Thoughts from the Nest

Thou Shalt Not

2005-06-29T10:29:00.000-07:00

One of the bad things about being an atheist is that this life is all there is. We have no hope for a better life in another world. For me, this means that I have to give what I can now, to make the world a better place for the next generation. To me, this is immortality-- to do something, anything, that will live beyond my mortal life. Somewhere, somehow, I have to make a difference.

Many people of faith either can not or will not accept that atheists do have a morality. They tell me without (their version of) god, I have no reason to exist. Believing their faith to have the only realistic morality, many have asked me why I don't go out and murder someone. I don't understand this point of view. I believe basic morality is the same across the board, for the most part. Of course, each religion has its own views on when thou SHALT kill, but those are semantics (no offense to any soldiers fighting against these semantics). Morality can be summed up in very few words: try not to hurt people (including yourself), and make whatever amends you can when you do anyway. Why does a person HAVE to be christian, or muslim, or whatever, in order to follow these simple rules. I have to admit, I find it offensive to be taken as automatically evil by those who don't even know me.

Forever

2005-06-08T07:45:00.000-07:00

I gave him myself,
and he took all I had, then
just walked away.

The Dangers of Smoking

2005-03-29T10:15:00.000-08:00

Smoking is quite definitely dangerous. I learned this the other night at work.

The building is set up like a large house, with a porch in front, and a patio in back. We are allowed to smoke on the patio, but not the front porch. The porch is covered, and I'm alone at night, so when it rains, I generally smoke there anyway.

The powers that be have recently been threatening to come check up on the midnight shifts, to make sure we're doing our job properly. The other night, about 2 am, I was sitting on the front porch, smoking, when a car pulled into the driveway. I immediately panicked, put the cigarette out in the planter next to the bench, and went inside to look busy. Luckily for me, it was merely the paperboy, so I went back out to finish my cigarette.

About an hour later, I started getting sleepy, so I went out to have another cigarette. Imagine, if you will, my utter terror at seeing the planter, smoking away merrily (and quite literally). Half of the thing had melted, and the clouds of smoke were quite beautiful. My first thought was NOT "oh no, the house is going to burn down." My first thought was, "they're going to find out I was smoking in the front." At this job, people have been fired for less.

As the house seemed to not be in immediate danger, I calmly went to the kitchen, filled a pitcher with water, and dumped it on the planter. I didn't expect to get more steam than Mark Twain's boat. I repeated the process about ten times. Finally, the pot stopped bursting back into flame, and I was able to carry it to the dumpster. Once there, I decided it would be best to water the thing some more, just to be safe, before I put it in a dumpster full of flammables. I put a few more pitchers of water over it, and let it sit out in the rain.

Now I had to deal with the porch. Dirty water was all over it. I grabbed the mop, and cleaned up. I have never mopped a porch before. It's an interesting experience.

Plastic, when heated, melts. There were quite a few pieces of melted plastic attempting to permanently adhere to the concrete. I chipped them off with a fingernail, and tossed them in the dumpster.

As the planter had not smoked for a good half hour, I was ready to throw it away, also. First, I smeared some of the dirt on my knee and my shirt. My cover story was that I had tripped over the planter, and put a hole in it with my knee.

Throughout the rest of the night, I kept checking the dumpster, to make sure IT hadn't taken up the addicting habit of smoking, but I was lucky there.

The morning crew came in at 6, by which time I was reasonably sure I wasn't going to get fired. When the trashmen came to empty the dumpster at 7, I was the happiest person in the world.

Other than some teasing about my clumsiness, and a stained shirt, I have suffered no repercussions from trying to set my place of work on fire. However, I feel it necessary to warn everyone out there: do NOT let your planters smoke. It WILL kill them.

Windows (final)

2005-03-14T07:15:00.022-08:00

Spent, I clean the house,
readying it for company.
Finally, I nap.

Windows (part 4)

2005-03-14T07:05:00.000-08:00

My house stands empty.
Wearily, I decorate.
The last picture hung.

Windows (part 3)

2005-03-14T07:01:00.000-08:00

The invaders have
destroyed my home. Sadly
I rebuild my house...

Windows (part 2)

2005-03-14T06:56:00.000-08:00

Stealthily I seek,
ensuring my own safety.
I trap the culprits.

Windows (part one)

2005-03-14T06:51:00.000-08:00

Spying eyes look over
my shoulder. I shoot them down.
Some refuse to die....

Work

2005-03-03T07:05:00.000-08:00

I work the midnight shift (11:30pm-9:30am)in a home for developmentally disabled adults. This means that they are retarded, and also have at least one other severe problem. These other problems range from Down's Syndrome and Cerebral Palsy to heart ailments. Most of our residents have moderate retardation, although some are severely retarded. None of them are capable of living on their own, although most are capable of meeting their basic needs (showering, dressing, eating) with reminders and occasional assistance. Our home has room for 16 people, with 4 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms on each wing. As the home was set up, women have one wing, and men the other, although if we were ever to have married residents, they would be allowed to share a room.

Every weekday, the residents leave between 8:30 and 9:30am to go to a day program, where they receive occupational training and therapy, and for the more able ones, reading and writing classes. They return home between 3 and 4pm. They have weekends and holidays off.

Those little plastic bags of screws and bolts that come with furniture and appliances are very often bagged by people in day programs like these. The government, and some private businesses take bids for their work. While visiting the day program, I was able to watch some of the people while they were working. Some of them have a specific task, such as putting two pieces together, and are paid by how many they assemble. The ones in charge of bagging screws have a picture in front of them, with each and every piece they need to put in each bag. The person covers each picture with the screw or bolt that fits, and when their picture is finished, they know they are ready to bag that lot. They are paid by how many lots they finish.

I say paid by the lot or the item, although that is not completely true. Each resident receives a set amount by the state welfare department, although most of the money is taken out for shelter, medical care, and the like. Each resident receives 30 dollars a month as their take-home pay, although if they exceed their assembly quotas, they are paid extra for their quota. On this 30 dollars a month, our residents are expected to pay for all their entertainment not provided by our home (cable is provided, going to the movies comes out of their own money). They are expected to buy all their clothing (most of the time, families will help with this, although yard sales and auctions are great places to get decent clothing cheaply). Our home provides basic bathing supplies (soap, washcloths and towels, shampoo, straight razors), but anything else comes out of their 30 dollars a month.

Our residents wake up between 5 and 7am. Morning med pass is between 6 and 8. Breakfast on the weekdays is a sit-down affair, held at 7. On weekends, it's a buffet, between 7 and 9. After breakfast, they take their medications (if they haven't already done so), straighten up their rooms, get ready for work. On Saturdays, they have room care, which means dustings, straightening up their things, vacuuming, and the like. Sundays, those who wish to go to church are provided transportation and supervision, and otherwise, it's a free day. Most evenings (and weekend days) there are scheduled activities, in which they are allowed to participate-- going out to eat, going to the movies or a ball game, miniature golf, all sorts of different things. They eat a packed lunch at their day program on the weekdays, and on weekends, they have a hot lunch at 11. Supper is between 5 and 5:30, and that is their big meal of the day. Snack is at 8, and the last med pass ends at 9. Most of the residents are in bed and asleep by 10, and although a few choose to stay up later, it's rare for anyone to still be awake by the time I've arrived at 11:30.

There are 2 day workers (called team leaders), one full-time (Tues. through Sat.) and one part-time (Sun. and Mon.). In the mornings, there is also a cook (one full-time, one part-time), and the midnight person (2 full-time people, who alternate 2 and 3 day shifts). One of the team leaders passes out pills, the other helps wake everyone up, applies creams, does basic first aid if anyone needs, and helps with hair, and otherwise getting them presentable for their day program. While the residents are gone, the day team leader does basic housekeeping, takes residents to appointments, and does paperwork. The cook cleans the kitchen, shops, and does any food preparation needed for supper or for the next day's lunch. At 2:30, the first of the evening people arrives. We have a 2:30-10:30 shift, a 3:30-11:30 shift, and a 4-9 shift. The cook is there until 7, giving her (or him) enough time to wash the supper dishes, straighten up the kitchen, and finish any preparations necessary for lunch the next day.

In the afternoons, most of our people shower, and change into what they intend to wear the next morning. This is allowed, as long as they don't get the clothing dirty, and as long as they change undergarments and socks. After dinner, they have therapy sessions, in which they are taught basic skills: counting money, self-care (proper teethbrushing, showering, and the like), and exercise programs. The evening team leaders help with all of these things, and also help the 2 to 3 residents a day who have personal laundry. After the residents are in bed, the last evening team leader finishes any paperwork, straightens the kitchen, and starts the home's laundry (kitchen towels, bath towels, cleaning rags, and occasionally bed linens).

The midnight person does an hourly bedcheck, finishes the laundry, does basic housecleaning, and actually puts the lunches together for the morning (assembling the sandwiches, putting their macaroni salad into individual cups, etc.). At 5am, the team leader wakes up those who prefer to shower in the morning, straightens up the living room area, and sets the dining room tables for breakfast. At 5:30, it's time to put the lunches in the lunchboxes, and start waking up those who shower in the afternoon or evening. At 6, the day team leader and the cook arrive, and the day starts over again.

The only time that one person may be on shift alone is when the residents are sleeping. The morning crew consists of 3 people, and the evening crew consists of 4 people. Other than the positions I've already described, there are 3 full-time evening and 2 part-time evening positions. We also have a maintenance person and a secretary, who both come 3 times a week (or more, if something breaks), although they are not allowed to do personal care. This makes a total staff (for personal care) of 11 people, including the 2 cooks. Cooks are fully trained as team-leaders, and are allowed (and expected) to help with personal care when necessary.

As of this writing, however, we have a total of 6 team leaders (5 full time-- 1 day, 3 evening, 1 midnight-- and 1 part time evening), and 1 full time cook. Overtime is NOT allowed, and anyone who gets overtime will be written up, and quite possibly fired. I, as the only midnight person, am working Mon.-Fri. nights from 11:30 to 7:30 (as opposed to 9:30). Since that leaves the day team leader alone, the cook is working every morning (other than her days off), leaving the evening people on shift alone. As there are only 4 evening people, and one of them has to work Sun. and Mon. days (for the day person's days off), and another has to work Sat. and Sun. nights (for my days off), there are generally 2 evening people on a shift (as opposed to 3, plus a cook).

We have a staff meeting this Friday, which means everyone has to take off an extra 2 hours (no overtime, remember) to cover the meeting. Yesterday and today, I had to leave at 6:30 instead of 7:30. Today is the cook's day off. That left the day person alone after 6:30.

Last night, while I was putting the lunches together, I made breakfast, and refrigerated everything. I also prepared the coffee and tea pots. This besides my normal work, so that the day person would only have to heat the food up in the microwave just before serving. Between 6 and 6:30, I applied creams to the 9 residents who have them (for psoriosus, rashes, and the like). This is an operation that generally takes an hour or more. To finish in half the time, I had to be "clinical", and depose completely any bedside manner I might have. I went in each room, did my job, and left. I was basically having to treat these human beings like they were factory parts being processed. This is WRONG. They are people, and deserve to be treated as such.

The administration has chosen to support their extremely basic staff by berating us over what we, running at half the staff or less each shift, are unable to accomplish. If one man goes to day program unshaved, or one resident misses her bath because there was no one available to wash her back for her, we are written up.

One of our residents fell last week on my shift. She needs a walker, but generally refuses to use it. She fell against the sink in the laundry room (an large, industrial sink), and sliced her chin open but good. If you are squeamish, skip to the next paragraph. The cut was open over an inch wide, and went to the woman's bone. It ran from her chin to her larynx. Luckily, I heard her cry out, and was able to get an ambulance there right away. She was taken in for stitches, and sent home. She is fine now, and her stitches will be removed Fri. morning, although she hasn't started using her walker any more often.

I was in no way berated or held accountable for the accident (which I fully expected, knowing the current administration). It was just that, an accident, and I did what was necessary to get the woman aid. Luckily, both the day person and the cook were scheduled for that morning. As one team leader is supposed to go with any residents to the hospital, the administrator asked that I call the day person in early. The accident happened a little before 4, and I was able to get the day person around 4:30. She showed up at 5, and went to the hospital immediately, as she had been requested to do. A little while later, she returned, to get the woman some clothing and other necessities, and returned to the hospital. At 7, the injured woman's sister called, saying that no one had arrived yet. The van is old and clunky, and the cook and I were worried it had broken down on the way. The cook left to find the day person, and help her if necessary, while I took care of the 14 residents still home. Knowing the overtime policy, I called the administrator back, to tell her the day person had disappeared, and I needed to stay on the clock until either she or the cook returned.

The day person had had a minor accident on the way to the hospital, which was what had kept her. She, the cook, and the injured woman returned to the home about 8:15. The day person was written up for a) having an accident, and b) not being at the hospital when she was needed. The cook was written up for deserting her post. I was written up for receiving 45 minutes of overtime. We all three presented the same defense: we did what we could, to the best of our ability.

The reason I told you about the accident, and everything that followed it was to point out that had the accident occurred on any other shift, we would have been shut down for failure to properly supervise our residents. And we would have deserved to be shut down.

The Official "Nothing" Blog

2005-02-19T21:12:00.000-08:00

The blogger sits and
waits for inspiration, yet
nothing comes to her.

Nightfall

2005-02-18T20:29:00.000-08:00

Opening her eyes,
the owl queries the darkness,
but gets no answer.

untitled

2005-02-18T20:26:00.000-08:00

Billowing curtains
dance rhythmically to a music
only they can hear.

An Error Rectified.

2005-02-14T11:18:00.000-08:00

I mentioned I have three cats. Miles, a 10 year old male, Corie, a 3 year old female, and Zeke, a male kitten. I lied. Zeke is not, in fact, a male.

I must have subconsciously known. I was lying in bed one afternoon, and Zeke was curling up to nurse at the mole on my neck. She insists that it's not a mole-- that it is, in fact, an oddly placed nipple. And she will not rest (or let me rest) until she has made every attempt to get milk from it. I've tried to explain it, but cats just don't listen to humans.

At any rate, I was suddenly, shockingly, obsessed with seeing her backside. Zeke doesn't mind being handled in the least, so the only problem was getting her placed properly so I could see. Sure enough, she's female.

This wouldn't pose a problem, had I named this cat anything but Zeke. How does one feminize such a name? I have never heard a female Z name I liked, and certainly not one a cat would like. As T.S. Eliot pointed out, the naming of cats is a serious matter.

Zeke is a smart cat, I reasoned. She's more than capable of learning a new name. I started calling her Sophie, which has (to me) a connotation of both elegance and silliness-- perfect for a young cat. As I did when she was newly discovered, I petted her and repeated her name over and over for several days. I am sure she got the point. Her view of the matter seemed to be, "What the hell are you calling me that for? Oh, well, if I MUST answer to it." I swear by this keyboard that she accepted the name Sophie with bemused tolerance.

The problem with changing someone's name mid-career is that you tend to forget the new name. And of course, other people tend to forget even more. To my mother, Sophie is, now and forever, a Zeke. Half the time, I would call her (the cat, not my mother) Zeke as well.

Yesterday afternoon, lying in bed waiting for the kitten to give up on neckmilk for the day so I could go to sleep, it came to me: Zakia. It's feminine, and there is absolutely no reason why Zeke couldn't be a nickname for Zakia. They say necessity is the mother of invention. I believe desperation must also play a part.

At any rate, Zeke seems much more content with her lot in life, now that I've stopped calling her Sophie.

Schizo

2005-02-14T11:15:00.000-08:00

The lone voice, crying
into the night. The voice of
Sanity denied.

All Is Vanity

2005-02-09T07:02:00.000-08:00

All Is Vanity
Originally uploaded by Hannah Owl.

I looked into my mirror and saw
How Beautiful I was.
and I brushed my hair
Just So.

The Skull in my mirror
laughed at me and said,
“Looks are superficial;
Beauty comes from the Heart.”

“I’m Beautiful! I’ve proven it!”

It only asked me how.

I remember I had reached the Top
by clawing and pushing and shoving.
I thought of all the people I’d hurt
just to show how great I was.

The Skull merely warned,
“All is Vanity.”

As the years passed,
I watched myself deteriorate.
I became ugly with age-
inside and out.

No longer was I society’s Butterfly,
but an age'd old woman.
and the Skull began to laugh.

“Now look at yourself. What do you see?
The Truth, my dear, the Truth.”

“I’m still Beautiful!
No…you are right.
Why, Skull, why did I have to live this Hell?”

“You listened not to the warnings
and so you must pay the price.”

“Skull, what are you?’
“You know now.”

and I did. It was Death in all his Glory;
finally He was to take me.

The mirror enveloped me and my reflection.
Suddenly I saw myself at twenty.
The Skull showed the Beauty I’d once known.

Then I realized
the Beauty was in me-
is in me now
and radiating out from me.

Finally I am at Peace.

As I die, I think of the Skull’s words:
All is Vanity

The Name Game

2005-02-07T18:41:00.000-08:00

Even today, the small town is distinguishable by the fact that everyone knows everyone else. The entire town turns out for weddings, funerals, graduations, even the grade school band concerts.

Children, for the most part, tend to behave better with such a set-up. If a child misbehaves, SOMEONE is going to inform his parents, every time. Wherever the children are playing, there is always an adult or two nearby, to keep an eye on things. Children grow up with an extended family of anywhere between 500 and 2000 people.

This extended family is particularly evident in whatever church or social groups the parents join. Everyone greets each family as they come in, and addresses each child by name. For most of the adults, this poses no problems. They were, after all, present at the birthing, the baptism or circumcision, first communion, confirmation. The adults know the children's names, have pinched their cheeks and said, "My, how you've grown," once a week for years. And children grow up murming a shy hello to a swarm of blue-haired faces that all look vaguely alike. What healthy child, after all, cares to differentiate between "old" men and women of their parents' generation? After the child has politely greeted the other adults, he is (depending on the situation) allowed to go play with the other kids, or, at the very least, allowed to sit in a pew and not be the center of attention.

This poses a serious problem as a child grows up. Allowed to roam the town freely by the age of eight or ten, he finds himself being spoken to by numerous adults whose names he does not know. No one thinks to introduce him. He has, after all, known these people since his birth. And, being a healthy child, he doesn't really care that much, in the first place.

The teenage years are a time of practicing social skills, separate from the family home. Teenagers join groups, clubs, churches, seeking their own identity. Now the problem becomes more serious. If a teen joins a church or a social group his family is not a part of, it's possible that introductions will be made, which ring a vague bell, but if the groups have a close association to his parents (a young persons' ministry in the same church, for example), it is assumed that the teen knows everyone.

Adults become more demanding of children during the teen years. Rather than just a muttered hello, adults expect an actual conversation, asking after family members and the like, and expecting the same courtesy. Despite rumors to the contrary, teenagers want to belong (on THEIR terms, of course). They want to fit in, to socialize, to appear older than they are. How does a teen ask after someone's family when he has no idea who that person is? If the teen has good enough social skills, he can fake it, until he gets enough clues to realize who he's talking to. If the teen is shy enough, or embarrassed enough, he will walk away, still not knowing who that was.

Most children grow up and leave home. Some, however, come back to the same community in which they grew up. Those blue-haired men and women suddenly don't look so old, and one realizes that they hadn't been quite as old as supposed. In fact, as an adult, one must work with (and socialize with) people of all ages. Now, being an adult member of a small society, it is far more difficult to fake social interactions. If one is lucky, an older friend or relative will be along to whisper names into his ear. If not, disaster is only one flubbed line away. At church, at temple, at the grocery store, the local diner, even the mini-mart, a slew of familiar faces pass by, expecting acknowledgement.

I seldom greet people, and seldom chat for more than a minute. I have a reputation for being stand-offish and rude. The simple fact of the matter is, I haven't the foggiest idea who anyone is.

Retard

2005-02-02T15:08:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, I was in a special education resource room for 2 hours a week, for speech impediments and dyslexia. I understood the speech therapy classes. Hell, even I knew I couldn't talk properly. No one, however, bothered to explain why I was in the retard room. I didn't even hear the term dyslexic until after I was an adult. Having been put in the retard room, I was, obviously, too stupid for the mainstream.

This was a serious fallacy on the part of the children. Back in the 70's, as I have explained in other posts, there were limited facilities for children with a wide range of difficulties. Pretty much everyone with a mental or physical handicap passed through the special ed room at some point in their school careers. Not realizing this, I grew up assuming I was stupid.

Having more interaction with the "special" kids than most mainstreamers, I did know a few children who were actually retarded. I knew they were dumb, but that didn't bother me as much as how they looked, dressed, talked. Some of them couldn't unconsciously control their lip muscles, and would drool. Some had the physical characteristics of Down's Syndrome. Some had deformed limbs. One was a dwarf. One was in a wheelchair. In later years, my school became certified for teaching blind students, and we had a group of about ten. Not all of these kids were stupid. The dwarf, in fact, still lives here in town, and owns her own business. But children, like all people, are prejudiced against those who are different.

The word retard makes a great insult, does it not? It says so very much in only 6 letters. It knocks the person right off his ass, and down on the ground with the other animals, where he belongs, and raises you up a notch on the ladder of evolution. Retard was a common childhood insult when I was growing up, and I admit I used it as much as anyone else. At the same time, I had an empathy for the mentally disabled, having been in class with them, and been judged (even by myself) as one of them.

Oddly enough, when I was in the 6th grade, the school put together another resource program-- one for gifted students. I was the only person to be both in the smart class and the retard class at the same time.

I didn't belong in the smart class. I was, after all, a dummy. The school actually did make the mistake of putting far more children in the advanced class than truly belonged there. By some act of god, the administration realized its mistake, and corrected it the next year.

Even though I was an idiot, I loved the advanced class. We played around with logic, math, art.... I even got my first introduction to the computer-- an Apple II, which ran a form of BASIC. One of our projects was to learn to program the thing. Odd task for a retard.

In seventh grade, I stopped going to the resource rooms for anything other than the advanced class. It was just as well, because by this time, I knew I was not retarded, and I didn't understand why I was there. This would have been the perfect time for someone to sit down with me and explain dyslexia, and the point of the exercises I had been blowing off for the last few years. Had I understood there was an actual reason behind them, I might have applied myself.

In the seventh grade, the classes were divided by ability, in the hopes of better preparing everyone for the rigors of high school. Suprisingly enough, I was placed in the highest class for everything.

The peer pressure in Jr. High school is greater than at any other point in a person's life. A twelve year old will do almost anything to fit in, if only temporarily. I remember a girl, who lived on the next block. She was 3 years younger than I, and (still) in special ed. We had played together after school and in the summer for years. One day, I saw her at her locker, being bullied by my classmates. The only excuse I have is that I was 12. I joined in, attacking her just as visciously. She ran away in tears. And for a day, I had friends. Until those friends remembered that I was just another dummy, and turned on me, as I had done to Rebecca. Rebecca herself never spoke to me again.

In the eighth grade (the last before high school, for you foreigners), we were lectured time and time again over the importance of our educations, and how our choices now would influence our high school years, and our ultimate success. We had to meet with the high school counselor, to plan our freshman courses. As I had been in the band in grade school, he automatically arranged my schedule around band. I was too shy to tell him I had planned to drop band, and let him put me in whatever courses he liked. One of those was Algebra.

I was afraid of algebra. Not realizing that I'd already been learning it for a year, I refused at first to take it. There was another class, Introduction to Algebra, that I wished to take instead. It seemed logical. I didn't know algebra-- I needed introduced to it. The counsellor explained to me that it was the same class as Algebra 1, only broken down into two years. He told me I'd be bored stiff in a week. He also explained that for college, I needed to take geometry, trig, and calculus. He told me if I took the Intro course, I would ruin my life. Shyly, I agreed, aghast at my nerve in daring to argue with an adult male in an authority position.

Of course, I did well in algebra, and successfully managed my high school math career. Yet at odd times, I would remember that the intro class would have ruined my life, and I worried about those students condemned to take it.

I also began vaguely worrying about the retarded kids. How were they supposed to grow up, move out of their family homes, get jobs? What were they supposed to do with their lives? At that time, I had no answers, and I generally forgot about it within a few minutes.

One of the retarded students was in my gym class and had the same lunch hour I did. Valerie was the ultimate bully magnet. She actually was mentally handicapped, and as such people often are, overly trusting and friendly. I remember one lunch period, a group of kids were picking on her. They'd taken her lunch, and were playing keep-away with it. I wasn't 12 any longer. I grabbed the lunch, gave it back to Valerie, and told them to leave her the hell alone. Of course, the gang turned on me, but I felt I was far better able to handle it than Valerie was.

The kids left Valerie alone for a time afterwards, and she took to following me around the school like a lost puppy looking for a boy. I wanted nothing to do with Valerie. I was (almost) as shallow as the kids who had been picking on her. In order to discourage her, I was brusque and rude, but not outright hateful. Eventually she drifted away.

At the daycare center, one of our girls was severely handicapped. She was in a wheelchair, in diapers, could not speak, and could not control most of her body. She had to be fed, changed, dressed, bathed. I worried about her quite a lot. What was going to happen to her when her parents passed away? Who would care for her? Why would a loving god put her on this earth?

At the time, the only care facilities I was aware of were long-term nursing homes. I didn't know about group homes such as the one I would soon work in.

I had to leave my apartment while they renovated, so I moved back home. I needed a job, and in a small town, a person with little education and no transportation doesn't have much in the way of choice. It was the nursing home (I'd worked there before, and had no desire to do so again), one of the 3 fast-food restaurants, or the home for disabled. I didn't want to work in the home-- it was nothing but a nursing home, after all. I didn't want to repeat that experience. Mom just about literally dragged me to the home for an application.

I walked in, and was visibly impressed. The place looked homey, didn't smell like urine, and had pictures a person would actually like on their walls. The director impressed me as well. We got along famously. One of the residents was home (had a broken leg), and I was able to meet her. One of the requirements for taking the job was to have dinner with the group, which enabled me to meet them all. I liked what I saw, and took the job.

I have come to learn more about these people than I ever would have guessed. Something I was always vaguely aware of has become real to me. They are human beings, with the same emotions and needs as we all have-- no matter how well our brains process information, or whether we can involuntarily control our lips. We all need to give and receive love. And what's on the outside matters not a whit.

NIghtowl

2005-02-02T01:58:00.000-08:00

It's almost 3 a.m., and here I sit. The cats are all sleeping, opening their eyes now and again to ask me if I'm ever going to bed. I'm tired, chilly, and I need to get up in the morning to clean the house. Yet here I sit.

It's so quiet tonight. No traffic, no tv, no radio. Even the stray cats have burrowed down for the night.

I look out into the darkness, and contemplate the meaning of life. Why is it we only do that in the wee hours of the morning? Is it, perhaps, because we are creatures of the light, and in the darkness our souls soundlessly cry out? Or, perhaps the shadows in the world make us consider, in the quiet of the watch, the shadows in our own souls.

3 a.m. is a time for soul-searching, for speaking to your god or gods, for striving towards a moral balance that you, your soul, and your god, can live with. So here I sit, godless, contemplating the meanings of a spiritual realm I do not believe in.

I look up into the cloudless night, and feel the same awe that the very cavemen must have felt. The wonder, fear, and utter loneliness of the human race sobs quietly in the dark while I smoke a cigarette.

The moon is exceptionally bright tonight. I stand in awe of mankind-- for we dared the wrath of the gods. I imagine I can see the footprints of Neil Armstrong and the other men who dared trod upon that desolate wasteland. I wonder what they felt, in the deepest, darkest part of their souls, as they stood in a place Man was never meant to stand.

The neighbors across the alley have a light on. They keep it on all night, every night. A moth, I am drawn to the light, glancing at it every now and then, to be sure it hasn't burnt out. It sooths and comforts me. It stands as a beacon of humanity and of hope. Hope for what, I do not know. I simply stare at the light, knowing that all is well. I understand in a new way why man created gods-- to drive out the demons that play havoc with us in the watches of the night. I put out my cigarette, turn off the computer, and lie down, knowing that dawn is coming soon. With the dawn comes the renewed promise. I fall asleep, dreaming of Noah, and of rainbows.

Success

2005-01-29T15:54:00.000-08:00

The people I care for are justifiably proud of simple accomplishments-- things that we do every day without thinking about them, are triumphs for these people. And like anyone else who has done something difficult, they like to boast when they've succeeded. As anyone else, they want their accomplishments noted.

This morning, one of my gentlemen wished to tell me he had managed to shave and use his aftershave. He came up to me, with a proud smile on his face, and said, "Hannah, smell my face. It smells good."

Travelocity

2005-01-29T15:50:00.000-08:00

Imagination
sends me flying free, to worlds
that do not exist.

Hippo

2005-01-25T20:16:00.000-08:00

Most of my family either is, or has been, overweight. Some of my earliest memories are of my mother and grandmother at their TOPS (Take Off Pounds Sensibly) meetings. TOPS has no official diets or weight loss plans (or at least they didn't when I was young-- they might have now), but are basically a self-help group. Mom, not being able to afford a babysitter, would drag Joe and me along with her for the meetings. The rules were simple-- we could each bring one small toy, no fighting, and don't speak unless we were spoken to. We were also expected to be respectful (quiet) during the meetings' opening ceremonies. These consisted of 20 fat women taking off their shoes, coats, watches, rings, necklaces, and bobby pins, weighing in, and all standing up to recite the official TOPS pledge. At this point, they would go around the room, introducing themselves and saying they had a weight problem. AA for fat people.

The meetings were (and probably still are) held in a small building at the city park, known as the cottage. The cottage is basically a 2 room shack with adjoining bathroom, and copious amounts of folding chairs. There is nothing whatsoever interesting about this building, particularly when you are a little girl, and stuck inside for an hour with a bunch of fat old ladies. (Most of those old ladies had to be in their 30's and 40's.) Once the opening ceremonies were complete, Joe and I were free to play with our one toy each. Intelligent children don't last very long with only one toy, and the meetings were extremely boring for me. Worse yet was the social hour after the meeting, when each and every woman would pinch my cheek, say how cute I was, and announce that one of these days, I'd be a full-fledged member.

My parents were very poor, which meant that Joe and I never had pocket-money. We couldn't go down to the ice cream parlor and get a soda, or buy a candy bar, or anything like that. Nor did Mom buy much in the way of sweets for us. When you can barely afford staples, buying a bag of cookies that will disappear in a matter of minutes is a needlest waste of money. Humans tend to crave anything that is denied them, and that is how I was (and still am) with sweets. I can't tell you how many pieces of candy I stole as a kid. I knew it was wrong, but I had to have that candy. I simply couldn't help myself. Any money I got, I spent on candy (at that same drugstore). Birthday money, Christmas money-- all of it. The candy wouldn't even last the 5 block walk home. I'd almost literally inhale it. The same held true with the Twinkie in my lunch box. It lasted until I turned the first corner, and Mom could no longer see me. I would open the lunch box right on the street, and eat the Twinkie, then continue on to school.

By the time I was in high school, I had a serious weight problem. I decided to lose it. I joined a women's health club/gym, and started dieting and exercising. Over the next 6 months or so, I went from 197 pounds to 165, which is only 15 pounds over what I should weigh as an adult. I channelled my obsession with food, and turned it into an obsession with exercise. If Mom was 5 minutes late getting home from work (to take me to the gym), I would have a conniption. I would actually scream at her if she called to tell me she was running late. At the gym, in the aerobics area, was a wall-to-wall mirror, which ended a foot or so above the floor. When I lay on the carpet, my breasts and stomach were visible in the mirror. I became obsessed with the idea that I wouldn't be thin enough until my entire body was hidden from view. To achieve this end, I stopped eating breakfast and lunch, and would eat only a small dinner. I went to bed hungry every night. When I could no longer resists sweets, I would binge and purge, then feel guilty for days.

I grew up listening to soft rock music. One of my favorite groups was The Carpenters. Karen Carpenter, the lead singer, died of anorexia nervosa. The scariest thing is that she died when she was psychologically on the road to recovery. Had her body been able to hold out a bit longer, she would probably have lived and been healthy. She had abused her body for too long, and her heart muscles gave out.

Having entered my fundamentalist Christian stage, I started listening to the music of Pat Boone. His oldest daughter, Cherry, also suffered from anorexia. She, however, survived. She wrote a book about her struggle, which was put into the Reader's Digest, where I read it.

Knowing what was wrong with me, and what would happen if things continued, gave me the ability to eat again. Afraid of starting the cycle of anorexia over, I stopped going to the gym, and left things be. Unfortunately, after a short time, I began once more to overeat.

When I entered college, I did not gain the "college 15", but rather the "college 30". For the first time, I was free of the strictures of my parents, and had the money to spend on junk food. And I spent it. Every cent I had went to candy bars, chips, hamburgers.... I came home from college heavier than I'd ever been.

Throughout my adult life, I have steadily gained weight. I can eat an entire pizza at one sitting. I can eat a supersized value meal, and still be hungry. I can eat an entire fried chicken, complete with the fixings for a family of four. I can eat a quarter gallon of ice cream, after any of the above. By July of last year, I weight approximately 400 pounds.

I was in a most serious situation. I could no longer walk an entire block without having to stop and rest. I had extreme back and knee problems, and could not stand up for more than a minute. My work performance was extremely poor, and I was unable to bathe properly. I couldn't wipe myself after toileting, and I certainly couldn't use a tampon, although, having not had a period in 4 years, I was unlikely to need one. My feet and legs were swollen, and I could not go barefoot. I was unable to go more than 2 (waking) hours without eating, as I would become nauseous. I suffered chest pains, which I was (and still am) sure were the precursors to a heart attack. I had to do something, and fast, or I would be dead before the year was out.

It was too damn late. I couldn't exercise. I couldn't even walk! I decided my only option was surgery-- if my stomach was smaller, I would be able to eat less, and thus lose enough weight that exercise would become an option. I broached the subject with my mom (who's a nurse). She told me that very often such operations go wrong, when the person is unable to stop eating large amounts of food, and pop the staples. She was seriously concerned about such a procedure, and refused to loan me the money to make it happen.

Seeing that I was serious, she offered me a possible solution: Weight Watchers. For those of you who may not know, Weight Watchers operates on a point system, based on the person's weight. I'm not sure the exact figures, but a foods' point count is measured through fiber, calorie, and fat quantities. When you join, you are given a paper slide rule that enables you to find the point value of any given food in a matter of seconds. As I weighed more than their "official high", I had the highest number of points-- 35. WW strongly encourages their members to eat the entire number of points a day, as starving slows down the body's metabolism. As an added bonus, each person, no matter what their weight, is given an extra 35 points a week (as opposed to daily), to use or not use however they see fit.

The thing about the point system is that NO food is taboo. If you HAVE to eat that pizza, or that triple mocha sundae, you add up the points, and subtract it from your daily or weekly total. Knowing you are allowed to eat these things makes it far easier to say no to them, and gives you the control necessary to choose healthier foods.

Mom and I had the discussion the day after WW's weekly meeting. We went to the grocery store, and replaced my frozen pizzas with pizza-flavored lean pockets, my ice cream with sherbet (and later, no-sugar-added ice cream), my candy bars with cereal bars, my chips with low-fat crackers. Unofficially, I was on the diet for 6 days before I weighed in for the first time, which is why I don't know exactly my starting weight. But after a week of dieting, I weighed 393 pounds. I sat through that first meeting, thinking how stupid it was, how it was never going to work. I was angry with my mom for denying me the surgery, and I saw no hope whatsoever. Having little choice, I continued on the plan, to the best of my ability.

During that week, I lost 4 pounds. Suddenly, I believed. WW could work, if I applied myself. Maybe it WASN'T too late. I went on with the diet, this time without the bad attitude, and continued to lose weight.

Since last July, I have lost a total of 31 pounds. I can walk without having to stop and rest. I can ride my bike. I can stand up for ten minutes or more. I have more energy. My back and knee pains have stopped. I can go longer than 2 hours without eating, and eat much closer to normal portions. My feet no longer swell as badly, and I sleep better. I'm able to hold my urine for longer, and wipe myself when I've finished. I'm able to bathe properly.

At first, the weight just melted off. My metabolism is slowing down a bit now, and soon I'll have to cut some of my daily points. The last month or so has been a bit of a struggle. I find myself craving the foods I once ate, and missing them. However, whenever I feel I can't continue, I get up and walk around the house-- something that a short time ago I could not have done without stopping to rest. And I know that this time, I CAN do it, and in a healthy manner. For the first time in my life, I am in control, and not the food. And I WILL succeed.

Untitled

2005-01-19T07:43:00.000-08:00

Her tail wraps itself
around my neck; sharp claws prick.
Unmitigated love.

A Vampyre by any other Name Would Smell as Sweet

2005-01-02T16:17:00.000-08:00

I frequent a Christian room in Yahoo chat. Most of the regulars are a pretty nice bunch. We have Christians, atheists, pagans, and Satanists. We pretty much agree to disagree, and chat about other things than religion. Fellowship is an important thing, no matter what god or gods one might follow. Basically, we have the online version of a watercooler.

Unfortunately, we cannot control who enters the chatroom, and we get some very "interesting" people. For those of you who don't chat, there are some simple rules we tend to follow, out of courtesy's sake. Typing in all caps means shouting. Pming (instant messaging) people without permission (particularly strangers) is considered rude. Spamming (ads for websites and anything else), flooding (extraordinarily long posts), large fonts, and cutting and pasting text are also strongly discouraged. Most people learn the rules relatively quickly. A few do not. Yahoo has thoughtfully provided its users with an ignore feature, which works well on those who refuse to be courteous.

There are a few good points, and a few bad points to frequenting a Christian room. Cursing is frowned upon, although most of the regulars will forgive each other for an occasional passionate moment. There are fewer bots (computer programs that have a chat name, and sell sex online), and fewer people looking for companionship, to put it mildly. Sexual talk of any sort is limited, although the regulars occasionally flirt somewhat.

We often get teenagers in their rebellious stage, who come in cursing and mocking the Christian God. We also get a few adults who haven't yet outgrown such things. A quick ignore, and all is well.

Far more disturbing are those Christians who come in the room and expect to save the souls of all, whether we want our souls saved or not. Oftentimes, people apparently feel God isn't doing a good enough job policing humanity, and they step up to help. Two things seem to upset these people greatly: having fun, and unusual chat names.

There is nothing in the Bible that states Jesus laughed. This, of course, means that humanity does not have the right to laugh, or to play, or imagine, or simply to sit back and enjoy that which has been given to them. One must pray unceasingly. NOW!

I don't know about them, but if I were to pray constantly, I'd miss work, and I wouldn't get paid. I suppose when the bank kicked me out of my house, I could pray on the streetcorner in rags. In fact, I might score more points that way. We all know God keeps a tally, after all. Oh wait-- my apologies-- that's Santa Claus.

I am reminded of my favorite line in the movie "The Color Purple" Shug is explaining her version of God to Celie, and says, "It really pisses God off if you walk past the color purple in a field somewhere without noticing it." Were I to choose belief in a god, I would choose one that made the world beautiful, for our enjoyment and his. I would choose a god that could laugh and play, even get downright rowdy on occasion. What is the point of having life, if not to enjoy it? Even a cynic such as me can see the beauty in nature. It saddens me that these people cannot-- WILL not see.

One of the things that seriously bothers me is when people judge others on the basis of their chat names. One of my online friends has the name Vampyre (hence the title of this blog, for those of you who might be slow). He believes in a god that greatly resembles the Christian god, although he denies he is a Christian. Many, many people who say they are Christians give him serious grief about his name. Vampires, after all, are evil, soulless creatures, and to have a name that connotates evil means the bearer must be intrinsically evil. Vampyre is a very nice young man, and wouldn't hurt a fly. He is far more "Christian" than those who abuse him over his screen name. These people say hateful things, in the name of a loving god. This is something I cannot understand, nor can my friend Vampyre.

I speak of Vampyre as my friend. I don't know his real name, nor where he lives. I know what he does (or at least says he does) for a living, and I know his general schedule (when he'll be online, when he (says) he's sleeping, working, etc.), and I saw the picture he has on his profile. He knows my general schedule, what I do for a living, and that I'm trying to lose weight. We know each other well enough to commiserate over false Christians, and chat about the weather. In internet terms, we are good friends.

The yahoo room I frequent is full of such people-- people I have never, and will never meet in real life, and whom I will never really know. Yet we call each other friend, and ask after the family, the new job or car, cheer each other up when we are down. Some of the regulars have taken this friendship to the next step-- they consider each other part of their online "family". This seems a bit odd to me, but it seems to work for them.

Our need for human contact is amazingly strong. We reach out, from all corners of the globe, from all religious and ethnic backgrounds, searching for someone with whom to pass the time. And yet, we never go next door, and chat with our neighbors, or the pizza guy, or the mailman. All that we seek is within our grasp, yet we prefer fantasy to reality. And that, my friends, is the saddest thing of all.

The Demon Bike from Hell

2004-12-19T18:37:00.000-08:00

I am a very large person. I am so large that I cannot sit in a regular-sized armchair, or those plastic molded armchairs, because I simply no longer fit in them. Recently, however, I decided it was time to lose the weight. When you are as large as I am, this poses a serious problem-- there simply IS no physical activity you can do without discomfort. I had serious back and knee pains, so aerobics and walking were out. I decided to get a bike-- the weight wouldn't be actually on my knees, so presumably, they would hurt less, and my back wouldn't feel the strain as much as trying to walk.

In small towns, it's very easy to find bikes at yard sales. I picked one up, paid for it, and stood there, staring at it. I was overcome by a sudden, uncontrollable fear. I had never been afraid of a bicycle before. This was ridiculous. I started to mount the thing, and stopped. I couldn't do it. I simply could NOT do it. I wheeled it to my parents' house, and left it in their garage.

A few days later, I took the bike out for my first attempt. I didn't fall, but I came close. I was fine with my right foot, but I could not get my left foot up far enough or fast enough to find the pedal. I swerved badly, and nearly hit a car nearby. I took a deep breath, and tried again. The exact same thing happened, except that a little boy from down the street had stopped to watch. I was far too embarassed to try again, and wheeled the bike back to the garage. A few days later, I tried again, with exactly the same result. I couldn't quite believe I was too fat to get my knee up to catch that damn pedal. I had to do something. I couldn't go on like I was-- quite a few times while online, I had had heart palpitations, and I knew an attack was imminent. This bicycle thing simply HAD to work.

As you may know, I work in a home for the developmentally disabled. One of the women who lives in my home owns a 3-wheeled bike. I looked her bike over carefully. This was my answer! I could ride this sort of bike, without having to worry about falling over while my foot was searching for the pedal. I would be able to ride this easily. I started looking into buying one for myself.

Three-wheeled bikes are very expensive, even online. Also, they are shipped in boxes, and need to be put together. To a mechanically inept owl, this is NOT a good thing. I finally arranged to buy one at a local dealer, for the same price I would get online, plus they would put it together for me.

The big day arrived-- my bike was in. Mom and I climbed in Dad's truck to pick it up. I was extremely excited, and was already planning my first trips through the neighborhood. Mom was cautious. She warned me that 3-wheelers were extremely hard to ride at first, and that I should be careful. I blew her off with a roll of the eyes, and a "Yes, Mother."

The bike was beautiful. It was a bright, shiny blue, with white trim. It gleamed with the promise of health. I stepped up to it, and was overcome by the same fear I had had with the 2-wheeler. Any other person would have ridden the bike out to the truck, but I walked it out. We put the thing in the back of the truck, and drove to the church to practice.

I was insulted-- I didn't need practice! I was going to get on the thing, and ride it home from the church. We pulled the bike off the truck, and I stood there, staring at it. I'd paid almost 400 dollars for this stupid thing, and I was going to ride it! I got on the bike, and pushed off.

Bikes can go FAST! I immediately stopped the thing, scared to death. Mom laughed at me. She said, "try again," and I did. I rode an entire 3 feet, screaming the wholetime. She kept assuring me she was holding onto the back end of the bike, and that all was well. This woman is in her early 60's, and I knew she was not running alongside of me. Ahhhhhh, pleasant fiction allows us to brave so much more. Within ten minutes, I was no longer panicking, and an hour later, I was weaving in and out of the (very) few cars in the parking lot, with enough success to make my head spin. I decided to try the street. Bad mistake. Streets are not as even as parking lots, and they have a definite slope. I immediately started drifting down to the right, and nearly crashed into the curb. I walked the bike back to the parking lot, and started practicing turns again.

Turns on a 3-wheeler are not like turns on a normal bike. Rather than leaning into the turn, you must lean away from it. Also, the steering is much more unwieldy. That first day, I had serious trouble trying to get the bike to go in the direction I wanted it to. When my rear started to get too sore, I quit, and we loaded the bike up on the truck to go home.

The next day, Mom dragged me and the bike to the park. We practiced for about an hour, and by the end of that time, I almost felt like I was the one in control, and not the bike. I was now able to keep the thing going in the same direction for longer than 2 minutes, and even to turn (somewhat). A few days later, we took the bike to the park again. I was getting more comfortable, and was pretty much able to ride the thing without panicking any longer. I was ready.

I rode the bike to my parents' house. I managed to go almost an entire block without the thing trying to jump the curb. However, it's 5 blocks to their house, and after 3, I felt too jittery, gave up and walked the rest of the way. While I was there, Dad decided to try the bike out-- he ascribed my problems as female vapors. He rode the bike into the bird feeder and into a ditch. He dragged himself and the bike out of the ditch, and demanded I take the thing back. I walked the bike home, giggling at my dad the whole time.

I HAD to learn how to ride the bike now! I was going to show my dad that all females aren't worthless prats. I rode the bike over to visit several more times, and by the third attempt, I was able to stay on it the whole time, and without running into the curb. I was actually getting the hang of this. I began braving longer trips, with a fair amount of success, and was able to ride the bike to work.

It's been 3 months now, since I got the bike. I go everywhere on it, with absolutely no problems. My leg muscles are getting stronger, and my knee and back problems have diminished greatly. I've lost a good deal of weight, and no longer have heart palpitations. I actually enjoy riding the bike, and even though I hope soon to be able to ride a 2-wheeler again, I plan on using the 3-wheeler for shopping, as it has a very large basket in the back.

In case you're interested, when I reach 190 pounds, I intend to buy a unicycle, and learn to ride that. My poor mother thinks I'm insane.

Checkmate

2004-12-19T13:14:00.000-08:00

Credit goes to Gone Away, for the idea.

I am a chess fanatic. I love everything about chess-- the game, the simple elegance of the pieces, the history, the aura. I am in love with the very idea of chess.

My father was a chess player when he was young, and one year, Mom made him a ceramic chess set. The pieces were beautiful-- blue and silver on one side, and purple and gold on the other. The board was exquisite. Mom outlined each of the squares with gold paint, and the effect was astonishing. One rule that was never voiced, but Joe and I knew instinctively-- to touch the chess set was to die. We admired the thing from afar (through the glass in the curio cabinet), but never, ever touched it.

When we were old enough, Dad took us each aside one afternoon, and taught us to play-- on the GOOD chess set, not the plastic $1.00 set they'd bought us at a yard sale. To be given the opportunity to play a game with my (normally very reserved) dad-- a game that he loved as much as chess-- well, it was magic. I was 7 years old, with a torn t-shirt and ragged shorts, and I felt as though I were a Lady in the King's court. My glass of milk magically transformed into a cup of tea; my clothes were transformed into a gown, and for the first time in my life, I felt how I imagined a grown-up must feel. Somewhere in my child's brain, the beginnings of an obsession was born. An obsession that stemmed from the love and acceptance Dad showed us on the day he taught us how to play, but very seldom showed us otherwise.

I can't remember ever using Dad's chess set by myself or with Joe. I can't even remember ever considering the idea. If Joe and I decided to play together (a rare occasion, due to his disturbance), we used the cheap plastic set, which I had grown to hate as much as I loved the ceramic one. Deep in my head and heart was the knowledge that only adults could be trusted with nice things. Plastic was for children. Where this idea came from, I'm not sure, but I expect it was due to the Germanic culture in which I was raised. However it might be, as I grew older, I cared less and less for that plastic chess set, and lost my interest in the game.

When I moved out of the parental nest for the first time, I was alone in the city, with very few friends left over from high school. I needed an interest. While out shopping one day, I saw a relatively nice, though still plastic, chess set at a local store. The pieces were brown and beige, and more care had been put into their making. They were weighted, and actually looked almost as though they had been made of wood. I couldn't possibly afford a real set, and the ceramic one was still in the curio cabinet. I paid $12.95 for the chess set, and it came with a free one-year subscription to Chess Life magazine.

Reading the magazine taught me how much I didn't know about the game of chess. Dad (apparently) decided we were having enough trouble with the basic moves, and didn't teach us about castling (the switching of rook and king in one move) or en passant (the capturing of a pawn under specific circumstances). I didn't know chess notation-- had never even HEARD of chess notation. Somewhere in the vague corners of my mind was a small bit of history (at one time, the Persians had used elephant pieces). Chess Life was the key I needed to open the door to a world I had only glimpsed from afar.

Within a week, I knew how to record a game, and could pass off names like Morphy and Nimzowitsch as though I were a pro. I had a serious problem though-- this was before the advent of the internet, and shy, overweight people often have trouble making friends. I had no one to play with. I read my magazine religiously, studied the moves of the masters, and even picked up some chess books at a yard sale. But I was never able to use that chess set for anything other than study. As time went on, I began losing my interest again, for lack of someone to share it with.

You may be wondering why I never played with Dad. I honestly have no idea. Perhaps it was the physical distance, perhaps it was reluctance on my part to return (even for an evening) to a house that held so many painful memories. Joe was home from the Navy, and that, too, may have had something to do with it. Until I sat down and started writing this piece, the idea that I should have sought Dad out never even occurred to me.

While working at Kindercare, for several summers, I was in the school-age room. School-agers are a particular challenge. When I was a child, kids their age were often left alone, with a neighbor to call on in case of trouble. In society as it is now, that's seldom a viable option. These kids, old enough to fend for themselves for a few hours, were stuck in a place with rules and regulations meant for much younger children. Ten year olds rebel when they feel they are being unfairly treated, and in my mind, they had every right to do so. However, the discipline problems they created were enormous.

One afternoon, I grabbed one of the older boys, sat him in front of me, and pulled out the old, battered chess set that had sat on a shelf so long it was actually dusty. Within 2 days, every child over the age of 7 would rush to greet me as I came in, ready to (finally) beat the pants off me. I never threw a game. I taught the kids as we played. I'd show them the lines of battle, suggest ways to throw off my attacks, and show them what would happen in subsequent moves, but I never made the game easy for them. This gave them the stimulation they needed to, not only behave, but to thrive in my classroom. Soon we had 5 chess sets (oh, the hated plastic of my youth), and they were constantly in use. Some of the kids were very talented, and a few of them, by the end of the first summer, were beating me regularly.

My half-decent chess set had long since gone missing, and I ended up buying a glass one for $64 dollars that can now be had online for $10. I loved that set. It had classic pieces, in clear and shadowed glass, and was seriously beautiful. The only trouble was, with a house full of cats, I couldn't leave it out. I needed a set I could use around my pets. Fortunately, I still had my Chess Life magazines, complete with advertisements for everything chess-related. I decided I needed a magnetic or a peg board, somewhat smaller than the glass one, so I would have room on the table for my books, my tablet, and the four colored pens I used when writing down a game.

"The Hunt for Red October" (a Tom Clancy book, made into a film) was nothing compared to the hunt for the perfect chess set. I immediately bought the first travel chessboard I could find. The pieces didn't stick well, and there was no place to store the captured pieces. I kept looking. I ordered a 2 dimensional set from an ad off of Chess Life, but the pieces were little more than squashed jellybeans with a drawing of what they were supposed to be emblazoned on the back. I bought 2 different pegboard chess sets. The first one was far too small-- I couldn't tell the bishops from the pawns. This was a serious flaw. Also, again there was noplace to store the captured pieces. The second pegboard had slightly bigger pieces, and a row of holes for storage on each side of the board itself. I still have this board, and use it when I get the urge to study. It was still too small for a real game, however.

By this time, I was an internet addict. Somehow, I got the idea of looking online for chessboards, and found the absolute perfect board for me. The board was large enough to play against an opponet, the pieces were beautifully carved, with strong enough magnets that the board could be turned upside down without any pieces falling off. Best of all, it had 2 drawers that held the pieces while not in use. Forty dollars and 3 weeks later, I was the saddest chess player in the world-- one of the pieces was missing. The company sent me out a replacement piece, but the paint was far darker than the original, and this seriously bothered me. I wrote to the company again, and they sent me an entirely new set, board and all. The first set, I used with the children, and it eventually got ruined. The second set, I put away with my chess books, and never used.

Upon moving to this house last year, I came across the chess books and the good chess set. Due to my internet addiction, I hadn't used them in years, and had, in fact, forgotten their existance. I played online, now. Opening the box that had the chess set was like seeing an old friend, long missed. I touched each piece, giving them the honor they were due. I keep the set in a cabinet in my own house, ready and waiting for that next game. Unlike Dad's chess set, this one is used, by whomever I can cajole into playing with me.

Whatever happened to Dad's chess set, you ask? After Joe died, I mentioned that we had been arguing over who would inherit the ceramic set. Mom said it was in the closet upstairs, if I wanted it. I went though years of accumulated junk, and finally pulled out an old, dusty shoebox. Knowing this couldn't possibly be that magical chess set, I opened the box.

That elegant board, with the gold-trimmed squares was nothing more than a slab of ceramic clay baked onto a piece of cardboard. Bendable cardboard. Those glorious pieces were filthy with dust. As I cleaned each one off, I saw the chips and scrapes, the places where the paint had worn off. One knight had no tail. The bishop's miters were broken off. I came as close to tears for that chess set as I had when my brother passed away. I closed the box, and put it back in the closet, older and wiser now.

Meow Mix parts 2 and 3

2004-12-18T22:01:00.000-08:00

Corie and Zeke insist upon having their say, as well.

(Corie)

Don't listen to what Miles has to say about me. He's a scruffy old short-hair. How could he POSSIBLY understand the trials and tribulations of an elegant cat like myself? It is my sacred duty to enhance Mom's atmosphere and bring aesthetic beauty to her life. It would be uncatlike and cruel to deny her the pleasure of seeing me enhance her favorite pieces of furniture.

When you're as beautiful as I am (not that anyone, particularly a human, could ever be), you have to put in a lot of hard work. Every evening when I get up, I must attend to my toilet. Yes, I groom myself daily, even the less-than-wonderful portions of my anatomy. Long hair must be properly groomed in order to give it the halo effect so prized by humans. I consider it a feline sacrifice, knowing I bring joy to the world around me.

I must tell you, though, that I don't get half the credit I deserve. I work my tongue off, keeping myself beautiful, and does she give me tuna? Nooooooo, I have to eat (shudder) DRY FOOD. This is outrageous! And furthermore, I live in this house with two cats of (SHUDDER) PEASANT stock. Royalty is not supposed to mix with commoners, after all. Do you know, those two idiots try to drink from the human's litterbox? Urg! The horrors of living with plebes.

I suppose I could put up with Miles, if he were alone. Every queen needs an entourage, after all, and he knows his place. But that kitten! Zeke will not leave me alone. He's jealous of my beauty. He must be. Everyone is jealous. Do you know, Zeke tries to ruffle my fur and get me to play peasant games with him? Queens do NOT play chase-the-tail. Hmph! As if I would lower myself to his level.

Don't get me wrong-- if something were seriously threatening my kingdom, I would act. In fact, I have. I single-pawedly saved us from the attack of the cellophane cigarette wrapper. And of course, the strings on the windowblinds are dangerous-- a human could get caught in them. So I must give them a hiss or two and a warning pat. They need to remember who's the boss around here. And I will never forget the year 2000. That was the year of the dust bunny. They tried to take over my castle! I had to kill them, even if it DID get my paws dirty. What choice did I have?

Well, I am sure you are all commoners, and I have graced you with my presence long enough. I must nap.

Zeke

Hi people! I love you all! Big furry kisses to everybody. PURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. Oh wait, you in the blue-- you have a string attacking you. Let me get it for you. (Swat) Ha ha, I killed it! I'm the wonderkitten!

I love living here with Mom. She's the most wonderful human in the world. She saved me from certain death, you know. The evil humans I lived with when I was born ABANDONED me in a hot, sticky parking lot. It was scary. I climbed up a tree, and couldn't get down. I was hungry and tired and hot and thirsty. I wanted my mama so bad. I just sat in that horrid tree and cried my whiskers off.

Mom was walking by, and she saw me. She reached out and picked me up out of that tree and took me home with her. She gave me food and water, and all the snuggles any kitten could ever hope to have. I love my mom so much. Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Hey-- watch out for that pen-- it could stick you! (Pounce) Got it! Whew! You humans can't be too careful.

Anyway, as I was saying, I love it here. I've got Mom, and Miles and Corie, and life is good. Miles and Corie don't really like me too much, but I don't mind, as long as I have Mom. The other cats think I'm silly. (Jump) Got that piece of fluff, ha ha ha! Well, I'm not silly-- I just need a lot of exercise. Miles is a great trainer-- he wags his tail for me to practice my attacks on. Oh, I love attacking his tail. He must like it too, because when I attack, he just wags it harder.

Corie's a bit of a stick-in-the-mud. I try to get her to play more (Got your earring-- it's MINE now). I chase Corie through the house, and make her run up and down the cat tree. She can't just sit around ALL day-- it's bad for her health. She gets upset, for some reason, and hisses at me. Speaking of hissing, is that a snake? No? A rubber band? I'd better kill it, just in case it's really a snake in disguise (Bat). There, you're safe now, Human.

Well, it was nice talking to you, but I have to get back to protecting Mom. She's got her fur all up in a braid, and it could choke her or something. I must teach it a lesson! Bye now (((((((HUGS))))))

Meow Mix

2004-12-16T08:26:00.000-08:00

Some friends have suggested I write about my cats. I can't imagine why I should-- it's not like they do anything. Of course, I view them from a human perspective. Perhaps they see things differently. Miles, the eldest, would like to contribute to the blog, on behalf of all the cats. I will, of course, translate to English, for those of you who don't speak cat.

I've never written anything before. In fact, I've never even read anything before, although I do occasionally like to eat a good book. Well, at least, I like to chew on the corners. Library books are my favorite-- they have that certain taste to them I enjoy very much. For some reason, it upsets Mom when I chew on them. She hollers at me, and makes me run under the couch. I don't like it under there-- I'm far too big to sleep under the couch.

Mom is very good about giving us plenty to eat. I'm a big fan of carbohydrates. Popcorn, chips, bread, cereal... it's all good. I think chips are my favorite. Mom buys chips in bags, which are nice and convenient for hungry cats to open. I help myself every time she goes out. The best part is licking the salt off my paw, of course. Sometimes I'm nice, and share the chips with Zeke. He doesn't actually eat them, he just bats them around the room. Silly kitten, wasting good chips like that!

You know, it's sheer hell, living with a kitten. I'll be lying there, enjoying my nap, and BOOM! that bratty kit is attacking my tail. He has claws, too, and uses them. Stupid kit has no respect for his elders. Well, I HAVE to chase him-- what else can I do? Then Mom (unfairly, I might add) accuses me of thinking I'm still a kitten. Can you believe her? She just doesn't understand. (sigh)

Corie doesn't understand, either. She's my little sister. She's one of those long-haired cats (insert eye-roll and tail-twitch here). Long-haired cats are a strange bunch-- they are obsessed with their looks, just like human females. Corie thinks it's her job to sit on the furniture and make it look pretty. Mom calls her a decorative cat. Have you ever heard anything so un-feline in your life? I like it when Corie sits on the entertainment center, though-- Mom yells at her to get off it, and chases CORIE under the couch. That, of course, means I can sleep on the monitor without getting caught :D

Let me tell you about a typical day in the life of a housecat. I'll start with the evening, as that's when we get up.

Mom's alarm goes off at quarter of ten, which means I need to get the heck off her damn leg so she can stumble out of bed. Of course, sometimes I don't FEEL like getting up yet. Mom's leg is very comfy, you know. Can you believe Mom actually kicks me off? She even pushes Zeke off her, and he's her favorite. Grumbling and growling, we reluctantly get up so Mom can stumble into the bathroom. We aren't allowed in the bathroom with her. For some reason, she doesn't want us drinking out of the porcelain water dish. It's very annoying, as that dish holds much more water than the pathetic one we're allowed to drink from. But then, who can understand humans?

While Mom is getting ready for work, Corie and I help by sleeping on her work clothes so they don't go hang themselves back in her closet. Zeke crawls in her lunchbox so it doesn't walk away. We love Mom, and try to help her as much as we can.

Once she's ready for work, Mom walks by our food dish, IGNORING the fact that it's only half full and that we could starve to death before she returns. Sometimes, she is so mean! We meow as pathetically as we can, and still she doesn't fill it. Everybody knows that the bottom half of the bowl is poisonous, and food placed in it will kill an innocent cat. We HAVE to have it full to the brim.

Instead of taking care of us, as she's supposed to do, Mom sits down at the stupid computer for an hour, completely ignoring us. I've got her number, though. I sit on the computer chair behind her back. She can't ignore me then :D

After Mom goes off to work, the next 10 and a half hours belong to us. Mostly, we do all the things Mom thinks we shouldn't. We get on the furniture, eat chips (I learned how to open the cabinet with my paw-- aren't I the smartest cat?), and generally entertain ourselves. When I get tired, I jump up on the monitor, because it's nice and warm there. Corie climbs up on the video shelf. It's a small shelf, and she has to knock the videos out of the way so she can sleep there. Zeke curls up on Mom's favorite stuffed bear. He likes the snuggly feeling. For some reason, Mom doesn't like his hair on it, though. It's not like the bear doesn't have fur of its own, after all! Humans are so unreasonable.

Nine thirty in the morning-- Mom's due home soon. We all get up from where we were sleeping, so she doesn't know we were there (humans are dumb that way), and go to the door to wait for her. Now she will feed and water us, after we suffered all night long. Then she goes back to the damn computer. We all jump up on the desk to snuggle Mom, and let her know how much we missed her food. I lie back in the chair behind her, and Corie curls up in the cat tree behind us. Zeke tries to climb up and snuggle Mom's chest (and sometimes, he gets away with it-- human's pet!).

When Mom gets hungry, she goes into the kitchen to make lunch. I lie on the back of her chair, because she likes to share. Corie curls up at her feet, and Zeke sits in her lap. The annoying thing is, sometimes Mom gets up before she's done, and makes us all scatter. Just because that box on the counter beeps at her, or because she has to run to the porcelain water bowl. Humans really get my goat sometimes.

After lunch, Mom relaxes with a movie, which means we all snuggle on the couch and steal chips. I love to stand on Mom's chest so she can't see the TV. I AM far more important, after all. We all giggle when Mom can't find the video she wants, because Corie knocked it down to sleep on the shelf. We can't let Mom know we're giggling, of course, so we cover it by washing ourselves. Zeke is excellent at butt-washing in front of Mom's nose. For some reason, she always makes him get down.

Another round at the computer, and it's time for bed. Zeke ALWAYS gets the good spot by Mom's neck. It's not fair! I have to sleep on her legs, and she wiggles too much! Corie avoids the situation by sleeping on the edge of the mattress, on the pillows. I don't like the pillows much. They're too soft for my old bones. It takes a young cat to sleep there.

We nap with Mom for awhile, then we go off to hunt. There's nothing better in the world than a nice, loud hunt when your human is trying to sleep-- especially when we land on her face. She makes a most interesting noise. She jumps out of bed, and tries to find us. We love playing hide-and-seek with her. I make the game more fun by strewing litter across the floor for Mom to slip on. It's not MY fault she can't see in the dark. After Mom hollers at us awhile, she goes to the porcelain drinking bowl again, and we all sneak in with her. Corie and Zeke play tag with the shower curtain, and I taste all of Mom's toes, just to see if they taste different from last time. Then we all go back to bed, until the alarm goes off, and our night begins once more.

This is Hannah again. I hope you enjoyed Miles' story. I have edited only so far as translation requires. The content has been kept as close to the original as possible. Thank you and good night.

Moving Day

2004-12-15T07:44:00.000-08:00

I had a huge apartment, far too big for me and 3 cats. One of the rooms was only used when one of the cats had the urge to knock something over. I bought tons of furniture, just so the place didn't look so empty. We seriously rattled in that joint. Not to mention the 18 very steep steps to the joint, and the fact that it was a block away from my parents' house... it was time to move.

As the only places for rent in a small town are either overpriced or very bad places to live, I needed a good home. Enter Mom and Dad, who do NOT want me and my 3 cats moving in with them, their 2 dogs, and 2 cats. Mom's idea was to buy a small house and rent it to me. She doesn't actually mention this to me or anything. One morning she called me on her cell phone, and said she was downstairs, and to come get in the car.

We drove past a house that looked about right for a 2-car garage, which came complete with its own baby-sized shed (painted in matching colors, of course). We wandered around the grounds for a few minutes, while Mom discussed the idea of buying the place for me. I, of course, was thrilled to death.

We called the realtor and set up an appointment. A few days later, and we were inside the house. The living room is about 10 ftx4 ft., the kitchen about 10 ft. square, and the bedroom actually of a decent size. In the bedroom is a bathroom and a closet for the (stackable) washer and dryer. The kitchen has tons of counterspace, a relatively new fridge and oven, and enough room for a small table and a litterbox. The outer living room wall is almost covered with a built-in entertainment center. My first thought was that it was the cutest little doll house I had ever seen.

A month later, and it was mine (or more accurately, my parents'), and it was time to move. Being a computer addict, I had an entire 3 boxes (somewhat) packed by moving day. As I am very overweight, there was no way I was going to be able to do the physical moving, and Dad called my uncle with the truck and 2 strong boys. While they took out the furniture, Mom, my aunt, and I packed up the apartment. I and the cats went over with the last load of junk.

Did I mention that the apartment was HUGE, and the house TINY? When we got to the new house, all of the furniture was piled in the livingroom in a large clump. There was no hope whatsoever of untangling the mess that night, as it was well past 10 pm. Also, the house was ice-cold. It was December (of last year), and the gas man had turned on the gas, but had neglected to unlock the meter. A quick phone call elicited a promise to be over that evening.

While I was waiting for the gas man to show, I started the tremendous job of figuring out where to put my junk. Not unpacking it, mind you, just deciding where it was going to go. When the house is this small, and the amount of furniture that large, this in itself is a monumentous task.

A knock at the door! The gas man is here. I opened the door, and this very skinny, elderly man pushed his way in, looking quite frightened. He took a deep breath, and said, "Whoareyouandwhyshouldn'tIcallthepolice?"

At that particular moment, I was thinking exactly the same thing. Although this town is still a pretty safe place to live, I've been in places that aren't, and I was completely unprepared for someone to barge in on my new home. A few minutes and a pot of coffee later, we were already becoming very good neighbors. I decided that any neighborhood where the people would take such an interest had to be a good one.

Once the real gas man showed up, I was able to go to bed, that being the only piece of furniture that was in the right room, much less the right spot. I work midnights, and I had gotten off at 9:30 that morning, and hadn't slept. Due to my excitement at having the new place, I wasn't able to sleep well, and was up around 5, unpacking and moving the furniture.

For some reason, my uncle had deposited the 8 ft. cat tree in the bedroom, and the corner of the living room where I wanted it was crammed with furniture, so that was my first task. I did NOT want to share the bedroom with a cat tree-- cats are playful enough in a bedroom without toys.

Bed mice are Zeke's favorite toy, actually. Every bed has mice. They lurk at the foot of the bed, under the covers, and move at odd intervals. A kitten's job, of course, is to kill the bedmice. Once the bedmice have been killed, and the human is bleeding from all ten toes, the kitten has bravely protected the area, is allowed to curl up with his human to sleep.

Kittens come in handy when you're unpacking a great deal of crap. They investigate each and every box as it opens, to let you know what's in it. They continue to investigate until every item is out of the box, and there is nothing left for them to shed on. Once the box is empty, it must be killed. This is a job for the older cats. They craftily turn the box on its end, and take a nap on it, causing the middle to sink in, breaking the glue bonds that hold the box together. It's a difficult job, and only the best cats need apply. I am blessed with intelligent cats that were well able to help me in this manner.

Cats also help move furniture, by taking naps directly in your path. This insures that the pathway is free of monsters, murderous pieces of lint, and the like. Imagine the poor furniture, innocently traveling through a path covered in lint! Thank goodness the cats are there to protect it!

For some reason it took me 3 days to get the furniture moved.

I'm happy to say, that despite the feline help, the house was eventually put in order, and we live here very happily.

The Official Christmas Blog

2004-12-12T13:02:00.000-08:00

At our house, Christmas started on Dec. 6, St. Nick's day. Everyone got up early, in order to clean and decorate the house. By midmorning, the house was as clean as two kids could make it, the heavy boxes were downstairs, the furniture was moved, and it was time to begin.

Joe was responsible for untangling the lights, while Mom and I sorted the branches for the ancient tree. I hated sorting. The little letters on the stems were faded and worn. Holding up two branches to try determining their relative size didn't always work, as the tree was so old. Eventually, however, we would always manage to get the job done. It took all of Joe's strength to get the bent branches in the tree trunk. Once the branches were all in, we would step back for a moment to admire our handiwork.

Being tallest, Joe was assigned to the top of the tree, Mom got the middle, and I did the bottom. Lights, of course, came first. Joe had already gone through and replaced the burnt bulbs as he untangled the strings, so once the lights were strung and plugged in, the tree would shine brilliantly-- except for that one light that just now burnt out. Back then, if one light didn't work, none of them did. So, we would unstring the tree, and Joe would (relatively) patiently test each light again, as Mom and I started unpacking ornaments.

With our tree strung and glowing, we started in on the ornaments. Giant glass balls that Mom had bought their first Christmas, just to have something on the tree. The handmade ornaments passed down through generations, each with its own story to tell. The tiny ones specifically for the top branches. The ceramic ones Mom made in her ceramics class. And of course, the Elvis Presley one.

As we picked up each ornament, Mom would yell, "Be careful with that one!" and tell the story behind it.

Finally the last item-- the Christmas angel. This angel was beautiful to the eyes of a child. It had a long, flowing gown, bright blue eyes, and a real halo. Joe wasn't allowed to hang her-- Mom got out the ladder for this. She would very carefully tie the angel to the tree with the too-short bits of string provided. She would position the angel Just So. Then she would fiddle with the lights, until a yellow one was right behind the angel's halo. Voila-- Christmas magic.

Now it's time to move on to the manger scene. Mom made the entire thing, in her ceramics, and it's the most beautiful one I've ever seen, even now. Being ceramic, however, the box is HEAVY. Usually, Dad was put into service to bring it down the night before. Once the box is safely down, the ritual of unwrapping the pieces begins. Whoever found the baby Jesus was the winner, but as the wise men, camels, and other large pieces somehow migrated to the top of the box, those had to come out first. Each piece was (somewhat) gently unwrapped, and set down.

Once all the pieces are done, my mother would dim the lights and begin. As she told the Christmas story, she would act it out with the pieces from the manger scene-- from beginning to end, placing each piece in its exact spot. This was one of the high spots to our Christmas-- Mom could tell a damn good story, and when it was infused with her own faith, the story was even more special.

And this wasn't just any manger scene, you realize... Mom was in ceramics classes for years, and continually made new pieces. We have 3 wise men, 4 camels, a slave, 12 chicks, an owl, 3 angels, 12 sheep, a lake (complete with a fish jumping out of the water), the little drummer boy, St. Francis of Asissi, and a purple hippo my cousin Kaylee contributed when she was 6.

After a quick lunch, it was time to decorate the rest of the house. This part, Joe and I weren't too interested in, except for the hanging of the stockings. Every night, from the 6th through the 24th, St. Nick would leave a small gift in the stockings-- but only if we were good (and if Mom didn't forget). It was actually a very good way to keep us from driving her crazy the last few weeks before Christmas, and guaranteed our (better) behavior. For the next three weeks, every morning the first thing Joe and I would do would be to rush downstairs and check the stockings. There would be a quarter, a pack of gum, a page of stickers, or blessing of blessings, a candy bar. Of course, sometimes there was nothing at all, which made us strive to behave even better, that we might have a present the next morning.

Our other big thing was the Advent calendar. If you've never seen one, it's a calendar with the dates covered by a piece of hinged cardboard. Each morning, we would "open the door" for the appropriate date. Behind the door would be a small picture that related to the religious side of Christmas. Mom would tell us what the picture was about over breakfast, and we had some very lively discussions about faith, Christmas, and pretty much everything under the sun.

In the evenings, before supper, Joe would light the Advent candle(s). For you Catholics out there, the Protestant Advent wreath has 4 red candles in a menorah, with a white one in the middle. The white one is the Jesus candle, and is only lit on Christmas day, and for the week after Christmas. Joe, being oldest, ALWAYS got to light the Advent candles. For the 4 weeks of Advent, though at no other time, we would pray before we ate.

With 2 weeks to go, it was time to start the baking. Mom made enough cookies to last us a year. Chocolate chip, chocolate mint, molassas, sugar cookies, chocolate dreams, snickerdoodles... they were all there. And for once, I got the best job. Being the youngest, I was the one allowed to lick the beaters and mixing bowl clean after each batch. To a little girl, nothing says love like the taste of raw cookie-dough.

The most fun of cookie baking, however, is cutting out and decorating sugar cookies. Mom had cookie cutters of every size and shape, and Joe and I conscientiously decorated each and every cookie to the very best of our ability. We would spend hours, decorating those cookies. It kept us quiet, and out of Mom's hair, and the mess was actually edible.

Christmas eve was a very busy day. We had dinner with Mom's family, and unwrapped presents at noon. Supper and presents with Dad's family.

Family is a wonderful thing, and the most wonderful part of it is being able to leave at the end of the evening. Church was at 7, and after church, we would go home to rest. With Christmas morning to look forward to, we were more than willing to go to bed early.

3 a.m., and Joe and I are already downstairs, examining the presents. By 6, the parents were up. A quick scramble for the required camera, and we were off! Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. Breakfast, church, a quick clean-up, and Mom began to cook. Assorted relatives would be in and out all day, bearing last-minute gifts, food, and tired, hyperactive children. In the afternoon, everyone would gather in the living room to watch the Christmas movies and eat cookies. In the evening, the children would play board games, and the grownups would talk; everyone gathering the strength of will to drag their tired bodies home to bed. That night, I would sleep with my new stuffed animal or doll, with dreams of sugarplums dancing in my head.

Cold, Tired, and Needing to Pee

2004-12-11T13:08:00.000-08:00

My favorite story as a child was the following, from my mother (written from her point of view).

When I was a girl, I absolutely knew I wanted to be a nurse. When I was ten, I saw an ad in a magazine, for a nursing correspondance course. I signed up immediately. The first test I scored a 75 (C average-- passing grade, midrange, for those who don't know our grading system. I guessed half of the answers. I was ten-- I didn't know what an enema was.

I got the bill in the mail. I had had no idea I would be expected to pay for this course. All I could think of was that Mother was going to kill me. I didn't know where to turn. I decided the only thing I could do was to run away.

After school the next day, I went out to the lake, to try to figure out where I was going to go and what I was going to do. I went wading, and washed my socks out. (Why my mother was obsessed with clean socks at that age, I have no idea.)

After awhile, I decided that if I were going to go, I had to start walking. It was starting to get dark, and I was scared. The trees cast strange shadows on the ground, and I was sure there was a monster behind each tree. I was cold, tired, and needed to pee. But I couldn't go home. My mother was going to kill me. I kept going. Holding my cross (necklace) tightly for moral courage, I found myself walking to the end of town, and started crossing the cornfields.

By this time my mother was, of course, frantic with worry. She'd called the police, the fire department, and everyone else she could think of. My sister told her I was headed for the lake after school, so the police started the search there.

When all they could find of me was a pair of wet socks and a bookbag, they were sure I had drowned. They began dragging the lake for my body.

I had no idea all of these people were searching for me. All I knew was that I was cold, tired, and needed to pee. I got through the first cornfield. It must have been 8 or 9 o'clock by then. My stomach was growling, I was filthy. I was cold, tired, and needed to pee. I was also scared to death of the noises in the fields. I turned for home.

Due to the police thinking I had drowned, the search had pretty much ended at the lake. I wandered back the way I had come, cold, tired, and needing to pee. And I had no idea they were looking for me. The tree shadows were still now, but the monsters kept making noises from the branches and behind the trees. It took me another hour or so to walk home. I was terrified, hungry, cold, tired, and I needed to pee.

My mother saw me coming, ran out of the house to hug me and shake me at the same time. The police and fire department were called off lake duty, and I got the lecture of my life. I was threatened with death if I ever ran away again, and I never did.

Mother did, of course, straighten out the bill with the nursing school, which was very impressed I had passed their first test, and offered to take me as a student when I graduated.

Hannah speaking again. This story always gave me delicious shivers when I was a little girl. Being an imaginative child, for months after she'd tell this story, I'd avoid trees, lakes, and policemen-- just in case.

untitled

2004-12-08T20:27:00.000-08:00

Anguish-- the death of
one's child. A blessed gift from
a loving God.

Despite appearances, and the fact that I am an atheist, this poem is in no way meant to be sarcastic or disrespectful. Please do not comment until you have gone away (no pun intended, lizard) and thought seriously about it.

Mommy Dearest

2004-12-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

I have stated, for the record, that I am 36 years old. I have also stated that I am a Certified Nurse's Aide, which means the state I live in consideres me trustworthy to take care of its infirm and elderly. I have worked for 2 daycare companies, which means several hundred parents have trusted me to take care of their children. Currently I take care of developmentally disabled adults. Again, the state trusts me to take care of those who cannot take care of themselves.

So why is it that every time it rains, my mother calls to remind me to take an umbrella and my raincoat to work?

The Pot or the Kettle?

2004-12-05T04:32:00.000-08:00

I am not prejudiced. I should be, but I'm not. Why do I say I should be? I was born and raised in a small town very near a city that's 99% black, and 97% ghetto.
Most white people are prejudiced here, simply because of the association. In this area, most of the stereotypes are true, for a large number of the black population.

Why am I not prejudiced? Partly due to Joe's influence (if you haven't read my last post, he was my brother). Joe's disturbances caused him to need to feel superior to others, and around here, it is easy to despise black people, and Joe most certainly did. A case in point :there were several black tv sitcoms when we were growing up, most of them situated in a ghetto. I watched them, because they were funny. The color of the people's skin didn't make a difference. If the people had been white, or Chinese, or whatever, I would still have laughed. Joe would walk past while I was watching, and shout "Nigger" over and over, half at me and half at the tv screen.

My 7th grade year, my school established a new special education program for the blind. Two of the students were black, from the ghetto. One was a girl a few years older than I, and the other a little boy. They were driven to school in a cab, by a black man. At first, I had little to do with Rhonda. She was in the 8th grade, and she had tons of kids hanging onto her, because she was different. She didn't need another one. I don't remember how we got to be friends-- I normally didn't hang out with the older students. In fact, I didn't hang out with anyone. However it happened, by the middle of the schoolyear, we were best friends. We hung out together on the schoolyard (children our age did NOT play, and would have been offended at the accusation), we ate lunch together, she even visited my house a few times, as Chuck the cab driver was always a half-hour or so late. In the mornings, Chuck would park at the local grocery store on my way to work, and wait for me to come by. Riding to school in a cab was a big thrill.

Over time, I became impatient with Rhonda's handicap, and eventually began to hate her, for dragging me down to her level. By the time the year ended, our friendship had, as well. But Rhonda taught me many things, including the fact that black people are just that: people. They have thoughts and feelings akin to my own, and the same hopes and dreams as whites do.

My first job was at a nursing home, and the woman who trained me was a black woman from the ghetto. She was one of the most excellent workers I've ever met, and was all in all a Good person. She worked my tail off, but when she was through training me, I knew my job inside and out. We never became friends, for she was an older woman, and I was only just out of school, but I quickly learned to respect and value her.

The Cosby show was on at this time, and for whatever it might not have been, it did two things very well. The blacks on that show were affluent, loved their families, and had "real" lives. Secondly, it brought to the whites a peek at black culture-- the paintings on the walls were done by black artists, the music they listened to was by black musicians... yet it was all in the background. Those people on tv could have been living right next door. For a white girl in a depressed area, it was an important lesson.

Throughout my years at the daycare centers, we had both black children and black staff. Some good, some bad, but all human. As I was living in a white ghetto at the time, the fact that the black children I cared for were economically better off was yet another lesson to absorb.

Even the media is slanted white here. On the news, in the papers, a person is assumed white, unless it is stated that he is black (or of any other minority). I tested this theory once, with my parents. We were in a fancy restaurant, with a piano bar. Several of the servers took turns playing the piano. Only one of them was black. I said something about liking his music, and my parents asked me which server. I described the man WITHOUT mentioning the color of his skin. They couldn't find him. It wasn't until I said, "the black guy" that they knew who I was talking about.

When meeting black people, whether it be at the supermarket, the mall, a restaurant, I find myself needing to prove to them that I am not prejudiced. I will go out of my way to be friendly, which I suppose is a form of discrimination. And after all, why would it matter to these people if one owl they have never seen before and will never see again hates them, loves them, or feels nothing? A two-minute interaction is not going to change their lives, or mine. Yet I still have a need to prove myself to them. Recently, I've realized this, and have made an effort to not force myself on them. Who wants to have to relate to a stranger on their own screwed-up terms, based on nothing more than skin color? It's degrading, dehumanizing, and offensive, as is prejudism. So I suppose my first statement on this entry was a lie. I am prejudiced. I do treat people differently because of the color of their skin.

One last note, if you will. I currently take care of developmentally disabled adults. One of them is black, the others white. A few weeks ago, one of the white ones got angry at the black lady, and called her the worst name she could think of. She called her a honky.

The Value of Worthlessness

2004-12-03T07:04:00.000-08:00

My brother, Joe, was born with developmental difficulties. He had ADHD before they even added the H. He was one of the first children on Ritalin, and had behaviour problems throughout his life.

These days, there are support groups, websites, databases, etc. available both to the parents and the doctors of "problem children". Back then, everyone did the best they could with the very little knowledge they had. Unfortunately for children like Joe, the best was seldom good enough.

My parents were both 21 when Joe was born. They were young, idealistic kids, striving for a white-picket fence and a dog. They did not ask for a disturbed child. Neither of them knew anything about such kids. I can only imagine the soul-searching they did throughout the years of his life-- the unanswered questions, the unfullfillable hopes and dreams for their firstborn.

Dad absolutely did NOT want another child. He completely refused to consider the idea. Mom, however, needed her own fullfillment as a mother. She needed a normal child. Three years after my brother's birth, she went off birth control without telling my dad. I was born 9 months later.

Apparently at first, things were relatively good. Joe's problems were kept under control by medication, and the stresses of school had not yet started. He was thrilled to have a baby sister, and the pictures of him attempting to care for me are appropriately adorable. My favorite photo of us was when he was about 6, and I about 3. We were crammed into a dilapidated recliner, complete with hand-crocheted afghan, reading a story together. I was almost, but not quite, in Joe's lap, and he kept one arm around me, and with his other hand, he held the book. Any parent would be proud.

The public school system in the 70's, particularly in small towns, was ill-equipped to deal with "special" kids. There was one resource room, filled almost entirely by children with mental retardation and other serious problems. My brother, being of high intelligence, was never considered for the special education class in grade school, and there were no other options back then.

School was very difficult for my brother. For the first time, he had to sit still, be quiet, concentrate. Despite having learned to read before kindergarten, he was placed in the lowest reading groups, because his behaviour was eccentric. He was unable to do his homework. He had difficulty making friends. Other kids began to tease him, and he started losing control. His behaviour problems became worse, both in school and at home. Being unable to voice his frustration and anger, he needed an outlet.

Enter little sister. A shy homebody, I was, even in preschool, awkward with other children, and socially behind. I was naturally on the heavy side, although I wasn't considered obese. Raised in a traditional Germanic home, male superiority and authority ware drummed into my head from birth. These things combined to make me both perfect victim for school bullies, and a target for my brother's increasing instability.

I remember very little of primary school. I don't remember when the childhood teasing became something more than simple insensitivity, and I don't remember when Joe's relationship with me turned from a normal sibling rivalry to abuse. As far as I can tell, both at home and at school, my life slowly became a nightmare.

By the time I was 8 or 9, things had become predictable. My brother would (both mentally and physically) abuse me at every opportunity. I had one friend, a neighbor in the grade below me, but otherwise, at school I was alone. Back then, teachers didn't see any serious harm in childhood teasing, and did not interfere when I was bullied by both my classmates, and those of my brother.

As Joe was now nearly a teenager, our parents decided we were capable of taking care of ourselves after school and in the summer. When they left for work, they always told Joe to "take care of your sister". In reality, I was the one who took care of him. The neighborhood gang played at our house, as we had the biggest yard. I have to give those kids credit. For the most part, they were understanding of my brother's differences, and willing to put up with most of his idiosyncrasies. As he grew older, though, and his problems became harder and harder for him to control, the neighborhood kids slowly drifted away.

There were a few good times. The day of the door comes to mind. In our backyard, we had a summer kitchen, which we used as a playhouse. The wooden door was about shot, being mostly rot. Joe never actually opened the door. He kicked it. On this particular day, when he kicked the door, it came off the hinges, and fell to the ground with a thud loud enough to bring me running from the kitchen. Both of us stood there, shellshocked. We slowly looked at each other, and voiced the same thought: Dad was going to KILL us. There was only one thing to do. We HAD to fix it before they came home.

Joe picked the door up, and handed it to me. I stood there, holding this door, while he carefully measured and re-installed the hinges. Neither of us gave any thought to the hinges on the FRAME. Once Joe had moved the hinges on the door, he tried to put it back up. Of course, it didn't fit. My contribution was, "well, it fit BEFORE". Having no other option, Joe decided to make the door fit. He sawed six inches off the bottom of the door. He then successfully hung it from the frame, and both of us were suprised to see the 6 inch gap at the top of the door.

When children try to act non-chalant, and greet their parents by standing stiffly, with their arms to the side, it's a bit of a dead give-away. The parental unit immediately demanded to know what was broken. We showed him the newly air-conditioned summer kitchen, and screwed up our faces, expecting a beating. Dad looked and looked at that door. Eventually he started laughing so hard that his face turned red. That weekend, he and Joe replaced the old door with a new(er) one. Being female, I was not required (or allowed) to help, but willingly provided the cool drinks, as girls are supposed to do. Even now, 9 years after Joe's death, the whole family will giggle when someone mentions the day of the door.

When Joe moved on to the high school, things got a little better for me. Without his disruptive influence, most of the kids that weren't actually in my peer group slowly forgot that the owl children were worthless idiots, and for the most part, stopped teasing me.

At home, however, things only worsened. Joe was experimenting with sexuality, alcohol, drugs.... His abuse of me became more mental and emotional than physical, and I was in no way able to fight back, or to defend myself. I was nothing more than his willing slave. Everything I felt, everything I did, was directed towards Joe. He was barometer, jailor, and god.

My biggest escape was through reading. I read everything I could get my wings on, from children's stories to Freud. I particularly read things about other disturbed kids, and learned a great deal about mental illness in young people. Slowly I came to the understanding that Joe needed me and related to me in a way he was incapable of with others. Even though he abused me, he respected me, and I was able to prevent him from crossing the invisible line between disturbed and criminal. When he was drunk or high, I kept him from going out and causing trouble that would have landed him in reform school or jail. I helped him with his schoolwork. I became a mediator between him and the world of normal people.

I can say, looking back now, that Joe hated me. He hated everything I was, everything I could ever be. He hated me because he saw in me that normality which was denied to him. He hated me because I had the chance to better myself, and he did not.

Oddly enough, those very things that caused Joe to hate me also caused him to love me. The small part of me that was myself, and not an extension of him, was able to recognize that love, and I believe that knowledge was what kept me sane. By abusing me, he was able to rid himself of that self-destructive anger, and present a pretty face to the world. To prideful Germans like our family, appearance was everything. Never mind what went on behind closed doors, as long as the doors in question were freshly painted, and the shrubs were well-trimmed. Together, Joe and I were conspirators, hiding his problems from the outside world, which included our parents. Also, I was the only one he could talk to, and be sure of an understanding audience. When his disturbances allowed him, he shared with me his thoughts and fears, his hopes and dreams....

Where were the parents? Working their asses off, trying to provide for us. They had a mortgage, two cars, a son with expensive medications.... We only saw them for about an hour a day. Hardly enough time to see the serious problems Joe and I were having, and neither of us were capable of asking for help. Remember too, please, that there were no alternative care facilities they could have sent Joe back then. There was home, state-run institutions, and jail. Was Joe badly enough off to need an institution? Did I do him a far worse disservice than he ever did to me by hiding how badly off he was? I can't tell, and enough time has passed that it hardly matters now.

I mentioned pride. Joe was always a very proud boy. His one desire (unmentionable even to himself) was to make our parents proud of him. He had, of course, no idea how to do this, although he gave it his best shot. Straight out of high school, he joined the Navy.

Free of Joe's destructive influence, I came into my own. In high school, I found friends, peer acceptance, and self-worth. I became heavily involved in music and writing, became a (nearly) straight-A student, and was happy for the first time in my life. I was a long-dormant seed, finally budding.

This isn't to say I didn't have problems. Still overweight, I became anorexic. At times I was severely depressed, occasionally suicidal. I cut myself before cutting was cool. I also started my great search to find the god my childhood teaching promised me. I began church-hopping, and explored non-christian religions. Eventually, I joined the catholic church.

My brother barely made it through basic training. He sleep-walked, and those in charge were seriously considering giving him a section 8, and saying the hell with it. My parents begged the navy to give Joe a chance. Neither Joe nor the navy would ever be the same again.

Once the rigors of basic were over, Joe seemed to do well enough in the Navy. For the first time, he, too, was finding peer acceptance, and making friends. He was stationed in California, and often visited Mexico. Most importantly, he was no longer depended on our parents for everything.

Unfortunately, the navy didn't have as rosy an outlook on Joe, and gave him a semi-honourable discharge after 2 years, mostly because Joe was incapable of accepting authority (this is a bad trait in a seaman). My senior year in high school, Joe moved back home.

No longer my brother's keeper, I pretty much ignored him, and he, me. He still called me the hateful names of my childhood, but for the most part, I shrugged it off. I had found a group of true friends, who were willing and able to accept me, brother and all, and by this time, I was relatively free of Joe's negative influence. He must have realized this, for he (mostly) stopped trying to control or abuse me, and left me be.

The situation stayed like this for that first year. Then I went off to college. I was going to be a special education teacher, and help those like Joe, before theire problems became serious. Being a worthless female, and never being taught to manage money, or even to really understand how money works, I began panicking at the cost of schooling, and dropped out after one year.

Having taken a nurse's aide course in high school, I got a job at a nursing home, and moved into my own apartment. I seldom saw Joe, but if I called to speak to Mom, and he answered, we were civil enough.

My lack of understanding about money came into the forefront. I got credit cards, overcharged them, and was unable to keep up the payments. I eventually had to move back home, a failure. Now there were two worthless kids in the parental nest.

I eventually moved out again, first as a nanny, and then as a daycare worker. I found an apartment, and was actually enjoying some amount of success. I was relatively happy with what I was and what I was doing, and I had the church behind me. I sang in the choir, volunteered for every committee, had the priests over for coffee... the whole bit. Appearances are very important.

I had never found god. I didn't know if the lack were in me, or in him. I began searching alternatives again, and became interested in pagan religions, new age claptrap, and the aliens-as-gods theory, among other things.

By this time, Joe, too, had an apartment. He qualified for social security, due to his disabilities, and was able to get section 8 housing nearby. We still seldom saw each other, but when we did, it was on mostly friendly terms. We had an understanding and a closeness due to our love/hate relationship. Although we never spoke about the past, the present was far closer to a true sibling bond than ever before.

One afternoon, Joe and I were sitting at Mom's kitchen table, playing a board game. I won. He made no disparaging remarks, made no attempt to (even playfully) hit me. He laughed it off, and went to go do something else. I knew then, at last, I had the brother I had always wanted.

The last two years of Joe's life were his happiest. He coached a kid's hockey team. He spent hours each day, taking care of our ailing grandmother. He was somebody.

The call came at work. Mid-morning. The children were in their separate play groups, and I and the other teacher were planning lessons for the next week. Mom, frantic, telling me that Joe had fallen down the stairs, and had serious brain damage. She told me not to come. He was unconcious, and likely to stay that way. I could come home that weekend to see him.

Kindercare is not a very good place to work. They are far too business-oriented, and have lost sight of the people-- both the children, and the staff. However, when my brother died, Kindercare stood behind me. I was given the time off I needed, and the director even arranged that the time come out of my vacation days, rather than be unpaid leave. Within ten minutes of receiving the call, I was out the door with their blessings and best wishes.

I have never driven so fast in my life. The forty-five minute drive to the hospital took me almost 25.

ICU is a world apart from any other. The hopes and dreams of whole families lie in the balance, and every measure of faith is challenged. Politeness reigns supreme. Every morning, as we awoke, stiff and sore from sleeping sitting up on a hospital couch, we would wish the other waitees good morning, and share breakfast. We shared everything, actually. Faith, politics, chicken wings. We banded together, complete strangers who will be forever friends, although we will never know their names.

Joe had, indeed, fallen down the steps at his apartment, and banged his head against the front door. His brain had shifted inside his skull 2 inches, and he was in a coma. Between the time of the accident and my arrival, he had experienced severe swelling and (the technical term escapes me) water on the brain. Twice the doctors had given him medicine to relieve these conditions, and twice the relief was only temporary. The family came together. We had a decision to make.

I stood there, looking at this body on the bed. I felt nothing for it. My brother was no longer there. Only his shell remained, waiting for release. My parents left me with him while they gathered everyone together to discuss Joe's prognosis, or rather, lack thereof. In those few moments I spent with Joe, I gave him the only thing I could. I took his hand, and whispered, "I forgive you".

During the seemingly endless discussion (which every one of us knew the outcome of) we discussed organ donation and the pulling of the plug. Mom asked me if Joe had ever talked to me about these things. My answer was very simple. Joe never understood why he had been put on this earth. He never felt he had anything to give. My dad kissed my brother goodbye, and began to cry. I have never seen him cry before or since.

My parents told the doctors to leave the skin on his forearms and hands alone, so that he might be buried in his favorite Cubs tshirt. Later, we found out that, despite his drinking and smoking, all of his organs were in excellent condition, and would be used.

My parents did very well at the funeral (appearances, remember?). We expected family, and my parents' friends, and nobody else. The doors opened at 4, and closed at 9, with people still streaming in to pay their respects. Some of the stories we heard were of Joe taking a little old lady to her weekly hair appointment, stopping off at the home of a cripple to play poker on Fri. nights, babysitting for a family in his building for free, because they couldn't afford to pay him.

That night, my parents and I staggered home, emotionally wrung out. Over and over, my father kept shaking his head and saying, "All those people for that damned worthless kid."

Later, I asked my mom how much of these stories she had known, and she shook her head. Joe had given so many people so much, and none of us had had any idea. Not even me.

That week, we did everything together as a family, even normal errands. We drove to a Christian bookstore to get thank you cards for the well-wishers, and I was drawn to a necklace. The cross was made of pewter, similar to a cross my brother had once received as a present, and had kept but never used. I did not mention the cross to my parents, I didn't even tell them what I was looking at. My dad saw me fingering the thing. I must have had a tear in my eye, for to me, the necklace had become Joe's, and it was, for that moment in time, a symbol of him. Dad picked up the necklace without saying a word, and added it to our shopping. Even today, as an atheist, I wear that cross, and remember the brother that I lost.

Bedroom Miseries

2004-12-02T09:15:00.000-08:00

Last year I bought a new mattress and boxspring set. It's the most comfortable I've ever had, and I love sleeping on it, unless there is chatting or other computing to be done. In celebration of the new bed, I also bought a new comforter package. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with American packaging, it comes with a comforter, 2 matching shams, and a matching bedruffle(dustskirt). With some of the more expensive packages, you also get a matching sheet set, complete with pillowcases.

Unfortunately, I didn't have much money left over after the bed, and the comforter set I bought off of Ebay wasn't of the highest quality. This poses several problems. First of all, the shams will never be able to go in the washing machine, as I am afraid they will fall apart. The last thing I need is for little pieces of sham to get caught in the wringer. I wouldn't particularly enjoy trying to explain to my landlord (my father) that the bedding broke the washer. He tends to look upon women as inept anyway, and I wouldn't want to give him more ammunition.

Now for the comforter. It's very long, reaching to the floor at the foot of the bed, and quite thick. For some reason, it barely covers the mattress on the sides, which means that the sheets must be tucked in snugly so they don't show. My comforter doesn't actually fit in the washer. Every few months I take it to the laundry in town, which is a most interesting place. Being in a very small town, there are a total of 4 washers (only 1 of which is oversized) and 2 dryers. For some reason, industrial dryers never work as well or as quickly as industrial washers, which means that there is always a line for the dryers. The laundry has thoughtfully provided several amenities for those waiting on dryers, including an overpriced soda machine, 2 chairs and a television that gets nothing but ESPN.

An interesting side-effect to the drying problem is that the would-be dryees, desperate for human contact after hours of waiting, tend to form transient relationships with each other. They discuss washing methods, different soap products, even ironing. They never, however, speak of anything personal, as laundry users are a migratory animal, and the actual faces change day-to-day. Never does a dryee reveal his (or more commonly, her) name, occupation, religion... anything of importance, for next week she will be in line with entirely different people. Being an argumentative race, humans are capable of serious passion at the drop of a laundry basket, and occasionally the Cheer vs. Tide debate gets quite heated. In the end, though, a dryer frees up, the laundry is folded and put in the car, and the relationship ends.

I have one question about the laundry process, if anyone is willing to take a go at it: why is every child in a laundry dirty, barefoot, and noisy?

Now that the comforter is clean, it's time to make the bed. Having, as you may remember, a cheap bedding set, the dust ruffle ripped the first time I tried to place it over the box springs. I substituted an old blanket of the appropriate color, and it works well-- except for one thing. The blanket is made out of a synthetic that is very slippery. Every time I get out of bed, every time I sit on the bed, even every time the cats jump up, the mattress shifts. As I am a bit on the lazy side, I tend to leave the mattress be, until it's shifted enough that it dumps me on the floor if I roll over. Generally, there is a good 6-inch gap between the edge of the mattress and the edge of the boxsprings.

Miles, my eldest cat, quite likes the gap, as he can curl up on the boxspring side, and be protected from the fan I use when I sleep. My middle cat often gets dumped, as she tends to lay on the other side of the mattress. This pisses her off to no end. A pissed-off cat is NOT something to be trifled with. Corie stands up, with that expression only cats can do-- that of "of COURSE I meant to fall down, you ridiculous human". She then turns to the evil mattress and hisses at it. When she feels the mattress has learned its lesson, she jumps back up (from the other side of the bed, as the boxspring makes a handy step), which pushes the mattress still further away. She then lies down in exactly the same spot, only to be dumped again. Eventually, she decides she meant to sleep on the floor anyway, and dares me to laugh at her.

Along with the gap comes another interesting problem-- as the mattress shifts, so does the blanket/dustruffle underneath it. Generally, the top of the blanket is halfway down the bed, and the excess hangs down from the foot, to be tripped over by unsuspecting humans. I can't fix the blanket, however, as the kitten is enthralled with his under-the-bed hideout, and will promptly pull the blanket back out with his claws. He is then ready to play his favorite game-- grab the human's ankle. He particularly enjoys this game when the human in question is stumbling, half-asleep, to the bathroom. And as I frantically try to stem the bleeding with toilet paper, Zeke washes himself nearby in order to laugh at me.

I am going to sue ebay for false advertising. The picture of the comforter set shows a nice, well-made bed, with all of the pieces where they belong. Neither does it show a beruffled cat forced to sleep on the floor, nor a bleeding human adorned with scraps of toilet paper. Ebay must learn to be more careful about their ads.

Assorted Haikus

2004-12-02T09:14:00.000-08:00

Silently a child
Cries brokenly, in anguish,
seeking peaceful death

Sevens by sevens,
the Saints corrupt, maim, destroy
A helpless world.

The Son, a glowing
Sphere, resting upon God's Hand,
shining brilliantly.

Hopelessness, fading
into Darkness, leaving behind
fear, loneliness, pain.

Passion, Lust, Hatred,
mocking love, destroying Hope,
endlessly despairing.

When the world does end,
I will be there, crying for
all the budding trees.

In the darkness, Light.
Radiating out toward
Eternity's Edge.

The laughter of a
Child, Innocent and Free: like
the soaring Eagle.

Love is an endless
Tug pulling at the Heart of
a crying Angel.

Emptiness is death.
Light fills the hollow places;
A new love begins.

Round, jolly, snuggly:
Lovable, faithful, and true:
A little child's bear.

Contentment: easy
for the innocent child; for
adults, unreachable.

The sun goes down,
Brilliant flash of light: sun's rays
Slowly disappear.

I prayed for Release
from the darkness: The answer?
God sent to me, you.

Garbage Day

2004-12-02T09:13:00.000-08:00

Liam McDonald loved his job. Sure, maybe there wasn’t any prestige value, maybe he was looked down upon by society, but his was a terribly important occupation. And Liam McDonald was perfectly suited for his vocation. He was a garbage runner.

No, not a mere garbage collector, one of those hapless souls who, in grimy overalls, gather human refuse to be recycled. Liam McDonald was a runner. His job was to clear Earth’s atmosphere of junk, broken satellites, abandoned ship parts, rubbish, lost hardware, and everything else one found in the traffic lines of the skies. Liam, and the 49 others like him, combed the shipping lanes in souped-up ancient shuttles, collecting rubbish in tractor-beam nets and running it into the sun’s heat well to be burned up.

Liam, like his 49 compatriots, was single. No messy next-of-kin, in case of accident or misadventure, ancient shuttles being what they were. Liam had a serious problem with authority, and a rebellious streak far beyond the norm. In an earlier century, he would have been called a hoodlum, a greaser, or a thug. Liam had no social skills, and much preferred solitude. He was illiterate, but in a society of computer-fed pap, illiteracy was unremarkable.

The garbage runners lived in their ships, docking only to refuel, restock, imbibe, and copulate, generally in that order, and as cheaply as possible. No counting the beers and the prostitutes Liam McDonald had run to earth, so to speak. Shipboard amusements were equally lofty—computer games, mostly X-rated, all the porn a man could want, and a holographic woman for when games and pictures just weren’t enough. Garbage runners worked hard, played hard, and generally died hard, often getting themselves killed over drugs, women, or beer.

Liam McDonald was very good at his job.

Space station 42 had a seedy reputation. And the Starlight bar, despite its trite name, was the seediest bar. Only the strong went in, and only the strongest came out again.

Liam sat, or rather slouched, over his beer, giving birth to what would the next morning be the worst hangover of his life. He was severely pissed, as he’d just lost 5000 credits in antigrav pool. He staggered to his feet, looking through the gloom for someone to take his anger out on. His eyes wandered to a young, clean-cut crewman, probably just out of cadet school, getting blown by a topless prostitute. The kid was moaning and groaning, as though it were his first time. Perfect, the jackass was due for a lesson on the importance of silence in a drinking man’s bar.

Liam shambled over, grabbed the prostitute by the hair, and shoved her face onto his erect cock. The boy stood up, penis shrinking, and opened his mouth to protest. Looking at Liam’s angry face, the boy gulped, and closed his mouth. Liam sat, downing the cadet’s beer in one gulp, and watched the comp-tv as he enjoyed the prostitute on the boy’s credit.

For some unaccountable reason, the comp was tuned to the news. “Warning! Warning!” the monitor blared, “alien ships approaching!” The newswoman turned to her backlit screen, which showed a photo of the supposed alien ship. Liam didn’t care a twopenny damn about aliens, but the newswoman had one hell of an ass. He admired the view as the news droned on.

Later, when Liam passed out, the prostitute alerted the bouncer, who dumped the runner in an empty bed upstairs.

Six hours later, Liam dragged himself out of bed, pissed, gave himself a perfunctory shave and wash, and went to reclaim his ship. Comp-tvs all throughout the station were screaming of possible attack from the aliens. Service-men and women were running helter-skelter, looking terribly important and busy.

Ignoring the hubbub, Liam climbed into his old shuttle, and took off.

The alien nonsense was still going strong. Warships were scattered throughout the traffic zones, running drills. Liam shut his eyes wearily. Military funding had been halved last season, and obviously the bigwigs wanted to prove their necessity. “Hogwash,” thought Liam, and he tucked his ship onto a service route, out of their way. Even Liam McDonald knew better than to mess with the military when its fur was flying.

Paying little attention to the constant updates pouring out of his ship’s comp-tv, Liam set about his work. Ship sensors were detecting metallic flotsam ahead, and Liam chased it down, netting it in the tractor beam, and searching the skies for more.

That’s when he saw it. A gigantic monolith, looming over the planet earth. Big, ugly, and bad. Even through his sensor screen, Liam could sense how bad it was. “Holy Shit!” he exclaimed, as the alien ship opened fire. Streaks of blue laser-like beams flooded the skies, evaporating the earth, and its environs.

Liam’s dying thought was, “But who will clean up the mess?”

Paper Mache

2004-12-02T09:11:00.000-08:00

A flash of pink!
orange! red!
spinning
around and around.
A blindfolded child
beats at the
brightly colored burro
with all his strength.
The children stare in awe
as the rainbow piñata
Breaks in two.
But no toys rain down,
only battered pieces
of once-brilliant
paper-mache
fall to the ground.
The children stare in awe
at the emptiness
of the broken promise.
The child who raped the piñata
unbinds his eyes,
and begins to cry.

Welcome

2004-12-02T09:04:00.000-08:00

Due to pressure from friends, and a dire need to expose my insanity on the net, here it is: the official blog. This blog will contain random thoughts, poetry, short stories, essays, and other assorted crap. You probably won't enjoy it. In fact, why don't you go read someone else's blog, and get out of my head?

What? You're still here? Are you some kind of masochist? Ok, fine. You can read it if you want, but don't say I didn't warn you.

I suppose I should start with the personal stuff. I'm a 36 year old female, unmarried, with 3 cats. My brother and I were born and raised in a small town in the middle of nowhere. My parents, and most of my relations live either in or near this town, going back for generations on either side of the family tree.

I am an atheist. At one point, I was a Christian (in name only), and some of my stuff dates back to that time, so if you are a Christian, you may (or may not) find something that interests you. Please do not send me nasty emails telling me that I'm going to hell, or send me nice, fluffy emails in order to save my soul. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. For those Christians who are a bit slower-- I am not interested, thank you. To forestall the next round of email, let me point out that I do own a bible, and I have read it.

If you are a Muslim, I have not read the Koran, and don't particularly want to, although I've had it quoted at me many times. Please don't kill me for not being a Muslim, and I won't do the same to you for not being an atheist.

If you are Jewish, shalom.

If you are any other religion, up to and including worshipping owls, please keep it to yourself. If I'm interested, I will read YOUR blog. Otherwise, I would appreciate not being solicited for membership.

If you are genuinely interested in a true exchange of thoughts, and are intelligent (and/or educated enough) to read and write English (ah, a lost art), then please feel free to contact me. The email address is hannah_the_feathered@yahoo.com.

The nest is officially open-- enter if you dare.