Jun 26, 2012

Re: Update to Supporter Record

The shit IS getting deep in my inbox. Some of the political campaigns' e-mails/requests/demands/plees have been quite pissy. They have surprised me. I've been hitting "unsubscribe," and I've been angered by the fact that I feel guilty when I do it. Yesterday, I replied to one. But my bitchin' was modest, and it's not like anybody (but you) will read it (that is, if you want to) . . . I probably should have wrote a poem instead . . .  "Poetry = Anger x Imagination."  ~ Sherman Alexie

Re: Update to Supporter Record
Mon, Jun 25, 2012 at 9:27 PM

To: info@dscc.org

Re: e-mails from Rosenbaum, DSCC Director of Online Communications.
Please do not threaten me with the consequences that might happen if I do not donate $5 to your campaign immediately. Also, please do not bring up my "record" as if you might shame me into contributing seeing as I have yet to offer some scarce cash to fight the Romney agenda (capitalism? you're against it? why do I question this?). I would like to think that I have the power to bring the walls crumbling down if I don't contribute, but we both know this isn't true. I am a democrat and a liberal thinker and I am a writer and a teacher and the most I can do at this time is spread information. However, I can't help but feel disrespected by threats and "record" checks. My family and I need our cash for things like cheap toilet paper. I would tell you more of our sad story, but I am near to certain that you are not interested, and I have a feeling you couldn't relate if I did tell it to you (although I try to be slow to judge). Here's an idea: Instead of you blowing five dollars on your next cheeseburger or on a pair of snazzy new dress socks, skip it and put that money back into the campaign. From me. Your welcome.



Jun 19, 2012

Won't you take me to Crunchytown?

Of late I've decided to get greener.  My family and I moved recently from Washington to Montana. In Spokane, we were delighted to have recycling containers beside our city garbage bins.  We didn't know exactly what we could recycle, but if we didn't know we'd just toss it in, and if it remained after pickup day, we knew we couldn't recycle that.  But we could recycle plastic 1 and 2, glass, phone books, cardboard, and batteries.  And aluminum, of course.

When we got back to Montana, I felt like shit every time I threw a plastic or glass container in the trash.  I thought Montana didn't have plastic recycling facilities, but it turns out we do!  It's called Earth First Aid Curbside Recycling, and the prices were reasonable, $14 a month, and they take glass.  So I do plan to do that, but until I get that going, I started collecting my plastics in garbage bags in the garage.  Then I found out that Wal Mart has a plastic recycling bin, right by where the plastic bag recycling is.  (I hate Wal Mart, but sometimes I'm forced by time or money constraints to shop there.  At least they recycle.  Although I had the thought that they just take the bin and dump it into their regular dumpster.  Gah!)  So the other day I loaded that sucker up with two garbage bags full of stuff. 

So I'm trying stuff.  I'm growing things!  I've got a tomato plant, a few different kinds of peppers, strawberries, cilantro, basil, and chives.  My cilantro is totally kicking ass and as soon as those peppers and tomatoes grow I'm gonna make salsa.  I've also got a bunch of flowers that I'm in love with.  Every day I fondle my plants, clucking over them.  I check their greenness and assure them they're doing a great job.

And, I've made my own shampoo and rinse!  I decided this is an easy way to cut down on some of the toxins going into my body, and it would save me money.  But mostly, I did it because of my itchy head.  I've had an itchy scalp for decades.  Not dandruff, just itch.  Then, last fall, my daughter brought home head lice, and the whole family got it.  Trust me when I say after you have head lice, you will NEVER EVER be able to itch your damn head without wondering if they're baaa-aaack.  So my scalp's always been sensitive. Recently, though, it got bad, to the point I was sure the lice were back or that it was a sign my hair was soon going to fall out in chunks.  So I did some online research, looking for ingredients, how folks liked it, what it made your hair feel like, etc.   I shower about every other day, and if I go longer than that, my head really itches and my hair feels greasy.  I wanted to avoid both of these things.  I asked my new bloggy friend, Funky Little EarthChild, a bunch of questions about what I'd learned in my research, and she gave me tips too.  So for the last 10 days or so, here's what I've been using for hair care:


Jun 10, 2012

Have a great week, if you have time.

I spotted this while in line at Albertson's the other day.  i scanned the all-caps titles and (maybe because I was at the store running errands and therefore taking time out of my workday, which I would have to make up later in the day, cutting out my time with my kids at and after dinner, which I was already feeling stressed and shitty about), the whole cover looked like a chore list, where the chores are impossible and designed to make you fail.

LOSE 15 POUNDS!

MAKE YOUR HAIR THICKER!

STOP DIABETES!

GET A PEDICURE!

MAKE CUPCAKES (but don't eat them, you fat thing, those are only for your family!)

MAKE WONDERFUL BUT TIME-CONSUMING CRAFTS WITH YOUR CHILDREN FOR YOUR HUSBAND
SO easy.
FEEL HAPPIER!

LOSE YOUR GUT, ALREADY!

DON'T FORGET TO STOP BEING STRESSED OUT!!!!!!

Jun 4, 2012

Slow Down, Mama

When the presentations and work assignments and utility bills and to-do lists all keep rolling in and over me of late, I have to tell myself: Okay, slow down, mama. Breathe. You're doing all right where you're at. Have a poem.  :)



A Center for Women

I hear the women at the back gate of the shelter, out late,
words hushed, shuffling around a coffee can, the implied ashtray.
I see a young mother step out the screen door
to join the others to sit on the cracked concrete steps,
the blue-purple flowering around her eyes like morning
glories, the blooms of red knuckles, I see another young mother
with a long cigarette between her fingers standing
with her back against the dumpster, holding herself
carefully due to rib cage fractures, the chain-linked
fence locked and circling, its aluminum glinting in the dark
under the security lamp, here the women will counsel, turn things
over, reach conclusions as role players, champions
and runners, victims and idiots, they are vulnerable,
they look at each other and the innocence is
see-through, their wisdom is copious. I want to step out
into the cooler air with them and ask for a smoke, say I know you
like I know myself – you’re in the right place, I hear my own
words, the other place – that home – was the wrong place, and
you might ignore me and leave. I might ignore me and leave.
I’m nowhere higher. I cannot imagine what could be, where we’ve been,
what hurt such a bad love can leave with our children,
if we go back we’ll revive the cycle, the throb and ache, the promises
draw flies, we will want to die or need to murder.
There are lies you can tell and pills to make you feel
better at either place. Behind the fence in the midday sun
I want to step out and say it to her bruised face
as she looks over me, her weak limbs and tight lips, safe
for the time being, her narrow eyes rolling by my narrow eyes,
my weak limbs and tight lips, hide beside her, I won't say anything.
I want to share a smoke, one lonely union. I let myself out the screen door
like some orthodox girl sliding into a high school bathroom, take to
the smoking women as queens and smile if they smile, let them
take me in, count my scars, smell my hair. Finally they'll say, before
the curfew of this shelter kicks in and the smoke break splits, tell
a story of what we have lived through, and we’ll tell that story too.