not-so-false idols

I dream of blogging like this. So brilliant. I *love* her.

late as usual

Didn’t everybody else do this days ago?

My pirate name is:
Mad Mary Bonney

Every pirate is a little bit crazy. You, though, are more than just a little bit. You can be a little bit unpredictable, but a pirate’s life is far from full of certainties, so that fits in pretty well. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from
part of the network

many days you have lingered around my cabin door

Today is good.

I got to work with CHO-girl at school. Yay! Just like old times.

My folks from Teh Internets were everywhere. In my email. On my blog. Everywhere. Yay. My folks IRL were everywhere, too. At my school. In my house. On my street. Fab.

Sophie was her usual charming self and delightedly told me to read a sad but beautiful passage from a novel she’d just finished.

And there was wine with the kids from New Orleans.

And there was dinner with the girls from New York.

And there were crazy Chinese herbs, listed here, for your edification:

  • hoelen/ fu ling
  • licorice/ gan cao
  • astragalus (processed)/ zhi huang qi
  • atractylodes (white, cooked)/ chao bai zhu
  • tahn-kuei/dang gui
  • cortex moutan/mu dan pi
  • codonopsis/ dang shen
  • white peony root/ sheng bai shao
  • rehmannia (cooked)/ shu di huang

And then there was sleeping and great joy.

Oh, hard times come again no more.

cd 3

Oh yeah!

I almost forgot!
Today is the International Day of Peace. Yay! Peace!

Since we are sooo ahead of the game at my school, we celebrated it… yesterday! Ok, really, it’s because that’s how it was on the school calendar, and who am I to argue with the school calendar? No Body, that’s who.

Anyway. It is the very early and tender beginning part of the year for toddlers, and so our version of the Day o’ Peace is somewhat modified. The primary classes light a candle at the given hour, pass it from child to child (it’s all very safe, quit calling Social Services), and have various discussions about peace. I think. I’ve never seen it because, as I said, it is a very tender and early point in the school year for my toddlers and, well, if I leave the room they cry. Anyway, our school had a lovely picture in the paper of children carefully passing the candle around a few years back (like 12) and we still milk the crap out of that picture. It’s in every piece of promotional propaganda we’ve got.

Since I can’t link to the over-used old newspaper photo, I’ll give you a couple pictures from the toddler version from last year. (I don’t have pictures from this year, because I was so busy Being Peaceful, I forgot my camera.)

First, I make a big to-do about how fire is hot, and the matches are “my work.” Only after we go over this a million times, do I light the candle and get to the goods, which is me saying, “Today is Peace Day. When you look at our peace candle, you can say, ‘Peace’.” And all (ok, a few) of them say “Peace.” And some of them look at me like I am crazy. I get that a lot this time of year.

Then I show them the Peace Crane, and say, “You can hold the Peace Crane and then pass it to your friend. You can look at your friend’s eyes and say ‘peace’.” Insert some version “the candle is *my* work/ the candle is *hot*” in there wherever you see fit, ‘cuz you know I was.

See, they actually do it.
And no burns.
Don’t forget to add your blog to One Million Blogs for Peace, if you haven’t already.

Happy International Peace Day!


Sophie announced to me and her mother, quite randomly, that she wanted “a MySp@ce.” Read all the pre-teen attitude and psuedo-angst into those quotes you want. Poor kid, she got a no from both of us, immediately and with no qualifications. She wheedled and cajoled to the best of her ability (which works well with some of the adults in her life, but not with me, nor with her mother – we are a strong and united front), and gained no ground from either of us, but did get a crash course on how weird and dicey the internet can be. Plus, more noes (is that right for the plural of no?). The agony. Oh, wait….

****** there is some man walking through my neighborhood, singing to himself, something about, “give peace a chance, and see what happens, bum, bum, bum…..” not the John Lennon version, but something entirely of his own making – fabulous*****

Anyway. I really think it is clear she’s not old enough to navigate an adult social/hook-up network by herself because she’s still naive enough to think that she should ask her mother and me. I guess this is good, the keeping open of the lines of communication, but really, I think if she were savvy enough to pull off registering on her own, she’d be savvy enough to tell the difference between people who want to be her friend and people who want to be her “friend,” or at least savvy enough not to tell these “friends” too much about herself.

But back to the plot, or lack thereof. So I told her I’d see if I could find any teen social networks for her and we let it all go at that. And I did, but she didn’t mention it again. Until today, when she asked me what year she would have been born in if she was 13 now. As background, when we set up her now-defunct h0tmail account, we faked her birth date, so she’d be old enough to join. So I opened my mouth to prompt her to do the math herself, and then thought to ask what she wanted to fake her birthday for. Nothing, she said. Uh-huh. So I told her she was on her own to figure it out and went back to the comics page (I am a *very* attentive caregiver). I reminded her a little later that I had, as promised, found some teen versions of MySp@ce, and showed her the link to one that I cannot remember the name of the save my life. Whatever it was, she jumped on it. Jumped in an I-don’t-really-care-about-this-tweener way. (Lord) Which means that she set herself up an account and fussed around with it for the better part of an hour. She even showed me her avatar.

Score! Puesdo-angsty pre-teen – 1! Me – 1! We’re all winners chez Starrhill!


I’m still using my Quilt of Summer™ – a very light down comforter in a too small European-style duvet cover. It’s the exact size of the area of my bed and is great for summer because it does not cover me fully. When you have no AC, it is crucial not to be fully covered. Especially crucial not to have one’s feet covered – this is somehow related to the old “wear a hat to keep your whole self warm” thing. Anyway, my feet are footloose and fancy free with the Quilt of Summer™ and that is a fine thing in a Virginia summer.

So I woke up to temp this morning (or rather the whiney cat woke me up), and it was low, low, low – 97.3ºF low. Not below the coverline, because there isn’t one this cycle, since I hand-set the ovulation day on old FF, but also not high enough to my mind at 5 am. I wrote this off to having slept with the Quilt of Summer™ – leaving my feet exposed – even though it is no long summer sleeping weather and let it go at that. (Really it is time to put old QS™ down for it’s long winter’s nap. But I am loath to let go of summer.) But then, just now, I looked at my chart over-lay, and damn, those falling curves of past failed cycles look awfully similar to the curve made by this morning’s drop.

Better luck next time, right? Right. This was really and truly the last of the “good” cycles, the well timed cycles. A pregnancy that starts next month will put me back at work next school year with a 6 week old baby. Fuck. That is not enough time. Not enough.

So unless I get a nice bounce back in temps tomorrow, I think I am out this round. Fuck.

CD 28, 12 dpo.

and in the other corner

So school is its usual first-few-weeks-rough-edged self and my ass is kicked. Is it Fatigue or is it An Early Sign? Only my uterus knows for sure.

You’d think I’d be too tired to think about the 2ww, but you’d be wrongity wrong wrong, as Catherine has said for years. Just wrong. I’ve got phantom symptoms (Headache? With a side of sort-of-weirdly-timed-but-not-really-maybe-normal CM? Thanks, I’ll take mine to go, please.) and quickly squashed fantasies (Do I have my positive HPT blog post written in my head? Why, yes, I do – I mean, no! No, I don’t! That would jinx everything!), and hours of chart-obsessing and ttc blog reading under my belt.

Between the start of school and the ttw, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.

CD 28, 11 dpo *sigh*

my own personal jesus

While I don’t so much believe in god, I do have a close and personal relationship with The Lunch Gods. (Or, at least, a close and personal relationship with the High Priestess of The Lunch Gods.) In years past, The Lunch Gods (TLG?) have rained manna down on Their followers and all us followers had to do was sacrifice the occasional virgin. Good deal, no? There would be burritos, or mmmm… Irish Seafood Chowder and sometimes steak (!) and always the avocados. It was – yes – heavenly to live in the Kingdom of TLG. For there was the power and the glory of bountiful food in recycled tupperwares. TLG are nothing if not eco-friendly.

But then, as all good things do, the Age of TLG ended. I imagine other peoples have felt the same kind of emptiness and spiritual hunger when they find themselves suddenly afloat in the cold and lunch-less world, their gods’ time having passed. Bereft is not too strong a word for the feeling of my very soul without TLG. Oh, the weeping and gnashing of teeth! Oh the longing for a well steamed burrito!

But, lo! Behold the Power of TLG!

And yea, though I’ve walked through the crappiest valley of the shadow of pre-school this week, I will fear no mid-day hunger; for They are with me; Their burritos and Their recycled tupperwares comfort me.

Tomorrow. Praise be.

The Lunch Gods are risen! Truely, They are risen!

not carless

So I have this thing, for lack of a better term, about my carbon foot print. Similar and closely tied to the whole Counting of Local Food Stuffs thing. You know how it is: (somewhat) obsessively turn off electrical things – ceiling fans, lights, stereo; floggings for excessive air travel; shopping at the farmer’s market; not driving whenever possible; and so on and so forth. The driving is the big one. I really don’t do it much. I have gone close to 6 weeks without buying gas. So every now and then, I begin to wonder if I could do without a car. Could I arrange things so I simply didn’t need one? I could, I think. I come close in the summer, when Sophie is at camp. (The World of Sophie would have to change dramatically for this to happen for real.) I can walk or take the bus most places I need to go. Now, I love my car – for its great mileage, its longevity, its great handling, its kindness to me in still running after all this time and abuse. Love is really the word for it. But could I do without?

Yesterday, my pregnant friend from the Valley (PFFV), called to tell me she was coming over the mountain for a trip to the fancy market across the way from me. Was I up for a visit? Why, yes, I was. I always am. So I did some weeding on the north side of the house, waiting. And waiting. I was just sort of starting to worry when I checked the messages on my phone. Just how many things can go wrong when you’re a PFFV and you’re driving over the mountain to come to the fancy market? Many, in my imagination. But in real life, generally the most obvious thing goes wrong – car trouble.

Poor PFFV’s car had stopped, not 8 blocks from my house and she had left me a message saying so. I called her back, keys in hand to go pick her up, and when she answered her phone, she said another friend of ours from the Valley, had just pulled up behind her. Their town in the Valley is close to an hour away, and, as I’ve said, over a *mountain* so it was funny and fortuitous that he was suddenly right there behind her. I am quite sure he relished his role of white knight, because he’s that kind of guy. Anyway. After lots of twisty and roundabout phone calls (between us and to my dad, who I am still convinced can tell me how to fix anything – romantic little girl notions never die) and thoughts (drive it? to where? tow it? to where?) and phonebook perusals in search of open service stations, I walked down Main street to meet them.

Now, the obvious plan would be for PFFV to do her fancy market shopping and then have our other friend carry her back over the mountain when he went, and this was the intended course of action when I arrived on the scene. But in the course of watching the tow truck guy (who later told us he has 8 children ages 2 to 33 – jesus fucking christ) hook up the poor dead car to the tow truck’s towing apparatus, it came out that said other friend from the Valley had plans to go to a party *on* the mountain, which he was postponing to continue his role as white knight (“every party needs a bachelor,” he told me – this is where we smile indulgently and shake our heads). Well, I’ll take as much time with PFFV as I can get, so I said I’d drive her over post-fancy-market-shopping and we’d all be just as happy.

Just to clarify, this was not as selfless as it may seem. PFFV can cook like a house on fire and I was angling for some dinner made in her beautiful kitchen and a short visit with her ever charming husband. Plus, the weather was the kind that makes a girl like me think maybe there is a heaven and we’re in it (oh, wait – I think that all the time) and there is not much that can rival a trip to the Valley for looks.

So off we toddled to the fancy market and over the mountain and to the regular grocery and right on to Church street. PFFV was buying things to cater her own baby shower. Because she loves nothing better than feeding people. And we had dinner, and looked at baby things and prepped treats for the shower and her ever charming husband was ever charming and gave me sawdust for my worm bin (Oh, the worm bin – it gets a post all its own!) and we talked and talked and ate and cooked and it was perfect.

And if I had no car, it would have played out very differently. So tonight before bed, I will put on my Certified Fair Trade Hairshirt™ – made with real hair shaved from organic nuns and guaranteed to itch enough to cause a rash bigger than your carbon footprint and to remind you that internal combustion engines are fucking up the planet faster than you can say the Hail Mary. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.