Maudlin, Marvelous, and the Obligatory Trayvon Post

Years ago, when hubby and I were still new, we watched a movie called "The Cure."  I had zero interest, but he really seemed to want to, had seen it before, so I went along with it.  I thought it was the most maudlin, overwrought pile of crap I'd ever seen, but kept that to myself because I didn't see any reason to slam something he so clearly liked.

Last night, he said he'd come across the film on Netflix, and thought we could watch it.  I guess I'm just old and indelicate now, because, without even thinking, I said, "No way I'm sitting through that crap."  And then I stopped and tried to backpedal because he looked up and said, "Are you serious?"

Oh, hell.  We're not going to fight about some crappy Brad Renfro movie, are we?

He went on.  He said, "You LOVED this movie when we first met!"  I said, "No, YOU loved it, I faked it because I didn't want you to feel bad about liking such an emotionally overblown, melodramatic puddle of puke."  He started laughing.  Turns out?

He'd faked it because he thought I liked it.  He hates the thing.

Can't you just hear the violins, taste the tears?

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Just a quick thing here:  Leeslye is not a name.  Seriously, stop that.  Don't do that.  Mean, mean, mean.

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Watched an amazing documentary about Budrus last night on Netflix streaming.  If you don't know what Budrus is, you should watch it, too:  

We were, of course, horrified by the IDF, its actions, and its attitudes (no way not to be), but even more, we were so impressed by the persistence and intelligence of the villagers in the face of that hideous, self-aggrandizing, prideful machine.  It was hard to watch, but beautiful.

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Charlie, our Cairn Terrier, has been "half-promoted" to regular dog training. He's still in his "reactive" dog class, but they've invited us to bring him one or two nights a week to the regular training.  He was . . . nervous, distracted, not as attentive as he should be.  Training-wise, he is head a shoulders above these dogs, but that's not surprising--when he's not barking at other dogs, Charlie is incredibly well-trained. 

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Just a little bit about Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman.  I just want to remind folks that Zimmerman wasn't found "not asshole" or "not wannabe cowboy/cop" or "not dull-wit."  He was found not guilty, and I think the jury was correct in that finding.  There was no compelling evidence of INTENT to do murder, and without intent, you don't have the grounds to convict.

My opinion here?  Despite the out-of-control hyperbole painting Zimmerman as some zombie-like creature that murders angelic children and Trayvon as some pure-as-the-driven-snow saint (or, from the other side, Zimmerman as a "stand your ground," wrapped-in-the-flag hero and patriot with Trayvon as some gold-grilled gang-banger demon), I think Zimmerman's a dipshit of breathtaking scope, and I think Trayvon was something of a punk, and I think they both had a history of assaulting people (with at least one of them given to bragging about those assaults).  I think these two people collided and it turned disastrous, and I wish it hadn't.  Because teenagers are often punks who grow up to be NOT punks.  And my heart breaks that he won't get that chance--regardless of his troubles, he was an incredibly handsome young man who was quite clearly deeply loved by his family and friends.  And Zimmerman's life?  Is over.  Even if no one murders him (and yes, that would be murder--again, it's that whole "intent" thing), fact is, the guy's reputation is forever soiled.  Other than Fox News (who will hire the registered Democrat for a short while so long as his notoriety is high), nobody's going to give this guy a job.  Nobody is going to let him live in peace.  Which does beg the "what about innocent until proven guilty?" question, but that's not my point.  I'm not soliciting sympathy, I'm just reminding folks who think Zimmerman's "walking" on this.  Walking to what?

A totally devastated existence.  I know we're not famous for our empathy, but I know I'd be feeling pretty bitter if I were cleared of a crime only to find that the court of public opinion had convicted me WITHOUT giving two spits about the evidence and that my old life would never be mine again.

Just one more thing--what's with this whiny-butt idea that a jury's verdict must somehow please the public?  This screwed-up conviction that a court of law should operate like a popularity contest?  It doesn't MATTER if you like the verdict--the court isn't supposed to be in the business of doing the teeming masses' will.  It's not a MOB, it's a JURY.  If you don't like the verdict, tough.  Seriously, tough.  Big deal.  Oh, well.  I didn't like the OJ verdict, I don't like a LOT of legal outcomes, but that doesn't mean you'll find me calling for killings or screaming for retrials.  I never once accused the OJ jury of being racially biased.  And I believe wholeheartedly that, had OJ and his wife traded races, the result would have been the same--a guy I believed was guilty would have walked.  

And that's how it should be--if we start twisting up our legal system to serve the desires of a less-than-educated public with little grasp of law, then we have nothing standing between us and mob rule.  

Now, if you want to talk about/protest "stand your ground" laws, I'm totally with you on that. While I think they're a possibly good IDEA, in PRACTICE they're just an excuse for people to intentionally put or keep themselves in dangerous situations instead of seeking to escape them.  Combined with lax concealed carry laws, and you've got exactly this.  Zimmerman shouldn't have had a gun, and if he hadn't, he probably wouldn't have gotten out of that car.  And no, that's not me saying he got out looking to kill--most people playing dimwitted cowboy don't actually intend to USE the gun, they think that, by brandishing it, they'll get the desired effect.  No gun= no courage here.  I believe that. Obviously, I can't crawl into Zimmerman's mind and know for sure.  But that feels right to me, based on what I do know.

And at the tail end of all this?  Do I think Zimmerman "targeted" Trayvon because he was black?

I don't know.

And neither do you.

I think that, in this country, with the screwed up arrest and conviction rates, with the news stories, the common stereotyped perceptions, and, yes, the reality of inner cities, there is the real possibility that Zimmerman might not have stopped, had Trayvon Martin been white.  But with his level of frustration at the happenings in his neighborhood, I think he might have.  I don't know.  We can't know.  We can't know if Trayvon's response to Zimmerman was aggressive or ugly, we can't know if Zimmerman would have been as persistent with a white kid.  We can't know. My gut?  My gut says that, yeah, Trayvon's skin color probably did influence Zimmerman's decision to follow.  Probably.  And I say that NOT because I see anything clearly racist in Zimmerman, but rather because our nation, as a whole, too often looks at that.  Looks at it, and then makes decisions based upon it.

But again, I can't actually KNOW that about Zimmerman.

What I DO know is that, based upon released text messages, school records, interviews with Zimmerman, etc., I wouldn't have invited either of them over for dinner.  And neither one of them should be dead.  And that makes this whole thing incredibly sad.

Also sad?  That I wish I could hop on the "hang the bastard" bandwagon.  I do, that would make this all SO much easier for me.  And I know why so many people have jerked those knees so hard--because a"not guilty" George Zimmerman makes the nasty wingnuts happy.  It makes the gun-freaks and the racists gooey-ecstatic.  And I HATE that.  But here's THE thing:

I can't adopt an opinion based solely upon how the KKK or Tea Party feels about things, because, to quote an old one, "even a stopped clock is right twice a day."  I will tell you it makes me examine things a whole lot more deeply, but I cannot allow myself to knee-jerk to an opposing position just because I don't like the scumbuckets who are celebrating this.  

That would be absolutely unacceptable to me.  I will not pretend that something IS just because I wish it were so.  I refuse.

And so, I've mostly stayed quiet on this.  Because most of the folks I know appear to have come down on the "popularity contest/hate the wingnuts" side of this, and I like most of the folks I know.  Don't want to argue with them about law vs heart.  But I believe they're wrong here--it's not about whether or not Zimmerman is an asshole or even about if he's a racist.  It's about whether or not he got out of that car with the intent to kill, and whether or not his actions were justified or allowable UNDER THE LAW AS IT CURRENTLY STANDS.  And sorry--by that standard, Zimmerman is absolutely not guilty.

Whether we like it or not.  The answer isn't to make fools of ourselves protesting a VERDICT.  The answer is the protest the LAWS that led to that verdict.

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Sorry, that turned out to be a "LOTTLE" bit about Trayvon and Zimmerman. 

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I'm going to end with this because that last bit was heavy.  I love this video, even though the kid (who is clearly a terrific person) looks a little too much like the newest Rolling Stone cover for me.

"The Lord is Not on Trial Here Today"

Stumbled across a story today.  A story that, as an atheist in America, I should have known.  I confess, I was ignorant, and for that I am more than a little ashamed.

The story is about a woman named Vashti McCollum.  A hero by any definition, and I mean ANY.  The woman who, single-handedly, gave teeth to our Constitution's "establishment" clause.  Well, maybe not SINGLE-handedly--her eldest son, James, certainly had a hand in it, as did an attorney or two and her loving family who stood by her.

Vashti Cromwell McCollum, photo via University of Missouri-Kansas City

In a nutshell, Vashti (I use the familiar because she is suddenly and now forever dear to me) felt that religion classes (and these were, make no mistake BIBLE classes, not "comparative religious history" classes) that left abstaining children (like her eldest son) sitting at the "bad kid/detention" desk out in the hall for an hour a day, exposing the children to pressure, ridicule, and ostracism (from fellow students and teachers alike), were a violation of the Constitution.  She believed that public property and public monies shouldn't be used to promote or sponsor a religion.  Something we now view as a no-brainer, an "of COURSE" sort of thing, but back then (in the 1940s) Americans were very into conformity and the idea that it wasn't okay to force others to adhere to their particular faith was strange to them.  Vashti approached the school board and requested that the classes, which were relatively new to the district, be discontinued.  They refused, and she took it to court.

Her family was tortured.  Literally.  She was pelted with rotten vegetables by "good Christians."  Her family's cat was hanged.  Rocks were hurled.  Their home was picketed.  Her children were beaten and viciously bullied.  They were denied service at local businesses.  Her eldest boy, James, was finally put on a train and sent to live with her parents in New York State because the abuse had become so terrifying and the school district's attorney had painted him a problem child who brought the abuse and bullying down on himself--an opinion trumpeted by the local media.  The Illinois State House attempted to pass legislation barring atheists from working in State universities and colleges (this bill was dropped when they discovered she'd already been dismissed from her job).  No one would give her employment.  Her husband, who was a professor at the local college, feared losing his job.

It was the very persecution some American Christians claim to experience today as they freely worship, display symbols of their faith, rule the airwaves, open public meetings, local and national, with prayers, and openly declare their faith.  As always, I scoff at their manipulative, disingenuous claims.  American Christians don't know the meaning of the word "persecution."

The practical upshot?  Well, I strongly recommend you watch the Bill Moyers documentary I've got linked up below.  But if you don't have 56 minutes to spare?  Vashti bravely pushed through legal defeats to take the case to the United States Supreme Court.  The result?  Well, you don't see any Bible classes in public schools anymore, do you?

Vashti died in 2006 at the age of 93.  Wish I'd known her, feel like she's mine.  And yesterday?  Was the 65th anniversary of McCollum vs Board of Education.

Watch "The Lord is Not on Trial Here Today" For a Limited Time | BillMoyers.com

Don't like what she fought for?  Fine, but you cannot deny her bravery.

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We've decided to blow the cash on training for Charlie.  It's going to be very harsh, financially, but we really do want to be able to take him places again.  We used to, all the time.  We used to walk him in DC, used to take him everywhere.  He's great with people, but he's become increasingly "reactive" with other dogs, and the worse he gets, the less we take him out, and the less we take him out, the worse he gets.  So we're going to drop the cash (ouch!) and undertake 16 weeks of training.  Honestly, if 16 weeks can't improve him, we'll just have to deal with having a yappy, growly rat dog.  Like no one ever sees any of THOSE around, right?

Charlie, after being groomed half to death

I was going to apologize for the history lesson, but got to thinking about it.  Why should I?  I crawl around the web sampling many blogs, and a vast number are dedicated to celebrating or forwarding a particular religious or ideological bent.  I have no religious bent--as the meme says, calling atheism a religion is like calling NOT collecting stamps a hobby or NOT shooting heroin an addiction.  Atheism is my lack of faith.  It is my absence of belief.  And, sometimes, I'm going to talk about it.

If that's a problem, move on.

Do not reprint without permission. © KAQ

Super-snow and Government Shutdown

Well, we're actually getting some snow.  Not a Northern Utah snow (at least not yet), but it's more than we've ever seen here.  We're at about five inches right now, loving it!  Charlie thinks it's great--he is, in fact, ringing his little "I have to go outside!" bell every five minutes or so.  It was adorable.  Now it's getting to be a little less so.  A little more obnoxious.  Good think I like him, huh?

My poor computer is so bogged down it doesn't like me to watch home-shot videos (it does fine with YouTube stuff), so I haven't had a chance to pre-screen this.  Hope I didn't swear.

Snowing hard enough now it's blowing sideways and sticking to vertical surfaces.  I love that.  They're saying we may get thundersnow.  I love that even more!  Don't love the lights flickering, though.  We're on NOVEC, and we have yet to lose power here.  Hope this isn't a first time.

It's a bad, sad pay period.  Talk about BROKE.  If we pool together the $10.72 in the credit union account, the twenty I keep in my wallet, and the $6.02 in the checking account, we've got . . . not really enough to last nine days.  But it's going to have to, isn't it?  Cross your finger there's no auto-pay disaster out there we've spaced.

Luckily, we are pretty good on food, and we have a half a tank of gas, so we'll make it.  But it's gonna not be fun.

Pasta tonight.  One of my favorite meals.  With the Dreamfield's pasta, I can keep my carbs good and my glucose happy, and by mixing in julienned carrots, I can bulk it up and feel full without going over on servings.  Instead of garlic bread or some other carb-y thing, we have cheese crisps--just parmesan (or parmesan and asiago) grated in the Cuisinart and mixed with Italian herbs, then spooned into a non-stick muffin pan.  This is not the Kraft-type parmesan sprinkle stuff, which has all sorts of emulsifiers that might not do well in a muffin pan.  This is real hard cheese, ground at home.  Super-tasty, not a lot of calories (a little cheese goes a long way).  I'll have a chicken Italian sausage, too.  Plus a salad, and it's a big, happy meal without a big, awful dietary price.

I've lost two more Facebook friends.  Don't know who, I'm sure eventually I'll figure it out.  Makes me sad--I take a lot of trouble to try and split my friends list between "folks who are okay with the political" and "folks who don't want to deal with that."  And I have, so many times, told folks to please let me know if they don't want that, I'll take care of it.  Funny, the same folks who have screamed and ditched me over politics (or my lack of religion) are the ones who have no problem flooding everyone else's walls with their Rush Limbaugh quotes and their Bible stuff.

Typical, I guess.  Freedom's only freedom when it's THEIRS, it seems.

Snow seems to be picking up.  Maybe six inches now.  Loving it.  We'll want to break out the shovel and the ice melt, though.  As soon as it stops, of course.

Hubby's home today--OPM announced that the government offices in DC are shut down for a snow day.  I know that sounds great, but he's still working.  He had an hour-plus teleconference this morning, then another meeting, and now he's doing his usual work up in the office.  No, the Feds didn't provide that office.  They didn't provide that desk, that chair, that computer, that wide-screen monitor, or that internet connection.  No, they don't pay the electric, either.  That's all on us.  Thanks for asking.

Here's a cute picture of Charlie in the snow.  He's almost as cute as a Wombat, and certainly cuter than bad paneling:

Do not reprint without permission. © KAQ

Zombies, Vampires, and Chicken Selects

The past few days, my blog hits have surged.  I know, "surged" is actually a strong term, but when you go from 30-40 hits a day to over a hundred, that's a surge.  Ever curious as to who's getting here and how (if y'all would leave more comments, I'd have an easier time figuring that one out), I took a look at my detailed stats.  Most of my traffic sources look pretty benign--Google, yahoo, a few other blogs where I've left comments or I'm following.

But then there were two whose very names sound anything but benign.  Vampirestat and Zombiestat.

Don't they sound absolutely malevolent?  Yeah, I thought so, too, so instead of CLICKING on them, I did a websearch ABOUT them.  I found a very helpful piece at Spam Spoiler detailing who these malicious-sounding visitors are and what, if anything, they mean.

Practical upshot?  They don't mean anything, but don't click back.

Took Charlie to the clinic for his annual shots and a totally unnecessary heartworm test.  Test negative, shots given, and, once again, Charlie reminds us that he needs some professional training. He's great with people, he loves everyone, he's happy and tail waggy yet obedient and good.  It's other dogs.  Charlie's not so good with them.  Usually, he's good with them if he can get in close EARLY ON and say "hi."  All curvy body and happy wags.  But if he can't get close?  The barking starts.  And sometimes?  The growling and snarling.  I tie this back a lousy experience at a dog park where Charlie got his behind kicked by a much larger dog that wouldn't back off him.  He got hurt, and then he got cornered, and finally he exploded into a blur of teeth and screams.  To his credit, he did everything he could to get away from the dog, and we did everything we could to get the larger dog away from him.  It was a mess, and after that, Charlie's been very wary and iffy about larger dogs.  It didn't help that, a few minutes earlier, Charlie had been very friendly with a nasty chihuahua mix who had gotten incredibly aggressive and scary with him.  There are places around here (not Petsmart!) that offer training geared to dogs who have issues with other dogs.  We're just going to have to bite the bullet and make that investment.

Charlie with a dog park friend named Charley

Came across an article tonight about McDonald's and their flagging sales.  In an attempt to improve things, McD's is ditching their Chicken Selects and considering doing away with their Angus Burgers.  Now, we used to eat a lot of McDonalds back in the day.  In fact, when our boy was very small, we had to refer to it as "The Scottish Restaurant" in conversation, else he'd start screaming that he wanted to go.  Before you peg us gawdawful parents, understand he hated their food.  He wouldn't touch those McNuggets or any other meat product there.  He would eat a small order of fries and drink a small juice.  He was in it for the Playland.

Not exactly "our" Playland, but very close

Our boy would spend as many hours as we would allow him in Playland.  The ball pit, the tunnels, the slides.  Even the rope-climbing hill in back that brought you to the higher levels (understand, he was terrified of any height where he could see the ground through mesh or grid).  That rope hill played an integral part of me almost getting the daylights beaten out of me by some guy whose wayyyy-too-big-to-be-in-Playland daughter had kicked my then-three year-old down from the top, and maybe someday I'll tell that tale.  For now, suffice to say that our boy was hooked, and any attempt to get him to leave was met with screaming, kicking, and all-around freaking out.   Hence "The Scottish Restaurant."

Anyway, the article!  I found it funny that those are the two menu items they're looking to nuke because those are the only two menu items we ever buy.  Understand, we haven't been to a McDonald's since we grabbed a cup of coffee and two sodas at Air and Space back in October of 2011 or so.  Makes me wonder--did our lack of patronage actually affect them?  Or is it a sign that now there's REALLY no reason to go to McDonald's?

Having Wegmans bologna and provolone sandwiches tonight on my low carb/low cal bread.  With spinach, mixed veggies, and salad.  I'm down 13 pounds last month.  If I can pull this off, it'll be the first time I've ever caught a "regain" in mid-swing and turned it around.  The grief of knowing that, had I stayed on track, I'd be 130 lbs lighter?  I need to not go there.  Wayyy too painful.  So I need to focus on the fact that, even with the screw-up, I'm 112 lbs lighter than I was three years ago.

That's something.  I can still grocery shop without a motorized cart.  THAT'S something.  I can still sleep on my side.  THAT'S something.  And my blood sugar and apnea are still good.  And THAT is a lot.  I'm going to work from there.

I managed to make my doctors' appointments for the same day next month.  Scared those petty dullwits in Congress will put my husband out of work by shutting down the government.  Then won't I feel stupid dropping those bucks on copays when we can't buy groceries?

Dang.

There was more, but I've forgotten.  Isn't that par for the course.

Do not reprint without permission. © KAQ

Everything Must Go!

Once again, I was faced with the Utah "sell" for "sale" thing.  You know, "Target's having a big SELL on electronics!"  Except this time it wasn't the usual, expected-type source.  This was a well-spoken (or well-written, actually) person with a lovely way of expression and terrific spelling.  Broad vocabulary.  And somehow managed to use the word "sell" in the place of "sale" repeatedly. But this person isn't from Utah, but rather the south.  I guess it's a widespread problem.

We were talking today about Charlie, our Cairn, and how he loves each of us for different reasons. Me?  I'm the boss, flat out.  When he's too wound up to obey anyone else, my voice almost always cuts through the excitement and gets a response.  Oh, and I'm the one he comes to when he's scared or worried about things.  Hubby?  He's the face licking and and tug-o-war playing guy, the go-to for ice cubes and the guy whose feet he most wants to rest on during the day.  And our boy?

He's the fetch-playing king.  Charlie will grab a toy and begin trotting through the house, looking for his boy.  If he can't find him, he becomes increasingly upset, crying and searching.  While he will tolerate one of the adults taking the toy and throwing it for him, he'll only go after it once, then go off in search of his boy again.

All three of us are good for sleeping on.

Here's a video of one of Charlie's favorite things.  You may find it a bit disgusting.  Sorry.

I think I've decided to have the basal cell (why do I keep trying to capitalize that, like it's deserving of some honor?) excised instead of using the Aldara.  Yes, it would be cool to use the Aldara and keep a running photographic commentary on my blog, but you know what?  Stuff's gonna be four times as expensive to use (provided there are no problems), and it's not as effective as excision.  Yes, I'll have a scar.  Oh, look, another scar!  Another!  Let's see--gallbladder and appendix (before the days of laparoscopic surgery), C-section, car accident face, and various horse and hiking related scars (plus stretch marks!), and I'm going to worry about a little scar on my arm?  Yeah, I think I'm going to go for the more effective, cheaper treatment.  Maybe I'll take "stages of healing" wound pics, instead.

Found out today that Charles Trentelman of the Ogden Standard Examiner is retiring.  No, I had no inside scoop, though I've been Facebook friends (and a little more than that, I'd like to think) with him for years.  He gave my boy a beautiful Desert Storm coffee mug (black with gold) and a terrific, BIG framed pic from the RAF.  I like Charles, even though our first experience with each other was a rather heated discussion of the relative qualities of Northern Utah vs Upstate New York.  Needless to say, we disagreed.  And that's okay--fact is, I like the heck out of Mr. Trentelman, and I'll miss his writing.  He often gave voice to the thoughts in my head.

Speaking of the end of an era, I've stepped up  my attempts to find some information about Sister Mary Jane and Sister Elizabeth from St. Benedict's in Ogden, Utah.  It's been 35-40 years since I've seen them, and I'm sure Sister Elizabeth has likely died.  But Mary Jane was much younger, and could conceivably still be around.  I'd love to know how she is, see how her life turned out.  She may have originally been from Minnesota, and may have gone back there after she left Ogden. If anyone knows/knew her, please let me know (or let her know she's remembered).  If you think someone might know her, please pass this along.

This came across my wall again.  Well, it's the first time for this meme, but we've covered the point before.  It bears repeating.

No politics today.  I read a bunch of slime that dribbled out of Lance Kinzer and find I can't even go there today.

Really quick, check this out--figured it out in just a couple of minutes, and it only took me AND hubby!  Which means that, between us, we're smart!  

So here--have some really crappy paneling to round out the day!

Did we ever think this was okay?

Do not reprint without permission. © KAQ

Tree, Redux

I think it's almost done now.  Two more Mount Vernon ornaments came--well, three, but one is still waiting for the boy to hang it.  It's a snow globe with George and Martha. 

Here's the tree (and other things Christmas-y):

Tree so far

Close up

Accidental créche

Charlie Holiday aka "Charliday"



The Problem with Menopause/ICKY GIRL STUFF/AWFUL ATHEISM

You were warned.

*****************BEGIN ICKY GIRL STUFF***************

The problem with menopause?  Is that it's unpredictable.  It's pissy and dodgy and comes in fits and starts.  I'm not happy about "perimenopause."  There are a lot of things I regret in life, but only having one child has got to be top of the list. I always wanted a second, and even now, at 47 years old, I have to work very hard not to think about it too much, else my heart breaks.  Just another for the pile, I guess. 

Anyway, menopause.  To put it delicately, my "cycles" have been a bit less than reliable the past few months.  Skipping here, barely there there.  You know.  This month, I'm making up for it.  Epically.  Like, "At what point do I need an ambulance?" epically. 

****************END ICKY GIRL STUFF*****************

Add that that?  Lice.  Blew my back, hand, and shoulders out yesterday nit-combing our boy.  Took over an hour, and my hand still hurts.  Then hubby nit-combed me, and I him (as well as I could--his hair is very short).  Then the long, pain-in-the-ass process of washing all the bed linens (and rewashing all the clean clothes that had been next to the bed waiting to be put away) began.  We were going to wait until today on the fitted sheet and mattress pad beneath, but our Cairn Terrier Charlie made that decision for us.

He pissed on the bed last night.  No idea why.  No straining or behaving like he doesn't feel good, none of the behaviors I would expect from a dog with a UTI.  No, he just pissed on the bed.

Twice. This has never happened before.

It's happened nowhere else.  Only on the bed.  And only last night.  I don't know what's up with that, if the Christmas tree and the stink of permethrin have troubled him, or if the fact that the bed is where the permethrin smell is strongest has something to do with it.  First piss, he got the fitted sheet and the mattress pad.  Sadly, the second piss (which was much smaller) came after the mattress pad and sheet were in the wash.  In other words, he got mattress.  We do have enzymatic cleaner for just that purpose, but I'm now scared to death this is going to become a habit.  Considering that he's my heating pad when I'm napping cold, that's a tragedy for me.  If anyone has any ideas, I'm open.  I've read that it might be a weird show of submission or a statement of who the boss is and where she sleeps.  It's not a marking thing--he's not cocking leg to do this.  And, like I said, he's not doing it anywhere else--he's not abruptly squatting and pissing on the carpet or kitchen tile.  Only on the bed.

The computer is being increasingly stupid and bad.  Really laggy, really glitchy.  Shockwave and a couple of others crash frequently, sometimes within hours of a restart.  Yeah, I dump the cache.  Just too many competing programs, I think.  I fear it may be time to reformat and start from fresh.  Especially with the new game our boy's getting for Christmas. 

Speaking of Christmas, my present came yesterday--from Amazon, but delivered out of the back of a Budget Rental truck (?).  A big (3.3 ounce) bottle of Boucheron.  See, I got a very small bottle (maybe 1/5 of an ounce) a couple of years ago and fell in love.  I've made that tiny little purse-size bottle last because Boucheron is around $115.00 for a 3.3 ounce bottle.  Last week?  I found it marked down dramatically--40 bucks!  With free shipping!  So there it is--my bottle of Boucheron!  It's very sweet, very romantic and flowery, unlike the scents I normally go for.  But I love it--I've loved it since I first smelled it, though my "Unforgivable" (the really wonderful perfume with the unforgivably bad name) is in no danger of being bumped from its favorite slot.

Boucheron, Big and Small

Gonna wander back to religion for just a little.  Hey, I'm an atheist, so atheism comes up now and then.  I'd venture to say I don't dedicate nearly as much of my blog to atheism as many religious folks do to their particular faith. 

Okay.  Here we go.


******************BEGIN AWFUL ATHEISM********************



Remembering a discussion with a friend years ago, one that featured him insisting that it's not possible for him to be GOOD without EVIL.  In other words, if there weren't EVIL in the world, there would be no good, because everything must occur with opposition (?).  He went on to talk about how, without some deity, he can't be happy because . . . oh, heck, I don't remember what his point was.  Something about how, in order to be happy, we must also be sad and otherwise how can we know it's joy if we don't have sorrow or some such thing.  And then he said it.  You know.

IT.

"How can you know not to do bad without Jesus?"

You know, folks who say things like that scare the daylights out of me.  Because I'm left with the idea that there are bazillions of people out there who are one thin Gideon's Bible page away from murdering their neighbors, raping their daughters, and plundering every shop they walk by.  Are you SERIOUS? 

ARE YOU?

Are you really suggesting that, without a Bible, I won't know not to kill my neighbor's toddler or torture his poodle or rob banks?  Are you kidding?  What about people who've never read the bible?  Are they just murderous, raping, pillaging fools who have no morals?  And if that's so, why is the U.S. so highly religious AND so violent?  Why doesn't someplace like, say, Great Britain, with its hordes of godless atheists, have a murder rate that leaves ours in the dust? 

And do you really, really need religion to tell you what's right from wrong?  I ask because . . . because I don't believe that.  I can't--like I said, that's just too scary.  I don't do bad, cruel, violent things to other people because that's hurtful, and it's harmful, not just to them but to all of us.  I don't hit people or shoot them because I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that same thing.  I don't steal from others because it sucks to be stolen from.  I don't lie about others because it sucks to be lied about.  I don't cheat on my husband because it sucks to be cheated on.  Call that "the Golden Rule" if you wish, though it seriously pre-dates Christianity (Confucianism was saying "What you do not wish upon yourself, extend not to others" centuries before the advent of Christianity), call it "the Silver Rule," but recognize it for what it is--not some supernatural edict from the sky, but rather a common-sense idea that arises from our natural propensity toward empathy.  I don't do "evil" upon others because to do so is hurtful; if I wouldn't want that hurt coming down on me, why on earth would I do it to someone else?

If some holy book is the only thing standing between you and mayhem, if the threat of divine punishment is the only thing that keeps you in line, you've got some terrible issues and you scare the wits right out of me.

And that's that.  I've been kicking around writing an entry about how everyone is so sure their religion and their deity is the right one, and yet the overwhelming majority of people are of the faith predominant to their geographical area.  In other words, where you're born almost always determines your faith.  Which means that if you'd been born in Punjab instead of Pittsburgh, you'd almost certainly be of a different faith.  And you'd be proclaiming just as fervently that Sikhism was the true religion.  But now it looks as though I've already written it, so never mind.

*********************END AWFUL ATHEISM**********************


That's all.  I'm going to go scrub some toilets now, because there isn't much that makes me battier than dirty toilets.  Seriously, it's a "thing." 

Giving Thanks

I don't usually engage in the whole "I am thankful for" gig.  Mostly because people assume that one must be thankful TO some grand being somewhere.  I, of course, am not thankful to any ghosties or beasties.  Because I don't want to hassle with the idea that I somehow SHOULD be, I tend to avoid the language altogether.  When I offer up thanks, it's a general, universe/life/existence/happenstance thing.  No deities need apply.

Which is not, of course, to say that you can't have your deities--if you lean that way, I am happy for you.  I hope it brings you great joy.

Anyway, back on point--I just spent two hours doing the "obligatory family phone calls" shuffle.  Gonna take me a minute to get back to where I was in my head.

Thankfulness.  Right.

I started to write this with the little Pakistani girls in mind.  You know, the ones braving Taliban bullets to obtain an education?  And my mind wandered to my own education, something I was so disdainful of when I was a child.  See, I didn't have to worry about being shot or having my family's home firebombed.  No, I had it just slightly easier.  Easier enough that I could look at that risk-free education as no big deal.  I read about these brave girls and their courageous families and I realize just how very lucky I am.

For that, I'm thankful.

Last night, I was cold.  My hands and feet, which tend toward the Raynaud's, were icy cold.  This used to be devastating for me, keeping me awake for hours.  I've found the cure for cold hands and feet when trying to sleep--a warm Cairn Terrier.  Charlie sleeps on my legs, and my whole body warms up.  So this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for my first little rat dog.  He's a keeper, a sweetheart, a comedian, and a heating pad all wrapped up into one carrot-eating, rolling-over-and-playing-dead, squirrel-loving bundle.

Speaking of thankfulness, we just gave Charlie his first ever Thanksgiving organ meat feast.  Ew, but he sure was impressed.  Impressed enough that he kept kicking around his dish and trying to make more magically appear.  Happy Thanksgiving, Charlie!

The car is back home--picked it up last night.  Haven't seen it in the daylight, so don't know how well they matched the paint.  Regardless, I'm thankful my husband wasn't compacted by the 18 wheeler that did three grand worth of damage to our new car.  Hopefully, come March when our premium period is over, I can be thankful for our insurance company NOT screwing us on devastatingly high new rates.  Cross your fingers.

Our boy is really opening up at Hapkido.  Getting to know the other people, learning to relate on a more grown-up, easy level.  He's having fun, he's learning, and he's coming to more openly relate to other people in social situations.  For that, I am very thankful--it's been a concern.

Speaking of being thankful where our boy is concerned, let me just say that, as we watch hubby's nephew do his level best to be a cautionary tale (you know, if you can't be a good example, be an excellent cautionary tale?), I am SO thankful that our boy isn't striving to be an utter waste like his cousin.  His cousin, which is super-sad because the kid really does have a sweet heart inside that homophobic, blustering, "look how cool I am" exterior.   Sounds harsh, I know, but the kid just turned 18 and is about to be a "daddy" for the THIRD time.  Smokes, dropped out of school, can't support the kids he already has (his mom has custody of one, the STATE has custody of the second), and, whoops!  Here comes a third!  An epic git by any estimation, and, by comparison, my boy is Einstein, Lincoln, Socrates, Isaac Newton, and Carl Sagan all rolled into one.  My boy's a good kid, but it sure does help to have the nephew around.  Keeps everything in perspective.

On a slightly snarky-seeming, yet absolutely sincere note?  I am indescribably happy that I will NEVER, EVER have to utter the words "President Romney."  Joy!

And finally?  I am thankful to have that family that, so often, drives me batty.  Doing the "phone call shuffle" may be a pain, but not being able to do it would be a whole lot worse.  Holidays were never very good with my family--too many fights, too many pitched emotions, too much stress in the air.  Some day, I'll tell a tale or two of Thanksgiving with my mom, of sneaking into the kitchen every few minutes to turn the oven down from the blistering 475 at which she thought a turkey must broil away to dust, only to have her stomp back out and crank that bugger back up.  Surreptitiously creeping to the oven to dump can after can of chicken broth into the pan in a desperate attempt to be spared another year of utterly flavorless, lumpy gravy.  Maybe not good times, and maybe long-distance makes it all easier, but my times, and funny in hindsight.

A couple of funny things--the first maybe not as funny as the second:

1) Went to the store last night to pick up some last-minute things for tonight's dinner.  Hubby whipped out the debit card to pay . . . and it was rejected.  DE-nied!  We knew we had sufficient funds, so we wound up going to the bank.  It was late, after hours, but hubby hoped it was a problem with the store's machines rather than our account.  No such luck.  Hitting the bank's site on his phone, hubby was informed that, by paying for the car repair with the debit card, we had "exceeded our daily transaction limit."  Good thing I had fifty bucks cash hanging out with the emergency kit, huh?  No, the irony of having a limit to how much of my own money I can spend hasn't escaped me.

2) For months, we've been giving Charlie, our Cairn Terrier, chunks of carrots.  Just a round of raw carrot while we're preparing julienne for pasta or whatever.  He runs around with them eagerly, parading about, really, then drops them at our feet.  All this time, we've assumed he just wanted to play fetch, and so we've picked up the carrot and thrown it.  He chases it down, brings it back, and drops it again.  A fun game, right?

Turns out he didn't want to play fetch.  No, he wanted us to break it up into smaller pieces for him so he could more easily chew it.  Yeah, don't we feel stupid?  Imagine how frustrating that must have been for him, bringing the carrots for help in eating and, instead, having us throw the things across the house each time.  Poor Charlie!

On a wildly unrelated note, if you've any familiarity with the cemetery at Old Frisco, Utah, please drop me a note.  I'm on something of a quest. 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!  Be safe, love, be loved, and enjoy!

Happy Birthday, Charlie!

Charlie.  Charles.  Chuckles.  Narles.  Charlula.  CharlieErmyArmyOomy.  If the measure of a thing's importance is the number of names you have for it, Charlie is very important to us, indeed.  And today?

Is Charlie's first birthday.

We couldn't just let it pass, of course.  It was good for a trip to Petsmart, where Charlie chose his own toy (a Purple Rhino which will, almost certainly, be toast within a half hour unless we closely supervise).  He was also gifted with a doggy birthday cake (good find by our son!), some dental chews, and a bag of Castor and Pollux grain-free ADULT dog food! 

On the down side, he growled and barked at another dog (who had, before he came in, growled and barked at ME), and later growled and barked at an employee, but it turned out he wasn't growling and barking at HER, but rather at the broom and dust bin she was working with.  Guess that's my payoff for (playfully) teasing him with the broom while sweeping the floors this morning.  Oops.

Short entry today--dinner's just about on, and it's already 10:30 at night. 

Happy Birthday, Charlie-dog!

Chuckles and his Birthday Rhino

My insurance broke my arm

My arm hurts. It hurts a lot. See, my insurance will only cover bloodwork from a place called LabCorp. So, instead of having the pre-operative CBC and BMP performed at the hospital that will be hosting my upcoming surgery (more on that later), I had to slog into some piss-smelling barnyard of a lab (think your average urban plasma donation center), where I was snapped at, forced to hand over credit card information, and then had my arm so mangled by the lab tech that I fear the vein won't be usable come the 13th.

Speaking of the 13th, that's the day the surgery is set for. We did the MRI five days ago, and it showed exactly squat. No mass. My "primary care physician's" office called to tell me that in a chipper, upbeat voice, but what, are we three? Does it matter if it shows on the MRI or no when we can FEEL it? When it shows on the ultrasound? That's not GOOD news, it's CRAP news, because any answers I'd hoped to get from the MRI weren't realized. So I blew 45 minutes of my life jammed in a drainpipe with my poor back screaming so they could find . . . bupkiss.

Had an EKG today, too. That's good. A ten second sample--like that tells them a damned thing about my heart. My heart didn't choose that particular ten seconds to start throwing out the frequent PVCs, so what? Like the MRI, does that mean they're not there?

We got a puppy. I don't know if I posted about that, I'm having a tough time keeping things straight in my head. We've had him for a week and a day now. He's a little Cairn Terrier (think Toto), and we got him from a backwoods breeder up in Maryland. Nice folks, seemed kindly, but with an edge. A lot of "praise the lords" and "Jesus sent you" stuff. Messianic Jews, doncha know? We didn't mention that, if the lord sent us, he's got a twisted sense of humor, considering our atheism. Nah--why mess about with folks' faith? If it makes them happy and isn't in my legislation, why bother? That they almost certainly wouldn't have given us the puppy was another consideration. We named our little guy Charlie, and, for as drooly, pukey, trembly, and pissy as he was when we got him home, he's blossomed into a great little dog. Sean is very happy, and so is Tommy. Me? He's a great puppy, but I agreed to this because I made a promise to Sean, and, if things go to hell, I need to have at least come through on that front.

Forgive the typos. I'll read through later and correct. I'm tired, and it's grocery shopping time. Wish us luck on the housebreaking front, huh?