Harry's leavin'?

Naw.

Harry's just gonna become human.

And isn't that the moral of everything? We all have to deal with our humanity at some point in our lives.

Why should Harry be any different?

Besides, self sacrifice is much more interesting than mere death.

Questions

I found this questionnaire at one of the websites I frequent. I thought it would be fun to put it up here. If you'd like, "copy" it, answer the questions, and post it on your own blog. Or post it here. It's just for fun. Don't take it too seriously


Please describe yourself in just three words.
Funky, engaging, cute.

Why did you choose to start a blog?
Because I like to write. Keeping a blog is a good way to hone your skill while providing you with the chance to think about things that come through your life. I tend to treat this blog more as a journal, though, rather than a "real" blog.

Are there any recurring themes you touch on in your blog posts?
Memorials and children. I like doing yearly memorials for people I admire; like firemen, or the victims of 911. I also have a great fondness for children. I enjoy getting the quick glimpses of how the world looks in their eyes. Besides, I'm a kid at heart.

How personal do you get in your blog? Are there things you won't discuss?
I get fairly personal. I tend to believe that feelings, unless you're a real social deviant, are pretty normal and it's OK to share them. I won't get so personal everyone knows where I live. I won't publish my phone number.

There are children who read my blog, so I try to keep things mostly clean and easy for them to read. I don't believe in censorship though.

Do you have any favorite bloggers or groups you like to read?
I do. I have quite a few blogs I read, but I'm still working on getting permission to link them here, so you'll just have to wait to see whose they are.

Any final wisdom, thoughts, advice?
Keep an open mind when it comes to your own blog. Just start writing. Maybe a theme will come up, maybe it won't. If you take it too seriously it becomes a chore and we have enough chores in life to deal with. Blogging shouldn't be one of them.

Anything you'd like to let your readers know about you?
I'm open minded, easy to get along with and friendly. Unless you come charging at me with narrow mindedness and stubbornness, I'm not going to bite when you respond to my blog.

Feel free to reach out and play here.

9 Heros

Thank you.

The Merman in the Pool

"There's a merman in the pool."

Hannah tried not to jump to conclusions. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Monica's puzzling statements.

"I'm thinking tomato and cheese in a pita pocket. What do you think?" Hannah said casually as she peered into the fridge.

"No. We ran out of balsamic vinegar," Monica replied. "What should we do about the merman?"

"Oh. I thought you were going to the store last night." Hannah refused to show any surprise at her friend's odd statements.

"Hannah, listen to me! We have a merman in the pool and we have to do something about it. All that chlorine can't be good for him."

Hannah looked over the fridge door and looked at Monica. Maybe the stress of a rocky marriage to a man she wasn't sure she loved had finally gotten to her. But why dream up a merman? Why not another man? Or knowing Monica's proclivities, another woman?

Monica, for her part, was looking out toward the pool. She had a worried look on her face, but it was underscored by a line of wonder. How many times do you have a merman visiting your pool? And such a handsome one, no less?

Monica's impatience finally got to her, and she grabbed Hannah's hand and pull-dragged her out the back sliding doors.

"See!" Monica pointed.

Hannah's jaw dropped as she looked toward the pool.

The merman had just burst through the surface of the water, his hair was dark bronze with lighter gold and red highlights streaked through. His muscular shoulders were well defined without being over done, and they flowed out to well shaped, almost chiseled arms. Inviting. You could sink into those arms.

The merman didn't come out of the water all the way, just enough to give the girls a glimpse at a perfectly formed fin that started just below his waist. Its color mimicked flowing ocean waves with shades of green and blue accentuating sensuous peaks and valleys in all the right places. The merman was perfect.

And he knew it, too. As Hannah was realizing Monica was telling the truth, the merman flashed both girls a look that proved beyond any doubt that while the merman didn't have a tail, per se, he'd certainly had some before. Hannah and Monica both inhaled deeply and adjusted their positions to accommodate the additional feelings forming deep in their bodies. Then the merman dove back into the water with the graceful ease of experience.

Hannah was gobsmacked.

"There IS a merman in the pool!" she breathed just as Monica's husband came out to see what was going on. Daniel did a double take at Hannah, then bit his tongue. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Hannah's puzzling statements.

;)

Come, Let's Make A Date

There is just something about the Tango. Have you ever watched it? I was watching a travel channel program featuring Buenos Aires, Argentina. The place were the Tango was born. Buenos Aires looks fascinating and has an amazing history to it, but the real reason I'd take anyone up on an Argentinean vacation would be because of the Tango. There just isn't a sexier dance.

The sexiness of it isn't hard to understand when you look at Tango's history. It's said to have started in the lower class quarters; brothels to be exact. It might have been an excellent advertising tool for "the girls." Something developed to ensure a "score."

Imagine it: he sees that girl over there at the bar. She's got jet black hair being held together in a tight knot at the back of her head with a scarlet colored scarf. He notices the flash of her dark eyes. She's a healthy girl, with a nice voluptuous figure. But the night is young and there are so many women here. Maybe he will take his time, have another drink and consider his options.

Then she slinks over to him, letting her feet hesitate in each step just enough for her walk to be sultry. She's got "that look" in her eyes. Her dress flares and moves tantalizingly, hinting at a young lithe body underneath. Her shoulders have a feline quality about them. Her arms are lazy in her gait. Her attitude is alluring.

Before he knows what is happening, she's taken up residence in his arms and they're locked into rhythm with each other. Her eyes sneak a glimpse at his mouth, then dart back to his eyes. He looks down at her neck, her collar bone, her breasts, then he comes back up to her eyes for some air. Her leg wraps around his, ankle caressing his calf. His hand on the small of her back feels muscle form and move underneath the skin.

See the dip? He did that for a reason. It's a not-so-subtle hint at how and what they will do when there aren't so many people around. A quick slide and a twirl brings her back up and their eyes lock. Mouths are open, tasting the air they're both giving off. Pheromones have a role in the dance too.

*Sighs*

Its origins might have been base and rude, but now it's an art. Even the upper classes want to learn it. They go in droves to Argentina for a chance at having a lesson or two. I would jump at the chance to be as alluring and sensual in a dance.

Did someone turn the heat on?

The Honeymooners

I can't BELIEVE Speaker is going to get away with it! He KNEW he had a TB problem and he still exposed dozens of people to this rare form of TB. Even if we assume he's right - that the medical community didn't think it'd be much of a problem for him to travel in the beginning (key words: in the beginning), eventually he DID know the whole story, and he STILL decided going on his honeymoon was more important.

The CDC even called him while he was in Rome, for crying out loud, and told him to go to an isolation unit there. Of course, he refused. Probably because he wanted one more night of intense intimacy with his new bride before he "turned himself in." That, or he is so coldly ethnocentric that he believes the only "quality" health care is "Amurkin." (Forget the fact that we "Amurkins" can't even decide on how to deal with what should be a basic human right: health care.) Report to an isolation unit in Rome? No way, dude!

Instead, lets put more airline passengers at risk before finally arriving in Canada where he smuggled himself in. Either the border guard who processed him is idiotic, or he was bribed. Hmmm.

Canada to New York. New York to Atlanta. Atlanta to Denver. My home town. Only I don't want him here. Yes, I know we have the National Jewish here and it's THEEE leading hospital when it comes to respiratory care. But why should I care about him when it is so blatantly obvious he wouldn't have cared about me had we been on the same flight?

Speaker is from a rich family. He was born with all the advantages wealth and status can give you. He is used to getting his way. In other words, Speaker is a spoiled little boy who cannot possibly comprehend the consequences of his thoughtless actions.

Or can he? Do you think he's claiming all this guilt, and doing this "I just want forgiveness" act because it suddenly hit him that what he did was wrong? He is a lawyer, after all. If one person one any of those flights comes forward with this extreme and rare form of TB...

Can we say "attempted manslaughter?"

Nah! He's gonna get away with it and THAT ticks me off!

Memorial Day

IT IS THE SOLDIER

It is the Soldier, not the minister
Who has given us freedom of religion.

It is the Soldier, not the reporter
Who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the Soldier, not the poet
Who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer
Who has given us freedom to protest.

It is the Soldier, not the lawyer
Who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the Soldier, not the politician
Who has given us the right to vote.

It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,
Who serves beneath the flag,
And whose coffin is draped by the flag,
Who allows the protester to burn the flag.

~Charles M. Province

Yum

I like cooking; specifically, baking. I find that baking fills the house with heavenly odors that tug at the comforting strings in the brain. I will admit, when it comes to baking something like white bread or sour dough bread, I will use a bread machine. It's not just the lazy factor that makes this decision, it's the timing. I can fill the bread machine with ingredients before I go to bed at night and wake up in the morning to the smell of freshly baked bread.

Mmmm. There is no better alarm clock.

Quick breads area always fun. Seems any church with any kind of congregation has a zucchini bread recipe. Banana breads aren't far behind that, but I like the exotic kinds. Orange and cranberry bread, or nut bread made with hazel nuts and macadamias. Apricot orange bread.

Mmmm. Pass the cream cheese please.

Muffins are just quick breads made in smaller portions, but some muffins are heavier than others. I just made donut muffins the other night. REALLY good. They're heavier with a tighter texture to them, and they're usually made with nutmeg as the flavoring, but I used cloves and cinnamon instead. I got one, my dad ate the other five.

Shortbread is another thing I like making. (Not to be mistaken for sweetbreads ;) ) The basic recipe is easy enough, and just about everyone has the ingredients, but you can play with it and get really creative. A well placed dot or two of jelly always brings on the ooh's. If the jelly happens to be transparent, like apple or mint, you'll get the ahh's to go with it. If you have some halved walnuts laying around, you can top a circle of shortbread with it. It not only adds a nice flavor to the cookie, but it is also a nice looking touch. I always get really nice compliments when I make stain glass windows. All you need for that is a basic shortbread recipe and a few jolly ranchers.

Mmmm, shortbread!

Baking is a stress reliever. With the problems I've bee running into with school, and the hassles of work and paying a mortgage, the stress of living is getting to me. Baking is a cheap, easy and yummy way for me to let off the pressure.

But what do I do with the excess?

Hey, want any cookies?

Carts and Rafts

My father gave me an absolute intolerance for anything arts and crafts.

Papier mache is too messy and even if you can keep things from getting too messy, after a few weeks it starts to mold up and turn green.

Gross.

Native American beadwork is nerve wracking. Not only is it time consuming and the layout of the designs complicated to duplicate, you wind up with little pieces of waxed string, bits of beeswax and little tiny colored beads ALL OVER THE PLACE!

No thanks.

Cross stitch and embroidery are very pretty when they're finished, but OH MY GOD!!! Both activities just make me want to fly into pieces.

And crochet makes my arm hurt. Crochet is not an activity you should practice if you have a tendency toward carpel tunnel syndrome.

*Sighs*

Knitting? My father hasn't taught me that yet.


;)

Feelin' Good After All These Years

Back in the Dark ages when I was young and carefree (I'm still carefree, but I am by no means young anymore), I had a job as an intern at the campus where I went to school. I HATED it.

Why?

The boss worked me and worked me and worked me. Every time I walked through that freakin' door, there was something for me to do. And it wasn't just one thing either. I had a zillion things to do and only about 5 minutes to do it all, and that was on top of everything else I had to do that was actually IN the job description!

I never dissed a person in authority so much as when I had that internship. I hated that boss man!

Then I watched Shear Genius last week. Actually, I watched the episode this week, but it was last week's episode that has stuck with me all this week.

Tyson had control of the order last week. He, of course, got first pick of all the models and blades to do his hair styling with, but he also decided who got second pick, and third pick, etc.

He made Tabatha last. Poor Tabatha. She's the awesome hair stylist with a trashy mouth, who can pull class out of her ass when she bloody well feels like it. I like the woman. She got stuck with the last model and had to cut the girl's hair with a pair of craft scissors. (Remember those from kindergarten? Gross old safety scissors designed to do as little cutting as possible to keep children safe. Damn things can't even cut through warm butter!)

Tyson has a mean streak.

But then I figured it out, (long before the show spelled it out to me, mind you).

Tabatha has the potential to kick Tyson's ass in this competition and Tyson bloody well knows it.

So maybe, maybe, that boss of mine during that internship I held while I was in college, MAYBE he saw something in me that knew I could meet the challenge.

You know what?

He was bloody right!

Thanks Tyson and Tabatha for helping me to figure it out.

(Even if you have absolutely no clue of my existence.)

Enigma

I bet that when you
started to read this you thought
that it was a poem.

Isn't it funny how people
will go on reading even if
they know they
are being fooled?

~R.L.

99 Red Balloons

When people are forced into extreme situations, bravery must be measured in different ways. There was bravery of all kinds taking place in the concentration camps of World War II.

The courage it must take to see your 12 year old daughter on the other side of a chain link fence lined with razor wire must be incredible. It's the closest you can get to her, but the distance might as well be comparable to the moon's. You might never see her alive again, but would you want to miss the chance?

Or the desire to escape your prison so completely you come up with a whole new way to teach mathematics to children. You have no paper, no type writer, no calculator. The only technology you have access to is the few inches or so of grey matter inside your skull. Wetware.

A woman gathers up colored bits and pieces the Nazi guards might have thrown away and arranging them so she could show the children around her what flowers look like.

The gypsy who danced in the dark of the night, then collapsed because she was too weak to keep it going.

The 10 women who saved the fat clinging to the gruel they were fed. Then finding a Rabbi so they could light the candles of Chanukah. Fellowship. There is strength in numbers. Even small numbers

The American soldier who found the strength, both physical and emotional, to walk across the compound and steal a pot of broth for the starving inmates in his unheated barracks and the frigid cold of winter.

And the Nazi guard who "didn't see" the desperate act of said soldier.

They were all humans determined to keep hold of their humanity in spite of the fact this radical regime insisted on treating them like contaminated animals who deserved nothing better than to be put to death. Or worse, to be experimented on like rats in a laboratory.

Today is Yom Hashoah.

Native Pride

As a girl, I remember sitting in front of mother as she sprayed water onto my hair to tame the fly-aways, ran sharp combs through my hair and braided my hair as tightly as possible to get a smooth and clean look to support elaborate beaded barrettes and hair ties. It was all part of a routine, a preparation process that was the norm on the Powwow Trail.

Teasing out the snarls in hair that is so thick its weight alone can inflict headaches is not easy for a small child to live through, but what you learn as you're growing up is that it's all part of weaving a spell. Haven't you noticed the fascination with Native Americans since Columbus landed? Lots of times it's been expressed negatively, but it's also been a positive thing. Especially lately. People want to be Natives.

"I'm Cherokee, but I can't prove it."

I also remember wearing jingle dresses and elaborate shawls. Later, as I matured, beautiful cloth outfits decorated with shells or coins entered into my wardrobe. A couple times I was even privileged enough to wear a full buckskin with beadwork that would have done any nation proud. They all look good and most who see them look in wide-eyed wonder at the work that went into the creation and its stunning effect.

But jingles and shells and beads are heavy, and wool and buckskin is hot. Powwows are notorious for being held in the summer months so it's not uncommon for these elaborate outfits to be worn in 95-plus degree heat. Large quantities of cold water are often drunk to keep the body moving, but after a while, hot is just hot. Native Americans have been known to suffer for the spells they weave.

It's pride, in its most basic sense.

I sat at my mother's feet while she pulled and tugged and manipulated my hair into tight fitting, elaborate braids. I clenched my teeth around the sharp pains as she anchored those elaborate barrettes and sometimes beaded crowns into my hair so that I could show all who looked that I am proud to be from the Lakota tribe.

I wore outfits made from wool, stitched with beads and shells and flaunted buckskin proudly in 90-plus degree heat in various powwows because I wanted to show off who I am. Sure, I look Native American with my long, long black hair and my high cheekbones and dark skin, but look at me now! My heritage and personal family culture is stitched in this outfit.

I might not have been able to articulate it at five years old, but somehow I knew, KNEW, even then, that I had something to be proud of.

I come from the proud nation of the Lakota, can claim familial ties with a distinguished line of medicine men, strong women and prominent people.

The women of my line are among the very, very few who have the right to carry and wear a chief's blanket.

Power? I have it.

Dignity? I was born with it.

Spells?

You're Cherokee, aren't you?

A Shifting Hole

My life is shifting.

First I quit the nice cushy job. Big shift.

Then I started school and got a cushy job without all the pay or benefits I had. Big shift.

Now, people are sort of shifting out. Major huge shift.

It seems that some of the relationships I thought I could count on are starting to fade. Not necessarily a bad thing, just something I have to adjust to.

Actually, it probably is a good thing, at least in the short term. Next quarter looks like it's going to be pretty intense, so I'm not sure how much time I will have to talk to people anyways. Looked at in this light, having a few less distractions might be a good thing. I will be able to concentrate.

Or will I?

I don't blame it, really, on anyone in particular. If there is a mistake that's been made here, it's my mistake.

I didn't say I'm a goddess yet. I'm still in training, so I can still make mistakes.

My mistake, in this instance, is that I always meet up with and pick people who find it easy to let me simmer on the back burner. Something that fills the house up with yummy smells and pleasant associations, but only needs stirring from time to time. I get noticed when I'm burning and demand attention.

*Sighs*

It's not like I'm looking for worshipful devotion here. You don't have to walk through red hot coals for me (although sometimes it might be nice to know you're willing). I'm talking about basic stuff. Keep in touch. Toss me an email telling me your life is Hell right now, and you might not be around for a while. Send me a card telling me that you found the romance of your dreams and you were itching to share it with me. Call me and ask "hey, how goes it?" Let me know that what I think/do/feel/want matters and has validity sometimes.

The back burner gets boring. "Oh there's Mari. I guess I should talk to her."

Or worse, I wind up having to remind my "friends" I exist.

Ring ring ring. Hey, remember me? I'm someone you've known for ages. Yah, her. The one you're always saying is your best friend/sister, the woman you love.

Her.

It's a problem I've had all my life. It started with blood family, it's continued with friends and teachers in school and it's on-going with people in my life right now.

The song "Mr. Cellophane" from Chicago should not be a goddess' anthem, in training or not.

Ah well. Perhaps after I finish school I will have time to breathe again, and after I catch my breath, I can figure out how to stop this vicious pattern that leaves me constantly alone.

I want to know that my presence is actually desired and appreciated by those I've come to care about and love myself.

I have to figure it out. Goddesses aren't supposed to be alone unless they want to be.

But school comes first right?

Sorry folks. Even Goddesses have moments they spend in deep holes.

Is the Lighting Good Enough?

Even a goddess in training can be challenged.

I have returned to school so that I could have a career in the medical field. It's been a challenge.

I willingly quit a job in customer service that was paying me extremely good money. When you're not treated well, after a while you wonder if the money is worth it. It truly was a bad job for me. I spent ten years in a company I was wiling to spend the rest of my life at. In the beginning I felt like I mattered. I was given choices about things, and asked my opinion on how this or that could be better. But then, little by little all that respect disappeared. By the tenth year, I was nothing more than a robot; a cog in a wheel.

I started to worry that I would get so angry and frustrated, I'd go postal.

Seriously.

So I made a life changing decision. I went into work one day, gathered all my stuff from my desk, turned in my security badge and left. The only thing I said to my supervisor was "it just quit being worth it."

And I went back to school.

School is hard. I've needed every bit of support I've been offered by friends or family. I've come to a space in my life where I feel it's OK to ask for the extra positive energy. Which is why I started the candle lighting page I'm linking below.

Even goddesses can ask for good energy sometimes.

Yanno?


Light for School and Family

The Shrub...continued.

Dammit. He didn't resign.

We're going to wind up staying in Iraq. Our nation's debt is going to dig down further and further into hell. Morale isn't going to get any better.

This millenium sucks. I want my money back!

Is there any space left on the Mission to Mars?

The Shrub

What I want Bush to say at the next State of the Union address -

"I resign."

Tabitha Tickleribs

The first of the year has come and gone and we're already here at January 8th. I've been told that I should have done a blog entry on the 1st, but I just haven't felt inspired. I'm not really all that inspired now, but things at work are going rather slowly. I am looking for something to do that's pretty close to nothing, so I figured I'd blog.

Christmas update? Nothing to update.

Chanukah news? Didn't even light the candles this year.

New Year's Resolutions? Gawd no!

I could write about IK's again. That got a lot of comments in my personal circle.

Or Anderson.

A story?

"Once upon a time there was a child named Tabitha Tickleribs..."

Ooof. That's either really good, or really bad. I'm not sure which. I'm betting on really bad. Molly will get the reference, though. ;)

I like stories. Like all those stories we had read to us when we were little. I grew up listening to Maurice Sendak. Where The Wild Things Are or Chicken Soup With Rice. I loved those stories.

And Madeline. "In an old house all covered with vines, lived 12 little girls in 2 straight lines." Who can't love Madeline?

And of course, Winnie the Pooh stories rocked.

"...And this child, Tabitha Tickleribs, who loved yellow, was having a very odd day."

I also remember reading stories out of Free To Be You and Me. Does anyone remember that book? There was a story about a girl who was always insisting "ladies first, ladies first." Or the brother and sister who insisted the other was always treated better by their parents. There were even poems in that book. I wonder what ever happened to that Purple book with the red letters.

"Thing weren't exactly going right for Tabitha Tickleribs. They weren't really going wrong, but they weren't exactly going right either."

Ok, so the only thing I'm really sure about with this year is that I'm going to be in school for the entire time.

That's not a bad thing, is it?

"For breakfast, that morning, Tabitha Tickleribs' mother made liver and onions. Tabitha is used to cereal or fruit, or maybe even oatmeal for breakfast. Not liver and onions for. . . breakfast."

I think I'll stop writing here. This entry doesn't seem to be going anywhere and when you realize your blog entry isn't really going anywhere, that's a good time to stop writing.

One word of advice:

Try shaking yourself out of your normal routine. Have liver and onions for breakfast sometime. You never know. You might find that it's a pretty good idea.

OK. Maybe not liver and onions.

How about roast chicken, mashed potatos and gravy and green beans?

'Tis the Season

There are days that will test the patience of any Goddess. This is true even for those of us who are only training to be a Goddess. It’s difficult living amongst the mortals. Dealing with people who just refuse to get what you’re saying is one test that often leaves me with the desire to throttle. Dealing with City and County officials is another test. Usually, that test leaves me with a desire to perform some god-like act of smiting of a dangly bit of male anatomy.

Some how I manage to restrain myself, usually with the help of children.

The daycare center next door to the church I work at use the church frequently. Usually, it’s the staff I see. They hold meetings or parent conferences here, but during the Holidays the children perform. I get the delight of watching bunches of children in different age groups come over and rehearse for the two weeks before Christmas.

Delightful stories come out of this time.

A small child, three or four years old, managed to get away from the watchful eyes of his guardians just long enough for us all to start a full-blown search of the church. Four or five minutes into the search, we hear a small voice giggling from the choir loft - “you all be so short frum up here!”

Naturally us adults were too dumb to know right away where the voice was coming from, so we kept searching.

“Noooo! I’s up here! Inna attic!”

We all look up and there’s a sweet little boy with wild curly hair waving at us cheerfully, from the choir loft.

About an hour later, another group of kids came over to rehearse their bit in the play. The rehearsal goes as smoothly as one could expect when working with three and four year olds. Except that when they were leaving, Jeremy decided he wanted to climb the grand old pine tree outside in the courtyard.

After a rough and tumble 20 minutes we got him to ground level and settled everyone else down. I knelt down to Jeremy’s level and asked him "why did you climb the tree?"

“Cuz I wanna be da star on top an’ look fer Sanna.”

How do you argue with reasoning like that?

I think when it comes right down to it, I’d rather deal with children.

Cuz goin’ ‘splorin’ inna attic an’ lookin’ fer Sanna on toppa da tree be much more funner!