Long *month*.

I have had something going on every week, so far this month.  Kids started back to school (and the school didn't put their schedules up until the day before...), then imp had a three-month followup for his focus pills (had grown an inch and a half since the previous one), and I had a dentist's appointment for a deep cleaning the same week (hygienist did half the job, and it took almost two hours).  Last week, I had a visit with my endocrinologist.  This week, I'll have the rest of the dental cleaning done.  

I also got Having a Pint put up for publication at the beginning of the month...first book out in almost three years.  I gotta do better than that, seriously.  I'm working on it, I promise. 

Honestly, I've finally been gaining some traction on the writing--I've got The Schrodinger Paradox almost finished (and the first two parts have been looked at by a couple of beta readers).  And Certified Public Assassin is about half done, I think.  

Right now, February looks a little lighter, but only on the outside-the-house commitments.  I have a lot of writing to do.  

And a lot of small projects on the house.  

In the meantime...have some entertainment: the first chapter of Having a Pint.  Remember, this is the second book in The Liquid Diet Chronicles.  It should make sense, even if you haven't read Bite Sized. 

What Gets Guido Out of Carpet?

I’d tried setting my alarm, on a whim, a bit before sunset.  I woke to music. 

At sunset. 

My alarm had been going off for half an hour, and it hadn’t worked to wake me up.  I sighed, sitting up in my bed—my actual, real bed, in my actual, real apartment built into the basement, rather than a mattress on a dresser in a closet—and scrubbed both hands over my face, then let them fall into my lap.  I guessed I’d just have to keep...aging...if I wanted to wake early.

My name is Meg.  I’ve been a vampire for a bit more than twenty years.    

My stomach gurgled, and I sighed.  Clearly, I’d be going hunting tonight, despite the sheer amount of work I had to do. 

My client list had...expanded.  And most of the new clients I had were paying me a lot, even by the small percentages I charged.  I’d already recouped the cost of remodeling the basement to create the apartment, the new storm shelter buried in the ground just steps from the back door, and part of the cost of repairs to the rest of the house.  So, yeah—I had a lot to do, and I was going to have to put it off to go hunt. 

I was just getting out of the shower when I was startled by a crash.  Sounded like somebody kicked the front door in.  Pounding steps running down the hall—those didn’t sound like Andi—a scream in the kitchen, and a gunshot (which came through the ceiling in my bedroom and killed my clock-radio).  Loud, angry, male voice cursing in a foreign language.  Sounded like Spanish, at first, but wasn’t. 

Two sets of footsteps, one heavy, the other lighter and stumbling, went from the kitchen to my office/library. 

I sighed, annoyed, then deliberately quit breathing.  I moved quickly and quietly up my steps and through my door, closing it behind me without a sound. 

That front door had a really cold breath, and the water on my bare skin damn near flash-froze.  Northern Kansas was really not the place to have the winter wind hitting your wet skin.  I kept moving, darting into my office to get out of the draft. 

There was a guy in a rumpled, cheap, brown suit rifling through my filing cabinet with one hand while pointing a small pistol in Andi’s general direction with the other.  Not a small gun, after all, I realized as I examined the situation—it was a full-sized double-stack something—his hands were just massive.  Wide.  He wasn’t a small man, I realized as I snuck up on him.  I wouldn’t be able to reach both his hand with the gun and the back of his head, I realized—I’d have to grab just above his elbow and just shove his arm up until I could get control of the rest of him.

His back was to me, so I took a quick breath and winked at Andi.  Her eyes widened as I vanished again, and she relaxed. 

“Where’s the money, you stupid bitch?” he snarled.  “I want the money.” 

“What money?” she said, exasperated. 

“This is the money-laundering place my ex-boss used—I want the money,” he snarled. 

This.  This is what I got for not being picky about my clients. 

Italian food delivered on a busy night. 

I stepped up, grabbed his gun arm and wrenched it up toward the ceiling as he fired.  I took a breath and grabbed the short little ponytail at the back of his head, and jumped, swarming up his back like a monkey until I could reach his neck.  And higher on his gun arm, but not his hand, yet—guy had gorilla arms, not just the shoulders.  Andi fled the room.

His suit was polyester.  His shirt was rough cotton.  He wasn’t wearing a tie.  Colors popped richer as I fed.  I let go of his back with my legs as he sagged to his knees, then carefully took him the rest of the way down to the floor.  I let his arm slide through my hand until I could crush his hand around the gun.  The bones popping as they broke were loud in my ears.  He was so warm.  And I was warming quickly, despite the cold air from outside rushing in through my broken front door.

Andi rushed back in with a robe.  “Don’t kill him,” she said quickly. 

I got the gun out of his mangled hand, and tossed it aside.  I disengaged from feeding, slapping my now-free hand over the bite over his carotid artery, pinching the holes shut, careful to keep him from bleeding out before I wanted him to.  I wasn’t quick enough, and it sprayed everywhere.  And left a puddle—a growing one, since it was still leaking—under his neck.  I rolled my eyes and sighed, licking the wound mostly closed until I could get back to him.

I really should have expected her to come back.  I mean, she came back when I rescued her from a would-be rapist in a dark alley, despite her inability to deal with violence.  It was one of the main reasons I’d invited her to be my housemate in the first place.  Why wouldn’t she come back in, in a place where she felt safe?  

I groaned and let her help me into the robe, one arm at a time. Even holding him down with only one arm and focusing on letting Andi help me into a robe, I didn’t have any trouble holding the guy still without any effort, despite his feeble attempts to get me off of his back.  Shock and terror did wonderful things to my food—made it harder for food to fight back, that’s for sure.  I sighed again and sealed the wound the rest of the way for as long as the conversation took.  And groaned in exasperation as he squirmed, smearing the mess on my rug.  “Why?”

“We can call the police,” she said.  “Get him hauled off to jail.”

I whined a bit, leaning my forehead against the back of his shoulders.  If I ate the guy, I wouldn’t have to stop working to eat for potentially the rest of the week.  He also wouldn’t be doing this again.  Ever.  But I needed a better reason than that for Andi.  “And then what?” I asked.  “Who’s your boss?” I asked the guy I’d been eating. 

“I ain’t telling you shit, you unnatural bitch,” he gasped weakly. 

“Yes, you will,” I said, exerting myself a little to overcome whatever willpower he might have.  It was easy.  He didn’t have much of a mind to overcome.

“Rizzoli,” he mumbled.  “Leo Rizzoli.”

“One of my first investments clients,” I said, looking back up at Andi for a moment.  “You know.  One of the ones that I was pretty sure was mafia when I accepted his business, because I didn’t have a choice.  After I was attacked and turned.”

“Oh,” she said weakly.  “One of those.”

I leaned in to whisper to my breakfast, “That money you were looking for?  Wasn’t ever here.  It’s all tied up in investments.  Electrons.  Ones and zeros.” 

I gave him a couple of seconds to absorb that information, then conked his head on the floor, knocking him out.  Then I looked up at Andi.  “I can’t call the cops on him for breaking and entering,” I said.  “I’d be arrested right along with his boss.” 

Andi huffed.  “Fine.  Go ahead and eat him, then.  What are we going to do with the body?  And the gun?  And the blood in the carpet?  And how are we going to explain the repairs?”

“Now, see, the blood in the rug is the only part I’m really mad about,” I said, looking down.  “I love this rug.  And it might be ruined.  The rest is easily handled.”

Andi huffed, throwing her hands in the air.  “I’m going back to my supper, then.  Call me if you need help moving the body.”

I snorted, hauling Guido to his feet and hefting him over my shoulders.  It wasn’t hard—he was more awkward than heavy, for me—and over-the-shoulder was easier than other ways to carry something like him.  I did end up with my robe twisted a bit.  “I’m going back to my breakfast, then,” I snarked in return.  I followed her out into the hall, intending to go out to the utility room and its cement floor.  The cold made me gasp, and got her attention.

She glared at me from the kitchen door.  “You are not eating him in the kitchen,” she said flatly.  “That’s nasty.  I don’t want to be cleaning up excrement from the floor.”

“No, I’m hauling my meal out on the back porch before I eat.  Then, I’ll set the leftovers out on the steps to freeze for easier transport,” I said.  “The reason I didn’t drag him out there in the first place was because I didn’t want holes in the ceiling the whole way there.”

She blinked.  “Okay.  Sensible.  Too bad you couldn’t have drug him off your rug first.”

I rolled my eyes.  “One, he’d have shot you if I’d tried.  Two, he did manage to shoot the ceiling, so he was prepared to shoot you.  Three, there wouldn’t be any blood on the rug if you hadn’t interrupted me, since you didn’t have a really good reason.”

The mook over my shoulder twitched and moaned, clapping his hand over where I’d bitten him.  He snapped awake, and struggled a little.   “Cut that out,” I said irritably.  “I only sealed your neck up a little.  If I drop you, it’ll come back open, you’ll bleed out in the hall, I’ll have a bigger mess to clean up in more places, and I won’t get to finish my breakfast.”

“Please, lady,” he whined as he made the connection, “I ain’t done nothing to hurt you—don’t...”

I snorted as I moved down the hall, into the utility room.  I’d move the rest of the way out onto the roofed-over but not walled-in part of the porch, but cold pulls blood toward the body’s core, and makes it harder for me to get all of it.  Besides, out on the porch, there were snow drifts nearly up to my hips, and I was still only in a robe.  “You kicked in my front door,” I said.  “You shot my clock in the basement, in the course of threatening my housemate, threatened my housemate, then shot my ceiling when I put a stop to it.”

“It wasn’t personal, I swear,” he wailed. 

I sighed, dumping him into the snow.  “Yes, it was,” I said, manhandling him around until I could resume my breakfast.  “If I hadn’t been dealing with your boss, you wouldn’t be here.  That means it was personal.  Just not against me.  And I’m going to bill your former boss for it, and make him come pick up your corpse.”

*

I did not feel like dressing up to work, tonight.  Not after the way my evening started.  Yeah, I was no longer hungry, but I did not like being attacked.  And this was the first time I’d actually been shot at. 

Well, shot towards, anyway.  He hadn’t been shooting at me.  Nor at Andi, if my guess was correct—the shot in the hall that took out my alarm clock in the basement was a threat, not a serious attempt.

I dug out a pair of flannel lined jeans, big, fluffy slipper socks, a cami-top and a very soft and thick flannel shirt and dressed quickly.  Guido was freezing into an easy-to-transport fetal wad; I was just freezing. 

I went back upstairs after getting dressed to find the front door propped shut.  I squatted down to look at the damage, and sighed.  The door was cracked, the door plate ripped out of the facing, and kicked to the side where nobody would step on it.  The door and door facing weren’t repairable.  Everything would have to be replaced altogether.

Andi called, “I’ll be calling the guy that did the work downstairs tomorrow; what do you want me to tell him?”

That...was a good question.  I sighed, rubbing both temples with my index and middle fingers, and padded into my office.  Andi was on her hands and knees around the blood-spot, dabbing at it with paper towels.  She had my lined office trash can right next to her, already full of bloody paper where she’d gotten the worst of the blood soaked up, and she had a spray bottle full of something clear next to her knees.  “Um...what?” I asked stupidly. 

“I wasn’t thinking when I told you to not kill him,” she said, glancing up at me.  “Kinda shook, ya know?  I really hate hurting people.  Even when they’re trying to hurt me.  It’s why I’m not a cop.  Anyway.  So, if I made you make the mess, it’s my mess, and I’ll clean it up.”

“Okay, tell me what you’re doing,” I said. 

“I looked up getting blood out of a wool rug online while I finished my supper,” she said, “and it looks pretty easy—spray water, and dab it up.  Well, it’s easier before it dries, at least,” she said, eyeing the rug dubiously.  “I think I’ll be able to get most of it like this.  There wasn’t a whole lot soaked in, there—it was still sort of sitting on top of the fibers.  You will probably need new curtains, though,” she pointed out, jerking her chin.

I turned.  And groaned. 

Yes, I would be needing new curtains.  The heavy drapes didn’t show it as bad, but they would after the blood dried brown and stained the burgundy.  Damn it, I’d liked those curtains.  They’d coordinated with the burgundy in the rug.  The translucent netting curtains...the spray had run.  They looked worse than the heavy burgundy drapes.  And they hadn’t stopped the spray from hitting the glass.

“Don’t worry—I’ll clean the windows tomorrow.  I’ve got the day scheduled off.”  Andi sprayed the rug, and blotted the spot.  It came up pinkish, rather than the arterial spray red that decorated the paper towels in the trash and the curtains. 

“Burn the paper towels and those curtains for me, please,” I said mildly.  “I’ve got a trash burn barrel outside.  It’s pretty obvious.”

“I’ve got some old records that are scanned into my system and need to be shredded or burned,” Andi said.  “Mind if I do those, too?”

“It’d be helpful,” I admitted. 

The night was just started, and I was already emotionally exhausted.  This.  This is why I don’t eat where I live.  Why I hunt elsewhere. 

Cleanup, when it’s necessary, is a nightmare. 

Freakin' lovely

 So.  I've had some issues, recently.  Tylenol's been making me kind of queasy (and since it causes liver damage in too much quantity/too long of a time taking it, and liver damage's first sign is queasy...) so I quit taking it.  I've been having some issues with heartburn, too.  So I also quit taking Aleve.  

Joint pain levels...increased a little.  Not much.  Maybe half a step.  It is, in short, nowhere near as bad as I was thinking it would be.

In other words, neither Tylenol, nor Aleve were helping much to begin with.  

So I went looking for why.  

I found out.  

For people who have Fibromyalgia or Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, the pain involved is not responsive to either straight analgesics or to NSAIDs.  It's not quite nerve pain, but not quite not, either.  

I guess I'll just save the Aleve for when I stand up, something goes snap somewhere, and a joint swells up like an angry toad.  

And use compression gloves for the joint pain in my knuckles.

Prior planning and priorities...

Went up to visit my mom with one kid yesterday.  Just the pixie--the imp had a lego club meeting thing in the city library.  

They've squeezed six cats and two humans into a 400 sq ft space that's been expanded by flooring and sheet-rocking half of the attic.  That is, by the way, the only way it can be defined as a two bedroom space, as well.  Even if there's not really a safe exit from that attic bedroom, in case of fire. 

I love my family very much, but I can't think about their situation very often.  I'd offered to help them get out of that place in the past--or even just my sister--and have been turned down.  "We're waiting on God's time."  Or "God will tell us when it's time to move."  

Okay.  Fine.  Never mind that you're sitting on the roof peak, the water's at your waist, and you just waved off the helicopter.  That's their choices, and I don't get a vote. Never mind that I think He has been telling them to move for almost a decade and a half, now.  Ever since Grandma passed. 

I love my family.  I do.  But they're also a spectacular example to my children of "this is how you fuck your own life up."  I spend a lot of time explaining to the kids exactly what choices Granny made to land her (and my sister) where they are, and what choices they'd need to make to get out.  And I lead them through why we, Odysseus and I, make the choices we do, even when another choice would be more fun.  

It's a difference of looking at short-term vs. long-term.  

It's also a difference of priorities.  

Mom was talking about needing this, that, or the other for the house--furniture, or small appliances.  I wasn't paying attention.  She doesn't need what she thinks she does, she only wants it.  What she needs, if she's going to stay there where she is, is a new air conditioner.  She doesn't think her old one will make it through another year (even though it seemed to be cooling and dehumidifying things just fine last summer).  

I have things I would like, too, but it's all going to have to wait.  I would like a recliner that isn't electric, isn't half-worn-out, isn't too big for my frame, and coordinates with my living room.  I'd like a bread machine capable of doing gluten free bread (my old one I let go didn't).  

I'm not doing any of that because first priority is get our savings back up.  We've got insurance coming up in April, and tuition toward the end of July.  

And since I am not my mother, I'm not going to buy the things I want to, then wonder why I don't have enough and panic when the bills come due. 

I'm working on teaching the kids to do likewise. Because I don't want them fucking their lives up like my family's elder generation did.  If they fuck their lives up, I want them to do it in a way weird enough I had no clue it was possible to do it that way. 

I...am taking a *break.*

So.  Last weekend, I took a deep breath and figured out exactly what I needed to do to get the finished book up.  And then I did it.  It wasn't exactly intuitive, but it wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be.  

It's done, now, and that's a load off.  And yes, it's moving.  Thanks to an absolutely awesome lady. Sarah Hoyt.  Go read her stuff, if you haven't yet.  

So, yesterday, I did get some revising done.  Not a huge amount, since I was working on that and a whole lot of other stuff, but I managed.  I got a few chapters revised in my science fiction project*--like half of the first part.  I got more done today, but ran up against some mathing that needs to be done before I can continue.  

Can I just mention I hate math?  I'm not bad at your standard, everybody-uses-it-every-day type stuff (budgeting, figuring unit costs, balancing bank accounts, messing about with resizing recipes, etc).  I am NOT good at anything more complex than that.  Orbital mechanics?  Right out.  But I can handwave that away.  

I don't know, yet, about figuring out transmission lag from set distances...or what those distances might be, in the first place.  

So that's set aside until the kids go to bed tonight and I get a chance to do some research.  

I got some writing done on a new short story for my current, working collection.  Around 1200 words on it, with a solid idea of where it might go.  

And...I found the music that Molly the assassin likes.  Got 2K words written in about an hour and a half...and had to stop because I had to go get the kids from school (and because my hands were killing me).  

My hands are still killing me.   

*The Schrodinger Paradox--still strongly considering publishing in parts, Kindle only, then putting out a hardback...

It's Live!

 I got a lot done this past week, after I got the kids back to school.  Even with an autoimmune attack and brain fog.  

Wanna see?

Going forward

 It's a new year.  Couple days in.  It's weird...we've had a couple of utterly beautiful 60+ degree days (it's currently reading 71 on the wireless weather station readout).  In January.  In SW MO.  You know, spring weather. 

(It'll be back to winter weather by the time the kids start school again on Wednesday.  It is SW MO--we have four seasons, but never in any particular order, or for any set amount of time.)

We've gotten all of the major repairs the house needed done--the roof and the carport (which we knew about), and the patio roof (which we didn't, until it fell the fuck off the house).  In so doing, we've drained the savings down to the minimum level, but it's done.  

Christmas is done.  We're done with familial obligations we didn't choose to take on for a few months.  Done with the regularly-occurring expenses required of us by government fiat until...April, when we have insurance coming due for cars and house.  

The days are done getting shorter, and have started lengthening again.  Yeah, we've got another three months of random winter storms headed our way, but we can see the finish line from here.  

It's time to move forward.  

I'm not doing resolutions this year.  I'm setting goals and projects.  What's the difference?  Goals aren't necessarily concrete--projects are.  

I haven't fully decided on all of what I want to plan on this year, but I've got a few ideas.  

On goals...I am going to spend fifteen minutes, twice a day, every day I'm not actively sick, cleaning, straightening, and decluttering (no, that's not counting the cleaning, straightening, and decluttering I do in the kitchen while the microwave is running).  There's a lot of progress made doing just that much.  And then the house can be maintained with that. 

 I'm going to spend at least another fifteen minutes, twice a day, every day I'm not sick, at my sewing machine.  I've got a bunch of scrunchies cut out to make, and I need to make a few pairs of PJ pants for the kids and some for me.  

I am going to spend a couple hours a day working on edits, and a couple hours writing.  

As for finances...I am going to rebuild the savings account without losing ground further.  Than I have to.  Considering the stupid fuckers in charge have discovered that they can tax money by ramping up inflation, the three-to-six-months' expenses is...not what it was three years ago.  

Projects...I have some knitting projects currently on needles.  I have a mostly-finished lacy shawl made with baby yarn, another (which I'm not happy with, and will probably pull out) in sock yarn, and a vest in worsted weight wool-blend yarn.  That last...it's for Odysseus, and I have the back panel finished, and about a third of the front panel.  After that?  My sister's acquired yarn, and has asked me to make her a small afghan, and I have yarn to make a larger one for my living room (my loveseat needs something draped over the back of it).  

I'm planning some sewing projects...I have a bunch of fat quarters cut for scrunchies, and I need to cut some elastic lengths, and just...sit down and make them.  I need to figure out the cuts for sleep pants (I've got the fabric: polar fleece, sweats-type jersey, and flannel), and get those dealt with, now that I have a permanent station for cutting things out.  

The other big project--one that's probably going to take multiple months--is clearing all the stuff out of the garage and getting that set up for a wood-work type workshop.  

Writing projects...I have a finished post-beta reader first draft (and mostly-finished revision) of the second book in the Liquid Diet Chronicles.  I have a finished first draft of a science fiction book that I'm strongly tempted to publish in parts...and then re-publish in one BIG part with an epilogue (that would be The Shrodinger Paradox).  I need to finish a revision of that one, and then it'll be ready for beta readers.  

And then, there's a couple of WIPs.  There's CPA, and there's a couple of ideas for short story collections...one has about half the planned stories finished.  The other is still in the planning stages.  And is basically just a vague concept idea, at this point.  

I don't know how many of the projects I'll be able to complete in the coming year.  There really is no telling whatsoever.  I'll try to revisit this at the end of the year.  If I can remember.

'Tis the season.

Our weather's been a nasty bitch, lately--one day's in the 60's, the next won't climb out of the 30's.  Yes, it smarts.  It's part of that time of year, and one of the main reasons I hate winter.  Our local weather prognosticator predicts that a lot of the winter will yo-yo between cold and colder, with above average snow for our area.  Fun, fun!  He predicts one cold snap system to hit right before Christmas, followed by one just after Christmas.

Speaking thereof...it's another reason I hate this time of year: Christmas music.  Every-fucking-where.  I hate, hate, hate Christmas music.  Wanna make guesses how much of the shopping I do online?  The first two don't count.  

Although, to be honest, that started up in October, in some stores.  Early October.  

(I don't think it's working as well as they hoped, this year.)

I've got about half the Christmas shopping done.  I got shopping done for my mom and her sisters.  I still have to get stuff for my sisters (and brother), and half of the kids' stuff.  And get what I'd planned for my other half and my mother-in-law.   And I'm still right around on budget, so there's room to finish up.  And there's room in the budget for treats, too. 

Yes, I said "budget."  You cannot fall off your budget just because it's Christmas time.  Doing so sets you up for bad times in the year to come.  

Partly because this is also the time of year that property taxes are coming due.  

You did budget for that, right?  

I did.  And then the emergency fund took a huge hit, and took my tax budget with it.  The tax budget is now rebuilt.  The emergency fund is next.  Then the insurance budget.  And finally, after that, tuition. 

Right after that is New Year's Day...and all of the resolutions that we may or may not manage to keep for the next year.  And a ton more cold, snow, and ice. 

(which, again, we'll be seeing frequently...all the way up to and through severe storm season in the spring...)

Did I mention I hate winter?  From the start of the commercial Christmas season in the beginning of October all the way up to the end of March?

Knocked off my feet, a little.

Last week was Thanksgiving week.  The kids were out of school for a full week.  

And it occurred to me, last week, I hadn't heard from one of my best friends in a while.  Last time I heard from her was toward the end of October.  So I checked her FB page to see if she had a lot of stuff going on (if not, I was going to call her).  

Found out she'd passed away right after I'd talked to her last.  

I knew it was coming.  She'd been fighting metastasized inflammatory breast cancer for the past nine or ten years.  It had spread into her ribs, spine, skull, and brain.  And wasn't responding to treatment any longer.   

I'd been praying for what was best for her and for her son.  I can't imagine this was what was best for her son, but she'd been in a lot of pain for a while.  

Not all of it physical.  

She'd married into a local group of polygamous Mormons about fourteen years ago.  I told her at the time that I didn't think her intended spouse wanted her for anything other than leverage to keep custody of his step-grandchildren (guess who proved right).  And then, right about the time she pushed things into a good health place for her, her husband decided to bring in a second wife...and refused to support her in round two of cancer fighting.  

I hold him partly to blame for her recent fight--she'd fought the beast into remission once, and spent three years cancer free before it came roaring back and took her.  I think that the stress of the so-called "sister" wife playing seraglio politics (and my friend REALLY didn't want to, and was open to a plural marriage of equals); a running fight with the step daughter, the step-grandkids, and their social worker; and an unsupportive spouse suppressed her immune system enough that...this time, the cancer won.  

So yeah, I'm grieving.  I'm grieving, I'm angry, and I'm off-balance.  

And it's really made me angrier with my mother.  It's really hard to catch inflammatory breast cancer before it spreads.  Mom didn't have inflammatory breast cancer.  She just...made the choice to not bother having it dealt with while it was small, and isn't bothering to try fighting it now because she didn't want to deal with the cancer die-off symptoms. 

Inflated

Ugh.  Sometimes I hate being clued into what's going on.  

As a housewife/primary budget keeper/main shopper, I pay attention to things.  Very, very close attention.  And, being a housewife to someone whose primary training was in economics, I understand what I'm seeing when I see it.  

Right now, I'm seeing the consequences of multiple decades of economic retards running the money supply, exacerbated by two or three years of dribbling morons piddling in the pile of stupid-ass decisions.  

In brief: the Federal Reserve is supposed to be keeping their thumbs on the scales to prevent stagflation like we saw in the 1970's from happening again.  It's supposed to be adjusting the interest rates on lending to prevent too much money from chasing too few goods to drive prices to where the everyday family isn't able to deal.  

It...hasn't.  It hasn't done that for years.  Decades, even.  

Holding the interest rates down was one thing.  Holding them down then printing money? 

Yeah.  Really, really bad.  

They did that.  Exactly that.  Several times.  Most recently during the fauxdemic. 

And then they decided that it was a BRILLIANT idea to go full-turnip on the green shit.  Both in STOPPING oil production, slowing refining, and in slowing/stopping reliable and relatively inexpensive electricity production.  

Which...is having a noticeable effect.  Already.  With a colder and nastier than normal winter forecast for a lot of the country.  

So.  Inflation.  It's happening.  On everything.  They're admitting around 8%.  

I'm saying that's bullshit.  

In 2020, I bought ten pounds of chicken leg quarters for $4.90.  This year, the ones I bought were around $10 (little bit over, when I bought them).  That's double.  More than.  

In 2020, a box of 5 dozen eggs was around $5.  Now?  Close to $18.  

Lentils.  Something that a lot of people don't know exist, much less what to do with, but were a cheap staple when I was growing up.  In 2020, a bag of lentils was $0.98.  The last bag I bought was $1.48.  

Those price increases aren't 8%.  That's not even 8% per year.  

And don't get me started on how much other needed foodstuffs and materials cost.  

I was raised in a welfare/food stamps household.  Where my mom had...about the same level of understanding of economics: "They should set price ceilings on these things!  They cost too much, and people can't afford them!"*

I did not understand--not for a long time, with a lot of simple explanations of what I was seeing--how supply and demand worked to set prices.  I didn't understand how interest rates worked.  I didn't understand how fiat currency worked (here's a hint: by trust, which is not being lost so much as willfully discarded by the twat-brained waffle-heads in charge).  

I learned.  Because I don't like being poor.**  I didn't want to be poor.  

So I learned.  Slowly, because my talents don't like in those directions, but I learned.  

I am no longer poor, because I understand--now--what behaviors and choices were keeping me mired there.  

It's the same ones driving the over-educated idiots running things in DC.  "We have money; we have to spend it!  Before it disappears!"  

We are not going to be able to fix this.  We're looking at Keynesian economics in a nutshell, there.  This is what is, normally, taught in econ/finance in modern universities.  By "smart" people.  Not one of whom understands what they're actually looking at.  "The data's not supporting the hypothesis; we need to spend harder and faster, because we're not doing enough to save us all."  

Their inflated opinion of themselves and their theories have blinded them to the fact that there's a hole in the bottom of the boat, and instead of plugging it, they're drilling it bigger (and adding more, besides).  

They really ought to be beat to death with copies of Thomas Sowell's Basic Economics.  

*No, not a good idea.  That way lies full-on shortages.  

**There's a difference between being poor and being broke.  And it's all in attitudes and behaviors.

I don't believe you.

The midterms were yesterday.  There's a lot of people scratching their heads, today, wondering what happened.  See, they expected to see a solid Republican majority take over both the house and the senate.  And it hasn't happened.  

I never expected it.  Because I expected what happened.  It was signaled out loud for months, damn it.  The opposition--the Democrats--started months ago bleating about abortion, bleating about this, that, and the other. Issues that they hold near and dear.  Things voters don't care about, especially not in comparison to the ability to put food on the fucking table for their children.  

I do not believe that the Democrats won.  I do not believe that they can.  Not with the majority of America as angry as they are, and about the things they're angry about.*

I do not believe Fetterman took the seat over whats-his-face, the quack holisitic medicine twat that turned on the President who campaigned for him.  

I do not believe they took any district that was not a 100% inner city vote, and that would have been close, because people are that angry.  

And this is Bitch McConnell's fault.  And Lindsey Graham(nesty).  And the fault of every lizard that's been there, squatting in DC with a camouflage R, for my lifetime.  You surrendered to the fucking enemy.  You're quislings.  

Oh I know they're going to be gaslighting us as hard as they can.  "It was a fair election."  "You're just sore losers."  "We won, so the people want what we're going to give them good and hard."  

No.  

I do not believe you.  I don't believe the media.  I don't believe the results.  

Tell you what.  If you want my buy in, redo the whole election.  Tomorrow.  Paper ballots only, in person voting only, with a drivers' license or state ID required to vote.  And do not give me that bullshit about disenfranchising minorities--every last one of them has an ID.  Because they have to to have a bank account, to buy their smokes, their liquor.  They have the fucking ID.

Even with California's fucking retarded "yes, undocumented immigrants can get a drivers' license."  I'll accept that.  Because I'm pretty sure that even the illegals don't want what Democrats are pushing.

IF, and only if, the results match what they're waving around, will I believe they won.  

Until then, I just...don't.  

Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer have a legitimate federal government.  We have a criminal cabals of liars, killers, rapists, and thieves attempting to rule over us.  

I cannot tell you what to do about it.  I don't even know what to do.    

But this won't last forever.  I believe that.  I know that.  Because it can't.  This is the land of the odds, of the unruly who do not go along.  We are not Europe, and this is not a democracy.  This is a representative republic, where we, the people, now lack representation.  Because our voices have been stolen.  Or silenced. 

I can't predict what's going to happen.  I can only grit my teeth and hang on, can only pray, can only try to get my children safely into adulthood.  

The only things I can predict?  Things are going to get a lot harder.  And then it's going to get truly ugly. 

Edit: Welcome, Instapundit readers!  Glad to have you drop by. 

*Americans are angry about inflation.  They're angry about their paychecks not going as far as they were.  They're angry about energy prices going up because green shit doesn't produce, and they're angry about being cold over the winter.  They are not angry about abortion being made illegal altogether in some states, and restricted in others--the average American doesn't want to kill babies, and is quietly grateful that they don't have to come out in the open and make that stand.  They are not angry about police brutality--they're angry that they're not safe from criminal brutality, and the left just made it worse in my state by legalizing pot for funsies and allowing people with "pot convictions" to get their convictions overturned.  No, Americans aren't angry about what the Democrats care about.  Well, no, they are, but not in the way the Democrats want them to be--they're angry that this is being forced on them. 

Not trained for this.

Ya know that whole pressure toward "have a career; you're wasting your mind on staying home!" thing aimed at women?  

Being a housewife/mom is damn hard.  Really damn hard.  

I spent six years in college.  Had a blast doing so, too--I really enjoyed the discussions of the reading assignments, and I really enjoyed the intellectual challenges in classes I wasn't as well-grounded in.*  Loved languages, the rules of the languages, and linguistics and how languages developed.  Enjoyed learning how language was acquired, too.  

The last two years of college, I was taught how to teach writing.  Somewhat.  Half-assed.  Mostly learned by example, and used what I learned from my instructors to be a better instructor, since the ones trying to teach me how to teach didn't know how themselves.  

I spent a lot of time and mental energy teaching, thinking about teaching, writing, and thinking about teaching writing.  It's what I was trained to do.  I knew how to do it, and I was good at it.  

And then I had kids.  First one came eight weeks early--right at the mid-point of the semester--and I had to leave campus.  No big deal, I thought, I'll just switch to online teaching.  From teaching on campus.  From '03 (in grad school) to '08.  I didn't have any training or guidance on how to do that, but I managed.  And I continued teaching online and stayed home with my son.  

And then my daughter.  

And I learned that the teaching stuff I'd been trained to do in no way translated to what I needed to know to do the mommy stuff.  Which I had to learn on the job, because that?  Yeah, the "how to" resources on parenting suck balls.  

And that's leaving aside everything else.  

I am still a teacher--but now, I'm learning things just before I teach them.  Instead of previously being the expert in the room.  

I am also a general manager, an administrative assistant, a short-order cook, an economist, a personal shopper, an efficiency expert.  I deal in finance, in triage, in tailoring, in housekeeping.  I  have deep base knowledge in history, philosophy, religion, and several different sciences.  

I have training in none of those things.  None.  

Thing is, I should have.  My mom was a stay at home mom.  I didn't get taught how to cook.  I got chased out of the kitchen: "Oh, you're making a mess, just let me do it--get out of the way."  And there was nowhere in the kitchen that was out of the way, so I didn't learn by watching, either. 

I didn't get taught how to keep house.**  I didn't get taught how to drive until my other half taught me.  And I don't really blame Mom for that--somebody prone to panic attacks should not teach somebody prone to panic attacks how to drive. 

I am still not entirely sure how I learned to budget, how to stick to a budget, or comparison shop--Mom doesn't do either, and didn't from the time I started paying attention.  I don't know how I learned to differentiate between "go to the doctor with this" and "don't bother going to the doctor--they won't be able to do anything about it." Mom's always been a hypochondriac.  All the way up to when it actually counted, and now she won't go to the doctor to have her cancer dealt with. 

I read, incessantly.  I research things I don't know, and that is the one, single thing that translated over from learning to teach research and writing to house-wifing: I can tell when something's sorta right, when something's totally bullshit, when something's been spun so hard in the presentation that, even if the facts are true, it's still false.  

It's not wasting my mind being a housewife.  It's not wasting my talents being a stay-at-home-mom.  It's really freakin' hard, and there are so many jobs that I have to transition between, without pause.  Or sometimes multitask doing jobs that DON'T go together, and still somehow managing.  This is far more intellectually challenging than teaching college--or really, any other single-focus career--could ever hope to be.  

There really is something for Heinlein's take on what a human being is. 

*Except math.  I hated math.  I could never figure out which equation to use in what situation to get the outcome being demanded.  And biology--I preferred my coursework on paper, not my hands.  

**That's...not entirely Mom's fault.  She was directed by the head of DFS that she wasn't to make my sister and me pick up after ourselves.  It really needs to be a daily thing, and a routine habit, and I never learned it.   

Ominous...

We're having a fairly serious cold snap, both for our area and for how early in the year it is.  Last night's lows?  Below freezing.  Today will be in the mid-40's.  And tonight?  Below freezing again. 

Today's high is normal lows for this part of the country during mid October.  Yeah, it's a short-lived cold snap, but it's a cold snap.  We've taken the hoses off the outside faucets, even if we've not covered the faucets, just yet.  I've buried my drift roses in piles of oak leaves for now, and I plan to get ground cloth and thick mulch before too much longer.  I don't want my more recently-planted roses freezing.

And it's still so very, very dry...I'll probably need to water them a bit.  After this cold bit has passed and things are back to normal for October.  Like, maybe Thursday.  Or Friday.  

I hadn't gotten the propane tank filled.  We have enough for this cold snap.  I think.  But I have put in an order.  For 177 gallons, at $2.70/gallon.  That's the summer rate.  Our tank is a dinky 250 gallons.  It's still costing nearly $500 to fill. 

Let's go, Brandon!  

And yes, this is something I can blame entirely on The FICUS Administration.  This is something that isn't entirely inflation-driven.  This is driven entirely by the idiot watermelon* agenda: the twats that keep trying to say they were elected (they weren't) and have a mandate from heaven the people to get rid of fossil fuels!**

Since 2021, there've been a number of policies shutting down any production on this continent.  Because of those policies, we've seen prices on...well, everything...skyrocket past what the money pumped in by the ill-considered "stimulus" payments would account for.  

We've also seen the idiots over in Asia saber rattling...then lunging.  And demonstrating just how well shooting the messenger works in real life, for making sure things work and/or are ready to be used...

...which brings us circling back around to yet another fucking boondoggle: "renewable" resources.  And pushing "electricity-only!" with the reliability (and expense levels) imposed by these "renewable" resources.  

Ya know, I really wouldn't mind relying mostly on electricity if they hadn't shut down so many plants that made the electricity.  Or if they'd, I dunno, already built a few micro-reactor nuclear plants to replace those filthy*** fossil-fuel plants.  

This winter's going to be expensive for those of us living in the United States.  It's going to be damn near impossibly expensive for a lot of us, and it will be impossibly expensive for a few.  There will be people freezing to death this year, in the United States. 

It's going to be a frozen hell for the rest of the northern hemisphere.  

I suspect the pendulum is going to be swinging--hard--the other way for the "greens."  And I can't say one way or the other whether that pendulum is going to be sharpened, before it plows through them.  Or whether it's going to be a wrecking ball. 

It's going to be a hard reset the hard left isn't expecting.  It's gonna really hurt them here.  It's going to kill them elsewhere.  It's just going to be a matter of figuring out how bloody it's going to get before it's over.

*Watermelon agenda: it pretends to be green, but that's only on the surface.  At its heart, it's red.  

**I wouldn't have any issues getting rid of fossil fuels if they had anything cheap and reliable to replace it with.  They don't.  Well, they could, but they won't.  

***If they want to see "filthy," they need to look at where the components needed for the solar panels, windmills, and other renewables come from.  And where they end up. 

Food for thought

Hot cereal.  Everyone likes a version of hot cereal when it starts getting cold.  There are so many possibilities--and a lot of them are semi-good for you, since a lot of them are based in whole grain.  It kinda depends on which kind you like best for how healthy it actually is.  

I hated oatmeal, growing up.  Still kinda don't...really like it.  I can eat it, sometimes, but it really has to taste like an oatmeal cookie for me to be able to get past the texture (I've got instructions for how to do that in the microwave at the end of the post).  Can't eat it too often, but...yeah.  I always loved Malt-O-Meal, though.  And Cream of Wheat, but especially Malt-O-Meal. 

It doesn't matter, though, I suppose.  I can't have either one, anymore.  And rice...there's a Cream of Rice version of Cream of Wheat, but I have to limit how much rice I eat.*  And I have other ways I'd rather eat it (my bastard lovechild of fajitas and fried rice, and Zatarain's dirty rice or jambalaya). 

I can do corn-based foods easier than any other grain.  So...that left me with cornmeal mush (which takes for-freakin' ever), or grits.  Which can be made in five minutes on top of the stove, or three or four minutes in the microwave.

Grits it is, then.  Because my body is an asshole, and gives me really hard limits that change from day to day.  I can usually do stuff in the microwave, even when I can't stand over the stove for even five minutes. 

The instant grits packages that my Walmart sells was enough to get me started, and enough to verify that I don't have bad reactions to eating grits.  Not even daily.  So, I took the next step, and got the can.  Which had double the amount of grits in it for a buck less than the box of pre-measured/seasoned instant packets.  And...

Really.  Doing the measuring out yourself isn't hard.  However.  I cannot eat what the can says is a "full serving."  That's just...damn.  1/4 c of grits, plus 1 c water.  I can't eat that much--not as a meal by itself, and definitely not as a side.  I can, however, math well enough to cut that in half. 

So, for microwaved grits, I've been using 2 tbsp measured out (no, it doesn't really pile up on the spoon), and a half cup and a splash of water (to keep them from turning into paste).  For breakfast, I add a little butter, a tbsp of bacon bits, and around a tablespoon of brown sugar.  As a side? I add a little bit of cheese (which makes it a really good stand in, when the kids and other half are doing macaroni).  There are really good instructions on the back of the can for how long to microwave the grits for.  I found that doing half the time, stirring, then the other half gets better results than just...setting it to go the full time it says it needs to.  And that lets me determine if I need to add more liquid/how much I need to add. 

I am probably going to be eating a lot of grits.  And a 24 oz can ($2.58 at Walmart in SW MO)...just doesn't go very far.   My local Sam's Club doesn't carry grits at all. 

However.  They sell grits in their online site.  In 5-lb bags, for $2.98/bag (30 cents more than Walmart's pound-and-a-half can, so a lot less on the unit cost).  But only if you buy three bags at once. 

I'm set for a while, now. 

So.  Breakfasts. 

Recipes follow:

Cookie oatmeal (microwave):

1/4 c quick oats
1tbsp brown sugar
1tsp white sugar
quick shake of allspice**
quick shake of cinnamon (to taste)
raisins to taste
1/2 c water or milk
drop of vanilla

1. Mix oats and dry ingredients, add raisins (optional, at this point) and either water or milk and vanilla.  2. Microwave for 1 minute.  Stir, add sugar, honey, or salt to individual taste. 

If your raisins are hard (mine are--we don't eat a whole lot of them), you'll want to microwave them with the liquid.  If they're not, you can add them at the end.

Brown Sugar Bacon Grits

2 tbsp grits
1 tbsp brown sugar
1 tbsp real bacon bits
tsp or less of butter, brief shake of salt
2/3 c water (more or less, according to how thick you want it)

1. Put ingredients in bowl.  Don't bother to mix, since the butter's not melted.  2. Microwave for 90 seconds. 3. Stir, add liquid if you want it thinner.  Or sugar, if it's not sweet enough for you.  4: Microwave for 90 more seconds. 

And as a bonus, since I mentioned cheesy grits as a side and/or substitute for macaroni and cheese...

Cheesy Grits:

2 tbsp grits
1/2 c water
1 tbsp powder cheese (optional--it's easier if you have it on hand, but you can sub shredded cheese)

1. Mix grits and cheese powder (if you have it.  If you don't, wait on the cheese).  Add water.  2. Microwave 90 seconds, stir.  Taste.  Add salt if you need it here.  3.  Microwave 90 seconds. 

If you don't have powdered cheese, this is where you mix in however much of whatever kind of shredded cheese you prefer. 

*I have to limit most grain--rice, oats, or whatever else--or it kicks me into an autoimmune flare.  Same w/legumes.  Corn seems to be the only grain I can eat without issues.  

**I use allspice, but you can use nutmeg and cloves, or whatever else you'd personally prefer.  Just be sparing, because it can really take over with just a little too much.  

Fourteen.

Fourteen years ago, today, my imp was born.  Eight weeks early, impatient, wanting to be around people so he could get them to play with him.  Shocked the nurses silly: "Normally, babies as early as he was spend all their time sleeping.  I hate admitting this, but he's my favorite--he's happy, and wants to play with me."  

He was 19.5" long (two inches too long for the preemie footie jammies), and 3 lbs, 13.3 oz at birth.  Long, skinny baby.   No fat rolls whatsoever, anywhere.  His tushie looked like a frog's rear end.  

He's been fourteen for two hours, now.  He's shooting up--last doctor's visit had him at 5' 2.5," but only 87 lbs.  I'm not sure if he's gained weight since then, but I'm pretty sure he's gained some extra height.  He can reach the top shelves in the kitchen (I absolutely can't).   So, still long and skinny.  No fat rolls whatsoever, anywhere.  He's still impatient, but is also impulsive, in constant motion (jiggling foot, jiggling knees, twitchy fingers), wants to be around people, and play.  He's still usually happy, by default, but is starting in on the moodiness, and the outbursts of random anger typical of teen boys.  

His shoulders are broadening, and is developing an Adam's apple, but his voice isn't breaking.  Yet.  

His room is still carpeted in toys--Legos, GI Joe-type stuff, and Hot Wheels (cars and good-sized track sets).  However, he's also got a few snap-circuits sets, and a marble run.  He wants more snap circuits, wants to learn more about electrical work, and loves science and engineering stuff.  

He isn't really interested in school.  Other than band (he's played trumpet since 5th grade, and he's in 7th, now), he's got a solid C average.  Which, considering how hard his ADHD rides him, sometimes, isn't bad.  Yeah, he's a lot smarter than that, but he just can't focus it unless there's physical stuff involved.  Stuff to do with his hands (that isn't writing).   And he really, really doesn't test well: he says his mind goes blank when he starts taking one.  

He's got some idea of what he'd like to do for a living when he's finished school.  And what kind of house he'd like.  And car.  And...yeah, normal boy stuff.  

I'm proud as hell of him, and of how far he's come, and how hard he's fought himself to make it as far as he has on working around his ADHD symptoms, mitigating them, and dealing with life.  I'm absolutely certain that he'll find his feet and be okay in the long run. 

And, as parents, do we really have the right to ask for more? 

Random stuff...

• I don't need to "Kickstart My Heart," guys.  It's my brain that needs it.

• I have never seen anybody spring for the asshole package on a four-door Honda Civic.  Until today.  Fuckwit tried crawling up my tailpipe (I was doing 30 in a 25, and he clearly wanted me to go faster), then wove around like he wanted to pass me, then didn't signal when he turned into Sam's Club behind me.  Yeah.  Exactly.  You'd expect behavior like that out of someone driving a BMW, not a Honda Civic sedan.  

• Our Sam's Club has quit carrying the imp's favorite sausage links.  But they had Buffalo Trace, and Laphroig in stock.  I...yeah, I got both bottles of my favorite bourbon, and the only bottle of one of my favorite Scotches.  

• Ya know, I really could do without the record-setting highs.  Our outdoor kitchen is defunct for the next while.  And the grill's...kinda scrunched.*  Oh well.  A couple (or four) days of cooking on just the stove top won't hurt anything.  

• The use of Irish diplomacy on our insurance agent, the adjuster, and the adjuster's supervisor has had results.  Almost up to the cost of replacement.  Depreciation and inflation do nasty things when they play together.  

• My sister's bottle kitten she saved last year** is huge, and still growing.  I am almost certain he's mostly Turkish Van.   If he is, then he'll probably finish growing sometime within the next few months, but put on muscle for another year.  He's also a gorgeous kitty, if more than a wee bit nuts. I picked him up on Saturday, and given how much heavier he is than my girl-kitties (11 lbs each), I'd put him between fifteen and eighteen pounds. 
  

 

*Weber Spirit propane grill.  The casters are...yeah.  Scrunched, if not outright broken, like the front left one (as you're facing the grill).  Considering a PATIO ROOF made of TWO BY SIXES (if not two by eights) LANDED ON IT...I suppose it stood up well.  All things considered.  Might actually be willing to use it, if the poor thing hadn't got slammed down on its front and dumped the burners and everything when the roof got taken off of it to be taken apart.  

**Gus--named after the fat little mouse from Cinderella--was one of two kittens my sister took from a lady that didn't know how to raise days-old kittens after their momma tangled with something fatal.  Gus was the only one who survived being fed puppy formula for a couple days.  

21 years

 This is what it should look like.  

Never forget. 

Never forgive.

Processing...

It's been...well.  One hell of a couple of weeks.  Emotionally, I'm off balance, and honestly off my feet entirely.  Flattened.  And it's going to take a while for me to sit up, much less get my feet under me.  

And life isn't slowing down.  

So.  The week after school started.  Mom had an appointment with her oncologist on Wednesday.  She called me on Monday, all chirpy and cheerful, and said she'd cancelled the appointment, and had stopped taking the hormone blocker.  She was certain it was killing her.  (What it was doing was starving her 4.5cm tumor to death.  Said dying tumor was releasing toxins.)  Said she knew that not taking the medication anymore meant that her cancer would stop shrinking, but she trusts God to take care of her. 

In other words, she decided not to take the damned helicopter he sent to fish her out of the flood water, that she'd rather die than fight. 

Uh.  Ouch.  

Yeah, I've told her outright that I don't want to hear anything about her health when I talk to her.  Because in choosing to commit slow, ugly suicide, she's forfeited the right to complain.  

Week before last, the imp called me from school in the late afternoon (right as study hall was starting).  Said he felt sickish.  He wasn't sure if he had a fever, but felt funny, and his stomach was bothering him. 

He's prone to truly vicious heartburn, so I figured that was all it was.  I went and got him (no fever, but he was quiet and lethargic--something he isn't).  And I gave him antacids, and bread (which, weirdly, helps his heartburn a lot...like it used to do mine).  

He was fine the next morning, so I sent him back to school.  

Friday afternoon, when I picked the kids up, the pixie was coming down with...something.  By Sunday, everybody else (except the imp) was starting to come down with it.* 

And...the patio roof came down.  As in: it detached from the back of the house, and crunched our grill.  Poured rain between the edge of the roof and the edge of the patio roof, first, then...crash.  Totally destroyed the outdoor kitchen, and yanked the light switch that ran the patio light and the ceiling fan back into the wall good and hard (broke the plate).  

The dog was outside.  She wasn't hurt, but she certainly got the poo scared out of her.  We managed to get her in the house, but her room and yard were rendered unsafe, so she spent the following several days utterly miserable.  

We spent several days arguing with the insurance.  They sent out a contractor to take pictures to send to an adjuster that apparently didn't understand what she was looking at on her desktop where she was poking options on drop menus.  

We have already gotten a quote for straight up replacement.  For a framed-in roof with osb, tpo, guttering, a light, and a ceiling fan.  Exactly what fell down.  

They quoted us either repair (pop it back into place--not an option, partially because it broke, broke the eaves and rafters where it had been nailed up, and as we found out, some of the osb was rotten), or "replacement" for a metal roof with a tar-paper cover. 

Yeah, it's not even ballpark.  And we couldn't have made up the difference.  At all.  Not without totally dropping another project that we'd already started.  (We were expecting the carport to collapse, not the patio roof--which had never given us any signals that it was a Cletus-built clusterfuck before it fell off the house, and had already pulled it down in preparation for a better one with a hipped roof to be put in its place.)

We're in the process of arguing with the insurance.  Our agent is on it, because, well, they don't want to lose the residuals.  If we shift home insurance, everything is going.  

So.  That.  And normal kids-at-school drama.  And puberty crap (yes, they're both going through it).  And...

...and yesterday, Queen Elizabeth II, the woman I've admired most for my entire life--one of the only women I've admired for all of my life--passed away, yesterday.  

That...kinda was the cherry on the shit sundae life slammed into my face recently. 

I'm grieving her passing, and for her daughter and grandchildren.  I'm grieving for her great-grandchildren.  I'm grieving for her nation, because while she did her best for her nation, even at her deathbed,** she didn't fix succession.  The fucking moron who could never step into her shoes planting his white-trash, low-class, trashy ass in her throne.   And his white trash whore of a wife is now titled "Queen Consort."  

Even as I grieve, though, I'm happy for Elizabeth.  She's home, with her beloved Philip, who passed on last year.  

*Pretty sure it was the Cold from China, round 2--symptoms were right.  Won't bother testing, because it's a cold, and I don't want to add to the panic-porn statistics. 

**She summoned the new PM to her bedside, the day before she passed, to swear her in.  Which means that the drooling idiot dribbling all over the monarchy can't do anything until after the next election...which is not like ours, and nobody knows when it will be held.  Given his age, he might actually not survive to another election.  We can hope, anyway.