Dog poo re-do

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keeping up appearances

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

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.