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My beef with Christmas

  I’m sorry for those who are fa-la-laing it through this month but I’m disenchanted.
  Back in the glory days of Christmas past there was drunken caroling, eggnog, and HOMEMADE presents. And more eggnog, but I digress, now we are so commercialized that no one dreams of daddy going outside and witteling a toy train for junior. Or mother painstakingly stitching little miss a new dress. We just go out on black Friday and trample Walmart employees to death (who by the way aren’t making enough to participate in the “sale”) so that we can get our overly spoiled children the newest electronic garbage. Which they want five of and will cry for days if “santa” doesn’t come through.
  Speaking of Santa, the myth was always told to me that elves worked for most of the months of the year MAKING toys. Well if the toy clearly came from toys R us, then what part did the elves have? Did they go BUY said toy? THAT’S ABSURD!
  My parents never perpetuated the Santa thing, from an early age I knew mom and daddy were working their bums off so I could get my copy of David Copperfield and my brand new jammies. My step kids however are told the Santa thing by just about their whole family. Which I think makes them ungrateful for the sacrifices we make for them, and is unrealistic in this time because NONE of the toys they want are homemade. They may be made by other children working 15hr days in sweatshops, but not by someone who cares for them.
  When did Christmas lose it’s magic? It’s angels, and the spirit of Christmas where everyone wishes for world peace and buys tiny Tim a goose so he has a meal? Now we’d push tiny Tim down the stairs if it meant we could be that much closer to the new leappad mini. Or force tiny Tim to make it for our children. For all of our children. Why does no one else see this as absurd?
  This is my beef with Christmas: it’s gone too far. Make your kids a new hat and gloves this year. YouTube search how to do this. Also make them wander into the slums and help at a soup kitchen, or make them go around handing out toys to underprivileged children. But don’t trample any more of those wonderful retail workers who bust their butts just to put food on the table for their own families. Oh yeah, and drink a bunch of eggnog. It’s the only good thing left in this crap holiday.

Roman Theater at Sabratha, Libya

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A Jug Of Wine, A Loaf Of Bread, And Virtual Thou • archaicwonder: Roman Theater at Sabratha,….

Roman Theater at Sabratha, Libya 

The port city of Sabratha was established around 500 BC as a Phoenician trading-post that served as a coastal outlet for the products of the African hinterland. It was part of the short-lived Numidian Kingdom of Massinissa before being Romanized and rebuilt in the 2nd and 3rd centuries AD.

Sabratha’s amphitheater was probably built during the reign of the Emperor Commodus (AD 161-92), with its three orders of columns of the frons scenae (the elaborately decorated background of a Roman theatre stage). It had a capacity of 5,000 seats.

Sabratha reached its monumental peak during the rule of the Severans. The city was badly damaged by earthquakes during the 4th century, particularly the quake of AD 365. It was rebuilt on a more modest scale by Byzantine…

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The Truth About Thanksgiving: Brainwashing of the American History Textbook

Broken Mystic

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Those who are indigenous to this land we call “The United States of America” have been long misrepresented and pushed out of American history textbooks in favor of glorifying those who now rule this nation and represent the dominant culture. What kind of democracy are we when education institutions and teachers refuse to mention the fact that 10 to 30 million Natives were killed at the hands of European invasion and colonialism? What is the point of having a “free market of ideas” when selective and biased history is being taught to our children?

There is no other way to put it, but erasing the memory of an entire race of people through distorted history is a systematic way of deceiving and lying to our children. Not only are we presented with biased history, but we are also subjected to an ever-growing culture of capitalism, in which commercialization of an…

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Thankful

     This year I have a lot to be thankful for; mostly mundane things, for instance I’m thankful when I smashed my toe that it didn’t fall off to spite me for thunking it so thoroughly. Or how thankful I am that everything I’ve managed to set fire to at work, has been contained in an oven, and was relatively easy to extinguish.
     But the main thing I’m thankful for is my latest addition to my pile of friends (yes it’s a pile, maybe they like it that way, don’t be so judgmental).  I’m very thankful that in January of this year (2013) I met my favorite rhino/mermaid Farrah Yarwood.
   Let me back up; in January I received a job in dietary at a nursing facility very close to my house (and the best one there is) (ever), and met Farrah who trained me to be a dietary aide. I was so confused after that day of training I wanted to cry. Luckily I got trained by others so I didn’t mess up too terribly (or cry into someone’s chocolate milk). I’m pretty sure it was the second day knowing her that she turned to me and said: “would you want to be my friend if I was a rhino?” To which I replied: “fucking right I’d ride you to the bar and shout ‘one shot for me and an extra for my flipping RHINO!!'” And it’s been love ever since.
   One day I dragged my husband out to the local bar because he “had to meet this amazingly nice girl that works with me.” Farrah ran up to greet him shouting (drunkenly) “YOUR MOTHER’S A BITCH!” To which he got offended and she proceeded to apologize the rest of the evening for (whilst I laughed uproariously and tried to pass off as a cough) (didn’t work by the way).  After his encounter we decided we should adopt Farrah as our third child (or sisterwife ) so she became my bestfriend-sisterwife-daughter! (Pennsylvania can be as bad as west Virginia y’all).
   Farrah and I have come up with multiple inside jokes relating to our awesome dancing ability, our cooking skills, and other things we do that’s awesome and may end up hurting us. (Or catching on fire) (indeed our dance moves are sick enough to be flammable).  We even wrote a whole new version of the night before Christmas: t’was the night before Christmas and all through the facility, not a creature was stirring, not even a pushpa. The cookies were set by the oven with care, the smell of burning plastic filled the air, and that’s how we knew team feather was there!
  I’ve fallen in love with Farrah’s little quirks, like how when her social anxiety acts up she will just spout the first thing that comes to her mind, like “so, one time  I was head butted by a goat and I bled internally!” And I’m confident she loves mine too! I think.
  Life tosses us some hard balls (sometimes it tosses lawnchairs as well), but sometimes it tosses us a blessing (or a rhino)! And I’m forever grateful to whatever is up there for letting Farrah come into my life. She makes up for a whole lot of lawnchairs.

Back to knitting.

So, I recently got overly obsessed with a series of books. (wheel of time, it’s 14 books with about a thousand pages each.) All of my free time went to reading them, and I mean ALL. I would sit down with my tea, (a nice Earl grey, because I’m cultured and shit) and read after every shift at work, and before.

For the past few days every time I read I’d get antsy, maybe jump up and do a few jumping jacks, then try to return to a world where women weave magic like I wish I could do to yarn! Then it hit me. (Not literally because even yarn, thrown with enough force, could hurt.) I should try to knit instead of reading! Or mix the two in a creative way! (that last one is a no-go…I managed to tie myself to the book. Still not 100% on how that happened.)

So! I pick up my needles and start a new project! A scarf, because it’s getting cold. And my neck was cold at the time. And BOOM! The ants-in-my-pants are sated! Ah how I missed making things with yarn! I’d like to believe the yarn missed me as well, in a soft, silky, I’m-just-string sort of way.