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!

---

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?

---

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.

---

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!

---

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!!!

---

Do you ever talk to yourself in a foreign accent?

---

I do.

---

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!)

---

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.

----

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?

---

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.

---

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.

stages of man (and woman)

Begin




Be



Begin again


Repeat.

----

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.

Bear with me - it's a story.

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

---

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.

--

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.

Temporary Vampire

As many of you know, I am a girl of German/Irish/English heritage, who spent several summers as a lifeguard and many more summers as a scoffer of 'suntan lotion,' preferring instead to get a 'deep base' burn before setting off to build upon that heritage of skin damage with daily applications of MOAR UV RAYS!!

This, in retrospect, was not a good idea.

Not only did those UV rays do me a decided disservice with generous popping-outs of freckles (or, you know, 'angels kisses' for the romantically inclined yet seriously deluded amongst us [Hi, LOML!]), and early face-crepiness, but also they resulted in the genesis of odd bouts of skin cancers, pre-skin cancers, and so much other odd dreck that my dermatologist, several months ago, suggested I get some sort of 'light treatment' to make the random bits of unknown dreadfulness just up and die.

(Hello, I am old enough to get full-facial treatments and have The Insurance pay for it as it is Medically Necessary. You don't get THIS kind of thing when you're in your 20's!)

So,' light treatment.' In the medical field it's known as ALA-PDT, or Levulan-photodynamic therapy. It involves getting tarted up in a no-doubt horrifically poisonous wash of goo that, once applied to every crevice of your ghastly aging face, begins to invade your skin, searching out nasty little wanna-be cancers. For an hour, the goo searches out crap and crud, investigating dark corners of your face for pre-bravado cancers, and making dates with them for mutual suicide.

Good news: there was minimal burning/itching/stinging (all of which I'd been warned about). I was feeling damned good about myself, with the pain/discomfort thing. Rather superior, in fact. Ultra-great, and very Teutonic in my stoicness.


Darkly awkward, and thrilling, no?

Then, the second part. The light.

THE LIGHT.

After an hour I was called back into the treatment room, reclined on a table, fitted with METAL goggles, and told that I was in for 7 minutes of what could be hell. Therefore the little hand-held fan. Nice thought. I was ready for some truly awful moments. Pre-relishing them, even.

The light went on, my retinas, even with the metal dang goggles, began simmering nicely in a white-hot bath of photons, and I settled in to commence with further stinging/burning/itching.

Aaaaaand, NOTHING. No need for the fan, no panicked calls for help, no twitch of panic or whiff of cooking flesh, tough there was the moment when 'something' popped in the light assembly that made me think the maybe my hair might set on fire. Otherwise, nothing. No need for fan, no despearate waving of hands, no light sizzling or any overt notice that in fact anything was really happening.

Color me disappointed when the 7 minutes were over, the light was snapped off, I was once again able to see, and was ushered out of the room with a sheen of newly-applied moisturizer, admonitions to stay out of the sun for 48 hours (Team Edward!), and and appointment to see the doc in 6 weeks to ascertain if this was the only treatment I'd need for my 'issues.'

And still, nothing in the pain department.

Now, if you're like me, after a good medical treatment you'd like a bit of suffering to show for it. Something in the 'Oh, I'm fine, really (*wipes hand languidly across brow*)' variety, in which suffering in implied, but not overt. Sadly, in the case of the great face frying of 2012, it seems i was to be denied. Several hours at home, and nothing in the way of discomfort, at all. I was starting to think it was time to ask the office if the wand of Levulan was still good.

And then, 6 hours later, I didn't need to call any more.

That Levulan was good. The treatment worked. How did I know? Easy - My face started to sting like an asshole coated with hot sauce. Also, it began to swell. Also, to turn red in really unexpected places. Like, hey, I never would have expected to get a cancer in the crease of my NOSE, but dang if they're not lighting up like a baboon's butt in mating season. Also the chin. And my ENTIRE FREAKING FOREHEAD.

Gosh, this is going to be great. Swelling, peeling, itching, and scaling are projected to follow.

Just thought you should know what's happening with me, and that there will be many more self-indulgent posts about my stupid precanceroushead will be forthcoming. Some, perhaps, with pictures.

You have been warned.

With love, TIFF.

double duty double deals!

Well, at least that's what the headline touts from the right-hand page of the Woman's Day magazine to my right.

The magazine - It's a gift from my mommy. Y'all shut about about how only old ladies read Woman's Day because Family Circle is too 'young' for them. Just shush. I'd read Cosmo, but the scratch and sniff perfume ads give me headaches and the models make me angry.

My brother gets Smithsonian each year as one of his Christmas gifts. I wouldn't mind that either. I could learn some things that don't involve the latest in decorating trends or how to wear this Spring's makeup or what kind of lunch to pack for maximum belly-blasting punch. It might be fun to lean back with a good magazine that engages only my brain and not some languishing feeling of inadequacy, but that's OK. I'm actually fining new things to cook and I rather like the craft ideas (I don't do any of them) and some of the product things are really great, plus which there are some really great columns by very good writers and NO perfume samples.

It's a lovely little mag, really. Not one I'd buy for myself, which is good because if I was left to only buy magazines for me I'd wind up with "Steampunk Weekly" and "Gross Things Our Bodies Do" and the like.

It's better my Mom gets me a subscription to a magazine that reminds me that I am a woman and as such have certain standards to adhere to that don't revolve around toilet humor, science fiction, and ghastly things that should remain firmly bound up in a notebook someplace.

The bright colors of this monthly infusion of ladyness in our home is good for me. And our family. I get inspired by it, and as such might EVEN do a craft with doilies and spray paint and mirrors. It's really pretty cool.

But that is not what I came here to talk about tonight. Nope.

I came here to talk about RAISIN BREAD. The recipe for which I found on FARK.

Seriously. FARK.

This is the most bestest bread I've ever made in the raisin variety. It has a SUPER rise, is moist and tender, slightly sweet, and does 'oven spring' like nothing I've ever seen before. So, here's the recipe, in case you want to be all down-homey and Woman's Day-ey like me (ey):

Awesome FARKIN raisin Bread, with tweaks by Tiff

You'll need:

1 cup water
1 cup 1% milk
2 packages active dry yeast (or 2 level TBSP instant yeast)
6-7 cups all-purpose flour (6.5 for a nice firm-soft dough)
1/2 cup white sugar
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/4 cup oil (I used cheap olive oil, regardless of virginity, regular veg oil works well too)
2 eggs
1/2 to 1 cup raisins, depending on your raisinattude.
extra cinnamon/sugar for sprinkling.

A big bowl
a small bowl
a big spoon
measuring cups and spoons
a big cookie sheet of any shape.
some dish towels.

How to do it:

• Turn the oven on to its lowest setting. Once it's preheated, turn it off. You just want it warm.
• Heat the water and milk in the big bowl until it's warm as your index finger when you dunk it in there. Don't worry. you'll know.
• Add the yeast, give 'er a stir. Let that sit for 10 minutes until you see lil bubbles breaking on the surface.
• Add the sugar and salt and cinnamon to the liquid.
• Add a cup of the flour to the liquids, whisk until smooth.
• Add the oil and the egg. Stir until smooth.
• Add 2 more cups of flour, one at a time , whisking until smooth each time.
• Dump 3 more cups of flour on top, and start kneading in. We use our Kitchenaid mixer for this. You can do the workout thing though and go old-school with hands and strength, turning, folding, and smooshing until the dough is a silken ball that separates easily from a well-floured surface and can hold its shape if lifted up high like you were baptizing it in the light of a Serengeti sunset.
• OK, now drop that dough in the big bowl (after lightly greasing it) and wash your hands. Then take a clean dishtowel and run some hot water through it and wring it out, then drape it over the top of the bowl.
• Put the big bowl in the oven you heated earlier. If the bowl is plastic, put it in a pan of cold water so the base doesn't melt. Now go do something else for a couple hours while the bread proofs.
• Once the loaf has plumped up about twice what it was, (and when a finger poked into yields a hole that doesn't fill in at all), punch it back down. Let that poor sad mass sit quietly under a moist towel like before for about 10 minutes to rest. It's going to need that time, as you're about to Work It Out.
• Once the dough is rested, punch is down again to get rid of errant air bubbles.
• Shape into a flat rectangle about a half-inch thick, cut in 2 pieces, spread with sugar, cinnamon, and raisins. Roll each piece longways into a loaf, pinching seam to seal. Place in prepared pan (that means greased, y'all) seam side down. Don't worry about the rolled edges - they're fine to leave 'open.' I made one in a loaf pan and one like a giant sweet raisiny croissant in a pie dish. Both worked.
• Preheat the oven again while you're doing this.
• Place the loaves in the warm oven.
• Once the loaf has doubled in size, take it out, leave lightly covered with a dishcloth.
• Preheat the oven to 350F. Put the loaves back in to bake for ~30-35 minutes. DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN for at least 25 minutes. Peek after that and begin softening some butter for when the bread is ready. If you've done it right, a steak knife will slide in and out clean in the middle of the loaf.
• Leave the bread to bake for until such time as the tops are the color of a nice glass of bourbon (neat), then pull out and let cool for 10 minutes in the pan. Maybe slather the top with some melted butter. It's up to you.
  
• Then tip out onto a cooling rack and let cool as long as you can stand it.

EAT.

---

So, yeah. ME being all weird AND domestic. It's just how we do roll.

Tiff out.

A time or two ago

When I was less then half as old as I am now, I had dreams (or practical plans) of being a teacher.

It didn't work out. I wasn't nearly as responsible as I needed to be to teach the kids who I met during my student teaching. I was 23. There's nothing more be said about that, except that I'm a late bloomer and as such didn't even think about ordering big-girl panties until I was about 30.

I got to thinking tonight though, about a couple of things.

One is that I've not shared with you a couple of good books I've had the pleasure to read, if you're into 'hillbilly scary OMG is that the way it is' story telling.

Now y'all know I love a good spook story. But this gal, Emory Raxter, does it so gruesomely and well that there's no candle I could begin to hold to her tales.

Disclaimer: I had the pleasure of editing her novels, through the odd auspices of my ex-husband, who worked with her to get publishing. I know, it's weird, But it works. Life is strange, ain't it?

ANYHOW.

Emory. She's the deal. She knows what she's talking about. She lives in the byways and shadowy hollers of the past and the odd angles of our strange present. She takes words and corrupts them to her pleasure, wending bright stream of hope through black holes of despair, until I as a reader could NOT put the dang books down until I knew how they ended.

The first book was...graphic. The second, enriching, in a truly dreadful way.

Read 'em.

And while you do, look here, to understand, fully, that the rough and tumble everyone for himself life she describes so lovingly and horrifyingly is real, right now, in YOUR country.

Not that it's bad, but that it's real. Those people are us. They are tough, strong, and smart. And have almost no truck with us. It would behoove us all to know that tucked into the deep mountains of the eastern United States there are people who are fierce, noble, sometimes dirt-poor, and utterly capable.

I know. I taught them back when I had dreams of being a teacher a million years ago. From those kids in my classes I learned that the folds of earth they called home were as inscrutable as their attitudes toward school and those of us that came from the Flatlands. The ice-blue eyes and scruffy go-at-anything attitude reminded me of my gramma, she of the poor Irish of New York. I'll bet we're related. (Mom, are we?)

No matter. Just go read Emory's books. You'll get the idea.

And have a happy weekend.

strength training

It was a lovely day yesterday in Wake County. Sunny, slightly breezy, and warm-ish. Just the right kind of day to get out and take a lovely walk.

So we did.

Biff and I strapped on the gear and headed to the a greenway we walked part of a couple of weeks ago. This time we started about at the point we stopped last time, hoping to make it down under some RR tracks and a major highway before heading back to the parking lot. On the maps it looked a touch under 2 miles each way, so, about 1.5 hours total walking time (including gawking stops and such).

Easy peasy.

Except...about half a mile into it I got the first hints from my bladder that something was going to need to 'go on' before too long. 'Surely not!' I thought. 'I did my business before we left the house, and it's only been half an hour since then!'

But lo, bladders will have their way, and by the 2-mile mark there was clearly a need to find a facility.

However, and I'm sure you could feel this coming a mile off, there ARE no facilities on the greenway. No toilet, Port-a-potty, not latrine. Not even a nice secluded ditch with a roll of TP on a stick. NOTHING. Not even very many good places to go 'exploring,' (if you get my drift) as the trail sits between the river and, usually, housing developments.

Which is why, if you'd been under a footbridge with me at around mile 2.25 of our walk, you'd have sympathized with me, I'm sure, and turned the other way for a moment as I relieved the pressure.

Or TRIED to.

Because, for those moments under the footbridge, my bladder suddenly became imbued with super-hero strength and NOTHING came out. Not a drop. Oh, I could feel it wanting to, but damn if that sphincter was locked up tight in what I can only assume was a case of 'shy bladder.' Well, that's never happened before, so I gave it a bit, nothing more happened, and that was that. There's only so long a gal wants to be hanging out under footbridges trying to pee, is what I'm saying I suppose.

Once we resumed out walk back to the car, it quickly became evident that the job had clearly not been done under the bridge and it was also becoming clear that it was going to be a LOOONG walk back to the car in the face of mounting pressure in the nether bits. We couldn't walk too fast, or the bladder would jostle, then spasm, and I'd have to pause on the side of the trail in thoughtful contemplation of some bit of nature while the spasms subsided, at which point we could walk again. This went on for about 40 (or 50?) minutes. I think I might have groaned a couple of times, and said a few naughty words more than a couple.

(I would have gratefully welcomed even this on the trailside-->)

The situation was getting really desperate. I was contemplating many a tree by the time was were 3/4 of a mile from our destination. By the last half-mile I was convinced I was going to just wet myself and be done with it, but by the last 500 feet fortunes turned a bit and I began to think I could make it. However, the spasms struck once more and by the last 100 paces it was nearly a sure thing I'd be riding home butt-nekked due to having let loose the tidal wave of pee that was sure to break free from my poor beleaguered bladder. By the last 15 or so paces I was doing the peepee dance, hand firmly in place, while carloads of people drove by looking for parking place.

It is hard to walk unobtrusively with your hand in the peepee dance place, but it didn't matter. That hand NEEDED to be there, atl east until I reached the van, at which point I would have been happy to strip off and have at it in the peeing department and not care who saw...

Thank GOD I didn't need to drop trou on the side of the parking lot, though, as Biff had gone ahead and prepared a place for me in the back of the van. A resting place, if you will, consisting of a hurriedly-emptied trash can and just enough squatting room amidst all his band gear to do the deed that needed to be done. One firm roll-shut of the van door and I was peeling off those lounge pants and letting it rip. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....

Whew.

Next time we go hiking, this is the plan: I'm just going to put on a Depends and pee at will on the trail. 'Squish your way to Fitness,' I'll call this program. Farther, faster, and longer, through absorbent undergarments, it's the workout program for the very middle-aged lady.

Yep. There's only so many times I want to feel THAT panicked about possibly peeing in public, and that number is exactly once. Wearing an adult diaper is a sacrifice I might just be willing to make.

(BTW - I have the best LOML ever, as he not only got the van ready for me as I hobbled up on crossed legs, he handed me the TP when I was done, then sympathized and celebrated with me as we rolled off from our now suspiciously wet parking spot. Isn't that sweet? I think so)

Hope all is going as well as can be expected for all y'all. Tiff out.

truth is immutible (*table?)

Six years ago, I wrote this.

It is still true.

It's not encouraging news, but it is the way of things.

---

In the swing through the archives just now (yes I do sometimes go back and read who I used to be), it's apparent that I used to put a lot more thought into writing. Why, there are stories there, and almost-fully-baked themes!

Not so now. The devolution of this blog is nearly complete, but not entirely back to the larval stage. There is a chance it could re-evolve through several instars and then decide to re-emerge as a beautiful butterfly (or full-grown roach, who knows?) sometime in the near future. Anything is possible.

One thing I won't do is to let it wink completely out of view and consciousness. Too many good 'personal' bloggers have done that (for which I thank them because it leaves room for the middlin' personal bloggers like me), and though I am conflicted regarding the ratio of 'good' content versus 'this blog's' content, I do think there is room in the internet for personal blogging that's not gone commercial or isn't crowded by hundreds of commenting fans pouring accoladinal gloop over every squint and fart the adored one deigns to record.

So, for those of you who still keep a personal blog - please don't quit. PLEASE. I love reading your stuff, I enjoy the relationships we've created through nothing but a few quarky oompohs of mutual goodwill, and I'd hate to 'lose' you entirely if you quit.

And don't for a SECOND think Facebook is an acceptable equivalent.

For my part, I promise that in 2012 NAY will seek to establish a resurgence in relatable content, interesting tales, snortable linkage, and shocking insight. It's been too long since we were all young and stupid together, hasn't it?

---

Tiff out.

if you don't already know, I'm not all sunshine and light.

Introit to a little something about me, which you might not know if we've met recently: There's something 'wrong' with me.

'Wrong' being a term people use for folks most folks ain't like, which is all of us, I guess, but is some of us in particular who are just a titch outside what is considered to be nominally charming and 'off-beat.'

To wit:

Longtime readers of this blog know that when I go to write fiction from a piece of art, almost nothing good can come from it. I kill off people, mostly, or sew them to ceilings, or sell them off in terrible human trafficking schemes. If they're not human then they're certain to be running from something awful or getting lost in the great outer reaches of space. One time, I even had me being attacked by radioactive spiderlings in a TB hospital in Russia.

True, all.

Obviously, there is in my mind a definite bent toward the dark and gruesome.

I thought I was sort of alone in this dense dark space of dreadfulness, until I discovered the artwork for the original 'Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark' series, which features some of the most 'me' artwork I've ever seen. These are the drawings that scared the snot out of legions of young kids back when they were published (starting in 1981), and which because of my age (graduated HS in 1980, so too old!) I missed out on entirely. I would have LOVED these books, and stared at the illustrations lovingly until they were embossed on my retinas to the point where I could close my eyes and see them in negative.

So, now, OF COURSE, I want all three books. And they are, OF COURSE, out of print.

Oh, you can buy the stories, but just not with the Stephen Gammell illustrations that made the books so ghoulishly memorable. Because, you know, why include the iconographic art? Why the heck would you print out a 30th anniversary edition of the books with the original illustrations, the ones the made such reluctant fans of so many young kids? It would be foolish to include them, right?

(insert loud 'gah!' here)

Harper-Collins thought it would be fine to just switch out illustrators (GAH!), and thus have included illustrations from another artist (A really good one, mind, but not SG!) in their re-distributions, thinking that of course because it's a BOOK the words are most important, thereby forgetting it's a KID'S BOOK and therefore, because children are visual, it's the illustrations are what moves the stories into hive-mind memory. This new version is not the same, doesn't evoke the same feelings, doesn't promote the same sense of 'out there' the old one did, isn't the same squidgy morass of fear and fascination the old one was, and so I don't like it even if I HAVEN'T EVEN READ EITHER VERSION.

Sheesh, people! Let children be scared. Let them chase their fright down long passageways into shady corners while in the comfort of their own snug beds. Let them be terrorized at home, safe, where there's a warm lap to snuggle into if needed and a word or two about 'overactive imaginations' to wrap around themselves before trundling off to bed, knowing that even the terrible things in those pictures aren't real. Don't water it down, mostly because for hte people who 30 years ago had the wits scared out of them by mere illustrations and who commented on the sad lack of them in the re-release there is no clear message that the mystical terrible pictures that accompanied them did anything but heighten the appreciation of the story, and give each cowering child a little bit of horrifying reminiscence to their younger selves.

Of course, you must remember that this message comes from me. The one who wrote this. And who dreamt of her sunny bedroom walls eating her alive with their gulping malodorous mouths and soil-stained knife-like fingers.

When she was 4.

Yes. I might indeed have some issues, but it's all given me some wonderful ideas for completely dreadful new stories to tell. Perhaps (dun dah duuuuun!) in the dark.

OooOOOOoooo.

Tiff out.

---

(That up there is one of the illustrations in question from the books on question, which I recognize as one of the staircases in the house of the my dreams. It goes to the attic. AND BASEMENT. At the same time.

Sweet dreams!

Mwuahahahaaa.)