottage and we arrived here late last evening. I always hate that rushing after work part, but always appreciate being already here the next morning. Especially when the in-laws are here to get up at the crack of hell with their treasured Cakers.

Today is supposed to be gorgeous and tomorrow less so. Sunday we may get some Ernesto up this way. Either way, we're heading home then to give us all a full day of comtemplation before starting our new family career: Kindergarten.

I know I need to Q up on the Alpha bit, but it ain't happening any time soon.

Kno knitting knews to speak of. I finished the front of Trudie after ripping back to the start of the armhole and on ride up here, I got about three inches reknit on the back, after ripping back to the armhole.

And that's that. ::I'm feeling kind of bold this morning, blogging with the in-laws walking around behind me, talking to me and stuff.::

Enjoy your weekend. May all your labors be those of love.