Turbo's Warm & Sunny Spot

Heebie Jeebie Hump Day

2009-03-18T06:47:00.000-07:00

On Monday I cleaned 3 windows and brushed away dirty cobwebs and insect cocoons from the outside of our house. All done in an effort to ward off creepy crawlies bound to hunt me down later this spring.

Then I saw this as a Facebook group pic.

So disturbing . . . and yet I can't look away.

More fiber to share!

2009-03-16T06:01:00.000-07:00

Anyone ever wake from a fitful night, crabby and tired? Okay, many of us have. But I'm honestly pissed off at my kids ... and they haven't even woke! They were just ANIMALS in my dream! ARGH! Anyway, how about a little more fiber-luvin'? Just look at this gorgeous washcloth I finished Sunday night!

It's a pattern I purchased from Susan B. Anderson and I had to teach myself to crochet, but thanks to my copy of Teach Yourself Visually Knitting, I got it done. And not to shabby, eh?

Here's one I finished yesterday afternoon.

And I also started my hemp washcloth project. After completing not quite half of, I'm calling it "The FBI Witness Protection Washcloth" because my finger prints have been effectively erased! It's some tough stuff, but I think it shall be a fabulous kitchen washcloth (I'm using the same Grandma's Favorite Dishcloth pattern on US 6 needles). Miss Daisy tells me hemp does not retain mildew (joy!) and the coarseness of this Mother Nature Yarn of 50% wool/50% hemp will surely rid my surfaces of grim and germs (euphoria!). Now . . . to find the band-aids for my poor fingers.

As for my version of the Just Enough Ruffles Scarf? I call her 'Marilyn' and let me say that all I want to do is punch it! I chose to do this project with a delicious Moda Dea yarn that's a dreamy soft lavender. One of my beloved Bitches recently broke her fibula in a stellar display of racquetball prowess and I thought this yummy thing would help her through the remaining days of Minneapolis winter. But now, finishing this scarf is a march to the death.

I refuse to frog this beast! NO! Rather, I'd like to take a flame thrower to it, but given it's mostly acrylic, I don't think it'd burn with the veracity I crave. It's been the bane of my knitting existence since I started it on the 7th, which is why I call her Marilyn -- the other Marilyn in my life is the bane of my work life. 'Nuff said...

Show 'n Tell time . . .

2009-03-15T07:14:00.000-07:00

I've been asked to post a show-and-tell of fiber wares. Here you go!

Here's Miss Mo wearing a boa scarf made with Lion Brand Fun Fur. I'm made loads of these because they're fun and easy! Basically, cast on about 15 to 18 stitches and then simply knit to the desired length. When I make these for kids, I knit with size 11 needles, but for adults, size 13 needles.

These are my Cyclone Fingerless Mittens. VERY easy, simply garter stitch two rectangles! And then sew up the seams. Though DO remember to leave a thumb hole in the seam. I sewed the first two completely up, so I actually knitted 4 f'ing rectangles before I actually accomplished a usable pair. But they're fun and perfect for the Cyclone in your life. Pick your colors in an average worsted yarn and Go 'Clones!!!

This is a pair of fingerless mitts for my sister, K2, who requested a pair she could wear while working on the computer. Her office is apparently a wee frigid. Anyway, I modified a free pattern found on the Net with an irksome homespun (it looks and feels yummy, but being a newbie knitter, it's a pain in the arse).

Me mum asked for a scarf to go with her brown coat and I decided to make one from the diagonal check pattern from Teach Yourself Visually Knitting in a basic worsted yarn. I failed to click pic of the finished product, but Mom said she loved it. Though I've yet to see her wear it. Humph. Maybe our 50 degree temps could be why, no?

Here's my present fav: the dishcloth! This first one came from Miss Wooly Daisy who suggested I whip them up for Christmas presents. Well, I was too crazed with painting and pre-holiday freaking out to do it then, so I'm hoping to build up a stash of these for Easter! Miss Daisy forwarded the favorite pattern: Grandma's Favorite Dishcloth. I used Peaches N Creme 100% cotton yarn for both this and the following Fishy Washcloth, also loosely based on the same pattern.

But knitting isn't my only thing distracting me from housework: beads! Here's a peak at some stuff the kids and I put together awhile ago.

The cooley coincidence

2009-03-07T04:52:00.000-08:00

I know I've shared how crazy-beautiful my life is. Are there moments of complete sucky-ness? Oh yeah. But then come the moments that blow...me...away...

Anyone read my last post, waxing about life in the beautiful valley and climbing out for better views? Recall how struck I was by a reading from one of my meditation books: "My sense of failure is a sure sign that I am growing in the new life. It is only struggle that hurts. In sloth -- physical, mental, or spiritual -- there is no sense of failure or discomfort." Turns out, I was not the only one to find comfort in those lines.

Later that day, I met my angel Miss Denise for coffee and she presented me with the most lovely raisin soda bread and a card. In it, she penned the exact same lines I quoted above.

I LOVE moments like that! Those times make me grin like a silly fool and get all giggly!

That deep part of my being, call it the Soul or Time Eternal or Sacred Intelligence, but that part of me just bubbles over and all I can do is smile at the realization of Jackie Warner's little gem: "The Universe is taking care of me." It really is!

For a long time, as I was being conditioned to a new way of living, I was constantly told: "You will be lead. You will be lead." Usually I say I believe that, but the coincidental words in that card jolted my body awake to that truth. Rather than thinking about that truth, I felt it at the core of my being. And Miss Denise, from the moment I met her, has shown herself to be a person of beauty and truth, love and supreme kindness.

Many of you may not be aware (ahem), but I'm a bit of a nut job. And Miss Denise has been unfailing in her willingness to talk me off the ledge. All my love to you Miss Denise!

Another year climbing out of the cooley

2009-03-03T04:51:00.000-08:00

I'm back to loathing my blog. Why? It's the pressure! Ugh. Every time I open my page to visit my favorite blogs, that Obama-con picture of moi smiled it's silly grin back at me, taunting me to come up with something to write. Well, I'm still dry as a day-old toast.

But I will say this, Life is Good. Really good.

Without going into detail, (I spilled those about a year ago if you're that interested) today is a super special day for me. It's the anniversary of the day my life veered off a crazy, serpentine road full of potholes and no shoulder and found an exit ramp that dropped me into a valley so sweet, so ripe it continues to amaze. But it's a valley, nonetheless.

Valleys, or if you're a Cheddar Head, Cooleys, may be beautiful -- shady on hot days, lush with pastures -- but valleys are also kinda chilly and offer the ever-present reminder that better views await, if you're willing to make the climb.

And because I'm one selfish, self-centered beastie, I crave the better view. But the climb can soooo SUCK. Yet I keep going, many times without even knowing why except for the feeling, the inner propulsion that I must move forward.

Deep down in the pit of my guts, I know something amazing waits for me. A book I aim to read every morning offered this little gem to me for today: "My sense of failure is a sure sign that I am growing in the new life. It is only struggle that hurts. In sloth -- physical, mental, or spiritual -- there is no sense of failure or discomfort."

So am I to trust that the laziness that I fight EVERY day is not sloth? I'm keenly aware of my laziness, my lack of follow through and the yucky feeling it leaves within. I feel failure at every turn. (True, that may be the perfectionist within.) Am I to trust that the wee lil' action I do manage to take is enough?

I guess the Universe thinks so. Within the last couple of months, I've experienced such a blowout of Magdalene support. Connecting with different authors, learning new methods of prayer, gaining deeper understanding of what the Magdalene means to me, and snatching glimpses of the Truth that is buried far down in my soul, I keep taking that wee lil' action.

Having hiked just a bit out of the valley, I am gaining a better view. But I want more. I want more peace, more serenity, more joy, more love. So I guess I'll pick up some more PowerBars and keep climbing. Anyone feel like joining me?

Facebook Friends

2009-02-05T04:51:00.001-08:00

One of the bloggers I follow recently posted about Facebook. Comparing her paltry 197 friends to her husband's 661, she waxed about the friendship requests she's received and accepted. As I perused my Facebook mates' friend lists, they're rocketing into the 300s (clearly not as popular as Mama Bird's hubby) while I'm lagging just a titch behind. Currently hovering around the 131 mark, I've opted to protect my FB domain.

Every so often I do a little house-cleaning of the friends list. Initially, I thought I had to accept every request, whether or not I knew them. Not only was it the polite thing to do, but more friends mean you're more popular and loved, right?

When I joined FB in the fall of '07, a smattering of college buds were on, but neither high school mates nor family could be found. All that has changed! I've got cousins leapin' on, left and right. I'm seein' an avalanche of high school chums joining (of course, an upcoming 20-year-reunion could have something to do with that). My point is, there's new friends and associates constantly popping up. So why am I not rocking the 300s?

Because I'm a bitch.

Yup. Sorry if I'm unapologetic about this fact, but there it is. I made the decision a few months ago to review my FB friend list and purge the people I didn't really know or trust. And I think it offended a few of those people because I regularly get friend requests from them. Well, sorry.

Yes, it's rude for me to ignore or block requests, but I gotta watch out for my bad self! I think of myself as a generally positive person who doesn't intend to harm others, but I know I've got this ballsy/weaselly personality that can be somewhat sandpaperish. And those who are on my FB friend list know what they're getting when they enter the Facebook world of this pissy kitty.

I really hate, no ABHOR making amends to people. But I end up doing it, a lot, because I have a tendency to speak/type before I think. Sure, with age comes some degree of mental engagement, but for the most part, I'm still an emotional talker/poster. Which is why I guard my Facebook world closely. If I don't know or trust you, you can knock all you want, but my door's locked. And it's purely selfish: so that I don't have to apologize to strangers for some inappropriate or offensive thing I will surely, eventually post. (I do it enough with the people I know.)

Eck, just admitting this feels yucky, like I've punched a baby! There's this part of me who wishes she were nice to everyone, sings with the birds, and frolics with the baby deer.

But that's just not how I roll. I can't even be bothered to fill the damn bird feeder. And the mess they make?!

Raised by wild, Republican dingos

2009-02-02T12:49:00.001-08:00

Happy February! To January's passing, let me hear ya' say, "Hell ya!"

Since Punxsutawney Phil did, in fact, spot his damn shadow, how about a little pick-me-up? Let me introduce the newest member of our family: Maudry.

Maudry is a mild-mannered, small, mixed-breed adopted from an area Humane Society two weeks ago. While I think she's fabulous, I'll let the following interview speak for itself . . .

"So Maudry, I hear you were raised by a pack of wild, Republican dingos? Is that true?"

"Is that too uncomfortable? Oh, I'm sure. . . What's that? They forced you to watch Fox News?"

"Oh, how awful! Does that mean Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity are not your home boys?"

"Easy girl. Let's change the subject. Kitties! Do you love kitties?"

"For a snack?! Oh, just to lick. Ok, I can live with that. What do you think of other dogs?"

"I know, it kinda depends on the dog, doesn't it? Well, how about you gimme a smile?!"

"Good Girl! Now, wanna chill out?"

"Yes, we're done, Honey. No more questions . . ."

Harassment? Seriously?!

2009-01-24T17:29:00.001-08:00

Turbo's tired. Tired of the bullshit, tired of the digs, tired of the harassment. I'm kinda learning what it's like to feel vulnerable, and guess what? It blows chunks!

I consider myself a strong woman, an assertive (sometimes aggressive) piss-ant. But that's all being sucked away. Slowly, over the past several months, a creepy acquaintance has grown considerably more inappropriate and this person's actions are eroding my peace and serenity.

Some would tell me that I'm allowing him to get to me. And the strong Turbo rises up and says, "Yeah!" and tries to take his behavior with the proverbial grain of salt. Essentially giving him the finger.

But there's this part of me that's nervous. Today, following coffee hour, I go to my car and find a harassing bumper sticker put over my Obama/Biden one. Like Mr. Mart said, "This is the stuff you see in horror movies." I wonder if I'll come home one day to find a rabbit boiling on my stove.

Several years ago this individual confessed to having feelings for me. Flattered as I was, I told him, "Thanks, but no thanks." We tried to be friends, but he inevitably crossed the line. Following coffee hour, when everyone's hugging each other good-bye, he'd hug me and tell me he loved me. Mmmmm. Awkward. So I distanced myself.

Then he'd show up at my place of employment, asking me out to lunch. Again, "Uh, I've got a meeting." NO! His last visit was the clincher. He appeared a couple weeks before the election and when he figured out that our office was a bunch of liberal, hippie, pro-choice, tree-huggin' freaks, he . . . changed. I think he actually frothed at the mouth.

I'm not even sure why I'm blogging about this. Only a handful of people know about it. I don't want sympathy, that's for damn sure. And I'm not out to take some looser down. I'm just freaked out and want to be left alone!

My boss is suggesting my husband and I, along with 2 coffee klatchers who have witnessed things, go to the police. The strong Turbo says, "Really? This guy is a complete TOOL! He's nothing!" But the instinctual part of me is beginning to wonder how calculating is he? Is he capable of doing harm? He knows where I work, he knows where I live (because our place was pretty infamous in its horse ranch hay-day), we serve on a board together and go to the same coffee hours. I've already decided to resign from the board, and I'm willing to go to different coffee hours.

This just sucks . . . and here I thought my next post was going to be on the fabulous-ness of the Magdalene Rosary. Maybe I'll just go pray it and tell you about it later.

In the mean time, I'll leave you with this creepy song. I'm probably feeling paranoid, but I heard this on XM/Sirius Coffee House - Acoustic (over the tele) and thought, "How disturbing it that?!" So, enjoy!

Where Obama began: Iowa

2009-01-20T05:40:00.000-08:00

Some of you may remember this post I put up on Facebook, but given today's historical inauguration, I had to share it again . . .

Last January 3rd, in the year 2008, I showed up to my township's caucus--the Democratic caucus, to be sure. Little did I know, but during the last decade of happy, horny wedded bliss, Mr. Mart's been a registered Republican . . . his entire LIFE!!!

While he has voiced his displeasure with the republicans for some years, he has apparently remained true to his family's republican influence. . . Until last night. In order to caucus for Barack, he not only changed his Party affiliation, but shook up the Waterford precinct caucus in Clinton County, Iowa.

Here's the shizzle . . .
There were 42 democrats present of which 2 delegates would be sent to represent their constituents at the county convention in March. From the onset, there were big contingents, relatively speaking of course, for Hillary and Edwards--they had their placards and letters and cookies. There were a few diehards for Richardson and then us, 10 lowly Obama supporters, not a button or sticker between the lot of us. Let the caucus begin!

Round 1-6:45 p.m.
Richardson, 3
Obama, 10
Hillary, 13
Edwards, 16.

Round 2-6:50 p.m.
To have a legitimate 25%, we needed at least 11, so 1 Richardson guy came to our side and the other 2 went over to Edwards' camp with the tally now at:
Obama, 11
Hillary, 13
Edwards, 18.

Round 3-7:01 p.m.
As it was, one delegate would represent Edwards with the other going for Hillary at the March county convention. Discussions abound on how to get both precinct votes for Edwards, since it was clear we Obama folks didn't have the needed support to garner one of those votes. Even if all us Obama supporters joined the Edwards camp, there would not be enough numbers to give Edwards both precinct votes. So we sat, and sat, and sat.

Our Obama camp did not need to split up as both the Hillary and Edwards peeps had enough votes to each have a delegate at the county convention. So, 10 of our 11-member contingent stayed put and chatted snow, ice and other Iowa weather occurrences, until . . .

Round 4-7:25 p.m.
My husband, a Democrat not even a full hour, gets with the 1 Richardson guy who came to Obama's camp as well as the head of Edwards' camp and with the clock ticking fast toward the 7:30 finish, began working out a way to stick it to Hillary. At 7:28, they announce to the room that if 3 Edwards supporters would come to Obama's side, it would allow 1 vote more than Hillary, locking her out. Edwards would keep his 1 vote and Obama rather than Hillary, would get the #2 spot.

Final Decision at 7:30 p.m.
Edwards, 15
Obama, 14
And from puffed up and happy to deflated and pissed off, 3rd place and no representation went to: Hillary, 13. At night's end, Obama took the state of Iowa with Edwards in the No. 2 spot. (And if that wasn't awesome, to seal Mr. Mart's commitment to the Waterford township democrats, he was elected the Obama alternate for the county convention!!! Marty is the SHIT!!!)

But just how influential a "shit" Mr. Mart was, wasn't gleened until our dear friend, Mac, did the math. "Little do you know," dear Mack noted, "that this makes Marty among the most powerful people in the free world."

Check the math. Actual caucus delegate totals were:

Edwards with 29.75%, reported by the press as 30%

Hillary with 29.47%, reported by the press as 29%

Out of 2,501 total state delegates Edwards beat Hillary for the number 2 spot by a total of 7 delegates, 744 to 737. Now, let's imagine the result if Marty had not pulled over the 3 people to nab Hillary's delegate: she'd get a total 738 delegates for 29.51%, reported by the press as a 30% tie for 2nd.

"The media spin on her 3rd place finish gave the perception of Hillary as a huge spender who became a huge loser," Mac continued. "A tie for 2nd, much less so. The public perception of her going into New Hampshire in 3rd place is (was) monumental even though the actual numbers are insignificant. I am of the considered belief that Marty, in one hour as a Democrat, has changed the future of the free world. I am proud to be in his acquaintance."

And me, proud to be his wife!

We love you, President Obama!!! (You, too, Mr. Mart!)

Snow days: fun 4 kids, hell 4 moms

2009-01-14T17:11:00.000-08:00

I always set myself up for failure! To quote a friend, he and many others believe that our society has programmed us to live in the future (or wallow in the past). We're programmed to believe that someday we'll have all we need to be happy and that's where we'll discover our peace and joy. Some day out there, in the future. But what about NOW? For me, that's where prayer comes in, and since I've been such a lazy toad about my spiritual life, it's no surprise that I'm an absolute nut job right now.

Want the specifics on how I set myself up for today's failure? Well, now that the holidays are a distant memory and I've packed away a few of the decorations, and, most importantly, I had no appointments scheduled, today was my first day of true R&R since last fall. Mr. Mart would be at work, Mo and Mac, at school, and me not due at work until 4:30 p.m. The day would be MINE! (And the universe exhaled a joyful sigh...)

Then the phone rang at 6 a.m.

That's when our school's automated notification system informed us that due to the weather (temps here in eastern Iowa reaching a sweaty high of -7) school was cancelled. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Gone were my self-centered plans to indulge in some meditation with my new Magdalene Rosary, or maybe get my Zen on with a little yoga, heck, even start painting the upstairs hallway. No. None of these activities are doable, let alone enjoyable, with earthlings age 8 and 5. (Yes, the daycare was open, but I was too big of a wuss to dig my car out of its cozy snow drift.) Turbo's just a real Grumpy Pants, the root of which is the dog. I won't go into it now because I'm still trying to wrap my head around this, but it turns out Sidney Freeman is actually The Black Widow. But I digress...

Today? We survived! I remembered to feed the kids both breakfast and lunch! We got some cool Lego stuff built! I caught a little nap while the kids continued to Lego! Naughty Sid Vicious ate some underwear and Styrofoam! Our newest family member, Maudry, shadowed us without a growl or bite! We even did some beads while watching Narnia! AND I didn't once call Mr. Mart, screaming about the kids! But this was no great day, to be sure. In fact, it sucked, so I'm really looking forward to tomorrow! Yeah, that's when I'll find that peace and joy and happiness, tomorrow!

What's that? The phone? It's the school? Classes are cancelled for tomorrow?!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Turbo misses Marge

2009-01-11T14:51:00.000-08:00

Thanks to all of you who have inquired about Marge. Despite lots of calls, fliers, visits with neighbors and total strangers, we have had no leads on our little puppy, Marge. I'm sad. Kinda empty. Not wanting to think about the Bald Eagle sightings and reports of coyotes in the area. We're left with nothing to do, but wait. With each day, though, the waiting gives way to an acceptance that Marge will not be coming home to us. She was probably picked up by some Brady Bunch just looking for the perfect family pet. Yup, that's it. And they're letting her sleep with them, and chew on their socks, and attack their family kitty. Yup, she's probably found a new home . . . and speaking of "kitty," join me in viewing this little pick-me-up.

I see your lips moving ...

2009-01-09T10:35:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week I met with my new psychologist. I shared with him how the aforementioned reconciliation with my sisters took such a weight off my shoulders. When I added that I was utterly mystified by how different my memory of events was from my sisters', he sat me down for a test.

Called the IVA, it was a 20-minute computer test in which I clicked the mouse every time I saw or heard the number 1 (only numbers 1 and 2 were used). He said this was a tool to measure attention, not intellect. (Thank Madge!)

Afterward, he showed me the results, explaining that it indicated I was a visual learner. I learn much more efficiently if I'm reading or watching something rather than simply listening to a lecture. That said, he shared that my auditory responses were crazy low, in the 30's compared to the 100s that my visual responses were. What's this mean, you may ask?

Turns out, this would be a strong indicator of . . .

After dictating a quick letter to my shrink, he recommended I talk to him about Ritalin. Seriously?! The little devil part of my brain immediately pulled out a little Ren & Stimpy, "Yes, please."

So I did talk with the shrink about it. Fortunately, he's got a keen eye for Turbo's more compulsive nature and he'd hate to see me all spun out.Instead, there are some great auditory exercises to try before we consider medication. I don't put a whole lot of stock in the whole ADD thing. Personally, I think we're a nation of LAZY, too tired to accpet a child (or adult) as they are. Wanna know why I think that? Remember earlier this week, Mo's visit with her surgical team? After 3 hours of being shuffled from clinic to clinic, Mo had grown pretty tired (and hungry) and wasn't listening to the surgeon. His response? That we talk with our family doc about ADD. I know Mo can be a hand-full and I'm not making any excuses, but seriously?!

This thing with my own attention? Honestly, I think it's more about the type of learner I am. And as my shrink said, just being aware of this within myself with help sharpen my listening and focus. Now if I've offended any of you, I'm truly sorry, that was not my intention. I just found this to be a hell of a funny week. Even more so when I shared this information with sister K2 and learned she has similar attention "issues." The only difference is that she was sharp enough to realize this at an early age and compensate for it (over achiever).

Wanna know who's really laughing? Mr. Mart, who suddenly got all his arguments about my selective hearing validated. He thinks this is all just great! Peachy! Because he thinks he's right and I'm wrong. Well, talk to the hand, Mister! I still say, he's selective in what he tells me . . .

Madge, Mom & my 3 sisters

2009-01-06T14:41:00.001-08:00

It's been awhile now, but I think I need to share the full story behind my homage to the Magdalene for her role in the reconciliation with my sisters which I blogged about back in November.

Long story short, I was on the outs with my sisters, like I've never experienced before. So bad that after skipping Thanksgiving, I truly saw no way out. So on the Saturday morning following Turkey Day, I found myself up before sunrise (I wasn't sleeping too well), talking to my 'Madge' (code for Mary Magdalene). I remember praying to her, saying, "I have no idea how this could ever, EVER be worked out! I don't know what to do! Take it!" And then I went about my morning, joining friends for coffee, but saying very little.

Afterwards, Mr. Mart called to report my mother had phoned the house. THREE times. Mom was searching for a way for my sisters and I to work it out. Given my prayers earlier that morning, when Mom tossed out the idea of me coming down to the farm for a talk, I knew Madge had cracked open a chance for change.

Now I won't rehash what I've already blogged, but I will say that I BELIEVE. I believe, deep in my soul, that Madge came through for me. She not only put an opportunity at my feet, but gave me the courage to go with it. Honestly, I don't see myself as some pillar of strength, I'm more of a noodle. It's Mom who's got the courage. When I left my parents home that night, hugged all my sisters good-bye, and then looked at Her waiting at the front door for me, I saw Mom choking back tears.

She hugged me and whispered into my ear, "Thank you for coming." It was then, in that moment, that I not only heard the pain she'd been in, but saw it on her face, heard it in her voice, and felt it in her arms around me. I saw, for the first time, how painful this rift had been for her, to watch her daughters fall apart from each other and, suddenly, miraculously, reunite. Whoa.

How are things now? Well, last week, A1 and I got together for pizza with our kids. Last night, K2 and I jawed for two hours, about nothing. Today, C3 called me for lunch. I can honestly say, if any of these women are talking about me, they're not stabbing me in the back, they've got my back.

And all this reconciliation, this re-newed bonding, this chillaxin' with one another, came about because of Madge and Mom's unwavering love for her daughters. It is my hope, my prayer that I never forget that day back in November when, from sunrise to set, I KNOW that I experienced the gift of grace delivered by my Madge, this amazingly holy Spirit. If it were up to me, I'd still be yelling, isolating, pouting, and hurting. And I'm not doing that today!

I head off to bed, smiling because I'm so damn blessed . . .

Namaste~

Playground privledges reinstated

2009-01-05T15:54:00.000-08:00

Mo had her 5-month post-op check up today, getting x-rays of the bone graft done last August. Meeting with the entire Otolaryngology team is never a quickie. From 8:30 a.m. 'til 1 p.m., we moved from clinic to clinic. While some of the bone graft failed, a significant portion took root (yippee!!!). But Mo's got a powerful mouth and SUCK and until she's broken the habit of sucking wind through the hole in her palate, repairing said hole is on hold.

So, for at least 2 months, she's regained her phys. ed. and recess privileges and can also eat whatever she wants! And that's what this Momma Cat is focusing on. But ~~speaking~~ typing of playground shenanigans, I'm reminded of a little event that went down a couple weeks before Christmas.

We got a good dumping of snow, which makes for excited kids. One particular afternoon, Mac-Daddy comes in saying, "Mo's mouth is bleeding!" Mo comes in and sure enough, blood all over her mouth. Upon further investigation, I see it's coming from inside the mouth. More specifically, her tongue.

"Moira?" I asked, starting to laugh, "Did you stick your tongue on some cold metal?" Yup. "And I ripped it off!" she yelled. She laughed through the pain (probably because Mr. Mart and I were hysterical), but later admitted, "that wasn't the first time I did that."

Um, isn't pain supposed to be a teacher?

As with the Litterbox, so goes Marge

2009-01-04T20:53:00.000-08:00

With a 10-week-old pup on the loose, unseen since Saturday at 8:28 in the a.m. I'm sad. But I must re-enter the fray of the blogosphere with a new sense of purpose: to be positive, to be prayerful, and to have faith. Which is why, after laying low for a month, it's time for Turbo to hold herself open to this new year and all the lessons that will come with it. And to lie still in the warmth of universe and bask in the glory of another day lived...

So is my first lesson of 2009 to be Marge's run-off? Yes. A lesson in listening to my gut, that small voice urging me to do the right thing, to stop and put her on the leash for her morning bidness rather than motor off for coffee with friends, late. But I ignored the voice.

I hate to be such a buzz kill as I launch a new Turbo, leaving the Litterbox in the past. But I must be real.

Missing Marge SUCKS and I'm so heartbroken over her absence...scared sick over the freezing temps here in Iowa...and pleading with the cosmos to keep her safe and in loving arms...

And so as I set out to knit my sister a scarf, I put prayers into every stitch, "Keep her safe. Keep her warm. Keep her loved."

Namaste

Colder than a bitch's ...

2008-12-06T04:52:00.000-08:00

I've been watching the clock for the last hour as I ready myself for a 5-hour trek north to Minneapolis. One of my bitches is having her annual Jingle, Jangle fundraiser and the rest of us bitches decided it was finally time to get our arses up there and support her! But my left pinky finger is already frozen.

This post could've been titled 'A Cold Day in Hell,' given the insanity of driving NORTH during the winter season, but Waller's worth it, so it ain't hell! Though it is one cold mofo out there! With Monster House still torn up with all the painting, I'm sitting rather close to the dark fireplace and I can feel a bit of a draft/very cold, frigid chill (hence the frozen fingers).

But it feeds my soul knowing I'm gonna be with my bitches, soaking up their spiritual power and getting my own battery re-fueled. I have no idea or expectation about the event, only anticipation of being with my girls . . . mmmm, mmmm good!

Less news=less crab-ass

2008-12-04T09:35:00.000-08:00

It was about 2 years ago when I found myself part of the XM Nation. I'd snagged a free subscription with my wheels and discovered that I totally dug it! Channels filled with specific genres of music, talk, politics, and then some! I loved the 90s on 9 for always taking me back to my college days. I dug the grungier stuff on Ethel and Lucy, igniting memories of my old Doc Martins and flannel. I loved the morning Bob Edwards and the afternoon Leonard Lopate. I enjoyed Mr. Mart's X Country.

I tried to quit the Nation, but like a cult, I'd already been assimilated. I cancelled my subscription, only to rejoin after a couple months. It had become a NEED. And like any good cult member, I set out to convert others and wrangled my husband into the fold.

But guilt was there and I started to feel it a year ago. The Nation felt so frivolous, such an unnecessary extra. But damn it! It was an election year and POTUS was giving me candidate info and race updates to and from work, keeping me posted until I could get home to tele! And lest I forget the 2 CNN channels (and I love me some Robin Meade and AC360). Was this frivolity? No!

With the election now over, not only has my POTUS interest dried up, but I've begun to experience how unhealthy it is for me to have all this news access. (Psst, most of the news out there is negative. Just so you know.)

As with many maladies, the symptoms don't surface until the disease has been simmering awhile. Hindsight shows that the negativity in me had been building for months, but I didn't see it until I found myself in a ginormous shit sandwich, much of which was brought upon by my sarcastic, negative fearful self. Pain is a good motivator for me, and the pain of having ALL NEWS/ALL THE TIME was really starting to kick my ass.

And I think that's what really did it, though the merging of XM and Sirius didn't help. Yesterday, I cut the string and by the time I'd left work, I was no longer in the flock. I listened to NBC radio on my drive home from work. I took in Morning Edition on my way to coffee today. And I survived.

For this impressionable, easily influenced wack-job, less is definitely more.

Kisses!

The walls are closing in

2008-12-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

Oh House, Oh House . . .

Hickory, dickory, dock

The mouse ran up the . . .

There once was a man from Nantucket . . .

I got no muse, folks. The walls are closing in and my circuits aren't tolerating the burden of the upcoming holidays. It's a burden I place on myself, I admit, but it's crushing me! Hosting my husband's family for the holidays is something Mart's wanted to do since we upgraded to a bigger Monster House in 2005.

It's one of those fabulous old farm houses, infamous we later learned because of the cowboy who ran a horse ranch from it. Tales of saddles and other tack strewn on cool, fabulously decrepit antique furniture; car engines and oil pans staining the dining room floor; ducks swimming in the bathtub. And I'm not exaggerating. These are the stories that have been handed to us . . . and the stains, chewed wood work, and nicked porcelain are the proof!

It's a great old place, but so labor intensive! We took it on at a time when we were only half-heartedly looking for something bigger. 'Half-heartedly' because we were in the middle of some remodeling that would finally finish our work on our first home, a 160-year-old brick city girl (yeah, we like the old stuff). Then we saw our Monster House, and 4 days later, she really was ours!

Because we had to finish the remodeling at record speed, the thought of doing ANYTHING to the new place sucked ass, we just wanted to chill. But Monster House needed love. Sure, she got some electrical and water and exterior love. But the inside? Oh, her thirsty walls! A month ago, when Sidney shat up our bedroom, Mart and I dug in and started painting. Our bill is currently about $400. And that's just a bedroom, living room, and a couple of stairways! The first gallons weren't even poured! There lids were just popped and shown the walls, and the paint evaporated!

But this is such a good thing! It feels good to give her some love! I just don't know how much more I can take?! My hope for today is to finish the red living room, a portion of the stairway ceilings, as well as finish the first coat on some mauve-action in the entry. There's so much more to do, but the family's just going to have to deal! I'm done! Hopefully we'll get our "holiday fir" (a scarf to anyone who can name the book from which that comes, author's first initial is D) on Sunday so I can start deckin' out the joint in festive crap.

Ho, ho, ho, and the snow is a fallin'!

Namaste, little buddies~

Tic toc, tic toc

2008-12-01T02:08:00.000-08:00

So, I'm experiencing another day of rising at 3 a.m. . . . I've unloaded the dishwasher, put other dishes away, and now I'm staring into the blog-o-sphere, and listening to the mice in the walls. Yeah, our two felines can't be bothered. (Bitches.)

Later today, my fellow staffers and I move back into our old office space that was destroyed last January. A major fire took out a good quarter block of the downtown in which I work. The Hallmark store that was the tall old brick building next to us, fell on our building. Except for my little corner, which took a direct hit, little was lost and we consider ourselves very lucky.

For the past 10 months, Bonnie, Bridget and I have occupied tight quarters in a great little office building where most everyone has been really wonderful to us. I did say "tight," didn't I? I don't know what the square footage of our old office was, but it consisted of 7 individual office spaces as well as both a break room and a group room. The "tight" space? Three rooms, about 15' x 15' each which served as office space, reception area, group room, break room and a little storage. But what could've been a total pain in the arse, has been very therapeutic for us.

Some of you may know me as lighthearted, free-spirited, even a little funny, but I'm not always like that. As I wrote once before, long ago, I can be a smidge of a white cunt. (Gasp!) I'm serious, though. I can be a real pain in the ass if I'm in one of those moods. And Bonnie, our glue-like secretary who keeps us operational, gets to "enjoy" that from time to time.

What the past 10 months have taught me is that I need to let others in. I need to let them get to know me so they can, at the very least, understand that on those days when THE MOOD hits, it's not them, it's me.

I have found both Bonnie and Bridget to be a shelter during the past months. When something was wrong, I couldn't hide in my office --- we've all been piled on top of each other. I had to force myself to be honest and share the pain I was in. And what I received was love, for which I'm eternally grateful.

Honestly, it's a little bittersweet to be returning to our old office, though I don't think any of us will deny the fun of having our own little corners again. But I think we're a tad tighter and really, if we can survive almost a year of living out of each other's pockets, a little space won't hurt us a bit.

So, cheers to pulled muscles, building shelves and unpacking boxes.

And now, to continue a little game started by one of my Bitches, Waller. Grab the book nearest you and turn to page 56, read.

My "Twenty-Four Hours a Day" was closest and while this little gem lacks page numbers, I took a guess and this is was the message:

I will start a new life each day. I will put the old mistakes away and start anew each day. God always offers me a fresh start. I will not be burdened or anxious.

Hmmm. . . One of this year's BitchFest themes was 'Expunge Regret.'. . Last Saturday, I reconciled with my loved ones. . . Later today will mark a new start at work. . . I'd say Waller's onto something.

Namaste, my loves~

Bad storm gone

2008-11-30T07:30:00.000-08:00

My girl Daisy's been wondering whaz up! Without totally airing everything, let's just say there's been a lot of hurt that I've both hurled and caught, mostly with my 3 sisters. Mom and Oh-Dad were brave enough to referee a sit-down yesterday. And I've got the emotional hang-over to prove it. But after two hours, things actually look a little brighter, feel a little safer, and appear as if we will move forward toward a better idea of what it means to be a family.

But family is a weird thing, I'm learning.

A mentor of mine has tried to explain that "family" is not a spiritual term. "Family" is a term that comes from the material world, and with the material comes all sorts of baggage with how a family should be. You know what I mean: the Norman Rockwell bullshit? the Brady's? the Ingall's? the Huxtable's? All cheery and happy with a 6th sense of always knowing what the other members need at the exact right time, forever on the same wavelength and completely "getting" the others. Fictitious crap, really.

What I'm seeing is that family, while not a spiritual term, definitely comes with opportunities. For me, it's THE opportunity to see just how little I've grown.

I have 38 years of old ideas and views about what family is "supposed" to be. What I experienced yesterday was a mixture of expectation and surprise. I have a deep hope that my family will always love me no matter what, and the fact that Mom, Oh-Dad, and us girls hung in there until the proverbial David Hasselhoff was singing on a tumbling-down wall, proved to me that they are willing to love me. That expectation was met.

What was surprising was how skewed my perception is. A lot of shitaki mushrooms hit the fan this summer and the pile grew from there. My recollection of events was completely different from what was shared by my sisters. My recollection of events doesn't even include some people who were there. And that frightens me. It scares me that my memory is that selective. It's spooky that what I heard was WAY different from what was said. (So I guess it's a good thing I went and got me a shrink and a psychologist last week.)

I know there's the old adage about an event: there's her version, there's my version, and there's the truth.

But what also came to light is just how careful I must be with this blog. When I started it, it was more of a private journal where I vented my religious anger and self-righteous crap. But it didn't make me feel any better. In fact, it felt like I'd swallowed the family hedge hog (poor Otis). I started taking personal pot shots at people close to me. It was usually tongue-in-cheek, joking kind of stuff, but there was an edge to it.

What I'm learning is that if I'm going to honor this penchant for writing, I must use it in a loving, positive way (thank God the election is over). What I am seeing is that when I get caught in negativity, it creates such a shit-storm in me that everything I touch turns to guano.

A few weeks ago I confessed to my doctor that I didn't want to drink, but was afraid I would (hence the additional head guys). Despite my years of recovery, my head was full of such fear and anger and worry and dread that it was manifesting itself in all sorts of harmful behavior. And that's some dangerous stuff. And I was reaping what I'd sowed.

So does this mean it's all daisies and lollipops? Any of you who know me even a tad know that I'm not capable of prolonging sickening, cavity-rich, dimple'ed BS. But I no longer look at the Litterbox as a dumping ground. It's more a platform for sharing that which is good, or changing, or happening. So, I guess I'm back -- a little deflated, a little-less angry, a lot more grateful, and delighted to report that the Magdalene heard my prayer for reconciliation . . . and she delivered.

I send you all so much love---

Namaste~

Puppy halitosis

2008-11-15T12:13:00.000-08:00

Who knew the breath of a 2-week-old puppy was so bad. I mean, they're cute and soft and oh-so-cuddly, but skunky? I wouldn't have thought it. But, it is B-A-D. When I picked up 1 of our 7 little ones this morning, I honestly looked around to see if Bambi's pal Flower had paid us a visit.

Holy crap! And then the little fella yawned and JESUS-MARY-AND-JOSEPH! Here I thought we only needed to worry about the poop and stuff. It's tough to say where this has come from or if all puppies have skunky halitosis. Maybe Sidney ate some skunk during one of her recent escapades and it's being excreted in her milk. Great. OR (gasp!) Sidney scored with a skunk rather than a springer!!!

Well, they are cute. Here's some pix from Bath Night earlier this week. They were 15-days-old here. Enjoy (and be glad our computers can only transmit visually)!

When churches fight . . .

2008-11-14T10:22:00.000-08:00

I just received this funny, fun fun and found it too fab not to share. Besides, it proves my theory wrong that the catholics are total nut jobs. It would appear from this little conflict between a southern catholic church and an across-the-street presbyterian church that the catholics have a pretty good sense of humor. It's certainly not the first time I've been wrong about a group . . . Enjoy!

I'm sooooo Martha!!!

2008-11-11T10:53:00.000-08:00

Can you stand it?! I type in jest, but have to admit, I'm so friggin' PUMPED!!! I can't believe I did this! The yellow square was my first project, complete with peep hole. In progress is this stripey scarf for my son or daughter, it's their school colors. Unfortunately they both balked because it wasn't 'cardinal & gold' (a made-to-order scarf to anyone who can correctly guess why!). I started the scarf at 3:30 this morning, couldn't sleep. Voices in the head were too loud. The knitting was pretty therapeutic, but Turbo needs a nap!

Turbo's feelin' the bloggy age of 100

2008-11-10T10:01:00.000-08:00

So today is my 100th post. And what do I got? Cramped fingers . . . I'm learning how to knit! With all the uber spinning bloggers I've met on this cyber journey, I simply needed to find out what all the hub-bub is about! So my pal Bonnie got me going. And I couldn't believe the intensity of it! After finishing a few rows of stitches, I noticed my shins were damp--with sweat!!!

I'm digging it, but the fingers aren't as nimble as I'd hoped. . .

Obama's bringing 'it' back!

2008-11-07T08:53:00.000-08:00

Visiting Wooly Daisy this morning, a post-election comment was left by someone who said they felt a little guilty looking at President Obama running through waves all buff and beautiful. Like they were oogling their dad or teacher or something. I can empathize. I, too, feel a little weird that this sexy being is now our leader. But it so beats the alternative . . .

I never before realized that President Obama is not only returning hope to our thirsty nation, but also bringin' sexy back! Ka-pow!

Gettin' it right with Obama

2008-11-05T10:36:00.000-08:00

I am not on a sugar high. In fact, I'm on a sugar low. No, it's an emotional hangover.

Like so many people I've talked to, Facebook posts I've skimmed, and blogs I've read, I was not alone yesterday in my fear that the election would get screwed over, again. Anyone remember 2000?

Despite my support for President Obama (mmm, feels so good), there was that part of me that had been kicked down, dismissed, disregarded, and overlooked by politicians and electoral colleges. Sure I hoped for change, but really? I must admit it: I did not believe it could happen. And I'm a white, Midwestern, middle-class, female feeling that way! I can only imagine what other demographics were feeling.

But in spite of such feelings, voting is something I've always done and knew I could not NOT do yesterday. And fortunately, millions of others flexed that muscle, too. And look! Look what we did! Change is coming!!! Change is happening!!! Change is upon us!!! Whoever would've thunk it?!

Other friends have posted portions of President Obama's (mmmmm) victory speech last night, so I won't waste space doing so here, but with Chicago only 3 hours away and a sister who lives there, what the hell was I thinking?! Why wasn't I in there!!!!

Because I lacked that fire of belief, that's why.

Eight years under Bush, when a popular vote said, "We want Gore," has drained me. A big glob of my moxy had been slowly eroded by Bush. I may have put on a strong face, but I was scared. Scared because I knew that if we didn't pull off this election, our country would be sucked off the planet into a vortex of hell like nothing we'd experienced before. Like Sarah Silverman stated in her Great Schlep, we'd be the assholes of the universe! (Yeah, I'm kind of a shiksa with my jew love. Don't worry, I married a Protestant.)

Anyway, thank God things have gone right, for once. Mmmm, make that left.

I'm so empty, ready to be filled up with the hope of President Obama (mmmmmm) and the crazy love between he and Michelle and their daughters, ready to ride this wave to heights never before reached! I'm ready!

Move On! Vote!!!

2008-11-04T05:44:00.000-08:00

I just found this, it's my cousin's husband! Too cool! Now go vote!!!

Dog poo re-do

2008-10-31T08:21:00.000-07:00

As God as my witness, Sidney was not scolded after yesterday's poop fest! So why, when I let her out, did she run WILD for TWO HOURS, leaving her 4-day-old babies to mew and grunt and fend for themselves?

Driving blindly around the hills of greater CharVegas, yelling until I was hoarse, I searched for Sidney. Fear of finding her smashed on the road were rising. It never occurred to me to tie her up! She was an attentive mother, she wouldn't leave, right?

Wrong-o! She and Baby Daddy Chubby went skidaddling all over God's Green Earth, rolling in road kill, draggin' ass through cow lots, and getting all fubar'ed before I spotted that happy tail, wagging as she romped in a ditch. When I pulled over and yelled for her to come, she had the audacity to look at me, hold up a front paw, and flip me her middle toe!

What gives? Through gritted teeth, I managed a sweet voice to coax her into the back of the car and back to her starving yungins.

The poop fest, while horrifying, was really not the worst thing to have happen. In fact, it ignited the long-postponed need to get out brushes and paints and work on gussying up the house for the holidays (we'll host Mr. Mart's family for Christmas). So, removing disgusting gold shag carpet, circa 1978, from our bedroom this weekend will lend itself to wall painting and (hopefully) floor staining.

Then we'll move on to the hallway and the kids' rooms and the stairway and the living room and . . . I'm thinking, "Screw this decaff crap!"

An open letter to Sidney

2008-10-30T04:14:00.000-07:00

Dear Sidney:

What is it with your poop? Is there anything more rancid?

You know that fall has arrived. The frigid temps have made our beds extra comfy with heavy blankets and comforters. I know how much you love them. Just an hour ago, I was sleeping lusciously sound under mine. That is, until I heard 'the tinkle.'

It was the tinkle of your dog tags. The tinkle of you, our newly mama'ed beagle, upstairs. The tinkle of your dog tags signaling you'd managed to wiggle through the cat hole in the basement door. The tinkle of your dog tags sounding the need to do your business. The tinkle of your dog tags heralding the knowledge that what you were about to do had no business being done in the vicinity of your babies. It was the tinkle of a Golgathan Shit Demon.

Unfortunately, the warmth under the blankets trumped the cold outside. I'm sorry Sidney, it was early! But no warmth could combat that smell, could it? Nothing prys open the eyes more quickly and sharply than your poop. Not the best made espresso, bubbling in the Bialetti. Not the yummiest pancakes, fresh off the griddle. Not even the sound of Robin Meade's laugh! Nope. Dog poop: it got us going.

You surely knew what you were doing, Sid, as you heard Mr. Mart fly into action, running blindly through the dark. He thought he'd discovered the offense in Miss Moira's room. (Sleeping through fresh dog poop does not bode well for upcoming teen years.) Fortunately, most rooms in the house are sans carpet so the cleaning up was pretty easy.

But with the offense cleaned up, how was it that the air still reeked, Sidney? How was it that the air was so completely soiled that I'd swear it was coming from the side of my bed? How was this? That's because the air was soiled around my bed, along with some of the last remaining carpet in the house! Holy shit buckets!!! Holy sins against the olfactory senses!!! Holy that's-one-way-of-getting-rid-of-carpet!!!

I hear you now, Sidney, in your pimped out puppy den in the basement. Don't look at me that way. I'm sure it does suck to be relegated to the basement. But it's not forever, it's temporary. By Christmas, you'll be back on Mac Daddy's bed. And it's not so bad, it's quiet, it's soft, it's safe, it's warm.

I feel so violated, Sidney. So used. So shit upon. WTF?! We love you, we've shared our beds with you, we've been your midwives. And for what? For you to foul our sleeping quarters? For you to shit upon our early morning R.E.M.?

It is now 6:24 in the a.m. and you wonder why I call you Sid Vicious...I'm getting some real coffee.

Eve WAS framed!

2008-10-27T11:43:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I received the best Christmas present ever, from the best mother-in-law ever: a sweatshirt on which was printed "Eve was framed." Is that not the best? Does she not "get" her rabble rousing daughter-in-law? I raise this because a dear friend of mine, a catholic/jew, for one reason or another found me worthy to receive this little story. I've never heard it, but it's a goodie. Thanks, Boobee!

A Visit to Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother's

Young Enoch skipped up the pathway, effervescent with excitement. Father Jared and Mother had never let him go so far from home before, all by himself! With this visit to Adam and Eve, he could prove to his parents that he was indeed a big boy, and could handle himself in the wide world, East of Eden.

Adam was out working, but Eve were very happy to see him, as always. There seemed to be a special twinkle in Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother's eye-- she must be proud of me, too, Enoch thought. Eve brought out a delicious porridge she had just made. "Eat, eat, my child!"

"Ur-Bubbie, this is delicious! What is it?"

"Well, I've been potchkeying around in the kitchen with the new barley crop, and I came up with this recipe. Do you like it?"

"Yes, Ur-Bubbie. What do you call it?"

"I don't have a name yet. What do you think?"

"I think you should call it 'Grape-Nuts'!"

"What an odd name? What made you think of that?"

"Well, the barleycorns are small, like grape seeds, and the porridge is crunchy, like nuts."

"Oh, Enoch, you are so clever!"

After finishing the mandatory second helping, to prove to Ur-Bubbie that he really did love her cooking, Enoch broached the main purpose of his visit:

"In school today, the teacher told us that we needed to know more about our human family. All the other kids were talking to Great-Great-Great Grandfather Seth, but I decided to go all the way up the line and talk to you!"

"That's a good boychik, Enoch. It's good to aim high. For some reasons, your cousins never come to me when they get these school assignments. But I think that you will have the best report of all. What do you want to know?"

"Well, Ur-bubbie, I was hoping... what I mean is... well...."

Eve put her hand-- roughened from much work, but still firm and strong-- on Enoch's arm. "I know why you are stammering, mein Kind. You want to ask about the Hard Times, and you don't know how to bring up the subject."

"How did you guess?"

"Enoch, I have lived through a great deal, and brought many children into the world. I have nursed them back to health when they are sick; I have heard them babble when their fever is high. I know how to see the vines of a question ready to spring up out of a child's heart, even when the seeds are only beginning to sprout."

That gave Enoch the courage to ask the hard question. "The other kids were saying that it was your fault that Ur-Zayde and you had to leave the Garden. I was sticking up for you. I said that you and Ur-Zayde always made your decisions together, and that people shouldn't go blaming you. They said, I'm just a little kid, and what do I know? So I want to hear the story from you, Ur-Bubbie."

Eve patted her great-great-great-great grandson's arm again, but her voice changed in timbre when she spoke. "It was a very hard time, and we had a huge fight. Adam was blaming me, and I really thought it wasn't fair. But even worse than that, I thought that we would never have a happy moment again. I had never known sadness until then, and it was so hard... Do you understand me, or is this over your head?"

Enoch shook his head vigorously, to show that he was old enough to understand.

"But the most amazing thing happened after we left the Garden. For the first time, we began to know each other, really know each other. We worked together to grow wheat. You can still see a patch of the first wheat we cultivated. Even though we have better crops today, I still put in one patch of the first wheat, just for old times' sake. We were so tired after a day's work, that we would just drop off and sleep like babies. But I was happy, because Adam needed me, and I needed him. We couldn't just wander around and pick fruit, like in the old days. We sweated plenty to get the food that we ate. But it tasted even better, because we had worked for it."

Mother Eve went on in this vein, and Enoch drank in the stories. He wanted to know other things, too. But he was afraid to bring up the difficult subject of Abel's death-- none of the kids ever talked about it. They only whispered scary snatches of a tale, and Enoch wasn't sure if he wanted to know how much of it was true.

Mother Eve, of course, saw all this in her youngest one's face, and she finished her story: "Of course, there's a lot more you want to know, but that will have to wait until you are older. You have already grown so much! You came here all by yourself. Let's measure your height... see, you come up to the second cord on the tent-flap. Next time, I bet you'll be even taller, and I'll tell you more. Meantime, take this back to your Mama, since you like it. Tell her to come to me for the recipe." And she gave him a pot filled with Grape-Nuts, to take back home.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michael Panitz

Caffeine & Holesteins

2008-10-27T08:01:00.000-07:00

I'm tired. I've done OK off the juice, but it's sad to report not much has changed. Only one day did I suffer any headaches (and I think that was more drama, then withdrawal). And the tremor? The whole reason for starting this little experiment? Well, I'm still shaking. In a couple weeks, I'll be visiting with my doctor and I think I'll request some further testing. While 90 percent of me is convinced this a lovely little gift passed down through generations on my mother's side, there's the 10 percent that worries wonders if it's something else.

If the caffeine was truly influencing the tremor, wouldn't you think that after 2 weeks, I'd see some results? I feel NO DIFFERENT. Admittedly, I've had a couple of slips. I love coffee. LUV it. So I have found that if the decaff is unavailable, I take a bite of forbidden fruit. Not always, not even regularly, but there's been a couple times when I NEEDED it (there, I said it). And I'm needing it right NOW!

I'm tired. And the pop machine with freshly stocked Mountain Dew is calling to me ... loudly ... from down the hall ... around the accounting office in my building. But I shall not bend. I have not had any caffeinated pop since the 12th of this month. And today will not break me. But I'm tired.

Why all this fatigue, you wonder? Well, our little farmette is quickly turning into a petting zoo. About a week ago, you may remember me reporting that the kids and Marty found where Sally, our resident Mama Cat, had tucked away her most recent litter: in the crawl space under the porch. All seven of those cute, little fur balls are thriving! Running all around, eating kitty food, and staying out from under our vehicles.

Turns out, seven really must be our lucky number because last night, our beagel, our beloved Sidney Freedman may have secured me new furniture before Christmas! Her water broke as we watched the World Series! On the couch! And it's not leather or microfiber, but good ol' cloth!

Working fast, we fashioned a birthing room upstairs where we could keep a close eye on her and by 10:05 p.m., the first of seven SPREAGLES were born (Sid is a beagel and her baby daddy, Chubby, is a springer spaniel). While it's been a few years since I labored my children into this world, I was so feelin' for Sidney. You could hear her push and groan and every once in awhile a pained howl would be launched into the universe. At one point, I think it may have been "transition," she left her quarters as if to say, "I'm soooo outta here," and jumped up on my bed (looks like Santa's bringin' new sheets, as well).

Who knew that newborn puppies were so loud?! It sounded like a pack of wild dingos in there! But by sunrise, all seven were settled down and cuddled up with Mommy, a sea of black and white. To quote my husband, "It looks like a herd of Holsteins.

So, would it be wrong to have a celebratory Dew?

The flaw with going public

2008-10-24T13:07:00.000-07:00

For many years now, I've been told that pain is the touchstone of growth. James Joyce said, "Mistakes are the portals of discovery."

When I first started this blog I couldn't explain the 'why' of it. Sure, I may have tried, but foresight is not my strong suit. Today I understand the 'why' behind this venture and it's as the subtitle says, "a dumping ground of one's own." This is my litter box, where I unload, where I stash, where I celebrate, and where I wallow. I have no intention of sounding like some poor, tortured, artsy-fartsy soul. Rather I must clarify THE point behind this space: healing.

I cannot speak for Jane Doe or Joe Schmoe, I can only speak for me and my need to "write it out." I'm sure you can dig up all sorts of personality traits and planetary alignments to argue why this be the case, but so what. The truth is, I write what I feel and what I feel is usually not something I hide all the best. This has its perks and drawbacks.

When I started The Litterbox, I was sending out my feelings in hopes of meeting others with similar passions or ideas or experiences; maybe connect with someone further along this journey. I was guarded, afraid of anyone learning my identity because I was letting EVERYTHING out. I was droppin' the F-bombs, knockin' the church, pissin' on the hierarchy, and just venting in a hugely freeing, no-holds-barred kinda way. And it felt good.

Initially, very few people knew of The Litterbox because I didn't want to offend anyone. The Litterbox was not intended to be a weapon of harm. Again, I created it at as a vehicle for healing and as the posts began to grow, so did my confidence. I began telling more people about it. Ego-maniac that I am (yes, I'm a spade), I thought some of my mates might be interested in the stuff I was penning. Recently, I even linked some posts to my Facebook profile. In hindsight, this was not the most thought-out act.

For the first time, my identity was publicly linked to The Litterbox. I was okay with that, I didn't think I had anything to hide. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten about some earlier venting and joking I'd done at the expense of family. Yup. I fucked up, again. Months ago, hurting over long-time drama, I made some remarks about various family members. Whether they were real or imagined DOES NOT MATTER.

What matters is that by linking The Litterbox on Facebook, my family had access to all 90+ posts. The remarks were dug up and feelings were hurt. Justifiably so, and there's nothing I can do to take it back. Sure, I removed the offending posts from the blog. But this doesn't make things right. It doesn't right the wrongs done to my aunts or to my sisters or to my parents. "That horse has left the barn," a friend wrote me. I have done all I can and an "I'm sorry" just doesn't feel enough.

If there's one thing I do with The Litterbox, it's be real. I will continue to be real, to share my angst and frustrations and hurts and worries. I will continue to shout it, to show it, to sing it. I am human, I am flawed, I am fucked up, and I will never be quite right. And I'm learning to accept this about myself. I will continue to make mistakes for the rest of my days. And in spite of this, I know that I am a good person doing the very best that I can. Sometimes my best is fabulous. Sometimes my best sucks ass. But I can honestly say that I'm trying to do better, one moment, one lesson, at a time.

Much love to you all.

Searching for the Green Tara

2008-10-22T17:57:00.000-07:00

So having edited many past posts and deleted some others, it's time for me to get back to the basics: literature! Thanks goes out to my friend and fellow blogger Miss Wooly Daisy who recommended I read Longing for Darkness: Tara and the Black Madonna. She shared it after reading of my experience with Sue Monk Kidd's The Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

Longing for Darkness is the story of writer China Galland's search for female connections within the Buddhist discipline. I'm only a third through the book, but Miss Daisy must know my heart as she really directed me toward a significant read. Thanks, gurl! This Galland chick and I have a few things in common: we share similar catholic roots, we are both sober moms, and both of us desire female spiritual guides, deities, and gods.

So last night, with flashlight in hand (and Moira's head on my shoulder), I read of Galland's meeting with the abbot of the Dalai Lama's monastery in McLeod Ganji, India. She was sent to him by the Dalai Lama himself to learn more about Tara, who "according to the legend . . . knew that there were hardly any Buddhas who had been enlightened in the form of a woman. So she was determined to retain her female form and to become enlightened only in this female form."

While it is said that Buddhist practitioners see no difference between men and women, it is also admitted that there is some feeling of discrimination, albeit "superficial," the Dalai Lama states.

What Galland shares with the abbot is a visualization she's experienced. "After sitting for five years, some of my Christian roots began to crop up in my meditation. What has evolved is a kind of mandala in which I visualize Tara, the Virgin Mary, Buddha, and Jesus Christ."

This one paragraph is ripe with coincidences for me, but for this post, the significance that struck me is not in the presence of the Christian figures, but what Tara is doing: "I imagine Tara taking a pitcher of compassion and pouring it over the heads of all the people I love--my family, my friends, everyone, as well as all the people I don't love--that I find difficult or hard."

Tonight, after a long, afternoon meeting with Moira's surgeon, I thought of that visualization. I have no control over others, no control over their actions, their thoughts, their experiences, how they interpret, or what they say. But I do have control over myself and I must allow others the right to live according to their own will. I don't have to like it, but I do have to accept, and that's where the visualization enters: I must imagine my God, the great She, pouring warm, loving compassion over the heads of all the people I love and don't love, and trust in those oft repeated words of Julian of Norwich, "all will be well." Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but "all will be well."

Trying to 'roll' with it

2008-10-21T12:13:00.000-07:00

I wish I could write that it's the good stuff the universe continues to bring, but with the good, also comes the bad, though I hate to use such labels. I've been slacking on my prayer, meditation, and readings. Not just slacking, rather, just not doing. "I'm fine," I tell myself. But what I'm really saying is, "I don't fucking care." And that sucks to admit, but there it is.

I don't believe in vengeful deities. I believe in gods that allow me freedom to sow my actions and reap my consequences. There's no judgement, no penance. This is important stuff for me to remember, especially during days like today when I want to blame my pain on the gods and the humans. But the universe doesn't roll that way.

Today's lesson, which I shall call, "What happens when Jenny's a lazy toad," goes something like this . . .

On my way to Coffee Klatch this morning, after dropping off the kids at school, I cruise with my decaf, talking to a sister on my celli. Suddenly I feel something in the road and then the 'thwump, thwump, thwump' of a flat tire. Grrrr. Hanging up on my sister, I draw a temporary blank on the donut in the trunk of my car. "Do I call a tow truck?" I wondered. No, my husband! Always my man in waiting, ready to swoop in and clean up my shit, he reminds me of said donut, but not to worry, that he'll come change it.

"Well, I could at least get it unpacked," I thought. So with owner's manual in hand (yeah, it took that just to get the tire unsecured from the trunk floor), I discovered changing a tire is not all that difficult. In fact, it's pretty empowering. Thirty minutes later and I called off my husband and rushed off to my meeting. (Wasn't it nice of a passerby to snap this photo of me in action?!!)

After another 30 minutes, Coffee Klatch ends. When I drove off to get a new tire, I spilled my water bottle in my lap. More specifically, on my crotch! So, there I find myself, wandering around the local box store looking as if I'd just pissed myself. Nice. It's at that moment that I notice I'm beginning to feel a little 'not right,' a wee agitated, a bit edgy, as if the winds of change may just be blowing against me.

Well, let me just say, the day hasn't gotten much better. Think freshly baked pizza, a nice cup of red Kool-Aid, and my mother's recently cleaned white carpet.

Yeah, it's gone that good . . .

Time to pray, meditate, and read!

And the universe rained down upon thee

2008-10-18T10:17:00.000-07:00

Today is a very special day. Not only does it mark the legal partnership into which I entered with my husband 11 years ago, it also is the 5th anniversary of dear Helen's freedom from terminal brain cancer. I know she's truly Dancing with Stars today! These 2 sweets should be enough, really, but I guess the universe thought differently! The blessings just keep flowing!

First, I breathed a great sigh of relief after rushing to my tea jar and discovering the green tea I've been drinking is DECAF! Whew. Miss Daisy reminded me of the caffeinated sort and I'm happy to report, I've been doing the decaf of that awesome brew all along!

But there's more! At 6 a.m., I opted out of my tea thing, preferring some java. Looking in the freezer to make up a cup from my aforementioned 4-year-old can of Folgers instant decaf, I found it gone! In its place was a pound of whole bean decaf my Beloved had gifted me last night. While that certainly would've been much yummier than the Folgers, I didn't want to sound the grinder and wake up the house. So I had nuttin!

Turns out, he'd already prepped the Bialetti with freshly ground decaf the night before (he is a thoughtful one, that Marty). Unfortunately the Bialetti only brews one ginormous cup at a time. And I drained that before leaving for my Coffee Klatch! During the drive, I called Marty and asked if I'd be a failure for drinking coffee at my meeting. He said, "What? Are you really jones-ing for some caffeine?" I told him, "No! I just like coffee, decaf or regular it doesn't matter. But they only serve regular at the meeting!" His solution was utterly preschool in its simplicity: "get a decaf at Casey's on the way." Huh. Problem solved. No need to relapse!

Unbelievably, two more blessings would find me before the clock struck Noon.

Following my Coffee Klatch, I returned home to find my husband sitting on the cat house. Earlier in the week the kids had found where Sally, our resident Mama Cat, had been hiding her most recent litter: in the crawl space under the porch. Moving Sally and her 6 fluffy, wide-eyed, wobbly-legged hatchlings was such a treat, but by nightfall, one had wandered off and was nowhere! Well this morning, as Marty was planting garlic and tulip bulbs (yeah, he's that awesome) he thought he heard some mewing from the crawl space.

Turns out, Sally's been pulling double duty, balancing her mothering between the 5 in the cat house and TWO others still in the crawl space! So, what was once 5 little kittens are now 7! And Sally is certainly showing herself to a be a fab mum!

Think that's it? Well, hold onto your overalls! In the mail was a love letter from one of my Bitches, Diane. Having heard about Moira's cleft issue, she sent Moira a little, sparkly schwag and me? An awesome little Buddha with this quote attached:

We are formed and molded by our thoughts. Those whose minds are shaped by selfless thoughts give joy when they speak or act. Joy follows them like a shadow that never leaves them.

-Buddha

Whatever have I done to deserve such outpouring from the universe?! To have a loving husband, healthy kids, Helen in the heavens, and my Bitches still on Earth, plus all this amazing extra schizzle . . . it's too much!

In fact, I've got oodles to share. So to all of you, I send you this Celtic blessing:

May the blessing of the rain be on you--the soft, sweet rain.

May it fall upon your spirit so that all the little flowers may spring up, and shed their sweetness on the air.

May the blessing of the great rains be on you, may they beat upon your spirit and wash it fair and clean, and leave there many a shining pool where the blue of heaven shines, and sometimes a star.

Much love to you all . . .

Day 5: Decaf sucketh

2008-10-16T04:26:00.000-07:00

Here it is, the morning of my fifth day off the juice. I hate to admit this, but up until yesterday afternoon, it had been a relatively easy trek. I'd wake and put on the tea pot for a "cuppa" and then sit back and enjoy some green tea. I put green tea right up there with communion for the ex-communicated: LOVELY! It has long been my elixir of uneasy tummies, upset hearts, and tortured souls. Since my first memories of being beached on the couch covered with a sheet and my favorite blanket, green tea and toast are about as "feel good" as commodities go. Though these days, if I even think about toast all golden and buttered, I'm libel to fall into a carb-crazed blackout. Half a loaf later and I'm sportin' a buttery crumbed beard. But I digress . . .

As I was saying, the caffeine-free life hasn't been horrible. No, it's more like I'm living in a black-and-white flick, life all Ozzie and Harriet, devoid of conflict and taste, but with a slightly decreased tremor. Wait, did I write, devoid of conflict? Well, that was until last night. With a slow-burn of a headache having set in yesterday afternoon (weird how the DTs took 4 days to hit, no?) my family sat down for supper at which time Moira mentions something white, with some orange-ish red, came out of her mouth. "That was blood," she said casually. Remember that bone graft thing I was going on about last week? It sure sounds like a chunk of bone has now left said graft. Bummmmmmerrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! My baby-selfish-self just wants this behind her/us! But, no such luck. We'll know more next week when we return to the doc.

This is the kinda stuff, though, that I don't handle well. And would I handle it any better with some real Joe (not that damn plumber) or better yet, a Marlboro Ultra Mild? No. So here I sit, 6:13 in the a.m. with a cup of Folgers instant decaf that I found in the freezer. Certainly this cannot be the same Folgers decaf that I bought during the 2004 Bitchfest: "The Blair Bitch Project," can it? Oh yes it can! Folgers offers a timeline for saving coffee. Go look at the recommendations for keeping opened cans of instant coffee crystals.

Mmmmm, good to the last, rotten plop . . .

The great caffeine experiment

2008-10-13T06:37:00.000-07:00

I feel like a heroine addict a few hours after her last hit. Things are pretty calm right now, but I know it's gonna get bad. I'm taking a 30-day leave of my elixir of life: caffeine.

I have this thing, this tremor. I have my mother and her mother to thank for it. It's been increasing over the years. I'll be eating and I'll catch eyes staring at my right hand, fork shimmying above the plate. My sisters are the worst, they love to give me hell about it. "Geez, Jenny! See a doctor!"

Thing is, I have, and I remind them of it every time we're together. Recently, the four of us sisters got together for a flick Burn After Reading (marginal in terms of Cohen Brothers, but Pitt was hilarious). I commented on how my sister Angie's hands were so still. She looked at me and said, "Jen, this is normal. Your shake is not."

As with every other time, I assured her I've talked to my doctor and have been told that other than quitting the caffeine, there's nothing that can be done. "And I tried that, for a day, and it didn't help." Then she said it, "Have you tried it for a month?" I about choked on my Mountain Dew. "A month?! No caffeine for a month?!"

She dropped the issue, but it left me thinking, "It can't hurt to try." So here we go . . .

Part of me hopes it works, it would be nice to use the video camera again, cool to take the SLR off "shake" mode, even better to not have to wipe mascara from my eyebrows. But if it works, that means no yummo espresso from the Bialetti, no thirst-quenching bite from the infamous green can, no bottomless cup during my coffee hour with friends! But there are concessions I could make, I could switch to decaf (shhh, don't tell me if there are trace amounts) and I really shouldn't be drinking any pop in the first place. So it's not like my life would become completely desolate. . . Right?

The stinky Yogi

2008-10-10T10:31:00.000-07:00

In an effort to lighten the mood here in the Litterbox, I'd like to talk to you about ~~Jesus~~, I mean, something even more personal: FARTING. While this specific topic was hit on earlier this year from one fab blogger, The Mom Bomb, at the time, I was not practicing my yoga. Now that I've resumed, however, I find I'm having similar experiences. What experience is that, you may wonder? Yoga-induced FARTING.

The Mom Bomb shared that she was FARTING in her yoga class. I, however, do yoga at home. So while FARTING during a yoga session is not an issue I'm concerned with, I find the FARTING occurring after I'm done to be the issue . . . like everyday since I resumed yoga on Tuesday.

As my family complains to me about the noxious emissions and green clouds following me about the house, I try explaining to them that this is part of the yoga package. When a person stretches and bends themselves in the variety of postures, the organs of the body get excited and stirred up and starts ridding the body of all sorts of toxins. "Then stop doing yoga!" they demand. (Apparently, my toxins are particularly offensive.)

Initially, I thought this was a passing thing (rim shot). But here it is Day 3 since I resumed yoga and the paint is peeling from my house and mice are running from my office! In researching this phenomenon, many sites discuss the yogic principle of pratyahara which means withdrawal of the senses. As I said, I do yoga in my house, by myself, alone, so my senses are totally chill. But how can I help others practice pratyahara. Others who don't give a rat's ass about pratyahara, but would like to see Jen's Ass take a hike.

On Wednesday, my husband called me at work to share what our lovely Moira said after she sparked: "Sorry, I've got Mommy's gas." And everybody laughed!!!! Oh, it was so funny!!!!!! Honestly? I don't think "Mommy's gas" is so funny! There's much stigma that comes with FARTING! And even though this has come about due to practicing an ancient art, a FART is a FART.

So, if anyone out there has advice, experience, product information, I'm all ears/eyes. Now excuse me, I gotta go to the bathroom.

How grey be the 'hard' & 'soft' of it

2008-10-08T17:36:00.000-07:00

Who was it that said when a mother pushes out her child, nature pushes in the guilt? Obviously I've got a lot of it with Moira. She survived an early gestation with alcohol, survived alcohol-tainted breast milk, and even survived her mother's sobering up. I do not mean to write so flippantly of this, it is the reality Moira and I share.

And whenever I screw up now, my "internal critic" likes to unpack all that old guilt that I've tried to process and blow situations waaaayyyyy out of wack. Like, for instance, this new hole in Moira's mouth. Upon meeting with her doctor today, we learned that this type of opening may simply have occurred on its own. Her diet and the difference between "hard" and "soft" foods? Turns out, we were doing ok. According to the Otolaryngology Clinic, "soft" foods are "anything that doesn't crunch." Whew.

But what's this mean for Moira's mouth? Well, there remains some, if not all, of the bone graft. However, doctors won't know for sure until January when x-rays will determine whether or not it has taken root. In the meantime, we continue with the foods she's comfortable and get to take the oral care up a notch to include an antibiotic mouth rinse and use of a water pik. We'll know more in 2 weeks when we return.

Mistakes and responsibility

2008-10-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

It was 6 weeks ago today that my 8-year-old Moira had an alveolar bone graft. This was by far the most intense surgery out of the many she's had since she was just 5 months old. My daughter was born with a cleft lip and palate.

My husband and I were of the rare group lucky to learn their unborn baby had a cleft. With this information, we were able to use the final 2 weeks of gestation to prepare ourselves, and mourn the loss of our ideal. It was a harsh blow. No parent wants their child to be anything less than perfect, no matter how delusional that may sound. And honestly, I was afraid of the ugliness of clefts.

When we were told what the doctors saw in the ultrasound, I flipped out. I thought it was the worst thing ever! Having a couple of cousins with clefts, I remembered different surgeries they went through, the scars on their lips, the language still used to describe them, and the ignorance of people who encountered them. I was so angry that I would have to deal with this.

But as the days passed, I grew more calm. I would lay, soaking in the bathtub with my arms around my belly and tell my child I loved her and couldn't wait to meet her. I would cry with fear that people wouldn't love her, that they'd be frightened or startled by her, that they'd use ugly words like "hair lip." I was so scared that she would grow up feeling like something was wrong with her, that she was less then.

So when it came time to bring her into this world, my husband and I had progressed through many stages of grief over the loss of what we'd expected and were pretty psyched to meet who we were being given! And she was fabulous from the moment she entered the world! And so tough! Being born with a cleft means you're going to have a lot of surgeries over the course of your life, most of which will occur before age 18.

At 5-months-old, Moira's lip was closed. At 1 year, her palate was closed. At 3-years-old, a hole or "fistula" opened in the soft palate so a skin graft was taken from her hip to close that hole. Then back in late August of this year, a piece of bone was taken from the same hip and grafted into her hard palate.

Her surgeon told us that the procedure couldn't have gone better. That if a perfect surgery could be had, it just did. He then drove home the importance of oral care, basically warning that if the graft failed to take root, it would likely be failure to keep the mouth clean or be the result of trauma to the face.

I thought we'd been careful. Super sensitive to teeth brushing (at least 4 times a day). Hyper vigilant with teachers that she be suspended from P.E. and recess. What we failed at was the diet. At about 3 weeks post-op, Marty and I allowed her to start eating soft foods. Foods like plain hot dogs, cut up, and soggy, microwaved chicken nuggets. Why I thought these would pass as "soft" I don't know. I have since learned that these foods are classified as "hard" and shouldn't be given until 6 weeks post-op.

This goes beyond your run-of-the-mill "oops." This was a fuck up. And this massive mistake may have cost Moira another surgery.

Last night, as I sat listening to her read, I heard it. I heard this nasally whistle of a sound that only happens when there's a fistula in her palate. My heart stopped. "Moira? Is your hole back," I asked her. "Yeah. I noticed it this weekend."

My husband and I immediately grabbed a flashlight and, yup, there's a hole up there. In fact, we can see the front of the hole above her gum and the back of the hole in the hard palate behind her teeth. I felt so numb and helpless. Still do, in fact. But let's not forget the overwhelming sense of RESPONSIBILITY. To play the "if only" game is stupid, but it's how I feel right now: stupid that a hot dog or nugget would pass as "soft."

So today, after numerous messages left with her surgeon's office, I finally got through to a receptionist at 4 o'clock. When I told her that I "heard" it, she freaked out. "Oh my God. I'll get Dr. John and have him call you right away."

Turns out, Dr. John's in China, but he wants us seen ASAP by his attending. So tomorrow we head back to the hospital, expecting no work to be done other than charting a new course of action.

I just fear all that is unknown until then.

Life's silver lining

2008-10-03T05:41:00.000-07:00

Keeping up appearances

2008-10-02T14:45:00.000-07:00

Anyone see the Palin interview with Katie? It's pretty gut-wrenching to watch. I almost feel like I'm watching myself be interviewed because Palin knows about as much as I do. And I don't know much. But she's a milf, so I guess that counts for something.

So I located the county Democrat headquarters today. Wanna know how? Well, a couple days a week, ! meet several friends for coffee. About a month ago, the office next to our meeting place began to fill up with elephants. Hmmm. Then the McCain signs were erected and Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph! the county Republicans parked it next to my coffee place!!!!!!

I've been wanting to replace my Obama sign since the wind took it back in January after Iowa held its caucuses, (I know, pathetic it's taken me so long) but I have not been able to find the local Democrat hub. So today, bolstered by a fellow coffee drinking Democrat, we marched into the Republican office. With cheery faces and a 'Happy Morning' greeting, we admitted to these normal-looking people that we were not Republicans, would not be voting for their candidates, but meant them no harm. In fact, we sought their help, "Where's the Democrat office?"

The female Republican manning the door helpfully pulled out a directory and cheerfully gave us the directions, joking that we had to vote for McCain as payment for her services.

She was so nice and helpful and understanding that I'm thinking she's a closet Democrat and was simply keeping up appearances for the grumpy old man at the desk.

BitchFest 10 hits it home

2008-10-01T10:42:00.000-07:00

I'm speechless. Something that rarely happens. Last weekend marked the 10th anniversary of BitchFest, an annual gathering of 6 chicks who met in college, worked on the school paper together, and somehow felt the need to regroup.

The lot of us did not start out as a particularly tight clan. In fact, some of us hardly knew one another "back in the day." Our one link was 'The Daily,' all of us serving as various editors at different times. There was one other link, too. Helen. She's the Numero Uno, Queen Bitch, if you will. And Oct. 18 will mark the 5th anniversary of her freedom, being set free after an ugly battle with brain cancer.

BitchFest began when this diva, Helen, finished a Peace Corps tour in the African bush, and she was eager to see her girls, her Bitches. Five us: Waller, Helen, Diane and me all converged at Bradford's near Madison, Wisconsin. It was really just a weekend to reconnect, drink beer, look at photos, and talk.

The following year the sixth bitch, Dukes, entered the fray and completed our roster. And every year since, most of us have dug deep into our schedules and found the willingness to put time aside for the Bitches. And BitchFest has seen some pretty significant changes in the personalities of her cast, and such changes nearly killed this sacred gathering.

After last year's "Huckleberry Bitch," in which we rented a houseboat and sailed the mighty Mississippi for a weekend, a few spiritual issues were raised that I, for one, was not prepared to handle in a mature, grown-up way. In fact, I behaved like a Bad Bitch: a whiny, divisive, smelly, pirate hooker Bitch.

Turns out, despite the near-death of this gathering, everyone came together in the spirit of Bitch and "put it out there" as we hashed out old beefs. Never have I felt more naked, having this group see me as I really am: flawed, broken, and ornery as hell. And negative, too. Ew. I left our gathering feeling more whole, but also more aware of the work I need to do on myself. I am such a pain in the ass, and can be so critical of others. I see that this is no way to live.

So to my bitches, I love you all sumpin fierce, and I have your backs in all that you do. XO.

What the hell?!

2008-09-24T13:32:00.000-07:00

Having recently finished Kidd's "Dissident Dance," I can only say it was so amazingly powerful that I cannot fully share about my experience. It has to simmer for awhile.

So I thought I'd share today's "WTF" that came up on Amazon's 'Today's Deals' page. Whoever buys this has too much goddamn money and too much free time and too little social consciousness. . .

So when you hit a bump on today's road, be grateful you're not the dumbass who thinks he or she NEEDS this. Now go in peace, my bloggy friends . . .

Finding my road back to Her

2008-09-16T06:45:00.000-07:00

Some are aware of my reading Sue Monk Kidd's "Dance of the Dissident Daughter." I've mentioned how amazed I've been to read someone putting to words feelings I've had about the inadequacies of mainstream religion in its approach to the Sacred Feminine. Inadequate is really an incorrect term, though, because to be inadequate would indicate some attempt to be adequate. There is none. Through my personal studies as well as the research of others, the Feminine Voice has been shut up, stomped down, locked away, and silenced. But not destroyed.

Unlike Kidd, I don't receive many spiritual messages in my dreams. Minus those nightmares about me drinking again (trust me, it's pretty ugly), my dreams are just the incoherent babblings of an asleep brain. But I do see the signs in life, especially when I look backward.

I cannot remember the first time I experienced the lack of Sacred Females with whom to relate. Sure, there's the Virgin Mary, but who can relate to her? I couldn't. Then there was Mary Magdalene, but my 4th grade catechism teacher said she was a sinner, no one to worship. When I reminded her, "Aren't we all sinners?" She told me, "Not that kind of sinner."

So I resigned myself to the fact the Virgin was all I had. Sure, I got pretty good at the rosary, but I didn't feel a longing to know her. The lack of spiritual role models who were of my gender festered in me. As I grew, so did my anger. When I turned 16, I finally had the freedom to skip church. I'd take the car, lie to my parents that I was going to the late mass, then spend the next hour driving around. Anything was better than hearing that bullshit, male-focused, fear-based doctrine.

It wasn't until my senior year of college while taking a "Women in Antiquity" course, did I learn that early pre-Christian cultures worshipped a female deity. It was before the Bronze Age, before "man" wielded weapons and learned that brute trumped fertility. I felt on fire when I learned this! Yes!!! There is a Feminine God out there. But I lacked the ability, the wherewithal to find her.

Then Dan Brown came out with that beauty of a "fictitious" tale about Mary Magdalene's womb being the Holy Grail. Brown's "DaVinci Code" renewed my sense of hope that there was more out there, kind of like my own personal X-Files. Looking at his bibliography, I was lead to other authors.

Margaret Starbird's "Woman With the Alabaster Jar" propelled me even deeper into this growing belief in the reality of a Feminine Sacred. I read another of her works, "The Goddess in the Gospels" and moved on to translations of the "Pistis Sophia," "The Gospel of Mary Magdalene" and "The Gnostic Gospels." To be honest, I haven't made a deep effort to muscle through the last three, they're on my self, waiting for me to be ready.

But reading Kidd's "Dissident Daughter" is confirming beyond any doubt that the Feminine Sacred is real and it doesn't replace the male image of God nor is it relegated to the slightly lower status of Holy Spirit, but is a spirituality in combination with the patriarchal view held for thousands of years.

Some people roll their eyes at me, others blow me off as a bitch; there are those who aren't comfortable with it, and still others who don't care. All of these reactions are fine. All I know is that patriarchal religious doctrine DOES NOT WORK FOR ME. All I ask is to continue my search without your judgement because I know I'm onto something. I can feel it in my bones and sense it in my heart and gut. And I see the signs.

Just 30 minutes ago, listening to some quality Bob Edwards public radio, he interviewed musician Joan Osborn on her new disc, "Little Wild One." He introduced her by playing some bars from her one-hit wonder: "If God Was One of Us" and those bars included the lyrics, "If God had a name, what would it be and would you call it to his face, if you were faced with him in all his glory? What would you ask if you had just one question?" Immediately I thought of a question, "Where's the women?" Then Bob proceeded to play the opening bars of the lead track, "Hallelujah in the City," from her new disc. While the disc pays homage to her home-away-from-away, New York City, I cannot deny the messages I heard in both songs:

I have been unfaithful.
I have been untrue.
How'd I find the road that brought me back to you.
Hallelujah!

I have spent my life yearning for the Feminine Sacred, but refusing to do the work to find Her. And in spite of myself, I found the road that is bringing me back to Her. Hallelujah!

McChange? NOT!!!

2008-09-13T18:01:00.000-07:00

Go forth and march!!!

2008-09-12T10:18:00.000-07:00

Who can concentrate in an atmosphere like this? I mean, really? With all this political bullshit, crazy-muggy air, a Cat 3 aimed to take out Galveston, and a hedgehog acclimating himself to a new home.

I have to admit, I've been avoiding my blog. It just doesn't seem to make sense to me anymore. I haven't been checking on other blogs as I normally do, thus not leaving messages and encouraging all those other bloggers out there. Life just feels out of sync.

But I keep on reading, and it's "Dissident Daughter" with which I march on. I continue to be filled with gratitude and hope, fear and uncertainty as I follow Kidd on her journey from the mainstream, patriarchal rule of Christianity to the self-discovery of the Sacred Feminine. I feel so aware, right now, of the Feminine Wound, this ageless piece of our souls that contains all the shutup voices, the kept down spirits, the women who went before us and were trampled by the patriarchy of this planet.

And Kidd's tale is reminding me of the power of coincidence. Make no mistake, there is purpose behind every happening, which is why I was so moved when Wooly Daisy emailed me the following:

This is the story of our Grandmothers and Great-Grandmothers; they lived over 90 years ago.

Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.

The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the right to vote.

In June 1917, after months of picketing the White House for President Woodrow Wilson's support of their movement, arrests began to occur. The usual charge: obstructing sidewalk traffic. But they kept picketing and marching until finally on Nov. 15, 1917, 40 prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.'

By the end of the night, they were barely alive.

(Lucy Burns)

They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.

(Dora Lewis)

They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

Thus unfolded the 'Night of Terror,' when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia (already under investigation for reports of inhumane conditions for and treatment of the female prisoners) ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote. For weeks following Nov. 15, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms.

(Alice Paul)

When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

At a point in the HBO movie, "Iron Jawed Angles," Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. The doctor refuses. "Alice Paul was strong," he said, "and brave. That didn't make her crazy." The doctor admonished the men: "Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity."

This message came as a reminder to hold close this dearly-fought for right to vote, but there is so much more to it. I think to myself, how friggin' lucky am I?!

I pull a Munch and let loose a silent scream over all that has been done in an effort to be equal. My throat squeezes shut and my palms begin to sweat and I get fidgety and angry over past harms done. And then there are the current issues of inequality. I voice this and am labeled 'one of those.' I speak of the Sacred Feminine and many, even women, shuffle away or roll their eyes. Is the receiving of this message on suffragists linked to my spiritual journey? I have never been more sure that this was no coincidence. Not only am I responsible to continue scratching away at the patriarchal surface, but I have a duty to continue what was started by those who came before me.

And this is no male vs. female battle, it is a quest for both sexes to throw off those old beliefs and causes and to "trust the gut" and go forth.

Fear will only keep us paralyzed and immobile. Now go forth, my loved ones, and do good work and make yourselves proud and march!!!!

It's a Wanker!!!

2008-09-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday began like any other day, can't get outta bed, running late for work, wasting time at work once I make it in . . . and then, around 11:30 a.m. a co-worker begins talking about her mother's pets. Starting with what she thought were two 'females' multiplied into 6 when one of the she's turned out to be a he. And what are these pets, you may wonder?

Just what every family needs, right? A hedge hog. As if 4 cats, 2 dogs, 2 kids, and 1 husband weren't enough.

So far, I've been bitten, puked on, licked bunches and shat upon. And that was Day One.

Tentatively going by the name of 'Wanker,' hopefully he'll settle down enough to get some pictures. Right now, my fingers are too punctured to work a camera. Love hurts.

Ideology & Religion Shit List

2008-09-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

I just received this in an e-mail and had to share because I think it's totally funny! No, I am not the genius who came up with it ... but I play one on, oh screw that!

Taoism: Shit happens.
Confucianism: Confucius say, 'Shit happens.'
Buddhism: If shit happens, it isn't really shit.
Zen Buddhism: Shit is, and is not.
Zen Buddhism #2: What is the sound of shit happening?
Hinduism: This shit has happened before.
Islam: If shit happens, it is the will of Allah.
Islam #2: If shit happens, kill the person responsible.
Islam #3: If shit happens, blame Israel.
Catholicism: If shit happens, you deserve it.
Protestantism: Let shit happen to someone else.
Presbyterian: This shit was bound to happen.
Episcopalian: It's not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve the right wine with it.
Methodist: It's not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve grape juice with it.
Congregationalist: Shit that happens to one person is just as good as shit that happens to another.
Unitarian: Shit that happens to one person is just as bad as shit that happens to another.
Lutheran: If shit happens, don't talk about it.
Fundamentalism: If shit happens, you will go to hell, unless you are born again. (Amen!)
Fundamentalism #2: If shit happens to a televangelist, it's okay.
Fundamentalism #3: Shit must be born again.
Judaism: Why does this shit always happen to us?
Calvinism: Shit happens because you don't work.
Seventh Day Adventism: No shit shall happen on Saturday.
Creationism: God made all shit.
Secular Humanism: Shit evolves.
Christian Science: When shit happens, don't call a doctor - pray!
Christian Science #2: Shit happening is all in your mind.
Unitarianism: Come let us reason together about this shit.
Quakers: Let us not fight over this shit.
Utopianism: This shit does not stink.
Darwinism: This shit was once food.
Capitalism: That's MY shit.
Communism: It's everybody's shit.
Feminism: Men are shit.
Chauvinism: We may be shit, but you can't live without us...
Commercialism: Let's package this shit.
Impressionism: From a distance, shit looks like a garden.
Idolism: Let's bronze this shit.
Existentialism: Shit doesn't happen; shit IS.
Existentialism #2: What is shit, anyway?
Stoicism: This shit is good for me.
Hedonism: There is nothing like a good shit happening!
Mormonism: God sent us this shit.
Mormonism #2: This shit is going to happen again.
Wiccan: And it harms none, let shit happen.
Scientology: If shit happens, see 'Dianetics', p.157.
Jehovah's Witnesses: >Knock< >Knock<>

Jehovah's Witnesses #2: May we have a moment of your time to show you some of our shit?

Jehovah's Witnesses #3: Shit has been prophesied and is imminent; only the righteous shall survive its happening.

Moonies: Only really happy shit happens.

Hare Krishna: Shit happens, rama rama.

Rastafarianism: Let's smoke this shit!

Zoroastrianism: Shit happens half on the time.

Church of SubGenius: Bob shits.

Practical: Deal with shit one day at a time.

Agnostic: Shit might have happened; then again, maybe not.

Agnostic #2: Did someone shit?

Agnostic #3: What is this shit?

Satanism: SNEPPAH TIHS.

Atheism: What shit?

Atheism #2: I can't believe this shit!

Nihilism: No shit.

My one true love

2008-09-04T19:51:00.000-07:00

My pal, Liberal Redneck, is one to often post a YouTube video from 'the day'. You know which day I mean, that great old era of series premiere Sesame Street, The Electric Company, Big Blue Marble, and The Muppet Show. Kermit doing his news reports, Oscar being such a pain in everybody's butt, and Mr. Snuffleupaguss (I know I wasn't the only kid screaming at the tv for the adults to "Turn around! He's right there!!!!"). My dear Redneck picks the best ones, and much like an old scent getting those crazy neurons firing, zinging you back to some long-forgotten moment of bliss, I was recently whisked back to the memory of my one true love...

I'll never forget when we met. No, it wasn't an episode, it was in a Kay Bee Toys. As a kid, the one divorce perk I remember was the schwag: at the end of a weekend with Dad, my sister and I'd usually score something. In kindergarten, I snagged a stuffed white poodle and took it several times to show-and-tell ... that is until my classmates started heckling me for bringing the same thing every Friday (bitches).

A few years later, I remember choosing a couple of Nancy Drews that I never read. But Grover was the big one ... the one I just loved so much I wanted to cut him up and eat him. Not in a Hannibal Lecter kinda way. More like Buddy popping cotton balls.

I used to love it when he'd do his "Near" step, step, step, step "FAR" bit. And his little, "It is I, your little friend, Grover." Mmmmm. I'm getting misty just thinking about him. There was just something about him that made me all soft and giggly, made me squint my eyes and squish up my nose and curl my toes and hold my breath and jump around. I loved the deep indigo of his coat, the mess of his fur, the great fuchsia of his bulbish nose and small line of a mouth, the lankiness of his slight arms and legs always ready to wrap around me. And this was just his stuffed, reproduced self!

I spent several months last year searching on ebay for a replacement to my long-lost Grover, but I just couldn't find him. Don't s'ppose I ever will ...

Fruits of their labor

2008-09-03T10:48:00.000-07:00

As I continue with my read of Kidd's "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter," I cannot believe how someone could really know how deeply broken and flawed I feel. I'm without the ability to share, so I thought I'd share in a different way. A couple week's ago, Miss Wooly Daisy shared how her garden grows. While these picks are not from my garden, they are the result of the combined effort of my husband and daughter, who, by the way, sailed through surgery and returned home the following day. (If anyone has advice on keeping an 8-year-old busy for the next THREE months, I'm open for suggestions.)

I've heard from many people in Iowa that tomatoes have sucked this year. My husband, a man of the earth who prefers to grow his plants from seed, was quite disappointed with this year's garden. From flood to drought, it was not a good growing season...unless you were a pumpkin or a gourd. We have beautiful round pumpkins coming out our ears, but they're still hiding under leaves right now so no good pictures were had. And the gourds? These little things are EVERYWHERE!!!

Then there are the sunflowers. Marty and Moira planted these smack dab in the middle of the garden. Aren't they blinding?!

And they planted these over the graves of Tuttle and Zeke, our two wonderful dogs who are chasing that big bone in the sky.

Every other year, our plum tree blooms and this year's been another bumper crop. Unfortunately I started eating them about a 10 days too soon and my mouth is still tore up from the tartness.

And then there's my attempt at a flower garden. Help...

Me, a dissident daughter?

2008-09-02T07:18:00.000-07:00

I always know when I've been watching too much CNN. I get all frothy about the jowls and adamant that "we" stay up on the presidential race and Gustav and the other stuff that normal people can handle staying up on. But me? Emmmm, I'm not that normal, I go mental. So I've shut off the tele, folded up the paper, and cracked open a new book: "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter" by Sue Monk Kidd.

I'd happened upon it during one of my many Amazon visits. I was initially put off when I saw the author. Kidd's latest book, "The Mermaid Chair," was one I really did not like. But then I remembered her "Secret Life of Bees" and how it set off in me a hunger to know more about the 'black madonna' of whom she wrote. So I've decided to leap into "Daughter."

What I understand thus far is that this is a tale of Kidd's very personal journey from the rigors of religious observance to a more intuitive relationship with self through the Feminine Sacred. I can only speak of my own experiences, not to other women's, when I say I have spent my 37 years very pissed off not only at catholicism, but the patriarchy of our planet!

Unlike Kidd who speaks of toeing the line, minding her manners, swallowing insults, and biting her tongue, all in an effort to be a good girl, I continue to spend so much of my energy letting everyone know how much of a good girl I am not.

Being a good girl has never worked for me. Being a bad girl? Hmmm. Well, at least I can say I've not gone quietly into that dark night.

I look at my relationship with my husband. And for better or worse, it is so insanely clear how I'm the Alpha Dog in this matrix. He spends the weekend canning, making salsa, drying plums. I spend the weekend caulking windows (and building Lego spaceships with the kids). And while we both seem to enjoy the stuff we do, I cannot help but feel like Al Bundy. I am not a Becky Homecky goin' all nuts over dust and laundry, but I wish I was. And while it may seem unrelated, it's all part of the same frustration for me. I'm not a good girl, keeping a perfect home, making the pies, and ironing the sheets. And while I know this about myself, I have yet to accept it and it's why I keep reading because I really think it's a spiritual thing.

It's not my intention to sound whiny and bitchy, though I do both very well, and it's also not my intention to hang an entire gender by their short-and-curlies. I'm just grasping to find a sense of self and a sense of focus that will work for me.

So, cheers to another leg of the journey.

More Mr. Stewart

2008-09-01T14:51:00.000-07:00

St. Paul red carpet

2008-08-30T21:33:00.000-07:00

Jon Stewart's already got the welcome met out for the Republicans...

And for some really intriguing reading, visit Pulp Friction's investigation into who is possibly the real 'baby mama' of Palin's infant son.

Signpost on the road to death

2008-08-29T13:33:00.000-07:00

Em, HELLO!!!!!! Seventy-two candles?

Ba-rackin' the Vote

2008-08-29T09:38:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one even mildly offended by McSame's choice of a VP? Palin? Are you kidding me? This goes to the core of what is so wrong about him! Rather than picking a person who's qualified for the role as vice president, this wad picks a person based solely on their gender! Not only does he offend an entire sex with this pick because he assumes that he'll gain a slew of Hillary die hards, but Palin also drives home the point that his running mate needs no real qualifications--that he's already got everything needed to lead this country into Bush's 3rd term.

And here's my question of the day: since when do Mavericks take Geritol? When I consider the word 'maverick' I think of "Top Gun," I think of RayBans, I think of cocky volleyball players sweatin' it up in some sand. John McSame? 72-year-old John McSame? No fuckin way!

This overly-seasoned veteran is starting to remind me of the Viagra-taken Dole who sniveled through the '96 race. Maybe McSame will fall off the stage this week and break a hip!!! Then he can pimp the Oscal voters as well.

A day like any other

2008-08-26T11:23:00.000-07:00

My heart still weighs a ton. Guess it probably will for awhile. But in the real world, I must put on the brave face. My husband and I are currently in a hospital waiting room as our 8-year-old gets another surgery done on her cleft palate. She's a trooper, that Moira, and she takes all these surgeries in such stride that I forget there is pain and risk involved. I forget to be scared!

But maybe that's what I'm always supposed to be doing, facing this day like every other, and not defining it as The Day of Surgery and setting the ol' ego in even greater control. Today is not a bad day, a scary day, a painful day, or even a good day. It's just another day, good or bad, peaceful or chaotic, and as a spiritual being, my responsibility is to be of use to those around me.

I don't know about anyone else, but sometimes that can be a reallllyyyyy tall order.

Dinos & Death

2008-08-25T09:05:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago, fellow blogger Choral Reef posted about dinosaur bones being absorbed into the earth and later mined as fossil fuels and manufactured into plastic. Plastic that was littering her floor. . .

And then Liberal Redneck, in response to Friday's God post, shared about the age of all humans being 13.73 billion years old because we pulsate with the same energy that started this planet, we are embodied with the same energy that made those dinos roar. . .

But then this weekend, the 17-year-old energy of a boy was launched back out into the universe. I knew this young fella, knew he loved to be outside, knew he was psyched to be a Senior, knew he felt embarrassed about some of the things he'd done, knew he could be pretty impulsive, knew some of his pain and fear, but I really didn't realize how deep his pain and fear ran.

Unconfirmed reports state he got himself into some legal trouble over the weekend and feared being sent away. So he got out a gun.

I'm angry and sad and pissed off and a little Maiasaura-esque. Dude! What the fuck?!

I don't believe such an act was "stupid." To call it "stupid" a) reeks of judgement and b) suggests he was of sound mind, able to make an informed, balanced choice. No. I believe he was so scared, so lost, so without hope, that the only solution for him was to make the ultimate flight. And that makes me sad. But I also must believe that he was not alone during those final moments. That something was with him, something holding him in that dark time, that something was with him no matter what he did.

Whether his 'essence,' his 'spirit' is contained in a human vessel or rocketing through our universe, I must understand that life does not stop, it simply changes form. And my hope is that whatever form this dear one has now taken, he is finally without the pain that drove him from our human world.

The very atoms that we are composed of have always existed as waves of potential and always will exist whether they comprise a human, a dinosaur or a black hole. ~Liberal Redneck

A yummy O Henry

2008-08-22T19:44:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Bridget!

Ch, ch, changes

2008-08-21T06:07:00.000-07:00

It's work, I tell ya! Trying to get back in the saddle, 'er blog. With a crap vacation the first week of August, so went my blogging steam. One would think such a blowage would fuel my muse, but I'm just sick of feeling negative. I guess the mommism: "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" is what's kept me quiet (for once).

But then the Olympics hit and I got all hissy over the women's beach volleyball uniforms. WTF?! I do not understand how, in our Earthling culture, we tolerate such blatant sexism? I know, I'm beating a dead horse, but it pisses me off! It pisses me off that softballers play in shorts! It pisses me off that lady golfers also hit the tour in shorts! It pisses me off that for decades, women have fought for equality and are prancing around in this shit. And some women wonder why they're not taken seriously...

So Turbo's been pissy. There has been a couple of bright spots: last week, my young ones started back to school! And I don't care if people frown at me for jumping for joy, it's lovely to have some Turbo Time back! Time to go all Turbo on the laundry, but that's about all that's been accomplished. I've also been getting all Turbo on my bed, snoozing.

But guess what other change has occurred? It happened on vacation. I walked outside and saw my 5-year-old son loitering around a tree, tipping back an empty bottle. I called out to my baby, "what are you doing?" And his answer broke my heart. "Pretending to drink beer." I couldn't believe it. My worst fear. While I no longer drink, my groom does. It drove home some huge issues: a) if I'm going to sneak around doing something I don't want the kids to see, maybe I shouldn't be doing it, and b) my groom and I needed to talk.

The second thing first: my husband and I agreed that we're seeing more opportunities for family talks. So far, talks have occurred on the difference between smoking and smoking fish . . . hey, it's a start. As for the first, I've quit smoking. Not that I was a pack-a-day (or even a cig-a-day) hitter, but I'm no longer willing to sneak around to suck on a something that does me no good and, in fact, will shorten my life. So I guess I won't find myself looking like these groovy chicks . . . sniff, sniff.

Cure for the lost muse?

2008-08-13T06:43:00.000-07:00

I've gone and lost my muse... Feelings of spiritual bankruptcy sure do suck...

Meeting Regan

2008-08-06T21:31:00.000-07:00

So I’m sitting here on vacation and thinking of hell. No, not because I’m in hell (more like the outer rim, really) but because of the warning from George W. about not messing with J.C. or I could get hurt? I don’t have to worry about that. As I said, “God” and I are on pretty good terms. Now satan? Ummmm, that’s some shit I don’t mess with. Ouji boards? Nope. Chanting ‘666’? Not a chance. Reciting incantations in a mirror in the dark, inviting that fallenest of fallen angels? No fuckin’ way, man. I grew up catholic.

It was about 25 years ago, right around this time of year. My sisters and I had just returned home from a day on the river. It was dusk, with a storm having just rolled through. After a day on the river, one’s tired, especially if you’ve been water skiing, which my mother had been. And this is the only explanation I offer for my mother’s lack of judgment. Perched on the corner of our living room coffee table was weird enough, but Mother sat locked in on a scene: a woman rolls over in bed to find her daughter who claimed her bed was shaking. Aaaannnnnndddd commercial. I felt oddly uncomfortable.

Mom switched the channel to “HeeHaw,” but with the next commercial, she switched it back. Scene: a woman answers the door and in hushed tones, invites the knocker in and talks of the girl. She ushers the knocker up a stairway into a room where she shines a flashlight onto the girl’s belly. With my fraidy-cat radar totally firing, I whined/begged for some Mini Pearl. Staring at the TV, Mom answered, “Oh, just wait. This is a good part. It’s not that bad.” Not that bad?! With the flashlight beaming on the girl’s stomach, letters rise and spell out, “Help me.” AAAAHHHHH!!!!

Since when is “The Exorcist” acceptable viewing for anyone under 18? Okay, 16? Ten?! I was already an easily freaked out kid (maybe it comes with Catholicism). Tales of the devil? Oh ho, I remember the ads for the original “Omen” back in the ‘70s. The commercial was enough. Yet there we were, in our home, and our mother (who kept fresh fruit aplenty and would later ban ‘The Simpsons’ because of Bart’s negative influence) was all blanked out, drool trickling from her chin.

Thanks Ma. Because of that brief run in with Regan, I spent my adolescence certain that satan was shaking my bed. At catechism, we’d be told stories of the reality of possession and how satan hung out at rock concerts. By my freshman year of college, I’d summoned the courage to ask a boyfriend to rent it and watch it with me. It was horrible and nasty and everything I thought it would be, but there was a positive flip side: it ended up neutralizing a lot of my possession fears. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate “Tubular Bells” and find the movie poster eternally creepy, but watching it somehow sucked the power out of it.

I went through a phase a couple years ago in which I doubted the existence of evil, rationalizing that satan was more an irrational component of our unconscious Ego. Honestly, I really don’t like to think about it today. I like to believe I still rationalize the power of our Ego run amok, but I cannot ignore the senses and coincidences. For instance, a recent episode of This American Life included an interview with a man who, at the age of 12, was at a Christian camp and challenged the devil. The devil won.

So I guess all I’m saying is that God and I, we’re good. He/She/It tolerates my non-belief and, in fact, relishes in my questions and lack of faith. But satan? I just don’t go there. I’m not saying I believe or don’t believe. While I no longer fear my bed shaking, I also no longer look to get spooked. Life’s freaky enough without my imagination getting into the mix, though is it just coincidence this is my 66th post on the 6th day of August? And my husband and I are watching Johnny Depp's "From Hell?" Uck! Begone, dark one!!!!

George W. reads me!!!

2008-07-31T04:41:00.000-07:00

So, I got my first hate comment yesterday. I think it was George W. Bush who left the anonymous missive! I feel so special . . . that something I wrote could move someone to respond in anonymous finger-wagging. Does this mean I've arrived? I mean, they finger-wagged at a post from back in March about my WTF decision to read the b...b....bible, but just commented YESTERDAY! That would indicate that someone is reading not just the daily grind, but stuff outta the 'stale blog bin' and that even the old stuff has at least one person feeling some visceral palpitative response to my musings?

And I must've pissed 'em off good because their rant contained grammatical errors (enter my George W. theory). And those errors are really good ones, the kind that come from blindly rapping at a keyboard, all pissed off, mind racing, foam dripping from the chin and messing up the keys. Or if you're boozin' really hard and have an 8-ball of coke nearby? That'd cause some typing issues as well.

BULLSHIT it s exactly you are talking about. Dont be surprised if you havent received any comment. Just ask yourself: Who s the one who divided the history? ¨Before Christ, After Crist.¨ If the history doesnt denies the JesusCrist Majesty, you shouldnt be walking around saying such crappy things. Dont mess with him, you could be hurt. By the way God Bless you.

I like that George is worried about my eternal soul, but the whole "don't mess with him, you could be hurt" thing just doesn't hold water. If "God" created me with free will, my belief (flawed as it is) is that "God" would want me to flex some independent muscles and really put into thought why I believe what I believe, or even, why I DON'T believe. I grew up feeling the crazy-ass judgemental, fire-n-brimstone crappola from those crazy catholic priests (the ones who couldn't keep their hands off my friends) and have worked for years to rid myself of such programming. Spirituality is love. Not conditions, not rules, not condemnation, not retribution, just love. Which is why this cartoon is still one of the funniest, in my book.Thank you, George, for your concern, but christianity isn't for everyone, there's all sorts of great stuff out there (all really saying the same thing: love). "God" and I are just fine, and on good terms, I might add. "God's" totally cool with my questions and searching and doubting and irreverence. As best laid out by Herbert Spencer: "There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance--that principle is contempt prior to investigation."

So George, raise a glass to my attempt at resuming the bible read as well as the Tao Te Ching and possibly even the Torah! Let us all be investigators into our own spiritual journeys, and strengthen our capacity for love.

Namaste~

Monday

2008-07-28T05:11:00.000-07:00

Capitol tidbits

2008-07-26T06:51:00.000-07:00

As we depart from Capitol City today, I'll leave you with a few hits.

The Korean War Memorial was amazing. Not there 19 years ago when first/last visited the land. Viewing the Watergate (where I soooo wanted to stay) from the back of the Lincoln Memorial was a nice break from the crowds just feet away.

When I was 19 and here with my family, I don't remember so many geese and ducks and their little families, but at least the trash isn't overflowing from the reflecting pool.

With both the Ford Theater and the Smithsonian Museum of American History closed for renovation, I sought bummed out rest in a lovely little garden behind the Smithsonian Castle: the Enid A. Haupt Garden.

But before I left, I made sure to hiss at the Capitol ...

... and flip off the White House.

Whiny babies suck

2008-07-25T06:14:00.000-07:00

Is anyone else tired of McCain's whining? He's like a little playground punk who's soooo not getting picked first for kickball despite his many decades in the playground trenches. It reminds of Bush's first debate with Kerry, anyone recall the huffy, stompy immaturity of his nationally broadcast bomb? Yeah, John Stewart covered that hellagood. How the bejeebus he still won after that, I'll nevah understand. Anyway, I lifted this funny pic at FranIAm who stole it from Pulp Friction (you gotta read today's funny fun fun)!

So who's luvin' the Obama tour? Check out today's Washington Post front page pic for some pre-nominal bliss that speaks of things to come. I luvs me some Obama crowd! And I also love it when leaders of foreign countries mistakenly (prophetically, to some) refer to Sen. Obama as President. Mmmmm. Sounds good.

Facial hair, scram!

2008-07-24T05:52:00.000-07:00

For the entire time that I've graced this planet, I've had peach fuzz on my face. Nothing too thick, just blond and there. But a few years ago, I started to notice that the peach fuzz on my upper lip looked like a short, blond moustache. And on my lower lip? Like a short, blond goatee. And in the summer, that peach fuzz bleaches out, to almost white, and that just doesn't work for me.

I spend a lot of time avoiding mirrors because I just don't like seeing how the 23-year-old in my head sooooo doesn't look like the 37-year-old in the glass. But I pause, briefly, to insure things are (unfortunately) where they're supposed to be. And the peach fuzz is there, or was there...

Yesterday, my mate and I left for D.C. so I could freeload at his hard earned annual conference shindig. It's swank, and I'm not, so I always go a little mental before this thing. People all about the *Benjamins just unnerve me because I can neither relate nor wish to. It's just snobbish (but doesn't me labeling them snobs make me snobbish? Oh Gawd!). So, back to being mental, right? Ahem.

In my nutty state, the day before we leave, I found myself trapped at work 4 hours--FOUR HOURS--longer than normal, and I hadn't seen the kids and I wasn't packed and it was just a mess so rather than pack the night before, I climbed into bed between my spawn and slept, restlessly. Waking every hour, I finally got up and hit the couch at 4 a.m. and enjoyed watching "Singles" until I realized why my house was all Lord of the Flies. A screenless window had been opened. And not only had one of the inside cats bounded outside, but about 3 billion flies made it in. AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! (Those buzzin' mofos make me all Rambo crazy with a swatter.)

So at 6 a.m., my husband finally woke, leaving me 2 hours to pack before we had to bounce. And I totally rocked my suitcase in, like, 35 minutes!!! Which left me more than an hour to do all sorts of stuff like shower, kill flies, drink coffee, kill flies, check email, kill flies, get dressed, kill flies, kiss the kids, kill flies, pack the luggage into the car, and kill flies. In fact, I had soooo much free time on my hands that (and here's my point) I decided to rid my face of my albino facial hair!

And all whacked out from no sleep, fly invasion, and snobbish insecurity, is no way to prepare for facial hair removal. I left the cream on too long and burned the shit outta my face! (I really am a tool.)

*My husband, a banker, read 'Benjamins' as ben-jam-ins. "Ben-jam-ins?" he asked. "What are ben-jam-ins?" To which I asked, "Dude? What the hell are you doing in finance?"

Quiet time? How 'bout some E! News?

2008-07-21T11:14:00.000-07:00

So this, along with a bowl of Frosted Flakes, has been my morning routine. What had previously been a good 30 to 60 minutes of quiet contemplation filled with spiritual readings and meditation, has degenerated into a noisy, in-your-face, turbo-charged countdown rocketing me into the day. And how can I really expect to make any spiritual progress when I start it with Ryan Seacrest?

I used to be more disciplined. I used to search for zen and get all 'ohm' but now? I fake it. Sure, I download the latest Krista Tippett to my iPod, keep "Jesus for the Non-religious" and "Christ the Yogi" on my headboard, I even contemplate the spiders I've displaced with my weeding, but true silence? My teenage alter ego says, Fuck that!

I have to admit, I'm a little afraid of what will drive me back to such discipline. Normally, it's pain. And that just doesn't sound like a whole lotta fun. And that speaks to the core of my problem. I want to have fun, I want to be entertained, I want to live without cause or worry or responsibility. And then I have to wake up.

Damn alarm clock!

Maybe one day I'll make it back to my oatmeal with walnuts, my 24-Hours-A-Day book, my Daily Reflections, and my basic text. Maybe one day I'll simply decide, "You know, being all wacked out on sugar and caffeine really isn't helping me!"

But right now, for today? I'll watch with anticipation, waiting for Guiliana to stab Seacrest in the neck with the heal of her Monolo. Those flakes are GRRRREAT!

Oh God, I'm in trouble. . .

Cheers to the duck lovin Joel

2008-07-17T10:40:00.000-07:00

I just couldn’t resist sharing this story. It was emailed to me and, with a little research, I learned this occurred in May of this year. It could be easily blown off as one of those warm, fuzzy forwards, but it struck a deeper cord with me. It tells of how precious life is and how far some of us are willing to go to sustain and protect it. Enjoy.

A man named Joel works at Sterling Bank in downtown Spokane, Washington. His office is on the second story of a building overlooking busy Riverside Avenue. Several weeks ago, he watched a mother duck choose the cement awning outside his window as the uncanny place to build a nest above the sidewalk. The mallard laid nine eggs in a nest in the corner of a planter perched more than 10 feet in the air. This mother dutifully kept the eggs warm for weeks and before long, all of her nine ducklings hatched.

Joel worried all night how the momma duck was going to get those babies safely off their perch in a busy, downtown, urban environment to take to water, which typically happens within the first 48 hours of a duck’s hatching. The next morning, Joel came to work and watched the mother duck encourage her babies to the edge of the perch, intent to show them how to jump off!

The mother flew down below and started quacking to her babies above. In disbelief, Joel watched the first fuzzy newborn toddle to the edge and, astonishingly enough, leap into thin air, crashing onto the cement below. Joel couldn't watch how this might play out. He dashed out of his office and ran down the stairs to the sidewalk where the first obedient duckling was shaking off the effects from the near fatal fall.

Joel looked up. The second duckling was getting ready to jump! So he quickly dodged under the awning while the mother duck quacked at him and the babies above. As the second one took the plunge, Joel jumped forward and caught it with his bare hands before it hit the cement. Safe and sound, he set it by the momma and the other stunned sibling, still recovering from its painful leap. One by one the babies continued to jump to join their anxious family below. Each time, Joel hid under the awning just to reach out in the nick of time as the duckling made its free fall. The activity on the downtown sidewalk came to a standstill. Time after time, Joel was able to catch the remaining seven and set them by their approving mother.

At this point Joel realized the duck family had made only part of its dangerous journey. They had 2 full blocks before reaching open water. They had to walk across traffic, crosswalks, curbs, and pedestrians to get to the Spokane River. The on looking secretaries from Joel’s office then joined in, and hurriedly brought an empty copy paper box to collect the babies. They carefully corralled them, with the mother's approval, and loaded them into the white cardboard container. Holding the box low enough for the mom to see her brood, Joel slowly navigated through the downtown streets toward the Spokane River. The mother waddled behind and kept her babies in sight.

As they reached the river, the mother took over and passed him, jumping into the river and quacking loudly. At the water's edge, members of the Sterling Bank staff then tipped the box and helped shepherd the babies toward the water’s edge and their mother.All nine darling ducklings safely made it into the water and paddled up snuggly to momma duck. Joel said the mom swam in circles, looking back toward the beaming bank workers, proudly quacking as if to say, “See, we did it! Thanks for all the help!”

That just warms the cockles of my cold, frigid heart. Sniff, sniff. I think I gotta speck of sumpin' in my eye . . .

Spiritus contra spiritum

2008-07-16T20:05:00.000-07:00

Don't you hate oversleeping? It really sucks when such extended snoozing makes you late. Wednesdays are the day the kids and I sleep in, when nobody goes anywhere, and I only work a couple hours at night. Normally this means the coffee mug's in hand by 7 and Maclane's usually on my tail. But today? While Marty shoved off around 7, both kids and I didn't crack open the ol' eyelids until 9:30!!! And when I sleep that late, it's just too much! Unless I'm going to lag around in jammies all day and have only myself to be concerned with. But when I get that much sleep and I've got a couple of kids to man, it just blows. And what blows even worse? Dreaming about WORK! And not just a normal day at the office, but work involving a loved one.

Yesterday I received a phone call about getting a friend into alcohol detox. The previous evening I'd been with this person and was baffled by her behavior--uncontrollable tremors, nonsensical muttering, bizarro stuff that I assumed was some weird residual effect from a bout with cancer she'd had a few years earlier. The phone call told otherwise. By Tuesday, she'd been 3 days off the booze and the hallucinations were setting in. I didn't know she drank.

Despite my work in the field of drug addiction, I froze like a deer in headlights. WTF? I suddenly didn't know the protocol, my only thought was that she needed detox and NOW. Fortunately the caller, her sister, simply needed support and confirmation that what she was seeing was a medical emergency. She took the bold move and called 911. That was the absolute right decision, but not the popular one. Refusing visitors, my friend is sitting in a detox unit as family mulls over their options.

It made me think of a recent episode on This American Life where a man takes care of his mother and likens her alcoholism to that of the possession of Regan from The Exorcist. In our cups, we say and do ANYTHING to cover our ass and get what we want, which is usually 2 things: a) more booze and b) to be left alone. And when we don't get those 2 things, we're horrible to be around. And seeing my friend tonight, I could see the wear and tear. Guilt is setting in as her sister refuses to see her, accusing her of betrayal.

My heart aches for the family because this is nothing new. It was nearly 5 years ago that their brother was found dead in his car. He'd finally drank himself to death, having dragged the family through decades of his alcoholism. He'd had loads of opportunities to get well, but when the question was put to him: "How would you live?" He said, "I'll drink." And he died.

As my friend faces this question, my prayer is that she find a flicker of hope to take one big, giant leap and fathom a reality without booze. It's so scary, that fucking question. So stark. There's no running from it. And it's not answered just once, we must dig deep and answer it everyday, in all that we do.

In his writings to Bill Wilson, co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, psychologist Carl Jung wrote of the strange impact alcohol has on our spiritual core. He termed it "spiritus contra spiritum." Spirits (liquor) against Spirit (soul), a great window into why this is such an ass kicker. . .

The return of routine

2008-07-14T11:38:00.000-07:00

With Dad settling into his routine, I'm thrilled to report we are all gaining our sea legs. (Saturday and Sunday nights, I slept in my own bed!!!) Dad's currently down at his farm working on 'the books' and life is quickly falling back to a somewhat normal pace. I look back on my last blog and hang my head in shame. Every time I felt that 'ick' begin to rise, I prayed. Which is not an easy thing for me. But I think I have finally found something to pray to! Something that is totally safe, non-threatening, and without judgement. My Poppy a.k.a. Grampa K.

Poppy died when I was about 6, but the few short years of memories I have of him leave me with an absolute faith that he's the one person I know who was about as wonderful as they come, completely loving, totally fun, and just amazing. So instead of God, I call on Poppy. And I think it's working.

So, back to that 'ick' from a few days ago? While perusing the blogosphere, I found this gem on the Yearning for God blog:

Is it just me or does that totally speak to the core of our Human Condition?

Missing the mundane

2008-07-11T08:41:00.000-07:00

I'm tired in a really selfish way. I miss my kids, I miss my husband, I miss the smell of my own house (maybe I'm ill), I miss my bed, I miss everything that had been so mundane and dull and regular. But now that Dad's home from the hospital, staying with his mother, I'm finding Dad needs me more now than when he was in the hospital. With Gramma nearly 85, it's amazing she's still living on her own. So except for a quick run home to shower and a couple of hours with Marty and the kids in the evening, I'm at Dad's disposal. And I hate to sound so yucko, but I'm getting tired of it. One of his sisters is coming for a 2-week visit Tuesday, which means I'll be significantly more free to be with my family. But today is Friday . . . Tuesday is 3 days away!!!

Square & generous with all

2008-07-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

Making the 4-hour trek to Rochester yesterday, I enjoyed the company of one of my favorite men. Kinda kitschy in my book, I never took him serious. How could I with those fruity trumpets tooting in the background as he sung of some blazing ring? But John has been a long-time friend to my husband (and I try to give my husband's friends a chance).

When Marty and I began dating, it was common for me to drive up to his cabin only to find John had beaten me to the party. Singing about bibles and rusty cages and Tennessee Studs, John's camp and silliness gave way to deeper meaning. Kinda like my interest in Marty. From some goofy RAGBRAIer, I began to glimpse the true depth of my future husband's character. The more I listened to Marty's friend, the more John's soul revealed itself, also revealing Marty's. I started to hear the raggedness of John's spirit, the longing for spiritual peace, and I slowly began to understand how medicinal such sharing was to my husband's love-torn soul. We met only months after his first marriage had ended.

Marty is a man of few words and amazing strength of character. Now before you go thinking he's some quiet sage all bearded and zen, know that he's not lost his wild, irreverent side. For instance, his favorite cuss? Jesus Fuck! Can you believe that?! (And people think I'm going to hell?)

Anyway, as I've journeyed with my dad through this cancer business, Marty, in a way all his own, has been with me, unswerving in his support. Two weeks ago, when I left to accompany Dad for his surgery, we had no idea it'd be 7 days before I'd return home, and without Dad! Could Marty have been a prick? Would he have been justified in being pissy? Hell yeah! But was he? Not only did he back me 100%, assuring me I was doing exactly the right thing, he even had the kids make get well cards for their grampa. And when I did get home, did he dump the kids on me and run for some Marty Time? Nope, he continued to man the home front while I bumbled around. Never once did I pick up even a whisper of exasperation. Amazing.

So where does 'John' fit into all this? Yesterday, when listening to his 1994 album American Recordings I found myself paying close attention to the song "Oh, Bury Me Not" and how much it personified the essence of my husband. Specifically, the following lines:

Just let me live my life as I've begun

And give me work that's open to the sky

Make me a partner of the wind and sun

And I won't ask a life that's soft or high

Let me be easy on the man that's down

Let me be square and generous with all

"Let me be square and generous with all" absolutely speaks of Marty. How I could ever warrant a 10th of this man's love, I'll never know. Back when we first met, Marty and I both agree there was something crazy spiritual about our connection. And yet I was still a drunk, always on the look out for something different, something better and I would pray at night, "Please God, don't let it be Marty. Please!" But God, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, whatever the hell is out there, knew what they were doing. Where the reward is for poor Marty, I don't know. For me? It's him. And I love him somethin' fierce.

There's a boy in da' house

2008-07-02T13:59:00.000-07:00

I've shared with a couple of friends how my dear son, my 5-year-old MacDaddy, has not only grown increasingly more aware of his own manhood, but how Mommy's body is sooooo much different from his. Remember a couple of months ago when he announced his first "chubby"? Yeah, I found it disturbing, too. And now he's starting to notice other things, which is...awkward.

Let me set the tone: My parents divorced when I was 5 and my sister and I moved out with our mom. Then she remarried a year later and Mom and Dad slowly grew our family from 4 to 6, me at the helm of their 4-daughter brood. So you see, I come from very female-oriented stock. In fact, my mother is the oldest of 5 girls. We talk boobies and bras and periods and bloating.

"Balls?"

"The ones you throw or bounce?"

"Boy balls? What the hell are those?"

Being the oldest child, and rather naive, I hadn't a clue about the 'junk' hidden in the pants of my male classmates. And really, even after college, singledom, and marriage, I still wasn't too concerned about the average, everyday bidness in the boxers. I even spent 2 years teaching sex education! Explaining the life of a sperm! Pretty uninteresting stuff for me, considering I was destined to have 3 daughters--Mom: oldest of 5, Me: of 4, Moira: 3, right?

But that Destiny, that willy minx, she just laughed. I had my beautiful Moira and then 3 years later, Maclane (and we ain't talkin' Shirley). I had birthed me a BOY. How the hell did that happen?! Was I disappointed? Not in the least, it just seemed soooo far from anything I'd imagined. I'd have been less surprised if Moira had ended up big sister to a baby chihuahua.

Suddenly we had to decide whether or not to circumcise--we chose NOT with the promise to pay for the procedure when he could choose for himself--and as he grew older, we had to decide whether or not to cut his gorgeous locks--we chose the scissors, sorry but I find long-haired little boys oddly creepy, not cute (Big Apple Housewife Alex may want to take note).

Anyway, we have continued to live the way we always have, nakedness is nothing big at our place and body parts are just parts. But lately . . . I'm unfortunately growing more aware of where and in front of whom I change my clothes because Maclane has taken to staring at a vicinity between my shoulders and belly button. I've tried to reason with him, "Dude, stop staring! These fed you when you were a baby!" To which he responds, "Ewwwwwww!" And then laughs. He thinks it's funny to shove them, like they're a couple of pillows that got in his way. Quite nervy, he is.

I'm troubled, though. Here he is, all of 5 and in his budding awareness of the differences between boys and girls, is a little disrespectful of the boobies. And yet he doesn't know he's being disrespectful, he's just being a kid, laughing at the jiggles and the wiggles. This is so weird! My sisters and I made fun of each others' flat butts, generous thighs, and crap perms. But our boobies? They were just there, like our elbows, and while there is a funny bone located in the region, I seldom found elbows particularly entertaining.

I don't want to be all paranoid and crazy and I don't want to raise my kids to feel weird about their temples. So if anyone's out there, anyone at all? Riddle me this: How can I continue to honor the body while maintaining an air of fun and nonsense? I'm up for any advice.

A Turbo by any other name

2008-07-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

I think I'm more fish than kitty. Sure, there are loads of ways in which I am catlike: I'm moody, often aloof, and all full of attitude. And let's not forget my uncanny likeness to Ms. Kitty herself, Halle Berry. Yeah, I'm that hot.

But there's a confidence factor that eludes me. My calico, Turbo, my muse and the inspiration behind this blog, is all full of sass and spark, piss and vinegar. Whereas myself, I can be all hissy and scratchy about some things, but all wishy washy and flaccid about others. Like Wal-Mart. This chain is just plain evil, but have I banned it from my shopping repertoire? No, my grocery dollar stretches too damn far! And what about caffeine? I've got a palsy-like tremor in my right hand, but am I willing to forgo "the buzz"? Mmmm, me thinks not, maybe tomorrow.

So instead of "Turbo," I think the name "Flounder" would be so much more fitting, and I'm not talkin' the horse-killin' kind from Animal House
or the cute, gutless one from The Little Mermaid
or even the ugly, eyes-all-messed-up real one from the sea.

According to the online edition of Merriam-Webster, flounder has a few different meanings:
1) a marine fish of either of two families (Pleuronectidae and Bothidae) that include important food fishes;
2) to struggle to move or obtain footing, thrash about wildly;
3) to proceed or act clumsily or ineffectually.

I think that about sums me up. I'm clumsy, I've been known to occasionally thrash about wildly (usually when I'm night-owling as a feline superhero--meow), but I must say, I've been neither a marine nor a fish (though back in the day, my hang overs rendered me about as attractive).

So what's my point? I haven't a clue, maybe it's that "ineffectually" coming through . . .

Ego, Burritos & Holy Water

2008-06-27T22:45:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who once explained that our mind, our Ego, can be deflated during moments of great physical strain and/or heavy emotional upset. And I know what he means. Take, for example, the birth of my second child. This kid had a head the size of a watermelon and I pushed like hell for a few hours before he decided he was finally ready to "come on down!"

When I got up to shower, a nurse warned me that I may be shocked when I looked in the mirror. What all that pushing did to my body was cause swelling. My eye lids were bruised, my eye balls were devil red, and my face was beyond puffy, I looked like a friggin' Teletubby!

But what it did to my psyche was leave me very quiet, very empty, very chill. And it was awesome. Now my son's birth wasn't the only time I've experienced the peace of Ego deflation, but it is the strongest example, and this week brought on another of these experiences. From Saturday through Tuesday, I was more psychotic than usual, freaking out and shaking and being more than your average nut job as I tried to prep myself for Dad's surgery.

What I was missing during this nutty state was the warning this same friend gave me, that the Ego is like a snake-in-the-grass, doing push ups while I'm sleeping. It's not something to fear, he assured, but a mental fact of which I needed to be aware. The Ego will return, he said, usually when I least expect it, and then once again, I'd be thrust into making everything about me. Fuck.

But my Auntie Kathleen was driving from Indiana to support Dad and when she picked me up Monday for our 4-hour road trip, she set the tone by asking, "So who's gonna be Thelma?" Sure I was uptight and in knots during surgery, but when he sailed through and Tuesday gave way to Wednesday, I started to feel a peace wrap around me. I'd been scooped up in a Big Dipper of support from my incredible Auntie Kathleen and we had a ball, not at Dad's expense mind you, just laughing and talking and being upbeat, which is exactly what Dad needed.

Yesterday, however, when Kathleen and I were shopping, it began to dawn on me that she was returning to Indiana via Iowa. And I would remain in Rochester without her. Thus began the rising of a Bad Moon. I could almost feel that friggin' Ego about to make everything about Jenny. And who wants to be around that? That kind of soul-suckin' jerkiness does nothing for healing! My dear Auntie left this morning and by lunch, I was sweatin' it, just Dad and I, and we're kinda runnin' outta things to chat about. Then Dad said discharge may be bumped from Monday to Wednesday! WHAT?! (Hear that? It's Jenny, making it all about her.) So by late afternoon, I was ready to cry.

Heading to my hotel's smoking patio, I sat and let it out, all the while, sucking down a cancer stick. "Boo hoo, what am I gonna do?" I knew I needed to find a phone and call someone to help me fight the self-pity. I also knew I needed some AA. But what I got was a spiritual experience. In that crying, I must've been communing with some spiritual force. WHAT?! Yup. I'd returned to my hotel room, phoned my husband and then prepared to hike it to a nearby meeting, when all of a sudden my cell phone rang and it was a couple of pals from college. Turns out they live in a nearby town and would be at my hotel in 5 minutes. JOY!!!

So Marty and Laura tossed me in the back of their car and we enjoyed giant burritos . . .

And we cruised a Sam's Club for 4 cases of Propel water . . .

Strolled through Linens & Things looking for stuff not needed. . .

And finished our outing at a Coldstone . . .

Back at Dad's bedside by 9:30, it dawned on me, "Holy shit! I think I just had me a miracle!" Not that this week and Dad's recovery hasn't been miraculous enough, but in my time of shallow need, self-centered and absorbed, a beam of love and laughter was sent.

So as I sit and sip from a water bottle found during yesterday's shopping with Auntie, I've decided I'm gonna keep trudging that spiritual path. And keep drinking the good stuff. . .

Easy on the Mayo

2008-06-22T18:38:00.000-07:00

Some of you may remember that my dad has cancer. He almost sailed through the six weeks of chemo and radiation until a blood clot popped up in his jugular vein the day after all that fun ended. We thought that meant a postponement of surgery. Turns out, nope.

Last week, after a couple of months of Dad turning down my offers to join him on the 4-hour jaunt to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, he finally said, "Yes." So Wednesday we enjoyed a beautiful drive north only to learn, "Dude. Surgery is so on." This threw both Dad and I for a loop. "Are you kidding? What about this blood clot? The one that hasn't moved, or shrunk all that much." Despite taking a blood thinner daily for the last month, during our meeting in the Thrombophilia (I just love that word) Clinic, we learned that his blood hadn't thinned much at all. Given that surgery was a 'go,' Dad was given 4 pre-filled syringes of blood thinner, shown how to give it to himself and told, "See you next week!"

So now it's next week. He went up tonight for tomorrow's day-long pre-op stuff while I head up tomorrow afternoon. And then he goes under on Tuesday when the docs will remove about 6 inches of esophagus and pull up the stomach in its place. And I'm there for the duration, which could be 3 days or as many as 7 or more. I've never left Marty or the kids without knowing when I'd return. And I'm nervous but thankful that I can be a tiny bit supportive, but it's freaky, no denying it.

got liver?

2008-06-20T12:38:00.000-07:00

One of my fabulous bitches, Waller, became even more fabulous when a few years ago, she donated a portion of her liver to her brother. And that experience, with all the lack of information on live organ donation, inspired her to create the non-profit organization Greatest Gift. Well, today, I announce with great glee the launch of her blog: http://greatestgift.wordpress.com/

For all those wonderful peeps out there with extra pieces of flesh and organ they really aren't using and don't need to survive (listen to me, Miss I-Still-Got-Both-Kidneys) here's your go-to site for all things related to live organ donation.

Since her childhood when she would carry neighborhood grandparents on her back to and from the grocery story (up hill, both ways), Waller constantly looked for new and innovative ways she could better the world around her. So when she says "give until it hurts," she ain't kiddin.' Kudos, Bitch!!!

Goodnight Moon redux

2008-06-19T15:17:00.000-07:00

In the situation room
There was a toy world
And a flight costume
And a picture of ----- A refinery plume
And there were war profiteers giving three cheers
. . . A Grand Old Party to war in a rush
And a quiet Dick Cheney whispering "Hush."

Apparently there is a new version of this childhood classic that's lulling America into sweet dreams of freedom from Dubya.

Goodnight Earth.
Goodnight heir.
Goodnight failures everywhere. . .

Amazon's got Goodnight Bush flyin' off the shelves. I gotta get me summa dat!!!

What's for lunch?

2008-06-19T05:14:00.000-07:00

"Hey, Buddy! Whatcha eatin' there?"

"Only my best samwich: meat, cheese, mayo, and Cheetos.""What? Sumpin' wrong with that?" (And yes, it's June and the holiday plates are still in use. Oy!)

The fun of driftglass

2008-06-18T04:17:00.000-07:00

The honorable Liberal Redneck, responsible for my bloggy presence (so blame HIM) turned me on to this gem of a blog. The Photoshop skill is just one reason I love it . . .

The current president

John McCain

Bill & . . . some scary chick
The current president

Hillary

The current president

John McCain & Condi

Hillary

Cool & the Gang
James Carville

The current president

Rebel without a clue

2008-06-16T17:59:00.000-07:00

Oooooh yeaaaaah. It's real and it's mine. I am so BADASS!
(Now, uh, anybody know how to start this thing?)

God of the eggs & ham

2008-06-16T06:51:00.000-07:00

Got faith? My willingness to implement any type of prayer or meditation or centering or focus started waning a few years back, then dropped off SIGNIFICANTLY last spring and summer. And I don't know how to get it back. I've got loads of people telling me what they do to deepen their faith. Hell, I've even tried the b...b...bible. But am I really trying?

I hate to say this, but I think my efforts have been more focused on disproving religion (which hangs itself so why bother) rather than re-igniting my spiritual fire. I am so hung up on the words! My catholic indoctrination runs to the cellular level, I swear! And for thousands of people, they do totally great with it. But it has fucked me up! The word 'Lord' is feudalistic. The word 'God?' Come on, the baggage!!!

I have lost my ability to pray: the words to use, where to be, how to feel, what to do, eyes open, eyes closed, in a chair, on a hill.
I would not, could not in a box.

I would not, could not with a fox . . .

I would not, could not, in the rain.

Not in the dark. Not on a train.

Not in a car. Not in a tree.

Oh God! Please Vishnu, come to me!

Since the grammas kicked it last summer I have RUN from the silence. And isn't that where we supposedly find wholeness? Away from the racket and the noise and the bustle? But I'm not willing to do this on my own. I need someone to hold my hand and tell me what to do. Those I do reach out to for guidance are Christian-based in their faith, and the polarity between our belief systems is too wide, too gaping. I cannot make the leap. My parched, cracked ideas on faith are more Hindu, Buddhist, even Humanist. So when we talk, they tend to think I'm hung up on some new wave thing and in self-protection, I batten my hatches against anything Christian. Do the eggs and ham have to be Christian eggs and ham?

I need a teacher, a guru who can stomach me and guide me, offer understanding of my weird, weak faith. And help me find God . . . oh shit, a bird just crashed into my window. The bells! The bells!

800 calories by 9 a.m.

2008-06-13T07:05:00.000-07:00

While I may have accomplished 5 of the 10 from my list, I just polished off my second "Cookies & Creme" Poptart. Not just second in the foiled package but SECOND FOILED PACKAGE. I just made the mistake of looking at the nutritional guide. It's 9 a.m. and I've consumed 800 calories. Why didn't I just buy a case of Hot Pockets or something?!

Somebody shoot me in the head. . .

Would I rather suck?

2008-06-11T06:03:00.000-07:00

There's an edge in the air. Could it be medical delays? Economic insecurity? Spiritual angst? Maybe it's the inch-thick layer of dirt, grime, and crap throughout the house? Ongoing rifts between friends? Maybe it's all the CNN I've been watching. Yup! That's it! How could I not be a basket case watching all that negative bullshit? I don't need to hear about 5 and 6 dollar gas! I don't need to hear about Hulk Hogan's incarcerated son! I don't need to hear about the flooding throughout Iowa! How does knowing all this better my life?! I'm so bummed out by all this shit that I just SUCK!

So this morning I started thinking about things I'd rather do than be burdened with all of the above. And I'm not talking fun things like go fetch me a massage, that's too obvious. I'm looking for things I normally hate doing, but when faced with the alternative, I'll actually consider. So to vulch on Letterman's style, here's my Top 10 list of "Things I'd Rather Do Than Suck!"

#10-Deal with my cell phone carrier. Since renewing my contract, there are some loose strings I need to tie up. Not great fun, but certainly something I'm willing to do.

#9-Finish clearing rock out of the garden. This has been an ongoing project and I'm within a few hours of completion, but I'm just burned out! However, in light of all that other shit? Rock, shmock!

#8-Make some granola. I've got a great, easy granola recipe that I've gotten out of the habit of making. It's pure laziness and with the heat being less oppressive today, I think it's definitely do-able.

#7-Call my dad. It's soooo much easier staying distracted than check up on Dad. He's ever the optimist, but I feel so inept! He's proven he's not going to ask for help throughout this cancer stuff, so I gotta suck it up and be there for him.

#6-Make my dad soup. My dad loves this cheesy potato/broccoli concoction I make and given his limited diet, there's no reason I can't throw a pot together.

#5-Plant the peppers. My husband's the green thumber of our clan, but I've been stepping into the landscaping foray. To help fill in my little perennial garden, he offered to let me put in a pepper area. We'll see if it happens (my work-warning sensors are firing).

#4-Move some stuff to the attic and from the attic. I don't like going to the attic. It's cavernous and creepy and I'm reminded of how friggin' dirty it is up there! Which brings me to . . .

#3-Bug bomb the attic. I am all over this one! I can easily set off a bomb, seal up the attic and not have to vacate the house.

#2-Go for a bike ride. This may sound as if it's up there with a massage and it used to be, but it's been a few years since my butt's seen spandex and the thought of cranking out a few miles just wreaks of health. (Though it would get those 'feel-good' neurotransmitters firing.)

And the #1 thing I'd rather do than suck? Schedule my annual physical. Things must be pretty bad if this is Numero Uno, but a) I have been remiss in getting my check ups (it's been 2 years!) and b) my IUD expired last month, so c) is there really a choice in the matter? Nope.

How much of this will I accomplish? I think I can get half done today. . .well, maybe a third. Oh hell, if I can get one done it'll be insane!

A Spoon-tastic tick?

2008-06-06T07:24:00.000-07:00

The word 'Tick' has come full circle.

During childhood, it was with great fear that I'd traverse the woods with friends, ensuring my head was covered in the event a tick decided to drop in for a free hair consult. One particular childhood gal pal told me of her older brother's nocturnal experience of finding a tick crawling up his leg. Eeeewww!

During recess one afternoon, this same friend turned to me and, hands in her hair, said, "Look at my head, I think I have a tick." Craning my neck, I spotted the burgundy-colored vampire. AAAAAAA!!! We raced into our classroom, freaking out to Ms. Ferguson. This maven coolly struck a match, sizzled the sucker, took out her tweezers (no self-respecting fourth grade teacher would neglect her arch) and plucked it out. Tossing it in the trash can, she told us to beat it. She was fab.

Then there's the memory of my parents pulling a tick from my sister's skull. They got the tick, but not the stinger, sucker thingy that, if left in causes lime disease. (At least that's what we were told.) So they proceeded to remove a small portion of flesh from her scalp. (Hmmm, could delayed trauma be the cause of her thinning hair?) These are just a few of my tick-related memories that still leave me with just a smidge of the heebie jeebies. You may think I'm joking, but I was DEATHLY afraid of one day finding a tick on my head. If only it had been my head . . . but I digress.

Fast forward to my final year of higher learning. My posse of flannel-shirted journalists got wind of a new Saturday morning cartoon, "The Tick," and thus began the weekly ritual of cartoon watching. No matter how hung over, no matter how sleep-deprived, "The Tick" was serious business. We'd buy donuts, we'd make pancakes, we'd pour juice. It was keen.

Magically those old tick demons ebbed away. When I'd hear the word 'tick,' I no longer fingered my scalp. I'd yell, "Spoon!" And for the last decade, "Spoon!" has remained my instinctual tick response. Until we moved to the farmette 3 years ago.

With country living came the evening "tick check." No longer did I yell, "Spoon!" and giggle over the mental picture of a the big-chinned, blue-spandexed cartoon hero. No, the old fear of lime disease returned. Moira and Maclane, with all their tree climbing, dirt digging, and bush crawling, would find themselves host to many. My husband would calmly de-escalate the freakouts by bravely removing the parasites. And fortunately the kids have not copped my fear, the second they feel or spot one, they simply let us know, no big whup.

Despite my history of fear, I, personally, don't recall a single tick on my person until last summer. Stepping out of the shower, Moira says to me, "Mommy! There's a tick on your butt! Ha ha ha ha ha!" Oh yes, my first and, so far, only personal tick encounter was not of the hairline variety. Oh no, it was of the stuck-to-my-meaty-right-cheek kind.

But this morning beat that. I came downstairs to meet my husband who was asking for a double high-5. "Bet you've never heard this one," he brags. "Daddy, there's a tick on my penis!"

"Spoon!"

Turbo & the Obamas

2008-06-05T10:43:00.000-07:00

I had a sex dream about Barack Obama last night. And Michelle was with us. And when we met up at the next day's political rally, there were a lot of averted gazes. Where the hell did this come from, I'd like to know? Now I love me some Barack, and Michelle? She's friggin' hot. But a 3-some? With the next President and First Lady? I'm feeling a little blushy, a little hot under the collar, a little guilty of some inappropriate groping. That's not fun for me! I don't like feeling like a perv.

But I do like what I'm seeing from Hillary's camp . . . those racists fucks don't belong in the Democratic party! Let 'em run to McCain! Given last night's encounter, I would like to think I know Barack just a little better than the rest of you, so let me state that I don't think we'll see a Barack/Hillary ticket. If we do, I'll be sooooo disappointed, but even that ego-maniacal nutbag as V.P. could not run me over to the Dark Side. Had she clenched the nomination, I still would've remained true to the Autobots and voted for her. Of course I would've punched the voting machine afterward, but I still would've voted for her. I just don't get those jerk offs?

Rollin' with it

2008-06-03T04:24:00.000-07:00

After spending yesterday afternoon at University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics for my daughter's pre-op appointment, we get through the dental x-rays, we get through the long wait in the Oto area, and finally reach her surgeon's office. Whew! Almost done, right? Mmmm. He comes in, not looking his cheery self, and warns me, "I think I have a kidney stone. We may have to cancel tomorrow's surgery." Crap.

Moira was born with a cleft lip and palate and this surgery is another of her scheduled adventures--a piece of bone is taken from her hip and grafted into her hard palate. No plastic surgery this time, just "infrastructure work." I've been a little spun out over the post-operative safety measures: no major physical activity . . . for 3 months . . . she's 8.

So racking my brain for creative ways to keep her head from getting kicked or hit or slammed or elbowed or even bumped has occupied a big part of my brain. We've coached her on why no swimming and the little fish has taken it in stride. In fact, she's teaching me. About this time last week, I was talking with a friend, sharing my nervousness over the upcoming surgery and how Moira's just bouncing around, not a care in the world. He turns to me and says, "Looks like she could teach you some things." Whoa. Marion was so right! Moira has such a joy for life that she really doesn't get too tweaked over the little things (and just like the subtitle of that book "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff," it's all small things).

With this in mind, after the initial shock and instinctual mental, "Shit!," I assured the man that he needs to take care of himself. Dr. John Canady is amazing, truly loving what he does. We first met him when I was 36-weeks gestation and an ultrasound showed Moira's cleft. We could go with other surgeons closer to home, but why? He's the best and has known us since the beginning! So how could I be upset with him?

With instructions to operate 'as if,' we head home and at 7:30 last night, the phone rang. And I wasn't surprised, I told his resident I'd rather we delay the surgery and have him be healthy than continue as is and have him be sicker than hell. Moira? She just thought it was funny, "doctors get sick?!," and went back to her organ-playing.

So I guess that's how we roll.

It's already here . . .

2008-05-31T19:09:00.000-07:00

So I was initially going to post just a few of these "Cry Freedom" snaps of a frog Moira caught an hour ago.

Of Sidney zeroing in for a whiff. Fortunately she didn't take a lick and fall over in a hallucinogenic heap . . .

Of Ms. Smiley . . . Ms.? Keep reading.

She was surely one of the bazillion caught earlier this week that we then let go in the tall grass. Anyone notice why this buckle-full of frog should be rated NC-17? Ms. Smiley certainly looks happier to be tasting freedom then trapped in a closet, I mean bucket.

But as I was uploading pix, the wind came up HARD and I looked behind me at this.

Blowing in from the southwest . . .

was this meaty beasty!!!

I LOVE this time of year!!! Storms are the shizzle to my chizang, though I honestly don't ever want to find myself in the shit Parkersburg, Iowa, got hit with. In fact, I think I better check on my weather guy who's partying at the epicenter. I hope Bill Paxton's there.

'Big' hangover

2008-05-31T06:36:00.000-07:00

So last night, I traveled 75 miles one way for opening night of "Sex and the City" with one of my favorite bitches, Diane. It was a brief rendezvous, the night monopolized by the 2-hour long big screen version of this decadent guilty pleasure. There's not another person with whom I'd choose to drive so far for a flick, other than Diane, she's fabulous.

But I had to drive home after the film, the few minutes we had to chat was not nearly enough to digest it. Diane immediately raised the point that if she were Carrie (and among us Bitches, she is) she couldn't take back Big. It was so wrong and so right, at once.

To take my mind off the movie and the need to see it AGAIN, numerous times, I listened to the genius of comic David Cross. And when I got home, I continued my read of "John Adams." But when I slept, did I dream of David Cross? No. Did I dream of John Adams and the snarkiness of Jefferson? No. I dreamt of drinking tall pints of thick, black Guinness with creamy 1-inch heads. I dreamt of ruby cosmos and Big and exploding bouquets of white flowers. And I dreamt of Charlotte . . . shitting herself.

I woke up in a puddle of sweat, hungover. Diane, my fabulous Bitch, you are the devil, even in my dreams.

Father knows best?

2008-05-23T21:36:00.000-07:00

So I'm blogging from my dad's computer at my dad's house because my dad's not here. He's chillin' at the hospital. Forget the fact he just got home from the hospital yesterday, having completed 6 weeks of radiation and chemo. He woke this morning with a swollen arm. Despite his doc's at the Mayo Clinic telling him to either come back or get to the local ER, Dad thought he'd monitor it at home (residual effects of the chemo have him wiped out). When I dropped in this afternoon, he looked pretty drained, but I'm no nurse, I gotta trust that Father knows best. Fortunately his older sister called him shortly after I left and chewed his ass. He got to the ER.

He phoned from the hospital to report he was being admitted for a blood clot . . . in the neck . . . which he'd been feeling for 5 days. FIVE DAYS!!! What is it with guys?! I can understand the desire to ignore the lumps and bumps, "it'll go away, it's just a thing," but FIVE DAYS?

So in spite of him assuring me he's fine and that I could come see him tomorrow, my husband gave me the nudge (thanks Dude!) and I went to the hospital tonight. And when I rounded the doorway into his room and saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, my cool nearly flew out every pore.

Dads are not supposed to get sick. (They're not supposed to get old, either.) And Dad and I had a rocky road up until 8 years ago. Now we're on borrowed time and I want to do all I can for him, if he'll let me. And tonight, he did! He let me gather his effects from home so he can settle in for a "nice" 4- to 5-day treatment. When I think of the years of estrangement we experienced and that today, I was entered in hospital records as his emergency contact, how can I argue that miracles are not real.

Dad and I are living proof. And while I've got all these fears about where this journey is headed and all these ghostly reminders of how my beloved grandmother wasted away and I lacked the balls to face death, one thing is for sure: I'm not bailing this time.

All will be well

2008-05-23T09:06:00.000-07:00

After a few weeks and months of watching different blogging pals struggle with so much of what we call 'life' (myself included) I was surprised to happen upon these lovely words from Jean Shinoda Bolen in her book The Tao of Psychology: "To know how to choose a path with heart is to learn how to follow the inner beat of intuitive feeling." She continues:

"When a person is following a path with heart, his or her dreams are usually nourishing; they seem interesting and pleasant, often imparting a sense of well-being. Synchronistically, opportunities seem to open fortuitously, the people we should meet accidentally cross our path, a flow or ease accompanies our work. Each facilitating, unsought event then begins to confer a feeling of being blessed, each serving as a lantern along the way, illuminating the path with heart.

"To travel this path with heart, a person has an inner world in which the ego is filled with a spiritual abundance from its connection with the Self. There is generosity and freedom from fear within the psyche and in the world. Synchronistically, people cross our path and events unfold, facilitating rather than hindering the course we are on. The sense of fullness and flow influences the sense of time; there seems to be enough time to do whatever we are here for; even parking places synchronistically materialize."

As I fret over $140 barrel oil, burnout at work, my filthy house, whether my new hydrangeas will make it, how my daughter and father will weather their surgeries, the state of our nation, and on and on, this reading put into words what I know at the core of my being to be true. As Julian of Norwich wrote, ". . . all shall be well."

Namaste and hang in there--

Schwarzenegger was wrong

2008-05-21T05:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I spent a couple hours watching my son fish. Minus a baby bass that he threw back, these pix were the only catches. Not a bad day at the lake, I'd say. But looking at these images a day later, in light of the news of Ted Kennedy, I'm reminded of life's cycles. And I'm a little blue. Of course, in my own selfishness, I'm reminded of what my dad's going through. And given the nature of Kennedy's diagnosis, I remember when I got news that my great friend Helen had a brain tumor. Seizures like Kennedy's are what tipped off her docs. Isn't it strange how a few words can suddenly and abruptly change one's world forever. So I take solace in the world around me and count my many blessings . . .

Vroom, vroom!

2008-05-15T14:45:00.000-07:00

There's a strong possibility I'm gonna make this baby mine!!! Anyone know a good driving instructor?

Not worthy to receive

2008-05-11T07:58:00.000-07:00

Only a catholic would catch that phrase and possibly understand the deep-seated unworthiness that I feel, not only toward God, but Mother's Day. All in the spirit of capitalism, does Hallmark make its bid to prey on the insecurities and guilt of children and partners. Hallmark sucks!

This Mother's Day crap needs to go the way of the up-turned collar on the Izod polo. There is no spirit on this day, only pressure! Pressure to let your mother know how much you really, truly, deeply love and appreciate her. Oh, and let's not forget the pressure to be the mother who earns that really, truly, deep love and appreciation. It so blows.

And excuses to be lazy? Anyone who knows me, knows I need no excuse to loaf and drag and sleep and lounge and be a general sad sack. No matter how much I try to overcome it, I'm a sloth! Which is one of the primary reasons I hate this day. As Wayne & Garth so aptly put it back in the day, "I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!" My kids and husband are so amazingly good to me and I just don't get it!

Maybe I'm just extra blue because my week-long eye infection is finally clearing (reason for some to celebrate, but me, to grumble it took so long), maybe it's this damn head cold that set in Wednesday and has still got me mouth breathing, maybe it's the rainy, cold, cloudy nature of today (I need me some Vitamin D . . . or a tanning bed), maybe I'm just a bitch! But I really do hate being the focus. It just reminds me of my eternal shortcomings.

Honoring MY mom, however, is a totally different thing. I simply cannot do enough to communicate to her (or you) how much I love her. And after watching both Mom and Dad lose their mom's a year ago, it's ratcheted up the need to let them know how much they mean to me. But do I really need Hallmark to force my hand? Can a card or a Willow Tree or pastry really convey all the emotions I feel for Mom? Hardly.

If only motherhood was as easy as Sally makes it look. All she does is lay around and nurse those little babies. It's so beautiful to watch how she's grown from cannibal to all-star mommy. What a giver.

An early Mutha's Day

2008-05-07T04:30:00.000-07:00

Last night, as I'm soaking up the Philadelphia Congress of 1776, enjoying a spring evening of open windows, I heard holy hell breaking loose. Some damn cats were dukin' it out as I was trying to progress through McCullough's Pulitzer-Prize winning, "John Adams." Feeling way too lazy to check out the melee, and rather proud of myself that I'm actually interested in this behemoth, I remained between the sheets. And eventually the screeching and hissing ceased.

Soon my husband came to bed, at which point I started hearing a little peep, like a song bird was awake at 11 p.m. Odd, but small pox inoculations were taking place in Boston and I needed to see how Abigail Adams was faring. Maybe the periodic peeping was Marty's breathing? Nope, that log sawing was far from a peep. Back to the British Fleet sailing from Halifax. The peeping, though soft and infrequent, continued. Then it hit me, "Could Sally have had her babies?"

Sally is our resident Queen Bee and given she's the ripe old age of 2 gives you an indication of how long cats last at our place, and what sluts they are. This was pregnancy #3 for this hussy. Last spring was her first pregnancy and she, along with her sister, Brachiosaurie (yes, like the really tall herbivore dino), were both "heavy with child."

I'd heard cats can struggle to connect with their inner mommy so I kept my expectations low, and good thing because Brachiosaurie was the first to drop . . . and she did so out in the lawn and left 'em there. Nice. Of course, we didn't know this until I happened to glance in the window well where the cats tend to congregate and saw her chewing on a rabbit, or so I thought! Aaaaaaaaa!!!!!! She was disposing of the ugly truth. It's hard to pet her without remembering the image of little paws hanging out of her mouth. Did I just share that? Could it possibly get more macabre? Buckle up, little campers!

Sally dropped. It was the morning of Moira's kindergarten field trip and I spotted tiny, mewing rats in the window well. Marty and I leapt into action as I was determined to hold Sally accountable for her easy ways. We quickly moved Sally, mid-delivery, onto our enclosed porch. Two kitties were moved with her, only to be joined by four more. After a couple days, she looked like any normal, haggard mother, but we kept her there. And she didn't do too bad. She only ate one of 'em.

It was not an easy time. It was June 1st and the kitties were about 3 weeks old. My country gramma had died two weeks earlier and my city gramma, that morning. So after a few hours with my sisters and parents (the kids were occupied elsewhere), I arrived home to find a HEADLESS kitten laying abandoned in the middle of the porch floor! Oh My Loving God in Heaven!!! Frantically I called my brother-in-law, a large animal vet, and with his eternal calm (and sarcasm) he told me, "Hmmm. Never heard a that before. Guess she took care of that problem." WHAT? My kids piss me off plenty, but never in my life have I thought, "with a little salt . . ."

But back to last night. With the occasional peep still sounding, I could no longer take the suspense and grabbed a flashlight. And there in the window well lay a fresh litter of seven soft, mewing baby kitties. And Sally was staying with them! In fact, after I grabbed a towel and began moving the little ones into a laundry basket, Sally started growling! Maybe she's feeling 'Mommy-dom?' Third time's a charm, they say. (Oh, No. 2 pregnancy? We'll never know. She went on 'walk about' one day last fall and returned a lot thinner.) Anyway, Sally let me move her and her kids to the safety of the porch where they'll remain until we get the Kitty Clubhouse built tomorrow.

So far, she hasn't broken out the cutlery, but it looks like the little ones did. She appears to have lost an ear. . .

and the desire for sobriety. Is that scotch I smell on her breath?

Nope, not plastic

2008-05-06T13:42:00.000-07:00

So, I was wrong when I assumed the thing hanging out Sidney's ass was a sheet of plastic. It was a chewed up pair of my underwear. Nice. I think a mental picture is sufficient.