Alecto's Ophelia

I Loves me my Blasted Bluestar Range... (heh)

 
I haven't quite worked it out yet but no doubt I'll work something out and here we go again.

Bluestar the very best gas/propane range for the home kitchen; as close to commercial as you're going to get. So sayeth the ads anyway and having spent a significant amount of time in commercial kitchens I'm inclined to agree. However.

We live in an area with a lot of power surges which I guess beats the heck out of an extended power outage (see A Reed Shaken with the Wind for an exceptional example). Twenty-five years ago I lived here before moving into the Valley where you could count on extended power outages and I remember how often we lost power. So much so that it was a joke in the area and we received no less than three housewarming gifts of propane and oil lanterns. We had a kerosene heater that lived in the house during the winter in the living room where we slept if it got really bad. When my son was two or three weeks old we lost power for eleven days. I don't think we panicked much but we were young and just about anything was acceptable at that point. We cooked on the kerosene heater; it was fine. Shoveling the 1,100 foot driveway with an infant in a front carrier (or even without) was a serious nuisance.

So. In late June or July we had a power surge that took out our electric stove top. I'm pretty sure the oven was still operating but the fact that we'd lost use of the stove top was really irritating. This was the second time in about 18 months and while it didn't take all that long for parts and service it was the perfect opportunity to put in a gas range (which turned out to be propane because we don't have gas lines out here). We selected the Bluestar for a lot of reasons, price included but mostly functionality and expectation.

We lived without a stove for about a month. It was OK. It was even fun. I learned a lot about what you can actually do with a charcoal grill. And also we had a week at the beach which helped. I made bread and rice on the grill in addition to meat and veggies. I was very pleased with myself. When the Bluestar arrived and was functional I went nuts. I went so nuts that I actually ran out of propane because I used far more far faster than would have been expected and when we called the propane people they asked what on earth we'd been doing and did we maybe have a leak. No leak, just exuberance.

In June or July of 2008 we lost the door. Well, we didn't exactly lose it. It's not like it ran off or anything but right after (thank God it was right after) a rhubarb pie came out of the oven and then the door simply refused to open again. The door was getting harder and harder to open but I wasn't particularly concerned. I was too busy being smitten. It took about four weeks to get a new door installed. Again, it was summer and I learned to make pizza and naan on the grill but I was beginning to get a bit irritated. Within about six months of furious use the door started getting sticky again. We called the manufacturer and were told to use a cooking spray like Pam on the door hinges. Again, should have questioned that but I didn't want to wait for service again and we got used to it and that was that.

And then the unthinkable, unacceptable, so very much more than irritating occurred. The door got stuck again in the middle of all the Christmas baking and I'm pretty sure there was bread in the oven this time. I didn't want to actually break the door hinges and the thought of leaving bread in the oven for a month didn't scare me as much as say, a whole chicken. Bread will petrify, chicken will continue to decompose in a furious stench of rot and decay. But I needed the oven so I sprayed and I sprayed and gradually worked it open. I breathed a great sigh of relief and then nearly emptied a can of spray stuff before I stopped and actually thought about this. Alecto, I said, does this really make sense? Just look at the gunk in those hinges. I took out a can of oven cleaner and went to town on the door and the hinges. Awesome! Finally, at least four out of six cylinders firing and all that.

The very next day I started round two of furious baking. I had six little cheese bread loaves in the oven, Stollen on deck and Panetone on the second rise. I had actual Panetone paper this time and was ecstatic over the improved elasticity of both sets of Christmas bread (a serious improvement over the first round). The cheese bread was taking too long. The oven light was on. I turned it down to see where the temp was. I went down to about 250 before I opened the oven. Shit. I played with that thing for quite awhile as the almost cooked cheese bread collapsed on itself. I tried a manual light with a match. Nuthin. I turned on all four burners one at a time. No propane issues. I closed the door and wondered if I'd killed my oven with oven cleaner on the hinges. Um, seriously doubtful.

I had a fire going in the wood stove but it wasn't hot enough. I stoked it up to 400 hoping the top would be hot enough to bake bread in a covered pot. I put the Panetone in the toaster oven and took them out five minutes later with their tops on fire. I wish I'd photographed that because it was really cool. Inedible, but cool. That was Sunday. Last Sunday. I called Bluestar on Monday and got the name and number of an independent service company in, of all places, the Valley. I called the service company and was told they'd have someone out the very next day. Awesome. Cletus was home to let the guy in which meant I didn't have to ask for another work at home day. We need a new safety valve and ignition thingie. OK, I can accept that. It's nearly 2.5 years old and something was bound to go eventually. For about $180 I had that information. Cletus said they'd call with a quote. They called with a quote this morning. Must have gotten it yesterday because Bluestar is closed today and tomorrow.

I asked how long it would take to get the parts because I really do need to finish the second batch of breads. I heard the conversation in the background. Four to six weeks. Huh? For a door I kind of understand. Kind of. For a safety valve and an ignition thingie? Really? And $250? Really?. OK. I gave the man my credit card number. He called back in a little while to tell me Bluestar was closed until Monday. Sigh. OK. I am to be without an oven again and it's snowing out there. And.

I. am. excited. Really, seriously excited about this. Hot damn! Another opportunity to figure stuff out all by myself the same way I did before and kind of like I worked out how to roast the most amazing chicken on a spit over an open fire in the back yard (and somehow was not arrested for doing so which in this town is flat out amazing).

You think I'm  being facetious, don't you? If you've been around awhile, you don't think that at all. And if you haven't, stay tuned! I'll be reporting on progress and results with pictures and everything. Even if we do lose power for an extended period. I'll get the camera battery charged immediately.

How cool is this?

By the way, the photograph above are the loaves of Stollen. They were disgusting. Clearly not the result I want but I've learned a few things.

9/11 upside down

I didn't know how I was going to watch this today. To start with I thought it was 8 AM and figured, OK, I can listen on the way to the office. Then I find out I'm wrong and I'm thinking I can surreptitiously watch listen quietly on CNN at noon.

And then I got an IM from my boss about coverage in the large conference room and I went, the same way I went on 9/11 to watch with my co-workers as the second plane hit the second building.

The atmosphere was as stunned and speechless all these years later. As many people as possible jammed into this room staring up at that screen.

Except this time it was all upside down. The hope and fear and dreams in that room sucked the oxygen out and fed it right back in.

I counted six obvious nationalities, maybe more I just don't recognize.

We don't show emotion at this company other than anger.

What I saw and sat in today was a level of intensity and hope and belief that nearly wiped out what I saw and sat in not so many years ago.

And then, you know what? This time we went back to work. Hopeful.

Happy

There's a lot I can't change in this world. I can do a lot of praying and I can have a boat load of faith and I can be intent as hell on a result but I can only change me. I'm working on that. Hard.

On the other hand, here I am again, back a lot sooner than I expected and I've discovered a couple of remarkable (to me) things.

1. I'm strong. As in Seriously, stupendously amazingly strong.
2. I am resilient to the point that I scratch my head sometimes and say, oh really, Alecto? You don't say.
3. I am persistent as all get out (Ok, I knew that).

And I am really, really happy to be here. In this space, with you.

On the Art of being Inappropriate

Posting has become very difficult. Commenting has become very difficult but nobody should take that personally; I’m certainly still reading and I have a lot to say but if your comments require authentication I can no longer post a comment during the day and at night, well at night I just haven’t been able to. I’d offer up excuses that anybody would buy in a heartbeat but what the hell would be the point in that? This is a life blog where we strive for honest, forthright communication. Well, I do anyway. It’s my purpose for being here. Here is where I write the things I might not say otherwise. Here is where I document the things that matter in my life in a way that I cannot easily communicate elsewhere.

And it was all good until my family members started reading my blog and I had to start filtering. And then I started having real feelings for the sensibilities of my readers and I had to start filtering there. And then life got hard again and I stopped writing all together because I didn’t feel I could write most of my truths without pissing off or offending somebody and no matter what anybody tells me about people pleasing paranoia and all that, this is real for me. Conflict, real or perceived, makes me curl up under the proverbial bed with my thumb in my mouth and my eyes squeezed shut. That right there might be too much information for some of you.

Anyway, I don’t want my family members to stop reading my blog. It’s pretty much the only way you know I’m still breathing. I do want you to take what I write with a grain of salt and recognize that it’s about me, not you. I don’t want my blog friends to stop reading and if I offend any of you with too much information or a conflicting opinion, belief or behavior I’m sorry for that but I value your presence and your input. Actually, I love that you’re out there. Somehow it all makes me feel a bit more human and connected. So I’m going to try this again, one more time, because most of the time it keeps me grounded.

So that’s it. That’s all I really wanted to say right now except I’ve been looking down a pretty deep black hole lately and I’m doing my best not to tip in and the beloved kitty who has been with me through three marriages and two divorces went over the rainbow bridge on Saturday but the three remaining chickens are good and Simon is cool as hell even though I’m pretty sure he just passed the 50 pound mark (he’s fifteen weeks old today) and I quit my night and weekend job (the one at home that makes me happiest but won’t pay the mortgage) at least until my family pulls their collective heads out of their collective asses and starts pitching in unconditionally and I’ll write about all of it in the very near future. I’m pretty sure it’s a good story.

 

 

Mr. Fluffy Tinklekins

 

The dog is a beast. He's gaining close to a pound a day with no end in sight. Last checked he was 40 pounds at 12 weeks and 22 pound Homer (on a good day) has lost what little fur like substance he had left due to the constant nomming of the over grown baby.

We were trying not to crate him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, big dogs, fast growing boys, should not be confined and all that. So we installed gates in the kitchen and installed an over sized puppy playpen on the lower level so that he and Homer could cohabitate and I wouldn't have to listen to it all night. And then it became VERY apparent that no one was EVER going to make Simon do anything he didn't actually feel like doing. Ever. His strength is, and will continue to be, greatly disproportionate to his actual weight. The good news is he really wants to please. And we are prepared to make good use of that willingness every second of his very impressionable puppy hood.

So we bought the biggest crate known to man. I swear you could put an elephant in there and it surely will never fit through a door again now that it's been assembled. We assembled said crate and then attempted to insert tab A (Mr. Fluffy Tinklekins, don't worry, I'll get to that) into slot B (door of crate) and failed miserably. He was only 30 pounds at the time. Nomans and I, we are very strong people. Lots of upper body strength and all that. It took two of us. One inside the crate pulling and the other outside the crate pushing. It was very demoralizing to the both of us and not a little disturbing to the puppy.

We bought treats. We bought treats and we slowed the hell down. For the first week it took me an extra twenty minutes in the morning after Little Girl's bus left just to sweet talk him to the door of the crate. But that works, you know, the whole sweet talking thing, because he wants to please so very, very much. And now he's crate trained and goes right in without a fuss and stays in too if you remember to toss in a bit of puppy candy. But here's the kicker, normally you would insert a divider so that the crate was just barely big enough for the puppy. This encourages them not to pee in the crate (or worse). We can't do that too him, I don't think it would be good for him. And in the end I don't intend to use the crate forever, I just need to be able to ask him to go if I really need him there.

Which brings me to the next point. If I ever hope to have friends or family in my house ever again I'm going to have to be able to put him away. Most people do not appreciate 240 pounds of slobbering fur in their lap and as I mentioned above, Simon pretty much does what he wants to do. And that doesn't mean he's not being socialized, he is. It just means I really don't have the physical control to fall back on.

Did I mention he has complete respect for the gates in the kitchen right up until he doesn't?

So here's poor Simon locked up in this cavernous crate and he still wets the bed at night. Not that we would do anything so silly as to leave him a bed in there, it would be consumed by morning. He wets the bed and then rolls in it. Or at least lays about in it. And since we can't wash him easily in the winter and have to rely on baby wipes for the most part he's kind of ripe.

We don't really mind.

We took him to Main Street Westport on Sunday. Main Street Westport wants to be Rodeo Drive East (it's not, that would be The Avenue in Greenwich but please try not to disillusion Westport in these current economic times). We figured that's a perfect place to start socializing him because nobody walking up and down that street has any manners to speak of (including me based on the level of snark in this post). Or sense but don't get me started. He's guaranteed to get a boat load of attention wanted or otherwise.

He was brilliantly well behaved with the possible exception of stopping to have a pee on every possible patch of leaves because that's where he potties at home. You know, on the leaves in the yard. He doesn't know sidewalks from Adam. He was pet, hugged, cuddled, kissed and slobbered on by at least 50% of the population. He ate it up. He didn't even try to climb into any laps although I wonder what will happen when he realizes he can pretty much make a lap happen anytime he wants.

By the time we made it down one side and back up the other he was exhausted and we weren't much better. I looked down at my angelic fluffy white pumpkin and realized that Mr. Fluffy Tinklekins is mostly yellow these days.

Don't you have chickens on your front porch?

 

I know our neighbors have struggled with the idea of our chickens. I know this because our neighbor right across the street makes her granddaughter catch and lock them up (ha ha ha, like putting them in the chicken pen keeps them in) when they cross the street and our neighbor to the left yelled at Little Girl one day (and I'm thinking she needs her meds adjusted for yelling at a little girl instead of talking to her parents) and said her dogs would eat our chickens because they cross the invisible boundaries from two acre yard to two acre yard and our neighbor diagonally across the street said, 'oh, I thought that might be you.' In reference to our birds.

And I want it noted that we have wild turkeys on the loose in this neighborhood. And I want it noted that the vet's wife two doors down feeds them morning and night too. And I want it noted that our neighbor directly across the street (the one with the granddaughter) rescues raccoons. I just want it noted that in all this wild life we raise eyebrows because we keep chickens and, gasp... eat their eggs and stuff (so dirty, apparently).

I guess the truth is I don't find it even remotely remarkable anymore. What I find remarkable is that we appear to be alone in this neighborhood.

I can't wait until the meat birds arrive in the spring.

That should have been the end of the post but I know I'm going to be too distracted next week to remember to tell you this but...

1. I waltzed about like a lunatic (I was fully clothed at the time, I swear) scattering assorted seed six weeks ago and now I have assorted greens coming up all over the place.
2. I planted many things in this one little patch back in April and May (that gave me nothing but radishes this year) and I see carrots coming up?! Now?
3. The fat chives (I don't know how else to differentiate them from the skinny chives that put themselves to bed already) are making a concerted move on the potato beds.
4. The dill has reseeded itself. Everywhere.
5. My oregano has lost it's mind and headed for the swamp. Everywhere.
6. The Romaine reseeded itself EVERYWHERE.
7. The celery is delighted with the weather and looks better than it ever did.
8. And I am glad I was late putting in the stiff neck garlic because the daffodils are coming up already (they'll duck down again shortly).

I put up no cold frames, have done nothing other than turn over a few beds and pull up the tomato and bean stakes and I just want you to know that on November 16, the garden is very much alive and well.

A bad case of the stupid tireds

I am stupid tired. The kind of tired where you have to be careful not to make fatal errors (I have not) (that I am currently aware of) (and if you personally happen to know of any please keep that information to yourself until sunrise tomorrow).

I don't even have a good reason for the stupid tireds other than seasonal adjustment. I do all right up until about, um, sunset and then I get all reverse vampire like and try to crawl into the nearest cave. This is difficult if I'm trying to drive home in NoMan's acronym vehicle (I can't even begin to explain how this happened) and I want to get it home without issue.

So I'm standing in my kitchen in the CFM heels I wore specifically to torment the auditors today (who turned out to be approximately twelve years old and pre-pubescent and therefore the CFMs were completely pointless) cooking up some cached baby red potatoes and crook neck squash from Taylor Farms down the road and wondering whether or not I could get away with inhaling the crisped skin off the roasting chicken before anyone caught me... when it occurred to me that despite my nearly perverse exhaustion and umbilical like attachment to my kitchen (it's a looonngggg stretch from Weston to Stamford) and lack of nanny like support (Cletus is doing a FINE job carting her sister about) that I am...

Perfectly content.

Go figure.

(on the other hand my feet hurt and it was a perfectly useless wearing of the CFM pumps but apparently my auditors missed the audit.)

I Have A Dream (1963)

I can't even speak.

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But 100 years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men - yes, black men as well as white men - would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is obvious today that

America

has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation,

America

has given the Negro people a bad check, a check that has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and security of justice. We have also come to his hallowed spot to remind

America

of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end but a beginning. Those who hoped that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in

America

until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating "for whites only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in

Mississippi

cannot vote and a Negro in

New York

believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no we are not satisfied and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today my friends - so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of

Georgia

the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification - one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day, this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning "My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my father's died, land of the Pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring!"

And if

America

is to be a great nation, this must become true. And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of

New Hampshire

. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of

New York

. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado. Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of

California

.

But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of

Mississippi

- from every mountainside.

Let freedom ring. And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring - when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children - black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics - will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

Friday morning and I'm still feeling all right

Every day, against my better judgment, I look at the Yahoo Finance front page and watch the market go UPPPPP and DOWWWWN and I read the headlines that blare off the page like some crusty old dude selling National Enquirer copies in his bathrobe and slippers with a nasty old cigar stub in his teeth and a racing form in his pocket on a street corner in Queens (I'm thinking Long Island City by OTB specifically in case anybody's interested).

I am reading headlines that could only have been written by Captain Obvious (specifically my almost eight year old, Little Girl, in case anybody's interested because that's what third graders and Yahoo Finance (or any media now that I think of it) have in common). This morning's headline reads:

US Stocks Set To Open Lower After Housing Data.

And following in smaller print:

Wall Street is headed for a lower open after the government said new home construction dropped to the lowest pace since 1991.

Duh. (and halleluiah while I'm at it)

Every day there are one or more DUHs on the finance page and every day I read them, smack my head and think, why the hell didn't I think of that? Yesterday it was the decline in retail sales, the day before it was the unemployment rates and last Friday when the market jumped something like 700 points (UPPPPP) it had something to do with that elusive and possibly imaginary money. There's nothing rational or even slightly reasonable going on here folks. So why am I looking? Train wrecks. It's all about the train wrecks.

This is almost as mind boggling as the sign I read each day on my walk from the train to work. Passing under an overpass where the city bus terminal hunkers like a diesel belching nine headed dragon I see a sign that reads:

WHEN your car is towed, call xxx-xxxx.

WHEN your car is towed? Not IF your car is towed, but WHEN. Maybe they should just do away with parking spaces altogether.

All righty then, on with the morning. I have not had an entertaining travel story in months. Nothing entertaining on the train other than the stalker I dispatched with a few weeks ago (I did not push him off the platform but I thought about it, is that bad and wrong?). Nothing entertaining on the periodic occasions where I find myself having to navigate an actual automobile from home to work (gak). Until this morning. This morning was a doozy. Still trying to figure out if I want to cry or laugh my ass off.

I was driving my husband's car. I do not like to drive that damn thing because it's embarrassing and I have this unreasonable fear I might break it or something and then he might just crawl under a rock and die over the potential sadness of it all. I drive old cars. Not bottom feeders but old cars. Cars that I drive until they go no more. I'm funny that way. My husband has one of those three letter acronym cars he bought off lease when his truck got smashed about a year ago. It makes him very happy and honestly I'm OK riding in it now. I can pretend I've been taken prisoner or I'm somebody's cosseted princess, whichever fantasy suits my mood in the moment. I can't pretend either of those things if I'm driving it.

So I'm cautious, nervous, all those things I never am in my own car. And I do my level best to stay calm and unruffled no matter what lest I make a big assed boo boo and destroy the thing. Oh, and that would be bad today because Cletus has my car, Nanny is out and I have to pick up Nomans from the airport at 5:30 and then we go to Vermont and then we pick up the puppy on Sunday and then we come home and you see I need a car for all four of those events. Not having a car would be bad and that's what I'm thinking when I'm trying to make a right turn off Dudley onto 33.

There's a very small person driving a late model Subaru and she's not pulled all the way up in anticipation of a break in the traffic and I think we're going to be here for awhile but lets just be patient and wait it out. Sure enough, break after break occurs and she doesn't even pull forward. I practice thinking Zen non-thoughts while staring at the back of her head (well not really because she's so short I can only see the back of her head when she leans into the passenger seat to drink water below dash level which she does frequently). Then a school bus turns left from 33 to Dudley creating a perfect path for three to four cars to scoot right onto 33. She's drinking water below dash level when this occurs and I start laughing at about the same time the woman in the big hair and sunglasses driving one of those behemoth SUVs lays on her horn AND DOES NOT LET UP. Eventually Subaru turns right and I ride her wake onto 33 and SUV leaves rubber on Dudley cutting off a fairly large truck as she pulls out behind me.

At the next intersection we wait for a left turn arrow to follow the Route 7 corridor but when the light turns green three or four vehicles are still running the red in the opposite direction so there's really not much Subaru can do but wait it out but SUV lays on the horn anyway and won't let up. I can feel a head ache coming on which I partially deserve for consuming three quarters of a bottle of Pinot all by myself because I was home alone with the remote last night.

Eventually SUV lets up and I drive like a little old lady behind Subaru (whom I am beginning to believe is indeed a bona fide LOL (hey, that's actually funny)). We make the turn onto the connector to the connector and I pull into the left lane to get around the LOL, turn left onto the connector and I am behind another LOL doing 30 while my Subaru LOL goes zooming by in the right lane doing 50 and people, this is a highway. I get behind Subaru LOL and mind my Ps and Qs.

I was late this morning. I was late enough that the line at the on ramp to I95 should have been nearly non-existent. Instead it is terminal and I scoot around to get off and bypass all of it. Subaru LOL remains in line like a good girl. I am thankful because she makes me a bit nervous. All that below dash water drinking.

The middle and left lanes are backed up too. This means something bad has happened. As it turns out, Something Bad has JUST happened. By the way, this is where I seem to witness the most tragic accidents and where NoMans had his truck vaporized by one of those three letter acronym vehicles except it was the other end and I digress...

This is a four car pile up. Two cars are pulled off to the right. One is a big SUV (I'm guessing not the original SUV but who knows, she did go around us). There is an older red sedan in the road. There is a fairly new Mazda3 at an odd angle to the red sedan. The front of the red sedan is gone. I mean GONE. The door is open and a young person is on his or her knees in the road speaking intensely to, as if to wake up, the driver of the of the red sedan who is another LOL, probably in  her eighties and she looks dead. I tell myself she's just in shock and I must not pull over because I can hear the sirens and she will be all right and I pull onto I95 and I am sobbing because I'm pretty sure she's dead or worse because somebody just couldn't wait on a Friday rush hour morning and played chicken one too many times.

I merge into traffic and pull myself together because I'm driving the special car and I take deep cleansing breaths and prepare to let it all go. Then this LOL in a humongous SUV wearing a humongous cowboy hat pulls off the shoulder right in front of me just missing my front right quarter panel. I scream like a cut moose and manage not to hit her. She sees me screaming in her rear view mirror and shakes her middle finger over the back seat at me at which point I laugh so hard my head hits the steering wheel and traffic comes to a complete halt and I am afraid she's going to get out of her big ass SUV and beat me within an inch of my life she's so mad but I. Cannot. Stop. Laughing.

Eventually we move again and I see LOL Subaru cruising by me in the middle lane and if that just doesn't reduce me to a fit of hysterical giggles and LOL cowboy shakes her middle finger yet again and careens back off the highway and into the truck stop.

I proceed with great caution to the parking garage and make my way into the building.

And here I sit. Have a great weekend. I'm turning the keys over to Nomans post haste. Just as soon as I fight my way though Friday night traffic heading North toward Hartford.

I sure do hope Cletus remembers to let the chickens in and out.

When the world is spinning, spin yourself the other direction to unravel the tilt

OK, I think can say (write) this now. If not, I'll delete with the rest of my miserably failed attempts at sorting through my own feelings and realities (since, really, we do make it all up, every one of us).

I,we, my family and and I, stand to lose quite a bit. Maybe we already have (I'm not looking at the moment). We stand to lose our retirement funds, our jobs, our home, our four remaining minor children's college funds. We stand to lose it all. We always have, day in and day out just like anybody might lose anything. Today, just like any other day in the last few weeks, it is horribly and painfully evident.

There is no right or wrong to this. We do not live in debt (oh, wait, there's the mortgage, right?), we do not take part in manipulating the market (oh wait, we do trade, don't we?) and we have busted our proverbial asses getting to where we are today and that might be all gone now or tomorrow. It really might.

I did not support the bailout. I do not support the bailout. I firmly believe this economy, this country needs a reset, and not a free and painless reset either because we are all compliant, one way or another. I say that in the face of what I still refer to as a horrible loss. I quake in my space boots (to borrow a Cletus phrase) and cry out in the night. I am terrified. But I still don't support the bailout.

It makes you take stock of what matters though, I'll tell you that. I sit at a chair in my kitchen, head and shoulders bent over two pots on the floor. One is full of apple peelings and the other salt water and apple bits. I peel, peel, peel, core, core, core, chop, chop, chop until after no time at all half a bushel is processed and set aside for the winter. I go to the farmers market and my own garden and I buy up all the fresh produce I can store away. I take that home and can and freeze and cook and eat and feed my family one step closer to the earth. I have set aside a ridiculous quantity of flour and rice but in reality, is 300 pounds really so ridiculous?

On Mondays I go to work with tiny cuts and abrasions on my finger tips from all the peeling, cutting, processing, cooking and I type on the keyboard for enough money to keep paying the mortgage and those cuts remind me that I am far from helpless after all.

None of this changes or alters in any way the level of fear I experience on a pretty regular basis these days. However, when I turn my face away from my fear and toward that which is hopeful, real, and living, I find it far easier to breathe.