Pilly's Place

Pilly uses the internet

2010-01-14T14:36:00.000-08:00

There I was, over to the facebook, just minding my own business and taking the occasional survey--a good, safe pastime for me--when suddenly I was overcome with the irresistible desire to go google celiac disease.

Oh, relax. That's nothing new, I often have an irresistible urge to google something that has absolutely nothing to do with actual life and no one knows why I am overcome with a need to know .

I have been overcome with a need to know something so deep it was enough to wake me from a sound sleep and drive me to the computer at three in the morning. At least now it only happens when I'm awake. That's an improvement, isn't it? Yes, it is.

So, anyway, the celiac disease. I found this great site called diagnose something that promised to give me all the time my doctor won't, on account of the actual doctor is busy, and apparently the herd of doctor's they keep on call over there to the diagnose something site have limitless time to just read crap crazy people send them without even a small break for golf.

No, I don't know why they would have limitless time, how could I know that? Probably some guy kicked them out of actual medical school or something and this is their idea of revenge.

So anyway it takes like, about four years to answer all the questions, because they keep giving you these windows where you can write in the details and ask stupid questions, and what self respecting hypochondriac could possibly resist a chance to natter on endlessly about their symptoms?

I know I couldn't.

So, anyway, at the very end, after you have told them everything and remarked about how great they are, they tell you that for a small fee of only $55.00 they will be happy to send you their report.Of course, they fail to mention that until after you have already given them your phone number and mailing address. Even I am not stupid enough to follow that with my credit card number, but even so, they know everything about me now, right down to that birthmark on my butt that is shaped like Canada (if you squint).

So withholding my credit card info at that point is probably not going to slow them down for long.

But, anyway, I would just like to point out that on days when I must skip a dose of Lithium to have labs drawn, perhaps it would be wise if whoever is my keeper of the day denies me access to the Internet. Just get me set up with a nice game of the Sims (which I will happily obsess over until the baby reaches old age and dies) and just quietly disable the Internet.

I feel it is incumbent upon me to try and help with my care and feeding as much as possible.

Because, believe me, I require some awesome care and feeding. It takes at least three full time adults just to guarantee I don't sign anything, spend anything, or decide to take flying lessons and order a piper Cub just because I am convinced everyone needs one, or they will never live full, productive meaningful lives.

At least, I am better with the Lithium, but until I reach optimum therapeutic levels (in my case, it is possible that I will die of heavy metal poisoning before I get there) we all agree that I should not make decisions. In fact, we are pretty sure I should not even answer the telephone.

I will either
A) agree completely with anyone nice, even up to agreeing to donate large sums of money (which we don't actually have) to a good cause. Be advised that as long as it benefits dogs or children I am not only sure it is a good cause, I also think it's alright to hold people at gunpoint to make them donate.

Or

B) I disagree and have a tendency to dare the Klan to come and burn a cross on my lawn so that I can jazz up the annual Gay Pride picnic with a really colorful marshmallow roaster, and I have no fear so I sometimes invite them to come and kill me and threaten to shoot them on sight. Presumably while they're erecting the cross. Do not even get me started on neo-Nazis. They don't call me anymore. I may have killed one, I'm not sure.

So, overall, it's better to keep me off the phone. Keeping me off the porch is good, too.

If you are a Jehovah's Witness or a Mormon, please do not try to save me before June. One of us is going to have a life changing faith experience of epic proportions if you try that and it probably won't be me. Just so you know.

So, anyway, it's only four hours until I can return to being safely medicated. In the meantime, I am going to quietly play the Sims and let Jacob answer the door.

Probably.

Heeere's Pilly!

2010-01-14T08:45:00.000-08:00

Couldn't think of a title, sorry. This whole sanity thing is a bit tricky--not that I'm complaining, mind, it just takes some getting used to. I used to just turn off my inhibition factor, (something that is fairly easy if you're Bipolar, since you don't exactly HAVE an inhibition factor) and before you could say Bob's your uncle, there I was with a Pilly story.

What that has to do with my new stove I couldn't begin to tell you, and that was what I thought I was going to write about. Clearly I was wrong.

Also, it seems I am no longer familiar with the computer keyboard, apparently sanity affects your fingers all to hell and gone. Who knew?

So, anyway, my stove.

Pellet stoves may be the greatest invention in the history of people. Seriously. Well, okay, it takes awhile before it seems alright to you to burn something that looks like a cross between rabbit pellets and cow feed, but aside from that, you couldn't ask for anything more, really.

They're clean, they're efficient and they guarantee that you no longer have ice in your bathtub. That right there is reason enough to love them, in my opinion. You pry a few frozen towels off the bathroom floor in the morning, you get right fond of a stove, I can tell you.

Alright, it thawed that block of ice under the kitchen sink and I was not entirely prepared for the ensuing flood, but it saved having to find a bucket to mop the kitchen floor, so it all worked out, really.

Seriously, I have the most wonderful husband in the world and I should quit poking fun at my life long enough to tell you the real Pilly story, which isn't funny, but is a good story just the same.

When I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder it was a tremendous relief to me, but it also was a scary thing. Not every husband in the world wants a truly crazy wife. Alright, it's true he stuck by me when I was completely insane, which you would think might have given me a clue that he probably was in it for better or for worse, just like the vows said.

But in real life, knowing that your partner suffers from a major mental illness, and knowing what that might mean in terms of your future, all too often makes people realize they really aren't in it for that much potential worse. And I'm not judging anyone. If you can't deal with that, you can't and the person is probably better off without you.

So I confess I worried about what it would mean for MY future. And my family's future. At least for the moment, I can't handle our finances or take care of any of our business and Jimmy has to be away on the road. As a rule, a truck driver needs a partner who can take care of home while he makes the many sacrifices needed to earn the family's living.

But it turns out that I am profoundly loved, and not just by my husband, either. It is a very humbling thing to realize that you are loved that much by so many people. It is, in fact, a little like God's love. The Love that exists, not because you are worthy of it, but just because you are. It makes you want to love back, with all your heart and mind and soul.

And if you are reading this, you are, like as not, one of the people in my life who has loved me. And so, I want to thank you for every minute you have been in my life and in my heart, part of the fabric of my life.

Thank you for all the times you tried to keep my safe, when the last thing I thought I wanted or needed was safe. Thank you for being exhausted by me, for never giving up on me, for not just pretending I didn't exist or disowning me when I gave you trouble or got in trouble or was the trouble, which I so often was.

Thank you for never trying to make me be somebody else, for letting me be what I was, for teaching me that love always loves, and always forgives and truly forgets, and values everything, good or bad, that makes up a human soul.

Because of you I know God. I know about His love, because you demonstrated it for me in the best of all possible ways. You were Saint Francis to me (preach always, if necessary use words, he said. You did. And you didn't need words).

And what did my wonderful husband say, when we discussed what my illness might mean for our lives?

He said, " I love you ," of course.

And he does.

It's cold.

2010-01-03T10:21:00.000-08:00

How cold is it, Pilly?

Well, I'll tell you. It's cold enough that I seriously considered sinning in a big way just so I could be sure of going somewhere very warm after I'm dead.

But I scrapped the idea because, really, what if the Eskimos are right and Hell is just endless frozen tundra with no igloo? And frankly, I already live there, so what would be the point of dying? At least in Wisconsin, spring does come eventually.

I would just like my husband to know that calling me every ten minutes to inquire whether I am a popsicle yet is not really useful. I believe the pioneers only survived the winters on the prairie because there were no phones. One too many phone calls inquiring about how they were doing would have eventually led some settler to take an ax and wipe out the whole colony and the United States would all be east of the Mississippi, today.

This house leaves a lot to be desired in the way of comfort. On the up side, I cannot die of carbon monoxide poisoning because it's so drafty you can't keep a candle lit in the living room on a breezy day. On the down side, you risk frostbite every time you get near a window.

Well, that's life, you know. As Almanzo Wilder was wont to say, it all evens out in the end. The rich man gets his ice in the summer, but the poor man gets his in the winter, so it's all good, really.

There are some decided advantages to a cold house. For instance, if you forget to put the leftovers away they don't spoil. You have to thaw them in the microwave to eat them, but still.

I think I have figured out why the pioneers only bathed once in a winter. As the ice formed on top of the washtub they were sitting in they had to hurry in order not to be trapped til spring, and once of that was probably enough for them.

I'm still working out how they managed not to have to go to the outhouse until spring. Whiskey may have been involved. I read this really great diary kept by one of the lesser known Ingalls brothers who stayed in Wisconsin and apparently never did anything notable.

I'm not sure why he felt the need to keep a journal. Every day it's too cold to go anywhere, he gets lonesome for the neighbors, he eats the same thing once a day, occasionally he gets out to do some lumber jacking, once during a warm spell when it was only about forty below he managed to get to the neighbors cabin and have some coffee. He mentions that he told the guy's wife he guessed he'd have to get married.

She should have started sleeping with the ax next to her, there were decided overtones of, "If your husband were to fall through the ice, maybe I could move in."

Apparently he never went that far, however, as for the rest of the winter he does nothing but complain about his loneliness and have the occasional pancake.

I used to wonder how Ma Ingalls managed not to kill Charles, as every time she got decent furniture and a garden planted he decided to push on further west, Now I think maybe she was hoping it was warmer farther away. This is the man that burned hay to keep warm one whole winter in South Dakota. I think Jimmy might be one of his descendants.

So, anyway, here I am once again, trying to stay warm in one more fabulous antique of a house.

At least no one has asked me to plant a garden.

Reflecting...

2009-12-29T13:33:00.000-08:00

People who write do so for one reason and one reason only. Because they have a story they need to tell. And that is why I write this blog, to tell you a story. Sometimes they're good, sometimes they're bad, sometimes they're funny, sometimes they're not. But they all end up here because I can't NOT write.

So, I'm going to tell you a story.

Once upon a time, about thirty years ago I suffered a catastrophic psychotic breakdown. It completely rebooted my life and my personality and how I think. I have never had a second breakdown because I decided Dr. Jackson the psychiatrist knew her business pretty well, and so I made the changes that would ensure I would stay...sane. Or mostly so, anyway.

I'm telling you this story because I noticed something happening in people around me that I don't like, and in case any one reading this is somewhat like me, I'm hoping you'll take heed and avoid the disaster for yourselves. I hope I tell it well enough that you can read the map and avoid the pitfalls and find comfort.

While the world views a competitive spirit as the mother lode of good things in life, for some of us, it's a recipe for disaster. Because for some of us, the need to be the best, or even just to be better than whoever is standing next to us, is more than a nudge to try harder.

That need becomes the crystal meth of achieving. We will push and strive and compete til we weigh 80 pounds, have a resting heart rate of 170 and are completely insane, and then we'll keep competing until we're dead and we can't get up anymore.

That was me. There was no such thing as enough. I don't know why. I just know I couldn't live unless I could do it better than you can. Til I had more degrees and made more money and owned more things and was a better lover and knew more songs and played more instruments and was a better chess player and could play tennis at Wimbledon and anything else any other person in the whole free world could do, I could do better.

You probably don't know that about me. I hope you never thought I could be like that.

So there I was, exhausted, 89 pounds of total, vibrating, full out fight or flight anxiety and completely insane.

And I decided that I could go on, and die insane. Or I could let it all go and never compete with anyone for anything again. So I did.

I have stopped seeing people if they persisted in competing with me. Friendship wasn't worth the whistle, I can refuse to compete, but I can't refuse to be competed with. I don't work outside my home, I don't need to have any particular thing to prove my value, I don't care what you think of my house or my life or my children, and I don't want you to care what I think of yours.

Because what I think doesn't matter. Please know that. What ANYBODY thinks of you doesn't matter. Let it go.

If someone needs to be prettier than you, richer, stronger, wiser, kinder, better in any way whatsoever--let them be. Concede graciously and go do something you like to do. Something you really like to do, not something you think you should like to do or that will impress people if they think you like to do it.

I still play games sometimes, as long as I don't care if I win. If I start to care, I concede and go make tea. I write because I like to write. I'll never get famous and I'll never get rich at it and I don't care because that isn't why I do it.

I like to knit hats. I make perfectly awful hats, really. Some so bad not even my grandchildren will wear them to go sledding. But I still make them, because I like to knit hats.

I like to study. Because there are things I want to know. I know a lot of things, now, and I hope to know more as I go along. I do not need college credits or a degree to prove I have learned these things. That's not why I study. I study because I like to know things.

I really like to sing. I sing fairly well, dogs don't howl and children don't cry, but there are thousands of people who sing much better than I do. And that's okay, I like to listen to them, sometimes. But mostly I like to sing, so I do.

If I get too fond of something, I give it to somebody else. Nobody should care so much about things that they have to have them to be happy.

So here's my thought for the end of this year and the start of the next one:

Anything I can do, you can do better. Enjoy.

Pilly's Christmas Carol

2009-12-27T13:51:00.000-08:00

And if you're waiting for three ghosts and a trip back through time and an epiphany of life changing proportions, let me remind you that was Dickens. My Christmas Carol is not all that great.

So, anyway, Ida's very big and generous heart can stretch to accommodate limitless numbers of people for the Christmas party, but her house cannot, so she moved the whole thing to the community building where we can have all the bacchanalian glee we want and all the kids have room to do kid things.

I had the most stupendous time and I would just like to tell Betty that she has to get well and stay that way, on account of now that I have discovered what a truly great sister-in-law she is, I need to make sure she will be there for the next twenty Christmases.

I will even hold Ida at gunpoint until she agrees to raffle off that Chrystal sleigh and reindeer harnessed with silver chains.

AND I will personally knock down the guy drawing the numbers out of the hat and dig through til I find Betty's and make sure she wins. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "But who will be holding the gun on Ida while you are fixing the raffle, Pilly?"

HA! I have that covered. We will just make sure Larry is feeding her some devilled eggs at the time and everything will work out nicely. Just trust me. I'm good at this stuff. I took care of the whole deputy incident, didn't I? Yes, I did.

So, anyway, it was so wonderful I can't even begin to tell you how much fun I had. That Ida knows how to throw a party.

She brought seven million ride on toys from many generations of Clark children and had races for the little people. It's true that some little people clearly felt that all was fair in this no holds barred, highly important and serious quest for the best stuffed animal and were willing to do almost anything to insure that they had first choice. Up to and including riding over the top of other racers.

Emma at one point was so fueled by single minded determination to have for her very own a pink spotted dalmatian that she cavalierly shoved Aiden out of the way, rode over Ada (who was enjoying a nice sugar cookie in her walker) and even mowed down the judges, since that was what it took to win.

I am happy to say she is now the proud owner of a prize pink spotted dalmatian puppy. Later, Aiden threw her off his scooter and chased her around the hall as she rode the broom grandpa was using to sweep the floor, so it all evened out in the end. Well, not for Ada, but still.

It turns out Ada really likes Christmas. From the moment she entered the hall, it was clear that nothing in her life up to this point had prepared her for a holiday so wonderful as this one. The floor was a highly polished basketball court, thus making it possible to zoom around in a walker at 500 miles per hour shrieking "Ahhhhh" through a very big grin.

Then there was the food. Clearly this was heaven. Total strangers give you cookies, cake, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, fruit salad and more delicious things you never heard of. Other children share lollipops with you. You can run over your sister and nobody even cares!

And then, as if this was not glorious enough, Aunt Ida plops you on the floor and hands you a bag of presents. Filled with things that jingle, sing, shake, stack, roll and whistle. And someone hands you to Santa and lo and behold, he's your Grandpa! Which no one ever told you before and is obviously a delightful surprise.

Emma is not the least bit impressed that her grandparents are famous. If there is no competitive driving and stuffed prizes, Santa can go to the North pole for all she cares. Unless he can pull a scooter out of that bag, she's moving on to the pinata.

And so she did. I would like a word with the fellow who thought up the pinata. Did it honestly seem like a good idea to you to fill a cardboard box with treats, hang it from a tree and then allow blindfolded and dizzy toddlers to wander around with a baseball bat swinging at every sound?

No one really wants a subdural hematoma for Christmas. I'm sure it seemed like a giggle when you invented it, but you were wrong. And then there is the small matter of the pinata mix currently sold by wal-mart to fill the pinata.

Some things that do not mix well with drunken, blindfolded toddlers are hard candy, small toys with parts that can be swallowed and the kind of taffy that requires a trip to the orthodontist if you ever want to speak again. So why exactly are those things in the pinata mix? Do you have a secret kick back scheme with the emergency room and the dental community? Wouldn't hershey's Kisses do as well? Just think about it.

God knows I would not want to deprive you of the joy of ruining Christmas for countless human beings in America. After all, you are so good at that whole pharmacy business and you know how I feel about that.

But I digress.

We played bingo and tic tac toe, had fun prizes, ate until we were in danger of exploding, and best of all, got to spend Christmas with about 100 assorted grandchildren. Among whom was the newest member of my family, little Miss Bailey who arrived suddenly in Mommy's bathroom one morning. The earliest--and best--present I received this year.

I treasure Callies, kissing her dad and stroking Bailey's forehead, Autum playing bingo with me and Great Grandma Yvonne, Zoey running madly through the hall with Emma, laughing. I treasure Aiden cuddling with me in a chair, Nina kissing me and softly saying, "Gumma" as she laid her head on my shoulder like a weary little traveller reaching home at last.

I treasure my Mandy, and Linkin who smiles just like Jacob and is his Mama's mainstay, always. I treasure my little Heaven, who believes that Grandma can do all the magic things, even dance like a ballerina, and I treasure my little JM, another gentle little Jacob for me to love. I treasure Mabel Rainbow, sleeping safe under her mother's heart and willing to kick me now and then, to say hello.

I treasure Emma and Ada sharing a lollipop like two other little girls, long, long ago. And my parents, connecting us all from the biggest to the very smallest, with the golden thread that we so often take for granted, love.

I treasure my brothers-in-law and their wonderful wives and children, who share all their grandchildren with us. I treasure Ida, because I am sure she is the Saint of Christmas, but she has no idea she is, Ida who holds us together, our center, whose heart is the light that leads us home.

I treasure my two dads, who have both loved me and been there through all the moments of my life. Father and Father-in-law, If I could have had you made to order, I would have ordered you just as you are.

I treasure my mother, the person I am most like, which is an honor, always.

I treasure my sons and my daughter, you are not all the children of my body, but every one of you is the child of my heart. I am so proud of you, and I love you without measure.

I treasure Rob and Jim and Buzz and all my boys who let me adopt them. Rob who shares his heart and his sons with me, Jim who gives me my daughter, Kat , and his friendship and his humor, and Buzz who shares with me his wonderful way of thinking and his mom, my friend.

I treasure all of you and if I didn't mention you, it's not because I love you any less, but only that my heart is full and running over with the richness of your love, and with a measure as great and abundant as that, sometimes a drop slips by me, unremarked.

You have made me the richest woman in the world, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Adultery a Crime in Wisconsin

2009-12-18T10:29:00.000-08:00

You heard me, it carries a fine of up to $10,000 and a potential sentence of 3 and 1/2 years in prison.

Am I surprised that the government has now decided to poke it's long nose not only into my private life, but directly into what my genitalia are up to? Not really. I think it's wrong to legislate a person's sexual habits, but I'm not surprised.

Why, just think, coming soon will be the official government virginity test for females desiring to marry! And who knows but what even men will have to find some way to prove they, too, are virginal.

Perhaps we can implant a computer chip in the genitalia to sound an alarm in case any child discovers the fun of masturbation. It will certainly be more effective than that "you'll go blind" thing we had going on a long time ago.

What kind of person wants their spouse to be faithful by main force? Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of love and faithfulness as a direct result of love? And if one were to make a mistake while young, commit adultery in the heat of the moment or under great duress or anguish of mind, and sincerely regret it later, is there no hope of forgiveness after that? Are we to assume that love itself can be eradicated by the making of one, small physical error that has no more emotional significance than say, moving one's bowels?

Is making my spouse pay a fine or serve time in any way likely to improve my marriage? What exact purpose does it serve? What is it's expected benefit?

It's not a deterrent, because we all know from experience that people break rules all the time, you're either a person who "won't do it because it's wrong" or you're a person who "probably won't get caught and is therefore willing to take the risk."

In other words, we are all human and fallible and subject to making poor decisions depending on the circumstances in which we find ourselves.

So what good do we expect to be accomplished by the moral police?

This country is going plumb to hell and one of us should really say something. We live in a country where our mouth has freedom of speech but our genitalia are regulated by law.

Strippers can legally take it all off and give any enterprising old man a lap dance, but the man's body better not respond or it will find itself in a prison cell with Bubba, for whom it is not a crime to commit adultery with the man's orifice's, and even if it were adultery, what's three and a half more years to a man already serving 25?

And I doubt the fine is going to be a lot of comfort to the old fellow, either, after all, they're not paying it to him. And if he should be so bold as to suggest they should, that would be soliciting prostitution and we all know where that leads. Right back to Bubba.

And I should like very much to know how one proves the crime of adultery has been committed. Is the appearance of guilt enough to secure a conviction? And if it is, don't you think you ought to start worrying about what other things you may find yourself in prison for based on a mere likelihood or appearance of guilt?

Did we not once have a Constitution and a Bill of Rights that both guaranteed us certain freedoms and protected us from certain oppressions? Where the hell have they gone? Shouldn't we try to find out? Do you want to wake up next to Bubba thinking, "I should have gone looking to see what happened to my freedom and protection..." Well, it's a little too late to do the right thing then, Buddy!

So, back to adultery and how to prove it, is photographic evidence required? Do we care at all how it is obtained or by whom or under what circumstance?

Battered Women unite! Big brother has just given the abusive SOB the perfect weapon. No one will dare to help you now, not even the shelters. Every wife beating bastard out there has accused the staff of being lesbians who exist for the sole purpose of ruining the marriages of good old red blooded American husbands who only want to own their wives and occasionally break their bones.

So how big a step is it for the rat bastard to claim you committed adultery with the intake volunteer? Then it's a big fine and off to prison, so how many women are going to be willing to leave the abusive bastard with her children while SHE trots off to prison for three years for committing adultery?

I suppose murders may increase. Dead rat bastards tell no tales and at least you'll know the kids are safe while you're rotting in prison.

This whole thing is an outrage. I am disgusted, disappointed and I disapprove. Heartily.

Pilly from the Edge

2009-12-18T07:29:00.000-08:00

Of something, I'm not sure what. I have the flu and I can tell you, the flu is mostly composed of edges. The edge of sleep, the edge of breathing, the edge of death, you know what I mean. You are never actually sleeping, breathing or dead, but you feel any one of them could be close at all times.

So yesterday, in the midst of dying from the flu (I'm always sure I'm dying when I get the flu, don't panic) I had to drag my sick, sorry, old, put upon and mistreated self out of bed in the freezing cold and drive to town to see the judge.

I like the Judge, he's a gentleman, and lord knows I hope he stays the judge forever and enjoys perfect health to the end of his greatly extended life. It's just that I don't feel that way about the District Attorney, who has now managed to make Jacob both my brother and my husband as well as being my son, and frankly, I resent the implication that Dad and I had children.

Which is the only way Jacob can be both my brother and my son, I still have not figured out how they managed to get us married. Of course, if the District Attorney can claim to produce such miracles as the bilocation of human beings, what's a small matter like incestuous marriage? Piece of cake, I'm sure.

Also, while I love my dad with all my heart and soul and have admired him greatly since I first had memories, which was about the age of two, I assure you I never wanted to have his children and he never wanted to have any with me, either.

Well, there was that whole cloning debate where I toyed with the idea of how cool it would be to get to give birth to and raise one of your parents through the miracle of cloning. But we decided it would never work because Dad would just follow me around telling me I was raising him all wrong and God knows how he might turn out with both of us either spoiling him or arguing about his discipline, so we gave up the idea altogether.

At any rate, Jacob is just my son, not my husband and not my brother. No matter how confused the District Attorney might be, it's really fairly simple. Even when you consider that if I am married to my brother, and that brother is also my father, then my father needs to have fathered both me and himself, which is a neat trick. Never mind how incestous that would be, I'm fairly sure it involves time travel, and had we figured that out we would simply have gone back a year and stopped all of it before it happened.

We might even have gone back far enough to stop the District Attorney's mother from ever conceiving him and all of this would be moot.

So, anyway, that's why I didn't wear a mask in court to contain my flu germs. Because I did so hope I'd get to see the District Attorney, and possibly shake his hand. The opportunity to give him a kiss would have been ideal, but the circumstances didn't allow so I just coughed in his direction repeatedly and hoped a lot.

You're asking, what about the rest of the people? Aren't you? Well, war is hell and collateral damage and everything. And I hoped God would protect them. And I notice no one had any tender sensiblities when I was collateral damage and I'm sick of being the only one with a conscience, thank you very much Vernon County.

I have a new policy, it's called see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil, so don't expect me to ever be a witness to, for, or about anything ever again. If somebody decides to hold a massacre in the street in front of my house I plan to pull the shades and go to bed. If it wears a uniform it can stay right the hell off my porch. I have already informed the children that if I am dying of a heart attack and they call 911, I will disinherit them.

They can drive me to the hospital or they can let me die right there on the floor, what they may NOT do is call anyone likely to be reached at 911.

Not counting Bob the town Constable (and his lovely wife) whom I still love. I would help him with anything and he is always allowed in the house provided he is not accompanied by anyone else in a uniform.

So anyway, I got a fine. It costs exactly $100.00 to obstruct justice, just so you know. And I had a lovely visit with the judge, who asked me repeatedly did I understand everything, and frequently tried to explain things to me, til I finally just gave up to the buzzing in my ears the fever was causing and answered yes to everything.

And then they let me go home to bed, thank God.

So there you are, the end of Pilly's experience with a life of crime and all of it's consequences and the next time I tell a lie I'm just going to confession and giving the hundred dollars to the church.

And may I strongly encourage you to do likewise. When somone cleans house over there to the DA's office, we can go back to doing our civic duty. Until then, refuse to be intimidated.

'Twas Right Before Christmas...

2009-12-08T11:35:00.000-08:00

And all through the house I had been decorating.

And one of my better finds for the season had been my lovely plastic doorcover of the Holy Family which came complete with lights and music. At least, initially I thought it was a better find. What could be nicer than the Holy Family, some lights and Silent Night?

Okay, it's true that as Jimmy was attempting to attach it to the door with assorted screws, as we didn't find the included hanger hook until the next day, by which time it had become redundant, and after repeated trips to Ida's house for thumbtacks so the Holy Family would not droop and sag and generally flap around, there was some language used that one would hope the Holy Family would never hear one speak.

For instance, the repeated utterings of "Jesus Christ" might have been affirmations of the purpose of the season, and asking God to damn a lot of things such as Christmas in general and door covers in particular may not have been exactly appropriate to the mood I was attempting to create, but still. Eventually the thing was up and ready to welcome visitors with a spirited Merry Christmas.

And boy howdy, did it ever. I had never realized how many times in a day people came through or went out that door. Every ten minutes choirs of angels were singing Silent Night in an increasingly shrill and desperate way, because as near as I can tell, no one ever recorded choirs of angels on a dandy little computer chip ever before.

Had they done so, I would not be listening to it today, as people would have discovered that constantly shrill renditions of Silent Night incline one to murder people and someone would have made a law forbidding the recording of choirs of angels.

I know that real choirs of angels cannot sound like that, because if they did all the shepherds and herds of sheep and any kings hanging around would have run as quickly as possible to Egypt and never have been seen or heard from again, and it would have put a real dent in Christmases yet to come.

And may I point out that we Christians are not all that popular today, anyway, and if we want to avoid being vaporized by some terrorist, perhaps it would be a good idea to just not record Silent Night on a computer chip, drive scores of people mad and somehow manage to associate that with the Holy Family.

I would take the thing down, but I am committed. That and I paid eight dollars for it and since it's the Holy Family I can't use it to line the cat box or anything, and so I plan to use it until it wears out. No matter who it drives insane.

If only I could send one to the nice Sheriff's Department, with a special note attached designating it for the Sgt....but, no. Seperation of church and state, you know. And I don't know his home address, more's the pity. Because it is Christmas after all, and one should always try to set aside one's differences for Christmas and what could be nicer, really, than a Holy Family door cover and maybe a Poinsettia? But I digress.

So then there was the tree. By the time Chritmas is over, I usually don't care if it never comes again--not the Birth of Christ part, you know, the rest of it--and so I have a tendency to tear down the tree any old way, toss the ornaments in a box, heave the lights into the closet and attempt to erase all memory of it until next year.

Except by next year I've usually managed to forget why I hate it all so much and so I'm all dewy eyed and sentimental and ready to decorate with a vengeance, and that's when I discover that someone took down Christmas the year before with a great lack of regard for the guy who would decorate the tree next year.

This year Lacey and I spent a good two hours unraveling strings of lights only to discover none of them would light. This year I'm sticking a note in the box that just says, "dispose of this and go to Wal-mart for three new strings of lights." I won't listen, of course, but at least I will know I tried.

So, anyway, upon setting up the tree we noticed that only two legs of the built in stand were in evidence. Although Lacey gamely buried herself up to the neck in the closet at the head of the stairs, and at one point discovered some mice in her pant leg and made an exit that could have set a new land speed record, we never did find the leg to the tree stand.

Ever resourceful (and unwilling to drive to town for a new tree) we just screwed the remaining two legs to the floor of the sun porch. Emma helped. That was fun, but required that we censor our language which made for a very interesting conversation as we thought of many, many new words to replace the word f***, which would have been very much in evidence had it not been a totally PG event.

Could we have gotten an R rating I assure you Christmas would have been very colorful this year. The only strings of lights which never fail are those that have a computer chip that plays Christmas music at the top of it's lungs, not only giving one a headache but competing now and then with Silent Night as played by the front door.

And which you can never find the box for, which is shaped like santa's head and if you press his left eyebrow repeatedly will shut up the lights. Until some little kid trips over the cord once again, thus resetting Santa and causing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen to resume at top volume.

As if this were not enough, I also have a beautiful set of Carousel lights which were Aunt Margaret's and which I treasure, even though Emma invariably turns them on, turns them up, removes all her clothes and begins to dance to Oh Little Town of Bethlehem. Which as you have no doubt guessed, is competing wildly with both Santa's God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and Silent Night as played by the Holy Family Door Cover.

If I am very lucky, about this time the Target Commercial comes on the television so we can add the Carol of the Bells with stupid advertising lyrics to the general mix.

So, anyway, we're having a blizzard and there's nothing to do now but brew up a nice pot of tea, find a good book and start praying that no one wants to use the front door for anything, no one plugs in the tree and no one turns on the television.

Perfect quiet, what bliss.

A Few Minor Details

2009-12-02T22:24:00.000-08:00

I was feeling a little depressed earlier and when I get like that I like to read over that whole criminal complaint thing, on account of it reminds me of a few things I want to be sure and include in my suicide note, and so even though I was going to save this until the matter had been officially settled, there are one or two things I would like to make sure the District Attorney is aware of before we actually get to court.

At no point, for instance, have I ever been married to my brother. Although the official charges do state that at one point I am apparently married to my brother, Jim. I would like to point out that I don't have a brother Jim. In fact, unless my father has new information he would like to share with mother and I, I'm fairly sure I have no brothers at all.

And if I did have a brother, I would like to state for the historical record that I would not, at any time, marry him. I was willing to go to Tennessee to marry my cousin, and while I completely understand that not everyone understands our choice to marry, the fact remains that unless father got up to some didoes with my Aunt and then failed to mention it, my husband is not my brother.

If the District Attorney (on the advice of the deputy) has any remaining doubts about the matter, I will be quite happy to submit to DNA analysis, but I think he should have to pay for it, I can't even afford an attorney, and anyway I am not the one who seems to have some confusion as to the exact relationship I bear to my husband.

Then there is the matter of my taking the rifle to my brother, Jim. Once again, let me state that I do not have a brother Jim, Nor do I have a brother Dave, although he also appears in the story. I don't have a brother at all, and furthermore, I wouldn't marry that brother either, if indeed I had a brother. And I don't. Unless, of course, father got up to some didoes with his brother's wife a couple of times and, once again, failed to mention it.

Also, while I would like to agree that the accusing authority figures are "truthful and reliable" I feel compelled to point out that they have me married to my brother Jim and delivering a gun to my brother Jim, and since I have no brothers and certainly would not marry one if I had, exactly how truthful and reliable can we reasonably believe them to be?

I am willing to allow that an otherwise truthful and reliable person could make a mistake, but frankly, if I'm not allowed to make a mistake, I think it is only fair that somebody charge the person who wrote up the report and made the accusations and delivered the complaint because marrying someone to their nonexistant brother is, I think we can agree, a mistake of epic proportions and with grave and far reaching potential consequences.

I think it's illegal to marry one's brother, I think whoever wrote the report might have noticed that it was unlikely I was married to my brother, and if they could miss a mistake that ridiculous how reliable can one reasonably expect the rest of the report to be?

And then there is the small (but important) matter of which of my sons was actually involved in the incident. The complaint mentions two of them by name, sometimes in the same sentence. I would like to point out that they cannot both be married to Amanda.

In fact, Jason's wife may take exception to being told her husband was married to his sister-in-law on October 5, apparently at the same time as he was married to her and fathering the baby she's having any minute now.

Of course, if I can be married to my brother, I'm sure that there is no reason a couple of my sons can't have two or three wives at the same time. In fact, maybe they trade off every second Tuesday, just to keep life interesting.

Here again, we run into that whole truthful and reliable issue.

I'm going to spare you the entire account of the interview with my daughter-in-law, except to just say that there are a few things that violate the laws of physics. I realize that no one can force a person to adhere to the laws of physics, but defying them tends to result in things that can only have occured via an act of God, and unless the Pope has been here and authenticated a couple of miracles no one told me about, there's a big question of truthful and reliable there, as well.

I already told the judge I lied to the officer, I'm pretty sure there's no doubt in anyone's mind about that. The only thing still undetermined is why I lied and since no one has asked me, why should I tell anyone? If anyone ever does think to ask me, I will be quite happy to tell them exactly how and why I came to tell a lie to a police officer.

I have long since passed beyond the point where I care at all what happens to me next. I have a good contingency plan should things go badly awry in the courtroom. I feel confident that I have allowed for all the possibilities. I have, as they say, set my affairs in order.

I would like to remind you of what happens when we put bullies in positions of authority and allow them to set an example for our children. Some people made just that mistake in 1939 and before they were able to rectify their mistake, roughly eleven million people had been murdered by the people most of them had believed were there to protect and serve them.

A bully can yell long enough and loud enough to make you say anything to shut him up and get him off your porch, but I don't know as I would sign my name to anything that described his ensuing report as truthful or reliable.

Refuse to be silenced, never go quietly and always be willing to suffer for what you believe to be right.

Fortune Cookie

2009-12-02T08:10:00.000-08:00

There's an old superstition that says if you open your fortune cookie and the paper is blank, it means you're going to die.

And that would be entirely true. You are going to die, or failing that, you're going to be the first person in the history of the world to live forever, and how likely is that? I mean, seriously.

I don't know why I was thinking about fortune cookies, it just occured to me because, after all, I did get a blank fortune once. It was about twenty years ago, but I do remember that the children were all quite impressed and watched me with great interest for weeks.

Apparently because they expected my death to be somewhat spectacular, and they didn't want to miss it. They got on the school bus saying things like, "Promise you won't die before I get home!" Not tearfully, like they might miss me if I was gone. More like with intent interest, like I was a science project and I might go bad while they were away.

After weeks had passed and I hadn't died they got kind of tired of the whole thing and moved on to more reliable interests. You know, they went back to making the goats faint and trying to string the baby up as a horse thief while playing Old West.

So, either my blank fortune meant I was going to die but it hasn't happened yet, or God was trying to give me a hint that I was going to have the most boring future imaginable and did I really want to go on. Or God had already met the Sergeant and knew he was in my future and it was only a matter of time before I obstructed justice and went to prison, so why bother writing it down for the fortune cookie?

I did go to court and it turns out the judge is the nicest man you ever met. He does not yell at all, which I was very grateful for because you know how badly that yelling thing usually ends up--it's either me and the coumadin and a boxcutter, or an emergency visit to the therapist and frankly, neither one is all that fun.

I have to go back on account of I didn't have an attorney and the judge is very nice like that, he wants you to have every chance, really. Or possibly he got tired of listening to two hour long rambling accounts of how it all went wrong but was not really the person's fault, and a lawyer can get it said in three sentences or less.

But either way, he's a gentleman, so I don't care.

The public defender people said they would like to help me, but really I am too rich and so they can't. They have obviously never been introduced to my $900 light bill and my husband who has that lecture on why we will never retire.

But it's good to know that on paper, at least, we are tremendously successful and would someone kindly inform the neighbors, because I am pretty sure they don't know it, yet.

So, anyway, I suspect that in the final analysis I will end up being represented by Bill the Lawyer who got his Juris Doctorate from the same place I got my clergy certification, and who probably lied about passing the bar. Or he just didn't know that walking past the Iron Horse was not "passing the bar" in any official capacity.

I'm thinking I'll probably get the death penalty.

Of course, that will nicely do away with the need for the overdose of coumadin and the boxcutter, so it's all good, really. Also, it will not be ALL MY FAULT and I am damned sick and tired of everything being all my fault, so I can't say as I would mind all that much.

It is some consolation to know that Emma is also in the doghouse over the "all my fault" thing, as it seems her parents get right irate if she flips the walker with Ada in it, thus resulting in a concussion. Also, locking the new kitty in the microwave, climbing in the dryer to hide and using one's Suzy Homemaker broom to sweep the cat box.

I believe it is only a matter of time before she offends the sensibilities of some Deputy and ends up in the cell next to mine. And I look forward to it, because confining Emma is likely to be the last thing they ever do before building a new prison and getting all the inmates back from the Grand Caymans.

Ah well, there is hope for me and Em, yet. I have great confidence in things coming right in the end,

The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine, you know. Be advised, power of any kind incurs a comensurate amount of responsibility. If one were to forget that, and not exercise power judiciously, well.

I would not like to be the one explaining THAT to the Judge. And I don't mean the one sitting in the courtroom, either. As Harry Potter said to Lord Voldemort, try for some remorse, it's your only hope.

Emma visits the Granmudder

2009-11-24T11:22:00.000-08:00

That's what she calls me, GranMUDDER, emphasis on the Mudder.

Em's having a little trouble with that whole "baby sister" concept. She was very supportive of the whole thing once they got Ada home from the hospital. Ada was better than a dolly, you could love her all you wanted and she rarely required anything but a bottle and a diaper change.

The problem began when it became evident that Ada had violated the basic contract whereby she would remain a pink blob who only needed a bottle and a diaper change to make her life complete. Apparently no one told Em that baby sisters are not a static, one form only event.

Unlike new dollies, they grow up.

Ada learned to eat things. At first, feeding her crackers was kind of fun, but then Mom and Dad got all anal about not giving her marbles to eat, so that was no fun anymore. And Ada learned to get around in her walker, which meant she could actually enter the hallowed and sacred space of Emma's personal room and touch things. And the parents were opposed to hitting her over the head with books when she did.

Then Ada learned to crawl. Now she was mobile both in and out of the walker and no one's toys were sacred. Also, many fun things had to be removed from Emma's general area. Emma was strongly opposed to this course of action, but no one cared.

Ada learned to vocalize and Daddy had the unmitigated gall to address her as, "Hey, Beautiful!" Emma is beautiful, she holds the copyright, the patent, the screen rights and the royalties from beautiful. Emma sued. She's three so that involved kicking Daddy repeatedly in the knee and saying, "No, I will NOT give you one minute, Dad."

I don't know what that has to do with beautiful, it's what she said. A Lot. For a very long time.

Then Emma stepped up her game. If they were going to lavish attention on that....sister.....SHE would demonstrate some attention getting they would not soon forget! I think Emma might have been Caligula in a former life. She took all the dishes out of the cupboard, climbed the dishwasher, washed the kitchen windows with the floor scrubbing sponge, unmade all the beds, robbed the jewelry boxes and wore all the watches and did all of it while stark naked and singing, "This little light of mine."

Lacey made her come in the living room and wear pants. Emma took them off and began growling savagely at Ada anytime she came near. Ada cried. Emma didn't care. She took off all her clothes again and decided to go out on the porch to ride the tricycle. Naked.

Lacey made her come in the living room and wear pants. Emma decided she needed to potty. I don't know if she actually DID potty, I do know she used an entire mega roll of charmin to decorate the kitchen on her way back to the living room.

She also took all of the meat out of the freezer, left the refrigerator door wide open repeatedly, robbed the breadbox to make herself a sandwich with some brown and serve rolls I had forgotten were in there and reprogrammed the computer so it does things I think might be in Russian, or possibly some alien alphabet from another galaxy, but is certainly not English, and Emma won't give me the password.

I just want Washington to know that if some little green naked men get out of a saucer on the White House lawn and demand to be taken to their leader, just bring them here. It will be Em who summoned them and you're better off just letting her do whatever she called them for. Otherwise she'll growl at you and that will likely start an interstellar war and really, it's just simpler to let Lacey make them come into the living rroom and wear pants.

Lacey's really good at that. We can feed them the rest of those rolls Emma found, that should ensure they will want to leave fairly quickly.

So, anyway, occasionally Emma remembers she kind of likes Ada. Not enough to want to share toys with her, but enough that no one is allowed to touch her, look at her or babysit her. She may be a major inconvenience, but she's EMMA'S major inconvenience and you had better not forget it.
She reminds me an awful lot of some other little girl who lived in Towerville long, long ago and had a little sister.

And that little girl reminded her grandma of another little girl long, long ago who lived around there and had a little sister. For all I know, SHE may have had a grandma who was reminded...well, you get the idea.

Pilly and the Angiogram

2009-11-18T08:40:00.000-08:00

Before you faint, it was a CT angiogram, so nobody ran a wire into my heart--go technology! And before I poke fun at the entire proceeding, let me say that the ladies who finally got my IV in were amazing.

They were professional, courteous, kind, funny, helpful and are now my heroes, absolutely. I don't know what they pay you, ladies, but it's not enough. Ask for a raise and say Pilly said so. I'll back you up.

So, anyway, on to the Pilly story. Would I have any procedure without gaining a Pilly story from it? No, I would not. Get serious.

So, Jacob took me to the clinic, on account of I can't drive in LaCrosse and we all agree that me stranded in an intersection screaming and crying while trying to decide when it's safe to turn while many people behind me honk and scream obscenities is probably not a good idea.

And we got there with no trouble. Jacob can even turn left into Kwik Trip. I'm in awe. Seriously.

I was a little set back at the clinic because I had counted on there being someone at the help desk to remind me where to go (I lost my instructions, no surprises there) but they were off exploring the medical museum or greeting people at the door and so I was on my own.

It's just a thought, but I don't need someone to greet me at the door. It's not Wal-mart. Just stick someone behind the help desk and make them stay there. They can greet me while I'm desperately trying to figure out which way is the CT scan.

And I found the CT scan place, where some nice little girl gave me a box to hold and told me to go wait with a magazine. I know what the box is for, but even so, when your startle reflex is so finely tuned a hand clap can send you into a seizure, how good is it to leave you with a vibrating box and a magazine?

Just as I expected, the box took me unaware and caused me to scream and throw it in the air. At least there was no doubt in anyone's mind who was next. It led the nurse right to me.

So I went to the little room where they make you put on the backwards gown and the robe, which does nothing to cover you and after pointing out which one was the robe for the third time, on account of clearly they thought I might forget, they let me get undressed in there.

I forgot my purse on the way to my locker and had to go back for it, and then I couldn't open the door, get the key out, or hang everything neatly on hooks, but eventually I had the things stuffed in there, the door closed and the key around my wrist, so we went on.

We got to the place where they put in your IV and it turned out some grand Cardiologist was a little anal about only running the IV in your right arm. We did try. They numbed it each time, so it didn't hurt, really, which is good because I was only one among several older ladies and God knows what they would have thought if it had gotten any more complicated than it already was.

First, the obvious vein (you've probably had one or two IVs in the crook of your elbow, so you know about that) no soap.

It turns out you have several other veins on the sides of your arm that will work in a pinch. None of mine would, but still. Don't give up hope. They went and got the ultrasound machine to locate my elusive veins. More numbing. Still no luck.

Somebody went to talk to the grand Cardiologist, not mine, just the guy on call, and he said something like, screw the torpedos, full speed ahead, which apparently meant, keep digging. We did.

More numbs it stuff. They went and found a whole new person to try. I liked the first one fine and didn't see why we should change, but the next one was nice, too.

Meanwhile many other old ladies came and went. We had a lot of nice discussions about IVs and CT scans and life in general. The new girl found a vein but it turned out to be an artery because it had a pulse. I don't know if you know this, but you can't put an IV in an artery. It was news to me.

More discussion with the grand Cardiologist who
1) still insisted on the right arm
2) wanted a number 18 cannula which was bigger than the vein, itself and
3) didn't care how long it took and assumed I didn't either.

I suggested we bring him down and poke five or six holes in his arm and then if he still thought it was a good idea, we could do me, again. I was perfectly willing to use that ultra sound thing and have the girls teach me the fine art of IV running using him as a learning tool, but no, we weren't allowed to do that.

Eventually, the tube was in the side of my arm and we went off to the CT scan. That was uneventful except for the part where they make you hold your arms above your head and hold your breath. However, I have had the kind of Andiogram they do for real, where they run the wire into your heart, so believe me, I was not complaining.

It was a little embarrassing that I couldn't sit up afterward from a prone position, thus announcing to all that my abs are plainly on permanent vacation and refuse to do anything at all, but at least it was quick.

Getting the IV out was much simpler, and before you could say Bob's your uncle, I was on my way home. And Jacob drove me home along the river and I saw an eagle. Seeeing the eagle wasn't so great I would be willing to undergo that whole IV experience again for the privilege, but it was still pretty cool.

Today my arm is black and blue all the way around, I have more needle holes than an IV drug user and I even brusied where we tied the elastic around my arm, so I have my own, built in mourning band. On the upside, it hurts to use that hand for anything, so I'm not waxing the floor til tomorrow.

I think I'll play with Emma, today. She's way more fun than a medical procedure, I can tell you that.

Freedom

2009-11-14T12:43:00.000-08:00

I once read a really great short story--I wish I could remember the title or the author, I'm sorry I can't--in which freedom was defined by the ability to say, "I won't."

And it is how to define freedom, just watch:

Pilly, quit expressing your opinion on line.

"I Won't".

Pilly, stop criticizing your local government.

"I won't."

Pilly, stop expressing your opinion about Wal-mart.

"I won't."

And so on. This morning I found the link to this blog disabled. I don't know why it would be or who is responsible and maybe it's just a fluke. Probably it is. But it certainly made me think about freedom.

I love my country, I even admire the President very much, I have trusted him since the first moment I heard him speak, I think his wife is beautiful and intelligent and kind, I think his children are adorable, I even like his dog.

I'm not wildly confident of the integrity of the House and Senate, but we're all just human, and Washington Government is in a very public eye, so I don't worry too much about that.

State government is in less of a public eye, certainly not under global scrutiny like Washington, but under enough scrutiny that we can probably be sure nothing too radical will slip by us.

But local government, now.....well, this is a small and rural place, the eye we're in isn't all that public, the checks and balances might not be quite so visible here. But it's still America, isn't it?

And as an American, I know that my freedom matters every bit as much as that of the President of the United States, himself. I know the President would say so, and I know he would mean it when he did, because I have a feeling the little people matter an awful lot to Barack Hussein Obama.

Because we're the ones who needed him most, we're the ones who trust him, we're the ones who believe in him and we're the ones who just keep on voting for all the things he thinks are a good idea.

And as a black man in America, I bet he knows a lot of stories about small rural governments, little towns where power goes to the head of the people who believe themselves to hold all the power, and what can happen to someone that the neighbors perceive as less....worthy....than themselves of actual justice.

Which would be not the letter, but the spirit of the law.

And so, as an American I encourage you to remember the man who said, "...and when they came for me, there was no one left to say anything," as he was taken off to Auschwitz, because that was the moment he realized that if they do it to me today, they can do it to you tomorrow. And that just because you think you're exempt, maybe you'd better rethink that.

Because people who get a little heady with power sometimes go Too Far. That's why our government--large and small--was designed to HAVE checks and balances. Because our forefathers knew that when a dog goes mad, it's a good thing if you already have a man in place whose job it is to leash that dog and put a muzzle on it before it bites the wrong person in the ass.

Freedom is a wonderful thing. Wonderful. And if you ask me to stop talking about it, if you try to make me stop talking about it, well, I Won't.

God Bless America.

To Ashley

2009-11-14T09:44:00.000-08:00

Last night, you experienced the greatest loss any woman ever knows, the loss of your unborn child. And it was your child. Not a fetus, not a "collection of cells or tissue," but your child.

Well meaning people are going to try to minimize your loss in a futile attempt to make you feel better, but it won't make you feel better. I know. Your mother and I each lost a child, as well.

For me it was my second, but for your mother it was her first, like yours, and that is the cruelest loss of all, the loss of the firstborn.

I am writing this because, one day, I hope you will be able to read it and know that you do not grieve alone and that in the world there is one person, at least, who understands.

For me, the hardest parts were that no no one would recognize my loss AS a loss. It was not a "blessing in disguise," or"not meant to be" and if it was God's will, I could only wonder why my loving Father would give me a gift like that and then take it away, before I ever got to enjoy it.

There is a reason for everything that happens, and God is a loving Father, but I still have no answer to that particular why, I expect I never will. I would like to think that it might have been, in part, because He knew that in 25 years or so, the person I loved best and was closest to would also suffer a catastrophic loss, and was going to need someone who understood the need to grieve.

I know that nothing you did caused this, and you need to know that, too. Really KNOW it. This is not your fault, nothing could have changed it, no matter what you did or failed to do you could not have changed the outcome.

Sometimes, things don't develop as they ought to, when something is so catastrophically wrong that the fetus can never become a viable, living child, we are designed to stop the process. Because God loves us and little babies, and spares us what we would suffer if we had to see those hurts made manifest in our child.

And though you may not believe me now, THAT hurt would be a thousand times crueler than the one you're suffering right now.

But having said that, now let me say this. You lost a baby. A person. Someone more precious to you than life, itself. And you have a right to grieve. The hardest part is having no grave to visit, no place to lay flowers, no stone that says that, even if for only a few weeks, your baby lived. And was loved. And strongly desired and desperately awaited.

Now, you are some one's mother, and no one can ever take that from you, my love. No one. So grieve as much as you must, know that empty arms are not empty forever, that broken hearts do mend, even if a little crookedly.

If you cannot have a grave to visit, plant a tree or a rosebush, and on this anniversary visit that place, and cry and leave a flower, and remember your child. And someday, even be a little glad that, even if for only a little time, you were everything to that little person.

You were food and shelter and a heartbeat that comforted. You were Mom, who was there at the beginning and that cradled that little life until it went back to God, and was cuddled by His Mother until you could come, and take it in your own arms.

I love you, Ashley. You ARE the kindness. Be brave, there is a child in your future that's going to need you. I promise. And you must be there for that.

Pilly and the Wal-mart Pharmacy

2009-11-12T09:21:00.000-08:00

So there I was at the Wal-mart, trying to fill a prescription. And the one I call Sociopathy Girl (although she left girlhood behind some time ago, I fear) was working the desk. She's not a pharmacist, in fact, I'm not entirely sure she's human. She likes to play with her prey before eating it, maybe she's a cat.

And her eyes had that little maniacal twinkle of unholy glee that I have come to know and dread, and so I knew we were in for an interesting day. And we were.

She said the prescription wasn't on file. You want to bring your old bottle with you, the one where it says, "May refill until this date." That tends to throw a wrench into the Great Torture Device that is Sociopathy Girl's place of employment there in Viroqua.

As you may have surmised, I left my bottle home. So I asked her to call the clinic, and she said she would and Lacey, Emma, Ada and I went to visit the Christmas Aisle. Also, the housewares department, the movie section, the toy department, the grocery portion and the Ladies Room.

Ada was not enjoying Wal-mart and clearly would have preferred to go home. Lacey and Emma were having a war of nerves to determine whether Emma would ride in a cart and thus be successfully contained, or whether she would reinvent Wal-mart as a place where any ambitious little girl could climb a few shelves and ride the Pinatas.

Lacey temporarily prevailed. After a month or so, we went back to the pharmacy. No, Sociopathy girl said, they had not reached the clinic. We went to look at purses, jewelry, make up, cleaning supplies, bathroom tissue and clothes.

Emma tried on a few things as we went. You know, like lingerie from the nightgown department. Wearing a bra and panties on her head was distracting for her for a little while, but it palled. As did eating the marshmallows, drinking the milk and enjoying some Go-gurt in a tube.

I was still not loving Sociopathy Girl, and this was entirely her responsibility, so I just serenely kept walking. If you're going to torture the crazy people, you should be prepared for them to reply in kind.

Ada made a political statement about Wal-mart that required a visit to the changing station and a new diaper. Enough time passed for new life forms to evolve and I returned to the pharmacy. Still no reply from the clinic.

I've been through this before, so I went to the service desk and called the clinic, who replied as I expected, the prescription certainly was on file, they had responded two hours ago, and Sociopathy Girl was clearly having a bad day again.

I went back to the pharmacy, and informed Sociopathy Girl that she would be hearing from the clinic shortly, and as nearly everyone within the city limits had probably heard my conversation with the clinic--not that the clinic was problematic, they don't employ Sociopaths at the clinic, I just wanted to share information with other potential Wal-mart Pharmacy customers so they could experience the cat and mouse drama of interacting with Sociopathy Girl--I was confident that soon, the game would end.

It didn't end as quickly as I would have liked, so I released Emma from the cart. She tried out some blood pressure monitors. Lacey tried to stop her, but I intervened. After all, if Wal-mart wanted her to stop they were perfectly welcome to throw a net over Sociopathy girl, and I said so. Loudly. And firmly.

Emma said she had to pee. I suggested a likely looking spot on the floor in the eye department, but Lacey made her go to the ladies room. People noticed.

I had a nice discussion with Lacey about why the pharmacy should never jerk around the paranoid schizophrenics. I don't believe I am a paranoid schizophrenic, certainly I have not been diagnosed with that illness. But Wal-mart doesn't know that.

Other customers began decidng to wait on the other side of the store. While eyeing me suspiciously. I smiled, on account of I am nice like that.

I began speculating as to whether the sporting goods department would sell me a gun and some ammunition, but it turned out they don't sell firearms anymore. Pity, that.

Other customers suddenly realized they had forgotten to purchase tires for their cars and decided to rectify that immediately, moving farther away from the pharmacy.

So we began discussing the possible effect of adding certain varied mushrooms to the employee coffee pot. Lacey allowed as how that might be fun and asked me how well I was able to distinguish between say, the Amanita species , the hallucinogenic species and morels, which are harmless.

I ventured the opinion that I was not good at that, not good at all. In fact it could be argued that as I don't see well, a lot of things could go wrong if I were to say, make soup from scratch.

Emma decided to test different fever thermometers and experiment with some batteries. I encouraged her to foster her sense of scientific inquiry. Ada fell asleep, but not until firmly protesting having to be at Wal-mart two years longer than the dinosaurs roamed the earth, thus missing her lunch.

I suggested to Lacey that we advise the clinic and the place they refer the crazy people to, to recommend that their patients use some pharmacy other than Wal-mart's, as the effect of denying medication to a person who was badly Bipolar had potential for repercussions of epic proportion.

And then I aired some views of the way Sociopathy Girl treated the elderly. Emma had moved on to vitamins and natural substances and was preparing to create an entirely new treatment for psoriasis.

Again, I opined that as I would take Emma home anytime they saw fit to give me my antidepressants, thus preventing my messy suicide in the meat department, and by a rare coincidence it was at that exact moment they called my name.

Before you come to arrest me, please be advised that at no time did I seriously consider tampering with the coffee pot or harming any individual. I am not sociopathic, unlike some people who shall remain nameless (I'll just look at the part and whistle).

This is an attempt at humor, after all. Of course, you may not find me amusing and if that is the case, I invite you (and strongly encourage you) to blog about that to your heart's content. I will even read you if you like, I am nothing if not gracious.

I am not qualified to diagnose Sociopathy Girl and it is only my opinion that she is probably only one act of psychological torture away from a new career as a serial killer, and unless you are the thought police, what I think is not a crime.

I'm allowed to think anything I want. Thanks to the First Amendment I can say anything I like, as well. Unless George Bush repealed that Amendment at the same time he instituted the Patriot Act and created the secret police department that he so reassuringly called Homeland Security.

So, anyway, I got the pills, I took the pills and now I am feeling pretty sane, again. Sane enough to make it to January when I see the Grand Psychiatrist and get new meds which may cure me. Or not. But are sure to make for an interesting spring.

I might switch pharmacies by then, though. Sadly, what they are letting that woman do to the mentally ill is, if not a crime, certainly morally wrong and medically unethical and you would think the actual Pharmacists would ask for her to be reassigned to say, the auto department and someone who likes people could work at the pharmacy window and look important while playing solitaire on the computer.

But that's just a suggestion.

Don't be like Sociopathy Girl. Make the world a better, not a worse, place.

Be the kindness.

Veteran's Day

2009-11-11T08:14:00.000-08:00

I noticed over there on CNN that some bunch of government people were holding a meeting to discuss the homeless Veterans. Which ones, I'd like to know? And exactly where the hell have the committee members been since around 1980 when Ronald Reagan decided it violated the human rights of the mentally ill if we gave them food, shelter and medication so he turned them all out to live in a subway tunnel in New York?

I mention this because a significant number of them were Viet Nam Veterans. You remember Viet Nam, it was that other big mistake of a war we used to get rid of people we didn't like back there in the 60's.

There was a disproportionate number of black soldiers on the front lines, for instance, thus guaranteeing that there would be a lot fewer people yelling at the government about getting to use the same drinking fountain as the rest of us and not get lynched unto the fourth generation.

Those are my veterans. My Mom, a sweet person whose father was a World War II veteran, makes it a point to shake the hand of any soldier she sees and thank him for keeping her safe. It's a wonderful gesture and a good idea, it puts a human face on what you're doing there when you wake up in Iraq.

No one shook the hand of my Vets. I'm not sure they were actually fighting anything like terrorism, it might have been (the ominous threat of) Communism. Which no one could exactly define, but we knew was very bad. Something like a red alert on the terrorism scale. No one knows what that means, either.

Today we hear a lot about doing like my Mom and shaking the hands of the guys who come home. There was a suggested gesture for greeting my vets, too. You were supposed to spit on them and scream "Babykiller!" at them, even if they had been drafted and would just as soon not have gone to hell for a tour or two.

And a hell of a lot of people were ready to make the gesture, too. It was the politically correct of it's time.

Sometimes in parades you see my guys, the ones who can come. They wear Jungle camo fatigues, are usually unshaven and make a point to keep what's left of their hair in a long gray ponytail. If their smiles are a little wry, it's because they had to wait twenty years or so for their first parade and despite the fact that we applaud them now, they haven't forgotten how we met them when they deplaned in 1968.

On this Veteran's Day, I would like to tell you what defined "war" for me when I was ten, and what still defines it for me today.

It is the memory of the flag draped casket of Larry Swiggum, who won a purple heart which did not seem to me to be adequate compensation for his orphaned brothers and sisters, but was the highest honor the government could confer, so at least it was nice they tried.

It was a closed casket because there wasn't enough of him left to look at.

In Memory of Larry Swiggum, God grant you rest in peace and give you what we could not, life.

Katt Williams

2009-11-10T08:04:00.000-08:00

I was just over there on CNN, and I have to tell you, that Katt Williams fellow has a really nice mug shot. Much better than mine. And I'm pretty sure he's not guilty, either.

So, just in case he should ever be here in hillbilly hell, I want him to know that he is welcome to drop in here and visit us anytime at all. We criminal types really must stick together. He can sleep on the sofa, help himself to the refrigerator, I will even give him the very best afghan my mother made to sleep under.

He smiled in his mug shot. That may be because he is more alert than I am and he knows what, "go stand over there by the wall" is leading to, or it could be that he knows he has a lawyer and enough money to sue some serious butt when this is over.

I would even testify on his behalf. I mean, I wasn't actually there or anything, but I am confident I could think of something nice to say about him on the witness stand, and convince the court that he only swears like that to make money, it's not that he's really rude. I used to be a Sunday School teacher, if no one runs my prints, that could even mean something.

It was refreshing to know that even wealthy, famous comedians can sometimes choose the wrong friends and end up in front of a wall getting their picture made by the nice deputy.

His lawyer said something like the charges were absurd, and I would just like to tell him that if he says that around here, some guy is going to yell at him, he's going to need a trip to the therapist afterward, and before you can say Bob's your uncle, someone will have charged him with obstructing justice.

I used to think Texas was kind of out there, because instead of a welcome to their state they just scream, "Don't mess with Texas" at you as you cross their borders. Now I am thinking it's nice they issue a warning and maybe Wisconsin could consider something along those lines. Not necessarily for the whole State, but certainly for this county.

And possibly the one next door, although I met their deputy once and she was just as nice as pie, so maybe not.

You may be wondering why I don't just go live somewhere else, and I would like to relieve your curiosity by telling you that most days I cannot leave my house. I am praying I will not be having an agoraphobia day on my court appearance day because if they make me come to court on a day like that, they are going to have to force me screaming and slavering white foam out the door.

Hauling me into court with that strait jacket and hockey mask on, riding on a refrigerator dolly and dripping blood from where I held onto the door frame and bit my tongue in half is likely not going to improve my situation in the courtroom.

I would go to great lengths to ensure I don't have to leave the city limits even on a good day, and that would be how I find myself in this charming position in the first place. Alright, my judgement was poor, I admit that, but it seemed like a really good idea at the time.

Which, incidentally, I am having engraved on my tombstone, since it seems to have been the sentiment that has guided my life all along, and no one need wonder why I am rarely if ever seen outside this house.

It usually wasn't a good idea at the time, and that would explain how I got here. Anyone who doubts me is welcome to visit any of the nurses who took care of me after heart surgery and ask them their opinion of my sanity.

I do think, however, that jail might be good for me. They lock you in a little room, you never have to leave and so far as I know, no one plays the guitar to all hours keeping you awake.

You don't have to cook, with a little persuasion I might be able to convince them to give me some floor wax and a few sponges and I could have the cleanest, shiniest, nicest little room in the history of prison.

Getting me to leave might be a small problem for them, I tend to bond with my safe zone. Still, it's a positive thought. In no time at all, every county worker in the area will know the words to Ave Maria and will be able to join in a rousing chorus of "The Risin' of the Moon" at the drop of a hat and with gusto.

While I'm gone, that nice Katt Williams fellow can stay at my house and keep the boys company.

That'll work.

The Important Official Disclaimer

2009-11-09T08:50:00.000-08:00

In case you just joined the wagon train, and did not bother to read my first ever post on this site (and indeed, why should you?), I would like to point out that all Pilly stories are BASED ON actual events.

In other words, they were INSPIRED BY something that actually happened to me, but they are not literally, factually true. Usually.

They are therapeutic (that's my story and I'm sticking to it) because they are a venue that allows me to poke fun at myself (and everybody else. Is nothing sacred? No, not really), so please do not award them the weight of say, sworn testimony in court.

Stephen King once said that writers are incapable of telling a story without making it better, and although I am nothing like Stephen King (you know, rich, famous, talented) I am still a person who feels compelled to write.

So I claim the privilege. If you want the facts, watch that fellow on CNN. Sometimes he gets it right. Not often, but sometimes. He tries.

I, on the other hand, do not. If you can't laugh at yourself go to therapy. I know a good guy, if you need a suggestion. I would tell you to go to hell, but that would be rude, and a sin and anyway, therapy is marginally less painful, it could do you good.

I'm not promising, or anything. I'm just saying.

What you should not do is take any of it personally. I mean, really. Wouldn't you be embarrassed to have the world know you have a stick jammed so far up your...anatomy...that you can't laugh at how I perceive you ( and me)?

If that IS a problem for you, just start your own blog and write amusing things about me. E-mail me, I'll help you set it all up. I'll suggest funny things you can say about me and ways you can insult me. I get suicidal on bad mental health days--really suicidal, not funny suicidal--but I have removed all sticks from my anatomy.

May I suggest you do so as well? Life is hard, no one gets out of it alive. And as my Grandma Helgeson used to say, you might as well laugh as cry.

Over all, I have found her to be right about most things.

And Another thing

2009-11-09T07:42:00.000-08:00

I see that, with my usual knack at telling a story I forgot the whole mug shot section, so you might need to know that.

Because it's nothing like you'd expect, although I can tell you that I now know why mug shots look like they do.

You know, like the person was drunk at the time or possibly a moron who drooled a lot.

Because they don't actually mention that they're going to take your picture, they just tell you to go stand by the wall there and face them. Which I did. But I was thinking about something and didn't realize they had taken my picture until they asked me to turn to the left.

By that time someone already had a picture of me with bad posture and breathing through my mouth. And during the profile shot I was obsessing over how I looked dead on and frankly, that didn't improve my profile picture, either.

And then some guy made me take off my glasses, because apparently glasses can alter your look to the point where your own mother wouldn't recognize you. I mean, my own mother always has, but clearly.

I was then not only looking perplexed, but I was blind, as well. I wanted to make a good impression so I tried to face forward, but that just makes me look like a turtle coming out of the shell. And trying to see when I'm blind tends to give me a maniacal glare.

So it's just their own fault if I look like Charlie Manson.

Also, I lose my balance when I can't see, because something to do with that brain freeze during heart surgery, so I don't just look like Charlie, I look like Charlie heavily drugged. Which, now that I think of it, is how Charlie usually looked.

Ah, well. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, mores the pity.

I would like to point out that if you can't tell I'm me if I take my glasses off, how well do you expect to do when I take my hair down? Yet, we left it up in it's twist.

No one even knows how long it is, or how it might alter my appearance if I quit dyeing it or tried a chignon or something. Isn't that as important as glasses? Does this mean I could sneak into Venezuela if I just got a new do?

And, despite the pain meds, I seem to remember we were having a lovely chat about being a grandma throughout this procedure, so I probably also have that sappy, somebody just hit me with a rubber hammer look I get when I rhapsodize over my grandchildren.

Charlie didn't have any grandchildren, but he tended to rhapsodize over a lot of things, so probably, there again, I bear a striking resemblance to him in my mug shots.

This was before the fingerprinting, but after the shoe discussion. I did offer to commit suicide once, but that was mostly a no starter. They looked at me oddly, but no one made an emergency appointment with my therapist like Tammy does when I make that offer to her.

Presumably, Tammy is more fond of me than the Sheriff's Department. But then she knows me better. So far. I am not feeling suicidal today, which is kind of a nice break, but you never know.

I figure I am just one small note from the Sheriff away at any given moment. I'm thinking I may devote a whole chapter in my book, "Pilly's Guide to Creative Suicide," on the downward spiral that occurs in the mind of crazy people when being threatened by yelling deputies.

And, by God, it wasn't an empty threat either. They're nothing if not thorough at that Sheriff's department. And honest. If they promise they're going to have you charged with a crime, you may rest assured that sooner or later, they will get around to doing it.

Even if they have to interrupt your funeral to do it. In fact, I would not be surprised if they dug up my corpse and insist it stand trial. I feel my mother may object to that, but there you are. The law is the law and we all must follow it. All the time. Every day. With no mistakes.

You make a mistake around here and you'll find yourself wandering around next to a wall trying to find a camera in no time at all. Just trust me. I would know.

Being Booked

2009-11-08T16:00:00.000-08:00

So, now that I've learned to cope with that whole jail incident, I was thinking you might like to hear about it. Assuming that, like me, you've never been in trouble and your entire experience is based on remembering Jack Lord say, "Book 'em, Danno."

Because it's nothing like that. So if you were expecting some guy to surf and play wild music and to take a trip to the islands, you're really going to be disappointed.

I thought you had to get arrested to be booked, but apparently I was mistaken. Unless this was being arrested and now we get to do it by the honor system and some guy just assumes you'll bring yourself in if he sends you a nice note.

Anyway, some guy brought me a note saying the District Attorney (on the recommendation of the County Sheriff) sure would admire to charge me with a crime and did I think I could drop in at the jail sometime before November thirtieth for some picture taking and so forth, and would I bring my identification with a picture on it, on account of it sure would disappoint them if they went to all that trouble and then found out I'd sent my sister or something. You know, to keep it interesting and prolong the mystery.

So I called that nice fellow at the jail and asked him could I come right then and what was he hoping for in the way of identification.

I got the feeling he was a little taken aback at my call, but he allowed as how I could come that afternoon as he was expecting to be running back and forth to the courthouse that day so all his subjects could do something at court, and it was going to be busy.

I'm always early and I got there at 2:30 even though he said three o'clock, on account of I didn't like to be late, but they had clearly not been as busy as they had expected because the place was quieter than the grave and I couldn't find anyone to help me for some time.

Eventually some nice little girl appeared behind a class wall with a speaker in it and we had a nice visit while I tried to convince her that I was there at the request of the Sheriff, and not just because I had to get my fingerprints done to be bonded for some highly official security clearance job.

Give me peace. I was tempted to say the FBI sent me, on account of Viroqua is such a big city and there are so very many high security clearance jobs available to 50 year old Grandmas with anxiety disorders, but I was in enough trouble, and Jacob was with me, so I just smiled instead.

She directed me down the hall to a nice chair by the Pepsi machine to wait to be assisted. It was boring but some lady was showing a whole herd of kids where their grandma worked and some guy was mopping the floor, so that killed some time. Not enough, but still, There was nothing to read.

After an hour or so Jacob went back and found that nice little girl they keep imprisoned behind that glass and it turned out that someone had indeed forgotten I was there, so she told them again. I think we did that three times or so. I took a pain pill. It didn't help.

Along about suppertime they sent out this real nice blond lady, who it turned out is a deputy. She was a lot prettier than that fellow who yelled at me, and she had a very pleasant way about her, too. The pain meds were starting to kick in about then so I could walk without lurching on my bad hip, but I was a little happier than you would reasonably expect a person to be who was there for the reason I was.

Despite the fact that I had been careful to bring a lot of ID, because you know how thorough we obsessive/compulsive types are, they made me leave my purse with Jacob and not one person ever looked at my Driver's License, my Social Security card, my three library cards, my online ordination minister credential cards (I'll tell you that story another day, no I do not believe I am really clergy and yes, I did have a good reason for doing that. I made a tidy sum of money selling my amusing article on how I earned a doctorate with my three page doctoral thesis, "Am I My Brother's Keeper." It was enough to pay the phone bill, go Pilly) or my letter from Bishop Fred (who awarded my doctorate) stating what a fine upstanding woman I am, even though he never met me.

And I had to empty my pockets, which turned out to be holding my Rosary beads, and which was as big a surprise to me as it was to anyone. I had my hair done up like I always do, so the nice lady had to poke around in there to make sure I wasn't concealing anything like a file.

Although, frankly, what good a file would do you in the booking room is more than I can tell you. They also patted me down in a very courteous way, probably to ascertain that I was not wired to explode or planning to shoot anybody. Although exactly where they thought I might conceal a gun and how they thought I planned to get access to it is an interesting thought.

Seriously, I have thought of all the places a person might reasonably conceal a weapon--I wouldn't put anything sharp in any of those places, but presumably some people wouldn't be afraid to--and I'm blessed if I can figure out how you'd ever get at the thing without stripping right down to your knickers.

And if I began spontaneously to strip down to my knickers I feel fairly certain someone would have both noticed and been alarmed and about the time I found my way to this weapon the men would have been there to take me to the asylum, so what good would it do to conceal a weapon in the first place? But I digress.

First you answer some nice getting to know you questions. You know, what's your middle name and your social security number and are you married, but also your shoe size, which I find a little odd, but who am I to judge? Maybe the government worries about it's shoes, I don't know. I have my own shoes and I did not particularly admire the kind of shoes they had to wear, so I can promise you their shoes are certainly safe from me.

But I don't mind reassuring them if that's the way the anxiety takes them. I used to worry that the hammer would float into the living room of it's own volition and beat me to death, and I'm still able to function pretty well, so they needn't be sensitive if their fear involves shoes.

I completely understand.

Then they weigh you and measure your height. I weighed about what I expected, but it turns out I am two inches shorter than the Cardiologist thinks I am, so I might have to go see that osteoporosis fellow again and tell him I have official government proof that I have shrunk and doesn't he think maybe he should upgrade my spine from just osteopenia.

I mean, if one must have the government in one's business, then they can bloody well write a letter to the osteoporosis fellow backing me up and therefore doing something useful instead of obsessing over their shoes.

Then they ask you why you're there. I personally feel that if anyone knows why I dropped in to be weighed, measured, fingerprinted and photographed one could reasonable expect it to be the guy asking the questions. And I do think I should have the right to say anything I want to that question.

You know, "damned if I know," or "I came to have tea" or "Piewhacket is in the bedroom" (another story, I'll tell you later. I'm probably not welcome in Venezuela anymore). But I figured adding being a smart ass was probably not going to improve my day so I just went with, "Some guy sent me a note and I left it home." Which seemed to work as well as anything.

Then another nice lady--who, remarkably, also turned out to be a deputy and a very nice person--did my fingerprints, which if you didn't have to be accused of a crime to get done, I would highly recommend to everyone because they do it with water and a computer and it is really cool.

Mine kept wanting to screw up the system, but then, what would you expect from a..you know, what I am...right? Eventually we got enough pictures to satisfy anyone, and after that they unlocked the door and let me go home.

I really liked those ladies, and I was going to send them flowers and a thank you note and tell them how nice it was to be treated so kindly in such an awkward situation, but then, like as not, that fellow that yells would feel bad and left out, and I just can't bring myself to give him flowers.

Sanity

2009-11-07T21:01:00.000-08:00

Some people have an episode of temporary insanity, but as I always have to be different, I get episodes of temporary sanity. Not that I'm complaining.

I would like to thank my friend Jeannie (Buzz's mom) for saving my life last week. I always say, "Be the kindness." I say it because one act of kindness can sometimes be the deciding factor in life or death. You just don't always realize how a single kind or unkind act can impact another life so greatly.

Jeannie was the kindness for me. Her hand on my shoulder gave me strength, her smile and her kind look reminded me that I have friends, that I have support, that I am loved. It was a simple act, and yet it turned the tide for me. When I tell you to be the kindness, that's not just a catch phrase. It's a rule to live by, a mantra, a hope. A way that you can change the world.

Sometimes, between one heartbeat and the next, I go from being an empty tortured soul to being the richest woman in the world. And the only thing that has made the change is my perspective.

I would like to tell you, if you are one of us crazy people, that you can just choose your perspective. But that would be a lie. We can't.

It really is like the tide. It comes in until it's done coming in and you're as dead as you can be without actually dying, and then the tide turns and you get well. For no reason at all, because of nothing you have done or failed to do, not because of a change in circumstance.

It's just that the tide has turned, and now it's going to go out for awhile. But eventually, it's going to turn and come back in again, too. For no reason at all, because of nothing you have done or failed to do, not because a change of circumstance.

And sometimes you just have to accept that.

Today, I am, like Saint Francis, a Joyful Beggar. And I am grateful for that. Today I think this whole sanity/insanity business is a blessing from God. Not just anyone can be crazy, you know. It's not a gift God trusts to just everyone.

I have always said with Poe,

"From childhood's hour
I have not been
As others were,
I Have not seen
As other's saw,
I could not bring
My passions from the common spring."

I am gentler for this illness, I am kinder for it, I am more patient for it, and I have compassion for all who suffer from it. Those gifts are worth the whistle, I would rather have them than sanity.

Jesus shared his poverty with me, and that is a wonderful and awesome thing. But that He should also have pierced my heart just a little with this illness, so I could share in what He and His Mother suffered for love, just a little, not more than I could stand, well. That takes away my breath and makes me hide my face like Emma does when she is shy.

Because I know I didn't do anything to be worthy of that.

But if He shared it with you, too. If you know what it is to feel so much that you are undone by feeling, Remember that you are blessed.

Saint Therese died during a period of depression so great she could not feel God's presence. Mother Teresa did, also. And just think, that Jesus sees something in us that is enough to make him let us share that sometimes, a thing that is granted to Saints....what a wonder that is.

Because we are not good, we are not special, we are not, ourselves Saints. And even so, He shares that with us.

It is a reason to be the kindness, alright. Be joyful.

Pilly and the Television.

2009-11-05T08:01:00.000-08:00

I may have said this before, but I am really tired of the state of the television. There I was over on CNN trying to figure out what the hell went wrong, when I noticed that my news was not coming from what I would term a reliable source.

When I hear news I want it to come from some guy who not only had to go to college but was expected to maintain at least a C average if he ever wanted to sit behind the news desk.

I don't want to know what some idiot thinks about the state of the world. If I wanted that, I could go look in a mirror and talk to myself, it would be every bit as edifying as what Bob the plumber thinks went wrong with the health care bill.

And I don't need to hear from George the doctor, either. George's job would be to ascertain that my heart is still beating and that I don't have that h1n1 flu. I could give a flip what he thinks about politics. I don't go to Bob the plumber to get my car fixed, I don't take my car to Phil the electrician, and I don't want to know how "cool" the teenager next door finds the Presidency--which incidentally, he aspires to, and the way things are going, why not?

And George the doctor should stick to medicine, presumably he did not spend ALL of medical school discussing how gnarly Twitter is.

I would mention ***** the Deputy here, but I believe that might be how I ended up getting fingerprinted last week, and as charming as the ladies at the jail are--and they are very nice, something I do not take for granted anymore--I still feel no desire to go visit them again. It gets in the way of my suicide attempts and frankly, I put a lot of thought into dying and i don't want some person to screw that up for me.

I'm not saying I'm not guilty, that would not be up to me, anyway. I feel confident that given enough time and patience someone, somewhere is sure to reach that conclusion with no input from me, and will no doubt inform me at the appropriate time.

If it should turn out that I AM guilty, I hope jail has a significantly better heating system than this house and that no one expects me to cook. I see no reason for other inmates to be subjected to my cooking, I think they even mention it in the constitution in that cruel and unusual section.

So, anyway, I took boucoup coumadin and thinned my blood all to hell and gone and couldn't have my CT Angiogram so God alone knows what's going on in my chest, but I just decided "screw my chest, what has it ever done for me, anyway?"

And please don't answer that, because at this point it would not matter if my chest had thrown itself on a live grenade to save my life, I still wouldn't like it.

So back to the news, I eventually got to the TV series review and, there again, it was delivered by someone too young to have seen the original series V unless he was wearing a diaper, and in the intervening years certainly did not go to school to learn anything useful.

Had I wanted to know what someone of that age thought of the remake of V as opposed to the original, I could have asked one of my kids, there would be no need for me to go to CNN for that. I would like to know how anyone can be expected to adequately compare 80's V with the 2009 version, if during the original version he was eating strained peas and charming his mother with his toothless grin?

And, also, why should i care what he thinks, even if he got his PhD in television review. A sane person would just go watch the stupid show and afterwards muse to himself, "Was this better or worse than the last time we pretended mean aliens came to earth and pretended to be us...?"

It would not be at all necessary to pay someone for his considered opinion. No one pays me for my considered opinion and I find it a hell of lot more useful than that of some guy over to CNN that has joined the team via the "ordinary people e-mail us what they think" option.

Even if they were any good, and they're not, wouldn't you think that it would occur to one of them that if he went to college someone would PAY him to opine about Star wars? Dude, you're giving it away for free. That's what ruined the prostitution industry, go talk to an old hooker and get yourself back to school. Soon.

In the meantime, quit e-mailing CNN. Also, if you go giving your opinion of current events around here, some guy takes you to the jail and fingerprints you, just so you know. It's fun and all, but it's really hell to explain to the Ladies Aid.

I have given up such nice pastimes as church and kindergarten events for my grandchildren and baby showers for my daughters-in-law, and frankly there's only so much you can do after you have creatively planned all the ways there are to commit suicide. Although I am thinking of writing a book. You know, "Pilly's Guide to Creative Suicide," although God knows why you'd want to buy it. I clearly suck at it.

I will tell you this. Forget the mess, you won't be the one cleaning it up. Forget the dramatic "maybe I'll die and maybe I won't" approach, if you're not sure, don't start. If you are sure use something absolutely certain with no second chances. Guns or hemlock or something like that.

And don't leave a note telling which deputy finally drove you over the edge, in case God intervenes or something and you WOULD fail, that's just going to come back and bite you in the ass and it'll be off to the nice jail ladies to be fingerprinted yet again.

Not that I'm suggesting that you should actually go and attempt to kill yourself or anything, as a general rule I am opposed to suicide and you probably won't enjoy it as much as you expect to and you might go to hell, although the jury's still out on that one. I'm pretty sure it's a sin, and why would you listen to me anyway?

Have I ever given you advice that worked out well? No, I have not. Get a clue.

So, anyway, if I live til January I get to see some grand genuine psychiatrist who's going to play musical chairs with my mood adjusting meds. Never a dull moment, really. First you're depressed and then your maniacally gleeful. Then you're sure you're Napoleon, then you think you might be a mushroom (and not the good kind people used to take to see visions, the fungus kind that makes you vomit. Actually, after they make you sick enough you don't really give a damn about feeling better as long as you can quit vomiting, so there may be a foreseeable reason for that one).

Then you see people's faces melt and run and buildings talk back to you. And if you're lucky you end up taking one that makes everything gray and dull but nothing talks to you, so that's a small plus.

And after a year or so in hell they find the magic drug combination and you're good for ten years or so til it quits working for you and you have to play the magical medicine musical chairs game once again.

Remember the sixties?

One pill makes you smaller
and one pill makes you tall
and the ones that mother give you
don't do anything at all

Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall.

Crazy hurts. Be the kindness.

Haunting

2009-10-25T11:46:00.000-07:00

Well, it's my very favorite time of year, horror movie season, as Halloween draws ever closer. For a horror movie junkie, you just can't beat Halloween. Although I would like to point out to the Scyfy channel that torture week is not the same as scary week, enough with the Saw movies. Also, Timber falls and all the rest of that crap that's about maniacal people who get their jollies torturing others.

I can find that on CNN, when I want to be entertained, I like to suspend reality. Start suspending.

Anyway, I saw a really entertaining movie last night, and I thought I would review it for you. It's called Ghost Town and foolishly, I thought it might be about ghosts. Well, it is in a way, but oy vey, what a twist!

Here's the thing. It's about a group of people fighting the vengeful ghosts of satanists using wicca. Neat trick. Apparently research did not provide the information that Wiccans don't believe in satan, they consider him a Judeo-Christian myth, a corruption of Cerranos (No, I can't spell that, the guy with antlers) or sometimes Pan, a satyr. So it escapes me somewhat why they would want to fight some satanic ghosts.

Also, the story started in 1850 or so in the Old West and Wicca was not actually invented until the 1920's or 30's in Great Britain. And before you bind me with some white ribbon--or, if you are a pantheist, curse me all to hell and gone, be advised that you're not the only one with power and curses come home to roost.

So leave the Crone alone. You have been warned.

Then, after you're done burning that incense, partaking of cakes and wine, sprinkling the sea salt around and enjoying some of that fine candle magic, just burn the parchment with my name on it and head off to the library where you can research Raymond Buckland and get a whole new perspective on your "old" religion.

So, anyway, back to the movie, where some college kids who were returning on a bus from a Hockey game/debate match, get stranded in Hope Springs, which is not only a cute play on words but--in a tip of the hat to Brigadoon--only appears once every thirteen years.

It seems the satanists failed to read the fine print in their contract regarding the exact definition of "immortality" and that's how they exist now. Twelve years in the Hell the Wiccans don't believe in, followed by 24 hours in which they get to kill anyone who wanders in. Not exactly something one would sell his soul for, but then, apparently Buckland himself wasn't averse, so, go figure.

The Nice Girl who lost the debate, thus incurring the hatred of her teammates, is (but, naturally) the daughter of a practicing Wiccan (Can I get a "no more the burning times!"? Which, incidentally is the "Hallelujah" of Wicca). And so she leads them all to the miraculous symbols of pentagram and ankh--so original, these Wiccans, borrowing from other cultures like that--and there is much killing and treasure hunting as we look for the symbols to mark the pentacle.

Interestingly, you can kill a ghost, you just have to use a rifle or other weapon from the time he was alive. And, while ghosts can walk through walls, they are defeated by the bank vault because it is thick. Too thick for a ghost to float through, density apparently being a factor in the afterlife.

I don't know how it ends, after awhile I just couldn't quit obsessing over the errors and so was not able to suspend belief in reality long enough to finish the movie. I do know the coach gets buried alive in an old west casket made of barn boards, but surprisingly solid after all those years. And some people end up hung on the back of the barn door, but no one notices either the weight of the bodies, the dripping blood or the glimpses of the corpses through the gaps in the board while closing the doors.

Singularly unobservant, these folks. Personally, I would have made the kids stay on the bus while the hockey coach hiked to the nearest town to find a phone. Or--even better--I would not have made the mistake of thinking that a bunch of hockey players in college would be physically unable to make the four mile hike back to the last town, I would have instructed them to each grab a debate geek as a buddy and set out.

What I would NOT have done is assume young, healthy college students were in worse shape than the 50 year old coach, unable to stand the cold on a hike, but perfectly able to endure it in an old saloon full of whiskey, and afraid of the dark but able to brave sequential murders of their friends, one by one by one.

Face it, we would have all grabbed a bottle of whiskey, grabbed a geek and been three miles down the road, pleasantly intoxicated before the first ten minutes were up. No one would have died and unprotected drunken sex would be the worst thing that happened.

As a movie, I realize that's not much, but as a reasonable scenario, it listens.

So, anyway, check it out. It's no worse than that Hills have Eyes movie, and you already know how I felt about that. I think I'll just go read some Stephen King. Now there's a guy who can tell a story.

Bored, Bored, Bored

2009-10-22T08:57:00.001-07:00

Couldn't one of you children fail dismally at life and move home with some of my grandchildren? I mean, I hate to wish misfortune upon you, but it's not like you'd be homeless, you know. I WOULD take you in and ruin your children.

Oh, well. Woe is me.

So anyway, now that mother has helped me redecorate with all those beautiful rugs and pillows she made me, there's nothing to do but play the Sims. I LIKE the sims and everything, it's just that I realized that all my families were basically my age, even if they were toddlers.

None of my children ever do anything but study and build skills that will help them later in college. Where was this me when I was young? I still can't leave the house without serious bribery, but I've got sim toddlers who know that eight points in mechanical skills will get them a scholarship to Harvard when they are thirteen and I have them move to college.

I've got goal oriented parents that achieve their lifetime wants ten minutes after they graduate and thus have platinum mood for the rest of their gloriously extended lives.

I think of reasons to kill my old sims because there's nothing for them to do but garden and relax and none of them wants to, and they also are sick of visiting the Orient, Twikii Island and the mountains.

What brain surgeon decided to send elderly sims to the mountains? I've been to the mountains, any sim over 50 can't breathe at that altitude and is going to have a major coronary right after learning that slap dance. Also, none of them would ever make the local gesture and if someone made it at them first, they would certainly make a gesture in return but it would involve only one finger and be universal in translation.

None of my sims want to learn to teleport from a ninja in the orient, either. It's a complete waste of time and I'm sick of people becoming invisible at the zen garden while meditating. Elderly people are feeling invisible enough, just trust me, there is no need at all to have them go meditate at the zen garden.

And as for that annoying old fellow that wants to tell you the legend of the dragon scroll, I can tell you it really isn't worth making him tea and listening to his jokes.

And by the way, Bigfoot lives in the mountains, do not help him rake his leaves and then invite him home. No one in your actual neighborhood is going to understand a large smelly man covered in fur who sleeps with his teddy. Leave him in the wood s where he belongs. I tried to get some spinster schoolteacher to marry him, as I thought they might have interesting children, but apparently that would be bestiality and it would offend the family rating of the game.

Your sims can woohoo all to hell and gone, in the bed, the hottub or the closet, but they cannot enter into holy matrimony with bigfoot. Just so you know.

There's a ghost in the pirate ship on Twikii Island, but if you let them learn to sing the sea chanty, forever afterward they will break spontaneously into "Yo ho ho, a zider bee for me" even when entertaining the boss in an attempt to gain a promotion. People who have never been to Twikii Island do not seem to understand the significance of "Yo ho ho, a zider bee for me", so it is better not to ever learn it. Once learned, they cannot control themselves at all and will sing it anywhere, under any circumstances, even upon viewing the tombstone of their beloved relative you just drowned in the swimming pool because you couldn't stand it anymore.

Also, I once decided to make serial killer sim, and all through college she murdered everyone who came to visit and saved the tombstones in her inventory for when she moved home. This leads to very strange desires in your sim, things like witchcraft, vampirism and the desire to sleep in coffins. Who says a sim can't learn?

I got a few men pregnant with that alien abduction option, and they like their green babies, but their wives a re a little bitchy about it and won't hug them unless forced, so be advised that mom is going to need to build a relationship with bug eyes from the get go. Otherwise the aliens end up with a complex and want to kill all their visitors at college. I think we already know where that leads.

Sometimes your sim is gay. Just learn to deal. It has been my experience that a male sim who loves music, dance and cooking and gets crushes on his male roommate should not be forced to be straight. It just makes him cry a lot and die young, so just let him go his own way. If it bothers you, there are many other sims to play, just send him to the island and don't visit him.

Marrying a robot is possible but unnatural and they always want children and tend to run amok when discovering they can only adopt. I haven't had any werewolves yet, but your plant sims have some interesting babies. All these creatures--and vampires--can reproduce, but no one can sleep with bigfoot. Go figure.

So anyway, I guess I'll go see if Francis Worthington the second has produced an heir, yet. Unless some of my kids fall on hard times and bring the children to live with me.

Peace

2009-10-21T10:22:00.001-07:00

It occurred to me the other day--because I have a lot of time to think now that the kids got their own house--that where I went wrong in my early life was in not being to identify the exact category I occupied.

Because I realize now I was a nerd not a cool person and trying to achieve cool personness really screwed up my basic propensity to just la la through life happily, assuming it a would all work out if we just kept going.

The internet would have been a profound help, but we didn't have it then. Of course, it would have also almost certainly gotten me killed, but still. I do remember me in those days to a certain degree.

If I hadn't died from meeting a serial killer in the vampire chatroom I would have ended up in trouble with some branch of extreme witchiness, joined a serious religious cult that ended in things like gunfire, or possibly just trusted enough completely wrong and crazy people to ensure I would have ended my days in the asylum, completely barking mad.

Ah, youth. You couldn't pay me enough to make me do it again.

Anyway, back to the story. I should have realized I was a nerd. It's why I had never heard of Lynrd Skynard but could tell you how Mozart played piano at age three and why I love his music and his life story. No one but me cared, but still.

I cared about things like the six wives of Henry the Eighth, what happened to England after the whole Tudor thing, what the French revolution said about social welfare in our own age and how you (traditionally speaking, anyway)got that little divot above your upper lip.

I may have stopped encouraging my inner nerd (who I should have been embracing) because there was also that whole Aspereger's thing and I had a tendency not to notice the eyes glazing over until some kid did something rude and obnoxious to make me shut up.

And I can entirely see why, when one is fifteen or so, one is not too adept at nice ways to deal with complete sensory overload. It's unfortunate, but there you are, that's life and you can't change it. I mean, I could have dealt with it nicely, but then I think we can agree I was the nerd, and my experience was not average.

So anyway, I don't remember why I started this, but it had something to do with too much time to think, and WAY to much time to study and reflect since my horrible second son and his horrible, cruel wife had the unmitigated gall to get their own place and actually think they had the moral high ground when they wanted my grandchildren to live with them!

It's completely absurd.

So there's nothing to do but clean the house and I already did that. I also reorganized the cupboards, put all the dishes in the sideboard according to color and function, thus making sure Chad cannot even find the silverware without a map, did the fall cleaning, waxed all the floors, sanitized the bathroom and even considered whether I could shingle a roof if I were bored enough and wore a blindfold so I didn't have to know I was more than twelve inches above the ground.

I've decided that no, I probably couldn't. I have not entirely dismissed the idea, however. Jean's rabbit got loose and I could go try and catch him, but he's not nearly as much fun as Aiden and anyway, I think he went to live in Morrie's yard (that's my neighbor) and why shouldn't he get to have Mr. Bun for a companion and flower bed critic?

Mr' Bun just eats the things he figures you shouldn't have planted anyway and occasionally deigns to nibble on a weed. Rarely.

So, anyway, now I'm going to take my nerdy self over to Lacey's so i can take her and the girl's to the clinic, again. Oh, happy day, more blood drawing and analyzing of bodily fluids.

I wish I were a forensic pathologist, but only if I could do it here and never have to actually speak to anyone but the dead. The rest of you could just read my report, it would work out quite nicely. I like to take apart the dead, I just don't like to talk to the living. The dead are quiet and perfectly acceptable as subjects.

But the chances are, no one is going to let me do that and since that whole incident with the sheriff's deputy and the gun and the insane people and that whole Xanax thing, I probably am not going to get to go play with the dead anytime soon.

More's the pity.

But that's another story and one I can't tell you until after it's been sorted out. But I still say anyone would have lied about the damned gun. It's not like the actual presence of a firearm was going to somehow improve the whole situation, it was perfectly reasonable to lock the thing up.

Okay, lying might not have been strictly speaking the best policy, but telling the truth was just going to lead to the ridiculous complications that have now occurred and all because some Deputy couldn't just trust my judgement and shut up.

Well, it was interesting, anyway. Never a dull moment, really. I think I'll go wax the floor again.

Me and Emma have a day

2009-10-15T10:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know the grammar sucks in the title. Thank you for pointing it out, again. Here's a little secret--I did that on purpose and if you say the phrase, "on accident" again, I will kill you.

BY accident. Unless it's your blog, of course, in that case say anything you like however you choose.

So, anyway, Emma.

Yesterday Ada had a well baby check at the clinic. I was pretty sure it was going to be a good day when Emma arrived, on account of her greeting was, "I'n going to the doctor's house!" All the way to the clinic we discussed the doctor and his "house" and worried he might not be home.

I assured her that the reason the doctor made us call first was to ensure he would be home when we got there.

To Emma, everyone who works at the clinic, including the cleaning lady, is a doctor. And so we have Dr. Kay the receptionist, Dr. Sue the nurse and Dr. Tammy, the physician's assistant. We usually don't actually see Dr. Bill the physician, so I don't think he's part of her cast of friends at the clinic.

Although one day as she sat behind the desk in the reception area playing with the pens and the computer mouse, he did ask her if she was the new receptionist and she perkily assured him she was. For all I know she might be able to do the job, she spells cat okay.

So, anyway, the doctor. We got to the clinic and the exam room and they tried to weigh Ada. Emma helped a lot. She gave everyone in the building a pair of latex gloves to wear, decorated Ada's diaper with a puppy sticker and offered to sit on the scale and hold Ada for the proceedings.

We declined that, with thanks, and she went on to measure Ada's head circumference with four or five of those adjustable headdresses they use, announcing to Sue several times that Ada was three, four or ten and advising she write that down.

We gave her a tape measure to play with after that so we could get Ada's length and she measured me a lot. I am four and ten, in case you wondered. Emma herself is three.

I took her with me to have an INR drawn so Lacey could have Ada's appointment in peace, and she was deeply interested in the whole finger poking thing, agreed with "dottor" Sue that getting poked looked fun and she likes to get poked, helped milk a drop of blood from my fingertip, read the INR machine results (guess what? My INR was three, four and ten) and then went with "dottor" Sue to get me a bandaid.

Usually I get one of those little round bandaids for my pinprick, but on this occasion I got a lovely silver holographic bandaid, chosen and applied by a three year old who told me as I was three, four or ten I would soon be, "All better."

I'm thinking of making Em my personal physician.

Meanwhile she was arranging the lab to her personal satisfaction, so we went and captured her and went back to Ada's room. Tammy was examining Ada's ears, afterward, Emma examined mine. My ears were three, four and ten, respectively. No surprises there.

Tammy found her a magnifying lens with a light and we spent twenty minutes blinding grandma by examining my eyes, which had no number value but were, apparently, Hilarious, if we are to judge by the reaction of doctor Em.

Not content with looking at my throat as I said "Ah" I also had to say the sounds for E I O U and Y. Emma is nothing if not thorough. She did want me to remove my teeth, but I declined, as that is a trick we save for at home when grandma is babysitting.

Then Emma stole the stethoscope and listened to everyone's heart, lungs, tummy and brain. Don't ask me what she heard on that last test, I'm pretty sure I don't even want to know.

You're probably wondering why I don't control her better at the doctor's aren't you? This IS me controlling her well, it is a significant improvement over how it used to be when no one could control Emma. Fortunately, it's a little clinic and they know and like her very much and are familiar with the size of her IQ. Which she is growing into--slowly. I may die before we get there. I'm pretty sure she's smarter than me.

So, anyway, then we went to the waiting area so Ada could get some shots. Em would have liked to help with that, too, but Emma and a live virus are not things you should ever combine.

The waiting area is tricky because it's less interesting. It DOES have that dandy water cooler with the disposable cups and spigots at the exact height a three year old needs to be perfectly comfortable getting water. I like to limit water to a cup or two, Emma likes to drink ten or eleven gallons and tends to think everyone waiting to see the doctor should have a glass or two, hand delivered by her.

I try to distract her from the water cooler without causing atomic meltdown that will seriously disturb the sick people. So far, so good. We went to the ladies room and Em returned without her pants but she was (thankfully) wearing her underwear on her butt at the time. It took ten minutes to get her to put her jeans back on. We played with some blocks.

Emma decided to play with a toy school bus, which she hauled down near the examining rooms and weighed. It was three, four and ten. Maybe those are the lottery numbers I should play, they seem deeply significant to Em for some reason. It took awhile to get her back to the waiting area.

Lacey brought me Ada to keep so she could see the doctor herself, and kindly brought me Ada's clothes, socks and shoes so I could dress her while running herd on Emma,because obviously she thought I was bored and lonely out there and really needed something to keep me distracted from everything. Like sanity, for instance.

Ada was lodging a protest about vaccinating babies at the time and did not particularly want to get dressed, Emma had already read all the children's books and refused to read one to Ada. Which was probably okay because all the books said the same thing anyway. Whatever the picture on the page was and the words three, four or ten.

At this point, for some reason, Emma decided to be a cow and refused to communicate with any words other than "Moo" in varying tones of voice with very diverse emotional coloring. Now and then she would throw in a human word but only if I was being particularly dense. You, know, like I was as she climbed into the windowsill, removed the screens, attempted to swing from the shade cords and mooed something about the mailman that was not flattering to him at all.

The clinic is directly opposite the post office.

She also insisted that I sit in a baby chair at the table, while holding Ada. My butt is somewhat bigger than the baby chair and besides, new arrivals at the waiting room clearly did not see why I would choose to sit at the baby table with a screaming infant while a maniacal toddler poured water on the floor and attempted to lick it up with her tongue.

Then Emma decided to go sleep in her barn, which interestingly enough seemed to be located somewhere under the chairs. At least it wasn't in the records office and don't think I haven't been in there a few times because, buddy, you don't know the half of it.

And at least she wasn't discussing symptoms with everyone in the room so she could find out why they had come to play with the doctor that day, although at one point she did deign to announce that the doctor was home that day, and therefore perfectly willing to play with them.

Which I am sure relieved their minds considerably. Ada, meanwhile was still not completely convinced vaccinations were either necessary or desirable and was considering making a powerful statement on the subject if there were not some walking and singing developing soon.

But Lacey came out just then and rescued me. I don't know what Emma did when she got home, but I had a nice, long nap. It was three, four or ten hours long, I'm not entirely sure.

Watching Emma

2009-10-09T20:32:00.000-07:00

It seemed fairly simple, Lacey and Nick needed to go shopping, and I would visit their house and watch Emma, Ada was already asleep.

What could be simpler, more charming, than that?

Nothing really. If Ada had been asleep. But she wasn't. She also wasn't tired, wasn't hungry, wasn't interested in her pacifier and did not particularly enjoy anything that did not involve Grandma holding, walking and singing to her.

Despite many assurances that she liked her new walker so much she almost demanded to spend all her time in it, she wouldn't get within four feet of it for me, for any reason at all. She felt the same way about the bouncer, the crib, the high chair and the floor.

So I walked Ada and sang a lot. But then came Emma.

Emma rolled her tractor to the sink, stood on it, found a sharp knife and began slicing tomatoes. I put Ada down , ran to take the knife away, moved Emma from the sink and threw the tractor into the hallway outside the apartment door. Ada screamed.

I went and got Ada, turned around, and discovered Emma had left the apartment to go after her tractor and was headed down the stairs to the park.

I put Ada down (Ada screamed), captured Emma, carried her and the tractor upstairs, locked the tractor in the closet and went to get Ada.

While I was getting Ada, Emma pushed her slide over to the sink, climbed into it and poured all the cans of formula down the drain.

I put Ada down (Ada screamed) captured Emma, locked the slide in Em's bedroom, and went back to get Ada (who was screaming).

I walked Ada and as I got her to stop screaming for a minute Emma shattered the silence by gleefully shouting, "Gramma! I swingin!" Which she was, indeed, doing from the hand rest of the treadmill which her mother had left folded against the wall.

I put Ada down (she screamed) I removed Emma from the treadmill, made her put her underwear back on her butt where they belonged instead of on her head where she was currently wearing them, settled her with a nice dvd and went to get Ada, who was still screaming but could be bribed with teething biscuits to be quiet as long as there was much walking and singing.

Coming back into the living room I found Emma had put a black garbage bag over her head which she wore while running through the house yelling, "Gramma! I a ghost!"

I put Ada down--she screamed--removed the garbage bag and all of it's friends from Emma and the apartment, settled Emma with a nice book and went to get Ada. Once again, singing and walking.

Meanwhile Emma opened the dishwasher and removed all the sharp cutlery she could find and prepared to make sushi on her tea tray. Put Ada down, screaming, removed cutlery, locked the dishwasher, got Emma interested in her dollhouse and commenced walking and singing to Ada,

Emma loaded her tea tray with glass apothecary jars, tripped over the cat, brained the dog with the tea tray and dropped a jar on her foot. I cried.

Then Lacey came home. Ada was still screaming, I was crying, the dog was unconscious, the cat had disappeared under the furniture somewhere, Emma was screaming "I need my Mommy" and boy was I in agreement with that, and now the neighbors think a lot of lullabies include the phrase, "Oh my God, Emma what are you...!!!!!!!"

Just another Towerville kind of day here in Viola. I don't just make this stuff up, you know. And that's why I went completely insane. And I do not want to be cured, either.

Hillbillies-R-Us

2009-10-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

There is really nothing funny about the death of a friend, and yet, when that friend is remembered I think he would have enjoyed this last story about him very much.

His widow and his daughter chose to have the service at one of his favorite places on their land, a place where every spring he hosted a music festival that he called "Rock the Valley." And since his body had been cremated it was possible to do that, have a lovely service in a beautiful and familiar place, and in the end, put his cremains in one of the places he was happiest.

But then we come to the Pilly part of the story. I never can remember to tell everything, you know. You know how lawyers have that thing called 'assuming facts not in evidence'? Well, I'm no lawyer, but my brain does have a habit of assuming you've heard the details somewhere else and will, therefore, fill in the blank spots in my conversation.

So there I was at the emergency room (never mind that part because it doesn't have anything to do with the story) and I was passing the time with my sister-in-law's best friend, Jerry, and the subject of this great funeral happened to come up.

On account of if you're at the emergency room at night for any reason at all your mind just naturally seems to run to funerals, I don't know why. It's a rule. I don't just make this stuff up and I already said never mind the emergency room, so just forget the damned emergency room, okay?

So, anyway, we were talking about how they had this beautiful box made of barn boards for the remains and how it took place out in this beautiful field and how the band played music and then after awhile the widow and daughter went off for a private moment, and it was so hushed and lovely.

And as I'm telling this story the woman seems to get more and more distressed, which seemed weird to me as she had never met the man. And she kept looking so horrified that I began to think maybe she was just one of those people who can't stand to think about death or maybe has a great phobia about funerals, but as this was such a nice funeral I couldn't see what part of the story could be bothering her.

So eventually we all went home and nobody died and the whole emergency room thing worked out. But the next day I talked to my sister-in-law and it turned out that I had forgotten to say the part about how our friend was cremated.

So the mental image I was so descriptively giving was one where we built a box of barn boards, tossed in the corpse, drug it out to his favorite field and then at some point the widow and the daughter heaved it onto their shoulders and went into the woods, returning without it and God alone knew what they were doing in there.

And this would almost certainly make Steve laugh and wish he had planned it just like that, too.

The world will be a colder and quieter place without you, my friend, and I would give up writing altogether if I could trade the gift to have you back with us for awhile longer. I am grateful for what you did and were for my son, you were one of the people that carried the music to Jake because Scott was gone and couldn't, it breaks my heart that you are gone, now, too and one more link in the chain has broken.

But as long as there is kindness and love and laughter, as long as there is music, you will not be forgotten.

The drummer may be silenced, but the beat goes on.

In loving memory of our friend, Steve Holcombe.

Pilly and the Coumadin

2009-09-22T09:53:00.000-07:00

I suppose if you've never taken it you might not be familiar with Coumadin, it's that rat poison they give you after heart surgery to thin your blood.

Well, that's what they call it, but of course your blood is really no thicker or thinner than it ever was, your clotting time is either short or long, with coumadin it's long, and so you don't form clots around your grand, artificial heart valve. Welcome to the world of the cyborgs.

Anyway, as I may have mentioned, I have some TIAs now and then and my short term memory is toast since that time they froze my brain and I was dead for fifteen minutes.

I just bet Jesus didn't have to go through all this after HIS resurrection, but then he was God, so that might account for it.

Anyway, I forget things, like that my latest coumadin prescription was for three milligram tablets not two, and I was supposed to take one three and half a one to make 3.5, but I blithely forgot all that by the time I got home and just remembered take one and a half tablets.

So I did. Thus taking four and a half milligrams of coumadin a day.

When I dropped the pliers on my toe and it wouldn't quit bleeding for three days, you might think that would have given me a clue, but no. I can't remember exactly what I thought the explanation for that was, but I am sure it had nothing to do with blood thinner.

So, not knowing I was ready to bleed to death from a shaving nick, I also had a fit of the "I should lose weight and get in shape" bug. So I got a little enthusiastic with the exercise and did something really wretched to my neck.

It's taken a long time to get here to the point, but that is the reason I'm taking the muscle relaxer and so am just a little relaxed. Like if I drank and had decided to have a fifth of Jack, that kind of relaxed.

I remember now why I don't drink. Emma has one of those little princess beauty kits. You know the ones, some pink paste for rouge, some colored wax for lipstick, some nail polish that's guaranteed to wash off in the tub (it doesn't) a lot of blue eyeshadow and some purple glitter fairy dust.

So, I let her give me a makeover right before I went to the quickstop for tootsie rolls, and it was only after I got home that I remembered to look in the mirror. At which point it became apparent why all those people were smiling at me.

Up to then, I just thought they were really friendly and hospitable folks. But now I suspect it's because I had purple fairy dust all over me, my blue eyeshadow reached above my brow line and while one hand and foot had some creatively polished pink nails, the other hand and foot did not.

I bet they don't wonder anymore why I quit wearing makeup.

I'm thinking I may let Emma do all my makeup from now on. I bet that fellow from the beer tent who is opposed to weeds would be a lot less vocal if he had to express his opinion to a woman who glittered purple from head to toe.

And no, I'm not going to weed the flower bed. Anyone who is offended by it is welcome to come right over and weed to their heart's content. I like it the way it is. And I have way more interesting things to do than weed flowerbeds. Also, since I am opposed to vitamin K injections, I am forbidden to go near anything sharp until I see Tammy again on Wednesday morning.

Tammy is my PA.

I can't do the dishes, cut vegetables, open cans or do anything else that might involve puncturing my skin anywhere. Which, had I know about it, would have caused me to overdo the coumadin a long time ago, because a muscle relaxer and a nice book is a great way to spend a Tuesday, let me tell you.

Oh, and I bruised a lot, really rather alarmingly. I can't decide whether to tell the neighbors Jimmy beats me or to say Jean pushed me down the stairs.

I think I'll go with the Jean story, since she's moving out Friday and taking my grandchildren with her. Before you know it Aiden and I will be making forts, singing songs about the school bus and having popcorn for breakfast to our heart's content.

Every cloud has a silver lining, you just have to look for it.

My house (is a very, very, very fine house--not).

2009-09-21T08:28:00.001-07:00

So, I was posting pictures of Ashley and Matthew on her birthday, over there on facebook, and I got to noticing my house as background, and I noticed a few things.

It's not that I had any grand illusions that I was living at the palace, exactly, but I was a little shocked to see how closely Grandma Helgeson and I had managed to live in the same house. Well, hers was cleaner, and it had fewer animals and children, and I'm pretty sure she made her bed everyday and I only make mine if I don't forget I have a bedroom the minute I leave the room. But still, there are a lot of similarities.

You know, like the walls are lumpy and the floor is uneven and I think we may have a really serious problem with the roof. Grandma would have learned to shingle and fixed the roof herself, but I got half my DNA from Grandma Clark and we just don't give a damn.

My Grandma Clark side is good for singing and raising children I didn't give birth to, and my Grandma Helgeson side is industrious and thrifty, but neither of my sides can make me care enough to go shingle a roof.

Anyway, back to the pictures and my bed in the background.

I forget sometimes that I moved downstairs and made the front parlor into my bedroom when it became obvious that coming down the stairs in the dark, locating the only bathroom, which the Victorians hid behind the staircase (I don't know why) and then getting back to my bed was likely to result in my death after I fell down the stairs for the tenth time. And so now it's a lot more "public" than it used to be.

You might think that would incline one to keep it in perfect order, but anyone who thinks that has clearly never met my family. Aiden likes to "help" me make the bed. He has some highly original ideas of how a bed should look. I don't fix it because I don't want to hurt his feelings and discourage him from doing chores on his own.

That and I'm as lazy as sin, but still. It's a good policy and it makes me sound so...well, either insane or saintly, I don't really care which one.

Also, until I saw it in pictures I had forgotten what a really creative mix of furniture I acquired so that kids, dogs, husbands and teenage boys fixing cars could sit on it without anyone giving them the stink eye in case they got something dirty.

Screw dirty, I always say. If I want to entertain someone who's too good to see the furniture I'll just keep them on the porch. The Pastor comes in here and even has tea on occasion so if it's good enough for him I think the rest of you can just learn to deal.

Not counting Thanksgiving I choose to entertain by picnic. No one expects anything from you and everybody gets to have a good time, most importantly me, since I don't have to worry about the decorations as God already did such a fine job what with the grass and the trees and the sky and so forth.

The weeds in the flower bed are my own contribution, but weeds are just flowers with a bad reputation and since I have a deep and abiding fondness for strays of all kinds, it stands to reason I would encourage weeds.

In fact this year for Horse and Colt Show, which is our annual festival here in hillbilly hell, I have commissioned a lovely hand painted wooden sign from those hippies up the street that says, "Weeds", just so there will be no doubt that I am aware they are there.

Some helpful fellow invariably shows up an hour after the beer tent opens and asks me if I know there is nothing but weeds in that flower bed. Usually I tell him yes, thank you, I planned the garden after all and worked on it very hard and me and the field mice are right fond of purple thistles, but this year the sign will hopefully forestall him so we can avoid the ensuing discussion of his family tree. And the monkeys therein.

Also, I have an ongoing campaign to teach the village about freedom and what it means to be an American and how everybody gets to be free not just you, so really, it is my civic duty to continue to maintain the weed garden.

I feel a certain responsibility. If you lived here, you would, too, because I am pretty sure the village president did his internship with the KGB. He was my high school English teacher and just trust me, there is something about a failed Seminarian that just causes you to question his principles.

Since we have a nearly forty year history of mutual contempt I feel it is incumbent upon me to maintain certain standards, one of them being that whenever life around here tends to lean toward oppression I have to stand up for us little people.

Mother Teresa said so. Well, not the part about me hating the village, but definitely the standing up for the poor thing. And I try to always listen to Mother Teresa. And Saint Francis. And Jesus when he can get a word in, but I talk a lot.

I shouldn't be so hard on the village, they're not really as bad as I make them out to be. Usually. Occasionally they reach new heights of unreasonable, but they are very amenable to listening to reason and lawyers and stuff like that, so you can't fault them too much.

Anyway, I had a swell time at Ashley's birthday and while the cake was definitely lopsided it was also very sweet, and now that I think of it, that pretty much describes my life as a whole.

And you can't say fairer than that.

Being Old

2009-09-16T07:49:00.000-07:00

And believe me, I am. Old, I mean.

It turns out I really shouldn't sling a baby under my arm and run after two toddlers, because that shoulder they destroyed during my heart surgery takes exception to being used like that and now I look like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

It's not that I'm vain, what with that grand red hair I acquired and the fact that I am inclined to bundle my hair up into an untidy bun and just get on with the day, and the fact that I dress a lot like Ma on Little House on the Prairie (but without a discernible waist) no one could accuse me of being vain.

The hair is really Jimmy's fault. He wasn't there when I bought the hair color, on account of he was in New York, and it turns out that Matthew doesn't go crazy being in the hair color aisle, and since he was the one who was with me at the time, you might think I couldn't blame Jimmy but you would be wrong.

And the boys, too, it's also their fault.

Years of shopping with the menfolk has taught me a few things. A man who has hurt his back and therefore must hurry through grocery shopping so fast that he could qualify for the three minute mile can still, ten minutes later, meander through Cabela's looking at animal mounts and fishing equipment long enough to grow a beard.

That doesn't hurt his back, it's just grocery shopping that hurts his back. You might ask why I didn't send him to Cabela's and go grocery shopping alone. That's what any woman would do. But this is men, and they "never get to help pick out the food" and therefore cannot exist on marshmallow cookies and coffee for the next two weeks.

There's a good reason not to let Jimmy shop for groceries. We have always had a grocery budget. When properly planned, a person can feed five children and two adults on a modest amount of money, provided one plans meals, snacks and treats in advance and only buys what is on one's carefully crafted list.

Jimmy, on the other hand, has the breadwinner approach to grocery shopping, as in, "I earned the money so why can't I spend it?" I'll tell you why. Because if we let you run the budget we would be homeless and starving, that's why. And that would be on account of the man has not bought so much as a loaf of bread since 1972 and refuses to accept that the price has risen a little since he last went shopping.

So, at the grocery store as I attempt to concentrate on my list and the job at hand, I have a 52 year old toddler with me who can't understand why we can't just buy cookies and donuts, and also why seven gallons of whole milk is both unnecessary and a really bad idea. He also has trouble with the concept that not everyone wants to live on Polish sausage and Port Wine Cheese.

And, incidentally, he's not a good person to take to Wal-mart either. There again I use a budget plan. I know how much shampoo, conditioner, dog food, laundry soap, cat litter and so forth that it takes to get through two weeks and that's what I want to buy.

I use a calculator so I am not tempted to make impulse purchases that screw up my budget. Mr. fixit won't use a calculator because, well, I don't know why but he won't. He also won't stick to the list and he tends to go into long soliloquies on the price of bath soap at the drop of a hat.

The rest of us all know what soap costs, we almost never feel the need to expound upon it at length in the soap aisle at Wal-mart. And he hates the hair color aisle. Not because of the money in that case, I'm not sure what goes wrong with him in the hair color aisle, I only know if it takes longer than ten seconds to find the color you want he breaks out in hives and goes into a seizure.

So that's why I hurried over the hair color and got this lovely hair I have now, and blessed if I will waste another ten dollars to change it before my next scheduled shopping trip. I could, but it would cut into my book budget and frankly, I might die without more books. If I don't like the hair I'll just avoid mirrors for two weeks.

Anyway, as it happens Matthew doesn't have seizures over hair color and he doesn't even mind helping you pick a shade. He's a swell guy, that Matthew, I'm glad Ashley is marrying him.

So, anyway, Jimmy and shopping. He thinks of things he needs, like a saw blade for a saw he hasn't picked up since 1995, because he's sure he's going to build me an oak fireplace for Christmas, even though everybody but him knows that his last seven gajillion projects are still unfinished and gathering dust in the garage.

But it would hurt his feelings to be made to face that, so you buy him the saw blade which he takes home and promptly loses forever while looking for his saw. And then he gets tired of looking and goes to have coffee with Ida, and you're good until the next time he goes to Wal-mart and thinks of some other thing he needs for a really good idea he had.

He has made me some lovely things, but he forgets that he made them when his ankle was broken and he had unlimited time to mess around with them.

So, anyway I hurried over the haircolor, ended up with Bozo the Clown's hair, and am now extending the lives of others by giving them a good laugh. Laughter is very healing, you know. And Saint Francis said, well, something about humility and not taking one's self too seriously.

So, I never do. Not because I'm good like Francis, just because I am so extremely lazy and it would be too much work to care about that.

So, refuse to take life seriously. Keep life in it's place. Third from the left, that's life's place.

Keeping Emma

2009-09-15T12:44:00.000-07:00

I spent most of today sitting with Emma and Ada, which was a treat but now I'm exhausted.

Did you ever sing until you lost your voice? Emma now knows every old song Ireland and Scotland ever produced and if you want to hear a rousing chorus of "The risin" of the Moon", she's your girl. Remind me to never take her to Belfast.

I imagine Grandfather MacDaniel would roll over in his grave, as I am pretty sure he was an Orangeman through and through, but me and Em are not. IRA forever.

Nothing like teaching revolutionary politics to toddlers. Tomorrow we may have to fight off the wicked English again. Actually I like the English very much, not counting Mr. Payne, my neighbor who is one. A royal Payne. He and Jacob the Irishman once spent a very interesting afternoon. Me and the Irish won.

I ususally do win because I insist upon it and after awhile I wear the other guy out.

So, anyway, Ada was content to bounce in her jumperoo as long as it was outdoors, which would have been delightful were it not for the fact that when Aiden got home from school he and Emma decided they wanted to be anywhere but the front yard.

I am the only old woman I know who can still sling a baby under my arm and chase down two little people headed for the river. Of, course, right after that Jean had to watch everyone on account of I was having a stroke, but still, it's good to know there's life in the old girl, yet. Me, I mean, Jean's a young girl.

We had chocolate pudding for lunch. Jean thought we should have macaroni and cheese, but I can get the pudding out faster than she can cook something healthy. Pudding's healthy, it has eggs and milk. It's just more fun to eat than eggs and milk alone. So we had pudding.

Then we wrote cat four hundred times because that's Emma's best word and she'll only consent to sound out other three letter words like mat and sat and bat if we stick cat in there after every third word. It was the first word she figured out and she's right fond of it, let me tell you.

Then I took the dry erase board and drew barns (Emma insists they are the cow's house and that's all they are) until Ada drooled so much she washed the board and we had to quit.

So now I'm exhausted and that's why this is a short blog entry but after my nap, who knows what might come to me?

In the meantime, I strongly encourage you to go wading, it's a wading kind of day.

Absolutely Nothing

2009-09-14T09:45:00.000-07:00

What to write about, as I am not feeling particularly funny, I am not outraged about anything and I am running low on Granny's homespun wisdom....Oh, yes, that incident when I went to pick up Matthew from his job at the resteraunt.

I have taken Matthew to work and collected him from work every time he has been there--he manages a little restaurant and one of his waitresses is the owner's daughter, incidentally--it's true that I was driving a different car, but I am rather memorable since I don't look like anyone else in the world. I dress in a particularly distinctive and peculiar fashion (thank you, Asperger's) and also there is that recent hair coloring experience that went sadly awry and now, once again, my hair is exactly the color of Bozo the Clown's fright wig.

I believe she was aware we had met.

It's also true that I was accompanied by my daughter-in-law, and it seems she and the waitress were not what one could call friends in high school, but that was a long time ago and, barring the possibility of severe mental illness, most of us forget high school ten minutes after leaving it.

Not this girl, but still.

So, as it happened, the waitress sailed out of the restaurant, noticed my car and announced in a very cavalier fashion that they were not open.

To which I replied, with a smile, "That's okay, honey, I'm here to collect Matthew." I said that on account of I wasn't raised by monkeys and MY Mama taught me some manners. But clearly we aren't all so blessed.

What I would liked to have said was, "How sad for you. We, on the other hand, ARE open and always willing to solicit new business. We're the Clark and Clark Corporation for the Correction of Little Snotty Girls with No Manners, would you like to take advantage of our daily special?"

The daily special being the part where I get out of the car and kick your skinny little ass from here to Christmas, and don't think I can't do it, Missy.

I taught my children manners. We're poor, but not ignorant. Didn't you teach your child manners? Assuming someone reading this answers no, why not?

In a civilized society, nice people recognize each other by the exercise of manners. Money will never substitute for that, because money can be gained or lost at any time, but civility is forever. I know I sometimes suspend civility to be funny, but I do that in print, it's part of my job, it isn't who I am.

I would never suspend civility in real life unless I was entertaining someone, and they understood it was part of the act.

I would like to make the study of manners obligatory for everyone. True civility is a system where "me" is never first. I stand up when you enter a room to indicate that I will give you my seat if you want it. I do that because I was taught to put your comfort ahead of mine.

No matter who you are, I will make you feel welcome in my presence, no matter where we are, because it's more important to me to make you feel comfortable than it is for me to feel better than you. Or to impress anyone who's watching, up to and including the President.

It is always better to be perceived as gracious than it is to be perceived as important.

I am not, nor will I ever be important. I hope I will always be gracious, patient, tolerant and kind.

I am not saying I succeed at that always, but it is what I aspire to. When did we, as a society, stop aspiring to those things?

A rich snotty bitch is still a snotty bitch and a poor gentleman is still a gentleman.

Remember that. And be the kindness.

Oh, Hell

2009-09-13T06:56:00.000-07:00

Because I'm pretty sure I'm headed there.

If you knew you could manipulate someone, and you saw them headed for a cliff they were going to run off of, and you knew they would not listen to reason but would defy you on general principles if you told the truth, but you could stop them by pretending to share a belief of theirs and convincing them the cliff was dangerous because--something you made up on the spur of the moment that fit that belief--and they followed you like a lamb away from the cliff, would you say God would be for or against that?

I already know the answer, I'm just trying to convince myself that sometimes the end justifies the means. But I'm pretty sure it doesn't.

And speaking of hell.....the rear of my property abuts an old building with a driveway access to my backyard. For as long as I remember, using that access didn't hurt anyone, it didn't block anything the owner might like to do with his abandoned lawn ornament shop and, in a small community, it was generally regarded a courtesy to allow people to use the ten feet of gravel between the street and my yard as a point of access.

But the new owner appears to be unaware of the courtesy of small towns and asked that no one use it. And that was okay, because directly to the right of that gravel is the property of my friend, Cowboy, who spends much of his year in Alaska.

I asked for and obtained his permission to use his driveway as access, and assumed the problem was resolved.

Silly me.

It seems our abandoned lawn ornament factory owner just can't rest if I have access to my backyard. The children and I often walk that way to and from my daughter's house and the playground, it's shorter, there are no fences, no signs and no one has ever spoken to me and indicated I shouldn't walk that ten feet of gravel as a shortcut to the street behind my house.

And now we come to my advice of the day for the Village of Viola and for any of the rest of you who don't think things through to their logical conclusion.

Never start a war unless you are prepared to fight one.

Ask yourself, if I do A what will the reaction likely be? Am I prepared to deal with that? If it occurs, should I escalate things further or retreat? How important is this to me? Is it worth what it will cost me to "win"?

I advise you not to sharpen wires and plant them in the ground level with the grass and then post no warning signs. I advise you of that because if you do it twice, my reaction is not likely to be quietly removing your trap and suggesting graciously that what you are trying to do is probably immoral, possibly illegal and just a damned good thing to refrain from doing.

I say that because I try to be a good Christian. But I don't always succeed. You can't count on me always doing what Jesus would do, or at least, what I believe he would have me do.

Jesus loves you. I, on the other hand, do not.

Jesus will not harm you, can you say with confidence that I won't either? One thing I will most assuredly do if I step on your wires and injure a foot, thus risking endocarditis to all my artificial heart parts, is to sue you without mercy and for a very long time. Over and over. For many reasons. As soon as the lawyer thinks of something, wham, we'll be in court once again.

And there is always a lawyer my friend, always. Don't just assume the poor have no resources. If it's important enough, if it's likely lucrative enough, there are always resources.

Also, I would like to warn the rest of you. Not to stay away, but to visit. Get injured, let your dog get injured, or your kid, or your mother-in-law. I will gladly help you see that there are consequences.

And those are just the obvious consequences. We should always remember that beyond a certain point what a person has to lose is negligible compared to what he can gain in personal satisfaction.

I only suggest that so that you will remember that even the meek have their limits.

Having said that, now let me encourage all of you to be wise, love your neighbor, be reasonable.

Ask yourself, "How important is this? Just because I CAN do a thing, does that necessarily mean that I should do it? Am I so pathetic that I can only feel big by exercising 'power' over something very childish? Do I want people to know or learn that about me? Am I proud of the fact that I can only feel large by making others feel small? Am I REALLY the better person if I can only feel bigger in that fashion? Would I want that written on my tombstone?"

Don't hide your light under a bushel, even if it's an ugly light. If you are not ashamed of what you are, you should not mind at all advertising it to the community at large.

Fence your property. Use razor wire. Post a lot of signs, not just "No Trespassing" But, "I'm a big jackass" as well. Why pretend? In a town this size you're going to look somewhat stupid, unreasonable and petty, but hey--that's what you are, right? So why hide that.

Encourage your inner asshole. You've been doing fairly well thus far, why not go all the way? Take out an ad in the local paper, you know that smudgy two sheet rag that still has columns devoted to the fact that Betty Smith paid a call on Amy Jones this past week-end.

It's not CNN, but everyone has to start somewhere. This could be your springboard to becoming as big an obnoxious old white man as Bill O'Reilly!

Seriously, let's try to be kind, have consideration for others, share, be reasonable. In short, do all those things that used to indicate one was an adult who had been taught some manners.

As opposed to being that ill bred, thoroughly uneducated, probably raised by monkeys thing we've got going on now.

The true test of a man's character is not in how he treats those he considers his equal, but in how he treats those he believes to be somehow inferior to him.

Be the kindness.

Mary, my Mainstay

2009-09-12T08:17:00.000-07:00

If you woke up early to drive your nephew to work and you fall asleep easily, reciting the Rosary while you drive home is a very bad idea. I don't know about you but I find the Rosary very relaxing.

Cradle Catholics tend to be better at the Mother of God than converts, or so I have found, and speaking as a convert I would be in a position to know. And yet, sometimes even converts can come to some amazing things.

Cradle Catholics may have the advantage over converts because they are raised with an understanding of and relationship to Mary. It's kind of the difference between being adopted and being born into a family.

But sometimes I think Mary, being a mother, senses which of her children is in the greatest need of her love and help and reaches out to that person to draw them near. A lot of people don't seem to understand how reciting set prayers can bring you closer to someone, but the Rosary is a rosary--a collection of roses.

And sitting at your mother's feet, talking over all the things in your life (which is what your mind has a tendency to hare off and do when reciting the Rosary--at least, mine does) and handing her a Rose every couple of minutes as you are overcome with love for her seems to result in a close and intimate relationship with one's mother.

Like all good mothers, she is never too busy, she goes on quietly with her work as her children sit at her feet. She listens, commiserates, comforts and cares. And like with all good mothers, the touch of her hand smoothing your hair back as she smiles at you with love is immeasurably comforting and reassuring.

I think she is fundamentally a Jewish mother, which means she cares about you out of all proportion to your worth and sees things in you that no one else can. I like to think of her practicing HER faith. Did Jesus stand and watch as his mother covered her eyes, lit the candles for Shabbat and recited the prayers? Was he proud and happy and glad to be who he was, then when he was small?

I think so. And best of all I like it when, for a little while, I am a child again and stand by my brother, who holds my hand, and watch as our mother lights the candles for us, welcoming in the Sabbath.

And then we are fed, and loved, and made whole by the traditions of our faith which, even though I am an adopted child, is every bit as real and important and welcoming to me as it ever was to a birth child. I know she doesn't distinguish between her birth child and her adopted child, she loves us both the same.

I know that because I am a mother, and a mother who has raised children she didn't carry in her body, and because her son asked her to love us, and for that and for her own holiness and goodness, she does.

I don't worship her, anymore than any of us worships our mother. Frequently I take advantage of her love, take her for granted, act in a perfectly horrible way and occasionally, when vexed, cry, "You don't love me!"

But she does, and I know she does, even when I am being a brat. And she never turns from me, she smiles her gentle smile and points me to where I should go and what I should do and makes me behave and teaches me how to be her child and a sister to her Son.

She is patient and tolerant and kind, she doesn't forgive me my faults, she never sees them. She's my mother.

She's yours, too. And she would so like to help you and love you and comfort you and speak for you, but she can't unless you ask, you know. And it's okay to ask, Jesus said so. Like all children, he is eager to share his mother with us, he grabs our hand and pulls us in to where she sits and says, "Ask her. Go ahead, she loves you."

And it would be nice if, now and then, you thought to take her a flower. She likes roses.

God's peace.

PAY ATTENTION

2009-09-10T07:54:00.000-07:00

I came across a standard bus form for Kickapoo Area Schools which states that your child maybe photographed or videotaped at any time while riding the bus.

DO NOT SIGN that form.

No one--certainly not the State--has the right to photograph or videotape your child without your written consent. If consent is a condition of riding a bus to a public school, refuse and be prepared to challenge it in a court of law.

If anyone tapes or photographs your child without your written consent, SUE THEM.

Your children are YOUR children. Not the schools children, not the State's children. YOUR children. It is an obvious sign of a fascist government to take control of your children at any time for any reason whatsoever.

Do you think governments kindly inform you if they plan to indoctrinate your child? No, they don't. Safety is always a good buzzword for stealing the rights of a free people. I have very little hope that America will remain even as free as it currently is for long, as we seem to just disregard our rights and merrily give them up for the mere asking.

Because safety sounds so good, doesn't it?

But America is not the land of the SAFE it's the land of the free. Or it was, once. And it might be again, but not if we don't pay attention and stand up for ourselves.

Your child is entitled to a free education. Is he getting one? How much money does it cost you to send your child to a public school? Who defines free and public? Is it you? If it isn't, why isn't it? Shouldn't it be?

Remember when schools were answerable to parents instead of the other way around? What happened? Why? Can you change it back?

No teacher needs to make a "home visit" as part of his curriculum. It's an invasion of privacy. Remember privacy? When what you did in your own home was your business? Remember when parents raised children instead of just handing them off to anyone who would keep them busy for eight hours or so?

This is how the Hitler Youth worked, remember? The State took over the education of children, pretty soon children were encouraged to tell all about their home lives. The children grew up very loyal to a lot of things and people that had nothing to do with their parents. And then they joined the SS. It was a natural progression.

Do your child's teachers limit themselves to their subject? Or do they manage to pass on a lot of opinions about morals, judgements, religious values or the lack thereof? Do they express political opinions or value judgements or make it clear whose dad is contributing money and is therefore going to have a happy school experience?

Nothing was ever perfectly fair, but we used to pretend it was. We used to give lip service at least to all men are created equal and that everyone had the same opportunities in our educational systems.

I already hear you calling me an alarmist and a lot of less pleasant things, and you're right. I AM an alarmist. Wouldn't you pull the alarm if the school was on fire? Even if people chose to believe it was just a warm day so they wouldn't have to drag out the hoses and actually do something?

WAKE UP. Ask questions, demand answers, threaten to sue, actually sue, question everything and don't assume the "school can do that" just because they say they can. Do you think they're going to admit they can't if they can bully you out of calling a lawyer?

At least LOOK. Pay attention. Document. Find out.

Or, if you can't do that, call me. I'm not afraid of anybody and I know the name of a good lawyer. Together we may accomplish something and raise an American or two and send them to an AMERICAN school and teach them some AMERICAN values.

And if you think it's unnecessary, I've got some people you can talk to. They lived in Poland in 1939. They didn't think it could happen, either. They'll be glad to tell you what they see happening here.

Cabbages and kings

2009-09-07T13:12:00.000-07:00

Some people don't like the smell of cabbage cooking, it reminds them of harder times. Of being poor. It never reminds me of that, it makes me think of home and Grandma Helgeson, who taught me to make good vegetable soup from almost nothing.

She didn't teach me to make the bread that goes with it, because no one can teach me to bake bread. My bread is so dense you could build houses using my bread for bricks. Mother, now, makes excellent bread.

Cabbage doesn't make me think of being poor, because i have never been poor. No one who can feed seven people for a week on forty dollars is poor. Smart, canny, thrifty and careful, but not poor.

I like being free and I like to make do. Use it up, wear it out, make it do, do without. Those are good things. I like to think Saint Francis would approve.

I hear so many people grumbling about the economy, and I thought about how nice it is if the economy doesn't matter to you. I can do all the same things I ever could do, I enjoy them as much as I ever did, and I don't have to be afraid of anything.

I could manage perfectly well with a wood stove instead of a furnace--in fact, I wish I had one, it would be nicer than natural gas. I would be as happy with an oil lamp and a book as I am with electricity and if push came to shove I know how to make a button lamp and my own candles out of stuff I already have in the house.

I do love my computer, but if I didn't have it anymore it wouldn't severely impact my life.

I can clean a house without running water, bathe every day, wash my hair and even live with an outdoor bathroom. Privys are not something to aspire to, but they don't ruin your day either, unless you're kind of a Diva.

Americans are so spoiled. We have such an outrageous sense of entitlement. Like we're somehow entitled to all the things I just mentioned and will die if we can't have them and the world will come to a screeching halt if we suddenly lost all our conveniences and luxuries. Actually, I do know a few people who would likely die of the shock if they suddenly have to rough it.

And as a rule we don't give a fig about people like the homeless who have learned that being sure you're entitled to things is not a guarantee that you'll ever get them. I worry about us sometimes.

It's true that poverty you choose is easier than poverty that is thrust upon you by circumstances, But either kind means assessing those things most important and applying your energy in the right places.

You don't have to compete with anyone if you don't want to, life is not a contest. You can make it one if you insist upon it, but usually the only person hurt by a profound need to be better, richer, bigger, smarter than someone else is the person feeling the need.

It almost never bothers the person being competed with because he usually doesn't even know he's in the contest. And he wouldn't care. Ask yourself how much you care about how well the man that runs the bank is doing. You don't. And he doesn't care about how well you're doing either, unless he's the guy holding your mortgage.

Most people are concerned with their own lives, they don't often think about you and yours. I hate to tell you, but you probably don't matter much to anybody but you. No one is envying you, nobody even wants what you have. They're pretty busy with what they have. And who they are. And where they're going. And why.

So take a deep breath and smile for me. There you go. Wear what you like, say what you like, go where you like, do what you like and you know what will happen?

Absolutely nothing. That's why it's okay to do it. Cook yourself up some nice vegetable soup, eat it around a table with people you really like, get to know the people around you and afterwards, you can take your grandchildren wading in the river. Even if all the neighbors see you.

And if they see you, they might laugh. I hope so, because laughter is such a good thing. An outward expression of an inner contentment and security and sense of fun.

If I could ask God for anything for every person who reads this, I would wish he would send you joy. And cabbage soup.

Hugs from Pilly.

Farmville

2009-09-07T07:56:00.000-07:00

I really like farming on farmville, but I would like to point out to the developers that when I am maniaclly fencing, that is not the time to send me a message to ask if I wouldn't like to post something on my wall about having become a Jolly Rancher.

At that point anything I would write on my wall would not be suitable to be read by anyone with a delicacy that causes them to have sensitivity to the word f**k. Just so they know. I might also have a few things to say about their ancestry, their likely IQ and what anatomically impossible things I would like the to do so I can fence.

What idiot interrupts a farmer when he's fencing?

Farming on farmville is a lot easier than I recall it being in actual life. For one thing you only have to milk the cows every three days or so. That beats that twice a day thing I remember in real life.

I would like to point out that my raspberry crop should not ripen in only two hours. If you plant raspberrys invariably you get company and by the time you get back to them you get that snotty message about how they have withered and you just know the farming association won't be handing you any Jolly Rancher awards anytime soon.

It is only safe to plant raspberries at two AM when you can't sleep and the pain in your bad hip pretty much guarantees you're going to be up two more hours. And of course you're going to spend that time on facebook because where else would you be?

I don't know if you've ever tried to read when your hip is acting up, but don't waste your time. Also, if you are me you are trying not to smoke and you ran out of tootsie pops two hours ago and even though Wal-mart is open 24 hours can you really justify driving 14 miles with a bad hip just to get more tootsie pops?

Not if you don't want your husband to give you that speech about the price of gas and the fact that the quick stop here in town will open at six. Screw him and his gas, as I recall he's not the one quitting smoking although I distinctly remember we had an agreement that we would both quit smoking on April 15 and only one of us did.

It's true I started again in July but at least I keep at it. Not like some people who have a fit of apoplexy over spending three dollars for a gallon of gas but have no problem at all paying eight dollars for a pack of cigarettes.

I get a little testy when I first quit smoking, bear with me, I'll get over it as soon as the urge passes. Probably. If not you can write to me in prison right after I murder someone. Or just attack somebody with a brick which is that other thing I keep wanting to do a lot of.

So, anyway, farming. There I was harvesting the grapefruit trees and de-feathering the ducks (no, I didn't make that up, I didn't invent the game) collecting eggs from the hens and stealing the truffles from the pigs when, out of nowhere, it occurred to me that the farm wasn't very neat.

So I dug up all the crops and started building fences and little plots of fields,. Which, incidentally is exactly what I would do in real life, which is why I don't farm anymore.

Once, when I was young and both my children were under four I was in my farmhouse washing clothes with a wringer washer in July--which is why I was wearing my bikini--and some Jehovah's witnesses apparently took a flyer on our dead-end, quarter mile dirt driveway and decided to take a shot at my soul again.

As it happened I didn't hear them knock, on account of the wringer had a safety feature that caused it to snap apart with a noise like gunfire if you fed it anything thicker than a dishtowel, so I was wearing my earplugs.

I quite enjoyed washing clothes with my wringer washer, so I was also singing rather loudly (I think it might have been, When the red, red, robin goes bob, bob, bobbin' along) as I sailed off to the clothes line with a basket of wet clothes, and ran smack into the Christers right outside the door.

Of all of us, I would have to say they were more surprised but I was more determined and since I never did anything half hearted, I ran over some little old lady as I made my way deliberately to the clothesline. The gentleman with her took exception to me stomping over his companion in my bikini and my tennis shoes but i wasn't hearing him because of the earplugs.

Which may account for the fact that I threw the laundry in the air and tried to help her up. Jacob had taken that moment to remove his clothing and sit naked on the kitchen table with his feet in the butter that he was attempting to feed to the cat, who didn't care for any, and that was the exact moment that Scott--my second husband the musician who worked late and didn't like to be disturbed before afternoon--came downstairs to find who had awakened him and kill them.

So there I was in my bikini and earplugs stepping over a little woman who was on the ground while her husband yelled while I attempted to get to the naked toddler on the table and rescue the cat. Which was when I noticed that Lacey had decided to sample the remains of Scott's drink on the end table (which fortunately was just a sip, but still not what you want to put in the cup of a small child).

I don't believe anyone tried to save me for awhile after that, though I do think at some point Scott and the Witnesses had a brief discussion about the Pope which ended badly.

I used to feel kind of bad about that until last week when the Winresses showed up to discuss the state of mother's soul on her fron porch and made the grave and ireversable error of suggesting to her that pastors should not pray for soldiers as they were all going to hell anyway because something to do with war.

Mother is nicer than I am and also a better Christian so the fellow is still breathing ( I would have knocked him in the head with a few of those tomatos my dad grows so well and driven him into the street in front of a passing car, and then if he had wanted to continue discussing his views on war and how it relates to the souls of those people serving in Iraq I would have been quite willing).

She just ended her conversation and graciously went back into her house. Mother is nice like that. Since I had my brain frozen for that fifteen minutes I was dead I have a lot less self control myself, I find.

Anyway, Jesus fortunately looks out for my soul--which is good since I obviously shouldn't be trusted with it--and I'm hopeful he's looking out for both the Witnesses and the soldiers, as well.

Mother, now, I'm pretty sure is a Saint, so I don't have to worry too much about hers, which gives me more time to farm.

Life is Good

2009-09-06T06:56:00.000-07:00

Well, I haven't driven Jean completely out of her mind, yet, but I am still working on it. After all, she's the one who decided she needed her own house and had the audacity to want to remove my grandchildren from my house. I consider it justifiable war, now.

Did I say anything when the State made Aiden start school? Well, okay, I said a lot, but I didn't blow up the bus or anything. I should get some consideration for that. Nina is fun but she's not much use at building forts in the Lilac bushes or fighting off the giant triangles or being superman.

Anyway, I called this post "Life is Good" because yesterday my Father-in-law was admitted to the hospital, and I've been reflecting on life a lot since then--not that life is good because my Father-in-law is sick, just that he has enjoyed life so much.

He's eighty two and his kidneys are failing, so I'm worried that this might be the penultimate crisis, the last but one, the one being death, of course.

It is very hard to lose someone who has been so much a part of the fabric of your life, so much a part of the geography of your heart. If you asked anyone to describe him with one word, it would be happy. Everyone says he is the happiest person they ever knew, happy in all circumstances, all the time.

And they are right. He has never been afraid to try anything, the worst thing that could happen, he used to tell me, was that you might fail, and who cared about that? If you failed, you could go try the next thing, and the next until you found a thing that worked for you.

He was never worried about what the neighbors would think about his successes or failures, I'm pretty sure he has always been secure enough not to care about any one's opinion but his and God's. I admire that.

He wound up being the richest man I have ever known. And no, not in dollars.

He is the richest man in the world because everybody loves him. The most amazing number of people called him "Dad" over the years. He is a plain person but there was always room at his table for one more. Always a way to stretch the house to accommodate one more, and always room in his heart for one more.

He wouldn't hesitate to put you to work, or to give you the rough side of his tongue now and then if you needed it. But he's never turn you out, either. He drank a little more beer than he should have, maybe, but he never hurt anyone by doing that, and he really didn't ask for much which may be why God poured out such abundance on him.

His children are devoted to him, his grandchildren love him, his great grandchildren pester him mercilessly and people are always dropping in to see him from all the places you could ever imagine.

He has the kindest heart and the sweetest smile this side of heaven. The world needs that smile, it will be a much colder and emptier place without it, and I hope I don't have to do without it just yet.

I could tell you all the things I know about him, but that would take too long. So I will leave you with just one.

When I was very small I greatly admired horses, my mother was not all that crazy about them herself and I think she wasn't too anxious to have me tackle any (and knowing me the way I do I can entirely see why she felt that way) but one of my happiest memories is Uncle Clyde putting me on old Duggan--quite possibly the most placid horse that ever lived--and letting me ride him around and around and around the pasture no matter how long it took until I was completely satisfied and all horsied out.

Not everyone was delighted when Jimmy and I finally said screw public opinion and got married, but it was a good day when my favorite Uncle became my best Father-in-law and nobody was happier than he was when we arrived home from Tennessee and he was the first person to proudly kiss the bride.

I shouldn't have been surprised, he had welcomed me to his home all my life, welcoming me as a daughter was pretty much just the next natural step, I'm sure. No one is as precious as my own father, but it is very nice to see the men I love best in the world gathered together at a table and know that not only is my heart there, but my blood, too.

I have been blessed.

Early

2009-09-04T04:15:00.000-07:00

I used to do some of my best work early in the morning. Not anymore, but still.

I'm having empty nest syndrome, because those horrible parents of my grandchildren--you know, my kids--are moving to their own apartment. I tried to get them to leave the babies, but no. It seems they want to keep them.

I'm considering kidnapping, how many years of prison do you get for stealing two grandchildren? Jean never rises before sunset so if I start early enough in the day I can get a pretty good head start.

Okay, they're only moving down the street, but that's still too far away. I tried to get Mandy to move home with all of her children, but she said no. Something about an actual life with children who haven't been completely ruined by their grandma.

On the other hand, she has catastrophic morning sickness right now so I'm biding my time, sooner or later someone will need help with the children and I like to take care of Mandy, she's my best daughter-in-law.

Nicole would tie for best daughter-in-law but she never comes to live with me, so she loses a lot of points for being independent and self supporting. She's married to my son the businessman. He travels a lot, wouldn't you think they'd need to stay with me? Okay, it's true they have a better house than I do, but full time nannying should count for something and I'm good at that.

Chad refuses to get married and reproduce despite the fact that I have encouraged him and encouraged him since he graduated high school. He's big on college, Chad is. Doesn't care at all about marriage. I don't know where I went wrong with that boy.

Obviously he took in the condom lecture, since he never got some nice girl in trouble so I could force him to marry her.

Well, you can't have everything, I guess I'll just have to learn to live with it. I suppose there is some consolation in getting the television back, I am kind of tired of the brainy babies dvd. Also Spongebob, who in my opinion should be forbidden by law.

What does Spongebob teach children really? That you can light a campfire on the bottom of the sea. Doesn't that violate some law of physics or nature or something? And that sea creatures enjoy snowball fights right after the big blizzard that hits the bottom of the sea. Same question.

Is Spongebob a child or an adult? He lives alone, which would tend to indicate he's not a child, and he has a job as a fry cook. Okay, then why does he enjoy playing with Patrick the retarded starfish? Is he just a good person or is he retarded too? And if he is retarded, why are we letting him work around a hot grill flipping burgers?

I can accept that miserly Mr. Krab is willing to hire the retarded kid to save money, but even misers must know that there is something appalling about a cook who falls in love with his Krabby Patty.

And then sometimes they go to the beach. On the bottom of the ocean. Next to (apparently) another ocean. Once they buried a fish up to his neck in the sand at low tide, and he died when the tide came in and he drowned. He's a fish, presumably one that can't breathe under his ocean but is great at breathing under ours.

What message does that send to children? First, are we saying it's okay to drown our friends, and second will our kids ever be able to enjoy the aquarium after they know fish can drown?

Spongebob has imaginary friends like Bubble Buddy that he created out of his bottle of bubble blowing solution, in the end of that episode everyone is so fed up with the imaginary friend they try to pop him with a needle.

Thus causing Spongebob enough emotional trauma to guarantee he will be spending much of his adult life in therapy. Then we discover Bubble Buddy is actually a sentient being who decides to take the bus home. At what point did he assume actual life? We saw Spongebob create him. And we wonder how schizophrenics are made.

And let's not forget Sqidward, the neurotic squid with six tentacles that lives next door and has a highly questionable relationship with his clarinet, wears a shower cap in his bubble bath, gets completely anal on the subject of interpretive dance and goes into spasms of joy over art appreciation. Except he has no taste and isn't the least bit gay.

And I'm not being mean about being gay, if you are gay you should write a letter to the obnoxious homophobe who created Squidward, he's so stereotypical someone should get sued.

Maybe he and Spongebob are secretly lovers, God knows Patrick is never going to figure out sex. Patrick can't even figure out home, he lives under a rock and has furniture sculpted from sand.

Come to think of it, it's really time those children got out on their own and I can go back to watching scary movies, I'm clearly way too informed about Spongebob.

Pathwords

2009-09-03T09:56:00.000-07:00

I really love pathwords, it's just the kind of thing I do well. Except for those times when I challenge Lacey, Jean or Ashley to a game, because the universe is against me. I know God is up to something.

If I play alone I could go on for hours without interruption, but set a timer and announce you've just challenged someone and invariably people I have not seen since the third grade will call me and want to chat.

Or the Jehovah's Witnesses will decide to bring reinforcements and have a go at saving my soul one more time. Sometimes they bring the Mormons. I am beginning to thing that I must be the Holy Grail of strange religious groups. I think they have signs for new recruits that read "Save Pilly."

I'm as saved as I'm going to get, people. I appreciate your interest but if you interrupt me one more time I'm going straight to hell for killing you and burying you in the backyard.

Just so you know.

I would also appreciate less paper. The Baptists are bad for paper. Not the real Baptists, those new ones that the real Baptists say are heretics on account of they made up their own church. I think Jack Chick is their Pope.

I know they are way more fond of his smudgy little tracts than anyone should be. So far I have had enough respect for them to just use the tracts to start fires, in future I plan to use them for toilet paper. Just once I would like to buy a book on some aspect of my faith without finding that some person has chosen to do his witnessing by crapping up Barnes and Noble's merchandise with tracts.

And not a nice, "I just want to convert you" tract. I am willing to be generous in my thinking toward someone who only wants to convert me. It's the people who issue invitations to watch me burn in hell and make plans in writing as to who should bring the potato salad for the wienie roast that are beginning to irk me.

Since they all seem to have memorized the Bible, I would like someone to show me even one place where Jesus salivates and approaches orgasm over the thought of everybody but him burning in hell.

Oh, for God's sake--don't go look. I made it up. We call that sarcasm, I know they don't have it at your church. We sell it with the Holy Water, that's why you never saw it.

They keep telling me I have a different Bible because I'm Catholic. If theirs does not omit why they personally are more qualified than God to run the final judgement, I am certainly in agreement with that.

I've got "Love thy Neighbor" in mine, at no point does it add, "Right up to the moment you tie him to the stake and light the fire'.

And if you're going to e-mail me about the Inquisition, just don't. I insist you read at least three books before we discuss it and they cannot have been written by Bob the Bible Thumper and endorsed by Jack Chick.

My church made a few mistakes too, seeing as how it has existed since Jesus founded it, but we have tried to learn from those mistakes and improve. Unlike some people who plan to roast marshmallows in hell. It's just a thought, but if you're bringing potato salad to the picnic in hell, doesn't that mean you'll be there, too?

And isn't hell supposed to be eternal? Are you really wiling to wait through eternity for the marshmallows to toast? Doesn't that strike you as odd?

I'm going with Love God and love your neighbor as yourself, which I suppose means I can't kill any baptists, but I still don't want to discuss religion on my front porch on hot days.

Cold ones either.

One of Those Days

2009-09-02T08:08:00.000-07:00

Did you ever have one of those days where you were only ten minutes into it and so much had already gone wrong that you just knew it was one of those days?

This is definitely one of those days.

Me and Aiden are already in beau coup trouble for playing outside when he was supposed to be in his room being punished and also, we had donuts for breakfast, which apparently can cause things only just short of complete Armageddon. Go figure.

So anyway, now I'm bored and there's nothing to do but this while I devise a plan to break Aiden out of prison. Okay, it's true he was wearing his school clothes while we were making a fort in the lilac bush, but really. There is such a thing as laundry and a bath.

I considered completing the fort by myself, but then I remembered how weird the neighbors get after something like that. So I guess I'll just wait til Emma comes over.

Also, me and the village office are having a difference of opinion. They are of the opinion they should keep breathing and I am of the opinion that they don't need to. Unless, of course, they are willing to rethink that whole water issue, in which case I would rethink how nice the world would be if they were dead.

I don't care what the DNR says about what the village does about it's groundwater. Screw the village and it's groundwater, I never wanted to live in the village, anyway. If the village is that worried about it's damned water let them purchase and install the new equipment.

Were they concerned about the water when the built the sewage treatment facility on the banks of the Kickapoo? No, they were not, so why should I care what they do now? Also, I have decided not to believe in the DNR. Clearly they are just a figment of the village's imagination and should not, therefore, be allowed to make any rules.

I wish that I had had the good sense to experience life with the village office before I went and did something crazy like buy a house. Alright, it's true that I went into raptures over the pocket doors and don't remember a lot after that, but you would think people would have learned by now that you should not let the person having raptures about architectural details make the decision.

Also, I wish I had remembered Jimmy's approach to home repair, like that time he removed the entire roof and then went to Texas and we bought a really big tarp in case it rained. I don't let him roof anymore.

I also don't allow him to re-wire the electricity, apply insulation or fix the plumbing. I am the only person I know who has to remember to turn on the cold faucet to get hot water and I do not even want to think about what he did to my washer.

And that time he decided to surprise me with a new bathroom after heart surgery. He has promised to restore all the walls and the closet and never hang drywall again in this lifetime and I have promised not to kill him. We're still waiting to see how that one turns out.

I liked the old bathroom, I had just redecorated and I did a better job than Mr. Early Primitive. On the other hand it keeps me from being pretentious, so it may shave a few hours off that seven million years I plan to serve in Purgatory after I'm dead.

Anyway, I can hardly wait to see what's next. Aiden's sentence should be up, I think I'll serve cake for lunch.

Morning

2009-08-31T06:58:00.000-07:00

So, if you're wondering why there's a fairytale on this blog it's because I have finally gone completely insane. Really tinfoil hat wearing, act like Napoleon, call the men with the butterfly nets crazy.

Okay, that's a lie, I wrote it for one of the kids. I just enjoy madness so much I was hoping the bend would appear in the road soon so I could go round it.

This morning Aiden found his lovely new backpack (thanks ever so, Jean) and completely destroyed all of his school supplies, then he reprogrammed the television so everyone is speaking Chinese, and he topped off the morning by deciding to sail around the world in the bathtub, apparently blowing bubbles with the good soap all the way.

I don't know about you but if I give those Dove soap people half of Jimmy's paycheck for some of that grand anti-aging stuff I expect more than a good session of foaming bubbles with a toddler.

I know what you're thinking, you're saying, "Where were his adults?" aren't you? I know because I ask myself that question pretty often, too. I would like to be Saint Grandmother and raise the children, but my baby will be twenty in November and as much as I enjoyed his childhood, I don't really care to re-live it.

Also I am very tired and prefer to save my energy for things like driving his mother completely insane by letting him do things like sleep in his new shoes.

And where are his parents? Well, his father is working in Iowa this week and is not telepathic, so he has no idea what is going on here most of the time. You can only call home about 65 times a day and then your boss starts to wonder if maybe you aren't talking to the Colombian drug lords, so there is a limit to what I can hope for from his dad.

His mother, now, I believe is a vampire. She hasn't said so, but I noticed that she doesn't ever rise until sunset and daylight seems to be very harmful to her. The last time I woke her before four PM she screamed in agony a lot.

You're wondering why I don't go throw her butt out of bed, aren't you? Well, that's a long and involved story, but doing so would mean negotiating through the upstairs til I found her bed and frankly, I'm just not that adventurous. God only knows what's up there. I haven't seen it since before heart surgery and anyway, it's their space, I don't like to invade it.

I like to rest instead. I have done my best to remove all poisonous substances from down here and hidden all the meds on a very high shelf and I'm afraid that's the extent of how involved I'm willing to get.

Also, even though she will only work after dark I'm the only person in my neighborhood that has a full time live in cook and housekeeper and good help is SO hard to find, so I don't want to make mine mad.

Anyway, this is our last day of summer vacation and then my little guy is off to start school, which is complety absurd if you're only four but far be it from me to suggest that letting babies become children before you ship them off would be a better idea.

I wouldn't want to cut into some parent's "me time".

I think that if you don't want to raise children, perhaps you should refrain from giving birth to any.
On the other hand, there will always be people like me to be the neighborhood mother or grandma on call. If you don't mind that I'm the one raising your children I'm not going to complain, either. I like children.

Just so you know, you have no secrets. When you're home every day after school with a cookie in one hand and some milk in another, and you're more interested in hearing about a kid's day than anything else in the world, there is no limit at all to what children will tell you.

You don't even have to ask. I have social services on speed dial and I'll try to remember not to talk about your financial situation, that disagreement you had with your spouse last night and your child's fears about whether he can live up to your expectations.

You can forbid him to visit but he's going to anyway. I may not have your income, but then you don't have my knowledge.

That's why I smile like that in church.

A Fairy Tale

2009-08-30T20:42:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, long ago and far away, on the far side of a mountain and across the sea, there stood in a very untidy yard, a most unusual house.

It had clapboard sides and an uneven roof and looked rather like it had grown instead of being built. Which was how you would expect it to look, if you knew it had been planted, which in fact it had, some time ago,

It was Grandmother's house and she had grown it herself so that it would exactly suit her when fully mature. And it did.

It had very uneven walls and a floor that tended to slope in odd places. This was, Grandmother would say, because the furniture could never get comfortable on a completely even floor. The walnut secretary could not rest it's interesting nooks and crannies behind it's sloping lid unless it could lean back in a restful fashion and cozy up to the wall.

An unhappy secretary would be a dreadful thing to have in your house. The field mice would never sleep curled in it's pigeon holes in winter if it were unhappy. When field mice leave the garden in the fall and begin to make their winter home it is better if the secretary sighs in contentment than if it groans in discomfort.

Grandmother's secretary was very contented. And the rest of the furniture was, too. From the very sleepy overstuffed sofa to the stove where the teakettle whistled happily to itself, all of Grandmother's things were just like Grandmother. A bit odd, but very satisfied.

Her house was exactly the right size (she had tended it very carefully as it grew and pruned it back whenever it was tempted to get too large). Grandmother grew her house in the exact middle of her garden, behind the rambling hedges but before the quiet river that wound it's way lazily through the village.

Lazy rivers are by far the best kind because they only chuckle over stones and never roar. Grandmother's house often smiled at the river and shook itself just a litte in happiness when the river smiled back. Now and then they spoke, but very quietly and no one knows what they said.

Every morning, in nice weather, Grandmother went to visit the flowers in her garden. Flowers like to be visited, and Grandmother's were especially well behaved. This was because they greatly enjoyed the company of fairies, and knew very well that flower fairies insist on a well behaved home.

A certain amount of dancing in the wind was expected and allowed, but no ill bred nodding would be tolerated. Grandmother was very careful of her fairies and insisted that there should always be bumblebees in her garden, because there is nothing a flower fairy likes better than a nice bumblebee ride on a sunny morning.

On this particular morning Grandmother was expecting company and so she hurried a little over placing the new toad houses under the Lilacs, where the Toad family had indicated it would most like to live.

There is no point at all in having a garden if you don't properly place the toad houses. There is nothing a self respecting toad likes better than a well placed house near a lilac. The mosquitos are particularly tasty when eaten under a lilac. And properly prepared, of course. Mrs. Toad served an excellent dinner of fly and toasted mosquito garnish. In fact, it was quite a favorite of Mr. Toad, and he insisted it be served at least once a week, usually on a sunday.

Since this particular day was a sunday, Mrs. Toad was especially anxious to get the moving overas early in the day as could be managed. Grandmother was very fond of Mrs. Toad and so she was hurrying. I expect that's why she failed to see the.....

To be continued.

Truck drivers

2009-08-29T17:19:00.000-07:00

Before I go poking fun at truck drivers (which I plan to do a LOT of) I should probably tell you the truth about them, they deserve some good press, after all.

Although they may seem a little rough around the edges, almost every one of them is a serious professional. They not only pilot that enormous truck and trailer into places and out of situations that would make you and I faint dead away in shock, they also drive in all sorts of conditions with care and dedication to our well being.

They drive not only for themselves, but for every other vehicle that is sharing the road with them, because they know all too well what it can mean if any other vehicle cuts them off, drives in front of them, forces another car or motorcycle into their draft, stops abruptly directly in front of them or chooses to apply it's brakes just as the road freezes or it begins to rain.

I have never spoken to one who said he could continue driving if he was involved in a serious accident that hurt or killed others. Even if not his fault, he knows what damage that tractor and trailer can do, and fault isn't going to matter if he has to wade through your blood to get off the road.

I'm saying "he" in a generic sense here, but a lot of women choose this profession, as well, and they deserve to be recognized.

A Driver knows how to get to almost anyplace he has ever delivered, he has to remember thousands of directions, locations and circumstances and he has to be able to negotiate them in any conditions at the time the client expects his freight and with a cheerful attitude.

His GPS is his best friend because it has allowed him the luxury of giving more of his attention to what's around him than to where he's headed. His laptop is his constant companion, it holds his logs, runs his PC Miler program, connects him to the universe and generally makes his life simpler.

He knows how to print and scan logs from anywhere in the country and he knows that the GPS locater in his call comm better agree with the paper. He can tell you where to get a meal, a shower and a good cup of coffee and can also save your life if he has to. He carries white sheets, first aid kits, his cell phone and probably knows CPR.

He'll give you (literally) the shirt off his back if you are cold and all the money in his wallet if you ask him. That sounds like a lot but he isn't carrying that much cash at any one time. If he has to go without supper to feed somebody out there, he will and he's a sucker for a good cause and always willing to donate.

He will never be rich but he will always be satisfied and you can't say fairer than that.

A man who can turn around and back a 53 foot trailer into a dock from a street that was built for the horse and carriage while talking on the phone and doing his weekly paperwork is a good kind of person to have in a crisis, I wouldn't trade mine for the world.

He's my best friend, my dearest love, my hero and the guy that sees to it that when you want to buy groceries they are in the store waiting for you and when you need emergency surgery the gauze pads and hemostats are available to the guy stocking the OR.

He is intelligent, kind, thoughtful and a whole lot of fun to have around and the next time you see him, smile. It means a lot to him.

Pilly in the Truck

2009-08-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

So, if I was really good at this, I guess I would tell it all in sequence, as it happened, but if you know me at all you are aware already of how foolish it would be to expect that, At least, from me.

I jump around a lot. Just so you know.

Before leaving I had asked my Dear Husband if there were any mountains to go over that had roads steep enough to require a runaway ramp. He said no. He lied.

When you come to a very large sign that announces, "ALL trucks MUST pull into lot to check brakes before descending mountain" that is really State Patrolese for, "Really steep mothertrucking hill dead ahead. Begin prayers now."

It was a six percent grade with three--no one, not two, count 'em THREE runaway ramps. I was thrilled, really. On an interstate that all put plotzes over the thought that you might pull off, stop, stand, sit or otherwise hesitate anywhere along it's length, it is alarming to read, "Trucks MAY pull off and stop to cool brakes." Oh, goody.

I can think of nothing more delightful, really, than pausing on the precipice to cool my brakes. Only trucks can use the right hand lane (the one closest to the drop) because all trucks must have access to the runaway ramp.

We, ourselves, did not use our brakes at all. We did some cool thing called shifting into eighth gear and "walking" down the mountain. Twice we passed under signs that stated loudly, "If your speed exceeds 35mph you are going too fast! Reduce speed NOW." I was all in favor of that, I can tell you.

Halfway down the mountain we passed a bed and breakfast sign. I had no interest in breakfast and I was pretty sure bed wasn't going to do me any good, either. While descending Mount Olympus there, no one cares about your bed and breakfast. Put up a sign that says, "Cheap parachutes" and you might get my attention. Bed and Breakfast, no.

At the bottom some industrious soul had made a hand painted sign and nailed it to a tree. "Jesus is Coming," it said. Dude, I've got news for you. Your wait is over, Jesus is here. If you're at the bottom of that hill and your heart is still beating, Jesus joined the wagon train somewhere around the bed and breakfast sign and he's been with you ever since, you can quit waiting.

You want to put up a useful sign put one up that says, "Clean Underwear next five miles," There's a sign that will make you some money

So, anyway, North Carolin is really beautiful. Not that mountain part, but the rest of it is worth seeing. They have some great tunnels right through the mountain. I personally feel that if we were going to tunnel through the mountain maybe we could have started at the bottom and completely done away with runaway ramps altogether. But apparently, no one but me has considered that.

Maybe there's a good reason for tunneling through five feet from the top of Mount Everest to shave thirty seconds off your trip, but if so, no one has informed me of it to date. I would just like to suggest that it might be a good idea to start further down. I don't even like tunnels, I'm claustrophobic, but even I prefer tunnels to parasailing over the top like we do now.

Now that I think of it, it's not surprising Jesus was there, we were only about ten feet from his house there in heaven and he probably thought we would feel bad if he didn't at least step out on the porch and wave.

I didn't see him on account of I had my head between my knees, clutching my Rosary beads and talking to his mother at the time, but still.

It was in Paducah, Kentucky that I learned what was wrong with the coffee. I had noticed that coffee wasn't working like it should. Jimmy went in every morning and brought me some nice coffee from the truckstop, which was surely thoughtful of him, but it didn't seem to have any guts to it.

I like coffee to kick start my heart and scream loudly at my brain until my mind consents to wake up. And it wasn't happening. And that's a little odd because truck drivers, of all the people in the world should probably be experts on coffee. I mean, now that west Coast Turnaround is no longer available, you would think they would be relying heavily on the coffee.

Okay, some wimpy mother's group got a law passed that states that for every ten consecutive hours you drive you must be off duty for fourteen, and there is less need for truly butt kicking road dope, but still, you would think they would still want some serious coffee.

So, anyway, in Kentucky I went in to get my own coffee and when Mr. Professional directed me to the very lightest little old lady coffee in the world, because, he said, "I always drink this one because it doesn't have so much bite to it," I realized wherein lay the problem, and took my self to the spigot with the darkest roast, most potent, serious coffee in the United States (it's Pilot's own blend, incidentally) and finally found something worth drinking.

As I was preparing to add the four containers of cream it takes for that coffee, I noticed fortunately that the little half and half containers were black, which was odd, so I read them. And they were not cream, they were something called a "Trucker's Shot" which is apparently enough caffeine to make your own jet fuel.

So I had cream, instead, because even I did not really need to fly over the mountain without my truck. I did so enjoy Kentucky though because all the people there are nice, which you cannot say for southern Illinois (Not counting Cairo) where I met a lovely little girl who got a little snippy when I asked her a question regarding her town, which apparently, I pronounced wrong.

Anybody might have, it had about six Qs, no vowels to speak of and may have been an Indian word for, "Kiss your white ass goodbye, we just sharpened the scalping knives" and if the settlers in question had been this girl's ancestors my sympathy lies entirely with the native peoples, I assure you.

I would just like to state for the historical record and the edification of female teenagers in Illinois who work at truck stops that it is not a mark of any kind of superiority to be able to correctly pronounce the name of the town you were born in. Everyone can do that. I know dogs who can even come close. Being polite to visitors, now, is a skill we all should cultivate.

To balance that, however, there was a truly lovely gentleman in North Carolina who not only held the door for me but said, "Welcome home!" which I thought was a rather lovely way to welcome people to your state.

So, anyway, there's more but Aiden and Nina just discovered some shampoo with a pump lid and are now busy decorating the kitchen floor and themselves with a pearly pink substance I can only assume is soap. And as I am not sure it is edible and safe for eyes, I had better go.

I'll tell you about the rivers and the photographs later.

And I AM going to be a grandma for the twelfth time in APRIL. Go granny, go granny, go granny, go!!!!

Home again

2009-08-21T14:50:00.000-07:00

Actually I'm just home for overnight and then I am going to Charlotte, North Carolina. Which is bound to be a distinct improvement on that three days of rain in Cincinnati I just lived through.

You see, there is a kind of formula trucking people have to follow. First, the satellite did not agree with Jimmy's log about what time we left Beloit. I bet that sounds like small potatos to you, but let me assure you it's actually a very delicately choreographed dance that only works if everyone does his part just when he is supposed to.

It goes something like this. First Jimmy calls his dispatcher and complains about the load he got and expresses his disappointment that it wasn't what he thought it should be. Then Lori goes to lunch, because Jimmy really loves her and he would never be mean to her. I love her, too. She's a peach. Really.

But someone has to hear the whole thing and it's better if it's someone we don't care for, who shall remain nameless, I'll just look at the party and whistle (Mark) and there is this whole male testosterone thing that involves everybody calling everybody else a son of a...something...at least four times.

And then Jimmy has to take a break of 14 hours before he can drive again, which doesn't exactly endear dispatch to him, so we go to the truck stop to watch some movies.

Well, I watch some movies, Jimmy calls a few trucking companies and asks for job applications and then he does this thing that's kind of like the mating dance of the wild wood duck where he calls every truckdriver whose number is stored in his phone--even the ones that work at a different company--and they have this kind of festival of outrage. That uses up like four hours.

It's not that funny but when it's raining and you've already taken all the naps one can usefully take for one day, it's at least something to listen to. You can't hear the movie anyway, what with the rain and the phone commiserating and all, so you might as well settle in with some popcorn and watch for awhile.

Then there is a brief pause to allow all the truckdrivers that work at your company to call dispatch and complain and to promise that if one of them quits they will all quit on account of it's some secret code of truckdrivers that states if Bill quits you have to go with him. I don't know why, I don't make the rules, I'm just telling you how it works.

So then pretty soon dispatch calls us again and says will we please not take fourteen drivers with us en bloc to Marten (or whoever the lucky company is this week for the purposes of discussion) and we allow as how we might reconsider if things were to improve but we aren't spending four days driving twelve miles because the baby needs a new pair of shoes and the dog just found out she has to have surgery and Shirley Temple might come in there somewhere, too, by that time I was getting tired. But I think there was a curly headed orphan somewhere and we might have been going to tie dispatch to some railroad tracks with a train coming, you know the kind of stuff I mean.

So, anyway, eventually we get a good load and Lori comes back from lunch and everybody is happy again.

Well, not me because it was still Ohio and it was still raining and I was there long enough that me and the cash register girl had begun exchanging knitting patterns and inviting each other to things like our kids' weddings and family reunions and such like that. But it wasn't as bad as that three days I spent in a swamp in Georgia, so I'm willing to overlook it.

I'm sure my trip to North Carolina will be far less dramatic. Unless someone else gets mad at dispatch and we have to promise to leave if he leaves. It happens about twice a week so I don't even know why it works except one time a bunch of them must have left in a herd and it made a really big impression on dispatch.

Anyway, I am flying around doing laundry and packing and trying to spend ten minutes with all my grandchildren, so I'll tell you all about the rest of it when I get home, again. And I hope you have a marvelously happy week--(I just found out I MIGHT be going to be a Grandma for the twelfth time so PLEASE cross all your fingers and toes for me! I'm whispering this part because it's a secret).

My Trip

2009-08-15T20:17:00.000-07:00

So, anyway, on Monday I am going in the truck with my Jimmy, again. And despite the fact that I got a perfect score on the "What kind of truckdriver are you?" quiz over there on facebook, I still have to promise that I will at no time, under any circumstances whatsoever, attempt to drive the truck.

They're awfully fussy about that clause. Why? Do wives and children often threaten to drive the trucks? You wouldn't think it would be an issue. It's a big truck. It's noisy, and most of us don't even understand how to make it move, and if we accidentally succeeded in doing so I am sure we would pass out immediately from shock.

Still, I am willing to state for the historical record that I will never, ever attempt to drive the truck.

I am still hoping to meet one of those Lot Lizard women and have some coffe with her and have her answer all the questions I have about the prostitution industry as it relates to truckdriving, but I have already promised that I wouldn't let her get in the precious truck, so I don't see what they get so excited about when I mention it.

It's a perfectly straightforward proposal, I get the hooker in the truckstop and we get chatty in a nice booth, and she tells me everything I ever wanted to know. Like what is the REAL story behind that rumor that lot lizards were selling chicken in the parking lot and why did I think they might also do laundry?

Jimmy says that idea is accounted for by those nice little TIAs I have had since I had that heart surgery, but I think that TIA story is just what we trot out when we don't want to answer the questions.

Jimmy swears he does not patronize lot lizards, not because he is morally opposed so much as because it takes all his money to maintain me. And I'm sure he is right about that.

So, anyway, having promised to not drive anything and confessed to my plans to see a hooker, there's not a lot more to do to get ready for this next trip. I filled the perscription for the Lorazapam in case we have to go over any mountains or that skyway thing they're so wildly fond of in Chicago, and I already packed my bag a week ago.

Since the grandchildren have all been so busy this summer I have had beau coup time for packing, believe me. I tried making a fort out of Jean's mattress and attacking the Triangles by myself, but somehow without Aiden it just doesn't have the same zing.

And my neighbor showed up right in the middle of it to drop off the chocolate milk and I am pretty sure she wasn't buying that story that there were more people than me upstairs and besides, a lot of people answer the door with a tinfoil sword in one hand and a princess hat in the other.

There was no need at all for her to suggest I might want to call the nice gentlemen at the psychiatric facility. Anyway, they didn't have time to play with me, either. Something about rules or work or actual people with real problems or some bunkum like that.

Still, I'm babysitting Emma tomorrow and she's 3. You can usually count on a three year old for some good imaginary play.

Of course, Emma will want to go to the playground, which in Viola some brain surgeon planted right next to the river. If you aren't already aware of this, let me point out that playground equipment is interesting to toddlers for roughly ten seconds.

After that, the the only thing anyone can think of is catching minnows off the boat landing. I don't even know why we have a boat landing, and having one, why is it in the park next to the playground?

You can't drive through the park so how are you going to get your boat to the boat landing? Boats are heavy.

In addition to which there is only one vaguely four by four spot in the river deep enough to float your boat. That would be directly in front of the boat landing. After that the river is about a foot deep and your boat isn't going to be a whole lot of use to you. Unless, of course, you want to sit in it to fish your grandchildren out of that deep spot after they fall in chasing that school of minnows .

Explaining to little people why it is not fun to wade in the river because the mud is deeper than you are tall is basically just a waste of time and energy. Your grandchildren don't care about that, they are only interested in making you sing a loud chorus of "What will we do with a drunken sailor" as a bribe to get them back to the slide.

Which is invariably when the Pastor drives by with a couple of deacons, leading to rumors that some of the congregation may have taken to drink.

And having gotten back to the slide you had better be snappy with a suggestion about why we should leave the park (and the river). Sometimes a bribe, like walking to the quick stop for a bug juice will work, but remember that involves herding toddlers three blocks down the street and back.

Once you get them in the quick stop it's not too bad, except that half of them raid the candy shelves (all within reach of the three year olds, tell me that's an accident) two of them want to help run the cash register and at least one of them insists on opening his bugjuice in the Deli, thus making hay with the sandwiches.

But eventually everybody gets home, and spongebob comes on, and we all get a cookie and fall asleep together in my chair. Now that I think of it, I'm going to miss that while I'm on the road.

On the other hand, getting to just ait still and watch the scenery pass is kind of a restful thought. And Grandpa doesn't say, "Grandma, whatch doin'?" repeatedly til you cry. And he almost never wants to have deep, philosophical discussions about frogs or where the sun goes at night.

He also has almost no interest in catching fireflys, chasing squirrels or trying to brain a Robin with a rock because shaking salt on it's tail did not noticably slow it down. No, I didn't make that up.

And he has never asked me to explain the mating habits of mosquitos on a level that reproduction can be understood at the age of four. Happily, Grandpa already knows all about reproduction and no longer feels any need at all to discuss it.

Anyway, I will tell you all about it when I get home. Whether you want to hear about it or not. That's why I have a blog, so I can talk as much as I want to.

By now, no doubt, you know why I need one.

Pilly's opening statement.

2009-08-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

Sounds ominous, doesn't it? But it's not, I like to write a little humor, and I want the friends who read me to be able to find me, so I thought this looked better than myspace, which no one could ever find.

I'm importing a post from that blog for the first one here on account of I am very lazy and also not feeling all that funny. So here's Pilly's fish story:

Fishing Category: Life
I think that today I will have that disease that you can only get if you have been bitten by the African tse-tse fly. It's way more exotic than that UTI I just recovered from, and since I have been walking that path the village lightly calls a walking trail and the rest of us know as that old road that runs through the slough, I have enough insect bites to back up my claim.

No, the deet doesn't help and yes I have heard of bug repellent. In fact I'm something of an expert on bug repellent. Remember that guy on the old Off! Commercials who dared to stick his arm in an aquarium full of hungry mosquitos?

Well, he was a pansy

.I have personally taken up to eight grandchildren fishing at the Voila National Mosquito Breeding Grounds (hereafter referred to as Lover's lane) and let me tell you, there is absolutely nothing I don't know about bug repellent.

Avon lied about skin-so-soft, just so you know.

Just for your edification, if you are going to take people six and under fishing, don't let anybody have a hook. They're not going to catch any fish, anyway, so hooks are completely unnecessary and only useful for getting grandpa to the emergency room to have one removed from his butt.

It's fun and all, but you probably don't want your grandchildren exposed to that kind of language.

Also, the emergency room takes a dim view of having the hook removal becoming a field trip for little people who want to line up alongside the bed and give the doctor advice as to how to proceed.

Then there is the fistfight that's going to break out when you're back at the slough over who gets the "cool" fishing pole.

No matter how many fishing poles you have, only one is cool. It is always in the hands of Someone Else and can only be fairly taken through war

.Fishline can be a deadly weapon, replace it with red yarn. Yes I know how well that works in the fishing reel. Use an old reel. No sane person gives a good reel to a child under any circumstances whatsoever.

They don't have hooks, they don't need line, the fish heard the noise and have all gone upriver to La Farge. You're not there to catch fish.

At some point at least two kids will fall in the slough. The green stuff is duckweed, don't panic, it won't hurt you. The mud really is mud, however, and may contain leeches and other unpleasant things.After all, the Viola sewege treatment plant is on that road, too, but far be it from me to suggest that might be a bad idea.

Remember to add some bleach (Just a VERY LITTLE) to the bath water, you'll probably be okay

.Kids like mud, also duckweed, eventually everyone will probably "fall in" the slough. Bring towels. A sedative for grandpa won't hurt, either. I highly recommend whiskey, but valium will do if that's all you have.

Then there is the picnic, no one can go fishing without a few sandwiches. It might be a national law, I'm not sure, but in any case you should always bring sandwiches.

Bologna is nice. Peanut butter and Jelly should be called fly bait and left at home.

A good bologna sandwich and a juice box, a couple of apples that no one will eat but everyone will use for ammunition, and some cookies and you've got yourself a first rate, sloughside picnic.

Whatever you may have heard to the contrary dirt will not hurt children, not even if they accidentally eat some. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's a rite of passage.

Be sure that you know what things like poison ivy look like in the wild, also explore the pictures of poison oak, poison sumac and poison parsnip. A short course in edible weeds is handy, too. Never administer syrup of ipecac until AFTER you call the poison control center.

Grandpa will not appreciate the second trip to the emergency room to explain to the nice medical personnel how he got the syrup of ipecac even though he wasn't the person eating the weeds. Just never mind how I know that, you can take my word for it. I'm very honest. Really.

Leave the dog home. Especially if she is ninety six in dog years, somewhat deaf and possibly senile. It will not signifigantly improve her life to be thrown repeatedly in the slough while someone shrieks, "Puppy like a SWIM!" at the top of their lungs.

I can guarantee you that the one thing Puppy doesn't like is "a swimmin'". Puppy gets cranky and bites people, puppy doesn't even like a bath.

Your baby brother also doesn't like a swim, but someone is (usually) watching him a little closer than the dog.

So, anyway, a nice trip to MacDonald's after a day of fishing is a good way to round off the experience. Yes, it is fourteen miles the other direction from home, but no self-respecting grandparent will care about that.

Be sure to go in the place to eat, there is nothing that will brighten up the day of the people who work at MacDonald's like eight children under the age of six all eating a happy meal under the table while covered in duckweed and slough mud.

Also, your children get a little wild when they discover everyone they go to church with was a witness to that. It's good for them. Takes the pretension right out of them, believe me.

Then give them all back to their parents--after assuring them that their dad never went to bed before midnight when he was eight--and go home for a nice nap before dinner.

Ah, grandparenting. Who could ask for anything more?

To those of you who so kindly e-mail me in horror about some of the events in my life, please let me reassure you that all Pilly Stories are BASED ON actual events. That means the source of my inspiriation is triggered by a real event, and it's not that the truth isn't in me, it's just that any story teller will tell you we are born with the inability to tell any story without improving on it some.