I suppose, since I don’t fall into their particular definition of “conservative,” to them I am a “liberal,” with all its nasty connotations. I’m not. I’m not conservative, either, nor moderate.

I think about each issue.

Just to give you an example, I have absolutely no problem at all with drug-testing to get welfare or food stamps, thank you very much. I have no problem with my tax dollars going to help someone who really needs it, but if you’re getting my hard-earned money, you won’t be spending it on drugs, booze, fast cars, big TVs, or fancy cookware…or cigarettes.

That’s a pretty conservative notion.

Contrast it with the fact that I have absolutely no problem with gay marriage. In fact, “gay marriage” is a misnomer as far as I’m concerned. If two people love each other and want to join in a legally sanctioned partnership, I could give a rat’s patootie about their sexual orientation.  A friend of mine (well, she’s married to a friend—both of them are so ultra-conservative they make GW look like a 60s flower child) posted something about liking an FB page “…in defense of marriage.”

In defense of marriage? Whaaaat?

So, if I understand this correctly, Sam and Tom get married, you’re suddenly going to run off and get a divorce or start sleeping with goats? How does two guys or two women marrying each other really hurt you?*  Please explain this to me.  I can understand if you really and truly feel homosexuality is wrong (which in and of itself is misguided, because we have scientific proof that almost all gays and lesbians are born that way, for one reason or another; their orientation is not a lifestyle, it’s who they are). Fine, don’t marry someone of your gender. But, just as in the case of abortion, your beliefs are not someone else’s problem—or they shouldn’t be.

And therein lies the problem. Conservatives think liberals are all pushy for wanting things like clean air and water, pure food supplies, good education, and healthcare. Things that benefit everyone.* Conservatives seem to think it’s okay to push their religion off on you, tell you whom to marry, whom to sleep with, what you can do with your body (particularly if you have the bad luck to have been born female…sucks to be you).

To be fair here, I find some of the idiotic things the far left does to be utterly mind-boggling. Carrying the PC bit to extremes, for instance. Like this little jewel. The NYC Board of Education requested that 50 words be taken out of standardized tests. Words like “dinosaur” and “birthday” and “divorce.”  I’m not making this up.  Most of this was based on not wanting to offend certain faiths.  Fortunately, someone got a clue-by-four for their birthday, and the request was withdrawn.  I can only imagine the original request was drawn up by some left-wing committee somewhere.

Back to the comments—and by the way, this whole thing broke my personal rule of not reading the comments (reading the comments erodes my faith in the human species), but it was like a train wreck—here are two that epitomize some of what I’m talking about (the second bullet is in reply to the first):

• So how does that explain the fact that 90% of under-educated blacks vote Democratic, as do uneducated whites and felons? The people that make this country work and pay the vast majority of taxes and obey the law vote Republican. Go figure.

• Like they said people who are productive and busy (you know actually contributing to society) are conservative and the ones that have all that free time not really doing anything with plenty of time to think about how this world has wronged them or is unfair are liberal.

I would love to know where they get these facts, although I suspect they got them the same place many of these people do: Faux News. I’d be willing to bet that, yes, many blacks, uneducated or otherwise, vote Democratic. Why? Not because they want hand-outs—necessarily—but because they know the Democratic Party is much more likely to protect their rights. In almost everything I’ve read uneducated whites tend to vote conservative, largely because they tend to be closer to Christian fundamentalism, I would think.  And some people might add racist, as well, but I won’t go that far, simply because I don’t like to be characterized as being this, that, and the other simply by how I live or vote. And last time I checked, felons lose their right to vote.

So if I’m to believe these paragons of political knowledge, a person, simply by virtue of being liberal, is a lay-about hippie who only votes for people who would give him or her handouts.

Bull. Shit.

The more I read those two comments, the angrier I get. Either because I identify with some liberal tenets, I’m a lazy lay-about or because I DO work hard for a living, I’m a conservative? How neat and simple. Why bother with going to school, when these folks have it all figured out for us? You know, it’s quite okay to disagree with me, I’ll honor that, but when you think you know me, categorize me, and can vilify me all because I think women should have control of their own bodies, anyone should be able to marry, your religion has no place in my child’s school, or that I think you should prove to me you’re not spending my money frivolously, then I draw the line. I’m not evil, ignorant, mentally deranged, or lazy simply because of my ideologies (whether I might or might not be otherwise is for another post).

The thing we lack in today’s world is respect. And the internet aids and abets the lack of respect. Instead of sitting down and carefully crafting a letter to an author or the editor, any individual with internet access can just fire off what they’re thinking at the time, usually proving their lack of knowledge, spelling, and respect. Back when Johnson and Goldwater were running for president—and of course I was a lot younger—I just don’t remember the level of nasty that people rise to today. Laughable as it seems to one of my generation, Goldwater, who was about as conservative as you could get in American politics in his day, wouldn’t get his foot in the door of the tight-ass right-wingers club of good ol’ boys of today.

I respect your right to disagree with me. I might not understand where you’re coming from or how you can read things differently, but I’ll shrug and agree to disagree. I probably won’t have much respect for you if call me stupid (I’m not), uneducated (I most certainly am not), ignorant (I could probably read more, but if you mean I don’t listen slavishly to Faux News, ah, well…you might have a point), or mentally ill (I might be, but it has nothing to do with my politics). I won’t have any respect for you at all if you tell me my rights are less than yours simply because of my gender.

And I won’t have much respect—or patience—if you come on my blog and rant at me. My place. You go rant at your place.

*I have my own theories about conservatives being married to the bottom line being the real reason they don’t want gay marriage or controls that cut into the profit margin.

I’ve always been a bit of a clutterbug. Somewhere, there’s a picture of my room when I was in the 4th grade. Daddy was taking a pic of my little blackboard, upon which I had printed “EXOTIC HAIRDOS” (don’t ask) and in the surrounding area are piles of kid stuff.  My brother got the neat genes, I got the clutteriffic genes. There is a reason, though. My mother took the time and taught my brother how to do it, and him being a tractable, amiable sort, took to it quite nicely. By the time I came along, 5 years later, her approach had changed, but also, me being the distracted, stubborn, ADHD* type…she would finally give up and just come in and do it herself.  That set a bad precedent, lol, but not at all my mom’s fault.** I guess subconsciously, I just figured someone else would always bail me out of my clutter-prison. Sort of a Cinderella complex.

The weird thing is, I can organize the hell out of things…but let me get started projects? Oh…dear…  While I’m working on any given project, I’ll think of a dozen other things I could ALSO do and drag the materials out to look at them, and then lose interest in all of it and move on to something else.  The ADHD has the weird affect of making you avoid things. I look at a pile of stuff and literally do not know where to start, so I go read a book. There’s also the perfectionism theory put forth by Marla Cilley.  ”You can’t do it perfectly, the way you want to now, so you don’t do it at all.”   Between the ADHD and the perfectionism…oh, man.

This past weekend, my mother and I drove down to visit my aunt and uncle.  I won’t use her real name, but Auntie Di is one of those pre-programmed, born-organized, never in a fluff kind of women you admire, wish to emulate, and hate all at the same time. There’s never a speck of dust or anything out of place in her house. Ever. You can’t catch her with her guard down. Her pantry is always stocked, her kitchen neat and spotless. She works her butt off in her own business, she and my uncle garden (we had a salad with winter greens they had grown themselves. In Texas!). Oh, wait…I forgot, her myriad plants were still sitting in groups by the garage, waiting to be distributed around the yard in their spring and summer locations–they’d just taken them out of the greenhouse.  *sighs*

If you’re like me, you ask, “How does she do it?” Well, I’ll tell you. Aliens. That’s gotta be it. Aliens.

No, seriously. Here’s the secret, as Marla’s site will tell you: Routines.  I’d bet you a month’s salary if I sat down and asked Auntie Di about her routines, she’d say, “yep, every day I do this, and once a week, I do this, and once a month this.”  Because I know that if you clean before you see the dirt (or pile of crap), you’ll never see the dirt. I also gave a lot of thought to the notion that you’d never, ever find Auntie Di sitting down playing a stupid-ass computer game for hours. She reads, she watches some TV, and she and my uncle have their cocktails on the deck at dusk…well deserved rest time. But I know that lady is up and doing things all day. And it shows. She’s in better shape at almost 74 than I am at almost 60.

So, Auntie, you should be happy, because it’s more you prompting me to get things cleaned up and organized than all those gruesome pictures of houses that should more than likely be bulldozed.

As to the rooms that need the most help, really only the living room has no excuse, except that I used it as a staging area for crap from other rooms while I was working on them…and so it hasn’t gotten cleaned properly in a long time. This is open-heart admission, here, folks…but I still won’t go into detail until I post the after pics.

*donning deep-shit diving gear now* If you don’t hear from me in a week, call out the Texas Rangers…I’ve most likely gone down in a crapalanche.

*I was not actually diagnosed as ADHD until I was 49…and sure did ‘splain a lot, Lucy.
**I’ve done the same thing with my son, it’s easy to do without realizing you are.

Leslie was one of the weirder things about a city that prides itself on being weird (much less so than 29 years ago when I moved here).

To read about Leslie (you can Google him…there’s lots out there, so I won’t be redundant here), one gets the notion that he was mentally ill…crazy…his cheese slipped off his cracker…but I don’t know. To look into his eyes…

(c) Austin American-Statesmen 2000

…those aren’t the eyes of a crazy man.  Somehow, I think Leslie had the best laugh of all. He lived out those wacky fantasies we all shove into some dusty shoe box at the back of our closet (not that I really want to walk about in a thong and not much else) while enjoying the reactions and adoration of the “freaked out normals.” He made enough to live on and did what he wanted to do, when and how it suited him. Society, of course, will label someone like Leslie as mentally ill, or at best nonconformist, simply because he didn’t fit the simple, round, 9-to-5 hole.

It’s not a life for everyone. And, of course, we need doctors, lawyers, beauticians, mechanics, musicians, and politicians…okay, so we don’t really need politicians, but you get my drift. The world works the way it does because everyone fills a niche. Leslie filled a niche, too. He provided entertainment, a topic of conversation, a distraction, a reminder to not take life so bloody seriously all the time. The thing that made Leslie weird was not his supposed insanity, but his chosen avocation. Just another wacked-out homeless dude is not that weird, to tell you the truth; every city has a gazillion of them. As the article points out, Leslie did not have to be homeless, and often wasn’t. He could have held down a regular job, too, I’m guessing.  If choices make us who we are (Professor Dumbledore said so), then so do our lack of choices. So much of my life has taken place on auto-pilot, doing whatever the path of least resistance led me to rather than where my heart would have rather been.

So…stuck in a dead-end job, doing crap you’d rather not…or being free to wear a thong in public and run for mayor in silver fuck-me shoes…when you’re a guy…and yet still getting by. Makes me wonder who was the more successful….

Farewell Leslie, fair winds and following seas.

Twenty-twelve.

It beleaguers the imagination.

I’ve been trying to figure out why this particular new year’s has been so devastatingly depressing. I mean…for a long time now, new year’s has been one of those days I try not to think about. Just another day, new date on the checks, etc., etc. You know, the new year…is. It’s just the inexorable march of time. One more year I can’t go back and salvage. And I ain’t gettin’ any younger, either. That’s a huge part of it, I know. I’ll be 60 this year.

60

SIX-ty.

Shit.

That, in and of itself is enough to make me want to jump off a bridge (if I weren’t afraid of heights). Part of the disconnect is that I do not feel 60, hell…I don’t feel 40, mentally. Physically, my body is a disaster zone. Physically, I feel like I’m 90 most days. All this BS about 50 is the new 30 and 70 is the new 40, or whatever…those spinners never lived in my body. 60 is the new 90. Bah!

Instead of chronicling what I feel the issues are (which sounds suspiciously like making excuses), I’m going to try to take a page out of the sunshine and lollipop spin and look at ways to make 2012 a better year. I mean, you know…just not sitting around being morose would make it a better year, right?

First up, I’m decluttering the house. It’s a gargantuan undertaking, but I’m gettin’ ‘er done, by gosh. In that vein, I’ve decluttered Mdme B’s space here. My previous theme mirrored the usual state of my desk (might have even been cleaner…but I’ll never tell), but I’ve noticed most of the well-read sites are simpler, with white backgrounds.

Before you get all mushy and think this is a list of resolutions, don’t. I don’t do resolutions. They set you up for failure. These are things I’ve already been working on or need to do anyway, new year or not. It just seems like a good time to trot out the list since one of the things I’d like to get in the habit of doing is actually, you know, like…USING my web site–what a novel idea. Which reminds me of another one on the list. Setting up a time to write, every day, same time. I might actually get that novel done before I really am 90.

Dump about 80-90 pounds. Didn’t say pounds of what, now did I? (Technically, I’ve already done this: in decluttering in the last couple of days, I’ve trashed, recycled, and donated well over 100 pounds of schtuff. HA!) But yeah…part of the feeling 90 thing is this extra couple of bags of mulch I’m carrying around. Hee. In order to clearly demonstrate what carrying weight on your body is like, I use the following analogy: you know those bags of garden dirt, compost, or mulch? Each one weighs 40 pounds. I can barely tote ONE of those around. And I’m carrying at least two on a small, 5’5″ frame that wasn’t intended to carry more than about 145 pounds at the most. TWO! No wonder my knees are going and my feet hurt so much.  (218 when I last weighed myself at work before the winter break, if you MUST know.)

Another thing I’m going to try for is consistency. Juliet said something about the moon’s inconstant orb…but you know, the moon is rather consistent. Each month, she does the same thing, perpetually. I’m not sure I’d want to be quite that predictable–and boring–but one could do far worse than be as consistent as Lady Luna.

Getting back on track being a vegesaur. Several times over the holidays, whether it was just because I was tempted by some yummy-meat thing or because there really wasn’t anything else to eat in the house, I’ve had things to eat which I regretted later.  Regretted either because of guilt or because they upset my system something fierce.  This goes along with actually planning some meals, doing shopping, and cooking! Gah…I have a teenager, for crying out loud, and I rely on my husband to cook most of the meals, but he doesn’t make veggies and green things, so no one gets the nutrition they should. *slaps own hand*

One last thought on this is time spent on the computer. It is a very useful tool, when used properly, but I spend too much time on FB and playing games, and not enough time doing creative things with it. Posting projects and the like here will be a part of a renewed effort putting what little time I have left on this earth to good use. Believe it or not, I actually go days without checking FB, I don’t twitter, or Google-group…but I still manage to waste an inordinate amount of time on teh intarwebs. I love googling ideas, items, history, pictures, etc. THAT can really eat up time, lemmetellya.

So. I’m off to clean that other catbox, start a back-to-work-and-school washing marathon, finish scanning a kajillion photos for my boss (he’s paying me), bake two more loaves of banana bread, wash dishes and continue sorting and culling 20 years of crap that grew in my house  and wonder if clutter is like mold or a fungus…does it spread by spores?

In my head.

My excuses for not actually writing these posts are legion. I can’t really write that ;way; I’m doing real work, I have no before pictures, so why write about a project if no one can SEE the before and what a magnificent difference I’ve made?

Truth is? I’m lazy. And I suck. There you have it. The Universe is doomed. I could have saved the Universe, but I’m lazy. And I suck.

Did I mention I’m also rather silly?

I was looking for notebook paper to once again try and make a monthly menu so I could shop more efficiently and I thought, oh, that binder I have…the one with the white horses on it…I’ve never kept up with the journal I started in it, literally 20+ years ago…there’ll be a ton of unused notebook paper in there. It’ll be a bit old, but still usable, no need to open one of the spare packs I have for the kiddo. Well, yes, there was, is, a ton of notebook paper in it. Also, dividers (labeled “Contract,” “Routines & Lists,” “Journal,” “Menus & Shopping,” “Diet & Workout”, a contract with myself, and a zipper pouch of pens, ruler, and stickies.  “facepalm” Wanna know the date?  19 JUL 09.  Yes, 2009. *eyeroll and another facepalm*

I don’t know whether to be heartened by the fact that apparently nothing’s (or very little) changed in my outlook, or to be very disturbed nothing’s changed in my outlook.

*confused look*

So, here’s the contract I wrote out then (and I REALLY wish WP would preserve Word formatting):

I.  Whereas –

A.  I am tired of being…

1. tired all the time,
2. fat,
3. stiff,
4. in pain,
5. in a disaster zone,
6. financially out of control,

B.  I am disconnected from…

1. family,
2. my body,
3. nature,
4. the Divine,
5. my creativity,

C.  I am Squandering…

1. years,
2. talents,
3. resources,

II.  I recognize I am…

A.  Intelligent,

B.  Talented,

C.  Resourceful,

D.  Determined,

E.  The only one who can change ME

III. Therefore, I resolve…

A. To Rejuvenate by…

1. stretching,
2. following a workout plan,
3. getting the proper amount of rest,
4. making healthy food choices,
5. develop my household routines,
6. create and follow a budget and pay-off plan

B.  To reconnect by…

1. having family meals at the table,
2. include Mother in more things,
3. meditate and pray
4. invite the Divine in through prayer and ritual,
5. set aside time for creating,

C.  [To remind myself]….

1. life is short, spend every moment wisely,
2. things don’t have to be perfect,
3. appreciate and use what I do have and not bemoan what I don’t have,
4. life is a work in progress and will never be finished.

IV.  My priorities are…

A.  To not overload by…

1. trying to do it all at once,
2. losing perspective,
3. expecting immediate results,
4. forgetting the larger picture by getting caught up in the details.

B.  Every night…

1.review the day

a. What did I accomplish?

b.  What was left undone?

• move to the next day –or–
• re-evaluate – do I need to do it

–tomorrow?

–another time?

–does something else need to get done first?

• Does a schedule or routine need to be changed based on a/b?
• [Write in journal, especially things I am thankful for]

2. review and prioritize tomorrow

3.  follow the routine

C.  Remember I am part of the web…

1.  I am central to my, if I don’t care of my needs, no one else will,

2.  [but] I also touch and impact others,

3.  some small thing I do –or don’t do–can resonate billions of light years away, plucking the web and thereby change the Universe,

D. don’t let “C” get [me] down,

E.  don’t be your own worst enemy,

F.  follow thru through [hahahahah]

G.  KISS (keep it simple, silly!)

19 July 2009 then, is the first day of the rest of my life, the day I choose to be reborn. I make this covenant with myself, the Divine within and without as my witness.

I was going to rewrite or type up the contract but I want it to be as is, imperfect, fluid, dynamic, and alterable, like life itself.

Follow through!

//signed//

19 July 2009

————————————-

It would be laughable…it is laughable…but it’s exactly what I would write today.  There’s some reason I found this today, some pivotal moment, I suppose. Trying not to read too terribly much into it, but I’m renewing this and am going to put effort into seeing it through.

The feastbox is a wooden box about the size of a smallish cooler. My husband made it.  It’s virtually indestructible and a pain in butt to carry.

Standard:

• 4 plates
• 4 maple bowls spare wooden bowls
• drinking vessels
• period utensils – spoons, knives (forks not period, optional)
• cutting knives
• matches, butane lighter
• salt & pepper
• paper towels
• napkins
• table cover
• carrier bags, trash bags
• foil & glad-tainers

For court events:

• Table runner
• Chargers
• Candles & holders

So. To keep up with putting the lists here, I give you the staples list:

• Salt, pepper, spices and herbs*:
  • Marjoram
  • Basil
  • Oregano
  • Parsley
  • Garlic powder
  • Onion powder
  • Cinnamon
  • Nutmeg
  • Ginger
  • Curry powder
  • Coriander
• Sugar, creamer
• Coffee, tea, and hot chocolate mix
• Oatmeal, cream of rice
• Bisquick, flour
• Syrup, honey
• Emergency can-goods:
  • Tuna
  • Beans
  • Chunky soups
  • Ravioli
  • ETA beef stew
  • kippers
  • mac’n'cheese

*Need small spice containers

Here’s one that’s incorrect:

“Nark – If someone is in a nark, it means they are in a bad mood, or being grumpy. It’s also the word for a spy or informant.
For example a coppers nark is someone who is a police informant – which you might call a stoolie or stool-pigeon. The origin
is from the Romany word, nak, meaning “nose”.”

Now, I don’t know about the Romany (Gypsy) word nak. But the American slang word Nark or Narc comes from Undercover Narcotics Officer, usually someone who is masquerading as either a high school or college student. They would get friendly with dopers and their suppliers and then “narc” on them, or turn them in. So now to be a narc is to be yes, a stoolie or stool-pigeon: informant.

Here’s another:

“Shammy – I think you call these wash leathers. They are the completely useless cloths, originally made from the skin of the
chamois – a wild antelope, the size of a goat. They dry rigid and leave horrible streaks across the windows they are supposed to clean!”

I’ve never heard a chamois called “wash leathers” in my life. Maybe in North Carolina or some such place, but it’s a chamois (pronounced shammy). I wonder if he knows you’re supposed to rinse the thing out and then wring it very well before you use it?  I’ve never had a problem with them streaking.

“Plaster board - Sheet rock in Texas. In the UK, plasterboard is used to make ceilings and is also used to make internal walls, it is
then covered in a thin layer of real plaster, except in cheap modern houses. In Texas, entire houses are made from sheet rock, which
is a bit worrying if it is windy or rainy! If the three little pigs had lived in Texas, they would have been eaten! In some states call it’s
called “plaster board” like it is here in the UK and others it’s called drywall.”

Okay, we do not make our entire house out of sheet rock or dry wall…heavens! The house is framed with wood, insulated and then various outside coverings are used, including adobe, hardi-plank, siding, brick, Austin stone…. Only the interior walls have sheet rock on them, and they’re still framed inside with 2x4s at the very least. Oy gevalt!

And he seems to think “sofa” is the only word we use for what they call a couch. Well, we use the word couch, a lot, along with sofa and divan. Although divan is not used quite so much anymore. It’s what my grandmother called her sofa.

And he seems to have a problem figuring out why we call a restroom a restroom. That one might be a bit tougher, if you aren’t very old. They’re called that because back in the day, restrooms in nicer restaurants, hotels, theaters, and department stores had an outer room with a sofa and very often little sundries like mouthwash or lotion available, and they had an attendant. The attendant was there to watch your purse or briefcase while you went to the loo, and keep the place neat and clean all day long. You often left a tip in a little basket. So they really were places to rest as well as relieve yourself.

There are some under slang that we—at least I and my family—have used forever in the US:

To go on a bender means to basically go on a non-stop drinking spree; blast or blast it all; blinding; Bob’s your uncle; botch; cheeky; cram, for studying hard; dim to mean thick or stupid; and every cowboy called food “grub” in the westerns; haggle; hunky-dory, and in shambles are all examples.

“Piece of cake – I remember saying it’s a piece of cake in front of one of my American friends,
who then started looking around for the cake! It means it’s a cinch!”

Dunno what kind of dimwit friend he had, but we’ve used this forever. Means the same as “easy as pie,” or a “walk in the park.”

“Piss poor – If something is described as being “piss poor” it means it is an extremely poor attempt at something.”

Again, totally US term.  Same here:

“Plastered – Another word for loaded. In other words you have had rather too much to drink down your local.
It has nothing to do with being covered with plaster though anything is possible when you are plastered.”

“Shitfaced – If you hear someone saying that they got totally shitfaced it means they were out on the town and
got steaming drunk. Normally attributed to stag nights or other silly events.”

Now here’s one we use but to us it means 6 of one, half a dozen of the other:

“Sixes and sevens – If something is all at sixes and sevens then it is in a mess, topsy turvy or somewhat haywire!”

Here’s a few that are definitely ones we’ve used for ages in the US:

“Sloshed – Yet another way to describe being drunk. Clearly we need a lot of ways to describe it since
getting plastered is a national pastime.”

“Twat – Another word used to insult someone who has upset you. Also means the same as fanny but is less
acceptable in front of your grandmother, as this refers to parts of the female anatomy. Another use for the
same word is to twat something, which would be to hit it hard. Get it right or I’ll twat you over the head!”

“Yakking – This means talking incessantly – not that I know anyone who does that now!”

“Zonked – If someone is zonked or “zonked out” it means they are totally knackered or you might say exhausted.
When a baby has drunk so much milk, his eyes roll into the back of his head, it would be fair to say he was zonked!”

I’m beginning to think that perhaps there are some of these that went to England some time ago, since I believe our TV went there before theirs came here, and 30 or 40 years ago entered the lexicon in the UK and he just ran into a great number of idjit Texans.

As for correcting our grammar…Not everyone in England is paragon of grammatical correctness, so stuff it.