Chicken Soup for The Dog's Soul

Chicken soup, I once read, is clinically proven to prevent and cure the common cold. This is why I made some this weekend. It turned out beautifully, my best yet, and is now expanding noodles in a container in the fridge.

I gave some to the dog last night. He is finicky, to say the least, but sporadically finicky. There are meals when he turns up his nose for hours until the food turns dry and brown around the edges. It's expensive food so I feel guilty throwing it out, though not as guilty as I'd feel if he ate the stale morsels and got sick. So out it goes, $5 at least, right into the garbage can.

I've tried discussing the current economic state not only of the world and the country, but of our household. "I am now a minimum-wage worker and momma can't bring home the bacon like she used to." All he hears is "bacon" and so his tail sets to wagging in anticipation of bacon scraps in his next bowl.

This is why I tried a few spoonfuls of chicken soup in his bowl last night. He ate it right up. Licked the sides of his bowl as if the soup had soaked itself right into the ceramic edges. But this morning, no go. I set it down, made him wait like any good dog owner, and then pretended to eat from his bowl. This has been the advice of the breeder right down to the pet store clerk who have all advised a "pack leader" mentality -- the leader ALWAYS eats before the pack. So, I pretend to dip a cracker or two into his bowl and the moan deliciously while I eat the crackers.

Either my dog is too dumb or consequently too smart. This technique works infrequently, so infrequent that I'm not sure when it does work that it's actually the cracker technique that has spawned a voracious appetite on his part or some other cosmic alignment of which I am woefully unaware. There are times, this morning in fact, when I ritualistically dip the cracker, moan with delight, that he looks at me and says, "If that bowl is full of crackers, we're in business lady, but if it's one of your silly ploys to convince me to eat that swill, it's not going to work."

He then walks into the study and curls up in a sleepy ball under my desk and sighs with regularity.

I can hear his stomach growl as I work.

On occasion he will fool himself into an upset stomach. He's done this recently, not eating until late in the afternoon, chowing down, instead, on grass in the back yard. He promptly throws up and then, just like humans, everything seems unappealing. But I'm convinced his stomach is not upset in the least. Rather it is empty and he mistakes hunger pains for an illness and refuses to realize if he ate his breakfast, he could pass up on the grazing.

This then, is his not so bright side.

He is not starving. I remind myself of that often. He is lean and fit and perhaps slightly under weight, but by no means in any danger of wilting away. When Monty comes for a visit, he'll eat after watching Monty down his food, but now that Monty is recovering from his flipped stomach (which required surgery last week!) and is on a 4 times a day small canned food diet, he doesn't come over as much to give eating lessons to Rubin.

That Rubin is not eating this morning actually works in my favor as we have a one-on-one session with Katie, his dog trainer. Rubin is well-behaved. A little rambunctious at times, but on the whole, obedient. Occasionally, though, he throws himself into misbehavior with such abandon, I wonder whose dog he really is or if he's in fact possessed by demons.

His favorite escapade is to grab his ball with which we are playing fetch and hop around us barking uncontrollably. Try as we might - with the use of enticing food and happy voices -- he will not get close enough for us to touch him let alone catch him. I read somewhere that this is a dog's idea of a joke. If so, Rubin is the king of joking. If he has any inkling that we are about to leave the game of fetch and strap on his leash, he morphs into a disobedient fiend, the master of keep away. A canine comedian.

While this behavior has been diminishing as he ages, the other night, during a game of fetch, his disobedience rose to a new level. We play at night in a big field by our house using a yellow ball that blinks rapidly so the dogs (Monty is usually with us) can see the ball as it's hurled across the field. The dogs chase after their respective blinky balls and then bound back to us for another throw. But on the night in question, Rubin retrieved his ball only to see a cyclist race across the field, his red blinking light on the back of his bike glowing in his wake.

Rubin took off. Barking at first and then headlong into a dead run, chasing the cyclist across the field and then, to our horror, across a busy street whereupon a car had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting him. We raced across the field shouting and screaming, but Rubin was in another world, chasing the cyclist with a singular purpose. When he finally realized he couldn't catch the rider, he turned around, back across the busy street and toward us, though when he arrived at our panting panic, he played his beloved game of keep away.

An interesting side note is that we often keep Rubin's leash on him (it's called a leash drag) so we can stop his games of keep away with our foot on his leash, but in his rabid race across the field, he lost not only his leash but his collar. Sensing that there was no way for us to capture him after the near death experience, he fell into his game of chase me, chase me. Eventually we caught him (cornered in a three-way grab) and then we spread out across the field to search for his collar and leash. I thought it was hopeless since the field had just been mowed and clumps of grass created a depth into which a human could get lost and most certainly a dog collar.

Just as we were to give up hope, I saw that Monty, who was off leash and as always obedient, lying down in the middle of the field. As I approached him I said, "I bet you found his leash, didn't you?" at which point Monty jumped up, tossed his own blinky ball into the air and pranced around me. I kicked my feet through the grass right where Monty had been lying and what do you know, there was Rubin's collar and leash.

Despite Monty's amazing ability to sleuth and communicate, Rubin's disobedience not only almost got him killed, but got us all brainstorming how to avoid such disobedience in the future.

"A shock collar," was Ann's suggestion and for the first time, I had to agree that that might just be the thing.

So, I emailed Katie the trainer who agreed to meet with us, not with a traditional shock collar, but with something a bit less cruel -- a vibrating collar. "It doesn't shock them at all," Katie wrote to me, "It sends out a sound and vibrates against their neck. It's just the thing to get their attention when they are in the altered state of chase." We scheduled an appointment immediately (for today) and Katie will see if Rubin reacts to the vibration of the collar before we decide to purchase one.

I have all the confidence in the world that this dog will get it with the first vibration. He hates anything "on him" like a raincoat or bandanna, so I imagine he'll figure out quickly that the vibration on his neck is something to obey lest it tickle him again. The fact that he will have an empty belly will also be to my advantage as he is never one to turn down tasty treats while training.

This has turned into a rambling post, but this is how I feel today -- a bit rambling. I have chores today, but sitting here listening to the keyboard click away, writing about the crazy, hungry dog at my feet feels more pertinent.

But I must get to it. I promised our neighbor I'd walk her dog today while she is off at school working on her master's degree in urban planning and community rehabilitation. There are sheets to change and bills to pay and then, yes, the vibrational training class.

Rambling.

Perhaps after such an adventure, chicken soup soaked kibble will sound scrumptious!

Wheezing Retirement

I am to meet with my financial planner this afternoon. After watching the stock market take another dive today, I wish I'd met with him sooner. What can I do? Down, down, down it goes and I am left with a minimum-wage job and dwindling savings.

Would I go back and do it differently? Would I go back and say, "I think I want to stay teaching even though it might be killing me because the salary is much better?"

I don't think so, but it's hard to be strong and firm in this resolve when my retirement skids downhill.

I like what a man on the radio said this morning. I'm not sure who I was listening to, but it made sense. It went something like this: You've got crooks at the bottom of this scandal and crooks at the top. Those at the bottom are the homeowners who, for reasons still unclear, signed onto loans they were neither qualified for nor could afford. On the top, you've got the de-regulated CEOs of banks and mortgage companies who fed credit to the credit unworthy and walked away with millions and billions of dollars. The solution is to now give those on the top a bailout, but in fact, we should give the bailout to the crooks on the bottom. Trickle down doesn't work. Let's try trickle up and see what happens. Do an FDR, in other words. Buy out all the mortgages, give out 30 year 5% fixed rate mortgages to everyone and see if that stimulates the economy.

It reminds me of Whoopi Goldberg who years ago said, "If this is the trickle down theory I'd rather be pissed on!"

But no one listens to me and meanwhile my retirement is high-diving into an empty pool.

I wonder what my financial planner will advise? Will he show me that chart that all financial planners show with the bar graph that goes up and up and up since 1929 with only slight dips and say, "Really, it's a correction, a painful one, but still a correction"? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I understand the bar graph. I get it, that over time, you make money. But that doesn't ease the pain of watching the stocks he's invested for me go down, down, and more down.

Meanwhile, Ann stayed home sick today only after I guilted her into it.

Ann: I really need to go today.

Me: So last week you were really angry at C, your co-worker, because she came into work all coughing and sneezing and you even blamed her for your existing condition. And now you're going to go into work sounding just like her and think everyone's going to be touched by your commitment and dedication?

Ann: (silence)

Me: So just call in sick. Take care of yourself and in the process, you won't get anyone else sick.

She did just that. Now she's on the couch reading "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle" and blowing her nose every few minutes and sputtering out a cough now and then.

There is nothing to do -- about her cold or my retirement investments -- except wait.

And so I wait.

What happened to the "g" in "ing?"

Talkin. Negotiatin. Delegatin. Changin. Lobbyin. Votin. Electin.

When did it happen? At first I thought George W. did it because he was speakin Texan. His parents don't sound like that. His brothers don't sound like that. Did he talk like that when he was at Yale? "I'm goin out for a beer. Anyone comin with me?"

Drinkin. Druggin. Pukin. Partyin.

Okay, so I'm willing (yes, willing) to let it slide because there is so much about W. that I find vile and repulsive.

But now, as the debates play on the TV in the background, I hear John McCain using the same inflections -- spendin, deterrin, torturin, fightin, succeedin -- and I wonder, what the hell happened to the "g" in "ing?"

Does he think it sounds folksy? Does he think it makes him a man of the people? Did he choose his "runnin" mate because she has no idea that a "g" belongs at the end of "askin" and "parentin"?

Maybe her husband's last name is really Paling and she just forgot about that nasty "g"?

McCaing?

Who knows.

When did "politickin" ruin the English langauage?

When this election campaign started, I was thrilled to know that whoever became president it would no longer be W. I could listen to the president speak on the radio or television once again and not cringe every time he (or she) tried to put a sentence together.

But now...now we're on the brink of electing two people who have decided they no longer have to pronounce words correctly.

What would the world think if Obama talked this way? He can't sound too black and he can't sound too smart -- each would be death to his campaign. He'd be labeled "elitist" in one breath and too "inexperienced" in the next. But McCain and Palin can walk all over sentence structure and pronounciations and no one, NO ONE says anything about it.

Help!

I'm doin my best to ignore the debatin because it grates against my upbringin.

And yet, there it is again -- It's goin' be tough...bombin... cooperatin...employin...

Arrrrrggggghhhhhh!

Hey Boo-Boo! Let's go get a pic-o-nic basket!

It started early. I got to work before the store opened and helped stock the shelves with stuff -- expense camping stuff. When the store opened, customers came and went. It was only about three hours into it that I realized a lot of large, rather chubby white men with beer t-shirts and dirty hands were asking for certain maps -- maps deep in the Cascade wilderness, maps we generally don't carry. It was only after helping such a man create a map he needed on a map machine, did I realize that these men, aside from their attire and hygiene, had something in common.

They were all hunters.

Hunting season is days away. On one website, which I looked up at work out of curiosity, has an hourly countdown for the various hunting seasons in Washington. 9 days until pheasants can be killed, and bears are currently in season. 16 days for deer and duck, 30 days for muzzleloader elk and archery deer. Who knew?

My favorite hunting customers were younger, though still unclean and pudgy, who came in like twins dressed in over-sized t-shirts with MCCAIN-PALIN embossed on their shirts and NRA emblazoned on their hats. One guy even had a McCain-Palin button as big as a dinner plate droopy from his t-shirt.

"Ya'll carry guns?" he asked me.

"No, sir, we do not." It was all I could do to be polite. Do they realize how much they fit the stereotype I'm trying to erase from my head of what McCain-Palin supporters look like? My co-worker wasn't so pleasant. Well, he was pleasant to their faces, but once they sauntered off my co-worker said, "Good thing we don't carry guns. We might have to use them to fight off the rednecks!"

Later he quipped, "We need to find those guys and give them directions to Cabellas (a down-home hunting store) and tell them you'll smell it before you step in it."

One customer did not fit the mold (the mold of a hunter or the mold of a right-wing Republican?). She was about 5 feet 2 inches tall and looked surprisingly like Sarah Palin. When she approached me for help finding a map, I pictured her as a typical hiker curious about a weekend trip to the Alpine Lakes.

But no. "I need a general map, large in scope because I'm going moose hunting."

I choked. "Oh," I said in a very knowing voice, "You're a hunter!"

Then a man, who was also looking at maps, and who fit the mold of both a Republican AND a hunter said, "You mean elk, don't ya?"

SPT (as one co-worker called her = Sarah Palin's Twin) giggled and said, "Yes, I mean elk! I've never been before, what kind of map do you think I need?" At which point the Republican hunter and SPT carried on a conversation about hunting and maps and all things guns.

I stepped away.

She came to the register and I was there to ring her up. "Did you find everything you needed for your hunting trip?"

"Why yes, thank you," she bubbled. "That man was very helpful."

I had to ask. "So, what's called you to the hunt?"

"Oh, I'm a writer."

Of course.

She continued. "I feel I should really understand hunting before I write about it. I've only gutted a chicken and a sheep, but I really want to get my hands dirty with a moose."

"An elk?" I questioned.

"Yes, an elk."

The hunters shuffled through, one after the other, and I did my best to steer clear. Instead, I helped a man who was from North Carolina. He was going hiking at Mt. Rainier. "We have hills," he told me, "beautiful hills, but I really want to give these mountains a try."

I helped him plan his route and then he noticed the watches. "My son wants a watch for his birthday. What can you tell me about them?"

This is a loaded question. We carry about 150 different watches and from day to day they are never the same. But I liked this man so I did my best to describe for him the many features. He chose two options. "I need to find my wife. Will you be here when I get back?"

"Certainly!" And he was off. About a half hour later he returned, wife in tow, and she was a pleasant (and un-hunter) as he. In the end, she bought the watch for him for his birthday and they would decide back in NC if their son wanted a similar watch for his birthday.

So I rung them up. She paid and I ran her card through the cash register, flipped it over to check out the signature to compare to the receipt and what do you know, we shared the same last name. While this may not seem like much if your name is Smith or Jones or Johnson or Rogers, but when your name is a rarity, one transported over from Eastern Europe, one you rarely see or hear or ever meet, it's not surprising to know that I jumped.

"My god! We have the same last name! And it's spelled exactly the same!"

We danced a jig and talked about relatives and hometowns and geneology and who knows, we may yet be related. "I knew I liked you right off!" the man said to me and I could tell he meant it.

"Have a great hike!" And we waved goodbye to each other.

I turned to the next customer, who was a large man with hairy hands and a grimey shirt. "Ya'll carry any guns?" he asked.

I work again tomorrow. 8 days until the pheasants must take cover. Bears are scurrying as I type. And those muzzleloader elk better watch out for SPT and her desire to gut a moose.

A Quickie

The dog lies beneath the desk. Every once in awhile he sighs and stirs. We have yet to go for a walk. I haven't been dawdling, I just had things to take care of. The bills for one and finishing up a submission to a magazine. I worked on another piece, too and that requires my ass in the chair with dog at my feet. I'd like to think he understands, but the sun just showed itself and I'm not sure even I understand why we are sitting here shivering slightly when we could be on our way to the park for a romp in the woods.

So I will make this a quickie, a daily check-in, and move on...right out the door to catch the sun before the clouds push it away.

The dog just thumped his tail.

He knows. How does he do that?

Closing Windows

It's that time of year. The first real rain and temperatures firmly planted in the 50s. This is the time for ceremoniously closing the windows, the first being the skylight upstairs. Our remodel was designed so that the open skylight would pull cool air from the basement all the way through the house. On really hot days, it's hard to notice any cooling, but on moderately warm days, we're aware of a nice air flow throughout the house.

We have a lot of windows in the house and if I take a moment to count them, I am a bit surprised to discover there are 16 in total not including the skylight. I thought about washing the windows on my days off last week, but the popped rib in my chest killed those plans. For now the windows remain dirty and after my tour through the house, they are also all closed.

Of the 16 windows, all the ones upstairs (6) were open. Opening the skylight is an ordeal requiring me to stand on the edge of the tub extending the long crank to capture the hoop of the window latch. We open it as the temperatures warm in the spring and close it right about now, when the temperatures dip below 60 and inside the house is too cool for any activity other than vigorously cleaning -- a sweaty endeavor.

I like the windows open. I like sleeping in a cool room, warmed by socks on my feet and my head buried deep in a comforter. But last night, as we snuggled up for sleep, I was chilled and reminded myself that we must close the windows soon since fall had finally arrived. So this morning, I walked around the house checking to make certain the windows were truly shut and the latches secured. Rubin watched, curious, and even barked as I cranked the skylight closed.

This is a brownie kind of day so I whipped up a batch that are now baking in the oven. Ann is taking a nap with the dog upstairs, recovering from her second full week of teaching. I can tell when Ann is ready for a nap. She walks around the house saying, "There's too much to remember," code for, "I just need to lie down and forget about all the things I can't remember." She hummed when I suggested making brownies, a warm hum like fresh brownies were exactly what was needed on this day of rain, cool temperatures and closed windows.

Meanwhile, I can feel myself drifting a bit. There are many things I want to accomplish today -- make another quiche with the last of the zucchini, send off a piece to The Sun magazine, and get the laundry done -- but curling up next to Ann and Rubin feels more pressing. Rainy days like this call for such inaction and who am I to question the demands of fall? The dog has been fed and walked, the brownies are in, the laundry is started, and all the windows are closed. It is a perfect time for sleeping.

Chop Wood, Rearrange Sunglasses

There's a shift happening at work. I went in last night to put in my 3 hours and walked through an empty section of the store. The last day I worked (5 days ago?), there were kayaks and canoes and life jackets and car racks crammed into the corner of the store where my department (optics) lives. Last night, nothing, just open space where a lone janitor shampooed the carpet.

The seasons are changing. As the leaves turn orange and yellow, the summer sports of camping and hiking and paddling condense to make room for snow sports. During this transition, the pace of work has slowed considerably. Last night, a total of perhaps 10 customers visited the counter. I helped a man purchase a watch for his wife, a woman purchase an altimeter for her husband's birthday, a mother pick up a cadence monitor for her marathon-running son, and a bubbly woman from Colorado purchase a pair of $120 Oakley sunglasses.

In between helping customers, I cleaned the glass display cases, straightened up the maps placing them back into their cubbies, and rearranging the cheap sunglasses on their awkward display stand.

When I was first hired, Steve, the man I shadowed for a day, told me the sunglasses display was the bane of his existence. They looked pretty inconsequential to me, but after a month of work, I get it. The display stand is tall and thin. The sunglasses sit on wire holders shaped in a way that holds the nose piece and the arms of the glasses much like a nose and ears might hold them in place on a person. There are about 50 glasses lined up in a long row and four rows in one display. When there isn't much to do, straightening up the display becomes my meditation.

Move one set of glasses and the ones above and below teeter off their precarious positions. Get one row straight, spin the display, and four or five pairs slide off their holders. If there are no customers for me to help, the rearranging of the sunglasses display stand can take a good half hour of patience.

And there are two display stands.

As a former teacher, I find the simplicity of this task refreshing. I was reminded of how complex teaching can be when this morning, Ann, ran around the house, the phone tucked under her ear, trying to arrange a bus for her class field trip, find her house keys, and make a lunch. When she got off the phone we had a curt exchange.

"When will you be home tonight?" I asked

"I don't know," she responded a bit frustrated.

"Why? Do you have a meeting?" I was curious.

"No! I have too much to do!" she snapped.

"Jeez, I get it. I just wanted to know if I was going to see you before I went to work." Now I was frustrated.

I do get it, of course. She's at the point in September when a thousand of pieces of the puzzle are laid out before her waiting for her to join them together into something cohesive. The kids don't get the rhythm of the classroom yet, parents are concerned for one reason or the other, and there are so many details to plan -- the ecosystem science kits and their live terrestrial crickets, field trips to the Cedar River Watershed to see a "real life" ecosystem, and planning for next week's Curriculum Night when parents will bombard her with questions about math and writing, all of them trying to get a one-on-one conference with her so they can explain how special their child is.

I get it. I'm rearranging sunglasses, dusting counter tops, and placing maps into their holders doing those normal things humans do -- breathing, laughing, checking the clock to see when my shift ends -- and Ann's juggling balls underwater.

The other day I said to Ann, "You know what the biggest difference is between teaching and working in retail?"

"The pay?" she smirked.

"Well, that's different in one regard, but actually it's that when I'm not at work, no one really notices, no one really cares. Work continues without me. No one is there thinking, 'Where IS she and why isn't she helping?' With teaching, everything depends on you. You're like the center of a wheel and all the spokes depend on your being there, solid and in one place, functioning smoothly. In retail, I have become the spoke and someone else is the hub."

There is Zen in all of this. When I find myself feeling slightly bored, I pull out the towel and window cleaner and methodically clean smudges off glass cases. Inevitably, someone needs my help or has a question, but while I'm waiting, I can get into a rhythm of polishing the glass in circular motions. I can gather up the map sheets and find their place in the storage case. I can lift up one pair of sunglasses back into their holder and watch three more slip out of place. And when the glass is clean, the maps put away, and the sunglasses straightened, I can let it all go when a customer approaches to pull out five pairs of sunglasses or four different maps, smudging the display case in the process.

There was no letting go while teaching. Not for me, any way. I held it all and the weight of it was exhausting. I see the exhaustion in Ann already. She's much more relaxed than I ever was, though like today, she has her moments. It's a time of transition for her as well, from the slow days of summer to the insanely chaotic days of September.

I get it.

Brown Water and Ribs

Last night, just after I got out of the shower, I heard a truck on the street in front of our house. "A tow truck," I told Ann at first when I saw the blinking yellow lights, but then realized a man in a hardhat was standing by the fire hydrant. A hardhat? What's with that? I sent Ann outside to check. I was in my pajamas. She wasn't.

Turns out it was the city flushing the fire hydrant system, something they do about once a year. Lucky us. The last time they flushed the system, we woke to brown water pouring from our spigots. "We're they going to tell us?" I asked Ann.

She huffed a laugh.

This morning she turned on the sprinkler system to run water through our pipes to make certain they were completely flushed before we made coffee, boiled water for our oatmeal, or filled our water bottles for the day. I was skeptical so I gathered yesterday's water bottles and poured them into the expensive espresso machine and found one of the many full glasses of water Ann tends to leave around (and never drink) to fill the pan for oatmeal.

Ann was brave. She took a shower. I ran the water just to see and it seemed fine, but then I looked in the toilet and saw the slightly yellow-brown water and had second thoughts.

This has been one blip in a blip-filled week. Ann's mother ended up in a Mexican hospital (she lives in Mexico) with a heart attack and all any of us can get in terms of "official" information comes from Ann's whack-a-doodle mother herself.

"I am fine," she told Ann on the phone this morning. "I just want to go home where Jose can take care of me." Jose is her 46 year old former convict boyfriend (she is 71). He speaks limited English and communicates only through email writing curt messages that give us no more information than we can gather from Momma Whack-a-doodle.

Debbie, Ann's sister, emailed today after talking to their mother. Genevieve (said mother) IS home despite the wishes of the hospital that wanted to keep her there until they got a better picture of how much damage was done and which medications she should take. But no, no, no, she wanted to go home because, in her own words, "they were trying to kill me!" She offered no specifics, but is going to "take a nap" and "eat some lunch" and she'll be fine. "I did not have a heart attack! I just need rest," she told Debbie.

Please.

Add to this, my own "chest pains" and my wandering blood pressure that shot up to 165/94 yesterday afternoon and bottomed out at 120/71 this morning.

I went to the doctor's office this morning. With their machinery, my blood pressure was more regular (a cautionary 134/80...pretty consistent for me) and still not in the "time to medicate" range. "Stop using that blood pressure machine at home," my doctor advised. "It just stresses you out and for no reason."

"The chest pains?" I asked.

"You are very fit. That you could climb a mountain yesterday and breathe easily means your heart is not suffering."

And then she felt my chest, the place right in the center, above my breasts where my ribs meet.

"Ouch!"

"I think you've dislocated a rib," she told me and then advised me to see "Dr. Dan" the office chiropractor who, lo and behold, had an open appointment.

Sure enough, I coughed myself into a popped rib.

"That must have been a mighty cough," Dr. Dan commented.

"8 weeks of mighty," was my only response.

After a few adjustments, I feel much better. The prescription? A few more adjustments and an order to "stop sleeping on your right side!"

That will be hard to do. I love sleeping on my right side, but clearly it aggravates the rib and the inflammation around the rib -- I wake every morning with a burning sensation in my chest that lasts the whole day and makes my blood pressure roller coaster as I think I'm having a heart attack. I'm also supposed to stretch, take an anti-inflammatory, and ice three times a day.

And I thought the falling stock market was my biggest worry.

What a full moon it's been. I think I'll go have a drink of brown water.

Losing Faith

It's Sunday and I am left thinking about the Methodist minister of my youth who accused me of losing faith. I was 14. Okay, maybe I was 13. Does it matter? It was a formidable time. My parents, both Unitarians, had lives of their own and I was busily working on cultivating my own "self" so I joined a Methodist Youth Group. I joined, not as a response to god's calling, but as a way to make more friends.

I had one good friend at the time. Randi. She was older by two years and an active member of the youth group and the Methodist Church. She encouraged me to join and so I did, enjoying the camaraderie, the weekly movie nights, and lying around in the youth room aglow with black lights and adolescent hormones. The minister, in his eagerness to expand his flock and the word of god, asked if I wanted to be confirmed and like any good teenager who hasn't a clue what confirmation meant, I said yes.

The next thing I knew, I was in a line of other confirmerees (yes, I know that's not a word) in the concrete basement of the church as the minister verbally rehearsed the scene that was about to take place. We were to walk, solemnly was his word, down the middle of the aisle of the congregation, up onto the raised platform where the altar stood, and take our alphabetized seats facing "god and our families."

I was in a dress and perhaps this, more than any other detail of the ceremony unnerved me the most. I was a tomboy and in many ways still am. I do not wear dresses and only in moments such as a religious confirmation would I don one in my youth. So now, almost 40 years later, when I look back an my defiant actions, I blame the dress more than I blame my lack of faith or belief in god.

I'm not sure who was more surprised, the minister or I, when I approached him moments before we were to ascend the stairs to the main place of worship where all our families and congregates were gathered to say, "I can't go through with this." He did not smile. He didn't really even give me any eye contact. Instead, he gentle grasped the puffy shoulders of my awkward dress and asked, "Have you lost faith?"

I had no real response. I was 14 and despite the weekly classes of the previous month, despite the color-coded bible I'd so diligently highlighted, I had no idea what faith meant. Was there a god and if there was, did I believe in him or better yet, did I even believe that this god WAS a him?

The actual details have been lost over the years, though I have a clear image of myself sitting behind the minister in his large pulpit watching my peers symbolically drink the blood of Christ and partake of his body. My mother was in the congregation that day having joined the Methodist Church as a way to support me, but also because I think she, too, was in search of a better understanding of faith. She was the age then that I am now and it makes sense to me that this is a time in adult life when you begin to question and perhaps seek out a deeper connection to faith.

But at 14 (or was it 13?) I was more interested in friendship than faith, more desperate to rip off the dress I was forced to wear than follow the rest of the flock to the holy sacrament, more uncertain and doubtful than committed to anyone or anything. While I may not have been aware of the reasons for my religious rebellion at the time, I distinctly remember ripping off that confirmation dress and hopping on my bicycle when I got home, setting out on a sweaty ride along the tree-lined streets of my neighborhood. In that respect, I have not changed too terribly much. While I couldn't articulate it then, I now know my faith is more grounded in trees and sky and mountains, in birds and water and open space than it is in anything defined by humanity as holy.

Facing the Shadow

My friend, Laurie, a psychologist, sent me this link to Deepa Chopra's website where he gives a wonderful Jungian analysis of this year's election.

Laurie sent her response to this election into "Women Against Sarah Palin" a blog started by two young women who wanted to give voice to the majority of women who find Palin's choice as a step backward in the feminist movement. In Laurie's post, she talked about not wanting to give into the negativity around the selection, not wanting to be a woman who was encouraged to slam another woman.

I read Gloria Steinem's piece in the LA Times and was reminded of how much I admire her even though there have been years of vilification.

My mother sent me pictures from Obama's campaign stop in Oregon in May. This is just one of those photographs, but each one shows thousands of people in support of Obama.


This morning I heard a black man on NPR say, "Every time a black man rises to a successful position, white people feel something is being torn away from them." (not verbatim) I found myself nodding in agreement.

All of this makes me feel more hopeful. I'm not sure why except that, as Deepak Chopra explains, this election is giving light to the shadows of the American psyche. While it is difficult to look into those shadows, it's important that we do so or they will have power over us. These shadows, if unexamined, will make us feel fearful and angry, depressed and powerless.

These are all the feelings I have been fighting of late, but this morning I woke up with a deeper sense that this time, the light will win out over the shadows and, as a nation, we can move forward, no longer living in inertia (Chopra's term for what McCain/Palin represent). It may not happen. I know this, but I also know that for every action there is a reaction and that one reaction leads to many more. The Republicans have reacted and in typical fashion, they are promoting the values of fear and false patriotism. They are calling upon hatred once again, twisting the discussion by giving a voice to a woman whose power comes not from women, but from men who feel assured that Palin represents their view of what a woman should be.

I think of Maragret Atwood's brilliant novel "The Handmaid's Tale." I think of George Orwell's "1984." I think of many novels and poems and songs and I call upon these voices to calm my fears.

And I think of Audre Lorde in her remarkable essay "The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action, Sister Outsider (excerpt)" calling us all to speak up, to realize that silence will not protect us, and I realize how important it is to listen not to the voices on the radio and television, not to the pundits and pollsters, but to those who have for so long decided to look into the shadows and face the fear.

They speak a truth I hope we, as a nation, can hear.

The Trickle of Fear

I am working hard not to be obsessed with all things political. It's difficult. Last night, after closing at the store, I drove home and since nothing good was on NPR, I switched to Progressive Talk Radio. I am not much of a talk show fan, but I tuned in right when the host (don't have a clue who it was) said, "He needs to call them what they are, goddamn liars."

"He" referred to Obama and the liars were McCain/Palin voices now organized by the former Bush election team. The host went on: "Obama has to realize that Americans aren't fond of intelligent people and they certainly aren't fond of intelligent black men. God forbid a black man is smarter than they are."

And that's when the trickle of fear oozed a bit. It seeped more even after I got home and listened to Ann's recounting of her day in the classroom. It dribbled onto the sheets as I tried to sleep recounting my own day with the customer who proclaimed herself a conservative "scared shitless by Palin." And it wet the back of my pajamas like a nightsweat when I thought about the real possibility that fear could determine our next president.

My shifts at work are quirky this week. Home at 10 last night and up at 5:30 for a 7 shift this morning. I know when I am tired fear rises and pools on my chest. At first I tell myself, as I'm trying to sleep that the tightness in my chest is heartburn, which technically it is (an 8 p.m. dinner never helps), but then I realize I am not really breathing because to breathe means I must acknowledge the fear and to acknowledge it means I must muster up the courage to render my fear powerless.

I am not that brave most days, but as the politics of fear overtake the sensibility of an intelligent black man, I know I must find some courage to let the fear go and fill my sleepless nights with something that feels less like heartburn and more like hope.

It helps when the dog curls up behind my legs in the middle of the night and twitches with his puppy dreams. It helps when I hear Ann's sleeping breath rise and fall. It helps when I watch the sun push pink against the last of the night sky. It helps when I take a long walk along the lake and watch the migratory birds feed in speckled patches along the shore. It helps when I make bread and watch it rise throughout the day and then smell the warmth of the yeast and flour right before I pull it from the oven. It helps to realize fear is weak and boastful. It helps to get past fear's bluster and see its deflated cadaver when I muster up the courage to stare it squarely in the eyes.

It helps. It all helps.

But I am still wary of the trickle.

A Long Day

Today I will put in a full 8 hours at work. It's going to be tough. Not that I can't do 8 hours, but I slept restlessly last night and ended up on the couch as Ann's been having sporadic coughing fits that disrupt any REM sleep I might be in.

I'm tired. I'm really, really tired.

I know once I get to work, don the green vest they make us wear, and get to stocking sunglasses and watches I'll wake up a bit, but right now I just want to curl back into bed (or on the couch) and sleep until the cows come home.

It's not going to happen...

...so, in an attempt to be more positive...

...despite the weariness of my bones, work has been fun. Nothing high-pressured or even boring for that matter. The other day I worked into the early evening and ended my shift by helping a man and a woman who were looking to travel to the Olympic Peninsula. I'm pretty familiar with the OP having lived there for 17 years, but what made this conversation so challenging is that the man was deaf and his partner, a woman, was deaf and blind. They were accompanied by a very sweet, old companion dog named Cleo who rested at my feet while we carried on our conversation about beach hikes.

Luckily, I know some sign language so with my fumbling fingers we got quite a conversation going. The woman even complimented me on my knowledge of sign, but luckily she couldn't see all the mistakes I was making since she relied upon the man to interpret my signing.

I felt pretty good about helping them, though eventually we came to the understanding that they needed to talk to the Ranger and he, unfortunately, had gone home for the day. But they vowed to come back the next day and sure enough, just as I walked onto my shift in the evening, their they were, busily writing messages back and forth with the Ranger.

By the way, the sign for "Ranger" is hilarious...or at least the sign the man used as many signs are regional. It's the sign of holding a rifle in your hands and shooting. When he signed it for me at first, I laughed and he laughed at me laughing. Well, when I saw them again, I went over to see if they needed any help, which they did, and I spent the next 15 minutes being a go-between with the Rifle-in-your-hands-man.

Every deaf person I have ever met (well, with the exception of one) has been incredibly patient and kind. (Ironically, the "one" I also met at work and once he knew I could sign, he yelled at me about the lack of prices on some of the items. Yelling in sign is quite an art form and let me tell you, he had it down).

Anyway, this couple was extremely patient and very, very kind not only to each other, but to me as well. My head hurt after the exchange because, just like any other foreign language, it takes a lot of energy to think in sign and then to actually sign correctly or at least correctly enough to make your point. But all in all, it felt great to help them out.

Who says teaching is the only place you can really make a difference?

Which reminds me...I dropped brownies off at school yesterday with a card from Rubin wishing everyone a great year. Walking into the school brought back all those sort of AD-HD moments when the body has to move from one thing to the next without any sort of completion. I was at the school for maybe 10 minutes and by the time I left, I was sweating.

Despite the $500 paycheck I received yesterday, I made the right choice to "retire." My blood pressure is happier.

Though this morning, after not much sleep and a fitful stretch on the couch, my blood pressure probably isn't that happy.

Alas.

It's a beautiful morning, though, and in an attempt to save the earth and reduce my butt, I'll be pedaling in so I best pack it up and get on my way. Thankfully there are showers at work, which will give me one more chance to wake up before I hit the sales floor.

Please, God...

You know how, in those desperate moments, you make deals with God? I did it a lot when I was a kid. "Please God, I promise to be nice to even people I hate if you..." and then I'd make my wish. A God wish I'd call it.

I'm doing the God wish constantly these days. "Please God, I promise to volunteer at a homeless shelter if you elect Obama as president." Or after last night's speech that I refused to listen to (Palin's voice grates my nerves), but had to listen to anyway this morning as it was played over and over on the radio. "Please God, do not let this crazed woman and her sleazey presidential nominee get elected. I'll do anything."

The only trouble is that I can't come up with a deal strong enough to match my desire. I promise to...what? I feel so adamant about the evilness of the McPlain ticket that none of my offers for restitution feel powerful enough that god would grant me my wish. I've donated money to the Obama campaign, I've sent out emails and articles, I even had a sign in my yard until someone stole it, but I know this God wish requires a huge sacrafice on my part and I can't think of anything big enough.

I don't smoke so I can't give that up. I don't drink so that's not on the chopping block. I could give up chocolate, but that isn't exactly evil, at least not to anyone my waist. I could volunteer somewhere or donate money to some great cause (other than the Obama campaign), but it all feels trivial even though I know it's all important.

There is skepitcism on my part. Has the God wish ever really worked? How do I know it was God and not a twist of fate? Bad things have happened despite my bargains and yet I still make the wishes when I feel powerless.

That's exactly how I feel now -- powerless. I can't believe people would actually vote for McCain, but now I can't believe more than ever with Palin on the ticket. Her voice is a whine. While I hated W's voice, the mumbling drawl and inappropriate chuckles, Palin's voice feels far worse. It's like all those cheerleader voices I hated when I was in high school. The popular girl voice that changes when males are in the room. The voice of superority that used to tease me in the hallways and locker rooms of my past.

The criticism of Obama has been that his speeches lack details. While filled with colorful language and inspiring calls to action, many feel that there aren't enough specifics outlining exactly what he'll do if he becomes president. But of the snippets I heard last night and the discussion I had with Ann (who did listen to the entire speech) last night, Palin didn't outline anything either except for a list of complaints and counter-attacks to her selection.

And the crowd ate it up. I could hear that. Ann was in the TV room with the door closed and I was in the living room reading a new novel and listening to my iPod, loudly. Over it all I could hear the crazed audience screaming and chanting and cheering Palin's speech. "Don't worry," Ann said this morning, "They were all white people. The cameras kept showing the same six people of color over and over hoping we wouldn't notice they were the same six people."

Ann is much calmer about this election. She can set aside her reactions to McPlain and his gun-weilding partner and listen to the speeches without throwing up. "Do you make pacts with God?" I asked her last night. She only laughed and gave me that smile that said, "Don't worry. It will be alright."

I know it will be. It was alright after Nixon was elected. After Reagan and yes, even after the Bush twins. Stupid decisions and policies were made and people (and the environment) suffered, but the earth didn't open and swallow us whole. So what bothers me about this election? What gnaws and burns inside my stomach?

I guess it's that people actually believe the stuff McPlain and his Trophy Vice are spouting. My Cuban Republican friends once asked me what it was like to have conservative friends. My response came quickly: You're the kind of Republicans I can live with because you don't want to kill me. They laughed, but I don't think they thought I meant it.

But I do.

I do.

What scares me about this election is that, at one point, I respected McCain. I'd never vote for him, but I thought he was like my Cuban Republican friends -- a nice guy with a differing view of the world. I thought he didn't want to kill me. I'm not sure he does now, but I know his handlers have tossed out the "nice guy" image and thrown him in with the foaming-at-the-mouth kind of right-wing nuts that scare the hell out of me.

And he let them. Any respect I may have had for the man went right out the window when I realized he'd do ANYTHING to get elected. When I heard Peggy Noonan in her "not off mic" commentary saying that the Republicans were going for narrative over substance, I found myself applauding. The Noonan screw-up story was on the internet for about a nano-second before it was replaced by Palin's dogmatic attack from last night. Do people know that there are very worried Republicans out there or do they think that the cheering crowd at the convention last night is a real-world reflection of Palin's popularity?

I find myself searching the internet for any editorial or news that sways the election in Obama's favor. Like a bloody car accident I tell myself not to look, but look anyway. I feel on the verge of obsession and use all my powers of self control to hold myself back. I even pleaded with my mother to abandon her pessimism and just for awhile, give me some optimistic hope that the Democrats will win. "I wish I could, honey" is all she offered.

Great. Just great.

November seems like a far off planet. On November 2 we turn our clocks back an hour. On November 4, please God, we have the chance to move forward and avoid more dark times. I'll do anything to make it happen.

Do you hear me? Anything!

What must it be like?

I refuse to watch the Republican Convention. Not that I have much of a choice. I've been working most nights, but even if I were home, I wouldn't watch. It's too aggravating. It makes me ill.

But today, I read the news online and there, in the center of one newspaper or another, was a picture of people at the convention. Well, they weren't just people, they were men all dressed in red polo shirts, their white fake straw hats lifted in support, the caption read, of vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin.

All the men were overweight, that kind of hard thick stomach men of a certain age are prone to and all of the men, except one, were white.

What must it be like to be the one black man amidst all the white men? He'd have to notice wouldn't he? Or maybe his life has been surrounded by white men and in this particular crowd he feels at home. In addition to the men being white and thick stomached, they were all of a certain age -- 65 or older, perhaps -- with gray hair or hair that was clearly dyed and scraped with a comb wet to their heads.

Except the black man. He had some gray hair, but most of it was black and styled in a short afro, and though his hairline sat high on his forehead, his hair was thick and curly, markedly different from the men around him. Were these war veterans? Did this one non-white man spend his young adult life in some platoon or other surrounded by these very same white men? Or was this man simply caught up in the moment, swept by the emotion of the convention, a literal black sheep daring to show his allegiance for John McCain and Sarah Palin?

All the other pictures from the convention were of white men and women waving flags, holding banners, wearing pins, and looking desperately patriotic. I scrolled through picture after picture and did not see one other person of color in the crowd. I know they are there, but they are like specks of pepper in fields of salt -- difficult to spot and buried by the pure numbers of salt people.

What must it be like to be a Republican of color? I can only think of a few -- Condi Rice, Alan Keyes, and Colin Powell -- and only Colin Powell holds any sway for me. He seems more earnest than the others, more grounded in principal, though I suppose Alan Keyes in a maniacal sort of way is a man of strong convictions.

But the daily bread and butter Republican, the average man or woman, the kind who live in my neighborhood for instance, where are they in these photos? How large is the Black Republican Caucus? When they meet at conventions like this one, do they feel out of place or frighteningly lonely when they realize they make up a minor percentage of the Republican Party?

What must it be like?

Now that I think about it, my former neighbors were Republicans of color. They had a large photo of George W. in their garage (of all places) and though we were always friendly with each other, walking our dogs together a few nights a week, we never talked politics -- a silently agreed upon off-limits subject. But their conservative nature made sense. They were Miami Cubans and all their lives they were taught that Democrats were akin to Castro and Castro was himself the devil. I understood that kind of politics-by-heritage, but I can't seem to muster up the same kind of argument for other voters of color.

Our former neighbors were very nice people and most likely still are, but they had to move away because they lost their condo in the mortgage crisis. That was one of many contradictions I noticed about them. They were kind, friendly, passionate about some of the same social issues I was -- better mental health funding, supportive of gay marriage, and even pro-life. But they were (and still are) ardent Republicans, the same Republicans who seek to deny me the right to marry, who think it's okay to own an AK-47, who see war as a viable option even when all evidence advises against it, and deregulated the mortgage industry creating the greed that lead to the mess were in. Occasionally these former neighbors send us email postings extolling the virtues of John McCain and reciting the propaganda against Barack Obama, but mostly, we carry on pleasant conversations about our work and our dogs.

Still they did not go to the Republican caucuses in our state nor do they have a McCain bumper sticker on their SUV. While they have strong beliefs and those beliefs tend to sway to the right, they aren't about engaging anyone in a political debate. I can't picture them in St. Paul wearing red polo shirts or fake straw hats.

Does this matter to people? Does it matter to people that this Republican party on our television screens and in newspaper photographs is primarily white? I live in a neighborhood who would elect Obama in a heartbeat. I can't walk a block without seeing at least three Obama signs, but our neighborhood is primarily made up of people of color, though that is changing. And when I drive west to visit my parents in the Navy town in which they live or drive east over the mountains, there are very few people of color and consequently (or so it seems) very few Obama signs.

Instead, there are an abundance of Ron Paul signs and a few smatterings of McCain postings. I imagine the man I saw in the paper, black and smiling surrounded by white and cheering men, didn't feel nearly as out of place as a black man in conservative Eastern Washington with an Obama button on his lapel.

There are strength in numbers, I suppose, even if those numbers look nothing like you. Still, I can't help wondering, what must it be like?

10 Reasons McCain Should Not Seek The Support of My Parents

Dear Mr. McCain,
It seems just about every magazine I pick up these days gives a list of reasons or "facts" about one thing or another. Oprah has a list of "6 Ways To Improve Your Love Life" and Time Magazine has a list of "4 Things McCain Must Do to Win the Election."

Given the popularity of lists and the recent delivery of a Republican National Committee Victory 2008 Pledge of Support letter sent to my parents, I have decided to respond with my own "10 Reasons McCain Should Not Seek the Support of My Parents."

1. They are Democrats. For my entire life, almost 50 years, they have been Democrats. They both work for the Democratic Party even in their 80s and give financial support not only to local Democratic candidates, but state and national candidates as well. Unfortunately for you, this includes financial support for Barack Obama.

2. More than Democrats, my parents walk that continuum of the party on the left. They are not centrists, they are not Clinton supporters, and they do not have any love for the likes of people such as Joe Lieberman who apparently is a Republican in Democratic clothing. Independent, my ass.

3. I watched my father once throw marshmallows at our own Democratic state senator, Scoop Jackson because both my parents thought he was an ass (an early version of Lieberman), though only my father felt the need to hurl spun sugar at the senator. My mother was just as adamant in her disdain for Scoop, but she has always been more well-behaved in public than my father.

4. My father quit smoking the year Nixon was elected president stating clearly enough for my 10-year old ears to understand and comprehend, he wanted to "out live the bastard." My mother watched in disgust at the broadcast of Nixon's funeral when everyone talked of his "legacy" in such a positive way.

5. My mother thinks you are a fool. In their elderly years, my mother has become a lot more outspoken than my father. She is more likely to spit out her opinion and she has not held back when it comes to your nomination by the Republican Party. "He's a frightening man," she told me recently, "and wholly incompetent to be President of anything."

6. My father, on the other hand, writes letters to the local newspaper and receives hate mail in response from redneck, Christian conservatives who'd like to use their lifelong membership to the NRA as a reason to scare my father into silence.

7. Both of my parents have received a multitude of awards and recognitions from the Democratic Party for their service and dedication to local, state, and national candidates. When members of the community hear that I am the daughter of my parents, they have one of two responses: "Wow, your parents are amazing" (these are Democrats) and "Oh, I am well aware of your parents' work" (these are polite, though not always, Republicans).

8. My parents are only a decade older than you and they both think you are too old and in too poor of health to last a four year term. Therefore, your recent last minute selection (which they see as yet another knee-jerk reaction on your part) of Governor Sarah Palin scares the hell out of them. If you are elected and if you should die in office (neither of which my parents wish for you), we would have an AK-47 wielding pro-life, Christian conservative WITH NO INTERNATIONAL EXPERIENCE deciding on US policies and carrying on diplomatic discussions (or not) with the likes of Iraq, Iran, North Korea, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Russia (to name only a few). While she may hold to her religious conservative values, it's clear with her daughter's recent unwed pregnancy, that she is unable to maintain order in her own house let alone the "house" of the United States.

9. The Keating 5. Have we, as a nation, forgotten this thievery? While you and John Glenn were "acquitted" you were both harshly criticized for your lack of judgment. And now this judgment desires the presidency? My parents haven't forgotten, nor have I for that matter.

10. My parents, despite their own life mistakes, have always been consistent in their views. Sure my mom voted for Tom Dewey and my dad liked Ike back in the day, but even then they both felt compassion for social issues that today you apparently scoff at -- just look at your choice for VP. In my lifetime my parents have always been pro-choice, pro-affirmative action, and pro-environment. They believe in evolution AND they attend church. They both belong to the ACLU, they both believe in limiting the sale of guns, and they both are against the death penalty. They are for stem-cell research and adamantly against the teaching of abstinence in schools. They fear the Patriot Act as a reprisal of the House on UnAmerican Activities and they believe in same-sex marriage. I could go on and on, but suffice it say what you stand for, they stand against and what you stand against, they fight for on a daily basis.

Why on earth would you ask these people, my parents, to financially support your campaign?

If you knew my parents at all, you would have left them alone. You would have saved your campaign the price of paper, envelope, and stamp by NOT sending the letter. You are out of touch as your competitors have so duly noted and your poorly researched request gives me one more reason not to vote for you. And let me tell you, if I took the time to list all the reasons why I (and my parents) will not vote for you, it would be far, far more than a list of 10 reasons.

I wonder if Oprah's magazine would publish a list that long?

Please do not send anymore requests for money or support.

Signed: The Lesbian (and proud) Daughter of Leftist Liberal Democrats