Liberal or Conservative: I Don’t Know
Mamacita says: Someone asked me the other day whether I was a liberal or a conservative. I answered truthfully: I don’t know.
It varies with the subject.
It depends on the issues.
With some topics, I lean towards the liberal left and with other topics I lean towards to conservative right.
Mostly, I think I stand proudly straddling the dividing line, waiting to hear details and facts about the subject at hand before I speak up.
It seems to me that if you declare yourself to be liberal, or conservative, then certain things are expected of you, and when you fail to deliver those expected things, people are upset.
How can anyone be 100% either way, on EVERYTHING? I don’t think anyone can.
If the truth were told, I think most people have liberal leanings in some areas and conservative leanings in other areas.
What’s the matter with standing in the middle and choosing the battles on which I declare a
liberal or conservative stand, carefully?
Even those subjects on which I lean to the right, there are many paths leading to the left there in plain view, and vice versa. I don’t think I’m 100% conservative or 100% liberal on anything. I have a hard time believing in people who claim to be all or nothing either way.
Is this good? Is this bad? I don’t know. It’s me. If you ask me what I think, I will tell you. After 26 years in the public schools, I’ve seen a lot, both good and bad. I’ve seen parents at their best and at their worst, as anyone does in any job. I am of the belief that it is very hard sometimes for a parent to evaluate his/her own child. Sometimes, we have to step back and look with someone else’s eyes. But even after all I’ve seen, I still believe that most people mean well. Most people are good people.
Unless, of course, they are too stupid to think for themselves, and must rely on a guru of some kind.
Beware of the guru, my friends. A guru is simply someone who’s found an audience of suckers. Suckers with money.
When it comes to certain issues, I proudly take a stand. Even then, I’m a mix of both leanings. Why not? Few things are absolute, and I am a mixture in my definition of absoluteness.
In issues concerning children and young people, I tend to be conservative with a BIG dash of quirkiness and humor. To be conservative and have no sense of humor? God help us all with THOSE people.
In issues concerning politics and religion, I tend to be liberal with a BIG dash of quirkiness and humor. To be liberal and have no sense of humor? God help us all with THOSE people.
And depending on the particular item under discussion, those leanings can turn on a dime.
My mild courteous stance with people who raise welts on tiny children is a tad on the conservative side. Whereas my liberal leanings are demonstrated by my name-calling skills. Just kidding.
But in case there is any doubt, I am far from liberal and far from conservative when it comes to children. I am MYSELF. If any child stands before me with welts, I will have someone’s sorry ass hauled before the judge faster than anyone can tell me which Pearl chapter tells parents they MUST humble their children and force them to acknowledge their parents as their masters. If you brag that your child would, without hesitation, jump out of the window of a moving vehicle if you so commanded him or her to do so, you are an idiot and a beast. I find this mindset appalling.
I did not have children so I could show off blindly obedient little zombies who flinched when I moved and jumped when I spoke. I had children not just because my birth control pills failed, but because I WANTED children. Real children, with minds of their own.
My children did not misbehave in public. They knew better. We taught them to know better with means other than blood, welts, and tears. We occasionally spanked, but it was with a bare hand on a little bottom, and not with a tree branch on fragile little legs or hands. And we didn’t have to spank very much. I hope it was by example that my children learned how to behave. I’m sure Sara will chime in with her version if I’m wrong. My children turned into adults – interesting, quirky, hilarious, honest, kind, helpful, generous adults.
My children are beautiful.
Children are the most valuable things on the planet. They are ours for such a short time. Why do people use those few years to hurt them, and hit them, and make them bleed? The obedience these people seek can be had by simply loving them, and showing them by example. And, ok, once in a while whomping their little bottoms so they don’t run out into traffic or drink Drano. But if a trained seal is what some people want, I wish they’d just steal one from a zoo and let someone with a kind heart and a working brain and some common sense raise the children. And then rot in jail for theft of the seal.
Elected officials who serve special interests and big business are stealing from our children. I place them in the same category as those who physically hurt a child.
Now. Am I conservative or liberal? You tell me. I honestly don’t know.
I don’t care, either. It’s not like a label will make any difference.
I’m Eleven Years Old. Old School, That Is.
Mamacita says: Old school? Me? Yes. Eleven years ago, a former student told me that I should start a blog. “You’ve got such a lot to say about the world,” he said. “Who cares what I think about the world?” I replied. “Lots of people would,” he said.
I couldn’t imagine that. I’m nobody. I wondered if he was right. I guess he was, because I’ve been to conferences all over the country, and spoken to crowds of people, both individually and on panels. People seem to recognize me even before they see my name tag. People tell me that such-and-such a post really helped/spoke to them/influenced them, etc. It’s really, really humbling. And exciting. And humbling. Who would have thought it? Me, with a large readership and people who seemed to like me and take me seriously? It’s like a dream. The good kind, that comes true because you never dreamed it would be possible but it really did and you’re in shock and awe and Oz and Wonderland. And Narnia and Hogwarts. And the Tardis. And all the people who live in those places.
I’ve met so many wonderful people during this journey. Some of them are still virtual friends, while I’ve met many face-to-face, but I’ve also learned during these eleven years that online friends can be as real as face-to-face friends. Sure, there are creeps out there, but no more so than the number of creeps at the mall.
I’ve learned not to be afraid of the world. The world is actually pretty awesome, and it’s full of cool things and fantastic people. Sure, there are fiery volcanic pits and treacherous waterfalls and cockroaches and people who lie, cheat, & steal, but there are also rainbows and sunsets and flowers and people who are good, true friends. The forever kind.
That I would still be here eleven years after beginning this funky little blog is amazing to me, and yet, it’s also unthinkable to abandon it, as many are abandoning blogging for the shorter Twitter and Facebook. Oh, I’m on those, too, but this blog saved my soul alive eleven years ago, and it’s done nothing but nourish me ever since. I am so grateful to the internet. Really, I am. It’s a world that was always there, but we had no way of accessing it easily. Now, we can travel anywhere, see anything, contact anyone, and work for a business that’s a thousand miles away, in our pajamas, at midnight.
Thank you, dear readers, for making me feel special. Eleven years is as an eternity in the internet 
world, but somehow I don’t feel old when I’m here. I’m happy when I’m on Scheiss Weekly. I’m happy reading your comments. I love visiting YOUR blogs. I love visiting with you on the other social media sites, too, but I don’t think anything could ever completely replace a blog. In eleven more years, I guess we’ll find out.
Also, I wonder if you really understand the title of this blog. Scheiss Weekly. Who speaks German? C’mon. I tried to get Scheiss Daily, but somebody already owned it.
I was traumatized when I began this blog, and the title reflected that. I’m fine now, but the title keeps me humble. And fairly sane, although my children might argue that fact.
Time marches on. Time flies. And yet, it really doesn’t. Time stands still. We march. With every blink of the eye, yes, and briefer even than that, our lives are moving ever swiftly towards their ends. It’s this middle that we must make the most of. I am. I hope you are, too.
Here’s to eleven more years. At a time, anyway. A day at a time, and they add up to years.
I love you all. Literally.
Morel Mushrooms, Hoosier Style. As If There Were Any Other Way.
Mamacita says: It’s that time again; the morel mushrooms are back. That’s right; the snow is finally gone and the semester is almost over and the MOREL MUSHROOMS ARE BACK.
Did I mention that the morel mushrooms are back?
It’s that time again. The morel mushrooms are here.
THIS is a morel mushroom. Accept no substitutes.
My kids still speak wistfully of the day they visited their step-great-grandmother Margaret Stobie Crowder (she whom John Dillinger once tried to carjack. . . .) and she shared with them her unbelievable and, naturally, SECRET, morel mushroom patch.
Remember now, Hoosiers do not share this kind of secret with ANYBODY. People who will show a stranger their genital surgery scars will not share a morel mushroom location with their own mothers. Margaret took the kids across her fields and invited them to help themselves to the mushrooms.
They were everywhere. It was like a planted crop. You couldn’t take a step without stepping on morel mushrooms. They were all afraid to move, because around these parts, folks, you just don’t STEP on morel mushrooms if you can help it at all. They’re too valuable!!
How valuable are they? Well, if you can bear to part with yours, you can easily sell them for fifty bucks a pound. But it’s rare to find anyone who would part with them.
They came home fully loaded.
We once went to dinner at a friend’s home, and when we got there, she was preparing morel mushrooms as a last-minute addition to the meal. It seems that the night before, her husband had gone to their secret mushroom patch and had dumped two huge buckets of morels into their kitchen sink. All the guests were flabbergasted; usually, people don’t share their found mushrooms with others, either. To this day, none of us can remember what the main dish was at that meal. All anybody can remember is the mushrooms.
Except for me. Naturally, except for me. I am a freak, for I do not care all that much for morel mushrooms. I enjoy preparing them, but as for eating them. . . . well, let’s just say that everybody wants to sit by me, because I don’t eat mine and am happy to share.
And speaking of preparing them. . . . don’t let anybody tell you to use crushed saltines!!!
The proper Hoosier method is to let the mushrooms soak in salt water overnight*, and the next day, to mix together a little flour and a little cornmeal and a dash of salt, coat each mushroom, and fry in butter for just a few minutes. Remember to turn them. Don’t let the butter burn. Don’t overcook. A few minutes is all they need.
Pan-fried morel mushrooms, Hoosier-style
Let them cool just enough to tolerate, and turn your crowd loose on them. There will never be enough.
Back in the middle school, my students used to bring breadsacks full of morel mushrooms and sell them to the teachers for twenty dollars apiece. The teachers got morel mushrooms for bargain rates, and the students got cash. It worked out pretty well for both parties concerned. I never bought any from a student; it wasn’t that I didn’t trust them, it was just that, well, I’d seen these same kids try to tell the difference between a noun and a verb all year, and pick wrong every time. There was something about believing that they could tell the difference between a mushroom and a toadstool and pick correctly every time, that just didn’t hit me quite right. I’m sure they knew; outdoor kids know these things. It was just a feeling I had.
This practice would probably be frowned upon today. It’s too much like a drug deal, except that morel mushrooms were more valuable.
As for the finding of them, I am probably the only Hoosier in the history of the state who not only doesn’t like to eat morel mushrooms, but also can’t find them even if they’re right there by the toe of my shoe. I can’t SEE them. I also tend to step on them, which makes me the kid who is picked last for anybody’s mushroom team. Usually, I just stay home and get ready to cook them when they’re brought home, whether I end up with a bowlful or a handful.
But if you live around these parts, around this time of year, around now, anywhere you might go, you won’t be able to escape the morel mushroom stories. In southern Indiana, we’d rather hear about the morel that got away, than about your boring old six-feet-long fish that got away.
And since I don’t care for them myself, that would be the “Queen’s We” that I’m using here.
I love to say that. It sounds so borderline.
P.S. Morel mushrooms are not the same thing as the big round white puffball mushrooms that grow in formations we here call “fairy rings.” And be careful when you cook up a puffball; there are all kinds of puffballs and they all look alike. The ones that grow in fairy rings are usually safe, though. Usually. Always check before you bite.
This is a fairy ring. Go ahead and eat it.
If you slice a white puffball mushroom in half and it’s solid white inside, it’s probably safe to eat it. If you slice a white puffball mushroom in half and there is anything other than solid flawless white inside, dispose of it before it kills you.
In fact, when it comes to mushrooms, if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing, it’s safer not to do it. Let someone else bring mushrooms to you. Some of them are deadlier than cobras.
And some are the tastiest thing you’ll ever encounter in your life.
Choose wisely.
P.S. Always leave one puffball in the fairy ring and let it dry. When it’s completely dry, kick it and let the spores fly. That’s how you get the fairy ring to come back the next year. Require your children to take turns being the kicker. Keep track. This is an honor.
It’s, like, science or something.
