Category Archives: Would?

One Kiss Then Another

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Look the hell out:

Almost all of the videos address processes I didn’t understand in the seventies or don’t understand now. The idea that I might – or anyone might – learn a few things piqued my interest. Last week, I looked at two of the most basic videos about number placement value. When I say basic, I mean I was looking for Muppets.

You can see why I’m so excited. On one hand, I get this and I might have understood it as a five year old. On the other, this guy covers calculus and he’s cleared a path between the two. Were I to invest the time to watch one video per day for 2011, I might finish tenth grade math by next New Year’s Day. Or: I could finish first grade math, which would still be freaking HELPFUL, since I can’t add and subtract. HEY! I COULD LEARN HOW TO ADD AND SUBTRACT.

My tiny mind is boggled.

My House At My House

Posted by Tata on

Having the teensiest difficulty fixing the horizontal hold on Reality.

Tata: This is the second time in one year I didn’t get a call when a baby was born and one of them was my freaking grandchild.
Daria: Don’t worry about it. I read about our new cousin on Facebook. It’s not even a thing we will worry about.
Tata: Siobhan says this isn’t the worst thing the family’s done to me. Good thing she remembers. I don’t.
Daria: …In with the good air! Out with the bad air!
Tata: I’m a little TENSE.
Daria: I’d mail you some Xanax but the Postal Service frowns on this practice.
Tata: Can’t wait to tell my doctor I quit drinking but would like to develop a sedative hobby.
Daria: …Don’t worry about that, either.

I’m not actually worried. Over the weekend, I left my cell phone at the massage therapist’s and gift-wrapped my fingers to the bone at the family store, but at least I didn’t misplace what passes for my soul.

“A bill to combat the practice of child marriage in developing countries stalled in the House on Thursday,” CQ Today reports. In a 241-166 vote “the House rejected … the motion to suspend the rules and pass the bill (S 987). Suspension of the rules is an expedited procedure that limits debate and requires a two-thirds majority for passage,” the news service writes (Dumain, 12/16).

The bill, which the Senate passed by unanimous consent Dec. 1, aims to integrate child marriage prevention approaches throughout U.S. foreign assistance programs and scale up proven approaches and programs to end the practice (Kaiser Daily Global Health Policy Report, 7/16). It “would authorize grants for programs working to combat child marriage” and “direct the White House to develop and implement a multi-year strategy to prevent child marriage in areas of the world where it is most prevalent,” CQ Today adds.

According to the news service, House members “said they voted against the legislation not for its core goals, which many say transcend party lines, but for its price tag: the Congressional Budget Office estimated that implementing the bill would cost $67 million over the next five years.”

That’s million with an M. In Congress, they light their cigars and wipe their butts with million dollar bills. And while we’re talking about mythical money, my annual Social Security summary arrived last week. I pay attention to how I’m being villainized as a person who pays her taxes and would someday like to retire from her job as a state worker. So imagine my chagrin when I noticed the Social Security summary stated my retirement age is 67, but I can work until I’m 70 if I’m on a roll. Or longer. Wouldn’t that be awesome? Maybe, since the life expectancy calculator at Living To 100 says I’ll live to 97, though it didn’t ask me about high risk activities like omitting secret ingredients in family recipes and annoying my hairdresser. And maybe not, since technology is changing at an exponentially faster rate. At a certain point, the only thing many of us may be suited for is the manual labor our bodies can no longer do, but I digress. My grandfather’s already 98 and being 98 is no picnic; it’s realistic to believe I’ll live to 66-78 like of my relatives, then kick the bucket with steel-toed orthopedic shoes. That leaves few years for late-life ass-kicking and name-taking.

Sweet Jebus, I’ve got to find a way to retire from my job so I can get to work.

Pops Something Spiteful

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Someone else’s execrable week can give you a lot to think about, even someone about whom you have mixed feelings. John Cole yesterday:

I’ve had a really shitty week, so let’s have a positive thread, and think about all the things we have going for us. The topic for this thread is “Name the best thing that has ever happened to you.”

I’ll start, and since I don’t want this whole thread to be answers like “my wife” or “my husband” or “my parents,” I won’t say the best thing that ever happened to me was being born a straight white male into an educated middle class family in the United States. Not that there is wrong being any other race/sexual orientation, etc., just that being born a straight white male in our society gave me some really unarguable advantages to the extent I’m of the opinion that if you were born in the circumstances I was born in, and find your life to be a mess, you should probably look in the mirror for your biggest problem (and yes, there are always exceptions).

SO I will rule that out, and that leaves me with the Army and Lily. Going to the Army and getting yelled at and whipped into shape, then going around the world and seeing places I might never have seen, meeting a bunch of people who were different from what I was used to in WV, and then being able to use my military benefits to pay for my education was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. Until Lily came along. Yes, I love Tunch to death, and I will grudgingly admit to loving Rosie when prodded, but Lily is the greatest dog in the world and loves me to pieces. When Tunch comes into the office, he wants food or water or a brief skritch behind the ears. When Rosie comes into the office, she wants food, or to go for a walk, or a ball. When Lily comes into the office, puts her front paws on my legs, and looks at me, all she wants me to do is push the seat back a little bit so she can sit on my lap while I work.

I don’t care what you say about dogs being con artists. Lily loves me.

Man oh Manischewitz, my brain went SPLAT! I’ve been thinking about this since then and I have no answer. The best thing that ever happened to you is probably a different thing than the best thing you’ve ever done, but my life has zig zagged all over the place and has more turning points than a big city ballet school. One answer? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I could come up with a list, starting with happening to be the ill-timed spawn of two very smart, very good-looking, athletic people, born after the invention of aspirin, antibiotics and the polio vaccine, into a family that valued books, a fast one-liner and me. After that, shit, don’t you just hope to sally forth and do something cool?

I may not come up with answers, but thinking it over is a blast. Go read the comments. Some people can formulate an answer and some of those answers will take your breath away.

Jump Into A Brand New Skin

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You would not think so, but this tower of cat blankets is so athletic this is my only no-action photo.

Weeks ago, I volunteered for a task at work: acting as liaison between the library system and a hunger project at the unnamed university. The very moment I agreed to do it, the old pointless stage fright kicked in. I’d send out an email to a hundred people I’ve known for 20 years and try not to hork up lunch. I called a meeting and wore clogs in case I needed a quick place to yak. When a group of my co-workers refused to work and play well with others, I went full-metal queasy YOU BITCHES ARE NOT MY FRIENDS. As of today, the project is launched and the donation process has begun. The angry phone calls are so last week. Peace has come in our time. I’m so relieved I could toss my waffles.

I used to wonder why biographies of great thinkers and artists almost always start with an adult period of inspired productivity followed by one of wandering in the wilderness and another of mature work that isn’t flashy and feels dull compared with all that fiery, youthful noise, but I understand it now. I think about the same things, but I think a whole lot less about myself. Yesterday, I sashayed out of the house without makeup and even moisturizer because I forgot about me, which is fine because as art critics go I am a stone bitch and embarrassed to be seen with me.

These cat blankets are Topaz Approved!

The town we live in is so small that one’s presence or absence may be easily observed. Last spring, I marched over to the senior/youth center to volunteer at the food pantry. Sometimes lots of people turned out; sometimes there were three adults and three toddlers to do the shelving. When the weather cooled off recently I had some trouble being on my feet and missed a Wednesday night, which did not go unnoticed. Ah well. If I were stable, you and I would never have met in that bar in Singapore.

I’ve been knitting cat blankets since April. These are just about ready to send out, hopefully early next week. I’m knitting Pete a little wool scarf with the exciting footnote that I am allergic to wool. Part of the hunger project is giving families assigned to our departments winter warmth. I am thinking about making a rather dull but reasonably warm baby blanket, though thinking about it makes me want to hork.

Right Back To Where We Started From

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Here at Poor Impulse Control, who the hell knows if we have our priorities straight. Let’s review:

Adorable grandchildren –
Learning about food preserving –
Potatoes, still without a glass bottom potato boat –
Cat blankets –

And on Monday, Pete and I start a three-day motorcycle safety course that either ends with our getting licenses or drastically rethinking the next thirty years of our futuristic and stylish lives.

Buckwheat: check! Panky: check! Destination: picnic!

Zucchini in tomatoes, pickled beets, red onions in red wine, Tata in 100 degree weather.

We've grown potato plants; no idea if we've grown potatoes.

Hey! Turns out cats like blankets!

Through Me Look Right

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This morning, I got up before the alarm, padded to the bathroom and flipped on the light. It rained all night. The air was still heavy with humidity. My hair was literally standing on end and knotted into a nest. I looked around for tiny, homeless birdies to house.

Now don't fail my feet.

A few months ago, polishing my toenails became difficult. Washing my right foot in the shower now requires concentration and effort. Putting on socks has taken on an exciting suspense: can I apply the sock to the right foot without hopping across the living room and scattering snickering kitties? Do not kid yourself: you do not want to hear your cats laugh at you! Anyway, I looked at my toenails, previously a palate of wild color, and lamented how far away the seemed.

Tonight, I decided not to give an inch. It’s just a little thing, red is, but color at the ends of my toes provides proof that I can do what I decide I will, and I will prove it again every week.

Eyes You’ve Not Used Yet

Posted by Tata on

Dear American Auto Makers:

How are you? I’m fine, thank you. Have a brand new grandbaby, which made me think of you. Remember when I bought my first car? It was a 1979 Pinto Station Wagon and the color was to baby blue what Pepto Bismal is to pink. The thing could do 90 without flinching, which I know because doing 91 make it shimmy like teenage go-go dancer. I loved that tragic fashion victim of a car, with its AM radio and manual steering. When Miss Sasha was an infant, she sat in a car seat in the back and we sang along to Elvis Costello playing on a cassette player propped on the front seat. We drove thousands of miles with the windows open and the wind in our hair. I still hate air conditioning.

Speaking of our past, perhaps you’ve recently seen this.

Last night, my dude Pete showed me a picture of a 1959 Mercedes 190D that exceeded 35 mpg, and you’re absolutely right that it’s diesel. After the gas crisis of the 1970s, which made my mother cry and left a pretty big impression on young me, I thought you’d wise up about a few things, but instead you lost your minds.

According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) the average gas mileage for new vehicles sold in the United States has gone from 23.1 miles per gallon (mpg) in 1980 to 24.7 mpg in 2004. This represents a paltry increase of slightly less than 7% over the 25 year period.

Dudes, you fucked up. It’s like you and the oil industry went to Vegas, spent everything in your pockets, maxed out your credit cards, tossed your mortgages on the roulette table, left your kids at the cashier’s office and called your long-suffering wives for loans. No wonder Toyota spent all that time in a Speedo, skimming your pool.

Listen: we could argue for a decade about what kind of future we might have together, but for me, the question is now if we have one. I’m not sure we do after this.

Yes, that’s right. There’s no going back after this. In fact, if God Herself parted the clouds and thundered, Princess, trust Detroit, I still wouldn’t give you a second look while you’re trying to convince us all SUVs are a brilliant idea, because I see with my own eyes and think my own thoughts. Here’s one now: you have been given a golden opportunity to think outside the oil-soaked box. The days of ruthlessly exploiting apparently limitless natural resources are over, and they’re not coming back. You can now cling to our failed past or you can open yourself up to a wild new future. I’ll even tell you what would bring me back home to you.

  • Union-made. Straight up: I’ll never buy a new car out of a non-union factory.
  • Small. Smaller than that. No. When I say small, I mean that Smart Cars are too big for everything but pre-holiday grocery shopping.
  • Interesting-looking. I am so sick of seeing the same uninspired lines and hearing about innovation. Geez, having a new idea wouldn’t kill you.
  • Mechanically, it should actually run for 20 years and financially, I should be able to afford it without scraping pesky plans for food and shelter. I flatly am not going into debt for a car when a bus stops at the end of my street.

And this is a deal-breaker:

  • Gas mileage must exceed 100 mph city, if it must use gas, and it must be convertible to french fry power. Other power sources now exist. Try them.

In the past, you might have waited out my moods, but those days too are over. Since I care about the birdies my granddaughter may or may never see with her granddaughter and my grandfather is still alive, our future is more than a greasy possibility. Our future is what we make right now, and if you have no plans to change, then you have already agreed that we have nothing else to say.

What’s it going to be, American Auto Makers? Ten years from now, will I be driving a car or will I walk, bicycle or take the train?

Kisses,
Princess Ta