Beyond Words

Record voter turnout across the country.  The first African American President.

I could quip, be snarky, and snide, but I have no deisre to.  

Instead, I quote myself from yesterday.  

I hope.

A Nation Divided

I was talking about the election with some colleagues.  We were debating whether or not we would know the results by Thursday morning.  (My vote is NO, btw.  I am fairly sure that we're going to face a Bush vs. Gore-esq long-term battle.)  Someone pointed out that there hasn't been a landslide election in a very long time, that the results tend to be 51%/49%.  I hadn't thought about it in that way in a while, but he's not wrong.

That divide is part of what makes the democracy work; I can have my opinion, you can have yours, and the twain need never meet.  Neither party involved in my example is afraid to make our opinions known, we hold the freedom of speech as a sacred right.

A tangent - - I've noted frequently on these pages that I am sick unto death of campaigns, political ads, hoopla and hullaballo.  Sick. Of. It.  And I'm a junkie when it comes to all things political.  We're all sick of it, and yet, what is the chatter around the water cooler?  The election.  Politics.  Red vs. Blue, conservative vs. liberal, what should be done about the financial crisis by those in charge, voting.  We bitch about how sick of the whole mess we are, and then the conversation turns right back to the election.  Human nature, I guess.

Back to the point.  This divide shows itself on election day more than any other.

Ohio allowed early voting this year, and I took advantage of that.  Honestly, they could allow it every year and I wouldn't know.  It has been in the news, though.  I did it this year because along with a long battle for us to know who the winner is, I think that there will be a record turnout for voting this year, and like every other red-blooded 'merican, I don't like standing in line.

The county board of elections is housed in a reclaimed big box retail store, and it looks like it.  They have panelling dividing the various county departments housed there.  It is ugly.  I was astonished that the parking lot was crowded, not just with cars but with milling people too.  I found a space and coming inside the building, was accosted by a guy working for someone running for a seat on one of the county courts.  The candidate in question has chosen an unfortunate purple-pink-mauve color for his literature.  It is memorable, I'll give him that.  

Inside, the line to get your absentee ballot (which is how they're letting Ohioans vote early, by absentee) was long.  I couldn't see the end of it from the door.  When I got to the end, I thought, "I'm gonna be here all day."  But it moved quickly, and soon I was standing at the counter, ID in hand, and the nice civil servant went searching for me in the voter registration rolls.  I think I waited for that longer than I waited in line.  Dunno why people have so much trouble with the whole hyphenated name thing.  People, it just ain't that tough.

The lighting in that old big-box store is weird.  Either it is too dark to see properly, as in was in the voting "booths", really just partitions where you could stand and darken in your ovals, or it was blinding bright with the florescent lights.  I tried, really did, to take a picture of my ballot with the crackberry, showing who I choose for President, but the bb overcompensated for the lack of light with its built-in flash, and the ballot is too washed out.  Since it did flash and make a bunch of noise, I decided that it probably wasn't smart to continue to try to take pictures.  Disruptive, you know.

I had to wait in line again to turn in the ballot.  The number of people there really gave me hope that this time, finally, more people are taking the right to vote more seriously.  Maybe, for the first time in a while, we will have more than 35% of the eligible population actually vote.  

I have hope.

The chatter in the lines was all Obama, Obama, Obama, if that's any indication of what's going to happen.

I have hope!

Night-time/Fright-time

Here is mistake #1: I picked up a new Stephen King paperback at, of all places, the grocery store the other day.  I love him; he's talented, spins a hell of a tale, and he scares the crap outta me.  So I haven't read much of his work.  

When I was 10/11, a girlfriend had a book of short horror stories at the community pool one day, and I read one titled "One For The Road" by Mr. King.  "Salem's Lot" grew out of One For The Road, or so urban legend tells.  I read that story sitting on the grass in the sun, surrounded by happily screaming kids and splashes.  It almost makes it more sinister, somehow, to read it in the bright light of day than during a dark and stormy night.

I've read about 100 pages into "Duma Key" and although the really scary hasn't started yet, he does an incredible job of building the suspense and giving you hints of what's to come.  It is captivating, and I felt immediate empathy for the main character, someone I should not really be able to relate to: he (yes, he) is a middle-aged white guy, survivor of a terrible accident that left him with brain damage and just one arm. 

Of course, I was reading before sleeping, and when I finally turned out the light....guess what happened?  I heard every little noise the house makes and reacted with terror.  We're using a small space heater in the bedroom to warm the room a little, and therefore keep the bedroom door closed.  I could swear that I heard it creaking open, could see it moving bit by bit, was certain that there was someone there.  I started thinking about Dean Koontz's character Odd Thomas, and the evil spirits Odd can see, bodachs I think he calls them.  Scaring myself further, of course.

Eventually, I calmed down enough to doze off, only to be jerked awake when DH rolled out of bed and went downstairs for something.  I realized that I was being ridiculous, and that were someone really hiding behind the door, DH would have run smack into them.  So I fell asleep, finally.

A few hours later, I was dragged back to consciousness by a dream that had my heart pounding.  In the light of day, it seems so silly.  I was dreaming about my old non-profit job, and the board of directors.  Technically, every board member was my boss, and believe me, they acted like it.  In reality, I reported to the chair and vice chair, and as long as they were happy with me, I mostly didn't sweat the details when another board member was angry with me.  The chair was very supportive of me, had my back every time.  

As with every job you'll ever have, there were a few board members in particular that I wasn't really fond of.  I used to joke to friends that two board members would call each other before the board meetings and decide whose turn it was to attack Lucy during the board meeting.  Both women.  And both of them intimidated the hell out of me, although I was careful to not let them know that.  There was The Society Matron, old money and proud of it, who thought the rest of the world existed to serve her, and there was The Old Battle-Axe, a career woman and someone who was angry, bitter, and nasty.  She ruled her department with terror and threats, and man-oh-man I couldn't stand her.

The dream ended with one of The Old Battle-Axe's flunkies telling me that she expected to see me immediately, and that I was in for a hell of a meeting.  She was mad.

Heart racing, gasping for breath, I sat up in bed and attempted to just breathe for a minute.  I haven't seen The Old Battle-Axe for more than a year.  Haven't spoken to her in around 8 months.  (Thank you, gentle goddess!) And yet, she has apparently retained the ability to terrorize me.

No more.  Not ever again.

While trying to go back to sleep, I visulized her shrinking, from oversized and looming over me to smaller and shorter and eventually just the size of an ant.  Where she can be squashed if she ever tries to terrorize my dreams again!

Pommes Galettes

Yet another link that's missing from my sidebar is Smitten Kitchen. I don't always want to run right out and make whatever she's making (really, most of the time I'd rather she just delivered it straight to my belly! ;-) but I am always inspired.

I don't remember reading a recipe for Apple Galettes on her site, but I'm sure there's something just like what I did today, somewhere. Or, perhaps, I just feel like this is something she might do.

According to The Joy of Cooking....

(Were I to have a holy book for the kitchen, Joy would be it. My go-to for any term, fruit, vegetable, technique, or direction for things I am unfamiliar with.)

A galette consists of a flat crust of pastry or bread dough covered with sugar, pastry cream or a thin layer of fruit. Most galettes are simply made (check) and rustic in look. (definite check plus there)

Thanks to the inventive re-engineering of my apple peeler-corer-slicer by someone with a weeee bit more of a clue when it comes to, oh, reassembling stuff than me, I've been anxious to bake either an apple pie, or apple dumplings. I don't bake cherry or peach pies, and I'm not into the extreme fussiness a meringue pie takes, but apple? Sign me up. The problem with dumplings, though, is that I want to eat them. More than one of them, which would constitute the entire sugar intake for a small country for a year. Pies are problematic, too. I want more than a slice. Since it is just DH and me in our house, unless we're having company, no pie. Too much temptation.

Galettes can be as big or as small as you like, so I decided I'd use the peeler-corer-slicer (thanks F!) and make a bunch of individual little pies. One or two for DH and I, and the rest would be taken straight to work, where my co-workers are the lucky recipients of most of what I bake. I like to think of that as a win-win...I get to bake, which I enjoy, and they get to eat it, which they enjoy. The only downside is that they complain about their expanding waistlines. (Hello? Why do you think I take it to work? I don't need that at my house!!!) Truth is that I don't bake, knit, or cook for people I don't like, so draw whatever conclusions you like about that.

Pommes Galettes avec gousse de vanille

Apple galettes with vanilla bean

Oven 350/makes 16

For the filling:

16 apples, any variety that bakes well, peeled, cored, and sliced

2 cups sugar

1 tbsp cinnamon (more or less to taste, I like A LOT)

1/2 tsp allspice

1/2 tsp nutmeg

1/2 vanilla bean, sliced lengthwise and seeds scraped out

1 stick butter

zest of 1 lemon

juice of 1 lemon

For the crust (adapted from Joy)

make 2 batches

2-1/2 cups flour

1 tbsp powdered sugar

1 tsp salt

1 cup lard, or butter, cold or frozen

1/3 cup ice cold water

Because the dough works better when cold, make the crust first, and stick it in the fridge while making the filling.

I make pie crust in the food processor, because I am lazy and impatient. Sue me.

In the working bowl of the food processor, place flour, sugar, and salt, and pulse for 10 seconds to combine. Add the fat cut into small pieces, and pulse for just seconds at a time, until the dough looks like pea-sized crumbs. Pour water over dough, and pulse briefly again. Do not allow the dough to come together in a big lump in the food processor, it isn't good for the motor.

Dump the contents of the working bowl onto a large piece of plastic wrap, and shape into a flat disk. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate until needed.

Peel, core, and slice apples. Use the lemon juice to keep them from turning brown, a little sprinkled over the slices as you add them to a big bowl works well. Add zest, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg and vanilla seeds, mixing well to combine. Taste a slice....add sugar or seasonings as appropriate if needed.

Separate each disk of dough into 8 equal portions, and roll each out to about an 8 inch diameter. Spoon sliced apples into the middle, and fold corners up to form a little tart. Dot tops of each tart with butter.

I placed them 4 to a cookie sheet, and baked them for about 45 minutes. When the crust browns a little and the apples are tender, they're done.

Maybe the reason I've never written a cookbook is because my directions are too vague...bake until done....that's priceless, Luce.

Remove from cookie sheets as soon as they're out of the oven (carefully!!) and cool on wire racks. The galettes are very fragile, use caution as you transfer them to the racks. They're going to present a challenge to get them to work intact.

Anywho, Joy says galettes are best served on the day they're made, but who in the bloody hell has time to make something like this on a weekday morning to take in to work, where you need to be at your desk before 8? Not me. So I'll have to let you know how they were the second day, because I can tell you that right out of the oven they're A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. And slightly dangerous...the caramelized sugar/butter mixture is a bit like napalm on the tongue.

The vanilla bean is an expensive indulgence, but I liked the note it added to the galettes. It is optional. I would have liked to add chopped pecans to each galette, too, but there are a few people in the office that can't do nuts, so I left 'em out. If I was making these for a dinner party, I'd add about a tablespoon of chopped roasted almonds or pecans to each galette, because I like the crunch, too.

Hmm, maybe the challenge won't be getting them to work intact, maybe it will be getting them to work at all. They're really good. I may have to lock them up or hide them so they don't get eaten before tomorrow morning.

Crazier (than ususal)

You might have noticed a new item in my sidebar.  The fabulous Mrs. G at Derfwad Manor had a post about NaBloPoMo, and I had to check it out.  

(Hmm, I think I need to update the list of blogs I read....Mrs. G is nowhere to be found there!  Horrors!  I shall remedy that forthwith.)

The idea is simple; commit to doing 30 blog posts in 30 days.  They suggest a theme, but it is optional.  The theme from October was voting, but they haven't named one on their front page yet for November.  I suppose that's because I'm up and playing on the computer at stupid o'clock, and they're probably on the west coast.

My writing has slipped to a low priority of late, and I don't like that.  My dad used to tell my sibs and me all the time that, "Everyone has 24 hours in a day."  Helpful, that.  Tell me something I didn't know.  Within your allotted 24, then, you have to find the time to do that which matters to you.  Recently, the priority has been sleep, what with my insane week at work, eight straight days of 12+ hour days.  Sleep is important.  I'm unpleasant without the proper amount of sleep.  The writing doesn't get done, though. I've been getting in to bed around 7 PM and although I don't sleep in more than 3-4 hour segments, one would think that the approximately 7-1/2 hours of sleep I do get would be enough.  

I don't want that pattern of climbing in to bed so incredibly early to continue.  It does not bode well for the coming winter, when my instinct is to hide in bed anyway.  Apart from the depression making me unwilling to get out of bed, my bed is the warmest spot in my poorly insulated house in the winter.

So I'm giving this crazy 30 posts in 30 days idea a shot.  As I don't yet know what the theme is, I'm not committing to that right now, but maybe I will.

Completely OT and switching gears now, I have a silly story to relate.

I lost my wallet about a week ago.  Genius, I know.  Annoying, too.  I had to replace: my driver's license, the one credit card I carry in my wallet, my debit card, and a whole bunch of 'customer rewards' cards, from Hallmark, the grocery store, the two big bookstore chains in the area, an electronics store, about $6 worth of stamps, my health insurance card, my Sam's club card.....and I don't even know what the hell else was in there.  I never carry cash.  Ever.  I got out of the habit of doing that when I was dating the ex, way back during my sophomore year of college.  A neighbor of his in the dorm was mugged right outside of the dorm, as were a bunch of other people.  I figured if I didn't have any money in it, I could hand my wallet over without too much angst if I needed to.  Such fabulous logic, no?  Anyway, I've never gotten back in the habit of having cash in the 10+ years since then.  

But, of course, when I lost my wallet, there was about $35 in it.  

Naturligt, as we would say in Swedish.

Juris

It really is no wonder that the rest of the world thinks Americans are arrogant.

I have read and heard and seen this everywhere over the last few days.  

The son of former Liberian dictator Charles Taylor, Charles "Chuckie" Taylor Jr., has been convicted of torture, from crimes committed in Liberia.  That's not the problem, that's the good part.  The part that confuses the hell out of me is that he was charged and tried by a court in the United States of America.  

Where the bloody hell do we get jurisdiction over crimes committed in another country, by nationals of said country?

If I recall my lessons in our legal system correctly, in order to have jurisdiction over a case, a court must have some vested interest in the crime.  I.E., it was a crime committed in a particular city, the person charged with the crime lives in a particular township.  This falls far, far, far outside of traditional jurisdictional rules.

From Reuters:

Chuckie Taylor was the first person charged under a law passed in 1994 known as the extraterritorial torture statute, which allows prosecutors to charge a U.S. citizen or someone present in the United States with acts of torture or conspiracy to torture outside the country.

In plain English, then, this law allows American courts to charge non-citizens with crimes not committed in America.  Huh?  How is that legal or possible?

Is what this guy did wrong?  To quote the odious Sarah Palin..."You betcha!"  But this trial makes a mockery of the Human Rights Tribunal in the Hague.  American courts trying non-citizens for crimes not committed in America?  WTF?  That takes away the teeth from organizations like the UNHCR, the Hague courts, and other already existing bodies of judiciary worldwide.

He should be punished for his crimes.  He committed truly evil acts.  I saw this story first on MSN when DH was surfing, heard it on the radio, and then saw it on CNN.  The gory details of what he and his cohorts did disgust me so much that even though there are literally thousands of stories out there on teh interweb that I could link to, I won't, because to read yet another account sickens me so much that I just can't read another one.  

Yes, what he did was wrong.  

Trying him in a court of law in the United States in not the proper redress for those wrongs, though.

I Only Smile In The Dark

~stolen from a lyric, band: Garbage, song: I'm Only Happy When It Rains, Album: Garbage, Release date: 1995

Yeah, yeah, I've still got my head in the 90s for pop music.  Whatev.

I'm happy.  Nearly deliriously so.  Riding a euphoric high.  Which, ridiculously, scares the hell out of me.  I have no idea where this particular aspect of my personality comes from, but even though I'm extraordinarily happy, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.  That things can't possibly, seriously, really be this good.  Can they?  I've had a great success professionally (and, sorry, that's all I'm going to say about that) and personally I am on an even keel even despite the shorter, colder, and greyer days we're experiencing in Ohio.  We have snow in the forecast this week, FFS.  But the depression is currently manageable most days.

I went to see my family doc last week, because my 'scripts for my allergy medicine and anti-depressants all ran out at the same time.  Because the anti-depressants are a maintenance med, I'm supposed to have blood work done periodically, and I knew that if I just called and asked for refills, they'd say no.

He and I talked about my dosage, and I told him what I've been telling you people for quite a while now: I accept that I may need to take this medication for the rest of my life.  I'm in far better shape than I was a year ago this time...see this post and this post for backstory there, if you're just joining us...but I've learned the very hard way that I'm not ready to step down the dosage or discontinue them by any stretch of anyone's imagination, certainly not mine or the doc's.  He did suggest tapering them, but I related an incident that happened on a day where I managed to take just a partial dosage (here's a hint: it didn't end well) that I blew far out of porportion over the summer.  Given that, he agreed with me that we'd revisit the issue of tapering the dosage in 6 months.  Fine.

In the meantime, where the hell is the sudden onset of anxiety coming from?  Breathe, Luce, damn.  How is it that I'm fairly unable to live in the moment, appreciate what's here and now?  Enjoy the success, build on it, take the congratulatory flourish that goes along with it, and start working on the next event on the horizon.  

How hard is that?

Poli-sci-fi

Is there a single soul left in the United States (or, frankly, anywhere on earth) who is not sick unto death of the current US presidential election?  Gah.  And: boooooorrrrrrring.  I'm so over it, and I am a political nut. I started this blog yea those many years ago specifically to write about liberal-lefty-politics and the pro-choice side of the abortion debate.

I have not watched a single one of the debates.  I didn't pay attention to a single second of the conventions over the summer, other than the daily recaps I heard on the morning news as I drove to work.  I can't watch McCain.  I want to throw things at the TV when I do.  DH gets really upset at me hurling things at his flat-screen telly, and I like peace and serenity in my home.  I can't listen to Palin.  I scream obscenities at the radio if she's on.  I am making a good-faith effort (really.  No, seriously!) to clean up my language, so that's not good either.

My issue (abortion) is so decisive for me that I. Will. Not. Ever. vote for someone who is anti-choice.  The McCain/Palin team has made it abundantly clear where they stand on this issue. Truth is, though, that I wouldn't vote for him even if I wasn't such a pro-choice advocate.  He's out of touch with reality, out of step with....well, I was going to type 'the American people' there, but it sounds so pompous that I can't type it with a straight face, so instead I will say that he's out of step with ME.

I usually feel that a presidential election comes down to the choice of a lesser of two evils.  Who of the two candidates is going to do less damage during the 4-8 years they're in office? Yes, yes, there are always more than two, but reality, people, reality.  A third-party candidate has about as much likelihood of getting elected as I do of turning into a pretty pretty fairy princess.  With wings.  

I voted for Hillary in the primaries, because the possibility that there might be a female president in my lifetime is too beautiful to resist.  I didn't think she was going to get the nomination, but I wanted to vote for her.  Then, surprise, surprise, she won Ohio.  I was stunned, I didn't think she had a shot.  

Obviously, then, I will be voting for Barak Obama when it comes time to cast my ballot.  I don't feel bad about that decision in any way, and this time I think it is a choice between hope and evil rather than a choice between the lesser of two evils.  I have a hard time not feeling hopeful when I hear Obama speak.  My local paper (a rag if there ever was one) carries Parade magazine as part of its Sunday inserts, and last week's Parade had a small paragraph about what the tax plans of two candidates would mean for income levels from $10,000-$100,00, broken down in chunks of about 10K.  Under McCain?  My tax liability would stay roughly the same.  Under Obama?  My tax liability would DECREASE by over ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS.  $1,000! How can I say NO to that?  I can't.

It seems surreal to me that there might be a minority in the White House.  I'm excited about that.  So many predictions for the twenty-first century have fallen flat; where are our flying cars?  Our jet-packs?  Our vacations on the moon?  Nowhere, that's where.  But people who have been traditionally disenfranchised gaining more and more political power?  That's here.  Fantastic indeed.

A derth

Normally, I have no trouble a'tall coming up with things to write about.  Lately, though, I've got no inspiration.  

Maybe that's not quite the word I'm searching for.  I have inspirations, they just don't get written down, and then when I sit down in front of the computer, there's a giant blank in my head.  I'm spending almost no time in front of the computer at home in the evenings, which is when I've done my writing for years now, so not much gets done.

I'm tired.  Not depressed-tired, thankfully.  Bone-weary tired.  And I don't even have kids!  On evenings when I'm able, I've been heading to bed around 8 pm, which is early, even for me.  There are weeks where I've got something going on every night after work, and then the 8 pm bedtime slips later, sometimes until 11.  Then, I'm exhausted for the next several days.  I'm getting more sleep than I have for years....last night, somewhere around 7 hours.  Uninterrupted sleep is something I've not gotten since I was a teen, and I dream of a day when I get more than 3 hours of sleep at a stretch, but I'll take the 7 hours, happily.  And yet, I'm still tired.  I find that utterly mystifying.

I saw something I wanted to write about the other day, and the image keeps haunting me, so I'm going to take a stab at it.

I get to spend some time on a college campus, and I treasure that time, mostly.  People-watching is perhaps my favorite sport in the whole world.  Since I was a very young child, I've made up stories about the things I see, chance interactions between people that are completely out of context for me.  I never know these people, and I'm possibly reading more or less into the interactions I see.  But that is part of the fun, if you ask me.  Students entertain me a lot.  Drama, drama, and more drama envelop their daily lives, hormones and emotions running so high.  I remember well that time in my own life, when everything was both fantastic and catastrophic all at once.  Students annoy me too, I want to bemoan their lack of courtesy, not holding a door open for someone behind them, or purposefully blocking a hallway, or being overly loud when it is completely unnecessary.

Like every other season all year long, fall is unpredictable in Oh-hia-ia.  We can have beautiful days where the temperature hovers just below 70 (~19 or 20 C) with very low humidity, not a cloud in the perfectly autumnal blue sky, or we have days where it is dark, grey, overcast, 40 (4C), and raining.  I treasure those beautiful fall days, when there is a crisp chill in the early mornings, and the leaves are their riot of fall color, scarlet, orange, yellow.  You learn to dress in layers, because while the morning is chilly, by the time you're heading home it is too warm for jackets and long sleeves.

Late one afternoon, I saw two students standing right in the middle of a sidewalk, embracing one another.  They were polar opposites; the girl was short, chubby, cherubic cheeks, blonde, dressed in jeans an a dark long-sleeved shirt, colors so muddy that they might have blended into the background.  The boy was tall and skinny, dark curly hair, dressed in the colors of the Ohio State University, scarlet and grey, shorts and a t-shirt.

He was cradling her, so gently, rocking back and forth a little.  I wasn't close enough to hear them, so I imagined that he was comforting her after a difficult test, or just a rough day.  They pulled apart, still holding on to one another, and he said something to her.  She nodded, and he pulled her close again, and I was reminded of the way we comfort one another at funerals, when words are incredibly useless and we feel so helpless.

I watched as they stepped back from one another and walked away from me, down the sidewalk.  They walked close to one another, but not touching, not holding hands, which is why I assumed that they weren't lovers, the body language hadn't indicated to me that they were anything more than good friends.  

I've been haunted by that simple image of kindness for almost a week now, it pops into my head from time to time.  I wonder; were they friends who hadn't seen one another for a long time?  Were they a couple, and breaking up?  Or was I right, she just had a hard day?  

Why do I keep thinking of those two?  It was a mystery to me for a couple of days, but then I realized that I was so moved by what I saw for two reasons.  One, it was an incredibly intimate moment, a private moment.  They had no idea I was watching.  I hasten to add that it was not with malicious intent that I watched, just idly curious.  Two, you don't often see such kindness on display.  

How sad.

So I challenge you.  Do something extraordinarly kind.  For a stranger, for someone you love, for a friend.

American Civics 101

This is the Tuesday post, brought to you a day late...or a week and a day, since I didn't post one last Tuesday.  You'll see why.

The envelope was your basic #10 business envelope, with a plasticized window for my address to show through.  No indication that this was about to throw a monkey wrench (aside: WTF is a monkey wrench, anyway?) into my life.  The return address said "County X Clerk of Courts."  My heart rate sped up a bit...had I forgotten a city parking ticket, and this was now a warrant for my arrest?  Because they do that if you accumulate enough of them and you don't pay the fines.  I don't remember any recent parking tickets.....

When I ripped it open, however, discarding the rest of the mail into a messy pile on the floor of my car, it said Petit Jury Summons.  Huh, I thought.  I wondered when they'd get around to me.  I've heard people complain my whole life about jury duty, and always claimed that I would serve with nary a complaint when it eventually became my turn.  Jury duty lists are given to the Clerk of Courts from the rolls of registered voters.  A co-worker teased me, "That's what you get for voting!"  'Scuse me for exercising some of my (few remaining) civil rights, I snarked back.  I have been registered to vote since turning 18, and have voted in every election, EVERY ELECTION, since then.  It is a sacred right, as far as I am concerned.  If you don't vote, then don't whine to me about the state of democracy, or your taxes, or anything else that relates to living in this country.

Ooops, tangent.  Sorry.

There was a small white postcard in the envelope, and it promised dire consequences if it was not returned within 5 days.  Since I only check my mailbox about once a week, I was very worried that I'd already missed said deadline.  The mailbox is NOT attached to my house, rather a community group of mailboxes and I'm lazy.  Its too far away.  Accordingly, I filled out the requisite info (name, address, phone numbers) stuck a stamp on it, mailed it, and promptly mostly forgot about it, because it was something like 6 weeks away.

I wrote the date down on the whiteboard calendar in my office, but somehow the notation that I was supposed to serve jury duty never made it into the crackberry's calendar.  While talking to my assistant about big upcoming work things on a Wednesday, I turned to face the whiteboard and realized that no, I couldn't do what I wanted to that Friday, because I had to be at the courthouse.  (heeee, look @ me, I have an assistant!  OK, truth is that I share her with the rest of the office, but still. I so love being able to say MY ASSISTANT!)

This could not really come at a worse possible time for me.  New (relatively, I've been there about 4 months) job, and the biggest thing I'm responsible for is looming large on the horizon.  I love our legal system, and I want to participate in the judicial system in a manner that does not require me to be handcuffed.  But the timing suuuuucks.

When I got to the courthouse that Friday, the jury waiting room was nearly full.  I snagged a seat, pulled out my knitting, and knitted contentedly.  Unlike many other public waiting rooms, this one is nice.  Semi-comfortable chairs.  Soothing decor.  Kinda reminds me a of a doctor's office.  A very very busy and large doctor's office.

After a while, a gentleman with a county ID badge explained the events of the day as they would unfold.  We would go to the judge's courtroom, where he would instruct us about our responsibilities.  Should take about an hour.  'Lawyers,' I thought with amusement.  'Can't do anything without giving themselves a chance to be long-winded.'  After that, there was a questionnaire we were required to fill out, and then we would be free to go.  The questionnaire was not meant to pry into our personal lives, but it was important that we answered every question and answered every question honestly.

The county courthouse was built during a time that America was very impressed with herself, and felt that public buildings should be monuments, beautiful to look at.  It is a glorious structure, marble, granite, and gleaming hardwood everywhere.  I know from the days when I worked for ye olde evile bank as a runner of papers to and from the courthouse that those marble stairs inside the courthouse are slippery.  The judge's courtroom was on a lower floor than the jury waiting room.  I walked carefully down the stairs, taking my time.  The marble balustrades aren't much help if you need support, because they're slippery too.

The courtroom had more grandiose carved wood, and row after row of spectator benches, that reminded me of pews in the churches of my childhood.  Just the kneelers were missing.  It seems so cliche' to say that the courtroom was packed, but it was.  Every single seat was taken, and they even dragged in red leather chairs from somone's office for the standees.  As I looked around, I realized that one of the prosecutors was a good friend from my high school days.  I'd forgotten that he was a DA.  I like to joke about everyone in this town being connected by only 2 degrees of separation, instead of the six that people usually claim.  Its a small place.  There's a good chance that I know a handful of the people in the jury pool as well.

So much of what 'we' as a society know about the legal system is drawn from Law & Order, LA Law, Ally McBeal, insert popular legal show name here.  So it is vastly entertaining that what unfolded next was drawn directly from every court scene you've ever seen in every movie & TV show you've ever watched.  The bailiff was an adorable guy in a really nice suit, sharp red button-down shirt, contrasting tie.  He introduced himself, explained that the judge would be along shortly, and asked us to be patient.  Loudly.  A few seconds later, he shouted, "XYZ County Court of Common Pleas, the honorable Judge Blah Blah presiding.  ALL RISE!!"  Like obedient schoolkids, we did, and because I'm so short, I missed the judge's entrance.  But I heard the bang of the gavel, and the judge's announcement that court was now in session.  "Please be seated." The judge then proceeded to introduce every. single. player. in the courtroom.  The DAs.  The defense attorneys.  The defendant.  The court reporter.  The bailiff.  His secretary from down the hall. (No, really, he did.  That's not me being smart.)  

He spent considerable time explaining to us where 'the media' would be during the trial.  "Media?" I wondered to myself.  "Why?  Wasn't I summoned for civil cases?"  Nope.  Turns out that this was a Very Serious Crime, and we should expect that the media would be involved every step of the way.  

He read the charges against the defendant, 26 (!!!!) of them.  He explained the legal-ese, although I knew most of the terms.  I'm a geek like that.  He then read off the list of reasons that you could be excused from the pool of jurors for this case.  If you knew the defendant.  If you knew any of the people the defendant was accused of committing crimes against.  If you had a recent death in your family.  If you were a cloistered member of a religious organization, or Amish.  If you were addicted to alcohol or drugs.  That one got a chuckle from the crowd; the judge said he rarely had anyone raise their hand for that exclusion.  Wonder why?  Each person that raised their hand for a particular reason was asked to state their name, and then remain when the rest of us went back upstairs to fill in our questionnaires.

Then he spent more than an hour explaining what our duties would entail.  Those pews are hard, and dammed uncomfortable, too.  I started fidgeting, but so was everyone else in my row.  I also had to move my head constantly to be able to see the judge, I was far in the back of the room.  He gave us the line about the questions we had to answer not intending to pry into our lives again.  I think that was the 3rd time someone said that to us.

When he excused us to go back upstairs, I discovered that he'd kept us for 2 hours.

The questionnaire was an exercise in hilarity, because so many of the questions were directly related to my personal life.  

DH was a volunteer firefighter for many years, as were his brother and father.  I promise, this is related, and important to the narrative.  When I met DH, he'd just broken up with a girlfriend who had complained about the time he spent with the fire department.  Noted; don't bitch about the fire department.  Seriously, though, I was very proud of his service to our microscopic community.  That makes it sound like rescuing kittens in trees were the extent of his duties, but truth is that he did actually fight fires.  Many were the times when we were first married that I'd wake to the sound of the tones on the scanner going out, and he'd roll out of bed in the middle of the night.  I'd listen, rarely able to go back to sleep until he returned, unless I could discern that the call was BS.  You could tell when it was a big deal, because the dispatchers would be screaming bloody blue murder, and the first firefighters on the scene would be more serious, more focused, and much, much louder when it was for real.  Only once in all of those years was I worried for his safety, and if memory serves, that was before we were married.  I trusted the crew he ran with, and more importantly, HE trusted them.  With his life.  I respected the hell out of those guys.

So pages 4-15 had questions about firefighters.  What was my opinion of them?  Well, geniuses, I married one, so guess they're OK. It was that same question, asked several different ways through all of those pages.  Did I know any firefighters?  Did I like them?  Had anyone I known ever been injured in a fire?  What did I think of the first responders when that person was injured?

Not trying to pry into my personal life, eh?  Really.

Then there were questions about arson, and here's snag #1 to me serving on this jury.  DH studied to take the state's arson investigator test, and while he was doing that, I read some of the textbooks.  Yeah, yeah.  I'm a voracious reader of nearly everything.  Otherwise known as a dork.

There were questions about my regular reading material, my major in college, my minors, my interests outside of my occupation.  Why did I participate in whatever hobbies or sports those were?  Not trying to pry into my personal life.  Uh-huh.

Finally, the rest of the questions were about the death penalty.  Now, my opinion about the death penalty is probably not what you'd expect from a flaming liberal.  I'm all for it.  In fact, I think it should be expanded to include several crimes other than murder.  Which ones?  Serial rapists for one.  Repeat offender pedophiles for another.  Why?  Well, I don't think that violence against women is taken seriously enough in our society.  Largely, I don't think that you can 'rehabilitate' someone who has raped six women.  How long should we keep trying?  Until he commits his tenth rape?  His 20th?  The pedophiles should be pretty self-explanatory.  If there is a hell, then I hope that a special place is reserved there for the people who repeatedly sexually assault children.

It also irks me a whole lot that after somone is sentenced to death, we spend umpteen millions on warehousing these people whilst the appeals process drags on and on and on.  My tax dollars, that could be far better spent on programs that cut crime rates, are instead spent on the folks sitting on death row for 25 years.  And how, exactly, is that justice for the victim?  Their family?  Your sister/cousin/uncle is dead, and the person convicted of the crime sits on death row for 15 more years longer than the vic got to live until the appeals process is exhausted?  Are you kidding me?

Right, tangent again.  Sorry.

I left the courthouse and headed back to work, managing to get at least half a day's work in.  They kept me hanging over the weekend and most of the day on Monday, finally calling me late Monday afternoon to tell me that I had an 8.30 AM appointment for individual voire dire, which is the legal term for the opportunity that both prosecution and defense have to question each juror, making sure that the chosen 12 will be fair and impartial.

More waiting.  More knitting in waiting rooms.

When they called me into the courtroom, the judge introduced himself to me again, and he said, "I note on your questionnaire that you identify yourself as an atheist.  Will you swear an oath?"  I smiled; this particular aspect of atheism has always amused me; atheists don't want to swear that they'll tell the truth, "so help me God" because God isn't real.  I have no problem promising to tell the truth, and so I told him that yes, I would swear an oath.  

Duly sworn in, I sat in the jury box, facing the judge.  He sits higher than the rest of the courtroom, but I was nearly eye level with him, because the jury box is elevated too.  The prosecution was to my right, perpendicular to the judge's chair, and the defense was behind them.  I faced the judge the whole time, not looking around, because I didn't trust myself to look at the prosecutor I know without sharing a smile or smirk with him.  There ARE times and places where being my smartass self are just not appropriate.

My friendship with the prosecutor was the first thing the judge brought up; I had stated on my questionnaire that due to our friendship, I wasn't sure that I could be a fair and impartial juror.  I'm more likely to believe him, trust his statements, than I am for anyone else in that courtroom.  The judge lectured me for a moment about how he puts aside his friendship with various lawyers when they're in his courtroom.  I didn't see the point in fighting/disagreeing with him, although I do disagree.  

So then we moved on to my job, and the big event on the horizon.  He asked me a few questions about it, and what would happen if I wasn't at work while it was going on.  He asked how long I've been doing this for a living.  I told him that since it is the first time around for me with this event, I didn't know how they'd cope without me, but I didn't think it would be easy for them.  He asked several times about the dates, when was this going on?  Did I stutter, or was he just not paying attention?  I don't know.  I again restrained myself from being a smartass.  It is hard!  (thanks, Dad, for instilling that particular part of my personality!!)

He called the lawyers up to the bench, and they huddled and whispered for a few minutes.  My prosecutor friend kept nodding his head, although I don't know what they talked about.  Deaf, remember?

When the lawyers walked away, the judge told me that they'd decided to excuse me for cause, that missing my work event would clearly be a hardship.  (woot! doing the conga inside my head!) He told me, though, that he would really like to question me further, because my answers on the questionnaire about the death penalty fascinated him, but the court didn't have time for that today.  He seemed regretful about that.  I am too, I would have loved to hear what he wanted to ask about.

Released from the purgatory of waiting rooms and anxiously sitting on pins & needles, worrying about how the hell I was going to tell work that I'd be away for several weeks while this thing plays out, I walked back to my office.  

Thus endeth my brush with the legal system for now.  I hope I do get the chance, someday, to serve on a jury, to be a part of the amazing process that is the judicial branch of government.  Just not this week!!

Four-eyes

For a long time, I've been having some vision trouble.  Annoying?  Yes.  Life-threatening? No.  I got new glasses earlier this year, and from the moment I put them on, I told the eye doc that they weren't strong enough.  Did he listen?  No.  Did he agree with me?  No.  

His office people attempted to convince me that contacts were what I needed.  There's a racket, yeah?  They've got you for the contacts, then solution, and all of the other paraphernalia that goes with them.  Far more expensive, to my way of thinking, then just a simple pair of specs.  But I played along, and we tried several different brands of contacts, several different strengths...higher magnifications (or whatever the hell the +1 or +1.50 means) lower prescriptions, this strength in this eye, that strength in another.  Finally, after playing this game for about three weeks, I finally said enough.  Just give me a damn pair of glasses.

They did, but they weren't the right glasses.  Urgh!

I complained about the glasses, especially at the end of long days, because by then, they were totally useless.  Cute, yes, they were adorable.  But as far as helping me see?  Um, not so much.  On the advice of a co-worker, I went to see another eye doctor, one who spent more than ten minutes with me.  The prognosis?  I need progressive lenses.  Which is a very polite way of saying, "Sweetie, you need bifocals."  Thanks.  So much.  

The silly thing is that the first time I went to the eye doctor's as an adult, at 25 years old, they told me to get bifocals, and I, the smart-ass know-it-all, said, "You've got to be kidding me.  Bifocals?  I am 25 years old!!!  No way."

Last year, when I was unemployed, I spent a lot of time on the computer, job hunting, screwing around online, gabbing to friends in fandom, re-writing my resume, drafting innumerable cover letters, writing my book, blogging, and generally trying to figure out to do with my life.  It was then that I noticed my vision deteriorating, but as I was unemployed, there wasn't much I could do about it.  I bought drugstore glasses, getting stronger and stronger ones, and tried to make do.

The progressive lenses showed up on Friday last week, and I've spent the weekend trying to figure them out.  I am reminded strongly of when my dad first got glasses, and he would peer through the bottom of them, trying to read the newspaper.  The tops of my new glasses are for distance.  So I can read street signs, and recognize people I know at 20 feet away.  The middle section is supposedly for the computer, and the very bottom for reading books, magazines, the teeny-tiny ingredient lists on things in the supermarket.  So yes, not just bifocals, but TRI-focals.

They make me tad more clumsy then I already am, which is bad, because y'all: I don't need help being clumsy.  I manage that just fine on my own, really.  There's a slight curve in my peripheral vision that makes it look like you can see the curvature of the earth.  Freaky.

The tech at the eye doctor's recommended that I use extreme caution on stairs until I get used to them.  Fab, because I don't fall down enough staircases already, right?  I'm glad that she forewarned me, though, because taking a header down my own stairs at home is something I've managed to AVOID doing thus far, and I'd like to keep it that way.

I like 'em, though.  I'll get used to this whole tilt-your-head-to-see-up-close game soon enough.  (I hope!)

I was thinking about my school days, and I was enough of an outcast and social misfit through junior high (too smart by half) that I can only imagine what adding glasses to that would have done.  Now, I look geeky, studious, whatever you want to call it, and that's OK with me.  I like looking smart.

Now, where did that staircase go?

Overheard:

"Dude, how do you spell 'legit'?"

"L-I-G-I-T"

No, I did not stop, correct them, nor did I explain that 'legit' is short for 'legitimate'; but I wanted to.

Pitching a fit

There are pros and cons to the meds.  Pros - - - you don't feel worthless anymore, you feel like there is a possibility that things might maybe get better, you're able to function a little better.  One of the things that bothers me about them can't really be called a con, but it does bother me.

I can't believe that I'm going to kvetch about this.

The meds change your outlook, and not a little, either.  I don't get angry, or super-upset, about much of anything at all.  As if there's a refrain of REM's Shiny Happy People running through my head.  I see others get upset about something, or lose their tempers, and most of the time, it is difficult for me to understand why they're all in a tizzy.  Is anyone going to die over whatever the problem is?  Are we standing on the precipice of complete disaster?  No?  Well, then, geez, dude, chill.  

How do I know that these reactions are the meds?  Hahahahahaha.  *snerk* Hoooo! Wait, wait, lemme catch my breath.....bwahahahahaa!  Ask anyone who went to elementary/high school with me about my rage.  I spent most of my teen years being pissed at the world in general, and even into my 20s, I still had the occasional anger issue.  I never physically hurt anyone; but I can be bru-tal with what comes out of my mouth.  Words that can wound badly, I'm good at that when I've got some rage going. 

I'm also a little mystified when someone gets angry at me.  Especially when I've done something that was not planned with an eye to piss them off.  Sure, sure, I snark a good deal, say sarcastic and biting things, which I then have to apologize for when what I thought was smart and funny was instead hurtful, or worse, unfunny.  But I don't go out of my way to make someone angry, it just isn't in my agenda.  I've got too much else to do, I haven't the time to construct elaborate plots to offend someone in my daily circle.

I think that the depression plays a part in this, too; that feeling which tells you you're worthless is the same little demon whispering in your ear who tells you that nothing really matters.  Why bother?  Its all pointless.  So when someone gets mad at you, you automatically think that you deserve it, and somehow, if you were a better person than this worthless, empty shell, they wouldn't be angry with you.  (Because that makes perfect sense, no?  There's a reason that they call it mental illness, people.)

Outwardly, that is easy to conceal; you don't show that you're hurting, there's that brave, tough-girl facade that I talk about often, which fools the world into thinking that you're an independent little cuss.  Inwardly, however, you're agreeing with every word as someone calls your intellect or whatever into question, reads you the riot act.

When the meds first started working for me, but before they were at the correct dosage, I wasn't feeling much of anything at all.  I didn't feel like I had this pit of despair sloshing around inside, but I also couldn't get excited about something, didn't feel much joy.  I had thought that feeling nothing would be preferable to feeling so horrible, but then I wasn't so sure.  Feeling nothing was sort of a relief.  But only for a little while, because that "nothing" faded back into the suffocating misery.

With the proper dosage, I regained the ability to be happy and excited about things, and also finally had the correct perspective on the world.  Losing your keys is not a reason to have a meltdown.

But has it gone too far in the other direction?  That I don't think anything is a big deal unless it is a catastrophe?  

Hmmm.

Being a grownup?  Not the constant party I expected.  :-)

Nostalgia for the musical past

Once upon a time.....

My dating history (what little there is of it, since I met DH when I was 19) is filled with musicians.  DH is not a musician, although he was a band geek.  No harm there, all of my friends were band geeks, and I was nuts about choir.  Music has always been a central part of my life.

In high school, I dated a guy who introduced me to BritPop, specifically new-wavey sort of stuff, Squeeze in particular.  He gave me a tape that he had dubbed of Squeeze's Play album, and I played it over and over and over in the tape player of my first car, a two-seater.  I loved that car, and there are a few bits of music that remind me of being 17, driving like a maniac down the highway in my cute white sports car, sun roof open, long hair blowing all over the place, music blasting at top volume.  Mostly the bad pop of the day, (En Vouge, I'm looking at you!) but a few gems like Prince's I Wanna Melt With You, Modern English, Tori Amos's Take To the Sky, and this Squeeze tape.  

Because the tape he gave me was one he'd taped from the original album on a dual tape deck, the sound was pretty crappy, and I had no idea what the name of the album was, or what most of the songs were.  I mean, you can usually guess with pop songs by the chorus of the song, but not always.  There were two songs in particular, Crying In My Sleep and Wicked and Cruel that I really liked.

Teh interweb is great for being able to vomit up the title of a song, the name of the album, and the artist's name from a few poorly remembered lyrics.  (Sorry for that imagery.)  iTunes is great for tracking down old stuff too, and I've written before about finding The Stone Roses on iTunes from the same process....type the lyrics into Google, hit enter, and within the first few hits from the search engine is the information you're looking for.

I knew that the old tape that the old boyfriend gave me was by Squeeze.  I no longer have the tape, much like my entire Janet Jackson catalog, it has disappeared into the sands of time.  I found two other Squeeze tracks I liked on iTunes, Black Coffee In Bed and Tempted, but there was no locating Crying In My Sleep.  Maybe I didn't remember the name of the song correctly.  So I searched.  I HAD remembered it right, it just wasn't out there on iTunes.

I've run into that a time or two before, but been able to locate the music I wanted digitally through begging friends to search their collections.  But with one or two exceptions, most of my online friends had never heard of Squeeze.

Amazon it was, then, et voila there was an import copy of the Play album, new, never played, from an import CD store.  Woooot!  

I have not purchased a CD for years.  Years and years and years, probably around 8 or maybe even 10 years.

So when it came (finally!  how on earth is it that something takes 10 days to get from California to Ohio?) I promptly popped it into the computer, uploaded it to iTunes, and spent the rest of the day playing the disc over and over.

One of the kind of fun things about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or my particular manifestation of it, anyway, is that I can listen to something over and over and not necessarily get bored with it.  I can re-read novels, or watch a particular movie, and not have it be super annoying.  Music in particular, though, I get particularly OCD about and have been known to put one song on repeat for an entire day.

It doesn't annoy me.  But it does annoy most of the rest of the world, and I know that, so I try to not inflict that obsession, the obsessively repetitive listening, upon others.  

I have long since stopped trying to analyze this behavior.  Why do I listen to something repetitively?  I don't know.  I just roll with it until the urge passes; I'm perfectly happy usually with the music just in the background.  It doesn't interfere with my ability to concentrate on other things, or rule my life.

But it does make me wonder.....on a scale of one to insane, where, exactly, am I?

Shattered

I am thisclose to declaring a moratorium on the news until the election is over.

Besides being sick unto death of the back-and-forthing over the longest presidential election in the history of the world, I'm also highly distressed over what seems to me to be a rising tide of ever-more bad news.

I heard this morning about an American-style school shooting in Finland.  Finland!  Western Finland, someplace that is close to my heart because my sister spent her exchange year in a little town called Karlby in Swedish (or Kokkala, in Finnish).  Scandinavia doesn't have the same problems that we do here in the US with gun violence, largely, IMESHO, because handguns are exceedingly difficult to get your grubby mitts on.  I'm about the farthest thing from an expert on guns; personally, like any warm-blooded liberal lunatic, I think they're pretty unnecessary.  I know my viewpoint is not universally shared, so let's move on, shall we?

It shames me deeply that in addition to exporting what is good about the US, we also export that which is bad.  School shootings get lots and lots and lots of world-wide media coverage; copy-cat crimes follow not far behind.

I had to spend quite a bit of time explaining to schoolkids in Sweden that MY high school wasn't exactly like the fictional West Beverly High in the old Beverly Hills 90210.  Perception...what is seen on the telly...ends up seeming like daily reality when viewed from so far away through the telly screen.

Obviously, someone who totes a gun into a school full of children (and these days?  I'm counting pretty much anyone under 25 as a child) with the intent to do serious harm has, what we might politely call issues.  Ya think?

Which spins me off into the tangent of the tendency of the media to treat mental illness as the demon in the middle of the room, but let's save that for next year's Mental Health Awareness week, mmmkay?  I don't want to lose my primary point here.

Which is?

My worldview is getting a serious ass-kicking these days, and I don't like it at all.  At ALL.

Somewhere in there is the explanation for why I like fandom so much.  Escapism...my daily sanity-saving drug!

Come to the Darkside....we have cookies!

Finally, I must admit de-feet (pun intended) over some of my sillier high-heeled shoes.

I bought a pair of (gasp!) Crocs.  In the name of comfort.

(You may expect the world to end at any second now.)

I first became aware of Crocs through Dooce & Blurb, aka Heather and Jon Armstrong.  Jon - - - loves them.  Heather - - - hates them.  A while back, they had an ongoing back-and-forth Croc war on their blogs.  Jon had (I think) a yellow pair.  Blazing, sunshine yellow.  Or at least that's what I remember the pictures of.

Readers of both blogs chimed in, and the comments made for highly hysterical reading.  When I actually saw pictures of the shoes, I wrinkled my nose.  Ewww.

And then I went to visit my baby sister in Cal-i-forn-i-a, and she had a pair.  My sisters and I all wear roughly the same size shoe, and I stole those Crocs the very first night, when we sat 'round a campfire on the beach.  Reluctantly, when I left the island where she lives, I left the Crocs behind, too.  Mostly because she threatened me with death if I took them back to Ohio.  These things inspire passion, I'll tell you that.  

You see them everywhere.  They match absolutely nothing, look terrible, and remind me a whole lot of Swedish trädskor, which literally means wooden shoes.  That gives you a false impression of wooden shoes that are carved and boat-shaped.  But trädskor are clogs, with wooden soles, leather uppers, and open heels.  Swedes wear them everywhere.  Even sometimes with dress-up clothes, which, I must point out, is very un-attractive.  But, they're practical, comfortable, and with the wooden soles being about 2-1/2 inches tall, they keep your feet out of the slush in the winter and away from the mud in the spring.  I brought a black pair home when I was 17, and when I went to visit in 1999, I brought home a brown pair.  They're great for gardening, and that 11-th hour trip to the grocery store for a missing ingredient in something you're trying to pull together for a dinner party.  (Not that I'd know, of course.  I always have everything I need.  *eyeroll*)

I went to visit my sister in 2006.  Two long years ago.  Since then, I've looked at Crocs in sporting goods stores and shoe stores, online, just about all over the place, and I just could not bring myself to spend $40 on a pair of shoes that are so ugly, I don't want to be caught dead in them.  I freely admit to a shoe-shopping problem, and having spend scads on far less practical shoes, you'd think that I wouldn't blink at the price tag.  "Reason" (of a sort) asserted itself, however, because the nagging voice in my head that wants me to be lots more frugal kept saying, "$40?!?!  Are you KIDDING me?  Put those back!"

As with all consumer goods, though, the price started to come down, and with news stories this year about people getting injured in Crocs (although I know nothing about the details, just remember it was in the news) they started to become a bit more reasonable.

In addition to a shoe-shopping problem, I also have an Amazon.com shopping problem.  I lurves me some Amazon.  I browse there nearly daily.  I buy things from them less frequently than daily, but often enough that when I log in to the site, it says, "Welcome, Lucy.  We have recommendations for you!"  I know, it does that for everyone.  But it tempts me frequently, and I have been known to purchase things based on wise and all-seeing Amazon's recommendation alone.  They know my buying habits, which ought to scare me a little, but strangely, does not.

So they had a picture on their gateway page, what you get when you type amazon.com into your browser, and a little SALE! notation, and so, I went and had a look.  Amazon had Crocs in every color of the rainbow, even in some colors that should never be considered for shoes.  

My current favorite color is a fire-y red.  I used to think I couldn't wear red, but I've darkened my hair a bit, and I like what I see in the mirror when I'm wearing a blazing red.  So I bought a red pair.

Comfortable doesn't really cover how these things feel.  I had sided with Dooce in the Croc war, but having worn them, I now take Blurb's side.

That does not mean I'll be wearing them outside of the house, at least not regularly, but man, those are some soothing shoes.

Of the Not Christian persuasion

I went to a lecture given by a survivor of the Holocaust, one of the so-called "Schlinder's Jews".  I say so-called, because quite honestly, he would vastly be preferred to be known as a renowned Cantor than a Holocaust survivor.  As he explained to us, he lost everyone - - - uncles, cousins, his mother, his sister, ev-ry-one - - - during those horrible years, and it is painful enough to live with his own memories, he neither needs nor wants pity from the rest of us.

Ever since someone gave me a copy of Anne Frank's Diary when I was 11 or 12, I have been a voracious reader of everything I could get my hands on about the Holocaust.  I studied German in college for a few varied reasons; it was the closest thing to Swedish my Uni offered, it was taught by someone I admired....but also in the hope that I would someday be able to read historical documents of the time in the original German.

I'm also a complete language geek, but y'all knew that already.

Due in part to that language geekiness, I even know a few words of Yiddish.  He peppered his lecture with the occasional Yiddish word, and is it wrong that I felt exceedingly smug for knowing what the words meant without a translation?  Probably.

At the end of his remarks, he took questions from the audience, and they were interested in many things about his journey; but a dominant theme, asked several times and in several different ways, was this: how had he survived?  What gave him hope?  What made him able to get through each day, through the thousands of indignities foisted on them, great and small?

Perhaps not surprising, considering that he is a world-renowned Cantor, his answer was that his faith had sustained him.  His spirituality.  Or maybe that is surprising, because you might think that music would have helped him significantly.  After the war, he came to the US and studied at Julliard, and in that, I envy him.  There was a time when I would have killed for that honor.  But he said no, that he had not discovered his musical talents until after the war.

I waited until almost the end of the question-and-answer session to ask my question.  Since he had talked a whole lot about his work as a Cantor, (although he's retired now) and he made a point of telling us how he'd rather be known for his singing than for his survival, I wanted to hear him sing.  So I asked: "Do you still sing, and would you sing for us?"

"I'm retired!" was his immediate response; several people in varied places in the crowd called out (hilariously, completely in chorus) "We don't mind!"  He looked at me and said, "Young woman, you put me on the spot!"  I smiled, completely unrepentant, and apologized.  I was really surprised, though, when the crowd began to urge him along, and began to applaud.

So he did.  I had thought to ask him to sing something joyful, as a counterpoint to the tragedy and horror he spoke of, but decided at the last second that just might have been pushing it, a specific request.  

He sang of faith, how those of the faith never walk alone.  

It was, in a word, glorious.  

I'm always surprised when people's singing voices differ greatly from their speaking voices; I think I sound the same no matter if I'm speaking or singing.  His singing voice was deeper and richer than his speaking voice, and almost without accent.  While when he was speaking, his accent was thick and obvious.

In addition to my language geek issues, I'm also a music geek, so I appreciated what he sang for the sheer musicality of it.  Singing a capella, with no warm-up, no advance warning, on pitch and on key?  Damn near impossible.  And therefore, impressive.  Extremely so.  Moving, too, there was barely a dry eye in the house when he finished.

Mostly due to my sheltered upbringing, I've never run into anyone who was as fervent about their faith as evangelical Christians are.  While I know that there are plenty of people who are as zealous about their non-Christian faiths as the evangelicals, I'd never met one before.

I feel much the same way about his deep faith as I do about the Christians I know; I can admire their faith without sharing it.  It was a beautiful thing to see.

After the lecture, several people thanked me (!!!) for asking him to sing, saying they'd wanted to ask but weren't brave enough.  I waited in line to speak to him, and apologized again for putting him on the spot.  In the most Continental fashion, he winked at me, kissed my hand (which was incredibly cute) and told me he hadn't minded.  I thanked him for indulging me, and told him I felt very lucky to have had the chance to hear him sing.

I left the lecture feeling as if I'd had an epiphany; how about that?  There are other faiths that feel as strongly about their religions.  Who knew?

Replay

A comment left on the delightful Mrs. G's blog the other day made me giggle, and then sigh, because while clever, it made me realize that yes, I've got that little voice inside my head.  

Mrs. G had solicited comments from her readers for advice for her college-bound daughter.  One of the respondents suggested that Miss G listen to that little voice inside her head, y'know, the one that sounds like your mother?

I have a conglomeration up there, of my Dad, my Mother, my Swedish Mama, and my grandmothers, both of them.

My father despises fast food.  Actually 'despise' isn't strong enough of a word.  Abhors, that might come close.  When we were kids and traveling in the car (which we did often, from Oh-hia-ia to Florida and from Oh-hia-ia to northern Michigan, and back again.) Dad would never want to stop at Mickey D's, BK, Taco Bell, or any of the other zillions of fast food outlets.  On the very seldom occasions when we DID do a fast food joint, there was ABSOLUTELY no eating in the car.  We went inside.  Without fail, when we were done, Dad would wash his hands.  Every time.

My sisters and I thought that was hilarious.  As we moved to our teen-aged years, it was a reason to roll our eyes.  Vociferously.

And then.  Of course.  I have started to feel the same way.  I had a quick taco at Taco Bell the other day, and when I was finished eating it, I wanted to not only wash my hands, but I also contemplated a second shower.  Ugh.  Gross.  

I avoid fast food as much as I am able, but modern hectic life means that sometimes, that's what you do.  I try to make the best choices I can among the very bad options, minimizing my fat intake, and trying to keep my daily caloric count down, too.  But recently, I've started to feel that ugh-I-need-to-cleanse-myself-of-this-grease feeling after even just an Iced Coffee from Mc D's.  

Bleagh.  

Hurt

Is it too much to ask to be able to run without pain?  I'm starting to think so.  I'm back on the daily grind of gym at an ungodly hour, work, home, dinner, knit for a short while, and bed.  I try to ride my bike to work at least 2-3 days a week, but Oh-hia-ia's weather, as usual, has been tres un-co-operative.

I can't seem to manage an entirely pain-free run.  Either I get stabs and twinges in my knee(s) or I get shin splints that are excruciating.  I'm using Podrunner: Intervals to train this time around, following their very sensible regimen of running 3 days a week and strength training on alternate days.  

I know I've written about Podrunner before, but it bears frequent repeating: this is phenomenal music to run to. (Linkage in the sidebar under Music, Bands, Radio.  I'm too lazy to type the html this morning.  Deal.)  Podrunner: Intervals are the brainchild of DJ Steveboy, and the idea is to take you from couch potato to running a 5K in 10 weeks.  As I've not done much running during calendar year 2008, it seemed prudent to just start all over, as if I had never run.  I had debated jumping in to Intervals around week 3 or 4, and I'm glad that I didn't.  I can only imagine how much pain I'd be in if I'd decided to just skip ahead.  Lots.

Intervals continues after the 5K as well, training for an 8K, a 10K and, I'm sure, in time, will also work its way to a half and a full marathon.  

I've tried all sorts of things for the shin splints.  I was advised to: eat more bananas (yuk), drink more water (more?!?!),  get new shoes (yeah, did that, too) and none of it has worked.  Shocking, I know.

I despise bananas.  Just....ick.  Unless, of course, we're talking about a banana milkshake.  Then, yeah, I'm all for it.  So what I've done about that is incorporate them into the protein smoothies I make, where they're not the predominant flavor.  I use those as a meal replacement sometimes, or I use them when that 10 AM or 3 PM I'm-so-hungry demon shows up.

I really thought with the last new shoe purchase, back in April when I was in Florida, that the shin splint problem would be over.  I went to a store that sells only running shoes.  I took my old shoes, to show them the wear pattern.  They spent over an hour with me, watching me walk, jump, sprint, and jog in place.  They gave me a pair of shoes that were heavier than my old ones, which was weird until I got used to them.  I did use them to run around in Florida, and had little trouble.  That honeymoon didn't last long; after I got back to OH, it was the same story.  Clearly?  I need to run only in Florida.  Heh.  Too bad that's not really an option.

As for the water, how much more can I drink?  I get far more than the recomended 6-8 8-ounce glasses every day.  @ work, I have a 24-ounce tumbler that sits on my desk, and I drink usually 2.5 of those in a day.  I drink at least 16 ounces while I'm working out.  Another 12-20 at dinner.  99.9999% of the time, I'd rather drink water than anything else.  I do have my morning coffee, but not every single day, so we can't blame caffine for draining all my hydration.  I don't drink soda.   My eyeballs will be floating if I drink more water.

For curing the pain after it has occurred, I do all sorts of not-really-helpful things.  I stretch, after every run, far more than the casual exerciser will stretch.  Because it feels woooonderful.  I have tried hot baths (in the winter) or sitting in the sauna after my runs.  Also feels good, but doesn't cure the pain.  Lavender oil, massaged into the legs along with a base moisturizer.  Smells nice.

I go to see my physical therapist (PT) when the pain is out of control.  What does he say?  Don't run.  Full stop.  Running's bad for your body.  Tell me something I didn't know, genius.  Life is hazardous to your health, FFS.  I'd rather be skinny and have bad knees from running than fat and unhappy.  Sorry, PT.

Suggestions for pain-free running gladly accepted in the comments box.

Immigration. Again.

I heard a news story that was preceded by the pundit wittily noting that this election season, Sarah Palin's lipstick is more of an issue than immigration.  And ugh, he was right.  That is dammed annoying.

The report was about yet another right-wing nut job "we're against everyone who isn't just like us" group.  An anti-immigration lobby, that has taken out ads in Harper's and The New York Times and I've already blocked what their name was from my memory.

The thing is....the United States is a nation of immigrants.  I've ranted about this before, probably ad nauseum, but it still bugs me every time I hear someone talking about how all of those (Mexicans, Africans, Syrians) insert your favorite social minority here are ruining this country for the rest of us.  What-ev-er!  Isn't it a good thing that no one felt that way about their grands and greats?  Unless you can trace your ancestry to waaaay back before the Mayflower as being entirely Native American, guess what?  There is an immigrant in your family tree.

Is the far right really that dumb?  Whoever this group was, they are taking out ads warning of overpopulation, and how massive immigration just might destroy the environment.  Riiiight.  Because it is the recent immigrant population that is living in McMansions, driving giant SUVs, and continuing to push along the consumer-driven economy by purchasing ever more stuff at Wal-Mart.  Silly me.

Off & On & Up

Even though my depression is mostly regulated thanks to modern medicine, I still have days here & there that are difficult.  Sometimes I know what triggers it.  Sometimes I don't.  When I'm having a difficult day, I often say that I'm "a little rough around the edges."  I picture single-celled organisms from my high school biology days, with spiky outlines.  Usually the meds soothe this; the meds make it easier to deal with things that would otherwise be catastrophes of epic proportions.  When the meds weren't quite right, or before I sought treatment, something as mundane as losing my keys could send me tail-spinning.

These days, it doesn't have to be anything in particular; I've decided that hormonal surges can account for days when I'm sarcastic and snarfy and snarky with everyone and everything.  (Yeah, yeah, yeah, how would you be able to tell the difference from any other day, Luce?  There, I beat ya to your snark!)  

Today is one of those rough around the edges days.  I looked in the mirror this morning whilst getting ready for work, and I noticed the bit of weight I've gained in my face.  That bummed me out.  Then it is an overcast day, rainy and miserable, and it is going to be like that for a few days around here.  That grey, oppressing sky!  It makes me feel like the clouds themselves are pushing down on me, dark forces un-named making it hard to see out of the gloom.  

I frequently get songs stuck in my head, and this morning I woke up humming the harmony from a Dave Matthews Band song, #41.  I know I mentioned it a few weeks ago, but the sax player from DMB died recently, far too young, and there's an evocative solo he had in that song, and thinking about it made me sad.

Add those three things up, and bam, not such a good day in the offing.

Folks who haven't walked down Depression Way will say very un-helpful things like, "Snap out of it.  Its just the blues." or "C'mon, how bad can it be?  Get over it."  Which, as I said, isn't helpful.  Because then you feel guilty for feeling this crappy.  How difficult, truly, is my life?  A roof over my head, enough to eat, I get out of bed every morning, put my feet on the floor and walk.  So much more than so many others, that I shouldn't feel crappy.  That somehow, I ought to be able to 'snap out of it.'  

As I drove to work, I kept saying things to myself like, c'mon, you're going to a job you love.  You're doing well there.  You like it.  Little mind games, to, indeed, try to snap myself out of it.  A little coffee with chocolate (have I mentioned Bellagio sipping chocolate?  Milk+ Bellagio + coffee = yum.) and avoiding listening to the news, instead listening to my "happy" playlist on my iPod, and yeah, it is going to get better.  But I wish it didn't get to the low end of the spectrum in the first place.

On the evils of HFCS

I saw a commercial the other day, produced by a pro-farming lobby firm about high fructose corn syrup.  It features a guy and a girl, on a blanket, in a park, sharing a picnic.  The girl pulls out a Popsicle, and offers the guy a bite.  He declines.  She then offers him two bites, and he responds by saying, "I thought you loved me."  

"I do." she says.  

"Then why are you trying to give me something that is full of high fructose corn syrup?" he asks, all plaintive.  

"What's wrong with corn syrup?" she asks.  

He flounders around for an explanation, and she gives him a rapid fire litany of facts about HFCS, that it has the same number of calories as sugar or honey, it isn't bad for you, everything in moderation, blah blah.

If you hadn't known before that second that the commercial was produced by some corn conglomerate, you did at that point. *eye roll*  But they are kind enough to put the words on the screen at the bottom, at the end of the commercial.  

Sure, HFCS probably does have the same number of calories as honey or sugar.  And if HFCS was the ONLY sweetener in that Popsicle, it wouldn't be as bad.  But the problem is that there is sugar, HFCS, fructose, and sucrose in a whole lot of sweet treats.  You're getting sugar on top of sugar, and would you like more sugar with your sugar?  Plus, HFCS has been refined ad nauseum, and is a pretty far removed thing from the cornfields of Iowa and Oh-hia-ia.  

What is making us fat, America?  Soda, processed sugars, fast food, gargantuan portion sizes.  Guess what is in the average can of soda produced and bottled here in the US?  HFCS.  And sugar.  And at least one or two other sweeteners.  

Guess how I lost a whole lot of that 43 pounds?  I didn't eat anything that had HFCS in it.  I read labels, obsessively.  I put it back on the shelf in the supermarket if HFCS was in it, I asked for ingredient lists at my favorite restaurants, I searched foodie websites to see what has lots of corn syrup.

Granted, I did a whole lot of other things, too.  Worked my tail off (literally!) in the gym.  Controlled my portions.  Removed a lot of the processed, prepackaged stuff from my kitchen and my life.  Focused on fresh veggies and fruits, not fruit juices and canned gunk full of salt.  Avoided fast food as much as possible.  Denied myself desserts and didn't take every. single. opportunity. presented to indulge my sweet tooth.

Is HFCS dangerous?  I dunno.  I do know that as a conscious consumer, I can (and do) choose to not eat it.  But don't tell me that it is as good for you as honey is.  I know better.  You do, too.

Of Labor

as in, to work hard, not to give birth

As a little girl, I often watched my dad work on cars.  I learned early what the difference was between a clamp and needle-nose pliers, what a socket was, how to turn a wrench and a screwdriver.  That knowledge has served me well over the years, as I can manage small home improvement tasks around the house, and minor car repairs, too.  

I bought a headlight and taillight for my bicycle, because it is getting to be sort of dark in the mornings.  The lights shall become a necessary evil as the year moves on, and, I'd like to continue to ride the bike for as long as I can, until it gets really bloody cold.  The packet claimed that  installation of both items needed no tools.  

They lied.

I was excited about installing them, so I ripped open the package as soon I got home.  I read the instructions, and moved my bike to a spot where it could be worked on.  

Tyvarr, inte, I figured out almost immediately.  (Sorry, not, in Swedish)  I needed assistance to get the batteries into the headlight, and the tail-light, you needed a screwdriver to open it to put the damn things in.  Once I managed that, when I tried to put the tail-light on the bike, I discovered it wouldn't fit with the existing reflector that sits under and behind the seat.  Fair 'nough.  I could handle taking the seat off and removing the reflector.  I'd watched someone else adjust a bike seat once, and they'd accidentally pulled the seat all the way off, so I knew it came out, and once it was, the reflector would be a cinch to take off.

DH has an impressive collection of tools (although I do have my own, too, but they're kept inside, and his are in the garage, where the bike was) and because he is as OCD as I am, they're well organized and properly labeled.  I had no trouble locating a 13 mm ratchet, which I used to loosen the nut holding the seat in place.  

I took the seat off, got off the reflector, and managed to place the tail-light.  It was a pain in the ass, and required standing at odd angles.  By the time I was finished, my legs ached, my hands were dirty, and I felt an amazing sense of accomplishment.  

Masterstroke

After the appointment of Joe Biden to the democratic veep, I was feeling....blah. Sure, sure, Biden's foreign policy experience balances Barak's inexperience nicely, and yeah, yeah, being an Irish Catholic from Scranton, PA works for him, for the ticket. It is just....*I* don't care so much.

And then Friday, when John McCain announced Sarah Palin as his running mate...pandemonium. Without divulging details about my job, I can tell you that there is cable in the office, and we watched Ms. Palin give her speech at Wright State University, right here in Oh-hia-ia. It is a well-known fact that I'm a die-hard liberal, and as we watched the telly, we also watched each other for reaction.

(Gentle Goddess, I love working someplace where I'm not the only political nut, as well as someplace where I'm not the only intellectual. Heeee, heee, heee!)

I hate to say it, but Palin said a lot of things that made sense to me. I'll never vote for McCain, because he's anti-choice, but this was a masterstroke because Palin will appeal greatly to those who feel disenfranchised by the Democratic party keeping Hilary off of the ticket.

I've heard die-hard Clinton supporters say that they'd vote for McCain rather than Obama, because they're still pissed at the party. To that I say: what-ev-er. How dumb can you be? Do we NEED four more years of Republican economics, the Republican version of women's rights, the Republican version of foreign policy, where we've become one of the most despised countries in the world? No. We. Do. Not.

Palin's got a son in the military. A kid with Down's Syndrome. She's a maverick, like McCain, and she's extraordinarily articulate. She doesn't have the power that Obama does in front of a crowd, but his charisma is nearly....supernatural. I've never seen crowds respond to anyone like they respond to him. Those who were around at the time tell me that it is very Kennedy-esque. But with her son in the military and heading to Iraq, that makes it hard for anyone to bash the war. With a kid with major medical problems, she's going to be seen as an advocate for healthcare. She didn't come off as brash, or pushy, or overbearing, walking that fine line that women in public life must with exquisite care.

Then, as I was running this morning, I saw a flash on CNN that Palin's 17 year-old daughter is preggers. They're saying she's going to get married and have the baby....let's hear it for abstinence-only sex ed!!!

All I can say is that it is going to be a hell of a ride. I plan to stay tuned.