tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132560822024-03-07T17:25:35.777-06:00Telling Deedsgreedy chalk-dusted succubusKatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.comBlogger247125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-2993370315396200542012-01-18T13:04:00.000-06:002012-01-18T13:04:00.562-06:00Wayback - Cradle Robbing<b>In 2000, I went to Italy for 12 days. While there, I got a crush on a boy many years younger. This is me explaining to two former readers of this blog. From August 25, 2004.</b><br />
<br />
For <a href="http://divadrip.blogspot.com/">Diva</a> and <a href="http://pbw.blogspot.com/">Trillian</a>, a tale of (almost) unrequited love.<br />
<br />
He’s
just adorable. Amused gray eyes, shy smile, large, strong arms and
hands, tall enough to look up at, and smart, but oh, way too young. He
came on slowly, just getting under my skin. It could have been the
exotic location, or it could be that he’s just adorable. I found myself
looking for him everywhere, wanting to know exactly where he stood with
relation to me at all times. If I wasn’t looking directly at him, I
used my peripheral vision to search for the black hair, the beard or
the blue baseball cap. <br />
<br />
In the cathedrals and in the ruins, I
found myself standing in the back, away from the guide at the front of
the crowd, just so I could talk to him and be close to him. He’s so
eager to learn, so aware of everything around him, so positive about
everything. I wonder if I was ever that young, ever that polite, or
ever that enthusiastic.<br />
<br />
I started to admire him in Venice,
noticed his build, the maleness of his body and the way he moved. He
held a beer, a Beck’s, in one hand as he saw me look at him, and
managed to look sheepish and unapologetic at the same time. On the long
ride to Florence in the bus, I played games with his cousin in the
hopes that I could get his attention and talk to him. It took a while,
but it seemed to work. We played card games and Uno, and I taught him
how to play Gin. He proceeded to kick my ass in Gin almost every time
thereafter, but I taught him. Maybe some day I’ll get to ask him his
strategy, how he manages to win at least 3 out of 4 games. <br />
<br />
In
Florence, he mentioned going out at night so we decided to go together.
We found the open-air bar recommended by the guidebook, and had a few
drinks while listening to, of all things, a Dixie-land jazz band called
Dixie Train. Had to go from Texas to Florence to hear that. He talked
about music and movies, and was charming and funny. The next night in a
Florentine bar called Be Bop, I was nervous that his leg was touching
mine under the table as we listened to the cover band. I entertained
fantasies about being alone with him, finding the courage to tell him
that I found him attractive, or just jumping him in a dark corner of
the hotel, but always turned away by the simple fact of age. <br />
<br />
Thinking
about him now makes me smile more than I have in a long time. Two
nights in Rome I went to his room instead of going to bed, ostensibly
to play cards and relieve my boredom, but in actuality just to be in
his company for a few hours more. <br />
<br />
I do wish to be 21 at this
moment, more than anything I have wanted before. Does it count that I
feel 21, that my heart pounds when I see that he responded to an
e-mail, that at this minute I can’t imagine the rest of my life without
being able to see his face out of the corner of my eye? (Maybe I can
call him, and tell him that I just want to use him for sex. Any
21-year-old would go for that, right? I could call him and tell him
that I have a crush on him, and he won’t think that it’s creepy at all.
My family would approve, and so would his, especially since his mother
liked me. When he moves to Seattle to go to stuntman school, he can
just take me with him. That would work.) <br />
<br />
I want the courage
and conviction to do something about what I am feeling, or for the
feeling to go away. I keep telling myself that there is no way that he
could like me or be attracted to me. I am too old, overweight, too
annoyingly sarcastic, and too passive to be someone that he could love.
<br />
<br />
Too many people were in the way in Italy, and also just me,
embarrassed for what I feel, afraid of what my friends would think of
me, terrified that he would not feel the same way about me. And yet,
telling myself all the horrible things, all the ways in which it
wouldn’t work, inventing flaws, I still feel these things for this boy.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-54379495215298904542012-01-11T19:52:00.000-06:002012-01-11T19:52:00.438-06:00Wayback - Long vs. Short Hair<b>Another Wayback, this one from the same month as last week, September 2, 2004.</b><br />
<br />
About 18 months ago I cut my hair. Severely. I still have really short
hair now, but my profile photos on the dating sites were old. When I
joined my current pay site, I used a recent photo and I haven't had any
responses. Yesterday I changed the photo to an older one with shoulder
length hair to see if that might be why boys aren't a' callin', and I
got 2 "waves" in 12 hours. After none for almost a month.<br />
<br />
I
am not ugly, with short or long hair. I have been called "cute" more
times than I can count, which I hate, by the way. I am not a different
person with longer hair. I even act the same as I did then, more or
less. Why is hair so important to everyone?<br />
<br />
When I cut my hair,
everyone assumed something was wrong with me. Even a couple of my
closest friends got worried, thinking that it was a symptom of a deep
depression or something. One of them even took me out to lunch to try
to find out what was the matter. Nothing is wrong, I just always wanted
to cut my hair and see what it was like. I even made some art about it.<br />
<br />
It
was interesting to hear the responses from the different people. I got
pretty much a gender-standard response. All the girls had to come up
and touch my head. They walked around me and looked at it really
closely and said, "What did you DO?" All the boys said, "Hunh. You have
a really nice-shaped head."<br />
<br />
At work everyone assumed that I was
ill with something serious, and I hadn't even thought how much some of
my students would worry or assume something was wrong. To me it was
just hair, not my identity. Apparently I was looking at this all wrong.<br />
<br />
Now
I am sure that people assume way too much based on the length of a
woman's hair. I must be a lesbian, I must be sick, I must be depressed,
there has to be something wrong with me. (Okay, just so I don't get
hate mail for this, NO, I don't think that there is anything wrong with
being a lesbian but that is how many people look at it, unfortunately
for lesbians. Except for almost every man who ever lived, but then the
only use they have for lesbians is asking them if they can watch.)<br />
<br />
Now
I wonder what is the problem with a photo of me with short hair. Do the
men assume that I am manly, or in the closet? Do they all have to
subscribe to the feminine stereotype of long, flowing locks? Most of
them don't qualify in that area. Why should I pull a bait and switch
just to get the opportunity to meet a guy? If I start e-mailing
someone, should I not tell him that my hair is short until I meet him?
Why are boys so dumb?* (Don't answer unless you really want to. Most of
these are rhetorical.)<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*BTW, I am aware that I lapse too often into stereotypes. I apologize, most profusely. I have grown a lot over the past seven years, but didn't want to edit these to make myself seem a better person than I was at the time.</span>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-31343268465335434732012-01-04T11:20:00.000-06:002012-01-04T11:20:00.713-06:00Wayback - An Art Teacher<b>This comes from October 6, 2004. There used to be links that now do't work. There is a blog called "Happiness Squared," but it's not the same one from 2004.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
Found a blog the other day from links from others. I love to see what
other people read, and almost always check it out to see if I enjoy it
as well. I found this one, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">happiness is. . .</span> when I looked on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Metrotronic</span> and I just had to comment on a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">post</span>. The following was the result.<br />
<br />
I'm an art teacher. That still surprises me sometimes. This was not my aspiration, as those of you who have read my "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">find your bliss</span>" entry know.<br />
<br />
What
I didn't explain in that entry is my total lack of artistic talent. I
didn't have any talent of which to speak. I still don't. I have learned
skills that allow me to draw what I can see, that's all. Talent had
nothing to do with that.<br />
<br />
Now, Bear and any others who have ever
seen my drawings are disagreeing with me right now. But. . .I'm right.
Talent is the natural ability to do something, usually without formal
training. That's not me. Without lots of hard work and learning a new
way of thinking, I would not be an art teacher or even much of an
artist now. Not that I am denigrating my ability to create realistic
representations of things. If anything, I have great confidence in that
skill, because it is a skill. I learned it, and am unlikely to unlearn
it.<br />
<br />
I try to teach this to my students. "Drawing is a skill."
Sometimes your creativity can pair with your skill to reach amazing
heights. If you want to be an artist, all you have to do is practice. I
truly believe this. Hopefully it makes me a better teacher, but that I
don't know for certain.<br />
<br />
Yes, I believe talent exists. Talent,
though, only takes you so far. Drive led me, a non-art person, to
become an art teacher. If I had relied on talent, I would not be where
I am now, with 650 loving, wonderful and open students willing to take
a risk on my say-so. It feels pretty good sometimes to be me.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-41964348469916714312011-12-28T18:35:00.000-06:002011-12-28T18:35:00.318-06:00Wayback - Trevor<b>This post is about my little friend Trevor. It originally appeared on September 9, 2004.</b><br />
<br />
Today I was in the hall, delivering some students back to class when <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Trevor</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"> appears and hugs me. He looks up at me with his adorable face and says, "Hi. "</span><br />
<br />
<div class="blogPost">
I
hug him back for a bit, and then let him know that I have to go.
"Trevor honey, there are students in my room and I have to go."<br />
"Okay," he says, "I can come and help you with them."<br />
"Well,
not today," I tell him. "We'll have to talk to your teacher and find a
really good time for you to come help me. Maybe we can try it when
you've had a really good day and have been nice to Mrs. Smith." I hug
him again and tell him to be good, and that I will see him later.<br />
I turn to go back to my room, and there he is again.<br />
He looks at me and says, "How much do you love me?"<br />
I put my arms around him, look at him, and without hesitation I say, "I love you a lot."<br />
Trevor
turns up his face for a kiss, and although this is not something that I
normally do, I kiss my little friend. He smiles at me and goes back to
his class.</div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-5285193886529921292011-12-26T20:05:00.000-06:002011-12-26T20:05:00.486-06:00P. C. Hodgell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1bcYQmKOyIInEByuxhYKyqczSnX8b1zIyhT9S96wiaIDOd_oOo-UX_ZpEkWZ-ahfF8lM39v7DX29jTDM1Fv9gyL4ju-E2QKZhu2lCOfxzh7WhjHZsAV88I6bYCnw7JPvjoqcFnw/s1600/godstalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1bcYQmKOyIInEByuxhYKyqczSnX8b1zIyhT9S96wiaIDOd_oOo-UX_ZpEkWZ-ahfF8lM39v7DX29jTDM1Fv9gyL4ju-E2QKZhu2lCOfxzh7WhjHZsAV88I6bYCnw7JPvjoqcFnw/s320/godstalk.jpg" width="194" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My absolute favorite book, other than <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hitchhikers-Guide-Galaxy-Douglas-Adams/dp/0345418913/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1324355585&sr=8-7">Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy</a></i>, is called <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/God-Stalk-P-C-Hodgell/dp/0940841444/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1324355676&sr=8-2">Godstalk</a>* </i> by <a href="http://www.amazon.com/P.-C.-Hodgell/e/B000AP5DVG/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1324355676&sr=8-1">PC Hodgell</a>. I have no recollection where I got it, but I know that I loaned it to a friend and didn't get it back for at least a year. Mine is a very beat up Berkley edition from 1983. I have no idea how many times I've read it, and I can't believe it's not more well known.<br />
<br />
Her world building includes one of the concepts that I remember from tales of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser by <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lankhmar-Book-1-Swords-Deviltry/dp/1595820795/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1324357228&sr=8-3">Fritz Leiber</a>, that gods exist because of belief in same, and must have followers to continue. This idea continues most recently in Neil Gaiman's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/American-Gods-Novel-Neil-Gaiman/dp/0060558121/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1324357407&sr=1-1">American Gods</a>.<br />
<br />
I loved that this book had a female protagonist, a girl with no memory. She comes to a city called Tai-Tastigon and gets taken in by an innkeeper. Then she has adventures around the city, which has various organizations that of course include a thieves guild. Magic exists, and gods and other dimensions too. It's all fascinating stuff.<br />
<br />
From Chapter 1, Jame (short for Jamethiel) staggers around the city on its most dangerous night:<br />
<br />
Her legs betrayed her, and she went down, too spent to remember her bad arm until she tried to break her fall with it. Pain dazed her, spiraled her senses toward darkness. "Don't go," she heard someone cry. "Don't leave me alone, not again!" Yes, it was her voice, but this time no one answered. For a moment she clung to the image of that empty hallway, the last of her old home that she would ever see. Then it too slipped away.<br />
<br />
The cobbles beneath her hand were hard and cold, glazed with ice from the bitter rain that had begun to fall. She lifted her face to it. It seemed to wash away everything - icy street, shuttered windows, even, at last, itself. Jame let them all go. Numbly, like a sleepwalker, she rose and stumbled on, beyond guilt and grief at last, moving blindly forward until the night swallowed all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Which isn't in print any more, you have to either buy a used copy or as part of an <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Gods-P-C-Hodgell/dp/1892065266/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_7">omnibus</a> (also out of print) or <a href="http://www.amazon.com/God-Stalker-Chronicles-P-C-Hodgell/dp/1439133360/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_2">reissue</a>.</span>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-48997898481038891222011-12-25T11:28:00.000-06:002011-12-25T11:28:00.364-06:00Merry Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Jf8HcB7XWHr2gZ6EQN4u3B-ucL0dabDd15VzKtV_j_Mfpv0dmH-j1saN8kDQ0n3_feJ75lctHiHq0MBwDZiOMD0_Pr9z_L0PpG6CqTKlLUpa6vA8zRfC_7nMAxaJWvpE0B6C7w/s1600/01backyardsnow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Jf8HcB7XWHr2gZ6EQN4u3B-ucL0dabDd15VzKtV_j_Mfpv0dmH-j1saN8kDQ0n3_feJ75lctHiHq0MBwDZiOMD0_Pr9z_L0PpG6CqTKlLUpa6vA8zRfC_7nMAxaJWvpE0B6C7w/s1600/01backyardsnow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Jf8HcB7XWHr2gZ6EQN4u3B-ucL0dabDd15VzKtV_j_Mfpv0dmH-j1saN8kDQ0n3_feJ75lctHiHq0MBwDZiOMD0_Pr9z_L0PpG6CqTKlLUpa6vA8zRfC_7nMAxaJWvpE0B6C7w/s400/01backyardsnow.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">February 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's not snowing here, and it almost never does on Christmas. But, it has snowed in DFW in February the last two years in a row, so I posted these as a suitably Christmassy alternative.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, to you and yours, and may you be with those you love for more hours than those you merely tolerate. Here's hoping that you receive warmth, goodwill and love in addition to whatever goodies might be under your tree.*<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw2AYMzTH4jHL-8qF26MwdzKXYxGLw6fqwNs9yDbEORb28u8OZ66WXT_0D0FaNcEz5KbZEUOe7edaoRVQtlnC5GfcwgthuvbmsAIlAQZmAIQx-5uPtH0EMot8sI98kpSgzXY0aqA/s1600/Image02012011140935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw2AYMzTH4jHL-8qF26MwdzKXYxGLw6fqwNs9yDbEORb28u8OZ66WXT_0D0FaNcEz5KbZEUOe7edaoRVQtlnC5GfcwgthuvbmsAIlAQZmAIQx-5uPtH0EMot8sI98kpSgzXY0aqA/s400/Image02012011140935.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">February, 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Or not, since maybe you don't celebrate Christmas, I don't know. I'm about as religious as my cat (or some suitably atheist person I can't come up with right now) and I still have family time and gifts and crap. I'm not judging. </span></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-84691195772525458892011-12-25T09:10:00.000-06:002011-12-25T09:10:00.068-06:00Sunday Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmNoqjNOgEUuuK8fqRwmVzlOeFdDGXv6LAzfwiHny3-G2BdCRjBuN0-zF0KD5npHLOgrRwTO5PY_WwVEj1yPq1OhXMnf7wQnEqSgcJLzsSKl_2y-P3WEImhMN43_vAcRT1hD_RSQ/s1600/DSC_4458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmNoqjNOgEUuuK8fqRwmVzlOeFdDGXv6LAzfwiHny3-G2BdCRjBuN0-zF0KD5npHLOgrRwTO5PY_WwVEj1yPq1OhXMnf7wQnEqSgcJLzsSKl_2y-P3WEImhMN43_vAcRT1hD_RSQ/s400/DSC_4458.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Calvin on his new favorite pillow, rearranging for more sleep. He doesn't like the flash either.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-18227246276282347372011-12-23T10:56:00.000-06:002011-12-23T10:56:00.575-06:00Frozen Breakfast Smoothie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoXMVBQQNHt94OtTJYqakEF1kuh62TD4c_ARrWSnBZhKfZgS4OuUkRCZIonfFn0SqvFMoWLKP98wlWISSYRtBOdzSFvNF64NEIqSvQo54-xTP4AtXRpcc74llebrYxyLNpWZECA/s1600/DSC_4443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoXMVBQQNHt94OtTJYqakEF1kuh62TD4c_ARrWSnBZhKfZgS4OuUkRCZIonfFn0SqvFMoWLKP98wlWISSYRtBOdzSFvNF64NEIqSvQo54-xTP4AtXRpcc74llebrYxyLNpWZECA/s320/DSC_4443.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 1/2 c. soymilk </span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">lemon or orange zest</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">dash salt</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">4-5 large strawberries, frozen</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1/2 c. blueberries, frozen</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">handful raspberries</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 scoop soy protein</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 banana, frozen</span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">optional: </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 tbsp peanut butter or almond butter</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1/2 c. oatmeal</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">spinach (haven't tried it yet)</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Put the soy milk in a large measuring cup. (Mine is a 4 cup Pyrex, and I blend it and then transfer it to my travel mug to drink in the car on the way to work.) Grate the lemon zest in to the soymilk, about four or five times, and add the dash of salt. Add the strawberries, blueberries and raspberries. I add the protein before the banana so that it gets covered by fruit and doesn't stick to the blender. Slice the frozen banana with a very sharp knife (I use a ceramic one) and put it in, then blend. When you freeze the bananas, wait until they have a few dark spots on the outside before peeling them and putting them in a container. The frozen bananas make it extra smooth, and there's no need for ice if all the fruit is frozen. I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">t's sweet enough without </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">adding sugar or other sweeteners.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
About two years ago I decided I should do something about my diet. Not to lose weight, though that might be a nice side effect. No, I looked at my food choices and saw a blandness that couldn't be healthy. I generally ate toast with butter for breakfast, a deli meat sandwich with cheese and mayo, no veggies, and chicken and some kind of mashed potatoes or pasta with cheese and tomato sauce for dinner. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I saw Alton Brown do a smoothie show, and went directly to Amazon to buy a hand blender. This model lasted about a year, and then the gears (?) that attached the motor to the blade wore down and stopped catching. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I bought the Kitchen Aid one, which is okay, but I'm not sure that I'm cleaning it well enough because of the way the blade assembly works. It's got a plastic disk over it with a sort of loose attachment, and I know food is getting under there that I can't reach. Can you get salmonella from that? Also the Kitchen Aid doesn't gradually speed up, it immediately hits high speed and splashes unless completely submerged, and sometimes even then.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'd love a Vitamix, but I finally looked those up and I had no idea you could get a blender for the cost of an iPad. I guess $200 is the limit I'd put on blender prices in my head. I used to buy tiny bags of frozen blueberries and fresh strawberries from the grocery store. Now I buy giant bags of frozen strawberries and blueberries from Costco. For a little variety, I bought the giant tropical fruit mix, which had too many strawberries and not enough pineapple for me.</div>
<div>
<br />
I thought I might tire of them, but I haven't. There are endless possiblities, and even several websites dedicated to smoothie recipes. One of my other favorites is banana, cherries and 2 tablespoons of sweetened cocoa powder.<br />
<br />
Now I just have to figure out a way to eat more vegetables, which can be hard when you only like corn, carrots and sweet potatoes. Kale, broccoli, brussels sprouts, beans, none of them appeal to me.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-16693701487451078292011-12-21T18:19:00.000-06:002011-12-21T18:19:00.214-06:00Wayback - My Little Friend Had a Bad Day<b>Back 7 or so years ago when I taught at the elementary school in a different district, we had a troubled, very young student. He had emotional and learning issues, and he and I bonded. Not all of the posts about him have survived The Great Deletion. Anyway, here's something about Trevor (not his real name.) This post is from August 23, 2004.</b><br />
<br />
Last Monday, my first with Trevor, was a hard day for him. He has never
been to school before last week. He doesn’t know the rules; he can’t do
lots of things, and he strikes out when he doesn’t understand instead
of asking for help. When you don’t know how to ask, you can’t. <br />
<br />
My
first grade class was writing their names on their work folders. Trevor
doesn’t know not to do things with his pencil like poke people, throw
it, and give it to someone and then grab it back. In order to help him
learn not to do these things, I took Trevor’s work, his pencil and his
ruler away. Trevor’s response was to kick the underside of the table
for 10 minutes. Okay. I thought that we could start slowly. As I am
making sure that the other 20 children don’t need me, I am next to
Trevor after his tantrum telling him what he needs to do to get his
folder back. I tell him that if he can wait for three minutes without
kicking or making noise, then I will give his things back to him. Three
minutes turns out to be way too long. I walk to him to ask him why he’s
having such a hard time. He has his head on the table and his sad face
on. I say, “You can do this Trevor. You can sit quietly. You’re a good
boy.”<br />
<br />
Without looking at me he says, “No, I’m a bad boy. Always
a bad boy. I can’t be good, because I’m bad.” This almost makes me walk
away and let him do anything he wants, but I must persevere, or he
won’t survive here. I reduce the time to one minute. I tell him to
watch my timer and then when it gets to one, he can have his things. I
tell him that he is a good boy, I know he can be a good boy and that I
love him.<br />
<br />
He says okay, and away we go. This time it works. He
sits and writes his name, and draws a bit, and then it is time to clean
up and go back to class. <br />
He looks at me and says, “You mean we
can’t stay here? I don’t want to go back to the class. Why can’t I stay
with you?” I hug him and say, “No, but you’ll do a good job in your
class. I’ll walk down there with you.” The class lines up, and we go
back to his class. I hug him again, and remind him that he is a good
boy.<br />
<br />
Then, last Thursday, his teacher comes to my door almost at
the end of the day. I have my last class, and we will be getting ready
to leave in 15 minutes or so. Mrs. Smith opens the door and looks in. I
ask what she needs, and she says, “Trevor has been doing such a good
job today. We had a talk, and I told him that since he wanted to see
you so badly today, if he behaved he could come see you.”<br />
<br />
Wow.
She could have knocked me over by looking at me too hard. Nothing like
love at first sight. I say yes, of course, and he comes in and sits and
draws a little in the back of the class. He sits quietly and works, and
after a few minutes I tell him it’s time to go. He shows me his paper,
gives me a big smile and a hug, and goes back to first grade.<br />
<br />
Today,
I see Trevor first thing. He comes into school, sees me and I hug him.
I tell him that he’s a good boy, and that he will have a good day.
Unfortunately, this turns out to be less than true.<br />
<br />
Later, Mrs.
Smith’s class comes in and sits down. They continue using rulers. The
other students complete their pictures and then begin to color them
with crayons. Trevor picks up his ruler and starts hitting someone
else’s ruler with it. He grabs the crayon box and puts it in his lap,
four different times. I explain to him that he must share the crayons,
but as soon as I move away from the table, it is in his lap again. I
take his folder and ruler and pencil. Trevor tells me he doesn’t care,
he doesn’t want it back. He doesn’t like me and he likes to be mean. He
goes under the table.<br />
<br />
I ask the two students at his table to sit
somewhere else, for their own safety. At this point I have no idea what
he will do. While Trevor is under the table, he starts humming to
himself. I think, maybe this is what he does when upset, I’ll let him
sit for a minute. I do, but then go to him to get him back in his
chair. He seems calm, but then tells me that he is mean. “You watch
out, I’ll be mean to you. I’ll call you names, I’ll call you a [brat],
I’ll get you,” he says. The other kids hear this and gasp, and I tell
them to ignore him. I tell him that he won’t do any of those things and
then get him in his chair. He gets under the table again after I say
that he will get his things back once he can raise his hand. <br />
<br />
I
send a note to the principal. When the student taking the note leaves,
Trevor decides that he must follow the student, so I have to then guard
the door so that Trevor may not leave the room. When the principal
arrives, she tries to explain to Trevor that he must behave. He ain’t
buying it. She accompanies us back to his class, at which point I leave.<br />
<br />
I
found out today that he's been abandoned by his parents and thrust on
the grandmother, who also doesn't want him. Nothing like the innocence
of childhood, huh?<br />
<br />
Tomorrow he’ll probably be asking to see me again. I’ll have to deal with that when it comes.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-7523088451439463042011-12-20T19:03:00.003-06:002011-12-20T19:03:57.469-06:00Three Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHZJammi5Aj63ReRsNotW9dZcolFX-1kGbwhpkKSp6Vzcwpq2xySG71iidU8vBi9Nuuxl5o7gH8ZnlQXjeV6Ve5OH445ulVjf2SIHfro_0QSzIQvoLRaixRuyDMCQ0sirBvVB7A/s1600/fakefurblanky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHZJammi5Aj63ReRsNotW9dZcolFX-1kGbwhpkKSp6Vzcwpq2xySG71iidU8vBi9Nuuxl5o7gH8ZnlQXjeV6Ve5OH445ulVjf2SIHfro_0QSzIQvoLRaixRuyDMCQ0sirBvVB7A/s320/fakefurblanky.jpg" width="222" /></a></div>
1. My car wouldn't start the other day, so I took it to the garage and they couldn't get it to 'not start' so they didn't charge me anything.<br />
<br />
2. I hate the cold, and it's only 45° outside. It's a good thing I don't still live in upstate NY.<br />
<br />
3. My cat loves my fake fur blanket so much, he's been grooming it, and now it's damp, yay.<br />
<br />
Go ahead, tell me three things.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-54100360196767407482011-12-19T22:27:00.000-06:002011-12-19T22:32:25.759-06:00Prince of Tides<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwzRpLYuZ10-5aRDxNPnVEGxK0JBUY7Dp4ch6itqDrzrpXAmQ3TZKmXseFYmRxTBuA_sZEUdIgmmBjAXfPDWTfONOHKpfM-V2Lrrcau2FQ8nCJ30o_og4Qx-DEi3UK5w1egmU6Q/s1600/princeoftides.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwzRpLYuZ10-5aRDxNPnVEGxK0JBUY7Dp4ch6itqDrzrpXAmQ3TZKmXseFYmRxTBuA_sZEUdIgmmBjAXfPDWTfONOHKpfM-V2Lrrcau2FQ8nCJ30o_og4Qx-DEi3UK5w1egmU6Q/s1600/princeoftides.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Before <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102713/">Prince of Tides, the Movie</a>, there was<i> </i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prince-Tides-Novel-Pat-Conroy/dp/0553381547/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1324352013&sr=8-1"><i>Prince of Tides</i> by Pat Conroy</a>. The paperback copy that I own makes it look like a romance novel, and I'll post a photo of the back cover soon. I couldn't find one on the internet.<br />
<br />
I've read it twice, and been in awe of Conroy's use of language both times. It tells the deeply moving story of one horribly dysfunctional family in South Carolina, and what happens when the sister of the main character tries to take her own life. Her brother travels to New York City to help her recover, and ends up telling his family's story to her psychiatrist.<br />
<br />
Chapter 4 begins:<br />
There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the freight of memory. I speak now of the sun-struck, deeply lived-in days of my past. I am more fabulist than historian, but I will try to give you the insoluble, unedited terror of my youth.<br />
<br />
Later, in Chapter 5:<br />
I spent the first few days reviewing the tapes that so chillingly recorded the extent of my sister's breakdown. She spoke in hurt fragments of language. I wrote her screams down on paper, studied them, and each day startled myself with some clear vision of memory I had repressed or forgotten. Each of her phrases, no matter how surreal or bizarre, had a foundation in reality, and each memory led to another and another until my head blazed with small intricate geometries of illumination.<br />
<br />
...in the unconscious I began to encounter both wild fruit and vast disciplined vineyards. I tried to censor the superfluous or the commonplace, yet I knew large truths lay hidden in the clovers, sweet grasses and wild mint. As gleaner of my sister's troubled past, I wanted to leave nothing out but wished to find the one rose that might contain the image of the tiger when found blooming on the trellis.<br />
<br />
<br />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-59458917782587300162011-12-18T22:51:00.001-06:002011-12-19T22:28:12.519-06:00Sunday Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd4taSRd0Ml84LSIanfaT60fDyamFhgRhQWTu7bZZrjHjtE6lZQL0sheFzPqOcGgRGu2y8qjUdK2F0mVbOOK9bw_gIRDH4u8Ot6CxhzAFmPD5fwviLC8nbD6SMKOmpTolx9Ttghg/s1600/PICT2904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd4taSRd0Ml84LSIanfaT60fDyamFhgRhQWTu7bZZrjHjtE6lZQL0sheFzPqOcGgRGu2y8qjUdK2F0mVbOOK9bw_gIRDH4u8Ot6CxhzAFmPD5fwviLC8nbD6SMKOmpTolx9Ttghg/s320/PICT2904.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
An older photo of Hobbes, about a month after I got him. He and his brother love this windowsill most.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-32336321023665211822011-12-17T18:32:00.000-06:002011-12-19T21:25:12.186-06:00Finished Banana Bread<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQRvuQMVGjX1rVS7k8l4ZpuqpIgteJj0g_RAOfUC3r-CYCJSm0Rb3uEQU3aHtHrz7a6qNMtEi0E-Wwg8wX__kfElOYnWmiX6hgU9jy-LkmgIU2mxY7GO3N2XD58HFP4DPympeiQ/s1600/DSC_4439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQRvuQMVGjX1rVS7k8l4ZpuqpIgteJj0g_RAOfUC3r-CYCJSm0Rb3uEQU3aHtHrz7a6qNMtEi0E-Wwg8wX__kfElOYnWmiX6hgU9jy-LkmgIU2mxY7GO3N2XD58HFP4DPympeiQ/s320/DSC_4439.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Here's the banana bread out of the oven. I made a double batch, and got eight mini loaves for my favored co-workers.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-13988904685141788762011-12-17T18:14:00.000-06:002011-12-17T18:14:15.579-06:00Stanley Tucci<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEO3H2xMAkgIBkoqON7ugJCIsai7E85K7NQwqYMKaQGAE4f98saQ___byzTALOVqSaGmHFAwxVcEFMSYe8Q213tA3rgGo-DLqEV-aVnQDJNoJHKq6n_VF1dJyKZBfMiMMBIROcDQ/s1600/stanley-tucci.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEO3H2xMAkgIBkoqON7ugJCIsai7E85K7NQwqYMKaQGAE4f98saQ___byzTALOVqSaGmHFAwxVcEFMSYe8Q213tA3rgGo-DLqEV-aVnQDJNoJHKq6n_VF1dJyKZBfMiMMBIROcDQ/s320/stanley-tucci.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm watching <i>Easy A</i> and thinking, "Wow, Stanley Tucci is hot." I have entered that stage of adulthood where guys who are dads and are over 50 can be hot. Conversely, I no longer find Pierce Brosnan attractive, as he's gotten a little too doughy for me, at least in <i>Bag of Bones.</i> But ohh, Remington Steele? That guy was hot.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVEyzmmBOcFh0mMV8AN-PhRa1RFZwc7UBdr2xssG8K40eWblCF7GPHtymjYsLhR5Pzhf0Bzn-3O5TUw13ABFVAGEjQyMT_Rar2247DO25J6kEbJBz9gNRlGWGs0YLLKdqgKypELg/s1600/remsteelecrop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVEyzmmBOcFh0mMV8AN-PhRa1RFZwc7UBdr2xssG8K40eWblCF7GPHtymjYsLhR5Pzhf0Bzn-3O5TUw13ABFVAGEjQyMT_Rar2247DO25J6kEbJBz9gNRlGWGs0YLLKdqgKypELg/s1600/remsteelecrop.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And Matt Bomer? So my type, unless rumors are true. Also, I'm not so much consistent in my attraction to men. Huh.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixoJji93Rb38hIyiTFmw3cbdl_5-as8JuVYH4tU-ukzUkxjWiqwBnklwJGIT2Jgkd8WPSMWoAH7SUZWlNVB-clmCyFMjmqgGC6oXrjyzTUKVsDZSjtmXNSxgptHZQ8UyyVJvh0qw/s1600/bomer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixoJji93Rb38hIyiTFmw3cbdl_5-as8JuVYH4tU-ukzUkxjWiqwBnklwJGIT2Jgkd8WPSMWoAH7SUZWlNVB-clmCyFMjmqgGC6oXrjyzTUKVsDZSjtmXNSxgptHZQ8UyyVJvh0qw/s320/bomer.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-70136932690862543362011-12-16T14:44:00.000-06:002011-12-16T14:44:00.227-06:00Banana Bread<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgMhKRpmeLng3iS-H8j9SjrrAGjoyVb4dRWNzCW-Vvy9xNzoFwLBon2DnM0Q74DL_3t0dasMrOYQU1iVcOxs7Po1peTwsREjcyHIowOG3zOuaiJmhyphenhyphenLV_3QbqBa0xvPotMCewlA/s1600/DSC_4359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgMhKRpmeLng3iS-H8j9SjrrAGjoyVb4dRWNzCW-Vvy9xNzoFwLBon2DnM0Q74DL_3t0dasMrOYQU1iVcOxs7Po1peTwsREjcyHIowOG3zOuaiJmhyphenhyphenLV_3QbqBa0xvPotMCewlA/s320/DSC_4359.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">White Nut Bread </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><i>makes moist, tasty sandwiches for luncheons* and lunch boxes.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">3/4 cup sugar</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">2 tbsp. soft shortening</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 egg</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 1/2 cups milk</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">3 cups GOLD MEDAL Flour</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">3 1/2 tsp. baking powder</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 tsp. salt</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">3/4 cup chopped nuts</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Heat oven to 350° (mod.). grease a loaf pan, 9x5x3" or three 20 oz. cans. Mix sugar, shortening and egg thoroughly. Stir in milk. measure flour by dip-level-pour method or by sifting (<i>see p. 6). </i>Blend dry ingredients; stir in. Blend in nuts. Pour into pan or cans. Bake <i>60 to 70 min., </i>or until toothpick stuck into center comes out clean. (Crack in top of loaf is characteristic.) Cool thoroughly before slicing with a thin, sharp knife. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Banana Nut Bread</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Make White Nut Bread <i>(above) </i>—<i>except </i>increase sugar to 1 cup. Use only 3/4 cup milk and add 1 cup mashed bananas. </span><br />
<br />
Again from the 1961 Betty Crocker's New Picture Cook Book, my famous Banana Bread. I've never actually made the White Nut Bread, just sort of the Banana Nut Bread variation on the page below the main recipe. I don't really follow either recipe.<br />
<br />
I have no idea why, but I got it into my head that it needed to be a spiced banana bread, so I fiddled with the recipe over a period of about a year. I don't increase the sugar or decrease the milk. I double the butter and cream it with the sugar. Then I add the egg and the spices. After my experiments, I settled on 1 tsp. of cinnamon, 1/2 tsp. of nutmeg and 1/4 tsp. of cloves. I add two or three VERY overripe bananas and incorporate them. Then I blend in the milk, the baking powder and the salt, and lastly the flour. I never put nuts in my bread. I object to nuts in things on general principal, especially walnuts, which I hate, because they taste like sand.<br />
<br />
I cook the bread according to the recipe, though I generally have to cook it longer because my oven temp is way off. I can never wait for it to cool so I immediately start to peel the yummy, crunchy crust off the top. It's good right out of the oven, or sliced into pieces and then frozen, microwaved and buttered. When I'm in a baking mood, I make a loaf to take to school for my mid-morning snack.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*From a time when people still used the word "luncheon." </span>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-75255381097846065182011-12-15T20:29:00.000-06:002011-12-15T20:29:05.778-06:00Things Wrong with Me - My Breasts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNx0kmGZE9gcnodK3XO9Zs2EaywH3j-geTBmgqd7JbnbgnFCWpakIoTqdhZ5alvkjLj0Rv9OF2OnQMKhhtnNGc8k9KJd3-_pd4qtlFxJBpHYnafUDe1ziiMwIV4PCK8_XDhq6Rw/s1600/concealingpetals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNx0kmGZE9gcnodK3XO9Zs2EaywH3j-geTBmgqd7JbnbgnFCWpakIoTqdhZ5alvkjLj0Rv9OF2OnQMKhhtnNGc8k9KJd3-_pd4qtlFxJBpHYnafUDe1ziiMwIV4PCK8_XDhq6Rw/s320/concealingpetals.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Offered without further comment.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-61420438407717002982011-12-14T18:32:00.000-06:002011-12-14T18:32:01.441-06:00Wayback - My Dad<b>Today would have been my father's 72nd birthday. Here's something I wrote about him from December 9, 2004 from before The Great Deletion.</b><br />
<br />
My father stands about 5' 9". He's not very tall, but he has width. If
he was a smaller object, you might say he had a good heft. He
definitely takes up space, and he takes up space so well that people
imagine him taller. His beard and white hair make him resemble either
Santa Claus or Kenny Rogers, but he won't respond well to being called
either. <br />
<br />
His
parents named him Brad, after his father, and he likes people to call
him Brad, not Mr. He says that thing that older people say, you know,
"Mr. X is my father. Call me Brad." He and my mom named my brother Brad
too.<br />
<br />
Growing up, my father played games with us. He did physical
things, like hold us with one hand or let us grab his thumbs and walk
up his body and flip over. My father the jungle gym. Later, when I got
older, he played other games with us. <br />
<br />
We had fun, mostly,
except at Monopoly. My father insists that we play all games by the
explicit rules, the ones written on or in the box. So, when we played
Monopoly we had to own the three properties to build houses or hotels,
we had to pay rent on everything we hit, and woe betide the person who
asked if we could put money in 'Free Parking.' "Free Parking is just
Free Parking," he'd say. "It doesn't say, 'Pay me for Parking here.'"<br />
<br />
He
and my mother share a passion for information and knowledge, and
they've passed that down to their children. Each of us possesses
knowledge about a specific area. Sometimes more than one. Brad my
brother knows comic books, computers and computer games. Chloe, my
sister (who just had a baby) knows reality TV, specifically Survivor
and American Idol and the telecom business. Jenny knows music, all
kinds of music. She knows the artist, the song title and probably all
the lyrics too. I know movies and TV, and a little comics. (I love to
astound my students by telling them that I accept all challenges to
knowledge of The X-Men. Only failed to answer one question so far.)<br />
<br />
My
father and mother like reference books too, so we grew up with an
unabridged dictionary, a giant encyclopedia, atlases and movie and TV
show guides. Any time one of us said, "Mom, what does BLANK mean?" she
or my father would go look it up, even if we didn't want them to.<br />
<br />
I'm
actually quite worried about my dad. Like I said, he doesn't take care
of himself, and he drinks too much. We don't talk about it, except in
passing. We all bug my mom about the smoking, so I wonder why that is?
Big Brad won't talk about it.<br />
<br />
A while ago, about a year and a
few months now, my dad fell down. He hurt his hand and his foot. He
lost a nail. You know, black and blue and then fell off? We had to have
help getting him off the ground outside next to Jenny's pool. For a
minute we thought he'd banged his head on the side of the house.<br />
<br />
He
got up, someone drove him home, and then he quit drinking. For a few
months. Sort of like Mom quit smoking for a bit after the SECOND heart
attack. Dad's drinking again, and I worry. He might fall down again. He
might have cirrhosis. He might be pickling all his organs. <br />
<br />
But, we don't talk about it. Not unless one of us feels especially brave that day.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-81345631894784459652011-12-13T20:25:00.002-06:002011-12-13T20:32:46.936-06:00The One - AKA Hobbes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2VWZ0COsGlyFTKBc8onhkRgBUuXIyzL6sOLQiZaI63pf3sE10rDQ4kDoOby_HtDB4NonoaWAby5tt-0fepDDRRQl_NwKFuJAPxiUEbUF5U698fdmRc_9ZPwuA72KYWoHa2TXrmA/s1600/DSC_4413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2VWZ0COsGlyFTKBc8onhkRgBUuXIyzL6sOLQiZaI63pf3sE10rDQ4kDoOby_HtDB4NonoaWAby5tt-0fepDDRRQl_NwKFuJAPxiUEbUF5U698fdmRc_9ZPwuA72KYWoHa2TXrmA/s640/DSC_4413.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Following along with <a href="http://writteninc.blogspot.com/">Carmi at Written Inc</a>., here's an entry to his <a href="http://writteninc.blogspot.com/p/thematic-photographic.html">Thematic Photographic</a>. This weeks theme is <a href="http://writteninc.blogspot.com/2011/12/thematic-photographic-175-one.html">The One.</a> Because I lack a life outside of school right now you see something that I see everyday, for which the internet has an apparently endless appetite. At least on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Bmhjf0rKe8">YouTube</a> anyway.</div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-51239037903287846982011-12-13T18:24:00.000-06:002011-12-19T21:25:32.926-06:00Three Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5hbEn2g8agRBkV-ayncQqJaq_LljixLvp9AHASIu05w-oDg8QIJOyGq8Gq3_hpyZP01rzqxXjsS1NgKt5JXJQ1xanph57m5pcxObWIRkAeGQp2VWDnmZNzrYp6DjA9PCmCVdxg/s1600/tacodelite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5hbEn2g8agRBkV-ayncQqJaq_LljixLvp9AHASIu05w-oDg8QIJOyGq8Gq3_hpyZP01rzqxXjsS1NgKt5JXJQ1xanph57m5pcxObWIRkAeGQp2VWDnmZNzrYp6DjA9PCmCVdxg/s1600/tacodelite.jpg" /></a></div>
1. Taco Delite has great tacos, so much so that yesterday I went and bought six so that I could have two for lunch, two for dinner and another two for lunch tomorrow.<br />
<br />
2. I've had Dish Network since I bought my house back in 2004, and I think it's about time for a change. They wanted to charge me a fee when their DVR box quit working, and the new one keeps doing weird crap.<br />
<br />
3. Both the estimable <a href="http://whatever.scalzi.com/">John Scalzi</a> at <a href="http://whatever.scalzi.com/2011/12/10/three-things-for-saturday/">Whatever</a> and <a href="http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/">Patrick Nielsen Hayden</a> at <a href="http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/013358.html#013358">Making Light</a> have recently made "Three Things" posts. I'm in good company.<br />
<br />
Go ahead, tell me three things.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-69118153466953656042011-12-12T17:11:00.000-06:002011-12-12T17:11:01.550-06:00Mary OliverI've already posted this about an <a href="http://tellingdeeds.blogspot.com/2006/06/in-airport.html">encounter my sister and I had in an airport</a> with a woman who read us a poem by Mary Oliver. I'm endeavoring to cultivate more appreciation for poetry that doesn't have the words, "um", "baby", and "la, la, la" in it, so I went searching for more Mary Oliver to read since I loved "Wild Geese."<br />
<br />
It seems I have a bird theme, which doesn't make much sense because I don't like birds. Here is an excerpt of <a href="http://peacefulrivers.homestead.com/maryoliver.html#anchor_16064">The Swan</a>:<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<br />
<div align="left">
<span class="size12" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: normal;">Did you hear it, fluting and whistling</span></div>
<div align="left">
<span class="size12" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: normal;">A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall</span></div>
<div align="left">
<span class="size12" style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: normal;">Knifing down the black ledges?</span></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-86068136137837024572011-12-11T15:46:00.000-06:002011-12-11T15:46:00.642-06:00Sunday Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAcMCU9zEOHAj7ko9uL_tIu77H3AvFIPIzzHIP4lgy6Y40kZuGAtJIANB-dOEgx6kbiNcKWfxj0tmbVqq_DnGDxwB8AgqesTOhfjfZNAzFIgWssPwmZwwDr9te3oka0OLmmOTwUg/s1600/PICT2738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAcMCU9zEOHAj7ko9uL_tIu77H3AvFIPIzzHIP4lgy6Y40kZuGAtJIANB-dOEgx6kbiNcKWfxj0tmbVqq_DnGDxwB8AgqesTOhfjfZNAzFIgWssPwmZwwDr9te3oka0OLmmOTwUg/s320/PICT2738.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Hobbes plays with his feather toy.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-60076908909934872962011-12-10T13:43:00.000-06:002011-12-19T21:26:09.906-06:00Roast Chicken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3OuuQ6V8htYnvM0fF8zKhFKjco6CUVa0qSXhnXJJXYjkbrni3Xyjm78ESqegDcVlFstV6l5W_hf2ho366v1BjankLXcs6Ry_bN6mb_6yQU_-kO6Lh0An11F7WCiussibpyS48Q/s1600/DSC_4372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3OuuQ6V8htYnvM0fF8zKhFKjco6CUVa0qSXhnXJJXYjkbrni3Xyjm78ESqegDcVlFstV6l5W_hf2ho366v1BjankLXcs6Ry_bN6mb_6yQU_-kO6Lh0An11F7WCiussibpyS48Q/s320/DSC_4372.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Here's what the chicken looked like when I took it out of the oven. I wish I could find either bigger chickens or smaller turkeys, because I think that a 9 pound chicken would be about the right size.<br />
<br />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-88628582669053008012011-12-09T21:28:00.000-06:002011-12-09T21:28:00.180-06:00Chicken with Stuffing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-3n2AUgQhfQHt2PJ9Y8yfj-S-dYDC_smP-TOTKptTg4O-EKzNU4Lwpak23jBsRw9ArysCss5ULyANeSUJgGr8rvC90z8sN-CUNCq0DpIDUANEg1KW3s79SGbUIIshGCvRqyl2Zg/s1600/bccb1961.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-3n2AUgQhfQHt2PJ9Y8yfj-S-dYDC_smP-TOTKptTg4O-EKzNU4Lwpak23jBsRw9ArysCss5ULyANeSUJgGr8rvC90z8sN-CUNCq0DpIDUANEg1KW3s79SGbUIIshGCvRqyl2Zg/s320/bccb1961.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Bread Stuffing </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><i>1 qt. for 4-lb chicken</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1/2 cup butter</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1/4 cup finely minced onion</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">4 cups coarse or fine crumbs or cubes</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1/2 cup chopped celery (stalks and leaves)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 tsp. salt</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1/4 tsp. pepper</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">1 tsp. dried sage, thyme or marjoram</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">poultry seasoning </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Melt butter in large heavy skillet. Add onion and cook until yellow, stirring occasionally. Stir in some of bread crumbs. Heat, stirring to prevent excessive browning. Turn into deep bowl. Mix in remaining ingredients lightly. For dry stuffing, add little or no liquid. For moist stuffing, mix in lightly with fork just enough hot water or broth to moisten dry crumbs. Cool and place stuffing in bird when ready to bake. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><br /></span><br />
Every year my parents would get up early (late for them, early for me) on Thanksgiving to make dinner, filling the house with the most wondrous smells. They aimed for 1:00, but it ended up being more like 2:30. They would have us help, of course. Four sous chefs and table setters, Brad, Jenny, Chloe and Kate. Four nibblers of ingredients too. When Big Brad and Mary got hitched, they were given a copy of the Better Crocker Cookbook published in 1961, and they would use the turkey and stuffing recipe from it.<br />
<br />
A few years before she died, my mother found a new one at the Half Price Bookstore that didn't cost extra. I found listings on Amazon that wanted over $100 for an "Very Good" condition. I have the old copy with my mother's notes in the margin as she refined the recipe over the years.<br />
<br />
My sister Chloe makes Thanksgiving dinner now at her house about 45 minutes away, which means that I don't usually get leftovers. I decided to try making and stuffing a chicken and then I could keep ALL the leftovers (maniacal laugh)!<br />
<br />
Mary's notes say to reduce the salt by at least a fourth to 1/2-3/4 tsp., and use 1 tsp. sage and 1 tsp. poultry seasoning. I had to use olive oil due to a recently discovered milk allergy, but it still tastes really good. The chicken that I bought had a really small cavity. I could only get 3 cups of stuffing in with using the body cavity and the neck cavity too. Next time I'll just make my own turkey. It's about the same amount of work but then I get more stuffing and breast meat too.<br />
<br />
<br />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-47661332531168426822011-12-08T11:12:00.000-06:002011-12-08T11:12:00.765-06:00Things Wrong with Me - My Skin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoibxHc9NeXZNUaaC9R25u2Bc_FUCyRnjT0cD82eEU0SXLrMvEytyjm1HPWmBSHNZyi50qiF9EJzrOarW8R6gE5tcoQqMAMk8ah1kJE2tioQ2e518UT55GkROgPu0C1IfZWJiRQg/s1600/PICT2775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoibxHc9NeXZNUaaC9R25u2Bc_FUCyRnjT0cD82eEU0SXLrMvEytyjm1HPWmBSHNZyi50qiF9EJzrOarW8R6gE5tcoQqMAMk8ah1kJE2tioQ2e518UT55GkROgPu0C1IfZWJiRQg/s320/PICT2775.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Obviously I'm not perfect. Who is, other than those political pundits, brave enough to cast the first stone? But there are so many ways that the world reminds me that there are all kinds of things I need to change and make better. Thinking about this as I got up and showered, I remembered that old commercial, for Dove, I think. No, it was Caress body bar. (Thanks, Google.)<br />
<br />
"Shouldn't your skin be softer than anything that goes next to it?" That's a perfectly reasonable request, right? But this has nothing to do with cute kittens, you say. Wrong! Anything that goes next to my skin could be everything, so I have a lot of work to do. My skin needs to be softer than kittens, or a chenille sweater, or baby bunnies, right? That's a goal, that's something to accomplish. I'm gonna go work on that. Right after I go out and buy a pair of <a href="http://gupable.com/2011/07/lady-gaga-shoes/">these shoes</a>.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13256082.post-41202888889454356092011-12-07T18:36:00.000-06:002011-12-07T18:36:00.812-06:00Wayback - Because I'm Crazy<b>When I vacated and then re-inhabited this blog years ago, I didn't put all of the posts back. I saved a few of them before the Great Deletion and want to put them back out here, either because I think they're interesting or because I'm too lazy to come up with new content. Anyway, here's the first in a series I'm calling Wayback. Here's a post originally made on September 11, 2004.</b><br />
<br />
Every school has a few. Some we call helicopter moms (thwp, thwp,
thwp), some we cringe when they come close, some have bright ideas that
they know we will love but have absolutely no feasability. In our
school, we have all of the above. Our neighborhood consists of
primarily upper middle class residents, with a few lower
class/borderline poverty residents too, so many of the maternal units
do not have jobs and little to do but Volunteer At School.<br />
<br />
One
parent the other day had a bright idea for a school-wide project that
she proposed. Her proposal: each of the elementary grade levels would
be assigned a continent and learn about and create projects about it,
omitting North America. Her idea: that different cultures more likely
exist on different continents than our own. Now as the world has seven
continents and our school has six grades, eliminating one of the
continents makes sense. See if you can figure out why she left out the
wrong one.<br />
<br />
Other parents frustrate with the "I'm exempt from the
rules attitude." Again, with many upper middle class residents we get a
lot of that. "I have money therefore you can't make me follow the rules
if I choose not to."<br />
<br />
Our school secretary has to deal with most of
these, and we have such a chronic tardiness problem that the truancy
court judge in our area has lowered the number of tardies necessary to
receive a referral to truancy court. (I used to count kids for the
principal after the bell rang last year. One day we had over 100
students arrive after 8am. That's about 1/6 of our student population.)<br />
<br />
One
of the most egregious offenders of the "I'm exempt" persuasion had what almost passes for a normal conversation with me yesterday. This man,
Mr. Gisbourne, complained incessantly about the early start time of our
school when his son started kindergarten last year. We start at 8:00
am. He kept telling anyone whom he could corner, "But I don't have to
be at work until 9:30!" Should have kept his sperm in his pants then,
don't you think?<br />
<br />
Mr. Gisbourne also had a problem with our policy
regarding where he could drop his child from the car. We have a carpool
driveway, with a great system that (we think) keeps most of the
children safe. He didn't want to wait in the line, so he would try to
sneak into the teacher parking lot. When we started posting a staff
member to keep this lane clear for the school buses, Mr. Gisbourne
actually yelled at teachers. "Why can't I drop my kid off in there?
It's more convenient for me." His child, not surprisingly, has much the
same attitude.<br />
<br />
The conversation that he started occurred in the
morning as I was enthusiastically greeting all of the students walking
in the door, most of whom I actually like. "Wow," Mr. Gisbourne said,
"You're very cheerful and enthusiastic this morning. Why can't all of
the people here be that friendly?"<br />
So I replied, "Because I'm crazy."<br />
He did not laugh or anything, although that had been the response I projected onto him.<br />
<br />
He said, "Well, it just seems like some of those other people could be more pleasant. Why aren't they as pleasant?"<br />
I
said, "I don't have to enforce any rules. I'm just the art teacher, so
I tell people what to do in my class. The ladies in the office have to
tell teachers and parents what all the rules are, and nobody wants to
follow them. That might make me cranky too."<br />
Mr. Gisbourne said, "Oh," and turned to say goodbye to his son as little Gisbourne walked to class.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10584884625364971406noreply@blogger.com0