December Dread

November is ending and I'm not that happy about this. November was my last month of protection before everything has the potential to go to hell. As I have mentioned before, my birth month has a tendency to kick my ass and this makes me somewhat fearful of any December.

Last year was a very good example of this. I contracted some stomach virus that was so horrible that I actually have a little PTSD now. I'm really terrified of getting something like that again. I'm not usually one of those germaphobic people, but last year's stomach yick made me that way. I now carry around the container of hand sanitizer to keep everyone else's fugly germs off of me. Bastards.

The virus only lasted 24 hours, but the lingering nausea lasted for weeks.  I would have vertigo any time I tried to drive and I would worry that I was going to puke. I spent my holiday parties on the verge of being ill again and kept worrying that I wouldn't keep down whatever they fed me. This illness basically ruined my Christmas and birthday.

December was also the last month of Alice's life. She was sick during most of it and spent quite a few days just sleeping as much as she could. I am still not over the loss of her. Fluffy's death hurts, but I'm more peaceful about it because he lived such a long and rich live. Alice's death still feels so unjust. She was so young and she'd only been inside for a while. If she would have been in better health when we got her, or if the people who had her from birth would have taken better care of her, she probably could have lived as long as Fluffy did.

So yeah, I'm dreading December. I'm dreading the potential for illness. I'm dreading the potential for hurt. I'm dreading the potential for somehow missing out on everything and just being sick and broken the whole time. When you top that off with the fact that I'll be turning 40 and that I now get hot flashes, this month has a lot of options for really screwing with me.

The Avoidance Game and How I Lost . . . and How I Won

Today as we were leaving the store, my roommate commented that one of the van's tires looked low and we should probably drive it by our mechanic to have them look at it. I tensed up but agreed it should happen. Then he suggested we do it after we drop off our groceries, just in case it took too long. I loved this idea, because it meant I probably didn't have to go. I was fine for all of about three seconds when he remarked that Rabbitkiller needed an oil change, so we might as well just do both.

Dammit.

Cut to me trying to scramble a way out of this. "Oh, I can just take Rabbitkiller on Wednesday." "They may be overwhelmed if we bring down both of them." "Maybe this isn't a good idea." I think about the third excuse in, he realized I was hedging and said that if I was that scared, he could just do it himself.

"I'm NOT SCARED," I retorted, too loudly and too harshly, because of course I was scared. I was stupidly, irrationally scared.

As much as I realize the setup for oil changes and tire service are practical and wonderful, I fear them. Well, to be specific, I fear driving into them and trying to avoid that gaping hole you have to straddle so that they can get to the underside of your car. I hate that so much! I hate the look of fear the mechanic guiding me toward him has, his eyes wide as he is frantically trying to get me to steer left before I crash my car into that stupid hole. I fear that crash. I fear my van being wedged sideways into the hole and never being able to get it out. I mean, what happens then? Honestly?

You'd think that my brain would be trying to calm me down and sooth me with things like reality and logic, reminding me that I have driven over those holes many times and never wedged anything in them. It would remind me that people do this all the time and that if it wasn't safe, it wouldn't be happening. Or, you know, maybe my brain could even remind me that there are little guard rails along the side of the hole that probably keep that kind of thing from happening.

NOPE!  Instead of all that helpful and reasonable stuff, my brain was looking for a way out of this.

By the time we were home and I was unpacking food, I thought I had it. If my roommate drove Rabbitkiller and I drove the van, then I wouldn't have to drive over the hole. They could just bring the tire pressure stuff out to me. They've done it before. No big deal. I gleefully suggest this plan to my roommate and bless the man, he was kind enough NOT to look at me like I was a crazy person.

We drive down to the mechanic shop. He goes in one bay and I drive up behind the other bay that someone else is already in. I walk inside and tell them what we need and the woman who runs the place says that's fine . . . except the the thing with the long chord to check tires isn't working so I'm going to have to drive inside the bay.

Mother. Fucker.

So . . . not only did I have to drive into the bay, but I have to do it with the van, the bigger and more unwieldy of our two vehicles.  I crawl back into the van, feeling defeated and a rising panic. Soon that car in front of me would leave and I would have to drive the van over that hole and try not to have tragic things happen . . . I slumped against the steering wheel, cursing my luck.

Amazingly, my brain finally kicked in to some logic mode. I realized I'd pulled in fairly straight and that I probably wouldn't have to make that many adjustments. I calmed down a bit and when it finally came time to pull in there, I did it perfectly well. Of course I did, because the fear I have of this thing is ridiculous.

So in the end, what did I learn here?

For one thing, I learned that I should just grow the hell up and stop being timid about stuff that is reasonably easy to do. I shouldn't make excuses and be snappy and panic over nothing. I also learned that, as usual, the more I try to avoid something, the more likely that life is going to make me try and face it anyway. I also learned that it's much easier to guide over that hole if you pull in straight in front of it as opposed to trying to turn and then straighten yourself up.

I also had a nail in my tire. It's fixed now.

More Thankfuls

Pile of Kitty Love

I read a lot of other blogs, especially craft blogs, and have noticed everyone in the universe has a better camera than me. That's okay though. Mine gets the job done. Mostly. Anyway, here is a picture of Rhi and Ro snuggling on an afghan while basking in the sunlight. Triple warmth for them, as is the kitty way.

I love this picture because it displays a lot of what of what I am most grateful for in this world. I have been blessed to spend my life with my strange little cats and my roommate. Our life isn't fancy by any means, but we do our best to make it as calm and peaceful as possible. Everyone in our household is childless and I'm grateful for that. None of us needed any children. I am thankful we have a home that is warm and full of laughter. I'm thankful we're talented and able to create useful things.

I am thankful the cats have a lot of access to sunlight, because it's always fun to watch cats when they bask. It's also a lot of fun to watch them when they cuddle. Cats are marvelous accessories.

We had a very nice Thanksgiving. The food was wonderful and filling. We had a guest come over and spend the evening with us, which was a nice change of pace.  It truly felt like a holiday and that's nice. A lot of the time, things don't quite feel like holidays to us. This one did and I'm thankful for that.

Anyway, I hope everyone out there in readerland had a good holiday as well. Christmas season is upon us.

Thanksgiving Eve

I've been doing the whole Month of Thankful on Facebook. My thankful things are usually small ones (coffee, headphones, the way cats twitch when you surprise them), though I have managed to cover the big ones too (friends, family, safety). In the grander sense though, there are some things I'm grateful for that I just can't express in small FB blurbs. Good thing I have a blog for that.

So what am I thankful for?

I'm thankful that I can ignore the people who try to fit everyone into small little narrow boxes. These people seem to never go away (women must do this! men must do this!), but I luckily live in a place and a time when I can choose to ignore what they say and never apply it to my life. I'm thankful that other people ignore them as well.

This kind of restriction comes in so many forms. The fashion and beauty industry are built on the foundation of trying to tell people how to look. Religion and philosophies to tell people how to act. We have countries like Russia and Iran that try and kill people for not fitting in to their narrow view of acceptable sexuality. `Half the world tries to cover up women and the other half thinks we should be near naked all the time. People try and tell us how to be mothers, how to be fathers, how to be children.

In a lot of places, the people with power get to decide how narrow our boxes will be and quite often choose the most tiny box available. They want to reduce choice because choices imply freedom of thought. They certainly don't want anyone thinking for themselves.

I don't live in a place that is perfect. We're still having to fight to keep the people with narrow boxes from gaining control. However, as it stands now, I can still choose to ignore them if I want to. I don't have to be beautiful. I don't have to marry. I don't have to have children. I don't have to be demure. I don't have to be mild and calm and modest and sweet.

I'm so very grateful for this because I, like a lot of other people, would just be dying inside if I had to try and push myself into one of those narrow little boxes. I would hate every minute of it and live in so much fear of being found out as an impostor.

So yes, I am thankful for that. I am very, very thankful for that.

More Downsizing

A while back, I mentioned that new pants had to be purchased,  ones that are a size down from the pants I have worn for many years now. This was a bit of an ordeal because money wasn't really available for new pants, especially when shipping costs were involved. My roommate is astoundingly good at finding bargains and free shipping, so after a while, three pair of the next size down were ordered.

The first pair that came in were an oddball pair he found for next to nothing. They are bright red, which is probably one of the reasons they're so cheap. When I opened the package, I realized there was perhaps another reason. They are leggings.

There are fat girls out there who are clearly fine with leggings. I'm not one of them. I don't think everyone needs to see the exact shape of my fat bloated legs. Even still, the leggings will be useful. They will be extra warm under pants and perhaps even under a long dress. I'm cool with them.

Going down a size when you have only the option of mail order is tricky. Just because you know your current pants are loose doesn't mean the next size down will work for you. My roommate reassured me that even if they didn't fit at first, it was okay because they would fit soon enough. He was right, but I'm still pretty emotionally scarred from years of shit not fitting and hate trying things on.

The leggings did fit, in the manner of leggings. I got into them and they were comfortable, but quite close to my skin. However, as I said, this is the manner of leggings. I wasn't sure if they were an actual indication of how I would handle the other pants given that the cut and style would be different.

Today, the other new pants arrived. I pulled them out of the package and they looked so different from my usual legwear. I went into the bedroom to try them on, armed, again, with assurance from my roommate that if they didn't fit, it was okay.

I tried them on and they fit me. They actually fit me. They were comfortable and reasonably sized and actually really truly honestly fit me. I really have gone down a pants size. I really have changed that much.

This was an important day for me. As I have written before, the idea of the numbers going down instead of up is a new concept for me. I went down a pants size and if I keep in this direction, I will be able to buy clothes in stores, like the normally sized fat people.

The Perfect Drug

I'm actually very good at paying my bills but that was not always the case. For many years, bill paying for me was, at best, sketchy. I would say I had good intentions, but I would be lying. For most of my life, paying my bills came with some kind of disconnect. It's only been recently that I started to understand why.

My handling of money during college is probably the best example of this, though not the only one. My roommate has always described college as a time of feast or famine. This was quite true for me. I would sweat out the first several weeks, stretching out my remaining dollars as I waited for Financial Aid to kick in. I have no idea what would happen after that. Everything was a blur of failed budgets, music videos, and sunflower seeds (bad addiction to those) that ended with me opening my eyes and realizing I was broke again.

I understand part of why this happened because I still somewhat go through it now. When you spend a lot of time being poor and desperate, there is absolutely no drug as powerful or as overwhelming as safety. Feeling safe, hell, even the illusion of safety, sets off an immense chemical reaction. Nothing feels as good. Not love. Not hope. Nothing. And if you are reading this and think I'm making this up then lucky you. That means the feeling of safety is a constant thing for you.

That isn't the case for everyone and certainly not for me. Feeling safe, especially in a financial sense, was so rare that when it did happen the flood of chemicals unleashed in my system would kind of drive me insane for a while. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to stop depriving myself of things. I wanted the happy feelings to last and last . . . which, of course, was the exact mentality that insured I would blow through my money and be back to feeling poor, terrified, and awful.

The biggest problem with financial planners is that they want people to look at money analytically and unemotionally. They want people to make logical and reasonable decisions about their money.  For people who have never had a secure financial situation, there is probably no larger emotional quagmire than money. Money isn't logical to us. Money is an extremely emotional issue. When we don't have it, we're scared and devastated. When we do have it, we're so high on the feeling of security that we're practically loopy.

As you mature, you begin to realize that you don't want to stay in that cycle of  fear and ecstasy.  This is usually when most poor people say, "I don't care about money." I've said this myself. "I don't care about money. I don't have to be rich. I don't want to be driven by the need for more and more material possessions." And all of this is true. Actually, the last half of it was true even before I made the statement. I really don't care that much about having tons of things. Most of the time, I feel like I have too many things.  And saying I don't have to be rich is twee because I'll never be rich anyway.

I'm lying when I say I don't care about money. Well, no, not lying. I'm misplacing the meaning of what money really is. It's not so much that I care about paper in my hand or numbers on a screen. That isn't that important.

Safety and security, however, ARE very important. I know that in my society, money is a large part of how people gain safety. I can spend all day wishing that wasn't so, but it is. I want to feel safe because I know the hell of not feeling safe. I know what it's like to have that crushing feeling of a bill being due that you can't pay. I know what it's like to be on the phone, repeating the whole longass line of account numbers in order to gain a couple more weeks of security before you have to pay the bill.

These days, my bills get paid as soon as possible. My very simple, yet totally functional for me system is based around a zip bag I carry in my purse. When a bill comes in, I open it right then. If it's the first bill I get in for the month, the envelope it came in gets labeled with month/year. All the rest of the bills for the month go into that envelope and the whole thing is placed in the zip bag in my purse. Within days of the first of the month, all bills are paid and labeled as paid. That way, it's out of my mind and I don't have to think about it.

This is how strong the desire for safety can be.  The moment those bills are paid, my body still sends out a rush of intense relief. I still feel the old safety drug coursing through my veins. I'm thrilled I have a place to live and all utilities will continue. I let myself enjoy that sense of security and try not to fear that it will go away. 

Last to the Party

I experience a lot of envy against people who have made a success on things like Twitter and Tumblr. I feel so behind, because they found it first and had the creativity to make work for them. As usual, I'm late to the party. Hell, in many ways, it's like I'm showing up to the party right as it's ending. Think about it; it is 2013 and I am just now getting a device that requires me to a screen text.

In some ways, the worst part is the fact that I haven't been at the party the whole time. I feel like I missed my window. I should have been writing and published in my 20s or at least in my early 30s. What was I doing? Why did I let all this time pass? Seriously, what was I even doing? I have 40 years of life and nothing to show for it ex except some yarn raft, this blog, and fat pants.

Ohhhh, and of those three things, I am even late to the party on two of them. I am not a leader or an innovator in my yarncraft. I am someone who is lurking along the sidelines, happily benefiting from the efforts of others. I didn't start my blog when it was a new concept. Blogging had been a thing for years by the time mine began. 

So really, it is just the fatness.  Oh wait. Not even that.  After all, there was that woman who was making all the money by letting people watch her eat. This woman apparently shut up the party way before I did. She understood how to market the fact she was fat and wanted to eat all the time.  She grasped the basic concept that people would pay money to satisfy their morbid curiosity.

It's sad and disturbing and more than a little bit exploitative, however it still beats having to count the change in your car to see if you can afford a latte.  She may have arrived at the party in the middle of the freak show, but she still showed up hours and hours before I did. She still drank the punch.  Hell, she probably spiked the punch. And she certainly ate most of the cake.  Me? Well I'm drinking the dregs of what was left the punch and digging my finger around the edges of what was probably a very nice cake, at one point.

So what happens now? Well, I'm not even really sure. I suppose the best course of action is for me to just get over myself and not let all lost years drive me insane. It's difficult, because I feel very much a loss about all that. I'm not even sure what to do now. I'm not sure that I should do anything. I'm not sure that I shouldn't just grab my jaunty party hat, wave to the few people who are left, and exit the party with as much dignity as I can.

OR I could stop thinking about time and wasting it and all that bullshit and just enjoy the party. I do like those party hats and oh look, no one ate that 7 layer dip . . . yup, that's the best option.

More about Poor

I've actually been working on a blog post all day, but that can be published later because I needed to talk about this article.  Please read it. This is what poverty is like. And actually, I have to admit this woman's situation is far worse than mine. I don't have children to support or tend to. I don't have two jobs to try and handle while I go to school and tend to those children. That makes a huge difference in my life and I am grateful for it.

Still, a lot of what she said hit home. When you're poor, there is a lot of justification you feel like you have to do, even to yourself. It's this sense that every dime you spend has to be accounted for, because you don't have to right to waste any money on frivolous things, not even the stuff everyone else gets to have. For example, the other day I had an optometrist appointment.  Glasses Time has always been a major issue because glasses are so damned expensive.

We had a way around that this time. My roommate found Zenni Optical, a place where you can get your glasses for super cheap. Normally I would have to wait until I had Christmas/birthday money to spend on glasses, but with Zenni around, I only had to save up for a few months to afford my glasses (under sixty for two pair). This was great for me in a couple of ways. For one thing, it means my holiday cash can be saved for potential emergency situations that may arise during the year.

More importantly, it means that I can rest easier at night because I don't own glasses that cost me over $100.00 and would cost just as much to replace. Having glasses that cost twenty-five bucks soothes my brain.  It's less of a financial disaster if something happens to them. Plus, I don't have to feel guilty/unworthy for owning something so expensive that sits on my face.  Yes, you heard me correctly, I felt guilty for owning my glasses, because they were expensive and I am poor.

Here are some other things that, as a poor person, I believe most of the time:

• I believe that people see me as a failure.
• I believe I'm not allowed to ask for things or make suggestions. An example of this is that I always feel horrible when I request items for Christmas, even though my step-mother has asked for a list.
• I believe that no matter how hard I try to find a major that won't screw me over, going back to school will probably still lead to nothing. I try not to believe this one, but having been burned by college once and watching others go through the same thing, it's sometimes difficult to find any hope in the idea of further education.
• I believe that I'm best served making friends with death in my sixties, because any later than that and I'll probably be too old to take care of myself and I won't have the money for any kind of help.
• I believe I am completely irresponsible with money, even though I pay my bills on time and keep my insurance up to date. 

The woman who wrote the article I linked to took a great risk in doing so. She opened herself up to a lot of criticism and a lot of people trying to tell her how she should change her life for the better. I'm sure she got a lot of that, but she also received a ton of positive support as well. I hope what she wrote will open some eyes about things. Maybe what I wrote will do the same.

The Language of Ownership

The objectification of women in our society is very insidious, especially in our language. You see this all the time.  Even the most well-meaning people can be guilty of it. Hell, even I can be guilty of it. Though at least I'm not out there trying to send mixed message for  the public good.

For example, there is this campaign the talks about how women should be treated badly based on the idea of "she's someone's daughter." She someone's daughter. She someone's mother. She someone's wife. See the problem?  Instead of trying to get people to relate to a woman based on the fact that she's someone in and of herself, we find it necessary to get people to relate to her under the idea that she belongs to another person. This isn't how life should be. A woman's worth should not be based on whether or not she belongs to someone else. And I'm not just saying that because I don't want anyone else. Which, by the way, I don't.

I have managed, as an adult, to belong only to myself. There is no one else who can claim me, not in any legal sense. I belong only to me. And I have to tell you, I'm very happy about this. The idea of belonging to someone else is revolting me. I'm not saying in terms of just being in a relationship with someone. I'm talking about the idea of legalities, of ownership. I'm so against this idea that I cringe at the idea of anyone even having power of attorney over me.

And yet, by the literal definition of the "someone else's daughter" campaign, my lack of ties would imply that it's okay to harm me. There is no one else would be hurt in the process, only me. It's okay to mess with that chick. She's alone in the world. She isn't serving some kind of purpose to other people, might as well use her for yourself.

Look, I know that the intention of "she is someone's daughter" was never to imply ownership. I realize they were not saying that a woman's worth is based on whether or not she has attachments to other people. However, sometimes the way we say things can betray more of our deeper thinking and we realize.

How about this? Let's start a campaign focused on stopping the violence and sexual exploitation of others that goes a little something like this,"Hey, these are people. Don't hurt the people. It's not a very good thing."

Is this simplistic? Of course it is. But why does the discussion about violence and sexual exploitation has to be complex?

Trailer Thanksgiving

I don't remember having Thanksgiving dinner with my grandparents when I was a child. I know we did, I just don't remember any of the specifics of any of the dinners, not one detail at all.  Perhaps this is because most of my childhood memories about Thanksgiving center around my great grandmother's house in Hartford. I remember so much about those dinners.  It's strange because I really spent more time, in fact most of my time, with my mother's family. However, when I think about holidays is a small child, all of those holiday memories do center around father's family.

My great-grandmother lived in a two bedroom, one half bath trailer. There was a concrete covered porch over the first half of the trailer, covered in every yard knickknack my grandmother could find. There was also four foot tall statue of the Virgin Mary. During Christmas, someone would always put a Santa hat on her. My mother always found that to be so funny.

With bedrooms and bathrooms on either end, the main living area of the house, kitchen with eat in dining area and living room, were in the middle of the trailer itself.  It was a small space. The kitchen was fridge, small counter, stove, corner counter, sink, small counter and that was all. Boom boom boom. It was the kind of space so small that most people would complain bitterly over. No room for anything. My great-grandmother was fine with it though. The living room was also small, but she populated it with seating. Sectional coming out from the far wall, with three chairs on the other side and another chair pushed up next to it. This last chair was so close to the television that you ended up responsible for anything that had to be done to it.

This was the hub of activity, the hub of the home, indeed, the heart of the home. My great-grandmother held court in the middle of it all, seated to where she could look out the front door, greeting those who would enter. Her greetings were always warm and welcoming, very full of love. Anyone who came into her home felt special.

Thanksgivings there are so vivid. Crock pots would hold things in the way that other people would use warming drawers. One would hold the dressing and another the rolls, wrapped in paper towels and set on low to keep them nice and ready for anyone who wanted them. Brown and black earthenware dishes would hold green beans and the best corn I've ever eaten. A tan pot would hold the gravy while mashed potatoes and various casseroles would be in glass dishes. The turkey and ham would sit on the far counter.

On the dining table, she would have a tray of pickled veggies, a salad, celery with cheese, and deviled eggs. You know, most of the time, I handle poorness pretty well, but I have to admit I miss getting to have deviled eggs for Thanksgiving. I love them, but I really can't justify sacrificing that many eggs just for one meal.

The adults would sit in the kitchen at the table while everyone else would pile around the chairs in the living room. Some of the adults who smoked would opt to take their meals outside on the porch, sitting with the Virgin Mary and the other yard ornaments, in order to be able to smoke while they ate.

My great-grandmother would send plates of food to the people in town who were alone. She would pile everything onto those thick Chinet plates and cover them in tin foil. This, like the warm way she greeted people, said so much to me about the kind of person she was. She would send my aunt or my father off to the houses of the lonely people with a kind word for them. When they came back, she would ask with genuine interest about how the people they visited were doing.

After everyone had been fed, some of us would play cards at the living room table while all interested parties overtook the living room to watch football games. Eventually, whatever men were the most able-bodied would put up my great-grandmother's outside Christmas lights for her. The official end to the meal would come at dark, when we would go outside to see the lights go on for the first time that year.

You know, I wrote a few days ago about how I'm not really close to my father's side of the family, and I'm not. Years, divorces, different paths, and distance have made us drift apart. When I was a little kid though, that wasn't the case. When my great-grandmother was still matriarch of the family, we had more of a connection and more of a tradition. It just wasn't something we could sustain once she was gone. She was the glue that held us together and none of the rest of us really inherited that ability.

For a time though, we were all connected. For a while, in fact, for me, probably the most formative while, we functioned as a group. It has left me with many memories of her and her warmth. She was magical really. You'd have to be magical to fit 20 people into a trailer for a meal.

Dragon, How I Have Missed Thee

I slept until almost 10 today. Can you believe that? I blame the sinus issues. My sinuses are absolutely horrible right now. I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do about it. Probably nothing. However, there are other, happier events in my life. 

So here's the thing, I'm actually not even really typing this. I put Dragon Dictation onto the iTouch and I wanted to see if I could actually sit here and just talk to it and have everything dictated down. That way, I can go ahead and copy and paste it over to Blogger and just have my whole thing done that way. 

Are there issues? Yes, there are some issues. For one thing, I'm having to go in and add punctuation myself. Actually, this is probably the biggest issue. Another thing is that it's not really recognizing any words that need to be capitalized. There may be a way for me to get it to do that. I'm not really sure.

Overall though, I think it's a very interesting step in the right direction. I really really hope that I can get this working because it would mean that I can just sit here and talk through all kinds of things. . . like books or . . .  well actually just mainly books.

You know it also helps to be able to do Blogger this way, although I have noticed something else that is a problem.  I don't really talk in sentences. I talk in a really long extended, ridiculous statements that have lots of 'and' plus a ton of other conjunctions and it really doesn't lend itself that well to this. Maybe I can get more used to talking in a proper manner. If I want to get this to work the way I need it to, that is absolutely going to have to happen.

I'm always like Dragon a lot. In fact, I used to use a whole lot in college to write papers. You have no idea how much this pleased me. I always felt like I was cheating. Even though, I really wasn't. After all I am dictating all of this.

By the way, I have found a place where I can get commands. Things such as punctuation are easy to do just as long as I say them out loud.

Yarn Progress

Rowan was my model here. Not by my choice.

After I completed my first minion hat, I read an article about the value of making swatches with your yarn. That is, looking at the gauge instructions and knowing how to make that work with your own natural gauge.   You have no idea how much I wish I would have read this BEFORE I did the minion hat, because, honestly, it would have saved me a lot of time.

I don't tend to practice or do any prep before I start on a project. I just dive right in and hope that things turn out for the best. They almost always do not turn out for the best . . . at least, not on the first (sometimes up to the tenth) try. I have to start and restart and restart until things look the way I want them to. And the reason I have to do this usually deals with gauge and counting. The thing is, it seems I'm not alone in this. A lot of people dive into projects without practicing or preparing for them first. A lot of us end up with strangely shaped, wonky results. Of course, we don't have to.

So, in trying to learn my lesson, I started practicing on the hat I'm going to make for my nephew. It's going to be a simple beanie hat with a fake yarn beard attached to it. I had to pause on my supergoth handwarmers because the yarn is so black and so delicate that I need tons of sunlight to even work on it. With some time to kill, I decided to do prep work for the beard hat.

I reviewed the pattern and watched a couple of instructional videos. Most importantly, I did a practice beard. The picture above is said beard, resting on the back of Rowancat. I didn't mean for the beard to be on her, but she kept insisting on sitting right where I needed her not to be. Finally I just gave up, rested the beard on her back, and snapped my pic.

What did I learn? The technique is really easy and it works very fast. Again, because I'll be using a darker yarn (probably) I should make sure to do this when I have more visibility. I'm also not happy with the mouth. I left three spaces as indicated by the video I watched, but I don't think that's adequate. What good is a beard hat unless you can stick your tongue out?

Beyond the project, this has been a good lesson in the value of preparation. I have a better understanding of the project as a whole and far more confidence about my ability to make it happen. We may be on a trend of less wonkfested looking things.

Pilgrim Tales and Bradybunch Agogo

When I was a little kid, reruns of the Brady Bunch used to come on every afternoon and I would watch them religiously. I wanted to be Cindy. Keep in mind, I was very young at this point. I didn't quite grasp that they wrote her as a simpleton.

Back then, I saw it as a logical choice. My grandmother reminded me of Marsha. My mom reminded me of Jan. This meant I had to be the Cindy.  You know, the fact that there were two adult women on the show but I didn't perceive them as being anything like my grandmother and mother says a lot about the maturity of these two women . . .

Anyway, one of the episodes that I always loved was the one where Greg has to do a school project about the pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock.  Because the family was large and had access to a home movie projector, Greg decided to do a film about the pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving.

Everyone is really into the idea, but of course they all have their own opinions about how things should go. They wanted prettier clothing or more violence or some level of romantic lead. In the end, Greg made some compromises, but stood his ground in other places. All of this resulted in a nicely cheesy little film that probably earned him an A.

The interesting thing about this episode is that I believe it's one of the things that inspired tiny me to aspire to being a writer. Some of my first writing efforts were plays and I believe I started those due, in part, to how cool I thought it was that the Brady family made a film at home.

Lack of Participation

I think I want to begin my discussion of various Thanksgiving things by talking about this year. As a little background, every year, my dad's side of the family gathers at my cousin's house for the holiday. I usually ride with my brother and his family. My dad and his wife show up. We also have my aunt and her husband. Sometimes one or two of her friends are there. Unless my grandfather and his wife are warring with someone in the family (which happens more often than you would think), they show up as well. My cousin, who has the shindig, has a husband and three children.

As I have mentioned before, my dad's side of the family really isn't social. We really pretty much only see each other on holidays and then only ones where food and gifts are involved. We're just not that close. Too many weird levels of temper and craziness.

This year, my brother and his family are going to Ohio to see my SIL's family who have had to move up there. This left me in a bind because, as I said, I usually ride with them. Back before I got on medication that wonks out my driving, this wouldn't have been a problem. Now it is.

My roommate suggested taking me overe there and chilling out in FS. I wasn't keen on the idea because it meant I would have to be there for longer than I really wanted to be. He also suggested that he could just go with me and participate in the meal. The thing is, I like my roommate and don't really want him having to deal with the aforementioned levels of temper and crazy.

So last Monday I called my dad to ask him when said festivities would be starting. He informs me that Thanksgiving falls on my stepmother's birthday, and as a reward, he would be taking her to see her family for Thanksgiving and not making her deal with....well, you know. temper and craziness.

"Oh," I said over the phone. "So if you're not going and my brother's family isn't going, I really don't see any point in me being the sole representative of this side of things." My dad agreed that would be for the best and no one would be upset.

I would love to tell you that I'm really disappointed in my traditional holiday plans being changed . . . but I'm NOT! It's actually almost a little sad how much happiness washed through my body whenever I found out I didn't have to go anywhere on Thanksgiving. It was a rush of pure, unbridled joy. And that isn't saying I hate my family. I don't. It's just saying that they're stressful and loud and I really am excited about the idea of not seeing them!

So yes, folks, this is my heartwarming story for the Thanksgiving holiday. I don't have to see my family. Squeeee!!

Weird Weekend

It's November 17 and I'm sitting here in shorts and a tank top. I have the fan on. I also have a blanket on my legs because they keep getting cold, but only for a second. Today, we had the doors open. We let coolish breezes blow into the house. It was dreary and overcast, but still easier to handle the the days before it.

I'm taking a break from the Minion Hat 2.0 to do some arm warmers. They're delicate and beautiful. Here's hoping I don't destroy them in the process. Oh, and also, here's to hoping I don't go blind because the yarn is very, very thin. I think this is how women went blind in the past. Masturbation had nothing to do with it. They were all busy making fine knitted gloves.

I think starting Monday, I'm going to write up various thoughts and observations I have about Thanksgiving. I have probably done this already in the blog, but this will be more extensive. I probably won't do it every day until the holiday, but quite a few of them.

Tinkerbell has been hanging out in the living room more often. She still isn't sitting with the rest of us, but she is in the room and glances at us from time to time. She'll get down to play with a cat toy, which is really cute because she mews at them. She really is an adorable cat. Maybe some day she'll come to trust me. Probably not any time soon, but there is always hope.

Minion

This is my first attempt at the minion hat. It didn't turn out perfect, but you gotta admit, it has a lot of personality!

There are a lot of things I'll change for the next hat. The pattern I used has the ear flaps and I don't think I like them. I also think I need to keep my tension better on the bottom part of the hat. I'm somewhat on the fence about the ration of blue to yellow, but of course if I take off the ear flaps, that might not be a problem. My roommate suggested I do a longer back, maybe just a couple of more rows, and that would serve to add more blue.

The eyes need to be smaller as well. I think the dominate the hat too much as take away some of the charm. I'd also like to put the little sidepieces on the goggles next time, because that will be another layer of depth to it.

This one looks a lot better than my first attempts. While it may not live up to the standards of what I would want to do in the hat, it still at least, manages to be recognizable as the character it is supposed to be . . .and it actually functions as a hat. Compared to some of my first attempts at this, even that is an improvement.

Victory Over Yarn Gods

The knitting bag that sits beside me was opened today and the mess that I've let grow in there was sorted, unraveled, and put to rights. I think I had like ten various balls of yarn all knotted up together. It was a mess. 

I'd been putting it off for a while. I just felt like I had more important things to do. I'd open the bag, fight for like five minutes to retrieve whatever it was that I needed, and then zip it up as quickly as possible, mostly so that this yarn monster wouldn't eat me.

It was weighing on my mind though. I knew I needed to do something. Crafts are done best when everything is kept organized. Besides, I felt like it was starting to become a metaphor for my life.

It took a few hours, but I finally got through it all. I started with the smallest bits first, the ones that stood out at odds with everything else, like that dark gray and the maroon. Then I worked on whatever seemed to be the most willing to let go of the knottage. I had the yellow before the other colors. The orange came soon after.

The blue was the last to go. I had the most of it and it was in several different balls that were all joining up together. Part of it was just cut off, which meant I was finding end pieces all over the place.

You know, there is probably more metaphor for my life in terms of how I fixed this. I was consistent. I kept working on it. I sorted the smaller and easiest to handle pieces first. I left the bigger, complex masses for the last part, when I could more easily see them with everything else out of the way. Maybe I should apply this to everything.

New Project

I had five billion different colors of yarn in front of me. The only way I could manage to make it less confusing was to move the green bits underneath the thing I wanted to show, which is the eyeball. I'm working on a new project and it's proving to be difficult, you know, like all my other projects. Still, it's also quite fun. I'm enjoying the challenge. Plus, I get to make eyeballs.

The project is a crochet one. It's been a while since I worked any crocheting, at least, any that was the main thrust of what I was doing. It's taken a while to really get back into the grove of it. The thing about my crocheting is that I never really learned in a formal way. All my techniques were things that I assumed they meant whenever they would describe something. Because of that, I'm having to unlearn a lot of stuff and relearn to do it the right way.

Though, knitting has taught me a lot of good things that are working into the crocheting. For one thing, I am very much aware of what both hands are doing at all times. My left hand is doing more than just keeping tension. It's also guiding yarn into the right place and making sure things do as they are told. I'm also better with my counting. When I used to crochet, I would never count anything, which resulted in some very wonkfested afghans. Knitting forced me to discipline myself to counting and double checking my work. I still make mistakes, but far less than I used to.

Yet, even despite all these advances in skill levels, I've still started the damned hat over like six times now. It's been a series of fixing mistakes and trying again and again to get it right. Right now I'm at an impasse with black yarn. I need two rows of it and all the yarn I have is too big and stretching everything out. That should be corrected tomorrow though.

I'll keep you informed on the project's progress.

Fake White Fur of Evil

When my grandmother passed, she left a lot random pieces of material. One of them is a white section of fake fur. It serves no real purpose and I can't imagine what Gran planned on using it for.  Still, there it was, in  the house. I decided it would be great for the cats.

My cats HATE this piece of fake white fur. Hate hate hate! They will not sit on it. They will not go near it. They will not even touch it if they don't have to. They look at it with suspicion and will go out of their way to not even walk near it. I'm not really sure why they're doing this. Maybe they think it's the undead pelt from some evil soulless animal? Maybe they think it has fleas? Maybe they just have no idea what the hell it is and really can't wrap their little kitty brains around it?

I thought maybe it was just the catweirdness from the ones we've had for years now. After all, they do pick up a lot of habits from each other. I think they pass crazy back and forth like it's some kind of flu.  I'm always amazed at the habits cats will pick up from each other. Though rarely have those habits been practical, helpful, or good.

When my roommate was pulling out the winter blankets, the piece of white fur was in the blanket chest with the rest of them. As Tinkerbell is new to the inside, I thought that maybe she would react differently to it. After all, she was raised outside and hasn't picked up the other cats' habits.

She's been venturing into the living room more often. Her favorite place to sit is this printer desk I've had for ages. It's kind of out of the way. It's good for her because she can sit in the room with us and watch us, all the while pretending like she's not. The table is kind of cold though, so we decided to put the white fake fur on it.

An hour or so after we did this, she ran into the living room and started her usual jump up to the table. At the last second, she saw the fake white fur and flipped her whole body around so she wouldn't jump on it. Then she ran, RAN,  to the other room and peered out of the door at the fur.

My roommate thought maybe she was just surprised by it being there. He picked her up, carried her to the table, and sat her down on the fur.

I honestly think he would have had an easier time sitting her onto hot coals. Tink jumped up onto the bill collector we keep on the desk and dug her claws into it so she didn't have to touch the fake fur. She refused to let go of it until the fur was removed, and even then she gave us the stink eye for the rest of the night.

So whatever is going on with this piece of fake fur is clearly more than some lore made up by our inside cats. Tink doesn't like it either, and she's normally a fairly fierce little kitty. I'm wondering if I should get an old priest and a young priest to look at the fake fur. Or maybe doing a ritual to ward off evil spirits from it. Or maybe just wash it again. I'm really not sure.

Maybe I should just turn it into a tacky purse.

Poorshaming

On Facebook, a friend of mine was talking about how angry she is at people who will make comments about folks on food stamps who have iPods and nice purses and great clothing. There are a lot of memes that go around about this. "Look at those awful poors! All they do is take stuff away from the rest of us!"

So I'm sitting here, typing this on my iTouch and thinking about how close to home this is hitting.  From the first picture I uploaded, I was aware there would be people who would realize I was using some kind of Apple tech and start feeling all judgy about it because it's fairly well known that I'm poor. I shouldn't care what people think, but there are some issues where that gets difficult.

After reading my friend's post about how she planned on defriending people who posted the poorshaming meme, I realized that being concerned about how having the iTouch would be perceived was stupid on my part. I was poorshaming myself about it. I was acting like, due to my station in life, I didn't deserve it and that is just wrong. I didn't pay for this thing, but I have sustained a friendship for 20 years with someone who loves me enough to give her stuff to me when she no longer needs it.

See, the problem with people's logic about how the poor folk be spending their money is that they just don't comprehend the level of skills many of us have that keep us going. They don't realize that there are poor people who know how to shop bargain stores to find the best stuff. They don't get that they are looking for the best stuff, not because of the name brand, but because it's better quality and will probably last longer.

I knew a girl in high school who had probably the most stunning collection of clothing anyone could have during the early 1990s. Everything looked great on her. She looked like she spent a fortune on her clothing, but she didn't. She knew how to sew and made everything she wore. She even made her prom dresses.

The sad thing is, and this is another way in which we're taught to poorshame ourselves, my friend, who could sew anything and looked amazing in it? She was ashamed of her sewing. She felt bad that all her stuff was homemade and always thought people were making fun of her whenever they talked about how good she looked. This really kills me because she had enough seamstress skills that she could have really done great things in the fashion industry.

Look, we all judge people. I know I do. I also know that it's stupid and often wrong. Next time you see some poor person doing things of which you don't approve, take a few minutes to consider that perhaps there is more going on that meets the eye. It probably won't change the poor person's life, but it might help you to pull out of that seething pit of self-righteousness.

Belated

So I am in bed and trying to write on the iTouch again.  It isn't going that well, but I want to keep at this because there are some major advantages. For instance, I am in my bed, in the dark, and everything is shut down and ready for me to fall asleep.

There is a lot of freedom to that. It also feels quite sneaky and we all know how much I love that. Anyway, while my typing has been faster this time, it has still taken me far longer than it should have. I think tomorrow may find me looking up an app to help me practice typing on something this small. 

Thanksgiving Plans

With the exception of rolls, my household now has all of the stuff we need for Thanksgiving. The stores are going to be nightmarish over the next couple of weeks, and we wanted to have as much already stocked up as possible. This is our way of saving collective sanity.

Our main dish will be a dressing with chicken. We used to get a small bit of turkey, but it's really out of our price range these days. Instead of turkey, we're opting for chicken (deboned by yours truly) that will be baked on top of cornbread dressing. For me, one of the things that is important about Thanksgiving is linking back to the past. This dish does that for me, because of of the meals my grandmother could actually cook really well was her chicken and dressing. Every time we have this, it reminds me of her.

There are some differences. We're using box dressing. Yeah, I know. Say what you want. For us, it's quicker and easier. No one in my household wants Thanksgiving to be a huge chore. Besides, we don't keep seven tons of left over cornbread in the house. The other difference between ours and Gran's is that we don't put boiled eggs in and/or on top of our dressing. Growing up, I liked it this way a lot, but these days, it is probably out of our price range to use up our eggs in this way.

The dressing will be made the day before Thanksgiving and left to sit overnight. This not only keeps there from being waaay to much stuff to do on the holiday, it also allows the flavors in the dressing to marry. This same tactic will be applied to our apple enchiladas dessert. Said dish of sweetness is a new addiction to the household holiday meal. It's a dish we both like a lot and it solves a problem for us. The pumpkin pies we could afford just really aren't that good and this time of year, pecan pies are really expensive. Sweet enchiladas and ice cream will suit us  just fine.

I see my family on Thanksgiving, but the meal I share with my roommate is always my favorite part. It's quiet and simple. It's something we planned and discussed, something we put a lot of work in to. I like that because it's a celebration of what we can manage to pull off based on our limited resources . . . you know, kind of like the people at the First Thanksgiving.

Thursday Night Round Up

Sugar's New Dress

As I said last night, my best friend gave me her iTouch. I spent the day getting good apps for it, loading my podcasts, and making it an outfit to wear. Okay, that last part might technically actually be that I knitted a case for it, but I like the outfit thing better. I might make it several outfits to wear, depending on the formality of the occasion. She named it Icing Sugar, after a Cure song. I believe it's bad luck to rename things, so Icing Sugar keeps her name. And yes, she's a she.

Sugar has a camera function, albeit, not a great one. There is also a video function. I'm trying to think of what oddness I can do with that. The camera is fun, although I've not figured out a way to make myself look even remotely decent in the pictures.

Now that Sugar has her dress, I need to finish the cuff I was working on. It's going to match the other cuff I made. The first cuff didn't start out as a cuff but it ended up there. I like it a lot, but I think it would benefit from a companion cuff. This interests me a lot. I've always had trouble finding sleeves that covered my wrists in a way I liked. By adding my own cuffs to the party, I don't have to worry so much about that.

I woke up this morning to the power going off. It was down for about 45 minutes but even that was enough to toss my household into chaos for a while. We never really found our footing and everything was just off for us. I'm hoping that things go better tomorrow. Actually, I'm somewhat hoping things really level out and just slide smoothly through the rest of the year. I think I need that and everyone else does too.

New Location

Okay, I'm actually in the same location. However, I'm on a different device. My best friend gave me her iTouch and this post is being written on it. How is that goings? Well . . . I would say not too well. My fat fingers do not do well on this keypad. At least, not yet.

Still, it is very wonderful to have the option. I am so grateful that she gave it to me. Today has been a great day in many ways. We had a lot of fun and my roommate did a lot of winterizing on the house and completed almost all of the holiday shopping. There are only a couple of things left to get.

Edit: Okay, so I just published via the iTouch and watched as it just appeared on the screen. That is so cool!

No More Spoons

I ran out of spoons today. In fact, I think on certain topics, I may have ran out of them forever. I read an article about a group of boys in New Zealand who have a habit of getting underaged girls drunk, gang raping them, and then putting up the videos of it to shame the girls. The police aren't doing anything about it. People defend them. They are completely casual about the whole thing. They don't care if people know. The girls were just sluts, as far as they are concerned.

Then there was the guy who wrote the letter about how rape culture doesn't exist. He hates how how people are trying to get parents to teach their sons not to rape. He hates how this rape culture thing makes it sound like men are all beasts. Blah blah. Maybe these girls should try not being so slutty and most of them are lying anyway.

I could go on. I could devote paragraphs to the comments made about the antirape panties. I could talk about the comments people made on an Upworthy video of the abused woman. I could write and write and write about this, but it would make no difference. People will still defend the men and their actions. People will still blame the women.

I'm not going to read any more comments about this stuff or watch any more videos. I'm not going to read articles or let myself view blog discussions. I just can't anymore. Not not and not for a while. I'm going to live my quiet, happy little life and feel very, very grateful that there are no straight men around to screw it up. I'm going to be grateful that I live in a society where that is possible.

Troublesome Yarn

A while back, my roommate bought me some yarn and it's become quite troublesome for me. The yarn is a lovely dark teal and I quite adore the color. However, I just never could figure out what to do with it. It knitted ugly. There just isn't any other way to put it. I tried to make it into a scarf and it was ugly. I tried to use it to make a bracelet and it was ugly. I tried to make it into gloves and it was ugly.

This was baffling. The color was beautiful while it was on its spool. But when it was knitted up, it changed. The bulk of the yarn does this thing to where the light reflects off of it differently. It stops being that lovely dark teal and becomes this unremarkable shade of light navy. It's like navy that can't commit. No, actually, it's more like preteen navy, just all kinds of awkward and ungainly and incapable of really fitting in to anything.

A few nights ago, I finally declared it 'unknittable' and pulled out a crochet hook. The teal/navy/preteen angst color has now become a somewhat ungainly neck warmer. It's not the best thing I've ever made, but it's an end to the story for the troublesome yarn. I now have a neck warmer with a story. So yay for that.

Downsizing

I think I'm about to the point where I'm going to need to go down a size in pants. I wanted to put this off until they were absolutely falling off of me, but I don't think that is going to work. There is a large amount of material that is now bunching up around my thighs and it's quite uncomfortable after a while. There really is no reason to be that kind of uncomfortable.

Shirts will have to wait for a while. They're not really so much of a problem yet, do to the malformation on my right arm. Until that is gone, my shirt size really can't change very much. I'm also not going to have to alter my underthings yet, though I did recently go down a size there, mainly for the same reason I'm doing the pants now. The material was just getting on my nerves. The new underthings were tight at first, but now they're starting to become more comfortable. Maybe in a few more months, they'll be loose enough to be replaced again.

When you've been very, very heavy for a long time, there are shrinkage things that catch you off guard. The other night, I put on a knitted hat I'd made for myself a few years ago. I was used to it fitting a certain way . . . kind of tight and slightly uncomfortable. Instead, it just slipped easily onto my head.

It was the strangest thing, to anticipate something to fit you one way and have it fit another. The best way I can explain it is that odd sensation when you think you're about to take a drink of water and suddenly coke hits your mouth. It's not unpleasant, but it's very shocking, sometimes so much so that you spit it out.

Sometimes when I read over the stuff I write about weight loss, I notice that a lot of it sounds like I'm full of dread about this process. I'll be honest with you; part of me is full of dread. My weight going backwards is a very uncommon thing for me. I've been fat for so long, most of the time, I never even believed this could really happen. The fact that it is fills me with a lot of gratitude and happiness. It also freaks me out. I worry that it will stop. I worry that it is just some sign that I'm dying. I worry that it will happen and while I will be healthy, the rest of my life will fall to pieces do to unseen circumstances that directly link back to my weight.

It's important to acknowledge these things. The more I discuss my fears, the more I can own them, process them, and move past them. I do want to be healthy . . . at least, the rational parts of my mind do. It would be, if nothing else, at least novel for me. It will make life easier in a million ways. It will make my mind shut the hell up about the subject. How could that possibly be bad?

Tradition!

As you well know, I don't have many traditions in my life. Things have always been scattered and weird for me, so the few traditions I do have, I not only cherish, but guard within an inch of my life. I've built these traditions around the people who are most important to me. My roommate and I have the holiday traditions of watching, singing along with, and mocking holiday specials. My best friend and I decorate a Christmas tree together every year.

One of the traditions that has meant the most to me over the last 12 or so years has been spending the night that we get our extra hour back with an online friend. This year, due to the poor planning and selfishness of someone in her family, and the indulgence of everyone else in her family, she's not able to enjoy the extra hour with me.

I realize this is a small thing and perhaps it even seems like a petty thing to many people, but for me, it's been a part of my life for many years now. It's important to me and it's important to her, and it stings that this year, it won't be happening.

I think it's important to respect other people's moments. In our little human existence, our memories and our awareness of who we are is defined by the moments that we truly fuse into our brain. Traditions and holidays play a large role in this. If you find yourself in the position of screwing up someone's moment, I invite you to think twice about it. And I encourage you to NOT screw it up, if you can help it. Don't ruin what is special for other people. Of all the things in the world that you shouldn't do, that is certainly one of them.

Faith in Humanity: Temporarily Restored

I was sitting in my van at Walmart playing Candy Crack Saga. My roommate was inside buying things. I was hoping he'd score lots and lots of left over Halloween candy, but that didn't happen. Everyone else had the same plan to snag it that we did.

In the middle of my game, I noticed this woman had stopped her cart by the van and was looking for something. I assumed something had rolled under and I let her be. She tapped on the window to tell me, but I didn't hear her because I enjoy the Candy Crack music. Then she tapped again and I realized she needed my help for something. I opened the door to find out what that was and it wasn't good. She had a kitten with her and it was under my van.

I got out and started trying to locate said kitten with her. We couldn't see him, but we could hear him. This upset me because it meant he was somewhere IN the van. I didn't want to turn it on and harm him somehow. I honestly had no idea what to even do. For a split second, I wondered if I would spend the rest of my life in that parking lot, waiting for the cat to come out on his own.

We opened the hood and still couldn't see him. People began to gather and were all nice about it. They couldn't see the kitten either. By now, the kitten's owner was really getting upset and so was I.

About this time, my roommate came out from the store. I felt better because he's VERY good with cats who don't know him and if anyone could get the kitten, it would be him. He looked for him but, by now, couldn't even hear him. He was sure he wasn't in any place where it would be dangerous to turn on the van, so I did so, hoping the kitten would come out due to the noise.

He didn't come out and the woman began to get even more upset. By now, everyone was pretty sure the kitten had left the van and ran off to some other car. The cat's owner, with lack of anything else to do, went to her own truck. I assume she was going to try and get someone she knew to come help look for the cat.

About that time, my roommate finally saw the kitten. He called for him and the kitten ran out from under the van, but then under another car. Thankfully, one of the women who was helping us look saw him, scooped him up, and brought him to me. The kitten was beautiful. He was gray and very fuzzy. He had big eyes and even though a lot of scariness and confusion was happening, he stayed calm in my arms.

With what was one of truly the best feelings I have ever had going on, I walked across the parking lot and handed the kitten over to the woman who'd lost him. I was so happy to see them reunited, because, having lost a cat before, I know the kind of despair and horror that can be. It's one of the worst feelings in the world and I'm glad I got to be a part of that feeling ending for her.

Oh. As a side note, when the hood of my van was up, a man noticed that  there was a lot of corrosion around the van's battery. Well, just....yay. Now we get to have that replaced. On the other hand, I guess it's better to have someone notice it before it completely screws up.