Poetic Slice of Lime

It's been kind of a crazy week and I ran late on time to take some new shots for Slice of Lime. It's also the last day or April, which is National Poetry Month and I didn't quite do nearly what I wanted to do with that this month either. All that is my lovely excuse for reposting 3 old shots which I paired with poems. The first is an original I wrote in memory of a friend and posted 3 years ago. The second comes with my apologies to William Carlos Williams for what I've done to his Danse Russe, also from about 3 years ago. The third is Sara Teasdale straight up, which I first posted about 2 years ago. I hope you enjoy. Whether you read the works of another poet, mimic a poet's genius or whimsy, or create poetry all your own I hope some words sing to your spirit today and that you'll share them.

Butterfly Soul 2/06

Clouds obscure the sun
as I sit alone.
A flicker of orange
dances before me
and rests on my hand.
The tickle of your footsteps
brings a dawning smile.
I marvel over your grace,
your beauty,
your joy.
I reach to caress your paper wing.
You rise to the sun.
I watch the rays receive you,
feel their warmth
on my face.

Lime Dance (with apologies to W.C.W.)

If I when my husband is reading
and the children are doing homework
and the sun is a flame white disc
in silken mists
above my pine trees,-
If I in my kitchen
dance in my apron, grotesquely
before my chromed stove
waving my towel round my head
and singing softly to myself:
'Come on home
and turn me on.'
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, breasts, buttocks
against the yellowed panelling,'

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

(adapted from William Carlos Williams' Danse Russe, song lyrics form Norah Jones' Turn Me On)



Dreams by Sara Teasdale

I gave my life to another lover,

I gave my love, and all, and all--

But over a dream the past will hover,

Out of a dream the past will call.

I tear myself from sleep with a shiver

But on my breast a kiss is hot,

And by my bed the ghostly giver

Is waiting tho' I see him not.

Love It or Hate It?

Well, yesterday's post seemed to have a rather polarizing effect on readers as they expressed either revulsion or delight at the recipe for Chicken and Waffles. So I thought I'd pull this little idea out of drafts and use it today.

According to this article these are the top 10 polarizing foods. I'll add my take on it and you may feel free to offer yours.

White Chocolate
Just to eat a chunk of it doesn't really do it for me but if it's in combination with something else (especially if wrapped around some lovely dark chocolate truffle filling) it has its merits.

Cilantro
I learned it's an acceptable substitute for one of the main seasonings (which I have yet to find here in Pennsylvania) required in Trini cooking so I am all about the cilantro. Plus it's a must have for salsa.

Eggplant
Not a fan of this really. I have had some eggplant parmesan that was good but it has to be done just right.

Coconut
I absolutely despise coconut in chocolate or anything sweet like cream pies or ice cream. That said, a cold, green nut cracked open on a hot day in the tropics is a might refreshing drink and I like scooping out the jelly afterwards. I also like things made with coconut milk like hot Thai food. Basically if it goes with savory things I like it, sweet things it's gross.

Tomato
Love it. There is nothing like a home grown, fully ripe tomato sliced up and sprinkled with some black pepper...Mmmmm...slurp. Isaac find them completely revolting though (but he likes tomato sauce and marinara as long as it isn't chunky). I also know another person who won't eat them because he likens them to human flesh. How he knows what human flesh tastes like (beyond, ya know, licking someone) I really don't want to know.

Anchovies
I absolutely do not want them on pizza or even in any kind of discernible form but I do realize a proper Caesar salad requires their incorporation and I like that. Also, they are in Worcestershire sauce, which I also use. A little of these goes a long way. I only want a trace of them.

Black Licorice
Blech! Barforama! There is no context in which I like this, it's the first officially negatively polarizing food on this list as far as I am concerned. Ptooey!

Stinky Cheeses
I have come to realize different people regard different cheeses as stinky or not. I love me some good Swiss cheese. I have a pal who calls it stinky feet cheese. It never struck me as stinky. I draw the line at cheese with veins of mold running through it. Yeah, if you want to say I lack refinement that's ok by me. How in the name of all that's delicious did someone ever decide moldy cheese made in a cave full of bat shit was the height of taste? Gagalicious.

Mayonnaise
Vile, revolting congealed globs of snail trails and snot. The slime factor is just too much. I'll pass. Miracle whip isn't any better in my book. Excuse me, I need to go shave my tongue just thinking about all of this.

Bell Peppers
Love em. Raw or roasted they are good.

Beets
This is another thing I can take or leave depending upon the context. I've had them in salads and liked them. I've had them boiled beyond recognition and lived to tell the tale but would never crave them. In Pennsylvania German cooking you can find such a creature as Red Beet Eggs. The eggs are pickled along with red beets so they turn a very pretty magenta but you loose me at the point where you've pickled the eggs at all. The addition of red beets doesn't sell me any more on the concept. Oh and while we are at it....

I hate hard boiled egg yolks. Bleck. It's like eating a tray of damp chalk dust. When I was a kid my mother used to pack a hard boiled egg and a teeny weeny Morton salt shaker in my lunch for school. Every single day I ate the white very happily and threw the yolk away. All the while I envied Guy DeStefano who got Pop Tarts in his lunch. Oh, and for the record, I like the runny yolks in fried eggs, I like scrambled eggs, etc. It's just the horrid texture of a hard boiled egg yolk. If you think mixing them with mayo and mustard to make deviled eggs is going to help, you're out of your mind. Ptooey... I gotta go shave my tongue again.


I'd also add squash and okra to the list.
Personally, I love squash. Love it. Love it. There's a nice restaurant here that in the winter makes a squash cannelloni I love. When Dad took me to Philadelphia a few months ago I ordered this acorn squash roasted with apple cider that was to die for. I make stewed squash and dump it over rice and I am a very happy girl. I also make a butternut soup Diana and I fight to the death over. My Dad, on the other hand, the man who brags about the bizarre foods he has eaten on business trips to China, will not touch squash. He can drink snake blood but squash makes him gag. Go figure.

Finally, I am no fan of okra. Once again, there is the slime factor going on, and there is a certain odd aromatic quality to it that I can only deal with in limited doses. I discovered this in Trinidad because it's a component of callaloo, which is widely regarded as the national dish. Callaloo is like meatloaf in that everyone on the island makes it but everyone has their own twist on it. I found I really disliked callaloo made by the folks with a heavy hand for the okra but if the cook went easy on the okra I liked it. If it was like my friend Petal made, with some pigtail in it...mmmmm, bring it on.

And since we are talking Okra, which is a southern staple let's talk grits. I am one yankee who happens to like grits. I can't say as I have ever made them myself but I do enjoy them when I venture into Dixie. Cheese grits or grits with brown sugar and butter. It's all good. Actually, I'd even eat plain grits even though it looks like a bowl of wall paper paste and doesn't taste like much more than that. In case you're wondering, no, I was not one of those kids who ate paste in kindergarten. I thought Artie Meyers was out of his mind when he did that.

Pennsylvania German Tuesday-Chicken and Waffles

Yes, you read that correctly. I said chicken and waffles. I know right now some of you are thinking I've finally gone around the bend. Trust me ok? This is good stuff. And just so we are clear there's no syrup involved because that would be gross. Basically it's chicken and gravy over waffles. Listen, if you can eat S.O.S. you can eat this. It's the same idea. And yes, I do like S.O.S. Yes, this is Pennsylvania German food although down south you find some folks who fry their chicken, sit it on a waffle, and pour gravy over that. I'm sorry, that's an abomination.

The non-abomination version is Depression food. I don't mean "woe is me, my boyfriend broke up with me so I need a pint of Ben & Jerry's to console me." I mean " I got a houseful of hungry kids and not a lot of money so how do I stretch what I have?"

Backing up a bit, Sunday was the first Sunday since October when no in at Casa de Lime had to go anywhere and there were no impending holidays. I decided it was time for a nice family dinner and I had a new recipe for chicken roasted in a cilantro orange marinade that I wanted to try. It was a bit of a disaster. I'm not sure if my oven temp is off or the bird wasn't completely thawed or what but after roasting it to a perfect golden brown, checking for doneness (I thought I had it right) and letting it rest before carving into it I discovered it was pink in the middle. Very aggravating and entirely disappointing. After we picked off the done parts I made a big pot of stock with the rest of it. It made a gorgeous pot of stock and a big pile of chicken after I picked the rest off the bones. Thus we came to have chicken and waffles. (See? It's that whole stretch the food dollar thing...in theory we had one good meal of roast chicken and now we have another good meal of chicken and waffles off the same carcass.)

Ok, the recipe. It's way easy. For the waffles I just use this recipe. I won't bother commenting on it except to say I love me some Alton Brown. I like the humor and geek factor he brings to cooking. I've used a lot of different waffle recipes but this one has become my favorite.

Now, the chicken and gravy part. Here's what I did.
1/4 C. butter
1/4 C. flour
pepper to taste
2 C. chicken stock

1. Melt the butter, toss in the flour and pepper to make a roux. Mix it all around.
(I once described the recipe to a friend who is a chef and now teaches chef wannabes. I thought he'd weep with joy when I used the word roux because he said his students failed to recognize the importance. Roux Roux Roux your gravy, gently on the stove. Merrily, merrily, merrily merrily, life is such a ....um....what rhymes with stove? Never mind, moving on..)
2. Slowly add in the stock as you keep whisking.
3. Bring to a boil over medium heat and let the gravy thicken.
4. Stir often.
(A real chef would probably stay stir constantly. I had other stuff going on, so it was often, not constant. I mean I had to change the CD player because I gotta have my tunes when I cook. For this recipe I recommend Amos Lee and Sheryl Crow. They were the perfect accompaniment. Some folks do wine pairings. I do music pairings. But ya know, if you'd rather some death metal with your chicken and waffles who am I to say otherwise. Just never, EVER use Neil Diamond. I am violently allergic to him. He will ruin your gravy mojo. Really, just mentioning him makes me break out in hives. Henceforth, he shall be "the singer who is not named.")

5. After your gravy thickens toss in some of the chicken you pulled off the bones from making stock. How much? Hmm, a couple of handfuls or so.
(I have small hands. If you have big hands you probably won't use more than a hand and a half. Andre the Giant might just use a pinch. Verne Troyer, well, he might need half a dozen handfuls. What? You didn't make your own stock so you didn't pull any chicken off any bones? This guy will tell you how if you need to know. Ok, well then if you used bouillon and water anyway, go grab a piece of leftover chicken and pull some meat off some bones so you can throw it in the gravy. And seriously, aren't you glad I opted to limit comment on Alton's waffle recipe? You're already wondering if you're ever going to get through a simple gravy. )

Finally, thrown some waffles on a plate, ladle the chicken and gravy over them and voila! You now have a plate of food that looks like someone hurled on it.

Yes, I know it's not pretty food. The Limelettes all talk about how gross it looks but they all like this dish. They all slurp it up with gusto. They are all happy to eat it. I think part of their joy is making barfing sounds when they are served it. They get away with that because I know they actually like this stuff and will eat it.


Besides, if you've gone to the trouble of making waffles to pour chicken and gravy over you get to have this for dessert...but only if you've eaten your dinner.

Story Time

Ok, so I don't have any actual ideas today that I have the time to pound out into fully formed posts so let's play a little game. We're going to write a story together. I'll give the opening line and you all will take turns adding to it in your comments. Add as little as a sentence or as much as a paragraph and the next commenter will pick up the story wherever you let off.

Ready? Here goes.

She stood in the heat of the day surveying all before her. Trickles of sweat ran down her neck until a sudden shiver went up her spine...

Friday 55 & Da Count

FRIDAY 55

Horses can't vomit.
Humans and dolphins are the only animals to have sex for pleasure.
An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.
Elephants are the only animals with 4 knees
and the only animals that can't jump.
Cat urine glows under black light.
Just a few of the trivial tidbits Isaac has shared recently.





DA COUNT

Isaac has recently discovered a love of trivia. In fact, he has been texting a number of people a daily fact. I have long been the only trivia nerd in the house. It serves no real useful purpose but it's fun and I am a little tickled to have someone else around who relishes useless facts. Look out G-man, there's a Mr. Knowitall in training.

Now it's your turn. Add a trivial fact in the comments (and it doesn't have to be animal related).

Slice of Lime-Making a Spectacle of Ourselves

Jillie just bestowed this award on me yesterday. She may just reconsider if she keeps reading this post. The rest of you may seriously question her reasoning too. Nonetheless, I thank her for her generosity.

I first got glasses when I was 6. They were a pair of purple and pink plastic frames. My main vanity in life is wearing contact lenses. I'm not a big fan of my frames. Never have been.

Mr. Lime also wears glasses on occasion. Isaac had to get specs when he was in kindergarten and has actually worn bifocals since he was 10. Diana had to get lenses when she was 15. Recently, Calypso, the last holdout in corrected vision, acquired a pair of glasses for herself. I wanted a picture of all three of the House of Lime girls in their glasses so I could toss it out here with a caption about men not making passes at girls who wear glasses. Both girls declined posing.



However, get them to the dollar store rack of truly horrid sunglasses and they will gladly don pair after pair and even let me whip out my camera phone. Mwahahahahaha!

Here we have Hypnosa, the female Elton John, and Catgirl.

Spacegirl Spiff, Dame Edna's sister, and a martian (all doing their Minnie Pearl tribute too, I might add, "Well, hoooooow DO!").

Sexy, no?
Dare we imagine the men who'd make passes at these girls in glasses?

Where's a Good Prefrontal Cortex when You Need It?

It is my understanding that the Prefrontal Cortex is the region in the brain that allows for differentiating between good and bad behavior, anticipating consequences, and impulse control. I have also come to learn that in recent years there have been studies documenting a lack of a fully developed prefrontal cortex as a reason for some of the more rash decisions and risk taking behavior exhibited by teenagers.

Just yesterday I had a prime example from a member in my own household. During a moment of peace I received a phone call from the assistant principal at my son's school. She let me know that my darling son was sitting in her presence after having a little discussion about a poor choice he made. It seems the boy decided to swipe a snack from the cafeteria without paying for it. To his credit he didn't lie when confronted and took his lumps without complaint and after offering an apology. He will get to spend today in a desk sized cubicle rather than in a classroom. Hhhhmmm, perhaps they should rename this form of punishment "Preparation for Life as a Cog in Corporate America" and offer credit, but I digress.

I picked him up from school to take him to a dentist appointment and we had a little talk about he choices during the ride. Among other points I told him I wanted to give him a dopeslap (but would stifle that urge) for such a choice and asked him if he had not ever been taught better than that. He affirmed that he parents had taught him better but...wait for it....wait....everyone else does it all the time.....and there it is. Ah yes, and of course, sheer numbers makes a thing right.

After more discussion regarding making good choices even if everyone around you is making bad choices he asked what the plans for the evening were. I told him I had to drop a meal off to a family we know because the wife just had surgery on her foot. The boy then looked at me and said as if it were a stroke of genius, "You should break your leg so you can get us some free meals from other people." It was then that I gave him a dopeslap to the prefrontal cortex and asked if he had heard a word I just said.

Stung by Ella

She got me.

8 Things I am looking forward to:
1. Winning the lottery
2. Winning an Oscar
3. Winning the Nobel Peace Prize
4. Winning at checkers
5. Checking groceries
6. Cashing a check
7. Checking my coat at the theater
8. Getting coated in chocolate


8 Things I did yesterday:
1. Took Isaac to the doc so he could get a refill for his asthma inhaler and we could find some more effective allergy treatment for the kid so he doesn't have to walk around with wads of tissues in his nostrils like corks (which is his current solution).
2. Had an entirely reasonable discussion with the doctor and Isaac about how to alleviate his symptoms.
3. Cursed the environmentalists who lobbied to make the inhalers we used to use illegal.
4. Cursed the drug companies who decided the environmentally mandated reformulations of inhalers are proprietary so we can look forward to 7 years of expensive inhalers before we can get nice cheap generics again, even though the drug is the same, just the propellants are different.
5. Cursed my insurance company beancounters (who have no medical training and yet get to dictate how my doctor treats us) for quibbling over the $5 difference between the inhaler they want us to have and the one that actually works.
6. Got lectured by the pharmacist when I said the kid would use my inhaler (we use the same drug) until the insurance company got its head out of its ass and decided to let us have the inhaler that works.
7. Went home and ranted about the stupidity and brokenness of the system.
8. Watched my kid continue to feel completely miserable



8 Things I wish I could do:
1. The ever delectable Hugh Jackman
2. George Clooney
3. Oh wait you meant what, not who...hhmm
4. Oh alright...that thing with the chocolate
5. That thing that makes me sigh
6. That thing that makes him sigh
7. Ok, ok, ok. I'll stop....eradicate evil insurance company beancounters from the face of the earth. (The good ones can stay)
8. Restore some sanity to the health care system. It's a total pain in the ass for my son and me but at least we aren't in some life threatening situation. If I had to muster up the energy to argue with the damned insurance company while fighting some major trauma or life threatening disease how much worse would it be?


8 Shows I watch:
1. The neighbors when they dance naked in their front yard as they celebrate the full moon
2. My children arguing over the TV remote
3. The parade of inbred humanity at the Walmart
4. My own slow death march toward mortality
5. The cosmic tease of one 24 hour period of lovely weather followed by 8 days of overcast, grey skies
6. The evolution of the piles of dirty laundry in my daughters' rooms into intelligent life forms.
7. The low speed scooter races on senior citizen day at the grocery store
8. The squirrel mania in my backyard during acorn season (our house is in the middle of an acre of oak trees)

8 People I tag:
1. Hugh Jackman
2. George Clooney
3. Evil insurance company beancounters (I'm tagging them with a wooden stake through the heart...bloodsuckers that they are)
4. The naked neighbors
5. The ladies blocking the cereal aisle with their scooters while they catch up on the latest hip replacement news
6. Whatever life forms lurk under my daughters' beds
7. The Walmart greeter
8. The squirrels

My Apologies

Sorry to those of you who hate word verification. Since I got 30 spam comments over night it's back on until the troll stops coming around. Today's post is below.

What's in a Name?

When she was born she had no name. She lived in the hospital nursery for 5 days and whatever names the nurses used have been lost to history. She depended upon them for everything. She cried when she was hungry, or wet, or needed a cuddle and waited for a name. Maybe the nurses cooed to her, "There, there, little one. It's ok. Here is your bottle." Maybe they were busy and just carried her around feeding her as they tended to whatever else needed doing. Who could ever know?

When she was 5 days old she met her mommy and daddy. Mommy cried out, "Oh! There is my little Michelle! I have waited so long for you. I'm so glad you are here." Mommy put Michelle in pretty little dresses and bonnets. She gave her a purple bedroom with a canopy bed. Mommy taught Michelle to read before she went to school. Mommy made clothes for Michelle's dollies and let her play dress up and push the cat in the baby carriage. But Michelle had a wild side, a wild side which bent the canopy into a pretzel because she wanted it to be a jungle gym.

With Daddy Michelle could indulge her wild side. She could be Matilda. "So Matilda, let's take a ride." Off Daddy and Matilda rode on the motorcycle, over the fields and down the country lanes. "Go faster, Daddy!" She shouted into the wind. Matilda could sit on the back porch during a thunder storm, with her dog and her daddy, and not be afraid as the lightning danced over the cornfield. Matilda could go way out into the ocean where the waves went over her head because she could sit on her Daddy's shoulders and daddies are strong, brave people...until they go away when Matilda is still small making her feel lost and scared.

Fortunately Matilda had a Grampop. With Grampop she wasn't scared. She could feel that sometimes Grampop was scared but he knew how to imagine the scary things away with long walks and music and art. Grampop took Matilda on hikes in the mountains and told her all the Indian legends sharing his respect for their ways. He called Matilda his Indian Princess. He sent her postcards and tried to spell the name her mommy had given her but it never came out spelled the same way twice. So she was just Princess....but not the frilly kind who wore scratchy ball gowns, because that would never do. She was the kind who wore buckskins and hopped over logs and rocks and through creeks, the kind who fed chipmunks from her hands, and shot BB guns or bows and arrows. Grampop also gave art to his Princess and fed her imagination, smiled at her drawings. He strummed his guitar and sang while Princess danced. He showed her how to listen quietly to the music in the mountains, how to watch carefully for the art in creation. Princess learned to still her heart...until Grampop joined the spirits who sang in the forest.

She was in junior high where other kids sometimes used names that were very unkind so we won't even worry about what those names were. It's just how some people are. Then she went to high school and suddenly she had different names. Half the teachers called her Miss Smith. "Miss Smith, can you share with the class the 6 trigonometric functions?" "Huh? What? I have no idea." "Miss Smith have you paid attention at all?" "Well, yes, but it made no sense." "Then perhaps you should have taken basket weaving." Miss Smith shrank in embarrassment. The other half of her teachers called her simply by her last name, like she was some sort of soldier. In another class she had a drill sargent as her teacher. Most of the students were scared to death. Smith wasn't. "Smith! How many chauvinist pigs does it take to make a pot of coffee!" "I have no idea but it only takes one to tell this pitiful joke." "Dammit Smith, it doesn't take any to make the coffee because it's a woman's job!" "I rest my case," Smith intoned. "Smith! How does the protist Euglena propel itself!" Smith stood on her chair and cracked an imaginary whip before declaring suggestively, "By flagella!" Her teacher turned 17 shades of pink and had no retort for the first time that year. Smith sat down to the awe and accolades of her classmates. Smith learned to never let them see you sweat.

Now all this time, Smith had another grandfather, Pop-pop. She sometimes thought Pop-pop was a hard man to understand. Pop-pop was a practical man who liked order without frills. To him, Smith was Girl. He liked to tease, but not in a mean way. He liked to play with words by slipping them around on his tongue and enjoying the way they rolled off before they chimed or crashed according to his purposes. When Girl was younger she had to think hard sometimes before she got his jokes but when she did she could nod knowingly with him and say "I see said the blind man as he picked up his hammer and saw!" Girl learned humor had a way of healing hurt. Pop-pop worked hard his whole life. He made sacrifices for Girl that Mom and Dad either couldn't or wouldn't make. One day darkness descended on his mind and Girl tried to draw him into the light with his old words and favorite jokes. She tried to make the sacrifices for him that he needed but the darkness only receded a short time before it returned like a tsunami to sweep him away forever.

Girl had her own family now. She was Mrs. and Mommy and learning all about what that meant. Mrs. Mommy tried to do the right things. She watched people carefully looking for wisdom in their lives. When she found it she put it into practice. She kept the things that worked and tried to toss away the things that didn't. Some things felt strange, some felt natural. She kept trying to sort it all out while trying to encourage her Mister and teach her own wee one. These were by far the strangest names she had ever been called. Sometimes she didn't always answer to them because it felt like they belonged some some imaginary character. Eventually, they seemed more real. Then Mrs. Mommy moved far away with her family.

Mrs. Mommy landed in Trinidad and the people there called her all sorts of other things. Some of the names were meant to mark her as a stranger to be held at arm's length and she knew it. Others were a test. There were lots of tests. The women wanted to know if she could be girly. Michelle could. The rowdy ones wanted to know if she could be wild. Matilda could. They all wanted to know if an American could respect their culture, their music, their art. Princess could. The brokenhearted wanted to know if she would be gentle with them. Many wanted to know if she would absorb their words and speak them with ease and respect. Girl could. The child who was beaten and starved wanted to know if anyone could possibly care about him. Mrs. Mommy could. When the tests were passed the gift was given, a new name, Meesh. It was a gift because in Trinidad you only know your nickname if the givers love you. Otherwise it is whispered in derisive tones behind your back and you only hear your formal name to your face. Meesh knew there was as much love in that name as in any of the others she'd ever been given. Because she'd earned it with the lessons from her other names she felt warm when someone used it.

Now Meesh had to return to home where she was just Michelle again. Matilda's fearlessness was lost. She was no one's Princess. The ones who called her Girl or Miss or Smith did so without any kind of meaning. They may as well have called her by some impersonal series of numbers or used one of those trigonometric functions that confounded her. She was defined very neatly as Mrs. Mommy again but now it was generic and seemed only to refer to her function. No one's imagination would have allowed for Meesh. "What kind of weird name is Meesh? Why can't those people say your name properly?" some folks wondered. So Michelle it was, even though she felt more as if she were just a nameless infant whimpering for some nourishment.

One day she slipped into a strange digital universe and found for the first time that she could give herself a new name. She could reveal or conceal whatever she wanted. She could decide who she was. She still carried all her other names but in this space she could wrap them into one new name with many sides which reflected whichever old name felt right for the time. She could rediscover old interests she had long ago put to the side or explore new ones she had never imagined before. And so it came to pass that Lime entered the world.

Friday 55-Sweet Release

It's anchored between my thighs
in an inescapable vise-like grip.
My hands clutch it
trying to work toward release
yet direct things
so I won't be splattered.
I grunt and groan in exertion
struggling for satisfaction.
Tension mounts.
Finally, I feel something begin to give way...
a satisfying pop...
and the jar lid comes off.

(Yep, that's how I open jars now since Janita lacks some of the strength she used to have. Go tell
G-man if you wrote a 55 today.)

Slice of Lime-Janita and Bella

This is my guitar, Bella. I inherited her from my grandfather. There are a lot of good memories of him playing her to me when I was little. I always wanted to play but when the kids were small I never had time or money to really devote to lessons and learning. I took this picture after I had been taking lessons for about a year and a half and just shortly before I demolished my arm. That put a fairly abrupt halt to whatever tunes I was putting out.




It took a lot of months before I could even try to curl my hand around the neck. It didn't work very well at all. In fact, it was intensely painful after about 2 minutes and my hand went completely numb. Every 2 or 3 months I'd take her out of her case, get as far as tuning her, and try a few chords only to feel like there was a knife sticking right into the part of my wrist where the bones had once protruded...and then the numbness. Poor Bella would be returned to her case once more. If Andy is reading this I know he's going to be about ready to burst a vein in his head because he has sent me all sorts of ideas from trying open tuning to playing her like a slide guitar. He's been a great encouragement that way. I can't really explain why I continue to torment Bella and Janita the way I do. I have to admit, it defies logic.



A few weeks ago I tried again. I made it through about 15 minutes before the stabbing and the numbness started. I was pretty excited about that. I haven't been at all consistent about working with Bella but we've gotten together several times in the past few weeks. My form is terrible, the sound is not pretty, but Janita is tolerating it enough to try. Of course, after 3 years of no playing I have forgotten almost everything but it's a start. I had to relearn everything else from scratch too. And so Bella, Janita, and I slowly begin again...

Da Count-3 Years? Really?

Three years ago today I thought I could hang onto a zipline without a harness and manage quite well since my then 10 year old son could do that with no problem. I failed to consider I have considerably more body mass and far less upper body strength than a wiry 10 year old boy. Gravity drove that lesson home quite emphatically when I plummeted to earth and completely demolished my left arm from the elbow to the fingers. If you'd like the gory details with a drug addled twist feel free to peruse them. The faint of heart need not worry, no pictures of the gore are included. If you want to chuckle over what I look liked stoned out of my mind on the remnants of anesthesia and lots of Percoset go here.

It was a complex enough injury (smashed head of the radius, compound fracture of same, dislocation of the elbow by several inches, shredded ligaments and tendons) that my surgeon gave a fairly grave report when he spoke to me the first time after reassembly humpty dumpty. At that time he wasn't sure if I had also sustained nerve damage or how much. He kept repeating that I may not ever regain full use. He described in detail the various repairs he had done the limitations I would notice once the cast was off...basically, expect it to be a useless appendage dangling off me. (Oh hey, bonus! After the other repairs my surgical punch card was full so he added in carpal tunnel surgery while he was at it.). At that time I also could not feel the three middle fingers on my left hand and finally looked him in the eye when he was done and said, "So what you're saying is when I can intentionally flip you the bird I will know I have recovered?" My surgeon finally let his mouth curl into a smile and said, "You're going to be just fine. It will be a long road, but you'll do well even if you don't get full use back."

My occupational therapist took one look at me during my first appointment with her and I caught a fleeting glimpse of sheer astonishment and total bewilderment on her face before she regained a professional calm. My arm and hand were completely useless. No strength, no range of motion to speak of, and I couldn't even touch thumb to finger, much less make a fist (the surgeon had not lied about the uselessness). When I was finally discharged from her care after 6 and a half months of therapy 3 times a week she admitted that on my first day she was a bit panicked. She just didn't even know where to begin because I was such a train wreck. She also added she was glad to see who my surgeon had been because she knew at least I had been put back together skillfully. I earned bonus points for using my bad hand (dubbed Janita by Lecram) to do things she didn't ask me to do like cleaning up various torture devices she used on me. I also asked innumerable questions about the anatomy and function of my hand and I truly celebrated each tiny increment of improvement. She and my other therapist celebrated with me just as much. The two of them were truly wonderful people who made a long and painful process something I did not dread.

There were a LOT of things I couldn't do for a long time. Even when I was discharged there were still several things I still was not quite able to do and I was still dealing with a certain low level of pain even when at rest. I was thankful for what I had gained though, no doubt about that. Winter was not at all pleasant because the cold and damp made Janita ache and throb. I figured that would certainly not improve with passing years since x-rays revealed a lot of post traumatic arthritis in the joint that first year already. I am pleased to report this past winter, harsh as it was weatherwise, was really not a bad year for Janita.

All that to say, three years out and I am still profoundly grateful for the things I can do again. I still find myself smiling and whispering a prayer of thanks when I can unstick a stubborn jar lid (although I have a slightly unorthodox method these days) or carry a bunch of grocery bags. I do not take for granted being able to gather up my hair into a ponytail when it's hot. I was actually thrilled to be the official "french braider" of the marching band last year. (The girls are not allowed to have their hair loose. It all has to be neatly tucked up under their hats.) That was a major accomplishment of manual dexterity in my book. I am so glad to be able to give decent back rubs again (but just for the record I am every bit as glad to be on the receiving end of those too!) I have done tons of tie dyeing in the last year which also requires a certain dexterity. I am sure I would have been able to figure out how to do that one handed, but being able to use both my hands to do it is a gift. This year I started the big job of making a quilt. I wasn't sure how well Janita would hold up for the demand of cutting out 900 blocks of fabric. She done good and I was again very thankful. There are a hundred little things I can do that I continue to be amazed by 3 years later, things I never thought twice about before. At the same time, I rather like that I learned how to do certain things one handed. You guys out there may think it's pretty impressive to release your dates from their brassieres using only one hand but I can get a bra ON myself and hooked properly with only one hand. Ok, I realize none of the men are impressed by that because it defeats their purpose but dat's mad skillz, baby.

I have come to realize I am never going to be able to do a proper push-up. Then again I couldn't do them before I mangled my arm. Janita just will not bend that way AND bear weight at the same time. Ain't gonna happen. No great loss. In fact, I am rather glad to have a justifiable excuse for NOT doing push-ups. I am not sure I will ever do a cartwheel off a diving board again. Yes, that I did every summer until I broke myself. One must celebrate the commencement of pool season. I shall have to celebrate in alternate ways now. Waves sweetly to the crowd, gently brushes the hair out of my face, smiles demurely, and.....CANNONBALL!!!!!

Janita may never be 100% but she has done so much better than anyone expected. So this week, a couple of days early, I am offering up a count of the myriad skills I have regained and those I learned anew. I just don't take any of them for granted any more.

Everybody's Doing It!

Since I griped about teenagers yesterday I'll revisit my teen years today.


1. Did you date someone from your school?
A couple of someones

2. Did you marry someone from your high school?
Nope

3. Did you car pool to school?
That would have been a colossal waste of time since I lived across the street from the school

4. What kind of car did you have?
Matchbox

5. What kind of car do you have now?
Beulah, the minivan of looooove

6. It's Friday night...where are you (then)?
When?

7. It is Friday night...where are you (now)?
But it's not Friday night now

8. What kind of job did you have in high school?
Chief cook and bottle washer in training, wiper of butts, painter of walls....hhhmmm, not much has changed except not being in training anymore. I now have advanced degrees in these.

9. What kind of job do you do now?
All the crap no one else around here is willing to do

10. Were you a party animal?
I never dressed like the school mascot at parties.

11. Were you considered a flirt?
I was an enigma

12. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir?
I was third chair kazoo and I was asked to sing tenor...ten or twelve miles away

13. Were you a nerd?
I read the encyclopedia and dictionary for entertainment, what do you think?

14. Did you get suspended or expelled?
I wore suspenders once and expelled some pretty nasty stuff when I had a bad chest cold.

15. Can you sing the fight song?
Blaaaah blah blah blah blaaaah blah blah blah

16. Who was/were your favorite teacher(s)?
The ones who respected their students.

17. Where did you sit during lunch?
On my butt

19. When did you graduate?
When I successfully completed all my required courses and subsequently marched across the stage to collect my diploma.

20. What was your school mascot?
The banana slug

21. If you could go back and do it again, would you?
Lemme think about that for half a second...NO!

22. Did you have fun at Prom?
Define "fun"

23. Do you still talk to the person you went to Prom with?
See #21. Oddly enough, when I had to have my well pump replaced last month the guy who came to do the job turned out to be the nephew of my prom date (with whom I have had no contact in over 20 years). He remembered me as "that really whacked chick, Uncle J brought around." Nice to see you again too, ya little twerp.

24. Are you planning on going to your next reunion?
I haven't gone to any yet, why break tradition?

25. Do you still talk to people from school?
Nary a one

The Joys of Parenting Teens...

...would explain how I can simultaneously be incredibly proud of my two girls for their recent accomplishments and yet want to stand on a table and scream at them for some especially boneheaded and irresponsible choices.

Seriously...well done, congratulations!!

and...

WHAT in the bloody hell were you thinking?!

Good Friday 55

*This first one is new this year but I am including the 55s from previous years as well.

The Cyrene

I came to Jerusalem for the Passover.
I heard the commotion,
saw the condemned paraded in the street.
One was barely alive.
I turned away until...
the Roman yanked me from the crowd,
laid the beam on my shoulders.
Only when I met the bloodied man's eyes
did I realize he endured the judgment
I deserve.



The Thief

Merciless sun blisters my skin as the crowd's unrelenting curses assault my ears.
The weight of my own guilt,
the pain of dislocated joints and bound limbs bear down so heavily
I can barely breathe.
I dangle between present agony and hopeless eternity until He tells me,
"Today you will be in Paradise with Me."



The Guard

I'm glad to follow my orders well.
It's like taking out the trash to rid the earth of the scum we execute here.
Today is different.
One never begged for mercy, never fought us.
He spoke mercy on us all.
For the first time I feel guilt.
I fall to my knees, confess His deity.



The Mother

We had to travel when my time was so near.
When the king was killing the little boys we had to flee for our lives.
I was panicked when we lost him in the city.
But nothing has pierced my heart
like watching the spikes enter his flesh
and the sword plunge into his side.

Unsettled

It's not worried. It's waiting.
It's not anxious. It's antsy.
Mild disturbances,
Little perturbances,
Agitation in cogitation,
Niggling nettles.

I got 'em.

I'm unsettled.



UPDATE: As I was checking email I found one from my cousin with a link to the music of Max Cohen. Some settling of Lime is occurring. Also, thanks to all of you who shared favorite poets and poems as well as a few sweet stories I so enjoyed them all.

The Poet's Obligation

I first posted this poem by Pablo Neruda three years ago for National Poetry Month. It is National Poetry Month again and since there has been a lot of turnover in my readership since that time I am posting it again. I don't know how many of you enjoy poetry. I am certain several do because I know they write it themselves. Others may regard it as something a bit poofty. Some may think it's a bit too highbrow or esoteric. Yet others may have at one time considered it and had every bit of joy from it sucked out in high school. That's a distinct possibility.

I remember my own Lit. class as a senior. We walked in, sat down and were directed to, "open your notebooks and prepare to take copious notes." That was Mr. C's favorite line to commence class. Fortunately he was honest about the unpleasantness that faced us. We were informed we'd be explicating poetry by parsing it down to its minutest elements and that this was surely no way to enjoy poetry. In fact, he told us, it was the best way to make certain we hated the poems we'd have to read. I'm sure the eye rolling in the class was as audible as the groans of dread. He hastened to add that if we mastered our lessons in poetry explication well enough to regurgitate things for tests we could then toss them aside and go back to reading poetry for enjoyment. We were fairly well disarmed by his candor and his acceptance of the severity of our "senioritis." We explicated the hell out of everything from Shakespeare's sonnets to William Carlos Williams' Red Wheelbarrow. When we thought we had pulled out all the elements we could Mr. C. made us dig for more and told us we had miles to go before we slept. Drowsy students were brought to attention by loud rapping on the board or their desks as Mr. C. demanded they identify his beatings as iambs, trochees, or spondees. Always he'd remind us he knew this was no way to enjoy poetry.

After all that torment he made us composes sonnets adhering to the strict meter and rhyme scheme. What agony. Finally, the exams were complete. Our sonnets had been written and graded. We thought we were off the hook on this poetry bit. Anyone who had ever enjoyed poetry prior to this class pretty much never wanted to look at a poem ever again. Those who hated it to begin with had their biases confirmed...and then...Mr. C. told us the last few days would be given over to poetry for pleasure. We were to all come to class with at least one favorite poem, something we had not read in class. He didn't care who the poet was. We could even bring something we had written ourselves. All we had to do was bring the poem, read it, and explain why we liked it and there were no right or wrong reasons. If we had more poems than one class period allowed for he'd let us continue into the next one.

Bring a poem, read it, share why you like it, get full credit for the assignment, extra poems get extra credit. Man, this was going to be a breeze. We could all bring in a boatload of poems and read for a week and not have to do any actual work. We couldn't believe he was going to let us get away with this. Suddenly, thirty teenagers were scouring the library for poetry books. Some were determined to read epics just to waste class time. Others went straight for the naughty limericks in order to shock. We read, we commented, we didn't open a single notebook to take a single note. We were convinced we were getting away with a lot. Through it all Mr. C. sat in his chair smirking as he asked why each student picked each poem. Some pulled out all the fancy literary terms to explain their reasoning, others said they just liked it because it made them laugh or smile or it expressed their feelings better than they could. Others added their comments. Mr. C. told everyone they got 100 as they each finished. After it all he smirked again as he noted none of us rolled our eyes through this assignment and yet in our comments amongst ourselves we had voluntarily explicated the poems. That Mr. C., what a wily guy.

Ok, so that was a long lead in but here is Pablo Neruda's The Poet's Obligation as translated from the Spanish by Alistair Reid. I just plain like it. I hope you do too.

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell;
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying "How can I reach the sea?"
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of the sea-birds on the coast.


So, through me, freedom and the sea
will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

Now tell me, which poets and poems fulfill their obligation to you?

Trini Tuesday-Nanzo

Long time readers of this blog will recall how this used to be a regular feature for the first year and a half. A few weeks ago I resurrected an old post about a favorite beach. Today I'll share a favorite person, Nanzo.

When you move to another country and away from every friend and family member you've ever known it can be quite an adjustment. It's the first day of school on a grander scale. Will they like me? Will I make any friends? Will they think I am weird and ignore me? At least after the first day of kindergarten you get to go home to your family who ideally will receive you with love and acceptance. When you disembark from the plane you're stuck in the classroom for a while. That's not to say I didn't want to be in Trinidad. I was anxious to be there and excited to settle in. Nonetheless, there's a great deal of uncertainty with a move of such magnitude.

We were tremendously blessed with good friends. One set of friends in particular became our family. This couple, who we will call Ren and Flora, had a couple of young girls who were playmate age for Diana. As was not entirely unheard of in Trinidad at that time, they shared an address with extended family. They lived in a small downstairs apartment. A single brother was next door in another downstairs apartment. Ren's mother, Nanzo, had the upstairs as her home, the home where she raised her family.

We quickly became close friends with Ren and Flora and their girls. We spent a lot of time liming (to lime: Trini slang for hanging out with friends, and yes, that's where my moniker comes from) at each other's houses. In quick order we were being invited to family events such as birthdays and Sunday dinner. We got to know the various siblings and their children. Presiding over them all was Nanzo, who had begun to introduce us to friends and neighbors as her white kids. May I just say that having someone who is a family and village matriarch welcome you so completely and then introduce you so warmly goes a long way to making you feel like you really belong.

Going back to the many gatherings we attended, you must know meal preparation for a Sunday dinner was a group affair. Pets was known for her callaloo (probably the closest thing to a national dish in Trinidad because the Africans and Indians eat it with both creole and Indian food). Folks took turns providing the various curries. I was often asked to provide baked pineapple. Nanzo always did the roti (Indian flat bread).

Twice when I returned to Trinidad for brief visits I took my best pal Gwen. Nanzo received her with great warmth and love as well. Gwen adored Nanzo and asked repeatedly to show her how to cook Indian food. Nanzo said certain things had to happen for Gwen to be ready for her lessons though. Nanzo had coached me in technique a little but I knew even as her white daughter that I still had some time before I was entirely approved in the kitchen. Flora and her sister had been my main teachers in Trini cuisine with some advice and lessons from a couple of the students Mr. Lime was tutoring academically.

By the time I left Trinidad I was able to adequately produce quite a number of local dishes including roti, which is something I still make periodically, but almost always on a birthday since it is a family favorite.

Back in December Diana wanted to learn to make roti herself. Recently she kneaded and rolled her first solo batch, though I fried because it's just easier to keep the rhythm with two cooks. As I was frying up the dough, Calypso came up to me and asked, "Will you please teach me to make roti soon? I've always thought in the back of my head I won't be really grown up until I know how to make roti."

I smiled,said yes, and told her Nanzo will be so proud.

You Shouldn't Have...Really

As a child I would visit my father who was the caretaker of his brother's scenic farm. I've already told you about the cemetery on the hill I enjoyed sitting in. There are other memories as well. My uncle rented the pastures to the dairy farmer whose property adjoined ours. My father raised chickens and pigs. My grandfather had an enormous vegetable patch. Even though I was only a weekly visitor to the farm I had chores there. It was my job to feed and water the pigs and chickens as well as gather the eggs. The pigs I was quite fond of. They were cute and friendly. I'd spend time talking to them and watching them. I was always a bit distressed when it came time to take them to the slaughter house.

The chickens were another matter entirely. As chicks they were adorable but they'd grow up quickly. Then they were dirty, smelly, and stupid. Every time I'd go in to feed and water them they'd peck at me like I was the food. I kind of figured any creature dumb enough to attack me when I was providing for its needs sort of deserved to end up on my plate. When it was time for my grandfather to fetch the hatchet I felt not the least bit of sadness for those birds. I didn't necessarily want to watch the carnage but I was not disturbed by the thought of it. My tears were reserved for the pigs. And yes, I believe I cried over a plate of bacon once.

Going back to the cemetery memories, you may recall me saying how as Halloween approached my visits grew less frequent because I was afraid of its inhabitants rising from the graves to snatch me away. Apparently, it was not the deceased humans I should have been worrying about. As evidenced by the award Cooper has bestowed upon me, the Zombie Chicken Award, it was the poultry I should have feared.

“The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all…”

First of all, I had no idea there was any threat from Zombie Chickens. I want to know at what level of threat the Homeland Security Department would classify this. How dire a situation is this? Is deep frying an effective counter-measure?

Secondly, I am not sure if I should be worried that the content of my blog might be considered of such quality that it would distract anyone from their patriotic duty to combat this plague. Well, I've been told I am just a wee smidge subversive but really, I am a bit worried that my drivel could contribute to an ineffective response to the zombie chicken plague. Seriously, I am in a panic about this! I don't know what to do! I am running around like.....uh, um, er...a chicken with its head cut off.

Nextly, I think the dangling eyeball in the picture is a really nice touch. I find the artistry is all in the details like this. It punctuates the ghastly green tone perfectly.

Now, lest I tempt the zombie chickens I've got to pass this thing on to at least 5 people.

Zombieslayer is a no brainer. Wait, that came out wrong. He has a brain...quite a good one in fact...which would be why I am giving him this award. I mean he is devoted to getting us through the zombie plague that is coming so it just seems natural he should get this....or unnatural, since zombies are kind of unnatural and he wants us to defeat them but this award is for distracting us from the plague. Well, I dunno, now I am all confused. He's getting it anyway.

Suldog gets it too because some of the stuff he has posted makes me think the zombie chickens already got him. Oh yeah, he mercilessly shreds any award bestowed upon him. This one though, I think there is a chance he might actually like it. I just want to see what he does. But really, if anyone could make us laugh through the attack of the zombie chickens it will be him.

Mona has already survived the vampiric zombie prairie dogs, if you recall my grand movie meme post, so I think she'll do just fine once the chickens attack.

Fadkog is a recent discovery of mine. She seems at least as warped as I am. Gees, I hope she knows that's a compliment. Really...it is, I swear...well, on the blog I don't swear too much because I don't want to offend. But when those zombie chickens attack all bets are off. If ever harsh language is called for I think a zombie plague is it. But I digress, Fadkog is someone I'd stomp a few undead chickens to read.

VE is the final recipient. I am sure he'd find a way to blog ABOUT the zombie chickens and make it entertaining. He'd come up with a poll or some bizarre picture or a Weekly World News type report on them. Bat Boy Joins Forces with Zombie Chickens or some such sounds like the type of headline he'd generate.

Ok, now that my civil duty of proliferating this insanity is complete my next big question is deciding if the zombie chickens go better with Tex-Mex barbecue sauce or Jamaican jerk rub.

Friday 55 & Da Count-Open Windows

Andrew Wyeth's Wind from the Sea

DA COUNT in a FRIDAY 55
(Counting the good stuff in 55 words. Let Lecram know if you've counted blessings and G-man know if you've counted words.)

The wind didn't come from the sea but yesterday was the first day it was warm enough to throw open every window in my house and air the place out. Mountain air fresh from early spring showers wafted the smell of warm, fertile earth through my windows to carry away the staleness of winter. Aaaahhh.....

Slice of Lime-A Note to My Son

Dear Isaac,

I love you dearly. You are my son. You are the calm brother to two polar opposite and extreme sisters. You are my partner in wordplay. You make me laugh every single day. I adore you.

You are 13 now, which means your personal daily caloric intake is roughly equal to that of some small Third World nations...and yet you remain svelte. This is one of life's unfairnesses because if I merely fantasize about chocolate for more than 30 seconds I gain weight but such is life.

My real complaint is this. While I understand you can chug down a gallon of milk per day and you have recently begun to inhale similar quantities of orange juice I would like to politely but firmly request that you manage to spare your mother 4 ounces of skim milk and 8 ounces of orange juice for her breakfast each morning. Is that such a vast quantity to ask be held in reserve to splash upon my paltry serving of unsweetened bran flakes enhanced by a meager handful of frozen blueberries so I may start my day with a healthy breakfast in order to function well as your devoted and loving mother?

After all, I carried you in my body for 9 months and sustained you. When I saw your 9 1/2 lb newborn self, complete with a cranium the size of a small cantaloupe, I didn't even mind the 17 1/2 hours of labor followed by being gutted like a deer so you could enter this world since there was no way that melon head of yours was going to pass naturally. I won't even mention the stretchmarks that occur when a 5'4" mother carries a baby that big, or the way my feet permanently widened so much that even after giving birth I had to replace every pair of shoes. I gladly and lovingly nursed you for 18 months even though I could not seem to get through to you that the source of your nutrition was not so highly portable as a bottle may have been. The memory of having you clamp down hard and jerk your head around to take me with you while you tried to follow the activities of your older sisters still causes me to wince. But I endured this for the sake of your well being and health so you could grow strong.

Son, you are 13 and I accept it is difficult to keep enough food in this house for you. I know it will get worse in coming years. I have applied for a second mortgage in order to stock the pantry for next week. I am looking into how much I can get for a kidney and my plasma. In order to be able to recover from the surgery and the constant drain on my system I will require 4 ounces of skim milk and 8 ounces of orange juice each morning though. Should you deny me this comparatively small portion, the guilt of my ensuing osteoporosis due to calcium deficiency, (I am a middle aged woman now. You can probably hear the bone loss as it occurs.) and probable demise is on your head.


Lovingly,

Your Mother

And Now for Something Completely Useless

What do you do when you are devoid of genuine inspiration? Take the most ridiculous quizzes you can find.

Which Annoying B-list Celebrity Are You?

Brought to you by Rum and Monkey.

(It's the hair right?)

Which Horrible Affliction are you?

A Rum and Monkey disease.

(I'm not sure if it's worse to be this or to be water torture personified. I guess at least you're having fun when you contract syphilis.)

You're the Falkland Islands!
(Great, I exist in nearly complete obscurity. How many of you could even find me on a map?)

You're pretty insignificant in the big picture, but when you have influence, it affects the most important people in your world. (Don't try to backpedal, you already called me insignificant.)

Sadly, you don't have much of a will or voice of your own, and it's hard to develop it when your big aspirations are to live on a farm. (Big aspirations are overrated. What's wrong with farm life? I've already got the costume.)

Your emotional life is stormy and windswept, but you have a few close friends that follow you like, well, sheep. (Limey had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb...)

Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid