It Only Takes One to Ruin a Day, and I Got TWO!

So, we spent Saturday at Shenandoah National Park.  It was one of the "freebie National Parks" days, and it seemed a damned shame to waste it.  Yes, we knew the shutdown was looming.  Yes, we were hesitant to blow the gas. Yes, we felt confident that this time those crazy wingnuts would do it (last chance to derail the ACA before Americans realize they LIKE it).  It was like a last great act of defiance before the shutdown.

Before my doctor's appointment for the still-growing mass in my arm.

The park hasn't really exploded with color yet, but we were still able to see some very nice sights:

Nice, huh?  Sadly, we'd brought along our astronomy binoculars in hopes of showing our boy what a sky not littered with light pollution looks like.  The weather reports had all called for clear skies . . . until the day before.  As you can see, the skies were anything but clear--in fact, a few mountain tops had us driving through clouds.  We waited around until after 9 pm, then gave it up.  Of course, about the time we got home was when the stars starting twinkling above.

Figures.

Had the day half-ruined by a couple of cruel bastards at the Skyland Dining Room, where we'd stopped for a potty break.  Two guys in crappy, eye-burning, sexually ambiguous leathers took one look at me walking towards them and I saw the look pass between them.  I knew it was coming, but once you're in their sights, there's really not a lot you can do to save yourself.  You can't very well run, and my cloaking device seems to be faulty.  You keep your eyes down and you keep walking, hoping they'll keep their cruelty to themselves until you're out of earshot.

They so rarely do.  They didn't this time.

They had been discussing nutrition, specifically complex carbohydrates.  As I walked by, one of them sneered, "And there's a big one who could use fewer complex carbohydrates."

I did what I do anymore--I don't slink off to sob alone like I used to years ago.  I whirled on the spot and shouted . . . well, rhymes with "floopid bucking shunts."  They, of course, scurried off because that's what that sort of coward does.  They COUNT on women like me to be too hurt and too shamed to fight back.

Make no mistake.  I cried myself stupid once I was back in the car.  Hubby apologized for not hanging back to defend me, said he thought something like that might happen, that they "had that look."  Yes, it does beg the question, "If you thought they had that look, if you thought something like that might happen, why DIDN'T you hang back?"  But it doesn't pay to go there, it's done, and I'm sure he wishes he had.  No telling if it would have stopped them or not.  Often, it does, but not always.

Anyway, I snapped pictures of the bastards on their "my weenie is teeny" crotch rockets.  Not great pictures, they were in motion, but good enough that, if you know them, you'll know them.  If you know what I mean.  So here they are--if you know two mean-spirited cowards who're given to abusing women they don't even know and were in Shenandoah on September 28th, give them a big, toothy smile for me.  Let them know that the fat chick they reduced to tears?  The one whose day was shot, who left off an enthusiastic day of picture taking and hiking about with her family and instead leaned listlessly against the car window and silently cried?  Doesn't forgive them.  Not now, not ever.  I hope they get so busy snickering at other people that they fail to negotiate a curve and wind up sailing into space, leaving nothing behind but a grease smear on the rocks below.

What, were you expecting some big-hearted spiel on forgiveness and the capacity of the human spirit to find good in all people?  Yeah, that's usually me, but when it comes to cruel puke splashes who get their jollies off devastating perfect strangers because of their physical appearance?

Not an ounce of forgiveness.  You made me cry in front of my teenage son.  My son, who reached up from the back seat, put a hand on my shoulder, and said "I love you."  You ruined my day, you made me, in one snotty crack, forget that I weigh 115 pounds less than I did two years ago.  You wounded me, you took the joy out of all of it, and you did it for a cheap laugh.  You suck, and I wish you at least the hurt you've caused me.

More, if fate is kind to me.  And fair to you.

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Not going to talk about the shut down.  Knew it was coming, knew that those crazy terrorists would throw us all under the bus rather than allow the LAW to be implemented.  Speaking of wishing for them all they've visited upon me, you know?  

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I've started writing down stories and the like for our boy.  I keep chewing at my mom to please write things down, memories, stories, events.  Even bought her a diary for that purpose.  And nothing.  But it occurs, that I haven't done nearly as a good a job with that as I could with my own child.  So I'm writing it down.  So often, I feel I've shifted into short-time.  Like there just isn't enough left.

Stones, Stones, Who Took His Stones?

"Well, I think the election changes that. It's pretty clear that the President was reelected. Obamacare is the law of the land." 

-- Speaker John Boehner, in an ABC News interview on November 8, 2012, on whether he would still try to repeal the health care law.

Congressional Battering and a Lesson in Fear

Today, I had the talk with our son.  You know, the "honey, because of those cruel, petty asshats in DC playing politics with our lives, your daddy may be out of work next week" talk.  The talk that details the things that will immediately fall by the wayside.  Like cable TV.  Like the paintball Zombie-fest he's been looking forward to since March.  Like the strings for his electric guitar and the new cord to stop that crazy buzzing.

Like his beloved Hapkido classes that represent the only real "in person" interaction he gets with other kids his age. It's three nights a week he gets to hang out and learn and grow with other kids.

And it is OUTTA HERE if those mean, politicking monsters in Congress keep it up.

Explaining to him that, unlike the last time this happened, these bastards almost certainly won't reimburse the families they're devastating.

And make no mistake--they are threatening to devastate us.  It's his first lesson in what happens when bills don't get paid.  How they don't just scoot forward a month, but they become overdue, compounded with fees and fines and penalty interest rates, then lumped into the next month's bill, which is still due.  Things don't get pushed back, they get piled up.  And then the vicious tide of endless calls from creditors starts.  The three, four, five calls a day per creditor.  And each time they pretend they don't know you've already called, already explained.

Already begged.

We are working so hard to drag ourselves up and out of debt.  This will be the end of us, financially.  There will be no recovering from this.

Add that that my looming medical appointments for the large, growing mass in my forearm.  Oh, the copays.  Not just the 35 bucks a pop for doctor's visits, but the fifty+ for the MRI, the 100+ per hospital, etc.  Like having a possible sarcoma growing in my arm wasn't enough, the Republican Party has to trap us under their boot and gleefully threaten to twist that heel.

And it is gleeful.  Don't you DARE tell me otherwise, I read their words, I see their satisfied little smirks.  What happened to public service?  They're not serving anyone but themselves and their corporate masters.

And here's the truly bitter part: any one of them could fix our financial woes in a second. They have that kind of money.  They could just say, "Oh, shoot, 15 grand is all you need to be solvent? Here you go."  But that would be welfare.  That would be wrong.  Bootstraps and all that crap.  Except they're looking to slash those bootstraps and then, once again, castigate us for not being able to save ourselves when they've taken away our only means of salvation.  We are trying, we are paying things down and paying things off, but it's going take about two years to get it all done.  Unless they shut down the government.

Then it won't ever happen.

And all of this over a program the American People have already weighed in on.  They did--they VOTED FOR BARACK OBAMA!  Seriously, what do these bastards think that meant?   They ran their boy Mitt on a platform of killing Affordable Care, and they LOST.  They LOST, and yet they keep terrorizing Americans in attempt after attempt to  . . . unlose?

I know what they're trying to do.  They hope that, if they can make things as painful and miserable and bloody as possible for folks like us, we'll throw our sad, terrified hands in the air and say "Fine! Defund Obamacare, just please, please don't sink my family!"  They know that, given enough fear and hurt, we'll eventually buckle under and throw our fellow Americans under the bus to save our own families.

According to one nutty windbag down in Texas, if the American people get a taste of affordable care, they'll be "hooked."

"Hooked" on affordable health care for everyone.  Oh, the horror!

The stress kills.  They say that it shortens your life and opens you up to all sorts of awful ailments. From obesity to cancer, there's a stress link.  So it's not much of a stretch to say that the Republicans in Congress are attempting to murder me.

This is terrorism.  There's no other word for it.  Every few months, they come at us with threats of shutdowns and furloughs and slashing of services, using us and our lives as game pieces, bargaining chips.  And each time, the constant, thrumming adrenaline, the panic, the insomnia, the tears.  It's terrorism, plain and simple.

Congressional Republicans are terrorists.  They're why Guantanamo Bay needs to stay open for business.

Family History Fraught with Grief

I've been doing the family history gig a bit lately.  It hurts me that I know so little about my parents' families, and I don't want my boy's kids to feel the same way about me, so I've been telling him stories, plus gathering information about my family for him.

If you've been hanging around for a while, you know that it's not easy getting truthful stories out of my Mom.  It's not that she's malicious, but rather that she's an odd blend of fanciful and forgetful, with a need to seem interesting, to have her life appear exciting.  It makes for unreliable tales.

But it's more than that.  I'm not sure what was going on with my Mom's family, but those people, including her, were so emotionally disconnected.  I have a few generic stories from her childhood, but nothing meaty, nothing that seems sincerely personal.  Even the tale of her firstborn, illegitimate and given up for adoption, smacks of untruth.  The details change, the story shifts, and I have no way of knowing--do I really have an older brother out there?

Today, I was talking to my Dad.  I had come across a story online about my Grandfather (his Dad), and I hadn't ever known.  It turns out my Grandpa and his younger sister spent time in an orphanage after coming to the States from Italy.  Their father had died, and their mother couldn't take care of them.  She was able to take them back after a time, but the idea of them being left in an orphanage because their widowed mother couldn't afford to feed them?

Sure does bring the whole Food Stamp debate home, doesn't it?  If those are the "good ol' days," I don't want 'em.

The conversation wandered from my Grandpa to his wife, my Grandma.  Her family was from Ireland, and her father died in prison.  I'd known that, known that he was locked away and died there.  What I didn't know?

Why he was locked up.  It turns out he'd sexually assaulted his daughter.  My Grandma.  The trial was hell on her, involved being examined in the courtroom for signs of "violation."

Suddenly her abusiveness and lifelong alcoholism make sense.

Upon reflection, I realize these are awful stories.  Orphanages and molesting fathers and dying in prison and grandmas drinking themselves to death and possibly make-believe siblings.  And I think maybe there's a good reason I was lacking family stories as a child.  And that begs the question:  do I share this stuff with my son?

I think the answer is "absolutely."  If nothing else, it gives him a solid understanding of how, exactly, the "good ol' days" weren't really all that good, and people we love can be pretty solidly flawed.  And we can love them anyway.

Except for Great-Grandpa Joe, the child molester.  I don't think we love him.

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On the subject of family history and memories, I'm feeling weirdly short of time.  Having a growing lump in the soft tissue of your arm does that, I guess.  The blood sugar issues don't help.  I want to sit down with our boy and start labeling photos.  We have so many photos that aren't labeled, and I know just how frustrating that is to, years later, come across pictures from mom, dad, grandparents, etc., and not know who is in the picture.  So I need to get on that.  It's important.

Thirty-some-odd women in this picture, and I know who exactly ONE of them is.  

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Impending government shut down.  Next month can either rock our world (in a good way) or devastate us.  We have no savings.  I have looming medical appointments that may well turn tragic (or not).  Hubby is EITHER looking at the first overtime pay we've had in two years OR being put out of work by those greedy, grubby, scuzzy wingnuts in Washington.  Either we'll finally be able to breathe again OR we'll be utterly toast.  And NOTHING I do will in any way influence the outcome.  

And that is SO hard for me.

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Speaking of those asshats in Congress, here's Bernie Sanders giving a good review of what, exactly, it is those creatures are up to:



Yeah, that's about all the politics I have for tonight.  Too pitched and stressed to really get into it.

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I've run across a gang of really crappy baby names lately--happens when you're trolling the obituaries for fellow high school alumni.  Names that make me want to scream.

Names like Wonzie LaShae and Tru-Jake.  And Apathy-Ann.

Yes, Apathy-Ann.  

Say it with me, would you?  THAT'S NOT A NAME!

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Oh, and a quick note to the guy who found my husband's iPod in the gym at the office in town? Thank you.  My husband was devastated, he has 60+ gig of music on that thing (every bit of it paid for over the years, thank-you-very-much), and replacing it is out of the question right now.  He was very sad, and I was terribly sad for him.  Much like my iPad (which I won in a contest), if it breaks or is stolen, that's it--it's not going to be replaced.  So thank you for returning it.  It means a lot.

Baggers Push to Shut Down the Government--take SEVEN

What a fool I've been.  I actually thought that maybe John Boehner would not be our Silly Putty Speaker this time out.  I actually thought that he might be something other than the obstructionist, mean-spirited, easily-manipulated, utter TOOL that he has been since--well, since he took national public office.  I actually thought he might have something vaguely resembling stones and stand up to the BS from the ratty Bagger contingent.

Oh, what an IDIOT I am!  I'm expecting this man to grow stones and a backbone when that would require some vestigial bit of humanity from which to work.  Can't sprout human parts from a squid.

Or a sponge.

So the right keeps trying to defund "Obamacare," even though it WORKS, even though it will cost folks LESS, even though it is MORE efficient AND provides poor people with insurance.

EVEN THOUGH MOST OF THE IDEAS BEHIND "OBAMACARE" COME FROM THE RIGHT.

Yes, they'll keep doing this until they can kill the program--not because it's a bad program, not because they have anything better (or anything at ALL, even) to offer up in its place, but because it came from the Black guy, and they hate the Black guy.

So, once again, my family is facing that cliff.  I have a growing lump in my arm, we have NO savings, we're scrabbling to pull ourselves back from that edge, and here's John-Stinking-Bendover-Boehner, looking to shut down the government and put my husband out of work (and my family out of food, rent, and medical care) because he's the mouthpiece for the petty, stupid, selfish, corporately-sponsored right.  The Mike Lees of the world.  You can't imagine the horror of knowing that even leaving that pit of a state 2,000+ miles behind hasn't saved me from Utah's Mike Lee.

The immaturity and stupid, lumbering slyness of the right is scary enough.  That there are enough people in this country stupid enough to fall for the slick mega-corporation money that funds their campaigns (money flooding in from industries looking to buy representation) is even scarier.  We are a nation packed with people who think that a 30 second campaign commercial teaches us all we need to know, and THAT is terrifying.  At the very most, that 30 second advert should be the jumping off point for major research.  But no--we're too dull-witted to think things out for ourselves.  We let the NRA, the oil lobby, and polished, manipulative political advertising feed us our ideas and then we vote just like we've been told to.

Is it any wonder the right is so often behind efforts to cut educational funding?  Hell, in Utah, there's a wingnut effort to end compulsory education.  Why?  Because stupid people are easier to manipulate with slick ads.

We scare the hell out of me.  Idiocracy, indeed.

So, deficit's down (and it was never the emergency they painted it, anyway), jobs are up, healthcare costs are down, and Boehner and his sneering crew of self-satisfied, petty corporate puppets are, now and forever, it seems, up to their scuzzy tricks.  As a result, we're looking at five days before these asshats try, once again, to shut down the government unless "Obamacare" is scrapped.  And even if we get through this, there's the debt ceiling "talks" looming, where they can do this to us all over again.

I can't think of things bad enough to live up to what they deserve.  I wish them every unhappiness.

Nonnies and Art

I am a strong advocate for breastfeeding mothers and the babies who so need to be nursed.  I am a strong opponent of formula companies, who manipulate, throw money at doctors and hospitals, and all around do whatever they can to turn a buck, even though doing so is absolutely harmful to babies.  Formula was created for emergency situations when no real baby milk was available.  Formula companies then went on a rampage, a campaign to create as many "ohhh, baby can't nurse, let's make money" situations as possible.  Which is why such ridiculous things as "baby's allergic to mother's milk" (barring galactosemia, which is very rare, that's just not true), "baby isn't thriving" (formula companies create the growth charts that show the naturally slower growth of breastfed babies as "failure to thrive"), and "mom's just not making enough milk" (breastfeeding is supply and demand--give formula, and milk supply goes DOWN) have become common to our society.

To learn more about common breastfeeding myths, click below:

Before you think I'm downing women who don't breastfeed, think again.  I'm downing a medical establishment that gives women crappy information, a formula industry that absolutely misleads the public, and a society that has so sexualized and objectified women's breasts that using them to feed babies is considered nothing short of scandalous.  As someone who has both held a bottle and breastfed a baby, the difference is clear and deep.  I don't despise women who've missed out on that--my heart breaks for them.  I wish the doctors, the nurses, their families, their friends, and their community had risen up in support with accurate information and helped them to put those formula companies back where they belong--providing emergency sustenance for babies who have no other options (even donor milk).

No one I knew (hubby aside, of course) was particularly supportive when I decided to breastfeed.  I knew it was something I would do because it's the normal, healthy, natural way to feed a baby, and nothing else begins to compare.  I wanted to do what was right for my child.  Period.  It's not that "breast is best."  It's that "breast is normal, natural, and healthy."  Formula is none of those things.

When I first started nursing, it was tough.  I'd had an emergency c-section (after almost two days labor), and things went downhill from there.  We managed to take care of latch issues in the hospital, but then my incision ruptured, and then I wound up in the ER with a pulmonary embolism.  Practical upshot?  Pump and dump for a week because of the radioactive isotope used for the lung perfusion.  Getting back to nursing after a week of artificial nipples that early on?

That was tough.

Yes, I had pumped around the clock to keep my supply up, but I had a cheap, nipple-thrashing grocery store pump (these days, my insurance would cover a GOOD breast pump AND a lactation consultant, THANK YOU, PRESIDENT OBAMA!), and wound up pumping milk PINK with blood by the end of the week.  My nipples were cracked and miserable, and the pain when I finally was able to put my boy back to the breast was indescribable.  Think lemon juice and sandpaper.  On personal spots.

While this was going on?  My mother, who had steadfastly refused to lend me the 40 bucks for a good manual pump (an Advent Isis), piped up with an eager offer to pay for formula, telling me I'd tried so hard but it was okay, that I could stop trying.  I'm sure that my sister's failure to nurse had nothing at all to do with Ma's gleeful offers to supply us with formula.  

And my sister?  Lots of outward, "Oh, hey, cool, mmm-hmm" and a lot of snide, utterly unsupportive stuff around the edges (like spending every Sunday breakfast going on and on about how disgusting her mother-in-law was for nursing past one year).  But hey, she failed, she knew she'd failed, she failed for a crappy reason (not wanting to give up her caffeinated sodas), and she knew it.  That she even tried to act supportive is something.  I think she wanted to be supportive even if she didn't feel it.

My husband's family?

Mmmm.

Let's just say that the overwhelming opinion there was "ew."  Yes, "ew."  It's one thing to be ill-informed and make mistakes because of it--we all do that.  But to strenuously defend your ignorance in the face of overwhelming evidence?  Well, there's a word for that.  A bunch of them, in fact.  Like they say, when you KNOW better, you DO better.

Or you just pretend you don't know better.  You pretend better is gross.

One night, hubby went over to his sister's for some family thing or another.  I was still recovering from the blown c-section incision, so I was home.  My father-in-law was dawdling our boy on his knee, bouncing about, when up came a bit of blat.  Father-in-law laughed, said, "Oh, I've been spat up on by a whole lot of babies in my time--it's just formula!"  Hubby grinned and said, "That's breastmilk."

Father-in-law nearly dropped our boy in his disgusted rush to get it off him.

That was my support system.  People who didn't care, people who wanted me to fail for weird "family politics" reasons, and people who were disgusted by breastfeeding.

I did it anyway.

While we're on the subject of breastfeeding, if you ever find yourself, for any reason, feeling the need to throw out some insult that describes women who nurse (and shame on you for that)?  Don't make it "nipple Nazi," okay?  One, it's stupid, and two?

It's too soon.  I think it's always going to be too soon to compare a maniacal freak who oversaw the murder of millions to ANYONE who isn't also overseeing genocide.  Okay?

Thanks.

Talked to my Dad today.  I do enjoy talking to him, it's fun, and it's interesting.  We talked about a lot of things, our conversations always range over a broad array of topics.  Our politics sometimes merge, often don't, but we're good at staying out of the hairy stuff.  Not sure why that's so hard for some folks.  Today, we talked about my Mom's car accident and how my Dad, who was busy helping run a military base in Saudi Arabia, had to get himself smuggled out of the region because, same day my Mom was broadsided by a drunken teen, Israel and Egypt went at each other.  It took almost two weeks for him to get back to the States, and it involved him sometimes having to pretend to be things he wasn't.  Very cloak-and-dagger/action-adventure.

We also talked about playing guitar, and how the both of us had tried so hard at different times to learn, but just don't have it in us.  Then he said, "I've still got this damned electric acoustic here--I'm about to drag it to Goodwill."  Without even thinking, I said, "Whoa, are you serious?  Send it here for my boy!"

Bad form, I know.  It was out of my mouth before I knew it.  But my boy would LOVE to have an electric acoustic, and it's out of our range.  My Dad didn't say what kind this is, but he said it ran him around 400 bucks a few years ago, so it's probably a nice enough instrument. He says he's going to look into packing it up with UPS and shipping it.  Thank you, Dad.  Sorry I'm such a slob.

We also discussed a statue he just bought of the Capitoline Wolf suckling Remus and Romulus (speaking of breastfeeding, huh?).  Apparently, he had a version when he and my Mom were married, but has no idea what became of it.  I don't think I remember it.  I might, there's a tickle there, but nothing I can grab.  

This is exactly the piece my Dad purchased

We also discussed a pair of large-ish (maybe 3x2) paintings he and my Mom purchased in Europe back in the early 60s.  One of a hill beyond a swamp, with a fence post and some grasses, the other of a windmill on a hillside.  These painting are a big part of my childhood, I loved them even though I have no clue what they REALLY looked like--years of heavy smoking made them markedly darker and more morose-seeming than they likely really were.  Sadly, flood after flood in my Mom's basement left the swamp picture, ironically, water damaged and, eventually, molding.  We left the poor, molding swamp pic in Utah, but we brought the other with us.  The artist's name, my Dad says, was Wolfgang Stau.  He was the "company artist" when my Dad was stationed . . . somewhere in Europe, I've forgotten.

I have no doubt that, cleaned, the colors would be much more vibrant

Someday, I'll have the money to have this painting repaired and framed.  Until then, it hangs in my husband's office.  We love it.

And that's about it for today.  I really don't have much political or otherwise to say (well, there is Utah kicking around letting folks carry concealed WITHOUT a permit, but jeez, only so much I can type in one sitting).  So that's it--I hope y'all are having a wonderful day, and I hope tomorrow is even better.

Cross your fingers those fools on the hill get a budget going before they put my husband out of work with a shutdown, huh?  A budget that doesn't include the petty, pissy, childish "full repeal of OBAMACARE" BS.

And there.  There's the politics.  G'night!

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

Melvin, Banksy, and Government Shutdowns

Well, today was Mourning Locket day.  I spent a couple of hours cruising various antique/vintage sites, hoping.  Of course, the real fear here is that I WILL find it, and won't be able to afford it.  Mourning lockets have become quite popular, and pieces that used to go for a hundred or two are now going for a grand or more.  I don't know what I'll do if I find it and can't swing it, cash-wise.

I think that might be worse than never finding it.

I was reminded yesterday of Melvin Dummar and the bad ol' days of Margaret and her repeated ditching of her son on me and Lynda.  Of the terrifying time when Taylor, Meg's then two year-old son, escaped the apartment and went on walkabout at six in the morning.  Pulled his Tonka truck up to the door, worried that deadbolt open, and off he went, Lynda's keys in hand.

What's that got to do with Melvin Dummar?

Well, his parents, Arnold and Chloe, were our landlord and landlady.  And Chloe was sitting on the front porch, watching Taylor make his way down the walk, out to the car, and eventually off down the street to who-knows-where.  When we burst out the basement door, screaming Taylor's name, Chloe looked the other way, as if we weren't even there.  When asked point-blank if she'd seen a two year old wandering off alone, she said, "I saw him--he tried to get into the car but couldn't work the keys, then he walked off down the street."  She pointed off vaguely to the west, then went back to whatever it was she was doing.  I asked, "Wait--and you didn't stop him?"

She looked back at me, rather smugly, and said, "You didn't tell us you had a baby staying with you.  So I had no way of knowing I was supposed to stop him."

Why yes, it was difficult to refrain from smacking her.  How'd you guess?

And THAT is why hearing someone talk about Melvin Dummar (of Melvin and Howard fame, if you're unaware) reminded me of losing Taylor that morning.  

In case you're wondering, we found him.  We ran like I hadn't ran in years--the kind of running where your arms pump and you seem to be nearly flying.  Around the corner, just in time to see the cop car pulling up to a house.  We arrived, winded and panicked.  The woman who'd found him tried very hard to convince the cop to take him from us ("his diaper's loaded!  He's barely dressed!") but, thankfully, the cop recognized that a baby who's escaped his crib at six in the morning is likely to have a loaded diaper and few clothes on.

Now Arnold and Chloe weren't all bad.  Arnold was . . . eccentric and had some really grand ideas and wishes.  Had he lived just 20 years later, he'd have been a millionaire, but without computers, fancy printers, graphics, and an internet to work with, he was limited to bad copy-shop cuts and pastes and huge ideas.  He believed himself grander than he was, but at his heart he seemed very kind.  Chloe?  Harder to peg.  Tired.  Sad.  Resolute.  Not much joy there.  Both of them sickly, their house cluttered and full of towering, teetering stacks of old newspapers and magazines, antique sewing machines and paths carved into the mountains of hoarded things.  It wasn't dirty, there were no roaches or anything awful.  It was just full--more stuff than room, two old folks not wanting to let go of anything.  They've both long passed on, but I count myself lucky having the stories that go with living in their basement.  They were, above all else, colorful.

And Melvin?  Yes, he came by now and then.  Best I leave it at that.

But maybe someday I'll tell you about Arnold's handyman electrical work in our apartment.  And how we went all winter with no heat because we feared his handiwork would kill us.

Oh, and just in case you don't know, this is Howard Hughes.

A fascinating story came across my feed today.  About Banksy and his graffiti.  About people who feel it's a "gift to the community" and get very upset when it's removed and sold.  About the battle between what is "art" and what is "vandalism" and who gets to make that call.  And, ultimately, about who owns something someone spray paints on the side of someone else's property.

An example of a "Banksy."  This one's gone, was painted
on private property and painted over pretty quickly

To me?  Depends--is it graffiti, done without the building owner's consent?  That makes it vandalism, so I see no problem allowing the building owner to make money off the defacing of his building.  That it's pretty vandalism doesn't make a difference.  If Banksy (or the towns where he paints) doesn't want his graffiti sold, Banksy needs to stop spraying it on buildings without permission from the owners.  Apparently, there are plenty of Brits who would be thrilled to have Banksy spray paint their buildings.  Let them offer up their properties, and then we have no more problems. 

That's my spin.  I know there are those who'll cry, "But look how ugly that building was!"  Yeah--you know, I had a friend who bought an old house in a struggling, formerly glorious area.  A lot of beautiful but terribly run-down architecture.  She and her husband painstakingly restored that house, then painted it in a garish array of neon colors--purples and oranges and greens and pinks.  They thought it was beautiful.  Most folks thought it was an eyesore.  But bottom line, it was their house.  Had they done that to a neighbor's house without permission?  That's vandalism.  And had someone painted over their house to hide the gaudy colors and make it more  pleasing to their own eye?  That's vandalism, too.  Just because you think something's pretty (or ugly) doesn't mean you get to impose that idea with a can of spray paint on someone else's property.

Was reading the Standard this morning, the story of my friend's son and the achievement of his black belt. Loved reading about him, but, sadly, the piece was very poorly written.  Made me wish I could go in and rewrite it the same way I went in and recreated a Facebook meme for Politics with Jarred and Dave yesterday. 

Speaking of which, is it just no longer a "thing" to thank people for their help?  The meme, about Antonin Scalia, came across my wall, and the misspellings and typos were breathtaking.  Embarrassing.  So I pasted the thing into Photoshop, cloned out the type, and rewrote it, sans the mistakes.  I then sent it to them with a, "that's better" sort of note (I had already told them I planned to do it).  The response?  A terse, "I don't understand what your point is." 

Wow!  Okay. Didn't stop them from pulling down the horrid mess they had up (actually misspelled Scalia's name, along with a few other words) and putting mine up.  Without a word of thanks.  I don't require public recognition, but a private thanks is always nice.  Wendy/Rebecca didn't get that, either.  Took public credit for my legwork, gave no acknowledgement to me, privately or otherwise, and then called ME an egomaniac when I said, "You're welcome."  As far as I'm concerned, the egomania comes with taking credit for someone else's work, telling people you did the research when, in fact, someone else did it for you, and then freaking out and hurling insults when called on it. In private, of course--can't have your 12 adoring fans thinking you're a shrew, can you?

I often bemoan my son's "finely developed sense of justice," but I know where he gets it from.  It really does drive me batty when people are unfair or project their own shortcomings on others.

What can I say?  People amaze me.  And not in a good way, most times.

Anyway, I'll let it slide--it's not that important, and I did choose to undertake the task.  And, thanked or no, I feel better that the version with such gems as "Scallia," "furture," and "entitelment"  isn't still out there. 

Reading about sequestration, and, worse, the impending government shut-down.  Those bastards have one month to decide whether or not they're going to destroy my family by putting my husband out of work for days or weeks.  I don't see how we can recover from something like that. They've already decided that they want the sequestration because they believe it will harm our President.  But the shut down?  Here's the rub--if they DON'T get the sequestration, I fully expect them, out of spite for losing that one, to gleefully push us into a shutdown.  Just to get even. 

Never mind that shutdowns are devastatingly expensive in the long run (because all that work piles up, and when the shut down ends, it needs to be done, and the getting done requires huge amounts of overtime).  Never mind the services that, quite literally, SHUT DOWN.  Need a passport?  Need MEAT at the grocery store?  Need a Social Security card?  Tough, nobody's home.  Never mind the millions a day mass-transit providers lose, never mind the small businesses that depend upon federal workers to keep them going day in and day out (think about it--everything from print shops to coffee shops to restaurants to cabbies).  They don't care--shut down doesn't hurt their big oil buddies and the like, and that's all that matters to them. Making a crappy point on the backs of working folks?

Well, that's just tradition, son.  Who cares if it makes us a laughingstock? 

And here's how it will go--the democrats will cave because they DO care.  They DO care if millions are put out of work, if people are stranded and devastated.  They care.  The right doesn't.  And so, by necessity, the Democrats will blink first because they'd rather have a crappy deal where SOME folks don't suffer than no deal where ALL folks suffer. 

Well, all but the really rich ones.  Which is what this is all about anyway.

Same as it's ever was.

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