Santorum

I was going to write some big long post about the issues I have with him, but I decided to sum it up with a fairly simple comment:

He's not just a a bigot, he's a fucking bigot.






That is all.

Three Day Weekend

What I planned on doing for my three-day weekend:

• Attend local vegan potluck.
• Do some shopping (bras; general household crap I hate shopping for)
• Normal weekend stuff: Laundry, etc.
• Work on an article I've been avoiding for close to eight months. 
• Sort through my closest. 

What I really did over the three-day weekend:

Attended vegan potluck. A friend I usually refer to as Library Vegan began organizing local vegan meals. They started as a group of about eight people dining out at vegan-friendly restaurants. Then the idea of a potluck emerged. We've had a few, always hosted by Library Vegan and we had a group of eight to fifteen people. It's been almost a year since the last one, and we had more than 30 people at this one. And so much food. Vegan mac and cheese, chili, couscous, quinoa, vegan pierogis (this made me so very happy), vegan rice crispy bars (this made me ever happier), pretzels, lasagne, and so on and so forth. Good food, good conversation. It was a lovely evening. 

Did some shopping. I went to Target. I have a long-time love for Target. When I lived in Mississippi all I wanted was a Target. Now that I have one I rarely go. One reason is because there is Fred Meyer closer to where I live and I can get most of what I would buy at Target at Freddies. But, I also wanted to go bra shopping--something I hate. This all meant a trip to the mall--something else I hate. But it needed to be done. The trip to Target was, um, interesting. The store had been completely rearranged, and I found myself getting out of there without buying much of anything. A first. Bras? Yeah, I bought some. But the big news? I tried on a pair of jeans at Kohl's in my normal size, and you know what? They were too big. Made my day.

Watched movies. Princess Bride. (Always awesome). Overboard (I love this film; I remember watching it with a friend while i was in college. it is the perfect three-day weekend waste-a-day movie). Mr. Mom (Also the perfect waste-a-day movie; also the scene in the waiting room where the two guys and Michael Keaton are trading recipes? The one reciting the recipe? He went to high school with my parents--his dad owned the local funeral home, and it's still named for him. So, in my mind, it is Bruce French's movie.) 

Read. I picked up a mindless, trashy, and entertaining novel at Target and a bottle of Three Buck Chuck from Trader Joe's. Win-win. 

Weekend stuff. Vacuumed. Laundry. And dropped a box of clumping kitty litter down the front steps. And then it rained. Screw the closets. 

Talked to the vet. My other cat, Alexsi is having his own health issues right now. Save for a trip to Seattle and a very expensive test, we will probably never know what is causing his head shakes/tremors (but not they are spreading to his front legs). We're trying a new medicine. If it works, great. If it doesn't, it rules out a few other things. 

Did you see "work on article" on the second list? Nope.

Color

I'm a redhead.

I'm not a natural redhead, but I have been a redhead for so long I can't imaging being anything else. My natural color is mousy and blah. It's average. It's boring. It's not me.

I began coloring my hair when I was 16. I started with a wash and then went permanent. Since then I have gone through countless shades of red. I dyed all of my hair black one summer (as opposed to part of it--I did that, too). I did go back to my natural color when I was in my early 20s. I wanted to know if my natural color had changed. It hadn't. Still mousey. I kept it for two years, until I got bored and went back to red. I never looked back.

I'm not a natural redhead but so much of my identity is wrapped up in being a redhead. It's how people remember me. It's unique. It fits me. It fits my personality. I had the personality of a redhead (ie., a quick temper) long before I became one. People use my redhead to explain, and sometimes make excuses for, my behavior.

My wardrobe is for a redhead. My makeup is for a redhead. And I love it. Everything about it.

Despite that, I'm thinking about letting it go. It's been in the back of my head for a while and I have started talking to my hairdresser about it. Why? I'm going gray. My natural color is very ashy. As my hair grows between colorings, I couldn't always tell if I was going gray or if it was my natural color. Then I began to see silver hairs. I was going gray. I shouldn't be surprised. Hell, I'm almost 42. But I was. Very. I couldn't believe it. (But I did like that it was silver and not white. I wanted silver gray.) And at the same time I was upset that I was upset.

It doesn't bother me as much now and the more I find the more I am okay with it. I earned that gray hair, dammit. Thing is, I can't go gray without letting go of the red. That, I am not okay with.

But I'm still thinking about it. Seriously. I'm beginning to see myself without read hair. I'm beginning to think it is time to embrace my real color. But here's the thing: I don't know if I can be myself without being a redhead.

I know that's weird. And probably shallow. But my hair is how I  express myself: I expressed myself through color, style (shaved, long, surly, spiked). It was my rebellion. It was--and is--my individuality. It is what made me stand out. It is still what makes me stand out. I know people will tell me my personality is what it is regardless of my hair color.

But is it? I mean, seriously. There is something special to being a redhead. Seriously. Every read Tom Robbins Still Life with Woodpecker? Redheads are special, dammit. We are. Even if it's fake, my red hair makes me unique. But.... what happens if I'm not a redhead. What happens when I go back to mousy brown? Will I stay the same? Will I act the same? Maybe I'm putting too much emphasis on my hair color, but it is such a huge part of who I am I can't imagine me being me without it.

I want to go gray. I've decided that. I want to embrace it. I'm okay with it. I just want to go gray as a redhead, but I can't. I'm not okay with that. Yet.

Collectors

Collectors are weird. And when I say "collectors" I mean hardcore collectors. It is their life. it is their passion.

I used to work for a publisher of price guides. And this meant I had to field phone calls from people wanting to know what their stuff was worth. I also had to go to collectible shows (mainly those featuring toys, comics, and other forms of pop culture memorabilia), and, believe me, those were an experience. Sure, they became the norm to me, but to those who had never been part of the subculture of collecting, they could be a shock.

I DVR'd the first episode of Kevin Smith's AMC show, Comic Book Men. I read one article about it after it aired; the author felt it was too schizophrenic because it was about comics but all that was featured were people coming into the store trying to sell their stuff.

Welcome to the world of collecting... from the viewpoint of the "experts."

While I was working at the hobby publisher we got phone calls from the same types of people featured on  Comic Book Men. They wanted info. They wanted to know what their stuff was worth. This is the thing though, while we had experience, knowledge, and some of our editors knew more about their area of expertise than any living human, we were not appraisers. We made books and magazines. Why should we give out free info we were trying to sell in our publications?

Anyway, watching Comic Book Men reminded me of some of the people who called us. There were the ones who felt hat just because their item was old, it was worth a small fortune. There was the guy who always knew more than you. Always. Even if you were dead on with the price or info, he always had one more piece of info than you. Or he just contradicted whatever you said with this phrase, "That's not what I've seen on the market." Really? Then why are you calling me? Other people were clueless. And then there were the ones who would call us to tell us that what we were doing was sending the world straight to hell. Really.

Some classics (these are summaries):

• I have a truck. It's blue. What's it worth. 
• I have a Buddy-L truck. It's in mint condition. Well, maybe not mint. Is it marked Buddy-L? No, I'm pretty sure it's a Buddy-L. 
• I have  Golden Book in mint condition. Well, there is some tape on the most of the pages. And the front cover is gone. Well, it isn't a Golden Book but it looks like one.

You'll see there is a pattern here. Basically, they have something very valuable until you begin to ask questions. Then you find out it is some beat up piece of crap they found on a curb. But it was old. Or at least it looked old. It had to be worth something!

In the end, half the time we ended the conversations with this suggestion: You can get more info by either buying the book or checking their local library for a copy. (As an aside, especially now that I'm a librarian, almost every time I suggested they check with their local public library, the person said, "Oh, I never thought about that.")

Others:

The guy who wanted to know if I got free toys (yes) and if I had them at my desk (yes). What were my favorites? Did I have a favorite action figure manufacturer? Could he send me a picture of his bedroom? (He was a 20-something living with his mom and had a large Masters of the Universe action figure collection.) After I hung up, I looked at my boss and said, "I need to find a new job."

The guy who called us to tell us we were all going to hell because the weekly publication we put out had the KISS action figured on the cover. And somehow this meant the publication was produced by someone who was both "a lesbian and a homosexual." And to tell us there was, and I quote, "A dark side to dolls."

The numerous times I had to deal with different types of nutty GI Joe action figure collectors. One was going to get me fired (I told him to get in line) and the other had been abducted by aliens, multiple times.

The guy who called me from a bookstore asking me if he could order a copy of a book I had worked on. Yes, I told him, he could. I could transfer him to customer service where he could order a copy to be sent to him. Or better yet, since he was in a bookstore, he could order a copy through them. But to get to this point, we had to go through ten minutes me me telling him that he could not order a copy directly from me. No, he could not send me a check, and I could not personally send him a copy. And that maybe he should go to customer service at the bookstore he was standing in at that moment and ask them to order a copy for him.

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Of course not everyone in the collecting world was nuts. And not everyone was living with their mom. And they weren't all anti-social geeks. Many of them--most of them actually--were very nice and had a solid grasp on reality. But it was the ones who didn't who made it an interesting job.

Fake Meat

I eat fake meat. Some vegans and vegetarians don't like fake meat. Many were never big meat eaters to begin with. When I became a vegetarian I hated fake meat because of, well, everything: the taste, the smell, and the texture. But now that it's been more than a decade since I've eaten meat, it's hard for me to compare it to the real thing. Not to mention that fake meat has gotten much better. But, there are still brands that are better than others and not all brands are vegan.

I wasn't a big fan of meat when I was a kid, but there are still things I miss. But what I miss are the feelings the food evokes. Meatloaf at Grandma's on Sunday. Grilled hamburgers on the 4th of July. Fried shrimp with my dad when he'd take my brother and I out for a "fancy" dinner. And bratwurst. Well, honestly, I just like bratwurst. But when I remember the taste of these things, I remember the taste of the stuff that went with them, not the meat itself. Meatloaf? The ketchup/mustard stuff Grandma put on top. Hamburgers? The bun. The lettuce, pickles, onions, and tomatoes. Fried shrimp? The breading and the cocktail sauce. And brats? Well, I liked the brats.

Because fake meat has gotten so much better, there are things that allow me to have these things again. Field Roast has a decent meatloaf. It doesn't taste meaty--or at least what I can remember as meaty, but it has that feeling. And Tofurkey makes an amazingly great beer brat. For years I praised the Boca Brat, but last I heard Boca discontinued them... yet they are still serving them at Lambeau Field. But, Boca's aren't vegan--they use egg whites. And, really, Tofurkey's are sooooo much better.

Sophie's Kitchen makes vegan seafood. I've never had their breaded fish (although I have some in my freezer right now), but the vegan breaded shrimp is amazing. The first time I had it, I wasn't too crazy about it. It had a rubbery texture and it just wasn't right. But I gave it another try. I cooked it a bit longer so the coating got a bit crunchier. Holy crap, served with garlic mashed potatoes and some kale and it was comfort on a plate.

Over the weekend I stumbled on Gardein's Ultimate Beefless Burger. I have to admit, I got a little excited. I have tried numerous Gardein products and loved all of them. I haven't had a fake burger in a long time. I used to keep Morningstar burgers in the freezer for quick meals and whatnot, but I didn't like the vegan ones. I wasn't even that crazy about the non-vegan ones. But they did the job. So, yes, while I was excited about the Gardein burger, I was trying not to get my hopes up. I made of these tonight paired with a grilled bun, onion, lettuce and tomato... and holy shit. One bite and I was sitting on the back step of my dad's house eating a hamburger off a paper plate. Yes, it was just that good.

Whitney

It's not like I was a huge Whitney Houston fan or anything, but there is no denying that her music was a huge part of my teens. How could it not be? Mtv was the center of so many things, and Whitney had an amazingly powerful voice and was everywhere. You could not deny her talent. You could not help but stop and listen to her. She was mesmerizing.



Even in my later teens when I turned away from pop music, songs like I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me) were hard not to like. Why? Because that voice.



As I said once, she may not sing music I like, but holy shit does she have a voice.

Much has been written about her ties to gospel music through her mom, Cissy Houston. This is the thing: I love gospel music. Love it. It makes me cry. It makes me want to cheer. It give me chills. Here's the other thing: I don't believe in god. Any god. But gospel music? It amazes me. It's the emotion that gets me. It's so deep and so heartfelt. Whitney Houston had that gospel voice. It was so clear and pure and heartfelt. I think that is what I liked about it. I think that's what we all liked about it.



It's all over the interwebs right now, of course, that Whitney Houston died at the age of 48. Cause and location were not released. [Edit: She died in Beverly Hills.] Given her history of drug abuse, I think it's pretty safe to say that if her death wasn't directly related to drug us, it was the long-term use of drugs that ravaged her body that led to whatever killed her.

Her voice hasn't been what it was for years. And while her death is a shock, once you think about it, it probably isn't a surprise. We've all been watching this happening, slowly.

RIP, Whitney. Such a talent.

My Cat

I took Sasha to the vet for the last time today. I was going to wait a few more weeks, but decided that I couldn't watch him get sick again. I couldn't watch him in pain. I wanted to remember him as he was not as what he would become as he got sicker.

To say I fell apart and cried is an understatement. I went into one of the exam rooms with the vet and talked. Pets with chronic illnesses have good days and bad days and their owners are on an emotional roller coaster. As my vet said, she's never had an owner say they put their pet down too soon, but she has had many say they waited too long--and regretted it.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I think prolonged medication of pets is more for us than them. Making the decision is really, really hard, but it is one every pet owner faces.

Yesterday was pure torture. I had wanted to put him down yesterday, but my vet is off on Wednesdays. I could've gone with another vet, but I wanted it to be with her. So, yesterday Sasha ate lots of canned cat food. He chased seagulls. He played. He cuddled with me and the other cat. He was himself. That's why it was so hard. Two days before he was much less energetic and looked pretty rough. He was still looking a little rough, but he was much more himself. He didn't look sick. But he was. And I spent all day second-guessing my decision, and crying so hard I'm surprised I didn't throw up.

The people at the vet clinic were great. They were ready for me and so very understanding. I've gotten to know them over the last month. There were lots of questions to answer: autopsy? Do you want him back? So on and so forth. I didn't want him back in any form--that isn't my cat. My cat wasn't a canister of ashes or a corpse. My cat was a vibrant, lively cat with a unique personality that couldn't be contained. I didn't want an autopsy because I didn't want to find out that I had made a mistake. An autopsy wouldn't show anything the ultra-sound didn't. His illnesses were chronic and the kidney disease was at the very early stages. Something was making his ongoing issues worse. It could've been just the fact that everything was getting worse. Or, as the vet said, it could be something microscopic in his stomach or pancreas that an autopsy wouldn't show. But, in the end, those illnesses wouldn't kill him--they would (and had) made him uncomfortable (probably for much longer than I realized, and that makes me feel guilty as hell). The kidney disease was terminal. And it, combined with everything else, was more than I was willing to put him through.

My vet said that I know my cat better than anyone, and she often sees pet owners gut reactions provide a more reliable diagnosis than veterinary medicine could. My gut said it was time even if my heart wasn't ready to let him go. It was time.

Rest in peace, Sasha. You mean and meant the world to me. Thank you for being my animal companion. Thank you for being with me for so long. I wish I could've fixed what was wrong with you, but it's all part of life. It's all part of being a pet owner. And you know what? I'd do it all over again.

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I came home to my other cat, Alexsi. (Yes, all of my cats have had Russian names.) Other than the first four months of his life, he's always been with Sasha. We'll see how he does as an only cat. But, I will admit I am concerned about him, too. He is having some various issues that need to be looked at. He's been scheduled to go in two different times in the last month, but I kept delaying it to take care of Sasha. I have to get him in in the next few weeks. Hopefully, his issues are minor, but, like Sasha, he's getting old.