R Cubed

Happy V-D Day!

2009-02-13T10:21:00.001-06:00

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I Want to Thank You

2009-01-19T15:38:00.004-06:00

I just want to thank you.

Reverend King, thank you so much for your hard work and sacrifice to make the world a better place. I have benefited, and I believe America is better because of you. There is still so much to be done, but we have some terrific folks continuing your work. I hope I'm part of the solution, too.

For the readers looking for a great place to start, read this.

2008 Was Nice

2009-01-04T16:22:00.003-06:00

No post since September. What does it all mean Corky?*

I wish I could tell you that it means I’ve found the solution to the world’s woes. Or a silver bullet for my own.

     Oh sure, some real exciting things have happened since then. Birthdays have been celebrated (Squash in October, me in December), we have both been working hard at our jobs, and Genghis has kept us running, running, running. It seems as if we spent most of 2008 at the grocery store. I swear we could reduce the world’s carbon footprint and save our family a lot of money if we could stop making runs to the store. The items that we seem to never have enough of: deli turkey, fruit (Genghis loves fresh berries), frozen broccoli, sweet potatoes, bread, and of course diapers after all that (ha), and coffee for us grow ups. I can’t resign myself to bulk purchasing (bad for the environment) and Genghis loves going. I wish there was a market within walking distance so I could buy fresh every day and not use the car.

     What else has happened? Let’s see. I had a 20-year high school reunion. Hume-Fogg High School was such a unique and memorable experience for me and for many of my classmates, but the reunion reminded me of how far removed we are from that time. It is bittersweet that being an alumna doesn’t define me (and many of my peers) as much as it used to.

     Squash has practically taught himself French. He’s put in so much overtime his employer gave him another raise and we are grateful, especially in this economy. Thankfully he’s in the health care industry and in accounting. He’s not passionate about either, but he works hard and does a great job at it, demonstrating discipline and commitment. I’m really proud of him.

     Christmas was subdued, thankfully. Oh sure, I disliked the toxic mix of commercialism and religion, but it seemed to be less of a nuisance this year. And we weren’t sick, which makes a huge difference. Here’s a few Christmas pics in what is currently one of the most toxic waste spills in the country. Yep, Squash’s people hail from glorious Kingston, Tennessee, the Peach Capitol of the world and the State Capitol for one day. Salute!

     The big news is that September there have been some more profound changes underfoot for me. And I like it. I’m just not ready to talk about it in any detail. No, I’m not afraid of jinxing it because I’m not superstitious. Or at least not as much as I used to be. It’s just that as I mentally process the work I’m doing, I find it hard to put into words and describe.

     For the time being, let’s just say that I’ve figured out that there is no silver bullet (and that’s OK), but The Solution is really plural and lowercase, and the solutions lie within me. I used to know that intellectually, but found it hard to put into practice. Now, I’m doing the work. No, I didn’t have a Come to Jesus experience, for better or for worse. The stimulus for the changes is not very dramatic and the difference is probably only discernable to me and those who are very close to me. Coworkers and acquaintances probably won’t pick up on it. And it is hard work. But good work. Good, and all mine.

     Meanwhile, I’d like to change the focus of this blog to showing practical, doable, inexpensive ways to be kinder to the planet. I’m thinking photos and descriptions of stuff I do everyday around the house and in my job and my community that are green. With a little of the personal stuff thrown in. Would that be fun or helpful to anyone, or would it be the sound of one hand clapping in a forest? I may just do it anyway.

     I know that 2009 will be nice for me. What about You?

*Movie Reference: Waiting for Guffman (a Christopher Guest sidesplitter. Jamie Lee Curtis is sooooo lucky.)

Poise

2008-09-02T12:04:00.013-05:00

     I know I have days where I’d like to throw a big ole pity party. Everyone has those days (sound of glasses clinking, noisemakers honking and an unenthusiastic “Hurrah” from the crowd). I've been reading a lot of blogs lately, and I see a lot of bitching and moaning about not having enough money, not having enough creative time, being too sad (not having enough happiness), and not having enough youth (aging). Sure, there are real losses and real dramas out there.

     However, most of us get some recovery time, some time to take a deep breath, wipe away a tear or two (or many), put on a happy face, and go forward until things are better.

     But what if you don’t get rebound time? What if every single day was a challenge and presented you with new significant problems and your down time was nonexistent? How would you breathe deep and go to your happy place knowing that if you had one (or God forbid two) glasses of wine and your child stopped breathing you might not be alert enough to resuscitate your baby?

     That’s the reality for some folks out there. They are always "on call." Some of our fellow men and women crumble under these conditions. Oh yes, they do. Some self medicate and become addicts, while others quietly implode. A few lash out (anger is the flip side of fear or pain), and others walk away. Bless all of them.

     Then there are some folks that for whatever reasons, exhibit true grit, more often referred to as poise.

     Poise was one of the adjectives bandied about this Olympic season. While I was impressed with the athletes and I do think they exhibit great courage, strength and sense of purpose, their competitive endeavors don’t really define poise for me the way my friend Courey does.

     This young woman has it in spades. Her toddler son, Linden, has been diagnosed with an incurable condition, one that has challenged her almost every day with new medical problems. It took nearly two years to come up with a diagnosis, and the current opinion is that he has mitochondrial disease, which is rare and incurable (Oprah's friend Mattie Stepaneck, the boy who gave us HeartSongs, had a type of Mito disease). The diagnosis means he'll probably always get all his meals and fluids through a stomach tube, he'll always need oxygen and he'll always get tired. And it is fatal.

     She handles all of this, even the concern that her lovely daughter Aniyah may be somehow forgotten in this journey, with poise. She demonstrates to us in her blog that she is not a hero, but a beautifully flawed, “boring” Mom who is going to continue to do her best for her entire family. At the same time, she will seek beauty, joy and fun where ever she can. In her own words:

“We may not like it, but that is how it is, so we better just deal. So we’re taking it all a day at a time and not worrying any more about tomorrow than we have to. We love him, and he’s a happy boy, and that is all that matters to us.”

     Courey even patiently educates us how to be her friend, how to treat her and her family, in the most practical and loving way.

     Her August post really illustrates her poise, and that's why I nominate it for August's Perfect Post award. The monthly Perfect Post award is the dreamchild of Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.

     We can learn from Courey. She shows us to look at the good things we do have, focus on the positive choices that will make the situation better, and don’t stop loving those around us. It doesn’t mean that we don’t get to cry. Or get mad. Or retreat. We can do all that, but at some point, we have to deal with our pain constructively because that’s really the only intelligent choice. Poise is hope in thoughtful and creative action, one day at a time.

Thanks, Courey.

Parenting 101

2008-06-19T12:31:00.020-05:00

It amazes me how some young folks get this parenting thing so well. As an older new Mom I'm often just shocked how some men and women in their early 20s catch on so easily.

I just read a great post by a young woman named Arwen Elizabeth who gets it.
While I don't agree with everything she opines on, she's a parenting whiz, and I wish I'd taken Parenting 101 from her.

One thing she said really struck me as important but made me a bit sad because it's taken me nearly 38 years to figure it out:

" ... what is important is not how I act upon them [family members] but how I respond to them, learning to be a bigger, better person through relationships."

      Arwen contributes a lot of her own success at parenting to her own folks. Here's an excerpt:
"And the reason they could do what they did so well is, I've finally realized, largely due to the way they approached the task of being parents to us children: not as a job at which they might fail or excel, but as a relationship. It was important to them not that they *achieve* in any outwardly visible way, but that they *love* to the best of their ability. The quality of their parenting would ultimately be self-measured not by the impressiveness of anything we children did or became, but by the quality of our relationships with God and those around us, which would be a reflection of and a reflection upon our relationships with our parents themselves."

      I agree her parents did have a thing or two figured out as well. Here's something her Dad said:
"What it boils down to is that we've been jobbed into thinking there are certain ways to "do" parenting, while the real trick is to "be" parents - make it part of our identity."

      He also tapped into a source of fear that I've had, as a new parent, and work hard to overcome. You can see glimpses of my insecurity in earlier posts on this blog. Here's what he has to say about it:

"One thing that has amazed me since before we began our family has been how much fear modern parents live under. It's almost assumed that parenting means living in this constant atmosphere of fear: fear that something's going to happen to their child, fear that they'll do something to damage their child, fear that they'll somehow "fail" parenting. I don't know if this finds its source psychological theories, or modern social attitudes, or what, but it's a terrible thing, and I think part of the reason why people dread even the thought of parenting.

I'm sure this tendency has many roots, but I think I know some of them. Part of it has to do with our cultural mistrust of the person. Some centuries ago, an attitude began to rise that said that people were not as trustworthy as systems. A person could fail you, but a properly implemented procedure (or process, or system, or protocol) would not. This attitude showed up particularly in workplaces and governments, but it eventually crept into the home.

There it took the form of doubt - doubt cast on the parent's ability to parent. "You untrained, inexperienced neophyte! What makes you think you can do something as vital as parenting? What if you FAIL?!?!? Better not leave something this important to mere chance!" So parents were encouraged not to trust themselves, but to trust "the system", where "the system" was some protocol or process defined by some expert(s) in accord with some set of principles. Raising children would no longer be a chancy, suspect operation that depended on some frail, inexperienced human for success. Now all the parents had to do was follow the procedure, and the outcome would be guaranteed! After all, this principle worked for manufacturing flashlights - why shouldn't it work for raising children?"

      Oh yes, his statement cut right to the root of my fears. Montessori or not. Public school or private. Time out or spanking. These thoughts just show that I was missing the mark--it's the quality of the relationship, dummy.

      Both Arwen and her father extrapolate their own parenting philosophies to the subject of one of the touchiest, most neuroses inducing subjects in the world, DISCIPLINE, which can be a tough one for new parents. But their discipline philosophy completely resonates with me and I am going to try my best to adhere to to the best of my ability. Here's the gist:
"A parent who times out to punish is going to get a much different outcome than a parent who uses time out to firmly show consequences for bad behavior."

      Or as her Dad says:
"One thing that really helped me with discipline: realizing the difference between punishment and discipline. Punishment is backward looking; discipline is forward looking. Punishment is "getting even" for a past offense; discipline is forgiveness of the offense but concern that it not happen again. Punishment is not concerned with the good of the offender so long as retribution is extracted; discipline is all about the good of the offender, that he might not do that destructive act again."

      I've been a hard person on some of those nearest and dearest to me. Judgemental, extracting, punishing and demanding. I used to attribute it to my higher standards, but really it was a foil to distract from me feeling out of control. It really boiled down to vulnerability. I finally get how ineffective and pointless and brittle hardness is and I've been working hard to change some bad habits. I'm so glad that there are people out there learning these things much faster and with fewer growing pains.

      Oh yeah, this former control freak has a lot to learn about parenting and family. And it's totally worth every agonizing, exquisite lesson.

You Kraine, I Kraine, We all Scream for Ukraine!

2008-05-31T17:18:00.014-05:00

Or, From Russia (Sort of) with Love

Quick: What is Europe’s second-largest country? If you can’t figure it out from the title of this post, I’m worried about you.

As your typical Westerner, and particularly, your average American, it took me awhile to figure out that the owners of South Nashville’s most fascinating Eastern European deli and market were not Russian. Or to be precise, that Ukraine is not Russia. At least not anymore.

I should know better, awhile back I read The Carpathians by Janet Frame and because I’m such a geocentric dork, I had to look that word up. Turns out that’s a mountain range worth noting. [I have not read Jules Verne’s The Castle of the Carpathians, which takes place in the region, unlike Frame’s book.] For what it’s worth, Bram Stoker's Dracula had his castle in the Carpathian mountains, but I’m guessing it was the Romanian side.

What is important to know about the Ukraine for our purposes is that if you are traveling from the west it is the gateway to Belarus and Russia, and if you are coming from the east it is your ticket to Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania and Moldova. That means Ukraine is an Eastern European melting pot, but I’m probably stepping on some toes for saying so. It is six times larger than the lovely state of Tennessee.

If you live in the Ukraine, your diet is going to be influenced by many other countries and ethnicities. Your food is also going to vary dramatically moving eastward from the rugged hills of the Carpathians across the wide plains in the middle and southward to the mysterious Black Sea and Sea of Azov. As a Ukrainian, you’d have access to just about everything from a Polish pirogue (although they have something similar called a varenyky) to a Turkish kebab, as long as you don’t mind a boat ride.

I know, I know. These European people kill me. But trust me; they’ve paid dearly for their euro melting pot. Still are.

So, returning to the real topic at hand, where else in Nashville could you choose from a gorgeous selection of yummy cheeses, meats and fish, get superior European chocolate and find delicate white dried porcini mushrooms? Where else could you pick up raisin and cheese blintzes, Siberian raviolis, handmade Varenikis (like pierogies), kielbasas, a variety of Russian beers and delicate cakes and cookies? Where else is there a wall of prettily packaged bulk candies that instantly remind you of Sugar Plum fairies? A place where you can wire some euros to your babushka back home and check out an assortment of Russian and American (in Russian) movies? The answer: Aleksey’s of course!

(Please forgive the shake on this photo, I get excited around the candy bins).

This Russian and European Eastern market in Berry Hill was the brainchild of Alexei Khimenko, a former dancer with the Nashville Ballet. Originally from Moscow, Khimenko decided to open this little gem in 2003 after searching for and not finding many of his traditional goodies and extensively researching the import food market. Khimenko eventually sold it to his Ukrainian friends, husband-and-wife team Yuriy and Yevheniya Kvaternyuk, so that he could focus on wine and liquor imports.

The Kvaternyuk’s are from Vinnytsia, 160 miles southwest of Kiev. Suprisingly, Vinnytsia has some key features in common with Nashville. It has a population of about 400,000 and is located on the Southern Buh River. I wonder if its nickname is Old Muddy. While not a capitol, Vinnytsia (or Winnica in Polish) is the administrative center of the province. It is home to one of the largest Baptist churches in Europe while Nashville is host to the Southern Baptist Convention. It’s no wonder Yuriy, a kind but quiet dark-haired man, and Yevheniya, a charming petite blonde, are at home here. So I was surprised when I found out that Nashville is not the sister city to Vinnytsia. No, Birmingham, Alabama gets that distinction. Someone care to explain that to me?

Anyway, if you go, you will likely be greeted by one of the Kvaternyuk’s and an assistant named Inna, also from the Ukraine. Now is a great time to go, as they are slightly slower in the summer, according to Yuriy. You can start tasting the merchandise and figuring out what you like and don’t like. Come Christmas they get busy with special orders and folks seeking novel gifts, such as bear salami (yes, you read that correctly, click on photos to enlarge).

Yuriy says that all of his imported stock comes through a distributor in New York. He features food and drink from Greece, Poland, Hungary, Germany and France. I even saw a can of Australian beef goulash. In addition to beers, they have a wide selection of sodas, juices, teas and coffees. He says he likes to put out new items and pays attention to customer feedback. So if there’s something you are looking for, or something you really like, tell him or Yevheniya.

Not everything at Aleksey’s is for me. I haven’t had the heart to tell anyone in the store that I’m mostly vegetarian, and what’s more, even if I did eat meat, it definitely would not include head cheese, veal roll, or blood and tongue. Dried eel and whole pickled tomatoes are out, too.

Fortunately my husband, Squash, loves sardines and other stinky fish in a can, and there’s a large selection. My only rule: Please don’t eat it in the house.

I do love the selection of cheeses, deli-style and prepackaged in the dairy section.

I also love the assortment of cookies, cakes and breads:

And the chocolate and candies:

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that Ukraine has made clear its desires to join the EU bandwagon and 2015 is a possible entry date. The very photogenic Yulia Tymoshenko became prime minister in December 2007 and appears to be friends with higher ups at NATO and the EU, so she may be able to get things done.

In the meantime, please drop by this quaint yet hip Slavic/European deli and market located at 718 Thompson Lane (across from 100 Oaks mall) and pick up some goodies. You won’t be disappointed. And if you are new to the area, and speak Russian, by all means stop by here.

Budmo! Na zdrowie! Egészségetekre! Budem zdorovy! Noroc! Stolitschka! Prost! Stin ijiasas! Santé!

I've Been Stimulated.

2008-05-15T09:16:00.007-05:00

It came in the mail today. I was almost embarrassed when I pulled it out of the mailbox.

While nice, I know it’s not a cure all. Bush’s economic stimulus package, while helpful in the short term, is not a long-term fix. In short, whoopee. Or as a friend of mine recently said several times in an e-mail, whooptiedoo (it was about something else, as she lives in Stockholm, but I love the term).

My check totaled $1,500. Guess what I’m going to spend it on? The 10% tax penalty for cashing out my 401K so that I can refinance our mortgage and not lose the house. So really, I break even. I’m grateful I don’t have to essentially pay the government for liquidating prior to retirement age, but it would be nice to have had that money.

There are so many things we need: A tight fence to protect Genghis from our asshole neighbor’s pit bull. Our large maples out front need to be delimbed before they hurt someone. Squash’s truck, an 80s model, is on its last leg.

So, dear readers, if there are any out there, have you been stimulated? If so, what ya gonna do with it? I’d love to hear the answers. I suspect many of you all are simply going to plug holes, so to speak, in your budget. But is anyone going to do anything fun?

Next up, a run down on one of my favorite Nashville spots, a place where you can get everything from Babushka's teething biscuits to head cheese and Russian porn! No, no, that's not the right sentiment for this place. It's wholesome and delicious. You'll see.

Mo Better

2008-04-23T13:17:00.009-05:00

The hubs, the boy and I are mucous factories. Red itchy eyes, sneezing, and copious amounts of snot are on tap. I have boxes of tissues everywhere—the car, our bedroom, Genghis’ bedroom and even two boxes in our living room. Nashville (and Middle Tennessee in general) is notoriously bad for allergy sufferers, and even bad for those who never had allergies. I didn’t used to have them. Live here awhile and you’ll get em’ for sure. What’s the deal, ask you out-of-towners?

What’s the deal, ask you out-of-towners? The area is essentially one big limestone basin, or bowl, surrounded by bluffs and plateaus. This bowl allows the large amount of air pollution generated by the big car lovin’, forever drivin’, no mass-transportation thank-you folks to mix with the copious amounts of sneezy, itchy effluents that are pumped out by the lush, thick flora you’ll find here thanks to a long growing season and humidity that rivals Florida’s. Sultry. The Night Was Sultry, damnit.

But we don’t have an ocean, with breezes, to blow this crap away, or even mountains to escape to (Middle Tennessee is not East Tennessee or Knoxville, or the Smokies, ‘kay?).

No instead, we live in a little hollowed out recession in the middle of a l-o-n-g state in the middle of America. Smog rises and then hovers, never rising up, up and away to melt someone’s ice caps or burn a hole in the ozone layer, and then millions of very green and pretty plants that give Middle Tennessee a thick, dense, low jungle look, those start puffing and huffing and spitting and dropping and ejecting millions of little seeds. Those combine with the pollution and this hazardous ball of “air” essentially stays put. Oh sure, occasionally a breeze comes along, but all this does is stir it up a bit, you know, to make sure the ingredients are thoroughly mixed. Rain provides temporary relief, by forcing all the particulates down on the ground, but it also results in more seeds, which in turn means a higher allergy index.

All that bein’ said, things are better. Our financial situation is about to get a bit more stable, thanks to some mortgage refinancing, I’m enthused about hopefully getting Genghis into a Montessori school (the wait list is two years, but I’m hoping for a lucky break), and I’ve thought about Squash and I in a way I haven’t before. It recently occurred to me that he does really love me, and he’s already proven it. In his way, not mine. Do we still have big issues and do I still find the responsibilities of nurturing a family unbalanced? Sure. But realizing that this man has already gone a distance for me is significant. I’m grateful to the friend who helped me see this. I now have hope. Me and Squash are an odd couple—we are such different people—but it just may work. I have to allow that to happen. I owe it to him, to me.

Things are blooming like crazy here, and it is very pretty. I’ve got lilacs and daphne bushes perfuming my yard and soon there will be lilies, roses and crepe myrtles adding their bouquet. The large, white clematis wasn’t killed in last year’s drought, and so soon they’ll be shooting out their big unearthly stars. Squash has planted the garden with nothing but flowers this year. We hope for sunflowers of all shapes and sizes, zinnias, mums and a hodgepodge of wildflowers. We are going to be getting fair-priced, fresh, organic vegetables on a regular basis from a fantastic local farmer soon.

Genghis is teething, and fussy, and has allergies, but it’s OK. I can tell this is a phase, and short lived. He still likes to give cuddles and “waller” right before bed, and so I know he’s gonna be fine and back to his usual self soon. Finally, my camera is back in working order and I can get back to the project. Yeah, we are all honking, sneezing hacking, squinty-eyed messes, but we are OK, which is much better than before.

Busted.

2008-03-31T11:20:00.008-05:00

       In hindsight, it was inevitable that this would happen. I could see it coming, like s slow moving train wreck.

       Looking back, the first signs were subtle, but unmistakable. Things just weren’t right, and I knew it.

       Sigh.

       You see, my camera is busted. I bought it used (still pricey at $500), and I should have known this would happen. The autofocus slowly stopped working and one day I noticed I always had to use manual mode, which is fine, until you try to get a spontaneous party shot. So, my camera is in the Can*n repair shop in New Jersey. To be more accurate, the expensive lens is in the repair shop. But the irony here is the lens is fine; it was the body that needed repair, which was done. I sent both in because I didn’t know which had the problem. But the company only mailed back the body, they still have the lens.

       Have you heard the sound of one hand clapping in a forest where no one is around and trees are falling? That’s exactly how easy it is for me to understand why I got a camera body sans lens shipped to me express within days of sending it in for repair, but they kept the lens, which is perfectly fine, until I called repeatedly and then came to the conclusion to also mail it to me, three weeks later, after I bug the shit out of them. Huh.

       So, shoot. But, wait, I can’t! ha ha ha. That means that my fun project of taking pictures and writing about cool Nashville spots is on hold.

       Lots of things are on hold, and it is annoying the shit out of me. I’ve got threads and strings and pieces of things started, and nothing to show for it. Big things, from selecting a 529 college savings plan for Genghis (hopefully he’ll be lucky this way) to figuring out where in the hell Squash and I will find time to reconnect and god forbid, get counseling together, in the same room, at the same time. The when, where and how outweigh the obvious what and why, which are accounted for. There’s been no progress in this area, and since we’ve both changed jobs (and therefore insurance), I have no idea how we are covered and what people will see us. And I almost don’t care.

       Until Saturday, when walking on the treadmill at the YMCA, I started crying. My back was hurting again, and it reminded me of the sore spot, unattended.

       I’m not getting what I need. I need attention, kindness, a nice gesture. Someone to notice that I’m shaking a little because of a chilly breeze that seems to follow me everywhere, Someone to ask me if I’d like to borrow his or her soft and ultra warm sweater in a pretty color. I need security, to not have to be the one strategizing about things like financing our son’s education. Why is it so hard to admit and to ask for? And worse, what if Squash can’t provide these things? I’ve hinted, I’ve moaned, I’ve groaned. I’ve made ultimatums. There’s been no progress. It’s still me, being conscientious and thoughtful and actually doing the research. Fuck it, I’m tired.

       So you see people, the back pain will return and I will again be reminded of the things I need, the things that I will not speak of, because it seems as if the answer is no, no, no. The answer is, do it yourself, or it will not be done.

       It still astonishes me that there are people out there living in wedded bliss, people who don't get how hard it is for the rest of us to be part of a coupledom. For lots and lots of reasons, all equally justified in my eyes. When people cheat, it's not about the sex. When people fight, it's not about the truthfulness or accuracy of the data. I don't think life-long monogamy is natural for homo sapiens sapiens, I think for most of us schmucks it takes lots and lots of desire and even more effort. In many cases, it's not worth it. Yet people judge.

       I have no choice but to wait for my lens so I can start a project that is solely for me and I think I'll enjoy. And I will slowly start working toward the "we" for Squash and I. But in the meantime, I wait.

January is a Long Exhale

2008-01-05T12:24:00.001-06:00

      Aaaah, much better now. The three of us have been on antibiotics for the past three weeks and finally seem to be headed toward normal. I've still got residual hearing loss from my ear infection, but compared to a few weeks ago, I'm golden. Christmas is mercifully gone. I missed a New Year's party that I wanted to attend so badly due to pinkeye, but I have high hopes for more get togethers.

      Meanwhile, no resolutions, no promises, no great expectations, but a great big sigh of relief that we survived the holiday season. Now winter is settling in and I can move a bit more slowly on my perpetual to-do list.

      One of those things is a project that brings me great joy--photographing and writing about the more obscure, but no less wonderful, places in Nashville. I won't cover restaurants (such as my two favorite Ethiopian joints) because The Scene does that so well. And although I consider Radnor Lake a magical spot, it's too well known these days to qualify (when I was in high school it was less known, but that was light years ago). Anyway, it's time to put the graduate degree in journalism and my explorer tendencies to work.

      First stop: The picture below. My good friend Dagmara from Poland showed me this place and I can't wait to tell you more about it.

If Only Elvis Were Here

2007-12-06T08:31:00.001-06:00

      There is some great news amid the status quo, which I’ll get to in a moment. But first, I have to kvetch. I hate to be the grinch from hell, but I hate this time of year. Prior to January 1, I’m just not a happy camper. Oh, I fake it and smile and go through the motions like everyone else, but it’s a real chore. If I were to sum up why, it would be one word: CHRISTMAS. Why, Christmas, you happy, shiny people ask? After all, it’s sleigh bells jingling, frosty the snowman, Silent Night My Ass, blah blah blah.

      The main reason I loathe Christmas is that I grew up poor, am still poor, am tired of the reminder of being poor, and nothing reminds you of your economic status quite like Christmas in America. That’s right, the divide between the haves and have-nots is so magnified at this time of year that it nearly burns a hole in me. And believe me, I totally realize that there are millions (not thousands) worse off than me right here in my own country, much less billions worse off on the planet. I get that.

      But here in my own microcosm, which would be the space between my ears, I am tortured. I grew up hearing my Mom’s Christmas horror stories, everything from alcoholic Grandpa beat Grandma up to stories about how they were so poor her Mother sobbed as her children, including my Mom, opened their presents—and it was a new washcloth. Yeah, good tidings bring comfort and joy.

      Flash forward another generation to me, and my Mom, while struggling to climb her way out of a destitute family and break all the negative patterns established before, has me to contend with. So my Christmases as a child were during the time she was working full time nights, going to school full time during the day, and money was very tight. Add to that a grumpy step-father who hated Christmas for his own reasons (lapsed Catholic, he missed his biological children, he was a turd who couldn’t fake it for me), and ya gotta a Blue Christmas that would make Elvis proud.

      OK, jump forward with me to now, when as an adult I understand what the spirit of Christmas was originally intended to be, but I have the awareness that most of the population behaves as if they don’t fucking have a clue what that is, and so overall, I’d have to give Christmas a big thumbs down. The commercialism and the consumerism during this time are positively overwhelming.

      So a few of you readers are probably shaking your head and going tsk, tsk, you’re a Mom now and it’s all about children and that should be enough to cheer you up. Well, I would tell you, I am actually in a bit of a better mood than usual because of Genghis being in our lives this year, and I consider him to be a gift from the universe and I’m grateful. But overall, if we could just sort of blow December off the map, I’d be happy. But don’t worry, yes we have a little Christmas tree up with lights, so my son will be fully indoctrinated in the commercial production of this blessed holiday.

      So this time of year really sucks, in my opinion. It doesn’t help either that my birthday is just 20 days before the event. I can’t tell you how many MerryBirthdayHappyChristmases I’ve had in my life on the heels of Thanksgiving shopping madness from hell. And when I was a student, finals always were on my birthday. I know, I know, it could be worse, I could be missing a limb or something, but I’m just sayin’.

      Anyone else out there have a holiday or season they dread? Or any suggestions for going with the flow and getting into the season and spirit?

      There is a real positive change that I have to mention. That’s a new part-time job for me so I can spend more time with Genghis. I started Nov. 26 and I am really enjoying it. I’m actually working in this new position, and it feels good to be of use to good people and a good cause. I’m sure the honeymoon will end at some point, but I think the “marriage” will be a sustainable one because I get to use my brain and skills and I’m treated with respect.

      That’s all I’ve got time for. The babe is about to wake up from his nap and he’s got a cold and is cranky. I’ve got bottles to wash and a house to clean and a small party to plan and a partridge to put on a pear tree. Yeah, like I said, I’m fakin’ it and goin’ through the motions, but it’s taking everything I’ve got. Merry Christmas. Now hand me that liter of Riesling …

Torn, Suspended, But Still Grateful

2007-10-15T13:36:00.003-05:00

      I know everyone leads a double life, including me. No, I don’t mean we are all secret agents or doing something naughty on the sly (although it can include that, but in my case, no).

      For me, and I suspect most folks, normal, everyday pedestrian life sometimes means putting on and taking off masks for different roles, ambivalence, damned-if-you-do/damned-if-you don’t decisions and good news/bad news deliveries (sometimes I’d like to cancel my subscription). My life this past few months has been positively full of events that leave me torn between despair and giddy delight, but ultimately grateful when I can slow down and smell the roses. No, I’m not furiously riding the bipolar seesaw. This is real life. And sometimes it’s bittersweet. We all have days like these, so I share.

      Ah, where to begin. Bad news first? I like to receive the bad first because it gives me something to look forward to after I receive it.

So, in no particular order here’s the bad—the problems between Squash and I came to a head and we are both struggling, trying to sort it out, work our jobs, live our lives and not crumple under the stress; there's the news of suicide of a former classmate and mother to two young children; my closest friend’s continued unemployment and childlessness; my mother’s perpetual overworked, overtired exhaustion; and finding out about this recently (was I asleep?).

      Oh, and then there’s this: My boss has picked up on my boredom with the job and dislike of him, and recently asked me to either resign or be let go. I picked resignation. Easy come, easy go. Ah yes, I just remembered one more black mark. I talked with my Dad’s case worker, he’s fasting on and off to protest the fact that some administrator at his facility has decided that all ~~inmates~~ clients will no longer have access to nicotine or caffeine after Nov. 15 for health reasons. Are you f***in’ kiddin me? He’s lucky to be alive; According to stats he should have already been killed by his disease (violent interaction, suicide, malnutrition, etc.). Longevity and optimal physical health AIN’T his problem, quality of his mental/emotional/social life is. And further, why are they ignoring the scientific studies that demonstrate that paranoid schizophrenics actually self-medicate with coffee and cigarettes? It actually helps him remain calm and even keel. Oy vey, it’s the mother of all stupid decisions, in my opinion. While they are at it, why not put them all on a macrobiotic diet and get them in yoga and see if that helps. Sheesh. I am so powerless when it comes to helping him. A source of eternal sadness/frustration.

      Whew. Time for some good news, not in order of importance. Squash got a higher paying job that has possibilities for eventual advancement, so it takes some of the breadwinner pressure off of me, after 10, count em Dano, ten l—o—n—g years. Sweet relief. My Mom made homemade enchiladas and a cake last week for Squash’s birthday, and the delicious meal lasted so long we didn’t have to cook for three days. God love her. And to top things off, a few weeks back, we just met this fabulous couple who also have a “new” baby and they live in our neighborhood. They brought us dinner on Sunday, the day of our Lord, because we were supposed to go to their house and hang out, but sadly the three of us had colds. So the amazing wife/mom/worker bee/neighbor/friend drove to us and brought us homemade cheese manicotti, mixed green salad with fruit and nuts, a pungent herb/tomato salad, and bread. I nearly fell down and wept when she pulled out the bottle of Newman’s vinaigrette dressing, the gesture was so far above and beyond, it’s like she was saying, “here’s the finishing touch and I want you to enjoy this meal in its entirety.” It was a moment of transcendence, I felt connected to the divine. How sweet was that? The meal contained enough garlic and onion (we love) to kick our colds to the curb. Now people, that’s what I call a miracle!

      Another newer friend who wanted a second child is pregnant, and I am so thrilled for them. She and I went walking at our local YMCA over the weekend; she made healthy apple/raisin muffins, which we had with tea after our slow walk around the track. She seems to sense something is up between Squash and I (he wasn’t there); but she didn’t ask, and moreover, she repeated her offer to let us babysit her year-and-a half-old son, which touched me immeasurably. Awhile back, she and her husband watched our son one Saturday so we could get out (we went to a movie) and the deal was we would do the same in return for them, but that was months ago and I thought the offer/idea had died, I though she could read into our problems and had changed her mind because of competency or safety reasons. Yeah, I feel like a bit of a mom-reject at the moment, but she has helped restore my faith.

      My lower back pain is gone. I can still get a bit sore when I overdo it lifting Genghis or gardening, but it's nothing compared with the disabling pain I had before. And I contribute my healing to the power of positive thinking, or visualizing success. Yep, dorky as it sounds, my pain was mostly psychosomatic, which basically means, in my head. I read this book, and the pain was gone, I kid you not. I also think shining a spotlight on the problems of our marriage made me acknowledge the ways in which I needed attention, where I needed help, and prevented by brain from redirecting my emotional pain to my body. The chiropractor was nice, the hands on attention was sorely needed and the adjustments felt great, but I don't think that's what healed me.

      We planted seeds in our garden. And they are growing! Perhaps the most productive thing Squash and I have done together as of late. We are waiting on red clover and rye. A cover crop. The idea is to turn over the plants after they have died and till them into the soil in order to add more nutrients back into the soil. Is that a metaphor for marriage? Are we supposed to take the old, dead things that are no longer useful, such as “you always,” or “you never,” and till them under and work them into the mix and plant new seeds?

      My voice is coming back. I'm not normally shy at all, but over the past few years I have become increasingly nervous when speaking publicly. For some reason, after the birth of Genghis, I've found my voice. At a recent board meeting, I had no trouble standing up and sayin' my part loud and proud. In fact, it felt kinda good.

      OK, what about the gray areas? Where it feels like I am trapped immobile between two worlds, like a fly in the web? The most immediate issue is what type of part-time job do I pick (we still need me to bring in some income)? If it’s childcare, the pay is low, and in most daycares, I’ve still got to pony up for childcare expenses while I’m working. Plus, I’ve never done that type of work on a full-time basis. Will it drive me batty and leave me with no energy/interest in playing with my son? It’s so far from my education and experience, would I be decent at it? Should I just nanny in my home, or would that be a different kind of nightmare? And I just applied for this job that does directly relate to my education, training, and experience. The salary is 55K, and they are very interested in me. But it would be full time, and long hours, something I said I did not want to do while Genghis was young. One thing I am not torn about: I absolutely don’t want to be the sole breadwinner while Squash is a stay-at-home dad. For many reasons, the biggest being: It’s my turn to take a break from the career track, it’s his turn to jump on.

      So I feel like I’m going through a midlife crisis of “what do I want to be/do while Genghis grows up?” There are so few quality part-time positions for women and men, I may not get many choices (Would you like paper or plastic with that m’am? It doesn’t really matter because both are hard on the environment. Ha ha ha ha).

      Struggling through couples’ therapy is no fun. I wish we were newly coupled and wildly in love instead of 10 years later and one baby into this and standing at a crossroads with no signposts. Some days it feels like we are getting directions from the dumb scarecrow, and there is no true north, south, east or west. For various reasons we are at this moment, this place, in this situation: fear, complacency, blindness, routine, financial stress, lack of good modeling, and again fear. We are in completely uncharted territory with what feels like land mines in every direction. We hide it well, you know, fake it till you make it; try to find your inner compass, do the work, and in the meantime wear the masks. Don’t let people know that this is making you feel fragile, fragile, fragile.

      Add to that a planned road trip with a baby to see all my relatives in the Midwest, and you’ve got a recipe for: Fun! At least I can Mapquest this destination and get a blueprint. I’ll be digging out my copy of Swallow’s Nest for the trip.

      This is from that book. This is for Julie. I hope you are at peace and I will not forget to be grateful.

How lovely are all the places of your dwelling, El Shaddai!
My soul faints with longing for the beauty of Your presence.
My whole being shouts for joy to You, O Living God!
even the sparrow finds a home in Your presence, and the swallow
finds a place to build a nest for herself, where she may also lay her young
--on your very altars, El Shaddai!

(Ps: 84:1-4)

Edited to add: I prefer the real world over the virtual any day. Real friends, real coffee, real adventures, real live human interactions. But every now and then the blogosphere provides a much needed connection with someone who is or has experienced what I have, and I don't feel so alone. Thanks, Notes to Self, for writing this.

Poems by Perry R. Brown

2007-09-20T12:54:00.001-05:00

Fall is in the air. My father's season is fall. His birthday is October 7. In honor of his birthday, and of fall, here are some of his poems. The next time you see a homeless man, or a "wino," these might be his thoughts:

Ozark Tepee

Trying to comprehend
the empty
black night
zero cold

Nothing moving except stars
raw silent mystery
knife blade
moon light

The smell of muskrats
neetsfoot oil
sassafrass
wood smoke across the sky

Train moves in the distance
semi-whines, coyotes howl
imagination, love, spirit
becomes one

Asbury, Mo.
1974

Grandparents Dust

The Farm

Nine cows
rolling in the dirt
dust devils
hauling water

I don’t mind being down and dirty
I just hate the dirty way people
treat you when
you’re down

Thunder heads
molten metal
looks like it might rain
tonight

J. Edgar Hoover at the helm
fix it up, wear it out
make it do
or do without

Coming in on
a wing and a prayer
walking sideways
to keep from flying

(Undated)

The Cat

The need to have affection for
(even if it’s something ridiculous)
are the thoughts that rattle

Will you still love me tomorrow
midnight feline
nothing stirs
but a log jam on the freeway

I’m wounded
dying slow
I’m a hard hard man
got a long way to go.

1976
Eureka Springs, Ark.

Potatoes Eye

Sitting on a bluff
outside Bliss Idaho
squatted like an indian
before a smokey fire

Stars overhead blazing
lights of the distant town
like diamonds
in the sand

Reflecting
on the order
of reality
and the Nature of things

I saw
The apparition of Railroad Bill
like a mighty rushing wind
the train passed me by

1979
Bliss, Idaho

Pathetic

They caught me
like a fish on
a barbed
hook
For drinking Jesus’s wine

Ran me through with
the rapier
twenty or thirty times
said “that’s an example
for the Human Race

Kiss
the fuehrer
lick a capitalist’s dream
werewolf rooster
is eating the cream

Asbury, Mo.
1980

The Blues Before and After (Thanks, Smithereens)

2007-09-14T12:53:00.003-05:00

       My father is special. He’s in a maximum-security “facility” called Fulton State Hospital. They tell him when to eat, when to drink, when to eliminate, when to take meds, when to sleep, when to wake up, and when to have a cigarette break. According to him, they also tell him he has to participate in group therapy, be cheerful, and cooperate. Or else. His water is rationed so that he doesn’t drink too much and get drunk, although he says he’s never tried that and it sounds like a stupid thing to do. He doesn’t get to write me with pens, because pens are too hard and sharp and pointy. He eats with plastic utensils that are combined to be less pokey, such as the spork. All of his incoming and outgoing mail is censored. The last letter I got from him, written in pencil in his farmer’s boy cursive, was not even sealed. He told me he has to hand the unsealed envelopes to the staff for inspection and mailing. I guess they forgot to seal his letter, or they didn’t want to waste their own spit on it.

       You see, my Dad has paranoid schizophrenia. To the point of almost complete debilitation when he’s off his medications. He’s been convicted of felonies. He is a ward of the state.

       Pay close attention to the language I use to describe my Dad. I didn’t call him a paranoid schizophrenic (although I have called him that and worse in moments of frustration), I said he had the disease. Because it’s very important to me that people know that he is more than the illness that controls so much of him.

       When you strip the sickness away, what you have left is a poet, a humanitarian, a musician, and a light-hearted joker who loves to sing and play the Blues. You also have a would-be revolutionist, a lover, a brother, a son, and yes, even a father.

       One of my to-do items for August was start posting and therefore publishing my Dad’s early poetry on this site, with his permission. I got his permission, but got bogged down in the bigger and smaller details of daily life. Now I have one to post, but it’s not his older one, his vintage stuff, from when he was newly diagnosed, newly sick, and his mind and speech and language were clear and direct and his imagery complicated, rich and vivid. No, this poem (really a song) is from his later years, after the disease had taken much of his energy and imagination, but it’s the only one I have in my briefcase—he sent it to me recently and I stuffed it in there along with my other to-do items. I will get to his better works, his older stuff, and post it, but in the meantime there is this:

Blues For Everybody

Every day, I sing the blues
Every day, I think about you
Every day, I sing the blues
Every day, I think about you

Every day, I go down town
Every day, I walk around
Every day, I sing the blues
Every day, I think about you

Every day, the sun goes down
Every day, in this old town
Every day, I sing the blues
Every day, I think about you

Every day, I struggle on
Every day, I struggle on.
Every day, I think of you
Every day, I sing the Blues.

By Perry R. Brown, February 1990

I love you Dad. Hope to see you soon and introduce you to your Grandson.

To Do or Not to Do

2007-08-29T09:00:00.000-05:00

It’s amazing how a list of chores, errands and goals can provide a snapshot of someone’s life. My life feels so scattered and hectic right now. I feel out of control many days, but I know that I’ve probably got a much better handle on things that I give myself credit for. And when given the choice of spontaneous fun or doing something on the list, I usually choose the fun thing. Life’s too short, and having Genghis has made it seem even more fleeting.

Without further ado, these are the things scribbled in my compact Franklin Covey calendar in no particular order:
August

Lottery ticket claim (I won the powerball only, worth $3, but still).

Measure baby pics for framing, with a note to do this tonight, but that was weeks ago.

At lunchtime go to farmer's market and buy fresh vegetables (hasn’t happened yet).

Sell used furniture for Mom.

Get referral from E~ for marriage counselor.

Don’t forget to tell nurse midwife about pelvic pain at checkup.

Research more comfortable less toxic crib mattress.

Research hair-loss remedies for post-partum women.

Meditate/Breathe/Exercise.

Write poem about being a “country mouse” and “city mouse.”

Post some of Dad’s older poems about being a farmer’s son on this blog. My father, who has paranoid schizophrenia, has written some pretty neat stuff.

Re-post Web sites of people I know that gotten lost when I tried to redo this blog.

Tell babysitter that Genghis can sit up on his own now, no need to keep him prone in bouncy seat.

Check out radiology technician/ultrasonography programs offered in area.

~~Tell boss he’s a complete idiot for letting our communications director go to another job, but in a diplomatic way.~~

Keep looking for more fulfilling jobs.

Meditate/Breathe/Exercise.

Some of this has been accomplished, much will flow over into September.

So, dear readers, if you are out there, what’s in your calendars, on your post-it notes, those strings tied on your fingers? What does it say (or not say) about you?

Bored? Check This Out

2007-08-17T16:00:00.000-05:00

     While perusing my blogroll, I came across some good reads. Check em’ out at your own peril.

LAUGH YOUR ASS OFF:

      It’s been hotter than hell here in the grand ole town of Nash Vegas, but apparently it was even worse in Crotch Dust, Mississippi. Bless her heart.

     Parenting is hard, y’all. Which is why I totally appreciate this lady’s stories about her charming girl.

LEARN HOW TO STUDY AND RUN (But Not At The Same Time):
     If you are a Mom and a physician, you’ve got to be kicking some serious booty. This physician-momma is kind enough to share with the rest of us common maggots things like How To Study and How to Start Running.

BUY AN AWESOME T-SHIRT:

     A friend of a coworker who I don’t know makes awesome T-shirts. He’s a Nashville local artist, so lend your support. And dang, ain’t he a great graphic artist? Fo Shizzle.

     That’s all I got.

Things That Feel Great

2007-07-24T08:56:00.000-05:00

As part of my healing process for my back, I’m using the “power of intention.” Basically, it’s thinking your way to what you want. I don’t know if it works (I should be saying, it works! ), but we’ll see. Wayne Dyer and other new age gurus swear by this. So I intend to feel great. Yes, I’m currently seeing a chiropractor too. I can’t really say there’s any difference yet. I’m willing to try anything including selling my soul. In the meantime, I like to remind myself of Things That Feel Great:

• Rollerskating to Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust or any other disco song with a primitive bass line. Flipping around in half song and skating backwards, amazing all around you (ha).

• Quenching burned soles of feet in ocean.

• Squishing toes in mud.

• Riding bicycle with arms extended, no hands on bars. Especially exhilarating if going downhill.

• A masterful back massage.

• Getting baby kisses from Genghis.

• The warrior pose.

• Swimming slowly under water.

• Standing in rain shower.

• Eating corn messily.

Any others?

EDITED TO ADD:

--Cannonball in lake. Oh my, that's a great one, thanks Getting There. I don't know which is more thrilling--the swing out or dive in over the water, the feeling of flight, before you hit, or the great big kersplash! when you do hit. Please, keep these coming. I use visualization adn this is a great one. I also do modified yoga poses.

--Cool shower after working outside.

--Melting into clean, soft sheets after a hard day's work.

--Lying on cool grass on hot summer night looking up at stars. (thanks MDGirl)

On a Positive Note, How Hot Is This?

2007-07-19T11:49:00.000-05:00

      To use some crappy slang; I love me some Midnight Oil. How do we sleep while our beds are burning? I saw them in Nashville at what is now the Mercy Lounge (then it was The Cannery) in high school. I vaguely remember it, but I remember thinking it was so cool that the lead singer and the band were interested in environmentalism and the rights of indigenous peoples (in his case, Australian aboriginals). OK, and yes, the lead singer is very cute, including his bizarre apoplectic dancing. Hmmm, maybe that’s why I was attracted to Squash, whose dancing is said to resemble a broom being violently shaken …

      Anyway. I think it’s wonderful when the overpaid famous people of the world (athletes, actors, musicians, personalities, etc.) put their money and time toward issues they believe in, even if it’s not an issue I particularly support. At least they give back, and if they don’t, isn’t it a bit ungrateful? I mean fortune, luck, fate, whatever you want to call it, did have something to do with their blessings.

      Turns out that the bald hottie Peter Garrett is still at it, and is a politician pushing green issues. He’s technically Australia’s Shadow Minister for Climate Change, Environment and Heritage. And if that’s not impressive enough, turns out he’s Shadow Minister for the Arts. Whew. I don’t know what those titles mean, but somebody bring me some water …

      I think I’m gonna ask Squash to shave his head. After he gets that higher paying job. Then I can pierce my nose because I won’t have to be the corporate wank anymore and we can run away to Australia.

      Meanwhile, y’all can enjoy this

Out where the river broke
The bloodwood and the desert oak
Holden wrecks and boiling diesels
Steam in forty five degrees

The time has come to say fair's fair
To pay the rent, to pay our share
The time has come, a fact's a fact
It belongs to them, let's give it back

How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep while our beds are burning
How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep while our beds are burning

The time has come to say fair's fair
To pay the rent now, to pay our share

Four wheels scare the cockatoos
From Kintore East to Yuendemu
The western desert lives and breathes
In forty five degrees

The time has come to say fair's fair
To pay the rent, ah, to pay our share
The time has come, ah, a fact's a fact
It belongs to them, let's give it back

How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep while our beds are burning
How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep while the beds are burning

The time has come to say fair's fair
To pay the rent now, to pay our share
The time has come, a fact's a fact
It belongs to them, we're gonna give it back

How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep while our beds are burning

And I just finished reading Australia Felix, which I recommend for getting a tiny glimpse of what drew Europeans to Australia and what a bitch their lives were when they came over for the gold rush. Doesn't diminish the tragedy of what it did to the aboriginals, but whe immigrants' lives were pretty rotten. Thanks to the Squash for finding me this interesting read when it's hard to find in print.

POST EDITED TO ADD:
What about anyone else out there? Does any one find Cheryl Crow hotter because she wants to cool Global Warming or Bono because he wants industrialized countries to forgive third-world debt and end poverty? What gets you hot and bothered about your favorite celebrity?

On The Edge

2007-07-18T13:46:00.000-05:00

      A fellow blogger who I read a lot is currently about to miscarry according to all the signs. She’s had other miscarriages. Reading her newly posted entry, Not Good News, made me nauseous. Not because of it’s description of symptoms, but because it brought back all the memories of my loss last year.

      When you are on the edge of a miscarriage, you lose your grip on space and time. You cannot feel your body move, you cannot feel your thoughts process, and hours seem like years and days like lifetimes. I imagine that people in captivity, like prisoners of war, experience something similar. You wait for the inevitable horror and pain in state of heightened awareness—so sensitive to every stimulus around you—but incredibly numb, like you are watching yourself in third person.

      When I saw the ultrasound showing the lifeless black dot at 14 weeks and my doctor said it’s only a matter of time, I entered the space/time warp. I asked him to describe it to me please. What will I go through? As he rattled off the list of possibilities and began writing a prescription for a painkiller, I kept thinking the obvious: This is not happening to me. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe there’s hope.

      Later (who knows how many days, like I said, you lose sense of time), in the middle of the night, cramping woke me up and I knew that metaphorically I was being marched into the daylight and soon the worse would come. While writhing in pain on the bathroom floor, careful not to wake my husband (I don’t know why I did this in private, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time), I ran the gauntlet. It hurt very much physically, but emotionally, I began to feel some relief. I kept chanting, “almost done, almost done,” with each contraction. After I passed the last of the fetus and the cramping subsided, the haze of sleepiness descended. I sighed and fell asleep where I lay on the floor. When I woke, time and space began to return their normal perspectives, but my heart was forever changed.

      I realize that’s a very dramatic account and I’m one of the lucky ones, my story has a good ending with a subsequent successful pregnancy. However, that’s how it felt to me, and I’ve only miscarried once that I’m aware of. I can't imagine going through this again.

      But if, like this blogger, when you shake the Magic Eight Ball every time you get “the outcome is currently unknown, but make different plans,” or “failure likely,” how can you not be cynical? That life is purely random and the only hope we have is an arbitrary fortuitous event? Are we just chaff just being blown around? How could this experience be something intended and something good to be learned from?

      I still don’t have the answer. She’s in my thoughts as she waits on the edge. I wish I could hold her hand.

Movie Recommendation

2007-07-09T15:51:00.000-05:00

Have you seen the movie "Sicko?"

     A friend of mine did and wrote eloquently about it.

     I, on the other hand, don't need to see it. As a health care journalist who used to cover what is referred to as "managed health care," I know the facts. It's profiting off of your and my illnesses in proportions you can't imagine. So to keep the system going, it's better that you and I are sick. Not too sick, where we die and spin out of the revenue- and profit-generating cycle, but sick enough to remain in the cog that gives an industry executive like United Healthcare CEO William McGuire a $124.8 million annual income.

     Or how about Edward Hanway of CIGNA, who netted $13.3 million or Aetna's John Rowe, who took home $22.2 million. And don't forget Larry Glasscock (yes, his real name) of Wellpoint, who made a mere $25.0 million.

     Look, I'm no fool. I've got a back problem and I'm going to the doctor. But I'm not dying from it, and therefore, if I had to wait a little longer than the two weeks I'm already going to have to wait for an appointment under a socialized medicine structure, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I'd wait another month if it meant that everyone had access to good care.

     If you aren't aware of a capitalistic model of health care delivery does to people, inform yourself. You'll find it is ultimately unsustainable. It can also mean the difference between being well and not being well.

Anyway, I'd recommend any one see this movie. Michael Moore may be sensational and inflammatory, but he usually gets his most of his facts right and at the very least you'll learn how your health care system works.

Making Lemonade

2007-07-03T10:13:00.000-05:00

     Right at this moment, I’m at work and should be writing a press release that extols the financial virtues of post-secondary education (read: college, but we can’t use that word). But I’m putting it off for a few moments to do something I haven’t done in ages, which is write a poem. Also, press releases are easy for me; I can sell just about any idea, so I’ll have the draft done in plenty of time. But a poem? That’s much harder because I haven’t used that side of my brain for a long time.

     Let me set this up for you a bit. On any given Sunday morning, during that time of day when there’s enough light to see but the sun isn’t up, you might see a strange woman walking down your street. She looks slightly confused, slightly amused, like she just landed on this planet and doesn’t know where she’s going. Look closer, you’ll see the rings under the eyes, the spit-up stains on the shoulders of her T-shirt, a breast leak circle on the one boob that's still producing, and unwashed hair shoved under a baseball cap. She totters a little from side to side and rubs her eyes often.

     That woman is me. As I walk along, I slowly take in the scenery of my setting. At first I notice the things that annoy me—the overflowing garbage cans of a consumer-driven culture and the gallon jugs of pesticides and herbicides and fertilizers in the yards that are poisoning our ecosystems (the Round Up lawn burns are particularly ugly). I see the barbecue grills and think of the people inside who don’t know (and don’t care) where their food comes from and how it’s processed, whether plant or animal. I notice the yellow and blue and pink ribbon stickers on the giant gas-guzzling vehicles parked in the driveways. But after a few minutes of walking, I notice something else, something that ultimately leaves me smiling. I may have very little in common with my neighbors in terms of opinions and lifestyle, but I want the same things they do. That everyone does.

Pre-Dawn Walk

At the height of summer
first thing in the morning
when the air is cool and still
Walk down any street in my neighborhood
And you’ll see evidence
Of humanity’s collective to-do list
covered in a dewy, transparent veil.
You’ll spy unfinished projects
so vulnerable after their nightly abandonment;
opened bags of soil and mulch balanced precariously on their bottoms,
next to a new garden bed partially planted,
and gaudy-colored annuals waiting in buckets
or sawhorses at rest in a driveway and a
board half cut,
a wall scraped of its old paint, it’s dead skin scattered on the ground.
You might even glimpse the beginning of a primitive treehouse,
being built by tiny hands (see how the boards only go so high)
or a bicycle upturned like a turtle, missing a wheel.
You may even run into the cat, still affectionate after being
accidentally left out
when its owner finally wore out and retired to bed.
This is proof
that we messy, complicated and sometimes ugly creatures
are still striving with loving hearts
for order, truth and beauty.
I want wake everyone before the sun rises and burns off the calm
and tell them
Don’t give up!

     Happy Fourth of July, y’all.

She Nailed It

2007-06-29T12:55:00.001-05:00

      Since Feb. 5 this year, I've gotten a few questions from folks who want to know what it's like. Especially since I've returned to my second job, which is outside of the home (hence the WOHM in WIHM/WOHM).

      I admit it, and my own dear mother will chastise me plentifully for this, I am very jealous of parents who aren't forced to return to their outside-of-the-home jobs, of those mothers (and few fathers) who have the blessed option to stay or to go, and their decision is dictated by desire instead of things like 1) health insurance coverage and 2) roof over head and food in belly.

      To go off on a related tangent, by boss actually said to me, "You know, when I grew up we all lived in a little house with one bathroom and Mom stayed home. Seems these days it seems people have more bathrooms and bigger houses and both parents work." Then he gave me a penetrating look, a look that said, that means you missy, you want and have far too much.

      I resisted the urge to bend over and grab my shoe and fling it at him because 1) my back is killing me and 2) we need health benefits and my income, and therefore I need said job. Ok, and reason 3), I'm really trying to be a nicer person. But I did say, under my breath, "yeah, I guess we'll have to sell our McMansion and move into something a little more modest." He didn't hear that.

      What makes this worse is that he has visited my house, my little brick ranchburger* in the blue collar section of town. So explain that one to me people. I mean, was he hinting we need to just go for Chapter 8 housing? OK, then boss man, I'll just quit my job (good luck finding someone as good as me), go on welfare, and move all of us into public housing. Sounds like a plan!

      Anyhoo. Back on track. There's a good writer who has perfectly captured what my average day is like. Her schedule is virtually identical to mine, and the description of 8:00 a.m. couldn't be any more apt:

      "...drop off at care-giver's and try not to grab kid and run into hills all the while telling myself that my family can live on peanut butter and jelly, be happy living in a tent on the beach, wearing clothes fashioned from ocean debris."

      I usually go through that when I drop the boy off at 7:00 a.m., and we are sadly miles away from the ocean so my metaphor would be different (something like living in a treehouse and fashioning clothes from kudzu), but still. The idea is there.

      But notice, ma, that last part about bein' grateful and stuff.

      Now Peace Out. Excuse me while I go try to find one of my many bathrooms in this vast home I live in. I may get lost and wet myself.

*Which indeed does have three bathrooms, all postage stamp size and in need of tilework repair, reglazing, etc. But the point is, we've worked hard for what we do have (both in terms of education and jobs) and we are hardly indulgent. We make Dave Ramsey look like Imelda Marcos.

Pureed Baby Food a No No?

2007-06-28T08:51:00.000-05:00

As a new mom, I am often questioning little details of raising Genghis. The vast amount of information and opinions available on the Internet just seem to make it worse.

For example, he's having trouble with constipation (despite breast milk and trying just about every formula out there), so I started him on pureed veggies and fruits, hoping it would create looser stools. It hasn't made a difference so far. But then I go and read an article in the BBC news that says skip pureed foods altogether, and only give them solid foods after about six months or so. The premise is that your baby needs to learn how to chew first, and only after he is ready to do so; and pureed foods can leave them constipated AND postpone their ability to learn to chew. Huh. What do you think?

Lower back pain--Suggestions?

2007-06-27T13:24:00.000-05:00

Since this is a safe place for me to vent, I'm going to. My lower back has been hurting for about two months now, and I'm tired of it. I'm back to my pre-pregnancy weight. I don't lift my four-soon to be five-month-old-son incorrectly. I don't wear him on my hip. I do stretches. I do sit ups. What gives with this f***ing lumbar pain? I can barely stand to sit in any chair, much less bend over, kneel, squat, etc. I've never been to a chiropractor, and part of me says they are quacks.
What should I do? More sit ups and yoga stretches? Ice? Heat? I've never felt so crippled.

Debut of a Non-Debutant

2007-06-26T14:16:00.000-05:00

This post containing the beginning of an essay has been removed. I'm playing with the tenses before I post the entire story. You'll see it soon.
Thanks!