A Fine Whine

Look, 2016 - I get it.  The world is going to hell in a handbasket, good people are dying left and right, hatred is winning, there is terror all around us.  But dammit - you're taking away my lifeline here.

I've been doing my best to maintain.  Incurable cancer - fuck it, I'll just survive with that sucker in me.  Massive depression - I'll find the right dose of meds to help me through it.  Debilitating disability?   I'll take on the Social Security Administration, who never approves *anyone* on the first pass,  and get approved so fast that I'll have to wait 3 months to be eligible, even.  I'll take on adversity and beat it like a rented mule. 

But there's always been one thing in my life that is absolute.  It didn't matter where we were individually, or what was going on with our lives.  Mother and I are always together on Christmas.  (Well, there was that one year - worst year of my life - but we don't talk about that.)  I would travel to her, or lately, she would travel to me, but always, always we were together then, regardless of the rest of the year.  We spent it in one bedroom attic rooms (Cedar City), we spent it in Washington, DC (the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in a light dusting of snow), Ogden, Portland...  always together.  Until this year.

So far, Fate has thrown screwed up airline tickets, breathing issues, a potential heart attack, and now just shutting down half of Oregon at us.  Ok, we probably should have listened when the heart attack popped up, but we're a stubborn family.  Anyway, Mom and Sherri made it as far as Ontario, which is essentially the state line, and then this morning (which was supposed to be a clear day), there's a snow storm, and the road is not just dangerous, but closed.   So, they're turning back around and heading home. 

I absolutely support the decision (it's the only one that makes sense), but...  I want my Mom.  Yes, I know, I'm 51 years old, I don't care.  This has been one bitch kitty of a year, and talking with Mom is one of the ways I make sense of the world. Yes, there's telephone (and god knows, we talk more on the phone than I do with anyone else), but it's not the same.  You don't get long, involved, rambling philosophical discussions over a wire. 

Oh, well.  Moose will be relieved, I suspect - Mom was bringing Lili, his new sister, with her, and now he can continue his reign as an only child.  To quote Monty Python, "Always look on the bright side of life..."

More Phone Ranting

New variation on Rachel from Credit Card Services and her boyfriend...  I'm now getting calls weekly from companies trying to get me to buy an extended warranty for the Moose Mobile. But there's a new and annoying twist.

Well, frankly, it's not all that new, but boy is it annoying.  They always call, acknowledge me as Mrs Reynolds, and then ask to speak to Roger. Now, both times that we've had time to do it properly, I've been the one who did the research, made the decisions, arranged the financing for the car... it's been in my court because I'm the professional - it's my family's division of labor, and it works well for us.  The car is in both of our names, even though I don't drive anymore due to physical limitations (and boy do I miss it sometimes... but that's another post.)  Admittedly, Daniel is the car guy in the family - if you ever need a new car, I seriously recommend him as your concierge.  The guy actually enjoys car shopping, and he's really, really good at it, but when it came to the legal parts, it was me setting it up.

This last time, in fact, when the dealer kept trying to get us to pay a higher amount for a car we didn't want (we didn't want 4wd, we really didn't want black, etc...)  I was the one who made an end run around him with my credit union and got the exact car that I wanted from the factory for $2K less than the dealer was offering.  And of course, the dealer came back to me when I told him this with "Have you discussed this with your husband?"  There are few phrases in the English language that are closer to a declaration of war with me - well, I suppose "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it" would do a bit more damage, but not a hell of a lot.

At any rate... my point is that why on earth would they automatically assume that I wouldn't be the one to talk to about this?  My name is on the title.  The loan was actually made by and paid off to *my* bank account.  What do they possibly gain by asking to speak to my husband rather than just giving the pitch to me in the first place?  Of course, these are people who are already ignoring us being on the "Do Not Call" registry, so I don't know why I'm expecting rationality from them. Just another mystery..

Civil War In My House

Throw pillows.  There's a looming dust-up about throw pillows. 

See, Roger likes to have a throw pillow up against the arm of the couch when he's resting.  Moose, on the other hand, takes this throw pillow as an obstacle not to be born when he's trying to get across the couch to Mama's lap on the chair (his stairway is on the other end of the couch.) 

Now, mind - this is the boy who frequently does a balance beam move across the back of the couch (he goes from one arm of the couch, up to the top, traverses a three inch wide back for 6 feet, leaps down to the other arm of the couch and then across to the safe zone of Mama's lap.)  And yet, the soft, comfy surface of the throw pillow, which is a fine ramp up to the arm, confounds him.  He'll sit there, whining softly until someone removes the horrible obstacle.

Unless Mama has food.  In that case, he's up and over like Evil Knievel. 

My Boy

Moose in his normal mode - note the gray cheeks

It's his birthday tomorrow - well, technically, we're not sure exactly when, but since he was a Thanksgiving present, and he was about a year old when he emerged shivering from Mom's car and promptly ran and hid on me, we call Thanksgiving his birthday. 

He's 13 now, and starting to show his age.  The tail-patterned baldness is spreading, there are a few more fatty lumps on the belly, the gray is starting to be more of a cover than a highlight on his face... but he's always going to be my boy.  My constant companion, my emotional backstop... my heart dog.  I'm starting to worry that I might outlast him, and it frightens me, but that's the way it is with our canine companions. 

Dixie just showed up on my "this day two years ago" app - it was two years ago that we had to say goodbye to that grouchy little loved one.  Between her and Shadow and Daisy, we're building up quite a welcome contingent across the rainbow bridge, and while I wish we didn't have to say goodbye, I wouldn't have missed knowing them for the world.  I just wish it wasn't such a brief time together. 

But for right now... Moose is sleeping on my lap, occasionally waking up just long enough to make sure that I'm doing ok (and not sneaking any snackage past him), his warm body in a comma around me, making sure to maintain maximum body contact.  He's not really fond of my typing - means that no hands are free to pet him - but he puts up with it, for now.  When he's tired of waiting, he'll stretch out full body in front of the keyboard, belly up, demanding tribute in the form of belly rubs.  It's a rough life... but he makes due.  Happy birthday, my love...  and may you have many, many more.

Things to be grateful for

We spent our Saturday night the way we usually do - family dinner with Kevin and Robyn.  We've been doing this for years - almost every Saturday we get together, have dinner together, discuss the news of the week, watch some bad TV together. 

There's minor variations - sometimes Mom's here, Daniel and Davey have shown up a few times, but it's generally about the same.  Sometimes we cook dinner, sometimes we order out - but the food is really back-seat to just being together.  (Although we tried something new last night that really worked well - we were cooking up a big old pork butt roast and funeral potatoes, and since we already had the potatoes covered, we added some brussel sprouts into the pan with the carrots and onions.  Big hit with Robyn and I - the guys are not sprouts fans, but I think that if they had just tried them, they would have been converts.  Lovely roasted sprouts, all soft and buttery, covered with the porky goodness from the roast...  heaven.  But I digress.)

We talk about politics, commiserate with each other on the stupidity of politics - occasionally argue politics.  We empathize with each other on various physical maladies. Kevin generally falls asleep at some point during the evening while Robyn and I natter on.  But mostly, it's just so good to have family that you can choose for yourself.  Something to feel blessed about...

It's Who I Am, It's What I Do

The Procuress by Gerrit Van Honthorst

I know I've mentioned this to y'all before (many times), but until I saw the light and retired, one of my main job elements was being a purchasing agent.  A buyer.  A procuress, if you will.  Like Liam Neeson, it's left me with a certain peculiar set of skills.  Unlike Liam Neeson, chances are good that I'm not going to be able to exact a devastating revenge against you and your entire village (although I *was* a buyer for the DoD.  I do know the NAICS code and MilStrip number for an astounding number of obscure armaments... and where to procure them.  But I digress.) 

At any rate... it means that I'm basically dial-a-buy for the majority of my family.  Need to hire an emergency Santa for the family party, and it's December 22nd?  Call Deci.  Some little jerks tagged the Post Office you're running, and you need to know how to get graffiti off brickwork?  Call Deci.  (BTW... on that one - Elephant Snot.  I know, it sounds disgusting, but it's a quality product that will remove a swastika faster than you can make some juvenile delinquent *really* regret his decision making skills.  I figured that this would be a good time to let people know.) 

But mostly, I'm the travel agent for the family.  I'm almost always home, I'm almost *always* in front of my computer - you call me from the road, and I find you a place that's reasonably priced, takes puppies, and has a complimentary breakfast.  It's what I do.

So, when Mom and Aunt Sherri called from the road today, I figured they needed a hotel and was firing up the computer, but no... they just called to say hi.  They were meeting Cassidy, she was getting the hotel, nothing was needed...  I almost felt replaced.  Until 20 minutes later, when Cassidy called in a panic because she didn't have internet access and needed the hotel info... and all was right in the universe again. 

"Choose Your Own Truth" Election

I've spent a lot of time this week watching post mortem segments on cable news about the election Tuesday, and I think they're missing the biggest point.  It's not just that we're a divided nation (although, god knows, we are.)  It's that we no longer can agree on basic facts.  I mean, two plus two is four, but that's about it (and I've got friends that are probably willing to argue about that.)

For example - I had a family member post a video from YouTube stating that the reason that James Comey sent the letter to Congress about possible new evidence on the Email server-gate issue was because there was proof that Hillary was running a pedophile ring in New York, and that she was worried about her getting into the White House.  I posted back info that her source had been wrong in the past, along with info that this was just Weiner's computer, most of the emails were probably duplicates that had been seen before, etc, and I was asked by her to stay off her articles about politics since I was obviously in the tank for Hillary.  It's pretty obvious that she and I are not just in disagreement about who to vote for, but we can't even agree on what set of "facts" to use in figuring it out.

On a different thread (I think this one was on whether or not Voter ID laws were racially biased), I provided info on the court case where the judges said that clearly, yes - this was racially biased, via a Washington Post article.  The person I was arguing with then provided info from  Breitbart.com to say that no, the laws were necessary due to rampant in person voter fraud.  I dissed his choice of research material (I rarely trust alt-right sites for factual reporting), he told me that I was a tool of the liberal elites because the Washington Post and NY Times were in the tank for the democrats, and we went on our merry way. 

This is the most important decision we make as a country, and yet we're being guided by partisan hacks, shills, and some teenagers in Veles, Macedonia.  (And yes, I know - there are fake articles on Trump from Democratic leaning sites as well - I always triple check anything I see from Politicus.)

But seriously - how are we supposed to figure out who the right person is to lead our country (and it is *our* country), when we're not even getting the same information?  Almost every major newspaper in the country agreed that Trump was not fit to be President - how did almost half of us completely ignore that, and vote for him anyway?  Every single living person who has ever had the job said "Do not vote for him", and yet...  half of us didn't believe them.  I just can't understand it, and I don't know how to fix it... 

I'm Still LaRae's Daughter, and I'm Pissed

I wrote a few weeks back about understanding Hillary because I have a mother who is very competent, organized, hard-working, and sometimes misunderstood because of it. You know, the old saying where a hard-driving man is referred to as an efficient son of a bitch, while the equivalent woman is just a bitch? Yeah.  That one always hit a little too close to home to be funny.

At any rate... Mom always raised me to believe that I could do whatever I put my mind to.  And for the most part, she was right - if I wanted it badly enough, I'd figure out a way to get it. She was a first-wave feminist, and she raised me the same way - girls could do whatever guys could do, my gender didn't define my world, etc... 

Which is why it was such a shock when I became an admin at one of my local BBSs and got a look behind the scenes at the "men-only forum".  See, up until then, I didn't know that there were guys out there that hated me just because I was female.  Worse, I didn't know that there were guys that didn't think of me as a person just because I was female - I was something to be conquered, or owned, or ignored if I wasn't at least a 6 - a second class citizen.  It rocked my world a little - kind of like the first time I found out that there are people out there who deliberately kick puppies.

Then there was the time at work that I competed for a promotion.  I was up against a guy who had been there less time than I had, who had less experience than I did, less commendations than I did - hell, he still came to me for advice when he couldn't figure things out... guess who got the promotion?  And guess who was fired for looking at porn on his work computer not 6 month later. 

But that was last century (ok, it was 1999 - but still, last century).  I thought for sure things were getting better.  Until this election season...  Every single former President warned us that they could not see Trump in office.  Almost every newspaper warned us.  Her former opponents Bernie and President Obama both were actively begging people to vote for her.  He told us with his own lips that he was a sexual assaulter (on top of all the other reasons not to vote for him, like unrealistic action plans and a hair trigger temper).  He was endorsed by the fricking KKK... and Putin and Kim Jong Un!  And yet...  despite winning the popular vote, enough Americans voted to keep the woman out. 

I know - there's going to be people saying "But she's corrupt!  She's a criminal!"  If you voted for the man who *actually* has two upcoming court dates, one for conspiracy to defraud and one for rape of a child, no, I don't believe that you were voting out of shock at her "criminal" email behavior (and don't even start with the "she's a killer" routine - if she really were killing off her political enemies, there's no way that Anthony Weiner would still be alive.)  So yeah... it's the Bitch factor.  And I'm back there crying at the knowledge that in this land that I love, that I worked my heart out for... I'm still a second-class citizen

Mental Soundtracks And Following Where They Lead

I've always had a mental soundtrack running - something will remind me of a song lyric, and that song will pop into my head and stay there until something else comes along and pops it back out.  Given my eclectic music tastes, the songs have ran the gamut - Oingo Boingo to EmmyLou Harris to Gwar to Jane Oliver.  Although usually, it's lyric-driven, so not a lot of classical or jazz...

I've started posting each morning on Facebook whichever song happens to be running through my mind at the moment.  This morning it was Tea and Sympathy from Janis Ian - I do love the way she writes.  Looking around, I also found a terrific version of her singing "At Seventeen" recently, and it
hit home much more coming from a woman looking back, than from a young girl.

At Seventeen

But it reminded me of a moment back in the office - one of those first times when I realized that I was getting old.  We were sitting around talking, and someone brought up high school, and how much they had enjoyed it - cheerleader, homecoming queen, yada yada.  I muttered something about how the song "At Seventeen" was the only thing that got me through high school and looked at a sea of blank faces. 

Seriously - an entire table of people who had never heard the immortal lines "For those of us who knew the pain of valentines that never came, and those whose names were never called when choosing sides for basketball... It was long ago and far away, the world was younger than today and dreams were all they gave for free to ugly duckling girls like me."  How on earth could that happen? 

At Seventeen gave me hope that there was more to life than which cafeteria clique you were in, and that life could get better when you had more life choices (ok, and that those who bloomed early like the homecoming queen would fade away - what can I say?  I was a vengeful little geek.) 

And it turns out that yes... if you continue to grow (and if you don't settle), your life is a lot more than it was back then.  You find your feet, and your voice, and (if you're lucky) your particular Valentine - the one who makes sense of it all for you and keeps you sane (thank you, Roger).  The ugly duckling can grow into a neon-purple swan, given the chance and the room.  She just needs to get out of her cage. 

Sunday, waxing religious

I've always had a weirdly schizophrenic relationship with religion.  For one thing, I was born in Utah to an old-family Mormon family, with all the baggage that entails (for those non-Mormons in the crowd, think Judaism-light - all the quirks and guilt (and insularity), shoved into just 200 years of tradition.  I tend to think of myself as genetically Mormon - my ancestors go back to the old "making your way across the country with a hand-cart to the new promised land" of the early church, but I drifted.

Part of it may have been my mother...  she went through a crisis of faith and left the Church  (something about Dad not being able to remember her real name half the time - there was no way he was going to remember her temple name to call her up to the afterlife) when I was two or three.  She's grown back into the Church now, but while I've tried, there are some aspects of the Church I just can't seem to get around. 

Don't get me wrong - if I were going to be religious, I would definitely be Mormon.  (That comes from my grandparents - Lova and Dewane were always incredibly active, and kept trying to bring me back into the fold.)  Through them, I saw the good side of the church - the sense of community, helping one another through the rough spots, the "callings" where everyone in the church had a role to play, whether it was being a member of the bishopric, leader of the Relief Society, primary school teacher, librarian... the Mormon church is very much an active rather than passive activity.  Even the sermons are a community thing - each week a different member gives the talk, based loosely on guidance from the church, but very much your own testimony. 

But... There's those aspects I can't get around.  I'm frustrated by the fact that any man can attain the priesthood, but no woman can.  I mean - the church is great if you're a traditionalist, but they teach that the height of womanhood is to be the mother of the family, to teach and inspire your children, to make a good home.  For a barren career girl like me... there's not a lot of room there. 

Then, there's the guidance on sexuality.  Don't get me wrong, I think it's great that they've been evolving - but hating the sin while loving the sinner still implies that you can be born a sin - that being LBGT is an aberration.  I can't believe that a loving God would do that to one of his creations. 

So, I remain a woman without a country here - as I said, genetically Mormon, inclined in that direction, but not quite able to get there.  Maybe the church will evolve - God knows, they've changed for the better in a lot of ways in the past 200 years.  Or maybe I'll learn to work around my differences like Mom has - coming to terms with the Church has done her a lot of good the past few years.  Or maybe I'll continue on building my own relationship with God - who must love me, after all, I've been given time to work this out.

Thoughts on the World Series

I really enjoyed watching my friend's feed the past couple of days.  I don't know how, but I've ended up with about an equal amount of Chicago Cubs and Cleveland fans, and watching them gently duke it out over the World Series has been a balm to my soul.

No one accused the other team of cheating.  No one whined about the umpires.  No one even really insulted the other team - it was just a lot of excitement and spirit on both sides.  I guess when you've had long enough to wait, you get good at being gracious, winner or loser.  But it was fun to watch, and exciting, and spirited, and... I can't imagine a better last game than one that came down to the very last out.  I just want to honor that... it felt heart-healing to know that we can still come together after a contest and be friends.

Never, EVER, Read The Comments

Yahoo had a cute little nothing headline today - White House trick-or-treating, with the President and First Lady passing out candy to various cute trick or treaters.  One little boy showed up in an excellent Prince costume - he had the purple suit down, the guitar was fierce, just absolutely adorable, and there was a 12-second video of the President crooning Purple Rain at him (surprisingly on key, btw...)  It was absolutely adorkable, in all the best ways... and then I made the mistake of looking at the comments below the article.

I know we're a polarized nation.  I know that anonymous commenting brings out the worst in people.  But for heaven's sake...  what possible good could it be doing your soul to actively seek out, read, and bother to comment on a cute little nothing video like this with hateful rhetoric?  And it wasn't just hating on the President (although there was some of that.)  People were insulting the little kid!  There was a comment on cultural appropriation (the kid was African-American, by the way - I'm pretty sure the comment maker doesn't understand cultural appropriation.)  There was a comment about not dressing up like Prince because he was a drug-fiend (no... pretty sure he was just in a hell of a lot of pain, there at the end, but I don't see how that makes him an anti-hero.)  There was even someone accusing Yahoo of publishing this to distract from the Hillary email scandal. 

I find myself really hoping that things calm down after the election, but I'm afraid this boil is just going to keep growing until we find a way to lance it.  And I don't know if the country could survive the surgery.