Chaos and Discontent

 There is no place on any other platform to speak my mind, so I will attempt to blow this up a bit.  

It is an amazing thing that one individual can bring such chaos into a relatively chaos free environment.  If I could, I would run screaming into the void. If I thought it would do any good, I would turn and run, boobs bouncing, short little legs pumping, until I reached a spot so far away that I could not be found. The most frustrating thing is that I acquiesced to the original plan to help this individual grow into someone a bit less chaotic.  Never again.  The chaos' mother has now infiltrated my home, and my brain, and I haven't thought of a way to extricate myself.  Yet. 

I have long believed that I have an obligation to help in whatever way that I can whenever I can.  I no longer believe it.  This idiotic situation has taught me that I am not responsible for attempting to fix other's fuck-ups.  Another certainty; if the situation were reversed, the mother of the chaos would never help me or any of mine.  I can only attempt to distance myself now.  I refuse to be the scapegoat so that these two people, who never should have been parents, can get away free of obligation.  

I suppose what I am attempting to say is that I am going to gracefully, or maybe not so gracefully bow out.  

Do as you will chaos, I am now done. 

 I’m going to speak of my very recent personal experience, which I rarely do. From November 2019 until February 2020 we lived in motels. The details are not important, nor your business. During that time we met and became friendly with several families who also lived in motels. All had at least one full time working member .Living in motels, even the most inexpensive motels, still requires about $1400/month. In this state, you must move out of whichever motel you are living in every 28 days for two days, and then hope you can book a room again or get your old room back.  After 28 days, a room begins to feel like home, even if all the rooms have the same floor plan.  We were in room 111. Lucky number 111. The couple with four children and two working parents lived in the corner room, the couple with one child and grandpa, dad and grandpa working, lived next door. Another couple lived with their adult son in a room at the other corner, dad and  son working, mom legally blind.  We followed each other’s daily issues.  “Still looking for a place we can afford to move into.” 

“Yes, but damn, how do you save enough to move in, when you have to have a first, last and deposit to move in?”

“That’s hoping you can pass whatever background check they decide to throw at you.” 

“Yeah.” Heavy sighs.  We look away from one another because we are sad and embarrassed and scared. 

“Ok, well you have a good night.”

“You too.” 

Lather, rinse, repeat the next day, the day after, and the week after that.  

Eventually, the conversations turn to the various motels in the area, and their relative worthiness for a two night stay(price). Then someone tries out a new place and it seems good, but they don’t accept pets over 25 pounds.  Most of us are pet havers in the Motel Dwellers Alliance(MDA).  Now we can swap pet stories plus our daily litany. 

The motel staff know us all intimately. The motel staff is only one paycheck away from joining us in the rooms they book, clean, and troubleshoot for their clientele. We talk about that late at night, when someone’s partner is working, and a child is sleeping in the room, and you can’t sleep because, well you just can’t sleep. 

Then suddenly, one family gets lucky and finds a place. They get to move from motel life to apartment life. They are grateful they passed the background check and the credit check and the place is  willing to accept pets and they had family who could help them with deposit and how very fortunate is that? 

Mid-May.. I walk around my neighborhood with my dog and notice signs up around all the empty lots in this area.

 CAMPING OR PARKING UNLAWFUL.

 EXCEPT WHERE DESIGNATED.

It is unlawful to camp or stay overnight or during the hours of ten p.m. to six a.m. in any vehicle, trailer, or recreational vehicle within a city park or within any city owned public parking lots. CMC 10.33.180

Motels have been closed due to Covid 19 since late March, early April. Where are all the families? What were their options? Did they all pass all the checks and have the move-in money and did they even have any furniture? Are their children okay? Do any of these people still have a job? Does this community care? The majority won’t even wear masks.  Hell, many of the members of the MDA won’t wear masks. Does any of that really matter?

Lucky number 111.  

Soup is Love

It is a bitter, drenching western Washington day.  I am soaked from my shoes to my knees because the rain is bouncing off the pavement.  I had to walk to work; my car did not start this morning.  My umbrella turned inside out from the strength of the wind. At work, I consume some pretzels and water since there is no time for real food.  Each time I walk between buildings I fear that my feet will begin to mold. I spend the entire day more than slightly damp and irritable.  After the walk home, rain blowing sideways and completing my misery, I turn the key, open the door, and the smell caresses my nostrils.  It is the loveliest aroma I know; a hint of garlic, herbs, chicken and broth; heaven in a pot. Yes, soup is love.

            Imagine the origins of soup.  Several days after the hunt, Mama Ooog is looking at what’s left of the saber-tooth gofer. Only a haunch remains, not enough to feed Papa Ooog and two baby Ooogs.  This is also the origin of critical thinking; indeed a woman started it all, but I digress.  Mama looks around and spies a few tubers, some leafy greens and a wild onion.  She plops the haunch into a hollow stone, adds the tubers, greens, onion and covers the lot with water.  It simmers over the fire she was given by another woman she met on the trail. Soon the enticing smell brings Papa and the children running.  As it begins to cool, they scoop it into their mouths with their hands.  Slurping and sighing with pleasure, everyone’s belly is soon full and delicious warmth spreads through the small group.  That night the cold doesn’t seem so cold and the children sleep better than they have in, well, ever.  Papa is so happy he convinces Mama to begin working on a third little Ooog. Again I say, soup is love. 

            My favorite time of the year is unequivocally summer.  I love warmth and sun and bare feet and bare shoulders. I intensely dislike having to “layer up,” which adds at least ten pounds and brings on the look I like to call Annie Hall meets the Abominable Snowman.  The only thing I look forward to as the days shorten and the weather chills is the smell and warmth of a good hot soup.  Occasionally I make a cold soup with fruits and veggies in the summertime, and yet it does not have the same impact as that hot dish served during the winter months.  I have proof that this is so; don’t just take my word for it.  My children were over on Sunday and I had a beautiful, big, pot of beef barley soup bubbling gently in the crock pot.  As soon as they discovered it, it disappeared.  A chorus of, “Thanks Mom, delicious Mom, I love you Mom,” rang through the house.  Indeed, soup is love. 

            The options are plentiful.  Chicken soup, chicken noodle soup, chicken and rice soup, beef soup, beef barley soup, vegetable soup, potato soup, bean soup, lentil soup, pea soup and of course the variations-chicken and dumplings, and pot roast are just two that I like to think of a soup plus.  I feel that I can never go wrong with soup; it’s wonderful the first day and improves the second, and it’s the only meal I don’t mind eating two days in a row.  It is simple.  No courses or having to remember which utensil to use.  It is acceptable to slurp and sigh while eating.  It is fine to have two bowls because it is good for me.  I always feel as if my body is thanking me when I eat it. 

Another lovely thing is soup can be eaten out of many types of containers.  Since Ooogs time we have graduated to bowls, yet a bowl is only one serving device for soup.  Mugs work equally well and in fact, I prefer them because of the handle.  What about a thermos filled with the deliciousness of soup? Perfect for the frozen fisherman waiting for the fleeting fish to bite. Soup can be slurped through a straw if I were to break my jaw.  No steak could say the same or be as satisfying.  Speaking of illness, soup is the cure-all for so many ailments.  Caught a cold?  Chicken soup! Just getting over the flu?  A nice consume will perk anyone up and it’s easy to hold down.  A good low sodium soup will aid in the reduction of cholesterol and heart disease.  What a lovely food is soup. 

            I believe that we have forgotten the power of home-cooked meals.  I know that cooking does not get passed down from generation to generation as it once did.  Today it is all about convenience and haste, and pre-cooked, over-processed food seems to be the order of the day.  Yet, where’s the love?  We must get back to our Ooog roots and begin cooking and serving soup again.  Soup from a can is a poor substitute for the real thing.  The love quotient goes way down when all I have to do is open the can, dump it in a bowl and put it in the microwave for a minute and thirty seconds.  It’s akin to speed dating. It might fill the immediate hole, but there is no expectation of long-term commitment.  Making real soup, from real ingredients, is a true expression of love.  Love for myself, love for my family and friends, why even the dog benefits, for on the third day, if there is any left, I can mix it with his kibble and he will adore me even more than he already does.  Yes, my dears, soup is love.  Stop by sometime, the stockpot is always on the simmer. 

Two Funerals and a Cremation or Doves and Death

I don’t want to die.  In fact I rarely think about it, much less talk about it;  

however,  I was reading an essay about embalming, and I started thinking:  How much does a funeral cost and will I have enough dough when I go?

            I Googled “funeral costs” and this is what I discovered at one of the more prestigious death emporiums.  If I start saving now and continue until I turn in my keyboard and lay these weary fingers to rest, I could have the “Elegance” treatment.  On the other hand, I could scale down and go for the economy service, “Harmony” and only have to save for the next ten years.  It’s a tough choice.  I have attempted to live a good life and deserve the best, yet the thrift shop goddess in me screams, be prudent. 

            The Harmony package is really very nice.  I would get basic burial services, embalming, and care and preparation.  Thank goodness, I would hate to go in the ground unprepared.  The Elegance package is the same in this regard, so on that score, they’re even.  The Harmony package offers no visitation, while the Elegance package has two full days for grieving family members to come and shed tears and drip snot on my carefully embalmed and prepared body.  So far Harmony is ahead.

            Harmony offers eight different casket choices, while Elegance only gives me four.  The fact that the Elegance caskets are substantially more expensive is of little consequence to me, I like choices.  Harmony still leads. 

            Now we get to the real meat (is this a bad choice of words?) of the matter.  Harmony offers carnation boutonnieres, but Elegance will pin a rose to the living lapel.    Elegance goes on to give me a DVD tribute.  I always wanted to be memorialized on a DVD after my death.  I wonder if I could make up some jokes and record them before I go just so no one gets too serious.  Still more, Elegance offers me an organist, a soloist, and a professional music ensemble at my service.  I wonder if they would replace the organist with a juggler, the soloist with a mime and the professional music ensemble with Metallica?  (Note to self, look into this.) 

            The thing that sent me soaring off the ledge I had been teetering on between Harmony and Elegance was this:  Dove release.  Wow.  This sounds cool.  I wonder if they use real doves or homing pigeons made up to look like doves?  Well I definitely choose Elegance.  However, I need to go back and just refresh my memory on the prices once more.  Yes, yes, there they are.  Harmony checks in at $6,415 while Elegance is a mere…$23, 354.  Gulp.  Backpedal.  Search frantically on the website.  There it is!  Just have me cremated for $1,888 and bury me in a Starbucks bag.  You can probably get some crows to fly over.  I won’t care, I’ll be dead. 

I wrote this several years ago.  Today, much to my surprise, the cost of Elegance has decreased; however, the soloist, professional music ensemble, and dove release are no longer offered. Harmony is more expensive than before and nothing has been added.  On a positive note, one can be cremated for under 500.00 at many funeral places.  Perhaps there is a burn barrel in the alley?   

                 

Deep Pockets and Dragonflies

A couple months ago I was out thrift-shopping around, and I came across the most excellent little teapot.  It has dragonflies and swirly colors and is, well, whimsical.  I don’t shop at the regular department stores, why would I, there being no money to speak of?  I rarely buy anything new that I can get for 2/3 of the price at a second-hand store.  I found this sensational little pot at a thrift store for 2/3 of the price it most certainly was when it was on the shelf of whatever little specialty shop was selling it first.  During the same trip that I found the teapot, I also found The Sweater of Many Colors.  It is a marvelous sweater and very warm. It has deep pockets and can double as a jacket in the spring and summer in Western Washington which we all know can be harrowing to try to dress for.  So, I was wearing this fantastic piece of knitted wonderful and someone remarked on how great it was.  Of course the next question was, “Where did you get it?” 

Her: “Where did you get it?” 

Me: “Second-hand store.”

Her: Crinkle-nose, frowny-face, “Oh. Well it’s beautiful anyway.” 

Really? I say to you sister, it is beautiful because.  I’m certain it was fabulous when it was brand spanking new, but I can tell you it was most certainly out of my price range, and probably overpriced to boot.  I spent 6 dollars for it.  Did I mention that it’s very warm and has deep pockets and has many wonderful colors woven throughout?  I suppose it would be lovely to be able to shop around at all the big name department stores, but I just don’t have that kind of money, and  since I have never really had that kind of money, I don’t really have a basis for comparison, but  that’s okay by me.  I’ll wager that I enjoy my finds just as much if not more than if I had bought them in a fancy-shmancy store.  Why?  Because it takes effort to shop this way.  I have to work for my finds.  They are frequently hidden away behind the detritus just waiting for a discerning eye to spot them and carry them off.  Most of my wardrobe has been purchased this way, and I am unashamed.  The pieces are of good quality, but I paid half of what they would have cost me elsewhere.  Did someone wear them before me?  Yes.  Do I wash them up before I wear them?  Of course I do.  Do I wear second-hand underpinnings? Of course I don’t. So why the nose crinkle and the frowny face?  I am grinning.  You see, I didn’t have to choose between the sweater and the teapot.  I got to carry them both off with me for less than ten dollars.  Now, if that’s crinkle-nose and frowny-face worthy, I concede.  Meanwhile, I will wrap myself in the many colored sweater and have a lovely cup of tea.  

Thank you Renee for reminding me of this particular bit. 

Double D Dilemmas

Let’s talk bras.  I know you want to.  I am going to guess that all women, regardless of breast size, have an issue with these little buggers, or big buggers depending on how well endowed you are.  A  few days ago, my mom bought new bras.  My mom is 72, and as we all know, the older one gets, the farther south boobs migrate.  Hers have reached a new low. She has become so used to having a bra that has no support, that buying one that does support her feels odd and not right.   I had to help her get the things up where they (sort of) used to belong.  Once we had accomplished this feat, it was apparent that the saleswoman who “helped” her, hadn't really helped her much.  The woman measured her, brought her a few to try on, and then went merrily about her business.  Here’s the thing, the measurements were off.  The reason?  The measurement is taken around the rib cage and over the top of the boobs and then translated to bra size and cup size.  If all women were exactly alike, this would work out beautifully.  The issue is we’re not all alike.  Some of us are 72 and have boobs that sag down to our navel, and a rib cage that measures at 50 inches.  Then there are those like my niece, who’s rib cage measures at about 32, but who has very large breasts, one of which is just a bit larger than the other.  As if it's not hard enough to be a teenage girl. Imagine that in the locker room during PE.  Then there are women like my friend, who’s rib cage measures at about 38 or 40, but who has very small boobs.  How the hell do you find a bra to fit any of these women?  You don’t.  One has to come as close as they can and put up with it.  I have long known that I don’t ever rely on the sales person or their measurements.  I look at the bras, all the bras, choose a few that look as if they might work, and then get busy in the dressing room.  I go in with 6 or ten or whatever, and, if it’s a good day, I might come out with one that fits well enough for me to take it home.  If it’s an extraordinary day, it might even be pretty.  This is something the bra makers have ignored for far too long.  How do you make these ridiculous, necessary pieces of fabric pretty and functional?  As long as the boobs don’t go above a 38 D, all is well.  There is a tremendous selection of pretty bras under that number.  Above that?  Forget about it.  The “big” name brands don’t even bother to display their product on a rack.  They jam them into boxes which the lingerie store then places into drawers, requiring the customer to dig through and untangle and hope that maybe this one will fit.  They usually don’t, and even if they do, wow do we get a plethora of colors to choose from.  White, beige, and black.  That’s it.  That may work for some of us, even I have one of each of those colors (or non-colors), but I also like choices and I like to match my undergarments to whatever it is that I happen to wear that day.  I don’t believe that I am alone.  Just because a woman has 58 F boobs, doesn’t mean that she doesn’t want to wear a pretty bra. The bra manufacturer’s have made the decision for us.  If you are bigger than a 38 D, no pretty bras for you.  I know this, because I am a 38 DD.  Occasionally I can find something that is moderately pretty, but none of them look like the bras I see in "classy lingerie shops."  I have to go to places like "humongous boobs shop here" to find the stupid things, and then I am bombarded with gigantic, wide strapped, steel reinforced tit slings.  They all have patterns naturally, but I’m not sure what the hell the makers are thinking.  It’s a complete crap shoot.  I found one I really, really liked.  It was a pale yellow, with lacy bits, and Fleur-De-Lis' embossed into the fabric.  I happen to be a New Orleans Saints fan, so it appealed to me on a couple of different levels.  Unfortunately, it only went up to size 38 D.  What the hell?  This is "humongous boobs shop here" we’re talking about.  Why the hell doesn’t it come in larger sizes?  Get with the program! Of course some of you will say that I need to shop online.  Here’s the problem with that.  I can’t try them on until I receive them.  Once they come in the mail, it’s another crap shoot whether or not they will fit properly or whether I will end up having to send them back.  Usually it’s the latter.  Here’s the second, and certainly the larger issue.  I can’t afford to buy 10 of these buggers at a time.  Bras are expensive. 40 to 100 dollars a pop.  If I bought ten, well, you do the math.  I can’t do it.  I need to be able to go to the store and try them on and then choose which one of the least ugly and uncomfortable will go home with me.  If I am lucky, I find a brand that works, and then I buy a couple at a time and wear them until they fall off.  Another issue is that if your weight fluctuates at all, your bra size does too.  I was wearing a 42 DD for awhile, then I went down to a 36 DD and now I’m at a 38 DD.  So I have all these sizes lying around.  I don’t dare get rid of any of them because I might need them at some point, and I certainly don’t want to go through the rigmarole that I went through the first time to get them.  It’s a conundrum. How do we solve this problem?  We get vocal until “they” decide to make bras that fit and are pretty and are affordable.  Yes, there are specialty shops, but it irks me to have to pay double the price that some tiny-titted toddler pays, to wear a pretty bra. Am I jealous?  You bet.  Not only that, the pain and suffering endured is unconscionable.  I have been treated as if I am a pariah because I have large breasts that just don’t fit into the latest fashionable titty attire.  One sales woman even rolled her eyes at me.  What the hell?  What happened to female solidarity?  Why should I have to wear a bra that even a nun wouldn’t wear?  I want pretty bras and I want them to fit properly and I want them to be affordable and I don’t want to be treated poorly when I ask for them.  I don’t think that’s too much to ask.  Don’t get me started on plus size clothing…

Grant Me an Audience

The question of the day, and perhaps the month and year, is: Who is your audience?  This is generally not a problem for me.  I have taught writing and constantly harped on my students to identify their audience, otherwise their papers would have no real structure.  So, now I come to this same question in regards to this blog. Who is my audience?  I will attempt to define you darling reader, just to appease the gods of writing.  Do you enjoy a good laugh?  Do you find random topics interesting?  Do you get irritated with daily BS? Are you a lover of snark? Do you enjoy a good turn of phrase?  Do you cry occasionally?  Do you believe that there is more going on in the world than we can possibly keep up with? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then perhaps this blog is for you.  I am not going to attempt to define my audience any further than this.  I had thought about trying to tailor this to women between the ages of 25 and 70, but really?  This is just not doable.  The experience of a 25 year old woman is entirely different than the experience of a 70 year old woman.  Plus, this leaves my mother out, since she is 72, and also my niece, who is just 16.  This just does not work for me. I suppose what I am attempting to convey, is that if I worry overly about who I want to read this, then I will never write and post anything.  If the parameters are too narrow, then there will be no readership.  Too broad?  Same deal.  Good grief, I could certainly get bogged down and never write a word.  I would agree that any student taking a writing course should define their audience, but I am going to pass.  Why?  Because I can.  Here’s my thought. If you check in occasionally and like what you read, check in again from time to time.  If you don’t like what you read, check in from time to time to see if you still don’t like it.  You see, even if we don’t like what someone else writes, it seems we still feel the need to read it and remark on how much we don’t like it.  The same could apply for really enjoying what we read. Of course I hope for the latter, but I’ll take either one.  So, here we go. I hope you enjoy yourselves, and if you don’t, keep coming back and work on that in the mean time.