Guest Blogger: Bea, age 7

She talked, I typed.
Tell us about this picture (see right)
We were at Thorne's Market, with Mormor and mama [Parthenia]. Mama went to get her eyebrows done, Mormor and I went Christmas shopping. I got Calico Critter furniture and some Calico Critters from the [store formerly known as] Mulberry Tree. When mama came back we went to the book store, we saw the photo booth and we took that picture. We've taken other pictures at the photo booth, when I was a brand new baby....And Ingrid was outside playing in the snow, saying she was a pig. Ingrid looks so beautiful....

So tomorrow is the last day of 2006. What do you want to do in 2007?
Hug Ingrid, and say Ingrid's a pig. I love Ingrid very much.
I want to learn how use my skateboard. I'm going to turn 8. When I grow up I want to be a dodgeball coach.

Who is your favorite comic book character?
My favorite comic book characters are Robin and Speedy from Teen Titans.

Where do you like to go on your computer time?
That Doll Maker site
Disney
Barbie
Cartoon Network
PBS Kids

Who is your favorite Living Dead Doll?
Inferno

What did you get for Christmas?
I got really fun books, a Living Dead Doll named Greed, a play post office/grocery store/playhouse, a chalk board with crayons and chalk and a stamp and a bunny smooshy (I don't know what you call it. That's what I call it), some clothes, ice skates and boots. That's pretty much it that I can think of.

Parthenia's post script: I was the bad gift giver who gave her the Greed doll for Christmas. I really wasn't tring to make a statement or send anyone a message about consumerism and Christmas. Greed was the least scary of the LDD's that I could find. Bea doesn't like the really horrific ones (thankfully). Some of them I can't even look at. And I couldn't pass up a doll version of one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

Runnin', Writin', Burnin' and Lootin'

No lie, I have a recurring dream where I have Foxy Brown/Pam Grier hair. In the dream I'm kicking ass, and fighting an unseen adversary.

I have three resolutionish goal-type objectives for 2007. The first one is to replace at least two days of indoor cardio workout with running outside--by mid-Spring. This entails getting on the dreaded treadmill in the winter, I think. I hate treadmills. I do every other cardio machine at the gym except the treadmill and the stairmaster. I'd also like to have Jeddy better leash trained so he can run with me, especially since running outside will most likely entail running in the evening. It would be nice to have my big dog by my side. Okay so that's pretty easy and reasonably fun, and the benefits are obvious. Mix up the exercise plan, get the dog better trained.

The next one is to get have at least 6 batches of soap, 10 packages of bath salts, 10 bottles of hair oil, 6 bottles of aftershave, 10 bottles of several varieties massage oil, 10 bottles of "love potion", 15 tins of lip balm, and 10 tins of assorted balms and body butters ready for the farmer's market in May. Our booth (Three Dreaded Ladies) will be a little different this year. Since I have the time to do it, I want to be stocked and ready. If I do it early, I will have more time to experiment with new recipes. The benefit is I'll make money. I see no problem there. (BTW this is the "Burnin' and Lootin'" part of the title, because Bob Marley made good herb-crafting music. Then again, there are lots of activities that benefit from Bob Marley's music, like blogging, sex, writing role playing games about slavery, peeling potatoes, exercising, changing diapers...)

The next one is to finish Get/Steal Away Jordan. This entails finalizing the rules (90% complete, but needing another play test) and writing the hard part--the historical details, the stuff to make the setting interesting, the "Julia B. E." stuff (did you think my name was really Parthenia? Only at the farmer's market.) The stuff that turns an otherwise outgoing JBE/Parthenia into a shrinking violet. Yeah, I can talk about myself on a blog, and even get a little personal, but this is different. Here I can write fairly anonymously and I don't worry about how good or concise the writing is. I do it as an exercise in writing (hence the post published edits, and writing while drinking wine). If I'm going to put something out there with my name on it, I need it to be better than good. And where's the benefit? I know it's there. I know it's abstract, and in the long run, I know it will be worth it. My mom, a published author several times over, told me that this weekend. But it's haaaarrrd, and it gives me a nervous stomach and makes me anxious when someone says, "let's play test our games."

Here's the hard and anxiety-inducing part: I have a few concerns about writing a role-playing game about the Antebellum South, where all PC's start out as black slaves. The first one is that slavery is not a fun subject. Then again, when I play tested it at JiffyCon we actually had fun, and they totally got it without playing stereotypes. (Wouldn't be cool if I actually wrote what it was like to play the game at JiffyCon? I think so, too.) Still this leads me to my next concern/anxiety: players will play racial stereotypes instead of digging into themselves and creating a multidimensional slave in say, Roanoke, Virginia 1803? Yeah it will probably happen, I can't be there at every single game to stop it--but wouldn't that be cool? I could show up at a game in a Foxy Brown wig and hot 70's style halter dress (and totally buff from all the running), the embodiment of the black Jezebel stereotype, and kick some ass till the players get it. "Y'all ain't playin' mah game right, mutha-fuckas." I don't really talk like that, and I don't think I could fit my dreads under a wig. But there it is. Ultimately, I worry that I won't put enough of me in the game, and players will have to resort to playing what they think black folks were like back then, and will model that after the worst of the stereotypes out there.

Here's a little of what I want to put in the game: About 10 years ago, I went to a party at Primo's and my old apartment (where we met and fell in love...) I was sitting on the porch with several folks and someone picked up a guitar, and we all started singing songs from Hair. Then this guy named Max, whom I must say I never liked, picked up the guitar and started singing "Colored Spade". I sat there in total horror and disgust while he sang the entire song, and then said, "That's one of my favorite songs from Hair." Not "Age of Aquarius" or "Hashish". "Colored Spade". WTF? My friend Frank said something like "That was really stupid." Then I got up and walked out. It's unfair, yet not surprising that someone would sing with glee and joy, a song full of racial epithets about black people, in a room full of white folks and one black folk, and not get why that was stupid, offensive, and generally not a socially acceptable thing to do. I won't even get into the suck of no one stopping him. There was a certain amount of thrill in the whole incident, a little like watching a train wreck. I don't think he did it because of any conflict between us. He knew I never liked him, but there was no war between us. He just thought it was okay. Later in the evening, after Frank pointed out how offensive it would have been to him if someone sang a song of epithets directed at his cultural identity, he did submit an apology with the addendum "but I sing this song with black people all the time." By the time he approached me I'd had a few glasses of wine, and I did not accept his apology. I told him that I hoped he sang that song with the wrong black person and got smacked upside the head. Every time I saw him from that day forward all he got from me was a dirty look. For years, I enjoyed disliking Max for what he did. That was one of the more blatant experiences of racism I've ever had, but unfortunately not the first or last. It's funny what people will say when they don't know or care who hears them.

The discomfort and humiliation of being serenaded with racial epithets is not fun, but there's a feeling there I hope players will allow themselves to feel when playing. (Did I ever mention I'm a bit of a sadist at times?) Here you are in the world, being brutalized and subjugated day after day. As a slave, where lies your joie de vivre? What do you dream about? If given the chance, whom would you kill? What would drive you to burning and looting?

So it looks like I've figured out the challenge of finishing this game. Well that makes things a little easier. I foresee many long runs in the woods with the dog, long nights mixing herbs and oils, and longer days with my cutie-pie-kitty-cat notebook. And lots of Bob Marley.

The Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia

He's a Cutie, Isn't He?

Here is a photo of my handsome and princely husband, taken about 5 years ago. I will keep it here for just a short time, since he doesn't want photos of him here (he's in cognito here, so I doubt you'd recognize him from this photo if you saw him on the street.) [EDIT: I tweaked it so it will stay up a little longer, until Primo asks me to remove it.] He emailed this to me with the message "Did I ever mention that you can't compete with my snood style?". Snood style is an inside joke that I can't even begin to explain. There are a couple of styles in addition to snood style. But this is snood style, because he's wearing a snood on his head (duh...). "Bean style" is another style, but you don't wear it. Snood style has nothing to do with sex, as inside jokes between couples often do, although depending on the context, "bean style" sometimes does. It's probably not what you think.

Clearly Primo is a bored today as I am. He also sent me this link of bad album cover art, which I think I emailed him several years ago when I was bored at work. #62, Demons Crying "Amazing recordings of demons speaking through people who are possessed by them", and #72, Karatist Preacher, are my favorites.

The Feast

So Christmas dinner was everything good: good food, good company, good behavior, adults included. Food wise, we had a few pleasant surprises, and only one disaster.

All my plans of cooking early never panned out. I started the yule log the evening of the 24th. I really need to work on my folding flour and melted butter into whipped eggs and sugar technique. I baked the cake part of the production and that's it. I never made the meringue or the filling. The cake is rolled up in my fridge. It might turn into a New Year's Eve log, or just a really flat sponge cake that no one eats.

I never even got to open the mead, which I was most looking forward to, since I didn't have any on my wedding anniversary last month. We have more beer, wine, and glogg than we can possibly drink. It looks like we will have to have another party soon. Primo will love that. He does not like dinner parties as much as I do, since he ends up doing most of the cleaning. Since I like to cook, I never get the feeling I'm slaving away in the kitchen.

So here's what arrived on the menu:

Appetizers
Crackers and smelly cheese (La Clochette Chevre, Epoisses, and Raw Milk cheddar. I think it was cheddar. I know it was raw milk)
pickled herring
lox
cream cheese (milk and dairy free)
--For the first time in 18 months I ate smelly cheese, and it was like manna from heaven. Ingrid is growing out of her milk allergy! I did limit myself on the dairy just to be on the safe side, but how I've missed La Clochette and Epoisses on hard bread.

Main Course
Roast Goose--she was a little on the small and lean side, but we got a good amount of meat from her. She'd been slaughtered and cleaned three days before (locally). Can't get any better than that if you're going to eat meat.
Swedish Ham with a Puerto Rican Flair--my brother-in-law Juan is a professional cook, and he fixed the ham. I didn't have any because I never got a second helping, but I heard it was great.
Cranberry Relish--I made too much. I'll be eating it with everything for the next week.
Wild Rice and Wheat berries with venison sausage and portbella mushrooms.
Stuffing straight from the bag with venison sausage and mushrooms. Not sure why I bothered with the stuffing. I was afraid there wouldn't be enough rice. Silly me.
Swedish Blood pudding. My mother-in-law thought no one would eat it. I assured her that I would, at least. It disappeared quickly, and it was a hit with our youngest guest. A few couldn't get past the name to try it, but that just left more for the rest of us.
Cranberry Sweet Potato Quiche. I make this every year, but with a nursling with a milk allergy, I haven't had any since I was pregnant in 2004. I made this one with Tofutti cream cheese and soy milk. I'll be eating it for dinner tonight.
Mashed Potatoes. I heard they were great, and I'm sure I'll eat some for lunch tomorrow.
Homemade macaroni and cheese. I passed it up so I could have a little extra clochette. It's in the freezer.
Friendship bread, with flaxseed, sunflower seeds, and oatmeal.
Collard greens. I used to hate them when I was little, but now I love them.
Mixed Salad Greens with walnuts, smoked mozzarella, and vinaigrette. Brought by Meg and Vincent, and I think Vincent made it (thanks for bringing something green!). I come from a family that does not eat enough fresh vegetables. I find I feel sick if I don't have fresh green with a heavy meal. The salad took up 1/3 of my plate so I could save room for dessert, and my digestive system thanked me for the roughage. I skipped the mozz reluctantly.

Dessert
No Yule Log...
Carrot Cake. My mom makes the best carrot cake. Enough said.
Mochi. Again, I bought too much, but that just means more for tomorrow's game night.
Apple pie. Haven't tried it yet, but the same person made it this year as last year, and it was delicious.
Assorted cookies. These were the cookies I got to see in production last week. Everyone was too full to indulge in the sweets, but I noticed the cookies seem to be disappearing into thin air today. They were wicked good.

Primo, a man of few words, gave a Quaker-style blessing.

We never played Werewolves, and the kids didn't decorate any gingerbread houses. We can save that for another time. In fact, the older kids played in Bea's room, and I saw them twice the whole evening.

And the on-going saga of my dad and his health continues. It's really worse than I thought, but nothing new. I've been checking my dad's blood sugar twice a day, and it's been in the mid to high 300's. Last night after dinner it was 457. I think it's really the first time in the 3 or 4 years he's been diabetic that he's had his blood sugar checked regularly, so he's actually seeing what he's doing to himself. Even still, it feels like he's paying lip-service to my mom's and my pleas that he cut back on the sugar and fat. It's easy to say you'll change. It's harder to do it, especially at a family feast, where everyone pigs out. A few days ago I lost it and really dug into him about not checking his blood sugar and eating things that are verboten for a diabetic. I got nowhere.

Several days of almost non-stop eating (with a diabetic who doesn't take care of himself) really forces one to look at her relationship with food. For another post.

Fried Water Bugs: Migraine Helper?

Here's an interesting word of the day, and I will use it in context. I'm a migraineur. They're triggered by my regular hormonal changes, and can be difficult to control. I get them monthly for 2-3 days. I get a full spectrum of warning signs and accompanying issues. When they start I may see spots, I get a rush of frenzied energy, nauseous, a funny taste in my mouth, and a small dull pain in my temples. If I can get to some ibuprofen or even some homeopathic meds, sometimes I can stave them off. Exercise makes then not so bad, but doesn't make them go away. Drinking water and eating protein (if I catch it in time), caffeine, in the form of tea (pu-erh and green tea) help, too. I may just get the pain in the head if I take early measures to stave it off, and I'm generally able to function. I have another remedy, but you can email if you're really curious.
If I develop a full blown migraine, I'm totally incapacitated. I cannot move, I am sensitive to light, food odors, food in general, and noise. I can't wear my hair up or pulled back, and I can't cover my face. I must lay in a dark room for at least 2 hours and ride out the storm. It's like my senses are overwhelmed and I need to shut down for a bit. During this phase, if I get the chance to sleep, I feel better in about two hours, but I wake up disoriented and really hungry.
I'm on the second day of a mild to moderate migraine. I took some Advil this morning, drank a big mug of tea, and I'm hoping the pain in my head will go away. I still have food and Christmas shopping to do, I need to entertain my parents, check my dad's blood sugar, cook dinner, start cooking Christmas dinner, get through the work day. I'm a little stressed out. After work I'm going to the gym to work out for 40 minutes. That should help. I wish I could go right now, but I have to work.
The stress trigger came yesterday in Tran's World International Market. They didn't have the brand of mochi I wanted. (I know, boo hoo for me). They also didn't have my favorite flavor of furikake (the one with whole freeze dried mini sardines) This didn't stress me out. Having Ingrid run up and down the aisles did, and chasing her through Whole Foods pretty much put me over the edge. At Tran's I chased her down the tea aisle to the back, where all the frozen meats are, and was stopped dead in my tracks (she ran around the corner to the vast selection of noodles, and stopped to touch all the soft packages of noodles). There was a package of giant water bugs. Giant water bugs. Now I don't think they would go over well at Christmas dinner, but I'm now totally intrigued, because I actually have a recipe for deep fried water bugs and plum sauce. It's Thai, I think. I don't see it on the menu of my favorite Thai restaurant in Greenfield, Thai Blue Ginger, nor at Hattaporn's Kitchen (which is good, too, but I work right downstairs from TBG.) At any rate, it seems to me if you have a recipe, and the means to make the recipe, why not try the recipe? Because it's a recipe for fried water bugs? Well, maybe, but I'm very curious and maybe this is the frenzied burst of energy part of my migraine. I'm inspired.
I always hate the part on Fear Factor where they eat something nasty, but I don't they're using a classic recipe most of the time. I'm totally curious. Thankfully, I've never said I'd never eat a bug.
They come in packages of 5. My recipe calls for 10. Anyone out want to join me for a deep fried water bug party? I don't think I'll be able to stomach more than one, with or without chasers of tequila. No, I've never swallowed a Mezcal worm either. I'm sure I can get Ingrid to try it. She's too young to be grossed out by eating bugs.
Well I think I have successfully fended off a full blown migraine with all this talk of eating water bugs. The day isn't over yet, but so far so good.

Insects as Food in Thailand. This site has other great bug eating links.

My Parents Are Here.

My parents arrived safely last night and are all checked into their hotel. They treated us to sushi and Chinese food, and left when the kids started getting slap happy and tired.

My parents are generous to a fault. Thanks to them, we have no car notes, and two reliable cars, and I have no student loans. They dote on my kids, and Primo, and me. In some way, they perhaps make up for the physical distance by buying us things (often stuff we don't really need and have no space for). But they have the means to do it, and if you ask them not to, they get a little offended.

My relationship with my parents has been through dark times, mostly when I was a bratty kid in my early 20's and living in my own personal dark ages, and I don't mean the kind with the cool clothes and castles. Thankfully we grow, we evolve, we get over ourselves, and people forgive us. I look forward to my parents' visit, and the things we don't talk about aren't really all that important in the wider scheme of things. I break out the turtlenecks to hide the tattoos, move books on witchcraft, drugs and religious experience, erotica, and erotic origami, log out of blogspot in case my dad uses the computer and comes across this little confessional, change the Ukiyo-e Shunga screen saver, remind Primo to take down that annoying screen saver of the naked woman on all fours, and smile like the Cheshire cat.

My mom's hair is totally white and she's wearing it longer than I've ever seen it. She looks very professorial, which is good, because she is a professor. More to the point, mom is a brilliant historian, and she specializes in African American and Southern women's History. When I told her that I wanted to write a RPG about slavery, she sent me textbooks, links to articles, lots of background information, lots of encouragement praise for finding an avenue for writing. We've spent hours on the phone with me running scenarios by her ("would something like this have really happened?"). Role playing games are not her thing, but apparently she liked the idea of a game based on history and might actually be educational, from not only a psycho-sociological perspective, but a historical one. One of the first things she said when she walked in the door last night was "I brought that book for you, but I left it at the hotel." She's always bringing me books, I have no idea what book she'd talking about, but I'm sure it will be interesting. She also asked to see a draft of my game. My own dear husband hasn't even read it (long story and I don't want to badmouth him here.). Someone in my family is interested in something I wrote! Anyway, my mom and I have an easier time relating to each other. We like books, we're kind of geeky, she's my mom, etc. Yet personality-wise, I'm probably more like my dad and maybe that's why. They've been married for 37 years, I think she gets us, and we her.

My dad is a big guy. He has the gift of gab, and remembers all of my friends' names and what they were last up to. He's gregarious, laughs loudly, has a big heart, and wants nothing but for those he loves to be safe, treated fairly, and happy (Jeez that word pops up a lot around here). Where my mom is the American historian, he is an astute armchair political scientist. For the past couple of elections he and I have chatted about our favorite and least favorite candidates. He keeps me updated on Memphis politics, including the polician I once went on a date with, we commiserate in our loathing for Mitt Romney, George W. Bush, and certain Memphis politicians that I used to work for (that I never dated). A few years ago I had an ugly falling out with one of my first cousins. I think it hurt him as much as it did me. At nearly every conversation with him, he either consoled or counselled on what to do about this relationship. Some of his advice I followed, some of it I didn't and I told him so. He still supported me. He has also always been my biggest breastfeeding advocate, even out in public, nursing a squirming, walking, talking toddler. All the other things I do, like herb crafting, he's my most vocal fan, regardless whether my endeavor was a success.

Now for the dark part of the cloud. It is difficult for me to say--admit, rather-- how my dad looks. In one word, I suppose he looks big. He's not taking care of himself. He's retired and very sedentary, he eats crappy fast food all day while my mom is at work, he's diabetic and only pays lip service to the diabetic diet he should be following. He doesn't check his blood sugar. Ever. My mom implored me to check it for him every day while they're here, as she always does when they come to visit. This time he actually brought his glucometer. In nursing school I was the injection/finger stick queen. I liked doing it, and I made sure I did it fast and as painless as possible. Even still, I've never been able to get my dad to let me do it. I'm just going to surprise him this time. I'm not going to ask, I'm going to get his machine, and I'm going to get him. That's pretty mean, but I'm not a nurse, so I don't feel bound by law or nursing ethics to ask.

My dad's health has been a defining issue in our relationship for a good 20 years. It's frustrating and frightening to see him not take care of himself, to pretend he's not constantly winded and not feeling himself. But I'm just the daughter, and one who lives 1500 miles away. I have to resist the urge not to say anything, and resist the urge to read him the riot act and tell him how angry it makes me that he doesn't take care of himself, or even let people help him. He has an immense support system as well as the financial resources and access to health care to help. We're all just waiting for him to decide to do something and stick to it.

I'm excited and a bit anxious that they're here. I've only really noticed that my parents are getting old in the past 5 years or so. Maybe I'm having a hard time adjusting to the change in dynamics.

Bluffing Games and Horror Movies

I've never played poker, but I love bluffing games. I was at Greenfield Games yesterday looking for Christmas presents, and came across a game called The Werewolves of Millers Hollow. It looked fun, the cards are beautiful, so I decided I'd get it for someone, with no one in mind. Well the owner of GG raved about the game. He said when he played it, it brought an experienced gamer to tears. Well, that sold little old sadistic me. I decided to get it for moi, from Father Christmas, and since it needs at least 8 players (plus a GM), we'll play it at Christmas. It will make for a fine evening of comfort and joy, goose and ham, accusations of being a werewolf, lynching accused werewolves. A Christmas to remember.

I like scary games. Scary scenarios in RPG's don't give me nightmares. I don't like scary movies. They almost always give me nightmares. The last horror movie I saw in the theatre was The Grudge, and I was the one who suggested it, because it had Sarah Michelle Gellar, and it was set in Japan (I knew better than to see The Ring or Ringu). What a dumb idea. I've been able to sit through some horror movies, but I can't really do scary movies where the monster is the house, attacks in the house, or lives in the attic. I went with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law and Primo. I kept my eyes covered for most of the movie, and all three of them made fun of me.

Primo loves horror and slasher movies. Last night he watched Hostel, and tried to seduce me into watching it with him. ("Let's spend some time together, honey....", "It won't be that bad....", "It's just a movie....", "I don't think the scary things happen in the house....") I lasted half an hour. I also can't handle slasher movies with homicidal crazy folk or demon-ish folk who like to cut people into little pieces or perform "surgery" on them. Ingrid woke up, and I went upstairs. I've never been happier to hear her cry. Screw "together time", dear. I can't even say never again, because I know I'll get suckered into another blood fest rental. Someone like Sean Bean will be in it, or Primo will pull the "snuggle with me on the couch" routine, or I'll get a recommendation from someone who swears "it's not that scary" or "it's more like a thriller".

Never say never. There are some horror/slasher movies I sort of liked, and would see again:
Opera. Totally freaked me out. On second thought, maybe I won't see this again.
The original Psycho. I guess it's more of a thriller. I really enjoyed this movie.
The Shining. Scary, with ghosts, in a house (sort of), and I still liked it.
The Dark, because Primo bears a striking resemblance to Boromir in Peter Jackson's version of LOTR, and I could just watch Sean Bean slice tomatoes or clean fish all day long. But it totally scared me and gave me nightmares. Even still, ghosts in a house, scary possibly evil children, and a crazy man trepanning his own daughter couldn't keep me away. It also had a fairy tale quality to it, which made it bearable.
Kwaidan is one of my all time favorite movies. It's just beautiful, and not gratutiously violent.

Could it be a Sign?

Ever since I wrote the blog entry about being Christian and Churchless, and admitted to myself that I've pretty much withdrawn from church at least for the year, thoughts of church, my daughters and their religious experiences (and lack thereof), and being a questioning Christian have been weighing on me. I must have been thinking pretty loudly, almost as if I was, um, praying about it.

Every afternoon when I go into the back door of the Y, Judy greets me and asks me to show her my pants or skirts. I have a thing for long patchwork corduroy skirts and pants, tall lace up (aka granny style) boots, button down shirts, and wool sweaters. That's my winter wardrobe in a nutshell. Some people mistake it for being fashionable. In reality, I like to buy handmade and second hand clothes, and I've found a style that suits my frame, keeps me warm, and is modest without being frumpy. To make things easy for myself, I just wear variations on a theme: Long skirt (ankle length) or wide leg pants, button down shirt, lace up boots (or my Keens), sweater. Granted, the pants and skirts are all handmade and one of a kind, but they're still just Parthenia's uniform. I appreciate the compliments, though. How funny to think my hippie duds might one day inspire one of the great couture houses.

Okay this post isn't about clothes. Back on track! I asked Judy if she also worked at the Second Congregational church because there's an administrator named Judy whom I've talked on the phone to on several occasions. "No," she said. "I'm a Quaker."
"Oh." I said, "My husband grew up a Quaker."
"Really? What meeting?"
"Acton."
Etc., chat, chat, blah, blah.
So Judy invited me to the First Day of the month meeting at her house in Northfield. She said Primo was welcome to come, too. I laughed. I think the Devil himself would have to chase Primo into any sort of religious gathering, even a Quaker meeting. I didn't say that.
I feel like I'm being nudged over to the Quakers again, even after I thought they were a little cold. Here's this nice Quaker lady inviting me to her home for worship. I'm there. She also gave me the inside scoop on the First Day School at the Mount Toby Friends Meeting (which is where she normally goes, but opens her home in Northfield for those who live north of Leverett and want to save on gas). It's fun, well organized, and the kids actually learn about the Bible within a Quaker context.

I think I might try the silent worship again. A sign? Don't know. A tap on the shoulder? Yeah, probably.

Our Dirty South-Scandinavian-American Christmas Feast

Julia Child is my homegirl...
Finally I got a taste (and whiff) of the "Holiday Season", also known as December, Yule, Solstice, Chanukah, etc. There's not a flake of snow on the ground, it's not even all that cold, and we're not likely to have a white Christmas in New England this year. But go into people's houses, and you'll find all kinds of evidence of the season.

On Friday, I stopped by my friends Meg and Vincent's house and entered a virtual bakery. I cannot describe the joy of walking into a house and getting attacked by the smell of fresh baked cookies. Attack away. They were obviously baking cookies, a time honored tradition in many households this year. Mine is not one of them. As much as I love to cook, I find cookie baking tedious and boring. But I appreciate the smell of a kitchen in use.

Later that evening, Bea, Ingrid, Primo and I joined our friends Rachel and Steve and their kids for a Shabbas/Chanukah dinner of latkes (potato and sweet potato) and cabbage. Again, when we walked in the door, the smell of fried tubers welcomed us. I helped Rachel in the kitchen, ground zero for the aroma. I've never cooked a latke, but I am happy that Rachel has, and that she's good at it.

My time to give a feast to folks will come on Christmas Day, when I invite family and friends over for an African American/Scandinavian feast. Ah the joy of being in an multicultural/multiethnic family! You'd be surprised how well these two food traditions complement one another. I plan the menu feast weeks in advance. I reserve the goose, ask those who will make the specialties to get ready, search for new recipes if I need, plot, dream, fantasize about the feast.

Cooking all day for 17 people is a small price to pay to let my kids wake up in their own house on Christmas Day, something that I never did until I was in my teens. When I lived in New Jersey, we always went to Tennessee and I woke up in my maternal grandparents' house in Memphis on the 25th. When we bought our house, I decided that my kids would always always wake up in their own house on Christmas Day, and people would just have to come to us.

The cookies and the latkes prompted me to begin preparing for the feast, and for the arrival of my parents. First task: clean the refrigerator. I write this on break from that joyous job. I've already filled the compost bucket once with moldy mystery sauces and long lost leftovers. Our fridge used to look full. Now it's surprisingly empty. Cleaning the goose, which entails putting my hand up in the body to get the gizzards and neck, then picking stray feather for an hour is preferable to cleaning the fridge. Oh well. I do it for the kids...

The cooking will begin on the 21st, as I'm attempting to bake a Yule Log instead of a rum cake this year. I need time to regroup if I screw up. The centerpiece of the meal is the Christmas goose, a tradition that started when I was eight months pregnant. I was so in love with food that a good chunk of my midwife prenatal appointments involved my describing in mouthwatering detail, all the delicious food I was eating and planned to eat.
Here's what's on the menu (said in your best Julia Child falsetto):

Appetizers
Assorted cheese and hard bread
Smoked salmon
Pickled Herring

Main Course
Roast goose stuffed with apples and prunes
Wild rice stuffing with venison sausage
Friendship bread (oatmeal, sunflower seeds, flax meal, olive oil, wheat, and any other flour in the house, maybe a little rosemary)
Steamed green beans
Cranberry relish
Cranberry Sweet Potato quiche
Mother-in-law brings: Swedish ham
Mother cooks: baked macaroni and cheese.
Friends bring: Collard greens, salad.
Whatever my sisters and brother-in-law bring.

Dessert
Mother cooks: Carrot cake, pecan pie
Parthenia cooks: Yule Log
Mochi
I'm also going to have a couple ginger bread house kits for the kids to make to keep them occupied. We probably won't be permitted to eat them.

Drinks
Father in law makes: Glögg
Primo goes to Ryan and Casey liquors and buys: red wine, mead, beer.

Yeah, the husband and my dad get off scot-free in the cooking department. This is a good thing. My father is a traditional southern man, who is a wonderful barbeque chef, and that's where his culinary skills end. Primo married a southern girl who could cook. He helps to clean (except the toilets, of course!) and keep the kids out of trouble.

A really bad poem about a Christmas Goose by William Topaz McGonagall

The Voice of Fertility is not a Voice of Reason or Logic

Here's a little secret that I never told Primo. Ever since I was 14, I've wanted wanted to have at least four kids. My mom is the second of 5 and my dad is the ninth of 10. I'm the first of one. I come from a huge extended family that despite the physical distance, for the most part we're all usually happy to see each other at family gatherings, weddings, and funerals. Anyway, perhaps I romanticized big nuclear families, because I love being in a big extended family, but there it is. I want lots of babies. As an only child, four is lots to me. Heck, two is twice as many as I grew up with. Primo is the second of 3, with a 13 year age difference between him and his younger sister.
The Baby Wants are back and hitting me hard. It started around my birthday, when I hit the late side of my mid-30's. There's this little fertility voice (aka biological clock) in my head saying, "just one more...three is the magic number...babies are cool and they smell like love..." I've heard that voice before, but this time she started out loud, and hasn't quieted yet, despite the voice of reason that says, "now's not the time." It's sort of like having the proverbial angel and devil on your shoulder, except there's a fertility goddess on one shoulder (take your pick) and an IUD on the other.
And there's this other voice coming out of the body of the co-conspirator in the whole baby-making endeavor saying, "not yet...no more babies for now...I think we have enough." Clearly we are not on the same page. Too many voices!
Primo and I have never "tried" to have children, they just sort of came along when we weren't paying attention. Six weeks before our wedding, just before Rosemary Caine put the final stitches in my wedding dress, I found out I was pregnant. We never saw it coming, and I don't recall hearing the fertility voice. I was in my 20's at the time, maybe that's why. For a couple of years after Bea was born, we actively tried not to get pregnant, and I think Primo and I just figured we'd have just one. I liked being the only child. Primo liked having one, I liked having one, even though I had always thought I'd have more. But then the fertility voice started whispering in my ear, "how about one more, and if it's a boy, you can name him James...Babies are sweet and they fit better on your lap than dogs do..." Yes, even the fertility voice is not down with the name Jedediah. Why James? It would go well with my maiden name. (Think Ian Fleming).
With Ingrid, the fertility voice just whispered for several months before she got what she wanted. I like to think I'm pretty in tune with my body, and Primo and I had gone almost three years without a surprise, with me just "being in tune". (The "being in tune" method of contraception should not be confused with fertility awareness, which can be highly effective, so I'm told.) Then we hit a stressful spell in our lives. Our landlord decided to renovate our apartment and we had 10 weeks to find a new place. We decided to buy house in a seller's market. I stopped paying attention for just one month. We should have known. With Bea, it was the stress of getting married and the wedding dress being a done deal. We found out we were expecting Ingrid the same day we withdrew our a deposit from a 200 year old farmhouse fixer-upper in Bernardston, and put it on our needs-only-paint-and-paper downtown house that cost us about $40,000 more.

I really try to think about this logically. Ingrid's not even two years old. The idea of two kids under the age of two or two kids in diapers is not terribly appealing to me. Our house is near critical mass with all the sentient beings (2 kids, 2 adults, 2 cats, 1 big dog, 2 frogs). With another baby, I would have to quit my part time job, which maybe should be on the "pro baby list", except that Primo and I put in equal contributions towards the mortgage. I'm returning to my pre-pregnant-with-Bea body when I was physically fit, and as much as I loved my pregnant body both times, I really like not having a pregnant body right now. We no longer employ the "being in tune" method, we actually use highly effective contraception that require a visit to a women's health care professional to reverse. We made a conscious decision not to get surprised any more. And most importantly, Primo really doesn't want more babies right now.
None of it makes sense, and I guess it's not supposed to. Clocks run on their own, and there's that part of me that sees age 40 as some kind of deadline for procreation, and 40 is on the horizon. I still want to have another baby. Now. See, call me odd, but I liked being pregnant and giving birth. All or most of it: the morning sickness (which I never had much of); the funky food cravings (extra rare red meat--especially lamb, overcooked vegetables, extra smelly cheese like Stinking Bishop and La Clochette chevre, an aversion broccoli, strawberries, and chocolate); the bizarre dreams (nursing a dog, giving birth to things that aren't babies); the emotional roller coaster rides; the unwanted attention and invasive questions from total strangers; the naming wars (Primo will be happy to know that "Jedediah" is off the table, now that we have a dog named Jed); the sore nipples; the sore everything; the uncertainty of everything; the meconium and other pregnancy/childbirth-related fluids, and most of all, the baby who smells like love and fits on your lap better than a dog.
Well, venting makes me feel much better. I'll go back and read the logical reasons why not to have a baby now, and the "Primo doesn't want one" bit, and hopefully that will drown out the fertility voice for the next month or so.

Somewhat related link: Quiverfull
And on the other side of the spectrum, Population Connection (formerly, and more harshly known as Zero Population Growth.)

And Now for Something Completely Juvenile.

Bea is home with an ear infection and sore throat. I'm home with Bea. After I write this, I'm going to fold laundry and string my autoharp.

If you can't tell by all the post-publishing edits and countless typos, I tend to blog while I should be doing something else. Like actual work for which I get paid to do. But today I'm sitting in front of the computer with idle hands, I surf unfettered by the fear of being caught. Apparently it's true what they say about the devil and idle hands. Here's today's trivial gem.
Anyone who went to college in the 80's and early 90's might remember The Purity Test. Maybe you saw it at a party, or one of your friends got it from one of their friends at another college, possibly printed on dot matrix printer (mid-late 80's). When I first got one in 1988, it had 100 questions. Some time after that, someone got the newest (for the time) 400 question test from a friend at one of the U. California campuses via VAX mail. Over time it morphed into a 500 question test. In the first part of my college experience (1988-90) I scored about 78% on the 100 and 400 question tests. I think it was the partying, because it certainly wasn't sex. In the early 90's, before I returned to college and I lived the life of a free-spirited hippie club kid, I was romantically involved with someone who brought down my score where it plateaued in the 60's for several years. I remember he scored between 30 and 35%. Those were crazy times.
I think the last time I took it was in 1999 or something like that, long after I was out of college, and my score hadn't changed that much. I think I scored in the low to mid 50's, maybe high 50's? I can't remember. But now, I've hit my lowest score ever: 50%. I'm not sure what I've done in 6 years to bring it down. Maybe I cheated last time.
Laundry, here I come.

Christian? Churchless?

Things I don't generally talk about with my parents (besides some of the obvious like my vices, and what turns me on about my husband):

1. Tattoos

2. My first two years as an undergrad (which included a considerable amount of partying and indulgence in vices, not much studying, and a very ugly incident between my mother and me. After 15 years, still makes me physically ill to think about it. Barf. Next subject.)

3. Church, even though it figures prominently in all of our lives. This is mostly between my dad and me and is mostly about the fact that I left the church I was baptized in. I can only gloss over what is not said between us on this subject on a public blog. If you know me and want the whole story, I'll share if you have an hour and a box of Kleenex.

I've covered #1 here already. If my parents read this I'm screwed in the breaking taboo conversation silence department.

I don't think I can say much more about #2 without gastro-intestinal disturbances at this time.

But I'm feeling all confessionally today, so let's talk about Church. The other day I said out loud that I was a Christian. I can't remember the last time I actually verbalized it. To think it and feel it is is one thing, and admittedly when I think and feel it there's a big question mark at the end there. But when I said it, I wasn't asking anyone. And while it felt good to say it with certainty, it felt strange, as if I just got off a plane at a destination that felt like home, but didn't look like home.
But there it is. The Jesus-following works for me. It's comfortable. It's homey. I grew up with it, I know the holidays and the rituals. It makes sense. I don't need to be initiated, and Jesus' basic message of love and humility makes for a happy life. It's not a unique message, but it's tried and true to me. No matter where my faith seeking takes me, I always come back to the fundamental belief of my youth.
But there's some discomfort in saying out loud "I am a Christian", even though I think it and feel it. In a nutshell, I struggle with the divinity of the Christ. I can't really articulate more than that, because I'm knee deep in the struggle. Even still, I'm still a Christian--not in a crisis of faith, but in a constant state of renewing and trying to grasp that faith. Ain't nothin' wrong with that, is there?
The other source of discomfort is that the church I've been attending for the past 4 years is in a state of chaos and disunity, and I feel most in communion with the Divine when I'm worshipping with others. They don't even have to have the same beliefs as I do. I just want the act of being in a community--helping your friends, loving your adversaries, bringing comfort and joy to those you touch. I've had a hard enough time finding a spiritual community, so it's hard to say whether I need to let go of this one, ride out the storm, or jump in and fix the foundation. I just don't have the spiritual energy to jump in any more. I need to focus on my kids and their spiritual needs, and I don't think they need a broken community right now.

I doubt my parents intended to create a seeker with a tendency to wander so high and low, but they did by giving my the choice to seek my own spiritual path. What a gift. My mom is Catholic, my dad is Church of Christ. They still go their separate ways every Sunday morning (and every Wednesday evening for my dad) My mother was raised a Baptist, but my grandmother converted to Catholicism as an adult, and so did my mother, one of her brothers, and one of her sisters. While my dad is not the spiritual wandering type, since my mom had been there, and was not about to convert to his faith upon marriage, they left the church choosing up to me. I went to Catholic school until 4th grade, and went to both churches all the time, sometimes twice in one day! There was a spell when my dad didn't go to church much, so when I wanted to go to his church my aunt took me. That church was in New York City. Who wouldn't want to go to New York City for church?, I loved church and Sunday School. I loved Mass when I went with my mother. I loved Jesus, and singing worship, and the Bible. I was baptised in The Church of Christ when I was 13. It was my choice, however influenced it might have been by others. The security of being baptised and formally initiated into a strong community stayed with me.
When we moved to Memphis, I said goodbye to that community. Every Church of Christ is different, and the ones we visited in Memphis were very different from Manhattan Church of Christ. They were either all white or all black, and they were much more conservative. So basically, once we moved to Memphis, I left The Church.
In that time I've tried on too many religion hats, none of which fit as well as the simple, ever questioning Christian of undetermined denomination. I majored in religion in college (post party years), which just made me a cynic. Not an agnostic or an atheist, just a cynic. Still, I don't think I ever stopped thinking of myself as a Christian.

I married a non practicing Quaker. I enjoyed Quaker meetings, but the lack of singing and the total silence just didn't feed me, and I didn't get much warmth from the congregation. That may have been a New England thing. I may have lived in New Jersey for a spell growing up, but at least 85% of me is a loud, huggy, smiley, Southern Gurl (who says "y'all" and "fixin' ta", and other Southernisms, especially when fuelled by alcohol.) It can't hurt y'all stoic Yankees to say "come back and visit" once in a while.
Then I started going to our local Unitarian Universalist church, and I was home. Then we got rid of our minister. I was on the Board at the time, and while a coup can be hard to define, his departure seemed to be egged on by a vocal minority, unfortunately. Things don't feel so homey any more. It sucks. Just when I thought I found my community, it turns dysfunctional. Part of me says, take a hiatus from church, commune with the Divine through other means. And that would be all well and good if I didn't have children who deserve a stable religious community.

There's a Church of Christ within walking distance of our house. I don't know conservative they are. One thing I am not is a conservative Christian. It would make my dad so happy if I went there, but this is something I just can't do to please someone else, no matter how much I love him, no matter how many walls it would break down between us. I guess if I don't go, I'll never know. But I don't want to go (see bottom link).
There's also an American Baptist church near Bea's school that's I've heard good things about, but I've heard nothing about the Sunday School. There's also the Catholic church, but I like going to Mass when my mom is here, Palm Sunday, and Ash Wednesday. I go for nostalgic reasons, and I'm not into the pope thing. I could also try the Episcopal church, and they have a good Sunday School program, too. I could shop around and find another church, but a community is its people, functional or not. I didn't choose my church for its dogma, or even lack of one. I chose it because of the people. Granted many of them are leaving, too.
To cut and run feels wrong. To stay the course is impossible, because there's no course. Bottom line, my kids need a stable, safe spiritual community, where they can be free to question, and disbelieve, or totally believe, so I guess I'm taking the year off.

This site may explain the reluctance and anxiety I feel when considering going to the type of church I was baptized in.
This one, too.

A Conversion Story (with Murder Ballads) Part One

The first time I saw an autoharp up close and personal, I was hooked. One of Bea's day care providers brought it in to play to the children. Bea must have been about a year old. I've always had a fascination with harps and zithers (Who doesn't?), and string instruments in general. I played the violin and piano in elementary and middle school, and I'm a sub-par but enthusiastic guitar player. The autoharp is accessible, affordable, has the haunting stringy sound, is perfect for blue grass and accompanying murder ballads. Most intriguing is that you hug it when you play it. What's not to love about it, the horrible sound it makes when it's out of tune notwithstanding?

My first autoharp was a gray Silvertone from the early 70's. I traded a Memphis bass guitar for it. It came with a cool "Mother Maybelle Carter Plays the Autoharp" record, a few metal finger picks, a tuning wrench, and broken chord bars that desperately needed refelting and some replacing. I fixed it with the generous help of the kind folks on the Cyberpluckers list. I should have replaced the strings, and perhaps sent it to someone who could make it completely playable, but I didn't really have the money, or the time. I played it as is with great frustration and joy. I knew there was something fun in there, because when it was in tune, and I pressed the right chords, even the dead strings didn't sound so bad.

When I was pregnant with Ingrid, I went on a purge and sold the Silvertone on eBay to a nice man in England. But I missed it! I knew I'd eventually do it right, and this summer, I embarked on a new autoharp adventure. I ordered a custom Timbreharp, 21 chord in zebra wood. It probably won't be finished until early-mid 2007. So what's a girl to do in the meantime? Well, I got a second harp to learn how to maintain and tinker on. So that I wouldn't have redundant autoharp set-ups, I decided to convert that second one from a 15 chord chromatic to a 10 chord diatonic 'harp that plays in F and C, with lock bars to dampen the B and B flat notes when appropriate. Have I lost you? Go back to the Cyberpluckers link and read up on why anyone would do such a thing. Basically diatonic harps may be somewhat limiting when you're jamming, but they have a full, rich sound. Since I really only play for myself, I can convert a song to the key of F or C (or the corresponding minor keys), and once the 21 chord chromatic Timbreharp is here, I'll try to be less shy and find some folks to jam with.


This guinea pig harp is an Oscar Schmidt 1979 Model 15 EBH/R with an imitation rosewood finish (I think it’s an imitation rosewood finish and not a starburst finish) in pristine condition for its age. I got it on eBay, where you can get wonderful 'harps and total crap 'harps, and not know which til it arrives in the mail. I count myself lucky. It was bought new in 1979, only played a few times, and kept out of extreme temperatures. I can't say I got a bargain, there was a bidding war involved, and going purely on instinct I bid to my upper limit. But I did get a solid harp. I ordered a new set of strings and a custom set of wooden chord bars in walnut with birdseye maple chord buttons and bar covers from Lumbert Mountain Music. This is going to be a sexy little 'harp.
Last night I embarked on the first part of my conversion. I removed the existing chord bars and all the strings. I enhanced the experience with a pot of green tea (inspired by Alan Horvath's coversion story with coffee) and some murder ballads, and it was great fun to be had by me. I can see how autoharp modification can become an addictive hobby. I wish I had some wood appliqués to put on this baby. Next harp will be the art harp. I took the piano scale sticker off, though.


After reading the chapter on restringing in the Autoharp Owner's Manual I carefully took the old chord bars off and unstrung it, removing the high octave strings first. After playing a few old Clannad songs, I moved on to Pentangle's version of "Cruel Sister" It really set the mood nice and dark. ("They made a harp of her breastbone...")

Oh how I love to take things apart! Once I got to removing the the middle octave, I moved on to a couple of versions of “Pretty Polly"--my very favorite murder ballad (first Darol Anger's 9 minute jam with Mary Chapin Carpenter singing, then Hilarie Burhans--a gem I heard at the end of a Deadwood episode). Well into the middle octave string removal, Primo came downstairs after taking a GMAT practice test, frazzled and bitchy. He'd not studied at all, and was scheduled to take the test on Wednesday (he has since rescheduled). I read him the reality riot act. [“Dude, you have no one but yourself to blame. You haven’t looked at the study book for a whole month, and your test is Wednesday? Stop complaining!”] I moved on to James Yorkston and the Athletes singing a creepily incestuous version of “Edward”, and noticed that someone had dropped a Popsicle stick in the sound hole! Prime suspect: Ingrid.

My conversation with Primo degenerated to Primo whining about wishing they'd let him play Scrabble instead of taking the GMAT. I suggested something much more uncomfortable that involved a very sensitive orifice, to which he joked he'd rather let them do than take the GMAT. Well, that was a little too dark for me, so with a very unpleasant image in my head of my dear husband being violated by the Admissions Committee at the Isenberg School of Management, I put on headphones and listened to some Gillian Welsh until I finished and had a naked autoharp. Primo watched CSI Miami and continued to complain about the GMAT. Poor honey!


On a very sad note, I just heard there will be no more Deadwood episodes. Yet the Sopranos lives on. I don't understand it.
Stay tuned for more autoharp conversion escapades. I'm sure the next part will be interesting enough that I'll actually talk about what I do. Taking the strings of was easy. Next step: restringing!

Infecting you with music...

I'm going to put some songs in your head, and you may or may not like it.

1. Remember that Madonna song "Justify My Love"? I used to love that song when it first came out, back when I frequented dance clubs. I just listened to it this morning. It's not as cool as I remember. I think the only reason I liked it was because I had a version of it where she recited parts of Revelation. I thought it was clever back then.

2. Last week when I was getting tattooed a friend of Jeremy's came in and played this song (see below), and it has plagued me ever since. Now I'm infecting you.


3. I talk about Japan a lot here. I like Japan. I also like the band Japan from the late 70's-early 80's band headed by David Sylvian. And here is one of those Japan songs that really makes me happy because it's so...I'll let you fill in the rest. This song reminds me of a fabulous orange shirt owned by Joshua. Remember Joshua, if you tire of that shirt, pass it on...

The Courtship of Parthenia and Primo Ellingsgard.

Part One: Housemates Hook Up

I don't think the husband ever reads this, so I sometimes bitch about him. But not today. This is one of my favorite stories to tell: how the husband and I lived together longer than we've actually been a couple. Th husband once asked me not to post photos of him, or reveal his name. So I call him the husband. It sounds a little cold, and I worry that when I write about him, a mild complaint will sound much bigger than it actually is.
Since this is meant to be a happy fest about the husband, let's warm it up and give him a name. We'll call him Primo. [Tengetical anecdote about the name Primo: When we were thinking of baby names for Bea, the husband--Primo--said he wanted to call our baby "Primo" if it was a boy. It became a joke between us, and perhaps there was a little poke at some of the kooky (to him) names I was thinking up. Like Jedediah. Only thing is, I was serious. Or maybe he was, too. I never could tell.]

Anyhow, Primo and I met in 1995. I was living in a house with 3 other roommates, and my roomate Frank went to Amsterdam for a semester, and needed to sublet his room. We placed an ad in a few papers, and got a few calls. One was from a UMASS student named Primo Ellingsgard. He sounded nice enough on the phone, so we invited him over. The very first time I laid eyes on Primo, I sat on our porch and watched him walk from the corner up to our house. He had shoulder length curly blond hair that bounced with each step of his very distinct walk. Primo has beautiful, touchable, soft hair with these big curls. It almost breaks my heart when he cuts it. As he got closer I saw that he was really cute. If I remember correctly, he wore black Converse hightops. I don't know what else he wore.
Needless to say we picked him, and he moved in at the end of August. First we hung out as friends. All the time. I think around December, I admitted to myself that I has a crush on my housemate. By New Year's Day, it was clear to me that there was something there. Several near kisses, extended snuggle sessions, and tickle fights later, on January 13, I asked him if he wanted to make out, and we did.

Stay tuned for more Primo Ellingsgard happy fests...

Your Favorite RPG Character

I'd like to know, gentle reader, if you have a favorite RPG character of your creation. Last night I found mine, Shizuka from our Sorcerer game.
It doesn't take much for me to cry at movies or in dramatic moments on books or TV, so it's no surprise that I'm really sad for my Sorcerer character Shizuka. At first I thought she was just a nervous wreck, near a breakdown, but I realized this morning, after pondering what transpired last night, that perhaps she just enjoys pain, arguing, and being unhappy. That really sucks for her, because her demon's need was that he needed to make her happy. And we all know that not even the funniest clown can make someone who wants to be unhappy become happy. She wasn't feeding his need, so her homicidal demon husband left her. The last straw was that after he admitted to killing their children, she asked him to get a demon vasectomy, which seemed to be a logical request at the time, but probably not something one should ask if you and your partner are not getting along, or when you're both high on opium. After I said it, Vincent, the GM, flipped through the book to clarify demon rebellion and unbinding. I thought, aw, crap. Shizuka is screwed. Even my husband, who has very little to say about my gaming experiences because I tend to talk to him about it when I come home and he's geekin' over his Think Tanks game quickly chimed in that it was a bad thing to say. It's a bad thing to say when I mention the V word between us. But every time I say "let's have another baby", he gets all prickly and grimacy, too. I don't get it, but I digress...
The kicker started out as something just to be scary: She finds a dead baby in a beautiful wooden box. But her reaction to it was the kiss of death for the marriage. She didn't trust Tai (demon husband) anymore. She thought he had something to do with the appearance of the box (I'm still unclear of how it appeared), and that maybe he put it where she would see it to be cruel. She's touchy about babies, having had 5 that just disappeared, and she overreacted.
Speaking of babies, at first I thought she was all about having the babies, but also came to see her mother wanted grandchildren much more than Shizuka wanted to make them.
Her price is that she has large gap memory loss (and I play it that she conveniently forgets painful things as well, and remembers things incorrectly, or just enough not to have an accurate account of what happened) So all these years she's relied on Tai to tell her the truth about what's happened, since she can't or won't remember. She doesn't trust him, and her denial and desire to forget a succession of traumas (the husband killing all 5 of their children mere weeks after they were born, year after year), caused her not to ask the all-important "why?" When she got the answer (they would have turned into really horrible demons) Tai was on the way out the door. Sad. (And still the Shizuka in me thinks, would they really go evil? Tai's not that evil and he's the father.)
I love it when you think you've formed something about your character that ends up only being true on the surface. While your initial statements about your character may be X, their reactions and expereinces show that Y is truer. Like the baby in the box thing. Since her cover is that she's an ethnobotanist, I've explored that maybe she tends to abuse opium, which can also account for a lot of memory loss, mental confusion, hallucination, delusions, etc.
I've found it great fun to play characters whose inspiration comes from a part of me I'm not comfortable with, and I had to get past the fact that I was exposing my own bad sides. I got inspiration for Shizuka from me....
~Ages 19-22, when I not-so-secretly enjoyed being unhappy.
~Ages 22-24, when I was very unfortuneately romantically involved in two toxic relationships and cared very much for both people. (one of whom I'm still friends with, but the toxicity is all cleaned up)
~On those days when I wake up in the morning and am just looking to pick a fight with anyone who crosses my path (and it tends to be the husband)
~That phase before I met the husband when I loved the Bad Boys.
~That part of me that can be really passive aggressive to the husband, even though I know it's wrong.
~The part of me that has nightmares of the husband leaving me without any explanation or contact afterwards. And that came through in play in an eerie scene. Shizuka tried to summon Tai. She wrote in her own blood a long letter of contrition [My beloved Tai, I'm sorry I've been such a bitch lately...Perhaps a vasectomy is not a good idea at this time...If you come back, I'll laugh at your jokes, praise your superior cooking, work at being a better wife who is attentive to your needs...], begging for forgiveness, did her ritual summoning of placing the letter in water, chanted, burned inscence, surrounded herself in Tai's possessions. Due to my crappy roll of the dice, the summoning failed, and Tai did not show. That he did not respond in the least was beautiful. Horribly beautiful. I've had that nightmare before--where the husband and I have a fight, he walks out, and I can't talk to him. That scene gave me chills.
Everyone else's stories are intense and depressing. There isn't much of an emotional reprieve, except for the fact that Shizuka has only interacted with Harriet, Meg's character, whom Tai tried to brain with a hammer. I get to sit and listen to Joshua and Emily do their story-telling. Amazingly, Harriet agreed to help Shizuka locate Tai. It could have been a light moment in the whole game, but Shizuka willingly cut off the tip of her pinkie to feed to Harriet's knick knack making, bone eating well demon, as retribution for Tai's attempted murder of Harriet, and clogging her well with 6 yen pieces. We've stayed consistently dark, even darkly funny.

So there's mine. What's yours? What was (even if so far) your favorite scene? What inspired their formation? How did they evolve? Where did your characters end and you begin, and round the other way?
I've only been doing role playing games for less than a year. I have been really lucky to have played with wickedly imaginative GM's too! Growing up I played lots of pretend, and in high school I had a couple of friends that I did a free form kind of role playing-story telling thing. In nursing school we did lots of role playing to gain perspective on patient/nurse relations. And I do SCA here and there, love to dress in Renaissance and Faire garb. I like to play pretend, but my "formal" role playing experience is pretty limited. (Shhhh....I've never played D&D, and don't really plan to...) I'm amazed how drawn into a story and how attached to a character one can get. So I'm curious to hear other people's experiences with characters that really stuck to them or haunted them.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

The Good : My mom had the cardiac catheterization done, and everything went well.
The Bad (but not so bad): She does have some blockage in her arteries, but she won't need really bypass surgery, or an angioplasty, just drugs. She said she's also going to work harder at keeping her blood pressure down, and will try to lose some weight. Good for mom.
I just noticed I look just like my mom in the picture to the left. Same facial expression and everything... Not a bad thing, just an observation.
The Ugly: Speaking of weight loss and exercise (okay, I didn't talk about exercise yet, but I saw a theme and I ran with it), I noticed some very interesting dynamics in the Nautilus Room at the Y yesterday. There appears to be a self segregation between the men and the women. If there are more men in the weight room, the women all go do the cardio machines, and vice versa. I never really noticed this until yesterday when I was doing the Nautilus machines and there were two men (among many men, mostly regulars) there who were grunting really loudly. Loud enough for me to crank up the iPod (Grateful Dead, "Tennessee Jed" to start). It was distracting. I just wanted to yell "get a freakin' room!" So you can imagine what it sounded like, if you're not one to hang out in fitness centers. The husband tells me this is a fairly common thing, and on the list of rules in the free weight room it says something like "No Loud Grunting". I also looked around to see if there was anyone else with a visible WTF or amused look on his face. Nope, just me, and I was the only woman there. Then I looked into the cardio room, and there was not a single man in there. I wasn't about to change my workout and join the herd, so I just tried to ignore the grunters, and then did a quickie cardio. (Later that night I had a funny dream about self segregation, which would only really be funny to someone else in the dream, so I won't share. Sorry.)
I am now fascinated with this phenomenon. I've never really heard women grunt like that while working out. I don't grunt loudly while working out, even when I up my weight level. I made crazy primal grunty sounds when I was giving birth to my kids, but can we really equate birthing a baby to lifting weights? I'm not convinced that the workout grunting is necessary. Amusing and somewhat disturbing, perhaps, but not necessary. There's a time and place for grunting, and working out in a public place may not be it. I don't think my being the only woman in the weight room had any impact on the volume or frequency of the grunting, as no other men joined in. Now that would have been really odd and distrubing. I would have gone to the cardio room, and joined the ladies if I suddenly found myself in a room full of loudly grunting, sweaty, middle aged (and a few adolescent) men. I shudder to think.

Anyone out there, please share. What's the workout grunt all about?
Here's more information about No Grunting Policies in gyms. I really feel bad for the guy who was kicked out of the gym for grunting. OTOH, the sign said "No Grunting".

Ahhh the Pain! The Glorious, Colorful, Pain! (But don't tell my parents!)

I have a unfinished half-sleeve dragon on my left arm that goes over my shoulder to just above my left breast, and on Sunday I whiled away the afternoon and early evening in the tattooist's chair, as he added more color to my arm. Now the dragon has blue scales, and a blue face ("sick" blue, as it has been dubbed. "Sick", as in "bad" or "dope" or "vivid and beautiful"). Next Jeremy will finish coloring the dragon (a bit more shading and depth), then the underbelly and fin-like apparata and tail will be colored orange, then he'll color the water sea green ("sick" green, of course, but not the green you might see on someone who is actually sick), then he'll do the final touch ups, then it will be done. Then perhaps we'll go on to octopuses, and just do the rest of my arm.
I forgot how much I really enjoy getting tattooed, and enjoy even more getting tattooed by my friend Jeremy. We don't get to hang out as much as we used to, so we had much catching up to do. The days before the appointment, on top of being grumpy for no discerable reason, I was a little anxious about getting tattooed. I'm not sure why, but a night of dancing and hanging out with just Bea helped that. It's definitely not about the pain. Well, it kind of is. My endorphins seem to flow fairly easily and quickly, and after about 20 minutes of tattooing, I was pretty high. But before hand, I think about the less pleasant areas to be tattooed, like right across the clavicle and under my arm. By the time he got to those areas, I was floating on my body's version of opoids (naturally, of course), with not a care in the world. I even developed an appreciation for the band Clutch. I love tattoos, especially really big ones, I love getting tattoos.
To my parents, this penchant for tattoos is very un-ladylike, and possibly indicative of a greater psychological problem. And even though I'm 36 years old, have two kids, am happily married, have steady legal employment, went to a good college, don't do drugs or smoke cigarettes, own a house, and have never been in trouble with the law, I can't bring myself to discuss the whole tattoo obsession with them. I think they just noticed that I have a tattoo on my chest, and possibly on my arm (I started getting work on it about 5 years ago). There's at least one other they don't know about (completed in 1993). And for now, I'm really content not to go there, and they seem to be too. There are lots of other cool things I talk about with my parents. They don't know about my blog either.
Maybe when it heals I'll put up some pictures, but don't count on it. Just in case someone in my family stumbles on this site....

The Alpha Bitch De-Bitches

Okay everyone together, deep breath. Inhale.......and......exhale. One more time. Inhale.....and.....exhale. Ah.
How could I forget that dancing makes me irie?
I took Bea to Dance Spree this evening. It's amazing what a little movement can do for your mood. Miss "Ha ha! The dog pissed on your gym clothes" Grumpy Pants boogied her grumpy pants right off. It was just what the doctor might have ordered. Bea and I got to hang out and have fun, and I got some exercise, which I need on a daily basis in order to maintain a reasonably sunny disposition. I didn't make it to the gym yesterday.
And I had a little taste of the proveribal karmic crow before I left. Jeddy got a little excited and, that's right, ladies and gentlemen, he pissed on my bag. I'm sure he did it not because he just adores me, but because he got excited and pissed all over the place, as young dogs are apt to do. Just a little dribble got on my bag, but enough to remind me how much it really sucks to have a dog pee on your stuff.

The Universe chastened me by way of the Dog. Thanks, Universe. Thanks, Jed.

So why all the pee in the house? Jed never lived in a house before he came to us, and we've had him for about 3 weeks. He's about 95% house trained, and Dec 1 was his 5% day.

My Dog Speaks for Me When I Must Hold My Tongue

The crap of the week:
I discovered my frog tank is infested with planaria.
My mom is having a cardiac catheterization and I had a dream about her telling me she was dying of a heart illness.
Work just plain sucked.
My older daughter tested my patience at every possible moment, and showed me just how similar we are.
The husband's schedule allegedly required him not to be home before 8 pm Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday and on one of those nights he chould have called, but he didn't because he never calls to say he's late, and I was in a bad mood, and I would have liked his company and help earlier in the evening, so I've been a little annoyed (pissed) at him all week. But what do I say? "You can't go out"? I can't say that. I'm going to be gone most of the day on Sunday, and the shoe has been on the other foot before--many times. So I didn't say anything. I just gave attitude here and there, enough to let him know I was annoyed about something that may or may not have had anything to do with him. He probably thought I was just menstrual. And yes, I know my behavior was wrong.

Maybe Mississippi Jed picked up on the last one. Jed adores me. I'm the alpha bitch in the pack. This morning, he peed all over the husband's mesh gym bag that was full of his freshly laundered exercise apparel. The husband didn't notice until he got in the car to go to the Y after work, and noticed his car smelled like dog piss. (I guess he wasn't going to tell me he was going to spend the whole evening at the Y tonight, and not come home before 8 again.) So he had to come home to wash his dog pissed clothes and actually tell me of his plans to work out all evening. I said, (paraphrasing) "not so fast, dude, I'm going out tonight with Bea, and you're staying home." And I laughed.

Thanks, Jed.

Note: This isn't how the husband and I normally communicate. Our communication is mostly healthy, but we all have our days, and today apparently was not mine.