Happy Halloween

 

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Something New

I accomplished something today.  I've never done this before, not once in all my more than seven decades on this planet. I never imagined such a thing would occur,  let alone could occur. 

After a trip to the local Ace  Hardware for sealant and to Michael's for clay pots, after another recess spent organizing water brigades running laps with plastic watering cans between a working hose bib and Grandma's Garden, after collecting and tossing those Dollar Store watering cans which could not bear the burden,  I sat quietly under the umbrella and began to create ollas. 

The sealant is equal parts water proofing epoxy.  The dispenser is a clever gadget mixing the two.  The lid edges of the three inch pots are wide enough to drag it along.  

The situation becomes more complicated when the pots are pressed together. Goo extrudes. This is not a bad thing; I use my fingers to turn the olla and smear the extra in and around the seams. 

The last time I did this I was on my paved patio at home.  I used a table covered with a plastic tablecloth (I so love the Dollar Store).

Today, my workspace was a bench in the garden. This bench is where seeds are dispensed,  where holes are poked in soil filled Solo cups, where spills are common. 

And so it came to pass that, after using many of the school nurse's alcohol prep wipes, several attempts in the shower and at the sink, with a stiff nail brush and a loofah, I am now in a position to type that which I have never typed before:

 I have epoxy-ed soil onto my hands.

We Planted

There has been lettuce in the standing garden outside the gate for a few weeks.  The oregano is a new addition.  The tiny clay ollas I made and thought were useless are now passsively irrigating our produce.

.

For scholars who are just walking by, Would you like a bite of lettuce? is a powerful inducement to stop and have a taste.  I now have enough plants to allow us to denude one or two and still have more to feed us tomorrow.  The oregano is there to balance the blandness of the buttercrunch; it tastes like pizza is my favorite comment.

We filled the two new raised beds with ollas and veggie starts.  Celery and basil and dill and a tomato plant here

spinach and dill and some petunias and a snapdragon in the other bed (which I forgot to photograph...sigh).

This raised bed has lots of something coming up..... I have no idea what it will turn out to be.  There didn't seem to be any leaves punching through the soil on the right edge, so we placed four onion bulbs and a sprig of dill to round out the planting.  I would add ollas but I'm afraid to dislodge the roots of those hardy suckers who survived a Tucson summer, a dry monsoon, and an unusually warm fall without any human intervention.  We'll be hand watering this area.

The painted tire that Mr. Guy rolled in for us last year is now home for the chocolate mint plant and several onion bulbs.  Mint has a tendency to take over; this one is totally contained.  Even if it sent roots down into the ground below, the soil is so dense and unforgiving that those roots will either die or turn around and rejoin their compatriots in the fresh, amended soil.

There is still more work to be done.  This old raised bed is a favorite spot for digging and making mud tunnels and looking for worms and buried treasure.  

Behind it is the second new raised bed and the older bed's twin.  Those are not plants back there.  They are Dollar Store scarecrow-on-a-stick faces.  Rearranging them is something else that makes the kiddos smile.  Today they are facing one another, kissing.

The best part of the garden, though, is our mandarin orange tree.  It has recovered from its near death experience when the irrigation was shut off all summer long and is now covered in lots of little white flowers-soon-to-be-oranges, like the one right here.

We can hardly wait.

Time Flies - A Snippet

It's pitch dark by 6:15.

Thanksgiving is a month away, with Hannukah nipping at its heals.

And suddenly it's almost TBG's birthday and then mine.  

I remember thinking that I would be 9 forever.  Now, I keep forgetting how old I am; the years are flying by in a way they never have before.  

All this while I'm conscious of living in the moment, of being present, of relishing each smell and sound and sight.

I'm not sure I'm pleased with the situation.

Slogans From A Catalog

SOME HIT CLOSE TO HOME

Being Twenty in the 70's was more fun than being Seventy in the 20's

I don't mind getting older but my body is taking it badly.

It's weird being the same age as old people.

I don't want to go through things that don't kill me but make me stronger anymore.

SOME WERE PERSON SPECIFIC

Everyone is born right handed.  Only the gifted overcome it.

Emotional Support Husband - Do Not Pet

Being a TROPHY HUSBAND is exhausting.

Excellent friend.  Would recommend.

SOME WERE SELF-REFERENTIAL

Sometimes I talk to myself, then we both laugh and laugh

I'M COLD.  Me 24:7

My password is the last 8 digits of pi.

I just want to bake stuff and watch Christmas movies.

Bigfoot saw me but nobody believes him.

Sarcasm.  It's how I hug.

Underestimate me.  That'll be fun.

If you think I'm short, you should see my patience.

Hold on.  Let me overthink this.

My plants are rooting for me.

SOME WERE EXPLANATORY

I've lost my mind.  I'm pretty sure the kids took it.

I'm not arguing.  I'm explaining why I'm right.

I don't have my ducks in a row.  I have squirrels and they are everywhere.

I'm the oldest; I make the rules.  I'm the middle; I'm the reason we had rules.  I'm the youngest; the rules don't apply to me.

I'm a multi-tasker: I can listen, ignore, and forget all at the same time.

In my defense, I was left unsupervised.  (my personal favorite!)

SOME WERE OBVIOUSLY CORRECT

90% of being married is yelling "WHAT?" from other rooms.

Either you LOVE DOGS or you're wrong.

Books - the original handheld device.

A day without books is like (just kidding, I have no idea).

"Ehh, that's good enough"  ~ Mediocretes

THERE WAS EXCELLENT ADVICE:

Meddle not in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and good with ketchup.

AND THERE WAS THE ONE I LIKED THE BEST:

Today I Choose Joy

from the Winter 2025 Signals catalog

Too Pooped to Pop

Mayo Clinic is remarkable.

It is also a four hour round trip from home.

I'm impressed, relieved, and exhausted.

If I could put two thoughts together they would be about great medical care.

Unfortunately, I cannot.

My Congressman Sent A Letter

Rep. Ciscomani and twelve other vulnerable Republicans sent a letter to Mike Johnson on Tuesday, a letter that is being touted as a plea to reopen the government.  As my Representative's website reports:

These 13 House Republicans reaffirmed that Congress’s first duty is to keep the government working for the American people - not to use shutdowns as leverage for political gain - and that responsible reforms, such as with healthcare, must move forward on its own merits, through regular order, as soon as the Democrat-caused federal government shutdown ends.

(the underlining is mine)  

In and of itself, that seems perfectly reasonable....  at least the parts I underlined.  Kinda like a middle school social studies book describing the role of one of the co-equal branches of government.

Oh, right. Nobody teaches civics any more.  And that whole co-eequal branches thing is long gone.  And don't get me started on.... no don't even mention what that awful, evil, America hating devil incarnate is doing to the White House.... the PEOPLE'S HOUSE.....

Are they actually suggesting that the Speaker bring back the House and allow healthcare reform to move on with a robust debate involving their colleagues across the aisle?   Up or down, on its merits, politics be damned.... is it a please pay attention to the fact that our constituents are furious with us letter?

It would be lovely to believe that this came from a caring heart instead of a fearful one.

There was one line, though, that could have come from my own fingers:

Allowing these tax credits to lapse without a clear path forward is not an option. 

We shall see...... keep calling.... 

It Was a Perfect Plan

Moderate temperatures were promised.  Home Depot's founder just donated $50million to HBCU's so I felt good about shopping there.  Not-Kathy and Aunt Jane were there, too; hugs were exchanged.  I loaded up a cart with lettuce and spinach and celery (!) and Early Girl tomatoes and basil, checked myself out, and was at the garden ten minutes later.  That's when things began to go awry.

It was hot.  

In order to reach the handle, the kiddo who volunteered to open the umbrella was found standing on the tree stump that holds it up - a definite no-no.  Whistles were blown.  Conversations were had.  It all worked out in the end (I'll remember - no feet, no knees, nothing but my bottom on the stump) and tears were averted, but it was a close call.

I found the clay pots I glued together last year in my first attempt at creating inexpensive olla balls.  They were enmeshed in spider webs holding little white balls of baby spiders (ugh).  We decided to put the lettuce in the raised bed on the playground side of the garden's fence.  If we can manage to keep from eating it for a while, it should cover the space with healthy snacks.

We practiced taking the seedlings out of the six pack.  We dug holes as deep as the root balls.  After gently separating the roots, we planted them and tucked them in.  We dug holes to house the faux ollas and buried them.

It was time to water the veggies in.  I took the 4-way-key out of my pocket.  I placed it on the valve and turned it.

Nothing.

We checked for kinks in the hose.  I turned it off and on.  A few sad drops dribbled out of the nozzle.  Worse, there was no left over liquid in the watering cans that hang on the outer fence.  (Only spider webs!!!)

Not only were there planted lettuce seedlings, there were all those other veggies sitting forlornly in their containers.  There is no way that any of them would survive without a thorough soaking.  I sent an email to Mr. Guy, who's in charge of outdoor spaces, wondering if, once again, the middle school had shut off our water without telling us.

The Perfect Principal walked by; she promised to get your water turned on.

 

While I was fretting, Miss Stella, the most helpful of the Garden Leaders, organized her fellow 5th graders into an old fashioned bucket brigade.  From the cafeteria's water bottle filler to Grandma's Garden and then back again, they spent half their recess saving our plants.  They were all new to the garden;  Miss Stella is quite persuasive.

I'll be back tomorrow to finish the work.  There are bigger ollas for the bigger raised beds and the bigger plants.  

It seems like another perfect plan.

We shall see.

Silliness

The protests were peaceful but he's still in the White House, building a ballroom by tearing down the East Wing, and gilding everything in sight..

He's also touting all the land available in Egypt and surrounding Arab nations for the Palestinians to create great lives as the shelling continues in Gaza.

The Mayo Clinic is the victim of a "nationwide technology problem" leading to an hour or more wait time on the phone.  The site won't load anything beyond the home page.

The olla ball company has not returned any of the messages I've left over the past 10 days.  

TBG's on a 7 day course of treatment that precludes his three major food groups - chocolate, caffeine, and milk.

Frustration rules.  Silliness, really.  Most of life is going along quite smoothly.  It's just that I'm always on edge these days, and everything kinda hurts.

It Was Joyous

The sun was out and I was here to protest in it, at 8am. 

By definition, it was a good day.

By the time I left at 9:30 there were people around the corner, out of site.

This is the entrance to the community that protests every Saturday.  

Their usual dozen or so had swelled to many many dozens.

I left and collected TBG and we drove up to Oro Valley.  

He usually lets me represent the family, but this event hit him differently.

"Numbers matter and I care."

The crowd was a little younger (not much) and a lot more boisterous.  

I didn't chant in the 1970's and I didn't chant yesterday.  

I did wave my sign(s).

Having held placards at these events before, I created a self-standing unit to lean upon.

Yes, they are garden stakes.  They, as well as the Camus quote, attracted a lot of attention.

I learned another lesson.  

20 year old scrapbooking adhesives do not live up to their name.  I spent the first protest sticking the stripes back onto the posterboard; I taped them down before we took off again.

There were flamingos and frogs and a turtle or two.  There were many chickens.

The signs were not hateful, nor were the t-shirts.  A new friend, Paul, stopped and chatted with TBG for a while.  As always, it was a friendly, happy crowd.

This was the most original sign all day.

We left, TBG carrying his watching-the-kids-play-sports chair and the giant red, white, and blue pinwheel, I dragging my sign and our water.  It's exhausting work, protecting democracy.   But as I looked at my husband's smiling face I realized that I had not led hinm astray when I told him it would be fun.  It was joyous.

 

Where Am I Going To Go?

The frog hats I crocheted arrived in Marin less than 24 hours after I dropped the Express Mail envelope at the post office.

The front of my sign is a work in progress.

The other side is blank.... for now.  I have all day Friday to work on it.

The big decision, as in housing, is location, location, location.

There's a big rally downtown.  Un-seated Rep. Adelita Grijalva and Tucson's Mayor Romero will be speechifying.  I'm sure the media will be there.

There will be people lining the main road of the upscale suburb, the one that brings those living north to get downtown.  I've been there before.

There will be people deployed at the four corners of a well traveled intersection in midtown. 

And there will be people at the entrance to a community of townhouses and apartments on the road that follows the Rillito River as it cuts through town, from east to west.  

I'm not going to the big rally downtown.  Parking problems, big crowds, and the potential for paid agitators on the right to stir things up make it more uncomfortable than any of the other locations.  I could go to Oro Valley and stand with the old white people. I have no idea what it will be like at the midtown location; it's farther than I want to drive, anyway.

But the last spot is intriguing.  I drive past that location every Saturday morning on my way to Pilates.  Every once in a while there is a small but boisterous crowd of old people protesting the encroachment of fascism.  I don't think it will attract malcontents; there's no place to lurk or taunt.  And I would really like to tell those stalwarts that I've noticed them and honked at them and smiled because of them.

So many choices.  

It is going to take the whole village to stop the assault on our democracy.  This is a good next step.

 

English Is Weird

We were filling the new raised beds - 2'x6'x2' ribbed metal ovals - with soil.  The soil - eight heavy 3cu foot bags - had to be moved to the beds from their resting place, outside the garden fence.  This took coordination and planning.  I left it to them to figure it out.  

Some bags were rolled.  One was tipped over the fence. Most were carried by a gaggle of garden kids of all sizes.  It took two of the four recess sections, but we managed to fill the beds, keeping most of the soil inside.

Fourth and second graders joined the party, which had moved from breaking up clumps of soil to evening it out with hand rakes and small trowels.  There were giggles and questions and then there was silence.

A second grader's face was covered with soil.  

A fourth grader's face was abashed.

Sorrowfully, the big girl said Not by purpose, I got her face dirty.

It took a minute or two to wipe the little one off.  All the while I was playing that sentence over in my head.  Not on purpose, but by purpose.  

English is not her native tongue; she's conversational if grammatically inconsistent.  Idioms are hard. Was she conflating by accident and on purpose?  

And why don't we say by purpose and on accident? 

Are we next to - by - an accident?  Can an accident have intentionality and cause itself?

I understand being on task, but being on purpose? 

Who decided which one went where anyway?

Interrchangeable idioms with interchangeable prepositions have been dogging me all day.  I hope you can escape the same fate.

Random Thoughts

The still living Israeli hostages have returned home.  A few thousand Palestinian detainees have done the same.  This is excellent news and, like President Biden, I will give FFOTUS his due.  

Remembering that 135 hostages were released under Biden before the negotiations fell through, and that neither of the warring parties are signatories to the deal, and that the Rafa Gate is closed, and Hamas is returning along with the displaced in Gaza..... I don't have much hope for a lasting peace.

Still, those separated from loved ones and home are now reunited, and that, in and of itself, is a good thing.

*****

No Kings protests are preemptively described as Hate America protests.  

If I hated America I would stay home on Saturday and be grateful that FFOTUS and his minions are doing their dirty work.  

No one who truly loves America would attack freedom of assembly and freedom of speech, right? 

*****

A raptor just flew in front of my window, not 10' away, carrying dinner in its talons.  

That is not something I saw in Chicago.

*****

Yesterday it poured.  All day.  Big drops.  The Prince Scholars didn't have outdoor recess, but they had to walk outside to get to and from the cafeteria building.  

Ms Sparkles, kindergarten teacher extraordinaire, told them about the puddles.  She also hoped that none of them would be eaten by a crocodile.  

There was a moment of silence before the laughter set in.  

*****

Yesterday, Big Cuter sent me a pattern for a frog hat, following on the Portland Frogs who are "terrorizing" Kristi Noem and the ICE agents guarding the citadel.

yahoo.com

I finished a kid size one just before I sat down to type to you.  I'll make a grown up one before I mail the package tomorrow, so they have it for Saturday's protest. If only I had known about this project on Sunday, when football reigned and I finished my last library book.  

*****

It's finally cool enough to plant seeds in Grandma's Garden.  I'll buy olla balls tomorrow and we'll fill the raised beds and mark out the spacing and put seeds in the soil.

Timing is everything.  75-100 days to harvest at maturity puts us right around Winter Break.  

What fun is that?  

*****

I've been fantasizing about getting an electric bike.  I don't know why.  I have no friends who would/could ride with me.  I don't have a helmet.  The bikes are expensive and heavy.

But watching the world go by with the wind in my face and my legs doing the bare minimum to get up hills is pretty cool to contemplate.

*****

This was truly random.  Thanks for sticking with it.

They Are Gone

My daily viewing patterns are back to normal.  

The gigantic bump was related to comments I left on a Substack or two in September.  I lurk there under Ashleigh at the Burrow; there's a link associated with my penname.  Readers of the post who dug deeper into the comments (often, as everywhere, as interesting as the main content itself) would have found my sentences.  

Then Sister forwarded my Disney post to her mailing list of thousands, encouraging them to read it and spread the word.  The bump continued.  It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.  

People seem to have read back a few weeks.  Some seem to have continued reading for a while.  Then, in October, most of them disappeared.  Just like that, they vanished.  I am a victim of the algorithm.  The Substack posts which bore my comments are no longer boosted on the site.  

I've done the same thing to others.  I've enjoyed a comment, clicked through to learn about the writer, and, on occasion, delved deeper.  Sometimes I like a post or a comment.  I'm happy to do it for those who care about such things.  I know how it feels when strangers like your work.

But now I wonder about those I've stumbled across and since forgotten.  Do they miss me?  Did they have a similar lovely encounter with the wider world, only to be left, bereft, after a time?

I'll never know.

Happy BIrthday, Daddy

Having the holiday fall on the 13th of the month neatly solves the problem identified in the first sentence.  Thirteen years later, it still makes me smile.

Friday, October 14, 2016

Happy Birthday, Daddoooooo

An earlier version was published on 10/14/12, three weeks after we hosted Little Cuter & SIR's wedding.

*****

It was always very confusing - was his birthday the 12th or the 14th of October?  One of them was Columbus Day and the other was Herb's Day and to this moment I still have to stop and think.... and it's gotten harder since the bureaucrats moved Chris's Day to the generic.

But he was around me in spirit at the wedding he missed by a decade or so, and he's not having an easy time returning to his life on the other side.

Yes, I am much happier blaming him for intruding than wondering why I am conversing with dead people. In my defense, we're not so much conversing as he is hovering and I am feeling nudged.

For example, I misplaced the green metal hiking pole I've been using to keep me balanced and symmetrical.  I could have used the metal one with the "I Love Tucson" sticker crookedly affixed just below the grip, but it looks too much like rehab and not enough like life. 

Then, I found myself with Daddooooo in the potting shed, leaning on the wall above the bucket of handmade walking sticks he'd crafted from fallen branches of the pin oak in his backyard, personal walking sticks measured for each and every member of the family.

I have been using  G'ma's all day.  Herb's been chattering in my ear the whole time.

That was his way.  Deaf-as-a-door-nail, hearing aid batteries constantly squealing or dying or resting comfortably in the breast pocket of his plaid wash-and-wear shirt, he monopolized conversations so that he would know what was going on. That works well until your audience hits second grade or so; after that, it becomes a full fledged "Herb Attack."

I know this because I have been guilty of them, myself.

His tales were fascinating.  If the facts weren't really facts, well, they should have been.  He went to City College with Richard Feynman.  He lived down the block from Jonas Salk. He knew every cobblestone, every cornerstone, every brick and street sign in Manhattan.  Serving as tour guide in The Big Apple made him about as happy as anything else I can imagine... and I've been sitting here thinking about it for a while.

Surrounded by his grandchildren-of-a-certain-age, those who were sentient but not yet sarcastic, he was the tour guide of his own life.  He could sit for hours, regaling them with stories about the chickens they raised in the backyard on Hessler Avenue, about the boat he and his brothers built one summer... the boat that almost floated, about the time it rained frogs, and about all the times he got into trouble at school, because he just wouldn't stay still.

He probably deserved a diagnosis or medication; for those born in 1916 those options were nowhere on the horizon.  He was "just being Herbert." He continued being just himself, sui generis as I called him in the obituary I wrote for the New York Times, until the very end.

He died at home, between the first and second commercial of the 10 o'clock episode of Law and Order on the Saturday night before Thanksgiving.  There's some confusion about the date, since the hospice nurse didn't get there to sign the death certificate until early Sunday morning.  Like his birthday, I need cues to keep the date straight.  Like most things Daddooooo related, this is not now nor has it ever been easy.

The funeral home attendants gave her a moment in the hallway before they wheeled him out the front door.  G'ma leaned over, kissed him, and then admonished him, one last time: "Behave yourself, Herbert!  Don't give them any trouble."  The paramedics were bemused.  My mother looked right back at them.  "If you'd known him, you'd understand."

Happy Birthday, Herb, you strange and singular father of mine.  Happy Birthday to YOU!

It Is Everywhere

As we settled in to watch some baseball, TBG and I were discussing the incursion of AI into our lives.  Every time my phone requires a security update I return to find two or three new games installed without my permission.  TBG's Yahoo mail account requires closing screen after screen of ways that AI can help him.  

I opened Blogger, my hosting platform, to write to you about vulnerability and resilence.  That will have to wait, because this is what greeted me:

**Try our New Beta Features**: Create a more engaging reading experience with the help of Google

Google Search links: Based on your blog content, Blogger will automatically identify key words and phrases in your post and insert Search links in case your readers want to explore more. In Compose View, Look for the ‘Pencil’ icon on the top-right of the page to get started.

That's not what I signed up for.  I do not want anything automatically identified nor inserted in my work.  If I want it there, I'll put it there.  

I clicked on that little pencil icon and this is what happened:

As we settled in to watch some baseball, TBG and I were discussing the incursion of AI into our lives.  Every time my phone requires a security update I return to find two or three new games installed without my permission.  TBG's Yahoo mail account requires closing screen after screen of ways that AI can help him.  

I opened Blogger, my hosting platform, to write to you about vulnerability and resilence.  That will have to wait, because this is what greeted me

If that's how you want to read, you'll have to look elsewhere.  If I want to link to my sources, I'll do so.

I think about the placement of the commas and the pacing of the sentences.  If I want you to pause, I'll work on ways to make that happen.  I do not want all those links distracting you from what's going on here, now, in the moment.  

Besides, I don't think you need a link to baseball or vulnerability or Yahoo mail to help you enjoy the post.

Nothing

Nothing happened today, according to the people I follow on long form posts.  That may be true.  

I exist in a trauma-centric world these days - indicting Jack Smith; indicting James Comey (not my favorite human but still....); air traffic creaking to a halt; ICE and the National Guard and the Insurrection Act propeling us toward who the hell knows; and a Congress beholden to a madman and his minions.  It all seems to be happening all the time.

I remember when crises would come one at a time.  I remember when the Presidency and the Supreme Court were respected.  I remember feeling safe.

Maybe nothing happened today.  At this point, for me, it's really hard to tell.

An Anodyne Response

I've been making my calls to my federal representatives through the shutdown.  Senator Kelly's office usually answers in person.  Senator Gallego sends me to an attended mailbox.  Congressman Ciscomani's offices in DC and Tucson are staffed and answering the phone.  

When Ciscomani's staff are busy, his message references the shut down and says he'll be doing the best he can.  Today, reports are circulating that Arizona's Republican Representatives are pressuring our Senators to reopen the government so they can get back to work.  Mike Johnson says the Epstein files have nothing to do with his refusal to swear in Adelita Grijalva; he, too, is waiting on the Democrats to come to their senses and destroy the ACA and SNAP-Ed.

I must have written urging Representative Ciscomani to vote to release the Epstein files because yesterday I got a written response.  I wrote once before and also got a written response.  The only difference between the content of these letters was the subject I'd written about.  

I am grateful you took the time to share your message regarding your concerns with the Epstein files/war in Ukraine.

The rest of it appreciates my passion and dedication, emphasizes his duty to listen, and tells me he's getting to work passing legislation that helps tackle the issues our district and state are facing, including fighting inflation, restoring American energy independence, strengthening our economy, and securing our border.

Notice that neither Ukraine nor Epstein are mentioned there.  This letter was unhelpful the first time and no better the second.  

The only thing personal is this: I am appreciative of constituents like you who continue to contact me...

At least somebody is keeping track of things.  

To Rant, Or Not To Rant

That is the question.  There's just so much.  I know it's their plan to overwhelm us on all fronts so we're exhausted and will forget about the fact that now the Epstein files are a hoax.  

They took on Tylenol.  They took on Jimmy Kimmel and Stephen Colbert (while Brian Kilmeade is free to suggest lethal injections for the mentally ill homeless who refuse treatment)  They are bombing speedboats in international waters and zip tying children in the middle of the night.  

And have you seen the ICE videos and, even worse, the ICE recruiting tv spot?  For those of you lucky enough to have been spared the experience, anyone who thinks the police are too restrained by woke regulations should come on over to ICE, where you can wear all sorts of cool gear while wearing a mask.  And don't forget the $50,000 signing bonus, college tuition assistance, and the chance to chase down random dudes on the street.

It's appalling.  I sat with my mouth open, gaping, as my brain exploded.

The military leadership summoned by a frat boy who called them fat and who was soon followed by their (fat) Commander in Chief.

He's ignoring rulings by federal judges and ultimatums from governors and I have absolutely no faith that the Supreme Court will back up the Constitution.  He told his minions not to negotiate, effectively shutting the government down.

And it's all a frantic effort to keep the Epstein files under wraps.  

There are videos, still photos, phone logs, emails and texts that could prove in a minute that FFOTUS is uninvolved.  If there's no there there, what's the problem?  

He ran on the issue.

And yet we wait. But Mike Johnson is running out of options to keep from swearing in Adelita Grijalva; he sent the gang home for a week.  Once they are back in town, she will cast the 218th vote to force the DOJ to release it all.

And after that, who knows?  

I'm prepared to apologize for generalizing from all the other sleaze associated with FFOTUS to assuming he's reprehensible in this zone, too.  Truly, I am.

*****

Hmmmm.... I guess I made the decision to rant as soon as the cursor hit the ?page?  

A Post With (Too Many) Parentheses

Yesterday, for an hour and seventeen minutes, I spoke to Rooomie, a friend from junior high days.  She'd texted me the day before: MTF, my true friend since college, died last week.

MTF was a good friend who appreciated her friends.  She hosted some of the best girls' weekends ever.   She had a big, generous heart.  She was a caregiver and a grandmother. 

 She was happiest when her daughter was born, writing that the rest of the world can go away, because I have her and that's all that matters.  (I still have the card.)   

The people she let into her life appreciated her snark.  She was afraid I'd lost mine after being perforated; my mantra (The sun came up today and I was here to see it; by definition, it's a good day) offended her image of me.

Ever since I got to know her in college, she had trouble finding the bright side.  Even though she had all the things I knew would have made me happy when we were in high school (very long, very straight hair; a pep team sweater; lunch with the cool kids) she told me that none of it ever made her happy.  (I still find that hard to believe.)

She was a reader and a voracious consumer of information and most of that just added fuel to her general unhappiness.  She was smart and loquacious and a delightful companion; we walked half the length of Manhattan, laughing.

Walked the High Line and watched as MTF
offered to "take a picture of both of you" every 50 feet or so.

She died at home, surrounded by the family that loved her the most.  There is no funeral, no obituary beyond her daughter's Facebook post.  She's gone.  

There's a hole in my universe.  It's not an unexpected hole; we're in our 70's, after all.  But knowing it and feeling it exist on two separate planes.  

Right now I'm kinda wishing I didn't like so many people.

Elementary Therapy

It's impossible to be sad when little ones are hugging you.  I've proven that over and over.  Squealing kindergarteners holding onto my legs cures just abou every pain in my heart.  Today, the mediumm ones proved that they, too, are a balm for the soul. 

Eating the fruit brought by a friend, sitting in the shade, on the bench they had placed themselves (Really? We can decidet? Really?) we talked about friendship.  Nothing very profound. No advice. Just them opening a window into their lives.... as they ate pineapple and apple slices slathered in hot sauce.

I didn't understand it, and I didn't want to share it, and they were okay with that.

I looked across the garden at the Littlest Kid being tended to by the current guardian of the hose.  I looked across at kids who are trying to learn English, asking for a trowel from the trug.  

What is wrong with this picture?  Absolutely nothing.  It's beautiful, it's natural, and it's not extraordinary on this campus.  

I don't understand how anyone could find fault with this.
.

Chilling Free Speech

I started the day looking at the landing page of the Department of Housing and Urban Development. 

The Radical Left in Congress shut down the government. HUD will use available resources to help Americans in need.

That's the banner.  I didn't change the size; it stretches from edge to edge on the full screen.  It also comes in a red version.

A survey wondering how satisfied I was with the website, right there in the bottom left corner.  I filled it out, strongly disagreeing and strongly dissatifying wherever I could.  I mentioned the banner  and the Hatch Act in the Comments section.

I looked at the Submit button and I froze.  I hadn't given my name, but even a luddite knows that nothing stays private if it's on the interwebs.  So, I clicked on their Privacey Policy.

Click through.  It's a three column, densely packed with tiny print.  It's page 68647 of the Federal Register.  It's incomprehensible.  It also has no redirect button to allow me to opt out of anything.

So I sat and I thought.

I was right.  The banner is inappropriate and probably illegal.  I do feel less comfortable in thinking about HUD than I did yesterday, and I'm certainly less likely to do business with them should the need arise - and it's all because of that banner.  

It's also an inaccurate framing of the issue, but nuance has never been this Administration's long suit so why bother bringing it up?  

I had a long talk with myself about Freedom of Speech.  I laughed at myself at first but went quickly to frightened before leaping to outrage.   This is The United States of America.  I'm not inciting violence or preaching revolutioin.  I shouldn't have to think any further than that.  

I clicked Submit, feeling like a warrior for democracy.

Isn't that sad?

Everyday People

Emptying the dishwasher, scrambling the eggs, chopping the veggies, cooking the bacon - all normal I don't feel like eating anything heavy tonight activities for TBG and me.   I offered to do it all, mostly so I could send my music streaight to my hearing aids, and bop along as I cooked.  

(This bopping is different than the FFOTUS admired bopping of President Obama, a story picked up everywhere from the Times of India to The London Economic).

I let the algorithm shuffle my music.  

The Temptations

Encyclopedia of Alabama

started me off, followed by Dusty Springfield  and The Mamas and the Papas.  

Yes, I am stuck in my own past.... and I love it.  Big Cuter often says that good music stopped with your generation.  I tend to agree.

And then the past caught up to the present when Sly and The Family Stone 

https://tinyurl.com/mtac9e3f

put it all together for me.

Sometimes I'm right and I can be wrong...  what a novel concept.  So very different from the my-way-or-the-highway times we're living in right now.  

Scroll through the lyrics or listen to the music (link in the caption) and enjoy the only song that makes scooby-dooby-dooby palatalbe.

Rodney King would like this song.

Everyday People

Sometimes I'm right and I can be wrong

My own beliefs are in my song
The butcher, the banker, the drummer and then
Makes no difference what group I'm in

I am everyday people, yeah, yeah

There is a blue one who can't accept
The green one for living with
A fat one tryin' to be a skinny one
Different strokes for different folks
And so on and so on and scooby-dooby-dooby
We got to live together

I am no better and neither are you
We're all the same, whatever we do
You love me, you hate me
You know me and then
You can't figure out the bag I'm in

I am everyday people

There is a long hair
That doesn't like the short hair
For being such a rich one
That will not help the poor one
Different strokes for different folks
And so on and so on, scooby-dooby-dooby
We got to live together

There is a yellow one that won't
Accept the black one
That won't accept the red one
That won't accept the white one
Different strokes for different folks
And so on and so on and
Scooby-dooby-dooby

I am everyday people

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: Sylvester Stewart

Everyday People lyrics © Mijac Music