If there's a way to access Blogger from the stupid new iGoogle thingie-whatsis, I can't figure out what it is. Now I have to sign into Google, then search for Blogger, then click, then I'm magically transported via fairy dust and navel wax to the wonderful workd of Blogger, wherein I can post a post if I so choose.

Clearly, I'm missing something in all the upgrades that have occurred over the last few months while I was looking at pictures of cities gone to ruin or mountain biking videos or the Daily Mail online. Surely it should be more forthright than all those clicks?

Oh, my problems. Ohhhhhhh!!!

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Do you ever talk to yourself in a foreign accent?

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I do.

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George Clooney got himself arrested today. What made it more special was that he got arrested with his DAD, both protesting the same thing.

Nice to know a man isn't too old to want to do stuff with his Daddy.

(call me, George! You seem fun! We could toast marshmallows and drink hot sake around the fire pit with Biff and Oldfriend!)

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There's a girl showing herself up around our neighborhood lately. She's...um..late-teenaged or so, firm of thigh and dark of skin, purely languid of movement and can dance like a boss.

Dance? How do I know this?

Well, because she has danced on our street the past three nights running. She comes up from the right, walking south, at first only talking to herself, then talks louder. The hips start swinging, then the talk turns to song. She then stands and moves shoulders to and fro, head snapping left and right while feet shake an akimbo rhythm to whatever tune she has going on in her mind. She does not care who is there to watch.

Her voice then will rise in song, deep throated and honest, but so odd on this street.

She dances the way up our street, shaking and singing and so fluid you could grease a flywheel with her hips and carpet your dreams with the shimmy of her shoulders. She is lovely, and weird.

I have forgotten what it is like to be her. To be so in the moment of your own making that you are the arbiter of all that happens around you, to be the boss of the moments and winds, so it is nice to see her, crazy young girl on my street, being fetching for that young man who always runs up behind her and walks a little ways with her. He is the reason she goes a little crazy, I think, but there's the hope in me that she keeps a bit of the crazy to herself to pull out and remember when she's older, grayer, but still wild.

Just something I'm thinking, right now. Y'all be well!

Tiff out.

We watched a show on the teevee last night about psychopaths. It is the way of our people to take in entertainment that will either teach us something ('How it's Made') or make us feel better about ourselves ('Cops,' 'World's Dumbest'). By happy coincidence, this program about psychopaths promised to combine those two hallmarks of fine television into one program (much like 'hoarders,' only more intellectual and less heart-stringy).

Now, I can hear some of you pondering out loud 'why on earth would you want to watch a show about dangerous murderous evil people, Tiff? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?' and I would have to answer that 1) there is nothing wrong with me for wanting to watch shows about dangerous murderous evil people, because duh how else are you going to know how to recognize them when you happen upon one in the wild and 2) there is only so much 'House Hunters' one can take in before the urge to Hulksmash the next person who pouts about the carpet color overtakes and you wind up doing something stupid like breaking a coffee table or switching to reality teevee.

So, psychopaths.

Within 5 minutes we got the first kicker. To wit: Not all psychopaths are evil dangerous murderers and sowers of mayhem. In face, MOST psychopaths are not. No, most psychopaths are 1) CEOs, 2) lawyers, 3) other persons of power, 4) charmers, 5) charismatic, and 6) perceived as attractive and dynamic while having no real sense of empathy or social responsibility toward others.

Yep - those people who we hold up as examples of success and achievement can, in no small measure, be outed as psychopathic and probably lacking in the empathy that most people use in daily life to recognize when they're being manipulative, aggressive, and unemotional. Oddly, that LACK of empathy is what makes psychopaths so admirable - they're seen a s 'tough,' with great ideas, a certain recklessness, and a go-for-it attitude that is a siren song to many who don't possess those attributes and who then promote the psychopaths to the top of leadership because by gum that person is GOING FOR IT and that's the kind of spirit we want in our company/army/gang.

Except (and this is the really good part), the psychopathic leader is only good at one thing: self-centered thrill seeking. They're not interested in the welfare of the company/unit/territory, they only crave the next level of exctiement and manipulation, are really only into the whole leadership thing because of the goodies it brings and the power they achieve through ascent into the stratosphere of whatever pursuit or organization in which they find themselves. To actually LEAD that group is not in their interests. Once at the top of the heap, it's quickly found that their leadership abilities are sadly lacking, at which point they self-defensively become bullies or skip town to another company. Psychopaths simply do not CARE enough to make a go of their success - they just want more of it.

It's that thirst for thrill, that power, and a really bad childhood that sometimes perverts itself in the occasional psychopath to turn 'bad,' into a killer or cult leader or lil' Hitler. One of the surprising things I learned was that there are about 4% of us who are psychopaths, who fit the bill both in actions, and, it's being proven, in brain structure and DNA.

4%. That's millions of people!

One of the experts on the show was really really interested in how the brains of 'normals' and psychopaths are different, so he did a little MRI thingie using the emotional aspects of trigger words to track what parts of the brain light up in response to reading the word. There was a mix of nonsense words and real words, some of which are clear triggers like 'death' and 'murder.' Those words 'lit up' areas of normal people's brains that were utterly unresponsive in psychopathic brains (oh, and they used the locked-up kind of psychopath for this experiment, not the CEO types. The convicts, one would assume, didn't care about being remunerated for their time in the tube...). The pattern was clear and pretty remarkable - there was not an emotional component to words in the psychopath's brains, it was as though nonsense words and emotionally-laden terms all meant nothing out of context.

Then the expert decided to scan a group of people in the general population to see what the incidence of psycopathology was an a 'normal' population. What he found was a mix of pictures, with differing degrees of adherence to the 'normal' or 'psychopathic' brain response type, except for one person.

'Uh-oh,' Mr Expert thought - 'I need to do something about this, to let them know maybe, to advise them of some of the issues that might be gong on with them and how they can address them to live a more fruitful satisfying life!' so he broke the code and found out that it was HIM that was the psychopath!

Bwuahahahahaaa!!!!!

How I did laugh. OK, I snickered, because my emotional responses to most things are fairly blunted except when I've had a few beverages, at which point the emotional responses are as exaggerated as bad street mime's attempts to get out of an invisible box, which is to say, very much over the top. But still, Mister Expert being the psychopath was pretty funny. Droll, really. But to be expected, I'd imagine, because at some point someone with the psycopathic type is going to take an interest in those people who seem so familiar to them yet so distinct in such a graphic horrible way.

It's like a freak show - we want to see people who are like us but NOT like us to remind us how normal we are but how badly things could go wrong. We feel better about ourselves leaving the tent, don't we. We feel more normal and happy about who we are, even though in our heart we know there are still things wrong with us but dang at least it's not claw-hands or alligator skin or tiny little stubby arms! That's what the psychopath expert had to be leaning towards when he started his research, suspecting somehow that he was like these brilliant charismatic people who could be so dangerous, feeling good that he's not a murderous freak with no self-control and an elegant mind. Surely being a scientist who studies psychopaths has to be better than BEING one!

But nothing can stop you from being who you are. Even his family admitted, as did he, that he can be difficult and hard to get along with, that he has moods and (it was intimated) can swing wildly between them, and needs periods of quiet at calm to be at his best.

And that is the point at which I declared to myself that I shall never be tested for psychopathy or any sort, because if his family's description of him is any indication, then I'm just one twitch away from becoming a stone-cold killer. Sure, that happy face you see works nicely to keep the social waters flowing, but if I find out 'I am what I am,' it might unleash a couple of things 1) regret for all that wasted corporate-climbing potential and 2) fear for what shall happen when I become a crazy old lady and one day decide I'm queen of the world. Will I go totally rogue and start charming the folks at the nursing home out of their dollar bills so I can get an orderly to sneak in a bottle of hooch for me, or skulk around the hallways poking a spitty finger into their puddings before dinner time, or start vicious rumors about that One Girl I Don't Like to get her taken down to the med ward for all kinds of horrible tests so I can have the good seat by the window in the rec room that she hogs to herself all that time?

Because I can see it happening. I can totally see me doing those things.

Of course, it might not be psychopathy at all that does this to me, because the night before last I watched a show on Asperger's/autism and I'm even more sure I have the Asperger's. Because it's a rare psychopath who would have named her bicycle as a child and got so upset when it got scratched that she put a BANDAID on the fender to make it feel better. Or who makes sure plates are stacked properly so they're more 'comfortable,' but who is puzzled by a lot of human interactions. And who can't have tags in her shirts. And who don't like to wear tight things around her neck, or be around too many people, or who can assign colors to tastes.

Asperger's, while not something necessarily to celebrate or deride, is a better (to me) option than being branded a psychopath. But when I get old, I'm TOTALLY telling people I'm psychopathic, and might just do that pudding thing from time to time to keep everyone in line. Because, really, life just goes a little better when people don't really know what to expect from you, wouldn't you agree?

Tiff out.

While preparing to prepare dinner last night ('something with leftover pork roast' was on the menu) I hit a culinary wall.

DOMESTIC DRAMA!! Oh noes!

Sure, yeah, there was the roast to nom on, and I had some notions regarding green beans, but what to go with them? I'm tired, temporarily, of potatoes, and rice just doesn't 'work' with sliced food, and we'd had pasta bolognese the night before, and it all seemed so 'done before' that I was really stuck.

And then, spoonbread popped into my head.

Wha?

I've never made spoonbread before. In fact, I didn't really know what spoonbread was. Something with flour, maybe? Baked and are there raisins involved, or is that bread pudding? I was unsure, so hit up the Southern Living cookbook to see if it could shed some light on the spoonbread question.

And lo, it came to pass that there was a recipe for spoonbread in the Southern Living cookbook, and it called for 4 ingredients only (not 3, and 5 was right out!), so it was determined that we would be eating of the spoonbread with our evening repast. Huzzah!

FYI - there is no flour in spoonbread. Also, no raisins. It's made with scalded milk, cornmeal, butter, and eggs. Oh, and salt. So, whoops, maybe 5 ingredients. Also, I added cheese, so we're up to 6 now. Dear me. So complex.

In fact, spoonbread, once baked, resembles a cornbread souffle, all high and brown and slightly bubbling 'round the edges, then it settles a bit while cooling and becomes this lovely, silky, tasty tasty side dish that you can, in fact, serve with a spoon. To call it 'bread' is a little misleading. But you can pile a bunch of butter on top just as if it were a nice slab of hot homemade bread, so that's one similarity. Of course, you can butter a cat too and it's not any more like a piece of bread that it was before you buttered it, but don't go down that road because 1) the cats hate it and 2) we are not talking about cats here. It's all about the spoonbread!

So yes. Spoonbread. You should git you some.

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Also, I have been using a lot of flour lately. Homemade bread and pizza dough, mostly, is what for. Very satisfying. There's just something about turning out your own product instead of buying something that contains heaven-only-knows-what that pleases my inner hippie.

Shoot, next thing you know I'll be harvesting from the patchouli patch out back and stringing up necklaces made from 'found items.'

Anyone up for a round of hacky-sack?

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And, in a fit of productivity this morning and because there wasn't enough milk for cereal, I got up early and made bacon and waffles for the Things' breakfast. When I got home from the school run this morning the house still smelled awesome. There's nothing like bacon n' waffle n' coffee smell to make a house nice to come home to.

They should make an air freshener like that. I'd buy it.

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All that, plus the fact that we did not, actually, have any tornadoes last night and it's going to be near 80 this afternoon, means this is going to be a pretty fine day.

Y'all rock it like you mean it, and I'll see you around.

Tiff out.

Begin




Be



Begin again


Repeat.

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Reinvention is the power in the game. Never keep on being the same thing, ever, for more than you can stand. Be something new, dig deep into the pockets of your nascent persona, mine those caverns for what they can return, then move on.

Truth is, you will never be the person you were, for time wounds all heels, as they say. However, do not ever look in the mirror and curse time for what it has taken from you, because it has given you so much more. The preening callous youth of 30 or more years ago can, in the you now, no longer conscience preening, but he can tend to poetry and gardens, can run a marathon, can imagine, can be patient with young grandchildren when his own children were nuisances who ruined his harmonious buzz, can yet stoke a ferocious fire for the same causes that nearly burned his youth to ashes.

Point of fact - the older man and woman, were once physically beautiful too. They also once had fire in their loins, smoke behind their eyes, and fuel enough in their bellies to carry them through entire lifetimes of expansion and experimentation. Why, we used-to-be- beautiful once thought we were the center of the earth. Nothing was better than who were were. Nothing was more important that what we thought, and did.

Until we weren't, it wasn't, and didn't.

*here comes the sucker punch that gets us all, if we're lucky enough to get old enough to experience it.*

In truth, it takes a long time to come to grips with aging, and how it changes us from the outside in, but at some point we turn to the reflection and look at ourselves and realize we can't just 'be' anymore, we must begin again.The 'we' we used to be is still housed in us, the 20 years of youth spent on youthful things like family, career, and responsibility are peeling away as the kids grow up, the career stabilizes, and responsibility shifts to a casual hand on the wheel every once in a while.

Life breaks open again. The shell loosens, and we either are cracking back open or we hide in the confines of the life we made the first time.

For me? No. No hiding.

I am turning 50 this year. Time to begin again.

God help you all.

;)

Tiff out.

First draft. Pounded out here, and going I don't know where. Feel free to critique!

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A nickel for your thoughts

She's at it again. My sister, Emmeline, I mean. She's on me again like a dirty shirt, sayin' as how she's gonna tell Daddy and Old Mam about how she saw me snitch a Mars Bar from the 10 cent store this afternoon if I don't give her the nickel I found on the street on the way home from school.

I didn't snitch no candy bar, and it's MY nickel. I found it. Not her.

But Emmeline is up to her dirty tricks again, knowin' that Daddy and Old Mam, his momma, would believe her over me any day. That's just how it is here. They side with her on everything, because number one she's older than me, number two she's the pretty one, and number three she ain't the one that caused Momma to die of sepsis after having her. I'm the one what did that, and nobody around here likes me because of it.

Seems like nobody can get over what I did to Momma 13 years ago. I'm a forgotten family member, hardly put up with at all except for all the chores I do and how helpful I can be in situations regarding math and sums and Daddy's banking situation. He never really did learn to cipher much, and Old Mam can't see well enough anymore to read the books, and Emmeline, well, she's more concerned with her hair and how to catch the eye of Shane Showalter to be of much help to anyone.

Me being so helpful doesn't make anyone like me more, and won't make 'em forget Momma, but it sure helps keep food in my belly and a bed under me at night. Thirteen years of being the far-second best is a crummy way to live, so no I'm not about to give up this dang nickel. It's what I have, and it's mine.

No way, I say. Oh, yeah? She says, and then ups the ante. I'm telling Daddy 'bout how you showed your knickers of Joe Thibodeau this afternoon after he said he'd give you a nickel.

And I'm beat. I have a nickel, she don't, and she's going to use the worst weapon against me that ever there was - boys. And a Thibodeau boy at that. He's country as they come, a regular hayseed, and Daddy ain't having that for his girls, not even me. He's said as much on many a time, that we're to stay away from them boys, we're better than them and need to marry up.

Not sure what makes them different. They even have a telephone in their house, while we have to go to the ten-cent store to hand-crank calls out to wherever we might need to call. Not that we do, but all the same.

So, Emmeline gets the nickel, and damn if she doesn't just trot downstairs to Daddy, where I can hear her tell him she took it off me because of that whole knickers thing that I was so proud to tell her about. How I am learning to get money from boys by being a whore.

My face is cold, and my heart is racing. Daddy's coming up the stairs. I will take my beating, no amount of hollering or denial or argument could get me out of this one. It's the biggest whopper she's told on me yet, and I didn't see it coming. Thought just giving in, like the old days, would work fine and once she got what she wanted she'd just leave me alone, but it's clear she's not as stupid as I thought and has been thinking of new ways to do me in around here.

Daddy's isn't kind. He invites Emmeline to watch me take my beating. Her eyes sparkle more with each lash of his belt.

It's that sparkle that gets me to thinking about how I can win this game, once and for all.

While I cool my heels and blistered butt in our bedroom, they all eat their dinner. I am not invited. I do, however, get invited downstairs to clean it up. There's not a scrap left for me to glean on while scraping dishes, as someone's poured Daddy's ashtrays onto each plate and bowl.

So, while I clean, I plan. I can take my time planning, because it's going to take a while for this to all turn out how I want. There's time. Rome wasn't built in a day, as my teacher Miss Mosby says.

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To my surprise, all it takes is one 5-minute talk with Josh Thibodeau, Joe's big brother, the next day during recess to have things start to move in my direction. See, Joe and me are friends, even though Daddy says not to have any truck with them. I can't help it. He's funny, and has long blond eyelashes like a pony. His brother's about as cute, though darker and some say part-Moorish on account of some banjo player in a band that came through town 17 years or so ago that it seems Josh and Joe's Momma took a shine to. Well, it's enough to say Josh is the only dark child in that family, and that's all. Joe and me are the friends, but you know fair enough that once I told Joe my plans for Emmeline he'd be all over getting Josh to play in too.

See, Josh has always had a sweet spot for my sister. This is what you learn when you keep your eyes and ears open, you know. She can't stand him, being all caught up in the pretty boy Shane. The situation is perfect for what I have in mind.

I let a few days go by after my beating before I go to Old Mam and ask her what a certain word means. I spell it out for her so she don't have to hear the word, mind, and I'm pretty certain she can't know that I already know what it means. Her reaction is pretty good, with the spoon-dropping and her spatting me around the ears for even having heard such a thing.

I tell her I ain't heard it, I read it.

I read it in a note to Emmeline from Josh Thibodeau, and how he'd like to do that again with her sometime soon if she'd have him. Then I show her the note. In his hand. Signed by him, clear as day.

Old Mam squints at it, puts a hand to her chest, and falls to the ground, sobbing. Daddy rushes in, fresh home for 'work' (or, as I call it, 'sitting at the feed store swapping lies'), demands to know what I've done to Old Mam, swats me another good one for whatever he thinks it is I've done, and then read the note Old Mam passes to him with trembling hands.

Oh, this is so good.

Daddy about blows a fit. Ha! He's yelling for Emmeline, she comes downstairs all concerned looking, like maybe she's about to witness another of my beatings, and is stunned to bits when Daddy launches into her, waving that note around like it was full of bees and he's trying to get 'em off.

Emmeline. Oh ha. Oh my, she's starting to blubber and wail now, those pretty blue eyes filling up and her little nose turning red. She's shouting how she never did do such a thing, not with him!

And Daddy stops, cold dead.

Not with him?

No Daddy. Not him.

Then who, Emmeline, who did this to you?

And, in a sudden attack of stupidity, she rats out Shane.

Daddy's mouth flops open and closed, like a mechanical fortune-teller at the fair. He's about poleaxed with this news, I can tell. Nobody thinks to notice me, and it's a good thing, because my shoulders are starting to shake with laughter. I pretend to be crying.

Daddy balls up that note in his brick-hard fist, grabs his coat, and rams his way out the front door, telling Old Mam to go to the feed store to call the pastor, because there's going to be a wedding tonight.

For all the drama, Emmeline looks pleased. Dammit!

My plan isn't going so well. At this point she was supposed to be gettin' a beating right about now. A beating to end 'em all and put her on her stomach in bed for days, and certainly not about to be getting hitched to the boy she's after!

She hisses at me like a cat, then arches her back saying as how she'd best be getting her good clothes on to get ready to meet her new husband. Damn, I've delivered her into the hands of the one she wants the most, which really stinks because she won't ever thank me for it.

Old Mam calls me to fetch some water for tea and to make ham biscuits for the folks coming over. Well, it might be a shotgun wedding but it's a wedding all the same, right? I put extra salt in the biscuit dough, for spite. They might be flat biscuits, and too bitter to eat, but they're biscuits all the same, right? Damn!

Bootsteps on the porch. At least three people. Daddy walks through the door. Then Shane. Damn. Then Josh.

What? Josh? Well, this could be interesting.

The men go out back to the barn. There's a bottle back there. Daddy keeps it for thinking times, he says. Usually when he comes back from thinking he's a lot more fun. So, this could be a fun night.

Old Mam gets back, then the pastor arrives. They go back to the kitchen, where Old Mam keeps a bottle, for her social hours. They commence to being social. There is no sign of Emmeline. Not to be expected, really, she takes forever to get ready for a trip to the mailbox, much less to her own wedding. A few minutes with all this commotion downstairs is likely to be flushing up her cheeks real good and getting her all flustered.

Daddy and the boys troop in from out back, he's yelling for Old Mam and the preacher to come on in and have a chat, then yells up to Emmeline to haul her butt down to her new husband. Daddy's hit that bottle good and hard, and it's going to be a good night. Right now I don't care what's going on, really, just that everyone seems in such high spirits. Shoot, with Emmeline out of the house it's a fair wind blowing that at least I won't be as put upon, who who really cares if she gets the man of her dreams? I don't.

Emmeline's shoes are visible at the top of the steps, then her knees, waist, shoulders, and beautiful face. She's done herself up a treat, in a light gray dress, Momma's pearls, and a little blue hat she'd bought for her birthday present a few weeks ago. She looks real pretty. I hate that about her. She's getting what she wants and I did that for her. Life ain't fair, so I hold onto the 'only me here in the house now' thought to get me through wanting to rip that smug smile off her face.

For a gal who has been with a boy before her wedding, she's looking mighty pure. Those blue eyes are sparking again, and I could spit nails. It's just not fair.

The preacher gets Daddy, Old Mam, and me seated in the front room. Both Shane and Josh are still standing. That's kind of odd. There ought to be only one of them waiting for his bride. He asks Emmeline to come forward. She blushes so fine, it's like looking at a picture book.

The preacher asks the groom to hold out his hand for her. Oh God, I can't stand this moment.

Shane steps up, shifts to one side, and puts Josh's hand on hers.

Emmeline knits those pretty eyebrows, glares at Shane. Shane steps back, pats Josh on the shoulder, and comes to sit with us.

All in all it's a pretty little ceremony, and the biscuits aren't really all that bad after. The sweetness of the tea, like the best revenge, counters the salt just about perfectly.