Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Please Check Out

Today, Blogspot featured a eye opening blog I believe everyone needs to read.

Black & Missing but Not Forgotten. I saw the name and clicked over. Blog after blog of children, missing. Children I'd never seen on the news. Child after child, some missing weeks. A missing 12 year old girl that was 8 months pregnant, but not even reported.
Enough about Octomom.

I want to hear about this young child/mother. Is she okay? Surely the government doesn't assume that since she's black she was promiscuous at 11?
Does it? If someone deserves a protector, let it be her.

From toddlers to teenaged honor students, these missing children have never gotten media attention. How many mothers out there would be freaking out if their child was missing one day? Why doesn't someone bring attention to these babies? How could this be?
It could be, because:
1. This is not your average hillbilly stuff we're dealing with. This is the media & our Government shortcomings.
Even in northern states, major cities. I'm not scared of Hillbilly Racism. The stereotypical hillbilly is frowned upon in general, not as a matter of race, but for everything but race.
(I'm not referring to all Southern caucasian folks as hillbillies. The hillbillies I'm talking about are, um...they are children left to fend for themselves behind the trailer while their parents lit old cigarette butts and bleached their mullets. Children that were not correctly parented, let's say, and now they've grown up. But they don't scared me. And Thank God their votes for scarey Sarah Palin didn't frighten me either.)

The issue of racism is not a imaginary weight on the shoulders of the African American community. Racism is real. It's real, and so intertwined into daily life that you can go without even noticing it. If you're white.
When Adam Walsh went missing years ago, John Walsh said the police didn't even know how to make a poster. The strides that have been made to find children are immense.
Halfway up the ladder you are higher up. why stand halfway?
Maybe someone could come up with some sort of letter writing campaign to make it mandatory for every missing child to be posted on the news. Even as still photos & descriptions. You can comment that it would take too long to do that. Is that because you have to get your weather three times during a one hour news broadcast? (If so, sacrifice one of those and flip over the The Weather Channel afterwards. Every 8 minutes, there.) Replace the traffic reports?
You can then say that posting a photo doesn't mean we'll be able to do anything to help that child. Maybe you're place is not to help the child. Maybe you're place is to CARE about the child. The media has a such huge impact on our view of the world...
Make room for all children as though every child were your own. Make the world care because those children are our own.
I don't know what I can actually do, except refer you to that site.
People underestimate their capacity for change.
There is never a right time to do a difficult thing.
A leader's job is to help people have vision of their potential.
John Porter
perhaps the five people that click on my blog today will in turn click on that blog.
And maybe they have blogs, better bigger ones.
And then maybe they'll write about too.
today maybe you're the leader those missing children are looking for.
~Thanks for stopping in~

In Retrospect 1.30.06

I've got these stacks of old emails I used to write to my friends. Piles of them. And since none of my friends see my blog (really! & no one in my family even knows I have a blog, except my husband, who peers over my shoulder occasionally)

this old stuff is new again. ?. But I thought maybe a couple times a month I'd throw one in.

Here's Monday, January 30, 2006 for you.


"Horsie!" she said, pointing out the window. It's a concrete stretch of 41, right where the interstate meets the highway. I look over and there it stands. It's the giant Budweiser horse, sitting in front of a gas station. Or shall I say standing. Really, it wasn't standing; I mean technically it was, but to be honest, somebody just pulled it off a rig somewhere and put it in place, a clump of metal or clay or whatever. Large and statuesque, it's the Trojan horse of our generation hiding some sort of message deep into its underbelly. My child loves it, and if I could, I would steal it for her and set it up in the backyard. She could ride it all day and we wouldn't have to feed it or wipe its steaming turds of off the soles of our shoes.
I'm sure the store would sell as much beer without it. I don't really know what the horse has to do with beer anyhow. What is the message they are trying to convey?
This is the only horse big enough to haul your fat drunk ass home.
Yikes, I'm terrible. So what else is new? I read the Essay that beat out mine in a contest I entered, titled "What Would You Do If Someone Gave You An Old Saloon?"
"This one just sucks," I tell Steven. He tells me they were probably related to the judge. He's biased and I am too. I try to tell myself that God probably thought they needed the money more than I did. Maybe they were on the verge of getting evicted or something? I mean, how else could something along the lines of, "...And everyone who passed through the archway would start off with a clean slate," beat out my organ grinding monkey in a red feather boa and the Asian spa girls setting up hogs in the beds of the passed out drunk patrons?
Maybe I'm a victim of reading too many Bukowski novels, and all those Divine movies I watched in high school I'm sure didn't help. I'd go to some sort of tent revival if I thought it would help, but all that talk about hell makes my stomach ache.
I don't personally believe in hell, but it's funny the way you hear some talk about it. I think some folks truly think that Jesus is going to announce his coming on some sort of universal speaker, take all of His people, then leave monsters to eat the rest. (You know, the rest that don't fall into the molten lava when the Earth cracks to bits). For those people, I secretly hope that when they meet Saint Peter, he turns out to be Sikh or maybe even a hasidic Jew. Even funnier, you get there and Jerry Garcia is standing at the gate in all his tie dyed glory.
"Where's Saint Peter?" you ask.
"Oh, he's brushing up on his golf game. I'm filling in today."
I'd better change the subject before lightning strikes.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"What you just did. I hate it when you do that." My spouse has a pet peeve because I used the hot sauce, then licked the top of the bottle before I closed it.
"What are you talking about?"
"When you lick the bottle. That's disgusting."
"No it's not. You and I are the only ones who use it."
"It doesn't matter. It's unsanitary."
"No, really it's not. If I just leave the hot sauce like that, then it dries up and crusts at the cap. That's unsanitary."
"Just don't do it. I hate it when you lick the bottles."
"I don't lick any other bottles...You don't see me licking the ketchup, do you?"
"Not the ketchup, but you lick all the other ones."
"Name one."
"Well I can't think of one just yet, but you do."
"That's what I thought!" but then yesterday I caught myself licking the cocktail sauce bottle. Luckily, he wasn't looking. Geez!) I can tell you this because you are my friends and I know you would never judge me. Mmmm! Nothing like the sweet taste of friendship! It's easy to be honest through email.
I hope everyone of you are doing marvelously. May you have the greatest Groundhogs Day of your lives! I'll blow out my Groundhogs Day birthday candle s and wish that you were all with me. Maybe one day you will be!
Shall I include the monkey essay? Ah, why not...
What if Someone Gave you an Old Saloon?
Once, when I was ten, we flew to California. My aunt lived there and she took us to all the places that tourists like to visit. One of those places was called Fisherman's Wharf. Fisherman's Wharf was full of interesting things I'd never seen before, pelicans, sea lions, and well, the ocean, of course. But there is one thing about the Wharf that sticks with me to this day.
At one point we came across the loveliest thing, a tiny monkey donned in a little vest and hat, dancing along side an organ grinder. I had never seen anything so sweet.
"What's his name?"
"Tito," the organ grinder told me.
I reached my hand out and tried to give little Tito a quarter, and things quickly turned ugly. With a screech and a lunge, that sweet wee monkey was on attack mode, and had I not moved back, I'd have been bit.
"Tito don't take change," replied the organ grinder, and they grinded away.
Well, you may think I'm a little off course, but here's when I'm headed. If I was given the great opportunity of having a saloon given to me, I feel fully that every saloon needs a Mae West. Since I couldn't pull off a feather boa or satin dress, I would search the world over and find Tito and his organ grinder. Tito would fit the bill perfectly. I already know he looks good in red. Also, I'd be able to pay him in singles and peanuts, which would save on entertainment.
At the bar, I'd place an old mare, back facing customers. When someone leaned on the bar, a prerecorded voice would ask "What'll it be?" I know it would be pretty difficult to have a horse mix margaritas, so I'd serve only brew and whiskey to keep it simple. In a hidden room on the side, I'd hire a rugged old rodeo star, or hell, a rodeo clown would do, and he'd pass the beverages through to a conveyor belt. I'd give him cable and a cot, and pay him in singles and peanuts too.
I'd rent the upstairs rooms out to drunk patrons, and allow an Asian spa company to take over. rather than charging the massage therapists to use the facilities, the only condition would be that once the men were passed out, they would have to help drag tranquilized hogs into the beds with them, laying one drunken arm lovingly across the pink beasts.
In the mornings, after hearing girlish squeals from upstairs, we would all have a good laugh with some really fresh bacon or ham sandwiches.
I know this sounds more like a petting zoo than your typical old saloon, but who doesn't love a petting zoo? Just don't get too close to the monkey, he's a live one.
Okay, so I can see now why I didn't win. But the memories this brings of poor tiny Tito!
I don't eat Pork.
Unless it's Bacon.
Then I'll have seconds.
hope you enjoyed my 'Retrospective'...

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Paul Newman Email

A friend sent me this email a few years ago, & I never could find the heart to delete it. I was finally cleaning out my email & thought I'd stick it on here. :D.

Paul Newman

Only women of a certain era will fully appreciate this true story. (if you don't understand this, tell your mother, she'll get it)

A Michigan woman and her family were vacationing in a small new England town where Paul Newman and his family often visited. One Sunday morning, the woman got up early to take a long walk. After a brisk five-mile hike, she decided to treat herself to a double-dip chocolate ice cream cone. She hopped in the car, drove to the center of the village and went straight to the combination bakery/ice cream parlor.

There was only one other patron in the store. Paul Newman, sitting at the counter having a doughnut and coffee. The woman's heart skipped a beat as her eyes made contact with those famous baby-blue eyes. The actor nodded graciously and the star struck woman smiled demurely. Pull yourself together! She chides herself. You're a happily married woman with three children, you're forty-five years old, not a teenager!

The clerk filled her order and she took the double-dip chocolate ice cream cone in one hand and her change in the other. Then she went out the door, avoiding even a glance in Paul Newman's direction. When she reached her car, she realized that she had a handful of change but her other hand was empty. Where's my ice cream cone? Did I leave it in the store? Back into the shop she went, expecting to see the cone still in the clerk's hand or in a holder on the counter or something. No ice cream cone was in sight. With that, she happened to look over at Paul Newman. His face broke into his familiar warm friendly grin and he said to the woman,

"You put it in your purse."

If the world is cold, make it your business to build fires.
Horace Traubel (1858-1919)Writer

Mainstream Commercial vs. Independent Film

Hello! Welcome back!
Or just welcome. I don't know.
Yesterday I read several blogs. A few of them had giant lists of Followers, tons of advertising.
I kept reading the things hoping for some tidbit of a human presence behind the blog, just some sort of connection. I couldn't connect.
No offence to bloggers out there, I don't connect well with people in general. But sometimes when a blog is 99% product reviews and tiny buttons all over the place, you feel a bit like you're reading a magazine, but with all the articles torn out, and you're left with the pages on kitchen countertops and pull ups. Zip lock bags. (Hence my Egg review from yesterday :) just having a little fun)...
On the Mommy Blog Clubs, there are these large groups, with names like

You Follow Me & I'll Follow You!
But to me it seems that following a group of several hundred blogs just for the sake of numbers could result in my losing the blogs I do follow, blogs I love. Do you sanctify a blog to increase your own following? Do these people actually read all those blogs? I don't know.
I do think it would be funny to have one of those giveaway contests, but only with fun things (like soap on a rope. a tape measure. an old book they'd in turn have to put in a giveaway of their own...) but I'm too busy for that now.
If you do see the Children International banner at the bottom of the page, this isn't just some random advertising. I'm actually a sponsor. My family got one of those emails years ago where they show the malnurished little kid and talk about the need for sponsorship. I clicked on the link & we decided to sponsor a child in the Philippines. A year later, we decided to sponsor a second child, in Africa. We sponsor girls, only because often if a family can only afford to send one child to school, they choose the boy. In most countries, schooling isn't free. Not only do the children have to pay for tuition, there's also uniforms, textbooks, supplies.
I'm not wealthy. I'm actually far from it. My 13 year old jeep cherokee makes rumbling banging noises when I pick up the kids, and we laugh about it while our hair blows away from the windows open (No AC!). But we do have a jeep. And I've found that sponsoring a family that would not have the money to send a child to school otherwise makes me more grateful for what I do have.
I also feel that Gratitude is a loop, the energy of gratitude from a family across the world, our own gratitude when we flip a lightswitch; it goes and comes back. It lifts you up. My life has improved in every way possible. I think this sponsorship has a lot to do with it.
At Christmas, I sent them money for a new roof.
A few months later, I found I had enough money to get my own leaky roof patched.
Sponsorship costs $22/month. Less than dining once at a cheap Mexican restaurant with two adults & two kids. It's entirely tax deductible.
One interesting thing I've found about this charity? You can actually send your sponsor child/family boxes, and they send you photos of the child with the items- or wearing the items you've sent. I sent 18 books to Africa (yikes, shipping books costs more than buying the books!) but I'd never seen my sponsor child so happy with any box as that one. (If you'd like to send books, but can't sponsor a child, leave a comment & I can give you the Community center address).
When you sit your ass down on your toilet with the door closed, are you thankful you have a toilet? Are you thankful for the door? Could you be more thankful? Anyway, it doesn't cost anything to look at the site.
If you ended up here obviously you have some time on your hands. :P.
My little blog is just that, a little blog. Not flashy or high tech.
It's a purging of thoughts for me, my confessional. If you connect in some way, cool.
If you don't, that's fine too. But hopefully it will remain as it always has been- a reader.
have a cool day~ yours truly

Monday, April 27, 2009

A Kat Lee Reader First! A Review!

Ah, yikes. The times, they are a changin. For two years here, I've kept a blog. It's been my own secret garden, unvisited, unfound, unkempt. Then, I discovered other blogs. Yes, I became a blog reader. I also became a blog follower. Coming back to my boring blog, I decided to put it on a Mommy Blog site to be reviewed.
"More color! The charcoal gray is too drab. More pictures." That was the response. What the Mommies didn't know is that I'd already thought I added more color, and that color was, um, charcoal gray. (Going from black, which I kinda liked.)
Now a fruity blue, I don't know if I'm totally diggin it. Perhaps I'm not that bright & shiney a person. Perhaps I always thought the writing was colorful enough. I added a counter & the ever useful Google Analytics. Approximately 5 people visit everyday. Fortunately this is four more than I thought. Welcome :D!
But the time suck that has become my secret blog had me for too long this morning, hence my review-

Too Hard Boiled Eggs

Yep, we hard boil eggs here, a couple times a week. Everybody snacks on em. Could be worse.
Today that long ass blog below (See Recycling for Science, Not Crack) had me sitting at the computer for an hour. After I'd put the eggs to boil. And then I read blogs for over 30 minutes more. Suddenly, I remembered the eggs, ran down, and discovered half the water boiled away, and a half dozen eggs hot in the wee pan. I'd forgot to set the timer.
One of the eggs was cracked, and this is my brave review of such egg, for you, kind reader.

The egg was cracked, so I could already see it was slightly different looking- the white was a bit too yellow, but it felt the same as any old hand boiled egg, so I sliced in two and shook a little sea salt in my egg hand. The egg was the same texture, but just a tad bit off. Smoked, maybe? Not rotten, but just slightly different.
There you have it. You can boiled hard boiled eggs for two hours til the water's about gone, and they are still mostly edible.
My arm's hurting today. Too much blogging? Hmmm. Hope it's not Lyme Disease...

Thanks for dropping in :)

Recycling for Science, not Crack

So yesterday my 10 year old & I had to work on her science project. We're building a Solar Water Heater. My husband had to cut everything, and our job was to nail it together and paint it black (which my daughter thought could've been a pretty bright blue. Perhaps?)
My husband gets to looking at the parts, and he's talking about how expensive copper is nowadays. "I heard, didn't someone rob some construction site for the copper wiring?" All the time, he tells me. Crack heads.
Ah, yes, crack heads. I start thinking about how I attained the parts in the first place. We used almost all recycled parts, which I was proud of. To get the parts, I had to call the dump.
"I need the coily thing on the back of a refrigerator, but with the freon removed." The dump manager says he got refrigerators all the time, and if I'd wait a couple days, he'd hold one back for me.
"I need some metal roofing and a window, too." He tells me he'll keep his eyes open. So a few days later he calls to say he has my parts. Bring a screwdriver, he says. I pick up the kids from school and it's one of those heatwave days. Unfortunately, my jeep has no air conditioning, so we've got the windows open and our hair is flying. I put into the parking lot and we go in.
"Hi! The manager told me he had our parts for my daughters science project?" The woman says he's left for the day, and points to a pile of random trash.
"There's a fridge. Good luck!" Hmmm. The kids sit and play around the dump near the grassy part, and I trying to figure out how to take apart this refrigerator.
"Look! A spoon!" Shan says.
"Don't touch it!" I don't want to be here very long, I'm thinking. The coily thing happens to be stuck or welded to something at the bottom, so I'm trying to pull the part back and forth to get the rusty metal to finally break. I need to reach the other side, but stacks of washers and deep freezers are in my way.
And bicycles everywhere. My hair is sweating to my face, cars are driving by, and I'm pulling hard on this coily thing. I finally manage to get it off, and hand it to Naomi. I let her carry it, since I have to find a way to get a giant sheet of metal roofing in the back of the jeep. I step on it until it folds, then drag it over to the lot.
Okay, so this is for sure a long boring post, but after my husband brings up the infamous crack heads, I imagine those cars passing probably were not thinking highly of me dragging the kids to the dump and trying to force that part off the old fridge.
All in the name of science, I swear.

This weekend we're going on a mini vacation for my little ones birthday. We've told them we're going to a pig roast in Kentucky. We're really going to Disney World. :).
"Pig roast?" she says.
"Yep, it'll be fun!"
"Can I have a party?" No, I tell her, we're going to be out of town. But maybe we'll find a Chuckie Cheese somewhere on the way for lunch. She's never been to Chuckie Cheese so she perks up a bit (Chuckie Cheese is about 50 miles way from us). By the time we get to the hotel, the kids will be asleep in the car. They won't actually know that we're not in Kentucky til we pull up at Disney, which I think is cool.
I'm giddy too, cause I have this crazy affliction...for Caricatures. You know, the silly drawings you get at theme parks. They used to do that in malls, which was a great idea- but it's been phased out and replaced with booths that sell Egyptian nail files or spinning hanging wind doo dads. All too often cool things get phased out.
Mall Caricature's are one of those things that are due to come back.
(I know these things, keep your eyes open for them!)
What else is new? Spring gardening is going well, but I did run across a wee snag. As a child, I was the one who ran out on the sidewalks to save the earthworms when it rained. I considered bugs little friends. While I still love little earthworms, it's time to end my friendship with certain creatures that will not leave well enough alone, and it's a tough breakup. Fuzzy caterpillar eating away at my rose leaves.
"Kill it," my husband say. "Step on it." I can't do it. I can't. I mean, it even took me awhile to learn to smash spiders in the house, growing up with the omen of bad luck if you kill a spider at night. (Yes, the time you least want to see a spider is in some strange cultures when it's bad luck to kill it.)
Fuzzy precious had cleared a branch of leaves, and I was feeling irate. Not irate enough to smash it. So I put my shoe into an ant mound, leaving an indention in the middle, and I dropped fuzzy into the center of the angry teeming mound. I stood, transfixed. The ants gathered atop their victim, and fuzzy writhed to and fro, making little a c, little u.
(Karma! God I'm in trouble...)
The ants piled in the shoe print, and I couldn't take my eyes off the flowing scene. I briefly thought to rescue him, but the ants were too tough and intimidating. I walked away from the sight not feeling too good about myself.
The next day, once again, a fuzzy precious on my roses. I'd been weeding with the mattock. I threw little caterpillar down on the water meter lid, and smashed it with the flat end of the mattock. His head popped off and green goo flew onto my pants and shirt. Argh.
I took a Facebook quiz "What color crayon are you?"
I was cornflower blue. Am I really? I don't know. I think I'm really purple. Or maybe I just want to be purple. Some of the quizzes I can predict.
Which peanuts character are you? I was Linus. Of course.
Which Muppet are you? Rolf the dog. Easy. Of course, everyone wants to be kermit, but let's face it, it's like with past lives- everyone wants to be someone well known in a past life (take my mother's claim to Chief Joseph) but most of us really were just the ordinary joe or jane. A salesman, soldier, a mom that cuts crust off sandwiches day in and out. A gas station employee. One day you'll incarnate again and say 'I bet I was so and so,' when really you were exactly who you are now, unknown but hopefully content to be so.
I'll take Rowf. Cool.
Welcome to my blog! I'm really happy you stopped in :D.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Francois Rabelais

Francois Rabelais

Maybe not the best photo, but couldn't resist- yummy delicious Francois Rabelais. (I'm slightly rose obsessed.) I love the orangy-red color mixed with the old fashioned form. Great to stick in a big jar with the whites, pinks and lilacs- she perks things up a bit. You can purchase this rose at

Let's Thank the Aliens for the Banana

"The aliens brought the bananas. They brought several foods, I believe corn as well. But definitely bananas."

My mother is an expert on many things. 'Aliens' is one of the many. I grew up with the aliens for as long as I can remember; my mother read the book Aliens Among Us and was forever changed. Inside the book, a list of questions to help you find out if you are, in fact, an alien.
My mother could answer every question alien-positive.
Do you have extra ribs? Why yes, my mother does have extra ribs. (oddly, this is true.)
Does your body temperature average lower than normal? Yes again! My mothers body temperature runs 97. The questions went on and my mothers clarity came to being.
For those of you (the 99%) who are unfamiliar with the book, basically it is talking about your soul, not your physical being. My mother didn't land here, she believes she incarnated here in a human body from another planet to gather information. My oldest brother believes this too, often in a drunken stupor hearing the spaceships coming to retrieve him.
This explains why I've never been a fan of Star Trek.

Anyway, the aliens do have interplanetary meetings, and we are in the meetings as well, but our representative meets with the group through astral projection. (Okay, stay with me- I'm just explaining the belief system that goes along with this...)
Because doesn't everyone Astral Project? I'm being funny. Sort of?

There have definitely been times when I had difficulty with some of the things my mother said or did. Like the time we went into the Indian Herb shop, owned by a real Indian Chief, Chief Lone Eagle, headdress and all. However it ended up, they got into a discussion on Native American Indians. (My mother happens to be an expert on this topic.)
"You don't know what the Indians went through!" says Chief Lone Eagle.
"Oh, I do know what the Indians went through! I was Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce Indians in my last life!" (I can still hear her, indignant with her French pronounciation of the Nez Perce, 'Nay Persay.' As well as child of Alien, add child of Chief Joseph to my list. At 13, I was embarrassed. Doesn't everything embarass you when you're 13?)
My mother plucking dandelions fron the tiny eight feet of grass space in front of the mega apartment complex we lived in. "What are you doing Denise?" "I'm making salad!" she'd reply happily. I'd worry if some sort of dog may have peed there. And I'd No Thank You the salad.
I learned things like 'fairies are real' and 'Albert Einstein is a walk-in here on Earth, and he waterskis' (Surely you don't want me to explain walk-in...) When I wanted to wear saris or sequins, I became a 'Princess from India in my past life.' I never looked at plants the same again after my introduction of Linda Goodman's chapter on plant studies, the picture of a tomato passing out before being dropped in a blender too vivid for my child mind.
But I also learned things that stayed with me, like the white light prayer, and the idea of having a spirit guide. I learned the omnipresence of God, one that devoured every religion into itself. I grew up unable to judge anyone by a belief system, they were all acceptable, and just neccesary steps in the the individuals process. The God my mother taught me created all the religions, as well as the tiny things like spring leaves. (And the aliens too. LOL.)
I was taught the idea of being my own judge in the afterlife, and looking back at some regret or cruelty (what judge could be harsher?)... it may make me more careful in my choices.

I learned openmindedness. spirituality. acceptance. I learned to take what I need from the things I heard, and make light of things that didn't apply to me. (I guess I won't be invited to the next Alien Summit?) Not everyones truth is the same truth. As not all of my mother's truth is mine. My mother taught me all this, and she did it all with a stunning French accent, often while drinking wine with the gay waiters she worked with, me delighted with my own cherry filled Shirley Temples.
Quirky mother, quirky me? Ha! It explains alot.

So I was not slightly surprised when my mother informed me last month the aliens brought the bananas to help us survive. Old hat now.

Are you still here?
To change the subject, my left knee is hurting today. Hopefully from running with the incline too high on the treadmill. But, I found a tick on me the other day, so tiny I thought it was a mole, and stuck there like one. I pulled it off and ran to my husband with the thing. He wouldn't take it, and it started crawling. I started screaming bloody murder, crazy screams, and my husbands eyes grew wide and strange at my screaming, my crazy insane tick-on-my-hand screams. So the hypochondriac in me says my knee ache is most definitely Lyme Desease, but the sane wee voice says treadmill.
(I can hear you now, kind reader, mentally saying I'm seriously screwed up!)

Perhaps I'm sharing too much. I think I'm going to go hard boil some eggs.
Have a cool day!

Friday, April 17, 2009

My husband gave me a contemptuous look as I threw a box of Frosted Flakes in the buggy. There were no needed vocal exchanges, He was right, I was wrong. I found myself looking up as though I were the dog about to doo doo on the rug. Dang those frosted flakes!
If you don't know me already (welcome to my blog!)
I live in a world where people eat granola, nuts and berries, love the outdoors, and support all and any attempts at organic and sustainable food sources. Processed items are gradually becoming more and more taboo.I live in this world, and I agree with it. Mostly.
My kids eat asparagus, cauliflower soup, peas, and fight over the last zucchini latke. My 10 year old hates any drink that 'fizzles'. We have lentil soup and they clean their bowls. I'm pretty lucky for sure.
But sometimes, there's this little nagging feeling in me that says, "Must have Refined...Flour...Sugar..." and I cave. I cave and then imagine Dr. Oz sitting next to me watching me eat it. Jillian Micheals. All my friends that are on Vegan, Raw Food or Healthy diets. Watching me consume my trashy cereal. In my little night boat. Don't rock the boat of healthy eating, I hear the whispers. And incidentally, me daughter has decided to eat Frosted Flakes for breakfast for the past two days! Hmmm.
Where to draw the line...Frosted flakes = bad, but then what about cheese dip at the Mexican restaurant? My husband willingly partakes in it. Technically, it could be worse than the flakes. (If its possible) but more satisfactory. Really, I can't say that Frosted Flakes is delicious; if it doesn't bring me satisfaction, why eat it? It brings me a recollection of a different age and time. I can eat it and be sitting at my grandmothers old table for a brief time. The table where she'd cover the cornbread and put out some saltines and sliced cheese from a big government block. For whatever reason, every now and then, and have to throw in the Frosted Flakes and go back to that table.
I'm sorry I've skipped out on April! What's new? Well, this week, Naomi & I have to build a solar water heater for her Gifted Class Science Project. Most kids are doing volcanoes. Why aren't we? Hmmm. So I have to go to the dump and get the parts.
We did a lot of hiking.
If you know the deal here, I have to hike in order to shop. My husband hates shopping, and the trip to the Pottery Barn outlet cost me 5 miles on the Ben MacKaye Trail. Also, if I want something done around the house like painting or hardwood flooring, etc. I hike as well. We have an exchange worked out, which isn't terrible, but this week, we lost some trees in a storm and our own bike trail was crushed.

"I guess we'll work out a deal," he says, "I'll clean our trail and we walk that new bridge trail." ?

"That's your trail. You want to clean it in exchange for hiking?"

"It's your trail too."

"I don't think that'll work. Installing the basemould & moving the furniture sounds more like it. Tearing out the old carpet. But fixing one trail in exchange for another trail? No way."

"I put the hardwood down, you owe me a camping trip for that still." My stomach hurts at the idea of crapping in the woods. "You lift a rock, crap, then stick the rock back over it," he tells me. Outside. Where everyone can see. "But you won't be around anyone because we're going to backpack in 3.5 miles with all our gear," he says. The kids are giddy at the idea of camping. I have gone occasionally, although I have some difficulty with my fear of hillbillies during these trips. Crazy camo or overall wearing hillbillies. Deliverance types.

(I have some hiking horror stories, for those of you who wish to debate the thought of hillbilly deliverance types in the woods- namely the daffodil-guy. Ask me about that at another time...)

"Wouldn't camping be more fun if we brought some friends?" We actually have no friends that camp. And if we did, you'd have to walk further to 'squat' and relieve yourself. You may even snore that night. What a dilemma.

I've spent too long in front of this electric time suck. I feel I'm growing pale, frail; like little Golem in the Lord of the Rings. Two hours reading blogs, an hour trying to write mine. I don't sit and handwrite the stuff that makes it on here, or edit, which I for sure should do. I sit and purge, then I get up and get on with things.

Time to get on with things :P. Much love & thanks for dropping in!