How much is it worth? how about a nice handful of your own teeth?

I had another of those odd experiences that remind me of several gradual changes that have occurred, culminating in my current curmudgeonliness. I was work-bound and mass transit-trapped, the mouth breathers closing in as the morning commute count grew, and a perky little feller just felt bound to lean in close to me and say, "You should smile, Miss!"

"Really? How much are you gonna pay me?" I asked.

He didn't say anything, and I didn't feel like going into it with Sparky the Cheerleader of the 12-Sandy to City Center. But that's a big part of my shift over the last 10 years. I actually used to love people, and customer service and teaching and all that kind of random public interaction. Now, after roughly 20 years of smiling for money, I do not wish to smile at anyone outside my family and friends unless I am getting paid. It seems a smile at strangers is akin to a bullseye for the freaky, needy, and unstable to find you.

I used to honestly believe that most people are mostly good, blah blah blah. Now, having managed a sizeable crew, one of whom is still in jail for her crimes and a couple who probably should be, and especially after less than a year in a union, here is my impression of Most People:
Immoral, lazy, selfish, illiterate, and possibly incontinent. And they will need to cross my palm with some gold for a smile. I've not gone all cynical, though--I still believe that somehow we have the ability to not completely fuck things up as a race and that we can figure out a lot of the problems we face and will survive, as a race, more or less ok. Macrocosmically, what happens is we get a good leader here or there (and I'm not talking about the President so much as your local city and state politicos and committees) who essentially function as benevolent dictators and make decisions that no one opposes because we're all so freakin' thrilled someone else is managing things that we just roll over and piddle ourselves in glee. This same process is generally how the Evil Among Us rise to power, however, so it's not fool proof. It's why I think it doesn't matter more than shit or shinola who is President. Everything that matters happens in your city, at your level, and on your watch.

Is there anyone else who would like to see a little less government going on? I mean, yay whoo Barack what-the-fuck-ever, I have no problem with him that I wouldn't have with any other spend-happy politician, and it was "nice" to have our national emotions proud and hopeful for once, and yes, I do think he's better than the current, DUH. But that's like saying ptomaine is a better option than cyanide, because it's less likely to completely kill you. You know what? I'm against the State recognition of gay marriage. But I'm also against the recognition of het marriage by the State. Frankly, the State has no business in my house for any reason, whether to determine the nature and solidity of my relationships or set a tax rate based on those relationships and/or my ability or desire to breed. Flat tax, baby, government fix the roads, maintain a military force sufficient to protect our borders, and then cut it the fuck out. Smaller organizations are much better equipped to provide social services, and you know what? When did taking care of everyone become the responsibility of the government? When we started paying them to take care of our sick, our elderly, our addicted, our fucked up, our neglected, we got the bad end of the bargain. It's not that I don't believe all people don't deserve care and the best life they can have, it's that I don't believe the government is a good, efficient vehicle for delivery of anything.

Ok. End rant, more later. The gist of my mood for today, however, is that my smile comes at a price, and most stranger folks really don't want to pay it. It's why I don't carry a gun.

Flour, water, salt, yeast, and maybe olive oil

I am deeply in love with Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day. Here's why:

I made bread for Squidlet's school potluck/fall program, even after working til 3 pm:


And then, last night, Alan and I had a hankering for pizza-esque thingies, so I happened to have some olive oil dough prepped, and here's what happened:





And these little puffy bready things are TASTY all by themselves (I'm sure it varies depending on the flavor of olive oil used--I happened to have some really good stuff around). Then we added some roasted garlic olive oil, diced grilled lamb, wilted chard, goats' cheese, and roasted red peppers for this:

And then, after Squid and the Huz chowed through one of these each, we experimented with a tomato chutney and some sardines for this:


So other than the fact that I'm a rotten photog, I hope you get the gist. And if you've ever been afeared of baking bread, it's not so bad.

Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb?

Ok, today's question is: why does gospel music make me so happy? I am pretty decidedly not a Christian. And it is, to date, largely Christian gospel music that makes me happy. (Are other religions'/spiritual beliefs' music called gospel? Or is it just religious music?) Some of the lyrics are particularly gruesome. "By the marks where the nails went in, I will know my saviour" for example. Shudder! And yet I wander around the house singing it all merrily, even perhaps while washing the lamb of the blood before sticking a big hunk of it on a spit to roast. Ah, mystery. Maybe it's all that protestant angst finally released, it's the kind of joy I feel when a jack in the box finally pops up! NOW! FREE!

These last two weeks or so as well we've been witnessing Baby's First Existential Crisis (TM), for which I've yet to find a cutesy frame or scrapbook template. Lane's been dancing around the edges of understanding death and dying in kind of general, out-there-ness ways for a while now, and I guess we knew it was coming, but the night when we had to hold him for hours while he screamed and cried "I don't want to die! I don't want to DIIE, Mommy!" was fairly harrowing. Any tips on handling this would be greatly appreciated. I don't want to lie to him, and I think I begin to see the beginnings of religion: it's how we made mortality bearable to our young.

I can fix it!

I'm increasingly annoyed by the propaganda re: Right to Life, blah blah blah, vs. Right to Choose. Because I understand there is No. Middle. Ground. Here. The facts are that some people consider the fetus' rights a trump card over the mother's; others consider women's right to choose an integral part of freedom.
But I have a solution. I think it's quite elegant, and while the few people I've presented it to have been horrified and all agog at my derring-do in even suggesting it, if the ultimate goal is truly to end abortion and ensure that all fetuses who can be born are, it works. It also evens out the disparity of responsibility long associated with the most effective birth control.
Ready? Perform reversible vasectomies on all young male adolescents, let's say, starting at age 12. For those who don't trust the medical establishment, offer sperm freezing (heck, given the studies that show older dude's jizz isn't quite up to snuff and has a higher rate of birth defects and other health problems, maybe, for the sake of the fetus, all pregnancies should be started with cryogenically frozen baby batter from the would-be papa's halcyon days).
Oh wait, said some folks: that's an invasive medical procedure performed on a minor without his knowing consent! Really? You mean, like male circumcision to make the penis pretty/less ooky-seeming? That's interesting too, as some would consider an unwanted or unplanned pregnancy invasive. So we're trading one for the other for a while--let's call it, say, 400 years, just a little trial period. Seems fair to me.
But the overwhelming reaction is more that, while they saw it as a logical and even "elegant" solution, "no way a nation of dads and their adolescent sons will let you close to their penises with a laser." Oh. So it's not about an individual's right to choose a medical procedure/condition. It's about the penis. YAWN.

CUTENESS

So with the reminder that our country's future may lie in the hands of undecided voters who prefer a coin toss to critical thinking, I thought I'd turn to something a little more uplifting. How about pie?

This is the classic Peach Custard recipe straight out of Joy of Cooking, and it relies on really good ingredients more than skill. Except the crust, that really has to be homemade. I've been using Plugra butter for my baking with grand results; I still use ~1/2 to ~1/3 veggie shortening to get the uber-flaky pastry dough, though.

Speaking of pie, look who's cute as?

Lane was playing with my scarf (look familiar, Jenn? Told you I still have and love it!) and enjoying his new shirt from his first self-chosen live show. If you have a need for children's music that doesn't suck (and really, who doesn't?), then check out The Harmonica Pocket. They not only put on a killer live show for the bairns, but write clever and weird lyrics with complex and kinda of jazz-melodic-harmonic music behind them. Plus one of the singers hula hoops like a fiend. DUDE.

In other news, the Huz and the bairn did FixitStuff around the house and not only did I find how motivational a list is for the Huz, but I caught them in action hard at work.

They're hanging my stainless utensil racks, and Lane's showing his helping hand skills.

It's all over the place, but . . .

I believe you need to see this if you haven't yet.

New job, new week . . . do I go for #3?

This is day 3, and it's not too bad. Once I get through this one, I know the only glitch is my willpower, since the physical addiction is gone (so They say).

My quandary is, shockingly, nothing to do with the heinous quitting smoking thing. It's about how I should get to work. I have to be downtown at the library on the 5th floor by 8:30. If I drive, I have to pay ~$8 in parking and leave at 8 a.m. sharp. If I take the Max, I have to leave by 7:30 sharp, but get to read/crochet (yes, Ainsley, there is a blanket in your future!) and listen to my iPod and feel so urban and chic. Or . . . wait for it . . . I could bike. It's about 6 miles each way, there are indoor bike racks and showers, and I have the perfect bike with all the gear. Too, I could take it easy and bike to the Lloyd Center Max station, about halfway . . . it's very tempting, if only for some way to get some exercise. I may try the bike tomorrow. Hold your breath!

Ever done something OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER?

Yeah. This is like that, except it's not the fun things like spinning around on the playground merry-go-round until you vomit, or sticking your tongue out at strangers, or blowing the seeds from dandelions. It's quitting smoking, and at this point I can sadly say that I have some skill at it: "Oh, this is the part where I ask my friends and family for support . . . I wonder if they'll do it anymore or if they'll just ask me to bring back the wolf pelt on my own." Day two today, and I had the "Oh, damn, this is the headache and really stinky sweat-it-out day. I hate this one." And I'm so very looking forward to tomorrow, which if my last blog is any indication, begins the "oh, man, THAT doesn't look healthy" Cough-a-Thon 2008 II, in which your author's lungs try to rid themselves of the thick gooey black coating that currently resides.

Well, griping, bitching and moaning aside, it helps to write it out a bit and to know that in so doing, I've gone 5 more minutes without a cancer stick.