knee deep

All of this political shit is mother's milk to me. I love it. I can't turn it off, let alone tune it out. I may be whistling past the graveyard, but I am enjoying the shit out of seeing wall street twitch. I have no idea how it will eventually effect me. I don't really get the whole market thing. It seems like play money to me. People loan each other money that doesn't really exist and it goes back and forth and round and round, and now, those who played too close to the edge have fallen off. Well, that happens. I have a little bit of actual money, and a little bit of money in stocks, but not much. I'm not even thinking about that -- in fact I don't intend to look at it for several years, and if its there when I get older, fine. I'm not counting on it though.

And then I think, hey. The only people who are going to be really hurting are the ones who didn't have real money, who only had play money anyway, and who are going to now have to do without what they couldn't afford anyway. I'm not sure that is so bad. What would it look like if we didn't need a new car each year, new furniture when the old is out of season, clothes and clothes and clothes. What if we lived within our means? Revolutionary.

I think my point of view is fairly common. If the government wants my money to help out the banks and financial markets, I'm really not very willing to donate. If it wants some of my money to directly help actual people, that would be okay with me. Just not the suits. If I messed up my job so bad they had to close the doors, they would send me home with a final paycheck as small as legally possible. No bonus, no deals. Go home. If the system is actually broken, let's see for once what really happens. Or twice. There was that other depression. The great one. I wonder what was so great about it.

I really don't know shit.

truthiness

john mccain is unbearably full of shit.

coronation

I am the queen of Tomato Pie. Here's the recipe as best I remember it:

Ingredients:
crust
tomatoes
garlic
italian spices
basil
salt + pepper
parmesan, shredded
feta, crumbled plain
sliced provolone, torn in 1" pieces (I used 5 slices total I think)
mayonnaise

How to:

Crust:
One frozen Marie Callander's pie crust. (I am not the queen of pie crust. Marie is.)
Thaw it for awhile.
shredded parmesan cheese
press some of the parmesan cheese into the bottom and sides of the crust. poke holes in the crust with a fork and bake at 425 for ten minutes.
Let cool.

Filling:
slice several firm tomatoes and lay out to drain on paper towels for about 2 hours.
sprinkle tomatoes with salt, pepper, italian seasoning and basil. Fresh if you have it.
layer tomatoes with shredded parmesan, feta and torn 1" pieces of sliced provolone
more tomatoes, more cheese...
Fill the pie shell 'til rounded.

Topping: Mix together:
1/2 c. mayo
1/2 c. shredded parmesan
1/4 c. feta
chopped garlic - at least one large clove.

Spread topping over pie. Bake 35 minutes at 350. Let stand 1/2 hour to set before serving.

It is so much better the second day.

Yummy

rain and pain

I don't miss the heat, but I will miss the light. People were out driving with their lights on at midday. I felt like I had my sunglasses on. We've been out to see movies, in to see movies, (Burn After Reading; the Fall) both mediocre but worth a watch. Something to pass the time as the dog days of summer cool and liquify.

For those of you who have been reading along and are not among the very few to stumble by unannointed, my shoulder is hurting again, same shoulder, same thing. The surgeon said if it made bone spurs once, it could again. And so my body is manufacturing misery in ways I cannot interpersonally. This time of year as most do, like bears do, I draw in and don't want to go out. The projects that pressed so on my everyday every minute, now seem irrelevant and I could easily live with spotted turquoise linoleum were it not for Sid's feet.

I know that didn't make sense. Even I can string words together better than that. The thing is that the turquoise floor is in my bedroom, and when I am napping, Sid is tapping. Tap tap tapping while I'm napping Sid is tapping, ever tapping, tapping on my bedroom floor. Quoth the Raven, nevermore.

I wake up, having never slept, murderous, shoulder hurting. I need a throw rug, something to still the savage beast. The surgeons says don't sleep on that arm. Oh. Okay. Great Idea. I have little control over what I do when I'm awake, let alone asleep. I turn onto my left side like a muslim toward mecca. I just do. I guess I could line my bed with broken glass or something. I don't want to have surgery again. I really don't. I'll try accupuncture this time.

So the rain comes down, the tv is on, and I'm making tomato pie. I'm not sure about this project. I also want to make a peach cobbler. Fall brings it out in me.

not very sunday

If I were to post this morning, I would have to cover the following subjects:
Obama headquarters
Asha's visit
Grandboys
Motorcycle riding
Things I am not doing
Bladder infections
Hair
Painting things blue
The beginning of fall
the backyard
bladder infections
But I have a floor full of people, and the fact is, I like to be alone in the morning. But I don't mind them, I just don't like the idea of weekends dedicated to anything but gathering my wits for another week of work among the dying. I'm going to a conference beginning tomorrow, and having coffee with my good friend Dan, my old boss. The conference is work, and social networking, which I am not very good at. I am not looking forward to it except that it sort of seems like two days off in addition to the weekend. There are workshops, all of which I could teach because I have been in the long term care industry for so many years. But I don't teach them. I've never written a proposal and taken the time to tell what I know. Remember: I don't care. I sit and listen and pass the time writing (note to self: bring paper) amused at the idealists who believe they will never grow old and die, who think that the next speaker will tell them some new thing to forestall death--something to make it seem like dying is living. This is how we market the industry: sign up for the good life! Pay five thousand dollars a month for Quality of Life in a Homelike Environment. Doesn't it sound great?

I am a cynic. Sue me. If I was to put a workshop together, what would I call it? Real Death and Dying: A Primer for the Idealist.

So, I will go to get my hair retouched this morning, come home, and continue to recover from possibly the worst bladder infection I have ever had. It came on so suddenly I had to practically run out of work and to the doc's. Big pain.

But, due to the miracle of modern medicine and a new pill that turns my pee blue instead of the usual pyridium orange, I am on the mend -- if a little woozy.

I got to spend a couple of hours yesterday with BOTH asia and asha. You should envy me. We sat in my beautiful backyard on probably one of the most perfect Portland afternoons we've had this year -- not too warm -- and covered most of the important topics. Including what the hell is asha thinking going on a three month backpacking trek in the rainy season where there are druglords and terrorists and wait -- that sounds like north portland! But I do worry about the globetrekkers and their minimalist ways. I envy the desire to leave the vortex of the sofa and explore something besides the internet or the nearest shopping opportunity.

So, as I sit on my sofa, cartoons in the background, I begin another Sunday morning on Clinton street.