My Me-Me

Okay, my memory hasn't gone entirely to hell. Jen tagged me a while back to post something having to do with my workspace. Now here's the part where my memory has gone to hell. Aren't I supposed to list five of this and five of that? Like, five places where I stash the drugs, booze, and condoms? Or is it the inspy romances and foods that resemble saints? I can't remember.

Anyway, that desk above used to be my work desk. It isn't anymore, because the only space in which it fits affords no privacy whatsoever. Not in this shack, anyway. But it's a lovely old walnut office desk, and I've had it far longer than I've had any husband or boyfriend. Got it eons ago when I was in graduate school -- $25 at a garage sale -- and I've used the everlovin' snot out of it. It's my most beloved possession and has moved with me to about twelve different residences all over the upper Midwest.

Why can't my most beloved possession be a freakin' watch?

The monks? Yeah, this space also serves as my monk nook. I like monks. In fact, I have many totems. The corner where that rocking chair sits is now occupied by an empty fish tank. The rocking chair isn't mine, and I've always despised it, so I'm glad it's now rotting away in the garage. I like the fish tank a great deal, although I'd like it much more if it weren't cursed. Fish have very short life expectancies when they're in that tank. The bookcase used to belong to my mother. It's one of several I have.


Now, the foot under the door. That's the entrance to my current workroom, and the foot belongs to Buddy, the dog I eulogized in another post. You'll be happy to learn he was still alive when I took the picture. 'Cause, honestly, I'm nowhere near pervy enough to stick the paw of a dead dog under my office door -- no matter how much I might miss him.

The bookcase on which my hooker phone sits is what you see upon entering my sanctum santorum. The phone does work, but only for special incoming calls -- if you catch my drift.



Then you'd see a bulletin board loaded with crap I rarely look at, but it makes me feel secure. Then there's my shitty ancient computer and my equally shitty printer (the immeasurable shittiness of which you're well aware of by now), and a rather nicely placed window that lets me gaze out at the pines and the big ol' dog pen that used to house chickens until raccoons picked 'em all off.

Other features lay within, like a nice big bay window to the right and more bookcases and such, but I didn't feel like taking additional pictures.

See if you can spot the hedgehog!

See if you can spot Nathan! (Actually, I know you can't, because I positioned my desk chair to keep him hidden. He's shy about his role as my under-desk man. I guess most guys would be.)

Magic Jack, the Flower

Because our cool, wet weather has made for some dreary days, and maybe you've experienced some dreary moments too, here's a spring wonder from my native species flowerbed.

Meet Jack-in-the-pulpit. He's quite magisterial and likely belongs in a wizard's garden. The plants that surround him -- demure wood violets and fancy ferns, elegant irises and flirty phlox -- act as if they don't know he's there. But they know. Just like Transylvanian peasants know who's in the mountaintop castle that throws its shadow over their village.

Jack stands toward the rear of the bed, partially concealed by his own broad leaves. He watches and listens and keeps his own counsel. At night, when the whippoorwill calls, summoning toads and mice and beetles to hold congress at his feet . . . that is when the magic happens.

And I stay away.

When a kid is too interested in erotic romance

Ever face this problem? I blogged about it at MySpace http://www.myspace.com/kzsnow . A friend's son has been itching to read one of my naughty books. Finally, I came up with a couple of deterrents.

Things I Miss From My Childhood

Normally I don't spend time reminiscing. There are plenty of current and future concerns to fill my dance card. But within the past week, as JLA and I were watching The Exorcist for the seventy-third time, I commented on Ellen Burstyn wearing a babushka in a couple of sequences.

"That's a scarf," he said, and even got rather snotty and dismissive about it. I reminded him we both grew up in Milwaukee, albeit on opposite sides of town, and if he knew his ass from page five about that city's immigrant history, he'd damned sure agree that Ms. Burstyn was wearing a babushka.

Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary gives these definitions: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/babushka. By the way, it isn't just a Russian word. Poles often borrow it. Or at least my mother and aunts did. Anyway, I told JLA I missed wearing one and thought I'd just start doing so again. Babushkas are very versatile. They can serve as wardrobe accessories, protect your hair from the wind (or cover it if it's dirty), and keep your head and ears warm.

This got me thinking about other childhood pleasures I miss--profoundly, if I let myself dwell on them: eating kieshka in blissful, tastebud-delighted ignorance (if you know what this sausage is made from, you know what I mean); playing the jukebox in my parents' tavern; listening to late-night AM radio (and spinning a dial to do so); taking the bus downtown to spend entire days or evenings reveling in the city's wonders (the museum and central library, Lake Michigan's shore, the then-grungy riverfront, Gimbels department store, concerts and teen dance clubs and B-movies shown in grandiose theaters . . . ah, the list goes on).

The seasons, too, had more meaning then. Winter brought Christmases full of church and magic in equal measure, and ice skating on county park lagoons, and snow more welcomed than shunned. Spring saw the start of baseball season. Summer meant a week or two at a homey, musty cottage, sans indoor plumbing, that sat on forty crop-filled acres down a small, dusty road from the vast, blue lake. At home it meant playgrounds and parades and--glory be!--the state fair. Autumn was all about the feel and fragrance of leaf piles, and even more about Halloween.

Little did I know when I tuned in The Exorcist that it would trigger a whole chain-reaction's worth of memories . . . and the realization that we, as adults--so often on the move, so focused on the daily grind of "getting and spending", as Wordsworth put it--tend to lose sight of those people, places, and simple pleasures that went into the making of us.

So, long live babushkas! (Now I just have to find one that's winter-worthy. Hey, what a good excuse for hitting some resale shops!)

English food I hate; English food I love

"Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares"--oh, how I enjoy this verbal fuckapalooza when it isn't another rerun, which, alas, it usually is. Gordon does not mince words. No siree. But his sympathy, enthusiasm, forthrightness, and culinary acuity more than make up for his love of expletives. (Truth be told, I rather like his love of expletives.) He's kind of a hot s.o.b., too, in his own weathered, foul-mouthed way.

Anyway, this BBCA show got me thinking about my trip to Great Britain and how I effortlessly lost about ten pounds (not the monetary kind) while I was there. Why? Aside from the fact I did a lot of walking, the food generally sucked so bad, much of it was virtually inedible. Seriously. That's why the phrase English cuisine is generally uttered with a snort.

Here are the so-called "foods" I despised with every little twist my stomach was capable of making:

1.) Marmite. What the hell vicious misanthrope concocted this gag-worthy slop? I could not believe so many Brits shunned peanut butter and instead smeared their bread with fermented sorghum molasses smegma laced with low-grade petroleum products and ant poison.
2.) Lancashire hotpot. Uh...black pepper anyone? And more black pepper? And nothing but black pepper? I had this miserable excuse for a casserole in a Lancashire household, not a restaurant, so can only assume it was the real deal. Holy shit. Or rather, unholy shit.
3.) Mussels. Strove to chew these delightful nuggets on a seafood sampler tray in, I think, Blackpool. The next time I have a hankering for a mouthful of rubberbands with sand stuck to them, I'll just whip some up myself.
4.) Pub food. And I shiver as I type. The strangest sausages on God's green earth. (Do the English really hate the Germans so much they can't learn some sausage-making skills from their former enemies?) Equally weird sandwiches. UGHHHH.
5.) Curry. Any freakin' thing laced with freakin' curry. The smell alone makes me want to toss my innards. And that's NOT a smell you can easily get rid of. It clings like alien slime. I get the impression Brits are all about curry the way Americans are all about Mexican food. I'll take the Mexican food, thank you veddy much.

Now, there was an upside. Not a big one, sad to say. Certainly not big enough to make me gain weight. But there were some meals and foods I rather enjoyed.

1.) Roast beef & Yorkshire pudding. Yum. I had this in Yorkshire. For those of you who don't know, Yorkshire pudding is essentially what we call popovers. Done properly, this dish is delish.
2.) Fish & chips. Well...duh. That strange cider vinegar, or whatever kind of vinegar it is, took some getting used to. But you don't have to have it if you can't acquire a taste for it.
3.) Breakfast with fried red tomatoes. Oh yeah. Greasy fried eggs and greasy bacon and greasy fried tomatoes. I cook it to this day.
4.) Clotted cream. Beats the living snot out of me why this sinfully rich stuff isn't commonly available in the U.S. Just dump some over peach slices. Or your partner's body. Whoa. Fast track to blissful depravity.
5.) Silver-shred marmalade. Made from lemons. On the right toast? What a wonderful zing. With a cuppa Earl Grey? Even better.

Send in the dog sled!

The most recent addition to the Neverending Winter of 2007-08. Another foot of blizzard-driven snow fell yesterday on top of the eight or more feet we've already gotten this season. (Man, I can't wait until we retire, jump into our motorhome, and HEAD SOUTH.)

This is currently the view from our front door. Soon, there won't be a view. Another storm is due next weekend. See that hanging birdfeeder? There's a milk can standing at the base of the shepherd's crook. Somewhere.

This is the view from our back door. That's a deck railing. The white stuff is even with it.

Cabin fever skyrockets as county snow-removal budgets plunge.

Thank God for computers!

I HATE DELL

That's right. Dell. The computer giant. I've had it with that stinkin' outfit. The gloves are coming off.

Here are my experiences to date. When I first called them to order my system, which was early in 2004, I had to hang up and call again. Why? Because I couldn't understand a fucking word their "customer service" respresentative was saying, that's why. Then my printer turned out to be a lemon and had to be returned. Then I got a grossly overpriced color cartridge that was defective. Then, as I was scurrying to get contracts printed, the grossly overpriced black cartridge took a crap, even though it was still 23% full of fucking ink. Then, when I called to order new grossly overpriced and probably defective cartridges, I couldn't understand a fucking word their "customer service" representative was saying. Then I found out the cheesy WordPerfect program that came pre-installed on the computer is incompatible with the MS Word programs most of my editors use, resulting in endless hassles and delays!

God, how I wish somebody has slapped me before I got involved with that WE ONLY HIRE PEOPLE WHO SPEAK SHATTERED ENGLISH AND ONLY SELL MADE-IN-CHINA CRAP company!!!!! I think it's time for a boycott, seriously.