Overheard In NOLA

Yesterday was present wrapping day here at Casa de Pobble. We leave town on Sunday, to be gone until December 21st, so we had to be way ahead of the game this year. By the end of day, we had one large box, one medium-large box, two medium boxes, and a small box. Plus, two light things in bags that needed special packaging. It was time to head to the post office.

Which is half a mile away. Do you remember we don't have a car? And while we have a cart, the post office is in the Federal Building, so we can't tie the cart up outside, nor can we bring the cart into the building. So, no cart. Yep, we were carrying. Five boxes, two bags.

We worked it that I had the large box and two light bags. Lithus had the four medium-ish boxes. And off we went. At the crosswalk, we're waiting for the light to turn, and traffic gets backed up into an intersection. We're all waiting, balancing boxes on the curb, drumming fingers in the car in front of us. When the driver looks up and says "Hey, where are you two heading? Got far to go? Need any help?"

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A total stranger, having no clue where we were going, offered to give us and our boxes a ride. We turned it down, because we were almost to the post office, but it made my day. Yes, New Orleans has issues, but sometimes, a stranger will offer to give you a lift, too. It's not all bad.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Thanksgiving Recap

A couple years ago, I learned just how easy Thanksgiving can be. Last year, I learned just how easy Christmas can be. Eventually, I may get used to holidays that are this laid back, but for now, it continues to surprise, as well as delight, me. Guess what kind of a day it was around here yesterday? At least we showered. That counts for something, doesn't it?

I was hoping to find a late-season pumpkin. Instead, I ended up with the very last can (without exaggeration)
of pumpkin puree from any of the three stores where we shop. *whew*

My grandmother's dressing. I was pleased to learn this was made at the Lovely Cats' house, as well.
Nice to have passed along a tradition.

See my little pot there in the middle? No?

Here it is, front and center

Some of my warmest memories of my mother are around Thanksgiving. Somewhere along the line, it became the holiday I hosted. When my mother was in my home, she taught me hands on, but still allowed me to be the hostess. When she wasn't with me in the kitchen, she was the one I would call to talk through the timing of the day to ensure everything hit the table at the same time. She taught me the quick wash. To start the day with a clean kitchen, an empty dishwasher, and a new trashbag. To clean after every wave of cooking, so that each wave was as organized as the one before it. That food made from love will always taste better than food made from a recipe. To enjoy myself as much as my guests do.

They are good lessons. They are better memories. And yesterday just added to list of happy holidays.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

My Little Pot

Have you ever received something and known instantly it was a treasure? Not that it would become treasured. That it already was, in the very moment of receiving it, important and treasured. Honestly, I never had. I have had things that I immediately loved. That I immediately knew I wanted, even if I hadn't known I wanted it a moment ago. But I had never before instantaneously known this object is one of my most valued possessions. Until I opened the box with my little pot.

It's a gift from a friend. He made it himself. I have known for years he threw clay, but had never even seen a piece, let alone owned one. Until he sent me this (okay, in fairness, I had to assure him that one of his pieces would be welcome should he ever choose to gift one to me, but still ~ he sent it). I looked at Lithus and said "When can we melt butter?" Lithus looked at me and said "When can we have gravy?"

Here's a better indication of its size:

Average sized sunglasses

Part of my love for it is its creator. Absolutely. 100%. But part of it...part of it is whatever happens when a piece finds its person. It's my little pot and it's one of my most treasured possessions. Yes, already.

May you find all kinds of reasons to be thankful today, and every day.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Kid President

Because he never stops making me feel better and I want to share that feeling with you. And yes, I have barbecue sauce on my shirt, too. 




Those are Pobble Thoughts ~ with a lot of help from Kid President. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ and maybe a better day.

Overheard In NOLA, Part Whatever

On the bus with Lithus. A young couple ~ young, as in probably sophomores in college, young ~ gets on the bus and takes the seats immediately behind us. Once they are settled, they continue the conversation they were apparently having when the bus arrived.

Him: So I said to him "Look, I will prove you aren't a genius right now. How can you say atheism is a religion? It's right there that it's not."

Her: Mm-hm.

Him: I mean, no one gave him the designation of genius but himself anyway.

Her: Mm-hm.

Him: So I said to him "Admittedly, Christmas is kinda cool."

Her: Mm-hm.

Him: "Any opportunity to dress your girl like an elf is okay by me."

Her: (pregnant angry silence in which I could feel the glare)

Him: Okay, yeah, I probably shouldn't have told you I told him that.

Her: Mm-hm.

Those are sorry-we-got-to-our-stop-when-we-did Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ but maybe flowers would be better.

Something to Remember...

... as we go into the holidays.

Just a reminder, from me to you.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ and a little acceptance of others.

With Apologies to Emeril

I have a confession. Part of me always thought Emeril Lagasse was an overrated hack of a chef. I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.

From before Lithus and I were even thinking we might one day be in love, I have known he wanted to go to Emeril's Delmonico. He owns the cookbook. He drools over the cookbook the way some men (and women) drool over a beautiful woman. And we live in New Orleans...

We ride by the restaurant several times a week. He almost always gives a little glance at it, even if he doesn't realize he's doing so. Back in October, it dawned on me we were going to be home on his birthday. I jumped on the chance to make reservations. And because I made them six weeks early, we even got the table I had requested ~ in the corner, by the window, looking out on St. Charles Ave. The window he glances at wistfully every time we ride by it.

Plain and simple, it was possibly the best meal I have ever eaten. Every bite was perfection. Each component was excellent and delicious and when combined with its sister components, evolved into culinary perfection. We kept thinking the next course couldn't possibly live up to this one. And the next course kept proving us wrong. 

There are a lot of celebrity chefs out there. Hell, there are a lot of celebrity chefs here in NOLA. Honestly, while the food has been good, it hasn't been...something. It hasn't been what I expected based on the reputations and press. Until last night. Last night, Emeril wasn't everything he was reported to be; he was more. And I'm woman enough to admit it.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Happy Birthday, Love

Today is Lithus' birthday. When I sat down to write this, I had planned on going on a bit about how much I love him. How perfectly matched we are ~ even when we're not. About how he makes me laugh. About how he fixes the things that need fixing and leaves lie the things that can't be fixed. About how we are both our very best selves when the other is near, and just a little rudderless alone any longer. 

We met the week of his birthday, seven years ago. It's been an eventful seven years. Parts have been really bad. More parts have been indescribably good.

Last night, he said that his birthday wasn't that important. Needless to say, we disagreed.

I sat down to write a loving post about my dearest friend and partner. The words I can find don't do him justice.

Those are happy, blessed, grateful Pobble birthday Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee. Black, drip, Seattle's Best coffee.

Stuff

The Fringe Festival is this weekend. Lithus and I went to get our buttons and tickets yesterday, because the shows we want to see are tonight and Sunday. Expect further reports on this.

We finally made it to Mother's Restaurant. You know how there are some things that simply do not stand a chance of living up to the hype surrounding them? Yeah... I mean, Mother's is fine. It really is. But there are other places in the area that do what they do and do it just as well. My take? It was a locals' joint. So famous people started going there to show they were salt of the earth and ordinary, in spite of being famous. At which point, it stopped being a locals' joint and became a place to go see famous people "be ordinary." But now, so many people are going to star searching that no famous people go any longer, and it's not the locals' joint it once was.

Walking home, we ended up in the cross section of an argument between two guys. One rode away on his bike, while the other walked in the opposite direction ~ toward us. And as he passed us, he looked me square in the eye, even though he was yelling back to the other man. What did he yell? "I'm gonna jack off on your girlfriend's face!" At which point Lithus never missed a beat. Simply said "Oh, I doubt it." The argument continued as the two men moved apart from each other and Lithus and I reached our destination. But the simple "oh, I doubt it" made my night.

Twenty-two days into NaBloPoMo and I'm running out of things I want to talk about. Hmmmm... Stick with me, though. I'm sure I'll come up with something.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

GoldiBlox

When I was a little girl, this is what ads looked like:

These days, this is what little girls get:

What happened? (Okay, in fairness, I have my theories about what happened, but I won't go into those right now. Right now, I will simply say "What happened???")

Thankfully, I am not the only one asking this question, and even more thankfully, someone else is answering it.

GoldieBlox. In their own words ~ At GoldieBlox, our goal is to get girls building. We're here to help level the playing field in every sense of the phrase. By tapping into girls' strong verbal skills, our story + construction set bolsters confidence in spatial skills while giving young inventors the tools they need to build and create amazing things.

Am I appalled that, in the 21st century, we still need this toy so desperately? Of course. You know me better than that. But more than appalled that we need it, I am so damn grateful someone came up with it. In the day and age of "I'm too pretty for homework" t-shirts

Yes, it was pulled. Why did it get made in the first place?

and pink legos, TTG for GoldieBlox. 




Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Not Sure the "Peri" Means Much

First, let me offer a heads up to my male readers: this post deals with menopause, menstruation, and other physical aspects of a woman getting older. This is a head's up, but not a warning or an apology, because you're grown men and understand by now that boys and girls are different and have different parts. Plus, I see no reason to offer warnings or apologies about women's bodies. All that being said, you also may not relate much, so feel free to skip it if you want.

Now...A couple years ago, I started getting hot. Really hot. Then I went a month without a period. Given that, for various reasons, I no longer worry about pregnancy, I was concerned for other reasons. Missing periods is generally accepted to be a bad thing unless one is trying to get pregnant ~ or at least wants to. My doctor's appointment relieved a whole lot of concerns. Nothing wrong. Just peri-menopause. Excellent. I can deal with this. First, women throughout time have dealt with this. Second, I don't really have another option.

But holy hell, hot flashes. Night sweats. Weird cramping. One month, I'll barely have a period. The next month, it's as if someone tapped an artery. The next month, "normal." And then? Who knows what comes on month four. Any of these experiences, or even a skipped period entirely. But don't forget about the months where I get two periods. Those are fun. Lithus especially loves those months.

I am very lucky in that my mother and the women who raised me were very open about their bodies and what I could expect from mine. I cannot imagine living in a world that whispered about "the change." Ick. My friends are also open about what our bodies are going through. Still, let me tell you, hearing about a hot flash does nothing to prepare you. All is well, life is good. And then? Cauldron. Kiln. Lava. What the hell just happened? Until, of course, you're freezing and need the heat and layers ~ because it's all of 75 degrees in the house.

Getting older has never really been an issue for me. Don't need to be a teenager or in my 20s any longer. 44 is a pretty good age to be. That being said, the second half could come with better climate control, and I'd be okay with it.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Told Ya So

The road to hell and all that. So, here we are, the day after the day of the placeholder and I am just now getting around to writing another blog.

Do you know Hyperbole and a Half? She's brilliant. And I don't mean that lightly. I mean she is fucking brilliant. She's droll and funny and insightful and sad and talented in a way most of us only dream of. Part of me is urging you to click that link. (Click it...Click It! CLICK IT!!!!!) but part of me is urging you not to. At least not until you are settled in somewhere you don't have to leave, don't have any obligations, preferably do have your favorite warm winter beverage, and can stay put and read until you've every page of her work. Because that's what you're going to do anyway, so you might as well be comfortable and not have the world knocking on your door because you were supposed to be in that meeting an hour ago (or pick up the kids or feed the cat or donate that kidney).

A while ago, I was chatting with a friend about the images we put forth and the facades we keep up. She asked what would happen if we all just blogged about the shit we were really going through. Just let our crazy out and wore it proudly. Or at least didn't hide it in shame. Because whenever we trusted someone with our crazy, the response was always good. Was always along the lines of OMG I HAVE CRAZY TOO! Even if the crazy was different. I have thought about that conversation off and on ever since we had it. I finally have part of an answer.

First, let's be honest, people are judgmental as hell. Our crazy is different than their crazy. Our crazy isn't actually crazy. Our crazy can be rationalized or justified or explained. We don't leave the job or make the change or break up with the jerk or we do ignore our kids or take another drink or sleep with the wrong person for reasons. They, on the other hand, don't leave the job or make the change or break up with the jerk, or they do ignore their kids or take another drink or sleep with the wrong person because they just can't handle it. They aren't strong/sane/healthy/whatever enough; we are but - reasons.

But I've known this shit for a long time. Even back when my friend and I first had this conversation, this was the reason we locked on to for keeping our damn mouths shut sometimes.

There is a new reason. Or an old reason, but I'm just getting it. You share your crazy, and you get this:

It becomes a BIG DEAL. For EVERYBODY. Not just the people it's kind of allowed to be a big deal for. EVERYBODY. And suddenly you're offering juice and reassuring people you're not actually all that crazy and you're sure the crazy will go away and you really are taking care of the crazy and...can you get them some juice?

So, instead of dealing with this, you learn to deal with your crazy quietly, trust your crazy to a very small handful of people, and let the rest of the world think everything is fine and dandy ~ or at least not crazy ~ because, really, there's just not enough juice in the world.

Plus, I really like my new therapist.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Placeholder

Oooo! It's a busy day today. Here in NOLA, it is only 7:30 and I have already checked in with my editor, emailed an organization for whom I am an editor, and have to get out of the house. And I didn't get a post scheduled for today last night. So! My intention is to get back here and get a real post written this afternoon. At which point, you will have two to read today. Yay! And no, that won't buy me a day out there in the future, where I can skip posting because, after all, I posted twice back on the 18th. Nope, nope, nope.

However, two things come into play. First, I have noticed an uptick in early morning visitor activity, and wanted to make sure those of you who show up here early ~ which is any time before 10 am in my world ~ have something to read and know to come back for something more interesting later. Second, the road to hell and all that. My intentions are good. They really are. Posting something far more interesting than a place holder really is on the books for later. And...

Which brings us to having a placeholder until I can get back here later this afternoon.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Yeah, I Went

Because I admit it, I can't resist a Christmas tree lighting. Even if it is too early.

Those are it's-beginning-to-look-a-lot-like-Christmas Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Today?!!???

Today is the annual Christmas tree lighting event in the French Market. This is the New Orleans Tree, the way the Rockefeller tree is for New York and the Pru tree is for Boston. In other words, this is a big deal. This officially kicks of Christmas in NOLA.

And they are lighting it on November 16th. Today. Before Thanksgiving. Two weeks before Thanksgiving.

Does Thanksgiving even matter any more? Am I really that old and crotchety? Have I really gotten the to point where I'm shaking my cane at the kids and their newfangled ways? I know I'm not the only one talking about "the death of Thanksgiving" and yet ~ stores are open. Cities are decorating. Sales are happening. Eggnog lattes are back. None of these things would be happening if there was no payoff. So, it's not just me, but it feels like it's just me.

Which brings me back to the tree lighting here in the French Market. 

On the one hand, I don't want to go. Not tonight. I might even be willing to concede next weekend, the weekend that is "supposed" (in quotation marks intentionally, because holiday sales sure as hell don't get to decide how the calendar is "supposed" to work) to be the weekend after Thanksgiving. But this weekend? This just seems a wee bit premature.

On the other hand, this is when the tree lighting is taking place. Tonight. Two weeks before Thanksgiving. And I love the tree lighting. We're not talking about a human rights issue. We're not talking about someone who needs me to stand with them in solidarity. We're talking about a tree lighting. And the only person who misses out if I don't go is me. Damn.

It is very possible that there will be pictures of a tree lighting posted tomorrow. Damn whippersnappers!

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

But When Did You *MEET*?

My current editor asked to friend "me" on Facebook this morning. Not a problem. After all, it's my professional presence and she's part of my professional life. The only problem was we couldn't find each other. This woman, with whom I email multiple times a day, almost every day, and I had no clue what the other looked like. After we managed to link up, there was an almost giddy exchange about having faces to go with names and voices and words. It was very exciting for both of us. 

And we still haven't met.

Which makes me think about Lori. And Denny. And Ian. And Dev. And Violetta. These people aren't just words on a page or a voice on the phone. These people are my friends. I care about them. I lean on them. I count on them. The exact same way I do with Nemeria, Dr. B., Starbuck, the Divine M and all my IRL friends. I know they do the same with me. 

But here's the truth ~ I could walk by them on a street and not know it, because we have never been in the same room. 

Now, if we were looking for each other, we'd find each other. I remember when I met GSH. Because DADT was still in effect, he had never, ever, not once, posted a picture of himself on his blog. So when it came time for us to meet for dinner ~ we were both, miraculously, in Anchorage at the same time ~ I said to him "You have to look for me." As I walked down the street, a man stepped toward me with his arms raised high. I was me; he was him; we knew it.

But if he hadn't thought to check if I was in Anchorage? If he had assumed I was still in Galena. If we were just walking down the street, not having told each other we were going to be there, because really, she's never going to be in Kansas City when I am, so why mention it? I would walk right by all of them. One or both of us might do a double take, but I bet we'd just keep on moving. 

But they are my friends. They are as real as real life. Somewhere along the line, meeting stopped being a requisite for knowing. And I'm okay with that.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

If Everyone Knows...

...Is It Still A Secret?

Did you know about the Starbucks Secret Menu website? Neither did I! Now, in fairness, it says right there on the top that this is not an official Starbucks menu, website, or affiliation. But these are recipes that have been created by baristas and customers. The ingredients are available at every (I assume) location, even if the recipe is unknown.

Now, I really dislike Starbucks' brewed coffee. Yes, I've tried the "blonde roast." Don't like it. But, as much as this Dunkin' Donuts' girl hates to admit it, nobody does flavored drinks better. And their eggnog latte is the best on the market (I'm so sorry, Dunkin', I still looooooove you!). All of which makes me think that these, The Starbucks Butterbeer Drinks, very well might be the best thing ever. I'm at least going to give them a try!

Hot Butterbeer Latte 

Whole milk steamer
Add caramel syrup (2 for tall, 3 for grande, 4 for venti)
Add toffee nut syrup (same amounts)
Add cinnamon dolce syrup (same amounts)
Whipped cream and salted caramel bits on top
Optional, if you prefer a coffee flavor ~ shot of espresso

Cold Butterbeer Frappucino

Start with a Creme Frappucino base. Don't ask for skim or 2% milk, due to consistency issues

3 pumps of caramel syrup

3 pumps of toffee nut syrup

Top with caramel drizzle

Yeah, I'm totally trying these. Eggnog latte, you may have met your match.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you (a really amazing sounding) coffee.

Travel Day

Since yesterday was a packing day, that makes today a travel day. But I really want to be keep this whole NaBloPoMo thing happening. So I'm just going to leave these right here...

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Scattered

I'm all over the place right now. While I know people who talk about heading into the kitchen to make coffee, only to realize the trash needs to go out, which makes them remember the refrigerator needs to be cleaned, which leads to a grocery store run, before they come home and get back to work - all without having poured another cup of coffee, I am generally not that person. Generally.

For the last three or four days, though, I have been. Write. I should write. Work. I should work. Shop. I should shop. Clean. I should clean. And it's all over the place. 

The same thing is happening mentally. Finances. Appointments. Planning. Scheduling. Juggling. Composing.

And emotionally. Yay! We're doing really well financially; oh my goodness, we aren't saving fast enough. Yay! I'm really looking forward to the holidays; oh my goodness, we aren't going to have much time at home. Yay! I'm thrilled about some of the things we're talking about doing; oh my goodness, that's going to cost money and take time, and we're already not saving enough and don't have enough time!

And then there's Pobble Thoughts. Witty! Angry! Subdued! Mundane! Righteous! Bored! Amusing! Insightful!

What the hell?

Just since starting this post, my brain has worked in this way:

Wow, this is a really boring post. You shouldn't post this. Make it more interesting. Okay, how can this be more interesting? I don't really have time to make it more interesting; today is packing day. Shit. Today is packing day. I wonder what time the other pilot is getting into town. Lithus goes in to work at noon. Will the other pilot be here before Lithus gets home? I really need to be prepared for that. Then, I should clean a bit. Yes, clean the kitchen. But I really need to know how many boxes I need for the bedroom before I can start packing up the kitchen. And I can't clean the kitchen before I pack up the kitchen. So, I'll go start packing up the bedroom. Wait...aren't I in the middle of something else...?

How do people live like this? Are they exhausted all the time? Because I'm only three days in, and I'm pooped.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Veterans' Day

Many of us are so grateful today. And it is important to say thank you ~ to attend a parade, to shake a hand, to buy a coffee. Do those things. If you want to do more, though, I can help with that. 

Operation Warrior Watch. Every penny donated goes directly to care packages, either filling them or mailing them. Nothing ~ not a single cent ~ goes to administrative costs. 

Here's what they need:

• SOLDIER'S NAMES AND ADDRESSES (Seriously, this is the most difficult part of the gig, keeping the mailing list long)
• Gift cards to companies that will ship to APO addresses (Amazon.com, netgrocer.com, drugstore.com, etc.)
• DVDs
• Current Magazines
• Water Bottles
• Coozies for bottles and cans
• Tan, green, or black T-shirts
• Boot-length socks
• Small, white ankle socks (female)
• Med/Sm black underwear (female)
• Shower gels (male/female)
• Batteries
• Leathermans/Gerber tools
• Metal flashlights and headlamps
• Homemade cookies and other snack items
• Anything FUN you can think of for a male or female soldier to open at the holidays
• Cash

This year, the care package prepping day is December 7 in Urbana, Illinois. I know. Almost none of you are from, or anywhere near, Urbana, Illinois. Hell, I'm nowhere near Urbana, Illinois. This doesn't matter. Be in touch with me here, or privately. Be in touch with Lori, here (I'll get her the message) or through the link to OWW up there. We will help you help us.

Turning gratitude into action ~ what better way to say thanks?

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ and a way to thank a Vet.

Sunday Thoughts

I woke up this morning missing one of my nieces from when I was married to the SGM. We had several of them, four of whom were tweens and teens while I was around, two of whom were really special, and one of whom I adored. The middle one. 

Her older sister was a great young woman, but she and I had a falling out, which was tough. Her younger sister had a way of looking at the world that I truly believe was healthier than any teenager had any business being. And the middle one was sensitive and intelligent with dreams far than her family's ability to dream for her. I loved all three of them, but the middle one...she was special to me.

Now, I admit, I did the internet thing and googled them. Found a lot on the older one ~ who looks happy and like she has become her own woman, if perhaps a little hard around the edges. Found the younger one ~ who looks happiest and settled and as if life is treating her really well. Found almost nothing on the middle one. Except ...what I did find has the potential to be a life unfulfilled. There was also a possible email address. Crap.

This is why I shouldn't look too hard into my past. Do I email her? Ask if this is still a valid email address for her and see if she is willing to chat with me? Do I leave well enough alone and assume she wants nothing to do with the former aunt who divorced her uncle and walked out of her life? Of everyone from that time in my life, she (and her younger sister, to be fair, just not as often) are the ones I truly miss. Does that matter? I don't know. Maybe the past should stay the past. 

If I had all the answers, I'd run for God.

Meanwhile, how about you? Is there anyone out of your life you've toyed with trying to find again? What did you finally decide?

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Silver Eagle

The other day, Lithus was at work, chatting with his ground crew over the radio, when they asked him what his call sign was. He dutifully gave them the tail numbers from the aircraft. They decided this wasn't a good enough call sign and have dubbed him Silver Eagle. Personally, I think I would have gone with Grumpy Dragon or Witty Turtle, but maybe that's just me. For them, Silver Eagle it is. And I guess I can see why.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Accountability Blog

Generally speaking, I try to be the kind of person who talks about having done something, as opposed to talking about what I am planning on doing. I don't always succeed, because I do get excited, but I try. That being said, sometimes it is important to have a little accountability.

Therefore, you my friends, are about to become my accountability. Things I want to do, but am having a hard time keeping motivated around are...

1. Apply for at least one freelance writing gig per week for the rest of the year
2. Finish the new novel by February 14, 2014
3. Work out 5 days out of every 7

And there you have it. I can't hide from them any longer. They are out there and public and...wow...a little scary. But good.

How about you? Have anything you want to be accountable for? Leave it in the comments and we'll be successful together.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

#GetOverYourselfAlready

Aaaaaannnnnndd... It's another letter to white women.

In 2006, an organization called Black Girls Rock came into being. It is, in its own words, a non-profit youth empowerment and mentoring organization established to promote the arts for young women of color, as well as to encourage dialogue and analysis of the ways women of color are portrayed in the media.  

Who in their right minds can be opposed to this?

On Sunday, November 3rd, Black Girls Rock had their yearly television variety/awards/ceremony show...and white girls went nuts. It was racist. It was exclusive. It was mean. It was racist, racist, racist (Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!). The internet exploded with #whitegirlsrock blowback.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?????????????

Here's the truth, white girls/white women, straight from one of your own ~ you just didn't like not being the center of attention. The fact that another group might need something of their own never entered your mind, did it? Because you/we are supposed to be the center of the goddamn universe and anything that excludes is bad. But you know what? Some things just aren't about us. 

I remember years ago, Take Your Daughter to Work Day was a thing. It was a necessary and important thing because until then, daughters could grow up to be nurses, elementary school teachers, librarians, or secretaries and that was really it, if she wanted or needed to be more than a wife and mother. We ~ as a society and as girls ~ had no idea that our daughters could be anything else. Not really. So this movement came along to show us we could be pilots and garbage collectors and deans and construction workers and doctors and, and, and... And before too long, it was decided that Take Your Daughter to Work Day was too exclusive and it should be Take Your Child to Work Day, so the boys didn't feel left out. Those boys who had known all along they could be anything they wanted to be. To this day, girls can be anything they want ~ in theory, whereas boys can be anything they want ~ in fact. 

This is exactly what the #whitegirlsrock girls/women just pulled. That shit, up there. White women don't need to be reminded that the color of their skin can be beautiful. Or that their race doesn't need to hold them back. Or that they aren't less than other members of their gender because of the way they look. It's called white privilege and we have it. Racism flows down the power structure, not up. 

We have role models. We have women standing up with and for us. We see ourselves portrayed on television and movies and stages every damn day a bazillion times over. As out of balance as the gender issue still is ~ and you know I know it is ~ white women are even far more likely to show up in board rooms and on committees than women of color. 

Girls of color need to see themselves. Need to hear stories of success. Need to be allowed to see reality in their dreams. Need to be told they are nowhere near less-than, just because of the color of their skin. They are not just maids, or prostitutes, or gold diggers, or angry black women, or any of the other stereotypes they are bombarded with every day. And who's going to pass this lesson along? Me? A white woman, with all my privilege? Really? Because we've done so well so far assuring girls of color we believe in them and support them and see them as our equals. So, women of color are stepping up. In many ways, including #blackgirlsrock.

And we couldn't let them have it. We couldn't allow them to have something that wasn't about us. We couldn't stand to not be the center of attention. We couldn't be a part of lifting someone else up without feeling like we had lost something of our own. That's some pretty fucked up shit right there. White girls, get over yourself already, because black girls rock. 

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

...And Bear

Bear is my mostly companion. Back when I was contemplating getting divorced from the SGM, I admitted to my therapist that part of the reason I was conflicted about it was my dining room furniture. I loved that furniture and knew I would lose it in the divorce. My therapist had me work on an exercise. What things did I have? What things did I want? What things did I need? The first two lists were very long. The third one, not so much. In doing this exercise, I realized that, in terms of things, all I really needed were something that belonged to my father, enough money to get me to Boston from wherever I was, and Bear. That was it. And that is how important Bear is.

He was under the tree on my third Christmas. I remember him because my mother had wrapped him, not in a box, but like a giant candy, with a poof on the top and red yarn tightening it up. I had no idea what might be in such an amazing present. He was cool and I enjoyed him. And then, like all my other stuffed animals, he went away. My sister had her two special stuffed animals, but I never did. They rotated in and out of favor without my thinking about it much. So long as I had something to cuddle at night, I didn't really care what shape it was. 

This was the 1970s and women's lib was at its height. So I decided Bear was female. Put him in a blaze orange bikini. It was then that he ended up in my closet. And I forgot about him. He was moved from one state to another, unpacked, and put up in another closet. Until I was twelve and I noticed him up there.

I took him down, took off the really horrible bikini, apologized to him, and fell in love. He's been by my side ever since. He's been in hospitals with me. He's traveled all over the world. He's captured tears from break-ups and betrayals. He's been squeezed in celebration. Twice I had young men tell me that I had to choose between them and him in my bed. He won both times. For those of you who know The Velveteen Rabbit, he is real. Hell, he's in my will.

A present that became so very much more. Probably bought by my mom, credited to my Daddy Ralph, and given with no thought that he'd still be around 41 years later. But he is. And I really don't need much more than that.

Bear

Together in Utah

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Snorlax

Earlier this week, my NaBloPoMo partner in crime, Lori, posted about a gift she had been given by her best friend. It was random and unexpected and made very little sense and it was perfect. She asked us, her readers, if we had ever been given a gift like that and I was able to tell her about mine (a purple skull bracelet from Nemeria that just showed up one day in my mailbox for no reason other than she saw it and thought of me ~ it was random and unexpected and made very little sense and it was perfect.) But it also got me thinking about other presents I've been given over the years. The stone from Robbin Island from my mother. My new wedding band from Lithus. The "princess" art from Crow. Some really great stuff. My favorite presents, though, the two that don't even feel like they ever were presents because they have always been mine, are Bear and Snorlax.

In case you don't know, Snorlax is a pokemon. He's a giant pokemon who sleeps a lot and snores. One of his powers is to roll over onto people while he is still asleep (at least, that's my version of it). When My Heart was growing up, our lives were all about pokemon. So, I decided Snorlax was my favorite. A pokemon who can't be bothered to wake up to do battle? What's not to love? Well! Let me tell you ~ when you are three and five and eight and your beloved, slightly crazy, super-fun Aunt Mame loves a pokemon, that's a big deal. I got a lot of Snorlax...es? ice? ii? Most were drawings or stickers. So, I put a Snorlax sticker in my jeep. It became a bit of a talisman to me. But jeeps are windy, and one day I noticed it had blown out. I replaced it with another sticker, but my windshield broke and I forgot to grab the sticker before the repair guys did their thing. One by one, my Snorlax stickers got lost. The rest of my collection went the way children's gifts often go. In other words, some I threw out, some didn't make a move, some just...I don't know. Until I lost the very last Snorlax sticker and started to panic. By this time, I'd had a Snorlax in my jeep for probably eight years. Possibly ten. I had to have a Snorlax. From My Heart. In my car. And I remembered a hard, rubber one that I had always kept in my office. Maybe I still had that one... Which I did. So, the last of the Snorlax got super glued to the dash of the jeep.

He rode there until I sold the jeep, many years later. I informed Lithus that, whenever we bought another car, Snorlax would once again, be attached to the dash. It was non-negotiable. Until then, he hung out in my suitcase, acting as a road talisman from there. Over the past several years, he has taken on a life of his own, though. He is propped up on our made bed when we're at home. He gets packed and unpacked. He goes on every trip. This last travel day, we thought we had lost a bag. My first thought wasn't about clothes or equipment but was "I think Snorlax was in there." We are looking at buying another car. Perhaps Snorlax will hang out on the dash, but the days of super glue are over. He's gotta be more mobile than that any more.

I had originally planned to write about Bear as well, but this post is getting long. You'll just have to wait until tomorrow to read about Bear. Until then, Snorlax...

Hanging out in Utah

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Don't Give A Damn About The Ta-Tas

I was quiet about National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Partly, it's because I've been generally quiet recently. Partly it's because I am reluctant to promote anything that might appear as if I am promoting the Susan G Koman Foundation. But partly, there's been something unidentifiably off for me around it all this year. It's November now, but I finally figured it out. I was looking at a website the other day and saw a ring for sale. The ring was silver, with pink stones. The pink stones were in the o's of the word BOOBS. National Breast Cancer Awareness Month at its best. 

All last month, I saw "SAVE THE TA-TAS" t-shirts and read about SAVE THE TA-TAS DAY! and heard about men "being brave" for wearing I LOVE TA-TAS. And yes, I get that it's supposed to be a clever, humorous way of dealing with a frightening and serious subject. I just don't find it clever or humorous.

Now, I love my breasts. I've got a great rack. And I enjoy being considered ~ by myself and others ~ as sexy. There is, however, a limit. They do not define me and I do not let others define me by them. Before my heart surgery, which has left me with a subtle scar in my cleavage, I was stunned at how many people asked me if I was going to be okay with scarring my breasts. Yes! Yes, I am okay with scarring my breasts to save my heart and my life, people. 

But even if it had been a greater scar than this, it would have been worth it. They are breasts. I am me.

The ta-tas and boobs campaign is another way of boiling women down to our body parts ~ and the sexy body parts at that. I don't want the doctors and researching dealing with curing breast cancer to give a rat's ass about my boobs. I want them to be driven by my health. By my personality. By me. Save women because we are worth saving. Because we matter. Not just because our breasts look good in tight shirts. Not even because they feed and comfort. Not just because we're sexy. Because we are more than that. We're people.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Random Stuff ~ A Laundry List Type o'Post

Did you fall back? By the time you are wandering over here, I'm sure you did.

Happy Birthday, to my dear friend Cam Pike. For the entire length of our friendship, I have never known/have forgotten/have blocked his birthday. This year, I remembered.

Lithus and I are already probably a third of the way through our holiday shopping. Oooo...I just love holiday shopping.

Speaking of shopping, another reason to love Target ~ have you seen the commercial where the woman is having all her friends over? Have you noticed one of her friends is not a size 2? She's beautiful, laughing, has been invited to a party, obviously brings something to the table ~ and is not small. Keep being my go-to store, Target. And thanks.

A cut on a writer's finger ~ no matter how small ~ should count toward a worker's comp claim. Just saying.

There is a house in Richfield that has chickens in its yard. Chickens. They hang out with the family dog.

You know I hate Facebook, right? There is nothing about me as a person on that site. You can find my professional presence, but that's it. That being said, if you are looking for a really good place to learn about some very basic, intro-to stuff about oppression and social justice, check out Oppression 101. It's an open group and is welcoming to anyone who really wants to learn, not just get cookies for signing up; who is willing to hear constructive criticism and learn from it, not just defend why they were right. It's intro, but not a place to get your hand held or told you are "a good one" just for being there.

And finally, stop over at Stilettos to see how NOLA celebrated Halloween.


Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Samhain, 2013

As usual, Lithus' schedule has us on the road for Samhain. It's okay, though, because, as usual, we celebrated anyway. The Nightmare Before Christmas is on netflix. We have a full kitchen. And town has a serviceable grocery store. We even like our mechanic enough to invite him to join us. 

We had about 10-12 groups of trick or treaters, so that was fun. Toward the end of the night, though, we realized we were going to have a lot of candy left over, in spite of buying judiciously and doling it out copiously. My dear Lithus is a very smart man. We have college kids living across the hall from us and another group of them downstairs and diagonally from us. So, we loaded up with candy, and knocked on their doors. Kind of a reverse trick or treat. Nothing like buying some goodwill with the college kids on the block with chocolate and caramel.

I do love Halloween.

Blessed be, dear friends.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.