Thursday, November 15, 2007
This shouldn't be too tough, even while I nurse this baby and balance a cup of coffee on my overcrowded desk-
1. I pretty much grew up in a glass shop.
My parents had a glass and window shop for some 35 years and I learned to walk and talk and toddle among literally hundred of vertically stacked 8, 10 and 12 foot tall sheets of glass and tons and freshly but not so smoothly cut pieces of metal (imagine the picture above; but with all the glass in a dirt yard and me, in the middle, in my improvised sand box).
I never gave it much thought. Someone was always getting hurt though; my dad got really good at duct tapping his finger tips back on (he did the metal sawing) and there was at least once a week when someone would get a rally bad glass cut. I don't think I'd let my kids in that yard even if they were covered in bubble wrap.
2. I have a fixation lately on anything from the 50's and 60's
I have this theory that because I am a stay art home mom and hardly anyone else is anymore, except maybe three other people, that I am out of sync and out of the loop of most of society.
I cook actual meals that are eaten at an actual table. I haunt eBay searching for 50's and 60's dinnerware -so that I don't have to serve gravy in a measuring cup and butter in a coffee cup.
I remember my mom's green Correll set; (from the early 70's) it had everything -sugar bowl, creamer, serving dishes.
With a modern set of dishes you get four bowls, four plates, four mugs.
What do you need a creamer for?
Coffee comes with it, in a paper cup, along with a heat shield and a cute little communist cliche printed on the side so you have something to read at the stoplights.
3. Back when I was 21ish the back half of my Camero was flattened by a semi truck.
Does this one count ? I might have mentioned this in the last meme-hhmmmm-I'm not sure.
Anyway, we walked away fine. Just a flat car. Two other cars were playing tag on the freeway and one hit me on the rear door and sent me a spinnin', the back half of my car slid under the wheels of the semi truck, which may have saved us because being run over slowed us waaay down before we crashed into the freeway wall.
4. I don't like chocolate chip cookies
5. I once wanted to be a firefighter.
I took the written test, scored high enough to make the next round, then found out I was pregnant with my first kid.
6. I still have to wear my retainer at night.
7. I don't know my right from my left.
8. I once had to receive an adrenalin shot from eating too many strawberries.
9. I inherited from my dad the ability to fix anything with duct tape and or twine and or a few nuts and bolts. Everything that had ever been broken or might someday become broken, if not reinforced was repaired, including; my car's bumper, my dad's thumb (see #1 above), oven handles and all the toilets in
the house with a combination of the above.
10. I stayed up half the night making Ron Paul signs with a bunch of fellow revolutionaries.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Below is a clip from a pretty good article on Pajama Media's cutting of "2nd tier candidates" who were screwing up the polling by not staying in the second tier, which pajama Media feels is their rightful place.
Nothing worse than when someone doesn't know how to "stay in their place."
PJ Media, who has had a tragic history of fuckups, embarrassments, and going nowhere despite raising millions of dollars, have been holding online straw polls for months. After results of a poll that started the week of September 16th were tallied, anti-war Democratic presidential nominee Dennis Kucinich's 132 votes were good enough to earn him the "win" out of lefty hopefuls, and anti-war Republican prez nom Ron Paul collected 512 votes or 61% of the nods for righties.
Instead of accepting the fact that a) maybe even Pajama Media readers might agree with the majority of the country in being against this war b) they should be embarrassed that their poll can't even attract a thousand people c) Ron Paul might actually be popular among Internet-using conservatives AND liberals - Pajamas Media removed both Kucinich and Paul from this week's straw poll and last week's. -
Monday, October 01, 2007
I really don't know where September went.
My kids really dove into the wrestling/MMA thing and I've had to get creative with the logistics of it all.
It seems we'll be moving into the library in the afternoons in order to squeeze school work between wrestilng and jui-jitsu without spending the entire day in the car.
Yes, it does seem, I am just filling blog space to make up for my absence, but not to worry; a quality post is forthcoming, although it will probably have to wait 'till tonight.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
I suffered through the blatantly hostile to Ron Paul, Fox news, republican debates so you don't have to-that is the kind of nice person I am.
Ron Paul, of course, kicked ass and was the only one who had anything to say.
Ron Paul is really starting to scare these punks.
Giuliani made an absolute ass of himself; guffawing and snickering as loud as possible whenever Ron Paul spoke.
Dr. No also had to debate the commentater, which is fine, Ron kicked his ass too.
Do yourself a favor, fast forward through all these clowns- it will save you the trouble of yelling at the screen.
Just skip to Ron.
If you really want to know what the dorks below had to say, I've gone to the trouble of putting all their stupid little prefab stories into one line for you.
Rudy: "I disarmed everyone in New York but somehow I'm still a republican."
McCain: "No, I won't sign your statement -I won't do it, I won't do it."
Romney: "Wire tap houses of worship-trust me it will save lives!"
Hunter: "Gitmo prisoners? -hold them forever."
Brownback: Said nothing, but he may have been switched with Gilbert Godfrey.
Huckabee: "I'd at least give it a good night's sleep before pushing that big, shiny, purdy, red button."
Tancredo: "Waterboarding is good, it's torture that's bad."
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
My mom in law, Dusty Buckel, has just started her own blog. She has a very interesting life (to say the least).
Here is a clip from her blog post on the Secret Santa program that she organizes every year.
Checkout the rest here.
One by one, we delivered them, until we got to the last two. We were cold and with runny noses, my uncle and I got out of the truck. I opened the tail gate as my uncle went knocking on the door, just about 50' from me. As I reached into the back of the truck for the bags I heard this little voice come running up to me. I turned to see a precious little boy, dark hair falling on his forehead, with the biggest dark eyes sparkling at me as he said.... "I knew he would come, I knew Santa would come. I told my Nana that I am not going to bed because Santa is coming and I will wait for him."
My tears just flowed down my cheeks as I bend down infront of him and said..."Yes, Mijo (son), Santa was so busy tonight he asked us to bring these to you because he has a lot of children this year." He answered,... "Yes, I know", and he ran skipping, in front of my uncle back to his apartment, as my uncle carried the two huge bags for this family. I just stood there, crying tears of Love, and said Thank You God, that we did not stay home and wait till tomorrow. This little guy was my Star of David on that beautiful Christmas Eve.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
This is a little ironic.
Today is the first day of school. I am running back and forth between floors to grab coffee (kid's school room is downstairs, coffee and my computer up).
I thought I'd scan a few headlines to catch anything I might want to go over in our current events.
As part of the Miss Teen USA pageant , this poor girl was asked a "thought-provoking question."
I don't know what to make of the answer.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
So to show my good faith I give to you;
Friday, August 24, 2007
I had promised my kids I'd take them to the coolest thrift store in the world to treasure hunt with their allowance money.
It lies across the strip, which is a pain to cross and in our family we refer to it as crossing the Rubicon (alea iacta est!). My older kids joke as we cross over to the east, "Hey -we're just like Bush." "No, we don't have that kind of Gaul."-Yes, that is literally layers upon layers of political sarcasm, that would send Dennis Miller off to check his notes, coming from eight and ten year olds.
As we are sitting at the light I see a homeless person, holding a sign, walking through cars. I see it's a woman and I see she is dirty. And I think when I see that grime, that she really has no where to go. She is three lanes of cars away from me and for a second she looks up and I see her face- and I realize she is very very young.
I just stare for a minute.
I think to myself that she is only a baby.
I look again and realize she is probably is over 18 or 19, but still, I see someone's little girl.
I start scavenging for cash or even food, gather up like twenty five bucks and then she is gone. The light changes, so we loop around and circle back.
But no- I was too late.
I know where she's gone-into someone's car.
And if I could find that car I might smash his windshield in.
I felt so overwhelmed and desperate and helpless. I was hoping if I could just gather up thirty, forty bucks; that's one less blow job she'd have to give.
I wanted to tell her to go home to her mom.
I keep driving back to that corner but I'm always too late, I haven't seen her since.
Vegas has or at least used to have an awesome program for teen prostitutes. The problem is they get brought here from out of state. Some asshole finds a girl in an abusive home who wants out, he pretends to be her boyfriend, that he's moving to Vegas and she goes too- but of course, when they get here, he pimps her out.
And she has no where to go.
In the old days and in a lot of other places when the girl gets arrested she just gets sent back to the abusive home. But here they send the girl into basically a reprogramming house- stacked with rape counselors and therapists and they teach the girls they are more than what they believed they were. They teach them how to live on their own so the cycle won't restart. This girl was probably just old enough not to qualify. But to me, I saw a lost little girl.
I actually searched my jeep for a spare teddy bear that day, thinking she might need it.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
So in light of my devastating sore throat or in the words of the very wise philosopher, Dave Barry, the Martian Death Flu, I give to you a repost from February-no one read my blog back then anyway.
Why? Because network news sucks-that's why.
I have been wondering for a while now how long it would be before the elitist style of news coverage would crash and burn.
As those in control at the major networks started to see a slide in ratings they thought,"Oh, must be that the audience is just too stupid for real news. We'll have to do more celebrity segments."
And then came Fox.
Fox flew into first place not because the entire world had turned neo-con but because it was a niche market that was completely ignored up until then.
I think I practically jumped up and down the first time I heard a segment involving a person shooting at an intruder in his home and it wasn't completely biased against guns.
But then, of course, reality set in.
Fox was just as insane as the other networks- they were just in favor of controlling every aspect of my life, for my own good, from the right (as opposed to from the left like NBC).
Because Fox had such success, all the networks, in a panic to figure out why no one was watching them, tried to go after the republican market (for the first time, even though they represent about half of the U.S.) but that didn't work either, because republicans were still bitter toward the old networks for ignoring them all these years.
One of the last times I watched a network news show was about five years ago.
Katie Couric was interviewing a woman who had written a book about living and working . . .
as a normal person.
She spent a year or two working as a waitress or a maid or whatever other jobs the rest of us, in the unwashed masses, have to endure. And she wrote about her experience.
Who was she writing this for?
Obviously, if you're an elitist writing a book about posing as a normal person, you must be writing for other elitists who are curious about this lifestyle.
We were the Gorillas in the Mist, or more accurately in the midst, and she lived among us like Diane Fossey, for a while.
I could not understand why this person was on television. I wondered if they thought perhaps they were on some special signal only beamed out to those who have never had to hold a job.
Well, the first thing I thought of when I heard this brave and courageous soul speak was her little experiment was flawed from the get go.
She was not living like a poor person-she was living like a well off, recent college graduate, taking a low paying job for a short time.
She was not starting out with a piece of shit car. She had a car that would get her through for a year or two without needing repairs that would roughly equal the price of said car.
She had a closet full of fairly new designer clothes-that would still look nice in a year or so and therefore she would be treated with respect when she moved about among her public.
She had a case full of Mac or some equally expensive brand of makeup and professionally styled hair.
All things she would keep up fairly cheap by adding to here and there with the grocery store stuff (assuming she didn't cheat and go to a salon with some of the money she was pretending not to have).
Her expensive personal items would last her through the year or two.
She would also have the knowledge that her "real" life was there as a fall back.
If she were to step into a thrift store with her hard earned twenty, she would not have to look to outfit herself entirely-shoes and underwear included.
She would not feel the weight of poverty and depression and wonder why she can't, just once, buy something new.
She would walk in the musty entrance of the thrift store with her $300 pair of Prada mule shoes and her cute $140 leather belt and a ridiculously overpriced spaghetti tank, search through the "boutique" section, the section that actual poor people never even look at, find a bohemian style skirt to piece together with her designer ensemble and walk out of there thinking,"Wow, you really can look good from a thrift store. It's just that these poor people don't know how to present themselves fashionably. They're poor for a reason, you know."
During this interview she mentioned that a woman she'd been working with busted her ankle and stayed at work hobbling around because she couldn't take the day off. And when she went home-she iced it and wrapped it (like the rest of us have to do, because she didn't have the $300 to throw away on a doctor) and came back to work the next day.
Both the author and Katie were aghast at this and shook their heads when they cut away to a commercial.
This was the end for me.
Two people doing a show for actual people but talking about us as though we were a zoo exhibit.
Tirade over- here is the article on the beginning of the end for the aspiring Courics of the world;
Steve Spendlove realizes that after last month's layoffs of most of the news-gathering staff at tiny KFTY-TV in Santa Rosa there will be less local coverage. The Clear Channel executive overseeing the station knows there won't be reporters to investigate local scandals, let alone do those fluffy woman-turns-100 features that make TV anchors cock their heads and smile at the end of a newscast.
But Spendlove said that the station's "business model" hadn't been working for years, and that "covering one-eighth of the Bay Area" is neither a moneymaker nor even an operation large enough to be measured by Nielsen ratings.More here
Monday, August 20, 2007
In lieu of smart assed commentary, complaints about the encroaching police state and thoughts on breastfeeding and male bashing, I give to you instead, two of my favorite short and sweet poems.
Down pelts the rain
My bare feet sink into gritty, moist dirt
No one watching but my angels
I dance with each rain drop
The thunder cracks and I spin until the trees and hills blur together
The smell of electricity fills me
It's power charges through me and I run; just to feel the life and pain
My feet are cut and I dance
. . . For a moment
I can't remember which life this is
and for that moment I see it all from afar
I dance and stomp and run with only my angels watching
Your whisper rolls through my soul
I float on a gentle wave
Darkness like velvet
The softest velvet
Random images flash
Your thoughts or mine-I cannot tell which
Time a rushing river
Then a gentle stream
I take in forever
with every breath
Sunday, August 19, 2007
read more | digg story
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
NYPD '"Citizens who quietly band together and adopt radical ways. . .pose a serious threat to American security."
"Potential terrorists are difficult for law enforcement to detect because they blend in well." NYPD say they need more info on citizens and more intelligence gathering (read gadgets). The rest of the lovely article is below.
NEW YORK - Citizens who quietly band together and adopt radical ways — not just established overseas terrorist groups like al-Qaida — pose a serious threat to American security, a new police analysis has concluded.
The New York Police Department report, to be released Wednesday, describes a process in which young Muslim immigrants, frustrated with their lives in their adopted country, slowly adopt a philosophy that puts them on the path to jihad. The men meet and share ideas in mosques, in bookstores and over the Internet, it says.
Police officials say the report warns that potential terrorists are difficult for law enforcement to detect because they blend in well. It also argues that more intelligence gathering is needed to thwart terror plots at their earliest stages.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Hey-vote for me at Topmomma while I'm on their front page!
Also-I am forming a post on another Gunstore adventure, the lesson in this one;
always follow your instincts-the upcoming story includes a serial killing nurse, a con man, a young pretty girl and a Loomis armored truck heist that all went down in South America and makes the movie Fargo look like a well planned and fairly simple pilferage.
All involving people we knew- but, no, this guy never got invited to our milkshake parties.
Monday, August 06, 2007
It has been a far more wonderful journey than I could ever have imagined.
For our anniversary, I wrote a rather lengthy love letter in pen and ink and discovered that no matter how many times you click the top of the pen, the spell checker does not engage.
Someday, I'll post the story of the rather bizarre circumstances of how we met- but since I just posted the world's longest story about a flying refrigerator, I think I'll just stop here for now.
We haven't seen our old friends in about six years and we were seriously considering that it was about time to hire a private investigator to track them down. -Scott is also a member a very very small club along with Stewart-The Waking,Talking-been shot in the head club. Unlike Stewart, Scott still has his .380 artifact in his forehead.
But once again blogging saved the day when Scott found my blog and knew no one but me could go on and on about guns and breastfeeding and the search for god all in one, way too long and running out of breathe just reading it sentence.
I also want to say to any other old pals who may be lurking in the cyber world but just haven't emailed yet, that Scott is doing awesome. He and Andrea were married and had a second baby. Andrea is a very cool, stay at home mom with a squeaky clean house and is a total babe. And Scott now knows how to cook! He's like a Spanish rice guru, he says the magic ingredient is the "huskier" flavor of the basmati brown rice. He cooked for us all weekend.
Getting back together with our old closest friends made us all think back a bit to the rest of our old crowd. I lovingly recall them as the 3AM milkshake crew because after an evening shooting bowling pins we would all go out and glutinously order chocolate milkshakes with the whipped cream blended into the mix.
We hope to track down the rest of the gang eventually but, in the mean time, I'd like to tell one of my favorite stories from those days. It is a story on why you should never underestimate a person. And why just because you are an arrogant assholish boss, who likes to pick on employees, who work their asses off just trying to make you happy, is no reason to brow beat those employee endlessly.
This is a tale of resistance-
and how the little guy can sometimes win or at least
make a really big point.
Art Scott and the Flying Refrigerator
Back around 1994-1995 my husband managed a gun store called Nevada Pistol Academy (NPA). It was owned, in part, by the same person who owned The Gun Store (ownership of both has since changed hands). The other half of NPA was owned by Dave. I'd love to out his assholishness in this tale, but I can't remember his last name. When Dave and Rick (owner of The Gun Store at the time) bought NPA together, Rick began parsing out employees from The Gun Store over to NPA.
NPA was in a great building, with a living room like environment, flavored coffee always brewing, a great range and women loved the place (no dead deer or naked women on the walls).
At the time my husband and pal Scott (mentioned above) were the only two guys working there certified to teach the very popular, gun store staple; concealed carry classes. So while Scott co-managed the very booming and crowded The GUN Store, hubby took over management of NPA, out in the desert.
The potential was there for this place but it was pretty vacant. So hubby made use of the homey environment to make the place a hang-out for shooters. He had weekly bowling pin shoots and people would show up early in the day to practice ahead of time and just hang out. The place went from a ghost town to everyone's living room.
One of the "perks" Stewart requested when he was sent out there was he wanted Gun Store employee, Art Scott to work with him. Art is an awesome guy and he is also a very very hard worker. He'll do anything for anyone. Both Stewart and Art were on salary which, as you know if you've ever been on one, in terms of hours worked and pay received, has always been the biggest scam running. Art and Stewart were often up till early in the morning tallying and logging and whatever else there is to do that is excruciatingly boring. Sometimes, Scott would drive over to help just so we could all go out for milkshakes before dawn. As Stewart got more and more serious with school the managing job became too time consuming. He was at a point where he really couldn't do both. So he handed his hat to Art. Stewart continued to help with the bowling pin shoots and also continued teaching concealed carry classes.
Now Stewart has a pretty assertive personality- he never gets pushed around by anyone. Whenever I need to take something back to the store I have Stewart do it (I think it's the jingle jangle of his spurs ; ) .So this owner guy, Dave, pretty much never showed up or even said much of anything while Stewart was running the place. Except to occasionally mutter about the amount of gourmet coffee that the hordes of people spending the entire day in his gun store, buying ammo and range time were consuming. So this is the level of intelligence that we're dealing with here. But indicative of coward modus operandi this Dave guy wormed his way out of the woodwork when Stewart left.
Art did a very meticulous job of managing- he was always friendly, always took the time to talk and teach the customers, never talked down to anyone or tried tell women to only shoot tiny little guns that they could "handle." Art was pretty much like everyone's favorite brother.
The layout of this place was such that the bathrooms were just outside the range. This was convenient to wash hands after shooting (to remove lead dust) but not so great for keeping the floors clean looking. Although the range was a clean as gun range can be; stepping from the range to the restrooms and then washing your hands meant smeary gray lead dust (lead mud?) on the floor.
Dave love to taunt Art about this. No amount of explaining to Dave would stop him from ignoring the hours of care and hard work that Art put into that store. Now this should have been a clue that Dave didn't care if the bathroom was clean or dirty; it was just about picking on someone because he could.
There was also a refrigerator in back. A very heavy, green side by side, broken, leaky, smelly refrigerator. The entire time my husband managed there he never used it, except to throw out all the food and put a 'broken do not use' sign on it. This refrigerator would work great for six hours then quit for six, then work again, allowing time for the now rotten food to get cold again so you could happily eat your salmonella sandwich and never know it was poisoned. Dave never said a word about this refrigerator when Stewart managed the place. But when Dave discovered that people-pleasing Art actually cared about what other people thought about him and thus was labeled as weak, in the eyes this cowardly tyrant, he would not stop harping about the condition of the refrigerator.
So one day Art had enough.
Not the kind of enough that you're thinking of, the kind of enough that someone who will work tirelessly to finally received their deserved accolades, has- when he's had enough.
Art decided to make the bathrooms and green frig spotless.
He set about taking time after hours to clean them. His first task was to shine up the range since the lead dust was the true culprit (well, of course, not the true culprit, the true culprit was Dave's inner power trip). He then laid out some rugs outside the range, re-cleaned all the bathrooms, then he headed for the permanently smelly refrigerator.
Stewart was teaching a class on the range by this time and I was hanging out with Art. I was quite impressed by all the work he had done.
He took apart the whole refrigerator and cleaned each piece separately. He soaked the more odorous sections in bleach and shined the glass with Windex, creating a particularly noxious and dangerous chemical cocktail mix that you could actually see-in a room full of gun powder.
He spent a considerable amount of time fitting the various doors and drawers back in.
Soon after, Dave pulled up. Art, made a mad dash for the bathrooms and went over the floors again before Dave could get in the door. Art then raced back to the counter as Dave was walking in.
Seeing Art come back from the hall, Dave said in his demeaning, vacant way, that Art needs to stay at the counter when no on else is up front.
And I could see Art's eyes narrow.
While this particular round of emotional abuse went on, someone walked off the range and used the bathroom, then went back to the range.
Dave then went toward the bathrooms. "Art you have to start cleaning these bathrooms. You know it only takes a few minutes each day."
Now you and I know that Art said something back -I just cleaned them or whatever -that's why I wasn't up front-but we also all know about these power type people and how words just disappear at their ears. Even my own memory places Art's comeback as a murmur that I can't quite nail down, while Dave's admonishes remain as clear pronouncements.
Then Dave went in the back.
"Art, you have got to make the time to clean that refrigerator."
Then Dave left.
At this point Art had had that kind of enough.
"So Dave wants a clean refrigerator."
"Well, better do what the boss said."
Art, with his adrenalin soaring, grabbed the refrigerator, pulled it out from it's alcove and started pushing it toward the back door. When he reached the back steps, Art, in an amazing display, usually only reserved for mothers rescuing children trapped under cars, lifted up the refrigerator and hoisted it out the back door. It flew out and down (the building had a four foot drop off in back)
and it landed about ten feet out.
He went over to it and flipped it over so that the doors faced up, then placed the hose inside it and turned it on.
And there the refrigerator sat, for months to come.
As time has passed, the refrigerator story has become lore. If you were to walk into any gun store in Vegas today you could probably find some person there who has heard a version of it.
In most version's Art took an ax to it, or a sledge hammer, sometimes after being fired.
But no, this was not revenge, this was a powerful lesson in respecting the dignity of others.
But mostly, I think, Dave is just lucky that Art is such a reasonable guy.
Monday, July 30, 2007
We women are always trying to force ourselves to reach the highest levels in about ten million categories.
We want to be patient, playful, cheerful moms, career women, (I ditched this one-but traded it for homeschooling) domestic goddesses who cook nutritious and simultaneously delicious meals, sew contest winning-Halloween costumes from old sheets and sweat pants, who are also "hot babes" having a voracious sexual appetite and achieving the coveted MILF-hood model.
I have a confession to make, although I joke about being perfect; not everything is as it should be-I have not reached all of these personal benchmarks.
I do not sew.
But I do know how to make wheat bread that does not taste and weigh like a brick.
Most of you know that I grew up Mormon. There is not much I have taken with me into adult life from the church. I feel like a caged-up bird every time I have to walk into an LDS building as I have to do occasionally for weddings, funerals and the like.
I was forever in trouble for showing too much skin, piercing my nose, working as a stripper . . .
Once I went into a church credit union to take out cash. I did, in fact, have evil intentions.
They somehow knew.
I must have carried an aura of iniquity. I was going to buy a car with my boyfriend. This was because we lived together and shared our money (gasp!). Yes, the same guy who is now my husband. I was nineteen years old. The bank made me call my mother before they would let me withdraw that much money from my own account. To this day I feel like I'm going to get in trouble whenever I walk into a bank.
Most of you know that Mormons are pretty much survivalists, especially back in the seventies and eighties. So like most Mormons; I grew up with a lot of wheat, piles and piles of wheat.
I know you don't want to admit your wheat bread taste like a brick. This goes back to my earlier point, we women want to look in control of everything in our lives. We want to appear (to ourselves too) that we feed our families only healthy foods. We get embarrassed if there are too many junk food items in the cart. We cut size tags out of clothes if they are a size up. We only open the curtains when the house is perfectly clean. And when we really want to show up other women at the office or neighborhood pot luck, we bring a whole grain banana bread to proclaim, to all "Look everyone, I am disciplined in all areas of life." But if you can't bring whole grain wheat bread because it is a brick; I am here to help you sustain your neurotic facade of supremacy.
I don't really have a recipe- I do what you do. I get online, look for a decent looking cooks.com thing and print it. But there are a few tricks you must use in order to convince people that you are flawless in all areas.
If you were to read the label, of course you do, all perfect people do, you'll see the second ingredient in almost all "whole wheat" bread is enriched wheat (white flour). That is because in all but the whole-est of the "whole wheat" breads, they use about half and half; wheat to white. You can actually throw in just a cup and a half of wheat flour; use white flour for the rest, replace the white sugar for dark brown sugar and a touch of molasses and your bread will taste like white but look like wheat.
This is all you really need to have all the other husbands and boyfriends and significant others turn to their women and say; "Wow-this is great, honey, get that recipe." Score one point for forcing another woman to endure this most renounced and feared humiliation.
This nod to your superiority may be enough to satiate your own personal mark of perfect woman status, but if you wish to further raise the bar by introducing your bread to the tinfoiled lasagna layout with a loud procolamation that the bread you are presenting is real whole wheat; you can use a few other tricks.
2. LemonsMost bread companies use a dough conditioner to soften the feel of the dough. You can get this at a specialty baker's shop, but since bread making is not a part-time job or a religion to you or anything, you probably don't want to devote that much time and energy into it. Instead, use lemon juice. If you don't have lemons but instead have a frig full of Corona, put one on ice for later and use one of the limes stuffed inside the twelve pack. The juice of one lemon/lime or 2 tablespoons out of one of those fake plastic things in the refrigerator that you once made the mistake of drinking out of as a kid (because you didn't learn your lesson from the baker's chocolate) is fine.
3. Knead the shit out of the dough.You have to fully develop the gluten in the dough. If you don't develop the gluten enough while kneading, the consistency will feel heavy and thick and so will the finished product. You can use one of those ridiculously expensive mixers or you can be a real woman about it and get your ass to work. You arms should feel like they are about to fall off.
4. Don't add too much flour.This mistake comes from not kneading enough. When the bread is sticky and stretchy, stop adding flour. Just keep kneading and it will magically start to feel like dough. Adding too much flour is what causes brick and sometimes mortar consistency.
5. White flour.Even if you don't fully cheat you should use about a cup of white flour. Add it at the end-it just makes it lighter.
So now you are a beautiful, perfect, overachieving babe, your house is always clean, your clothes are the perfect size, you only talk reasonably with a smile to your kids, you are always cheery and now your bread is perfect too.
If there is any other bar you feel you must reach-just let me know, I'm here to help.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
headed Nazi freakos running around in the woods.
So bear with me a bit and picture this scene.
A small town in Arkansas, a man nearing 60 years old who has lived in the same town and his family has farmed the same piece of land for generations.
A man who loves his community and town. He is known as a peaceful,"gentle giant" and is quick to help people in need.
Sometime during the mid 1990s he gets the idea to form a local militia;
militia, in the original sense of the word.
A group of people who would meet and train for the safety of their community.
He wanted this to be a true, above board, community project and the laws of Arkansas say he in within his rights-that what he has formed is a true militia. He sent notice to the governor, got a nod from the local sheriff and sometimes held
meetings in the local courthouse.
He also knew that while everything appeared to be and was, in fact, legal according to the constitution (you know that pesky thing that W keeps issuing executive orders to get around); he knew that federal law enforcement really don't always care what the constitution says. -
I'm stopping here for a minute- to address that nagging thought of yours-
Just to stamp out any prejudice you may have against a person in a militia, I should add that this person (Wayne Fincher) is not a racist and has never had any connection to racists and has received support from JPFO (Jews for the Preservation of Firearms Ownership) who wouldn't go near a racist or KKK affiliated person with a 10 foot, 12 foot or any other length of pole
and (just breaking up the text for people with short attention spans)
he has received the support of my Latino/Apache/White husband who is very sensitive to any indication of racism as most of his family spent the last generation in the grape fields of California and who wouldn't touch a racist with a ten foot pole; but maybe a three foot (lead)pipe.
Where was I?
So now this guy,Wayne Fincher, is in his sixties and basically decided that since what he is doing is constitutional and is the right thing for his community, (New Orleans certainly could have used a local militia-instead of just getting disarmed) that he was not going to live in fear.
He did an interview with an Arkansas paper (front page) explaining why the militia was there and that the militia did, in fact, have two sub-machine guns as part of their equipment.
I'll stop here again.
Once again, you may feel the prickling of ignorance and prejudice on the back of your neck, but thats okay, I'm here to help.
A sub-machine gun is simply a firearm, usually pistol caliber (hence the sub, otherwise it would be just be machine-gun- gasp!) that has the option of continuous fire when you hold down the trigger; most also can be switched to three round bursts or switched to fire normally.
Really though, if you have ever shot one you know that, while fun, they kind of suck because two shots is all you can really get off before you're pointed at the ceiling and the range owner is shaking his head wildly and waving his arms and pointing at the ceiling lights, mouthing frantically, "The lights-the lights!"
-I'm just just speaking in general terms here, of course.
Bigger people can get three if they really put their weight behind it, hence the three round bursts.
I forgot where I was again- I do this in real life too-I think it's all the coffee.
Oh yes, I was addressing the prejudice against this tool that is so dramatized and sexualized in movies-I think Hollywood has some sort of forbidden fruit obsession with firearms.
Theses sub-machine guns are legal in most states, the only thing that makes owning these a crime is a couple hundred dollar tax stamp; one which a militia is not required to obtain.
You can see how this went down. The result is that a sixty some odd year old man with a heart condition is sitting in prison.
He has been offered more than one deal but does not want them.
He wants to stand up for what he believes is right.
He has been sentenced and gun law guru Quentin Rhoades (no relation- just an awesome last name-would be even more awesome without the "a") with hubby 's help is on the appeal.
Below is the text of an email sent out by his family and below that are a couple of news snippets.
To all,As you know or may not know we have new lawyers that are doing the appeal. They have offered they services for PRO BONO. The only thing is that we have to pay for traveling fees and filing fees transcript fees etc.
We have set up an account at Arvest Banks that you can deposit money into the account. If you electronic deposit or wire money the account the information is routing number 082900872 account number is 0037421461. If you deposit at the Arvest bank the account is under Connie Fields H.W. Fincher Fund Account. Account Number 0037421461. If you want to send money by mail send to Connie Fields H.W.FINCHER FUND ACCOUNT P.O. BOX 215 ELKINS ARKANSAS 72727. This Money is for the attorneys. The main attorney is from Montana, his name is Quentin Rhoades and the other attorney's name is Stewart Rhodes and he is from Las Vegas, Nevada.
These lawyers we feel are very qualified to handle this case. I know that people have giving to this cause before and we thank you but, now we need your help again.
This appeal is going to cost approximately $5000.00 just to go to St. Louis, if this goes to the Supreme court approximately another $10,000.00.
Please help any way you can to keep your Second Amendment Right's and FREE WAYNE.
Thank You very much from the family of Hollis Wayne Fincher
The Morning NewsThe Morning News
Blatt also questioned the federal agent about whether the confidential informant was drunk or drinking when he made reports to the government about activities at the militia headquarters. The federal agent said he did think the informant drank, but didn't see any evidence to believe he was too impaired to reliably report the group's activities.
Judge refuses to allow militia leader's testimony
The defense rested Thursday after U.S. District Judge Jimm Larry Hendren ruled Fincher's proposed testimony inadmissible.
Fincher testified for more than an hour with the jury out of the courtroom so Hendren could decide if his testimony was admissible.
Hendren has repeatedly ruled the defense can attack the government's evidence but not the law that applies to the case. He also ruled, based on U.S. Supreme Court precedents, laws passed by Congress to regulate firearms do not violate the Second Amendment.
After hearing Fincher out, Hendren decided the testimony was aimed at challenging the legality of federal gun laws, not if Fincher had illegal, unregistered firearms in his possession.
Fincher maintains possession of the guns, which he does not deny, should not be criminalized because their possession was "reasonably related to a well regulated militia," based on the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.
Fincher said the group would have been "derelict" not to use inexpensive, available and effective military weaponry to protect their homes and state.
P.S.-I have no idea why the Digg button on the main page takes you to an old post and why the trackback link takes you to the correct Digg version. But you can just Digg both of them;)
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