Mama Misses Me.

Over Spring break, we're going Back East. Or Up North. Or Back Up North East, you might say. There's a conference there near enough to a city we very much want to visit that it's only a rental car away, and thus a good option.

This means, however, that Spring Break will not be spent in the traditional way--that is, going Down South (at least, down South relative to here, Out West, which is to say, going to Los Angeles/Long Beach from Turlock) to spend it with my mother. Who still makes us freaking Easter Baskets stuffed with candy (she even made one for Chris, last time!), and thank goodness for it. I don't know what I'd do without baskets of candy. NEED BASKETS OF CANDY. NEED.

So, since we are going Back Up NorthEast, rather than going Out Down SouthWest for break, there needs to be an occasion to go Down South. Out a-little-bit-West, you understand. In brief, to follow the homing beacon back to the Bay--the South Bay, we call the area, in fact, in Southern California. I'd never heard of no Northern Californian "South Bay." So fuck you, San Jose. We've got dibs.

So. We need to find a time to get Down South, Out West, to the SoCal South Bay area (which is not the "NorCal"--and I cannot stand the phrase NorCal, by the way, folks; SoCal has a ring and a snap, whereas NorCal sounds like a branch of the food and drug administration [and I don't ever want to see/hear "CenCal" again in my life]--South Bay). To see Mama. Because Mama misses me, and I miss her.

So when to go Down South, Out West, to the SoCal-not-Northern-Californian South Bay area, to see Mama, who misses me, and my little brother who is not so little, anymore, and in fact is quite a lot taller than me, and even a little taller than Chris, and just a smidge taller than my father was at his height? (And it would have been my father's birthday, today; he'd have been 61, rest him.)

In a week and a half, that's when. For a weekend trip, the likes of which we've made a lot more frequently this year than last. And we're going to see a goddamn live hockey game, in the Long Beach Arena, between the ECHL hotstuff, the Long Beach Ice Dogs (who are the affiliates of the Hamilton Bulldogs and thus of the Montreal Canadiens Up North and Back East) who were local to me all my life, and the now-local to me--that is to say, local to the Turlock area, which is to say, located 45 miles North of here, but they're closest--Stockton Thunder, from the bottom of the league (who are the affiliates of the Pheonix Coyotes who are Back East from here but Out West from most places). Pure serendipity put a three day weekend for Cesar Chavez day coinciding with a quiet enough time to be able to go Out Down South West to see Mama, who misses me, and my little brother who is not so little any more, and whom I also miss, and with a game between my once local Ice Dogs from Down South at the top of the league and the now local Stockton Thunder from Up North at the bottom, and have them playing in the SoCal-not-NorCal-South-Bay-area.

Hooray!

The Recipe for The Feast

Because, however grandiose and grave I get, it still celebrates as a food holiday, here.

The Byerly recipe--at least, my version of it--for the St. Patrick's Day Almost Traditional Irish Dinner.

Glazed Corned Beef with Buttered Cabbage, Potatoes, and Mushrooms

You want:

Corned Beef Brisket or Round (usu. 2-3 lbs, handily packaged)

For glaze:
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 tbsp prepared mustard (with seeds is good)
1 tsp. honey

Several smallish white potatoes
One green cabbage
Several whole mushrooms--white, crimini/baby bella, any button-type.
About a half a stick (4 tbsp) of butter
About 1 tbsp parsley (dried is fine)

Big pot or dutch oven
Roasting pan
Small pan (or cup, if microwaving)
Good strong fork or tongs (for lifting the brisket from hot water)
Spoon!
Optional table knife or rubber scraper/froster


So, you get yourself a corned beef brisket/round. Cut the layer of fat right off, and any pieces of fat you can get to. (If you don't, it'll float, and get tough on the sides that are exposed!) Put the sucker in pot much larger than it is--try to keep the blood/"juices" with it, and the silly spice packs they give you are okay to add but not necessary--and cover it with water to about 2 inches above the beef. Bring it up to a simmer and cover it to cook it for roughly 45 minutes per pound (mine is 2.15 pounds, for instance, so it should go just over an hour and a half). Check on it a couple of times in the first few minutes--there will probably be foam which you should scoop off with your spoon and get rid of. It's unpleasant, you don't want it. If you threw in the spice pack, this is about the time you lose most of it with the foam (you can save it for after, though, if you want).

Wash your potatoes. Halve or quarter them into even pieces, maybe an inch and a half in any direction, but leave the skins on. (This is important because you're going to cook the hell out of them and they're too easy to have fall all apart without the skins--plus, they're good for you!) Wash your cabbage and quarter it. Wash your mushrooms and leave them whole. Mix the brown sugar and honey and mustard thoroughly until you've got a good, thick paste.

When you've got about 15 or 20 minutes left for the brisket to be simmering, toss in your potatoes with it. When the brisket's time is up, pull it out with your fork and/or tongs and let some of the water drip away, before plopping it into your roasting pan. Leave the potatoes cooking! Turn the oven on to Broil after setting the rack near if not at the top (leave enough room so that your brisket isn't touching the element, of course!) Throw the cabbage and mushrooms in with the potatoes--you want that all to cook about another 10 minutes. Glaze the brisket with whatever implement you see fit, with as much as you can get on it. Save any extra glaze.

Toss the brisket into the oven. You want the glaze to caramelize and the top to just toast a little--you only want to give it a couple of minutes. It'll depend on your oven, your brisket, and your tastes--keep an eye on it! Once it looks beautiful, haul it back out.

Let the brisket sit for a few minutes while melting your butter. Once it has melted, clarify it (skim off the white bubbly goop at the top with your Spoon). Carve the brisket into good, thick slices while waiting for the cabbage, potatoes, and mushrooms' time to be up. Once it is, you can either separate the cabbage and mushrooms out into one bowl and put the potatoes in another or just bung them all into the same, before slathering them over with your melted butter. Sprinkle the parsley over the potatoes (or the big mess, if they're all together). The leftover glaze is good for individual pieces of the brisket at the table or for a spread for sandwiches for leftovers!

If I'd remembered correctly, I'd also have got a loaf of Russian or Jewish Rye bread, pref. w/ Carroway seeds in it, warmed the bread, and let another few tablespoons of butter sit out to soften. But I did not do that, this time. So it's dark rye or sourdough for us, tonight.

I'm going to go start cooking, now. If I realize I've mistaken anything here too badly (like needing more butter!), I'll fix it. :) There's a certain amount of leeway with EVERYTHING here.

And Tada! Dinner!

An hour and a half from 17 March 2006, California.

"Wearin' o the Green"
anonymous Irish street ballad circa 1798

Oh, Paddy, dear, an' did you hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground!
No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep, his colour can't be seen,
For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the Green!
I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful country that iver yet was seen,
For they're hangin' men and women there for wearin' o' the Green.

And if the colour we must wear is England's cruel Red,
Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed;
Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it on the sod,
And never fear, 'twill take root there, tho' under foot 'tis trod!
When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show,
Then I will change the color, too, I wear in my caubeen
And till that day, plase God, I'll stick to wearin' o' the Green.

(when published by the expatriate Dion Boucicault, it got this new verse added:)
But if at last our colour should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part;
I've heard a whisper of a country that lies beyond the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand?
Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen
And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearin' o' the Green.



I'm not Catholic. I'm not religious. I don't have any praise for an Italian coming into Ireland and driving out Druids. But the fact that I can sing Irish songs and dance and feast and drink and wear that color head to toe, if I please, on this day, without being killed for it, is only some decades old. It is too small and too precious a thing to forget, even a few generations and a few thousand miles away. Whatever this fucked up kleptocracy has threatened, broken, taken, squashed, and undermined so far, I'm at least not being hung, yet, for proclaiming a heritage and a bearing on a charged day. But maybe it's not so far away, again, if you'll take it for a more general sense. And play it out to other cultures and to political groups, across time and over many borders. . . Too many have died, already, in defense of small freedoms and small nations from the wicked, bloated ones bent on their razing. And I am not about to fucking forget it. I am terrified and angry for days ahead, and I will thrill in this day, now, keep it to praise and mourn what has been protected and what has been lost.

My tea tastes like Pez.

Rain

I'm in a state of child-like wonder.

We've had a lot of gloom and rain, on and off, lately, spaced with brilliant blue skies and hybrids of the two, but this morning, I heard a great rushing, outside, and saw born an enormous downpouring.

Real rain. SoCal-style torrential downpour. Maybe I'll get to that. . . It's been too long since I've run out and gotten soaked in the rain. Let alone since going out a second time directly after, when the rain had gotten harder and the street had started to flood.

I opened up all the windows, and turned off any lights/fans that were on. The sound of the rain has filled the apartment, and the brightness of the grey-white sky is illuminating all.

I went out and danced, skipped, dashed, hopped, splashed, stood, looked, breathed, got soaked to the skin, and spun circles. I wandered through the middle of the streetway, up several apartments, and heard how different the rain sounded on the different tin roofs over the cars, higher pitched, lower pitched, shhshier or rrrrrshier, listened to the good street sound of the rain hitting the asphalt and sidewalk, watched with glee as the rain came down still harder on me and made fields of tiny explosions with every fat drop crashing into the wet ground, so fast you couldn't trace the rain to the splash. I managed to look up into the clouds, for a moment, without getting hit in the eyes, and breathed the wet air. When I got back in after that second time, I dutifully hung up my soaked clothes, rubbed at my head (heavily dripping) with a towel, and put on soft, fuzzy, warm pajamas.

I forgot to smell for the rain, but a little of the sidewalk-water smell is coming up to the window. I love that.

It's best after hot, dry spells. Sudden rain on a hotter day has the sweetest, dustiest sidewalk-water smell, and it almost steams up from the ground.

The best rain-on-metal sound was actually at the dorms, when I lived there--painted aluminum rain gutters. It's not quite like anything else. Solid metal rings out, other heavily painted things more thwep, but together, here, there's a muffled rough, sweet sound. A flute blown poorly, maybe. It was wonderful to sleep to. The tin rooves here are too big, and grooved, so the sound becomes a steady whir, you can't hear the distinct drops on them the way you can pipes, or even streets. They sing like wind, rather than water.

Hm. I was going to predict flooding, but it looks like the drains caught up as the rain has slowed down. It's persisting, though, if far, far gentler. The grey is thinning into greater fields of white, above, so the light is getting stronger.

SoCal rain:

In Turlock, traditionally, there is slow, light, steady rain. It's an agricultural heaven--you get enough to thoroughly wet, without flooding overmuch and without drought. Once in a while, you get some heavier rain or just sprinkling. However (and we have, I know, global warming to thank for this), SoCal rain patterns have started migrating up here, to add to its repertoire. Hence the flash flooding. We also got a tornado, a little ways south of here, last week. And one each in Long Beach and San Francisco last spring. 3 is not a lot for a state, in that time period, maybe, and not for a state so big, but I reiterate that this is California. We get dust devils, we don't get funnel clouds.

SoCal--specifically, the just-inland-of-Long Beach area--is coastal desert running up against marshland/swampland and chapparale, and the rain there has three basic modes. Mist, drizzle, and torrential downpour. It is almost never anywhere in between. "Mizzle" is occasional.

Drizzle is like that; like when a shower head is almost off, but has taken to running like a clogged faucet, straight down in unbroken stream, no drops to speak of. Thick, not particularly cold and not particularly hard. Misting and mizzling (mist-drizzle) are just a step above ocean fog, and feel more like you've been spritzed with an ultra-fine sprayer than rained on. Torrential downpour is the rest of the time. It means floods, mudslides, trees losing their roots, streets running over and gutters running so fast you're like to be knocked over if you step into them, because the rain is coming so fast, so hard, so driving, and in such big drops that it digs its way into everything, overwhelms every drain (most of which are inadequate for it), washes everything away.

My mother had to get a pump. Because whenever it would rain at all to speak of, the backyard would flood up into the house, despite the fact that it was raised a few inches. So in the middle of the night, she'd have to get up, slip across the tile, and start the thing. (Her dogs, of course, are too scared to go out in it, because that's the way they are, so she also had to try to deal with them not being willing to go out to answer nature's call.) Anyway.

I remember once, a long while back. . . At least 9 or 10 years, but probably more like 12 or 13, getting back up late in the evening, when it had started up that way. My parents and Zach and I, with Wolfy and Venus (the dogs before the chihuahuas, who were not quite as afraid), stood at the back of the house with the big sliding glass door open and just watched the rain. It was the heaviest I remembered seeing it, up to that point, but the amazing thing was that, as it was so late and so dark, rather than the glowing stormy sky, everything was black, and the light at the back of the house was small, just enough to shine through the pounding, driving sheets of rain and the several inches of splash coming up from the ground, from them. And make prisms and rainbows of every drop.

It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

No, this is not up to par with hurricanes, and the like, and I know that--that's something, at least, that we still don't get here--but it puts the lie to the nonsense about California only having one season and no weather. It is proper rain. It is violent rain. And this week, schizophrenic--already, the sky is glowing blue, again, and the heat from the new sun is turning the water on the rooftops into great clouds of steam that are wafting away and fading. The streets are already drying out.

I suspect that by tonight, like last night and the night before, the clouds'll be back and we'll wake up to another wet morning.

In other news: the meat has arrived. It is practically black, the color's so deep. Absolutely gorgeous.



Correction: It's only noon (an hourish later) when the rain's returned. With big grey clouds, "cov'rin up the clear blue sky"

On Why I Am A Wonder-Widget

It has come to my attention that there is a little confusion as to why I am a Wonder Widget.

To tell the truth, I don't know, either. But there is a history. Albeit one that lasted about 6 minutes, and thus made it sound like a really good idea at the time. So here goes:

I wanted to use "A Little Wide Eyed," which is my email and longest-loved, best-loved internet thing, but for a name of myself, in a blog, it needed to be a noun instead of an adjective. So it needed to be a Wide Eyed something. Then "Wide Eyed Wonder" sounded very pretty, but it still wasn't a name. So, from there, "Wonder-_____" came along, and not being tall enough to be Wonder Woman, and having heard a lot about Chris' mighty Dashboard Widgets on his Mac OS 10.4 (Tiger, I think), I thought, "Well! Wide-eyed Wonder Widget! Genius!"

The End.

Sketches: Making Something Different of a Conference

I'm putting these up here, now, but they're in the Scraps section of my DevArt page with more comment, and with the snap of the page I used as a whole. Eventually I may take these down in favor of simple links (are these working, btw?).

In between penciling parts of a letter to Jala, taking notes on the talks, and generally paying attention to things which weren't quite the talks themselves, I sketched. Until Melánie's mother caught me. :)

So, without further ado. . .

Sketches of Philosophers!


This is supposed to be Matti (top) and Stephen (bottom).


This is supposed to be Kay (left) and Chris (right).


This is supposed to be the lovely ladies whose names I'm EDIT: no longer screwing up!--Ya-Huei (left foreground), Julia (left background), and Ayten (right).

Now aren't they all beautiful? I wish I could find proper pictures of them. I'm not thrilled with the accuracy or flattery aspects of the sketches (and usually those are pretty important in portraits--at least one or the other of them), but I can tell who I meant, and remember what they looked like. So not a total wash. I wanted to do more, and some of my favorite people from the conference I didn't get to drawing, but I don't think I could've done them well, as it is.

More about the conference:

We met this lovely lady, Stacey, who's doing research into blogging. Go visit her, damnit! She wants to know what bloggers get out of blogging, what it's like for them (the experience), why they blog, etc. Also just a very cool person, all around. We went to dinner with her and several others, that I'm getting to.

Now, the conference was a hybrid--the Society for Phenomenology and Media (SPaM) and Outis (roughly: deception). One of the others that came out with us was Randall, and Randall was good people, but in the strange position of being a government guy hoping to get info on deception, how it works, and how to get around it (in the sense of when other peoples' governments are lying to us, as opposed to our own) in a conference full of lefties more interested in deception by (you guessed it) our own goverment. Or in the case of the delightful Finns talking about it, not so much their own government, but the US gov, as well.

One of those delightful Finnish gentlemen (who came out to dinner/drinks, despite being 10 hours ahead of us, via time difference, bless him) was the lovely Aki-Mauri (whom I did not sketch, but of whom there are actual photos on the web, so it's okay). I don't know what to say about him other than that I absolutely adored him. It surprised me and also didn't, to find out he's a Major in the Finnish military. Does that make any sense? Ah, well. His paper was thoughtful and kind've heartbreaking, and he was just plain good people to hang out with. Plus, he's into hockey, so Chris and I felt less out of place caring about who was doing what in the hockey part of the Olympics.

I'm turning into an Academic-and-Union Groupie. Oi.

Anyway, the lovely, wry Kay (another paper I followed!), my lovely Chris, and I rounded out the dinner group.

The night before, however, we dined with Paul (the man who organized the conference), his wife (I think?), the lovely Melånie from Bordeaux (who like Randall and I was in something of an outsider position to doctors-of-philosophy--I followed her paper, too, though!), the lovely Stephen, and the very cool (and also lovely) Wendy and Erica, who are in the interesting position of being a couple of romantically attached hippie feminists in rural Pennsylvania. We traded war stories, as it were. They've got great senses of humor, and Wendy's paper was another that I mostly followed and also got stabbed with thinking about.

Stephen and Matti (who did not come out with us, for shame!) were absolutely wonderful to listen to. Matti brought in poetry, peppering the "trailer" of his paper (the ultra-condensed version) with it. Stephen wrote and spoke in a beautiful way, and, what's more, I think I understood most of it, which was sometimes an issue in the more technically oriented talks. They were wonderful.

Goodness, it was a blast. There was some tension, and I sometimes felt a little strange hanging on watching, but it was wonderful. It felt so good to meet so many wonderful people. And while I don't know if it's likely, I hope I'll get to come back into contact with them. I may have developed something of an idle crush, and that's too much fun to put away!

Yuck! Sign this, please!

Please, go have a look at this bill, and sign the handy-dandy email to your local congressperson.

Maybe you don't mind pesticides, mercury, and rBGH in your food/the animals from whom your food comes (though I hope that's not the case), but I do. This bill wouldn't change production, only take away information we already get (those of us who do). Voting down this bill would not add labels anywhere or prohibit any kind of food, it just would keep information from being removed.

So, if you love me (or someone else who doesn't like mercury), please don't let them wipe out the state labeling laws! Any state with any labeling law not part of the federal standards would have said laws stricken away, no questions asked. There is no rational reason for it other than to keep consumers from knowing things about their food they would find objectionable.

This only takes a minute. Throw in your name and address and they'll fire off the letter for you. Please, please, please.



(I have read the full text of the bill, there--the particularly offensive part:

sections (c) and (d), no State or political subdivision
3 of a State may, directly or indirectly, establish or
4 continue in effect under any authority any notifica-
5 tion requirement for a food that provides for a warn-
6 ing concerning the safety of the food, or any compo-
7 nent or package of the food, unless such a notifica-
8 tion requirement has been prescribed under the au-
9 thority of this Act and the State or political subdivi-
10 sion notification requirement is identical to the noti-
11 fication requirement prescribed under the authority
12 of this Act.


It further goes on to say that you can petition to keep something if it is very imminently dangerous but does not make trouble for interstate commerce. Is that cute, or what?)

It's hard to be a caramel addict with a cavity.

So. Chris and I are conscientious objectors to marriage.

I've got a link on the sidebar, there, to the Alternatives to Marriage Project, which I encourage anyone looking to look into. They've in particular got a wonderful page to the effect of "Why should Domestic Partnerships exclude heterosexuals?" that lays out a hell of a lot of good reasons why people allowed by law to marry would not, and while I don't like it labeled "heterosexuals" I understand that they only mean to imply a different-sexed union, rather than one necessarily between heterosexuals (as ours is not).

What struck me while I was reading it was the selfish recognition that almost everything on that list applies to us, somehow. While we're not widowed or religious in such a way that having come out of another marriage we couldn't marry, everything else was affirming. We've come out of negative situations in which marriage has gained negative connotations all by itself. I am not heterosexual, and do grapple with the spectre of being transgendered (and if I think I maybe should be male, am I really allowed to marry a man?). We're feminist, and the institution in its current "traditional" form is incredibly sexist (that is, "traditional" as in a woman is "given away" by the male that currently holds her as property to the male who soon will, that she may bear him children, give him her property, and pay for the wedding, with the promise to obey him). Historically, the additional aspects of explicit dowries, arranged marriages, and strictly economic and reproductive reasons to join in marriage also add just a little more negativity. Disgust with the concept of the "sanctity of marriage," in relation to this, or the idea of it as being a traditionally one-man-one-woman romantic Christian affair (which is frankly just false and recent--remember biblical tales of men with several wives? or remarriage to your husband's brother? or being a gift to a man? what about the plethora of other global cultures, in some of which same sex unions were not banned? or how just a few generations ago, marriages in the Western Christian sense were often strictly economic?) turn us away.

Furthermore, and maybe even foremost, the fact that it is a prejudiced, exclusionary institution, by current law, has us at least tangentially joined as part of the Marriage Boycott. A couple of generations ago, people in America couldn't marry over perceived racial lines--basically, only homoracial marriages were allowed. Is allowing only heterosexual marriage any less nonsensical, any less bigoted, any less inhumane? How does preventing a loving couple from, for instance, having a legitimate marriage under which to raise their children, while allowing a hundred women to compete on reality TV for a rich man's hand in marriage, hold up nobly the institution of marriage? Different-sex marriages do not currently require the bearing of children, the sharing of surnames, or the placement of a woman in a home and a man in the workforce, and in fact, as a society, we purport to value marriage for love and companionship (and sometimes for raising children), rather than strictly for breeding and monetary reasons. So where's the problem? What makes a trophy, loveless, different-sex marriage somehow legitimately better than a same-sex marriage of love?

Not a damn thing.

So, for all that and a bevy of other good reasons, we don't want to get married. Instead, we registered a domestic partnership (Marriage Lite™, "Hitched!™" the Home Game), in Berkeley. The only place in the area who would register a different-sexed domestic partnership without residency requirements. Because, of course, while we find our reasons good and legitimate, and though they recognize, insure, and generally give a liiiittle cred to a same-sex DPs, the state isn't going to recognize our purportedly diff-sexed DP any more than it would recognize a same sex marriage.

Fuck.

Now, I don't think I want to get married even if they fix the damn institution. I never liked the idea of a big pile of paperwork and legal documentation sitting there as a reason to stay together (and while I understand that's not the reason people tend to get married, I value the idea of staying together without it, and not being able to use it as an excuse in a relationship gone foul, without substance). Ideally, I think every relationship should have the option of marriage AND domestic partnership, without DPs serving as a ghetto for those not otherwise allowed to get married and marriage being shotgunned (usually by economic considerations) on those who aren't given the option of a legally recognized DP. Frankly, I prefer Marriage Lite™.

But as a person staying at home writing and working without pay, while my lover is working in a fashion that is paid, I'm in a sticky spot. They are, essentially, trying to shotgun me. My household income is such that there's no way I could get Medicaid/Medical or otherwise cheap insurance. But as a person without an income, I can't really afford to shell for more expensive coverage. And while we're doing just fine, financially, on one income, one broken leg without insurance is going to mean a lot of money out of pocket. And, more immediately, I haven't seen a dentist in 3 years. And I have, I am certain, cavities. And a wisdom tooth they missed when they were prying the things out of my face (they didn't fit--this one doesn't fit). And my glasses are shot. And my eyes have gotten worse. And I suspect myself to be at least a little hypoglycemic and hypothyroidic, in addition to the joys of my digestic life (GERD, IBS, lactose intolerance, etc), which just sort've serve to make things interesting.

And sometimes it feels like my heart has forgotten how to work. Sucks down and then leaps back up, shuddering, again (which is mostly only concerning because of a lot of other "little things," like that my limbs go numb with frequency, my muscles spasm, my joints are weak and arthritic [at 22 years old], my eyes and ears and balance are weakening, etc.).

Basically, I need a good tune up.

So, here's the thought: Political Stunt/Act of Desperation™

While I am strongly opposed to getting married, and do not think someone should have to to get appropriate, preventative medical care, I wonder if it mightn't be a good idea to go sign a marriage certificate, pop it over by the school, get onto the insurance, get as much work done as is applicable, get a good general checkup, physical, supposed-to-be-yearly woman's exam and so forth, glasses, fillings, etc., and then peaceably sign for a dissolution of marriage. The certificate and papers and touch of premium would still be a lot cheaper than paying uninsured for the work. They obviously don't ask questions at the start of these things, and we are a fucking no-fault state. It gives in, for a few months, to marriage for economic considerations, but it makes a good showing of Bullshit! on this sanctity of marriage thing. Plus, then I could say, when we explain my lover's marital past, that my first marriage ended in divorce, too. Which is almost worth it on its own.

There is the dilemma of giving in. I don't get to stand solid with my non-het sisters and brothers by suffering medically, BUT my non-het sisters and brothers can get their medical care through their DPs (which I cannot), so I think that's not something I have to worry about. And we'd get rid of it right away, so it wouldn't be used in taxes, etc, and it wouldn't get me insurance in a long term sense, or any of the other trappings of marriage. So I think the political-stuntiness would outweigh the brief act of marrying, by taking it back once the institution had been used like the economic whore it is (er, can be--no offense intended to my sisters and brothers in loving, egalitarian marriages). Getting into it just to get back off again.

The personal is political, right? It's at least something to think about.

This seems almost coherent to me. Can you tell it's before 9 a.m.?

I spent last night lamenting the facet of our legal system what I've heard most aptly described as barbaric. And I know that part of why I wanted this blog was as a forum, of sorts, for doing that very thing. Preferably loudly, clearly, and eloquently. But it's before 9 a.m., and that's just too early for that.

Instead, I have sleepy intimate reverie.

I am currently sitting, finishing my breakfast, in the War Room (as in, Gentlemen, there's no fighting in the War Room!), which is the affectionate name for our study. The sun is coming bold through the windows and the whole room is benefiting. Now, I reiterate that it is just before 9 a.m. Chris and I have a firm policy of sharing our meals together whenever humanly possible--eating the same things, in the same place, and preferably while only engaging in that, though exceptions have been made to nibble at breakfast fruit while listening to "Wait, Wait. . . Don't Tell Me!" on NPR, on Sunday mornings, or to eat chips and salsa (or even occasionally dinner proper) with the laptop on the table to bring us the audio of our hockey games. Generally, though, we share our meals, together, at the table, with music. Now that I'm not in school, however, and he has to be at his first class at 5 after 9 a.m. (I reiterate that it is only just before 9 a.m.) breakfast is necessarily earlier than I am quite awake. So here I am finishing my breakfast in the War Room (as in, . . .).

Valiantly though I try to be up and conscious and settled enough to eat at 8 or 8:30, I have yet, this semester, to be able to be at the table at the beginning or end of breakfast(version Chris.0). Or even my own, really. I make it out there, share fruit, and am left with toast in the chilly kitchen.

So! With no beautiful fellow in the kitchen to keep me there, and Roy Orbison having stopped singing on the speakers, it's to the sunny War Room we go.

Now, I have something of a restless spirit, and a fetish for physical upheaval, so the thought of moving--anywhere, really--is sometimes quite appealing, despite loving this apartment. The urge to move into just a different apartment in the same complex has been pointlessly strong. Oh, not pointlessly; maybe with the southern facing windows in the kitchen and living room, rather than the bedroom and War Room, I think, so that plants on the Verandah (which comes off of the living room) would have a better chance. Or maybe to a corner apartment--those have more windows altogether (with an extra in, I believe, both the kitchen and bedroom--veeery nice). I love windows. And there's just a wonder in new space, a fresh start with arrangement, with organization. Reinvention!

Now, switching apartments without any good reason would be a hassle, so the will to rearrange--or switch--rooms becomes my next best hope. Speaking of big North facing windows, why not put the bed in the living room, and wall it with the enormous bookshelves and a few screens? Then make the bedroom the media room. Well, there are a lot of good reasons why not, but the urge is there. A patio with plants and big sliding glass doors in the bedroom is a compelling reason why to, though. Chris is very hot on the sunshine in the bedroom window, early in the morning, though. Which I like, too, but not so much in the middle of summer when it means being too hot to stay in bed at 7 a.m without closing the blinds (which I object to) (this, though, makes a South facing' living room' an attractive option. . .).

The next option is to switch the War Room (technically the Master Bedroom, according to the floorplan) with the bedroom, on the same end of the apartment. It's just a little closer to the Sunlight, and it doesn't have a closet directly opposite the windows, so the bed could be across from them rather than under them (Sun on the feet and in the room, rather than in the eyes). Which is, also, appealing. The phone jack is in here, though, and Lancelot's bathroom (the one with the bad shower pressure, broken toilet, and litter box) is attached and inside the War Room's door. So, Chris wisely notes, no shutting him out at night, if he's decided 3 a.m. is the time to bone up on his face clawing, hair standing-on, and bladder tromping (which he often does). I think a wood screen could solve that, though. He's not a climbing cat, it would give him something other than carpet to claw at, and a folding screen is always an attractive addition to a home.

No dice? Ah, well.

In all of that, I suppose the important point made is that, now, in the Winter-Spring transition (as opposed to in the dead of Summer), the kitchen/dining room and living room are properly chilly, rather than just a cooler alternative to a Sun-baked War Room. In the Semantic Battle, then, the War Room is become the warmer alternative to the cold front. So, with my toast, and the last section of the Blood Orange (all of which I have since finished--it is now half-past 9 a.m.), I flew South to the cozy, toasty, toast-filled study, where bright, hot sunlight is pouring in and warming my happier feet. And illuminating my abandoned, messy desk. Which I should clean. Luckily, today I have the better alternative that is packing and readying for a few days in SoCal! The SPaM conference (and my mother's, on the road between here and the San Diego conference site) await.

Ripping off Chris, Jim, Bob, and Joe, only half of whom I know.

From the maker's of Jim's Miata, my lover's pretty long hair, and their collective webbed toes, the belated. . .

10 Great Reasons to Hate Lauren (now with 10% more smut.)

10. She is, her mother claims, a "lady of leisure"--that is, an unemployed bum. She thinks working oneself to death is overrated, and would gladly do something that only earns her juuuust enough to pay her student loans. Mostly, she's enjoying being at home cleaning, mending, and writing, writing, writing. She suspects she could publish some cheap smut for a couple of bucks if she found the right online rag. In any case, she's not currently behaving as a productive member of society, which is pleasantly selfish of her.

9. She has also written a couple of tasty poems, two of which (this one and this one especially) were published in CSU Stan's illustrious creative writing rag (but hey, it's something).

8. Her dad is deceased, so the first time you ask about her "parents" she will try to evade or correct you, and you'll feel embarassed and awkward. You won't like it.

7. She can whistle in tune, and only recently realized this was not universal (i.e., "What, you can't?" Way to go with that sensitivity). She can also raise both eyebrows, and each independently of the other, both up in the middle (puppy) and up at the outsides (arch nemesis/teacher) (to the same effect as whistling in tune).

5. She can make a fabulous approximation of steamed milk and gets good coffee beans and sticky flavored syrups (so she doesn't have to pay 5 dollars for fancy second-rate coffee beverages), as well as having the materials and the know-how to make Thai-Iced Tea and Jasmine Milk Tea Tapioca Pearl drinks (also $3.75-$5.00 a pop) at rates that come down to tiny fractions their pre-prepared costs. But, she would love to make them for you.

4. Her tomato plant survived winter and KEPT PRODUCING TOMATOES through rain, frost, and neglect, and as of February 15th had produced two new beautiful, creamy, dreamy, red, ripe baby spring Grape (supposedly cherry) Tomatoes. This is probably global warming, instead of a green thumb, but luck is maybe more hateable than skill. (She also has been on a long, savage winning streak, at cards.)

6. She recycles (despite not having curbside pickup), is learning to make fancy paper from junk mail, makes vases with beautiful flower arrangements out of used wine bottles and $3 a dozen carnations, mends/patches/creatively fixes and creates garments, and uses "environmentally responsible" (as well as a hell of a lot more comfortable) soft, washable, reusable-for-years, organic cotton menstrual products (like these, for example). And she really wants to tell you about it. Goddamn vulgar hippies.

3. She put "6" out of order. And her favorite number is 64. (Followed by 6, 4, and 36 [the square of 6] in that order.)

2. She sings in public. Sometimes loudly. And, she has a 2 and 1/2(+) octave range (almost an octave below middle C to almost 2 octaves above it), which is a little on the long side. Furthermore, she is a human jukebox--there is always a songline or song (or movie line, or quote, or. . .) and she has little willpower against the urge to express it. You wouldn't believe the number of times a few lines of "On Broadway" can be sung while wandering through Manhattan. Or "Thank You Lord for Sending Me the F-Train" while riding an F-train. Well, some of you would.

1. She is very, very, very happy with a long-haired, pretty, talented, musical, intelligent, flower-buying, strawberry tart-making sexpot of a philosopher chef, who trusts her enough to let her cut his hair. (Reemphasize luck over skill.)



And, because I love you, here are a few. . . .

Bonus reasons!!!

a) Slash. Big, tough, sweaty hockey players engaged in sordid love triangles with one another. Watson sweet on Holmes (whom he lets use him). Snape topping Neville, complete with bondage. For your sometimes illustrated literotic pleasure.

b) She won't let her lover turn the heat on. Like, ever. Or the air conditioner. So maybe it isn't good for the cat or the guitars or circulation for it to be below 50˚F inside (though 30-something outside) or above 80˚F inside (though 100-something outside), but did that stop Napolean? I ask you, does the glassware complain? Well, it probably does. But that's beside the point.

c) She suffers from shades of animism. You may suspect that your car doesn't like you, but does your flute get lonely? Does the stuffed bunny get cold, or bored of sitting on that particular surface? Does he feel neglected, leaving you feeling like a bad mother, ridden with guilt, and resolved to take him on that next big trip to the city with you? What about that skirt--doesn't it deserve to go, too? It would love San Francisco, and it hasn't had the chance to see it, yet. . . And you haven't been using that cup as often as the others, it has to have noticed by now. . . .

d) She's turning into a prison abolitionist, and she was able to cut her own hair fabulously.

e) Even though she's shivering because her feet are cold, she's not going to close the window or put on socks. Hatable dedication, right there.



Edit: P.S. Super additional reason: I lied! I put socks on after all! And I am enjoying a tasty mojito.

An opener.

Because it's not a real blog without the first meme of sorts, I offer Johari and Nohari windows.

Apparently these are personality tools dating back to the '50s. Basic idea, you pick a handful of words from a list that you feel best describe your traits. Then, you drag in friends and family and coworkers and make them pick words they think best describe you, and a handy little matrix of overlap and independence is formed.

Of course, I've already second-guessed my choices, because it's a pesky difficult little thing trying to reduce a human being down to five or six words (or 10-12 if you do both the positive Johari and the negative Nohari), and many of the words are similar, or shades of one another. What about second ranks? Am I picking things that are superficial? Am I ousting more applicable traits for ones that are simply a little more glaring or spoken? Am I not looking at the big picture? Am I picking things that don't really apply after all? Am I picking things that no one is going to know about? Am I being honest at all? And what about the negatives? Am I being true to the spirit of it if I choose things that are mirrors or exaggerations of the positives? Do I have to think they're negative? Am I being hard on myself? Easy on myself? Am I really just doing this looking for suggestions?

Etc.

So, I'm going to take it all with a grain of sea salt (the kind with the clay in it? that makes it red?). I promise to not be too flattered, insulted, or confused. I probably won't even make a rebuttal. But I'll probably do yours if you do mine. I'm a sucker for things like this. And it's been a long, long time.


Edit: P.S. In case you're wondering, "indecisive" is not an option. It's one of the many glaring omissions. Like "stubborn" and "whimsical."

P.P.S. Chris, a moment ago: ". . . Why are you a wonder widgit?"

On a whim (read: bit of fluff), I have made a blog. I will probably not write in it too often, but then again I may.