Let Me Introduce You to Helen...

She was like "So, when should i come pick you up?" and i was like "I have a car!!" and she was like "Really? Wow!!" and i was like "I have a car, and her name is Helen!" and she was like "Helen?" and i was like "it was on the key chain." And then i was like "i have a car!" Guess what? I have a car!! And it's really cute, too. Well, and it's 1/2 my brother's, but still. Once the first rush of "Ihaveacar!!!EEEEEEE!!!"-ness passes, it becomes a rather melancholy thought. I'm glad of the independence it gives me, and it will make life much more convenient transportation-wise. But... I have many unreasonable fears (i.e. dark and enclosed spaces, People, hairy spiders, numbers) and i know they are silly. My fear of driving, however, has always seemed to me to be eminently reasonable. A slight mistake in a speech, or mathematics problem, can be corrected. A slight mistake in an automobile will at the very least cost thousands, and at worst causes irreparable damage also known as death. The first time i drove was in a huge empty parking lot, with no obstacles. My dad got me into the drivers seat, and i held onto the steering wheel for dear life. My dad put the car in drive, 'cause there was no way in tarnation i was going to let go of that wheel. He said "Why don't you take your foot of the brake?" I squeaked "Because then the car will start moving." A few days later i did eventually get my foot off the brake. The first time the car moved i completely freaked - started weeping so badly i couldn't see. Yup, i was making real progress. My hands would be sore for days after driving from holding the steering wheel so hard i would lose circulation in my fingers. My parents realized that all they'd had to do to cure me of slouching was put me in the driver's seat of a car. They had to threaten to stop my horse-back riding lessons to get me to put my foot on the acceleration pedal, but i refused to go above 15 miles an hour. Although i got my permit when i turned fifteen, i didn't get my full license until my brother had also learned to drive (i was nearly eighteen). Dad kept having to go off on deployments, and though Mom tried, she had enough to deal with without my hysterics. I did manage to learn to drive, and am even comfortable enough that my knuckles stay a nice fleshy colour and my heart is content to plod along normally and my stomache pretends that it's much more comfortable in my abdomen than in my esophagus. But... More than that, a car means i am never going back - that my parent's home is no longer mine, that there is a line drawn between my money and theirs, between my books and my brothers, between my clothes and my mom's. Just like the last time Dad came back from deployment, and he was no longer simply my dad but also a man with faults and irritating habits... My relationship with my family is evolving. And while i know it's necessary, and normal, and probably healthy, it's also awkward and uncomfortable and painful. My brothers are no longer little brats but young men; taller than i, tanner and fitter, and with gorgeous baritone voices. My mom is still my mom, but also a gorgeous lady with a complexion that anyone would envy. A car is one more sign that while they are still and will always be my parents, yet i am also become their equal and must begin to take an equal share in the responsibilities of adulthood. And i think it sucks. Bigtime. So. I have a car!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Texting Can Be Hazardous to Your Health!!

I love this article. It's full of really great medical advice along the lines of "why reading a book and unicycling can be dangerous" or "why you should face forward when walking down the sidewalk" or "why you should not drink hot coffee and jumprope at the same time..."

Moving, Part IV

Motta Sant'Anastasia. We just called it Motta (pronounced mohtah), and it was a long while before i realized that wasn't its whole name. It was built around a Norman castle - a Count Roger was responsible for that - on the slopes of Mt. Etna (Sounds quite romantic, doesn't it? Living on a volcano? But just wait until you have to hang your laundry out to dry). We moved into a fourth floor apartment (Sicilian movers, like Sicilian drivers, are something else), and as we weren't supposed to drink the faucet water we had to carry all of our drinking water up. I must have run up and down those stairs several times a day, but it was simply the way things were and i counted it no hardship. I would moan horribly today. Nobody lived on the ground floor. Second floor was also an American family - the Whites. I don't remember much about them, except that they had marital issues, and that Mrs. White taught me basket-weaving. I very much enjoyed it and made several baskets, but have never done it since. Third floor up was an Italian family. They were very friendly, and invited us over a few times. However, since we didn't speak Italian and they didn't speak English, our attempts at polite conversation were somewhat limited. At that point in time, we were the top floor, but i'm sure they have since added another level. Our landlord was also very friendly. He lived a block down the street, and was in the process of finishing another floor on his own residence, for his son and family to live. This was not uncommon - most apartment buildings were owned by families, and if they ran out of room they would simply build another floor. Building-wise, this apartment is my favourite of all the places i have lived so far. Like most Europeans, Italians eschew closets, and so we had the most enchanting wardrobes. I have to say that i do miss those wardrobes. They are so much more attractive than closets, and one is much less tempted to simply throw junk in there and lose it. It also gives one much more freedom as to where one's furniture may be placed. If ever i were to build a house, i would have a pantry and a nice large linen cupboard, but no other closets. The floor was all tile - so easy to clean, though chilly in the winter. It was a point of pride between my brothers and i to never wear socks inside. My mother rolled her eyes, but said as long as we stayed a reasonable distance from the kerosene heater, we could be as cold as we liked. There were no yards, of course. But we had a narrow balcony that went around three sides (bouncy balls, as you may imagine, were in high demand), a couple of trees, and a lovely steep hill to bike down. All of the rooms except the bathroom, and my parent's bedroom, had at least one pair of large glass doors that entered onto the balcony, and which were usually covered by persianas (large, heavy wooden blinds that went on the outside) to protect from the rain or sun. And anyway, my brothers and i preferred to climb out the bathroom window. I finished out my second grade year at the DOD school on base, but going from a school of 26 to a class of 26 and a school of over 300 (which sounds small now) was slightly whelming. We were home-schooled the rest of the time we were there. I still miss that place - Mt. Etna and Catania, the gelato truck, the orchards and the aqueducts, the fresh breads and cheeses, Taormina and Siracusa, Caltagirone and Palermo, Erice and Agrigento, the markets and the ruins... We never did find out what our dog thought of those stairs. He jumped off a couch while stateside awaiting transportation and paralyzed his two back legs. They had to put him down, and it was years before we were able to get another pet. However, there were quite a few strays running around - people who would bring their dogs here, and then decide it was too much work to take them stateside and abandon them. We stayed there for just over a year, and then a house opened up on base. UPDATE: Moving, Part I (links to all the other parts available in Part I)

Grow Up!!

I turn on the tube and what do I see A whole lotta people cryin’ ’don’t blame me’ They point their crooked little fingers at everybody else Spend all their time feelin’ sorry for themselves ... You wallow in the guilt; you wallow in the pain You wave it like a flag, you wear it like a crown Got your mind in the gutter, bringin’ everybody down Complain about the present and blame it on the past I’d like to find your inner child and kick it’s little ass Get over it Get over it All this bitchin’ and moanin’ and pitchin’ a fit Get over it, get over it - the Eagles ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It's election year here in the States. The first one in which i am old enough to vote. Which i won't. I have proclaimed myself officially apolitical during my college years. I'm proud to be apolitical. Perhaps this is rather silly of me, but i've been stupid before. If anyone thinks they have a decent argument to the contrary i'm perfectly ready to listen, and be persuaded. And it's not solely because i am lazy, or because i have completely lost track of which state i'm now a resident of, or because the greatest difference i see between the candidates is the colour of their tie (although all of these things are true). It's because of Hurricane Katrina, a council of elders, my grandfather, my seventh grade Civics/English teacher, and several other small incidents which would be of even less interest to you than these (why, you may ask, if i think these events will interest you so little, are you writing about them? well, i may answer, i've got a lotta work to avoid and i'm desperate). The year i was in the seventh grade was also an election year. Civics was in the curriculum, and my teacher Mrs. Twinkletoes thought she would get us involved. The whole Mr. Smith Goes to Washington principle - don't get me wrong, i love the movie. Maybe it would've worked better if it hadn't been small, private, Christian school. She, along with the majority of the class, supported one particular candidate. One girl stood alone against us, and while we all liked her we all also treated her as deluded. Mrs. Twinkletoes included (i had other issues with her, and i hated to agree with her, but there it was). I simply couldn't understand how anyone could think differently than my father. Anyone who did so must be incredibly stupid, or evil, or both, and were therefore frightening. This whole time, my father and grandfather were also discussing the election, from opposite points of view. They seemed to get quite het up towards each other. This, also, frightened me. I couldn't imagine talking to my dad the way he was talking to his father*, simply over the state of the Union. Over the state of the Bathroom/Laundry/[insert disagreeable task here], well, that was a different matter entirely. The war happened. My father was in the Navy at the time, and i know several other people in the Military. The huge gulf between the information i was getting (and am still getting) from the general media, and the news from the actual soldiers, increased my distrust of any news source i was not personally aquainted with. Hurricane Katrina hit. It was immediately publicized. Everything was the result of a government-wide conspiracy by the other side. Some extremists linked it to other natural disasters such as a recent tsunami, claiming that nuclear bombs set off in the middle of the ocean were the obvious cause of all of this. If only the government was more environmentally friendly, or had given more money to the levees, or had remembered school buses, or had more affirmative action plans, or had surrendered in Iraq - whatever the pet projects of that particular party were. The whole situation was reported as Lord of the Flies-like as possible. It was ridiculous. Even worse, though, were the discussions i came acrost on the internet a few days later. One particular person reported seeing a van pulled over on the side of the road. A mother, with two young children. It appeared they had left hurriedly and it was in the vicinity of Katrina. This person had been going to pull over and offer assistance, but upon seeing the bumper sticker of a candidate they disagreed with, sped up and drove off. They later expressed regret at not running the lady over, or at least snatching her two children, so they wouldn't have to be raised by such a misguided individual. Several people expressed support. Other, similar, stories circulated, and on both sides of the political spectrum. It was too prevalent to be some sick joke - whether the original story was true or not, all the comments could hardly be faked. These people really saw those ideologically opposed to them as less than human. During the next election cycle, a church group regularly attended by one of my family members, met. An ostentatious event! A man stood up and said that he did not see how anyone could vote for an opposing candidate and still remain a Christian. He firmly believed that all people in the other party were going to Hell. Since then i have heard several similar sentiments expressed, also by people from both sides of the political spectrum. My father is a pastor, and while he has very strong political convictions, he takes great care never to speak politics from the pulpit. I have found that he is the exception rather than the rule. The most gentle, generous people i know will get involved in a political discussion, and suddenly everyone is out to get them. Conspiracies worthy of X-files abound and scenarios that wouldn't make the cut for the Twilight Zone are passionately believed. The "other" side is completely doltish, ignorant and behind the times. Yet these same people, once in power, are remarkably clever, incredibly devious, and in control of oil prices, foreign potentates, weather, the courses of the planets and the seasons of the moon. Please, people. Just get over it. UPDATE: The Anchoress is much more coherent on this subject in her post on Obama's prayer. _____ *In case you're wondering, my father and grandfather loved each other very much. They just disagreed with each other's political attitudes and alignments.

ROTFLOL

We were in a hotel room channel surfing when we heard this joke on TV. I about died. My eldest brother and dad found it somewhat amusing, and my mom thought that the funniest thing about it was that i found it so funny. I expect this doesn't say much for my sense of humour. Oh well. Tell me what you think. It's much funnier when told out loud - there's a certain accent, and all that. But this is the best i can do for now. How many surrealists does it take to change a lightbulb? ... ... ... ... ... Yarn.

A Perpetuation of the Blonde Stereotype

I'm working at this historic state park place, right? The first European settlers in the area were French voyageurs, and later British troops who took over their fort and then later moved it to a nearby island. A guy is working admission on the island. I heard this story directly from his own lips, and from my own experience working admission, i find this entirely believable. A blonde woman in her late 30's comes up to the booth. After an exchange of greetings, the dialogue goes something like this... "Is this a State Park?" "Yes Ma'am." "Oh... I didn't know that France had states." "Ummm... France doesn't have states." "Oh! Then ---- State runs it for them?" "No, the park is owned by ---- State." "Oh? So, they don't have to pay rent or anything?" "No Ma'am." "Oh. When did the fort stop being French?" "It never was - this was a British Fort." "So, it isn't French?" ...

I forgot my knitting needles

I have a confession to make. (A completely unimportant, uninteresting, dull confession. In fact, it's not even really a confession as much as a statement. A rather dull and unimportant statement. But i thought it would probably be unwise to start out the post as "i have a dull and uninteresting statement to make." Of course, it's probably not very wise of me to be telling you this now, but i just couldn't bring myself to draw the wool over all ya'lls eyes, or whatever the colloquialism is. Where does that come from, anyway? Back to the statement. It does lead to not quite as dull and relatively interesting statements. Well, it tries to. Sorta. Kinda.) I buy my yarn at Walmart. Sometimes Michael's. I'm cheap. I knit often, but although i started a blanket once (it's about two feet long at the moment), i've never finished anything more complicated than a scarf that spirals. But it's a really cool scarf that spirals. So, here i am, stuck in this silly little "City" that has no Walmart, no Target, no Micheal's, or anything. Well, there is a tiny little IGA. The only place for knitting supplies is a small boutique across from one of the ferry lines. It's teal and green. There's a yard in front - fenced in, white picket. The stairs and the long handicap accessible ramp are also fenced in. Since the yard is tiny, it's already looking rather cluttered. Evidently not cluttered enough, as there are assorted shiny lawn ornaments everywhere. The ambiance is similar to that of Harry Potter's Professor Trelawney. Or that of a crow (or a jackdaw? the bird that is obsessed with "shiny!!"). Inside it looks even more like a bird's lair - a very colourful and expensive nest, and about as unorganized as such a nest would be. The insubstantial-looking proprietor greets me but she's on the phone, so I nod, smile, and duck into the first side room. There is barely room for me to turn around - yarn is piled everywhere - but with the window it is bright enough. She comes by and asks me if i knit or crochet. I say i'm a knitter, though not a very good one. She looks pleased and says she doesn't know how to crochet either. I browse, and pick up a book on crocheting. It's in poor condition, but it looks useful. She gives me approximately 45 seconds before checking up on me again. "I thought you said you didn't know how to crochet?" She sounds startled, almost betrayed. I just say that i would like to learn, and stick my nose back in the book. She won't leave. I return to the main room, and wander around. She stands by the register, staring at me. The next side room is just as small as the first, and without the window. She follows me in and starts dusting, careful to keep an eye on me through the small mirror on the wall. This behavior starts to amuse me. I really am interested in crocheting, so i decide to see if i can find any crochet hooks, and move back into the main room. She decides she has finished dusting a few seconds later and returns to the register. In fact, she never lets me out of her sight again. I had been in there for a total of 20 minutes when i left - which is, in a yarn store, like no time at all. My appearance is far from intimidating. Tell me - why??