Waste Management

This week my garbage collector refused to pick up my recyclables.  He said that a wine bottle was clearly visible and that drinking alcoholic beverages is against his religion.  I asked what that had to do with my wine bottle and he said that he could not condone my drinking because then he would not be complying with God's will.  I said "Fine, can you take the rest of my recyclables?"  He said no, that I might have more materials in there which he could not, in good conscience handle.  After he left, I put all the recyclables into the garbage can.

Then my other garbage collector came.  He refused to pick up my trash.  He said that the wind had blown the lid open and he could see a cat food bag in there.  He said that he is a vegan and that as such, he can not condone the mass slaughter of animals for feeding cats who overpopulate our country and murder millions of birds annually.   I said "Fine, I will  take the cat food bag out, ok?"  Unlike the unreasonable guy above, this trash man agreed.  I pulled the bag out.  It brought with it the wrapper from the chicken sausage I had bought with my nephew when we made pizza together.  The guy took one look, shook his head and drove off.

Ok, this is just nuts.  How are we supposed to survive as a civilization when people refuse to do their jobs based on their own religious or moral beliefs?  I mean, ok, if the first guy does not believe in drinking alcohol, fine.  But if that is gonna influence his job performance, maybe he should think about a different career.  The same thing goes for the second guy.  Sheesh.  Now my garbage, which is overflowing is gonna be pretty damn ripe by next week.  And how am I gonna get them to take it then?  I may have to haul it to the dump myself.  I just hope the dump attendants are not as morally driven as these two.

I am gonna write my congressman about this.  Something has to be done.  Our entire country could be overrun with vermin at this rate.  Think of the disease spread we are talking about if our waste disposal comes to a screeching halt.

Fortunately, my congressman, Senator Ron Wyden, is a reasonable and responsive man, unlike these elected reps I keep hearing about who would probably side with my waste disposal guys.  I mean, let's see:   We have legislation constantly being proposed which allows health care to be denied to women should their employer find said care to conflict with his or her moral or religious beliefs.  As for people refusing to perform their job based on their religious beliefs, we have one guy on the Science Committee who has proclaimed scientific theory to be "straight from the pit of hell".  I doubt those congressmen (dare I say "and women"?) are gonna be much help dealing with this garbage situation.

Fortunately, it is coming up on election time.  Everyone better vote for reasonable representatives in government so that we can have some serious waste management in effect.

Obviously, I made up that stuff about my trash and recycling.  I am serious, tho, about the other messy situation.

Funny how the reps who refuse to vote on the Jobs Bill, who refuse to do anything really, except legislate women's choices are the ones crying out that we need to "cut government waste".

Vote!  It is time to take out the garbage.

Life Cycling

I ride my bike every day that I can - that is, every day it is not icy out or dumping rain - and as long as my feet and legs and hips and back and shoulders are willing.  I do it cause I would rather pedal around than fire up a gasoline engine and navigate roads in a strictly by the book fashion.  Because I very much dislike waiting in line (say, at traffic signals), particularly whilst pouring fossil fuel emissions into the air, the land, and indirectly, the water.

So - yeah, I am not a fitness nut (clearly).  I am actually lazy - and to me, it is easier, more free-flowing, to toodle around on wheels than to walk (fer heaven's sake), or to (see above)

So, about that part where I said I dislike going strictly by the book, waiting in line....  Ok, I admit, on my bike, I cut a few corners - literally.  I try not to do anything blatantly illegal or dangerous, but I do exercise (see, I knew exercise was gonna find its way into this discussion) some poetic license.  Also, I am 57 years old and not quite as sharp as I once was.  Add the fact that I spent most of my life quite near sighted and refusing to wear glasses, and so, developed a habit of not seeing some stuff the way others do.  Yeah, I wear them now, but a lifetime habit shadows my perceptions (so if you pass me on the street and I do not say hi, just know that I may not have 'seen' you).

Miraculously, despite my intentional transgressions and unintentional blunders, most people are friendly to me out in the world of mostly cars and trucks and a few bicycles and even fewer pedestrians where I "cruise".  Some, in fact, are overly considerate and slow down for me, inviting me to "go" when it is not my turn at an intersection (despite the 13 cars behind and around them whose drivers do not share the same sentiments - no, I do not "go").  These people piss off everyone but I am pretty sure cyclists in general and I in particular are the recipients of that anger.   I could digress here into a discussion of how my timing is often thrown off by fossil fueled well wishers but hey, it's a give and take - I forgive their misplaced kindness and many forgive my blunders and mildly aggressive maneuverings.

The other day, this was not the case.  Kevin and I rode bikes to the mail drop box, hoping to catch the mailman because it was too late to make it to the post office with my ebay packages.  Kevin cut the corner through an empty  parking lot at the signal, trailer full of packages and all but I chose not to because the cliff of a drop at the driveway is too fierce to navigate for me if I don't have to.  Anyway, I could see the signal would work for me so I took the "highway".  At the signal, which was green, I turned right (onto a one way street) and then changed lanes into the left lane (with no traffic coming from any side) and then went up onto the sidewalk (because it is legal on that block and the signal was gonna change and the traffic is fierce at rush hour) and rode a block on the sidewalk to where Kevin was waiting at the mailbox.  As I almost reached Kevin, a man on a dirt bike rode up, stopped in the road, with traffic blasting by, and proceeded to yell at me:  "That's the way, just go on, never thinking about those of us out here who are DRIVING these roads.  You are such a fucking DUMB ASS".  Then he revved up his bike and blasted off.

The weird thing is, I have no idea how I could have offended him.  I turned with the signal, no oncoming traffic, no one behind me.  I got off the road almost immediately, not that I was required to, and I had time to casually ride my bike an entire block before he caught up to me.  Whatever I did, I was totally unaware of and Kevin could also not figure out my "crime".

I imagine the biker did not realize I was with Kevin because a lot of times a man who would go off on me alone would not dream of it when I am with another man.  Yeah, this is the world I live in - most men are kind and gracious but not all and yes, sexism is real.

The mad irony floored me even as I was being blasted.  Here was a guy on a dirt bike - proclaiming that he was a member of that elite group "us people who are DRIVING these roads" - after all, is that not the complaint so many drivers of encapsulated vehicles have about dirt bikers?  And did this guy not stop in the lane of a busy main thoroughfare to rant at me, thus creating a traffic hazard?

Yeah, that hurt my feelings.  It turns out we had missed the mailman but I would not ride to the post office to try and catch a late arriving mailman and ask him to take our loot.  I was too shaken up to ride through rush hour traffic.  I actually broke down crying.  And the next day - when I had to go alone to mail my stuff, I was afraid that guy would come along.... and the next....

Reflections

     I woke up this morning feeling dreadful.  That is, I felt dread when I faced my morning routine.  I was pretty sure I would be making my own coffee - after my usual "de-slug the garden" ritual - another dread inspiring endeavor.  First, I dawdled a bit on my computer, thus reducing any slug/snail gathering I might manage, gastropods being the nocturnal creatures they are.
     So... eventually, I went out and did my garden slug plucking.  Then I came in and faced the kitchen.  Whoa, pretty messy in there.  Normally, Kevin cleans up a bit before bed but last night, the Olympics held our focus firmly.  So... I began the kitchen drudgery.  As I warshed stuff and wiped surfaces and put things away, it became more clear with each shuffling that a great many of these mess modules were my own doing.  It must be a daunting task for Kevin to navigate my: bowl of clay/coconut oil, herbal tincture, bowl of herbal tincture, 8 or 9 bowls of daylily pollen, columbine seeds which need to be packed and stored, onions I pulled, lime I partially used, candle jar I froze and pulled the wax out of but which still needs warshed, citronella oil I got out but did not put back, vases- one with a dead bouquet hanging on, another empty but unrinsed.
     While I was at it, I washed the fruit bowl and tossed the dirty paper liner, wiped all the counters, put away the clean dishes, trimmed and rearranged the latest vase of flowers... about this time.... after all of the above, the second time the tea kettle whistled and as I was beginning to pour the water through the coffee.... I had a flash of how very blessed I am to have my little kitchen to putter in - to gather pollen and herbs, to cook, to make tinctures and potions and lotions, to grind coffee, and yes, to wash dishes....  I remembered a time when I was, yeah, actually homeless - when I longed for a roof and a floor, for walls and warmth and shelter... and oh yeah, how I longed for an oven and a sink and a counter, a fridge...
     Suddenly, I was not wiping the counter.  I was caressing it.  The dread had all evaporated, transformed - into joy and contentment.  Magically.
     Now.  Where is my coffee?

Life 401, k?

I had what might be considered a traumatic childhood - in some ways. At least there are times when I have considered it so.  From there, I advanced into a traumatic early adulthood.

I think we all look at our own lives, our own situations and bemoan the tragedy, the inequity. But we do not look enough at the lives of those around us. In fact, I am certain that doing just that - considering others - is the key to serenity and contentment. As long as it is the "me" story, nothing is enough, nothing is fair, nothing is as it should be. But once we look outside ourselves and begin giving, helping, sharing, joy abounds.

One thing I think I got out of living in so many different families as a child (11, depending on how long is living with someone and how long is staying with someone. Where do you draw that line?) is the ability to see things from different viewpoints. To be less certain that my way is the only way, that there is only one path to success, to God, to righteousness...

Now to argue the other side..

Coming out of this strange childhood and early adulthood, I think I clung to certain rituals I had learned in my life as "the only way" to do certain tasks. In the kitchen, particularly, I had some pretty hard lines drawn about procedures. For instance, sorting beans must be done by a painstaking and tedious method of laying a small pile out, then hand sorting each one with no more than, say three at a time in your hand and after careful and thorough examination, these are dropped into the pot.

As a young mother, I found myself living in a very large hippie commune, The Farm, and living and working in one of it's larger households.  

 One woman I lived and worked with, Patricia, was desperately trying to have a baby. At first I could not stand her. She completely rubbed me the wrong way. She was bedridden trying not to miscarry for the third or fourth time. Part of the reason I could not stand her was I was her personal servant . Dumping her chamber pot, fetching tea.  She had a shrill, whiny voice - to me she was quite demanding and acted entitled.

After her seemingly inevitable miscarriage, Patricia and I worked together in the kitchen.  I was horrified and dismayed by the cavalier attitudes of my co-workers.   I was certain that my way was the only correct way to do these food preparations and surely we would all perish if, for instance, we did not sort the beans properly.  One woman, Kathleen, whilst summarily dumping beans directly into the pot, rocks and all, basically told me that my ways were slow and ineffective and that we had a lot of people to feed and had to do it their way so shut up and just do it.   I carried on, envisioning broken teeth and feeling oppressed and misunderstood.

But Patricia was kind. She explained to me that we all have our ways that are like our family history and that we cling to certain rituals for comfort and security. But that the thing to focus on here was that we were really so blessed to have each other to be bumping butts with in the kitchen. This changed everything for me - the kitchen experience, my attitude toward Patricia. To this day, I see everything differently.

 In today's mad America - with good people taking hard stances on various sides (yes, there are more than two sides) of the Affordable Care Act issue, I am reminded of these things I am writing about here. Of the basic human need to cling to that which is familiar. To distrust change. And also, I am reminded that we must be grateful to have each other to muck through the quagmire with. To sort out what is best for America, for our people. Ah, if we could just work together in harmony and joy and peace.

 Patricia? I believe you are needed here.

Expressing myself

I just deleted the blog I posted this morning because my husband felt I should.

Why? Because it was about my relationship with someone.

So where is that place that it is safe to write what I think and feel? I tried a journal once, for years. People read it, uninvited and reacted so strongly that I burned it.

I think that place is inside me. I just want to write what I think and feel. I guess what I need to do is remove it from automatically posting to facebook.

Blocking the Old Chip

Today, as I was sawing a hunk off a pork roast to "have a bite" I remembered going wild for pork roast when I was a girl. At the time I was about 8. My "Aunt Lou" served the pork roast, something I did not remember ever having before. It was so delicious to me I kept asking if I could have more. The next day Aunt Lou took me aside and said that she was concerned about me because I had been so insatiable in regard to the meat. She said that my sister Myrna had a problem with obesity and that she was worried that I may have inherited the same trait.

Well, I was floored. First of all, I really had no real concept of obesity. Oh, I guess in cartoons, Wimpy was fat and always wanting a burger. That was humor, right? I had mixed feelings about that guy. Annoyance at his behavior and pity for his hunger. But back to my sister. Obese? Myrna? Why, to me, Myrna was the most beautiful girl imaginable. And secondly, whatever this horrible "condition" was that poor Myrna apparently suffered from, oh, my god, I too was to be the subject of Aunt Lou's and others stern looks and head shaking in a tsk tsky sort of way.

For cripes sakes, looking back I wonder if maybe I was just starved for iron. After all, I had been hospitalized twice as a baby for anemia and the doctor had put me on geritol plus iron when I was three for - yep - anemia. In fact, my whole life, docs and midwives and such have chased me around doling out iron pills, prenatal vitamins, even when I was not pregnant, waving chicken and beef liver about.... well, ok, metaphorically.

From that moment on, I think I looked at Myrna in a new light and surely at myself. And perhaps at others, wondering if they could see my inherited tendency. Mostly, tho, I just played hard and had fun. In junior high I took sewing and when my sister Pat (okay all these sisters and Aunts are a long story, but Pat, no relation to Myrna...) measured me to fit a pattern, my waist measured 18 and a half inches. That year Twiggy was a smash phenom and at school, my nickname became Twiggy. Still, I think that damn curse of the dreaded obesity trait was banging around in my psyche breeding trouble.

Well, it was not long before it had something to breed with. About the same time I was answering to Twiggy and playing tennis at every chance, as well as cycling, swimming, playing trumpet and french horn, sewing everything I could dream of, creating a troll doll mansion and lined sleeping bags for all 11 of the little monsters, we all went camping. It was a strange camping trip. We went with the Lyons family - my mom's boss Jack, his wife Dean and their 4 kids, two of whom, Pete and Jeff, were Danny's and my main tripping buddies. Er, Danny my brother, no relation to Myrna. On that particular trip, my mom and dad were fighting. I could hear them yelling in the volkswagon bus. My mom was crying and Dad was slapping her. I wanted to go do something but Danny said to just leave them alone. It was quite unnerving. The next day I tried to talk to my mom about what had happened. I told her I had heard Dad slap her twice. Her response set my world as I knew it spinning. She explained that I did not really understand how things worked or what was going on. That my mother (my birth mother, that is, and yes, Myrna's mother, my "mom" being actually my aunt and my Aunt Lou being no relation at all) ah....that my mother was insane and that she, my "mom" was concerned that I may have inherited the tendency to mental instability.

Wh.a.aaaat? Ok, wow, that does change one's self image. First of all, my mother was insane? Uh, all I really knew about that was that horrible tv movie I saw where the woman wanted to marry the guy but he loved someone else and so.... oh, man, that movie gave me the creeps for like 30 years. Ok, lessee, where was I? Oh, yeah, getting inoculated with the insanity tendency neurosis. Wonderful. NOT  ~ Well, then, with those two lovelies festering around in my inbox, the creature of self doubt could flourish.

Did that show? I mean could people see that my mother was insane? That I was a veritable fat crazy person just waiting to manifest?

Ah.... the wonderful things we inflict upon our children.

Last Night's Dream: Two cultures, variable time frame, one heart

We lived across the street from some Native Americans. A couple of their "warriors" came over and there was a skirmish of sorts, no one hurt, but tension was high. Later: A "warrior" came over and came into our house. I looked for a weapon - found an arrow but no bow. I brandished the arrow when the (Is "Indian" not politically correct?) invader came back into the living room. He spoke to me as he ran directly into the arrow, spearing himself in the side. He became a she. There I was, holding and arrow that was speared into a woman. I covered her with a blanket and put her into a makeshift tent in the middle of the room - she was lying on the floor.

There was contact between her and her people. She tried to talk to them and I saw the conversation on a computer screen (even tho the dream started out before phones or electricity) - her words were halting and a bit incoherent. She was trying to say she was ok as she kept losing consciousness. She was saying to tell her children she loved them. Her people thought she was dead. They were hurt and angry - considering revenge.

She stayed in that tent, covered with a blanket all night. I agonized. The next morning I opened the door and called out to the Native Americans across the street and partly into the street - I told them she was alive and asked if they could come get her and do their medicine. They came immediately. They started to take her away but I called out to wait. They brought her back to me. I hugged her (now she could stand - hey, its a dream, ya know) and said that someday she and I would have grandchildren at the same time and enjoy them. She smiled and nodded. The sun rose in my heart.

Local Politics 101

I think the best lessons I learned about how politics work were when I lived rurally. Or perhaps those were the saddest, most painful lessons. Frinstance:

When I lived in a small town and my children were in school, I occasionally attended school board meetings and spoke out if I felt strongly about a subject. A dear friend who was involved in a local political committee asked me to become active on the board so that she could step down, knowing someone like spirited was there. I agreed to attend some of those meetings and see how I felt about it.

At the first meeting I attended, I spoke up about my position on the topic at hand. Immediately, the wife of the very outspoken "conservative leader" verbally attacked me in a shockingly vicious manner. I responded as best I could but it soon became clear that I was not to be allowed to voice ANY opinion without being jumped on by this woman (Lets call her Thelma). Her efforts paid off. I declined my friend's request and avoided attending further meetings.

These people, the outspoken man (let's just call him Jim-Bob for fun), and his personal enforcer, Thelma owned the local rag - a little small town paper that had once been quaint and endearing and delightfully real. Once they acquired the paper, it became a tool for their tirades - grandiosely named a "County" publication - at the same time losing its former foothold in honesty, civility and charm.

Things really got out of hand with that paper. Every person accused of a crime became a "culprit" - there was no sense of "innocent until proven guilty with Jim-Bob. I often wondered why no one sued the paper for these insults and accusations.

Ok, I said out of hand. Seriously out of hand: Some local young folks protested something they felt strongly about and Jim-Bob responded, using the term "piccaninny", among other horrid aspersions. A local person wrote a letter to the editor, wishing the paper would report locally relevant info, such as the proposed cutting of a majestic stand of trees, rather than reflecting negatively on the efforts of youth. Jim-Bob's response was to write a scathing and ugly piece - and threatening to kick the writer's ass up and down main street.

Ok, that's the background to what I set out to share today. And here we go.

At one school board meeting I spoke about various things I felt, including that we should have some money going toward the arts and not just toward sports. Also I spoke out strongly against putting a coke machine in the quad of our tiny campus. The paper had a writer (a very nice lady) who wrote a review column of the school board meetings. She mistakenly gave me credit for a quote in that column. Another parent was actually the one who had said the quoted words. While I am willing to be judged and held responsible for the things I do say, I did not feel comfortable having my stance improperly reflected in "a county wide" publication :P

I thought about writing a letter to the editor asking for a correction but I did not feel comfortable submitting ANYTHING in writing since my friends had been castigated for their efforts. I knew Thelma. When she was not jumping on me in public meetings to be sure no one injected any thoughts of reason during her husband's tirades, she did some community service projects to which I contributed through my store. I had reason to go to the newspaper office in the course of that relationship so while I was there one morning, I mentioned that I would like a correction in the paper, that I had been credited with saying something at the school board meeting which in fact, I had not.

Thelma was there and so was Jim-Bob. They came out when they heard me asking the clerk to make the correction and informed me that I would need to write a letter to the editor and formally request it. I replied that I hesitated to write any letter to the editor after seeing the responses FROM the editor, so I would prefer to just let them know. When pressed on that point, I mentioned the above incidents. That really pissed off ol' Thelma and Jim-Bob. They puffed up bigger and their faces twisted. It was ugly. They took turns hurling insults and accusations at me. In response to one accusation I agreed that I did actually believe in human rights and dignity.

My world burst apart right there. Suddenly I was in a mad, mad world. They were both coming at me physically in the most horrifying, frightening way imaginable - bellowing that I was a f(*ing hypocrite and a f)*(ing communist - I burst for the door, ran down the stairs literally in fear of my life - and NEVER set foot in that office again. Never advertised in that paper again, or bought one.

I am ashamed to say it took my own personal encounter to make me boycott that paper. Simply calling my friend's child a piccaninny should have been enough. Threatening to kick another friend's ass up and down main street (along with a few vile insults) should have been enough. Ah, lesson learned. We MUST stand up for each other.

K then.

Removed for violating Yahoo Answers' Community Guidelines

Question: Why do we have so many of our citizens in jail or prison? ?

Question Details:
With 5 percent of the worlds population and one fourth
of the world's prisoners in our country, (USA) just where are we
heading? Ever since the war on drugs began in 1971, the percentage of
prisoners per capita has skyrocketed. Our country is staggeringly broke
and yet we spend billions of dollars to incarcerate our own people for
victimless crimes. One percent of all American adults are currently
incarcerated-over half of those for drug charges.

While doctors prescribe mountains of opiates, speed, and dangerous anti-depressants, our foodstuffs contain tri-sodium phosphate (a banned solvent in Nevada),
carcinogens, growth hormones and more, while tobacco is legal (and so is
Alcohol), hundreds of thousands of children are growing up in utmost
poverty, fatherless because Daddy took drugs. When Dad gets out, he is a
felon. Unable to find a good job because of criminal history checks,
traumatized by abuses suffered in prison and forced to comply with
stringent rules of parole, he is all too likely to end up a "lifer".

Meanwhile, private corporations are growing ever richer via the
mega-business of building and running prisons paid for with our tax
dollars. Feel safer? Enforcement of violent crimes is down. Got a
problem? Need law protection? You had better make an appointment and
give up on excellent service because in many areas, training is non
existent for fingerprinting and other invasive crime investigations. The
main focus is on drug law enforcement.

Other civilized countries have
made huge adjustments and gains in their handling of drug problems. By
decriminalizing addiction and possession, they have reduced the violent
crimes associated with drugs, the aids and other diseases epidemic in
our country. They offer ways to turn people's lives around while we
continue to "search and destroy".

No, I personally do not take drugs, other than caffeine, whatever is in chocolate, and sugar. (When they make caffeine illegal, we are ALL in trouble!) But I have witnessed
the devastation of families from our harsh and ineffective laws. What
ever happened to the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Contact your congressmen today. Ask them these questions. Contact our new
president. To be a truly great country requires more than just
arrogantly proclaiming our greatness. To be truly great, we must be
great to ourselves, to our own people and to others.