Too Much T.V.

I admit it; I've been watching a lot television recently. Movies and shows and the commercials that run in between them. While I'm not proud of it, it has at least, given me some interesting things to think about.

Thing the First: The person who is set up, learns something impossible, has their world turned upside down, is suddenly on the run. Inevitably, the character has something unbelievable they need someone to believe. They've been abducted by aliens. They aren't really insane. No one else remembers they exist. No one else remembers something has happened. They need someone to listen, believe them, and not call the police, the psychiatrist, the government, depending on the situation. Sometimes the confidant rises to the occasion. Other times, they assure the character they will listen and then they make the call while the character is finally getting a must needed rest, shower, or meal. So sad.

Which made me wonder ~ who would I call on if I needed someone to believe me when no one else would, needed someone to believe the unbelievable. Lithus, first and foremost. Because of particularly bitter exes, we had to agree a long time ago that we would believe what came out of each other's mouths over anything else. No, it's not to the degree I've mentioned above, but the concept is the same. He will believe me and help. If he doesn't believe me, he will still help. Our vows even included having the others' back. Second, the Lovely Cats. Yeah, she has her issues, but if I need her ~ really need her ~ she'd be there. Even if it means sneaking me across the border, paying off the aliens, hiding me from the people who are trying to set me up, or any of the other plots that have popped up recently.

Thing the Second: Also includes Lithus but not in the same way. There is a hero. He is doing something dangerous. His girlfriend/wife/fiance is in the control room when the government, ambiguously-good guys, people in charge decide they don't trust him to complete the plan and have to do something for the greater good that will end up killing our hero. At which point, the girlfriend/wife/fiance starts to cry and beg. That's all she does. She knows these people are about to kill the hero, whom she loves, and she cries and begs.

Dude. If the ambiguously-good guy goes to kill Lithus, greater good be damned, they will have to knock my ass out in order to accomplish their goal. I will be clawing and punching and screaming and pushing buttons and pulling levers and generally being a mad woman in order to keep them from doing whatever they feel they need to do. I get that they feel they need to do it. They are wrong. Why do these women just stand there and cry?

Thing the Third: Product placement has entered the realm of commercials. Really? And not something that makes some kind of sense like the fast food commercial includes a plug for the cola they serve with their combo meals. No, this is about a car commercial that includes an ad for windows 8. Or a clothing store commercial that includes a movie trailer. Are our attention spans so short that we can't even pay attention to our hot cocoa commercials without needing them to be ads for something else as well? *sigh* I guess the answer to that is evident, if I like it or not.

Thing the Fourth: It happened the other day. The first documentary dealing with something that is going to occur beyond my lifetime has shown up on my television. And I don't mean things that are going to happen beyond everyone's lifetime, or even beyond the lifetimes of everyone alive right now. I was watching a show and it talked about being concerned with things that were going to happen in 2050. And there it is. I will be 90. Lithus will be 99. Yes, technically, we could still be around to be impacted by the event, but really? The kids in my world will have to deal with this one without me. Until now, it's been "oh, I'll be in my 60s" or "...my 70s" and I plan on still being pretty damn vibrant. But 90s? Hmmm...

What about you? Who would call if they had to believe the unbelievable?

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

Memorial Day

The truth is it is far easier to understand, to accept, to forgive, when you are loved and supported than it is to do all those things when you are making it under your own steam. And let's be totally honest, a substantial passage of time helps a lot, too. It doesn't, however, take the place of love and support.

Thanks to social media and an internet that connects us all ~ and tells us when we've been checked out ~ I have learned that my ex, the SGM, is now the Command Sergeant Major (CSGM) of a damn cool company. It appears he was even handpicked, which shouldn't surprise anyone who has ever known him. And I find I am happy for him. 

And so I thank him, for the first time here on Pobble Thoughts, for his service. For his patriotism. For his loyalty to his unit and his men. I thank him with a freer heart than I ever imagined possible. And I hope he's happy.

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

Grandmothers

Ian, Mr. Write On over at And I Still Think So, posted on grandmothers today, which is noteworthy because my own grandmothers have been in my thoughts a lot recently. First, I wrote about two of them here not too long ago (and yes, during both Cam and Mrs. Pike's visit and Dr. B's visit, I went barefoot. Family v. company, I guess. Digressing, Pobble...). But also, I have had occasion to tell stories about them recently, too.

My second maternal grandmother (technically, she was a step, but we never thought of each other that way) was a rancher woman who married a fancy city lawyer (my grandfather) and brought her sense of propriety and pragmatism with her when she moved from the plains of west Texas into the suburbs of Dallas. My first house had hardwood floors, so I wrote her ~ the most proper woman I knew (with no apologies to my mother, who was, is, and always will be far too free spirited to worry too much about being proper) ~ asking how to care for them. Her response? Oh, honey, I have no idea. My hardwoods were walked on all day, every day, by dirty ranch hands. I was just grateful if they took their boots off before tramping through the living room. Yet this same woman could host a formal dinner party for the partners at the most exclusive supper club in the city, without batting an eye. 

My paternal grandmother was sweet, plain and simple. Her greatest pride her whole life was being Mrs. Papa Pobble. She helped minister to my grandfather's congregations in a way I can only now, as an adult, even begin to comprehend. When my grandfather went to war in WWII, she went and bought a red hat, because preachers' wives couldn't wear red hats, but soldiers' wives could. I swear, it was the most daring thing she ever did. To this day, she is the most gentle soul I have ever encountered.

My first (biological) maternal grandmother died when my own mother was 16, so I never knew her, but I have always felt amazingly connected to her. I remember wanting to hear stories about her from her friends, her sisters, my mother. As a child, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about her, but then, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about anything, which is an opportunity I greatly miss.

Now, I am a grandmother. It's not a title I wear often, but my daughter (step, technically, but since she doesn't use the "step" part, I don't either; she's my kid) gets great joy in using the title when referring to me, so I guess I am one. My daughter and I met when she was pregnant with her first child and I explained that I would love that baby, that I would spoil that baby, that I would visit that baby ~ but that I wouldn't, under any circumstances, hold that baby. I don't hold babies, I don't care whose they are. When Lithus and I walked into the hospital room, my daughter's other mother was holding the baby. She and I had never met before but we grinned at each other, as grandmothers. As is wont to happen, she asked if I wanted to hold the baby and went to pass him to me ~ when my darling daughter, still exhausted from delivery sits up, announces "Pobble doesn't hold babies!" and flopped back down again.

Now, I have two grandchildren. Honestly, I am expecting a third before too much longer, because my girl is finally married to a man who adores her and treats her well and who deserves to be the father of her children (and who doesn't use the prefix "step" any more than anyone else in this post ever did). So, yeah, I'm expecting a third one of these days.

Circumstances and personality keep me from ever being the grandmother my grandmothers were, and I'm okay with that. But I think about my grandchildren. And I think about my grandmothers. And I realize I am part of a long line of pretty amazing women and, even though I never expected to be here, I'm okay with that, too.

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

Loaded Question

"Do you remember the spreader bar story?"

Huh. Let's break that down for a moment.

First, that implies the person being asked the question knows there is a spreader bar. Second, that person knows there is a story to go along with said spreader bar. And third, that person actually knows the spreader bar story.

Regardless of what the story is, where there is a spreader bar, or even why there is a spreader bar, that's a good friend. When the answer is a nearly-doubled-over-with-laughter oh my god, yes, and then the two of you go on to talk about the latest thing that somehow manages to actually and for real tie into the spreader bar story, well, that's a damn good friend.

That's Dr. B.

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

Well, That'll Learn Me

Recently, I was contacted by two friends. One, I've known since college. We were in each others' weddings. We've stayed in touch through her work struggles, my divorce. Issues with our families. We're those kinds of friends. About three years ago, she fell off the radar. This was during the time that Lithus and I were going to Malaysia ~ and then weren't. Had great jobs ~ and then didn't. Were on the top of the world ~ and then weren't. Being my friend was tiring, to say the least. There was always drama. Honestly, I figured she was tired of it. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.

The other started out as a blogging buddy, but quickly transitioned into real life. But we met when he didn't have much of a support system and then, miraculously, beautifully, he did. Having better support, a happier life, not having to hide any longer, it was good. His blogging slowed down. He got busy. He dropped off. I figured, while we would always be buds, he didn't need me as much any longer and had moved on. Truth be told, this happens to me a lot. People are drawn to me because I handle the not-so-happy times well. Then, when the happy times return, I am often a reminder of the not-so-happy times and get left behind for the new world, new life, new friends. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.

As much as I hate to admit it, I got it so much and to such a degree that I didn't work too hard to check in with them, make sure all was well, see beyond the surface. Because being my friend had gotten tiring. Because he didn't need me the same way he once had. So yeah, I sent a few emails, a couple cards, but when met with silence, I let them go. Figured it was about me. There had already been enough drama. I didn't want to be that friend who has drama, and is needy and insecure, too.

Then, they both got back in touch. *sigh*

They hadn't dropped off for happy reasons. They hadn't dropped off because of me. Life had gotten shitty and I'd made assumptions. Yes, it made sense for me not ask if everything was okay. Again, on their surfaces, both of these wonderful people were okay. But wow, not so much.

So, you've all been warned. From here on out, I am going to risk coming off as the friend who doesn't get it, who can't take the hint. From here on out, you are going to have to say "Pobble, I'm fine; it's you." Okay, maybe not that, exactly, but you get the idea. Because my friends ~ and if you are reading this, you count, if I know you're there or not ~ are worth a little digging, a little nagging, a little reminding that you aren't in it alone, any more than you've ever let me be in it alone. Face it; you're stuck with me.

And to those two friends, I'm sorry. I love you. Thanks for reaching out again. You're stuck with me, too. :)

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

And Introducing...

...Cam and Mrs. Pike!

Who came to visit us this past weekend. Cam pointed out that he and I will have been together ten years this October. On the one hand, that is reasonable. We've been friends a long time. On the other, how is it possible that he walked into my party ten freaking years ago???? And on yet the third hand that I keep close by just for situations like this, I can't really get my head around the fact that there was a time I didn't know him, and ten years seems mighty short.

As for Mrs. Cam, she came along not too much later. Cam told me about this woman he'd met and asked me to meet her. I agreed, because he was Cam and I'd been through a heartbreak with him and damned if I was going to watch him go through another one. Mrs. Pike and I met at a coffee shop ~ and I walked in with a huge chip on my shoulder. There was no way this lady was going to win me over in a couple of hours and a cup of coffee. Two hours later, I walked out, went home, and emailed Cam: Don't screw this one up. If you do, I'm keeping her. When I ended up a bridesmaid in their wedding, it was because of the relationship she and I had built, not because of the one I had with him. 

We ate and laughed and walked and braved the weather and ate some more. There were three bars on Bourbon Street. Two dance clubs. An upscale bar. A dive bar. Two different tours. A movie set. And a gecko.

The movie set

Not the movie set

My two favorite things I learned ~

Thing the First: The area just beyond Rampart Street used to be Storyville, the bordello/red light district. The working girls would wear jasmine perfume and dance to the music that was playing. It is believed that the word "jazz" was derived from the jasmine perfume they wore while dancing.

Thing the Second: Mrs. Pike and Lithus cut quite a rug. And they both play the spoons. Who would've guessed?

Not pictured: Spoons

Statues. Parks. Narrow streets. People watching. And talking until I was hoarse.

It was a whirlwind 72-hours that made me very happy.

Me, very happy

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, but good friends are priceless.

Still Wearing Stilettos

It's been a while since I've traveled, so it's been a while since I updated my travel blog, Stilettos in the Outback. However! Even though I haven't traveled in a few months, I live in New Orleans, so there's always an update if I think about it. I thought about it: French Quarter Fest. Especially good if you like pictures. :)

Those are stiletto-wearing Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a nice, quiet coffee.

Impatient Patient

Oh, I have been bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored. Nothing hurt badly enough to make me grateful to stay put, but if I moved too much, the incision pulled and it hurt. So, I've been sitting. Impatiently.

The sad part is not only have I been bored, but I've been boring.

Still, three people in three different ways, over three different venues, informed me today that I have been gone too long and the worry is beginning, in spite of my protestations against worrying. Which is fair. After all, you can only disappear for so long after a "don't worry" event and expect to still not worry. But Lord, I have nothing to write about.

Instead, have a few pictures. And know that I am back to (almost) full range of motion and will have things to write about again, soon. :)

The I.V. spot

The healing nicely, thank you very much, incision

Because we don't fuck around with beer and wine licenses down here in NOLA

The movie set being built on our corner

A gorgeous day in Louis Armstrong Park

Thank you for your concern, dear friends. One-armed hugs to you all.

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

I'm Here

Yesterday went well. Today, I feel as if I've been hit in the chest with a medicine ball, and have almost no range of motion without pain, so I'm not moving much. Sill, I'm doing far better than expected. More when I'm not typing one-handed. And yes, Ian, pictures, too ~ although I won't vouch for the level of adorableness. Thanks for all the good wishes!





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

It's A Quirk

As I have written here before ~ when you have a blog for eight freaking years, there isn't a lot that gets missed ~ I have physical quirks. Low blood pressure. Bad ears. Vaso vegal response. And a weird heart thingy. See how medically sophisticated that one is? Yeah, there's a reason for that one. That's all I know it as: Pobble's Weird Heart Thingy.

When I was 19, I was in rehearsals for Music Man when suddenly, I thought I was having a heart attack. Being a the-show-must-go-on-stupid-19-year-old type o'gal, I sat down and didn't tell a damn soul until my heart calmed back down again. After all, I might've lost the role, and dammit, I wanted to play Zanita! *insert eye roll here* That was the first episode. For the past 24 years, I have had them off and on, to greater and lesser degrees. My heart begins to race, to pound very hard. My hands get tingly. Sometimes I can breathe it down. Sometimes I pass out. There's no way of knowing which type of episode it's going to be when it starts. The "fun" is riding it out. 

The problem is that they are short. A really long episode only lasts about 30-40 minutes. A short one can be a couple minutes. Which means by the time I am in an ER and hooked up to a machine, I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Embarrassingly fine. The other problem is that I might have two episodes in a week ~ or I might not have one for three or four months. Another way to make it difficult to capture and diagnose. YAY!

It's been diagnosed as a panic attack (which it's not), magnesium deficiency (which it's not) and "Pobble just being weird" (which I am, but it's not, and really had no business being in a medical chart anyway). I've carried around a holter monitor. I've been poked, prodded, pictured, and painted. Nothing.

SO! Wednesday, I am getting a doo-hicky (wow, all these really technical terms; are you keeping up?) implanted in my chest. It's an implantable loop recorder, looks a lot like a thumb drive, and it goes just under my skin, in the right of my breast. It's like having an EKG machine under my skin. It will record all "events of note" and we will finally get this shit figured out.

I'm excited. Yes, nervous, but mostly excited. Plus? I get to be bionic. As Nemeria and I were discussing, I get to have an EKG. Under. My skin. How cool is this????? And Lithus thinks scars are sexy, so I'm all good.

And yes, I'll keep you posted. :)

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

Let's Get A Few Things Cleared Up

1. Boston, Watertown, and the surrounding areas were not paralyzed. Were not cowering in fear. To suggest otherwise is disrespectful, but more, it is wrong. You don't do this kind of a thing to our city and get away with it. Period. So yes, they stayed home. They baked cookies (*waves*). They joked and laughed and kept their kids calm. Not out of fear of you, but in order to stop you. And to make other people think twice.

2. Anyone who uses these events as excuses to hurt, maim, bully, or torment another human being based on their (real or perceived) ethnicity or religion is no better than the bombers. You are not a true American. You are not the good guys. You are not extracting justice. Justice was done last night, in Watertown, by officers of the law. You are racist bigots. Don't use my town as an excuse for your hate.

3. I cannot celebrate life lost. Not the lives of the victims, be they at the race or in the week following. But I cannot celebrate the lives lost of the bombers, either. And yes, the 19 year old young man's life is lost, as much as his brother's, just differently. These are people. People who did horrible things, who deserve the justice they received. But I cannot lose sight of their humanity. I can ~ and I do ~ celebrate that they are off the streets, that they have been brought to justice. I cannot ~ I will not ~ celebrate their lives lost.

4. Everybody's learned the lesson now, right? Don't fuck with Boston.



Now, I think we can go back to "regular" blogging ~ whatever the hell that means. :)

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

'Nuff Said

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

Hey! Hey, You!

We were incorporated in 1630. We have the oldest school. The oldest library. The first subway system. We're the oldest, the original, the best.

You and your three measly bombs? Please. We're Boston. You're nothing.

Those are goddamn Boston Pobble Thoughts. And fuck you.

Screaming Liberal Post #7

Boys! Check it out! Be A Hero!

This is so cool. I would totally buy this for my nephews. Hell, I've got a couple of nieces I would buy this for! Maybe they've got one with Wonder Woman or Storm or Black Widow, in keeping with the Avengers theme.

Let's see what we have for girls...

...

...

...

Are You Fucking KIDDING ME????? What century are we LIVING IN?????

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

And Then There Was My Ego

I had a second interview for a job. From the beginning of this process, I have wanted this job. It is a family support position, and that is my favorite office gig. I mean, I love family support. You know what I don't love? Kids. They are messy and sticky and smell. They are loud and demanding and needy. But, that being said, I am a really good support/advocate for parents with messy, sticky, smelly, loud, demanding, and needy kids. So I have wanted this job. I have fought for this job.

Until ...

Until I spent an hour actually doing the job. Wow. It took about ten minutes to go from isn't that sweet; the kids love her to holy shit, I'd be expected to do this and dear god, will this interview never end? I just want to go home. And then I sat with the women who are providing the support to the kids themselves.

They challenged me appropriately, and even a bit inappropriately but from a place of loyalty to the kids. They wanted to know what I brought to the table. They were clear that they did not think I had any business being there. They weren't even listening to my answers; they just wanted more than whatever I was giving them. They want an early childhood development specialist. Their bosses are interviewing a family support specialist. Those are two very different jobs.

And that's when my ego kicked in. That's when I (mentally) went to fuck you, I'll show you I can do this job. By the time I left, I had even convinced myself I still wanted this job. My immediate reaction was that it would really come down to hiring who the bosses want, or hiring who the children support women want. Sat with that until I got home. 

After a nap, and some coffee, I found myself remembering...the boogy nose; the chicken in the chocolate milk ~ and the drinking of the concoction; the dirty hands; the mess. The overwhelming kidness of the whole thing.

Nope. I don't want this job. My ego will just have to deal with that. Will just have to deal with the fact that, if I can do this job or not, I am not the best person for it. The best person for this job isn't a family support specialist. She's an early childhood development specialist who loves kids, who doesn't see the stickiness or smell the smell. Pitching in to help the other providers will be a highlight of her day. And yes, she'll be able to give the families assistance, but her love will be the children. In all their messy, sticky, smelly, loud, demanding, needy glory.

Should they call and offer me the job, I will turn it down. Should they call to tell me they have gone in another direction, I will tell them they made the right decision. Either way, my ego can just sit the hell down and deal. I don't need to spend three months miserable and then finally quit in an explosion of angst and misery. Let's save us all from that, shall we, ego?

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

Proper v. Ladylike

In my profile, I say I am a quivering mass of contradictions. It's oh so true. 

Last night, Lithus and I split a porterhouse. By mutual agreement, he ended up with the bone. At the end of the meal, he was eyeing it wistfully and I said "oh good grief, pick it up!" That's all it took. With a childlike smile, he grabbed that thing up and started gnawing. I told him I was almost offended that he had hesitated at all, instead of digging right in. He shrugged, as if to say "there are limits..." 

But we weren't in public. We weren't out at a multi-starred restaurant. We didn't even have guests over (as opposed to family, who wouldn't have cared any more than I do). It was just the two of us, in our own home. Hell, the curtains were even closed. If you can't pick up a steak bone and start gnawing then, when can you?

That being said...We've had a friend staying here the last month, or so. We're all easy with each other and respectful of small space, so it has been more pleasant than three, unrelated people in a one bedroom apartment really has any right to be. At the same time, I haven't gone barefoot since he got here. Going out, I take my slippers off and put on my shoes. Coming home, I kick my shoes off and go directly into my slippers ~ which I have left by the door, so that I can put them on as soon as my shoes come off.

Wha...?

I love being barefoot. And we have floors that feel really good on bare feet. It just hasn't felt...proper. In thinking about it, I don't believe I ever saw my grandmothers' bare feet. One of them lived where there was a pool, and I cannot believe she never took us there ~ but I cannot remember it, for certain. Shoes, certainly. House slippers, yes. Bare feet? I have no memory at all of that. It wasn't proper. Now that I have a long-term house guest, my feet have been shod. 

I've sat at the table with our friend, gotten drunk on brown liquor, and told off-color jokes, mind you. I just haven't been barefoot. Don't much care about being ladylike; apparently care a great deal about being proper. Maybe it's what makes me a lady, instead of just ladylike. Or maybe, I'm just a quivering mass of contradictions. That's always an option.

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

Eh-Ster

Easter is a weird kind of day for me. On the one hand, it's just a random Sunday. Seriously. Ostara, my Spring holiday, has come and gone; it's not today. Unlike Christmas, I have no lingering, warm memories of it, or any secular ties to it. In fact, one of my most embarrassing nights out ever took place on Easter (*waves to the person who was with me, and still blushes*), so really, that's not a good memory. All in all, it's ... a day. On the other hand, many of my friends are Christian, and today is really, really important to them. Any solid theologian will tell you Easter is far more religiously important than Christmas. And, most importantly, it is the day in my father's faith that promises him he will see me again, and therefore me that I will see him again. My faith makes me that promise on other days and in other ways. But today is his promise, and I can't disregard that, lightly or otherwise.

So, today, I remember my father. The Weenie. And I throw open the windows, grateful I live in New Orleans, where it's warm enough to do that. And I'll clean house, because the house needs cleaning. And I'll probably eat some chocolate ~ although probably not cross-shaped or clasped hand-shaped chocolates, because that's just a little weird. It will be another day for me, but I will recognize that for others, some very important others, it is far, far more than that.

The Weenie and me, circa 1988 or '89

An oldie but a goodie

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

His Name Was Steven

*possible triggers herein*

Steven was a British teenager who was set on fire at a birthday party. He was gay. He was invited to a birthday party. And they set him on fire. I have wept daily over this young man's death. I can hardly write about him. Which is why I must. They invited him to a party and then they set him on fire because he was gay.

His name was Lawrence. He was a 15 year old 8th grader when he was shot in the back of the head, because he was gay.

His name was Anthony. He was 18 years old when he was beaten and stomped to death. Because he was gay.

His name is Caylend. He had "f**" written on him and was teased and humiliated all day at school. He's been attacked in the bathroom. Because he is believed to be gay.

Her name is Sondra. She was beaten to unconsciousness because she is a lesbian ~ who was also trying to defend a child being bullied for having two mothers.

Her name is Cheyenne. She was attacked and thrown off a cliff by classmates who have known her their entire lives. Because she is a lesbian. Her attackers were originally charged with attempted murder. It was reduced to menacing by the judge.

His name was Jadin. He hanged himself after years of being bullied because he was gay.

The right to marry is important. I get it. I do. I just also think there are other, more pressing issues. If it truly turns out to be the first step and the rallying cry, great. Something has to come first. I get that, too. I do.

Call me a cynic, but I don't believe that will be the case. I believe DOMA will be overturned, there will be much rejoicing, and the general population will lose interest. I want to be wrong. I will happily admit I was wrong ~ from the mountaintops ~ if I am. I just...*sigh*

Regardless, when we have children in the world being beaten, attacked, bullied to the point of suicide, and murdered, do not tell me that marriage is the key. Is the most important first step we could be taking. Or at least do not expect me to agree.

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

Crash and Burn

It happened this morning. My hard drive crashed. Luckily, I was (almost) entirely backed up, so I didn't lose much. None of my writing is gone, either because I backed it up or because I have emailed it. But I did lose some stuff: pictures taken since my last backup (a couple months ago). A couple folders of "little" stuff. Some silly downloads. Nothing worth crying over. But it got me thinking...

My mother is currently scanning pictures from 70 years ago. Longer. Pictures of my grandparents before my mother was born. Pictures of my grandmother as a young woman. She is able to scan them because we have them. Tangible, hard copies. Almost every picture I have taken in 2013 is gone. Pictures taken in 1949 still exist. How much other stuff are we going to lose access to as technology moves forward? 

Don't get me wrong; I embrace new tech. I really do. But maybe we don't have to throw out the old tech, just because something new comes along, either. I live in a world of "both" and that makes me very happy. 

I like photographs. And yes, I like being able to click through on my camera and show off a digital image and being able to upload them easily. You know me...both.

Those are grateful she didn't lose more than she did Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

143 Mr. Rogers

Happy Birthday, Mr. Rogers. You loved every single one of us, genuinely and unconditionally. You were the best of us. Thank you.

Watch A Message of Hope on PBS. See more from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood.

Those are Mr. Rogers' thoughts. That will get you a whole lot more than coffee.

In Seconds, People. Seconds.

I was chatting with Lori the other night and admitted I own two blenders. Here's the real secret, though: I am now thinking about getting a third. Why? Because Lori said this: "So I bought a blender. Because it can turn ice into snow in seconds." 

Oh my God.

Ice. Into snow. In seconds. I totally need one of these. I love frosty drinks. I live where it is hot, hot, hot. How do I not have one of these already?

The search was on. If you search sno-cone maker, you get something that looks like this:

An example of ice to snow. In seconds.

And costs anywhere from $1000 to a monthly salary. Huh. What about that. Since I'm not looking to cool off an entire elementary school, or intoxicate all of Cancun at spring break, perhaps something smaller. 

At which point, I found this:

The Margaritaville Margarita Maker

Now, far be it from me to give Jimmy Buffett margarita tips, but this thing costs anywhere between $450 and $550, depending on where you buy it. It's a fancified blender. That's it. It doesn't have to have the word "Margaritaville" on it in order to take me there. Although, the thing the man knows better than margaritas and music is money making, so maybe he doesn't need tips from me anyway...

Still, given that I already have two blenders that work perfectly well, maybe I don't have to have one that turns ice into snow in seconds. As it is, I can have a smoothie, a frozen lemonade, or yes, a margarita, in less than three minutes. I guess that's fast enough. And if I'm wrong, I can always go this route:

And I won't even feel guilty adding liquor!

Those are (admittedly envious) Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

On The Streets Of NOLA

Just to and from the grocery store this evening...

1. Two men, both very drunk, both with painted faces. One man to the other: "No, really, the turquoise butterfly is very butch."

2. Two women, having just stepped out of the hotel. "This town is so unreal. It's like Harry Potter here."

3. The same two women. A man in very nice dress shoes approaches from behind, and does the fast pass, leather soles clicking on the sidewalk. "Oh my God, that was a man! I thought it was a woman. Who knew men could sound like that? Do you know men could sound like that?"

I love my town.

Those are Pobble Thoughts ~ with some help from some tourists. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, or perhaps butter beer.

And while we're being all church-y and Christian-y and shit, there's this:



 



Yeah, folks, the world is a'changing.

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

Habemus Papam

This Pagan is quite excited. Don't get me wrong ~ I know nothing about the new Pope, except what we all just learned: he's from Argentina; he's 76; he rides the bus at home. I'm still excited. He appears humble. He appears to be connected to the people in a way that is important. He is reported to be an intellectual. 

Why do I care? He is the leader of billions of people on the planet. That makes him important, regardless of your religion. The man's got power. Serious ass power.

Also, I have great affection for religious leaders. Priests (of all varieties), Imams, Rabbis, Nuns, Ministers, Priestesses ... I love them as a group. Of course, I have absolutely met religious leaders that I didn't like as people. As a group? Great affection. And I want them to love me, too. That's the kicker. 

It is hard to find a religious leader who loves me for me. Who accepts me for me. Who doesn't want to convert me, or fix me, or tell me I'm wrong. I'm Pagan. I'm female. I'm not exactly heteronormative. I associate with people who are even less traditionally religiously acceptable than I am, and none of us really give a damn.

For now, an hour into his...reign? term? appointment? whatever it's called... I will stay excited. Stay pleased. I pray to the Goddess that he is a good man, who will love me, as much as I want to love him.

Come on, Francis, I'm pulling for ya!

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

ETA at 4:22 ~ Well...shit. Apparently, he is openly anti-gay marriage. Honestly, this in and of itself is not a turning point for me. I don't happen to believe that marriage should be the most important issue facing the LGBTQ community. I'm more concerned with safety and job discrimination than just marriage. What is concerning to me is that he also considers gay adoption a form of discrimination against children. Hmmm... Okay, Francis, I've gone from pulling for you to praying for you. You can do this. You really, really can.

Huh, Who Knew?

My apologies to Nemeria, Grandma Carol, and Anonymous. Thanks to Nemeria, I have learned that some comments ~ very real, very not-spam comments ~ were marked as spam. I didn't even know comments *could* be marked as spam. Given some of the comments that have made it through, Blogger is going to spam them? Ah well. Hopefully, the issue is now handled.

And Grandma Carol, thanks for the comment relating my hair to Merida's. That made me very, very happy.

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

A Kind Of, Sort Of Movie Review: The Cabin in the Woods

With spoilers approaching rapidly, so read appropriately.

...in which five stereotypes go to a remote cabin in the woods, and proceed to be killed off. And yet...

We learn early on that everything is being manipulated, from the cabin itself to the college kids, by an underground organization of (mainly) men in white shirts and black ala 1960s NASA. Eventually, we learn that these five are intentionally stereotypes ~ The Whore, The Athlete, The Scholar, The Fool, and The Virgin ~ which is a nice nod to understanding that, yes, indeed, five stereotypes walked into the woods.

Through a series of seemingly, and oh so not, random events, the stereotypes end up choosing how they die (Zombie Redneck Killing Family). What we learn eventually, though, is that just about every possible terrifying thing you can think of from your worst nightmares was an option. Things you didn't even know you were scared of were options. Kudos to the writers because they came up with the scary.

Which brings us to why I'm writing about it. One of the people high in the echelon of this movie is arachnophobic. The giant spider is there ~ it has to be ~ but only oh so vaguely. Blink and you miss it there. While we are watching every terrifying thing EVER kill huge numbers of people, the giant spider keeps not showing up. Eventually, we see two large, furry spider legs and a character take an ax to them, but aside from the legs, the rest of the spider is offscreen.

It is impossible for the writers and director to have left this one out. They had a child ballerina with a gaping maw of spiky teeth where her face should be for god's sake. They thought of "giant spider." But, as I have said for years, you never have to worry about being ambushed by a picture from an actual arachnophobe, because we don't post them. We don't make you look at them, because we cannot look at them. I think the same must apply to movies. No matter how scary, no matter how many phobic stereotypes you bring in, if you are arachnophobic, you don't add the spider. First time I've ever experienced it, and it was intriguing (I'm such a sociology nerd, I know).

To wrap up the review ~ which is totally secondary to the "huh, someone there was phobic" realization ~ the movie's pretty good, if you're into that kind of thing. It would've been much, much scarier if they had left out the part about the ancients and just let it be a psycho corporation doing it because they could. But maybe that's just me. Still, good flick and strongly delivered. With the bonus of not having to hide your eyes if you don't like spiders. If it's clowns or creepy white kids that get you though, know you're kind of fucked.

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

Bits and Pieces

Once again, I have gone long enough without blogging, and little enough obvious has come up, that I am a bit overwhelmed. So, here are some random bits of babble. Nothing big enough for its own blog post, but little snippets that make their way through my brain...

Lithus has gotten his flight simulator up and running. I cannot wait to try it. :)

I have discovered the joys of time management games. It's the strangest thing; I love them. Not the ones where you have to make the burger or decorate the cakes. Those bore me. These are the ones where you have to complete certain tasks (build the road, collect the gold, save the bunnies, whatever) in a certain amount of time. It doesn't matter if it's an island kingdom or the roads to Rome or an evacuation of Atlantis, I'm hooked. Same game, different backgrounds. It doesn't matter; I love 'em.

A friend of mine from high school and I have gotten back in touch. We are like this ~ we can go literally for years. We always think we have lost the other one. Then, we haven't. And it is as if we talked last week. It's been ... four years?...this time. Doesn't matter.

I realize how often I write that about my friends. That I am back in touch with someone and it feels like yesterday. The FE; my Muppet; London. Now Starbuck. There's a reason I can say this so often: I am truly blessed. Blessed to have met some amazing people who love and value me as much as I love and value them. It isn't because I am nonchalant with the statement "oh, it was like yesterday!" It's because I take it so very seriously when it finds me.

As of this week, I can now do one set of 12 reps of pushups on my toes. They are the wimpiest, wussiest little pushups you have ever seen. My elbows barely bend. But they do bend. And then they straighten back up again. Considering that a year ago I started doing pushups against the wall because I couldn't do a single one, even on my toes, I am thrilled.

And because it's me, here are some lovely, lovely people to look at. Just for fun.

Hm. There should be more smiles up there, because nothing is sexier than a smile. Just look at Don Cheadle... Next time.

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

Thank You, Kindle (and Amazon, and Food Network)

We saw this commercial last night. It may never air again. Part of me expects it will never air again. But by God, it aired at least once and I saw it.




 Looks like I gotta get a kindle. From Amazon. And read cookbooks by Food Network chefs on it. Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ with a side of human rights.

A Part of the Scenery

Lithus and I were out this evening, wandering our streets and taking it all in.  It had been raining hard all day, so it was nice to be out and enjoying it, instead of out and wet and miserable. We were about two blocks away from our apartment when Lithus noted that the area looked like something out of some noir film. Dark City. Sin City. Maltese Falcon.

Glistening streets: check. Flashing neon signs with letters burned out: check. Fog around the street lamps: check. Run-down, formerly elegant stone and brick buildings: check. Windows lit behind sheer curtains: check. I was literally opening my mouth to say all that was missing was some smoky brunette wearing a PVC trench coat when I remembered...

I was wearing this:

For the first time ever, I had a sense of being part of the scenery. Not just an observer, but part of what made New Orleans so special for someone else. Shame the sax player was home for the night...

Just because you can't see the smoky brunette doesn't mean she isn't there.

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

Four Years

Happy Anniversary, to my Dear Lithus. Four years ago tonight, we were in our living room, with Dr. B., my mom and her husband, and Flora. Crow, Bil, my heart and the hatchlings were in attendance via web cam. The Lovely Cats was scolding us all for not taking it seriously enough. And Lionel was decked out in his tux.

It's only been four years. Good grief, it feels longer. We've been through a lot. And I have spent the last several weeks being awed and humbled by how much I can love another human being, while also being amazed at how perfectly he loves me.

He is loved. So am I. It's good.

Those are happy, wedded bliss Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ and a partner in crime.

A Reminder...

Because it's good to remember.

If you've already seen it, watch it again. You know you want to. If you haven't seen it, watch it. Trust me, you want to.



Now, excuse me, I have to go be not boring. 

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