I keep meaning to blog and not getting the chance.

Thanksgiving went… mixed-ly. The turkey was excellent. Moist and tender and juicy and yummy. Everyone seemed to love it. We did have a little scare with a skin tear on one leg during the cooking process, but it turned out OK. I then made soup with the leftover meat and basting liquid/stock. That came out pretty sweet, which was a little odd but I thought tasted good. The bad part was the family–love ‘em, but by the end of the gathering we had five little kids (three related, two neighbors) running (literally) around the house unchecked by parents and making a lot of noise, and then there was Steve.

Tim’s got two mentally-handicapped uncles; I may have mentioned one or both here before. John isn’t so bad. He’s got the mind of a toddler, but within that scope he’s relatively functional and “normal”. Steve… Is different. Confined to a wheelchair, and he’s a screamer. I try not to get too close to him, which sounds bad, but it’s not so much his handicap or even his screaming as it is the “vibes” I get from him. I often feel as though he’s seeing things we don’t which are just terrifying to him, hence the screaming. Tim says that part of (all of? I don’t know) what’s wrong with him is that he was given the wrong medication when he was younger and it caused some brain damage–so maybe my impressions are accurate. Who knows. It’s an uncomfortable thing to have radiating out at you, though, to feel this helplessness, this terror, and not be able to do anything about it. Frankly, it frightens me a little.

In other news…

I’ve got our Christmas decorations up. I waited all the way until Sunday for most of them, and got the rest up yesterday. (“The rest” consisting of three garlands which I hadn’t been able to find until then.) The tree is up and decorated, and even has presents under it already. Most of our presents have been ordered online, though, so there aren’t too many there yet. The cats have tried to climb the tree a couple of times, but this is where having an artificial tree is an advantage: the “branches” aren’t actually strong enough to hold them. So they’ve not gotten up in it.

And work is going really well. Really well. The project I’d been working on has just wrapped up. I knew I had more work lined up anyway, short-term stuff to fill the gap until the PTB got their butts in gear and wrote the contract for Phase II of my original project. However, I don’t think I’ll be doing either of those things. Last week we got a call asking not just for “a programmer”, but specifically for me for a four-year contract. I’m excited. I knew I was doing a good job anyway, because people were starting to come to us for work in this particular programming language and I’m basically the only programmer doing that for this company, but to have someone ask specifically for me and not want to settle for whoever we might be bringing onboard to help deal with the sudden influx of this work… That’s a good feeling.

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Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it!

We have embarked upon two culinary adventures in celebration of this holiday. One was to bake a loaf of challah. The other? To make the turkey for the family celebration. (Properly, Tim was doing all of this, but I wind up helping enough that I think I deserve at least a wee little bit of credit.)

The challah mission was accomplished Tuesday. Then we made the mistake of sitting it out on the counter, because we didn’t have a big enough container to store it in. We thought that covering it with a towel would protect it. Foolish, foolish humans; towels are not enough to deter the cats! There are now two sizeable chunks nibbled out of it. But that’s OK, we’ll just slice it up ahead of time and discard the nibbled bits and no one will know the difference.

It is now 6:30am on Thanksgiving Day. The turkey has been in the oven for a little over half an hour. It’s got a mixture of maple syrup, butter, herbs and lemon juice/zest stuffed between the skin and the meat and smeared over the skin. It is not yet to the point where the turkey itself is smelling good, but the leftover maple/butter mixture is in a pot on the stove with the giblets and a lot of water, and that is smelling so delicious I wish the freaking turkey were done already. Yumyum.

Tim’s worried about it. I’m not. He’s using a recipe our boss concocted which has consistently provided excellent results, he’s doing it all just right, it’s going to be delicious.

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OK, I seem to be sticking to this all right, and it’s been almost a month now. So I’ll announce it publicly. I’ve started up yet another blog. This one’s a reading journal. I don’t claim it’s anything terribly insightful or wonderful, but it’s… well, there, I guess. And being there I might as well share it.

Warning: Expect spoilers. If I’m reading a series, expect spoilers for the whole series, especially if it’s one I’ve read before. If I’m reading a brand-new book that hasn’t been out long, I’ll make more of an effort to make the entry spoiler-free, but most of what I’m reading has been around for a while, so I don’t feel too awfully bad about revealing certain things.

Anyway. Link:
Star’s Reading Journal

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Well, Tim and I went with friends to see the new Harry Potter last night. On opening night. I think we’re probably insane. Spoilers for adaptation, but not for the actual plot much, ahead.

Overall, my impression is that it was a pretty good movie. However, there were definite flaws, and the more Tim and I discuss it, the more it goes from “pretty good” to “OK”. The main thing is that… it’s rushed. Which I knew it would be, and that didn’t really help. There isn’t enough space in the movie for everything that needs to be there. As a result, we never even see the Dursleys, the Quidditch World Cup is condensed into about twenty minutes (actual gameplay less than one full minute), and we practically jump right from one Triwizard task almost immediately to the next.

This is exacerbated by things being thrown in that didn’t need to be there (and weren’t, in the book), taking up valuable screen time in order to create Drama that could have been better used fleshing out characters or other plot points. Harry’s already in danger, he doesn’t need that drawn out to emphasize it. In the meantime, we could have been getting a better look at characters like Fleur Delacour or Viktor Krum or even Cedric Diggory, who are important to the story (and should be better-known since they all contribute in their own ways to further tales in the series) but more or less treated as footnotes in the movie.

There were also snatches of some subplots thrown in that were never fully realized. Rita Skeeter is the best example of this. When I saw Miranda Richardson was the one playing the role, I just about jumped for joy, since I love her in that sort of role–but then we never really got to see much of her, and her subplot was never explored. Why introduce her at all if you’re not going to follow through? Why not use that time to work on the tension between Harry and the other students, especially Ron and Hermoine? At least they did have the sense to not even bring up things like the marauders’ Map and leprechaun gold and S.P.E.W., knowing that there would be no chance of adequately covering those subjects.

The worst omission of all, though, came near the end. I won’t say why, for those who have neither read the book nor had a chance to see the movie in the not-even-48 hours it’s been out, but there should have been a great deal of tension between the Ministry of Magic and Dumbledore at the end. This is very important, as it sets up the political climate for the events of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. It practically sets up the whole book. And yet in the movie, it was relegated to a brief mention, a thought tacked onto a sentence.

I found the characters disappointing too. For one thing, there were so many people introduced who either hadn’t been around before or had been hanging around with no names that even though I was familiar with the book, and with these characters, I got confused. For another–see previous about Fleur, Viktor, and Cedric. Most disappointing, there. And… Mad-Eye Moody is the one I have the biggest problem with, because it would have been so easy to “fix” his problems but they weren’t fixed. The actor is the wrong physical type to begin with–Moody is lean and gaunt, and this guy’s way too well-fed. Also, his paranoia was… never really touched upon. The words “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” did not make one single appearance in the film. I mean, how hard is it to throw that in a couple of times, and explain why he’s drinking from a flask all the time (he doesn’t trust any drink he’s not personally prepared)? There you go, poof, instant paranoia and characterization much closer to the Mad-Eye Moody that HP readers know and love.

Overall, it’s still an OK movie, but… It’s not all that it could be, definitely. Somewhat of a disappointment, really.

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So you know how a couple of entries ago I mentioned being sore from the yoga? It actually went on for a couple of days. I’ve decided I got ahead of myself and maybe I should go back and start from the beginning of the book I borrowed from Dad instead of just jumping into random routines that sound good and seem like they shouldn’t be that hard.

Day 1′s exercises are the chest expansion, back stretch, and cobra. After getting familiar with each, you’re supposed to do each one three times with a one-minute rest between exercises, then take another one-minute rest, then do the three in sequence twice without stopping.

Chest expansion is one I’m relatively familiar with, having seen Dad do it several times. I didn’t find it too hard… Except that apparently my arms are even weaker than I’d thought. Once through I was OK; on repititions, though, holding my arms up as I bent forward and held that position for a 20-count became more and more difficult.

Back stretch… whew. It seems so simple, and yet–it seems that I have slightly more flexibility than an iron bar. The instructions involve sitting with your legs straight out in front and bending forward as far as you can without straining and without going past your knees. The thing is that just sitting in that position, without bending, is a little bit of a strain on me in some places, particularly the backs of my knees. Yeesh.

Cobra is one I find I can actually do for the most part. I’m having trouble with remembering to relax my legs, but that’s not the sort of problem I’m having with the others where I have actual physical problems doing the exercises right. I like this one. It’s relaxing, and it leaves me with the feeling that I can do some stuff. Also, Calli seems to like this one. It puts my hair on the floor where she can play with it, and my crossed arms provide an excellent auto-pet service if she does those flopping somersaults in front of me. (Libby maintains a cultivated disinterest toward the whole thing, of course.)

So I’ve been stuck on Day 1′s exercises for a few days. But… I’m definitely noticing a little bit of difference. I’m beginning to be able to actually bend forward on the back stretch. Holding my arms up on the chest expansion isn’t easy, but it’s less “FEEL THE BURN!” now. I think I might move on to Day 2 today or tomorrow. Probably tomorrow; Tim has class that night, so I’ll have the house to myself, meaning I can figure stuff out without feeling quite so foolish.

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(Loooooooooooooooooong entry today. Sorry.)

It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon, unseasonably warm. I don’t even need my jacket. I would never know, from the weather, that it was the middle of November–but then, as Dad points out, this is Indiana. He and I and Tim are making the journey across the state border into Illinois to visit White Owl Winery for Celtic Music Sunday. Aunt Susan and Uncle Wayne are going to meet us there; they’ve never been before. Dad has been kind enough to provide transportation for all, in the minivan he and Mom bought brand-new the summer I graduated high school. Mom was supposed to have come with us, but she discovered that she had a meeting to go to at church. Tim is in the back seat, playing with his new Nintendo DS. I’m riding shotgun, and Dad and I are taking the opportunity for a little bit of father-daughter bonding and reminiscence.

Along the way, Dad takes a wrong turn. We don’t exactly get lost; we know where the road we’re on goes, and Dad’s got some idea of how to get where we’re going from where we are. At the same time, though, that idea is a little fuzzy. As it turns out, the “wrong” turn wasn’t so bad after all, because it gets us to White Owl ten minutes faster than usual.

When we get there, Ken the Winemaker is out on the front porch chatting with some other guests. He waves a friendly hello as we walk into the big room that serves as tasting area and store combined. We smile and wave back, and exchange brief pleasantries. Inside, we realize that we’re early. Not only are Susan and Wayne not there yet, but neither are the musicians. We mill around for a while, looking through the store, noticing the old familiar items (“Life is a Cabernet” mousepads, various gourmet food items, wine-opening tools) and a few new ones (Black Cherry Merlot, Persimmon Sherry, wine-flavored lip gloss). We play “spot the Cranberry Sparkle”; there’s only one bottle in the bin, but there are a few scattered throughout the store in displays. Slowly the musicians gather, and the free hors d’oeuvres are put out: cheese, olives, and crackers. The music begins.

We listen, and wait. The music is good this month–not that it’s ever bad. There are four fiddles, a guitar, a mandolin, two bodhrans, and something that looks like a small accordian. I spot the last bottle of Apricot Chardonnay, sitting alone in a display, and Dad snatches it up. We go to the counter to see about our wines of the month. They can’t be shipped to Indiana, and we haven’t been here for a while to pick them up. When they are brought out, Tim and I discover that there has been a mix-up and we’ve been given wines we’ve already picked up. We point this out. Ken’s son gives us a free bottle for being so honest.

Wayne and Susan still haven’t shown. We start tasting wines. There isn’t a limit on how many one person can taste, so I take my time and taste a few of the oldies-but-goodies just to remind myself of their flavor. We are waited on by Ken, or his wife, or his son, or a woman I think is either his daughter or his daughter-in-law, depending on who has a free hand to pour with. When Ken pours, he insists on pouring mine first. “Ladies first,” he says. One time I am slow to get my glass up next to Dad’s and Tim’s, and Tim gets his poured before me. Ken admonishes him not to taste it until I have mine. By the time we have progressed to the end of the line, I’m getting a little bit of a buzz, and there is still no sign of Susan and Wayne. Every time the door opens, all three of us turn around to look, but it’s never them. We purchase our wines and leave.

We swing north, through Terre Haute, on the way home so that we can stop for dinner at a German restaurant called Gerhardt’s. When we get there, however, we discover that Gerhardt’s is now closed on Sundays and Mondays. We whine and pout and decide to go elsewhere instead. “Elsewhere” turns out to be TGIFriday’s. It’s disappointing, and I feel responsible because I diverted us to Friday’s from IHOP. I wanted some more alcohol, and didn’t want breakfast food. I decide on an “Ultimate Cosmopolitan” as the source of the aforementioned alcohol. It confuses me when it arrives, because it’s frozen, it tastes of sour mix, and the way tiny bubbles keep rising to the top and breaking seem to indicate some carbonated ingredient. I find myself wondering what the hell the bartender thinks is in a cosmo. Certainly not vodka; I’m stone-cold sober when we leave, despite having had probably half a liter of alleged cosmopolitan.

We begin the long drive back to Bloomington. It’s pitch-dark already and it’s only just past seven. In fact, it had been dark or nearly dark at six. I find this depressing. Tim goes back to playing with his DS, and Dad and I go back to talking. We’ve just crossed into Clay county when a deer materializes directly in front of the van. Dad hits the brakes immediately, but there’s no time to stop. The headlights go out. Dad quickly steers us to the side of the road. He is then obliged to turn off the engine, because the air is full of steam and the steam stinks of coolant. I can see that the hood is buckled and there is something–not blood, but something clear–spattered on the windshield. No one is hurt, except of course for the deer.

The car behind us pulls over. Dad turns on the blinkers and we all get out. He assures the other driver that we’re all OK, and after making sure we’ve got the means to call for help, the other driver gets back in his car and takes off. We survey the damage. Both headlights have been smashed, and the hood is all crumpled up. It’s hard to tell what kind of shape the engine is in. It was still running, before Dad turned it off, but obviously something has been punctured somewhere. Dad sees the deer get up and limp off across the road. I feel bad about that; the humane thing to do would have been to put it out of its misery, but it’s already gone and we haven’t got anything to finish it off with anyway.

Dad uses Tim’s cell to call Mom. She agrees to come get us and mentions that we should call the police to report the accident. She also tells us that Susan and Wayne did show up at White Owl, just after we left. We call 911, feeling foolish for doing so because this isn’t really an emergency, but not knowing what other number to use. Dad explains the situation. He says the airbags didn’t even deploy. It’s then that I realize I barely felt the impact when we hit the deer. Didn’t even strain against the seatbelt. We get back in the van and wait.

It’s quiet in the van. It’s also cold. I’m glad I brought our jackets, now. I pass the time by watching the headlights of oncoming traffic, looking for configurations that could be a police car or Mom and Dad’s Sunfire. Tim and I tell Dad that they can borrow our Pontiac if they need to, since we hardly use it. Innumerable cars–and one semi truck–pass us without even slowing down. My time sense, never perfect, is all out of whack. I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting there. Finally, a set of headlights appears that looks like a cop, and sure enough, red and blue start flashing as he goes past us. As he’s pulling in behind us, a full-sized van slows to a stop beside us to ask if we need help. Dad tactfully points out that that’s what the cop is there for.

The cop has the worst Southern Indiana accent I’ve ever heard. Tim and I mock him a little, not because we really feel like making fun of him but because there’s nothing else to do and it relieves some tension. The cop gives Dad a warning for not having his registration signed. We all sit and wait again until finally, at long last, Mom pulls in behind the cop. Just as she does, the tow truck appears too. We empty the van, stick everything in the Sunfire’s trunk, and pile in. It’s a tight fit; the Sunfire is a rather small car and we’re four rather tall adults. Dad asks Mom and Tim to sit in back since they’re shorter and will fit slightly better. He drives. When we get back to their house, I realize that I should have offered to drive; Dad was jumpy the whole way, always thinking another deer was lurking at the side of the road, but I felt calm.

We say our goodbyes. Tim and I go home and feed our poor starving kitties. We have a glass of wine, and we go to sleep. It’s been a long day.

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Apparently my fingers shrink by at least a full ring size when they get cold. My pinky ring keeps falling off today.

We got gas for $2.19/gallon a couple of days ago! Whoo!

It’s true. Everything I need to know, about interacting with people anyway, I really did learn in kindergarten. Which, when you consider that I was only in kindergarten for one grading period, ought to really say something about the people who have forgotten how to wait their turn in line and say “excuse me” and use their indoor voices and so forth.

Diana Krall has a new Christmas album out. It’s beautiful. Also on the “media to check out” list: the new special edition of Office Space. Haven’t gotten my hands on that yet, though.

I think my abdomen is in even worse shape than I’d realized; after only a few minutes of sort of trying out some yoga last night, and a few more this morning, my tummy muscles got pretty sore. And stayed that way half the morning. Yeesh. (Odd. I would have guessed my arms were doing more work.)

On a related note, I’m beginning to be curious about whether I can’t touch my toes without bending my knees because my legs are just too damned long, or because I’m just not flexible enough. I suspect flexibility may play a bigger role than I have previously been willing to admit.

Dried cherries and slivered almonds turn out to be really yummy additions to cornbread. (Half a cup of the former, soaked in boiling water for half an hour, and one-third cup of the latter.)

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I’ve been meaning to try yoga for a while now, but somehow I never wind up doing it. It sounds like such a wonderful, calming, fulfilling thing to do, like something I’d enjoy, and as an extra super added bonus it’s physical exercise of a sort too. I think the problem is with figuring out how. I am absolutely aware that the best way to learn is from an actual instructor, face-to-face, but I have this really hard time with the idea of going to a class or anything. Panic just wells up inside me. I think it reminds me too much of gym class or something. Books and DVDs–goody, but I also have problems spending money on non-necessities (mounds of credit card debt mean money’s tight, and although it’s not really quite that tight, I always feel like I can’t justify extra purchases). There’s the library, but I always forget to actually figure out what it is I want to check out, and then to go check it out. Plus I feel like I’ll probably want to hang onto it past the usual library loan time.

Fortunately for me, I finally remembered that Dad has had some interest in yoga, and that I remembered from back in the dawn of time (aka my childhood and young adulthood) seeing some introductory yoga book lying around. I e-mailed Dad about it, and he wrote back saying that yes, he did still have it and yes, he definitely recommended it, and yes, I could borrow it.

So yay! Now I have a place to start. We’ll see how this goes. I don’t know if I’m going to stick with it or not, but I figure it can’t hurt to give it a try. The book is allegedly a 28-day intro (to hatha yoga specifically, according to Dad), but all advice points to “take this at your own pace”, so I think it will probably take me longer than that. I’ll do my very best to actually work through the book, and then decide whether I want to continue after that, I think. I’m thinking y’all may get quite a few updates as I go through it.

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Long entry. Sorry. I’ve got a lot of stuff stirred up inside that I’m trying to get out here, probably not very successfully.

As I might have previously mentioned, I’m working my way through the archives at Tomato Nation. So far I’m up through late 2001. It’s been a long, strange trip already, hilarious and poignant and offensive and fun and unabashedly honest. Sars rules. And not just because she’s managed to find a nickname for “Sara(h)”, a feat which I have been known to claim was impossible. She’s an excellent writer.

The entry I have just finished is… different. I have no real words to explain the difference in terms of style or tone, but I think that an overview of the subject matter will say everything. Because it is the author’s account of what happened on September 11. Of being downtown and hearing the first plane hit the World Trade Center, and not knowing what it was. Of finding out, and deciding to get out of the area. Of seeing the south tower collapse, firsthand, with her own eyes, and later feeling the earth rumble as the north tower went too. Of the long trek home, away from the dark cloud hanging over the empty hole in the skyline once occupied by the Twin Towers, through the settling dust.

I knew that this was coming. I was aware that Sars was in New York at the time. I saw the synopsis and knew that I had finally made it to September 2001 in the archives. I thought I was ready for it.

I don’t think I really was, in retrospect.

Those who know me know that I’m so not in favor of living our lives in the past by continuing to dwell on 9/11. My typical response to “Never Forget!” is either “Well, not while you keep reminding us,” or if I’m feeling less snarky and more reasonable, “It’s not that we want to forget. It’s just that it happened four years ago, and we need to be dealing with the consequences as they’re falling out, not wallowing in self-pity.” When stories from the Trade Towers and the surrounding area were all the rage in e-mail forwards, I refused to pass them on. I stand by that. I don’t think it’s healthy to wallow in tragedy like that, either our own or others’. And I don’t think it’s right to co-opt others’ tragedies the way those stories seemed to. “Look how awful this was for this American! How awful for America! Weep for your fellow Americans!”

At the same time, though, I think that perhaps all that is easy for me to say, out here in the Midwest. I personally knew one person (that I’m aware of) who was in New York City at the time. (Maybe as many as three, I can’t remember when people moved.) She wasn’t in the area–if I recall correctly she did wind up dealing with some of the people coming out of the disaster, but wasn’t in any danger herself, and is alive, well, and reading this blog to this day. (Hi!) That was the extent of the immediate impact on me. Worrying about one friend. So I think it’s easy for me to… not forget, exactly, but to put a lot more distance between myself and it than a lot of people will ever be able to, and a lot quicker too. To, emotionally, feel like it’s some sort of story or something. A nightmare from which I have awoken. The past, to be left in the past. Hell, my small-town country-girl brain has a hard time comprehending buildings the size of the Trade Center towers, period, much less their destruction; I’m not sure it really felt as real as it should have to me to begin with.

Sars’ writing brought it home. Made it more real, somehow. Those of you who were in the city that day very likely have no need of reading this. Those whose friends and family were affected, or even lost, probably don’t either. For those like me, though, I suggest giving Sars’ account (linked to below) a read-through. It’s been very helpful in reminding me of a number of things that I’m not articulating well right now. I’m still against living in the past, dwelling on this event, but… I think that reading through this was beneficial to me. It has helped me remember, as I said, and to some extent understand the people who do seem to dwell on it a little better, on some deeper emotional level. Because… I have a feeling that if I had seen that, experienced that, four years would not be nearly enough for me either.

For Thou Art With Us

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So, as some of you might have heard (depending on where you’re at), a tornado went through the southern end of Indiana early in the morning yesterday.

Story: At Least 22 Dead After Ind., Ky. Tornado
(Link shamelessly swiped from Mari–thank you.)

Tim and I turned on CNN for the first time in years (probably since the space shuttle fell apart on re-entry) to catch coverage of this story, because at first we were afraid the thing might have hit our company’s corporate headquarters (aka Tim’s office). Internet communications were suddenly down with HQ, and our boss called Tim to see if he could figure out what was going on, claiming that the tornado had been in that area. As it turns out, it hadn’t been anywhere near HQ…

The tornado was shocking enough in and of itself–these things do happen in Indiana, but it’s nonetheless always a bit of a shock when you see homes destroyed and such. The actual coverage, though, was… appalling.

The CNN anchor kept fishing for the human interest angle. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d managed to be subtle about it, but he wasn’t. He made it quite clear to the fire cheif (?) he was talking to that he didn’t really want to know how search-and-rescue efforts were going or anything, he wanted the guy’s personal feelings about having a storm like this rip through his town, the places where he eats, goes to church, and so on. I mean, almost exactly in those words.

Then there was the live footage from the local affiliate. There were of course people walking into the affected area for various reasons–to help, to try to find family members, some just to gawk I’m sure. So the local reporter grabs a couple of guys to ask them some questions. Which is just fine, and in the course of it we find out that they’re here to help with cleanup. Then the anchor asks her to keep the two guys there so that they can check in again later! And then a few minutes later the reporter grabs some people in firefighting gear who are rather obviously heading in to search for people (living or dead), and wants to talk to them for a while.

What on earth is wrong with these people? Don’t you think you should maybe let these people give the help they’re here to give–especially the searchers–rather than wasting their time trying to make everyone really feel what a big tragedy this is? (And… My heart goes out to the people who lost property or lives or loved ones, those who were injured, just the whole community in general. But 22 people dead and 200 wounded is not “huge” as disasters go. Tell it to New Orleans, huh?)

I’m just incredibly pissed over this. I think this is why I don’t watch the news much. I don’t know that print is necessarily any better, but I guess at least it’s had a little more time to go through the editing process to remove things like the extremely blatant attempts to get interviewees to spill their guts and start emptying their tear ducts.

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