Daydreams & Dandelions

Seen, not heard

2012-01-08T09:55:00.000-06:00

So, because of a conversation with a friend who is trying to find a church where she can take her kids & focus on the church, not parenting her kids constantly, I was thinking of the old phrase "children should be seen and not heard."

Honestly? What a load of crap. This phrase has got to be a holdout from the days when middle to upper class folks all had nannys or servants who took their noisy kids away, and they saw them only on special ocassions, dressed pretty and told to be good. When people had a relationship with their nanny and/or maid and/or whatever you called it that was like what people should have with their mom and dad.

We took Sean & Maia to church this Christmas eve. We haven't really been to church since they were babies because the last time we tried, Sean was completely wigged out by the giant pipe organ. Too loud, too many people, too much. So we had skipped that Easter service (about two years ago now) and gone to the Riverwalk instead.

So on Christmas eve, we tried. Sean got a laugh when he "hooray"ed the bell choir and thought that was awesome, so kept making the "hooray" noise, even when it was time to not. Dad had to take him away. They had a good time driving around looking at Christmas lights and chilling while Maia and I stayed at church.

You know me-- I have about three minutes of tolerance for people staring at my son when he makes noises. He cannot help it, and I see every little glance, every frowny face, every whisper of "if he were my kid I'd whip him." You can glance at me once or twice, and then, if he's still making noise, yeah, it's STILL US. Thanks a lot for playing. And then I lose all concentration on whatever it is I'm supposed to be enjoying and focus only on every noise we are making, every wiggle, etc. I honestly am trying, usually, to keep him calm & quiet. But people don't notice that, they simply notice that their movie is not in perfect silence. I honestly wonder, sometimes, what it sounds like in their houses. It must be really, really quiet for our little noises to bother them so freakin' much.

And it really pisses me off that it's usually old ladies giving me the evil eye the most. Seriously woman? You're trying to imply that your kids (if you had them) were always perfect angels, who never made any noise, and we are just so rude to impose upon your perfectly orderly life for thirty seconds. What a load of crap. If one happens to have a naturally chill, naturally quiet kiddo who likes to be still and quiet, then consider yourself the exception. Usually, they want to do something FUN. And sitting quietly in some uncomfortable place, listening to some guy rant about something that doesn't make sense to us is NOT fun. (Why is it, actually, that we adults think it's fun? Maybe we've all been brainwashed....)

We have kids in this world for a lot of reasons. But mostly, we want to express our love for each other, to see a reflection of our spouses, our families, our love of humanity. And people, I hate to break it to you, but KIDS ARE NOISY. They don't know "the rules" and they sometimes can not hold still for five minutes. It doesn't mean they deserve to be hit, or punished. It means that you, the adult who is supposed to be intelligent and educated, need to chill the furgh out and remember that you were a kid too, and you probably wiggled. You probably made noise. You probably laughed too loud and cried when you were sad. You probably got bored easily. You might have danced when you were happy about a special food or a special something.

We should, as a general rule, not expect kids to act like grown ups. We grow up too fast as it is. Enjoying life should be what we do.

No one should be "seen and not heard." Using our voice and expressing our likes and dislikes should be what we all do. Yes, polite society should learn that there is a time and place for quiet. Yes, we need to teach our kids to behave in public situations. But we should also cut parents (and each other) some freakin' slack when it doesn't work. We've all been there. I know when the doctor's "appointment" is thirty minutes + past what it was supposed to be I want to scream and yell and roll around on the floor, too.

Anyway. This isn't about me-- nothing in particular happened to inspire this rant, but I challenge us all to be heard, sometimes. Not just seen. Having a voice, having a will of our own, is an important lesson. And I'd rather have kids running amok in my house, turning it totally upside down, every single day of the week. And if I forget that lesson as my children grow older and quieter, I hope someone smacks me.

Commercials

2011-12-21T18:26:00.003-06:00

So for some reason, this note will not publish to my friends' feeds. I wonder why? I'm trying again by posting it to my blog.

So my kids have always been happy watching Nick Jr, upon which they do not show commercials (except maybe for other Nick shows, but not for STUFF.) Lately, though, they are too grown for the channel. Dora, Yo Gabba Gabba, Max & Ruby, Olivia-- our staples for years-- just not cool enough for my big kids. Sigh.

Now, Sean wants "Cartoon Network". Maia just wants to watch things like Spy Kids (movie) and/or Alvin & the Chipmunks or Mr. Popper's Penguins. (And dear Spy Kids, thanks for teaching my aspie the phrase Butt Head. Love, Me.)
The problem with Cartoon Network is that they show a bajillion commercials for CRAP. Tub Goo that makes your bathtub into a swamp (I suspect it's some kind of gelatin...) faux Build A Bears, those stomper slippers... etc.

And on Cartoon Network they have this lovely little thing:
It's funny. I actually kind of like it. But add repetetive song to kid with Asperger's and imagine someone waking at 5 AM singing this song over and over again. Yeah. FUN!! (NOT).

And dammit, Barnes & Noble, I liked going to the bookstore because Yeah, I had to fight off a few book related toys, especially with Maia, who wants every stuffed animal on the planet. But now I have to fight an entire Freaking SECTION of toys before I get to the kids books. Toys they WANT NOW and MUST HAVE OR THEY WILL DIE!!!!!!!!!!!

Le Sigh. Le Wah. It's the battle of the modern parent, and I understand it, but I long for the innocent days of Nick Jr, and being able to blithely pretend that all those crappy toys out there did not exist.

Fall

2011-10-02T07:37:00.002-05:00

the morning is cool

the grass is wet

summer has let go, finally.

the sunlight is somehow slanted

its intensity simpler, soft.

I dreamed of small mice hiding.

Of water rising and covering everything.

Of my mother, and planting trees.

If there are any fairy tales in this,
they are the kind that do not end with an easy moral.

Kaw Oct 2011

1988

2011-07-12T09:29:00.000-05:00

I am not in this picture.

That girl is not me.

I've met her, but she never likes me, at
first.

Sometimes, I grow on her.
Sometimes, not.

I am probably still at home,
obligated. Eternally third place.

I still look for signs that you miss me.
Find none.
Why did I never notice, before?

Undone

2011-07-12T09:14:00.000-05:00

It sneaks up on you
the tiniest of moments
the smallest of acts.

and there. again. a broken heart.

the summer heat, the green shade,
the cool splash of water against your skin

but all this and nothing
else
all this is loss, again.

it's been an entire year of cruellest Aprils,
falling hard into beauty but finding you are not there.

Still.
Not there.

Contentment

2011-07-09T08:52:00.000-05:00

That is my word of the day. Sitting on my back porch deck under the oh so green canopy of trees that are filled with happy songbirds, my kids playing nearby, the cat flipping his tail in challenge to the boychild who just avoided an annoyed kitty cat scratch. It's hot, but every so often there's a slight cool breeze. I've had one coffee and plan to get another soon.

Our yard is pretty well screened on all sides by jungle-y vegetation-- a very large clump of bamboo, some vine-draped trees, a neighbor's very tall hedge. In spite of being in a neighborhood known for small, close-together yards, we have quite the estate back here-- trampoline, pool, kid fort, my plucky fish ponds. At certain cooler times of the year (or, as now, in the early morning) there's just no place else short of being on a white sand beach that I'd rather be.

It's been a wild and crazy ride the last few years. Things seem to be settling down a little bit, and I'm hopeful that we can continue to have moments like this of being purely happy with where I am.

Autism Moment # 54,738

2011-06-22T14:42:00.000-05:00

It happened again. And I'm kind of venting, kind of mad, and usually, I don't complain about this but today I've just had it! I have a sick stomach after I really meant to have a nice, fun lunch with my kids, who deserve to do fun things, too. We hide in our backyard almost every day.

For years and years, we did not go out to restaurants. Sean's behavior would be so unruly, with him making his "stimming" sounds and needing to jump up and wiggle and sometimes his joy at hearing his voice echo so he will repeat a sound over and over again rather loudly, that we just stayed home.

But in the last year or so, he's gotten to where we can venture out to restaurants that are "family friendly." We do NOT go to quiet, intimate dining places with hushed whispers & creamy white tablecloths and wine lists longer than an old style yellow pages phone book. But we do go to places like Olive Garden (which he loves) and burger joints. And often, I plan our trip there to be just a little past peak lunch time, so it's not crowded. It's just that it is NOT predictable when a day will happen that he is NOT quiet, like he can be.

Today, though. We stopped at an old favorite for summer school time that is on our route back & forth the school where Sean is in summer school, kind of across town. Herby K's is a one of those "character" places with awesome food but not so fancy atmosphere-- sort of like you've gone over to your friend's house and are sitting on their patio (in fact, the part where we like to sit is quite literally the patio of an old house that has been "plastic-ed" in and has AC and plants everywhere and a very long communal picnic bench where everyone sits next to each other, regardless of whether you knew them a minute ago.)

I haven't been there in a while, but I LOVE their gumbo. Sean loves that they have sodas in the old fashioned small green glass bottles. (Maia also loves the gumbo, and the kids' menu which she can color). We stopped in, got a seat "above" the crowd-- sort of the balcony benches, so, sort of apart from everyone. I was semi relaxed because the place is noisy, and no one usually gives us a second look. And usually, because Sean loves it so much, he's kind of on his best behavior.

But this group of people who got there a few minutes before us, a group of maybe 8, caused the "happened again" moment that makes my stomach clench and me to no longer enjoy my lunch out with my good kiddos.

Listen: this group was not quiet themselves-- telling loud jokes and letting their very young kiddo play with a fork, then laughing at her when she stabbed herself in the face (?!) and--seriously-- not taking said fork away from the child until she did. it. again. So it's not like they really had any room to throw stones from their glass house. I wouldn't have even cared to notice except that the fork stabbing behavior happened after the below mentioned issue, so I was very hyper aware of them. (Andrew tells me I shouldn't let it bug me but it Just Does.)

But Sean was happy, and stimming a little bit. This means he was happily jumping up and down to look at the restaurant from our "porch" high perch rather than sitting still on the bench. And he was eating sugar packets (yes, he spilled one down on the ground before I realized what he was doing, since I was setting up Maia with a game to keep her occupied.) The only person who really should have cared about that was the waitress, who knows us as regulars, and to whom I apologized & tipped well.

The sugar dropping is when the "turning around to stare at us" started. The mom (maybe in her mid to late forties) of this group of several young women literally turned fully around FOUR times. Without, mind you, meeting my glance but just to look in our direction (which was not exactly a normal place for her to have been looking, given that it was only us, and we were up and in a corner away from her.)

And it's not like he was being THAT unusually loud. They also nudged each other pointedly a couple of times when he was making noise, and said something in each other's ears. If he's really being wild, I leave, even if it's a noisy place. But seriously-- we have a right to be there too.

I had to restrain myself (and the inner b*tch that comes from my loud, sometimes obnoxious upbringing) from saying "He has autism-- what's YOUR problem?" or "rudely stare at special needs kids much?"

I mean, seriously. One look at us would be all you really need to establish that yes, he is behaving a little more wiggly, a little louder, than your average kid. And I am (apparently) letting him. (Although sometimes I think that I am even more annoying to those around me with my attempts to correct him with "Sean sit, Sean behave, Sean don't be so loud").

Because it's impossible to stop him. Imagine talking your cat into doing a few of the "normal" tricks your dog might be perfectly happy to perform and you've got the difference between an autistic and a "normal" kid.

Get your cat to fetch, or maybe roll over a few times on command. That is how it is to talk Sean into sitting still, and not stimming a little bit. You don't have to turn around repeatedly to ascertain that yes, it's still us, the only other group in the restaurant with you, making all that noise. (And let me repeat-- they were very loud themselves!)

This is one glimpse into our world, folks. It's something that families with autistic kids go through all the time, and I do understand the "neurotypical" person's reaction. We are a bit odd. Yeah. Granted. But didn't your mama teach you NOT TO FREAKIN' STARE?!

That many times and you're attempting to shame me for my child's "bad" behavior. You're giving me that look because you think I should "do something" about his noise, his quirky wiggling, his looking at you for more than a second. His yelps and odd noises.

All I ask of folks is this: anytime you see a parent (whether they are neurotypical or not) with a kid that is being "unruly" in your judgement, bite your tongue. Don't stare. If you really are curious, ask. Some parents would get mad, but some are willing to explain. I get so tired of telling people "he's autistic; he's not trying to be bad". I think if it were a more physically obvious disability, adult people wouldn't make such a big deal about it.

Look somewhere else. You don't have to ignore us (eye contact is just fine, just like with any other human being you encounter in a friendly situation.)

The person you are staring at might be the "clueless jerk" you think they are who is oblivious to their child's behavior or it's quite possibly YOU who is being a little clueless and ruining someone else's lunch, or judging them without enough information. I know that since I have had an autistic kid, when I see a mom or dad who has a squirmy, yelling kid (of any sort), nowadays, I just leave them alone. I mind my own business. Because I don't know WHAT it might be, and I also know that she/he might be just ignoring something they could fix or they might be picking their battles and worrying about the stuff you can fix over the unchangeable nature of their child's life.

You have no idea how nice it is when Sean is acting a little wild and no one stares at us, and people just go about their own lives and I don't feel like I have to apologize for my family's existence.

Okay. Rant over. Sorry for being so crabby about it but since I didn't want to make a scene in the restaurant, I am writing to the universe in the hopes that this message gets through to at least one person who might think about acting like this woman did today. Just.

Don't.

Music of my wayward youth: AKA What About Prom Blaine?!

2011-05-20T08:40:00.001-05:00

There is this radio station on the XM satellite that plays "First Wave" music, which is essentially the stuff we listened to if we were slightly "alternative" back in the 80s. I didn't LOOK it, but I so felt it. I was listening to a song that they were playing this morning and it made me think of the soundtrack of that time period.
Back then, I was prone to heart wrenching crushes on people that I would never tell them about. I wrote poems and secretly sent them to the crushes and was really kind of shy. I stayed that way for so long and I think it's kind of funny now, but there were guys who probably had crushes on me and why didn't they ever approach? I don't know but it was kind of lonely.

I was in drama, and French club, and never had money to do fun things even though I had a serious job, too. School was way too easy, and yet, I still made Cs sometimes because I didn't bother doing the work. I loved being in band but it didn't exactly make me the coolest kid, and I never got invited to the fun parties for some reason (I so would have gone, by the way).

I think I identified most with the Molly Ringwald character in Pretty in Pink, and yet I would have dated Duckie instead of the rich guy.

Songs by Psychedelic Furs, http://youtu.be/S2R3FJyT1rc or Simple Minds, http://youtu.be/CdqoNKCCt7A   (there's a reason this is my phone ring tone) or the Cult http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8I8mWG6HlmU throw me right into a nostalgic tailspin. Sigh. It makes me want to write bad Emo poetry right. this. second.

Also, Charlie Sexton. Oy, oy oy!! http://youtu.be/uCRtHVEroQ0   I'm all verklempt. And for some reason, speaking Yiddish.

But the point here is that for some reason, this tone, this sound, these bands and songs are how I hear my high school years, my young adulthood. Yes, somewhere in there is Bon Jovi & Duran Duran and even Janet Jackson (one of the first albums I ever listened to nonstop was her Control album.)   Also, Prince plays very heavily on rotation, but somehow in a different way.

Anyway. I kind of feel like putting on some Esprit clothes and wandering around a mall listening to my Walkman playing cassettes now. Or maybe just remembering a time when that's what we did.

The Siren Gets a Haircut

2011-05-03T15:44:00.000-05:00

Really. She couldn’t explain
why
it was such a relief
to spend fewer hours
combing through those
salty green tresses
with starfish combs
and pinning
it up with mother of pearl pins.

This short
sassy
bob with bangs
made her head feel
     light.

She seemed to think more
     clearly.

Like, for example:
why waste so much time
singing sailors
into the rocks?

Maybe, instead, she could
      read a book
      write some poetry
      take a lover
who didn’t
drown immediately.

Learn something

about the sky,

for once.

Already she could hear
the strains of
Revolution in the air.

Kaw.... May 2011

A Royal Fuss: Why I Loved the Wedding Hoopla Today

2011-04-29T18:29:00.002-05:00

This morning, because of one glass too many of wine whilst watching silly TV, and my tendency towards insomnia, I woke, in spite of my deciding to blow it off and DVR it, at 3:30 am. I thought "Maybe I'll watch the Royal Wedding Live after all." I loved it. Teared up a couple of times. Ended up feeling glad that I spent the time & effort to watch.

You might ask: Why?  You're not even close to British, why do you care about these spoiled heirs, their wedding, the pomp, the taxpayers of England's bill? Why did you spend four hours watching something when they don't even know you exist? And also? The princess motif is harmful to most women. We can't be princesses, and we sell ourselves short if we decide to be "just."

I am very tired now as a result, because, moms don't get the day off. Field day, and juggling business needs, and grocery shopping, and gas filling up, all still happened in spite of watching princesses and princes wed in a lavish but somehow intimate ceremony in a place that I have happily walked. (Westminster Abbey was one of my favorite historic sites in London, and I even recognized on the TV one of the deacons or priests or vicars or whatever he actually was... he pointed me to Aphra Behn's grave, actually, which is in the courtyard there. He seemed a bit surprised and also pleased that I was looking for it, way back a few years ago, and I totally recognized him today bustling about.)

I think my tiredness right now was ultimately worth it. Why? For one: I am an English major. We are steeped like a hot tea bag full of black tea in a pot filled with literature, history, culture, and such. Chaucer. Shakespeare. Virginia Woolf. Aphra Behn. Oscar Wilde. J.M. Barrie. Arthur Conan Doyle. Guy Ritchie. Terry Gilliam.

Much of it is British. I am ultimately an Americanist, a Modernist, someone who is filled with appreciation for popular culture, art, and all that makes us the Yanks we are. But I do love my education. I am glad to have the history that ties us to that tiny island. And actually, from my Irish heritage on my father's side, I am about four generations back a British subject.

For two: it's a wedding. I like ALL weddings. I teared up when Carmen Electra and Dave Navarro got married.   I like weddings!! It is simply super cool and not at all ironic to celebrate love. Commitment. Faithfulness. Hope. It doesn't ultimately matter if they don't work out perfectly, because who does? What matters, for a moment, is that weddings renew our own memory of our own special ties, of our own hearts filled with that optimistic leap into the future.

During the ceremony, the main preacher in charge mentioned that,  ALL weddings are royal weddings. We are all partly touched by that hand of grace, of beauty, of joy. Even if we step into a Justice of the Peace wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt bought at goodwill, we are participating in a gesture of hope and an abundantly optimistic view of the world wrought of the future. Whatever happens, for a moment, we are Golden and even Pure. It doesn't matter if we are not pure or golden in real life. If we don't spend a lot of cash on the party. If we aren't actually retiring to a castle where the servants are all small British teapots and talking Gallic candlesticks.

I have seen a lot of cynicism about the wedding. Hell, I didn't watch on purpose any of the ridiculous media build up in the weeks before (I will admit it was on the TV at the gym, and so I have seen, if not heard because my earbuds were tuned to Charmed, during commercial breaks, a few segments on fashion and hats and the history of the Royal Couple's courtship.)

I just have to say: don't be a cynic. Don't be disillusioned with the way people seem to be enthralled with this event. If you don't want to watch, that is totally fine. You don't have to love it like I did. It was a damn long ceremony. And frankly, the British taxpayers I saw didn't seem any more annoyed with footing the bill for the security (the family paid for all the other stuff, by the way) than WE do for an Inauguration ball and security, or a special airplane for every member of the Presidential family. It's part of the deal.

The danger of the internet Snark Fest is that you may actually, in trying to be "above it all" and away from the mass of public crowd-i-ness, actually miss the reason some of us are watching because I try to say nice things as often as possible. So here is my nice thing:

Ultimately we really are all Princes and Princesses of our own little domains. Even if we grew up in a trailer park or two (as I did) we have a moment where we are a princess. I had my day of bride-zilla ness. I don't think I was that bad, and my dress was bought at a consignment shop and my sister and Grandma catered my wedding.

And yes, my little princess won't wear a real diamond tiara, (she's more likely to own combat boots) and she won't preside over state dinners, (but she will grow up knowing which fork to use and basic rules of etiquette) she will go to college and learn about the world. And maybe she'll stay home and raise her kids in an old fashioned way, or maybe she'll work and have a stay at home dad.

And, like the two folks who got married today, I hope she will try her best to make the world a better place.

And my little Prince will respect his wife (and all people). He will not be too caught up in himself to notice that other people don't have it as easy as he did. And he will be kind, and listen to those who love him, and he will try to learn from the mistakes of others.

And I hope my Prince will try to make the world a better place, too.

Prince William has spent a night on the streets of London as a homeless person. I haven't. He didn't have to. He has gone to Kenya and done environmental "missions" that are not the "pampered elite". He lost his flawed but beloved mum when he was 15, in an incredibly public way, and as a result, has seemed to learn to take it slow and steady himself. Harry has escorted a wounded soldier back from Afghanistan in a pointless war that hasn't ended. He might be kind of a doofus, but he seems like that guy you knew in high school who screwed stuff up and partied a bit too much but ultimately was someone you could call if you had a flat tire on a rainy day.   Catherine seems committed to being a good person, and she is not a blushing virginal bride sucked into the abyss of breeder-hood and naive lies. I actually don't know that much about her, to be honest, but the fact that the couple lived together, that her mom seems to be a pretty damned tough cookie who took her family from coal miner to Royalty in three generations is pretty fucking impressive.

I don't know what they will do with their power, but in the prayer that they wrote, they seem committed to being good public servants. I hope they will live up to what they asked today.

God our Father, we thank you for our families; for the love that we share and for the joy of our marriage.

In the busyness of each day keep our eyes fixed on what is real and important in life and help us to be generous with our time and love and energy.
Strengthened by our union help us to serve and comfort those who suffer. We ask this in the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Amen.

There is a good lesson to be learned in that prayer. Whether you are British or not, whether you are an anti-establishment type or not. Whether you are Christian, Buddhist, Atheist. We should all strive to: Serve. Love. Focus on what is real. Share Joy and Love. Appreciate your family. Be generous. Comfort others.

In that light, why would I NOT want to watch a day of parties and joy, whether I am British, Martian, or what?

Republican-ism

2011-04-09T11:23:00.000-05:00

I have written a similar blog, long long ago (it usually comes in election years) about this but couldn't find it today to link to, so I'll just do it again.

I am a Third Wave Feminist, a "Born Again Pagan," a radical wild dandelion tribe woman, a dancer & writer and many many other things. One of those things includes being a (pause for effect) Republican.

Right now, the elected government has been being a pain in the butt. The threatened government shutdown that luckily is not going to happen because they pushed a last-minute budget through (see what they can do when properly motivated?) has been stirring the pot. But honestly....the reason why they finally compromised is because BOTH sides of the party aisle were being doody heads who wouldn't compromise on issues on which this country is going to have to learn to compromise. Our budget is not healthy, and we collectively need to figure out a way to make it work. I am not a financial genius, but there are plenty of them out there and we need to figure this crap out, and not make a ridiculous grandstand issue that makes us look like a bunch of fighting children.

But more to the point. I have been a Republican since I registered to vote for the 1988 presidential election, a newly minted 18 year old voter. Let me tell you, even then I didn't vote "party line" and the candidate for president that I voted for didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of winning. I voted for him anyway.

I didn't really know the difference back then (thanks a lot required Civics and American Government course that didn't really teach me anything.) But the definition of Republican as "the party that governs LEAST" was appealing to me. I don't think the government should be all up in anyone's business. Especially personal, private business. I also don't think the government should lean towards a social platform that aims to "fix" every social ailment by throwing (our, voters) money at it.

I am crazy progressive on where to throw that money though. Kids in this country should not go hungry. They should get medical care. They should be able to go to school, a good school, where teachers are well paid and respected. If anyone in this country, whether they are a drug addict or model citizen, gets sick, they should be cared for by our medical industry without penalty, and at rates that are really affordable, and don't put them into debt forever. I don't believe in handing out money willy nilly to adults who refuse to work, who spend that money on "welfare Cadillacs", either. I am a "teach a man to fish" kind of person.

I am pro-choice, pro-gun, pro-rehabilitation of criminals. Majorly Pro Peace, anti-Imperialism. Pro-kick butt when necessary. Pro Love, pro-John Lennon. Pro-marriage of ALL kinds. Pro-yoga, pro-attachment parenting, pro-healthy environment, pro-alternative energy research. Pro-capitalism, making the free market direct research and progress.

Now, to quibble a bit: I'm not entirely sure about the death penalty, though I know if someone killed, deliberately, someone I love, that pro-gun part of me would want to take that someone out. I said above I am pro-choice, but I have to admit that I am not especially fond of abortions. I would like that option to be there, safe and legal, and don't think you should have a vote if you don't have a womb. But I would like it to be a last ditch one for desperate moments... we should focus our energies on preventative measures, and also, on CHOOSING adoption and spend more money at making sure the children in our foster care system are truly cared for, and not just a paycheck for someone who isn't really caring for them.

Now.... all those things said. I do not like the direction some Republicans go. I will, given the option, fire their asses. The super conservative neo-religious right part of the Republican party is not my friend, and I refuse to let them take over. One of the reasons why that is the case is the reason why I am writing this post.

Republican bashing. Hate against an entire group of people for the narrow-minded, negative actions of the loudest, most annoyingly squeaky wheels. There is a reason why "the tea party" is trying to establish its own party, because it is NOT the Republican party. It's a lot of whack jobs who make a lot of good soundbites on TV and so get reported. A lot. But they do not represent ME. It is not synonymous with my party.

And people who I genuinely like, in trying to fight for rights and fight wrongs, who consider themselves liberal Democrats, but like to call Republicans nasty names.....seriously.... cut it out.

This is wrong, and it hurts my feelings, and I would like to point out the hypocrisy of a group that says they are open minded humanitarians who are bashing and hating on a lot of people THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW. Replace the phrase "I hate Republicans" with any racial group or women or religious or ethnic group and you can see what you're doing.

I also want you all to know that there IS a voice in the Republican party for intelligent, liberal, thinking. This is why, after all these years, I stay registered this way, even though for the last three presidential elections I have voted for a third party candidate because I am SO ANGRY at the two main parties for being more of the same old same old, and offering me kool-aid laced with poison at every turn.

I just hate to see others drinking that poison without questioning their own built in biases.

I do NOT agree with the more ignorant jerkface Republicans who want to set women's rights back, and who want to criminalize miscarriage, and turn women into a walking womb/incubator with no choices. An that is one reason why I stay registered. To vote that kind of ignoramus OUT.

I'm venting, because I want you to know. Glenn Beck and the hate rhetoric of narrow minded idiots are not MY Republican party, but what party is it that contains those who are calling me nasty names simply because I stay here and try to keep fighting the good fight to bring my party back to the PARTY THAT GETS IN YOUR BUSINESS THE LEAST? I do not think it's the government's right to tell me what to do on a daily basis, even if it's for my own good.

Truly open your minds, those of you who have called Republicans "Repugnicans" or "mean old white men" or "the rich who don't care anything for anyone but themselves." Please. And when you want to hate on people, be specific. I don't mind you hating on the idiots, but try to not lump me in with them. Hateful bigotry is hate, period.

If the things you are saying are not actually making the world a better place, if they are making someone sick to their stomach every time they see your posts, then what are you doing in the world?

Reflections

2010-11-07T08:23:00.000-06:00

Last year at this time, I was about to turn forty. It's kind of felt that forty should be a "big year" but for me, it was kind of a hard one. On my birthday, we spent a whole weekend at funeral events for one of Andrew's relatives-- a man I liked, and was sorry to see go, but three days on my birthday weekend felt a bit much. It was rainy, wet, and cold in the Hill Country cemetery. I spent a whole lot of time sitting in the car with the kiddos. Not really all that much fun.

I was working at a job that felt increasingly like the wrong place for me to be. My mother was still alive, but it would be very soon that I would lose her. A few minor illnesses for me, as well, filled some of the year. Those are under control, but it took a lot out of me during.

Good things happened, too. I finally gave up on the idea that somehow I could somehow change people who just didn't like me or respect me. (I saw one of these people the other day out in town and felt so happy that I didn't have to do the obligatory greeting...just ignored said person and moved on with my day). I quit feeling guilty about some of the professional things I just don't have the energy or inclination to do anymore. I worked a bit on my novel-- got some great ideas which, hopefully, I will have time to work into it very very soon. I've found a real and true love for fixing up/restoring the historic homes we've been buying, and made an almost 100 year old home that was falling into a sad state back into a true jewel, that we will offer as someone's dream home very soon. Found a real talent, there, which I enjoy. My kids have grown and changed and I love them more every day; it doesn't seem possible but it is true. Hubby and I have found more time to spend just "us" now that the kids are a little less work and that's been truly a blessing, also.

I have wishes and resolutions for the year ahead. I need to spend more "Me" time-- go to the gym, lose the weight that is unhealthy, get strong and fit again. Forty One years of life on the planet is only a trickle of what I want to have ahead of me, and I am going to consider this a bit of a "do-over" year. I want less sorrow, please, and more joy ahead. That is my biggest wish for the year. So next year (and it may be that I don't write a formal blog until then with the way this thing has gone lately!) I want to have a year filled with my own choices. We will see what time & tide do to that wish.

Whew! Dusty in here!

2010-08-23T14:12:00.000-05:00

::cough cough:: dusts dusts....clears away blog cobwebs.......

Really? My last blog entry was MAY?! Well, it just illustrates what's been going on here better than my apologies and disclaimers could. I doubt very many people read the blog here anymore, anyway. It's all about the Facebook status update, and who has time for more than a few hundred words, right?

Since January, when I pulled Maia out of daycare because I wasn't working and it's silly to pay daycare fees when I'm at home anyway I have been on a roller coaster of Stay at Home Mom-ness. She wasn't so hard to care for overall by herself but then once summer officially hit, Sean has been home and sometimes he is so time consuming it's not even funny. If I gave you a list of all the things I should be cleaning right now, things that he basically has done since Sunday morning to trash the place, you would most likely have to pick up your jaw off the floor. And then it would fall down there again.

It's not normal kid mess, either, it's Super Autism Boy mess. Yes, it is likened to a super power here. I wouldn't say super villain cause his powers are not used for evil, not really. He's more a dark super hero-- like maybe Batman or Wolverine-- who has his normal intentions sometimes turn out a bit destructive.

Today, though, is the last day of summer break for the kiddos. They both start full time, 8-2:30 School tomorrow!

Pause for the sound of angelic choirs singing JOY JOY HALLELUJAH!!

Maia is in Kindergarten and Sean is back at his same ECSE class. I am really looking forward to having some private time, some time where no one talks to me for hours. For me to be able to sit on the couch folding clothes and not have a child come in the room and mess them all up before I can put them away. For hours of writing my own writing, rather than working on anyone else's (and that's a subject for another blog post another time). And mostly, for climbing out of this hole I feel a bit like I've been in for six months or so.

It's not depression, and do not get me wrong; I adore my children and am super duper grateful for the times we've spent together this summer. Cuddles in the morning, laughing at them when they do something silly, watching them swim and play all day together.

But there isn't a lot of higher brain function needed for yelling "SEAN STOP IT" one more time while he's for some reason running across the patio knocking down everything he can knock over (chairs, tables, garbage can). Or for helping Maia find a place to hang her home made (duct tape & soda cans) mobile (which frankly is amazing but still--not what I want to do right. this. second... ). It's a bit crazy making sometimes, and tiring, and then you hit pause for sleep and then start back on play/fastforward another day of do it all again.

Being a mom is a great gift and I cherish it. But it's not ALL that I am and I can't wait to get some time to just me during the day. And also time to spend with JUST ANDREW... which will be so nice again. This is nothing new-- it's an age old complaint of people with young children and I don't say it in any particularly unique way.

But it's kind of the last day of summer, for me, and in spite of the continuing 100 degree days we will have for at least a few weeks, I am going to do a happy Welcome Fall dance.

Of Poppies and Memorials and The Lost

2010-05-31T20:59:00.000-05:00

I had this post I wrote earlier about Memorial Day but it required looking up some details about the poppies that older ladies & gentlemen used to hand out when I was a kid. Little paper red poppies with a tag saying "Lest We Forget" on them. That history of Memorial Day refocused me on what is truly important about today.

I remember asking my mom what they were for and she told me that it was in rememberance of World War I, especially, and the poppy fields that many soldiers died in. As an adult well-versed in the history of those horrible wars (entire generations of young men wiped out by things like mustard gas and chlorine poisoning) I have always thought the poppy appropriate and ironic in a metaphoric way, too. The poppy is an opiate-- numbing us, helping us to forget pain and even life. As it symbolizes not forgetting, it is also about the inevitability of forgetfulness because the human heart cannot hold that pain or else it, too, fails.

I think it has been more than 20 years since I've seen someone passing out poppies. Memorial Day has become a day when people figure they should go out on their boats, burn some burgers, drink some beers, have a four day weekend from work.

The controversy about Obama not visiting the Tomb of the Unknown soldier in Arlington could, in this light, be a good way to refocus people's attention. My earlier blog was too much about this controversy. But if this controversy makes ONE person who reads this realize that it's about way more than the start of summer, I am going to be glad.

This weekend, my hubby & I used the four days to go visit family. But at the same time, we discussed this controvery in pretty good depth. You see-- war is very personal and immediate to anyone who actually could lose someone to that war. It's all fine and dandy to be academically involved in the debate over someone's presumed patriotism or lack thereof.

But when you could have a person-shaped-hole in the universe where your mother, or father, or wife, or husband, or child once was-- then it's something serious to think about. Even the thought of it is enough to make me not be able to talk, to take long moments of gathering my emotions.

I am glad that so much of the world has progressed to a point where a lot of people have not lost someone dear to them and can think of Memorial Day simply as the start of summer. I am glad that we haven't been involved in a "Great War" in so long that it's not actually a priority to have a sitting president be a war vet. That's, to me, an indication of progress. It is good to hang out with family, connect in the warmth of the coming longer days.

But we should remember the poppy's message: Lest We Forget. Don't forget the dangers that are still very real. Humans have not suddenly all turned into puppy loving saints. There are some bad mofos out there who would be perfectly happy to take away all our choices and prosperity. And they might even have very big guns aimed at a soldier right. this. second.

While you are hanging out, remember that the freedoms to choose to be wherever you want to be today (on your deck, drinking a beer) were paid for in blood and tears by real people, who really die every second that they are sent somewhere in harm's way. And that there are some right now who are fighting in a war that they don't get to choose-- that the leaders who represent symbolic functions and political sentiment are the ones who choose. Yes they chose to serve their country in the military but they were not the ones who got to sign the papers that started this infernal shitstorm. They are just the ones who pay for it.

It's NOT about red states or blue states or whether we like Obama or think where he spent his weekend matters in the great big scheme of life.

This day is about red blood and the opiate of time and poppies of life going on that have made us all forget the very real lives that this day is supposed to commemorate. That person was once someone's most perfect love, and is now gone forever.

THAT is what you're supposed to Remember today.

Walkers: the same age?

2010-05-13T09:40:00.000-05:00

This morning, as I was driving the boychild to school, I spotted several walking folks in my neighborhood who were awfully cute youngish men. Among these were one adorable man with with neat chin length dreadlocks (I'm a sucker for good looking dreads) and one very clean-cut button down shirt & very short hair, looked like the guy who would carry your books for you home from the library, but secretly listen to the Talking Heads on his IPod.

What is significant about this is that people don't really walk in my neighborhood. It's a strange few blocks that have no sidewalks (which is annoying as heck) and is kind of a busy street so it's not actually all that good of an idea to walk there. So I thought about why the universe was throwing two cute walking youngsters my way.

One thing these two very adorable young men revealed to me this morning is how old I am, at least on that front. I didn't think of them in any sort of lewd manner, just thought of how cute they were, like puppies you just wanna adopt & buy a comfy doggie bed for.

It's sort of like on American Idol, there's a cute finalist whom one of the judges (who is about my age and/or maybe a bit younger) was flirtatious with, and he quite naughtily sang Mrs. Robinson the other night to tease. I don't think of that young guy (who is gorgeous, by the way, and super talented) as someone "on my list."

I don't know what the point is here, but I just wanted to think about it a little bit. I think it's a good thing-- there comes a time when you don't want to be Matthew McConaughey's character in Dazed & Confused.

Poison Ivy

2010-04-13T08:39:00.000-05:00

No, not the sexy Uma Thurman kind. This Poison Ivy is NOT at all good with a leaf green outfit and mask. Oy vey does it hurt!

Last Monday, boychild had a blotch on his face when picked up from school. I assumed it was a mosquito bite cause after all, this is La, and mosquitos are the official welcome-bird of Spring, Summer, and anything short of nuclear winter. I'm pretty positive it didn't happen at school-- most likely, it just took that time to set in from the previous day. No big, right, one little splotch of scratchiness?
I also worked to clean up the garden bed of our new rental property and had a big piece of poison oak's woody vine pop up onto my left upper arm. It instantly left a burn mark-- yes, a burn mark-- but it did not really itch. I went and washed it off and figured I was safe.

So since then, poor boychild's face has erupted in multiple itchy scabby bits and my arm itches so much I may cut it off. It would be an improvement. I have tried the various washes-- including the 30 dollar, "will get rid of that nasty poision ivy oil for you" stuff. (Works a little, not a lot).

We have a lot of Poison Ivy plants in this area because it rains a lot, and we have nice fertile soil & warm, sunny days. The swampland is prone to growing things we don't want.

I will never, ever, underestimate the dangers of this plant, and man oh man, to imagine how awful it would be if it were in more "awkward to scratch" areas.

Meditation

2010-04-11T10:15:00.001-05:00

My garden
full of weeds from
Fall and earliest Spring
calls to me. I hear
the quietest of pulls, sigh, circular
breath.

The beat-up Buddha statue, the angel who watches quietly,
the trellis choked with brown, crispy leaves.
They leave no messages for me anyway.

The red-headed woodpecker who demands more more
sunflower seeds and
waits impatient, for summer's abundance of bugs
perches on a nearby tree and flits his wings.

I cannot bring myself to pull and neaten
and organize rows
of perky flowers. This Spring,
the weeds seem more loving
than hopeful busy, demanding flowers.

I will pull them all up, plant grey
rocks and
small bonsai trees and tan sand.
But not today.

Silence

2010-04-06T09:50:00.000-05:00

So I haven't blogged much in forever, I know. I can say I've been busy, and that is ridiculously true. But also, part of it is that I have yet to post here my mother's obituary. I wrote it. I meant to send it to some newspapers where she was born (Elgin, Illinois) since that's the only place there are people who might not already know. But in spite of writing some poems about it, I just haven't been able to post that here.

Is it because it makes it more final, more formal? Maybe. But mostly, I'm not not in a blogging about me sort of mood right now. And that's okay. I'm sure I'll be back eventually-- I've done this too long to really drop it forever. And it's an addiction that doesn't fade easily.

So for now, follow me on Facebook where I can handle short updates and here if you don't mind some pauses now & then.

April

2010-03-31T16:28:00.000-05:00

Greengold trees, leaves budding,
remind you of Eden's first dream
the one of unity, blissful innocence,
the bluest skies touched
with black birds whirling in pairs
tandem dreams of eggs, nest, beak.

This is what it means to heal--
winter's ice has gone, its stinging blade
a memory still fresh but less so. Less so.

The air is not yet touched with heat
the sun still feels far away
the skies do not press down upon our eyes
a flash of negative turning us into
shapes, blurring out
individual features.

For now, it is easy to forget the frenzy
that will follow soon,
the too much of everything--pollen, blind kittens,
bees swarming for new queens.

To lie still, to dream
--of seeds
turning
in the newly warming soil,
to begin to forget the grief of winter.

Unraveling

2010-03-29T14:01:00.000-05:00

this word has been in my head all day
and I pull at its ends
the shreddy bits
tie them off until
they find another way to shred.

I can't remember how to get there
and I never learned how to knit.

Red sweaters
fuzzy and a little itchy if the weather is not cold enough.
That's what I would make.

Your Own Path

2010-02-16T19:54:00.000-06:00

Let's set the record straight:
the truth is,
you weren't always a very good mother.

You drank too much. When other moms
were baking cupcakes and going to PTA meetings
you bleached your hair and wore too much blue eyeshadow.
Worked late nights. Had noisy sex when you
came home
in the mornings.

You laughed too loud when I was a teen
people would stare at you,
dancing as though
no one else was watching. Embarassed me almost
to death.

You always loved the wrong men.
Including my father, who left
and never really looked back
at us. Not until
it was way too late.
You forgave him anyway.
Did not forgive the one who hit too often,
dropped it all and flew off in the night with me,
sleepy in the back seat of the car.

You grieved too hard. Got angry
fast. You could yell like a man. Fight dirty.
Spent entire days reading long novels and
ignoring the housework.

When the time came, you let me love the wrong boy
didn't say anything you would regret later,
and learn what that felt like.
Stay out all night. Ride in
fast dangerous cars when I should have been
studying.

There were loud fights. I sometimes
wished you were not so brash
so rude to rude salesgirls.

You blew smoke into the blonde chippy's face
when, 16 at a football game, she coughed and
complained about your cigarettes.
I looked at the other frumpy mothers
selling band candy and wearing brown shoes
and wished you away.

As we got older, and things a little easier,
all my friends liked hanging out with you--
It kind of annoyed me.
I said "she's not your mom."

You've had a tendency to rewrite history,
talk about how many flowers you planted,
how often you cooked home meals for me.

You did not age gracefully.

You do everything the hard way.

But the truth is:
now I know why.

I've always liked Magdalenes better than Marthas.
And I am not embarassed to have loved you
for
all of those things.
Never
in spite of them.
***************************************

Breathing

2010-02-16T19:06:00.000-06:00

You know the story of Pandora's Box, right?
All the sins and ills of the world, and
it was hope
that flew out last?

It is a terrible thing.

Hope.

I used to find comfort, in that story.

Holding on to a single golden truth:
The idea that something could be hopeful
meant it could look up. Get
better. Improve.
This place was
as bad as it could get.

But I didn't know how hope could be used to tease you,
push you right into a limbo of doubt where you hang and cannot let go
--just this one more test, we'll try, just to see
maybe, maybe, maybe.
she'll turn around. Maybe
this will be the one.

I've been kidding myself that I was
a goddess of plenty,
of summer sun and bees dusted a frenzied yellow.

When in truth, I know so much
better-- this--
chill of the bones
this, pinching of the mouth
this,
loss. Not yellow plenty but bitter brown.
Bare branches and curled leaves.
A swirling wind that leaves you
breathless and
tired, birdbaths overturned,
summer far away.

The last thing that flew out of that box
was as much a curse as a blessing.

As are all gifts that come in secret boxes.

KAW Feb '10

Shadows

2010-02-15T10:55:00.000-06:00

I deal with life by writing about it. This has been fairly well established and won't be a surprise to anyone reading this.

Right now, words are sort of failing me. I want to write so many things about my mom, who is not doing very well in the hospital after we had hoped she was rallying. I'm not really ready to do so, and I'm afraid that writing too much will somehow jinx her, but I also know that my blog writing doesn't have anything to do with what is happening in that hospital room right now. While I have handled my dad's death and other family members going so well I wondered about myself a little bit, I don't think I'm doing very well with this one.

I remember once when I was a very little girl riding in a blue truck, nestled between my dad, who was driving, and my mom, who suddenly fell out of the truck door and rolled down the steep hill we were on. I think it was kind of a parking lot of some sort. It seemed like a long hill, and it seemed like she rolled forever while I watched her go. My dad stopped the truck and she came back and was mostly fine. She had scraped her arm pretty badly and never could wear any jewelry with nickel in it again because her watch had gotten into the scrape and she had developed some kind of traumatized allergy. I don't know why the damn door opened and she fell, and/or remember much else about that day.

This feels kind of like that time, though. Watching her rolling down the hill, helpless to stop it, not knowing what will happen-- will she get up or will she just keep rolling until she is out of sight for good?

I also used to have this reoccuring nightmare of being in the trailer where we lived at the time. My mother was asleep on the bed, and the whole place was on fire. I kept trying to reach where she was with the water hose but it would not stretch, and she would not wake up and save herself. Classsic anxiety of kids about losing their safety source, their mom. Clearly about me, too, because I always try to save people, especially when they aren't trying to save themselves. Sometimes to my own detriment.

My trouble is, I'm pretty sure I know the answer to that question already. It feels like a heavy sort of knowledge and it turns out, my ability to be unreasonably grief-stricken over a cycle, a natural part of life, in a way that my mom would scold me for, is just fine.

*****************************************************************
Incidentally, the picture above is my mom with my older sister, Dottie, not me.

To Write Love

2010-02-12T14:00:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago a friend invited me to attend "To Write Love on Her Arms" day. It sounded pretty and I shelved it in my mind, thinking I'd check it out later. Then I forgot in the hustle/bustle of life.

This morning that friend had a profile picture with it written on her arm and I thought, "oh yeah, I was gonna check that out." I looked at the event and saw the hundreds of pictures uploaded and uploaded my own:

The event is meant to support "those who are fighting against depression and those who are trying to recovering." It's a nonprofit group for those who are struggling with the issue. I plan to go and see if there is a place to donate some money, too, because the point of passing on awareness should be more than just posting a mobile photo, although that is nice, too.

As I was browsing on the site, I noticed several pictures that were taken by people who had clear scars from cutting. One said as her caption something like "I have to keep working on it."

I so wanted to hug these people, and had to blink away tears. Oh, I've been sad, just like everyone, I've had heartbreak and pain. I've even gone through phases of what could definitely be classed as depression, although they've been pretty short. But I, myself, have never felt that much pain. I am too attached to the world, too in love with snow dripping off the trees and squirrels yelling that it's too cold, a warm cat on my lap, and the smile of my loved one.

But I am enough of a crusader to want to fix the pain for those who have it that strongly that they try to cut it away, or end it all. I know that writing love on my forearm won't fix anything, but perhaps letting someone know that I DO love them, even if I don't really know them, that I love the bad things they've done as well as the good because that is HUMAN, that is life, and we keep going or we don't but love is the whole point of it all. It's what we're here to learn, in my opinion. And it can be as simple as an act of random kindness or as comlex as the things that make us scream from rooftops.

It is okay to hurt, but it is even better to love yourself into NOT hurting anymore.

You ride your horses, I'll stick mine in a zoo, thanks

2010-02-10T20:37:00.002-06:00

I have been an addictive computer gamer in the past. Man I played the crap out of some Sims games back before I had kids*, and this one pretty cool action game called The Longest Journey, and and and!!!!. I remember even back before I had a computer and it was all about the Nintendo being up 'til like 4 am thinking "just this one more level and I'll go to bed." It's definitely a place I know better than to go because I do get obsessed, and there's a level of fun/pleasure there that people who never "game" probably don't have any clue about. Maybe they don't have the same buttons that get pushed by the games, maybe they do but have just never tried it.

Addiction is addiction, whether it's morphine or sex or-- computer games.

I don't know WHAT inspired me a couple of days ago to click on the stupid games. I tried the Farm one-- thought it was kind of boring and didn't get into it. I'm really NOT interested in the Mafia game, or the cafe game, or even the City game or the island fish. Still not interested.

Then I tried the Zoo game. I remember playing it once ages ago, actually, and finding it stupid and saying no thank you. Oh, and I played with it idly for a few minutes and then left it alone for a couple of days. I wasn't all that into it. So I don't know if it's changed or what, but I played it this weekend, just because I was a little bored. I figured it would keep me a little entertained while the hubby worked on taxes, the kids watched ANOTHER episode of WonderPets & I wasn't quite ready to write more on my novel.

And then, the other day, my mom got sick. Almost died, AGAIN, for the second time in several months. May still not be totally out of it.

And, like any natural addict does, during a really stressful day, I reached for something addictive to keep me from thinking. To numb me. An opiate, of sorts. Man I played the CRAP out of that game yesterday. I tried to keep the notifications from clogging up the feed but there's a certain level of things you can't actually accomplish in the game if you don't "share" the information.

I didn't pull out a belt and a needle, thank god, but I did fiddle, way more than is healthy, with a computer game. It's fun, and there's a certain level of pleasure that comes with the organizing, like having a doll house. You put the animals in neat little rows because you can't order your own world so easily. And there's observable progress from it-- you "level up" when you do something simple that you can track. In real life, the level up process is not nearly so clear. And you can very easily go "up" and a few days later be smacked back the hell down, like, far far far.

I've made fun of the facebook games before. I joined a "not playing" XYZ games group in the past, just to tease. And the endless invitations are kind of a pain. Everyone knows that. But they are part of the way you play the game. When I was playing in the last couple of days, I was careful to only invite people who I knew were actually playing the game. But I also know that Facebook is weird and it's possible that folks were being invited without my knowledge, that the application is sending out more than the basic notifications folks can block. And facebook, as a whole, has been glitchy the last few days so it's possible it's been a pain in the ass to see all those notes. It does only take ONE "hide Zoo World" click for it to go away (in fact, I think it's still hidden on my feed). And it's no more annoying, to me, than the ads for Lap Band surgery I constantly get on my FB page-- probably because I talk about food a lot.

So let me say this. If my feed adopting bears and tigers and levelling up was really annoying, I ask that you realize that it's a shitload better than me going out and shooting up, or getting drunk and driving, or whatever other addicitons I might have used to keep me from thinking about the fact that my mother is STILL on a ventilator, and still not out of the woods and I could be hours away from being a literal "motherless child" and all that entails. I really don't want to think about it and I'm really hopeful still.

But we never know what that "game" is doing for someone. Maybe they don't "have a life" maybe they are hiding from the life they do have. We all have something we use. I promise to not mock my friends who play games and you know what? Sometimes, when I'm not busy, I'll send you some freakin' nails. It's no skin off my nose; I'm wasting time anyway.

And go play your own quiet hobbies. I won't send you an email notification about Zoo World if you don't try to knit me an ugly green & yellow sweater.

Deal?

Facebook, in general, is a waste of freakin' time. If you have more productive things to do and didn't have a touch of the same bug that causes others to spend hours rearranging their Zoos or Farms then you would be reading a book or something. I see people "quit" all the time who just don't dig it. I, myself, am probably close to being done playing my game because I'm at a place in it that is getting increasingly too much time suckage. It isn't worth it if the payoff is quite that long. Cause I'm also a quitter.

Rehab, you know, is for quitters. What have I got til I'm done, now? 28 days? Here goes. Zoo, Cold Turkey. Wait. You have a turkey for adoption? Really? Is it on your wall now? Hmmmm. Can you send me one? ;) Just this last Turkey. And then I'll level up, and I'll quit. Really.

*******************************

*Even wrote a pretty cool conference paper about it.

Grief and Change

2010-02-09T08:53:00.000-06:00

Online people, those like me who seem to share just freakin' everything with perfect strangers on our Facebook feed or here, probably boggle the minds of folks who feel more private.

But it's such a complicated thing. I even read an article about how FB helps people deal with grief and loss, because of connections that were lost years ago but people who have shared the horrific experiences of life in ways that even your immediate friends may not have. It's an understanding issue, in part, I guess, because everyone's bad times are their own, the first time they've lived them, and we never know how we'll handle it.

When my dad died, I didn't really know him very well. My sisters went to his funeral. When Andrew's dad was diagnosed as terminal, that hit me hard, but it was still Andrew's family, Andrew's major grief, and I was busy with the kids, who were just a bit over one and it was a bit hectic.

This Christmas, dragging my mother into the ER because if I hadn't, she would have died within a few days, was tough, but I felt like it was productive. They helped her. I was there, and if I wasn't, someone else was.

Now, she's been in a rehabilitative home since then and she was doing much, much better. But this weekend, something has happened and I don't know where it's going. People usually don't die from a freakin' sinus infection, which is what she apparently has, but it's impeding the necessary oxygen, which her body, because of her severe COPD and 50 years of smoking cannot get on its own.

They sent her to the ER yesterday-- something I was in the midst of trying to set up already from here after I had talked to her on the phone and was worried. At some time during that, she crashed and they intubated her. She's also sedated, but apparently, she's also been fighting the intubation so they've had to restrain her, too. My neice, who has had to deal with this issue very recently with her own father, is the only person who was there. My sister is on her way, and she will evaluate what we're going to ask happen next.

See, my mom has a DNR order. And we all agree with it; but for some reason the hospital didn't have a record of it. The respirator, apparently, is something they shouldn't have done based on that DNR. While I don't believe my mom lost consciousness, I think she may have if they hadn't acted, and that's directly in violation of the DNR.

So there you go. I feel totally helpless and angry at the hospital and had to yell at my husband last night and my eyes are puffy and feel like they have sand in them. I'm not really in a mood to do anything other than brood. But writing helps, putting out the story a little bit. I don't know how it ends, but if you extend any story far enough out, it's a tragedy.

We'll see how this current act ends.

Warts and All

2010-02-06T08:41:00.000-06:00

It is actually coming up on being with my husband for TWENTY years! Seriously! You know that scene in Groundhog Day where the insurance guy says "Ten Years!" Now double that and the pitch just goes up even more.

We haven't been married quite that long, but together, yes. Just about twenty years. And we're pretty darn happy, too. I remember about six years ago, before we had our kids, someone was bitching about my biological clock (as if that was any of their business in the first place) and one of our family members said "Leave them alone. They still LIKE each other." YEAH. Leave them alone!

I'm not saying that there aren't bumps in the road now and then, days when I am furious at something stupid he has done, or vice versa. I'm a perfect angel, though, so he never gets mad at me. blink. blink. blink. innocence and rainbows.

So. What makes this work? What makes our relationship work, when so many others do not? Especially after you have kids, when the tensions are ratcheted up a million times by waning hormones because of sleepless nights, whatever it is that makes those days after kiddos are born harder.

What it mostly takes, for us, is accepting the warts as best as you can. I always give this advice to people who are just getting married. Figure out what you hate most about the person you're marrying and learn to love it because you're NOT going to change it. (People do not "change if you love me." Don't even ask). A post by a blogger I don't read often enough, Stephanie Klein, reminded me of this because she said "what deadly sin are you willing to go to bed with?" That's good advice, but my hubby's "sin" isn't as big as one of the Big 7.

He's a flatulent man, honestly. Most of the time, it's not very smelly, but it's LOUD. I do not love this trait about him other than the fact that he is just so un-self-conscious about it. That unselfconsciousness I kind of do love because that makes him a sort of fearless person, and that's awesome. And it's not like he surprised me-- on our first date he snuck one out, and I thought he must be mortified (he was a little embarrassed, but not as much as most people would be).

So I laugh. Even when it's kinda gross, and I need to spray him down with Lysol. And guess what? My kids do it a little bit too (Sean more than Maia). And I actually DO kind of love that in the crazy way that mothers have of loving those little traits because they are little reflections of yourself.

And laughing when it's kinda gross and yelling at each other HONESTLY without bringing up every fight you've ever had, forgiving each other sometimes, trying to forget, even, and not expecting the sun AND the moon. And just dealing with the warts and all, every single day. Some days are easier than others.

All of that makes almost twenty years feel like just a start, and look forward to the next twenty.

A piece of my novel

2010-02-05T09:06:00.000-06:00

Okay, so a special treat today for you faithful readers. This is a piece of my novel-in-progress. It's an intense moment, when the narrator, who is a ghost, is killed. I may take it off of the blog in a few days so it's not floating around out there-- I do kind of want to publish it one of these days. But I wanted to share a part I really like.

What do you think? Critiques welcome. Is there something you don't like? Pacing? Want to read more? :)

******************************************

I can see it like it is happening right now.

Someone grabs me from behind. I am still laughing, looking at Tony’s face, and he suddenly stops laughing as strong arms go around my neck. I don’t realize what is happening at first and then Tony’s smile falls and he steps forward and then stops moving. His face goes hard, like a cowboy in a movie and I’m about to make fun of him for that and then the guy behind me (I had somehow thought, for a second, that it must be someone I knew, someone there to congratulate me on the engagement, because I couldn’t be being robbed; I didn’t have anything worth stealing.) But no. He, the guy behind me, not Tony, he says “look, if you just hold still no one has to get hurt” and he’s not laughing, not congratulating me, but he’s holding something really hard into my back, on the right side, just above the small. It hurts. I can feel it poke my spine a little as he wiggles it some. He stepped out of a doorway, out of the dark, and since I was walking backwards looking at Tony, I don’t even see his face. Tony does, though, and what he sees there makes his eyes go flinty; they go dark in a way I’ve never seen them. I mean, we were going to La Villita! There are tourists everywhere, but not tonight. For some reason, we seem to be in a bubble of space and time and there is NO one there to help us. No cars, no walking people. I think of La Llorona, for some reason, and the kids at the railroad, but I know they aren’t here to help. No one is. No one drives by, no one laughs. We don’t hear any footsteps come up to help us. Just this guy behind me, and I can smell his aftershave a little bit, like on a first date, and I think it might be Drakkar Noir and I think how funny that would be, to be robbed by someone wearing Drakkar Noir, for God’s sake, and I start to tell the guy that my purse is right here, take it.

Tony is holding his hands up, holding really still, saying something like “Okay, man, chill, it’s okay” and for some reason, the guy behind me gets nervous, breathes out sharply, and then holds me even tighter, jamming HIS gun into my side ribcage even harder. I can’t believe I was just a second ago laughing and looking at my golden butterfly ruby ring. And we were going to La Villita! I can still taste mint and sugar on my lips, and I lick them again, because I seem to have gone really dry, and I feel 100% sober, too.

I hear a noise back behind Tony somewhere, like feet scuffing, and I guess the guy holding me thinks someone is coming or maybe he had something to prove to whomever was making that foot noise and before I know it, Tony is trying to step towards us and I hear this crack, and something hits me, hard, in the middle of my side. I don’t really feel anything other than this whack; it’s kind of like falling off a merry go round when I was a kid. Falling on my back and the breath whooshes out and then I’m left staring up at the sky waiting to breathe, to breathe. Except, it doesn’t happen. I don’t catch my breath.

***********************************

Autism Boy

2010-02-03T10:03:00.001-06:00

Tomorrow is our yearly review of Sean's progress. He's been in the special early class for a little bit under a year now, and his teacher, who is amazing & wonderful (all three of the teachers in his class are) called me this morning to give me a head's up as to what we'd do tomorrow. She tested him this morning to have benchmarks, and apparently on a big number of things, he is doing amazingly well. It's very good to see real progress. I know it, but sometimes when you know something as a parent at home, it doesn't reflect at the school. So that's the good parts. It is VERY exciting that he is doing as well as he is.

Then, this week, when we were in San Antonio, we were at a restaurant/bar that has this kid's play area. Sean & Maia & one of our friend's daughters were playing outside, where we could all see them through the windows. Sean is generally a very sweet boy; when he IS aggressive or something, there's usually a really good reason for it. He pushes back when people push at him, in other words, but he doesn't usually instigate problems. (I can see that he might; I'm not saying he's a perfect angel or anything). This is the main reason why I felt fine about letting them play outside while we were watching not right on top of them.

But something happened with this other, younger kid. I don't know what it was; one of my friends was there and Sean had bumped her daughter, and the other kid had started crying around the same time. Then, this group of people brought their daughter inside. Did they say something to me? No. They just sat at their table and complained loudly, and looked pointedly at our table like we should know something. Well, I couldn't see EVERYthing that happened, so I didn't know, but I had my guess that somehow, something had happened. If they had said something, I would have tried to make it right.

So I knew they were talking about us, and Sean, and I pointedly apologized, told them that he's usually a good kid, but that he has autism and sometimes he can get into trouble when he doesn't understand something. The mom of the group sort of waved at me and said something like "that explains it" and seemed to accept my explanation. But then the whole group of them left, and seemed agitated still, as though we were those clueless folks who did something terrible to their kid. I was sort of confused.

Look. It's not that I think Sean's autism excuses seriously bad behavior. And I DO watch him as carefully as I can, and if I had thought there would be a problem I would have been out there. I wish the woman would have explained to me what happened so I could understand it better.

We're trying. Super hard, to make him understand, to make him be the sweet wonderful kid I know he is, I know he can be. But as I have said before, why can't we give each other (parents) a freakin' break sometimes? Figure that it's not necessarily neglect and cluelessness but that there is something, a variable, that you don't know.

Anyway. One step forward, one step back. At least we're mostly breaking even around here.

Koi in Winter

2010-02-02T17:49:00.000-06:00

they barely move
jostle close, ontop of
each other.
dig
orange, white, gold,
fins
tail mouth
into black leaves, stir silt
desperate
for the warmth of earth mud rot.

alien elements offering barest promise of summer to come.
it is still a long long way from here.

the water is martini-cold
straight up
clear. clean.

the cat drinks, loving the taste of old
moss and fish breath

the fish sense watching eyes.
panic.
swirl breathe spin.
the cat does not notice. drinks,
saunters away.

dark warm leafy stillness
is forgotten in cold rushing.

kaw jan '10
*****

an evocotive picture

Drunk

2010-02-02T16:52:00.000-06:00

I want
to be rolling drunk
poised
on the tip of
the sweetest

ecstasy,

not yet released, just before the waves take me--

Not intoxicated.

No.
I want the Anglo-Saxon version.
Rough.
Careless. A little crude. Of the gutter.

Forgetful of myself
trusting in others to

remember. For a little while.

Painless-- never reaching
the place
where the balance is tipped
towards regrets.

Constantly giddy

dizzy-buzzed. Like

a honeybee
in a meadow filled with
golden suckleweed, lillies, roses, sweet sweetness.

I want that moment
captured in
those time-elapsed photographs

at bloom's pink peak

still. . .
before. . .

imperceptibly reaching, shivering,
holy holy holy.

Closed Blogging: Why Bother?

2010-01-25T12:30:00.000-06:00

A couple of years ago I closed off a former blog. I had written so much pain and rage and frustration into that one and I couldn't see a way of rehabilitating it. But I couldn't just delete it, either. It's still there; I am the only person who can read it. Sometimes that will happen to a blog I used to casually read; I'll go there and the writer has shut that valve, sometimes forever.

Blogs are funny things; they are journals for most of us who write them, ways of communicating with the self. As I type, I don't usually plan out what I'm going to say, and often I just have an undefined something that I need to think about. But they are public, and there is an illusion of privacy being breached. I suppose that illusion can be pretty convincing sometimes.

I don't actually have any IRL* who write blogs the way I do. I know some online folks who write, but most people guard their secrets their privacy pretty carefully. Which I respect, but it's amazing to me those folks who write all those details, their lives, their disappointments and personal issues. I respect both types of folks-- those who write it all out, sharing the warts & all, and those who keep their privacy as close as they can.

I love that my friends and family can keep up with at least a little bit of what I'm thinking through this medium; I wish that I could, in turn, keep up with some of them, as well, in a similar fashion. Since I don't know very many people who blog, for realz, the blogs I do read are folks who I "met online". I love to read a story about their day, see a cool photo, step a minute out of my own head.

Lately, talking on the phone seems so invasive, so hard to do right. I can't unsay something on the phone, highlight a phrase that didn't come out right and retype it better, so it's less painful, nicer. So I don't give away too much. So that I do it right. I find myself, with some people in phone conversations, not doing it right. Screwing it up. Wishing I could start over.

But I am also well aware that reading a blog entry does not mean I know anything about this person in more ways than superficially. I know what they are writing, what they are telling me, but I don't know everything. It's a kind of connection, and sometimes I have felt I know someone better through the blog world than I do some people in that "real life" that I speak to every day. Just as when I write a blog, I don't say things that I don't feel like sharing. What I share is honestly far more superficial than people realize, I guess. It seems like there is nothing I won't write. I've written about physical pain, emotional pain, love, life, hate, rage, disappointment.

I write things when I am trying to figure them out. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't. I wish I could give this gift to others, the ability to share this or that detail but not too much. Maybe it's kind of a form of meditative practice; trying to know myself well enough to make the things that are selfish or greedy or wrong over into something better. It's like my Tarot card readings. I don't pretend to KNOW through magic or con-artistry what the cards REALLY mean; I just lay them down, tell you what the traditional symbolism would be and let you figure it out for yourself. What do you THINK the giant head with the body of a cricket from your dream really means? Your interpretation there is more important than my own.

I want to reach out, to take you by the hand, to give some kind of comfort from grief when that is needed, some joy when that is the thing that is called for. Something good. Pull out the good crystal goblets and expensive champagne and chocolates and share joy.

Sometimes, when I blog, I can do that and more.

But what I have here today is a winter blue sky, windy, isolated clouds that imagination cannot shape into anything other than cold cloud, and trees that are mostly bare and shadows playing on my neighbor's roof.

His Eyes

2010-01-25T09:29:00.000-06:00

One of the things I remember most about the early days of my marriage to Andrew was how he would look at me with his intensely blue eyes, wide, serious. Like he was memorizing me, and wanted to get it right. There are more permanent crinkles around the corners of those eyes now, and his eyebrows get so bushy sometimes I have to trim them or he ends up looking like Lloyd Briges in Airplane!. The photo is us, about five years ago, New Year's eve, and his eyes are the violet-y color of a man who has had a lot to drink. ;)

I've seen those eyes pensive and scanning the wreckage of The USS Arizona in Hawaii, squinting in the almost too bright to stand sunlight of Alaska near the glacier. I've seen them smiling at me as we kissed under that kissing bridge in Paris. When we were having the kiddos and I was wide-open cesearean while he looked on, I could tell he was sort of woozy because his eyes were waaaay bluer than normal in his pale, about-to-pass out face.

His eyes have always been a barometer to the things he doesn't say.

When we met, and he was a student aviator in Pensacola, he wore the ugly wire-rimmed aviator glasses he wears now. I liked him because he was a little nerdy and didn't care about those uncool glasses, glasses they used to call "Birth control" glasses. Weirdly enough, his and my eye prescription are almost exactly the same, and in the last few years, his eyes have not tolerated contacts, so I've mostly seen those ugly glasses. He hasn't been vain enough to care to buy more stylish ones and I haven't really minded but...

However. This week (tomorrow) we are going to Texas, where he will get LASIK to fix those pretty blue eyes so that he will see as well as I do now. (He has to have it done by a military doctor or lose his flight status). It will be a long week, and I worry way more about him getting the procedure than I worried about myself.

But it will be nice to see those deeply blue eyes without anything in the way again. Waking up in the morning, crinkles at the edges, eyes that speak to me of memory today and tomorrow and today again.

annoying neighbors

2010-01-24T19:02:00.000-06:00

Today, it is we who are the above. I feel really bad about it, to tell you the truth.

We are draining our swampy pool.

We tried so hard this year to keep it from turning swampy. We cleaned leaves and leaves and leaves. Tried to keep the chlorine content working enough with all those damned (like, five trees worth) of leaves in it. I managed til sometime in mid December to make it. But then, it just got too hard. And too cold.

And it's been getting really green in the last week because it got warmer.

So we rented the drain and it's been spewing algae infested water all afternoon, and being noisy as all hell, and smelling like gasoline, too. And it's getting close to being done, but not yet.

We plan to buy a pool cover to try to combat this problem for next year. We had meant to get one this year but it's harder than you would think to get one.

But I'm really self-conscious about it and feel bad for our neighbors having to hear the "rrwawar" of the drain pump still going. Hopefully it will be done soon so it will hush. Sorry! Sometimes, your neighbors are aware that they are being pains in the butt but there really doesn't seem to be any not irritating way to handle the issue. And you don't want my pondy-swampy pool in your vicinity, a perfect breeding ground for many many mosquitos, either.

Sigh. Sorry!!

How it Was

2010-01-21T13:40:00.000-06:00

there is no place for what is missing here
no empty spot to poke
like a child with a lost tooth

there is no thing to be done
no weeping or rending
of clothing

there is only this silence
this refusal to be there
there is only this word
that will stay unspoken

and yet I search anyway
send out feelers
remember a time
when there was something there

and I can't, for the life of me,
be sure of when that last was.

I pat myself down, like
someone
looking for lost keys.

I just had them. Right?

There is no way to say this.

You are gone.
And the sky is still blue.

Is STILL Not Too Sensitive!!

2010-01-21T11:38:00.002-06:00

Last winter, teaching the freshman seminar class I did, we worked a bit on the Meyer's Briggs personality spectrum. I am, and have always been, an INFP. When I was looking for info for the little slide show I did with it, I found this cool graphic. I've even written about it before, apparently, cause when I went to look for the graphic, I found a post about this, by me. Duh! :)

It makes me laugh because I AM totally too sensitive. I take things way personally. It's not that I think the world revolves around me, not by any means, but I overanalyze EVERYthing. I think "what did that guy mean, when he cut me off" or "what did she say about redheads" or whatever. Everything has to be the universe attempting to smash my feelings.

I know this is self-centered. I think it's just the way I'm wired, to expect to be hurt by things that other people say "dude, get over it; it's nothing personal." And the intellectual part of me knows this, but the emotional little girl in the picture does not believe the intellect.

So anyway. I will go now and get some lunch and perhaps a new book and NOT obsess over slights that may or may not be directed towards me. I am NOT too sensitive.

Or maybe just a little.

Undeliverable

2010-01-20T12:58:00.000-06:00

There used to be a place
for dead letters.

"What a terrible room to work"
we said, reading Bartleby.

Now so much is electronic.
The email comes back undeliverable.
Instantly.

No lingering paper scrawled in a dusty box
in a dusty room
for a sad man to file.

How rapidly we learn of
our disconnection
now.

Poetry 101

2010-01-20T11:36:00.002-06:00

Once upon a time,
for a class taught by a very funny man
I wrote a poem
about
plums.

Cornered him after class
in a hallway, to show
my work. I
wanted
praise, genuis,
something.
I didn't know
how awkward that was
(then.)

He liked the line about cool refrigerated fruit.

We learned that a sonnet is a 14 line poem
(I missed that question once on game night--
argued it could be a 16 line poem, too. English majors
are too
annoying.)

We learned that slugs
just need a good PR campaign.
Lawn dolphin entered my vocabulary forever.
But I still squish them beneath my shoes
(and sometimes with a squeamish stomach
between bare toes at night).

I think about him every time
I post my magazine. Think about sending him a link to see
my work.
Know (now)
how awkward that might be.

Forever a student,
forever a little bit wrong.

Forever waiting for praise.
And eating plums.

KAW January '10

for Jim Bertolino

Why Housewives Don't Write Good Poetry

2010-01-19T18:24:00.000-06:00

Set aside for the moment Anne Sexton. She was a terrible housewife, by all accounts, and a great poet much of the time.

Housewifey duties don't seem to bring out the poet in me. Who wants to read about the applesauce I cleaned out of the fridge? Maybe an Adam & Eve metaphor thrown in there? Nope. Me either. I don't even want to THINK about what it would take to write that sort of poem.

It's similar to when I was in early grad school and was really pretty darn happy & only wrote poems about writing poems, which defined narcissism & solipsism and a few other isms about self-love (and not even the interesting and infinitely more poetic kind of self love, hubba hubba wink wink nudge nudge).

And frankly, even I am kind of bored by this post. I really need to get a good book to read.

Dear Facebook Citizens:

2010-01-18T13:09:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I was perusing the list of people who graduated from my high school in or around the same year as me and in the process, was noticeably disturbed by a few trends. Let me give you a short list, therefore, of things I think grown up people (and/or people in general) should never do in their facebook profile picture.

1. Do not sit with your legs wide open like a porno queen. You graduated the year before I did; that means you're at least 40. Maybe you're hot, but that pose is NOT.
2. Do not pose on your motorcycle. You're not a teenager and it's not that impressive. The same goes for posing on your big, expensive boat.
3. If I have to guess whether your hair in the picture is one of those wayback photos or if that's you, now, you could probably use a restyle. For the love of God, man, mullets?
4. No shirtless pictures showing off your "guns" and looking surly. I see you tucking your hands back there to make them look more bulgy. Please. It's not convincing me.
5. Did you take that picture when you had a hangover? Is that REALLY the best you can look? Wipe off some of the eyeliner and brush your hair.

And, just so I don't sound TOO grumpy and pissy, a few Dos.
1. DO leave that photo of a Corona w/ a lime on a beach with your feet in the picture. That's kind of fun, and quirky. It does look a little bit like an advertisement, but I still like the whole "wasting away in Margaritaville" vibe to it.
2. Person who had the Nude Descending Stairs as your picture? I didn't recognize your name so I probably didn't know you but that is AWEsome. I wish you wouldn't think I was a freak for the friend request.
3. Well done professional photos with your family are cute. Keep them up there.

If we all follow these simple rules, the Facebook experience will be much more pleasant for all of us.
Thank you, and good night.

People I sometimes google

2010-01-16T19:27:00.000-06:00

I think I've written about the phenomenon of googling old flames, old friends, lost to the water under bridges, before. It's akin, probably, to drunk dialing except you don't have the number. I've had people look me up on Facebook probably that way (more so, probably, now that I've added my maiden name to my profile.) I've found a few folks from high school that way, too. I sent out a few unanswered friend requests recently and wondered whether they did or didn't remember me. If they did, what was it that made them click "ignore?"

It's something to ponder after having had a couple of Mike's Lemonades.

After a soul-searing argument I had this summer with someone, I've thought a lot about myself in a way of really trying to analyze. Do I do this? That? Am I empathetic or just narcissistic? It's something some people never think about, something some probably think about too much.

Especially after a couple of Mike's Lemonades.

40 years on a planet and I am exactly ten times my daughter's age. Today, when I told her I was 40, her eyes got wide. She finally understands enough about numbers and math to realize how many differences that is from her.

Why do I feel an urge to google people I really do NOT want to reconnect with, and a sense of both relief and regret when it appears those folks are not really all that Internet Savvy (or maybe more than I am so that they hide their presence-- but I doubt it.)

I guess because my own life has been a series of losses; I've lost cities, friends, entire lives of things. It's okay, because those losses made me the person I am.

Or is it?

Time to have another Mike's Lemonade and think about it.

Simplify.

2010-01-11T13:07:00.001-06:00

In "Where I Lived and What I Lived For," Henry David Thoreau wrote: "Our life is frittered away by detail... Simplify, simplify, simplify! ... Simplicity of life and elevation of purpose." His mentor & freebie landlord, Emerson, wrote in response: "Don't you think one 'simplify' is enough?"

Yes. Enough. One simplify works just fine.

This year is, for me, a year of simplification. Jobfront, lifefront. I am, in January, cleaning house metaphorically and literally. No need to wait until Spring for this cleaning; if it makes me sad, or angry on a frequent basis, it is gone.

I'm done with saying "well, this etiquette is weird, I will understand and accept." If it hurts my feelings, and it's not the first time, then there's a compatibility problem and "Simplify" will be the word of the day.

And, to end with a quote from Stuart Smalley* that sums it up too: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and, doggonit, people like me!"

************************************************

*And yes, I'm quite aware that in many ways Smalley is an example of the 12 step ideals gone wrong. I never said I was perfect.

Happiness for a Lazy Procrastinator

2010-01-09T11:34:00.001-06:00

It's no accident that, years ago, my first blog was called Kim Procrastinates. Somewhere along the way I had totaled up the numbers and found that if I had spent that time on my dissertation rather than my blog I would have finished years earlier.

I am a procrastinator,* and I am a bit on the lazy side. I'll own that, fully. I'd rather fiddle around on the Internet, for the most part, than do anything other than perhaps read. I am also so NOT a neat freak, preferring to spend time doing anything other than cleaning up things. Short of world peace, the one thing I would wish for should a Genii pop out of a lamp in front of me would be a non-defective Robot Maid to keep my house clean and laundry done. Seriously.

So this past week of cleaning up rental properties and running around like a crazy woman to Lowe's to pick up supplies (all but our annoying fake snow day when I was home with kiddos all day) has been a surprise to me. I know I like painting rent houses & remodeling; that I've figured out already. But cleaning them is something I've always hired someone else to do in the past. (I mean, since I've been able to do so.)

I've been having fun! Yes, the three baseball player college students who lived in our one rent house really really had a filthy refrigerator that stank when it was turned off and had this brown teriyaki sauce goo EVERYwhere. But cleaning up after these folks & the other place (that wasn't actually as bad, to be honest) has brought out my inner Monk. A little bit, at least. I now have a real preference for a cleaning product (a couple of them) because of how much better they worked than other things I've used before. (I like 409 and those Lysol wipes & this orange cleaning stuff.)

There's a certain satisfaction in just looking around and knowing that a few hours ago the place was trashed and now it's gleaming, and the fridge looks like new and you did that. Now, heaven help the tenants who trash the place I spent so much time and effort cleaning. They're going to be SO busted.

Andrew has been joking that he has the "most educated cleaning lady on the planet." Now, it's entirely possible that there are other PhDs who are doing professional cleaning, for whatever reason. It's a tough job market out there. I am kind of overeducated for the position, and yet, I do NOT mind it. The whole point of this rental property landlord business is so that we can make enough moolah to retire early and live on a yacht in the Med. Seriously. Daytrips for the kids to the Louvre for art history class. Etc. And thus, it really does NOT suck to be working on this. It takes up a LOT of time, and sometimes it's darn hard, but it's worth it.

But I'm really fine to not be worrying right now about making syllabuses and getting ready for another semester. Next week's plan is to post my killer issue of Women Writers and work towards making it into a nonprofit organization, and possibly squeeze in some more on my novel. This last week of manual labor has been kind of cool, and I'm channelling my inner cleaning lady on my own house a bit, too.

************************

*surprisingly, I didn't even have procrastination as a tag until now! Funny!

**and, by the way, what the heck happened to blogger's spellchecker? ANNOYing.

My littlest woman writer

2009-12-31T10:23:00.000-06:00

Maia can make most of the ABCs but she doesn't really understand, yet, how to spell things. She knows that letters make words which make stories, though. And she can't wait until she figures that bit out.

That hasn't stopped her, though, from being a writer. This morning, she wrote her first book. It's about five pages with two illustrations (one a cat, the last a dog). She had me staple the pages of her "textbook" together for her and then explained to me what each page said.

I don't really understand her explanation, though there was something in there about taking a test and then about cooking dinner with the puppy at the end of the book.

She's very proud of herself. She should be. A woman writer when she's still in the under five crowd. Virginia Woolf would be so proud.

Vacation Memories: Florida and Disney

2009-12-29T10:06:00.000-06:00

You know it's not going to be nearly as sweet as the misleading title implies.

Disney World. Yes. We'll get to that. But first, upper Florida and my mom needing to be taken to the ER. THAT was fun. She smoked for fifty years & has been wheezing for many years and we all knew she probably had emphysema, but refused to see a doctor. So finally, on the drive over, I got a call from my sister that things were happening. I got there and basically had to bully my mom into the car by threatening to call 911 if she didn't get up and go. It took over an hour to get her loaded into the car; I told her every foot was ten bucks of non-ER ambulance fees. When we got there, the admissions nurse raised her eyebrows at my mom's oxygen levels and wheeled her immediately back, even though the ER was full.

Luckily, she's doing better and is fighting with the nurses in her rehab for the lung disease she indeed has. So far so good. I took her a tiny Christmas tree with lights and we left for Orlando.

It wasn't a bad drive, but the kiddos were restless. We got there, the hotel was nice, etc. Disney was the next day. The hotel's advisor said we'd probably like Disney Hollywood because it would be less crowded. Well, yeah, but Sean hated the shows; they were too scary for him. He started crying and we left pretty early. We had to coax him back onto the bus that night to go to the shopping/eating area called Downtown Disney. After a nice night, it got better again the next day.

Magic Kingdom for Christmas Eve. It was pretty crowded as the day wore on, but it was nice. And the actual night was, at times, pretty amazing. They had a snow machine going on the "Streets of America" section-- little bitty flakes swirled around and melted before hitting the ground. The fireworks & light show was very nice once we finally found a spot. We spent a lot of time trying to figure out what to do.

Maia loved the roller coasters, the rides. Once we discovered the magic of the "Fast Pass"-- a way to skip the lines with some planning-- things were a little better. Sean boycotted all rides that were mysterious or scary looking and we ended up on the train that circles Disney several times.

But the crowds! Oy! Our friends had warned us that Christmas was a crowded time but it was way too late for us at that point to change it. There were so many people, and sometimes parents on their last nerve. I kept thanking the Disney folks for being there so we could enjoy it; they seemed surprised & pleased that someone actually realized they were choosing to give up their "private time" so we could have the park on a holiday. There was one really funny girl who ran the Jungle cruise ride who was also sick that day; I couldn't help but think of how the people who work there feel about working in a place like Disney. A lot of them seemed very sensitive to anything you said to the kids-- if it sounded at all crabby, it's like they wanted to remind you (the parent) why you came there in the first place-- for the kids-- and not to be crabby with them, even if they WERE riding your last possible nerve. I imagine they see some pretty bad parenting examples there; I opted to not be one of them, but there were moments with a headache, in a long line, where I could see someone really snapping. Even I, who am usually pretty darn cheerful, needed to leave in the afternoon for that naptime release.

I kept thinking of my friend Alex, and how much he would have HATED it. There were moments on the last day when it was absolutely pouring rain and the majority of the crowds were huddled under whatever cover they could find while we cruised the then empty pathways that I genuinely had fun. Very few people would go out in the rain (it's not like it was cold but it did eventually get to be too much, even for us). So in spite of getting wet (which, honestly, if it had been ten degrees warmer people would have been paying to do at a waterpark) we were fine. My toes got a little waterlogged while Andrew & Maia did their last cool ride and Sean & I waited to go. The Disney gift shops made a killing on rain gear. They sold out of the adult sizes so we were all wearing kids'. Sean refused to wear one so he ended up with my soggy flannel.

The driving there and back again was fine, for the most part. Long. And I am so glad to be home, but not unhappy to have gone there. I think it was a good time for us to go but it will be many years until (if) we do it again. It's not that I am inherently opposed to the "corporate Disney" experience but it's a lot of money for something that is not all that different, in the long run, from just your basic state fair, which we had far more fun at.

Overall, I recommend the experience but only if you do the research and find out when it's actually really not busy. The crowds are just too much, and it's a nice theme park, but two days would have been enough for us. I hear summertime, when it's pretty hot, is the best, least crowded time. If you can stand the muggy Orlando heat, it would be worth not standing in so many lines.

I'm glad we went, but next year, we're opting for something way more low key. Maybe a beach with warm water south somewhere, and margaritas, and kids rolling in the sand. Far, far away from crowded places and gift shops.

Black Holes

2009-12-15T08:33:00.002-06:00

There are people who, when you're trying to write, are bad to be around. They sort of suck your energy and confidence about writing into this pit of dark that makes you think you can't do it. I realize that one gives them the energy to do so-- they can't do anything to you that you don't let them do. But if that person is someone whose opinion you want to trust, it's very hard.

Writers need feedback. I have these ideas, but I do need to know what others think of them. Am I going in the right direction, is the story interesting, should I add this detail, that element? It's, I guess, a corollary to something I posted on a FB status not too long ago, about how it's much easier to believe the negative things people say about you, for some reason.

I am a glass half full person, most of the time. And I will keep writing, no matter if I encounter a bunch of vampire-y "I don't like the story this way" types. I do want feedback, and some of what I've gotten so far has been awesome. But I can't/won't write the story that someone else wants, that someone else would write. It is MY story, and succeed or fail, I have to write the one I have here. It's not someone else's way of doing it.

I feel so different here than I did when writing my dissertation. All of that was wrestling with the theory gods, sitting down daily to be smart. This story is here in my core, I feel it there, and right now, I even know which character wants to talk. It's her turn, and I know, sort of, where she's going.

It's kind of weird, but I like it. Just gotta stay away from the Black Holes of creativity in our lives, even if we want them to suddenly turn in to supportive perfect writing partners; it's obviously not going to happen, so get over it, right?

Writing and Crying

2009-12-12T12:51:00.002-06:00

This morning, I was reading through an old book I've read many times before by Charles DeLint called Memory & Dream. It's a gorgeous bit of magical urban fantasy short story collection that takes place in Newford, a city up in Canada, and featuring a lot of really cool characters. De Lint has also written longer books about a lot of the characters who appear in the book, which is sort of a themed short story collection. While it's not a novel, all the stories have the same feeling of magic and fae beauty.

I was reading one story about a writer who plants a story tree, wrapping it in a poem first and then whispering stories to the seedling. The writer pesters friends to tell it stories and by the end of it, the acorn is a sapling ready to be planted.

I wound up in real tears afterwards. This is SO the way I want to write, this mythic magical fiction that is also somehow realism. Since I'm writing my novel, I am trying to read things that are written the way I want to write, to set the mental mood in that direction. I do that with poetry-- I am most inspired to write good poems when I'm reading Anne Sexton, for instance.

My novel thus far has one full chapter, 46 pages, and 16,905 words. I've started it out with a faux newspaper article, and I have these really cool plans for it. I've been gathering photos of San Antonio and the other important elements of my setting and I have those scrolling through my screensaver. I also made a playlist of songs that work with the mood I'm trying to create.

When I started the novel, it was about a year ago and I think, if I remember correctly, I had just read one of Charlaine Harris' Southern Vampire books. The beginning tone of it, thusly, was that quirky kind of funny snarky tone. I am now slowly weeding most of the more snarky bits out of the tone because that's not really where I want to go with it.

I want it to be mythic, to make you go into downtown San Antonio and see the magic there, the ghosts. There are a lot of them, in fact (or fiction, however you want to read it).

They are happy tears. I am so glad to be finally really doing this, breaking through that mental block I have had about sitting down and doing something as frivolous as writing a novel. I've put it off for so long, and there are many things I've wasted time on that I could very well have been working on this, far more frivolous things than writing. But I think it's probably a fear thing; if it's all just in your head and you can tell yourself you're too busy to write, then you don't have to risk not doing it right, doing it well.

Neck is out. Tears are happy.

I so want to be Charles De Lint when I grow up.

Funny Thing

2009-12-01T19:23:00.002-06:00

is that today, after having finally made it real to leave the Ivory Tower, at least my small place in the servant's quarters of it, I had a former student stop by to ask for some advice. He is thinking of changing his major to English from (shudders) Computer Science.

About a year ago, I would not have been able to feel very enthusiastic about counseling a smart young person to change to English as a major. It felt pretty hopeless to even contemplate getting a good job in the field that I have devoted much of my life to.

But today, I felt really happy for his thinking. I came up with a few options that might work for him, and was almost sorry that I am not going to be here next semester. That, coupled with a conversation with another bright student who wants to be a nature zoologist later in the day about food, and books, and seeing that beginning place they are at makes me happy.

Happy. I'm still anxious, for sure, but now my enthusiasms are closer to those of the ones starting their quest, instead of me feeling mired in a place where I am not going anywhere.

Bridges

2009-12-01T09:44:00.002-06:00

So I just sent off a letter to interested parties (department head types) that I am no longer adjuncting, here or anywhere. I'm still a little freaked out by it because on the one hand, it feels a bit like leaping into the void.

I've always planned to work in Academia. However, standing on the outskirts as an adjunct after working forever to get a PHD is NOT an acceptable way to do it. If I don't go Tenure Track somewhere, I'd rather not do it at all. It's too much of a ghetto, too much of a "not good enough". Even at a school where people are nice, (and there are plenty who are) I just hate not being a real part of the department. Things I tried to do to contribute were seen as weird, or "pushy" so I quit doing them. Adjuncts just don't Do that sort of thing.

So I am done. I will work for Andrew & myself on our Real Estate empire (and let me tell you, the pay is better & I am desperately needed to do the work). I will also start in January on the five or six novels that I already have written out in my head. (One at a time, of course). I will be a little house-wife-y-- keep the place a bit cleaner. No matter how few hours a week one teaches as an adjunct, it's always just enough to make it hard to do the other work in your life. With a "real job" (read, tenure track) it would be different, in part, because I'd make enough money to pay someone to do the laundry, clean the floors. But adjuncting just doesn't cut it. One of my friends figured out that when she was working the way she should, she literally made 4 cents an hour. Nope. Not gonna go there.

So I am done. I don't plan to say I am never coming back to adjuncting, perhaps at another local school, perhaps even here (if I don't piss everyone off by leaving now--which I hope I haven't done, haven't tried to do...). But for now, this bridge is crossed. I don't know what's on the other side. Maybe literary fame and fortune, maybe teaching somewhere else someday (like Paris!) but for now, it feels pretty good.

Pigpen Boy: 1 of 150

2009-11-21T09:35:00.004-06:00

It took a long time for me to agree with the school that Sean had what they like to call "a touch of Autism." I know he is speech delayed. I knew sometimes he likes to spin in the light, play with particulates, eat mud, taste the world. For me, this is being a little boy, just magnified a bit.

I do admit, now, that it is a touch of actual Autism. He is super duper sensitive to certain things, very very particular about his shoes, for example. YOU cannot get him in a pair of shoes that he does not like. Sorry. Not gonna happen. I get looks sometimes when he throws a fit about something because he simply does not understand me; people think at his age he ought to behave "better." But I shrug those off. Don't get me wrong: I get a little mad, a little indignant. But it does no good to explain to those people giving me the stink eye, and besides, I'm too busy trying to catch my wild little boy.

When Sean started school, he communicated far less effectively than he does now. It is amazing what his teachers do for him and he loves them very much. I appreciate them a lot because while I struggled to figure out ways to communicate with my bright little boy, they already knew things that work. From mostly non-responsive a year ago, he can read the ABCs on starfall.com better than his sister can. He actually is sounding things out, reading simple phrases perfectly. Again, better than Maia does. Now, if you ask him a direct question, he still might not answer you, or his answer might be a phrase from one of his favorite movies "Don't scare Insectasaurus" is one of them or "Scarey" another.

Yesterday, he went to school a little ratty. He is a DIRT MAGNET sometimes. I didn't know this, as his dad was escorting him to the car, but he dipped his hand in the firepit ash on the way out the door and swiped it across his shirt. If I had known that, I would have insisted on a shirt change and hand washing. In the car, he also had a do-nut, so his face was a bit dirty when we got to school. If I had caught it, I would have tried to make it better; however, I cannot be on top of it 100% all the time. It's impossible for me to be perfect; I am not a Stepford Wife. Sorry.

After school, his teacher explained to me that "they" were looking at Sean because of his messiness. He goes to a school that wears uniforms, and while he usually has a nice clean one on when we leave the house, even that five minutes of driving can wreak havoc on the cleanliness considering his dirt magnet-status. He just doesn't understand what all that fuss is about-- why does he have to have his hair brushed, face washed? That's just parents being annoying.

THEY means other teachers, who have, apparently, been saying things to his regular teachers. These regular teachers, who love Sean quite a bit, are frustrated, because while they understand that's just the way Sean is, and we try super hard to work on it, it's not a sign of him not being cared for. But if the "They" of his school are saying things, then it's very upsetting for me, too. Andrew's first response is to go talk to the administration: the principal. If teachers are critiquing an autistic kid's clothing for not being finely pressed, I really want to invite them to care for him for about a day. They'd understand, then, I imagine. But that's pretty much impossible to do.

Anyway. MY solution is to talk more to his primary teacher, see what we can do to increase an understanding of the reasons why my boy is a bit of a Pigpen. But I also want to say something about Autism.

I wish as a culture we would cut parents ALL a little bit more slack, a bit of LESS JUDGEMENTAL understanding. We look at a mom or dad struggling with a kid and we figure "well, they're just not trying very hard" or "why don't they get a babysitter" or "if that were MY kid, I'd...." Sometimes, I'll grant that the clueless parents of the world are letting their kids run rampant and crazy and not paying any attention and not trying very hard. And I'll admit to having been a person without children who sometimes wondered what the heck those parents were thinking, and figuring, smugly, "my kids will behave better." Ah, so karma bites us all on the ass eventually, doesn't it?

But there are 1 in 150 children today being diagnosed with a dose of autism. How many of those kids you click your tongue about are being loved dearly by parents who DO have a clue, but who have a little bit of this growing disorder? And let me tell you: if your kid is a bit autistic, it's really really hard to get a babysitter. They mostly look "normal" (whatever the F. that is). But they might be behaviorally a bit different from your expectations of a "good" kid. And usually, the parents are trying, really, really hard.

There really are mixed feelings about "curing" Autism, as the Autism Speaks website advocates. But there really needs to be some understanding about this issue, because otherwise, you're blaming parents for something even the so-called "experts" don't really understand. These kids are wired a little differently from others, and if your kid is a calm, easy to handle kid that listens to you most of the time and doesn't like to dig in dirt and run faster than you can possibly imagine a four year old can run then count your blessings. You are one of 149 who drew the short straw.

Wheel of Time series finale

2009-11-16T08:35:00.003-06:00

About 20 years ago I started reading Robert Jordan's series known as the Wheel of Time. I guess it has about 12 of the books into it now, and it's been cruising along for all this time, sometimes a book out every year, sometimes longer between. Jordan himself died about two years ago with the series unfinished. But he had dictated serious notes and his wife found an author to finish the series for him.

The first of the three finale books,the Gathering Storm, came out recently. I had decided to "re-read" all of them before the book came out but I only got up to book four before giving in (I couldn't wait once I saw the book at Sam's) and buying the new one. They are BIG books (some run to 700 or more pages). They are seriously detailed. Sometimes, in the later books, that detail would get on my nerves. I just wanted something to HAPPEN. Some conclusion, some closure. It felt like Jordan had written himself into something he couldn't let go and we'd be strung along forever.

Now, with the deft writing of the new guy, Brandon Sanderson, the books are going very well. New guy balances the tone and characters nicely, and the story has progressed seriously in the last book. Part of me thinks it may be possible that Jordan himself could not have finished it. Sanderson does a good job, mostly because he doesn't get bogged down in the minutiae.

I could not put it down; all I wanted to do was read it. I am sad, now, that I'll have to wait a while until the next one. (I think the author said he was working on book 2 of the finale this June, so that probably means at least a year, probably more.) I don't know if I'm going to read the other five or so books again. I discovered while reading this one that I had actually skipped, for some reason, the last one to have come out. But I read the summary on wikipedia and caught up well enough, I think.

Anyway. Now that I don't have this book to look forward to for a while, I don't know what to do with myself. These kinds of books are the reason I became an English major, the reason I like to teach reading. They enrich my life in many ways (I see people and think of their motivations, sometimes, related to the mythic archetypes Jordan wove into the story).

If you've never read the story, I recommend it. If you were reading it and gave up on it, I also recommend revisiting it. Now that there is an end in sight, the length feels like a gift, rather than an irritating way to draw the story out forever.

Pirates & Tributes

2009-11-15T15:14:00.010-06:00

Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call
Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall
You've seen it all, you've seen it all...

My sister's first husband, married and divorced in her wild wild youth, and the father of my oldest niece, passed away yesterday. He wasn't that old, but these things sometimes happen. He had been ill for a while, but that's not what I want to focus on.

What I want to write about is him being the closest thing to a real "pirate" I ever knew. My sister met Eddie Dalton when we lived in Louisiana when I was still a kid myself. He was a little older than her and quite dashing... long cut blond hair, blue blue eyes, muscular. He was a Marine who served some time in the tail end of Vietnam and the discipline he learned there meant he was also one of the neatest men I knew, but neat in a somehow military way. Neat like cowboys, precise, and spare. Tough guy neat.

This is one reason I think he was kind of a pirate. He was the man who once told me that John Hinkley Jr. was the only "ex-Marine"--because he missed his target. He thought that was pretty funny; he had that kind of sense of humor that people don't always get, but I can see the humor in that joke now.

Yes I am a pirate, two hundred years too late
The cannons don't thunder, there's nothin' to plunder
I'm an over-forty victim of fate
Arriving too late, arriving too late

He called his car "La Bamba" and I would sing "here comes La Bamba" when he would drive, fast, into the driveway, loud music playing. I remember he always had cool things from Asia-- a puzzle box I never did figure out. I remember how he drove that car off a dead-end highway and a fencepost landed squarely in the passenger seat through the window. He was fine-- and the car was mostly fine. He thought it was funny. He lived fairly wild, too, and that's why he was not the man my sister stayed with forever. But he never did marry again. I don't know if he carried a torch or if he just never found anyone else ornery enough to take him on. Even so, he helped out our family many times when I was in high school, even when my teen enthusiasms bugged him, a man who mostly wanted to be left alone.

When Sara was born, he was so excited. Back then, I guess people didn't find out the sex of babies as much as we do today, so we didn't know what she was until birth. He brought her a football-- a nerf one-- and held it up to her while looking through the nursery window. That was her first toy. He loved her so much-- and she is probably his best redeeming grace, that face, those blue eyes of hers, the narrow face that looks so much like him. She is a kind, gentle person who cares sometimes too much; it hurts her and she worries a lot. I wish she could take a teeny bit of his strength like that; the ability to tell the world "he wanted to be buried facedown so the world could kiss his ass." It's not a bad lesson to learn, sometimes.

He was an amazing carpenter of boats and this is the work he did most of his later years. He called himself a "fishhead" because of his work in the Destin, Florida, area with fishing/charter boats. The fiberglass he installed is probably one of the things that caused his poor health, but I think he would have found that funny, too. I imagine he built a number of the boats that you would go on if you went charter fishing in Destin. Probably from scratch. I wish he could have done that without the demons that sometimes haunted him. I think he would have been rich if he could have capitalized on that gift-- not that he would have had that as a goal.

And I have been drunk now for over two weeks
I passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks
But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again
Just a few friends, just a few friends...

He once got into a fight with a police officer who had pulled him over and the policeman ended up with the worse end of the fight. It is not something to brag about and at the time, I was really mad at him. But here's the twisted pirate logic: he and his buddy had been drinking too much. Eddie figured he was the MORE sober one so was driving. My niece was in the car (was pretty young) and he wanted to protect her. The policeman who picked the fight, by the way, was the one who got in trouble-- not Eddie.

I'm not going to pretend he was a saint now that he's gone-- oh, no, far from it. In fact, I imagine he would be pissed if people started that. He was a hard man to like sometimes, but Sara loved him dearly. It is fitting that she was the one who had to make the decision to let him go, yesterday. He didn't suffer long, and he wouldn't have wanted it to be a big long ordeal.

I've done a bit of smugglin', I've run my share of grass
I made enough money to buy Miami, but I pissed it away so fast
Never meant to last, never meant to last

He wants his ashes scattered across the gulf of Mexico, and they're working on setting that up. I think that is fitting for him, because I think he was most truly happy when he was building a boat or sailing out there in the salty air.

Mother, mother ocean, after all the years I've found
My occupational hazard is, my occupation's just not around
I feel like I've drowned, gonna head uptown.

I have always thought of him when I heard this song. I also have thought it would be kind of cool to be drunk now for over two weeks--just to tell the world to piss off and do what you wanted to do. This is something I think of Eddie with. I probably always will think of him when I hear this song.

May you find fair winds and following seas on your final journey, Eddie.
And perhaps a pirate ship to crew and sunny days ahead.

Roller Coaster Life

2009-11-13T10:46:00.005-06:00

It's always amazing to me how fast time flies by. I will be waking up on Monday, tired and not ready for the weekend to be over and then I blink and it's Friday. Where the hell did that whole week go? Why is there another ton of laundry to fold; who is wearing all of these clothes?

And don't get me started on all the things I do not get done in that time. It was a freakin' blink, already, how could I have gotten anything done?

What we've been doing around here is fairly simple.

morning routine.
daytime stuff-- rental property issues, lunch with Andrew, LAUNDRY, trying to stay half a step against the mess in the house. Teach on Tues & Thurs.
pick up kids
snacktime for kids
grocery for dinner/cook dinner
sit outside with firepit.
watch the kiddos (yes, both of them) play on starfall.com and learn ABCs and computer skills. Be amazed.
Watch them run around outside in the dark chasing each other with their Nerf Swords. Be amazed, again.
Relax for a little while.
Enjoy a glass of Pinot Grigio. Attempt to keep it to ONE glass. It's a big glass. ;)
Bath/Bedtime
rinse. repeat.

Our trip to Texas last weekend was both good & sad. Andrew's cousin Wil was an important part of his life and he's gone, and the funeral events lasted all weekend, so we didn't get a lot of other stuff (visiting with friends, my birthday) done at all, really. But we DID get to spend a lot of time with family members. The old family cemetery was beautiful. And the hill country was amazingly gorgeous-- Fall leaves, sun at that time just before it goes down, hills like roller coasters and happy kids.

This weekend, we're actually having some company over, our houseguests are probably going to start moving into their own place soon and I suspect life will suddenly seem a lot quieter (and that's not altogether a good thing; I've enjoyed having the company).

But I doubt this fast forward button will slow down until far away into the fast forwarding future. Just throw your hands up and enjoy the roller coaster and try not to toss the cookies. It doesn't matter that I don't particularly LIKE roller coasters and prefer the quieter, simpler rides. I'm on this one, so I may as well try to live in this moment and enjoy the parts I can.

Pina Coladas Don't Do It For Me Anymore

2009-11-05T11:01:00.007-06:00

Waiting, again.
There are magazines and soft music
but the chairs are not soft.
And the conversations
of others
grate.

If there were more or less time
then we could
we could
escape this place.

With people we don't know
who don't know us
who don't want to really anyway.

Waiting, for this, for life,
for fulfillment for
escape?

I remember a song
about the meek
and flip another page.
Waiting.

Tribute to an Era

2009-11-04T08:11:00.004-06:00

Early this morning, Andrew got a call from his cousin that his father's cousin Will had finally died. He's been fighting for the last few weeks or so with a heart & lung condition and apparently had just had it. We weren't surprised, although after we had visited him two weekends ago we thought he may have rallied.

Wilford was an ornery old coot. He made that character from that 90s movie City Slickers, played by Jack Palance, look like a wimp. He was a geologist in the oil business and he could tell you long, boring stories about the Earth-- Andrew's dad once asked "why those rocks were black" and the explanation started "well, back when the Earth was formed....." and went on about an hour later.

Andrew's dad & Will had a funny relationship. They'd been together their whole lives-- both growing up on a dirt farm in Central Texas and pulling themselves out of there at the first chance they got. Once, we were out to a fancy dinner and Wilford started to recite some long poetry of the 19th century sentimentalist for "men's ways" sort (huntin' and shootin' poems, you know) and Jim said "Willie, I didn't like your poetry back then and I aint gonna listen to it now".

Sometimes I didn't really like him. He could be an opinionated bastard, and I recall him hounding me about a year before I finally got pregnant about my "biological clock" and I told him "Willie, my biological clock is MY business." He shut up, but he was a little smug when I told everyone I was having not one but two kiddos

Anyway, he was a one of a kind guy and even though he could be a pain in the ass to go out to dinner with when he started loudly spouting off those kinds of conversations, he is one of the last of Andrew's dad's generation. They were all a bunch of tough old coots, in the long run, and we owe a lot to them.

We'll be going to San Antonio for the funeral this weekend, and see family. We're glad we made the trip a couple of weekends ago to see him when he was in a rallying period, too. That's important; see people when they're still here as much as you can.

In honor of him, I recall a cool cowboy poem by Wallace McRae called "Reincarnation". I'm not going to reprint it cause he specifically says not to on his website, but go check it out; it's the second one on the page.

Spitting in the Face of the Void

2009-10-26T09:13:00.004-05:00

A friend wonders in his FB status update "if blogs are dead." Nah. I don't think so, but they've "moved on". Few people really comment here-- I import my blogs to FB and most of my comments happen there. So perhaps the technology of blogs w/ Twitter w/ FB w/ whatever has shifted and people have a 200 letter attention span. It's possible. But I deny the end until it's over.

But I do read a couple of blogs that I am not connected to on Facebook. The Writing as Joe blog, for example, seems a vibrant and wonderful as ever. I long to write more like Joe, to go to a quiet retreat at a lovely monastery once a year, to take such amazing photos. But I'm not as good a blogger as she is, I don't have her amazing rock star life. But I can aspire. :) Maybe that's why her blog lives on-- because she is the kind of writer that inspires us to be better (writers, people, etc.)

I have always written my blog for me. It's my journal, my record of days. For a while, people other than myself read it on a daily basis. And that was kinda fun. And that's mostly over, here, yes. And I probably have put things too personal up on it sometimes because it feels like a personal thing, and I probably have sometimes seemed really self-centered (because right here IS about me if nothing else in life is). But daily life is sometimes fun, sometimes boring, and sometimes worth writing about. *

I'll keep this going until I am bored with it, but since I like the daily or weekly (sometimes) grind of thinking about things I doubt that will ever happen. I don't think, like I once did, about certain events in my life "I can't wait to blog about that". But I do still like this space.

Keep watching. Or don't. I'll be here one way or another.

****************************************************

* these links are to my old blog, from the "golden age" of blogging.

Weird Googling

2009-10-21T19:51:00.004-05:00

So, for some reason, a bug to google former professors of mine from days of yore hit me tonight. I found a few; one has a super duper cool website that makes me want to tweak the heck out of my professional vitae/portfolio page. Looking at pictures of some of whom I haven't actually seen in years (almost 20 for one) and seeing the changes time has wrought, and the things that are exactly the same. Seeing time having been kind, or cool. What books have been written, lives have been lived.

I looked at the Honors Program page that I was a huge part of (president of the student organization, in fact) at the first University I attended. They looked so young and yet so familiar. Back when I was first in school, the Internet was not what it is today. I played a lot of Carmen SanDiego in the Honors office, and a lot of Tetris. But today, what are they up to?

Next thing you know I'll be googling former students whose names I remember. There aren't a ton of the ones who I can totally remember first & last names of from the top of my head, but there are a couple. I mostly remember faces, and that doesn't help.

But why am I feeling so nostalgic and weirdly googlish?

The Eyes Have It

2009-10-19T10:09:00.003-05:00

So last Friday I finally had the LASIK surgery I've been thinking about for a while. I had intended to get it back when I finished the PhD finally but put it off. Not for any particular reason, just mostly lazy.

It was really cool. Jokes about getting Jedi Laser surgery, my friend Michael joking about getting "eye boobs" from the eye steroid drops. The surgery itself took about ten minutes per eye, and was not any more traumatic than getting a quick dental surgery. I could probably have used one more Valium because I didn't really feel too anxious beforehand but during the actual procedure I was a bit nervous/freaked. I used some meditation strategies & recited "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day" (the part I can remember which is just the first stanza) in my head whilst being lasered. I ignored the slightly burning smell (kind of like when your dentist is drilling your teeth and you can smell that, too). Thought hard about the light I was supposed to be looking at. By the time I thought they were just getting started, they were done. It was just that fast. And I got a t-shirt, so there you go.

And almost instantly my eyes were 20/20. I had some minor irritation the first day-- like an eyelash in my eye. And it was kind of hazy/cloudy. The best comparison I can give is like if you have opened your eyes in really salty Gulf of Mexico water for a few minutes and then afterwards gotten some sand in there. Not too bad!

It's been three days and I've had to keep up with eye drops & wear these super fashionable eye shields taped to my face when going to bed. Oh boy do I look ever cool with those. My eyes are still kind of droopy and I have a creepy red blood blotch in one of them (Hello 28 days later!) Heh heh. I'm still having "halo" effect around bright lights but to tell you the truth, even if that never goes away (and that is one possible danger of the surgery) I would be good with it. Considering how my vision was, and that my night vision wasn't awesome to begin with, I can totally live with it.

All in all, I am super duper happy. If anyone is considering doing this, I recommend it. But make sure you research your doctor and like them and take TWO Valiums.

I will still likely have to wear reading glasses in the next ten or so years as I get older but I'm good with that. I wore glasses for close to 30 years! I am all fine and dandy with not having to wear them now.

I am not super duper vain but I like the fact that I don't have to worry about scratched eyeglass lenses, or searching around like Velma on Scooby Doo when I can't find the glasses that have fallen to the ground. It will really help with my crime-solving activities with those darn kids and their meddling dog.

Pointless Blogging & 20 years of living

2009-10-13T19:36:00.003-05:00

So I really have nothing to post other than a general feeling of tiredness & nothing to say. So does that stop me!? NO! I don't let not having anything to say stop me! That's the mark of a true blogger! Hah!

Anyway. I was thinking about 20 years. I am turning 40 soon, and it's been 20 years since a lot of things. I could make a list but I'm just too lazy & kinda tired. But I can't believe how fast that much time can go by.

Inside I feel pretty much the same person, with a few softer edges here where worn down, a few harder, sharper edges there where things have rubbed the angles and ridges into me. I'm sometimes kind of startled when I see myself in a mirror and I look different from my own mental image of myself. Who is that person? I mostly like her, but there are a few things I would change, if I could. And I know that this happens to everyone, and I think about the things I know are rubbing or wearing other people and sometimes I can help, sometimes I can't.

I hope, though, that when I'm looking back at 20 more years I have done more help than not. Making the world a better place, even if only a little bit, is STILL my goal, even if I'm not as blasé about how easy it will be to do so.

Pet Peeves

2009-10-12T20:26:00.002-05:00

I, like everyone, have a few of these. Buttons that if you push can make me kind of crazy. I'm not going to list the one that is currently pushing my button because. Just because. Maybe it validates the irritation, maybe it points out to said button pusher that it's a thing for me.

But I will say that when one of these things that bug me happen, it's very difficult to be a grown up. I want to say rude things and devolve into an immature kid. I, therefore, resolve to get over it and be a grown up. However, I kind of hate being a grown up sometimes.

So "there" in honor of one of my biggest pet peeves.

Seasonal Blah

2009-10-12T09:52:00.004-05:00

I love Fall. It's the time of year of my birthday, and cool weather & sweaters. I am not a "shorts wearing" kinda gal and love layers of long lumberjack shirts and wearing my hair down where it doesn't get all sweaty and gross on my neck.

It's finally Fall here. I even am fine with the copious amounts of Fall rain. Fall rain isn't as annoying here as Summer rain cause Summer rain just makes it hotter & muggy. Fall rain makes me want to make crock pot soup & drink warm beverages while reading & sitting under a cozy soft blanket.

HOWEVER. Right now, I'm totally in the blahs about it. Last week Sean was sick and today Maia is home with a croupy cough. Last night she had a fever, and she just is whiney and full of "whys". (Why is the deer's antler's white? Why do I have to take the WHOLE medicine? Why Why Why?)

And also, I think whatever bug both kids are wrangling with I have a touch of, myself. I'm a little achey, and tired, and have just the slightest tickle of a headache that never quite fixes with normal headache meds. I would just like to lie in bed & veg, which I can't really do with a kiddo home from school, supposedly sick. (But too energetic, really, and wanting to sit on my lap while I type, something I cannot abide.)

And I have chores to do and a doctor's appointment for my later this week LASIK surgery. (Yay! But still, a thing that is harder with a kid around).

So I have the blahs. They will pass. And we will have cozy firepits and warm cups of stuff to drink and many, many delicious soups. And soft fuzzy sweaters, too magical to touch. Just Not Today.

(and while it doesn't look nearly as cool and autumny as in the picture above, it will, here in La, eventually. We actually get seasonal leaf changes, unlike in Texas where the seasons are Hot and Not Quite as Hot.)

Meyers Briggs Type

2009-10-11T15:11:00.004-05:00

Have you ever taken the Meyers Briggs test? A real one, not the facebook style ones you can get, which I am not sure are completely done right. I took my first one when I was in college many moons ago, and I am an INFP.

A lot of the times, I fit just fine into this profile. Sometimes, I suspect my blog personality is not as "I" as it could be, and I think that's because for the most part, especially lately, I tend to consider the blog a private place (I know; that's silly because it IS NOT actually private. It's a disconnect of blogging for me). The big difference is that generally, if it's on this blog, it's not really something that reveals that much of me, in reality. I've put details on past blogs like parts of my body that were sore or getting into an argument with a friend over drinks or something that might seem super private but those are details that, to me, don't mean all that much about who I really am. I can be super-sensitive, and get my feelings hurt (and sometimes never totally get over it) over small things to other folks, and I think, because I don't always talk about it and definitely try to not bring it up every single time we fight, people forget about this aspect of my persona.

Anyway, the main point of this post is to talk about my hubby & I. Andrew tends towards a flip flop on the first two categories, but then on the last two is a TJ. Totally opposite of me, and sometimes we rub up against friction for those reasons. I don't particularly notice the teeny tiny toys scattered all over the floor; Andrew sees them and goes nuts about it because he worries about whether someone will fall & hurt themselves on them. I would worry about the falling part if I thought about it, and that's a really good way to point it out to me because then I DO care, and will, from then on, attempt to fix the issue.

I suspect that if we really looked more deeply into descriptions of this kind of thing it would help, at least me, be more aware of how to compensate for those moments in marriage, (or even in friendships) when personality type issues make us fail to see each other's points of view. I want, very much, to make things better, and try most of the time to be an ideal of myself, and try very hard to be kind, as often as possible. But when I do FAIL, I'll bet it's because something just hasn't registered as important to a bigger picture, and that teeny detail (to me) seems huge to someone else.

I take comfort in the fact that AA Milne, the man who wrote Winnie the Pooh, is supposedly an INFP. Yeats, Shakespeare, and Keats are supposedly INFPs too. So a lot of writers, and good company to be in, apparently. I wonder how often Shakespeare's wife yelled at him for leaving his quills all over the place.

Breath of God

2009-10-04T12:30:00.006-05:00

I feel poetry stirring,
delicate white feathers with a gentle touch of
lavender on their tips.

Sweetly soft music plays, colors swirl...

Then my son flings an entire ream of paper into the air.
he laughs and twirls and scatters it across the floor.
twirls, lies his entire body in the papers,
eats a quick snack.

This has happened before.

My delicate feathered Muse
flits, hummingbird like, away in horror;
she is not a "kid person." Decidedly not.

My daughter wants to sit on my lap.
Begs for a mama snuggle,
asks me to draw her a pumpkin.

The Muse locks her door, refuses to come out.
Renews her resolve to never marry, have children.
Shakes her head and purses her lips at my ineptitude as a rule-maker.

I know that there are people out there with hardier inspirators
that roll up their sleeves and write Nobel-winning books
with children on their laps.

I know that it only takes time
and energy and
perhaps
a good set of earplugs.

But for the life of me, I can only coax my Muse out to write poems
about writing poetry and
this
moment
of simply not wanting to clean up a floor full of empty
white
paper.

KAW Oct 09

Empathy

2009-09-28T09:12:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, it's so easy to forget to be empathic. People piss us off, and we want to reach out and hurt them back. And it can be so easy-- a word, an action, and that person can be nailed and part of you, the tiniest, meanest part, is happy about that. And sometimes the people we love the most are the ones who it's the hardest to cut some slack.

I was thinking of this last night as I was trying to fall asleep, remembering my Empathy How To manual last spring that helped get me through a rough patch in my life. And how much that "found moment" of information and pretty pictures made me focus on practicing niceness, kindness to everyone-- including myself. That's why, I guess, in yoga it's called a practice, because you never really get it right.

So today's empathy quote: Scott Adams: "Remember, there's no such thing as a small act of kindness. Every act creates a ripple with no logical end."

Remodeling and other Silly Updates

2009-09-18T12:44:00.003-05:00

I went to Lowe's today where I think I have a "rep." Actually, I was impressed the chick at the commercial desk did seem to recognize me as I bought my seven gallons of paint (four in "Mark Twain Oak," one in "Sand Swept" (kinda yella) and one on "Utterly Blue." And two rooms of ceramic tile, and a new cool retro diner-y looking light fixture for the kitchen, and some paint (yeah!) for the countertop. They make countertop paint now! I hope it works. It'll be cool like dat if it does. And copper paint for the over the stove cool old fashioned vent thingy. We also plan to paint the outside of this currently a blah primer white with ugly green shutters and I picked out a pretty blue for that. It's gonna be purty. We aren't, on this one, pulling up the carpet like we usually do because the people who might rent like carpet (I hate hate hate it. But I'm not living there.)

Anyway, the point isn't so much to talk about all the painting but my Fangtasia T-shirt, which I am wearing. It's got an address, right here in Shreveport, which, if you follow the True Blood series or Charlaine Harris books, you know is where the vamp bar is. On Industrial Loop. I got a TON of attention for this shirt at Lowe's today. I've worn it before and only had one person notice, but apparently the show is better known now and people were all excited. One guy said he was gonna go "check it out" (the place where the shirt says Fangtasia is.). I told him to be careful; there's vampires there.

Now for lunch and prep for a friend to maybe come into town later today. Which equals: cleaning the guest bedroom. Not a hard job, just gotta do it.

Silly updates. What's for lunch? Will someone bring me some Monjini's?

Ya-Ya

2009-09-16T09:04:00.005-05:00

I'm doing the "housewife" thing today and cleaning my messy, messy place (amazing how much two determined four year olds can trash a place). That also means folding the 3/4 ton of laundry I have piled up. (I hate hate hate laundry. If I could afford to pay for a maid to do my laundry I would be in sheer heaven. One can dream.)

While I'm doing that dreaded chore, I'm watching TV. Flicking around, I found the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood on HBO. I read the book a long time ago; it was my Christmas present for everyone that year. I've read the sequels, but that first one is really the best. I saw the movie when it first came out with one of my oldest friends on a rainy day in Birmingham.

Things have changed so much since then. When I saw it the first time, I cried for the little kids that were being beaten in one scene but then, I cried as the child. As a child who identified with the children. Today, watching it, I cried as the mother who saw her children being beaten. It's a different place, and it sucks almost as much as the one getting hit. I am grateful that I have a husband who is supportive and there-- because one of the major problems in the Ya Ya world is that there husbands were NEVER around (it was a different era, yes, but I never ever did not notice that aspect). I also have never been that sad/depressed or on the edge. Not even close. But I am very aware of how much the day of folding laundry WITHOUT kids around means, how much it costs, and how much it is a saving grace to a tired mother's sanity. Just to have a chance to watch twenty minutes of a movie I've seen before, have memories of other times and other places with close friends, and cry a little girly cry.

And to think about the way life changes, and things we never saw coming will happen, and yet, as in the movie, there is always a chance for redemption and even sunflowers.

Ampersand

2009-09-13T11:26:00.002-05:00

&.

I like the ampersand. It's a very pretty piece of--well, it's not really punctuation, nor is it a letter. I must google it. OOh. It's a logogram. Cool. Learn something new every. single. day.

Anyway. A lot of fonts go curly and fancy on ampersands. I include it in my page title, although not in the url (I don't think you can in blogger). I remember using it a whole lot in an early draft of my dissertation and having my advisor ping about it. I know, I know. It's not formal and academese-y enough.

I use it a lot in poetry. ee cummings used it a lot, and perhaps that's one place his poetry has continued to influence mine. Since he was one of my first favorite poets (still is, in fact) I know his work has resonated on my brain since high school. So perhaps it's all his fault.

& then...

I hear a child messing with my other computer, the computer is pinging "help help help" at me. So my not-saying-anything-really blog post is now officially over.

&

Rainy Days Make Me Bloggy

2009-09-12T17:05:00.002-05:00

Well I obviously haven't been writing much here. I've been so busy that it just doesn't seem like five minutes of blogging time gets factored in very often. But it's mostly good busy.

We're still fixing up old houses in the Highland historic district in town & then renting them out to folks at a reasonable rate. That still feels really good to do, in spite of the few bad eggs as tenants we've had. But it takes up a lot of time, because we don't cookie cutter the work. I go to Lowe's, pick out cool light fixtures that match the house's personality; we paint in colors that are comfy. We have handymen that jones to live in our places. That's gotta be good.

The kiddos are doing fine. Right now, in fact, they're napping, and needed a nap very much. They, and I, were both crabby earlier but we're better. Their dad is just now opening the door downstairs, and we're all good on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

That's the news & the weather.

Salamander Alert

2009-09-01T09:22:00.002-05:00

Opening my campus office door, flipping on the light, I see something tiny scurry across the newly illuminated white floor space.

Um, what was that?

Could have been all kinds of things; we live in the Swampland, and those big roaches are never entirely gone from a building. (Palmetto bugs).

Instead, I see, on further peering about, a teeny tiny baby white salamander scurry under my desk.

Since we're on the second floor, and very concrete-tile-frigid-sterile 1970s Cold War Era building, I can't even imagine how that little fella' got here. Maybe there are entire colonies of salamanders that have never seen the natural sun. Existing on dropped cookie bits & copier toner.

Welcome, little friend. Stay off my toes, please. I think I'll call you Charlie.

Week Two

2009-08-31T09:15:00.002-05:00

School this semester looks like it's shaping up to be a mellow, not so crazy with piles and piles of essays to grade constantly fun semester. Which is good. I need a bit of a break.

I have tons of stuff to do. Workout, housework, go over and do some work on our current remodeling of the house in Highland. I will not be able to get everything done. Wednesday I'm going to get my hair done. Dammit. I will I will I will. Take a few hours for just me. I'm even going to skip my morning workout for it! I will have to find something active to do later, with the kiddos.

Anyway. This ^ is my week ahead. But on a less crazy busy more visiting with family side we are planning a trip to Texas this coming weekend. It sort of came up suddenly but I looked around and realized we could, if Andrew took Friday off, score a freebie four day weekend. So there you go.

And I swear, if Sean doesn't stop pulling keys off my laptop keyboard I'm going to scream. I have four keys pulled off and too damaged to fix, but they aren't essential keys, really. But I think he's done something to my control key. I can't get it to work this morning. Screamz!!!

The Don't Lie Meme

2009-08-28T05:55:00.003-05:00

Since it's been so busy around here and I haven't had time to blink, I'll post this meme to the blog first. It'll wander over to Facebook when the RSS feed updates. :)

RULES - Copy, paste, and fill out in your notes section (created on your profile page). Then, tag your friends, including me.

******************************************************
Can you fill this out without lying?
Yeah. It's not really all that deep, honestly.

What was the last thing you put in your mouth?
Coffee

Last person you rode in a car with under the age of 20?
Sean & Maia

How do you feel about Dr. Pepper?
I drank it a ton as a kid but don't drink soda any more. Sean LOVES it.

Have you ever kissed anyone named Matthew?
Nope. Is this meme by McConaughey tryin' to get some play? :)

Where was your profile picture taken?
Joanne's house, just before going to see Wicked. About 2 months ago.

Name someone that made you laugh today?
It's too early. The cat was funny running in after a long night out... I don't think I laughed though.

How late did you stay up last night and why?
About 9:30? When we put the kiddos to bed, we usually fall asleep ourselves.

If you could move somewhere else, would you?
San Antonio. Maybe Florida (panhandle).

Ever been kissed under fireworks?
Most likely. It's not a "special memory"

Which of your friends lives closest to you?
Hmmm. Mandy. But she's moving. :)

Do you believe ex's can be friends?
Nope. Not in my experience.

Calling or texting?
Calling

When was the last time you cried really hard?
Hmmm. I don't really remember.

Where are you right now?
Kitchen

What bed did you sleep in last night?
Matthew McConaughey's. (Just kidding. I guess I lied, huh? Does that mean I'm not in the meme club?)

What was the last thing someone bought for you?
Uh, Andrew bought me super good dinner last night.

Who took your profile picture?
Myself, with the webcamera on Joanne's computer.

Was yesterday better than today?
So far, nah. I had to work yesterday so it ought to be relaxing today.

Do you think relationships are ever really worth it?
Yup. They're what make us human.

Are you a bad influence?
Definitely.

Night out or night in?
In

What items could you not go without during the day?
My cell, blue gum, contact lenses!!

What does the last text message in your inbox say?
Hmm. I think it's the one about Artspace burning in Shreveport. :(

Do you hate anyone?
I try not to. Sometimes it's hard when they have caused you so much pain.

If we were to look in your facebook inbox, what would we find?
A lot of things from friends closeby planning kid events this summer. Some art activities around town I'm trying to do more of.

Can you easily tell if someone's fake?
McConaughey, that's personal info. Nah. Probably not if they're good actors.

Has anyone ever called you perfect before?
Yes.

Has anyone ever called you a perfectionist?
No. I'm not one; kind of more of a fly by the seat of my pants kinda gal.

Can you whistle?
Yes.

Do you sleep on your sideS, stomach, or back?
Most of the time on my back anymore. But I like it on my side. I used to love tummy sleeping-- can't do it anymore.

When is the next time you will see the person you like?
In a sec. Hubby is washing up his breakfast dishes and he'll probably come over and say bye in a minute.

What song is stuck in your head?
none... I refuse to think about this question too hard.

Someone knocks on your window at 2am, who do you want it to be?
Santa Claus.

Who was the last person to tell you that they love you.
Andrew, most likely. Maybe Maia.

Wanna have grandkids before you're 50?
Unlikely. Because of my situation with adoption, it's possible, however. (Not with Maia & Sean, but if the birth kid shows up, he'll be 18 this year!!)

Name something you have to do tomorrow
Relax. Don't do it.

Do you think too much or too little?
WAAAY Too much

Do you smile a lot?
Yes.

Who was your last missed call on your mobile phone?
Andrew

What was the last book you read?
Last done with: Hands of Flame by C.E. Murphy.

What book are you currently reading?
Reading the first cyberpunk book... can't remember the name.

Is there something you always wear?
My diamond earrings. My wedding ring.

What were you doing 30 minutes ago?
Sleeping.

Did you have an exciting last weekend?
Nah. Although I did go to a hula hoop class, and that was fun.

Have you ever crawled through a window?
Yes.

Have you ever dyed your hair?
Yes.

Are you wearing a necklace
Nope.

Are you an emotional person?
Yes. Too much so, really.

Can you handle the truth?
Thanks, Jack Nicolson, but usually, yes.

What's something that can always make you feel better?
Having a little time to myself to think.

Will this weekend be a good one?
Hopefully. Most likely since hubby will be home.

What do you want right now?
A sip of coffee. Ah. Wish granted.

Are you mad about anything?
Not currrently, but I could over think something and manage it I'm sure.

When was the last time you were disappointed and why?
Uh, I don't know the last time. I have been disappointed with my job prospects. Oh-- I know. When Andrew told me we might end up living in S'port forever. :(

Would you share a drink with a stranger?
You mean, drinking out of the same cup? Or just getting to know someone? Depends. But yeah, as long as I'm not sharing cooties.

Who was the last person you visited in the hospital?
Andrew's Grandmother.

How many times have you been pulled over by the police?
A couple. Not too many. Last time was for an expired inspection sticker. Doh!

Have you ever worn the opposite sex's clothing?
Yes.

Where is your biological father right now?
I think, since he was cremated, his body is back in New York with his early family. I'd have to ask, though, cause I'm not positive. But technically, I hope HE's somewhere happy-- heaven, reborn, peace. What have you.

Whats on your schedule for tomorrow?
to be honest, probably REAL ESTATE CRAP again. But I try to have fun with it.

Look behind you, what do you see?
the stairs.

Can you live a day without TV?
yes. But I don't know if my kids could.

Does anyone of your facebook friends know your password?
Andrew probably.

Would you like some cake?
Definitely. But I shouldn't cause I'm being GOOD.

Resolved

2009-08-18T06:33:00.003-05:00

I thought this week that the kiddos were both going back to school, but it turns out Sean doesn't start until Friday. Which is fine, but I have him home still. But when I thought he was going back, I had plans for this week to be my "New Year" of sorts. I was planning to start the diet, start the going back to the gym plan for losing 30 (at least) pounds by Halloween. Which I still am doing-- it just starts next week, instead. (Well, the formal workout part of it at least).

When I was in grad school I had scooted my weight up about where it is now, actually, even without the help of having two kids in the middle of it. "Giving birth" to the dissertation was labor enough. But I lost most of it; 50 pounds of fat to be exact (I gained a bit of muscle during that time so it didn't necessarily round out to a total loss of 50 lbs). During that time, I even became, for a short while, an aerobics instructor. Certified and everything. Really. That lasted, oh, a few weeks. Then I was pregnant. And I could have kept doing it until that day I got a flu-ish bug and my boss at the gym basically was going to make me lead a class while pregnant with twins and flu-ish. I told her to get bent.

Anyhoo-- I digress. The point is this: today, in spite of the fact that I am not as I had planned going back to the gym yet I am starting my diet/exercise plan. I actually AM going to bellydancing class tonight, and that will give me a little bit of a workout (probably a bit more than last week... and I was even a little sore then). I'll try not to over load the blog/facebook with too much diet talk; that can get really boring really fast. But this is the official start of the quest to look like my anarchy cheerleader by Halloween again. (If you know not what I speak of there, look in my facebook old pix file). I can do it; I will do it.

Of course, the added bonus is that in order to lose all that weight I'm not drinking for at least 6 weeks, and there will not be any more melancholy too much red wine posts like there was last night. Oy! What a silly head sometimes! Tell the whole Internetz, why don't you? So this resolve is strengthened by this morning's not silly but icky head.

Blog Post Left IntentionallY Blank

2009-08-17T18:58:00.002-05:00

Sometimes, I write a blog that I then decide to not make live.

It doesn't happen often. Sometimes I think about posting it on the now locked up, never written in, anonymous blog of yore.

But right this second, I'm feeling a little bit p'od. A little bit-- lied to. A little bit too compromise-d.

And I won't publish that blog post for now.

But I am going to go get another damned glass of Red Wine. Screw the headache. It's better than the heartache right now.

Ars Poetica

2009-08-17T07:04:00.004-05:00

When I was a senior in college, up at the lovely lovely Bellingham Washington campus of Western Washington U,* I took a "Critical Theory" course. It was summer, and the warmest it ever really got in Bellingham was the mid 80s. The sun was like the friendlier, more cheerful, less vengeful cousin of the one here in the South.

A group of us took this course together, taught by one of the profs in the department who, while he exuded professor-ly-ness, was also a really nice guy. (Not that those two things are mutually exclusive, but this one was particularly neat.)

We started with Plato, ranged through the years up to Showalter & Fish & Derrida. It was super interesting. A lot of writers write about their "Poetic Arts" and those writings become theoretical grounds for other artists. I think that a dominant trope still for most artists (at least the ones I come into contact with) is the Romantic idea of the artist as someone in a fluffy poet shirt who quaffs red wine and communicates directly with the Muses (or perhaps angelic women with too white face & rosy cheeks).

Anyway. The point of this is: what is my poetic art? I love to write. I love poetry, the confessional poetry is my favorite, probably. Anne Sexton, in particular. I wish I crafted my poetry more, created sonnets, formal verse. I usually don't, and I write too many poems about writing poetry. For my fictional art, I am really interested in a type of Magical Realism. I thought I was going to write Urban Fantasy, but this summer, I've been reminded of the roots of my favorite things, and what I want to do is a lot more like what Alice Hoffman and/or Charles De Lint do. This kind of dreamy reality where it's entirely possible for the dragonfly buzzing around you to turn into a fairy, but that fairy doesn't necessarily then want to "do you." (Which is kind of the "urban fantasy" place that scenario would often go....)

My short short fairy tales this summer were partly inspired by a book Alice Hoffman wrote, called The Story Sisters. In it, she frames chapters with a fairy tale version of the real characters' lives. I often write about myth and fairy tale in my poetry (see. there's a connection intended in these paragraphs) but I felt less like shaping these journeys into poems than I sometimes do.

In Bellingham, the campus was just lovely. Up on a hill, towers peeking through tall trees. There was a small road that went through part of the campus, but I think the only thing that drove down there (if I'm remembering correctly) was the city bus. In front of the bookstore. There was a steep slope, and at the bottom, a bank of trees. In the middle of that bank of wild looking trees was an old fashioned street lamp. It truly looked, for all intents & purposes, like a waystation to Narnia or some other faery land. I used to imagine seeing someone magically appear beside that lamp. Perhaps, someday, I will, and I'll find my fictional place nearby.

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*And it never snowed when I was there, and this picture isn't exactly the location I'm writing about-- it's quite nearby. You can see one of the lamps I'm talking about, though, and this is such a cool picture I had to put it on here. Such a nice campus. Looking at pictures of it just now reminds me and makes me super nostalgiac.

Summer's Final Days

2009-08-13T17:35:00.004-05:00

This summer has been fun, if really crazy & busy. As the first summer where I had a kid home most of the time, I have had to be patient in a new way. Learn to find things to do. Thank goodness we have a pool, cause the kids have been in it A Lot. Now that it's starting to cool off a little bit, they're spending more time in their play fort, and the pool has gotten a little more boring. We've played at the parks, gone on trips, boat rides, played with puzzles, watched scores of movies.

Right now I'm watching the flickering of afternoon slanted sunlight on the blue of the water. Maia is scheming to catch something that has fallen into the pool, crouched like a little monkey with a stick in the ant pile. Sean has had enough and is inside watching Bolt. (Again.)

It will still feel hot, for a while, here. But summer is officially on its way out the door. So the world spins and my garden grows. Sometimes a little weedy, sometimes too tall. Sometimes not what I expected. But thriving, even.

Next week planszzz

2009-08-10T20:17:00.003-05:00

Who wants to come with me for pedicure + tattoo + martini lunch day? Say, Wednesday?? Cuz next week is my summer vacation in like, four days.

And I realize this day negates my earlier post about diet week starting next week. Maybe diet week starts Thursday, after PTM day.

Heat

2009-08-10T16:41:00.004-05:00

I'm thinking about poisons. The type that go on apples, the type that go on spindles. Or perhaps the best kind are the curses-- you don't have to put a stopper in those, add the skull & crossbones. They are ultra portable, no?

Curses. Spite. They're always part of fairy tales; bad faeries seem ready to drop one at the slightest offense. Leave me off the party invitation list, will you? My RSVP will be on its way as a few words that will blight your fields, leave you asleep for an aeon, keep you from being fruitful.

But then, too often, the poison comes back to you, doesn't it? The stepmother swings from the heights in her red-iron-hot shoes. Dancing to the victor's music. The mirror is smashed. The dwarves dig, and dig, and dig, and the wicked fairies find themselves bound in iron and salt water and tossed deep. Deep.

The spite that gets unsaid, though, that poison eats at you. If you keep it inside, you find it resurfacing, so often you need a warning label on your own thoughts. Easier, perhaps, to let a young couple into your house, pretend to linger near the oven door, let yourself be pushed in. Easier to surrender. Let your wickedness finally be a cautionary tale to others.

Who, after all, really mourns the wicked?

Sleeper

2009-08-10T08:22:00.005-05:00

Even as long as she had been asleep, her eyes still moved with dreaming. What could you dream about after 100 years of sleep? Did she dream life, that she was awake, brushing her hair, doing the dishes? Ah, but princesses never do the dishes.

Perhaps in their dreams? If serving girls dream of life in the top floors of the palace, is it the opposite for those who have never touched real, hard life?

Probably not. She probably dreams of balls, dancing. Champagne in crystal glasses and kisses stolen on close embraces. Softness and furs and the flash of a chandelier.

Fine music, laughter. Or maybe spinning thread, fine silk, over and over into cloth. Into tapestries of history, life, unicorns in woods, or tigers dancing. Lovers meeting under apple trees while white peacocks look on, aroused. Life. Fate.

If she wakes from her dream, will that universe end?

Wicked (Step)Mother

2009-08-06T19:39:00.002-05:00

Us
Anne Sexton
I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow
came down like stars
in small calcium fragments,
we were in our own bodies
(that room that will bury us)
and you were in my body
(that room that will outlive us)
and at first I rubbed your
feet dry with a towel
because I was your slave
and then you called me princess.
Princess!

Oh then
I stood up in my gold skin
and I beat down the psalms
and I beat down the clothes
and you undid the bridle
and you undid the reins
and I undid the buttons,
the bones, the confusions,
the New England postcards,
the January ten o'clock night,
and we rose up like wheat,
acre after acre of gold,
and we harvested,
we harvested

I am only human. And not really all that old, as time is reckoned. And once upon a time, I was a princess.

You laugh. All you can see are the crow's feet, the blotches on my hand from too much sun. Hair with a few white streaks, right there, where I always said I wouldn't dye. Say, of photographs, "that can't really be you."

Men lay at my feet. Wrote my name on walls with spraypaint. Beat their chests as I gave them up. I was worshipped; a goddess.

Now, I see this girl, who looks like me. So much like me but better. No Oil of Olay could ever get me back there, no Age Defying makeup slant my eyes or highlight that color.

And this girl, I love, with an ache that eats my heart. Licks its fingers afterwards. Leaves me alone in a woods with wolves and red cloaks if I even imagine her not smiling at me. A tiny piece of me; the best bits.

What am I to do? They made me a step-mother. A little distance, makes it seem easier.

I avoid mirrors. They are only out to lie. I don't speak to fairies. All that wing-span makes them flighty. I sew buttons; I sew tapestries; I sew the entire history of my people. And I watch as she replaces me.

And I smile. Because, contrary to the Grimmest interpretation, it really is okay.

Out of the Woods

2009-08-06T12:09:00.004-05:00

After a long time, the princess made her own way out of the woods. Perhaps she no longer attracted the attentions of unicorns, and she had not worn flowers in her hair in a very long time. Her hair was not entirely red anymore and the wine in her basket for grandma was long gone. She carried her own pack, and knew that often, the heroes with the shiniest armour are the ones that can be trusted least. She knew how to handle wolves and never danced in fairy rings at night. She even knew that woodsman can sometimes come to your aid but more often than not, it's better to have an axe handy yourself.

When she made her way to the village she remembered as a girl, it was smaller, somehow, and there were heartsick memories lurking in shadowy corners. She ignored them and kept moving.

She didn't expect any fairy godmothers to help her. They were busy with their own lives, figuring out how to stop their wings from drooping, how to clean pumpkin carriages, or the best key for a song to get mice to sew little garmets for themselves. That sort of thing.

She found the house of her mother, long empty, cleaned it, chased fat dimpled spiders out of corners, lit a fire, mended curtains, cooked stews. A cat that had been living off the mice in the nearby woods took up a perch on her stoop, courteously ate rodents, sometimes leaving a bit of tail for the princess in payment for the scratches he deigned to let her give him.

If, sometimes, a young girl came to visit her, and they drank tea and talked of possible futures with handsome strangers and fate's change, if, sometimes, those young girls took away vials of hope and left a little money behind, well, that's small business for you. Time spent in dark woods with wolves and heroes will teach you a lot about fate, and futures, and the comforts of a small house with comfortable chairs.

But she never, ever, fed them gingerbread. That sort of thing only leads to trouble.

A-social networking

2009-08-06T09:40:00.003-05:00

Dang it. It looks like both Facebook & Twitter are having some kind of problems this morning. I thought maybe it was me at first, perhaps something had happened to my password but I checked on Twitscoop, which is independent of both but tracks what is trending on Twitter, and it does look like people who can post on, say, their iphone, are getting through but otherwise, there are connection & other problems.

Probably some kind of viral attack, I'm guessing, if it hit both sites at once. Funnily, there are no news stories about it that I can see. I would think that it would at least hit the tech news. Ah well. Maybe I'm just more observant than most newsies.

That's okay. I've scrolled through the news, found several disturbing stories, and now will go read my book. So Old Skool.

Fairy Tale 2: The Rain

2009-07-30T09:55:00.005-05:00

When the rain started, the world was dry. The plants surged upward, grateful, basking in the needed moisture. Children splashed in the puddles happily, kicked water on their parents, who laughed.

But the sprinkly storm turned heavy. The heat was moist, like a laundry room. The rain did not refresh anyone; people stopped splashing playfully in puddles and instead, began to fill sandbags with mucky brown grit. The domesticated flowers began to droop from too much water. Their leaves grew yellow, then brown at the edges, then, inexplicably moldy and finally, turned to mush.

It kept raining.

Vines dormant since the age of dinosaurs started to grow. Tiny green shoots, at first, they covered outbuildings, eclipsing their square shapes, then crept into the yard. Nothing had sharp edges anymore-- it was all soft, green, masses of tendrils. The tendrils grabbed at the children's ankles as they ran past, on their way through the downpour into the rapidly growing smaller houses. These vines had beautiful, giant flowers that smelled heavenly to the small birds and insects-- who hovered near and were snapped up, eaten by the flowers, slowly digested in slimey juices.

Still, it rained.

People forgot what lawnmowers looked like, left them to rust in the yards. The gasoliney smelling machines began to look like old art projects as the vines covered them, turned them into topiary of an ancient world. New indoor lives were found, forgetting the heat of summer, the heat of lemonade and ice cream and beaches and dry sand that sticks to the backs of legs.

The rain did not stop.

It dribbled. Drizzled. Poured. Torrents came down and then became gushers. Ditches filled up, overflowed. Sidewalks became small rivers. Doghouses floated away, some with the dogs, forgotten, perched on top of them, howling.

And the water and green kept flowing, flowing, flowing, until people forgot the words for "dry" or "dusty" and even "desert."

Hot & Rainy

2009-07-30T08:43:00.001-05:00

hot and rainy hot and rainy.

Ugh.

Fairy Tale

2009-07-29T18:31:00.003-05:00

Once upon a time a young, redheaded princess found her way into the woods. It doesn't matter which woods, it doesn't matter how she came to be there. What matters is that these woods were dark, and the paths were unclear, and there were small animals hiding under low branches as she passed. There were larger things, too-- the reason the small animals were hiding.

The redheaded girl did not wear a red-cloak, carry a basket for her grandmother, smell gingerbread, or hear fairy music leading her on. She simply walked. She was alone, and at first, she was not very afraid. She figured she would find her way out, and knew she had a good head on her shoulders, and reasoned that where she had been lost she would eventually find her own way out.

There may have been monsters. There may have been encounters with magical beasts-- perhaps dragons, with fiery red eyes. Perhaps unicorns, lulled by the sound of her singing into resting their heads upon her lap. Perhaps there were heroes so entranced by her beauty that they threw themselves into her service and found her to be worthy.

Perhaps not. Perhaps she was just lost, and never found, in a woods far from home.

Which story would you write?

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p.s. this is not a metaphor for my life. It is fiction. Don't read anything into it. I'm just thinking about fairy tales.

Peas in Pod

2009-07-28T07:49:00.002-05:00

So I go into the bedroom to check on a squawky kiddo. (Probably Sean who works up to being awake like this.) They were sleeping so closely piled up that for a second, adjusting my eyes to the darkness of the room, I couldn't see Maia. They were like one kid, attached at their back with legs scrawled to each side. Eternally twin.

They used to sleep like that all the time when they were infants-- bundled in their blankets, with head hands face in same exact position. I even have some cool photos I'd put on here if I wasn't too lazy to go find them.

I just thought it was kind of cool to see that again. Whenever they are in the bed together, they gravitate towards each other. This is just the most extreme example of it I've seen for a long time.

Feels Like Autumn Already

2009-07-28T07:22:00.002-05:00

Not to be a totally banal weather blogger but the last week plus week ahead here in the Swampland is rain rain and then more rain. With brief periods of muggy heat. Right now, in fact, as I sit here, it's dark and feels like earlier than it is. In our bedroom, it's super dark, and if I want the kids to wake up before noon, I'll have to turn on lights and make noise. I'm blessed with kids that will sleep in the morning (it wasn't the case when they were infants, however). But if I let them sleep too long, they won't nap and will be crabby all afternoon, so it's a fine line.

But the point is that because of all this rain and no sun for so long it really has started to feel, this week, like a turn towards Fall. I know it's not that long now until I'm taking the kiddos to "real" school again and going back myself. I have the syllabus I created last year for a new class I've never taught before, and there are about 8 students per class registered already (since it's mostly an all Freshman class, it's unusual for it to fill up before late Drop/Add).

I have big plans once this Fall semester starts. Academics tend to do this: the Fall is another "New Year" for us. We get new clothes, new students. Some of us try to clean up the office space at work. Me, I'm going to renew my efforts at the gym. I was being really good at the start of the summer but then when Sean went to his sporadic summer school schedule, I just lost all the extra time in my day. But I am recommitting seriously to the plan to lose 30 pounds of extra and re-muscleify re-aerobicize, re-tone my flabby tired almost 40 year old body. It will mean an actual diet, I think, this time. Complete with "nutrition shakes" for breakfast and light meals. And NO liquor for at least the first 6 weeks. I may quit altogether forever except for special occasions. It seems to me that it's half (perhaps even more than half) of the weight loss problem. You drink your "just one" glass of wine with dinner, and it tastes really good so you want another, then you figure "I'll just have a bowl of ice cream too" and then that is a BIG bowl and then there's an extra 500 calories in your day. That's more than a total hour's worth of walking on an elliptical, at least. If you're really killing the machine. And the most fit of people over 40 that I know, most of them don't drink much at all. It's a youthful thing. (Except for the French. And I seriously think they're tricking us somehow...) :)

Anyway. That's a long blog post to say: it feels a bit like the renewal of "back to school," back to work back to being something other than a slacker in PJs again. Just because of a week of rain. It'll go back to sunny & too hot, I'm sure, before summer really gives up the ghost but it's a tease, and I, for one, am looking forward to it. Even with the pain of working out and weight loss goals.

Fake Words

2009-07-26T16:40:00.004-05:00

Lately, when I have to type one of those "fake words" for verifying I am indeed a real person and not a spambot (an interesting image there--robot made of spam) I've noticed that they seem to have made that process more sophisticated. The "words" are more like words. Before when you would have to type some horrid combination of vowels & consonants that you'd have to look at several times to get right (and often the letters would wiggle in just such a way that you'd think-- is that a t or an f?) it would be really irritating to me, and I wondered about people who have just a little bit of eyesight issues, or certain reading disabilities.

But the last few I've done have almost been words. It's kind of pleasant, and I start to think "what if that WAS a word? what would it mean?" But then, I am a little bit on the weird side. ;)

And I'm loving the rainy weekend day we're having today-- a long moment after coming home where the hot lava colored dragonfly who keeps visiting our pond hovered and really seemed to be looking at us for quite some time, saying "hello" or perhaps chasing us off, a really good book,* naps, and a husband home and grumbling at bills and records.

And none of those fake words I imagine are for mundane things like bills or records. They're words like "magic" and "hero" and "rescue" and "ice cream."

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*Alice Hoffman's The Story Sisters.... possibly her best since Practical Magic.

What it Looks Like

2009-07-24T07:29:00.002-05:00

So all week, I've been super tired in the morning when I get up and drag the kids, kicking and sometimes screaming, out of bed to get Sean to school by 8. He's done with that now for three weeks, which will be tough ones.

This morning, when I could have slept in myself, I'm not so tired. I guess it's because I can leave the kids in bed & do things on my own without them on top of me for a little while. This is a rare break for a mom of young kiddos. Often, they want to be on my lap while I type (difficult to do when you have kids as wiggly as mine.) Or they just want me to be sitting there, watching Thomas the Train with them, or outside playing in the yard with them. I do that most of the time, too, with very brief minutes stolen away to check FB (it keeps me feeling connected to an adult world.)

But Andrew works pretty damn hard nowadays (and here in a minute is where the title will come in.) He gets up most mornings at about 5:30, 6:00 and heads to work, where he is all day until at least 4. Then he works sporadically (his phone tends to go off every five minutes) on our various rental property issues. Especially right now with two of them vacant & needing tenants.

Earlier, I'm sitting at the computer with a cup of latte he very nicely made me, checking my FB while he finishes his morning routine. He's leaving and I'm asking him what his schedule will be like. I can tell he plans a pretty busy day as he contemplates his lunch, and when he might make it home.

I think of what it looks like I'll be doing today, all day. Sitting here, mucking around on the computer. Easy easy. But what dads don't see are the countless moments of chasing after a kid. Andrew's a GOOD one, helps out a ton, even does it himself now & then. And it's not like I'm Martha Stewart. Sometimes, when he comes home, the house is a bit of a wreck. But he doesn't see how much worse it COULD have been had I not caught the kid in the fridge after the eggs, or spilling green kool aid all over the house, or whatever interventions in 4 year old universe I will have to make today.

It looks easy, being me, from his waking up early, running all day perspective. I get a little more sleep, I get to sit here for a little while on the computer checking up on my friends. I can imagine how it seems. But I've also been the one at a workplace all day, too, and I know how different that is, what that feels like for a grown up, and how some days I really, really would trade with him. Let him stay home and be "dad" and me go to work all day.

Moms are never off work. Maybe when they're fourteen I'll have some time off. Maybe then I'll get an employee of the month plaque and my picture on a wall somewhere and a cool parking place. :) Something to look forward to, I'll bet. But I'll also bet some other suckup employee will sneak in there and get the plaque instead of me because that always happens to me.

Exercising my Feminism Muscles-- a little

2009-07-23T17:53:00.004-05:00

I have a friend on Facebook who is passionate about blogging about feminist issues in a way I wish I still were. So I usually read her posts, even when I don't comment on them. In reading her blog today, I found a link I'm going to recommend in a minute.

It's interesting to see her flexing those issues and reminds me that these arguments don't go away (unfortunately) because I'm not actively in the trenches arguing about them. The anti-feminist trolls are still out there on those blogs that I don't read & comment on like I used to. Sigh.

There is, however, a blog that wasn't around back when I wrote about more than twins and whiney parenting and not having a permanent job. It's pretty cool, and I was reading over the discussions, wishing that I wrote more like this still, thinking of whether I'd be willing to get into that fray again.

For now, I think I'll just point you all to the blog (called http://finallyfeminism101.wordpress.com/) and say: here is a very useful resource.* If you're wondering what Feminism is, where to find interestingly written definitions of common feminist ideas/terms, etc, go to this blog and muck about. It makes me feel like I should be doing other things, like I haven't done this stuff in too long, but I don't know how much time I can devote to real philosophizin'-- especially with a kiddo literally crying (fake crying.. I'm glad to see it; it's a step in the right direction to his learning to communicate) for my attention.

My feminist muscles are a little shaky in theory, although I like to think that in raising two strong, assertive, kind, equal children of different genders, I am exercising them daily in practice.

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*And I am disturbed that "very useful" worked it's way into the post while I was listening to Thomas the Train. AAAAAUGH! Children's programming-- is it reprogramming me subconsciously?

Thanatos, not Oedipus

2009-07-22T15:48:00.002-05:00

When did you first become aware of death? That you could die?

In spite of having a pretty good memory for lots of events in early childhood, I don't remember. I remember seriously choking on a pork chop when I must have been about four, and my dad shoving his finger in my throat and popping it out. I was scared, but I'm pretty sure just because of instinct scared. I didn't at the time realize the implications of the incident.

Around the same time, my cat got hit by a car while I was waiting for the school bus with my sisters. I wouldn't go to school, cried for a long time, felt sick.

Maia is worried about dying. I haven't figured out yet HOW aware she is of this, but twice now (once after falling and getting a minor boo boo, once randomly talking about me leaving her at daycare and her not wanting to go) she has said she "doesn't want to get dead." She's also been very worried about me "getting lost"-- which, I think, translates to mommy not coming back, ever.

I try to reassure her. But how do you really reassure a child about this? You want them to be careful, to not do stupid things that could get them seriously hurt or, yes, killed. It's a possibility for kids sometimes because they take risks (run in a parking lot lately? kids do all the time if you don't constantly remind them).

But she's so sad, and she's coming up with this at awkward times and I know she's thinking about it. She's seen a few animals die-- one of the fish from our pond was partially eaten-- and bugs fall into the pool all the time. And then, I'm sure, we've seen something on TV. Even Nemo's mom dies, and that's rated G.

I think (and here's the title link) that this is possibly the real identity crisis of childhood. It's not about wanting to replace your parent with your other parent. That's what Freud, obsessed with the sex part of it, got wrong. It's more about realizing that you don't go on forever, that you meet with death and that when your parents get freaked out because they don't want you climbing on top of the 12 foot off the ground playfort, it's because "very bad boo boos" happen.

I'm not entirely sure how to handle it. I don't want to freak her out, but I also hate to lie to her. Stuff happens, right? What is pretend, what is real, is it possible for mommy or daddy or other people to "get lost?"

This is probably where being better Christians than we are comes in handy, because you can reassure kids that going to Heaven to be with the angels would be okay. I'm a spiritual person and believe in an almighty being (a conversation for another time... not really "God" per se) but I am not really a believer in angelic choirs and a big white guy in flowing robes. And I'm not exactly sure I know what I think happens to us after death. So how to reassure a child?

Perhaps the real crisis comes with being a parent who has to learn these hard lessons, again, as an adult who treasures their kids more than anything else ever before or since. I'd like to get this parenting thing as right as possible, but man, these are the tough ones.

Blue Journal

2009-07-21T16:50:00.003-05:00

I bought a new fancy journal today at B&N. I had about an hour there to linger with coffee and cinnamon scone (not the free ones!) This journal is very pretty and I tend to be a sucker for these empty books. I imagine, when I buy them, what I'll fill them with. It's like a gym membership--filled with all kinds of good intentions. Sometimes they get filled, sometimes they don't.

This one is really pretty & fits in my purse. It has a cobalt blue cover with an elastic band attached by a pretty five-pointed star. It is handmade in Nepal, and supposedly very Eco-friendly and created by a mostly female co-op. It was pricey enough that I believe it; I hope at least enough of that money I spent goes to those women workers so far away. I don't always believe the eco greenwashing propaganda of products like that-- perhaps some woman got about 5 cents on my purchase price. At least it's something, though. I hope.

I wrote in it; several pages all about loss & mourning & how I miss time spent like today in the bookstore, lurking, thinking. I like it, and I kind of intended to retype it here but I think I'll leave it in the print vs. e-journal version.

I'm trying to move away from the whiney complainy posts and the blogging about blogging that tends to happen when you think about the process too much (here I go again.) So... look forward to moments of scribbled notes from my new blue journal. My July New Year's resolution is to be more creative less "me me me." Hopefully, this can happen and creativity will flow out of the pretty cobalt covers.

Too Bad Buffy Isn't On....

2009-07-21T09:05:00.003-05:00

I have LITERALLY so much to do and so very little time to do it in that it's actually making me crazy. I am sitting here with this urge to actually do nothing and make the time vs. things to do ratio worse. This is the last four days of Sean's summer school, and I will not be able to do anything but sporadic updates to email and such while he's out of school for three weeks straight with no relief.

I could write more and more about this but it makes me sick to whine, again, about how hard this parenting thing is.

I just want to lie on the couch and veg with a marathon of some stupid show and a bag full of chocolate chip cookies. And I seriously shouldn't. Really. Well, maybe just ONE cookie.....

waiting for rain

2009-07-20T15:16:00.003-05:00

I can hear light rumbles just off in the distance, like a marching band's drum section warming up, each one practicing a different bit. The breeze from the outdoor fan is actually cool and the air feels expectant: hushed, somehow, until the katydids buzz loudly in the nearby tree canopy and the rainbow umbrella holds very still until an errant gust flips its edges, warning of what is to come.

For the moment, I am alone as the kids have disappeared into the house & I know I have to go catch them or find a mess to clean up. But I look up and see about a hundred different shades of green and the sky hit that immanent grey rain place as the breeze begins to rise. The hissing of the leaves in the wind replaces the katydids that have now gone silent and the cat licks his fur, alert and interested, just up from a nap.

An Honest Mom

2009-07-19T09:05:00.003-05:00

A post I made on Facebook yesterday made a frequent reader & old blog friend say something about how I'm an "honest mom". Her thinking was that I was admitting to sometimes being a little tired of doing the mom thing all the time and wishing for time just to myself. And that was right-- I do sometimes miss those old days of "single marrieds" status. Andrew & I were married 13 or so years before we had kids, so that was a lot of time to have no one to account to but ourselves. It was fun! We flew off to London & Paris, to Alaska, to Hawaii and various less exotic places at the drop of a hat. We could stay out late and sleep in, have Sunday brunch with lots of champagne and then go back to bed for the rest of the day. Lather, rinse, repeat. A family member, years ago, complaining that we hadn't had kids yet was reprimanded by another family member who said "Leave them alone; they still like each other." And that was--and still is, most of the time ;)-- true.

Nowadays it's pretty different. A lot of parents, I guess, miss the wild days more than I do. I don't really need to go out to bars or be on my own very often. I had plenty of wild days, and will again one day when they're older. Date night sounds like fun, but twins tend to scare off the basic babysitter. You have a hard time getting the teen from down the street interested, and when they do think they can handle it, they see me chasing after them (Sean in particular) and are suddenly "busy that night." As much as it feels like a cop out to say, he is a special needs kid for now, and therefore even a challenge for me sometimes. So a lot of the time, I don't even bother trying to find someone.

And part, a huge part, of this is I really, really like hanging out with my kids. I don't need lots of downtime from them, usually. I am fine with other parents who want to get a sitter & hang out. Perhaps if we lived in San Antonio where we have a large network of friends I'd be more up for the hassles and challenges of finding night childcare more often. When I'm putting them down to sleep and they nuzzle into the crook of my arms, Sean on the left and Maia on the right, and sigh sleepily with their little heads resting on my chest there's just very little that can compete with that. A nice martini and a date night without kids is awesome-- but this is ultimately a better feeling and doesn't leave a hangover.

When I'm feeling particularly crabby about the lack of socializing, I think of all the parents of friends I have had in my life. Most of them did not hang out and go out all the time. They had developed a habit of staying in-- watching movies, reading, chilling. I think staying in with your kids is probably more a norm than not. And I used to say that wouldn't be me-- I'd drag them wherever and still do stuff. But it takes a long time to get over the stares and crabbiness people shoot your way when your kid makes noise in a favorite hangout or give you a 'tude cause you brought them to the movies or whatever. And my kids are a little noisier than your average 4 year old. Sean has this shriek he does when he's excited that makes people turn their heads and glare at us. Andrew says I'm too sensitive to it but I remember being the person who wondered why that parent couldn't control their kid-- now I know-- sometimes it's just impossible to explain to the kids why they need to be good here, so you just keep them home.

Anyway, I'm thinking about this today because Andrew really wants to try, later today, dragging them to the gym with us. There are facilities there for parents w/ kids, and I sort of want to do it-- I really need the workout-- and I am dreading how hard I think it's going to be chasing after my hoodlums. We'll give it a shot, I think, but your guess is as good as mine how it's going to go.

So wish me luck. Another commenter to my post said "one word: Nanny." And boy do I wish I had someone here like my friend Patty who used to call herself my nanny. Life was infinitely easier with someone who considered herself as responsible for my kids as Andrew & I do. Maybe if I win the lotto. I guess I ought to buy a ticket.... but that won't help at the gym in an hour.

Post Poofage

2009-07-18T07:24:00.003-05:00

Okay, yesterday afternoon's post was a bit too whiney so I have now made it go "poof" bye bye. I was floating the idea, maybe venting a little, and it was too much even for me. One of my commenters on Facebook said something (very sweet) and it made me realize how pathetic the "don't you hate it when" post was. If you weren't lucky enough to read it, good. :) If you did read it, you have my apologies and this little piece of very nice baby swiss cheese to go with the w(h)ine.

I've gotten used to there being very few comments on here. I know there are a few readers, and thank those folks for putting up with me. But now that these blogs are properly importing to Facebook (I had set it up months ago to do so but it was only importing it for me to see because of a clicked privacy box-- kind of useless to import it that way) I need to remember to not be so dramatic.

This is a less than private venue now that I'm not anonymous so no more venting, or too serious of whining. I had a trying day of chasing four year olds (who would NOT nap) yesterday and was just crabby is all.

Broken & Lost Things

2009-07-17T08:07:00.004-05:00

When you live with two four year olds who are as rambunctious as mine you find yourself pulling out the super glue all the time. Yesterday the sweet little beehive honey container I found got knocked into the sink & thus needs its turn with the glue. Over our road trip, Maia lost a new treasure from her pirate trip at a stop in FL. She figured it out fairly soon (about an hour later) but there was NO way on an 8 hour road trip we were turning around for two hours extra for a stuffed dolphin toy.

I remember a friend of a friend once talking about how she would hide the dead rolly pollies when her kid split them in half by accident, pretending the new one was the same one when the child said "fix it." I remember thinking that was a bad idea-- some things can't be fixed, and even a 2 year old can and should learn that, especially when it's life, and even when it's only a rolly polly life. Sometimes, especially Sean, breaks things over & over again and the glue runs out. But sometimes you gotta leave it broken, I think.

It gets me to thinking about the things we lose & break in our lives. Simple things you put a bit of superglue on and hope they hold. When I was a kid, I moved around so much and lost everything I owned many times. Perhaps this explains my own odd attachment to trying to fix things, to trying, as I did yesterday, to buy a new toy to try to make up (at least a little bit) for the lost one.

Yesterday at our "problem" rent property, the kids from the back apartment were in the patio for the house poking the ceiling with a metal rod. These kids have most likely been breaking in to the currently untenanted (we're working on it) large house, and probably cut the new screen door. They're about 11 or so, and ought to be trustworthy to leave unattended sometimes, but they aren't. They're constantly in to stuff, and terribly destructive. It may get them kicked out of our place because we won't let our cool places be totally trashed.

It got me thinking, as usual, about my own childhood and my own times alone, and I spent last night feeling, generally, kind of sad and a little mad. Not because my childhood was like theirs but because, overall, it could have been similar but wasn't. And I guess we learn different lessons differently, because I don't LIKE breaking things. And I think, and hope, that my kids are going to feel sad about it too. The loss is sometimes forever and can't be superglued, and a new toy doesn't necessarily replace the old one.

But that's a tough lesson to learn, and I hate watching my kids learn it too.

Florida Bound

2009-07-08T08:09:00.002-05:00

When I was a kid, I lived in the panhandle area of Florida (and by kid I mean teenager). Every year around Spring Break the tourists would start piling in. Yes, we got some folks in the winter, called Snowbirds-- folks for whom our winter was a balmy tropical paradise. But the real trade started around late March.

We made fun of the tourists. They would wear black knee socks with sandals. They would get horrible horrible sunburns on their faces and backs, with a little strip of white on their nose where they put some zinc. They drove crazy, because they didn't know where they were, and always wanted to turn left where they weren't supposed to turn left.

They brought jobs, and money, though. And we did appreciate that, although sometimes we weren't sure of the trade off. As a local, we hardly ever went to the beach in the summer. It just wasn't something you did-- you were working.

Well, where I live now is prime territory for what was called the Redneck Riviera. People within a day's drive-- La, MS, AL, Ark, tend to use the panhandle as their stomping grounds. It's a beautiful place-- I think better than any other beach I've seen. (And no, I haven't been to the real Riviera. I think that might be the one place that could actually compare.)

We are headed to FL this weekend. It's not exactly a vacation, although it will be one a little bit for us. We WILL go to the beach, and we're going on this pirate boat ride. Very touristy. My fifteen year old self would possibly be horrified. Mostly we're getting together with family to celebrate the life of my 101 year old grandmother who died a few months ago. This is the first time the whole family has been able to get together since then, and we're having a picnic & visiting. I'll see nieces & nephews and the kiddos' cousins that I haven't seen yet, new babies and all.

I'm looking forward to everything but that long drive. I miss beachfront. I would like to live someplace closer to water (real water... not the gator-ridden culverts around here). One day, when Andrew is retired (not too long really) from the military and I get to finally pick where we live, I hope to find something close to beach. Then, my kids can grow up mocking the sunburnt tourists & being mortified if her dad wears black socks (which when we were in Hawaii he tried to do.... let me say I made him take the socks off.)

Redneck I may not be, but I AM headed to the Riviera of my youth.

Terrible Mother/Housekeeper

2009-07-06T09:46:00.001-05:00

I am terrible at keeping things tidy. I just don't care that much (hello INFP). But my son just crawled under my computer desk and pulled out a piece of popcorn & ate it. I seriously don't know how long it's been since I had popcorn. It crunched, so it can't have been that long ago, right? Right?

Does that make me less of a terrible mother? At least he'll have a good immune system.

Howling At The Moon

2009-07-06T09:14:00.003-05:00

Yes. Another blog about blogging. This one with more bleayatching power & new management!

When I was in grad school, I took some Education courses thinking I would hedge my bets & possibly teach in high school. (Still hedging that bet-- but that's another story another time). A fellow student & I talked about the tendency in Ed classes to talk about oneself ad nauseum. She called it "howling at the moon". It doesn't really happen so much in English grad classes-- I doubt it does in, say, Engineering or Accounting, either. It reminds me of those commercials for the Bing search engine where people are repeating random unrelated trivia without communicating-- it's kind of talking without hearing and can be a little on the insane side, I think.

I think blogging tends to reinforce a kind of howling at the moon mentality. And this is by no means a ploy to get people to comment on here, so don't feel obligated to do so. I hardly ever comment on the blogs I regularly read anymore... if I can't click a Facebook "thumbs up" and move on it just is too much time commitment. ;)

But if you're writing about stuff without feedback, I think you tend to talk talk talk & I've always been the one who exceeded the page limit on papers. I'm not immune to writing way too much about too little and blathering on about myself for hours & hours. Navel gazing.

I use metaphor & example a lot in teaching too, but I see on other faculty's "ratemyprofessors" that some students really hate it. What we think of as a teaching tool "see, I write too.. I have this problem in my writing too and I'm more experienced in writing than you are so don't feel bad" becomes something students think is unrelated to them and boring. So far, I haven't gotten the "always talks about herself" complaint from any of my students, but it may just be that I'm still young enough to be interesting still to them, and that will change in time. So it's important, when we write about ourselves all the time, to not be too much into the "me me me" moments.

I write this blog mostly for myself, and for my mother & Andrew's mom to see news about the kiddos. Sometimes I use it as a dumping ground for poems I've been working on, themes that are circulating in my head. I don't really blog about politics or current events much. It is about me. It's a journal, of sorts. But it's not ALL of me. It's not the only thing going on in my life, it's also not very deep. It's also not going to be something super duper important. If I just had an earth-shattering moment, there might be a vague poem about it but doubtfully a real explanation. So if I seem shallow on here, or "howling at the moon" it's because I'm not good at nature blogging like some blogs I love, or funny like others. I don't like to post my "real" writing, when I do it, here, because I have a fear of someone stealing everything (not that I think I'm that good, but neither are some of the other blogs I've seen plagiarized.)

What I suggest if it seems like I'm howling loudly about myself is twofold:

Join my conversation & comment (ah, I lied. Apparently this is a plug for comments. Damn.) OR howl at your own moon & direct me there. I'll read it... I may join in and howl a little bit, too. But mostly it's just a thought I'm working out. I could make this all private and anonymous but then I'm talking to myself even worse, and I might get twitchy and weird(er).

Stop.

2009-07-05T19:38:00.001-05:00

Have temporarily escaped children & husband. Stop. Had two glasses of red wine to kill anxious feeling in stomach. Stop. Read friend (hola Swine & couchkitten & brando & joe) blogs. Stop. Now what?

Stop.