Canine Calculus

All dogs measure their existence by their distance between you and what matters. A dog will position himself at the apex of equidistant purposes. For instance, he will sit in the hallway between you and the door. If, perchance, you were to decide to leave, he would know. Or, in case of danger, if some predator were to enter, he'd be the first to attack and alert. If he has yet to be fed, he will position himself at the exact angle between you, the food dish and the food container.

Our dog, Rubin, has sentry posts throughout the house. Using an astonishing knowledge of calculus, he measures the exact point between us and curls up, at the ready. If one of us moves, he opens one eye and recalculates, shifting enough to maintain the most efficient and exacting equation. If one of us goes upstairs and the other is downstairs in the kitchen, he rests on the landing of the stairs, angling himself so that if one of us moves, he can see it without turning his head.

When we are together, when we on the couch to watch television, he has one of two algebraic locations -- under our outstretched legs or stretched out just before the door. The first is his security position -- it marks the end of a long day and a surrendering of sorts. The second is the position of possibility that perhaps the day is not quite over and we might go for one more spin around the block or, better yet, go out to the big field and play fetch.

He, like all dogs, is imbued with an order of operations. There is no need to rise until the coffee is done. Then, one must go out and take care of morning business. Too early for any real activity, there's a short nap while the paper is read and the coffee consumed. The day truly begins once the showers are complete and the clothes on. Even during these simple tasks, he finds the geometry of alertness, curling up just outside the shower -- a fuzzy, breathing rug, or lies sphinx-like on the top step ready to race down the stairs toward the front door.

Shoes are a signal of great importance ranking up there with the jangle of keys. A dog will always position himself at the exact location between front door and leash and in his excitement, let out a whine of anticipation that he might be invited along. The rest of the day is spent pondering the equations and manipulating the spatial relations using an inbred protractor and innate calculator. There are the walks, with a measured leash. There are the moments of waiting, clicking off the 60 seconds in every 60 minutes of every hour. More food, some treats, and a recalibration of purpose when it rains or visitors come by. Assistant to the house chef, he knows the angle and velocity of fallen food, the amplitude of its wavelength. There is speed and distance and the acute accuracy of the shortest distance between two points.

A dog's math mind rests only with the final measuring of the circumference of sleep better known as Rubin's Theorem-- circle three times to the left and two the right, curl up in a perfect sphere for a long night's sleep.

I hate worrying about money

I woke at four this morning and floated in between sleep and reality until the alarm went off at six. My brain kicked in and I knew, as I tried to fight it, I'd never fall back into a deep sleep. When the alarm sounded, I vaguely heard NPR's business report..."this recession could be as bad or worse than the one in the 80s."

I'm not sure why I'm worried about money. I'm not rich, that's for sure, but I'm not going without, either. My savings account will keep me alive, if need be, for awhile and my "income supplements" (dog walking, freelance writing) have kept me from dipping into my savings too deeply. Yesterday, I had a lunch meeting with a former colleague and friend who asked me to apply for a job he will be posting in January or February. I have another lunch meeting today for a short-term writing project, though it may turn into something longer. And I know, as I venture into these various business transactions, one thing often leads to another.

True, I haven't opened a single statement from my investment firm for fear that the amount in my retirement fund will be hovering next to zero, but as my financial planner says, "You've got 15 to 20 years of work ahead of you. Don't worry about one or two bad years." Still, I wake up wondering, will they tell me if it hits zero and can it go into the red without my knowing about it? Will I owe them money if everything continues to tank?

But...we owe nothing on our car, we pay off our credit cards every month (and we only have 2), and my only long-term debt, aside from the mortgage, is my graduate school student loan, which everyone from my financial planner to the mortgage woman we often seek advice from agree that a student loan doesn't really count as bad debt. Still, it would be nice to have that extra $170 a month in my pocket and not floating off to Sallie Mae and all her former connections to Fannie and Freddie. As for the house, Seattle has been hit by the falling home prices, but nothing compared to other parts of the country and we are in an area that everyone seems to think is the hottest real estate market in the state. "You're sitting on a gold mine," our mortgage broker told us.

So, why am I worrying? Partly because it's my nature. Yesterday, in my meeting with my potential boss (if I decide to apply for the position and that's still up in the air) he explained the role of the new position he is creating. It is, in essence, a portion of his current job that he can no longer do well because his workload is too great. (I'm being particularly vague about this position because I don't want to jinx it and he asked me to be discreet. I value our friendship and therefore, even in this semi-anonymous blog, I am honoring his request.) When I asked him why he chose the one half of the job over the other half he was offering me, he said that he liked what the job had turned into.

"That's because you are really good at it," I said.

"You are, too," he offered.

"No, I'm good at faking it. You're good at actually doing it and liking it. I'd chew off my arm with worry if I had to do your job."

He laughed and said, "That's why I'm married to a psychiatrist! He keeps me from gnawing limbs off."

So, worrying is who I am to one extent and I've learned, through the years, to practice calming my worries because I know I cannot make them go away completely. I'm also worried about money because I listen, read, and watch too much news. There's an urgency and panic in the words of every reporter as they attempt to analyze the current situation and predict the future impacts. Even the comedians don't soothe my worry with laughter. It all just becomes fodder for my early morning panic attacks.

Okay, this morning wasn't an attack, it was just a nagging tug at my worry bone, which is somehow attached to my pelvis. What finally snapped me out of it was the sound and feel of the dog groaning and stretching in between us at the end of the bed. He is a dog without worry. Though he can be a nervous Nelly in certain situations, he knows how to relax and he definitely knows how to sleep.

He had a big day yesterday and played very hard on a number of long walks. After dinner, he fell fast asleep in his favorite spot -- wedged in between the ottoman and the couch in the TV room. Ann and I sat on the couch watching reruns of Top Chef with our legs stretched out. All of the sudden, the ottoman moved about 6 inches. We looked at each other and then laughed. Neither of us had moved the heavy piece of furniture. It was the dog. He'd done one of his famous full-legged stretches and pushed the ottoman out from under our feet.

He has no worries about money. He just spends his time playing, eating, wagging, and moving furniture. Not a bad philosophy for life.

Lessons in Sleeping

Our mornings are predictable. The alarm goes off, then it goes off again after a tap or two on the snooze button, and finally I get up. I am the only one who gets up. I make coffee, I whistle when it's ready, and then Ann and I sit and read the newspaper -- she with hard copy, me on the computer.

Sometimes, when I whistle for Ann, Rubin comes, too, but lately he's taken to staying in bed. Our bed, not his. Ann called him up on the bed last night right when we crawled in. "I haven't spent much time with him lately," which was true yesterday, but not recently. No matter. She got Rubin on the bed and then called him up as close as he could get. He chose to spread out on her belly. 35 pounds of dog stretched out on Ann's belly -- get the picture?

I fell asleep quickly, but when I woke later, Rubin was stretched out at the bottom the bed and Ann was curled around her pillows. When I got up this morning, Rubin was splayed out over my legs, on his back, with his paws relaxed and bouncing with his every heavy breath. An hour later -- after the whistle and the coffee and the newspapers -- he was still in bed.

Ann went upstairs to take a shower, I began work on one of my two freelance writing jobs, and still, Mr. Rubin stayed in bed. After awhile, I heard Ann laugh so I headed upstairs to look for myself. He had not moved since the last time I saw him (when I woke up), his paws still in the air and his body stretched the full width of the bed. Ann covered him with the comforter and he sneezed slightly, but did not move considerably.

Ann and I headed downstairs and eventually, EVENTUALLY he followed. Now he is asleep again under the desk, curled up like a deer in the tall grass. I wish I could sleep this well. I wake up at least twice every night and I'm somehow unable to sleep past 6:30 even on the weekends. Perhaps I should try stretching out the width of the bed with my arms and legs in the air. That just might do the trick.

The Cabin

I have many reoccurring dreams. The most reoccurring is of a cabin I once lived in. It sat on 5 acres of land and was a mere 400 square feet, but it is one of my favorite previous homes.

While the cabin reoccurs in my dream, the dream itself is always a bit different each time. Often, the woods around the cabin have been developed with other houses off in the distance or cleared trees creating gaping holes in the once thick canopy. Always, someone else is living in the cabin and as I approach, I am sad that it is not empty and that I can't move back in again.

So it was with the dream last night. I was showing the cabin to Ann in hopes that we could buy it. The cabin had occupants, who had no idea we were there, and the land around the cabin was very different than in any of my other dreams. There was a road behind the cabin -- a driveway actually -- where cars raced up to get to their own homes, though these homes weren't small, quaint cabins. They were huge mansions littering the hillside.

The clearing for the road made the view to the north almost treeless and even though this is not the direction of Mt. Rainier, the cleared road made for a perfect view of the mountain. That's another trait of this dream. There are negative changes every time I dream it -- cleared trees, enormous houses, encroaching civilization -- but there are also beautiful additions -- a view of the mountains, more room in the once small cabin, an small studio on the property for pottery or writing or something creative.

I'm not sure why I always dream this dream or why, when I wake, I feel a twinge of melancholy mixed with fondness. I'm sad when the dream is over and I'm sad that in the dream, even though I know it was just a dream, I cannot live in the cabin again. I loved that cabin. Clearly I still do.

This morning, I woke up feeling the same mixture of happiness and regret and I tried to piece together why this dream reoccurs. It certainly represents a time in my life when I was on my own. A time when I was discovering my own sense of self. I've grown a lot since then and have never been happier in my life than I am right now (yes, even though my retirement funds are leaping off a large cliff). Still, this cabin represents something for me and while I have yet to completely figure it out, I like remembering it and am glad it pops up in my dreams from time to time.

I'll do it myself

Ann is a very even keeled woman. She rarely gets riled. She can stay calm in the most emotional of storms and I've never seen her react out of anger.

But don't let this fool you. She has a stubborn streak about as wide as the current political divide in the Republican party. Take this morning for instance:

She's getting ready to leave for work. She's riding the scooter since the day promises dry streets and no rain. On the scooter, she wears her red motorcycle jacket and looks adorable. But today, while she was putting on the coat, the collar got curled under and the Velcro made the collar stick into its stuck position. "Can I help?" I asked.

"No, I've got it," she said, struggling.

Early in our relationship, I'd just jump in and uncurl the dilemma for her, but after numerous occasions when she snipped at me to let her do it, I've learned to back off.

This is just one little example, but I can list countless times when she refuses any help with cooking, cleaning, organizing, yard work, carpentry, and on and on. She is independent in all endeavors and any assistance is not viewed as help, but as interference in her quest to be independent.

I've had to learn what this means. At first, I thought she was rebuking me. I walked away with hurt feelings. Then I thought it was more a reflection of her upbringing -- with an out of balance mother and a distant father, she literally had to do it all herself. Now, I'm not sure what it's about. "It's just a collar," I thought to myself this morning, but to her, it's clearly a lot more than that.

Marriage is far more than approval by the state. The example of Ann's independence is just one reason why I'm not sure how I feel about the recent passage of Prop 8 in California. So many of my friends are angry and outraged, stomping around with their hands in the air. "We are being treating like second-class citizens!" they complain and while I agree, I don't find myself in such a stitch about it all.

"It will happen," I hear myself say and then I remind them of how we never thought this discussion would ever even happen in our lifetimes. "People's perceptions don't change just because we're talking about gay marriage," I argue. "It has to be discussed and dissected a bazillion times before we edge into acceptable."

This appeases no one.

But then I think about my "marriage," which isn't legal in the eyes of Washington State, but is still very much a marriage. In a marriage, there are fewer exit doors (or, at least, there are for me). It's about expanding who you are to accept who they are including all the idiosyncrasies like a I'll-do-it-myself attitude. God knows, Ann's had to accept my eccentricities. I'm not easy to live with by any stretch of the imagination.

Sure, there are legal ramifications that only the state stamp of approval can truly offer, but the day-to-day dance of understanding each other requires the right music, not a marriage certificate. Over the years, I've learned to let Ann do whatever she needs to do without butting in, though I'll admit that sometimes I forget and we tussle -- I try to help, she refuses, I feel hurt, she feels frustrated, I share my feelings, she tries to understand, and on and on until we come back to one truth -- this is a marriage of love and commitment. For us, there are no exit doors so we must reenter and open ourselves to the understanding that we are who we are -- flawed individuals, but perfect for each other.

Five Highlights

Perhaps because today is so busy, I am feeling a bit directionless in my writing this morning. I have only one dog to walk (sweet Ollie), but then I have a 2 hour stint at school to photograph the 8th graders and continue to gather details for my December newsletter about the 8th grade curriculum. I have ideas for the article, but there's a lot to pull together, so I feel the need to "observe" both with my eyes and ears, to see if some thread pulls at me a bit more than my original idea.

Oh, and the celebration dinner I've been invited to...there is that this evening. Lots to think about, none of it with any direction.

I am, in other words, in a linguistic limbo. When that happens, I revert to highlights.

1. Yesterday was a day of visits and phone calls. Nini stopped by and Jessica with Quillette. Nini brought me photographs, Jessica brought us jam and black bean brownies (yes, brownies made from black beans -- they are actually quite good!) Our neighbor, Sequoya, dropped off some homemade (and made in Mexico! by her mother-in-law) balls of Mexican chocolate (my favorite!) and then Colleen came by with Monty and we all went for a relatively dry walk through the neighborhood -- 4 dogs and 4 women.

2. The neighborhood has been hit by a string of robberies. Our neighborhood online chat is abuzz with ideas, worries, and rants. The latest idea is to reinstitute neighborhood walks throughout the evening. While last night's impromptu walk wasn't planned (hence, the choice of impromptu), we waved at the police officers (two different patrol cars) that passed as we meandered through the park and along the streets.

3. We went to REI yesterday to pick up our newly waxed skis, order a new car rack for our bikes and skis, order a new bicycle trainer (mine died), buy a pair of rainboots (each of us), and I got what I've been hoping for -- a new cast iron 12" skillet. (My mother is admonishing me from afar -- "Put this on your birthday list!" but I needed the skillet to make the dinner rolls for our Thanksgiving dinner, well before my birthday!)

4. I have finished my responsibilities for the Annual Report at school. This was part of my freelance writing contract and it was relatively painless. I thought it would be much harder, but turned out the hard part was editing the Head of School's piece and not writing the community profiles. After reading the HOS's writing, I am shocked she was admitted to Harvard. I suppose she's a scientist, but still, sentence structure seems as important in science as it is in all other areas of life. No matter. I made her sound brilliant and thoughtful and articulate, which in fact she is, she's just unable to reflect that in her writing.

5. Oh, perhaps the best moment is connecting with Dr. Dick -- who is, among other things, a neighbor who I see on my walks with Rubin. Richard, his real name, walks his very rambunctious German short-hair pointer, Ginger who, despite her 9 years of age, is full of unbounding energy. In our casual converations, Richard and I have talked about our lives. He is a therapist focusing on death and dying issues as well as sex therapy. He is known as Dr. Dick. We don't talk much about that, but recently he, too, has joined the dog walking business (Out Your Dog) and we DO talk about that. In fact, we are going to join forces, in a sense, to maximize our earning potential. He's a sweet man about my age and Rubin LOVES his dog Ginger so it seems like an odd, but perfect match.

Okay, that's about it. I need to get a move on as the day is packed full of adventure and adolescents!

And it's currently NOT raining. Yahoo!

Oh My!

I have yet to cure my news addiction. I still scan the internet news sources every morning and a few times a day keeping myself abreast (so I think) of the current national and international goings-on (or is that going-ons?). I am thrilled with the recent election of Barack Obama for many, many reasons, but I will admit that one of those reasons is that we will have, for the first time in a long time, a beautiful and brilliant First Lady. Can I think of another First Lady as beautiful and brilliant? Perhaps Jackie O. though I found her more beautiful than brilliant -- too mousy at first although later she became more outspoken and eloquent. Roslyn Carter, though not my type, is brilliant, I think, and kind, very, very kind which is also a rarity in the White House spouse department. Ladybird Johnson loved birds and flowers so she had a certain asethetic I found appealing. And you gotta hand it to Betty Ford -- she was resilient and outspoken in a way Nancy Reagan could never pull off.

But Michelle Obama, she's articulate, thoughtful, kind, and dare I say, gorgeous.So wasn't I surprised, while scanning the Huffington Post to see this photo:

Yes, that's Condi Rice...THE Condi Rice accepting an award from Glamour Magazine. Not sure if she has a new haircut or if she's just pulled back that June Cleaver bob, but she's definitely got on a new dress (throwing out, I hope, that equally June Cleaverish get up she's always wearing) and I think Ms. Secretary of State has been to a few Madonna workouts -- holy moley, look at those arms!

She still scares the hell out of me, but after hearing her impromtu speech congratulating Obama on his victory and declaring her pride in his achievements, there was a moment of not so scary humaness about her. "She's seen a lot," a friend told me. "Her parents were very involved in the Civil Rights Movement."

That may be, but she has acted more as a puppet than an independent thinker and brilliant though she may be, she has subdued her brilliance under the shadow of a bush (and a Bush). Perhaps now, with Obama as president, and his equally savvy wife as First Lady, Condi will come into her own, taking on a whole new look, and attitude to go with it, highlighting her humanity and not her scariness.

Oh what the next four years may do for the likes of Condi Rice and the whole of America!

Cheese

I am of Midwestern blood. My father was born in Wisconsin, my mother, in Iowa. It's no wonder then that I love cheese. I try to avoid it -- fat and cholesterol -- but I can't. I once even tried giving it up, but I felt a great spiritual void in my life and quickly realized it was the absence of cheese in my diet. Even today, when I am suffering from a mild intestinal distress, I feel compelled to eat cheese. "Protein," I tell myself, "I need protein."

Recently, my cheese desires have fallen prey to mini Babybel cheeses -- round disks of white cheese sealed in wax and then wrapped in red cellophane. I love the ritual of unfurling the red and pulling the waxy tab to pop open the velvety chunk. I have to temper myself though, limiting my intake to just three a day otherwise the mesh bag in which they come would be empty within the week and I'd be taking Crestor to curtail my cholesterol for the rest of my life.

Not much has settled in my stomach these days. I'm eating toast and applesauce and occasionally a slice of fresh apple or some chicken broth warmed on the stove. I'm not sure if I've caught a bug or am just experiencing the release of months and months of worry about this presidential campaign. My ritual of Babybel has replaced my addiction of scanning the internet news for polls and predictions. There are no longer any electoral maps to analyze, nothing scandolous or informative on television news programs. I now watch Rachel Maddow because she's thoughtful and not because she reflected my own doubt and skeptism about the election.

Of course, Babybel might be replaced by my curiosity of what's happened to Hillary and what might be her future in the political arena...

...but I doubt it. Babybel is a strong vice and with a bit of rustic apple juice it appears to be the ticket to what ails me be it election withdrawals or the flu.

Family

Akina and her Grandpa Doug

I've never questioned what "family" meant before, I've just always thought of my own. We've had our ups and downs, but my parents, brother, sister, and I are family. We always have been, we always will be. Included, of course, are all those who've jumped in at one point or another. There's my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew, and my partner, Ann. And there's Kay and Jan and Ann and Bill and even some other friends of the family who have been friends for so long, they must be considered family.

There are our friends -- Ann's and mine -- for whom we'd do as much as we'd do for our own biologicals. Jeanne and Lisa are top of the list and now that they've adopted two girls, Akina and Sakura have joined us. The list could go on, though it's not a list at all. It's a daisy-chain of connections, one arm linked with those around it.

Lisa's family, for instance, has been the rose and thorn of her life. She loves them dearly, but they can drive her crazy. They were never very accepting of Jeanne in Lisa's life, but Jeanne's commitment to Lisa has, over the years, allowed Lisa's family to see Jeanne as something more than a phase.

But it wasn't until the two girls arrived that Jeanne actually became a permanent link in the chain. The grandparents have been a vital part of Jeanne and Lisa's parenting plan. They take the girls on overnights, they attend all social events, and they are willing to pick the girls up from school when life gets too hectic. All of the sudden, the grandparents are everywhere and though they may throw irritants in occasionally, there is no question that love has grown in this extended family.

Last night, Lisa was in charge of hosting, yet again, the Families Dinner for the local school district. This dinner is designed to bring together families from the GLBTQ community so they can connect and create a network of support. Lisa has hosted this event for 8 years and never have her parents attended...until last night. They came, of course, because they were the designated "pick up" for the girls after school and the escort to the dinner. They stayed and ate the cafeteria food, watched the Hawaiian dancers perform, and surrounded themselves with gay and lesbian families in all their rainbow glory.

I am sad that three states have banned gay marriage, but there's a part of me that feels as if the bans are the last barriers erected to prevent the inevitable. We, gay/lesbian families, are increasing. We are out there, all puns intended, and all the negation of our existence cannot keep us from existing. It's time, I think, for every family who has a member who is GLBTQ to stand up and say, We are a rainbow family. We are a complilation of married and unmarried individuals who have formed a union despite the laws. My own family -- biological and logical -- is a rainbow family. Though only some of us can marry doesn't matter, really. We are brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, and on and on and our daisy chain is growing every day. These links can be tested, but never broken, not by scared voters or religious zealots.

I never believed I'd hear people discuss the idea of gay marriage in my lifetime. Guess what? We're talking about it. I never thought I'd see gay marriage legalized in my lifetime, but I am hopeful for some odd reason that it will happen. Not because of the lawsuits (for which I am grateful), but because the arms of family are being linked every day despite the oppression and inequalities.

Two steps forward, one step back. Obama moves us forward; Prop 8 (and the like) move us backward, but we'll move forward again.

Grandpa Doug and Akina give me hope.

The 3-Day Squall

I started this blog a few years back during a record breaking rainy season. While everyone thinks of Seattle as the rainy city, in actuality, it's mostly gray not always wet. We only get about 35 inches a year, less than New York City. But in that rainy period when we shattered all rainfall records, it rained for at least 30 days straight. Everything was soggy. I had two sets of rain gear allowing time for one to dry out before I wore it again.

Today the weather forecasters are warning of three days of heavy rainfall and gusty winds. They caution those in valleys to watch for flash floods and they predict heavy snowfall in the mountains. By Sunday, the squall is predicted to pass and we will be given a reprieve, a period of drying out. In the past, I remember counting days of rain and it was always a pattern of three. Three days of rain followed by three days of no rain.

I can hold on for three days, though now, as a dog walker and no longer a teacher protected by the four walls and solid roof of a classroom, it's time to pull out the two rotations of rain gear again. And the dog may finally have to get used to his red raincoat.

I have a love/hate relationship with rain. In the summer months, when we experience a dry spell (we actually do!), I long for rain. If rain isn't falling steadily by November, I worry we will have a drought, a wimpy snow pack determining our water restrictions the following summer. But when it does rain, like today, I find myself waiting for it to end. I will enjoy one good day of rain, but by tomorrow afternoon, I'll be upset that my shoes are soggy, my wood floors muddy, and my hair unmanageably curly from the constant soaking.

Of course, on Sunday, when the sun comes out as it is forecast, I will be thankful for all this rain. It's a rinse cycle making the air that much cleaner, washing away the scummy dirt from the streets, and somehow making the skies that much more blue. I've always joked with out-of-towners that my toes are webbed. Who knows, after rainstorms like this, it just may come true.

Stress Release

The first African American has been elected President of the United States and my brother has shingles. This says a lot about how our family handles stress. I spent the night sick to my stomach with worry, taking a walk as the poll results trickled in, unable to sit down for anything length of time. I wrung my hands. I chewed my fingernails. I thought about calling my parents, but knew my practical and pragmatic mother would be politically pessimistic and skeptically cautious.

We spent the early evening with our neighbor up the street -- a Clinton delegate who had no doubt Obama would win. I called my brother and gave him homeopathic remedies for his shingles, commiserating with him while explaining how I survived the nerve pain and oozing blisters. When Obama was declared the winner in Pennsylvania, I took my first breath of the evening, but I still held onto the couch cushions with two fists, my knee bouncing up and down like a needle on a sewing machine.

I tried to eat -- pizza, Waldorf salad, and a brownie. I worried as the pundits dissected and interpreted, filled in air space and combed through the results like 10 year old boys counting their marbles. Living on the West Coast, we watched at the top of every hour to see more numbers flow in -- a wave of decision that still seemed uncertain. When Obama reached 207 electoral votes, we reassured each other that the West Coast would put him over and then all the stations went to commericial.

We ate some more. We laughed a little. We teased our neighbor's housemate -- a very young Saudi man who joked that his country could not vote as we do. "They no intelligent enough, yes?" he offered. And in the middle of our discussion about monarchy versus democracy, the number of brothers the Saudi king had and who would take his place, the news came back on and all of the sudden, just like that, in the blink of the eye, Obama was declared the winner.

The sound was down on the television, but I read the words on the television. "You guys, look! It says Obama is the 44th president." No one looked. Everyone kept talking. "Look!" I implored and then hit the mute button to activate the sound. At that point everyone watched and listened and within seconds cheered loudly. Our cheers were echoed in the streets of our neighborhood and fireworks blasted in the sky from the neighbors down the street.

We walked out onto the porch and every neighbor, EVERY neighbor stood on their lawns, on their porches, in front of their houses in the middle of the street and cheered. We are a neighborhood of diversity -- white, black, Asian, Hispanic, poor, wealthy, and middle class, gay and straight. We are all very different in more invisible ways, but there we were, all cheering for the same thing. At the end of the block, the drug dealing gangsters carried each other on their shoulders and danced in the streets. At the other end of the block, gay white men hugged each other and talked on their cell phones.

It was a moment. It was a moment I will never forget.

Eventually, we all went back into the house and more fireworks exploded over us. "The dog," I thought and we walked home to be greeted by a nervous, anxious puppy who, though excited to see us, shivered and shuttered and refused to go outside to take care of his business. We found ourselves on the couch again, the dog quivering under our legs, watching Obama's acceptance speech. We cried. We held hands. We stroked the the nervous dog and cried some more.

And we laughed about the absolute beauty of Michelle Obama.

The phone rang. This is a longer story and one I will not tell in detail, but on the phone was a neighbor who lives a block over and whose house I pass every day on my walk. She is an older black woman, full of life and energy though she walks as if the world has weighed on her back far too long. I'd offered her a ride to the polls, but she stopped there on her way home from work. Still, over the weeks and months we'd forged a friendship talking about politics and dogs, about a history of struggle and the changes in the neighborhood.

On the phone last night she said, "We can all breathe now. Praise Jesus, we can all breathe again." We talked. We remembered the past. We both sent out prayers -- hers perhaps more powerful than mine -- to keep Obama safe, to protect his family from harm, to begin the process of healing this nation. When I hung up the phone, I cried.

I feel lighter this morning. I have much to do - 4 dogs to walk, including our own, a house to clean, a business license to apply for, and billing to settle. But no longer do I need to scan the internet for the latest polls, no longer do I need to avoid politcal ads, no longer do I need to worry that Sarah Palin is a heartbeat away from the presidency. And soon, no longer will I have to listen to the fearful, arrogant voice of W.

What a relief.

Pieces of Chocolate

I am working on a piece (kind of a pun) for a women's journal on chocolate. A few years ago I gave up eating chocolate as a way to end my migraines. I started this piece then, but have come back to it and am reworking it in my writing group. I'm posting it here as a work in progress.

The First Piece

This has been my ritual for 6 years: I wake. I shuffle downstairs. I warm up two cups of milk in the microwave. I set up the espresso machine with water for steam and coffee for my partner. When the milk is warm, I turn the dials on the machine to produce steam and I steam two cups -- one for her coffee, the other for my hot chocolate.

Every morning. She needs her coffee, but more than that, I need my chocolate.

Except today. Today I have given up chocolate. Not forever. Just for a few months. Six to be exact. It's a test. For the past few years I've suffered debilitating migraines, flat-on-my-back-ice-pack-on-my-hardened-eyeballs migraines. I discussed these headaches with my doctor.

"Let's try limiting certain foods," she suggested, "before we administer any drugs." She has a holistic approach. She is one part medical doctor and one part natropath. Often, when I am seeking treatment for what ails me, she will suggest a "non-traditional route." Those are her words. If that doesn't work, we follow traditions -- medication versus supplements; antibiotics versus a Neti pot.

"What foods?" I ask.

"Migraines are often triggered by outside stimulus. Bright lights, for instance, and often certain foods." We have ruled out bright lights and dehydration. We have ruled out a need for new glasses. "Those foods tend to be red wine, hard cheeses, and chocolate."

When she says the word chocolate I know she is referring to me. I eat chocolate on a daily basis. My morning begins with chocolate and often, before I go to bed, my evening ends with chocolate -- a chocolate mint, a leftover piece of cake, or another cup of cocoa. Chocolate pieces are scattered through my day. I do not drink alcohol, so therefore red wine is not the culprit. While I eat cheese, only occasionally will I sprinkle Parmesan on my pasta, but that's about it.

It is chocolate I must forgo. The doctor sees the expression on my face. "It's hard to give up chocolate, isn't it?" She knows me well. I agree to try and begin the next morning, this morning. I make coffee for my partner and pour myself a glass of apple juice. It's not the same.

Piece Two

It doesn't help that Halloween just passed. We have a bowl full of chocolate candy bars sitting on the kitchen counter. We bought too much in preparation for a Halloween that is always short of trick or treaters. Instead, we eat it and feel guilty with every bite.

As I get ready to leave on my walk with the dog, I see a stray bar of chocolate on the table by the door. I will not eat it. I will not eat it. The morning November sun warms the spot where the chocolate sits, wrapped in silver and gold. I will not eat it. I grab the dog's leash, follow his prancing tail through the door, and head out on a long walk.

I will not eat it.

Piece #3

I quickly find alternatives to chocolate. I eat caramel sauce on vanilla ice cream topped with bananas and walnuts or toffee-covered peanuts or Payday candy bars, or occasionally, an espresso, Oreo shake. There's no chocolate in an Oreo. It surprised me, but I am also delighted. I can eat chocolate -- faux chocolate, I call it -- and convince myself I am actually indulging in the real thing when all along it is nothing but...well, I'm not certain what makes an Oreo taste chocolaty, though I think the answer lies in the combination of mysterious chemical ingredients listed in microscopic print on the back of the Oreo bag. It doesn't matter -- if feels like chocolate, and for now, it's enough...

...actually...it's not. I want chocolate. Some days more than others. Some nights more than others and it's the nights that are the worst. The bowl of ice cream demands chocolate and whines when I pour the caramel down its creamy sides. I whine, too. Not much, but just enough to appease my faultering will.

Remember, I tell myself, how awful those migraines are? The nausea. The wasted hours of lying in bed just waiting, unable to sleep, unable to read, unable to eat, unable to even watch TV. And even when the pain left, there was the dizziness, the feeling of heavy-headedness, the exhaustion.

I remember and eat my whiny ice cream each night then crawl into bed and fall asleep with sticky, unsatisfied lips.

The Fourth Piece

Type "women and chocolate" into an Internet search engine and over 38 million "hits" will pop up. They range from the informative to the pornographic. "Women prefer chocolate to sex," one title reads and another post displays a naked cocoa-skinned woman scantily clad in a thin layer of chocolate. There are whole research papers posted on various sites, some more legitimate than others.

"Phenylethylamine," writes Gwen Slaughter, a college student from Bryn Mawr, "is a chemical found in the body that is similar to amphetamine. It helps mediate feelings of giddiness, attraction, euphoria, and excitement. Researchers believe phenylethylamine causes the brain to release mesolimbic dopamine in the pleasure centers of the brain, which peak during an orgasm."

Other research link the consumption of chocolate to lower blood pressure in women claiming that a daily intake of dark chocolate can reduce heart attacks. There are pages and pages of documentation extolling the virtues of eating a small chunk of dark chocolate to "lift your spirits" and "to avoid depression." It's not all good news, though. Some studies report lower bone density in women who eat chocolate and others link chocolate to an increase in the outbreak of herpes.

The majority of posts, though, aren't informative at all. They are meant to be seductive and provacative. There are pictures of women drenched in chocolate wrestling for the enjoyment of drunken men. There are photographs of women spreading chocolate on their faces in Japan as they soak in a hot tub of thick, melted chocolate. There are naked, chocolate-dipped women marching in a parade, sexy, skinny women licking chocolate from a very large phallic-shaped spoon, a muscular man with a bikini-clad women in his lap watching as she licks chocolate off the chest of another muscular man.

There are cars painted with chocolate, jewelry made from chocolate, and statues carved from it. Page after page celebrating the joys and evils of the stuff and the particular attraction women have with the quantity and quality of chocolate. There are 38 million posts discussing chemistry, physiology, spirituality, economics, politics, and sexuality in one way or another.

We are obsessed with chocolate. Women in particular.

I am not alone.

The Fifth

I have counted the days of my chocolate fast. 78. Tomorrow will be 79. I haven't experienced a migraine yet.

Damn it.

I've come to realize the power of my will is in my head, lodged somewhere between my common sense and righteous indignation. For years I pictured my will power somewhere below my belly button -- a knot of determination, tight as my fist. Now I know differently. My will power lies in the conversations I have with myself, silent conversations filled with good intentions and ubiquitous schmaltzy affirmations. You are stronger than your desires. You don't need chocolate, you want it. It fills a void you must now explore. You can live without it and still be a decent, loving person.

My will power is an internalized argument -- logical, eloquent, rational, and filled with pontifications. Everyone told me, including the doctor, that my desire for chocolate would subside as the weeks passed. Weeks have passed and I want chocolate today as much as I did 78 days ago. My desire for chocolate is a harlot, the promiscuous daughter, the one who tells lies without remorse, and flaunts her long legs and sassy cleavage in the face of saints and preachers. Audacious. She kisses God on the lips. She cannot be contained.