Clive, Tell Us About Your Moving Experience

You should decorate your new townhouse in mid-50s with turquoise, white and black.

My Heroes -- The Dixie Chicks

From time to time, I will be talking about those people who are heroes in my mind. Today, it's the singing group, the Dixie Chicks. What a bunch of brave women.

While Americans were throwing themselves at the feet of King George The Second (President George W. Bush) for starting the war in Iraq on the heels of the Afghanistan war, the Dixie Chicks, led by lead singer Natalie Maines, said they were against the ill-fated venture, against the violence and bloodshed. For that, they were ridiculed -- blackballed -- and their careers faltered with country music fans, who are some of the most fervent warmongers and Republicans to the core. The Chicks received death threats and one of their homes was vandalized in 2003, when the war was in its shock-and-awe days. 

Soon after the comments from the Dixie Chicks, which they later wrote about in their song, "Not Ready to Make Nice," George the II, in his flight suit with the codpiece, waltzed across that ship off San Diego to declare the war was won, mission accomplished. We know how off the mark that stunt was, don't we? 

To this day, the Dixie Chicks haven't recovered in terms of shows and fortune. When they do play concerts, it's outside the U.S., with their next tour in Canada. 

Does this say how crazy people have become, wanting war and more war, killing brown-skinned people, and supporting the likes of Bush and that evil Dick Cheney? Enough has been written about their wars so I'll leave that subject for others to write about.

For now, I'll just say how much I appreciate the courage it took for the Dixie Chicks to say what some of us in America didn't say 10 years ago. They had the fame to get the attention and they courageously took it. Thanks, girls. You're my heroes. 

I Know, You Know ... Psych Is Back

One of the best shows left on television was on for six years before I discovered it on Netflix. Psych is a fabulous, funny, crazy, quirky comedy/mystery series shown on USA cable network and set in Santa Barbara CA. (Like so many shows these days, however, it's filmed in Vancouver BC.) 

Before I discovered Psych -- all 6 seasons are on Netflix instant watch -- I hadn't heard of either lead actor, James Roday or Dule Hill, who play best friends since childhood, Shawn and Gus, respectively. There hasn't been a duo that puts forth more energy and just plain good acting in decades. And the scripts, fast-paced and always dealing with unusual mysteries and murders, keep us guessing right to the end. In between the lines, there's a lot of obscurity.

Shawn is a psychic detective (sort of) for the Santa Barbara Police Department, and Gus, a pharmaceuticals salesman, is his partner, and sometimes straight man, in the escapades. They're constantly in trouble with the police department and the bad guys. Always on the lookout for free food, they eat at crime scenes, at the morgue, wherever they can find food, usually in the form of snacks -- Doritos, churros, pizza cheese fries, jerk chicken, chalupas, smoothies. Pineapple in various forms appears in each episode.

Shawn and Gus recite obscure quotes from 80s movies and compare people they meet to 80s actors. A romance develops between Shawn and Juliet, a policewoman on the SB force. The actors Roday and Maggie Lawson, who plays Juliet, are real-life romantic partners, which might add to the authenticity of the various scenes between the two of them although the romance part, thankfully, is kept to a minimum. 

I could write a lot more about this favorite show of mine, but it's one of those things that you have to see for yourself. No one can tell you about all the innuendos, subtle jokes and the obvious ad libs that combine with everything else to make the show such an all-around hit. You know that's right.

Season 7 starts on USA cable this Wednesday night, Feb. 27, but you've got to watch all 6 seasons on Netflix first. I don't know if this season will be as good as the rest, however, so far, season 6 is the best. Seeing how those guys operate, and the rest of the crew too, I have no doubt I'll play season 7 over and over on my DVR. Supposedly, they'll make a season 8 and that probably will be it because there's just so long two 30-something guys can act so childish and hilarious and not be resigned to maturity. 

I'm so happy I found Psych because the selection out there, on TV or Netflix, is pretty dismal. It will be a long time before another series comes along that entertains me as much as this one. By the way, my favorite episode is Last Night Gus, #2 of season 6, and the whackiest scene with Shawn and Gus is in episode #9 of season 1. It'll psych you out in the end.

Eat Your Vegetables ... And Then Some

It's interesting being a vegetarian. Some people think that means I eat chicken and turkey, but not beef or pork. They think I might eat red meat if it's organic. Others think I'm vegan, meaning I don't eat dairy or eggs. And still others believe I subsist on pasta and broccoli every day. 

Once my husband I went to a banquet where we had requested vegetarian. While others were eating big steaks with baked potatoes and asparagus, we were served steamed broccoli and a big chunk of Jello. I needn't tell you what happened to the Jello after being alongside the hot broccoli for a few minutes. We never knew whether we were being punished for being so bold as to ask for a non-meat dinner or the cook simply had a ridiculous idea of what vegetarians eat. You know the most interesting part of what we were served? Jello is made from the bones, skins and hides of cows and pigs. 

In a future post, I'll write more about my decision to become a vegetarian 11 years ago. But for now, I'm going to share my favorite dish to take to a luncheon or potluck, for vegetarians and meat eaters, as well. I adapted the recipe from Casa de los Ninos restaurant in Sacramento, one of my top 10 favorite restaurants.

This casserole, which I call a bake because the word casserole has taken on a bad reputation (I can't imagine why), is an easy dish to make and I guarantee there won't be any left at the end of the meal. There is one ingredient that you must be careful about -- the marinated artichoke hearts. Stay away from Cara Mia brand and other cheapies. Select any of the Italian brands (or even Reese) because they don't slip in those obnoxious, tough leaves that are impossible to chew. 

It's a foolproof recipe and one vegetarians will appreciate because it shows you put some thought and work into making something other than another pasta or rice combo. 

My Artichoke-Spinach Bake

3 jars (about 7 ounces each) marinated artichoke hearts, drained (be sure any leaves are soft)

2 packages (about 16 ounces each) frozen chopped spinach, thawed, then drained by squeezing out liquid

2 packages (8 ounces each) real cream cheese, softened (don't use whipped)

5 tablespoons butter, at room temperature

3/4 cup milk

1/2 cup shredded fresh Parmesan cheese

1/2 cup sliced almonds

Butter or Pam-spray a 9x13-inch baking pan (I use glass). Spread drained artichoke hearts on bottom of pan, then place drained spinach over artichoke hearts.

With electric mixer, beat cream cheese, butter and milk until creamy and smooth. Spread the mixture over spinach. Sprinkle Parmesan over cream cheese mixture, then top with sliced almonds. Cover and refrigerate overnight or up to 24 hours. 

Next day, remove the foil or plastic wrap covering the casserole. Bake it in a preheated 350-degree oven for 1 hour. Remove dish from oven and serve. Makes 12 good-sized servings.

Being A Good Widow

I can't seem to do it right. This widowhood stuff. 

No one teaches us these things. No one tells us we have only so long to get over life-changing grief. No one says we'll be judged and chastised if we don't get over our grief quickly, certainly within society's imposed timeframe.  We've got a set length of time and that's it. 

Losing one's husband isn't bad enough on its own, with the loneliness, the decisions to make all on your own, the never-before-tried ways to fill the long days. In addition to those life changers, there seems to be an unwritten rule that a widow has a very short window of opportunity to be miserable, to grieve. Then it's time to stand straight, smile and shut the fuck up. To do anything else looks like whining -- they say. 

Well, I say this. Kiss my widow's fat ass. 

I've read that the death of a spouse is the #1 worst thing to happen to a person in their lifetime. Divorce is #2. I went through that one too, but it can be a post for another time. What I want to say here is how people ask how I am and I'd better say fine and then talk about them or they'll respond with something about their friend who lost her husband 40 years ago and she's doing great or an aunt who took off traveling soon after the uncle died and she never looked back. Good for them. But I don't care.

Soon after my husband died, in an effort to handle what had happened, I found this site:

http://silverreflection.tripod.com/reflections/id10.html

Things Not To Say To A Widow is great, but guess who's reading it. The widows. Those who are talking to the widows, and saying everything they shouldn't, aren't reading the site. And why should they? After all, they know women who haven't had a tough time recovering and that's enough for them to think that all widows should be like those women. 

I missed my chances to say something similar many years ago, when female friends were complaining about bloating and puking when they were pregnant. I should have said I never had a moment of nausea during my pregnancy and the women I've known did just great -- and they should too. I wonder how they would have liked that.

These days, I never talk about how I'm feeling. I say I'm fine when asked how I am, and nothing more. I might not be a "good" widow, but I'm an educated one. No one wants to hear me say one single sentence about what it's like for me. It might make them uncomfortable. They might have to think about someone other than themselves. 

Perhaps I should be more accepting because no one talks about death at all. It's still in the shadows, lurking there like some giant blob, ready to slither under the door at some inopportune time. If we don't talk about it, it will go away. But death hits all of us at some time. We can't get away from it. How we react to it is an individual decision and best left up to the person grieving. Hell, I'm still grieving over pets that died when I was young. If you don't think that's healthy, I don't care. 

So, there you have it, my thoughts on being a widow and how I'm not a very good one because I don't follow the "rules". I'll try to smile more, laugh more, become more engaged in listening to what others are doing. Now, you know I won't do that. Even before my husband passed away, I was to the point of not much caring what others thought of me. Today, I'm all the way there. 

I never wanted to be a widow and I doubt I'll ever be a good one. 

Feeding the Beastie

Black princess cat Samantha, the sweetest and gentlest little feline, 14 years old, has been a puker for a long time. That and a cougher, seemingly choking up every other day or so. Late last year, after cleaning up after her maybe 4 times a day, I decided something had to change. 

I was giving her 2 or 3 hairball treats daily, but it appeared she was needing to get rid of hair more and more frequently. She's a shorthair, but she was licking herself frequently and ingesting a lot of hair. I think perhaps her guts were bothering her and she was licking a lot to relieve the stress in that area. Just a guess, but it's probably a better guess than that of a vet.

I looked for remedies online. After reading numerous posts, I put together my exclusive, magic formula: 

I feed her small amounts of canned food, usually a rounded teaspoonful, 6 or 7 times a day, making sure that I use a clean dish each time. Cats are finicky and as they age, they get even finickier. A clean dish is a must. You don't want to mix foods either. They get confused by that.

Also each time, I drizzle olive oil over the food, perhaps 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon. I also discovered that extra virgin olive oil has too strong a taste for cats. The olive oil that says for sauteing and grilling is perfect. Pour it into an oil dispenser for ease of drizzling the olive oil onto the food. 

As for the food she eats, she's become a real fan of the type with gravy. In fact, she refuses to eat most other kinds, exception being Fancy Feast Turkey & Giblets, and Fancy Feast Aristocats Chicken. Sometimes she just eats the gravy and leaves the meat, which must be really foul. I believe the kind of meat put into pet food is disgusting and comes from who knows where on the animals. Even though I'm a vegetarian, I do feed her meats because cats can't survive in good health eating only grains and greens. 

I put a small amount of dry food in a bowl for her to have as she likes, although she no longer eats much of it because of all the canned food servings. I give her only the Blue brand for Indoor Cats, available at pet stores. That brand has meat as its first ingredient(s) where most dry cat foods have rice and other non-meat items as the first few ingredients. Cats aren't made for that.

In addition to the olive oil trick, I give Samantha the hairball treats each time I feed her, 2 treats one time, 1 the next, and so forth. The brand is Temptations and the foil packet says Hairball Control on it. These are carried alongside the canned cat food in any supermarkets. Along with the hairball treats, each time I also add 1 Whiskas dental treat (chicken flavor in foil packet), which is crunchy and she really likes it. It does nothing for her teeth, but it adds to her enjoyment.

Once a week, or sometimes every two weeks, I brush her with a soft brush, the type that's available at pet stores. Even though she's a shorthair, she does need to be brushed, but not daily. I've read where daily brushing a shorthair cat can cause them to stop grooming themselves. 

Fresh water is a must too. I keep a bowl of fresh water by her food dishes. And, crazy person that I am, I also keep a large mug of fresh water on the table behind my chair in the living room. She seems to drink most from that and I know she's getting enough water that way. Cats are notorious for not drinking enough. They don't get thirsty like dogs do.

Stopping her puking and coughing took some time, trying various remedies. It's not 100% effective because she has vomited once in the past 6 weeks. But I consider that a major success. Although every little cat is different, I believe this formula will work for any of them. The important thing is to watch and learn. They're telling us what they need, if only we'll pay attention.

Gastronomy and Literature: The Perfect Mix

My favorite books are those that include food in some form, preferably in full descriptions of the way it was prepared and how it was presented.

So much of social interactions these days involves food. I'm talking about when people actually get together and talk, not fake communication like Facebook and other so-called 'social media'. Before long, if today's trend continues, no one will talk face to face (forget Skype-type chat), instead relying on impersonal contacts, if that.

Unlike so many people I know, I still read books. Real books, not e-book readers. Poetry is my latest passion. Recently I thought about all the wonderful food written about in the many books I've read. Here are my five favorite references to food:

1. 'Strawberries, and only strawberries...the best fruit in England', in Jane Austen's Emma.

2. The meal at the college Oxbridge, with its sole, partridges and pudding, in Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own.

3. Cliche, perhaps, but the gorgeous little formed cookies -- madeleines -- from Marcel Proust's Remembrance of Things Past.

4. The 'crusty bread rolls filled with chunks of brie and minced garlic drizzled with olive oil and baked until the brie was bubbly', in Supper, a poem in Garrison Keillor's 77 Love Sonnets.

5. The freshest tomatoes, basil and garlic for pasta, and the wild mushrooms and truffles, in Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence.

For those of you salivating over those food references, and perhaps wanting more, here is the rest of the meal in Keillor's sonnet. It's enough to make you dash to your nearest farmers market and grocery: 'salmon with dill and lemon and whole-wheat couscous baked with garlic and fresh ginger, and a hill of green beans and carrots roasted with honey and tofu.'

A Woman With No Name

I lost my name at age 18. That's when I married the first time and took my new husband's last name for my own. From then on, the name I had through childhood disappeared forever. Few of my friends these days even know what it was.

When I divorced, then remarried, I took my second husband's name for my own because I saw no reason to keep the last name of my former husband. So, once again, I became a woman without a name, at least a name that was my own.

Each name change there were papers to update, everything from driver's license to Social Security to legal records, such as mortgages, bank accounts and insurance policies. I was someone else yet again, which further diluted my real being.

It's not bad enough that I have no name, I can't even call my childhood surname my maiden name. I brought that up one time and feminists jumped all over me, saying that was not my maiden name but rather my family name. But it wasn't my family name. My maiden name was my father's surname, and my father deserted me when I was younger than four years old. Why would I want to use his name anyway? He wasn't my family.

The last name I really would like to use is that of my grandfather -- a solid German name carried by great-grandparents, uncles, male cousins, but not me. Besides, if I were to use it now it would look stupid. Sometimes I tell people my middle name is my last name. But that makes no sense either because it's obviously a middle name.

Our name is our identity. Everyone calls us by our names. Without them, we'd all be called Hey-You. When our names are taken away, we become nobodies.

Even though I was a byline reporter for a major California newspaper, I never thought that title represented me. It always was as if someone else had written the stories and had their name between the headline and the first word. I didn't exist. That byline wasn't my name. But it was. And it wasn't because I didn't and don't have a name any longer.

If you men out there think this is nothing, take away your last name and give yourself another one. Then you'll see how you identify with that name you've had since the day you were born. I don't have the name I had from day one.

Not long ago, my husband acquired a coat of arms and story about how and where his surname originated. He proudly displayed the framed print on our bedroom wall. Wasn't that special? For him, yes. For me, it meant nothing. It wasn't my name. It isn't my name. I don't have a name.

Anyone reading this may think I'm an embittered woman, sick and tired of men taking away our names. Not at all. I blame the women for allowing their names to be sucked into oblivion. Why would they do it? Why did I do it? Wanting to get along, I think. Don't mention it, don't stand up and keep your name (if that's the name you want to keep) because the romance may end or become contentious.

Besides, when I married the first time, only a few beatniks were keeping their names. When I married the second time, those were the days when women kept their maiden names and hyphenated them along with their newly married names. Beyond silly. No one knew what their names were. And if they had kids, I can't imagine the confusion.

It's too late for me to do much about my name. Everyone knows me by it now and I'll keep it. At the end, I hope someone will put just my first and middle names on the brass plaque along with my beginning and ending dates. Anything else will not be me.

The Poverty of the Wealth of Nations

Is capitalism in decline?

At the very least, it seems in need of first aid. Adam Smith, in The Wealth of Nations (1776), himself noted that capitalists are the biggest threat to capitalism. They don't like to compete, and so try to create monopolies and cartels to avoid competition. If they succeed on a large enough scale, capitalism (which is predicated on consumers and choice) ceases to exist. Thus, according to the father of capitalism, capitalists must be regulated.

Remember that capitalism requires consumers and choice, as well as bona fides between participants in a contract. In our society, most of the consumers are (or were) employees. The great capitalist Henry Ford recognized this when he opted to pay his workers an order of magnitude more than the going wages at the time. The businessmen at the time thought he was crazy. His reply was that if his employees couldn't afford his cars, he couldn't sell as many. Ford recognized the connection between his employees and the consumer pool that bought his products.

The problem we have is that most capitalists today no longer seem to see that connection between both the number and the pay scales of their employees and the demand for their own products. The consumer pool consists of all the employees, so it's easy to "cheat." If any individual company gets rid of employees or reduces their wages, the overall pool isn't hurt much. But if every company starts to do this, the economy goes into a negative spiral. Layoffs and salary reductions lead to fewer customers, which leads in turn to more layoffs and salary reductions.

If, during an economic downturn, businesses would reduce their expectations for profit and hence keep their employees on the payroll, the economy would stand a better chance of not falling as deeply, or at least bouncing back more quickly. Game theorists call this type of arrangement the Prisoner's Dilemma. If everyone plays nicely, everyone does better than he would be if he were playing alone. But by cheating, you can get the best of both worlds, as long as you are the only one cheating. Hunter-gatherer societies have strict penalties for those who are caught "cheating." It's clear that in our large, modern societies, we have not yet developed the processes to create and impose sanctions on those who cheat at Prisoner's Dilemma games. As people (investment bankers, hedge fund managers, union leaders, politicians, consumers who borrow more than they can pay back) see others cheating without severe penalties, they start to cheat too -- until the system falls apart.

Carter Family Redux on 3rd Generation CD

Growing up on farms in Illinois, Wisconsin and Missouri, I listened to the music of the house, namely my grandparents' houses on the various farms. That music was old-time country, specifically the Carter Family, Jimmie Rodgers, Roy Acuff, and others who often appeared at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville.

While some kids grew up listening to classical, swing and other favorites of the late 1940s and early- to mid-1950s, I took in and learned to love Appalachian folk combined with bluegrass and hill songs, Carter Family country.

A.P. Carter was the songcatcher, roaming the hills of Virginia to find songs that he then adapted to fit what he, his wife Sara, and sister-in-law Maybelle could play and sing, which became the Carter sound. Sara played guitar, Maybelle an autoharp and guitar.

Anyway, the original Carters are long gone as are most of their kids. Now we have the Carter Family III, third generation cousins John Carter Cash (son of June and Johnny Cash) and Dale Jett (son of A.P. and Sara's daughter Janette). Carter Family III has come out with a great album (includes John's wife, Laura Cash), called Past & Present.

I love the CD, which is filled with good, old-fashioned music that would make the Carters proud. I'm a nonbeliever, but I absolutely love their country gospel songs that make up about a quarter of the album. It's available from Amazon for less than $14. Unlike a lot of CDs, there's not a bad song on it.