Belles Artes Tea Party -- What Fun!

Just came back from a tea grazing experience at Belle Artes. Really nice. Stations were set up with teas from around the world, and we tasted, described, and rated them in a booklet as we moved through the space sampling.

Cynthia LeRouge, from my neighborhood, put it on with Ciléia Miranda-Yuen, the owner/president. Cynthia's husband, Dave -- a fabulous cook -- did a nice assortment of finger foods and scones, he of the forethought and wisdom to provide lemon curd with the latter. Go Dave.

I hadn't realized what a commitments to diversity and unity Ciléia brings to that place. I've been there for a couple of events, but hadn't spent much time around Ciléia.

I also met a wonderful and lovely biochemist who works on looking at protiens under MRA, and we had a great talk about my brain imaging/therapy idea!

If I get time (ha, that's laugh) I'll do a blog about it on smithfamilyrecipes. But if I don't, here's the link anyway. Check out the art: http://www.belas-artes.net/1.html.

consider the probable reality that all time is simultaneous

Melancholy season. The first year my Papaw is gone; the first year of Christmas with the family home sold. The first Christmas in many years I've gone to sleep alone, uncuddled. Boo-hoo, I know. But it is hard. And this morning I find I'd rather stay under the covers than begin any of the trillions of tasks I need done to complete the move and the preparation for grad school and... you know. Many questions arise, about the fragility of connections, the holding at arms length, Gangji's story of Papaji's open arms when they met the first time at the River Ganges; his saying to her, simply, "What took you so long!" and the caution we're conditioned into and how we step so lightly we miss a thousand opportunites for love; and "Thetan," the Single Gun Theory song with the spoken word semi-chorus under the trip-hop lushness that says to us, simply: "All limitations are self-imposed."

Dogs Gone Wild

This is an odd rant for Christmas day. But my God. After watching someone's dog walk around on the kitchen table and that person weakly "ask" the dog to get down then do nothing when the dog ignored her, well, when that's what was part of the Christmas meal I really have to come away slightly annoyed.

So I suggested to her that she get a trainer to come over and work with the dog.

She says, "We've worked with a trainer! Bitzy can roll over and shake and sit and everything!"

Ohmygod. There are only two dots here to connect: misbehavior + training. Wow.

A couple of weeks ago I was having dinner with friends, when one (very cool and intelligent, by the way) woman displayed the bite marks and bruises on her arms. Ya. Really. Bite marks and bruises from her husband's Cocker spaniel. It likes to randomly attack her. She covers her head in with her arms and screams; the dog goes to work on her arms. They claim there is nothing they can do about it. And again, suggestions of training? Nothing, no one home at all. And I have to admit that in that instance my training suggestion came after they looked weakly down at the table when I suggested flipping the dog over on its back, putting a hand on its throat and saying "No!" the next time it freaking attacked. And to continue doing this consistently. No go.

Apparently this assertion of authority in the face of a dog's physical attack is "cruel?"

I don't understand what's happening here. Do people want to be dominated by their tiny domestic animals? What emotional gain comes from this? Is this feeling of powerlessness, well, what is the need for this feeling/creation of powerlessness?

Dogs are pretty easy to train. They are generally good natured beasts, intelligent, and live to please their alphas. When they are given the alpha spot in a house of humans they tend to become insecure and weird and play all sorts of behavior games -- rather like a human child would in that situation.

I don't know. I'm just saying. What the hell is this about?

Briefing the President Elect on Slavery/Shop for Freedom (for real this time)

If you're new to trying to understand human trafficking, the link below is really helpful. It's a great teaching tool. In case you don't know, according to the UN and the US Justice Dept there are more slaves in the world today than at any other time in recorded human history. But we can, and are taking action to end it! So read up, then get up. It's time to work.

From Sarah Symons's (The Emancipation Network) newsletter:

"Action Group To End Human Trafficking and Modern-Day Slavery, which we are an ally of, has put together a great briefing for President Elect Obama. This is also a wonderful tool for anyone who is interested in learning more about what the US can and should be doing to fight slavery."

http://www.madebysurvivors.com/nl/ActionGroupTransitionMemo2008.pdf

AND DON'T FORGET! Your holiday shopping can support, rather than hinder, freedom:
http://store.madebysurvivors.com/category-s/24.htm

But Look, Don't Get Carried Away!

'Cause really, my ode to change and all that [last post] was written in a moment when I was feeling particularly cool with whatever, all Zenned out and had probably just had a nice dinner or someone had given me focused attention or something. The other side of the coin is sort of like, ok, jeez, can things just sometimes not run me around like an unstable quark? Said another way:

Dear Universe Or Whatever,

Please take mercy on me here, alright! I like stability! I've learned plenty about how to weather change.

Thank You,

M

Trying not to sound goofy while applying Advaitic philosophy

Transitions are the hardest parts of life? All those stress quizes definitely want to point to that. I'm not sure I find it so. I think without these transition moments I might get a little bored. If I let myself get into some dualistic thinking, this could lead me to a big monkeymind run-around about whether enjoying a transition is a good or a bad thing. Capiche? Check it out, etymologically: transition, transformation, transformative.

No, it's not aversion to stability, either. There is nothing inherently unstable about transition, because the core of Self remains as it is, regardless of experience or conditions. There is the illusion of instability that comes with the trance of believing that external conditions are the thing upon which stability is grounded. But if that's the case then we're all in trouble, because there ain't one single thing that is stable. Capiche? Every frigging molecule in this machine I'm typing on is in flux. Any non-movement I perceive is either illusion or an effect of my own limited abilities of perception.

Now apply above principle to humans and jobs, economies, social what-ever standards, anything. Anything that you/I/one has been conditioned to believe will provide that thing we're talking about: stability. You think the job provides it? your best friend? The freaking American economy (think back to what you may have thought a couple of months ago about that one)?

None of these things can be depended upon, not really. They can be met as they are, with love, with compassion, with the understanding that their imperfection is integral to their nature. One meets one's self with this, too. You know, it's all sort of Einsteinian. There is only one constant: change. But then one has to add: there is one other constant, which I think Einstein grokked and tried to express but didn't quite get there -- the ground of consciousness that is the true self. Hmm, maybe this is the paradox we need: Change and Self (ground of Being) are the same thing, even though the only thing that is unchangeable is ground of Being. (That's the thing I want to know: if duality is illusion, then why does everything always kernel down to paradox?)

Sort of. Because it's also perfectly reasonable to argue that the glowing perfection of that thing is so full of movement in its nature that even its stability is illusory. But it's a different kind of movement. Whatever Being is can't be damaged or destroyed. It is always what It is.

So, this transition of mine, this place in which, over the last couple of months, the major points of reference in my life have changed or vanished completely has not shaken me up, really. I mean at times, for sure! My god. Of course. But the core? No.

And I've witnessed some remarkable things. Instance: this election, in which the better natures of so many people emerged. One long-time Republican friend of some means told me that she and her husband voted for Obama because they decided racial healing was more important than their personal finances. That's remarkable. And that happened, I'm pretty sure, more than we know. Another friend, a dedicated Democrat, who early on in the primary process subjected a room full of people to a loud rant about how the party would be throwing the election away if either Clinton or Obama made it onto the ticket, because the red-state hillbillies would vote for neither a black man nor a woman of any sort is now celebrating his error, and re-evaluating exactly how widespread he thinks racism and sexism really are. This is all transformation.

And I have witnessed the wrenching pain of a friend as he works his way through a deep self-examination, brought on by loss, at a level that (my bad) I never thought I'd see him have the balls to do. This, too, is transformation.

I, then, can feel that potential of my personal life's transformative moment and just try to ride the wave. Or be the wave. Or recognize that there is no separate me/wave.

And, yes, there is certainly sometimes fear. Maybe even sheer terror. It arises, it is met, it dissolves. Sometimes I act out of a pattern, and sometimes I observe the mechanism in slow motion in time to meet that, too, in love, and let it dissolve into that ground of consciousness.

Point being, I don't see anything neurotic about allowing myself to enjoy this transition moment. I have, on purpose, chosen an unconventional life. A couple of times I've tried the "safer" approach, the soul-killing job-for-security, the "correct" marriage, whatever. Naw. Not so much; not for me. And that being the case it seems a matter of common sense to note that I may at times have the opportunity to observe this mind observing the "instability" (flux, blooming, Kingdom of Possibility) of my external circumstances. And then to open the heart to it. And invite in all the perfect manifestations that gratitude will allow to arise.

Jeez. I know that sounds all The Secret-ish and stuff, but that's not it at all. I'm not saying anything about the "goodness" or "badness" of whatever is. I don't believe that all I have to do is think "good" thoughts and "good" material things will appear to me. That's a load of crap, and smacks pretty annoyingly of a blame the victim philosophy, maybe. I'm just saying, what's the point of being afraid? What's the point of holding onto things that are by their nature impermenant, anyway? Why not just trust?

Catching up on sleep

I know! Whatever. I was really busy.

Wish I could write more about it. Working for the Obama campaign, that was just one of the true highlights of my life.

And now. Just. Wow.

Thanks, World.

McPalin Campaign Takes Refuge in Torturing (Us)

So, the European markets start to tumble, and The McPalin's go to fear tactics because their strategists say they can't win on the economy. I'll tell you what, McPalins et al: right now, if you can't make a case for yourself on the economy, you need to go home.

Jeez. That campaign has been brainless all along. I almost wish I was running it for them, just so I wouldn't have to suffer through the pain of witnessing their lame-brained fallacious reifications.

Ya, I know, I've been gone a while. A lot has happened. Metal Ox is gone. Bon débarras & God bless him anyway. I'm through the worst of the actual grieving, which may have been accelerated by all the previous grieving in regards to him, and by the simple act of just actually taking the time to be in it while it was here. Anyhow, I don't feel like telling the story. Let's just say the old patterns returned and by the time he realized what he was doing he'd destroyed the trust he'd convinced me to revive back in the Winter of [Fragile] Epiphany. I'm sure none of you who know me and the history of this relationship are surprised. I was and I wasn't. Truly, I feel saddest for having watched him open up and then close back down again, because I think there really was that W[F]E, it really did happen, he really did think that he could sustain, live from the loving part of himself, but in the end his conditioning got the better of him, and he failed. It's heartbreaking. (Don't worry, I wasn't nearly so objective when the shattering hammer first came down.) And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Still on leave from work. Health is pretty much back to normal. I am finally feeling really energetic again, exercising every day, my normal self. Scared to death of sitting in that exhaust. But company has made no offer to fix anything. In fact, they are being as rude and intimidating as the law allows them to be. But, you know me. It may be possible to scare me or make me cry, for a minute. But real intimidation is another matter.

Doing some freelance writing and design, very happily. Would be much pleased to continue in this vein for as a while. If you see work, especially editing, I'm your girl.

A couple of other interesting moves and developments. One might even say exciting. More later on these matters when the time is right.

In the mean time, pay attention. Things are afoot in the world. Remember: the only shelter is in Truth.

She Lives With Birds

Did you know Heidi Fleiss is living in the Nevada dessert in a county where prostitution is legal, with a murder of tropical birds she inherited from an old, sick madame, now dead?

And like, Heidi is there in this crappy building in the dessert, where she'd come to open The Stud Farm (a cat house that caters to women (by providing men) (wait, would that make it a dog house?)) but things didn't go that well (looks to me like the male whore house owners and their peeps in that county didn't dig Heidi's inversion of the natural order) and then the madame died and left her these birds. And Heidi didn't want the responsibility, "There's a reason I don't have pets," she said. But she took them, because, she said, the old woman counted on her.

Now she's all about the birds. It's really sweet.

http://www.heidifleiss.com/

And no, this is not an endorsement of anything. It is a comment on the beauty of a person opening her heart.

History! Woo!

I know, it's been like forever. But here we are on the night of the the acceptance of the nomination to the candidacy for the office of the President of the United States of Barack Obama, the first blak candidate not only EVER in the US, but in the Western world as far as I know. Dick Durbin is introducing him. I once shook that guys hand. Asked him a hard question at the Society of International Independent Newspaper Editors Conference at which he came to speak. It was a question about the draft, 2005. After the Q/A I went into the hall, shook his hand, gave him my card. I figured: he's a good man. I dig his positions on policy, except for the draft thing (ask me), so I may as well take this opportunity to give him my card. I may never have another opportunity like this one, here in central Illinois. So I did it. No, he never called me. But I don't have to wonder if.

BTW, J. Jackson Sr. is so obviously bitter that it's painful. I wrote the man in in 1988. Seriously. And here's what I'm saying and it applies to Edwards, too: Infidelity looks like weakness. We don't want weak leaders. If you're not strong enough to keep your pants zipped, to maintain ordinary integrity, then you're not strong enough the lead the country.

Go, evolution.

Live from Detroit

In short, Detroit is way cooler than the press it gets. We took a tour, kind of a "Living Downtown" tour, yesterday. Kinda nice. The city has, it's said, more pre-Depression era skyscrapers than any other city in the U.S. Does that include NYC? Not sure. Will look up.

Also, Motown Museum is wonderful. Members of Van Morrison's band were in our group as we went through -- Vanessa (I'll look her up later, too) sang into the echo chamber. Did ya know reverb in recording was invented by a Motown engineer? Yip.

I've had Thai, Cuban, and Greek. Today I'm hoping my stomach is up to the Coney Dog, which is the Detroit native food. Sadly, when I arrived my recent tummy delicacy was in effect. But, wow, being away from the jet fumes at work a few days has perhaps contributed to the return of my appetite?

And check it out -- Detroit's city crime stats are skewed for the same reasons St. Louis's are -- small city footprint, over one hundred incorporated towns surrounding. The visitor's bureau claims crime is 33% below the national average here.

Where is my camera? Did I leave it at home?

Love From Motortown,

Margarert

Waiting for Bridgid

A dear friend has suffered a grave illness, and we are waiting for her to regain consciousness. This candle was lighted for her last weekend, while she was in surgery. The petals laying around the candle come from poppies from my garden, which were picked the day she fell ill. At my house that weekend (before last) we watched the poppies mark the passage of time, as the petals fell and settled themselves around the candle this way. Another friend took the picture. Please send your love to our B.

Go, Me!

I won! Today I'm off to the Missouri Botanical Gardens to accept a little award, Best Individual Plot, I think -- though I've seen nothing official so it's hard to feel secure saying it, but Linda came over and told me, so -- in the St. Louis city-wide community garden contest. Woo-hoo! Really, it makes me very happy. I'll expand this post once it actually happens. And I'll post a picture, though the peek of the garden that was in existence when the judges came through is over, and it's in a bit of a transition moment right now. Anyway, gotta go get ready!

Too Sad

Because the Angel of Death did stop in this afternoon for Tim Russert. Newsmans's newsman, he was the one who set the standard for Washington journalism. He was the measure. And the word. And the man who met me every Sunday morning for good conversation. I kinda feel like a member of the family is gone, and I'll tell you, I'm going to miss him real bad.

Stone Temple Pilots & The Angel of Death

I don't want to jinx him by saying it, but Scott Weiland looks as close to death as any animated being I have ever seen. You can see Death hovering over him, heavier than the stage lights, vectoring out on his breath when he sings. From his outfit I would say it's likely he's travelling with a stylist: well coordinated big hat, big glasses, scarf, layers of shirts and jackets that he stripped off throughout the show, until he was a pale-skinned skeleton in low, low jeans and nothing else. But Death hasn't gone after his talent. He was mesmerizing, and the band itself kicked ass. Though his voice weakened considerably as the set wore on. I wondered why sound didn't crank up his mic levels, but in a way the fact that they didn't sort of confirms what I heard. Maybe it gets more than weaker. Maybe it gets off key, too. Still, back in the '90s when I was a music critic (and stuff) for the Nightlife, most of my co-writers and musician friends looked askance at my love of STP's work. I've always thought they were under rated, and now I'm sure of it. Those are great songs, and they do them really well.

While Weiland seems to live with Death as a Familiar, I, as everyone knows, (knock on wood) scare It off no matter what I do. It's not on purpose. I have no problem with Death. But I do have further confirmation that my presumed diagnosis of the black widow spider bite was correct. The strange symptom of the skin looking and feeling burned on the bite area? Then blistering and peeling, exactly like a sunburn? And then ending up (now) discolored (tanned, and pink where the peeling occurred)?

:

Annals of Burns and Fire Disasters - vol. XII - n. 1 - March 1999
BURN-LIKE SYNDROMES
Atiyeh B.S., Kayle D. I., Nasser A.A.
Division of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery, American University of Beirut Medical Centre, Beirut, Lebanon
http://www.medbc.com/annals/review/vol_12/num_1/text/vol12n1p39.htm

Skin disorders manifested by blistering and exfoliation mimic burn injuries in their clinical presentation and behaviour as they are characterized by sloughing of the epidermal layers, which uncovers the underlying dermis. When extensive epidermal loss occurs, the condition exceeds the capacity of general medical wards as well as medical intensive care units, necessitating transfer of the patient to a surgical intensive care facility or even to a burn unit. Such burn-like syndromes may be congenitally inherited, such as epidennolysis bullosa, or they may be a manifestation of severe viral, bacterial, or fungal infections. They may also be a post-vaccination reaction or a manifestation of a neoplastic process such as Hodgkin's and non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, leukaemia, or ovarian and prostatic carcinoma. Similar conditions have been observed in graft-versus-host disease, in severe forms of lupus erythernatosis, and following black widow spider bite [emphasis mine].

So, to the skeptics I say: when are you going to learn? How often do I get a diagnosis wrong? Uh, huh. That's what I thought. And when I was cramping and puking and achy and feverish, and I knew that if I went to the ER they'd just get it all wrong, I didn't feel the ole Angel of Death coming in, not really, though I did kind of feel Him pull the curtain back for a sec to take a peek at me -- anyway, faced with the alternating prospects of either taking myself to the ER or calling a friend (who would surely insist on taking me to the ER), I pretty much just said fuck it, if it's time it's time and waited Him out. Then, it turns out that people rarely die from black widow spider bites, anyway. Though they can be debilitating. And I did find, as well, confirmation of my experience of diving into depression and major emotional rollercoasterness for those first few days after: BW spider venom seems to effect neurotransmitters, quite specifically, including norepinephrine "and all neurotransmitters" (http://www.pubmedcentral.nih.gov/articlerender.fcgi?artid=392921)! That would include serotonin, I suppose. Duh. I knew it. I said it to Metal Ox and to Springblossom. [btw, one can find additional sources of both my claims, in the googles; I've just sited the two because I'm lazy).

So, well. It's pretty interesting, I think. Life, Death, rock, venom. How close do we get to these things? Close as we want, if we're willing to look, stop pretending we didn't see that curtain move. Sometimes Death just, you know, wants to see how we're doing.

And Scott? You, too, buddy. Hey -- heads up. I wish you well.

Tell Me I'm Not A Survivor! Tell me the world isn't changing!!!!

Go ahead, just try. Two weekends ago I made it through my in-laws, a dual-interstate full speed tire blow-out, and a black widow spider bite.

But before we get there: Go, Obama! My God! Can you believe it???????? To paraphrase Tim Russert Tuesday night, I would loved to have been a history teacher in the inner city on Wednesday. The potential here is that every black male in the country will see an entirely different set of possibilities every time he looks in the mirror. I know I do. And I'm neither. And the DNC announced yesterday: No more money from lobbyists or PACs. Guess what? TRUE paradigm shift may be underway. Shut up. Don't be such a cynic. Evolution comes in leaps and bounds. And ya, I do think it's white people who need to evolve. Virginia can catch up later. For now, let the enlightened and the hopeful lead the way.

Now. Back to my personal survival of every possible disaster. It's true. On the way back from Chi town I was passing a semi-truck and its tire blew out. I hit the gas to try to get around it before I lost control (it was a front tire), but not quite in time. There was a lot of debris flying in front, and then behind us, one bit of it being a hub cap (I saw it), which I think is the thing that hit my back right tire and, yes, blew it out. My God. But all was well, no one lost it, Metal Ox changed the tire while I stood guard to push him out of the way if some space cadet veered toward him, and we drove the rest of the way home under 45 MPH on the secondary roads.

Black widow? Short version: they cleaned out his mom's attic. There were dozens and dozens of boxes, mucho grande dust, and the next day my hand was red and swollen. I got sick, stomach cramps and muscle aches and fever. Once well enough I looked it up, and the symptoms (plus the range) spelled black widow. Took the TCM herbs Leigh recommended, used a potato compress, got better. The skin peeled off, the puncture wounds are now visible (swelling subsided), and the skin is very dark. I think it may scar, stay dark permanently. But here's the up-side. I took a bullet for nature. It's kind of romantic, in a swashbuckling, Raiders of the Lost Ark kind of way, isn't it? Now I've been bitten by a black widow spider and lived to tell it?

The down side? Pretty soon I'm going to be nothing but scars.

Oh, and thank you, Leigh, for not questioning mu diagnosis. Given that you are the person (non-relative) whom I've known the longest, and that we once did women's health together, and that you are a doctor yourself, what do I care whether other less smart people looked skeptically at my diagnosis? I don't. And anyhow, much of their lack of faith vanished as they watched the damn thing progress.

Representing Smith Family Recipes & Stories, Margaret Travels to Webster Groves

These wonderful professional photos from the Food Bloggers Potluck were taken by Jonathan Pollack, the spouse of Stef from Cupcake Project. Go check them both out. If you type the word "FOODBLOG" into the little field at the bottom of Jonathan's home page you can see lotso' photos from the potluck!

As is obvious from the looks on the faces of these cooks, there was a lot to oo and ah about!

The cake I want to marry.

Kelly and I listen. I think.

I serve myself my own dish. It was my favorite, other than the cake. That's just how I am.

My own dish, close up. Italian. Bechamel and chicken livers -- what could be better?

What's a Food Blogger's Potluck? Well, maybe it's something like a Teddy Bears Picnic! A lotsa fun! I fell in love with a coconut cake by Natalia. She has a restaurant in downtown St. Louis, and I can see why because this cake is just, I don't know how to say it. I want to marry it. Those were the only words I could think of while I was eating it. Ok, and that I want to fill a bathub with it and get naked a rub it all over my body for hours, while dipping my fingers in and licking and... Natalia has a recipe on her web site! Go get it! It's like a drunken heaven in the tropics, only in wedding lace. It's Argentinian, I think, as is Natalia.


Kelly was there with her mac&cheese, which was of course super-yum. There are she and I, above, apparently listening quite intently to a nice young woman who's name I cannot recall, but my hands are certainly blurring around the wine, now aren't they? Action, anyone?


I took the Italian blini-like dish (as Alanna tells me), which is the thing I am slicing here, and of which you can see a close-up. I think you can read the little card I put by it on the table, which gives a run-down of the ingredients.


There were rather more vegetarians than I expected at a foodie event, so next time I'll take something meatless. Anywho -- lovely night. Fun people. Great to be part of a food bloggers group, even if I am the oldest person there!

A Baseball Icon Disappoints, but the Rainout is Tolerable

Opening day baseball, threatening sky. An RBI by Yadi, helping my fantasy stats, and Albert’s home run. But none of it counts, in a rainout.

Mike Shannon’s restaurant was going to make up for it. I was soooooooo looking forward to sinking my teeth into a perfectly cooked filet. It’s been a while since I went to a steak house, and my steaks are, well, still in development, one might say.

But not so much with the steak. I mean, it was alright. But at $38 or so for an 8 ounce fillet (and that’s just the fillet, too, no sides) it was, for me, not worth the money. I ordered it medium rare, which is was, but a tad on the side of rare, not being really fully warm inside. This is OK, not a deal breaker. But the sear on the flesh really wasn’t all that favorable. I detected virtually no up-front seasoning, for one thing. And for another, well, the thing was kind wobbly. That is to say that the sear was weak, and the meat tended to mush rather than slice when I put my knife to it.

Metal Ox and I shared two sides, the creamed spinach and a baked potato. I’d heard that Shannon’s did a fabulous baked potat, and was rather looking forward to it. It was nicely cooked, the perfect fluffy insides and slightly crispy skin one wants, but “the works” side of things – sour cream, bacon, cheese, chives – were as mediocre as the steak. The bacon really did taste like Bacos! The spinach was pretty good. Maybe the tastiest thing we tried.

And the wine. I ordered a split of cava to start, though the otherwise efficient waitress didn’t know it was a split when I asked her directly. When my steak came I ordered what I thought would be a nice pinot noir (I would have rather had the cabernet, but it was $15 a glass). It was delivered without ceremony, and was as unremarkable and the other bits of the meal.

To be fair, it was a rainout. The place was completely swamped. But you’d think an institution such as this would be able to handle the swampiness. On another point of view issue, though, there is the simple fact that MO and I aren’t really into the whole Loud Bar and Yelling Sports Fans As Ambiance thing. Maybe it was far worse than usual, given the rainout rush, but really we agreed that a quieter atmosphere might have lent a bit more enjoyment to the meal.

Well, and then there was MO’s disappointment that Mike Shannon didn’t stop by the table. He stopped by both the tables flanking us, and we were kind of looking up longingly to signal him that we’d love to shake his hand or whatever, but he just passed us by. I felt sad for MO, ‘cause honestly there’s no bigger baseball fan in the world, nor a more big hearted one. Just that day, Chicago boy that he is, he’d bought a regulation Cardinals home game cap. How many Chicago guys do that? I told him maybe we were looking too anxious, maybe we spooked Shannon; maybe he thought we wanted it too bad, smiling at him over our menus that way, our scorecards and pens in hand.

No dessert. Really, I wouldn't have wanted to spend the money, given what had appeared so far. And anyway I'd made a yummy chocolate ganache, poured over lady fingers, with little dollops of thick organic cream and chilled parfait-style, that was waiting at home. It was, by far, the most delicious thing we ate all day. Something magical happened to the lady fingers buried in that ganache. They turned rather homemade marshmallowy, and when they got into your mouth they melted into a divine crumbly-springy cakieness! And really, the Dove dark chocolate Easter Bunny that MO gave me had a fabulous flavor in that ganache! I highly recommend it. Shannon's? If someone else wanted to pay, I would give the icon one more chance. But on our dollar? I don't think so.

Unions and Preachers and Desperate Rants

I completely sympathize with Black America. I want to go visit Barack Obama’s church in Chicago, and tell Reverend Wright that I do not take his rant against White America personally.

Where I work, the only woman in a room full of engineers and technical writers (I’m a technical writer myself), I deal with bigotry every day. Or almost every day. I don’t claim that my hurdles are as high as they would be if I were a black women. Not even. But I know the times are there, those times, for instance, when my opinion is completely dismissed because of my sex. And there is one black engineer here (I overheard some controversy around hiring him; a quote: "Once you hire one it's hard to get rid of him.") And not a single woman engineer.

Recently we hired a little batch of contract technical writers (all men). Apparently, our company doesn’t feel it’s necessary to give contractors the sexual harassment speech permanent employees get when they come in, so these contractors come waltzing in often thinking -- I swear to God ‘cause I’ve heard some of them say it – that as contractors they’re not liable under the same laws as perm people.

Anyway, so we get this batch of contract writers. Second day, here comes an email from one of them asking me out. Full of “compliments.” I forward it on to my boss, then to the next boss. I still don’t know if anyone actually talked to him, but he stopped it. Subsequently though he goes right ahead and offhandedly dismisses 85% of what I say. Just today I tried to save him so grief with the boss by attempting to show him how to do something correctly, but no dice. And this is not unusual. Generally, those men who have worked with me for a while (like more than a year) behave as if I might accidentally know something.

Aviation is a conservative field. I’m surrounded by rapid anti-tax, anti-feminist, pro-war, pick-up truck driving good ole boys with engineering degrees. Sure, there’s an occasional exception. And some that are quite nice in spite of their wishes for extinction upon everyone unlike themselves. But I have to tell you that this is a hard time to work in such an environment, and I am working hard to keep the heart above water, here. Especially since the company itself is floundering under poor management, there is no union here at all (to work as an engineer at Boeing one has to join the engineers’ union), everyone complains about how shitty the company treats them but God forbid anyone says the word “union” – you might as well say, “Call Karl Marx!” But they bitch constantly about poor management, poor treatment by management (they’re right – our upper management treats even us highly skilled, highly educated workers like share croppers); we’ve lost nearly all our tribal corporate knowledge due to defection of 90% of the high-level engineering and planning staff. It just goes on and on.

And yes, these are people who think Hillary Clinton is a socialist. For the love of God. She is about as deep into Washington lobbyist hell as it’s possible to get. No one gets bigger donations from the medical industry!

I don’t know. I’m feeling depresses. My beloved fiancé is now expressing severe hesitation about moving to my beloved city, and the thought of leaving my new-found home neighborhood make me want to curl up in a ball and expire. Add to that the first woman presidential candidate in history playing a kind of racial hardball that wouldn’t have given Jackie Robinson even a spot on the bench, and the daily grind of general and political negativity and intolerance I am almost literally forced to live with at work (they’re still holding us here under mandatory overtime), and, well, I don’t know. I have a constant feeling of sadness these days, little motivation to move. Some of this is due to the lack of free time I have – that mandatory overtime. I’m tired. There’s not that much to life when all you do is work and go home and sleep.

Hillary, please stop it. Please. It’s not that important, you being President. Can’t you just let something good happen here? Can’t you just let the next generation have some hope, for fuck’s sake? I mean, have a campaign, but please, get on the wave of the new paradigm. Let’s you and I step out of the way and let our kids have it. Or let’s have you and Barack join up and break down all the boundaries – but don’t take this moment away from out kids. This is the very moment at which we either shift to something new, or fall back in exhausted disgust. Which will it be, girls and boys?

Anyone Can Paint

And here's proof.

You Never Can Tell!

My Hand on Metal Ox's Magnificant Shoulder

Yes. This is my new engagement ring. Isn’t it pretty? Yes it is. And yes, Mr. Metal Ox is the lucky guy. The one I have loced all along. He, the perennial bachelor, has transformed and now just doesn't know what he was doing all those years, being scared of intimacy and commitment. Love always wins! Sooner or later. Naturally, there is a story to tell, and one day I will tell it.
Until then, let the picture speak.

Oh, and yes, the diamond did come with a statement claiming that it's conflict-free, through the Kimberly Process Certification Scheme.

In Memorium

My dear Papaw passed away to another life, today at 5:05 PM. He died peacefully at home with his loved ones around him. He was 98,
and the most wonderful of men.

I love you, Papaw. Say Hi to Mamaw for me, K?