LifePundit

A Whiner without a Cause

I didn't even have to go to the DMV. Even found a parking place with money left on the meter (which was good because I was so excited about finding a parking place that I forgot to put money in the meter to begin with).

Had to stand in two lines at the county administration building. Once in the Line for Dummies Who Can't Find Their Tax Notice, which was uneventful in spite of the enormous problems of those in front of me (including the inability to speak English), and then in the Line for People Who Waited Till the Last Moment. The second line was very fast. And they gave me everything I needed so I didn't even have to go to the Highway Department.

And now the horses are moving around and looking like things may be moving along in their guts (they were lying down when I left this morning). Ah me.

God does look after fools.

Now, back to making/finishing my valances. Will have pictures. 2008 will not find me with an un-done sewing project.

Why Did I Procrastinate?

The horses broke into the hay garage last night and ate several belly-fulls of hay. This could lead to a vet bill later in the day, or worse. If you and I overeat, we just hurt and regret for a while. If a horse overeats, their long digestive tract can get impacted. This is the number one cause of death in horses -- it's called "colic."

They literally pushed their way into the hay garage. Bent the chain to the point that one of the chain links opened enough to let the clasp slip through. Popped the twine that was tied around the gates as a double precaution.

Pigs. Strong pigs. Two-horsepower forces of destruction. So now I'm on a colic watch.

Except I'm not. I've got to go to the county tax office and pay taxes on my truck, then go to the DMV and get a new license tag sticker.

Why did I procrastinate? New Year's eve at the tax office and the DMV. Somebody slap me. Though I guess going is punishment enough.

Lily will keep the colic watch while I am gone. So far the horses are napping in the sun. If they start rolling or biting at their sides, she'll call me and I'll have to call the vet. They drank water. That's good. They get bran mash tonight, or maybe tomorrow.

While I'm out I may get a high-tech bicycle lock for the hay gate.

Cabin Fever

My father called with nothing much to say, other than his next goal is to live until 2008. I think he's a little let-down after Christmas, though now he can concentrate on his blueberry bushes.

Lily's cold is no better or worse, so she's going to a riding lesson this afternoon. We both need to get out. We've got cabin fever. (And one of us is a little hard to get along with, though I'm not going to name names since it might be my own.)

I wonder if all the crowds at the malls and the stores are not really people who need things, but people who need a place to go and a thing to do. Yes, there are bargains to be had. Or so I hear. But I don't really need anything, though if I saw it, I'd need it. So I'm not going near a store.

Time is short. Some days, like the few days between Christmas and New Year's, seem like so much time (I was going to make valances, scrapbook several boxes of photos, catch up on some work and write a novel) when viewed from a distance. But each day flies by. I haven't touched the valances, but I have spread out some photos and even tossed some.

How did it get to be Friday? I need to get going here or I'll be all depressed at New Year's that the photos are still spread out and the fabric is still on the bolt. But before that, I have a horse to haul.

To use one of my father's favorite quotes, "Let's go do something. Even if it's wrong."

A few years ago our town got snowed in. It easily happens. We're in S.C. and have no salt or snow plows. When it snows, you stay where you are until it melts.

This was an unusual snow in that it stayed for a few days. At first it was pretty, and as long as the electricity stayed on, it was kind of nice. Then we all got cabin fever. My father called me. "Where do you want to go?" he said. Paul and I lived in a house on the outskirts of town, my parents lived in town.

"I'd like to go check on my horse," I said. I had a horse at a boarding barn and hadn't seen him for days. The barn phone wasn't working, either.

"I'll come get you then," he said. "We'll go see your horse."

"But the streets aren't drive-able," I said. "Especially in the country."

"That's okay," he said. "If we get stuck, at least we'll have something to do."

Potato Guns

I wrote about potato guns in my after-Christmas post and got some questions. Potato guns are cheap, great fun, and I don't think could possibly hurt anyone.

A potato gun is entirely different from a potato cannon, pictured here, which fires a whole potato. There are several  variations and instructions on how to build them all over the Internet. This is not what my husband and child were firing at each other.

Here's a picture of a potato gun, which costs about $2 and gives you 300 shots from one potato.
Don't you love the graphics, which look like they're from the 1950s? This is not an ad. I'm just trying to be sure the world is well-armed with potato guns in case we find ourselves at war with the folks armed with potato cannons. They may be able to hit harder and possibly injure us, but we can get 300 shots to their one. You can get potato guns such as these through Amazon and World Wide Department Store.

It's Safe to Come Out Now

It's safe to come out now. Christmas is over. (Why do cats always hide under the tree? This is Izzie, the indoor cat. Pretend you can't see her, just in the spirit of the season.)

I loved every minute and hope you did, too. So much love. So much food. So much music. So much chocolate. God is good. (Theologically speaking, God would still be good even if he hadn't created chocolate, but the fact that he did tells us a lot about him.)

Here's Paul (my husband) with two treasures from his stocking. A pocket knife, which should go a long way toward helping him to become a Good Old Boy (he's a Yankee). And a potato, which I reminded him should be worn in the front of his pants, not the back.

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Actually, the potato is a different kind of addition to his manly arsenal. It's for the potato guns that Santa brought to each of them. Here they are in action. The smoke in the background is the smoking turkey, which Paul did and it was delicious. Plus we all get to smell like pioneers for a few days.

Santa (Lily) even picked out something special for Parker, the dog. He got a too realistic looking stuffed turkey and frolicked with it in the yard for hours, tail exuberantly wagging.

I even got chocolate in my stocking. Somebody really does love me.

My mother-in-law behaved, and I was full enough of goodwill to pretend I didn't hear everything she said or otherwise this post would be a rant. Easily triggered these days. Lily has a bad cold, so she could disappear at will and say she was resting. Paul had the turkey to tend to. And I had everything else, so I could be as busy as I needed to be. My father-in-law stayed in the kitchen with me and we had a nice visit.

I excused myself after dessert and went to see my mother, who is in the late stages of Alzheimer's. I found her dressed in a silky shirt and in a medical chair in the dayroom with the other residents. She looked good and was awake. "I'm Anne, your daughter," I said as I kissed her. She kissed me back. I could tell I may as well have announced that I was a seagull in from the coast.

"My daughter and son were already here," she said. I'm her only daughter. Somebody is showing up and I'm getting credit, for which I'm always grateful.

"I'm glad you had visitors. Here's a little Christmas something for you," I said, giving her a small but gaudily wrapped gift. My personal theory is that older eyes are weak and that bright colors are stimulating. (Just look at how some of them dress, if you don't believe me.)

"That's beautiful," she said, glowing. "I like all presents."

We literally talked nonsense, but she knew that someone who loved her was there and she was glad for the company. I rubbed her arm for a while in silence. In all likelihood, this is her last Christmas. I felt like it should feel important, moving, filled with meaning and symbols. Maybe it was. My mother was smiling for me, even if she didn't know who I was. I left and listened to beautiful music all the long drive home.

Lily and Paul were waiting for me. They knew who I was, and they were smiling anyway.

Christmas is wonderful. More wonderful still is when you are back home where you belong, with nothing left to do but love and be loved.

Christmas Tradition

I should have seen it coming. It's a Christmas tradition. My father just called (it's 3:00 p.m. my time) to ask me to go Christmas shopping for him to get something for my mother.

Now, this is his 95th Christmas. Surely he could see it coming. And his driver came today and took him places. Surely they could have picked up something in their 80-mile trip. Mama is 45 minutes from here. I'm cooking Christmas dinner. We're trying to go to an early evening church service. No, I can't go Christmas shopping for you.

If Mama knew it was Christmas, I would do anything to make it better for her. I will visit her tomorrow and I do have a little, useless gift that I hope she will enjoy. But whether or not she gets a gift from him tomorrow won't really make that much difference. She doesn't know it's Christmas or, usually, even who I am. (Alzheimer's.)

Jacob Marley must have visited my father, too, because he gave his driver and his driver's friend Christmas bonuses.

When I was little I always found it very exciting to go Christmas shopping with my father on Christmas Eve, getting things as the stores were locking up. Usually because he waited until the last minute he had to spend more, buying nice jewelry for her. That was great fun.

I guess I helped him do this every Christmas Eve until I was married and went North for the Potato Torture with my mother-in-law. That year my parents would have been 74. Lacking my supervision, my father bought my mother a CAMP STOVE. Yes, one of those things you cook with when you are camping. I chastised him, but the stores were closed when I heard about it.

This breaks all the rules. It's worse than a gift you plug in. It's something you cook with without electricity. She didn't leave him. I don't even think she complained. She probably acted excited.

She even used it when they went "camping" in their aged RV, which they used until they were almost 90.

Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays or whatever you celebrate. But please don't give anyone a camp stove.

Tonight's the Night!

"Tonight's the Night!"

Those magic words got us beyond excitement. "Tonight's the Night!" means it's Christmas Eve. The fat man will wrestle that bicycle down the chimney against all probability. An empty room will be full. People will come. Food and more food and more food will appear, less magically than the bicycle as we watched Mama labor (even making her coconut cake starting with a whole coconut, a hammer and a nail).

Our Christmas is less grandiose. Lily's allergic to coconut and Paul doesn't like it. There will be no chicken salad because I'm too lazy to cook a chicken just to make stock for the dressing and gravy. In fact, I don't even know how to make dressing. It was in Mama's head. Non-Saintly Brother wrote it down once. The directions are not useful as they contain her exact instructions, such as, "put in enough stock until you have enough but not too much." All of her recipes went like that. We will have the sweet potato casserole topped with marshmallows, even though my mother-in-law will declare that it is a dessert and not a vegetable (on Christmas it IS a vegetable.) I tried to find a photo but couldn't.

But we won't have anything if I sit here writing posts. So off I go.

Tonight's the Night! Miracles happen.

If I get a chance, I'm going to write about Christmas Eve in a barn. For me, you can't get a much holier place than a barn, with the manger licked clean by animals, and the holy smell of livestock (I'm serious) and their hay.

Christ was born in a barn. You have to love him.

A Christmas Meme

Thanks, Sassy, for tagging me for a Christmas meme -- my first:

1. When people say “Christmas” you immediately think….

Depends on whether it’s October and I’m standing in Target noticing the Christmas displays (in which case it’s a stream of non-spoken profanity), or it’s the beginning of December and I’m feeling depressed and wanting to run away from home until it’s over, or it’s Christmas Eve and I’m all set and can’t wait to hear the church service start with, “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.” It gives me chills and fills me with awe.

2. Favorite Christmas memory: I have so many. Probably one of the best was seeing my father, who was in his 60s at the time, ride around the neighborhood in his pajamas and bathrobe on the new bicycle my mother had given him on Christmas Day. (One of the worst was having my mother-in-law tell me I hadn’t peeled the potatoes correctly – a family tradition known as “The Potato Torture” – or making another guest, who happened to be Jewish (what does he think Christmas is about after this?) re-wash the crystal because it had water spots – or having to clean her bathrooms after Christmas dinner while others vacuumed and did other housecleaning jobs. We had to get take-out Chinese for supper because she threw out all the Christmas dinner leftovers because she didn’t like them cluttering up her refrigerator. I’m sure there are meds for this but we’ve found no way to get them in her system legally.)

3. Favorite Christmas song or carol: Old, old carols, usually by Anonymous. I love the “Lu-lay my little tiny child” one. I probably know all of them. When Lily couldn’t sleep as a baby (and older), I didn’t know lullabies but I knew Christmas carols so I sang them to her. She knows most of the verses, even some of the ones where I made up the words. (Lucky her.) By the way, I’m not a good singer. But I lift up my voice and make a joyful noise. Surely that gives God some pleasure. It’s sure fun for me.

4. Favorite Christmas movie: “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

5. Favorite Christmas character: Jesus, then Mary. Imagine being in her shoes?

6. Favorite Christmas ornament or object: A stuffed but plastic-headed Santa Claus my parents gave me as a child. He’s got a white beard (plastic) and yellow plastic hair like a baby.

7. Plans for this Christmas: A wonderful time with my husband (who is hysterical) and daughter and animals, then an easy but delicious Christmas dinner (husband smoking the turkey) and my in-laws are coming over, then I’m leaving to go to the nursing home to sit with my mother.

8. Is Christmas your favorite holiday? Yes. Even though I have a love-hate feeling about it. It’s all too much. You’re supposed to be really happy and it’s all supposed to be wonderful, but that’s rare. Jesus’ life was filled with pain and suffering at times, and we need to just be “real,” like he was, rather than guilty when we can’t make our celebration measure up to past years or our dreams.

This year is the first without one of my favorite people, who died a few months ago. My mother is fading away, as is my father. There is both sorrow and joy at this season, and we need to feel free to acknowledge both.

I'm tagging:

Angry Buttons
Enola
Doug
Groovyoldlady

I've Been Had

Hmmmm. I can take a joke, but sometimes I can't SEE that something is a joke -- or is it?

Take yesterday's post about the web site, Marry Our Daughter. Have I been had? I was so revolted at the Marry Our Daughter site that I didn't look very closely at it beyond reading the list of available daughters. I was so repulsed I got out of there as fast as I could.  Angry's comment (look in the comments section in that post) got me to look at the testimonials on that site, which sound tongue-in-cheek, something along the lines of, "thanks to the bride price, we were able to get out of the trailer park." I think it just may be a joke -- and if so -- they really, really got me.

I'd say there's a lesson to be learned here, which is not to jump to judgment. Except that I'm not going to learn that lesson. If I see daughters being sold, I'm going to run away screaming and call law enforcement.

Yes, it's a hoax. Snopes says so and that it was done just to show the inconsistencies in state marriage laws. I doubt it. I think it was done to be funny. And now that I'm over my outrage, well, I'm still not sure it's funny.

I really had some pondering to do this morning when I received the following response from one friend in law enforcement about it:

Legal?  Hmm...good question.  Probably in South Carolina.  Also, don't be so quick to judgement.  A few more years of sharing your home with an adolescent female and you, too, may be ready to make her somebody else's problem and recoup some of your investment.

The last time I contacted him about a concern such as this (a child porn spam) he wrote back that he'd sent it to the proper authorities. That should have been my first clue. I'll bet my clever law-enforcement friend googled the site and found out the answer. Imagine. Doing research. Who'd have thought. Clearly Not Me.

I just hope that Angry can do something about all those foreskins he's collected. I must say he might be able to pass the pickled ones off as onions or something.

And I hope that Venomous Kate hasn't collected too many on her own.

Revolting, Disgusting, Appalling and I Hope ILLEGAL

I really like Saucygrrl and enjoyed discussions and lurking on her site, but I'm not at all sure I should be thankful in anyway for her introducing me to the most disgusting web site I have ever heard of: Marry Our Daughter.

Don't even click the link. It's a bunch of sick parents offering their 15-year-old daughters for marriage with a listed "bride price." They even claim to be Christian.

I have forwarded this link to my minister, who has in turn forwarded it to folks in law enforcement. Surely this isn't legal. I'm also sending it to a friend in the FBI who is involved in task forces designed to stop human trafficking.

What kind of people are these?

Angry Buttons, who is extremely witty and too quick for me to keep up with, posted the following comment about Marry Our Daughter in my post about people being grumpy about Christmas (it's all intertwined but I'm not going to explain). I'm going to bump it to here because it would be a shame if you missed it:

But I have to say, 'Marry Our Daughter', wow I had no idea such a site existed. I noticed the average age of the daughters to be around 15, which makes me wonder how many of them are actually willing participants.

I thought I’d make a proposal whilst I was there but the price was more than I could afford. Therefore I decided to base my ‘Bride Price’ on the Bible and followed one of their links to the Bible quotes that they've put up in justification of what they’re doing. Therein I found a price I’m sure I can afford and that they must accept as it is not only straight out of the Bible but it is a quote of their choice.

The Bride Price I offered...? A hundred Philistine foreskins.

Cross your fingers for me Anne and wish me luck. And when all is settled I’ll be sure and invite you to the wedding. After all, you are effectively Cupid in all this.

I'll be very curious about where Angry gets the Philistine foreskins -- and I don't even want to know what the parents of the bride might do with them.