Silly Solstice (Stolen from the Fallen Angel Choir, who stole it from the Karamozoff Brothers)

(Sung to the tune of Sentimental Journey)

We would like to wish you Merry Christmas

But we're not all Christians here

Hannukah would reach the same objection

What's universal this time of year?

New year!  We'd like to wish you Merry New Year!

But it's not the start of the Jew's year

Or of the Chinese

It's hard as heck to be politically correct.

Guess that all that's left is Winter Solstice

Of all the others, that's the cause.

Have yourself a very Silly Solstice!

Ritually sacrifice a Santa Claus.

See You Later, Al

I just saw Franken's speech announcing his resignation.  In an ideal world, I wish he could have stayed in and gone through the ethics review process - considering the allegations against him are (mostly) the kind where the two people involved might have seen the situation in two entirely different ways (not getting into the last allegation against him, which he denies).  But I understand the current political climate is one where we are at war, and there is going to be collateral damage.

What I would like to see...  Mr Franken talk with his accusers, apologize to them for any damage done, work with them to make things right, and then come back and run for office with a fresh deck, clear to be the effective legislator he has been, working for justice, equality and making America truly great, rather than just sloganized.  I'd like to see that happen in a lot of these cases - men who have screwed up recognize their actions, work to correct them, and receive whatever forgiveness they deserve.  Of course, that's not going to be possible for a lot of actions - those men who knew what they were doing at the time they did it and aren't sorry at all they got caught are slime, and should be shunned - but I think we need to recognize that in the minefield of relations between the genders, not every explosion is deliberate. 

Rant: Mortgage Blues

Warning - this is going to be a rant.  A big old rant.  There may be curse words.

About 10 years ago, we took out a small second mortgage on the house to fix the roof.  At the time, I set up an automatic withdrawal, twice a month (since we were both paid bi-weekly), and we've paid it faithfully - in fact, it's down under $3K at this point, so almost paid off.  I got a letter in the mail (with no special markings or anything - from someone I've never heard of) stating that my mortgage was being transferred to a business I've never dealt with. 

Now, first off - I was given no option in this transfer.  Ok, I understand that banks do this stuff all the time, but...  they also inform me that I'm going to need to re-do my automatic withdrawal.  Now, I know damned well that it's possible for them to transfer that info - my primary mortgage has been transferred at least twice, with no needed input from me.  So, now I'm on the hook for getting things reestablished (in the middle of trying to sell the house, move, everything else), with a vendor that I have no established contacts with, that expects me to send them the info through the mail.  Right.  That's not going to work for me.  So I am going to have to figure out a way to get this paid off and out of my hair...

Oh, and they want me to send them information on any other mortgage I may happen to have.  They can go spit for information on any other mortgage I may happen to have.  HBSC frankly has been one of my worst decisions, and if I had it to do all over again, I would not have done it with them. 

Autocorrect/Auto-da-fe

I've been fighting with my Kindle lately.  I know - fighting with inanimate objects is a sign of a disturbed mind.  Your point?  But the thing is... I didn't start this one. 

See, the thing is I love words.  More importantly, I love using the exact word - le mot juste.  Heck, I'll go so far as to use French to come up with just the right expression.  So it drives me bonkers when I type in a carefully considered screed, only to realize that for some unknown reason, my Kindle has autocorrected the word greedheads to the word Greenpeace.  No.  Greenpeace has absolutely nothing to do with the rising price of insulin, while the greedhead CEOs of pharmaceutical companies should be lined up against the wall and... never mind.  Let's just say my rant is less effective than it should have been because some machine is trying to correct my vocabulary. 

And ok - I can accept that greedhead might not be in the Kindle dictionary.  But in a comment about honey-mustard Pringles, I wrote the phrase "reek of self-regret".  Reek - perfectly good word, should be in any proper dictionary. Kindle changed it to "feel of self-regret".  No, damn it!  I said reek, I meant reek!  I can accept that perhaps I have an oversized vocabulary.  But why is Kindle trying to dumb my comments down? 

I know, I should just turn autocorrect off.  But it does come in handy - at times.  I just wish it would keep its opinions to itself. 

We Did It!

Thanks to you lovely readers, I finally hit my bucket list goal of 100 views on a single post here on my humble little blog.  I appreciate each and every one of you, and I'm incredibly grateful that you take the time to check in on my natterings.  Next goal, 150! 

I Don't Always Believe The Women

Why is this becoming a thing?  I've heard a number of people saying "If you always believe the women, then you have to believe yadayadayada..."  Why, as a female, or a Democrat, or hell, as a human being, am I expected to *always* believe a woman? 

I'm especially pissed at the people who are using the phrase as a weapon - the Republicans who are using it to score points, who are using the phrase the same way they would use "nanny nanny boo boo".  No.  I don't *always* believe the woman.  For example, no way do I believe Roy Moore's wife when she says her husband is absolutely beyond reproach and a hero to all Christians.  But let's stick to the topic at hand. 

I'll even go so far as to acknowledge that there have been some instances of false claims.  (The Duke University Lacrosse Team case bothered the hell out of me. So did the woman who claimed some man jumped her and carved up her face with a backwards B for Barack back in 2008.)  I don't always believe the women - I believe women who have a credible story.  I believe it when multiple women come forward about the same guy.  I might even go so far as to say I'll give the benefit of the doubt to women - just because so damned many men have lied. 

I also believe that women and men can experience the same event and come out of it with two vastly different interpretations of the truth.  A guy can think "I went in for a good-night kiss, she didn't say no, it was a pleasant exchange", while that same woman could be frozen in shock, distressed with the violation of her person, and unable to say anything.  Rashomon ain't just a movie, boys and girls... 

So, where do we go from here?  I honestly don't know - but rather than saying "I always believe the women", how about I'm willing to listen to the women?  It's a start.

These Dreams (Go On When I Close My Eyes)

Odd dreams last night - the first one was a really odd 90s inspired fantasy quest, somehow set in the Washington of my youth.  The antagonist showed up in Niessan's Mercantile, the big denouement was during the 24th of July celebration (I think the final Maguffin was hidden in the "go fish" booth ran by the local Lions group)... but for some reason, it was starring Alicia Silverstone in full "Clueless" mode, complete with sassy black girl sidekick (not Stacy Dash - even my subconscious doesn't want to give her the work).  It was tacky enough that I found myself thinking that my dream mind needed a script rewriter. 

I probably should not have challenged my brain, because after the mandatory bathroom break, I slipped back into bed and fell into an Escher painting of a nightmare.  I was somehow at work downtown, and the bottom floors of my building started to disintegrate - I could feel the drop as each one gave way.  I ran out onto the balcony, and could see buildings all over Portland morphing and disappearing, as the Willamette and Columbia both overflowed their banks and turned Portland into a version of Venice.  As my building disappeared, I jumped off the balcony onto the top of a bus heading East, as I knew I had to get home to Roger and Moose - but the bus ended up drowning on the Banfield, with me being the sole survivor (thank God for natural buoyancy...) 

It went on from there, but the basic takeaway here?  Don't challenge my dream brain - it's got unrevealed depths of oddness.

I Was A 14-Year-Old Girl

This has been a really hard season for me.  Listening to these old white men doubting and twisting and "But she..."ing and flat out stating that trying to have sex with a 14-year-old girl is more qualifying for the United States Senate than being a Democrat... 

But it's helping me to forgive myself for things that happened when I was a child.  It's helping me to realize that I didn't do a damn thing to entice Jake to lay down next to me on the floor and press his hard penis against my back.  Laying there, frozen in fear, was the most I could have done.  It's not my fault I didn't say anything to anyone for far too long 

More, it's not my fault that I took a ride from the roller skating dude when I was 14.  I wasn't "leading him on", I wasn't being a tease - I was a 14-year-old girl who didn't have a clue.  No, he didn't rape me, because I freaked out and started crying when he put his hand on my breasts - but I had somehow managed to work it around in my head to where I felt like it was my fault for being in the car in the first place.  Until I could hear it in the language of the news - another 14-year-old girl, groomed by some sick 32-year-old sleaze (heck, it was even the same year - 1979) - I couldn't realize how it was *not my fault*. Hell, I even found myself slipping into the "well, he stopped when she said no" briefly before I realized - she should never have been in that position.  He should never had put her in that position.  Fuck that, he should never have put ME in that position. 

So, what would I offer from all this?  I don't know.  I'm just realizing how sick I've been.  I just know that every time I lance this damn boil, it gets a little smaller... but I am really tired of lancing it.

It's quiet. Too quiet.

Roger went back to work today, and after two weeks of having people around all the time, I'm back to my usual hermitage.  Part of me is luxuriating in the ability to watch MSNBC completely guiltlessly, but I have to admit, part of me misses the companionship.

It's odd - the older I get, the more introverted I am.  In my twenties, I avoided my own company so assiduously that there were nights when I only hit my apartment long enough to change clothes.  But then again, back in my twenties, I didn't really know or much like myself, so it's not really surprising that I avoided me as much as possible. 

Eventually, I grew into my skin and was ok with occasional solitude - and of course, that's when I fell in love with Roger, and didn't have to be alone anymore (funny how that works - almost as if I had to become a person I could love before someone else could love me.) 

Then, of course, Hank came into my life, and with him came pretty much enforced solitude - teleworking is great for getting things done, but it does leave you out in the cold a lot, and then retirement took even that thin fiber lifeline away.  Oddly enough, I'm comfortable with solitude now... but I know it's not healthy for me.  It's good that I'm going to be re-integrating with the family - but I'm going to enjoy the next couple of months alone while I have it.

Thoughts on today's massacre

Nearly 5% of a community was wiped out - another 5% maimed - because we can't, as a society, decide that no - some people should not be allowed to have guns.  A man who was dishonorably discharged (after serving a year in lockup) because of domestic violence - how on earth did this man get hands on even a cap gun, let alone a weapon of mass destruction (because yes, that's what this was.  I don't care if you want to argue that it was only a semi-automatic - if you can kill and maim 10% of a community, it's mass destruction.) There is no "well-ordered militia" that this man should ever have been a part of.

I'm starting to have my doubts about the second amendment as it is - we have a well-ordered militia at this point (heck, we have 4 of them).  Maybe we need to re-examine whether or not this is a vestigial amendment - the Constitution's appendix, initially harmless, but currently inflamed and killing us off.

Moving Forward - oh, god, what have I done?

We met with Kerin yesterday, and by the end of the hour, she had me convinced that we needed to re-do Roger's bathroom and completely renovate our kitchen in order to sell the house.  Admittedly, I've got the world's smallest kitchen, but I still prefer my solution of advertise the house via Grub-Hub and tap into the population that has delivery places on speed-dial and don't care about the kitchen.  We'll see how it goes...

I'm still recovering from the plague that I picked up in Utah - coughing up a lung every hour, more mucus produced than any body should be able to hold, sounding like Lauren Bacall on a bender - so just talking managed to exhaust me, but as long as my primary capacity in all this is going to be to write the checks, I think we'll still get through it with our sanity intact.

Blogging November, Day 2 - Notes from the Road

Admittedly, the view was worth the drive

I'm trying to write at least something every day - we'll see how long this lasts.  But here are some things I learned, spending 28 hours on the road:

Oregon rest areas are amazing - clean, well-lit, set up for handicapped people with wide stalls and plumbing that makes logistical sense.  Dead Man's Lake even went so far as to make sure that the automated water in the sinks is a lovely temperature, just right for hand cleansing.  Utah rest stops...  trust me, use the restroom at the Maverick. 

The days go a lot quicker when you listen to the 70s station than when you listen to MSNBC on Sirius.  One of the days we were traveling was Mueller Monday - it was fascinating, but I never want to hear about Manafort's rugs again. 

The second day afterwards, your body will feel worse than during the actual traveling.  (Or that may just be another function of the plague I picked up in Utah - I had forgotten that small children are disease vectors par excellance.)

Going from over 6K feet above sea level down to 52 feet above sea level, your ears pop.  A lot.  Chew gum.

Contrast and Compare

Just a quick one today - There's a number of contrasts between my current life and where I'm heading, but this one seemed like a quick and dirty way to show the absolute differences.  This is a picture of my current back yard.  It's lovely, but a bit of a pocket Venus:

This is going to be my back yard.  All 30 acres of it.

Yes, there's a rusted out old truck in there somewhere.

Both of these pictures were taken from the back porch.  It's going to be a bit of an adjustment.

New Experience for Moose

One of the things I've been worried about with the upcoming trip is how Moose is going to handle it.  He's not good with change in the best of times (I know, I know - neither is his mama), and he fears long car rides, because when he was a pup, every time he went for a ride, his mama changed.  That kind of thing can put a fear on a boy... Plus, he's going to be dealing with a lot more people than he normally sees, and he already has a history of freaking out every time Uncle Ron comes into the room  Also, I have pain meds for him, but he really resists them (no matter what I hide them in, he finds a way to spit it out - it's like there's a little spring on the back of his throat that kicks in once the peanut butter or pill pocket or whatever is gone.)

So... I decided that since I live in the land of legal weed, and I've been wanting to see the effects anyway, Moose could be my test subject.  (I would feel guilty about this, but check out the rest of the story.)  Daniel picked me up a bottle of Fairwinds Tincture Companion (it's bacon flavored CBD oil).  I was worried about his recent rejection of meds, and trying to figure out how to get him to take it, but the minute Daniel brought in the box, Moose started sniffing it like it was a BarkBox, wagging his tail hard enough to set off a small cyclone in the living room, and then he started licking the box.  I opened it up, got out the bottle (with the boy jonesing hard all the while), put a couple of drops in my hand, and he licked it up out of my hand - and kept licking, and licking, and licking...  It said on the website that it might take a couple of hours to kick in, but Moose is currently as mellow as I've seen him.  I was wondering about the munchies, but he seems content to just lay in Mama's lap and contemplate the universe.  I think this might work!

Birth Control - It's Not Just For Sluts

I've been sitting here getting angrier and angrier about the Trump administration's framing of the birth control debate as being about the "religious liberty" of the employer.  This is an attack on women, pure and simple. It's not even an attack on sexuality in general (although God knows there's plenty of other attacks on any non-missionary form of sexuality). No, this is an attempt to control women, through limiting their ability to control their own bodies.

Birth control makes it possible to work outside the home for millions of women - we can control (love that word) our pregnancies, planning them for when it's convenient or financially feasible. We can mitigate our risk of the unexpected.  But more importantly, birth control can help regulate our bodies. I know lots of women who are on birth control not because of frequent sex, but because it helps to keep them on a regular cycle, knowing when they're going to have to deal with blood and pain (I know, guys don't want to think about that part, but if you're going to be bloody and doubled over with cramps, it's good to know exactly when it's going to happen and be able to plan for it.) 

Then there's me. At a comfortably married 52, I should be beyond having to worry about this, right?  But I take a birth control pill daily to keep myself alive - my Megace is the only thing between me and uncontrollable, constant bleeding due to Hank the Tumor.  Should my employer (well, ex-employer, current insurance provider) really be allowed to say "I don't like people having sex, so Deci doesn't get life-saving meds"? Because that's where we're headed. It's not about sex... it's about control. 

Respect for my country, vs respect for the anthem

I have tremendous respect for the ideals of my country.  I took an oath to defend her, and I took that oath seriously - in fact, my mother and my husband both took an oath as well.  We are one patriotic family if you look at it - mom and I both served our country in the civil service until we retired, Roger is a veteran... ok, Moose hasn't done much but then again, he's German. 

But I don't get what relationship standing for the National Anthem before a football (or baseball, or whatever) game has with my respect for my country.  It's a sporting event, not a war - regardless of who wins or loses, it has nothing to do with supporting unity or justice or democracy. In my opinion, forcing a show of patriotism before a game demeans our base principles far more than taking a knee in protest ever could - true loyalty demands more than just putting down your nachos and putting a grease-stained hand over your heart for two minutes. 

Loyalty and patriotism should be a deliberate, personal choice - something you work at, something you strive for.  Not something you think about briefly in the middle of a stadium, not something that you make a show of because you don't want to lose your job, and absolutely not something that is forced upon you by some bloviating jerk tweeting at 3:00 in the morning.  Someone exercising their first amendment right, thoughtfully and with precision and grace, is much more what *I* worked for and believe in than someone attempting to apply authoritarian pressure. 

To sum up... the last two words of our national anthem really aren't and should never be "Play ball".

A Lexiphiliac's Lament

I enjoy words. When I'm listening to music, I pay more attention to the lyrics than the guitar line.  I generally enjoy the book more than the movie.  I like common words, obscure words, esoteric words - I've been a wordsmith in one form or another all my life.  Which is why my Kindle's autocorrect drives me bananas!

It's not just the curse words - I don't expect the Aunt Propers who generate the dictionary for the application to really know how to spell shitgibbon properly (although you've got to admit, it's been in common use a heck of a lot more since January 20th).  But I'll be typing merrily along in a minor Facebook feud, get ready to hit send and realize that Autocorrect has changed twit to twist.  Now, admittedly, the idiot I was talking to is both a twit and a twist, but I know what I was trying to say!

Then there's dealing with Hank.  Ok, so myxoid uterine leiomyosarcoma is not something that comes up often, but I shouldn't have to continue to say "Yes, that's what I meant" every single time.  Or if I want to be a little formal or arcane in my typing - it recognizes twerking (a truly loathsome neologism), but not grandiloquent or loquacious.  When my vocabulary is more extensive than the machine I'm using, there's a basic issue here.  And I'm pretty sure it's not with me.

Lovely Evening - sort of food review

Today was bad.  Moose hit a new low in terms of growing older and not able to do things he used to do, I was dealing with caffeine withdrawal, with the attendant headache and general blah that comes, traffic sucked... just a general bummer of a day.  But then...

Found a new restaurant on GrubHub (Alameda Brewhouse).  I order their soup and a Reuben, Roger ordered a Salmon BLT.  Everything we got was incredibly good tasting - the Whiskey Crab Bisque was rich and thick, the Reuben was thick enough to remind me of east coast delis, with bacon sauerkraut and housemade potato chips that were crunchy and salty and perfect.  Roger's sandwich was good enough that he had a hard time saving a little for Moose, and considering that it had two out of three of Moose's perfect foods (salmon and bacon), it's a good thing he managed to. Everything was perfect, even the sourdough bread that came with the soup.  But mostly, it was just that everything was comforting.  It was a spiky kind of day, and the food just sort of smoothed out the edges and made the world livable again.  You can't ask for more than that from a meal.

Some days...

So, I'm sitting here, watching Rachel Maddow, when my mouse suddenly dies.  It's one of those battery powered ones, and I tend to go through a couple of batteries a month, but it never gives a warning - the pointer just disappears.  No big, it just needs a new battery, but...

As I'm installing the new battery, the screw comes loose from my eyeglass earpiece.  Now, I'm blind enough that even installing a battery can be iffy without my glasses, but Roger was good enough to grab the mini-screwdriver for me, and fortunately the screw was still there, just unthreaded, so no big, except...

I've mentioned my issues with my bladder, right?  I'll be sitting there, perfectly fine, and then all the sudden, if I don't pee in the next two seconds, it's going to be overflow time.  And of course, I can't stand up quickly, because the same muscles that need to tighten one way to stand up, need to tighten in the opposite direction to keep my bladder from doing an "Ok, everybody out of the pool!" Still, no big, there's a reason why I've got extra towels and a Swiffer handy, but then...

I get back from my mad dash to the restroom... and my glasses fall off the table, onto the floor.  I think the universe realized it had pushed its luck as far as it could, though - the glasses remained intact. 

Frankly, I'm thinking it might be an early night.

Hamburger Helper?

When Mom was here, we made up a batch of meat mix - portioned it out, made a couple of meatloafs, some homemade meatballs... even portioned up some larger sized balls for cabbage rolls.  Of course, that was being way too optimistic for Roger and I - expecting us to unfreeze the balls *and* have cabbage on hand at the same time?  Never going to happen. 

So, we finally broke down and reformed the balls into a meatloaf for Sunday dinner tonight.  Oddly enough, the minute that the fridge was opened and the thawed meat mix came out, *someone* was off my lap like a shot, and in supervision position in the kitchen doorway. He wanted to make sure that Dad shaped the meat correctly, apparently (or that no stray meat got away.)  He's thoughtful like that.

Memory Well: Summertime A&W

Roger's hometown has an actual A&W stand, with the carhop service and picnic tables down by the creek.  They send out specials on Facebook, and today's brought on a wave of nostalgia to Roger, Daniel and I.

I miss having an actual A&W around - the combo KFC/Taco Bell/A&W is an abomination and doesn't count.  Aunt Sherri worked at the one in St George when I was a teen-ager, and I used to love to visit her at work - get a Mama Bear and a Root beer Float in one of their classic glass mugs.  When you get the root beer float just right, you get the ice crystals forming around the edge of the ice-cream, where it's half ice cream, half root beer and all delicious...  And the foot long Coney Dogs.  I have no idea what was in the coney sauce, but I still crave it, 30 years later. 

And the statuary from 70s fast food places - Mama Bear, Papa Bear from A&W, JB's Big Boy, the huge rotating bucket of chicken on top of the pole at KFC...  I miss tacky architecture.  We do have the Brown Jug on Sandy (a strip club where the whole building is shaped like a jug of moonshine), but for the most part, we just don't have odes to bad taste anymore.  Although the Portland Building does resemble a really tacky box of chocolate, so that's something...

New Computer Blues

Old Faithful was finally giving up the ghost - it was a good workhorse computer, but it was having problems restarting and the battery would no longer charge, so it's being relegated to another room as a backup spare, and we brought in the "new hotness".  Essentially the same computer, just 3 or 4 years newer (the HP Envy 17", if anyone is interested.) 

There are a few superficial differences - rather than Beats audio, it's Bang and Olufsen (sounds the same to these ears), the power cord is on the left side rather than the right, I'm going to have to convince the new hotness that no, Microsoft Edge is not my preferred browser no matter how much Gates is bribing you to think so... but the main issue is my monitor.

See, I don't really use my laptop as a laptop.  I use it as a component for the DeciPrise 5000 - I've got a separate keyboard/trackball/monitor that I hook in because I hate trying to type on a chicklet array or mouse around using my finger, and my eyes are bad enough that I *need* a 27" monitor and sometimes that's not enough.  I've got it all set up on a roll around table that is the perfect height for my comfy armchair - it's probably an ergonomic monster for anyone else, but for someone who is online pretty much 18 hours out of the day, it works really well.  Especially since when I was still working from home, I could just unplug my home laptop, plug in my work laptop and keep going... Until...

The new hotness only has two dongle slots (I know, they've got a technical name, but they're dongle slots) and no VGA slot.  There's an HDMI slot, but my monitor is not set for HDMI because I've had it just about as long as the "old busted" laptop.  I've got an adapter ordered and coming in, but for the next couple of days, I'm going to be squinting.  A lot.  So please be patient about any misspellings - I can't really tell the difference between letters, and I'm going to be relying on touch typing a lot. 

Oregon Dreaming

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but we've become a two Pap machine family - Roger finally went in and got checked for apnea.  We would check out Moose, but frankly, there's not a mask out there that could handle his overbite.  For the most part, it's been working out well, but I have to admit... I miss Roger's snore.

See, that's one of the ways that I knew we belonged together- the first night we slept together, I realized that we had the exact same breath pattern. His inhalation, my exhalation - they were perfectly in sync (his was just at a significantly louder level.)  It got to the point where his snores were kind of a lullaby to me - they were an audible reassurance he was alive and safe, lying next to me. But I['d rather have him alive, safe and not sleepy, so... sleeping with the machine, without the snore it is.

This morning, though - I woke up about 20 minutes before the alarm was due (well, my bladder woke up and dragged the rest of me along with it to the bathroom).  When I slipped back into bed, I managed to convince Roger to take a few minutes to snuggle up before the alarm went off, sans mask.  Snuggled up, under the warm covers, Moose between us, and hearing his snore in my ear - the closest I'm going to get to heaven in a while.

But then, of course, the alarm went off... and then Moose went off, standing on my kidneys and begging for attention, and the moment ended.  But it was at least one perfect moment with my guys - I'll take what I can get.

Odd Dream

Did you remember to wipe your feet and take out the trash like we asked you to

?

Just a short post, but for some reason, I had the oddest dream.  I was redecorating the spare bedroom (right now, it's mostly decorated in old office memorabilia and craft stuff - kind of like a Government "I Love Me" wall with yarn, beads and extra fabric.)  Anyway...

I'm in the process of redecorating and choosing a more comfortable bed, when a bunch of Men's Rights Activists show up and start an argument about how I'm not taking the male aesthetic into account and this needs to be a multi-gender oasis and...

And then my aunts (Sandy and Sherri) showed up, along with my mother, and kicked them all out on their significantly embarrassed hienies. My aunts firmly follow the "You may wear the pants in the family, but inside the house, I will tell you which pair to wear" rule of my branch of Mormonism - and of course, you all know my Mom.  The poor MRA guys didn't stand a chance. 

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

Relationship building is proceeding at our house - so far, I've managed to get Lili to snuggle with me at times (generally times when I have treats), and both Lili and Daisy have started jumping up on Roger's lap for greetings when he gets home from work, but Daisy has wanted nothing really to do with me... until last night. 

Last night, we had thunder storms - the kind where the weather service breaks into Jeopardy to let you know that the weather is getting hairy.  (I really hate that - can't you wait until Wheel of Fortune?  Really? We just got done with the news - people know.)  Anyway, about midnight, there was a series of loud cracks, I saw the door swinging open, and suddenly, there was a shivering puppy (Daisy) by the side of the bed, begging to be picked up.  I boosted her up, started comforting her, and there was another crack...  And here comes Lili.  She went ahead and used the stairs, but still...

It felt a lot like the thunder scene from The Sound Of Music - I felt the urge to break into "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens."  The girls ended up staying with us for half an hour or so - until the sky calmed down. Moose actually handled it better than I was worried he might, but he's pretty much accepted the girls as part of his pack - as long as he gets first crack at the kibble bowl, they can stay. 

Invasion Notes, Week 2

Big doings today - first off, we had a lovely family walk in the rain.  (I know... but it's Portland.  If we wait for a sunny day, it's going to be July.)  Well, the girls had a lovely walk.  Moose had a scooter ride, from which he surveyed his kingdom and kept an eye on the girls.  The girls are surprisingly strong - when they start out, they go for the gusto, digging into the track and pulling in tandem.  Which would be a lot more impressive if they didn't have those cute little dachshund butts trailing, wiggling side to side like Can-Can girls. 

Afterwards, we had a good toweling off session, and then...  Lili actually consented to sit in my lap and snuggle!  For a good thirty minutes, and even better, Moose didn't object - they curled up together and allowed me to worship them until Daniel showed up.  This is big - it's the first time either of the girls have acknowledged me without food being involved, so we may be starting to build a pack (as for my worries about Moose, he's been accepted into their pack since the first day - he's in love with Daisy.  I think it's the coloring.)

To top it all off, both of the girls have figured out how to use the doggie door, so it's been a red letter day! 

Some Days, It Just Doesn't Pay to Chew Through the Restraints

He has a need... a need for speed!

Mom and I had a deal going while she was here - we were going to do a little exercising every day. Just a little walk through the neighborhood, nothing big - well, I say walk, but what I mean is her walking, wrangling Daisy and Lili, while Moose and I did a dignified scooter walk beside the hooligans. 

Yesterday was a down day due to various infirmities popping up, but today...  today, I showered *and* put on a bra (red letter day), as did Mom (not a big deal for her, but still...)  We performed various feats of puppy wrangling, finding Moose's harness, clipping on leashes, finding my shoes  (ok, it's been a while since I left the house).  Anyway... finally got out to the garage, opened the door... and the skies opened up. We're not talking a little Oregon sprinkle, we're talking "has anyone talked to Noah lately?" The girls still wanted to brave it, but frankly, I was worried they might float off. 

Unfortunately, I'd expended my energy getting out to the garage, so I needed to rest up before attempting the stairs, and the only convenient seat was the scooter.  Moose immediately hopped on the floorboard, shouting the canine equivalent of "floor it".  He was mightily disappointed when I explained we were heading back into the house - in fact, I had to drag him off the scooter to get him to realize it wasn't happening,  so he's definitely getting a scooter ride tomorrow, no matter what. 

We finally made it safely back inside, gave puppies treats, etc... and realized - my living room has not one, but two massive glass sliding doors.  And yet, neither Mom nor I bothered to check to see if it was raining before we started this expedition...  Yep.  On this one, title says it all.

Observations from the Invasion

I've got to get pictures, but for now - it's odd.  There are definitely separations between the three.  I'm used to Moose's baritone (he's got a big boy bark - if you can't see him, you would assume it's a doberman.  He has the UPS and Fed-Ex guys cowed - the food delivery guys, however, have seen him and are no longer as impressed.)  Daisy, on the other hand, is a soprano, and Lili is an alto, somewhere between the two.  It does make for an impressive chorus when they're all in the backyard giving Roady (the dog next door) what-for.  I'm thankful that we live in a house that's situated in a dog-friendly/dog-intensive cul-de-sac - no one can complain because we all have noisemakers...

Invasion Report, Day 2 1/2

Mom made it safely here this time (despite Oregon choosing to throw up cyclones in Bend and earthquakes off the coast), along with Lili and Daisy (Lili's sister.)  It's becoming increasingly obvious to me that Moose has spoiled me rotten, though. 

Moose has always been my pup.  Well, from the moment I found him shivering in the garage after a night outside (he ran away the second he got out of the car - we searched everywhere in the neighborhood without luck, but I left the garage door open for him, and the next morning, when I woke up, he was resting in a pile of laundry, looking up at me like "what took you so long?")  After that, he was a mama's boy, through and through.  Especially after my diagnosis, he became my familiar, always on my lap or by my side, a comforting, loving shadow.

Lili, on the other hand, is going to be work.  Right now, she's still bonded with Mom, and she's ok with occasional lap time, but both Lili and Daisy are active dogs - always moving, always running, their jewelry jingling everywhere.  I figure she and I will become friends eventually - I have patience and I have treats, and with those two things, you can rule a dog's world.  But it's not going to be easy, the way it was with Moose.  I'm also going to have to be more wary than I have been.  I made the mistake of taking my eyes off breakfast this morning, and Daisy almost made off with an entire piece of ham.  Moose has always been polite about food - he might whine, but he won't take off with it unless it hits the floor.  Of course, once it hit the floor, all bets are off.  Daisy, however, does not seem to have Moose's compunctions.  It's going to be an adjustment...

Warning: Indelicate aspects of cancer being discussed

Ok, so...  as we all know, cancer sucks.  It's painful, it's dangerous, it's deadly... but what people don't talk about (because, frankly, we know you all are sick of us whining) is that it's uncomfortable.  Seriously - go to any good cancer group, and people aren't going to be talking about the pain - we all know about the pain.  We're going to be talking about the itchy skin, or the way differences in air temperature can cause your body to go nuts, or how nothing tastes the same after chemo, or...

In my particular case, it's bladder issues.  Because Hank the Tumor is sitting there, right on my bladder, like a malevolent little goblin, I've got the bladder of a permanently 8 1/2 month pregnant woman.  Which means that I'm back to wearing diapers - when I was hoping for a second childhood, this is not what I had in mind.  Which also means a diaper pail... or at least a trash can devoted to Poise.  I had a small can - something like what you would use at a desk, but frankly, it was not doing the job.

So... my birthday was coming up.  Once you hit 50, frankly, birthday wishes can be kind of a pain - if I need something, chances are I already have it - but I thought "Ah!  A trash can!  I'll ask for a slightly larger trash can!"  Now... I've mentioned my friend/alternative backup husband Daniel before, but have I mentioned that he's a terrific gift-giver?  He's the kind of guy who is always thinking beyond the box, and he's out for all that he can give - he's wonderful, but he can be overwhelming at times.  He ended up giving me two different trash cans (because they came as a set), and the one for the bathroom is a 13 gallon stainless steel battery operated masterpiece. 

That's right.  Battery operated.  Which is lovely, and it's great that it opens when I wave at it.  But it also opens when my tits wave at it, or someone's butt, or... did I mention that my bathroom is kind of a tight fit?  And since it's filling up with used (essentially) diapers, whenever it opens up, there's a distinct eau de truckstop.  So, I had to find an odor eliminator - but I think I found the exact one I need.  It's from a company called Natural Magic, and the product name is "What Died In There?"  Somehow, I think that's just what I needed. 

Rough Moon Rising

Difficult day today.  We had to do a little home repair yesterday (the toilet that was giving me lip the other week developed a leak), and of course, this being Oregon, it involved mold issues - and my lungs are delicate enough without the addition of mold spores, so there was a lot of coughing all night, and not much sleeping. 

By the time I finally managed to catch some sleep, my brain decided it was time to remind me this week is my Cancerversary (as if I was going to forget... ever), and run a series of dreams in which Roger and I kept getting turned down as foster parents because of medical unsuitability. (At one point, we got turned down as dog fosters because "well, you might teach them bad health habits."  My brain can be a bit of a bitch, frankly.)

I'm hoping that this gets the mourning out of the way for the year, but I'm making no promises.  I can see the next week being a bit of a bugger, frankly.  Fortunately, Mom (and Lili and Daisy) are due on Sunday, so there's something positive in my future. 

The one lurking in the corner?  That's the culprit.  

Memory Well: Heading for Cheyenne Again

Back around the time that I was born, my grandmother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.  Not a deal-breaker - she was with us for another 49 years, but it meant that (since she lived in the southern end of the state, and all the good hospitals at the time were in Salt Lake), we had annual trips up to "the city" for the first part of my life. There's an intersection on the freeway in Salt Lake where if you take the correct cloverleaf, you head back towards Washington (that's Washington, UT) and home, and if you don't take the correct cloverleaf, you're bound for Cheyenne.  Guess which cloverleaf Grandpa took 75% of the time?  Would it be too big of a hint for me to mention that Grandpa was also notorious for knowing about "little shortcuts?"  But he always got us home, eventually.

Anyway, I told you that to tell you this...  Grandpa and Grandma were together essentially forever.  You didn't think of one without the other one popping into mind, like Mickey and Minnie... well, more like Ralph and Alice, but you get my point.  Once Grandpa left us, Grandma was still there, but it was obvious that she was missing part of her soul.  And when her time was finally winding to an end, she felt that Grandpa was coming for her, to take her back home, but the days stretched out to weeks, just waiting.  Existing, but ready for that next phase - eventually impatiently waiting for that next phase.  On the day she did finally complete her journey, it seemed for two or three hours that she was looking past the living, reaching for someone only she could see, but it seemed to take forever.  Finally, we realized what had happened... she was waiting for Grandpa, and he'd gotten lost on that blasted off-ramp to Cheyenne.  But nonetheless, he did get her home, eventually.

The start of the wait....that's Grandma, second from the left

Postscript to Happy Dance! Happy Dance!

Yeah - sort of like this look, only droolier.  (And yes, Roger, I'm posting you and your wiener on the internet)

Another day, another styrofoam box, another really happy Deci.  When I talked to Mom (and thanked her profusely), she told me that the cheesecake was dessert, and the main course should be arriving today.  And it did...  a lovely, lovely 3 pound piece of marbled beef.  Moose, who initially assumed it was a BarkBox, locked eyes onto the roast like the apex predator he thinks he is, and started producing enough drool to drown a small rodent.  I tried telling him that a) it was still frozen; and b) it was about a quarter of his total body weight, but he kept on insisting that he could take it.  I'm afraid my boy has delusions of grandeur.  Or at least his stomach does.  At any rate, I'll try to get pictures Saturday and let you all know how it is - well, it's beef.  It will be delicious.  But I'll try to get more descriptive. 

Happy Dance! Happy Dance!

I have a confession to make - I watch QVC.  Specifically, I watch In The Kitchen With Dave (heck, I've watched it since it was In The Kitchen With Bob, but that's another story.)  It's a sort of porn for me - kitchen gadgets, food, china, food, cookware, did I mention the food?...  These are a few of my favorite things.  I even have ordered a few things - I love my Systema microwave bowls, they're perfect for leftovers, and the enameled cast iron dutch oven is a wonderful piece of work.  Oh, and the Temptations... I really love my few pieces of Temptations. 

But mostly I just watch and covet. When it comes to the food, there's some serious coveting - I mean, these guys could make Campbell's Soup sound irresistible, and I'm helpless when it comes to caramel apples the size of softballs, or lump crab cakes, or croissants that you finish off in your own oven so they're always hot and fresh and...  well, I say helpless, until I look at the pricing, and I just can't bring myself to push the button.  I can't justify indulging myself to that extent... but boy, can I covet.

So... my birthday is coming up Saturday, and I was a little in the dumps about it (I've never dealt well with birthdays, and now that my Cancerversary is in the same time frame, it's just a blue time of year).  Until...  there was a box on the porch today.  A styrofoam box, the kind with dry ice inside.  Turns out my mother, who knows and shares my obsession, sent me (wait for it) Junior's Cheesecake!  Not just Junior's Cheesecake, but the Red Velvet Cheesecake (everyone who knows me, knows I'm a fool for red velvet cake.)  Dessert for Saturday Night Dinner is set, and I'm suddenly feeling much more cheerful and optimistic. 

I've said this before, but I think this is incontrovertible truth - I have the best mom ever!

That's her on the left - but Grandma was incredible too.  

Penny Foolish, Pound Foolish

I believe in Social Security.  I've paid into it all of my adult life, and even if I had never taken a penny from it, I still feel that it makes sense for the society in general to pay into a pool that helps our seniors and the most vulnerable among us survive.  Not just for moral reasons, but for economic reasons - someone who receives their SS check goes out and purchases goods and services with that check, which bumps up our economy and creates jobs, and workers who contribute to Social Security and so on and so on... 

I believe in Welfare and Unemployment Insurance.  Things happen in life, and people slip down the social ladder.  If they're given a net that helps keep them from falling completely off, they can continue back up the rungs once they've got things more in control.  Again, morality should be enough, but sheer practicality here - it's easier for someone to regain control and become a productive (and tax-paying citizen) if they don't hit bottom and still have things like a bed, a shower, a phone number to give to potential employers. 

On to some of the programs that the current administration is determined to gut...  I believe in subsidized school lunch (and breakfast for that matter.)  Despite what Meathead Mulvaney may feel, no, it is not possible to concentrate on school when you're hungry, and school lunch is actually the most cost effective way to feed mass amounts of people (not to mention an inducement to keep coming to school for kids who may be on the ragged edge.) Money spent on school lunch builds (again) future tax-payers and consumers - the lifeblood of our country.

I believe in Upward Bound - you may never have heard of it, but it's a program that saved my education, where disadvantaged kids (yes, I qualified) can get tutoring help and take summer classes to advance their schooling.  Without Upward Bound, I don't know that I would have graduated high school and have become a (say it with me now...)  tax-paying citizen. 

I believe in Job Corps - for kids who can't attend college (or for whom college just doesn't fit), it's basically government-sponsored VoTech education.  Tongue Point, the Center I attended, is a terrific example - it turns out everything from bakers to qualified seamen to drafters for architects.  Again, takes kids who are on the edge and gives them a useful, employable skill (including classes on how to write a resume, drive a car, basic life lessons), which turns them into (you know it) tax-paying citizens.

This is getting a little long now, so I don't have time to get into things like Meals on Wheels or National Parks or the National Institute for Health, but what do all these programs have in common?  They were started and continue to be championed by people who realize that making our citizens a priority is worthwhile both morally and fiscally.  Someone who has gotten a little help along the way (or a lot of help along the way) will be a contributor to society (trust me- I just did my taxes, I'm definitely a contributor) long after the initial investment you make in them. 

Cancer Survivor?

Just filled out a survey, asking for opinions about the term "Cancer Survivor", used for anyone who has had cancer.  I realized that I really hate that phrase...  I am not a cancer survivor.  I mean, yeah.  I have cancer, and yeah, I'm coming up on 4 years now, when I was initially given 2, and I don't see any real issue with me passing the 5 year mark either.  But I don't feel like a survivor. 

I'm also really conflicted with where I am.  I feel guilty, in a way, because I didn't have to go through the horrors of radiation or chemotherapy like some of my friends.  But I'm also angry that I'm still in limbo after all these years - still harboring this malignant little tumor, still stuck with the bladder control of a woman who is permanently 8 months pregnant.  I know it could be so much worse... and yet, it could be so much better.  I could be NED.  I could be cured.  But no... I'm not a survivor.  I'm... paused.  And so is Roger, and so is my mother.  Feeling like if I step on the wrong crack on the sidewalk, Hank will wake up and I'll be back in the thick of it. 

Most days, I ignore the tightrope beneath me and just keep walking.  But there are times like today, when I get reminded. And I get angry all over again.  Give me an hour or two, and I'll bounce back to realizing how incredibly lucky I am.  But don't call me a survivor.  And don't bring any pink merch into the house for a day or two at least...

J'accuse

I've finally figured it out - ok, it took me 51 years, but I have identified my nemesis.  The entity determined to ruin my life...  Yep.  It's my body.  My mind loves me and wants me to be happy... but my body is a stone cold bitch.

I've suspected it for some time (Hank was one hell of a clue, frankly), but I've been looking back and realizing...  whenever I find something that I really enjoy and could potentially be good at, my body finds a way to mess with me.  Take square dancing (and no, don't you judge me!)  I started square dancing when I was in my teens, and loved everything about it - the frilly clothes, the comradery (you never sit on the sidelines at a square dance - if you can't find a guy to dance with, another girl will be happy to step in and dance with you.  I've been in squares that had 7 girls and one guy who was having the time of his life.)  I loved the math of it - the patterns and the rhythm, all being brought together by a roomful of grinning humanity.  I even loved the music - this was 80s country, back before "shake your money-maker" was an acceptable mating call.  But... my body found a way to screw it up for me.  Every evening, I'd start out the night looking good, looking sharp - and end up a dripping mess.  Every single sweat gland would go into overdrive, to the point where I could have been used to cure the California drought.  Do you know how hard it is to allemande left when the guy you're reaching out to slips off your arm into the next square from the sheer level of perspiration?

Then there's food.  I love food - all kinds, all textures, all flavors.  I enjoyed exploring different cuisines, finding new spots...  and then came Diabetes.  I'm not talking your basic pre-Diabetes.  I'm talking having to stab sharp needles into my stomach before every meal - ok, let's be honest.  The needles aren't the worst.  The worst is having to stick that damned poke-demon into my finger to figure out just how out of whack I am *before* I can stick the needle in.  Yes, I still love food - but the delight in a good meal gets taken down several notches when you have to precisely titrate that meal to avoid going a coma.

Hell, my body has even been trying lately to take reading away from me, with various bones in my hands stiffening up or freezing over or just twinging intermittently just to make it hard to hold a book (or a Kindle.)  But I've got its number now...  I know what my body is doing and I'm going to stop letting it get away with this nonsense. 

Odd Dream...

Grandpa's Domain

I had Hawaiian for dinner last night - that's about the only explanation I can come up with.  Normally, my dreams tend to go into short term memory and then straight out the left ear, but this one was odd enough that certain details stuck.  Part of that was that it featured Grandpa in a very odd role.

I've written about Grandpa before, but just as a general catch-up - he was a rancher.  In fact, he was the proto-rancher - you think of a guy who spends all his time eking out a living from the land and some really stubborn cattle, that's Grandpa.  Incredibly capable at making due and making it work, but not long on manners or affectations. When I see him in my mind's eye, I see him in his Dickie's overalls with a freebie cap of some kind on his head.

At any rate... for some reason, in my dream, the Vegas mafia had managed to establish a casino in Washington (that's Utah, by the way.)  And Grandpa was one of their local stooges - I can't imagine why, but he was working for them.  We were making a delivery at the casino in his car - it was your basic Chevy four door, nothing special - but the way that you made a delivery at this casino was that you would drive up, the valet would take your car, and 30 minutes later, you would get a car back.  You could tell by the car that you received back where you stood with the bosses - if you got your own car back, you did an adequate job.  If you had screwed up somehow, you got back a Yugo.  For some reason, Grandpa must have done an incredible job - he got back this silver Lincoln town car with all the trimmings - but being Grandpa, he went up to the penthouse to give them hell, because he wanted his Chevy back (and of course, dragged me along with him.)  I was really looking forward to the fireworks, but just then, Moose had to stage his normal Tuesday crusade against the garbage truck man at full volume.  Damn it - I was really enjoying spending time with Grandpa again...

Random Pain and Hatred For Cancer Commercials

I had a particularly sucky weekend (yes, that's a technical term).  My right heel suddenly decided (for no reason that I could tell) to develop gout-like symptoms - dull, throbbing pain that sharped into "Ninjas are attacking your foot" territory if I tried to put any weight on it.  I mean - I know from pain, I have arthritis so advanced that I am intimately aware of the various federal regulations on Percoset, but this was the kind of pain that drains everything out of you - to the point where you end up crying when you make it to the bathroom, but then realize you're going to have to go through the whole process again just to get out of there.  A couple of nights where it hurt too badly to sleep because I couldn't find a position where the foot would stop throbbing.  Fortunately, it is clearing up just as suddenly as it occurred - because my body is a sadistic little bitch, but it knows it can only push me so far.

So, the foot is clearing up - and now, I've got stiffness and throbbing in the second and third fingers of my left hand.  What the hell - I'll take that.  All it really affects is my typing speed.  But in the process of surviving the weekend, I've developed a mad hate (I had to push the anger and frustration somewhere) for cancer medication advertisers.  I'm not talking about the snake oil salesmen who claim that they can use grapefruit juice extract instead of chemotherapy - I already condemned those bastards to hell a lot time ago.  And I am totally behind the actual researchers who are trying to fight cancer - they're fighting the good fight and need all the support they can get.  No, I'm talking about the assholes who decided that putting ads on the air for Optivo (or a couple of other meds - not just trying to single anyone out here) was a good use of time and money that could be spent on... say... research and development?  Or making sure that the cancer drugs don't bankrupt someone on their way out of this mortal coil?

 A cancer diagnosis is a peculiarly personal thing - none of us have the same cancer.  But trust me - if you have a potentially life extending (note that these meds aren't saying they'll save your life, just extend it a little) medication, we'll find out about it.  And frankly, it should be from a solid medical source, not from a 90 second ad on Rachel Maddow - I don't need to get my medical clues between yelling at Trump and questioning Congress.  All you're doing here is jacking up the price, which at $150K per initial injection and then $14K per month after that, does not need jacking up.  You're also just reminding those patients who do not fit the very specific criteria for this particular med that no, there's nothing out there for them.  And while it's interesting to listen to the list of side effects (which, by the way, can include your body randomly attacking various organs even after you go off the drug - oh, and death), I would honestly rather sit through Vince and his Sham-Wow commercial for the nine billionth time (and I hate Vince) than ever see your soft-focused jazz-enhanced nonsense ever again.

Happy Birthday

That's Mom on the left- busy with her current obsession

My mother turns 69 today, although you'd never guess it to look at her.  She's got the kind of face that doesn't really change much from 30 to 80, and while I think she's actually (finally!) gotten a couple of gray hairs over the past year or so, it's pretty much still the same gorgeous black it's always been (seriously, Mom - you couldn't pass the hair gene down to your daughter?) 

I wrote recently about persisting - Mom was the one who taught me that.  We were talking once about dealing with work issues (yet another reason I love my mother - some mothers talk about housework and cooking.  My mom gives career advice - from the sharp point of the spear. Well, and cooking.)  She was engaged in some internecine conflict with some colleagues, and I asked how she planned on bringing them over to her side - she said she was going to go for the throat, lock her jaws and hang on until they gave up. That part of the DNA she passed down... 

What else did I get from her?  She gave me a love of books, a love of chocolate, and a love of words for their own sake.  She taught me the value of singing along with the radio - loudly and not always on key, but joyfully nonetheless.  She gave me the knowledge of my own worth - a powerful gift that I wish I could give back to her.  And she taught me the power of family.  She left the family physically, but she never lost that thread that binds, and I'm so glad she found her way back. 

She's my mother, and I'm so incredibly glad that I can reach out and contact her whenever I need her... but she's also my best friend, and it makes me happy that I can reach out just to tell her something silly that I've found that I think she would enjoy. 

Happy birthday, Mom - I sincerely wish you many, many more. 

My Kind of Love

I've been feeling kind of off all weekend (more so than usual), so Monday, when I finally got up, I found an email from Roger letting me know that he was working on stuff he could interrupt if I needed to go to Urgent Care.  Because after 21 1/2 years together, that's love - someone who will take the time to take care of you if you need it (even if he's got stuff to do, damn it!)  He also stopped off at the store on the way home and picked up steaks for dinner tonight - he would have grabbed asparagus as well, but the stems were all kind of woody, and he knew I'd be just as happy with broccodile.

That's the love that I wish for you all, my friends - love that endures, love that remembers, love that cares.  Comfortable love - the kind of love that you can wear pyjamas with (or dress up if you want to).  Sustaining love - love that makes you feel better just being with them.  Roger has always been my cone of calm - when he would pick me up after work, I could feel the tension leave my body just sitting down next to him in the car.  But mostly, trustworthy love - love you know is there for you, whatever life brings.

I try to tell him every day that I love him (or at least show him), but since it's Half-price Candy Eve, and it's tradition, let me try one more time.  Roger, I love you, now and for all time - I even put up with your methane cuddles of love, just for the chance to be with you, because you are the best man I have ever met, and you make me a better woman just to try to keep up with you. 

Ethics, Part II (Or SAEDA? I hardly knew her!)

More on the view of a retired civil servant looking in - pretty sure this is going to be an ongoing series now.

Looking at this weekend's news and shaking my head...  starting with Michael Flynn.  Every year for the past quarter century, in addition to the Ethics briefing I mentioned in my last post, I had to take a special Army course.  There have been a number of names for it (like I said, I took it a lot), but my favorite was SAEDA (that's short for Subversion and Espionage Against the Department of Army) - mostly because I loved having my spy prevention program sound like someone's maiden aunt.  Forget James Bond, we've got Saeda Adams.  Every year, we'd have someone come down from Fort Lewis, and basically tell us not to do *any* of the things that Flynn seems to have done.  Ever.  I mean, I know the guy was a three-star, but he had to have taken these classes - or maybe he got a staffer to do it for him.  But still... either he was incredibly arrogant or incredibly stupid - he was with the DIA, so he had to know that a Russian ambassador - any Russian ambassador on US soil - is going to have their communications tapped.  That's leaving alone all the taking money from a foreign government, palling around with foreign nationals, etc...  Seriously.  Had he been a non-political appointee, his ass would have hit the sidewalk Day 2 of the administration. 

Of course, it's not like his boss understands security either, based on his behavior.  North Korea is testing bombs, and he keeps eating his dinner in the middle of a bunch of complete strangers who just happen to have paid $200K to be able to eat in the same room as him... clearly they're trustworthy (and fiscally prudent) while discussing possible ramifications and responses.  Dude.  Remember all those things you were accusing Hillary of?  Oh, right - that would involve you using your brainpower on something other than your Electoral College win.

Ethics, Schmethics...

I know that people were voting for change and a whole new ethos in Washington, DC when they voted for Trump.  They were looking for someone who was not a politician, who didn't have political experience - it was seen as a good thing that he had never held political office, and he deliberately didn't hire the obvious people - people who actually knew the job, knew what they were getting into.  As a 26+ year veteran of the civil service, it's been interesting watching the results so far - Executive Orders that are so badly written as to be unusable, people meeting in dark rooms because they can't even figure out how to work a light switch, last second "Oh, wait - we need someone in that position... we take back our acceptance of your resignation, can't you stay a while longer" (seriously - Thursday night before the Inauguration, they were begging people to stay)...

But this latest contretemp...  Kellyanne, honey - were you not listening to yourself when you took that oath of office?  You swore to defend the constitution, not Donald or his family (or god knows, Ivanka's merchandise line), but America itself.  And part of that defense means that yes, you're going to have to accept some limitations on your life for the next four years.  Let me give you a few pointers to help you through this (based on having to take an ethics class every single freaking year for the past quarter century):

A.  First of all - this is your Ethics handbook.  Yes, I know it's 90 pages of "no", but that's what you signed up for.  Standards of Ethical Conduct for the Executive Branch
Oh, there's going to be some additional stuff about lobbying - thank your new boss and check  EO 13770, but basically, don't plan on getting another job in your field for about 5 years.

B.  You can't use your office for your own benefit.  Which includes advertising or recommending any product. Pretty basic stuff, there, but seriously - whether it's selling Girl Scout Cookies or blinged out heels that cost way too much for what they're worth - you can't do it.

C.  You're going to have to report your financial business once a year.  Not just your business, your husband's business as well.  Have fun with that - I recommend a good Riesling. 

D.  Back to the whole sucking up to the boss thing - You're not allowed to give them a gift, let alone try to push their daughter's clothing line. 

E.  For the sake of your fellow civil servants - every time you screw up, we have to take another stupid ethics class.  Seriously, I was shocked that we didn't have to take a firearm's safety class when Cheney shot his friend in the face with a shotgun.  Please... read the damn handbook. 

Better Living Through Chemistry

Since it's time to renew my prescription for Duloxetine, I was doing a bit of a self-assessment - trying to figure out if it's helped/how much it's helped, etc...

Depression, for me, has always been a bit of a misnomer.  It doesn't come out as sadness or melancholy - I don't do blue funks, or Victorian vapors.  For me, it's as if some sort of chemical change has happened - it's rarely related to anything actually going on in my life - and out of the blue, everything in the world annoys me.  Noises, especially - the sound of the phone ringing can bring on Hulk-like rage.  Suddenly, someone telling me to have a good day sounds like they're demanding something from me - something I'm unable to give.  My hair scrunchy is too tight, my clothing itches, everything in the world is designed just to get under my skin, and I have to consciously work not to explode in completely unjustified anger. My family refers to it as me going triple dog dare - I don't stop in at any of the normal steps, I just go straight to yelling irrationally at the ComCast customer service person that no, I will not give them my social security number one more time and if they keep asking, I will come through the phone line and strangle them with their headset.

Today, I realized, looking back, that I haven't had one of those days when the black descends on my brain for a while now, which is impressive, considering all the conditions surrounding me.  I've managed to maintain a certain level of optimism despite daily "oh-my-god-what-did-he-do-now" updates from the internet.  My body has continued its downward trend, but I'm living with it, adjusting, recognizing limitations - I rail against them occasionally, but it's more a fact of life rather than doom and gloom.  All in all, I think I finally got the meds right.  We'll see how long it lasts.

Nevertheless, I'm Persisting

Mitch McConnell has inadvertently given me my life motto.  I'm sure it wasn't his intention last night - he was merely trying to get Elizabeth Warren to shut the hell up. But when he uttered those words "She was warned.  She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted", he managed to sum up so much about a woman's life - any woman's life, but particularly mine.

I've never been one to follow along with the norms.  I've always been a bit... too.  Too big, too loud, too smart for my own good, too likely to ask questions and insist on answers, too unlikely to sit in the corner and be quiet... For example, band.  I didn't play clarinet or flute... or even saxophone.  I went for the trombone.  In every band I was in, all through school, I was the only female trombone player.  I was warned that it wasn't a feminine instrument, I was told that only football players and meatheads played trombone... nevertheless, I persisted.  I got good enough to be second chair in one of the state's best bands, and I took an award at the state competition for my trombone solo (two words you do not imagine hearing in one phrase) of "Send In The Clowns." I was warned, I was given an explanation (a stupid explanation, but an explanation), nevertheless, I persisted and won.

When my job as a purchasing agent was being "professionalized", I was warned that they were heading towards only people with college degrees.  They explained that I would have to go back to school (at 35 or so) and learn how to do the job that I had been doing to 10 years or so (and teaching others how to do for at least half that time).  Nevertheless, I persisted.  I made myself so valuable to the office that they couldn't afford to lose me at the time (and it took two guys to replace me when I left - both of whom had their degrees, by the way.)  I'll take that as a win.

I had been warned all my life that fat women do not get quality men - they explained that I'd have to either lose weight, be alone forever or lower my standards greatly.  Nevertheless, I persisted - I dated a few fun guys, some strange guys, some "lovely, but not for me, guys", and then I met Roger.  Twenty-two years later, I still think I got the best of the deal - the love of my life is still the best man I've ever met - I definitely won.

And then there's Hank.  You know that story - I was warned I had an incurable cancer.  They explained that 50% of the women diagnosed with ULMS die in the first two years, 80% in the first 5. Nevertheless, I'm coming up on 4 years now living with this timebomb - I've persisted, and I've got no plans to stop.

It's not always easy to persist.  You get tired, you get angry, you feel defeated.  But as long as you can get back up and keep going, they haven't won yet. The road is long, hard, and dry, but nevertheless... I persisted.

Brand New Nightmare

Yep - torn out by the root system.  The 8-10 ft wide root system.

Our house is in a part of Portland called Parkrose - for the most part, it's a quiet area, despite being only a couple of miles from the airport and less than a mile from the train tracks.  A lot of that quiet is due to the buffering of the trees in the area - we've got a lot of trees, some of which are 60 to 80 feet tall (one of the advantages to living in a temperate rain forest - there's a lot of greenery.) It makes it feel like its own little world - quiet, arboreal, contemplative...

And then there are days like yesterday.  See, our little neighborhood is also at the western end of the Columbia Gorge, which means that it's windy on the best of days, and on days like yesterday... see that tree in the picture?  Well, that quarter of a tree in the picture?  That's what happens when a tree finally has had it with standing up to 80 MPH gusts, and goes ahead and lies down.  Fortunately, no one was injured, and the houses even mostly survived (some cosmetic damage, but nothing serious).  But this happened less than 4 blocks from me, and it's got me looking around - there are a lot of trees of about that size within falling distance of me right now.  Suddenly, I'm starting to wonder if maybe the loggers had the right idea... 

This Morning's Neighbor Update

We had an ice dump last night - there's about half an inch of ice on the ground, but it doesn't seem to have fazed our local puppy-gang.  They were both at the back door, peering in at us this morning.  Moose, on the other hand, went out to try to either greet them or run them off (could go either way with our boy) - he hit the ice and went skidding, so he decided that coming back in and monitoring Mama's breakfast was a better proposition. 

The spaniel eventually got bored and wandered off, but the lab stayed right there at the glass, watching Roger make breakfast omelets.  I can't blame him for living in hope - Roger does make really good omelets - but eventually cooking was done, and they wandered off back home.  Roger is now figuring out how to fix the fence - not that I mind the company, but when Lili and Daisy get here, we're going to need to be able to batten down the hatches. 

It's Baaaackkk... And Moose Has Lost His Little Mind

He's got his eyes on you!

The dog next door came back for another visit.  I'm not sure why it's so fascinated with our back yard (although it is a nice back yard - lots of trees and bushes to play under.)  For some reason, I'm thinking of her as a she - possibly because she's a spaniel with lovely black and white hair, a bit Farrah Fawcett-y.  She showed up this morning, and Moose went out to greet her - there was a lot of barking, then much mutual butt-sniffing.  I gave her a few pets, and eventually she ran off back home.

But then... she brought her big brother over.  Very big brother - I think he's a lab, but he's a big lab.  Have I ever mentioned Moose's Napoleonic short-dog-syndrome?  This visit didn't go quite as well, although it definitely cemented the friendship between Moose and the spaniel - he's fine with her now, since she's more his size.

Anyway... they have both gone back home for now, but Moose is at his most Teutonic.  He's marching around the house, barking at shadows, certain there's an invasion around every corner.  I can't honestly reassure him here - apparently, we're under attack, but since it's dogs with wagging tails, I'm relatively sanguine.  Moose, however, is not having it.

Reason #89 Why I Can't Run For Office

Besides the whole Rocky Horror cabaret thing, and the naked pictures of me on the internet before everyone had naked pictures on the internet (they were art pics - very tasteful.  Trust me.), and the whole "my body is trying to kill me" thing that cuts into my free-time...

But the latest reason...  I was watching Rachel Maddow tonight (as I often do), and she's covering the Gorsuch nomination. She had Dahlia Lithwick on and the first part of the program was pretty much going into his judicial history (and a bunch of Merrick Garland frustration, covering how much harder it keeps getting to get anyone through the system, starting with Johnson, running through Bork and Thomas, etc...)  but then the last segment on her show was basically "Oh, by the way - did you know who his mother was?" Turns out his mom is Anne Burford, Reagan's head of the EPA for 22 months (and apparently it was a really interesting 22 months - at one point, she had Jacques Cousteau testifying in Congress against the agency's plans.) 

At that point, I realized... I can never run for office.  For one thing, my family history tends to read like a really bad episode of Jerry Springer, but mostly I know the one member of my family that they would manage to dig up.  Trent.  Even though I haven't seen him or talked to him since 1980, right after the Gabrielle Gifford's shooting, they had one of the founders of the Arizona Tea Party on CNN, and surprise!  It's my half-brother.  Gene pools are weird things...

Please tell me you can't see the resemblance

I Guess It's Official

Yep... it's official

I received a surprise package from my old office - the photos from my retirement ceremony back in April.  I teared up a little, but... for the most part, the people that I remember were gone before I was.  If home is where they have to take you in... this isn't home anymore.  But it's still a lovely place to remember. 

Excitement over the weekend

(Initial stage setting - our house has a fenced-in backyard that Moose considers his own personal fiefdom.  Well, his and the birds and the squirrels.  He's shed blood defending it - around here, it's referred to as "the night of the raccoon" and "the night of the raccoon II - this time, it's personal".)

The bush on the left - that's the one that was defiled

  So, we're sitting in our usual spot, Moose mostly snoozing but doing an occasional security check out the glass door in back of us, when suddenly he went into full-on berzerker mode.  Roger looked out as well, and saw that one of the neighborhood dogs had somehow made it into our backyard.  Worse, this cocker spaniel was lifting his leg on one of Moose's bushes!  Well!  Moose was not having this - he was ready to go out and do battle, but saner heads (not to mention heads that had to pay the vet bill last time he was like this) prevailed - Roger grabbed the snarling, struggling little studmuffin and handed him over to me to hold until he calmed down (little whelp headbutted me in the process, which proves how out of control he was), and went out to run the fences.  Turns out the gate had collapsed, so we're going to have fix that before Lili and Daisy get here, as I've been informed that Lili is an escape artist par excellence.