Just Getting (It) Out

After some debate with myself over a sinkful of dishes, I decided to write this post and let the chips fall where they may. I will accept the consequences of my actions.

There have been several posts on facebook throughout the years where folks put on their high-and-mighty panties and stomp about, waving Old Glory and shouting things like, “If you love America, then thank God or get out” or “If you can read this, thank a Veteran or get out,” or, “If you don’t salute the flag, then get out.”

Fine. I’m out. Out as in I’m coming out of the non-flag-saluting closet. I’m getting it out of my system and off my chest.

Because I work in a public school, the class is expected to stand and salute the flag every morning. It’s the American thing to do, and I’m ok with that. You can shout the pledge to the skies, and I will support your right to do so but, while I may stand with my hand on my heart, I’m not saying the same words.

                  

I believe America was once a great place, filled with wonderful people and amazing opportunities, and technically, it still is. But instead of having the people in charge, greedy corporations have taken over and this land of the free is becoming less free and more oppressed. We are becoming less educated because we cannot afford higher education. Public education is being destroyed by standardized tests created by people who don’t know the first thing about how kids learn in a typical classroom. We are becoming chronically sick because we cannot afford health insurance, healthy foods or the medication to treat illness or maintain good health. We stick our political nose into everyone else’s business and send our war machines to make sure they do things OUR way because we’re so right about everything.

Yes, there is a lot to be thankful for in America, and I’m thankful for a great deal, but do not shove your opinions in my face and tell me if I don’t agree with you, I should leave.

Maybe it’s time for YOU leave. And take your greedy corporations with you. Perhaps those of us left behind can do something to restore this country and heal this land. America has been trashed with McMansions, muscle cars, and money, and then if that wasn’t enough God gets dragged into the mess and that’s supposed to make it right.

Love God or get out.

I’m just curious to know what your God would say when you tell him you kicked your fellow citizens to the curb because they had different feelings about things than you do.

Love America or get out.

Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. I’m still a citizen, and I don’t plan on changing that any time soon. But I still won’t pledge allegiance to the flag, because my allegiance isn’t with politics or religion, it’s with the land and the people trying to keep it from being totally lost under asphalt and hyperbole.

I pledge allegiance to this land

Of the United States of America,

And to the people who dwell within.

As one nation,

Let us stand,

For liberty and justice for all.

Adulting 101

I’m almost thinking I should change the blog name to Adulting 101, but I’m going to be learning this stuff along with you all, so… I’ll just leave things the way they are. At least I’ll know SOMETHING has remained the same.

I’m becoming my mother.

Wait, let me rephrase that… I’m becoming THE mother. Of my mother. And my father. I’ve become their protector, their advisor, their liaison, their advocate.

And I’m really ok with that, even though it’s not happening quite the way I’d imagined. Somehow, I thought I’d be more settled, more secure, less stretched so thin you could read a newspaper through me.

Um, that last part is totally figurative, since when I’m stressed I tend to eat and I’ve been VERY stressed for quite a while now. Like, since I was 23.

But this new phase of my life kind of began with a phone call. Or more like several phone calls in which I realized my mother was starting to repeat things. Now I am well aware we all do that, but they were things we’d just talked about and even though I have been known to do that very thing on occasion, this was becoming frequent and kind of irritating. I’d find myself getting impatient, thinking she was just doing it on purpose, or not paying any attention to what I was saying.

Then it got to the point where she admitted she was forgetting things more and I began to realize she was getting older and, perhaps, there was something more going on.

My job has taught me a lot. Working with special needs kids has opened a well of patience and humor that I never thought existed in me. I wish it had been available when my children were young, but that’s another story. But I have a feeling it will stand me in good stead when it comes to taking care of my parents.

For instance, when talking with my dad, I am frequently regaled with tales of him falling down and having to crawl around “for two hours” until my mom got home. Of course, five minutes into the story and we learn he’d been crawling for four hours! Then five hours! Finally, SIX HOURS LATER he was rescued and no longer had to crawl around the patio looking for a way into the house. He has been known to exaggerate upon occasion. I guess we know where I picked up that trait now, don’t we?

Personally, I think the old fart flings himself to the ground just so my mom won’t catch him smoking.

After many discussions and sleepless nights, I decided it was time to make some changes. If we hadn’t purchased the hat shop, chances are very good, we would have packed up and moved to southern Oregon to take care of my folks and raise some kind of organic stuff to sell at the market. Jobs are scarce down there, so making your own way is pretty much the best chance you have to survive.

Looking at it from that perspective, I think I’m glad we didn’t go that route, although I do love it down there, Tam and I aren’t exactly spring chickens and tending five acres is best left to those with non-arthritic joints. Especially since about 1/3 of that property consists of steep hillside… in wildfire country. And there’s poison oak and stuff.

But this journey is a young one. Fraught with moments that make me laugh, cry, and wet myself, and I’m sure it will only get better as we go along.

My Life with Cats

Figures the first post of the year would be about cats. Sheesh.

I’m not a cat person. I’m just putting this out to the Universe and anyone who will listen. It’s true. I am not a cat person. I love my cats because they are my cats, and I love animals in general and cats are animals, but I’m not a cat person. I’m a dog person. I am a bird person.

I love birds. I adore birds. And dogs I really adore dogs.

And the Universe hates me, which is why I have two cats, one bird, and no dogs.

The furry felines currently in residence are one of the Crash and Burn twins (Freya, the fish whore) and Meow (she named herself. Truth!)

My morning rituals include trying to get dressed with a cat. Trying to drink coffee without cat fur in it. Attempting to enjoy a cat fur-free breakfast. And finally, leaving the house without tripping over a cat and breaking myself.

I’ve managed to master that last one by shrieking, “MOVE IT, FURBALL, BEFORE I STEP ON YOUR HEAD!” This not only alerts the cats to my intentions, but it also alerts my nephew that I’m about to head out the door. Or I’m rushing to the bathroom.

Getting dressed with cats in the room is always a joy. Especially when that cat is Freya Fish Whore. She is of the impression that all of my clothing must be covered in fur and small holes that she makes herself. Sometimes those holes happen before I don the article of clothing, other times…

Sometimes the holes are not in my clothing, but in my skin, which she seems to enjoy touching with her claws while I’m doing my best to quickly cover and protect myself with clothing. She is sneaky and will investigate exposed flesh with little regard to privacy. She is shameless.

She also texts Tam when I’ve set the phone on the bed before the screen goes dark. It’s one way I’ve found to distract her while I’m donning my unmentionables. The sensitive screen will happily accept her input (which is more than I can say it does for me) and send the missives to my love who after a few moments of puzzlement will realize it is an actual text from a cat and stops thinking I’ve just had a stroke.

Recently, I was sitting at my computer with my love on Skype, when I started feeling a little snack-ish and grabbed the package of dried cuttlefish from the fridge. Yes, it’s is preserved and does not need refrigeration. In this case, the fridge is more of a large, cold, combination-less safe. As I sat enjoying a few pieces of stinky fish jerky, I was visited by Freya Fish Whore.

She sat at my feet, her eyes wide and fixed on my snack. MY snack. “Give her a piece of it,” Tam said. After a moment’s thought and the sharp pain of a single claw hooked into my leg, I decided to give in and held out a piece. Apparently she enjoyed it because the next thing I knew she was all over my business.

“Gimme fish!”

“No. Go away. You already had fish.”

“More fish!”

“Get down, beast. This stinky mess is mine.”

“Holy Bast, your breath smells good! What I gotta do for more fish? Huh? I let you have Floofy Belleh.”

“We do Floofy Belleh every morning, so… no. My fish. Go away.”

“What if I let you do TWO Floofy Bellehs.”

“Ha! You’ll do Floofy Bellehs for dirty socks, you shameless hussy. Go away.”

“What I gotta do for fish?”

“How about no cat fur in my coffee for a week?”

“For one lousy piece of fish? No deal.”

“Fine. Go away.”

“No fur for an hour.”

“Nope. Two days.”

“Ha! You think I’m cheap!”

“Something like that. This sure is tasty – OW! – cuttlefish. Too bad you can’t have any.”

“I hate you. Ok. One full day no fur in coffee.”

“…”

“Ok, one day no fur and a Floofy Belleh.”

“…”

“Please?”

“Have some fish.”

“Nomnomnomnomnom…”

“Hey! There’s fur in my coffee!”

“We never said which day no fur. Thanks for fish.”

Moving Forward

I have reached that stage of life where I must become the parent to my parents. I consider myself extremely lucky to still have them in my life and I wish I could spend more time with them.

Of course, that wish is about to come true in a way that I never quite expected. Tam and I are doing our best to get my parents moved up to Long Beach where Tam is currently residing and I hope to be moving there soon as well. This is not going to be some cut-and-dried pack ‘em up and move ‘em kind of undertaking, these are my parents we’re talking about and there is nothing cut-and-dried about them.

My mother is a packrat. Not exactly a hoarder, because from what I’ve been able to discern, hoarders buy many of the same things when they’re on sale and keep them stashed in closets, cupboards, cabinets, etc. My mother simply does not throw things away. Being raised in the depression by parents who knew how to repair things in creative ways could do that to a person. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was thrown away until there wasn’t much left of it TO throw away. Of course, that's when you just tucked it in a corner “just in case it might come in handy.”

Or, in my mother’s case, might become a collector’s item. She’s big into “collecting.” She did that all her life, and now she has amassed a large collection of everything. Had she just collected dishes, we could deal with that. Or dolls. Or jewelry. A single type of collected item would be a lot easier to deal with because chances are good you would have some idea of the value.

My mother collected bits of everything and we have no idea how much any of it is worth. The treadle sewing machine (one of which I’m keeping because I love it), or the antique baskets from Japan, or the array of strange kitchen gadgets (that make my darling Tam drool), or the painting supplies (not antique, but holy crap that’s a lot of watercolor), or… or… smatterings of stuff that doesn't actually constitute an official collection, it's just a collection of stuff.

So…much…STUFF.

I have the same problem, although I’m starting to let go of a few things that have sentimental value, but is no longer of any use. The little toy car that my son loved, literally to pieces, will have to go. Eventually. But I understand my mother’s mindset on this. When you’re not always happy, or when life has been particularly difficult and mean, it’s easy to glom onto things that remind you of wonderful times, or at least better times. You want to keep them close because it is almost like bringing those good times back and keeping them close as well. I get it, I really do.

I have things from my offsprings’ youth that I hold very dear. It got really bad as they moved out, because I wasn’t ready to let go. I wanted to keep them close to me, to keep those tender moments alive. But, time can be cruel and children must move on, so I kept things that held memories in the hopes it would ease the pain of moving forward.

In case you’re wondering, it doesn’t really, but it took me a long time to get to that point. I’m closer to it, anyway. I can see it from where I’m standing, as long as I’m on tiptoes. But my mother is having memory problems and that makes it even harder for her to let go. These things are keys to her past, good and bad, and she holds them in a grip of steel as they sit covered in dust on shelves, countertops, an in the back of closets.

This move is not going to be easy for another reason: I am very attached to the land on which they live. It once belonged to my beloved grandfather, a man who was equal parts scamp, god, scoundrel, and McGyver. I worshiped the man and so many fond memories are tied to that place he built. The oak trees that shade and the pines that scent the air are all parts of him. And me as well, for I was there every summer, and when he passed away and my parents moved down there, I brought my children down every summer to continue the tradition.

But times have changed. It is a long seven and a half hour drive from where I live, and while I’ve always enjoyed long car rides, with everything that’s going on in my life right now, that carries too much weight in certain decisions.

Like selling the property.

I have resisted even thinking about it because it was the last place where I got to spend time with my grandpa. It was the last place where I felt comfortable allowing my children to roam unfettered to play in the dirt, ride their bikes, fish in the pond, and get chased by the geese.

I am tied to the land and the thought of letting go kills me.

But I must be a big girl and move forward. I must think with my head and not my heart in this matter. I must let go of the feeling, but not the memories. I must remember that it is about the safety and security of my parents and that is way more important than fond memories or bygone days.

We will move forward. We will create new memories with grown children and aging parents. And they will be just as good as the ones from before. Memories may fade, but new ones are just as dear and just as important, I just need to give them a chance to take root, while I grow to love them as much as I do the old ones.

A Fart In A Poncho

I was asked if I’d like to work an extra 15 minutes every morning (paid! Woo-hoo!) and do crossing guard duty. That means, I get to wear a day-glow vest, carry a radio, AND hold up a stop sign. I also get to push the button that stops traffic.

It is a position of great power, and I humbly accepted the heavy mantle of responsibility that comes with it. Dude! I get paid! Woo-hoo!

After a couple of days, I renamed it from Crossing Guard Duty to Dodge Car, because there are some folks out there who do not quite grasp the concept of red lights, stop flags, cross walks, and school zones. They DO, however, understand the wrath of a short, fat woman with a crazed look in her eye and a big voice.

But I actually enjoy the job. Then it rained. It didn’t just rain… it RAINED. A LOT. It rained so hard, my hat was soggy, my coats were dripping, and my shoes squished. When I went inside to return the flag to the work room, I stopped by the office manager’s desk. She began making squeaking noises as she grabbed handfuls of important documents that were mysteriously getting soggy. Then she pulled up an online catalog and ordered a poncho for me. Bright yellow. With a hood!

I was hoping for black, then I could play the music from the Empire Strikes Back. She said it was better if cars could actually see me. Besides, if I’m wearing yellow, I look less like the grim reaper, which would probably give parents nightmares. “Oh my gawd! They Grim Reaper is the crossing guard? Why? Why? Is he down on his quota or something?”

Ponchos, yellow or otherwise, are lovely in the rain. It keeps me dry, except for my lower legs and my feet, but whatever, and surprisingly warm. Those buggers really help hold in heat.

And other things.

Like…farts.

And I don’t know what the hell I’d eaten, but when my butt whispered something about it the next morning, the smell was intense, almost as though it was condensed or something. Refined to its purest form of stench. Sticky, nasty, concentrated fart. And I let one of those go in my poncho.

We were both trapped. Worse, there was no breeze to help move it along. Worse yet, someone was coming and would need to be crossed to the other side. I knew if I didn’t do something quick, it wouldn’t be the other side of the road… these farts were lethal!

I paced quickly back and forth, “adjusting” the poncho to cover up the flapping motions. But with all the moisture in the air, the fart just couldn’t leave the area. And the kid was getting closer. Kids are not ones to let something like a mega-stink fart go unnoticed or unannounced. This fart was going to by my waterloo if I didn’t think of something quick. The kid was about fifteen feet from me and closing fast. Quickly, I began looking around on the ground, frowning and shaking my head. Then, in a stroke of sheer brilliance, I checked the bottoms of my shoes!

The kid approached as I was doing this, wrinkled his nose, and checked his shoes as well. I muttered something about darn dogs and people who don’t clean up after them, and he nodded. “Yeah, it’s rude,” he said.

Good boy. I crossed him safely to the school and we both lived to tell the tale.

Things That Go Crunch

The infrequency of postings on this blog have me uncertain what you may or may not know regarding the state of my life. To label it “chaotic” would be wasting a perfectly good word on something that is more akin to someone spilling a barrel of mischief and telling a bunch of insane monkeys to go clean it up.

Not quite chaos, because I think chaos would be, if not more organized, at least make some sense. Maybe I’m just making a big deal over little things, but when you’re up to your eyeballs in mischief and crazy monkeys, you are allowed to make something of it, and a big deal is the easiest thing to make.

Last night, as I sat alone in my house, I could hear something crunching around the leaves scattered across my yard. Front and back, I’m ankle deep in the golden crunchy goodness of autumn.

I’m also knee deep in critters. The feral cats are still around, although their numbers are constantly shifting. More on that in another post. Plus there are raccoons and possums (ick, and double ick) that prowl the neighborhood. I do not feed the ferals at night, because I don’t want to attract the unsavory nocturnal elements. Not that the lack of food deters them at all, but I do my part.

Anyway, there was crunching in my yard last night. Scuffling through the leaves, breaking small twigs, and otherwise making a substantial ruckus. In my yard. Late at night. In the dark. While I’m alone. At night.

Are we getting the picture? I had gooseflesh and my handy-dandy ax was within my reach.

So, what’s the big deal? Critters crunch through leaves all the time, right? Right. Except…

Over the past two and a half months, my house has been broken into four times. Ok, three times, because one of those was an attempt AT NIGHT, WHILE I WAS HOME. ALONE. You can, I’m sure, understand my unease at this point.

Now, I’ve taken steps to prevent this from happening again, but if someone really wanted in that badly, a broken window would do the trick. It would be noisy and messy, but effective. And I’d rather not think about that, thank you.

I’ve installed a dead bolt on a solid wood door (ok, that was more fun than a root canal, but just barely so), installed door reinforcing hardware on another door, and jammed my garage door so tight, I’ll never get the damn thing open. Ever. And, I’ve purchased a home security system, complete with monitoring and the luxury of having them call the police in the event of a break in. It hasn’t arrived just yet, but it is on its way.

Doing all this makes me angry, because no one should have to live in a fortress just to feel safe, or just to keep their belongings in their own home. No one should have to come home and wonder what else has been taken from them while they were at work. Taken by someone who won’t get a job because they won’t debase themselves working at a fast-food place, or sweeping floors somewhere.

Excuse me for a moment, I must go collect myself.

Ok, I’m back.

Crunch, snap, noise, noise, noise. Something was moving around in the yard, something big enough to snap twigs. Since nocturnal critters have excellent low-light vision, I wondered if they really would be out there snapping twigs. I peered out the window, but I couldn’t see a thing.

I texted my nephew, asking if he would be coming home, or if he had other plans. Imagine my immense relief when he said he was on his way at that very moment. But, because he rides public transportation, it was a 90 minute moment before he got home. When he walked in the front door, I asked him if  he’d noticed any activity and he said yes. I told him about the crunching and he looked uncomfortable.

“Well,” he said, “thought you meant police activity, because there are about eight police vehicles and the K-9 unit at the grocery store a few blocks away.”

I may need to upgrade my security with some ramparts and a portcullis. 

Breathing New Life

It started with a facebook post from a dear friend who had been absent for a while. Selma, of Selma and the City fame, came back to say "howdy" then Heather from the now defunct but still memorably groovy I'm Not Hannah, said, "we should get back to blogging."

Because I am a fan of both these gals, I jumped on the bandwagon and said, "Me too! Me too! Can I play too?"

Lucky for me, they said yes.

After doing a lot of thinking, I decided to keep two of my three blogs. My author blog will probably go away because it's easier to tackle that type of updating on Facebook. I'm not 100% on board with that idea yet, so it is still there, waiting for something to happen.

But the other blog, A Novel Place (and if I could remember how to insert the address as a link in here, I would, so I'll try that on editing. Plus, I've forgotten the URL, so... yeah...) Anyway, that blog will be my fiction link and if we're REALLY lucky, Selma will start posting her fiction there as well. I'd really REALLY like to start the weekly writing prompts again because those made for some amazing stories from all over the place.

This blog, Life in the Dyke Lane, will remain as my daily life, ponderings, and brain drivel blog. I like brain drivel, it keeps me sane.

I miss blogging. Facebook has destroyed that medium (at least in my humble opinion) but, while you can post long "notes" on facebook, it's just not the same as a blog. A blog is a room in a very large house. It's a quiet room, dedicated to one person and they get to say what they want. Others can chime in via the comments, but it's pretty orderly and calm.

FACEBOOK, ON THE OTHER HAND, IS A HUGE BALLROOM JAMMED WITH PEOPLE AND THEY ALL WANT YOUR ATTENTION BECAUSE THEY HAVE SOMETHING INTERESTING TO SHOW YOU. LOOK! CAT PHOTOS! IT'S KIND OF NOISY AND VERY DIFFICULT TO THINK IN THAT ENVIRONMENT. IT'S A PARTY. NOT MANY PEOPLE GO TO PARTIES TO DO A LOT OF TALKING AND LISTENING. THEY GO TO EAT, DANCE, MAYBE GET LAID, TELL SOME JOKES (MOSTLY ABOUT GETTING LAID) AND SHOW INTERESTING PHOTOGRAPHS SOMEONE ELSE TOOK.

I will admit, Facebook can be fun. It takes up a great deal of time, because there are so many people there, but it is rarely dull. Occasionally inflammatory and emotionally painful, but not dull.

So, in the coming weeks (especially after NaNoWriMo is done in December), I'll be bringing you some posts about my life. I'll tell you about my burglar, the hat shop, my parents, the nephew, and even bring you up to speed on my offspring (holy lard, there's a lot going on with those three).

I miss you all. I miss the blog. I miss the blogosphere and I really hope we can bring it back, because it was so awesome. Maybe it's still out there, but commercialized so they don't really look like blogs as much as ads for department stores or what-have-you. I'd love to earn my living blogging, but there is a divine purity in the "old way" and right now, that's what I miss. Maybe, if I become a famous author, I'll have a commercialized blog, but... I'll still sneak something in of the old school style.

So I'm going to limit my time on facebook, and start prowling around for something more worthy of my time. Like your blogs. :)

K-