F16’s Don’t Kill People, 500 Lb. Bombs Kill People

 I won’t bother teaching the kid science because the Community College is just going to offer a course on Ghost Hunting and well-fine, you win. OK? You win. I give up.

I guess I’m speechless.

I’m totally beat-and I don’t mean Leroy Jones.

I’ve been canning for the past couple days which would be a bad idea with my neck/shoulder screwed up from the injured disk, but then I went and made apple butter. I don’t even like apple butter, though just about everyone I know does. It was much more work than anticipated. With jam, you chop your fruit, shove it in a pot and stir it once in a while until it gels. With butters, you peel 24 apples, chop them, simmer them, put them through a food mill and then stand on your feet a couple more hours stirring constantly until it thickens enough to stuff in jars and process. Four hours total-on my feet using my bad arm.

Thankfully, it is really good apple butter. The mincemeat I made yesterday isn’t half bad either.

Danny’s costume is completed (pictures to follow Halloween), and I have a pint of boiled cider sitting in the fridge just waiting for me to make some doughnuts. As I type, I can hear the jars of apple butter going "ping" in the next room indicating a good seal. I’m listening for one more ping.

I’m so glad we live waaaaaaay down a long scary road in the country and don’t get trick-or-treaters because I sort of neglected to buy or make any candy! No one ever comes here anyway. We’re a few miles outside of town, which is where we’ll be taking Danny tomorrow. I know he’s going to bolt awake at five AM and want to put his costume on and go. Isn’t waiting all day to go trick or treating just agony when you’re a kid? I can remember sitting in school eating some lame cupcakes and just wanting to go hit the house that always gave out full-sized Butterfinger bars. That was pretty generous, even for the 1970’s. My school would have this Halloween festival the Saturday before, called (I’m not making this up) "The Halloweenie." Worse, I think they actually did serve hot dogs. I never won any good prizes, but my sister did manage to win me a goldfish one year doing that game where you toss rings on pop bottles. Another year I came home with one of those lamps that had a laminated plastic tube that had coloured cut-out shapes and would spin around making psychedelic designs on your wall. I think it eventually melted. I have a vague memory of naked troll dolls that would probably be considered obscene today (they were trolls for fuck’s sake-it’s not like they had genetalia).

Every year my mother sent me out dressed as an Indian. Indigenous North American-not Gandhi, though that would have been totally awesome if she’d thought of it. No, my mother, ignoring the fact that we lived less than a mile from an Indian Relocation centre where they practically kidnapped people off their land and dumped them in the city to train them for menial jobs, sent me out with my face painted, hair braided and wearing a ridiculous fringed dress. And the feathered headdress that seemed to lose a couple feathers a year until it was just a headband. I must have worn that costume from first to fourth grade. Considering you had Native Americans threatening to blow up Mount Rushmore around that time, and AIM was becoming a household name, even at ten I knew it was a bad idea to be dressing up as Pocahontas. Really, it’s just a miracle I never got my ass kicked.

So one year, my sister and her friends pleaded with my parents to let them go out alone after dark to trick or treat. I was all finished by that point, happily munching away at my full-sized Butterfinger and starring at my trippy lamp, but my sister wanted to go out without her little sister tagging along. So of course, my parents caved and off they went. They got a couple of blocks over before running into a group of teenaged boys…dressed as Nazis. Of course they freaked out and ran home begging my dad to do something about it. I mean, come on-what was he supposed to do? Tell them it was tasteless? Honestly, it was hilarious given that it turned out to be Jewish kids doing it. They probably sat down and thought, "What’s the single most offensive thing we can do to shock our parents?" and came up Nazi. They weren’t glamourising Nazis, they were being rebellious teenagers. Brilliant.

Finally, my poor dad got stuck accompanying a group of middle school girls trick or treating and they never did run into the SS again. I can’t remember if he got any candy out of being dragged through the neighbourhood looking for Nazis, but I hope they at least tossed him a Hershey bar or two for his trouble.

So, what are you dressing as this year? I’m going as a middle-aged homemaker.

Happy Halloween.

Drink your cigarettes.

But what about tar? My doctor says I don’t get enough tar in my diet-and the drink only provides nicotine.  

 I think my mum made some of these.

We finally gave in and lit the furnace. We’re not really running it yet, but that few minutes to test it out felt wonderful. The propane tank is full, and I’m so glad we didn’t lock in a price with the fuel company-we ended up paying close to what we did last year at this time. Luck, I guess.

I ventured upstairs to the storage area to get down the winter clothes forgetting that those rooms were hit by the tornado as well. The windows were replaced, but there is still broken glass and plaster strewn about. Just when I think we finally have everything put back together I find yet another thing impacted by that stupid storm. Last week, I opened the piano only to find bits of plaster and foam from our popcorn ceiling that were blown into it in June. Sometimes, I’ll glance up at a corner of a bookcase and notice the telltale white streaks and laugh that I’ll never fully get that stuff off the furniture. I’m a pretty good housekeeper-this annoys me to no end.

I’ve been busy furiously sewing to get gifts completed in time for the holidays. I also have a house full of guests coming in a couple weeks for an early Thanksgiving. I’m still putting the finishing touches on Danny’s Halloween costume (last minute, anyone?) though I’m making a mental note to just go out and buy him a costume next year. The thing is, he wanted to be a combine. Not a tractor-that’s too easy-but a combine with a corn head attachment. OK, I can do that. I spray painted a box red, and cut out some cardboard wheels that were painted black. A paper towel tube for a smokestack and some Styrofoam cones like they use for flower arranging for the corn head. That would have been great, but my husband gets the idea that it needs working headlights. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. We ended up buying those press-lights in the dollar bin at Shop-Ko. All that’s left to do is some minor detailing with a Sharpie and figuring out some suspenders to hold the thing up, but I just know something will go awry-it always does. Hopefully it won’t be –10 with a foot of snow (that used to happen when I was a kid in Chicago).

Honestly, I’m just trying to keep busy so I don’t need to pay too much attention to what’s going on. Other than voting, there isn’t much I have control over and endlessly listening to people screaming about terrorists and socialists is getting old. It’s a bit like waiting for the worst but given the behaviour I’ve been witnessing from people of late, maybe the worst is already here.

I don’t have any brilliant insights to share, unless you need help with a Halloween costume.

As soon as I read THIS article about a fireworks company refusing to take part in a parade because the word "Christmas" was replaced with "holiday", I knew it was time.

Look, it isn’t any fun pretending to be John Dewey by myself. Besides, my sense of humour has been seriously diminished these days. Consider this a casting call for the John Dewey’s War On Christmas blog. Want in? Leave a comment or drop me an email. One need not be a secular humanist to participate, though actual members of the John Dewey Society will be given priority because well…yeah, forget it, that isnt going to happen after I made jokes about fisting and mood rings. Nevermind.

So, who wants to enlist for the war?

Happy Holidays! 

Newest threat of danger to Nebraska youngsters (other than 60’s radicals coming to give lectures at UNL)? Boxing. Yep, that’s right. Some kids with nothing to do organised a regular boxing match-with gloves, in the park, but the police are having none of it. Someone could get hurt, you know. As far as I know, pick up games of baseball are still OK, but having unsupervised kids with bats and balls is probably next on the list of criminal activities.

My dad and uncle used to settle most of their disputes by putting on boxing gloves (or throwing plates of spaghetti at each other) though my grandmother would usually step in and call it in the first round.

I mean, gee whiz. I could see it if these kids were out there bare-knuckle fighting and punching each other bloody-but they’re not. Pretty soon we’re going to have stay up all night and supervise their sleeping because they might be startled awake by a bad dream, fall out of bed and sprain a wrist.

Maybe I’m out of touch, but this sort of thing was commonplace when I was growing up and instead of being scolded, the adults would have been pleased we found a way to amuse ourselves that didn’t involve setting things on fire or stealing.

I don’t make a habit of posting "good deals" at retailers, but THIS was just too good to keep to myself. Sears has a massive clearance sale going on and you can take home clothes cheaper than shopping at thrift shops. That’s nice, for those special occasions when you don’t want your clothes to still smell faintly of mildew and cat piss. Oh sure, mildew and cat piss are still good enough for work, but for date night, you want to splurge a little, and this big sale at Sears makes it that much easier.

Here’s one of the skirts I’m buying:

Seriously, I couldn’t but the fabric (or the thread) for that. They also have a nice feature where you can have it shipped to a store near you and then pick it up. That’s pretty convenient unless you’re like me and live in bumblefuck. Wait, I’m sorry, "Real America". I’m a real American, can’t you tell? I realise this is completely off topic (or is it?) but the idea that you can run a campaign on the assertion that somehow people living out here are more "American" than someone in Detroit really blows my mind. The idiocy seems to be coming from both sides though. Man, I do hate being stereotyped. I can’t wait for this election to be over with.

If anyone needs me I’ll be in my room bitterly clinging to my guns, religion and Sears catalogue.

Another link for Jenn, because she’s the only person I know that will appreciate, "The Land Of Bad Names."

I realised something recently-if I’m ever going to have friends around here that I actually like (whoops, did I just say that, oh dear) I’m going to need to start hanging out in comic books shops.

Speaking of comics-I have a couple of real doozies I ought to take on-line. I’m open to advice on how best to do that.

Other than that, posting is sparse because my kid has chicken pox and I re-injured the disk in my neck that has been messed-up for five years now. Hubby stayed home to help out, which is nice because with a head full of pain medication and muscle relaxers I haven’t exactly been able to tidy-up or get dinner on the table. Instead, Danny and I climbed into bed and watched Star Wars. I can’t say I liked it any better than I did the last time I saw it in, what, 1979? Yeah, I know that’s heresy. Danny liked it, which I’m sure will be the beginning of an expensive Christmas list of collectible figurines. Yay for collectible figurines.

I tried convincing Danny that we should rent Labyrinth, but he wasn’t sold on it. I mentioned that Miss Mary’s mum Jenn really liked the movie and he sort of gained some interest and asked what it was about.

"Oh, it’s about a girl whose baby brother gets kidnapped by trolls."

That probably wasn’t a good way to sell the movie because later in the day, Danny asked:

"Does Miss Mary’s mother want trolls to kidnap baby Frances?"

To which I could only reply:"

"It depends how long she’s been crying."

Anyway, don’t expect much around here because reaching for the mouse makes me feel like I’m being knifed in the neck.

You know how it is, Saturday night and you’re sitting at home shoving store-brand sour cream and onion potato chips in your fat face one after another and you start thinking:

"Hey, while I’m sitting here eating these very salty Our Family Brand potato chips, I could be building a hydrogen fuel cell with things I have sitting around in my kitchen junk drawer."

And it’s true. You really could be building a hydrogen fuel cell with crap in your kitchen junk drawer. Don’t believe me? Go HERE. And while you’re there, check out some of the other cool science projects you can do with your kids (or co-workers, depending where you work).

I stumbled over the site looking for information on building Danny a three-penny radio. Seriously, go bookmark the page because you know you want to order a vial of kryptonite, and you’re never going to get to sleep tonight unless you buy the solar strips.

Oooh, I’m so excited.

I noticed what looked like scabbed-over bites on Danny yesterday. *&%*$@%* Dog! So into the bath he’s gone, twice. Flea treatment, Hoovering the house in every imaginable corner again and again. Except neither of the adults had any bites. Strange. Then I saw Danny lying in my bed breaking out with new spots seemingly by the minute and I knew it wasn’t the dog (he needed a bath anyway, so no harm done there). It looked for a bit like he was developing hives, so I gave him some antihistamine and made a Dr.’s appointment. Diagnosis? Chicken Pox.

Supposedly it will be a milder case because he already had the first dose of the vaccine, but looking at the poor kid, you wouldn’t know it.

The paediatrician suggested an oatmeal bath, which Danny found hilarious. I’m thinking of adding a few raisins to the bathwater for entertainment value (Hey, you can’t eat oatmeal without raisins. What are you, some sort of pinko that eats their porridge with cranberries?). He’s pretty excited, but I think Danny is envisioning a tub filled with cooked oatmeal, which would be kind of cool, but a pain to cleanup.

Oh well, at least no one has fleas. I was half afraid he was going to be diagnosed with something like impetigo or some other filth-related disease (the house is quite clean, thank you but we still live on a farm). Guess we won’t be going anywhere for a while.

I spent the afternoon repairing some very old dresses I own. When I was young I had a soft spot for rayon or silk dresses from the thirties and forties and would pick them up at charity shops, and jumble sales for almost nothing. That was before old dresses became "vintage" and acquired the price tag to go with the designation.

Old dresses are fragile and no matter how well-cared for they are, eventually the old stitching gives way and I end up patching them back together. Some of them are on the borderline of becoming fabric scraps, but I keep putting them back together until the day when I disassemble them, and use them to cut patterns for new dresses.

It was only as I was admiring one of my favourites (a late 1920’s black silk sailor dress with a drop waist) that I started to laugh. There’s a saying about fashion that everything comes back eventually and as I put away my Depression-era clothing I shook my head thinking that can now apply to economic trends as well. At least I have the Depression era wardrobe to match.

In other news:

This probably isn’t a matter of great importance to anyone but me.

I’ve been wearing my hair in an up-do for many, many years now and I have to tell you, I really resent Caribou Barbie* stealing my look. My glasses are better looking and I don’t colour my hair, but still. The problem is that I don’t want anyone that doesn’t know me to think I’ve suddenly taken up this style because I emulate her. I most certainly do not. Still, being a brunette of a certain age living in a very conservative state, it wouldn’t be difficult for people to arrive at that conclusion. So here’s my plan:

Until Election Day, I’m switching from the up-do held with a comb in back, to a braid across the top of my head because if I have to look like anyone I’d rather it be Dorothy Day than the Gorilla From Wasilla. If the Republicans win, I might have to consider shaving my head.

* I didn’t coin Caribou Barbie, but I really wish I had.

Danny: What do you do if you lose a turnip?

Mama: I don’t know, what?

Danny: Nothing. You wait for it to turn-up!

(Hits his knee)

Danny: That was a knee-slapper mama!