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.

Mardi Gras! (With Visual Aids)

You will find more pictures than you could ever want to see over here. For now, let's talk King Cake and beads. Two vitally important parts of Carnival/Mardi Gras. We had them both in spades. 

Oh my goodness, do I love King Cake.

Rouses is our local (AH-may-zing) grocery store. While their King Cake is not the best, it is damn good. Plus, it's less than half the price of the other least expensive place and it's in walking distance. How does this suck? It doesn't. That's how.

The colors of Mardi Gras are purple (for justice), green (for faith), and gold (for power), thus King Cakes ~ and everything else in town ~ are decorated as they are. Can you see in the hole in the middle of the cake there is...a something? That something is a plastic baby. Usually, after baking, but before glazing, a plastic baby is shoved down into the cake. Then, the whole thing is colored and glazed so you can't see where the baby was buried. Whoever gets the plastic baby buys the next King Cake.

The King Cake baby, rescued from the hole

I have three thoughts on the plastic baby phenomenon. Thought the first ~ Why doesn't Rouses put their babies in the cake? Why throw them in the hole, leaving it for the host or hostess to implant the baby, thus showing where the baby is so everyone can avoid that piece of cake? I don't know. Maybe this is why they are less than half of the cost of other King Cakes. 

Thought the second ~ Most articles you will read about the history of King Cake read something along the lines of "A baby, usually a plastic one these days, is..." Surely I am not the only one whose brain works faster than her ability to read. The rest of the sentence inevitably talks about how the baby used to be porcelain or clay, but dear God, every time I read one of these articles, I think "did they use real ones before the invention of plastic babies???????"

Thought the third ~ Every King Cake box I've seen is emblazoned with "WARNING: Inedible Baby Inside." Which makes me wonder: Is there any other kind? I'm just asking. 

King Cakes have gotten fancy and they fill them with...fillings now. Lithus and I got daring and went for the praline pecan. Wow. My teeth ache at the thought of it. I had no idea there could be such a thing as too much praline pecan filling. But see???!!!!???

Just one slice

This year, we decided to get a wee bit creative with our beads.

But we rapidly (as in not even one parade-worth) ran out of room in our pretty apothecary jar. So we went with the hanging technique. 

Please note, best parade bling EVER

And then finally resorted to the puddle look.

Even Bear and Snorlax got into the act.

Bear in his Rex bracelet and Snorlax with his beads...

And now that it's over, I just may have time to blog again. Happy Mardi Gras, everyone!

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