Yes!!!!

I can share pictures again!!! Woooooo Hooooo!!!!!!

and happiness landed on my nose

I have been working so hard to make things work. I figure if I'm diligent enough, then happiness will be mine. For the last couple of days, I have been feeling like I just wanted to go home. And when I refer to home, I am referring to the apartment I shared with my cocker spaniel in LA before I met my husband. At that time in my life, I could go home and be off duty. If I didn't answer the phone or the door, nobody could ask anything of me. Now, home is my workspace and my job is 24/7. I must confess, last night as my husband and I were watching TV after the kids were in bed, I felt the urge to wrap up our date and go home. Long date. Ten years. Time to call it a night and go home to feed Bean and take her out. Then watch TV... by myself. Check my fridge for my foods. Have a bath in my clean bathtub. Get into my bed. Go to sleep until I wake up on my own. Call up my friends and meet up for brunch.

I did end up getting a good night's sleep. Then today the snow began to fall. Our house was warm and cozy. The children played with crayons and puzzles and my husband was up in his office working. Then I realized that one of my dreams when I lived alone in the land of unrelenting sun and concrete had come true. And this evening my husband ventured out into the snow to bring us back sushi for dinner. Which is another dream come to fruition.

This is our universe, can you comprehend it VIDEO

old emails

I kept my last email correspondance with my good friend who passed away earlier this year. It is saved in my "drafts" folder. Occasionally I will read these emails and remember for a little while what it was like to talk with Margie. I find that I forget. You would think, at least I did, that selective memory would make the good memories sharper. Another friend told me that she remembers Margie's laugh. I remember her serious side, her down to earth, stoic side. I know we laughed alot. But I don't remember it as viscerally as the times when she told it to me straight. Not that those times are "bad" memories.
I do remember that she would rap the table with her knuckles when she was finished her turn at Rummicube. I remember giggling with her - after I'd had my first baby - about how laughing until I peed had taken on new meaning. I remember how we went on a verbal riff about all the warnings on the baby gear and the effect it was having on my OCD. And then as she went to straighten a throw on my recliner I said, "Be careful Margie, you could trip and suffocate!"

I just realized why I was remembering her no nonsense side.

out of the closet

No. I am actually not gay. But there's something I have realized about myself that is ... difficult to admit. I have been in denial for a long time. I...
I...
I have begun to revisit the practice of Reiki. I know this may sound crazy, but I am no longer able to deny the need for energy work in my life. I turned my back on the entire non-physical dimension years ago and tried to live a "normal" life. "There are no such things as ghosts." I would state as I shoved another bagel with cream cheese down my throat. "I need to see it to believe it." I said to my friend as we chowed down on chips and dip. Late at night I would feel... nothingness. It would creep over me, through me, gnawing its way into my numbed out soul until I became so ravenous that I would wolf down bowls and bowls of gluten free cereal with soy milk. Nothing would fill the hunger.
I was starved. My life was emaciated. The magic appeared to be dead.
But the magic was just locked up in a dungeon. And when my loved ones started dropping like flies, well, I had no choice. I grabbed the old iron key that I'd been using as a paperweight, rushed to the stairs, and raced down, down, down to the cold, dank cell. With shaking hands, and trying not to think about what I was doing, I thrust the key into the lock and turned it.
Click.

this I believe... or do I?

I think that the things I think I believe are not necessarily what I do believe. Or, what my mind tells me is not the same as what my souls says.
And my soul never thought that Granny would die. She's been around too long to actually perish. She's the one who lives through the deaths of those around her: her parents, Grandad, friends...
She goes to church. She makes egg salad sandwiches. She gets up in the morning even though she's always been more of a night person. She comes to visit her children and grandchildren. She creates a stable home. She puts up with gruffness and grumbling from her husband with a murmered, "Jim!" and a gentle shaking of her head as she continues to go about the business of getting things done. And she gets these things done in order to get back to the business of conversation, which is what she loves most of all.
Oh well. I guess people do die, even in the present tense.

Perhaps she's living in the present somewhere else. What do you say, Mind?

I can't stand it.

I can't stand the fact that these three amazing woman are not here any more. I can not call any one of them on the phone. I struggle to remember what they might have said instead of just asking them what they think. They are gone. And I do not know where or if they are...

Your Turn...

Dear Reader,
In memory of my Granny, I prepared BBQ spareribs and sauce with white rice for dinner tonight. We ate at 5:30pm and I cleaned up the kitchen afterwards. I also TiVo'd The Price is Right, which Granny and Grandad used to watch every day at 5pm while Granny puttered around the kitchen getting dinner ready for 6pm.

And I would like to know, do you have any family traditions that you use to hold onto the good parts of your past? What do you do in memory of your dearly departed?

Sam

white rabbits

Here we all are, August. And aside from Granny, we are all still alive. So I thought I'd take a moment to outline what I expect from this month. As we all know, July fell asleep on the job. Let's hope August can pick up her slack and get things running a little more smoothly. First of all, enough with the dying already! Let's kick it up a notch and keep breathing until September. Secondly, it's time for our ships to come in. Now, I don't know whether there's some kind of blockade or seige happening with the shipping lines or if there's been a crack down in astral customs, but, and I think I can speak for many of us, it's time to get the ships moving again. I, personally, have been waiting for my ship to come in for 39 years. It's time. August, I have every faith that you are the month to make it happen. I realize that we have been under new management (2010, for those of you who have just joined us) and they don't seem to have their eye on the ball. But we, the days and weeks and months that keep things moving, - we are the backbone of this company, and we can determine its fate. And, let's face it, we all know we'll be under different management again next year.
So... let's think outside the box. Let's all find our true north and get our butts in gear.
Go get 'em!!!

flip flops

I stopped wearing flip flops about a month ago, maybe only a few weeks... At first things were ok. My husband seemed a little remote, but it was nothing really unusual. Then I guess I just lost the flow. I stopped drinking coffee. I started to sleep more... a lot more... and things just went downhill from there. I felt like I couldn't cope as well, with life. Then a couple of weeks ago everything derailed:

My sister in law has been quite sick in the hospital.
My other granny passed away suddenly at the age of 92.
Our family has had to make some changes like cutting off the premium cable channels, our phone line, and our penchant for eating out.

And... I had to cancel our trip to Hawaii.

All I can say is, "Damn those pale grey ballet flats!!!"

an amends...

Dear Sober Chicken,
It was wrong of me to snap at you the other day. When I called you, I should have been more clear about what I was looking for in our interaction. I really just needed to vent. And after telling you in detail what a m----- f------ c--- that Mr. --- was, I was not up for hearing about how when I'm disturbed I must look to myself first for the solution. And I'm not sure I agree with you when you say that the words "my part" don't show up anywhere in our solutions manual. At least, I'm not sure that those words aren't implied. But I digress. I'm sorry that I called you an annoying, arrogantly obsequious, 12 stepping, seed pecking snot. I apologize for hanging up on you so abruptly, without even saying good bye. I realize that you were just trying to be helpful and that you did not want to co-sign my bullsh--. Will you forgive my outburst, Sober Chicken? I would like to be able to call you again for you are truly stuffed with sage breadcrumbs of knowledge.

I am the mole!

True Blood: The Complete Second Season (HBO Series)

I need darkness. I need to burrow into the cool, moist earth for some relief.
I despise this glaring, gleaming, polished chrome blindness that is driving in July.
And the heat... !
All I can say is that it's no wonder that murdered drifters are rolled up in carpets and stored in the third floor "sewing room" in Louisiana. The heat will do that to you.
I am languishing in the languid torpor that is summer.
Oh God!
I long for the crisp damp chill of autumn.
Pumpkin hunting! Tromping through crunchy yellow and rust colored leaves. The smell of wood smoke in the air promising a crackling fire waiting at home.

Not this... warm gelatin that we call "air".

I shall draw the drapes and wait for nightfall. I shall not emerge until October 1.

why ghosts don't exist

Here is the arguement for the non-existence of ghosts that I posited to my 4 year old who is currently enchanted with the game "Ghost in the Graveyard."
1. When the body dies, a person's soul goes to live with "God", who exists in another dimension -- can you say DIMENSION?
2. Therefore there is nothing left here on earth to be a ghost.
3. So ghosts are made up because it's fun to feel spooky sometimes.

sober chicken says:

You must always remember, that what other people think of you is not just none of your business, it's completely beside the point. It truly doesn't matter what others think of you. What does matter is what you're doing, how you're acting, and who you want to be around. And focusing on that will change your life.
... An unexpected side effect of this perspective is that other people's "mind games" won't distract you. And when you take these people at their word and at face value, they tend to get confused. Which is fun to watch.

Sober chicken also counsels: it's OK to be tired and sad, as long as you keep doing what you need to do every day. And at some point, after you've accepted that your happiness is orbiting a distant star, you'll realize that you're having a fantastic afternoon!

Speaking of distant stars, my daughter came to the conclusion today that since there's no way that "bad guys" could live in our city, they must have driven in from a different planet. I asked her what planet that could be and she answered,"Star Wars."
And now, upon witnessing bad behavior, I can say:

"What!? Did you just drive in from the planet Star Wars?!"

the power of flip flops

Flip flops say "I am on vacation."
They make it hard to rush. And impossible to creep demurely through a library.
Their irreverent smacking sound is the pedi-equivalent to loudly chewing bubble gum in the church of life.
Flip flops make a spontaneous pedicure possible, and can invoke the long dormant surfer spirit within.

I have been wearing flip flops for almost two weeks now
and I can testify to their life changing power:

- my marriage has improved
- I'm more relaxed and open to what each day brings.
- I've stopped writing my plans in ink...
- I booked a family vacation to Hawaii.


Yes. I did.
Oh. My. God... Hawaii!!!!!

So... flip flops.
They will change your life. Try them and you'll know.

Sober Chicken says...

We all go through times when things feel bad.
That's when we have to do things regardless of how we feel about them. Because it will only get worse if we avoid what's in front of us. Bad day? Add a dirty kitchen, no clear floor or table space, and no clean clothes. Then add unhappy family members who have been given dry cereal for breakfast and who also have no clean clothes.
It can always get worse.
And sometimes, more often than we'd like to admit, the act of doing something makes things just a little better. It won't eradicate the root of our existential angst, perhaps, but we will be ruminating in a clean house. And with clean clothes, there's the option of leaving the house.

ENTOURAGE

Last night, the baby was coughing.
Today, he took mini naps only due to his cold and cough.
This afternoon, I took the baby with me to my daughter's ballet class.
I took baby out to the car where we could wait for daughter where he would be contained in his car seat.
I went with the baby to retrieve my daughter from class -- waited 10 minutes outside the studio door for the class to be over.
When the little girls exited the class, my daughter was not among them!

I asked the teacher where my daughter was -- she went to the bathroom!
We find her still there; she must have been in there for at least 10 minutes.

When we arrive home, I am angry because I'm still freaked out.
Therefore, a fight ensues with my spouse.
The children eat dinner.
The children head up to bed.
The cat has peed on my daughter's bed.
The baby is coughing again.
I put saline drops in his nose. He hates me.
The dog is whining to go out but the dog will not pee when taken out because it has been raining and the ground is wet.
I strip the bed and put on clean sheets.
I hear the dog clinking around in kitchen; the dog has finished baby's jar of food that was on the counter.

My spouse has stepped in to help get our children into bed.
I read three books.
Baby's asleep...
Daughter's quiet...

I go downstairs and hear baby crying.
I get baby back to sleep...
Daughter's asleep...

I go downstairs and
daughter comes downstairs wanting water.
I promise to bring some up.

now:
I think... they are both asleep, the dog is calm, my spouse is in his home office, and the cat has emerged from the shadows.

The moral of this story is: WE ALL NEED AN ENTOURAGE.

not too shabby...

Shabby chic is hard to keep up. Especially with children who like to pull fabric that is draped. Tablecloths never remain centered. Elegant throws are overthrown. Blankets that start over couches end up over the floor.
It is I who am distressed.

My spouse is right about the shabbiness factor. This may not be the decorating style for me.

Off with the blankets, throws and tablecloths! Self actualization is now...

...

minimalist.

Puppies being puppies

This is the perfection of cute. This is Plato's truth of cute that lies embedded within the analogy of the cave. This is the archetype of cute to which we all strive and to which we all must return.
This is the yin of cute to the yang of snug.
Please... enjoy.

9 wk old Cocker Spaniel Puppies Eating/Playing

my husband's not up for another cocker spaniel just yet either...

shabby chic two

I'm doing it. I'm shabby chic - ing my life!
My husband doesn't know it yet.

I have begun to drape white cloths over our furniture, but so far it's nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, what's wrong with choosing a white table cloth?
And putting a white striped summer quilt over our tan couch? And the white soft woolen throw blanket has been draped over the back of the couch has been there before.
The unfortunate fact remains: my spouse is not that into shabby chic. To him it looks, well, shabby. And he's not so into the European / French thing either.
I have to be careful.
I have to choose when and how to drape.
I have to abstain from distressing our walls.
(I'll leave that to the children.)

It's about self actualization. The tip of what's-his-name's pyramid of needs.
Safety? check.
Food and shelter? check and check.
Human companionship? ... got it covered.
Now: Shabby Chic!

It's amazing what one can remember from high school psychology. From that one test: also, "child is the father of man." Who said it and what did they mean? 10 points.

I can't remember his name either, but I do know what he meant.

it's annoying

when will the me generation begin to see the world beyond their noses?

Now, those of you who know me well know that I abhor being controversial. That being said, I must point out that the solipsistic generation has done nothing beyond allowing me to use a word I learned in the study of Milton repeatedly when complaining about them.
To be fair, I may be guilty of painting an entire generation with the same broad stroke. Not everyone who came of age in the 1970s and 1980s is a narcissist... There are those who know that people they don't know personally are not necessarily "extras" in the film of their life.
Not every park is a "location" shot for our contemplative scene.
Not every fat friend is comic relief.
Not every detail means something cosmic. Sometimes a pencil is just a pencil. Even when it breaks!

OK. For perspective I will admit that I ate donuts and chips last night. While watching "It's Complicated." And while I admire Meryl Steep immensely, I have to say that it's actually not that complicated. So for all the me generation who may be at risk for falling into a mature romantic comedy, let me outline a few things... prophylacticly:

1) Don't sleep with your self obsessed ex-husband. Any wife worth her salt knows already that her cheating ex is still not listening to her within five minutes, even if she's horny.

2) Please stop using the line, "... but I did this for me." while those around you are crying, as if it's some break through. You know very well how to look after your own needs; it's not a new skill.

3) Be clear. Be honest. Let the crap fall where it may.

I wonder if a movie like that would be funny. Maybe it would if one of the main characters followed those rules while the rest tried to meander around the truth.

OK.
I'm done. I have to go take care of myself because I realized while writing in my journal that when I don't get my own needs met, I tend to be intolerant and cranky.

shabby chic

I want to shabby chic my life. I want comfort and a weathered shades of neutral color scheme. I want there to be an atmosphere about my life that is vaguely French.

This is not to say that my life isn't pretty. It's comfortably elegant when the toys are put away and the kitchen is clean and I'm not yelling at anyone. But so often the TV is on too loud, set to the latest HBO documentary involving guns and screaming. The children are yelling at each other over who gets the fairy wand / wizard stick. I am looking at an overwhelming kitchen situation, trying to figure out what to feed my squawking brood.
Too bad, I guess. Maybe when the kids go to college I'll get out the antique white paint and sandpaper. I'll be a little more weathered myself by then, perhaps more comfortable and if I stop dying my hair, it'll be antique white too.

... so. There it is.

Life at 10:48pm

I think I have been forgotten... amid the haze of sleep deprivation and teething in a two bedroom home with over-tired children sharing a room. I just gave up tonight and let my daughter trail around behind me long after her bedtime. Yes, conscientious parents, I did put her to bed with teeth brushed and face washed and kisses and love and cuddles. In fact I put them both to bed. Until she woke up the teether who then wouldn't let her go to sleep because he was shrieking.
So we're downstairs and I'm just sitting on the couch and she's chatting about this and that and the baby is wailing. Yes, conscientious parents, I did give him Tylenol and a bottle and change his diaper and rock him gently. And all for naught.

Naught! I tell you.

Eventually she was wailing and he was shrieking and I called my husband who is "out" and let him listen for a minute or two. Which did help a little. Then I moved his portable crib into our bedroom so they wouldn't keep torturing each other. Thus the wails were separated by a couple of doors. And I put her to bed again. I was amazed to hear my mother's voice as I told my daughter that sometimes things just are the way they are and there isn't anything we can do about them. Then I went into our room and gave the baby another bottle. I'll thank the parent peanut gallery to shut up about how many ounces of formula a baby should have per day. He's still up and still howling, but not in a sad way. He's happy shrieking now.
And I am downstairs. Because now I am beyond sleep. And the Cadbury's Easter Creme Egg that I fished out of the back of the meat drawer in the fridge is kicking in. Ok... The ice cream with the questionabley fresh caramel sauce too.

And the dog has the runs. Yes. Those kind of runs.

comment from Horowitz

"Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happened last night." Horowitz read from a prepared statement outside the bakery this morning. "And you can quote me on that."

Question: "Where are baby Trudy and baby Judith right now?"

Horowitz: "Judith is probably in the parlor with nurse Elise having some quiet time and Trudy is in the bathroom - I am not at liberty to disclose any more detail than that at this point."

Question: "If nothing out of the ordinary happened last night, then why were there at last count, 3002 spent water balloons found throughout Babyland this morning?"

Horowitz: "I am not aware of there being that many."
Speaking over calls for more details, Horowitz responded "That's all the time we have for questions at this point. Thank you all for coming."

a little past eleven

Baby Trudy would not confirm or deny a part in the water balloon incident but did indicate through clever facial expressions that it was the other babies' fault, and then referred us to her attorney, Horowitz. Baby Judith could not be reached for comment. Nurse Elise requested that we contact her tomorrow after she has some time to compose herself. Sources say that she was seen heading home to have a bath and a cup of tea.
We will keep you apprised of any new developments in this story.

babyland news update

A temporary truce has broken out among two feuding houses as the babies sat down to tea and cake.
Wet and shrivelled remains of water balloons litter the sidewalks on main street.
While details are slowly emerging concerning what led up to the outbreak of snarkiness,
the beginning is still shrouded in mystery...

more at eleven

Foodie Haiku

There is a clear path
Protein, veggies and a fruit
leading to good health.

Obsession steps in,
"Fried dough will end my sadness!"
Yet this makes no sense.

"Or pizza perhaps!"
like the Xanax elusive
dream of sedation...

I find my self stuck
in brambles and shrubbery
that line the clear path

I wonder, does God
have a hard time not yelling
at people like me?

Samlet

to spa, or not to spa, that is the question
whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows
of outrageous psych wards
or to take arms against a sea of troubles
and by checking into a spa end them. To be committed,
and by committed to say involuntarily,
to end the heartache and begin the thousand electro-shocks,
that psychotic flesh is heir to. Tis a consummation
devoutly to be avoided. To check in, to a spa
a spa perchance for a massage. Ay there's the rub,
for after that rest what bills may come,
when we have shuffled off this mortal schedule of tasks
Must give us pause.
...
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
than pay for relief that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
and thus the resolution to commit oneself
is paled in the cast of thought,
And spas of great luxury, pondered
with this regard, turn too spendy
and lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
my spouse arrives, in his eyes
be all my previous credit remembered.

Siren Song

Beware the siren song of the self assured. They speak firmly and clearly, though not always with clarity. They absolutely know what to do and can help you know what to do too. It is so enticing to believe that such certainty is attainable. There is a "Them" and an "Us." And "we" know. God, it feels good to be so good. It feels exquisite to know what Moses meant when he wrote Genesis. (You didn't know that Moses wrote Genesis? Well he DID.)
These knowledgeable veterans of life (short or long) know the line in literature analysis where appropriate possible symbols and undercurrents still make sense, and where you've just gone too far. No, Lady Macbeth did not conspire with the three witches to effect the downfall of her spouse because that would make no sense. However, there is the tiniest possibility that Macbeth was in love with Duncan. Why else would he be so sickened by his murderous treachery? I'm just saying, there's something more going on there.

The only problem lies when you are confronted with the fact that it's not all that simple. All of it. Not so black and white. The twisted stitch on the sleeve of the perfectly knit sweater. The recurring thought that maybe all dogs do go to heaven. And before you know it... you have become "them." Kicked unceremoniously out of the "Us" club before you even got your laminated card and pin!

There are things that you can know for sure. But there are not many of them.
Consider yourself warned.

Margie & Bean

My friend has left us. Rather suddenly, her time was up. Being extraordinarily efficient, she was able to pass on the rudiments of the finances, groceries, and general housekeeping to her husband before she passed away. She is not gone. Her voice lingers in my mind and on her answering machine, which threw me for a loop simply because it didn't faze me at all that I got her machine until I remembered that she's dead. I have conversations with her still in my head, which is good because she was as enlightened a person as I have ever met.
The irony is that she really worked on helping me to stay grounded in the present, in reality, in what was in front of me to do. She was clear about what my priorities should be, and listening to the voices of dead people did not make her list. Now I'm getting advice on how to be grounded from the afterlife... which Margie would not agree with. Oh well. She's dead. What's she going to do? I heard her voice as I sobbed late at night saying, "I'm fine. What you need to do is focus on your recovery program, your family, and your life." Which is true. So every time I try to do as she would have me and "get close to the idea that I'm dead" as she'd say, I can't. Because she is not dead. She can not be dead. People like her do not die. She's just moved. I'd like to think that my erstwhile cocker spaniel gave her quite a shock when she arrived in her new lodgings; she didn't think animals went to heaven. There are so many ways that scene could have played out and every one makes me chuckle. Example: Margie is sitting down in a heavenly chair and sighs a deeply peaceful sigh as she looks around at Heaven. "Well..." she says and then a slimy rubber ball is deposited in her lap and Bean is fidgeting impatiently in front of her before resorting to a short bark. "Huh..." Margie finishes.

now what

Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree
how brittle are thy branches
the time has passed, so quick - ly
and now the tree's a hazard
the needles dropping freqently
the lights cause me anxiety
oh Christmas tree, how can this be
a chore so uninviting...

Granny

Granny was around for 93 years. And now she’s not. “Wait” I protest. “She’s always been there. Where did she go?” On a surface level I do understand that when people who live to be 93 die peacefully in their sleep there is no tragedy. On the other hand, when the young pass away – with their whole lives ahead of them – it makes no sense; it doesn’t fit. What I realized this week is that I have the opposite reaction at my core: those who live long lives belong on earth, while those who stay only briefly probably just left the coffee pot on in their astral abode. My intellect and my soul are desperate for an explanation and they each come up with opposite theories. All this, the rampant analysis followed by the conclusion of negative capability, is happening as hands are shaken and others are hugged; others who are urging one another to see this in a positive light, no matter what it is. As we listen to pastors or priests or reverends, memorials, testimonials, eulogies, psalms, poems and odes. I sit and sneer at those who are blubbering and those who are stone faced; I can’t even figure out who to judge. Upon reflection, I am left utterly confounded. So I cry and then the note Granny wrote before her death is read: “No funereal gloom”. She was always pushing stoicism as a way of life, and still is evidently. I remember that my fits of emotional turbulence always threw her for a loop. She would look at me like she looked at our ice maker when it went berserk. Though, to be fair, she did not yell “Stop it! Stop it!” at me. She did say, “Come on now, splash some water on your face and do something to get your mind off it.” Now that I am no longer in my early 20’s, I understand what she was getting at. I also understand that a woman who lived through two world wars would not necessarily consider weight gain a disaster. The Hindenburg, now that’s a disaster. At the time though, she might as well have been speaking Lithuanian. And what I’m saying is that anyone who has lived long enough to learn the emotional equivalent of an eastern European language, should just stay. Of course, this opinion does not take into account the fact that by her last few years on earth, Granny had forgotten most of what she knew… but that is fodder for future rumination.