November 30, 2006
It’s Meth Awareness Day | # |
Police State — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 12:06 pm
And to “raise awareness” of this nonexistent “epidemic”, the Journal Star sent out their very-bestest-reporter, Lori to find a junkie to interview. Actually, I’m sure she didn’t need to do any actual footwork like heading to the streets and asking around-she likely was steered to this gentleman via the Drug Court Programme. There’s no junkie like a reformed junkie, is there?
Since this is the day to raise awareness about meth, let’s start with just how ridiculous the “war on drugs” has now become in terms of our individual lives. Think it doesn’t apply to you? Obviously, you don’t have allergies. I do. And when my sinus problems get unbearable, typically in the late autumn, I take decongestants. Unfortunately, Daniel has developed a similar problem and his paediatrician has instructed us to give him…you guessed it, decongestant.
Looking at the itty-bitty bottle of Pediacare infant drops, it’s pretty obvious that it would be damn near impossible to make drugs in any reasonable quantity from it. Likewise, a box of 24 pills for an adult wouldn’t likely yield much. Unfortunately, since Daniel is a minor and cannot purchase his own medication, I was unable to purchase decongestants for both of us because that would trigger an alert on my driver’s licence number and according to the pharmacist, I’d have the DEA knocking down my door. So I purchased Danny’s medicine and I’m going without.
“What happens if you have three kids that all get colds at the same time?” I asked?
“You’re screwed.” He replied.
It’s bad enough Americans are living in fear of no-knock raids where the police knock down doors and start shooting to serve warrants for non-violent offences-now we need to fear that treating a cold will be enough to trigger one of these often fatal investigations.
So that’s the everyday implications of the war on drugs and the imaginary meth epidemic. Everyone is convinced that a violent addict is around every corner waiting to knock you over and take your cold medicine. The hysteria is nearly identical to all the earlier drug hysterias related to speed, PCP, and crack. Sure, if you look hard enough, you can find users, but the magnitude of the actual threat to the public at large is exaggerated to justify more and more money going to treatment programmes, expanded prisons, and police. I find the fact that people are being given lengthy prison terms for possession outrageous. Not dealing, not manufacturing-but using. Which do you suppose is more destructive to people’s lives-using drugs or being sentenced to prison for possession of drugs. I know which is profitable to supporting an economy based on enforcement employment (hurry, hurry, hire more police-we have an epidemic on our hands). And think of all the cheap labour you can contract from prisoners-they don’t just make licence plates anymore…and, as an added bonus, there’s no calling in sick! Everyone wins, except for the exploited prison labourer, but you know, they were just a filthy addict…and they probably had dirty thoughts about children as well).
To illustrate how completely the public has bought in to the meth hysteria, let me share a story. I was telling someone about the drunk that knocked me over in the Goodwill store a couple weekends ago. I mentioned in the story that he was clearly drunk and reeking of alcohol. Still, after hearing me mention the alcohol, this person replies (with an almost reverent seriousness)
“It was probably meth. My dad once ran into someone he thought was on meth and the guy was acting really scary.”
Ah, I see-that distinct odour of gin was probably just a by-product of meth and any person behaving out of the ordinary must be fuelled by stimulants, regardless of any evidence to the contrary. And he was probably a paedophile. Somebody ring up the police!
Educational Opportunities | # |
When the Revolution Comes — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 2:10 am
I had a brainstorm on the way to the supermarket last week.
“I think Danny’s old enough for lollipops, let’s see if they have any safety suckers.”
L was surprised to learn that there was a reason for those soft, looped sticks on children’s candy. Obviously, they were an item he’d seen millions of times, but until becoming a parent, hadn’t given it much consideration. As it turns out, they are rapidly becoming an item of the past. Even our bank hands out individual packets of gummy candy to children.
We were able to locate only one variety of safety suckers and wouldn’t you know, they were branded merchandise. We’ve done a fair job of keeping corporate items away from our home. Yes, the disposable diapers have characters on them, but Danny has no clue who they are. Sometimes, he points to the cowboy and says, “man” but that’s about the extent of the association. L particularly loathes the “Company of The Mouse.” Surprising, as he’s never been forced to endure the pilgrimage to the sacred shrine of said mouse in the holy place known since the 2000 election as “FloriDUH.” Indeed, I’ve been to the place alleged to be Earth’s happiest and I can say, from experience, that flashy does not happiness make. I recall my companion marvelling at how every detail was branded, right down to the mouse-shaped pats of butter on the table at breakfast. But anyway, L hates the mouse and his company, and refuses to permit their items in the house, which resulted in tossing out a number of colouring books my in-laws had sent for Danny (though actually, they were decades old and left over from the waiting room when his dad still had a medical office. We kept the thirty year old crayons though, which still reek of “new crayon” smell and work as well as anything you’d purchase new). The giant bird over at PBS hasn’t fared much better at our house either. Sometimes, it’s embarrassing, say, when a cashier points to a promotional poster or balloon of the Cookie Freak and says, “Do you like Cookie Freak?” And Danny gives her a blank stare and I’m forced to look like Luddite Mama as I quickly say “We don’t have television” and try to avoid a conversation with a stranger about why we made the decision. So yeah, my kid is going to be lacking popular culture references when it comes to branded children’s items, but he’s learned to love stuffed animals that don’t have names reminiscent of shit.
Arrggh, but the lollipops were branded by the company of the mouse. I went ahead and bought them anyway, figuring I’d dump them out of the package and Danny would be none the wiser. Well, Danny wouldn’t be-but I found myself reading the package with a mixture of awe and repulsion.
At some point, the company of the mouse acquired the rights to the bear with a name reminiscent of shit (and his friends the ADHD tiger and the foetal pig). According to the label, the suckers came in “Assorted Pooh Flavors.” Mmm, coprophagy. Particularly disturbing is the flavour called “Pooh Honey Pot.” As for “Tigger-iffic Orange” well, that’s not really even trying, is it? And while satisfying the occasional sweet tooth of fetishists might be all the enticement one would need to purchase the product, the marketing geniuses at the Company of The Mouse took it a step further and filled the package with all manner of information regarding the educational benefits of purchasing their Pooh flavoured lollies. Oh yes, that’s right, these suckers are educational.
Now, I realise it is a minor complaint, but really, when promoting sugar, corn syrup and added vitamin C as an educational aid, it’s not outrageous to expect that perhaps the company of the mouse might want to spell Safety correctly, rather than the clever-yet-incorrect, “Saf-T-Pops.” Oh, how I detest companies that spell creatively. “Letters and numbers on every Pop! Makes learning an adventure” screams the label. An adventure? Really? That’s probably an exaggeration, or perhaps I’ve just lived an exceptionally interesting life that I’d find learning letters and numbers from a lollipop to be a bit less adventuresome than say, oh I don’t know, just about anything.
At the bottom of the package is a boxed-off area in serious looking print that just screams “Parents, READ ME.” So I did. Well what do you know, the super geniuses at the Company of the Mouse even provided a little red arrow to the part they want the adults to read that says “Teachers and Parents” (hey, that’s ME). It seems the Company of the Mouse has a website with games, educational tips and other ideas ready to print out and use in conjunction with the super-educational shit flavoured lollipops. Swell. The label continues;
“Educational Opportunities.”
-Create names and words with individual pops.
-Learn and memorise letters with pops.
-Use them as flashcards to make learning more fun.
(because really, learning need to be made “fun.” Being beaten by nuns until you learn your multiplication tables=not fun. Learning letters and numbers with lollipops=fun. Staying after class to practise spelling=not fun. Spelling out, “Fuck you Sister Hyacinth” with Saf-T-Pops=fun, and educational! See, it’s not just candy, it’s an educational opportunity. The label says so).
Damn, I just wanted to let my kid eat them. Who needs this kind of pressure from candy?
November 29, 2006
So Much For Nude Sunbathing In Your Fenced-In Backyard | # |
Police State — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 6:51 pm
A government spy-drone has just made a successful cross-country flight (over your formerly private property)gathering information about…well, they can’t say…you know, really-secret-spy-things…"Air Combat Mission" they’re calling it. Nice.
I know I’ll sleep better at night knowing Big Brother is keeping an eye on me.
Minority Report | # |
Police State — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 6:44 pm
Wrong Number, But We Still Have To Search Your House | # |
Canada — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 6:41 pm
Note to Canadians-if you screw-up and dial 911 by mistake, the RCMP is permitted to rough you up, ransack your home and have you arrested-to make certain you are safe.
A Wee Little Man, In A Wee Little Toolbelt | # |
Uncategorized, Romanticised Pastoral — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 6:32 pm
Chiropractic isn’t helping. In fact, the last three visits have seen my initial progress disappearing and I’m now in worse pain than I was when the treatment began. It’s simple enough to say I didn’t have high expectations, and am therefore not disappointed, and largely, that’s the truth. Still, the bit of optimism I had is sort of quashed now. Fortunately, I deal with disappointment well, unlike my husband who is still irritated at having been denied some sort of motorised race-car and track he wanted for Christmas when he was nine.
I still have other options before surgery, or living the rest of my life on pain medication. At the moment, I’m operating on a large dose of stoicism and Ibuprofen, but just for the sake of being able to claim I exhausted all possibilities, I’ll look for an acupuncturist, and possibly, a homeopath.
Most of the siding went up last weekend and hopefully, they will finish on Saturday with the small pieces that need to be cut for the top floor (oh please, I know there are architectural terms like cornices, eaves and such to illustrate what I’m talking about-does anyone (except Bryan) care?) and then we should be done. I haven’t noticed the house being much warmer but then we’ve just had our first really cold day today. Perhaps if my windows weren’t held together with strapping tape, I might be better able to discern the energy efficient properties of the vinyl siding.
Did I mention the creepy little man on the work crew? One morning a few weeks ago, I noticed a car parked outside the side of the house by the neighbour’s silo. It was early, probably about 6AM and he had the interior light on in the car and the headlights shining directly into Danny’s room. I slipped in quietly and pulled the curtain.
Saturday, as we were returning home in the evening (and the work crew was readying to leave) creepy, five foot tall, fat, bald man in a tool belt (are you getting the visual image here? Good.) approaches me and says;
“I’ll bet you didn’t know I was here a few times last week measuring the house. I heard your shower running while I was outside the window.”
I’m not really sure there’s an appropriate response to someone informing me they were lurking about my bathroom window as I showered. I tried to smile and hurried Danny inside. Something to that effect once happened to my mother when my parents were first married. The landlord was having the building tuck-pointed and my mother did not know. She saw fingers on the window ledge as she stepped from the shower and slammed the window down with all her might. She did succeed in injuring the poor bastard, and he did threaten to sue, though in the end, it was decided (out of court) that the landlord was in fact negligent. I suppose that sort of thing happening today might result in shots fired.
So hopefully, this weekend will be the completion and I can safely assume that any fat little bald men in tool belts lurking about my bathroom window are not there to measure the place for siding.
Corn Pone | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 1:55 am
I grew-up in the golden age of not needing to know how to cook. As a result, I spent many years preparing Minute Rice, Potato Buds, and Jiffy Corn Bread. Slowly, I overcame my fear of making rice, persuaded largely by the fact I could purchase a ten lb. bag of rice at the Asian grocer for the cost of a small bag of the pre-cooked stuff. Eventually, I’d be purchasing 50 lb. bags and storing it in plastic containers the size of a kitchen wastebasket. Then, after meeting my husband, I gave-up the boxed potatoes due to his outright refusal to eat them. While not the sort to insist I stand and mash potatoes, he offered that he’d just as soon go without than eat freeze-dried spuds. Well, no husband of mine was going to be going without mashed potatoes, so I learned that a stick of butter and a half cup of heavy cream will compensate for any lumpiness. Corn bread was another story.
I don’t come from a corn-bread background. Fortunately, I discovered Jiffy Corn Bread mix pretty early on. Unless you burn it, the stuff is almost impossible to screw-up, and at 3 for a dollar, economical as well. Since L never complained about it, I’ve spent the last twelve years making him corn bread from a box-until yesterday.
The only motivation I had was wanting to use-up the last of some corn meal before opening the new bag. I use the stuff fairly regularly for dusting the pans when I bake free form loaves of bread. I found a recipe in one of my Pennsylvania Dutch cookbooks for “Corn Pone.” The recipe called for either shortening or butter, both of which I had on hand. Again, I know this is probably a cultural bias, but I really dislike the idea of solid vegetable shortening. While there’s no way I’d even consider using lard, there’s something too manufactured in a product that was formulated to withstand summer heat in the deep south without refrigeration. I suspect Crisco could withstand a nuclear blast. Sure, I use it all the time in pie crust, and I’ve even used it to help stabilise buttercream frosting (Shhh, that’s the “secret” to keeping buttercream frosting from wilting at room temperature) but I still don’t like it. While I bake quite a few pies, I usually push the crust aside. Since everyone else seems to love it, I assumed long ago that it was just me. Since I wanted to actually eat some of the cornbread, butter it was to be.
From the outset, I approached the baking project from the assumption that I’d prove my suspicion correct-that cornbread is basically cornbread, and then when people wax nostalgic about their mother’s recipe, they do so without realising that she probably used Jiffy Mix most of the time too. Sort of the way I’m always shocked when I meet people that know how to make pancakes without the assistance of Bisquick. Why would anyone do that?
The end result was a very solid, yet moist cornbread. It cut leaving very few crumbs behind, and I’d characterise it as “heavy” though not in an unpleasant way. The odd thing though, was the taste was so radically different from the prepared mix that in comparison, it is hard to believe I thought the mix tasted anything like cornmeal. It’s difficult to pin down just what the difference is though I suppose it comes down to my cornbread tasted less manufactured. Less salt, less sugar, higher quality fat. I took a box of Jiffy down from the cabinet and looked at the ingredients and realised I was right. In defence of the Jiffy mix-it is still quite good-and as the name implies, quick. But it is a pre-mixed product designed to have a long shelf life and as such cannot reproduce the item baked from scratch.
The cornbread mix was the last of the convenience foods I would purchase regularly. When it came to the point where I could make a pie crust faster than I could defrost one, I knew that I was reaching the point of casting off 1960’s cookery and all the lovely bread in tubes, self-rising flour, and tinned apple pie filling I’d come to rely on. It’s been somewhat liberating, and in some ways, confusing. I’ve had to learn to re-programme my sense of taste when it came to salt and sugar. Artificial sweeteners compounded the problem being many times as sweet as regular cane sugar.
Looking about the kitchen I realised that only one last highly manufactured product remained in constant use at our house, but at my age, I don’t have the extra twenty minutes to waste each morning brewing a pot of coffee. If you know what the “crystals” actually are, do me a favour and don’t tell me.
November 28, 2006
Today’s WTF Post | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 3:45 am
Henry Kissinger is now a Papal advisor.
Oh hey, that’s swell. Maybe the Pope can bring in Pinochet as a human rights ambassador.
I’m So Happy, I Could Just Shit | # |
Fake Science — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 2:59 am
Sometimes, I worry that I’ll run out of material to blog-but then I click over to CNN or MSNBC and read the “mental health” reporting and am reassured that I’ll never run out of idiots to mock.
The “happiness” search is getting old anyway. It seems so arrogant, and capitalist. I mean, come on-could you imagine suggesting to a Palestinian that they should try to list three happy things they experienced during the day before they go to sleep?
Who devotes that much energy to analysing their personal satisfaction anyway? I’m sorry, but when I hear the titles “motivational speaker” or “executive coach” I think of the Chris Farley character on Saturday Night Live that would scream at the kids to pull their lives together or they’d be “Living in a van down by the river.” “Executive coach.” Oh. Come. On. I also thought that was slick, how she managed to slip-in that she attended Harvard, because, um, that will somehow make her sound like less of a snake oil hawker? Amazing, but I’ve never once felt the need to mention where I attended school. I don’t begin sentences with “When I was at_______.” I’ve always thought people who name-drop/university drop, were somewhat immature, and insecure-hardly the qualities one would seek in an “executive coach.”
Anyone remember those t-shirts in the 1970’s that had a rather sullen looking frog sitting at a desk with the caption;
“I’m so happy I could just shit”? I sort of get a warm happy glow thinking of Ms. Executive Coach’s big blonde head on the shirt instead.
“I used to be able to think of three things every night before I went to sleep that made me happy during the day…before the 40 Volume peroxide ate through to my brain and now I live in a van…down by the river!”
November 26, 2006
Drug Cocktails For Children | # |
Fake Science — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 3:49 am
THIS has to be one of the most horrifying articles I’ve read concerning the use of psychiatric drugs on children-and the NY Times journalist took a very middle-of the road, non-confrontational approach. Still, reading the details of a three year old placed on a combination of powerful drugs because she watched the same video repeatedly and ate her sandwiches by separating the meat, cheese and bread is shocking in that the psychiatrist that prescribed the drugs hasn’t had his/her license to practise revoked and be brought up on charges of child abuse.
“Fate Riske, 3, of Fond du Lac, Wis., takes two antipsychotics and a sleeping medicine to control what her mother, Elizabeth Klein-Riske, said were hours-long tantrums, a desire to watch the same movies repeatedly and an insistence on eating the meat, cheese and bread in her sandwiches separately.”
But then, a couple paragraphs later, readers find out that it is financially advantageous to have a child labelled “mentally ill”, particularly if you’re receiving public assistance.
“Mrs. Klein-Riske credited the drugs for Fate’s cherubic behavior during the visit. But a few weeks on a different antipsychotic led Fate to become aggressive, talk rapidly and “run around wild, totally out of control,” said Mrs. Klein-Riske, who receives government financial and child-care assistance because her daughter is considered mentally ill. “
Though, in defence of the mother, she’s probably had the idea pushed on her from the beginning of the child’s life by the social workers and other “professionals” the poor are required to have intrude on their lives in order to get help feeding their children.
I thought some of the names of the drugs were bordering on comedic. “Focalin?” You’ve got to be shitting me. I also love these parents that volunteer to air their children’s alleged psychiatric “problems” in the New York Times, including their full names, ages, and city in which they reside, to “gain greater acceptance” for themselves and their children. You know what? Fuck you. Really, just fuck you.
“The parents interviewed for this article told their stories, they said, in hopes of gaining greater acceptance for their children and themselves. Nearly all recalled being in a store when their child threw a tantrum and feeling that onlookers branded them as bad parents. They also said they hoped to help others negotiate what many said were unequal and often fraught relationships with psychiatrists. “We struggled so much, made so many mistakes and felt so stigmatized, I hope our story can make it easier for others,” said Jacquie Erickson of Anchorage. Her daughter, Kaitlyn Johnston, 10, has taken psychiatric drugs since she turned 5 for diagnoses that include bipolar disorder.”
So they drugged their children for having tantrums in public because they were afraid people would think they were bad parents? I reiterate-Fuck You. You want to make it easier for parents to label five year olds as Bi-Polar so some drug manufacturer and their psychiatrist whore can make money off of your child’s suffering? Fuck you too. What they “want to do” has little if anything to do with their children’s well being. They seek acceptance for themselves. Parents in the article cite the horrible changes they noticed when they tried taking their children off the drugs. Well, yeah duh-withdrawal from stimulants isn’t exactly a picnic. Just ask anyone that had to be around their mothers in the 1950’s and 60’s when they were trying to quit diet pills. What they don’t tell parents is that these drugs are highly addictive and that the withdrawal can be weeks or months of hellish suffering depending on which, and how many of these drugs were being used.
Then, we have the “expert” interviewed for the article that had the chutzpah to suggest that: “But Dr. Judith Rapoport, a senior investigator in child psychiatry at the National Institute of Mental Health, said that in her experience, few children were overmedicated.”
And again, Fuck You. Sort of makes you wonder just what her “experience” is, given that she believes few children are over-medicated. 1.6 million children by the estimate provided in the article-and she doesn’t think that’s over-medicated? If there are that many seriously, mentally ill children wandering about, we’re all in some serious shit. Better forget about the “War on Terror” and start fighting the “War Against Bi-Polar Three Year Olds That Take Apart Sandwiches Before Eating Them”-because at this rate, we’re all at serious risk of coming face to face with one of these baloney and cheese separating monsters. I’m sure that’s how Bin Laden got his start-scraping the tabouli away from the pita.
It’s interesting that the journalist feels so confident declaring: “There is little doubt that some psychiatric medicines, taken by themselves, work well in children. For example, dozens of studies have shown that stimulants improve attentiveness. A handful of other psychiatric drugs have proven effective against childhood obsessive compulsive disorder, among other problems.” Well, actually, that depends on what you consider “working well.” If the goal is to improve attentiveness, then sure, but inattentiveness in and of itself is not a mental illness-it’s inattentiveness. I’m not arguing that it is never appropriate to prescribe psychiatric medications to children. Obviously, if you have a child slamming their head against a wall repeatedly, or trying to kill their siblings-by all means, look into the option- there’s an obligation to protect the child. However, tantrums, dissecting their lunch, or not paying attention in school are hardly the sort of life-threatening situations requiring the use of drugs that stunt growth, damage internal organs and do God only knows what to their nervous systems. Drugging your child because you are embarrassed by their behaviour is reprehensible. Trying to minimise your guilt by labelling them mentally ill (a label that will follow them the rest of their lives, particularly after you disclose their names in the NY Times…do they really think future employers, dates, colleges, won’t Google their names?) is unforgivable. I hope their children grow-up to be understanding individuals, because they sure as hell have grounds for a lawsuit.
November 25, 2006
The Morons That Natural Selection Should Have Taken Care Of By Now | # |
Interacting With the Stupid — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 3:14 am
How is it that the stupid manage to not only survive, but thrive?
I must be in better shape than I realise because the day I just experienced would have caused a massive stroke in just about anyone. In the event that the government spooks really are listening on the line, I must tell you, they certainly had an earful of screaming today. For a moment I actually thought about taking a breath, pausing and asking “are you getting this all down correctly? I don’t want to get my FIOA file someday and see myself misquoted regarding the accusations that my spouse’s carelessness in leaving the dog out in the yard for three hours resulted in him picking up fleas. This is important stuff, please be certain to get it written down accurately.” Of course, I did no such thing and instead, launched ahead screaming at him for being such a numbskull. Fleas, great. Better call the vet.
I get Danny dressed (who by the way, has been awfully sick). Right as we’re set to go-explosive shits. We get cleaned-up, go to the back door and the dog bolts back into the house (having been banished to the mudroom. I close the door and spend the next five minutes coaxing him out from under the sofa (ok, screaming. Thank God I live on a farm without nearby neighbours to hear me losing it). Finally, move the sofa, all the while trying to keep Danny from walking in with his shoes on. I get the dog out, Danny out, and then before I can close the mudroom door behind us, the dog bolts again, this time out the door and to his favourite hiding place-under my car (he’s done this before). I marched Danny back to the house, made sure he was safe in the front room, and then grabbed the leash and went looking for the dog. On my hands and knees on the gravel drive in a silk skirt and my last intact pair of nylons (not anymore) I grab hold of the little fucker, snap the leash on and pretty much drag him back to the mudroom. Not willing to be duped again, I tie him up until Danny is secured in the car seat, then I let the damn dog lose to have the run of the mudroom. Filthy cur.
So we get to the vet’s office to pick up the flea-treatment and there is a dog tied-up outside freaking out. Danny’s a bit frightened, but still ok. I look in the glass door and see two large dogs (one, a Doberman) running about in the waiting room. I motion through the glass to the woman standing there and I see her pull the dogs away from the door. I carry Danny in and less than a fraction of a second later, the Doberman is on hind legs jumping on us. Danny freaked and started screaming. At this point, it might have been reasonable for the vet assistant/receptionist to come and get the dog off of us, but instead, dimwit shouts,
“Oh, he’s just a puppy he wants to play.”
I turned around and ran out the door telling her to lock them up, which she reluctantly, did.
When it was safe, we went inside only to be told,
“You should have told me you had him with you, I could have locked them up.”
(Yeah, and I’ll bet I’m "The only person that ever complained")
By this point, I really did think I was going to take a stroke. What did she think I was tapping on the door and motioning to the dogs about? Maybe I should have left Danny outside to wait-with the freaking-out-dog in the parking lot. Or maybe I should have left him sitting in the car-and try explaining that to any police who happened to drive by. Wait, I know! Maybe moron shouldn’t have large dogs running lose in a place of business. Yeah, that’d be good.
It then took and additional ten minutes for the Brain Trust to look-up the dog’s information because she couldn’t spell our name. I kept spelling it, over and over and fucking over and she still couldn’t get it. The whole time, she’s still tying to deflect the blame for the jumping dog on me, and make a joke of it. Finally, I said something to the effect of “Traumatising a child isn’t something to make light of” and then I implied that I’d be filing a complaint with the state agency that oversees veterinary licensing. No, of course I’m not actually going to do it, but damn I wanted her to at least worry about it over the weekend.
Here’s the part where I ask (yet again) “What the hell is wrong with people?” My dog weighs eight pounds, but you know what? I’ve never taken him out in a public place without a leash. Ever. Look, I don’t care how well-trained your dog is. People always overestimate their dogs anyway-until they attack someone, or another dog. I put up with enough of this shit in Boston where there seems to be widespread disregard for leash laws. You know what? I like my dog, but I don’t expect you to like him. Understanding that not everyone likes my dog as I do, I behave in a manner that says, “I respect your right not to like my dog” and I put a bloody leash on him. Period.
You don’t want to know what ensued trying to get that damn dog to swallow the Capstar pill. He’s sleeping in the mudroom tonight-it’s unseasonably warm and we gave him a blanket. I Hoovered-up everything-sofa, curtains, carpets…so far I’ve not seen any evidence of bites on Daniel or myself, so maybe we can get through this with minimal disruption because given that the crew will be here to start putting-up siding at 6 AM tomorrow-I’m sort of saturated in the disruption sphere*
*And Saturday is the day I get the weekly dose of the horrible medication that makes me want to throw up/curl-up and die. It takes a few hours to kick-in, but when it does, I’m usually pretty miserable for a day or so. I’m going to need to decide which is worse-being sick at home with construction work from sun-up to sundown, or braving public places on the busiest shopping days of the year. Maybe I can find some nice, petit bourgeoisie wearing designer clothes and pushing her kid in a $2,000. pram to throw-up on.
November 23, 2006
They Don’t Live On Doughnuts and Moosemeat | # |
Canada — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 4:07 am
-everyone knows Canadians survive on chips with cheese curds and gravy.
I can’t believe people are really offended by THIS-surely the realise it is done in a spirit of humour? After all, we don’t take offence when Canadians think we are all the embodiment of Homer Simpson (or God help us,) President Frat Boy.
As for the bit about wearing red flannel shirts, what I’ve observed on trips North has been that Canadians, being on the cutting edge of fashion, abandoned flannel long ago for the high-tech properties of fleece. Light and comfortable, it does double duty wicking moisture away from the skin as one chops down trees, traps animals for pelts, or heads into Native territory to convert the heathens to Christianity (it’s true, the Jesuit missionaries love their polar fleece-ask anyone. They get up there and it’s like,
"Whoa, hey, Padre, it’s really cold here and spreading The Good News is hard work. Do that sort of evangelising in cotton flannel and you’ll freeze to death. For the serious Jesuit missionary, nothing but fleece will do-unless polypropolene is available…that stuff kicks ass."
- Testimonial of Fr. Pierre Poutine, SJ
See, I’m doing my part as a USAan to help dispell myths about our Northern Neighbours.
November 22, 2006
“But We Can, You Know We Can” | # |
Romanticised Pastoral — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 10:55 pm
*Mood setting music suggestion-“Let’s Lynch The Landlord” by, The Dead Kennedy’s.
I understand how it goes, trying to do things on the cheap, but holy crap, give me actual days that you plan to be ripping the wood off the house, hammering away, and putting up siding, so that perhaps, just maybe, I can try to plan around it. It seems that “the guys” (read: cousins and buddies) can’t work on it Friday, so they will be here Saturday and Sunday, and then the following weekend…maybe. If they don’t decide to start hammering away tomorrow, like today, and yesterday…you know.
Mind you, the windows in this house were all cracked to begin with and now (due to hammering) they’re crashing in. Also managed to lose a statue of Our Lady of Fatima when they were banging away outside the kitchen window. Knocking the head off the Virgin can’t be a good sign of what lies ahead.
Naptime?
Unfortunately, I have to try and keep Danny away from windows, which by my estimation means we’ll be spending most of our time in the crawl-space, my bedroom closet or perhaps, the loo. Just like a tornado drill-only louder.
I realise I’m complaining about very minor things in contrast to what others are forced to endure, and my whining is primarily that.
Now they’re outside my bedroom window as I type this-I can hear their conversation…no wait, back to hammering…will the glass hold…holding…holding….cross yer fingers…yeah, that’s good, they’re done and the window’s still up. Hey, look on the bright side, it was 65 degrees here today so maybe we won’t freeze our arses off in the night as the wind blows through the places where windows used to hang. Good thing we live in drought country, rain would really suck right now.
And in other news, I’m roasting a duck tomorrow, which also sounds like the start of a very bad joke. “Hey Vern, didja hear the one about the vegetarian put in charge of roasting a duck for Thanksgiving…?”
Danny has managed to fall asleep despite the din….I’m sure they’ll start hammering outside his bedroom window momentarily. No-wait, I hear a truck starting…Hallelujah, they’re leaving. Guess I’ll go sweep-up the damage.
Poor Naming Choices | # |
They Hate Us For Our Freedom — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 4:41 am
I photographed THIS tanning parlour in Omaha, Nebraska.
What on earth could they have been thinking? Still, according to their sign in the window, it is one of the top 250 tanning parlours in America-which is pretty good, considering it is located in a run-down strip mall in Omaha, Nebraska.
Won’t they be envious in New York City.
Free Beers, Commandante | # |
Dannypants — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 4:08 am
Remember that post last week about Danny shouting "Free Beers!" ? I’m pleased to report that we figured out he’s really asking for his story book…The Three Bears.
Furthermore, where I was convinced he was saying, "Commandante", I now know he is mimicking me saying, "Come on, Dan."
Wonder what else I’m misunderstanding?
Antidepressants For Pregnant Women-Fun And Profit (Unless You’re The Foetus) | # |
Fake Science — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 3:55 am
THIS article (scroll down) will probably upset you, even if it comes as no surprise. The short version-dangers(to the foetus) of taking anti-depressants whilst pregnant have been known and documented for some time, yet the recommendations have been for women to continue taking the drugs…(here’s the shocker) based on studies conducted by researchers in the employ of pharmaceutical companies. Shocking, I know. I cannot imagine why women would be told to continue taking drugs that they likely don’t even need, all the while endangering their unborn children…unless of course it were, you know, profitable.
Because we’re all so terribly, terribly ill. Mentally ill. It’s a real illness. Unhappiness is a medical condition. Before psychiatry, people were simply miserable and unhappy. Today, they can take drugs, get therapy and be miserable and unhappy…and as a bonus-potentially injure their unborn children. Sadness, unhappiness, stress, anxiety…emotions that everyone experiences to varying degrees at some point in their lives has been turned into something to fear and control. I really do wonder if by “treating” it, we aren’t giving the situation more attention and potential for self-absorbed worry. Instead of letting the storms pass, the “professionals” are there to intervene with drugs and therapy. God, what a racket the mental health industry is. In effect, they are marketing “support” that in the past would have been provided by family, friends and clergy. Now you can unload your worries on a stranger for $150. an hour and take some pills so you don’t need to be inconvenienced by feeling unhappy. Even if the drugs cause you to behave in a manner that would, under most circumstances be deemed, “crazy.”
When I was expecting Danny, I often participated on a pregnancy message board (the only positive thing I have to say for it was that I met Jenn) where day after day women would post hysterical rants about not eating lunchmeat, soft cheese, using hairspray, etc. but would militantly defend continuing to take anti-depressants whilst pregnant. Whenever the topic might come up, the cult-of-therapy-ghouls would come out in force talking-up the wonders of Paxil. Shortly after our children began being born there were, (I think three that I can recall) cases where the child was born suffering withdrawal symptoms that were attributed to anti-depressant use by the mother. The problems I remember being discussed were trouble feeding and tremors. Still, the cheerleaders stepped-up to defend the use with some inane nonsense about “a happy mom is a good mom. Then they’d cite studies-directly from the pharmaceutical company’s website. Yeah, that’s objective research there.
I’m not discounting the often difficult emotions mothers-to-be and new mothers experience. I do however take exception to the argument that the only solution is drugs. In fact, I’d argue that much of the depression and anxiety new mothers experience is less a result of “illness” and hormones, than of a society that sends women the message that they are helpless slaves to their emotions (PMS, Menopause) from beginning to end and that the best they can hope to do is “control” it (presumably so as not to bother the patriarchy). Toss in all the utter rubbish about “mommy wars”, and one can easily drive themselves quite mad with very little effort. Sleep deprivation in those first weeks doesn’t help much either. Why is “depression” so much more prevalent among women? I’d argue it is more prevalent because women are generally in a more vulnerable position to have psychiatric drugs forced on them (either through subtle coercion, or outright legal means). Particularly, if the woman is a mother, or expecting-then everything is done for the well being of the foetus…including drugging and damaging it in utero, if it is profitable to a company’s shareholders.
Antidepressants For The Happy? | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 3:14 am
I’m probably a very bad person for even thinking this…but wouldn’t it be great if the recreational anti-depressant user in the story ended-up going ape-shit delusional…at work (he’s a lobbyist). The article doesn’t mention if he’s a lobbyist for Pharma. Clearly, the drugs are having an effect on his sensibilities as no one in a correct frame of mind would admit not only to using anti-depressants as an upper, but also openly discussing using ecstasy (apparently in some once-a-year sort of ritual). I’m sure future prospective employers will marvel at it when they Google his name to get a better idea what sort of candidate they have before them. Moron.
Pie Update | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 2:43 am
I did it! You can view the results HERE.
The "practise pie" was pretty good as well.
You can find my other recipes at http://eattheblog.blogspot.com
(I’ve been on an oatmeal bread kick lately as well).
November 21, 2006
But I Thought Everyone Waits Until The End Of November To Put Up Siding | # |
Romanticised Pastoral — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 2:23 am
Around two this afternoon, “farmer neighbour” came with agricultural/construction equipment and tore out our shrubbery. It had to be. The bushes were old and un kept and could really only be trimmed with a chainsaw, and since the new siding is going up over the next two weekends, the house needed to be made a bit more accessible.
Personally, I’m glad to see them go. They were some sort of dwarf evergreen family variety that caused me to break out in large welts when I’d brush past them. We couldn’t see out the first floor windows and they were an insect attracting nuisance. The cats are going to be upset (as they spend most of their time under there) but you know what? There’s a perfectly suitable barn no less than 50 metres from the house-they are more than welcome to make use of it.
We now have a terrific view…of “Farmer Neighbour’s” cattle. Because hearing, smelling and enjoying the flies wasn’t giving us the complete cow experience we’d been hoping for, we now look out our front room window to see cattle head-butting one another behind the electric fence. Danny is beside himself with excitement. He ran to the window screaming “Moo cows.” He did that a lot. When he wasn’t running to the window and yelling “Farmers.” Or “Tractor” (actually, it was a backhoe, but cut the kid some slack, he’s not quite two). Major work begins Friday morning.
Most of my perennial plants in front were destroyed last year when the new ditch was dug to bury the water line. Then, a month ago when the new septic was dug, we lost the side and back. Today, it was the dianthus I planted the day I found out I was pregnant, and the giant carnation that wasn’t actually a giant carnation (but was labelled as such when I purchased it) but some purple giant flower that looked like a cattail. I’ll miss them, but good heavens, I’m looking forward to the siding-our heating bills are killing us. Don’t even ask about the windows.
Unfortunately, our dog barks incessantly at noise, even when he knows the source. There’s nowhere I can run to on Friday (the start of the obscene “shopping season”). After being knocked-down last weekend, I’m certainly not about to take any chances on the day after Thanksgiving.
Anyone want a dog?
Pie | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 2:01 am
L. has a co-worker that has been supplying us with everything from toys to winter coats to baby washcloths and towels from day one. The youngest of her three boys is now a couple of years ahead of Daniel and we’ve recently been the recipients of a fantastic race car riding toy (suspended on springs), a clear plastic locomotive that makes realistic sounds as it chugs across the floor and of course, tons of clothing. I showed my appreciation the way I usually do-with pie.
Somehow, one pie seemed sort of wimpy, given the generosity we’ve been on the receiving end of, so I had L. ask what her favourite pie was and I’d supply a large one for her Thanksgiving dinner. I was expecting apple (like the first pie) or pumpkin, maybe the odd maple cream. I wasn’t expecting cherry. Merde.
I’ve made one cherry pie in my life, and it was in June, when fresh cherries are available. I knew that tinned ones would be unsatisfactory so I went a little crazy and loaded-up the freezer with frozen, sweet black cherries. I made the “trial run” pie today (the one we sample, and if it is awful, I spend the next couple of days in a panic trying to locate fresh cherries in North America in November).
I’m not much of a theological expert, so don’t take my word for it, but if demon possession of pie is even remotely possible, I suspect the pie cooling on my kitchen counter is a good candidate for exorcism.
I transferred the filling from the pot on the stove to the prepared crust, neatly fitted in the plate. Sure, there was the usual bubbling, sputtering and such as I fitted the lattice crust over the top. The filling looked terribly sparse. Still, pie filling often expands, so I thought better of it and resisted the temptation to spoon a bit more filling in-something I was glad for when it began bubbling over and burying the lattice crust beneath the bright red demonic burning hot cornstarch and cherry juice fires of hell. At least, that’s what it looked like.
I set demon pie on the counter to cool and watched as it bubbled away, spitting its sticky, scalding ooze on my white Formica counters. As quickly as it began, the pie began to recede. A few hours later, I have a beautifully glazed looking lattice cherry pie, bubbled over in spots, but basically, lovely. And shallow. In spots. I’ve tried levelling the oven-a useless task as the entire house is tilted to the north. I’m thinking of taking a level around the house until I can locate a reasonable spot to cool a pie where perhaps, if I’m lucky, it can cool, sliding evenly throughout the crust.
I have a feeling we’re going to be eating quite a bit of cherry pie between now and Thursday.
November 20, 2006
Things That Should Not Be Scrap-Booked | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 10:52 pm
More amazing, is that a scrap-booking magazine decided to feature the pages from a family trip to tour Auschwitz.
Where Are Your Manners? | # |
Interacting With the Stupid — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 6:59 pm
There’s a moment, a very fraction of a second when one realises they are shortly to hit the ground, with little to be done about it. Before I could register that I’d landed on my shoulder, My son (who’d been holding my hand) came tumbling down as well, landing on my hip. One moment, we’re standing before a rack of books at the Goodwill, the next, picking ourselves up after being knocked down by a large, (though oddly swift-moving) drunk. Well, you know, Sunday afternoons are made for getting pissed-up-the-wall and heading over to the thrift store to knock over invalids and their children. I couldn’t say anything of course (he’d taken off anyway) but rather I was surprised by the initial assault and then the fact that not a single person offered to help us up, one actually trying to step around me.
Strangely, the day before, I’d had a woman ram her shopping carriage into my hip with pretty strong force. Again, that micro-second where the brain processes expectation. In this instance, I was expecting her to apologise, and I’d tell her it was “no problem.” Instead, she held up her hands to me and declared; “I just came from my manicure and I’m having trouble pushing the cart.” Then she laughed and steered away trying not to spoil her nails. The exchange was so far outside my expectation for normal behaviour that I was left unable to react properly, which with the benefit of hindsight would be to reply; “Fuck you and your manicure.”
Two summers ago, when I had my car die in the middle of an intersection, I had one of the most terrifying moments of my life where a crazed motorist (again, on a Saturday afternoon, for heaven’s sake) became seriously unhinged by the fact that he was going to need to drive around me that he began screaming and threatening me.
You know, for a nation that’s arguably medicated to the hilt on anti-depressants and tranquilisers, I’m not seeing it reflected in a less hostile population. Besides, that doesn’t excuse etiquette. “Pardon me”, “Sorry”, “May I help you up?” really ought to be the norm, not the exception. I’m accustomed to having doors thrown on me (I couldn’t even get a door held for me at nine month’s pregnant), but this past weekend was truly above and beyond poor behaviour. And people wonder why we prefer to live on a farm miles away from “civilisation.” The way things have been going, I’m not certain my person can withstand much more “civilising.”
Next time, I’m wearing knee-pads and a helmet to go shopping.
November 17, 2006
Mastering Language | # |
Dannypants — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 12:28 pm
Danny has been stringing together all sorts of interesting words and short sentences. Sometimes, he uses all the new phrases he’s learned at once and ends up shouting “Peace man, free beer” at really inappropriate times. I have to admit, it’s cute to see him hold his hands over his cheeks and say, “Oh God, how shocking!” Actually, “Oh God” comes out sounding like “Oh Gud” but It’s pretty clear to anyone who’s listening what he’s saying.
I don’t know if all children do this, but Danny really stresses each syllable in a way that gives his speech an almost Irish sing-song-y quality to it. Take one of his favourite books, Chicken Little, for example. The way Danny says it, the title becomes, “Ci-ken, Lit-el” With the first syllable being higher in pitch. Up-down, up, down. I find it lovely, albeit, a little strange.
Even stranger than my son’s lilting speech is his attempt at funny voices. I suppose I’m to blame for this. One afternoon, playing with Mr. Potato Head, Danny pulled off his arm. Joking, I lowered my voice and spoke in a gravel-y, deep, serious tone,
“Hey kid, gimme back my arm!” This led to weeks of Danny picking up Mr. Potato Head and saying “Hey kid” in a ridiculously low, exaggerated voice. He laughs pretty well at this, his first real joke.
“Hey kid! Hey kid!”
L’s been trying to get him to say
“Hey kid, it was tasty” (William S. Burroughs from Naked Lunch, describing someone being given a shot of strychnine in place of heroin)but Daniel doesn’t seem as amused by it.
We needed to run a few errands today and as we were paying for the new pressure-mounted baby gate to replace the one which broke in my hand last evening (guess I don’t know my own strength) he gets a really sweet smile on his face and makes a kissing motion with his lips. I bent down to kiss the top of his head when he announces loudly, for all to hear,
“Stinky mama kisses.” Then holding his nose and waving/fanning with the other hand adds, “pee-ewww.”
Just call me “Mama Stinky.”
