3668 Daily blessings

Friday, November 23, 2012

"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired

signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed,

those who are cold and not clothed.

This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat

of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children." 

-- Dwight D. Eisenhower --

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I guess I've been pretty clear that I'm not big on holidays, partly because they are commercially perverted and exploited, but also because we as a society seem to have forgotten the true purpose and reason for those holidays.  Kinda like Sundays.  I get very annoyed by people who are all pious and holy on Sunday morning, and then forget it all for the next six and a half days, 'til it's time to be publicly pious and holy again.  I think the sentiments of Sunday, Christmas, Easter, Valentine's Day, and all that should be an every day thing.  Like, ONE day for being grateful for our bounty?  ONE day to get together with family?  Bull poopy.  We should be grateful every day.  Stop complaining on every other day of the year about what you don't have or want but can't get.  Every time you go to the grocery store, give thanks for what the earth gives us.

I had told The Man that I don't enjoy giving or receiving gifts on those days when they are expected (and in some cases demanded).  I prefer it to be a more natural spontaneous "I saw this and thought of you" type thing.  I never ever want a "gift" that someone felt they had to give me because the calendar said so.  He seemed very relieved by that.

A cynic could interpret that as that I want every day to be Valentine's Day.  Well, uh, yeah.

Hercules has yesterday and today off work.  Daughter didn't cook yesterday.  They decided to relax and enjoy life instead.  I think she had intended to do the turkey bit because she had invited me to dinner, but I turned her down.  She knows I don't like holiday fuss, but what I didn't tell her was that a) I dislike turkey, and b) I had a 2-hour shift washing pots at a Sandy shelter.

So anyway, she's cooking today and will bring me some leftovers.

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So far I have still seen only two squirrels since the hurricane.  Normally one sees six or eight in the trees, and you can hear many more scolding cats and each other all day.

Sqiuggy came by yesterday morning for his peanuts.  I can put out only one at a time because he takes one at a time and disappears to bury it (I guess), so if the blue jay is around the jay steals the rest.  Yesterday I had thrown a peanut onto the driveway, and squirrel #2 ran up to investigate.

Squiggy had a fit!

He chased #2 in circles on the driveway, up onto the porch, around behind me so close their flailing tails brushed my ankles, through the railing and around the side of the house.

This morning #2 is digging around in George's front yard, carefully keeping his back to me.

I haven't seen Squiggy since the chase.  I guess he won the argument, but I wonder if there was a price.
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2726 Happy New Year

Friday, January 1, 2010

People do not do things for logical reasons.
People find logical reasons to do things they want,
and the more intelligent the people,
the better the reasons they come up with.
-- Harold Nickel, Mensa Bulletin, May 2000 --

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I did go out last night, but all day it was a tossup.

By noon yesterday, there was (were?) two inches of fluff in the driveway. Two inches is no problem getting up or down the drive. Three inches is difficult, possibly dangerous. Four inches is impossible. The snow had stopped, but more was expected during the night. I checked five different weather prediction sources, and the totals expected by this morning ranged from two to six inches.

So I called the plowman and paid $55 to have two lousy inches plowed. That way, maybe I'd be able to get up the drive at 2 am if three more fell. If it was four more, I could be in big trouble, since I can't leave the car on the road - I have to at least get it past the plow hump and into the driveway.

I was also very angry because the town plow hit my mailbox again, and this time they sprung the side away from the base, and now it won't close at all.

All very discouraging. But in the evening I got dressed anyway, and by damn I looked so good I didn't want to waste it, I'd hate myself if I did, so I went. I figured that if things got complicated, I'd figure it out later.

The party was in Connecticut, an 80 minute drive. It was sponsored by several Meetup singles' groups, at a fire hall, and the cost when I'd registered was only something like $45, which is really cheap for a New Year's Eve party, so I wasn't expecting much.

It was amazing! There were probably 160 people. The male/female distribution was good. The announcement had said "dressy casual, but formal is ok too." There were lots of sequins. I never saw so many skin-tight dresses all in one place! (Um, someone should tell women that when you have back rolls, skin tight is not a good choice.) And lots of pushed-up pouter pigeon breasts. Me, I was pretty well covered in my Assuit dress (the mid-priced soft one, with real silver), but still intriguing because I wore it over a spaghetti-strap long leotard.

The food was terrific: chicken in a beautiful mushroom sauce, tender roast beef carved on command, crab casserole in oyster shells, interesting breads, salad, green beans with pimento, and more. The bar was all free, and it wasn't just wine and beer. They had everything. I had one of my favorite sweet liquors, and they filled the glass to the top. The band was really good. The lead guitarist and singer was a red-headed kid that didn't look more than 16, but he was incredible. He had performed with and was a protege of Les Paul.

I sat at a table with four bawdy broads slightly younger than I, and a younger man. I enjoyed them all.

About 10:30 they did the bachelor auction (the auction was to benefit Ann's Place, a cancer support center). The guy I had my eye on wasn't there, which was disappointing, but there were about 10 others. They were going for like $25 to $75, it was sort of pitiful, so I bought two. I haven't decided whether I'll actually collect on the dates. I consider it a donation.

They had a bunch of other things for auction, too. They went at rock bottom prices because they had not been advertised, so no one had done the research or come prepared to bid on them. There were fancy watches, and jewelry. There were huge framed concert posters that went for maybe $50. The auctioneer was almost crying. "This is a PROOF! A PROOF of the famous poster that goes for $3,000! This is worth twice that!" Well, what's a proof?

I accidentally bought a Gibson Epiphone SG Special electric guitar, that had been signed by Les Paul on his 94th birthday, two months before he died, along with a really fancy soft case, and two photographs of Les Paul signing it. I haven't the faintest idea what I'm going to do with it. The red-headed kid played it after I bought it, and kissed it goodbye. Does anyone know the proper way to store it? Should I loosen the strings?

I probably ought to find a buyer for it. If I wait a few years, it might go for more, but knowing me, I might injure it between now and then.

[Later - I found something online: If storing for more than 4 months, release some but not all of the tension from the strings, and store it in a living-area closet, not an attic or basement.]

At 11:30ish it started to snow, heavily, big flakes. I started to worry, because I would be heading north. But the snow stopped with only a dusting.

At midnight I followed a tradition from my youth, and looked for the oldest guy in the place to kiss. The guy had to be nearing, if not over, ninety, a tiny guy with curly white hair, and I planted one on his cheek. Bad idea. He followed me around after that, kept kissing me on the cheek, and pressed his business card on me. (He's a medical doctor.)

Also after midnight, I finally danced with two of the bawdy broads, and I finally got some male attention. Too late, fellas. Yeah, I gots me some moves, but if that's all that interests you, that doesn't go far.

Got home a little after 2 am. No snow on the driveway.
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#451 Pennsylvania

I'm back from Pennsylvania, the land of scrapple and suicide lanes. Nice Thanksgiving dinner at Daughter's fiance Hercules' grandmother Nana's house, where I finally found out the difference between stuffing and dressing.

Daughter and Hercules came up from New Jersey. They're taking a few days to explore areas in Pennsylvania they might consider moving to. Hercules' mother is on an extended visit from California.

Hmmm, lots of things in the first paragraph to explain to non-Pennsylvanians!

Scrapple IS what most people think Spam is but isn't. When Hormel makes a canned ham, they cut the big hunk of meat off the shoulder, and can it. But there's a lot of meat left on, in, and around the shoulder bones. So they trim all the bits of meat off the bones (getting a bit of the soft gristle, too, pure protein), grind it and put it in the Spam can, seal the can, then cook it. Cooking in the can is what causes all the nice jelly around the Spam. Spam is pure ground-up pork shoulder. Nothing else, nothing yucky. I like Spam.

Scrapple, on the other hand, is made from all kinds of scraps. I had a very bad experience more than 50 years ago when I accidentally saw scrapple being made. It involved huge a boiling vat topped with gray foam that parted to reveal an entire pig head, that rolled up like the "NO!" in a Magic Eightball. It had eye holes. Its tongue was hanging out. It looked at me. To this day, the mere smell of scrapple nauseates me. I was offered scrapple for breakfast this morning, and the severed pig head looked at me again.

Suicide lanes seem to be unique to Pennsylvania. I thought they had gotten rid of them, because they do deserve the name. It's a third center lane on a rural two lane highway, to be used only for left turns from either direction (or, unofficially, for passing a slow farm vehicle or Amish carriage). It runs for miles, down the middle of the road. Naturally, some idiots think it's a "go faster" lane created especially for them. So some innocent will pull into the suicide lane to make a left turn, and be clobbered at 60 mph by an idiot who can't get back into the regular lane quick enough. Unless the idiot has already been clobbered by another idiot doing the same thing from the other direction. Oh well. A lot of Pennsylvania is still nearly virgin forest. Maybe this is how the state keeps population growth down.

AOL Journal Land has been full of arguments and discussions the past week or so about stuffing versus dressing. I never knew there was a difference. Nana served both yesterday. The stuffing was the usual bread etc. mixture stuffed into the turkey. The dressing was mashed potatoes with sauteed onions and celery, and a couple slices of white toast cut into small cubes and then sauteed with the veggies, and veggies and bread were then mixed into the potatoes. I liked both. Yummy.

I'm blathering. I'm kind of avoiding a topic I want to note here. For myself.

This past summer I told Daughter one of my biggest secrets, because it affects her, and because she finally came right out and asked. It was finally unavoidably time. I had hoped she would just sit on the information, because it could potentially adversely affect another, who is deeply involved but didn't know it. Or suspected, because of some questions I had to ask about ten years ago, but didn't know for sure. And probably didn't want to know. And really didn't need to know anyway. Maybe.

Yeah. I should have known better. This is, after all, Daughter. She is what she is and has always been. If she were a dog, she'd be a terrier.

Daughter made contact, an anonymous card last June (which she didn't tell me about until now), and a phone call this past week. They discussed the topic. They're exchanging photos. I can't believe it. My past is coming back to haunt me.

She's handling it well. So's he, apparently. I'm a mess.

I don't know how to feel about it. It's been in the back of my head for 30 years, and now here it is right in front. She played a stored cell phone message for me to hear, and the voice on the phone shook me badly. I asked Hercules' aunt for a cigarette, and I took it down to the basement and smoked it. I don't know why, but when my mind is going six directions at once, the only thing that will stop it and put me back on track is nicotine.

She has given me an email address.

She has pointed him to this journal.

Ack!

I wanted to do an entry on "I want to go home". It's all written up - I wrote it last week, when I noticed that I say "I am content" a lot in these journals, even when things are tearing me up. It's such a difference, and I wanted to explore it. I figured I'd put it in sometime when I have no time to write or nothing to say.

But now I hesitate.

And I'm not sure why.

~~Silk