Thursday, October 27, 2011

Keep your hands to yourself!!! No form of domestic violence is ever acceptable.

Just a note to remind all men (and women, even though we tend to be made of less solid stuff) to keep your hands to yourselves.  Anytime a woman is cowed into a corner, pushed, shoved, hit, or even fears for her safety or that of her children by the actions of a man, the situation must change.  A line has been crossed that never should have been approached.  It isn't okay...not once, not twice...not ever!  If that line has been crossed, it is most likely that the behavior will escalate putting the woman and/or her children in further peril. 

According to the article by the staff of the Mayo Clinic, Domestic violence against women:  recognize patterns, seek help., not only is unbidden physical contact identified as domestic violence, but threatening words, control, bullying, and blaming a victim for being deserving of such behavior is considered inappropriate and harmful.  The information in the article also relays the pattern of an abuser's actions.  It is common that a violent partner will apologize for his/her abuse and promise to change his/her ways or insists that a victim's actions or behavior led to the abuse. 

But what if the attacker claims, or indeed does not, remember the incident as a result of alcohol or drug abuse or because of emotional instability?  The online conference transcripts led by Dr. Ronald Potter-Effron MSW, Ph.D., Rage: Overcoming Explosive Anger , explains rage blackouts in its many forms.  If a person doesn't remember performing violent actions on another, does that make the behavior more acceptable than if they intentionally abused someone with all of their faculties intact?  I would think the opposite would be true.  The idea that an individual was so enraged at the time in which they attacked another is even more frightening than if they had been aware of what they were doing.  That would make the person's behavior and potential actions even more unpredictable.  The abuser, to my mind, less likely or willing to change or seek help to change that behavior.

If a person is being abused, and especially if a pattern of abuse is escalating, they must change the situation.  If the person violating a victim's security and well-being is not willing to make the appropriate changes in their life that are necessary for the behavior to end, by seeking professional help, then the victim must remove themselves from the situation permanently, especially if children are involved or witness such behavior.  The National Domestic Violence Hotline is a tool victims can use to get help and information.  The website even features a "Quick Escape" icon to leave the page if a victim who is seeking information at this online location feels their computer is being monitored.  It also provides information for friends of those seeking help for individuals who are living with domestic violence.  

You should never be in danger or even feel as if you may be in danger.  It is never alright to be in a situation that causes you to fear for your safety.  Get up and DO something to change that situation.  It may be frightening to face such an enormous life change but the daily fear that exists with living with a violent person is far worse, even if abusive episodes are few and far between. Once is too often.

Author Linda Rue Quinn in her short story, A Pack of Gum, shows from a victim's point of view, what impact a life of domestic violence can have on a person. 

Wishing love, hope, and safety to all who find themselves dealing with someone who thinks it's alright to abuse or even just bully another.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Basil, Basil Everywhere. Basil, Basil In My Hair.

It's the time of year for my little garden when the basil has grown completely out of control and I make a large batch or two of pesto to freeze for winter use.  It freezes really well.  I do the ol' ice cube tray trick then bag the frozen cubes the same way I used to make baby food for my children.

I have a large amount of basil right now and have been thinking that maybe I'd rather bring it in and try to keep it alive this year rather than getting what I can from it and letting Jack Frost have the rest.  I have also contemplated building a cold frame to keep it and two well developed pepper plants thriving through the winter.

For two full years and then some, I have been trying to grow my hair for Locks of Love.  I figured that it was such a simple thing to do, forgetting that my hair grows so slow that I've never grown it past the middle of my back before giving up and getting it lopped off.  During this time period I have grown and cut my bangs countless times finally deciding that if the general length ever gets long enough to donate they can have it, but I need my bangs.  I just don't look like me without them.  Well, as it turns out, from what I have been reading, natural basil shampoos can accelerate hair growth.  Maybe I should use the rest of my basil to whip up a winter's supply of shampoo.  I picture myself, however, with a lovely plait of green-tinged hair come St. Patrick's Day.

As if to make my decision on what to do with so much basil a bit more difficult, I was walking down the sidewalk in a little town we visited over the weekend while vendors were closing up their tents when a boy ran out in front of me and thrust a plant in a my face.  "Do you want a free basil plant?", he asked.  I've lived in the mountains for ten years this month but I still have trouble on occasion understanding a North Georgia drawl so had to ask him to repeat himself.  Free basil?  I can't resist anything offered for free and all I could think about as the aroma wafted around me was pesto...lots and lots of pesto.  "Sure!", I answered.  "Thanks!" I happily continued down the sidewalk with my prize.  Now really...what to do with all that basil...  It may be time to make pasta...maybe soon it will be time for a haircut.

UPDATE:  I killed it.  I killed it all.  It's dead.  All of it.  GRRRRR!!!!

Monday, October 17, 2011

I am a wolf.

So I had just finished a busy morning and emailing back and forth with a friend about homeschool and child rearing frustrations while mourning the loss of the first weekend in ages that I was able to spend some time away from home with my little family when I reached into the pocket of my yoga pants and was reminded that I am a wolf. 

I am a wolf.  I know this because my son told me so.  My sweet, beautiful, kind, thoughtful, sensitive son told me that I am a wolf.  I have felt like a momma bear a few times, I dream of dolphins and swimming with them, maybe even as a dolphin (I love those dreams), four back to back years of breast-feeding and pregnancies made me feel like a mother cow, literally, but I have never felt like a wolf, though I can become quite ferocious when backed into a corner.

But my son told me I am a wolf.  We were in a little gem shop in a faraway town yesterday and there was a wooden bin full of "totem energy" stones with various figures carved into them near the register.  Things of this sort intrigue me if they are historically accurate but mostly I see them as doo-dads that suckers are sucked into buying as silly little mystical tokens.  Well suckered in I was, but it wasn't the accompanying card that did it, the purple and pink hued, almost plaid patterned natural stone that the image of a wolf was engraved into that wooed me, it was my little guy's exclamation that struck me to the core and melted my heart. 

"You're a wolf, Mommy.  Look!  You're a wolf!"  He read the description of the wolf symbol from the card that was provided with each sale of the stones.  It said, "Wolf-- family loyalty, teaching skill." 

This is me.  I love to cook, but this is all I have to offer in this world that makes any real difference.  It nearly made my knees buckle under me and all I could do was to take my sweet baby in my arms and whisper my appreciation.  I promised to buy it and keep it with me at all times and I will.

When life begins to overwhelm me I can take my stone from my pocket and remind myself that my son thinks of me as a wolf.  I can be a wolf every day.  I am a wolf.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

The talent for being happy is appreciating and liking what you have, instead of what you don’t have. Woody Allen

Today's blog is in celebration of the little farm that I love so much.  This is because for over a year now, my family and I have considered trading it in.  We have very good reasons for this of which I won't mention, but suffice it to say that I've put far too much energy into looking elsewhere rather than focusing on what I have right in front of me.  This doesn't mean we won't end up leaving some day, but after a summer of problems with this particular piece of property and ongoing problems with the street on which we live, I've sort of had a love/hate relationship with the place, but continue to trust that the major problems will become minor and tolerable and I can grow old in my little cottage on this mini farm as I've always imagined myself doing.

It all started with a frantic search for a new rental, with a possible option to buy.  After years of living in rentals and military housing, my husband and I were desperate to own our first home.  We were confident at the time that the town in which we lived was where we were willing to settle, that it was a wonderful place for our children to grow up.  A teenaged, drunk, bipolar neighbor who was off of his medication is what finally led us to accelerate our search for a place of our own.

I had torn a notice for a house for sale out of the newspaper a few months before and had saved the little slip of paper.  On impulse, I showed it to my husband and he called the number that was provided.  The owner, a carpenter, said he had purchased the house, a dilapidated mess, and the surrounding property with the intention of renovating and reselling it for a profit.  His business had escalated so that he and his crew rarely had the time to drive the 10 or so miles out of town to make much progress on the house.  He had rented it to several people but after problems with renters had decided to leave it empty during renovation until it could be sold.  My husband asked if he was willing to do a lease/purchase.  He said he wanted to sell it outright, but after speaking to his wife for a few minutes, they decided that this was the only way they would be able to sell the home.  They'd had problems with buyers in the past being unable to get a valuable enough appraisal on the house as it was in the midst of renovation.  Lenders would not give any of them a mortgage with it in such an unfinished state.

He gave us the address so that we could see the house and property.  The drywaller was in the middle of plastering the seams in one room, the master bathroom was without a sink, bare drywall covered the shower walls, and the room only had a patched plywood floor.  Doors and a refrigerator were missing, but everything else was functional.  My husband and I were certain that these were the types of renovations we could finish ourselves and the prospect of owning an old farmhouse with land, basically our dream house, was too great an opportunity to turn our backs on. We agreed to rent the house for a year, renovating it at the same time.  At the end of the year we could either buy it or the owner would reimburse us for the materials that we put into finishing it.  Great deal!

A year later, we signed the papers and the house was ours.  We still have a lot of work to do, but we were able to finish it well enough to get an appraisal.  The appraisal was enormously larger than the owner's asking price and the asking price was about half of what we would have paid for a smaller home in town with no property.  We even asked the owners if they were sure they were satisfied with the selling price well before closing day.  They said they were happy to help a couple starting out and would love to just be free of the headache of trying to get the house finished and sold.  Basically, it was a steal!  We have been very grateful for that.

Right away I was disappointed with what had become of the kitchen.  I had always wanted a farmhouse kitchen with old metal cabinets and a black and white checkered floor.  I wondered when I saw the 1950s style of cabinetry and shelving in the butler's pantry if there had once been my coveted metal cabinets with chrome handles in the rest of the kitchen.

Bubble gum pink paint in the pantry and in a utility closet were a sure sign that there probably had been.  It was apparent that the sink, appliances, and cabinetry had been ripped out of the old kitchen.  The owner told us that he had put in counters and cabinets that he had torn from another house he had been working on.  There they were, the same old oak apartment cabinets we had been living with in all of our rentals, completely out of place in a farmhouse kitchen that still had the original plank walls exposed.  The first thing I did was to paint them white and put on new reproduction cabinet knobs and several sets of antique 1940s pulls that I had been saving for my dream kitchen which were waiting in their original brown paper packages for someone to use.  Our red, chrome legged 1950s table was perfect in the new space.

One day my husband came home from to work to find that I had torn up the peninsula which had cut the room in half and turned it against the wall to make one long counter.  It only took my minimal tiling skills to patch the raw edge that had been against the wall that now butted up to the stove and add a tile back splash to the wall behind.  He helped me hold up the upper cabinets while I screwed them into their new positions one Saturday morning, and we worked together to turn an old desk hutch into a plate rack to put over the new counter.

When President Bush handed out money to stimulate the economy with strict instructions that we spend it not bury it in the backyard, we bought the French door refrigerator we had been mooning over at our local home improvement center.

The butter yellow walls I had dreamed of painting my "some day kitchen" became a reality, but changed to deep red, which I loved, until Coke bottle green, an idea I had always toyed with, was added to some to lighten up the space and take it back to a mid-20th century American farmhouse look.  I love it, but am certain that eventually I will again be bitten by the painting bug and will change the color.  I have moved things around a  bit since these photos were taken.

Lighting has changed and a missing cabinet door replaced.  A new, deep, double white sink replaced the old stainless steel one when my husband attempted to change out a drippy faucet and found that the old plumbing had been hopelessly bound in some way to the sink itself.  I love it!  It's acrylic and I can beat it up all day long without leaving a scratch.

The master bedroom walls are a result of watching the movie Under the Tuscan Sun one too many times while I was renovating during the days, hurrying to finish before I headed to work in the evenings.

The doors on the master bathroom were taken from a closet.  They were those sliding track doors.  You know, the ones that come out of the track every other time you open them.  I took them apart and hinged them to door frame so they open in the middle.  They offer enough privacy for the master bath which got an overhaul as well.

The shower I tiled with a fleur de lis mosaic.  I painted the walls with vanilla and chocolate colored stripes.  The floors are covered with those cheap, junky peel and stick tiles that I put down in all the rooms but the ones with the original hardwood floors just in time for the appraisers to get here when we were getting close to closing on the house.  I still need to replace them all with permanent flooring.  In time I will get to them.

White cabinetry was repainted this summer to a glossy black, which we are loving, and an old dresser was converted into a vanity.

We took a stoneware bowl I had purchased from an antique store and used a Dremel to cut a hole for the drain to make our own vessel sink.  I was so nervous that we would shatter the bowl, and it was the first time I'd ever used a Dremel, but we did it!!  A thrift store trip led us to find the brass faucet.

The living room makes me sad.  The window area used to be the entrance to the home.  In the near future, I hope to replace the picture window with a bay window and make a side window the entrance again.  Right now the front door is located in the sun room that is a 1960s addition. 

The actual locking front door is inside that room and people never know if they should come into the sun room or not.  We can't hear anyone knocking on the front door so they invariably come in and there I am standing in my p.j.s.  Another reason it makes me sad is because the owners we bought the home from ripped out the fireplace and covered the wall and opening with tongue and groove molding.  It's beautiful, but I wish we could have had the opportunity to decide whether or not the fireplace should have been torn out or not.  We were a little late for that when we found the house.  I saved an old mantle, fireplace front, and mirror from my days of selling antiques and they are now permanently established in the corner of the room where the old fireplace stood.

The mirror covers a shelf that holds our television and entertainment equipment and a gas insert will be installed into the lower opening at the same time that I finally get the permit and have the kitchen converted to gas.  We still need to add a little door over the mirror to cover the shelf that holds our DVD player so the faux fireplace effect is complete.  It's on the Honey Do List, but Honey's got bigger fish to fry at the moment.

So here is the majority of our little place.  The house was originally a square little farmhouse with only a tiny kitchen, living room, and two small bedrooms.  Over the years, three of the sides that form the square that the original house was have been added on to.  It's interesting.  It's very small, but I got lost the first few days we had moved in.  It's always funny when a worker comes to make a repair and I have to show them again and again how to get around.  I love it.  Not love/hate.  LOVE!

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Knock me out!

I've been learning more about genetically modified foods and am horrified by the whole idea.  I don't think any sort of gene manipulation is acceptable.  I really don't.  I'm an old-fashioned kind of girl who believes that preserving things from the past is key to the survival of future generations of plants, trees, and even people. 

I have a friend who used to tell me freaky stories about a coming "Singularity".  If you haven't heard of this abominable (to me) idea of some peoples' belief that morphing our bodies and minds with nanobots and even becoming part or all machine is the future evolution of mankind and a path to "eternal life", then look it up online.  Real crazy science fiction kind of stuff.  An idea that I think no one should toy with, even though I don't fully believe that anything of the kind could ever possibly come to fruition.

I believe in saving heirloom varieties of vegetables and flowers for future generations.  Back to basics living is not just a hobby of mine but something I wish to revert to (I say as I type away on my handy laptop while simultaneously discussing on FB the possibilities of social networking with my new iPhone that will be arriving by week's end).  Animal cloning?  Ridiculous! I mean really...why?!!  Maybe someone could explain it to me in very simple language but why is cloning something we should be working the kinks out of?  Just don't mess with Mother Nature!  Then again, I was extremely pleased to find that the American Chestnut will be making a comeback due to scientific advancements involving gene altering.  It's a tragedy that we ever lost this beneficial tree.  Yes, I'm a hypocrite.

I rant and rave about all of these forced and "unnatural" developments.  In the meantime, I glory in the abundance of roses that grow in my front yard.  Red, pink, hot pink, single-petaled, double-petaled, frilly blooms emitting that telltale floral fragrance that grow on thick lustrously green stalks covered in new buds and shiny leaves.  Not a single aphid or taint of black spot mars their foliage.  Even the Japanese Beetles do little damage to them. 

On each end of my little patch of lawn that stretches in front of the picture window of our living room, however, grows a scraggly, scrawny type of climbing rose, barely alive after a scorching summer and pests of every kind that threaten the life of any of the old-fashioned varieties.  Why do some do better than others?  Why do I have ten out of twelve shrubs blooming profusely while the other two just eek there way through life?  Because ten of the twelve are genetically modified Knock Out Rose bushes.  I'm hopelessly devoted to this freak of nature, so "Knock" me out!