Wednesday, December 5, 2018

Wienerdog Wednesday

Source  unknown

I am trying to get my blog going again, mostly for therapeutic purposes but also to exercise my writing muscles so they don't go completely slack. Meanwhile, I can make sure anybody who still stops by here doesn't have another wienerless Wednesday!

It's the second Xmas season without Scooter Pie....but Santa Paws will be visiting the Intelliwench residence to help my daughter's new furry friend celebrate her first holiday. Look for an introduction to Teacup in a future post!

Sunday, November 11, 2018

Darkness and Light

The view from my deck

There's a bright side to everything, and the midterm elections were certainly proof of that. There was no Blue Wave here in Upper East Tennessee, but our little county did vote to allow the sale of liquor by the drink in restaurants and to permit retail package stores, so we won't have to drive too far when we want to forget that the best we could come up with to replace retiring US Senator Bob Corker is Marsha "We need to protect the 2nd Amendment" Blackburn. The woman hasn't even been sworn in yet, and she's already an embarrassment.

Congratulations to all of you who did manage to elect or re-elect some sane and progressive candidates to office. Is it a start of bigger, bluer things to come? Hope so.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

All Politics -- and Snack Foods -- and Parades -- are Local

Today is National Peppermint Patty Day in the U.S.. Having grown up in York, PA, I have a strong opinion about what should and shouldn't be called a Peppermint Patty. (The York variety distinguishes itself from squishy imitators by its distinctive "snap" when the patty is broken in two.)

In fact, York County in Pennsylvania is known as the Snack Food Capital of the World. Therefore, geographic prejudices influence my ideas about lots of foods:  Potato chips should bear a German surname and be kettle cooked; Crabs must be blue and of Chesapeake Bay origin; and Chocolate is Hershey's, never Nestle (even if most of Hershey's production has now moved to Mexico).

To paraphrase Tip O'Neill, all politics and all snack foods are local. And so, I would argue, are parades. Our south central Pennsylvania parades were entirely local affairs, drawing talent from no further than the county's borders, and honoring local veterans and football teams. Some of the high school bands' color guards included rifle twirlers, but that was it as far as any displays of military might went. The parades were a celebration of community, and just lining the streets to cheer our friends and neighbors and eat sticky cotton candy was reason enough to gather and briefly disrupt the dailiness of life.

Even if I were Washington, DC local, I doubt I could get behind the Dumpster's idea for a big parade down the streets of  the nation's capital, to celebrate . . . . what?

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

State of the Union Drinking Game

Which will kill more brain cells:  A) Listening to the most uninteresting man in the world blather and lie for an hour: or B) just leaving the TV off and consuming enough alcohol during the evening to numb ourselves to the reality that is AmeriKKKa 2018?

Monday, January 29, 2018

Monday Meh

A year ago I refused to believe that the Pussy-grabber-in-Chief would still be around to deliver a State of the Union Address. How can he still be in office?

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Have No Fear . . .

Might as well start blogging again -- what have I got to fear?

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Wienerdog Wednesday

RIP Scooter Pie   (2000 - 2017)

The house is so quiet.

Monday, January 9, 2017

Monday Meh(ditation)

Campus is closed until noon today, so this morning it felt incredibly indulgent to sit and watch the sunrise from my couch instead of through the windshield of my car.

That, my friends, is my definition of luxury. Ponder on it a while. I pity the folks who have everything but the time and sense to sit a while and watch the sun mosey up over the mountains, painting the underbellies of the clouds pink and lilac and tangerine and gold. The dearest treasures are those that we know we can hold for only a few moments. 

There's no photo to share. You'll just have to take my word for it. And find your own sunrise.

Saturday, November 26, 2016


I'm not a fan of Thanksgiving. I dream of being able to spend the November holiday anonymously, perhaps traveling to a place where they don't celebrate gluttony and violence (football) and unfettered capitalism (Black Friday). While I do have some happy Thanksgiving memories, in recent years the day is just something I want over with as quickly and undramatically as possible.

This year we -- my mother, daughter, and I -- were not invited to anybody else's "celebration," and so I cooked a more or less traditional dinner. My daughter and I like the leftovers more than the meal itself, it seems. My mom enthusiastically helped herself to the homemade cranberry jam, "that red stuff" as she keeps calling it, even piling scoops of it on her salad and pecan pie. Whatever.  

Since it was just the 3 of us, our table conversation was easily enough steered away from anything political -- my condolences to anybody who had to endure otherwise. We talked about the dog show that was broadcast earlier in the day (why do dachshunds never win Best in Show?), the wildfire smoke that made the day seem glooomy, and Thanksgivings past. Although my mother and I shared my first 25 or so Thanksgivings at HER mother's house, my mom's brain betrayed those memories, and instead she complained about having to cook Thanksgiving back when she was married to my Dad and lived wherever that place was called. I tried to make some references to specific traditions and dishes that were part of all of our actual Thanksgiving get-togethers, but Mom didn't really seem to make the connection, to remember that she was there, too. 

Instead of worrying about my mom inventing memories, though, I kept to myself how hilarious the idea of her making a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for my Norwegian dad was. Sticky sweet potatoes, turkey, cranberries, pumpkin pie -- all of those foods were indeed foreign to him, and we never had anything like that in our house unless it was leftovers schlepped home from Gram's. 

As I was saying, the reason I made Thanksgiving dinner was so that we could have leftovers. And I guess leftovers are like memories. You can recreate the same meal you originally enjoyed, true, but you can also create something entirely new, like my Mom did with her memories of Thanksgiving past. It's not worth getting upset over, it just IS. 

I wonder what she'll be putting cranberry jam on today.....

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Raise Your Hand...

...if you won't be able to get through the next 4 years without therapy.

My issue is that I just ... can't ... handle ... the Donald's ... voice. It provokes such nausea and disgust in me, seriously, that I don't know how I will make it through the coming months. 

Luckily, my new job is housed in the same building as Counseling for Faculty and Staff, so I can relatively easily get the help I need. I suppose part of the problem, though, is that I don't want to accept hearing his voice as a normal part of my existence. 

How are you all coping?