be a lover, not a hater

Not something I usually think about but two events have recently got me thinking more about haters.

First was on Facebook. Generally a wonderful thing for me. I can post photos of the punks and all my relatives can see them. Little benign updates. But sometimes more comes through these updates. Things that I don't bother myself about and my relatives and I get along fabulously when we get together. Happy happy joy joy. I don't hear that they support Sarah Palin (this seriously sent me into shock... I couldn't imagine someone supporting her, much less a relative) and also their belief that if you don't speak English you shouldn't be allowed into the US. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. Makes me want to start an anti-English speaking campaign. Everyone (near my cousin) has to speak another language for a day. Or we pick her up and plop her in some other country for a month. Any other ideas? I decided to just block her from my news feed.

Second is funny and a bit of a punch to the gut at the same time. A funny punch to the gut. Haha... aren't those the best?!?!

When we got out of the house to head to school yesterday, I see this:


My immediate translation was "No paper on the street!" I think I've already bitched about the fact that shops and bars just throw fliers all over the street as a method of advertising. But I thought that it seems like a strange thing to graffiti about... so I consulted with M.

Apparently it slang for "NO FOREIGNERS, GET OUT!"

So this is funny, no? Obviously not the smartest haters (is there such a thing?)... writing your message in slang so that all us foreigners just think there are a band of anti-litter radicals roaming about.


Ok... small beans I suppose. I didn't get my house burnt down or something really horrible. Just little scratches on my serenity. Nothing a smile can't mend. A smile and some shopping. I found some great buys (for myself, not the kids!) at 50% off at Petit Bateau... also across the street. I guess that evens it out ;)

below decks

Toilets and sail boats don't go terribly well together. And why should they?!? You're in the middle of a giant body of water, just hang your ass over the edge and do your business where God intended it to be done. So much more hygienic than squatting below deck, in a slanted closet, trying to pee on a plastic box that turns out to not even be assembled properly.

The saga of the mini-porta potty from here on in dubbed the pee box.

I am sure I am slowly loosing my memory, because I KNOW I've used one of these things before but I had NO IDEA whatsoever as to how to operate this one. At the moment, all I really needed to do, desperately, was to pee.

Below decks, I wedge my six foot frame into the "bathroom" setting my ass into the sink as I'm trying to wiggle my pants off and open the pee box. It's latched shut.

Why? Because everything on a sail boat gets strapped, latched, locked and stowed. Nothing can wiggle. Except when I try to open the pee box, the entire box lifts up.

I should really fix this situation first, but man alive, I've got to go. So I figure out how to unlatch the lid, pray that M doesn't decide to be funny and tack or jibe, and do my business.

Now I've done it. I've filled the upper, open portion of the pee box and I have no idea how to get the pee into the lower part where it won't slosh out and baptize us all.

One convenience of being in a bathroom so small that you can brace your body on all four walls simply by exhaling is that you don't fall and hurt yourself as the wind and waves toss your little boat (and your pee) around.

Assessing what I've got to work with on this box: There's a plastic push thingy on the left and a twisty knob on the right. Well, being a PhD, I could grasp that the knob wasn't going to help me, but perhaps it made sense to pump on the push thingy?

(slosh slosh)

A couple of pumps are given, but the pee is not disappearing. The push thingy is not the flusher. Where the hell is the flusher?!?!

I try to get a look at other sides of the pee box and find the magic thing that will take this pee away. I lower the lid and latch it (like that's going to help) so I can lean in and look at the front. As I brace myself on the top edge of the now "closed" (hermetically sealed) pee box, I realize that it wasn't the whole pee box that lifted up earlier, but just the top section. This is not good. Not at all good.

Can you guess where the pee goes?

Anyway, the geniuses that designed sailboat bathrooms make the space for the pee box fit into a very shallow tub. So, now I have the pee box sitting in a pan filled with pee. As I am turning green from being below decks on high seas, I decide there is nothing more that can be done to help the situation and decide to let M deal with it later.

Me to M: I think the pee box leaks (playing the totally clueless woman... hey, sometimes it comes in handy)

M: Why do you think that?

Me: Because I see pee running out of it.

M: (cringe) Oh, well, I'll look at it later.




M doesn't have a stomach for these things, but being the captain of the ship and leaving the child wrangling to me, he later, valiantly, tackles the pee box problem. It was, as I suspected, not put together right and it took a manly man like M to right the situation.

M: (looking at the pee left in the tray) Who's pee is that?

Basically, M decided that the owner of the pee has to clean it up. There was no convincing him that this also fell under the category of Manly Men jobs even given the fact that the pee was in contact with an important key component of a beastly sail boat. And pretty darn close to the engine even.
____________________

Now that we have an assembled pee box (and understand it's complicated inner workings), we still want to keep it's usage to a minimum as M and I are keenly aware that we will have to properly empty it at the end of the weekend. So, We declare: only for extreme circumstances (ie. we'd rather you pee in the box than on the floor of the cabin) and keep true to it's title - PEE box.

Well, I don't want to get gross (it's not been gross up to now, has it?), but the contract was breached. The one about pee only. Yea, Punkette is apparently so comfortable with her bodily functions that she does not suffer in the least from travelers constipation. And when it came time to return the boat, M paid the 50 euros to NOT empty the something-other-than-just-Pee box. It's a good thing they didn't ask for 100.

slow train

Hi. My name is Christine and I'm an indecisive pacifist. And lately I've fallen off the wagon. Fallen right back in the muck of waiting for situations out of my control (like the weather, sickness, the economy...) to make my decisions for me. I swore to myself that I would no longer turn over the things I can control to chance or fate and I have done exactly that.


So my pep talk to myself is, "GET OFF THIS SLOW TRAIN! It's taking you nowhere you really want to go. You have precious few years to live, precious few months to explore Italy, precious few hours to raise young punks!"

Now, when I put it like that, it's easy to find the gumption to change. Break it down to the core values, and it really feels like "what the hell am I waiting for?"

(I snagged this from Michelle, cause she kicks ass too!)

To decipher the above, I've decided to quit my day job. My job that isn't taking me where I thought it could. It's not taking me anywhere in fact, and I want to go somewhere. Because I could do a lot with the time between the hours between 9am and 3pm and because I have the good fortune to be in a situation in which I have a choice. Because it is a sin, of the god of kicking ass, to waste an opportunity to make a better choice for your life. And while I am very good at making the best of the situation, finding and living out all the positives of any situation, I need work at changing the situation.

curtains

edited: The comments were so good, I had to move them up top.

In my house, there are no curtains.
No blinds or shades to draw
Nothing to obstruct the view
Of two punks, ma and paw

(Vodka Mom)
and so when I'm naked
for the world to see
there are no curtains
it's a show for free

(derfina)
We let it all hang out here, too
We let the world enjoy the view
The Unit, me and birdies three
Around these parts, the show's for free!

(Karen)
Oh, I must get in on the act;
I'll show myself here for a fact!
I'll throw the blinds and windows wide
and give a view of my backside.
(West Virginia Moon!)

(Braja)
It's way to early for me
A naked Vodka to see
I'll not take the chance
To watch her butt dance
While guzzling her vodka with glee

(SSP)
The world's a mess,
the outlook is bleak
But look at that window
If it's a smile you seek!

(Cloudia)
Today
I like this post
da most!
Aloha-

(Kavi)
Poetry without binds...! I mean blinds !:)

(back to me)
You never let me down
Or cease to make me smile
When I can't find the right words
You pull it off with style

And now that you've caused me to ponder
A horde of bloggers in the buff
I don't feel quite so exposed
When I strut my stuff

(TypO)
A horde of bloggers in the buff?
I wonder if Taye Diggs has a blog?
A sight to see, that is certain.
But this poetry thing is tough. :p

(Naperville mom)
I hope the window's foggy
for the backside's soggy.
I hope the dressers turn up to offer
blinds for free, for a sober loafer.

(Queen of Shake Shake)
Who needs their windows bare
to show their derriere
In a tank top, I work the garden.
Oops, said my nipple, I beg your pardon.

(Wild Child)
There once was a child from the wild
Whose behavior was usually mild.
But with one sidelong peek,
She washed her eyes for a week.
Then became the intrepid Wild Child.

The Doctor and gelato

Mmmmm. Gelato. One of my very favorite things to, well, suck (just sticking with the theme) here in Italy. Nociolla. Ciocolato. Nutella, cafe, vanilla... or strawberry, banana, or cherry. Ooh, and Ahh.

My favorite of all time gelato is gelato riso at a little place just off Campo di Fiori in Roma. Yea, rice. It is SO very much better than it sounds. You can also have it with cinnamon. It's a stop-you-on-your-ass and melt-on-down-through-the-bench-slats good. And then go get another, cause, how often are you in Rome, right?

Mmmm. And licking David Tennant, uh, I mean him.. licking gelato. Really, this is right in there with this post. Plus he's singing The Gambler which kicks ass.

Wild Child suggested I do a David Tennant theme. Sure would help me get though this month until Doctor Who starts in March. I'll see what I can do...

these boots...

Tried on some boots today. I wear a 42 (12) but occasionally a 41 will fit. Generally shops only carry up to 40, but I found one that had a few 41s.

I can't get my foot inside and I don't want to damage the zipper. "It's too tight" I tell him.

"No. Push your foot in there. It's not too tight once you have it on."

I jam my foot in. "Too tight," I tell him.

"That's impossible" says he. "41 is perfect. They're very comfortable," he insists.

I laugh at him. "Nope. Too tight," as I struggle to get my foot out.

"Oh, this one. This one is very comfortable. 41. Look how beautiful" as he presents me another.

Again, too tight. "No," I wince as I step in front of the mirror.

"But that's impossible," he repeats.

"I have a big foot... generally I wear 42... It's not impossible," I explain. I jam my foot into another he offers.

"But don't you see how comfortable they are! Look how comfortable!"

I smile. "Yes, they look nice, but they are too tight. I would need a 42."

"It's impossible!" he retorts.

Laughing now, I put my size 42 boots back on. Ah, now these boots are made for walkin.

nuns

Yesterday Punkette's nun wanted to speak to me after school. She wanted me to talk to Punkette about something. Apparently, she had been asked to speak on the phone with a perspective parent that didn't know Italian. The nun explained that they asked her to do this favor for them but when they handed her the phone, Punkette wouldn't speak! And could I please convince her to help the teachers in this way in the future.

Hahaha.

Poor kid. She has a hard time talking on the phone to people she knows. And they expected her to talk to some stranger. More than talk, they want her to translate. I'm glad they think her Italian is so good, but that's quite a lot to ask of a little kid.

I smiled and said I would talk to her about it. Then suggested that they could have English speaking parents call me in the future. I could tell them what wack jobs the nuns are but that Punkette is very happy there. At least when they're not tucking in her shirt or forcing salad down her throat.

Then I told Punkette she kicks ass and next time to tell the nun to "suck it."

boobs

I had fantastic experiences nursing my punks. They nursed often and grew well. I didn't have to worry about preparing and cleaning bottles or where we were going or for how long, and probably a whole long list of other things that bottle feeding requires that hasn't occured to me. It just worked really well for us.

So, seeing how wonderful all this was, I became a big supporter of breastfeeding. I scowl when I see bottles used as a symbol of motherhood or infancy. I cheer when I see moms nursing in public. I made a point of choosing a pediatrician that didn't hand out formula samples. I don't buy bottle oriented gifts for pregnant friends. I even hand out breastfeeding information if they're interested.

But I have a big problem with a fraction of the "ban-the-bottle" culture. The anti-bottle-feeding-mom people. It is one thing to try to change the culture of breastfeeding where you live, quite another to scowl and give dirty looks at a woman just because her baby is sucking a bottle. That's just simply mean and judgemental. No matter what her story, even if she just simply decided not to nurse, for whatever reason, she doesn't need that kind of crap. Mothers are entitled to make their own choices for their families. It agonizes me to hear about mothers ridden with guilt because they feel like they gave up or made a bad choice. Guilt is not something mothering needs. Guilt is not something babies need to feel. Assume that every mom is doing the best. The best for herself, her family, her time, and her culture.

html SUCKS!

Sorry for the chaos while I work out this new template. I'm not even sure I'll keep it. The real post for the day is coming soon.


Sorry about that... too many kinks to work out. I'll be tweaking it out on a test blog until I get it figured out.

tequila

I've never been much for vodka, nor rum, no gin (yuck)...
But a tequila (or two) I'll take

either
cool and green
on the rocks
I'll suck it through the salt

or perhaps
a salt rimmed neck
straight shot
suck a lime wedged kiss



Exactly the kind of drink that makes me want to go here. Or even our favorite Mexican taqueria back in Cali... Los Caporales. Oh god, their burritos are so damn good!

this photo makes me more than a little home sick

And although I enjoy tequila now, there was a time I did not. The time lasted about a year and was after I stupidly challenged a 250 lb linebacker into a drinking contest. Shot for shot, of tequila. I think we made it to 16? Sure was fun, for about 2 hours. Then, not so fun.

Cacio e Pepe

Don't like cooking out of a book? List in hand, scouring the markets for fancy ingredients? Dirtying every damn pot in the house? Turning out dinner after two hours in the kitchen only to hear "what is that?!?!"

Me either. As far as I'm concerned, hoity toity gourmet cooking can suck it.

Here's my summary of a no nonsense gourmet meal (because of the fancy-ass Italian name, of course):


Cacio e Pepe

Ingredients:
pasta
olive oil
grated Parmesan cheese
pepper

1. Cook the pasta "al dente" which means make sure there is something left "to bite" when it's done. Don't leave it boiling and go surf the web.
2. Strain it (duh).
3. Put it in a big fancy bowl.
4. Pour some extra virgin olive oil on it...don't drowned it... just enough to keep it from sticking.
5. Mix in the cheese. As much or as little as you want... for 4 servings I usually use a cup.
6. Pepper to taste. If you want your kids to eat it (without screaming), wait and pepper individual dishes as desired.


DONE! Takes, what, 20 minutes? If you want to be all industrious, you can even fix a salad while the pasta is cooking. Won't win you any points with the punks though.

my shower

Oh, sweet shower. My retreat, my refuge. Drowning out the incessant complaints, the continual queries. They stop at your doors, my protector from punks. There is so much you give me. So much more than simply time and a (very) little space.

My shower.


You know me so well, you fresh fellow. The acrobatic contortions required to wash my hair without knocking out the plastic doors have given me new flexibility, brought so much awareness. And I've never experienced such intimacy with a shower, usually so stiffly standoffish, never reaching out, never touching, as I attend to my knees, my feet...



And as your spray of water refreshes my face, I quietly contemplate the horizon of death. Perhaps death by water heater. Crushed in this plastic coffin when the two hundred year old iron tresses finally succumb to the weight for which they were not designed to bare. Weakened by the last decades of heat and steam, unforeseen. Or perhaps electrocution as condensation covertly connects the flooded basin, along the walls, to the so conveniently located 22o V socket.

And passing through your plastic doors, through the baptismal waters that have flooded the bathroom floor, I'm new. The whole world is sparkling new.


For some reason, this post is dedicated to Pearl.