All hail the Float and Bloat!!

taken from here

Next week is the annual family vacation at The Lake.  It seems to have come up quickly this year, but then again time is flying by more and more quickly with each year that passes.  We leave tomorrow, and I feel really unprepared, which makes me edgy and therefore makes it hard to relax.  With each year that passes I tend to get more edgy and anxious, which I also hate, because that's not a fun way to live.

No wonder I drink.

Anyhow, it's vacation time.  So that's good.  Also good is that I don't need to leave any 'gone fishing' signs on any literal or virtual doors (well, OK, at work I will), because work is kind of slow right now and I don't post here often enough anymore for people to start worrying about what I've gotten up to.  As far as the work goes, it's a perfect time to go on vacation, which is a lovely little fingertip's-worth of serendipity.  Nice to be away when there aren't fires roaring all around and you're the only one with a bucket.

Or something.

It's been a weird week in a way, what with Wednesday off.  It just threw me and I've been logey and weird since then.  Or maybe it's the 'LOSER!' message I got yesterday when I failed to make the cut for a I job I interviewed for, or maybe it's that a high-school classmate passed away yesterday and while I wasn't close to her the pictures people posted on FB made me feel old and longing for my youthful days.  Or maybe it's the spider bite and the blistering/swelling/low fever that's been a part of the process of being bit that's got me feeling like every day it might be nice to lie down for a 3-hour nap.  Whatever it is, it's setting me up to really really really enjoy vacation and maybe just hang out and not be the nervous mom type who is a spoilsport for all out random acts of fun-ness.  Gosh I detest that characterization.  A  LOT.

I need to throw off this wet blanket, get crackin' on packin', and tell the world to quit messing with me because I'm OUT OF IT for the week.

What's glorious is that at the end of the month we get to do it all again, for another full week, just in a different location.  Nice.

Now who wants to come over and pick the tomatoes while we're gone?

Tiff out.

The preachy one

"The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more"

John Adams in a letter to his wife, 03 July 1776.

What?  July second?  Was Adam off his rocker?

Well, no.  At least not on this count.

On 02 July 1776, Congress voted to adopt a resolution of independence from Great Britain.  Adams considered this the day of most importance for the activities related to eventual official separation because of that vote, but 04 July became commonly adopted by the citizenry because it was on this date that the declaration of independence (the document) was approved.  Further proof that 'if it ain't written down, it didn't happen.'  Though, of course, there are probably records of the vote occurring on 02 July 1776 that are buried someplace in the archives.

The date, of course, doesn't matter as much as the material notion that 236 years ago a group of gentlemen (some would debate whether that was true of all representatives of the second Continental Congress) got good and fed up with being pushed around by what they largely considered to be a foreign government and decided to take the radical step of declaring they were prepared to secede from that government and form their own.  It was not an easy thing to think about, discuss, debate, or vote on.  Many in that Congress did not want to dissolve ties with the motherland, while other more radical thinkers were more than prepared to take that bold leap in order to self-govern.  On 02 July 1776, 12 men voted unanimously in favor of the resolution, with New York abstaining.

Twelve people is all that it took to start a process of independence.  Their constituents must have been sorely divided on the issue, and deeply concerned with how their lives would be affected by this declaration.  Many of them identified strongly with England; the discussions must have been long and passionate.  The process of becoming a new country took a long time and carried tremendous cost, physically, fiscally, and ideologically.

Now, 236 years later, what can we say we've done with this passion, this hard-won freedom, this fought-for self-governance?  In many ways the United States is the best country in Earth and I'm proud to be a citizen and patriot for the ideals we believe we stand for, but I am concerned about the future of that greatness.  It's likely you are too, no matter what side of the political aisle you stand on.  It seems that a spirit of centrism and agreement through debate and diplomacy are frowned upon, with the ends pulling further and further apart until the middle is stretched too thin to hold the unit together.  What happens then?  Where has the 'United' in the United States gone?  Even when we disagree with another point of view, is it too late to see that disagreement must lead to resolution that is acceptable not only to both parties but to the people?  It it too late to imagine that 'rule by bludgeon' seems to be on the cusp of reality and that there is so much disaffection in this country that we are becoming 2 distinct countries with very different goals and ideals?

Obviously I'm not the first, greatest, or deepest thinker on this subject, but on the Fourth of July I do like to spend some time dwelling on what the US was, and where it's going.  I'm proud to be an American, yes, as most of us who are American would say, and I would never disavow my allegiance to this country, but I wonder if we will ever again be truly great if we continue to pull and pull at the two ends of the political rope until the middle frays and splits.  It's a difficult thing to patch a frayed rope, and it's never the same thing it once was.

It's a shame that being viewed as a  consensus maker is now as being a bad thing.  It's a shame that a person who is entrusted with engaging in the political process who reaches toward the middle to strengthen agreement with both sides is viewed as weak or lacking in fortitude for their party.  It's a shame that respectful disagreement and well-thought-out debate on difficult matters is a disappearing art form, with slander and vitriol taking their place.  It's a shame that it seems a fairly large proportion of the people who represent us in the halls of our government would not be viewed as 'gentlefolk' in deeds or method of communication.  The difficult acts are hidden behind closed doors, it appears, with the sideshows taking center stage, and it's worrisome.  It's tabloid government, splashy, and in appearance of very little substance.

It would be easy to throw up our hands and quit being concerned.  It's easy to just give up and let the big boys in politics tell us what to do.  But that's not what those 12 men did 236 years and 2 days ago.  They didn't just walk away from a tough issue, they dug in and fought for what they believed they could achieve - independence, self-government, and a shared set of ideals.  I thank them for it and am hopeful that we can move back toward true greatness in our government, people, and world stature.

A call for revolution?  Perhaps, if by revolution we're talking about 'turning around' and seeing what it is we're doing right and what we can fix about where we've wound up.  A touch of national introspection wouldn't do us any harm.  Maybe July 4th is the best day to do it.

Love you, USA, the best of luck to all of us as we continue lurching forward, hopefully toward real and lasting greatness.

Thank you, Mr. Carrier

Temperature currently is 76 degrees F.  INSIDE.

Somewhere around 90 out there.

I'm not going out to take a reading.  That's foolishness.

Also, have been doing NOTHING this afternoon except canning veg and reading helllaciously terrible books (gotten for free) on my new Nook.  Dear LORD there are terrible books out there, and I can't stop reading them.  Bless you, terrible book writers. I love your belief in what you do.

So, yeah.  Church was the best thing about today, and I'm OK with that.

Tiff out.

Good grief

This is the week of doctor's visits.  OK, this is the INAUGURAL week of doctors' visits.  I've been ignoring my health for a couple of years, not getting in the RYA (recommended yearly allowance) of anything but dermatology visits (of which there now have been 4 this year!). So, a couple of weeks ago I buckled on my big girl undies and made a few calls.

First up, on Tuesday, was the primary care doc.  Or, in this case, the primary care PA.  Whatever, I don't mind PAs, they're more humble than 'real' doctors.  The good part is that I didn't need to undress, the bad part is that 1) I'm really very fat now and 2) I've been given a prescription for blood pressure medication.  I suspect 1 caused 2.  Unknown as yet is what will come of the bloodwork that was done and what the 'pee inna cup' test will tell us.  Good Lord - there could be any NUMBER of things still wrong with me that need tested or medicated.  Happy freaking getting older, baby, here's your meds.  And you referral for a colonoscopy.  And your contact information for getting a mammogram.  Which you need, like, yesterday.

So, I'm rolling with the notion that I really seriously and honestly now need to lose 50 pounds or so.  That's right, 50 (SHIT!).  That 25 pounds I lost 5 years ago came back and brought friends, about 15 of them, and those suckers are going to be evicted.  I am, still, sick of being the fattest person in most situations.

Therefore, we visited another gym last night, and, shocker, I like it.  No pool, but get this - we went at 7 p.m. to check it out, and there was NOBODY THERE.  Apparently it's packed with old ladies during the day, and the classes they offer are pretty well attended, but the gigantic room of cardio and weights?  Nada.  This encourages me, as does the 'no contract' way of doing biz.  Also, there's an area sectioned off by a wall that's for ladies only, if you're intimidated by anyone in the big room.  A fine idea, if you ask me. 

So, yeah - gym.  Say 'buh-bye' to about 100 beans a month if I sign all 4 of us up.  *Sigh*  It's only money, right?

Then today I visited my dermatologist again (see '4 visits so far this year' above).  I thought it was just to check out the results of the PDT thing I had done to my face a few weeks ago, but nope, it was for a full skin check.  I did have to undress for this one.  Not all the way, but it might as well have been, as the PA was selectively baring bits of me that even I don't like to look it.  Once again she blasted a spot with the liquid nitrogen, doing away with a nice inflammatory seborrheic keratosis on my left arm that had popped up recently, and asked to see me back in a few weeks to follow up on a couple of things she thinks might need blasting.  That gal loves her some liquid nitrogen.  I don't mind it, but one of the spots she's looking at is on my LIP, and I imagine that's going to smart some.  Once again, first world issue.

Next week?  The girl doctor.  Oh, joy.

But wait! Follow Up!  Just got a call from the primary care doc's office, and most of my tests came back OK.  Except for that pesky thyroid.  Levels are too HIGH.  Huh?  Wouldn't I be all jittery and stuff if that was the case?  Well, NO.  It's the TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone) that's too high, which means that I'm pumping out gobs of that stuff to stimulate the thyroid to make the hormones that are the regulatin' kind, but apparently they're not playing and so more TSH is being pumped out to to try to get some stimulatin' going on.  Poor TSH, like a little kid who keeps hollering at another little kid on the playground, hoping that if it hollers long and loud enough the other kid will finally relent and come over to play.  Seems that my thyroid is being all standoffish and punking out on me.  Sidenote: Hey - did you know that hypothyroidism can cause unintentional weight gain and puffy hands and feet and also that two risk factors are being over 50 and female and I have all of that?  Isn't that awesome?  Simply stellar.  Yeah, it's looking like I'll be on thyroid mediation before too long.  I can live with that.  It's not the end of the world.  At least all the other tests came back fine, so yeah, it's OK.  We're over that hurdle and if I have to take a couple of pills a day to regulate what's gone bonkers, then it's fine.

*Sigh*, take 2.

While I'm proud of myself for taking control and making these appointments, the bald-faced truth is that facing my current realities is a real slap in the face.  My puffy, actinic keratoses-ridden, wrinkly old face.

Can't WAIT for the colonoscopy prep.  Oh, boy.

So hey, I'll be you can hardly wait for the blog post about THAT one, eh?  'Cause you know you're getting one.  But no pictures, I promise.  Not even of the mammogram.

Tiff out.

I can't name it

Ever heard of ravioli lasagna?  I hadn't, or didn't THINK I had, as of last night when dinner preparations began the in usual way, with me looking in the freezer to suss out what the inspiration would be.  The choices were ham, sausage, hot dogs, and frozen ravioli.  Oh, and chicken.  There's almost always chicken.

Which, of course, is why we went with the ravioli.

And sausage.

Anyhow.

I got to thinking, and wanted something different than 'regular' ravioli, which, even when coated with lovely Parmesean cheese, tend to slide around on the plate as you attempt to cut into them with the side of a fork.  No, nobody should use a knife to cut ravioli, it's inelegant!  I wanted something more...solid...and thought 'hey, why not make some lasagna-ish thing that will hold together well and NOT slug itself all over the plate,' and thus I did.  Here's how:

Parboil 5 sausages in a large pot.  It can be the same pot (and water!) that you intend to cook the ravioli in, that's fine.  While the sausages are cooking, dice an onion and 3 cloves of garlic, saute the onion until translucent then add the garlic and cook, stirring constantly, for 30 seconds over low heat.  Add 2 cups frozen shredded spinach, cook a couple of minutes, then add in 1 15-ounce can of diced tomatoes and 1 15-ounce can of plain sauce.  Stir in 1/2 cup red wine after swishing it around in the sauce can, then add whatever herbs you might like.  I used about a teaspoon each of dried basil and oregano, and 1/2 teaspoon of red pepper flakes.  Let that cook down while you're fishing the sausages out of the simmering pot (after you're pretty sure they're done).

Once the sauce has simmered for 30 minutes or so and is looking pretty thick, add about 4 ounces of light cream cheese (or not, your call).  Melt the cream cheese into the sauce so it gets silky and very thick.  Taste and adjust seasonings if needed.  While that's bubbling, boil about 20 large ravioli  for a bit under their called-for boil time - you want them 'al dente,' not falling apart.  Slice the sausage while you're waiting for them to cook.

Prepare a large baking pan with a little cooking spray, then fish the cooked pasta out of the pot and place in a single layer in the bottom of the pan.  Overlap 'em a little if they don't fit, but remember, they're going to be slippery. :|  Spread the lovely thick sauce over that, then evenly distribute the sausage on the sauce.  Sprinkle with about 1/2 cup shredded mozzarella (or more, your call), then bake for 20-30 mins uncovered until the cheese is bubbly.  Remove from oven (and turn the oven off while you're at it, please), and let sit for 10 minutes before serving.

By my calculations, this should serve about 6 people heartily.  So far we've 'used up' about 5 meals worth, and there are about 2 lunch-size portions left.

And I know all good food blogs have pictures of the finished product, but we didn't take a photo until it was over half gone, so here's that one.  My food stylist (me) needs some lessons, methinks.

An hour earlier it had been whole and bubbling. Oh how the mighty have fallen (for it).

That's it from here for today, just thought I'd share OUR rendition of 'Ravasagna' with you so that I remember it when I want to make it again.

Hope you're having a Thpethial Thurthday - Tiff out.

now that you're nearly men

Because in a year Colin will be graduating from high school, I'm having some thoughts.  As follows:

Some things I'd like those kids I birthed to know:

1) I love you beyond anything, ever.  But of course you know this. My general effusiveness with the L word is evident and I LOVE that you love me back both in word and actions.  Be that person you choose to love.  Do NOT hold back.

2)  I celebrate each step you take toward a new independent life.  Each invitation you have to a social thing is an instant 'yes' from me; the time you spend with your friends is utterly invaluable for finding your way forward in a whole new set of roiling social possibilities.  College is looming.  Let who you chose to hang out with now determine who you feel comfortable hanging out with in the future.

3) Dave Matthews Band doesn't necessarily have to suck, like some kids think.  Neither does Nickleback.  Do NOT listen to the crowd.  If you like something, then like it because you do.  Example: I will not apologize for introducing you to Klaus Nomi, ever.

4) The world is your freaking oyster.  You do NOT have to be sure of what to do with it just yet, simply know that something great could be inside.

5) It couldn't hurt for you to know how to cook.  Many things.  I can teach you - just ask.

6) Exercise.  Make your body wonderful.  It will serve you well, now and in the near-term.  Then, when you're older (like me) you'll be grateful to have that store of strength to again build on.  Trust me on this one.

7) Whoever you fall in lifelong love with, be sure to know them WELL first.  Like, really well.  (corollary: know yourself well too.  do NOT let someone tell you how you feel, ever.)

8)  Be what you want to be.  You have to have a dream or desire.  Do that, and I will be with you, completely.  Thought it couldn't hurt to have a marketable skill to fall back on while you're writing that novel. I'm just saying.

9) See your worth. Know that you are valuable.  Embrace your skills.  Enhance your best parts.  Evaluate your worst parts.  Engage in the notion that your life is a process.

10) Then chill out. Be interested in the world.  Open up, let life in, and follow the path you know is right for you.  Nobody can ask or demand more.

I love you with every bit of me,
Mom

That man is a sneak!!

Last Friday I had the pleasure of having lunch with my good buddy Rennratt.  It had been WAY too long since we'd seen each other, so we spent a good solid hour hanging out in the could-be-cheerier lunch room at her place of work, just shooting the bull and catching up.  It was lovely, and a treat.  I left there thinking 'we should do this more often,' which is a very nice way to leave someone.

Imagine my surprise when I pulled up to our house that evening after work and saw a car that looked verrrry much like Renn's on our street.  In front of our house, even.  "Hmmm," thought I.  "That car looks a lot like Renn's, but how can that be?  It's awfully far away from her home, and Biff told me he'd invited R and A to our house for a little birthday celebration tonight, not Renn."

Well, I have to say here and now, that not only is my husband a sneak, but my good buddy Renn is too, as not even the tiniest little SPECK of a hint was floated at our lunch earlier that day that she might just be seeing me again, very very soon.  Color me tickled pink at that particular turn of events, because  that means I can tell her secrets and there's a very good chance she'll keep them,  You know, if I had any secrets left to tell.  That I can remember.

You must understand that even though Renn and I work a 5-minute drive from each other (used to be closer, but I got a new job), we LIVE at least an hour from one another, and more like 90 minutes.  That's committment, to come to my house for dinner.

Nearly equally as committed is Sparky, who showed up next.  You might know her as JC?  Yes, that JC.  She is another wonderful friend I don't get to see enough of, though lately we've been trying to do stuff together.  Clearly, dinner and cake is a good enough reason for her to drive over an hour.  I almost jumped up and down as much as Biff at her arrival (I think he might have a crush on her, and that's oddly OK with me), and felt might good to have 2 such wonderful ladies under one roof, with us. 

However, I must say that Oldfriend (self-named, I didn't give her that moniker) is the mostest committed friend of them all, because SHE walked through the door after a drive of at LEAST 2.5 hours.  Seriously?  All this for some saag and chocolate cake?  Dang, my friends are easy.  And plainly love to drive long distances.


Turns out, R&A came over too, but they only live like 4 miles from us so I couldn't really test their committment to our friendship on distance travelled.  :)  Also, my friend Donna stopped by - she brightened up the environs with a gorgeous bouquet of purple hydrangea blossoms and her sunny disposition, but couldn't stay for dinner. :(

And lo, once gathered, we had good timez.  There was chicken saag, rice, slap-you-momma potatoes (Thanks Renn!), grilled veg salad (Thanks Beth!), bratwursts onna bun (to go with the potatoes), and a table big enough for everyone (except the boys, I'm afraid, but they didn't seem to care.  They just took their plates into their rooms and proceeded to continue killing stuff on the Xbox360).  A gigantic festive occasion balloon loomed over the groaning board, and we settled in to making merry.  Because, you know, people drove a long way to get there and needed to be making with the merry as reward for their efforts.

I should also mention here that these people know how to enjoy, talk, and laugh.  More than one of us was gasping for air during the making of the merry, which I do count as a very good thing as it was not a medical condition that left them short of breath but instead a piling on of goodwill and some very unusual use of language...  I should probably have used waterproof mascara.  My sides hurt the next day, if that's any indication. 

It was a big ol' good night, and I knew about NONE of it before it happened.  NONE.  Biff kept asking 'are you sure you didn't suspect anything?' and I could answer only 'nope.  I had no idea.'  I might be getting more dense as time moves on, but I prefer to view this as me just being very trusting and accepting and not at all sneaky or looking for hidden motivations or secrets.  And maybe, just maybe, I might be just a little dense.

Turns out, I like surprise parties.  Thanks, darlin' Biff, for a whopper of a good time, and to all other attendees for being so wonderful to this old gal. 
---

Me last Saturday night

Then, the next night we went out to hear Biff's band play out.  Let's just say it's a darned good thing Oldfriend was there to act as designated driver.  I sucked down so much bourbon I even got out on the dance floor.  Let's just say that if anyone has pictures of that little incident, please burn or erase them.  And we shall never speak of it again.  Bad enough that my elbow made it into one pic...because the rest of me probably looked like that fellow over there.  Not an attractive pictures, I think we can all agree.

---

Well, I guess it's time to wrap this up.  I'll talk about something other than my birthday at some point, but I did want to send out this Thank You to the Best Schmoompins in the world plus all my friends who make this life richer for knowing them.  I am truly blessed to have each of you in my life.

simple sideways walking

POEM
-----

Feet underneath, sky above.   Still in the right position for a Monday.

Still wishing I could fly, right here and now,
arms outstretched, back muscles ready to churn up a wind.

I might be aging, but I'm not old.
That bright lightness of youth is still in my back pocket,
a rub of it on my life right now is enough to get me up and dancing.

Suppose that what I stored up in youth is yet deployable,
a redolent whiff of energy playing to my stiff nostrils and arguing feet.

No matter.

I dance.

In mind,  heart, hips, feet, and fancy, I dance.

Life ain't got the best of me yet, and I haven't given it all I have to give.
Praise be, and swagger 'round the kitchen a while.

Life.Is.Good.

Ruminating like a Bossie

He and me? Exact same age. My beard is less gray though

Lord, lord, y'all.  So many things going on, and where's the 'oomph' to recount it or comment upon it?

I think I shall blame my birthday, and the age I've turned, for the recent downtick in activity, both here and elsewhere.  Once you've rocked a half-hundred birthdays, things can (and often do) become a wee tad more introspecty.

That's right.  Today is my 50th dang birthday.  FIFTY!  This is a whole new set of WTH I have to wrap my head around.  Fif-tee.  I an 50.

Shit, that's old.

My family gathered last weekend for a celebration of this milestone event.  My niece was also being confirmed that weekend, so we buzzed on up to her hometown and celebrated some special events.  My older brother and his family were there, of course, as it was his daughter getting confirmed.  My mom and stepdad were there too, and so was my younger brother and BOTH of his kids.  Sweeet!  We ate really good Chinese food, then went back to the hotel for cake and prezzies.  I got a Nook!  Sure hope it has large print, because, you know, I'm 50 now. (*snerk*)

Got the AARP application a couple of weeks back.  Not sure if I'm going to take them up on their offers, as some of their platform planks are not to my liking, so I'm unspecifically sure why except that I mentioned AARP to some retired friends lately and neither of them are still with that organization.  Also, I'm not retired.  I probably won't BE retired for another 20 years, so why bother joining.  Why don't we have an Organization of Old Fat Folks ('OoOFF' for short)?  I could join that one, easy-peasy.  No application required, just your age and poundage.  Heh - and the older and fatter you get the more eligible you are to hold office.  The oldest fattest one is automatically President!  No cheating though.  No 'feeders' allowed to compete.  No lying on your birth certificate.  Just folks who are honestly fat and old.

It might just work.  Should figure out how it can make me rich, though, because if a great idea like this isn't going to make me rich, there's no sense putting more thought into it.  Might as well dwell on 'ways to kill ants' or go play 'let's go find the missing socks,' neither of which will make me rich but would at least lead to Getting Something Done.

I'd adore being rich.  Like, filthy rich.  Like, 1%-er rich.  I could have so much fun with that.  Hey, I'd even be OK with having 'only' $400K left annually after paying taxes and expenses.  That's nearly $35K a MONTH to play with, cashola.  Break it down - that's almost 9 thousand bucks a week to spend however you'd like.  Thirteen hundred bucks a DAY (if my math is right).  Now, I could do some damage with that kind of scratch.  If I sit here and compare that with what I bring home now, it's pretty astonishing.  There are people in this world who think that having $400K 'left over' after all their other obligations are paid off that they're practically poor.  I'd LOVE to have a sit-down with these types to outline for them just how very wrong they are and how very much MORE they could be doing with that money than purchasing yest another fancy car or yet another apartment for their mistress/boyfriend/'bookkeeper.'  That kind of wallet padding is an AMAZING amount of money, can you dig it?  Amazing.  I consider my salary to be pretty robust, but it doesn't begin to touch that kind of bankroll. 

And it likely never will, because, let's remember, I'm 50.  I'm getting too old to have the energy to climb a career ladder, and don't really want to anyhow.  The view from where I am is pretty good.  It's not the bottom, but close enough to it that if I fall off I won't get seriously hurt, and far enough from the top that I won't get dizzy.  So, I'll never grab the golden ticket waiting several rungs up, who cares?  I'd just like one of the doodz waaay, up there to drop a piece of his, right into my outstretched hand.

Maybe today's my day to purchase a winning lottery ticket, who knows?

Meh - 50.   It's as good a reason to gamble as any.

Tiff out.

PS - May 31 1962 was also on a Thursday.  Adolf Eichman was hanged the day I was born.  There was also a train crash in France. Ray Charles' "I can't stop loving you" was the #1 song.  Benjamin Britten's "War Requiem" premiered.  So, that happened.  Oh, and if you can guess who that German actor is in the picture,  I'll send you a dollar.  First correct guess wins.

Oooh baby, baby!

15 years ago today I was probably asleep, or still barfing from the Dura-Morph they shot me up with before I got laid open like a block of cheese on fondue night.  Because that's what happens to me when I'm exposed to morphine and all its fine derivatives, I barf.

I'd make the world's very worst junkie.

I digress. This is not about barfing, or even surgery, really.

It's hard for me to believe that 15 years ago today saw the arrival of our Thing 2 (via c-section, in case you were wondering what the 'block of cheese' simile was about).  How FAST the years have flown since he came on the scene.  I still have a picture on my office wall from his first day of first grade, such a proud little boy next to his big brother, and have to remind myself that it's been over 8 years since that picture was taken!)  While it's not hard to think of him as the strapping young man he is today (because, seriously, he's like a 6'4" puppy (so cute!)), it is getting harder and harder to remember the engaging little kid he used to be, and would be IMPOSSIBLE to do accurately without that photo.  This is why cameras were invented, I'm betting.  Someone way back when got nostalgic for the 'good old days' and all they had were some oil paintings of them and their siblings dressed in uncomfortable clothing to remind them of what a good time they used to have and thought "you know what?  This isn't going to happen to any further generations of my family!  I want to be the one who discovers how to capture the MOMENT in the moment so that those moments are held momentous in momentously HUGE volumes of notebooks for posterity and the quizzical querying of family 100 years from about 'who the hell IS that in the striped suit on the right?'"

Digress again.  Back to the topic at hand.  Thing 2.

Aw, that boy.  He still kisses his mama goodnight every night and will hold my hand in public.  At 15, I think I stayed as far away from my folks as possible.  How'd I get so lucky?  He's organized and self-motivating.  Again, how'd I get so lucky?  He's kind to the cats, does his chores with minimal complaint, and loves his brother in the most brotherly way possible (it's called' testing the limits,' I think).  I've mentioned before his wicked sense of humor and gratifying curiosity about truly odd stuff (his Mama's boy!), but I don't think I've mentioned his loyalty and generosity as a friend.  It's awesome watching him grow and mature; I just hope he's stopped growing physically, because if them feets get any bigger we're in more trouble than we are already!  :)

I could brag on him all day long, but will stop here so you don't feel too bad about your kids or some kid you might know.  Just let it be known that I sure wish all your kids were as good as this kid.  He's a winner (though I suspect y'all think yours are too).

Happy Big 15, Dude.  Your mama, family, and friends are lucky and happy to know you.

PEETZA INNA HAWZ!

This is really nothing more than a placeholder post, but at the same time it's much more as there is so MUCH going on in the head now that I know The Story ("Crazy Joe and Marcus")  was lost in the big computer fry of earlier this year that if I don't put something down here there is risk of utter meltdown and total forgetfulness of what was going to be the Story I Wrote That Time.

It starts like this:

Ema is a girl, 11.  She live with her grandparents, in a small wooden house near a creek.  There are no near neighbors.
Crazy Joe is her Grandpa.
Marcus is her dog.
Crazy Joe don't talk much, since the accident.  It involved a shotgun, and a ghost.
Gramma don't talk at all, bein' as how she's busy with Crazy Joe's care.
Joe's cackling and talking to Lil' Joe, all the time. Nobody thinks he right-minded.
Ema goes to the creek, with Marcus.  He's the level-headed one, and just sits and cools himself.  She falls in while watching him roll around, and falls and falls,  way below the bottom of the creek.  She loses her breath.

Hits the roof.

Opens her eyes, mind flips, belly becomes back, and all the people in the yellow-gold big arching vault she can see, now above her, are made of pipes.   The hall is a dome of brass, in a town hall of sandstone, there is a forever-deep pool in the center of the square. Inhabitants are copper, engaged, personable, caring, dependable, loving.

They have families, loves, lives, and seem to be happy.

Except that they can't die, but want to.  They throw themselves off the highest balcony of the town square into the deep pool, but are rejected as unsuitable by the water.  Nobody can die, not even the sick or tired.  Children taunt the water, worried mothers snatch them back, but even if the babies spin helplessly in the darkness they can't die, they are simply thrown back to the World.  There is no dying, no release.

And then there's Joseph.  He's meat, like her.  And 20 years older, but still a friend, because of their off bodies.

---

*and someplace in my brain I dreamed the ending.  Joseph and Crazy Joe  knew each other, time travel was involved and love was in the offing, old friendships were healed and sins forgiven,and I've lost it all except for this bit, which is weak, but is what my head thought up n ad which I think would still be kind of entertaining if only I could remember what I use to think I'd never forget.

Hi, welcome to my brain.

And then we came down from the sky

Ever since Friday evening, when I, through my powers of observational skills and wifely concern, grounded Biff from flying with a friend due to what was likely a reaction by Biff to a bug/spider bite that landed us in the local quickie doc for a while (because Friday nights are meant for that!), he's been itching (get it?) to go flying.

Like, all weekend.

Like, not being able to go flying because I might have, in fact, been SAVING HIS LIFE was a major impediment to him, such was his concentration on airplanes and all things airplane.  

Like, every time I asked 'what would you like to do right now?' he was all 'Let's go FLYING!  Haheeheeheheehee!' and then turned around in circles a few times until he got dizzy and fell down.

I blame the prednisone for this, for the record.

So, each time, for the first 50 times, that he suggested the whole flying thing, I was all like, 'aw, naw, dawhg, we can't go flying.  You might swell UP again, and then where would I be?' because I have read enough 'Flying' mag stories about near disasters and realize I cannot, for all my pluck and spirit, fly an airplane if for some reason the pilot in commend suddenly needed to concentrate on grave injury/illness/death, and flying with someone who'd just been to the doc due to some weird thing going on was Freaking Me Out.

As in - every bad airline movie of the '70's was playing in my head each time he mentioned how nice it would be to be flying Right.At.That.Moment.  I might have an issue with flying, and the fact that I can't control it.  A tiny, baby issue.  *Ahem*

However.  Despite recent events, and my overreaction to them, he managed to stay apparently healthy for 2+ days (no bonus odd swelling, for YOU, mister!), so today, at his puppy-eyed insistence, we went flying.  It doesn't matter what we DID while in the air, just that for Pete's Sake We Took Off and whatever little demon in in his magnificent brain that now needs 'Feeding, Seymour,' on the junk food of flight is a big ol' monster of need and will take any little hit, no matter how small, as enough to satiate it for a while.

My jitters at the lowering clouds on takeoff were somewhat mollified by the 1) his skill at flying and 2) the awesome view we had of the new project going on in our town, which from the adjacent road is a total mystery but from the air is slightly less of one.  Let's just say that one look at it from the air seems to indicate that at least one more traffic light is going to be added to the eastward side of town.  Meh, and grumble.  Stupid town, for being so great to live in people continue to want to build new homes here. I already miss the trees...

Eh, I'm sure I could look up what's happening out there, but hopping in an airplane and sussing it out from the sky, even when the sky is lowering and starting to gust a a bit, is way more fun.  Who needs research?

After the quickest snoop ever at a thing that could have much more snooping, we had to return to base because of some cloud issues and a little bit of not-great visibility.  It seems though, that the 30 minutes we spent in the air today have been a tonic to Biff, as he hasn't asked me ONCE when we're going flying next in the last 3 hours!

It's like a miracle.

That man?  Possessed by flight.  In the best possible way, because, and I quote from him: 'flying is more fun with you.'  Which means, he loves it and wants me there, even if I refuse to take the yoke when he's switching tanks.

Everybody go 'd'awwwww'
 
---

And that's just a thing that happened today.

Tiff out.

People get paid for this

I prefer to use 'track changes'

I know you won't believe me when I say this, based on my rampant spelling/grammar/writing errors in my posts, but I'm actually currently getting paid to do a freelance proofreading job.

And it's kind of fun!

The fun comes, I suspect, from me actually getting to correct someone else's work rather than having them correct mine.  Finding mistakes, fixing them, then passing those findings along is far more satisfying than having to fix problems someone else found in my work.

The first time I sent a document I'd written for a quality control check, and got the results back, I get really super angry with the findings, as I though that I was practically perfect in every way and thus my document would be too.  Those red marks on MY document were a personal affront!  An outrage!

In the years and hundreds of documents since, I've become less attached to the things I write (at least for work), but still bristle at my own lack of skill and follow-through when a reviewer finds something that's blatantly wrong, or misspelled, or completely out of whack with our style guides.   Of course I know there's no such thing as a perfect document, ever, but it would be lovely to, every once in a while, get something back from the QC check with a note attached saying 'wow - this was super clean!  We only had 50 bajillion findings instead of the usual 500 bajillion!' (because you know they're going to find something, anything).

So, getting to be the one doing the correcting is absolutely grand.  And I'm getting paid to do it.  Not a lot, but that's OK.  Someone is giving me money to do something that I'm enjoying.  There's nothing not to like about that, is there?

---


While this proofing thing is fun I'd have to say that I'm pretty close to a dream job  in my current position.  I enjoy what I do, it pays well, and I can have a very flexible work schedule.  All in all, it's not a bad place to find myself, career-wise.  This proofreader thing though...could be a good back-pocket career for when I run out of 'care' for the writing thing.  I can see me being very happy in a job that is all about finding mistakes other people make.  And yes, that does sound kind of twisted, I'll admit. 

What's your dream job (let's be realistic and assume it's something normal and achievable, not something like 'supermodel scientist' or 'spaceship pilot'), and are you doing it now?  Do tell us about it, won't you?

Tiff out.

Not all roads lead to Floyd

This past weekend Thing 1 and I needed to drive back to WFNC from Blacksburg VA post-change of command ceremony for the Oldest Nephew.

Thing 1 guided me by using the fabulous GPS on his fabulous new iPhone, and the process went very well with him navigating (once we cleared the hurdle of instead of saying 'turn right up here a ways,' the refinement of 'turn right up here at Smith Street' was added).

I have learned to appreciate the usefulness of the electronic devices, but sometimes they do seem to have a little bit of evil programmed into their pressed-tin hearts, for I've been rerouted more than once by a GPS into odd little corners (once, famously, into a mobile home park just in order to cut through it and not have to, presumably, wait at a light) and so use, but do not trust, them.

The trip started out OK, though with several 'what is HAPPENING here?' type moments when the GPS just seemed to to want to wander through Christiansburg and ignore the fact that Route 81 was just one block over and I imagined that it would be the fastest way to get near where we wanted to go, but no.  Apparently not.  At least not according to the brain inside the iPhone.

This is what people do in Floyd. 
It becomes relevant in a little bit.

I was not in a position to argue, so much was I unfamiliar with the terrain and bereft of a paper map, thus proceeded onward, eventually, to Route 8, or, as the locals call it, 'Riner Road.'

Otherwise known as "That Road I Will Never Drive on in The Dark/Rain/Snow, EVER."  Because, you ever seen one of those sidewinder snakes and how sinuous its body has to be for it to get around anywhere?  Like it's bent six ways to Sunday looking at its own tail sometimes just trying to move up a sand dune.  Well, that sidewinder snake was US on old Route 8, practically inspecting our own exhaust pipe on the road from Floyd to Woolwine.  I'd show you pictures, but you can go ahead and drive it on Googlemaps yourself just to see what the fun is all about.

If you do, please note 1) the banking of the roadway into the turns, presumably to keep cars from slipping off the road and tumbling down the side of the mountains because 2) there are no guardrails.

Now, I've been on some mountain roads before, and it's ALWAYS better to be the driver on them than to be a passenger in the car on trips like this (route 228 out of Little Switzerland?  Looking at you) but even thought I was in control and thus not Scared Out Of My Wits I think this road is the longest stretch of swooping, banking, twisty-turn road I've been on.  I was praying the brakes wouldn't fail on the downsides and that the car had enough power to climb (slowly) up the upsides of the 15 jillion mountains it seemed like we traversed.

Face it, there's no good way to get out of western Virginia if you're nervous about driving on the mountains.  A little prayer never hurt, and it might in fact have kept us stuck on the road and helped us safely to WoolWine, which isn't much more than a flat place in the road, but oh, what a flat place. Precious, precious, flat place.  Which was the only flat place between there and Stuart, a good many miles eastward.  Good grief, the hills seem never to end in that area!  Ultimately, of course, the land flattens out to rolling hills as you travel east on Route 58, with some very picture postcard moments as a visual treat after having stared at possible doom and ruin up in them thar hills.

We were both glad that Thing 2 wasn't with us on that trip (he was home recuperating from getting his wisdom teeth pulled), because that boy is twice the scardey cat I am about heights, and wouldn't have though some of that trip very amusing, at all.

To add a little insult to injury, Biff took an airplane from our neighborhood airport and flew it to B-burg then back home.  It took him a TOTAL of 2.5 hours flying time.  Our return trip home in the car?  4.5 hours.

Next time?  We fly.

This Kid

Is to be celebrated today.  Nephew/cousin KT has made the big time.  More picture love to come, but for now this is the ONE that tells the tale.

Go for it dude, and success to you in all you seek to do.  The TinyHouse loves you.

I spent the night at home so I could get nothing done

And that's OK by me.

I did do a little thing or 2 today, but by and large I did the following:

• rabbit-trailing on the internet
• wandering around
• talking to God and asking him why I'm such a...um...retard about lots of things
• DRIVING from one end of freaking Wake County to the other to just 1) pay a tax bill, 2) turn in a cable box, and 3) settle up a medical bill and Hello?  BigTimeSuckDotCom?
• Working, some, though today wasn't all about that thought just enough to keep the lid on
• And being Fierce, while yet bubbly and approachable.

It's a struggle, y'all. CLEARLY.

But I'm not giving up.

The children are screaming, all's right with the world

This is an actual thing. 
That someone is selling.
I find this amusing.
Yes, it has something to do with this post

We live next door to a preschool.  This preschool is small, only does half-day programs, and is populated with little people who just love to scream.  There's one kid who shouts a particular friend's name over and over and over, one kid who yells his favorite activity over and over and over in a bid to maybe someday get someone to 'be a train!' and a PASSEL of 'em who scream bloody murder when the train (actual train) goes by blaring its horn at the level crossing a couple of blocks away.

Because it's 'windows open' season, we can hear the little screamers ever so much more clearly than when it's 'heatin' season.'  They have amazing stamina, and a real penchant for high-volume communications.  Bonus - because it's nice out, the teachers let them stay out in the play area for a while longer than they do in less-clement weather.

Yay?

---

And while I do sound like I'm grousing about them, it's really not so bad having a preschool next door.  The afternoons are quiet, the business keeps the buildings and grounds nicely kept, and on the weekends there are no noisy neighbors crashing around drunk or stupid and making life unbearable or peeping around in OUR backyard to see what we're doing, so that's nice.

Speaking of, we are once again in the 'no see 'em' category of backyards, in that the tress have all leafed out nicely and screened us from our backyard neighbors.  It's nice.  I can go out there in my PJs if I wanted to and very few people would even know.  Not having next-door neighbors, and having the green screen out back, give us a very lovely private space to hang out.  Now some of y'all with actual property (as in, more than our tine 0.2 acre) would laugh at what we call private, but I'm here to tell you that it's about as cozy and protected a spot as when the ex and I had many acres of property to roam around on.  It's just a matter of perspective - I don't get ruffled when I can HEAR someone anymore (used to HATE that on the Big Acres), as long as I can't see 'em and they not being horribly loud or obnoxious it's all good IMHO.

Which brings us back to those kids, I suppose.  I can hear them, but unless I leave my property I can't SEE them, so I still have my little cushion around me, protecting me from snoopers, miscreants, and the germy bodies of 4-year-old screamers.  :)

---

Also, is it just around these parts, or are the birds going absolutely nuts in the mornings where you live too?

---

Got to git.  There's a slew of messages pouring into my work email and I'd best go back to it (been online a while already this a.m.) and check out what's next on the list of things to do RIGHT NOW.

Tiff out.

OMGish it's changed again

whoa , the caption feecha is cool!

Blogger....changed.

I can't....keep up.  Bones.....save me!

Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a special-Ed teacher.  You're a dang SPACESHIP CAPTAIN and should be able to figure this out for yourself!

But...interface, Bones.  It's.....changed.  I'm doomed without your....help.

Bones out.

----

Seriously.  Blogger interface = complete instachange, and I'm not thrilled.

In 2 weeks I'll love it, no doubt.

Y'all ax me then if I remember' how it used to be, mmmkay?

---

Currently at the TinyHouse, 1 Thing is sleeping on the LR recliner (has been since I got home over an hour ago), 1 Thing is doing 'something' in their room (and has been since I got home over an hour ago), and the LOML is sleeping in our room (has been since I got home over an hour ago).

All this quiet is weird.

SO, I'm doing what only the very strong can do under these circumstance, which is having an adult bev or 2 while gathering the strength to put away the nonperishables procured at the BJ's this afternoon while they all began their periods of sloth.

Once that's done, I might unload the dishwasher, stock it with the dirties in the sink, empty the dryer, refill it, start a new load, and, yeah.  Not feeling it.

(aaand, from this corner emerges the LOML, who instantly goes to the washing machine and starts it going!  WOW!  I'll forgive him the lack of a hello in light of this awesome reduction in my looming to-do list.)

Guess it's time for me to address the dishes issue.

And now you're all caught up.

Tiff out.

it's about dang time

well, it's happened: I hate the design of this blog now.

It was awesome and fun at first - so kicky and daring! THen, it got comfortable, Then....it got boring. Much like many relationships, the action between me and it has soured over time. It's been around for almost 6 years. That's time enough. This dissatisfaction is brought on, not truly shockingly, because I read around. Oh yes, I do - I read sites that are fresh, simple, inviting, not clogged up with links and crap, and I like that better than what I have now.

Then I read sites that TRY to be fresh, simple, inviting, blahblahblah, and once you get to a certain level it becomes clear that *WHAM*! They're only there because the author Has A Book and Needs A 'Blog' to be accessible to the masses, and you know what? That is bullshiat of the very highest order and a smack in the face of all of us who rode that awesome wave of personal bloggerism a few years ago to great effect and many a new-forged friendship. It's like falling for someone only to find they're paid to look good instead of just being naturally attractive and alluring, you know??

Fine. I get it. I know most of you who were hanging ten on a gnarly rip of writing 5 years ago have hung up the board and, and the rare occasion, maybe dip a toe into the shallow waters of Facebook to get your word on, so perhaps my protectiveness of our goofy kind of bloggery is terribly Quixote-ish, but I can't help wanting to shoo off the (sexyfake) interlopers from what was once a rich territory of content, argument, friendship, and exploration.

Now, mind both of you, I have friends of long-standing who are wonderful authors and who have blogs too, and those blogs mention the books, but for real you'd never really KNOW they were book writers because 1) their 'real 'blog is terribly engaging and fun and 2) the whole advert thing is wicked understated and 3) they don't go around posting pictures of themselves and their families in the World's Most Attractive Light and pretend they did it themselves (as one site I just went to did and offended me terribly. Perhaps I am just cranky). Authors with blogs who SAY they are and don't go all nuts with the marketing slick as goose shit angle have their charm and attraction. They keep it humble, and I like that and thus will support them and their quirky writerly ways. Those other ones? With the 'hey I'll give you a peek of my awesome life because it's always photographed in long light with multiple softboxes while we, who are in color-matched clothing, pretend to play LEGO' way? Get the fark off my street. Yo head too big for our sidewalks.

Long and short, and this goes out to those people that I KNOW will understand - I miss our bloggy days, I really do. They were fun, right? Sure seemed like it.

And I tell myself that maybe I don't like blogging so much anymore because I hate the look of this place now and am ready to shed it like a 90's hairdo, but it's really more that somehow our community got stolen and there's nobody much around anymore and even IF I'd started writing just to Write, it's not enough to shout into the wind anymore.

I can do that on real paper, and with a great deal more vitriol and spunk than I do here.

So, I don't know. Would a fresh coat of paint and a new outlook refresh this dark little corner, or is it as futile as wallpapering a condemned home?

If the former, then I'm looking for new ideas for this place, and if the latter, I guess I'll see you on Facebook (but NOT PINTEREST, NEVER!!!!! [for reasons only my own]).

Also, let's get together soon, it's been too long since we've seen one another.

Also, also- I'm not ever quitting writing, but it'd be so much more fun if You wrote too. Facelift or not, I expect I'll be tapping feebly at the keys of NAY for many more years, because my handwriting now sucks and I can't hold a pen long enough to write a whole journal entry. Typing all this MentalDross out is the wave of the future!

I do not have a diagnosed motor insufficiency, BTW. I just haven't handwritten anything in so long that it hurts to write more than a paragraph or two. Thought you ought to know...

Tiff out.

Some seasonal type things, I guess

For most of the week I've been aware that April 6th was coming up, and for a while I wondered 'why is this date important again?' and then it struck me: Today is my Dad's birthday.

Shameful that it didn't occur to me right away. I'm sorry, Dad, for not remembering sooner. You've been gone 20 years now and though you're never far from my thoughts it's becoming far too easy to let the 'dates' get by me.

So, Happy 80th (!) Birthday to the best Dad that ever was. Here is a cake with a bunny on it by way of celebration.

I love you.

---

Maybe it's that anniversary that caused the terrible dreams this morning, or maybe it was the fact that I woke up this morning at 5:30. Then at 6:15. Then at 7. Then in 6-minute increments as the snooze went off, until 7:30.

In those 6-minute increments came the dreams, swirling with odd characters, sick dogs, Chinese interior decorators, slamming garage doors, and a crowd of people who didn't give one little crap about why I didn't know what was going on and just wanted to go home, wherever that was.

By the time I hauled my carcass out of bed, I had a pounding headache and my face hurt.

And now, every time I swallow, my ears hurt. And my eyes feel like I've poured sunscreen into them. And the tonsils are starting to swell.

Just swell.

---

In the 'more moroseness' category, we have 'Things that aren't working properly at our house': the boys' computer (can't load Java update, any ideas?), their gaming monitor (3 months old, WTH?), and our teevee (doesn't recognize the cable box).

Also, I think our year-old dishwasher is about to die. It makes terrible noises and spazzes out early in the 'normal' cycle. Must call someone about that, I'm sure.

The handle on the shower temp selector is loosening in a rather alarming way.

The shower curtain rod needs to be tightened up (it's a touch floppy).

It's a grand honey-do list, but the handyman is out of town. This has made me realize just how much I depend on him for support, knowledge, and action to rectify so many minor issues around the house.

I would make a terrible military wife.

---

If it's not readily apparent by this time, today is a 'bad mood' day. It would be lovely to crawl back into bed (but that would give me a headache) and just not do anything at all, but that wouldn't accomplish anything so I showered, got dressed, and drove into work in time for my only meeting of the day.

Which was cancelled while I was en route.

Go figure.

---

So, hey. Not every day is sunshine and roses, but I woke up this morning, and set to being grateful for that and also for our house, health, family, and job. Because even when it seems everything is conspiring against me to swamp me in a perfect storm of ennui, there's always those things to be happy about. Perspective, babies.

Hey, Happy Easter if you celebrate it, and Happy Weekend if you don't. Candy goes on sale Monday!

Tiff out

I am TOO signed in, you pusilanimous reject of a postmodern bellweather

I have been subject to one of the most humiliating experiences ever to befall a thinking person, or indeed an subthingperson, or maybe a very clever bonobo/chimp, therefore anyone who tries to freaking get gas in their car nowadays and choose to do so via a discount card at their local groceria-cum-gas vendor.

It was humilating. I was beaten, and badly. How to say this? .....

Y'all, I was dumped by a MACHINE.

Oh, things started off well enough. I sidled up to a pump with my receiving side ready to open up and take a gusher of fuel right down the ol' tankpipe, like ye do. Stepped out, wielding rewards card and credit card (like a baws!), but was stopped DEAD IN MAH TRAX by a stupid kiosk o' gas that wouldn't recognize my stupid dang rewards card, for NOTHING, no matter how much I flaunted and waved it and flirted it about the wobblering laser eye of recognition, so I broke up with that pump and moved on to the next.

And lo, there was promise with this next pumper o' goodness. It RECOGNIZED MY CARD! Glory! I heard my call for cheap-er gas, got excited, and thus I was so excited that I input 1 too many numbers on the 'what is your zip code' question and got rejected. By the SECOND machine.

Not one to be easily dissuaded, I kept on with the second machine, knowing that it loved me, really, because it recognized my card and so at least had my number (not like that swine machine 1). I restarted, reimaged the rewards card, reswiped the credit card, punched in the right amount of digits on the zip code (yay!), and then accidentally smooshed the 'high test' button with the butt end of the gas delivery handle thingie, which I did not want to do, thus having to back out of the transaction by pushing the cancel button.

At which point the kiosk (BITCH!) told me it had shut off and I needed to see the attendant.

And I did. And she was helpful.

And we did go back to the pump, reinput the info, then see that the pump thought I had no rewards because I accidentally had activated the card without pumping anything at ALL, so she had to call the store, they had to reinstate my rewards (5 cents a gallon!), she had to give me the high sign, and then....THEN, I could pump the 75 bucks worth of gas into the hold that would power us through yet another week.

All in all, I was at the gas station for 25 minutes.

Actual gas-pumpery was 3 minutes of that. Standing in the afternoon sun of a glorious NC Spring day was the other bit.

*Attitude change*

GLORIOUS NC SPRING DAY.

*ticks head left, then right. smacks self upside recently-ticked head for being so stupid as to not notice glorious Spring day.*

-CLEARS THROAT-

Announcement....in a very nice posh velvety voice...

Sometimes, it's nice to have your time hijacked from you when there's nothing else to do but just bask in the sun and take your time waiting, for something. On such a fine afternoon there's almost nothing better than to have your time wasted for you, you know?

I sure hope you do.

Right-minded announcement over.

---

Do tell about your moments of serendipity, if you have had them. ESPECIALLY if you've been stupidly mad right before they happened.

I know how you feel. It's OK. Love you!

Tiff.

It's long and random, at first you're hungry and then you're not

I do believe we are going to fire up the grill this evening for some burger cookin'. There are going to be some jealous people in our neighborhood tonight, if they are anything like me, who begins salivating immediately upon catching the first whiff of almost any grilled food.

We don't typically get fancy with grilled burgers, but do add some Worchestershire sauce and other spices to the meat. We're still working on grilling technique, the 'hot' vs' slow' grill seems to be very tricky on a charcoal grill. Any tips would be appreciated.

To go with the burgers I've just whipped up a batch of 'almost-my-mom's' potato salad, which is nommy and came out so good tonight I'mma write it down here just for remembering. Truth be told, I've likely done this before, but not just in this way, so ha. My blog, my rules.

Anyhow, here we go.

Tiff's "Almost My Mom's" potato salad:

Ingredients
5 large waxy potatoes (regular white or Yukon gold or similar), about 3 pounds
1/4 medium onion, minced
1/2 c light mayo
1/2 c 1% milk
1/4 c light sour cream
1 tsp prepared brown mustard
1 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp kosher salt
1/2 tsp coarse-ground black pepper
1 tsp white vinegar

Boil the potatoes, whole, until done (about 20 minutes). Remove from pot and let cool

While cooling, combine the remaining ingredients into a dressing, set aside.

Peel cooled potatoes and cut into 1" cubes. Place in large mixing bowl.

Pour dressing over top, turn gently to combine, cover, and refrigerate at least an hour, turning occasionally.

Done!

---

There's a restaurant in town we swore we'd never go back to because the last time we were there the service was so bad we walked out without ever getting half our order.

Well, that place is now 'available for lease.'

Guess we don't have to bother to remember to not go back there.

---

It's been another golden day here in Cackalacky, except for a tiny bit in the morning that I could have done without that involved a rather comedic scene first and then abject horror.

The comedy was begun in the early morn, when the coffee pot was not quite done and Biff was getting up and at them for work. In the serenity of a scene of utter domestic bliss (COFFEE!) I certainly did not expect to see him come run-strutting half nakey out of the bedroom, arms pumping like Hans Brinker, with a slightly panicked look on this face, and heading straight toward the shelves where we keep our drinking glasses.

And I quote: 'I am far too naked to deal with THAT right now.'

Well, my curiosity was piqued, so I asked the natural question, 'What?' and the response was a very wide-eyed 'big freaking spider. Under the laundry pile.'

Oh dear.

Neither the LOML or I are very fond of spiders, at all, so it's handy we have a 'you saw it, you deal with it' rule that is invoked whenever spiders, cat barf, empty toilet paper rolls, etc, are involved. In this case that rule played to my favor and I instantly disavowed any interest at all in the spider, being within 10 feet of the spider, nor in plans for how to catch the spider. You saw it, you deal with it. Sorry, babe.

Well, one suit of spider-protective clothing for the catcher, 1 rocks glass, and 1 file folder later, the spider was snug in a new see-through home and being photographed for curiosity and science's sake. Heaven only knows what it might have been, but a wolf spider is the first things that sprang to several minds. A BIG wolf spider. Seriously freakishly radioactively large for this time of year, unless it *shiver* overwintered in the crawlspace.

It is now in the vacant lot next door, I hope eating lots of buggies and loving the great outdoors so much it swears of insides forever. Because if I find it next time? Ka-smoosh!

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That's it from here, for now. Tiff out.

some things, in no particular order

There are certain kinds of games I'm good at. MATCHING games are a specialty. Think 'Bejeweled' and you're right on target.

You do play Bejeweled, don't you? It's only the best game ever. Way better than the games I'm not good at, which include, but are not limited to:

Boggle
Scrabble
Bookworm
Monopoly
Bridge
Most card games
and chess

My motto is 'do what you're best at,' but not everyone believes this to be so and thus there are those people who insist that I participate with them in game playing of the multiplayer variety (Bejeweled being a very solitary pursuit). For example, at Lake Week we have frequent card games, some with a rules list that takes an entire page of single-spaced typology to get through. I participate, because it's fun to play games, but I never, ever count on winning anything. Especially if my Mom is playing. That woman is a monster card player.

It is my motto that I tried to hide behind recently when Biff brought home his newest creation - a lovely chess board made from solid-surface countertop material built especially to host a set of chess pieces his father has procured many many years ago. The board is gorgeous, with black-flecked and gray marbled squares, polished until it gleams. The pottery pieces are glazed in gray or green, with pagodas as the rooks, dragons (squee!) as the knights, Buddhas as the bishops, and warriors (natch) as the pawns. The set is gorgeous. And he wanted to PLAY CHESS ON IT! WITH ME!

:\

Words cannot explain my hesitancy, so I agreed to play, if only he would please to explain the rules and movements and such. Yes, I've played before, but so badly I didn't keep any of the experience in the memory bank and so need to be re-taught, each time, how it all goes.

As might be expected, I lost, quite badly. At one point I thought I was doing OK, but then wound up having my King chased all over the board with nobody else around to help him. That part kind of sucked. Bless him, Biff didn't gloat even one tiny bit in front of me.

I had to go play about 30 games of Bejeweled Blitz to get the taste of defeat out of my mouth.

No, I'm not competitive. AT ALL. Whyever do you ask?

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We planted our garden this past weekend.

So far, the best crop to come out of it (I know, it's early days yet) are the pumpkins. Which we didn't even plant!

Nope - they're sprouting out of the pumpkin goo that we threw on the compost pile back on October. They're robust little things, too, shooting out of the ground where the peas and carrots were just planted. So nice to know that if all other crops fail, we'll always have pumpkins.

There's nothing wrong with our empathy chips, my friends, because even though it's likely that we shouldn't have, we relocated the sprouts growing in the carrot bed to an auxiliary garden just outside the main garden in hopes that the vines will have room to stretch out there and populate the vacant lot next door with autumnal gourdy goodies. There are a few little kids in the neighborhood that I would LOVE to invite over to pick a punkin, free of charge, for their carving pleasures. The other sprouts in the pea patch? We left those there, as the peas will climb and we can train the punkin vines through the picket and rabbit fencing, out into the vacant lot, to grow wild and free!

Feel free to virtually kick me in the pants if, come October, I'm complaining about being overrun with pumpkins.

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List of things we planted in the garden, not at all because you asked:

peas, both snap and English
carrots, both short ('best for heavy soils!') and long ('most heat-tolerant!')
onions, both red and white
spinach. lots and lots of spinach.
broccoli, from seed. First time for everything!

We also have a new rosemary plant, a new pot of basil, are sprouting 'cat grass' for the furry denizens to chew on if they feel so inclined, and are starting tomatoes. Come summer, we'll be planting peppers, herbs, the tomatoes, and zucchini. Then, if we're really feeling Farmer-ish, we can plant fall crops of the cool-weather things we're growing now.

All in a 15x15-foot patch.

What an exciting year of blog posts you have to look forward to, my friends!

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This one's getting long, so I'll stop here. Remind me to tell you that we've started another room remodel at the Tiny House. Once we're done there, we will have re-done every room in this 6-room home. Woot!

Y'all have a good Wednesday, or what's left of it, and share in the comments what games you hate or what we ought to be planting in the garden.

See you next time - Tiff out.

so

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.

the ravings of a lunatic

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.

How many cookery posts can one person do, really?

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.