WHAT? WEDNESDAY: THE NEIGHBOR'S CRAP

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I was shocked to see my neighbors cleaning out their garage on Sunday. No, not Hot Young Anthony and Sweet Young Allison. The creepy people who talk very loudly out in their driveway at 3 a.m. even though their driveway is right outside my bedroom. They also have a large weed growing out of their roof right above the front door. I don't know why, but that weed makes me want to hurt someone.

I hate it when the woman comes out to chat with me when I'm working in my yard and she blows her fricking cigarette smoke in my direction and even though I'm outdoors the smoke still gets caught in my throat and I gag.

her

me

They carried stuff from their garage to the curb for hours. I've never seen so much crap in my life. People stopped to root through the stuff to see if they could find anything good. I don't think they did because almost all of it was still there when Willy Dunne Wooters went home that night.

I'm amazed the garbage men picked up that much stuff.

So here's today's WHAT? WEDNESDAY question: Will you look through someone's castoff stuff to see if there's anything you can use?

I do not mean dumpster diving. I do not mean shopping at a yard sale. I mean stuff sitting at the curb, waiting for the garbage men. I swear, people in vans and trucks were coming by to look at the treasure trove of garbage.

I will not go through someone's castoff stuff. I don't even want to look at my own castoff stuff. 

I suggested to Willy Dunne Wooters (I was joking) that we should sneak over after dark and look at some of the neighbor's junk, but I was afraid that if we opened a box a rat would jump out. (I just realized that "neighbor's junk" is a double entendre. God, I crack myself up sometimes, but not now.)

As always, I look forward to your answers.

Infinities of love, but not to those people with the weed growing out of their roof unless it turns out to be smokeable and I do not mean a regular cigarette,

Janie Junebug

GRATITUDE TUESDAY: SAM, I LOVE YOU

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Some of you may recall that I mention Sam occasionally. She is an important person in my life because I'm extremely fond of her and because she cares for my golden tresses.

The Hurricane took this photo of me gazing in the window of City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco:

Golden tresses courtesy of Sam.

Here's a photo of Sam with her little family:

Baby courtesy of Sam.
(photo stolen from Sam's Facebook page)


You may have noticed that Sam has some tats. A lot of people do, including Favorite Young Man. Initially, I disapproved of Favorite Young Man's tattoos, but I got over it because A. It's none of my fricking business, and B. It's none of my fricking business.

I do not have tattoos, but I have learned to develop what I hope is a pleasant curiosity about the meanings behind other people's tats. Recently, though, Sam had an experience with someone whose curiosity about her tattoos was not so pleasant, but telling you about it gives me an opportunity to be even more grateful for my Samsam than I usually am.

Here's the story, Morning Glory:

Sam went in a restaurant for breakfast. An elderly couple looked at her, and the woman said, That's disgusting. Who would do that to themselves?

Now, you should know that Sam is quite fond of older people. She helps her granny a lot. I've never seen Sam behave in a rude or unpleasant manner, even though Sam and I are on opposite ends of the political spectrum.

As Sam ate her breakfast, the woman stared at her, and not in a friendly way. Maybe she thought that if she looked hard enough that she would develop laser vision to make Sam's tattoos disappear.

So what did Sam do about it?

She paid for the couple's breakfast.

God bless your sweet little heart, Sam. What a beautiful way to deal with those people.

Also stolen from Sam's Facebook page.


If you happen to need to get your hair done in Orange Park, Florida, then let me know. I'll tell you how to get in touch with Sam because she's the best in every way. I am so grateful for you, Sam.

Infinities of Sam love,

Janie Junebug

D IS FOR DISHWASHER

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I'm sorry I didn't start the A - Z Challenge on time. I know I missed A, B, and C, but I'll try to make it up to you with some extra good posts.

What? Franklin says the A - Z Challenge was during April. I missed the whole thing.

Oh, well, when last we spoke my dishwasher was broken, so we might as well go ahead with D IS FOR DISHWASHER.

I followed all the instructions and I couldn't fix my dishwasher. I called my buddy Carol and said, Hey, do you wanna go look at dishwashers with me? She said, Sure.

Carol is easy, and I do not mean that in a naughty way.

I had my heart set on a Maytag dishwasher because when I lived in Western Maryland I had a Maytag dishwasher. We were there for 12 years and that dishwasher was still going strong when we left.

I don't know how old the Frigidaire in my Florida house was, but I don't think it was even approaching middle age because the previous owners remodeled the kitchen and put in all new appliances. Please allow me to say right now that I am not impressed by Frigidaires. The dishwasher hadn't been getting the dishes totally clean for quite some time. Grungy gunk would be in the bottoms of the cups and bowls were cruddy. Then the Frigidaire quit draining. I went through the whole try-to-fix it thing to no avail. The pump had gone kerplunk. I felt that was beyond my Ms. Fix-It Skills.

So Carol and I meandered into Lowe's (we meander a lot; we're not in a rush) and perused the dishwashers. I found someone who worked there and said, I want a Maytag dishwasher.

He said, We only have one.

Shocking. Absolutely shocking.

I looked at the Maytag and didn't particularly like it.

I wandered around and found the Bosch dishwashers. I'd heard of those. Consumer Reports say they're stupendous. The price is stupendous, too, as in $800 - $1,000. But then I came across a Bosch that was on sale. It was less expensive than a lot of dishwashers that didn't look so great.

I asked Carol, Do you think I should get it?

It's a good price, Carol said. It's a good dishwasher, Carol said. Seems like a good idea to me, Carol said. (Carol and I don't dilly-dally a lot over decisions.)

I bought the Bosch. A plumber came to install it a few days later. Didn't take long.

When I looked inside the dishwasher in Lowe's, I asked, Why does it look so small inside? The guy said, It's the standard size dishwasher.

Yeah, on the outside that's true, but not on the inside. It's smaller because of all the insulation that makes a Bosch incredibly quiet. I learned that online.

However, I discovered that size isn't always important. The Bosch is configured in such a way that it holds more dishes than any other dishwasher I've ever had––even my beloved Maytag in Maryland.

Some of the pieces that separate sections can fold down so one can make an area larger to hold a particular dish. I like that.

Because the Bosch isn't an American dishwasher, I had to get used to some other stuff about it that's different. First, American dishwashers have little garbage disposals in the bottom. The Bosch has a filter, pictured below. A couple of times a week, one should check the filter for food particles or whatever might get caught in the bottom of a dishwasher. 

The filter is very easy to remove, and so far, I haven't found a single thing in it. It's probably because I let the dogs lick the plates before I put them in the dishwasher. The boys do such a good job that I often consider putting the plates back in the cabinet without wasting all that water and energy, but dog slobber leaves a bit of a sticky residue so I go ahead and use the dishwasher.

A second aspect of the Bosch that's different is that it doesn't have a drying cycle. I read lots of reviews of the Bosch online, and quite a few people complained that their dishes were waterlogged when they opened the Bosch. 

But I, being a savvy consumer, had already read the solutions to the complaints about too much water. I learned

1. Press the sanitize button. It doesn't work as well as a drying cycle, but getting the dishwasher good and hot inside helps dry the dishes.
2. Use a rinse aid. Bosch prefers Finish.
3. Pour in a little white vinegar before starting the dishwasher.
4. When the dishwasher is all done doing its thing, open the door and allow gentle breezes to waft in for a while. It's especially nice to run the dishwasher during the evening and leave the door open overnight. By morning, the dishes are just as dry as if they had been in an American dishwasher.

I like my Bosch. I run it about twice a week since I don't use a lot of dishes. It's just me and sometimes Willy Dunne Wooters, and we're not fussy about using a different plate for every little thing. Best of all, my dishes are really, really clean.

These last two photos are for some of you (okay, I think it was one person) who wanted to see more of the red on the walls in my kitchen.

Now, I have a very BIG announcement. I'm not promising you that this will definitely come true, but it's possible that Favorite Young Man will write a guest post this week. Is that cool, or what? I'll let you know as soon as I hear from him.

Favorite Young Man: Speak!

He's not as obedient as Franklin, but I love him anyway.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

SAD BADFINGER

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Please note that ellipsis are three spaced periods.

Recently, I finished watching all the episodes of Breaking Bad. I watched it again because of my love for it, and because I wanted to introduce Willy Dunne Wooters to it. He'd never seen it. Quite shocking, I know.

When Baby Blue by Badfinger played at the end of the final episode, WDW said, Oh, that's the perfect song. I felt the same way both times I watched the finale.



Watching the show together led us to research Badfinger. We were shocked at the tragic tale of this talented group. Their two main songwriters committed suicide (not at the same time). An unscrupulous manager cheated them out of most of the money they earned. The majority of the group died believing they were failures.

If you want more sad Badfinger, you can read about them HERE or HERE.

Now, I must ask you to think about something, and I don't care if you are in the middle of the A - Z Challenge. Do you remember the series I did on love and intimacy? Quite a few people wrote very interesting guest posts that presented their thoughts and feelings on a topic I don't understand.

You don't remember? It doesn't matter. I'm always starting over on something new and different because I write the story of my life.

Now, I want to do a series about bullying. It will start around the middle of May. I'll write the first post, and the series will conclude with an expert on the subject giving us tips on how to deal with bullies. In between, I need you.

I need you to tell your stories of being bullied, how your children have been bullied, how you dealt with bullies, how you bullied someone. Whatever you want to share.

You might as well volunteer to write guest posts because if you don't, then I'll knock on your door and you know it's difficult to turn me down. I want guest posts to start arriving by May 12th.

Here's another Badfinger song. Willy Dunne Wooters says that Day After Day has always been one of his favorites.




One more piece of Badfinger trivia: they wrote Without You. It wasn't a hit for Badfinger, but it made Harry Nilsson huge, and I read that Mariah Carey did well with it recently.

I can't download the video because of copyright issues, but once upon a teenagerhood, I loved Harry Nilsson's dramatic rendering of the song. Click on the link to hear it:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bQGRRolrg0

By the way, Harry Nilsson did not use backup singers. He would lay down a track and then harmonize with himself to lay down another track. Harry died relatively young, too, after a rather wild and difficult life. He spent too much time with John Lennon during John's timeout from Yoko Ono.

Yes, Yoko made John sit in a corner. He wasn't allowed to watch TV, nor could he play with his toys or smoke pot.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

MAY I HAVE A MOMENT OF YOUR TIME?

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Brandon Ax made me very happy yesterday when he announced on his blog that I am now his editor. He's a great guy and such a cute, young hottie (don't tell him that I drool over him, and keep your cake hole shut around Willy Dunne Wooters). I hope you'll stop by to see his adorable drawing at http://baxwriting.blogspot.com/2014/03/editor-wanted-editor-found.html. It portrays Brandon and his dragon presenting a manuscript to me, and, of course, the boys. How could I edit without Harper and Franklin? I admit it: They're the brains behind this operation.

A couple of sucky things have happened this week. My dishwasher is broken. I'm washing dishes by hand. Try not to faint. I realize it's shocking.

Why in the name of all that is good and holy is she smiling?
I certainly don't smile when I was dishes. *shudder*
Insipid woman.

I looked online for dishwasher repair instructions (the dishwasher won't drain) and made an effort to fix it myself. Yes! It is I, fixer-repairer person extraordinaire. A lot of people online said that some pieces in the bottom of the dishwasher might be clogged. That was not the problem.

To put the icing on the poop cake, I hurt my back by contorting my body in strange ways so I could reach inside the dishwasher. If I had to hurt my back, why couldn't I have been doing something fun, like playing Naked Twister with Willy Dunne Wooters?

But at least I tried to fix the dishwasher -- something I wouldn't have dared to attempt once upon a marriage. The effort felt good; I'm proud of myself.

I think the problem is the motor that pumps out the water, which is beyond my Ms. FixIt skills. I'll be on the hunt for a new dishwasher very soon. I was not born to wash dishes. I was born to love punctuation.

Something far more important than a broken dishwasher is on my mind, however.

It's Rita's birthday!

Please stop by SoulComfort's Corner to wish Rita a happy birthday. Rita is da bomb. 

Happy Birthday, RitaPitaPan! 


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

WE INTERRUPT THIS REGULARLY SCHEDULED POST FOR AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Okay, so it's not really such an important announcement, but I wanted to say that it is. Remember when TV shows used to be interrupted for unusual news events? I don't think that happens much anymore because now we have cable channels with nothing but news.

My news is that I'm taking a blog break. I have editing to do (that's good); I want to write (that's good); I want to read (that's good); and I want to kiss Willy Dunne Wooters (that's very good).

Since I don't participate in the A - Z challenge, April is an excellent time for a blog holiday.

In my world, April starts right now. I'll try to check in with you at least a few times, and you might even get some MOVIE WEEKEND posts out of me.

I'll see you early in May.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

DING DONG FRED PHELPS IS DEAD

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I've always been the kind of person who refuses to condemn someone to hell. I always say every so sweetly that we can't know what's in someone's heart, so we should never assume that someone has died and gone to hell. I'm breaking my rule today. I'm 99.99% sure that Fred Phelps has gone to hell.

I hope he found redemption and didn't go, but that would be quite a stretch.

On May 30, 2011, I wrote this post about the Phelps family and Westboro "Baptist Church". I think today is a good time for a re-run.

Here's MEMORIAL DAY: AFTER THE FALL:


Memorial Day, for most of us, is a day to honor our fallen heroes. But for a particular hate group in my home town of Topeka, Kansas, every day is a day to despise our fallen heroes.

Yes, you may have heard of them before: It's Fred Phelps and his family, who use their Westboro Baptist Church as a front for their campaign against the people they call fags. According to the Phelps, 9/11 was caused by the fags because God was showering his wrath on the people of the United States. And people who serve in America's military are fags, and I'm a fag, you're a fag, everyone except the Phelps family is a fag, fag.

(By the way, they call their church Baptist, but they are not recognized as such by any other Baptist churches.)

I'm not going to provide a link to any of the Phelps' Web sites. You can find their crap if you want. I write this to call attention to their activities in case you are not aware of them, and because my dad served in the military and died on Memorial Day. I know my parents detested the behavior of the Phelps.

The Phelps like to protest. They go out with their signs and call people fags and blame the fags for everything that's wrong. Worst of all, they protest at the funerals of our fallen soldiers. Because of them, President George W. Bush signed a law that prohibits protests within a certain distance of military cemeteries before, during, and after a funeral. But that doesn't stop them from protesting at other cemeteries and it doesn't stop them from protesting at other venues and it doesn't stop them from protesting at other times. They also protest at the funerals of gay people. They were there for Matthew Shepard's funeral, as if his family hadn't already suffered enough.

I've seen some news clips about various ways people deal with the Phelps. And don't think the Phelps are just a Topeka problem. They show up all over the place. In one town, the Phelps obtained permission to picket on a certain corner. So, many people in town showed up and parked their vehicles near the corner so the Phelps would have difficulty getting a place to park their bus, and then the townspeople took over the corner and left no room for the Phelps, who actually gave up and left. When they protest at a funeral, sometimes motorcyclists show up and form a ring around the family and rev their engines to drown out their noise.

Yes, the Phelps family is entitled to freedom of speech. But families should be entitled to bury their loved ones in peace.

I recall Fred Phelps mostly from his days as a lawyer, when I was growing up in Topeka. His antics were always in the news, and eventually he was disbarred for unethical conduct. Some of his 13 children have become lawyers and they now fund the protests with the money they earn from the family law firm, according to an article I read in the Topeka newspaper. Although Topekans hate what the Phelps do, one person admitted that if you want to win your case, you go to the Phelps. It's a shame Kansans don't boycott the firm in a shared commitment to dry up their money.

Recently I watched a documentary about the family called Fall From Grace: Westboro Baptist Church. It was  made by a young man named K. Ryan Jones, first as a short film for a film class he was taking at the University of Kansas in Lawrence, and then it became a full-fledged documentary. As Jones himself says in a DVD extra, he had to try very hard to be fair to the Phelps because "everybody hates them."

As I watched Fall From Grace, there I saw one of the boys, now in his fifties just as I am, but with the same face he had when we were in the seventh grade together. And I saw one of the girls, who was in the ninth grade. I sometimes saw the girl in the ninth grade laughing and talking with other kids, but the seventh grade boy seemed to stick pretty close to his brother, who was in the eighth grade. Those boys looked so sad, and I have never forgotten the miserable and embarrassed silence that fell over the school cafeteria the day those two boys came to school with their heads shaved. Guys did not shave their heads then, and we felt so sorry for them.

Other students who had known the Phelps for years explained to me that Fred Phelps had shaved his sons' heads to punish them, just as they were punished by having to run to Lawrence from Topeka and then back home again. They also had to sell candy for hours after school to support the church. One of them came to our door once, and my mother said NO immediately. She mentioned afterwards that she knew the money went to the church so she wouldn't buy anything from the Phelps.

What I didn't know was that the children and Mrs. Phelps were severely abused, according to two of the children who have left the family. One of them, Nate Phelps, writes a thoughtful and intelligent blog that I suggest you check out. Nate is interviewed by telephone during the documentary, and he recommends ignoring his family if you should encounter one of their protests. They are definitely attention whores, so cut them dead (figuratively of course). Don't engage them in an argument; don't give them what they want so desperately.

Why do they do what they do? Who knows why such evil lives in the hearts of humankind? Fred Phelps is a sick man and his sickness has infected most of his children. And now his grandchildren, right down to the youngest ones who are barely understandable when they speak, parrot what they hear from their parents and their grandfather, although it's obvious they don't know what they're saying. They are already brainwashed and if someone doesn't help them, it will only get worse.

I found it fascinating that in the documentary one of the Phelps daughters says, My father had 13 children. Hmmmm . . . did he become pregnant and give birth? Mrs. Phelps is never mentioned, I think because her husband's control over the family is so complete.

Thus, I recommend the documentary; I recommend Nate Phelps' blog; and I recommend ignoring the Phelps family if you should ever have the misfortune of seeing them in your town. They have fallen. Don't let them take you down with them.



Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug