Honor Among Tweebs

An open letter to @drinkblogrepeat, @prodigalsam, and #therealtwitterati:

I meant to write this before now. I should have! I'm writing it now with just a few hours left in the Free Times Best of Columbia 2013 Poll, but writing it at this late hour is better than not writing it at all, I guess. I hope.

For those of you who may not live in or around the Columbia, South Carolina area, our most popular newspaper (hey, it's my blog, I calls it like I sees it) is a free weekly paper aptly named... Free Times. For the past four years, they've held a "popularity" poll covering topics from biggest media hog to best bar to hit up with only $10 to your name. It begins with a round of write-in nominations, from which they then publish the top nominees as a multiple-choice ballot for the public's opinion on the best of the Best of Columbia. 

This year, they've added a new category: Best Twitter-er. I mounted a mini campaign for a write-in in the nomination round, more for fun than anything else - there has never been one single day in all of my 14402 days* that I would or could have described myself as "popular". In fact, I once lost a student council election in the 8th grade... ordinarily not that big of a deal, sure, but I was running unopposed. Riiight. See? (I ended up getting the gig by default, and the council was just me and Assistant Vice Principal Cankles, whose name I cannot recall.)

So: Imagine my surprise when I found myself as one of the four nominees for the Best Twitter-er in Columbia. ME! I was shocked. Thrilled! Amazed! Heartbroken.

Yes, heartbroken. Because of the three other nominees in my category, one is my late, great, wonderful friend Rick Stilwell. He died on January 11, 2013, and there he is, his name right above mine, nominated to be Columbia's Best Twitter-er of 2013. 

The thing is: He deserves to win. I think that the first time "Best Twitter-er" is a category in this poll, Rick should be the guy. Rick was the Randy Newman of our local Twitterati. Always there, always a favorite, always with just the right narrative, always showing up in our timelines with the right accompaniment for the timeline at hand. Did he win awards for it? Nope. Would he have needed to win awards for it? Nah. He just loved what he did. And then, after all these years, in spite of having passed on, when finally Rick is going to #WinAnyway - I hope, and I really do believe he should win - somewhere out there in heaven or the afterlife or whatever awaits, he'll be RandyNewmanizing his acceptance of the win. After the heavenly afterlife twitter version of a standing ovation, an amused @RickCaffeinated wouldn't want your pity, but he'd be grateful, and so honored, to have won your votes.

So, to get around to my point, I'd like to ask you, @drinkblogrepeat and @prodigalsam, with apologies for this late hour, to encourage your followers to vote for @RickCaffeinated instead of asking them to vote for you. Even though we lost our friend on that Friday morning in January, Rick's account continued to tweet - beginning with a tweet during our impromptu memorial toast in his honor at Jamestown Coffee Company - every five days, until his last tweet arrived... five months to the day after his passing, on June 11, 2013.

If Rick wins, I kind of like to think that we all win. Because really? I think we would.



*That's right. Math. I did some. I am 39 years and 157 days old as of this writing. That's 14402 days, 2057 weeks (plus 3 days), and I've been alive for 10 leap years (which is to say 10 February 29ths). I'm going to text my mother so that she can answer "473 months" whenever she needs to mention the age of her eldest child.

Cheetos To You!

Eme presenting to me the
Tell Them "Cheetos to you!" Award

Internet Nation, I accidentally got myself a catch phrase.

I make no secret about who I am, what I do, and the things I enjoy. I talk, you know? When I like things, I like to share that information with my friends so that maybe they will spend some of their hard-earned moneydollars on those things, too. Sometimes it happens in the other direction, although I try not to be a Cranky Cathy if I can help it. I'm curmudgeonly; I'm not rude. Usually. So it's pretty common knowledge that I like Tell Them, the organization and the women who run it. I advocate on their behalf, I contribute to their blog, and I participate in their online events. Internet, It Is Known. (It is known)

It's the online part which brings us here today. Like Vikings punter and glimmering sparklepony Chris Kluwe, my writing career was primarily born from the gaming communities (he's referred to such communities as "a seething pit of ignoramuses, born of misspoken children on the internet"), where, as he said, "if you go after someone, you'd better make sure you've got your ducks in a row or they're going to come right back at you". I'm in complete agreement with Mr. Kluwe: If I'm going to call you out, "the only way to do so without being ignored is to craft a completely logical argument that has a hook."

Which brings us to how I intervened in a fingerquote discussion fingerquote on Tell Them's facebook page. You can read the entire thread for yourself, if you want. It doesn't matter what you're saying or how reasonable your argument may be. If you start with hate, the rest of your argument, however logical it may be, is automatically a pile of poop. So, I replied, and then declared to friends "BABAM! They just got JBeebled!". And so #jbeebled you can now get, and it is a thing you can be, and be careful because it is typically contagious.

I was henceforth crowned Queen Bee of the World and a motion was carried to replace the word "kudos" with "cheetos". You might not even believe me if I told you how many women were saying "CHEETOS TO YOU!" yesterday. Heh. The thing is, Internet Nation: DON'T HATE. EDUCATE. And CHEETOS TO YOU, from the Tell Them "Cheetos to You" Award recipient and Queen Bee of the World, March 2013.

BABAM! You just got JBEEBLED!

About That #LiveLikeRick Tribute Video

James and George created this tribute to Rick Stilwell. James will say that he AND George made it; George will say that he just contributed a few bits but that James did all the work. He said/he said aside, this is a bittersweet video for those of us who knew Rick... It's nice to hear from him again, it's funny, he was funny, and he's just so missed.

The thing for me, though, is that this tribute video is especially important for me: It includes a bit of footage where Rick talked about me (!), suggesting that people should be following me on Twitter. Me! Of all people! I'm just some dweeb, and he was talking about ME! I seriously couldn't believe it. Rick was the coolest of the cool kids, and I was a total nobody... at least, an in-person nobody, and he was talking about me? That's why I'm here talking about him, to tell you not just about this video, but also about that day.

If memory serves, the day Rick recorded the bit about me was a blazing hot day in late August, 2011; it was the day when I finally got to meet Rick in person, on the steps of Cromer's Pnuts during Food Truck Food Court. I heard he would be there, and told The City Girl I wanted to meet THE Columbia social media guru. She made sure to find him; rolled me right up to him in the middle of his lunch, and made a proper IRL introduction (we'd known each other online for ages). That August day in 2011 was a big deal day for me in a lot of ways: It was the first time I beat back the social anxiety enough to attend any of the tweetups; the first time I met most of the "Real Twitterati". I was just standing up the social media department at work for real, and I needed to turn my virtual connections into real ones. Everybody who was anybody knew: RickCaffeinated was the guy you talked to about that in Columbia, SC.

So there I was: Sweaty, self-conscious, scared, nervous, and by the end of the day I had a raging sunburn, too. As it turned out, though, every single person I met was not only super fun and kind, but 100% welcoming and friendly, just as if we'd known each other forever... which, well, we had. Rick was so nice to me that day, answering tons of questions, inviting me to Social Media Club Columbia, and telling me he would happily tell me about how to do what he did, for his going price of a cup of coffee. :)

Anyway. I have been wondering what happened to that clip, and to find that not only did The Misters K and N locate it, but that they chose to include it in this tribute... well, that just means the world to me. In mid January 2013, the day after Rick died, I would go back to Cromer's - which now houses Jamestown Coffee Company - along with lots of the same people who were there that day in 2011. In 2013, we raised our mugs in toast to Rick, shared memories, and said our goodbyes to him.

Please take a minute to watch. Thank you.

A Good Day

Today? Today was a good day.*

Today is the day CJ made the honor roll in high school for the first time! I am so happy for him; so proud of him. He has absolutely blossomed this year, and it fills me with those bittersweet 'my baby is growing up' feelings.

Today I had lunch with the lovely and talented Eme of the incredible TellThem!, she claimed to find me interesting AND funny, but the joke's on her, because she's the one with all the interesting and all the funny!

Today one of my brothers, Robb, posted a photo of Trina, the Project Manager at DeliverGood, offering to give her paid time off in exchange for likes. The largest potential prize is every Friday off - forever - AND no expiration date for collecting the likes! What a nice guy. What a fun idea! There's so much joy in what he does, and it's contagious (update: less than a day and already more than a thousand likes!) Not too shabby! Please consider furthering the #FreeTrina cause by clicking 'like' on this photo, eh?
(Look, it's Canada, okeh? I can't help it, eh?)

Today I did stuff, I thought things, I had ideas, I helped people get closer to their goals, and it was a good, productive workday. A fun workday. I counted my blessings to be surrounded by such good people.

Today I reached 700 followers for my public account on twitter (@tryjen). These 700 people include my entire immediate family (even my dog!), my extended family, friends, my work accounts, and then somewhere around 650 people who obviously recognize schadenfreude when they see it.

Today I arrived home from work to find four great things: 1)Tim cleaned the house! 2)He set up our christmas tree! 3)A package arrived from Joe! 4)Meredith's finger didn't fall off - I checked and everything!

Today I wrapped it all up with a celebratory bulgogi trip to The Blue Cactus for Mr. Honor Roll and his friend Victoria, and neither teenager seemed even the tiniest bit horrified. I'm shocked. Awed, even. They didn't even try to sit at a table other than the one where I sat. Internets, I daresay they even enjoyed my company! I don't think CJ was even a little embarrassed to hang out with his mom and his friend at the same time, and that... well, that feels like a pretty epic mom win.

* I didn't even have to use my AK.

S'mores Casserole

Behold! The Casserole of S'mores!



So good it should be illegal
I first tasted this amazing recipe of delicious wonderfulness when a friend brought it to a potluck a few years ago, and I've made it at least a hundred times since then. I've given it as a thank you gift, included it in my holiday baking for friends and neighbors, and last night I made it in lieu of birthday cake by request of the birthday boy himself. Since I was already making a batch for him (using local products such as Adluh Flour, of course), I doubled the recipe and plan to bring a plate of individually wrapped bars to CJ's swim meet tonight to raise funds for our team, the Edenwood Seamonkeys.

This yummy goodness is known by many names: We've called it "mouth heroin", "mouth crack", "breakfast", "lunch", "dinner", and eventually we settled on "s'mores casserole", because Tracy is a genius and as such decreed that if it comes in a casserole dish, it can be eaten as a meal. The original recipe, however, is called S’more Cookie Bars, and was originally published by Nicole Weston of BakingBites.com in 2007.

For Renée

If you'll pardon the intrusion, I will take a moment of your time here, Internets, and I will tell you a thing:

The thing is, I am breaking up with American Idol.

I explained this to Renée in great and pointed detail yesterday, by way of an email which may or may not have included some but not all of the lyrics to Dolly Parton's I Will Always Love You As Performed By Whitney Houston Crack Is For Poor People Kiss My Ass (you can't prove anything). This post is more on the topic of that, and it's mostly for her, because she will put up with my rambling - you may have heard I tend to go on awhile - and we all need someone who understands us, right? Right? Right.

So I am breaking up with American Idol, after a decade-long courtship. Part of my present-tense use of "breaking up with American Idol", as you may have noticed, is the clearly attached connotation that I have not done so - not yet. Which: If you're a practitioner of the Context Clue, you know means that me and AI, we're still seeing each other. Up 'til now. But not for long.

Eventually I will address Steven Tyler's blatant disregard of Aerosmith and the human populous in general, but before we get to that place, there was this performance by the surviving members of TLC. The ones who are both alive and also not Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes (because she's dead; CONTEXT CLUES). As regards both the T and the C, I can't help but think they must be in some dire need of the moneydollars, and I hope they have been well-paid for showing up and taking their medley of '90s hits out for a walk. Because I remember how they were the picture of barely-composed bravery, all brave with their brave selves and their hand-holding on that stage at that awards show. I remember that standing ovation and the shaky composure and our security in the knowledge that not a single either one of them would (probably) ever set fire to a sports guy's house again. And then they packed themselves up and put themselves away to go about living lives or whatever, out of sight and also mind, like you do. Quietly respectful of the world's knowledge that without Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes there is not, no, there is not a TLC - no indeed. And they - like us - felt good about that, because it was good, but alas also over, which we all agreed about and we moved on. Older, wiser, and with both straps of our overalls fasted securely where they belong.

They left us as they should have: with the fond memories of their gawky, condom-adorned adolescence (I cannot WAIT for the stats on site referrals to this post! I dare you to count and list all of the moneyshot words contained herein!), and then about how they grew up to be fine young ladies and the eventual Sickle Cell trouble and all the bankruptcy and arson - and even these beauties felt unpretty - even them! And because we remember all that we just wanted to sort of wish the various stages of TLC well and feel good about what we meant to each other at the time. You know? But now here we are, all these years later, it's the cultural relevance equivalent to T(*)C drunk-dialing us and hollering into the phone about how we never did give back their Depeche Mode CDs. It's not like we're unhappy to hear from you, T(*)C, but not like this, because this is sad in that Sarah McLachlan-behooving-us-to-save-animals way.

Perhaps you, like me, kept expecting the medley to give way to some new song, but alas: 'twas not to be. No new material whatsoever (the inclusion of tiny rapping personification of the Predator alien man we won't ever mention again notwithstanding). I'm sure you know - as I do - that performing new music is understood and included in any live television broadcast's TCO for retaining an artist to perform. Because otherwise nobody would ever show up. Tom Petty is like 'I would rather die than sing Refugee one more time, DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THIS'. So we're essentially watching the rapping Misses Havisham all up in our business with their ancient wedding dresses going on about stopped clocks or chasing waterfalls (rather than sticking to the rivers and the lakes that they, themselves, are used to) or whatever, meaning to save us from misery like their own.

Backfire! Which reminds me: Steven Tyler.

Part of my "it's complicated" with AI means that thus far I have not only been exposed to Steven Tyler exposing himself as a solo artist (I know! That is not the way we expect nor are accustomed to!) in a new video, some black and white jobbie with circus animals (which: fitting, granted) and women younger than his daughters and possibly mine about how (It) Feels So Good (the 'It' is his penis). This video, I will embed it in the post script of this post. The post's post script, if you will, which I know: you totally will, don't even front.

So anyway, the point - I have one - is that I would like to go ahead and be on the record about how I find all of this Steven Tylering-around-in-our-faces-and-making-with-the-Aerosmithing-solo-while-that-sir-is-an-Aerosmith-song-and-that-right-there-is-the-standard-scarving-and-crotch-issues-of-the-Aerosmith... I find this deeply disquieting.

It's like how even as I myself am a consumer of the Americanized reissue of the BBC's Being Human show on SyFy, the show Being Being Human - I do not understand it. The casting choice of Sam Huntington, this I understand. I enjoyed him in Detroit Rock City and I have been pleased to note that he done growed up and caught himself a case of the adorbs. But this American re-issue: it perplexes me, it is a thing which is totally beyond me.

As I am a person who speaks English in What, I am also a person fully capable of both understanding individuals who tawk funny like them Brits as well as obtaining the avenues by which to do so. So too am I a person capable of watching Being Human without requiring it to be set in Boston and delivered to us in Americanish by cute Sam Huntington and his flatmates - roommates, sorry - that vampire with the too much face topography all up in his facial face and that woman who is No Annie, no ma'am. I just can't seem to grasp why we need separate and distinct forms of the same thing.

Which is sort of like how I can't really understand Steven Tyler having a Steven Tylering solo career and then not Steven Tyler Solo Album Single performancing on the AI, but Aerosmithing without Aerosmith on the AI. You dig? It's complicated. What I'm saying is Steven Tyler performed Dream On. Which: Aerosmith song, maybe you've heard of it?

Except there is nary a Joe Perry nor any of those other people including the one with the unfortunate hair and the other one with the terrifying babyman head from that one video, and possibly others but they can be and remain beside the point - of whom, and I am admittedly bad at math but this math is the kind of math that allows me to say "this math is in my math WHEELHOUSE", okay: the sum total of all of these absent parts plus the crotch guy equals Aerosmith.

So this thing, it was happening, and I just sort of cock my head and Simple Dog shapes appear and I look at this thing that I should know except it is not the thing I know, and there is no Sam Huntington anywhere. But there is Steven Tyler's horrible caricature of a face and also crotch everywhere and the whole world apparently co-signing on how this is an acceptable thing.

I will miss Ryan. The end.

P.S. Do you know what happens now, Gentle Reader, when I write blog posts? I worry about every word that barfs forth, because Think Of The Children. My children, not so much yours, but mine, because mine are denizens of the Internets, now. They are that old, and I know they are going to read this - and other things I have written - sooner rather than later. And I just said "crotch everywhere", you see what I did there. I think I'm probably okay, what with how my teenager spent 5 minutes cracking testicle jokes over peanuts last night. So there's that.

P.P.S. I warned you I was going to do it:

BBQ Chicken Pizza

See, Renée said that she loves it when I post about cooking, so here I am again. You can blame it on her, okay? Because as long as I know I've got one entertained reader, you won't ever get me to shut up.

Today we are going to be talking about What I Made For Dinner Last Night, or OMG Neither Kid Complained About Supper At All Not Even Once. To wit: BBQ Chicken Pizza. Capital Letters.

BBQ Chicken Pizza is one of my favorite things to eat, but I don't make it very often, and I don't really know why that is. It's not like it's hard, or takes a lot of obscure ostrich egg-type ingredients, because it's actually pretty darn easy. So, onward!

BBQ Chicken Pizza

All photos can be clicked to embiggen

• Pizza dough, well-rested (I buy this pre-made from Publix. Do what you will.)
• Sweet Baby Ray's Honey Barbecue Sauce. This is my favorite.
• 1 bag of shredded Italian style cheese (2 cups)
• 1 Green bell pepper
• 1 Red onion (I only used one half, because I suffer for the happiness of my children.)
• 3 Roma tomatoes
• Pre-cooked refrigerated grilled chicken breast strips, chopped
  
  

Set your oven to stun (or 450) and begin working with your dough. I'm not going to explain how, because I mostly follow His Majesty Alton Brown's instructions, so I'll just let him tell you his own self.

Once you've got the dough prepared and on whatever surface you have selected (I've got a standard half sheet pan in use, but if you've got a pizza stone, knock yourself out), sauce it. Here we're using barbecue sauce instead of the traditional marina-type sauce. Squirt it on. Spread it out.

Now turn your attention to the vegetable matter. What you see below is one entire green bell pepper, one half of a red onion, and yield from three Roma tomatoes, seeded.

While you weren't looking, I chopped up the chicken and sprinkled it evenly over the sauced dough, then topped it with the entire bag of cheese. I love cheese. Sometimes we invite friends over just so we can eat cheese together. True story.

You'll note I put the chicken under the cheese. This is how I've always done it, for no special reason other than I like it that way, and it's my pizza, so that's how I make it. Follow the cheese layer with your vegetables, like so:

Notice anything there? That's right, there's more sauce, this time on top of the vegetables. Again, because that's the way (uh huh, uh huh) I like it. Now your pizza is ready for the oven: 20 minutes at 450, or until the crust is GBD and the sauce and cheese are burbling. I do love a good burble.

See? That wasn't a hardcore cooking experience at all. You could even add all sorts of different topping variations to make this how you might like it. Jalapeños might be good. Maybe some mushrooms, or an olive or three. I'm pretty sure that the original pizza that inspired this recipe (from a delivery joint in Tigard, OR, nigh 20 years ago) included kidney beans. That's a bit cowboy for my taste, but who am I to judge?

I Was Wrong, or The Handbag Tortilla Test

As you may or may not be aware, I have long-held the opinion that giant purses are a signifier of The Crazy (diaper bags excepted. If you have a child small enough that you need a diaper bag you have my undying sympathy, I will gladly watch your baby if you need a nap, and btw there is a spit-soaked cheerio in your hair).

Which is not to say that carrying a giant purse automatically means that I would judge you as a Crazy Crazerson, but I would indeed assign a little check mark. In my head. Actually it is more that when a giant purse presents alongside certain other things that I will make my McJudgyface. Listen, I've turned 37 since last this blog was updated, and that means I am (a) old and (b) have lived long enough to collect some wisdom. With that wisdom comes the self-righteousness of passing judgement on teenage girls in hot pants with giant purses and roach clip feather earrings. Do your mothers know what you're wearing? I hope you grow out of this.

So anyway, you guys, I was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. I was WROOOOONG.

You see, a few years back I learned to knit, and since then it's become a thing for me, you know? I do it a lot, as anybody who reads this blog or spends any time talking to me at all would know. So I reached a point where my one teeny little do-it-all purse was still enough to be pursey, but it was not pursey enough to accommodate my knitting. This meant I never took my knitting along unless I was going someplace expressly to knit, thus I decided to suck it up and buy a Mary Poppins/kitchen sink/crazyperson purse. That was months ago. I've kept my eye out, but because I am cheap I could not abide spending $30+ on a purse. Most of the purses throughout my life have been $15 or less, because to me they are not accessories. They are just a means of transporting my stuff, I usually only have one at a time (I'll wait while someone gets the smelling salts for Erin :), and I carry it until it breaks.

Okay, so: that's the back story which brings us to last weekend, when I had to take CJ to the maul so that he could hang out with his ladyfriend. (Sidebar: I hate the mall) He ditched me immediately, like you do when you're 13 and someone you recognize might omg see you with your mama in public, and that was when Mer and I visited Claire's. I found an enormous bag of holding which met all of my criteria: huge, cheap, and able to handle my knitting.

I have been using it for 4 days now. In these 4 short days I have grown incredibly attached to this bag, and I'm about to tell you why. Ready? Tortillas. The purse is so large that I didn't even notice I have been carrying a package of tortillas around for three straight days (I'm going to make soft tacos for dinner at some point this week. That sound you hear is Tim cheering).

Click to embiggen and view with notes

So you guys, I'm here to say it. You were right, and I was wrong. Huge purses aren't the human baboon butt of crazy, oh no! In fact they are the peacock feathers of utility and function.

My future criterion for purse selection: Does it pass the tortilla test? Because the tortilla test is the purse test of AWESOME.

Pics Or It Didn't Happen: I Still Make Stuff

Wow. It's been nearly a year since my first "I Make Stuff" post. How can that be? I don't even know. But the Internet never forgets, kids, so here's what I've worked on in 2010:

In March, I made a pair of mittens for myself. I had been stalking admiring the ones made by mom blogging rock star Angela over at FluidPudding and finally worked up the courage to give them a try. They were scary because I had never made anything with terrifying words like "thumb gussets" or using the "magic loop method", which frankly all sounded like dubious sexual acts and/or contraceptive methods. I only managed to get a photo of them (the mittens, not the sex acts) while in progress, but I made another pair later in the year, so you'll get to see those later in this post. They are called "Bella's Mittens", because the pattern was inspired by mittens worn by the Bella character in the Twilight movie. Don't hate, y'all - the pattern is gorgeous.

In May, I thought I'd give felting a try, finally. I spent much time and energy trying to decide on a mix of complementary colors, and in the process learned that I am really bad at it. I did not know that about myself.

And then suddenly it was summer. If you're a parent too, you know that summertime for parents is the exact opposite of summertime for kids. This is because there are no buses or hot lunches and it's eleven million degrees outside and everybody has to be driven to seventeen different places a day, and yet I still had to go to, oh I dunno, work. It's the summer days where my office is truly a vacation, people.

But you may recall that I made a condensation sleeve for CJ to take to camp, in June.

And I vowed that 2010 would be the year that I got the jump on Christmas knitting, so naturally I started with birthday and hostess gifts instead. I ended up making two of the rainbow bags for Renee's birthday (which, TO BE FAIR: December) and the purple one for when Rachel and Thom moved to Maryland.

Also in June I got the bright idea to hand knit by hand with my own hands a set of grocery bags for everybody's favorite vegetarian bunny huggers (our dear friends Tracy and Aaron). I figured: How hard could it be? Turns out: Pretty hard. Not that the pattern itself was all that hard, it just took forever to make four of them and by the time I was done I was so very, very, done. I finished the fourth bag on October 17. You may have already calculated that the duration of time spent knitting these bags is equal to that of a metric shitload. Of time. At least they're pretty.

And then it was later in July, and whoa! Jonesy and Donna were having a baby shower in twelve days. Twelve days to knit a baby blanket? CAN DO.

Meanwhile, the grocery bags were ongoing, and I was losing my mind, so I started knitting warm washable hats for the homeless. See, my friends are really good people, and they gather up food and go feed people who need to be fed on Thanksgiving day, in a local park. We call it Thanksgiving in the Park. The hats were sent along, except climate change hates us, hates us ALL, and it was nearly 70 degrees that day. So nobody really wanted a hat. Sadface. Thom and Rachel took them back to Baltimore, though, to give away up there. I hope they are getting used. Meredith models one of the hats:

OMG, Christmas knitting! Teacher gifts! Friend gifts! Crap! Now I'm behind, but I'm still knitting grocery bags! September sidebar: The Bella Lana Reversible Cable scarf, holiday gift for Meredith's primary teacher Mrs. P. I'm told she liked it!

In October, the grocery bag project was ongoing. Still. Forever. Teacher gift #2: A set of Bella's Mittens, this time for Mer's dramatic arts teacher. Purple and dramatic are totally her. She likes them, and is thankfully not allergic to 100% wool (I was worried).

It's still October! It's still holiday knitting! I'm still knitting grocery bags because they take forever! With my hands, by hand! Also Ginny really liked the yarn color I was using for Mrs. P.'s scarf, so I bought some in worsted and made a Very Braidy Ginny Cowl for Christmas. It looks really great on her, if I do say so myself.

And then it's October 31, I'm finally done with the grocery bags (hallelujah!), and my cousin and his wife welcome a beautiful baby girl. My cousin Brent is the first baby I was really around with any regularity, when I was a kid. He holds a special place in my cold shriveled heart, and now he's someone's DAD. OMG. This blanket was pretty difficult, at first, but I eventually got the hang of it. I started it on her birthday, and finished it December 6. I think it turned out great, and just look at sweet baby Claire!

The last project of the year was a last minute, weekend-before-holiday-break scarf. Mer came home from school on a Friday and said "My teacher says you’re very talented, and could you knit a scarf for J (her 6 year old)? It should be greens and white stripes. Thanks." So that’s what I did over that weekend. Mrs. P. later clarified that she meant for Meredith to ask what I would charge in money dollars to make such a scarf. I couldn't possibly, though.

So that was the knitting in 2010. If history is any indication, I probably won't post about knitting again until 2012. If you want to follow along in real-time, you should friend me on Ravelry.

Portland

Things I miss about Portland:

• My people
• Mount Hood visible from anywhere
• 90 minutes to the ocean
• Tillamook cheese
• All that rain
• All that coffee
• All those trees
• My Father's Place
• Liberals
• Powell's
• Getting to the rest of my people in a day of road-tripping
• Seattle is right there
• Banning's (I know, technically this is Tigard) coffee at midnight with D & I
• Infinity Tattoo
• Full-service gas stations
• Basketball

Things I don't miss about Portland:

• That smell in the morning
• All that rain
• The way it doesn't seem like I belong there anymore, and I don't know when that happened
• Waiting for the Hawthorne Bridge
• Randomly running into old teachers and other scary people
• Beaverton (I never liked Beaverton)
• "Pop"
• Front licence plates

I think maybe I'm homesick.

Differences in the Time of Social Media

Lately I've been thinking about differences. With a big D, that is: Differences. The kinds of Differences which can ruin friendships. Specifically, I've been thinking about Differences in the time of social media.

Thinking about this makes me wear my "I'm keeping my mouth shut, behold my utter seriousity!" face, which I've helpfully demonstrated for you over there on the right.

You see, for me, for the kind of person I am and the kinds of friends that I have, it's usually been the case that once differences of opinion get addressed, that's that. To co-opt a gross cliché here, some of my best friends are Republicans! Our differences? They're okay, because we are entitled to our opinions. What I mean to say is, overall, we just don't need to constantly hash it out. We keep our mouths shut. Seriously.

Politics, religion, global warming.... heck, in the times of the Mommy Wars, it was, is, and will probably always be about how breast is best, or circumcision is genital mutilation, or my kid's carseat is safer than yours... whatever. You know how I feel, I know how you feel, and we move on.

So here's where Facebook, in specific, is causing me some discomfort, and some introspection.

Facebook groups and pages are the new Fish/Bicycle t-shirt, or "Don't blame me!" bumpersticker. Sure. I get it. What scares me about this, though, is how you can make a statement without actually making a statement, just by way of being a "joiner". You don't own that shit. You're not saying "I, Self Me, believe that the Holocaust is a lie! Wanna make something of it?"

No. You're not taking that heat.

You're saying "I passively agree with this thing someone else said, and did you happen to notice the moist and chewy pre-packaged safety in numbers deliciousness? No? Oh, well, then it's just a JOKE Holocaust denial anyway, quit being so reactionary".

It feels like receiving a "Dear Jen, learn how to park, you asshole!" note under my windshield wipers - not that I've ever received one of those, Aaron - every time I see a friend joining a group or liking a topic that I, personally, find reprehensible. No, I know it isn't about me. Yes, I am just as guilty as the next guy. Only my Passive Joiner Statements of Difference were things that I agree with. Acceptance. Equality. Understanding. Choice.

You know what They say about opinions.

So I think about the kind of person I am, and the kind of person I want to be. Do I want to be the kind of person who only surrounds herself with people of like mind? Because that sounds pretty boring. Do I want to embrace or ignore my (admittedly) knee-jerk reaction of "You know what? Friendship over." when I encounter these really grotesque statements that my friends seem to be supporting? Because if I got friend-dumped over being pro-choice, for example, I'd be pretty pissed. I'd be making noise about my right to my opinions. If I got friend-dumped for being Caucasian, well, aiiie discrimination!

It's always about rights and discrimination when it's not originating from your own self, innit?

I don't know what's right or what's wrong, here. I don't know where it starts or where it stops. What does it say about acceptance and equality if I'm going to refuse to be friends with you because you feel differently than I do?

As I said, lately I've been thinking about Differences. I don't have a clear answer, but at least I'm thinking. I hope my friends are, too.

Alton Smoothies (Not Smoothies Made of Alton)

I haven't seen Alton Brown's "Live and Let Diet" episode yet, but everywhere I look people are talking about his Buff Smoothie. I've been pondering my own struggles with breakfast and vegetation lately, and while there are many things with which I struggle, today I address just those two:

Breakfast and vegetation. I don't like 'em.

Which is to say: I need to be awake for at least an hour before food sounds even remotely appealing (all I want to do is drink coffee for two hours, and then go to work), and if it grows out of the ground I don't really want to eat it. There are a variety of problems caused by these dislikes; one of which is evident to everyone around me if I don't eat for awhile: I become what one might call... "difficult". Yeah, we'll go with "difficult".

So recently when Jim mentioned buying a huge bag of frozen fruit and Ferrett leapt on the Buff Smoothie Wagon, I was reminded that I've been meaning to try smoothie-making. I've been using AB's recipe as a guideline, but I add in whatever I have on hand... What follows is the story of smoothie today, which is different than what will be smoothie tomorrow.

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Here we have some vanilla protein powder (there was one scoop left, 23g protein), vanilla soy milk (I'm going to try a nut milk next, I can probably find almond at Publix), V8 V-Fusion, frozen fruit, and just look at this awesome banana. I've done wrong here, for the sake of the photo: Usually the liquid goes in before the frozen fruit. Yeah, I do have a little guilt.

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I'm pretty sure there's some pineapple hiding in there, under the peaches, strawberries, and blueberries. Maybe some mango? I don't know: I started with a bag of frozen Dole mixed fruits, and I've added to it, so I'm not sure what's actually there, or not. One thing I am sure of, though, my god y'all the drama when I tried adding blackberries. Never again!

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There's 1 cup of each soymilk and juice. And then the frozen fruit, and protein powder. Banana lies in wait until the rest is mostly blended before getting dropped in. I follow AB's instructions, blending on a lower speed until the vortex appears, and then really sticking the power to it thereafter.

And then? Smoothies!

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There's a Tim serving, a me serving, and a Mer serving. CJ actually laughed in my face at the idea that he will ever "in a million years" drink a fruit smoothie of any sort. Oh yeah? Game on, little man!

The Glee Closet

If you know me, you know I love Glee.

It isn't a secret: I force Tim to watch it with me (he's in the same room while it's on, anyway), I own Season 1 volume 1 on DVD (holla, Renee!), CJ now knows almost all the words to Defying Gravity - not because of the award-winning Broadway musical Wicked, oh no, but because it was performed on Glee, and I bought both volumes of the soundtrack.

It's the soundtrack that brings us here to this blog, today. See, I went out to lunch with my dudes, and we went to the Blue Cactus Cafe (holla, again, Renee!), where I had my usual: Be Bim Bob (why do I always say Bop?), double egg, 2 scoops of spicy bean paste, and sweet tea. The thing is, I drove. I always drive because I have the sweet parking spot, and you can probably deduce that I drove mine very own car. In said car is a stereo with a cd player, and in said cd player is a cd. Two guesses which one it is.

Right: One of the Glee soundtracks. Which I love, love, love. I drove to work this morning belting along at the top of my lungs for the entire commute (it really helps alleviate my otherwise foul mood lately, to sing along with Glee)... and yet, with my dudes in the car?

I didn't even turn the stereo on. I was... embarrassed! I'm in the Glee closet, and did not even realize it.

He Turns The Seasons Around, And So She Changes Her Gown

Ever get the sensation the time is passing you by much more quickly than previously authorized by you: The boss, queen, captain, lord, and master of your particular domain?

Me too.

I've been doing stuff, and stuff, but mostly I am completely enslaved to: My kids, their lives and commitments and schedules; then there's Tim, and his life and commitments and schedule, and lately the same could even be said of the cats, and then of course mine own self; my job and commitments and such. Oh, you're still stuck on that part back there about how I'm a slave to the lives of THE CATS? Sad, I know: It's something I never thought I'd find myself saying, like, "hey, oh, me? Well I'm spending a great deal of time making sure my cats get to their veterinary appointments, and giving the one her medicine, and making sure to keep her contained, and OY the trouble with that abscessed anonymous-animal bite, would you believe that anonymous-animal gave her the Feline Leukemia? But it isn't even Leukemia at all, but rather that's a misnomer, and..."

Sad. So sad. At my girl Mandy's birthday party way the hell over yonder in Prosperity, SC, I found myself making polite dinner conversation with a friend-of-a-friend (who I'm pretty sure wanted to be way more than friend-of-a-friend with Tracy's rad hotness; we blame the $20 beer), and I had so much to say: About my kids and my cats. At least Tracy was there with us, and whenever Tracy is present, fun is had. Ave Maria Her Holy Hilariousness was there too, but way down at the other end of the table, so all I could really do was send her two texts from six feet away (which may or may not have had anything to do with ampalamps).

Speaking of birthdays, as of the last posting, you may recall, I was busy surviving my 36th birthday. As it turns out, my 36th birthday was the best birthday I've ever had (even beating out that trip to Vegas for my 21st (sorry mom), and that time I got my first tattoo) . It just so happens that my birthday was awesometastical - even though at the outset I did not believe it would be so: First, the Snowpocalypse. Our decennial snowfall with accumulation ("SnOMG, it's sticking!") happened to occur during the afternoon of my actual birthday, nearly ruining the carefully planned surprise celebration. Second, I was sick as a something that is really super sick; had been (and would continue to be) for days. Let's just say getting through the evening required two Aleve, three Imodium, and a bargain with the Universe. Third: I was having a giant cow over The Getting Old.

As it turned out, none of that even mattered: Tim and Aaron wore shirts with actual collars (and jackets, even!), T-dawg sucked it up into Spanx, and I wore a dress. We went to Hennessy's; I had a great meal (I spoon-tapped that crème brûlée for ages before finally eating it), great company, and utterly astonishing birthday presents. Three weeks later, I'm still completely gobsmacked over the presents I received during dinner and then the eventual party.

Aaron even chauffeured, and when we returned home he drove the car into the church lot and we did a few hilarious doughnuts in the snow.

Birthday Awesome: 1,000,000

Plague: 1

Snowmaggedon: 0

We Love Halloween

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Justin, as Henchman 21 from Venture Bros.



Malav, as Beastie Boys' Sabotage Cop.



Meredith, as Mouse.



Me, as Yip Yip.

Maybe I'm amazed

Funny thing happened on my way to run errands on Sunday: I checked the mailbox. Given that I rely on snail mail for very little, in that I manage all financials online, I'm not the world's most fastidious mailbox visitor. On this day, however, after I pulled up out of my too-steep hill of a driveway, I swung the car around, stopped, and hopped out to empty the mailbox.

The one single thing that stuck out among the sixteen pieces of spam was an envelope hand-addressed to me, with a return address that I recognized as being that of a friend in the Southwestern US.

What a surprise this envelope contained. Totally unexpected, completely unwarranted, utter out of the blue-ness... and it hit me. Hard. Right upside the head. This should have been the other way around. I should have sent her a thoughtful how-do-you-do, and I was completely gobsmacked, touched, agog that she would be thinking of me and not focusing every bit of energy on taking care of herself and her boycub. She's dealing with her own life, loss, trials, tribulations... and yet she stopped to take the time to do something nice for me.

And, you know, I've been wallowing. There, I said it. I've been sniveling and snorfling and generally being a whiny little bitch, and it was high time that I grabbed hold of my proverbial bootstraps and hauled my big ass back up.

This sort of thing my mother calls a "God shot"; I've taken to calling this particular event a "Goddess shot".

Thank you, friend. I don't know if you knew what you were doing when you popped that envelope in the mail, but when it arrived, it made all the difference in the world for me and for my outlook. My children, husband, job, friends... are benefiting from my renewed focus and better mood. I'm still wallowing, but nowhere near as deeply.

Thank you. Thank you.

To Be Continued

Writing, like any art, is only effective when it evokes emotion.

Note that I do not nod to the creative process, nor the feelings of The Artist, here. The emotion generated by The Artist and the emotion generated by The Voyeur are two entirely discrete sensations, and it is those of the latter which have been on my mind.

The Voyeur. The powerful, lustful, ever-cunning Voyeur.

Pleasant or unpleasant, it doesn't matter to The Voyeur; one set of emotion is just as desirable as the next when we're talking about creative response - any emotion at all is a distinct check in the column of 'win'.

Distinct as they are, each their own association and yet still often each other's, this 'pleasant' and that 'unpleasant'... the distinction is of no mind to The Voyeur. The only jones that must be fed is the howling lust for some kind of emotion, as The Voyeur bores all too easily. The lack of caring at all, the void where desperation for evocation exists will, if ignored, eventually lead to distinct disgust. Nothing offends The Voyeur so effectively as boredom. Still, the end result? This distinct disgust? Emotion. Therefore effective... yet the path to that end is worthless, as The Voyeur's disgust is shameful when it is not earned.

I've digressed.

Writing, like any art, is only effective when it evokes emotion.

When my own Voyeur read Matt's writings on U2's The Joshua Tree, the lump in my throat insisted that I pay attention, reminding of that time of innocence. And fear. And pressure. A familiar, the lump wasn't new and unknown and revolting; no. It was interesting and provocative. It made me feel. I discovered that this album, which I have never owned, has a very concrete association with time and events nearly twenty years dead.

They were strange days, those. Strange days indeed...

It is that time of year again

You know what today is?

Well do you? Punk?

Today is the day that beanmom joined the human race, lo those many (many) years ago. This is a day of great importance, and one that must be celebrated heartily, and with much eggnog.

...You're out of eggnog?

Are you some kind of monster?!

Sigh.

Okay. Just go buy her a birthday present, instead.