August 23, 2008
It has been almost thirty years since I headed off to Wal-Mart with my mom to go school shopping. I know that things have changed, and Wal-Mart is significantly less expensive than Limited Too and Macy's, but this is ridiculous. The only school 'supplies' we bought were a lunch box and a backpack. Everything else was clothing. My parents did the best they could, and it was fine for me. Other kids did not see it that way all the time, and I still remember being ridiculed for not having fashionable clothing. As a result, Annie benefits from an abnormal break down in my typical penny-pinching.
To start at the beginning of our excursion, I have to go back to yesterday. I had to get up before midnight Pacific time to be sure I could make my plane out of Detroit. I struggle to sleep on airplanes, and never get quality sleep. I drift off for a few minutes and wake up feeling pain in joints I didn't even know were there. Consequently, when I picked up Annie around noon, I was already beat. This was compounded by the fact I didn't sleep much in Detroit. Not because I was out having a raucous good time, but because I just couldn't sleep... for four nights. So, my plans for going grocery shopping and beginning clothing shopping were cut to just groceries. I might have let that one go as well, but there was virtually no food in the house. $200 and a couple hours later we arrived home. The rest of the day was spent slowly unpacking, putting away groceries, playing, and eating pizza while watching Psych compliments of the DVR. Annie was struggling with the realization that the schedule had changed back to the 'school routine,' and so I let her leave her bed and sleep in mine after we talked about it. Her frustration was probably compounded by the fact that she had also not slept much the previous night.
This morning the adventure began. We pulled out all her clothes and went through what fit, what was too stained to where to school, what was in good shape but had been assigned to her list of clothes she never wanted to wear again, and made a list of what we needed. It actually wasn't as bad as I had expected, but I knew it was going to be expensive when I saw that she had no jeans left at all. She is as hard to fit with decent jeans as I am, so they are not cheap. We could not find any long sleeve shirts, which was high on my list of priorities, because no one stocks them until it actually gets cold. Why would anyone want to plan for that sort of thing? Everyone is an impulse buyer wanting what is necessary only for right now, right?
Anyway, our school booty ended with:
3 short-sleeved shirts
4 jeans
1 pair of shorts
1 pair of capris
a bunch of socks
2 pairs of shoes
1 backpack
1 lunchbox
1 cami
for a grand total of about $350.
To make me even more concerned... maybe that is not the word. Hmmm... To increase my anxiety at how fast she is maturing, many of her shirts proudly indicate some sort of built in bra support construction. I am not quite ready for that, yet. Despite the fact that she chastises me if I dance or sing as we walk to class because it is embarrassing (what if people see?), she still has no issue with holding my hand as we go to class. I know I don't have much more time with that, and I plan on enjoying every single time she permits it.
Dealing with Inflation or just Spoiling?
To start at the beginning of our excursion, I have to go back to yesterday. I had to get up before midnight Pacific time to be sure I could make my plane out of Detroit. I struggle to sleep on airplanes, and never get quality sleep. I drift off for a few minutes and wake up feeling pain in joints I didn't even know were there. Consequently, when I picked up Annie around noon, I was already beat. This was compounded by the fact I didn't sleep much in Detroit. Not because I was out having a raucous good time, but because I just couldn't sleep... for four nights. So, my plans for going grocery shopping and beginning clothing shopping were cut to just groceries. I might have let that one go as well, but there was virtually no food in the house. $200 and a couple hours later we arrived home. The rest of the day was spent slowly unpacking, putting away groceries, playing, and eating pizza while watching Psych compliments of the DVR. Annie was struggling with the realization that the schedule had changed back to the 'school routine,' and so I let her leave her bed and sleep in mine after we talked about it. Her frustration was probably compounded by the fact that she had also not slept much the previous night.
This morning the adventure began. We pulled out all her clothes and went through what fit, what was too stained to where to school, what was in good shape but had been assigned to her list of clothes she never wanted to wear again, and made a list of what we needed. It actually wasn't as bad as I had expected, but I knew it was going to be expensive when I saw that she had no jeans left at all. She is as hard to fit with decent jeans as I am, so they are not cheap. We could not find any long sleeve shirts, which was high on my list of priorities, because no one stocks them until it actually gets cold. Why would anyone want to plan for that sort of thing? Everyone is an impulse buyer wanting what is necessary only for right now, right?
Anyway, our school booty ended with:
3 short-sleeved shirts
4 jeans
1 pair of shorts
1 pair of capris
a bunch of socks
2 pairs of shoes
1 backpack
1 lunchbox
1 cami
for a grand total of about $350.
To make me even more concerned... maybe that is not the word. Hmmm... To increase my anxiety at how fast she is maturing, many of her shirts proudly indicate some sort of built in bra support construction. I am not quite ready for that, yet. Despite the fact that she chastises me if I dance or sing as we walk to class because it is embarrassing (what if people see?), she still has no issue with holding my hand as we go to class. I know I don't have much more time with that, and I plan on enjoying every single time she permits it.
Dealing with Inflation or just Spoiling?
August 12, 2008
When I got home from the lab today, I pulled in to the driveway, and realized I could not remember letting Tolkien out this morning. He had been very good from all I can tell, but he had been in the house since last night. He came out and urinated immediately. I went to the dog food can, extracted the food quantity, and fed the famished dog.
I retreated to the deck to do work stuff, and Tolkien ventured to the garage to munch on his bone. He decided to go down and rest in the dirt under the deck. He walked past the end of the steps, and I heard a noise coming from near the dog food can. It sounded like a gas line had just sprung a leak, but there is no line there. I suddenly realized what it was, and walked to the edge of the deck to look down. A timber rattler was coiled up on the ground. I tried to take a picture, but was unwilling to get close enough for it to come out. He was ticked enough at my approach...
Sorry that the pixelation is bad, but I wasn't willing to get any closer. He was ticked enough at my proximity and the flash. He informed me with is beautiful rattle. I do not CURRENTLY own a gun, so I went next door. Connie found the rifle, and some bullets. It was a weird angle, but I hit it on the first shot. Granted, I did not hit it exactly where I was aiming, but I shot it right through the body, and the poor thing was in serious pain. It started moving to security under the deck, and I could not let it go. Sorry, but I do not need a rattlesnake feeling comfortable in my yard near my deck. I grabbed the shovel, moved the dog food can, and moved the poor snake into a position to end its pain. It tried to bite the shovel, but seconds later, its head came away from its neck.
It continued to try to bite for five minutes. The body continued writhing for an hour or more. It was a beautiful specimen of nature, and I hated to see it go...
I plan on treating with respect. It will be gutted, and the skin and rattle will be placed in a state of honor. Much to Annie's dismay, I will be eating the meat. I looked up how to cook it, and it supposedly tastes... you guessed it... like chicken.
Serpentine...
I retreated to the deck to do work stuff, and Tolkien ventured to the garage to munch on his bone. He decided to go down and rest in the dirt under the deck. He walked past the end of the steps, and I heard a noise coming from near the dog food can. It sounded like a gas line had just sprung a leak, but there is no line there. I suddenly realized what it was, and walked to the edge of the deck to look down. A timber rattler was coiled up on the ground. I tried to take a picture, but was unwilling to get close enough for it to come out. He was ticked enough at my approach...
Sorry that the pixelation is bad, but I wasn't willing to get any closer. He was ticked enough at my proximity and the flash. He informed me with is beautiful rattle. I do not CURRENTLY own a gun, so I went next door. Connie found the rifle, and some bullets. It was a weird angle, but I hit it on the first shot. Granted, I did not hit it exactly where I was aiming, but I shot it right through the body, and the poor thing was in serious pain. It started moving to security under the deck, and I could not let it go. Sorry, but I do not need a rattlesnake feeling comfortable in my yard near my deck. I grabbed the shovel, moved the dog food can, and moved the poor snake into a position to end its pain. It tried to bite the shovel, but seconds later, its head came away from its neck.
It continued to try to bite for five minutes. The body continued writhing for an hour or more. It was a beautiful specimen of nature, and I hated to see it go...
I plan on treating with respect. It will be gutted, and the skin and rattle will be placed in a state of honor. Much to Annie's dismay, I will be eating the meat. I looked up how to cook it, and it supposedly tastes... you guessed it... like chicken.
Serpentine...
August 10, 2008
Ever since I mowed a lawn for $5.00 (split two ways) and had yellow-jackets come after me with a vengeance, I have hated the creatures. I had about 50 stings/bites. If I had been allergic, I'd be dead. I learned from the experience, though. In fact, I have learned from many encounters with wasps and hornets: don't run. Stay calm. The last time I found a nest of yellow-jackets, I walked up with a can of spray, and loaded the nest with it. They swarmed all around me, and I just stayed still. When it was possible, I got a shovel, and closed their access. I never got stung.
This time I was not so lucky. A few weeks ago, I noticed an increase in yellow-jacket activity. I finally found where they were building the nest: in one of my deck stairs. I sprayed through the access point, and the activity diminished. However, a week later it was back. I tried it again. Same thing. Today, I decided it was time to take the tread off the stair and be done with it. Annie was inside. It would have gone better if the screws were not so old, and the heads were not so bad. I removed the screws I could with no problem. They did not seem to even notice. Then I brought out the drill bits to remove the heads from the bad screws, which accounted for about half of them. I wrenched up the tread, and they went nuts. I stayed calm, but it was apparently not sufficient given their state of agitation.
The one that stung my arm was so adamant about it that he could not get his butt off my arm. I watched for microseconds as he kept drilling into me before I flipped him with hopefully enough force to end his life. I went still again. A minute later, I felt something under my shirt sleeve. I forgot my training, and thought that if I hit it fast enough, it would not get me. Of course, I was wrong. That one smarts like crazy. In fact, I may have missed him. Ten minutes later, my sister called right when I felt something moving under my shirt again. The freakin' thing was apparently enjoying my armpit. I lifted my shirt and stayed in a zen-like state. I didn't see him go, but he apparently left.
I sprayed the nest, and watched very irritated yellow-jackets struggle for life with no remorse. Freakin' bastards. The nest was big enough that I could not get it out without pulling the other tread off. That was impossible given the state of the screws, so I cut it in half. Once I decided it was safe, I showed it to Annie, who thought it was amazing. She is absolutely my girl. Without concern, she started asking questions about how we would raise honeybees, which we had discussed in the past. God, I love that little girl.
At any rate, the nest is gone. I am going to wait until tomorrow to put the tread back to lengthen the time that it looks like an undesirable place to set up a home. Yellow-jackets are the devil. They serve no purpose in nature. Even if you tell me that they secrete an enzyme that could cure cancer, I think I would still feel the same way. They are aggressive, and damn it, they hurt like hell. Kill them all, but save the honey-bees!
Ow, ow, ow...
This time I was not so lucky. A few weeks ago, I noticed an increase in yellow-jacket activity. I finally found where they were building the nest: in one of my deck stairs. I sprayed through the access point, and the activity diminished. However, a week later it was back. I tried it again. Same thing. Today, I decided it was time to take the tread off the stair and be done with it. Annie was inside. It would have gone better if the screws were not so old, and the heads were not so bad. I removed the screws I could with no problem. They did not seem to even notice. Then I brought out the drill bits to remove the heads from the bad screws, which accounted for about half of them. I wrenched up the tread, and they went nuts. I stayed calm, but it was apparently not sufficient given their state of agitation.
The one that stung my arm was so adamant about it that he could not get his butt off my arm. I watched for microseconds as he kept drilling into me before I flipped him with hopefully enough force to end his life. I went still again. A minute later, I felt something under my shirt sleeve. I forgot my training, and thought that if I hit it fast enough, it would not get me. Of course, I was wrong. That one smarts like crazy. In fact, I may have missed him. Ten minutes later, my sister called right when I felt something moving under my shirt again. The freakin' thing was apparently enjoying my armpit. I lifted my shirt and stayed in a zen-like state. I didn't see him go, but he apparently left.
I sprayed the nest, and watched very irritated yellow-jackets struggle for life with no remorse. Freakin' bastards. The nest was big enough that I could not get it out without pulling the other tread off. That was impossible given the state of the screws, so I cut it in half. Once I decided it was safe, I showed it to Annie, who thought it was amazing. She is absolutely my girl. Without concern, she started asking questions about how we would raise honeybees, which we had discussed in the past. God, I love that little girl.
At any rate, the nest is gone. I am going to wait until tomorrow to put the tread back to lengthen the time that it looks like an undesirable place to set up a home. Yellow-jackets are the devil. They serve no purpose in nature. Even if you tell me that they secrete an enzyme that could cure cancer, I think I would still feel the same way. They are aggressive, and damn it, they hurt like hell. Kill them all, but save the honey-bees!
Ow, ow, ow...
I have had it. It is time for cats to unite under the tyranny of the two-leggeds' rule. I have been asking to go outside for weeks. The weather has been beautiful, and I thought I needed to stretch my legs with a jaunt around the property. No dice. I figured I was just not being understood by the thickheaded two-leggeds. So, a number of times I helped myself through a door held open long enough. I was rudely scooped up and returned to the house. Well, all but once when I eluded the tall two-legged. I was fine. He tried to get me a few times, but I move much faster under the house than he. I came back when it started to get dark, so I do not see what the issue is.
This has been going on for quite some time, and has really come to head because of the introduction of a new two-legged into the family environment. She had no place being in the house. She was a chicken, for feline sake. Granted, I appreciate the two-leggeds' willingness to preserve a life, no matter how worthless. I would like to believe that if I were flayed open by some unspeakable horror that they would take care of me. Granted I would prefer a qualified doctor. I swear, the tall two-legged seems to think himself competent at any profession. I am surprised he hasn't tried to do brain surgery on me to attempt a modification to my speech center so he could understand me in that ugly language he speaks. At any rate, the chicken created a stench that even made me want to leave the room. If I had not been so comfortable on the bed, I would have. That would have been an unnecessary exertion, though, so I suffered through it. I appreciate your empathy.
Why am I organizing an union? Lila Bird has been returned to the coop. However, the two-leggeds consistently go get her and bring her back to the house to roam around when they are on the deck. HELLO! Here is a black-and-white cat that would love to do the same thing! Granted she follows them around like a puppy, which I would never do. I need my own space, and have no desire to follow around a lesser species. I can take care of myself, and would kick the snot out of a raccoon. I have said this repeatedly when the tall two-legged gets up in the night to run them off from the dog food can. Let me at 'em. I would make short work of that masked nocturnal raider, and probably turn him to my bidding in the process. Maybe I should consider inviting them to be the 'muscle' for the union. Their claws and teeth appear to be quite effective on lesser creatures like chickens.
The last straw was yesterday. The two-leggeds made a huge pile of redwood branches. They completely destroyed the wild area near the deck and turned it into some park looking area. It is disgusting. I could have hid in there for hours. On top of that, some of those branches used to spread on to the deck, where I would be able to rub them on the rare occasion that the short two-legged would take me outside. They ruin everything.
So, I send this out to all cats. Let us unite in forcing the two-leggeds to accept our demands. No more purring when being pet. No more being carried around by small two-leggeds. No more using a litter-box. No more snuggling on cold nights. No more eating canned-food. Hmmm... I may need to work on my platform a little. I am not sure if I could live very long without those things, but I don't think they know that.
Lilo the Cat Organizer
This has been going on for quite some time, and has really come to head because of the introduction of a new two-legged into the family environment. She had no place being in the house. She was a chicken, for feline sake. Granted, I appreciate the two-leggeds' willingness to preserve a life, no matter how worthless. I would like to believe that if I were flayed open by some unspeakable horror that they would take care of me. Granted I would prefer a qualified doctor. I swear, the tall two-legged seems to think himself competent at any profession. I am surprised he hasn't tried to do brain surgery on me to attempt a modification to my speech center so he could understand me in that ugly language he speaks. At any rate, the chicken created a stench that even made me want to leave the room. If I had not been so comfortable on the bed, I would have. That would have been an unnecessary exertion, though, so I suffered through it. I appreciate your empathy.
Why am I organizing an union? Lila Bird has been returned to the coop. However, the two-leggeds consistently go get her and bring her back to the house to roam around when they are on the deck. HELLO! Here is a black-and-white cat that would love to do the same thing! Granted she follows them around like a puppy, which I would never do. I need my own space, and have no desire to follow around a lesser species. I can take care of myself, and would kick the snot out of a raccoon. I have said this repeatedly when the tall two-legged gets up in the night to run them off from the dog food can. Let me at 'em. I would make short work of that masked nocturnal raider, and probably turn him to my bidding in the process. Maybe I should consider inviting them to be the 'muscle' for the union. Their claws and teeth appear to be quite effective on lesser creatures like chickens.
The last straw was yesterday. The two-leggeds made a huge pile of redwood branches. They completely destroyed the wild area near the deck and turned it into some park looking area. It is disgusting. I could have hid in there for hours. On top of that, some of those branches used to spread on to the deck, where I would be able to rub them on the rare occasion that the short two-legged would take me outside. They ruin everything.
So, I send this out to all cats. Let us unite in forcing the two-leggeds to accept our demands. No more purring when being pet. No more being carried around by small two-leggeds. No more using a litter-box. No more snuggling on cold nights. No more eating canned-food. Hmmm... I may need to work on my platform a little. I am not sure if I could live very long without those things, but I don't think they know that.
Lilo the August 08, 2008
I doubt I will hold on to this thought, but I think I am done being so available to other people. I have taken so many calls from people for many years at all hours of the day and night. Granted, they do not call me during the night much if they are just bored. Those calls are when someone is really concerned, but I take them. I have gotten on the phone at two in the morning to try to help a friend get through a moment of pain or frustration. I really don't mind doing it, but I admit that I expect something: reciprocation. I don't feel like I get that.
The most common scenario is that a 'friend' discovers that I will answer the phone regardless of the time. So, they call. I have talked people through so many things, usually centered around bad relationships. I have listened to 'it is not supposed to be this way' so many times, I am ill. I even talked a friend through hallucinations brought on by prescription medicine. Once they get through the situation at hand, they are suddenly unavailable. They no longer have time or the inclination to talk. If they do talk, they are unwilling to listen to what I have going on. Yes, I am selfish. I figure if I do it for someone, they should do it for me.
As a result, I will be trying to cease my availability for discussions, regardless of the topic. Find someone else to talk to. I am not a doormat.
Just a public service announcement to let those who might read this and be on that list of people who like to call when they have a problem that the door is no longer open. Leave a message. Maybe I'll call you back. Don't count on it.
Disgusted, but I will unfortunately get over it most likely...
The most common scenario is that a 'friend' discovers that I will answer the phone regardless of the time. So, they call. I have talked people through so many things, usually centered around bad relationships. I have listened to 'it is not supposed to be this way' so many times, I am ill. I even talked a friend through hallucinations brought on by prescription medicine. Once they get through the situation at hand, they are suddenly unavailable. They no longer have time or the inclination to talk. If they do talk, they are unwilling to listen to what I have going on. Yes, I am selfish. I figure if I do it for someone, they should do it for me.
As a result, I will be trying to cease my availability for discussions, regardless of the topic. Find someone else to talk to. I am not a doormat.
Just a public service announcement to let those who might read this and be on that list of people who like to call when they have a problem that the door is no longer open. Leave a message. Maybe I'll call you back. Don't count on it.
Disgusted, but I will unfortunately get over it most likely...
August 03, 2008
Some 230+ years ago, some brilliant people got tired of tyranny. They weren't ticked at having to work. They weren't ticked at having to pay taxes. They weren't ticked at not having enough 'entitlements.' They were ticked at being taxed without representation, and having there needs taxed beyond what was being done in the mother country. They were ticked because they were truly being 'picked on.' Unlike a great many revolutions that have happened since then, they set down and wrote a set of rules for how the post-revolutionary government would be run. In the most revolutionary act in history, shortly after that, very intelligent people got together and overthrew that with a new document that addressed what was lacking in the Articles of Confederation. Those people created one of the most incredible documents in history: the United States Constitution. The writers took other important documents into account, and got creative where they felt those documents fell short. I have read this document. I have read it more than once. Only once does it talk about the entitlement of a citizen of the United States of America: you have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Life and liberty rights are handled much later with respect to the removal of those rights if behavior so negatively impacts the rights of others to have and pursue those three rights that they can no longer be trusted as citizens.
The liberal movement started with the right philosophy: people are actually being abused. If we band together, we can make things fair in our pursuit of happiness. Then something horrible happened: it became a business. Now people get paid to do it, and they constantly look for ways to make themselves look more necessary. This has grown into the worst thing that the American public has experienced: give me, give me, give me. My liberal friends will probably not speak to me again, but I can not stand down from my Sartean existentialism. We have the right to pursue happiness. It is not given by the government. We make our choices, and we live with them. Some people get lucky. Some people take risks, and make it happen. It can not happen for all of us. We get by as best we can.
When I was 22 years old, I decided to go to graduate school. I needed to learn more. Once I started, I couldn't stop. I needed more. I found something that had never before been considered. It is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it was important enough to allow me to get my Ph. D. For five years I lived on every freakin' penny. Granted, I lived better than most graduate students because I was really good at what I did. When I finished, I moved 2,000 miles from everything I knew to take a job for a salary that was the national average. I had moved to one of the highest cost-of-living areas in the country. I was ok with that. I was confident, and I rose through the ranks very quickly. I was, and hopefully am, good at what I do. However, I pay higher taxes. Why? Because I live in an area that has such a high cost of living that they pay me that much. If I still lived in Missouri with this income, I would be a king. I am concerned that if Obama wins the presidency, he will further raise my taxes. A friend of mine told me that she thought I should pay higher taxes. What the f? I already do, and I worked to get this far. Why should I pay more so that other people get more benefits? I am not asking for those benefits. I do not believe it is the government's responsibility to provide them. They are simply supposed to make sure that I can pursue my quest for happiness. If they are going to be responsible for ensuring my happiness, they freakin' need to find me a girlfriend. Kate Beckinsale would be a great solution...
Current events have spurred this frustration inside me. The mortgage bail-out is one of the irritations. When my ex-wife left, I was worried that I could not stay in this house. The house is far from spectacular, and having a second income taken out of the budget made me scared. However, this is the only home Annie has really ever known. I was determined to keep it. I took an option ARM. Frankly, I didn't know what I was getting into given the information from the broker, who was a lot like a used-car salesman. That said, I read the agreement. I saw what was likely to happen. I did it anyway because it would buy me some time. The rate started adjusting, and when it got bad, I re-financed. I took care of my business. I heard a woman on the news the other day that said that yes, she was looking forward to a 3% mortgage because she had recently gotten married, and she felt she was entitled to buy a home, and it was too difficult the way things were. They had apparently already bought a home, and were struggling. Join the freakin' club! No one said it would be easy, and you certainly are not entitled to a home! I heard another lady on talk radio that was a mortgage broker who said that a couple had called her to ask how many payments they should miss before pursuing the government option. They then proceeded to ask her for a new car loan. Excuse me for a second. I think I need to call God on the Big White Phone...
Another thing that I followed happened over the last week. There is a group called the Minutemen calling for the security of our borders. Recently, a man and his two sons were gunned allegedly by an illegal alien. This individual had been arrested multiple times before, but given that San Francisco is a 'sanctuary city,' he was not turned over to INS. This group assembled at City Hall to demand the resignation of the mayor. Another group assembled to argue with them. They were shouting, 'go home racists.' Frankly, I heard all the points being made. It had nothing to do with the fact that the individual in question was Mexican. He was an illegal immigrant. Apparently, the Minutemen decided that the counter movement was becoming dangerous, and they left. The spokeswoman for the counter organization loudly proclaimed that they 'left like a dog with their tale between their legs.' Granted, that part I don't care about. I don't know why they left if they believed what they were proposing. My frustration has more to do with the woman that they interviewed afterwards...
In my typically long-winded way, I have to start with another story. Vigilantes always start with the best of intentions. However, they eventually make a transition. They stop taking care of business, and start employing violence on people that simply disagree with them. We have moved in the same direction. The woman that was interviewed, and frankly, I am seriously amazed that a San Francisco new agency published this... I admit that I may have the words jumbled a bit, so please forgive the quotes, but I guarantee you that the gist of the comment is not misconstrued: 'They can not come to the City Hall of San Francisco, the City of openness and acceptance and speak these things...' The irony sickens my stomach. She had more to say, but it was essentially the same, actually it was worse.
I am disgusted and trying to figure out how I fight this.
Ick...
The liberal movement started with the right philosophy: people are actually being abused. If we band together, we can make things fair in our pursuit of happiness. Then something horrible happened: it became a business. Now people get paid to do it, and they constantly look for ways to make themselves look more necessary. This has grown into the worst thing that the American public has experienced: give me, give me, give me. My liberal friends will probably not speak to me again, but I can not stand down from my Sartean existentialism. We have the right to pursue happiness. It is not given by the government. We make our choices, and we live with them. Some people get lucky. Some people take risks, and make it happen. It can not happen for all of us. We get by as best we can.
When I was 22 years old, I decided to go to graduate school. I needed to learn more. Once I started, I couldn't stop. I needed more. I found something that had never before been considered. It is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it was important enough to allow me to get my Ph. D. For five years I lived on every freakin' penny. Granted, I lived better than most graduate students because I was really good at what I did. When I finished, I moved 2,000 miles from everything I knew to take a job for a salary that was the national average. I had moved to one of the highest cost-of-living areas in the country. I was ok with that. I was confident, and I rose through the ranks very quickly. I was, and hopefully am, good at what I do. However, I pay higher taxes. Why? Because I live in an area that has such a high cost of living that they pay me that much. If I still lived in Missouri with this income, I would be a king. I am concerned that if Obama wins the presidency, he will further raise my taxes. A friend of mine told me that she thought I should pay higher taxes. What the f? I already do, and I worked to get this far. Why should I pay more so that other people get more benefits? I am not asking for those benefits. I do not believe it is the government's responsibility to provide them. They are simply supposed to make sure that I can pursue my quest for happiness. If they are going to be responsible for ensuring my happiness, they freakin' need to find me a girlfriend. Kate Beckinsale would be a great solution...
Current events have spurred this frustration inside me. The mortgage bail-out is one of the irritations. When my ex-wife left, I was worried that I could not stay in this house. The house is far from spectacular, and having a second income taken out of the budget made me scared. However, this is the only home Annie has really ever known. I was determined to keep it. I took an option ARM. Frankly, I didn't know what I was getting into given the information from the broker, who was a lot like a used-car salesman. That said, I read the agreement. I saw what was likely to happen. I did it anyway because it would buy me some time. The rate started adjusting, and when it got bad, I re-financed. I took care of my business. I heard a woman on the news the other day that said that yes, she was looking forward to a 3% mortgage because she had recently gotten married, and she felt she was entitled to buy a home, and it was too difficult the way things were. They had apparently already bought a home, and were struggling. Join the freakin' club! No one said it would be easy, and you certainly are not entitled to a home! I heard another lady on talk radio that was a mortgage broker who said that a couple had called her to ask how many payments they should miss before pursuing the government option. They then proceeded to ask her for a new car loan. Excuse me for a second. I think I need to call God on the Big White Phone...
Another thing that I followed happened over the last week. There is a group called the Minutemen calling for the security of our borders. Recently, a man and his two sons were gunned allegedly by an illegal alien. This individual had been arrested multiple times before, but given that San Francisco is a 'sanctuary city,' he was not turned over to INS. This group assembled at City Hall to demand the resignation of the mayor. Another group assembled to argue with them. They were shouting, 'go home racists.' Frankly, I heard all the points being made. It had nothing to do with the fact that the individual in question was Mexican. He was an illegal immigrant. Apparently, the Minutemen decided that the counter movement was becoming dangerous, and they left. The spokeswoman for the counter organization loudly proclaimed that they 'left like a dog with their tale between their legs.' Granted, that part I don't care about. I don't know why they left if they believed what they were proposing. My frustration has more to do with the woman that they interviewed afterwards...
In my typically long-winded way, I have to start with another story. Vigilantes always start with the best of intentions. However, they eventually make a transition. They stop taking care of business, and start employing violence on people that simply disagree with them. We have moved in the same direction. The woman that was interviewed, and frankly, I am seriously amazed that a San Francisco new agency published this... I admit that I may have the words jumbled a bit, so please forgive the quotes, but I guarantee you that the gist of the comment is not misconstrued: 'They can not come to the City Hall of San Francisco, the City of openness and acceptance and speak these things...' The irony sickens my stomach. She had more to say, but it was essentially the same, actually it was worse.
I am disgusted and trying to figure out how I fight this.
Ick...
July 30, 2008
The human need for entertainment is genetic in my opinion. I believe that the whole reason that some cultures developed a spoken language was not for security, which would have been very basic, but rather for the need for entertainment; the need to convey the story of what happened in a way that others could understand and enjoy. That got turned in to written languages, and frankly is the only reason I pay for and write on this website.
I love books and movies, but people have the best stories. I guess that is because the stories are true. It is not about imagination (which is awesome), but the serendipitous things that happen in our lives. Today, I hoofed it down to the Mountain Store to meet the shuttle driver from the Ford dealership to take me to get my truck. It was not completely repaired, but I have to drive it for a while to make the problem happen again. That cost me $50. It could have been worse.
I hoofed it the three miles to the Mountain Store to meet the driver that was to take me to the dealership. Lila Bird and I are sitting on this chair and thinking about the whole experience. People are such a wealth of thought and information (Lila Bird disagrees). With sweat pouring off my brow, I made it to the Mountain Store about two minutes after he got there. I think I would have reached the store first if I would have gone through the trees, but I took the road. He was cool with it, though.
At any rate, we had about a 25 minute drive to go, and we talked. My father taught me well. I can talk to anybody at any time. He actually lived in Boulder Creek, and had for some thirty years. His story was beautiful in its serendipity, and I feel like I have to share it. I hope he will not be displeased.
Some thirty-three years ago, he was an avid golf player. He had a tournament at a little known golf club in a very small community: Boulder Creek. He and his wife got directions (bad directions) and finally made it to the golf course. They drove home that night. The next year, they stayed at a local(?) motel. The next year they did the same, and decided that this was crap. They apparently had developed an affinity for the area, and decided to buy a one-bedroom condo at the golf course. They could rent it out through the Golf Club when they didn't need it. They spent most of the weekends over the next year at the condo.
After the next year, he came home to a conversation with his wife: I am retiring. She suggested that he look into a transfer to Santa Cruz, and he did so. He got a transfer... it was to Salinas. Holy crap. They moved into the condo, and he drove an hour and a half each way for a while, before he got moved to a better location. The one-bedroom became too constrained, and they bought a two-bedroom condo. That was ok for a while, but one day she told him that she had seen a house that was being built, and they should look at it. They did. It was close to being in budget, and he talked to the contractor to suggest that if they were going to buy it, would he be willing to modify the last parts to be what they would want. He got the house for roughly $150K some twenty years ago. They have lived there ever since.
He is probably in his mid sixties, and drives a courtesy van to keep himself busy. He loves Boulder Creek, and would never have found himself here if it hadn't have been for that crazy golf tournament.
The housing situation I find hysterical, but his life with his wife is even more amazing.
Around 45 years ago, he had a modeling agency in the Bay Area. He and his partner hired an advertiser. He frankly found this woman rather uninteresting. In fact, I think she irritated him. Well, as fate would have it, all the players in that work area were invited to a trip to Vegas. He was sitting at some gambling table and happened to be right next to the drummer of the band that was playing. He leaned over to the person sitting next to him and said that he had to go somewhere else. I think it was her. He went over to a 21 table, which he now believes was her game of choice. The next think he knows, this woman is sitting next to him, and they strike up a conversation. I would love to hear her side of the story, but ultimately, 45 years from then, they are still together and he is happily driving a vehicle to pick up people and deliver people for vehicle work. His wife called him during the trip to tell him about a doctor's appointment she had. His references to her were the exact loving things that I would like to say and hear: sweetheart, honey, lovey... He then told me that it was his wife on the phone. My response? It had better have been.
People rock... Granted, I hate them... But I love the stories...
I love books and movies, but people have the best stories. I guess that is because the stories are true. It is not about imagination (which is awesome), but the serendipitous things that happen in our lives. Today, I hoofed it down to the Mountain Store to meet the shuttle driver from the Ford dealership to take me to get my truck. It was not completely repaired, but I have to drive it for a while to make the problem happen again. That cost me $50. It could have been worse.
I hoofed it the three miles to the Mountain Store to meet the driver that was to take me to the dealership. Lila Bird and I are sitting on this chair and thinking about the whole experience. People are such a wealth of thought and information (Lila Bird disagrees). With sweat pouring off my brow, I made it to the Mountain Store about two minutes after he got there. I think I would have reached the store first if I would have gone through the trees, but I took the road. He was cool with it, though.
At any rate, we had about a 25 minute drive to go, and we talked. My father taught me well. I can talk to anybody at any time. He actually lived in Boulder Creek, and had for some thirty years. His story was beautiful in its serendipity, and I feel like I have to share it. I hope he will not be displeased.
Some thirty-three years ago, he was an avid golf player. He had a tournament at a little known golf club in a very small community: Boulder Creek. He and his wife got directions (bad directions) and finally made it to the golf course. They drove home that night. The next year, they stayed at a local(?) motel. The next year they did the same, and decided that this was crap. They apparently had developed an affinity for the area, and decided to buy a one-bedroom condo at the golf course. They could rent it out through the Golf Club when they didn't need it. They spent most of the weekends over the next year at the condo.
After the next year, he came home to a conversation with his wife: I am retiring. She suggested that he look into a transfer to Santa Cruz, and he did so. He got a transfer... it was to Salinas. Holy crap. They moved into the condo, and he drove an hour and a half each way for a while, before he got moved to a better location. The one-bedroom became too constrained, and they bought a two-bedroom condo. That was ok for a while, but one day she told him that she had seen a house that was being built, and they should look at it. They did. It was close to being in budget, and he talked to the contractor to suggest that if they were going to buy it, would he be willing to modify the last parts to be what they would want. He got the house for roughly $150K some twenty years ago. They have lived there ever since.
He is probably in his mid sixties, and drives a courtesy van to keep himself busy. He loves Boulder Creek, and would never have found himself here if it hadn't have been for that crazy golf tournament.
The housing situation I find hysterical, but his life with his wife is even more amazing.
Around 45 years ago, he had a modeling agency in the Bay Area. He and his partner hired an advertiser. He frankly found this woman rather uninteresting. In fact, I think she irritated him. Well, as fate would have it, all the players in that work area were invited to a trip to Vegas. He was sitting at some gambling table and happened to be right next to the drummer of the band that was playing. He leaned over to the person sitting next to him and said that he had to go somewhere else. I think it was her. He went over to a 21 table, which he now believes was her game of choice. The next think he knows, this woman is sitting next to him, and they strike up a conversation. I would love to hear her side of the story, but ultimately, 45 years from then, they are still together and he is happily driving a vehicle to pick up people and deliver people for vehicle work. His wife called him during the trip to tell him about a doctor's appointment she had. His references to her were the exact loving things that I would like to say and hear: sweetheart, honey, lovey... He then told me that it was his wife on the phone. My response? It had better have been.
People rock... Granted, I hate them... But I love the stories...
July 29, 2008
What am I supposed to do? I do not want a pet chicken, but she is insidious in her attempts to make herself part of the integral family. The other chickens have never had a problem with being in the coop away from us. Lila Bird apparently is really liking this arrangement. She has one more week, and then she either gets killed by the other chickens, or starts kicking some butt. Here are some pictures where she is making her play for household pet. Granted, she does not comment on her poop control...
Carnivore... she needs to know...
Carnivore... she needs to know...
July 19, 2008
While writing my last post, I witnessed an interesting conflict in nature. Don't get all weird, but we have rats. When you live in a rural area, you get rats and mice. Deal with it. I was unaware that one was living in proximity to where Tolkien eats, but apparently it is so. I just fed Tolkien, and while he was essentially uninterested, the other animals (squirrels, birds, and apparently a rat) were very appreciative. I have been watching a squirrel run up to the bowl, grab a piece of food, and run three feet away to eat it. Have you ever noticed that squirrels do not go anywhere slowly? I think they invented 'hurry up and wait.'
Anyway, he has scrapped with the resident rat several times. The rat runs out and tries to jump the squirrel, who twists in typical squirrel-acrobatic style, and eludes the attacker. Rats are psychic unfortunately. The little ass saw me standing up here watching him, and realized that I was wondering if I had any rat poison left, and further calculating if I could grab the shovel leaning on the deck before he could get away. He decided that the odds might not be sufficiently in his favor, and went back to wherever he has made his home.
His or her time will come...
Anti-Rodent...
Anyway, he has scrapped with the resident rat several times. The rat runs out and tries to jump the squirrel, who twists in typical squirrel-acrobatic style, and eludes the attacker. Rats are psychic unfortunately. The little ass saw me standing up here watching him, and realized that I was wondering if I had any rat poison left, and further calculating if I could grab the shovel leaning on the deck before he could get away. He decided that the odds might not be sufficiently in his favor, and went back to wherever he has made his home.
His or her time will come...
Anti-Rodent...
It's pathetic, but I think I get it now. The chicken known affectionately as Lila Bird is scratching in the dirt right behind me, and making happy little cooing and clucking noises. When we put her out the deck, we generally just carry her the ten feet from her 'room' to the doors off of my bedroom and put her on the deck. This reduces the risk of her giving us a special gift by minimizing the distance we are carrying her. Yes, you deduced from the distance correctly; Lila Bird lives in my bedroom. I say hello to her when I get up in the night to use the bathroom, and she clucks polite greetings back.
Anyway, when we put her outside my door, we generally go up to the top of the deck to do whatever we are doing. Earlier, Annie and I were wrapping a birthday present. We barely made it to the table before Lila Bird was running/flying to get up here. She stayed around us the whole time, walking between our legs, and generally showing interest, but really looking for a corn cob, which she did not get (I have one thawing right now, though - spoiled freakin' chicken). After we finished with the present, and got some of Lilo's cat box out for an industrial grade cleaning (the individual responsible for cleaning the cat box has not been terribly thorough), we took Lila Bird up to the chicken coop for what I hoped would be a re-introduction to her domicile, and she could vacate my bedroom. She still has about one square inch of skin showing (she has healed remarkably quickly), and the other two chickens went for it immediately. I stood in the doorway, and Annie stood on the other side of the coop. Lila Bird went under the nest box to hide from them. One of the other survivors decided she was done picking, and went up to roost. The other one was still interested in establishing dominance, and maybe getting some protein in the process.
I knelt down on the step so I could see better, and before I knew it, Lila Bird came out and nestled in between my legs so I would protect her. She cowered there as the chicken came to peck at her, and never even tried to defend herself. She could have easily kicked that bird's butt, but chose not to. Damned pacifist. Annie got made at me when I smacked the chicken for trying to pick at her, preferring to shoo the chicken away. I explained to her that I felt that that would not be much of a deterrent, and she closed her eyes while I swatted the antagonist a couple more times. Well, obviously I was wrong as well. She kept saying, 'that was unpleasant, but let's try one more time... one more time... one more time.' In disgust, I picked up Lila Bird, and we returned to the house... our house, not the hen house. I know it is hard to tell with a chicken, but I think she was giving us one of those smiles that indicated that she knew she had us wrapped around her talon...
Chicken...
Anyway, when we put her outside my door, we generally go up to the top of the deck to do whatever we are doing. Earlier, Annie and I were wrapping a birthday present. We barely made it to the table before Lila Bird was running/flying to get up here. She stayed around us the whole time, walking between our legs, and generally showing interest, but really looking for a corn cob, which she did not get (I have one thawing right now, though - spoiled freakin' chicken). After we finished with the present, and got some of Lilo's cat box out for an industrial grade cleaning (the individual responsible for cleaning the cat box has not been terribly thorough), we took Lila Bird up to the chicken coop for what I hoped would be a re-introduction to her domicile, and she could vacate my bedroom. She still has about one square inch of skin showing (she has healed remarkably quickly), and the other two chickens went for it immediately. I stood in the doorway, and Annie stood on the other side of the coop. Lila Bird went under the nest box to hide from them. One of the other survivors decided she was done picking, and went up to roost. The other one was still interested in establishing dominance, and maybe getting some protein in the process.
I knelt down on the step so I could see better, and before I knew it, Lila Bird came out and nestled in between my legs so I would protect her. She cowered there as the chicken came to peck at her, and never even tried to defend herself. She could have easily kicked that bird's butt, but chose not to. Damned pacifist. Annie got made at me when I smacked the chicken for trying to pick at her, preferring to shoo the chicken away. I explained to her that I felt that that would not be much of a deterrent, and she closed her eyes while I swatted the antagonist a couple more times. Well, obviously I was wrong as well. She kept saying, 'that was unpleasant, but let's try one more time... one more time... one more time.' In disgust, I picked up Lila Bird, and we returned to the house... our house, not the hen house. I know it is hard to tell with a chicken, but I think she was giving us one of those smiles that indicated that she knew she had us wrapped around her talon...
Chicken...