Lookin' tough, Johnny!

My representative went to Iraq and all I got was this photo of him with his opponent's active-duty son.



This amuses me greatly. My congressional misrepresentative, John Carter, recently went to Iraq for a photo-op. And what an opportunity it was -- for his opponent, Mary Beth Harrell.

Carter's bio lists no military service, although he's the same age as my Vietnam-veteran dad. Perhaps Carter had other priorities. But the hat and the vest make him look quite the bad-ass, no?

A healthy dose of reality

Those of you whose eyes don't glaze to a hard shellac when I write about my health insurance will be delighted to know that InsCo finally coughed up payment for Rocketboy's trip to the emergency-care place last September.

What's my secret? How did I get them to do their jobs? I didn't. The clinic did, and it was a stroke of luck for me. Their billing goddess told me they'd had so many patients with InsCo coverage that they finally decided to get into InsCo's provider network. Once in, they resubmitted all the paperwork per instructions and bingo. Suddenly InsCo understood the claim I'd submitted all those months ago and made it work. I can't claim credit for a bit of it, except in the financial sense.

In other good insurance news, Editor Mom has finally found coverage for her family after being priced out of their old plan. But it's a happy ending with a twist.

While I'm on healthcare, Aspazia gets a patient's-eye view of healthcare for the poor in this write-up of her decision to use a Planned Parenthood clinic instead of her regular GYN. It's an excellent piece of writing drawing together health, class, feminism, money and education.

After all that, you may find yourself wondering with Norbiz just why better healthcare coverage is such a nonstarter:

(1) People seem to be hella-concerned about the doubling of gas prices over the last several years. If the average person consumes about 500 gallons of gas in a year, this would cost the consumer $750. Nothing to sneeze at, but some alternatives exist to driving your goddamned car a half-block to pick up a lotto ticket.

(2) However, people seem to accept as divine edict by the Germanic god Hayek that the loss of their family's health insurance should be seen as an immutable, imponderable by-product of our paper-shuffing economy. I don't think I need to tell anyone how much $750 gets you in your average hospital. Two bowls of gelatin, if I'm not mistaken.

You stay healthy, America!

Our number-one fan

The solar attic fan is up and running. I didn't believe it right away. At our last house, we had an electric attic fan that, due to a hailstorm, made a hellacious noise whenever it ran. But with the solar fan installed, I heard nothing. After a couple of days, the nagging suspicion was eating at me. I decided to have a look.

The attic fan's silent (and eco-friendly) reproach

It was silently whirling its little heart out! I was ashamed to have doubted it. Even with the attic door open I couldn't hear any mechanical noise.

What kind of job is it doing reducing our bills? Can't say; haven't got this month's statement yet. The real difference will be on 100-degree, windless days in August when the turbine vents aren't turning.

And now, because even a thing as lovely as a quiet attic fan is not so aesthetically pleasing, I offer my neighbor's cat lounging in my birdbath.

A bright spot and a clue

TGW has an item on states passing pro-impeachment proposals. And for those of you worried that a Bush impeachment would yield President Cheney, bear in mind that California's proposal names Cheney, too.

Does it mean anything that Illinois, California and Pennsylvania are working on this? It could.

As Egalia said, I hope the Dems are noticing these things. I have to wonder, because the DNC still hasn't hopped the clue train regarding my decision to stop sending them money. Over the weekend I received yet another call from the DNC, breathlessly telling me how important the mid-term elections are and they need my help and would I be willing to send them $500 posthaste?

No. Again, no. I explained that I am now contributing only to individual candidates or through groups like ActBlue. This unleashed a torrent of praise from the caller, which quickly dried up when I explained that I was disgusted by the way the Alito confirmation was handled. I mentioned certain DNC failings like lack of leadership, goals and party discipline. Breathless caller stayed resolutely on message and obtusely beside the point.

"But we need to elect more Democrats in order to start winning," he whined.

I quickly brought the chat to a close. It's a longstanding policy of mine not to argue with people who are asking for my money, but I did point out that the Democrats already in Washington are not, by and large, distinguishing themselves. Which is why I am relieved and proud to see Dems in some of the statehouses doing right.

Workin' on a link farm

What better way to kick off a springtime Monday than by setting infopollen upon the wind?

Chicken Spaghetti reviews kids' books and tells us, among other things, about the impending opening of the Eudora Welty House and Museum.

Jeremy Adam Smith writes Daddy Dialectic: The Political Journal of a Dad-at-Home. His essay Inside vs. Outside, about the emotional experience of parenting as opposed to what others see, is really something.

Jen at Speaking Up, Speaking Out issues a call for stories from domestic-violence victims. Her aim is global and inclusive, and her deadline for submissions is May 1. She has also put together a comprehensive list of international resources for those seeking help.

Natalie Bennett at Philobiblon looks at blogger power. Counterbalancing that democratic influence, check this piece at TPM Cafe. A reader sent it along; apparently our fine representatives in Congress are about to allow the privatization of the Internet.

Blog on, and have the best Monday you can.

Welcome, news.com readers

The Fib mentioned in the article is here.

Hot enough for ya?

Flame821 at Blondesense is taking an informal gas-price poll. And the inexorable rise in gas prices is just part of the fun! Here in the great state of Texas, rolling blackouts this week were a nice counterpoint to the freakishly hot weather.

The juice that does arrive costs more, too. One of my relatives paid several hundred dollars each month to heat her old South Texas home over the winter; at Easter her a/c was off and the windows were open. The temperature outside was more than 90 degrees F. My own parents, who have lived for years in an icebox of their own making, have gradually trained themselves to be as comfortable indoors at 80 degrees as they were last year at 74.

And me? I'm biding my time until the solar inspector arrives. Once we get the okay, the PV system comes online. Looks like it will be next week. It's like waiting for nerd Christmas.

Goodbye, turkey! My attorney will be in touch*

This is day three of RedMo's newly decaf existence. Everything seems tiny, colorless and slightly painful, which is how things must seem at the White House, too. Karl Rove is scaling back, Scotty McClellan has resigned his post as Head Stonewaller, and Carl Bernstein is calling for a thorough investigation of the entire Bush presidency. (A flip of the wig to BlondeSense and TGW.)

Perhaps there are facts or mitigating circumstances, given the extraordinary nature of conceiving and fighting a war on terror, that justify some of the more questionable policies and conduct of this presidency, even those that turned a natural disaster in New Orleans into a catastrophe of incompetence and neglect. But the truth is we have no trustworthy official record of what has occurred in almost any aspect of this administration, how decisions were reached, and even what the actual policies promulgated and approved by the president are. Nor will we, until the subpoena powers of the Congress are used (as in Watergate) to find out the facts—not just about the war in Iraq, almost every aspect of it, beginning with the road to war, but other essential elements of Bush's presidency, particularly the routine disregard for truthfulness in the dissemination of information to the American people and Congress.

The results of such an investigation would be something for Bush's presidential library, don't you think?

*Bonus points if you know the song featuring the lyric in the title.

I must be doing something right

Hush, Grandpa. We have enough hammer incidents around here already.

Overheard in my kitchen this afternoon:

Grandpa: "Do you ever watch the Three Stooges?"

Rocketboy: "What's a Three Stooge?"

But they have so many letters in common!

In an age of unbalanced media and catapulted propaganda, just how can you tell a democratic society from a despotic one? King of Zembla has unearthed the old-school answer, 1946 vintage. Yes, it's ten minutes long. Watch it anyway. This may be Rocketboy's civics lesson tomorrow.

Nautie Easter

I was relieved to see Rocketboy being a kid yesterday. He had been taking Easter preparations into his own hands. Last month when I bought two dozen plastic eggs, he set up a kitchen-table assembly line, pressed his brother into service as egg-opener, and stuffed exactly one pez candy into each egg save one. He graciously let Hurricanehead stuff the last one, which yesterday was found to contain two stale pieces of Pirate Booty. Once finished, he stuffed the bagged eggs in the pantry, declared us ready for Easter, and asked me to make him a rabbit costume.

"Traditionally," I said, "it's the parents who pretend to be the Easter Bunny."

"I just want to make sure things go right," he said. Nothing like being idealized by one's child.

Hombre and I managed to hide the eggs (filled out with a little chocolate) without any special help, thank you very much. And I started work on a baby toy for a friend who teaches high-school science: a stuffed, knitted nautiloid. I'm about halfway through the coiled shell, and I'm already thinking that if one were to turn a couple of those coils upside down on a hat, a rockin' Bighorn sheep look would result.

Light reading

Update 4/15: Welcome NYT visitors! The Fib you seek is here.

For those of you not caught up in Passover or Good Friday activities, a little sweetness and light at the end of the workweek:

Roxanne goes CF at home in the name of national security; this is a subject dear to my heart. Via her comments thread, I found Daily Pie, a blog by a likeminded writer and fellow Texan who provides charts on her energy-conservation efforts.

BBC Science reports on a new kind of lighting technology, the organic light-emitting diode:

The organic light-emitting diode (OLED) emits a brilliant white light when attached to an electricity supply.

The material, described in the journal Nature, can be printed in wafer thin sheets that could transform walls, ceilings or even furniture into lights.

What would you turn into a light fixture if you could? I think magazine and book pages that light up would be pretty handy. Knitting needles and yarn, too. If there were a way to combine OLED with polygraph technology so that politicians, spokespeople and lobbyists light up when lying, that would be useful, although it might create some light-pollution problems.

"If it bends, it's funny. If it breaks, it's not funny." *

*Or its humor cannot be acknowledged in front of the children.


Rocketboy began a creative-drama class today. He was a little put off by some of the warm-up exercises. By the end of class, though, he was hitting his mark and remaining quiet on the set (!) while off-camera. I'm declaring our home a working soundstage.

He also recently learned the comedic principle referenced above. There's a street we know of named Effingham. We had never mentioned it, but earlier this week as we were running errands he popped out with a homemade joke:

"Mom, what's a kind of sandwich meat that cusses?"
"I don't know," I said, white-knuckling the wheel. "What?"
"Effingham!"

Not bad, eh? That night at dinner Rocketboy regaled his father with his new joke to great effect. And then, high on audience response, he bent the concept a little too far.

"And you know what's another meat that cusses?"
My dread filled the beat before his gleeful, guileless answer.
"Fucking turkey!"


Curtain.

Sir, that "big stick" you're carrying is a cocktail umbrella

All is right with my world today. The weather is cool, the dogs are mellow, and the boys have spent all day building a tree house at the far end of the yard. I got to get out and knit last night and was initiated by my hostess into the stabby mysteries of needle felting. I went online and saw kactus's link to the sweetest fisking ever of an anti-immigration racist fool.

But apparently the world at large is skidding toward a crackup. I refer, of course, to Iran's new nuclear-capability claims and BushCo's saber-rattling response.

I can't help but think that if Bush were a reader of Marilyn's blog, he would know better than to stay his inept course. Many months ago, she outlined "the difference between a mistake and a fuck-up," complete with pictures. (Scroll down to Dec. 7.) She was referring to winding yarn, but whether it's fiber or foreign policy the same principle applies: "I had better options and I didn't take them. Now I pay." The only real difference is that Marilyn had to untangle her own silk. Bush leaves his messes for everyone else to straighten out.

And shouldn't Bush have fired himself by now for leaking the Plame info? What would that internal monologue sound like?

Fib and fibber

Hombre recently turned me on to the Fib. No, we haven't started supporting Bush. It's a poetry form based on the Fibonacci sequence and Gregory K.'s quest to move beyond standard haiku:

Why just haiku? I wanted something that required more precision. That led me to a six line, 20 syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8 – the classic Fibonacci sequence.

The Fib has really caught on. Since I'm experiencing a dip in my outrage production, and we're still waiting on solar parts, I thought this might be an interesting challenge.

George
Bush,
Preznit.
Don't you wish
candidates had to
undergo mental health screening?

Seriously. Police departments screen their applicants. Job seekers everywhere are familiar with the joys of the pre-hire drug test. I say tax returns and the president's annual physical are not enough, based on the bounty of evidence now before us. Just throwing it out there this morning to see what you think. Bonus points for new Fibs in the comments!

Punt, pass and kick

Remember those stupid football competitions in PE when you were a kid? Maybe it was just a Texas thing, but it's one of the few common bonds in my and Hombre's Texas p.s. experiences. He went on to be a linebacker, and I went on to be a smartass who made fun of football players. The system worked.

I'm punting this morning. I fault the time change for Hurricanehead's 4:30 wake-up time and I firmly believe that future generations, should there be any, will think of us as pitiable barbarians for tweaking our clocks instead of just getting up earlier. Kind of the way we think of those folks of yore who got all spaced out on moldy grain and hanged pigs for "talking"

So here's a primitive smattering of info for you.

Did you know that vasectomies are not maintenance-free? Your man--or you, if you are the man--is supposed to have a yearly spunk check to make sure no little swimmers have jumped the canyon. It happens. On Rocketboy's last birthday one of Hombre's relatives got his second vasectomy in about a year. [Insert your 'unhappy returns' snark here!] There's no surprise baby on the way, but that's only because the fellow in question did what he was supposed to and got checked.

Twisty shares a great comic strip: Cat and Girl.

And if you're writing one morning while your freakishly wakeful toddler tries to whap his feet on your keyboard and you suddenly hear what sounds like someone using a nail gun on the siding outside your second-story window, don't panic. It's probably just a downy woodpecker disoriented by the time change.

Ask Sol

We're grounded.


There've been quite a few questions about our solar PV system. Now the Norse sun goddess will answer your queries.

You may be asking, What's that spiral thingy in a pit? It's a copper wire in a hole by the side of my house, attached to the meters. I found it when we got back from camping Sunday. I assume it's the PV-system ground wire and not some paleopagan artifact the installers unearthed for fun. The hole is three feet deep in an area where the topsoil is about three inches thick so I'm guessing no fun was involved at all.

Ziz asks, How much did it cost and how much does it generate at peak flow? Ours is a 3.2 kW system, meaning that's its peak output. The sticker price was about $22,000, minus a whopping rebate from Austin Energy of nearly $12,000, which the utility pays directly to our contractor. We got a loan at a decent rate for the balance through the utility's deal with a credit union, and of the remaining $10,000 we'll get to knock off $2000 on our 2006 federal income tax because of the solar tax credit (which is good only for 2006-07).

A woman at Rocketboy's gym asked me, Can PV panels can be installed on a metal roof? Yes, they can. My estimator said that's the preferred method, as they can just clamp things to the seams on the roof. Also, a metal roof will outlast a shingle roof by many years, allowing you to avoid the hassle and expense of having your solar contractor remove and re-install your system when the roof needs reshingling.

I myself asked, Should we get a battery for the system? For us, the answer was no. We're tied into the grid (and we have net metering so any overproduction gets sold to the utility) and a battery costs around $4000. If we were off-grid, sure, but in our situation a battery would never pay for itself.

And everyone wants to know, Is it working yet? Not yet. As with any home improvement project, there are delays for parts and inspections. Right now we're waiting on two surge protectors for the PV system and a special flashing for the solar attic fan. After that stuff's installed, we have to get the thumbs-up from the city before the switch is flipped. When that day arrives, some time in the next week or two, you can bet I will tell you about it.

I suppose you're all wondering why I've gathered you here

Easter Beagle hunts for snacks among the porch chairs. Custom distressed finish on porch chair by Dogzilla.


Strictly speaking, I didn't. It was RedStateBlues at Blondesense, Amanda, Sybermoms, and A Small Corner of Nowhere (who graciously grants me honorary farmschooler status as I toil on my suburban half-acre). But however you got here, I'm glad you did because you are another person with whom I can share these savory links.

The 12th Carnival of Feminists (FemCarn12, I like to say in my sportscaster voice) is carrying on at Written World even as you read this.

The Third Radical Women of Color Carnival (not going to try to shorten that one to something more sports-segmenty) is up at blac(k)ademic.

And congratulations to the 2005 Koufax Award winners.

If all this good writing doesn't get you in a festive mood, consider traveling to Cassiopeia, a constellation of "hot, young stars" and a 288-million-mile-long stream of alcohol.

And finally, I refer you to Katie Allison Granju's account of Flat Stanley's incredible Afghanistan adventure.

Victory was mine. Then I ate it

Your leftovers should look so good.

The victory garden is in full swing. Tonight's salad was all site-grown: two kinds of lettuce, broccoli florets, rose petals and lemon basil leaves and buds. Tasty. I was inspired by Rosalind Creasy's Edible Flower Garden, which I happened across at Half Price Books recently. I'm growing nasturtiums and pansies from seed for the salad bowl. The nasturtiums have already put out their goofy looking little round leaves. I also planted some quinoa and marigold seeds, but they have yet to emerge.

It's not only the hominids who are reaping the savory harvest. Easter Beagle likes to while away her hutch time snacking on rose petals and dandelion flowers, the gathering of which makes a great get-out-of-my-hair activity for children. And while Dogzilla has a refined, meat-oriented palate, Perrito surprised me today by repeatedly sitting on command for a treat of dandelion blossoms. See you in hell, Beggin' Strips!

The cure for childhood insomnia -- now illustrated

The tent in which I did not sleep

Take your light sleepers to Mother Neff State Park. There, join six seven other families for a total of fourteen seventeen children and four dogs. Release all into wild. Remain calm while subjects spend hours building a 'dream house' out of an uprooted tree, rotten logs and mounds of dead grass in the snake-habitat-lookingest creekbed you've ever seen.














"Dream house" under construction

Just past the heat of the day, take your little wakersons on a hike to climb an old stone cistern and play in a wash pond. Upon your return to base camp, any especially hot or cranky children and Newfoundlands may be escorted to the 1930's-vintage CCC-built pavilion (a.k.a."The Freaks' Ballroom" per our ringleader). There, resting on Adirondack benches under hammered iron light fixtures and enormous Gothic beams, marvel at how perfectly the building is sited to capture the prevailing breeze.

When the children look like they're winding down for the night, light a campfire, break out the glow sticks and let them rave until well after dark.

Repeat for a second day before taking children home.

Hurricanehead slept on the ride back and just slept for 14 hours straight. Rocketboy has voluntarily gone to bed three nights in a row, which is a presonal record. I think we'll start living in a tent in the backyard.