WWGD?

Well, we know what he did the last time orthodoxy stood in the way of rational thought -- he defended his work! And then he famously lost his case and had to publicly recant. BUT, perhaps even more famously, he then grumbled aloud the precious words, "Eppur si muove" -- Still, it moves! -- in a sort of monumental finger crossing that has become legend.

So, what would Gallileo Gallilei do were he alive today, faced with the spectacle of orthodoxy attempting, yet again, to crush reason? I suspect he would be amongst the loudest of "deniers" (a term which should be reserved, forever, for deniers of the Holocaust -- lest we forget!) and, when refused publication in "peer reviewed journals," he would blog!

And his admirers would immortalize him in photoshop.

And create snarky nerd coffee cups in his honor!


And hawk them shamelessly in online stores!

"Sign, sign, everywhere a sign . . ."

When we first moved to the clear cut, there weren't any road names in Pulpwood County, just state route numbers -- 633, 631, 665, etc. -- boring as all shit, hard to remember, and confusing. Not only did the same numbers sometimes hop, dog-leg, and generally meander about the countryside, but they were reused for completely different, unconnected roads in practically every other county in the Commonwealth, creating . . . confusion!

Enter E-911.

Well, enter the concept, anyway. We were promised and taxed for E-911 service from the time we arrived, 11 years ago, but the road names and house numbers? Finally showed up maybe a year and a half ago. And, to add insult, an awful lot of the road names, like their numeric predecessors, are, once again, the same as the names of completely unrelated roads in neighboring counties. (It's as if the contractor Pulpwood hired for the job had done all the surrounding counties as well, and used the same bucket o' names wherever they went . . . hey!)

I said "a lot," and indeed, a lot are repeaters, but not all, because some people* got to write in names for their roads. Thus we have "One Horse," which makes me smile, "Winfrey Inez," which still makes me scratch my wooden head in wonderment, and . . .


. . . which makes my inner pre-adolescent giggle every time I see it. (That's at least 14 times a week. Don't ask.)

There's one, though, that, while I've never known the real reason behind it, has taken on a whole new meaning since Jan. 20, 2009:



*(Nobody asked us, so ours is one of the plain vanilla, dime-a-dozen, cookie cutter variety. Except there's a church down the road that shares the name, and that church has been there for way longer than the sign! Maybe folks in these parts are just prone to redundancy.)

Stabathon -- Day 2 [upated]

"Stab everyone you meet!"

That was my advice to Kid (a.k.a. Homeschool Girl - these things evolve) when I dropped her off yesterday. It worked out pretty well -- no one she met walked away unscathed; a few were positively slaughtered -- so I said the same thing again this morning. I'm superstitious like that.

Yesterday was foil, today is epee. Oh, yeah -- she's at a fencing tournament. Did I forget to mention that?

Update: Kid has now earned several awards for excellence in stabbing -- go Kid! Makes her mama proud. *beams*

"We're gonna eat that?" [updated]

That was H's reaction -- took the words right offa my blog! My response? It depends, really . . .


. . . on whether it looks anywhere near this horrible on the inside!

It's supposed to be a Buttercup squash -- renowned for its 'creamy' flesh, perfect for custards! Or something like that. Or it might just be full of bugs. We'll know pretty soon.

I'm really not worried -- it has backup.


Update:
Forging ahead, I washed, quartered, and seeded the . . . thing, and whaddaya know -- no bugs! So, into the pressure cooker it went, where the pieces took on a somewhat disturbing resemblance to a nest of gaping baby birds -- or gremlins?

At this point, they still had quite a bit of attitude . . .

. . . until they spotted the lid.

15 minutes later: OMG! The seed packet wasn't lying:


In fact, it was perfect for custard -- squash rice pudding, to be precise -- we'll definitely be growing these again next year!

Meet the New Box

In case you missed the drama, we recently had several instances of violent crime in the neighborhood:

Oh, the Humanity! (These are down the road a piece.)

That was the condition of those boxes as of yesterday, I'll have you know -- slackers!

Our box, while not knocked down, was reduced to a two dimensional state -- not acceptable for delivery according to USPS standards. (I still maintain Post could have slipped a few letters in between the layers of metal -- if she'd wanted to. Just sayin'.) These monstrous crimes were almost certainly Hallowe'en 'tricks,' but we were reluctant to provide a fresh target for the exuberant yutes, so we left it flat for a few days. After a while, I figured the mail was probably piling up, so I helpfully smooshed the box back into 'shape':

Grr Argh!

Post responded -- most agreeably, really, good old Post -- by bundling our accumulated mail together with rubber bands and placing the resulting parcel in the gaping maw of Zombie Box. Heck, she's probably so used to seeing Ol' Alvin's Zombie Livestock wandering about the 'hood, a Zombie Mailbox was hardly anything to get excited about. Besides, it showed that at least we were trying (God loves a trier; so does Post, it seems) -- more than can be said for those slackbutt cul-de-sac people!

Anyhow, the very next nice day on which I was actually at home, I rewarded Post's kindness by installing the biggest mailbox I could procure:

Big box = fewer trips down our 0.3 mile driveway = Happy Post!

What's that you say? "Same as the old box?" Why, so it is!

[We're actually not at liberty to erect anything more substantial out there - it's across the road from our place, in the public right-of-way. Such is life.]

It's 4:30 a.m.

For some reason, I keep waking up at this hour. Last night, I was lying with the window open -- keeps the a/c from kicking in when I have a hot flash, heh -- listening to things howling in the woods . . . listening, analyzing, cataloguing . . . . Way off in the background was chorus of high-pitched yipping -- definitely coyotes, probably a pack cruising along the creek bottom. Somewhere in the middle distance, a couple of dogs were bravely defending their homesteads from the coyotes -- from the safety of their porches, no doubt. But in the foreground, there was something incredibly loud, repetitious, and wrong.

So, there I lay, at 4:30, combing through my sound archives. Fox? Nah. Coyote? No. Dog? Nope. Barred Owl? Weeeeeell, kind of similar, but an octave or two too high . . . wait a minute . . . oh, riiiiiight.

I'd almost forgotten. When Himself was next door the other day, putting the finishing touches on the pen he built for our neighbor's Zombie Livestock, he noticed that Ol' Alvin had bought himself four -- yes, four -- brand spanking new roosters, all of which were now running loose in a pen made to hold cattle. Sure enough, when he was there again two days ago, he noticed that one had already gone missing. I'm pretty sure I know where it was yesterday -- at fucking 4:30 in the morning.

If Mr. Rooster is out there now, he's drowning. The only thing I can hear at the moment is the steady drone of this:

(No, I don't know why it's blurry, but it's 4:30 -- Everything's blurry at 4:30!)
Okay, that and Himself snoring. For a minute, I thought somebody had a truck stuck out on the road somewhere. Maybe with a wheel in the ditch or something? Y'know, what with all this rain. "brrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmrrrr . . . rrrrmmmmmbrrrrrrrrrr . . . brmbrmbrrrrrrrrrrr . . ."

Oh, yeah. I'm gonna be real perky in the morning.

The Dog Days of Winter

Kid was buckling on her sword, getting ready to set off into the woods on one of her elfing expeditions, and I was giving her my usual "Keep clear of humans" admonition when I abruptly reversed course: "On second thought, you'd better wear something orange -- make sure you can be seen." The woods are not safe for elves at this time of year. It's Duck Wabbit Deer season! Oh, Joy. She dutifully accessorized her elf look with a retina-searing orange cap.

We keep a few of these* around:

Anyhow, that got me wondering about the various opening dates. I knew bow season had started, because our horse's blacksmith has permission to cull our herd, though he hasn't availed himself yet (he has permission for gun season, as well -- I have total respect for hunters who actually hunt). So I was wondering about the gun seasons -- we've heard a few shots already. They sounded awfully loud, though, real ka-booms, so I figured they had to be black powder. But of course I had to look it up -- raised by librarians and all that.

The Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries' website is quite the font of information. I was expecting just a simple calendar for the whole state, a straightforward timeline starting with "bow" and running through "helicopter-mounted Gatling guns." Dear me, No! No, no. It's a labyrinth, a vast, bureaucratic wet dream of regulatory ingenuity -- take a look.

Here's their helpful graphic:


And yet, somehow, the hunters know. They know, and they respond in droves, right on time, year in and year out.

The starting date I was most anxious to learn was the one for dog hunting. That's the delightful period between November and January when, without our permission, every hound in Pulpwood County is let slip to run deer through our hundred acres, into the waiting arms (heh) of their lazy assholes owners out by the road -- 'hunters' who spend their days leaning on their pickup trucks and their evenings driving them, trundling along the back roads at 2 mph with the windows rolled down, waving radio receivers at the ether, and yodeling (ostensibly to summon wayward dogs?). The dogs are scrawny, brown-and-white things with radio collars on their necks and huge numbers spray-painted on their sides. They do succeed -- for weeks, the county echoes with gunfire -- but a lot of dogs also get lost. And show up here with empty bellies and dead batteries.

All this drives my dogs and livestock nuts. It also makes our home feel like a fishbowl. Camo-and-orange clad men and boys camp out near our driveway entrance and all along the road, peering across our property with scopes and binoculars. All day. It's all so charming and perfectly legal -- in its season.

Anyhow, as far as I was able to divine from the VDGIF site, the fun starts Saturday. < groan >

. . . But . . .

I also learned of a totally different season, one of which I was hitherto, completely unaware:

Urban Archery!


Is it any wonder they're only allowed to shoot "antlerless deer"?

[*When we got the caps, they looked as though they had been made for people with large, bony prominences on their foreheads -- RINO Hats! I quickly shoved them under the sewsheen and lowered their profiles.]

We're screwed.

Help us Cucci-wan -- you're our only hope!

It wasn't a total waste . . .

It looks as though the rally had little or no effect on the fate of the Socialized Medicine Bill. Pelosi is supposed to call for a vote today -- I'm afraid to look.

. . .

Okay, I looked -- it's set for later on this evening. Ugh.

In a purely personal, immediate, my little life, not the great scheme of things way, though, Thursday did not entirely suck.

I had to put it in that perspective yesterday when my best bud, V, called. She was all excited for me, because I had been to D.C. all by my ownself. She knows what a xenophobe I am, and thus what a Big Adventure this was. I'm not incapacitated, mind you. I've wandered around both Paris and London more or less alone (with a tiny tot in tow each time -- first the one, then the other), whilst Himself was busy saving the world from plague in Big Pharma meetings all day. I can be brave when I must.

Anyhow, V wanted news of the rally. I was still fixated on Fort Hood, but she wasn't having any of that -- it was news she wanted, and news she would have -- so I rattled the old brain box and sure enough, there were some moments worth recalling.

First of all, barely an hour into the day, there was my introduction to the parking lot arrangement at the train station in C'ville, which made me literally laugh out loud. It's a simple, graveled lot divided down the center by a median strip. As I entered, I followed the only sign -- one side of the lot is for visitors, the other for passengers who wish to leave their cars. Fine. At the bottom of the sign, however, is a warning -- "Persons leaving their cars must pay or risk being towed." Alrighty then! But where to pay? I could see none of the usual means -- no gates, no booths, no ticket dispensers -- just an open lot. I parked my car and, having decided that payment must be made indoors, I headed toward the building. Half way there, I noticed a man doing a very odd thing. He was poking at what looked like a miniature bank of post office boxes, using . . . a key on a string? What on earth? A few more steps, and I could see lettering, a title -- "Honor Box." Honor Box? When I got right up to it, I saw what is indeed a battery of tiny boxes, each with a number and a slot. I read the smaller text: "For use by Amtrak passengers only. For each day that you intend to leave your car, please deposit five dollars in the slot with the same number as the space where your car is parked. Any car found parked in a space for which payment has not been made will be towed at owner's expense." Oh! There was a number? I had to scurry back to my car and examine the curb -- sure enough, I was number three. Naturally, I didn't have a five on me, so I still had to run in and back out again. But when I did, I finally found out what the "key" is for. There was a gentleman ahead of me at the box, feeding one of the other slots. He wasn't in my way, so I marched up, folded my five, and confidently stuffed it into slot number three. Mostly. A little corner of it stuck out. I started to prod it into place, but at that moment, the aforementioned gentleman reached up with the specially made, doohickie-on-a-string thing and with the casual air of a seasoned user of the system, popped it into the slot, forcing my fiver neatly into its cell, safe from the fingernails of would-be Honor Box pickers -- so there! What will they think of next? Only in C'ville, my dears, only in C'ville.

The train trip was a bit surreal. I'm quite used to driving between C'ville and D.C.; I know full well that the railroad tracks parallel my preferred route, but until Thursday, I'd never taken that train -- all the scenery was facing the wrong way! I was looking out on the backsides of all the houses, churches, shops, yards, and farm land that I've been used to seeing from the front since my college days. And I must say, if I lived along a rail line, I would take greater care of the back end of my property than those folks do -- what slobs people are where they think no one can see! There are exceptions. One block in the town of Orange has a spiffy row of brick and glass storefronts -- little shops and lawyers offices -- all facing the tracks. Very pretty. And Culpeper has some excellent back gardens, very tasteful and well kept -- train's eye view, Culpeper, you're doin' it right!

The rails may be level, but the ride was an emotional roller coaster. I've spent so much of my life in the Virginia Piedmont, it's hard to pass through it -- passively like that, with the luxury of allowing my mind to wander out into the scenery -- without an almost overwhelming flood of memories. The landscape is filled with ghosts.

One thing it is not filled with, however, is microwaves -- the cell coverage just plain sucks! I was too sleepy and headache-y to read, and no cell meant no internet, so I contented myself with taking notes. No, I will not share.

After Culpeper, the NoVa suburban vibe steadily increases. Steadily and rapidly. Pretty soon we had pulled into sight of the Masonic Temple -- Alexandria -- nearly there. Then, as we left Alexandria station, the loveliest thing happened -- someone up front used some sort of personal care product -- lotion? hand sanitizer? -- no idea what. Ordinarily I would be offended at having to share in the aroma of some stranger's toiletries, but for a few moments, the car held the most refreshingly crisp, clean lavender scent -- my head actually cleared! Then we were in Union Station.


Time for action, sort of.

The main point of my attending was to swell the ranks, and, especially considering that the rally was held on a weekday and called on three days' notice, the crowd was certainly impressive -- to itself and to the organizers at least, if not to the House Democrats.


Some estimates run as high as 25,000 -- not the MSM ones, of course. The speakers, those whom I could hear, were mostly familiar figures with familiar messages. There were one or two there of whom I am quite fond -- Mark Levin is a great favorite at our house -- but I was pretty far back in the crowd, so I couldn't see anyone, and honestly, could barely hear. I was tweeting away for Himself, though, since he had to stay home to find a cure for rabies run a monstrous analysis on some massive data set. I did my best to make it seem exciting.

In fact, the most exciting part of the day happened while I was standing in a line. After the rally, with the encouragement of the organizers, a large number of the crowd trekked over to the House office buildings. Volunteers positioned at the exits from the Capitol grounds handed out directories of the representatives' offices -- thanks, y'all! -- so we'd know which buildings to mob angrily in our angry, moblike way. When I arrived at the building where One Term Tom has his office, I found the line to the front entrance wrapped around the block. The line for the side entrance was shorter, so I joined it, but neither appeared to be moving. After a while, just as I'd begun to glance nervously at the time, a representative from New York happened by. The women in front of me -- who all wore matching t-shirts with iron-on graphics -- a picture of the Capitol and the words "Don't make Mom come up there!" -- recognized him and started asking a few polite questions. I'll have to paraphrase, since I wasn't recording (I wish!), but the exchange went something like this:

1st Mom: Are you planning to vote for this health care bill?
Rep: Oh, yes.
1st Mom: But it's going to hurt small businesses!
Rep: No, no -- it's going to help small businesses.
1st Mom: Wait! I'm a CPA. I've read the bill.
Rep: The bill has changed!
2nd Mom: Changed? How, When?
Rep: Monday. It was changed Monday, and now it's going to help small business! Look, most of your concerns, most of the concerns I'm hearing, are about an old version of the bill. It's been changed -- it's changing all the time.
Me: How can you vote on a moving target?
Rep: < ignore the crazy lady, ignore the crazy lady >
3rd Mom: When did it change last?
Rep: Monday.
Me: How do you know it hasn't changed since then?
Rep: It's my job to keep track of these things!
1st Mom: Fine, so how is it going to help small business?
Rep: It's going to make what they have to buy much less expensive!
3rd Mom: How do you pay for that? If the total cost of the bill is the same, where does the money come from?
Rep: From all of us!
All of Us: grrrrrrrrr!
Rep: There are 300 million of us . . .
All of Us: GRRRRRRRRR!
Rep: . . . and when this bill is passed, it will stimulate the economy and put people back to work, so we'll all have more money!
All of Us: ???
Rep: Now look, if you're getting your news from, say, Rush Limbaugh or Fox News, you're getting false information -- they're lying about the bill every day.
2nd Mom: You're calling Rush Limbaugh a liar? What lies has he told? Specifically, what lies?
Rep: It would be impossible to count! It would be easier to count the times he hasn't lied!
2nd Mom: But he's citing the numbers . . .
Rep: His numbers are false!
Me: But he's getting his numbers from the Cato Institute and the Heritage Foundation. Are you calling them liars?
Rep: < ignore the crazy lady, ignore the crazy lady >
Me: Seriously [pulling out cell phone and pointing it at him], can I get you on record as saying that the Cato Institute and the Heritage Foundation have lied?
Rep: I have to go now. Nice meeting you all! [beats hasty retreat]
Me(quietly): Dick!

I did eventually make it through the door, through security (Thank God, I left my pocket knife at home!), through the opulent rabbit warren that is the Longworth Building, and up to Perriello's 5th floor office. There I found a crowd of about 20 to 25 people gathered outside his door, scribbling on loose leaf pages from his guest book. I checked the time, rechecked my train ticket, and opted for triage. After leaving a pithy note on a guest page -- to the effect that I'd prefer he consider HR 3400 before voting on HR 3962 (fat lot of good that did!) -- I skedaddled.

The walk back to Union Station was lovely. The marble buildings were practically glowing in an early evening light that came streaming in under clouds -- my favorite light.

On my way, I had to cross the Capitol Grounds. Unfortunately, I couldn't get data to transfer when I was that close to the building -- Security? Interference? Annoying! – so, no twitter. I took a few snaps anyway.

This one's for you, H:


And another for Himself - segway tour!





As I approached the station, there was a spattering of rain, but then -- lo and behold, right on cue -- there was a rainbow with one end right over the building. The Blackberry had conked out by then, but it was an awesome rainbow -- the other end was double, with supernumerary bands! < geekgasm! > -- so I had to resort to attempting a still with my pocket camcorder.


What you see in the LCD is not what you get, but if you tilt your head just so and kind of rock back and forth, slowly . . . you probably still won't see it. Heh.

Anyway, despite wasting time on that, I made it to my train in good order.


And a little while later . . .


Ahhhhh, Alexandria again -- back in Ol' Virginny and safely on my way home.

One Hell of a Day

It began well.

In Gothic novels, you always know when the plot is about to go south -- the sky turns black, wolves howl, a chill wind shrieks through the trees and rattles the window panes -- you get a chance to brace yourself. In real life, when really horrible things are about to happen, up to that point, it's usually the best day of your life. Thursday was one of those days.

The people gathered at the Soldier Readiness Center at Fort Hood, Texas, were there to celebrate a college graduation. At the same time, thousands more were gathered in Washington, D.C., to celebrate our Constitutional right to petition our representatives -- we were a jubilant crowd despite the seriousness of our petition. But as the D.C. crowd dispersed, still exulting, the rest of the country was focused on Fort Hood. The graduation party had been turned into a national nightmare, a vicious attack, perpetrated by a disgusting coward who used his Muslim "faith" as an excuse for unspeakable evil against innocents -- a teenage girl shot in the back, a pregnant woman murdered in the same way. As of this writing, there are 13 dead. 30 are wounded.

My prayers are with the families. My anger is all over the place.

In a way, I'm glad the jihadi bastard lived long enough to know he was taken down by a woman. I'd be happier still if I thought he was likely to recover sufficiently to stand -- first for a Court Martial and then for a firing squad. Unfortunately, because such thoroughgoing evil is so incomprehensible a thing to rational people -- witness how paralyzed even the military authorities were when faced with what now seems abundant evidence of his motives -- he will most likely be declared non compus and allowed to live. In the meantime, the mainstream press have put on an appalling display of political correctness, bias, and out-and-out stupidity. Fuck. Them. All.

Fortunately, we have other ways of keeping informed, but like me, most of the people I was with that day were almost certainly oblivious. I hate to imagine the shock felt by my fellow crowd members when they finally heard -- many were veterans or from military families, quite a few were there from Texas. I was only able to get information in tiny fragments. My cell phone wouldn't work properly in the House office building (tried to return a missed call and could not dial out) -- and even around the Capitol grounds, phone data reception was agonizingly slow and spotty. My phone was pegging out on me from the effort, too, so before I could see more than the first few alarming posts from Twitter, I had to turn it off and wait till I could plug it in on the train. Even then, cell reception being what it is, I really didn't get the whole story until I got back to C'ville, got into my car, and flipped on the radio.

I wish I could believe that Thursday's events -- both the evil and the good -- were powerful enough to change the hearts and minds of those in power. I wish.

My brain hurts.

The backlog of unwritten posts is getting overwhelming. Must either download or delete, quick -- hard drive failure is imminent! (However much Himself might enjoy the process of reformatting my brain - heh.)

I should say something compelling about today's election . . . [updated] [and re-updated - for posterity]

But it's almost anti-climactic . . . so far:

I passed a couple of polling places on the way to and from the Kid's school -- looked like a steady trickle of traffic and roughly even representation of the two parties in the regiments of yard signs out front. Local radio was calling it "very light" -- 6% turnout in C'ville and 12% in South Westchester Albemarle County? Something like that.

Here in Pulpwood County? Well . . .

Himself volunteered for the early sign posting and poll watching shift. The other team didn't show up -- no opposition signs! He did have one tidbit of news:

Me: So how was it? Busy?
H: Quiet. Really quiet.
Me: Nobody?
H: There was one guy there -- he couldn't remember his address!
Me: His address? So did you challenge his vote?
H: Nah, he eventually figured it out.

Figured. It. Out. We're gonna win this time. We fucking well better win this time!

GG did her bit for the cause* -- I told her she had to cancel out that guy so both H's and my votes would count!

*Her first time using the touch screens (she voted absentee from school) -- said it was a little confusing, because she kept expecting to have to decide whether to have her Republicans on wheat, white, or rye, plain, grilled, or toasted -- no "add cheese" button, either, oddly enough.

Update: Heard on the way back from picking up Kid that as of 1:00 p.m., the C'ville and Albemarle turnouts were more like 18 and 25% of registration respectively . . . as reported at 3:00 p.m. anyway. Because with touch screen technology -- all electronic and computerized and everything -- they can get up-to-the-minute figures! I hope we know who won before bedtime, or at least before Thanksgiving.

Update: Many words come to mind -- "blowout," "rout," "trouncing" -- I'm still gloating. The best part, of course, is getting a strict constructionist into the AG's office -- having Ken Cuccinelli there will be like a having a human firewall for our constitutional rights!

It's hardly news at this stage, but for the record (because I'm positive my grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be reading this someday -- har!), here are my on-the-spot, as-it-happened tweets from election night:

Finally off to vote -- taking it down to the wire. Obama did such a *stellar* job for Deeds, it’s the only way to make it exciting!
about 21 hours ago from UberTwitter

And now we observe until the polls close -- then we QC the count - ooooooo! http://mypict.me/lk9eu
about 21 hours ago from UberTwitter

I’s offishul! http://mypict.me/lk9lh
about 21 hours ago from UberTwitter

Pretty brisk here, for Pulpwood County -- shift change at the prison or something. No iffy types so far -- lots of neighbors!
about 21 hours ago from UberTwitter

The registrar ladies are all from the local school system -- teachers and a school librarian - they know *everybody* !
about 20 hours ago from UberTwitter

RT vafelicity: Registrar ladies are all from the local sch. Syst. – teachers and school librarian - they know *everybody*!||‘Cept us. LOL
about 20 hours ago from UberTwitter

Touch screen machines are tallied, tapes printed, USB sealed in an envelope -- comparing to registrar’s sign in . . . OMG -- discrepancy of 1 !
about 20 hours ago from UberTwitter

Looks like 60% across the board. Yay us!!!! http://bit.ly/32imUP
about 19 hours ago from Seesmic

What’s happenin’ in Joisey?
about 19 hours ago from Seesmic

Dandelion Burdock soda is growing on me -- kid thinks it tastes like cough syrup. Heh.
about 19 hours ago from Seesmic

Quoth Virginia, “Purple? PURPLE???”
about 18 hours ago from Seesmic

Our precinct had 535 votes -- roughly half of last year’s tally!
about 18 hours ago from Seesmic

Did you feel that, WaPo? That was Virginia’s boot up your ass!
about 18 hours ago from Seesmic

I adore Cuccinelli -- the man *knows* Constitutional law. It’s meat and drink to him!
about 18 hours ago from Seesmic

Not that anyone can hear me, but Everyone should be listening to Cap’n Ed! http://bit.ly/24Doho
about 18 hours ago from Seesmic

NJ!!!! My Bergen County Patriot Ancestors all just got puppies in Heaven. :)
about 17 hours ago from Seesmic

Bruce . . . isn't! [updated]

We've gotten very used to thinking of our Cockatiel as male, so his her decision to finally establish his her sexual identity has come as a bit of a shock -- perhaps as much to him her as to the rest of us. The outing is unmistakable, though -- nothing says "hen" quite like the little come-hither dance he she has been performing for the last few weeks. Sigh.

Now before anyone launches into a dissertation on Cockatiel morphology and sexual dimorphism in general, here is something you need to know:




Yup. Cinnamon Pearl Pied, as in "Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah -- you can't sex me!" Not by feathering, anyway, and we're frankly too cheap to bother with the DNA test. We went with behavior . . . yeah . . . and a lot of wishful thinking. (Hey, I was a Philosophy major, okay? I had very good reasons for wanting a "Bruce"!)

So we always knew this day might come -- the standard line was "If he lays an egg, we'll change his name to Sheila!" And there were warning signs -- his her complete lack of mimicry should have tipped me off . . . if I hadn't been so determined. But it's still taking time to sink in.

And now we come to the really tricky bit, because no one wants to call him her "Sheila" -- it won't do!

Update: I meant to work this in somewhere -- had the earworm all day, but I plumb forgot:



(See what I mean? Still in denial!)

Maybe it's time? We'll see . . .

Every now and then, I get the foolish notion that I should be blogging. If you're here for the first time -- which is to say, if you are not my parent, spouse, or offspring -- welcome, and don't worry: I will not be offended when you realize why it's always been a foolish notion!

The blog below was largely written as a series of "letters from home" for my College Girl -- hence the ofttimes deliberate homeliness. But as of last May, she is officially "Graduate Girl," aka "GG" -- "Welcome home, Kid! Goodbye, blog."

This go 'round, it's partly because Sheri (who tolerates my stupid comments at her places) has been kindly [or politely? either way :)] noodging me to go for it, but also very much the result of a pressing sense of things not said which want to be said, but which have no more appropriate venue for their saying . . .

Post Mortem

Our neighborhood is neither as safe nor as savory as we once believed!

Oh, who are we kidding? This is the third time this has happened in eleven years -- definitely the most dramatic, though.*

Still, in our calculus, we have to add this to last week's petty theft of our neighbor's hay tarp and tractor fuel cans -- it's a veritable crime spree -- a spree, I tell you!

Now the question is, do we simply replace it with an identical box, or make . . . improvements -- Reinforcements? Bumpers? Booby traps? Or just let it be and think of it as the little fuse that separates us from local spikes of adolescent male energy . . . hmmmm.

*Honestly, it looks as though they'd gotten out of the car to give it an especially sound flogging -- backed up and gave it a second helping at the very least.