A number of unfortunate circumstances have prevented me and my husband from travelling these past three or four months, but we had made arrangements to take our kids and grandkids to an adventure hotel in the state of Mexico (there is a city, a country, and a state called "Mexico", don't get confused!) right after Christmas. They wanted to go anyway because the grandkids need time to share adventures and play, so off they went with our blessing.
That meant, though, that I was asked to babysit Bolix, the pet rabbit of one of my grand-daughters. She shares it with two other school mates, who take their turns at other times. Bolix is cuter than puppies, tame, knows his (her?) name, and can even run around the back yard harmlessly without trying to escape.
But our weather has been cold and rainy, so Bolix must live in his cage indoors at least for the moment. Listen, the danged thing is adorable, and I have mucked out horse stalls, changed diapers, cleaned up adult poo, and dealt with compost, but rabbit urine is atrocious. How this rabbit puts out so much when he doesn't seem to drink water is a mystery hidden within rabbit physiology, but I swear it weighs as much as he does at the end of the day, filling the sodden, pestiferous pull-out tray which I line with sheets and sheets of newspaper.
Pray for a sunny day! I need to free this animal in my yard, get out a scrub brush, and go at that cage like the avenging angel. My standard poodle has lived with cats and wouldn't bother Bolix, who is also used to dogs and cats, and I think Lusso would be intrigued but not aggressive. (Lusso is shaping up to be something special and unusual, but that is another story. Let it suffice to say that Lusso removes money from my purse when I forget to zip it up and offers it to visitors.)
Bless the beasts and the children and the rabbits, and those of us who have to clean up after all of them!
sábado, 28 de diciembre de 2013
martes, 22 de octubre de 2013
Mexican talk radio...
Recently a new "news" station came on the air, and its host let us know that it was not the usual news fare--and endless repetition of the same thing hour after hour. He had that part right, by the way, as people try to fill in empty air time with a veritable locust swarm of inane remarks and pointless blabbing. It isn't their fault, they have to be on the air and when there is nothing new to say, you have to wing it.
This guy, however, said that his program was going to be talk radio. Mexico copies everything else the U.S. does, except mow down its school children with guns, so why not talk radio? The guy obviously is unaware that except for talk sports--the only thing worth listening to on talk radio--the rest is some of the most banal and uninspired drivel produced by what passes for a human brain. But okay, no one gets as verbally violent or paranoid schizophrenic as they do in the U.S. because it is illegal in Mexico to do so; you can say what you want but you have to be classy about it--no calling the governor of the state vulgar names or suggesting what he might do with his mother.
And then I realized who this paragon of the pioneering talk radio really is (and no, someone else also has something we could consider talk radio): He is the anchorman who was fired from a television station because of his chronic, uncontrollable sexual harassment of the weather gals. True, those poor girls have to dress like ladies of the night, but this guy took the look seriously.
He has adopted a self-rightous tone, filled with self-important solemnity, which is kind of like appointing G. Gordon Liddy to a human rights committee or as president of an anti-capital punishment group. The fun just never seems to stop.
This guy, however, said that his program was going to be talk radio. Mexico copies everything else the U.S. does, except mow down its school children with guns, so why not talk radio? The guy obviously is unaware that except for talk sports--the only thing worth listening to on talk radio--the rest is some of the most banal and uninspired drivel produced by what passes for a human brain. But okay, no one gets as verbally violent or paranoid schizophrenic as they do in the U.S. because it is illegal in Mexico to do so; you can say what you want but you have to be classy about it--no calling the governor of the state vulgar names or suggesting what he might do with his mother.
And then I realized who this paragon of the pioneering talk radio really is (and no, someone else also has something we could consider talk radio): He is the anchorman who was fired from a television station because of his chronic, uncontrollable sexual harassment of the weather gals. True, those poor girls have to dress like ladies of the night, but this guy took the look seriously.
He has adopted a self-rightous tone, filled with self-important solemnity, which is kind of like appointing G. Gordon Liddy to a human rights committee or as president of an anti-capital punishment group. The fun just never seems to stop.
martes, 20 de agosto de 2013
Things you learned but wished you hadn't...
You can't help but wonder what your kids have learned that you wished you hadn't taught them, if, of course, you have kids.
Everyone says he or she won't commit the same mistakes one's parents made, and that may be right. But rest assured, you'll make a whole batch of new mistakes and few of the old ones.
I can remember wandering around high school from class to class with a frown on my face because I thought that's the way people usually looked. That's because my mother had a permanent frown from having to deal with my dad. I can remember times when she had lots of fun, would dance to her favorite records, have parties and be enthusiastic. As time went by, especially after we lived in Michigan, it all went away.
One time I asked her why she hadn't divorced Dad, and she had a number of pretty good reasons, but I've always wondered if any of them had been worth giving up her joy in life. You can't judge someone's reasons for doing things or not doing things if you haven't lived in that person's skin, so all I can do is speculate.
Mom had a stream of complaints about Dad, her friends, other people's problems, as if she simply couldn't get by without finding some place to express an anger that surely had nothing to do with the things that bothered her. She never put a stop to Dad's snide remarks made in public by answering him in public--a sure-fire way of short-circuiting people who try to hide behind good manners and decorum in order to get a jab in here or there without fearing a response. Most people won't snap back at you in public, thus the protection.
Once, after Mom had gone into the endless supplies of her best friend's faults, idiocies, and problems of the friend's own making, I asked her how this person could be her best friend if she was such a dolt and a pest. The question seemed to leave her speechless for a minute or two, as if she had never wondered about that herself.
I'm thankful I managed to get past that unfortunate style of relating to people; some of my friends are so different from me that it is puzzling how we get along at all, but we set everything else aside--political, religious, or family attitudes--and they just don't seem to matter. A person can spout all kinds of silliness, but if the individual acts with a generous, caring spirit, what do the opinions matter? As we say in Spanish, "Obras son amores", or it's what you do that shows your soul, not what you say. Words are powerful, but they can also be cheap.
Everyone says he or she won't commit the same mistakes one's parents made, and that may be right. But rest assured, you'll make a whole batch of new mistakes and few of the old ones.
I can remember wandering around high school from class to class with a frown on my face because I thought that's the way people usually looked. That's because my mother had a permanent frown from having to deal with my dad. I can remember times when she had lots of fun, would dance to her favorite records, have parties and be enthusiastic. As time went by, especially after we lived in Michigan, it all went away.
One time I asked her why she hadn't divorced Dad, and she had a number of pretty good reasons, but I've always wondered if any of them had been worth giving up her joy in life. You can't judge someone's reasons for doing things or not doing things if you haven't lived in that person's skin, so all I can do is speculate.
Mom had a stream of complaints about Dad, her friends, other people's problems, as if she simply couldn't get by without finding some place to express an anger that surely had nothing to do with the things that bothered her. She never put a stop to Dad's snide remarks made in public by answering him in public--a sure-fire way of short-circuiting people who try to hide behind good manners and decorum in order to get a jab in here or there without fearing a response. Most people won't snap back at you in public, thus the protection.
Once, after Mom had gone into the endless supplies of her best friend's faults, idiocies, and problems of the friend's own making, I asked her how this person could be her best friend if she was such a dolt and a pest. The question seemed to leave her speechless for a minute or two, as if she had never wondered about that herself.
I'm thankful I managed to get past that unfortunate style of relating to people; some of my friends are so different from me that it is puzzling how we get along at all, but we set everything else aside--political, religious, or family attitudes--and they just don't seem to matter. A person can spout all kinds of silliness, but if the individual acts with a generous, caring spirit, what do the opinions matter? As we say in Spanish, "Obras son amores", or it's what you do that shows your soul, not what you say. Words are powerful, but they can also be cheap.
lunes, 12 de agosto de 2013
Again...
And so it begins again.
The unannounced policy of the state government of diminishing the military presence in the state and replacing it with the new state police is having the consequences anyone with two neurons still firing could have predicted: organized crime.
At our quinta, people began watching the house from vehicles, planning something--robbery, kidnapping, who knows? The first problem was trying to report this activity. The so-called emergency number didn't even answer; the state police number was "restricted". The army and the marines did anwer their phones and take down our information, but they obviously have to report incidents of this kind to the state command center (yes, it works), which sent out state police who have been patrolling the countryside around the quinta for several days now.
Yesterday a man was kidnapped by a ski-masked commando from an upscale butcher shop on one of the main streets in our township, supposedly the safest one in the state. But thanks to the epic stupidity of our state government at all levels, thanks to a do-nothing national congress (you think the U.S. congress is bad? You aint seen nothin' yet!), municipal and state governments have become indebted for the next several decades. We have police patrols that are out of action due to lack of maintenance. It took the police fifteen minutes to show up at the butcher shop yesterday even though it is a scarce few blocks from police headquarters--one patrol, one policeman. Fortunately the anti-kidnapping unit is in action, and they are the only ones who seem to capture criminals and rescue victims now that the army and the marines are in the back seat. Some suspect they aren't even in the car any longer...
But let's talk about the state police. This new, "elite" police corps has around 2500 people at the very most; it is well-equipped so far. Unfortunately, some of its members have been involved in theft, in rape, and in kidnapping and assassination of a kidnapping victim. I don't care how many people, victims themselves of an almost mythical level of wishful thinking, claim that these are just a few rotten apples, there is rot and then there is massive, horrendous, unimaginable decomposition that stinks to high heaven and beyond. You can't claim to be using filters and high-level training when you wind up with members of a police force that are psychopaths.
The only thing standing between the citizenry of this country and the law of the jungle is the military. The reason, of course, it that Mexico is next to the most prolific user of legal and illegal drugs in the world. With breath-taking hypocrisy the United States thinks it can threaten Mexico with reprisals if we legalize marijuana here when there state after state is doing just that--legalizing it. Didn't the U.S. learn anything from the Prohibition era? Or does it not matter as long as the bloodshed is happening across the border and not within the U.S.?
There is a saying in Spanish: "Poor Mexico, so close to the U.S. and so far from God." Maybe the two conditions are inevitably connected.
The unannounced policy of the state government of diminishing the military presence in the state and replacing it with the new state police is having the consequences anyone with two neurons still firing could have predicted: organized crime.
At our quinta, people began watching the house from vehicles, planning something--robbery, kidnapping, who knows? The first problem was trying to report this activity. The so-called emergency number didn't even answer; the state police number was "restricted". The army and the marines did anwer their phones and take down our information, but they obviously have to report incidents of this kind to the state command center (yes, it works), which sent out state police who have been patrolling the countryside around the quinta for several days now.
Yesterday a man was kidnapped by a ski-masked commando from an upscale butcher shop on one of the main streets in our township, supposedly the safest one in the state. But thanks to the epic stupidity of our state government at all levels, thanks to a do-nothing national congress (you think the U.S. congress is bad? You aint seen nothin' yet!), municipal and state governments have become indebted for the next several decades. We have police patrols that are out of action due to lack of maintenance. It took the police fifteen minutes to show up at the butcher shop yesterday even though it is a scarce few blocks from police headquarters--one patrol, one policeman. Fortunately the anti-kidnapping unit is in action, and they are the only ones who seem to capture criminals and rescue victims now that the army and the marines are in the back seat. Some suspect they aren't even in the car any longer...
But let's talk about the state police. This new, "elite" police corps has around 2500 people at the very most; it is well-equipped so far. Unfortunately, some of its members have been involved in theft, in rape, and in kidnapping and assassination of a kidnapping victim. I don't care how many people, victims themselves of an almost mythical level of wishful thinking, claim that these are just a few rotten apples, there is rot and then there is massive, horrendous, unimaginable decomposition that stinks to high heaven and beyond. You can't claim to be using filters and high-level training when you wind up with members of a police force that are psychopaths.
The only thing standing between the citizenry of this country and the law of the jungle is the military. The reason, of course, it that Mexico is next to the most prolific user of legal and illegal drugs in the world. With breath-taking hypocrisy the United States thinks it can threaten Mexico with reprisals if we legalize marijuana here when there state after state is doing just that--legalizing it. Didn't the U.S. learn anything from the Prohibition era? Or does it not matter as long as the bloodshed is happening across the border and not within the U.S.?
There is a saying in Spanish: "Poor Mexico, so close to the U.S. and so far from God." Maybe the two conditions are inevitably connected.
lunes, 5 de agosto de 2013
Misadventures with sourdough
This is the second time I have attempted to produce sourdough starter. The first time, foolishly, I followed some idiot's instructions that were based on capturing "natural" yeast spores from the air in a batch of flour and water. You capture stuff, all right, but I don't think it was sourdough yeast. Some of it could even be seen with the naked eye, and when that happens, you'd better suspect it isn't yeast, natural or otherwise.
So I ordered some starter from a company that has the original San Francisco strain. I followed the directions to the letter, and at first, the mixture of starter, flour and water bubbled and popped away just beautifully.
By day two, however, all was not well. You have to keep feeding this mixture as if it were some kind of damned pet--a very delicate, not particularly healthy pet that needs plenty of vet care and lots of love. Something went wrong and the mixture developed a smell that was between tangy and god-awful. There were some desultory bubbles making their way to the surface, sort of like swamp gas. A dark, watery liquid covered the surface too, and anyone wanting to make bread with this junk surely risked poisoning from who-knows-what bacteria.
So in order not to waste any more bread flour feeding this unspeakable mass, out it went. You can't get sourdough bread in Mexico. That means no sourdough biscuits, no sourdough pancakes...
However, there is a webpage that offers starter free from some guy who has, according to the users, the best starter in the world, a lively, bubbly, tangy product almost guaranteed...Problem is, if I send in my self-addressed, stamped envelope, there is no way customs is going to let through a suspicious envelope containing a slightly damp mixture of flour and some kind of white powder.
So I ordered some starter from a company that has the original San Francisco strain. I followed the directions to the letter, and at first, the mixture of starter, flour and water bubbled and popped away just beautifully.
By day two, however, all was not well. You have to keep feeding this mixture as if it were some kind of damned pet--a very delicate, not particularly healthy pet that needs plenty of vet care and lots of love. Something went wrong and the mixture developed a smell that was between tangy and god-awful. There were some desultory bubbles making their way to the surface, sort of like swamp gas. A dark, watery liquid covered the surface too, and anyone wanting to make bread with this junk surely risked poisoning from who-knows-what bacteria.
So in order not to waste any more bread flour feeding this unspeakable mass, out it went. You can't get sourdough bread in Mexico. That means no sourdough biscuits, no sourdough pancakes...
However, there is a webpage that offers starter free from some guy who has, according to the users, the best starter in the world, a lively, bubbly, tangy product almost guaranteed...Problem is, if I send in my self-addressed, stamped envelope, there is no way customs is going to let through a suspicious envelope containing a slightly damp mixture of flour and some kind of white powder.
viernes, 19 de julio de 2013
Un Solo San Pedro
Este es un proyecto municipal que propone, a través de la actividad ciudadana, reducir los niveles de pobreza en 14 colonias de San Pedro que viven más o menos unos centímetros por encima de la pobreza alimentaria.
El proyecto mío fue aceptado por el municipio, y se lleva acabo únicamente en la colonia Sta Elena, que puede verse si viajas por Alfonso Reyes hacia la UdeM; existe un puente después de la última calle (Hidalgo) que sale hacia la derecha, y debajo de ese puente está la colonia--hundida, sin un espacio para los niños, y con sólo dos cuadras.
Los miércoles, asistida por una amiga y a veces por Karina, doy pláticas sobre la buena nutrición y la prevención de diabetes, hacemos recetas, echamos el chal, y planeamos cómo alimentar mejor a la familia con menos dinero. Agregado a esto, les voy a enseñar a las interesadas cómo hacer una hortaliza casera de fácil mantenimiento y alto rendimiento. La idea no es tanto la de proveer todo el alimento de una familia, sino de complementar con verduras de alto valor nutricional como la acelga, el chile, las lechugas, y las hierbas de olor. Pero además, queremos interrumpir la cultura infantil del desconocimiento de dónde provienen los alimentos y qué valen realmente; un niño que haya sembrado y cosechado atribuye un valor muy distinto a lo que come, y usualmente comienza a comer cosas diferentes.
Esta semana les di a las señoras una receta para hacer queso en casa. En la siguiente reunión, una de las señoras nos va a prestar su cocina para que les demuestre en tiempo real y a todo color (!!) cómo se hace.
No quiero depender del municipio para este proyecto, porque una vez que estemos todas las señoras emboletadas con estas reuniones, podemos funcionar autónomamente, podemos ampliar las áreas de aprendizaje, y las reuniones nos sirven a todas como una red de apoyo en momentos difíciles.
Necesito, por lo mismo, lo siguiente: donativos que incluyen cuadernos y plumas, frascos de Microdyn, y dos o tres ollas de acero inoxidable para elaborar el queso. Mi compañera posiblemente aporte ollas porque su mamá tiene muchas que no usa, pero mientras más, mejor.
Cualquiera que desee ayudarme, ya saben dónde estoy, o pueden contactarme a través de mis hijos o sus amigos.
Gracias!
El proyecto mío fue aceptado por el municipio, y se lleva acabo únicamente en la colonia Sta Elena, que puede verse si viajas por Alfonso Reyes hacia la UdeM; existe un puente después de la última calle (Hidalgo) que sale hacia la derecha, y debajo de ese puente está la colonia--hundida, sin un espacio para los niños, y con sólo dos cuadras.
Los miércoles, asistida por una amiga y a veces por Karina, doy pláticas sobre la buena nutrición y la prevención de diabetes, hacemos recetas, echamos el chal, y planeamos cómo alimentar mejor a la familia con menos dinero. Agregado a esto, les voy a enseñar a las interesadas cómo hacer una hortaliza casera de fácil mantenimiento y alto rendimiento. La idea no es tanto la de proveer todo el alimento de una familia, sino de complementar con verduras de alto valor nutricional como la acelga, el chile, las lechugas, y las hierbas de olor. Pero además, queremos interrumpir la cultura infantil del desconocimiento de dónde provienen los alimentos y qué valen realmente; un niño que haya sembrado y cosechado atribuye un valor muy distinto a lo que come, y usualmente comienza a comer cosas diferentes.
Esta semana les di a las señoras una receta para hacer queso en casa. En la siguiente reunión, una de las señoras nos va a prestar su cocina para que les demuestre en tiempo real y a todo color (!!) cómo se hace.
No quiero depender del municipio para este proyecto, porque una vez que estemos todas las señoras emboletadas con estas reuniones, podemos funcionar autónomamente, podemos ampliar las áreas de aprendizaje, y las reuniones nos sirven a todas como una red de apoyo en momentos difíciles.
Necesito, por lo mismo, lo siguiente: donativos que incluyen cuadernos y plumas, frascos de Microdyn, y dos o tres ollas de acero inoxidable para elaborar el queso. Mi compañera posiblemente aporte ollas porque su mamá tiene muchas que no usa, pero mientras más, mejor.
Cualquiera que desee ayudarme, ya saben dónde estoy, o pueden contactarme a través de mis hijos o sus amigos.
Gracias!
jueves, 13 de junio de 2013
Dove and Stang
The title does not refer to some kind of German catchphrase nor is it the name of a legal firm, although it's pretty good if you're looking to set up in the lawyer business.
"Dove" is not the past tense of "to dive", thousands of illiterate authors notwithstanding. It is a bird. The past tense of "to dive" is "dived". As in, he dived into the novel in spite of not being able to conjugate verbs.
Today I came across something quite shocking, considering that the novel I was reading was really well written--pure escape fiction, but that is almost all I read nowadays with my mushy brain. The word in question is "stang", the past tense of "to sting". It is a word I am sure Texans will take to with joy. Since I can talk Texan, even I plan to use it. It just fits something fierce:
"Wahl, by dang, thet wasp jist stang the bejesus outta mah butt!"
In case you are morbidly interested, the past tense is "stung", but I'll bet you knew that. I think "stang" should be up there with other Texan words such as fahr (fire), flars (flowers), awl (oil and all), and my all-time favorite, "Jeet yit?"
"Dove" is not the past tense of "to dive", thousands of illiterate authors notwithstanding. It is a bird. The past tense of "to dive" is "dived". As in, he dived into the novel in spite of not being able to conjugate verbs.
Today I came across something quite shocking, considering that the novel I was reading was really well written--pure escape fiction, but that is almost all I read nowadays with my mushy brain. The word in question is "stang", the past tense of "to sting". It is a word I am sure Texans will take to with joy. Since I can talk Texan, even I plan to use it. It just fits something fierce:
"Wahl, by dang, thet wasp jist stang the bejesus outta mah butt!"
In case you are morbidly interested, the past tense is "stung", but I'll bet you knew that. I think "stang" should be up there with other Texan words such as fahr (fire), flars (flowers), awl (oil and all), and my all-time favorite, "Jeet yit?"
lunes, 10 de junio de 2013
Peculiarities in the park
For the first time in about a month, I was able to take my dogs for a 5K walk. We all needed it. And as usual there was a nut or two loose on the running path, and I do not refer to the acorns blown down by last night's violent thunderstorm.
A young woman with a Blue Heeler was coming toward me as I neared the end of my walk, with maybe less than a kilometer and a half to go. Blue Heelers are often difficult to train unless you are my brother. Since the young lady obviously was not he, she was having a little bit of a hard time. When she saw us approach, she made her dog sit. The dog was not happy with this turn of events, but it did as it was told.
Behind the girl came an old guy toddling along as best he could. Seeing that the girl was struggling with the dog, he suddenly screamed for all to hear, "Kill it!! Kill it!! They aren't any use to anybody and all they do is make a mess in the park!!!"
By this time I had passed them both and did not observe the girl's reaction, but I felt myself included in the old fart's opinion because I was certainly within his shouting range. And he for sure was not referring to the Blue Heeler breed but to dogs in general.
A number of come-backs occurred to me as I went on, but it seems the real problem is that this miserable old fool doesn't have a cause in life better than getting angry at dog owners, and it is really a shame to get to old age so embittered and angry. We are all going to get old, but to get there feeling unsatisfied, unloved, or immersed in a world we don't understand is a tragedy. And don't ask me what the secret is, either, because I don't know. All I can say is that people I've known who have stuck with a rotten marriage, or think their children are disappointments, or think no one appreciates them, are usually the cause of their own misery.
If you want to get psychoanalytic about it, that poor old guy was screaming about himself...
On a lighter note, although not for long if I eat them, I got all the ingredients for chilaquiles and intend to attempt my daughter-in-law´s spectacular recipe. The tomatoes I will use are from my square foot garden. The plant got so huge I had to remove it and make different plans for a new plant, but in the meantime I have tomatoes that actually have flavor!
A young woman with a Blue Heeler was coming toward me as I neared the end of my walk, with maybe less than a kilometer and a half to go. Blue Heelers are often difficult to train unless you are my brother. Since the young lady obviously was not he, she was having a little bit of a hard time. When she saw us approach, she made her dog sit. The dog was not happy with this turn of events, but it did as it was told.
Behind the girl came an old guy toddling along as best he could. Seeing that the girl was struggling with the dog, he suddenly screamed for all to hear, "Kill it!! Kill it!! They aren't any use to anybody and all they do is make a mess in the park!!!"
By this time I had passed them both and did not observe the girl's reaction, but I felt myself included in the old fart's opinion because I was certainly within his shouting range. And he for sure was not referring to the Blue Heeler breed but to dogs in general.
A number of come-backs occurred to me as I went on, but it seems the real problem is that this miserable old fool doesn't have a cause in life better than getting angry at dog owners, and it is really a shame to get to old age so embittered and angry. We are all going to get old, but to get there feeling unsatisfied, unloved, or immersed in a world we don't understand is a tragedy. And don't ask me what the secret is, either, because I don't know. All I can say is that people I've known who have stuck with a rotten marriage, or think their children are disappointments, or think no one appreciates them, are usually the cause of their own misery.
If you want to get psychoanalytic about it, that poor old guy was screaming about himself...
On a lighter note, although not for long if I eat them, I got all the ingredients for chilaquiles and intend to attempt my daughter-in-law´s spectacular recipe. The tomatoes I will use are from my square foot garden. The plant got so huge I had to remove it and make different plans for a new plant, but in the meantime I have tomatoes that actually have flavor!
sábado, 8 de junio de 2013
Vampires
There are certain kinds of people in life that seem to suck up every pleasure, every small achievement, every tiny happiness, every moment of kindness and relaxation, every quiet enjoyment of nature that you might experience.
They seem to find it imperative to point out faults, failures, or human errors in everything you do, write or say. These are the parents who wind up alienating their children, folks who drive away spouses who have sense enough to leave, who when angry, upset or depressed will take it out on others in order not to have to recognize what is happening to them.
It isn't that many of these pathetic people can't love; their self esteem is so low that having to acknowledge it would kill them, that having to feel the depth of their self-loathing would be a mortal blow.
Everything you do is judged by them. It's as if they are ever on the alert to find a fly in the ointment, or the minute grain of sand on a pristine floor. They often manage to hook up with people who need to go through life being judged, so as couples they form the ideal mesh of pathologies until someone manages to change--if it ever happens.
There is a certain kind of envy in psychology that goes beyond the "I wish I had what that guy has" type, the garden variety envy that all of us feel. These emotional vampires feel an envy so corrosive that if they cannot have or be what they envy, they want to destroy it in the other person. It is a hideous, soul-killing envy that injures everyone around them.
Others, however, prefer to provoke irritation or anger in the rest of us so we have no chance of exploring what they are all about; the black fear that someone might discover how worthless they really are makes them guarantee their safety by getting everyone else angry, a sure-fire way of avoiding intimacy and everything it might reveal.
In my experience with family and friends who suffer from this kind of emotional rabies, they may have every kind of courage in the world except one: the courage to face their own feelings about themselves. Their most horrific fear is having to find out how they feel about themselves in all its ghastly detail, in spite of the fact that once done, it seems to be a case of much ado about nothing.
They hide behind a wall of judgmental criticism and fault-finding that keeps everyone out--because who in his right mind would want to go there? And yet they yearn for affection, admiration, and closeness while making sure it will never happen.
It is a nightmare to be this kind of vampire. Keep it in mind next time you come across one, but don't put up for a minute with his/her attacks. It constitutes psychological abuse, and tolerating it only prolongs the vampire's capacity for self-deception. And surely you deserve more than this.
They seem to find it imperative to point out faults, failures, or human errors in everything you do, write or say. These are the parents who wind up alienating their children, folks who drive away spouses who have sense enough to leave, who when angry, upset or depressed will take it out on others in order not to have to recognize what is happening to them.
It isn't that many of these pathetic people can't love; their self esteem is so low that having to acknowledge it would kill them, that having to feel the depth of their self-loathing would be a mortal blow.
Everything you do is judged by them. It's as if they are ever on the alert to find a fly in the ointment, or the minute grain of sand on a pristine floor. They often manage to hook up with people who need to go through life being judged, so as couples they form the ideal mesh of pathologies until someone manages to change--if it ever happens.
There is a certain kind of envy in psychology that goes beyond the "I wish I had what that guy has" type, the garden variety envy that all of us feel. These emotional vampires feel an envy so corrosive that if they cannot have or be what they envy, they want to destroy it in the other person. It is a hideous, soul-killing envy that injures everyone around them.
Others, however, prefer to provoke irritation or anger in the rest of us so we have no chance of exploring what they are all about; the black fear that someone might discover how worthless they really are makes them guarantee their safety by getting everyone else angry, a sure-fire way of avoiding intimacy and everything it might reveal.
In my experience with family and friends who suffer from this kind of emotional rabies, they may have every kind of courage in the world except one: the courage to face their own feelings about themselves. Their most horrific fear is having to find out how they feel about themselves in all its ghastly detail, in spite of the fact that once done, it seems to be a case of much ado about nothing.
They hide behind a wall of judgmental criticism and fault-finding that keeps everyone out--because who in his right mind would want to go there? And yet they yearn for affection, admiration, and closeness while making sure it will never happen.
It is a nightmare to be this kind of vampire. Keep it in mind next time you come across one, but don't put up for a minute with his/her attacks. It constitutes psychological abuse, and tolerating it only prolongs the vampire's capacity for self-deception. And surely you deserve more than this.
lunes, 22 de abril de 2013
No more running for chilaquiles, perhaps
Folks, if you haven't downloaded the HBO documentary "The Weight of the Nation", which is free, then you are missing out on a groundbreaking work. It is as important as the Time report on our medical system and its costs.
It may change your whole outlook about overweight and your own eating habits, and as terrible as the consequences to our country are, there are some bright spots that indeed shine.
But one thing is for sure: It is much cheaper to eat junk food than it is to eat a healthy diet. The U.S. governments give subsidies not to the producers of fruits and vegetables, but to those who grow corn and soybeans. In fact, fifty percent of the agricultural land in the U.S. is in those two crops. Corn is fed to cattle, who are not adapted to digest it, so they must then be given huge doses of human antibiotics to keep their livers from becoming diseased. More antibiotics are given to cattle than to human beings. Cattle have systems designed to eat grasses, not grains, and to roam free, not be penned up and fattened on crap.
The result, as can be seen in the New York Times health section after a search, or at the website of the Union of Concerned Scientists, is the development of antibiotic-resistant bacteria such as e-coli and other infections which have spread into the human population.
The rest of the corn is used to produce high fructose corn syrup that goes into the sweet junk food we eat. Subsidised diabetes, in other words. Subsidised obesity. Subsidised vitamin and mineral deficiencies. Subsidised poor nutrition for the poorest sectors of our population.
Check out Square Foot Gardening, and grow your favorite veggies in your yard, on your roof, anywhere you have a little space and some sun. It may change your appreciation for fruits and veggies. Just a ten percent loss of weight can reverse a prediabetic condition, return liver functioning to more normal levels and reduce the fat deposited there.
Or go out and use the resource at hand: Your sidewalk.
It may change your whole outlook about overweight and your own eating habits, and as terrible as the consequences to our country are, there are some bright spots that indeed shine.
But one thing is for sure: It is much cheaper to eat junk food than it is to eat a healthy diet. The U.S. governments give subsidies not to the producers of fruits and vegetables, but to those who grow corn and soybeans. In fact, fifty percent of the agricultural land in the U.S. is in those two crops. Corn is fed to cattle, who are not adapted to digest it, so they must then be given huge doses of human antibiotics to keep their livers from becoming diseased. More antibiotics are given to cattle than to human beings. Cattle have systems designed to eat grasses, not grains, and to roam free, not be penned up and fattened on crap.
The result, as can be seen in the New York Times health section after a search, or at the website of the Union of Concerned Scientists, is the development of antibiotic-resistant bacteria such as e-coli and other infections which have spread into the human population.
The rest of the corn is used to produce high fructose corn syrup that goes into the sweet junk food we eat. Subsidised diabetes, in other words. Subsidised obesity. Subsidised vitamin and mineral deficiencies. Subsidised poor nutrition for the poorest sectors of our population.
Check out Square Foot Gardening, and grow your favorite veggies in your yard, on your roof, anywhere you have a little space and some sun. It may change your appreciation for fruits and veggies. Just a ten percent loss of weight can reverse a prediabetic condition, return liver functioning to more normal levels and reduce the fat deposited there.
Or go out and use the resource at hand: Your sidewalk.
jueves, 18 de abril de 2013
Is it the phase of the moon?
What is it that brings the lunatics out in such force? After 9/11, there was a slew of anthrax-tainted letters sent out, and it had nothing to do with the terrorist attack, this was a home-grown nut case. Now, after the terrorist attack on the Boston Marathon, another drooling mouth-breather sent out ricin-tainted letters to a Senator and perhaps one or two other people, including the President. He really must have been smart, too, because he had already sent threatening letters to the Senator, so let's say the element of surprise was somewhat reduced.
People often think tragedies happen in threes, and if the explosion at a fertilizer factory in Texas--a terrible, ghastly event--is added to the other two attempts on human life, we have our trio of the moment. As of this writing, not much more is on the news about the cause of the factory explosion but considering the chemicals used, it sounds like a human or technical error. If not, if this was on purpose, someone needs to be strung up by his gonads (it's always men) and slowly flayed with a dull knife.
And if all this misery and pathetic human hate are influenced by the phases of the moon or the season, we'd better figure out some kind of medication for it and administer it, post haste, to right-wing extremists.
And just for good measure, to Sarah Palin...
People often think tragedies happen in threes, and if the explosion at a fertilizer factory in Texas--a terrible, ghastly event--is added to the other two attempts on human life, we have our trio of the moment. As of this writing, not much more is on the news about the cause of the factory explosion but considering the chemicals used, it sounds like a human or technical error. If not, if this was on purpose, someone needs to be strung up by his gonads (it's always men) and slowly flayed with a dull knife.
And if all this misery and pathetic human hate are influenced by the phases of the moon or the season, we'd better figure out some kind of medication for it and administer it, post haste, to right-wing extremists.
And just for good measure, to Sarah Palin...
Ditch the pessimism, gang
An important number of people have expressed a bitter disappointment because the Senate killed off any hope of background checks in order to purchase firearms. This pessimism is undue.
Many a war has been won even though a battle or two have been lost; losing battles is inevitable, but this is a war that is going to be won in the long run.
Why? Well, among other things, the senators (aka, whores) who have been bought by the arms industry (aka, the NRA) have been shown up in all their whoredom for the world to see and contemplate with dismay and disgust. You can find out which lady of the night voted which way by checking it out on Internet and then you can express your opinion that some of them aint worth two bits. And you know how low a two-bit lady of the night is!
But popular pressure aside, there is even more reason for hope. I mean, come on, when one of the principal spokespersons for the arms industry cause is someone of the intellectual stature of Sarah Palin, what have you got to lose? This lady, though not necessarily of the night, didn't know that North and South Korea were two countries until someone on McCain's team clued her in.
Oh, no, this war aint done by a long shot!
Many a war has been won even though a battle or two have been lost; losing battles is inevitable, but this is a war that is going to be won in the long run.
Why? Well, among other things, the senators (aka, whores) who have been bought by the arms industry (aka, the NRA) have been shown up in all their whoredom for the world to see and contemplate with dismay and disgust. You can find out which lady of the night voted which way by checking it out on Internet and then you can express your opinion that some of them aint worth two bits. And you know how low a two-bit lady of the night is!
But popular pressure aside, there is even more reason for hope. I mean, come on, when one of the principal spokespersons for the arms industry cause is someone of the intellectual stature of Sarah Palin, what have you got to lose? This lady, though not necessarily of the night, didn't know that North and South Korea were two countries until someone on McCain's team clued her in.
Oh, no, this war aint done by a long shot!
martes, 26 de marzo de 2013
Running for chilaquiles
Here in Mexico, around eleven in the morning, when you are dying for brunch and your stomach is roaring, chilaquiles are very often the dish of choice.
Chilaquiles are a complicated blend of red or green sauce (each in itself a complex mix of ingredients which are then cooked separately), tortillas in chips, cheese, onions, and cream. My daughter-in-law makes such delicious chilaquiles that, once having tried hers, you can forget about having them anywhere else.
When the sauce and the tortillas are put together, it has to be done right before eating. People hang around the stove, plate in hand, and wait for each serving to be ready. Otherwise, mixing the chips and the sauces too soon would make the chips soggy, a big no-no for chilaquiles. If you have the impression that Mexican cooking is labor-intensive, you are right.
On Sunday we celebrated my husband's and son's birthdays at our house, and my daughter-in-law whipped up a big batch of chilaquiles, both with red and green sauce, for the entire crowd. Fortunately, or unfortunately, she left me both sauces, the tortilla chips, shredded cheese, and chopped onion. For the past two days I have had chilaquiles for breakfast, and I intend to do so until the ingredients run out.
Chilaquiles are incredibly nutritious, but they are also loaded with calories. So I use them as a reward for getting myself out to run. The exercise alone is too minor to make a dent in the calories consumed, so yesterday I had spinach and lettuce for lunch--that was it. Same today. Sounds horrific, but the spinach is from my square foot garden and I sautèe it in olive oil and add a little garlic. The lettuce is also from the garden, and both products are almost too good to describe. It makes a world of difference to step outside, harvest your veggies, and five minutes later eat them.
Now that the orthopedist has told me it isn't my ancient joints giving out that is causing me pain, my new running program is going to be "The Great Chilaquiles Run". So far it has worked; today was drizzling and cold, but I was there, my Judi Dench haircut standing on end as if were a punk rocker. Maybe later, after I've gotten tired of chilaquiles or have used up all the sauce, we can start the "Great Tres Leches Cake Run", or the "Great French Chocolate Tart Run". I can see my lunches are going to be reduced to coffee and a breath of fresh air.
Chilaquiles are a complicated blend of red or green sauce (each in itself a complex mix of ingredients which are then cooked separately), tortillas in chips, cheese, onions, and cream. My daughter-in-law makes such delicious chilaquiles that, once having tried hers, you can forget about having them anywhere else.
When the sauce and the tortillas are put together, it has to be done right before eating. People hang around the stove, plate in hand, and wait for each serving to be ready. Otherwise, mixing the chips and the sauces too soon would make the chips soggy, a big no-no for chilaquiles. If you have the impression that Mexican cooking is labor-intensive, you are right.
On Sunday we celebrated my husband's and son's birthdays at our house, and my daughter-in-law whipped up a big batch of chilaquiles, both with red and green sauce, for the entire crowd. Fortunately, or unfortunately, she left me both sauces, the tortilla chips, shredded cheese, and chopped onion. For the past two days I have had chilaquiles for breakfast, and I intend to do so until the ingredients run out.
Chilaquiles are incredibly nutritious, but they are also loaded with calories. So I use them as a reward for getting myself out to run. The exercise alone is too minor to make a dent in the calories consumed, so yesterday I had spinach and lettuce for lunch--that was it. Same today. Sounds horrific, but the spinach is from my square foot garden and I sautèe it in olive oil and add a little garlic. The lettuce is also from the garden, and both products are almost too good to describe. It makes a world of difference to step outside, harvest your veggies, and five minutes later eat them.
Now that the orthopedist has told me it isn't my ancient joints giving out that is causing me pain, my new running program is going to be "The Great Chilaquiles Run". So far it has worked; today was drizzling and cold, but I was there, my Judi Dench haircut standing on end as if were a punk rocker. Maybe later, after I've gotten tired of chilaquiles or have used up all the sauce, we can start the "Great Tres Leches Cake Run", or the "Great French Chocolate Tart Run". I can see my lunches are going to be reduced to coffee and a breath of fresh air.
miércoles, 20 de marzo de 2013
Water retriever??
My cousin David wrote me with a number of suggestions about how to get my dogs, both supposedly water retrievers, into the swimming pool. I had already tried them, including jumping clumsily into the water myself. Neither dog seemed very impressed by that. They both had canine expressions that could easily be interpreted as "My God, is she going to drown?? What a wacko!"
And yet, my eleven-year-old standard poodle got into the water three times day before yesterday. I had to point him back to the stairs each time, but he seemed really excited at having done it.
My Spinone, however, he of the webbed toes, would only go in up to his belly even with four little girls in the pool trying to coax him in. And this dog LOVES little kids to distraction. I am going to the store later to find some kind of totally irresistible goodie that will both lure him into the water and serve as a reward as he makes progress. Just don't know what kind of goodie yet...
Here is White Lightnin' in person. Don't be fooled by that hound-like appearance and laid-back demeanor. You know all those movies that portray bloodhouds lounging determindly around the front porch while local yokels play the banjo? That is a lie. Bloodhounds need tons of exercise so you'd better be a runner or an escaped criminal, 'cause those dogs need to GO.
Well, same for the Spinone. They may not be fast, but once they get started, there are no brakes. And they weigh a lot, so step aside if one is rushing up to you for a slurp. Otherwise you may suffer permanent knee damage.
And yet, my eleven-year-old standard poodle got into the water three times day before yesterday. I had to point him back to the stairs each time, but he seemed really excited at having done it.
My Spinone, however, he of the webbed toes, would only go in up to his belly even with four little girls in the pool trying to coax him in. And this dog LOVES little kids to distraction. I am going to the store later to find some kind of totally irresistible goodie that will both lure him into the water and serve as a reward as he makes progress. Just don't know what kind of goodie yet...
Here is White Lightnin' in person. Don't be fooled by that hound-like appearance and laid-back demeanor. You know all those movies that portray bloodhouds lounging determindly around the front porch while local yokels play the banjo? That is a lie. Bloodhounds need tons of exercise so you'd better be a runner or an escaped criminal, 'cause those dogs need to GO.
martes, 19 de marzo de 2013
Spring, and five weeks later...
viernes, 15 de marzo de 2013
Good and Bad
My orthopedist, after having tied me in knots in several directions, declared that the persistent pain in my right leg is caused neither by a degenerating hip joint nor the sciatical nerve. We can chalk it up to fibromyalgia, and he encouraged me to get out there and run at whatever speed I can work up.
But, on another note, he told me to limit my coffee intake to two cups a day. Folks, this just can't be done. It is my only vice, for God's sake! I grind my own beans and have a nice drip coffee maker recommended by Cooks Illustrated; I use organically shade-grown Mexican coffee.
I figured there had to be some kind of out, so I checked online and found a study by no less than the Mayo Clinic which found no correlation between caffeine intake and bone density loss, except in the case of women who smoke, drink a lot of caffeine, and imbibe alcohol. That lets me off the hook, because only in much older women (older than who?) did the study find some loss of femur bone mass, but running will take care of that.
In the spirit of compromise, however, I have decided not to sit at the computer with a non-stop supply of coffee.
Armed with orthopedist's advice, I headed to the park today and did a brisk one kilometer walk and ran another one. It was not my usual hour for the park, and the cast of characters was quite different. Most notable were a couple who seemed to have hooked up at the park itself, since the man was trotting as slowly as he could while the woman walked. He was telling her that he was a marathonist, and when he felt like a little extra exercise, he hung from a tree. I am not kidding here. While the over-40 woman squealed with admiration at the tree act (God is great, he kept me quiet while I passed them...), the over-50 man continued to give a detailed account of his exercise feats. I didn't hear them all, but nothing outdid the tree bit. It was my assumption that the guy used his arms to do the hanging, but the mind runs rampant with alternative scenarios!
It has been a weird day even from the get-go. I sat with my first cup of coffee about 5:30 a.m., taking my vitamin pill, my thyroid hormone replacement pill, and my folic acid when I dropped the thyroid pill. Lusso, in a flash, ate it. I pried his mouth open but could see nothing (it is a very small pill and a very big mouth filled with teeth the same color as the pill), but eventually I managed to rescue one very tiny piece. A picture went through my mind of Lusso being wired to the gills and ricochetting off the walls. After about an hour I called the vets' office and the one on emergency duty told me he would probably be okay since he is big and heavy now. He does seem pretty active, however, so today is the day: he swims or I sink in the effort. By dang, he is a water dog!
But, on another note, he told me to limit my coffee intake to two cups a day. Folks, this just can't be done. It is my only vice, for God's sake! I grind my own beans and have a nice drip coffee maker recommended by Cooks Illustrated; I use organically shade-grown Mexican coffee.
I figured there had to be some kind of out, so I checked online and found a study by no less than the Mayo Clinic which found no correlation between caffeine intake and bone density loss, except in the case of women who smoke, drink a lot of caffeine, and imbibe alcohol. That lets me off the hook, because only in much older women (older than who?) did the study find some loss of femur bone mass, but running will take care of that.
In the spirit of compromise, however, I have decided not to sit at the computer with a non-stop supply of coffee.
Armed with orthopedist's advice, I headed to the park today and did a brisk one kilometer walk and ran another one. It was not my usual hour for the park, and the cast of characters was quite different. Most notable were a couple who seemed to have hooked up at the park itself, since the man was trotting as slowly as he could while the woman walked. He was telling her that he was a marathonist, and when he felt like a little extra exercise, he hung from a tree. I am not kidding here. While the over-40 woman squealed with admiration at the tree act (God is great, he kept me quiet while I passed them...), the over-50 man continued to give a detailed account of his exercise feats. I didn't hear them all, but nothing outdid the tree bit. It was my assumption that the guy used his arms to do the hanging, but the mind runs rampant with alternative scenarios!
It has been a weird day even from the get-go. I sat with my first cup of coffee about 5:30 a.m., taking my vitamin pill, my thyroid hormone replacement pill, and my folic acid when I dropped the thyroid pill. Lusso, in a flash, ate it. I pried his mouth open but could see nothing (it is a very small pill and a very big mouth filled with teeth the same color as the pill), but eventually I managed to rescue one very tiny piece. A picture went through my mind of Lusso being wired to the gills and ricochetting off the walls. After about an hour I called the vets' office and the one on emergency duty told me he would probably be okay since he is big and heavy now. He does seem pretty active, however, so today is the day: he swims or I sink in the effort. By dang, he is a water dog!
miércoles, 13 de marzo de 2013
Harvesting!
Incredible, but I am able to harvest lettuce and baby spinach each day for a salad! My square foot garden has come up so well that if you stand there a while you see stuff grow! As soon as I get a memory card for my camera, you will see a shot of the thing again, this time replete with things to eat.
And the fight goes on...
Just a few days ago I sent off the check to the IRS for the amount I was charged for "late filing", for God's sake. And now, I am again sending off my tax return, but this time I owe no money. This does not mean I might not be charged a penalty for late filing if the thing once more gets lost in the shuffle.
I sent a letter to the new head of the Treasury Department, with no hope of it eliciting a response--nothing I have every written to a government official has gotten a response except for a letter to Johnson about a million years ago, and that probably put me on some kind of FBI screwball list. Oh well, even that must mean something!
I'm not willing to get into a sarcasm battle with the IRS because they don't answer in kind, they just charge you something. This time I was sarcastic silently--I sent my tax return in a bubble envelope with "Fragil, Handle with Care" printed on it. You think maybe that will get me into trouble? Just in case they should think some kook had sent a package of poop or another resentful item, I added on the envelope that the contents were only paper.
On the other hand, I may get into trouble with the Secretary of the Treasury himself since I was polite but pissed; if you don't hear from me again, it could mean I've been arrested or am in hiding at the quinta.
I sent a letter to the new head of the Treasury Department, with no hope of it eliciting a response--nothing I have every written to a government official has gotten a response except for a letter to Johnson about a million years ago, and that probably put me on some kind of FBI screwball list. Oh well, even that must mean something!
I'm not willing to get into a sarcasm battle with the IRS because they don't answer in kind, they just charge you something. This time I was sarcastic silently--I sent my tax return in a bubble envelope with "Fragil, Handle with Care" printed on it. You think maybe that will get me into trouble? Just in case they should think some kook had sent a package of poop or another resentful item, I added on the envelope that the contents were only paper.
On the other hand, I may get into trouble with the Secretary of the Treasury himself since I was polite but pissed; if you don't hear from me again, it could mean I've been arrested or am in hiding at the quinta.
martes, 5 de marzo de 2013
Time for a revolution
Please read the March 4 issue of Time magazine, and the long article by Steven Brill. It has to be read to be believed, but it makes crystal-clear that we have no business arguing about who is to pay for medical costs in this country, but rather why medical costs are so outrageous. Unless we start doing something, even if it is reading and passing the message, we are going to be taken to the cleaners like no one has ever been taken to the cleaners before. And all I can add is that the "non-profit" hospitals in Mexico are beginning to follow suit.
And if you don't have medical insurance, you are paying for every single individual who does. Sounds really fair, doesn't it?
And if you don't have medical insurance, you are paying for every single individual who does. Sounds really fair, doesn't it?
lunes, 18 de febrero de 2013
Haircuts and makeup
Going out yesterday to support one of my sons and a friend, who ran the 21K Tarahumara event here by our running park, was my first public appearance with my new Judi Dench haircut. "Short" is an understatement, but at my age, you can get away with murder because no one gives a damn what you look like. I don't look as sophisticated as Judi Dench because my hair isn't white yet, and I usually dress like someone who has been doing yard work all day because I usually have. The Judi Dench Look only really works if you adopt the whole thing.
Thinking I should clean out the stuff under my bathroom sink in search of makeup (Judi Dench's makeup is impeccable), I found a face cream I bought the last time I took my mother to the drugstore in Lubbock. Like I say, in the most unexpected moment, grief leaps out from behind the door and kicks you in the teeth. I have been unable to delete her emails, just can't bring myself to do it, but I don't open my email account as often as I used to, either. I communicate with my brother by iPhone, and only my cousins' emails brighten my day.
But on a completely different note, at the same time as I applied the face cream--just because I had bought it with Mom--I couldn't help laughing at her sure-fire remedy for wrinkles: Any face cream works as long as you aren't wearing your glasses when you look in the mirror. And by dang, it works!
Thinking I should clean out the stuff under my bathroom sink in search of makeup (Judi Dench's makeup is impeccable), I found a face cream I bought the last time I took my mother to the drugstore in Lubbock. Like I say, in the most unexpected moment, grief leaps out from behind the door and kicks you in the teeth. I have been unable to delete her emails, just can't bring myself to do it, but I don't open my email account as often as I used to, either. I communicate with my brother by iPhone, and only my cousins' emails brighten my day.
But on a completely different note, at the same time as I applied the face cream--just because I had bought it with Mom--I couldn't help laughing at her sure-fire remedy for wrinkles: Any face cream works as long as you aren't wearing your glasses when you look in the mirror. And by dang, it works!
sábado, 9 de febrero de 2013
Before, just in case there is an after...
Here is the square foot garden just set up and with one herb, thyme, already transplanted there. If there is an after, I will upload those pictures too. As you can see, the garden looms right at the entrance to the house, but I don't care in the least. Roberto may not be too happy with it, but that is because Mexicans are somewhat hidebound about where things "should" go. Think of Japan--every inch of space planted or used pragmatically.
miércoles, 6 de febrero de 2013
That old, non-stop comeback trail...
One of the really demoralizing things about fibromyalgia is that you are always beginning again.
I finally decided that I simply could NOT make much progress with two large dogs on a leash, so I have been giving them exercise in the back yard, but I go on my trotting/walking/crawling routine alone, and already I have gotten a bit better. I have also forced myself to trot only three days a week and do some kind of weight work on two days, resting over the weekend.
However, there are flies in this ointment. Soon I will post a picture of my square-foot garden, set up on my front entrance because it is the only place I have enough hours of sunlight. This is an interesting system that requires mixing peat moss, vermiculite, and compost in equal parts, and supposedly you can practically feed a nation on the produce.
My day of working with some kind of weights (I figured a shovel and wheelbarrow qualified as "weights") was mixing day, and let me tell ya, folks, it was so hard I had to do it during two days and I can't guarantee the quality of the mix. I spread a huge plastic sheet in my garage and had at it. Horrible beyond words!! The peat moss came pressure-packed and I had to break the pieces up by hand, the compost plus humus and the vermiculate somehow didn't want to integrate, and the whole thing gave me terminal allergy. Plus, my sun filter sweated into my eyes and I did most of the work practically blind, trying to see out of slitted eyelids to keep the burning down to a minimum.
By the time I had put together the wooden frames and filled them with the mixture (you must moisten each layer as you go about it, so there was that too), every muscle I owned, and some which may have belonged to other people, ached, It was not a fibro ache, either, it was from sheer muscular overwork.
I took pictures today--the "before"--and I can only pray there is an "after" where all my crops are flourishing. There will be, I hope, cilantro, dill, tomato (only a miracle will produce a tomato, frankly, I've never produced a single one), two kinds of lettuce, squash, Italian parsley, and marjoram. If the system works, hot damn! This mixing nightmare only occurs once; each year you just add a bit of new compost to the plot and you are all set.
Ah yes, compost, a subject dear to my heart! It is taking place now in four stages: kitchen bowl for chopped organic leftovers, plastic bin outdoors for accumulating the leftovers, an urban composter that can be added to each day, and a simpler composter that layers the goodies until it is full. I found a guy here who produces humus, too, and sells 70-pound bags for about 13 dollars.
Meanwhile, life goes on. Went to the quinta and came back after two days because it is tick season--they are coming out in numbers too terrible to contemplate. Couldn't let the dogs or myself stay outside very long, but even then I found one on my back. I fared worse than the dogs, they didn't get any!
Tomorrow is weight training day. What a relief!
I finally decided that I simply could NOT make much progress with two large dogs on a leash, so I have been giving them exercise in the back yard, but I go on my trotting/walking/crawling routine alone, and already I have gotten a bit better. I have also forced myself to trot only three days a week and do some kind of weight work on two days, resting over the weekend.
However, there are flies in this ointment. Soon I will post a picture of my square-foot garden, set up on my front entrance because it is the only place I have enough hours of sunlight. This is an interesting system that requires mixing peat moss, vermiculite, and compost in equal parts, and supposedly you can practically feed a nation on the produce.
My day of working with some kind of weights (I figured a shovel and wheelbarrow qualified as "weights") was mixing day, and let me tell ya, folks, it was so hard I had to do it during two days and I can't guarantee the quality of the mix. I spread a huge plastic sheet in my garage and had at it. Horrible beyond words!! The peat moss came pressure-packed and I had to break the pieces up by hand, the compost plus humus and the vermiculate somehow didn't want to integrate, and the whole thing gave me terminal allergy. Plus, my sun filter sweated into my eyes and I did most of the work practically blind, trying to see out of slitted eyelids to keep the burning down to a minimum.
By the time I had put together the wooden frames and filled them with the mixture (you must moisten each layer as you go about it, so there was that too), every muscle I owned, and some which may have belonged to other people, ached, It was not a fibro ache, either, it was from sheer muscular overwork.
I took pictures today--the "before"--and I can only pray there is an "after" where all my crops are flourishing. There will be, I hope, cilantro, dill, tomato (only a miracle will produce a tomato, frankly, I've never produced a single one), two kinds of lettuce, squash, Italian parsley, and marjoram. If the system works, hot damn! This mixing nightmare only occurs once; each year you just add a bit of new compost to the plot and you are all set.
Ah yes, compost, a subject dear to my heart! It is taking place now in four stages: kitchen bowl for chopped organic leftovers, plastic bin outdoors for accumulating the leftovers, an urban composter that can be added to each day, and a simpler composter that layers the goodies until it is full. I found a guy here who produces humus, too, and sells 70-pound bags for about 13 dollars.
Meanwhile, life goes on. Went to the quinta and came back after two days because it is tick season--they are coming out in numbers too terrible to contemplate. Couldn't let the dogs or myself stay outside very long, but even then I found one on my back. I fared worse than the dogs, they didn't get any!
Tomorrow is weight training day. What a relief!
What the founding fathers didn't found...
Have you noticed that the right to bear arms was simply that, not the right to bear cannons and cannon balls? Just in case anyone was worried about equivalents...
jueves, 17 de enero de 2013
Granny
My grandmother was a very unusual person, especially for her times. I have a number of memories since she babysat me while my mother worked.
Milk used to be delivered in glass bottles to her doorstep. The bottles had a small bulge at the upper end, sort of like a disproportionate figure eight, where the cream gathered. Milk was not homogenized back then, and the joy of tasting that wonderful cream was enormous. With each bottle, you got skim milk and cream, not a bad deal.
Granny made pancakes out of buckwheat flour and served them with molassas. She would also make them into shapes--letters or animals. It seemed that no whim of mine was beyond satisfying, either. I used to adore sitting on the floor reading a Mighty Mouse comic book and eating pumpkin from a can. Once I went with her on a train trip and would only eat chocolates sprinkles and black olives, but that was okay with her. I must have been a nightmare to try to feed, but I gobbled up her pancakes, her yellow grits, Cream of Wheat, and just about anything else she made.
If I wanted to make mud pies in the back yard, she would let me decorate them with toothpaste in lieu of frosting. I left them out to dry in the sun ("bake"), only to find them covered with ants which ate the sugar from the toothpaste.
She had a kind of shed to one side of her house where she stored gardening implements and other odds and ends, even though she also had a small garage (to me it seemed huge). Once while playing with my friends I was jumping up and down on the roof of the shed when it caved in. No one was hurt.
In those days, we children roamed the neighborhood with almost complete freedom, although more than once when confined to the house by winter's cold, I would escape out the back door and run down the alley with Granny in hot pursuit. (If I had to do for my grandkids what she did for me, I would drop dead within a week.) My best friend Linda Hunter lived on the corner of our block, and that alley was our prison-break route. We would often steal nickels from our caregivers' purses (her mom, my grandmother) and make a dash to the corner store where we spent our ill-gotten funds on tiny wax bottles shaped like Coke bottles, containing some kind of sweet liquid. After drinking the liquid you could then chew the wax.
My grandfather up and left my grandmother for another woman, and Granny found herself having to support herself. She took up bookkeeping, or accounting as it would be known now, and I remember the enormous, heavy books with minute lines for expenses, assets, etc., that she would work on at the kitchen table spread with papers and receipts.
After a while, she had a number of suitors who would ask her out. They may not have known they would also be saddled with me, but I remember one, Mack, who didn't seem to mind at all. On summer evenings he would take us to get snowcones, and I adored him for it.
When she finally married Glen, they set up house on a piece of land that allowed them to have a nice garden plot in the back yard. They were both avid gardeners and producers of various crops, and from them I developed a passion for growing some of my own vegetables--this year I am going to try Square Foot gardening, but more on that after the summer when I can report my findings. Glen also loved animals, and it's a good thing. My grandmother was singled out by every stray dog or cat in the area as the person to find. She never turned away a stray animal, and you can forget about the Dog Whisperer--she trained cats to ring bells to go outside, her marvelous Cocker spaniel Roger would play hide and seek with me, and he would carry a basket to the corner store when Granny walked there to pick up odds and ends. Roger would bring a can of soup or something equally important back with us to the house in his basket. This, with no leash. She had infinite patience and an innate sense of how to communicate what she wanted an animal to do. Her collection of strays never strayed again.
She had neighbors who had an English bulldog, Soda. Soda was the sweetest dog on the face of the earth, even more so than Roger. I was long gone when Roger and Soda died. My family had been sent to Georgia--my father was in the Air Force--and it was a tragedy for me. No grandmother, no dogs or cats. I didn't want to go and couldn't understand why I wasn't allowed to stay with Granny forever. God knows what my parents thought about this attitude, but the separation was just as hard for Granny as it was for me.
Decades later, when Granny was one of Alzheimer's victims, even though she didn't see me often, she would still light up when I went to visit her--somewhere, still alive in her mind, even though she may not have know who I was for sure, there lived that glorious feeling of love we felt for one another.
Milk used to be delivered in glass bottles to her doorstep. The bottles had a small bulge at the upper end, sort of like a disproportionate figure eight, where the cream gathered. Milk was not homogenized back then, and the joy of tasting that wonderful cream was enormous. With each bottle, you got skim milk and cream, not a bad deal.
Granny made pancakes out of buckwheat flour and served them with molassas. She would also make them into shapes--letters or animals. It seemed that no whim of mine was beyond satisfying, either. I used to adore sitting on the floor reading a Mighty Mouse comic book and eating pumpkin from a can. Once I went with her on a train trip and would only eat chocolates sprinkles and black olives, but that was okay with her. I must have been a nightmare to try to feed, but I gobbled up her pancakes, her yellow grits, Cream of Wheat, and just about anything else she made.
If I wanted to make mud pies in the back yard, she would let me decorate them with toothpaste in lieu of frosting. I left them out to dry in the sun ("bake"), only to find them covered with ants which ate the sugar from the toothpaste.
She had a kind of shed to one side of her house where she stored gardening implements and other odds and ends, even though she also had a small garage (to me it seemed huge). Once while playing with my friends I was jumping up and down on the roof of the shed when it caved in. No one was hurt.
In those days, we children roamed the neighborhood with almost complete freedom, although more than once when confined to the house by winter's cold, I would escape out the back door and run down the alley with Granny in hot pursuit. (If I had to do for my grandkids what she did for me, I would drop dead within a week.) My best friend Linda Hunter lived on the corner of our block, and that alley was our prison-break route. We would often steal nickels from our caregivers' purses (her mom, my grandmother) and make a dash to the corner store where we spent our ill-gotten funds on tiny wax bottles shaped like Coke bottles, containing some kind of sweet liquid. After drinking the liquid you could then chew the wax.
My grandfather up and left my grandmother for another woman, and Granny found herself having to support herself. She took up bookkeeping, or accounting as it would be known now, and I remember the enormous, heavy books with minute lines for expenses, assets, etc., that she would work on at the kitchen table spread with papers and receipts.
After a while, she had a number of suitors who would ask her out. They may not have known they would also be saddled with me, but I remember one, Mack, who didn't seem to mind at all. On summer evenings he would take us to get snowcones, and I adored him for it.
When she finally married Glen, they set up house on a piece of land that allowed them to have a nice garden plot in the back yard. They were both avid gardeners and producers of various crops, and from them I developed a passion for growing some of my own vegetables--this year I am going to try Square Foot gardening, but more on that after the summer when I can report my findings. Glen also loved animals, and it's a good thing. My grandmother was singled out by every stray dog or cat in the area as the person to find. She never turned away a stray animal, and you can forget about the Dog Whisperer--she trained cats to ring bells to go outside, her marvelous Cocker spaniel Roger would play hide and seek with me, and he would carry a basket to the corner store when Granny walked there to pick up odds and ends. Roger would bring a can of soup or something equally important back with us to the house in his basket. This, with no leash. She had infinite patience and an innate sense of how to communicate what she wanted an animal to do. Her collection of strays never strayed again.
She had neighbors who had an English bulldog, Soda. Soda was the sweetest dog on the face of the earth, even more so than Roger. I was long gone when Roger and Soda died. My family had been sent to Georgia--my father was in the Air Force--and it was a tragedy for me. No grandmother, no dogs or cats. I didn't want to go and couldn't understand why I wasn't allowed to stay with Granny forever. God knows what my parents thought about this attitude, but the separation was just as hard for Granny as it was for me.
Decades later, when Granny was one of Alzheimer's victims, even though she didn't see me often, she would still light up when I went to visit her--somewhere, still alive in her mind, even though she may not have know who I was for sure, there lived that glorious feeling of love we felt for one another.
The IRS and I
Last April, having completed my very simplistic tax statement, I printed it up and sent it to the IRS along with a check for the relatively measly amount I owed them.
Around July (okay, I'm slow but sure) I decided to ask them why they had not cashed the check. At the time I wondered if maybe I hadn't included my SS number on the check itself--that alone is enough to fling a spanner into the whole works.
The IRS sent me a letter stating that both the check and the tax filing form were lost. They told me I didn't have to do anything at that time since within 45 days they would contact me again with more information.
More information said that the items were still missing, that the IRS had a considerable work load (read "horrendous backlog") of similar problems, and I didn't have anything I needed to do at that time.
By this time it was November. I cancelled the check I had originally sent, wrote a new one, included a copy of the original tax return, a cover letter listing the items included in the envelope, and shot it off to the IRS.
Last week (and quite a while after noticing the check had been cashed) I received a letter from the IRS telling me they had received the check but that I still owed them a tax return form! It was in the same envelope, folks!
Two days ago I sent yet another print-out of my tax return, but my blood runs cold. I can see myself still trying to file for 2011 when it is time to file for 2012. Not only that, but I cannot prove, beyond circumstancial evidence, that I ever sent that first check and tax return, so I also contemplate with horror the idea that I may be charged interest and sanctions and a staggering portion of the national debt load.
I am certain that the amount I paid in taxes was a lot less, by far, than the cost of writing back and forth to me and searching for my original documents. And just think--I'm an honest taxpayer. If such a complete snafu can take place with such an unimportant taxpayer as I am, what happens with dishonest people who try to take the system for all it's worth? If government spending needs to be reduced and income increased, the gov could start by making the IRS a functional entity. How much does it cost to process thousands upon thousands of screwed-up tax returns, lost statements and checks? There's something loose in the offices of the IRS and it aint Albert Einstein...
Around July (okay, I'm slow but sure) I decided to ask them why they had not cashed the check. At the time I wondered if maybe I hadn't included my SS number on the check itself--that alone is enough to fling a spanner into the whole works.
The IRS sent me a letter stating that both the check and the tax filing form were lost. They told me I didn't have to do anything at that time since within 45 days they would contact me again with more information.
More information said that the items were still missing, that the IRS had a considerable work load (read "horrendous backlog") of similar problems, and I didn't have anything I needed to do at that time.
By this time it was November. I cancelled the check I had originally sent, wrote a new one, included a copy of the original tax return, a cover letter listing the items included in the envelope, and shot it off to the IRS.
Last week (and quite a while after noticing the check had been cashed) I received a letter from the IRS telling me they had received the check but that I still owed them a tax return form! It was in the same envelope, folks!
Two days ago I sent yet another print-out of my tax return, but my blood runs cold. I can see myself still trying to file for 2011 when it is time to file for 2012. Not only that, but I cannot prove, beyond circumstancial evidence, that I ever sent that first check and tax return, so I also contemplate with horror the idea that I may be charged interest and sanctions and a staggering portion of the national debt load.
I am certain that the amount I paid in taxes was a lot less, by far, than the cost of writing back and forth to me and searching for my original documents. And just think--I'm an honest taxpayer. If such a complete snafu can take place with such an unimportant taxpayer as I am, what happens with dishonest people who try to take the system for all it's worth? If government spending needs to be reduced and income increased, the gov could start by making the IRS a functional entity. How much does it cost to process thousands upon thousands of screwed-up tax returns, lost statements and checks? There's something loose in the offices of the IRS and it aint Albert Einstein...
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