Because it really is personal…

I’m gonna be perfectly honest with you.
There just aren’t alot of problems that a couple of glasses of chardonnay won’t shrink to managable size.

Aren’t those great? With a mid-calf A-line suede skirt and a kinda gathered yoke blouse a’ la 1870′s Annie Oakley kinda thang. Oh yes indeed. If I had $275 for a pair of boots. I would.

He’s a bit of a computer geek, owning 2, that he has modified and deified and quantified and emulsified so much so that no one can use them but him. He’s changed operating systems as often as he’s changed his sheets. More, even. Whenever I have issues with a program or download, he can fix it. He Knows What To Do. He earns pocket money (beyond what he makes at Dairy Queen)fixing other people’s computers, Because he can!

Computers aren’t all he does. Oh no! He’s got mad origami skills. He’s not interested in making cranes or elephants, but 3 dimensional polyhedra. He makes big ones, little ones, shiny and multicolored ones. I firmly believe our Christmas tree next year will be covered up with little colored shapes made from fancy paper.

He’s happy, insoucient, determined, and determined. He plans to graduate with a 3.8 and go either to Georgia Tech for a degree in engineering, or to UGA for a degree in economics. He loves math, can you tell?

AS a little knot, he was a real pill. Sick all the time with sore throats and sinus infections, he was Unpleasant to be around. When he was 2-1/2, we took him to the doctor for yet another round of antibiotics for his infections (I am so squirrely about antibiotics, but if he wasn’t on them, he was sick). The doctor told us that he believed #2 was mentally retarded, and would probably need to go into a group home instead of us taking care of him. Hello???! What???!! So we went toanother doctor, who took one look at him and said “see those dark circles under his eyes? He has allergies. Get rid of your carpet and upholstery. Now.” So we did and…it was a miracle. For the first time in his life, 4 days after everything was gone, he woke up with a sunny smile. Amazing.

And he hasn’t quit since.

SD has a theory, that is that children have X amount of trouble inside them. Then can blow it all off as a little kid, and be easygoing and pleasant as a teen, or sort of let it out at an even pace throughout life (like #3 is doing) or be an easy, happy young child and hellish as a teen (like another child of mine who shall remain unumbered)

That’s #2. the Boy in the Tin Foil Hat.

Sweet Daddio now has his very own blog! Yes! He writes about shi…uh…stuff that happens at work, frustrations of being a manager, hiring people, firing other people, all that. Do you want to know the inner workings of the mind of a Capitalist and Oppressor? Read on. The link is the first one over there—–> (below my profile))

I have a collection of rare and formerly useful talents. Formerly, because they were useful 150 years ago. today, not so much. I started learning to do these things at the tender age of 8, because my parents believed I was ready to learn. Here they are, in no particular order.

I can spin, as in spinning wheel making yarn. Dad made Mom a spinning wheel in 1972, and I learned how to use it. I will one day inheret that wheel, tho I’d like it right now. I can spin wool and flax on it (it’s a Saxony wheel), and I can spin cotton on a high wheel. I’ve spun mohair, alpaca, different varieties of wool, and with my mother, grown flax and treated it for spinning (letting it rot, essentially).

I can weave. I can use a 4,6, and 12 harness loom for making simple twills and complex tapestries. I can thread a warp, design a weave, and execute it. I have a jacket that I designed from the yarn up. Unfortunately, it’s wool ,which is not terribly practical around here.

I know how to make soap. I can render tallow and lard, and leach oak ashes to make lye. I can grow lavendar, mint, and other herbs to scent the soap.

I know basic herbal medicine, and I use it all the time. I don’t dabble in the potent stuff, sticking basically to mint, horehound, ginger, catnip and the like, for teas to aid digestion (or help upset stomachs), soothe a cough and sore throat, or make a poltice for poison ivy.

I know how to make tallow candles, and how to render wax myrtle berries for candle wax. I know what kind of clay to use to make oil lamps.

I shoulda been born 150 years ago. really, I shoulda.

I am fairly mechanical, and can diagnose simple problems with a car based on the sound. SD (who is excessively mechanical) can draw a diagram, explain a problem, and I can solve the problem, if it’s not too complicated.

I can grow just about anything, from lemongrass to antique roses. It’s one of my greatest pleasures, to be able to pick a bouquet of flowers from my garden and bring it in the house.

I can sew. When SD and I married, I had a thriving small business designing and contructing custom clothing. I made those boofy square-dance outfits (matching dresses and shirts), including designing one for a wedding. I also made Medieval and Renaissance clothing, making my own patterns based on pictures from historical documents. I made special needs clothing- I had a client who was a dwarf, another with a humped back. It’s been a while since I’ve done that.

I can cook. I can build a fire and light it without a match. I know what’s edible and what’s not, in the woods, and can pull together a tasty meal from foraged stuff. I stay away from mushrooms, tho. except morels, because they’re obvious, but the other ones, there’s poisonous ones that look almost like edible ones and I’m not willing to risk it. I know how to make a venison roast tender and less gamey (soak in buttermilk for 24 hours), and how to make butter starting with milk fresh from the cow. I do not, however, know how to make cheese.

I know how to build a soddy (a house made from squares of sod, stacked like bricks to make thick walls. The sides and corners are braced, and the roof is made of small poles laid side by side and covered with more sod). I made a small one when I was 16, with the permission of the landowner.

I know how to tan a hide, how to use horse hair to make a crest for a roman officer’s helmet (yeah, that comes in really handy. You just never know when Octavious is going to knock on the door and demand a new crest).

I can use power tools. Big ones, too. Dad taught me when I was 12, starting with the radial arm saw, drill press, and scroll saw. Then, the next year, he taught me to use the table saw, router (I don’t like that one, unless it’s mounted in a table. Scary), and the power hand tools like skil saw and various drills and such. Why he taught me the big stuff before the small stuff I don’t know. But he did.

I can dissect just about any animal, and identify the parts. Dad taught anatomy, after all. When I was 15, he started giving me the exams he would give his students, so he’s have something to compare to. If I made, say, a 70 on his test, he’d tell the class, and give them something to measure up (and over) to. If I made a 90 on his test, he’d know it was too easy and toughen it up.

I, for being so nearsighted, am a really good shot. Especially with my dainty little Remington lever action .22 rifle. Not too bad with the revolver, either.

Now, because I sound so incredibly full of myself, here’s a list of stuff I can’t to.
1. I can’t make conversation at a party.
2.I have only very rudimentary computer skills.
3.I can’t hold my liquor.
4.I can’t dance. I REALLY can’t dance.
5.I don’t know how to flirt.
6.I’m not very good at dressing myself. The default dress code is jeans and a polo shirt. And keds.
7.I can’t knit or crochet. Go figure. I just never learned how.
8.I am too blunt, much of the time. Diplomacy is not natural for me.
9. I can only speak one language. I can’t even reomtely understand any other languages.

I know it goes with the territory. I realize it’s all part of the job. It could be worse.

Sweet Daddio is starting to Travel. Not just a day jaunt to a mill in North Carolina, either. He’s got to fly to Chicago for a couple of days. Then he’s got to go to England for a week,come right home and jet-lag be damned, be home 1 day and start right back at work again. It’s part of the job. I know that. I tell myself, that week he’s in England, I can go to bed early and hog all the pillows.

But i’ll have to set the alarm and get myself up instead of relying on him. And I won’t have a grownup to talk to in the evenings. That stinks.

It could be worse. We have a friend who has to go to Pakistan for 2 months, and he and his wife have very young children. She’s not happy. Neither would I be.

It’s times that he’s gone I wish he worked as a car mechanic, we had a comfortable double-wide in the country, and life was low-maintenance. Stress was deciding to stay home and watch the race or go to the river and fish.

He’s too ambitious for that sort of life, tho. As appealing as it sounds. He’s doing it all for me, to give me the house and lifestyle that’s comfortable. He’s doing it for himself as well. He grew up in a very small house- 900 square feet, and to him, a big house and the ability to own stuff and do things is important. It’s a sign of success. I like it to, I’ll admit that. I have a materialistic streak and I dearly love such necessities as my state-of-the-art photo printer, ipod, and Kitchen Aid stand mixer. I like having a yard that backs up to a golf course, a convertible, and pedigreed dogs. I know it, I’m a snob.

But, I also know these are all just things. If I had to choose between the things and life with SD, I’d live in a teepee in Macon County with him and give up all the trappings. (I had a friend who lived in a teepee in Macon County with her husband, for several years, no running water, no electrics, just a pump well and a fire ring). I would move back into a housetrailer next to a peanut field.

Life without the stuff, would still be life. Life without SD, and the boys, well. I’d probably go on living, but I wouldn’t be happy about it.

1. They make laundry for me to do so I won’t be bored during the day.

2.They poop and stink up the bathroom for an hour. And so proud of it they are, too. And you know what they’re up to in there.

3.They eat all the Doritoes when I’m not looking. Even the ones I was saving for lunch tomorrow. I didn’t need them anyway. Bad for the thighs. So thoughtful.

4. They can explain the intricacies of Death Metal, and why Slipknot is preferable to Cannibal Corpse.

5. Decorating their room is easy- just staple some dead animals to the wall.

6.Dressing them is easy- Walmart blue jeans and a couple of 3-packs of Hanes t-shirts.

7.Feeding them is easy- just put alot of it on the table and stand back.

8 Manipulating them is easy- just start mentioning female problems and they’ll do anything you ask to make you stop.

9.Finding an interesting tv show for them ,(so you can take a bath or read a book) is a breeze- put it on the Speed channel and let them watch monster trucks and drag races. They instantly go into fly-catching mode (you know, slack mouth hanging open, glazed eyes)and are on stand-by for at least an hour.

10.Getting them to do schoolwork is easy. Just withhold food and the Speed channel.

The cable guy was just here. Nice enough fellow, kinda chatty about the weather and such. He’s wearing a worn pair of loose jeans, ok, no problem, til he turns around and there’s a hole where the pocket has ripped loose. He’s either wearing a thong or no shorts at all, because his pink lil behind was shining through. *phhht!* harhar.

I love it when stuff like that happens because I get to try and keep a straight face and he’s all “wow, she’s a happy sort.”

1. The Misanthtropic: Name something (about humanity) you absolutely hate.
The way they insist on stopping in the middle of the aisle at StuffMart, blocking traffic and acting all oblivious.

2. The Meretricious: Expose something or someone that’s phony, fraudulent or bogus.
Cheetoes. They are NOT cheesier than a block of extra sharp cheddar. Therefore they are NOT the Cheesiest.

3. The Malcontent: Name something you’re unhappy with.
My daffodils. Everyone elses are up and blooming, and mine are just starting to poke through the ground.

4. The Meritorious: Give someone credit for something and name it if you can.
Sweet Daddio’s parents. They are terrific grandparents.

5. The Mirror: See something good about yourself and name it.
My eyes that are gray when I’m angry and green when I’m happy.

6. The Make-Believe: Name something you wish for.
The ability to tango. With Sweet Daddio. Alas, we both have 2 left feet, and I have one leg onger than the other, and he’s a foot taller than me, so…only in my dreams.

This is my blog. Note the name: Because It’s Personal. I’ve named it that because what I write about has personal meaning to me. It may be something that happened to me, or something I’ve seen, or something I worry about or celebrate. Everything I write about is real, to me, unless I tell you it’s not. Sometimes it’s a fantasy. If so, it’s mine, from my mind.

If I am ranting about something, it’s because something real (not imagined) has happened to spark that train of thought, and I am responding to it. When I complani about someone’s behavior, it’s not because I imagine someone is acting that way somewhere, it’s because I witnessed that behavior firsthand, and I am reacting to it.

Sometimes my reactions come across as crass or unformed, but they are still my real reaction to a real event. Because It’s Personal is my place to say exactly what I think, whether you are offended by it or not.

Perhaps because I am prone to putting up pretty pictures or writing sweet nothings about my dogs, you are surprised when I say something unladylike, or offensive. And yet, I’ll say them anyway. Because this is my blog, and It’s Personal.

I don’t like having my ideas and opinions challenged, because I tend to take that challenge as a sign of your disdain or contempt for me. I don’t want to be held in anyone’s contempt. I also know that it’s impossible to please everyone. Perhaps if you were to let me know ahead of time that, while you disagree with what I say, you don’t hate me for saying it. That would be nice.

Would that I had a thicker skin, that I reveled in controversy. I’d give anything to feel comfortable saying exactly what I think about all sorts of things, and be able to handle the inevitable flak that would ensue. But that’s not me, it’s not my way.

I’m not trying to pass myself off as the next great Public Broadcasting Commentator, with the Daniel Shore conviction that every pearl that spills from my fingers is Right and To Be Believed and Anyone Who Doesn’t Believe Is A Dribbling Rube.

However, what I do write is based on my experience, perception, and (sometimes) gut reaction. Anyone who thinks I am taking all this with utmost seriousness, or that I believe myself to be flawless in perception, doesn’t know me AT ALL.

so…let me say what I think, and allow me to operate under the happy illusion that no one really reads this, and that I have absolutely no impact on anyone. Because if I did, Lord…that would be scary.