Another day in New York City

I'm so excited!

It's official! The Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Special Edition Widescreen DVD will be on sale as of December 11, 2007 here in the US of A!

Isn't it amazing that not only is the DVD being released in December, but my birthday AND Christmas are both ALSO in that magical month?

I, for one, find it truly inspirational. I also believe that Santa reads blogs.

And I believe in Beethoven, the Birthday fairy.

I'm just saying...

I know kids are just kids, and they should be allowed to be kids, and stuff. I am against child beauty pageants, and parents who try to make their kids act and look like adults before it's time.



But.



I'm just saying....



If your mom was, like, THE most famous pop star in the world ever since nineteen-eighty-something, and, like, if she had - oh, say BAZILLIONS of dollars, and stuff...




And if she was so insanely high on fashion and looks that she spent a small fortune every week on personal trainers, body waxing, hair care, and et-cetera for herself....



Wouldn't you think she would at least help her own daughter out with the whole mustache / unibrow situation?



I'm thinking this is Madonna's way of taking revenge on her daughter for being younger, having firmer skin, and not having to spend twelve hours a day in the gym to fit into a size 2.

Unless she's sending the kid to a casting call for the new Neanderthal Sesame Street, this is just not right.

And just to show I'm on the kid's side, here's a photoshopped version of how great she could look - no makeup, no glitz, just a little waxing!

Marcheline's Thanksgiving Day Recipes

All righty, peeps, step up to the kitchen counter! That's right, gather 'round, pour yourself a goblet of mead and listen while Marcheline divulges not one but TWO of her most prized Thanksgiving day recipes! These particular recipes are tres easy, and oh, so tasty! Marcheline is a firm believer in cooking that takes the least amount of time and provides the maximum amount of delicious flavor, leaving ample time for sitting around enjoying a glass of wine while guests ooh and ahh over your contributions to the feast.


Marcheline's Mom's Cranberry Chutney
(This one's as easy as it is delicious!)

Ingredients:

16 oz. fresh cranberries (one bag)
2 cups sugar
1 cup water
1 cup orange juice
3/4 cup golden raisins
3/4 cup regular raisins
1 cup walnuts, coarsely chopped
1 cup finely chopped celery
1 medium sized red delicious apple, finely chopped
1 medium sized granny smith apple, finely chopped
1 Tbsp. grated orange peel
1 Tsp. ground ginger

Directions:

Put the cranberries, sugar, and water in a large saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Lower the heat, put a lid on it, and simmer it for 15 minutes. Remove from the heat and add all the other ingredients, then stir until everything's blended. Let it come to room temperature. Put the pot in the refrigerator overnight, and when you wake the next morning, the mixture will have magically turned into the most delicious ambrosia you've ever popped your bill to. And this is coming from someone who traditionally always avoided the cranberry holiday items... but this stuff is AMAZING!



Marcheline's Pumpkin Soup

Ingredients:

2.5 cups mashed cooked pumpkin (one large can)
3 cups chicken broth
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 cup half 'n half
salt to taste
black pepper to taste
1 Tbsp. curry powder

Directions:

Sautee the onion in butter until it turns transparent. Add the pumpkin, chicken broth, curry powder, salt & pepper, stirring until blended. Run this through the blender and puree until smooth. Put back into the pot, and slowly add half 'n half until the soup is the perfect consistency (thick and creamy). Once the half 'n half has been added, lower the heat - you don't want to let it boil after this point! Serve immediately with warm, crusty bread that's good for dipping.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING ALL!

My current Brezny... Great! - I think...

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): In the nick of time, a wild card will appear. It will reverse the meaning of a series of events that seemed to be railroading you towards an unhappy ending. What will be the nature of that wild card? Maybe some missing evidence will trickle in, bringing the big picture into a rosier focus. Maybe you will realize how valuable your problem has actually been. And perhaps the wild card will be a divine intervention that shatters a mental block, thereby correcting a misapprehension you'd been under. In any case, Sagittarius, there will be an unexpected twist at the last turn of the plot, and it will lead you to at least a semi-happy ending.

********************

I'm noticing things like the words "railroading" and "evidence", both very indicative of my current job. The word "shatters" worries me a bit - but it's ameliorated by the word "correcting". And I wonder what "semi-happy" means to the writer. I am excited about unexpected twists, in any case!

Am I prolific this week, or what?

Yesterday we had some friends over and I participated in one of the most enjoyable pastimes I have yet come across. Bottling two batches of our home-made mead!

The above picture was taken at Bear's and my wedding, September 28, 2002. We brewed the mead, and we made our own labels. (I redacted our actual names from the bottom of the label for privacy's sake, and I'm only mentioning this because otherwise you will think we screwed it up).

The mead that was bottled yesterday has been aging in our storage room in huge glass carboys for almost TWO years! The normal aging process for a batch of mead is usually around eight months, but as long as the container is dust-proofed with an air lock, it can sit indefinitely.

One of the best parts about mead-making in general is that it's tradition to drink some of the previous batch of mead while you make the new one - whether you're brewing or bottling. The mead we cracked open last night before commencing the bottling process was five years old - it had been specially made for our wedding, and it was like cognac. It had richened and become more dense, and when I tilted my glass, the "legs" on this stuff were a mile long! Even though that batch of mead was un-flavored, thus its only ingredient was pure honey, the passing years had given it an almost berry-like finish. Ambrosia!

When our friends arrived for the bottling party, they came armed with all the accoutrements - spigoted brewing buckets, hoses and a bottle-washing attachment that fits right onto the sink faucet, plus boxes of empty bottles just waiting to be filled. I hadn't eaten anything all day, and I suggested that we nosh a bit before taking on the daunting task that is bottling.

I heated up a big pot of the wonderful homemade soup that Bear had made the other day - a wonderful concoction involving cauliflower, mushrooms, onions, garlic, chicken and beef stock, cream, fennel seeds, curry, and turmeric. Our friends loved it so much they asked for seconds later on in the evening! There's nothing like a good homemade soup to warm your innards on a cold November day.

Then the tarps went down on the kitchen floor, the buckets were filled with bleach water, and the purification process began. All bottles, tools, hands, and counter surfaces are cleansed with bleach water, so that no icky stuff gets into the bottles with the mead. An errant microbe can really foul up a good batch of mead, and we weren't about to waste two years of anticipation.

Once all was in order, the first carboy was brought out and all the clear mead was siphoned into the bottling bucket. There is a layer of sediment at the bottom of every batch of mead - fallout of beeswax from the honey, plus vitamin B deposits that form with the fermentation process. This stuff is not harmful - as a matter of fact, it's good for ya - but it's just unsightly, so most meadmakers prefer not to include it in the bottled product.

The bottling bucket is then set up on the countertop, and a hose with a special gravity-operated filler tip is secured onto the spigot. The person acting as "filler" takes a clean bottle and lowers the filler wand into it until the tip touches the bottom. Downward pressure creates an opening which allows the mead to flow into the bottle, and at just the right moment the filler pulls upward on the wand, gravity kicks in, and the flow stops.

The filler passes the bottle to the "corker" (that was me). The corker plucks a cork from the bowl of warm water where all the new corks have been soaking for ten minutes or so, and inserts the cork into the bright orange hand-corking tool. A squeeze on the handles compresses the cork to about 2/3 of its original circumference, and then the tool is placed over the bottle's mouth. The bottle is held tightly between the corker's knees as they kneel on the floor, to prevent the bottle from slipping out from under the tool and spilling the liquid gold inside. One good plunge of the lever, and the cork is transferred into the bottle, flush level with the top.

Lather, rinse, repeat - until all the bottles have been filled and corked. We decided to flavor a few of the bottles with rose water, orange water, and spruce - just some of the many possible flavorings that go well with mead. A black Sharpie marker is the ticket to remembering what you've done - just one letter on the cork top of each bottle designates the type of flavoring used.

Making mead is a wonderful enterprise, not only because the mead itself is delicious, but also because it is a communal event - friends get together and share in the making, the bottling, and the drinking! Another thing that makes mead so special is that real mead is unobtainable from any legal source in the United States. The "meads" sold in wine stores all have wine made with grapes added to them, as prescribed by law - a true mead is made with honey only. Making true mead is legal in the United States, and each individual person is allowed to make two hundred gallons of mead a year, so long as it is only for personal consumption and not for sale.

Two hundred gallons is a LOT - and I don't think any of the mead makers I know ever come close to that limit. For example, the two batches we bottled yesterday were five gallons each, and each batch produced two cases of mead. So that's 48 bottles of mead all told, and that's only from ten gallons! Making two hundred gallons would probably mean quitting your job and doing nothing but that from morning til night. Not likely, especially considering you can't sell it afterward.

Some of the other neat things you can do with mead besides drink it are:

* Give it as holiday gifts
* Cook with it - meads flavored with sage and rosemary are especially good for cooking
* Bathe in it! Just kidding. Never tried that one before. You'd probably end up with things stuck together that shouldn't be.

(Later)

Ahhhh... my tummy is full of the best spaghetti and meat sauce I ever had (Bear's been cooking again!) and tomorrow begins a new work week. I'm off to bed. Au revoire!

Something cool

There is a new website vocabulary game called "Free Rice". I've added a banner to the top of this page so you can play anytime you visit this blog. It's a lot of fun, it's eductational, and it helps those in need by donating rice to the UN to help fight world hunger. Check it out!

Basically, they give you a word and four or five possible synonyms. Pick the word that best matches, and ten grains of rice go into your donation bowl. It's a well designed site, and easy to use. Of course the best part is that it's helping those in need. Make sure to check out the FAQ page and the donations page, which shows how much food has been donated to date.

I just got done playing for about half an hour, and I donated 3000 grains of rice. The highest level I reached was 49, but I think I only got three words right at that level, then it dropped me back down to 47 or so. I love games where you compete against yourself, and sharpen your wits.

Another nice thing about this site is, if you get a word wrong, they show you what the right answer is and you continue on. You never "lose" or get kicked off, you can play as long as you like.

Enjoy!

Wednesday, Take II

I took this photo with my cell phone. He was my traveling mate on the train into NYC on Wednesday. As I was taking a strange after-lunch but before-5PM train, it was pretty empty and I had a row to myself. Of course, as the train made stop after stop towards the destination, more people got on, but it was nothing like crowded.

At one point, a very tall, powerful-looking guy with a ponytail and a big schnoz got on the train, and sat one row in front of me, across the aisle. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand, and began writing furiously the moment he sat down. Being completely nosy naturally inquisitive, I was dying to know what he was writing. Was he keeping a journal? Was he writing a love letter?

Then he started turning the paper this way and that, which really confounded my theory. Finally, he lifted up the paper to inspect his work, and I saw what looked like a child's rendition of a neighborhood. There were drawings of houses, and streets, and even unrecognizable vehicles driving up and down the streets. All in the two-dimensional oddness which informs the drawings of kids.

I looked back at the guy, trying to assess if he might be a bit silly upstairs, but he looked pretty with-it. When he flipped the sheaf of paper over, I saw that it was all stapled together like a test or a job application form, and that he had answered loads of questions on the first page. He was wearing dark blue work pants and sneakers, and I wondered if perhaps he was applying for a job with the police department or some security force, which would explain having to diagram neighborhoods - or perhaps draw an accident scene for a report. The incongruity of the guy's size and formidable appearance and the funny little drawings he did was comical.

When we got closer to the city, the train made yet another stop. A girl in the next row forward stood up and started collecting her belongings, flipping her hair around, and making a big show of getting her micro mini-jacket on over her studiously layered shirt system.

Giant Drawing Man started looking at her. And I mean looking at her. Up, and down. Up, down, and back up again. Not even trying to look like he wasn't looking, he just stared. All I could see was her head and shoulders, as the train seats were high-backed, but I didn't think she was all that.

Then a train conductor came through one of the funny little metal doors that connect the cars, and HE started making goggle eyes at the girl. I definitely felt as if I was missing some vital piece of information. And I was.

When chickie walked by my row, I saw. And I joined the ongoing group goggle. She was wearing short shorts, over black tights, with high heeled boots. Another MTV-fueled fashion tragedy. After she'd sashayed dramatically off the train, making sure all eyes were on her caboose, I looked at the conductor and smirked. Those guys see it all in a day's work, I'd wager. Hell, it's not so much different than being a flight attendant!

Directly after her departure, Giant Drawing Man moved across to a roomier seat, where he promptly stuck his eight-foot-long legs out into the aisle and began to yawn loudly. Over, and over, and over.

Once the windows all went dark and my ears started popping, I knew that I was almost there. Penn Station. Big, bustling, scary Penn Station. When the doors opened, I just let myself be carried along with the mob, figuring that most of them were probably heading up and out of there. Once I'd made my way up to the street and was out of doors, then I'd start worrying about directions and such. I picked an exit, and made my way up the stairs.

Happily, I saw that there was an orderly line of cabs parked along the curb just outside the station, complete with a turbaned Taxi Organization Guide. He ascertained that I wanted a taxi, and he hand-picked a nice ripe yellow one for me, pointing it out and shouting the cab number. "Eighty-five, eighty-five!" I nodded and walked obediently down the line of waiting cabs, to number eighty-five. I got in and gave the cab driver the name of the museum, and we were off! I managed to snap these two photos of a three-hundred foot high display featuring Angelina Jolie, whose new movie Beowulf opened up on Friday.

Darn that leather cell phone strap!!!



Sans strap, at an angle though - we were pulling away.

The trip to the museum, according to Google, was not even four miles, but the traffic was amazingly horrendous. It took over 20 minutes to get around Central Park. I was thrilled that the cab was clean and didn't smell like anything unsavory, and that the driver seemed to be good at his job. He informed me that Wednesdays are the worst days to travel by car in the city, because that is the day when all the stores get their goods delivered by truck. And boy, he wasn't kidding!

Not only were there trucks, but scads of horse-drawn carriages full of upper-crusty looking female tourists wearing painted on smiles, studiously ignoring the existence of everyone in the cars and cabs that were so close, they could have passed the Grey Poupon.

If it weren't for women, the horse-drawn carriage trade would go under in a day. Sure, you might see a couple riding in them - because dude is trying to show his woman how romantic he is! You'll see groups of women, and women with kids riding in them, but you will never, ever see a guy and some of his guy friends take a horse-drawn carriage. Just doesn't happen. Even gay guys shun the carriages because hey, they have standards.

I always feel bad for the horses, slogging away on hard pavement day after day, breathing nothing but traffic fumes direct from the exhaust pipes, never spending a day in the sun, running in meadow or rolling in the grass. Poor things.

Added to this melee were scads of young men on bicycle-drawn carts, riding between moving vehicles and around roadblocks and under awnings at frightening speeds. Honestly, I couldn't really look at them without my stomach jumping up into my mouth. One wrong move, and... SQUISH. These guys, like the rich women in the carriages, seem to get along by just pretending that the rest of the world doesn't really exist. They just pour into any available space, not focusing for a second on the objects defining that space. It's a zen sort of thing, I'm sure.


Here are just a few of the million vignettes that I viewed through my cab window:

• A woman hailing a cab with one hand, holding her little boy's hand with the other. The little boy was looking at his mom and mimicking her, hailing the cab with his pudgy little free hand.

• An old black woman standing like a statue on the sidewalk, her face set in stone, while a river of people went swirling past her.

• A snippy-looking man walking a huge black poodle whose fancy grooming probably cost more than my monthly heating bills.

• Working city women wearing ugly sneakers with dresses because they have to walk a long way.

• Kept city women wearing incredibly high, pointy heels, teetering and falling into cracks in the sidewalk because fashion is more important than anything.

• Fancy buildings with huge windows to show all the peons what they are missing. These buildings are also notable for their huge metal security doors and posted guards. You can look, but don't try and come in here.

• A million restaurants and pubs that I would love to try, which most likely will not be in business by the next time I come to the city.

Once I got to the museum, I paid the cab driver, who stubbornly refused to tell me what an acceptable tip would be for the fare I'd run up. I explained that I am not a city person, that I have never taken a cab by myself, and that I had no idea what the customary tip should be. Nothing doing. So I just made a guess, paid him, and he rocketed off to find his next fare.

The museum bit was short and sweet. I paid for my ticket, collected all the available printed brochures on the show, and took pictures of the exhibit. I was a little miffed because I didn't have my personal digital camera, and was using one of those auto-focus jobbies that doesn't cooperate. I was photographing art behind glass, and the stupid camera kept focusing on the reflections in the glass, and not the art. I had to shoot from some pretty weird angles to get the exhibits in focus, but I managed. After I had taken my last photo, a museum guard approached me and said, "I'm sorry, but photos are not allowed above the ground floor level". I apologized and promptly put the camera away, smiling and humming as I made my way back down to the street. Mission accomplished!

I realized that I had a little time before the next train home, and since I had not had lunch, my stomach was grumbling. There was a dirty-water hot dog stand on the corner, and even though it's not on my diet, strictly speaking, I couldn't resist a New York City hot dog. Who could?

As I approached the cart, the man behind it shuffled around to the front and started moving water bottles around on the display shelf. I asked him for a hot dog, and he looked at me and said "Closed." Well, isn't that nice? As I walked away, I thought that perhaps providence had stepped in and saved me from some gastronomic disaster. My stomach rumbled, disappointed in missing out on a rarely satisfied craving and not buying into that providence bullshit in the slightest.

I had a can of Planters peanuts in my bag, but if there's one thing that skeeves me out more than going to NYC and not having had a chance to wash my hands in the past hour or so, I don't know what it is. I decided to wait until I got home to eat. My stomach kicked me in a fit of impotent rage.

The train ride home was not just a cookie-cutter reverse copy of the ride in. Oh, where would be the fun in that, I ask you? No, this train home had a change-over in Jamaica, the second scariest train station after Penn. Smaller in size, but made scary by its deliberate lack of signs or posters telling you where the hell you are, or where your train might be lurking.

When the recorded announcement barked, "Next stop, Jamaica!" my stomach lurched. This was the test - would I get home tonight, or would I get home early tomorrow morning, or would I get home at all? Again I let the flood of people carry me out of the doors, but at this point half of them turned left and went up a steel grey, sign-free staircase. The other half turned right and headed down an endless looking, sign-free platform that faded into darkness at the far end.

Flipping a mental coin, I turned right. As I flowed along with the crowd, I noticed a very short woman standing very still in the crowd of moving people. She had on an MTA uniform. She wasn't wearing her hat, and she had a duffel bag at her feet. I supposed she was off duty. However, being an MTA employee, she would definitely be able to tell me how the hell to find my train, so I asked her.

She jumped into action like a wind-up toy the moment I spoke. She looked at me with wide eyes and said, "You have to walk THROUGH this train!! Come on!!". And she took off like a shot. I had no idea what she was talking about. She went back onto the train I had just left, and whipped a key ring out of her pocket. She opened the locked door on the other side of the train, and said, "Hurry!"

I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland, going down the rabbit hole and following the Mad Hatter. In the back of my mind, I was thinking - if this is the way to the train I need, and I am the only person going through this door, then how are all the other people getting to the train? Did they all have to find little key-toting munchkins to guide them on their way, or was there some special powder they could sprinkle on their heads to magick them onto the right platform?

Once I'd walked through the door and thanked the nice lady for helping me, I looked up and, just like magic, there was my train, complete with a digital sign blinking my destination, right in front of me! This one was extremely crowded, but as I shoehorned my slightly-larger-than-petite self next to a man reading a newspaper and wedged my legs between the knees of a very large black woman sitting across from me, I sighed with relief at finally being on The Train Home. Life was good!

Lulled yet again into a false sense of security, I enjoyed spreading out into comfort as people gradually left the train with each stop. I had the museum brochures to read, and I started jotting notes about my trip onto the back of my directions and time schedule sheets. My blood pressure was back to normal, and I was looking forward to texting Bear that I had touched ground and was heading home.

When the train arrived at the last stop, my stop, I got out and headed towards the parking lot. I was walking along the platform, which is ten feet or so above ground level, and that's when I heard the shouting. A white-haired man was yelling at a station vagrant, shaking his finger and following the guy around. This was difficult, because the vagrant was drunk off his ass and weaving pretty heavily.

"HOW DARE YOU ASK ME FOR MONEY?!?! YOU ARE DRUNK! GET AWAY FROM ME! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU GET AWAY FROM ME! LEAVE!!! I AM CALLING THE POLICE! DO YOU SEE THIS PHONE??? NINE ONE ONE! RIGHT NOW!!! NINE ONE ONE!!!!"

This rant continued as I walked quickly past the scene. I could see my truck, still parked where I had left it. There was even one little stairway down to the ground right there at the end of the sidewalk, about four feet from my truck. I reached the stairway, and glanced toward the station. To my horror, the white-haired man was still yelling at the drunk and chasing him - right towards me!

Dude was about thirty feet from me, weaving right in my direction. It was dark, and the parking lot lights weren't quite doing their job at this far end of the lot. Praying that my driver-side door lock wouldn't seize up the way it sometimes does, I jiggled the key, and I was in! With one swift elbow swipe, the door was locked, and I was on my way home.

Wednesday - what a day that was!

Is there a sign over my head that says "INSULT ME TODAY" ???

My dad called last week to invite my husband and I to a family gathering for Thanksgiving. Isn't that nice?

Tonight he called me to ask if there is any way that I could choose something to wear on Thanksgiving which does not show my new tattoo. You know, the tattoo that Bear gave me on our fifth wedding anniversary. The tattoo that Bear paid a chunk of hard-earned money for, and that I spent endless hours dreaming about, researching, and designing, so that I could have it on my skin forever. Yeah, that one.

So the question is: Do I wear a sleeveless shirt and symbolically flip my dad the bird? Or do I knuckle under to his sycophantic ass-kissing desire to suck up to his rich relatives and wear a cover-up shirt? It's not even right that I should have to think about this, but now he's thrown it in my face. The ball is in my court.

I have decided.

I'm going to wear a long-sleeved jersey shirt with a life-sized image of my new tattoo ironed on to the sleeve, over the exact area where the real tattoo is.

Pictures will be posted. Oh, yes. They will.

Wednesday was a really interesting day OR This would never have happened on the Hogwarts Express

Wednesday morning, as I got ready for work, I had no idea what the day would bring. I suppose I thought I'd just be going to the office, taking my usual lunch break in my truck, eating peanuts and listening to whatever Harry Potter book is in the CD player, and then finishing off the day in my cubicle, just like always. I couldn't have been more mistaken.

Both the boss and the VP were out of town on business, and I was looking forward to the peace and quiet which that particular set of circumstances usually insures. Just before noon, a client called the office and demanded in an annoying, nasal voice, that we send someone to New York City to photograph a major art exhibit for a case.

My manager checked the museum's hours online. Closed on Thursdays, but open until nearly 8PM on Fridays. She asked me if I'd like to take a trip into the city with my husband, visit a museum, and take some pictures. I readily agreed, and text messaged Bear with the good news. How exciting! A jaunt to New York City - on the clock, as it were!

But, as can happen in the corporate world, as well as the real one in my head, the best laid plans of mice and men often come to so much sawdust. The boss called in to see what was going on, and when the plans for my Friday trip to the city were described to him, he said nothing doing. There was plenty of time to go.

I'm sorry, when did you say? RIGHT NOW! Oh, sure. Now. As in, like, now. Shit, I'm not dressed for this at all.

As I had already said I'd do the job, I couldn't very well back out then. I like to think I'm a brave soul, and that I can handle myself well in all situations, but I am not ashamed to admit that I am NOT a "city person". Meaning that I have been to New York City only on very select occasions, when I was accompanied by my parents and/or someone larger and stronger than me who knew where the hell we were going. The only time I have ever gone into the city alone, I was meeting Bear and he squired me around town and then home afterwards. The thought of taking the train into NYC as the sun was going down, and navigating Penn Station and the city cab system on my own was more than a little terrifying.

However, not to be outdone by millions of Asian women who weigh no more (collectively) than one very small European Swallow, I went.

The first thing that happened was that there were no friggin' parking spaces at the train station. The small patches of pavement that I could see through the mosaic of badly-parked vehicles were littered with shattered window glass from cars that had been broken into while their owners were gone. Very comforting, that.

I finally found one lone spot, all the way at the end of the lot closest to the street. There were seven or eight vagrants leaning on signposts nearby, which gave me that added sense of security that I was craving. You know, just to complement the warm fuzzies brought on by the broken window glass.

My manager had given me a small envelope of pre-paid train tickets and $75 cash before I left the office. I felt like a contestant on one of those reality shows. If I won, I got to see my husband and cats again, AND as a bonus... a regular paycheck! (!!) If I lost, well... I'm sure the office would send flowers.

I checked with the cashier in the station to make sure the tickets were valid, and sat down to wait for the train to arrive. I was slowly lulled into a sense of false security by the cleanliness of the station's interior, the crisp digital display that showed which trains were coming in next, and the big sign that said, "ONLY TICKETED PASSENGERS ALLOWED TO REMAIN INSIDE STATION". As I was a ticketed passenger, I was in the clear. A fat businessman with highwater pants sat across the station from me, reading his newspaper and taking loud swigs out of his bottle of iced tea.

I texted Bear to let him know my progress, and Bear texted me back whenever his boss wasn't breathing down his neck. Some time later, another passenger came in. I was pretty sure he wasn't from these parts, due to the fact that it's NOVEMBER, and dude was wearing shorts and flip flops. He was also carrying several large duffel and camping-type bags, which he threw in a heap on the floor in front of the other end of the bench I was sitting on. Then he flung himself onto the bench, practically rattling the teeth out of my head. Next, he began shaking his legs up and down, which, in turn, shook me up and down. I studiously avoided looking at him, and eventually Mr. A.D.D. got up and wandered outside, leaving all his belongings unattended on the floor. Definitely not from here.

Behind me and to my right, the station door opened and one of the previously mentioned vagrants shuffled in and sat down at the far end of the next bench over, coughing phlegmily. I looked pointedly at the cashier, who immediately got up and went to the back of the office. I knew that Mr. Diphtheria over here was not A TICKETED PASSENGER, and thus not qualified to REMAIN IN THE STATION, but hey, he was keeping to himself, so I just sat and waited, trying to keep my eyes on the floor.

I thought I was in the clear. It was only ten minutes until my train arrived. I was starting to relax. And in walks a huge black guy wearing camouflage from head to toe. He immediately starts speaking Spanglish to Mr. Diphtheria, which instantly identified him as a Station Regular. All the junkies and vagrants at train stations know each other. They develop their own languages, and they live by their own rules. Camo strode over and plopped down on the end of the bench nearest to me. I kept my eyes on the cell phone in my hands, willing Bear to text me so I'd have something important to do. I could feel Camo revving up his engines, practically hear the gears shifting.

Sure enough, about a minute went by before Camo got bored with his one-sided conversation with ole Dick Theria. He turned to me and said in the studiously polite tone of voice used worldwide by panhandlers and junkies, "Excuse me, Miss, is that your phone?"

As I had been sitting there from the moment he walked in staring at the cell phone in my hands, I didn't really think there was much doubt in anyone's mind whose phone it was. So I kept my eyes on my phone.

Then, more loudly, "EXCUSE ME, MISS?"

I looked up at the clock on the station wall, willing it to be Train Time. The cashier was now invisible to the human eye. He wasn't about to get involved in this.

"MISS! I'M NOT BEING RUDE, I'M JUST TALKING TO YOU!!" See, yelling at someone who is obviously uncomfortable with your attentions is the way you make them feel like talking to you. Isn't it? And stating loudly that one is not being rude instantly makes it so. Doesn't it?

I turned my head and looked straight into his bleary, greyish, thickened corneas and said "I don't really feel like talking right now." Then I looked back at my phone.

Thus began the rant. Dude stood up and started shouting at the top of his voice, "THESE DAMN STUPID RICH PEOPLE! I'M FROM BROOKLYN AND I AIN'T NEVER BEEN AS RUDE AS THESE PEOPLE THINK THEY BETTER THAN EVERYBODY ELSE. I WAS ONLY ASKIN' ABOUT THE PHONE CUZ I THOUGHT SOMEONE WOULD STEAL IT. MOVE BACK TO FUCKING FLORIDA, WHY DON'T YA!"

And he stormed out of the station. At which point I finally looked up, my face bright red, and saw the cell phone belonging to Mr. A.D.D., tucked in among the train schedule pamphlets on a shelf across the room, charger plugged into the socket just below the shelf.

Mr. Fat Ass Businessman was acting like none of us were even in the room with him. He certainly wasn't going to get involved.

Part of me had wanted to shout back at Camo. Who was he to make commentary on what kind of person I am? I am this fucking close to not paying my bills this month, so the loathsome accusation of being rich is not even remotely accurate. How dare he embarrass me in front of complete strangers and storm out before I can reply?

Part of me wanted to completely write him off. He's just a junkie who was trying to pick me up or get me talking to him so I'd give him some money. Who cares what he thinks, he's gone now and he's probably just going to lay down underneath my truck until I come back tonight. It ain't no thang.

And part of me felt guilty because there really had been that unattended phone on the charger. He could have actually been trying to do something nice, and I had embarrased him in front of strangers by ignoring him and rebuffing his attempt to help.

My rational brain knows that the truth is actually a well-blended mix of all three of these feelings.

Yes, the phone across the station was unattended, which gave him a valid question to ask the lone female on the bench. However, had he really been concerned, he probably would have looked at me and seen the cell phone in my hands, thus answering his question without necessitating conversation.

Yes, he probably knew that he was making me uncomfortable, but that is part of what the career street person does. They know most people follow social rules, even to the point of stupidity sometimes. So the panhandler starts out with sickly sweet politeness to get someone talking, and moves quickly to putting pressure on the target, so that they will bend to the will of the aggressor rather than risk seeming "rude". This is the most common accusation leveled at the target, because it's a hot button, a buzz word, one of the most likely to elicit a response. Street people don't care if your response is negative - the trick is to get you talking to them. Once you start responding to their comments, you're hooked - you're playing their game. You will never out-talk their logic, because it's how they live.

Yes, I am sad that his life is a shambles and that there are people like him all over the world who live in a drugged-out world of addiction and poverty. I wish that I could have made polite conversation with him, made him feel like a valid member of society, and that the exchange would have left everyone in the station feeling better about themselves.

But I know that on a scale of safe to dead, the odds were not in my favor. The likelihood that this guy was mentally unbalanced and/or a danger to my safety was pretty high.

Sometimes Smart has to take precedence over Nice. Sad, but true.

I don't think I started breathing normally again until the train pulled away from the station, with me on it.

HAPPY VETERAN'S DAY!

Every year on Veteran's Day, I do a special post to thank all the men and women who have served our country. Today, I'm going to illustrate my words with photos of the particular aspect of the military that really sets my patriotic blood on fire - fighter jets.



First and foremost, I salute my husband, a veteran of the Army and the Air Force. As a Special Forces soldier, he served in many capacities, honing his considerable brawn and intellect to a razor-fine point, learning skills and ways of thinking that have continued to benefit him in his civilian life. I can honestly say that when the shit hits the fan, there is no one I'd rather have around than Bear. He can assess a problem, form a plan, and put it into operation in the time it takes most people to scratch their ass and say "What just happened?" Thanks, Bear, for all the years you spent making sure I had a safe place to lay my head at night. And for all the years you will still do so.

Next, I salute Bear's son, who grew up and joined the Air Force, and had one of the uber-coolest jobs I can think of... working on the Stealth fighter jet! Thank you, Son of Bear, for your service, for making sure the high-tech tools of our military were in top-notch shape, thus keeping our fly-boys safe in the air! Personally, there isn't much more exciting and sinister-looking than the stealth jet. Just knowing they're up there somewhere gives me the same rush as looking at the ocean and knowing that the very water that quietly laps the shore in front of me houses the Great White.


When we think of Veteran's Day, I think a lot of us get a mental image of old guys wearing flag pins and old uniforms in small town parades. Or perhaps grey-haired tenants of broken-down hospitals. There are fewer of them each year. I salute them, and their memories. But there are others, too, that we should remember today.

I salute the Blue Angels, and other military personnel who serve by other means than as front-line soldiers. They take just as many risks, spend just as much time away from their families and friends, and sometimes suffer more emotional trauma than their fighting brothers because of the very fact that they are not physically in combat. The knowledge that others are in the way of danger while they serve in non-combative positions can cause mental and emotional stress that is just as damaging as that suffered by combat personnel. I send out thanks to all who serve, in whatever capacity, because without each piece, the whole would not be.



I salute the young soldiers who have come home from this current war. Some minus body parts. Some minus their sight or hearing. Some physically whole - but in mental distress. I salute the families of these soldiers, who suffered through all those nights alone, and now have to buckle down to the rest of their lives with the struggles of getting through the healing, and learning to live with the disabilities. Sometimes coming home is just the beginning of the real fight to live. Thank you, soldiers, for all you've given up so that we don't have to.

I'll end this post with the song that sums up my feelings best on this Veteran's Day 2007.

CLICK HERE FOR VIDEO

A sip down memory lane

When I was a kid, my mom used to give my sister and I this stuff called "Postum". No, not because she hated us. Postum is actually really tasty, caffeine free, and is only ten calories a cup!

The deal was this - when she'd host dinner parties at the house, and all the adults sat around having cake and coffee afterward, we wanted to be grown-up so badly and have coffee too... so she'd brew us up some kiddie coffee - Postum! It was so much fun to add cream and sugar from the fancy china doodads, and stir it with the silver spoons, and hold our pinkies in the air while we drank. Mom was pretty savvy to figure out how to let us have our cake and drink our coffee too - and still get to sleep at night!

Well, all these years later, I ran across a jar of Postum in the grocery store and thought "Why not?". I now have a jar at home and one at work. The water cooler at work also dispenses hot water, so I just mix up a quick cup of Postum when I get the between-meals growlies, or when the heat hasn't kicked in yet in the morning and my hands are cold.

The entire point of this post...um (sorry, couldn't resist) is this: I googled Postum and came up with a Wikipedia listing, which pointed to this guy's famous blog called "The Bleat", which supposedly had a post about Postum. Whew!

Well, I went to the blog, and while I was unable to locate anything about my favorite coffee substitute, I did find this hysterical bit , where he rags on old comic books - it's a rave! Tons of funny covers and his commentary is biting. Definitely worth a look.

And if that doesn't make you laugh until you puke, try this one.

If you don't see me for a few months, it's OK - I'll be sitting in front of my computer and watching this video over and over and over

There are things called "recurrent dreams". In one of mine, I am running. Then, suddenly, I lean forward and swoooooop! I'm flying! In these dreams, I can go anywhere, just by pointing my nose in the direction I want to fly, and willing myself forward. In some dreams I've gone up past the clouds, almost into outer space. In others, I've just sped along, following the landscape.

When I saw this video, it gave me the strangest feeling that someone had filmed one of my dreams. It's eerie, really. I wonder why we humans haven't figured out how to do this until now? Seems like something that would have been around since the early 1900's at least...

HOSED

The Good News:

Today I went to work feeling kinda hot. Having lost some weight, I slid easily into my eggplant-colored velvet pencil skirt with the slit up the side, and paired it with a slimming knit V-necked top and my soft black leather flat-heeled boots. Sweet!

The Bad News:

The panty-hose I put on must have been from 1998, because the elastic at the top had gone all gooey. I don't just mean "soft", I mean gooey as in "left a residue on my hands" gooey. Disgusting, really. I didn't have time to look around for a better pair, so I left for work wearing them anyway. I walked around all day with the crotch of my pantyhose at half mast, which doesn't do much for a girl's sexy-factor, I'm here to tell you.

Thoughts for NoVeMbEr

I can't wait to buy Neil Gaiman's graphic novel,
"Sandman", and read it again.

When I hear Tori Amos live in concert,
it makes me cry.

My dad and I.
We will never do this again.

I wish I was as wise and content
as Brother Cadfael.
And that I had an herbarium,
with clay pots of spiced wine,
and a stone fireplace.

I am looking forward to making
my yearly batch of pumpkin soup.

Sometimes I wish I could belly up to the bar,
with good old Lloyd to serve me drinks
and listen to me bitch.

"There are few who deny, at what I do I am the best
for my talents are renowned far and wide
When it comes to surprises in the moonlit night,
I excel without ever even trying..."

I'm glad I don't live in a world that
never had Jimmy Stewart in it.
I'm convinced that he improved
the quality of my life just by
the quality of his.

The sheer joy of celebrating all that is dark
is what makes some music wonderful.

I wish I could have one day week alone with a
Bosendorfer grand piano.

I identify with Edward Scissorhands.
I never feel as if I belong
out in the "real world".

If wishes were horses...
I'd be riding a Night Train.

My favorite part of the work day
is driving to and from the office
listening to my Harry Potter books on CD.

No matter what I look like

on the outside,
This is what I look like
in my head.



It scares me when I think of
the tragic endings of great loves.

Rose and Jack.
Romeo and Juliet.
Tristan and Isolde.
Sweet William and Barbrie Allen.
Othello and Desdemona.
William Wallace and that girl in Braveheart.

Did they only seem like great loves
because they ended tragically,
or did they end tragically
because they were great loves?

What is it?

FIND OUT HERE

***

Marcheline's Movie Review - "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer"

Right. So Bear comes home with a movie that looks like it takes place in the 1800's or thereabouts, which makes it an instant winner with Marcheline. Anything with corsets, velvet jackets, and loads of horses in it is all right by me. Freud, have your field day. On me.

Not only does it look romantic, it stars Alan Rickman, one of my all-time faves as the snide-yet-hot Professor Snape in the Harry Potter movies, and the dashing Colonel Brandon in "Sense and Sensibility",

and Dustin Hoffman,

which means the film probably has class.

Onward ho!

The beginning of the film is designed to shock, much like the slap on the ass one supposedly gets when one is born... a baby, born in filth, covered in filth, and very much designed to wrench out our hearts and make us pity and love the poor wee thing. We also get a glimpse of the social mentality of the times, as we see how the townsfolk repay the mother who so callously left her baby to die.



But die he did not. He survived, and from the very beginning of the film we know (thanks to the carefully detailed, soft-spoken narration of John Hurt) that this boy has a special talent. He has a nose for everything. A desire to smell every fragrance in existence - be it pleasant or foul, he does not discriminate.


And what's more, he can distinguish every individual scent from its neighbor, though they be mixed up in one fetid cauldron of miasmatic stench, here amply provided by the slummy streets of Paris.

We also find out early that our boy has a taste for redheads.
Lush, pretty redheads with rosebud lips.
And who can blame him?

Unfortunately for the lush, pretty redheads, he seems to find it necessary to kill them in order to capture their scent, a pursuit in which he quickly becomes utterly immersed.



Now we embark on his journey, his quest to become a perfumer, to capture the scent of luscious babes. Why? We never really know. Is he the scent-sual version of the "Silence of the Lambs" killer, who tried to create woman by sewing together the skins of other women? Possibly. For our boy does not sleep with his women, either before or after bashing their brains in.

No, he does not seem to be a sexual predator, although the things he must do to these women to capture their essence are extremely intimate and sensual in nature.



*Marcheline is happy to report that at no time during this film does the boy dance about naked with his willie tucked backward between his legs. I think we've all seen about enough of that in "Silence", haven't we? Yes.




Dustin Hoffman plays the master perfumer who discovers the olfactory talents of our young street urchin. He takes him in and teaches him the names of all these scents he's been cataloging in his brain since he was born. He teaches him the methods of perfume making, alas - never knowing to what strange (and evil?) purpose the boy will put them.




And then, as in all romantic horror stories, we meet the Ultimate Beauty. This particular Beauty is the redhead to out-red all redheads.


Lips like overripe berries, the startled eyes of a doe, and hair that heats up the screen with its flame-like hue. Nice ta-tas, too - which never hurts, especially when you've got a corsets-and-horses film going.





Of course, the man to whom she is being pushed towards for the purpose of marriage is completely unsuitable, and ultimately detestable, so we all cringe as one when he fastens a necklace upon her fair neck in front of a crowd - to publicly display his perceived ownership of her. How tacky.


Our boy is waiting in the shadows, though - waiting to pluck this last blossom for his master perfume... but he is ever thwarted by her protective papa, played to the hilt (with customary consummate perfection) by Alan Rickman.

Oh, Daddy!

And the end of this movie, which I will not betray to you here, Dear Readers, is as breathtaking and shocking as jumping naked into a mountain stream in November. It is like a trip into the Twilight Zone. We become swept along in the story, and suddenly realize that we are part of a dream, a fairy tale, and that there is some greater meaning in this plot.

A semi-Shakespearean coupling of gross reality and the realization that we are all part of a universal mind, that we are affected by things that we do not like to admit... that we are weak, all in our own ways, and we are begged the question: Is a person evil because he follows his true nature, or is he just honest?

Watch the film, and decide for yourself.