On our second date we talked about our families. At first it seemed like the natural next step, to exchange details of hometowns and siblings while eating at the trendiest Thai restaurant in the city. Soon, though, it became apparent that what we shared in common was not just a love of dogs and long hikes in the mountains, but mental illness.
"My father," she began, "had affairs."
"I suppose most men do," I laughed my reply thinking of the money Dr. Phil and Oprah make on such assumptions.
"We were a secretive family," she continued, "and that is why I was so fascinated by my father's story once I decided to find out the truth behind the secrets."
"Is there such a thing," I asked. "Truth, I mean." I held my tea cup like a hand warmer, close to my face, my ring tapping quietly against the white curve.
"I suppose not, but I was interested in that too, in how memories create truths and that if you could gather up enough memories, somehow a truth might emerge. Or so I hoped."
"And what truth did you find?"
She smiled at me and I think it was in that moment I realized I would fall in love with her. "I interviewed one of my father's mistresses."
"Oh." There was no other response. I sipped my tea. "How did you know who to interview if it was all a secret?"
She went on to tell me the stories, the woven texture of her childhood and the family friends who held pieces of the mystery. She'd found out the name, had even suspected this was the name, and then pursued her, thoughtfully, mindfully, and patiently.
They met at a local hometown restaurant and in the end, clarity followed. There was no bitterness. There was no understanding. There was just this mistress sharing her side of the story with a woman, once a girl, who lived on the edges of it.
"That's quite a story," I sighed. The food had arrived and we divided the small portions of basil noodles and swimming angel next too the sticky rice on our plates. "But I can top it."
She looked up then, her left eyebrow raised and said, "Sounds interesting."
"My mother had an affair with the neighbor. A cab driver, she ran away with him when I was 17. Just jumped in the cab and headed to D.C."
We stopped eating.
"He left her there...no money, no car, no way to get home."
"What did she do?" I could tell she sympathized with my mother. Just wait, I thought, just wait.
"She became a call-girl, a high-priced prostitute working for a so-called dating service."
"Your mother," she stammered, "Oh my."
"It gets better," I laughed, the kind of laugh that comes out more like a huff than a giggle. "After a series of husbands, she just recently ran away with the boyfriend she met while tutoring him in jail."
"Wait, wait," she put her hand up and her fork down. "She was tutoring him because he was in jail or she was?"
"He was in jail, and he recently got out. He's been deported back to Mexico and she is meeting him there, actually has met him there and they are probably doing it as we speak."
Her cheeks turn red, something I would grow to love later on. "How old is your mother?" she asks.
"68. Her prison lover is in his 40's. He could be my brother."
"But..." and it trails off because I can tell she can't quite think of any question to ask. Nothing has prepared her to ask a question for a situation like this.
"She's French," I say, as if that explains the choices. "She waited over two years for him to be released from prison. She has always fallen for unavailable men."
"I should say," is all she can manage.
"She writes to me about it in French and I read my emails a bit sickened and sad that she doesn't see the pattern, she doesn't see that he is simply using her for sex, for money, for god knows what else."
"This has happened before?"
I look up. I realized I've been staring at water chestnuts floating in an oily browness. "Oh, something like it happens every time she meets a man who she thinks is her Romeo, her Casanova, her ticket to the good life. And then they swindle her or dump her or impregnate someone else and she finds another man, equally inaccessible and equally as parasitic. It's a vicious cycle."
"I should say."
We are silent for a long while, longer than what is comfortable for a second date.
"You win," she says.
I look at her confused, quizzical.
"That's a much better story than mine."
Friday, April 07, 2006
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Breathing wishes
It's a habit now, to check his breathing, to watch for the rise and fall of his barrel chest.
There are times -- early in the morning or groggy with just an hour's sleep -- I want the breathing to be gone, unobservable followed by my own sigh signifying that this is as it should be, the way we've all wanted it to be.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
There are other times when the lift of his rib cage makes me smile. The twitch of his paws, the way his nose sniffs the air even in his sleep. He is still here and filled with the responsibility of watching over us.
I am torn between my wishes for breath and unbreath.
How much easier it would be for him to make the decision. How much easier it would be for him to choose.
"Now," he'd say, and the breathing would stop, one full, long sigh pushing out the holding on.
In the end, it may happen this way.
Or it may not.
We may have to choose for him.
And it will be his breathing that I watch, first relaxed and calm as the sedative sets in.
Then the next injection when we will sigh goodbye and whisper encouragement and wishes for a gentle journey and watch, holding him and holding each other as his breath quivers and rattles and he lets go as we let go, soft fur between our fingers.
But now he breathes, asleep on his kitchen rug, his eyebrows flickering, his right paw curled as if to ask a question.
There are times -- early in the morning or groggy with just an hour's sleep -- I want the breathing to be gone, unobservable followed by my own sigh signifying that this is as it should be, the way we've all wanted it to be.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
There are other times when the lift of his rib cage makes me smile. The twitch of his paws, the way his nose sniffs the air even in his sleep. He is still here and filled with the responsibility of watching over us.
I am torn between my wishes for breath and unbreath.
How much easier it would be for him to make the decision. How much easier it would be for him to choose.
"Now," he'd say, and the breathing would stop, one full, long sigh pushing out the holding on.
In the end, it may happen this way.
Or it may not.
We may have to choose for him.
And it will be his breathing that I watch, first relaxed and calm as the sedative sets in.
Then the next injection when we will sigh goodbye and whisper encouragement and wishes for a gentle journey and watch, holding him and holding each other as his breath quivers and rattles and he lets go as we let go, soft fur between our fingers.
But now he breathes, asleep on his kitchen rug, his eyebrows flickering, his right paw curled as if to ask a question.
When doing my research for my master's thesis, I read Andrew Solomon's magnificent work, "Noonday Demon". His study of the research on depression discussed how more people who follow through on suicide do so not in the dark of winter, but in the blossom of spring. The thinking is that if you are depressed during the winter -- those dark and dreary months -- you justify your melancholy to the time of year, holding on until spring arrives. But if you stay depressed during the spring months, then your chances of committing suicide dramatically increase. In other words, if the warmer weather, the longer days, and the sheer brightness of the world cannot lift you out of your depression, nothing will.
He went on to talk about how the most dangerous time for him during his depression wasn't when he couldn't get out of bed, but when he was slightly (ever so) motivated to face his depression and get help. Just as he was making the upward turn from his life on the bottom, he found himself more likely to think about killing himself, now that he was more motivated by the drugs and by the therapy.
I thought about this yesterday on my ride home from work. It was 62 degrees (warm for this time of year), the sun was burning a hole in the blue sky, and the smell of spring made my eyes water and my nostrils swell.
I am not depressed, I thought to myself, glad that spring had lifted my spirits, fueled my legs with enough energy to tackle the bigger hill home.
During the winter months I worry that my depression from a few years back will continue. I take a daily inventory...is this depression or is this
A) exhaustion?
B) a lack of daylight?
C) a struggle though manageable?
D) the lack of exercise?
E) all of the above?
Once you've experienced depression, I don't think it ever leaves you fully. It hangs around.
For me, it floats above my right shoulder.
It hums continuously.
It smiles and smirks.
It taps its fingers and checks its watch.
A demon, as Solomon named it.
And the stuggle, the mighty struggle is daily, hourly to
A) ignore it
B) smile back at it
C) turn up my MP3 player
D) sleep with my back to it
E) all of the above
But the true test for me is when March rolls around, the month I dread more than others because it's long and wet and not quite warm enough, not quite sweet enough and full of taunts and teases... the true test is can I make it through to really be surprised and pleased about the arrival of April?
If, by chance, April were to roll around and I found myself feeling dismal and dark, weighted and pasty, I'd know that the depression usually floating on my right shoulder was now inside of me, humming, smirking, tapping the seconds against my brittle bones.
But yesterday, I sighed knowing I'd won...at least for this spring.
The air was rich with cut grass, the warmth of blossoms, and something unidentifiable but as comforting as cookies baking on a summer evening or the smell of a puppie's ears.
I walked Chester when I got home. He was bouncy, actually bouncy, hopping in that hobby horse way that he always used to do when excited to see me, excited to get dinner, excited to be leashed up, excited to leave his mark on every branch, every corner.
His demon stayed at bay, too.
Even when, halfway through our walk, it started to rain...big drops of spring and still 60 degrees...he smiled and lead the way up the hill, past the purple lilacs and flowering cherry trees.
Today, there is still sun, though the clouds are moving across a white sky. Chester is asleep on his rug in the kitchen. He is wobbly today, uncertain about why I am home, he is drowsy and drugged. His demon has returned, tapping at his shoulder.
I want to think it's a dance, but even that analogy seems inadequate. It's tidal, moving in and out, back and forth, pulled by something more familiar than a fat moon or the earth's rotation. As the time draw nears, Chester's and even mine, the hours between high and low tides grows shorter. There are days when he is as alive as the creatures happily floating in the highest waters, and then as weak and precarious as those same critters exposed by the waters drawn back by the spring moon.
And every moment we are changed, ever so slightly...water reshaping our shorelines.
Carved.
Formed.
Twisted smooth.
Reformed.
Carved again.
Pulled and tempted.
Resistant.
Surrendered.
Forgiven.
He went on to talk about how the most dangerous time for him during his depression wasn't when he couldn't get out of bed, but when he was slightly (ever so) motivated to face his depression and get help. Just as he was making the upward turn from his life on the bottom, he found himself more likely to think about killing himself, now that he was more motivated by the drugs and by the therapy.
I thought about this yesterday on my ride home from work. It was 62 degrees (warm for this time of year), the sun was burning a hole in the blue sky, and the smell of spring made my eyes water and my nostrils swell.
I am not depressed, I thought to myself, glad that spring had lifted my spirits, fueled my legs with enough energy to tackle the bigger hill home.
During the winter months I worry that my depression from a few years back will continue. I take a daily inventory...is this depression or is this
A) exhaustion?
B) a lack of daylight?
C) a struggle though manageable?
D) the lack of exercise?
E) all of the above?
Once you've experienced depression, I don't think it ever leaves you fully. It hangs around.
For me, it floats above my right shoulder.
It hums continuously.
It smiles and smirks.
It taps its fingers and checks its watch.
A demon, as Solomon named it.
And the stuggle, the mighty struggle is daily, hourly to
A) ignore it
B) smile back at it
C) turn up my MP3 player
D) sleep with my back to it
E) all of the above
But the true test for me is when March rolls around, the month I dread more than others because it's long and wet and not quite warm enough, not quite sweet enough and full of taunts and teases... the true test is can I make it through to really be surprised and pleased about the arrival of April?
If, by chance, April were to roll around and I found myself feeling dismal and dark, weighted and pasty, I'd know that the depression usually floating on my right shoulder was now inside of me, humming, smirking, tapping the seconds against my brittle bones.
But yesterday, I sighed knowing I'd won...at least for this spring.
The air was rich with cut grass, the warmth of blossoms, and something unidentifiable but as comforting as cookies baking on a summer evening or the smell of a puppie's ears.
I walked Chester when I got home. He was bouncy, actually bouncy, hopping in that hobby horse way that he always used to do when excited to see me, excited to get dinner, excited to be leashed up, excited to leave his mark on every branch, every corner.
His demon stayed at bay, too.
Even when, halfway through our walk, it started to rain...big drops of spring and still 60 degrees...he smiled and lead the way up the hill, past the purple lilacs and flowering cherry trees.
Today, there is still sun, though the clouds are moving across a white sky. Chester is asleep on his rug in the kitchen. He is wobbly today, uncertain about why I am home, he is drowsy and drugged. His demon has returned, tapping at his shoulder.
I want to think it's a dance, but even that analogy seems inadequate. It's tidal, moving in and out, back and forth, pulled by something more familiar than a fat moon or the earth's rotation. As the time draw nears, Chester's and even mine, the hours between high and low tides grows shorter. There are days when he is as alive as the creatures happily floating in the highest waters, and then as weak and precarious as those same critters exposed by the waters drawn back by the spring moon.
And every moment we are changed, ever so slightly...water reshaping our shorelines.
Carved.
Formed.
Twisted smooth.
Reformed.
Carved again.
Pulled and tempted.
Resistant.
Surrendered.
Forgiven.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Unconditional
With Chester's illness I've been thinking a lot about unconditional love. I don't think it exists. Chester's love certainly isn't unconditional...it's loyal and forgiving, but it's also contigent on daily exercise, timely meals, and what Ann and I call "eye contact time"...moments of the day when we just look into his eyes and rub him gently on his head or back or butt (one of his favorite spots).
I think Ann is moving closer to deciding that Chester's quality of life is not the quality we'd like it to be. The meds just do him in. He walks in a sideways motion and has given up on lifting his leg to pee, lest he fall over, embarrassed and uncertain. From 7 in the morning until about 5 in the evening, he just wants to sleep and only occassionally goes out in the backyard to squat on his favorite spot or to get cooler water in his bowl on the back porch.
At 5, he wakes up a bit and would nudges us to take him for a walk or whines at his bowl if we're late on his feeding. He even knows when it's time for his meds, though this morning threw him with the springing forward.
He doesn't smile as much anymore though.
We went for a walk at the park this morning and though he was eager to try to keep moving forward, he was exhausted even by our extremely slow pace.
Ann cried.
I did not. I don't know why. I know I will cry when it's time. I know there are times in the day when tears well up, but this morning, when it was clear that the decision was drawing closer, I didn't cry.
Perhaps it is my way of supporting Ann, maintaining the strong position while she crumbled a bit in the sunshine reflecting off the lake.
Perhaps I haven't accepted it yet, that this little man who has been in my life for only 4 years (though in Ann's over 12), will no longer wake me up at the crack of dawn or escort me on long walks through the neighborhood in his happy cantor .
It's hard to say, but today I have no tears.
Chester doesn't either, which I guess is his daily lesson for me in living in the now.
A nap. That's in the now.
A good meal. That's in the now.
Eye contact time. That's in the now.
Sleeping next to Ann (which he is doing at this moment) that's the best now on earth.
See, there are many, many conditions when one lives in the now.
I don't mind them. It's still love to me. Pure love.
I think Ann is moving closer to deciding that Chester's quality of life is not the quality we'd like it to be. The meds just do him in. He walks in a sideways motion and has given up on lifting his leg to pee, lest he fall over, embarrassed and uncertain. From 7 in the morning until about 5 in the evening, he just wants to sleep and only occassionally goes out in the backyard to squat on his favorite spot or to get cooler water in his bowl on the back porch.
At 5, he wakes up a bit and would nudges us to take him for a walk or whines at his bowl if we're late on his feeding. He even knows when it's time for his meds, though this morning threw him with the springing forward.
He doesn't smile as much anymore though.
We went for a walk at the park this morning and though he was eager to try to keep moving forward, he was exhausted even by our extremely slow pace.
Ann cried.
I did not. I don't know why. I know I will cry when it's time. I know there are times in the day when tears well up, but this morning, when it was clear that the decision was drawing closer, I didn't cry.
Perhaps it is my way of supporting Ann, maintaining the strong position while she crumbled a bit in the sunshine reflecting off the lake.
Perhaps I haven't accepted it yet, that this little man who has been in my life for only 4 years (though in Ann's over 12), will no longer wake me up at the crack of dawn or escort me on long walks through the neighborhood in his happy cantor .
It's hard to say, but today I have no tears.
Chester doesn't either, which I guess is his daily lesson for me in living in the now.
A nap. That's in the now.
A good meal. That's in the now.
Eye contact time. That's in the now.
Sleeping next to Ann (which he is doing at this moment) that's the best now on earth.
See, there are many, many conditions when one lives in the now.
I don't mind them. It's still love to me. Pure love.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Dashboard
Collecting Memories
As Chester's health declines, I find myself grabbing onto memories of him like I'm collecting rare coins.
Here's one:
In the morning, after he wakes me up at precisely 5:28 a.m. (yes, every damn morning on the dot), we make coffee together. Chester sits quietly by my side staring up at me with those eyes like amber gems, longing, mournful, and these days a bit glazed. While the coffee is brewing, I make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because it's Friday and I'm too tired to make anything else and my class is taking a field trip to the beach so a PBJ sandwich fits nicely into my backpack. Ann gets the other one just because I'm feeling extra special generous.
Chester LOVES bread. (On our second date, Ann and I went for a hike with Chester. He broke into my lunch in the car and ate half my fresh bagel before I snatched it away from him.) He even enjoys peanut butter. It's only of late, with the medication's side effects, that he also likes jelly. (On our walks, he'll now even eat orange peels, which, back in his youth, he'd never even consider edible.)
So, he's sitting next to me like a good Su Chef, doing this funny little repetitive move he's developed where he sits, then gets up for a nano second then sits back down quickly and forcefully. The effect sounds like he's stamping his feet as if to say, "Hey, have you forgotten I'm down here?"
I lay out the bread, generously spread on the peanut butter and then step away to get the jelly. "Don't touch those sandwiches," I warn him and he looks at me like the most innocent creature who ever evolved.
Then, while I'm rummaging through the fridge trying to find one of those tiny jelly jars my mom got us for Christmas (perfect stocking stuffers she thought, but one jar covers only two sandwiches), Chester gets up from his stomping position, walks over to his dog dish, which still holds his breakfast kibble, picks up one piece of dog food in his mouth, walks back over to the sandwiches and pa-tooey's the kibble onto the floor.
I swear I hear him say, "Shit. You're feeding me shit."
I laugh.
I walk the minature jar of jelly back over to the bread and peanut butter and commence with the final layer of boysenberry.
Disgusted, Chester picks up the lonely kibble he just spat onto the floor and precedes to crunch it loudly...I am not making this up...he crunches it with his lips turned up to make the noise of the one dry kibble sound as stale as WWI tack bread.
I swear I hear him say, "Shit. I'm a dying dog and this is shit you expect me to eat."
Here's one:
In the morning, after he wakes me up at precisely 5:28 a.m. (yes, every damn morning on the dot), we make coffee together. Chester sits quietly by my side staring up at me with those eyes like amber gems, longing, mournful, and these days a bit glazed. While the coffee is brewing, I make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because it's Friday and I'm too tired to make anything else and my class is taking a field trip to the beach so a PBJ sandwich fits nicely into my backpack. Ann gets the other one just because I'm feeling extra special generous.
Chester LOVES bread. (On our second date, Ann and I went for a hike with Chester. He broke into my lunch in the car and ate half my fresh bagel before I snatched it away from him.) He even enjoys peanut butter. It's only of late, with the medication's side effects, that he also likes jelly. (On our walks, he'll now even eat orange peels, which, back in his youth, he'd never even consider edible.)
So, he's sitting next to me like a good Su Chef, doing this funny little repetitive move he's developed where he sits, then gets up for a nano second then sits back down quickly and forcefully. The effect sounds like he's stamping his feet as if to say, "Hey, have you forgotten I'm down here?"
I lay out the bread, generously spread on the peanut butter and then step away to get the jelly. "Don't touch those sandwiches," I warn him and he looks at me like the most innocent creature who ever evolved.
Then, while I'm rummaging through the fridge trying to find one of those tiny jelly jars my mom got us for Christmas (perfect stocking stuffers she thought, but one jar covers only two sandwiches), Chester gets up from his stomping position, walks over to his dog dish, which still holds his breakfast kibble, picks up one piece of dog food in his mouth, walks back over to the sandwiches and pa-tooey's the kibble onto the floor.
I swear I hear him say, "Shit. You're feeding me shit."
I laugh.
I walk the minature jar of jelly back over to the bread and peanut butter and commence with the final layer of boysenberry.
Disgusted, Chester picks up the lonely kibble he just spat onto the floor and precedes to crunch it loudly...I am not making this up...he crunches it with his lips turned up to make the noise of the one dry kibble sound as stale as WWI tack bread.
I swear I hear him say, "Shit. I'm a dying dog and this is shit you expect me to eat."
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
If I were rich...
If I were rich, I wouldn't do those normal things newly rich do.
I wouldn't buy a house so large I couldn't find my shoelaces.
I wouldn't buy a boat or an expensive car or take a trip around the world.
Don't get me wrong.
As much as I'd like to think I would, I wouldn't give most of my money away to a charity either (some, but certainly not as much as I say I would when I didn't have the money in hand).
I would, however, quit my job. If only temporarily, but not because I don't like it or because it's drudgery or because I'm unappreciated and underpaid.
I'd quit my job so I could enroll in classes at the University or even a Community College or even just the Fine Arts Center in my neighborhood.
I'd take classes in glass blowing and carpentry. I'd sign up for philosophy classes and political science. I'd take classes in literature and writing, but also in molecular biology and introductory classes in zoology. I'd take cooking classes and bread making classes and even classes in dress making, though I truly hate to sew.
I'd take music classes -- lessons on the mandolin that now sits on a shelf unplayed for over a year.
If I were rich, I'd just give as much money as it would take to permanently be in class, not having to teach the class or grade the papers, but still be in the presence of people thinking and doing and sharing.
And if the classes weren't good, I'd drop out and find something else to enroll in. Automotive classes even. Or classes in computer science.
Definitely photography classes. And a painting class. I'd try knitting, but I think I would be impatient, that the knitting would get boring despite all the colors and textures I find appealing in the yarn shop.
I'd hire a personal trainer. I'd take a class in me. (Perhaps that's therapy, but nonetheless...) I'd take classes in massage, though I'd only touch bodies I found appealing. No hairy men. Perhaps no men at all.
I'd take classes in rowing and lacrosse and skating with those nifty new skates called Landrollers. I'd certainly take a swimming class...while I'm a strong swimmer, I would want to learn how to make it effortless like those people at the pool who fly past me even when I'm wearing my zoomer fins.
If I were rich, I'd put all the money into my mind and my body. I might buy a few new gadgets, but I actually think I'd pare down my life and just ride my bike to the next class where I could learn about kayaking or skate skiing or astronomy.
I wouldn't take up scuba diving. Too confining and I don't do well on boats.
I wouldn't mind learning some circus routines. And rock climbing.
And I'd love to learn about rocks in general...geology, but not minerology.
I'd definitely take a botany class and practice saying the names of plants using their scientific names.
If I were rich, I'd even start a scholarship fund for people like me who just want to learn. Perhaps a scholarship for teachers who are tired of teaching and who want to spend more time learning what they skim over in classes.
I'd take classes from the Dog Whisperer. I wonder how much he'd charge?
It's selfish, I know, but if I were rich I'd try to soak up as much as I could as fast as I could for no other reason than it makes me feel alive.
I'd eventually go back to teaching, but only part time because teaching really is about learning and when you give your energy to teaching, there's not much left over for yourself or all the classes you wanted to take.
And I'd keep writing, because I have this belief that money will buy me time and with that time I can fill it up however I choose.
It's probably a myth. I probably wouldn't have anymore time nor would I know what to do with it, but I'd like to think I would. I'd like to think I'd be more motivated.
I'd even take a math class...several, though I'd have to hire a tutor to help me understand it all.
But that's the beauty of being rich...at least I think it is...you wouldn't have to figure out what to eliminate. Especially if you didn't buy the gi-normous house or the expensive yacht or the pricey luxury car or take extravagant trips to Italy every month.
You'd just buy knowledge, or access to knowledge, which probably isn't the wisest investment...not really sustainable...but oh what a ride while you had the money!
I wouldn't buy a house so large I couldn't find my shoelaces.
I wouldn't buy a boat or an expensive car or take a trip around the world.
Don't get me wrong.
As much as I'd like to think I would, I wouldn't give most of my money away to a charity either (some, but certainly not as much as I say I would when I didn't have the money in hand).
I would, however, quit my job. If only temporarily, but not because I don't like it or because it's drudgery or because I'm unappreciated and underpaid.
I'd quit my job so I could enroll in classes at the University or even a Community College or even just the Fine Arts Center in my neighborhood.
I'd take classes in glass blowing and carpentry. I'd sign up for philosophy classes and political science. I'd take classes in literature and writing, but also in molecular biology and introductory classes in zoology. I'd take cooking classes and bread making classes and even classes in dress making, though I truly hate to sew.
I'd take music classes -- lessons on the mandolin that now sits on a shelf unplayed for over a year.
If I were rich, I'd just give as much money as it would take to permanently be in class, not having to teach the class or grade the papers, but still be in the presence of people thinking and doing and sharing.
And if the classes weren't good, I'd drop out and find something else to enroll in. Automotive classes even. Or classes in computer science.
Definitely photography classes. And a painting class. I'd try knitting, but I think I would be impatient, that the knitting would get boring despite all the colors and textures I find appealing in the yarn shop.
I'd hire a personal trainer. I'd take a class in me. (Perhaps that's therapy, but nonetheless...) I'd take classes in massage, though I'd only touch bodies I found appealing. No hairy men. Perhaps no men at all.
I'd take classes in rowing and lacrosse and skating with those nifty new skates called Landrollers. I'd certainly take a swimming class...while I'm a strong swimmer, I would want to learn how to make it effortless like those people at the pool who fly past me even when I'm wearing my zoomer fins.
If I were rich, I'd put all the money into my mind and my body. I might buy a few new gadgets, but I actually think I'd pare down my life and just ride my bike to the next class where I could learn about kayaking or skate skiing or astronomy.
I wouldn't take up scuba diving. Too confining and I don't do well on boats.
I wouldn't mind learning some circus routines. And rock climbing.
And I'd love to learn about rocks in general...geology, but not minerology.
I'd definitely take a botany class and practice saying the names of plants using their scientific names.
If I were rich, I'd even start a scholarship fund for people like me who just want to learn. Perhaps a scholarship for teachers who are tired of teaching and who want to spend more time learning what they skim over in classes.
I'd take classes from the Dog Whisperer. I wonder how much he'd charge?
It's selfish, I know, but if I were rich I'd try to soak up as much as I could as fast as I could for no other reason than it makes me feel alive.
I'd eventually go back to teaching, but only part time because teaching really is about learning and when you give your energy to teaching, there's not much left over for yourself or all the classes you wanted to take.
And I'd keep writing, because I have this belief that money will buy me time and with that time I can fill it up however I choose.
It's probably a myth. I probably wouldn't have anymore time nor would I know what to do with it, but I'd like to think I would. I'd like to think I'd be more motivated.
I'd even take a math class...several, though I'd have to hire a tutor to help me understand it all.
But that's the beauty of being rich...at least I think it is...you wouldn't have to figure out what to eliminate. Especially if you didn't buy the gi-normous house or the expensive yacht or the pricey luxury car or take extravagant trips to Italy every month.
You'd just buy knowledge, or access to knowledge, which probably isn't the wisest investment...not really sustainable...but oh what a ride while you had the money!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Food OR Exercise
Pedaling my bike past hospitals and bakeries every day, there is always this internal struggle inside my head: At what age do I get to stop being so competitive?
Throughout my younger years, I was a competitive athlete. I ran, I jumped, I played team sports, I sweated, and I injured myself (it goes hand in hand with competition). Consequently, I never worried about my weight. I ate everything, ice cream and buttered popcorn top on the list.
Now, in my late 40's I find I am left with this choice: Either I stop eating so much or I excerise ten times harder because the rate at which I used to exercise just doesn't burn the calories anymore.
Or
And this thought has only recently entered my thinking...
Or
I accept my current weight and excerise like any other normal middle-aged woman. In other words, be happy with a day off or two or even three...in a week or in a row.
But I can't. Or at least I haven't been able to because whenever I get on my bike or head to the gym, I compete. "I can make it up the big hill I climb every morning in 7 minutes and not 8," I say to myself or "If I pedal at a higher gear, I can catch that guy up ahead on the fancy bike and in the tight shorts."
These thoughts run through my head constantly. Most of the time I am unaware of them except later on in the week when my legs are tired from work and from commuting on a bike and then I just push myself up the hill at whatever rate I can muster.
But other times I catch myself, forgetting that I'm almost 50, thinking I can go faster, be stronger, stretch the ride out a bit longer because, well, that's what "real" athletes do, they push themselves to the next level. And I have always seen myself as a "real" athlete.
These thoughts even invade my dreams.
Like the other night, I woke up in a sweat because I was sitting on the sidelines of another volleyball game and the coach wouldn't put me in and I kept screaming at him that I was much more mature and ready to play than I was in my 20's and that he should substitute me in, but he'd just ignore me or worse, look my direction and shake his head in disgust like I was too old or too fat or too too and there was no way in hell he'd put me in the game.
But in my head in the dream, I was strong, I was smart, I was game ready -- my body was still 20 years old, it was just my head that wasn't, but that was okay because age meant experience and experience meant I wouldn't make the same mistakes I did when my head was 20 and my body was 20, too.
I have these dreams all the time. Mostly they are volleyball dreams, but sometimes I'm playing basketball and occasionally I'm running a race, but it's always the same dilemma -- I'm fit in body (20 years old and strong and ripped and talented) and even more savvy in mind because I'm mature, experienced, thoughtful...none of which I was when I was 20.
But when I wake up, I find that I have a 47 year old body and a 20 year old sensibility. My mind wants to do what my body can't.
And what I can't do is eat like a 20 year old anymore.
Or I can, but I have to stop beating myself up about it.
And I know that that, the beating myself up about it, is the real issue -- forgiveness and patience and knowing I'm good enough -- but somewhere I just feel like there's a switch in my brain and if I could find it, I could turn off the competitiveness and just pedal my bike at a leisure pace or go on a walk slow enough that my friends could keep up with me or not feel shitty about myself when I lay around all day Saturday not doing anything but watching 20 year olds play basketball on TV while I eat cheese and crackers and two bowls of chocolate pudding.
So, I guess the real question isn't at what age can I stop being so competitive, but at what age can I fully and completely like myself no matter the weight, no matter the muscles, no matter the speed at which I pedal a bike?
Throughout my younger years, I was a competitive athlete. I ran, I jumped, I played team sports, I sweated, and I injured myself (it goes hand in hand with competition). Consequently, I never worried about my weight. I ate everything, ice cream and buttered popcorn top on the list.
Now, in my late 40's I find I am left with this choice: Either I stop eating so much or I excerise ten times harder because the rate at which I used to exercise just doesn't burn the calories anymore.
Or
And this thought has only recently entered my thinking...
Or
I accept my current weight and excerise like any other normal middle-aged woman. In other words, be happy with a day off or two or even three...in a week or in a row.
But I can't. Or at least I haven't been able to because whenever I get on my bike or head to the gym, I compete. "I can make it up the big hill I climb every morning in 7 minutes and not 8," I say to myself or "If I pedal at a higher gear, I can catch that guy up ahead on the fancy bike and in the tight shorts."
These thoughts run through my head constantly. Most of the time I am unaware of them except later on in the week when my legs are tired from work and from commuting on a bike and then I just push myself up the hill at whatever rate I can muster.
But other times I catch myself, forgetting that I'm almost 50, thinking I can go faster, be stronger, stretch the ride out a bit longer because, well, that's what "real" athletes do, they push themselves to the next level. And I have always seen myself as a "real" athlete.
These thoughts even invade my dreams.
Like the other night, I woke up in a sweat because I was sitting on the sidelines of another volleyball game and the coach wouldn't put me in and I kept screaming at him that I was much more mature and ready to play than I was in my 20's and that he should substitute me in, but he'd just ignore me or worse, look my direction and shake his head in disgust like I was too old or too fat or too too and there was no way in hell he'd put me in the game.
But in my head in the dream, I was strong, I was smart, I was game ready -- my body was still 20 years old, it was just my head that wasn't, but that was okay because age meant experience and experience meant I wouldn't make the same mistakes I did when my head was 20 and my body was 20, too.
I have these dreams all the time. Mostly they are volleyball dreams, but sometimes I'm playing basketball and occasionally I'm running a race, but it's always the same dilemma -- I'm fit in body (20 years old and strong and ripped and talented) and even more savvy in mind because I'm mature, experienced, thoughtful...none of which I was when I was 20.
But when I wake up, I find that I have a 47 year old body and a 20 year old sensibility. My mind wants to do what my body can't.
And what I can't do is eat like a 20 year old anymore.
Or I can, but I have to stop beating myself up about it.
And I know that that, the beating myself up about it, is the real issue -- forgiveness and patience and knowing I'm good enough -- but somewhere I just feel like there's a switch in my brain and if I could find it, I could turn off the competitiveness and just pedal my bike at a leisure pace or go on a walk slow enough that my friends could keep up with me or not feel shitty about myself when I lay around all day Saturday not doing anything but watching 20 year olds play basketball on TV while I eat cheese and crackers and two bowls of chocolate pudding.
So, I guess the real question isn't at what age can I stop being so competitive, but at what age can I fully and completely like myself no matter the weight, no matter the muscles, no matter the speed at which I pedal a bike?
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Imagine...
Imagine, for a moment, that you have an older sister (which I do, but I'm talking about an imaginary one for now)...
Imagine this older sister just turned 50
and when you look at her life you are proud
and slightly envious because all your life
you've really wanted to be like your sister...
you've idolized her in many ways, looked up to her
for advice
for support
for guidance
Imagine she's in a stable marriage to a man who
is a good father to two or three children
...and not married to someone who is still married
to someone else
or married to someone who is a crackhead
or a porn producer
or a swindler
or a liar
Imagine she's financially stable, with a good
job -- a consultant, perhaps, or
a sales rep or even a doctor or a nurse --
and that she's held this job or one like it for years
and her colleagues admire her
and her family is proud of her
and she's never once had to file for bankruptcy
or borrowed large sums of money from
her parents
or her older brother
or her younger sister
Imagine she's confident and self-assured
And responsible
And when she talks to you on the phone
She speaks clearly and passionately
about her life, never giggling excessively, never
focusing solely on herself, never admitting to you in
mumbled phrases about her affairs with
married men
or her sex with her client on the massage table
Imagine she has integrity, that she's
reliable and truthful
And she'd never not pay a bill
or lie to her landlord
or ask her brother or sister to
keep secrets
or blame others for her poor choices
Imagine she's a full-bodied woman
a bit overweight, but healthy and active
not obsessive about what she eats
never asking the waiters to check the oils
used in her meal
or if there are meat products in the salad
Imagine she runs four days a week
but never far enough to get rid of
the belly or the butt or the peasant calves
Imagine she likes herself
when she looks in the mirror
and doesn't see just elbows and knees
and ankles and ribs
Imagine she knows when enough
is enough and doesn't ride her bike
for 20 miles after she's run for
two hours
or then jump in the pool
because she needs to burn off her lunch
Imagine she feels a part of the
family and visits on a regular
basis and is never an
imposition, never upset
because the vacation schedule isn't
exactly what she planned or how she
wants it to be
And at Christmas, she doesn't
drink too much
or call you from a bedroom
at your brother's house
crying that her father is an
asshole
that her brother called her a drunk
that no one loves her
that she's not a part of the family
Imagine she always stays calm
Except on occasions
Like all of us
When the repairman is late
Or the car doesn't work
Or the plane is behind schedule
Or work is particularly stressful
Imagine she has patience
and good judgment
and is able to stand up for herself
when wronged
but let go of it once it's
resolved
Imagine she feels a part of the
world and not
excluded from it
That she contributes to good causes
and does not feel
the world is out to get her
Imagine she's lived in the same house
in the same town
in the same state
all her adult life
and never had to leave
because she owed money
or burned too many bridges
or felt unsettled
or thought it would be
different somewhere else
Imagine she knows how to
love her parents
who are proud of her
because she's claimed positive
space in the world
and not sucked all the energy
from her friends
or her family
or her co-workers
And that her parents can
sleep peacefully at night
knowing she's safe and
financially sound
with a solid job
and a family of her own
and they don't have to wake
up in the middle of the night
sweating with worry or
answering phones
Imagine she's kind
and when you need a familiar
voice you call her up
and she hugs you with her words
and doesn't splatter you with anger
like bacon grease from a hot pan
Imagine you love her
even when you're mad at her
even when she's a bit selfish
or impatient
or difficult
Imagine you love her
because she's solid and whole and
not stuck in some place
you'll never understand
never be able to kick her out of
never be able to convince her she's in
Imagine you feel connected to her
in ways that they write about
in Hallmark Cards
But it's not corny or trite
or laced in pink
Imagine you have an older sister...
whom you love...
I have one
though
Not the one
I imagined...
Imagine this older sister just turned 50
and when you look at her life you are proud
and slightly envious because all your life
you've really wanted to be like your sister...
you've idolized her in many ways, looked up to her
for advice
for support
for guidance
Imagine she's in a stable marriage to a man who
is a good father to two or three children
...and not married to someone who is still married
to someone else
or married to someone who is a crackhead
or a porn producer
or a swindler
or a liar
Imagine she's financially stable, with a good
job -- a consultant, perhaps, or
a sales rep or even a doctor or a nurse --
and that she's held this job or one like it for years
and her colleagues admire her
and her family is proud of her
and she's never once had to file for bankruptcy
or borrowed large sums of money from
her parents
or her older brother
or her younger sister
Imagine she's confident and self-assured
And responsible
And when she talks to you on the phone
She speaks clearly and passionately
about her life, never giggling excessively, never
focusing solely on herself, never admitting to you in
mumbled phrases about her affairs with
married men
or her sex with her client on the massage table
Imagine she has integrity, that she's
reliable and truthful
And she'd never not pay a bill
or lie to her landlord
or ask her brother or sister to
keep secrets
or blame others for her poor choices
Imagine she's a full-bodied woman
a bit overweight, but healthy and active
not obsessive about what she eats
never asking the waiters to check the oils
used in her meal
or if there are meat products in the salad
Imagine she runs four days a week
but never far enough to get rid of
the belly or the butt or the peasant calves
Imagine she likes herself
when she looks in the mirror
and doesn't see just elbows and knees
and ankles and ribs
Imagine she knows when enough
is enough and doesn't ride her bike
for 20 miles after she's run for
two hours
or then jump in the pool
because she needs to burn off her lunch
Imagine she feels a part of the
family and visits on a regular
basis and is never an
imposition, never upset
because the vacation schedule isn't
exactly what she planned or how she
wants it to be
And at Christmas, she doesn't
drink too much
or call you from a bedroom
at your brother's house
crying that her father is an
asshole
that her brother called her a drunk
that no one loves her
that she's not a part of the family
Imagine she always stays calm
Except on occasions
Like all of us
When the repairman is late
Or the car doesn't work
Or the plane is behind schedule
Or work is particularly stressful
Imagine she has patience
and good judgment
and is able to stand up for herself
when wronged
but let go of it once it's
resolved
Imagine she feels a part of the
world and not
excluded from it
That she contributes to good causes
and does not feel
the world is out to get her
Imagine she's lived in the same house
in the same town
in the same state
all her adult life
and never had to leave
because she owed money
or burned too many bridges
or felt unsettled
or thought it would be
different somewhere else
Imagine she knows how to
love her parents
who are proud of her
because she's claimed positive
space in the world
and not sucked all the energy
from her friends
or her family
or her co-workers
And that her parents can
sleep peacefully at night
knowing she's safe and
financially sound
with a solid job
and a family of her own
and they don't have to wake
up in the middle of the night
sweating with worry or
answering phones
Imagine she's kind
and when you need a familiar
voice you call her up
and she hugs you with her words
and doesn't splatter you with anger
like bacon grease from a hot pan
Imagine you love her
even when you're mad at her
even when she's a bit selfish
or impatient
or difficult
Imagine you love her
because she's solid and whole and
not stuck in some place
you'll never understand
never be able to kick her out of
never be able to convince her she's in
Imagine you feel connected to her
in ways that they write about
in Hallmark Cards
But it's not corny or trite
or laced in pink
Imagine you have an older sister...
whom you love...
I have one
though
Not the one
I imagined...
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Inside my head ...or a stream of...
...random thoughts that swirl around me. I've been up, basically since 4:30 this morning. Chester is sleeping more only waking up at 3, 4:30, 5 and 5:30. Ann and I tag team it. I get up at 3 and 5:30 since 5:30 is my time to get up and make coffee and figure out what breakfast we should have (oatmeal, bagels, or cold cereal). Ann gets up at 4:30 and 5 and then sleeps while I putz in the kitchen, Chester begging at my side. This morning at 3 I realized I hadn't put my bike away, so I fell out of bed, put on my rubber clogs, and shalumped my way to the backyard where my bike sat in the rain. Chester peed, long and hot, steam rising from the grass like something from the moors of Sherlock Holmes. I heard Ann get up at 4:30 and then shalump back into bed, but from 4:30 to 5:30 I couldn't fall back to sleep. I kept thinking about crazy things all starting with "what if..." What if there aren't enough students next year and I have to teach alone? What if Chester has a seizure Thursday night and Ann and I both have big events on Friday that we really can't miss? What if I can't get the lightbulb on the back porch (that broke off while I was trying to change it) out of the socket using a potato like the neighbor suggested? What if my broken toe NEVER heals? What if the 10 pounds I've gained this year stays, just like the 10 pounds I gained when I turned 40 never left? What if I'm manic and this not sleeping is the first sign?
And Ann kept snoring, like a bear, against my back. And I kept whacking her gently on the shoulder though by the tenth time it wasn't so gentle. And finally, just as I started to let my mind stop drilling the same questions over and over, I fell asleep to the sound of the classical music on the alarm clock radio.
But I wasn't grumpy. Tired, but not grumpy. I even rode my bike though the moment I clicked into the pedals the sprinkle became rain and then the rain became a downpour and by the time I got to work I was soaked. But I didn't care because it's Wednesday and I don't really teach on Wednesday since the kids are in art class or in health and fitness class and my teaching partner and I get to work and plan and get semi-organized. We even had time to take our Dean of Faculty for coffee, though we walked in the rain and my hair got all curly and my shoes got all wet...still, I wasn't grumpy.
Am I manic? No, I'm just tired, I kept telling myself, and when I'm tired I try to will myself through the day on a manic breeze.
And when we got back into the classroom where the kids were making these amazing pieces of art I hear floating through the air, "I love you, Gretchen" and I mouth to the art teacher, "Who said that?" but I know who it is and she says, "D." which is exactly who I thought it was since she's had a crush on me since the beginning of the year and tells me on a daily basis how funny I am and asks "can I have a hug?" though I've limited her to one a day, which is so fun to watch as she tries to decide exactly when to ask for it, stalking my desk like a vulture waiting for rotten meat and then backing away because it's just not time, not yet. But the spontaneous "I love yous" have increased and I giggle and my teaching partner giggles and the art teacher giggles because she's not really in love with me, she's just got a crush and it's harmless and meaningful all at the same time.
And then we sit through a faculty meeting while the kids attend their internships--learning to bake bread, making pizza, cleaning up the local park, hip-hop dancing, mastering karate -- and even the faculty meeting can't overwhelm me or grump me out. And D. another teacher, makes me cookies to say thank you for helping her out and I eat three, trying not to be rude at the same time I'm trying not to feel guilty because three cookies means more calories and more calories means the ten extra pounds might be permanent. Still, they are the best homemade cookies and I pass them around to the faculty and staff and 10 minutes into the meeting the 2 dozen cookies are gone and someone breaks out yet another box of Girl Scout Cookies, though I don't have any of those because D's are so much better and I've already had 3 though I could've eaten 10.
At the end of the day, the kids return, some muddy from their park trip in the rain others covered in flour from their baking adventures. And the hallway smells like garlic and the parents are waiting by the front office and I see A. the 7 year old sister of one of my favorite students and she squeals with delight because I always tease her and then I see her mother, recently diagnosed with MS, looking healthy and positive and I give her a hug and then hug her again because she's alive. "What a ride," she tells me and I say, "Nothing like an illness to make you live in the now." And she says, "Ain't that the truth," and A, her young daugter repeats the phrase "Ain't that the truth" and then says, "But you said ain't mommy" and D. the student who has a crush on my comes up and asks, "Can I have my hug?" and I grab her tight and say, "You bet!" and then she asks, "Can I just have one more?" and I say yes, not because she needs to get it, but because I need to give it and she smiles and grabs her mom's hand and heads out into the rain.
I put on my soggy bike clothes, strap up my shoes and booties, and climb on my bike feeling not manic but tired, which is probably more the cookies than the lack of sleep, so I decide to forgo the gym and just ride home in the rain, full throttle in the stream of the now.
And Ann kept snoring, like a bear, against my back. And I kept whacking her gently on the shoulder though by the tenth time it wasn't so gentle. And finally, just as I started to let my mind stop drilling the same questions over and over, I fell asleep to the sound of the classical music on the alarm clock radio.
But I wasn't grumpy. Tired, but not grumpy. I even rode my bike though the moment I clicked into the pedals the sprinkle became rain and then the rain became a downpour and by the time I got to work I was soaked. But I didn't care because it's Wednesday and I don't really teach on Wednesday since the kids are in art class or in health and fitness class and my teaching partner and I get to work and plan and get semi-organized. We even had time to take our Dean of Faculty for coffee, though we walked in the rain and my hair got all curly and my shoes got all wet...still, I wasn't grumpy.
Am I manic? No, I'm just tired, I kept telling myself, and when I'm tired I try to will myself through the day on a manic breeze.
And when we got back into the classroom where the kids were making these amazing pieces of art I hear floating through the air, "I love you, Gretchen" and I mouth to the art teacher, "Who said that?" but I know who it is and she says, "D." which is exactly who I thought it was since she's had a crush on me since the beginning of the year and tells me on a daily basis how funny I am and asks "can I have a hug?" though I've limited her to one a day, which is so fun to watch as she tries to decide exactly when to ask for it, stalking my desk like a vulture waiting for rotten meat and then backing away because it's just not time, not yet. But the spontaneous "I love yous" have increased and I giggle and my teaching partner giggles and the art teacher giggles because she's not really in love with me, she's just got a crush and it's harmless and meaningful all at the same time.
And then we sit through a faculty meeting while the kids attend their internships--learning to bake bread, making pizza, cleaning up the local park, hip-hop dancing, mastering karate -- and even the faculty meeting can't overwhelm me or grump me out. And D. another teacher, makes me cookies to say thank you for helping her out and I eat three, trying not to be rude at the same time I'm trying not to feel guilty because three cookies means more calories and more calories means the ten extra pounds might be permanent. Still, they are the best homemade cookies and I pass them around to the faculty and staff and 10 minutes into the meeting the 2 dozen cookies are gone and someone breaks out yet another box of Girl Scout Cookies, though I don't have any of those because D's are so much better and I've already had 3 though I could've eaten 10.
At the end of the day, the kids return, some muddy from their park trip in the rain others covered in flour from their baking adventures. And the hallway smells like garlic and the parents are waiting by the front office and I see A. the 7 year old sister of one of my favorite students and she squeals with delight because I always tease her and then I see her mother, recently diagnosed with MS, looking healthy and positive and I give her a hug and then hug her again because she's alive. "What a ride," she tells me and I say, "Nothing like an illness to make you live in the now." And she says, "Ain't that the truth," and A, her young daugter repeats the phrase "Ain't that the truth" and then says, "But you said ain't mommy" and D. the student who has a crush on my comes up and asks, "Can I have my hug?" and I grab her tight and say, "You bet!" and then she asks, "Can I just have one more?" and I say yes, not because she needs to get it, but because I need to give it and she smiles and grabs her mom's hand and heads out into the rain.
I put on my soggy bike clothes, strap up my shoes and booties, and climb on my bike feeling not manic but tired, which is probably more the cookies than the lack of sleep, so I decide to forgo the gym and just ride home in the rain, full throttle in the stream of the now.
Friday, March 17, 2006
A Day Off...
The school where I teach calls this day the "Head's Holiday"...she (the Head of School) felt that it was important to have a day off in March since there aren't presidents or civil rights leaders in this month.
Ahhhhhhh...how nice it feels...even though I woke at 5:15 with Mr. Pajama Pants. I let Ann sleep in as she has a math workshop to attend to today.
So, I'm doing laundry, did the dishes, paid the bills and when it stops raining for a moment, I shall take Chester (aka: Mr. Pajama Pants) on a walk through the neighborhood, past the mailbox where we shall mail the bills I just paid.
Then a haircut...much needed as I look like Elvis or perhaps Roy Orbison this day. Then I'll pick up Ann and we'll go for an obligatory workout, walk Chester again (in our old neighborhood) and take a gander at the remodel, which as of yesterday, has all new windows. Wow, did that change everthing. As did the new front door. It's amazing what new and clean can do to spruce up a house built in 1900.
Things are moving fast -- new appliances on Tuesday afternoon, cabinetry the week after, and siding as an on-going process. I feel so decadent, though I know our abode is still humble by some standards...then again, a mansion by others. Perspective. It's all about perspective.
My parents and Bookworm and Fossilguy are at the beach and I wish them well. I hope there is no rain, a stiff wind for kites, and lots of leisure time to work on puzzles, read books, and discuss whatever it is that Bookworm brings up about the Sopranos.
I know my parents read this blog, but I must say, they are active "elderly"...yes, mom, 78/79 is elderly...hell, it's past the life expectancy of most Americans. While I'm proud of them for living such rich and full lives, I worry about them so far away at the ocean. Though I think, and don't take this the wrong way folks, but I think, what better place for them to "pass on" if it is their time -- at the beach house where they've spent a yearly expedition with their dear friends eating amazing food and laughing through the most awful weather.
But my mother is too stubborn to "pass on" and my dad needs my mom so I'm certain they'll be flying kites again next year at this time.
Meanwhile, there's a dog to walk and a mound of hair to cut and laundry to fold and a partner to meet and a house to watch grow and a day to spend not thinking about 11 year olds.
Nice. Very. Very. Nice.
Ahhhhhhh...how nice it feels...even though I woke at 5:15 with Mr. Pajama Pants. I let Ann sleep in as she has a math workshop to attend to today.
So, I'm doing laundry, did the dishes, paid the bills and when it stops raining for a moment, I shall take Chester (aka: Mr. Pajama Pants) on a walk through the neighborhood, past the mailbox where we shall mail the bills I just paid.
Then a haircut...much needed as I look like Elvis or perhaps Roy Orbison this day. Then I'll pick up Ann and we'll go for an obligatory workout, walk Chester again (in our old neighborhood) and take a gander at the remodel, which as of yesterday, has all new windows. Wow, did that change everthing. As did the new front door. It's amazing what new and clean can do to spruce up a house built in 1900.
Things are moving fast -- new appliances on Tuesday afternoon, cabinetry the week after, and siding as an on-going process. I feel so decadent, though I know our abode is still humble by some standards...then again, a mansion by others. Perspective. It's all about perspective.
My parents and Bookworm and Fossilguy are at the beach and I wish them well. I hope there is no rain, a stiff wind for kites, and lots of leisure time to work on puzzles, read books, and discuss whatever it is that Bookworm brings up about the Sopranos.
I know my parents read this blog, but I must say, they are active "elderly"...yes, mom, 78/79 is elderly...hell, it's past the life expectancy of most Americans. While I'm proud of them for living such rich and full lives, I worry about them so far away at the ocean. Though I think, and don't take this the wrong way folks, but I think, what better place for them to "pass on" if it is their time -- at the beach house where they've spent a yearly expedition with their dear friends eating amazing food and laughing through the most awful weather.
But my mother is too stubborn to "pass on" and my dad needs my mom so I'm certain they'll be flying kites again next year at this time.
Meanwhile, there's a dog to walk and a mound of hair to cut and laundry to fold and a partner to meet and a house to watch grow and a day to spend not thinking about 11 year olds.
Nice. Very. Very. Nice.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Our house...
What our house once looked like...640 square feet of purplish pink tar shingles...and what it looks like now...more room, no shingles, just orange paint on rotten wood...
This is a long process...I can hardly wait for it to be done as I am ready to make my own mess in my own house once again!
The best black dog...
Ann took this photo. We have many good ones of the boy, but this is by far my favorite. I often say he looks professorial, but this one, with the shadowed eye, the wisps of hair across his muzzle...this is more like a Hollywood photo. Carey Grant.
What a guy...of course, he got me up at 4:30, but hell, I still love him. As my brother reminded me on the phone, "Dogs live in the now. He doesn't know he's dying so why should we focus on it."
Monday, March 06, 2006
Omens
Searching for omens is something humans must do consiously or unconsciously all the time.
Or maybe it's just me.
Last night, after Chester's second seizure in two hours, the cresent moon stared blindly into the cup of the empty Big Dipper. Chester struggled to urinate, circling the small yard like a prisoner taking advantage of his daily hour of exercise. I watched the sky as the breeze from the south pushed a curtain of clouds first over the moon and then the stars, inching out their performance one star at a time.
I sat squat against myself, hugging my last bit of warmth waiting for Chester to release the gallon of water he always drinks after his seizures. To no avail. It would take at least 10 more trips out to the backyard before he finally settled down on his bed and we slept, one ear open, waiting for the possibility of one more seizure.
He had three this weekend. Another omen, I'm sure.
Today the breeze is a gusting wind shaking off the early blooms of the cherry tree and sending clouds racing across a tattered blue sky. The rain comes in fits, never enough to get anything wet, and then passes to make way for blasts of sunshine and filtered shadows.
I went to work for the morning. With a field trip planned to the Aquarium, I didn't feel it was fair to leave my teaching partner in the lurch, so I pulled myself into work just in time to board the city bus and make our way to the waterfront.
On the bus, two old men sat in the last seats across the aisle from each other. With 22 students, everyone seat was used and some of us held on precariously to the straps above our heads, swaying in the middle of the aisle. Our youngest student (not in age, but spirit...she still wears jumpers...something you don't see much in a 5th grader anymore), stood between the two old men. They were drunk and one held a paperbag with the tall label of the beer can protruding from the top. He drank then spit then glared at me while I glared momma cub eyes back at him. He spit again and said loudly, "Ya gonna tell on me, bitch?"
R., the student, looked cautiously at him, then stared panic stricken back at me. I tried, with my eyes, to tell her all would be okay. I tried to manuver my way back to them, to position my body in such a way that the beer man would not be so close to the jumper-clad child. The bus was too full and all I could do was send reassuring messages with one eye while I sent threatening signals with the other.
Finally, we got off the bus. Of course, beer man and his friend did, too. The students waited patiently on the sidewalk as the men walked past them, spitting and laughing. Four girls huddled around R, wrapping their arms around her tiny shoulders.
"You okay, R?" I asked.
"He called you the b-word," she gasped, astonished.
"It's okay, sweetie," I reassured her. "He's not the first and he won't be the last."
Some students laughed, others looked at me in wonder.
I wanted to tell her -- there are constants in the world. Stars, drunks, dying dogs, and sleepy teachers.
Somewhere in there are omens.
Or maybe it's just me.
Last night, after Chester's second seizure in two hours, the cresent moon stared blindly into the cup of the empty Big Dipper. Chester struggled to urinate, circling the small yard like a prisoner taking advantage of his daily hour of exercise. I watched the sky as the breeze from the south pushed a curtain of clouds first over the moon and then the stars, inching out their performance one star at a time.
I sat squat against myself, hugging my last bit of warmth waiting for Chester to release the gallon of water he always drinks after his seizures. To no avail. It would take at least 10 more trips out to the backyard before he finally settled down on his bed and we slept, one ear open, waiting for the possibility of one more seizure.
He had three this weekend. Another omen, I'm sure.
Today the breeze is a gusting wind shaking off the early blooms of the cherry tree and sending clouds racing across a tattered blue sky. The rain comes in fits, never enough to get anything wet, and then passes to make way for blasts of sunshine and filtered shadows.
I went to work for the morning. With a field trip planned to the Aquarium, I didn't feel it was fair to leave my teaching partner in the lurch, so I pulled myself into work just in time to board the city bus and make our way to the waterfront.
On the bus, two old men sat in the last seats across the aisle from each other. With 22 students, everyone seat was used and some of us held on precariously to the straps above our heads, swaying in the middle of the aisle. Our youngest student (not in age, but spirit...she still wears jumpers...something you don't see much in a 5th grader anymore), stood between the two old men. They were drunk and one held a paperbag with the tall label of the beer can protruding from the top. He drank then spit then glared at me while I glared momma cub eyes back at him. He spit again and said loudly, "Ya gonna tell on me, bitch?"
R., the student, looked cautiously at him, then stared panic stricken back at me. I tried, with my eyes, to tell her all would be okay. I tried to manuver my way back to them, to position my body in such a way that the beer man would not be so close to the jumper-clad child. The bus was too full and all I could do was send reassuring messages with one eye while I sent threatening signals with the other.
Finally, we got off the bus. Of course, beer man and his friend did, too. The students waited patiently on the sidewalk as the men walked past them, spitting and laughing. Four girls huddled around R, wrapping their arms around her tiny shoulders.
"You okay, R?" I asked.
"He called you the b-word," she gasped, astonished.
"It's okay, sweetie," I reassured her. "He's not the first and he won't be the last."
Some students laughed, others looked at me in wonder.
I wanted to tell her -- there are constants in the world. Stars, drunks, dying dogs, and sleepy teachers.
Somewhere in there are omens.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
A little brain power
Found a way to post Chester/Dash's pictures...just required a bit of READING THE INSTRUCTIONS (and I call myself a teacher!)...
The top picture is of the Dashboard wonder begging from beneath the Thanksgiving table at Fossilguy and Bookworm's house..."Any scrap will do!"
And to the side, the cute boy lying on the couch at our housesitting gig...don't worry, the people who own the house said it was okay to do so, IF the blue sheet was on the couch...which you can see it is!
More later, now that I've figured this picture thing out!
Friday, March 03, 2006
Dashboard Love
"The dog wags his tail, not for you, but for your bread." ~Portuguese Proverb
So, here's my first confession. We own an SUV -- a big, green Toyota 4-Runner. It gets about 18-20 miles to the gallon. My only consolation is that we only own one car and we don't use it that often (we ride our bikes, carpool, or walk to work). But still. It's a blemish on my environmentalist personna.
Oh, and it has a leather interior.
Next confession. Ann and I have no sense of style or fashion. I believe this is because we are lesbians and I realize this smacks of stereotyping, but so be it. We are dykes who purchase a hodge-podge of things simply because they are functional, gifts, or we like them (we pay no attention to trends, brand names, or sticking to a theme). Because of our lack of decorating sense, we've hired a designer to help us with our remodel. It feels very chic and expensive, but it's not really. The designer is very nice and works well within the limited budget we've proposed. We're hoping with her help that our paint colors won't scream middle-aged lesbian anymore.
Okay, with all that in mind, I've been thinking a lot about love these days. Perhaps it's a leftover from Valentine's Day (where Ann and I just gave each other stools for the soon to be kitchen island in the new remodel!), but love has been on my mind because of Chester.
Chester is our 12 and 1/2 year old dog. He's adorable, loveable, and loyal. Everyone who knows Chester loves Chester. Unfortunately, he suffers from seizures, brought on (the vets think) by a brain tumor. To stop the seizures...actually to limit them because he still has them (about every 3-5 weeks), we give him pheno-barbital. We started at 2 pills a day and are now up to 7, increasing the dose with every series of seizures he suffers. For his size and weight, his limit will be 13 a day. So, as we see it, we're about half way there to making the tough decision of putting him down.
The drugs make him a little loopy at first, but the biggest side effect is that he thinks he is starving all the time and spends every night before he goes to sleep, whining and begging for just one more morsel of something, anything. His moans and groans are so loud and long at times, that we have to turn the volume up on the TV just to drown him out.
We've talking a lot about when is the right time to put him down, wondering when we'll know for certain if the time comes. I've done this before, put a dog down, and I knew it was right and felt good about the decision I made, but still, it doesn't get any clearer or easier with the second dog.
Meanwhile, a colleague of Ann's has announced her retirement recently, stating that she wants to go out on a good year. This, she feels has been a good year.
Our discussion last night was, Do we let Chester go out on a good day or do we wait for the inevitable down turn and suffering that's bound to come?
There have been a lot of tears. There has been a lot of discussion about quality of life -- his AND ours as he gets up about 5-7 times a night to go out and relieve himself...this is despite the "diaper" (which we call a Speedo) he must wear while in the house.
We're tired...very tired.
And yet, every time we look at his amber eyes, his pensive smile, and watch his wagging tail flag a breeze, we know we could never put him to sleep while he is in this state.
So, we sleep less, try to catch up on the weekends, and wait for the next round of seizures, which are not only painful to watch, but require one of us to take a day off of work to make certain he doesn't have anymore.
The other night, we went to visit our designer at her house (this way we don't have to pay her travel costs) and had a nice time looking at cabinets and fixtures and laughing about the rich clients she's working with in Medina (a posh suburb of Seattle).
Chester waited for us in the car -- the big, expensive, gas-guzzling SUV dog house --and Ann went out to check on him and give him his medication once during our 2 hour meeting with the designer. At the end of the evening, Ann and I climbed into the over-sized and environmentally damaging car and realized there was something all over the seat and floor on the front passenger side.
After a moment of fear (Oh my god, he's had a seizure while in the car!), we realized that Chester, in his ferocious desire to eat, had tried to eat his way through the dashboard to get to the dog treats in the glove compartment. The dashboard was mangled and torn with bits and chunks of plastic and foam everywhere.
I turned to Ann: So, how do we react to this?
Ann: (long, long pause)...Brown duct tape?
We laughed.
Which do we love more our expensive SUV or our dog? Our dog, of course, but it was a humbling moment, a brief pause when we had to take stock of all we had of value in our lives-- our paid-for expensive car, our new remodel with its fancy kitchen, the money dwindling in our bank accounts -- and weigh it against all we valued in our lives -- each other, our health, a nice home, families who are intact and still all alive, and most importantly our dog, Chester who proved to us that he's not close to being put down with the amount of energy he exerted for the taste of just one more cookie.
Chester has many nicknames -- Boo Boo, Chester-man, Chester One -leaf (leaves cling to him like white on rice), and now DASH, the dog who'd risk plastic and airbags, steel and foam, the possibility of another seizure for the tiniest morsel of food.
Do they even make brown duct tape?
So, here's my first confession. We own an SUV -- a big, green Toyota 4-Runner. It gets about 18-20 miles to the gallon. My only consolation is that we only own one car and we don't use it that often (we ride our bikes, carpool, or walk to work). But still. It's a blemish on my environmentalist personna.
Oh, and it has a leather interior.
Next confession. Ann and I have no sense of style or fashion. I believe this is because we are lesbians and I realize this smacks of stereotyping, but so be it. We are dykes who purchase a hodge-podge of things simply because they are functional, gifts, or we like them (we pay no attention to trends, brand names, or sticking to a theme). Because of our lack of decorating sense, we've hired a designer to help us with our remodel. It feels very chic and expensive, but it's not really. The designer is very nice and works well within the limited budget we've proposed. We're hoping with her help that our paint colors won't scream middle-aged lesbian anymore.
Okay, with all that in mind, I've been thinking a lot about love these days. Perhaps it's a leftover from Valentine's Day (where Ann and I just gave each other stools for the soon to be kitchen island in the new remodel!), but love has been on my mind because of Chester.
Chester is our 12 and 1/2 year old dog. He's adorable, loveable, and loyal. Everyone who knows Chester loves Chester. Unfortunately, he suffers from seizures, brought on (the vets think) by a brain tumor. To stop the seizures...actually to limit them because he still has them (about every 3-5 weeks), we give him pheno-barbital. We started at 2 pills a day and are now up to 7, increasing the dose with every series of seizures he suffers. For his size and weight, his limit will be 13 a day. So, as we see it, we're about half way there to making the tough decision of putting him down.
The drugs make him a little loopy at first, but the biggest side effect is that he thinks he is starving all the time and spends every night before he goes to sleep, whining and begging for just one more morsel of something, anything. His moans and groans are so loud and long at times, that we have to turn the volume up on the TV just to drown him out.
We've talking a lot about when is the right time to put him down, wondering when we'll know for certain if the time comes. I've done this before, put a dog down, and I knew it was right and felt good about the decision I made, but still, it doesn't get any clearer or easier with the second dog.
Meanwhile, a colleague of Ann's has announced her retirement recently, stating that she wants to go out on a good year. This, she feels has been a good year.
Our discussion last night was, Do we let Chester go out on a good day or do we wait for the inevitable down turn and suffering that's bound to come?
There have been a lot of tears. There has been a lot of discussion about quality of life -- his AND ours as he gets up about 5-7 times a night to go out and relieve himself...this is despite the "diaper" (which we call a Speedo) he must wear while in the house.
We're tired...very tired.
And yet, every time we look at his amber eyes, his pensive smile, and watch his wagging tail flag a breeze, we know we could never put him to sleep while he is in this state.
So, we sleep less, try to catch up on the weekends, and wait for the next round of seizures, which are not only painful to watch, but require one of us to take a day off of work to make certain he doesn't have anymore.
The other night, we went to visit our designer at her house (this way we don't have to pay her travel costs) and had a nice time looking at cabinets and fixtures and laughing about the rich clients she's working with in Medina (a posh suburb of Seattle).
Chester waited for us in the car -- the big, expensive, gas-guzzling SUV dog house --and Ann went out to check on him and give him his medication once during our 2 hour meeting with the designer. At the end of the evening, Ann and I climbed into the over-sized and environmentally damaging car and realized there was something all over the seat and floor on the front passenger side.
After a moment of fear (Oh my god, he's had a seizure while in the car!), we realized that Chester, in his ferocious desire to eat, had tried to eat his way through the dashboard to get to the dog treats in the glove compartment. The dashboard was mangled and torn with bits and chunks of plastic and foam everywhere.
I turned to Ann: So, how do we react to this?
Ann: (long, long pause)...Brown duct tape?
We laughed.
Which do we love more our expensive SUV or our dog? Our dog, of course, but it was a humbling moment, a brief pause when we had to take stock of all we had of value in our lives-- our paid-for expensive car, our new remodel with its fancy kitchen, the money dwindling in our bank accounts -- and weigh it against all we valued in our lives -- each other, our health, a nice home, families who are intact and still all alive, and most importantly our dog, Chester who proved to us that he's not close to being put down with the amount of energy he exerted for the taste of just one more cookie.
Chester has many nicknames -- Boo Boo, Chester-man, Chester One -leaf (leaves cling to him like white on rice), and now DASH, the dog who'd risk plastic and airbags, steel and foam, the possibility of another seizure for the tiniest morsel of food.
Do they even make brown duct tape?
Monday, February 27, 2006
Black clouds and tennis balls
There were clouds today. Big black ones hanging over the city, threatening rain though never delivering until this evening. And even now, it's a sputter of a rain coating the streets one more time with a damp blackness.
I rode my bike today. I didn't want to, but I knew it would make me feel better. Only it didn't. It made me tired.
The first day back after vacation is always like a sledgehammer rattling me out of my quiet vacation stupor. The questions. Oh god, the questions.
I do an activity with my students a the beginning of the year. I hand them each a tennis ball and then I tell them that I'm going to stand at the front of the room with a bucket. On the count of three, they need to "toss" their tennis ball into the bucket. 1-2-3 and the balls come whipping at me. The kids who don't like me much throw them with vigor and malice and the others, who may or may not like me, cringe as they give an underhanded attempt at getting the ball into the bucket.
I then ask the kids if that strategy worked...how many balls did I get in my bucket? I've never had more than 4 balls caught in a class ranging from 25-35 students. The kids brainstorm ways they could be more successful until everyone agrees that they should all toss the balls one at a time. Then I ask, "What if you didn't toss them? What if you walked up here and put the ball into the bucket?"
"That wouldn't be any fun!" they all scream at me.
They're right...for them it's not as fun. But for me, it's not only more fun, but I'm more successful at catching each and every ball in the room.
This, I tell, is an analogy. The bucket is ME and the balls are their questions. "If 30 of you lob your questions at me or demand my attention all at the same time, I'll never be able to "catch" them. I won't feel very successful and you won't feel like I hear you."
For the rest of the year, when I'm feeling overwhlemed I say, "Hey this is a tennis ball moment!" And they all stop and wait their turns, lobbing questions one at a time.
Today, they forgot all about the tennis ball moments. They lobbed and tossed and chucked and pitched...I got curve balls and spit balls and change up and sliders. By the time I got on my bike to come home, I didn't know if I could make it up the hill...heavy with tennis balls I shifted into low gear and just pushed one leg after the other toward the earth, watching my wheel inch forward on the pavement.
The first day back. Wimbeldon, US Open, Australian Open, and the French Open all rolled into one. World Series, all 7 games, tossed in for good measure.
The killer pitch today was finding out that one of my favorite moms of one of my favorite students has MS. Her daughter broke out in tears today admist all the balls flying hapharzardly around the room.
Nothing in this world is fair. It's hard, but it sure ain't fair.
I now see the black clouds as just that...
I rode my bike today. I didn't want to, but I knew it would make me feel better. Only it didn't. It made me tired.
The first day back after vacation is always like a sledgehammer rattling me out of my quiet vacation stupor. The questions. Oh god, the questions.
I do an activity with my students a the beginning of the year. I hand them each a tennis ball and then I tell them that I'm going to stand at the front of the room with a bucket. On the count of three, they need to "toss" their tennis ball into the bucket. 1-2-3 and the balls come whipping at me. The kids who don't like me much throw them with vigor and malice and the others, who may or may not like me, cringe as they give an underhanded attempt at getting the ball into the bucket.
I then ask the kids if that strategy worked...how many balls did I get in my bucket? I've never had more than 4 balls caught in a class ranging from 25-35 students. The kids brainstorm ways they could be more successful until everyone agrees that they should all toss the balls one at a time. Then I ask, "What if you didn't toss them? What if you walked up here and put the ball into the bucket?"
"That wouldn't be any fun!" they all scream at me.
They're right...for them it's not as fun. But for me, it's not only more fun, but I'm more successful at catching each and every ball in the room.
This, I tell, is an analogy. The bucket is ME and the balls are their questions. "If 30 of you lob your questions at me or demand my attention all at the same time, I'll never be able to "catch" them. I won't feel very successful and you won't feel like I hear you."
For the rest of the year, when I'm feeling overwhlemed I say, "Hey this is a tennis ball moment!" And they all stop and wait their turns, lobbing questions one at a time.
Today, they forgot all about the tennis ball moments. They lobbed and tossed and chucked and pitched...I got curve balls and spit balls and change up and sliders. By the time I got on my bike to come home, I didn't know if I could make it up the hill...heavy with tennis balls I shifted into low gear and just pushed one leg after the other toward the earth, watching my wheel inch forward on the pavement.
The first day back. Wimbeldon, US Open, Australian Open, and the French Open all rolled into one. World Series, all 7 games, tossed in for good measure.
The killer pitch today was finding out that one of my favorite moms of one of my favorite students has MS. Her daughter broke out in tears today admist all the balls flying hapharzardly around the room.
Nothing in this world is fair. It's hard, but it sure ain't fair.
I now see the black clouds as just that...
Saturday, February 25, 2006
A pound of flesh versus...
... a pound of fish?
We're at this new gym we joined last week. Small, but clean with lots of machines crammed into a long space, though it doesn't feel tiny or cramped.
We're sweating riding the recumbent bikes.
In front of us, on the wall, are two TV sets...one to the left, one to the right. I'm not really listening...I have on my headphones and am grooving to Brandi Carlile and Angelique Kidjo.
Ann is staring to the left where the TV channel is tuned into a boob job. Yes, a boob job. A petite woman is under the knife and there it is, for everyone to see, her "fat" (though it really isn't because she is, as I've said, petite with barely an ounce of fat on her). There is blood, lots of it, and white tissue, which I assume is the fat. The doctors are folding and bending the blood and the tissue and cutting it off like fabric.
She doesn't stop at her tummy or her boobs -- the boobs get extra "tissue" while the tummy gets "trimmed" -- they do her face and her chin and her nose, too. She's one big bandage when her husband comes in the recovery room and asks to have a look (well, I assume he did because I'm listening now to Ani DiFranco, not the TV) and she lifts up her hospital gown and there are her new and improved boobs sitting their like sculpted rock formations -- smooth, round, and fully exposed like two mountains.
And her hospital gown stays up for a long time while her husband stares and smiles and shakes the doctor's (another male) hand. The husband looks as proud as a new papa of twins. The wife's gown is still up over her head as these two men gawk at the bouncing babies lying on the hospital bed.
I turn away.
I look at the TV on my right.
There is a large man in front of a huge audience gathered in some kind of stadium to watch some guy come up to a huge scale to weigh his freshly caught fish -- bass or something -- and in the audience is this guy's wife, proud as can be, anticipating the "weigh in", which according to the words flashing up on the screen must beat 32 pounds in order to win the grand prize. I haven't a clue what the prize is, but in the backround is this gi-normous power boat glistening under the stage lights.
They show a close up of the bass flat out on the scale. They show a close up of the wife, hands covering her anxious mouth. They show a close up of the fisherman who looks as if he just got off his boat after 3 days of round the clock bass fishing. They show the numbers of the scale going up and down and up and down until they finally settle on 37.3 and the fisherman goes crazy. His wife goes crazy. The audience goes crazy. The lights on the boat start flashing different colors. The wife runs up on the stage and throws herself into his arms and he bounces her up and down and up and down.
Another close up on the fish. Another close up on the wife, now crying uncontrollably. Another close up on the guy who caught the winning fish who keeps tipping his baseball cap up off his head and then back down again, as if to say, "Well, shoot, it weren't nothin'"...
I keep pedaling. I decide to close my eyes since the bike is stationary. I listen to my music. Indigo Girls followed by Lucinda Williams followed by Bonnie Raitt.
There's an older woman to my right who has been talking to herself the whole time we've been working out. I take off my headphones to wipe the sweat from my forehead, when I realize she's not talking to herself, she's talking to me.
She's about 70 years old and she's pedaling the bike about as slow as it can go, but she's pedaling. I smile at her and she says, "I told all them trainers they got around here, I look good enough already. Just tell me what I need to do to lower my cholesterol."
I laugh. Then I look up at the TV to the left. There's the boob job woman months later taking her daughter to ballet class. She looks like a Barbie Doll. I look to the right and there is the winning bass fisherman months later, standing in his new fangled boat, baseball cap askew, his rod (and I mean his fishing pole here) tucked into his groin as he heaves and reels, heaves and reels, a proud smile pressed against his face, his wife no where in the picture.
And the 70 year old woman turns to me and says, "We didn't have to do none or this here stuff when I was 13."
Amen, I think, Amen.
We're at this new gym we joined last week. Small, but clean with lots of machines crammed into a long space, though it doesn't feel tiny or cramped.
We're sweating riding the recumbent bikes.
In front of us, on the wall, are two TV sets...one to the left, one to the right. I'm not really listening...I have on my headphones and am grooving to Brandi Carlile and Angelique Kidjo.
Ann is staring to the left where the TV channel is tuned into a boob job. Yes, a boob job. A petite woman is under the knife and there it is, for everyone to see, her "fat" (though it really isn't because she is, as I've said, petite with barely an ounce of fat on her). There is blood, lots of it, and white tissue, which I assume is the fat. The doctors are folding and bending the blood and the tissue and cutting it off like fabric.
She doesn't stop at her tummy or her boobs -- the boobs get extra "tissue" while the tummy gets "trimmed" -- they do her face and her chin and her nose, too. She's one big bandage when her husband comes in the recovery room and asks to have a look (well, I assume he did because I'm listening now to Ani DiFranco, not the TV) and she lifts up her hospital gown and there are her new and improved boobs sitting their like sculpted rock formations -- smooth, round, and fully exposed like two mountains.
And her hospital gown stays up for a long time while her husband stares and smiles and shakes the doctor's (another male) hand. The husband looks as proud as a new papa of twins. The wife's gown is still up over her head as these two men gawk at the bouncing babies lying on the hospital bed.
I turn away.
I look at the TV on my right.
There is a large man in front of a huge audience gathered in some kind of stadium to watch some guy come up to a huge scale to weigh his freshly caught fish -- bass or something -- and in the audience is this guy's wife, proud as can be, anticipating the "weigh in", which according to the words flashing up on the screen must beat 32 pounds in order to win the grand prize. I haven't a clue what the prize is, but in the backround is this gi-normous power boat glistening under the stage lights.
They show a close up of the bass flat out on the scale. They show a close up of the wife, hands covering her anxious mouth. They show a close up of the fisherman who looks as if he just got off his boat after 3 days of round the clock bass fishing. They show the numbers of the scale going up and down and up and down until they finally settle on 37.3 and the fisherman goes crazy. His wife goes crazy. The audience goes crazy. The lights on the boat start flashing different colors. The wife runs up on the stage and throws herself into his arms and he bounces her up and down and up and down.
Another close up on the fish. Another close up on the wife, now crying uncontrollably. Another close up on the guy who caught the winning fish who keeps tipping his baseball cap up off his head and then back down again, as if to say, "Well, shoot, it weren't nothin'"...
I keep pedaling. I decide to close my eyes since the bike is stationary. I listen to my music. Indigo Girls followed by Lucinda Williams followed by Bonnie Raitt.
There's an older woman to my right who has been talking to herself the whole time we've been working out. I take off my headphones to wipe the sweat from my forehead, when I realize she's not talking to herself, she's talking to me.
She's about 70 years old and she's pedaling the bike about as slow as it can go, but she's pedaling. I smile at her and she says, "I told all them trainers they got around here, I look good enough already. Just tell me what I need to do to lower my cholesterol."
I laugh. Then I look up at the TV to the left. There's the boob job woman months later taking her daughter to ballet class. She looks like a Barbie Doll. I look to the right and there is the winning bass fisherman months later, standing in his new fangled boat, baseball cap askew, his rod (and I mean his fishing pole here) tucked into his groin as he heaves and reels, heaves and reels, a proud smile pressed against his face, his wife no where in the picture.
And the 70 year old woman turns to me and says, "We didn't have to do none or this here stuff when I was 13."
Amen, I think, Amen.
Friday, February 24, 2006
And yet another reason...
...not to live in South Dakota.
First, I am a lesbian and so, you may ask yourself, why would I give a hoot if abortion were legal or not? For me to get pregnant would be, shall we say, a miracle or some sort of well-planned event but never an accident.
Secondly, I live in the State of Washington where abortion is and has been legal for many, many years so why do I give a hoot about South Dakota?
Lastly, isn't this what we all expected with Bush as a president...the not so slow movement to the extremist right so why should I be so surprised by South Dakota's legislature banning abortion?
My answer to #1: If they can invade the bodies of women in South Dakota, they are one step closer to invading the bodies of those they feel immoral...like lesbians. But more importantly, ALL women should have the right to CHOOSE...and I'm not just talking bodies here.
My answer to #2: This is a bit more involved. Last summer, Ann and I drove back to Michigan to visit, of all people, her ex and her adopted daughter. Visiting the ex and her daughter was a trip, but I'll save that for another post...maybe. The drive TO Michigan was the real eye opener. Washington driving was okay...familiar and relatively safe. Montana was just big, but beautiful, but the bigness got to us after awhile. Wyoming was scary because of the two thunder storms we travelled between and the number of Halliburton trucks that passed us and the memory of Mathew Shepard's death.
But South Dakota was one of the most frightening places I have ever been. I didn't mind the landscape, though I hated the enormous billboards advertising innane tourist traps like Wall Drug. What got to me was when we pulled into our hotel and wandered, hungry and tired, into the dining room that offered an "All You Can Eat" seafood bar!
Who are they shittin? Seafood? In landlocked South Dakota?
We ordered something mundane, which included a trip to the salad bar...the ICEBERG lettuce salad bar!
This was all comical and as Ann always says, "If you didn't have a good time at least you have a good story!" But the frightening part happened when Ann and I walked into the hotel and then the restaurant. EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE, stared at us. Like we had elephants growing out the tops of our heads. Or worse, poisonous fungus the leapt like fire to every passerby.
It was the most uncomfortable feeling. No one smiled. Not the waitress, not the desk clerk, not the little kids piled high at the dessert table, not even the people we made smiled at in an attempt to soothe the savages. (One word about the dessert bar: EVERYTHING was "creamed"...Boston Cream Pie, Banana Cream Pie, Chocolate Cream Pie, Coconut Cream Pie...you get the drift...)
But there was no soothing the beasts. Daggers. Bullets. Whips. Chainsaws. Knives. All optically thrown at us...two women "alone"...two women travelling together...two women in shorts and t-shirts...two women with muscles.
We sought refuge in our hotel room where we talked about the feeling of hatred permeating the state.
"Did I forget to turn off my "lesbian" neon sign on my back?" I asked Ann.
"No, but the sign now reads 'Kill me, I'm queer'" Ann retorted.
The next day, we left early and drove fast, not even stopping to see the Black Hills, which I know are beautiful, but I wasn't going to risk my life for nature.
By the time we reached Minnesota, we were dying for a friendly face and an espresso stand (which are a dime a dozen in the Pacific Northwest).
Thankfully, we found a nice little coffee shop on the outskirts of Minnesota that sold fresh blueberry cobbler and a mean tasting latte. More importantly, the young girl who served us looked like a hippie reincarnated as she listened to Dave Matthews on her stereo, her caucasian dreds unwashed and beautiful.
Answer to #3: I have no answer to #3 except to say WHERE THE HELL ARE THE LEFTIST RADICALS and why aren't they screaming in unison?
I am thankful I do not live in South Dakota. I am sorry for anyone who does. I am particularly sorry for the women of South Dakota who wish to CHOOSE something different for their bodies than what the State has mandated. I feel sorry for the queers in South Dakota, unless of course they are Republican and then I have to ask, "Why? How? Oxymoron?"
I know I will most likely never travel through South Dakota again...I'll venture North to the more "liberal" North Dakota for my travels East or miss that whole middle section and travel south through...oh wait, Wyoming and Utah ain't much better...prettier, but not much better.
Perhaps I'll take a plane next time.
I wonder if there is some competition I've missed out on...which red state can be the reddest? My vote goes to South Dakota!
First, I am a lesbian and so, you may ask yourself, why would I give a hoot if abortion were legal or not? For me to get pregnant would be, shall we say, a miracle or some sort of well-planned event but never an accident.
Secondly, I live in the State of Washington where abortion is and has been legal for many, many years so why do I give a hoot about South Dakota?
Lastly, isn't this what we all expected with Bush as a president...the not so slow movement to the extremist right so why should I be so surprised by South Dakota's legislature banning abortion?
My answer to #1: If they can invade the bodies of women in South Dakota, they are one step closer to invading the bodies of those they feel immoral...like lesbians. But more importantly, ALL women should have the right to CHOOSE...and I'm not just talking bodies here.
My answer to #2: This is a bit more involved. Last summer, Ann and I drove back to Michigan to visit, of all people, her ex and her adopted daughter. Visiting the ex and her daughter was a trip, but I'll save that for another post...maybe. The drive TO Michigan was the real eye opener. Washington driving was okay...familiar and relatively safe. Montana was just big, but beautiful, but the bigness got to us after awhile. Wyoming was scary because of the two thunder storms we travelled between and the number of Halliburton trucks that passed us and the memory of Mathew Shepard's death.
But South Dakota was one of the most frightening places I have ever been. I didn't mind the landscape, though I hated the enormous billboards advertising innane tourist traps like Wall Drug. What got to me was when we pulled into our hotel and wandered, hungry and tired, into the dining room that offered an "All You Can Eat" seafood bar!
Who are they shittin? Seafood? In landlocked South Dakota?
We ordered something mundane, which included a trip to the salad bar...the ICEBERG lettuce salad bar!
This was all comical and as Ann always says, "If you didn't have a good time at least you have a good story!" But the frightening part happened when Ann and I walked into the hotel and then the restaurant. EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE, stared at us. Like we had elephants growing out the tops of our heads. Or worse, poisonous fungus the leapt like fire to every passerby.
It was the most uncomfortable feeling. No one smiled. Not the waitress, not the desk clerk, not the little kids piled high at the dessert table, not even the people we made smiled at in an attempt to soothe the savages. (One word about the dessert bar: EVERYTHING was "creamed"...Boston Cream Pie, Banana Cream Pie, Chocolate Cream Pie, Coconut Cream Pie...you get the drift...)
But there was no soothing the beasts. Daggers. Bullets. Whips. Chainsaws. Knives. All optically thrown at us...two women "alone"...two women travelling together...two women in shorts and t-shirts...two women with muscles.
We sought refuge in our hotel room where we talked about the feeling of hatred permeating the state.
"Did I forget to turn off my "lesbian" neon sign on my back?" I asked Ann.
"No, but the sign now reads 'Kill me, I'm queer'" Ann retorted.
The next day, we left early and drove fast, not even stopping to see the Black Hills, which I know are beautiful, but I wasn't going to risk my life for nature.
By the time we reached Minnesota, we were dying for a friendly face and an espresso stand (which are a dime a dozen in the Pacific Northwest).
Thankfully, we found a nice little coffee shop on the outskirts of Minnesota that sold fresh blueberry cobbler and a mean tasting latte. More importantly, the young girl who served us looked like a hippie reincarnated as she listened to Dave Matthews on her stereo, her caucasian dreds unwashed and beautiful.
Answer to #3: I have no answer to #3 except to say WHERE THE HELL ARE THE LEFTIST RADICALS and why aren't they screaming in unison?
I am thankful I do not live in South Dakota. I am sorry for anyone who does. I am particularly sorry for the women of South Dakota who wish to CHOOSE something different for their bodies than what the State has mandated. I feel sorry for the queers in South Dakota, unless of course they are Republican and then I have to ask, "Why? How? Oxymoron?"
I know I will most likely never travel through South Dakota again...I'll venture North to the more "liberal" North Dakota for my travels East or miss that whole middle section and travel south through...oh wait, Wyoming and Utah ain't much better...prettier, but not much better.
Perhaps I'll take a plane next time.
I wonder if there is some competition I've missed out on...which red state can be the reddest? My vote goes to South Dakota!
Thunder and snow
Thunder woke me this morning at 2:33. I waited for Chester to clammor up on the bed frighten and confused, but he didn't move. I could hear him snoring softly on his bed in the hallway. Ann was snoring, too.
At first, I thought the loud rumble was a car accident of some sort -- two loud and jolting drum rolls rattled the house and my brain. But I waited, listening to everyone sleep and watched for a flash or two of lightning.
Nothing.
And then, just as I was falling back to sleep, Chester shook his head and I heard his ears give a muffled flap flap flap.
I got up.
He got up.
And we both went outside.
Snow.
It wasn't thunder that woke me. It was the sound of two street gods battling for turf using dumpsters as shields. The gods' dumpsters were filled with snow and it was pouring down on us, dusting the night with flakes of light.
I smiled.
Chester smiled.
And we stood out in the backyard looking up. White crystals caught on our eyelids.
And the gods put down their weapons and there was peace.
At first, I thought the loud rumble was a car accident of some sort -- two loud and jolting drum rolls rattled the house and my brain. But I waited, listening to everyone sleep and watched for a flash or two of lightning.
Nothing.
And then, just as I was falling back to sleep, Chester shook his head and I heard his ears give a muffled flap flap flap.
I got up.
He got up.
And we both went outside.
Snow.
It wasn't thunder that woke me. It was the sound of two street gods battling for turf using dumpsters as shields. The gods' dumpsters were filled with snow and it was pouring down on us, dusting the night with flakes of light.
I smiled.
Chester smiled.
And we stood out in the backyard looking up. White crystals caught on our eyelids.
And the gods put down their weapons and there was peace.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
"A thrilling match...
..down at the curling arena..."
Now that, my friends, is an oxymoron!
I'm in the study typing away and what do I hear?
Chester sounding like a Wooky from Star Wars, begging Ann to drop, please oh please oh please, some grilled eggplant. Grilled Eggplant? He doesn't even like grilled eggplant!
Women on the TV sounding orgasmic as they hoot and groan and moan and holler and yell in foreign tongues...
...curling again!
And then there's hail on the roof and against the windows and the sound of Ann clipping her nails and the sound of our tax returns delivered today from our accountant who got us just enough money back to pay for the appliances we had to buy yesterday...
and there's this ticking clock in the background that I apparently sleep through though I can't imagine that it's ever worked before today because it's so damn loud and I'm such a light sleeper...
...and now the smultzy music for some Italian skater who DICK Button will slam in his covert war of words...
...and the Canadians still upset by their Dream Team failure in hockey...
And finally, the sounds of Chester's toenails clicking against the kitchen floor and his tongue lapping the place where the grilled eggplant "accidently" fell...
...the eggplant on the floor was cleaned up and yet...he is still licking and licking and licking...
and I am crazed with the use of ellipses...
... is that how you spell this...?
I love the sound of the keyboard thinking...taptaptaptaptaptap...
Now that, my friends, is an oxymoron!
I'm in the study typing away and what do I hear?
Chester sounding like a Wooky from Star Wars, begging Ann to drop, please oh please oh please, some grilled eggplant. Grilled Eggplant? He doesn't even like grilled eggplant!
Women on the TV sounding orgasmic as they hoot and groan and moan and holler and yell in foreign tongues...
...curling again!
And then there's hail on the roof and against the windows and the sound of Ann clipping her nails and the sound of our tax returns delivered today from our accountant who got us just enough money back to pay for the appliances we had to buy yesterday...
and there's this ticking clock in the background that I apparently sleep through though I can't imagine that it's ever worked before today because it's so damn loud and I'm such a light sleeper...
...and now the smultzy music for some Italian skater who DICK Button will slam in his covert war of words...
...and the Canadians still upset by their Dream Team failure in hockey...
And finally, the sounds of Chester's toenails clicking against the kitchen floor and his tongue lapping the place where the grilled eggplant "accidently" fell...
...the eggplant on the floor was cleaned up and yet...he is still licking and licking and licking...
and I am crazed with the use of ellipses...
... is that how you spell this...?
I love the sound of the keyboard thinking...taptaptaptaptaptap...
It's a great gig...
...except for the kids.
That's a teacher motto. It's not true, really, but the kids are what take away so much of my energy and the worries that keep me up at night aren't about lessons or assignments, but about kids.
Of course today is all about grading papers. Ann is at the kitchen table with a crate full of projects and assignments to grade. I just finished my grading and am now about to begin the part I love about teaching -- planning for the next lessons.
Kind of a Catch-22...I love to assign projects, but I hate to grade them.
Luckily, the weather is crappy and so, staying inside, next to the warm fireplace, ain't such a bad gig after all. I mean, what else could I be doing on this vacation?
Oh yeah...
skiing in the mountains
lying in the Mexican sun
writing
taking long walks in the wet woods
reading
trying to teach myself mandolin
visiting all the friends I've neglected
learning to knit...well, practicing knitting since I know how, but it all lumps and curls together
cooking something new
baking bread
Yada yada yada...
Back to planning. Back to watching Chester sleep. Back to the sounds of Kate Rusby on the stereo and Ann moaning as she works through her mountain of papers.
Back to the warm fire.
Back to a week without kids!
That's a teacher motto. It's not true, really, but the kids are what take away so much of my energy and the worries that keep me up at night aren't about lessons or assignments, but about kids.
Of course today is all about grading papers. Ann is at the kitchen table with a crate full of projects and assignments to grade. I just finished my grading and am now about to begin the part I love about teaching -- planning for the next lessons.
Kind of a Catch-22...I love to assign projects, but I hate to grade them.
Luckily, the weather is crappy and so, staying inside, next to the warm fireplace, ain't such a bad gig after all. I mean, what else could I be doing on this vacation?
Oh yeah...
skiing in the mountains
lying in the Mexican sun
writing
taking long walks in the wet woods
reading
trying to teach myself mandolin
visiting all the friends I've neglected
learning to knit...well, practicing knitting since I know how, but it all lumps and curls together
cooking something new
baking bread
Yada yada yada...
Back to planning. Back to watching Chester sleep. Back to the sounds of Kate Rusby on the stereo and Ann moaning as she works through her mountain of papers.
Back to the warm fire.
Back to a week without kids!
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Biscuits and Marriage
Ann and I married almost 2 years ago in Portland during that brief window of sanity when Multnomah County granted marriage licenses to same-sex couples. For $60 we snagged a license, said our handwritten vows in a light-filled room crowded with couples and ministers of every ilk -- Buddhist monks, Catholic priets, Goddesses, and Witches. We picked a thick woman because she looked like she came from Montana and had built her own house. Plus, she had a Mary Oliver book on her table. I can't even remember her name now, but it doesn't matter...we have pictures of her holding Mary Oliver in her hands.
On the license we had to designate who would be the bride and who would be the groom. We played rock/paper/scissors and Ann won (she always wins) and she chose to be the groom. My fate...a bride.
We'd purchased our rings a month before, wore them even before we were married, but exchanged them ceremoniously on the bright March afternoon. Our dear friends Jeanne and Lisa got married too and we each served as witnesses for the other's ceremony. We feasted that night on Thai or Japanese food...again, I can't remember all the details...but it was festive and right and filled with lots of laughter.
When we got home, I made Ann carry me across the threshold. As I'm taller and about 30 pounds heavier, I jumped on her back and she lugged me up the front steps, groaning the whole way.
We framed the marriage certificate and giggled every time we looked at the Oregon Trail wagon scene embossed along the bottom of the paper. It was a journey -- to find each other, to find a state where it was okay, to find the time in our busy schedules, to finally find the country, our country, hesitantly willing to embrace the possibility.
Six months later the State of Oregon sent us back our $60 and informed us that our certificate was no longer valid. The Oregon State Supreme Court overturned the County and we were left with wagon wheels on our wall and pictures of light and laughter and a lovely bouquet of fresh wild flowers.
Tonight I made biscuits. The flour went everywhere, especially when I had to pour a new bag into the large glass container. Most of the flour went into the right place, but a huge pile formed on the counter like Mt. Hood, slightly jagged at the top. With one swift swipe I pushed the fallen flour back into the jar and laughed as my black sweater turned white and the dog's nose, just under the counter grayed in excitement of the falling food.
I washed down the counter, cleaned up my mess, and placed the biscuits in the oven. I'd taken off my watch, which I moved onto the table as I prepared to wash the dishes. But I'd also taken off my wedding ring, trying to avoid getting goo in the crevices.
The ring was not on the counter.
I looked on the floor. I looked under the dish towels. I looked under the cutting board where I'd rolled out the dough. I looked in the garbage disposal in case rolled without my noticing. I searched through my pockets dusty with flour. I looked in the waste basket under the sink in case I'd thrown it out with the empty bag. I even thought of looking at the dog in case he'd swallowed the ring thinking it tasted good.
Then I looked in the flour jar and laughed at myself. I couldn't see my ring, but something told me that it was buried in the white fluff.
I refused to believe it and once again checked the garbage disposal, the dish towels, my pockets, and the dog.
No ring.
I opened the lid of the jar and gently pushed my hand into the soft top layer. I used to love to play in the flour drawer at my baby sitter's house. Flour is soft, like a grandmother's skin and the smell is of bread and cakes and all things home.
It didn't take me long to feel the hard silver of the band deep within the jar. My hand was covered in white and so was the ring. And then I realized, the mound on the countertop had covered the ring...I'd pushed that mountain of flour into the jar, my ring along with it.
Ann walked into the kitchen and I told her the story. She laughed and said, "I wonder what it means?"
"That I 'knead' you," I responded.
She didn't laugh, though I'm certain she smiled. After 2 years of marriage she still admires my puns though no longer acknowledges them.
What does it mean?
It's memory. It's a moment when you are forced to remember the journey, the light, the woman who read Mary Oliver while we held flowers and hands, the friends, the disappointment of being $60 richer, and the silliness of choosing who would be the bride and who would be the groom.
It's biscuits on a cold night...with melting butter and raspberry jam.
Tonight I'm going to ask Ann to carry me across the threshold again.
On the license we had to designate who would be the bride and who would be the groom. We played rock/paper/scissors and Ann won (she always wins) and she chose to be the groom. My fate...a bride.
We'd purchased our rings a month before, wore them even before we were married, but exchanged them ceremoniously on the bright March afternoon. Our dear friends Jeanne and Lisa got married too and we each served as witnesses for the other's ceremony. We feasted that night on Thai or Japanese food...again, I can't remember all the details...but it was festive and right and filled with lots of laughter.
When we got home, I made Ann carry me across the threshold. As I'm taller and about 30 pounds heavier, I jumped on her back and she lugged me up the front steps, groaning the whole way.
We framed the marriage certificate and giggled every time we looked at the Oregon Trail wagon scene embossed along the bottom of the paper. It was a journey -- to find each other, to find a state where it was okay, to find the time in our busy schedules, to finally find the country, our country, hesitantly willing to embrace the possibility.
Six months later the State of Oregon sent us back our $60 and informed us that our certificate was no longer valid. The Oregon State Supreme Court overturned the County and we were left with wagon wheels on our wall and pictures of light and laughter and a lovely bouquet of fresh wild flowers.
Tonight I made biscuits. The flour went everywhere, especially when I had to pour a new bag into the large glass container. Most of the flour went into the right place, but a huge pile formed on the counter like Mt. Hood, slightly jagged at the top. With one swift swipe I pushed the fallen flour back into the jar and laughed as my black sweater turned white and the dog's nose, just under the counter grayed in excitement of the falling food.
I washed down the counter, cleaned up my mess, and placed the biscuits in the oven. I'd taken off my watch, which I moved onto the table as I prepared to wash the dishes. But I'd also taken off my wedding ring, trying to avoid getting goo in the crevices.
The ring was not on the counter.
I looked on the floor. I looked under the dish towels. I looked under the cutting board where I'd rolled out the dough. I looked in the garbage disposal in case rolled without my noticing. I searched through my pockets dusty with flour. I looked in the waste basket under the sink in case I'd thrown it out with the empty bag. I even thought of looking at the dog in case he'd swallowed the ring thinking it tasted good.
Then I looked in the flour jar and laughed at myself. I couldn't see my ring, but something told me that it was buried in the white fluff.
I refused to believe it and once again checked the garbage disposal, the dish towels, my pockets, and the dog.
No ring.
I opened the lid of the jar and gently pushed my hand into the soft top layer. I used to love to play in the flour drawer at my baby sitter's house. Flour is soft, like a grandmother's skin and the smell is of bread and cakes and all things home.
It didn't take me long to feel the hard silver of the band deep within the jar. My hand was covered in white and so was the ring. And then I realized, the mound on the countertop had covered the ring...I'd pushed that mountain of flour into the jar, my ring along with it.
Ann walked into the kitchen and I told her the story. She laughed and said, "I wonder what it means?"
"That I 'knead' you," I responded.
She didn't laugh, though I'm certain she smiled. After 2 years of marriage she still admires my puns though no longer acknowledges them.
What does it mean?
It's memory. It's a moment when you are forced to remember the journey, the light, the woman who read Mary Oliver while we held flowers and hands, the friends, the disappointment of being $60 richer, and the silliness of choosing who would be the bride and who would be the groom.
It's biscuits on a cold night...with melting butter and raspberry jam.
Tonight I'm going to ask Ann to carry me across the threshold again.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Peace with the Weatherman
We took Chester to Ravenna Park yesterday, a nice long walk through the ravine filled with trees and streams and the songs winter wrens. As we started our walk, a tall young man raced off his park bench, bundled up in his fuzzy parka and big gloves the size of oven mitts.
"Hi, I'm Larry," he greeted us with a big grin and an even bigger oven-mitted peace sign.
"Good morning," I smiled back, instinctively flashing a peace sign back at him.
"Snow is predicted for Monday!" Larry danced from side to side on thick boots that climbed up his shin. The bottom of his pant legs were stuffed into his boots.
"You mean tomorrow it's supposed to snow?" I asked.
"Yes, tomorrow! Goodbye!" And with a wave of his hand he raced back to his sunny spot on the park bench. We continued on, down the ravine, and through the park on our normal route.
Chester was full of energy today only tiring as we climbed back out of the ravine about 40 minutes later. Ahead of us, I saw a couple pushing a stroller past Larry's bench. Larry was still there, rocking to the beat of some internal metronome. He saw the couple with the baby just as I did and he popped up, raced down the path, and waved his peace sign. They smiled, waved back and just kept walking.
By the time we past Larry, he was back on his bench rocking rhythmically to the rays of the winter sun. I turned to catch his eye wondering if he'd forget us and cast his weather forecast our direction. But he just smiled when he saw us, raised his peace sign and kept rocking back and forth, back and forth.
It was a beautiful day. Warm in the sun, very cold in the shade. We packed up more of the house preparing for new windows and new flooring. As the clouds moved in across the blue sky I wondered if Larry was still on his bench casting out the rhythm of his news -- Snow on Monday -- to every passerby, tossing his peace sign confidently in the air.
Was he even aware of the war in Iraq and the forgotten war in Afghanistan? Was he aware that Bush is rattling yet another saber at Iran? Did he know that Hamas was elected in the mid-east and that Israel is sharpening their sabers?
Perhaps his greatest joy in life is sitting in the sun on a frozen morning predicting weather with the wave of two fingers.
When I woke this morning, I looked for snow on the ground.
No snow today.
No peace either.
Perhaps tomorrow.
"Hi, I'm Larry," he greeted us with a big grin and an even bigger oven-mitted peace sign.
"Good morning," I smiled back, instinctively flashing a peace sign back at him.
"Snow is predicted for Monday!" Larry danced from side to side on thick boots that climbed up his shin. The bottom of his pant legs were stuffed into his boots.
"You mean tomorrow it's supposed to snow?" I asked.
"Yes, tomorrow! Goodbye!" And with a wave of his hand he raced back to his sunny spot on the park bench. We continued on, down the ravine, and through the park on our normal route.
Chester was full of energy today only tiring as we climbed back out of the ravine about 40 minutes later. Ahead of us, I saw a couple pushing a stroller past Larry's bench. Larry was still there, rocking to the beat of some internal metronome. He saw the couple with the baby just as I did and he popped up, raced down the path, and waved his peace sign. They smiled, waved back and just kept walking.
By the time we past Larry, he was back on his bench rocking rhythmically to the rays of the winter sun. I turned to catch his eye wondering if he'd forget us and cast his weather forecast our direction. But he just smiled when he saw us, raised his peace sign and kept rocking back and forth, back and forth.
It was a beautiful day. Warm in the sun, very cold in the shade. We packed up more of the house preparing for new windows and new flooring. As the clouds moved in across the blue sky I wondered if Larry was still on his bench casting out the rhythm of his news -- Snow on Monday -- to every passerby, tossing his peace sign confidently in the air.
Was he even aware of the war in Iraq and the forgotten war in Afghanistan? Was he aware that Bush is rattling yet another saber at Iran? Did he know that Hamas was elected in the mid-east and that Israel is sharpening their sabers?
Perhaps his greatest joy in life is sitting in the sun on a frozen morning predicting weather with the wave of two fingers.
When I woke this morning, I looked for snow on the ground.
No snow today.
No peace either.
Perhaps tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
What can we do
but keep on breathing in and out,
modest and willing, and in our places?
Mary Oliver
First breath
It's snowing
Crystalline rain before
sunrise
I dreamt of dead cats
Curled in a plastic bag
Rescued from a high tide
A blue tug without an
anchor
Exhale
At school
She is crying
Bruised from the outside in
She will not speak
I provide the words
Shaking her head yes then
no
I realize
"This is not her place"
I call her mother who wants
to understand but cannot
"We love your daughter,"
I tell her,
"She is so talented and kind.
The world lives inside her
pencil,
but she does not want
to be here. Take her home," I say
again and again
"Then let her choose where
she'd like to go to
school."
Inhale, second breath
At lunch, at the park
two sisters, twins,
throw elbows then fists
They fall to the ground and I
must call their mother, a
fertility doctor
She says, "I counsel women against
having twins. They tell me
it's so much more efficient and I
tell them, it's so much more
painful."
She breathes tears into the phone
She says, "More and more they
are turning to physical retaliation,
yet
every night they sneak out of
their beds to sleep
curled up with each other."
Exhale.
5 minutes before the
kids go home
and a knock falls timidly
upon the door
It is the younger sister
of one of my students
She overslept the
Happy Valentine's Day
she'd planned
She asks, "May I please sing to my sister?"
And her little body,
dressed in purple and orange,
like candy against her dark, Indian
skin, bounces
to the front of the room.
"I love you very much, sissy,
And I will sing you telegram song..."
We all hold our breath
The office staff crowds in
the doorway
They have all helped her
practice in the hall,
encouraged her with deep sighs
of "ooohhh" and "ahhhhh"
She draws in air and floats
this song
I love you very much
Dear sister for you I care
You are so beautiful
I really love your hair
And we all cheer, tears
welling like pools of
breath
on a frozen morning
Inhale
I breathe in triplicate
We walk the ridge
this evening
The skies are clear and
indigo, a
slanting pink
curls against the mountains
The dog wags his tail as
he scents his way home
out past the park
above the hospital where
every day children survive
cancer and birth
defects
and choices they did
not make
In between the spaces
of my breathing
I question my convictions, this,
I think,
is not the place I
thought I'd be
yet here I am
strung between breaths
of filament and fiber
stretched between ages of
what lives behind us and
what dreams beyond...
willing and modest, a boat
without an anchor,
the snow before the sun.
but keep on breathing in and out,
modest and willing, and in our places?
Mary Oliver
First breath
It's snowing
Crystalline rain before
sunrise
I dreamt of dead cats
Curled in a plastic bag
Rescued from a high tide
A blue tug without an
anchor
Exhale
At school
She is crying
Bruised from the outside in
She will not speak
I provide the words
Shaking her head yes then
no
I realize
"This is not her place"
I call her mother who wants
to understand but cannot
"We love your daughter,"
I tell her,
"She is so talented and kind.
The world lives inside her
pencil,
but she does not want
to be here. Take her home," I say
again and again
"Then let her choose where
she'd like to go to
school."
Inhale, second breath
At lunch, at the park
two sisters, twins,
throw elbows then fists
They fall to the ground and I
must call their mother, a
fertility doctor
She says, "I counsel women against
having twins. They tell me
it's so much more efficient and I
tell them, it's so much more
painful."
She breathes tears into the phone
She says, "More and more they
are turning to physical retaliation,
yet
every night they sneak out of
their beds to sleep
curled up with each other."
Exhale.
5 minutes before the
kids go home
and a knock falls timidly
upon the door
It is the younger sister
of one of my students
She overslept the
Happy Valentine's Day
she'd planned
She asks, "May I please sing to my sister?"
And her little body,
dressed in purple and orange,
like candy against her dark, Indian
skin, bounces
to the front of the room.
"I love you very much, sissy,
And I will sing you telegram song..."
We all hold our breath
The office staff crowds in
the doorway
They have all helped her
practice in the hall,
encouraged her with deep sighs
of "ooohhh" and "ahhhhh"
She draws in air and floats
this song
I love you very much
Dear sister for you I care
You are so beautiful
I really love your hair
And we all cheer, tears
welling like pools of
breath
on a frozen morning
Inhale
I breathe in triplicate
We walk the ridge
this evening
The skies are clear and
indigo, a
slanting pink
curls against the mountains
The dog wags his tail as
he scents his way home
out past the park
above the hospital where
every day children survive
cancer and birth
defects
and choices they did
not make
In between the spaces
of my breathing
I question my convictions, this,
I think,
is not the place I
thought I'd be
yet here I am
strung between breaths
of filament and fiber
stretched between ages of
what lives behind us and
what dreams beyond...
willing and modest, a boat
without an anchor,
the snow before the sun.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Red winged blackbirds
On my bicycle ride home this evening, I heard red winged blackbirds trilling from the edges of the Arboretum. The sky had cleared after a day of misty showers and the air was like ice floating in a sweaty glass.
Spring, I say, she is a great tease and I fall for her every time.
Spring, I say, she is a great tease and I fall for her every time.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Practicing Vacation
A beautiful day. Warm with a crispy edge in the morning and evening, bright sun, and a smell that can only be spring nudging herself around a very distant corner.
The mountains were out, too. Rainier, Baker, the Cascades, the Olympics -- surrounded like a white cape on my shoulders.
We walked Chester at his favorite marshy park and then down by the lake, though his increase in medication made him slow and wobbly. Still, his tail was up, his ears alert, and his eyes focused on the possibility of chicken bones or goose shit. Ah, the life and palette of a dog.
Aside from stopping by the house to check on the remodel (we have windows and morning light!) and two walks with the old man-dog, I did nothing today and it felt great. I watched the Olympics and then home improvement shows. I read. I downloaded pictures of the house. I ate healthy food. I slept.
Those who say teachers get too many days off just don't get how precious recovery time is. If I could not unwind, if I didn't have a vacation every now and then, I might not be allowed to be in the same room with children.
I'd swear far more than I do.
I'd stomp my feet a lot.
I'd scream loudly at drivers who talk on cellphones and don't "think" about driving.
I'd send my food back if it arrived at my table cold or if the portion size was too small for the dollar paid.
I'd be mean to cats.
I'd bite off my nails.
I'd run down to the ritzy mall at the bottom of the hill and force everyone to look me in the eye and say hello (which is something they never do!)
I'd scratch the sides of BMW's and Lexus' and Mercedes'...
I'd eat a whole chocolate cake.
Every day.
We have one more week of teaching before our mid-winter break. Today's rest was a warm up. In one week, I will start to get my life back just enough so I can make it until April when we take one more break so I can make it to June.
This summer I'm taking a 3 week class, so summer is really more work though I can wear shorts and t-shirts, I can stay up late and I won't have papers to grade, though I might have papers to write. Still that feels invigorating not exhausting.
I can lose some weight in the summer since I won't be running to the faculty room during my breaks to eat Top Pot donuts or handfuls of peanuts or cheese and crackers or that divine apple cake some parent brings at least once a month.
On vacations I can think about what I eat and not just eat so I don't have to think.
I can say hello to Ann more than once or twice a day.
We can go for walks with Chester...enjoy him during these last few months. We can pack up the house for the final push in the remodel -- cabinets and bamboo floors and lights, oh my.
Today was practice.
I don't think I've got vacation done, though, so I might just have to practice tomorrow, too!
Too bad there are a stack of papers to grade!
The mountains were out, too. Rainier, Baker, the Cascades, the Olympics -- surrounded like a white cape on my shoulders.
We walked Chester at his favorite marshy park and then down by the lake, though his increase in medication made him slow and wobbly. Still, his tail was up, his ears alert, and his eyes focused on the possibility of chicken bones or goose shit. Ah, the life and palette of a dog.
Aside from stopping by the house to check on the remodel (we have windows and morning light!) and two walks with the old man-dog, I did nothing today and it felt great. I watched the Olympics and then home improvement shows. I read. I downloaded pictures of the house. I ate healthy food. I slept.
Those who say teachers get too many days off just don't get how precious recovery time is. If I could not unwind, if I didn't have a vacation every now and then, I might not be allowed to be in the same room with children.
I'd swear far more than I do.
I'd stomp my feet a lot.
I'd scream loudly at drivers who talk on cellphones and don't "think" about driving.
I'd send my food back if it arrived at my table cold or if the portion size was too small for the dollar paid.
I'd be mean to cats.
I'd bite off my nails.
I'd run down to the ritzy mall at the bottom of the hill and force everyone to look me in the eye and say hello (which is something they never do!)
I'd scratch the sides of BMW's and Lexus' and Mercedes'...
I'd eat a whole chocolate cake.
Every day.
We have one more week of teaching before our mid-winter break. Today's rest was a warm up. In one week, I will start to get my life back just enough so I can make it until April when we take one more break so I can make it to June.
This summer I'm taking a 3 week class, so summer is really more work though I can wear shorts and t-shirts, I can stay up late and I won't have papers to grade, though I might have papers to write. Still that feels invigorating not exhausting.
I can lose some weight in the summer since I won't be running to the faculty room during my breaks to eat Top Pot donuts or handfuls of peanuts or cheese and crackers or that divine apple cake some parent brings at least once a month.
On vacations I can think about what I eat and not just eat so I don't have to think.
I can say hello to Ann more than once or twice a day.
We can go for walks with Chester...enjoy him during these last few months. We can pack up the house for the final push in the remodel -- cabinets and bamboo floors and lights, oh my.
Today was practice.
I don't think I've got vacation done, though, so I might just have to practice tomorrow, too!
Too bad there are a stack of papers to grade!
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The door to heaven
Chester slept through the night, though we both had one eye and one ear open for another seizure. He went outside every couple of hours (medication makes him urinate more) and Ann agreed to stay home with him today. No one got a lot of sleep last night, and at 7:30 this morning he had another seizure. I'd already left for work, a chilly ride up the hills with the sun just peeking over the Cascades. Ann called my classroom and left a message. I wanted to pedal home again, but there's really nothing I can do, that any of us can do except give him time to recover.
Ann will stay home with him again tomorrow.
There was a moment last night, as Ann and I were falling asleep, talking quietly so as not to disturb the finally sleeping dog between us, when we both realized that the seizures are not going to kill Chester. We are the ones who will have to make that choice. Soon the seizures will increase and the medication will no longer work and at that point we have to decide how much is too much -- for Chester, for us, even for the vets who have been absolutely wonderful about all of this...truly.
In between the seizures, Chester is almost a normal dog. Well, he is a normal dog only an old normal dog. He's covered in lumps and has a bit of a limp to his gait. He's incontinent and he's taken to loud snoring once he does settle down. The seizures aren't normal though and are, in fact, frightening to watch, but when he pops up, and that's exactly what he does when the seizure is over with...when he pops up, he's like an anxious puppy wondering who's going to feed him, who's going to walk him, and who's going to let him out to smell the corners of his current life.
I've had to make the decision to put down a dog once before. Somehow, the decision seemed clearer. Abbie, a lab/husky mix, was in pain. It was in her eyes, in the painful way she walked, and when I came home one day after work to find her flat on her back and unable to get up, I knew I had to put her down.
I cried uncontrollably. I scheduled the day for the vet to come over to the house, called into work to take the day off, and then cried some more.
My partner at the time had a deaf grandson, Austin, who was then about 7 years old. His mother and his grandmother didn't learn sign language, but I took classes so I could communicate with this incredibly active boy. Because we could communicate, we had a special bond.
When Austin saw me in tears he signed, "What's wrong?" I told him, with my hands, why I was sad, that Abbie, my sweet dog, was in pain and that I needed to help her die. Austin hugged me and cried, too. I didn't know for sure if he really understood what it meant to help someone die or even if he knew what death meant in its whole scope and certainty. I'm not sure I grasp it even now.
Then, on the day when I put Abbie down, I was sitting on the kitchen floor hours later signing again with Austin. "Where's Abbie?" he signed. "She died today," I told him and started crying again. "But where is she?" he asked again.
My sign is limited. I know enough to communicate basic ideas and concepts, but death and the beyond are outside my abilities even with spoken word, so I simply signed, "She's gone to heaven." I love the sign for heaven...the right hand swirls up under the left just by the forehead and then ascends upward. It's very much like the sign for birth, though the birth sign is located closer to the belly.
Austin looked at me for a moment, repeated the sign for heaven, and then got up and started searching through the house for something, I didn't know what.
"Austin," I stopped him at the front hallway, "What are you looking for?"
With the most serious look on his face, he signed, "I'm looking for the door to heaven so Abbie can come visit us."
I hope, with Chester, we are able to find the door to heaven, somewhere above our heads, swirling like a dance. For his sake and our own.
Ann will stay home with him again tomorrow.
There was a moment last night, as Ann and I were falling asleep, talking quietly so as not to disturb the finally sleeping dog between us, when we both realized that the seizures are not going to kill Chester. We are the ones who will have to make that choice. Soon the seizures will increase and the medication will no longer work and at that point we have to decide how much is too much -- for Chester, for us, even for the vets who have been absolutely wonderful about all of this...truly.
In between the seizures, Chester is almost a normal dog. Well, he is a normal dog only an old normal dog. He's covered in lumps and has a bit of a limp to his gait. He's incontinent and he's taken to loud snoring once he does settle down. The seizures aren't normal though and are, in fact, frightening to watch, but when he pops up, and that's exactly what he does when the seizure is over with...when he pops up, he's like an anxious puppy wondering who's going to feed him, who's going to walk him, and who's going to let him out to smell the corners of his current life.
I've had to make the decision to put down a dog once before. Somehow, the decision seemed clearer. Abbie, a lab/husky mix, was in pain. It was in her eyes, in the painful way she walked, and when I came home one day after work to find her flat on her back and unable to get up, I knew I had to put her down.
I cried uncontrollably. I scheduled the day for the vet to come over to the house, called into work to take the day off, and then cried some more.
My partner at the time had a deaf grandson, Austin, who was then about 7 years old. His mother and his grandmother didn't learn sign language, but I took classes so I could communicate with this incredibly active boy. Because we could communicate, we had a special bond.
When Austin saw me in tears he signed, "What's wrong?" I told him, with my hands, why I was sad, that Abbie, my sweet dog, was in pain and that I needed to help her die. Austin hugged me and cried, too. I didn't know for sure if he really understood what it meant to help someone die or even if he knew what death meant in its whole scope and certainty. I'm not sure I grasp it even now.
Then, on the day when I put Abbie down, I was sitting on the kitchen floor hours later signing again with Austin. "Where's Abbie?" he signed. "She died today," I told him and started crying again. "But where is she?" he asked again.
My sign is limited. I know enough to communicate basic ideas and concepts, but death and the beyond are outside my abilities even with spoken word, so I simply signed, "She's gone to heaven." I love the sign for heaven...the right hand swirls up under the left just by the forehead and then ascends upward. It's very much like the sign for birth, though the birth sign is located closer to the belly.
Austin looked at me for a moment, repeated the sign for heaven, and then got up and started searching through the house for something, I didn't know what.
"Austin," I stopped him at the front hallway, "What are you looking for?"
With the most serious look on his face, he signed, "I'm looking for the door to heaven so Abbie can come visit us."
I hope, with Chester, we are able to find the door to heaven, somewhere above our heads, swirling like a dance. For his sake and our own.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Seizing light
I keep rereading this passage from Gretel Ehrlich's book "A Match to the Heart" about her recovery after being struck by lightning: "Light is chemical, electrical, mineral, just the way memory is, and I wondered if light had invented the ocean and my hand dragging through it, or if memory had invented light as a form of time thinking about itself."
I have collected these memories...
Yesterday afternoon. An angry parent. She was frustrated with me because we got back late from a field trip and they would be late the girl's orthodontist appointment. I couldn't get the mother's anger off of me all night. I chewed on it for hours. The planning involved in the field trip included bus schedules, gathering bus money, filling out a field trip form, and organizing the tour of the NOAA fisheries facilities with the educator on their staff. When the city bus came to take us home, it was 10 minutes late and packed. The bus driver told us we'd have to wait for the next bus, but I put half the kids on the bus with another teacher (who filled in for my ill teaching partner) including the kid who I knew had to be back for her appointment. We waited for the next bus, which was 10 minutes later, and empty. Only an old woman who told us stories all the way back to school. When I walked into the school building, the mother laid into me as the first group arrived only 3 minutes before we did. I just looked at the mom and sighed. What was I to say? I've been practicing being grateful (New Year's Resolution #2). I wish she were practicing too.
I rode my bike to work this morning. It rained last night and the streets were wet, but the sunrise was magnificent and the cold air felt refreshing on my cheeks. Over the past few months, I thought I'd lost my love of rain. This morning, the rain redeemed itself.
By this afternoon, the hints of rain were gone, the sun was warm and energizing, and the ride home was a perfect balance of lungs, muscle, and weather. I wanted to keep riding for hours.
Once home, the dog leapt up to greet me, as excited by the warm weather as I was. I hooked him up to the leash and off we trotted on a walk up past the elementary school, right at the Catholic Church, and up an extra block because his legs and mine felt strong.
On the grassy lawn right by the library, Chester stopped, looked at me and refused to move. Oh shit, a seizure. He flopped down on the grass underneath a huge cedar tree and writhed and spun his legs as if he were bicycling on a bicycle built for four legs. His mouth pressed open in a gagging yawn and he moaned, that awful gutteral sound, like the last breath of a dying man. Foam seeped from the corners of his groaning mouth and his eyes fixed on nothing and everything. Unlike most seizures where he eventually lies quietly breathing deeply, he kept trying, during this one, to get up, to stand on the lawn as if nothing had happened.
Usually, when he goes into a seizure, I give him a syringe of valium rectally. It calms him down and brings him out of the seizure quickly. He wanders the house then, checking out every corner for food or smells eventually ending up in the backyard where he scents out every inch of the perimeter. Tonight I had no valium and I was a mile from home. Ann was at the doctor's office (she's ill with the flu) and the only way to get home was to walk. So we walked, Chester glued to my side, scraping his furry black paws against the pavement, too tired to completely pick them up.
I'm not sure how many seizures Chester has had over the past 8 months, perhaps 20 or 25, but the vet assures us that he remembers nothing of them. I remember everything. Ann does, too. This is the first seizure he's had away from the house. They've always been either early in the morning or late at night (though he had one in the middle of the day, but it was the 3rd in a series of 5 and we were both home).
Oddly, I wasn't really afraid. I never thought that he would die on that lawn or that we wouldn't make it home. Rather, I worried that he would be so disoriented and so "away" from home that he'd turn on me or bolt for some path or some smell that lead him somewhere familiar. I spoke quietly and calmly to him all the way home. We were 15 minutes from the house, but I went slowly and it took us a half hour to make the journey.
Now he's panting at my side, wondering when I'm coming to bed, almost unaware of the trauma of the day. Yes, he is worried, but that's been part of his nightly routine for the past few months -- whining until the lights go out and everyone has gone to sleep.
There is no connection to these memories, no thread I can pull from the angry parent through to the bicycle sunshine, no way to wrap it around Chester's sweet face. They are just events in the day of one person among billions. Yet oddly, I think they will live in my memory as somehow connected, linked by anger, invigoration, and sadness -- bands of light - chemical, electrical, mineral - inventing a way for time, my time, to think about itself.
And as I type the last word, I hear Chester in the hallway, writhing in yet another seizure. It's going to be a long night.
I have collected these memories...
Yesterday afternoon. An angry parent. She was frustrated with me because we got back late from a field trip and they would be late the girl's orthodontist appointment. I couldn't get the mother's anger off of me all night. I chewed on it for hours. The planning involved in the field trip included bus schedules, gathering bus money, filling out a field trip form, and organizing the tour of the NOAA fisheries facilities with the educator on their staff. When the city bus came to take us home, it was 10 minutes late and packed. The bus driver told us we'd have to wait for the next bus, but I put half the kids on the bus with another teacher (who filled in for my ill teaching partner) including the kid who I knew had to be back for her appointment. We waited for the next bus, which was 10 minutes later, and empty. Only an old woman who told us stories all the way back to school. When I walked into the school building, the mother laid into me as the first group arrived only 3 minutes before we did. I just looked at the mom and sighed. What was I to say? I've been practicing being grateful (New Year's Resolution #2). I wish she were practicing too.
I rode my bike to work this morning. It rained last night and the streets were wet, but the sunrise was magnificent and the cold air felt refreshing on my cheeks. Over the past few months, I thought I'd lost my love of rain. This morning, the rain redeemed itself.
By this afternoon, the hints of rain were gone, the sun was warm and energizing, and the ride home was a perfect balance of lungs, muscle, and weather. I wanted to keep riding for hours.
Once home, the dog leapt up to greet me, as excited by the warm weather as I was. I hooked him up to the leash and off we trotted on a walk up past the elementary school, right at the Catholic Church, and up an extra block because his legs and mine felt strong.
On the grassy lawn right by the library, Chester stopped, looked at me and refused to move. Oh shit, a seizure. He flopped down on the grass underneath a huge cedar tree and writhed and spun his legs as if he were bicycling on a bicycle built for four legs. His mouth pressed open in a gagging yawn and he moaned, that awful gutteral sound, like the last breath of a dying man. Foam seeped from the corners of his groaning mouth and his eyes fixed on nothing and everything. Unlike most seizures where he eventually lies quietly breathing deeply, he kept trying, during this one, to get up, to stand on the lawn as if nothing had happened.
Usually, when he goes into a seizure, I give him a syringe of valium rectally. It calms him down and brings him out of the seizure quickly. He wanders the house then, checking out every corner for food or smells eventually ending up in the backyard where he scents out every inch of the perimeter. Tonight I had no valium and I was a mile from home. Ann was at the doctor's office (she's ill with the flu) and the only way to get home was to walk. So we walked, Chester glued to my side, scraping his furry black paws against the pavement, too tired to completely pick them up.
I'm not sure how many seizures Chester has had over the past 8 months, perhaps 20 or 25, but the vet assures us that he remembers nothing of them. I remember everything. Ann does, too. This is the first seizure he's had away from the house. They've always been either early in the morning or late at night (though he had one in the middle of the day, but it was the 3rd in a series of 5 and we were both home).
Oddly, I wasn't really afraid. I never thought that he would die on that lawn or that we wouldn't make it home. Rather, I worried that he would be so disoriented and so "away" from home that he'd turn on me or bolt for some path or some smell that lead him somewhere familiar. I spoke quietly and calmly to him all the way home. We were 15 minutes from the house, but I went slowly and it took us a half hour to make the journey.
Now he's panting at my side, wondering when I'm coming to bed, almost unaware of the trauma of the day. Yes, he is worried, but that's been part of his nightly routine for the past few months -- whining until the lights go out and everyone has gone to sleep.
There is no connection to these memories, no thread I can pull from the angry parent through to the bicycle sunshine, no way to wrap it around Chester's sweet face. They are just events in the day of one person among billions. Yet oddly, I think they will live in my memory as somehow connected, linked by anger, invigoration, and sadness -- bands of light - chemical, electrical, mineral - inventing a way for time, my time, to think about itself.
And as I type the last word, I hear Chester in the hallway, writhing in yet another seizure. It's going to be a long night.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Perfectly Pink: Capitalism and Cecilia
The sky was pink tonight. A sliver of hot pink on the horizon. Ann called me out to look at it before she headed out the door on a walk with Chester (I'd go, but I've abused my broken toe instead of resting it so she made me stay home).
I haven't seen pink skies in months. It was beautiful.
I dislike the color pink (I'm trying not to over use the word hate in my life...I'm saving it for really important things like the president, the war in Iraq, capitalism, cooked carrots...you get the picture).
But pink in the sky tonight was perfect.
Speaking of capitalism, we had breakfast with our artist-friend Cecilia. I love her. Her mind is amazing. She holds so much in her head. We start talking about her next art exhibit (entitled: Who do we invite to the table?) -- it will be a table, decorated in Mexican motifs with huge bowls at the place settings representing AIR WATER EARTH and ANIMALS (humans included). They'll be place settings for corporations like Conoco-Phillips whose profits last year were larger than the GDP (Gross Domestic Product) of three nations...I can't remember all the countries, but Thailand was in there. She was furious and went on and on about how Americans have been suckered into thinking that "capitalism" is synonomous with "democracy".
Then, between bites of eggs and toast, she started telling us about race as a construct...a discussion we've had before...and how she watched this show called myochondrial (sp?) Eve...how scientists have traced human genetic lineage back to one woman in southern Africa and from her, 5 strands of her descendants spread through the world (Cecilia can tell exactly where each descendent went...I can't) and that they took a full-blooded Cree man and a white punk girl (that's how C. described her, though I never thought of punk as a race...but it added to the picture)...anyway, they tested their genetics and the two of them share the same myochondrial strand. Freaky.
And the whole time I'm listening to C. and I'm thinking, "This woman should be president, no doubt about it" and I tell her, "Cecilia, you should be president." And she said, "The real creative people who have real intelligence never even think about politics as an option"...only she wasn't being arrogant about it, she was being honest and upfront and passionate...
And I said, "But still, can you imagine how this country would change if the tables were turned?"
C. said, "Which brings me back to my Who gets invited to the table exhibit! The fate of the earth is in these evil, evil hands."
When the sky turned pink tonight, I knew there was a possibility that it might be a good omen -- the first step in ending evil perhaps? Or maybe just a sign that this 40 days and 40 nights shit is almost over.
Cecilia can be invited to my table any time!
I haven't seen pink skies in months. It was beautiful.
I dislike the color pink (I'm trying not to over use the word hate in my life...I'm saving it for really important things like the president, the war in Iraq, capitalism, cooked carrots...you get the picture).
But pink in the sky tonight was perfect.
Speaking of capitalism, we had breakfast with our artist-friend Cecilia. I love her. Her mind is amazing. She holds so much in her head. We start talking about her next art exhibit (entitled: Who do we invite to the table?) -- it will be a table, decorated in Mexican motifs with huge bowls at the place settings representing AIR WATER EARTH and ANIMALS (humans included). They'll be place settings for corporations like Conoco-Phillips whose profits last year were larger than the GDP (Gross Domestic Product) of three nations...I can't remember all the countries, but Thailand was in there. She was furious and went on and on about how Americans have been suckered into thinking that "capitalism" is synonomous with "democracy".
Then, between bites of eggs and toast, she started telling us about race as a construct...a discussion we've had before...and how she watched this show called myochondrial (sp?) Eve...how scientists have traced human genetic lineage back to one woman in southern Africa and from her, 5 strands of her descendants spread through the world (Cecilia can tell exactly where each descendent went...I can't) and that they took a full-blooded Cree man and a white punk girl (that's how C. described her, though I never thought of punk as a race...but it added to the picture)...anyway, they tested their genetics and the two of them share the same myochondrial strand. Freaky.
And the whole time I'm listening to C. and I'm thinking, "This woman should be president, no doubt about it" and I tell her, "Cecilia, you should be president." And she said, "The real creative people who have real intelligence never even think about politics as an option"...only she wasn't being arrogant about it, she was being honest and upfront and passionate...
And I said, "But still, can you imagine how this country would change if the tables were turned?"
C. said, "Which brings me back to my Who gets invited to the table exhibit! The fate of the earth is in these evil, evil hands."
When the sky turned pink tonight, I knew there was a possibility that it might be a good omen -- the first step in ending evil perhaps? Or maybe just a sign that this 40 days and 40 nights shit is almost over.
Cecilia can be invited to my table any time!
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Better day. They kids rolled and dove onto the floor for candy...only it wasn't candy, it was plankton...phytoplankton to be exact. Toxic phytoplankton, though they didn't know that. Their shellfish and fish and seal lion and human selves played the "bioaccumulation" game, gathering up what looked good, but wasn't. Then the Whale guy came and took two hours to do his whale show, complete with whale skull (not real, but ya coulda' fooled me) and my teaching partner and I just got to watch and do a bit of work...
And I pondered today...actually pondered, which is something I rarely find time to do or space in my brain to do it (nor do I find time to pee, but that should be another post)...and I kept thinking about Tablespoons. Not the kind on your placemat, but the kind everything is supposed to be measured in.
A tablespoon of olive oil as x amount of caloires and x amount of fat...but apparently it's good fat, so I'm not sure if that means you can have an extra tablespoon or not. Versus like a tablespoon of ice cream, though it usually is measured in 1/2 cups on the back of the carton (one serving = 1/2 cup...as if anyone can eat just 1/2 a cup of ice cream). Versus a tablespoon of sesame seeds, which is really quite a lot and they are supposedly high in fat, but if you ate the spoonful, it would be like eating bits of an eraser. Wouldn't it?
Or a tablespoon of "creamy salad dressing" (as is stated by Weight Watchers...something worth a lot of points, but at WW you don't want points, you want to eat less points). Can anyone put just one tablespoon of creamy salad dressing on their salad? Do you just make the salad that much smaller? One tablespoon creamy salad dressing to 2 tablespoons lettuce? Even a cup of lettuce couldn't be adequately covered in creamy salad dressing with a tablespoon. Could it?
And then there's a tablespoon of salt. No recipe ever really calls for a tablespoon of salt. Whereas the creamy salad dressing can't be spread that thin, a tablespoon of salt could go on for days.
I just had a tablespoon of chocolate fudge sauce sans ice cream (we have none in the house).
I could easily have another tablespoon, but I figure the label says one tablespoon is the suggested serving size.
Of course, my tablespoon was more like a mound than a flat across the spoon thing, but is a tablespoon supposed to be level?
Guess so, but it seems silly, when dipping the spoon into the jar to level it off. You'd have to level with a knife or something. Or better yet, your finger and then what? You have to lick the knife or your finger because it's silly to scrap your knife or finger against the side of the jar, isn't it?
Perhaps this is why I teach...to keep my head so full, I can't fill it up tablespoons of "rhetorical observation" designed to justify why I just had a heaping tablespoon of hot fudge sauce even though today was a good day!
I'm really no different than my students. Toxic tablespoons versus toxic food webs -- we're all just doomed to suck up what looks good, but isn't...
And I pondered today...actually pondered, which is something I rarely find time to do or space in my brain to do it (nor do I find time to pee, but that should be another post)...and I kept thinking about Tablespoons. Not the kind on your placemat, but the kind everything is supposed to be measured in.
A tablespoon of olive oil as x amount of caloires and x amount of fat...but apparently it's good fat, so I'm not sure if that means you can have an extra tablespoon or not. Versus like a tablespoon of ice cream, though it usually is measured in 1/2 cups on the back of the carton (one serving = 1/2 cup...as if anyone can eat just 1/2 a cup of ice cream). Versus a tablespoon of sesame seeds, which is really quite a lot and they are supposedly high in fat, but if you ate the spoonful, it would be like eating bits of an eraser. Wouldn't it?
Or a tablespoon of "creamy salad dressing" (as is stated by Weight Watchers...something worth a lot of points, but at WW you don't want points, you want to eat less points). Can anyone put just one tablespoon of creamy salad dressing on their salad? Do you just make the salad that much smaller? One tablespoon creamy salad dressing to 2 tablespoons lettuce? Even a cup of lettuce couldn't be adequately covered in creamy salad dressing with a tablespoon. Could it?
And then there's a tablespoon of salt. No recipe ever really calls for a tablespoon of salt. Whereas the creamy salad dressing can't be spread that thin, a tablespoon of salt could go on for days.
I just had a tablespoon of chocolate fudge sauce sans ice cream (we have none in the house).
I could easily have another tablespoon, but I figure the label says one tablespoon is the suggested serving size.
Of course, my tablespoon was more like a mound than a flat across the spoon thing, but is a tablespoon supposed to be level?
Guess so, but it seems silly, when dipping the spoon into the jar to level it off. You'd have to level with a knife or something. Or better yet, your finger and then what? You have to lick the knife or your finger because it's silly to scrap your knife or finger against the side of the jar, isn't it?
Perhaps this is why I teach...to keep my head so full, I can't fill it up tablespoons of "rhetorical observation" designed to justify why I just had a heaping tablespoon of hot fudge sauce even though today was a good day!
I'm really no different than my students. Toxic tablespoons versus toxic food webs -- we're all just doomed to suck up what looks good, but isn't...
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Graphite and Charcoal
The dog and I walked under the darkening skies tonight. It wasn't raining. It was threatening. To the north, graphite clouds. To the south charcoal clouds. We walked between the two. Wind pushed one set of clouds further north and the other set of clouds further south. Push and pull, a wind that goes in both directions with equal force. There must be some kind of meterological name for such a wind.
And the red raincoat of the dog lead me down the streets flowing with water. The lawns are sponges left in a sink. No one has squeezed them out for awhile. They are wet. They smell. The water runs off of them, pulled by gravity into rivers that gather up twigs and dirt, cigarette butts and old gum. The dog's feet are wet, knee-deep in wet. He is part Spaniel and he loves this. Duck hunting without the ducks. A marsh in his own backyard.
A friend of mine, on cold cold mornings picks up her dog's poo in thick black plastic bags. She secures them tightly with a knot and then holds them in her pockets like handwarmers.
Tonight I needed handwarmers.
But the dog just kept prancing down the street, singing in the rain -- Gene Kelly dressed in black fur. We walked through the wet black rip in heaven waiting to get soaked.
We never did.
And now, in the warmth of the house, the gas fireplace pumping out heat, the rain is coming down in sheets. I can hear it against the roof, I can see it run down the street in waves. The dog sleeps in the heat, sprawled out and twitching. Dreaming of puddles and ducks and the smell that must be followed.
In one way, I am in awe. There is so much water. It's the same awe when I have a cold and I just keep blowing my nose and more and more snot comes out.
Where does it all come from -- this rain, this snot?
But I'm not in awe of the rain anymore. Just like the snot, I'm ready for it to be gone. Just for a little while.
I want to believe there is a sun again.
And the red raincoat of the dog lead me down the streets flowing with water. The lawns are sponges left in a sink. No one has squeezed them out for awhile. They are wet. They smell. The water runs off of them, pulled by gravity into rivers that gather up twigs and dirt, cigarette butts and old gum. The dog's feet are wet, knee-deep in wet. He is part Spaniel and he loves this. Duck hunting without the ducks. A marsh in his own backyard.
A friend of mine, on cold cold mornings picks up her dog's poo in thick black plastic bags. She secures them tightly with a knot and then holds them in her pockets like handwarmers.
Tonight I needed handwarmers.
But the dog just kept prancing down the street, singing in the rain -- Gene Kelly dressed in black fur. We walked through the wet black rip in heaven waiting to get soaked.
We never did.
And now, in the warmth of the house, the gas fireplace pumping out heat, the rain is coming down in sheets. I can hear it against the roof, I can see it run down the street in waves. The dog sleeps in the heat, sprawled out and twitching. Dreaming of puddles and ducks and the smell that must be followed.
In one way, I am in awe. There is so much water. It's the same awe when I have a cold and I just keep blowing my nose and more and more snot comes out.
Where does it all come from -- this rain, this snot?
But I'm not in awe of the rain anymore. Just like the snot, I'm ready for it to be gone. Just for a little while.
I want to believe there is a sun again.
I recommended to three families that their daughters seek therapy.
I spent an hour on the phone with the therapist tonight (I sent them all to the same EXCELLENT adolescent psychotherapist). We talked about each kid.
She said, "Wow, this is a whopper of a class!" Not sure she said "whopper" but that's what I heard.
I said, "Yes, and you haven't seen the other 19 yet!"
We went through each case sharing what we knew and how I, as the teacher (and my teaching partner as well) could help support the kids in class.
First kid...
She said, "She has never learned boundaries. Her parents have no boundaries. They give her adult emotional information and she takes it in, but hasn't a clue what to do with all of it."
I said, "Yes, I see that in class...this is why I referred her to you."
Second kid...
She said, "This kid is flippant and angry. The parents are clueless and run ragged. They don't know how to set limits for this kid."
I said, "They say they are trying to set limits, but what I see is that they are in a stare down with their child and the child is waiting for them to blink first because they've ALWAYS blinked first. Meanwhile, the kid is flunking and will soon be on academic probation and I'm certain the parents are going to blink any day now."
Third kid...
She said, "I am the most worried about this kid. In 35 years of being a therapist, I've never seen such a difficult case."
I said...I said...I said...
nothing...
She had just given me too much adult emotional information and I vacillate between being flippant and angry.
I'm holding my boundaries, but barely.
I see compassion fatigue on the horizon. I've been there. I don't want to go there again. Teachers without borders. Only I don't travel to foreign places. I may not see starvation, but I see emotional starvation and it hurts just as much.
Why can't I just teach them about verbs? Why can't I just teach them about the structure of intertidal invertebrates? Why can't I just take them on a field trip to the Zoo and we can all point at the magnificent animals and go "oooohhhhh, ahhhhhh, wow!"?
When did teaching become therapy?
I think I'm going to take my wavering boundaries outside and use them to cover me up in this dreary rain while I walk the dog...
Wet wimpy boundaries...that'll help.
I spent an hour on the phone with the therapist tonight (I sent them all to the same EXCELLENT adolescent psychotherapist). We talked about each kid.
She said, "Wow, this is a whopper of a class!" Not sure she said "whopper" but that's what I heard.
I said, "Yes, and you haven't seen the other 19 yet!"
We went through each case sharing what we knew and how I, as the teacher (and my teaching partner as well) could help support the kids in class.
First kid...
She said, "She has never learned boundaries. Her parents have no boundaries. They give her adult emotional information and she takes it in, but hasn't a clue what to do with all of it."
I said, "Yes, I see that in class...this is why I referred her to you."
Second kid...
She said, "This kid is flippant and angry. The parents are clueless and run ragged. They don't know how to set limits for this kid."
I said, "They say they are trying to set limits, but what I see is that they are in a stare down with their child and the child is waiting for them to blink first because they've ALWAYS blinked first. Meanwhile, the kid is flunking and will soon be on academic probation and I'm certain the parents are going to blink any day now."
Third kid...
She said, "I am the most worried about this kid. In 35 years of being a therapist, I've never seen such a difficult case."
I said...I said...I said...
nothing...
She had just given me too much adult emotional information and I vacillate between being flippant and angry.
I'm holding my boundaries, but barely.
I see compassion fatigue on the horizon. I've been there. I don't want to go there again. Teachers without borders. Only I don't travel to foreign places. I may not see starvation, but I see emotional starvation and it hurts just as much.
Why can't I just teach them about verbs? Why can't I just teach them about the structure of intertidal invertebrates? Why can't I just take them on a field trip to the Zoo and we can all point at the magnificent animals and go "oooohhhhh, ahhhhhh, wow!"?
When did teaching become therapy?
I think I'm going to take my wavering boundaries outside and use them to cover me up in this dreary rain while I walk the dog...
Wet wimpy boundaries...that'll help.
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