The not-so-attractive truth

Does anyone else keep their blog a secret from "real" people?

Not that you all aren't real, you're just sort of virtual. You don't have to put up with me if you don't want to. I won't show up at your door asking for sugar. You can't effectively hold a grudge against me. I can piss you off and not really burn many bridges.

And I can say absolutely anything I want, and you (probably) won't think I'm crazy. And even if you do, it just doesn't matter. So, for your amusement, here are a few things I don't tell real people.

I hate Disney World. You heard me -- I hate Disney. It's too freaking clean, happy, and colorful. Good Lord, I've seen King Cakes that were more sedate. See?

I hate Christmas. Nuff said.

I used to have a life outside my house -- and I liked it. It paid really, really well. People respected me -- for what I knew and the way I dressed. I could "nice" a client into submission with pure force of will and exquisite manners. Oh sure, I didn't have superpowers (like turning pepperoni pizza into human milk) and it was a shallow and easy-won success, but I liked it.

That said, I don't want to go back to the paid workforce. I'd rather be poked in the eye with a stick. Too many Dilbert cartoons.

I played hookey from church this morning. I was feeling weepy and church was making it worse, so I left. I went for a long walk on the beach and got me a bacon-egg-and-cheese bagel at Dunkin Donuts. (I told The Husband later, and he had a good chuckle, the little heathen.)

If I had the choice, I would not homeschool. THAT'S RIGHT -- YOU HEARD ME! And you still like me, right?

(Did I mention that I'm a revolting approval-seeker? Yeah, it's that middle child thing.)

CHRISTMAS?!

Oh, how I loathe Christmas.

I know that's strange. (Or not.) As a Christian woman, I'm supposed to embrace The Wonder of the Season, and all that. But I hate it. Why?

1. Expectations. Everyone (and don't think I can totally avoid them) expects me to decorate, bake, decorate some more, donate to charity, feed the poor, stuff stockings, and produce The Perfect Gift for everyone. I hate all of this because I never meet expectations.

2. The Magic of Christmas. The Magic of Christmas doesn't exist. Christmas is a birthday party. I say we serve cake and go home. The American Magic of Christmas is summoned by a VISA card, and we all know it.

3. Calories. Does anyone get out of the holiday season without gaining ten pounds? Do you know how long it takes me to lose 10 pounds? TEN WEEKS. Oh sure, I could show restraint and only eat a tiny bite of only the best of the treats, but you know that's not going to happen. Not with rum balls around. (See number 4 below.)

4. Gifts. The lovely women in my homeschool group somehow manage to hand-dip chocolates for everyone in the group. (If you're tight with the queen bee, she'll teach you!) I barely have time to keep up with my homeschooling and housework. And I still don't do them well. How on Earth will I ever find 20 hours to make sweets for everyone?

5. That Nauseated Feeling on Christmas Day. After months of planning, cooking, sewing, buying, wrapping, and generally falling short, I find myself on Christmas morning, lying on the couch full of chocolate, feeling nauseated from lack of sleep, disappointment, and sugar.

6. Christmas Lists. "Be good and he'll bring you everything in your Christmas Alphabet!" Oh sure. But there are 75 things on your list. You know Santa can't do all that. But I want it! Then the husband plays the "But he'll only be x years old once!" And I throw in the towel in disgust.

Oh sure, you say, SIMPLIFY, YOU IDIOT. Yeah. Which part?

Last year I didn't make sweets for the playgroup women, and felt really guilty. They're so nice to me, and I can't find a few hours to cook?

I like my minimalist decorations outside, but no one will help me. We put up two bush nets (white), a string of icicle lights (white), and a rope-light palm tree. And no one will help.

The Christmas tree? Ugh. How I hate it. We put it off until after The Husband's birthday on the 13th, and it comes down after Epiphany. It reminds me of the glittering wonderland that will never be my house. And the glittering gifts that we will never shower on each other. (Have you priced those stained glass birds on the Acorn web site? Ouch!)

Yes, Christmas is a reminder of how I fall so terribly, terribly short every day.

So, you say FOCUS ON WHAT YOU DO LIKE ABOUT CHRISTMAS.

I love classical music. I love Advent. I love lessons and carols. I love singing the dinner blessing with an Advent wreath. I love Handel's Messiah. I love children in Velveteen dresses. I love Christmas Eve services. I love those little German nativity scenes with the candles that make it turn. I love fresh pine boughs.

My children hate all of these things. With a passion. Last year, we got out the Advent wreath, and my daughter screamed like we were going to light her instead. The Boy refuses to go to concerts and will make me regret any that I take him to. Both children hate the Christmas Eve services, as it interrupts their television time and makes them dress up and go to church at the wrong time of day. And don't even think about delicate, lovely decorations. And how I hate doing things myself at the Time of Togetherness and Love.

So, what to do? Move to Swaziland for the month of December? Organize the hell out of it and conquer it before December rears its ugly head? What? Is it too late to become Jewish?

Please help...

Dip-wad!

Well, I did get email back from the homeschool group leader. Apparently, I'm a deadbeat and a scofflaw. I benefit from the group but never pay any dues. Umm. Yeah. I'm such a burden. I never go to co-op, meetings, political rallies, field trips. I just want in on the social network. I need human support while trying to homeschool autistic children. I hope they never see me hungry, thirsty, a stranger, in need of clothes, sick, or in prison. Because, despite their piety, I doubt they'd ever lift a finger. (Matthew 25:34 - 40, baby! Look it up, girls.)

In other news... Hmm. Spite, frustration, fury. And I really like Daedalus. Smart man, that one. Nothing like King Minos, whom The Boy and I agree is a total dip-wad.

King Minos inherited a centuries-long dynastic throne in Crete, back in its heyday. Its original king had asked Zeus to protect them from pirates, and Zeus had sent them a bronze giant to do just that. This King Minos didn't feel like being respectful to Zeus, so Zeus decided to take the bronze giant back. Zeus had Medea (another stinker, and an evil witch, too) trick the bronze giant into draining its own life force out, and King Minos was on his own, with no protection.

With the bronze giant dead and the island defenceless, Minos's brothers tried to take the throne, but Minos prayed to Poseidon who sent a huge white bull. When the bull bowed down to Minos, he took it as a sign that he was meant to be king. His brothers left the island, but then Poseidon asked Minos to sacrifice the bull to him. (Oops. Did I mention that Minos was a dip-wad?) He refused and the bull went crazy, rampaging the countryside, trashing the palace, and raping Minos's own queen. The queen gave birth to a half-man-half-bull child and then abandoned it, fleeing with her nightmares to another country.

This left Minos with a mutant bull-child (Minotaur) rampaging the palace and a murderous white bull rampaging the countryside. Better sacrifice the white bull soon, eh? Minos hired Hercules to take care of the white bull and hired Daedalus to contain the Minotaur.

Minos's son, who had apparently not fallen too far from the tree and apparently on his head, wanted to go capture the bull and become a Hero himself, with all the glory that goes with it. But since Minos already knew that Hercules had captured it, he said, "Yes, if Hercules doesn't take it down, you're up next, boy."

Meanwhile, Minos knew he could not kill the Minotaur or banish it from the palace because it was of royal blood. (Heh?) So, Daedailus built a labyrinth under the castle (along with a few secret passageways for himself) from which the Minotaur could not escape. Nice. Kudos to Daedalus.

Meanwhile, Hercules, who was supposed to deliver the bull to king Minos to be sacrificed (at last) to Poseidon, actually took the bull to Athens to pay a personal debt. It escaped and started (you guessed it) rampaging the Greek countryside. Now Minos's son wanted his shot at capturing it. He ran off to Greece, won the Olympics, got himself killed, and moseyed along to the Elysian Fields where all brave warriors go.

Minos was furious and blamed (who else) the Greeks for his son's death. He ramped up his war machine, sailed to Athens, and demanded 14 virgins every nine years to be fed to the Minotaur. The Greeks agreed.

Meanwhile, the Greek king Aegis was being wooed by none other than Medea, the witch. She was all poised to marry him and probably bump him off, when the Aegis's bastard son showed up, all battle-tested and gorgeous. Medea tried to kill him, but Aegis broke from her evil spell, and she bolted away with his treasure on (get this!) a chariot drawn by four dragons.

The bastard son, Theseus, cleaned up the kingdom and then took on that whole every-nine-years-human-sacrifice thing. He travelled to Crete, faced down Minos, sweetened up to Minos's daughter Ariadne, and was sent off to prison with the other Greek sacrifices-to-be. Ariadne cut a deal with him to help him kill the Minotaur if he'd take her with him when he left. Deal done. They even sabotaged Minos's ships ast hey left.

Minos was furious and hunted down (who else?) Daedalus. 'Cause he had to have given someone the secret to the labyrinth. (Didn't Minos actually want the Minotaur dead?) Daedalus took refuge in a series of countries, creating fabulous temples and inventions wherever he went. Finally, Minos tracked him down on Sicily, where Daedlus had harnessed the lava in Mt. Etna to make public steam baths. Minos ripped the palace apart looking for Daedalus, but found only a spiral staircase leading down from the steam baths. A "beggar" told him not to go down there, and thinking that Daedalus would only make the most elaborate hiding place, Minos went on down, smashed the black glass face of the volcano god, and was drowned in boiling water. The "beggar" of course was Daedalus, who finally got to live out his old age in safety.

Phew. I finally understand why the Greek myths never went out of style. They make me feel like somehow Karma will out. Yeah, baby!

Apparently, a screed about the local homeschool group. Who knew?

Nothing's really new. (Isnt' that always the start to the L-O-N-G-E-S-T blog posts ever?)

We went to play group this afternoon for the first time since summer. The homeschool moms were still spending the day at the beach in September, and were going to the park with unobstructed access to the river in October. But we're back in suburbia from now on out. (I know -- boring but safe, like most of suburbia.)

I'm really conflicted about this homeschool group. They're fundamentalist Christians, affiliated with the local Baptist church. Some are Young-Earth-ers, some are "the Bible says so" people, some are "God hates fags" people, and most are "But the rich have always had better medical care than the poor; why should that change now" people. Most of them fall into the group of people that I categorize as "fast food, cheap gas, easy answers" people.

Why bother with them? First, they're the only game in town. Second, I don't know any other women in the world. Third, they email around the best local free/homeschool activities. Fourth, The Boy likes to go kick rocks with other boys now and then.

Why ditch them? First, their politics and religion are WAY to the right of mine. Second, they're constantly doing stupid activities like making Christmas shoe boxes for poor children in Rwanda. Third, they want me to volunteer for their stupid activities like the garage sale fundraiser to buy new mulch for the Baptists. Fourth, they make me sign (or conspicuously NOT sign) their statement of faith. Fifth, they make me pay actual cash dollars to join and expect me to pay even more to join the state organization. (I refuse to join the state organization because they spend their money on political causes.)

So, in order to get emails for the local music college's "intrument petting zoo" day, I have to join the stupid people. Do you know they actually organized people to carry signs in front of the Wal-Mart, campaigning for tea party candidates? In their homeschool group t-shirts! How humiliating...

I'll probably join, just to make oh-I-don't-know-who happy. Oddly enough, I really do like some of the moms. Joining the group just makes me feel like a pathetic approval-seeker. Oh well. Worse things have happened.

And speaking of "worse things", I just checked our election results. My state is now completely controlled by politicians who believe that the rich deserve better health care than the poor. Besides don't the poor have folk remedies and midwives? Just fetch me some of Granny's linament, and that compound fracture will be just fine.

Time to move back Up North, I think...

Ouch! I think I sprained my dignity!!

Okay, let's think logically about this. Unpredictable situation. Semi-darkness. Unfamiliar surroundings. Taking candy from strangers. Breaking the usual daily routine. Dressing up as Evil. Oh, and did I mention elevated blood sugar and the autistic spectrum? Oooh. There never was a witch's brew this toxic, my pretty...

At the university where my husband teaches, the faculty/staff collect candy in the weeks leading up to Halloween, and some of the students hand it out from their dorm rooms on the 31st. Since we live in Satan's foyer, this particular dormitory's doors all open to the outdoors like a Motel 8, so it's a nice, controlled, well-lit event, and heck, we brought in a couple of those bags ourselves a week ago, so why not?

Ready for it? Here it is. A nice young man opens the door and my daughter clutches hear ears, cringes, and shouts, "Willa's Wildlife is not on! A, B, C, D, E, F, G!" The nice co-ed looks startled, takes a quick glance around, and gives her candy while I try unsuccessfully to shush her. "C'mon honey. Sh-sh-shush. What do we say?" She shouts, "You're welcome!" Oy.

Thank the Creator that they'll be too old next year. I'm not sure my dignity can stand one more year of this...

And on a lighter note

I took The Girl to The Big City today by myself and left The Boy home. We had a lovely time.

Know what's kind of cute? Tonight I retreated to the chaise lounge in the back yard after dinner, and The Girl came out after me. I offered to hold her toys while she used the swing, but that wasn't what she was after. She wanted to sit in the other lounge chair and hang out with me. Yeah, I was amazed, too! Our small talk was somewhat, shall we say, repetitive as usual, but it was really nice. Girl time with my child. Hey, it's the little things...

Gardening in The South: rake, heap, throw

Just thought I'd give you a picture of gardening in The South. Y'know, just in case you're not sleepy yet...

First off, there's the subtle distinction between landscaping and gardening. Landscaping requires boots, and gardening can be done in sneakers. If you're doing it in heels, we call it "picking flowers". In The South, of course, those rules bend a little, since we rarely wear shoes if we can help it. I mean, sheesh, there are no rocks, so that danger is minimal. Of course, the fire ants will swarm up your leg and wait for the chemical signal to sting all at once. And they WILL, too. But I digress.

What I'm doing is gardening, only I'm doing it in fuscia crocs. Now, technically, what I'm doing isn't gardening. No one really gardens this far south, they just kill the plants they don't want. Normally, this is called "weeding"; I prefer the term "herbal warfare". But again, I digress.

If you plant something that isn't native to this area, it dies, usually a terrible death of fungus, mold, drought, root rot, or from being eaten by insects -- sometimes all at once. This year, my tomatoes died from: septoria spot, tomato horn worms, drought, and some kind of moth that lays its eggs in the green tomatoes so that when the eggs hatch, the larvae eat the tomato from the inside out. But I digress.

This weekend, I exfoliated my yard. The Pest Control Guy told me to get ALL the plants off the outside walls of my house. We were getting too many earwigs in the house, so I figured he was probably right. I worked my way around the house, trimming anything in my path. Lean, cut, throw, lean, cut, throw, rake, heap, throw. Then I took out last year's vegetable garden. Rake, pull, lift and fold the irrigation system, rake, smooth, rake, heap, throw. Then I took down the jasmine that's climbing the may haw. Cut, pull, untangle, pull, clip, apply tourniquet, trim, rake, heap, throw. You get the picture.

Then I had to fix the sprinkler system. Oh sure, other people pay professionals, but that requires too much effort for me. I finally figured out how to get a narrow strip of land (like a path or right-of-way) watered. You get a sprinkler head (any shape) and change out its nozzle with the magical one of the right shape! Yeah, you'd think I'd catch on to that one earlier. You'd also think that they'd just make all the configurations we needed without making us buy two sprinklers. But there you have it. Buy parts, dig up the old ones, change them out, test, repeat.

Then there was the picket fence. *sigh* Get out the bleach, TSP, pump sprayer, and pressure washer. Trim the hedges around the fence, pull the weeds under it, set up the sprayer and washer. (Did I mention it's only 17' on both sides of the house, some of which is still covered with jasmine?) Clip, pull, rake, heap, throw, spritz, spray, dismantle the broken fence, make mental note to yell at lawn guys. "Unlatch gate, THEN push."

So, now I'm in the recliner, about to join Team Advil, feeling happy that I get to spend most of tomorrow in the car, sitting down, for my weekly trip to The Big City. If anyone drops anything tomorrow, I can no longer reach the floor, so they're going to have to pick it up themselves. Like that's going to happen. Rake, heap, throw.