HOME!

We're HOME!!!! She's doing much much better!

more soon.

thank you for all the kind emails.

the rocky ride with jenna

where do I start? where everything starts and ends: with Jenna. This is my third day at the children's hospital with Jenna. We landed here early wednesday--i think it was wednesday--after three trips to the pediatrician's this week. she wasn't getting better, you see, just worse and worse. by tuesday night she wasn't able to turn her neck at all. the lamebrain 20-something-year-old female doctor sent us home tuesday with the second of two antibiotics to try, which I had to beg her for, the script for which she begrudgingly tossed at me on her way out the door. "I think she should have the opportunity to have what everyone else has--it doesn't have to be something out of the ordinary." This after my saying, "She's getting worse not better." This after her asking me, "What is it that you want?" This prior to me saying, "I WANT you to find out what's wrong and get her better. That is your job."

No, not better. worse. SO back to the peds on weds to see the head doctor of the bunch, who finally did work, who finally announced her white cell count was high, who finally said, "there's something going on here. we should admit her. it's the smart thing to do. she'll be comfortable and they can get the right people on the case."

This prior to me launching into a high gear I didn't know I had, after only three hours sleep the night before, zooming home with her in the back, 102 fever still after days of it, me calling George and having him talk to her while I raced up and down three flights of stairs like a maniac trying to remember what to take to the hospital--medicine, some clothes, the care bear family, some toys. Toss some food out the door to the dogs, hurry hurry. I asked the doctor if I could stop home to pick up some things to take. His words echoed: "Yes, but don't wait too long. Best to get her there. They will be waiting."

This he said before me driving like a mad woman down 75, across 285, her throwing up in our pool towel in the back seat. God, just let me get her there, then I can crumble up.

We made it. She was admitted. This facility is perhaps the most amazing healthcare secret in the U.S. More about that in another post.

To get to where we are...

We've been here for three days, her on antibiotics and fluids via IV, me in the couch bed beside her, them running tests, her turning the corner, starting to get better. Thank you. God, thank you.

Our children are, as parents, all that matters. Really all. Nothing else. No. Not even yourself.

It appears--preliminary findings--that she is responding well to treatment for the BITE (not scratch as I originally thought) Hunter the cat inflicted on her neck three weeks ago. I cleaned it with alcohol. I neosporined it. But none of that mattered. Apparently cat bites are serious things, and apparently this one led to a staph infection. She's been fighting it off for some weeks, but not til yesterday, when the Ancef started working and the fever disappeared, did I notice that she has not seemed this lively, this alert, in a very long time.

So we are, I pray, on the road to recovery. She doesn't know yet, but her daddy is also on the road back to see her. What a surprise that will be for her--I'm having fun today thinking about the different ways I can spring it on her. ;-)

She is off to school today at the hospital. They have a school here. Students get credit for attending class and are marked present for days they miss at their real schools if they attend here. More importantly, she loves going. It gives her something to do. Classes are two hours long. Little kids attend with their IV poles, or just their little tape-and-board-wrapped hands. Jenna calls it her "Ivey."

The hospital, as I said, is superb. An anomalie in today's horrid healthcare scene, which is part of the reason we ended up here. But more on that another time, when I can think, and write. I am so tired.

Prayers welcome. I have no idea of my comments are working or not. Dean said they weren't the other day. Anyway, if not, I'll be on the case as soon as we're home. Hopefully by tomorrow. I'm in no rush as long as they get her better.

Thanks friends. As you can imagine I've been blogging in my head the whole time. But my heart has been elsewhere.

oh no negro!

Why the hell did they eat in Alpharetta? Don't they still have separate water fountains ova dere?

Okay, we're talking bout bobby & whitney. But still.

sick kid and too much work to do

jenna's still sick--home for the third day since school started, and as coincidence would have it, my business, which was dry for last three weeks, is now in high gear. I mean really high. I mean I'm swamped. I mean tan is gone.

I would love to have something witty to say, but I'm just plodding through the days and nights right now--working, soup making, lying next to, video watching, researching, typing, stepping out on the porch for con calls, back in, patting the back of, downloading, editing, writing some more, editing some more, emailing, deleting sobig.f, writing again, crying with, giving medicicne to, and commiserating with jenna.

there are bigger problems, yes. but not for me this day. these are them. send get well thoughts to the baby blogger.

Oh, I see

Exquisite post from Halley about what it's like to see the world through a new and improved eye--one of two that she is having corrected via cataract surgery. This post is simply Halley.

see it.

Antwone Fisher.

A review.

And a poem:

Who will cry for the little boy, lost and all alone?
Who will cry for the little boy, abandoned without his own?
Who will cry for the little boy? He cried himself to sleep.
Who will cry for the little boy? He never had for keeps.
Who will cry for the little boy? He walked the burning sand.
Who will cry for the little boy? The boy inside the man.
Who will cry for the little boy? Who knows well hurt and pain.
Who will cry for the little boy? He died and died again.
Who will cry for the little boy? A good boy he tried to be.
Who will cry for the little boy, who cries inside of me?

--Antwone Quentin Fisher

excuse yourself

What a whale fart looks like.

Thanks to Miasma for the post on the story.

Oh, you're Killing Me with this one...

Nathan Newman posts on this study from Northwestern University, which finds, among other things, that, all things being equal (pun intentional), white convicted felons get more job interviews than black non-offenders. That is, corporate America would rather hear from a white rapist than an honest black man or woman.

We've come a long way, baby.

Virus Conspiracy Theory 101

Okay, so here's my guess. It's a bit hard to follow, but all good conspiracy theories are. They also require some leaps of faith. But that's nothing new to you guys.

So.

SOBIG.F apparently had its genesis on a porn usenet group. (No, it's not a link to the porn. so-so-sorry.)

Okay, you're with me so far--good name: so big / porn usenet site.

Actually, good branding job by the evildoers.

So, here's my theory.

It's the Bushes.

Jenna Bush and Barbara Bush, the President's daughters.

Yes. You see, my guess is that there were some, well, interesting videos of the girls on that usenet site. REALLY interesting. And, you see, my guess is that they were doing a thing or two with a folk or two that could make Monica and Bill look like celibacy poster children.

Uh-huh.

And MY guess is the powers found out--and I mean powers, not Powers, and they planted the SOBIG.F virus to bring down the net and to make it a national emergency such that they could come and seize the computers of every man, woman, and child until government geeks can figure out how to dismantle the GIANT BIG SCREEN Bush Girls Video that's coming to a screen near you (if you still have a screen near you) this September 11th.

So, what'd you think? Has all the good earmarkings of a 21st Century conspiracy theory doesn't it?

Or so it would seeeeem... ;-)

it's just us

When I open my email, I feel if I'm shouting into a deeeep canyon, "Hello?" and I don't even get the echo back to keep me company. I get the feeling it's SOBIG.F, the mother of all bandwidth-hogging viruses. Where'd everybody go? Even the spammers are going easy on me. Have the FBI and Rumsfeld disconnected everyone but me?

Has everyone been knocked back into the real world? If so, where are we meeting and what are we supposed to bring with us?

Imagine being one of the so-called 20 computers that the virus sought out as its host. Personal computers, supposedly in people's homes here in the U.S., in Canada, and in Korea.

Imagine the knock at your door.

If you think they'd bother to knock.

*****************

"We're taking you down, missus."

"Huh?"

"Your PC--please show us where it is. We know it's here."

"Um?"

"YOUR PC--SHOW US WHERE YOUR PC IS AND NOW! JENNA BUSH CAN'T GET TO MTV.COM! BESIDES, THE GLOBAL ECONOMY DEPENDS ON IT!"

"oh. well. um. you mean I'm one of the 20? No. That can't be. All my life I've wanted to win the lottery, but this isn't the right one."

"I'm afriad we got your ticket right here Ms. Sessum."

"Oh. Dear. Well, can I back up some files--I have to get my work files off or I can't send the stuff I have due. It will only take me a couple of minutes. I have a CD burner. Look, you can watch me do it. I have to--my clients are waiting for it."

"I'm afraid not. This computer is now the property of the U.S. Government. You've been infected, and we must quarantine you to ensure this SARS, errrr, I mean SOBIG.F doesn't spread to other unsuspecting victims like yourself or to President Bush's friends in Texas... I mean, global enterprises."

"But I'm an unsuspecting victim. And I have years' worth of work files on this machine--NO PLEASE--don't GRAB it like that!!"

"Woof Woof GRRRRR!" [[ed note: plainted wail of Bando the mutt.]]

"GERRY, GRAB THE WOMAN. TAKE HER DOWN!"

"No, please, I was in the middle of a post. Please just let me finish!"

"Listen, little lady--you may think we're fooling around here, but you got the A-Rabs trying to kill us and those damn Rusians who never got over the cold war--and don't get me started on them 'AfrikanAmerikans' -- don't you see, WE HAVE ENEMIES, and THEY are knocking!"

"But I swear, I'm not the enemy. Please don't take me down--not yet--give me two more minutes! I haven't posted yet! I haven't pressed publi...."

**********

So here we are.

Here.

As the uni-directional flood of email conversation crashes into serious roadblocks this week, the voice of blogging becomes even more important. Our words haven't slowed. We don't need no stinkin' cootie shots. The Web's heart is still beating. We're its pulse. We'll keep posting.

Unless, of course, there are more than 20.

Like, say, 20,000,000.

home

burnt red cedar
etched with lines
paintings of insects
tunnels trace paths
across shingles
making a road home.

this house it breathes.
aches and stretches
groans harmonies to the
rumbling of night
thunder.

door knobs give way
six bulbs blown
cupboard hinges hang
just one
garage door left
to rise and fall,
seal us safely in.

what more can come undone
in the heat of the summer.

and still,
signature fingerprints
along hallways remind me
how small she was,
imprints of life
the art of time passing
quietly
strokes of white baby shoes
and strawberry-stained fingers.

there isn't much
I would change
if I could,
except maybe
everything.

the sky is falling

this worm, this SOBIG and it's infectious friends, are just what we don't need.

i'm on the phone with a client at a big global technology company and she mentions the emails she's been sending me today, and I say, um, no, I didn't get them. Neither did I receive a critical email from one of her colleagues. Surprisingly, my bellsouth.net is hanging in there, delivering me all the spam I don't need and then some, while my clients' networks are griding to a halt, suffering email grande mals at a rate I can hardly track.

No, I'm not alone today. But I am a little scared.

I may also be one of the few who wanted to tell this client, we have two options when email dies: instant messaging and collaborative workspaces.

This is an emergency. You do what you have to do. I wanted to tell the client with whom I'm collaborating on this particular white paper project that boasts a fast approaching deadline, "Let's go start a team blog, mark it private, and do it like that. Just for today. I can't afford e-room, but blogger's free. We can make due. When we're done, we'll kill the blog. Google won't have time to spider it--and no, I'm not sure all of the technicalities on how blogger keeps private blogs private, but why worry--it's Friday and we can delete it by end of day tomorrow. We can post back and forth, leave comments, pull in links to relevant materials, and get the job done behind the backs of those motherfucking, spamloving, email-killing viruses."

That's what I didn't say.

What I did, in reality, was to send him an invitation to Yahoo Messenger hoping that he can sign on, add me as a friend, copy text out of his sent mail, paste it into an IM for me, from which I will copy it out and paste it into our MSWord document.

That will work for the edits.

But...

Let's hope everything's up and running once I plug the changes into the layout and have to turn around the 20-page MSWord file.

'Cause that's when I get to send the invoice.

i.e., that's how I eat.

Fuck you, infectors and spammers.

loving moms grow children who love effortlessly

Doc said goodbye to his Mom yesterday. He shared her last words with his readers.

It was actually just one word: Love.

Love.

Let that settle in, and consider the type of person she must have been, the way she must have lived her life, to have that message waiting on her lips as she said goodbye.

Love=one another
Love=your neighbor, your brother
Love=yourself
Love=I love you
Love=unconditionally
Love=should be enough; if not that, then what?

If you know Doc, he is testimony to his mother's life and love, her ability to show that love genuinely, unconditionally. He has shared that with us not only in his postings about his mother and his family, but through that place Doc writes from. His mother informs his voice, and she always will.

That is evidence of a life fully lived.

Blessings, Doc.

long2days

It's been a long couple of days with Jenna sick and home from school, which, as you well know, barely got started. The good news is she has meds for a wicked right ear infection and possibly strep, but the lame-o's at the doctor's didn't swab her because her ear was bad enough that she needed antibiotics. Puss and such. ewwww!

The whole thing put me in a funk, which was made a bit funkier because the nurse practitioner, whom we saw, only RX-ed FIVE days of omnicef instead of the usual 10. Two phone calls later and I had some bullshit mumbo-jumbo non-answer about why, but the damage was done--$25 to the wallet with a likelihood of being back there next week to see a REAL doctor who knows that this particular strepmonger doesn't cure easily, and that it's worse to NOT knock it out entirely, because it comes back (what class? that's right:) stronger.

In a side note, there has to be a carrier here in this house. There just has to be. After some Web research, I've determined it's either me or Hunter. Problem is, I have to live here, so if it's me, well, WTF? But Hunter on the other hand... he's losing his balls next week anyway, and I think I've talked the vet into putting him on antibiotics in case he's the strep-spreader, since the strep culture which would tell us for certain costs $110. Upon hearing I'd have to part with a c-note I don't have, I used my cunning linguistic capabilities to convince the dear receptionist that a few bucks and a few pills won't kill me, them, or the little fucker, so let's all pretend he's the carrier and treat him as such, shall we?

So, does this mean we're making progress?

I would like to believe that. Really.

Meanwhile, Ms. Jenna is perking right up on the meds--the asthma is simmering down and she even mopped the kitchen floor for me today and LIKED it. OH YES--this is a good thing. I told her she mops like her Daddy, who is incredibly thorough and painstakingly, um, careful when he takes on a project that needs elbow grease and a bit of strategy. She got that floor cleaner than it's been in three months, and she enjoyed squeegying the mop head more than any human being should.

So, the end of a long day (or thousand) and I think we're going to try school tomorrow. Nebulizer in tow to give to the nurse with what I hope is a sigh of relief from me, and some words like: "You can do her meds today. Thank you. I love you."

I'm not sure what the school nurse might make of this declaration from me, but being that she is the first school nurse I've laid eyes on since I was in eighth grade, I'm mighty bloody happy to see her. Peace of mind, you're almost mine.

I've been wanting to blog, writing in my head and then posting. Problem is, there's no server back there in the grey matter amusement park that is my brain. So everything gets lost.

So now I'm gonna get lost and go to sleep.

or at least count sheep.

thank you.

you go, george

George has his latest column up at AllAboutJazz.

George joined AAJ's roster as a columnist last week. Here's the press release announcing the news.

I wonder who does this guy's PR?

tonight

the fever's begun. sore throat. asthma flare. machine every 4. oh please, no. we're lysterining like crazy over here. drinking drinking (water I mean).

I'll likely be off and busy for a time. Either way.

carry on ya'll.

30 posts--i can hardly do 3

man, i've lost my juice. no lie. I had every intention to take a run at my semi-annual 30 posts in 30 minutes (30 minutes being a mile markerI've yet to hit). But look. My eyes are clcosed and Iam so tired,I can't do it tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I have so many half thoughts running through my mind as I sit here typing with eyes closed. I think, though, I'm going to let them settle with me here. They don'tmake sense outside of this dream. Not really.

kindergarten cold

can it happen that fast? we get one week and one day in and Jenna's already sick. So far a cold--no fever. We are hyperminting (lysterine) and toothbrushing and vitamining like crazy. Ireally don'twant herto miss this early. but most of all, i want that itty-bitty nose to feel awll better.

can't keep up

Things that remain undone:

cat still has his balls
bills unpaid--nearly all
garage door--springs popped
garage floor--because the springs popped, the floor now gets to hold all the shit I never know where to put.
vaccuming--what carpet? under the fur you mean?
Ford Escape unsold.
press release 1 unwritten
press release 2 unwritten
laundry not washed
laundry not dried
laundry not folded
laundry not put away
dance class not registered for
therapy appt not scheduled
Yoga tape stopped mid-way for a week
kids videos 3 days late
dusting--ha ha that's a joke. who dusts?
virus update on desktop--worm? what worm?
hug not received
dance video still unwatched--recital was in June
mandatory unemployment workshop unattended
dogs out of food
jenna out of soymilk

there's more, but I think I've done enough damage.

been quiet too long

up here late nursing a stomach ache. they happen to me every now and then, these intestinal bouts of agony that I think after many years of having them are due to not drinking enough water and drinking too much caffiene--i.e. dehydrating.

so I'm sitting with my knees up and my arms in some Frankenstien like extension over the couch, onto my little Borders lap desk which sits on the piano stool in front of the couch: i.e., my office.

I decided to see if I can do 30 posts to keep my mind off of my behind, for the time being. Off we go...

Running Out of Rhyme, Book 2

Running Out of Rhyme
Book 2
Poetry by Jeneane Sessum

In case anyone thought I was serious about pulling content behind a pay-per-view model, I thought I'd make a clear stand on what I think we should be doing here by giving and receiving one another's voices.

So here's the next Running Out of Rhyme poetry collection as a PDF.

Enjoy, and if you feel like donating, know that the Sessums and our COBRA health insurance plan appreciate every penny. If you don't or can't, read on just the same. It's all goooood.

I'll put a link to the side with the other volume for easy access as this post will move along its merry way into my incredibly free archives.

when the dog bites...

when the bee stings.... when I'm feeling sad....

--------------------------

It was a surprise when I heard her yelp LOUDLY from the side of the pool. Yelp? How about scream bloody murder. Yes, sweet girl got her first bee sting today. So many firsts at five. This was yet another. Having never been stung by a bee (yes, I know, weird) even though I used to catch them with my hands and put them in jars, I didn't know exactly what the right course of action was. Luckily one of the pool dads swooped to our rescue, found the stinger, and pulled it out. Of course, it started to swell with nothing to put on it in sight.

"Tobacco" two people said in unison.

Get one of your cigarettes, soak it in water, and squeeze the juice on it. That's what they advised. Nearly everyone there had their grandpapa use the remedy. Is this a southern thing?

For the first time I was glad I still had some cigarettes. I soaked one and made a paste of ground American Spirit tobacco.

"What's that?" Jenna asked.

"Something for bee stings," I lied.

Sort of lied. Thing is, it worked. Within five minutes she said it wasn't hurting so bad. Within a half hour, besides the lump on the bottom of her foot, you wouldn't know anything had gone awry.

This is your Southern tip of the day.

If you get stung by a bee, throw some chaw on it and carry on.

just back from the pool...

while travelling through my archives

I reconsidered today. I have decided, if you can't beat em, join em.

All bloggers will henceforth adopt the subscription model, pull our archives behind a password and charge $1 per post for downloads. We understand that the NY Times and the Times Online are right. If something's old, it is worth more. Like antiques. Content appreciates with age.

I believe.

I believe.

travelling through the archives.

a song from jenna

Uncle Daddy and the Cousin Jumpers

McWTF?

the strep diary and more strep (oh my goodness... i remember may).

JBMCSE CorpoBlogging Methodology (it was supposed to be funny.)

RageBoy's Outta Juice

If you thought Boulder, CO was immune to the dastardly effects of the North East power outage, think again. Oh dear, RageBoy has been sucked into the black hole of Panix's New York power outage. (If the links work, then that means shit's working again).

No blog (hosted on panix). No email at the old homestead (clocke@panix.com). No nothin'.

BUT, he has asked me to let the blog world know he's still alive and can be reached for sympathy, empathy, and generous monetary donations at entropygradient@earthlink.net or through that obsolete boat anchor known as the telephone (720-304-8077).

Glad to be of assistance.

'Til the next lightning strike,
--jeneane

too much power

the power is on in georgia. i wish it weren't. at my house anyway. I wouldn't want to have to throw out food, or re-set the alarm clocks in the middle of the night, or perspire in the late evening heat. I wouldn't want to not be able to blog or to have to explain to jenna that it will be okay in a few hours.

But I could go for a nice, brief, bring-people-out-of-their-houses-with-a-bag-of-ice-and-some-beers power outage about now.

I hear the lights are coming back on. Or so President Johnson says.

fame in the UK

This Article from the Sunday Times Online gives a shout-out to BlogSisters and a mention of yours truly.

I would link to the actual article, rather than the 10-pound (as in money) version I paid to download (can't download individual articles--only in multiples of 10 at a minimum). However, my emails to the editor who contacted me back in June about the story went unanswered once the article appeared. So I never saw it. Never knew when it came out. And now it is, of course, in big-media fashion, behind the pay-to-play firewall.

Obviously, given context clues, my photo made it in, but I'll never know which photo since they asked for a few and since archived articles appear sans photos. Sans personality. Let's see, remove the layout and design, remove the photograph, and charge for it. Um.... okay. That's one way to do it.

If I had time, I'd launch into a rant about big media and its cluelessness as to things even beyond blogging, as in: pulling content behind the magic curtain where people--even the people who contribute to stories, people who are quoted or featured in stories--need to pay for the privilege of reading them.

But I don't have time this evening. So I won't. I'll just bask in another five seconds of fame, which in the end, cost me somewhere close to the tune of $20.

Reason 567 why we'll be here long after they go away.

another version

No time to investigatae, but I think this is another version of the Sunday Times article here.

the night in me

It's been this way forever, really. No matter how little sleep I get, no matter how early I wake up (5:30 this/yesterday morning), at 10 p.m. my internal alarm goes CLANG and the night in me comes alive. It's a curse, being a night person in a daytime world.

The night is when I write, the night feeds me, the moon not the sun cuts a path just bright enough to wander through, not knowing what could jump out, what might surprise, what waits quietly inside thick midnight blue.

Midnight blue--the first color I ever chose from the crayon box. Since I was old enough to scribble, it has been my favorite. Draw bright dark circles, press hard, see how black blue can get.

As a teenager, I'd take a flashlight under the covers and write in my notebook sometime after 1 in the morning, poetry, stories, loneliness mostly.

In that bed, the orange-yellow of the flashlight painted the white cotton sheets like the sunset, bright-white paper gleamed so fresh, dying for black ink to press against it, to make love, flesh-like pulp welcoming the stain of words, giving in to voice, receiving.

In college I'd pop no-doze and crank out 20, 30, 50 pages in a night. It didn't matter. Exhaust myself for morning so waking up wouldn't hurt so bad. Night was my heart's bandage.

And then, you start to like it.

You don't mean to.

But what you find in the locusts and crickets, the air alive with deathly quiet, no birds, no singing, just stillness--it aches for voice, for words, for sound, for touch--your sound, your touch.

The night is the empty room waiting for sound, a whisper, a scream.

Dark silence is electric. It is a hand poised with a knife aimed just-so at the socket.

It's the moment before, the time that is not yet.

At night there is hope things can get better. By morning hope gives way to blazing sun, to pain that cracks the eye and welcomes tears down.

I have to take the night. I have to.

The night is in me.

is it bedtime yet?

today I did six errands before 11 a.m.

i also got more coffee beans.

this is what I did.

that is all.

school girl

morning

apparently there is something to be said for this hour of the morning. Me, I don't see it. Things should be asleep at 6:30. All things should be restful and dreaming inside peaceful slumber. Not knocking around the kitchen hitting the right side of their heads wondering how they could have managed to run out of coffee beans.

It's dark out.

Dark = sleep.

Oh my goodness.

I am a night person. Have always been. My system is in shock. What do people DO at this hour? Even when I commuted to midtown, I couldn't do this hour. I never strolled in before 9:30. It was not possible for me. Accept me as I am. Love me in spite of my early-morning hatred.

My aunt tells me that I will learn to find something special in the beginning of a new day. That there is something incredible about watching a new day wake up.

I'm waiting.

It looks dark. Quiet. It looks like things should be sleeping.

I've seen this hour many times in my life, but most often from staying up all night. And I include in those early morning feedings of a new baby.

6:30 for me is a stop along the way of nightime. It's the end of the previous day, not the start of the next.

All things are changing. Time to go wake the kindergartener!

we made it.

she's there. i'm back here. all is well.

?

to be continued...

kindergarten jenna

Went to see jenna's kindergarten classroom today and meet her teacher. Monday is the first day of school. OH My goodness. I really liked the teacher. She's calm (that is good with a room full of five year olds), not too young, not too old, and has a nine-year-old daughter herself. Wshew. The room is nice and loaded with learning tools, plus five computers that look rockin'. Only 15 kids in the class. Nice teacher-student ratio. Wondering if I can just go there to do my work every day. Wouldn't that be cool? Back to kindergarten I'd go. Don't mind me, I won't get in your way. I'm just going to sit over here and blog and suck my thumb and maybe take a nap.

Anyway, some of Jenna's classmates-to-be were there getting acquainted. A wonderful blend of hues and backgrounds. That is the best thing about the south. Especially this big-city south. But everywhere, really. Even the small towns; even the country. There is blending in the south that goes waaaay back. Even those who don't want to admit it know. It is much less segregated here than in the northeast and midwest--those other parts of the country I'm intimately acquainted with. That is important in our world. Jump in and experience the world of people the world over.

So the children seem great, the teacher seems great, the room is nice and cool and clean, the learning tools are top-notch, and I am breathing an unbelievable sigh of relief--until Monday. Monday our baby girl takes the first step out of this front door into the real world.

It's a tiny step for her, and a big one at the same time. For me it's a step I will never take again in this lifetime, an ending as much as a beginning, and it's as heavy as it gets. Truly.

Wish me a good cry and a strong coffee.

Wish Jenna much joy.

the young me

So let me jump right to this. While I was out to dinner last night, I was told I look 21. Then, no, wait a minute, 14 not 41.

That would seem like a compliment to some. If not that I have been trying to look and act my age--I have an age thing going on lately--you know? An age thing. I'm not sure what that means.

I'm trying to figure out how old I am. Really. Arrested development. Or something. So I've been coming out in this more grown up way, letting the wisdom of my years show for the first time, changing the way I dress some, those tall shoes and things like that, and then I get: 21, no 14.

Shut up, Jeneane, you're saying. Find something else to complain about. We know you have plenty.

But it's all related.

After I say my thank yous, I'm sitting there FEELING 14. Why try, you know? I feel my step father ready to belittle me. That's what 14 means to me. Dinner table arguments and drama. Become invisible--that's the answer.

The thing is, at 14 I didn't look 14, I looked 21. "You blossomed early," my mother would say. I'll say.

What does it mean--certainly it's not "the look" people notice when they tell me I look young as much as what--my manerisms? my humor? the way Jenna and I crack each other up? My vulnerability? My ....?

The harder I try, the younger I get, in some respects. In others I must be 100 by now. Maybe everyone's just too kind to say, 41? I thought you were 100!

I had an aunt--Aunt Gussie--the kindest woman on the Slavic side of my family. She never married and was the coolest of the cool, accepting and ever generous. She made tons of money during her lifetime, which she always shared with the children in the form of savings bonds. Aunt Gussie grew the best tomatoes I've ever tasted in my life.

She lived with her sister and her sister's husband in Ohio. They were mean to her, mean to everyone. They were just NOT nice people. Very unhappy. I remember the belittling that went on in that house when I would visit them with my grandmother. And I would think--but why does Aunt Gussie take it? She's the smart one, she's the rich one, and she's the cool one?

I don't know why she stayed. She never seemed to let it bother her, but it must have. I don't know. There is a lot I won't ever know. What I do know is that Aunt Gussie had a big laugh and a husky voice that always made me feel warm.

She lived to be 90, and she never, not ever, ever, ever, had a wrinkle on her skin.

I am serious. No wrinkles. Not one. I can't tell you how odd it is to look upon a woman of 70 (the last time I saw her) who's skin is as smooth as a baby's. Pure. Not one line. No one ever guessed Aunt Gussie's age right.

But it was more than her skin that kept Aunt Gussie young. It was something else. It was a reverse kind of thing. The something else WAS what kept her face and skin from showing her age. What was it? What was it? What was it?

Love? Joy? Fun?

Oh you should have seen her eyes. Sparkley blue with cheeks that rose to meet them when she smiled. I'm remembering her writing this, these words are forming her face for me, her laugh. Her bending down to pick me a plumb tomato.

I forgot her voice until I started writing this. Now it's in my ears and with me. Thank you, blogging.

Hello Aunt Gussie. I'm okay. I miss you.

morning coffee with...

tablespoon of non-dairy creamer, two packets of sweet-n-low, and two sugar ants.

yes really.

Too tiny to fish them out; too expensive to waste the coffee.

Ante Latte: Coming soon to a Starbucks near you.

down

but not out.

only 5 days left til kindergarten. must go spend them the right way. what else matters.

til later... j.

ain't it funky now

In a low spot today, trying to ward off Jenna's cold, and gettin' funky ova hea. Been listening to this.

I like this interview with George Clinton. Dig how he describes the funk beat:

"It's hard to stay there. You don't want to stay there forever because that would be RI-DIC-U-LOUS. That would be like coming 24 hours non-stop. And every time we start getting there, we'd push it to another level to reach for. We'll never be satisfied with where we're at, so we push it a little harder."

RI-DIC-U-LOUS. uh-huh?

Loud is the only way to go, driving the most funkless automobile ever built--this conservative blue Chevy Venture Value Van, which is no way to go through town or through life. But, it has wheels and a CD player, and four speakers that beat my head with the funk.

Be thankful for whatcha got, ya'll.

Atlantans in the House with the little bitty ants, lemme here ya say HEY! HO!

Hey!
Hey!
Ho!
Ho!
Hey hey ho!
Hey hey ho!

.....

Where the hell are these tiny fuckers coming from? All summer long, ant bait after ant bait, boric acid here, ant baits there. I've put them under the microwave, on the window sills, under the cupboards, and those teeny tiny stinking little millimeter sized sweet-eatin ants don't quit.

Is it all the water? Is it just me? I can't take them any more.

I'm beginning to think they're hatching out of me.

I see them in my sleep.

Help. Me.

Mental (Health) Part 62

One of the other brain rearrangement projects of the last few months has been claiming the house back from the five year old and the animals. Sure, I go two steps forward, three steps back, but it's coming along little by little.

First the living room. It wasn't. For the last five years it has been a playroom, along with the dining room, kitchen, Jenna's room, and the master bedroom. Yes, since she was mostly at home she invaded everywhere and it took a genuine effort to begin to channel her STUFF into proper places, to restore some kind of order and then look upon the destruction that had taken place under layers and layers of toys and paint and glue and sparkles and stickers and and and and.

The living room is happy now. Remainders of Jenna's Stewardship now include a small table and chair for her to work at and ONE (count em--ONE) small box of toys. The colorful bins containing what must be thousands of pieces and bits of polly pocket clothes and barbie limbs and hundreds of other important things are now in her bedroom. Her desk in her bedroom boasts a globe and a clean workspace. Her bed is in a new place--no wall needed to keep her from rolling out anymore! Next, her closet. But not too much too soon. Change should be measured in relation to the sanity it creates or destroys.

A week or so ago, I decided that the dining room should be claimed back too. It should be a place to--well--dine. Or at least eat. So more organizing and categorizing, very little tossing of anything, but much relocating. Desktop PC's should live on computer desks, CDs in CD holders, etc.

Little by little, long before I knew what I was doing, I was preparing the house for a kindergartener. A school girl. Not a hopping bopping 1, 2, 3, 4, and finally 5 year old.

I took the deck back too--or I tried to--from the dogs. I painted the deck furniture without expecting the summer of rains the likes of which I haven't seen here before. But still, they look better than they did. A sprayer attached to the hose put a dent in the Diva-Dog hair which is matted from one end of the property to the other, especially on the deck. Spider webs sprayed away. At least six layers of dirt washed away.

A tremendous feeling it is taking back the house, putting the prison guard back in charge of the inmates rather than vice versa. We needed that kind of order boost. No idea if our natural tendency to do a million things at once, or the natural tendency to be... um... scattered will catch up with us. Probably. But in the mean time, I'm going to survey the fruits of my labor, stretch out on the couch, and enjoy the lack of complete randomness.

Talking to Clothes

Six garbage bags full of clothes that haven't fit me for months (and longer) are on their way to the clothing dropbox at the gas station up the road. I tried them all. Too loose. Wow. Six bags. Who knows? Not me. It's not up to me. You can hand it over. That's the beauty.

Old friends once crumpled in the corner of the closet are now hanging on hangers, saying, Hey, where you been?

Who me? I set my mom down a little over a year ago, didn't you hear? I don't have to carry her anymore.

Oh. You thought you did?

Well, no. It's not that you know you're carrying their illness around for them. It's not conscious. It's how it works until you see that you're not doing anyone any favor by carrying that load--least of all yourself and those you love. Plus it tires you out. It took me a long time. Longer than some, not as long as others, I guess.

Well, to a silk blouse this stuff you're saying doesn't make much sense. But we're glad to see you anyway.

Glad to see you too.

Recovery in progress.

out with the old, in with the even older

Clothes. They are something. Something I haven't paid attention to for a long time. It happens after you have a baby. Yah, that was five-and-three-quarters years ago, but somehow the time in between birth and kindergarten are a whirlwind that leaves a woman happy to have made it through the day. Work full time means you have "those" outfits. The kind you don't have to think about in the morning. Put on business casual and out the door. Then you start telecommuting and--Whoa. Why get dressed? Think of the ten minutes I can save by working in sweats or those silly cotton shorts all day. Trip to the grocery store? Shit--gotta run to the doctor here, prescriptions there, food here, mailbox there, school here, kinkos there. All the while without realizing you're in the same clothes you got up and threw on, or worse, the clothes you slept in.

One thing about shrinking is that it takes you deep into your closet. Out with the stuff that just hangs there, in with the clothes you forgot were hidden in the recesses of your closet. You take out an old pair of jeans, not worn in six years, put them on, and you remember what you were doing when they were new. You remember that part of your life. Barn jeans or dress jeans, interview suit from two jobs past. Are they still in style? Well, kind of. Not really. But since you can't afford to dash off for a closet of new stuff, and since shrinking is still in progress, you put on those old friends and feel pretty good about them welcoming your body back into them.

Old clothes, old lives. There was a time when.

I wear taller shoes now. Jenna made me do it. OOOOh, mama, you look nice in tall shoes. Buy those.

Oh honey, mama wears sneakers. I don't need tall shoes.

Just one pair mama. Just get these.

So I did, at the beginning of summer. There is a lot of perspective to be gained from a tall pair of shoes. Seeing the world from a vantage point that isn't your own. I think it's good for the mind. Thinking outside your height. They're not fancy pumps, which wouldn't find much use traveling to and from summer camp every day, but tall sandles that add a nice angle to the ankle and keep my feet cool.

That's the thing about clothes and shoes. Sometimes you need to dig back far into your closet, or let your kid talk you into one try at something different. To give yourself permission.

That said, off I dash again. Been in and out most of the day--a day to myself--and off I go again.

Then, to rest.

oh dear

Well, I made it to the week before Kindergarten without a mention of it. Just a recognition of it. But never a direct question. Just something that was. Because it's not done in our house. Just outside the house. So it never came up. Til today.

Mama, why do you smoke? It's not good for you.

[heart stops. deep breath.]

Well, you're right, Jenna. It isn't good and Mama is working on quitting. You should never start because it is something that's very hard to stop. But I'm working on it. In the mean time, it's adult business and not anything you should worry about.

Okay. It's bad to do though.

Thank you for asking about it, sweetie.

AKA:

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Quitting must now begin in earnest. Just what I need right now. My one escape. May need to find another.

Because I Been Busted.

bears repeating

repetition compulsion



repetition compulsion



repetition compulsion



repetition compulsion



repetition compulsion



repetition compulsion



repetition compulsion



repetition compulsion

water water everywhere...

Went to a pool party last night where a dozen kids went completely nuts in the water. All ages, in around up down jump land dive slide splash--simultaneously. Three weeks ago, Jenna couldn't swim. Last night she did the diving board and slide for the first time and, big surprise, loved it. I tried to remain non-wreck-like as she dashed and splashed and slid and dove nearby and sometimes insanely close to 12 other children doing the exact same thing at the exact same time.

It was choreographed by a force larger than the sum of everyone there. I think that's why no one got hurt. Somehow it was a joyous dance by children who had a lot they needed to release, and to my dismay, no one smashed heads or needed to be pulled off the bottom of the pool, although I saw so many close calls my heart hurt from jumping.

There was something cathartic in the children's free-for-all of energy release. The other parents sat non-plussed while I sauntered around the edge of the pool, not quite willing to leave Jenna to her own devices. She was the second youngest there, but among the most daring. Not surprising.

Three of the adults had brought their dogs, and two dogs were residents, so in all five dogs ran around and around the pool, two nearly taking a dip, but instead happy to lie next to the pool while the kids poured big red beer cups of water over them. I don't know how much pool water the dogs or the children drank, but when the sky had blackened, I noticed a lot less water in the pool.

The lab got the pound cake. Maggie the Old English Sheepdog got half a pizza. Soon all the cups were in the pool with the kids, none left for those of us parched enough to considering drinking diet coke right from the 1 liter bottle.

The dynamics, which I can't help be a student of, thank you blogging, were what interested me most. That and wishing my best friend had been there so I could say, "Did you see that?" "Check that out!" "You won't believe I heard her say..."

Alas. Back to the water again today, to our pool, which is usually a little bit calmer. My nerves and my soul will find repair there.

At the Kroger on Ponce a Miracle Was Witnessed

Wanna laugh?

that real world

Out in the real world today doing real world things with real world people having a real world life. I think because I was blogging so much, even I forgot that I have a life, and actually live it, in the parallel (though sometime less enchanting) universe known as the real world. Humans are marvelous. Empathy is marvelous. But the blog world is still my favorite.