tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28853992454200346882024-03-14T01:34:01.289-07:00Cracker Dreams and Singlewide WishesHow one woman avoids bouncing checks.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-36793120049518721432010-10-03T19:21:00.000-07:002010-10-03T19:22:49.616-07:00A Book ReviewI was told I should pass this book review on to a wider audience, so I'm following directions. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAPTw-gtQthStM_F-qqzLdVSpHunwC8ZP-JBp2PyKJMN4LKCjG2xtftDsoYA0TOVSNEZ5kfOnMh5Eqpqqan6t-Lbsvm-YDv1n3N_cvrVq6I022sS3ihOYxFWvQR8BF1RA2BSPNyrldHsi/s1600/Dork+Diaries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAPTw-gtQthStM_F-qqzLdVSpHunwC8ZP-JBp2PyKJMN4LKCjG2xtftDsoYA0TOVSNEZ5kfOnMh5Eqpqqan6t-Lbsvm-YDv1n3N_cvrVq6I022sS3ihOYxFWvQR8BF1RA2BSPNyrldHsi/s200/Dork+Diaries.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3hLqZHksSDSacIaxdaR0l8-FXEGmD0QyOC9KPZPckrR_MoN-mc0ALbG62LiEjTmSwDGDeg8OfyHihcdQ9kQJbIWMsQMe3hVXzy_lyOaJKmleCOB8Of416ju4aeFEOLmXJq7MGcWkn0IuS/s1600/Dork+Diaries+Book+2+Purple+Cover.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3hLqZHksSDSacIaxdaR0l8-FXEGmD0QyOC9KPZPckrR_MoN-mc0ALbG62LiEjTmSwDGDeg8OfyHihcdQ9kQJbIWMsQMe3hVXzy_lyOaJKmleCOB8Of416ju4aeFEOLmXJq7MGcWkn0IuS/s200/Dork+Diaries+Book+2+Purple+Cover.JPG" width="136" /></a></div><br />
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These were ordered for my branch, so I picked them up because they've been sort of called the girl version of Diary of a Wimpy Kid. These books may actually confirm my suspicions that I grew up to be a 12 year-old boy, because I <i>really</i> didn't give a flying shit. <br />
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The characters, including the main character, are rather cardboard. The protagonist is supposedly a dork who spends a <i>lot</i> of time discussing her dorkitude, though she really isn't very dorky. Then there are her background BFFS and MacKenzie, the rich, snotty, mean girl, who for some reason spends a lot of time antagonizing a girl who supposedly isn't even on her social level. And then the cute crush and blah, fucking, blah. Watch Mean Girls and you get the picture. There is no growth in these characters so it's like reading a very long and much more boring roadrunner cartoon. <br />
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There are about 40 to fucking many pop culture references (iPhone, Tyra Banks, emo, Walmart, Jimmy Choos, etc.) for this series to be relevant five years from now. Hell, I'm not sure if they'll remain relevant through October. <br />
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It seems like the author is trying to make it very clear that she's up on all the latest popular must-haves and stereotypes. It is definitely nowhere <i>near</i> DoaWK. <br />
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And seriously, there has <i>got</i> to be some fucking newer book series about an average girl's life that doesn't follow this sad ass formula. I don't know yet, because I've only read this one and one of those Clique books.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-84359878084589919962010-09-29T20:08:00.000-07:002010-10-03T19:40:11.794-07:00The BoysMy mother comes from a family of seven children - or eleven. It depends entirely on whether we're counting half-siblings, step-siblings, and that one daughter of my grandaddy's that technically wasn't his his daughter because she was born eleven months after he'd already been shipped to Korea, but he apparently didn't want her to grow up thinking she didn't have a father. Out of these eleven children, there are eight boys and they've always been known as The Boys. Sure, they're all in their in their late forties and fifties by now, but if they happen to hear someone shout, "Hey, boy!" across a parking lot, one will certainly turn around because he knows there is a cousin, an aunt, a niece or another sibling calling him.<br />
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I would more or less describe the Boys as good ol' boys in a sort of Dukes of Hazzard way. Except there are incredible amounts of drinking and pot involved and jail time served is 99% of the time deserved. They're good people in their own bizarre way. They're the last of a breed somehow raised on the idea that it's perfectly acceptable to beat the hell out of someone if they offend you. They're a rough and odd lot and I think my grandaddy probably ate more nitroglycerin trying to raise them than a normal man would have to, but they have their good qualities. I've had a couple of my uncles offer to beat people up if they needed me to. You never know when you might need an ass beater in life. I wouldn't want to have ever had one of them as a father and probably not a brother, but they make right tolerable uncles in the right situations. <br />
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Today's story involves my Uncle Bull. (As you know by now, I don't generally share the real names of my family members, but provide other suitable names. Bull's actual nickname was Bull for many years and described him well enough.) Uncle Bull is a good guy and I have a lot of nice memories of him when I was younger, but Uncle Bull is also an alcoholic who is generally not a good guy when he is drinking and I have some bad memories of him when I was younger. My mother always likes to bring up the time she'd spent a good while cleaning the bathroom once when I was four or so and instead of fumbling his way into the house or using a bush like a normal drunk, he decided to take a piss through the bathroom window.<br />
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Bull's been through some hard times. Alcoholics usually have those. He has a recidivism problem, so we usually don't see him for months or years at a time. Also, he has some physical defects going on that have come with those hard times. Around 1997, things weren't going well with a drinking buddy and his drinking buddy, under some impression that Bull was about to beat the shit out of him, opted to pull out a shotgun and use it rather than getting the shit beat out of him.<br />
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Frankly, the details are pretty sketchy since the drinking buddy shot him while Bull was attempting to push the drinking buddy's truck out of a ditch. Bull's kind of a big dude, but I severely doubt his ability to push a truck out of a ditch <i>and</i> beat the shit out of a drinking buddy from over 10 feet away. The reality is, no one was there to witness the shooting and we're talking about two drunk guys. Who knows what really happened?<br />
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As it is, Bull's a hardy sort of dude and came out of it essentially intact except for part of his head. He lost the left temporal lobe of his brain, his left eye, and his left ear. The loss of his temporal lobe affected his word recognition abilities for a little while and he would have difficulty recalling the appropriate words he wanted to use in the early days. Ants were sometimes biscuits and a decorative crow figurine was a spider. That has mostly improved over time, however.<br />
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In the summer of 2000, Bull was crossing a main highway in a small town in the next county over to buy something from the convenience store and was wearing headphones at the time and apparently thought this town was small enough that he had little to worry about in terms of road safety. His assumption proved wrong and a poor lady in a minivan knocked the ever loving shit out of him. Amazingly, Bull came out of that scrape a lot better than he could have because he suffered no head injuries. He did have a transected urethra, a broken arm, his pelvis was broken down the middle, and, if I recall correctly, about forty stitches across his back. I helped take care of him for several weeks during his convalescence and <i>that</i> is a whole other story.<br />
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Bull survived and moved on with his life as usual. His medical issues, however, had finally reached a state that at one point the prison system called and tried to get us to take him back before his sentence was up. We were basically of the opinion that they took him, so they could keep him. If you're going to provide a punishment for a crime, then it's only logical that you follow through with the punishment even if it hurts you as much as it hurts them. <br />
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Bull is currently out of the state penal system and is doing well as can be expected for an alcoholic dude missing a few portions of his head. He's gotten a lot better about wearing his eye patch in public. A few people around here apparently still don't know him - I guess because he spends so much time "on vacation" - and have to learn the hard way that he's a person you really sort of want to leave alone. I personally wouldn't bother a 6'2" dude with a big scruffy beard and eye patch, but some people have to learn the hard way. <br />
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Just last week, he forgot to lock his backdoor before going to bed. For some reason, he was resting with his one good ear on the pillow, so had it not been for his dog acting like a freak he'd have never heard the dude who welcomed himself in through the unlocked back door.<br />
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I never did get clarification on why the dude was walking into the house in the first place. Maybe he was just lost and walked into the wrong house. It's happened before. There was a whole incident involving Bull and some fried chicken in a house that turned out not to be his, so you'd think he might would ask the dude why he was roaming around having been in a couple of those mistaken house situations himself. Bull's an action sort of guy, though. Shoot first and ask questions later - except he's a convicted felon, so I don't think he's allowed to have guns anymore.<br />
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A lack of ammunition doesn't bother Bull though. The lack of a telephone was apparently a minor detail to be worked out, however. He grabbed the dude in a headlock, dragged him out of he house, across a four lane street in the downtown area, and into the Jet convenience store across the street wherein he hollered, "CALL THE COPS! CALL THE COPS RIGHT NOW!"<br />
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Bull, still holding the intruder in a headlock, dragged him back out of the store, back across the four lane street in the downtown area, and onto the back porch of his house where he then sat with his assailant still in a headlock while he waited for the cops to arrive.<br />
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The dude pleaded for his release several times while waiting for the cops to arrest him. (Or rescue him, depending on who's telling this story, I guess.) Bull wouldn't have any of it and would headbutt the dude and tell him to "be quiet and be still until the cops get here!" If I know Bull, there were a lot of "Mother fucker," "shit," and "fuck me running backwards" thrown into the mix, but my grandma told me this story, so I got it without the full Bull verbal force.<br />
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Eventually, the cops did arrive and admonished Bull for "taking the law into his own hands." I forgot to find out what happened to the dude, whether he was released under time served or jailed for bothering a one-eyed, one-eared dude while he was trying to sleep. Personally, I think Bull handled the situation rather well, given past incidents. He called the cops and that's always a good move. Sure, maybe you shouldn't hold an intruder hostage, but I reckon that mother fucker will learn about walking into houses that aren't his.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-76003165989498911262010-09-26T19:53:00.000-07:002010-09-26T19:53:38.372-07:00A Series of Unfortunate Events: Farewell Fair MaterI'm well known both online and in real life for my automobile trouble. Things <i>started</i> fine. I bought a 1994 Buick Century in 1997 and was the first person in my family to buy a car in the same decade it was manufactured. I loved that damned car. It was an old lady powder blue and was also the first car I'd ever been in that had automatic locking doors. The locks scared the bejebus out of me - I thought maybe it was some sort of Christine moment and my new car was going to eat me.<br />
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We made out okay, though. My fondest memories are the ones involving stupid little Mustangs that would sidle up next to me at the red light and rev their motors. I have no idea why people would antagonize a car that looked like it should be owned by a little 70-year-old woman (the previous owner was actually a little old couple), but they did. So I sat quietly staring over the dark blue dash, waiting for the light to change and then I'd dust the arseholes. God, I loved that car. <br />
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Well, that car is long gone - rear ended and subsequently totaled by a Neon. (I hate Neons now.) After a long succession of pieces o' shit, I am now the proud new owner of a 12-year-old Mitsubishi SUV given to me by mom when my sister upgraded last year to a hybrid. The Mitsubishi (or Mitchybitchy as a lot of people call them around here) sat in my back yard for the past year, biding it's time as my "back up ride." It need a couple of hundred dollars of parts and I hadn't quite reached the stage where I'd grown tired of trying to keep the Toyota (affectionately known as Mater in its last months) on the road.<br />
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Mater had a whole host of issues. The most disconcerting for me was the lack of a radio. Well, it actually <i>had</i> a radio, but it was in the trunk because I couldn't find a single person capable of wiring it back in to the big gaping hole in the console panel. I suppose I could have taken it to a shop and paid someone to do it, but I'm not willing to pay money for something if I think I can eventually find someone to do the work for free or trade. The great thing is, I know a few people who work on cars. The bad thing was that no one had any idea what was going on with my radio. I missed having a radio incredibly. In the old days, if the kids were being too obnoxious, I'd just stick in a tape and sing myself away to some Zen place in my head. Without a radio, I can't remember any of the lyrics. So I have to sing the same verse over and over until I move on to another verse from another song.<br />
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In reality, that was the least of Mater's issues - the radio is just the one that left me most mentally unfettered. Mater's issues are rather numerous, so I will now list them in bullet format because I frigging love lists.<br />
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<ul><li>No radio. </li>
<li>A crack in the windshield. (It wasn't a bad crack, but you know how cracks go. Much like my ass, it's just going to spread.)</li>
<li>A major oil leak that I attempted to have repaired three times (and PAID for it) that was never repaired. </li>
<li>A deer attacked my car the summer of 2009. The deer's head took out my driver's side mirror and its ass left a huge imprint on the left passenger door. I will never forget that wall eyed look of "WTF?" that deer gave me right before she spun off into a ditch. </li>
<li>A minor radiator leak. </li>
<li>The air conditioner only worked if it was less than 85 degrees outside. </li>
<li>The heater had vacated years ago. </li>
<li>One of the engine mounts wasn't feeling so good. </li>
<li>The pistons had a habit of voicing their displeasure. </li>
<li>A bushing or some other magical doohickey behind my right front tire had basically given up the ghost and that, as it turned out, happened to be why all of my mother fucking front right tires kept blowing out. </li>
<li>Hail damage on the trunk. </li>
<li>Both of the passenger door handles were broken. (This is apparently a Toyota issue.)</li>
<li>Wild Boy traditionally sits in the back on the passenger's side. One day, he felt he would be safer if he used the child safety lock for that door. Because the outside door handle was completely broken, that door could no longer be opened at all. </li>
<li>Once, I was on my way to the take the <a href="http://www.gace.nesinc.com/">GACE </a>in the middle of a thunderstorm and my right windshield wiper flew off. </li>
<li>I thought I accidentally locked my keys in the trunk about two years ago, so I popped the lock on the trunk only to later discover my keys had fallen between the cushions of the couch. The trunk still closed fine, but from then on I could open it with a flat head screwdriver. </li>
<li>The rear end says it's a "Yota" now. </li>
</ul>Even for all of it's problems, I was still determined to keep Mater on the road because I believe in getting every last drop out something that I can. I finally reached an impasse this past June, however.<br />
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I'd finished my evening rounds for the Census somewhere around 9PM one evening, had picked up the heathens from my mom's house, and was less than 2 miles from home when another bitch ass terrorist dear leaped at me from the passenger side. My first instinct was to swerve into the other lane, but there was a car already occupying the spot that I wanted so my only choice was to take the deer out. I did and I drove on to the house with the kids yabbering on about the deer.<br />
<br />
"Did you see it?! It did a back flip over that fence!"<br />
"Let's go back and get it! We can eat it!"<br />
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My little Cracker children. Laird bless, 'em. I didn't have room to stick a deer in my trunk. That's where I kept all my Diet Cokes and the car radio. <br />
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I was pretty lucky, because while I crushed a radiator support, the impact didn't crush the radiator. It just so happened that while the support was gone, the frame was crushed in just the right manner that it now supported the radiator. The bigger problem, however, was that I now had a whole pile of deer hair where my right headlight used to be and the frame was too crushed to stick another one in.<br />
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The deer also pushed the front quarter panel back into the front passenger's side door so I could no longer open the door all the way. The door leaked after that. <br />
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As I'd not had time to buy parts for the Mitsubishi and I didn't have time for my car to be down since I was using it to Censusually harrass people, I drove the now one-eyed Mater. My goal was to reach a quarter of a million miles and I was only 25K or so away. I wanted my 25K miles because <i>then</i> I'd be convinced I'd gotten my $1200 out of that car.<br />
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The night I took DMan to E/R because I thought he had strep throat made me rethink my goal. Apparently he'd developed a fever and a sore throat one Saturday while I was out Censusing. When I came in to pick up the heathens, he had a fever around 101 and appeared to have white patches on this throat. I'm of the firm opinion that strep throat is not something to play with because I once played with strep throat and ended up with pleurisy, so I have no qualms about going to the E/R if it's a weekend case of potential strep throat. I'd <i>prefer</i> if we had an urgent care center around this hole of a town or even if we still had our old pediatrician. I like our new pediatricians fine, but they don't give your their phone number. Our old pediatrician made it very clear to me once that I was to call her no matter what time. I miss her more than I miss my Buick.<br />
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As it turns out, he didn't have strep throat and that was a relief because that meant I didn't have to go into seclusion and miss time from work. No one wants to keep an infectious kid. We were on the way home when I ran into a roadblock comprised of deputies from my county, the next county over, and a few state troopers. I pulled out my license and the deputy asked me what happened to my headlight. I told him a deer attacked me.<br />
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"You know you can get a ticket for having a headlight out, don't you?" he said. "Now <i>I</i> wouldn't give you a ticket, but that trooper up there might." The way he said it, you could tell he was totally messing with me, but I played along and pleaded accordingly, "Could you ask me him to let me go this time?" What I meant was "Let me go this time, and my ass will take every back road between here and Hell from now on."<br />
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And the deputies laughed at my car. Seriously. My car was so damned sad, that it was a point of entertainment for 15 guys standing out on the side of the road at midnight. That was okay, though, because it was highly entertaining to call people up and tell them cops laughed at my car. It wouldn't have been funny, though, if someone had taken a Flannery O'Connor moment and pushed my car off into a ditch. I keep my Diet Cokes in the trunk and would have deeply felt their loss. <br />
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I spent a few brief weeks toying with the idea of either creating a skull and crossbones eye patch for the headlight, uh, socket or duct taping a flashlight in place. I <i>really</i> wanted my 25K miles. While I was mulling over my options, the starter decided it no longer cared to participate in this farce and went on a slow down strike. At that point, I decided I was just damned tired of putting parts on the same old car and thought it would be interesting to put parts on <i>another</i> car for a while. <br />
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So one battery, one alternator, and some spark plugs later, I am now the proud driver of a car that actually has less interior space than Mater. But by God, it's got a radio.<br />
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For your viewing pleasure, I have included a picture of a beaten Mater*:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7YKsG6ImUxNdgZCyrJqhoQjeHkyhAng3dIUhyphenhyphenp3y6vVwyuwrA9pMU71MJKLdwnVIorPb58h7IstvF3gE_cra8hopoziCgQID86X_SyeTP0fpWjg7vDvxUwPAll_g66tAeLIsBrLRDv70I/s1600/28710_595804067109_39801623_34825881_1809683_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7YKsG6ImUxNdgZCyrJqhoQjeHkyhAng3dIUhyphenhyphenp3y6vVwyuwrA9pMU71MJKLdwnVIorPb58h7IstvF3gE_cra8hopoziCgQID86X_SyeTP0fpWjg7vDvxUwPAll_g66tAeLIsBrLRDv70I/s320/28710_595804067109_39801623_34825881_1809683_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-39913845305459886572010-09-21T07:46:00.000-07:002010-09-21T07:46:12.976-07:00Is There Anybody Out There?I imagine everyone has probably R-U-N-O-F-T considering I seem have to a dysfunction with establishing a posting schedule.<br />
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So, uh, how've you been? How are the kids? I know, I know. It's been a while. I'm a very bad correspondent. Horrible. Unforgivable. I apologize. Can we still be friends?<br />
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Life hasn't been so much busy as it has been full of odd moments interspersed with days of utmost apathy - or perhaps not so much apathy. Let's call it moments of self-reflection in preparation for a move in a new direction.<br />
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I don't know where the hell I'm going. I'm probably just going to switch from running in clockwise circles to counter clockwise circles. It'll be a nice change of pace.<br />
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Moving on - if you'll check my post directly below this one, it's a blog post I wrote for my employer's blog and thought a few people may find it of some use. Check back with me when I fill you in on why I no longer have power steering and how my aunt maced me at the library fair. Fun times! Fun times!KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-29575808447860110842010-09-21T07:35:00.000-07:002010-09-21T07:35:53.485-07:00Working for the Man Every Night and Day<span style="font-size: medium;">A lot of people have this idea that working from home is the mother lode and you get to sit around in your bathrobe eating peanut butter straight out of the jar while playing Farm Town and someone <em>pays</em> you for this. Speaking from personal experience, I can tell you that it typically takes two hands to eat peanut butter straight out of the jar (one to hold the jar and one to hold the spoon) and it also takes a minimum of one hand to perform any work-at-home task, so working from home is not always the most fun thing ever. <br />
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However, if you're interested in exploring an outside-the-box career path, you should be as informed as possible. Let's start with the pros and cons I've learned from my own work-at-home experiences:<br />
<br />
<strong>Pros</strong></span><br />
<ol><li><div><span style="font-size: medium;">You really can sit around in your bathrobe if you insist. </span></div></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Use housing expenses as</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> a tax deduction!</span><strong><span style="font-size: large;">*</span></strong></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Save money on commuting to work. Not only do you not have to spend as much on gas; you also don't put as much wear and tear on your automobile. And if you're one of those people always running five minutes late to everywhere, then you greatly decrease your chances of getting a speeding ticket which could drive up your insurance! Now that I think about it, I guess you could save money by wearing your ratty bathrobe everyday, too. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Because you don't have to spend time driving to and from work, you can incorporate more time for yourself and your family.Maybe you can try dusting off that treadmill that never gets any run time before heading over to your desk. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">There's a job out there to fit almost everyone.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Many companies have flexible work schedules that you can adapt to your personal or family needs. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">You don't have to take an entire day off work because you have to be at home in case this is the day the cable guy shows up! </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">You're less likely to suffer stress and greatly reduce the chances of catching all the colds that make their way around traditional office settings. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Access to potential jobs thousands of miles away that don't require relocation. If nothing else </span><span style="font-size: medium;">has caught your attention, then this one should </span></li>
</ol><span style="font-size: medium;"><strong>Cons</strong></span><ol><li><span style="font-size: medium;">If you insist on wearing that ratty bathrobe everyday, you could turn into that slovenly guy who walks around the house wearing a ratty bathrobe and resting his coffee mug on his belly. Don't let that happen to you. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Human beings needs social interaction as a normal part of our mental hygiene. If you work from home and never seek outside relationships beyond your computer screen, you could turn into that guy in the ratty bathrob</span><span style="font-size: medium;">e</span>. <span style="font-size: medium;">Leave the house and see your friends!</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> Or at the very least, invite someone with laptop over to play Kingdom of Loathing with you. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Working from home turns home into, well, work. If you don't set up your home office in its own designated space your home may lose it's status as a place to relax and recharge and become one big office. Be sure to separate your work from your home so everyone can relax. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Organization, discipline, and motivation is key to working from home. If you lack these skills, then a work-at-home experience may not be beneficial to you. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Finding a work-at-home job with benefits is difficult at best. Many companies prefer to hire "contract workers." Contracting means that you are not an employee of the company, but rather a business entity unto yourself that is contracting with the company. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Because you may be hired as a contract worker, you'll get a 1099 at the end of the year and will be responsible for paying your own federal, state, and social security taxes. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">A lot of your friends and family think that because you work from home that you're not really doing anything and you have time to talk, hang out, or take their Great-Grandma Irene to the grocery store and the hairdresser. You have to be firm in dealing with your loved ones and teach them that you have an established work schedule that is not open to interpretation. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Many jobs require special skills that may require you to further your education or have prior experience. Examples are medical coding and transcription, teaching English to speakers of other languages, and web design. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;">Working from home with children can be a special dysfunctional family sitcom of its own. If you have especially young children, it may be best to arrange childcare for them or perform your work duties around their sleep patterns.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> If you have older children who are out of school for the summer, then may the force be with you because you're going to need it. A lot of it. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/tlls/pic/000yt61d/" id="link_33"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://pics.livejournal.com/tlls/pic/000yt61d" style="height: 151px; width: 220px;" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;">See this picture? This picture is a LIE!. In about 15 seconds that kid is going to wonder if he can get his truck inside the computer screen by throwing it. Then he's going to decide he wants a peanut butter sandwich with the crust cuts off and he's going to spend time trying to refurbish the carpet by stomping peanut butter into a nice little mosaic all over the living room floor. Don't let nice pictures fool you! We're talking about real, live children who like to flush underwear and rolls of tape down the toilet when no one is looking. </span></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></strong></li>
</ol><strong><span style="font-size: medium;">Forums</span></strong><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
If you've weighed the pros and cons and decided that a work-at-home option can work for you, then check out these forums. My favorite so far has been Work Place Like Home. I've included several links to WPLH because they have extensive listings of available online jobs and excellent resources. Unfortunately, you must sign up as a WPLH forum member to read the links. I strongly encourage you to do so if you're seriously interested in work-from-home employment. <br />
</span><a href="http://www.workplacelikehome.com/" id="link_34"><span style="font-size: larger;">Work Place Like Home</span></a><span style="font-size: larger;"><br />
</span><a href="http://ratracerebellion.com/" id="link_35"><span style="font-size: larger;">Rate Race Rebellion</span></a><span style="font-size: larger;"><br />
</span><a href="http://workhomecareers.blinkweb.com/" id="link_36"><span style="font-size: larger;">Work Home Career Kit</span></a><span style="font-size: larger;"><br />
</span><a href="http://www.wahm.com/" id="link_37"><span style="font-size: larger;">wahm.com</span></a><a href="http://workathomemafia.com/" id="link_38"><span style="font-size: larger;">Work at Home Mafia </span></a><a href="http://www.freelancewritinggigs.com/" id="link_39"><span style="font-size: larger;">Freelance Writing Gigs</span></a><span style="font-size: larger;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: larger;"><br />
<br />
<strong>Helpful Links from Work Place Like Home</strong><br />
<a href="http://www.workplacelikehome.com/forum/showthread.php?t=92654" id="link_40">Companies that Hire You as an Employee</a></span><a href="http://www.workplacelikehome.com/forum/showthread.php?t=92685" id="link_41"><span style="font-size: larger;">List of Online Employers</span></a><span style="font-size: larger;"><br />
</span><a href="http://www.workplacelikehome.com/forum/showthread.php?t=131122" id="link_42"><span style="font-size: larger;">Non-Phone Jobs</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.workplacelikehome.com/forum/showthread.php?t=100802" id="link_43"><span style="font-size: larger;">Tips on Researching a Company</span></a><span style="font-size: larger;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: larger;"><a href="http://www.workplacelikehome.com/forum/showthread.php?t=200906" id="link_44">How to Work from Home Guide</a></span><span style="font-size: larger;"><a href="http://www.workplacelikehome.com/forum/showthread.php?t=106483" id="link_45">Warning Signs and Red Flags</a> - Not every job offer you receive is a legitimate job. A lot of "jobs" are actually scams that either do not pay you, are trying to sell you something, or are attempting to access your personal information. Always research every company offering you a job before providing your personal information. </span><span style="font-size: larger;">A legitimate employer is not going to ask you to transfer company funds to your account, nor will they require you to pay a processing fee or purchase special equipment. If it sounds too good to be true, then it most likely is. </span><span style="font-size: larger;"><br />
<u><br />
</u><strong>In Summary</strong><br />
Having worked a few online jobs, I can say there are legitimate jobs to be found that pay well. I've written for a couple of websites, tried my hand as a <a href="http://becomeaguide.chacha.com/" id="link_47">ChaCha guide </a>(which I didn't quite find worth my time), scored standardized math questions for Pearson, and served as a Census enumerator. Okay, the enumerator wasn't quite a work-at-home job, but more like a "live in my car" job. The point is, I didn't have to go into an office to do that particular job. <br />
<br />
Pay ranged anywhere from $2.00 an hour (ChaCha) to $15 an hour (Pearson.) Depending on your skills, hourly pay can be even higher. There are jobs for writers, typists, medical coders, virtual assistants, web designers, legal secretaries, bloggers, data entry operators, tutors, teachers, accountants, customer service representatives, and I even saw a Craigslist advertisement calling for an experienced Ford mechanic. The trick is to find the niche that will benefit from your skills. <br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
</span>*Consult with an accountant. Basing all of your tax decisions on a blog post by a woman with an English degree is probably not considered a valid defense by the IRS.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-86657150054368449332010-06-01T20:37:00.000-07:002010-06-01T20:37:12.172-07:00Surprise!Today I thought I'd share a census story. I was working a little town in an adjacent county last week when I ran across a true freak. This particular town is rather small. Commerce is transacted in either one of the two gas stations, though I did notice they've recently added a keno/video joint next to the older gas station. The police station is in a rather small trailer such as the ones you see on construction sites and apparently they open it when someone feels like checking their Facebook page. <br />
<br />
My supervisors are really pushing us to find everyone we can and get all the information so after I spent some time looking at my ill-designed official census map and roaming around streets sorely lacking in marked addresses and road signs, I located this one dude next door to two vacant trailers that were on my list. If a house is vacant, I have to have a proxy declare the house vacant. I can't decide it's vacant all by my lonesome even if a bird did fly at me from a broken window. Luckily, this man was on my list to visit so I thought I'd complete his form and use him as a proxy for the two vacant units. I did manage to complete all my duties, but not without some issues.<br />
<br />
I should have trekked it back to my car when I saw the "no trespassing" sign even though that sign does not technically apply to me. Being a good enumerator, I went to his door and knocked. I waited a moment then knocked again. I could definitely hear noise coming from around from behind the house. In an effort to avoid a lot of backtracking, I wrote out a notice of visit form and left it on the dude's door then walked around the back to see if I could spy anyone calling out "Helllooooo! Census!" the whole damned time in case there was some crazy teabagger waiting to jump out at me with a Rush Limbaugh DVD and a 12 gauge. <br />
<i></i><br />
The guy lived on a corner lot so I ended up walking all the way back around to the side road and decided to head back to my car. As I got in the car, I noticed someone sitting on the porch so I walked back <i>up</i> the steep hill this dude lives on and said, "Hi! My name is KAR and I'm with the U.S. Census Bureau. Do you have about ten minutes to fill out a form with me?"<br />
<br />
He said sure and offered me a seat a foot or so from him on the porch. He seemed like a congenial sort sort of person so I sat down since it's easier to fill out this stupid form if I can put everything in my lap. We briefly talked about the weather and somewhere along the way I learned he'd been divorced four or five times, but his latest ex-wife still comes over for coffee in the mornings.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, it seems his ex-wife does not come over for sex. Therein lies the problem. I was sitting on the porch with a horny old goat who put his hand on my knee and eventually asked me if I liked having my pussy eaten while waggling his tongue at me like he's Gene Simmons. (The 1970s Gene Simmons, not that unfortunate Gene Simmons boinking that gum chewing girl in that horrible sex video.) Now I've met a lot of old perverts and I thought I pretty well had the guy in control. I politely moved his nasty ass hand off my knee and told him I was in a very happy 15 year relationship with a really big, brawny dude named Kevin and we had three children. Then I moved on to Mr. Horny's age and date of birth.<br />
<br />
In an effort to expedite the process, I decided his gender and race on my own. I'm not supposed to that, but seriously. I've got some old fart offering to clean my boat and I'm just not down with that. It took a few minutes of, uh, redirecting his interests to the census form and I even managed to get him to serve as a proxy. I thanked him for his time and made tracks off his property.<br />
<br />
I'd gotten about 20 feet or so down his driveway and was making a mental note to myself to <i>never</i> move to this cracker ass town when he called me from his porch. Like Lot's wife, I stopped and turned around.<br />
<br />
"See?" he said. "I have needs! Come back and see me sometime!" And there, in front of the entire world, that fucknut was at the edge of his porch poking his pruney penis out from the porch rails. Well. I have <i>never</i> had a complete stranger whip out his penis so I was absolutely bamfoozled as to an appropriate response. They did <i>not</i> discuss penis sightings in that four day training. <br />
<br />
I sort of said, "HAHAHAHAHAHA! I see!" and did the chunky woman double time shuffle to my car. Honestly, I think I was in a bit of shock for some time after that because I went right on with visiting other households like it was perfectly normal for old codgers to whip out their dicks on the front porch in hopes of scoring some census cootchie.<br />
<br />
In fact, I didn't even know how to explain this to my crew leader so I simply wrote "Warning: Mr. John Doe is a pervert" in the notes section of the questionnaire. My crew leader is a sort of older upstanding, staunch Middle America guy so when he commented on my pervert notes all I said was "Uh. Yeah. I'n not going back there."<br />
<br />
How do you tell such a normal sort of guy that you just had a dick shook at you? It would be sort of like telling my dad if my dad were a normal sort of guy who wasn't convinced that the Secret Service was watching him from his neighbor's RV roof.<br />
<br />
So that's the kind of crap you could be getting yourself into walking around strange people's houses. In retrospect, I was very lucky because you never know what <i>could</i> happen. All in all, I've been visiting people for three weeks. Some folks are oddly happy to see me and offer up all their information. Some folks offer me something to drink and some want me to come the next time they grill out. One old dude was drunk at 9 in the mornin, but he was a nice guy and I was pleasantly surprised when he informed me <i>why</i> we have a census. True civic knowledge is sadly lacking in this country. One guy talked so long, I found out he was a cousin to one of my first cousins. Some are agitated by my presence. But other than that one weird freak, everyone has been polite and vaguely normal. <br />
<br />
Be good to your census worker. We never know what we're walking into when we knock on your door and we just want to do our jobs. We don't want to see your dicks. The government currently does not have a need for that statistical information.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-62499384531161730292010-05-29T20:48:00.000-07:002010-05-29T20:48:40.738-07:00Hello Darlin, nice to see you. It's been a long time.Lyric titles. I can't help myself.<br />
<br />
<br />
Wow. I can't believe it's been almost four months since I touched base. Things have been very busy in KAR land. A very quick update on the current situation - the funding for my position with the lib-uh-rary is being slashed at the end of June. I will be busted down to 17.5 hours a week at $7.75 an hour. Not exactly a living wage or anything and jobs aren't very forthcoming in this area.<br />
<br />
In an effort to try to cover the future I tiny bit, I took on two extra jobs. I am currently an enumerator with the U.S. census bureau and <i>that</i> is rather interesting. Someone remind me to talk about the pervert and that dude with the fucking frozen chicken sometime in the future. (Also, please excuse any typos, grammatical errors, general off-kilter rambling, and whatnot. I have a hard time editing myself on a slow day and I'm trying to post in between busy moments.) <br />
<br />
<br />
I also spent two weeks as an online scorer with Pearson. For a little while, I was doing all three at one time and that is just damned <i>exhausting</i> and I've hardly seen my heathens. Thankfully, Pearson ended before I did, so now I can just have the two jobs and try to formulate a plan somewhere along the way for the next step. I don't think I really take steps, though. Life has been more like swinging from one vine to the next and hoping like hell I don't grab hold of a snake's ass along the way.<br />
<br />
Also, a deer attacked my car while I was driving. It still goes forward, but I was pulled over during a license check and I'm pretty sure deputies were laughing at my car. That was awkward.<br />
<br />
So that's the current state of KAR. <br />
<br />
As some of you may recall, my last post was about helping my grandaddy. He was a very fastidious man so baths would last anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours because he'd have me bathe him at least twice. At one point, he and my step-grandma, Marie, thought they'd try having a home health worker come out to bathe him because Marie was worried it was too much for me to handle. The lady came out and bathed him. Once. He said, "That was good, now do it all again." Apparently, the poor woman thought she'd failed in some way and couldn't understand that a second go-round was a part of the process, so Marie decided a utilizing a home health worker was not a feasible plan. <br />
<br />
In February, we were bathing in the shower two or three days, but by late March his health had deteriorated so greatly that we were reduced to once-a-week baths in a reclining chair. The last bath I gave him was on April 28th. Grandaddy was so give out that he couldn't get out of his chair by himself anymore. I had to pick him up from the chair and hold him while he walked the two feet to the "bathing recliner." He was in a lot of pain, but feeling clean was so important to him that he was willing to bear it.<br />
<br />
For the three months I helped him bathe, he always wore his jockey shorts while I bathed him. I'd have to move his legs up and down to bathe them and he'd cup his spidery fingers over his personals while to make sure I wasn't accidentally subjected to seeing grandaddy penis.<br />
<br />
On the first weekend in May, Marie called me to help grandaddy get out of his recliner so he could sit on the portable toilet. I came that Saturday and he was exhausted, reduced to wearing a diaper because he couldn't always make it to the toilet. That was the first and only time I saw his business, because he was too weak to preserve that privacy and that's when I knew the time had finally come. That was also the first time I'd allow myself to feel the pain that had been building up in me over those months and I finally allowed myself to cry.<br />
<br />
On May 6, my grandaddy slipped into a coma and never woke up. He died around 2:10 that afternoon. When our funeral home people came to take his body, Marie applied lipstick and kissed him goodbye. She told them to leave her kiss and if I know Rick and Larry, they left her kiss on his cheek.<br />
<br />
He died on a Thursday and they buried him on Friday. A lot of people were shocked that we'd been so quick to put him in the ground, but that's exactly what he wanted and Marie was so proud of herself because she managed it in 23 hours. (Marie is known for chronic tardiness, so he would be pleased she'd gotten everything completed according to his provided time line.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
There are a lot of things I learned in those months. One thing I learned is that while we'd always revered my grandaddy as the all-knowing patriarch, he never stood alone in his duties. Marie was always in the background and she never shined like he did (he was a very charismatic person), but she was truly his other half. I don't think I'd ever understood how so many of us take her for granted until I watched her care for him all those weeks and months and while she'd grow agitated, she'd never think of putting him in a nursing home. Marie has always been a strong woman like that and never expected any special recognition for it. There are very few people in the world like her and I'm not one of them. If I'm going to do something, I expect a ribbon or a gold star or at least a certificate of recognition. <br />
<br />
In my lifetime, I've never known any other relationship that was as whole as my grandparents. They did not always agree and they weren't always happy with each other, but they always loved each other and committed themselves to their marriage. That is a very rare thing.<br />
<br />
Once, when we still taking showers, I'd walked out to get Marie because she was the one who helped him bathe his other areas. Unfortunately, she'd gotten tied up on the phone and couldn't get away. Worried that he shouldn't be in the shower by himself, I went back in to make sure he was okay.<br />
<br />
Grandaddy heard the bathroom door open and he thought it was Marie.<br />
<br />
"Hey, sug," he said and it was with so much love and relief. Just so much. I'd never understood quite what their relationship was like that because they hadn't littered the world with giant displays of affection - their love and affection were always kind of between the two of them, I guess. But I could hear all his feelings for Marie in those two words, so I felt myself to be a rather sad replacement for the person he wanted.<br />
<br />
"Grandaddy, Marie's on the phone. She said she'd be here in a minute," I told him. He was quiet for a moment and then he muttered "Dammit." Then he shoved his wet underwear out from behind the shower curtain and said, "Here, take these." So there we were, me holding my grandaddy's wet drawers and he waiting for his wife of forty years to walk through the bathroom door. <br />
<br />
I thought I was going to be so much sadder than I am, but I'm not. I miss my grandaddy, but mostly I am at peace. My grandaddy lived life on his terms and he died mostly on his terms. I know that I did something those last few months and as selfish as it sounds, I faced my own fears and pain and became someone better for it.<br />
<br />
A couple of days after the funeral, Marie and I were sitting in the living room talking about things and she said she'd never seen him smile at anyone sweeter than he did me when I helped him take a bath. Of course, I had to tell her about the day I ended up holding a balled up bundle of wet drawers waiting for her to get off the phone and how much love was in his voice. We had a good chuckle. And that's what we do. We laugh and remember the sweetness of life. <br />
<br />
Peace. KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-9049531903156134382010-02-08T06:49:00.000-08:002010-02-08T06:49:02.286-08:00The Keepers of MeI have a bit of a new schedule and new things to think about so posting hasn't been on the top of my list.<br />
<br />
Before I begin, I suppose I should clarify that in the South, we still call our parents mama and daddy. As a writer, I generally tend to refer to them as my parents or my mother and father except in dialogue to ease the . . . overt southerness of it all. However, my grandfather has been my grandaddy and I will refer to him as such in my posts.<br />
<br />
My grandaddy has been through a bit in just my lifetime. He suffered his first heart attack when I was a toddler and had another when I was twelve or so. He had a stroke a few years ago that left him incapable of reading. Leukemia and prostate cancer have whittled a big boned man down to less than 120 pounds. He will be eighty in March and time has been taking its toll on a man who was always larger than life itself. <br />
<br />
My mom called me a couple of weeks ago. Grandaddy still wants to take a shower - he does not want a sponge bath and somehow it came about to ask me if I could help him do this. So now I come over and help my grandaddy take a shower three or four times a week on the days he's up to doing so. He told me, "You scrub down as far as possible then bathe up as far as possible and I'll get possible."<br />
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That does alleviate the strangeness of it all and he wears his shorts in the shower. I keep thinking the feeling of wet shorts must be very uncomfortable, but it he gets to maintain some dignity and I'm not really faced with seeing my grandaddy's possible.<br />
<br />
I thought about not writing about it on this because it's such a personal thing, but I've begun to develop particular views on end-of-life care and it is important to me. <br />
<br />
I've struggled the past couple of weeks, not with bathing my grandaddy, though he is right particular about how to go about things - but the <i>idea</i> that he needs me to do this for him. <br />
<br />
When I was a child, Grandaddy and Marie's (my stepgrandma) house was a constant in my life. My parents moved a lot up until they divorced when I was eight. For some reason, we always moved around the same end of the county so I never understood the purpose in all this constant moving, but I always knew that my grandparents' house would be the same.<br />
<br />
The house stood in the same spot. The same door opened into the same living room that held the same couch and the same television and the same people for all the years I needed it. Things rarely changed and there were days I'd stay there when I was too sick to go to school and the same radio station would play the same people every morning - Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty, Patsy Cline with Slats Jackson calling out the price of tomatoes at the IGA in between songs. Life usually tended to be pretty steady. I don't remember my grandparents ever arguing though some of my uncles would bring their rowdiness there from time to time. <br />
<br />
So when my mother called me to ask this of me, I'd never thought to say no. They'd never said no to me.<br />
<br />
I have an uncle three years younger than me - the late-in-life child of my grandaddy and my step grandma. He was a very imaginative sort as a child and it was always interesting to see what sort of fun Kenny Lee was going to cook up to occupy us on any given day. Marie called him a few days ago and mentioned I'd taken on the bathing task. According to her, he said, "That's just not normal! That's not normal at all. It's not normal to have to help someone who was so big and powerful when you were little."<br />
<br />
And, oh lord, he's so right. I've had to do things in life that didn't sit well with me, but when I allow myself to think very long on the fact that I am helping to bathe my grandaddy, it's as painful as when Wild Boy was born with group B strep and I lived in terror that I would never bring him home. It's different in it's own way though. My grandaddy is dying and there are times you have to accept death as the inevitable outcome of a process. And it's not only that, it's an acknowledging of the changing of the guard. Sometimes it would seem so much easier to always be the child. <br />
<br />
Even for all the emotional turmoil of seeing my grandaddy's ribs and his spine, of seeing his eyes sometimes oddly like a child's though his mind is still good, his legs that are smaller than my arms now - it is a great honor to do this for my grandparents.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-31665530824131201612010-01-31T20:29:00.000-08:002010-01-31T20:29:38.869-08:00Whaazzzup?I really don't have jack to talk about today so I'll just ramble a bit.<br />
<br />
For a while I kept receiving these Bible verses via text message around 10 P.M. every night. It started right after Christmas. I'd look at the unfamiliar number and wonder, "Who in the hell wants me to read Revelations 3:14-22 right before bedtime? Has my dad bought an entirely new cell phone to send me scripture?"<br />
<br />
For those of you who have never personally met my father, trust me, he's possibly weird enough to do it. So I finally asked my dad and he said it wasn't him so I thought maybe God bought a Verizon phone so he wouldn't cost me money. Of course, that's a little freaky and does he also send out messages to Cingular and AT&T on their plans? What? I finally asked around long enough and suddenly Tuba Girl remembered she'd given this number to a youth pastor a while back. So apparently God does not have Verizon.<br />
<br />
My taxes should be returning soon and I've pulled out the Excel to figure out how much I can get done with it. Provided everything goes well, I should get all the crap that's falling apart handled around here with a little left over.<br />
<br />
And speaking of my taxes, I am deep into planning project three. The one where I plant a garden. It's probably considered premeditated abuse among certain circles, but their is something all crackery and earthy in me that tells me I must plant seeds. So in my research I ran across<a href="http://www.squarefootgardening.com/"> Square Foot Gardening</a>. This method is supposed to be very nearly idiot proof. Well, we'll see.<br />
<br />
This is the cost of my Gardening Project according to Excel:<br />
<br />
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 421px;" x:str=""><col style="width: 131pt;" width="175"></col> <col style="width: 56pt;" width="75"></col> <col style="width: 80pt;" width="107"></col> <col style="width: 48pt;" width="64"></col> <tbody>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td class="xl24" height="17" style="height: 12.75pt; width: 131pt;" width="175">Square Foot Garden</td> <td style="width: 56pt;" width="75"> Price</td> <td style="width: 80pt;" width="107"> Amount</td> <td align="right" style="width: 48pt;" width="64" x:fmla="=PRODUCT(B1:C1)" x:num="">Total0</td> </tr>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;">1X6X8 cedar planks</td> <td align="right" x:num="">13.98</td> <td align="right" x:num="">6</td> <td align="right" x:fmla="=PRODUCT(B2:C2)" x:num="">83.88</td> </tr>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;">Vermiculite</td> <td align="right" x:num="">20</td> <td align="right" x:num="">2</td> <td align="right" x:fmla="=PRODUCT(B3:C3)" x:num="">40</td> </tr>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;">peat moss</td> <td align="right" x:num="">9.87</td> <td align="right" x:num="">1</td> <td align="right" x:fmla="=PRODUCT(B4:C4)" x:num="">9.87</td> </tr>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;">cow compost</td> <td align="right" x:num="">4.77</td> <td align="right" x:num="">2</td> <td align="right" x:fmla="=PRODUCT(B5:C5)" x:num="">9.54</td> </tr>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;">mushroom compost</td> <td align="right" x:num="">4.72</td> <td align="right" x:num="">2</td> <td align="right" x:fmla="=PRODUCT(B6:C6)" x:num="">9.44</td> </tr>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;">wood lath</td> <td align="right" x:num="">7.68</td> <td align="right" x:num="">1</td> <td align="right" x:fmla="=PRODUCT(B7:C7)" x:num="">7.68</td> </tr>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;">plywood</td> <td align="right" x:num="">10</td> <td align="right" x:num="">3</td> <td align="right" x:fmla="=PRODUCT(B8:C8)" x:num="">30</td> </tr>
<tr height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"> <td height="17" style="height: 12.75pt;"><br />
</td> <td><br />
</td> <td><br />
</td> <td align="right" x:fmla="=SUM(D2:D8)" x:num=""><b>190.41</b></td> </tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
(Excel is pretty cool. It's also where I keep my grocery list thingy.)<br />
<br />
If I can find 1X6's for free, then I plan to use them and that will nearly cut my costs in half. However, if I can't, then I plan to spring for the cedar planks as they will last longer.(Plus, I'm sometimes anal and I want it to look nice.) If it turns out the Square Foot Garden is not idiot proof, then I can rip the cedar boards and use them for something else.<br />
<br />
Also, the SFG book states I should use five different brands of compost. Well, I can't <i>find</i> five different brands of compost in this damned town. So my dirt is just going to have to deal with an extra helping or two of the same brand of mushroom rot and cow shit and get over it. I plan to actually have a nice compost bin as soon I bother to clean out the trunk so I can steal some pallets. (I don't actually plan on <i>stealing</i> them, I'm sure someone will give them to me.) <br />
<br />
In other news, I've applied for an Adult Education teaching position. It is no more than 29 hours a week and absolutely no benefits. I figured at making at least $12.00 an hour, then I will make approximately $60 more a week. If that happens, then this blog will be nowhere near "about a thousand a month." (But let's be honest, was it ever really? That's just the cash money I had in hand every month. The Medicaid benefits for the children are probably worth an easy $350 a month if I had to carry insurance on them as it includes health, dental, pharmaceutical, and optical care.) <br />
<br />
Adult Ed is something I've been interested in and this will give me an opportunity to see if I would enjoy it as a career. At this point, I don't know what my move would be if I'm offered the position. One part of me wants to work both jobs for a while if the hours work themselves out right and the other part of me thinks I should just go. We're a very undereducated county and our employment opportunities have shrunk mightily over the past year. If people are going to survive, they are going to have to move past the old attitude that a job can always be found and work towards making themselves more marketable. In that end, I see the need for Adult Education teachers growing and I like to <i>think</i> it would be a safer position for a while than where I currently find myself sitting.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should consult my magic 8 ball. <br />
<br />
<br />
Also, I understand people have been slammed by a virus when they visit my blog. I'm hoping I have that worked out. If not, please let me know! I feel like the mom whose kid brought lice to school and now I have to call all my friends and tell them they're probably infested now. <br />
<br />
Later, hookers. KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-39966400295323187552010-01-21T19:44:00.000-08:002010-01-21T19:44:57.453-08:00Another Day Older and Deeper in DebtHey hey hookers!<br />
<br />
I don't have anything in particular to talk about today other than job security - I hz nun. Actually, I think very few people can absolutely say their job is safe anymore.<br />
<br />
You may remember vague references to Matt the Library Assistant in earlier posts. Matt the Library Assistant transferred to the main branch right after Christmas so I no longer have a library assistant. He had mentioned some job security issues and thought it wise to jump over to the big ship while he had the chance. I agreed and facilitated the transfer because I hate to see anyone get fucked out of a job when I already had vague inklings that things may be coming down the pipes. Actually, the inklings weren't that vague: <br />
<br />
<ul><li>The state asked that we return $14,000 of our annual funding. </li>
<li>The county has said that they will not fund us for the next five years. While those sorry bastards can up and suddenly force me to take trash service at $13.50 a month when I'd previously been rather happy taking my own goddamned trash to the mother fucking dump, they can't take part of what I estimate to be a gross of $170,000 a month or two goddamned million a year and make it rain over the library. Fine. Whatever. Fuckers. Force services on me that I didn't request and then possibly fuck me out of a job. I love you too, Commissioner Fucker Face. But I'm not angry. Really, I'm not. Just a bit agitated. If I were <i>angry</i> I'd throw that goddamned herbie curbie thing at people. </li>
<li>I like lists and a list with just two things seems sort of stupid so I had to add something to make it right. Sorry. <br />
</li>
</ul>So I knew something was inevitable not only because funding is being slashed left and right, but because I think I have some kind of root* on me. Evidence: I applied for a teaching position at a neighboring county high school only to find out during my interview with the Gary Glitter look-a-like that they were on the verge of being taken over by the state so they were really in a bind to find already certified and preferably already experienced. They didn't want my greenhorn ass. I then applied for a position as a GED teacher with a local youth development center in August. Yeah. They closed down this past January. So to find out that my job is sitting in perilous economic waters is no big surprise. I think it's because they hired me. (Insert "laughing my ass off" smilie here.)<br />
<br />
As things stand now, the superiors that be are looking at reducing the branches to service outlets (I have no idea what that means), cutting it down to one employee per branch/service outlet/whatever and cutting the hours. The idea is still in it's little zygote stage so I have no idea if this will actually happen, how many hours they're going to cut or if I'm also looking at a pay cut. Lah-dee-dah.<br />
<br />
I've had hard times before so while I'm concerned, I'm not scared to death and I'm not going to lay awake at night wondering what I'm going to do. While it's not much and certainly temporary, I've taken the test to be a census bureau worker. I do have to say that "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlknjtUnLo4">I nicked the census man</a>" ran through my mind a lot when I was taking the test. Also, Pearson finally sent me a questionnaire for an online scoring position so maybe I'll hear something from that.<br />
<br />
I'd planned on actually picking up one of these as a second job even though I'd previously said I had no intentions of doing so at that point. I should back up and correct myself, I had no intentions of considering if it were not a financially viable option. Both of these jobs pay enough that it would warrant having the food stamps reduced or cut all together. I can walk away from either of these jobs with enough money to continue feeding my family at the level they expect and have enough left over to take care of other things that need to be handled such as trying to reestablish an emergency fund for potential shit like this.<br />
<br />
In addition, these two jobs don't have extremely rigid time schedules so I would still be able to tend to my children's various needs. I don't have to request Tuesday evenings off for Boy Scout den meetings or every third Monday off for Boy Scout pack meetings or every other Thursday off because I need to pick Tuba Girl up at 6:00 P.M. or whatever the hell I'm doing on whatever day. <br />
<br />
At this point, I don't know whether to try and jump ship and find another job or try to stick it out and see what happens. I like the job. I like my patrons. Well, most of them. Well, the ones who don't shit in chairs. I like my coworkers. I also like books. <br />
<br />
While I don't see myself making a career in this particular area of library employment, I did have some vague plans that would have worked nicely around this job. I also wanted to stay here for at least a year because I personally feel that anything less than that tends to look negative on a resume. Not only that, but I tend to be pretty hardcore loyal and I hate to walk out on a bitch when she's down and my library system seems to be looking down.<br />
<br />
As for jumping ship, it depends entirely upon whether there is another ship to jump <i>to</i>. Job postings in general have been scarce and we're losing jobs left and right. Local teaching positions usually aren't posted until April and last April they were <i>incredibly</i> scarce. Our local high school did't hire for any English positions and I wouldn't be surprised if they held off again this year. The state is in a fuck of a bind. <br />
<br />
And another thing while I'm rambling. I'm wondering if the days of being able to actually have one full-time job is basically over for a lot of people. While I've seen people cobble a living out of holding down multiple part time jobs, it was usually a means to some end - to work around a particular schedule, to avoid drug testing, or because felons have a hard time finding gainful full-time employment. (I'm sure there are other reasons that I'm missing.) However, I think more people who'd previously been able to rely on full-time employment may be forced to look at stringing jobs together like fish on a line. <br />
<br />
So that's the shizznit for today. I have a lot to mull over and consider. (Which I always do, I just think about other things instead because I'm turning into some kind of Scarlett O'Hara. Tomorrow is another day and all that shit. Next thing you know, I'm going to kill the rooster, turn his ass into a hat and duct tape my Walmart porteers into a lovely dress right before I run off with my sister's beau when I find out my favorite convict really isn't worth a shit.)<br />
<br />
While I'm really not a big fan of Gone With the Wind, I have to give it to Scarlett. She was a survivor - beet root puking, cotton picking, man stealing and all. Stupid as hell, but a survivor. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*<span style="font-size: x-small;">A "root" is another term for a hex or curse. I don't know if this is local to my area or what, but I've always been entertained by it. I do know a guy with an uncle who has some acclaim over a multi-county region as a "root doctor." From what I hear, you don't ever want that sumbitch to put your name on an egg and leave it in his front yard. I don't know what that does exactly, but you just don't want it to happen. </span>KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-5050782228596518542010-01-19T18:45:00.000-08:002010-01-19T18:45:46.437-08:00Hammer TimeI don't know if all women love tools, but I frigging <i>love</i> tools. I especially love tools that make big noises - power drills, band saws, circular saws, impact wrenches. I really love the sound of an<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkCwq-WK3iw"> impact wrench</a>. My weird love of power tool sounds probably comes from a childhood hanging around the school bus garage where my stepdad was the foreman mechanic. <br />
<br />
I don't actually have any power tools. Besides not having anywhere to store them, I also don't actually do enough "handy things" to warrant putting that kind of money into power tools. Although, I am seriously considering throwing down the money for a<a href="http://www.lowes.com/pd_5685-46922-3305-01_0_?productId=1209183&Ntt=table%20saw&Ntk=i_products&pl=1&currentURL=/pl__0__s?newSearch=true$Ntt=table%20saw$y=0$x=0"> table saw</a> this year because I can't find one I can borrow on any long term use.(That really means no one has magically shown up at my house and given me a table saw.)<br />
<br />
While we can't all fritter away our money on neato saws and air wrenches, there are a few tools that every woman <i>needs</i>. I say women because I'm assuming I'm talking to women and we need our own tools. Sure, you could borrow someone else's tools, but I'm a firm believer in a woman having her own "things." So here is a list of basic tools I believe everyone should have. <br />
<ul><li>Phillips head screwdriver</li>
</ul><ol><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0a98w28C80oTktqOsMk5scr8_CNiOOW1AqgdS75KH_xUoPSY7-pz8DR59Q2qNi8L8_Pz25XpWeNw00mx6lSSMKHEaWYcWCdVhcAg73svgVFg2BqgrNrtPsKR-K83luYZ8-lNO3cFxQoX6/s1600-h/no_1_phillips_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0a98w28C80oTktqOsMk5scr8_CNiOOW1AqgdS75KH_xUoPSY7-pz8DR59Q2qNi8L8_Pz25XpWeNw00mx6lSSMKHEaWYcWCdVhcAg73svgVFg2BqgrNrtPsKR-K83luYZ8-lNO3cFxQoX6/s200/no_1_phillips_small.jpg" /></a>Basic screws require either a Phillips head or a flat head screwdriver. I'm sure everyone has needed a screwdriver at some point - to wrangle a goddamned toy out of the packaging, replace batteries, tighten pot handles, or tighten the arms on eyeglasses. A Phillips head in small, medium and large can always come in handy. </ol><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRxELCC4nRUaluhfE_aGY7keB5eb5VxgA8X4dFdVyKkQmyHG2yvips8X6nRXU7asl4mO2IimTSrH8lzo8CnTZGTq0dsi6SC1LW5dT-nBYUmAo7Z0yiUzETb2If34h2AfVaaT4SrQqqjkhD/s1600-h/screwdriver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRxELCC4nRUaluhfE_aGY7keB5eb5VxgA8X4dFdVyKkQmyHG2yvips8X6nRXU7asl4mO2IimTSrH8lzo8CnTZGTq0dsi6SC1LW5dT-nBYUmAo7Z0yiUzETb2If34h2AfVaaT4SrQqqjkhD/s200/screwdriver.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><ul><li>flat head screwdriver - Seriously, a butter knife is only going to get you so far. <br />
</li>
</ul><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul><li>hammer - Maybe you want to hammer a nail or hammer that stupid damned toy that won't come out of the packaging. <br />
</li>
<li>tape measure - Pretty self explanatory. <br />
</li>
<li>pliers - When I pulled the carpet out of my house, I found out that it was stapled to the floor. I guess that's what I get for buying a house one step away from being put together with duct tape, but you know, whatever. The pliers came in handy when I had to pull them out of the OSB board I call subflooring. They can be used for other things, I just can't remember what right at the moment. <br />
</li>
<li>wrench - It's just good to have some wrenches. My car wouldn't crank on Christmas morning for some ungodly reason. It's probably the same reason behind my dryer belt breaking at 6 AM on Christmas morning. Anyway, it turns out my battery cables were loose, probably from driving down some damned hard core muddy driveways. A couple of turns with a wrench and I was in the road again. <br />
</li>
<li>level - Hanging a picture or putting up a wall shelf works much better if check to see if it's actually level. Unless, of course, you're going for some abstract lopsided look. </li>
</ul><br />
Other things I keep on hand:<br />
<ol><li>hacksaw - I have, from time to time, repaired my own water pipes. I need the hacksaw to cut out the leaking pipe and cut the new pipe to size. (Though a hacksaw does not work for cutting down a small dead tree, just to let you know.)</li>
<li>drill - sometimes you just need to drill a hole somewhere. <br />
</li>
<li>hex keys - necessary for changing brakes and for certain other kind of screw doohickeys</li>
<li>socket wrenches - changing brakes and other car mechanicy stuff. <br />
</li>
</ol>If you're interested in buying a set of basic tools for yourself,<a href="http://www.lowes.com/pd_96685-1074-91059_0_?productId=1114911&Ntt=tool%20set&Ntk=i_products&pl=1&currentURL=/pl__0__s?newSearch=true$Ntt=tool%20set$y=0$x=0"> this </a>looks like a pretty decent set up. Task Force is a fairly cheap brand, but should be sufficient for basic household repairs. Normal people just don't need Craftsman or Snap-On. <br />
<ol></ol>I had a nice little assortment at one point, but my father and the boys' father kept "borrowing" them and never fucking returned them. So if I were you and there are men living in your house, I thoroughly recommend you take time to paint all your tools with a nice glossy pink paint and maybe spray a little glitter to just be safe. I bet that would give them a moment to assess whether they really want to run off with your damned tools.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-35827784793631979462010-01-18T19:27:00.000-08:002010-01-18T19:31:05.549-08:00Where we are now<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/x1L8y-MX3pg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/x1L8y-MX3pg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />
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<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6JuTAyoBxSg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6JuTAyoBxSg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />
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<br />
Never let someone tell you who you are.<br />
<br />
Never let someone tell you what you deserve.<br />
<br />
Never let someone tell you no.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Dr. King.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-64880985690241166582010-01-14T19:26:00.000-08:002010-01-14T19:26:58.276-08:00Little Projects A, B, and CI have not made any new year's resolutions as I'm very bad at them. I briefly considered taking up a vice like smoking crank or something just to shake The Man's resolution system but ultimately decided against it as I really can't afford it and I do like my teeth. <br />
<br />
I have realized over the past couple of weeks, however, that I'm the kind of person who needs a mission to feel like a person who exists on a real level. (Whatever that means.) When I finally dedicated myself to finishing my bachelor's, I was consumed between maintaining my grades and keeping the kids in one piece. I graduated in May and I've just sort of been . . . drifting since then. I scrambled and finally found a job. (Which was a BITCH in this economy, BTW.) And now I've been drifting through this job, driving the kids to their things and whatever the hell else it is that I do.<br />
<br />
Maybe I have actually been productive. I found a job. I feed, clothe, homework school, chauffer and otherwise tend to my children. Help my friends. Clean my house, but mostly I've drifted and I've sort of been okay with that because going back to school dragging three children along for the ride was pretty damned stressful and I've been tired for a long time so this job, even though it doesn't pay shit for beans, has been good in that it's given me sometime to recharge my batteries and figure out what my next step is in life. <br />
<br />
Well, it's been eight months and I still don't know what the hell my next step is or <i>when</i> it's going to be. I'm all aflustered trying to decide whether I should go back for an acronym (MLIS, MAT, MFA, FTW) or try to go straight into teaching whenever the local schools decide they're going to hire again or just set my mind on winning the lottery.<br />
<br />
So for the moment, I've decided I need a couple of projects to help me focus. I focus best when I have a few things going on. The stress gives me life or something. I don't know. I was diagnosed with ADD as an adult. I'm not going to sit around and explain it all day, but suffice it to say, I think it has something to do with that.<br />
<br />
Funny, all those years I thought I was completely surrounded by dumb fuckers and it turned out I might have actually had a problem. That'll cause some psychological hypochondria. (And I'm not entirely convinced the world isn't absolutely covered in dumb fuckers that I must constantly wade through every day of my life.)<br />
<br />
So here is my list o' projects I want to handle this year:<br />
<ol><li><b>Work out at least three days a week. </b></li>
<ol><li>This has less to do with my weight than it does with wanting to be healthy. I went through a good period where I took really good care of myself. I worked out, cut out all the sugar, and drank plenty of water. However, I fuckered up during my senior capstone, though. I let the stress eat me alive. I couldn't sleep, I quit working out, and I basically lived on snickers bars for breakfast and lunch for a good six months. When you have a routine and you do well with that routine, it's really easy. But falling off once is hard and falling off for months on end is like being swept out to sea. It's so hard to get back to where you were. <br />
</li>
</ol>
<li>House repairs</li>
<ol><li><b>Two soft spots in the flooring will have to be ripped out and replaced. </b></li>
<li><b>Because I put down interlocking laminate flooring, all of it is going to have to be ripped up and replaced because of the two soft spots. </b></li>
<li><b>Replace the water heater. </b></li>
<li>Finishing casing in the kitchen window. </li>
<li><b>Might as well repaint the walls while I'm putting down new flooring. </b></li>
<li>Build the bookshelves I want. </li>
<li>Run new crown molding or whatever that shit is called. </li>
</ol>
<li>Plant a garden (I know I'm setting myself up for failure. I can't help it.)</li>
<ol><li>Many people may not know it, but you can <a href="http://www.fns.usda.gov/fsp/faqs.htm#10">buy vegetable seeds and plants</a> meant for a home garden with food stamps, so I intend to take advantage of that this year. <br />
</li>
<li>I am currently reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Month-Gardening-Georgia-Month-Month/dp/1591862515/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1263524070&sr=8-1">Month-by-Month Gardening in Georgia</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Georgia-Vegetable-Gardening-Walter-Reeves/dp/1591863910/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1263524145&sr=8-1">Guide to Georgia Vegetable Gardening. </a></li>
<li>My plan is to attempt to educate myself about gardens and then plan it all out over the next two months. <br />
</li>
<li>It aggravates the flying fuck out of me to consistently fail at something. I'm the kind of hooker who will keep trying something over and over until I can do it. I may takes long breaks in between, but sooner or later I'm going to come back to it until I figure it out. After that, I'll usually just move on to the next thing that's aggravating the hell out of me and completely forget everything I ever learned. I really need to update my internal RAM. <br />
</li>
</ol>
<li>Begin prepping a portfolio in case I decide an MFA is the way to go. </li>
<ol><li>Technically speaking, I know that an MFA is not going to bring me huge megabucks, but I'm basically going to have to go back for a Master's at some point if I'm going to teach so I may as well continue to focus in an area I enjoy. Sort of. Actually, I'm not sure I enjoy writing at all anymore. My intense meh-ness towards writing was a major reason I began this blog. I wanted something that would be fun to write and I didn't have to worry myself into a snickers bar breakdown over word placement and the meaning of my paragraph structure. In that end, things are going fairly well. I get to be basic me here without major Jack Handy thoughts reflected through the lens of a specific area of my being. Or something. <br />
</li>
<li>Maybe I'll drop the MFA, go to tech school and major in auto mechanics. Education choices are such a pain in the ass. </li>
</ol>
</ol>So those are my three major projects for this year. If you'll notice, I bolded a few things. These are the things that definitely <i>will</i> get down. The rest of it all depends on how life goes.<br />
<br />
My intentions are to regularly update on those projects so at least I'll have something interesting to talk about. I can't walk on here everyday and talk about people shitting in my library chairs like I do at sybermoms. I like to have some variety somewhere.<br />
<br />
Later, hookers.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-10116489938151301592010-01-13T07:15:00.000-08:002010-01-13T07:15:02.620-08:00Home is where you hang your hatOr in the case of the heathens, home is where you grab the scissors and cut up your hat to make a pair of gloves or a mask. I wish they'd find my damned scissors.<br />
<br />
In a burst over cuteness I suggested that we name our tin home to make it feel more "homey" and to create some sort of family unity. I suggested The Burrow because I'm a huge Harry Potter fan and everything The Burrow was is what I want going on in my house - including the meals that cook on their own. I kind of sort wanted to drive home the idea that even though it's a trailer, it's still home and we should be happy with what we have. However, Tuba Girl thought it was extremely cheesy and wasn't going to put up with it. The Heathens Two and Three wanted to name it <a href="http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/johncena/">John Cena. </a><br />
<br />
Until that moment, I didn't even know who in the hell John Cena <i>was</i> as I don't watch wrasslin. (Apparently they were watching it at their friend's house.) I know that it's spelled wrestling, but anyone who watches wrestling calls it wrasslin. My granny called it wrasslin and she watched it back in the day when people wore those weird gimp masks and little ballet tights or whatever those things were.<br />
<br />
My granny was awesome. Except that time when I was eleven and she showed me her heart surgery scar and I saw her boobies. I've never quite gotten over it and <i>that's</i> how I know I have my granny's boobies instead of my grandma's. I never brought up that incident up with my therapist. <br />
<br />
Anyway, the point is that I did not create any family unity, more like division and argument because the idea of naming my house after a wrassler - some guy who fake-whacks other people and talks a lot of homoerotic, testosterone driven bullshit - was not the symbolism I had in mind. It seems I have a hard time trying to get three children to ever come together and do that neat family thing I have pictured in my mind. I do it best when I piss them all off. <i>Then</i> they have a common purpose.<br />
<br />
So they call the house John Cena and I secretly call it The Burrow. I know it's cheesy, but I have lots of cheesy ideas. Mostly, I just try to hide the cheese, but it comes barreling out from time to time.<br />
<br />
Welcome to a series of posts about trying to keep 15-year-old man-you-fack-turd home in decent repair. My intentions are to borrow my sister's camera and take pictures of repairs as they go along. If I don't get to that point, you'll just have to deal with my blow-by-blow accounts of ripping out subflooring and possibly accidentally sawing off my thumb.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-16092644779156726612010-01-07T05:30:00.000-08:002010-01-07T06:01:50.770-08:00KAR the ScavengerA friend dropped by the other day and while we were talking she suddenly said, "Man, you never pay for <i>shit</i>, do you?"<br />
<br />
She was referring to my hodgepodge of Free Shit - the television, the couch, the foosball table I'm trying to freecycle, the snake, the microwave. I officially call myself a Scavenger and I pick things up from an assortment of places.<br />
<br />
I have two basic questions before scavenging things:<br />
1. Can I or someone I know use it?<br />
2. Is it so unbearably ugly that I will cry every time I look at it?<br />
<br />
(Number two is sometimes thrown out the window when I have to put function over form - such as the case with my fugly fucking couch.)<br />
<br />
And in some ways, she's right. I <i>don't</i> pay for a lot of things. My scavenging generally works one of two ways:<br />
1. People may notice I need something and they have that something taking up needed space in their home or storage.. An example would be my fugly fucking couch. It's a really fugly fucking couch and it's falling apart from where the former owner's dog fucking CHEWED ON IT. Generally, I try to fool myself into thinking it's not so bad by tucking a blanket over the seat, but when two or three different people come by, sit on it then say, "Hey, I have this couch I'm not using anymore, do you want it?" then I'm assuming it's probably just as shitty as I'm really thinking it is. I haven't actually gotten another free couch yet, but I'm assuming someone will call me sooner or later to tell me when I can come get one. <br />
<br />
2. The other way I end up scavenging is by helping people. I don't intentionally go helping people to see what kind of Free Shit I can get, but it happens. I'm a very handy person for helping to clean out cluttered areas and for moving.<br />
<br />
I've moved a lot of people just because that's how we do it around here. A couple of people bring their trucks and/or minivans over, we load their stuff up on the trucks, throw some rope over it if necessary, and move it to the next place. The person being moved may spring for pizza and drinks if they have the money, but it's just as they won't. Generally speaking, helping someone to move is a favor you're investing in that you may call in to be repaid later. Especially if the person you're moving owns a truck.<br />
<br />
Anyway, people who are moving often take moving as an opportunity to unload some of their Shit and then it becomes my Free Shit.<br />
<br />
<br />
Martha Stewart would have mini strokes because it probably looks like the Big Lots furniture section threw up in here, but a chick's gotta do what a chick's gotta do and if vaguely ugly or definitely mismatched is what I have to live with to not have to pay for something, then I'm good with that.<br />
<br />
So here is a list of all my Free Shit:<br />
<ol><li>A 25 inch television given to me ten years ago by a former co-worker. I'd just moved in here and they'd just bought a new television so she gave me their old set. This television is actually about thirty years old and I think it may be on it's last leg because I can't read subtitles anymore without some considerable eyestrain and I can only control the volume and change the channels with the remote. Half the buttons have fallen off and the ones that do work or just as likely to do absolutely nothing towards what you want it to do. Poking at the channel three button now turns the volume up. People keep coming over, looking at it and saying, "Goddamn! You need a television!" But until recently, no one has offered me a new television so I still have this thing. However, a friend I spend a lot of time helping out has just bought some huge ass fucking thing that has such a crisp picture that I'd be scared to watch porn on it because who wants to see ass zits in high def? I'm getting her five year old television. Technically, this is not free. She offered it to me for free, but the television is still rather new and I'm a little funky about taking something extremely new. </li>
<li>My couch. Ugly. Dog eaten. Functional. Sort of. </li>
<li>The corner television stand. </li>
<li>The microwave. I may replace this soon because it's a little old. </li>
<li>The "modern danish buffet" came from freecycle. </li>
<li>The foosball table. My best friend's mom was ready to have it out of her house so it made the big "Santa" present for 2008. Except now I'm really ready to have it out of my damned house. </li>
<li>Three cheap five-shelf book shelves. </li>
<li>Bunkbeds for the heathen boys. </li>
<li>A captain's bed for Tuba Girl. </li>
<li>Kitchen stools. </li>
<li>Televisions for their bedrooms. (Initially, I was very anti-tv-in-the-bedroom, but have relented over the years because people gave us the damned things and it was a hassle with four people wanting to do different things at different times. I pretty well extended myself to allowing it for gaming, but it is not hooked up to cable or dvd players.)</li>
<li>the hamster cage</li>
<li>the mother fucking snake - The boys' father ran across some people who no longer wanted their California king snake so we got the snake and the huge aquarium. The snake doesn't do much other than take up space in my house, scare off some visitors, and provide something interesting to watch from time to time. Her previous owners had her some five years and never handled her so she does not like being picked up. If anyone does try to pick her up, she attempts to shit on that person and I just don't care to have stinky snake shit on me. Snake shit <i>really</i> stinks. <br />
</li>
<li>a fifties style dresser</li>
<li>an army trunk thingy</li>
<li>a fifties style student desk</li>
<li>a color printer </li>
<li>a resin outdoor furniture set</li>
<li>an assortment of smaller Free Shit like baskets, clothes, small storage drawers, car stereo speakers, books, Legos, etc</li>
</ol>I have, of course, paid for things over my lifetime, but my general rule is to wait around and see if I can get it for free or for some minor work. In turn, if I no longer need something, I try to pass it on to someone who may need it.<br />
<br />
The two questions in the beginning of this post are <i>very</i> important when deciding whether I need or want something being offered. We live in approximately 900 square feet and I am adamant about making sure we have enough space to actually <i>live</i>. Children tend to be very busy people and I don't want my space so extremely cluttered with <i>stuff</i> that they don't have enough space to run a little, pull out board games, wrestle, or have space to create.<br />
<br />
Wild Boy is a Major Creator. At any given moment, he's on the floor building something with Lego blocks, K'nex, Lincoln logs, or sometimes just some random sticks. He needs enough space to work and I need enough space to walk around him.<br />
<br />
I used to keep a lot of clothes that people gave me boxed up and ready for when the boys grew older. (I used to do the same for Tuba Girl, but people don't give you as many clothes when children start getting older. I'd say her supply began to peter out when she was about 12.) I rarely ever bought clothes for children during their first 8 or 10 years. When people gave me clothes, I'd go through everything and work through it until I had about two weeks worth of each size and the passed the rest on. Deciding on what I kept was based specifically on how much storage I had available in my closets and under the beds. Everything else went to people who needed it. <br />
<br />
However, the elementary schools moved to school uniforms in 2008 and I quickly found out that I basically did not need 85% of the damned clothes I'd saved. I went through all the boxes, saved back enough to hopefully get them through weekends and summers as they grow older then passed the rest off to other people. <br />
<br />
I was also pretty pissed because all of the uniforms, so far, have had to be bought new. I shuffled through the two local thrift shops, but local children had previously so rarely needed khakis or polo shirts that if there <i>were</i> any available, they were snatched up before I got there. I still regularly check the shops hoping to catch a couple of things, but haven't been lucky. I'm going to have to buy more uniforms pants soon as little boys are rather rough on clothes. <br />
<br />
I know this very long post is titled KAR the Scavenger and I plan to keep it, but the point is not really how I score Free Shit. The real point is relationships. My scavenging is a result of being an active participant in my world. When you reach out to the people around you, those people will reach out and hold your hand. <br />
<br />
People in my life have done a lot for me and they don't just do it because I'm poor or deprived or some shit because the majority of the people I know are in the same position I am in. People help me because we are friends, family, community. Because they know they can depend on me to do the same for them.<br />
<br />
Yeah. It's some sappy shit, but that's how I score Free Shit.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-78950331861962131132010-01-06T06:39:00.000-08:002010-01-06T06:44:58.118-08:00Happy January!I don't know about you all, but I was <i>very</i> busy in December so I decided to take a hiatus from blogging. (See the post regarding the<a href="http://aboutathousandamonth.blogspot.com/2009/11/making-memories-with-heathens.html"> Gingerbread Man Advent Calendar</a>.) I am back now with a current plan to post Monday through Thursday. I'll be taking the weekends off because I try to spend it vegging with the heathens.<br />
<br />
I don't have anything major lined up today but I <i>really</i> want to talk about my Christmas presents. Traditionally, I try not to be a materialist and I typically don't ask for things for Christmas because I'd much rather make sure the children get things they need or want from family members. If people ask what I want, I ask for things for the house because we always need something. In that vein, I received a set of silverware, washrags, pots and plastic cups all which were very much needed and appreciated. (I really like to drink from plastic cups because glasses make my water taste funny.)<br />
<br />
The silverware was oddly very exciting to receive. I don't know about you people, but in my house there is some silverware troll who constantly runs off with all the damned spoons. A few months ago, I realized we were down to <i>one</i> spoon and no frigging forks after I'd prepared dinner. We had to rotate the spoon. HAHAHAHAHA (Of course, I went out and bought some cheap spoons and forks the next day, but it's disturbing to be caught with one spoon to eat. This isn't Little House on the Prairie, dammit.)<br />
<br />
On to other things. There are two things I have wanted for a long time now. One is a Wii. I've wanted one since they first came out and never felt like I could justify making a large purchase like that.<br />
<br />
The other is a KitchenAid mixer. I've wanted a KitchenAid for well over twelve years now and I had no actual qualms about making that purchase, I just never had the money to spend on it. Well, I say I've never had the money to spend on it, but I probably have at some point over the years. I do have a minor martyr streak and have a hard time spending money on things that are just for me. <br />
<br />
Well, my mommy and sister must love me bunches and bunches because they bought both of those for me this year. I don't know how they did it, but I know they did it because they felt like I needed a nice Christmas.<br />
<br />
At first, I felt a good bit guilty because I didn't think it was something they could afford, but I pretty quickly came to the decision that what my family members can afford to spend on me is none of my business. Gift giving is a two part business. Not only does the giftee have the joy of receiving, but the gifter finds joy in giving to others. I know that if I give someone something, the last thing I want is someone asking me why or how I would spend so much money on them. I gave it because I want them to enjoy it. So I wrangled that out with myself before acting like an asshole full of shitty questions. <br />
<br />
<br />
The kids and I are really enjoying the Wii and my sister has come over a couple of times to play Dance Dance Revolution with me.<br />
<br />
My mixer (a Pro 600 in copper, by the way) sits on the danish buffet I scored from Freecycle last week. It's so pretty. (The mixer, not the buffet. The buffet is nice, but it's no KitchenAid.) I still pat it's big round copper head every time I pass by it. I made more buckeyes (them there Christmas balls) the day after Christmas just to see how it would do. It's <i>so</i> much easier. I think I'll have a lot more time to make even more balls next Christmas. <br />
<br />
Also, DMan and his teacher gave me something incredibly special. A few weeks ago, the elementary school sent home these stupid fundraiser letters. Apparently, parents could buy a book of their children's work for the low, low price of $25. I was busy paying for Tuba Girl's trip to Disney (that was an awesome experience for her, BTW) so I didn't have $50 to put toward buying two books for two children when I see their work everyday.<br />
<br />
I don't know how or what his teacher did, but apparently every child in her class received one of the books to wrap as a gift for a parent. When he dragged his gift for me out of his book bag on Christmas morning and I unwrapped this book, I was truly surprised and touched. It's a very beautiful book and I can tell he put some work into the stories he created for it. I get the warm snuggles or some shit every time I think about it.<br />
<br />
I also love home made presents, especially when I know the person put a lot of thought and meaning behind it. (I'm very prone to making them myself as funding is pretty low around here.) The boys' great grandmother on their father's side has a large family and very little money. If there was ever a woman who should start a blog about how to manage so much on so little, it should be Nanny. She knows more home remedies than I'll ever remember and is usually a good go-to person for sound advice. This year, she made books for all of her family members, including me. <3<br />
<br />
For all the young children, she wrote down a story about a little squirrel she'd been telling her great grandchildren for several years, made copies, and bound them ribbon.<br />
<br />
She did something similar for the adults. She wrote down several family recipes, had copies made, bound them in ribbon and wrote a dedication:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>"This book is dedicated to all of my children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and all their husbands, wives, and mothers and fathers of their children."<br />
</blockquote><br />
(I fall under the "mothers and fathers of their children" part.) It's something else I will always cherish.<br />
<br />
And finally, I have not received it yet, but my mom knits and crochets. Nearly every year, she makes each of us a blanket. My sister's was very complicated as it was set to look like piano keys so she hasn't had time to finish mine. And actually, mine is supposed to look like a sort of patchwork quilt and she said it's a good bit more involved than she'd originally anticipated. I must have a dozen or more afghans she's knitted for us over the years. She does very nice work and I'm very appreciative of them on nights when it randomly dips to below freezing around here. <br />
<br />
I've decided I have to include a picture of my sister's piano key blanket:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHFm9WYnkuKIzh-hv7g0jglqDYXO5BPKGmsT_qmjRB3yBNRZmQ4VWbzQSQ0nQ19cwjPE3zA0OYCIRBkeU6632ZTWOA7v3bslZK06qPOX2YHvhd_vequ8jFMhhT3e4Yz3CwzJ0sMsdemdE/s1600-h/knitting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHFm9WYnkuKIzh-hv7g0jglqDYXO5BPKGmsT_qmjRB3yBNRZmQ4VWbzQSQ0nQ19cwjPE3zA0OYCIRBkeU6632ZTWOA7v3bslZK06qPOX2YHvhd_vequ8jFMhhT3e4Yz3CwzJ0sMsdemdE/s320/knitting.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
It's pretty awesome. (The one underneath is something my mom made, too.) My sister has played piano since she was five or so and she is a music education teacher at one of the local elementary schools so she was rather amazed and awed by the blanket. Or afghan. Or whatever you call something that has been knitted. I wish I could knit but I'm a very impatient person and my entire life motto is "If you can't duct it, fuck it." <br />
<br />
This was an entirely selfish post about me, me, me! Merry Late Christmas everyone! Or Happy Hannukah! Or Happy Holidays! Merry Kwanzaa! Or just Festivus! Sure, I'm late, but the spirit in which it was intended is all good.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-87014435055153031162009-12-11T10:33:00.000-08:002009-12-11T10:33:38.347-08:00Why I public school<ol><li>Because I pay a couple of hundred dollars in property taxes every year to pay for the local school system.</li>
<li>To adequately home school and <i>teach</i> a child something requires an ability to pay for and/or access books and resources I'm already paying for through my property taxes for the low, low price of a couple of hundred dollars a year (plus never ending fundraisers.) That Bunsen burner in Tuba Girl's science class is already paid for. </li>
<li>Because I want my children to walk away from a childhood of education with an <i>accredited</i> diploma. Not a diploma that will require earning a GED and then being forced to start off in a two-year college or a technical college if they <i>wanted</i> to go to a four-year university. I'm sure there are accredited home school programs out there and I'm just as sure I cannot afford them. <br />
</li>
<li>Because my local school system does not integrate home schooled children into their extracurricular activities. Without public school, Tuba Girl simply would not be Tuba Girl. She'd be Stay at the House Girl.<br />
</li>
<li>Because I want my children to meet other little heathen children and learn to socialize outside of their comfort zone.</li>
<li>Because I want my children to be able to qualify for the HOPE Scholarship their first year in college, not later on down the road. <br />
</li>
<li>I love my children very much, but if they don't get the hell up out of my face for some amount of time, mommy is going to have a nervous breakdown. <br />
</li>
</ol>KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-71418314739182187112009-11-25T09:39:00.000-08:002009-11-25T09:39:12.936-08:00What do you have?Right before I was felled in the Battle of Strep Throat, I was in the middle of preparing a long Thanksgiving post on all the things I was thankful for in my life. I have many things and many wonderful people who have made my life very rich. However, the longer my list grew, the more . . . sentimental things got as I explained what this person or that person meant to me. I just don't deal in sentimentality all that well.<br />
<br />
So I thought I'd let George Berger sum up my Thanksgiving post for me. <br />
<br />
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<br />
Happy Thanksgiving! Spend it with the people you love.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-33320564268025241342009-11-24T06:51:00.000-08:002009-11-24T06:51:55.939-08:00It's been a while(Why is it I always steal my titles from <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVC1iBVnKJk">song lyrics</a>?)<br />
<br />
So I'm not an everyday blogger. Sorry about that. I developed some creeping crud that left me speaking in tongues and begging for a firing squad. It started off as a chest cold, then quickly invaded my sinuses. Finally, a strep throat assault did me in. Maybe strep throat doesn't affect everyone that way, but it seems to throw my ass to the ground and beat me about the throatal area with pointy toed boots. (Yes, I know throatal is not a real word, but I'm claiming it my right. I was a creative writing major and I figure there must be some sort of special perk, like getting to make up words, involved in that.)<br />
<br />
So you know what the strep throat means? There must be a major holiday right around the corner! And according to my calendar, why yes, it is Thanksgiving on Thursday. No KAR holiday is complete without some agitating and sometimes freaky issue taking place. Last year it was the sprained ankle from falling down a step (yes, <b>one<i> </i></b>step) three days before Christmas. My sister picked me up from work and made me go to the emergency room on Christmas Eve because she was convinced I'd broken it and I got to spend Christmas Day impeded by a soft cast or some such thing.<br />
<br />
At leat it wasn't broken, but I quickly found out that I do not make a very patient patient and I don't think I will be one of those people to grow old and senile with any sort of grace. I'm apparently going to rage against the dying of the light and maybe throw a can of Ensure at a few people to carry the message across. I'm going to old people prison. And if I do, I'm taking a few bitches with me so I can create a little old lady gang.<br />
<br />
I would like to say Tuba Girl is turning out to be a very nice nurse. If I had to give her a name, I think it would be Nurse Wratchet. She means well, but she's pretty adamant about following her directions. She kept trying to make me eat when I couldn't even <i>swallow my own spit</i> and she kept calling people to tell them I <i>was sick</i> and I <i>wouldn't eat</i> and the next thing you know, my mother thinks I'm dying. As a mother, I am apparently not allowed to get sick. It upsets the fulchrum. She's a great kid. She told me I took care of her all the time when she was sick so she wanted to take care of me. <3<br />
<br />
So, I'll be back soon hookers with something possibly infotaining. I'm still trying to get myself together.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-50490639566161526342009-11-17T19:13:00.000-08:002009-11-17T19:17:15.041-08:00Making Memories with the HeathensI can't remember when I started this, maybe when Tuba Girl about three or four, but every year we make an activity advent calendar. Basically, we make gingerbread men out of brown paper bags, I write a special activity on one of the gingerbread men then glue another gingerbread man on top. We decorate the little fuckers then string them up on a piece of yarn or something and hang it along a wall or bookshelf or whatever is available that year. <br />
<br />
(I'll try to post pictures of this later since I caved and bought a really cheap $20 digital camera. I think it's one of those disposal deals and it's pretty shitty, but better than nothing. I want to send it to Disney with Tuba Girl. If she loses or breaks it, at least I haven't lost a major investment.)<br />
<br />
I found this idea in a parenting magazine years and years ago and we've done it ever since except for a couple of years when finals were pushing me to the brink. I like to start my advent activity calendar ASAP. Just for shits and giggles, here is my list of activities. They aren't set in stone and are very well liable to change between now and the actual day of the activity depending on if things have come up.<br />
<br />
My List of Special Memory Making Activities<br />
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 11/27 - decorate the gingerbread man calendar</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">11/28 - pull out the tree, ornaments and decorations<br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">11/29 - My godchild's birthday party<br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 11/30 - Discuss a charity we'd like to give to.<br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/01<i> -</i><i> </i>Go on a nature walk at the recreational park and pick nice pine cones. (For a later project.)<br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/02 - Wild Boy's Birthday. We'll do something he is interested in such as playing a board game or watching a favorite movie. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/03<i> -</i> Make bird feeders with the pine cones. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/04 - Decorate tree and drink home made hot chocolate. (I'll put up the tree and string the lights while the kids are at school so they won't have to wait through that. I never put up the tree until after Wild Boy's birthday.)<br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/05 <i>- </i>Wild Boy's<i> </i>birthday party </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/06 – Christmas Parade </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/07 – Watch Wild Boy's Christmas movie pick. (Mondays are usually stressful days so I don't like to actually plan anything on Mondays.) <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/08 – Write Christmas Cards to troops? (This is a question mark because I need to find out if I should switch this to an earlier date so that they'll get there in time.) Possibly, I may change this to Christmas cards for the elderly or something. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/09 – Write letters to Santa. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/10 – Make Christmas ornaments</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/11 –<i> C</i>hristmas at the local arboretum<i><br />
</i></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/12 <i>–</i> see the Nutcracker (We see the local production of the Nutcracker every single year. The only year we didn't attend is the year Wild Boy was born. Relatively speaking, this is an expensive event for me because it costs nearly forty dollars for a family of four to attend, but it's something we really enjoy. Well . . . I think they enjoy it. Mostly, they end up driving me up the wall, but I'm determined they're going to get some damned culture somewhere even if it's just watching a bunch of four-year-old ballet students run up and down the stage pretending to be mice)<br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/13– Watch Dman's pick of a Christmas themed movie and continue making Christmas ornaments. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/14 <i>- </i>Cub Scouts Christmas Party<br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/15– make <a href="http://www.skiptomylou.org/2008/09/15/handmade-bookmark-ideas/">book marks</a> to give as Christmas presents. A lot of our family and friends are voracious readers so I thought bookmarks would be cute and useful. I'm big on the useful in terms of presents. Either useful or edible. I thought the picture ones would be really cute for the grandparents. Bookmarks may make cute teacher gifts, too. Haven't made up my mind about that, yet. Usually, I try to give teachers a sort of teacher supply gift bag on the years I can afford it. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/16 – Watch Tuba Girl's pick of a Christmas movie and finish up any undone ornaments or other crafts I may have figured out by then. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/17 – A treasure hunt? (Still playing with this idea, it's new.) <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/18 <i>– </i>Aunt Brina’s house. Aunt Brina is not a "real" aunt, but is my best friend. We have dinner and open presents at her house the last Friday before Christmas and have been doing this for five years now. If the Friday before Christmas turns out to be Christmas Eve or Christmas Eve Eve, then we work it to something else. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/19 – Look at Christmas Lights</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/20 –<i> </i>Watch my movie pick and make candy. (I should actually be close to finishing up most of my Christmas candy making activities by this point, but the kids like to help so I plan to set this day aside to let them do that. My kitchen is a bit small and counter space is a premium. I also have these minor claustrophobia issues so I have to be mentally prepared to have more than one person in the kitchen helping. It's weird. I'm weird. You people all have your own weirdnesses so LEMMELONE.)<br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/21 <i>– </i>Watch A Christmas Story. My absolutely most favoritest Christmas movie <i>ever</i>. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"> 12/22 - Make homemade play doh for some of the cousins. I'm sure the parents with carpet will hate me. <br />
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/23 <i>– Nanny R's house. <br />
</i></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/24 <i> – Granny J’s house</i></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;">12/25 – Christmas! We wake up Christmas morning, open presents then go over to my mom's house later in the afternoon. We may go to Nanny W's house sometime in the evenings, depending on how the kids are doing. </li>
</ul>It's very hard planning the holidays when you have a lot of family who seem to think you should come to their house <i>on</i> Christmas Day. The only person who is absolutely guaranteed to see me on Christmas is my mommy and that's because I promised her <i>and</i> I have her only grandchildren. It took a few years, but we have a basic arrangement about how to spend Christmas with family members.<br />
<br />
Of course, this doesn't always work for everyone. We've yet to settle out a specific day for Nanny W so that's why she gets squished into Christmas evening. Also, my dad has been a bachelor for over 20 years so he spends the Christmas holidays with us. This means he goes nearly everywhere we go including my mom's house.<br />
<br />
My parents have more or less made their peace over the past couple of decades, but spending time around my father can be . . . stressful. He has some shizoparanoid delusions of grandeur and persecution going on. <br />
<br />
My father does not rest his prophesying even on Christmas day. Fun times. Fun Times. His main topics of conversation include but are not limited to: <br />
<ul><li>the "Mark of the Beast" </li>
<li>When the World is Going to End</li>
<li>How Each and Every President's Name Equals to 666</li>
<li>How His Name Equals to 666</li>
<li>How Every Current President Since Reagan has Possibly Been the Antichrist</li>
<li> How he May Be the Antichrist</li>
<li>How He is Going to Run for President <br />
</li>
<li>The Super Computer in Texas called "The Beast"<br />
</li>
<li>America as Babylon the Whore</li>
<li>How to Recognize the Mark When They Try to Implant it in Your Skin</li>
<li> He's Moving to Israel <br />
</li>
<li>Homeland Security is Watching Him (they probably are)</li>
<li>Mother Fucking Benny Hinn <br />
</li>
<li>His Government Has Set Him Up and a fun variety of other great family conversational topics. </li>
</ul>My mom doesn't mind him being in her house, but the rambling ticks her off after a while. Last year she asked me why I didn't just tell him to shut up and I told her I couldn't do that because even though he is crazy as hell, he's still my parent and I'm trying to respect him and shit. <br />
<br />
She sat clicking away with those pointy knitting needles a few minutes before she finally hollered, "Shut the hell up, Dave!"<br />
<br />
That seemed to work and we went back to digesting the Christmas feast in relative peace. My dad gets along with my stepdad really well, though. They both never talk <i>to</i> people, they talk <i>at </i>them, meaning the other person in the conversation rarely, if ever, has an opportunity to speak and unless he or she is one of the few, the brave, the rude, then he or she just sits there drowning under the drone of a steady conversation of no interest silently praying to God or the Flying Spaghetti Monster or any deity of their choice that an airplane would fall on the house. It's not long after the praying that the person being talked <i>at</i> slips into a catatonic state.<br />
<br />
So my dad and stepdad talk <i>at</i> each other and they seem to have a great friendship somehow. It also seems to help that my stepdad is nearly deaf after thirty odd years of working on school buses. He doesn't know what the hell my dad istalking about half the time.<br />
<br />
Well, there is my Christmas activity calendar and a couple of random stories. The kids love the calendar and it's something they look forward to every year. I have a lot of fun with it, too.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-8221128309454080002009-11-16T11:14:00.000-08:002009-11-17T19:17:34.853-08:00Circle, Circle, Dot, Dot, Now You've Got Your Cootie Shot.Sorry no recent updates, peeps. I've been crazy busy trying to plan out Christmas with a google calender and everything! I've decided this year is going to be the year that I have it all in order. And thank you so much, for those of you who recommended gift ideas for Tuba Girl! They're on my list and I've also managed to use your suggestions as a springboard for other possible ideas.<br />
<br />
I'll update on Christmas proceedings along the way, but I had this random Lice Thought today and thought I'd talk about lice. I detest lice. I suppose everyone does, but I seem to have super creeped-out aversion to all things parasitic. Which is one of the major reasons I won't have a dog or cat or pretty much anything else that may shit worms at any given point.<br />
<br />
I'm a pretty strong chick about some things. My friends call me to removed their tiny little garden snakes from their yard and I handle emergencies pretty well. But I <i>cannot</i> pick ticks off a dog. I will hurl. It's just one of those things. So we don't do ticks and fleas or worms or any of that shit.<br />
<br />
Now my kids do end up with ticks from time to time and I've successfully managed to handle that. But those are my kids. I am required to do so by natural law. Dogs are not my children. They're on their own.<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to the lice thing. It randomly crossed my mind how lucky we've been because we haven't had a bout of the creepy crawlies in over six years. (Of course, the minute I post this, we're going to end up with some hardcore new kind where the nits are buried under the scalp and they come oozing out of their nostrils or something equally horrific.) But all the same, I'm very pleased that I have three children in public school and they haven't come home crawling with . . . things. It really creeps me out. Horribly. Seriously.<br />
<br />
The Great Lice Battle of Ought Three was brought on by a woman whom I knew in a round about way, but I didn't exactly consider her a "friend" or someone that I even want to associate with on any personal level. However, as noted in the Stinky Motherfucker files, I tend to be overly polite to dumbasses.<br />
<br />
I don't know why. Maybe it's the train wreck factor. Maybe I'm scared they'll go crazy and burn down my house. Or maybe I'm just stupid. Unless someone is purposefully rude or mean to me, I rarely ever make my displeasure known. And even when someone is purposely rude, I tend to either not recognize it or just keep going about my business because I have shit to do. <br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway, this damned chick showed up at my house one summer when Wild Boy was about six months old. She's a pregnophile of some sort. She adores being pregnant. She also can't afford all those damned kids. But whatever. Her life.<br />
<br />
One thing, though, that I've noticed about woman who love being pregnant is that's about it. The children are some unfortunate by-product. I don't know if it's just a local issue or some widespread weirdness, but a lot of women love being pregnant because it infuses a little drama into their life and keeps the focus on them. However, the end result is a baby and the baby is only good for attention for so long before you have to go off and get another one. I think this chick, the last I heard, was on pregnancy number eight. <br />
<br />
I was "visiting" with this person in my house (and by visiting, I mean wishing she'd shut the hell up and go away because I'm about to miss fucking NAP TIME) when I idly looked down at six-month-old Wild Boy. I'd just had him returned to be by my company's eight-year -old child who'd spent several minutes holding him on the living room floor trying to talk him into eating a teething biscuit.<br />
<br />
I looked down at Wild Boy, looked up at all these damned people in my house, and then looked down again until I was sure I had his watermelon baby head in focus (that's his daddy's head, not mine) and proceeded to nearly have a screaming hissy as I picked a louse <i>bug</i> off his head and squished it between my fingernails. <br />
<br />
I gaped at it a minute, stared at this woman sitting in my living room with a bottle propped up in her baby's mouth and her four other disheveled children running around my house and my heart sank. Eventually, I managed to get my unwanted company and <i>their</i> "company" packed off and home without freaking the hell out and immediately began damage control.<br />
<br />
This was not my first bout with lice and I actually spent six months battling the little fuckers a couple of years previous because Tuba Girl kept contracting it at school. I learned a lot that year.<br />
<br />
What I learned is that, generally speaking, the lice shampoos do not work very well anymore. Like most anything else, the bugs are adapting to the shampoo and they don't always die. So while it's a good idea to start with the shampoo, it doesn't end there.<br />
<br />
Step 1: Shampoo everyone's head with the lice shampoo.<br />
Step 2: Go through hair with a nit comb. You need to handle maybe about five strands of hair at a time and then pen that section up when you're done. This is serious work and you can't just comb through as if you were brushing. <br />
Step 3: Wash all linens in hot water.<br />
Step 4: Bag up all stuffed animals and any blankets that cannot be washed in airtight containers for a minimum of two weeks. <br />
Step 5: Vacuum all carpets.<br />
Step 6: Boil all brushes, combs and other hair items. <br />
<br />
This is basic stuff. However, as I said before, the shampoo doesn't kill them as well anymore. On top of that, the shampoo is very expensive and can break a person's budget. If you don't kill every last bug and remove every last nit, then you highly stand the chance of re-infestation. AND(!), if you send your child back to school, he or she can catch it again <i>especially</i> if you have not notified the school that your child has had lice.<br />
<br />
Whenever your child has head lice and you discover it on your own, <i>please, please</i> notify your child's school so that they can do head checks and make sure other children aren't infested. If you don't do this, then you're creating an endless cycle and you can spend hundreds of dollars trying to get rid of this shit because it's not all taken care of at the same time.<br />
<br />
There are a lot of natural remedies I've discovered that are pretty effective in murdering lice. You can use them in place of the pesticide shampoos or in conjunction. The last couple of times we had this, I only used natural remedies instead of the shampoo. The boys were very young and I didn't like the idea of putting pesticides on their head. I was as successful in getting rid of the lice as I'd been with the shampoo treatments. <br />
<br />
Things I've used to be effective:<br />
<ol><li>Vinegar rinse - rinse the infested person's head with vinegar as this helps to loosen the glue nits use to hang around on your head. You can either do a whole head rinse or dip a cotton ball in vinegar and run it down the strands of hair you are about to comb.</li>
<li>Comb out hair a few strands of time using a fine toothed metal nit comb. Drop the eggs and/or bugs into a bowl of vinegar to kill them. <br />
</li>
<li>Olive Oil - (You can use whatever can you want. I just bought a big gallon can of the shit.) Douse each person's head in olive oil, wrap in saran wrap or shower cap and leave over night. Other people swear by mayonnaise, sunflower oil, and Vaseline among other greasy products. The idea is that you are suffocating the bugs. (This doesn't do anything about the nits, however.).<br />
</li>
<li>Wash with dish detergent to cut the oil out. It may take a couple of washings and to be perfectly honest, I was never able to quite get all the olive oil out of my own hair whenever I washed it. I looked like a sad little white woman attempting to do some dastardly Jheri curl, but I'd rather be greasy than lousy in the long run. We did the olive oil thing every three days for three straight weeks because I'm creeped out by bugs and shit living ON MY HEAD<i>. </i></li>
<li>Make your own lice repelling shampoo. I don't know if this really, really works or not, but I did it because when it comes to getting rid of lice, I'll try anything short of standing nekkid on the interstate. I bought a cheap lavender shampoo, added 20 drops of lavender oil, 20 drops of olive oil, 20 drops of rosemary oil, and 20 drops of tea tree oil to the bottle. I can't remember the exact reasoning, but it seems like I remember the rosemary and lavender oils were supposed to repel lice and tea tree oil is just some good shit in general. <br />
</li>
<li><i> </i>Shampoo regularly with the lice repelling shampoo and check routinely for the possibility of a new infestation. </li>
</ol>Getting lice is a real pain in the ass and I hate it something horribly. As I said before, as soon as that lice infested chick left my house that day I immediately set to work and pretty well headed the whole situation off at the pass.<br />
<br />
The thing is, the crazy whore showed up at my house about two weeks later asking me to watch her kids for a little while so she and her husband could go out for their anniversary. I told her I couldn't because I hadn't been feeling well. I was trying to not be rude and tell her she'd given us bugs on her last visit so I went with the "not feeling well" bit. Which, in truth, I wasn't. Wild Boy had a lot of ailments going on at the time and it was hard keeping up with him, two others, the house and all this other crap on four hours of sleep a night and maybe an afternoon nap if stupid people didn't show up at my house. I was continually "not feeling well." <br />
<br />
However, this was the kind of woman who doesn't really give a flying shit about anything and remains insanely oblivious to much of the world around her. I stood at the door trying to say no without being rude and screaming something like, "Get your lousy ass out of my doorway!" <br />
<br />
Finally, when one of her little infested children shot between my legs and ran to my daughter's room, I looked at her and said,"I really can't keep your kids. We have lice." Although, I'd actually taken care of it. I lied because I thought it was would work much like saying, "We have the bubonic plague" or something like that. Except it didn't.<br />
<br />
The crazy woman looked at me and said, "Oh! That's okay! We have it, too. I've got the medicine and stuff at the house so I can come over and help you get rid of it. I was going to handle it before school starts anyway."<br />
<br />
No.thank.you.<br />
<br />
I don't know who kept her little infested children for her anniversary, but I know I spent the rest of the summer virtually secluded dealing with the <i>second</i> bout of lice she brought to us. Oh, good times.<br />
Good times.I was very happy they moved right before school began so at least her children were no longer going to KAR Elementary. <br />
<br />
So that's how I've dealt with lice. I've found it to be pretty successful. You may want to try checking out some websites to see what may work best for your family.<br />
<br />
Next time, amigos.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-74775457677303405202009-11-11T04:06:00.000-08:002009-11-17T19:18:02.599-08:00Teens and thingsSo here is a general request from those interested in helping me a bit.<br />
<br />
I mentioned in an earlier thread that Tuba Girl will not be getting many Christmas presents under the tree (except for the necessary stocking) as I've spent a large amount of money on her band shit.<br />
<br />
However, I'd really like to make sure she has a few little things under the tree and I thought it would be nice to make her a few things. (Provided I can figure out, have the time and supplies to make it.)<br />
<br />
So far I have a scrapbook kit for her Disney trip. (I thought it would be nice to let her make it herself.) She has also requested butter milk fudge.<br />
<br />
So people, hook me up with some ideas and links of neato things one sousaphone-playing, emo/goth girl may like. It has be cheap and easy. Remember that I cannot do things that involve crocheting, knitting, sewing. If you suggest something with a knitting pattern, I will mentally stab you with those pointy sticks.<br />
<br />
In other news, this is a cool website: http://www.instructables.com/KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-56104580165072763522009-11-09T19:32:00.000-08:002009-11-17T19:18:40.957-08:00Christmas Balls. Christmas Balls. I've got great big Christmas Balls.Until such a time as I get my shit together and finally finish projecting the costs for all my appliances utilizing the <a href="http://www.georgialibraries.org/news/articles.php?searchid=73">Killa-Watt meter thingy</a>, I don't really have anything vaguely frugally/parenting/financial to write about.<br />
<br />
I was really entertained with the whole process until I checked out my fridge and the meter told me it was costing me approximately $60 a month for my fridge and I knew I had to be doing something wrong. It turns out I was. I forgot to put a zero in the appropriate place. Details. Details.<br />
<br />
But don't worry, I'm not going to measure my electricity usage down to the penny. I do have some shit to do. Using this has made me aware of a couple of things, such as the fact that I always forget to cut off my computer speakers. They're kind of shoved to the back so I tend to forget about them.<br />
<br />
Also, I'm going to attempt to cut back on the furnace use. The main reason I've entertained such a high bill all these years is because Wild Boy had <a href="http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/800119-overview">reactive airway disease (RAD)</a> the first four or five years of his life and extreme temperature negatively affected him. So I paid the bill to keep him comfortable.<br />
<br />
Luckily, he seems to have finally outgrown it so while I'm not going to spend my life freezing in the winter or sweating in the summer, we can pull back on it a little more since weather and temperature changes do not affect him as they used to. <br />
<br />
Anyway, I'm going to post the Christmas Balls recipe. Technically, they're called buckeyes, but no one around here calls them buckeyes. I suppose maybe it <i>is</i> a little odd to name a candy after a nut that can kill you. <br />
<br />
Every year for the past eight or so years, people call me up around the beginning December to ask me shit like, "Hey! You gonna make me sumathem balls this year?" So they're just Christmas Balls. <br />
<br />
I don't know how I got to be the official Christmas Ball Maker, but I am. Maybe it's because the balls/buckeyes don't require a whole lot of indepth cooking skills. They're relatively easy to make; just time consuming.<br />
<br />
Technically, you can search "buckeye recipe" and find a thousand different possibilities. I didn't make the things up. I don't possess that sort of creativity.<br />
<br />
Here's a basic recipe with no picture because I am not going to start making them tonight and I don't having a functional camera that isn't attached to a phone. One who reads this blog has to be someone not horribly bothered by visual aesthetics. You are appreciated.<br />
<br />
<b>Buckeye Recipe</b><br />
<br />
<ul><li>2 lbs. powdered sugar (This recipe is not diabetic friendly.)</li>
</ul><ul><li> 3 cups peanut butter (Smooth or crunchy. I just prefer crunchy peanut butter.)</li>
</ul><ul><li> 2 sticks of margarine (You could use butter, but that's some expensive shit when you make as many as I do every year.) </li>
</ul><ul><li>1 tsp vanilla (It really is best to buy pure vanilla. I'm going to make some from scratch one year if I can just quit drinking all the vodka.)</li>
</ul><ul><li> 1 package of <a href="http://almond%20bark/">Almond Bark </a> (You could use some chocolate chip/paraffin concoction, but I don't like to add to my issues.) <br />
</li>
<li>wax paper and toothpicks <br />
</li>
</ul><br />
<ol><li>Cream the butter or margarine or whatever the hell you're going to use with the peanut butter and vanilla. (This actually requires a mixer. Just spend the ten damned dollars because everyone needs a mixer. Now personally, <i>I </i>want a blinged out <a href="http://www.amazon.com/KitchenAid-KSM158GBCA-Anniversary-Limited-5-Quart/dp/B002JB1BRO/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&s=home-garden&qid=1257822466&sr=8-8">KitchenAid stand mixer</a>. This is not a passing phase. I've been waiting on one to magically appear in my kitchen for something close to 12 years. One day, it will be mine. Oh yes.It will be mine.)</li>
<li>Add confectioners sugar until a desired consistency is mixed. This is somewhere around the point where you can touch it with your fingers and it's not gooey, but not so full of powdered sugar that it crumbles. (Also, if you're going to try to double the recipe, don't do this with a hand mixer. I burned out a moter that way. See? That's why I need a KitchenAid.)</li>
<li>Roll the peanut butter/powdered sugar mixture into one inch balls. </li>
<li>Lay the wax paper across the counter.</li>
<li>Melt the almond bark on a double boiler. Be careful, stir constantly over medium low heat. Do not let boil! </li>
<li>Using a toothpick (or cradle the peanut butter balls using two forks) quickly dip the balls into the chocolate mixture, covering the balls about 3/4 of the way up. Work quickly before the bark begins to harden in the pot. <br />
</li>
<li> Lay on wax paper to dry. </li>
</ol>So that's the Christmas Balls recipe. I think I made somewhere around 1500 balls last year. This, along with peanut brittle, are my two main requests.KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-17730064072718022352009-11-07T19:28:00.000-08:002009-11-07T19:28:42.552-08:00Christmas Cards for NoahI caught this over on <a href="http://katiesdealblog.blogspot.com/2009/11/30-day-giving-challenge-day-5-i-need.html">Saving for the Farm</a> this morning. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAprkoEt20LBEze-HLp-bez_Y5SfTvMapPSoWPDDVTWgdei8IflFg-LRkRCJ7I1Uf2EsUAn84BwOG56mCfwyQfbHQl4yfmXucZhSsakfR52e5tv3jjvw23f33pJW71XUuggmf_BkSThIAs/s1600-h/noah-biorkman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAprkoEt20LBEze-HLp-bez_Y5SfTvMapPSoWPDDVTWgdei8IflFg-LRkRCJ7I1Uf2EsUAn84BwOG56mCfwyQfbHQl4yfmXucZhSsakfR52e5tv3jjvw23f33pJW71XUuggmf_BkSThIAs/s640/noah-biorkman.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<br />
Five-year-old <a href="http://www.inquisitr.com/46377/noah-biorkman/">Noah Biorkman </a>has reached the end stages of his battle with neuroblastoma. He is now receiving hospice care as he is not expected to make it to the new year. His request was that he and his family celebrate Christmas this weekend (November 6 -8, 2009.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Noah's mother is requesting Christmas cards for her son. Please take the time to send a card.<br />
<br />
I've searched his name and this is legitimate. His <a href="http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=177509260842&ref=nf">Facebook</a> page requests that you consider putting a dollar in the card which will be donated to Neuroblastoma research and the Make-a-Wish foundation. <br />
<br />
I hope Noah has a wonderful Christmas. <br />
<br />
Noah Biorkman<br />
1141 Fountain View Circle<br />
South Lyon, Michigan 48178<br />
<br />
<br />
(However, don't go riding by trying to hang out with Noah or anything. That's just a bit damned creepy.)KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2885399245420034688.post-70582698011359264702009-11-06T09:35:00.000-08:002009-11-06T09:35:58.602-08:00Get out of my yard, you whippersnappers!I have to say this story is actually about what happened this morning, but I'm a sucker for back story so I am assuming those of you who regularly read my posts also have a fondness for random details. <br />
<br />
I once had a neighbor who was a dumbass. (This should not be a surprise.) This particular neighbor had a bad habit of having himself thrown in jail. We will call him Method Man. <br />
<br />
During his time living in my quaint tin neighborhood, Method Man spent a lot of time hanging out with Drug Dealing Neighbor. It was a nice relationship for them. I must add that like I have known Drug Dealing Neighbor for many years, I have known this particular fellow since grade school. I know his cousins. They all rode my bus at some point or other. <br />
<br />
Also, Method Man and I are distantly related on my mother's side, through my grandfather's people. Not close enough to attend the same family reunions, but related enough to be able to count back to the connecting ancestor. However, I would still prefer to call him a former neighbor rather than a distant cousin. If I chose otherwise, I'd have to recognize my distant kinship to a large percentage of this county. As it is, one of my uncles has recently begun dating Drug Dealing Neighbor's mother. So things are starting to look funny around here especially considering a neighbor I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> like had married the former husband of my boys' great aunt so she started showing up to some of <span style="font-style: italic;">those</span> family functions. <br />
<br />
Now that I've vaguely outlined the familial issues abounding here, I'll move on to today's long-winded tale. Many moons ago, this former neighbor spent some time manufacturing meth as his income source. (Get it? Meth/Method Man? I crack myself up.) The situation was more than a bit disturbing. How is it that backwoods mother fuckers who never finished the eighth grade suddenly consider themselves chemists? <br />
<br />
Apparently, Method Man became very paranoid about his illicit activities. Instead of forgoing production of a lye-filled drug that was very likely to blow up the entire neighborhood, he called the state Bureau of Investigation. <br />
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He turned himself in, you ask? Why no! He called and told the investigators that Drug Dealing Neighbor was manufacturing methamphetamines. Now, <span style="font-style: italic;">why</span> you may ask yourself, would a man call law enforcement officials on a person he considered to be a good friend? Because that shit <span style="font-style: italic;">fucks you up</span>. <br />
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Within a day or two of having narced out Drug Dealing Neighbor as a meth maker (though he wasn't) Method Man went to Drug Dealing Neighbor's house and confessed. According to all reports, he provided detailed information about the conversation and begged forgiveness from Drug Dealing Neighbor. Method Man cried profusely. <br />
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Now, I don't know about you, but if a friend tried to sic the po-lice on me for something I wasn't actually doing, but was trying to cover his own ass, I'd be one pissed off bitch. Seriously, seriously pissed off. I don't think I'd ever speak to that person again and I may stick a potato in their tail pipe, because no matter how good a person I <span style="font-style: italic;">try</span> to be, I can be a vindictive bitch at times.<br />
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Don't get me wrong, Drug Dealing Neighbor was upset. Agitated. Aggrieved. And yet, Method Man still continued to come over to his house and hang out. It's really sort of odd to see some sort of Christian forgiveness going on betwixt two drug addicts, but that's more or less what it was. One would expect a fist fight at the very least and maybe a shoot out for large scale anger displays. Drug Dealing Neighbor is just a good guy for all his stupid, illicit activities. <br />
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Sometimes shortly after this, Method Man was in a rolling meth lab explosion. (A rolling meth lab is simply a fancy name they give to labs set up in vehicles.) The other two guys were blown to jelly bits, but Method Man survived with burns to his eyes from which he has largely recovered. <br />
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Method Man went to prison for a while after the explosion. I don't know why. He'd always seemed to be a bit of institutionalized sort of person. Needless to say, we went some years without seeing MM until I randomly saw him at a local church fall festival two or three years ago. (I haven't renounced my heathen ways, I just don't have an insane vendetta against churches or god.) It seems that Method Man finally found God in prison and it seemed to have stuck. He settled down, had a baby with a former girlfriend (I am unclear as to whether they married or not) and for the most part, gave up his indulgences. This meant that we went a number of years without seeing him in the hood. <br />
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Until this week when he began rolling up and down the driveway to Drug Dealing Neighbor's house on a four wheeler. "Ah shit," I thought to myself. "My peace and quiet is about to be fuckered five ways to Sunday." For the past week, there has been a lot of four wheeler riding up and down my driveway, but no spectacular displays of fuckwittery. Until today.<br />
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As I sat at my desk this morning eating popcorn for breakfast and working on my "novel" I heard a strange, high pitched "WHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRR!" emanating from somewhere near my house. My first thought was that it sounded like an electric screwdriver. <br />
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"Shit, is someone stealing the siding off my house while I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">in</span> it?"<br />
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My home is made of aluminum or tin or whatever and a person can get a decent bit of money at the salvage yard if they chose to steal my fucking siding. <br />
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I sat there another moment waiting to hear other possible siding stealing activities. Finally I decided maybe I was being paranoid because the economy is causing some unwarranted theft issues around here and went back to my business of writing offal. <br />
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In another minute or so there was a knock at my door. I gave up on the shitty novel and peeked out the spy glass. It was Method Man. What the hell? <br />
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Curiosity slays me so I answered it. <br />
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"Uh. I was driving through your back yard and there was this hole . . . "<br />
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Apparently, Method Man was going to utilize my backyard as an exit point to visit some friends behind the park or some such shit. There is an area in my back yard where the the little pretend fence has been for a number of years and their are no trees. Instead, it's just a bit of undergrowth thin enough a truck or SUV could drive over it with no problem. <br />
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What Method Man did not realize in the years that he has been gone is that my heathen boys have been busy examining careers in archeology and engineering through hands on training in the back yard. So that stupid dipshit, instead of knocking on my door to ask me if he could drive through my yard took it upon himself to do a general visual sweep of the area (with one functional <span style="font-style: italic;">eye)</span> and deem it passable.<br />
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Had he knocked on the door, I would have said, "Yeah, sure. Whatever. But look, there's this big ass hole right in front of the area you want to drive through so you might want to be careful about it." <br />
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But he didn't. Subsequently, his friend's SUV ended up stuck in a hole about two or three feet deep so I carried him down to his mommy's house so he could have her pull it out with her truck. They spent a good 30 minutes or so tearing up the grass in my back yard and burning the rubber on his mother's tires to pull this automobile out of my children's excavation site.<br />
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(I don't really care about the grass. My neighbor's lawn mower seems to be nonfunctional at the moment so I can't cut it until I can find another one to borrow somewhere. I finally get a moment to cut the damned grass and I can't find a stupid ass lawn mower.)<br />
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I have to say it's the best belly laugh I've had in days. There is nothing like looking out one's living room window and spying a car jammed into a hole in one's back yard. I'm a horrible person and found myself very entertained by Method Man's description about how life was going along just fine and suddenly he found himself tipped over so far that he could see very clearly that I truly need to cut my grass. <br />
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Without further ado, here is a picture of the . . . accident. Once again, excuse the shitty fuzziness that is my camera phone.<br />
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(Also, that big pile of shit to the right of the car is not <i>my</i> yard. That is apparently the defining barrier between my yard and Drug Dealing Neighbor's yard. DDN has lived here 11 or 12 years now. I saw him cut grass once. It was an amazing moment.)KARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629917725264819588noreply@blogger.com1