Pre-entry announcement: After you enjoy your Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, mosey on over to the Etsy Art Painting Showcase where one of my watercolors will be featured. All you have to do is select said category in the left hand drop down box.

So the holidays are upon us which means that The Breaux Siblings have begun discussing New Year Plans. We don’t do resolutions per say, but we sure like to commit to something personally meaningful when the fresh calendar goes up on wall. For me, 2009 was an ENTIRE YEAR of music and art therapy. It’s been real. I’ve grown. How to top that? Brother had this really awesome idea to set up a camera in his new apartment and take a picture every day at the same time. At the end of the year he would time-lapse it into a beautiful illustration of life and seasons. I wish I had thought of that.

Instead, I’ve borrowed an idea from a feminist writer, who borrowed the idea from one of her Feminist Studies professors in college: Read nothing but books written by women for one whole year. It’s pretty ambitious for me and let me explain why. I went to a college prep high-school where I was required to memorize portions of The Bible (Old Mouldly Testament at that), The Prologue to Romeo and Juliet and for reasons I will never understand, The Lord’s Prayer in Old English (a nasty, foul language). Later, I matriculated at LSU where worship of Great Southern Male Authors is something of a religion. Sure, I had a class with an old bat who actually took tea and vacations with the incredible Eudora Welty, but my professor dismissed this relationship flippantly with a, “but let’s talk of Faulkner shall we?” Gag. Then I went to law school.

So when I read of this idea, this amazing idea, it struck me as revolutionary. Which is pathetic. And precisely because of the pathetic-ness of the whole situation, I feel Great about my 2010 plan. It’s exactly what I need to do. Preparation will be what determines success or failure in my little endeavor. I’ll have to start making my Book List in advance, which I will publish here. You, friend, could contribute with recommendations. I might even take them. I also might shoot for some number goal like, say, 50 books. And I’m allowing myself one male indulgence: should the venerable Philip Pullman publish, I shall read.

I thought of doing this with filmmakers too, but that’s just not going to happen. I am infinitely more lazy about what I watch. Case in point: I’m off to see the decidedly un-feminist New Moon this afternoon.

With less than a month to go, I’m only half-way though my Christmas knitting project.  So now is the time when I start asking myself: were you insane?  What made you think you could knit six pairs of gloves in eight weeks? I do have two cats, I sip tea before bed, I get crotchety if my sleep is interrupted; I should have been the favorite here.  Instead, Saturday found me manically knitting an entire glove (bottom right) in just under two hours.  If this girl could have one wish for Christmas it would be for a half-time delay. Santa, couldya just give me a few extra weeks?

When I set out, brush in hand, I intended to give expression to the therapeutic experiences of the last year.  I’m not exactly sure that the end result reflects those intentions.  Still, it was a learning experience.  I’ll likely never use gold in a painting again.  I’ll never foolishly paint acrylics under oils – that snafu alone made me want to crush this canvas into a million zillion bits.

I’ve been at this piece for over two months and I believe that’s probably why I’m so sick of it.  I was emotionally ready to finish this, but my artistic impulses are currently elsewhere: I’m writing a really long poem ya’ll.

I’ve put down Curtis Setterfield’s novel about being a teenaged girl. Closed.  Finished.  Finally. It took me several months to slog through this return to the odd years  and at first I attributed it to bad writing.  Only, Setterfield is a great writer and I was ignoring a simple truth:  high-school is a painful place to re-visit.

I attended a prep school with a few similarities to the one in the book.  So, imagine my confusion when Setterfield’s work made me think not of my own high-school experience, but of law school.

Many students at my public law school referred to it jokingly as Paul M. Hebert High.  Like most jokes, this one had a strong note of truth.   Life in the microcosm of the law center was disorientingly like returning to antiseptic classrooms, awkward sex, and waiting for the last bell to ring.   I remember the not infrequent feeling of being mis-understood by schoolmates.  Particularly those with penises. Just like in high-school.  I’ll recount one incident to illustrate:

Early on in law school I was dumb (later, I would make a brilliant encore in stupidity) and I briefy entertained the idea of dating a fellow student.  Worse, this guy was in my section.  Dating a guy in your section is sort of like if you were to date the guy that sits next to you in first through seventh periods  - if it doesn’t work out, you’re stuck having to look at him. Really close-up.   Anyway, this guy seemed super-nice.  Indeed, he is a nice guy.  We talked, sometimes very earnestly about things like the past and the future.   We watched a few movies together.  We both really wanted to like each other,but there was no spark .   For my part, I had grown attached albiet not romantically.  I felt lonely in the sea of Sperry topsiders and croakies.

One thing I found curiously refreshing about this guy was his modesty.  I’d never met a boy who was so modest and so thoughful about what showing off body parts can mean to a girl.  He seemed to know that intimacy is complicated.

Then came Halloween.  In law school everything is an excuse for excess, but the Halloween party tends to border on amazing, profound and creepy excess.  The Guy, Mr. Modesdty, decided to pull out all the stops for Halloween.  This apparently meant pulling out  his package and going dressed in a thong and a bowtie.  The guy partied the night away while his male-ness jiggled back and forth to the beat.  I stared.  I can’t deny it.  I stood there with my angel wings vibrating to the bass and stared a lot.  Not because he was well-endowed or because I was upset.  I was AMAZED.  Where had this person come from?  Did I know this guy?  Did I want to?  The answer was a resounding no.  I did, however, want to save him.  I recall another friend standing next to me as we watched The Guy shake it on the dance floor.  Said my friend, “You know, I’d do something stupid like that if I didn’t want to run for govenor one day.”  Picture the all-consuming weirdness.

Days later, the boy and I officially broke our thing-that-hadn’t-been- a-thing off at his behest.  One of the nails in our law school romance’s coffin was allegedly the fact that I acted like a jealous psycho the night of the Halloween fete and stared him down the whole night long.  Enter feeling of being a high-school teen.  WHAT?  WHAT?  Of course I stared you down.  You sleep in full pajamas and look at your baby pictures at night.  How are you also thong guy? How could I so fundamentally misunderstand you?  How could I be sooo misunderstood?

That, to me is the discomfort of  high-school.  One day the whole world get turned over and it’s like everyone is playing a persistent and sick game of opposite day. Oh, someone did something totally weird and off-putting?  Good thing it’s opposite day so today that thing is AWESOME!  Needless to say there was much back-slapping and high-fiving of The Guy who thereafter rose to 1L super-stardom.

I’ve got a problem with Temple Grandin’s book Animals Make Us Human.  I was really going to let my frustration about this book subside.  Partly because I’m sure everyone is tired of my bottomless interest in animal welfare and partly because I don’t know if I can come off without sounding like a raving animal rights looney.  Well, readers and labels be damned, I just can’t help myself.

My problem with this text is very specific and limited.  I dig some of the writing.  There is just the small problem of the chickens (and all their welfare represents).

See, the first portion of Animals Make Us Human outlines in detail the emotional welfare issues at stake with cats, dogs and horses.  Among these is an animal’s innate need to be free to do doggy/kitty/horsey things.  Gradin even goes so far as to suggest that free-roaming dogs may be less safe, but they are probably emotionally healthier than their house-bound-bored-stiff brethren.  I tend to agree.

The last portion of the book considers the welfare of wildlife in captivity , particularly those in zoos.  Much is made of the importance of a zero stress environment.  So much so that Gradin advises against tranquilizing animals for blood sample collection.  Rad. I’m with her.

Then there is the middle portion of the book devoted to cows, pigs and chickens.  You know where I’m going with this.  Stockyards and slaughterhouses.  This isn’t the vegetarian in me writing; this is the kid raised in a farm-like environment at the keyboard.  I won’t argue with Grandin’s analysis of cattle and pigs.  That would be presumptuous of me.  I don’t know enough about their behavior.  However, when it comes to chickens, just call me field-observer extraordinaire.

My childhood saw a better part of many afternoons inside a chicken coop or carrying around one of my grandfather’s bantam hens.   These chickens were the kind I would consider healthy physically and emotionally.

Grandin mentions that chicken welfare requires the reduction or elimination of certain industry practices.  Still, I don’t think this is the end of the issue.  The behaviors Grandin cites (excessive pecking, feather pulling, aggression etc.)  are, in my (limited) experience, signs of chicken insanity. Healthy chickens don’t do these things with any consistency.  Also, I’m not sure what separates these chickens from the chickens in the petting area of the zoo or peacocks, guinea fowl and other common zoo birds.  According to Gradin’s logic, zoo chickens would be handled with kid gloves while industry chickens, well, let’s just hope they don’t suffer needless injury or go crazy from totally un-chicken-like housing.  And then.  And then.  If that chicken becomes a pet, all sorts of other standards begin to be applied. Thinking about animal welfare this way has always made my brain want to explode.  I just don’t see the distinction.  Aren’t all chickens created chicken?

What saddens me most is that I suspect industry chickens aren’t simply becoming insane over time, but more and more often, are born that way.  It takes no time at all to breed ten generations of chickens in captivity.  Over time, family lines may become permanently and detrimentally rewired.  You can’t create an environment ensuring welfare if you’ve genetically screwed the entire population.  That, to me, is the cruelest trick.  What’s the point of having chickens around at all if their lives are one consistent misery?  Regardless of whether engineered meat makes the practice of keeping meat animals obsolete and thereby threatens their population on this planet (or creates new and novel welfare issues), at least a chicken breast grown in a petri dish won’t suffer. Industry, as represented by the thoughtful and good-intentioned Gradin and many others, seems totally incapable of solving the animal welfare issues it’s created.

PS – Slap me on the back next time you see me because I restrained myself from re-writing this whole entry to accommodate some tirade against Pilgrim’s Pride and its kind.

And Christ effed up my order.

Recipe for Ginger Tea:

three-inch section of ginger root, finely grated

4 cups of water

Today  I stood over the stove with a cheese grater and shredded ginger root into a pot of water.  After bringing the water to a boil, I let it sit for 5 minutes.  At that time, the color of my tea was a dark yellow.  I then strained out the ginger bits and poured myself a cup of ginger tea. Oh, and I added a tad honey.

I’m a lover of all tea chai because of that spicy kick.  Ginger tea is spiced tea gone wild – there is some HEAT  in this stuff. Surprisingly, I really liked it.  Also, I found that it did temporarily relieve my cramping.  This isn’t the same sort of relief that I would get from popping a few Advil, but it also doesn’t have the ugly rebound pain I always get when a pain reliever wears off.  Regardless, I would drink this tea just because I enjoyed the taste – especially as a winter-time relaxer.

Look what came in the mail today!  I can’t overstate how much gladrags.com rocks in terms of shipping.  I placed my order on October 29 and here it is on November 2.  Amazon should take notes.

My order consisted of the gladrags moon cup kit, which includes a moon cup and two washable pads.  My cup is size A – designated for those over 30 or who’ve given birth vaginally.  Size B is for girls who’ve never given birth vaginally and are under 30.  Although technically size B should be my fit, there is only a 3mm difference in the cup sizes and I felt that I should round my age up.  After all, I’m  waay closer to 30 than say, 17.  These sizes refer to muscular fitness within your vagina, which naturally deteriorates with age.

The package couldn’t have come at a better time as I am just starting my period today.  Now, The Keeper people advise you to wait until the last two days of your cycle to do your trial run, but I’ve never been one for waiting so I dove right in.

I had prepared myself for a learning curve and fully expected to be trying at getting my moon cup in place for a while.  This video cut my practice time by a zillion and I actually got it in comfortably and correctly the first time.  Here’s the next minor miracle:after trimming the stem, I don’t even feel it.   Not one bit.  No adjustment period.  No weirdness.  Not at all the same unpleasantness as say the first time you insert a tampon.  NO leaks so far.  No complaints.  I’m thinking of buying all of my menstruating girlfriends  one of these for Christmas!