Day 14, (Day of the Dead, filed)

It's Halloween. I'm not going to tell you about the
Day of the Dead, although I recommend checking out the site. But I will tell you why I celebrate it now.

Five years ago on October 28, my sister called from Phoenix to tell me that I needed to get down there. Immediately. My dad had fluid in his lungs and was in the hospital. I was working at the wine store I owned. I grabbed Jay, who was five, and closed the big sliding metal mesh door to the store. I drove to my house like a banshee, packed a bag, and got on the road. As I packed, I did a weird thing. I threw in a black dress.

Jay and I had just been down at my parent's place the weekend before. They lived in a retirement facility, and had a small two bedroom apartment. We would stay with them two weekends a month; the two I didn't work at the store. My mom was already pretty memory sick. She would pile boxes up in front of the door at night because she thought people were going to come in. She even saw them at times and she would tell me about them later. The last time she was at my house in Flagstaff, she looked out the kitchen window and said, "Jill, look at that big white dog in the front yard." I looked out and just saw my yard. I said, "Where mom? I don't see it." My mom gave me this exasperated look and pointed, "It's right there." I put down the dish I was drying and walked outside. Man, I looked everywhere for that damn white dog.

So, we had been down to see them. Came home Sunday night. Got the call Wednesday. My sister, on the phone, had said it wasn't a life or death matter. It was just a concern. She called me back to say it would probably be fine, they just needed to deal with the lung issue and he would probably be fine. I drove like a crazy person to Phoenix. But her voice was frantic. The fear she felt came through the phone and splintered out inside my head like tempered glass, cracking.

At the hospital he looked pretty bad. Tiny. Tubes everywhere. But he could talk. We talked a bit, but it was hard for him. He seemed okay. He looked at me once, right before we were going to leave for the night and said, very clear suddenly, "So, when do we dance?" And he smiled.

We came back the next morning early, stayed at the hospital all day. My brother flew in from Kansas. My niece and her kids drove in from California. We milled around in the waiting room as only two of us could go in at a time to see him. He got better, then he got worse, then he got better again. It was the day before Halloween. We had three kids who needed costumes and candy sacks. We went to department stores, wandering up and down aisles saying, "well, do you want to be a vampire or a ninja," thinking, "is my dad going to die?"

That night, as my mom, my sister, Jay and I were walking down the hallway; you know, the wide, speckled linoleum floor, the dim lights shining out from the rooms as you passed by, the low sounds of relatives and patients, I heard my dad holler, "Jill!." I ran back to his room. "What dad?" I asked. "He looked at me and said, "Take care of your mother." "I will dad. I'll take care of mom." And then my dad slept.

On the 31st, we again spent most of the day at the hospital. My nephew was trying to get there but having flight trouble. My brother stayed at the hospital all day. We went back and fourth, making mac and cheese for the kids, trying on costumes, sitting with my dad. Sometimes he seemed so much better. He would open his eyes and talk to one of us. More family was flying in and would be there later that night. We felt okay. Optimistic. Unsure. Sad.

Occasionally I thought about my black dress in the suitcase.

We took the kids trick or treating. The night was warm and smelled like Phoenix always smells to me; mesquite and olive trees. We laughed at times, admired costumes and didn't stop thinking about dad. Somehow we all went to bed and slept.

The next morning, the phone rang at 6:00 am. It was one of the nurses. She said dad had taken a turn for the worse. We all jumped in cars and drove like crazy. I ran from the moment I shut the car door. Through the parking lot, into the lobby, down the hall and into the elevator. Out the elevator, down the hall and into my dad's room. He was already gone. The days blurred. At some point, I wore my black dress.

So anyway, you get through things you don't imagine you will. You keep going. I felt indescribably bad. I felt like the only thing that would ever make me feel good again was if my dad would just CALL me on the phone and say, "Hey, I'm okay here. Things are good." But he never did.

Over time I started to feel better. I still cried in my car every time "A Hundred Years to Live" by Five for Fighting came on. I still missed my dad all time. I still wondered EVERY DAMN DAY where he went. I still wanted to call him in the morning to see if he'd finished the jumble, and I still missed his call at night to see if my doors were locked. But I grew into his dying. I knew it wasn't against the natural progression of things. He'd lived a great, long life and been a good man. And still, I just wanted to talk to him one more time.

But I discovered Dia De Los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. It was the day he died. It was the ritual I needed. It was a belief I'd always had but just never knew the specifics. So, now, on the anniversary of his dying, I have a day to honor him. To feed him. To communicate with him. I usually make zucchini bread, which he loved, and I also have okra. I have Day of the Dead figurines (one is a golfer for him!) and candles on an altar during the month of October. I write him a letter. I talk to him. It makes me feel better. I imagine him looking through a window, tangible. This year, for the first time, I see my mom in that window too. I smile every time the phone rings.

Day 13 (file under BOO of course)

Jay and I carved pumpkins last night. My pumpkin is the same every year. Triangle eyes and nose, big honking grin. Jay drew his face on. He wanted scary eyes, scary nose, and scary mouth. I cut out the pieces. That big pumpkin was about four inches thick! Mine is already molding on the lid. I see those pumpkins that are works of art and I can tell you right now, that ain't me. I want it done. I love the rituals of life, I'm just busy. I also always roast pumpkin seeds. It sounds so good. I slather 'em in olive oil, salt them up real cook, and bake them for 45 minutes. They smell good. But they shred apart and stick in your teeth. It's kind of like eating sharp, brittle cardboard. Yuuummmmm. I'll have some more of that please. So, they usually sit in a Ziplock bag for a couple days, then I burn them on November first (Day of the Dead) in case my dad or mom wants to try them. My mom would never go for it, it would get so stuck in her dental work. She never would eat sesame seed buns because of that - seeds in the dentures. My dad would have a few, might even like them. So, along with a couple loaves of zucchini bread and some okra, I stick it all in the fire pit.

Tomorrow, a little history about Day of the Dead.

number 12 (file under fruit flies)

I am trying so hard not to write about politics.
Not hard enough I guess.....

In Case You Weren't Scared Enough: Palin on "Fruit Fly Research"
Huffington Post

Today, we are blogging from Durham, North Carolina, where we are trying to do our humble bit to help elect Barack Obama. On Friday, Sarah Palin gave us yet another reason to feel good about what we're doing here.

We are far from the first people to comment on this subject -- even within the Huffington Post -- so we'll keep it brief. But Palin's mockery of "fruit fly research" during her October 24th speech on special-needs children was so misconceived, so offensive, so aggressively stupid, and so dangerous that we felt we had to comment.

Here's the excerpt from the speech:

"Where does a lot of that earmark money end up, anyway? [...] You've heard about, um, these -- some of these pet projects they really don't make a whole lot of sense, and sometimes these dollars they go to projects having little or nothing to do with the public good. Things like fruit fly research in Paris, France. I kid you not!"

It's hard to know where to begin deconstructing this statement. This was a speech on autism, and Palin's critics have pounced on the fact that a recent study of Drosophila fruit flies showed that a protein called neurexin is essential for proper neurological function -- a discovery with clear implications for autism research.

Awkward! But this critique merely scrapes icing off the cake.

Fruit flies are more than just the occasional vehicles for research relevant to human disabilities. They are literally the foundation of modern genetics, the original model organism that has enabled us to discover so much of what we know about heredity, genome structure, congenital disorders, and (yes) evolution. So for Palin to state that "fruit fly research" has "little or nothing to do with the public good" is not just wrong -- it's mind-boggling.

What else does this blunder say about Palin and her candidacy? Many people have used it as just another opportunity to call her a dummy, since anyone who has stayed awake through even a portion of a high-school-level biology class knows what fruit flies are good for. But leave that aside for a second. Watch the clip. Listen to the tone of her voice as she sneers the words "fruit fly research." Check out the disdain and incredulity on her face. How would science, basic or applied, fare under President Palin?

We have other questions. Who wrote this speech? Was he or she as ignorant as Palin about the central role that fruit flies have played in the last century of biomedical research? Or was this a calculated slight to science and scientists -- a coded way of saying, "We don't care what you know or what you think"? We find it odd that, of all the examples of dubious expenditures of public funds, the speechwriters alighted on this one.

Whatever the explanation, it scares us. Everyone who has suffered, either personally or indirectly, from an inherited illness, and anyone whose life has been lengthened or enriched by modern medicine, should channel Palin's flip comment when they stand in the voting booth on November 4th.

Day 11 (thank god no filing)

I started my new job today. I'm a Starbucks girl now. Here's the deal, in a nutshell. I LIKE it. It's fun and the people are nice. I get to, no, I HAVE to, talk to customers, be enthusiastic, and smile. I can do those things. It also brought up some unexpected things. I am a service person now. I am the server...the servant. I am not the princess sitting at a table reading a good book with a sweater on and a double tall latte warm and yummy in my hand. I am not spending the morning casually sipping coffee and munching on a tiny vanilla scone, ready to go home and clean (my favorite) or paint (my other favorite) or write (my other favorite). My training buddy, who just got hired also, was 17 years old three days ago. Just had a birthday yesterday...the big eighteen. She's nice and excited and she could be my daughter. I take out the trash and clean the restrooms. I wear a uniform. I even pick up trash bags wrong and spill wet coffee grounds all over myself. I am humbled oh employment god, have mercy on me. So, that stuff surfaced. The "shouldn't I have a well paying CAREER?! by now" stuff. The "everyone thinks I'm an idiot" stuff. The "I'll never amount to anything" stuff.

But, and the but here is a good one, I have perks at this job. I don't have to file anything, learn difficult computer programs, review escrows or enter data. I'll get full medical benefits. Free pound of coffee every week. 401K. Paid vacation. FLEXIBILITY. Part time (20 hours a week). Yeah, I can STILL have days where I clean or paint or write. I have to keep my mind on the reality that this job does not define me. I define me. One thing I realized during that month I worked at Remax....I am much more efficient with my time when I have a job. I could spend 8 hours not getting shit done when I had all the time in the world, but when I only had one day off a week, I scheduled that day and got things DONE, baby. They give me the time off to teach my class, and it's okie-dokie with them that I have to leave at a certain time to pick my son up from school. The people, both customers and fellow Starbucks employees, are truly nice. And you know, the uniform is really kinda cute, even well-dressed, for this girl. Oh shoot, I can still be a princess!! Who am I kidding? It's not the job, it's the attitude.

Day 10 (file under music)

Music is so cool and mysterious. I've been to a million concerts. I love radio play. I also love albums. I have a record player! One thing I've loved about the blog world and myspace is that I get introduced to new music. I now listen to Morphine, Interpol, Arcade Fire, and the American Analog Set. I'd never listened to those bands before. I also listen to music I was slightly familiar with but not so much, like Shawn Mullins. B and I went to his concert the other night and he was awesome.

When I was in eighth grade, I had six 45 rpm records that I played every night when I was going to sleep, Witchy Woman, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, Love Will Keep us Together, Green-Eyed Lady, Bennie and the Jets, and Rock On. I did not live in a very musical house (it was Kansas and mt parents were older so I heard more talk radio and hog belly prices than anything else).

The first song I ever really loved was George Harrison's, My Sweet Lord. It was about the time of Concert for Bangladesh, and I was really young and I remember one of my babysitters taking me to a HEADSHOP, although I had no idea what that even was. There were beads hanging from doorways and incense burning and George was singing from the stereo. I'll never forget that. It made me FEEL something good. I was so young that I missed the fun of that whole decade, but I would have been there 100% had I been a few years older. Loved that song ever since.

Then, there was America; Sister Golden Hair, and then Fleetwood Mac. After high school, I started going to concerts with my girlfriends, driving from Topeka to Kansas City, telling my mom we were spending the night at a friend's house. Man, how in the world did we ever make it home some of those nights?! But music was always loud and always playing.

My music was never the same music my parents listened to, though. That's what I love about music now. Jay's first concert was when he was three and I took him to Jethro Tull (with ear plugs). Two years ago we saw Nickleback. When we turn on the radio, more times than not, we sing to the same songs. Music now is more a bonding experience than a dividing one, like it was with my parents. Thank god...Jay and are going to have enough to argue about.

Day 9 (file under Stan & Barney)

Stan and Barney are a couple old guys. They are fairly new friends, having only roomed together since July. Stan is pretty excited about Barney, and Barney couldn't really give a crap. They sleep on the sofa in near proximity, they try on a regular basis to eat each other's food. But Barney really has very little to do with Stan, and Stan would love to run about the house indulging in a friendly game of chase. Today, Barney got a cat door put in so he can mosey into the garage to use the facilities. The door on it is taped up so Barney can get used to it. Stan is so sad about this new development. Everyone gets to hang out in that garage except Stan, who looks pitiful and must lie on the floor gazing wistfully through the tiny door, the tiny door that he cannot even fit his big fat head through. Hahahaha. I think I stood in the garage and laughed at him off and on all day. Poor Stan. And I'm sure Barney's going to want to go BACK in the house through that little door, what with that monsters head in the way.

Day 8 (file under employment)

One thing I haven't written about lately is my job status. In a nutshell, I really don't want to work. I would prefer to get up in the morning, have a nice rich steaming cup of coffee, read the paper and take a shower. Next, get the child to school. Then, driving home from the school, experience the absolute joy of deciding what to do next. Hmmmmm, I think I'll clean for an hour (I LOVE housework), then I'll write for a bit. I'll putter around the house for the next hour, listening to NPR or The White Stripes or Theory of a Deadman or some other radio hoo-ha. I'll water plants and take care of animals. Then, I'll paint a table, or clean some more. I might head out to target or wander about the yard, looking for good rocks or leaves or bird nests. Write some more, check e-mail, rearrange some furniture. Think about dinner. There. That's the day I want.

Well, reality sure bitch slapped me!!! I have to work. Yes, I need to produce an income. And no one will pay me for the above mentioned day. Damn.

It's not like I've never worked before. I've had jobs!!! I spent some of my youth waitressing. I managed a coffee shop in Los Gatos, and taught kindergarten in a small private school. I've driven an ice cream truck and worked retail. Here in Flagstaff I worked for City Hall as a clerk typist (YUUUCCCKKKK!). I've also had several of my own businesses, the most successful and enjoyable being owning a wine shop for seven years. I've taught school at the community college level for 8 years. And I've usually had at least two jobs at a time. Then I took a couple years off. One to finish my book, then a second year to have my year of opus. Man, did I get spoiled. And poor. I got poor. So, these last few months I've been searching for the right fit.

I found it. This coming Tuesday I start work at Starbucks. Whooo - hoo! I am truly excited. I worked at Remax Realty for a month or so. It wasn't a bad job. The two guys I worked for were really nice. But things slowed down. It really wasn't me. I would get a huge tension knot from typing in all that data and reviewing escrows. Now, I get to chat with folks. I get to be the queen of customer service and make COFFEE. I even love that I have to wear a uniform. The bonus.....a free pound of coffee a week. I am so up for this.

Day 7 augh! (file under "The Dog Ate My Blog")

I took a mulligan. Or something like that. A mulligan, for you non-golfers, is when you flub a tee-off shot and take another one with no penalty. You're only allowed ONE per 18 holes of golf. Actually, among serious golfers, you don't even get one. BUT, I did completely forget about blog world yesterday, and since I committed to writing once a day for a month, I decided to just take a mulligan.

Today, I am here to talk to you about eggs and chickens. I have a friend who has chickens in her back yard (crazy), and there are things I'm curious about. I've been at her house when she gets the eggs and here's my question; how do those eggs get out of those chickens all dry and clean? I don't believe there is pathway out of the body, chicken or otherwise, that is actually dry and clean. But the eggs are so smooth and goop free. I just don't understand that. Another thing is that the eggs, once cracked, look different. The yolks are yellower. The shells are harder. Oh, and the colors are cool. The eggs are bluish-green, or shades of brown. No white ones. And they're so warm when you pull them out of the coop. The whole thing is such an amazing concept!! A tiny food factory on two spindly legs, producing this protein laden feast! Those chickens are cool too. Clucking about, scratching in the dirt, running wildly for no apparent reason. They peck at my ring or the grommets on my jeans. And, it does not hurt. Not to digress, but I used to have a fear of getting hit in the back of the head by a Frisbee (I went to a lot of concerts, and when I lived in California I spent time at the beach. Whatever.). Finally, in Santa Monica one day when Suzy and I were at the beach, it happened. A Frisbee comes flying through the air and beans me right on the back of the head. It didn't even hurt (hard head?). And all those years I'd been afraid of it...even dreaded it. It's like that with pecking chickens. It doesn't hurt at all.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. -- Albert Einstein

Day six (file under someone else's short story)

It's really cold here. Winter is coming. Some people read and some don't. I think some people don't read only because they don't have reading material around the house. They don't have bookcases filled with books filled with short stories. I think there are emotions that rarely get felt. They're either buried somewhere or just not evoked by anything on a regular basis. We all have this common THING. This history of kindness or cruelty, tenderness or abuse. On either side of the line, I think we can at least imagine what it is to stand on the other side. This might be a stretch, but I think literature often is able to evoke those emotions, without us having to actually go through the experience. There is such a universal component to many stories, and it's that core that enables us to empathize, sympathize and see the familiar in others. I may be wearing my rose colored glasses (I have several pairs) but I really believe that we all would choose good over bad. I just read this short story. It's really short. It's kinda poetic. I wanted to share it.


What Happened During the Ice Storm
by Jim Heynen
One winter there was a freezing rain. How beautiful! people said when things outside started to shine with ice. But the freezing rain kept coming. Tree branches glistened like glass. Then broke like glass. Ice thickened on the windows until everything outside blurred. Farmers moved their livestock into the barns, and most animals were safe. But not the pheasants. Their eyes froze shut.
Some farmers went ice-skating down the gravel roads with clubs to harvest the pheasants that sat helplessly in the roadside ditches. The boys went out into the freezing rain to find pheasants too. They saw dark spots along a fence. Pheasants, all right. Five or six of them. The boys slid their feet along slowly, trying not to break the ice that covered the snow. They slid up close to the pheasants. The pheasants pulled their heads down between their wings. They couldn't tell how
easy it was to see them huddled there. The boys stood still in the icy rain. Their breath came out in slow puffs of steam. The pheasants' breath came out in quick little white puffs. Some of them lifted their heads and turned them from side to side, but they were blindfolded with ice and didn't flush. The boys had not
brought clubs, or sacks, or anything but themselves. They stood over the pheasants, turning their own heads, looking at each other, each expecting the other to do something. To pounce on a pheasant, or to yell Bang! Things around them were shining and dripping with icy rain. The barbed-wire fence. The fence posts. The broken stems of grass. Even the grass seeds. The grass seeds looked like little yolks inside gelatin whites. And the pheasants looked like unborn birds glazed in egg white. Ice was hardening on the boys' caps and coats. Soon they would be covered
with ice too. Then one of the boys said, Shh. He was taking off his coat, the thin layer of ice splintering in flakes as he pulled his arms from the sleeves. But the inside of the coat was dry and warm. He covered two of the crouching pheasants with his coat, rounding the back of it over them like a shell. The other boys did the same. They covered all the helpless pheasants. The small gray hens and the larger brown cocks. Now the boys felt the rain soaking through their shirts and freezing.
They ran across the slippery fields, unsure of their footing, the ice clinging to their skin as they made their way toward the blurry lights of the house.

Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved.

That story makes me feel really good. I feel like those boys knew what to do, even after they were given bad examples and even after they set out to do something not so good. It's like they made a different choice, a better choice, and I really like that. That's all.


"The strongest principle of growth lies in human choice."
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
From Chapter 1, Intention

Day 5 (file under beer)

Well, it's getting to be Guinness season again. How happy am I?!?! I love Guinness, although Sam Adams Cream Stout is similar and very nice. Also, there are a few chocolate stouts that are quite good and actually have a nice chocolate flavor (I just misspelled about half the words I've written so far and was going to leave it that way as a joke but I was afraid no one would get it. You know, writing about beer, drinking beer, forgetting how to spell, stumbling around in the living room, etc).

Guinness goes with everything. Gruyere cheese (I'm having some now), chocolate, cheese, cheese (did I mention I'm having some now?), and chocolate. Yum. Guinness is so thick and rich and yummy, and here's an interesting fact, the bubbles go down instead of up. That's enough reason to drink Guinness. Drink Guinness and watch the bubbles. You WILL have fun. Here are some more interesting facts about my favorite fall beer.....


The old advertising slogan "Guinness is Good for You" may be true after all, according to researchers.

A pint of the black stuff a day may work as well as an aspirin to prevent heart clots that raise the risk of heart attacks.
Drinking lager does not yield the same benefits, experts from University of Wisconsin told a conference in the US.

Guinness was told to stop using this slogan decades ago - and the firm still makes no health claims for the drink.
The Wisconsin team tested the health-giving properties of stout against lager by giving it to dogs who had narrowed arteries similar to those in heart disease.
They found that those given the Guinness had reduced clotting activity in their blood, but not those given lager.
Clotting is important for patients who are at risk of a heart attack because they have hardened arteries.
A heart attack is triggered when a clot lodges in one of these arteries supplying the heart.
Many patients are prescribed low-dose aspirin as this cuts the ability of the blood to form these dangerous clots.
The researchers told a meeting of the American Heart Association in Orlando, Florida, that the most benefit they saw was from 24 fluid ounces of Guinness - just over a pint - taken at mealtimes.
They believe that "antioxidant compounds" in the Guinness, similar to those found in certain fruits and vegetables, are responsible for the health benefits because they slow down the deposit of harmful cholesterol on the artery walls.
The original campaign in the 1920s stemmed from market research - when people told the company that they felt good after their pint, the slogan was born.
In England, post-operative patients used to be given Guinness, as were blood donors, based on the belief that it was high in iron.
Pregnant women and nursing mothers were at one stage advised to drink Guinness - the present advice is against this."


And another point I'd like to make is this....

Is GUINNESS® fattening? How many calories does it contain?

GUINNESS® ? Fattening? It’s an urban myth. GUINNESS® is no more fattening or calorific than any other beer of similar alcohol strength. Similarly, GUINNESS® contains no fat, but it does contain protein, sugar, carbohydrates and alcohol. The alcohol accounts for 65-75% of the calorific content irrespective of the beer in question.

* GUINNESS® DRAUGHT - 196 CALORIES PER PINT
* Semi-skimmed milk - 260 CALORIES PER PINT
* Orange juice - 220 CALORIES PER PINT

Pint-for-pint, GUINNESS® Draught actually has fewer calories than most other premium beers and lagers. So now you know.


Hooray!!! Hooray!!!

And, added bonus, there's a rocket widget inside the Guinness draught (just writing that sentence felt cool).


In the late 1980s Guinness pioneered the original spherical widget that is used in cans. A ball combining nitrogen and carbon dioxide is pressurized in the can. When the can is opened, the gas is released. Once the Guinness is poured, it assumes its characteristic half-inch head.

For the bottled version of the product, the widget is shaped like a rocket to keep it oriented correctly. The gas is released from the bottom of the widget. The majority of the gas is released when the bottle is first opened, then smaller amounts give the head a boost every time the bottle is tilted. The theory is that a head remains on the beer, inside the bottle, right down to the last sip.

"The new widget looks like a rocket," says Joe Bergin of Guinness Technical Support and Innovation, the division responsible for R&D, based in Dublin, Ireland. "It even has fins, for safety, to make sure the widget stays in the bottle." While the canned draught Guinness uses liquid nitrogen to create its head, the bottle uses gaseous nitrogen. The widget revolution reflects the pains Guinness will take to ensure product consistency, but many Guinness drinkers are fanatics.

Fanatics!? Pleeeease.

Day 4 (file under stupid mom tricks)

So, last year, on the day of my son's parent/teacher conference, I decided to clean out the garage. I worked and worked. Man, that garage looked better. My conference was scheduled at 4:00. I picked Jay up at 3:00 and went home and kept working on the garage. At 5:15 I went, AUUGGGGHHHHH, and jumped in the car and drove like a crazy person to the school. Of course I had missed the conference. It wasn't because of illness or accident or an emergency. It wasn't a fire or spontaneous combustion. It was because, although I thought about it at NOON, it had left my brain by 3:45.

Jump ahead to today. Jay's conference was scheduled for 4:15, the same time his sport practice would be over. I thought about that conference at 10:00 this morning. Again at 2:00. At 4:10 I thought to myself, "I have to go pick up Jay" I looked around the kitchen and couldn't find my shoes. So I thought, "Oh well, I'll just go through the drive-through and have him run out to the car" COMPLETELY having forgotten the conference. I pull up, WITH MY SOCKS ON, and he doesn't come out. Man, I get frustrated. "Where are you?!" I'm thinking as I sit there waiting. I see his teacher and him in the hall, then they go into his class. I park the car, get out in my socks and walk in. His teacher looks at me and smiles, "Are you ready to talk for a few minutes? We weren't sure if you were going to make it" The puzzle that is my mind suddenly fits together. THE CONFERENCE. I smile, walk in the classroom. "Sorry I'm a bit late" I steal a glance at the clock. 4:22. Damn. Jay looks at my feet. "How come..." he starts. I am a twit. I smile and say, "Oh, I was running late and wanted to get here for your conference so I just hopped in the car. I thought my shoes were in the back seat and when I got here, they weren't. Sorry." At this moment, Jay's teacher looked at my feet, then at hers, "Yeah, I just wore these slipper type things today" she said, pointing to her moccasins (Thank you).

Next year, I am SO there on time.

Day 3 (file under truth)

I need all of you to know about this great website.....

snopes.com

They get to the bottom of any rumor and tell you the facts. They are totally NOT affiliated with any political party, in fact, politics is just one of about a hundred headings on their site (sports, entertainment, financial, Disney, etc). It is a great site for finding out the truth, although you might be disappointed when you find out, no, Obama is NOT a radical Muslim.

I am not going to get political (although I did vote today....early voting rocks!) but I have to educate the masses on this one thing. If you're sending out, or if you receive, a "factual" e-mail about either candidate, or if you heard a rumor about Bruce Willis dating Drew Barrymore (I made that up), or if you just think that we never really went to the moon but filmed the landing in Studio 7 at Universal Studios, go to snopes.com.

And please, have the common sense to check out what the real truth is before sending off uneducated, fear-based, e-mails.

Day 2, (file under drivel)

Things that made me happy today.....


* Buying a ring made out of colored wire and beads from the little neighbor girls.

* Sleeping in, reading the paper, and watching SNL snippets on the computer with B.

* Changing out the kitchen faucet ALL BY MYSELF (except for the goo application and the tightening of the thingey).

* The following article.....

AP – Retired General Colin L. Powell, one of the country's most respected Republicans, stunned both parties on Sunday by strongly endorsing Sen. Barack Obama (D-Ill.) for president on NBC's "Meet the Press" and laying out a blistering, detailed critique of the modern GOP.

Powell said the election of Obama would "electrify the world."

"I think he is a transformational figure," Powell said. "He is a new generation coming ... onto the world stage and on the American stage. And for that reason, I'll be voting for Senator Barack Obama."

As a key reason, Powell said: "I would have difficulty with two more conservative appointments to the Supreme Court, but that's what we'd be looking at in a McCain administration."

Powell, once considered likely to be the nation's first African-American presidential nominee, said his decision was not about race.

Moderator Tom Brokaw said: "There will be some ... who will say this is an African-American, distinguished American supporting another African-American because of race."

Powell, who last year gave Republican John McCain's campaign the maximum $2,300, replied: "If I had only had that in mind, I could have done this six, eight, 10 months ago. I really have been going back and forth between somebody I have the highest respect and regard for, John McCain and somebody I was getting to know, Barack Obama. And it was only in the last couple of months that I settled on this."

"I can't deny that it will be a historic event when an African-American becomes president," Powell continued, speaking live in the studio. "And should that happen, all Americans should be proud — not just African-American, but all Americans — that we have reached this point in our national history where such a thing could happen. It would also not only electrify the country, but electrify the world."


And one thing that made me laugh out loud......

*

November

I have so much to say.

I am filled with words. They are buzzing about like a full hive, bumbling into various folds of skin and battling my thick skull.

I have performance anxiety.

In blogging, I have performance anxiety. I think about writing every day, but I don't. So, I decided to just GET OVER IT. I don't really believe in writer's block. Either one writes or one doesn't. I just haven't been writing. But there are slumps. It might be laziness. It might be fear. I have a solution. I found my solution a few years ago when I wasn't writing much poetry. I just decided to write a poem a day. Can't write??? Then write all the time. About nothing. Write bad poems. Write one sentence poems. But just f**king write. Okay, I set out to do it for a year and ended up making it four months. It was HARD to write every day. But after, I wrote more consistently. So, for the month of November I'm going to write every single day. Yes, I know it's a holiday month. Plus, my niece, Ann, is getting married. I could, however, make excuses for EVERY month if I wanted to. So, that's my goal. I work better with goals. Especially ones that I splay out there to everyone. So I can be scolded and reprimanded (wow, maybe I like being scolded and reprimanded). Ehwww.

When I wrote a poem a day, I definitely wrote some shitty poems. And, I wrote some good stuff. Here's one that I liked that came out at 11:57 pm just because I hadn't written that day and I felt OBLIGATED.

How to find out (a recipe poem)

Unfold a checker board
on a plain table
with a cute boy. Have fun,
be ruthless, drink
cold beer and cheer
for yourself
and the boy too.
When it is inevitable you
are going to win and the boy
is seething quietly, turn
the board around, play
his two remaining pieces
against your former seven
(including two kings)
and win still. He will either
be wildly impressed
or hate your guts.
You need to know which
early on.

Not profound. Not really publishable. But I like it. And I wrote, whether I wanted to or not. No excuses. That's really all I want, to keep writing. It's very freeing to write crap and not care. So, of course, you should also see one of the bad ones...

The Copper Creek Mine

Juan took us down
into the mine.
It smelled like rain
and was as dark
as a brown bear.
Juan said
anyway
at the end of
each sentence
and the tunnel got
colder and colder
every hundred feet.
When we walked up
outside of the earth
an hour later,
Juan’s words
still sheltered us
against the bright collapse
of sun and lethargy.


Even I didn't know what the point was. Sun and lethargy?! WTF?

So, I'm going on a November marathon blog. And the rules. You KNOW I love rules. I'm NOT going to write about "writing". THAT will be refreshing. I'm so excited I kind of want to start today.

Shoot! What the heck. I think I will. Yes, I start today, October 18th. One month. I just became totally anxiety ridden. See you tomorrow.

art

watch this

A friend of mine sent me this short film. I thought it was really interesting and I liked it. It's a little graphic in a place or two (I think there's a breast somewhere. Okay, I do not usually consider a "breast" graphic but there are those times that children stand behind you peering over your shoulder, which by the way, makes me CRAZY, but since I don't know your family boundaries on viewing breasts, just thought I'd mention it). It made me happy that people are out there doing unique art. Seeing things like this makes me want to write more poems and paint more furniture, to take classes and read more books, to take more chances. It always makes me think the same thing going to see my mom used to make me think...Live Your Life Now. I have a cool digital camera that I don't even know how to use aside from taking video of Jay playing basketball. Why? Why aren't I being more creative with my resources? Well damn, I guess it's up to me.

Stories

I think I like telling stories best of all. I have a couple tonight.

Once upon a time there was a little girl. That would be me. Well, she wasn't that little, maybe ten years old. Her grandfather, who was kind of crazy and a bit mean, was in a nursing home outside of Halstead, Kansas and the little girl's mom (my mom) wanted to go see her father. Well, felt like she HAD to. It had been planned for a few weeks and the mom, Anna, hadn't been to see her own dad for quite a while. The grandpa's name was Henry, and he had been an ornery cuss, according to Anna's husband, Jay (my dad). He could never keep a job when the girl (now the mom), Anna, was a child; came home bruised up after fights, pushed the girls in the family around. Once, when he had lost several jobs, he decided to raise rabbits to sell, and Anna and her sisters had to kill and skin them because that's all they ate for many months (my mother could never bear to even look at rabbits as long as I knew her). When Anna turned 16, she went to work at Kreskies drugstore in Hutch, and her father, Henry, came by every Friday to pick up her check, which he cashed himself and spent. He didn't believe girls should go to high school, and my mom was the only girl out of three sisters who did go. Anna got a job to get out of the house, and was married to my father by the time she was in 12th grade.

So, anyway, back to the other story. Anna had a child, me, and we got in the car, an Oldsmobile Sedan, on that warm, gold, breezy summer day. My grandpa, who used to rub his whiskery face against mine hard until I would cry, was going to be waiting for us.

We got to Halstead around noon. My mom and dad and I walked into the nursing home, which was a single story building out in the smack middle of a million corn fields. We sat on those cold steel backed, vinyl seated chairs while my dad went up to the front desk to check in. Well, my grandpa was gone. He'd gone into town on a bus that morning at 10:00. Wasn't coming back until 3:00. We'd traveled three hours and he'd forgotten about us, or, as my dad figured, knew we were on our way but left anyhow. We were there though, and we were staying.

First, my dad and I wandered around the corn fields. I remember standing inside the field, and listening to the sound of the stalks swaying and brushing against each other. My dad asked me if I heard that sound, and I knew which sound he meant. I said yes and he said, that's the sound of the wind. I got bored out there and we walked back to the building. We sat outside and after a bit, a boy joined us. He was truly just a boy, maybe 25 years old. He lived in that place. He started picking through the ash can, taking cigarette butts out and trying to smoke them. My dad walked over to him and began talking to him to shift his attention. The boy's words came out slow and blurry. He went back inside at one point and my mother answered the question I asked her with my eyes like this; "He was in a tractor accident. He lives here now. That's why he talks funny. His brain was damaged"

He came back out. It was only 1:00. One hour had passed. The boy asked me a question. I could hardly understand him. He knew. He asked again, slower still. "Will you go to the farm with me?" My dad stood near me and heard the boy too. I didn't know what to say. My dad spoke, "No young man, she needs to go home with her mom and dad" The boy looked at me, then me dad. He said "I have something. I give you a present" He walked off into the yard of the Home. He knelt down and looked at the ground for not more than a minute. He picked something up and came back. He handed me a four leaf clover. Really. I looked down at that clover in my hand. I said thank you. I was kind of sad that I couldn't go to the farm with him, because he had asked and I felt bad that he was in this place filled with old folks and with people like my grandpa. I also remember feeling acutely aware that I wanted to go home with my mom and dad.

The boy went back inside. My dad crawled around in that yard for the next hour looking for another four leaf clover, which he never found. My grandpa showed up a little after 3:00 and just laughed, but not the kind of laugh that makes you feel good. I carried that four leaf clover home with me, held in the palm of my hand for five hours. I put it on a piece of lined notebook paper, covered it with plastic wrap, and taped up all four sides. I still have it. I carry it in my wallet. It's pretty battered, and the clover is stuck down in the corner. During those times when I'm sure I've left my wallet at the library or at Target or at some bar, I don't worry about the money. I worry about that piece of notebook paper with the clover sunk down in the corner.

My second story is about a cat and a dog so I must now introduce B. I don't really know how the people in my life feel about being blogged about. I never really mention any of them by name, except Jay, and he doesn't read my blog. And of course, my parents, but they're cool with it. So, I mention B by initial, but I think about him with an exclamation point.

Jay and I are taking care of B's cat, Barney. Barney is named Barney because he was found in a barn. It's not really true that just Jay and I are taking care of Barney (aka Mr Barnes, Barnstormer, Barney Miller, Barnabus Collins, Barnaliscious, Barneyshmarney, etc, etc), B is here quite a bit so we're, in fact, all taking care of Barnes. Well, Stan the dog was here first. He was under the impression that HE was king. But now Barney and Stan share the couch. They share the bed. They eat each other's food and drink each other's water. There was never a hiss or a growl or a nip. They LOVE each other. But when Stan had a bath, courtesy of B, I could see it. Barney was right there, perched on the side of the tub. Looking a tad smug. Dipping his head down occaisionally to lap up a little bath water. And thinking;
WHAAAHAAHA I AM KING NOW!

I'm including the following quote (which I posted on my blog a year ago also) for a couple reasons...

Jay had to pick out a quote for his 5th grade class. I let him peruse my quotes, all 57 pages of them. After looking at quotes for half an hour, this is the quote he chose, with no help from me. It made me proud. Secondly, I should read this quote every day because sometimes I forget to keep doing the things that make me come alive. Instead I find (like everyone, I'm sure) myself doing the things that make money, or are easy, or contain no fear.
F**k that!

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs - ask yourself what makes you
come alive, and then
go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."
---Harold Whitman

Pointless

I am so remiss. Here is a fact...I'm a writer. I love this whole blog thing. But I haven't been very consistent about writing lately. Then, tonight I read my blogfriend Jen's truthful/funny/poignant blog about losing her virginity to a circus clown, and my blogfriend Imez' truthful/funny/poignant blog about falling apart at a wedding, and I thought, holy crap, my posts are really getting shallow.

It's not that I don't have things to write about, I just can't really write about them.
Over the last couple months I have collected the "chicken coop in the backyard" story, the "going to therapy with my son" story, the unbelievable "night in jail" story, and of course, the "I may have found a good man and be ready to break my vow to NEVER write about relationships" story. But for a plethora of reasons, I have chosen not to write about those things. Right now. (Someday you'll be riveted by the mounting suspense of "the morning I realized SHE was a rooster" and the melancholy recounting of "graffiti on the cement walls of the slammer")

So, instead, my blog has been reduced to sound bites about my longing for year round school and the fact I actually have a JOB. Sorry. Hang in there while I push poems and quotes and tidbits about what I had to eat at the FAIR your way.

Oh, okay, I guess I do have one thing. Wait, I don't want to talk about that one either. Damn. I guess it's back to sound bites for a little while longer...

Register to vote. And vote for who I want you to. Thank you.

Regarding the above sentence, yes, I know I end sentences with prepositions. BUT, I found the following in the American Heritage Dictionary so take note all you literati....
"There is nothing inherently bad about ending a sentence with a preposition. Such placement may cause awkwardness by giving undue stress to the preposition or it may provide a weak ending. But often, the final position is the only natural one for the preposition." See asterisk * below

I do not like drawing names for Christmas presents. I want to buy for who I want to buy for. There.

I have enough potted plants. I want cut flowers. Irises. Yes, I know they die eventually. But then I get to be done. I can enjoy them, maybe take a couple pictures. Then they go away.

*My biggest fault is that I think I'm right most of the time. The problem is, I usually am.

(I have the urge to follow that statement with one about gratefulness just to redeem my arrogance but I'm not gonna do it)

I'm reading some good books....A Thousand Names For Joy by Byron Katie, Poemcrazy by Susan Wooldridge, and those teen vampire books by Stephanie Meyers (THAT revelation was a bit embarrassing).


"We walked through night 'til night was a poem"
--Brenda Hillman
(what does she mean by "night" anyway? Is it night as in the time of day, or is it night as in darkness, sorrow, the hidden, the lost?) (Anyway, great quote)

Tidbits

Wow, what happened to August?! I was going to write about it this morning but I WAS WORKING AT MY NEW JOB. Oh, fine, I was working for two hours. I suppose that anyone who listens to me talk about this wants to stick a sock in my mouth. Yes, I have a new job. A job in an office. At a desk. Under florescent lights. I file and write data on forms. I try and figure out escrows. I look up addresses on the MLS. I work for a Realtor. I cannot say anything bad about this. I was offered the job. I took it. Twenty hours a week. The bosses talk about getting me my real estate license. Sweet. Not. Okay, actually, it's just not me. I don't know what direction I'm going on this, only that I've figured out ONE MORE THING I do not want to be.

Back to August. My son went back to school. Whooo-Who! I love my boy but I would have a nervous breakdown if the school week was only three days long. I'm all for year round school, and if I had the time you'd probably see me outside the grocery store armed with a petition on a clipboard.

The fair. We didn't enter a darn thing this year. We went and ate fair food. Cotton candy. Funnel cakes. Chicken on a stick. Played the games. For the first time, Jay lost more than he won. That was good. It's scary when your child's experiences with gambling turn out well. We didn't do any rides (after the tilt-a-whirl last year I kinda gave that up) but we did check out the animals.

On relationships; here's one of my favorite quotes;
"I don't think it's the other person's responsibility to make you whole. It's the other person's responsibility to make you laugh, to give you a dance now and then, to read the newspaper and tell you about things you don't have time to read about, to introduce you to music you don't know...to fight fair, to be good in bed, to say, 'come on, let's go have an adventure' when you've become a little bit of a stick in the mud."
--Susan Sarandon
I've had that quote on my fridge for twelve years and never met anyone that I thought could do that. Until now.

Jay asked me this question tonight....
Does the world have it's own birthday?

Tidbits. Dim sum. Tasty morsels. I love how that can relate to food or, or, or...ANYTHING! Little yummy pieces. Tidbits and dim sum are just other ways to say tasty morsels. In the thesaurus (I LOVE the thesaurus) it lists these others; nibbly, goody, and delicacies. I love words. I think Tasty Morsels would be a great name for a book of poetry. Haiku. Oh, and get this; I'm not teaching poetry this semester. First semester in YEARS. I didn't have enough students. Instead I'm working in an office. Under fluorescent lights.


Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
--Anne Sexton

Stream/River

I like stream-of-consciousness-writing. However, I usually revise what I blog. Spell check, not ending sentences with prepositions, not too much cussing, keeping an eye on anything self-indulgent. I don't want to do that right now (except maybe the spell checking). I just want to write. I think a lot about how hard it is at times to be human. How we talk and interact and try to figure it all out. And how, most of the time it seems like either not enough gets said, or too much, but not often the right amount (that's kind of like Goldilocks). Everything becomes a contradiction. I don't think I suffer from guilt, and then I find myself wondering if god or karma or the universe wants to put me in my place or reward me. And I wish I knew which thing I deserved; to be put in my place or rewarded.
I think about the people I know, some of you will read this, and I feel so inadequate when I want to call or drive there or e-mail and I don't. And then, I go to the place of thinking about how busy we all are, and how in the hell could I keep in touch with everyone I want to anyway. And even if I did call, would you be too busy to talk? But I want to. I want to sit down and just talk. I think about the limited time we have here, and how I want to wring everything out of it, and then how, actually, I just want to sit on the couch with a good man, and watch movie after movie. Or how I just want to sit at the kitchen table, drinking passion fruit tea and reading, and listen to my son out in the yard, driving nail after nail into the wall of the fort he's building. I think about how I don't feel like I have enough time in the day to do what I need to do. And then, knowing that, I spend an hour on the computer looking up funny videos and rereading e-mail. I tell you, I have a blog, a myspace, and then, a week ago, I signed up for facebook! Holy crap. I got on it, and I immediately had a dozen friends. Some of them were people I never talk to but miss. Their bulletins told me they were doing things like "drinking juice right now" or "tired from a fabulous vacation". I love some of these people, but I couldn't do it. I had to delete my facebook account because I could just visualize myself starting to think it was important to keep up with everyone, when all they were really doing was "wanting to drink juice," "drinking juice right now," or "just finished my juice". I think about getting a job and can only sit and drool. I have no real talent and I'm going to end up in a cubicle for 6.50 an hour. This is negative thinking, I know. My friend, Kate, says, "anticipate good". I love that. The thing is, I go back and forth. I'm scared and then I'm brave, I'm so sure of myself and then I think I'm totally incapable of anything. Sometimes if I'm in a group of people, I think,
"I have no idea what these people are talking about. What day did I miss at school where we learned this stuff?" And then sometimes, I'm going on about some drivel like wine facts and I realize someone else is thinking that themselves. I suppose it's all just the human condition, and I think about it too much.
The thing that makes it all bearable is how everyone goes through it. There is this quote (of course) that I may have put in before but I love it. It's "Life isn't fair for anyone. That's what makes it fair for everyone". I think about how the grass in my front yard came back to life and seems all lush and beautiful, when I never thought it would. I think about the universe, and how sometimes I think my dad still talks to me. He always said that he wished he could have gone up in a spaceship and seen the earth from way up there. Maybe he got to do that. I think about how I'm raising this child, and no one ever gives me a report card on how I'm doing. I have a neurosis for tying all the strings together at the end of my writing....but not this time. Here's a few quotes I like, that have no relevance to either this post or each other.....

If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love
affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into
business, because we'd be cynical. Well, that's nonsense.
You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your
wings on the way down.
--Ray Bradbury

"The greatest good you can do for another is not just to share your
riches, but to reveal to him his own."
Benjamin Disraeli

"I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds around my neck."
Emma Goldman

God gives every bird a worm, but he does not throw it
into the nest.
--Swedish Proverb

AND A POEM.......


The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.


~ Rumi ~

Miracles vs. Crap

"To be alive, to be able to see, to walk...it's all a miracle. I have
adopted the technique of living life from miracle to miracle."
Arthur Rubinstein

Well, the quote comes first today. I guess, in a way, I'm feeling a bit of Thanksgiving in August. Rough week in some ways. Got through it (still loving the fragment). I'd like to tell you a story but I can't think of a good one right now. Oh wait...maybe one.

When I was a little girl, I was afraid of the dark. I was very attached to my parents and at about 10:00 or 11:00 pm, if I had woken up, I would pad into their room and they would be sleeping. Some nights, I would just lie down on the floor at the end of their bed and cover up with a blanket. Some nights, I would walk to the side of the bed where my dad slept. I would tap him lightly on the shoulder as he slept, and when he woke, I'd say, "wanna get a drink of water"? and he would get up. We would walk down the hall and into the kitchen and he would open the fridge door. There was always a water jug stashed in the door and I would take it, unscrew the lid, and take a big swig. I'd hand it to him and he'd take a swig and then we'd put the jug away and walk back down the hall. No chatting. He would veer off to their room and I would go back to bed and sleep until morning. The thing is, he never one time said "no" to my request. He always got up with me and walked into the kitchen. The patience and care involved in that simple act has stayed with me.

Now, as an adult, when bad stuff happens, I think those childhood blessings helped make me strong enough to deal with some of the shit in life (of course, the therapy helps too).

If I could thank everyone wonderful in my life, it would take a hundred pages, if I could cuss out everyone who has been horrible to me, I could do it in a paragraph. That was a good realization this week. Life seems to be a series of miracles, interspersed with an occasional hefty dose of crap. I'm very aware of both.