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Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with any political party in any way. I find both right and left equally frightening, though I admit to being especially terrified by John McCain’s head. Something’s just not right there. Anyway in this post I am not poking fun at any political party, but at the individuals that appear in this video.

I saw this video of an “extreme left wing” march on Perez Hilton (no I’m not going to link to him. The Queen of All Media requires no linkage, a bad day for him is 5 million hits) of all places, and had a variety of conflicting emotions.

1. LOL!

2. How much are they paying this reporter? Because my three year old would do a better job.

3. LOL at the reporter! What were they thinking sending PeeWee Herman’s nerdier little brother to an “extreme left wing” march? What did they expect? Or is that Clark Kent. OMG it’s Clark Kent!

4. Okay, seriously now. Let’s think about this. What is the purpose of a march? To get attention for your cause. Great! Look, here comes a reporter for a national news network! Sure, it’s a news network with a reputation for conservatism, but a platform’s a platform, right? Why preach to the choir when there’s a heathen right in front of you asking for a sprinkle from your baptismal mop? Here’s your chance to say your piece! To finally be heard! To make a difference! What’s that? Do what to my mother?! That’s your cause? Didn’t you want to say something about war or the infringement of rights or expanding In n’ Out Burger beyond Phoenix? No, you just want to have sex with Clark Kent. You do realize that’s not actually Clark Kent? Okay, I’m glad to hear you’re marching for something so worthwhile. Our nation’s future lies before us like a fallen drunk, blowing bubbles in the gutters of our excess, and this is your solution. I have to admit it makes a certain amount of sense. You have truly opened my eyes!

5. Profanity is the language of the inarticulate. Saw it on a pillow once. I sat on it, it was really comfortable.

6. I just love how news networks blow things out of proportion. Being told to F off is being “roughed up?” “Things are really getting out of control! I think- wait- yes! Someone just tied my shoelaces together! Get me out of here, Lois!”

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FYI, my new homeschooling blog, Making Memaries, is now up.

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It’s green chile season. I was somewhat aware of it last year, saw the crates of chiles in the stores and the roasters outside, thought about getting some, but didn’t have anywhere to put it. If I knew how to can I’d surely do that, but the very thought is just too scary. Even if I managed to can something, I’d have nightmares, justified or not, of sobbing over my kids’ bedsides as they die of food poisoning. But Brad’s mom got us a chest freezer, so I’ve been looking forward to this time.

I didn’t realize it would be so freaking difficult to get my hands on the stuff. The stores get a load in the morning and sell out quickly. Some places only roast on the weekends. Some do it every day, but you never really know when. When the roasters open, chile lovers line up with carts full of heavy burlap sacks, cold drinks, and umbrellas to protect them both from the sun and from unexpected thundershowers.

After several trips to the store and phone calls to determine delivery and roasting times and supplies, we finally got our chile. I called Brad when the shipment arrived, and he scooted out of work to go buy it. He dropped it off at home, then picked it up again after work to be in line in time before the roaster closed down for the night.

Here’s what a thirty pound bag of chiles looks like (child included for size perspective).

And this is how they’re roasted. Since Brad took them and spared me the three hour wait, I couldn’t take a picture myself, so I borrowed this one.

When you get them home, they look like this.


I’d imagined that I’d spend a pleasant hour or two processing the chiles: chopping some, slicing some, leaving others whole for rellenos, and freezing them all in little baggies. I didn’t realize what thirty pounds of chile would actually mean, and it means A LOT of work. You’re supposed to start off by removing the blackened bits.

We knew this would be easier if they were cool, but it was already way past my bedtime. It occurred to us later that it might have worked better in cool water. Oh well, you know what they say about hindsight.

So we just started cramming them into baggies and depositing them into the freezer. We used about 50 baggies, about 4 chiles in each one, so about 200 chiles total. Ay caramba!

What am I going to do with all this chile? I’m going to throw it into just about everything. Cornbread, biscuits, eggs, meatloaf, roasts, stews, you name it.

And then Brad said, “maybe we should have got another bag.” That seemed crazy at the time, but I did some calculations, and we really only have enough chile to enjoy it once a week for a year. Only once a week! I wonder if there are any left? Better call Smith’s…

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One day, when you grow up and have your own kids (if you want to, no pressure), you’ll learn that it takes very little to bring a sense of failure upon a parent.

For example, I feel guilty that you rarely get out of the house, but there isn’t anything I can do about it. I feel guilty that there are no little girls for you to play with. Even if the neighbor kids passed muster, which they don’t, they’re all boys. All the other kids in your Sunday School class are boys too. The only little girls you ever get to play with are my cousin’s 14 year old daughter, who you love to bits, and your cousin Abby, who you’ve only ever seen twice. Hopefully this thing I’m excited about but can’t discuss yet will help us get out more with the local homeschool co-op.

I feel guilty when you want to climb into bed with me at 2AM and I must insist you sleep in your own bed. Because I love to sleep with you, and you really are the world’s best snuggler. But very soon your little sister will be in the bed with me, and you’d be surprised how crowded a bed becomes when a baby is in it. Also when you sleep with me I have to sacrifice at least one of my support pillows and I ache all the next day.

I felt guilty that I forgot to take a picture of your birthday cake. It didn’t occur to me until I found myself leaning over the counter shoving the last bits of it into my face, and the bits of crumbs and piping still stuck to the cardboard base (not for long!) began to mock me.

We won’t even get started on your baby book.

But worst of all, I wasn’t there for your first haircut. Not only did you not have your mother there to hold your hand, your mother was not there to collect that first precious lock for your baby book (again with the baby book! I’m doing the best I can!). Every fine little strand of your hair fell to the floor to mingle with your brother’s, your father’s, and that of dozens of other men. To be swept up and dumped in the trash. Or, as we’ve come to expect at that barber shop, to remain on the floor and be trekked in and out on the soles of work boots.

But even worse is the fact that I simply asked for your hair to be trimmed across the back, which would have given you a cute little pre-bob. I was thinking you’d come back looking like Suzy’s Tilly or Little Boo. Instead you came back looking like Julie Andrews. Yeah, I know, you didn’t have much hair to begin with. But you had more than this!

Stephanie to the rescue, she made you this necklace and bracelet, without which your gender would surely be called into question on those rare occasions that we do leave the house. And they really came in handy at church yesterday, when you decided you wanted to be Jessamine and not Missy anymore. Your teacher had only to look at your neck to remember that colossal name your mother saddled you with.

And no I’m not piercing your ears! You think I feel guilty now, how could I watch you on that chair, stand idly by while some 15 year old hovers over your tiny ears with a freaking gun? How much Jolt has she had to drink anyway?

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So there I was, doing… something… in the downstairs half-bath, when I realized I wasn’t alone. I was being watched from the woodwork.

Well, sort of. Her eyes are lowered, which is certainly understandable.

I’ve always been the sort to see pictures in wood knots and such. In the bumpy ceiling above my bed resides Butthead, Sandra Berhardt, and a turn-of-the-century hunter sitting on a log and filling his pipe.

But I can’t figure out who this is. Any suggestions?

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As I mentioned a few days ago, we just started using this website that teaches kids how to read. When I signed up, at first I didn’t think it would really matter that it was an Australian website. Hey, English is English, right?

Wrong.

We had some confusion from the beginning as several familiar words were replaced with their Australian counterparts. Faucet became Tap. Stroller became Pram. Cabinet became Cupboard. No biggie, I thought, and simply explained to the kids that different people in different areas sometimes use different words for things.

But then we began to run into pronunciation issues.

Me: Look at that Max, you got a Tiger-Turtle!

Max: No, it’s Toygah-Tuhh’lle.

Me: Tiger-Turtle, silly!

Max: TOYGAH-TUHH’LLE!

I tried a similar explanation about pronunciation, but whether he goes for it or not, he prefers the Australian version. So now we have:

Fire= FOYah

Guitar = GyitAHH

I = Oy

Etc.

After Max’s nap yesterday, I let him pick a video to watch on Netflix On Demand. Normally I’ll choose a kid-friendly documentary for him, but he was in a sour mood so I decided to let him choose. He chose The Wiggles. Australian, in case you didn’t know.

I sat him in front of it and tuned it out while Jessamine and I strung beads on my bed and I tried to read. After awhile I looked up and saw that Max was dancing and trying to mimic the Wiggles’ moves. He looked so cute and alone that I decided to join him.

We did this for several minutes, having all sorts of fun. Then I realized that the blinds were open, it was dark out, my light was on, and all the neighbors were assembled in the parking lot (as usual). I was putting on a show for the whole neighborhood. And they couldn’t see Max, because he’s short.

Everyone! come see the enormously pregnant woman do this:

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I think it was 1997 that I cut up all my credit cards. And in 2003, Brad cut his up as well. He kinda had to, they didn’t work anymore.

When we tell people we have no credit cards and haven’t for a long time, they look at us like circus freaks, and ask us how we can possibly survive. Well, it really isn’t that hard. You see something you want, it costs more than what you have to spare, you don’t buy it. If you want it badly enough, you save up until you can buy it. You save a certain percentage of your income, so even if you live paycheck to paycheck as we do, you have an emergency fund for car repairs and medical emergencies and such. Unfortunately the current economic crisis has prevented us from doing this for some time, and we used all our savings to get to NM. So we have no emergency fund, but we continue to live without credit cards.

Financial experts are predicting that we’re about to see a credit card bubble burst just as the housing one did, and that Americans are going to have to lower our standards and actually live within our means.

Omigod! What are means anyway? Sweetie? Do we have means? Are they in the couch cushions maybe? Well, find them dammit!

No changes for us, we’ve been doing that for years. I wanted a Bose radio, we saved up and bought one. I wanted a sewing machine, I put one on layaway (RIP Layaway, I shall lay flowers and a bottle of Boone’s on your grave every year). Brad wanted a kilt, he’ll get one over my dead body. And I admit to being jealous when I’d go out with friends and they could pick up anything that struck their fancy, while I had to content myself with using the objects of my desire to surreptitiously wipe the drool from my chin. But soon I will no longer be alone in this.

People are going to have to start maintaining their cars instead of trading them in every time they need an oil change, wax their own eyebrows, brew their own coffee, paint their own toenails, actually look at price tags.

Yesterday Brad and I were discussing things that might possibly be cut.

Me: We could cancel our broadband. It cuts out every two minutes anyway, we may as well have dial-up.

Brad: But then we wouldn’t be able to use Netflix on Demand!

Me: Speaking of which…

Brad: Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!

I was particularly proud of myself this morning. Brad didn’t have to go in to work until 10:30, so I took the kids to Smith’s hoping to secure our annual batch of green chiles before the very short season is over. But their roaster wasn’t set up yet. So I pulled out the list I’d made from the weekly ad and got a couple things anyway. Here’s what I got for a grand total of $24.82:

2 packages Fiber One muffin mix (normally about $3.50 each) - $2 each, and $.50 off coupons for each

1 package hamburger buns- $1

1 small bottle of olive oil (for the birth) - $2.99, over $4 everywhere else I’ve looked

1 large box Kleenex- $.88

1 bag peas (why do they always say “green peas?” Do they come in other colors?)- $1.39

1 bag green beans- $1

About 7 pounds of pork chops on sale for $1.59 / lb.- $10.58

1 large box cold fried chicken from the deli, reg. $5.99- $2.99

Coloring book for Jessamine, reg $2.95- $.25

Lego play book with magnets for Max, reg $7.99- $.62

Not too shabby, eh? Normally the pork chops alone would have cost about $24.82.

Could you do it, do you think? If credit cards become obsolete, will you find yourself having to make drastic adjustments to your lifestyle?

No I still can’t tell you what I’m all excited about. You’ll just have to wait. Mwahahahaha!

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I’m very excited. I can’t say exactly why just yet because nothing is certain, and in fact this is the sort of thing that’s only exciting to the people it happens to. But I’m counting on the air of mystery to make everyone excited on my behalf. Aren’t you just dying to know?

I know, me too!

This is such a strange time. One of those folds of space that opens up in our collective lives now and then, making us restless, making us question the little illusory worlds we’ve built around ourselves. Everything becomes more acute, and relevancy is called into question. The lolcat that seemed so funny last month now mocks us with its mind-numbing stupidity. We no longer hear the call of the statcounter. Real life beckons, and we blink at it blearily, trying to make sense of a thing that is not presented in pixels on 17 inches of LCD.

Kids are going back to school. The weather is beginning to change. Here in New Mexico, the grocery stores are hauling out the chile roasters.

At Chez Lane I’m preparing for birth, working out curricula, wrapping up birthday season, and wondering who thought up this slogan:

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Public Service Announcement

It has come to my attention that a common misconception has led the general public to the belief that the human pregnancy is a mere seven or eight months long. Or, that the conclusion of a pregnancy, and indeed the gender of the unborn child can be deduced by a mere glance. This is not so. For as long as the Homo has been sapien, the gestation period of our species has been about 40 weeks long, or approximately ten months. And the gender is determined at conception, and cannot be changed, no matter how strong your psychic powers may be.

I had five different people accost me yesterday and demand that I give birth at once, to a boy. And no, they did not even introduce themselves, much less say hello, much less present medical credentials first.

“No,” I said, “It’s a girl, and she’s not due until October 1.”

“Oh no, honey.” They all replied, with a shake of the head and a patronizing gleam of the eye, “you’re having that baby today. And it’s a boy.”

I mean, what do you even say? Besides STFU get out of my face you ignorant nosy beehotch?

And that is why I’m not leaving my house anymore.

I used to read books about women who were shuttered in their homes for their “confinement” long ago and shake my head in disdain. Why, pregnancy is nothing to be ashamed of! But now, oh how I long for confinement. If only I could trust Brad to pick out good books at the library and look at price stickers at the grocery store.

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Save Me From Myself

I know this may seem crazy, but I’m starting a second blog. Nothing like this one.

I need to somehow keep a journal record of our homeschool, and as blogging is the one thing in my life I’ve ever been able to stick to, I decided a blog would be the best way to do that with any amount of consistency. So all my homeschooling stuff will be at Making Memaries, which I will link here when it’s ready. It will be all homeschooling and only homeschooling, and it’s mainly for my own record-keeping purposes, but anyone will be welcome to drop by as well. And Memarie Lane will continue as my creative outlet.

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Get Off Your Hiney You Lazy Bum

Remember to get your entries in for my contest, time’s a-wastin’!

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Microsoft Is Not All That, Nor Is It Even A Bag of Chips

I’ve been getting several emails from people who have to scroll down past my sidebar to get to the posts. This is what happens if you use Internet Explorer. You see, Microsoft is too full of itself to use the same programming languages as all the rest of the internet, and as a result many platforms are not optimally viewed in IE. IE is also far more vulnerable to viruses, spyware and other forms of webby maleficence. There are other free options out there for browsers, such as Firefox and Opera, that work with all platforms and are much harder for the bad guys to crack.

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Preposterous News Bit O’ The Week:

“If we can’t even pronounce Beijing correctly and consistently, how can we ever hope to address deeper cross-cultural misunderstandings and conflicts?” (source)

This is just about the stupidest thing I’ve ever read. And I’ve read some stupid stuff, believe me. Do you think a Chinese person could be bothered to pronounce Albuquerque correctly and consistently? In fact, raise your hand if you can pronounce Albuquerque. Or Saskatchewan. Or my daughter’s name for that matter. We had freaking commercials teaching us how to say “chipotle” for crying out loud. There are hundreds of languages in this world, most of them represented in some way in this country. How can Billy Joe Arbuckle of Topeka be expected to be fluent in them all? Only one thing matters to Billy Bob, and that’s the return of the McRib. Do we really need to know how to say “bayJING” instead of “bayZHING,” or does China need a McRib infusion? How about neither. How about we let the Chinese be Chinese and the Americans be Americans so that stupid ride at Disneyland can remain relevant.

I think it’s fill-in-the-blank time. Oh yes I do.

If we can’t / don’t _________________________________________, how can we ever hope to address ____________________________________?

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The crickets are chirping here on Memarie Lane.

The deli man is standing out in front of his shop leaning against a light post, his starched apron so white and free of mustard splotches that he is quite despondent. Twenty pounds of shredded iceberg are rotting in the walk-in, and another order coming today. He looks down the empty car park as a plastic shopping bag bounces along with billowed sail.

The lady at the bookshop doesn’t mind, she’s pulled out an old ripped chair and arranged her tiny bird bones amongst the exposed stuffing and springs to read through her usual battered copy of Dr. Zhivago. Well, everyone thinks it’s Dr. Zhivago anyway, but that’s just the cover. Inside it’s the latest Stephanie Meyer. The ash of her cigarette breaks off into her coffee, and she doesn’t notice.

Above the locksmith the curtains twitch and a potted begonia falls to its death on the clean swept cobbles, waking Mr. Duloc’s demonic brindle cat. She opens her yellow-green eyes for a moment to glare at the bedraggled flowers and smashed pottery, then closes them again to enjoy her pocket of sunshine.

There’s something wrong with my comments, I’m not sure what exactly. People can’t comment or their comments disappear. But my webmistress is going to be switching me to another host soon, so maybe that will take care of the problem.

To be honest, I’m not that worried about it. C’est la vie. Of course if you say c’est la vie too often, it will catch up with you and turn into la mort. Or at the very least, le merde.

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Anyhoo, I wanted to take the opportunity to share this website, Reading Eggs, that was passed on to me from another homeschooler in my area. It’s a site that teaches kids in the 3-6 age range how to read. It doesn’t simply encourage reading as many sites, such as Starfall and UpToTen do, it actually teaches.

Kids create their own avatar, and move the avatar through a map as they complete lessons. As they progress they earn golden eggs that they can use to “buy” games to play, and they collect critters along the way too. Unlike other sites or computer games, they cannot progress until they complete the lesson, and they cannot complete the lesson if they don’t do it right. Max likes to deliberately fail in games because he likes the funny noises and such. But if he keeps clicking on the wrong answer, he can’t progress and earn his eggs, so he no longer does that.

Right now it’s free, but they will charge a subscription fee in the future, which I am more than willing to cough up, as awesome as this site is. It requires a broadband connection. And:

For each new unique user who registers on the site by the 31st of August, and adds the code DRF35XLP to their child, we will donate $1 to the Children’s Cancer Institute Australia. The Institute has a fantastic record in doing research that is focussed on improving the chances of children surviving their fight with cancer. The vision of the Institute is to cure 100% of children with cancer through world-class research.

So not only will your friends thank you for helping their kids improve their reading, at no cost until September 7, but you will also be helping a great cause.

So if you have a beginning reader, I highly recommend checking this out.

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