Double Bummer

----- Original Message -----
From: Parthenia Ellingsgard
To: info@scandiafood.com
Sent: Thursday, February 22, 2007 9:46 AM
Subject: I can't find what I'm looking for

Hello,
I am trying to find blodpudding. Do you carry it in the Norwalk store? Is it possible to get in this country?

Thanks for your help!
Parthenia Ellingsgard

And their response:
>I am sorry, but we don't have blodpudding and all meat products are banned to be >imported to this country. I miss it too!!!
>
>Best Regards,
>
>Scandia Food & Gifts, Inc.
>30 High Street
>Norwalk, CT 06851
>Ph: (203) 838-2087
>Fax: (203) 838-1831
>www.scandiafood.com

And now for the second bummer:
When I picked Bea up from school today, she looked really sad. I was a little late and she had to wait in the office, but when that happens she just looks mildly peeved. This was different. When I asked her what was the matter this is what she told me (names have been changed): "Today we had a field trip."
Me: Oh cool! Where'd you go?
Bea: To the Food Bank. [Gets a little excited] It's this place where you can get free food, but it's really for people who don't have any food. It was actually kind of boring.
Me: And that made you sad?
Bea [back to sad mode]: No. Katie told me she's not going to be my friend for a while, because she's going to be Cassie's friend.
Me: But you're friends with Cassie, too. Why can't you all be friends?
Bea: That's what I tried to tell her, but Cassie was being really, really rude to me. Then Katie said she wasn't going to be my friend for a whole month.
Me: I'm sure they'll both come around, and they didn't really mean it. Give it a few days and you'll all be friends again.

Then I thought to myself, nice going Psychic Mama. Never profess to know the minds of seven year old girls, even if you've been one.

Me: You have so many other friends. If Katie and Cassie are in a mood, go enjoy your other friends some more.

My heart aches for Bea. She has her moods like we all do, but she is a loyal friend who rarely practices friend exclusivity under normal circumstances. (The last time I saw her do it, she was hungry, it was short lived, and we later talked about how unacceptable it was.) Primo tells me that boys don't do this type of thing. I don't believe him. I think boys do it differently and perhaps later. It doesn't matter, though. It's one of those things that mama and papa can't fix. We can give her the pep talk, a little perspective on things even, but tomorrow Bea has to go back to school and either try to win back her friends (if they haven't chilled yet), or deal with the friendship ban gracefully. I'm sure she'll do just fine.

I, on the other hand, ache for Bea, and am disappointed that blodpudding is banned.

A Hair-Ripping Confession

I'm not as crunchy as I look. If the membership department of the Earth Mama Hippie Society read this, they'd probably ask for my membership card. I don't care. If they heard me complain that I don't like going to Amherst because of all the f^@%ing hippies I'd be in trouble, but not expelled. I said that to at least two people, both of whom have hippie tendencies, one of whom is a fellow Three Dreaded Ladies, and she totally agreed with me. It's really the disingenuous, Highly Unlikely-I Trustafarians that ruin it for me. I'm paraphrasing my fellow Three Dreaded Lady. Her words, not mine. Sometimes I have to go to Amherst, and I suck it up and deal, and it's not so bad.

If you're confused, I make herbal products and soaps and I sell them at the Farmer's Market in Greenfield. Our booth is Three Dreaded Ladies. The other Dreaded Ladies sell handmade clothing and cloth diapers.

As I said, my disdain and scorn for certain hippies in Amherst will not get me kicked out of the Earth Mama Hippie Society. Hippies can be viciously exclusive and scornful. Every hippie can tell you a story of being dissed or snubbed by another group of hippies for obvious and mysterious reasons. There's quite a bit of crunchier-than-thou going around. And since this is a fluff post, I will avoid a sociological observation of hippies.

My membership in the Earth Mama Hippie Society is in jeopardy because for about three years now, I have been going to a day spa in Northampton (another town that bugs the hell out of me, but there's good sushi there.) to have my eyebrows waxed and shaped. (Never mind that the name of the day spa is also the name of two dorms at UMASS, known for the crowd they attracted and the parties. Lots of hippies lived there.) I don't normally shave my legs but about once a year, I go totally Euro on the armpits. I don't even cut or brush my hair. But I do love to have my eyebrows done by a professional. This past appointment I think Ada outdid herself. She accentuated the arch so well, that when I raise my left eyebrow all traces of crunch leave my face and I look totally glamorous, even without makeup. I think I'll take a picture. I know, who cares, they're just eyebrows, and no one notices unless I point it out. Next time you see me, check out my fabulous eyebrows for yourself. They rock.

Blodpudding, Lingon Sylt, Kombucha Chaser

...and new neighbors!

My mother in law brought over the last of her Swedish style blodpudding, which she gleefully fried up and served. I was to bring a few pieces over to Meg and Vincent's for a pre-game snack, but by the time I got home from having my eyebrows done there was only one slice left. We split it among 4 people: Vincent, Emily, Joshua (who almost missed it), and me. I don't quite understand it, but Meg didn't eat any at all. Something about being turned off by the name. Some people call it black pudding. How about that? Unless my mother in law (or I) can find an U.S. source for it, there will be no more blodpudding for the "Ellingsgards" for a while. Karin is going to ask some of her friends to bring her some next time they visit her. I've googled and googled to no avail. I found a source for a Scottish style, but honestly, I don't know the difference. Might be worth a try. I've alwasy been curious about haggis.

If there is anyone who lives in Sweden who reads this and would be willing to send me a few packages of blodpudding, please, I beg you, email me. I'll totally make it worth your while, even if you have no interest in kombucha.

I also brought my latest brew of kombucha to wash down the blodpudding. I thought making 1 1/2 gallons was a bit excessive, but between sharing with friend and family, all that kombucha disappears within 72 hours. I might have to buy more jars and just make more and more. I now have about 8 SCOBY's. I'll use two to make the weekly batch, and that leaves six more for the taking!

And what's this about new neighbors? Read here. Speaking as the chick across the street, I'm almost as happy as they are. How often do you say to a friend (paraphrased and embellished) "Hey why don't ya'll buy the house across the street?" and they say, "Sure thing!" It's like I got to pick my neighbors. I'm feeling like a lucky lamb.

EDIT: 2/22/07
Had to share some links.
Swedish Customs mentions blodpudding and natto!

Scottish Health Inspectors say "No!" to Human Blood Pudding

Getting closer to finding blood pudding. Gourmet Food Store sells Boudin Noir, French Blood Pudding.

Scandia Food in Norwalk, CT

Not Your Psychic Friend, but You Can Ask Me About Sex

...and I won't mince words or lie.

Last month I was asked to be the fortune teller at a Mardi Gras party at church. I agreed with reluctance. My hesitation stemmed from my decision to scale back my participation and attendance to church to near nil this year. After thinking about it, I started wondering why they asked me to be the fortune teller. Was I being typecast? And if so, what type were they casting? That's really a discussion for another time. Bottom line, I agreed to do something I didn't want to do, but I needed to follow through because I agreed to do it regardless of my reluctance to do it. Later I grew even more reluctant because volunteers were asked to pay $15 admission like everyone else. So not only did I agree to do something I didn't really want to do, but I was to pay to do it. And deep down, I knew I could have a good time if I just sucked it up and stopped being a party pooper.

Last night was the Mardi Gras party. It wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I ate dinner before I left, sneaked in and didn't pay, sneaked only a piece of chocolate cake (which someone paid for me), and played my part with feeling and enthusiasm until the very last moment.

I never realized that playing a fortune teller could be so draining. When I was in high school, I used to read Tarot cards and palms for friends. I stopped doing it when I was recently dropped out of college, living with my parents (who for a time thought I was into dark Satany stuff, which I wasn't, but I'd read some Crowley. Ooh Ahh...), and my decks started disappearing. Now I still collect tarot decks, but rarely ever pick them up and do a reading, even for myself. And I still have one surviving tarot deck from my alleged devil worship days. I brought that one, thinking my most recent acquisition, the Manara Erotic Tarot, wasn't family friendly. It was a good choice. I am reluctant to admit when I get those touches of "knowing", but I have to say, those cards felt like talking with long lost friends. Long lost friends made of paper who speak in your head, nonetheless.

So the first few readings went fine, and people marvelled at how accurate I was. Wow. I wasn't even trying to be accurate. I was just reading the cards and reading the people. Over the course of the evening I probably read about 12 people. I made stuff up when I read for children. I could tell some people wanted cold readings, and wanted me to reveal something amazing, nevermind that I'm sitting on pillows in a church basement doing 3-5 minute readings for 50 cents. In that setting, it's hard to pull amazing out of your ass. But I really wanted to give them something real and honest. So I did my best, and remained mysteriously vague when I had to read 100% cold. I had two people who had something going on mentally. One guy had been in a horrible car accident and had gross and fine motor issues, short term memory loss. His cards were a little creepy, but I found something positive and encouraging to say and he was happy. They were all happy, even when it was clear I was pulling things out of the air (or my ass).

I don't understand the whole "read my fortune" thing as entertainment. Slight of hand card tricks are fun. Asking a total stranger to look you in the eye and tell you what they see is not my idea of fun. Reading for friends should be an intimate, private thing, and the basement of a church, no matter how gussied up they make it (and it was nice), just isn't a comfortable setting for me. Especially with 150 people walking around, music blaring, people drinking and partying. etc. In hindsight, I think there are other reasons why I stopped reading cards besides having my parents' eye of suspicion cast on me (they were fine with the cards when I was in high school, by the way.) I remember that emotional drain.


Somewhat more fun, but still harrowing and a little anxiety inducing is having a seven year old ask you what a condom is, and being who you are, feeling that full disclosure is the only way to go. That was the real excitement of my day. Before I put on my fortune teller hat, I took Bea grocery shopping with me, and made a pitstop to Jeremy's to drop off some pictures for him to work on designing the rest of my sleeve. He keeps a colorful basket of condoms and needle sterilizing kits at the top of the stairs. Naturally it caught Bea's eye. "What's this stuff?" She asked.
"I'll tell you in the car", I said, and took a condom.

We had a frank conversation in the car about sex and Sexually Transmitted Infections and condoms, and all that stuff that parents allegedly freak out about when they talk about it. Not Parthenia! I've had this conversation with Bea before, at a younger age, when she was more interested in where babies come from but didn't care to know about the whole sex act and where things go, or the emotional implications of it, or how good it feels. I've had this conversation with college students when I was in college and took my job as a Health Services Representative very seriously, and they wanted to know more than I could describe without firsthand knowledge. So I was ready. And I had a rare moment of feeling like an effective, savvy parent. I didn't even feel this successful when she finally potty trained. She asked, I answered. And when I continued to talk, she still listened. She asked questions, she told me what she knew. No word mincing, and she was interested. We stopped by World Eye Books and picked up It's Perfectly Normal. I got myself the newest edition of Our Bodies, Ourselves. I've now owned every single edition, including the one that came out the year I was born (thank God for that book when I was in junior high and high school.) Bea was mad that I wouldn't buy her a stuffed animal, but when I handed her the book, she stopped complaining and jumped right in.

I'm even happier to know that the book I chose to help Bea learn about human sexuality really gets Concerned Women of America's panties in a wad.

Kombucha Turned Me Into Wonder Woman

I love Kombucha, and apparently so does a large contingency of health minded folks around the world. It's always interesting to see how many cures and health claims people can come up with to encourage others to consume something freaky and weird. Now I'm not dismissing anyone's personal alternative health product, and I think there's always some validity to anecdotal evidence of the efficacy of a substance. I do get annoyed and bothered when people try to push snake oil on and take money from desperate and seriously ill people. Quacks put the odd and traditional remedies that actually work in a bad light, and make those who are convinced that all allopathic treatments are safe and effective.
Consider that if you have had a normal pregnancy and labor (and many more are normal than the Obstetic community will let on) giving birth at home has been proven to be just as safe, if not safer than giving birth in a hospital, where you are open to extra interventions and impatient medical personnel. But ask a woman who has given birth at home how many times she's been called "brave", like it's something dangerous and irresponsible. The brave ones are the ones that given birth in a place were up to 30% of all births are done by C-Section and the percentage of episiotomies hovers in the 90's. That's damn scary to me.
Sorry, I'll get off my soapbox.

So check out the claims of health benefits made for Kombucha. I just drink it because it tastes good. Ancedotally, it does help my nervous stomach, as does yogurt and kefir. But I can't do dairy very well, so kombucha it is.
I've always been fascinated with Colloidal Silver. Why on earth would anyone want to consume silver?.... But it's been around for almost 100 years.
Bad medicine is not limited to the alternative health realm. Remember the Swine Flu vaccines? I could go on and on, but maybe other people remember better ones.

Big Sister is Watching

Oh the joys of Sitemeter. I just discovered that my husband read my blog thoroughly. There's nothing here that I wouldn't tell him, even when I write about him, and I don't think of this blog as a personal diary. I have one of those, and I don't intend to broadcast it on the internet. The writing in my diary is much much worse than my writing here. At least I make an occasional attempt to fix typos and bad grammar on my blog.

So I'm a little wierded out by the fact that Primo/Chris might be reading this, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because he doesn't have a blog or a journal for me to read, so I don't know what he would think about enough to write and put it out on the internet for all to see. I feel a little exposed.

I know there's a core group of no more than 5 people who check this place regularly (because they told me, or because I can guess by their IP addresses), and I seem to get a fair amount of people reading from China. I don't know if it's the same people or person but I get at least one hit per day from China. Then there are the folks that get referred by one of or more of the regulars, or by links from other people's blogs, or random referrals by google searches or technorati, or because I email a friend and say, "here's my blog. I know it's corny, but there it is." But for the most part, this blog is a very low traffic site, and I kinda like that. I feel more comfortable talking about how attached I get to a rpg character or a sexually bizarre tattoo when I know only a handfull of people will ever read about it.

That said, all you anonymous people feel free to out yourselves and say hi, and welcome to my corny little blog. And to all the regulars, thanks for boosting my numbers.

I'm Not Mean. Are you?

Audience participation, please!

Each Wednesday night I go to Meg and Vincent's house to play games, but game night has been cancelled for the past two weeks due to illness. We're playing a game using the rules of the Mountain Witch. Our setting is Europe, 1910, and our Ronin are actually vaudeville/circus/freak show performers, whatever you want to call us. And we have supernatural powers. There's the impervious to pain man, who is really a kind-hearted softy, the geek with refined taste, the tattooed gentleman who is also a werewolf, and the shape-shifting contortionist. No I'm not the tattooed gentleman. I'm the shape-shifting contortionist. While on this unexpected hiatus, I've had a chance to think about my character.

I can't say much about this character's motives because I'll give too much away while we're in the thick of the action. I can say that Mary Jackson, aka Parvati the Elastic Woman, is a mean little thing. In the Mountain Witch, each player chooses a Japanese zodiac for her character. I chose the Tiger:
TIGER (Tora)
Though stubborn, hot-headed, selfish and slightly mean, Tigers are also courageous and tend to be deep thinkers capable of great sensitivity and sympathy for those they are close to and love.
Allies: Dog [Impervious to Pain Man] & Horse
Enemies: Monkey.
I think she's not as mean as we've seen, but we've not had a chance to see whether she really loves any of her comrades. Hopefully she'll prove to be loyal when appropriate. Little Mary (and I say little because I imagine her to be quite young, no older than 25, with the typical stunted gymnast's body) did kill someone who tried to kill the tattooed gentleman. She shot him point blank in the back of the head without comment or emotion. Then she threw his body off the train, and contemplated just going back to sleep. That's pretty mean. And while she may have had ulterior motives, she did hold vigil over the injured comrade while he convalesced. I can't see her putting any cold compresses on foreheads. If he had been more lucid, I imagine she would have played shape shifting pranks on him just to be mean and for sport.

But.... She's the only woman in the group, and probably the youngest. And surely there was a reason she, of all the petty identity thieves in the world who could do the job, was chosen to kill the Kaiser. Given her sketchy background, being a young girl in a troupe of travelling entertainers, she's a product of her environment. Maybe the source of some of her meanness is self preservation. I think much of it is just who she is.

Mean as she is, I like this character. Bad guys are fun, but characters whose goodness and badness is ambiguous (or dependent on what side you're on) is more fun.

I'm not a mean person, at least I don't think so. Grumpy at times, yes. A frustrated parent, most certainly. Not always adhering to the rules of fair arguments, yes. Mean? I can only think of a couple of deliberately mean things I've done in my adult life. I'm sure I did mean things as a kid here and there, but they don't count for the purposes of this exercise. I never called anyone by a generalizing slur, and I only dragged that fifth grade boy across the baseball field because he picked on me and needed to be taught a lesson. (I was in 6th grade)

Okay, so have you ever been mean, and by "mean" I mean deliberately hurtful or cruel, for the fun of it, for revenge, or because you were going through a phase of being an asshole? Saying or doing something in the heat of the moment, if you regret it later, (unless it's many months or years later), does not count.
Cruelties like lack of follow-through, never calling back, etc. don't count if they were due to general laziness or spaciness.
Anything done before age 12 doesn't count unless it's really heinous (like burning a cross in someone's yard).
Killing bugs doesn't count, even if you ate them, unless you were an adult and you sought out the bugs for the sole purpose of killing them.
Killing vertebrates totally counts no matter your age, especially if you didn't eat them.
Anything done under the influence of drugs, alcohol, religion, or sociopathic charismatic leader-types totally counts.

Here's one thing I can think of. There are acts committed in my Shizuka years (ages 19-22, thrived on being unhappy) that I'm not quite ready to confess, but give me a few days. I'll put them in the comments part. They do not involve babies.

Mean thing #1. I was 22 and smarting from a broken heart. The source of the heartbreak asked me to pierce the cartilage of his ear with a 14 gauge lancet. I did it very carefully and very slowly. Afterwards he told me it was one of the most painful things he'd ever felt. So we were then even. We're friends to this day. Friend in question: do you remember that? I'm sorry!

What would Mary look like? Take a wild guess!

Sick Day

Look elsewhere if you came here for happy fun thoughts. Or go read Samurai: Heaven and Earth.
Today I finally admitted to myself that I'm sick, and I've been sick since Friday. I have a sore throat, I can barely swallow, my ears hurt, and I feel like crap. I need to take care of myself, or I'm going to get worse. Thing is, I can't. I don't have time.

Ingrid is sick, too, but she's at the end of it. I took Friday off to take care of her. I should have taken off earlier in the week, and I did go in to work for the morning. Saturday we had a party for Ingrid's birthday, which lasted into the wee hours of the night/morning. It was supposed to be a little party, but people were still showing up at 10 pm. I downed the Tylenol, Olba's Cough Syrup, and sprayed Chloraseptic in my mouth every 2 hours, so that I could be a good hostess. So the weekend was full of shopping, cooking, entertaining, cleaning, catching up, laughing, sleeping, trying to swallow, trying to eat, parenting, and spousing. It was a really fun weekend, just a bad time to be sick. It was so fun and joyful I forgot I was sick.

I used to be better about stopping and nursing myself. I'm not sure what happened, other than I got married and had kids. Mama is not supposed to get sick. Bad things happen--or nothing at all happens, which can be bad--when mama gets sick. This doesn't necessarily make me feel important or needed either. It just makes me want to lock the bedroom door with a pot of tea, a box of tissues, and all the drugs I need to make me comfortable, and say "screw you all, consider me temporarily dead." Unfortunately, the papa doesn't lactate, and we don't have a lock on our door. Most of the time I'm a grump when I'm sick, unless I'm pretending not to be sick.

I also realized this weekend that I really suck at baking cakes. I had another baking disaster, and again, this one was delicious, just wrong. I baked what was supposed to be a 3 layer Creole Fudge Cake, but I baked it in a bundt pan, because I didn't have the right pans, and didn't want to spend $18 to get them. It took so long to cook I didn't have time to glaze it, and there was so much batter--since it was supposed to be divided between 3 8" pans, that there's a nice crispy clump of cake at the bottom of my oven. Ingrid didn't notice, and it tasted great. Still, I suck at cakes. I can make a mean red velvet cake, and that's about it. I'm going Betty Crocker from now on.

There really is no point to this post, other than I feel like crap, I slept too much today and drank too much tea, so I'm not tired. I'm trying to decide if I should stay home from work again tomorrow. I know the answer is yes, but I hate to think about dealing with my boss and her craziness on Tuesday, when she returns from her trip and discovers that I was out sick the whole time she was gone. That will score me a black mark, I'm sure. I'm staying home tomorrow. Screw work.

I hate being sick.

Girlfriend Theology

So God and I have been playing phone tag. A while back She called and said, "Parthenia, I think it's time you addressed that joy/bliss finding thing, and I have just the place for you." Okay, not really. She didn't call me Parthenia. She used my real name. Anyhow, I called back. There's that song in Hair called "Where do I go?", That's pretty much the message I kept leaving on God's answering machine. Well, finally She left a proverbial burning bush in my yard and called me back. She was all, "What? Do I have to hold your hand, too? Jeez! You've gotta find your bliss, not wait for me to hand it to you. And stop seeking the approval of others!"

She told me to get back to work on the game and stop with the anxiety about it. "Easier said than done, God. I've never done this before." I said. She told me to get over it and stop whining. Then we started talking about tattoos. I told her how I was totally hooked on Inked Nation, which is like MySpace for people who like tattoos. She said She wasn't really into the internet thing, but She liked the new work on my tattoo and that if I really wanted a tattoo of a woman having sex with an octopus, I wouldn't go to hell or anything, but I should think about getting it where it's easy to cover. She found the idea amusing. "I think Jeremy would do a great job, and it will be a lifetime exercise in not seeking approval from others when you know what you want to or should do. Not that I, God, think you should get a tattoo of a woman having sex with an octopus. It's your body after all." She said. She gave me a cool suggestion for the other sleeve. A Hokusai courtesan (see picture above) on the upper arm with a Hannya mask underneath, and then the cherry blossoms and waves to match the left forearm. And She liked the idea of the sleeves ending in a bracelet of skulls, oni masks, and cherry blossoms on each forearm. "Remember not to take yourself too seriously." She said. "Otherwise, I'll give you boils or leprosy." I was going to ask Her if She wanted to go to the mall, but thought better of it. I don't have money to go to the mall. Then God said, "We should get together and hang out. Go walking in the woods or something. Bring the kids and the dog." So I think we'll do that on Sunday.

Finally She said She would give me a little divine inspiration if I really needed it, or felt like I needed another little nudge in the right direction of my desired vocation. So on Wednesday I went to the co-op to buy some Silk soy milk, which was on sale (Thank God!) I ran into my friend Carla. I haven't seen her in a year. We got to catching up and talking, and I told her about the midwifery thing and she said something like, "That sounds perfect! You should do it! It's a great program." Then she told me that her neighbor is a midwife and she apprenticed with the midwife who runs the program I want to do, and I should give her a call, because she went through the same program I'm looking at. Cool! Thanks!

On the way back to work, a woman who used to be a midwife who I've met a few times at the Farmer's Market, and whom I've talked about homebirth and midwifery on the occasions I've run into her, got out of her car to say hello and give me a hug. So I asked her to lunch to talk about becoming a midwife. Absolutely! She'd love to talk to me about becoming a midwife. Cool! Yay!

And then on the way out of the Y, I ran into yet another midwife. I only had time to say hello and ask about her family, but I was glad to see she was still in the area. My day was filled with midwife encounters. I took that as a sign. Later that evening I was hit with a brain splitting migraine that a cup of strong tea, 1000 mg of acetaminaphen, and 600 mg of ibuprophen barely touched. I crashed hard at 7:00, hoping to sleep it off before game night. But then Meg called and said there would be no game night due to illness in the Baker house. I wasn't in any condition to play anyway. I put on my pajamas and went back to sleep.

Next time I won't press God so hard for a sign.