Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Monday, July 31, 2006
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Journal Space
I'm in the midst of creating a new blog over on journalspace. For the same price, free, I can have soooooooooo many other options. I'm actually quite excited about it.
When I am done, I'll post a link here and actually, move all my stuff over. So, pray me design happiness.
http://vivianlouise.journalspace.com/
This is where I am now. I'm not done shifting everything over there, but for now, all new posts will only be on journalspace. It really is much more betterer.
When I am done, I'll post a link here and actually, move all my stuff over. So, pray me design happiness.
http://vivianlouise.journalspace.com/
This is where I am now. I'm not done shifting everything over there, but for now, all new posts will only be on journalspace. It really is much more betterer.
IED's
It used to be, way back in the day, that the measure of a man or a woman was the level of self control they exerted over their baser nature. That self-control was taught, often brutally, by life, parents, nature and circumstance. Bad character wasn't some scary creature in a B movie, it was those parts of a person's soul that had been given over to the dark. Good character is that part of a person given over to the light. Dark meaning sin and light meaning godliness and righteousness. (Not self-righteousness, two different things.)
Yesterday I heard from Brian Williams on NBC that a new "disorder" had been "discovered", IED, or Intermittent Explosive Disorder, the condition that makes it impossible for one to control their temper.
WHAT??????????? These are the times I'd long to use an expletive, but in the interest of showing restraint I won't. But, WHAT???? Suddenly that fool who gets ticked on the beltway and rams the person in front gets morally let off because he has a condition that made it impossible to control his temper? Used to be that kind of "condition" got you locked up and a months worth of electro-shock therapy to boot.
Brian Nieman on WMAL rattled off some specious argument that if it's a disorder and the person gets locked up but gets help, either way the person is off the street and they didn't get off. Wrong, Mr. Nieman, wrong. It matters one heck of a lot HOW the person is charged and if they are held responsible for their actions morally. It matters how they are treated, what gets treated and what punishment they get. Fundamentally it is the sin of anger, which is a heart/soul ailment for which there is only one cure. That cure is repentance, there is no other way. That's about as much "disorder" I'm willing to concede. It is morally two very different things, if, say, a man murders his wife in a fit of rage, and we find him guilty of murder rather than innocent by reason of a disorder. Guilt connotates responsibility. Innocent, even by reason of insanity, connotates a lack of responsibility. If a man has this disorder then perhaps, since he isn't responsible for controlling his temper, he shouldn't be allowed to date, marry or have children. Further, he shouldn't be allowed to drive, vote, have conversations in public, visit family. He should be locked away forever in solitary since by virtue of this "disorder" he may someday go postal and murder, sorry, kill innocent people.
I love America, mostly. But this part I hate. Despise wouldn't be to strong a word. I despise our steadily increasing insistence that we are not responsible for our actions. I guarantee you that 99.999% of those people who will say they have IED would maintain their tempers when confronted by someone bigger and armed. That miniscule minority really do have a problem that requires them to be locked up. The rest need to learn some self control and others respect. We are not all victims. Even when we are we don't get to act with abandon.
Yesterday I heard from Brian Williams on NBC that a new "disorder" had been "discovered", IED, or Intermittent Explosive Disorder, the condition that makes it impossible for one to control their temper.
WHAT??????????? These are the times I'd long to use an expletive, but in the interest of showing restraint I won't. But, WHAT???? Suddenly that fool who gets ticked on the beltway and rams the person in front gets morally let off because he has a condition that made it impossible to control his temper? Used to be that kind of "condition" got you locked up and a months worth of electro-shock therapy to boot.
Brian Nieman on WMAL rattled off some specious argument that if it's a disorder and the person gets locked up but gets help, either way the person is off the street and they didn't get off. Wrong, Mr. Nieman, wrong. It matters one heck of a lot HOW the person is charged and if they are held responsible for their actions morally. It matters how they are treated, what gets treated and what punishment they get. Fundamentally it is the sin of anger, which is a heart/soul ailment for which there is only one cure. That cure is repentance, there is no other way. That's about as much "disorder" I'm willing to concede. It is morally two very different things, if, say, a man murders his wife in a fit of rage, and we find him guilty of murder rather than innocent by reason of a disorder. Guilt connotates responsibility. Innocent, even by reason of insanity, connotates a lack of responsibility. If a man has this disorder then perhaps, since he isn't responsible for controlling his temper, he shouldn't be allowed to date, marry or have children. Further, he shouldn't be allowed to drive, vote, have conversations in public, visit family. He should be locked away forever in solitary since by virtue of this "disorder" he may someday go postal and murder, sorry, kill innocent people.
I love America, mostly. But this part I hate. Despise wouldn't be to strong a word. I despise our steadily increasing insistence that we are not responsible for our actions. I guarantee you that 99.999% of those people who will say they have IED would maintain their tempers when confronted by someone bigger and armed. That miniscule minority really do have a problem that requires them to be locked up. The rest need to learn some self control and others respect. We are not all victims. Even when we are we don't get to act with abandon.
My New Favorite
This year my garden is producing few peas, I don't know why, and many many more radishes. Growing up I wasn't a fan of that little spicy red thing, but now, oh yum. But anyway, I'm still not so enamored of the straight up radish. I like it slightly marinated in Rice Vinegar, a little salt, a little pepper and I'm gone. By slightly I mean about five minutes. That seems to take the bitterness away and leaves the clear taste of the radish.
Even better than that just straight is a salad made of fresh greens and herbs straight out of my garden, seasoned with salt, kosher or sea salt, fresh ground black pepper, add a dash of really good olive oil. Then pour the bowl of marinating radishes over the lettuces and toss. Oh my lanta! That's a really good salad. You can add a touch of grated Romano, but you don't have to. It's nearly perfect exactly the way it is.
Even better than that just straight is a salad made of fresh greens and herbs straight out of my garden, seasoned with salt, kosher or sea salt, fresh ground black pepper, add a dash of really good olive oil. Then pour the bowl of marinating radishes over the lettuces and toss. Oh my lanta! That's a really good salad. You can add a touch of grated Romano, but you don't have to. It's nearly perfect exactly the way it is.
Monday, June 05, 2006
I want Mary Poppins
If I have to have a nanny I want one that possesses magical abilities, can teach me to fly and makes carousel horses run across fields. I want to dance with Dick Van Dyke and hop in and out of chalk drawings.
What I don't want is some government agency to tell me what I can and can not eat, drive or say. There was a report this morning on the radio that the FDA is considering regulating portion size in restaurants. That's outside the pale. The government has absolutely no business telling us how large our portions can be. They can, and do, make recommendations, but at no time do they have any business mandating portion sizes. It's already disgusting that they regulate smoking they way they do, and tax cigarettes prohibitively the same way they tax gasoline. I don't smoke anymore, and actually have no intention of taking it up again, but still, unless they ban the substance altogether, tobacco users should be free to smoke where they want to. I can chose to go to a restaurant that is voluntarily smoke free, or I can choose to put up with smoke. What I don't get to do is dictate to other people what they can and can not do with a legal substance.
I readily acknowledge drinking and driving is an obvious exception to that rule, so don't yell at me.
Anywho, I don't elect politicians to babysit me or my neighbor, to tell me what to eat, what cars to buy, what things to wear. I expect my politicians to read the constitution, get to know it real well, pass as few new laws as are absolutely necessary, strictly enforce the ones that are, repeal old bad laws as needed and to refrain from spending my hard earned tax dollars on stupid frivolous crap like regulating portion size at The Outback. If I needed a nanny I voted for, I vote for Mary Poppins. If I want a steak bigger than is good for me, I'll eat it and pay for it too.
Plus it would be fun to jump into that carpet bag of hers. OH, and to steal her umbrella and play pranks.
What I don't want is some government agency to tell me what I can and can not eat, drive or say. There was a report this morning on the radio that the FDA is considering regulating portion size in restaurants. That's outside the pale. The government has absolutely no business telling us how large our portions can be. They can, and do, make recommendations, but at no time do they have any business mandating portion sizes. It's already disgusting that they regulate smoking they way they do, and tax cigarettes prohibitively the same way they tax gasoline. I don't smoke anymore, and actually have no intention of taking it up again, but still, unless they ban the substance altogether, tobacco users should be free to smoke where they want to. I can chose to go to a restaurant that is voluntarily smoke free, or I can choose to put up with smoke. What I don't get to do is dictate to other people what they can and can not do with a legal substance.
I readily acknowledge drinking and driving is an obvious exception to that rule, so don't yell at me.
Anywho, I don't elect politicians to babysit me or my neighbor, to tell me what to eat, what cars to buy, what things to wear. I expect my politicians to read the constitution, get to know it real well, pass as few new laws as are absolutely necessary, strictly enforce the ones that are, repeal old bad laws as needed and to refrain from spending my hard earned tax dollars on stupid frivolous crap like regulating portion size at The Outback. If I needed a nanny I voted for, I vote for Mary Poppins. If I want a steak bigger than is good for me, I'll eat it and pay for it too.
Plus it would be fun to jump into that carpet bag of hers. OH, and to steal her umbrella and play pranks.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Jeepers - It's Bridezilla!!!
This past weekend I was reminded of my hatred/distaste for modern American weddings while watching an episode of 'Whose Wedding is it Anyway' on the Style channel. One of the brides joyfully deceived her father and bought a second dress just for the reception, a dress he had expressly forbidden her to purchase. The other wedding highlighted featured a bride who couldn't make up her mind about the color of the table linens, right up until it was time for her to get dressed for the ceremony. I've seen other episodes with their collections of bored grooms, demanding brides, strident or exasperated parents, put upon relations and bizarre bridesmaids, all presided over by a wedding planner with a cell phone glued to her head.
I've also been privy to numerous nightmare nuptials. Brides who lock the church doors for their stroll down the aisle to ensure the right atmosphere for her "appearance", scream at their hairdressers, slight their mothers, regularly have melt downs, make unreasonable demands, and generally make the months leading up to their wedding days a living hell for those around them. All the while these young women justify this bad behavior with "It's my wedding day, it has to be perfect".
Firstly, if you practiced applying correct theology to your real world life you would know that in this life there is no such thing as a perfect anything, so get over it now. Secondly, a billion or so people will be experiencing that day at the same time, so it is, in fact, not YOUR day. Therefore behave like a lady, be grateful that anyone would want to suspend their schedule to watch you walk down the aisle, be respectful of your parents and don't don't don't expect that you can ask them to go into debt for your party. All that's really required for a wedding is a minister/judge, a bride, a groom and a couple of witnesses. Notice nothing was said of Jordan almonds or new dresses. Everything after the people actually involved in the ceremony of covenant is cake. That means that the dress, flowers, pretty church, bridesmaids, reception and honeymoon are all actually unnecessary to the actual "get married" part of a wedding. Treat it like that. It's all whipped cream and cherries, non-essential window dressing.
There is so much more to offend here than just the churlish behavior of a bride or two. The extravagance of a modern wedding is, to my eyes, grotesque. Most people can not afford to host these shindigs without going into significant debt, and for what? Dry, rubbery chicken, sickly sweet tasteless cake and a bill for cleaning the carpet in the church hallway where Great Uncle Leroy vomited up that seventh chivas and coke. You've got a dress you can't wear again, a photo album full of almost good pictures and a debt load that cripples your first years together.
Not to be too cynical, but since 50% of all marriages end in divorce doesn't fiscal common sense demand that you save the $50,000 blow out party for your 50th Wedding Anniversary? Seriously, I'm not kidding. At 50 years together, the couple have completed a monumental and daunting marathon of relating worthy of a bash to end all bashes. By then they have accumulated grown children, grandchildren, likely even great grandchildren, long time friends and a life time of memories, some of trials faced and won, happy things, sad things. In short, it's a hallmark of two lives lived in sacrifice and steadfast love.
And please, don't get me started on those 16th birthday parties. WTH is that all about?
I've also been privy to numerous nightmare nuptials. Brides who lock the church doors for their stroll down the aisle to ensure the right atmosphere for her "appearance", scream at their hairdressers, slight their mothers, regularly have melt downs, make unreasonable demands, and generally make the months leading up to their wedding days a living hell for those around them. All the while these young women justify this bad behavior with "It's my wedding day, it has to be perfect".
Firstly, if you practiced applying correct theology to your real world life you would know that in this life there is no such thing as a perfect anything, so get over it now. Secondly, a billion or so people will be experiencing that day at the same time, so it is, in fact, not YOUR day. Therefore behave like a lady, be grateful that anyone would want to suspend their schedule to watch you walk down the aisle, be respectful of your parents and don't don't don't expect that you can ask them to go into debt for your party. All that's really required for a wedding is a minister/judge, a bride, a groom and a couple of witnesses. Notice nothing was said of Jordan almonds or new dresses. Everything after the people actually involved in the ceremony of covenant is cake. That means that the dress, flowers, pretty church, bridesmaids, reception and honeymoon are all actually unnecessary to the actual "get married" part of a wedding. Treat it like that. It's all whipped cream and cherries, non-essential window dressing.
There is so much more to offend here than just the churlish behavior of a bride or two. The extravagance of a modern wedding is, to my eyes, grotesque. Most people can not afford to host these shindigs without going into significant debt, and for what? Dry, rubbery chicken, sickly sweet tasteless cake and a bill for cleaning the carpet in the church hallway where Great Uncle Leroy vomited up that seventh chivas and coke. You've got a dress you can't wear again, a photo album full of almost good pictures and a debt load that cripples your first years together.
Not to be too cynical, but since 50% of all marriages end in divorce doesn't fiscal common sense demand that you save the $50,000 blow out party for your 50th Wedding Anniversary? Seriously, I'm not kidding. At 50 years together, the couple have completed a monumental and daunting marathon of relating worthy of a bash to end all bashes. By then they have accumulated grown children, grandchildren, likely even great grandchildren, long time friends and a life time of memories, some of trials faced and won, happy things, sad things. In short, it's a hallmark of two lives lived in sacrifice and steadfast love.
And please, don't get me started on those 16th birthday parties. WTH is that all about?
Friday, April 21, 2006
Bug Rides
These are the happy days, I get the kids and we get to have the kind of fantastical conversations that only children get to have. We've even got a soundtrack for these days. Ladysmith Black Mombazo, especially track 11, or as we liked to call it, The Tap Dance Song. The Mancub asked for Justin Timberlake. I said no, and I meant it. We also listened to some opera (they didn't like, mostly) some U2 (they did like), Christmas music and some other stuff.
There was a special order to who got picked up first too, I had to alternate which child I got first or I would hear it from them, everything had to be fair.
We also had special ways to get home:
There was a special order to who got picked up first too, I had to alternate which child I got first or I would hear it from them, everything had to be fair.
We also had special ways to get home:
- The Fast Way - Route 50, highway, it was quick and they liked this best in the dark. I never liked it because I just didn't like taking them on the highway.
- Bumpy Bridge Way - This way includes Cry Baby Bridge on Govenor's Bridge Road, renamed to Bumpy Bridge by me because of the bumpy effect of the corrugated steel surface and because I don't want to explain why on earth some grown up would name it Cry Baby Bridge. Someday I'll tell them about the Goat Man, who is said to haunt these parts. The best thing about this road is that we were usually the only ones on it. It's a very picturesque two lane road with cows and horses and some geese.
- Lost Way - Once Bumpy Bridge Way was flooded and I just made a left. Patuxent River Road is another one of those lovely, winding two lane roads with farms, flowers and cows. The kids freaked until we came out onto 214. Such the fun road though. The first time we drove it I had to stop so that Princess Sweetpea could stop and be nauseous. After they got over being afraid, they loved it.
- Long Way - Just 424, another 2 lane road, but much busier and not nearly the charm of the other two.
Somedays we would stop and pick up fruit or flowers at a roadside stand. Once we watched a Med-Evac chopper land. We stopped and waited for the passenger, then for the chopper to take off again.
The best part about these days were the conversations, like the one about the injured man. They asked the best questions, mostly unanswerable (what happened? did he die? does his mother know?), and we prayed for him. Other conversations went something like this:
The Mancub: Guess what happened in class today?
Me: I don't know, tell me.
The Mancub: My butt farted all by itself, and it was stinky!
And so on. Sometimes we would talk about God, I'd tell them Bible stories. They especially loved the stories about David and Daniel and their encounters with wild animals. One story didn't go as planned. At least as I planned it. I told them about Noah, the Ark, God's promise and the Flood. After I finished explaining that the Rainbow is God's visible promise that he won't destroy the world in a flood again, The Mancub says "That mean's I'll never drown!" Stupidly I respond to this with "Not really, honey, what that means is..."
I never got to finish. The Mancub burst into tears and started wailing "I don't want to die!!!!!" "I want my MOM!!!!!" Both Princess Sweetpea and I are trying to calm him down, but it's not working. Part of my problem is that I won't lie to the kids, especially not about God. That's why I don't tell them Santa Clause is real, when the time comes I don't want to have to explain elaborate lies about an unseen magical man. If I need to tell them about anyone unseen I wanna make sure that I actually believe what I'm saying, so I limit my mystical conversations to Jesus and God. It's not that I don't tell them stories, I do, but I make sure they understand that I'm telling stories.
Well, The Mancub finally calmed down. Okay, it wasn't me, it was his Mamma. She yelled at me not to tell them anymore scary stories, so we haven't talked about Noah again.
Princess Sweetpea loves to hear stories, The Mancub too, but Princess Sweetpea thirsts for them. I tell her about battles long ago, about the Dark Ages, Rome, Greece, about brave people who stood up for what they believed in. I can't wait to tell her more.
how and what to blog.....Salome's Fictional Veils...
I am a bit confuzzled about what exactly I want to write about. Some of what I want to say must needs be edited for content, I can't exactly say I believe this or that and then dog someone. But oh, how I want to. Sometimes. Other things I want to say are just inappropriate, it wouldn't reflect well on the God I serve, so I don't.
So, do I just make up stuff, veiling my reality thickly enough that no one knows who I'm writing about? Nah, that would take the fun out of it. I've got to figure out a way to use those veils to my advantage.
For now I stick to reality (ish) here and save my fiction for a different forum. But soon....
So, do I just make up stuff, veiling my reality thickly enough that no one knows who I'm writing about? Nah, that would take the fun out of it. I've got to figure out a way to use those veils to my advantage.
For now I stick to reality (ish) here and save my fiction for a different forum. But soon....
Thursday, April 13, 2006
The Soundtrack of My Life
It's not what you might think, not Mozart, Chopin, The Ramones or even music. Nope, the sound that most calms me, reminds me of happier and sadder times, the noise that grounds me is the coal train that runs behind my home. Since I was a little girl the coal trains have run behind my home, I hear them in the morning, at night and throughout the day. Every aspect of the trains passing are dear to my ears, from the whistles that announce their approach to the distant chugging of the wheels as it passes out of hearing range. I love the way the weight of the train makes bits of the house rattle, the windows and things on my shelves.
On rainy days the lonesome call before it reaches the road runs through my body like a caress, I get goosebumps. When I can sleep with my windows open I listen for the midnight trains passing. You can hear the air rush away from the locomotive, the whine of the engine as it struggles to pull thousands of pounds of metal and ore to the electricity plant down by the Bay. The way the whistles echo so much farther at night, how so little else is sounding to distract your ears away from the urgency of the trains approach.
Occasionally something happens that is out of the ordinary. When I was little it happened twice, once in winter so we could see it from our kitchen, the train derailed. We heard it, and then we saw it. Mom, who was an explorer at heart, got her shoes on and let us accompany her to "see if everyone was okay", or, really, to snoop. We scrambled to get ready, we had to find a way to cross the wetlands and creek that lay between our home and the tracks, less than 1/2 a mile, but significant, none the less. We kids knew how to get there, it was easy for us, we had a rope tied to a tree that hung over the creek at just the right angle to give us a Tarzan-like swing across. Mom would never make it. Plus, much more importantly, we weren't allowed to use that rope or to cross the creek. So we had to find a ford, which we did, a bit further north and away from the rope.
Once across the accident was gloriously right in front of us. Coal chunks scattered everywhere, cars tipped on their sides spilling the earths riches out across the forest floor. The smells of the coal mixed with leaf rot, water, fall and moss to create a new smell that was tantalizingly full of excitement. I grabbed for a piece of coal, hoping to keep it, to put it in my collection of stuff. Mom would only let me look at it, it didn't belong to me, it was the electric companies and they would be by to get it. I thought they wouldn't miss a piece, but she would likely pat me down before I left so I dropped it after examining it closely. Mom searched for the engineer, made sure he was okay, asked if he needed anything and then we had to go back home. She promised that we would one day walk the tracks between Hall and Mt Oak.
Later that spring she kept her promise. Dad dropped us and a picnic lunch off at Hall Road by the Vets office and we took off promising to be at the other end two hours later. We were so excited, my brother Fred and sisters Martha, Laura and Anne. We explored everything along the way, including an abandoned tobacco barn full of bats and owls. There was a field where we ate lunch, and dozens of places to stop and look at things, like bones of long dead deer, rabbits, rats and whatever that one thing was. Flowers to pick, stones to kick, tracks to balance on and trees to watch in the wind. All too quickly the walk was over.
That was one of the best days of my life.
On rainy days the lonesome call before it reaches the road runs through my body like a caress, I get goosebumps. When I can sleep with my windows open I listen for the midnight trains passing. You can hear the air rush away from the locomotive, the whine of the engine as it struggles to pull thousands of pounds of metal and ore to the electricity plant down by the Bay. The way the whistles echo so much farther at night, how so little else is sounding to distract your ears away from the urgency of the trains approach.
Occasionally something happens that is out of the ordinary. When I was little it happened twice, once in winter so we could see it from our kitchen, the train derailed. We heard it, and then we saw it. Mom, who was an explorer at heart, got her shoes on and let us accompany her to "see if everyone was okay", or, really, to snoop. We scrambled to get ready, we had to find a way to cross the wetlands and creek that lay between our home and the tracks, less than 1/2 a mile, but significant, none the less. We kids knew how to get there, it was easy for us, we had a rope tied to a tree that hung over the creek at just the right angle to give us a Tarzan-like swing across. Mom would never make it. Plus, much more importantly, we weren't allowed to use that rope or to cross the creek. So we had to find a ford, which we did, a bit further north and away from the rope.
Once across the accident was gloriously right in front of us. Coal chunks scattered everywhere, cars tipped on their sides spilling the earths riches out across the forest floor. The smells of the coal mixed with leaf rot, water, fall and moss to create a new smell that was tantalizingly full of excitement. I grabbed for a piece of coal, hoping to keep it, to put it in my collection of stuff. Mom would only let me look at it, it didn't belong to me, it was the electric companies and they would be by to get it. I thought they wouldn't miss a piece, but she would likely pat me down before I left so I dropped it after examining it closely. Mom searched for the engineer, made sure he was okay, asked if he needed anything and then we had to go back home. She promised that we would one day walk the tracks between Hall and Mt Oak.
Later that spring she kept her promise. Dad dropped us and a picnic lunch off at Hall Road by the Vets office and we took off promising to be at the other end two hours later. We were so excited, my brother Fred and sisters Martha, Laura and Anne. We explored everything along the way, including an abandoned tobacco barn full of bats and owls. There was a field where we ate lunch, and dozens of places to stop and look at things, like bones of long dead deer, rabbits, rats and whatever that one thing was. Flowers to pick, stones to kick, tracks to balance on and trees to watch in the wind. All too quickly the walk was over.
That was one of the best days of my life.
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