如何上推特

Yes, you're in the right place. Kind of like an abandoned crack house, isn't it?  Just goes to show you how quickly this particular gypsy can fold up her tents when she needs to...

Due to circumstances that I cannot even begin to fathom or  adequately explain, this blog is being moved to an undisclosed location...much like Dick Cheney. Its fingerprints will be removed with hot wax, intensive reconstructive surgery will take place and a new identity will be assigned. Just like in the Witness Protection Program. If you've been a regular reader/friend/lurker here and you want to follow me as we walk down this fork in the road, you can leave your email address (unpublished) with your comment and I'll let you know where I've gone. Unless, of course, you're the lurker who ratted me out.

In fact? Just e-mail me if you're interested in the new site. (machschnell5@airmail.net I'm going to close comments for reasons that will be clear later. Obviously, if you've never commented before (and there's nothing wrong with that) I'm going to need you to tell me how you started reading. Tell me where you are...that kind of thing...so that I know you're not that Kathy Bates character in "Misery" or anything.

Just prior to the Christmas season a few years ago my mother dropped off the above crudely rendered cardboard tableaux thinking I might want it...you know...for display in my home so that strangers as well as friends who come by could become completely convinced that I have no taste so that everyone who sees it will know how much my mother loves me because she has wasted valuable closet space saved it for me all of these many, many, many years. No, she is not blind. She is, however, hugely sentimental and nostalgic which is a deeply complex and highly invconvenient emotion that I've always thought I had safely dodged--genetically speaking.

One might have to examine it closely to finally determine that this...um...piece of kindling item is, in fact, supposed to be a manger scene and one that I did make--despite its appearance--with my own two feet hands. A very long time ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth. When I was very young and was still operating under the delusion that whatever I set my mind to was a work of art, the wonderfulness of which should be glaringly obvious having made it at a very tender age and with a stunning variety of mediums the junk from the scrap box. Visual artists refer to this method as "found art" and, indeed, I did "find" those clothespins in the garage (Sorry, Mom) as well as the remnant from a doll-size tea set, but the rest of my materials were carefully assembled from a vast array of inspiring sources the junk from the scrap box.

True, I had a slight problem with PROPORTION as evidenced by the Star of David which is nearly the size of the moon which is...okay...too big. Also, one has to consider the size of the faux frankincense and myrrh containers which this scene would suggest had to be 蚂蚁vp(永久免费) lovingly carried a great distance. Through the desert. Do not look too closely at the white toilet-shaped object or you might get the impression that the Wise clothespins Men stopped off at Six Flags Over Texas for a quick ride on the Titan. I mean...look at the fright wig hair on the guy in blue and you tell me why else it took them so long to find the Baby Jesus. And? The guy on the right looks sort of sick plus his hair has turned white.

Mary seems to be wearing a scrap from one of my favorite dresses (and one my mother sewed for me), but Joseph is just wearing a paper napkin from the Scott Towel Collection that is tied rakishly with a red sash. This should not be interpreted as a slur on Mary's husband simply because his clothing is disposable, though one rainy night on the way to the stable could easily have spelled a fashion disaster for Joseph. I take full responsibility for that. Also...it is unfortunate that we didn't have any miniature clothespins on hand so that the Baby Jesus could, at the very least, look more like his mother. Sadly, his likeness had to be rendered by filching a piece of chalk from my baby sister's small blackboard and using something pointy with which to carve a face. A face which is alarmingly unlike any other used to represent such an important person. He looks...angry. At me. I can't blame him.

So...back to the beginning...my mother brought it over and I laughed and pointed at it for awhile and then I shoved it in the hall closet with the other eleventy hundred Christmas decorations (the ones that aren't in one of the closets in Mr. Half's office). And I didn't bring it out until yesterday. When I realized that I had accidentally torn the top from a paper candy cane that one of my children had made for me when he (whoever it was) was little. And I was so freaked out about it that I couldn't rest until I had found some tape and repaired it. And then I cried a little quite a bit. This paper object which probably hung on the refrigerator ten years ago before I relegated it to the place where I put some of the boys' many, many papers and pictures they've brought home--especially at Christmas--and projects which I have tried to save faithfully...without looking 日本节点免费加速器 lady who wears crocheted hats and houseshoes to the store odd. The Christmas ones  which I put into a basket that I display every year at this time with the same results. I get a huge lump in my chest that a Zantac the size of my fist couldn't ease. The glittery paper ornaments, the December calendars in the shaky handwriting and backwards lettering that count down to the 25th, the earnestly crayoned Christmas trees and pictures of Santa coming down the chimney to a trio of hopeful stick children.

And then I pulled out the manger and it all made sense. All of it. This cardboard thing was a treasure to my mom in the same way the clay angel/candle holder Greyson made is for us. Or the picture of the pilgrim shooting a turkey that Tucker drew. The one where the turkey is saying "HEPL!" in a cartoon bubble. Or Wilder's "Scary City" painting where he writes about the cats inside the fiery building who get rescued. So...I'm keeping the manger out this year...somewhere. Not because I like it necessarily or even because I feel attached to it in any way.

But...because I get it. Color me sentimental.

I'm sure I'm not alone in noticing that grocery stores were playing Christmas music even before Thanksgiving Day had arrived. Television commercials are using shivering snowmen to sell Campbell's by having them eat green bean/cream of mushroom soup casserole and there's a talking blue lightbulb that seems desperate for me to do my holiday shopping at K-Mart. Also? Some neighborhood fool enterprising person has had Christmas lights and a tree up since the second week of November.

Whether we like it or not and whether we're even ready or not...the season is upon us. You're just gonna have to build a bridge and get on over that Day of Gratitude Formerly Known as Thanksgiving, folks, because Santa Claus is coming to town, the wisemen are drawing closer to the manger and the Maccabees are setting aside eight days to celebrate their victory over Antiochus Epiphanes. The houses are ablaze with lights, the malls have boosted security in the parking lots and the first of the Christmas/Hanukkah/Holiday cards will be dropping through the mail slots any day. Did you hear me? ANY DAY!!! Have you finished yours yet? Well? Have you??

Every year feelings of dread, anticipation and guilt blend together to make a confusing-but-deadly cocktail which only amplifies the PMS symptoms enhances the growing sense of panic that doesn't leave until I collapse in an exhausted heap on Christmas night. I could run and hide, but there's really no place that offers escape or sanctuary and so the only clear option before me seems to be one of...compliance. Yes, I'm going to run and throw myself into the jump rope which is already turning as we speak and start...uh...you know...jumping.

So...yes...I'm picking out my cards this week and buying a few more gifts. "White Christmas" will be on my dvd player as I fold laundry and watch Rosemary Clooney and Bing Crosby count their blessings. If you think you hear Perry Como, Dean Martin, and Judy Garland singing about snow while I drive past you in the carpool line, you'll know you're not hallucinating. Lights go up on our roof tomorrow whether it's raining or not. Mail Watch 2007 kicks off this month as Tucker begins his anticipatory vigil for the large white envelope from Our Favorite University where he'll join his big brother next year and its importance is only slightly more crucial than the missives of holiday greetings from friends and family. Not to mention the catalogue orders delivered by UPS in five mailing days...or less.

December...it's going to be a mix of reality and fantasy. I've accepted it and so should you. Winter wonderland...and snow tires. Final exams and hot chocolate. Peppermint sticks and Zantac. Setting up the fabulous tree and that rash I get from my allergy to anything in the fir/cedar family. I'm still going to keep a list of stuff to check off every day, but I'm just not going to beat myself up for the things that have to get put off until the next day. How's about we all make that promise to each other right now...okay? Celebrate the stuff we did and forgive the stuff we didn't do because it will all eventually get done. Eventually. It always does. 

And? Don't forget to exhale. Holding your breath only makes your face (and mine) look strange.

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The baking of cornbread (for the stuffing) begins tomorrow and this recipe calls for chopped tamales. I'm also making English muffin bread. Thursday promises to be an orgy of eating the likes of which should put us to shame. The predicted cold front should arrive tomorrow...just about the time Greyson pulls into the driveway with his dirty laundry and it will be a chilly 30 degrees. Leaves are blowing across my driveway and the cats are attacking each one as though it is alive. Maybe there will be fires in our fireplaces come Thanksgiving evening and friends will come by for a drink and a slice of cake or pie. It will be boots and sweaters weather and I plan on taking a walk some time before dark, if only to watch the neighbors begin putting up their Christmas lights.

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And...tell me...who makes the best stuffing/dressing you know and what are its key ingredients?

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...I started this blog.

Funny...some days it seems like it's been longer.

This Thanksgiving season I'd like to address a few of the freedoms that Norman Rockwell did not commit to canvas whilst using his brushes and paint to illustrate "Freedom from Want," "Freedom of Worship", etc, etc. Play along if you wish...

极光vpm破解无限版...Meaning the people women who slave for two days making the Thanksgiving dinner don't have to be the same ones who do the dishes afterwards.

FREEDOM FROM PAST SINS...Guarantees that just because you're breaking bread with your family of origin doesn't mean you have to be subjected to the endless litany of tired jokes regarding all of the foods you refused to eat as a picky 10-year old. The road to hell is still paved with fresh tomatoes (and their gelatinous innards) as far as I'm concerned and I don't have to apologize for it 30+ years later.

FREEDOM TO IMBIBE..."Why-- yes--I believe I will have another glass of wine before Aunt Beulah gets here with her two incontinent lapdogs and her signature dish of Liver in Aspic."

FREEDOM FROM TYRANNY..."Please...let's not pretend that your child's aversion to any non-white foods makes him Wolfgang Puck. Let's just call it what it is...strange...and leave it at that. And while we're at it...please have him take off that crown he's wearing while at the table."

FREEDOM FROM BOREDOM...No one is allowed to take advantage of a captive Thanksgiving audience by inflicting vacation slides/photographs/family videos immediatley following dinner.

FREEDOM FROM TORPOR... Some drowsiness may vary. (Did you have turkey today?)

FREEDOM FROM GUILT..."No..I haven't even begun to Christmas/Hanukkah/Diwali shop. Why do you ask?"

FREEDOM FROM GUILT (PART II)... "Ditto for Christmas/Hanukkah/Diwali cards...or the pictures of our family that go inside."

FREEDOM FROM IDIOCY..."Wait...you mean turkeys need to defrost BEFORE you cook/fry them?"

FREEDOM FROM SOMEONE ELSE'S INFLATED SENSE OF SUPERIORITY... This year I refuse to sit quietly while certain family members use passive aggression to make comments about my house, my kids, what we eat, and any opinion we might have about anything. This year I'm eating with a tire iron under my chair and I'm not afraid to use it.

FREEDOM FROM POLITICAL BRAWLING ON OUR SPECIAL DAY OF THANKS...If you refer to me as a Socialist I'm going to be forced to pull out the "F-word". That's right...FASCIST. See how quickly that levels the playing field? Now shut up, eat your carrots and stop ruining this day for everyone. And...no...we can't watch FOX NEWS while we eat.

FREEDOM TO INDUCE DIABETIC COMA...So what if every single dessert is made from chocolate and there is no mincemeat to be found? What exactly is your point?

FREEDOM TO CALL IT WHATEVER WE WANT...Dressing or stuffing? Dressing or stuffing? Does it really matter what they call it in New York? I don't think so...just as long as no one puts any oysters in it. Because...that's just wrong.

Please feel free to add your own impressions here.

Friday evening I made what might be categorized as an impulse purchase. I saw that Barnes & Noble was selling dvd copies of Sesame Street's "Learning About Letters" and "Learning About Numbers" for $9.99 each and, because I was unable to ignore the voices inside my head that frequently give me instructions my conscience...I bought both of them. I offer no apologies.

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So tonight I confess I poured myself a glass of wine and watched as "The Count" counted to 20 in that ecstatic way he has with the Honkers. I watched a cartoon guy with a fiddle teach the value of the number 2. And Grover helped a little boy (or maybe it was the other way around) count to 10. All was right with the world and I reconnected with a time when three other little boys were content to sit in my lap and sing along...even though on this night I was alone. Sesame Street...it's a hard place to be anything but happy.

So...what small and simple thing makes you feel good every time? And remember, there are no wrong answers to this question.

Hitchcock's movie "Rear Window" happens to be one of my favorites among what has to be a lengthy and very eclectic laundry list of films I enjoy watching over and over again. One obvious explanation is that it's a Hitchcock creation, but the fact that Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly are in it doesn't hurt either. They present a believable portrait of a conflicted couple who come from very different realities but who aren't willing to live without each other.

However, it's the story of a man who waits out the healing of a broken leg by watching the goings-on of his neighbors from his window that is so very appealing to me. Though there are a few people in my life who appear to be without any curiosity whatsoever, I find that most humans do wonder secretly about the "hows", "whys" and "whats" of others. Mostly, we're just too well-mannered embarrassed to ask. And while it's still illegal to peek into someone's window or listen in on private phone conversations (Don't look away from me when I'm talking to you, Dick Cheney!), it is still completely okay to read someone's thoughts on a blog. It's not why I started Half of the Sky almost two years ago, but it is what keeps me coming back.

Well...that and the friendships it has produced.

There are times when I think I don't live in my own life enough for all of the window peeking I do in order to catch up with everyone and then there are other times when I feel I'm doing nothing but the usual everyday stuff here in my own little corner of the world. I let a post ride for a week and attend to stuff here at Half House without even turning on the computer, aside from email. I guess, if pressed, I could probably walk away and find something totally engrossing here in the real world to occupy my time. But...you know...blogging is the real world too. I didn't make these people up. They, unlike my niece's imaginary friend George who--according to her-- lived at the airport, really do exist and I've even met some of them. Tink and Nils and TB and Antique Mommy and and Cynical Bastard...plus the other 532 people on my blogroll.

And...I can't quit them. Any of them. You either. However...

Sometimes circumstances occur that keep me away from the keyboard like the totally bizarre weekend I had a few days ago. I can't really talk about it here, but I can tell you that on Sunday I had a tiny epiphany right before my brain re-booted itself and I had a sudden and very real picture of what was truly important in my life. And the enormity of everything I have going on for me and around me stood out and after that I heard someone on television say something about how "it's not the length of your life but how you live it that counts"...or something like that.  Yes, this thing I've got going here is so incredibly wonderful and I'm hugely grateful for it, but I also know I've been standing still of late. Like a deer frozen in the headlights I've been reluctant to make certain aspects of my own life as great as other parts to which I've given almost all of my attention. And it's time for me to attend to...me. Because even though I'm counting on that "length of life"? It's not really that sure of a thing...for any of us.

So. I'm not going away or even taking a vacation...not even close. This blogging thing is a very important aspect of who I am and who I want to be. But.. I am also going to try to live my life  here with more purpose and less trepidation...especially now that one more little chick flies the nest this year and we start hovering around the remaining little "egg" as though he's the last Milky Way in the candy dish at a Weight Watchers meeting. If it means I sometimes post less, I hope you'll still be around when I do. It means a lot. 

So...the writer's strike is causing an uproar with television executives and that means I might have to watch reruns of my boyfriends Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert until things get figured out. That's fine. Being from Texas and surrounded as I am with fans of Big Business and the political party that guarantees their unchecked access to my tax dollars continued participation in government doings it's common to be confronted with an eye roll or audible snicker when the subject of labor unions comes up.

But see...you and I were born in a century when a married and pregnant teacher was required to resign her post since the sight of her swelling belly might lead her students to understand she was sleeping with her husband. And she was required to do this no matter how much her salary was needed...you know...because of the sex. The married sex which probaby caused most students' mothers to look exactly the same way back home. But...whatever. And when I started teaching there were still noises being made about being slapped with "moral turpitude" charges if folks from the school district caught you putting a six-pack of beer in your grocery cart. Because one was supposed to find other--more creative--ways (aside from drinking yourself into a stupor) to express one's outrage over the fact that, after four years of college and a diploma, someone who was teaching the nation's children to read and write was only earning $13,000 a year. Before taxes.

So...I wonder what it is like to write a joke or a script for someone famous and watch them become obscenely wealthy from repeating your words while you are...um...not so much. So, no, I don't really question whatever it is they're asking these days. Probably a more level playing field...or some similarly frivolous idea.

But before that? There were the teeming masses of people who were not fortunate enough to be born to families who worked, like mine, so that that each of their children could earn a college degree. Those who, instead, followed their parents to the paper mill or the assembly line at the bomber plant. Labor unions tried to make sure factory workers retired on their paltry savings with--at the very least-- all ten fingers or...two functioning hands. Or healthy lungs from a reduced exposure to caustic chemicals.  And even before that during the century into which all of us were born? In March of 1911? The Triangle Factory fire in New York which is what illustrated the desperate need for a voice made up the unified words of unrepresented workers in the first place. And...later...this poem by poet laureate Robert Pinsky. It's worth the read, despite its length and it's why I don't laugh when someone says "Union". And if you do laugh you should ask yourself the following: If Ralph Lauren or Donna Karan didn't make the shirt you're wearing with their own little hands...then...who did?  And how much do you think they were paid?

                                    SHIRT

The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,

The nearly invisible stitches along the collar

Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break

Or talking money or politics while one fitted

This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Of cuff I button at my wrists. The presser, the cutter,

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The treadle, the bobbin.  The code. The infamous blaze

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.

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On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes--

The witness in a building across the street

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Up to the windowsill, then held her out

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.

And then another. As if he were helping them up

To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

A third before he dropped her put her arms

Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held

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And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,

Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers--

Like Hart Crane's Bedlamite, "shrill shirt ballooning."

Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly

Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme

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Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,

To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed

By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers

to wear among the dusty clattering looms.

Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

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Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton

As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

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Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma

And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied

both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality

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The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters

Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,

The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

Overnight stays at our grandparents' homes were not unusual when I was little and neither were they unlooked for. They were, depending upon whether we were staying with my father's family or my mother's, two completely different situations.Trips to see my maternal grandparents occurred weekly as my mother was in the habit of getting her hair "done" at what was then referred to as a Beauty Shop. Not a salon or an in-and-out place like Super Cuts but a Beauty Shop where women had a weekly wash n' set and then sat under a domed hair dryer to bake for an hour and read cheesy movie magazines and talk recipes and floor wax. Mornings like this found us (me and my middle sister who was only a year younger) accompanying our grandfather to the grocery store or out to his garden to pick tomatoes for lunch until Mom came back. Sometimes that afternoon turned into a sleepover.

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In my own home we diligently said a brief and rote offering of thanks before the evening meal as well as a child's bedtime prayer which, like the blessing over dinner, rhymed. My other grandparents were Catholic and the equally short before-meal blessing was direct and to the point. But the prayers of my other grandmother were different. Longer in duration and more specific in her gratitude as well as the things she requested, her conversations with a Higher Power were tinged with something that made me uneasy. For just as she was sure that her God would protect us from all manner of danger, she was equally certain that such a threat existed...in the form of human beings who might hurt us. I don't think I'm imagining it when the word "burglar"was used, because I remember asking her what a burglar was...just as clearly as if it was yesterday.

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<silence>

In that moment I felt something click in my four-year-old brain. And then? As she walked away after giving us a goodnight kiss the comfortable creaking of the wood floor seemed to signify something else entirely. Something wicked and unstable. I imagined that the shadows on the window shade took on the outline of a man's hat. A bad man. Five minutes before there had been no word in my vocabulary to describe a stranger crawling through an unlocked window to harm me or take my dolls because it never occurred to me that such a thing could happen. And now...there was. And my initiation into the community of female worriers was complete. I've never forgotten it.

Do you remember the moment you learned something that shocked you and widened your vista of understanding at the same time? Tell me.