Happy Holidays!  Time to spend quality time with your family, and to count your blessings.

It's a good policy for any time of the year, really.   I am sitting here right now looking at a half decorated tree and procrastinating a little.  Tonight was lovely, messaging back and forth with people who may not know me very well, but I share more and more varied thoughts with than I do some members of my family.  I am awfully grateful for the Internet.  It has abated a lifetime of loneliness for me.

So, just briefly, in praise of the Web, I'm going to observe that my most cherished and valuable relationships outside of my family are web-based.  I don't go to bars to meet people.  There are certainly people who would say I am a sad little freak, because I have a very few "real" friends; my buddies are mostly online.  I actually kicked a real life person to the curb some years ago, because he refused to acknowledge that my online relationships had value.  Admittedly, this is a concept that you either get or you don't.  And the trip to the curb was imminent for that person anyway, for many brutal reasons that aren't going to come up today.  I am in too good of a mood for that.

For my kids, there is no distinction; the internet interaction is seamless with their local friends.  They Skype each other nightly.  They have no concept of a world without the Web.  I don't have any old fart style judgment to pass on this; I pretty much envy them.  I would like to think I have enough sense to appreciate the miracle genned up by ARPA that has gave me so many more friends, enlarged my family and broadened my horizons.

Tonight, I laughed myself silly over holiday Kpop videos, dinoporn, channelers and Sasquatch drawings.  My son is across the room playing a game with his best friend over Skype.  The cat sleeps warm at my feet; she blinks at us sleepy whenever we share a joke.  I made extra chunky chocolate chip cookie dough brownies earlier.  Next project: pecan fudge.  The lights I have managed to drape on the tree shine orange, red, marigold, emerald and deep vivid blue.  I may not finish trimming the tree until the other cat finishes climbing it.

Is this not the essence of comfort and joy?  The rest, the commercial crush, the shopping frenzy, the consumerism...keep it.  The only thing lacking is some really good homemade eggnog and we're working on that.  I love you all; have a wonderful holiday season.  Feliz Navidad.     

My base of knowledge and/or Just how screwed up in the head am I

I want to first start off by stating my deep respect and love for my Mom.  My earlier post had a disparaging tone to it.  Every word was true, but I am ashamed of the impulse to convey them.  Still, I guess it helps to get it all out there, for context. 

When I was a kid, I was taught to read at a very young age.  Apparently, I behaved like such a freak that during Kindergarten and 1st Grade, the teachers just shoved me off in a corner with a book to read, because I was way beyond Dick, Jane and Sally, a bit impatient and very disruptive in their opinion.  I don't recall being obnoxious, but I am willing to believe it.  I know I was not a very pleasant kid; I was geeky and ill kempt and not a little spiteful.  The arrangement in our family was that I was smart and my sister beautiful, which gave both of us issues.  My sister is very bright, I am not ugly, and the distinctions were unnecessary and uncalled for. 

I was skipped from 1st to 3rd grade.  This would have been just ducky, except that my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. McDonald clearly loathed me and did not think I should be in her class.  I was certainly less mature than my classmates, even if I could read circles around them.  In 4th grade, I had the most peculiar teacher, Mrs. Stried, who frightened us daily with tales of urban folklore, persons who had dangled their elbows out of car windows, to have them torn off by passing vehicles, and not even noticing for several miles, deathbed scenes and other lurid stories.  I hadn't really assimilated into class yet, but the pack had moved on to more interesting targets than me.  Things changed in late fall.

I was at a Girl Scout campout (the same one where we had a seance, urging the ghost of JFK to snap someone's bra strap).  Despite a couple of years of ballet lessons, I persisted in being ungainly in my best moments.  Playing Pop the Whip, I was tossed across the room, skidded on a sleeping bag and struck my head against the soda machine, sustaining a severe brain concussion.

I might have been hospitalized, but having no insurance for such things, I was put into a recliner at home and placed in a drug induced coma to let the blood clots in my brain dissolve.  I guess it was crucial that I not knock them loose and stroke myself out.  So, big chunk of missing but accounted for time; about three months.  My intellect took a tiny hit, but my eyesight was hosed.  So, spectacles.

Fifth grade, I made a real friend, Liz.  She went to another school than I did, which probably helped.  We had overnighters, wrote letters to each other, and watched Twilight Zone together.  I have lost touch with her, and I hope she is faring well.  Sixth grade, different school.  Seventh grade, another school.  This was for the convenience of my Mom, who was having to work full time after the sudden death of my father.

Essentially, besides a little brain damage, I had a decent childhood.  Things got weird when I hit puberty.  It seemed like everyone wanted to grope me.  I will sidle up to that in time, as it is not easy to talk about.  I can definitely say that kids need their parents around during that time to give them perspective, advice and guidance.  It is not something navigated successfully on your own.

I sort of fell into the Drama Club, and then Debate Club.  I had a knack for debate, as I can be very argumentative, and I had very able instructors.  My interest in theater arts was limited to finding props and building sets.  I have never been able to perform.  I was in Choir for four years as a second Alto, but couldn't/wouldn't sing audibly if anyone was looking at me. 


I have no idea why I couldn't sing or perform, but I could get up and chew someone's face off over solar energy or world food banks.  That is just the way it was for the entirety of high school.  I had sex way too early.  I was stoned all the time.  And I didn't have any notion of what I did well, what I didn't do well and what would pay the bills.

I began college early, age 17, as pre-Med, and took all the basic classes, but decided that I didn't have the staying power to be a doctor.  I rage quit Baylor University a couple of times (largely due to a disconnect of temperament and ethos) and worked in a professional dinner theater in Austin.  Consequently, I switched to Theater Arts for a semester, then landed finally in the Art Department.  I got a Bachelors in Graphic Art with a minor in Art History.  I learned about the pyramids and various arches and wonders and sculptures and paintings that involve my current interests.

This did not pay the bills.  After a mercifully short stint at hair and runway modeling (I found that while it was interesting, invariably, I was treated like a piece of meat,) and an earlier mentioned trainwreck of a job with a printing firm, I worked in a western wear store, eventually taking on quite a bit of merchandising and purchasing responsibility.  At one time or another, I worked in suits, menswear, ladies wear, childrens wear, gifts, jeans, jewelry and hats; all separate departments.  They offered me a manager position in Omaha, Nebraska, which I declined.  I couldn't see moving there from Austin, as Austin is a lovely arts scene and Omaha is a frozen wasteland.  Things began to get unpleasant thereafter at work, and for a number of reasons, I felt I was persona non grata.

At that point, I picked up and perused my friend Amy's book on Civil Procedure.  I read a bit of it, got it immediately and marveled that people made good money by reading and understanding this stuff.  It seemed pretty straightforward.  About a week later, I quit my job and went back to school, this time into an Associate's Degree for legal assistant/paralegal education.  THIS I was damn good at.  I made straight As, Deans List every semester and was the most insufferable kid in the class, in nearly every subject (provided it wasn't scheduled too early.) 

At the time, I was rebounding very hard from a severely broken heart and chose to stuff this all down by doing booking services for an alternative country band.  I had lots of fun, drank way too much, and got to know things about the music industry.  Mostly, that it is hard work, and people have no idea how grueling and unrewarding it is to tour.  The day I graduated, I was offered a job in a downtown and well connected small law firm.

I do love working as a paralegal.  I am good at crafting pleadings, I read quickly and with decent comprehension, and after some stupidity on my part regarding decorum, I became a valued member of the firm for several years.  My stage fright (or whatever you call it continued to prevent me from appearing in court).  There were politics going on behind the scenes that I was barely aware of, but I knew I was a fish out of water, and had just enough sense to keep my mouth shut about it.

When the firm, again due to politics, fell out of favor with a large client, I went to work in the Legal Division of the largest workers comp carrier in Texas, (and perhaps the nation.)  I had a boss who valued me and took good care of me, gave me interesting work, sought my opinions, and treated me with cheery and consistent respect.  That was absolutely great while it lasted, which was several years.  

Something dramatic changed during this period; the SCOTUS ruling in Bush v. Gore.  I just could not believe that the High Court could hand down such a craven abomination of a ruling; favoring the intent of Katharine Harris over that of the voter, and then have the temerity to stipulate that the opinion was not intended to be precedent.  That is the only business the Supreme Court is in; is precedent setting.  If it is not novel or of peculiar jurisdiction, it's not a SCOTUS problem.  I lost my respect for the Court, for the institutions that could allow such a disgrace and for the political party that benefited from that corrupt decision.  I started losing enthusiasm for the law.  This deepened when I finally got around to reading Dickens' Bleak House. 

Then one day, my supervising attorney up and quit over some stupidity involving the employees, talk radio, and some dumb kerfuffle over nothing.  He either walked, or was asked to resign, I am really not sure which.  It really tore our team apart. 

He was replaced by a young She-Demon whose method of improving the department involved firing everyone who was near retirement age (usually for lack of computing technical skills), then she went on to those that had tenure and education.  This led to me.  I had watched her bully employees into making less than truthful affidavits to support termination procedures against other employees.  I knew she was suing her own step father.  I knew it in advance when she began to try to build a case against me.  I had already emptied my desk of personal effects on the day she busted her move, took my handbag to the meeting in HR, and walked out the door.

I had a bit of a savings safety net, which gave me enough time to get into the employment which I enjoy to this day; I am a transcriber for a court reporting firm.  This job allowed me to keep an eye on my kids, something I was determined to do, after being such an epic fuckup myself in high school.  It doesn't pay well, but every single matter, every hearing, every court case and agency hearing covers new and current matters, and it is a source of endless fascination.  Being able to work in my underwear and bunny slippers is just bonus tracks. 

This wound up being more about what I know and very little about why I am a head case, although certainly, the basic elements are there.  This post is plenty long and self absorbed enough, and probably dull as watching paint dry.  I think I will leave the rapey abandonment issues for later. 

How Vincent Price Changed My Life

My sister and I survived interesting gastronomic times when we were young.  My mom was never much for cooking and was completely anorexic.  Her mother, my grandmother was grimly committed to feeding everyone but disliked eating as well.  When my father was alive, we ate take out from restaurants all the time, and on the weekends, grilled on the back porch.  That was a complete gas.  My parents got steak, and we kids got the "tube steak" or hot dogs, and we all got hot roasted potatoes and corn.  We loved it.  Dad would crank up Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass.  The Texas stars and the night air, the wonderful smells wafting from the grill, everything sensory lent an air of the exotic to those meals.  Occasionally, Mom would prepare something in the kitchen, but her most successful meals were those that required very little preparer intervention; canned soup and slightly soggy but customizable sandwiches. 

But when my Dad passed suddenly, Mom lost interest in everything altogether.  It is to her credit that rather than self destructing altogether, she got a job and became very involved in it.  We continued to acquire many of our meals from restaurants.  But at this point in our lives, my grandparents held our little household together by bringing fresh produce from their farm, on a weekly basis.  My sister and I had so little experience with home cooked food, that at first, we hadn't a clue as to what to do with the bounty from the farm.  We had no concept of what incredibly good ingredients we had to work with.

My grandparents' farm was in Bastrop.  My sister and I were frequent visitors.  They kept a Jersey milk cow (named Jersey).  Annually,  we raised one or two calves to slaughter for beef.  Goats free ranged and gave us grief, creepy stares and delicious goat milk.  (For a short time, we had an aptly named pony named Dick; he was a foul tempered Shetland who tried to bite us when we approached him.  He resembled my ex in no small part, but I digress.)  There was a nice sized shed where the domestic chickens would lay eggs.  The Guinea fowls were prone to lay their eggs beneath a massive bush in the yard, and as kids, we were sent under the bush to retrieve those smaller speckled eggs.  

The gardens yielded corn, tomatoes, squash, onions, carrots, peppers, green beans, jalapenos, potatoes, melons, and berries.  Supply of these would vary, depending on the season, the weather, and whatever predatory animals were plaguing my Grandpa in his garden.  Several nights, I would help him put smudge pots among the rows of vegetable plants; we'd stay up late devising scarecrows to terrorize the raccoons and deer.

So, all this bounty and not a single freaking clue about what to do with it.  My grandmother had conceded to one of my more persistent demands and learned to soft scramble eggs (because I absolutely do not like hard cooked fried egg.)  After working it out, she taught me.  I began preparing scrambled eggs for my sister and I to eat at home, and after not too long, we were completely and totally sick of them.  I love them again; it wasn't a permanent surfeit.  But my sister and I still think of "Eeeegggs" as a meal way too frequently enjoyed.

Then I found the Vincent Price cookbook.  In the quest to cobble together the random items in the fridge into something my sister and I could eat after school, I thumbed through the very strangest of cookbooks.  Many of the dishes, I would never prepare, because I was never in possession of the ingredients; exotic meats and vegetables that only dedicated foodies seek out.  Some recipes I converted into monstrous but somewhat edible caricatures of the originals. 

Scrambled eggs morphed into frittata and omelettes, which was a distinct improvement.  Eventually, I became the first cook in our family.  (My dad's parents didn't cook either!)  My cooking still wasn't very good, as some of my college mates can attest, but I was enthusiastic, and more capable than your average Bear.

After my sons were born, I got crazy with food preparation.  Factors weighing into this were budgetary, taste for variety and sheer boredom.  Then I started learning the real basics of cooking from Food Network.  My MSTie friends turned me on to Iron Chef.  I started collecting nice quality cooking implements.  At long last, I became competent. 

Proud Mom note:  Both of my kids have always been very hands on in the kitchen.  My younger son attends Escoffier Culinary and has Serious Chef Chops.  

My Mom never really got on the same page with us about cooking, and disparages nearly everything having to do with eating.  My sister and I both were severely underweight for most of our lives;  I grapple with body image issues, and I presume she does as well.  When I broke 100 pounds in weight, Mom told me I was getting "hippy in the potamus."  (Granted, that was a while back, but mean spirited words have a perversely tenacious staying power.)  I recall with no small amount of shame that in my younger years, I had no sense of proportion as to weight and was an arrogant, conceited little bitch for much longer than necessary.  I desperately hope I can say I got better.  

My rather stained and work Vincent Price cookbook is next to me on the sofa.  I first learned to prepare food to help care for my little sister, then for my classmates, and eventually my kids.  The upshot of this is; good nourishment is nurturing, and everyone needs it.  We weren't meant to live on Soylent, or Hotpockets or fast food alone.  Food is love.

Happy Thanksgiving!     

Here come the warm jets

I don't generally remember my dreams. I have had a few distinct dreams that I do recall to this day. I will talk about one now. In early 2000, I was recovering from a truly epic case of the flu. The kind that kicks your butt and laughs at you. I spent a good deal of time high as a kite on Nyquil in bed, watching Jackie Chan flicks. At the time, I considered the dream to be a product of the cough meds and illness. These days, I still don't know.
 
In this dream, I was in a crisis situation; it was pandemonium. There were frightened people running everywhere. I was in the company of a girl who is a friend of my sister, but I am not personally very close to. Nonetheless, we were scared and looking for an exit. I recall being so very grateful that my children were not with me at the time.

I had the vague feeling that I was in an air terminal, because I knew the threat was a plane crash. I ran along polished floors, seeking exit. An image from a movie -- was it Airplane -- passed through my mind, of a jet bursting through the windows. But nothing about this situation was funny.

We were starting to run, feeling the need to make haste. There was debris. We were not in an airport, I realized. Still, nothing about this scenario made sense. We were confused, looking for exit. My dominating feeling was gratitude that my children were not with me.

I awoke, disturbed and nervous. Something about the clarity of the dream felt more like a memory than a dream. I rarely remember my dreams, and even then, not beyond my initial waking moments. They always slip away, and I don't concern myself much over it. But this one lingered.

On 9/11/2001, the cousin of my sister's friend died in the World Trade Center. I must have been with her somehow, but I don't understand how or why. Or it could be, of course, the brain's natural inclination to make connections. But my emotions felt real, the surreality, the lack of understanding. I did not see my impending demise. I just couldn't understand why I was fleeing a jet in this sort of building.  Odd.  Glad I got it down in writing.  Maybe I can put it out of my head now.

Counting to ten

I'd like to think my personality is cheerful, placid and reasonable.

"Can any human being ever reach that kind of light?" -- Galileo, The Indigo Girls.

But those who know me well (or who follow me on Twitter) know that I have a temper that is fearsome when aroused.

Now, I am not really ashamed about my volatility. Mainly because few things really set me off. It mostly boils down to injustice, ingratitude, life out of synch; Koyaanisqatsi. Okay, well, and traffic jams. I'm hardly a saint. My political beefs usually encompass one of these conceptual hotspots, and the fact that Austin 5:00 p.m. traffic moves faster and is more productive than the current Congressional House has just spiked my blood pressure that much more.

My son asked me about an incident apparently related to him by his dad, where I smashed some dishes in a fit of pique. The full truth was this; the last thing a tired new single mom with a full time day job needs is a white glove inspection of her kitchen. So yes, things got broken. It would have been vastly simpler if the inspector had simply rinsed the offending speck off the dish himself.

Why this introspection? I think it has to do with the company I keep. In the paranormal community, you will find persons of all shades of opinion, and a fair number of those persons exhibiting a disdain for gubbermint. I don't blindly trust bureaucrats myself, and have long been convinced of hinky business regarding the assassination of JFK. More on that soon.

But being privileged enough to be a very small part of the mechanism of government, I understand that it is complicated. Our democracy demands the balancing of all interests, even the interests of stupid and selfish persons, even the interests of persons that aren't really persons but corporations. Most of the time, our state and federal officials really do strive for the best and fairest result, regardless of their party affiliation. Heresy, I know.

Forget campaign nonsense, and forget the high profile attention whores that are always inflammatory, always in front of the camera. They are the outliers. The rank and file, agency officials and their staffers, the ones who do the REAL work of public service generally do their best. They may not always use sound reasoning and can often be blinded by naivete, lack of experience, deference to party leaders, and failure to utilize critical thinking. But they typically try very hard to discharge their duty to the people, within the sphere of their influence.

It is a hard and largely thankless job. I have learned to appreciate their efforts and now, although I am incredibly partisan, I cannot paint all party members with a broad brush. It is unfair and unproductive and doesn't promote peace or unity. So these days, I reserve my virulence for those who deeply deserve it. And I try to qualify my criticism of party politics by pointing to an example of the problem.

So today, while in a paranormal chat room, I found myself at first amused and piqued, and finally full on pissed when one genius started blatting about the Dread President Obama and his war on all things good and righteous. If it were a political chat room -- I used to help moderate an IRC political chat years ago -- I would have argued him down. But this was not that situation. It was the wrong venue for such a brawl. So I counted to ten, Tattycorum. And then I walked (signed) out, claiming a food prep crisis.

People, if you are going to have a life and friends and interests outside of politics, the best practice is to eschew politics when in company with your other interest groups. Don't let partisan politics taint your REAL life.

Most people don't have the slightest idea what they are talking about anyway, seriously. This goes for both sides of the aisle. Lawmaking and public service is incredibly complicated, and if you can't take the time to read the law and understand all of its implications and effects, you don't need to be pontificating on it to others.

I will go back to the chat later. I had to leave because a member of the chat felt they needed to start an inflammatory and ridiculous train of insults and motormouthing that I took great issue with. And I value the people I am meeting in this group too much to sear their eyeballs with the wrath I felt welling up; had I responded like I wanted to, I am sure I would have won the argument, but lost the camraderie. Not worth it at all.

Am I a coward? Have I matured? Why does this incident bother me?

The very earliest memories I have are that of being an infant and really liking the mobile over my crib. It was the kind of godawful workmanship that isn't allowed these days for infant toys. It was made of thin rods of metal, suspending puffy vinyl birds, printed on both sides and heat crimped around the edges, stuffed with who knows what to make a pillowy item. There were blue jaybirds, red cardinals and yellow and black oriole looking birds. I loved it. I have asked my mother, and she was blown away but did confirm that is exactly what hung over my crib and exactly how it was fabricated. Moral: don't ever underestimate what your kid is taking in. You might be surprised.

UFO hiding in a cloud.

Post by Ümit Yenilmez.

I guess I have a new reason to necromance this fallow blog, and this is as good a day to do it as any.  I took a long hiatus from certain profiles on the web, due to a serious compromise of my computing security and some hardcore personal drama.  Some of it may merit mention later, but I'm not feeling it now.

While I have certainly been busy over the past years, I have not been sharing.  This hopefully, will change; I am inspired by others.  And besides, the NSA has already yukked it up over my personal foibles anyway, why not let everyone else in on the jokes?  (jk I'm not THAT funny.)

So what have I done with myself for the last (checks entries) three or four years?  In no particular order:  I have devoured a huge number of books, mostly classics, but some contemporaneous literature and nonfiction.  I felt that I had wasted my time in college pretending I was more educated than I was, and the only way to rectify it was to up my game.  I hereby apologize to everyone for being insufferable at times.  (Like, I haven't actually QUIT being annoying, but I do apologize for being like that.) 

I have worked very hard along with my kids to retrieve my mother's house from a state only fit for a very special episode of Hoarders: Buried Alive to make it a pretty, habitable and environmentally friendly domicile in North Austin.  I miss South Austin terribly, but at the rate this city is growing, this location will be considered Central Austin before long.  Therefore moving without moving.  Oh, and chickens.  You will hear about the chickens and their eggs until you want to wring my neck.  bock.

I made some astonishing, wonderful friends, and have kept up, although sparsely, with many others.  Some generic wisdom and antiquated notions about what to expect from other persons had to be discarded.  Some pleasant surprises were had.  You know who said it well was Love, in Alone Again, Or;  "You know that I could be in love with almost everyone.  I think people are the greatest fun.  And I will be alone again tonight, my dear."

And I'm not truly alone; two cats, eight hens and a rooster live here, and my sons are in and out often enough to count.  Only the cats and boys are allowed in the house.

I am still into goofy stinkburger movies, puzzling about the nature of the universe, and cooking.  I'm just no longer afraid to say so.