In search of a sign.

Growing up I was never one for playing house.

 We played school a lot, because Ginny had a real chalkboard in her basement.

 We played Barbies, but our Barbies lived lives that more closely resembled As The World Turns then say Leave It To Beaver. Barbie traveled the world and had lots of boyfriends, she never cooked.

 But we didn’t play house.

Looking back I think maybe six year old me was on to something. Perhaps I knew that I was lacking the “mommy talents” or at least the things often attributed to mommies.

I can’t cook. I can’t decorate. I can’t sew, scrapbook, landscape the yard or take control of any school projects that require the skill set of cutting and pasting. Nor do I like to do any of those things. If I had my druthers the house would grow dusty and the beds would never get made, and we’d eat Oreos, and wait until visiting the homes of those we love who can actually make real cookies-(tollhouse my one true love). There are too many books to read and too many other things that call to me. Things at which I excel.

At the ripe old age of 45 I have come to accept that these “mommy talents” aren’t mine and my children seem to understand that while I will gladly supply cupcakes for the class party they will not be homemade. They also know that they need to assume control of the scissors when it’s project time, and they know how to call grandma if something needs sewing. I have accepted it, and have let myself off the hook about it.

 Most of the time.

 And yet there are times when I have craft envy, lust if you will. Mostly on the rare occasions I find myself in Hobby Lobby and I see all the kits for making Christmas ornaments or the make-it-yourself tote bags or the decoupage supplies. I can do that! I think, and soon I am off and running in my head making personalized reindeer ornaments for everyone I know. But I can’t do it, nor can I paint my house or wallpaper my kitchen-not that I haven’t listened to that voice and tried-with disasterous results.

Today I had one of those days when I thought I can do that.

My little one declared earlier in the week that she wanted to be a STOP  sign for Halloween. Not a witch or a princess or even Elvis like last year. A STOP sign. I requested a few other ideas “just in case” and she listed fire hydrant and rubiks cube. I spent the better part of two days searching for either of those costumes to no avail, and then I did it. I thought to my self  How Hard Can It Be? I Can Make A Stop Sign.

I’ll cut to the chase. Four pieces of red foam board, a sliced off finger tip, and a few crying jags later we are no closer to the stop sign. How hard can it be to cut an octagon? (Harder than one would think if you don’t have the sense enough to start with a square…)

I’m a failure as a mom, I thought, I can’t even make a damn stop sign. Now admittedly I am well aware that costume creation ranks very low on the What Makes A Good Mommy List, but nonetheless it was a long and frustrating afternoon.

 At one point while babbling some sort of ridiculous apology for my ineptitiude and promising that it would work out in the end, little one looked at me and said it’s okay mommy, you are good at lots of other things.

Really? I asked. Like what? (Fishing for validation from an eight year old, how low can you get?)

You take care of people, even people you don’t know. And you help me pick good books at the book fair, and you direct the plays, and tuck me in just right.

So I put away the exacto knife and proceeded back to Hobby Lobby to get professional help. I then let someone who knows how to cut do the cutting because I realized my daughter is far wiser than her mother- and she’s paying attention-

to what I do, how I live, and who I try to be.

Not, what I can’t do, not what I can’t make, not how I come up lacking. 

Now if I can just STOP and remember that more often I might get thru life with the rest of my fingertips.

When it was different and yet…

Today I attended the dedication of the memorial for Harry “Suitcase” Simpson here in my hometown, and wrote about that here:   http://tammyr.wordpress.com/2009/10/24/suitcase-comes-home

After the event at the West Hill Cemetery we ventured over for a reception at the Emery Center, a museum dedicated to the history of African-Americans in our community. I had never been to the Emery Center before. It is housed in what was once the Emery School, where over the course of history the black children of  the community attended school.

I grew up in the South, and I will spare you the details of how I know that racism is alive and well in our little corner of the world; but I am too young to recall the realities of the segregated south. I learned about it in school, studied it, and have an “intellectual” grasp of what happened here; but it is only that, book knowledge.

Today I stood among people who lived it. They were celebrating “Suitcase” Simpson the baseball player, but also the man who accomplished so much at a time when everything was stacked against him. He played ball in the Negro League. I can’t even conceptualize that-an entirely separate  ball team, but today I stood next to those who knew all too well what that was like-separate ball teams, separate bathrooms, separate schools.

Separate hospitals.

That’s what took my breath away. There in the museum was an article about a man, a local Doctor, someone whose family I know well, who had, apparently, the first integrated waiting room in our community. An integrated waiting room. Separate hospitals, doctors who didn’t treat black patients, separate ambulance services.

And I thought to myself, wow, look how far we’ve come; knowing all too well that as far as we’ve come there’s still miles and miles to go. We may not have legally segregated health care, but the realities of  medicine in this nation prove otherwise. Try being poor, a minority, un-insured in the south, or anywhere else for that matter. All is not equal, and we continue to fight and argue about it a if we have all the time in the world.

The musuem had the water fountains, the signs, the relics of a time “long ago” for someone like me. It’s history, it’s a museum.

History, right. But then I saw the cafeteria exhibit and the sign

No Dogs   No Negroes No Mexicans.

History.

Maybe not.

Try being a Latino immigrant in this town. Turn on the tv and listen to a United States Congressman call the President a “liar” over health care for undocumented workers. Listen to the vitriol spewed forth in our daily paper about how our town was so much better before “they” got here. They, the Latino immigrants who work in the very factories that are the economic backbone of our town, they without whom our town would collapse. (And dare I say much of the economy of countless other towns across this nation) They-the object of immigration debates on the television and ugly signs at Tea Parties.

It is so very humbling to stand before the water fountains and to try to imagine what was like, and there’s no way to know, no way to ever comprehend what it was like at all.

We’ve come so very far, and yet…

www.crooksandliars.com and cnn(   http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/09/17/obama.witchdoctor.teaparty/index.html )

image LIFE

trailblazers.com

image: huffington post

Have we?

New normal: week 3

Shortly after Tony the Tiger finishes telling us “it’s grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreat” an announcer’s voice reminds us that “Frosted Flakes are part of a balanced breakfast.”  I’ve always found that amusing, part of breakfast? Not at my house. The bowl of cereal, the poptart, the nutrigrain bar is breakfast in its entirety. I grew up that way, and alas many mornings so have my children.

Until now.

One of the things about having a child with type one diabetes is that food management becomes very important. The better she maintains a healthy diet, the better her overall health. We are three weeks post-diagnosis and I am becoming a pro at carb counting, so is little one. Our challenge on most days is getting enough carbohydrates in her diet. Breakfast is especially challenging.  One bowl of cereal-not enough carbs and not a balanced breakfast meal (balanced is for the record-two breads, one fat, two fruits and a milk) . So, Tony was right. Part of a balanced breakfast-now I get it!

The first days and weeks have been consumed with the details. Learning about food, learning about medication, educating the school, and bringing myself up to speed. It has been busy-mentally, physically, and emotionally. There has not been a lot of time for contemplation, but that’s the norm for parenting anyway isn’t it? We live each day carpooling, homeworking, feeding, bathing, clothing. We tuck them in and wake them up and occasionally get to stop and say wow, it’s halloween already, where do the days go?   It’s only when things go really well, or fall apart, that we  stop and think about life with our children and what it really means to have little ones walking around in the world carrying our heart with them.

Today we had our first post-diagnosis doctor’s appointment. The doc came in and she talked. She talked and talked and talked and talked and talked. There were charts and graphs and numbers and information, and it all boiled down to one thing: My little one has type one diabetes.  As she talked and talked and talked all I could think was Oh please please please shut up. Just. Shut. Up. Because with every word she spoke I suddenly heard my brain announcing See, see this is real. I didn’t want to hear her talk about sugar levels, I wanted her to say Oh, good news, we made a mistake. Your little girl is fine, so go home now. I wanted my own little miracle.

I didn’t get it. What I got was good news-she’s doing fine. As well as can be expected at week three. She’s a healthy, smart, funny, happy little girl.  So I took that news to the parking lot , and after sending little one on her way with her dad, I sat there and cried. I cried and cried and cried as much as the doc had talked and talked and talked.  Then I stopped and drove home.

I guess that ’s the way it is going to be from now on so I’d better learn to listen.
I need to hear the good news-she’s doing fine

and I need to understand that that in itself is my own little miracle.

Every day any of us have with our children is just that-a miracle. A gift.

Not to be squandered.

That makes it all grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreat.

Now and forever

Upon learning that we were to become parents again, ex and I reacted with the cool, calm aplomb that comes from having survived five years with child number one. Or rather, having had child number one survive with us. Our most common refrain was something along the lines of “well we didn’t kill the first one, so we should be just fine.”
In hindsight I think we had it backwards. Of course the first one made it to five relatively unscathed . She was the first, and with first children parents tend to be hyper-vigilante against all possible calamaties. We read the books and followed all the directions.

 
-Outlet plugs 
-Baby sleeping on her back
-Nothing smaller than a basketball in her hands prevented choking 
-Never ever left alone in the room with window blind cords. 
The first one never had a chance because we never let our guard down. 

 
So with an arrogance possessed only by the truly stupid, we pressed on with child two. 
She nearly choked on Barbie shoes. (Child one never had a Barbie until it was age appropriate so there were no shoes lying about the house)
She climbed over the sofa onto the the counter, grabbed a knife and a tylenol bottle and proceeded to attempt to saw the top off. 
She wandered around after her sister getting into everything. Climbing stairs, falling down stairs, eating dirt, swinging high into the air (not securely fastened in baby swing seat),  pulled the few remaining outlet guards from the wall and juggled them. 

It is a miracle child number two made it to eight intact. But she did. 
Magically we arrived at an age when most parents allow themselves to exhale. They are  8 and 13 and we are now comfortable with the knowledge that neither will likely choke on candy or the string of her jacket. They won’t run out into the street without looking, touch a hot stove, drink the cleaning solution. Yes, they are safe. 

Granted, like all parents I harbor the big bad fears-kidnapping, car accidents, freakish acts-of-god. I kiss them on the forehead and whisper a prayer as they head out to school and  worry, but it is a worry that is buried deeper below the surface, the constant worry that comes from having my heart walking around outside my body. 

But all in all,we made it! 
And then, this. 

 
Chronic illness.

Wait a minute, this wasn’t supposed to happen. I never imagined it, never allowed it to cross my mind (lest tempt the fates), never prepared myself. 
Now my little one, who can finally buckle herself into the seat, ride without training wheels, dial 911, is sick. Seriously sick and will live with this for the rest of her life. 

I know, we are lucky. It could be much much worse.  She can be medicated. She can do everything right and have wonderful odds of living a very long life. We aren’t battling cancer or any number of things, we’re battling Type One Diabetes.

 It could be much much worse. And yet, how could it get any worse?

 The side effects, the risk factors, the odds.

For the rest of her life, this will be a part of who she is.
For the rest of my life, this will be a part of me.

I will never again truly exhale and think

We made it.

I remember

He called.

Him, you know, the one that threw me under the bus and then ran over me a few times just for effect. Yes, that him, most recent companion turned companion- to -someone -else -at -the -same -time (geez I’ve got a track record…)

But I digress.

He called, and it was really quite kind, he didn’t have to . He asked about little one and said all the right things. It was  nice and it made me think that maybe way down deep inside the decent guy I believed in still exists.

And it made me cry. I haven’t cried much during all this, but I did then.

Not because it was him. Not because there’s any love left or sentiment or such.

 Rather, because it made me remember.

I remembered that it wasn’t that long ago that I cared about someone else, laughed with him, talked with him, enjoyed time together. It wasn’t that long ago that I worried about someone, and the choice he made and the things that  I know and the truths that are hidden and the heartache yet to happen.

I remembered getting angry about stupid things, and shedding tears over someone who clearly didn’t care.

I remembered actually giving a damn about all that and more.

I remembered a time when my thoughts turned to a million different things and I had the luxury of worrying about nothing worth worrying about at all.

It reminded me of a time before

this.

A time when I cared about something other than my daughter’s mortality.

He called.

It made me cry.

Not for him.

But for her.

And for days before this

And all the days that will come when I will never again be completely free to worry about nothingness.

New normal.

I tried out for the cheerleading squad in the seventh grade. Me, the girl who can’t walk and chew gum at the same time tried to jump and twirl and clap and chant, in sync with other girls, in sync with myself. Needless to say I didn’t make the team. It was no great disappointment, just a rite of passage-doesn’t everyone try out for cheerleading at least once?

So I never had to wear the little skirt or toss the pompoms or dare to crawl to the top of a pyramid, but, in the end, I still became a cheerleader. It seems to be in my DNA.  I’m a social worker, I help people. Or at least, I try. I cheer them on along life, helping them realize their destiny, their best self, or  a way out of chaos and sadness. I love my work with everything I’ve got.

I’m also that way in my personal life. In intimate relationships, in friendships, in everyday encounters, I try to be the one that is a helper rather than a helpee. I’m no saint, not even a truly good person-but I try. Each day. I try.

Sometimes I think that’s my biggest mistake in life.

Today, the first day back at school for little one and I felt like I spent my day singing “two bits four bits” or some variation of rah-rah-rah. Everyone was concerned for her, everyone wanted to know how she was, how she’ll be, how this all came to pass. So I smiled, I recounted the tale, and reassured everyone, truthfully, the she is doing well, that she’s quite the trooper, that  it would all be alright.

At the end of the day I noticed my jaw was killing me.  I realized I’d clinched my teeth for the better part of the day, trying not to cry. I pulled it all off- walking across the playground toward her cottage, helping her make lunch selections, e-mailing her sugar levels to ex.  I got through the day on autopilot.  I answered all the inquiries, smiled, said thank you. I was cheerful.

It’s a defense mechanism I know. Say it often enough and it will be true.

She will be alright.

This is just a curve ball.

We can handle this.

But this is big, bigger than anything I’ve ever dealt with.
Bigger than a divorce. Bigger than failed relationships. Bigger than my health, ex’s health, the health care debate.

I’ve yet to fall apart. I’ve yet to sit down and think. I’ve yet to get quiet.

Because if I get quiet I know  what I’ll hear.

I’ll hear my ex, my baby’s father, ask the doctor about

life expectancy.

She’s eight years old.

We should be talking about playgrounds, and Barbie dolls, and third grade math.

Not

life expectancy.

This is the loneliest I have ever felt in my life.

I feel like a cheerleader without a team. Without a uniform or a damn pompom.

Just me, naked out here without a clue. Yet nothing could be further from the truth.

I’ve got friends and family. I’ve got people I don’t know in any way other than their @name and avatar. I’ve got a network. I’ve got an ex.

I am so far from alone in this.

I just have to re-learn this lesson:

It’s okay to cry.

It’s okay to ask for help, or guidance, or a listening ear.

It’s okay to ask to sit on the sidelines and watch someone else cheer for a while.

And in the end, it really will be okay.

There  simply is no other option.

New Normal

Driving home from school with my youngest today the radio was interrupted by the sounds of the Emergency Broadcasting System. The horn like noise followed by the beeps followed by more horns then the robotic voice dispensing the information that severe weather was headed our way. I knew that already, as I’d seen the lightning strikes down the road before me.

  Years ago ,when I  first moved to Chicago, I found myself at work one day when I heard sirens wailing across town. I panicked as I knew that sirens means DISASTER! BOMBS! GET UNDER THE DESK! yet no one around me moved, or even seemed to notice the shreaking sounds of impending doom. That’s the civil defense alarm, shouldn’t we try to find out what’s wrong? I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.  After what seemed like years, but was most probably a few seconds, my office mate informed me it’s Tuesday, they always test the sirens on Tuesday at ten.  With that I thought to myself  if we ever are bombed I hope it doesn’t happen on Tuesday or we’ll all die sitting here at our desks thinking it’s the test.

I liked the sirens. I like the EBS horn on the radio. I like knowing that something bad may be headed my way. Knowledge is power. Knowledge means I can get under the desk and pray before the bomb hits.

There are no EBS warnings in life.

This weekend we took my little one into the pediatrician for what was to be a routine visit. Within ten minutes the doctor, a personal friend, looked up at us and said- Her blood sugar is over 500, so we will get her up to the children’s hospital and you can see the pediatric endocrinologist and take it from there.

Or he said something like that. In all honesty time stopped and I’m not sure what he said, or what I heard. I just know I looked over at my ex and he had tears in his eyes, and I knew something was wrong, very very wrong.

Over the course of the weekend we heard a lot of different voices telling us the same thing. Our baby is a Type One diabetic at the age of 8.  She will be insulin dependant for the rest of her life, in the absence of new discoveries, cures, or any other miracle. And believe me, when it’s your baby, suddenly miracles become rather important.

In an instant everything changed. Life as we knew it erased in one fell swoop.

I wish there’d been a siren, or a horn, or something to warn us that this was coming.

Though I wonder if it would have helped. Would knowing make any difference? Is there really any way at all to prepare for this?

The past four days have been a whirlwind. I’ve yet to sit down. I’ve yet to rest.      I’ve yet to allow myself to think, to acknowledge, to let it all sink in.

I’m waiting on the little robotic voice to come on after the horn , you know the one that says, in the event of an actual emergency this message would be followed with instructions…

I need my instructions.

 

 

On remembering and legacies

I remember writing something here, in this place once long ago. I was speaking of my ex and of my disappointment over how some people in our community were reacting to his affair, and the ease with which they passed judgement on him, me, our situation.  I said that I believed that we all deserve to be remembered in life for something other than our very worst moment, our worst action, our ugliest thought or words spoken.

I am staring 45 in the face, so I am of a different generation than some. I did not know the Ted Kennedy of Chappaquiddick. I didn’t know the man who struggled with alcoholism, divorce, affairs, and all the other true or rumored activities of his life.  That’s not to say they aren’t important, or are to be diminished, it just says that I knew him when….a different when.

I grew up with  Senator Kennedy,oft presidential candidate. I grew up with an awareness of a man who dedicated his life to the very people most often ignored in our society. The poor, the disenfranchised, the hungry, the sick, the children,and the elderly. A man of great wealth and privilege who championed the cause of those who would never know a life like his. I grew up knowing that despite great personal loss and tragedy, Senator Kennedy never gave up on the things in which he believed. 

Re-reading the obituaries and commentaries of the day are awe inspiring. The realities of  just what this man accomplished, how many lives he changed while working the halls of the Senate, can not and should not be diminished by the memories of his flaws and failings. 

I became a social worker because I wanted to make a difference in the world, and I had no idea what that meant at the outset. Now, many years into my career, I realize how clueless and naieve I was to even think that my work would be a ripple in the waters.  I have done nothing that much I know, but my life has been changed by those I have had the privilege to meet along the way. I have learned how blessed I am, how good my life is, and how thankful I must be for all that I have and all that I simply do not deserve.There is no reason that I have and so many do not.  There is no reason in this wonderful world for children to go to bed hungry, or frightened, or alone. No reason for mothers to worry, fathers to cry, and families to suffer because they have not…no insurance, no job, no home, no hope. There is no reason  for little ones to have cold fingers as they walk to school or for the oldest among us to fear  their final days will be spent alone, forgotten, neglected.  There is no reason that this, the greatest nation on earth, can’t rise above disagreements, partisianship, selfishness, fear, hatred, ignorance, to find a way to take care of one another.

Senator Kennedy may have been a lot of things. He was, no doubt, flawed like all the rest of us; but I believe that he should not be remembered for such, for the worst that he ever was, rather for the greatness, for the effort, for the willingness to try. He didn’t have to do that.  No one has to do that.

But if no one does, than what happens to the rest of us?

I believe we can choose to remember a life of greatness, or to focus on the moments, the very tragic moments, that cast a shadow over his life. I believe we can choose to remember how we would like to be remembered.

Not at our worst, but at our best.

I believe in doing so, in believing in the goodness of a man, and of one another, we save our own souls.

Rest In Peace Senator Kennedy. Godspeed.

“The work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives and the dreams shall never die.”

P.S.A.

I’m going to park this link here for a while.
If you drive, watch this. If your child drives, watch this with them.

It is graphic, but important.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGE8LzRaySk

Sick…over the Sunday opinions

 

This from today’s Chattanooga Times Free Press.

Medical care is important. But of all our basic needs, even medical care comes in a notch below food. Most of us could survive longer without health care than without food.

So, why not create a government-run “public grocery store option” to compete with private grocery chains, just as President Barack Obama wants to create a “public option for health care” to compete with private insurers? President Obama says a public option would keep insurers more “honest,” lest they make what he considers “too much” profit.

But if that’s true for insurance, why not for groceries? If health care is a “right” to be guaranteed to tens of millions of Americans by a “public option,” then shouldn’t government set up grocery stores to compete with private grocers?

That was evidently the point that John Sorrow, Mid-South region president for Cigna Healthcare, made during a recent Times Free Press forum at Erlanger Hospital.

“Do we need a publicly run grocery store to keep Bi-Lo and Publix and Wal-Mart honest?” Mr. Sorrow asked. “I would contend that we don’t need it in health care either.”

He warned that a government-run plan that does not actually face the cost of patient care leaves everybody holding the bag.

“What you create is a death spiral of people that are going to fall out of the private plans and into the government plans, which is going to leave all of us in peril financially,” Mr. Sorrow said.

In understandable concern about rising medical costs, Congress unfortunately is risking imposing far greater costs upon us all through ObamaCare.

 

I’ve written about the health care debate here recently. http://tammyr2.wordpress.com/2009/07/29/an-apple-a-day-if-it-were-that-simple/

I don’t even know if I have anything else to say, but things like this upset me to the core.

Here’s why in a nutshell:

1. He’s a health care  CEO. Of course he is opposed to any change that might limit the out of control profits of health care corporations and insurance companies.

2. This isn’t funny. Going without food isn’t something to joke about. The statistics on the number of Americans, and American children, who go to bed each night hungry and with no idea when they will eat again, are unconscionable and the numbers are on the rise daily. Don’t make jokes about a public option grocery store-until you’ve had to stand in line at a food pantry to feed your child, or you’ve gone to bed hungry. 

 http://feedingamerica.org/default.aspx?SHOW_SHOV=1

3. His facts are all wrong. T here isn’t an ObamaCare plan. The  White House has not formulated any plan. It is leaving that up to  Senate/Congress-and they haven’t even come up with a specific plan. And ANDANDAND, there is NO PLAN for “government run health” currently on the table.  But, we already HAVE such-it’s call MEDICAID. And while Medicaid may be a flawed system, it has managed to provide health care coverage for American seniors for years, many of these same people  are screaming out against “government health care”.

4. Yes, “most of us” could “survive” without health care, in fact a lot of Americans are doing just that-surviving. I just think that in a nation such as ours we shouldn’t be talking about mere survival of our citizens. How about thriving? What’s so wrong with that?

http://www.timesfreepress.com/news/2009/aug/16/8-16-fp2-how-about-public-option-groceries/?opinionfreepress

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Bon Appetit

I will tell you this, when I like a book, I rarely like the subsequent movie version of it.  Some really good  books translated into the most dreadful movies. I may never forgive the makers of  The House of Sand and Fog, or The Hours. But today I saw a movie that I liked as much as the book.

Julie and Julia.

If you’ve seen the trailers you know its about the life of Julia Child and the life of a blogger who attempts to cook her way through Julia’s first cookbook.  The movie was a delight.

Here’s why:

1. It stars Meryl Streep, who is, even while playing  Julia Child, simply stunning. I love her, so much so that I’ve forgiven her Mama Mia, a truly dreadful movie. You cannot help but love Julia as portrayed by Meryl.

2. It is set in Paris and NYC. It is a veritable feast for the eyes as Julia roams the streets of Paris, buying food, flowers, and enchanting the locals.

3. It was a movie about life, living life BIG, about loving and passion-love of what you do and who you are and the people with whom you surround yourself .

The love story of Julia and her spouse will make your heart ache for a love like that. A true partnership with someone who dreams right alongside you.

The love story of  Julia and her food will make you ask yourself  what in my life fills me with that type of joy?

 The love story of Julia (and Julie) and her friends will have you ready to throw a party and fill your home with laughter.

I will tell you, I cried during the movie. I may very well be the only person in the entire place who did, the movie is funny. Nonetheless, I cried, leaving my movie date to stare at me oddly, surely thinking is she properly medicated?

I cried because I am a horribly introspective person and at a  place in my life where I think entirely too much.
What am I doing?
Why am I doing it?
With whom am I sharing it ?
And why?

What is my great passion?

I think it is good to think on these things and to take a panoramic look at ones life from time to time, so I don’t worry to much when I cry in a movie because it makes me do just that.

However, as I’m learning with each passing day-thinking on life is one thing,

Living it quite another.

Living it with gusto.

Living it with laughter.

Living it with  people who share your passion.

Living it with good food, good drink, beautiful surroundings

and love.

Thinking is good.

Living is better.

Julie and Julia is a great movie to  get you thinking about LIVING.

Living and savoring every

single

moment.

Thinking like a grown up?

Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be…but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

An apple a day. If it were that simple.

I have grown weary of late arguing about health care with friends, family, facebook cohorts, twitterers, anywhere and everywhere. I don’t know why I engage in the conversation,  I usually don’t, as I understand that in matters of sex/politics/religion one rarely changes the mind of another. We are all terribly entrenched. But I talk about health care, and I listen even more, because I just don’t understand the resistance.

Deep in my heart I don’t get it, and that makes me sad and frustrated and angry.

Today this from the “blue dogs”

We have successfully pushed a floor vote to September,” Mike Ross (D-Ark.) told reporters Wednesday afternoon. “The American people want us to slow down, and that’s what we’re doing here.”

Celebrating a slow down. Pushing it back ’til September (so they are free to recess for vacation, let’s be clear on the real motive).  Who, I ask, are these Americans that want them to slow down?

Not me.

I don’t understand the resistance to universal health care for all Americans.

I ask you this:
If you already have insurance, and your insurance isn’t going to change why would you be opposed to universal coverage?

If you are already able to see the doctor of your choice (or that of your provider) and that won’t change, why would you be opposed to universal coverage?

If no one is going to take anything away from you-why the opposition?

Everyone likes to throw around the words “socialized medicine”, without understanding what that even means, or understanding that no such option is even on the table for the United States. (Though I would champion that in all honesty.) We aren’t talking single payer, we aren’t talking government controlled, we are talking about UNIVERSAL ACCESS.

This is about having insurance and not having insurance, not public versus private but HAVE OR HAVE NOT; and  if you have it you should get down on your knees and be thankful.

I can’t formulate the words to my satisfaction because for me this is clearly a moral issue. We live in the “greatest nation on earth” and yet our children, elderly, poor, our working families die by the  THOUSANDS  each year because they can’t access even the most basic medical care.  How can that be? How can it be acceptable to us that some have everything and others have nothing-and I’m not talking about possessions or wealth-but basic health. 

Why can’t we get it right in this country, when nations all around us do? Are we not smart enough? Or are we selfish?

The very politicos that wrap themselves in the flag and thump the Bible and chant how we are a nation of GOD, might want to stop and read a moment. Read about doing unto others. Read about  caring for the least of the brethren. Read about the poor and the poor and the poor and how Jesus said we are to take care of the poor-and he talked about that more than ANY OTHER TOPIC in the New Testament.

If we are the greatest nation on earth, if we are a nation of “God”, then we ought to be able to get this right.

Health care. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
If you get sick, you should be able to see a doctor. If your child gets sick, you should be able to see a doctor. You, me, everyone.

I just don’t understand the problem here and it’s making me sad.

outsidemycomfortzone

A little something new  (and with the correct number of “r’s” ).

www.tammyr.wordpress.com

Goodbye Walter.

Growing up I had two idols. One in real life and one on television.

Walter Cronkite and Lou Grant. (Not Mary, Lou)

Walter Cronkite was, I believe, the last of the true journalists.

I am very sad.

Maybe someday when I’m not I’ll write about how I loved Walter and why.

Amen.

On again, off again, maybe, mostly.

July is independence month

but we talk about dependence.

Torpor, memories, ice cream, roaring.

Still trying to blame.

Still trying to accept.

Not enough listening.

What does it mean

not now.

It’s not about love

It’s about focus

He says.

No, I say.

If you still love

I do. He screams.

Then why?

Not now.

Then what, I cry.

We keep going.

We see.

We figure it out again, he whispers.

But not now, someday.

I yam what I yam

I passed a lovely afternoon hopping about art galleries, old bookstores, and the local market where today one of America’s oldest cooperative art galleries was featured. It was quite sublime- the beautiful yellow squash, fresh greens, gorgeous peaches, and art everywhere. A veritable feast for the eyes.

As  I wandered enjoying the art and chatting with the artists I heard the old familiar thoughts running through my head.  Good, great, beautiful, what? What, as in I know some really talented people who can do much better than that.What, as in $500.00? What, as in, wait a minute I think I painted that very picture in college.  And then WHY?

As in Why is that person standing there with a straight face selling that painting for $500.00?

Because she can.

Because he wants to.

Because she believes in herself.

Because he is an artist.

I’ve always craved a creative life. Very early on I dismissed any idea of myself as a visual artist-I can’t paint, I can’t draw, and I can’t throw pottery. (The latter is definitely true, I have the remnants of ceramics class to prove it.) The prior, maybe not so, but I told myself that.  So instead of creating I have satisfied myself with lusting over the art of others, and secretly harboring great jealousy that they have what I don’t.

Same with my words. I have written since I was small enough to hold a pencil. I have been paid throughout my life to write. Press releases, copy work, editorial columns, and the list goes on. However, and I am quick to point this out, I have never referred to myself as a writer. I write “on the side” , I write for fun, but I am not a writer.

Lately I am learning that the difference between  the artists at the market today and myself  isn’t talent, it’s willingness. Willingness to embrace what you are, or what you want to be, and to hell with everyone else. It’s a certain pride, or a self-confidence that I lack. I realized today that I have spent my entire life defining myself by what I am NOT and the result is a life tinged with regret, envy, bitterness, and a generalized pissy attitude.

I have accomplished some great things in my life. I am quite proud of my work, my career successes, my children, my parenting, and even my marriage-despite the end result. And yet I have lived with a self-imposed sense of  yeah but, the but being yeah but look at what I am not.

I’m not a writer

I’m not an artist

I’m not living here, there, or wherever,

I’m not in the house I love.

I’m not with the one I love.

I’m not skinny, fat, a red head, published, calm, patient, giving, understanding….blahblahblah.

My friend and college roomie Phaedra ( http://www.phaedramweldon.com/ )recently wrote that she never referred to herself as a writer until she had her book published, and even then still hesitated-thinking of it as a secondary career. Then, one day she realized and said to herself  “I am a writer”-telling us all that if you WRITE you are a WRITER. Embrace what you are and stop telling yourself  what you are not, she says.

I’ve rolled that around in my head a lot of late.

At 44 the time to insure that I don’t look back with regret on this go round in the world  is NOW.

Instead of bemoaning what I am not, as if I have no control over it, I want to learn to be who I want to be-without imposing whatever twisted logic of limitations I have in my head.

If  I want to write, then I will write.
Or paint, or cook (no, don’t want to do that) or be happier, or live differently-

then why not?

If I am not something I have no one to blame but myself.

Envying others and wondering how they do it gets me no where.

Just do it?
My answer has always been but…because…I’m not… I don’t…that’s against the rules…I don’t know how…what will someone think…I can’t….

whatever.

If I’m not,

it’s my own damn fault.

Fruit gone bad

He might want to consider looking at the families of those beaten or shot or detained,” Obama said. “That’s where Mr. Ahmadinejad and others need to answer their questions.”

That’s my President, speaking yesterday at the White House at a joint press conference with German Chancellor Angela Merkel.

I’ve been told that I’m comparing  apples and oranges, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. To hear President Obama use the words beaten and detained while pointing the finger feels like the height of hypocrisy.

I guess when we’re the ones beating and detaining it’s okay?

I don’t even have the energy to argue this anymore it’s so frustrating.

The supreme court and my momma

My mother always told us that if we got in trouble at school, a la a paddling, we should expect that upon return home we would get more of the same.  I don’t recall any of us getting paddled at school, and frankly only few times was corporal punishment meted out at home.  However, we got the point. We were expected to behave ourselves, especially at school. School was serious business.

On the other hand my mother also raised us to understand that we didn’t have to take shit off anyone. Okay, she didn’t put it like that. What she probably said was more along the lines of  I’m not afraid of any principal. We were taught to follow the rules and do what we were told-as long as it was within reason. As long as our personal rights and liberties weren’t violated.  That, my friends, was quite the  double edged sword.

 As you grow up you pass thru the phase of  preferring to get along without rocking the boat. At ten, twelve, thirteen, you don’t really want to be a rebel for the cause-at least if the cause is getting to sharpen your pencil or something else seemingly benign. Alas in a moment of weakness you’d forget and say something at the dinner table like I didn’t get to eat lunch because… or I didn’t get recess because….and the “because” was most certainly something that would get mom’s dander up.  Don’t get me wrong, she was never a mom like you see many times todays. She didn’t believe her children were darling little angels who did no wrong. The sun did not shine from our ass. Nonetheless, she was a fierce protector guarding against those who would try to wield their authority to a ridiculous extreme.

This often resulted in hearing the dreaded words :You go to school tomorrow and tell your teacher….whatever whatever. And then the even more dreadful words And if you don’t tell him/her you’ll get it from me when you get home. Variations on this theme were Tell him YOUR MOTHER SAID.  Woe was the teacher that had to hear those words, or those followed by Well, then, ma’am, uhm, I need to go call my mother please. (As we were instructed to do should teacher not fully understand and do whatever it is that needed to be done.)

As an adult I find that I am the exact same mother. I am trying to raise children who are respectful and well behaved individuals who understand the role of rules and authority in life. I’m also trying to raise children who understand that sometimes authority must be questioned, rules broken, and that NO ONE is going to mess with them. There are things that adults as authorities get to do, and well, things that they most decidedly do not.

Today the Supreme Court ruled that the search of a young students underwear was unconstitutional. The school was searching for ibuprofen which they believed had been distributed by the young lady to her friend. While I would be the first to tell my daughter that she is not to break the rule on carrying/distribution of meds, I will tell you this right now-had that been my child strip searched at school there wouldn’t be Supreme Court case on search and seizure, there’d be one big assault case because I would have kicked some principal’s ass.

The lone dissenting opinion from the court was written by Justic Clarence Thomas who said: “Judges are not qualified to second-guess the best manner for maintaining quiet and order in the school environment.”

I disagree with His Honor. First, judges -especially Supreme Court judges- are qualified to second guess everything. That’s their job. And second, this wasn’t about maintaining quiet and order, this case was about whether or not someone gets to search my 13 year old daughter’s underpants. 

And to that I say, hell no.

 

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/06/25/AR2009062501690.html

On the streets where we live

I’ve been following the news out of Iran rather intensely the past few days. I found  myself searching out information from as wide a variety of sources as possible, sorting through the reporting, the blogging, the “twittering”, in an effort to get some sort of grasp as to what we are witnessing. Is this a revolution occuring before our very eyes?  What are we to make of the violence? Is this what Tiananmen Square would have looked like had there been the 24/7 world wide focus afforded by the internet?

One of the most frequently mentioned sources of information is the website for Andrew Sullivan at The Atlantic. http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/ .  I read his site on a regular basis, so I found myself turning there for my news on Iran. What I quickly discovered is the more I read at this particular site, the more questions I had. Not, however, questions about what’s happening in Iran, but rather what is happening here in our own country.

With my questions has come a growing sense of discomfort with the way we, myself included, are acting about the activity in Iran. Mr. Sullivan’s site has, to me, a sense of the hysterical about it, and I don’t mean funny. He writes and posts with an almost frenzied sense of urgency. Mr. Sullivan has gone green. The words of the individual eyewitnesses, the people on the streets in Iran, are printed in green ink. The color green has become emblematic as a show of support for the individuals protesting in the streets of Iran, so much so that individual bloggers are covering their social media avatars with a green tint.  We are glued to his site, the news, the coverage, and we are writing and calling for SOLIDARITY with the protesters. And, just in case we don’t truly understand the severity, the urgency, the very seriousness of the situation, he posts a video of a young woman dying in the streets of Iran, and it becomes the video seen round the world, resulting in an almost frantic need to decry what is happening as WRONG WRONG WRONG.

Joining in the call is our own President. Mr. Obama made a statement that  NYT called his  “strongest to date on the post-election turmoil in Iran.( From the Times)  Mr Obama said that “each and every innocent life” lost would be mourned, he added:  “Suppressing ideas never succeeds in making them go away. The Iranian people will ultimately judge the actions of their own government. If the Iranian government seeks the respect of the international community, it must respect the dignity of its own people and govern through consent, not coercion.

And then President Obama went on to say (again from the NYT) “Martin Luther King once said: ‘The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.’ I believe that. The international community believes that. And right now, we are bearing witness to the Iranian peoples’ belief in that truth, and we will continue to bear witness.”

Reading this statement, reviewing  the reactions over the video, watching the fervor and outcry grow in this country, has me confused. It’s not that this isn’t significant, it’s not that we shouldn’t be paying attention, it’s not that our government shouldn’t be condemning the actions of the Iranian government, it’s just that, well, why this?

Why are we outraged over the death of this young lady in the streets of Iran, but not over the deaths of countless Americans and Iraqis in an unjust war started by our government.Why haven’t Americans taken to the streets to demand that our country cease the killing of our own citizens and those of Iraq? Why haven’t we turned our avatars red white or purple in protest that we are still there occupying another country without cause?

And what of  this respect from the international community of which Mr. Obama speaks? How can he, as our President, even dare to suggest that countries should conduct themselves in a manner worthy of international respect when he is the leader of a nation that sanctions torture-a violation of international law. Where is the outrage, the protest, the color -everything- green over the fact that our government has not only tortured prisoners, but also demonstrates no apparent intention of  prosecuting anyone involved in the criminal activity? Why haven’t the citizens of this nation taken to the streets in protest over the blood on our hands? Where’s the outcry over the images of waterboarding alongside as t hat for the young lady in Iran? Where is Mr. Obama’s respect for the words he quoted that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.  Bends towards justice? If he truly believes that as he states, then he’s got a lot of work to do right here at home.

I know what’s happening in Iran is very serious and I don’t wish to downplay it, but I just wonder at our fascination with it. Is it because they are protesting against that which we believe is wrong? Is it that we support the idea of free elections, freedom of speech, democracy? (Things that honestly we don’t truly have here at home-ask anyone in Georgia about our modern day poll tax and then we can talk about free elections. Or how about freedom of speech in the Bush years?)  Is it that we abhor the violence we are witnessing? 

 All of these are legitimate concerns for the people of America, but in our frenzy to turn everything green in this moment let’s not forget the role our own government plays, regularly (and throughout history) in installing some of the most brutal regimes, and supporting them with our funds and our military might, whether overtly or covertly, until we no longer want to and then we support the faction calling for change and the overthrowing of the very government we created. Let’s not forget that while the human rights violations in Iran are reason for our outcry, our government is a loving ally of Saudi Arabia, a regime if you will, with one of the worse human rights records on the planet.  Yes, people are dying in the streets in Iran, as they are in Darfur, the  Sudan, Mexico, Iraq, and on and on around the globe and yet too often our government, our press, our citizenry looks the other way.

What I wish of myself, of all of us, is that the interest we have in the news from Iran, that the passion with which we support the “twittering” of the people on the streets there, the enthusiasm with which we go green, would translate into something bigger, into a revolution of our own.

I wish we would cover our avatars and say Hey, let’s get our own house in order.  I wish we would take to the streets on behalf of people who live in Iran, in other nations around the globe, and right here at home, who are dying because of the actions or inactions of their governments.

I wish that I didn’t think that all too soon the “new” will wear off and Mr. Sullivan, and the rest of us, will soon be back to black and white and news of things other than Iran.

 

 

 

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/21/world/middleeast/21iran.html?hp

Silence

1989

I was almost finished with graduate school, working  a part-time job that I loved, doing a full-time internship, commuting 3 hours to Athens for classes, and exhausted most of the time. Ex and I were dating full throttle yet still a year away from the end of grad school and med school and decisons about the future.  Life was busy and crazy and very very different than today. I was just me, doing my own thing, no spouse, no children, no one to worry about but mememememe.

A very self-absorbed world.

In 1989 there was no computer (for most), no Twitter, no Facebook, no e-mails and text messages, no constant communication with those you love or the opportunity to reach out and meet a world of strangers.  So the world, my world, lacked the narcissism of today-that look at me look at my life listen to me that happens because  of the web. 

In 1989 every one of us and the guy next door weren’t Tweeting what we had for breakfast. We weren’t constructing websites on which we could post witty commentary on the world, or our children, or our favorite song. We weren’t uploading digital images creating an instant slideshow of our daily lives for all to see. We didn’t feel the need to share our politics, our art, our anything,  instantly with everyone. As if, really, everyone should give a damn.

I imagine that had there been Twitter in 1989 my morning tweet  would look something like this:

Driving to Athens and counting the cows out here in the middle of nowhere.

And then, since I subscribe to a million and one news feeds this:

Student demonstrators gather in Tiananmen Square.

But there was no instant news then, and it would be the very end of my day and well into the days that would follow that the world would learn of the massacre that took place that day.

All in the name of democracy. Freedom. The things I take for granted most every day of my life.

Today is the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square protests. It is being marked by the Chinese government with a blackout of “social media outlets” such as Twitter and Facebook.  In China today the government is preventing the flow of information in recognition of the power of the internet and the ability to communicate with the world.

That idea is humbling to me. I Twitter my daily nonsense, keeping a stream of consciousness journal for myself. I Facebook with my friends and family about everything and nothing. I read the websites of people who, like me, blather on and on about lots of nothingness and actually think someone should listen.  All the while forgetting that this “social media” can be, should be, and is ,to many around the world serious  business. It is a link to the outside, to places where freedom of speech and the right to gather and demonstrate are taken for granted. It is a medium for shining a light on all that is wrong on our planet, for garnering resources for change,

for shouting in the darkness.

There is no shouting today in China because the government says so.

Imagine that, just for a moment.

Today,

no Twitter, no Facebook, no MySpace, no rambling on as if what we have to say is important.

Imagine, for just a moment.

It makes me ashamed to consider  that I ever  think I have anything of value to say. Or that I should say it. Or that my right to do so is protected in this country.

20 years ago today my day to day life was a relatively silent one, unlike today when you know that  I got up at 5:42, that I had a poptart for  breakfast, that my baby is heading off to Paris.

20 years ago today students were dying in the streets.

And if they can’t be remembered today due to a government imposed silence,

then the least I can do is shut up.

Telling tales

If you are a parent you’ll recognize this one:

You aren’t in trouble for doing x,y,z. You are in trouble for lying to me about it.

For a myriad of different reasons we utter these words to our children, with a straight face , while they stare back at us as if we’ve grown a second head. They’re thinking Yeah, right. Like I was going to confess to writing my name in red sharpie on the carpet? I was hedging my bets that you wouldn’t notice.

Trying to instill honesty in children is tough. It requires that we be honest in our own lives for starters. It means we have to explain all the subtleties about lying, the shades of truth, and the ever difficult concept of  little “white” lies. We must articulate the challenges of telling the truth versus sparing someone’s feelings, and on and on with the ethical conundrums.

But in the end, no matter how we do it, over and over and over and over we drill into their little heads that it is always better to tell the truth and face the consequences than to make matters worse by lying about something.

Here’s wishing Mother Cheney had drilled that one home. Perhaps, maybe, wishfully thinking, we could have avoided an unnecessary, immoral war, saving thousands upon thousands of lives.

http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/06/01/cheney.speech/index.html

And now, for the consequences…

There will be consequences won’t there? After all,

that ’s what I tell my girls.

If not for the behavior,

for lying about it.

Life in an instant

Some of the best memories of my life are captured on Polaroid film. My absolute favorite photo of my eldest daughter is a Polaroid that hangs on the bulletin board in my bedroom. 

I still have my Polaroid camera and pull it out for semi-regular use. Nothing about digital beats the sound a polaroid camera makes as it flashes and spits out the picture. And the waiting, that’s even better.

The Polaroid company stopped making the film a while back. The instamatic will die  making way for the “better” the “faster” digital, photoshop, adobe world of photography.

I will miss it. Just like I miss my  typewriter.

Well, not quite that much.

www.polanoid.net

And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

Another new header from my now, not so recent, trip. That’s the sign for the Paris subway system. I love subways. Aside from the idea that you can hop on the train and go anywhere, I find I like the sounds of the stations most of all. If you find me in a subway station you will see that I am smiling. I should live where there are trains. I don’t right now, but  I will again, someday.

Which brings me to another lesson that I am trying to pound in to my head:

  It’s okay sometimes to NOT live in the moment. It’s okay to dream about SOMEDAY.

Yes, I am aware that this completely contradicts my earlier ranting about paying attention  and living in the moment lest life fly by-but sometimes you need it to do just that, fly by that is.

Yesterday was one of those days. It was a horrible awful cry- for- no- reason -for- lots- of- reasons- bad -mood -woe -is- me -pity- party of a day. I woke in a bad mood. My mood went down hill and continued full speed ahead. 

Here are just a few of the reasons why:

- Yesterday would have been my 19th wedding anniversary. Oddly, I forgot. Not that I forgot the 26th is my wedding anniversary, but forgot that it was the 26th of May. Then upon remembering I had a moment of melancholy. Really only a moment, but a moment of dark mood to add to the day.

- I had to parent-some serious we- have -to -talk -about- this – and I’m putting  my mommy foot down hard kind of parenting. Anyone with children knows those moments are tough. That’s why they call it tough love I guess.

- I had to shop. I hate shopping. I especially hate shopping for myself. If I were a wealthy woman I’d have someone shop for me, a personal shopper who would then deposit my clothes in the closet complete with garanimal like labels so I could dress with ease in the morning.

- I was angry and disappointed and heartbroken at the hands of someone who promised not to break my heart.

-I was tired. The almost-the- last -day- of -school tired.

Add all that to the mix and you have a normal grouchy bad mood kind of day.

Now, throw in a dash of existential despair and you have yesterday.

You know how that looks:

Is this my life?
Is this who I am?

What have I accomplished with my 44 years? I will never be the Poet Laureate. I will never love again. How did I get so oooooooold? Why do  I live in this town? Am I going to screw up my children forever and will they require years of therapy to recover? Will it ever stop raining? I’m officially too old to be Miss America, a White House fellow, or lots of other things. I will most certainy never make an Olympic team.  I am the worlds laziest woman. I have so much and there are people dying in the world for want of everything. I am doing nothing about those people. What happened to my career? What happened to my body? Is this all there is? I guess I’ll never be one of  Time Magazines 100 Most Influential People….and on and on and on.

So when the lets-bemoan-everything phase kicked in I reached across the ocean to see if my dear cohort in life could help.
No luck there. Guess who else was having an existential moment?

Okay  add to my list his questions of  how did we get here? where did our youthful exuberance wander off too? Am I too old for love? What is love exactly?  Why can’t I write like that? Is there any hope? and on and on and on.

Make that a bad day for two please. 

Yesterday was a bad day.

Yesterday was a day when living in the moment was unbearable.

Yesterday life couldn’t pass me by fast enough.

Then

after a bitterly fought battle with insomnia, I woke  to a new day. 

A rainy one at that. (I love rainy days)

 

Much of yesterday still lingers in the back of my mind, and I have to go shopping again

BUT

Yesterday is over now and it’s time to dust off the seat of my pants and try again.

And that’s a good thing.

There will be lots of yesterdays over the course of life.

But there will also be todays.

And tomorrows.

And somedays.

And my someday will include

a train.

I just know it.

Standing at the corner.

The newest header was also taken during my recent adventure to London. It is an illustration for the second life lesson I learned while wandering about on my own over there.

They drive on the other side of the road in England. I won’t say right side or wrong side-just a different side from the rest of the world. Needless to say that poses a great hazard to pedestrians. One misstep and you’re road kill. Fortunately, painted at the curb, is this gentle and polite reminder of what to do. You should either LOOK LEFT or LOOK RIGHT. Now it might seem such a silly thing to have to be told which way to look, but I assure you-it saved my life on a number of occasions.

 I did come perilously close  one day to being an ink blot in the middle of the road by stepping out in front a big red bus whizzing by. Not because I didn’t look in the correct direction, but because I didn’t look at all. No amount of painting on the road can prevent that.

So here’s my point. Sometimes in life we need to look where we are going.  If you aren’t  paying attention you might just find yourself flat under the bus. For me paying attention is hard to do sometimes. The day-to-day’s of life can often create havoc. Carpools, swim meets, grocery shopping, errands, lessons, work, laundry onandonandonandonandon. Then you blink and you’ve missed out.

How many of us have said I can’t believe how fast the kids are growing?  Yep, they do that when we aren’t looking.  Or maybe, I didn’t know he/she was so unhappy? Or having an affair? Or how  I’ve grown old in this job/town/home/relationship that makes me unhappy?  Or why did I leave the job/home/town/relationship because it was what someone else wanted not me?

We know all the cliches about paying attention before life passes by. But I think it’s about more than paying attention-I think it’s about looking ahead and thinking about which way to go. Left? Right?  What do you want life to look like next week/month/year/ten years? Are you doing something to get you there? Do you need to make a left turn now in order to set off  in the correct direction?  It means asking the tough questions and being still to hear the answers.

It has been a long time since I stopped to look ahead. For most of my adult life I was following without really looking. Ex’s educational and career choices dictated much of my movement. Then and now parenting responsibilities determine many things. But…here’s the kicker:

I’m not married anymore.

The kids are growing up.

I can’t use ex, or the  children, or anything as my excuse.

If I don’t look ahead now at some point in the future  I will look back at this time of great opportunity and think
Damn, I wasted it.

So if you see me staring at the curb and you wonder what’s up-

don’t worry it’s just me thinking

left

or

right?

Love is patient, Trekkies are not.

I’m thinking about my roomie today. My roomie and  Captain Kirk that is.

ASIDE: My college roomie, Phaedra Weldon,  the writer (http://phaedraweldon.wordpress.com/). Author of the Zoe trilogy I call it sci-fi she says it’s NOT. What do I know I’m just bragging on her here.

Anyway, there’s a new Star Trek movie out. It’s garnering good reviews as a stand alone movie-meaning non-trekkies will enjoy it too.

I am a non-trekkie. Phaedra, god love her, was and is a trekkie. BIG. Writes  and has published Star Trek stories, knows everything there is to know about the whole Starship world, has probably been beamed up.

And we were roomates.

Back in the 80’s some Star Trek motion picture came out. I don’t remember which one. Phaedra wanted to go see it. They showed movies in the biology lecture hall on campus every weekend. She wanted to go and I followed along with her. It might have been a double date (Herb…where is Herb now?) but I’m not sure. Those details are long forgotten. What has not been forgotten, is, well, my ignorance, and my roomies….shall we say temper.

Setting the scene for you:

Phaedra: GIANT TREK NUT.

Me: Complete Trek idiot. I knew nothing. Nada. Zilch. I had never watched Star Trek the television series. I didn’t like the beginning-the whole “Captains Log…” and the annoying theme music. So I’d never tuned in.

Cue the movie.

Who’s that?

What’s that?

Is that Spock?

Which one is Captain Kirk?

Where are they going?

What are they doing?

Why is he doing that?

Onandonandonandonandonandonandonandonandonandonandonandonandon.

In my defense, they were all perfectly legit questions. I had never seen Star Trek how was I supposed to know why his ears were pointy?

Suddenly, in the darkness of the biology hall, my mild manner, rosey cheeked, darling of a red head roomie turned into Beelzebub.

WILL YOU SHUT UP NOW!?!!

OR ELSE.

Stunned, I am sure I looked like a little Bambi in the headlights.

What’s wrong, I whispered.

IF YOU ASK ANOTHER QUESTION I WILL KILL YOU I SWEAR I WILL.

It was like Gidget became Cujo the rabid dog. I was scared.

Okay, I whispered.

So I sat quietly for the remainder of the movie and, eventually, figured things out well enough to enjoy it.

Over the years I have watched many of the  Trek motion pictures. Still haven’t seen a tv episode in it entirety,but I do know who’s who. (I think Spock is the hottie).  So I’m thinking I might get around to seeing the new one.

I’m going to ask my roomie if she’d like to go with me.

I’ll be good. I promise I will.

I don’t own a GPS.

 The new header is a photo taken during my recent adventure to London.  I took it on my  first day and it reminds me of a very important life lesson or two that I learned on the trip-the first of which is:

 Getting lost is okay.

I got lost a lot on that trip. My sense of direction is horrid and my map reading skills more so. I have always delegated the task of pointing me to the right path to my travel companions. No such luck this time.

I always knew where I was going, but generally found that I circumnavigated my destination for at least an hour before arriving.  Usually getting lost bothers me, even though it is common place in my life. This time, it didn’t. I was all alone on the trip so there was no one to  be aggravated or inconvenienced by meandering ways. In fact, no one even knew that I was on a northbound trek to get to the southside of London. The way I figured it I could wander for  days and as long as I made it back to the hotel in time to pack for the return flight home I was no worse for the wear. That was a very liberating feeling my friends.

I spent virtually all of day one lost. It was fantastic. I saw side streets and back alleys and parts of London that, well, I couldn’t tell you where they were. Eventually I ended up at London Bridge and then I knew which was was up. Just before that though I turned a corner and ended up in an alley filled with locals all sitting and eating lunch crowded on the grounds of a small ancient church.  There was a long line circling around to buy food at an outdoor grill. As my continental breakfast had  long since  left me and the aroma coming from the food was heavenly, I got in line, or on line as they say there.

I have no idea what I ate for lunch that day. It was some sort of beef sandwich covered in onions and peppers and unknown sauces. I ate it sitting on the ground, clueless as to my whereabouts, blissfully happy. It was the best meal of my life.

Had I been following the map I’d have never found that little alley and experienced that meal.

Now that I’m home I think about that a lot-getting lost and discovering wonderful things around the corner. I had a professor tell me once “it is in getting lost that we find where we are going.”

I think I need to get lost more often.

 

 

Keeping it to myself.

For a long time I wrote about the emotional fallout from my ex’s adultery, our divorce, and the  amount of time I spent under the bed, not literally of course, trying to make sense of what my life had become.  I was, believe me, extraordinarily open and graphic about my pain and my attempts to deal with it.

I am not an open person.

And I wrote about that too, about the benefits of spilling my guts and being completely honest with both my real friends and family as well as those out in the world that I do not know other than through the comments left on this page.  I am a painfully private person, and that means that often the joys of life are relished alone without anyone to share in the happy-ness. It also  means suffering alone.

I have not written about very many personal things in a long time, primarily because there isn’t that much to write  of beyond narcissitic reviews of my day-to-day life and the banalities therein.  I have not written about very many personal things because they have been, as is the case with most everyone’s life, private. For me, for my close friends, my family. Or, in this case,

just me.

Which makes right now hard , very very hard.

I wrote to my dear friend a simple note today: Because there is no one on earth that knows about the past year of my life, there is no one to tell that I am at present crushingly gut wrenchingly sobbing. So I ‘m telling you.

He said all the right things, and I know that  if I ever want to tell the tale, he will listen. I am a very fortunate person to have him as my friend. Honestly, I am a very fortunate person because I know I have a cadre of people I can call on who will listen and hold my hand and make me feel better. But, really, how many of us have someone with whom  we are completely and totally honest? Wrinkles and all? We’ve been talking about that too, he and I.

Anyway, long ago in that life the writing worked. It helped. It may not have been  the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but it helped.
So here goes again.

I am heartbroken.

Granted of my own choice- but making the right choice, waking up and smelling the coffee, embracing the realities of a situation-doesn’t make it any easier.

I am back-under-the-bed,Chick-fil-a Tea diet , can’t believe I am walking upright -heartbroken. Been at this for the past three days.

But, there’s good news: I loved BIG. I trusted BIG. It was wonderful and scary and horrible and fantastic and it caught me completely by surprise. You see  I haven’t Loved a lot. Not the big L. But I did. Whole hog as they would say around here.  And, unlike a million and one smarmy love songs that say you-don’t know-what you’ve got-’til it’s gone, I knew.

But the timing wasn’t right. The situation wasn’t right. I loved more. I didn’t love enough. I needed more. I needed less. I didn’t know what the hell I needed. I didn’t trust. I did trust. I shouldn’t have trusted.  On and on and on and on with the reasons and the excuses and the logic and the lack thereof  that brought me here.

Here: putting it out there once more.

I loved big.

And it’s over.

And I am profoundly unhappy right now.

And I am hopeful.
Maybe I can get better and better and better at this

the whole Big L thing.

Saying I Do in California

As as child I heard this expression tossed  about a lot : That sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.

Or another variation: Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

Someone needs to tell a certain Miss USA wannabe that she needs to put down  the rock.

Miss Calfornia is on a campaign to “protect marriage”-and you know from what.

Gay Marriage.

Lest I begin to foam at the mouth about this one I will limit myself to a few words.

Before she commences on her  campaign to protect marriage as the “sacred institution between man and woman” I’d like to ask Miss California, and others like her, to think about protecting marriage from, well

heterosexuals.

The current divorce statistics for this country are  depressing. The average length of an American first marriage hovers somewhere around five years. Five years.  So what exactly is Miss California protecting, the right for men and women to marry and stay married barely long enough to crank out the thank you notes?

As someone who was married three times longer than the national average, to, as Miss California would say, an “opposite sex person”, I will tell you this. My marriage didn’t need protecting from gay men and women.

My marriage needed protecting from my ex and a very decidedly heterosexual chickie (who incidentally was also in an opposite sex marriage herself.)

And, in the interest of fairness and ex who always wants “his side of the story” out there:

from myself.

Miss California and all of us opposite sex folks should leave the gay and lesbian people alone.

They aren’t the problem.

We are. 

 

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/30495215#30495215

It seems simple enough to me.

Some would say the hardest part of being a parent is teaching  children right from wrong. I’d say the hardest part is showing your children right from wrong. It is my job to follow the rules, and I do. The “little” ones mostly-because that’ s what I have a chance to do right before their  eyes everyday. I don’t turn right on red if the sign says not too. I wait my turn in line. I don’t steal. I don’t cheat on my taxes. I try realllllly hard not to lie, or badmouth others, or gossip, or ….well the list of things I am trying very very hard at is very very long. My children and I talk a lot about right and wrong and hopefully some of  the talk and some of the walk is sinking in.

Lately though I find my stomach in knots as I struggle with the idea that some folks don’t get right and wrong. Or maybe I’m just way out in left field about things. This  torture stuff  has me really really bothered.

Here’s what I don’t understand:

- Why are you calling it “enhanced interrogation”? To make it sound better or because you truly believe that despite the historical agreement over what constitutes torture, maybe it isn’t torture because we’re the ones doing it?

- President Obama says we (the government, the country, his administration) isn’t about looking back it’s about looking forward. Okay. I’ll agree with that. But how can we look forward with any sense of decency, pride, optimism about our country, if we don’t take the time to learn from our mistakes, correct our misdeeds, and distinguish what is right from wrong?

- The democrats, the republicans, the President, the pundits, all say that we can’t appear to be seeking “retribution”-so we are just going to “move on.” But why is it retribution to punish someone for a wrong doing? If my children lie to me, smack each other up the side of the head, or lock the cat in the closet to play policeman/prisoner, they have done something wrong. If they are given consequences for their actions is it me seeking retribution? How can I teach my children about the law of the land if they see that the law only applies to some people-namely those not in power?

- How can it be that we have a loooooong history of courtmartialing soldiers (AMERICAN SOLDIERS) for waterboarding in other wars (and supporting the international prosecution of soldiers from other nations)  but suddenly find it okay?

- Why is everyone screaming that the administration did a horrible thing in releasing the torture memos? Yeah yeah yeah secrecy and national security-I get it. But perhaps if we hadn’t tortured in the first place there wouldn’t BE any memos and thus no “threats to national security”.

- And so what if it “worked”? (Though all evidence is to the contrary. ) I can’t even begin to figure out how I’d explain that to my children. Well, you see, it’s okay to do something really horrible if you, well, you get what you want by doing it.

- Why are we talking about not prosecuting the soldiers who were “just carrying out orders”? I say YOU SHOULD  HAVE KNOWN BETTER. Where is your moral compass? There’s following orders, obeying grown-ups, having respect for authority-and then there’s knowing when it is your personal moral and legal and ethical responsibility to say NO. I hope to god my girls will know that there are some things you just don’t do-ever. No matter who’s the boss.

I say prosecute every last one of them. Start at the top and work your way all the way down.
We have national laws and international laws that say WE DON’T TORTURE.  Not, we don’t torture unless we feel like it, if it’s a means to an end, we are torturing the really bad guys,- whatever the rationale. We don’t torture-period.

And then, after we’ve locked them all away-if we  decide that we do in fact want to be a nation of torturers, then understand this-If you want us to be able to torture the bad guys in the name of national security, then you MUST be willing to have Americans and American soldiers tortured also. If we can do it, so can every other nation on earth.

So no one is safe. Not the “good guys” or the “bad guys.”

Sometimes in life things really are black and white, right or wrong.

This is one of them.

 

Arrival.

I have a few recurring dreams that crop up during my slumber from time to time. From what I understand most of us do.

I have one in which I am spitting all my teeth from my mouth. Analyze that Cosmo guide to dream analysis. (Debra swears by it.)

I have variations on the one in which I am back on campus at Georgia Southern for one reason or the other-usually going back to school-and I’m almost always lost-looking for the bookstore.

And the standard anxiety dream-I have math class that I haven’t attended all year and it’s time for the final. Always a math class-go figure.

Then there’s the Europe dream. In it I am “in Europe.” It’s that vague-don’t know where, or how, or any details, it’s just an awareness of my “thereness” shall we say.  And, I am crying. Happy tears mind you, but crying like a baby.

So far in life I’ve yet to spit out all my teeth and the only math anxiety I have now is over my daughter’s algebra homework, so those are still relegated to my dreams. But-I did make it to Europe.

I finally got there and just like in my dream, I cried. A lot.
Not blubbering, red eyes, who-is-that-crazy-crying-tourist kind of crying, rather the kind that comes when you are happy and you have a big dumb grin on your face while you think I can’t believe this.

In the interest of full disclosure:

-I cried on the plane ride over. Looking out the window thinking I can’t believe this.

-I cried in the airport-again thinking I can’t  believe this.

-While wandering lost around London. While staring at paintings at the Tate Modern. While eating fish and chips alone in a pub. While watching Avenue Q, while sitting in a courtyard surrounded by locals and eating something I couldn’t identify,in the Eurostar station leaving for Paris, when I saw my friend Edmunds waiting at the train station, when I saw the Eiffel Tower by night, when I tasted that first pastry, when I looked out the balcony of my hotel, standing outside the Louvre, when the train left Paris and I said goodbye to Edmunds, and when my plane took off for home.

All tears accompanied by the dumb grin  you get when your find you are doing something  you’ve always wanted to do but you can’t believe you are finally doing it.

AND

I cried at THE SWING.  (http://tammyr2.wordpress.com/2009/03/19/packing-finally/ )

Immediately after settling into my hotel room The Wallace Collection was my very first destination. It was less than five blocks from my hotel-give or take -without getting lost. I walked fast and truly turned a corner and there it was. I went straight in and found myself in the most wonderful house-filled with art work. Floor to ceiling, every nook and cranny. So I asked the nice gentleman at the door-Can you point me to The Swing? And he did. Of course, I retained nothing that he said past up the stairs.

First floor. Big room. Scanning in the room (as if I’d see it in the middle of all that art). More rooms more rooms more stairs. Ask another gentleman. More rooms and more rooms. In each room I’m looking and scanning and I’m pretty sure mumbling to myself. No doubt any security video of me that day would resemble a frantic mother looking for a lost child in a grocery store, or a slightly deranged person who should be avoided.

Ask again, keep walking more rooms and rooms and rooms and then-

in the second to the last room on the very top floor- there it was.

The Swing. Just hanging there with all the other beautiful paintings, like it’s no big deal at all.  And it looked, well, exactly like all the pictures I’d memorized of it over the years.

And I stood there. For a long time. I just took it in and lived in the moment. And the longer I stood the  bigger I grinned I’m sure, and the nice security guard didn’t act like that was odd in the least. Then I walked around the room and enjoyed the rest of it, and then back to The Swing to examine it from all different angles.

Then I left and enjoyed the rest of the museum.

And for the remainder of my stay in London I didn’t go back.
I saw it. I loved it. I savored the moment, and that was that.

It was everything I thought it would be, or at least everything my 15 year old self thought it would be. It is a very beautiful painting, but in all honesty it isn’t reflective of my current tastes in art.  But it is still mine. Still a piece of my history and still well worth the trip.

So  I wonder, now that I’ve been there will I continue to have that dream? Or  now that I’ve lived it will something else take up residence in  that corner of my psyche?

I am here to tell you it was great to be 44  and making a  dream come true.

I highly recommend it.

It’s never too late.

We are never too old

To dream.

To live.

Let’s talk about Love.

I once thought I knew about love.
I’d loved family members, boyfriends (though not many of those ranked the L word), a spouse, and children. I’d loved friends, colleagues and even in some measure the clients and especially the children I worked with on a daily basis. I’d even go so far as to say I loved my dog Sparky.

Then I learned in one fell swoop that I didn’t know nothing about nothing about love. That happened when my ex told me he was having an affair. When he told me he was depressed, miserable, and hated his life. When he said he wanted to die, and meant it.  When he trampled all over everything I believed I knew about love, ripped my heart out, spat on it, and then turned around asked for help, for support, for love and I gave it to him and in many odd ways I still do.  I learned that love, real love, is painful,  and difficult, and often requires an unselfishness that I do not have-that few of us ever have- until we have to dig deep and find it.

I learned about love when my family fell apart, when life as I knew it crashed to an end- because I am a mommy. I never knew just how much I could love my children, or what I would be willing to do, put up with, try, or live through for them. Oh you think you know when you give birth, or when you cry as they toddle off to school for the first time without you, but you don’t. You don’t know what it means to love your children until you know that you’d do anything, absolutely anything for them, including live in misery. Including, live without love. And you do it and then you don’t, because you want them to know love not the absence of it.

I learned about love when my world fell apart and the people that I thought loved me turned and ran and those that I knew loved me didn’t. My parents, my sister, my girlfriends. The people that never refused a phone call, or a visit, or a kleenex when I needed to sob my heart out. The people that questioned my choices, waited patiently for me, and in the end made it perfectly clear that no matter what they were Team Tammy. Not team-well we’ve always been both your friends, or well he’s our brother -in – law too you know, just Team Tammy. Unwavering love -they gave it without being asked , they chose when I told them I didn’t  want them too-and I meant it, but that didn’t matter, they chose.

I learned about love when, after 19 years had passed, I visited a man I truly loved for years, who I called my very best friend in the world, and after a 19 year absence he was still there like no time at all had passed. Willing to tell me the truth, to listen to the truth, and to laugh and talkandtalkandtalk. I learned about love because I still love him, still think he’s the best friend in the world, and still hope with all my heart that he will find Love-the BIG L kind.

I have known a lot of love in my life. I am a very lucky person, and I’m not even talking about Love - big “L”-the romance, the hearts, the flowers, the phone calls,and the kisses.

Just the joy of loving and being loved.

You all know who you are- I hope.

So here’s my contribution.

I love you.      

 http://www.obsessedwithconformity.com/obsessed_with_conformity/2009/03/in-the-name-of-love.html

Packing. Finally.

I fell in love when I was fifteen years old.

I remember the day as if it were yesterday.  It happened in my tenth grade French class. (Yes, I took French for all the silly, romantic, girlie reasons  http://tammyr2.wordpress.com/2008/04/16/mom-the-eiffel-tower-and-the-kiss-im-waiting-for/ )

My French teacher was Madam Harbin, and our french text was bright yellow.  One day I was turning the pages of this bright yellow book when I saw it- the most  beautiful picture I’d ever seen in my life. I swear I held my breath as my heart beat the faster. The greens were rich and luscious, the pinks leapt from the page, and the entirety of the work grabbed me by the neck and wouldn’t let go. It was simply gorgeous.

The tiny, tiny print at the bottom of the page said only The Wallace  Collection.

At that moment I began my mission-I would find that painting. I would have that painting.

Now this was way back in time-as my daughters like to say-in the dark ages. There were no computers, no internet, no GOOGLING for the answers. This was a time when the word research really meant something. I wanted to know, and so I had to hunt.

Step 1: To the school library.

 First stop: Card catalog. (You remember those-the big cabinets with drawers full of cards listing all the items held by the library)

No luck.

Second stop: Guide to the Periodicals. (The big, green books with  the tissue thin pages that listed all the magazine and journal articles written on any given subject)

No luck.

Third stop: Encyclopedia. (Brittanica. Volumes and volumes. Think Google- in hard cover)

BINGO!

There in the middle of the encyclopedia entry was my picture. The Swing, by H. Fragonard, at home in The Wallace Collection in  London, England.

So armed with this information the next leg of the journey began. (Again, without the internet or e-mail.)

Fourth stop: Post office.

I secured the address for the Wallace Collection and drafted a letter-yes a real handwritten letter. Then I convinced my mother to drive me to the post-office so I could send it airmail to London.

And then I waited. And waited. And waited.
Months later from across the sea came a reply-in a little brown air mail envelope.

Yes, The Swing is housed at the  Wallace Collection and yes, prints are available for purchase.

Fifth stop:  The bank

After nagging my mother for a few days to drive me there, I purchased a pounds-sterling check made payable to the Wallace Collection.

Then, back to the post office and the whole thing begins again.

 I waited, and waited, and waited.

Then, the post man arrived  with a TUBE!  Rolled up in the tube was-

The wrong print.

That’s when I learned that there are two versions of The Swing-or rather two different perspectives of the same scene.

For the sake of time I shall say: Rinse and repeat.

Back to the bank, back to the post office, and more waiting.

In total I waited a year. An entire year before my print of  The Swing arrived in the mail, and when it did I found it just as lovely as the photo in the French book.

My mother had it framed for me and The Swing became a permanent fixture of my bedroom, then my dorm room, then my college apartment, then my own apartment, and every home ex and I owned.  Later my friend Bob traveled to London and returned bearing the motherlode of gifts. The Swing postcards, The Swing coasters, The Swing souvenir book and another print.

The new print was matted and framed in a more professional manner and the original retired to storage.

Today The Swing, the object of my fifteen year old love, hangs in my dining room.

Now 44-

and on Friday, almost thirty years after I plodded off to the school library in search of answers,

I am going to London.

Why it has taken me so long to get there is another story all together, and frankly it doesn’t even matter now.

I am going to London.

Just me.

Non-stop all night Friday arriving Saturday morning where I will stay in a nice, affordable, B&B that is

LESS THAN A MILE from-that’s right

The  Wallace Collection.

I am so excited I can’t stand myself.

I cry just thinking about it.

I will, most certainly, cry when I get there.

I hope there’s a place to sit down.

I’m planning to hang around and gaze for a while.

http://www.wallacecollection.org/

http://www.wallacecollection.org/collections/gallery/artwork/133

Millicent is her middle name?

 

 

I was a Barbie girl.
I have absolutely no qualms in admitting that.

Now I know that over the years Barbie has taken a beating. Feminists, critics, and child psychiatrists alike, often denounce her as Public Enemy #1. They worry that her body type gives girls unrealistic expectations, that she teaches girls to rely on  looks and  fashion sense rather than  brains, or that  she objectifies women.

Well I say hooey on that.

Aside from the fact that she is cursed to spend her life in high heel shoes, I think Barbie is just wonderful.

Now I came of age with what I call the real Barbie. Malibu Barbie circ 1971. She was a simple doll, she came with a  bathing suit, a towel, and sunglasses perched upon her head. She was perfectly tan (long before we knew about suntans and skin cancer) blonde, and she didn’t do anything. She didn’t talk, walk, wet herself, read, or any other fancy toy action. She just was. Perfect simplicity.

That’s why Barbie was so great for a girl like me. I had imagination. I liked to talk to myself. I liked to dream. So, I got to control Barbie’s universe. I told  Barbie what to do-such as :

Dump Ken                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Opt for the Barbie Dream Camper not the pink convertible (though I eventually had both)

Take the job as a reporter and forget the fashion show.

My Barbie had a  very interesting life  limited only by my imagination. Or, Pam’s. As children my best friend Pam and I spent HOURS playing Barbies. We both accumulated a number of them, along with their various co-horts, Ken, Skipper(one of Barbie’s four sisters), and all the “fake Barbies” given to us by friends and family. Barbie got her hair cut (alas it didn’t grow back), got married and divorced countless times (I think we were influenced by the soap opera viewing of Pam’s mom ), had feuds with her rivals, and traveled everywhere.

We played with Barbie for years, years I’m telling you and guess what-neither of us was scarred for life. We didn’t grow up wanting to be fashionistas with 24 inch waists or have some misguided vision of life as girls. In fact I think we both turned out pretty well-both understanding that there is room in every life for high heel shoes a la Barbie as well as  nice comfortable loafers. We both have careers, had happy marriages, and then (like Barbie after 43 years with Ken) divorced. We’ve raised children, been good girlfriend to the other girls in our lives, and have never felt the need to barf after dinner. 

So take that all you Barbie fearmongers.

I had hoped for Barbie daughters, but it didn’t turn out that way. They liked  Barbie well enough, but she never became the favorite of childhood. The Barbie years were shortlived, with the doll mostly confined to spending life naked in the bathtub. I gave them my Barbies to play with-(yes that classic 1971 Malibu Barbie ended up flotsam) and all her clothes and such. I bought them Barbies, (though here’s my mommy confession: I threw away all shoes and accesories upon purchase. Once you’ve vaccumed up a Barbie shoe you know it has to be done) and I still can’t walk down the toy aisle without looking longingly at Holiday Barbie, Easter Barbie, you-name-it-we-make-it Barbie.

And now it is Barbie’s 50th birthday. FIFTY! The big 5-0.  

Barbie doesn’t seem to be having nearly the issues with turning 50 that some of my girlfriends are having.

So I’d like to say Happy Birthday Barbie! While the rest of the world may debate your worth-I say Bravo! Here’s to 50 more years. Because I can’t imagine having grown up without Barbie, or Pam (who is far from 50 herself). 

Fun facts I didn’t know from Barbie’s press office:

• Barbie’s real name is Barbie Millicent Roberts
• Barbie is from Willows, Wisconsin.  She attended Willows High School
• Ruth Handler, co-founder of Mattel, brought her vision of a three-dimensional doll to life with the introduction of Barbie in 1959
• Barbie first appeared in the now-famous black-and-white striped swimsuit and signature ponytail
• Barbie has four sisters: Skipper (1964), Stacie (1992), Kelly (1995) and Krissy (1995)  
• Barbie’s first pet was a horse named Dancer
• The first Barbie doll sold for $3.00 (1959)
• Barbie’s signature color is Barbie pink:  PMS 219
• Barbie’s first boyfriend, Ken, debuted two years after Barbie in 1961
• Ken was named after the son of Mattel founders Ruth and Elliot Handler
• Ken and Barbie broke up on Valentine’s Day in 2004 after being together more than 43 years  
• The best-selling Barbie doll ever was 1992 Totally Hair Barbie, with hair from the top of her head to her toes
• Barbie has been outfitted by more than 70 famous couturiers
• Barbie has had more than 108 inspirational careers

http://www.barbiemedia.com/?cat=5

http://www.newsweek.com/id/185788

Sonny side up.

See the bald guy covering his face. That’s my governor.
He’s busily running our state into the ground. I wish somebody would smack him and tell him to pay attention he might learn a thing or two. Or at least FAKE INTEREST!

D is for doing not dreaming.

Recently I ‘tweeted’ (on Twitter of course) the thought :  I wish I was brave.

Yesterday I decided to be brave,

today I have to be braver.

Because I have daffodils in my yard.

 I love daffodils. They are by far my favorite flower and each spring I am thrilled by their arrival in the lawns and flowerbeds of my neighbors throughout town.  I have never before had daffodils in my own lawn. I’m not sure why, but I know that over-priced shrink could spend hours analyzing with me why I never went out and just planted them instead of talking about planting them.  Each spring I would pine for my own yellow daffodils and sigh that I would certainly plant them when December rolled around. And yet I didn’t.

Until last December when I found myself planting bulb after bulb. I originally intended to simply surround my mailbox but soon got carried away. It now appears that I have daffodils in view from almost every window of my house.  Mine are the first in the neighborhood to bloom, so everyone else gets to enjoy my flowers this year.

And as daffodils  are perennials,  I know that each spring will be a delight all because I just did it. I planted the daffodils instead of talking about the daffodils.

So now I must be brave.

Without going into the myriad of reasons, the analysis, the figuring, the contemplating the why-why-why’s life has gone the way it has, I will simply say that  daffodil planting isn’t the only thing I haven’t done. Somehow I have reached a place when I look around me and think how did this life happen to me? How did I get here?

How?
And what am I going to do about it?

Well I tell you, I’m not going to let another 44 years go by.

 I’m going to be brave.

I’m going to go where I’ve always wanted to go, see what I’ve always wanted to see, and begin to become the person I always wanted to be.

I’m going to become

my own ideal.

The countdown begins:  26 days til step 1.

 

Living in, like, the real world

Turns out there  is a brain wandering about in the Palin family-and it’s not in the Governor’s head.

In the weeks and months since the  presidential election Governor Palin has demonstrated that there isn’t a camera  she doesn’t love. ( Well, that’s not entirely true, it has to be a camera with the FOX news logo on it, but I digress. ) Leaving many of us to wonder what took her so long?  Where was this chatterbox during the election?

Then, out of nowhere, the camera turns and we get to hear the voice of another Palin-young Bristol. Remember her, the teen daughter turned campaign poster girl for  the pro-life wing of the Republican party? Turns out Bristol, unlike dear old mom, has a clue. 

Bristol may not have meant to do so, (although I’m thinking she is smarter than anyone realized and knew exactly what she was saying, ) but she blew holes right through her mother’s just say no argument.

“I hope people learn from my story and just, like, prevent teen pregnancy, I guess.” says Bristol Palin.

And while all the pundits and reporters and such are salivating over Bristol’s apparent endorsement of choice,

Yes, Bristol insisted, it was her choice to have Tripp. “In terms of the … whole issue of the right to life and choice and things like that … this is your decision?” Van Susteren asked. “Yeah,” repeated Bristol. “It doesn’t matter what my mom’s views are on it. It was my decision. And I wish people would realize that, too.”

I walked away from the interview thinking about something else she said.

Bristol described telling her parents about the pregnancy as follows:

… telling her parents she was pregnant “was, like, harder than labor,” and described sitting on the couch with Johnston and a best friend there for support, so petrified about making her announcement that she was “just sick to my stomach,” so much so that finally, her best friend had to blurt it out for her. Bristol continued, “I don’t even remember it, because it was just like something I don’t want to remember.”

As a mother I found that statement completely heartbreaking. At what was probably the worst moment of her life Bristol was petrified, so much so that she doesn’t want to remember it. So much so that she couldn’t talk to her own mother.

What I hope that people take away from the Bristol Palin story is this: Abstinence is a nice idea. But, as Palin said, it is unrealistic.  So as adults we must start talking to our sons and daughters about what is realistic. Abstain until you are old enough, mature enough, responsible enough, to deal with the consequences of sexual activity; and, if you can’t, then understand that you must use birth control, and not just to prevent pregnancy, but to save your own life from the myriad of diseases awaiting you. 

It is time for Governor Palin, and all of us, to make sure that our heads are out of the sand. Teenagers are having sex. Teenagers are getting pregnant, and sadly, as Bristol Palin articulated, teenagers are filled with regret that they have lost their lives at such a young age. 

“I don’t know if it’s what I expected,” Bristol said of young motherhood. “But it’s just a lot different. It’s not just the baby that’s hard. It’s like I’m not living for myself anymore. It’s for another person.”

“I wish it would happen in like 10 years, so I could have a job and an education and be, like, prepared, and have my own house and stuff. But he brings so much joy. I don’t regret it at all. I just wish it would have happened in 10 years rather than right now.”

We must raise children who are not afraid to talk to the adults in their lives. We must make sure that the conversation doesn’t begin when a terrified teen sits down on the sofa to blurt out the worst. 

It must start with information.

Birth control. Condoms . Pregnancy. Disease. Heartbreak. Sorrow. Joy. Pleasure.

And yes, maybe,

choice.

 

http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2009/02/18/bristol_palin/

A Horse is a Horse

This was a very thorough article, by John Siracusa, on the subject of “e-books” . It makes some  interesting points on the subject, especially this one on why Apple never entered the e-book market after revolutionizing the world of music via I-Pod.

[Jobs] had a wide range of observations on the industry, including the Amazon Kindle book reader, which he said would go nowhere largely because Americans have stopped reading.

“It doesn’t matter how good or bad the product is, the fact is that people don’t read anymore,” he said. “Forty percent of the people in the U.S. read one book or less last year. The whole conception is flawed at the top because people don’t read anymore

Sad. One book or less a year. I can’t even imagine that. There’s a whole wonderful world of information and fantasy, adventure and sorrow, mystery and laughter, all to be found between the covers-of a book that is-and everyone is missing out. How can that be?  

Well  people may not read anymore but I do, though it seems my love for the “book” in it’s pure form-bound with pages that smell of the musty shelves of the used bookstore-is doomed. Or rather, says the author, I am doomed.

To die.

Death, it seems, will be what brings about the revolution. As readers die off, e-readers will take over the world.

But the truth is, these things always turn out the same way. And I have some bad news for the bibliophiles. The beloved, less technically sophisticated information conveyance with the pedigreed history doesn’t win.

Time and again this happens, and it can happen without changing a single person’s mind. To put it bluntly, people die. Indeed, death is arguably the single most important driver for all human progress. Even in a community as reason-based as science, it’s often necessary to wait for one generation of scientists to die off before a new theory gains mainstream acceptance. It’s a bit much to hold consumers’ text-based media preferences to a higher standard.

Well, when it’s my time to kick the bucket, bury me with my copy of From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, (the first book I really , really loved) and know that I died happy-without a Kindle in sight. 

http://arstechnica.com/gadgets/news/2009/02/the-once-and-future-e-book.ars

No shirts no shoes no what?

Surely he’s kidding right?

This nation is facing the very real possiblity of an economic collapse to rival the Great Depression. We are in the midst of two wars. Our international reputation is in the toilet. The report card on our infrastructure should have all of us on our knees praying that the electrical grid doesn’t collapse around our ears and he wants to talk about JACKETS!

Former President Bush wore a jacket and tie to work everyday. He had quite a spiffy “formal” dress code while he was in office. That tie supposedly demonstrated his respect for the Office of the Presidency. And where did eight years of  coat wearing get us?

On the precipse of hell.

Now is not the time for petty stupidity folks. Now is the time for serious action and change.

I don’t care if they all wear Power Puff Girl p.j.’s to work  paired with  Wiley Coyote slippers if they get things done!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/02/05/bush-chief-of-staff-to-ob_n_164286.html

When is a book a book?

I’ve written here before about my aversion to e-reading and I’ve worried about it as a parent (though in a house full of books and a seriously restrictive computer use policy it hasn’t been a real issue yet).  Today I read this in the NYT Sunday magazine. I really enjoyed it and the author did a good job of summing up some of my concerns about online reading and children.

It’s worth a look.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/01/magazine/01wwln-medium-t.html

Getting the hell out of dodge

 

As they sang in my favorite movie- “So long, farewell…”

Or better yet- don’t let the door hit you in the ass.
I hope the next time we see former President Bush in Washington he is accompanied by his attorney to testify at his war crimes trial.

Finally.

The pot and the kettle

As we all await the pardons, the last minute raping of the Constitution, and whatever is left of the next 24 hours  I find that this best sums up my feelings on  the whole nasty mess:

 

http://margaretandhelen.wordpress.com/2009/01/18/glass-houses/

(Emphasis added is mine)

But it’s not so much George W. who has me flabbergasted.  You would have thought his departure would have instantly increased the IQ level inside the Beltway.  But while the entire nation is singing  “ding dong the witch is gone“  members of Congress  seem to forget that they’re the only ones who have a lower approval rating than the jack ass himself.  Talk about glass houses.  Congress gave Bush a blank check.  They allowed the continuation of an illegal war.  And they looked the other way while the White House took away our basic civil rights.   This all happened while the fox watched that little hen house we call the Capitol and now Congressional politicians are coming out of their holes to  pontificate on Obama’s every move before he has even been sworn in – much less

Playing with water

One of my favorite things about parenting is getting to peek into the imaginary world that my children create. I especially enjoy bathtime. My littlest loves to drag all the toys, cars, and little people  she owns into the tub with her. Then she  can be heard talking and driving and playing out loud-certainly having considerably more fun than getting clean. The aftermath of bathtime is interesting to observe as she leaves behind cars parked in formation, little people frozen in mid-conversation, some animals left floating while others act out surprise attacks on one another. I’m often left wishing I knew what was going on in her little mind at the exact moment she put Blue the dog into the mouth of the lion while the police car chased down Bear (of  Bear in the Big Blue House fame).

Last night she had easily twenty matchbox cars in the tub with her and when I passed by they were lined up around the rim while she moved each one slowly forward in procession.

“It’s the inauguration parade.”

Really?

“Yes, we talked about it in school. Soon Obama will be president”

In seven days.

“I’m excited.”

Me too.

She has no idea how excited.

In the wake of President Bush’s admission that he not only knew about, but  also authorized, specific torture techniques on individual prisoners at Guantanamo I feel like the end can’t come soon enough to this unbelievably dark period in our nation’s life. There is much debate going on about whether or not the Obama administration should call for an investigation into the (alleged-though given the recent admission why use the word? ) war crimes of President Bush, Vice-President Cheney, and others in the administration.  I for one hold my breath and offer the prayer that this will happen. While I understand the concepts of  moving on, not looking back but looking forward, putting this all behind us, I don’t agree.

Some things are black and white. This is one of them:

No one is above the law.

Some things are black and white. This is one of them:

Torture is wrong. Always.

Some things are black and white. This is one of them:  

Individuals and nations must take responsibility for the things they do. Without accountability and consequences there is no “rule of law” and there is no way for me to teach my children about right and wrong.

It is far too easy to make excuses and  say I didn’t mean too, I did what I thought was right, It was a time of war, I was just following orders….and on and on and on.

It takes courage and decency and morals and honor to do the right thing regardless of the consequences and to then speak the truth about it.  Air Force Major David J.R. Frakt, Lead Defense Counsel, sounds like one such man. http://www.aclu.org/safefree/detention/35753res20080619.html

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26315908/#28629277

His words should be the words we would all speak if given the opportunity:

“February 7, 2002. America lost a little of its greatness that day. We lost our position as the world’s leading defender of human rights, as the champion of justice and fairness and the rule of law. But it is a testament to the continuing greatness of this nation, that I, a lowly Air Force Reserve Major, can stand here before you today, with the world watching, without fear of retribution, retaliation or reprisal, and speak truth to power. I can call a spade a spade, and I can call torture, torture.

Today, Your Honor, you have an opportunity to restore a bit of America’s lost luster, to bring back some small measure of the greatness that was lost on Feb 7, 2002, to set us back on a path that leads to an America which once again stands at the forefront of the community of nations in the arena of human rights.”

I’m very excited about the inauguration for a lot of reasons, but mostly because of this-some things are black and white and I want my little one to know that, to believe that, and to witness that-no matter who you are-

the President of the United States

or Bear being chased by the bathtub police. (Whatever you did Bear, apologize now.)

Thrown a bone.

As an Episcopalian and a supporter of  Rev. Robinson, this makes me happy.

Though it still feels like being invited to the reception but not the wedding.  
Progress is slow, I know.

Maybe next time Rev. Warren will be the one on the steps outside and everybody else invited in.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/13/us/13prayer.html?_r=1&partner=rss

A(wo)men

And while it thrills me to no end that a woman is FINALLY going to preach the sermon at the inaugural event-I am sad that the service receives less coverage than the actual swearing in on Jan. 20. As a result  fewer girls (like mine) will be able to see her in action.

Sadly we will all see Rick Warren though.

 

http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/01/12/inauguration.sermon/index.html

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Very very hungry girl.

I have an appetite, though he’s probably right. But a girl can dream…

http://www.time.com/time/printout/0,8816,1870319,00.html

From Klein (emphasis is mine)

But that’s not going to happen. Indeed, it seems probable that nothing much is going to happen to the Bush Administration officials who perpetrated what many legal scholars consider to be war crimes. “I would say that there’s some theoretical exposure here” to a war-crimes indictment in U.S. federal court, says Gene Fidell, who teaches military justice at Yale Law School. “But I don’t think there’s much public appetite for that sort of action.” There is, I’m told, absolutely no interest on the part of the incoming Obama Administration to pursue indictments against its predecessors. “We’re focused on the future,” said one of the President-elect’s legal advisers. Fidell and others say it is possible, though highly unlikely, that Bush et al. could be arrested overseas — one imagines the Vice President pinched midstream on a fly-fishing trip to Norway — just as Augusto Pinochet, the Chilean dictator, was indicted in Spain and arrested in London for his crimes.

If Barack Obama really wanted to be cagey, he could pardon Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld for the possible commission of war crimes. Then they’d have to live with official acknowledgment of their ignominy in perpetuity. More likely, Obama will simply make sure — through his excellent team of legal appointees — that no such behavior happens again. Still, there should be some official acknowledgment by the U.S. government that the Bush Administration’s policies were reprehensible, and quite possibly illegal, and that the U.S. is no longer in the torture business. If Obama doesn’t want to make that statement, perhaps we could do it in the form of a Bush Memorial in Washington: a statue of the hooded Abu Ghraib prisoner in cruciform stress position — the real Bush legacy.

Save the date

I heard this story while upside down in the dentist’s  chair and had I not had a mouth full of implements and fingers I would have no doubt gagged, or shouted, or groaned.  If I were her mother, or her best friend, or big sister I would smack this lovely woman up the side of her head.

I don’t understand the concept of I just have to be married, and I certainly don’t understand making marriage a destination or goal. 

Mind you perhaps I don’t understand how some women feel, as I was married for a very very very long time. But I am also now not married, having seen that very very very long marriage go down the tubes with virtually no warning. It seems that my ex met up with someone who had also set a marriage goal-marrying him. Her own marriage and his were just pesky little details for the both of them.  So naturally I am a tad sour on the idea of ever uttering the words til death do we part again.

But still 52 weeks to find a husband? Not a partner, or  a great guy, or a wonderful date, but a HUSBAND. Like that’s the ultimate prize in the cracker jack box? While I applaud her initiative and her take-charge way of going about this, I am skeptical. Something in me thinks she really wants a wedding more than a marriage.

But despite my cynicism I wish her luck. But even more so I wish her insight. Perhaps she will get to the end of the 52 weeks and realize that she doesn’t want to get married, and certainly doesn’t need too. Perhaps she will find that she is a smart, talented, accomplished female and whole person all on her own without someone else. Perhaps she will find that Mr. Wonderful she seeks but decide that the white dress and binding legal contract aren’t necessary.  Perhaps she, and hopefully a lot of women, young girls, (my daughters included!) and all of our society will cease viewing marriage  as the  ultimate touchdown. 

 And on another point-at the end of the article the author asks the question

So what happens if she doesn’t find her soul mate by 2010?

I don’t believe she said she was looking for a soul mate. She’s looking for a spouse, and those are not necessarily one in the same.

http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/story?id=6564990&page=1

One quick question really I promise.

I can’t believe I am even talking about this! But humor me and allow me this one rhetorical question

HOWHOWHOWHOWHOWHOWHOWHOWHOW?????
Bristol says teens need to avoid pregnancy-

by………(long pause)

Abstinence-which clearly didn’t work for her and Levi.

Or (really long pause)

informed, intelligent, safe BIRTH CONTROL-

which her MOTHER THE WANNA BE PRESIDENT IS OPPOSED TOO FOR TEENS???

My head hurts and it is only January 3.

http://www.gov.state.ak.us/news.php?id=1593

Guilty as charged?

Earlier this week I bemoaned the demise of publishing houses, literature, books, bookstores, and all things sacred. Blame it on the damn technology I yelped!  Down with the Kindle! I shouted.

Uh-oh.

I’ve always known there was something wrong with my routine purchases from Alibris.com and have been known to engage in a conversation or two over royalties and profits and such in the book world (as compared to the world of music, downloading, and copyrights). 

Are my used book purchases akin to Napster? Am I biting the hand of the writers I love with each  acquistion of a $3.00 tome?

Woe.

And now guilt. What is a reader to do?

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/28/weekinreview/28streitfeld.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&em

82 to go with no help from anyone

The girls gave me my favorite gift for Christmas- a gift card to the bookstore. ARGH! Just moments after my vow to buy no new books until I’ve finished all the ones in the stack.

Then today over lunch he says, “Let’s go to the bookstore”

This is clearly a conspiracy.

I am off to my basket to pick the next read.

(I said no to the bookstore).

Forget Frosty…

Now Snowzilla I like!

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/28381609#28381609

Santa Watch

We are sooooo excited around here!

http://www.noradsanta.org/en/home.html

Reading writing and terror

President Bush has said it countless times in more venues than I can keep up with-

the Taliban is no longer in power

Afghanistan is free

the Taliban no longer exists

We have eliminated the Taliban

Billions of dollars and thousands and thousands of lives later and he still says that.

Tell it to the girls.

http://worldblog.msnbc.msn.com/archive/2008/12/23/1723558.aspx

Clinging desperately

The most thrilling thing about Christmas vacation is the gift of time. No carpool commute, no afterschool activities, minimal housekeeping, just time to be, guilt free. I rarely say to myself “I should be….” during these carefree pre and post holi-days. As long as I stay on top of the laundry and keep the little one’s fed, I feel free to falalalalala. In my case that means I get to catch up on my reading.

I am now current on the magazines, having whittled the stack of fifteen down to two.  The NYT is finished, check that off the list, and I am well into the book of the moment. (An Imperfect Offering and it is a wonderful book, I highly recommend it.)  So in between the baking and the wrapping and the last of the yuletide preparations I am enjoying the time to just sit and plow through the pages.

I like to read, we’ve talked about that here before. I like to hold the book in my hand, smell it, feel it, mark the pages, toss it on the bed, and return to it. Reading is a total sensory experience for me. It’s not just about the words on the page, it’s about finding the right chair, adjusting the light, and savoring the stories-even bad ones. I read books and then remember them-where was I when I read them, how old was I, who recommended the book to me- all as important details as the plot from start to finish.

I am a dinosaur.

I don’t own a Kindle. I don’t want one.

I don’t read books online and I don’t want to.

I don’t (gasp) want to pull one up on my phone.

I want a book.

I want a book I order from Amazon or Alibris. I want a book that I carry around in my bag complaining that it weighs too much. I want a book I find while browsing the last of the independent book sellers in town or pick up at at the library.  I want a book, a good one -a bad one -a bestseller- or a bargain bin discount.

I am a dinosaur, or perhaps better to say an ostrich. I am going to stick my head in the sand and pretend that the gloom and doom sayers are wrong. I am going to refuse to believe that the book is dying, that e-reading is the wave of my future, or that good literature is circling the drain.

I simply refuse.       http://www.salon.com/books/feature/2008/12/23/publishing/index.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/24/technology/24kindle.html

8 going on 18

Some things just depress me to speechlessness.

So is it wrong to hope the old man dies soon? (And for that matter the father too)

http://www.google.com/hostednews/afp/article/ALeqM5g_iWCsRbR0Bnb1sWAeiEgG0lPRyQ

83 and counting

I recently found myself in my favorite local used book store searching for a title that my daughter wanted to read over the Christmas break. I didn’t find it, but I did find three books for me. (Total spent $3.00). I brought the books home and tossed them in the  basket o’books #2 that sits next to my bed. Then  I counted. I had three library books on the night table, two books I own that are in “mid-read” sitting next to them, twelve magazines, two newspapers and then 83 books in the various to read baskets.  83 books.

Right then and there I made a vow. I’d call it an early New Year’s Resolution, but honestly I never keep those resolutions so why kid myself. I’m calling it a vow because it sounds so much more serious-like the vow of poverty or chastity or some such. VOW. That seems to imply keep it or else god will get involved.

And, as with any vow, resolution, or plan, it helps to share it with others. (The whole accountability thing.) So here goes:

I will NOT buy another book until I have finished every one of the books in the to-read baskets. Not a one.  That will also include library books-no library books either.

This will be difficult, and will certainly require me to stay out of bookstores. It will mean I am back to keeping a list of books-I want-to-read, particularly as the end-o’the year “Best Books” lists are already cropping up everywhere from the New York Times to NPR.   http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=98381111 . I will make my list and then return to the baskets.

I’m thinking of it as an adventure for who knows what lingers at the bottom of the piles?

At my normal pace this should take me a year or so. A year with no new book purchases.

I’m having withdrawals already.

Breaking Legs

I’m tired. Bone weary, just want to lie down and sleep crushingly tired. Part we can attribute to my bodys’ apparent inability to store iron (long story) but most to the Annual Children and Youth Theatre Holiday Production.  For the third year in a row I  have taken on the herculean task of staging a full scale community theatre  production in under a month – with  children. Every year I begin the task with great enthusiasm and every year reach a point when I vow to never undertake such again.

Working with children can be positively delightful. They are cute and fun and oh-so-earnest in their endeavors to “act”. Working with children can be a nightmare. They don’t listen, they run around backstage, they cry, they forget their lines,  and they always have to go to the bathroom-after the show has commenced.

Directing the children’s show means I must watch my language at all times, maintain a relatively cheerful facade, and have the patience of Job. Mind you I have a mouth like a sailor, am not known to be cheerful, and patience, well it truly is a virtue I’m lacking.

Directing the children’s show means cute sets, cute costumes, and cute music. I am artistically deficient, can’t sew, can’t glue, glitter, or any other “crafty” things, and cute-I know it when I see it but don’t ask me to produce it.

Directing the children’s show means I haven’t been home at a decent hour all week, my house is a wreck, and my personal life in shambles. I haven’t read the newspaper in forever and I have no idea if the world is still spinning out there. I have paint under my nails that won’t come off, I smell like gingerbread 24/7, and I have dreams about elves. Why did I do this, again? I moaned as I crashed into my pillow last night.

Then it’s opening night and it all makes sense again. The cast is flawless, the audience laughs, and some cute little cherub comes up after the show and says to me next year can I be in your show?

Oh that’s it!

I get to be a part of what is, for many in the cast as well as the audience, their very first theatrical experience. I get to be a part of the beginning of something. I get to introduce people young and old to the magic of the theatre. I get to create laughter and memories for others. I get to share something I love .

And at the end I get to watch as the lights go down and the littlest star reads “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”

And every year I cry and think, I can’t wait until next year.

If a tree falls in the woods

I’ve recently had to deal with a “matter” that has just dredged up all the old nasty bits of life from the past few years, returning  a nice anger in my gut and a slight taste of bile in my mouth. Just when I was getting used to shhhhh quiet in my life, whamo comes the garbage once more.

All, as result ,of someone’s “character” while no one was looking.

If you don’t get caught does it count?

Yes it does my friends. Be it adultery or betrayal, or cheating or lying, or….well you pick your indiscretion of  choice.

How timely to discover this story on the un-aired Rev. Wright ad that the McCain campaign didn’t use during the election season. McCain had called the Wright issue “off-limits”  and thus the ad didn’t run. I think it shouldn’t have run because it is hypocrisy as an art form.

The voice over lady says “Character, it matters. Even when no one is watching.”

Yes sir re dee dee.

Character-as in John McCain’s adultery maybe? No one was looking then-except maybe the-well-the lady friend. Or maybe his Keating dealings? Or his gambling? Or or or.. Or his running mate’s laundry list of unethical behaviors?

Now I’m not saying that Senator Obama is without his own skeletons-no one is.

I’m just saying, Character does count especially when no one is looking.

And those who think no one has been looking at them shouldn’t throw stones-just in case.

 

 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/12/08/mccains-unaired-wright-at_n_149298.html

Passing out prizes

I’ve just returned from an afternoon of falalalalala-ing. I decked some halls, bought a few gifts, and found myself humming Jingle Bells while picking up sundries at my local Kroger. I love this time of year-the bright lights of Christmas trees peeking out of front windows, the wreaths on the doors, and the ringing of the Salvation Army bell.  I take it all in and smile thinking that perhaps Peace on Earth is possible and maybe everyone really does believe in Goodwill toward man. And then I read this-

In his column for the Weekly Standard  Bill Kristol makes his holiday to-do list for President Bush-thing’s he would like Bush to do before leaving office in January. Among the items to attend to-torture. It seems that Mr. Kristol would like President Bush to pardon those responsible for torturing prisoners in order to protect them, the torturers,from possible prosecution somewhere down the line.

Okay, so it is a stretch but maaaaaaaybe I can buy that line of thinking. We can say  they were just following orders and had no choice in the matter (though I ‘d like to think that a truly  courageous person would make the choice to refuse to participate in such morally reprehensible conduct). Given that they should be protected from prosecution for their conduct during the  “war on terror”. But then Kristol takes it a step further:

(Emphasis added is mine)

One last thing: Bush should consider pardoning–and should at least be vociferously praising–everyone who served in good faith in the war on terror, but whose deeds may now be susceptible to demagogic or politically inspired prosecution by some seeking to score political points. The lawyers can work out if such general or specific preemptive pardons are possible; it may be that the best Bush can or should do is to warn publicly against any such harassment or prosecution. But the idea is this: The CIA agents who waterboarded Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, and the NSA officials who listened in on phone calls from Pakistan, should not have to worry about legal bills or public defamation. In fact, Bush might want to give some of these public servants the Medal of Freedom at the same time he bestows the honor on Generals Petraeus and Odierno. They deserve it.

The Medal of Freedom? For torturing people ?

The Medal of freedom is “the nation’s highest civilian award, recognizes exceptional meritorious service”.

It has been a source of great pain for me over the past eight years to know that our nation (or at least its’ government) has condoned torture and that we have engaged in the very activities which we have condemned throughout history when committed by others. Regardless of the cause, partisian politics aside, this is torture we’re talking about people TORTURE.

Over the course of the presidential campaign we were repeatedly reminded that John McCain was a hero because as a POW he was tortured.  Then help me here-

                       McCain torture victim = hero.

                                    And now

                             Torturers=heroes.

 It doesn’t add up for me.

How can we call ourselves the greatest nation on earth if we not only condone and excuse cruelty to others, but then reward it with high honors? 

At a time when we as a “Christian nation” celebrate our holiest of days I can’t help but wonder if Bill Kristol would find Jesus, a man who preached peace and love and kindness toward all , worthy of the Medal of Freedom.

Sadly I doubt it.

We’d probably just crucify him all over again.

http://www.medaloffreedom.com/

http://weeklystandard.com/Content/Public/Articles/000/000/015/876qyutv.asp?pg=1

Stand by your cyber man?

This I just don’t get. On so many levels.

Honestly, there are days when my “real life” is a giant pain in the ass, I can’t imagine having to deal with a second one. And where in the world do these folks find the time?

http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/europe/11/14/second.life.divorce/index.html

FALALALALALALALALA already.

I just put up six sets of Christmas lights on the bushes outside of my home. I think I need about four more to really complete the look.

Yes, it is entirely too early for this. I am one of those that thinks no Christmas until after Thanksgiving. However, every year I wait too long and end up stringing the lights in the frigid cold and every year  I say that I will take advantage of a warm day for the next years’ decking of the halls.

So, it’s nice and cool, a fall breeze blowing. Perfect weather.

But still early, unless you ask my girls.

Recently we were discussing the upcoming Christmas holidays while driving hither and yon to music or swim or rehearsals or some such part of our life. Christmas comes up a lot lately, as it will be the first Christmas they spend with X, and there is a great deal of unhappiness, anxiety, grousing, and such about that. It’s not fair you know, they say.

 My oldest announced that this would be the first really divorced Christmas and that it needed to rock outloud.  We have to do it all, especially the outside lights, we didn’t have outside lights last year.   Little one chimed in with the suggestion that we have two trees and that we put them up right now.

I didn’t probe too much for an explanation to what she meant by really divorced or why it has to rock out loud because I’ve learned to tread lightly, listen a lot and talk very little, when it comes to her and her feelings about this divorce. Usually I fail miserably. I listen some and then talk waaaaay too much. She recently shared that sometimes it seems as if I am trying to change her mind about things and that I am trying too hard to be daddy’s cheerleader. Just let me hate him mom, okay?  And I know she’s right. I worry a great deal about the impact of this divorce, especially as I watch her attitude about her father shift with each passing day. My baby was once such a daddy’s girl, and now she’s just disgusted and infuriated that her friends at school know about his love life and that the new girlfriend talks-a lot - and word circles back to her.  Adolescent girls do not, trust me on this, like hearing lurid details from other adolescent girls. (So much for our agreement to keep our private lives private and out of the girls world.)

Therefore I don’t ask, I just nod in agreement. Okay, lights it is!

So today when I thought to myself-I’m going to have to string the lights, I suddenly found myself doing just that. Alone in the front yard I stretched the nets (as best as one can alone), and draped the nets (as best as one can alone) and completed  I’d say a good 2/3rds of that task. I am certain that somewhere a neighbor was looking out and thinking what is she doing?  I am certain that upon close inspection in the light of day my nets look like a tangled mass shoved and tucked into the shrubbery. I know that the likes of Martha, my gloriously talented friend Lynn, or my ocd sister, or anal obsessive precision freak of an ex, would shudder to see the results of my labor.

Nonetheless, one night soon I’m going to plug them in and I know that they will be spectacular-because lights always look good at night. And then, when we return home from school or church or rehearsals or whatever has us out-and-about, my girls will be surprised when they see the twinkling festive display that awaits them.
And they will gasp, and cheer, and squeal

at what I did for them. All by myself.

Damn right this Christmas is going to rock out loud.

Starting right now.

Looking into the heart of Dixie.

 Over at his site Jim http://jimformation.com/2008/11/john-sidney-jones/  has posted some thoughts on race and this election in response to Harry’s thoughts over at his site http://lycanthropia.whistleandfish.com/2008/11/10/call-it-a-mandate/.I add this to the mix.

I cry every time  I watch President Obama’s speech in Ohio-I posted it here  it moved me so much.  I e-mailed it to my daughter to watch too. I cry when I watch footage of the networks calling the election, and I have shared that moment over and over with my girls all while trying to convey to them the significance of this country electing its’ first African- American president. Much of what I say falls on deaf ears because they don’t understand the world that came before them. Racism and segregation –these are the things they study in school along with the suffrage or the battle for women’s rights, it’s history to them not reality. Or so they think.

But as I commented over at Jim’s, it’s not history, not here in the deep south. Racism is alive and well and living here. There may be no more legally sanctioned discrimination-unless you agree with me that the voter id laws are just that-but the deeply rooted sentiments remain. There was no need to worry about the Bradley effect here-it was openly discussed-people weren’t ashamed to say it-no black man is going to turn the White House into a Black House. Educated, “intelligent” leaders in the community-on the record. We are not talking about the backwoods  Southerners as picked up by the media and featured on a few websites-we are talking about everyday people who truly believe in the inferiority of black people, and in the legitimate fear of a black man with any control or authority.

It is hard to believe if you don’t live here. It is hard to believe if you don’t see it every day. It’s hard to believe until you’ve heard someone spit out the words “the only thing worse than  a white woman married to a black man is a white woman  married to a Jew” within earshot of my dear friend who is, in fact, the one married to the Jew.  It is hard to believe unless you still hear people talk about moving out of areas that are “too dark”-and they aren’t referring to the lack of sunshine in their backyards. It is hard to believe unless you read the letters to the editor about the importance of voting for McCain-Palin in order to preserve “true America” and to avoid turning this “great nation” over to “them”.  It is hard to believe unless you live in a town where the Rotary Club membership list would match up pretty evenly with that of the Klan, or the local Sunday School class-and it’s no big deal.

It is hard to believe unless you hear it and see it in action.

I teach at a local college and part of my senior policy class includes a discussion of social welfare policy across the history of this country. This includes a review of the civil rights era. In that discussion we talk about the impact of television on the civil rights movement and I show them the video of the “C” project and the hosing of black students in Birmingham, Alabama. This moment  is considered pivotal in the Civil Rights movement because it was shown on television, and people in the North were confronted with the very ugly reality of segregation. TV gave proof to what was so hard to believe.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/eyesontheprize/story/07_c.html 

It is difficult to watch, and difficult to discuss because it is so hard to believe-and yet it is a rare class that doesn’t include some laughter, or smirking, or mumbled commentary from college seniors. I’ve been treated to every possible rationalization for the actions seen on the video and even had it suggested to me that perhaps that method could be employed to deal with “the illegals” at the border.  These are students that have lived here in the deep South their entire lives and, like me, were raised by people who may have never uttered the “n” word, but nonetheless have a very colorful selection of other terms to describle African-Americans and Latinos. These are the students who will tell you that there is a difference  between the races (despite the evidence of the human genome project) and that the Bible supports this idea. 

It is 2008 and we are officially one generation removed from the the legally segregated south, but travel through the states of Ga, Alabama, Tennessee or Mississippi and witness otherwise. Follow the swath of red on the electoral map and talk to people, and watch how we live and then say that the numbers don’t support the idea that race played in to the margin of victory for President Elect Obama. Visit our schools and witness that “separate but equal” may no longer be the law of the land, but it is very much still a reality. Come down here and talk to the people who are stockpiling guns and whispering about how Obama is going to promote “the blacks” and that “the whites” need to protect themselves. Come and visit the parts of town that aren’t talked about in the Chamber of Commerce report. Listen closely, and you will hear the  voices of those who no one wants to believe still exist. They sit in the pews, preach from the pulpit, stand at the blackboard, and legislate from under the dome.

I cry every time I watch the moment the news channels called the election. I hold my breath and imagine what that means for my children, and rejoice in how far we have come. But I know, because I live in the heart of all the red on the map, just how far we have to go.

Today

 is November 9th.

Now I ask you,

do you believe me now?

Not so fine

I hadn’t seen this one before today. What a brilliant summary of one of the primary reasons John McCain must be denied the presidency.

 

Where do all the signs go when they die?

I think this makes sign 5-honestly I am losing count. But today is election day so  I don’t  care.

 My little one and I marched out and put up ANOTHER sign and the skipped to the car. Yes, today is a day for skipping.

Enough.

I never considered pledging a sorority when  I was in college. I knew that I wasn’t sorority girl material for a myriad of reasons, the primary one being that I am not good at group think. I don’t follow along well, I don’t take orders (a pledge week requirement) and  I ask too many questions. These traits have kept me from joining the military, getting along with all my bosses, and being a good parishioner of my church. It has also kept me a political independent-voting across party lines based on the issues and the individual rather than the plank. This election has been no different and I voted a few weeks back based on what I knew, didn’t know, like and don’t like about the candidates and their vision for this nation. I did my very best to make an informed, rational decision, saving my emotion  for later.  And now, election day is upon us.

Should my candidate, Senator Obama, and my really favorite guy Joe Biden, lose, I will be disappointed. I will truly believe in my heart that something went terribly wrong and I will worry about the fate of this great nation. I will worry about more war and death, poverty and a crashing economy, freedom of speech, the sanctity of the Constitution, the environment and lots of other things. Mostly I will worry about Senator McCain’s health. I will turn off the television and be sad, but life will go on.

But  I really really want McCain to lose, and lose soundly. I want this to be over and for this country to send the McCain-Palin ticket packing. I cannot recall ever being this invested in an election in my entire life. And not just for my children, and for all that I dream for their future, but because I am angry, personally angry at John McCain.

I spoke to my mother on the phone yesterday to wish her a happy birthday and to begin discussions on the upcoming holiday season and who will eat where when. We talked about a  lot of different things, but not the election. At least, that was not my intent. I don’t talk politics with my parents because we are on completely different sides of the universe on things. Not just the candidates, but the issues. There’s simply no need to go there, as it will be to no avail for either side. Sex, politics, religion, not on the table as far as I am concerned. But yesterday my mother made a comment that upset me. She threw it in there I assume in an attempt to sway me, bait me, persuade me-I don’t know.  She made a comment to me that clearly indicated that she is afraid-truly afraid of an Obama victory. Personally afraid. 

My mother. Afraid.

Now I  understand much of her perspective. I understand her age, her upbringing, and how the issue of race plays in her  thinking. Her lifelong prejudices run deep, and the idea of an African-American president is an anathema to her.  But it is more than that. She has one news source, FOX-or the RNC. She has listened to everything and done no independent research, no verifying of information, no questioning. She has no interest in such. She has been fed a big heaping bowl of fear-and has swallowed it. John McCain and Sarah Palin have-without information, data, evidence, or anything to support such- told my mother that she has to fear Senator Obama-personally. Not that she need be concerned about her taxes, not worry about choice, education, the war. But fear. Fear that this man is a Muslim terrorist. Fear that she will soon be speaking Germany . Fear that Septemer 11 was just the beginning . Fear that she needs to stay home, stop traveling, and lock the door. Fear that Barack Obama is the boogeyman, the antichrist, evil.

John McCain, knowing full well that there is no reason to fear Barack Obama, has used scare tactics to win an election. He has not told my mother what he plans to do for this country, he has not told my mother why he disagrees with Senator Obama politically, he has told her to fear. Fear this man. Fear his skin color, his religion, his parents, everything.

John McCain has scared my momma.

Politics aside, that’s reason enough for me to want to take him out to the parking lot and beat the shit out of him. You-don’t-mess-with-my-momma.

 

My mom, your mom, countless moms and dads and grandparents. Scared.

For no reason at all.

Winning at all cost. That’s what this campaign turned into at some point for McCain-Palin. Winning at the expense of the truth. Winning at the expense of honest dialogue or debate. Winning by bullying and intimidating and frightening people.

Yes, it is the individual responsiblity of every voter to think, to analyze, to research. Everyone should look long at hard at both sides of every candidate and position. We are all called upon to be informed voters, to understand that we can’t listen to the pundits or make decisions based on lopsided information gathering.  But,

that’s not the case. Most people listen to one side and then go with that.
And okay, so be it.

But this time that one side  has gone to far.

That one side has pandered in fear.

That one side has my momma frightened and worried about her future-her safety.

And that’s why I am ready for this to be over. And that’s why I am holding my breath and hoping. And that’s why I am working the polls, making the calls, and driving the voters tomorrow. For the first time in my life, my election day won’t be my own-it will be Barack Obama’s, Joe Biden’s, my daughter’s, and

my mom’s.

My mom

who has nothing to fear.

A sign of popularity?

Sign 4. Gone.

So my little one says “mommy, maybe people are stealing the Obama signs because he’s so popular and they want  a sign and there aren’t anymore at the Obama office.”

That would explain why no one is stealing the McCain-Palin signs that dot the landscape of the neighborhood.

Out to put up another one. (Though I won’t leave it up for Halloween night. I wouldn’t want a little one to trip over it in the dark  and then be accused of intentionally impaling a Republican treak-or-treater with my yard sign!)

Meet Margaret and Helen

“If you are still undecided you aren’t paying attention”

These two are my new must read.

http://margaretandhelen.wordpress.com/2008/10/30/if-you-are-undecided-youre-not-paying-attention/

The little things say a lot.

I’ve written about Stanley here before-of the two Flat Stanleys that never returned to either of my daughters, and our recent experience at becoming obsessed with being the best damn Stanley for our friend Alanna. 

I hate Stanley. I understand why teachers like him and why students like him, but as a mom, Stanley ranks right up there with all experiments and projects that must be completed at home.

But, if I were an undecided voter, this would sway me I am sure.

How cool cool cool is this?

http://www.courant.com/news/local/hc-flatobama1030.artoct30,0,7881722.story

(P.S.-Note what Republican Presidential Candidate did not return his Stanley.)

 

Calendar girl

I have now been divorced exactly 365 days.

One of my bestest friends asked me on the phone last weekend, “Are you happier, cause you sound so really really happy?”  And I hesitated.

For some reason I always hesitate to say that yes, I am happier. To me that seems to imply that what happened was a good thing, or that I wasn’t happy in my marriage. When, in fact, until the last torturous two years of deskcapades , I was quite happy and had, what I thought, was a good life for me. I haven’t and I won’t Monday Morning quarterback, rewrite history, or apply what I know now to how I felt then.

I don’t think I am happier, I told her, but I am differently happy. I told her that there is, for me at least,  married kind of happy and single kind of happy  and that I am most definitely very happy in my new single state. It is a very different happy after 21 years in a relationship, but happy nonetheless.

A year ago today I had arrived at a peace that was almost two years in the making and now I have lived a year in peace. I have rediscovered someone that I hadn’t known in a long time-me. Just me. Not me the wife, me the partner, or  me the person I turned into in order to make that life work. Just me.

Me, a

differently

 happy me.

And, as I tell my girls all the time,

being different

is a good thing.

#3

The sign thief strikes again!

Lucky for me I have enough signs to last me until Tuesday.

Given that I have already voted, and there’s no sign shortage at my house, perhaps the sign thief could better use his or her time by actually CAMPAIGNING for McCain-Palin since GEORGIA IS NOW IN PLAY!!

It’s almost funny.

It’s me versus…whoever. Sign 2.

So my Obama-Biden campaign sign, and that of my neighbors, was stolen at some point today.

I went to the Obama headquarters and bought every last sign they had. Gave one to the neighbor, the rest in the garage. This is #2. I should have enough to get me through the election should the sign thieves return.

The thing is I not only bought signs, I gave some more money. Not much, but the way I see it-sign thief just contributed to the campaign.  Take that.

Mommy’s vote

This is why I voted. This is my president.

For my children.

Time

One of the great joys in my life is watching the close relationship of my oldest daughter and my nephew. They are  four months apart in age and are thicker than thieves. Thanks to  e-mail, text messaging, and cell phones, these two are up-to-the-minute informed on each others’ life. (When it comes to family news, I get it directly from my daughter, who gets it from my nephew, who is the CNN ticker of the family.)

One of their favorite things to giggle, snort, and roll their eyes about is the fact that my mother and father married quiet young. Now that the teenage years are in sight, the two of them clutch their stomachs, gasp, and carry-on about their grandmother’s youthful matrimony. She was just a teenager, eeeew, they exclaim. For some reason they find it quite funny. I think it is in part because they can’t imagine themselves nearing marriage readiness (thankfully) and they can’t imagine their grandparents young-certainly not that young.

My parents did marry as teenagers, and quickly reproduced. The benefit of having young parents is that I grew up knowing my grandparents, my  great- grandmother and even my great-great grandmother. My maternal great lived until I was a senior in college, my grandfather lived to know my children, and my grandmother is still around.

I couldn’t begin to quantify the impact that this had on my life. I have fond memories of growing up and knowing these people. My great-grandmother’s home was the site of yearly family reunions under the hot July sun. I can still smell the odor of snuff and stale air that filled the rooms of her tiny house and recall the fear mixed with delight at climbing the giant tree that stood in her yard. She was sooooo old to me, so imagine how old her mother seemed as I stood next to her for the requisite photo-ops. In actuality my great would’ve been in her late sixties, my grandmother almost fifty, and my mother not yet thirty. Sometimes it is hard to believe that I knew my grandmother when she was that young, or that I can remember my mother at 44, the age I am now. For that matter, I knew my grandmother at this age!

I grew up surrounded by these women, strong women, women who knew their mind, spoke it, and often suffered the  consequences. The men in my family are known to comment about the temperament of the women and not always in a flattering manner. Even X received a warning from my father about the women in this family on my wedding day. But the men are wrong about us. The women of my family are so much more than their take-no-shit attitude. They are  the ones that held it all together, created the homes, nurtured, scorned, loved and tortured us all into our own. They failed miserably, succeeded wonderously, and aged into formidable protectors.

My grandmother, sandwiched between her mother and mine, seemed to be the quieter of the group. I remember her always as the kind, soft spoken grandmother, maker of toast and applesauce for  breakfast, keeper of the candy drawer, and source of birthday money. To this day, without fail, I know that out of every birthday card will fall a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill. 

My grandmother is growing old. Since childhood she seemed to me frozen in time-always “old”- as grandmothers are- but never growing older. Out of nowhere, in just the past years, she has aged, visibly, and has now grown frail, tired, and weary of the world. She misses my grandfather who died years ago, and she misses being active and social, and especially doing for others. It is hard for her to be the one that needs help, hard to be dependent for even the most basic things.

My grandmother is nearing the end of her life. I am so very glad that my children have known her and  that they, and their cousins, have memories of her when she was well and memories of family gatherings at her home.
I know that my grandmother will not live forever, and yet I hope against hope, ignore the realities, and go on about my day-to-day routine. She lives just two hours away, so close, and yet so far, when trying to juggle the schedules and activities  of life.  But, I know. None of that should matter. I should go and spend time and visit with her now, while it makes her happy. I should have my children there, by her side, before she gets sick, falls, begins to rapidly leave us. I know that should she die suddenly, I will regret that I didn’t go by for one more visit.

So I imagine what it must be like to be Barack Obama, in the final days of a two year plus race for the White House. So close and yet so far. Knowing that every single moment matters, that the whole world is watching, that the “momentum” as the pundits say- is on his side. Knowing that he is making history, and that he quite possibly will have the opportunity to, literally, change the world.

And in the midst of it all, his grandmother, the woman he calls “Toot”, is sick, and quite probably near her death. His grandmother, the woman he credits with raising him and making him the man he is today. She will not live to see the outcome of all this work and effort. She will miss what many will say may be the  greatest moment of his life-becoming the President of the United States.

But in all likelihood Senator Obama would disagree. While an inauguration day would  no doubt be like no other, it would pale in comparison to the truly great moments of his life-moments he shared with his grandmother. Moments that are forever etched on his heart and mind.

The pundits screech about the “risks” of stepping off the campaign trail to go to his grandmother. Risks? I don’t think so. More like joy and peace-the joy of another opportunity to say I love you, and the peace that comes from knowing you were where you were supposed to be. Saying thank you, and goodbye.

May we all be so wise when the time comes.

Giving Christians a bad name.

A “white Christian nation”

Please sir, as a Christian I beg you, leave Christ out of this.

(Oh hell, forget the please. Sir, you are full of shit.)

If we reap what we sow…

I’m tired. Literally, a result of being a little under the weather.

And I’m tired, worn out, exhausted, weary. I have self-diagnosed it as Presidential Election Year Burnout. I’ve never had it before, but the symptoms are clear: I am sick of reading the papers, sick of visiting the websites, sick of the pundits and the pontificating. But mostly, I am sick of hearing about the nation that we are, still are, in 2008.

I know, I shouldn’t focus on the worst of us, but instead on the best of us, and on the possiblity that maybe, just maybe the ignorant, intellectually vapid, fear mongering, hate filled, nasty citizens will not prevail.

I don’t have a problem with Republicans, or Democrats, or Independents or with the wide chasm that separates our ideas on the world, the nation, and what we need and who we need in the White House.

I have a problem with lies, and ugliness, violence  and anger.

I so want to think we are better than this. I really really do.

http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/2008/10/a-report-from-e.html

The telephone game.

I’ve come across a few people who actually believe that Barack Obama is muslim. Sadly I believe one of my own family members parrotted this absurdity to me one day.  When pressed no one can, of course, offer a single shred of evidence to support the statement. 

That’s the nature of rumors, and particularly internet rumors-they take on a life of their own regardless of whether or not there is any truth behind them.

So here at last is the history behind the muslim rumor. Are we surprised that a nutcase is behind it?

Sigh…

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/13/us/politics/13martin.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&hp

Surrogate Lou

 

AMEN!

Okay, so maybe there’s no Lou anymore,

http://www.tammyr2.wordpress.com/2008/07/23/wheres-lou-when-we-need-him

but there’s Andrew.

http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/2008/10/when-will-the-p.html#more

R.I.P.

Say it ain’t so!!!!!

I’ll be in mourning now for a while.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=95441421&ft=1&f=1032

 

LYNN!! What will we do now?

Keating Kapers

In the midst of the current economic crisis perhaps we should remember some not-so-distant past banking activities of Senator McCain.

Keating Five ring a bell?

Are these the ethics we want residing in the White House?

http://www.keatingeconomics.com/

Talking Dick

I think I’m in love with Joe.

This was the absolute best moment of the debate last night. (At 1:11minutes into clip)

A reason to party.

BANNED BOOKS WEEK!

Actually, as the ALA points out, it should be called Challenged and Banned Books Week, but that lacks a certain zip.

I’ve waxed on about this enough around here, no need to go on about it again–
I love books, I love to read, and I think that the freedom to read what I  want when I want is one of the most important cornerstones to life in this country.

So celebrate-not that people continue to try and ban books-but that they FAIL.

Celebrate the freedom to read, to visit the local library, and to think.

http://www.ilovelibraries.org/news/topstories/bannedbooksweek.cfm

Here are the most frequently banned/challenged books of 2007 according to the ALA. (Did you know that the Holy Bible is one of the most frequently challenged books of all time-apparently it’s quite violent!)

I highly recommend them all.

Buy them at www.alibris.com or better yet visit your local library.

1. “And Tango Makes Three,” by Justin Richardson/Peter Parnell
2. “The Chocolate War,” by Robert Cormier
3. “Olive’s Ocean,” by Kevin Henkes.
4. “The Golden Compass,” by Philip Pullman
5. “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” by Mark Twain
6. “The Color Purple,” by Alice Walker
7. ”TTYL,” by Lauren Myracle
8. ”I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” by Maya Angelou
9. “It’s Perfectly Normal,” by Robie Harris
10. ”The Perks of Being A Wallflower,” by Stephen Chbosky

Jesus Weeps, and I understand why.

 

I saw this story while seated in the waiting room of the service department at my local car dealership. I kid you not I spoke outloud to the television. I was so upset I didn’t know whether to cry or vomit.

Who do these people think they are? How dare they presume to speak for God, or Christ, or anyone else for that matter.  I yelled at the tv I AM A CHRISTIAN AND I AM VOTING FOR BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA YOU ASSHOLE. Okay, so the asshole part probably wasn’t very nice, but I get so frustrated and angry and demoralized at what people do in the name of religion.

I say if you want to preach from the pulipit fine-then PAY UP. If it means that much to you to weigh in on things PAY UP BIG. The IRS should have no qualms about revoking the tax exempt status of  the churches that want to violate the tax laws. What a boost to the federal budget that would be-at a time when every penny could help.

Better yet, revoke the tax exempt status of all  churches. If we go by what we can read in the Bible, Christ was never one for the mingling of the church and the government anyway, and that would certainly insure the true separation of church and state. No government perks for churches.

Forgive us Lord, we do know what we do-and do it anyway.

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/politics/2008/09/29/carroll.pulpit.politics.cnn

Multi-tasking 101

When I first heard of McCain’s call to postpone the debates and campaigning all I could think was “he’s running scared”. He is on the record stating that he knows very little about, and doesn’t understand, the economy. Quite naturally he doesn’t want to head into a debate about the economy at this point in time. And, I’m sure he doesn’t want the entire nation to be reminded that he was the Poster Boy for deregulation in the financial industry- and that he had a hand in bringing about this “crisis”.

I couldn’t be more pleased with Senator Obama’s response. Damn right. We need a president that can focus on more than one thing at a time and we need to see what these two are made of. Right now.

No “time outs” to run off and think. Think on your feet Senator.

 

Senator Obama:

“This is exactly the time when people need to hear from the candidates,” he said.

He added: “Part of the president’s job is to deal with more than one thing at once. In my mind it’s more important than ever.”

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/25/us/politics/25mccain.html

Change of Address

John McCain in 60 Minutes interview last night (9/21)

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/09/21/60minutes/main44463340_pages6.shtml 

Pelley: Longest you’ve lived any one place?

McCain: Hanoi. Hanoi was the longest- I lived any place, five and a half years.

Pelley: When you were in prison?

McCain: Yup, yeah, I certainly don’t wanna call that my hometown.

Nice answer, but not true anymore.

Check how long you’ve lived in Arizona Senator (or in D.C. for that matter).

With all due respect for the time you served our country and were imprisoned as a POW-stop milking it for all it’s worth sir.

Bank tellers…doctors…stock brockers…pretty much the same

Given the current state of the banking and financial markets perhaps he’d like to rethink that mantra of deregulate, deregulate, deregulate.

John McCain:

Opening up the health insurance market to more vigorous nationwide competition, as we have done over the last decade in banking, would provide more choices of innovative products less burdened by the worst excesses of state-based regulation.

http://krugman.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/09/19/mccain-on-banking-and-health/

http://www.contingencies.org/septoct08/mccain.pdf

Can old dog (without lipstick) learn new tricks

When Sarah Palin came in lacking on the facts in her interview with Charles Gibson, the McCain camp cried foul. After all, they said, she’s not the top of the ticket-she’ll learn.

Okay, McCain is the top o’the tic and he seems a little off  the mark here.

If you don’t even know what YOU do yourself, how can you teach the veep?

We’ll give you the benefit of the doubt-the young one can learn. But what about you Senator?

http://thinkprogress.org/2008/09/16/mccain-commerce-committee/

1+1=(it depends are you a donkey or an elephant?)

Never that great at math, it pleases me to have someone else crunch the numbers.

It just goes to show you that in this world of political he said/she said back and forth mud tossing there’s usually more to things than meets the eye.

But, it requires that we think.
McCain is banking that  we won’t.

http://lycanthropia.whistleandfish.com/2008/09/16/do-the-math/

Brother can you spare a dime to buy him a clue?

From Salon:

John McCain at a town hall meeting in Florida on Monday morning: “The fundamentals of our economy are strong.”

If John McCain thinks that “the fundamentals of our economy are strong,” then that phrase is effectively meaningless. Unemployment is at a five-year high, consumer spending is predicted to decline this fiscal quarter for the first time in 17 years, and we are currently undergoing the worst housing bust since the Great Depression.

http://www.salon.com/tech/htww/2008/09/15/mccain_fundamentals/index.html

From his lips to my wallet

Gas hit over $4.00 here in my part of the world.

Milk, groceries, mortgages, everything going up up up.

Wages are dropping, prices are rising.

Health care costs are soaring, health coverage disappearing.

That sort of stuff, the economics of everyday living is easy for most of us to understand.

But then today’s headlines:

Merrill Lynch forced to sell to Bank of America

Lehman files for bankruptcy.

The federal government is going to have to bail out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac (so yes you are paying on your Freddie or Fannie mortgage for your home AND you are paying for the bail out with your tax dollars).

This is bad. Really bad. Even if we don’t understand the intricacies of the economy we know that the headline BLACK MONDAY is not good, not in the short term or the long haul.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/16/business/worldbusiness/16markets.html

http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/09/15/banks.bigchanges/index.html

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/09/15/wall-streets-black-monday_n_126387.html

It’s the economy, stupid. Remember that?

Now’s the time to stamp it on the foreheads of the presidential candidates.

Here’s the problem.

John McCain says he doesn’t really understand the economy.

I’m going to be honest: I know a lot less about economics than I do about military and foreign policy issues. I still need to be educated,” McCain told the Wall Street Journal in late November.

In December he said, “The issue of economics is not something I’ve understood as well as I should,” as the Globe reported on its “Political Intelligence” blog at the time.

I’m going to be honest: I know a lot less about economics than I do about military and foreign policy issues. I still need to be educated,” McCain told the Wall Street Journal in late November.

And then, this is what he once said about  looking for in a running mate:

After mentioning the ability of a potential running mate to replace the president, McCain said, “You also look for people who maybe have talents you don’t, or experience or knowledge you don’t, as well.”

“What are those qualities that you don’t – that you wouldn’t mind complementing?” asked David Brooks, a columnist for The New York Times.

McCain paused. “Uh, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but, somebody who’s really well grounded in economics,” he said.

Uh, and he picked Sarah Palin?

This is serious stuff. Serious times.

We need someone who can seriously tackle the job.

That’s not McCain-Palin.

He admits it himself.

Doctors orders

Again, (yawn) what’cha hiding Senator McCain?

And yes, I think all four of the contenders should release their records,

but given his selection for Veep-McCain really really really needs to.

Ro Ro Rove the (swift)boat

Not that I believe for a moment that Rove isn’t backing all the mudthrowing 100%…

it doesn’t speak well of McCain when the king of sleaze, distortions, and ugly politics comes down against you.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/09/14/karl-rove-mccains-ads-hav_n_126280.html

Thou Shalt not lie-unless it’s to win.

 

Watch the video in its entirety. (Thanks Harry)

Think about this whenever you hear the words I approved this message.

Don’t believe what you hear-read, research, check and recheck.

Find out the truth-and the lies.

Then decide.

Do we need another four years of being lied to?

http://lycanthropia.whistleandfish.com/2008/09/14/exodus-2016-pt-2/

Forget Palin

and the glass ceiling, and pigs with lipstick, and cries of SEXISM.

It is all really rather stupid when you stop and think about the lives of girls all over the world.

 

http://www.girleffect.org

Unconscionable

http://icouldbetheveep.wordpress.com/2008/09/13/unconscionable/

Pretend I didn’t say that.

The what I said about him doesn’t apply to her routine is getting old old old.

Make up your mind John.
Which is it?

John McCain:

 ”I am prepared. I am prepared. I need no on-the-job training. I wasn’t a mayor for a short period of time. I wasn’t a governor for a short period of time.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/09/12/mccain-last-year-mayors-a_n_125944.html

Change in wolf’s clothing.

1. A lobbyist.

2 .Been in working for Republicans in Washington since god.

Yeah, that sounds like change.

A prominent Washington lobbyist who has worked for every Republican president since Richard Nixon has been tapped by the McCain campaign to conduct a study in preparation for the presidential transition, should John McCain win the election, according to sources familiar with the process.

William E. Timmons, Sr. is a Washington institution, having worked in the Nixon and Ford administrations as an aide for congressional relations, and assisted the transition teams of both Ronald Reagan in 1980 and George W. Bush in 2000. He was also a senior adviser to both Vice President George Bush in 1988 and Senator Bob Dole in 1996.

 

http://www.time-blog.com/swampland/2008/09/mccain_taps_lobbyist_for_trans.html

Reading between the lines

As I tell my daughters often-just because it’s on tv doesn’t make it true.

That is especially the case with political advertising. We all know it, there’s no secret. It’s spin spin spin. What’s interesting is just how elaborate the spin can be.

In the rather disgusting ad that McCain ran recently on Obama, education, and specifically sex-education the campaign quotes a lot of sources about Obama and his record on education. The purpose of utilizing quotes in political commercials is to give the ads a ring of authority-as if to say I’m not saying this, it’s the Wall Street Journal, so you know it’s true.

Interestingly, the very articles the McCain camp uses to criticize Obama contained a lot of other quotes that were conveniently left out of the ad. Quotes that are actually more critical of McCain on education than Obama.

But, we didn’t expect them to mention that did  we?

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/09/09/mccain-ad-cites-articles_n_125218.html

Megan your freudian slip is showing.

I’m sure it was an innocent mis-speak.
Surely she didn’t mean it?

Only her family knows about war- “Period“

No, just a slip of the tongue-right?

But note to daddy: You might want to have Megan stick to her “blog-ette”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMxp5UkeGCc

Small town values?

News outlets are emphasizing the fact that Palin apparently quoted a known anti-semite in her speech at the RNC. But I liked this article for the points it makes about the economics of small town America. Palin makes a good speech, but the Republican party can’t back it up.

http://www.wsj.com/article/SB122100226859616967.html?mod=hpp_us_inside_today

Sticks and stones

Here’s my take on all the stupid clamour about lipstick comments, sexism, and dirty politics.

http://icouldbetheveep.wordpress.com/2008/09/10/sticks-and-stones/

This little piggie had O-R-E-Os

 

Finally, economics that I understand. And my favorite cookies too!

http://lycanthropia.whistleandfish.com/2008/09/10/of-cookies-pigs-and-lipstick/

Cut from the same cloth.

Very interesting reading, though I am sure the concept will be dismissed out of hand.

http://www.salon.com/opinion/feature/2008/09/09/palin_fundamentalist/

Salon…

Palin has a right to her religious beliefs, as do fundamentalist Muslims who agree with her on so many issues of social policy. None of them has a right, however, to impose their beliefs on others by capturing and deploying the executive power of the state. The most noxious belief that Palin shares with Muslim fundamentalists is her conviction that faith is not a private affair of individuals but rather a moral imperative that believers should import into statecraft wherever they have the opportunity to do so. That is the point of her pledge to shape the judiciary. Such a theocratic impulse is incompatible with the Founding Fathers’ commitment to tolerance and democracy, which is why they forbade the government to “establish” or officially support any particular religion or denomination.

McCain once excoriated the Rev. Jerry Falwell and his ilk as “agents of intolerance.” That he took such a position gave his opposition to similar intolerance in Islam credibility. In light of his more recent disgraceful kowtowing to the Christian right, McCain’s animus against fundamentalist Muslims no longer looks consistent. It looks bigoted and invidious. You can’t say you are waging a war on religious extremism if you are trying to put a religious extremist a heartbeat away from the presidency.

So what can we talk about?

From CNN

Joe Biden:

“I hear all this talk about how the Republicans are going to work in dealing with parents who have both the joy…and the difficulty of raising a child who has a developmental disability, who were born with a birth defect,” he said. “Well, guess what folks? If you care about it, why don’t you support stem cell research?”

Biden spokesman David Wade insisted Tuesday the Delaware senator’s comments were not directed at Palin.

“This is a clash of policies, not a clash of personalities,” Wade said. “We’ve heard not a dime’s worth of difference between the McCain-Palin ticket and the Bush Administration on medical breakthroughs that millions of parents

The response:

Barack Obama’s running mate sunk to a new low today launching an offensive debate over who cares more about special needs children,” McCain-Palin spokesman Ben Porritt said.

http://www.politicalticket.blogs.com.cnn.com/2008/09/09/mccain-camp-says-biden-sunk-to-a-new-low/

How is that a “new low”?
The issue of stem cell research is a legitimate one, and how the McCain-Palin ticket plans to address such is an issue many of us would like to hear about.

Does the fact that Gov. Palin has a child with a disability mean the subject is off limits?

Then does that also mean that we can’t discuss:

1 . Birth control and sex education, abortion, or funding for programs serving pregnant and parenting teens,  since her daughter is pregnant.                                              

2. All subjects relating to the elderly because McCain is old.

3.Any gender issues-especially equal pay for equal work since Palin is female.

4. Any issues in the “culture” war-like marriage-since John McCain is on wife number 2 (having committed adultery you know)

5. Global warming. Why? Because it’s cold where Sarah Palin lives.

6. Money, since McCain has lots of it.

7. Religion-since Palin has lots of it.

8. The war. Since Palin has already said she hasn’t given it much thought. So that wouldn’t be fair either.

9. All child welfare issues-since Palin has lots of children.

10. The military. Since John McCain was a POW-it might be sensitive issue for him.

Come on, stop coddling Palin, stop whining and discuss the issues PLEASE.

Then again, we must remember the words of McCain’s manager-it’s not about the issues-it’s about personality!

Rick Davis, campaign manager for John McCain’s presidential bid, insisted that the presidential race will be decided more over personalities than issues during an interview with Post editors this morning.

“This election is not about issues,” said Davis. “This election is about a composite view of what people take away from these candidates.”

Davis added that issues will no doubt play a major role in the decisions undecided voters will make but that they won’t ultimately be conclusive. He added that the campaign has “ultimate faith” in the idea that the more voters get to know McCain and Barack Obama, the better the Republican nominee will do.

http://voices.washingtonpost.com/thefix/2008/09/mccain_manager_this_election_i.html

Both sides of her mouth-ette

The perhaps you should take little seven year old Piper Palin off your “blogette”

http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20224394,00.html?xid=rss-topheadlines

And not a drop to drink.

Maybe while we’re over there “surging” do you think we could do something about the water?

http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/meast/11/29/iraq.main/index.html

 

And yes, I read the email, and yes it’s a hassle, but Palin is being quarantined over there. Only 57 more days (hopefully).  www.icouldbetheveep.wordpress.com

Not on the potty

I love Opus.

And profound.

Where do I want to be in the end?

 

 

http://www.salon.com/comics/opus/2008/09/07/opus/

A not so funny about money.

It may be funny to Mr. Thompson and the delegates of the RNC, and maybe even McCain/Palin, but to the millions of Americans struggling in this economy I doubt it’s funny at all.

From Fred Thompson’s speech to the RNC:

We do so while taking a different view of our country than that of the other party. Listening to them, you’d think that we were in the middle of a Great Depression — (laughter) — that we’re down, disrespected, incapable of prevailing against challenges that face us. Now, we know that we have challenges. Always have, always will. But we also know that we live in the freest, strongest, most generous and prosperous nation in the history of the world and we’re thankful for that. (Cheers, applause.)

Text of his speech: http://www.latimes.com/news/politics/la-na-thompsontranscript3-2008sep03,0,2929863.story

Unemployment figures released today:http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/06/business/economy/06econ.html?hp

The stock market today: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/06/business/worldbusiness/06asia.html?ref=business

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26561269/  And on the housing front.

Mums the word from the hockey mom

 

From MSNBC. Italics added are mine for emphasis.

*** Waiting for the interview: There are now about 60 days until Election Day and just three weeks until the debates. And who knows whether we’ll get the first Sarah Palin serious issue interview before then. This morning on JOE, McCain manager Rick Davis wouldn’t commit to putting her out to media interviews unless they saw it as helping their campaign. This Sunday is interesting in that three of the four principles are doing sunday shows, the lone holdout: Palin.

My question is this: Why wouldn’t she be a help to your campaign? If she’s ready to go on day one, ready to be the veep, ready to be the pres, then why isn’t she ready to face the press? If you don’t see it as “being a help” does that mean you think she’ll be a problem? Mistake? Hindrance?

http://firstread.msnbc.msn.com/archive/2008/09.aspx

Her name is CINDY sir.

Last night Cindy McCain said in her speech that  husband John is a man who always tells the truth.

In The Real McCain Cliff Schecter recounts the day when in 1992 Senator McCain (in the presence of reporters) called his wife the most vile word in the world-a c**t and a trollop. He has repeatedly been asked to deny this-asked out right did you call your wife these things-and he refuses to deny it. His excuse for the comment-he was tired and it had been a long day.  Cindy McCain has never denied the story and none of the reporters involved have  either.

A long day as an excuse for calling your own wife such- it’s abusive, plain and simple.

Cindy, John McCain may be a man who always tells the truth, except for one day.

I assure you-except for one day, that day.

I hope you never let him utter that word to you again. You are better than that. Every woman on earth is better than that.

Georgia on everyone’s mind.

With apologies to the world. I live in this state, but I PROMISE some of us have brains and use them.

http://voices.washingtonpost.com/the-trail/2008/09/04/georgia_gop_congressman_calls.html

Sad but funny

What’s sad is it is not only hysterical, but it’s true.

If I had the least bit of tech savvy I’d post the video here. But…

So go visit it here on Harry’s page   http://lycanthropia.whistleandfish.com/2008/09/04/top-40-radio/

or over at Comedy Central.

http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=184086&title=sarah-palin-gender-card

In the midst of it all it really does help to laugh.

Apply lipstick then kiss my bumper sticker.

Over the course of my life I have volunteered for campaigns at the  local, state, and federal level. I have dialed the phone, stuffed envelopes, put up signs, and written letters. I have cared passionately about who won what races, and back in my younger days when I believed in a micro-managing god I even prayed. (Please God let Newt Gingrich beat Herman Talmadge. That was a long time ago)

But there are two things I have never done-until today.

1. Contributed to a political campaign

2.  Put a bumper sticker on my car.

There it is. Ready for my car (I really have to clean a spot on the window).

My youngest and I stopped by the Obama 08 office here in town. We volunteered to work, and then we bought stickers and buttons and then I cut a check.

On my budget I can assure you it wasn’t much, but it was my first monetary contribution ever.

Why?

Well I became an Obama supporter when John Edwards dropped out, but was not passionately, violently, bumper sticker-esque  enthusiastic in my support. Then

Sarah Palin.

That’s all.

Sarah Palin a heartbeat away from the presidency when her resume is weaker than most of the “working women” and “hockey moms” that I know.
Sarah Palin who wanted to ban books.

Sarah Palin who is opposed to sex education that is not abstinence based.

Sarah Palin who doesn’t believe global warming is man made and wants creationism taught in schools.

Sarah Palin who has no foreign policy experience (but hey, she lives next to Russia).

Sarah Palin who said she “hadn’t given much thought” to the Iraq war.

Sarah Palin who said she didn’t really know what the Vice President’s job entails.

Sarah Palin who sneered at community organizers in her speech. (Jane Addams the mother of social work-my profession- is rolling over in her grave. )

 Sarah Palin who does not “ resonate” with all women just because she’s a woman, a mom, a working mom, or whatever label you want to use.

And just so you know Sarah-LIPSTICK is not what differentiates a hockey mom from a pit bull  -it’s a thinking rational brain. 

 I’ve got one, millions of women around this nation have one, and we are going to put it to use on election day.

Meet the Press

According to the McCain camp “the media ” needs to lay-of the “smear” campaign and the “attacks” on VP Candidate Governor Sarah Palin. What?  So they can dish it out but can’t take it?

Here’s what I think-finally BRAVO to “the media”. That’s their/its job. After years of tippy-toe dancing around the Bush Administration they are finally getting off their asses and doing what journalists are supposed to do-question question question. Then-inform the rest of us.

McCain can cancel all the interviews he wants in a petulant rage against Campbell Brown and CNN. They can hole Palin away in a hotel room and never have her get face- to -face on Face the Nation or anywhere else for that matter. But if they do, hide that is, it leaves the rest of us wondering-what’s up with you guys? I say if you want the “smear campaign” against Governor Palin to stop, then come out and talk about the issues. Make the McCain-Palin camp talk about the economy, the war, taxes, mortgage foreclosures, the state of the world, the state of the nation. Go on the record with plans and specifics (and please answer the whole book-banning issue). Give the media the answers to the questions they are asking and then talk about what you want to accomplish if elected-and make this about the issues not the personalities and not the culture wars.

After all, your guy is the one who said voters would decide not on the “issues” but on “personalities”-but you don’t want any reporting on personalities? http://www.voices.washingtonpost.com/thefix/2008/09/mccain_manager_this_election_i.html

Transparency goes a long way and certainly beats whining leave her alone or we won’t play.

Lou would be proud. http://www.tammyr2.wordpress.com/2008/07/23/wheres-lou-when-we-need-him/

http://www.time-blog.com/swampland/2008/09/angry_amateurs.html

Shhhh be quiet no more!

Forget putting these links on my other voices page. This is important, front and center.

Here are just a few voices on the subject, mostly from librarians. I love librarians, people who dedicate themselves to introducing children (and all of us to books and information-how great is that?)  Most of them start their writings by saying that they are reluctant to “get political” on their blogs. I understand that-but now is the time to do just that. This is serious.  If Governor Palin would attempt to ban books and pressure a librarian while a small town mayor, what would she do with the power of the presidency? 

One post lists the books that Governor Palin (as Mayor) sought to ban. I haven’t seen the list verified yet-but if any portion of it is true my heart aches.

Get the word out.

http://bookdweeb.wordpress.com/2008/09/04/sarah-palin-banning-books-and-the-impact-on-public-libraries/

http://genneaux.wordpress.com/2008/09/03/i-have-some-rhetoric-for-you/ 

http://librarianinblack.typepad.com/librarianinblack/

http://www.librarian.net/stax/2366/sarah-palin-vp-nominee/

The Censor -in- Chief

I’ve written on this subject before( http://tammyr2.wordpress.com/2008/06/30/164/ )and my love of books and reading, and intellectual freedom is no secret. And libraries! I can still close my eyes and smell the library of my youth. One of life’s true joys is finding the next great read sitting on the shelf just waiting for me me me to check it out.

 When I heard about this from Harry I swear I felt my heart stop beating in my chest. 

There is nothing I could say to improve on this post from http://lycanthropia.whistleandfish.com/. It is appropriately titled “The Horror…the horror.”

Courting the under seven vote.

So the McCain camp and the RNC delegates continue to shout LEAVE THE KIDS OUT OF IT. And Obama says LEAVE THE KIDS OUT OF IT.

I think someone forgot to tell the McCains.

Last nights RNC video “about dad” could have been titled “All about the adoption of our daughter”. It had a very eeeeww exploitative feel especially given how we have seen virtually nothing of this daughter thus far. Hell they didn’t even have her on stage alongside Meghan for the big VP announce.  But, mom and dad approved it. So…

I think someone forgot to tell Governor Palin.

On Meghan McCain’s “blogette” is a video that prominently features little Piper Palin. At the end Piper encourages us to vote for her mom. She’s really cute.

Hello LEAVE THE KIDS OUT OF IT. Meghan’s an adult, Piper is seven. http://www.mccainblogette.com/index.shtml

Now I know that the children of candidates (in both parties) inevitably end up on tv and in the print media. Their parents dress them up and trot them out to wave and be cute in order to show the “human” side of the candidates. Okay, then do that, but then DON’T COMPLAIN ABOUT IT if the coverage moves from cute to cut throat. (Governor Palin’s kids aren’t the first to be skewered-remember poor Amy Carter? )

Piper is seven. I’m sure she thinks it is cool and neat to be on MySpace and in the middle of all this action. However, it is up to the adults in her life to stop and think. Is it cute and fun or is it exploiting the kids for a vote?

If we can’t talk about the Bristol the pregnant one, or Trig the baby, then perhaps they shouldn’t put little Piper on MySpace for the whole world to see.

Vote for my mom! It’s cute but

Shouldn’t she be in school???

OH! It’s not about national security, its about congeniality.

Oh this bothers me on sooooo many levels.

Not about the issues?
Then god help us all and this country too if we aren’t electing our next President on the issues. This is not a popularity contest to see who gets to run the Student Body. It’s the PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES.

And and and exactly what is a “masculine speech”?

I don’t know if I’ll make it to November without busting a vessel.

 

Rick Davis, campaign manager for John McCain’s presidential bid, insisted that the presidential race will be decided more over personalities than issues during an interview with Post editors this morning.

“This election is not about issues,” said Davis. “This election is about a composite view of what people take away from these candidates.”

Davis added that issues will no doubt play a major role in the decisions undecided voters will make but that they won’t ultimately be conclusive. He added that the campaign has “ultimate faith” in the idea that the more voters get to know McCain and Barack Obama, the better the Republican nominee will do.

Davis generally dismissed the controversies surrounding McCain’s vice presidential pick — Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin — as a media creation but did acknowledge that her acceptance speech, which seems likely to come tomorrow, is critically important to defining who she is to the American public.

As for the speech itself, Davis said a generic, “masculine” speech was being prepared before the pick was made and, now that Palin is the choice, she is adapting the speech to her own needs and personality.

http://voices.washingtonpost.com/thefix/2008/09/mccain_manager_this_election_i.html

43 going on 17

All this talk of seventeen year old Bristol Palin is getting old. Well , actually, I am getting old. Oh to be seventeen again…

So leaving the Palins, the McCains, the RNC, and all that behind for a moment let’s return to Jim’s (www.ofkingsandcarnies.com) meme started over at the Pub (http://lycanthropia.whistleandfish.com/).

You recall ( http://tammyr2.wordpress.com/2008/08/27/here-we-go-again/ )question number two:

Remember the first time your heart flitted for someone else? The first pangs of attraction? Maybe it was just giddy infatuation, who knows? But you knew something was different and you knew life was never going to be the same again. Tell me that story.

Well Jim, I’ll tell you the story, sort of. (Because I want to talk about being 17 it fits you know.)

The first time my heart flitted was at some ridiculously young age so that doesn’t count. I was 8-ish and had a giant crush on my eighteen year old second cousin. I thought he was the greatest thing–so my heart flitted at all the family functions. As is well known in family circles that one lasted a long time-despite the manifold protestations of his sister (the cousin I hung out with. Eeewwww he’s my brother…).  So yes, life as I knew it was changed forever. Out of that I believe I developed my fondness for tall men and my determination to love only guitar players. (Alas, life didn’t go that way either).

Then, in keeping with the theme of way-too-old-for-me I moved on to a crush on my junior high drama coach. Where oh where is he now?  Dismissing those two, and a few other completely absurd incidences of pre-pubescent goo-goo eyes ( including Billy now known as Ray over at www.raysweat.wordpress.com. He was my big brother’s friend, doesn’t every girl have to have a crush on at least one friend of her brother?) we shall jump to being seventeen (see the connection!?)

I was seventeen in September of 1981. The days of big hair, blue eyeshadow, really bad fashions, and my senior year of high school. That year, 1981, I was in love. LOVE with a capital L so I said. The kind of love that has a girl writing notes to her best friend (that would be Pam) pinning away wondering why oh why doesn’t he love me?”  The kind of love that finds her doodling his name and drawing cute little hearts around it (although I don’t think I was the cute hearts kind of girl-I took myself way too seriously). The kind of love that, in reality, would probably violate many of today’s stalking laws.  I LOVED, and had for a number of years at that point, Ronnie (no last name to protect the innocent).

I don’t recall exactly when it happened, but I do know where. Church. Ronnie sang in the youth choir and one day I looked over (where I was standing mouthing the words-another long story) and BANG. I mean BANG. My heart felt like it was in a vice grip and I knew he was THE ONE. I’m not sure what it was about him, though I believe he did play the guitar, sing, and was very tall.  RonnieRonnieRonnieRonnie. For years. (Don’t believe me-ask Pam. ) I carried a torch for him through high school, and into college. I was well into my sophomore year and dating other guys before I truly let go of RonnieRonnieRonnie. I prayed Please God let Ronnie love me. (Back then I believed in a micro-managing God). I BELIEVED. 

But… he never did. Love me that is. Looking back I realize I made a few tactical mistakes:

1. I made it very very clear to Ronnie and the entire world I LOVED HIM. (What’s the adage- men want what they can’t have?)

2. I made it very very clear…(no wait, I already said that).

He knew. Let’s just say that where there was Ronnie-look over to the left and there was Tammy. His sisters knew, his mother knew-and they ran a great campaign on my behalf. His friends knew, my friends knew, everyone knew and everyone most likely wanted to scream ENOUGH ALREADY GET OVER HIM.

I don’t think I ever “got over” Ronnie, I think time just took a natural course, sort of out -of -sight- out -of – mind. And, of course, I started meeting other people and my tastes changed- or I discovered my tastes, one or the other. Given that I never really knew Ronnie that well I couldn’t say we were meant for each other, or for that matter had a single thing in common. There was just something about him.

I do know this-at seventeen I thought he was IT; and at seventeen had I been stupid enough to crawl into the backseat with him resulting in an unplanned pregnancy- my life would have been OVER.  Ronnie may have been the perfect first love (is it love if the other person doesn’t want to give you the time of day and is prone to saying “it’s not happening Tammy”??) but he would not have made the perfect mate for life. It is a rare thing that the high school love becomes the forever love. It takes special people who work and work and work at it each and every day. Marriage is hard work, love is hard work, forever is really hard work.

So I feel for  Bristol Palin. I bet she loves her boyfriend. I bet she thinks he is just dreamy in his football uniform (Ronnie was a swimmer-tiny tiny speedo….). I bet she’s wishing she hadn’t listened to her mother and had said to Mr. Wonderful-here put this on. Or maybe not.

But, regardless, her life will never be the same. I find that sad. If for no other reason then she will never really know. Neither of them will. Is it love, the kind that lasts forever, or love, the kind you remember fondly when you are forty three? They’ll never know that. What they will know is it was the love that started pure, and then the adults jumped in.

Married, like it or not.

What a tough way to be seventeen.
In love, scared, and the whole world watching.

Had it been me and Ronnie-it would never have worked.
Thankfully it wasn’t. (His loss.)

Because I said so, that’s why. A mother’s mantra.

STOP SAYING THAT!

The talking point now out of the RNC, James Dobson, et al is how proud they are of young Ms. Palin’s “choice”. That she “chose life”. Chose it? Rather than what?

Her mother is on the record as being anti-abortion NO MATTER WHAT. The only exception – if the life of the mother is in jeopardy. She is on the record as saying even if HER OWN DAUGHTER were raped she would not approve of abortion.

Given that, knowing that, did her daughter really have any choice?

I’m 43 years old and I’m still scared of my parents! Come on, remember being 17? 17 and having to tell your mother your pregnant out of wedlock is one thing. Having to tell her when she is a Governor is another, and a Governor on the record of expecting you to keep your child if you were raped? HELP!

The poor girl had no choice. Her parents made the choice. So applaud Governor Palin all you want for choosing life, but stop saying it’s the daughter’s choice. And for the love of all that is holy-stop applauding the fact that she has “chosen” to marry the baby’s father.

The boy and he is a  BOY doesn’t want to be married, or having babies, or be in the national spotlight. The Palin family are a smart bunch of cookies-so Mr. McCain wants us to think-certainly they can come up with a solution that will choose life for the baby, the daughter, and the boyfriend that does not involve making two young people take a sacred vow under the scrutiny of the entire world. Talk about a shotgun wedding!

The fifth runner-up.

Again-pandering to a one-issue voting block?
Or, maybe he  agrees with Sarah Palin and the Alaskan Independence Party (Palin was a member)-Alaska should secede from the US and become an independent nation (or at least allow them to vote on it they say!)

http://www.akip.org

(Country first, no wait, Alaska first, no Sarah first. Oh hell, I can’t keep up.)

 
If he wanted one of the guys, he should have gone with one of the guys.

Does he not trust his own instincts? Does he only listen to the conservative base that he is trying to “win over”?

Is he prone to making hasty, poorly analyzed or thoughtless decisions?

I hope note. That’s not what we need in a President.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/02/us/politics/02vetting.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

At the least, Republicans close to the campaign said it was increasingly apparent that Ms. Palin had been selected as Mr. McCain’s running mate with more haste than McCain advisers initially described.

Up until midweek last week, some 48 to 72 hours before Mr. McCain introduced Ms. Palin at a Friday rally in Dayton, Ohio, Mr. McCain was still holding out the hope that he could choose a good friend, Senator Joseph I. Lieberman, independent of Connecticut, a Republican close to the campaign said. Mr. McCain had also been interested in another favorite, former Gov. Tom Ridge of Pennsylvania.

But both men favor abortion rights, anathema to the Christian conservatives who make up a crucial base of the Republican Party. As word leaked out that Mr. McCain was seriously considering the men, the campaign was bombarded by outrage from influential conservatives who predicted an explosive floor fight at the convention and vowed rejection of Mr. Ridge or Mr. Lieberman by the delegates.

Perhaps more important, several Republicans said, Mr. McCain was getting advice that if he did not do something to shake up the race, his campaign would be stuck on a potentially losing trajectory.

With time running out — and as Mr. McCain discarded two safer choices, Gov. Tim Pawlenty of Minnesota and former Gov. Mitt Romney of Massachusetts, as too predictable — he turned to Ms. Palin. He had his first face-to-face interview with her on Thursday and offered her the job moments later. Advisers to Mr. Pawlenty and another of the finalists on Mr. McCain’s list described an intensive vetting process for those candidates that lasted one to two months.

“They didn’t seriously consider her until four or five days from the time she was picked, before she was asked, maybe the Thursday or Friday before,” said a Republican close to the campaign. “This was really kind of rushed at the end, because John didn’t get what he wanted. He wanted to do Joe or Ridge.”

I know but do you know and does he know?

Well we  must give Governor Palin credit for this much: She knows where she stands.

Senator McCain however–not so much so.
First he was opposed to overturning Roe v. Wade, then he was for it.

Asked whether he supported President Bush’s abstinence only policies he said he didn’t know;  and when asked if he believed that the use of condoms helps reduce the transmission of STD’s he said he didn’t know.

The reporter followed up by inquiring whether McCain supports sex education that candidly discusses contraception and preventing the spread of AIDS and other disease, or whether he backs President Bush’s abstinence-only education program. After a long pause, he said, “I think I support the president’s policy.” Does he believe that contraceptives help stop the spread of HIV? After another long pause, -”You’ve stumped me.”

That was too bizarre for the startled journalist. “I mean, I think you’d probably agree it probably does help stop it?” Realizing how foolish he sounded, the senator had a ready quip. “Are we on the Straight Talk Express?” Still, he stuck to his muddled answer: “I’m not informed enough on it. Let me find out. You know, I’m sure I’ve taken a position on it in the past. I have to find out what my position was. Brian, would you find out what my position is on contraception — I’m sure I’m opposed to government spending on it, I’m sure I support the president’s policies on it.”

http://www.salon.com/opinion/conason/2008/04/11/mccain_abortion/

HE DOESN’T KNOW?

One thing he does know– how much he enjoyed the “nocturnal sojourns” of his high school days and his fondness for a stripper named “Flame of Florida”. So while he wants to preach to the young people of today about abstinence and self-control, he reserves the right to brag about his youth and then offer the caveat but I’m all grown up now.

http://www.time.com/time/politics/article/0,8599,1727868,00.html

He doesn’t know?

Note to Mrs. McCain: It’s time to have “the talk” with your son please.

It’s time to stop Just saying No.

I have written here at length on how I feel about abstinence only sex education. I believe deeply and passionately in the importance of educating young men and women about birth control and the absolute need to insure that  we do everything we can to reduce the number of unplanned/unwanted pregnancies in this country.  Objective studies have over and over again proven that abstinence only sex education has not been effective in reducing teen sexual activity or unplanned/unwanted teen pregnancies.

Governor Sarah Palin has been a lifelong advocate of abstinence only sex education. Clearly it has not worked in her own home. My heart goes out to  her seventeen year old daughter. Dare I say that perhaps had she felt she could have turned to her parents for open, honest communication about sexual activity that she might not be faced with motherhood at the age of seventeen, and marriage on top of that. 

Ms. Palin and many of her “conservative” supporters rally around the “pro-life” cause to the extent that they may well be considered a one-cause voting base. It is time that everyone realize that arguing about Roe V Wade and abortion is for naught. Not a single republican president or House/Senate lead by republicans has done one thing to overturn Roe V. Wade or to reduce the number of abortions in this country. They haven’t and they won’t. Neither will the democrats. Maybe it’s time to listen to voices like that of  Senator Obama who say that, while we may disagree about abortion policy , we can all agree that we need to work toward reducing the number of unwanted pregnancies in this country.

Too late for the Palin family, but not for countless other young people who need to know that if they cannot abstain from sexual activity (the best choice for preventing pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases) there are choices other than parenthood and marriage. The answer is in educating our young people and talking talking talking and then listening listening listening.

And this makes me wonder- can we truly believe that the McCain camp sufficiently vetted Governor Palin? I find it impossible to believe that Senator McCain, his advisors, and specifically his far right conservative party members, would have allowed Governor Palin’s selection in light of this recent news.  This speaks of Senator McCain’s decision making skills at the very least, and to Governor Palin’s honesty and willingness to put “Country First.” Had she truly had the best interests of the nation and the office of the VP and that of the Presidency in her mind (and not that of her own rising star), then she would have made this information clear from day one.

And, speaking as a mother, if she were the uber-mom she portrays herself to be, she would not be  running for Veep. She’d say family first, country second, and right now my family needs me.   And YES, I would expect the same of a man in the same position.

http://thecaucus.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/09/01/palins-17-year-old-daughter-is-pregnant/?hp

Are you there God? It’s me…and I’m disgusted too.

First a Focus on the Family executive calls for prayer that “rain of biblical proportions” would occur during Senator Obama’s speech during the DNC. Later he said he was trying to be funny-didn’t mean any harm.

Then DNC National Chair Don Fowler and Congressman John Spratt of South Carolina had this conversation about Gustav:

The hurricane’s going to hit New Orleans about the time they start. [Chuckle] The timing is — at least it appears now that it’ll be there Monday. That just demonstrates that God’s on our side. [Laughter]

Then filmmaker Micheal Moore weighs in:

I was just thinking, this Gustav is proof that there is a God in heaven,” Moore said, laughing. “To have it planned at the same time – that it would actually be on its way to New Orleans for day one of the Republican Convention, up in the Twin Cities – at the top of the Mississippi River.”

It just goes to show you there are assholes (or feel free to insert the expletive of your choice here) in both parties. Democrats, Republicans, even “Christian” exec’s demonstrate that mankind is full of (insert expletive of your choice again).

This is why I hate politics. Stupid stupid people all thinking that God is on their side. God doesn’t give a damn about American politics. God is not a Democrat or a Republican.God isn’t an American.God is not Baptist, Mormon, Catholic, Presbyterian, a Druid, or any other organized religion/faith/doctrine/group.  God is neither “conservative” or “liberal”, and hurricanes, rain and other such forces aren’t acts of God. It’s weather, it’s science. God doesn’t listen to us (insert expletive of choice here) when we pray for rain or parking spaces at the mall (yes people do that) or to win the lottery or even to make our candidate win.

If I could be so presumptuous to imagine what God is feeling about now:  Mortified.

God is mortified that he had anything to do with the creation of a bunch of (insert expletive of choice here once more.)

On behalf of all of us God,

I’m sorry.

Poisson Rouge

On a totally different front…

My little one came home from school Friday and asked me how to say Red Fish in French. I told her and she said, I want to go to that web site.  Turns out her music teacher had visited it with them in school earlier in the day.

It is in French, the games, the music, the art– but that doesn’t seem to stop the youngsters. Baby girl loves it-so if you have little ones I recommend you check it out. And even if you don’t, go paint a picture or sing along to a song. It’s infinitely more fun than reviewing today’s headlines.

 

 

http://www.poissonrouge.com/

Take me to the river-and step on it.

From the McCain camp on plans for the convention in light of Gustav:

They are also hoping to get McCain himself to a storm-affected area as soon as possible.

So it hasn’t hit yet, and McCain’s planning to sprint to the storm affected area as soon as possible. To what? Pitch in to help? Have his picture made comforting the folks of New Orleans? To beg and grovel and apologize for the abyssmal response of George and Brownie pre and post Katrina?

Check out what McCain was doing while Katrina was pounding New Orleans:

 

 

That’s a pic straight from the White House web site. McCain and Bush on McCain’s birthday as New Orleans was being washed away.

 

 

He’s contemplating turning the convention into a “fundraiser” of sorts should Gustav hit. Interesting in light of his voting record against aid to the people of New Orleans and any investigation of the levee disaster.

I may not get any sleep between now and November. And as much as I don’t want McCain-Palin in the White House, I find I’m already praying for a long life and good health for Senator McCain– just in case.

http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2008/08/30/gop-officials-say-gustav-likely-to-force-convention-changes/#more-15540

Operation Evacuate the Convention

The presumptive Republican Presidential nominee said that he is considering postponing the Republican National Convention in light of the potential devastation that Hurricane Gustav might bring to the Gulf Coast as early as Tuesday. He says it wouldn’t be appropriate.

I think he’s hoping to avoid one giant painful reminder of what happened when Hurricane Katrina hit and  President George W. Bush sat on his hands while an American city washed away. (And for that matter continues to do so while the city rots in disrepair. “Good job Brownie.”)

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/08/30/mccain-i-may-postpone-con_n_122675.html

Any brassiere in a storm (I mean election)

I’m still stunned and virtually speechless, drooling on the couch trying to figure out how someone with less experience than many of the women I ‘ve worked with in my life has ended up one cancer cell away from the presidency.  I almost want to send an apology note to Condoleeza Rice, Kay Bailey Hutchison, Elizabeth Dole, Christine Todd  Whitman, and all the rest of intelligent, talented, competent and experienced Republican women passed by,  even though I had nothing to do with Governor Palin’s selection.

So here’s a read from Salon that I liked. It articulates things rolling around in my mind better than I could. I especially like the point-those of us who were Hillary supporters were admirerers of her knowledge, her experience, her political ideaology, not her vagina. It is insulting at best to think any woman would do, and especially a conservative, right-wing, anti-choice, doesn’t believe in global warming, wants to teach creationism in schools, gun toting, former mayor of a town smaller than my backyard woman. We may have wished Sen. Obama had picked Senator Clinton as veep, but we are not stupid. It’s about the brain not the bustline Senator McCain.

Not a big Reagan fan myself, but since he seems to be the voice everyone in the Republican party likes to turn to for wisdom and insight- let’s look back in history.

From Salon

Looking back on the Ferraro nomination, another well-known conservative wrote: “I believe that someday we are going to have a woman president, possibly during my life, and I’ve often thought the best way to pave the way for this was to first nominate and elect a woman as vice-president. But I think Mondale made a serious mistake when he picked Geraldine Ferraro as his running mate. In my view, he guessed wrong in deciding to take a congresswoman that almost nobody had ever heard of and try to put her in line for the presidency … I don’t know who among the Democrats might have been a better choice, but it was obvious Mondale picked Geraldine Ferraro simply because he believed there was a ‘gender gap’ where I was concerned and she was a woman.”

Those are the words of Ronald Reagan in his 1991 memoir, “An American Life,” pouring scorn on the nomination of a woman who had served six years in Congress working on foreign policy issues. In retrospect, he had a point. Only this Palin gambit could make the Ferraro mistake look responsible and wise.

http://www.salon.com/opinion/conason/2008/08/30/palin/

Perhaps the Gipper was right.

Ovaries that have gone before

Well I just heard from a girlfriend weeping and asking me Isn’t this wonderful? Isn’t this historic?

Then I heard John McCain talk about his historic choice.

Now for a history lesson:

 

1872 Victoria Woodhull the first of MANY women to run for president.

1980 Geraldine Ferraro the first woman on a “major party” ticket.

And of course, Senator Clinton.

I couldn’t be more thrilled to have a woman on a ticket, potentially the first woman president given the realities of Sen. McCain’s health. I couldn’t be more thrilled to have the first African-American at the top of the ticket for president. I can’t wait to talk to my daughters about this. It’s a very exciting time, with a lot at stake- but historical?

Not for those who know their history.

The road was paved long before Ms. Palin.

She’s hot hot hot.

All I can say is I can’t wait for the debates. Have at her Senator Biden.

Now I didn’t call her Hot-that’s Alaska magazine’s idea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now I wonder, how will all the self-identified conservative “christians” who screeched that Hillary couldn’t be president because we couldn’t dare trust a woman to hold the office of the presidency going to feel now?44, no experience, a mother of young children (and wasn’t it uber-conservative Republican  Phyllis Schlafly  who said women need to be home raising their babies?) a heart-beat away from the Presidency-and a weak heartbeat at that. Suddenly it will become well, we meant a democrat woman, or a pro-choice woman…uh uh…

Oh, and for everyone that  went after Senator Clinton for her brief cleavage moment-check out Gov. Palin on the cover of Vogue. I believe that’s cleavage and nipple.

 

And experience-well Ms. Palin graduated in 87 with a bachelor’s degree in communication-and then…no that’s all. No graduate school, no law school, a communication’s major. (And I started out as one myself, so that’s not a slam on communications major.)

This is going to be very interesting.

I like what Steve Chapman had to say…

http://newsblogs.chicagotribune.com/steve_chapman/2008/08/mccains-inexcus.html

Wishing

85,000 people filled the stadium, thousands of others were turned away because there was simply no more room. 

Times Square overflowing with people focused on the big screen. It looked liked New Year’s Eve.

Dare I exhale and hope that it really is possible? Maybe, just maybe. Maybe the past eight years will come to a resounding end on November 2nd.

I told my daughter after the speech-Never forget what you just heard.

I’m hoping she heard our next president.

Here we go again.

 

Things seem a bit slow over at the pub,( http://www.whistleandfish.com/thepub/ ) it appears the entire staff is off in Tahiti, leaving the rest of us  here with the undead and other patrons of the establishment.  Prior to abandoning the place, Harry the bartender suggested that Jim, the resident bar back, create another set of meme questions for those of us loitering about to answer. ( I guess he feels we all need to think about something other than the DNC and the upcoming RNC — neither of which can possibly match the excitement of Micheal Phelps at the Olympics).  

 

 So Jim (www.ofkingsandcarnies.com) put his nose to the grindstone and came up with five questions. Five questions that I said sound like the sort of thing one ponders with over- priced shrink while struggling with midlife angst. Nonetheless, Harry and Jim are bigger and meaner than I, so I am a participant in these web antics once more.

 Here are the five questions.

 

1. If you had unlimited time and unlimited funds, what would you like to learn and why?
2. Remember the first time your heart flitted for someone else? The first pangs of attraction? Maybe it was just giddy infatuation, who knows? But you knew something was different and you knew life was never going to be the same again. Tell me that story.
3. If you could live one short episode of your life over again — a day, week, month — which would it be? And why?
4. Somewhere in life you made an important decision, THE DECISION. A major fork on your road of Life. Tell me the story of what would have happened if you had taken the other path?
5. You’ve decided to start over. You’ve changed your identity and appearance. Who are you now?

 

 I have decided to tackle question #1 first, as it seems the least invasive if I might say so myself.( Although one would think that after spending the past year upchucking my most personal life disaster all over  these pages that nothing would be sacred anymore. )

 

I invite you all to join in and send me your answers to Jim’s Meme, either here or over at the pub. Why should I suffer alone?

 

So soon I will tackle the first question, but tonight it’s convention time. I’m hoping things will liven up a bit.  

 

Octogenarian won’t cut it.

 

I think I own every books to read before you die   book that there is. Books for girls, books for boys, the classics, the greats, the one’s someone thinks I can’t live without. If there’s a list, I have it.

I also own 1,000 Places to See Before You Die http://www.alibris.com/booksearch?title=1000+places+to+see+before+you+die 

and now this

 

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=93874490

 

I have just enough compulsive features in my personality that this sort of thing will drive me nuts. I don’t have time for this.

 I hope I live a long long time.

Best toasted over an open flame

And election year continues. 

 I said before ( http://www.tammyr2.wordpress.com/2008/06/12/dreaming ) that I’m not particularly interested in what the would-be first ladies are wearing. I’d like to say now that I’m not especially concerned about where the would-be presidents live, or how many houses either candidate owns. 

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/08/21/race.tightens/index.html

 

 Knowing that, forgive me for turning off the latest campaign ads in disgust.

Clearly John and Cindy McCain have more money than god. They have so many homes that Senator McCain can’t even keep count. I don’t like that. First, I think if you can’t handle the little details of life (how many homes do I own?) then you might not be the best person to charge with handling the free world and all the pesky specifics that job entails. Second, clearly anyone with that amount of money is soooo out of touch with reality that I can’t expect him to know too terribly much (or care?) about the plight of the overwhelming majority of Americans struggling in our current economy.

However, Senator Obama, quick on the attack, is not exactly downtrodden. He and his wife aren’t hurting either, and while they may not be the calibre of rich-folks as the McCains, Senator Obama isn’t  ”one of us”-at least not one of me.

So here I am again and it is only August. Pleasepleaseplease will SOMEBODY talk about what matters. Really matters. Stop attacking each other like bullies on the playground. Stop pointing fingers while shouting YOU-NO YOU-NO YOU at each other.

Can we all go ahead and accept the following assumptions and therefore avoid the “attack” ad mentality that prevails thus far?

1. You’re both well off. Sadly we all have to face the reality that the only people who seem to get elected to any office anymore are wealthy, or at least very very well off and funded by the wealthy.

2. You are both taking wads of money from the wealthy in order to fund your campaigns.

3. Neither of you actually knows what a gallon of milk costs or for that matter the average back-to-school supplies hit to the pocketbook.

4. The two of you have not been forced to dine at a soup kitchen or shop at the food pantry. You have health insurance, a private doctor, clothes for your children, gas in your car(s), air conditioning, heating, shoes, socks, gloves, etc.

5. One of you is a veteran, held prisoner and tortured. Got it. That has nothing to do with your ability to do the job, unless you are planning to do it from a prisoner of war camp.

6. One of you is not a veteran. Ditto.

7. One of you is old, one is not. We’ve had young presidents and old presidents and frankly it hasn’t made too terribly much difference. (Although the Reagan alzheimers thing is disturbing)

8. You both want to restore hope, make America strong, blahblah rah rah.

9. You both will inevitably inject “race” “sex” “money”  “religion”and anything else you can in to the election process    in an attempt to manipulate the American people, avoid the issues, and dodge any discussion of true substance.

 

And that is what bothers me most.

All puffy fluff, no substance.

Like marshmallows.
Which marshmallow will we elect this time around?

A kids meal isn’t always a Happy One.

This one is important.
So I put it here and in Other Voices.

It made me cry, which is a woefully inadequate response.

http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/08/18/heather_ryan/index.html

From Salon:

I could segue into some political rant here, a slick dismissal of the Bush administration, perhaps, or a paragraph declaring my support for Barack Obama. But the moment I walked into the soup kitchen — the moment I acknowledged, publicly, that I could not provide food for myself or my children (which is why the soup kitchen is so much more difficult than the food bank) — is the moment that my ability to believe in the politics of this country was forever altered. I know why poor people have historically low voter-turnout rates. If you vote, you acknowledge that you believe in the system. And to believe in the system when you’re at the very bottom, when you’ve watched the chrome and ink-black SUVs drive by while you’re packing your own beater with dried beans and lentils, to believe at that point is fucking painful. You either say the system works and you’ve earned your place, or you concede that there is something wrong and there might not be any way to fix it. The entire summer of 2007, as I struggled to keep us fed, I hated thinking of politics, an unusual characteristic for me. It hurt to listen to any presidential candidate talk about the working poor, and not because they weren’t genuine, but because all their talk was just that — talk. It was like listening to my former self, the one who didn’t know how bad things could get.

Same President, more wasted oxygen

Not a good time to be an animal on this earth.

What’s left for this man to do between now and January?

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26143098

First Bootie Check

NOTE TO MY WANNA-BE OLYMPIAN DAUGHTER:

NEVER present your bottom to the leader of the free world. 

 

 

 

From MSNBC:

 

“Then May-Treanor turned her back to the president, offering her bikinied rear for one of the traditional slaps that volleyball players frequently give each other.

“Mr. President, want to?” she asked, repeating an offer she made when Bush gave a pep talk to the U.S. athletes before Friday’s opening ceremonies.

Bush smilingly gave a flick with the back of his hand to the small of her back instead.”

On Senators and raincoats

And one more thing (I promise) -

when Mr. Edwards discounted the possiblity that he fathered his lover’s child he did so by saying the timing was all wrong and the affair had clearly ended before the time o’conception.

 

Why oh why didn’t we hear I WORE A CONDOM, SO I DOUBT THAT’S MY BABY. (98% efficacy rate)

More stupid stupid stupid.

Same song, new zipper.

 

Disclaimer: I voted for John Edwards every single time he ran for anything.

So this from the news yesterday about John Edwards, the question of his extra-marital affair, and whether or not he would speak at the Democratic convention.

Don Fowler, former Democratic party chairman, told the Charlotte Observer on Wednesday, “If there is not an explanation that’s satisfactory, acceptable and meets high moral standards, the answer is ‘no,’ he would not be a prime candidate to make a major address to the convention.”

Question for Mr. Fowler: What the hell does that mean? Meets what high moral standards? His? Mine? The DNC’s? Given that our former president will be speaking at the convention and we all know where he stuck his dick, exactly how do you determine what the bar for morality is?

I am so over politics being about bedroom morality-or at least what someone calls morality. I’m beginning to doubt there’s one in the bunch that hasn’t been up to something. Gingrich is on wife number who knows, and while he was the voice of morality for the Republicans he left his wife on her death bed to take up with the woman who would become wife #2. Rudy Guiliani is on #3 or #4, McCain left #1 for much younger #2,Spitzer paid for it, what’s his name went looking  for action in a bathroom stall,  and on and on and on. It’s time that we stop making  sexual conduct/misconduct the issue.

Let’s ask the really important question:

Do any of these men have the sense god gave a dixie cup? It’s not about where the dicks been-it’s about stupidity.

If you aren’t smart enough to keep your pants pulled up when you are a public figure with the press following your every move, then you aren’t smart enough to run the country. To me it’s that simple. All ideas about adultery, monogamy, loyalty, love, everything else-forget it. It’s stupidity. If you aren’t smart enough to realize that every woman sings like a bird eventually-then you aren’t smart enough to be president. You will get caught buddy, that’s a given.

And to all the politicians, talking heads, pundits, gossip columnists, Republicans, Democrats, and the rest of us that are going to weigh in and GASP with disappointment at how horrible horrible horrible John Edwards is-just remember our time will come. It always does.  Mr. Fowler is searching for a morally acceptable answer today, and next week he’ll be the headline.

John Edwards cheated on his wife. That’s between the two of them. (Spoken as a woman who’s been down this very road…) Adultery does not preclude him from the presidency in my book, stupidity does.

But, and I know I have no right to be, I am disappointed. Again.

I will give him this, he offered the best damn “apology” I’ve heard in a long time. Not that he owes any of us one. He’s right- “egocentric and narcissistic”. That’s what it always seems to boil down to, that

and stupidity.  

Stupid stupid stupid. 

John Edwards:

“It is inadequate to say to the people who believed in me that I am sorry, as it is inadequate to say to the people who love me that I am sorry. In the course of several campaigns, I started to believe that I was special and became increasingly egocentric and narcissistic. If you want to beat me up – feel free. You cannot beat me up more than I have already beaten up myself. I have been stripped bare and will now work with everything I have to help my family and others who need my help.”

God as a blonde?

From CNN Headlines:

http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/08/07/osteen.wife.trial.ap/index.html

According to court documents, Brown says that she suffers from anxiety and hemorrhoids because of the incident involving Victoria Osteen and said her faith was affected. She is also suing Victoria Osteen for medical expenses for counseling.

I’m not going to weigh in on whether or not asking for 10% of someone’s net worth for being pushed and shoved is a tad bit suspicious. I will not argue with the fact that this woman may, in fact, now have both anxiety and hemorrhoids following the incident. (Though I’d need an M.D. to explain the latter to me)

But, to sue because her faith has been affected leaves me wondering-

FAITH IN WHOM?
Ms. Osteen or God.

And if being shoved by a televangelists’ wife affects your faith in God, I have to wonder about said faith. I think if I were God I’d be a little disappointed that one of my followers could be so easily shaken and then I’d ask-Hey what about turning the other cheek?

 

An apple a day doesn’t work

Note to Virginia governor Tim Kaine:

There is nothing “inspiring” about it. You ought to be ashamed, every governor in the country should be ashamed, our congress, our senate, our president, and each and every one of us ought to be ashamed. This in America. Health care should be a given in this country. A nation of sick people who can’t afford, or cannot access, medical care, should mortify us on a daily basis.

http://www.newsweek.com/id/150846

 

From Newsweek:  “Virginia’s governor, Tim Kaine, visited this year’s RAM expedition with five of his staff members on its first and busiest day and met patients like these as he worked the lines of people waiting for care. Later he said that he finds the event “both depressing and inspiring at the same time.” Southwest Virginia’s coal mining region lags behind much of the rest of the country and the state in health care—residents have vastly higher rates of diabetes, obesity and lung disease and lower income levels than the rest of Virginia—but Kaine says that the need for more comprehensive care goes far beyond these rural communities…”

The law of the land

Let me preface this now:

I can’t believe I’m going here, but I am. I know how you feel, and I appreciate that you will have the overwhelming need to write me, to share your  feelings with me, to share your faith, your prayers, and your passionate perspective on this. I respect you for that, but it doesn’t, in any way, change how I think on this topic. I am forty-three years old, and have thought long and hard about this. I have come to my own conclusions after years of yes, prayer, and thought and years of working with women, children, families. And yet, even with my resolve, I still struggle; but that struggle is a private one, so just know that before venturing into the comment column.

X recently needed emergency health care. He got it, on the spot. That’s the way it should be. Money matters, insurance, and access matters aside-you need a procedure, you get a procedure. Your doctor, your hospital, your clinic.

You need your gallbladder out. Done. You need a vasectomy. Done. You need a facelift, a bypass, an appendectomy, onandonandon. Done.

You need an abortion in parts of Tn, you drive at least two hours. Two hours and any additional amount of time that the various “waiting periods” require of you.

Again, I know, you say abortion and gallbladders-two different things. Yes, I know, but issues of life, when life begins, conception, religion, ethics, god aside-

LEGALLY they are the same. It is legal in the state of Tn to have your gallbladder removed. It is also LEGAL to have an abortion.  Abortion is a part of women’s health care. Right,  wrong, otherwise. It is legal and yet virtually impossible to get without a very long drive.

A health care provider is (allegedly as the papers say) planning to provide abortion services in our area. The furor has commenced and the battle lines are drawn. The rhetoric is flying “we” don’t want “that” in “our city.”   I always wonder who the “we” and the “our” are in these situations. Nobody asked me. 

“That”-a safe, legal, medical procedure.

What would happen if we required a two hour drive for other medical services?

If you are opposed to abortion, then you should continue to work to have Roe v  Wade overturned. You should do what you think is right to make this legal medical procedure become an illegal one once more.

But in the meantime, abortion is legal. It should be safe and legal. It should be accessible.

It is not right to withold legal medical treatment based on “community standards” or “morality”.

I agree with Keri Adams, v.p. of community affairs for Planned Parenthood of Middle and East Tennessee:

“Continuing to impede (women’s) access does not reduce the number of abortions; it just makes it harder for them to access a legal and safe procedure. We believe that abortion is a legitimate part of women’s health care and outlawing it…does absolutely nothing to help us prevent unplanned pregnancy, which is the cause of abortion.”

Pro-life, pro-choice, anti-abortion, pick your label.

But regardless of how you or I feel or how “we” feel about “that” in “our” city-

it’s a legal medical procedure.

LEGAL.
So step out of the way.

A catchy little ditty

So the children were singing

He’s a semi-aquatic egg-laying mammal of action.

Over and over and over again.

Now I can’t get it out of my head.

Damn you Perry The Platypus.

I warn you-it will get stuck in your head…) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wjrzUSkJFE

Weighing the blame

Maybe it’s the neighborhood I live in.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25890997/

Maybe it’s the neighborhood others live in.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25896233/

Or maybe just maybe I should get off the couch and go for a walk, or a swim, or something.Or maybe just maybe my fondness for oreos has caught up with me.

 

Two stories, one news site, one day. Tomorrow there will be another story and another. This nation is obsessed with figuring out why we are fat. Why our kids are fat. Why some states are fatter than others. (Poor Mississippi) http://calorielab.com/news/2008/07/02/fattest-states-2008/

 Why why why.

When we all really  know why.

Don’t we?

And do we really believe that a moratorium on fast food restaurants is the answer?

If I don’t drive-thru and talk into the speaker I can’t eat the food and then I can’t get fat.

Don’t ban the restaurant

TAKE AWAY MY CAR KEYS.

For some reason this just bugged me today.

Maybe ice cream would make me feel better…

Harry’s Place

Not one to reinvent the wheel, I will tell you that Jim, over at ofkingsandcarnies, said it best with his entry  High Muckety-Muck.  (http://ofkingsandcarnies.com/2008/07/23/high-muckety-muck/) I share his sentiments-I’m not a joiner, and particularly not a cyber joiner.

That said, I too have joined in the conversation over at the Whistleandfish pub ( http://www.whistleandfish.com/thepub/). Harry serves up some mean conversation, such that I can put aside all my own skepticism and general confusion about this whole web world thing and interacting with complete strangers.

So I invite you to come on over and find a seat at the bar. No doubt you will have something to add to the conversation. I’ll be the one sitting in the corner reading a good book drinking something pink and fruity.

Where’s Lou when we need him?

As I’ve said here before my childhood ambition was to be Lou Grant. Now Lou, I understand, is a cultural reference that only those of us of a certain age will understand; for everyone else I can’t even imagine a suitable modern day equivalent, and that’s the problem. When I was six I knew what I wanted to be- a reporter. Partially because of my love of words and the assumption that the only people who got to write were reporters, but also because I was coming of age in an era when being a  journalist meant something.

During the Watergate years I was young and unaware of the world around me.  I had no idea of what was going on in the seat of power of our nation or the role that the press, and specifically the print media, played in bringing about one of the most historic moments in the life of our government. I grew up post-Watergate and learned in history class and at the movies what happened-or at least as much as we could know happened. I am the generation that wondered if we’d ever learn the identity of Deep Throat and what was said during the missing moments on tape. I am also of the age that believed in the importance of knowing (and our  right to)  the answers to such questions, and I wanted to be a part of it all.

Well my journalistic ambitions were killed early on in my college career at the hands of a professor who suggested that I take my tendencies to wax poetic over to the English department. Looking back, I think he was wrong, but that’s a tale for another time.  I didn’t take on the task of pursuing truth and accountability, and sadly it seems that no one has anymore.

In our review of this mornings’ headlines he pointed me to this story at Salon about the goings on in the Bush administration. I offer it up as required reading for anyone who wants to know, or doesn’t want to but should.

“If we know this much about torture, rendition, secret prisons and warrantless wiretapping despite the administration’s attempts to stonewall, then imagine what we don’t know,” says a senior Democratic congressional aide who is familiar with the proposal and has been involved in several high-profile congressional investigations.

“You have to go back to the McCarthy era to find this level of abuse,” says Barry Steinhardt, the director of the Program on Technology and Liberty for the American Civil Liberties Union. “Because the Bush administration has been so opaque, we don’t know [the extent of] what laws have been violated.”

http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2008/07/23/new_churchcomm/index.html

For many the anger and outrage they feel learning about yet another potential abuse of power is directed at team Bush/Cheney. Not mine. I hold my party and its’ leadership (like “no comment” Nancy P. ) responsible and I also hold those who call themselves journalists/reporters so also. The tradition of a media that holds the government accountable is dead. How can it be that we get trickles of information and dribbles of insight but no one is truly going after the whole story? Or it they are, why aren’t they writing about it? If we can’t look to our press to inform us, what hope is there that we can demand accountability from our elected officials? How can it be that the current administration is getting away with abuses of power that make the Nixon gang look like preschool playground bullies and no one seems to care? Why isn’t anyone asking the questions? Demanding the answers? Acting like LOU.

Lou would have gotten to the bottom of all this in a one hour episode. Lou would have raged indignant at the thought that someone was trying to get away with trampling on the  Constitution, commiting acts of torture, or eavesdropping on private conversations. Lou would have made sure that we the people knew what was going on and how it mattered. Lou would not care one whit about Britney’s custody dispute, the pregnant “man”,  or Brangelina’s new twins.

Sigh.

At least there’s TVLand, I think Lou shows up there occasionally.

She knows how to pick’em

 

Before the ink was dry on the divorce papers the most frequently asked question in my stratosphere became What are you looking for in a man?”  As if emerging from the experience of adultery, divorce, and general brutality made me eager to run right out and try another round in  that arena, sure just call me a fool…

I still hear the question, though less often now, given that those around me know I’m not looking, I like being alone,  and I’ve somehow managed to stumble across some pretty wonderful while not paying attention. However, in the event I should ever need to answer that question again, I like this perspective on things.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/LIVING/personal/07/09/o.men.i.could.love/index.html

I must agree with her on the Tutu/Cronkite front, and though my ob-gyn deserves all the same apologies, he’s really not my type-and he’s a very married father of a gazillion children. So in his stead I’ll substitute the ever present number one on my list Christopher Plummer. Oh sure he’s aged and he’s about 80 at this point, but he can still belt out Edelweiss, and that gets me everytime.

The eyes have it.

While checking out of the ob-gyn office during my pregnancy with baby girl #2 I noticed that my chart had the following written on the front in bold red letters: A.M.A.

I, thinking it stood for Against Medical Advice (a common thing to see on a chart) inquired as I had, to the best of my knowledge, done nothing  AMA.

No, laughed young perky nurse. That stands for Advanced Maternal Age.

WHAT????

At the ripe old age of 36 I was Advanced.

That was the beginning of the down hill slide.

First my ob-gyn started using the expression at your age as the lead in to every sentence out of his mouth;
then the eye doctor explained that after forty my eyesight would continue to decline sometimes quite rapidly.

Hell no, I thought.

So when he indicated at my last appointment that I was in need of bifocals I resisted. I don’t know why, I’m not an especially vain person. Perhaps I thought he was  wrong, or that I had some sort of superpowers that would prevent my eyes from falling apart like a cheap suit. Or, that I would become one of those people wearing glasses on a chain around my neck.  Nonetheless, almost like clockwork, I began to notice that my vision was growing worse by the moment.  At the time X laughed, but then it hit him too. Presbyopia, as it’s called, resulted in all sorts of problems-even standing in a close embrace was unpleasant-nothing like a blurry partner (Of course by that time there wasn’t a whole lot of that going on) .

It has continued, and for someone who reads constantly, it became a giant problem. So I gave in and cried uncle. I bought reading glasses. Humbly, I must admit, the doc was right. Life was good and I could see, except for one thing. When I was in bed reading, the glasses were downstairs. When I was away from home needing to read the glasses were by the bed. The glasses were never in the same location as the eyeballs.

Suddenly the chain around the neck option was beginning to make sense. But I resisted. Somehow I equated that fashion feature with knee hi-hose worn with sensible shoes. In order to avoid neckware, or the perpetually perched upon my head look, I decided to buy in bulk.

Today, I bought three additional pairs of reading glasses.  Upstairs pair, downstairs pair, in my bag pair, and at the office pair. Four total. That should be enough (I hope).

Next week it’s back to the orthodontist who will inevitably say something about my teeth that begins with

At your age…

Read more about AGE RELATED eye problems and then give in and go buy the cheap reading glasses at Walgreens.

http://www.allaboutvision.com/conditions/presbyopia.htm

Have wheels can travel.

My baby just learned to ride a bicycle.

I guess (at seven)  she’s a couple years behind the national average on this one, but there’s only so much screeching and sobbing I can take. So, we waited until she was ready.

Today after a few false starts she was off. She is now a pro at riding in a straight line. She can’t turn around without stopping, picking up the bike and pointing it in the new direction. Her big sister yelled across the lawn-TURN AROUND WITH THE HANDLE BARS! YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GO IN A STRAIGHT LINE!

How true, I thought.

Sometimes I feel like I’m coasting through life down the hill with my arms thrown up in the air and other times  pedaling very hard just to get around the next bend. Occasionally it seems as if I am  going round and round in circles, turning  only to end up back where I started.  Dizzying yes, but necessary.

For the most part  I’m very good at turning around in life, but occasionally I too have to get off , pick it up, turn it around, and then point myself in a new direction.

And then there are the times when I fall off.

Today my baby fell off a few times. She didn’t wail as much as during the last attempt at riding. She’s growing up.

So’s her mother. I take the falls much better these days.

But I did cry today. After all, that’s my baby pedaling off into the sunset.

Climb Every Mountain ( or in my case hill)

A friend of mine called today  to check in and to discuss upcoming vacation plans. I’m still pondering what to do with myself when the girls and X head off for another summer adventure. I’ve decided that given the state of the dollar worldwide (and in my own wallet)  I will wait to see what last-minute deals crop up and then head off-maybe it will be Tahiti or  perhaps Topeka just as long as it’s new to me and cheap.

So she began to tell me about her planned hike with a group of friends this fall and without even thinking I invited myself. PLEASE!   She didn’t hesitate to squeal a nice loud YES! before commenting  with surprise on my interest to participate. For you see, in the circle-of-mutual-friends department, everyone knows that X loved to hike and was known to take off with friends at least once a year  (Once on our tenth wedding anniversary….) but the unknown detail is that I like to hike myself.

Why is that unknown? A lifetime of hearing X say you wouldn’t like too… not because I, in fact, wouldn’t have liked to, but rather guess who didn’t want me along? Not that I am blameless. It takes two to tango and two to agree to the roles of family life.

So I am excited. Late fall will be here soon. I  have already  ordered a new pair of hiking boots so I can break them in with time to spare.

My girlfriend asks- how’s life?

I’m going hiking with you-that answers that doesn’t it?

Yee.

But what do I know?

My first niece was born just months before X and I married. Now, in the blink of an eye, she is a beautiful young lady graduating from high school and preparing to head off to college. I, like all relatives of graduates this time of year, find myself wondering how did this happen? How did I miss the transformation that took place right before my very eyes- from the chubby faced doll of a toddler to knock-out , funny, smart, adult?  My friend Lori’s son sent me the invitation to his graduation, complete with a copy of his senior portrait. Wait one minute! When did her mop head mischievious little one become a handsome man? Is this the same boy that’s  refused to bathe using soap for most of the time I’ ve known him? I feel sooooo old lately.

I  recently attended my niece’s graduation  and listened as the speaker offered his words of advice to the graduates. I disagreed with virtually everything that came out of his mouth beginning with his statement  I don’t believe in global warming…and ending with try not to be relevant but it was his speech to give not mine.  It took a great deal of restraint on my part not to jump up and scream WAIT DON’T LISTEN TO THE MAN AT THE PULPIT, but I didn’t, as I hope I am well mannered if nothing else.  So I let him make his speech and spent the rest of the evening talking with my baby sister and her husband with the three of us echoing the sentiment Can you believe he said….over and over and over. I thought out loud-I’m glad my girls weren’t there to hear that. 

I know that the speaker’s thoughts were a clear reflection of those of my brother and his family, including my niece the graduate, and I respect that. I am not one to tolerate other people telling my children what’s what, so I would never do that with another’s. But if I could, if it were within my purview to take my  niece aside, I  know exactly what I would like to say, and yet  know not at all. What can you possibly tell an 18 year old that will prepare her for what lies ahead?

My dear niece the graduate, I would offer, I am 43 and I know nothing.  Bupkiss, na-da. I wake each day and hope that I will figure out what I want to be when I grow up, how to be it, and how to not screw up my girls along the way. I wake up each day and I am happy about so much that I have done and mortified about the rest. In all honesty, I’ve done a pretty good job at life, but I am no more equipped to give you advice than any of the other adults around you. We all like to think we’ve got it together and figured out, but trust me, we don’t. But that, my dear, is okay .

Everyone close to you has offered you words of wisdom lately, so why not let your old aunt throw in a thought or two. I will avoid cliches as best I can, along with anything having to do with God, Jesus, or organized religion. You get enough of that at home.

Here’s what I would like you to remember as you go out into the world. File it away for future pondering, but put no real weight to it, it’s worth no more than the time it will take you to read this. (Not that my niece reads this blog)

-Have fun. Really truly. Laugh as much as possible. Surround yourself with people who laugh. Look for ways to celebrate, find joy, and be with people who make your cheeks hurt because you smile so much around them. Life is short spend it with those who make you laugh so you feel like you are going to wet your pants and blow snot from your nose.

-Surround yourself with people who are different than you. Don’t be afraid of differences-religion, politics, taste in food-music-art-sleeping habits-whatever. Learn learn learn from everyone around you. Take it all in and help it mold you into who you want to be. Then, keep changing and molding . 

-You do not have to decide what you want to do with yourself at the age of 18. Forget what you want to do when you graduate. Forget picking a major so that you can land a job. Study something because you want to study it for the next four years, then you can worry about a job/career later. I highly recommend changing jobs/careers/lifes regularly, so why lock in now? What you love today does not have to be what you love forever. How boring would that be?

-Date. A lot. Date men or women that you think would make perfect mates. Date men or women that you think would be the  worst and the best one on earth for you. Date the same, date differently date date date. That’s how you figure out who you are and who you like and who makes you laugh and who makes you want to pull your hair out. Date until you are sooooo old that magazine articles tell you your odds of meeting a mate are less than those of being mugged on the moon.  Then don’t date. Be alone. Alone time, quiet time, do what you want without answering to or consulting with anyone time. Find out who you are all on your own and then let yourself find someone who likes that person. And, this spoken by a woman who was very happily married for a long time - YOU DON’T HAVE TO GET MARRIED.

-Sex. Have it. Forget abstinence ’til marriage. (See dating logic.) Have sex but only with men/women who volunteer to buy the condoms. Any partner  that refuses should be left at the curb without a second thought. Have sex, but only with a partner who makes you orgasm every time-or at least makes it a goal. Be selfish. Don’t settle until it is someone you crave, and craves you in return. And remember, teenage boys don’t know what they are doing, so do not feel obliged to roll around in the back seat with every pimply faced frat boy just so he can get off. Learn what you like and don’t like. There is nothing to be embarassed about. Talk about it, read about it, do it. But again CONDOMS ARE NON-NEGOTIABLE.  

-Read a lot. The good stuff, the junk and everything in between.

-Never stop learning. Formal education and informal education. Curiousity. Exploration. Discovery. These are good things.

-Travel and never stop. See the world that is out there. Don’t return “home” until you are so old you can’t remember where home is without help.

-Trust yourself. Don’t let me or anyone else tell you how to live your life.

-Give to others. Of yourself, your time, your money, your talents.

-Take the high road. Be kind. Remember you manners. Never ever jump in the gutter with anyone.  You can never go wrong being gracious and kind. However, never, and I mean never, let someone walk on you. Smile politely, show him/her the door, and move on.

-Ask for help. Ask questions. Never be afraid of what another will think of you. It’s the only way to learn and discover. Ignorance is not bliss.

-Cry. It’s okay. Feel what you feel, embrace it, then heal. Sorrow, pain, grief are all part of life.

-Take care of your body. You are young and healthy now, you won’t stay that way by happenstance.

-Love big.

-Opt for the joy.

-If your gut says “no”- go with that.

-It is always okay to say no.

-It is always okay to change your mind.

-Surround yourself with art and music and good food.

-Surround yourself with people who you respect. There is truth to the adage-you are judged by the company you keep.

-Money does not buy happiness. Save it, spend it, enjoy it, give it away-but don’t covet it , worship it, or live for it.

-Always opt for the comfortable shoes, although a pair of really sexy pumps is a great investment.

-Don’t take yourself or life too seriously. Have I mentioned laughter? If you aren’t hearing it regularly in your day, stop-something is wrong. Start that day over again.

-Listen. If you are hearing your voice the most in a conversation-shhhhh.

-Brush your teeth.

-Wear your seatbelt.

-Never drink and drive or phone and drive or anything and drive.

-When in doubt-go with the black dress.

-The family you choose often means more to you than the family you were born with and that’s okay.

-The family you were born with, especially that of your aunt, will always be here for you. You can always go home, without shame, fear, worry, it’s the one place you will find love and acceptance and help.

I  love you baby girl, and remember, I’m the aunt that knows nothing.

Twenty questions give or take a few.

I woke to e-mail, adding to my continued shock that anyone other than my baby sister reads this space. You have questions I have answers, and I can’t believe I forgot to say so earlier.

1. How is X?

X is fine. Thankfully and thanks to the marvels of modern medicine. Should be up and about in only one day.

2. How did you know she was the new girlfriend?

Well as you can imagine I was not introduced to her by anyone in the room (not enough manners to go around I guess) so I had to introduce myself-much later in the day. However I knew she was the girlfriend instantly. Remember, I was married to this man forever, if I can’t recognize a look on his face then no one can. I knew when he looked at her and vice versa. One of the looks said OH GOD THE EX IS IN THE ROOM HOW AWKWARD IS THIS? but it wasn’t awkward at all, no one needed to worry. I am not the wicked witch of the west ex some would like to think me. My vow to be gracious and never ever step in the gutter still holds true. The other look-from her-WHY WON”T THESE PEOPLE GO AWAY AND LEAVE US ALONE? I could have answered that one for her-but they’re his friends  not mine and she will discover things on her own. Some of them are her friends too, so that indicates they are probably a good match. But I honestly felt bad for her, and the both of them. They needed time alone and frankly someone needed to start paying attention to HIPAA laws. The information that was flowing out of that room was shocking.

3.  What did you think of girlfriend?

Frankly I didn’t give her much thought. By the time you’ve been on very intimate terms with girlfriend number one and two and dealt with the aftermath of number three, you don’t think about them anymore. She seems nice enough-essentially an exact replica of chickie only she’s about 15 years older. That pleases me-the likelihood she wants to (or is able to) reproduce with  him  is dramatically reduced by her age (sorry, that ’s me caretaking and worrying again and I believe also puts me in the gutter.)

4.  How are your children?

Great thank you.  Having a parent in the hospital is scary no doubt, but attention from favorite family members  and a day at the  swimming pool distracted them long enough until we could say-everything is fine (again, thanks to the marvels of medicine.)

 

 

Now, I am already over the topic of X (how quickly-perhaps another first)

so here’s something I saw in the news today that I found funny for some odd reason. Remember I am a Girl Scout through and through so shame shame shame on anyone who would make anything other than S’mores at a Girl Scout Camp.

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/07/16/national/main4264813.shtml?source=mostpop_story

Matters of the heart

It’s been said that the divorce process involves a lot of “firsts” and that everyone has to get through them in one way or the other. So true.

Yes, this post is about X or me, not sure which. I have a lot I’m working through in my head, so bear with me on this return to such a  very old topic.

The end of my marriage happened over time and some of the firsts occured before we were even divorced. Most people say the biggest and most difficult hurdle is when the ex finds  a new love. Well,  X had three before the divorce was final, so I was pretty comfortable with the knowledge that I was easily replaced. That’s not saying it was fun mind you, but I got past that one very quickly.

Some firsts happen gradually, gently, and often catch you by surprise

-The first time you realize you don’t think about him anymore. 

-The first time you realize you don’t love him anymore.

-The first time you realize you might not even like him anymore.

-The first time you realize you are happy again.

-The first time you realize you can love someone else.

 

So I have, sometimes to my own surprise, navigated the firsts and felt pretty confident that I had made it through the marriage/divorce phase of life and could just get on with life.

Until today. Today I learned that some firsts smack you between the eyes.

At three a.m. this morning X called to tell me that he was on his way to the hospital via ambulance-heart episode. They needed to do a cardiac cath and see what was up with his ticker. So off I went to the hospital, not out of any sense of love for him personally, but rather a concern that the father of my children could die on the table and that someone who once meant a great deal to me might be alone at a very difficult time.

Well he wasn’t alone. (Here’s where the next first comes in.)

Everyone was there. By everyone I mean all the employees whom he calls his friends-all the ones who have been  stabbing him in the back for years, bad mouthing him, and torturing me. All the ones that are deserving of Academy Awards for Best Performance By  Actresses pretending to be friends all the while up to no good in the hallway.  But I was okay with that, until the phone rang and it was the worst of the group calling to check on him. The one person that he had said he was through with. The one person of whom he assured me he had seen the true colors and would stay away from. The one person who has been nothing but evil. (No not the chickie, hell she’d be preferable to this “friend”)

I heard her name and that’s when it hit me(again).  He is truly not the man I married. He is truly not the man I had hoped he was or one I even recognize and my time as his protector is over. (Yes, it should have been over long ago, but the sentiment has lingered somewhat despite our ups and downs). I have taken care of this man for 21 years, and even in our very worst moments of the divorce and post-divorce I have continued to do so (sometimes without his even knowing). Even after he screamed at me to stop, to leave him be, to know that he didn’t need me to help him/save him/ protect him anymore ever again. 

But today I experienced another first-the first that says he’s the ex, I’m the ex, and he can have his life and I don’t have to be a part of it. He has truly chosen these people as his friends. He has decided they are the ones he can trust, even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. He has decided that these people are the ones with whom he wants to surround himself and have his reputation associated.  And you know what-I sat there and thought-

Fine. He’s a grown man, he can pick his friends, live his life, and suffer any consequences-and it is no longer my concern.  That was a biggie.

The silver lining-the realization that this means my children and I don’t have to have them in our life anymore. THAT IS HIS LIFE NOT MINE.

Someone important to me said you have got to start acting like exes, and you must cut the umbilical cord. He’s not yours to worry about anymore.

True, yet difficult.

The first-realizing he is just the father of my children. Not a friend, not a spouse, not someone I want in my orbit.

Why does that make me sad?
Because I fear it means I  made a mistake all those years ago.

Because I fear what that means for my girls.

Because he doesn’t realize he deserves better.

Because maybe he doesn’t.

So I left the hospital and let X know I wouldn’t be back unless he called to ask for me-that I would leave him with his friends. I left the hospital after meeting his new girlfriend and making sure that she would be there for him so he wouldn’t be alone tonight.

I left him to take care of himself.

That’s a first.

Bang Bang my flight was delayed.

Due in part to a number of airport delays the girls did not return home until the wee hours of the morning.  They crept to bed barely able to mutter goodnight mom. However  this morning I was regaled with delightful tales of their vacation and presented with a sweet souvenir. Now we are back to the usual routine but dragging somewhat.  A little more sleep and all will be well.

In my tired and thus my brain is in slow motion state I am unable to comment on this article and the governor of my fair state with anything more than a moan and a whimper. My little ones were walking through this very airport yesterday and thankfully were spared  carnage wrought by a gun toting nutcase or a traveler with lost luggage and a good dose of airport rage.

My caveat: I didn’t vote for Sonny, but I’d vote for Shirley if I could.

 

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25680821/

The sounds of silence

It turns out- not so jealous after all.

Okay, not jealous of ex and his time with the girls, more jealous of the girls. I wish I was there in NYC!

They  had a wonderful time, as evidenced by their texts and calls and photos sent to my phone; and I am truly happy. The three of them needed this time together, fun time, forget all about the past two years time.  And not only are they having a good time, they are ( of course) safe and sound. Thus far no disasters, no fireball airplanes, no getting lost in a crowd or any other mommy nightmare. 

So they will return tonight and I am glad. While I have enjoyed the silence of being alone (go ahead mommies, dream with me SILENCE) and the clean house that comes from having no one about to make a mess, and the opportunity to eat poptarts for dinner, I am still ready for their homecoming.

I must say, and forgive me for the crassness of this, but there is one perk to divorce-alone time. Quiet time. Time to go and do and be all by myself. Or, with someone else.

But now after a week of fun the clean house and the poptarts are getting old. Time for some bickering and poking and she-hit-me-stay-out-of-my-room screaming and especially sleepy faces that greet me with

Good morning mommy.

The first of many

My children are away on their first vacation with daddy post-divorce.
Without me. I’m not with them. I am not there. I am here.

Here,  plagued with fear-

will they get lost in a crowd and never be seen again?

will something happen to my ex leaving my young children alone in a big city?

will the plane crash? the city explode? or some other act of god occur while they are away?

As if my presence could prevent those things from happening…

And jealous…

Ex gets to experience this wonderful week with them, and I don’t.

 This is a whole new world for me.

In our own little world

 

From the current Utne Reader in a series of articles on Creativity and Education.

…Kids are not playing like they used to. By “free and unstructured play,” he means activity that is unencumbered by adult direction and does not depend on manufactured items or rules imposed by someone other than the kids themselves. He is referring to the kind of play that is not dependent on meddling or praise or validation from well-meaning parents on the sidelines. In fact, free and unstructured play is so encompassing for children that the entire adult world evaporates; children lose themselves in their own world completely. Most anyone who’s ever jolted a child out of this state with a call for lunch or bedtime would attest that the child’s reaction is akin to being awakened from a dream.

http://www.utne.com/2008-07-01/Politics/The-Future-of-Creativity.aspx

 

I remember that kind of play-losing myself in another world, talking to myself and others who weren’t “really” there. That was bliss and nothing disheartened  me more than when the adults around me would ask “who are you talking to Tammy?”

Now, when I hear my little one lost in that same world, I tip-toe quietly by careful not to interrupt. For you see, I know to whom she’s speaking-

some of the most interesting people she’ll ever know-and the most fun.

 

 

Here’s the church here’s the steeple

It has been said that in “polite society” one does not discuss 1. sex 2. politics 3. religion. I hold that true for me and my family at the Thanksgiving dinner table as I age and find myself moving ever increasingly to the left while others move with equal haste toward the right-if labels like “left” and “right” really mean anything at all these days.

It is especially true as I find that with the experience of years, and hopefully increased wisdom, my outlook on things is less rigid, more fluid and malleable, as I learn that I don’t know everything, I won’t know everything, and that the real truths lie in the gray matter. And that gray matter holds most true for matters of religion and faith.

I grew up Baptist, Southern Baptist. Not in a family of church goers, but as a teen I became one-devout. If the church doors were open you’d find me there. I believed fervently in the red-letter Christianity complete with grape juice Lord’s supper, a micro-managing God, and the one and only way to heaven.  Then, one day I truly believed that I was ‘called’ so to speak to preach, or to serve, or to do something “for God.” Deep in my heart I believed that this is what I have to do ; and with the enthusiasm borne of a teenager with a mission I discussed this new found calling with my minister.

SLAM.

(That’s the sound of the door closing on my calling)

God, it seems according to minister man, might be calling me to missions, he might be calling me to service, but he was not, NOT with a capital N calling me to preach.

So, keep that in mind young lady and go forth.

And why, I dared to ask, might that be ?

You are not a man.

At that point I crept quietly back to the pew and began to listen, really listen to what was being spoken from the pulpit and how. (Lots of yelling) That was the beginning of the end.

I couldn’t belong to a church that judged me based on my lack of a penis, my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. So I wandered for years trying a little bit of everything. I explored it all: Methodist, Lutheran, Quakers (I couldn’t sit quietly enough for that one), Judaism, atheists, agnostics, tree-huggers, Buddhists, and on and on. I settled on Anglican, or here in America Episcopalian.

I love the Anglican church. I like a church that lets me use my mind and  doesn’t require me to check my brain at the door. I like a church that makes it okay to ask questions, doubt, and wonder. I like that I am allowed to think  and search for  answers in lots of different places. I like a church that counts among its’ ordained John Shelby Spong-a man who made it possible for me to belong to a church long after I had despaired of ever being able to do so again.   I like a church that’s not ashamed to say-hey we don’t know all the answers and that’s what faith is all about. It’s not about the red letters it’s about thinking and growing and learning and seeking. And I really like a church that says not only do we not know all the answers-but we might be wrong.

Or at least, that’s what it says sometimes.

Then  the fighting commences between  the Anglicans world- wide and the Episcopalians here at home, and I get discouraged. Women, homosexuals, the rich, the poor, and on and on and on the arguments rage and I get really really disenchanted once more.

Why do things have to be so absolute? Why do we have to insist that some one of us  knows all the answers? Why do we worry about who has a penis or doesn’t or who they love or don’t love?  Why can’t we  say

Find a way to God-any way to God.

And then, why can’t we say if you pick Jesus as your way then pay attention to what we think he said-you know-those “red letter” things.

Like take care of the poor take care of the poor take care of the poor; make peace make peace make peace;  and then a few other things but basically take care of the poor and my favorite, Judge not…
I don’t recall Jesus saying

-argue about who has a penis or not

-argue about who sleeps with whom

-make a mockery of everything that I taught during my brief stint here.

If I choose to call myself a Christian, if I choose to believe in Jesus-then I should believe in his teachings as best we know them (and I’m not sure that we can ever really know them -thanks to King James and his ruthless slaughter of the Bible and the original texts) and I’m sorry but I don’t think Jesus taught that having ovaries precludes me from service any more than whom I choose to love-be it male or female.

And so, I find myself demoralized once more as the Anglicans convene to fight-about sex-gender and sex that is. I find myself at a loss for how to remain a part of a so-called “body of Christ” when the body is bickering and fighting and demeaning one another while all around the world

people are dying and hungry and cold and lonely and sick and afraid.

For some reason I think that if we could ask  Jesus  the question “what would Jesus do?”  he’d scream out in despair

ANYTHING BUT THIS.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/08/world/europe/08anglican.html

A meme with some ice cream on the side

Today I shall finish and say be gone meme ! Thank you very much jim and g.k. (www.ofkingsandcarnies.com and www.whistleandfish.com) for getting me into this, although I still don’t have five people to whom I can pass the questions along.

However, before I commence with ten years ago today I’ll tell you what I was doing twenty-eight years ago: staring at Pam’s learner’s license. Okay, her birthday is in October, so we probably weren’t there  just yet , but she was driving, my best friend, and while we thought that would be the key to our f reedom we discovered it was simply the key to having to drive to the store to get milk for her mom. Yesterday I received an e-mail from Pam, her son, the BABY Dan, has just gotten his license.  I’m counting the wrinkles as we speak.  I will not wax nostalgic at this point. I will not talk about how I remember when Dan was born, and he was Daniel back then. Nor will I of how distincly I remember his mother being sixteen. No none of that.

Twelve years ago today I was on the phone. (Here’s where I get nostalgic) My baby sister was in labor with her son. I had just had my first child,  four months earlier and we were celebrating her first 4th of July all the while packing  our possessions in preparation for a cross country move the next day.  So my nephew took all day and into the next to arrive, which meant I spent my 4th yelling into the phone over the sound of fireworks WELL ANY NEWS? It was the longest day, sort of like when Dan was born and I kept calling long distance every five minutes to say WELL ANY NEWS? I guess I expected  those boys to arrive in five minutes or less. So this weekend is happy birthday for my nephew, who is growing up entirely too quickly for my taste, but isn’t that always the case with children? I’m finding everytime I blink my girls age a little more and need me a little less.

Which brings me to to the meme—ten years ago I was… a somewhat unhappy new mommy. Looking back I’m not sure what the problem was, one of my best friends still maintains post-partum depression, but I don’t know. I was alone having moved from a big city with lots of friends to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere where I knew no one. My ex was working a lot, struggling to establish himself, and I was lonely. The family that I had planned to be closer to was still  hours away, so it might as well have been the fourteen from pre-move. And I was tired, no doubt very sleep deprived.  Two years into motherhood and I was still doing everything wrong when it came to bedtime for baby, because you see, there wasn’t one.

We didn’t know any better so we let her stay up until she fell over asleep (literally). Tip to new moms: Don’t do this. We averaged an eleven thirty bedtime those days. Then,  we would place her ever so gently in the crib and tip-toe away, breathing quietly for fear she could hear us through the baby monitor.  Inevitably she would wake and off I would go to (here’s something else we did wrong) rock her back to sleep. Yes baby number one couldn’t fall asleep unless she was being held. Big Big Big mistake.  Finally, tired of living life feeling like a zombie all the day long I decided it was time to leave the  crib and move to a big bed. (Now we did do one thing right-we never let her sleep in our bed, even though that would have made things much easier for the short term. ) So we took an extra-queen sized mattress we had and put it on the floor. Ta-da! sleeping problem solved-sort of. When she cried I would sleep with her. No need to sit in the rocker, just crawl in bed  and we could both get a  good night of  sleep. That was an excellent solution until pre-school time when she needed to go to bed on her own at a specific bedtime and then we were back to square one. The how -to- get- a -child -to- sleep -and- how -long -do- you- let- them -scream debate commenced.

Ten years ago I was trying to sleep, worrying that my child would be the first in history to die of sleep deprivation, or that I would be the first mother to do so. Neither happened incidentally. I am proud to report that now my beautiful twelve year old sleeps just fine, but she still gets tucked in and kissed-I will hold on to that tradition for as long as I can.

The one universal thing about parenting is that it is over in an instant. One moment my nephew is making a star-spangled entrance into the world, the next he and my daughter are e-mailing one another I-Tune recommendations and talking about jr. high school. My baby girl is not a baby but seven and playing dress up and planning her future as an ice cream parlor owner/actress/artist. (She has offered me a job in the ice cream parlor so I am set for retirement.) Ten years ago I was so afraid that I would screw up my child  for life and ten years later I still am. They grow up so fast we say, and yet the fear never goes away. I might not be worried about choking hazards or falling down the stairs but I still find plenty to think about late at night. Some days my parenting motto is simply don’t worry I’ll pay for your therapy someday. It’s the best I can do.

Ten years ago I was a new mommy and not-so-happy. Now I’m a not so new mommy and very very happy. The toddler with the big cheeks is turning into a lovely young lady with an equally delightful sister following along behind her. I’ve moved away from the small town and left it and the people for ex to have, and my family is closer and there when I need them, and sometimes when I don’t want to need them. I feel more like myself, whoever that may be, than I have in more years than I can count.

Twenty-eight years ago, twelve years ago, ten years ago-I don’t think about that so much anymore. I think about now and try to stay focused, because I know if I blink, it’s all over.

And I’ll be working in an ice cream parlor.

Toss another one on the fire

 

 If it’s been banned I’ve read it. If it hasn’t, I ‘ve read it, or I’m determined to do so before I die. I think that the one great thing that distinguishes man from beast is the ability to enjoy a good book.  I’d  rather read than do just about anything on earth. I have fun with books, I escape with books, I learn from books, and that is what I want for my girls. I want them to discover the world between the pages of great literature, bad stories, trashy novels, and everything in between. I want them to learn to find books that they return to throughout their lives and others that they quickly toss in the donation bin. I want them to read what their friends recommend, I recommend, and even what teachers recommend and what their teachers require of them. 

I want my children to read read read and only two people get to weigh in on what they read. Mom. Dad. As their parents we get to say yeah or nay and no one else.  Just as I  would never presume to control what someone else’s child is reading  other’s should stay out of my daughter’s bookshelves (and believe me, if I had control there’d be a lot less teen -romance-isn’t -he- just -dreamy in the hands of seventh grade girls ).

So that’s my disclaimer: Don’t censor my children.

Okay, in all honesty, the disclaimer is I don’t like censorship at all. Period.   I don’t like people who  think they know what is best for my kid or your kid or anyone else’s kid. I don’t like when people who have a little authority decide to legislate morality. I don’t like people telling me what’s “appropriate” when their idea of such  is keeping children stupid, promoting group think, and suspending a teacher who clearly has an enthusiasm for her work.

In an age when our school systems are failing miserably, our nation is comprised of functionally literate citizens, and society as a whole has been “left behind”, we shouldn’t be firing commited intelligent professionals under the guise of insubordination when it’s really about the puritanical standards of a few-and my guess, a few who aren’t readers.

If  I sign the note saying it’s okay for my kid to read the book, then let her read the book. Simple enough if you ask me. 

And, as for the gentlemen with the thoughts on role models-I’m the role model for my girls. My ex is the role model for my girls. Not you or anyone else-elected or not; and we’re doing just fine thank you, potty mouths and all.

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/us/2008/06/29/tuchman.in.banned.book.cnn

Can you pee standing up?

I am so rarely at a loss for words, but sometimes I find myself staring at a headline scratching my head in wonder and dismay. It’s 2008 and the those of us born without a penis can still be left standing outside-literally.

Then again, why in the world  would we want to eat with the likes of individuals who whip it out and urinate on the lawn in protest?

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/28/us/28countryclub.html

 

At one point, Ms. Diethelm, who lives with her husband near the 18th tee, was surprised by a rash of men whom she recognized from the club hopping off their carts to “urinate on my pecan tree,” she said. When her complaints to the club went unheeded, she bought a security camera. (Mr. LaRocca acknowledged the bathroom breaks, but said the culprits could not be identified.)

Blogging and the blues

Given my promise that I would no longer allow the travails of life with ex to be the focus of my words, I seem to have very little to say as of late.  That leaves me  frustrated and feeling a bit off kilter. Then I read this article in Newsweek and said AHA! So it’s not just me-it really did make me feel better!

http://www.newsweek.com/id/142630

Big Big Big

Well I got one wish.

 

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/13/washington/13scotus.html

Dreaming

I am a registered Independent, let’s get that out of the way now. If there were such a category I would register as a cynic, a doubter, an I-hate-the-entire-process-and-let’s be- frank -there’s -really- not -much- difference anymore. Donkey elephant elephant donkey red state blue state.

I tend to  vote for  Democrats, I’ve always had a problem with Republicans ever since  Bush Sr. stated way back when that he didn’t think there were hungry people in America. Really George?

Upon the departure of  John Edwards( my choice for president) from  the race I began watching the remaining candidates in hopes that someone would talk about the matters that  concern me most. 

-Poverty

-The economy

-Health care

-The war

I fear I am going to be waiting a long time.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/06/12/michelle.obama/index.html

 

Michelle Obama, according to the Republicans, is fair game.
Oh please.

I don’t want to talk about Ms. Obama any more than I want to talk about Ms. McCain (#2) and her steadfast refusal to release her tax returns.  I want to talk about the issues-substance-what do their respective mates plan to DO if elected?

I don’t want pie-in-the- sky-speeches that make me feel good but leave me wanting details. I don’t want mudslinging, race baiting, with a name like that he must be Muslim talk; and I don’t want to critique the wives. I don’t care what they are wearing, if they bake cookies or work,  or if they pick up their husbands socks at the end of the day.

 I want to know how and when we are going to get the hell out of Iraq. I want to know that we aren’t going into  Iran . I want a plan for how we are going to go about providing health care for  the countless uninsured and underinsured Americans. I want affordable housing, food for the hungry, alternative energy options, and a president that believes in science-and global warming. I want to know about the future of the Supreme Court, preserving the right to free speech, and an end to government wiretapping (for starters). I want Guantanamo detainees to have lawyers and trials, I want my daughter’s to have the right to choose, and I want this culture of fear fear fear to end. 

That’s what I want.
I’m not holding my breath.

Summer Reading

I just finished a really good book-Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. I was half way through it when I learned that I was reading an abridged version with over half the pages cut from the novel. I was immediately advised to STOP READING! But I couldn’t, it’s that good. So I finished it and have every intention of returning to the full 600 plus page unabridged version in the very near future.

Now what? The problem with reading a great book is that you have to decide what to read next. It is important to follow greatness with at least semi-greatness and then work back around to the junk food books-beach reads and such.  As I’ve said here before, there is no shortage of books stacked in my “to read” baskets, but when I want to read them all selection becomes difficult. Add to that the fact that I have a summer reading list compulsion and I’m stuck.

Salon just published a summer reading list-the first of several. They compile a best in non-fiction, fiction, memoirs, “beach” reading lists, they along with every other magazine, newspaper, and morning television show.  Later the New York Times will come out with the new -this- fall -list followed by their best -of -the- year list and I will break out into a sweat over it. I have this overwhelming need to print the list and then vow to read each and every book , just in case I missed something. I can’t of course read them all-because I’m too busy reading everything on my own list-one compiled from book reviews, recommendations from the librarian or fellow reading friends. 

But the summer reading lists plague me the most.

My daughter’s school puts out “the list” for each grade level; so I am up on what  rising 7th graders need to read. I have read only three of the fifteen on this year’s list. What I read in the 7th grade is very different than what they are reading these days so I will have to read along with her throughout the summer months. The school has reading lists for each grade, and I feel driven to review the lists for the high schoolers, and especially  the one titled “The Outstanding Books for the College Bound and Lifelong Learners”. This year, of the 125 books listed, I have read 20. TWENTY! Here I thought I was a well- read, life long reader/English major gal and I’ve read twenty !

So guess who just added 105 new books to her things- to- read list.

Thank goodness this summer in the south it is hotter than words can describe, it gives me an excuse to sit idly by reading rather than planting, or laundering, or cleaning, or… just about anything else.  But what next after Maugham?

I’m taking suggestions.

All in a Day’s Work

I read an article in the newspaper this weekend reporting that the country’s economic down turn  has hit teens hard, as in teens looking for summer work. The annual rite of passage, the opportunity to get a little work experience while earning some pocket change, is suffering as unemployment and gas prices continue to rise right along with summer temperatures.Teens are pounding the pavement to no avail.

I was the second of three children, and the only one to never work a summer job. Aside from being lazy, I always had a number of extracurricular activities that kept me occupied. It was never the expectation of my parents that we work, so I didn’t, until the summer I returned from my first year at college. From then on out I have always been employed, excepting a brief  stint after losing my job in a not- for- profit funding debacle that featured an embezzling executive director. Turns out that my colleagues and I  were working for half the allocated salary while the boss was spending the rest. Upon discovery of this malfeasance we were all laid off and the shelter was closed. I spent the next three months searching for work, drawing unemployment, and eating cheeze puffs while crying on the sofa. Clearly I didn’t handle the job loss well.

So I have had at least six jobs to talk about.

Jim started it over at www.ofkingsandcarnies.com and GK got me into this mess (www.whistleandfish.com), so the meme started here on May 12th (see Tag, I’m It )continues. I am, I fear, not particularly timely in writing my responses to the questions.             

I am a clinical social worker by profession. The first years of my career I worked in child welfare, specifically in the arena of abuse and neglect. To the masses I was a “baby snatcher”, one of those horrible people as always portrayed by Sally Struthers in the Lifetime made- for- tv- movies. I “took people’s children away”. If it were only that simple. When people learn that I worked in the field of abuse/neglect I often hear “that must be soooo hard or that must be the worst job in the world.” Well yes it was hard and at times so difficult and challenging that at the end of the day I would wander home weary and beg the beeper please just one quiet night. However, in my book, it was by no means the worst job in the world.

While I have dealt with a world of challenges in my career I have never (or at least very very rarely) had to deal with two things: Naked people and bodily fluids, hence, I have not had the worst job in the world.

The worst job-kindergarten teacher. I was once the  helper in my daughter’s class. I kept asking the teacher, when do we get to sit down? when do we get to pee? (Never)   By noon I had lost my cool with one little boy when asked to tie his shoe for the 100th time CAN’T YOU TIE IT YOURSELF? and then, asked to zip his zipper upon every return from the restroom.  Bathroom duty-no thanks. And boogers-, I don’t do snot-that’s a bodily fluid. Blow your own nose, I said. Needless to say I was not asked to serve as helper ever again. 

Social work is tough, but I rarely have to deal with boogers, or bathroom accidents. 

Like labor and delivery nurses. Upon delivery of my first child ( sounds like UPS brought her to the door) I called my baby sister and  said I don’t  know what they pay you but it isn’t enough. I had just had a bathroom accident of my own and the nurse was cleaning me and the surrounding mess all the while smiling and reassuring me that “this happens all the time.” She then fed me, listened to me whimper for pain meds, and showed me how to swaddle the little one for the fiftieth time. For three days she wiped my ass, fetched me ice chips, and gazed upon my countenance never once commenting that pehaps it  was time for me to take a shower. Labor and delivery nurses have the worst job, forget the joys of bringing life into the world-she wiped my naked ass. As a social worker, I have never had to do that.

What makes a job “the worst” is purely subjective. I think it would be the worst to sell shoes. Thousands of feet, the feet of strangers, the feet of smelly strangers.  Or to clean hotel rooms, again, more bodily stuff. Or to be my accountant-or anyone’s accountant. Numbers numbers all the day long. I’m not very good with numbers, or the IRS and lots and lots of rules. I wouldn’t want to be an accountant.

I like my work, I always have. I try, in some small way, to make a difference in the world. I have no idea if I have or will, but at night I can close my eyes and imagine that maybe just maybe someone is safer or happier or at least warmer and fed thanks to me and my colleagues, and that’s a pretty good way to earn a paycheck.

Long before  my “career” I worked in retail. I decided that if I had to work during the breaks from college I would much rather sell things than serve food. I know in my heart I would be a terrible waitress.For my first retail experience I was the Christmas lady at a department store. The yuletide season, as we all know, begins in October in the retail world, so I was able to work from just before Thanksgiving until the New Year. Now I love Christmas and love love love all things red and green and blue-as in Elvis’ Blue Christmas. But after six weeks of being surrounded by snow and Santas and piped in Chipmunks- sing -the- hits -of- the- season, I was as close to a nervous breakdown as possible. By the time Dec 25th rolled around  I thought if I had to answer  one more time the question “Is your wrapping paper 1/2 off yet?”  that I would not be responsible for my actions.  To this day I am very very nice to anyone forced to sell ribbons, bows, and ornaments for I understand their suffering.

My retail experiences selling ladies clothing, albums (yes I am old enough to have sold ALBUMS), medical uniforms, and books, taught me to be thankful that I would not have to continue on in sales for my entire life. I can still recall just how badly my feet hurt at the end of day, and I appreciate that  I have never  had to stand that much in my life since.  Given my love for books one would think that my time in the bookstore would have been fun, but we weren’t  allowed to read-or sit down. It was torture, hell I tell you. Thousands of books, lots of time and not allowed to crack the covers.

After the retail years I worked for the Girl Scouts, and yes I wore the uniform. (Kinky fantasies not allowed- a true Girl Scout would never defile her uniform). I loved that job because I truly believe in the organization. Note:  the Girl Scouts, unlike the Boy Scouts, never “lose” our charges in the woods. How many “Boy Scout lost in the national forest” stories have there been lately? We also do not discriminate against gay and lesbian individuals-hint the Boy’s do.  So keep that in mind-Girl and Boys-two separate organizations.

I currently teach college.  I’ll tell you this-no child left behind isn’t working. We are leaving children behind in droves and they are all enrolling at my local state college and the Board of Regents is getting rich off tuition fees for remedial English courses.  I love trying to educate future social workers so they can take their own rose colored glasses out to save the world, but there is much wailing and moaning on my part when I read  their papers and listen to them speak. The ability to effectively think and communicate is a lost art. As I’ve said before-bring back a good solid liberal arts education-we would all be the better for it.

I also write, and get paid for it. I speak, and get paid for it. My two favorite things in the world, it doesn’t get much better than that.

So my six jobs:

1. Salesperson
2. Social worker
3. Instructor
4.Writer
5.Trainer

And, I am a parent. Note, I didn’t specify mom- I said parent. Male, female, mom, dad, grandparent-it doesn’t matter. If your task in life is to raise little ones, you parent and that my friends is a JOB. It doesn’t matter if you do it full-time “stay at home”  or “work outside the home” (or whatever other ridiculous moniker of the moment), you work. Aside from the stress of knowing that at any moment you could screw someone for life-resulting in very expensive therapy fees someday, (I’ve been a therapist-I stunk at it) or that choking is a very real hazard with the under three set and you must must must cut the hotdog up properly, it is the most mentally and physically exhausting work ever.

WhywhywhywhyI’mhungrywhat’sforlunchI’mhungrywhat’sforlunchIcan’tsleepIcan’tsleep  IthinkIamgoingtothrowupIneedtopeeIneedtopeeIneedtopeeShehitmeCarryme
CarrymeComewipemeComewipemeComewipemenononoYouaresomeanYouaresomean.

Parenting is the one career  where there is never a job review and no one to write “keep up the good work” at the bottom of a brief or report. There are no promotions, paid vacations, sick days, or  commendations.

But, it is still my favorite-because there’s ice cream cones, swim meets, school plays, nightime stories, original artwork for the walls, tiny little socks in the washing machine, “Why my mom is great” essays, warm bodies that crawl into bed during thunderstorms, car trips, cartoons, coloring, bathtime, sticky hand holding across the parking lot, baby bed head, and yes, even boogers.

And best of all,

Hugs and I love you’s on demand.

That beats it all, hands down.

For Peter.

I met my very best friend, Pam, when I was seven years old. As I’ve told the story here before, I was the new kid in the neighborhood and one afternoon walked over to her house and knocked on the basement door. “Do you want to play?” I asked. Pam looked me over once from head to toe and then slammed the door. I took that as a no. Fortunately within a few days time Pam warmed to me and soon we were wearing a path from house to house across the neighbor’s front lawn. One house stood between  us and luckily the owners were friendly and never complained about the constant traffic back and forth back and forth. 

We  had rather a rather idyllic life and we played fiercely. There was no television, no  video games or summer camp, just long afternoons punctuated by bicycle riding, coloring, and pretending. We played school, house, and Barbies. Lots and lots of Barbies. I am certain that our Barbie dolls had the most interesting lives, especially as we got older and discovered Ken.  I hold deep in my heart a love for Pam that grew out of those days of innocence, a time when we truly believed in each other, that friendship was forever, and that nothing could come between us. 

Yesterday a friend of mine lost her nine year old son to a debilitating disease that has shadowed him for  his entire life. Yet despite being bound to a wheelchair with a body that seemed to deprive him of all the little boy pleasures of life, this child was full of spirit and laughter and delight-

 and he had a best friend.

It was easy to forget that Peter was any different than all the other children around him, especially when you watched him with Alex. Alex and Peter were tight in a way that only little boys can be. Thanks to their parents they were both able to enjoy all the wonders of childhood together-ball, Scouts, Bible school and video games. They talked trash about  rival ball teams,were partners in crime, and owned any room they entered. They were best friends and it was a wonder to behold.

I’m a girl, and I am the mother of two girls, and while the experts will argue forever about the similarities and differences between the genders, I will tell you that girls and boys are completely different and yet exactly the same. Whether playing Barbies or football the love of two childhood friends is a once in a lifetime thing. Your best friend, or as they say now BFF, is the one person you trust and believe in unequivocally. Even at the end of the day when you storm off taking your toy home all the while saying I don’t like you and I’m not your friend anymore, you know the next day you can go back and your friend will be waiting, apologies not  necessary. Your best friend is someone who keeps your secrets, never laughs at you only with you, and will volunteer to run away from home, accompanying you as you escape the injustices meted out by the parents- and  then never say a word when you decide that perhaps you might stay home after all.  Your best friend will defend you to the end even if means taking a beating on the playground or enduring the teasing of another classmate.

To any observer Peter and Alex loved one another truly and deeply. They were best buddies and now Peter is gone.

I cannot fathom the complete despair that must come from  losing a child. When I learned of Peter’s death my heart skipped a beat and I went in search of my girls just to look at them and utter a prayer of thanksgiving for them and strength and peace for Peter’s mom.  All my thoughts and prayers will be with Peter’s family, but I must confess, my first thoughts were of Alex, that simply adorable brown-eyed mop headed boy, and his mother who has to tell him that his best friend is gone.

And I thought of Pam and my childhood and what a difference having a best friend made in my life.
Alex will make many many friends in the years to come. He’s the type of boy that will always have a circle around him, he’s too much fun to resist. He will go on to do great things and be a fine man who is an honor to his parents and to all of us that know him. Alex will be just fine, but never quite the same, because of Peter. Alex will be fine because he was lucky enough to have a best friend and to love him full throttle. Alex will be fine because he will carry Peter tucked away in his heart, long after some may  have forgotten him. Alex will be fine and yet live a little differently because he knew Peter’s love and loved him in return in a way that only a best friend can. Alex will make a new best friend and we will all observe them with delight; and then while watching them play and listening to them laugh we will remember Peter. 

Peter and Alex were best friends, and the rest of us just the lucky ones who got to orbit around them.

 God bless you Peter

and you too Alex.

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Living in the meme lane

Before returning home for Thanksgiving from my freshman year in college I called my parents and asked for directions to their house. My parents had moved while I was away and I had no idea how to find them. I’m glad to report that they weren’t hiding from me leaving no forwarding address, or at least not so they have ever admitted. They moved from what was the only home I had ever known as a child into what would be “mom and dad’s house” for the next twenty five years give or take a few.  

I was very lucky as the bulk of my childhood, from 6-17, was spent in the same house.  I grew up there, met my best friend for life there, and can still to this day close my eyes and visualize each and every room. That house with its circa 1970 split foyer ranch floor plan and tiny little bathroom (only one and a half bath for the entire family) was truly home, though I couldn’t wait to leave there heading off to college and the first home of my own. 

#5 from the meme that never seems to end  is -five places I have lived. The semantics of the sentence are important-places I have lived. In thinking about this I  found that there is a great deal of difference between living somewhere and calling it home. Until recently  I hadn’t called somewhere home since X and I left Chicago over twelve years ago. Oddly, I have always referred to where I am now  as our house but  never truly felt that it was home. Since X left that has changed. I feel that this is our home-not mine, but that of my girls with me tagging along. This is the place that they will call home, or so I hope. I want the memories of the past year and the pingponging with X to fade and for them to remember this place as a haven full of all that they hold dear.

In college I lived in a dorm, then three different apartments. I loved each and every one of these places. In that first tiny dorm room I met my roomies who became girlfriends that I still love and adore. We lived in what was essentially a cement block-nothing fancy, not at all like the college rooms today or suites as they are called. No kitchens or living rooms, just four walls, a tiny window, and barely enough room in which to turn around. It was so great. Then I lived in various apartments in what we now refer to as the dump. At the time we thought it was a great little place, one of my best friends lived two doors down,  and X lived in the next building over. About seven years ago X and I returned to college with our roomies (my college apartment mate married his college apartment mate) to visit The Village as it was called. Lynn, who gives Martha Stewart a run for her money, looked positively apoplectic as we came to the  realization that we had, in fact, once inhabited what was clearly the nastiest place in town. It was tired and dirty and not at all village-y. We posed for a photo on what was once X’s porch and then got out of there-taking our nostalgic recollections with us.Surely it didn’t look that way when we were there-we comforted one another.   I lived in that  college town for four years and often wished that I had stayed longer. I loved the town, not just the campus and all my experiences there. I called it home.

After X and I married we moved to  Chicago. To this day we argue over why we left there. He blames me, I blame him, and doing so makes not one whits difference now. I loved Chicago, I loved the city, I loved the sound of the El train as it roared past our apartment building. That apartment is one of my favorite places I’ve lived, and why we moved to the suburbs to buy a house is beyond me. Homeownership is so overated. I called that apartment, with its view of Lake Michigan and outrageous rent, home. Frankly I didn’t live there long enough.

I’ve lived at work a lot. That happens  with people who work long hours and begin to feel like they see their co-workers more than their family and their desk is where they feel most comfortable. I lived in a shelter for battered women and one for homeless/runaway/ and locked out teenagers and then a children’s group home. It was my work, but for people that I cared about, people who didn’t have homes, it was so much more.  My life was inextricably bound to that of the residents and there I learned what it really means to have a home, a place to feel safe and warm and protected. At the end of my work days I got to leave the shelter and go to my  house- my home. Now, even after all the years that have passed, when I read about cold Chicago winters I wonder if ”my”  kids from the shelter grew up to have homes of their own, and I wonder how many new ones are  standing on the corner of Broadway and Belmont longing for one.

I have lived in many wonderful places. I lived at Pam’s house, two doors down from my home. There I spent many nights playing  Barbie dolls and making so much noise that her mother would bellow at us go to sleep now.  Pam’s house meant living with sweet tea, home canned pickles, and dessert. Her mom made the best desserts.

I lived at my grandparent’s place. The little green house in the middle of nowhere was home to family reunions, Easter egg hunts, and the basement that scared me. My grandmother  met us at the door and  always seemed happy to see us and then happy to see us go. Grandchildren are exhausting I guess. She still lives in there, and very little has changed. My grandfather died and it hasn’t been  quite the same since, but when I’m there I  take such comfort in being able to sit on the same sofa, eat at the same table, and take in the sounds and scents of a home that never seems to change.

I lived at my aunt’s house. She wasn’t really my aunt, rather my mom’s, but that’s what we called her. I went back to her house today for the first time in many years, and one of the few time since my aunt died. There are no words to describe how I loved her, and how her family-my uncle and all the cousins – crowd my memories of growing up. That little house was her home, and it felt like one for me. I spent happy years there with someone whose mark on my life is indelible. Today I enjoyed my visit with my uncle and his companion, but I left feeling sad, as I always do. Sometimes a home becomes  just a house when the sound of someone’s laughter is gone from the rooms and resides only in the memories of your heart.

I’ve lived in considerably more than five places and I have called many of them home.

Now I find that the distinction is this-a home is where you make a life.

It is where you want to be, sometimes at the very moment you are living somewhere else.

Perspective

I had intended to write an answer for yet another meme question. Instead I spoke with a dear one and ranted and raved about a problem.

Then, before logging on once again to write, I checked the news (just to see if CNN had already called tonight’s primaries well before the polls close). 

And this …

http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/africa/05/20/ethiopia.children/index.html?eref=rss_topstories

Now  I just want to cry, and beg forgiveness from  god and everyone that has to listen to me for whining about my “problems”-as if I truly have any at all.

P.S.-You too lady

http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20200271,00.html?xid=rss-topheadlines

So child support is the thing you cut out?

What is wrong with this world?

Cough up the dough buddy.

From the news today.  Jim McGreevy (former Governor of New Jersey, always referred to in the media as “gay governor”)  and his ex continue their divorce battle. Why this makes the news is beyond me. It seems the good governor says he can’t afford alimony. He has a variety of reasons including:

Now an Episcopal seminary student, McGreevey, 50, said he owes a prior divorce lawyer at least $116,000 and has not paid his first ex-wife any child support this year. He said he relies on his boyfriend to pay legal bills and lifestyle expenses. ( http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24631804/)

I am not going to weigh in on the subject of his alimony battles. Frankly I have too many conflicting and unresolved issues of my own on that but – he

 has not paid his first ex-wife any child support this year.  WHAT THE HELL IS THAT ABOUT? He’s not taking care of his kid? Why doesn’t he get his boyfriend to pay child support first and then worry about the damn lifestyle expenses.  Or forget the $116,000 lawyer and pay child support.

Or  come Father’s Day I suggest he get a card that reads sperm donor instead of Dad.

McGreevy is studying to be an Episcopal priest.
As an ardent Anglican I will say this-if my church ordains a dead beat dad I may have to reconsider everything I hold dear about it.

 

ARGH! The meme continues

As  Jim commented  (http://ofkingsandcarnies.com/) this meme is too much like homework.  But then again, he started it, so he can’t complain; but I can.

Okay Question #4 is three bad habits.

According to whom?
X , my family, friends, children?

And define bad.

Bad as in not good for me? Bad meaning I shouldn’t do it around the children?  Bad because it annoys everyone around me? Or bad as in taboo, evil, nasty and I probably shouldn’t write about it? (Not that I have any of those habits…)

And at what point does something become a habit? And when does it stop being a habit and become a general behavior pattern, or as X would say an ingrained personality trait that can’t be changed ? (The basis of X’s argument as to why he was justified in his affair and why he had to runrunrun far from me-apparently I have a lot of those habits)

Let us look to the  handy dandy world wide  web and google “define habit”:

an established custom; “it was their habit to dine at 7 every evening”

a pattern of behavior acquired through frequent repetition; “she had a habit twirling the ends of her hair”; “long use had hardened him to it”

a distinctive attire (as the costume of a religious order)

put a habit on

Well if we go with those definitions I have a lot of habits and it’s just up to ME to decide if any of them are bad. I like what Wordsworth said“Habit rules the unreflecting herd” -but does that mean if I have habits I belong to a herd? Would that make me cattle?

To begin we can eliminate habit- as in riding gear. I’ve only ridden a horse once. I never had the little girl horse thing growing up; I didn’t read Black Beauty and long for a pony every Christmas.  My first horse riding experience occured as an adult when I worked for the Girl Scouts. I had visions of riding through the woods carefree with the wind whipping in my hair ala Jane Seymour (not that I have ever had Jane-esque long hair). Wrong. I spent most of my time holding on for dear life while the horse, with a mind of its own, tormented me. Go left I say-he goes right.   Someday I will try again, but I won’t be wearing a habit.

Moving on to the habit with which I am  more familiar. Having watched the Sound of Music a billion times I know all about nuns-or at least singing ones. I played a nun once in a show, so I’ve worn an actual  habit. In college I  once dressed as Mother Teresa for a Halloween party (maybe that’s why I couldn’t get a date that year-who wants to make out with the mother superior?) however, I’ve never wanted to be a nun,I have too many issues with the Catholic church (apologies to my dear Catholic friends). So most likely there  aren’t any habits in my future.

I have a lot of habits of the first kind-established customs. It is my habit to drink a Tab before I open my eyes in the morning. It is my habit to forget to open the garage door before backing out . It is my habit to pretend that the laundry pile isn’t taller than my youngest child.  It is my habit to buy books when I already have too many to read and then to go to the library to check out more.  

I also have a lot of habits of the second kind-pattern of behavior acquired through frequent repetition. I fidget, a lot. X found that to be a particularly annoying habit, however I have recently learned that others think  it charming. (Others might also lie). I bite my lip when I am concentrating hard on a task and   I have the habit of calling everyone honey, ( which as a newly single woman gets me in trouble sometimes).

I don’t have any habits in that I don’t abuse substances, unless you count drinking wayyyy to much Tab (thank you Mary for that one) or the over-use of Tylenol. I admit, if the bottle says take two every four hours I take four every twenty minutes. I don’t do headaches. And is it a habit if I can’t be alone in the house with Oreos and milk?

So what does that leave me with?

Three bad habits

1. I swear like a sailor as they say. I don’t think that’s  bad in and of itself, but it is  bad because I swear around my children. By the age of four my oldest could spell all the words she “wasn’t ‘posed to say”. My youngest just says them. Definitely bad.

2. I interrupt people. Bad and rude and a sign that I am not as good as listener as I should be.

3. I eat when I am sad/depressed-comfort food that is. (See Oreos and milk) and that is badbadbad for my health. However, I did learn that there is a depth of depression so low at which I don’t eat. Just after the ping pong game with X commenced I stopped eating. Literally. I can’t recommend it but I must say the results looks good on me.

Now for another habit-the nightly ritual-a good book between the sheets. Which reminds me-I need to wash my sheets- damn more laundry…

Still It. Question 2 all about to do’s

Five things on today’s To-Do List

Which list? 

I must confess right now I am a serious keeper of lists. For as long as I can remember I’ve had a to-do list, usually multiple lists with categories and sub-categories.   I make lists that tell me to make other lists- for example on my current list item #15 is make a list of house to-do’s. The house list will consist of all those things that I never really get to, but every so often itemize and prioritize just to make myself feel better. After all, if it’s on the list I must have every intention of completing the task . So that list says things like: paint house, buy air conditioner filters, dig up dead plants, finish packing  X’s stuff.  That last one I will get checked off-finished!

I have little lists-what to pick up at the store, things to remember, and where I am to be when. I also have big lists-you know-the LIFE lists. While cleaning out my cedar chest and packing up all of X’s things (love letters,cards, the mementos of life pre-Chickie on the desk) I ran across my THINGS TO DO BEFORE I DIE list-written at the age of 16. Clearly I was a starry eyed romantic at that age-or just horny. Lot’s of references to locations at which I’d like to have sex along with the usuals-read every book ever written, travel, ride an elephant, and learn to ballroom dance. There were also the unusuals-dance with Fred Astaire, hear Pavarotti sing live, dine at the White House, and kiss Baryshnikov.  Many of the items have long since been completed, but Fred and Luciano died-so those are out, and ballroom dancing is doubtful-given that I have no rhythm and two left feet. So… I shall hold out for the sex and that kiss.

For a while lately my lists have had a lot of tasks reflective of a life  in flux.  Make lawyer’s appointment seems to always be near the top. First it was to handle divorce tasks, now it is to handle the myriad of post-divorce tasks-new wills, new power of attorney, new new new life. Tax time meant see accountant reigned over the list. My first time in 17 years to file  separately; half the paperwork to gather double the refund. Not bad.

I have the mundane things to tackle of course. Pay the bills always makes the list, as does schedule the car for maintanence (I am routinely 5,000 miles behind schedule), finish laundry (who am I kidding?), buy cat food and change litter box.  Then there are the fun things. Send out audition notices, write press releases, prepare lecture. Volunteer job at the theatre and real job at the university.

I re-write the list when it starts to look messy-too many things scratched off or add-on’s scribbled about the page. A neat to-do list gives the impression that I am organized and efficient. I have a personal list, a professional list, and a list that breaks my week down by individual days. I regularly lose my lists especially those that I take with me in the car so I know where I’m going and why-the ones that say get stamps, milk, and return library books.

But I ramble.

Five things on today’s to-do list:

1. Call lawyer

2. Research medical savings accounts

3. Buy A. a new swim bag

4. Visit M. when she returns home from hospital-take food

5. Fill bird feeders.

It’s only Tuesday, so I figure I might get those done this week.

What my list should say:

1. Day dream a while

2. Plan a long lunch date

3. Read until I fall asleep

4. Make homemade toll house cookies with girls

5. Laugh- a lot.

Oh, and figure out who in the world I’m going to vote for.
Einy-meeny-miney- why did John Edwards drop out?- moe.

And now,  thanks to the -one- who- shall- reap- what -he- sows  I have  Finish answering the meme questions  to add to the list.

Still It: Question # 3

Meme continues (see earlier entry for 5/12)

Everybody sing with me “if I were a rich man….” (Fiddler on the Roof  is one of my least favorites).

 

 

 

Things I’d do if I were a billionaire…

 

I hate questions like that. It would be better if someone asked what I would do if I were a millionaire. A million I can almost conceptualize, but a billion- I can’t, none of us can. Ordinary folks like me, the kind that live paycheck to paycheck, fret over the price of gasoline, and dream of winning the lottery, can imagine what we would  do with a million; spending it out loud around the water cooler is responsible for more lost work time than surfing the web or checking e-mail.  We think of all that a million would buy- like a new car, boats, real estate.  We imagine vacations, happy family members and shoes-Italian ones perhaps. We see ourselves well dressed, well coiffed, well housed and happy. Of course happy, doesn’t money buy happiness? Probably not, but damn if we wouldn’t want to find out.

 

 A million I can do, but a billion, it makes my head hurt just thinking about it.

 

A billion puts me up there with the likes of Bill Gates or Warren Buffet. It requires thought and long-range planning. It involves lawyers, accountants, investment advisors, tax shelters, and foundations. It requires that I truly examine what is important to me, you know, putting my money where my mouth is, as the saying goes.

 

A billion dollars is a huge responsibility.

 

But, for a moment forget responsible, let’s have fun playing the Tammy is a billionaire game.

 

 Right off the bat we shall dispense with the givens-my family would want for nothing. Yes, I would share. My definition of family would be broad in scope: blood relatives-the family I was born with and non-blood relatives-the family I have chosen. That would include the friends I love and adore and many that I only hear from at Christmas card time. Old boyfriends, the English professor I had a crush on, roomies, colleagues, and yes, even X.  I would share the wealth and then ask everyone to leave me be so I could travel and never come home again. I would see everything everywhere and die happy somewhere far far away.

  

I would educate the masses, or at least the masses of children who belong to my family (again the broad definition). Everyone would be off  to college, with one caveat for all : First get a liberal arts degree, then, after learning  to think and write and ponder the important things in life, I will fund a second degree in what you want to do for the rest of your life. (yawn)

                                                                                                                                         I would sleep on really soft sheets, a gazillion thread count, and I would pay someone to make the bed. I hate making the bed. I would never again empty the dishwasher, fold laundry, or change the litter box. Not that I do those things as I should now, but I would pay someone to tend to it all for me.  

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                I would have the breasts I had at 21 and buff arms. In fact every woman I know would also because that’s what we truly dream of and it’s a phone call away 1-800-GETMEAPLASTICSURGEON.   

 

 

 

 

I would speak Spanish, or pay someone to speak it for me.

 

 

 

 

 
I would build a Barnes and Noble in my hometown with a great Indian restaurant next to it.

I would never hunt for a pair of socks for my little one ever again, as I would pay someone to buy socks for me every day of the year. Socks and no-more-tangles hairspray and pencils-sharpened pencils always available at homework time; all this would be in unlimited supply.

  

I would buy a Volkswagen, red, convertible. No, I would buy two.

 

I would never have to call tech support and have my call routed to India or some other far away nation where American corporations pay workers wages that they should be ashamed of just to avoid paying American workers the minimum wage-a wage we should all be ashamed of . I would just buy a new computer/phone/cell every time something went wrong.

 

I would have a cook who would make me homemade toll house chocolate chip cookies on demand.  (And given that, I would have a personal trainer-to motivate me to demand such less often.)

 

I would hire my lawyer (and no I wouldn’t require him to roll around with me as tempting as that would be) to work 24/7 to keep me out of jail on charges of libel/slander or some other offense that would occur once I plastered the photos of Chickie and X (on the desk) and  Chickie  and her countless others (on the same desk) on every billboard in town. The  paper would publish the many letters she sent me, the radio would feature the audio tapes, and the local cable channel would screen the video of deskapades volume 1 round the  clock. Chickie would experience the me I fantasized being when I was angry and venegeful and ugly and hateful.

 

Then I would call overpriced shrink-I’d need a lot of therapy to recover from doing all that, even to Chickie.

 

Alas, a billion could be fun, because with all that and more I’d still have money to last lifetimes. My lifetime, and my children’s,  and their children’s.

 

That’s where the responsibility comes in.

 

So if I had a billion, I do what I dream of doing every day when I open my eyes: I’d save the world.

 

There would be libraries in every town, books in every child’s backpack, schools around the world. There would be food in every home, warm coats and health care for all.  There would be mosquito nets until malaria was eradicated, AIDS drugs in Africa, and birth control on every street corner-yes even right here in my town. Drinking water would be safe all around the world, there would be shelters for women escaping violence and homes for children with no where to go. There would be music and art in  every school and no child left behind would be a reality and not just a catchy slogan. Shoes for little feet, gloves for little hands, and everyone gets a present on their birthday would be the rule.  No one would wander the streets alone,sleep beneath the trees or in  cars or anywhere that they couldn’t call home.

 

And there would be peace on earth.

If only a billion could buy that. 

I hate recess games. Tag I’m It.

If you’ve been reading here all along you know how I feel about the world wide web, or rather the whole concept of blogs and personal websites and diaries on-line. I don’t understand it. Why anyone wants to read this journal is beyond me. Frankly on most days I ask myself why in the world I’m writing it at all. But, I’m here, on the web that is, and now I have to play along

but I don’t play well.

I don’t forward the chain letters that threaten me with  doom and gloom. I don’t pass on the happy thoughts to special friends/moms/cat lovers.  I don’t look at the pictures, I don’t follow links, I don’t-anything. In the words of my fifth grade teacher “Tammy, while a delightful girl, can be uncooperative, at times.”

But, and this is a really big but, I will play, this time, and only because I was dared by someone who should know better. Revenge will be mine.  So, here’s the game as presented to me by  G.K. You can find him at www.whistleandfish.com

On the internet,  a meme is a list of questions passed on from one blogger to another. The game is that these questions are answered in a blog post and then passed on to other bloggers. Those bloggers are said to be tagged.

I’m told I have to pass on the rules. Here they are:

 Each player answers the questions about himself or herself. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

Problem number one: I don’t know five people with blogs. Honest and true. I know two, and one already tagged me. Clearly this game will die here on my humble page.

And the questions are:

1. Ten years ago I was …
2. Five things on today’s To-Do list …
3. Things I’d do if I were a billionaire …
4. Three bad habits …
5. Five places I’ve lived …
6. Six jobs I’ve had in my life …

Problem number two: My answers will be soooooooo boring.

But, (said with a fake smile on my face and happy tune in my heart) I’m going to play along.

 I will begin by tackling Question # 3.

And please, someone, help me think of five people!

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Pretty In Pink

I remember 15. It was not my best year. Family photos reveal that I was at that “awkward stage” one which  I think  lasted entirely too long.  Oh to have just one picture of me that looked anything like the one of  Miley Cyrus in a sheet. If I had looked like that 28 years ago you’d find the photo blown up to wall size and it would be hanging over the sofa even as we speak.  I think she looks phenomenal. And yes, if that were my daughter I would feel the same way.

I spent yesterday afternoon on a field trip to Libby Lu with my seven year old. If you aren’t familiar with the store/destination allow me to describe it for you: Pink-everything in the store. Pink and plastic-everything in the store. Pink, plastic, and engraved with the words Princess or Rock Star-everything in the store. Feather boas, lip gloss, wigs, hairpieces, glitter, glitter, glitter AND Miley Cyrus as Hannah Montana everywhere. The music of this and other teen-queens blasts over the loudspeakers as  young  customers are dolled up in tight shiny silver pants and tee shirts complete with the midriff gap that allows for the prominent display of little girl belly buttons.  It is the destination for birthday parties and gatherings of the under 12 set.

I hate Libby Lu, and I hated what my naturally adorable chubby cheeked little one looked like once she was covered in blue eyeshadow and styled with hair teased bigger than something out of 1980. It’s not that I don’t like her to indulge in fantasy/imaginative roleplay. We encourage that at every turn. Hell I am her mother-I still act and talk to myself and occasionally live in my own imaginary world-that’s what makes life fun. But I don’t like it when the focus of her role play is look at me and how sexxxxy I am, and make no bones about it-this is about sex, or sex and money. Younger and younger girls are being sold the idea that staying a little girl too long is a bad thing.  Put away the Barbies and the bicycles and move on to makeup and body piercing before you finish grade school, and then buy buy buy the makeup and jewelry here at Club Libby.

As we watched the girls prancing about one of the mothers commented I wonder if there’s video  somewhere of seven year old Hillary Clinton that features her in a boa with a microphone dancing about shaking her ass?   Doubtful. I know, I know, just because they are all dressed up at seven doesn’t mean that the girls are precluded from ever amounting to something-but I just wish they received more messages of substance. Where does a girl go to learn that she can be anything, anything she wants?  Where does she learn that her brain can be the sexiest thing about her? Where does she learn that being the President is a realistic dream? Where does she learn that PINK! isn’t the only color to paint with and PRINCESS/ROCK STAR the only worthy life destination?

At Libby Lu there are giant posters of Miley/Hannah everywhere. Hannah with her long blonde wig and her silver microphone. Hannah the rockstar and Miley the singer/actress with the cool life.  Miley/Hannah being sexy and cool-in a store geared toward children.  On the cover of Vanity Fair are beautiful pictures of Miley sans makeup or glitter or pink halter tops being sexy and cool-on a magazine geared toward adults.   The Vanity Fair photos are appropriate for the target audience whereas the Miley/Hannah posters are not.  Yes, I know the argument-she’s fifteen and shouldn’t look like that on a magazine cover geared toward adults. True. But she’s there, and that call is one for her parents to make. They let her pose for the posters and for the cover-both show the same  lack of good judgement if you ask me.

 Frankly, if I have to pick between the two the Annie Liebovitz photos of Miley in a sheet win hands down for beauty, artistic integrity, and value. I would rather my little girl see, or grow up to be, the Miley in those pictures any day over the PINK explosion of commercialism that reigns at Club Libby- if for no other reason than maybe it will inspire her to grow up to be an  Annie Liebovitz, or someone, anyone other than another Disney Princess or teen rock star with glitter in her hair.

 

 www.vanityfair.com

Recommended Reading

I love Anna Quindlen. She always seems to say what I want to say and how I wish I could say it. I’ve read her for years and marveled at her way with words. Hence, Anna has a Pulitzer Prize and, well, I never will.

Here’s her take on the spin and the flip-flop of politics. She makes McCain, rightfully, the topic of her column, but we all know that everyone in the race, this one for the White House, or any other in politics, is just the same.

Ah my healthy cynicism about it all.  I guess a politico would say I need to understand the gray zone(no not more gray talk!). I say I agree with Abraham Lincoln as Quindlen quotes “Important principles, may, and must be, inflexible.”

Be it in politics, or maybe even marriage. Some things you don’t flip flop on,

like fidelity perhaps.

 

http://www.newsweek.com/id/132860

Spin Cycle

Originally posted at November 9th

The thing I hate most about politics, especially in election years, is the spin. Politicians and their minions are expert at the manipulation of information for self-gain.  Mixed in between the charges and counter charges, the tit-for-tat and  the subtle word games lies some grain of truth. Or at least truth as spun by the messenger of the moment.  It is difficult to know what is real.

It’s that way with everything and I find I think about that a lot lately. Just what is the truth? 

This time last year (yes let’s play that game again) things were really really bad around here. Chickie was in full throttle attack mode, X didn’t care, and I had reached the end of my marriage. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I wanted out.  In the midst of all the misery, and all that would come over the next few weeks, X and I knew the truth, and there was no spinning. When X gave a three hour deposition to my attorney in the wake of Chickie’s legal actions against me/us, he told the truth. It was brutal, ugly, and very very painful for him because it was, of course, not a pretty reflection on him or his actions of the past year or those of Chickie, his one true love.  He answered questions under oath that no man should have to answer, and he did it not just for me but also for himself. He made the mess, he owned up to it, and he didn’t try to hide behind semantics, word games, or outright lies.

X and I know the truth of our marriage, and that of its demise. We share a great deal of common truth, but as is always the case with two individual lives, we have our own that we do not. There are two sides to every story, and in this instance both sides are completely true  the way X says everything went down, and mine- X’s version of the events and mine- X’s pain and mine. All true, all woefully inaccurate.

What I write here in this space is my side. It is my perspective on things, my recounting of the worst pain I have ever endured and my attempt to make sense of what I see as the greatest failure of my life thus far. It is my own psychotherapy (less the overpriced shrink bill). It is the world according to me me and only me.

X knows that. It drives him completely batty to read what I write here and often makes him angry beyond words, as it should. He wants to scream and shout to anyone who lands on this space wait let me tell you my side!  But he can’t because this is my place.

This has been my place for almost six months. It will continue to be mine until I am done, finished, and ready to truly let go of my need to vent; and when that time arrives I will know I have grieved and can move on. That time is coming much sooner than I ever thought possible.

I say all this because I recently found myself hurt, although not at all surprised, at someone’s intimation to another that my side is only half the story. No shit Sherlock. And is that supposed to come as a surprise to anyone?   Well, maybe it does. But in my world this is how it works-

I tell the truth. Now my truth is of course from my perspective, it is what I know from living my life and viewing everything through my lens. There will be times when, simply for survival sake, I must believe my truth and only my truth, but that’s when I am under the bed sobbing for dear life. Otherwise I know that while everything I say is real , it is also not,because X has his truth too. Many of the facts are the same and undeniable, but it is what lies in between that is real.

Yesterday X did something truly kind for a member of my family and he did it because it was the right thing to do. He did it because I asked him to. He did it because he is a good man and an outstanding professional. I was able to say that to those involved in this because it is true.  Just as it is true when I say he brutalized me there at the end of our marriage. Just as it is true to say that he gave me 17 wonderful years. Just as it is true to say that I still have so much anger but I am  not a stupid woman, or a mean one, or a hateful one.  My anger is mine, and it doesn’t give me the right to try to rewrite history to cast X in a new and different light. I know who X is as a person, aside from my feelings about him as a husband or ex.

So X did what needed to be done, because that’s the kind of guy he is. That’s the truth, my version of it. Just as everything I write here is my version of it.

Everyone understands that, or so I thought.

This space is the spin zone. My spin. Take it as the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. My truth.  But trust me, X’s truth is very different from this.

All that is real is that what we both know, and we don’t need someone else to remind us of that. I am not a stupid woman, X is not a shallow man. Neither of us is running for President.

 I believe that the ability to see the shades of gray is important in life. Alas, I am a very black and white kind of girl, but I have lived in gray for the past year of my life- so don’t try to tell me that my side is only one side of the story.

I wrote the story. I know that .

It’s up to those who know me and love me to know how to read the story and then to give me the benefit of the doubt and to do the same for X.

I wrote the story, and I spin it better than any politician on the campaign trail. But, just as I hope you don’t believe everything you see on CNN, I hope you don’t believe everything you see here.

And that is the truth.

Mom, the Eiffel Tower, and the kiss I’m waiting for

 

My oldest daughter is approaching the age, oh who am I  kidding, has reached the age where she rolls her eyes and sighs a lot. Sometimes she treats her father and I like tired old out of shape grownups who know nothing and are clearly the two dumbest people on earth. Other times she can be a delight, listening to what we have to say and occassionally even asking our input on things. I remember being her age, and recall a few eye rolling episodes of my own with my mother.

When I was 12 my mother told me to do two things: Take typing and learn to speak Spanish.

I took her advice on the typing and every single time I sit down at the computer I am thankful I did. I made it through mountains of college and  graduate school  papers thanks to moms’ advice.

As for the Spanish, I ignored her. I took French. At the age of twelve nothing was more romantic than the idea of speaking French and of hearing French spoken-preferably by a French man about to kiss me under the Eiffel Tower. Now over eight years of French classes and I have

1. Never needed to speak French on the job

2. Never needed to speak French in my personal life

3. Have not been kissed under the Eiffel Tower.

It seems mom was right.

My profession all but requires that I speak Spanish. Over the years had I been able to do so I could have, as they say, named my price.

My personal life, the same. X is fluent in Spanish, and all his family members speak Spanish as their first language. I do not speak Spanish. At family gatherings I would sit and listen to see if my name came up, that way I would at least know if I was the topic of conversation.

My current boss speaks Spanish, my students speak Spanish, my clients speak Spanish, and even my girls are learning to speak Spanish.

How did mom know?

Today on NPR I heard this great story about Spain and the recent political appointments there that are causing a bit of a national stir. While listening I learned a few things about Spain that I didn’t know-like the fact there is a national mandatory maternity leave of  four months. I couldn’t help but think as I drove up the highway-wow! a country that recognizes the value of motherhood and childhood and the need for women in leadership throughout the government. There are women in high ranking cabinet positions, domestic social programs targeted to address the problem of  domestic violence, and laws allowing for same sex marriages!

I should move to Spain, I thought.

Alas, I didn’t listen to mom.

This week at school my oldest has to turn in her request for the language class of  choice for the next two years.

I hope she listens to me.

action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=89676023&m=89675996&live=1

History Lessons

Originally posted at November 9th

I was married to X for 17 years, counting the last one when all that remained was the legal document binding us together. Prior to that we dated four years, and were friends for a couple before that. Needless to say, X and I shared a long history. And, given the young age at which we met, there was little significant history on either part pre-us.

Looking back I wouldn’t recommend such, but that’s another story from the book I should write for my girls called  Things I’ve Learned and Mistakes I’ve Made that Brought Me Here So Try Not To Repeat My Stupidities. 

Today I am mulling over  the concept of history, specifically romantic, sexual, and emotional history.  I understand everyone has a past, and some have very very long colorful pasts occupied by many women who have come and gone before. As in before me. While I understand that I have never had to live with it.

So the question I have is this- how do I deal with the pervasive thought running around in my head:

How many times has he said that before?

The very fact that I even ask the question is directly related to, as overpriced shrink says, trust issues. I clearly have a lot of those. Add to the mix that the last year was rather brutal and my self-esteem bears a stricking resemblance to road kill and you’ll see why I am just a wee bit skeptical sometimes.

I am trying to work out in my head  a way to accept that, just as I  insist  X is my past and has no bearing on the here and now, I have to allow that someone else’s X- or long line of X’s- is his past, history, old news. I have to accept that I occupy a space and believe that the previous inhabitants are gone if not forgotten.

 I think that may take some work, but  I can do it. I’m a big girl after all.

 I can learn to believe that what someone says is true, how he feels about me is true, and that maybe just maybe

he isn’t X

and he’s telling me the truth

and that there may be a long line that  came before me

and a long line to come after

but all that matters is right now.

Today.

Every woman likes to believe that she is the only one.

The reality is everyone has a past and someone was the one before me, but this time

I am the only one while I am the one.

And really truly, that’s more than  enough for me.

Hell, I’m just happy to not be sharing space on the desk.

Who Is Good Better Best?

When my oldest daughter was a baby I remember thinking to myself Don’t screw it up Tammy. I worried a lot that I would do something to scar her for life. I was a new mom, all alone in a town where I knew no one,  completely exhausted, and slightly depressed; thus I worried and thought way too much.

I didn’t want my daughter to be the one on the sofa someday in the future telling overpriced shrink  how she could blame everything wrong in her life on me.

But of course, I did, screw it up that is. A million times over. I would get to the end of the day and think well, that didn’t go very well, and I would vow to do better the next day.  I continue to screw up regularly, and I have finally made peace with it and come to the realization that the best I can do is all that I can do and then offer to pay the shrink bill when they are grown.

I have also learned to acknowledge that while I may not be good at everything, no parent is, that I am good at some things. In fact, very good at them if I do say so myself.

I embraced this realization recently when my oldest said to me dad is a horrible single parent.

I asked her to explain and learned that:

daddy never remembers to pack a snack for the youngest

the mornings are rushed and crazy and involve a lot of yelling

 dinner is rarely home cooked or eaten around the table    

 bedtime is not strictly observed 

 there are never pencils available for homework.

I chuckled because those are all the things that I have always taken care of. Now I am no uber-mom by any stretch of the imagination, but I do try to make sure that life runs smoothly and consistently. Children crave consistent reliablity from  parents.

I always remember snacks-but I promise you they are never homemade, organic, or even healthy. Oreos or goldfish in a snack bag will do just fine.

Mornings are relatively calm and include sitting down for breakfast (albeit often poptarts)  because bed time is strictly observed. Early to bed makes for much less grumpy in the morning.

We eat together daily, though not always homecooked. Unlike at my dear friend Lynns’ house, my children don’t get delicious well balanced meals-it’s mac and cheese and tuna melts and a lot of chicken. (We love eating at Lynns’-she makes toll house cookies from scratch-yum). My way is fine, and so is Lynn’s.

And the pencils are kept accessible ready for homework.

I do these things well, and for a long time gave myself no credit for that. I failed to recognize, as do a lot of moms, the importance of the many  little things that keep the universe steady for my girls. I forget that they do, in fact, notice when things run smoothly. However, I also know it is important that they just notice it not  endure it. Life shouldn’t be about military precision, organization, a clean house, organic snack food and not soiling the clothes. Spaghetti down the front of the shirt is good, staying up a little late to read or jump on the bed is good, eating Lucky Charms for dinner is good.

My sister recently told me that thing about divorced parenting is we have to learn to acknowledge what we do well and what the other parent does well, and to  accept that both of us do somethings better than the other and that’s okay.

So that is what I shared with my daughter.

Daddy is, in fact, a very good single parent.

He works very hard. It is important to him that he takes care of you girls and me. Despite it all X willingly takes responsibility for being the primary financial provider. Not all daddy’s do that.

He works hard and long all day and then and handles the second shift too. You may eat out and get to bed a little late,  but you do it together. You don’t visit with daddy on his days-you live with daddy. He is making a home for you. Not all daddy’s do that.

He plays, a lot. Daddy is the “have fun with” parent. The park, knitting classes, movies. He crams a lot of fun into your time together because he also bores you to tears sometimes. He drags you around to work with him and you moan and groan and hate it. But then you play because deep down he hates that he drags you around to work with him but knows that’s one of the downsides to single parenting.

And daddy loves you. And you know it. And yes life in two houses stinks and yes not having a snack every day is a big deal to you and yes life was better when you had  two parents together playing off each others’ strengths. Then you had snacks and fun. But now you have two happy parents who are giving it their best shot. So give him a break, and me too.

There are days when I know we screwed it up with  this divorce. The things the girls say, the despair they express, the tears they cry are real and heartbreaking.

There are days when I know we are getting it right with this divorce.

Like today. It’s my  Saturday but they are at the movies with X. They are watching Horton Hears A Who with him despite the fact that I love Horton.

 Like today. I went to the grocery store and bought extra snacks.These I will sort and pack and send to X’s. 

It doesn’t matter what I am good at or what X is bad at. What matters is that between the two of us we get most of it right

and someday split the shrink bill.

 

 Originally posted at November 9th

For Sale

 

Originally posted at November 9th

Sometimes playing the this time last year game is terribly amusing. I guess I’ve reached a point where any anger is diluted by my happiness and the absurdity of it all just rings the loudest in my ears.

I was roused from a nice deep slumber this morning by a phone call. Not my favorite way to begin the day. When I answered I heard the very chipper greeting of the realtor who sold X this house.

Good Morning, she said in her I’m- a -steel-magnolia accent. She then proceeded to invite the two of us to an open house today. It’s a home I just know you will looooooove. 

 Before I could get  a word in edgewise she proceeded to tell me all about the very nice home in the historic district of our town. Then she hit me with the great big price tag-far above anything X could ever afford. (I have found that when realtors ask you your price range they completely ignore the numbers and proceed to direct you toward things far beyond your reach.)

Gulp.

That’s unconscionable! I screeched. The only way I would ever pay that much for a house was if you were going to have five homeless families move in with me!

HAHAHAHAHA she laughed. You are soooo funny. (She never seems to believe me when I tell her that I find it morally repugnant to buy a house that costs enough to feed a lot of hungry people for a long long time.)

So I hope the two of you will drop by, she added.

At that point I realized that she is clearly one of approximately five people in this town that don’t know about the divorce.

Well we’d love to,  I replied, only there’s no more X.

Oh dear! And when did he pass on? I’m so sorry I hadn’t heard.

No, he didn’t pass on, but he did hop on his desk with Chickie, I explained.

That was followed by a long pause, and then my more civilized explanation that we were, in fact, divorced.

I then offered her X’s number.
He might be interested in the house, you can give him a call.

Admittedly that wasn’t very nice, given that I know full well that X couldn’t buy that house without winning the mega millions lottery next week, and even then wouldn’t-we share similar feelings about houses and giant price tags.

After ending the call with one now very flustered realtor, I remembered  what Chickie once said to me.

This time last year X had moved in with Chickie at the apartment she shared with her two children. He stayed for about five days, before asking to pong back here.  Many, many things that happened last year were torturous to me, but X’s living with Chickie was one of the worst things I endured. The idea that my spouse was living with someone else, showering in the shower, sleeping in the bed, eating at the table with the kids, really really bothered me. It seemed  so intimate -the idea that he went home at the end of the day and brushed his teeth in her  bathroom and then ate dinner with her  children (who knew he was married to me at the time).  It still makes me sick to my stomach. Who was that man?

During those five days I received a note from Chickie titled 10 Things That Will Be Different When I Am the Wife.   I believe it was item #3  that said We (Chickie, X, and her children) will not live in your tired little house. Only  a house in ____________for me.          ______________being the name of a veryveryvery expensive neighborhood just outside of town. It seems that Chickie had decided that X was her ticket to moving out of her government subsidized apartment complex and into her own little estate. 

 Alas , poor Chickie is, at last report, still in her apartment, and still in search of a one true love to who will get her out of there.

 I should have given the realtor Chickie’s number.

Little house. Big  house.

X. No X.

This time last year.

Today.

I’ll take today hands down, thank you very much.

None of your beeswax.

(originally appeared at November 9th)

For the second time in I believe as many days someone has asked Chelsea Clinton a Monica Lewinsky question.  Her answer

It’s none of your business.

 Excuse me while I run outside and do a happy dance.

I’ve always wondered what would have happened if her father, and for that matter Monica herself, had said the same thing to the investigators, the congressmen and the press.

 It’s none of your business

 Or maybe mind your own business

or I won’t ask about your sex life if you don’t ask about mine (that one for the congressmen).

What would our country look like? Would our economy be in the tank? Would thousands upon thousands of American  and Iraqi soldiers and citizens be alive today? Would our President be named George?

As someone who spent the better part of almost two years seizing the rare opportunity to say It’s none of your business, I applaud Ms. Clinton. Some things ought to be private, whether you are the wife of the husband who’s cheating with the Chickie that half the town is doing or  the Commander- in -Chief . And this is especially true  if you are the daughter of anyone involved. It always amazed me the questions people asked of me or tidbits they wanted to share right in front of my children. 

Sex scandals are nothing new to Americans. Everytime we turn around someone is getting caught or confessing or denying doing something with someone that they shouldn’t have. However, for the most part it really is none of our business. What happened between X and I was between X and I, and Chickie of course. It would have been nice if the entire town hadn’t gotten involved.

What happened in the Oval Office was between the President, the Mrs., the girlfriend, and sadly the young Ms. Clinton too. It would have been nice if the entire country hadn’t gotten involved.

It’s none of your business she said.

I wish she’d said

It’s none of your business. Go get your own blow job and when you’re done come back and we’ll talk about policy and politics and mom versus Senator Obama.

Now that would have made the morning news.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/23884267#23884267

The only dents now are on the car doors.

 

Originally posted at November 9th

Just a brief announcement from the news desk: The dent is gone.

If you’re married, or have been, you know what I mean. The ring finger dent has faded from view.

After wearing my rings for 17 years non-stop they had left quite an indentation on my finger. It was very obvious, even surrounded by the lovely I’m over forty so my hands are wrinkling wrinkles that now plague me.

 I never paid much attention to my rings while married. After the new wore off they become like a permanent fixture and were attended to only when in need of cleaning, or when having babies and the nurses insisted  that I  remove all jewelry before being whisked to the operating room.  Only once X and I officially split, (the first of nine thousand five hundred and fifty ping-pong episodes) did I remove my rings. Then they were on and off with great regularity. That’s when I learned that I might not have paid much attention to my rings presence/absence, but other people did. Men noticed. Friends noticed. My students, I learned, were playing what’s up with Ms. R’s rings and had a pseudo pool betting on when they would appear/disappear next. But I never gave it much thought, however I did think about X’s ring.

X wore his wedding ring continually throughout the entire demise of our relationship. I always found it odd that Chickie could play hop- on- the -desk -cause -your -mine without asking him to remove it. Now I know she had hers on, one of her other boyfriends had his on, and it apparently really didn’t matter to her one bit. 

The day that X took his ring off was huge. We were at dinner together and I looked over and noticed it was gone. I was devastated and promptly began to cry. Something about that sealed it-this is for real. X quickly offered to continue wearing it as I was clearly upset, but there was no need and I knew it; besides I hadn’t worn mine for months. The next day I got five phone calls -one from Chickie , one from one of X’s former employees/best friend/Chickie cheerleader, one from a current employee, and two strangers announcing that the ring is gone, just in case I didn’t know. Another long and twisted torture story…

Ending the relationship was impossibly difficult, and for me a rather sentimental individual, parting with the symbols was equally so. Hell, I bought X one last  anniversary gift  because I’m just that way. The rings were the first symbol to go, followed by the first Christmas card without X’s name, the removal of his things from our home (now my home and that process continues), listing us separately in the school directory, learning to refer to him as my ex,  and the list goes on.

And now, the dent is gone, completely faded from view.One more symbol of married life gone now without a tear shed or a moment of nostalgia

 because sadly,

it is replaced

by another wrinkle.

 Oh well, a wrinkle I can live with.

Bon Voyage

 

Originally posted at November 9th

To make a long story short spring break has always been big around here. We’ve never taken summer vacations or trips at the holidays-just spring break. The four of us did it big each year, until last year.

Spring break 07 was spent playing follow the bouncing daddy-as X bounced back and forth from our home to Chickie all the while pleading for patience as he figured himself out. The girls were miserable. At one point my oldest looked at me and said I guess we’ll never have a spring break again.  At that moment I made a vow, once X was gone and life was peaceful, we would in fact have one hell of a spring break.

And so we did, one year later. Last week we played and sunned and ate and laughed and laughed and laughed. It was, in the words of little one the best.   We took our usual trip and made it our own-just the three of us.  You could see the delight and appreciation in their eyes. Until it was all said and done I don’t think that they believed me-we could do it on our own. 

Early on I had expected that I would  be the one who had difficulty with the whole endeavor, but it turned out that I seriously underestimated myself, or over-estimated any lingering sentimentality. X never crossed my mine, except once.

One night baby girl was decked out in her bathrobe participating in a late night pool side dance party. With not a care in the world or a bit of self-conciousness she was shaking her tush with a rhythm she definitely did not inherit from her mother; and as I watched her and delighted I thought of X and how he was missing that moment in time.

For the rest of the girls’ lives he will miss moments, some big, some small and some absolutely joyful, as will I. By virtue of splitting their life in two, we- X and I - will miss out on the other half. I find that heartbreaking. I don’t want to miss a moment in what will be over in a flash-childhood.

X once said to me that there wasn’t a piece of ass in the world worth losing all this. (Us, the family,etc). As I sat on the deck watching my baby I thought, well I guess there was-ass named Chickie.

I know better. There wasn’t and isn’t. Nothing and no one is worth missing out on half of everything, at least not for me. But for X there was a someone or  something-Chickie, freedom, bachelor life, the absence of me, whatever.

So I will make the very best of the time that I have, of the days and nights that are my half-

 that will include vacations, and dances, and music, and smiles, and laughter. That will include the three of us living together better  than we  dared to imagine possible.

We had one hell of a trip. I can’t wait for the next one.

The fault line.

Originally posted at November 9th

The one thing about motherhood that still wipes me out is the idea that by virtue of being mommy I can solve any problem. Mommy can make it all better. Damn if that isn’t a crushing responsibility. Me? Solve everything? Me? Have all the answers? Someone should have told me that before birth thank you very much.

 Just the other night the oldest  came out of her room to share with me that she just couldn’t fall asleep. Insomnia is particularly frustrating for her. So she shares this with me and then stands staring in my direction, looking at me and thinking (I could tell by the face) well, do something. 

So I said, I’m sorry. What do you want me to do about it. (Not too motherly I admit.)

 I don’t know.

Well?

Well?

So we stood at an impasse for a few more seconds then I got up and tucked her back in bed, kissed her forehead, and assured her that sleep would come if she would relax and not think about it so much.

She couldn’t sleep and she came to me  to solve the problem. Thankfully that one wasn’t too hard to deal with.

Yesterday little one threw me the big one again.

Driving to go to X’s she starts crying in the backseat.
I don’t want to be divorced anymore.
I am tired of being two threes I want to be all four.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         I don’t like going back and forth to two houses.                                                                                                                                                       I want daddy home. I hate this.

She was inconsolable. I listened and said all the things that I knew to say then listened some more and said all the things overpriced shrink said to say, and nothing worked.Then she says to me

 If daddy didn’t want the divorce anymore would you let him come home?

That’s not going to happen, I said.                                                                                            But what if ?                                                                                                                            Repeat.                                                                                                                                              What if ?                                                                                                                                                                                     Repeat.

I was doing my best, in all honesty, to dodge the question and I  think she knew it.
So I took a deep breath and said,

No honey, daddy cannot come home. Our marriage is all over.

And in an instant you could see the shift in her eyes-

Daddy who caused it is bad turned into mommy who won’t fix it is bad. 

 In my own absolute frustration I picked up my cell phone and called X.
I usually deal with this, today you can, I said  and I handed him the phone.

He didn’t handle it very well, promising her a treat later that day. But I will give him that he was caught off guard. Apparently they talked again later that night and I can only hope things went better.  Then today I get the note from her teacher saying little one went to her and had the same tears and conversation at school today.

Damndamndamn.

I’m the mommy and I am supposed to be able to fix everything, but this one is beyond me. And now, not only can’t I fix it, but in her little heart I am the one that won’t fix it.

Oh for a parenting manual right now. Or better yet, a life manual.

Interesting reading

 (originally posted at November 9th)

I am a technological idiot, so here’s hoping the link works. In the article Newsweek asks Why?

 www.newsweek.com/id/121328

I always wonder how the public and the media would react if the roles were reversed. Why do I think that if a famous female politician, or hell the wife of one of the guys, were found cheating, spending $80,000 at a brothel, or any other infidelity, she would be reviled and written off as a whore.Would hubby be standing by her side for the cameras? I doubt it. Even X told me very early on If you had done this you would be sitting at the curb. 

When it comes to sex, there’s still a double standard. When it comes to fidelity there’s still one, whether we admit it or not. How many times did I hear-he wouldn’t  be cheating if … If hell. I had nothing to do with  X’s choice to hop on his desk with another woman.  The  choice of how to react to it, however , was all mine.

And  I know why, and I understand why, even if Newsweek or the rest of the world doesn’t.

Smile for the camera

 

 

 

Originally posted at November 9th

Everytime it happens we all ask : I wonder what she’s thinking, standing there while he makes excuses and apologizes. I’m sorry I have brought pain to my family,he says when we know he’s thinking I’m sorry I got caught.

Well I must say I don’t know what Ms. Spitzer is thinking at the moment of this photo, but I damn well recognize that face. I was that face, granted without CNN ABC and the AP documenting it.

Well after the marriage was over and the papers filed Chickie commenced with her court battle against me and  when that failed miserably she turned on X. Yes his soulmate his love the one he couldn’t live a moment without because she was true and devoted and blahblahblah threatened legal action against him.

(Suggestion:Gentlemen before you cheat, read up on the sexual harassment laws, stalking laws, and any law that involves you screwing where you shouldn’t be).

And then guess who needed me  and guess who stood at the proverbial podium with him.  For better for worse, remember.

So I endured the rounds of visits to colleagues, bosses, officials, lawyers, and everyone that was anyone in the mess, and that was the look on my face. I listened over and over and over as X told the story of his affair yet again; apologized, yet again; and stratagized, yet again. I spent a lot of time staring out office windows with that look on my face. And what was I thinking? Nothing. At moments like that you just shut down rather than think anymore. Ms. Spitzer is, most likely, thinking nothing, she will think when they get home.

Then, when the crisis was handled and Chickie dealt with, and peace returned to the world, we commenced on with the divorce-without so much as a thank you.  I’ve always said it wasn’t the affair that killed us-rather what X let Chickie do to me,to him,to us. The fact that she did it publicly and then legally just made it all the worse.

But the true be all and end  all came when he cried in the courthouse parking lot and asked me not to leave him alone. And he didn’t cry over me, or what he had done to me, or what was about to happen to me- he cried over what she was doing to him. He simply couldn’t believe that his one true love had never really loved him. 

 All I wanted was to be loved, he said to me while sobbing uncontrollably.

So I stood there with that look on my face and I guess maybe I was thinking something after all :    If this isn’t love, what is?

 

Getting there

Originally posted at November 9th

I heard from my friend Susan today. Susan is one of my most favorite people in the world. She’s the friend that we all have-the one wish we were more like. She is sooooo cool. Susan is also a Flat Stanley friend. If you are a mother of a child over 6 you know all about Flat Stanley,and you know he is not homework for the children, rather for the parents and the poor friends of the parents who get stuck showing Stanley the world.

Susan reads this space from time to time and so I always feel obligated to tell her and others close to me that I am truly doing much better than it sounds. I remind them I tend to write when

1. mad

2. sad

3. sad and mad

and rarely write when things are good and I am happy, as I am too busy enjoying the good and the happy to stop and write about it.

Such is the case these days. I am, much to my surprise, doing very well  and that presents its own unique set of problems.

After two years of living through hell it is hard to adjust to peace and calm. After two years  of  talking and listening to X and Chickie, XandChickie, Chickie’s friends, and the entire town it is hard to adjust to the quiet. After two years of worrying constantly about X it is hard to adjust to not having to worry about anyone other than myself. After two years of being either ignored or forced to listen to yet another version of 101 Things Wrong with Tammy it  hard to adjust to the idea that maybe I am not as awful as I was lead to believe.

But damn it’s nice.

Now if I can just figure out a way to actually believe that I am not the bringer of doom the creator of all misery and the (insert ugliest thing you can think of here) I’ll be on the road to wellness. That may take some work, and the patience of those around me, and specifically the patience of the one who whispers nice things to me.

I am doing much better than it sounds, and I really didn’t see it coming.

Labor Pains and Life Pains

 

Originally posted at November 9th

I’m playing the this time last year game only it’s this time 12 years ago. I hear it is something all mommies do on birthdays-we wax nostalgic about labor, delivery, and all the milestones past, as our babies become toddlers, then children, and then adults in their own right.

This time 12 years ago we were still working hard to get the eldest into the world and she was resisting every step of the way. I was exhausted, X was exhausted, and eventually so was she, so the doctors took over from there.

This time last year I was exhausted, X was exhausted, and though I didn’t know it at the time, she was exhausted too. The whole divorce debacle was getting to her. X was in and out and in and out and openly conducting his affair all the while. He was staying  leaving loving not loving happy sad all while the girls and I got a mean case of whiplash.  So many times my daughter would say to me Why? Why are you letting him come back? Why is he doing this? Why did he cheat? Why why why? The kinds of life questions that no eleven year old should ponder.   As difficult as arriving in the world must have been for her, last year had to be worse.

And I let it happen.

There are things you do when you  become a parent, things you tolerate and  suffer through just for your children. I’d always heard that, but never truly understood it until last year. Had I not had children things with X would have been very very different. I am certain that I tried a little bit harder, listened to a little more than I should, and endured the demise of my marriage a lot longer than I would have had there not been two little girls involved. I was not only working to preserve  my relationship with  X , but also that of their family; and I did it until I knew that doing so was infinitely worse than not.

I can’t take away all the pain that the past year has caused my girls, if I could that would be one fantastic birthday present. I can’t undo what X did, hell I still can’t even explain it. All I can do is hope; hope  that someday they will understand that I stayed for them, and left for them, and that all I want in the world is a lifetime of happy for them.

When my girls blow out their candles today and tomorrow I know what I will be wishing-JOY! for the three of us. And then, just like I tackled 24 plus hours of labor, I will tackle the task of making that happen.

Blow out the candles

(originally posted at November 9th)

 I am the mother of two wonderful children. Delightful girls, except when they are rolling their eyes at me or  stomping their feet because I won’t drop everything and do exactly what they want at the exact moment they want it.  This week both girls celebrate birthdays.  They are five years and one day apart so birthday week is great fun here at our house. There are cupcakes to deliver to school, birthday chapels to attend, gifts to wrap, cards to gather from the mailbox, and all the fun that comes from turning 7 or 12-fun that dies about the age of oh…40.

Birthday week is turning out to be a bit more of an emotional challenge than I expected. This will be the first birthday(s) that we are celebrating separately; in fact my girls will be with their father this birthday weekend.  I will celebrate alone.

I’ve thought a lot over the past two years about love and marriage and what it means to commit to someone forever and ever amen. Marriage is about two people, and  as I’ve learned that relationship-between the two-can implode at any given moment and come to a crashing end. It is not necessarily forever and ever.

Parenting, however, is just that. No matter how X and I feel about each other we are  bound together for the remainder of our lives by these two girls. Regardless of  who comes into my life, no one, no one, will ever have the relationship with me that I have with X because we are parents together like it or not.  When my girls ask to hear the stories of their birth, or the memories from childhood, there are only two people who can tell them.

X was the one who crawled home from work in the middle of the night during a Chicago heat wave to see the seven positive pregnancy tests all laid out in a row (I was skeptical). X was the one who promised to keep it  a secret, and less than 24 hours later could be heard out in the back yard sharing the news with our 80 plus year old neighbor. The joy in his voice evident-that secret would not be contained. X held my hand through a long labor and as they wheeled me to the OR for an emergency C-section he looked deep into my eyes and told me that everything would be all right and I believed him. Simply because he said it made it so for me.  X cried when they handed him his baby and took to the task of newborn care like a pro-fortunately as I was worthless for days. X demonstrated for me what love really is as he cared for me and our little one in the difficult days of recovery, pain, sleeplessness, and fear.  Then he did it all over again five years later, with the same look of love and joy written all over his face.

X and I will always have the common memories of first baths, first steps, first food, first birthdays, first first first. But now we no longer share memories or anything else for that matter, rather we experience things separately,  while overlapping, consulting, and informing. 

At an event for my oldest daughter this past weekend I leaned over to X to comment on the goings on at the podium and I said I hope you’ll help me raise articulate intelligent young ladies.

Help me raise.  Not I hope we raise.

X and  I will help each other with the single most important endeavor of life, but we will not do it together.  X and I share the greatest memories and the happiest moments  but carry them individually now. X and I will never be truly free of each other, because we owe everything that we have and everything that matters-those two girls-to each other.

This birthday week is tougher than I imagined.

 Not because I want to share it with X,  but because I don’t.

Somehow that feels all wrong.