I am from the green banks of Ireland,
from kettles filled with 'taters
and Celtic blues sung softly to the stars.
I am from the cabins of Virginia settlers,
folks who ventured to a new world
with only a Bible and a banjo.
I am from mothers with fey dreams
who know you're dying long before you do,
and from fathers who drink first,
fight later, and leave bloody prints
on the shores of their wives' beaches.
I am from a reverend who owned
whore houses and from grandparents
who set the West Virginia woods afire
while they made love.
I am from Mother Mary and the Mother Goddess
and Jesus Christ on a stick. I'm from the Shenandoah,
the slow-moving creek, oak trees and blackberries,
peaches and wine.
I am from the fires of World Wars and from spindles
that made thread, and needles that wheedled
thread into cloth that shone like gold.
From all this and more, am I; I am from black dresses,
red hair, cancers and heartache, from tombstones
and graves and moonshine whiskey
made from copper pipes.
My line stops with me; my womb yawns
like an empty cavern, barren and fruitless,
nothing will come forth to let another know
the necessity of the past,
to make it her own, to say to her,
"This is where you're from."
The template for this poem can be found here; the original poem that inspired the template can be found here. I read a poem on someone's blog from the template some time ago, but it's been such a while the blog has been removed and I don't know where that person got it from originally.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Gun Show
We made an unexpected trip to the gun show at the Salem Civic Center this morning.
My husband I think expected to go; he just forgot to tell me until the last minute.
Gun shows are ... different. I have been to three now, all since 9/11/2001. They are not places one would expect to find me, and they are not places I would go on my own.
The first show after 9/11 was very intense. People were grim and angry, downright hostile. Lots of stuff on display about "protecting our own" and similar sentiments.
The show today was more relaxed. It is still a right-wing rednecked party, but I didn't feel like the entire place was hunting for bear.
At gun shows you see lots of guns. Guns can be pretty, if you forget that they kill stuff. The stocks especially can be very beautiful. My husband prefers the wood stocks, and they are indeed very lovely pieces of wood.
You also see a lot of Dixie items - Confederate flags, for example. Also I saw swords of various sizes, which always fascinate me. A great sword is *incredibly* heavy. Even a short sword has a lot of heft to it. My wrists certainly wouldn't hold up long if I had to carry one.
Additionally, there are aisles of mace and pepper spray, tasers, camouflage clothing, coins, bullets, vests, pistols, pistol carriers for concealed weapons, things like that.
The crowd consisted of mostly (white) men, and they looked like a sea of baseball caps spread out among the show floor. A few very burly men with tattoos (they were rather scary-looking) paced up and down the aisles. Maybe they were some kind of security but they looked like bikers.
The one thing that caught my attention was the stereotype the gun show pushed. Many of the items sold seemed to be targeted at the kind of folks who epitomize Jeff Foxworthy's humor.
Not much room at a gun show for someone who reads poetry, I must say. Although I think there is a sort of poetry in gun shows ...
The Gun Show
The Civil War, fought 100 years ago
lives strong and the Rebel Flag flies
at the gun show.
Men with chew in their jaws pace the aisles
eyes intent on their target.
A Remington, a Winchester, a Marlin.
The guns, sleek and smooth, barrels straight
await a proper aim
and a touch on the trigger.
Money changes hands and guns march off
with hunters, bandits, police officers,
women, mothers, children.
The hum of the mechanics of capitalism,
the sounds of doing business,
the death exchange.
Needs work, that poem. Ah well.
My husband I think expected to go; he just forgot to tell me until the last minute.
Gun shows are ... different. I have been to three now, all since 9/11/2001. They are not places one would expect to find me, and they are not places I would go on my own.
The first show after 9/11 was very intense. People were grim and angry, downright hostile. Lots of stuff on display about "protecting our own" and similar sentiments.
The show today was more relaxed. It is still a right-wing rednecked party, but I didn't feel like the entire place was hunting for bear.
At gun shows you see lots of guns. Guns can be pretty, if you forget that they kill stuff. The stocks especially can be very beautiful. My husband prefers the wood stocks, and they are indeed very lovely pieces of wood.
You also see a lot of Dixie items - Confederate flags, for example. Also I saw swords of various sizes, which always fascinate me. A great sword is *incredibly* heavy. Even a short sword has a lot of heft to it. My wrists certainly wouldn't hold up long if I had to carry one.
Additionally, there are aisles of mace and pepper spray, tasers, camouflage clothing, coins, bullets, vests, pistols, pistol carriers for concealed weapons, things like that.
The crowd consisted of mostly (white) men, and they looked like a sea of baseball caps spread out among the show floor. A few very burly men with tattoos (they were rather scary-looking) paced up and down the aisles. Maybe they were some kind of security but they looked like bikers.
The one thing that caught my attention was the stereotype the gun show pushed. Many of the items sold seemed to be targeted at the kind of folks who epitomize Jeff Foxworthy's humor.
Not much room at a gun show for someone who reads poetry, I must say. Although I think there is a sort of poetry in gun shows ...
The Gun Show
The Civil War, fought 100 years ago
lives strong and the Rebel Flag flies
at the gun show.
Men with chew in their jaws pace the aisles
eyes intent on their target.
A Remington, a Winchester, a Marlin.
The guns, sleek and smooth, barrels straight
await a proper aim
and a touch on the trigger.
Money changes hands and guns march off
with hunters, bandits, police officers,
women, mothers, children.
The hum of the mechanics of capitalism,
the sounds of doing business,
the death exchange.
Needs work, that poem. Ah well.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Books: Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman
Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman
By Elizabeth Buchan
Copyright 2002
Unabridged Audiobook
Read by Jean Gilpin
Rose has everything - two lovely grown adult children, a nice husband, a good job as a book editor at the same newspaper her husband works for.
Then bam. Nathan falls in love with Minty, Rose's assistant. He has to leave her and go sow his oats.
Poor Rose. Two days later, she loses her job because, well, it's the good ol' boy network and all that.
After a long struggle, she lands on her feet, life not the same but basically intact.
This book is set in Britain and I always enjoy listening to the British accents.
A nice way to pass the time whilst driving.
3 stars
By Elizabeth Buchan
Copyright 2002
Unabridged Audiobook
Read by Jean Gilpin
Rose has everything - two lovely grown adult children, a nice husband, a good job as a book editor at the same newspaper her husband works for.
Then bam. Nathan falls in love with Minty, Rose's assistant. He has to leave her and go sow his oats.
Poor Rose. Two days later, she loses her job because, well, it's the good ol' boy network and all that.
After a long struggle, she lands on her feet, life not the same but basically intact.
This book is set in Britain and I always enjoy listening to the British accents.
A nice way to pass the time whilst driving.
3 stars
The Smoking Toilet
Unfortunately for me on a recent evening, my husband ate something that disagreed with him. When he finished taking care of business, the bathroom smelled less like a petunia and more like some demon from hell died in there.
I sprayed Lysol. I proceeded to spray it on and all around the toilet bowl, including on the lid and the rim.
I left the room, but didn't get very far. "Maybe I should just clean the toilet," I thought.
I grabbed a bottle of The Works toilet bowl cleaner. I squished the middle of the bottle, sending the stuff cascading under the rim and down into the water.
Within seconds smoke began to rise from the rim of the toilet and from the water, everywhere there was Lysol and The Works running together.
I immediately realized I had mixed chemicals. This is a dangerous (and very stupid) thing to do. I grabbed the toilet brush and began flushing, using water to dilute things. I also tried not to breathe the fumes, although I am sure I did.
These are pretty volatile chemicals, and I sheepishly went to my husband to tell him what I'd done.
This is because we have a septic tank and I was afraid the thing might blow up from the mixture.
However, nothing like that happened, so no harm, I guess.
But everyone should be very careful with chemicals. Even cleaning the toilet can be hazardous to your health!
I sprayed Lysol. I proceeded to spray it on and all around the toilet bowl, including on the lid and the rim.
I left the room, but didn't get very far. "Maybe I should just clean the toilet," I thought.
I grabbed a bottle of The Works toilet bowl cleaner. I squished the middle of the bottle, sending the stuff cascading under the rim and down into the water.
Within seconds smoke began to rise from the rim of the toilet and from the water, everywhere there was Lysol and The Works running together.
I immediately realized I had mixed chemicals. This is a dangerous (and very stupid) thing to do. I grabbed the toilet brush and began flushing, using water to dilute things. I also tried not to breathe the fumes, although I am sure I did.
These are pretty volatile chemicals, and I sheepishly went to my husband to tell him what I'd done.
This is because we have a septic tank and I was afraid the thing might blow up from the mixture.
However, nothing like that happened, so no harm, I guess.
But everyone should be very careful with chemicals. Even cleaning the toilet can be hazardous to your health!
Friday, September 21, 2007
Jailed
Earlier this week, I took a tour of a new jail that it is under construction in our county.
It is a massive structure. It will hold 214 prisoners.
I have never been in jail. I am no angel,but I haven't done anything jail-worthy.
The cells are very small and designed to hold two people. Each cell has its own toilet, which is not private in any way.
There is no sunshine. The day rooms, which have tables bolted to the floor, have a frosted window.
The prisoners will never go outside. They won't see birds, dogs or clouds. They won't feel rain or wind.
My grandmother told me once when she was in the assisted living facility that she felt like she was in prison.
She was not. She was in a sanctuary compared to this place.
Even though the structure was huge, I felt claustrophobic and sick to my stomach when my time there was done.
I am very sad to see that we have this jail.
As a nation, we jail everyone regardless of what you do. I think we imprison a lot of people that need not be jailed. Drug users, for instances. (Not pushers). So long as they're not using and driving, who cares? If they want to kill themselves on drugs, let them, don't lock them up.
Better yet, get them into counseling and rehabilitation and turn them back into useful, productive citizens.
But nope, we toss people into the darkness and take away their humanity, caging them like animals. Maybe some of them are animals and deserve such treatment, but I honestly don't believe every criminal should be behind bars.
After we've done all that, we wonder why so many go on to commit more crimes.
We're too quick to lock people up in this country. We are the number one nation for incarceration, and it's not a statistic to crow about. You'd think that would be one of those other countries, those that we're always being told are the boggy-man. But nope, it's us.
We're the boggy-man. And I really think it's going to get worse before it gets better.
It is a massive structure. It will hold 214 prisoners.
I have never been in jail. I am no angel,but I haven't done anything jail-worthy.
The cells are very small and designed to hold two people. Each cell has its own toilet, which is not private in any way.
There is no sunshine. The day rooms, which have tables bolted to the floor, have a frosted window.
The prisoners will never go outside. They won't see birds, dogs or clouds. They won't feel rain or wind.
My grandmother told me once when she was in the assisted living facility that she felt like she was in prison.
She was not. She was in a sanctuary compared to this place.
Even though the structure was huge, I felt claustrophobic and sick to my stomach when my time there was done.
I am very sad to see that we have this jail.
As a nation, we jail everyone regardless of what you do. I think we imprison a lot of people that need not be jailed. Drug users, for instances. (Not pushers). So long as they're not using and driving, who cares? If they want to kill themselves on drugs, let them, don't lock them up.
Better yet, get them into counseling and rehabilitation and turn them back into useful, productive citizens.
But nope, we toss people into the darkness and take away their humanity, caging them like animals. Maybe some of them are animals and deserve such treatment, but I honestly don't believe every criminal should be behind bars.
After we've done all that, we wonder why so many go on to commit more crimes.
We're too quick to lock people up in this country. We are the number one nation for incarceration, and it's not a statistic to crow about. You'd think that would be one of those other countries, those that we're always being told are the boggy-man. But nope, it's us.
We're the boggy-man. And I really think it's going to get worse before it gets better.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Thursday Thirteen
1. Autumn comes.
2. The heat will break like a wave on the sand, and the sizzle will subside.
3. The call of the lark will dwindle as the days grow short.
4. The rollicking color of flowers will fade.
5. Leaves will bring a new kind of paintbrush to the landscape, flinging orange and red across the Blue Ridge.
6. Deer will forage for acorns; bucks will clash horns vying for the finest doe.
7. The mountain's hue will change to white as their tops glisten with the first snowfall.
8. Butternut squash and pumpkins will be on the menu.
9. Fires will crackle merrily as we huddle for warmth.
10. Popcorn and candied apples will be the new sweets.
11. The sky will glow purple with the early setting sun.
12. Water from the well will grow cold crisp.
13. Summer is done.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Done with the Doctors
For this week, anyway, the doctor visits are finished.
The chiropractor last night hammered my pelvis back into place; I felt it pop in what I hope is a good way. However, she began messing with my knee and I had to put a stop to that. My knee has given me fits over the years and its best left alone.
Of course her several little movements of "I'm not manipulating it, I'm letting the body take its course" before I stopped her have left it a little painful.
Like the foot pain isn't enough.
The oral surgeon this morning said the mucocel could go or stay, but if I chew on it I'm liable to cut it and introduce bacteria, etc. He doesn't believe it will go away on its on. After learning that he will only use a local numbing agent and not force anything else on me, I agreed to have the surgery in early October.
I liked this doctor; he was very kind. I also liked the fact that he didn't force me to make any kind of decision right away and left it up to me.
Then I saw the dentist and had a cleaning. That went fine, except the hygienist was a little loopy.
The shot in my foot seems to have helped a bit. I walked for 10 minutes on the treadmill this morning. I was delighted to get back to my walking routine. I've been riding a stationary bicycle every morning but much prefer walking. I decided to ease into it with a half-mile today and then move up in increments every day until I get back to the three miles I was walking.
I think it might be better if I were not doing all of this on the treadmill, though, so I need to see about finding someplace else to walk. The fields would be nice but they're full of cow doodies and who wants to walk in those?
The chiropractor last night hammered my pelvis back into place; I felt it pop in what I hope is a good way. However, she began messing with my knee and I had to put a stop to that. My knee has given me fits over the years and its best left alone.
Of course her several little movements of "I'm not manipulating it, I'm letting the body take its course" before I stopped her have left it a little painful.
Like the foot pain isn't enough.
The oral surgeon this morning said the mucocel could go or stay, but if I chew on it I'm liable to cut it and introduce bacteria, etc. He doesn't believe it will go away on its on. After learning that he will only use a local numbing agent and not force anything else on me, I agreed to have the surgery in early October.
I liked this doctor; he was very kind. I also liked the fact that he didn't force me to make any kind of decision right away and left it up to me.
Then I saw the dentist and had a cleaning. That went fine, except the hygienist was a little loopy.
The shot in my foot seems to have helped a bit. I walked for 10 minutes on the treadmill this morning. I was delighted to get back to my walking routine. I've been riding a stationary bicycle every morning but much prefer walking. I decided to ease into it with a half-mile today and then move up in increments every day until I get back to the three miles I was walking.
I think it might be better if I were not doing all of this on the treadmill, though, so I need to see about finding someplace else to walk. The fields would be nice but they're full of cow doodies and who wants to walk in those?
Books: The Sugar Addict's Total Recovery Program
The Sugar Addict's Total Recovery Program
By Kathleen DesMaisons, Ph.D.
Copyright 2000
This book says sugar is addictive and if you eat too much of it, it's because you've got the sugar habit.
The book outlines in great detail a 7-step program to beat your addiction to sugar. Here are the steps:
1. Eat breakfast with protein.
2. Journal about your food and body.
3. Eat three meals a day with protein. (I think you're supposed to skip the snacks in here but the book doesn't come right and say "DON'T HAVE SNACKS"; however, I think it is greatly implied).
4. Take specific vitamins and eat a potato every night (yeah, every night...)
5. Stop eating white food (like white rice) and eat brown food (like brown rice). Potatoes, by the way, are classified as a brown food because the skin is brown... yeah, I know, it's a logic stretch.
6. Stop eating stuff with sugar in it and
7. Get a life.
I honestly don't know that I could ever *not* have a piece of birthday cake, or a piece of fudge. The key, of course, is to only have one piece and not the entire cake.
That said, I have determined to embark upon this as a major effort in my life, because I do think I can eliminate a lot of sugar, if not all of it. I guess the idea is that, like alcoholism, if you have a little bit you slide and have a lot. Plus the book advocates taking months to do this; this is why eliminate sugar is not the first step.
Apparently if you eat enough protein with meals, you don't have those crash times when you desperately need a Coke. Or at least they aren't so bad.
The potato at night is rather odd but apparently this author believes that potatoes, which is a slow-release carbohydrate, helps your body make tryptophan, which is necessary for mood enhancement.
There was a lot of stuff about tryptophan and serotonin and beta-endorphins, much of which I recognized from the time I was in therapy and read many books about such things.
However, I bought a couple of other "diet" books to read, too, so I may change my mind about this. Really this seems like a slow way to get on the Atkins diet, or a way to make the Atkins diet a bit more livable. And the Atkins diet does work, but it is difficult to stay on.
So wish me luck as I break my "sugar" habit. Here's to losing the flab ...
By Kathleen DesMaisons, Ph.D.
Copyright 2000
This book says sugar is addictive and if you eat too much of it, it's because you've got the sugar habit.
The book outlines in great detail a 7-step program to beat your addiction to sugar. Here are the steps:
1. Eat breakfast with protein.
2. Journal about your food and body.
3. Eat three meals a day with protein. (I think you're supposed to skip the snacks in here but the book doesn't come right and say "DON'T HAVE SNACKS"; however, I think it is greatly implied).
4. Take specific vitamins and eat a potato every night (yeah, every night...)
5. Stop eating white food (like white rice) and eat brown food (like brown rice). Potatoes, by the way, are classified as a brown food because the skin is brown... yeah, I know, it's a logic stretch.
6. Stop eating stuff with sugar in it and
7. Get a life.
I honestly don't know that I could ever *not* have a piece of birthday cake, or a piece of fudge. The key, of course, is to only have one piece and not the entire cake.
That said, I have determined to embark upon this as a major effort in my life, because I do think I can eliminate a lot of sugar, if not all of it. I guess the idea is that, like alcoholism, if you have a little bit you slide and have a lot. Plus the book advocates taking months to do this; this is why eliminate sugar is not the first step.
Apparently if you eat enough protein with meals, you don't have those crash times when you desperately need a Coke. Or at least they aren't so bad.
The potato at night is rather odd but apparently this author believes that potatoes, which is a slow-release carbohydrate, helps your body make tryptophan, which is necessary for mood enhancement.
There was a lot of stuff about tryptophan and serotonin and beta-endorphins, much of which I recognized from the time I was in therapy and read many books about such things.
However, I bought a couple of other "diet" books to read, too, so I may change my mind about this. Really this seems like a slow way to get on the Atkins diet, or a way to make the Atkins diet a bit more livable. And the Atkins diet does work, but it is difficult to stay on.
So wish me luck as I break my "sugar" habit. Here's to losing the flab ...
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
If Google Were Evil...
I ran across this short story called "Scroogled" which is a fictionalized account of what life may well already be like only we don't know it.... What if Google took over ... where would it all end?
Or check out this fact-filled article on Parade.com:
Is Anything Private Anymore?
Very scary. I am not a fan of cameras and instant information and the government's ability to spy on everyone. I don't think I need my face on a camera because I'm ... being a good law abiding citizen and doing what I'm supposed to do. Whether I do it in Target or in Walmart really isn't anyone's business but my own.
This is so "1984" that I can hardly stand it, and yet, here we are. Nearly there.
I know there are people who think, oh, if you're obeying the law, what difference does it make who is watching... but the problem is you just never know how the person behind the camera is going to construe things.
Scary scary scary. Scroogled indeed.
Or check out this fact-filled article on Parade.com:
Is Anything Private Anymore?
Very scary. I am not a fan of cameras and instant information and the government's ability to spy on everyone. I don't think I need my face on a camera because I'm ... being a good law abiding citizen and doing what I'm supposed to do. Whether I do it in Target or in Walmart really isn't anyone's business but my own.
This is so "1984" that I can hardly stand it, and yet, here we are. Nearly there.
I know there are people who think, oh, if you're obeying the law, what difference does it make who is watching... but the problem is you just never know how the person behind the camera is going to construe things.
Scary scary scary. Scroogled indeed.
The Podiatrist
The podiatrist took X-rays and informed me I had a heel spur; hence the pain.
She gave me a cortisone shot, a new set of arch inserts for my shoes, and a booty to wear at night.
The booty next to my sneaker.
My toes are about two inches from the top of the thing.
The booty is not fun to wear. It is huge - about three times the size of my foot, it seems - and sleeping in it makes my hips, back and knee ache. I am not sure trading in all of those aches to get my foot to stop hurting is beneficial.
My husband and I also had to switch sides of the bed so my left foot could stick out from under the covers.
The bed this morning looks like something mauled it, as I tossed and turned. I was not able to get comfortable with that thing on my foot. I did keep it on all night but I woke up a lot.
I know this is going to be a problem because I bought a similar device (not this exact one) in early August and attempted to use it for two weeks. Just as this new booty did last night, the other made my other body parts ache.
Growing old is a pain in the ... well, everything!
She gave me a cortisone shot, a new set of arch inserts for my shoes, and a booty to wear at night.
The booty next to my sneaker.
My toes are about two inches from the top of the thing.
The booty is not fun to wear. It is huge - about three times the size of my foot, it seems - and sleeping in it makes my hips, back and knee ache. I am not sure trading in all of those aches to get my foot to stop hurting is beneficial.
My husband and I also had to switch sides of the bed so my left foot could stick out from under the covers.
The bed this morning looks like something mauled it, as I tossed and turned. I was not able to get comfortable with that thing on my foot. I did keep it on all night but I woke up a lot.
I know this is going to be a problem because I bought a similar device (not this exact one) in early August and attempted to use it for two weeks. Just as this new booty did last night, the other made my other body parts ache.
Growing old is a pain in the ... well, everything!
Monday, September 17, 2007
Books: Rhapsody
Rhapsody
By Elizabeth Haydon
Copyright 1999
656 pages
This is the first in a high fantasy series.
Rhapsody is a Namer, which is a person with powers over the names of things. If she sings the right names and words to plants, for example, they grow big and strong.
She gets into trouble and meets up with Grunthor, who is some kind of giant-kind person, and Achmed, an assassin. They all run away because Achmed and Grunthor are in trouble, too. They end up underground and 1400 years later, after traveling through fire in the center of the earth, rise up to discover a new world.
Achmed decides to become a king in a forgotten land while Rhapsody adopts a lot of motherless children and attempts to find her place. Grunthor follows Achmed.
There are bad guys, flashbacks, gods playing with time, magic, myth, etc. etc. Amazon has a long review of the book and so I shan't go into the plot any more.
I will recommend it, though, to fantsy readers who want a long read on a cold night. I have the next book in the series here to read, but I will not be delving into it until I have the time to savor it.
4 stars
By Elizabeth Haydon
Copyright 1999
656 pages
This is the first in a high fantasy series.
Rhapsody is a Namer, which is a person with powers over the names of things. If she sings the right names and words to plants, for example, they grow big and strong.
She gets into trouble and meets up with Grunthor, who is some kind of giant-kind person, and Achmed, an assassin. They all run away because Achmed and Grunthor are in trouble, too. They end up underground and 1400 years later, after traveling through fire in the center of the earth, rise up to discover a new world.
Achmed decides to become a king in a forgotten land while Rhapsody adopts a lot of motherless children and attempts to find her place. Grunthor follows Achmed.
There are bad guys, flashbacks, gods playing with time, magic, myth, etc. etc. Amazon has a long review of the book and so I shan't go into the plot any more.
I will recommend it, though, to fantsy readers who want a long read on a cold night. I have the next book in the series here to read, but I will not be delving into it until I have the time to savor it.
4 stars
A Week of Doctors
My calendar is full this week with doctor's visits.
This afternoon I am finally seeing a podiatrist about my feet. I haven't been able to walk without limping and hurting for months. I hold little hope that the thing I probably need - a cortisone shot - will actually happen, but we'll see.
Tomorrow I see the chiropractor.
Wednesday I see an oral surgeon AND my dentist.
Hopefully the last days of the week will pass much more uneventfully. That is way too many doctors for my comfort level.
This afternoon I am finally seeing a podiatrist about my feet. I haven't been able to walk without limping and hurting for months. I hold little hope that the thing I probably need - a cortisone shot - will actually happen, but we'll see.
Tomorrow I see the chiropractor.
Wednesday I see an oral surgeon AND my dentist.
Hopefully the last days of the week will pass much more uneventfully. That is way too many doctors for my comfort level.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
A New Dishwasher
I wrote last month about the problem I was having with the dishwasher and how I hate to hand wash dishes.
Efforts to eliminate the problem were to no avail, and Monday my husband came home with a new Kitchen Aid dishwasher.
It had a stainless steel interior, whereas the old one was plastic.
However, by the third load, it wasn't rinsing well, either. I haven't told my husband as he will, undoubtedly, go out in the yard and give birth to a cow.
What I did do was buy some new detergent, a completely different brand. I was using Cascade Complete. I have used Cascade in some form or the other for 24 years without problem, but maybe they changed the formula. The dishwasher came with a sample of Electrosol so I will try that.
The other thing that may be the problem is the water heater, because this not-rinsing-well issue started right after we had to replace the water heater in August. I thought the water temperature set to low but my husband has adjusted that and now it should not be a factor. I don't know why the hot water heater would keep the dishwasher from rinsing the dishes well, though.
I washed the dishes last night with the new soap powder and it seems to have helped. My fingers are crossed.
Efforts to eliminate the problem were to no avail, and Monday my husband came home with a new Kitchen Aid dishwasher.
It had a stainless steel interior, whereas the old one was plastic.
However, by the third load, it wasn't rinsing well, either. I haven't told my husband as he will, undoubtedly, go out in the yard and give birth to a cow.
What I did do was buy some new detergent, a completely different brand. I was using Cascade Complete. I have used Cascade in some form or the other for 24 years without problem, but maybe they changed the formula. The dishwasher came with a sample of Electrosol so I will try that.
The other thing that may be the problem is the water heater, because this not-rinsing-well issue started right after we had to replace the water heater in August. I thought the water temperature set to low but my husband has adjusted that and now it should not be a factor. I don't know why the hot water heater would keep the dishwasher from rinsing the dishes well, though.
I washed the dishes last night with the new soap powder and it seems to have helped. My fingers are crossed.
Housekeeping
I made change to the links on the sides where I list other blogs I look at. I deleted some that hadn't been updated in months and added new ones that's I've visited from time to time.
This was prompted by the fact that postsecret suddenly vanished and gave me a broken link, and so I decided to check the rest of my links.
If you find a bad link, please let me know. If you'd like me to add your blog to my list and would like to trade links, let me know that too.
This was prompted by the fact that postsecret suddenly vanished and gave me a broken link, and so I decided to check the rest of my links.
If you find a bad link, please let me know. If you'd like me to add your blog to my list and would like to trade links, let me know that too.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Journals
Since I love writing, reading and all things literary, I have been given, or have purchased, lots of journals or blank books, as they are sometimes called.
These are adult equivalents of diaries, places where you write down your innermost thoughts, deep desires, heartfelt secrets.
As a writer, I have been admonished - and have admonished other writers - to keep a writer's journal for those sparks of ideas, bits of dialogue, intriguing road signs, color descriptions, etc., that you just don't want to forget.
This is supposed to be important.
I have kept lots of journals. I consider blogging to be a journal; that's really all a blog is to me, another kind of "blank book." Maybe it's used for many different things, but it really isn't so different from what you might buy at the book store, just more fluid. Just labeled differently.
I have piled in the closet stacks of hand-written journals, dating back to about 1984. I think they stop in the late 1990s, when I decided my handwriting was so poor, so crimped and illegible, that typing made much more sense.
From that point on, my journal fell into my computer, and I have diligently transferred the files first from something called Homeword, which I used with a Tandy computer, then from WordPerfect and finally to MS Word (and lastly into Notepad, which I have discovered is convert-able into most every program). I have hauled these files from disk to disk and onto each computer I've owned, handling that one computer file folder within "My Documents" as if it were gold.
With every backup, that document folder is saved, even though I haven't made a new "journal" entry, aside from blogging, in quite some time. And I do save my blog entries in that folder, I hasten to add, as I don't trust anyone but myself to ensure that these words, important to no one but myself, are safe.
The computer files are so old that some of them date back to 1988, because I have been using a home computer for that long. When I pull them up, which is not often, they're as much gobbledygook computer language as text because I haven't converted them. But the text is always in there somewhere, often painful to read, sometimes eyebrow raising, never shared.
I thought of all of this writing, all of these words, today as I perused the "diet" section at Books-A-Million, determined to yet again find a diet that I could live with. I was spurred on by the spurious words of the health nurse, by the chastening of my dreams in which I am lithe and free and able to run with deer, and by my own image in the mirror, which of course does not lie.
Diet books, including the ones I bought, say "keep a food journal" and so I had an excuse for a new journal book.
Not that I don't have any here, because of course I do. Without moving from my chair I can count five empty and unused journals, ranging in size and in price paid. That doesn't count the pile - yes, a pile - of unused 8 X 5 spiral bound notebooks.
It is the notebooks, in fact, which become my journals. The decade-old stack of journals in the closet are written in such notebooks, not the expensively purchased blank books. For one thing, if the blank book is not spiral bound, it immediately will not be used, because I dislike having to try to write in something and hold it open at the same time.
And if they are expensive and spiral bound, they are too perfect, too good, too expensive, for the likes of me to use. They are for thoughts more exquisite than mine, visions more intensely colorful, language more expertly stated.
So I use the school notebooks that long ago cost 89 cents and which now run about $2. And even today these are the notebooks I use in my work, when I interview people and take notes. Not reporter's notebooks, which are long and thin and useless as best I can see, and not 9 x 11 notebooks, which are far too wide, but 8 x 5 (or 9 x 6) notebooks which fit in my hand, and which I can, if I must, stand and hold in my left hand while scribbling with my right.
From time to time I indulge myself when I find a nice-looking spiral bound journal. "This would be good for ..." I whisper to myself, and tuck the journal beneath my arm. Sometimes I talk myself out of the purchase and put it back, but occasionally they come home with me.
Usually I wish to use these for "writer's journals" but I don't keep a writer's journal, not really. I have attempted it on numerous occasions only to find that I can't find anything I've written when I want it. So what good is it to me? Even my "personal" journals, some of which are on the computer and therefore text searchable, serve no purpose other than to exist as a record of what I was thinking when I was 27. As if it matters.
So there was no need to buy a journal just for writing down what I eat; besides, I've tried that and I cheat at it, conveniently forgetting to add the potato chips or the bad afternoon I fell completely apart and raced through two cans of root beer and an entire box of chocolate covered cherries.
I wistfully ran my hands over the journals at the book store - the moleskin covered ones, those bound in leather, another in satin. They ranged in price from $4.95 to $55.00, probably more. I might write in the $4.95 one but I knew I would not write in anything that cost more, so there was no point in the purchase.
Instead I stopped by the dollar store and found a memo book for $1. A good size to keep by the table, something that won't be hurt if I should leave it by my plate and spill spaghetti sauce on it.
A food journal to cheat in, something to remind me that writing is what I do, eating is how I live, and whatever it is in that's in between is the thing I'm striving for.
These are adult equivalents of diaries, places where you write down your innermost thoughts, deep desires, heartfelt secrets.
As a writer, I have been admonished - and have admonished other writers - to keep a writer's journal for those sparks of ideas, bits of dialogue, intriguing road signs, color descriptions, etc., that you just don't want to forget.
This is supposed to be important.
I have kept lots of journals. I consider blogging to be a journal; that's really all a blog is to me, another kind of "blank book." Maybe it's used for many different things, but it really isn't so different from what you might buy at the book store, just more fluid. Just labeled differently.
I have piled in the closet stacks of hand-written journals, dating back to about 1984. I think they stop in the late 1990s, when I decided my handwriting was so poor, so crimped and illegible, that typing made much more sense.
From that point on, my journal fell into my computer, and I have diligently transferred the files first from something called Homeword, which I used with a Tandy computer, then from WordPerfect and finally to MS Word (and lastly into Notepad, which I have discovered is convert-able into most every program). I have hauled these files from disk to disk and onto each computer I've owned, handling that one computer file folder within "My Documents" as if it were gold.
With every backup, that document folder is saved, even though I haven't made a new "journal" entry, aside from blogging, in quite some time. And I do save my blog entries in that folder, I hasten to add, as I don't trust anyone but myself to ensure that these words, important to no one but myself, are safe.
The computer files are so old that some of them date back to 1988, because I have been using a home computer for that long. When I pull them up, which is not often, they're as much gobbledygook computer language as text because I haven't converted them. But the text is always in there somewhere, often painful to read, sometimes eyebrow raising, never shared.
I thought of all of this writing, all of these words, today as I perused the "diet" section at Books-A-Million, determined to yet again find a diet that I could live with. I was spurred on by the spurious words of the health nurse, by the chastening of my dreams in which I am lithe and free and able to run with deer, and by my own image in the mirror, which of course does not lie.
Diet books, including the ones I bought, say "keep a food journal" and so I had an excuse for a new journal book.
Not that I don't have any here, because of course I do. Without moving from my chair I can count five empty and unused journals, ranging in size and in price paid. That doesn't count the pile - yes, a pile - of unused 8 X 5 spiral bound notebooks.
It is the notebooks, in fact, which become my journals. The decade-old stack of journals in the closet are written in such notebooks, not the expensively purchased blank books. For one thing, if the blank book is not spiral bound, it immediately will not be used, because I dislike having to try to write in something and hold it open at the same time.
And if they are expensive and spiral bound, they are too perfect, too good, too expensive, for the likes of me to use. They are for thoughts more exquisite than mine, visions more intensely colorful, language more expertly stated.
So I use the school notebooks that long ago cost 89 cents and which now run about $2. And even today these are the notebooks I use in my work, when I interview people and take notes. Not reporter's notebooks, which are long and thin and useless as best I can see, and not 9 x 11 notebooks, which are far too wide, but 8 x 5 (or 9 x 6) notebooks which fit in my hand, and which I can, if I must, stand and hold in my left hand while scribbling with my right.
From time to time I indulge myself when I find a nice-looking spiral bound journal. "This would be good for ..." I whisper to myself, and tuck the journal beneath my arm. Sometimes I talk myself out of the purchase and put it back, but occasionally they come home with me.
Usually I wish to use these for "writer's journals" but I don't keep a writer's journal, not really. I have attempted it on numerous occasions only to find that I can't find anything I've written when I want it. So what good is it to me? Even my "personal" journals, some of which are on the computer and therefore text searchable, serve no purpose other than to exist as a record of what I was thinking when I was 27. As if it matters.
So there was no need to buy a journal just for writing down what I eat; besides, I've tried that and I cheat at it, conveniently forgetting to add the potato chips or the bad afternoon I fell completely apart and raced through two cans of root beer and an entire box of chocolate covered cherries.
I wistfully ran my hands over the journals at the book store - the moleskin covered ones, those bound in leather, another in satin. They ranged in price from $4.95 to $55.00, probably more. I might write in the $4.95 one but I knew I would not write in anything that cost more, so there was no point in the purchase.
Instead I stopped by the dollar store and found a memo book for $1. A good size to keep by the table, something that won't be hurt if I should leave it by my plate and spill spaghetti sauce on it.
A food journal to cheat in, something to remind me that writing is what I do, eating is how I live, and whatever it is in that's in between is the thing I'm striving for.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Health Check
So my health insurer has decided I must be enrolled in some kind of health check thingy.
This involves having a nurse call me up occasionally and ask me all sorts of intrusive questions. Like what vitamins I take, the medications I'm on, how much I weigh, what I eat for breakfast, how much I exercise, etc. etc.
Then I get a lecture on life changes, complete with recipes for "smoothies" and an admonition to take this or that or the other thing. Non-prescription things, but still things.
I consider this to be about the most intrusive and horrific experience I've been subjected to in a while. I'm not sure what this is for but I strongly suspect that at some future date if I don't meet their "goals," whatever they are, I will find myself paying higher premiums. As if $7,000 a year just to insure me isn't enough.
It really isn't any of their business, is it. They get my money. They get to make all of the rules. I don't find this fair in the least.
I do just about everything right. I don't drink, smoke or take drugs. I exercise. The nurse even said during my first "health check: today that, "It doesn't sound like you have room for many changes."
My biggest "sins" are eating a little chocolate sometimes and drinking a soft drink every day. One soft drink.
Unfortunately I am cursed with a body that is allergic to everything, and that has contributed to asthma and some other respiratory issues.
I don't consider my allergies my fault, particularly when they have been with me since birth. I mean, I was allergic to the milk formulas they used back then and ended up on goats milk, for heaven's sake. This has been an issue since before I could do anything more than burp and poop.
And I resent like hell having to answer to some corporation for the fact that sometimes I can't breathe.
This involves having a nurse call me up occasionally and ask me all sorts of intrusive questions. Like what vitamins I take, the medications I'm on, how much I weigh, what I eat for breakfast, how much I exercise, etc. etc.
Then I get a lecture on life changes, complete with recipes for "smoothies" and an admonition to take this or that or the other thing. Non-prescription things, but still things.
I consider this to be about the most intrusive and horrific experience I've been subjected to in a while. I'm not sure what this is for but I strongly suspect that at some future date if I don't meet their "goals," whatever they are, I will find myself paying higher premiums. As if $7,000 a year just to insure me isn't enough.
It really isn't any of their business, is it. They get my money. They get to make all of the rules. I don't find this fair in the least.
I do just about everything right. I don't drink, smoke or take drugs. I exercise. The nurse even said during my first "health check: today that, "It doesn't sound like you have room for many changes."
My biggest "sins" are eating a little chocolate sometimes and drinking a soft drink every day. One soft drink.
Unfortunately I am cursed with a body that is allergic to everything, and that has contributed to asthma and some other respiratory issues.
I don't consider my allergies my fault, particularly when they have been with me since birth. I mean, I was allergic to the milk formulas they used back then and ended up on goats milk, for heaven's sake. This has been an issue since before I could do anything more than burp and poop.
And I resent like hell having to answer to some corporation for the fact that sometimes I can't breathe.
Books: A Walk Through the Fire
A Walk Through the Fire
By Marcia Muller
Copyright 2000
Audiobook, Abridged
Read by Joyce Bean
Another Sharon McCone mystery. I would hope that it was the abridgement of this book that left it so flat. Very little character-building in this installment of this detective series.
2 stars
By Marcia Muller
Copyright 2000
Audiobook, Abridged
Read by Joyce Bean
Another Sharon McCone mystery. I would hope that it was the abridgement of this book that left it so flat. Very little character-building in this installment of this detective series.
2 stars
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Thursday Thirteen
Thirteen Ways You Know You're Not 13 anymore:
1. Your hair is so gray people whiny like a horse behind your back.
2. You know things you were clueless about 30 years ago, like how to pay your taxes quarterly.
3. Your boobs are no longer perky and sunny but instead look more like a quarter moon looking down on the earth.
4. Your collective memories are enough for two people the age of 20.
3. Strange lines stretch across your thighs, hips and belly, and if you turn sideways you look like a road map of the state.
4. The state map continues on into Kentucky, thanks to the varicose veins in your legs.
5. You have a solar system chart of the planets and stars on the back of your hands and arms, courtesy of age spots.
6. Your bones hurt so much you don't bother with the weather channel; you just ask your knee.
7. You can't lose weight no matter how much you ride that damned bicycle.
8. You need your glasses to see far away. And up close. And everywhere in between. And God forbid you lay them down because you can't see to find them again.
9. You sing along and know all the words to the songs only to have the DJ call it an "oldies" station.
12. Getting down in the floor (and then back up again) has become a major challenge - so much so you consider it part of your exercise routine.
13. You don't even think about drinking, smoking weed, or going to all-night parties. Instead you think about drinking 8 glasses of water a day for good health, hacking weeds in the garden, and going to bed at 10 p.m.
1. Your hair is so gray people whiny like a horse behind your back.
2. You know things you were clueless about 30 years ago, like how to pay your taxes quarterly.
3. Your boobs are no longer perky and sunny but instead look more like a quarter moon looking down on the earth.
4. Your collective memories are enough for two people the age of 20.
3. Strange lines stretch across your thighs, hips and belly, and if you turn sideways you look like a road map of the state.
4. The state map continues on into Kentucky, thanks to the varicose veins in your legs.
5. You have a solar system chart of the planets and stars on the back of your hands and arms, courtesy of age spots.
6. Your bones hurt so much you don't bother with the weather channel; you just ask your knee.
7. You can't lose weight no matter how much you ride that damned bicycle.
8. You need your glasses to see far away. And up close. And everywhere in between. And God forbid you lay them down because you can't see to find them again.
9. You sing along and know all the words to the songs only to have the DJ call it an "oldies" station.
12. Getting down in the floor (and then back up again) has become a major challenge - so much so you consider it part of your exercise routine.
13. You don't even think about drinking, smoking weed, or going to all-night parties. Instead you think about drinking 8 glasses of water a day for good health, hacking weeds in the garden, and going to bed at 10 p.m.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Books: Armageddon's Children
Armageddon's Children
By Terry Brooks
Read by Dick Hill
Copyright 2006
Audiobook
I won't go into detail on the plot here, much. Life as we know it in the US is gone, obliterated by demons who attack the compounds most people now exist in. Others life outside, and some of those have been turned into monsters in their own right by nuclear waste and pollution and other nasties.
The characters are rather sketchily drawn, and the story has several plots.
It follows Logan Tom, a Knight of the Word who wants revenge for the death of his family. He is charged with finding a magical being and protecting it.
It follows Hawk, a street kid in Seattle who has a "tribe" of other street kids for which he feels responsibility.
It follows Angel, another Knight of the Word, who is being chased by demon and then is charged with finding an Elfstone (or something like that).
It follows the Elves, who are looking after a mystical tree, but the tree wants to be moved.
There is no resolution, and I really dislike books that do not stand alone. Not having a neat and clean ending is generally enough to keep me away from a series, not an enticement to buy the next book. I suppose that is what it is meant to be.
I could be mistaken, but I believe this is my first encounter with Terry Brooks. This is surprising because I have always enjoyed science fiction/fantasy. But Brooks' books have never really caught my fancy, and I can't say this one did, either.
I really like the premise and the promise of the book, but probably not enough to seek out the next in the series.
2 stars
By Terry Brooks
Read by Dick Hill
Copyright 2006
Audiobook
I won't go into detail on the plot here, much. Life as we know it in the US is gone, obliterated by demons who attack the compounds most people now exist in. Others life outside, and some of those have been turned into monsters in their own right by nuclear waste and pollution and other nasties.
The characters are rather sketchily drawn, and the story has several plots.
It follows Logan Tom, a Knight of the Word who wants revenge for the death of his family. He is charged with finding a magical being and protecting it.
It follows Hawk, a street kid in Seattle who has a "tribe" of other street kids for which he feels responsibility.
It follows Angel, another Knight of the Word, who is being chased by demon and then is charged with finding an Elfstone (or something like that).
It follows the Elves, who are looking after a mystical tree, but the tree wants to be moved.
There is no resolution, and I really dislike books that do not stand alone. Not having a neat and clean ending is generally enough to keep me away from a series, not an enticement to buy the next book. I suppose that is what it is meant to be.
I could be mistaken, but I believe this is my first encounter with Terry Brooks. This is surprising because I have always enjoyed science fiction/fantasy. But Brooks' books have never really caught my fancy, and I can't say this one did, either.
I really like the premise and the promise of the book, but probably not enough to seek out the next in the series.
2 stars
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
343 on 9/11
On this date six years ago, firemen from all over New York City rushed into the jaws of two smoking buildings hoping to save the lives of those injured when two planes crashed in the Twin Towers.
When those towers collapsed, 343 firefighters and paramedics lost their lives. They were rushing in while others rushed out.
Whatever you may think about the attacks on the World Trade Center, the heroics of these fine men and women cannot be disputed. They gave their lives so that others may live.
Firemen do not just do a job - this is their life, their very soul, even.
They could no more not go into a burning building than you or I could not hum a tune when we're feeling happy. It is their makeup to sacrifice.
I make sure I tell my husband, a professional fireman, "I love you" every day.
Because you just never know.
Thank you, firefighters and paramedics, for being there, day after day, to ensure the safety of strangers.
Your gift to humanity is indeed great.
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