The Inquisitive Chicken

A Few Of Our Best Travel Photos

2010-07-07T12:26:00.000-05:00

Herbert and Alana, the King and Queen of beautiful Hollis Farm in Kentucky.

This needs no caption, but David did a fine job setting up these night compositions.

One of the lesser photographed areas of the Eiffel Tower, but beautiful nonetheless.

Off a highway somewhere in Idaho, via J'Non hanging the camera out the window.

I was never so thankful that my bladder made me wake up just before dawn as when camping on Stanley Lake in Idaho.

David's experimental night photo at Stanley Lake, Idaho.

Aaaand, my favorite:

Bavaria in splendid fall colors. I'm glad David didn't heed my warnings about hanging out a window at Neuschwanstein Castle to get this shot.

Why People Keep Having Children

2010-06-30T11:58:00.004-05:00

1. Because hormones make men and women irrational, and "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" doesn't only happen when spawning a work of poetry.

2. We think we could do a better job than our parents did and can screw up our kids less than they did.

3. Health care professionals and people with children are given a free pass to talk about bodily functions. To be so in touch with the abject feels very liberating.

4. I've never encountered better puns than those associated with pregnancy and motherhood.

5. Nursing is such a letdown.

6. Women have been keeping the worst bits about pregnancy quiet all these years, to be shared only when someone is already pregnant. Ignorance was bliss.

Zombie Chicken Sighted!

2010-06-30T11:34:00.003-05:00

The undead blog of yours truly has been spotted roaming the drafty halls of cyberspace, having been sorely neglected for two years while its erstwhile owner was busy preening her feathers and laying one very large egg. Now that the egg has hatched and the not-so-teeny offspring seems to be prospering, it's high time to bring that zombie chicken blog back to life.

"Paddles!"

"Charging..."

"CLEAR!"

"Do you smell fried chicken?"

No Pie Left Behind

2008-12-05T14:04:00.006-06:00

The No Pie Left Behind Act of 2008 should ensure that each piece of pie gets our full attention. I and my colleagues in the Pieous Party take our roles very seriously, and believe in the equality of all pies, no matter the color of their fillings or the shape of their crusts. My friends, do you hear the slice of Pumpkin calling for equanimity from the fridge, or the slices of Pecan struggling amidst sheets of foil on the countertops? Well, I do. And I intend to do something about it. Right now! This very minute!

I ask you to join with me to fight against this stain on our society. We must work to lift up these disadvantaged pies by setting measurable goals for pie consumption each week. If we work with this end in mind, we can be rest assured that neither little Cherry Crumble from Nebraska, nor Strawberry Rhubarb from Idaho, nor Southern Pecan from Texas will find themselves falling further behind their more fortunate peers. We advocate the equal distribution of whipped cream and coffee to give all pies the help they need to acheive consumption.

Tonight, my fellow citizens, I urge you to not only ask the question "Is it Pie time?" but to make the commitment to Pieousness by responding with vigor that "Yes! It is high time for Pie time!"

Theorems of Kitteh Affection

2008-11-12T22:10:00.001-06:00

After a long weekend of living in our closet to avoid close encounters with the houseguests, the kittehs were still wary on Monday as they patrolled about the house. As I sat in the loft writing, Sebastian cautiously crept up the stairs, every whisker at attention and ears pricked for any sound from enemy territory. Finally he was satisfied that I was the only inhabitant of the upstairs and came over to curl up with me in my chair, recovering some small portion of the cuddling losses incurred over the weekend while I was distracted with guests.

A few moments later, I saw Belle's ears, eyes, and then nose gradually appear as she also ascended the stairs in Full Reconnaissance mode. She stalked the perimeter with wide eyes to see if any humans under the age of ten would suddenly come bursting out to love her against her will. After the all clear, she also made herself at home on whatever lap real estate not already monopolized by Sebastian. This is unusual--they very rarely share territory, so I must think that this is in response to the weekend of houseguests.

I've found that the interest rates on repayment of kitteh cuddling can be very steep, depending on various factors. No one really knows how they calculate how much you owe them, but I'm working out a theorem and am planning a round table discussion very soon.

For the average weekend we are out of town, we have to include in our calculations not only lost hours of direct affection, but also lost hours of nearness (i.e. bedtime or watching television time). The rate of return on this affection loan of sorts is complicated by a factor of intensity (ranging from lower-intensity cuddling over a longer period under normal circumstances all the way to excessive neediness and obnoxious affection particularly prevalent when the human is trying to read a book or trying to type).

There is also a positive correllation between the number of houseguests over a weekend and the intensity of expected repayment following said weekend. Furthermore, an exponent may be derived directly from the number of houseguests under the age of ten.

So far the equation is somewhat messy, so my theorem is best described visually:

A Note on Verbal Stickers

2008-11-11T15:50:00.004-06:00

I think most of us use common phrases to express our delight to our friends when they have good things to share about their lives. We say "Oh, that's wonderful news!" or "Good for you!" and maybe even "Awesome!" but some of us go even further, into the world of verbal stickers. Just like back in First Grade when we rocked the penmanship world with our perfectly-formed Q's, and we got that yellow shooting star sticker as a reward.

Denise telling me "That's Super!" just now was maybe the shiniest verbal sticker I have ever received.

The Inquisitive Chicken Atrocious Song Lyric Challenge

2008-10-27T20:13:00.010-05:00

Dear Gentle Reader:

Occasionally we come across lyrics that inspire disbelief, consternation, and even nausea. I invite you to submit lyrics that you feel are worse than the two samplings I have for your inspiration today.

Runner-Up: This song was so popular that I had the opportunity to hear it many times on the radio. I remember that first awakening when I started listening to the words instead of just the music and singing. I thought I would never find a more terrible example of rhyme over reason. Sheesh. These words make absolutely no logical sense, but you get the distinct impression that they are somehow supposed to. Disheartening. Very disheartening. Without further ado:

"You're Beautiful"

by James Blount

My life is brilliant

My life is brilliant, my love is pure
I saw an angel of that I'm sure
She smiled at me on the subway
She was with another man
But I won't lose no sleep on that
'Cause I've got a plan

You're beautiful, you're beautiful
You're beautiful, it's true
I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don't know what to do
'Cause I'll never be with you

Yes, she caught my eye
As we walked on by
She could see from my face that
I was flying high
And I don't think that I'll see her again
But we shared a moment that will last 'till the end

You're beautiful, you're beautiful
You're beautiful, it's true
I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don't know what to do
'Cause I'll never be with you

La la la la la la la la la

You're beautiful you're beautiful
You're beautiful, it's true
There must be an angel with a smile on her face
When she thought up that I should be with you
But it's time to face the truth
I will never be with you

Please do not hurl on your keyboard--run quickly to the restroom. Quickly!

Winner: Well, imagine my utter surprise that "You're Beautiful" was edged out by a little emo ditty that I've heard on Pandora for a while without understanding the lyrics. It needs no further introduction.

"Like A Rose on the Grave of Love"

by Xandria

Come like the dusk
Like a rose on the grave of love
You are my lust
Like a rose on the grave of love

I curse the day I first saw you
Like a rose that is born to bloom
Don't look at me the way you do
Like the roses, they fear the gloom

Your thorns, they kissed my blood

Your beauty heals, your beauty kills
And who would know better than I do?
Pretend you love me!

Indeed, reality seems far
When a rose is in love with you
Slaves of our hearts, that's what we are
We loved and died where roses grew

They watched us silently

A rose is free, a rose is wild
And who would know better than I do?
Roses are not made for love

Stunning. Simply Stunning. I'm always on guard when I hear the word "rose" in a song--it makes me listen with a kind of lyrical trepidation. I was particularly moved by the completely nonsensical stanza set off by the "bloom" and "gloom" rhyme. Brilliantly, brilliantly bad. "Like the roses, they fear the gloom." Beat THAT! Ha!

My challenge to you:

Find something that puts these winners to shame. In fact,

I challenge you

To be true,

Else make me blue

Or want some stew.

I challenge you;

Just a few!

Old-- even new.

Maybe Motley Crue?

It's up to you.

UPDATE:

Although I don't think the "Piranha" lyrics can exceed the horror of "Like a Rose on the Grave of Love," since one is meant to be taken seriously and the other surely not, they are very entertaining, especially in the context of speed metal drumming. Please enjoy the musical stylings of an unknown band singing a song about a piranha. Thanks to Eric for accidentally finding this little gem, and Kami for hooking us up. Indeed--who needs coffee in the morning when you could listen to this?

Disclaimer: I cannot find who wrote or performed this song, and am unaware of any copyright infringement. If someone can tell me who credit should be given to, I will gladly do so, and if the proven owners of this song wish, I will unhappily remove the link from this site.

Seven Years & Two Hermits

2008-09-11T13:30:00.001-05:00

Instead of giving each other cards and expensive gifts, David and I have most enjoyed going on trips to celebrate our anniversary. One year it was a Caribbean cruise, last year we had a wonderful trip to Boise. This year we opted for something closer to home, but wanted a destination distinct enough from our normal landscape to feel like a getaway. We chose to drive less than two & a half hours to stay in a rustic cabin at the peaceful Wilderness Lakefront Resort on Broken Bow Lake in Oklahoma. Hey, it had a full kitchen, so it wasn't too rustic.

Home away from home: Cabin #4

The landscape there is indeed very different from what we might have expected: Towering trees, steep hills, a clean lake, and abundant wildlife. This was a wonderful place to celebrate our seven years of marriage by spending time enjoying a beautiful place together.

Thanks to a local squirrel for taking our picture.

We also had a fantastic dinner at Abendigo's Restaurant in Hochatown. David had the fire roasted tomato risotto (I sampled it--was outstanding); I had the Signature Steak Filet with bleu cheese glaze, port wine sauce and garlic mashed potatoes. I could've died happy, right there, but gladly did not, as that might have cast a general pall over the weekend. And I wouldn't have gotten to go canoeing.

Below is evidence that we actually didn't look like hermits the entire weekend. I had the camera set up on the porch and we had to do several takes with me pushing the auto-timer and sprinting in flip-flops down the steps and tearing throught the gravel in the picnic area to the bridge to "act natural" for the picture.

Yep, we've been standing here casually for like, ever.

On Sunday we first had a flat tire, which the owner of WLF was kind enough to fix for us--he's a great guy. After that we took out the resort-provided canoe on the lake for several hours with lunch in the ice chest. I was in back as the awkward rudder. David was in front as the power paddler and harasser of the awkward rudder. It was a lesson in having to work together! We figured it out eventually--mostly, without anyone going overboard or getting smacked in the head with a paddle. I love canoeing!

The Power Paddler, doing what he does.

After canoeing and a rest, we hiked in the McCurtain Co. Wilderness Area, which is where the first picture of this post was taken. It had some steep terrain, with some lovely pine forest. The scent of pine needles and the sound of the wind rushing through them is an ideal condition for peaceful wandering.

J'Non's proximity to local spiders in this photo: 6 inches or less!

A clear stream running through the trail--a good spot to wash the walking sticks.

We checked out on Monday and drove about 20 minutes to Beaver's Bend Resort Park with its trout stream, nature and hiking trails, camping, canoeing, and nature center. They even have a mini-golf course, strangely enough! We plan to go camping there in the future, but we only had time for an afternoon excursion this time. At Beaver's Bend we hiked two scenic trails and drove around to see some of the camping areas.

The trout stream is chilly with water coming from the bottom of the lake.

This was a little steeper than I had anticipated. Hmm. And the rocks a little pointy. Hmmm.

So, to avoid the steepest part of the trail where we had to hold onto stuff and climb up over rocks, we decided to hike along the river on our way back. This worked well to a point, but then we started ascending gradually from the river until we found ourselves in the middle of a very steep embankment with no sign of a trail at all. I think we took the mountain goat path. It was almost a sheer drop to the river (injury guaranteed), or we could try to go up the side of the hill slowly (injury less likely) and hope not to fall like some human Plinko through the sharp rocks and trees down to the river (death, dismemberment).

We decided we'd better not fall on the way up. So, we took it slow and held onto any available trees as we tried to find good footholds. It's one of those scenarios where you keep thinking "This is so stupid. I can't believe we are doing this," and yet on we went.

Way down yon is the river. The grade is so steep that I can't even see our starting point on the mountain goat path.

Amazingly, we made it in one piece back to the end of the trail to head home and were none the worse for our adventures except for a few stowaway chiggers. Nothing says romantic weekend quite like chigger bites. Except for maybe a roving seed tick or two. These aside, it was a perfect weekend for a couple of hermits in love!

Stealth Salad: Operation Purple Smoothie

2008-08-25T18:06:00.005-05:00

You know where I stand on salads. Love, hate--the line can be very fine. And eating spinach on its own? There's no love here. It's a texture thing, the way it feels between the ol' molars. It's a little squeaky. Anyway, at my sister Jennifer's recommendation, I am getting my squeakier greens disguised with berry and banana goodness in a "green" smoothie (but berries make it a much more palatable purple).

Here's where I got my directions:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eXr8-jru1KE

I just tried a similar version, in my standard, non-fancy blender, with the following basic recipe:

2 C. Cold Water
5 Collard Leaves (I used the ones growing in my mini-garden in the backyard)
Organic Baby Spinach (fill blender up to top with this)

Whirl on "Puree" setting until all leaves are annihilated. Color will be an alarming shade of green--the exact color of your fresh lawn clippings, in fact.

Add:
1 Banana,
1 C. Yogurt (optional)
2 C. Frozen Berries (I used the tri-berry mix from Costco)
More Spinach--IF you dare!
1/2 tsp. powdered Stevia (optional)

Whirl again until all objects are obliterated into a deep purple.

Other ingredients to add to your smoothies:
Kale
Apples, cored and sliced

I tried it, preparing my tastebuds for the worst, and was shocked to my very toes that it didn't taste at all like berry-flavored lawn. I sampled some more to make sure I wasn't crazy, wrote this down immediately because I was so excited, and slurped down the rest of it.

Another exciting way to clear my dietary conscience. Those brownies sitting on my counter will soon be a mere memory.

Brownies? What? I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.

(Shifty eyes while discreetly raking crumbs from keyboard).

Biking in DC

2008-08-11T12:35:00.001-05:00

We went to visit David's sister Debbie and her husband Greg in Washington DC a couple of weeks ago. One morning we had an opportunity to bike some of the usual tourist destinations near the Mall, and in the afternoon biked the beautiful Mt. Vernon trailway with some friends.

Ridin' on the Metro, with Debbie's Schwinn cruiser.

Thanks for the hydration packs, Momma Sue!

In the afternoon I had my first real bike wreck (anything without blood really doesn't count). About halfway through the ride, just a half mile from the turnaround point at Mount Vernon, I let my front tire get off the asphalt ledge into gravel. Of course overcorrection ensued on the wet path, and my left elbow, hip, and knee pitched in to help me out with the forward momentum problem I seemed to be having as I crashed.

Thanks, Knee!

Thanks, Elbow!

Little accidents like this really make you appreciate your skin layers protecting your nerves from the pain of water and air. I hope there was at least spectacular flailing and artistic color for the four people riding right behind me (slowest person typically sets pace). The only thing better than a bike wreck is for there to be lots of witnesses. Awesome.

Audience Members: Justin, Alisha, Ryan
(Who, incidentally, could all probably crush me like a bug with one of their calf muscles. Fortunately though, all very nice people).

The Baring Of One's Soul: (On Writing)

2008-08-08T13:10:00.000-05:00

Writing can be a very public activity. Even the act of writing something down privately means that you realize that someday someone else might read it. I could be flattened by a truck tomorrow, and then some unfortunate soul would have to go through my things: my letters, my writing folders, my prayer notebooks. As a writer with a chronic editing complex, I have always at some level been aware of this and write my first drafts for the possibility of an audience other than the one originally intended.

The written word is a powerful thing, telling unauthorized tales between the lines, and has even more value when we have something to lose. In this very blog, I write more humor posts than anything, but I have very little to lose in doing so. Oh, sure, I may lose some dignity in my self-deprecation, but it shouldn't cause any permanent damage. But to write about the deep things which give me pause or pangs? Offering these up for public consumption is cause for greater anxiety and is much more difficult. Greater depth in subject dictates greater agony in revision as well. Conveying the nuance becomes more important as a writer becomes emotionally invested and desires a response in the life of someone else; the reader.

I had a great creative writing teacher, Dr. Randy Prus, who used to tell us that sentimentality was like a dog returning to its own vomit. I love this simile because it helps me stem the tide of pathos somewhat, and at the very least to keep it a little more real. There is certainly a place for sentiment, but in proportion. I don’t do syrupy.

Themes of so many works of fiction and works of life are the search for fulfillment, love, happiness. These seem to be the mirage in the distance for so many--searching everywhere to fill the void within us. Haven't we all been lost there at some point? Replacing the emptiness with whatever can make us forget for a time: food, entertainments, addictions, sarcasm, competition, consumption. Distractions. But the best times in my own life have never been related to things or objects or entertainments. They have been lit by the glow of happiness I felt when I was with those that loved me, and those whom I loved in return. They are my life.

And the writing. I've always thought it was much easier for me personally to write in the face of difficulty than in happiness. Turmoil is much easier to explore without sounding clichéd than joy (again, the sentiment). I wonder why that is? I'm saddened to think that humans relate to pain & suffering more than happiness--is it because we are accustomed to having the other shoe drop? Because we have empathy or compassion which has developed over the years as we also have hurt, have felt alone, and have cried ourselves to sleep with the pain of living?

When my heart is heavy, I think that I cannot make it relive all those hard times just for the sake of writing something meaningful. But I realize that those times are part of me. As much or more so than the good. The trials and sore heart is where the shape of my character has mostly been carved. So do they make me bitter? Do they make me sad? Do they make me strong? Do they make me judgmental? Do they make me compassionate? Yes, all. And I have to choose to overcome that which needs overcoming; to try and make sense of the imperfection that I am; to seek contentment in those aspects of my life I cannot change, while working to identify and correct the variables. All of this informs the writing which is the most difficult but most necessary to share. I’ll try to be brave enough to give you my best along the way.

Off the Wagon

2008-08-03T18:27:00.003-05:00

I'm back from a twelve-day trip from Dallas to Kentucky, D.C., Tennessee, and back to Kentucky. I had a wonderful time, but I'm very glad to be home! I will be posting at some point on some of the adventures there, if I can squeeze some creativity from my brain. Nice visual, eh?

Comfort Food

2008-07-14T16:35:00.001-05:00

When I'm feeling low, it directly influences what foods I want to prepare and eat. Do you feel the same? I don't head for sweets or chocolate, but instead crave those foods which were part of my childhood: My grandmother's soup with saltines, corn meal mush with butter and sweetener, and my mom's pinto beans with buttered cornbread. Whole-grain pancakes and macaroni & cheese I pretty much crave all the time, so I don't add them to this list officially. Today I'd like to introduce you to the soup.

Granny only ever made one soup that I recall, so if she said she was making soup for dinner everyone knew exactly what to expect. Thus it is so clearly associated in my memory with her. Sometimes we would make cornbread to go with it, but more often than not, we'd have saltine crackers instead, putting about five or so on each of our plates but having the open cracker sleeve handy for refills.

My grandmother was such a comfort to me for most of my life, and I can't make the soup now without thinking of her and the wonderful sensations I always experienced in sitting down to eat this meal with her and the family--the fragrance of steam rising from the bowls, the thin, hollow sound of crackers breaking into pieces, the spoons gently scraping against the sides of porcelain or stoneware, the soft whistle of air as we cooled each spoonful, and the flavor that tasted like home. The familiarity of Pat Sajak in the background and the ding of letters on the board. What a blessing! (Granny, family, and soup--not Wheel, you understand, although in general I think it a fine program).

I was such a thin little child, but I could eat at least two full bowls of this soup, and if allowed, probably a third. Where did it all go? Straight to my heart, of course, and has remained for all these years. My mom recently told me about being in the hospital after delivering one of my older brothers. The hospital food was terrible, but they wanted her to eat a certain amount every day in order to be released. She finally told them that if they would let her go home and have some of her mother's soup, she might live. They did and she did.

Granny's Soup

Basic ingredients:
1 lb. lean ground beef
1 large white onion, diced
2-3 lb. red potatoes, scrubbed and diced (amount depends on size of family and taste!)
salt and pepper to taste
water

Optional ingredients:
2 cloves fresh garlic, minced
1-2 carrot, sliced
1 can diced tomato (Rotel will make it very spicy)
1-2 c. frozen corn (or one can)
1-2 squash or zucchini, chopped
4 T. Butter
Ketchup

Directions:
1. Brown ground beef in large pot with salt, and add chopped onion when beef is about half done.
2. When beef is fully cooked, spoon off whatever grease weighs on your conscience.
3. Add diced potatoes and sliced carrots; cover with water (water line should be about 1" above ingredients).
4. Bring to a boil, lower heat to medium and cover, stirring occasionally until potatoes are beginning to soften. Add squash, corn, tomatoes, butter, salt, pepper; cover and return to a simmer.
5. Soup is ready when vegetables are soft. Adjust salt & pepper to taste. Soup will thicken over several days of reheating. Don't freeze it--the texture of the potatoes will change.
6. If you want a little punch to it and are feeling reckless, stir about two tablespoons of ketchup into the soup in your bowl. Oh yeah.
7. Share with your loved ones, with plenty of crackers between you!

Southern Hospitality

2008-06-25T11:57:00.000-05:00

Ok, so maybe we don't have polar bears or electric eels to contend with in Texas. But we got some scary bugs. And weeds. (Can I get a witness?) And Bermuda grass, which I think I'm gonna start calling Bermuda Weed. Yep, that sounds more like it. Anyway, we have to look for our adventures around here in more modest ways than in bear conflicts. That is why we go Dale Gribble on the local fire ant colonies, trying to get inside their heads in the expensive and unwinnable war we have going with them. But this is the New American Way.

"I think they're gonna move toward the Bradford Pear and set up a strategic base camp there. They know that it'll be a weak point for us. I've just got this feeling."

I've poured boiling water on hills, knowing that it would not win the war, but wanting to make them re-think their proximity to my sidewalk. It's tough making the decision to move ahead with it, despite the certainty of casualties in my day lily bed. This is war. Sacrifices are made.

David grew up in Idaho and represents it as the land flowing with milk and honey. He paints a picture of an idyllic childhood, roaming the neighborhoods, hillsides, and forests with his little brother and sister, Mike and Debbie. There were numerous camping trips with his family, all without a single fire-ant encounter.

I even remember a time before fire ants, believe it or not. I grew up in Southern Oklahoma before they had migrated that far North. I remember plenty of other bugs to avoid while growing up, and many varieties of ants. But these usually minded their own business instead of having a preemptive foreign policy of attacking anything that moved. An enjoyable childhood activity of mine was to disturb part of an ant hill so I could see how they repaired it. Fascinating stuff. I enjoyed their unswerving devotion to perfection in making their beautiful hill just as beautiful as before.

But if you do that to fire ants, they just want vengeance, and they'll worry about rebuilding after they have demolished anything living within chomping distance. Less fascinating than exceedingly creepy is the way they boil out of their dens. Yeesh. Idaho is sounding more and more inviting all the time.

Texas is always using size as a marker for the reasons for its greatness. If we're talking beef ribs, belt buckles, or even hair, that's one thing. But insects that are large enough to be chipping in on property taxes? Or large enough to be wearing a seatbelt (nod to Larry)? Alleged friend and Boise resident Pam Blue even goes so far as to so sweetly remind me that they don't even have cockroaches up there. Probably no termites, either. Those Idaho license plates which currently say "Famous For Potatoes" should be boasting "Very Few Bugs." But I bet their beef ribs are really small. And probably tough, too.

Freeverse No. 1

2008-06-23T21:26:00.001-05:00

Anymore, I don't write much poetry, or whatever label you'd like to attach to such a liberal use of the word. But I think it's good for people to get out those things which seem too abstract for simple prose; the things which we are still working out in the dim recesses. It also provides a memory bank for those moments which are perhaps not important of themselves, but are a marker for a time and a place that we may forget after a time. It's good to remember.

3/16/01

A life just passed before my eyes,
And another, then another, and
An unlimited number of them;
All driving to some point, all
Having a fibrous network of other lives
Intertwined with theirs,
All believing that indeed,
The world does surround--
No, that the world does spin
In a neat circle around them.

I sit here, inconspicuous
On a balcony overseeing them all,
Knowing that the world does
Not revolve around me, nor
The man cleaning the grime
From the parking garage floor,
Nor the woman cleaning
Invisible dust from the windows
Of the office building across the street.

She is in her world, in a still
And silent boardroom, surrounded
By her thoughts, busy in her work.
There is no thread between us,
Only panes of glass now, and
The static of a city beyond them.
Back indoors, the static seeps in,
But perhaps she cannot hear
Over the static of her own thoughts
The hum of living; silent and deafening.

Roadies

2008-06-23T14:45:00.000-05:00

Hi. My name is J'Non, and I'm a roadie:

It's official, since we just purchased a couple of road bikes last Sunday from a local bike shop to replace the mountain bikes which have been taking us sweating and wheezing over hill and dale for the last year. We are retiring my old bike to Northern pastures, and I'm using David's Trek to run errands here in town, since it's still in good shape and is more comfortable for short jaunts.

The newies (nod to Aaron Blue for the neologism) are Specialized brand, Allez models, which is pronounced like "Allay". Mine is an Allez Double, which is so much of an upgrade from the bike I was riding that I cannot truly express my joy at the changes. It rides "like buttah." Oh, yeah.

Since they were out of his size in the Double, David got a discount for an upgrade, the Elite, which has a bit more carbon fiber for a softer ride and slightly better hardware all around.

I'm gonna be honest, I had my heart set on the bike designed for girly sensibilities--the Dolce, which was yellow and white with flowers on the frame and seat. Sigh. It was very pretty. But, unlike most women, I do not have a compact torso. I'm of above-average height, at 5'9" and my proportions are much better suited to men's frames. No flowers for me. But I've decided that I will probably live over this injustice, and I do love my bike.

We rode about 17 miles for our first trip and felt the vast differences in the aerodynamics, the energy economy of using these gears and skinny road tires. The seats take a little getting used to--they are...ahh...firm. I'll have to check the specs again to make sure, but I think they are made out of granite. This is why you buy those bike shorts with the padding in the rear. We don't yet have these, so we have some very bruised rear-ends instead. But hey, the air conditioning is great when you're in a tuck, snacking on your handlebars down a steep hill between 30 and 40mph. A little bruising on the old caboose is totally worth it.

We definitely shaved about 25% off of our previous time, and weren't even totally exhausted when we got home. We'll be trying to increase our stamina and speed so that we can ride with a local group on Sunday mornings. They leave at 6:30 am and go about 34 miles, averaging about 15 mph with no rest stops. These group rides are organized by the shop where we purchased the bikes--Rockwall Cycling. It's a fun place--the people working there are really knowledgeable and passionate about bikes and cycling. You get a sense that they are genuinely excited for you that you are getting this awesome opportunity to ride decent bikes. Welcome to the biking club--it's gonna be a good run.

I love the camaraderie of people who bike. And the calf muscles. You take a few steps into the biking world and you'll start to pick up on the humor, the culture, and the love. And the opportunity for developing amazing calf muscles. You'll see a twinkle in the eyes of those who say with obvious joy, "I'm a roadie," like Kamps, the stocky, athletically-built manager of Rockwall Cycling. He's a Rockwall local who, as of July 2007, does not even own a car. He cycles wherever he needs to go, and probably has a more pleasant daily commute than most people I know. I commented to him that it must be liberating to not have a car payment, and his eyes lit up as he said "And no insurance!" I'm right there with ya, Kamps. Say on, brother.

Tall, cyclist-thin, and twenty-something, Tyler is the sales guy who sold us the bikes, fitted us for them, and answered the million questions we had along the way. He usually commutes about 20 miles to work in Rockwall from Plano on a big bike with fat tires. He says it takes him about an hour each way, which is pretty amazing, considering it takes me about 40 minutes to get to Plano by car. I stole the "snacking on your handlebars" phrase from him without remorse.

I'm thinking that the shop must have a shower facility in the back, because for all this physical commuting, these guys look awfully fresh and squeaky clean. I know what I look like after cycling for 17 miles, and it's not anything that should ever face the public. I'm usually red-faced from exertion for an hour or so afterward, and the sheer volume of sweat is pretty spectacular compared to any other form of exercise I've ever tried. This is not for people who need to look like they have it together. The pictures I included earlier in the post are taken only about 1/4 of the way into our ride. For honesty's sake, I should probably include one of the end of the trip if my vanity will allow it. We'll see.

Farewell, Trans Am

2008-06-17T13:47:00.000-05:00

We sold the Batmobile last week, courtesy of a Craigslist posting, and I feel that a farewell is now in order.

Though we will miss the sounds of your snarly exhaust, the adventure of your racing suspension, and the wind and gnats in our hair from the open T-tops, we know that you will have many years of adventures ahead of you in Finland. Perhaps even now you are on a huge boat, sailing across the seas to your new home--a place where your beauty and American muscle will be appreciated even more for its rarity.

Do not cry, dear. You will need your wiper fluid for removing the remains of the numerous Finnish insects that you will exterminate with blunt force trauma by your gleaming brow. Even now, these insects are gamboling about the Finnish countryside and mocking with abandon the teeny cars which swish quietly along the highways. Cheer up, Love--how many of your friends can say that they've flattened Finnish bugs? Hmm? This is the adventure of a lifetime! Bon Voyage!

Support Local Agriculture!

2008-06-06T18:30:00.001-05:00

Since reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, a fascinating book by Michael Pollan, I've become more aware of the underlying costs when I buy "cheap" food that has come an incredible distance. While perhaps more convenient to me personally to buy something that was produced in Chile, shipped here on a refrigerated semi-truck, and placed in a tidy stack at Kroger, it's probably costing me more in a larger sense.

I am competing with my own long-haul produce for fuel, after all, not only in the transportation costs to store it and then bring it to me, but in the natural gas required for making synthetic fertilizer and the petrochemicals used for producing pesticides. I'm also competing with that juicy steak, too, since the corn that either fattens him up or ends up in my car as ethanol is heavily subsidized by the taxes we all pay.

Ok, ok. But what can we DO about it? Well, ok, I'm still shopping at my local Kroger, and the incredibly cheap organic bananas I buy are not grown in the U.S., but I feel increasingly compelled to support local farmers when I can by purchasing directly from them throughout the growing season. I hope that they are able to actually make a decent living without sacrificing responsible methods of farming or becoming dependant on subsidies which we support through taxes.

There are some very helpful websites out there designed to help you find out where the farmers are in your area. Two that I have used recently are www.pickyourown.org and www.localharvest.org.

This past week I had an opportunity to go on a circuit to 3 different farms which are relatively near my home. The first stop was Akin Farm in Terrell to get beautiful red potatoes, yellow onions, garlic, and pick-my-own Roma green beans. Proprietor Wendy Akin threw in some fresh bay as a gift. She and her husband are retired, and they've been farming those several acres organically for twenty-two years. The prices were very reasonable, and it felt good to know that the exchange of their good produce for our money was helping both of us and hurting neither.

From there I went north to Commerce to pick up some fresh organic blackberries from a small, family-run operation that the owner is developing slowly as a retirement project when he no longer drives a truck for a living. The berries were incredibly huge, flavorful, clean, and ranged from perfectly ripe and sweet to slightly tart. The price was way below what you would pay at the grocery store--even for conventionally grown berries. The seeds were large, but unless my appendix tells me otherwise, it was worth it!

And by the way, the blackberry cobbler we had for dessert that night was top notch. My mom made a traditionally southern crust, which is a butter pastry crust with a lift, courtesy of a little baking powder. She always sinks a layer of crust inside the pie, so you get this bonus layer enveloped by a thick, luxurious filling of whole berries, sugar, and flour. Mmmmm.

The rest of the berries I tossed with some sugar and put into freezer bags to wait until I decide to make preserves, desserts, or fruit salads in the coming year. Eating more locally also means eating more seasonally--buying when things are ripe and putting up surplus to enjoy later from the freezer. There's something very satisfying about seeing your freezer full of food that you put up yourself!

Also in Commerce was Windy Meadows Farm, which offers organic-pastured chicken, eggs, beef, and lamb. This is also family owned and operated, with a processing facility on site. They actually encourage people to come out and look at the facility--it's spotless. I haven't had a chance yet to cook the chicken I purchased, but will let you know how it turns out. I've a hankering for fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy that will not be denied! The prices are similar to what you'd pay at the grocery store for organic meats, which could be affordable if families make meals which are more often vegetarian than meat-centered.

I was pleased with my first foray into the local food scene; it's very encouraging to see people making an effort to grow food responsibly and sustainably.

A happy Jersey calf at Windy Meadows Farm
(Jerseys are used for milking, not meat, so this happiness should continue for a good long while).

The Embodiment Of All That Is Cute In Adolescent Goatiness

2008-05-29T23:02:00.000-05:00

Cuteness Notes--This goatlette has a variety of cute factors in its favor.

1. A gratuitous parting of the hair at the top--just like my oldest brother's senior picture from the late 80's.
2. Nibbular lips. For nibbling. And for looking cute in photographs.
3. Proportionally skinny, pre-pubescent neck.
4. Ears which appear genuinely excited to be attached to this goatlette. Look at them--they exude goat satisfaction and could probably serve very well as dual-action ladles should the need arise.

Biking Keeps Me Humble

2008-05-16T13:30:00.001-05:00

David and I have been biking for exercise since last fall, with a lull during winter while we lived on our fat stores and supplemented any possible loss with hot chocolate, coffee, lots of whipped cream, pies, and ice cream. When the time came to come out of hibernation, we were raring to go.

Ok, ok. David was raring to go, and I was feeling like my muscles were made out of some really gooey pie. Mmmm...piiiiiiiiiiie. Maybe a chocolate pie, with a little caramel drizzled over the top. Mmmmm--No wait! These are post-hibernation legs...better make that a Coconut Cream. Mmmmm...piiiiiiiiiie...

Ahem, where was I? Ah, yes, I have always a bit on the non-muscular side. One of my illustrious nicknames in school was "Pebble" because a girl said that when I flexed my bicep it looked like a pebble was lodged under the skin. And calves? Oh, isn't that sweet that you think all humans have them! No, I had legs perfectly resembling the number eleven, descending from knobbular knees all the way to bony ankles and ski-like feet. With this kind of physical makeup in my past, it even now takes me a while to work up to an endurance level that doesn't leave me wheezing after the first mile. But, David says my calf muscles actually poke out when I'm going up hill now, so I've got to say it's worth it.

The first opportunity for developing my humility was getting passed by an older gentleman who was on foot. Granted, this was in the middle of the "hill of death," as I named it for its steep and punishing grade. On the upside, this was probably a boost to his confidence, and really, I'm just happy to be out here doing good works. Motivational cycler--that's me.

We've just recently increased our distance to between ten and fifteen miles on a new route that takes us through some very pleasant country. There we see horses of varying models, rotund cows, and all kinds of wildflowers this time of year. On the way down a very lovely hill I had my first encounter with a wasp as an adult, and one in which I ended up with more collateral damage than he (you may read about this in the previous post).

This particular exercise in humility happened as I was gaining speed down a big hill about six miles from home. I had trouble stopping while trying to rid myself of the unexpected passenger, who seemed much more calm and collected than I. I was one second away from leaping off the bike while still in motion to rip off my t-shirt and perform a couple of minutes of impromptu Riverdance on it--I did have appropriate sportswear underneath, so it seemed like a plan perfectly suited to being in the middle of nowhere with only the cows to look on me in judgment. But then I saw the couple slowly cycling up the hill to meet me and already looking at me with some amusement at the show of wild antics wherein I steered heroically with one hand while whapping myself on the back with the other. I decided against the disrobing idea.

When I finally opened the bottom of my t-shirt and flapped it to encourage my angry little pal to leave, he flew out and appeared unscathed, a large fellow who was an irate shade of orange. As I and the couple passed each other, I offered an eloquent explanation. "A wasp totally just flew into my t-shirt! He got me four times!" They laughed as they rode by, which was not really the reaction I needed at the moment. Sympathy? Horror? Shock? How about an "are you ok?" or "can we call CareFlite for you?" Well, I lived, as it turned out. Perhaps with a few throbbing spots on my back and neck, and with less dignity than before, but that just meant I had all the less to lose in my next humility lesson.

On Wednesday evening, we again struck out for a little biking adventure, and this time I was wearing a shirt with a small neck opening. Ha, ha! It's like I'm learning or something! We had gone a full two hours of biking, covering about 15 miles of hill and dale. It was a good run, if exhausting. We were almost home but my usual way of getting up on the sidewalk to go through the park was blocked by some teenagers milling around their truck, talking and laughing. I'd have to stop and walk my bike up over the curb, or jump the curb like David had just done. In my weakened mental state, I thought, "Oh, I really don't want to, but I'll just do it!"

This is one of those times where it would have paid dividends to be a weenie. As it was, I gamely got myself ready to face it head on and was so ready to feel that wheel up on that sidewalk. Instead, I didn't quite get the height that one needs to retain dignity, so my bike crashed into the curb, I crashed into the front of my bike while making a lot of sounds like "Ooooof!" "Hhcckk!" and "Unnggh!" and fighting Sir Isaac Newton himself. I'm gonna call it a draw. He's a wily old dude.

Cue the awkward moment of silence where all six teenagers are staring at me as if I had just sprouted antennae from my forehead. Once I found myself to be alive, if currently the object of unwanted onlooker interest, I got back on the bike and attempted to roll on out of there as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the chain was thrown, so after a few more awkward moments, I had to dismount and put the chain back on (I think with David's help at this point).

Cue more awkward moments. I don't know those kids, probably will never see them again, doesn't matter. Amazing how it's still humiliating, despite all of that logic! So, are developed calf muscles really worth it? Yes, indeedy.

Excerpt From The Diary of Winston B. Waspington

2008-05-16T10:30:00.001-05:00

Introduction:
This snippet of diary was recently discovered in Rockwall County; exact location unknown.

May 4, 2008

Today I went out for my daily trip to the grocery for my dear Mrs. Waspington, as she requested that I pick up a fresh garden spider needed to complete the insect soup she planned for our dinner. I was happy to oblige, but as I was on my way, my day took a most extraordinary turn.

Without warning, I was struck by a large mammal which was perched on top of a two-wheeled metal device. It must have been traveling at a great speed, and I was barely able to get my bearings after the collision in order to cling to the backside of its neck, which was sweaty, warm, and overall a very disagreeable surface.

Before I had time to even consider how to safely escape, it tried to kill me by crushing me with one of the two long forelegs attached just below its neck. I managed to defend myself with two stings, though the second was interrupted as a second attack by the foreleg caused me to lose my grip and fall inside the large tent covering its thorax.

Once inside this tent, I could see clearly that this was designed to be a trap for such innocent persons as myself. The opening at the top was held open by the rushing wind which sucked in any victims as the creature sped along on the metal device.

Not willing to be eaten alive with poor Mrs. Waspington left alone to protect our nest of youngsters still in their pods, I gathered my courage. This time I gave a mighty jab near the base of its right foreleg where I thought it would be difficult for my attacker to reach me. I underestimated the reach of those giant, mantis-like forelegs, which now attempted to crush me in the tent material.

Narrowly escaping serious injury yet again, I dropped down and over to the other side and clung to a more stable section of material which fit closely to my attacker's body and which spanned across the back of the thorax. Undetected there, I made one more effort to save my life, and stung with all my might, down through the material and into the flesh of my attacker.

At last, my defense had worked! A secret hatch was opened at the bottom of the tent and I was able to fly out! Disoriented, but with all my wings and legs accounted for! Shaken, but alive! When I returned home to the nest, Mrs W. made such a fuss over the incident and would not be satisfied until my wings and legs were each inspected to a millimeter. We each agreed that one could not be too careful when these sort of mammals are around, and that ultimately, the best defense is "sting first, ask questions later."

Garden Crime Report: 5/7/08

2008-05-07T11:56:00.002-05:00

Case # 542096

Officer J. Whitlark first noticed heavily nibbled collards and radish tops during a routine watering in the lower West side.

The suspects: Two caterpillars, approximately .75" in length and wearing black running suits were sighted about an aphid's throw from the community at Collard's Crest.

Case Notes:

The two suspects did not appear to trial, and are considered missing. Investigators fear that they are victims of vigilante justice, but no witnesses have come forward.

Case # 542097

Officer J. Whitlark observed the results of vandalism to one Cinnamon Basil structure on the Southern corner of Herb Square. After a shakedown, one Mr. Inchwormpants, of light green color and approximately 11 mm in length was taken into custody for booking. The primary officer on the scene noted that the suspect smelled strongly of basil and seemed disoriented.

Case Notes:

After mug shots and feeler-printing, the suspect escaped during prisoner transfer. Location is currently unknown. The suspect is armed with .77 mm mandibles and considered very dangerous. All basil should use extreme caution if encountering this individual.

Stealth Salad: Operation Spring Roll

2008-04-30T18:02:00.004-05:00

Let's face it, shall we? Humans can only have so many salads without feeling listless over lettuce. Miles of lettuce. Endless munching. Pausing to chew our cud, we reflect on how the wrangling of lettuce leaves and the mess which ensues as we stuff untidy piles of dressing-covered leaves in our mouths can seem a smidge undignified, if not embarrassing. "Darling, there appears to be some vinagrette on your temple."

I hate to disparage salad, though, as it can serve useful roles at the dinner table--like creating a platform on which to eat large quantities of croutons, cheese, and ranch dressing. And let us not forget perhaps the greatest service of all, which is to dispense with any residual guilt which may be loitering around our consciences from the recent ingestion of cheeseburgers, steaks, and/or plates of al dente carbohydrates smothered in heavy Italian cream sauces.

To break the monotony, sneak in all the components of a clear culinary conscience by making cold Vietnamese spring rolls with an almond-curry sauce sometime. I'm going to be honest--at first, these are pretty time consuming unless you already have some mad burrito-rolling skills and a totally awesome blog to walk you through the steps. One out of two isn't bad. They become very simple over time, and the texture and flavors are worth it. Not to mention the crystal clear conscience. "Yes, I do believe I will have another pat of butter on my cheesy baked potato, thank you."

Secret Agent Parsley, pictured with other operatives:

Step 1: Locate Ingredients!

Much of this you may already have on hand, but there are a few items that you wouldn't have unless you make sushi at home. Check the recipe for the almond-curry sauce at the bottom of the post for some of these items, and don't forget to substitute wildly from your own pantry and let me know how it turns out! Or, purchase the items and plan to go nuts and make sushi at home, too! Look at you, being all adventurous in the kitchen!

Rice Paper (found in the "Ethnic Foods" section--those without wheat flour work best)
Rice Noodles (thin rice vermicelli is best)
Cucumber
Carrot
Lettuce
Sugar Snap Peas (just a handful will do)
Herbs of your choice
Mung Bean Sprouts
Whatever else you have in the crisper that needs to be consumed

2. Prep ingredients!

Have the vegetables washed, sliced--ready to go. You can use whatever you like--we typically use cucumber, carrot, fresh cilantro and parsley, green onion tops, mung bean sprouts, romaine lettuce, sugar snap peas, and even young collards. For protein, you can also include tofu or chicken.

Rice noodles take just a few minutes to cook in boiling water. Rinse them under cool water to stop the cooking process and make them easier to handle--less sticky!

3. Assembling!

I use a small plate, turned upside down with plastic wrap draped across it for my rolling station. Wet one sheet of rice paper under the tap, making sure that all surfaces area comes in contact with the water. One dip'll do--the sheet will soften as you add ingredients. For presentation, be mindful that whatever you arrange in the center of the roll will be visible when you are finished.

Cilantro is a nice start, placed upside down:

You can add ingredients in whatever order you like, but I like to play with the presentation by adding a canvas of cucumber for the cilantro, with maybe some carrot for color:

Sugar snap peas add a nice crunch and flavor:

Crisp lettuce on top of that:

Then, add some mung bean sprouts. Yes, mung bean sprouts look pretty hideously unappetizing, but they are very good and add a satisfying crunch to the rolls. Top the hideousness with pleasant-looking rice noodles (these may still be warm from cooking):

Fold over one end and bring down the upper part of the wrap. The rice paper sticks to itself when damp, so it seals itself if you help it make the right connections:

Fold in the other end. While holding the ingredients in with your thumb and forefinger, roll the whole business down on top of the front side of the paper:

Now you can see how your design worked out! Pretty, but not too pretty to eat:

You can refrigerate the rolls overnight or even a couple of days without much compromise of taste and texture.

4. Get Saucy!

The sauce that we typically have with these is made primarily with almond butter, also adding some protein. Curry, garlic, and a little chili sauce adds a great kick. Just stir together all the following ingredients (or whatever you have that seems similar enough to these ingredients). Substitute at will--I certainly do. No cooking required:

1 heaping Tbs brown sugar
2 Tbs rice wine
2 tsp rice wine vinegar
1/4 - 1/2 tsp curry powder
2 tsp soy sauce or tamari
1/4 tsp sesame oil
1/2 tsp chili sauce
1/2 tsp minced garlic
1/4 C coconut milk
3/4 C nut butter

You may need to stir the sauce again before serving:

5. Revel in a Clear Conscience!

The continuing search for clever designs and compelling ingredient combinations will be fun experimentation. I'm thinking already thinking ahead to my next batch: a little red pepper...some beet greens...some blackened ahi tuna? Hmmmm... would ranch dressing be good as a sauce? Hummus? See, people? These are the questions which will drive the planning of my next not-so-covert SaladOp.

Now, get me my creamy Fettuchini Alfredo and garlic bread with extra butter--stat!

Bok, Bok: New Digs!

2008-04-24T07:45:00.004-05:00

Many hennish trills of delight go out to David for coming up with a character and header design for me and my teeny little world stage. It's lovely to have a talented husband on the team, and of course a chicken sporting a monocle is always good to have on board. I'm trying to decide what to name her. Henrietta?

I now also have the domain inquisitivechicken.com, which forwards directly to this blog but is much easier to remember.

Side Note: If you've never actually heard a hen trill with delight, you are missing out. Happy hens, full from grazing on green grass and a delectable assortment of bugs actually do warble in the evening as dusk nears and they settle on their roosts.

Chocolate Truffle Cake: The Obsession Lives

2008-04-23T14:10:00.001-05:00

Newswire: Tragedy was narrowly averted late last Thursday evening in Rockwall, when J'Non Whitlark was struck by the realization that she had lost her only paper copy of a recipe for Chocolate Truffle Cake.

Dear Gentle Reader,

Oh, yes, this was the final hormonal straw in a week already punctuated by various combinations of stormy weeping and inexplicable exuberance, and I could not be consoled at this unexpected loss so late in the game. I had planned to make it the next morning for the NTBMO on Saturday evening. No Google search could find anything that quite reflected the simplicity of the recipe given to me by Michelle Rickard several years ago, though I found some hope from a post of something that looked similar on someone's blog from Sweden--pretty cool.

I hated to ask Michelle for it again...but the thought of no truffle cake I hated with all of my being. So I pleaded mercy. She, of all people, would understand the Power of the Truffle over my emotional well-being. Somehow sensing the underlying desperation beneath the veneer of a calm request for the recipe "if she had time" to look for it, she came through with the recipe just in time, and my weekend was saved!

For me, and those who profess to love chocolate, this cake is the epitome of all that is good and right in the dessert world. No added sugar, just lots of dark chocolate and a generous helping of delicious cholesterols to round out the recipe. The cake requires refrigeration after cooking. It is during this time that you must plan to be out of the house and away from the killer chocolate smells emanating from the kitchen. These smells have been known to cause mental paralysis, blurred vision, increased salivation, behavioral problems, and sweeping regret. You may want to open some windows to help yourself stay on the wagon.

Once the cake has cooled and the tantalizing aromas are somewhat contained, you get to the creative part, which your brain can actually handle since you are past the mind-altering smells of baking chocolate. I love the beautifully rich brown of the finished product, upon which you can create elaborate or simple designs using sifted cocoa powder and confectioner's sugar. For this particular cake, I was in the mood for argyle.

Truffle Cake

3 c. (18oz.) semisweet chocolate chips (or dark chocolate bars/baking squares)

2 sticks (1 c.) butter

6 large eggs, at room temperature

1. Heat oven to 425 F. Coat an 8x3-in. round cake pan with nonstick spray. Line bottom with wax paper; spray paper. Have a larger roasting pan ready and put a medium pot of water on to boil for later.

2. Melt chips and butter together; sir until well blended.

3. Beat eggs in a large bowl with mixer on high 7 minutes, or until tripled and soft peaks form. Fold in chocolate mixture until blended. Pour into cake pan.

4. Place large pan in oven; place cake pan inside. Pour boiling water into roasting pan to come halfway up sides of cake pan. Cover cake pan loosely with foil; bake 40 minutes. (Cake looks soft but sets when cold.)

5. Cool cake in pan on a wire rack. Cover and refrigerate 3 hours, or until firm. Invert on serving platter; shake down sharply to release cake. Peel off paper.

6. If desired, lay five 3/4-in.-wide strips of paper 3/4 in. apart on cake. Sift cocoa between strips; carefully lift paper. Repeat in opposite direction, this time sifting on confectioners' sugar. (You can cut out and use any other template--be creative!)
7. Resist the desire to take a bite out of the side of the cake. People will notice teeth marks.
8. Pray for leftovers

On Tax Day

2008-04-15T08:34:00.003-05:00

Is it not a sad state of affairs when we are excited to get a tax refund? It feels like we are winning a prize or something. But that's our money we are getting back! They just had it in government coffers throughout the year and were probably profiting off the interest, which they do not give back.

But Yay!!! We got a refund! Let's go buy an awesome new plasma TV! Let's go put a down payment on a new car!

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty to buy stuff we can't afford and don't really need. Of thee I sing.

https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2187rank.html

Driving With Larry: A Post-Camping Story

2008-04-14T21:17:00.005-05:00

Occasionally there is a moment when you are keenly aware of your human frailty, your incomprehensible emotions, your most unwarranted fears, and your utter ridiculousness. I will share such a moment with you.

After a full weekend of camping and alleged "relaxing," David and I, along with all of the mountain of gear that we'd stuffed in the Subaru, made our way home on Sunday afternoon. Our foreheads and noses were sun-seared and served with a side of broiled ears. These paired nicely with freshly-scratched legs and sore muscles. My exhaustion was done to a turn from the combination of two nights of sleeping bags, pushing thirty, and being an introvert among a lot of people I didn't already know very well. Did I mention the pushing thirty bit? David drove home, since he had slept like the dead until an obscenely late hour on Sunday morning, and my pillow and I settled in as grateful passengers to drowse away the return trip. Closing my eyes was so very delicious that I just leaned my head back and embraced the weariness.

All of this peace was short-lived, since a giant black cockroach had just sprinted across David's lap and was now continuing at cheetah-like speeds across the pillow on my lap. David yelled "It's on your pillow!!" Of course my heavy eyelids sproinged open nimbly, instantaneously communicated to my brain what "it" was, and convinced my body that my best defense was to shriek wildly while attempting to carry out a brilliant plan which involved simultaneously rolling down the window with my right hand, picking up the pillow with my left, and trying to shove the offending occupant out the window without ever touching him with any part of my person, since it is well-known among womankind that touching a cockroach, spider, or anything disgusting in the insect world can cause irreparable damage to the body part involved. I could have died, people. It was a big cockroach.

Did I mention we were on the freeway at this point? Oh yes, David did a manfully good job of keeping the car between the lines as his usually-calm wife thrashed violently in the next seat over and assaulted his ears with all the noises that come out of a scared soprano. Needless to say, my incredibly well-developed plan did not work, and the cockroach merely retreated from the maniac in the front passenger seat by crawling hideously down under her seat and cloaking himself in darkness and safety until he could disembark more securely.

Larry, as we called him, remained there for the duration of the trip--over an hour. I kept a wary, sunburned eyeball patrolling the perimeter for as long as I could manage, but ultimately succumbed to dozing off for long periods. These were punctuated by the occasional start and wild-eyed look around my seat and over my shoulders, with suspicious squints down at my pant leg openings. Once home, I think I saw Larry make a run for it on the driveway as I shook and pummeled the pillows that were stowed directly behind my seat. But a thorough car-cleaning this week will provide insurance, as eye-witness testimony is yet inconclusive.

Later I laughed until I cried at the remembrance of acting like such a girl about a bug--one that doesn't even bite or sting. As David says, "it's just a big beetle." This may be true. So I suggested to him that if it wasn't such a big deal, an alternative plan might have been for him to drive with his knee while rolling down the window and grabbing Larry with his other hand, tossing him out, and telling me about it later when I woke up. Hmm--sounds better than my plan at the time. At any rate, that evening was a prime opportunity to settle in and watch the movie Starship Troopers. It seemed like the thing to do after such a drive home with the likes of Larry.

"The only good bug is a dead bug."

How Do I Love Thee, Craigslist?

2008-04-10T15:40:00.001-05:00

Let me count the ways!

You already will have read in a previous post about the extension ladder we found using Craigslist--we paid $150 for a 28' fiberglass ladder which would have cost over $300 new. Awesome. Now we will finally be able to tackle some roof repairs and some exterior trim repair and painting that have been niggling at us for some time now.

Also bothersome was having a four-seater dining table. It was fine for just the two of us, but we want to be able to entertain more often, and it seems that when it rains it pours--no guests for two months or more, and then ten at once. After issuing an invitation to three couples for dinner, it hit us that we didn't have anywhere to put them, unless we brought out the card table. Sooo, we thought we could make a table pretty easily, but chairs would still be really expensive--at least $50 each to buy, and out of the question to build.

We checked out Craigslist on a Sunday morning to just look for chairs, and instead found a table and six chairs for sale in our own city for a mere $200. We picked it up that afternoon. Amazing. We still had to bring out the folding chairs, but we actually fit eight around it. We may build a custom removable table top to be able to seat ten comfortably, but this works for now. Here are the before and after shots:

The old dining set is far more hideous than this picture captured. Imagine the incessant creaking noises when you sit down in a chair that should be firewood. The camera was too kind:

Aaaand, the dining set we found on Craigslist.com for $200. The seats still had the plastic on most of them and the construction is very solid:

Not too shabby! Have I already mentioned that I love Craigslist? If I ever got a tattoo...

Haulin' With Subie: Volume I

2008-04-08T18:26:00.006-05:00

We do not own a truck. None of our friends own trucks. Well, and of course not, because everyone knows that if you actually are silly enough to get a truck, all your non-truck-owning friends will start freeloading immediately. Or, they might at least wait until the honeymoon's over. After a month or two, they'll figure it won't look too bad to go ahead and give you the list of stuff they need dropped there, picked up here, or carted all over creation. These lists have been brewing for years, in many cases, and are not for the faint of heart or easily discouraged. So, no one is willing to take the truck burden for fear of inevitable moochery. Instead, we drive silly little cars that are by no means in the hauling category and clandestinely create our own lists to bring out whenever someone else caves.

But then there was Subaru. Not only is this wee black WRX wagon more fun than the average car, it also can fit an amazing amount of stuff in it and on it while flying just under the radar of those would-be list makers. Home improvement projects take an awful lot of lumber and supplies, but we've been able to make it all fit, whatever it is, every time.

We've hauled numerous bags of mulch, trees with their tops poking out of the windows, loads of firewood, desks, dirt, long lengths of molding and lumber, and a whole lot of camping supplies.

Oh, we need to pick up a dining table and chairs from across town today? We like a challenge. The Trans Am even got to assist with this jaunt with carrying two of the six chairs (but I have no doubt that we could have made it work with just the Subaru if we'd been more creative with our tie-downs...couple of chairs on the table...yep).

What's that? We need a 28-foot extension ladder for repainting our exterior trim? No problem. David found it on Craigslist for $150 and I picked it up in Carrollton just yesterday. With tie-downs in front, back and on top, it didn't budge for the entire 30 mile trip. I have to admit I felt like a little bit of a show-off, what with all the big ol' pickups and vans I saw on the way home with their ladder racks. And there was little old me, trundling along in my teeny car. Granted, I didn't go above 60, and found the road noise from the ladder to be a disconcerting harmonic. But oh, how I enjoyed seeing my little red caution flags waving in the wind in my rearview! A parade just for me!

What will she haul next? With a camping trip scheduled for this weekend, and knowing my packing habits, probably everything but the kitchen sink. Not that the sink wouldn't FIT, mind you, given the right tie-downs and...

City Gardening for Amateurs

2008-03-28T12:33:00.010-05:00

You can take a girl from the country, but you can't take the country from the girl. I wonder who wrote that little bit of pure genius? It's true, you know. Take the proof of the woman who has lived in the suburbs for almost seven years, but still nurtures in the back of her mind the distinct possibility of keeping two hens in the backyard for fresh eggs. Technically, the city only limits the number per species of animal that you own and if they are really obnoxiously loud. Since everyone else around us has obnoxiously loud dogs, my hillbilly wheels are turning...calculating... calculating...calculating.

But I'm pretty sure David would stage a husband revolt, which could lead to the wrong kind of chicken coup, so I'm gonna keep that one on the back burner, simmering on extra low for now.

Country girls thus have to look to other ways to get in touch with their roots. More socially acceptable than mattress springs on the roof to improve TV reception is gardening. By using raised beds instead of just tilling up my entire backyard (or front--don't dare me, please. I'm right on the edge here), David gets to use power tools and manly carpentry skills, thereby adding an element of danger to gardening and sweetening the pot so he'll buy in. Well, there is a scary-sounding circular saw and always the possibility of decimating your thumb with a hammer.

We decided on treated lumber which we could paint so that the beds will be nice to look at for years to come instead of falling apart. David drew up some plans, we negotiated, I requested a wide ledge on the top for sitting, we negotiated some more, and agreed on a final version. It took most of a Sunday to build the first one, and completed the second a day or two later. It took another couple of days to fill the suckers with dirt, and about 5 trips or so total for lumber, paint, soil, amendments, and finally the plants!

Side note: it is a point of pride to us to see just how much stuff we can get to fit in our Subaru WRX sport wagon. They usually look either confused, amused, or alarmed when we haul out a big cart of lumber and load 'er up. Lowe's is only a block away, but it still feels good to roll out of there with the Subie packed to the gills. A separate post will be "Haulin' With Subie" to highlight her willingness to put up with whatever we dish out.

Back to gardening: total costs for the structures, including nails, screws, paint, and liner was about $100. The dirt, organic compost, and organic fertilizer used totaled about $65. The layers of skin lost due to sunburn: 1 or 2.

Since my picture storage is pretty limited on Blogger ("Boooo..."), here's a link to a web album of the process and completed project. Enjoy! I know I will.

http://picasaweb.google.com/rjwhitlark/CityGardening

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Appreciate TJMaxx

2008-03-07T18:17:00.003-06:00

Ok, so after running out of thread with 3 curtains left to sew, it is a good time to reflect and include some pictures which will probably highlight the good points of the finished product while artfully concealing with houseplants the many flaws. What uneven hemming? All I see is--Wow! what a beautiful fern! (This really is an obvious case of an imagination gone wild. I had a fern once. It looked good for approximately two days before going into a full molt and then losing its will to live entirely. Ferns in florist shops are hopped up on anti-depressants and steroids until they are about to climb out of their baskets to hit the treadmill, with pumped up leaves and Goldie Hawn-like posture. When they get to your house, they quickly become despondent and their leaves wait for the merest of nibbles from the resident felines to literally explode off their stems. Moral of the story? Ferns: Just Say No).

Where were we? Oh, yes, the cover-up for the seamy window-coverings. Anyone observed peering too closely at seams shall be immediately given an obscene amount of wine, from which perspective all my sewing appears to be a perfect study of Impressionism. "Thaa Juhdon, she'z such an inssspired artisst--I mean, look at thaa. If you squint chur eyez, iss almoss like there'z like, really nice curtainz on thoze windowz. Iss incredible."

Having returned to Hobby Lobby for thread and after much ironing and further discoveries of sewing inconsistencies (one of which just occurred to me this very moment), they are finally finished!

Without further ado, THE CURTAINS FROM HADES:

Stop looking at that seam immediately. Would you like some Merlot?

Note strategic use of houseplant:

Moby Dick: Standing the Test of Time

2008-03-06T21:40:00.001-06:00

This book is one that has been on my list of important things to read for a very long time. I happened upon it recently at a second hand store and was compelled to shell out a dollar and see if I could wade my way through it. I've always had the impression that the book was near endless, and quite possibly as tedious as I found Oliver Twist to be so many years ago (I was a teenager when I tried to read Dickens, so I should probably give it another go before the final rap of the gavel). At any rate, I was prepared to be a literary martyr on the pyre of sesquipedalian verbosity, but would count it as a kind of medal of honor on my lapel if I could but finish it. So, you can understand my amazement when I laughed out loud with amusement and shook with suppressed chuckles throughout the first several chapters. What in the world! I would never have thought a man with the name Herman Melville could put on such a party as this.

But even Herman could not have anticipated his four-footed arch-nemesis who currently roams the halls of Whitlark Manor and who put an unceremonious end to the literary festivities. I was awakened in the middle of the night to the sounds of heaving. Moby Dick may very well stand the test of time, but it unfortunately could not stand the test of cat vomit at point blank range. And I, dear reader, could not stand the test of discolored pages unless I had no knowledge of where the discoloration came from and could convince myself that it was a perfectly legitimate discoloration as a result of someone's green highlighter gone haywire. As it was, I knew perfectly well the tinge of partially-digested houseplants, and therefore laid this amazingly absorbent volume to rest.

Jezebel's Return: She Bringeth Sewing

2008-02-28T13:52:00.004-06:00

The story begins with the realization that our living room curtains were outdated and of completely uninspired cream material which cat hair clings to for dear life. By comparison to the simplicity of the dining room curtains (you've been introduced to these curtains in a previous post) and the new wood flooring, these were to be tossed like so much cheese rind.

With living room windows that are 94 inches tall, multiplied by 4 windows and two panels each, we were looking at $30 per panel at the very lower end of pricing, which is $60 per window, and $240 for window coverings--sans hardware or additional sheers. We decided to cavalierly spurn the high cost of retail curtains by making our own. Which is to say, David buys the material and I do the sewing. (It just wouldn't work the other way around--promise).

Did you know that Hobby Lobby has a web coupon available every week for 40% off of a single regular-priced item? You can use one per day. I used one last week to purchase 25 yards of beautiful satin the color of molten chocolate. It was the first time I'd actually bought a whole bolt of something--had the band still around it and all. I felt very greedy for taking the whole thing, but I got over it very quickly. I also bought a perfectly-matching color of thread like a girl who actually has foresight.

We did a small test inside the store to see if it would repel cat hair. At first I was disappointed that I hadn't thought to bring a small ball of fur with us. But, fortuitously enough, I just happened to have some on my jacket. Ho ho! Things are looking up! We placed it on the material and then gave it a swipe to see if it held on or let go. Happily, the cat hair floated away--probably to lodge in some flannel somewhere, but let us try not to think too deeply on this.

My dear Momma Sue loaned me her sewing machine this past weekend and, in a pioneering spirit I cut the fabric to the lengths I needed (108" each, to allow for hems, a roomy rod pocket and so that it would hang almost to the floor) and set about learning how to sew again. Did I mention it has been a few years since I've sewn anything with a machine, by the way? The valuable sewing information from my home economics classes in high school has long been hidden away in the deep recesses of my mind. What does stay with me, though, is the girl that sewed through her thumb--went right through the nail. This does not contribute to my confidence with the sewing machine, oddly enough.

At any rate, a few hours of my nose stuck in the instruction manual and doing many test runs had me thinking I could do this, despite my consternation at the fact that I had bought perfectly-matched upholstery thread, and didn't face up to the fact that it was going to be impossible to use on satin until after I'd had already filled a bobbin and had a go at it on the first test. But, after a few more tests and twiddling with dials with numbers on them, I was feeling that feeling that comes very near to the under side of confidence. Twelve inches into the first edge of the actual curtain assured me that seam ripping was a skill that also deserved some attention. "Silly girl! Why don't you actually own a seam ripper?" "Well, I don't sew often." "Exactly! Silly girl!"

Satin is a beautiful fabric. It's even very pretty in the independent way it resists being hemmed up with thread, twisting this way and that in glorious, shimmering spite. "Yes, go on and adjust that tension more, I'm sure that will do the trick" it says, mockingly and fully confident of its own position of control in the situation. "Who are you, but a naive trifling? I've made tailors weep, and given professional seamstresses nervous breakdowns. And you think you can make me lie flat? Go on, try another pin, I dare you!"

It is at this point that one realizes the importance for mood lighting in one's living room.

The Human Angle

2008-02-28T11:19:00.004-06:00

So, I'm writing this article on roller derby. I've chosen to take the human angle, as the robot angle didn't seem to offer as much depth as one would imagine, and because very few robots have ever played roller derby. Sure, there was bot derby greats like "Hot Bot II" of the Houston Hard Drives, "2 Sexy 4 Your Bot E" who skated for the Riverside Roller Bots and "Transducer Trauma" who was a popular jammer for the Seattle System Crashers. As I understand, bot derby was much-heralded at the outset, but ultimately failed to capture the attention of a large fan base, which is so necessary in order for a sport to get a solid toe-hold in society. But then there's baseball, which just goes to show that there are always those rare exceptions.

In taking the human angle, I had a better chance of getting some good interviews, as humans are usually interested in themselves and when asked to talk about that, they are usually happy to oblige. Bloggers are especially likely to wax long in their explications of self, and are an easy target. However, I've found that their tendency to veer way off topic can be somewhat distracting.

By the way, here's a picture of Dot Matrix, one of the first proponents of bot derby:

Writers Groups: Daffodils or Dungeon?

2008-02-06T12:58:00.005-06:00

I can't speak for all writers, but I need an umbrella under which I may safely share my fledgling work prior to sharing it with the Cynic, the Unimpressed, and the Superior. I am still sensitive enough to seek out some affirmation from a few trusted confidants before sending it out to gallivant in the downpour of rejection by a larger audience. Hence, a writers' group.

I've been involved in groups of this kind only in writing classes, and have found that they can be the most motivating and inspirational experiences, where the people click and the writing flows like a well-fed stream. Of course next to the stream all these songbirds are just happy to be alive and eating bugs, with some mating thrown in for good measure, and out in the meadow there are all manner of benevolent humming bees, butterflies floating about from flower to flower, and the virtual writing desk is an inviting blanket with several fine-tipped pens of blue ink, a deliciously new composition pad, and a picnic basket full of fine cheeses, crackers, fruit, chocolates, and a few meandering ladybugs for effect. No wine, as this makes me feel less creative than feeling the need to take an unproductive nap, but perhaps some iced coffee instead. "The hiiiiiiiiiills are aliiiiiiiive with the sound of muuuuuuusiiic." This is what writing groups should be. And can be! Dear people! Are you with me? Skip with me through the meadow! Roll down the clover-laden hills where no fire ant has trod! Sample the Gouda! Let us write with joy and abandon!

Alternatively, without the right people, positive attitudes, and safety net, a writers' group could meet in their virtual damp, moldering basement where a single naked light bulb hangs from the ceiling and everyone has shifty eyes and tents their fingers gratuitously. Here, you have to be careful how cheerful you are, and must instead work hard to develop your defenses, as occasionally a fellow basement-dweller will smack you in the back of your head for no apparent reason, citing the alleged fact that there was a fly on the back of your head as an explanation, and then going back to practicing their eye shifts and nuanced finger tenting. But there was no fly. Or, at least you didn't see a fly, so a fly is doubtful. But then, this is a kind of depressing room, so maybe a fly would be apropos. But really--a fly? So you smack them in the back of the head and blame it on the fly as well.

Please do not try to delve too deeply in symbolism or meaning. The fly is not real. [Or is it?] Moving on:

Okay, okay, so some slight exaggeration has been used. Writing groups are probably somewhere in the middle, where we neither always have the best attitudes nor the worst, and our personalities at least function together in a manageable sort of way.

Mark, Kami, David, and I have met just twice so far, but so far so good. I've had the opportunity to work with Kami before. She has a journalism background, so she is most handy at stemming the tide of J'Non's excessive wordiness. We work well together. (See, Kami? That sentence was to the point and didn't even have a comma in it! Woo!) The fellows were wildcards, since I'd never worked with either of them in this capacity before. And since I'm married to one of them, of course you never know how those dynamics are going to work out.

Some moments which have crystallized in my mind for the first meeting:

Kami looks like she is seriously entertaining the idea of dumping perfectly good Starbuck's on my head when I suggest that she read her deeply personal poem out loud. In Starbuck's. It's a good thing she hasn't yet honed her ability to use the Force to be able to choke me with her mind from across the table like Darth Vader. Whew! That was a close one.

David, Kami, and I try to suppress any obnoxiously loud laughter over Mark's humor piece, with varying success. At one point Kami gets so entertained that she starts bonking her forehead on the table. It was kind of loud. And just made me laugh more.

We spend several minutes on the onomatopoeia choice of "zik, zik, zik" for the sound that corduroy pants make when you walk. I mean, this is a sparkling example of the kind of literary gems you can find in a writers' group! Yessss!

The encouragement to keep writing is such a boon, and further convinces me that these are absolutely vital to successful and rewarding experiences in writing.

Staff Appreciation Day

2008-01-29T23:16:00.000-06:00

In the Whitlark household, we take special care in our laundry duties. We find it very satisfying to take a heap of chaos and transform it into a tidy stack of something functional, which is why we use only the highest standards for those who make up our Laundry Support Team. Meet Sebastian and Belle, who take their work as senior staffers here very seriously. Here they are seen in a Laundry Protocol Meeting, which they diligently hold on an almost daily basis. It must be noted, however, that final protocols have yet been determined, despite a tremendous number of cat-hours spent on the project.

Both Sebastian and Belle have taken a proactive stance on laundry creation, citing the economic benefits of a frequently-laundering society through regular shedding. They therefore make a solid effort in hairing up any potentially launderable surfaces. Sebastian, who recently earned the title of "Chief Lolling Officer" works hard to accomplish this goal, as you may see here.

Another part of their tireless effort is to provide quality sheet cleanliness inspections for each bedding change. Belle is primarily in charge of this department, and may always be found in close proximity to clean sheets, offering her advice for future washings, working to stretch top sheets that she deems too-tightly tucked, and taking extra care to shed as much as possible during these tasks so as to speed the next laundry day and strengthen the economy.

Meanwhile, with intensive research spanning several years, Sebastian has developed his patented system for multiple-garment-ironing using an exciting new napping schedule.

First, clean, warm t-shirts are stacked neatly over the ironer and left for a napping period of about 20 minutes.

After this, the ironer relocates to the top of the stack and naps for approximately 30 minutes to complete the smoothing process. Voila!

Understandably, these modern heroes of laundry are exhausted after a full day of meetings, hairings, inspections, and ironing and may on occasion be found recovering in the conference room.

Kudos, Team Laundry!

When Life is Good

2007-12-31T23:47:00.000-06:00

By now, it's 2008 officially. Ahhh...I wonder how many months it will take to get used to writing 2008 on everything? Except for that, the change in the fourth digit of the way the world has agreed to calculate time units doesn't change a thing. It doesn't make me feel like I can be a different person this year than last year, or make renewed commitments to eat better or exercise more frequently. Midnight tonight is just part of the continuation of life; of me; of you. I've got a dear, if currently snoring, husband next to me in front of the fire, a peaceful home despite some present remodeling turmoil, and very dear friends and family to love and to love me. If that's not enough to motivate me to change for the better, one digit of four is not likely to do it either.

But there has been a fire in the fireplace for the last several hours, defying my toes to remain icy. David and I still are young enough to feel giddy at staying up late because there's no work tomorrow, eating dark chocolate brownies with whipped cream and recklessly drinking coffee after 7 pm. Living dangerously. And I'm old enough to think that could possibly be living dangerously. Well, it was fully caffeinated. Oh, yes, life is good.

Usually when David tries to convince me that some event we shared was an actual date, I usually narrow my eyes at him and disdainfully dispel any such myth that he has obviously pulled straight out of his...imagination. But, tonight I had to agree wholeheartedly that our dinner of ratatouille and cous cous counted as a date, since there were candles at dinner and dancing in the kitchen while we prepared it. (Shhh! The kitchen dancing is a secret!) And that's how life is very good sometimes.

I'm just happy to be here in this place, in this time, to experience life as it unfolds. Getting older really is a good thing, isn't it? Well, up unto a point, I should probably say. I'm still on the upswing, and find that as I age, I feel more comfortable with the process that is living. Maturity, as it increases in bits here and there, immeasurably, and then a greater sense of contentment with where I find myself to be. To be sure, there's still so much change to be made in my life, plenty of heartache to be had over the things I can and can't change, and so many character flaws to overcome. But instead of refusing to face them or admit them, I look forward to the changes I can make, while asking for God's help to strengthen me every step of the way to make my life better--to make it better, and make it somehow good.

If Darth Vader Had Ever Designed A Salad...

2007-12-27T14:04:00.001-06:00

It's funny the things we remember from the mean streets of Kindergarten. It really was the first time in my life that real and tangible enemies came into the picture and presented themselves in various forms. The first was a boy named Jerry Don. He was blond and was, in my 5-year-old condemnation, a "meanie" of a high degree. I was always a sensitive child ["Hello, Narcissism, how are you this fine evening?" "Oh, flourishing, flourishing--and how do you think I am?"], and it seemed to be Jerry Don's especial mission in life to get me to cry. This wasn't an especially difficult task, but he seemed to get something out of it anyway.

I remember one particular day when his method was to block the aisle so that I couldn't get to my desk to sit down, and if I moved to the next aisle over to get around him, he just hopped over as well, thereby blocking every route to my desk and staring me down. The conflict ended with me crying from the utter helplessness and frustration I felt. I probably could have punched him, but my mother discouraged this kind of behavior among my sisters and me, and anyway, I was a sensitive child--empathetic and unwilling to solve my problems via violence, even though I probably would have found that to be much more satisfying in the short-term. I chose tears, instead. I don't remember exactly what happened after the release of tears. I think the teacher came back into the room at that moment and he had to let me pass. But my first real enemy had made an appearance.

The second was of a different kingdom altogether: school lunch salad. It was this anemically pale pile of iceberg lettuce (iceberg always sounds so exciting--I mean, it is named after this beautiful, dangerous, and exhilarating frozen wonder--but it always fails to deliver on the splendor of its nomenclature) which was accompanied by a mealy tomato wedge and perhaps a few slivers of uninspired carrot. All this was topped with a dressing that was always blobular, somewhat wiggly, and usually an alarming shade of orangey-peach. Needless to say, I have since always had a healthy suspicion of orangey-peach colored blobs served on salads.

The thing I remember most is not the physical makeup of the salad, but the importance of them. They were not just a nutritionless pile of plant cells, topped with a cry for help; they represented the Jerry Don who stood firmly between me and putting my sticker on the big white poster board of lunch accomplishment. It hung on the wall for all to see, and each child had a long row of small squares to be filled in every day with a shiny metallic star if they finished their lunch. So many children had so many stars! Some had these long, proud rows of stickers, which reflected enticingly in shades of magenta, blue, green, and silver. And then there was mine. One star. Obviously, all those children with so many stars were born with taste buds that functioned only at partial capacity, and were also gifted with an ability to eat orangey-peach colored blobules on command. They were rewarded accordingly with the opportunity to post their star on the day's square. Every day we formed in our single file line before leaving the cafeteria, and every day the stark emptiness of my row stared at me in cold, matte judgment. I was different. I could not eat orangey-peach blobules without gagging, even though I desperately wanted to shovel down that all-important portion of my daily nutrition so that I, too, could be proud of my achievements in salad-eating.

On the other hand, maybe it is ok to be stubborn about some things. To this day, I defy blobule dressings. I embrace Newman's Raspberry Walnut Vinaigrette because it resembles a liquid and is generally awesome. Jerry Don turned out to be a nice guy in high school, so I also embrace letting go of grudges occasionally. I defy the societal rewards for being mindless robots working for appreciation in the form of sparkling stars on poster boards. I embrace Romaine and many of its leafy brethren. I shall spurn iceberg as long as we both shall live. Unto death! [Brandishes light saber and charges off into the night].

The Curse of an Evil Jezebel: Home Improvement

2007-12-17T12:26:00.000-06:00

It starts so very innocuously. But there, lurking beneath the surface, is a pit of despair so filled with terror that it is only whispered about by decent folks, and spoken of in hushed tones around the campfire as a warning to the young. "Oh, honey, I think I'll get some curtains to replace those wretched flowered ones in the dining room. You know, something simple that will go with anything." And so it begins.

That cruel mistress called Home Improvement has ensnared you with her promise of "simple curtains" so quickly that you are irrevocably trapped by the time you can even begin to realize your folly. The "simple curtains" are installed and the flowered ones are relegated to the Salvation Army heap with little ado. "Well, that was easy enough, wasn't it? I can't believe it took us that long to do that!" you might say with naive optimism while standing back to appreciate your handiwork. But as your eyes pass over the rest of your dining room, into the living room and kitchen, you begin to sense that something is very amiss here. Eyes narrowed, you keep going back over your old living room curtains that now appear very dusty, the smudges on the wall which have leaped out of nowhere, the picture on the wall that has drifted slightly askew, and the carpet which appears to have contracted the mange. In vivid contrast, the new curtains almost sparkle in their brilliance and modernity. Simple? Indeed, madam. Indeed!

Thus you find yourself in the throes of the dreaded Natural Law of Incongruent Decoration Age. When any new item (N) is placed in close proximity to non-new items, the non-new items (nn) look worse by a calculable rate which is represented by the following equation: Where N=$17.99x4+C(cost of curtain rod), nn=10, and B=the badness of appearance of nn: B = N x 1jillion to the power of nn divided by pi.

I did the math and it's actually true. [Clutches chest and weeps brokenly on a faded cushion which previously looked just fine]. Insidious, is it not? As I'm sure you are aware, the NLIDA is irreversible. Even if you ripped down your new curtains and shoved them in a dark and gloomy closet, their perfect brilliance would haunt your mind, just like the dangerous knowledge of those coconut-pecan brownies lying in wait for you in that chaste container on the counter by the toaster.

This is our story. I can only hope that by sharing it, you and your loved ones may escape the ensuing trauma that we have been subject to for the past many months. I will try to find the strength to finish it before Home Improvement has a chance to mete out its campaign of total punishment upon me.

Lunch? Definitely Yes! (or: An Odd Poet is Me)

2007-12-13T09:26:00.000-06:00

Kami, do you remember this one? You and Eric had asked me if David and I could do lunch with you guys. I promise that I don't use drugs--but the response:

Lunch? Definitely Yes!
by Dr. J. Suesslark-Whitworth

We'll be there,
and we'll be square,
with purple hair
and fleece underwear

Then hunger shall lack
Since we'll have our snack
Which comes from a sack
(Sonic could get some flack)

"Please Sir, can I have some more"
Of the fries which have the oily core?
And I'd be much obliged if you would pour
Some extra Heinz from the packets, four?

On Social Courage

2007-12-12T20:33:00.000-06:00

I just have a whitewashed memory book, anymore. Most of us probably do. We remember through our little kid or teenager eyes and sometimes we probably don't remember it right. And sometimes, there's not any right to remember; only wrong. But even those people, with so much to forget, probably fight to make some good come out of it. We're all looking to find a good place. A place to let our minds rest when we try to understand who and what we are, and from where we've come.

Specifically, I'm remembering Corey, and how I always felt like a coward for not standing up for him. He must have had such a hard time--a hard life like I never knew, for all my self-absorbed analysis of childhood and "woe-is-me!" attitude about poor lil ol me. So sad, for me to wear clean clothes to school every day. So sad, to have access to running water. So sad, to have a mom and grandparents who provided for me and loved me. So sad, to have siblings that sheltered me. However did I manage?

If I could go back and do it over again with knowledge, I wouldn't go back to tell off people whom I disliked, which I'll admit to have fantasized about (c'mon, admit it--you have, too). I wouldn't care if I was more popular--after all, to be popular in high school seems to be directly associated with having ever-present drama in your life, and that's never been my style. I hope, instead, that I would be more happy with who I was because I'd be less selfish. I'd look to see if there was something I could do for those who really needed a lift. I always felt wrong inside when people would make fun of Corey for smelling unwashed and sometimes like urine, for wearing the same clothes over & over without a change, for being unkempt, for being dirt poor. But he was nice to me, always. Respectful. Never leering at girls like some creeps did or being generally pervy and disgusting as so many of my male counterparts got away with in high school. I don't remember ever being snide about Corey, but I also don't remember ever going out of my way to do anything worthwhile for him either. I tried to mostly be nice to everyone, and he was no exception. That he seemed to appreciate my being nice to him (or perhaps just appreciating the fact that I was not actively mean) only furthers my guilt. I didn't even try and he was grateful. I'm sure it was a really horrible experience every day--maybe at home, too, but I don't know any of the particulars because I never got involved. But I do know how it was for him most of the time at school, since we rode the same bus and had several of the same classes together in a small school. I saw him being harassed by other boys who had something to prove, and sometimes by those girls that enjoyed exerting their social power on the powerless in order to feel superior. Through all this, all I did was to not treat him as badly. But I was passive.

Sometimes I think just treating someone like everyone else is not good enough. Maybe we're supposed to treat a person better, sometimes, than if he were like all the rest. Maybe he needs it more, because he doesn't get it anywhere else. But I was a coward, and it was a lot easier for me to be focused on my own problems, however pale they seem by comparison in today's light. What could I have done? Helped to buy him clothes, without him knowing (I have heard of someone doing this for a classmate who could not afford any new clothes--she guessed at his size, bought them with her own money, and left the clothes for him at the office with instructions for them not to tell him who it had come from--he never knew, and I didn't hear this from her, either). I certainly didn't have much extra money growing up, but I could have sacrificed something in order to share with him if I'd been less selfish. Maybe I could have been a friend to him, too. Maybe I could have publicly defended him to his tormentors, and risked being a complete outcast. Would it really have been so bad, to have some actual principles? But, this is easy to say, from my perfect lens into the past. It's too late for me to be a more decent person to Corey--I've long since moved away, and haven't heard anything about him. But I wonder, is there another Corey in my life that I have overlooked? Is there someone who needs my social courage, and yours?

Regina Spektor: A Crazy, Amazing Kind of a Girl

2007-11-12T20:49:00.000-06:00

I had an opportunity to go see Regina Spektor perform at the House of Blues in Dallas a couple of weeks ago. A friend and crazy girl of the best sort--Em--invited me, and even though I hadn't the slightest who this singer was, I'm absolutely game for live music experiences when they don't include Soak (yes, I realize this probably dates me somewhat and proves that I hold grudges decades later than I should). The night before the concert, I checked out her Myspace, of course, the Wikipedia, and created a Pandora station to see if I could get a preview of what I should expect. The myspace page offered 4 recent (and possibly most popular) songs for free listens-Fidelity, Us, Samson, and On the Radio. At least one of them sounded familiar, but I thought I could dig it, since I let the four songs loop for about an hour with increasing appreciation. The Pandora songs were primarily her earlier work, so there were some memorable lines about "Crispy, crispy Benjamin Franklin" babysitting her four children...it was interesting, to say the least. I enjoy the lyric with an off-the-wall feel (They Might Be Giants, Belle & Sebastian, Sufjan Stephens) that strays beyond the usual feel-good sensation of the year kind of songwriting (cue Ben Folds' "One Down").

But this concert--it was truly impressive even for someone who couldn't be called a fan--yet. Regina just had herself as singer, pianist, and rhythm (tapping her finger on the the mic or stamping a foot on the wood floor of the stage for emphasis) for most of the show--the guy who opened for her "accompanied" one otherwise a capella song with fantastic human drum machine skills. I hope someone recorded that and it will make it to YouTube if it hasn't already. She must have perfect pitch--never a sour note, except for the obviously intoxicated girls on the lower level who kept singing along--badly-- despite the laser beam eyes pointed in their general direction and requests for them to please shut it--Regina was so diplomatic, though, and ignored it, unlike the rest of us. There were times when I had to laugh out loud because of the lyrics of the songs [oh, so you want details now? Well, maybe I'll give you some, if you're really good, but maybe you should just listen for yourself, hmm? "On the Radio" is a good place to start. You can find the video, along with several others, here. ]

The videos are fine, but I rather like to see someone belting out their songs live--forehead getting all wrinkled with concentration, instead of doing the lip-synced versions in music videos which ask the singer to be as made-up and botoxed-looking as possible, even if the facial expressions while singing cannot be at all realistic. What's so unattractive about forehead wrinkles when such beautiful sounds are making their way to your ears? You think so too? I'm glad we're all on the same page here.

The Wikipedia has a good article on her history, musical background, and all that sort of thing, so I don't feel inclined to reinvent the wheel. Just giving one woman's reaction here. I will link to the NPR interview where Regina talks a good bit about her style and fiction songwriting philosophy. If you like her music, it's well-worth the 8 minutes or so of your time.

Back to the concert: I found it endearing that so many people there obviously thought the world of this singer. Ok, maybe not the kind which makes you throw underwear on the stage (thankfully), but people really loved her. And why not? She seems to deserve it much more than your average visible musician these days. She worked hard to give us her music in such a beautiful way, seems very humble about her circumstances of growing fame, and is honest about her music--it's fiction! It's very much about storytelling, not necessarily revealing the depths of her soul (what right do we have to demand the depths of anyone's soul just because we pay for their time?)

Maybe musicians aren't always as lovable as we want them to be. Maybe we also just read too much into music, lyrics, and the emotions that we want to believe the songwriter had. Well, maybe someone did feel deeply enough to write a song, but maybe for every one of those there are 50 more out there just looking to fill 3 minutes with the lowest common denominator of lyrical and musical arrangements. I certainly am no expert--I only speak as I find. But this singer/songwriter seemed different. One guy yelled out at a quiet moment "Regina, you changed my life!" which is hard to believe, but you never know. Maybe he was having a life crisis over his hair length and "Sampson" helped him see the light. How can I say?But I especially loved the guy in front of me-- late middle-aged and who I would have assumed was brought here against his will by his wife. But he was one of the biggest fans there! He was so into the concert--did the clapping, audience participation, and at a quiet moment yelled at the tone-deaf girls to "shut up down there!" with his own personal cheering section behind him. "Woooo! You tell 'em!" Wild stuff and excellent times. It's refreshing to experience such a cross section of ages at a concert--not just your average teen girl kind of fan, but a very nice kettle of fish indeed.

Check out Regina Spektor, and see her live if possible! She's a breath of fresh air.

Honesty In Typing

2007-01-08T12:38:00.000-06:00

So, here's my gift to you: honesty in typing. Whatever coes out I'm just going to let it sit there and be a testimony to the need for my anal retentive drafting. Already, I went back to edit part of that sentence. Maybe I can't even greewrite anymore? I'm an editing MACHING! I hope this is adding your hilarity. 'To your hilarity of the morning, that is. I feel like I'm at a nudist colony, only to discover that everyone else is still wearing turtlenecks and twills.

Here's a random tidbit: I clearly remember the first time I heard the word "Chateau." I was just a kid, and we were watching some charley brown special on tv. they said it several times and I remember being so struck by it, and not being terribly sure what it meant at first. thus began a love affair with hoity toity words that would last a lifetime. "By the time she was an octogenarian, J'Non would have gratuitously worked in the words "multitudinous" "nefarious" "polysyllabic" and "sesquipidalianistic" (not to mention "octogenarian") in more than one missive to unsuspecting friends. She also developed an unhealthy addiction to Boggle, but after several trips to rehab, she gave up on her dream to be free of those lettered fetters that bound her... She was buried with her original Boggle set (not the gold-plated version, which was pretty to look at but which lacked the sentimental value of the original)."

YES!!! I started editing mid-paragraph ago! I JUST CAN'T DO IT!!! I am shamed... This must be what it feels like to try and quit smoking. Where's my nicorette for over-drafters?

Memo: TPS Reports Due Today

2007-01-05T14:09:00.001-06:00

Today is "have some fresh donuts on us and forget about the things you don't like about us here at the office" day. I already had breakfast, but I still accepted when one was offered me and I inhaled 3/4 of it with an ease that borders on absurdity. I know it will make me feel like crap in about 10 minutes, yet still I take bites between sentences. As I chew the final bite placidly, I realize that my armpit itches slightly because I forgot to apply deodorant this morning. I don't have a spare with me. This does not bode well for the other occupants of the building, but neither does the recent inhalation of aforementioned donut).

(Note: This was written back when I was working in the "corporate world." Now, if I forget my deodorant, I just walk into the bathroom and apply liberally).

Chickenesque

2007-01-05T13:42:00.000-06:00

With half of her forearm uncomfortably inside the chicken, J'Non realized with sudden clarity why it was people preferred to buy disjoined chicken.

Several minutes before:
Once the attractively concealing blue package was removed from the body, she narrowed her eyes at the opening in the back of the chicken. "I think I remember that sometimes there are parts in there" she mused, and gamely thrust in a hand to see if the poultry cave was occupied. Indeed, there were several cold and squishy occupants of questionable identity, some of which were helpfully detached from the main carcass. These were dispensed with quickly, accompanied by an almost imperceptible curl of her upper lip.

Upon embarking on another sweep, she found with some alarm that several of the aforementioned unidentified squishy chicken objects seemed to be attached somehow. Breathing an audible "Ugh," she pulled firmly at the USCO's until several released, albeit sullenly. With a slight shiver, she widened the opening just enough to scan the interior for any recalcitrant that might remain. Indeed, something whitish and bean-shaped clung doggedly to the cavity. Just what it might be, she didn't know, but it certainly looked like an organ. Maybe even a lobe. She shuddered at the thought. Steeling her own bean-shaped organs, she reached in and squeezed with all her might to extract it. It fought mightily for so small a warrior, but it ultimately fell upon its fallen brethren, into that special hades for the bean-shaped and whitish.

And that is why people pay 3 prices for boneless, skinless chicken.