Building on the Dream

The Pirate and I were talking about our dream today. You know...the one about chicken ownership. And it got around to a discussion about also wanting fruit trees. We both would like a very small orchard (6-9 trees) of different fruits. And then I realized that if I was going to have fruit trees, there's something else I want. Bees.

Chicken an' bees...
Chicken an' bees...
Chicky buzzy chicky buzzy
Chicken an' bees!

We had bees in the backyard of the house we live in now, but I had them removed because the baby was just a baby and they were too close to the house. On the other hand, neither me nor anyone else in the house was ever stung, despite the fact that I had, at one point, wrenched the top off the box they were using as a hive. The gentleman who came to remove them said that they were the most mellow bees he had ever seen. I chose this particular man because he was the only one I could find that wouldn't kill the bees. He just relocated them, and it didn't look all that difficult.

And the honey was amazing.

I want chicken an' bees.

The Chickens Have Taken Over My Brain

Yes, I'm thinking about chickens again. For a long time, I've wanted to keep chickens. We kept ducks when I was a kid, but they didn't lay and all they really did was poop on the dog a lot. My ex-grandmother-in-law kept chickens and my daughter's job was to collect the eggs.

I don't want many chickens. Five or six max. And I don't want just any old kind of chickens. I want the real purty chickens. I want these chickens. I started reading up on what one does to prepare for the arrival of one's little baby chickens, and fer cryin' out loud! Who knew it was this complicated?

I guess I'm too old to join 4H or FFA. But I will have these chickens. Oh yes. And they're coming home with me on the bus.

I Have a Dream...and It Involves Chickens

For some years now, I have harbored a fantasy that seems on the point of coming to pass.

You can't watch a movie that takes place anywhere in the third world that does not feature a scene of people on a bus, train or other similar public transport carrying live chickens. I watch those people with chickens in string bags, bamboo cages, held by the feet and I want to be them.

I admitted my fantasy to friends, and it went from being my own private obsession to one shared with a small, deeply disturbed community. And it has gone from myself alone with a single chicken in some sort of suitably restraining enclosure to a huge number of people in bizarre costumes invading every sort of public transport between SJ and SF with an impressive array of barnyard fowl.

Just picture it [insert fadeout with nauseating wavelike motion and "doodley-doo" music here]:

I'm standing at the bus stop with at least a-five a-chickens in a string bag. As the bus stops in front of me, the driver takes in my fur cap (earflaps down), plaid shirt over a bright, flowered skirt over at least four pairs of socks and my most beat-up work boots. And I am at the head of a queue of people who all look like me, only worse.

As I clamber uncertainly onto the bus, the driver looks at my string bag.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, you can't bring that on the bus."

I squint at him uncertainly, as though I don't speak English, and continue on the bus. I sit down, all the while the bus driver is yelling "You have to get off. You can't bring those on the bus." In the meantime, at least ten other people are also climbing on the bus with their paper bags, Samsonite suitcases, cat carriers of live chickens. I lean forward, putting my arms protectively around my chickens, just in case someone might think that mine are better, more desireable than their own.

The bus driver gives up and sits down, cursing loudly. Once we get to the light rail station, we all get off and take over at least two cars on light rail. All the other passengers flee because by this time it's getting to be late in the morning and there are a lot of chickens here. The smell is...fowl. (No, I'm not particularly sorry.)

From the light rail, it's on to Cal Train where another car is emptied of people whose only wish on a daily basis is to NOT HAVE THIS HAPPEN TO THEM.

We ride Cal Train all the way to BART, where we can stride from car to car talking extremely loudly in unplaceable accents and smile broadly at other people in the car, drawing everyone possible into the joke.

And then we ride BART to the end of the line. We get off and celebrate our victory over civilization and good taste, and then take our chickens home and have fertilizer for the gardens and lovely eggs and pets that are every bit as stupid as goldfish or hamsters, but more useful.

I can hardly WAIT!

A Little Happy Spot

Saturday morning the Pirate and I were downtown at the library. On the way home, we stopped in the art supply store downstairs from the parking garage and I bought a book of Barták postcards. They are small and cleanly drawn and very silly. I look at them and they make me smile.

Okay. Back to my regularly scheduled life.

Unbalanced

My head hurts. It has felt this way for weeks, but it hurts right now.

Ever since the phone call a few weeks ago where I told one of my seniors in faith that I resented her telling me that my practice was "worthless" because I didn't participate with other people, I have felt set adrift.

At first it meant that my daily practice went to hell. Not doing my morning and evening prayers opened up some time in my day, but it's a false economy, I think. I used to start every day focused and energetic. Now I start each day already feeling like I'm behind and in a panic. I used to go to bed every night and (mostly) be able to get to sleep. Now I can go for days at a time and not quite be able to drift off.

I understand that I need to get my spiritual practice back on track, but this has really opened up some schisms in the way I think. For the longest time, I prayed daily, I lived my values, I read the holy writings and I thought hard about what it really meant to be a Boddhisattva. I understand that there are always going to be adherents of any religion that don't think beyond what they're told, and for the most part I filtered them out. I know what is valuable to my own practice, and what constitutes my own enlightenment. No one can tell me either what my enlightenment is, or that I'm doing it "wrong." That's not their place.
But now I've begun to question the teachings, not of the Buddha or the Daishonin, but of the leaders of my sect particularly. I've begun to realize that I've walked with them as far as our paths merged, and now they diverge and I go on somewhere else.

And I'm making a mess of it. I've always had people holding my hands before, spiritually. I've always had mentors and leaders and teachers giving me guidance. And never once did they tell me anything I didn't already know.

Well, I made this mess for myself, didn't I? I guess it's time to get the karma broom and sweep out the spiritual cobwebs, take the Dhamma dustrag and take off a layer of accumulated negativity from my bright polished mirror.

Nobody can walk my path for me. And I have always excelled at kicking my own ass.

If only it didn't involve getting up early...

I Need a Big Rubber Mallet

Well, the dance has begun. After bullying me for my income information and insisting that I had until February 15th and no later to get it to him, my ex has yet to get his to me.

This worries me mostly because my income information shows that I made about $4k less this year than we thought I would, which means that he owes me a ton of back support. He's going to pitch a FIT. Last year it took nearly two weeks to come to an agreement because every time I went to the court to run the support numbers, they took exception to some little niggledy point and wanted them re-run. This year, because of the decrease in income, it's going to be worse.

Last night as the Pirate and I talked about it, I could feel my chest tightening and the beginnings of a panic attack coming on. I just wanted to cry. He keeps pointing out that it's okay. My ex can't hurt us. We're in a good position, and he'd be an idiot to try. Logically I know that, but still...

When I get like that, I wish someone would just hit me on the head with a big rubber mallet. That's prolly what it would take to stop that line of thought dead in its tracks.

The second best thing was going to CS last night and seeing Mike M.'s beautiful new motorcycle (it's delicious!), talking to Karen about her upcoming trip (and a Costco-sized THANKS for the chiropractor recommendation!) and talking Lynn into coming to Petaluma on the 9th to hear me read and to put herself forward for reading too.

By the time the Pirate and I got home last night, I was feeling great. Okay. Maybe I don't need a rubber mallet. Maybe I just need to see my friends more.

These Things Only Happen to Me

My cell phone is possessed. Working Assets has issued me a trouble ticket for it.

I don't get that many calls on my cell phone. Generally it's a member of my family calling to find out where I am or whether I can pick something/someone up on my way to/from somewhere. So I didn't even think about the fact that I didn't get any calls for a few days, until I went to pick up the Pirate yesterday.


The Pirate's been on a jury all week, listening to the sob story and pitiably weak defense of a couple of no-account, white-trash, hang-'em-high-and-let-me-poke-their-dead-bodies-with-sticks career criminals (I'm blatantly making this part up. The Pirate, being the thoughtful juror that he is, hasn't said anything to me apart from mocking the looks of the defense attorney, which isn't privileged information anyway). I went to pick him up and was trying to call his cell phone to find out where he'd be waiting, but first his cell phone was off, then it was busy. Clearly he had only just turned it on and was trying to call me.

As I pulled up, he had an odd look on his face. He snapped his phone shut and told me that he was just trying to call me, but a man answered. Well, what could I do? I looked around the truck. I had the earbud in my ear, the actual handset in my lap, and my truck is just not that large. If there were a man anywhere in it, especially close enough to answer my phone while it's screwed into my head, I'm pretty sure I'd know.

First he checked the number he had dialed. Yup, it was the number I've been giving out. Was I wrong? We looked at the "My Phone No." screen, and yes, it was the correct phone number. The Pirate dialed it again. The same man answered.

I just thought about this a few minutes ago and tried to call my cell phone from my land line. I got the same hapless dolt. Or evil, skeevy number jumper. I haven't decided yet.

I called Working Assets today and told them "someone has my phone number." At first the woman thought that I meant that someone was calling me when I didn't want them to. It took some explaining to get her to understand that my calls are going to someone else entirely. She asked me if I had forwarded my calls. I didn't think so, but just for shits and giggles, we went through the exercise of switching off call forwarding (the screen on this one is bad - you can't tell what state the phone is in). She called again and got the same guy who is, by now, pretty irritated at me.
She came back and said "I'm sorry. This is impossible." She did not say "that is very unusual," or "unlikely." It's impossible.

They may end up changing my phone number before this is all over and done with. I'm very sad about this. And annoyed. And perturbed. It's impossible.

It's Lawsuit Season

At this time every year, I have a little ritual around my house. I gather my receipts and paystubs and W-2s, hoping that the outcome is going to be in my favor.

I take my miserable little pieces of paper and I fax them to Ex #2. And every single flippin' year, he takes issue with SOMETHING. And I end up tromping back and forth to family court trying to get it all straightened out. And I do this because if I don't, I'm terrified that he'll sue me.

This fear is probably groundless given that the one and only time he's sued me, it was a pyrrhic victory for him - he spent more than $2500 to recover $100. That was in Feb. of 2002. Last year, I went out of my way to be gracious, offering him more time with his daughter, etc. But he essentially turned it down and I ended up having to schlep paperwork back and forth to the family court 6 times to get the support paperwork right.

This year it's going to be worse because he owes me a bunch of money for the overtime that he worked and the fact that I had shutdown this quarter, substantially altering the numbers from the beginning of the year. It's going to cost him, and he's all nervous about it.

And the more nervous he gets, the more disagreeable he gets.

I hate this.

The Whole Gay Marriage Thang

I'm pleased for the people who have been able to go to City Hall in SF and get themselves hitched, but I'm confused about a couple of issues.

1. What is the likelihood that someone is going to come along at some point and say that all these marriages that have been performed are invalid and that no legal spousal rights are therefore conferred?

2. "Marriage" is two entirely separate things - legal and societal. I'm sort of assuming here that these people have had societal marriages for a long time. Is the whole legal thing just to bring this issue to the forefront because it's being overtly threatened now?

3. Is the mayor of S.F. suicidal? I can just see some guy from Dubuque flying out and taking him out. That wouldn't be good.

To me, the societal contract (I'm with you and I want everyone to know it) has always been the really important part of marriage. I've always wished that everything else (like insurance, inheritance, etc.) was on an "I say so" basis, meaning "This person is on my insurance because I say so."

It would be nice to cover other people who are in my circle, not just my children or spouse. It would be nice to be able to add my aged mother (when I get one - mine's still young) to my insurance. I was on her insurance when I was a child and incapable of caring for myself, why can't she be on mine when she's old and can't take care of herself?

I think that this particular challenge to the legal aspects of partnership is great for gays, but doesn't tackle the deeper issue. Going from "have not" to "have" in our society is incredibly difficult, and it shouldn't be.

Who Da Mommy?

Baby Goddess' birthday is day after tomorrow. She's going to be four.
We went after work and bought boxes of chocolate cake mix and cans of vanilla frosting, coarse colored sugar and gel paint.

We now have several dozen chocolate cupcakes with purple frosting, purple sprinkles (and some silver dragees that I had lying around the place) and purple writing that says "Happy Birthday" written across several cupcakes. The Baby Goddess is so pleased she can hardly contain herself.

I named my first novel attempt "Dolorous Aubergine," for my grandmother whose favorite color was purple and who passed away just as I was starting my novel. So, I guess my baby is more like "Felicitous Aubergine."

Breakfast Is the Most Important Meal of the Day

The Pirate and I are breakfast people who love sleep. This is unfortunate, because if you really love sleep and have a day job, you tend to wake up a little to late to have a really good breakfast.

Today's our anniversary. We've only been married for a year, but he fits so seamlessly into our lives (mine and the girls') that I can hardly remember what it was like before him. I have vague memories of a series of grisly train wrecks, but those are only dim memories now.

Neither dinner nor lunch is really practical for us today, and won't be for about a week. The Pirate has been empanelled as a juror and didn't have to be in court until 9:30 today, so we had breakfast together. And not just breakfast, but breakfast at a very attractive, quiet, inexpensive place with excellent food. We held hands and smiled and talked and grooved, and then I drove him to the court.

I get to see him tonight after work. And tomorrow. And the day after.

Forever.

Lucky me!

Check Me Out - I'm Slacking!

Today, I went into work for prepare for a meeting I have on Monday and to send some stuff to my boss who's leaving for Korea tomorrow. While I was there I did a little regular work, too. Then I took Peaches and her friend to lunch. Then I cam home and went running. Oh, and before I left for work I cleaned the horribly messy kitchen while the Pirate...where was the Pirate? Oh, grocery shopping.

And during all of this, I read (okay, listened to) Bernard Lewis' "The Crisis of Islam." It is a very detailed analysis of political relations between the Islamic world in general and the US in particular, and his assessment of why things aren't working.

I took Peaches to another friend's house to spend the night, and no wthe Pirate and I are watching "Before Night Falls," which is excellent and poetic and fabulous. And sad.

But I'm not doing anything "constructive," and I don't care. I'm happy and I am having a good time.

Something's Gone Horribly Wrong

So, Peaches has a school dance on Friday, and the Baby Goddess' daddy is picking her up from Baby School. I thought that the Pirate and I might be able to go and, say, have dinner at a restaurant that doesn't have a children's menu. Preferably one where the menu is printed in another language...Eritrean...Farsi...

So I casually suggested to Peaches that she might spend the night at a friend's house Friday night. She called up her best friend K and promptly disappeared into her room. Half an hour later, she emerges to tell me that the plan is that Friday night, I'm going to pick them up from this dance at 6, then take the two of them over to pick up Marion's other friend E and both girls are going to spend the night here. Here.

Oh, no, I say. There is no way I'm spending my Friday night chauferring you guys all over hither and yon. And what's more, E is famous for barging into the hosts parents' room at midnight and saying "I want to go home now."

So then K's father calls and says how much he appreciates our taking K on Friday night, as he had wanted to go out, but had resigned himself to staying in. He's now made plans and he's all set.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr............

Someone Else's Childhood Trauma in the Making

The Pirate and I went to pick up the Baby Goddess at Baby School. As we were walking in, a very large woman with long, greasy hair was yelling at the preschool group teacher.

Apparently, the women's 5-year-old son had hit and kicked the teacher, and in order to restrain him the teacher put him in a high chair. The mother was incensed enough to scream her for it. She was looking pointedly at us and saying "I wonder if all the other parents know that Mona [the director of the day care center] doesn't manage this place. That she has uneducated people like you watching the children." She accused the teacher of abuse and was screaming that the teacher should have called the woman at work and she would have come and picked up her child.

The parent was physically pushing the teacher, who was three or four inches shorter and at least one hundred pounds lighter, across the room. Although my daughter was still smiling and appeared okay (I was holding her), there was another child who came up to me, shaking, and buried her face in my coat.

The Pirate and I didn't say anything for about five minutes. The woman kept yelling at the teacher, saying that she was going to take her children and leave. We waited for her to do just that, but she wouldn't leave, and I didn't want to leave the teacher alone with that awful woman (granted, there was another teacher there too, but the parent looked prepared to take them both on).

I felt rooted to the spot. I didn't know what to say, because the woman was beyond the point where she was listening to reason. Finally the Pirate said "You've said you were going to leave. Why don't you just leave?" And the woman turned on him and screamed "Who the hell are you? Fuck you!" The teacher pointed out that the language wasn't appropriate in a preschool, whereupon the woman screamed "Fuck you!" again and left, slamming the door.

I stayed as the Pirate took the Baby Goddess to the car. I wanted to make sure that the teacher was okay, and get the parent's name so that I could write to the center director.

I'm really torn. My child has been there for a long time and knows and loves her caregivers. On the other hand, the teacher gave me to understand that this is not an uncommon occurence at the school, and I'm not happy about my baby being subjected to abusive, harrassing parents.

I hate being the grownup...

Got My Head on Straight

I came home last night and Peaches had finished her homework and done all her chores. According to the house rules, if these things are done before I get home, she can watch a movie. So, the girls enjoyed Monsters, Inc. while the Pirate and I got dinner together.

Before we left for work yesterday morning, the Pirate had put a pan of vegan chilaquiles in the oven (our version uses Veggie Shreds and no sour cream), so dinner took all of five minutes. Chilaquiles and my own warm corn salad (corn, zucchini, red bell peppers, whole cumin seeds - YUM!).
I did the dishes while the Pirate put the Baby Goddess to bed, Peaches put herself to bed after having one of the best evenings in recent memory, and then the Pirate and I spent the evening together watching Farscape and enjoying each other's company.

This is what I want my life to look like all the time. And, once again, all this would be made much easier with the addition of servants.