I had one of those moments today, where you wind up face to face with the potential for your life to be changed forever. You look that possibility in the eye, and wait for it to decide your fate.
Jenna and I were headed off to school. We have steps that lead from the basement to the garage. As usual, my assertive daughter opted not to listen to me and to push ahead of me and start down the steps on her own, leaving me with a handfull of items--purse and coffee among them--to fiddle with closing the door.
I saw her mis-step half way down. The proverbial slow motion began as she tumbled head first down the steps, smacking her head on the concrete garage floor, the sound of which you only know if you've heard it. And I'd heard it before, many years before. But that's for another post.
For a split second after the impact, as I dropped everything in my hands, I heard only silence. That's the moment I'm talking about. Where you come face to face with an instant that is extraordinary in every way. Sometimes they're good moments. Usually not. Seems like anyway.
The shrieking began "MAMA MAMA!" I told George I don't remember how I got from the basement two flights up to the kitchen. It feels like I flew. I don't remember my feet touching the ground at all. A hurt child is weightless. This is when parents develop super human powers. Lift cars. Fly. Things like that. Because I know I flew all the way up with 50 pounds in my arms. I touched down at the refridgerator, grabbed the ice pack from the freezer, flew again into the living room and put Jenna on the couch while I screamed GEORGE! at the top of my lungs. I think waking up to the cries of your daughter and beckoning of a traumatized wife ranks right up there with one of those traumatizing moments.
I thought that find her face crushed when I first looked at her, which I hadn't done until we landed by the couch. I expected blood. I feared the worst. It was the sound, you know? That thwack. You feel it all the way through your stomach and into your spine. But amazingly, her face was clear except for tears, and there wasn't a cut on her head! She landed more on the top of her head than anywhere else. We got ice on that spot right away.
Then George took over while I stepped outside and looked for my cool. Definitely lost it. When I got my cool back I went back inside. He was talking with Jenna, having her follow his finger and asking her about this and that. He was very soft and collected. I was so grateful. That's why it's good to have two adults to evey child. So one can always be in varying degrees of freaking out while the other keeps cool, and then you swap, and so on.
Anyway, we rushed her to the doctor, who pronounced her well, took some time to discuss the amazing resiliancy of children, and told us to take her to school and go home and enjoy the morning.
Collective sigh. Collective thanks. Aside from a headache, she seems unphased. But we'll be keeping our eyes on her.
So my instant of horror passed me by, this time. I feel blessed beyond all else for my daugther's health, her life, her laughter, her joy.
I love my sweet baby so.
November 15, 2002
ladies and gentlemen, meet Hunter John Willis
Finally, somebody asks about the kitten! I've been wanting to say more about him, but not give myself over to cat blogging completely. So let me indulge myself for a minute and say so far allergies are going okay and so far kitty has a home--with us. Jenna named him: Hunter John Willis. Don't ask me why. Never ask why. We're calling him Hunter. Which, as far as ankles, calves, and finger go, he is. He hunts us down and latches on until we scream.
Other times he's very tame.
Mostly he's nuts.
And awefully cute.
Wish us well with him. One day at a time.
Other times he's very tame.
Mostly he's nuts.
And awefully cute.
Wish us well with him. One day at a time.
November 14, 2002
November 13, 2002
noise
this week i've been feeling the noise. coming at me from all directions. not really able to discern it, separate out into sounds, voices. just noise, a rush, a dark wind, blowing my hair back, makes it hard to keep my eyes open, makes me dry and scaley and wind worn. the weather, maybe. i don't know. there's a lot of effort in living, isn't there. a lot of effort in dying. no way to escape hard work, and for what. too tired to make initial caps. lower case looks just right. why bother with upper case. why did we ever bother. weren't periods enough. anything involving the shift key, even a question mark, is too much. an extra effort, and for what. you get my meaning. uninterrupted clickety-clack, like the noise coming at me from all directions. not able to discern it, separate out into sounds, voices. just noise.
November 11, 2002
National RageBoy Day, November 12th. Hang Yourself at Half Mast
It was seven months ago when RageBoy had his heart surgically removed by an accomplished surgeon. The operation was long. The cuts were deep. Rageboy mentioned the specific pains of this operation many times on his blog. It's not pretty to see a man's heart ripped from his chest.
Many thought RB was down for the count after his heart surgery. Not me. Not never. You see, Rochester winters breed a hardiness in you that makes you come back for seconds. I don't know what it is. The shoveling, the shivering, I don't know. I do know that it takes more than heartache to defeat the King of Pain.
And soon, he was reborn...
How, you ask? Well sure, there was this:
And don't forget this:
But, no, not really those. Only partly those. Old meets new, same head, same hand, new heart.
And finally there is this:
He gives all year long. Now it's my turn to say Happy Birthday, Chris.
I didn't know what to get you, so I started a new team blog in your honor.
For the man who has everything, one more blog never hurt.
WHO WANTS IN???
Many thought RB was down for the count after his heart surgery. Not me. Not never. You see, Rochester winters breed a hardiness in you that makes you come back for seconds. I don't know what it is. The shoveling, the shivering, I don't know. I do know that it takes more than heartache to defeat the King of Pain.
And soon, he was reborn...
How, you ask? Well sure, there was this:
And don't forget this:
But, no, not really those. Only partly those. Old meets new, same head, same hand, new heart.
And finally there is this:
He gives all year long. Now it's my turn to say Happy Birthday, Chris.
I didn't know what to get you, so I started a new team blog in your honor.
For the man who has everything, one more blog never hurt.
WHO WANTS IN???
okay, no, I got it, I got it.
So Blog Yearbooks seem like a good idea to some who have commented on the posts below. I got another one. How about The Best of Blog Memes 2002. Right? How fun would that be--from Fucknozzle to Gary's Inquirer pages to... well.... heck, I don't remember them all. That's the point. Of having a "Best Of" book. Ooooh man, I'm thinking of all kinds of things... stop me now, before I end up reinventing hyperlinks. gotta sleep. ignore me. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
November 10, 2002
looping back...
Did you ever feel like you're at some wierd point in your life, like you've just crossed over the top arc of a circle and things are starting to loop around again? Kind of feeling like that, mostly about technology today. Back circuits or something. For instance:
I don't think to email my blog friends as much anymore as I think of calling them on the phone. Blogging gets personal fast. The natural urge for some of us is to speak with the people whose voices we hear but don't know the tenor of. Suddenly deeper friendships develop as we hyperlink out of blogs and onto the phone lines.
We don't have cable in our house anymore (hence no TV), but are seriously thinking of getting satellite radio. I just got a satellite-ready radio and CD player for the van, and all of the stations I care about from cable TV, PLUS all of the music I care about, can be in my car with me instantly for $9 a month. Just as easy to get it turned on for your house, I hear. Kids programs, comedy programs, world music, everything--and the bonus: it's mostly commercial free. I can just see the family sitting around the radio at night, all cozy, gazing into our warm monitors like the fireplace of days past, blogging, and wondering what the hell's a TV?
I'm starting to care about print again. Hard copy. You know, paper with words printed on it. 'member? Hence my post on blogger yearbooks below. I'm starting to want to sit in bed and turn pages, which you can't do so well with a monitor. I'm not wanting to do that all the time, but I'm wanting the OPTION of back circuiting my online world to paper.
I guess it's about that--options and channels.
When many of us first fell in love with the net, we started shopping there. Buying stuff. Real fast, companies began to move to the Internet as a viable channel to interact with us, ultimately to sell to us, and then to interact with us again. Many of the companies that aren't around anymore (that would be dot-coms) adopted and sold to us exclusively through the online channel.
The dot-bams (bricks and mortars) took the approach (we later learned the smart one) of offering us multiple channels for interacting with them, the Internet being one of them. Over the last year, we've gotten used to that--having options. I want to order my food online and have it brought to my house. I want to look up when a movie's showing but go to the theater to see it. I want to find out how much KMR kitty milk supplement is but pick it up at the pet store along with a flyer of cat rescue shelters.
It is nice to have options. It is just what we wanted. But does it end here?
I am left, somehow, wanting to do the backloop, to take my rotary dial phone off the hook, turn on a good radio comedy show, and curl up on a comfy chair with Tom Matrullo's blogger yearbook.
Nostalgia on fastforward. The past on Internet time.
see ya yesterday tomorrow,
The manglement.
I don't think to email my blog friends as much anymore as I think of calling them on the phone. Blogging gets personal fast. The natural urge for some of us is to speak with the people whose voices we hear but don't know the tenor of. Suddenly deeper friendships develop as we hyperlink out of blogs and onto the phone lines.
We don't have cable in our house anymore (hence no TV), but are seriously thinking of getting satellite radio. I just got a satellite-ready radio and CD player for the van, and all of the stations I care about from cable TV, PLUS all of the music I care about, can be in my car with me instantly for $9 a month. Just as easy to get it turned on for your house, I hear. Kids programs, comedy programs, world music, everything--and the bonus: it's mostly commercial free. I can just see the family sitting around the radio at night, all cozy, gazing into our warm monitors like the fireplace of days past, blogging, and wondering what the hell's a TV?
I'm starting to care about print again. Hard copy. You know, paper with words printed on it. 'member? Hence my post on blogger yearbooks below. I'm starting to want to sit in bed and turn pages, which you can't do so well with a monitor. I'm not wanting to do that all the time, but I'm wanting the OPTION of back circuiting my online world to paper.
I guess it's about that--options and channels.
When many of us first fell in love with the net, we started shopping there. Buying stuff. Real fast, companies began to move to the Internet as a viable channel to interact with us, ultimately to sell to us, and then to interact with us again. Many of the companies that aren't around anymore (that would be dot-coms) adopted and sold to us exclusively through the online channel.
The dot-bams (bricks and mortars) took the approach (we later learned the smart one) of offering us multiple channels for interacting with them, the Internet being one of them. Over the last year, we've gotten used to that--having options. I want to order my food online and have it brought to my house. I want to look up when a movie's showing but go to the theater to see it. I want to find out how much KMR kitty milk supplement is but pick it up at the pet store along with a flyer of cat rescue shelters.
It is nice to have options. It is just what we wanted. But does it end here?
I am left, somehow, wanting to do the backloop, to take my rotary dial phone off the hook, turn on a good radio comedy show, and curl up on a comfy chair with Tom Matrullo's blogger yearbook.
Nostalgia on fastforward. The past on Internet time.
see ya yesterday tomorrow,
The manglement.
November 09, 2002
george raps on rap
Detroit's own Eminem has a smash hit in his new film, which grossed $20 million its opening weekend. George has this to say about that. Meanwhile, a guy from nearby Flint, Michigan, has a new film out awarded the Special Jury Prize at Cannes. That movie grossed grossed $190K as reported last Tuesday.
If you go see Eminem's movie, that's great. If you don't go see Michael Moore's movie, please don't talk to me about Eminem's movie. I might blow a fuse. That's never pretty.
If you go see Eminem's movie, that's great. If you don't go see Michael Moore's movie, please don't talk to me about Eminem's movie. I might blow a fuse. That's never pretty.
blogger year books
So allied is a year old now. And today I thought of my latest quandry and wondered about how to solve it. I have the images I'm linking to stored hither and yond. Some on george's web server at earthlink, some on mine. Thinking of closing down my old site and just making my home on my blog. Save the $20 a month. Put a my files and a link to my write resources stuff up on George's site for safe keeping. Wondering, basically, how to best consolidate our online homes and save some money. And how NOT to lose all the work I've done.
Then I'm thinking, I wish there were a way, say once a year, when we bloggers could press a button or two and have a year's worth of posts (pictures and all) generated into a pdf or some other printable format, an e-book maybe, with posts listed chronoligically (instead of reverse chronologically), a kind of blogger yearbook. And we could share them with one another. Maybe even personalize them.
Maybe they'd be free. Maybe I'd pay up to $10 a piece for my favorite bloggers' year books. I know, the linking thing would be hard--what to do with the links we reference within our blogs once it's in print. Perhaps the yearbooks could have margins on the outside 2" of the page and the http addresses of the links referenced in each post could be printed in the margin. This way we could go look them up if we couldn't remember what the blogger was referencing. I bet I'd remember half of the links from my favorite posts by the folks I read all the time. Kind of scary considering I can't remember my phone number sometimes.
Think of what it would be like, ten years from now, looking back at our 2001 yearbooks. Think about what it would be like to have these once some of us pass over to the other side. Think of what it would be like NOT to have them.
Yes, I would like this functionality.
And soon.
Then I'm thinking, I wish there were a way, say once a year, when we bloggers could press a button or two and have a year's worth of posts (pictures and all) generated into a pdf or some other printable format, an e-book maybe, with posts listed chronoligically (instead of reverse chronologically), a kind of blogger yearbook. And we could share them with one another. Maybe even personalize them.
Maybe they'd be free. Maybe I'd pay up to $10 a piece for my favorite bloggers' year books. I know, the linking thing would be hard--what to do with the links we reference within our blogs once it's in print. Perhaps the yearbooks could have margins on the outside 2" of the page and the http addresses of the links referenced in each post could be printed in the margin. This way we could go look them up if we couldn't remember what the blogger was referencing. I bet I'd remember half of the links from my favorite posts by the folks I read all the time. Kind of scary considering I can't remember my phone number sometimes.
Think of what it would be like, ten years from now, looking back at our 2001 yearbooks. Think about what it would be like to have these once some of us pass over to the other side. Think of what it would be like NOT to have them.
Yes, I would like this functionality.
And soon.
won't take no excuses
Everyone I know needs to go see this movie right now.
And while you're at it, don't delay. Watch this Brief History of America clip from the movie. The film is pure genius.
Staying with the recent theme, props to Michael Moore.
And while you're at it, don't delay. Watch this Brief History of America clip from the movie. The film is pure genius.
Staying with the recent theme, props to Michael Moore.
November 08, 2002
gold nigga
George gives RageBoy a lesson in ebonics. These and other tips for the melanin challenged coming soon to a post near you.
November 07, 2002
beyond the litterbox
Okay, Mr. Partington has warned me not to become a catblogger. I am taking his warning very seriously, since I don't know the consequences of actually becoming a cat blogger. Cat owners have always frightened me.
So, on to new and interesting topics.
Let's look at a traffic comparison among four popular bloggers--not to compare the number of visitors, per-se, but to compare the odd peaks and valleys of blogging in general, and, to point out some interesting traits among these four bloggers.
I found it interesting that the two men I investigated had fewer extreme days than the women did. Among our sample group, I also noted that two bloggers spiked high for seemingly no reason. Mind you, my sample size is very small. Especially since I'm one of the bloggers I am analyzing. Which really makes the whole study bogus, if not visually uninteresting:
Jeneane
Note the 5 distinct episodes of mania and the four lows during the period tracked. What does this mean? One interpretation is that the posts attracting so much interest were written directly following a trip to the mall during which I spent $300 I didn't have. Another interpretation is that the sharp drop in hits closely mirrors my menstrual cycle and planetary alignment for Geminis. Still another idea is that I wrote more good posts than bad ones--which in the end is all you can ask from a blogger, right?
Halley Suitt
Like me, Halley had four lows and five incredible highs over the last month, one of which really rocked the hit meter. With halley, this is not surprising. She is nothing if not up-up-up. More study is required to contrast Halley's pattern with my own. There may indeed be a cyclical hit pattern emerging among blog women as we begin to cycle together. Hasn't happened to me since college.
Tom Matrullo
Tom is a woman. See? He is cycling right along with Halley and I. What further proof does anyone need? Just like Halley, Tom had one doosey of a spike during the month. In fact, I have it from Halley that she never actually changed places with this guy, but that she got confused eating angel hair pasta with marinara sauce one night and spiraled herself into Tom's DNA. The new Halley/Tom will be commenting on a post near you soon. Jokes on us. Them. I mean, us.
Gary Turner
I am not sure what Gary's chart means. We who analyze this stuff for a living have never seen a pattern quite like this. We are pretty sure he is a bot. That would explain his fascination with chalk-chalking and making little tiny stickers that don't really stick to anything.
We hope you have found this analysis of traffic useful. Incidentally, if you turn each chart upside down, you will find your personal trip-tick to Disney World. Don't hurt yourselves. We would like to thank our proud sponsor, oh wait, we don't have one.
Never mind, I have a litterbox to scoop.
So, on to new and interesting topics.
Let's look at a traffic comparison among four popular bloggers--not to compare the number of visitors, per-se, but to compare the odd peaks and valleys of blogging in general, and, to point out some interesting traits among these four bloggers.
I found it interesting that the two men I investigated had fewer extreme days than the women did. Among our sample group, I also noted that two bloggers spiked high for seemingly no reason. Mind you, my sample size is very small. Especially since I'm one of the bloggers I am analyzing. Which really makes the whole study bogus, if not visually uninteresting:
Jeneane
Note the 5 distinct episodes of mania and the four lows during the period tracked. What does this mean? One interpretation is that the posts attracting so much interest were written directly following a trip to the mall during which I spent $300 I didn't have. Another interpretation is that the sharp drop in hits closely mirrors my menstrual cycle and planetary alignment for Geminis. Still another idea is that I wrote more good posts than bad ones--which in the end is all you can ask from a blogger, right?
Halley Suitt
Like me, Halley had four lows and five incredible highs over the last month, one of which really rocked the hit meter. With halley, this is not surprising. She is nothing if not up-up-up. More study is required to contrast Halley's pattern with my own. There may indeed be a cyclical hit pattern emerging among blog women as we begin to cycle together. Hasn't happened to me since college.
Tom Matrullo
Tom is a woman. See? He is cycling right along with Halley and I. What further proof does anyone need? Just like Halley, Tom had one doosey of a spike during the month. In fact, I have it from Halley that she never actually changed places with this guy, but that she got confused eating angel hair pasta with marinara sauce one night and spiraled herself into Tom's DNA. The new Halley/Tom will be commenting on a post near you soon. Jokes on us. Them. I mean, us.
Gary Turner
I am not sure what Gary's chart means. We who analyze this stuff for a living have never seen a pattern quite like this. We are pretty sure he is a bot. That would explain his fascination with chalk-chalking and making little tiny stickers that don't really stick to anything.
We hope you have found this analysis of traffic useful. Incidentally, if you turn each chart upside down, you will find your personal trip-tick to Disney World. Don't hurt yourselves. We would like to thank our proud sponsor, oh wait, we don't have one.
Never mind, I have a litterbox to scoop.
This Kitten...
Is truly amazing. More pictures to come. In just a day or so he/she has learned to eat canned food, drink on her own (not great yet--but starting), use the litter box, play, not be as afraid. All of you who said how amazing the process of taming a feral cat is were right. It is amazing.
As for whether or not we'll keep her/him, that's still up in the air. It's a big financial responsibility--one we would not ask any of you to share in. Really. We appreciate the offers to help, but keep your money or send some to Marek, because he seems to be in need and we haven't heard from him.
We are seriously batting around the idea of keeping this kitten. It's the absolute wrong time to have him/her. We have two dogs and a five-year old child with a mind of her own, financial constraints, allergy and asthma sufferers, and every other reason for it not to work. But so far so good. That's all I can say. We'll get the kitten to the vet in the next few days and will know more, but as the pictures show, he/she is thriving in his/her nice warm room.
We deeply appreciate the warmth and advice coming from all of you about this creature that shouldn't even be alive. And we appreciate your friendship as well, which reinforces all that is amazing about this place.
That having been said, I took your advice and put a paypal box on this site. The Amazon donation box wasn't working--I could never tell what was going on, if anything at all. If you enjoy my writing, or stories, or have learned something and feel like giving, that is always much appreciated.
As for the kitten, we'll do our best for him/her whether that means keeping it or finding an alternative. It's one day at a time here. We'll keep you posted.
November 06, 2002
cat nap
George is on night duty. I'm going to sleep. The little kitty Venture finally chose what he would eat: the soft center part of Texas Toast (untoasted) soaked with KLM (or KML--i forget--it's late) milk replacement fed from my gloved hand through the slats in the hamper. That's after multiple bottle failure, wet canned food failure, syringe failure, every other kind of failure, and a whole lot of hissing and striking.
This little wilding now officially likes milk-soaked-white-toast mush off the tip of the fingers of a old worn work glove, where he can pretend he's nursing, but since he's got some tiny teeth already, he seems to be learning how to lick and grab once in a blue moon too. He misses his mama big time. But he's bonding with the glove, which is lying against the hamper now. He's asleep.
I've emailed two no-kill shelters (thanks everyone for alerting me to them). Cross fingers. Toes. This is not the time, place or decade for us to have the responsibility of this kitten. I'm sure there are cat people everywhere without inquisitive five year olds who would love this little guy/gal.
Screw the folks at Pet Smart, who after I took the time to explain this story and asked could they cut me a deal on the kitty milk and bottle, said no. Screw the same Pet Smart veterinary (Banfield) who when I called and said I had an abandoned wild kitten as big as my hand who needed help said no discounts on the office visit, no discount on the feline lukemia/aids test. And no appointments today. Screw my old vet, Bells Ferry Veterinary for telling me sorry, we can't help, we get this all the time, no spreading out payments, no discount on an office visit, and no time today. Then I see this on their website. Thanks for nothing.
And bless the webloggers.
Does this make me a cat blogger? Oh jeez. Say it isn't so.
Gotta get some sleep. Take it away Daddy.
This little wilding now officially likes milk-soaked-white-toast mush off the tip of the fingers of a old worn work glove, where he can pretend he's nursing, but since he's got some tiny teeth already, he seems to be learning how to lick and grab once in a blue moon too. He misses his mama big time. But he's bonding with the glove, which is lying against the hamper now. He's asleep.
I've emailed two no-kill shelters (thanks everyone for alerting me to them). Cross fingers. Toes. This is not the time, place or decade for us to have the responsibility of this kitten. I'm sure there are cat people everywhere without inquisitive five year olds who would love this little guy/gal.
Screw the folks at Pet Smart, who after I took the time to explain this story and asked could they cut me a deal on the kitty milk and bottle, said no. Screw the same Pet Smart veterinary (Banfield) who when I called and said I had an abandoned wild kitten as big as my hand who needed help said no discounts on the office visit, no discount on the feline lukemia/aids test. And no appointments today. Screw my old vet, Bells Ferry Veterinary for telling me sorry, we can't help, we get this all the time, no spreading out payments, no discount on an office visit, and no time today. Then I see this on their website. Thanks for nothing.
And bless the webloggers.
Does this make me a cat blogger? Oh jeez. Say it isn't so.
Gotta get some sleep. Take it away Daddy.
November 05, 2002
Oh dear... we have him, now what?
Alright. We got him. He's okay--well, so to speak, doesn't look like the healthiest thing. He's in a hamper with a box top on as a lid. Sitting up here. Quiet, unless he's lashing out at us. He's good at that. We are NOT putting fingers or hands near him--I wore a good work glove when I finally picked him up by the scruff of his neck, wedged between one of George's amplifiers in the garage.
And here he is.
I think he's hungry, maybe dehydrated. What do we do? I tried one of Jenna's medicine syringes with warm water, with cool water, and tried a choped tiny piece of tuna. No go. He just blinks at it. Or if it gets too close, hisses and strikes. He's got crud in the corner of one eye.
Anyone know what/how to feed him tonight or what else to do? The net says to get a kitten bottle and milk replacement--anything I can try right this minute??
Tomorrow will tell if it's off to the Humane Society or the vet or what--if we make it that far with him. I'd sure like to get some nourishment in immediately.
Thanks for the wonderful advice so far--keep it coming.
And here he is.
I think he's hungry, maybe dehydrated. What do we do? I tried one of Jenna's medicine syringes with warm water, with cool water, and tried a choped tiny piece of tuna. No go. He just blinks at it. Or if it gets too close, hisses and strikes. He's got crud in the corner of one eye.
Anyone know what/how to feed him tonight or what else to do? The net says to get a kitten bottle and milk replacement--anything I can try right this minute??
Tomorrow will tell if it's off to the Humane Society or the vet or what--if we make it that far with him. I'd sure like to get some nourishment in immediately.
Thanks for the wonderful advice so far--keep it coming.
sometimes you get picked.
Whenever nothing makes sense, something happens that makes less sense but connects things that would otherwise remain shattered. You remember the ferrel kitten I saw the other day at Jenna's school. How I scoured the place looking for that tinsy winsy thing, ran upon his mother in the woods, who promptly ran off with tinsy winsy's black sibling in tow?
The noise last night kept George up til 6 this morning. He couldn't figure it out. Some noise from the garage--maybe the neighbor's cat. It was a hellish rainy night, so he cracked the garage door open thinking whatever neighborhood cat wandered in, it would find its way out when the rain stopped.
This morning on our way out to the van for school, Jenna and I stopped. We heard a meow. Oh, it's probably Rudy from next door I told her. Still, I thought, that doesn't sound like Rudy. And off we went to school.
George mentioned the cat noise to me this afternoon. I heard it too, I tell him. So we go down to the garage. Meeew, meew.
It can't be.
No way.
How?
Like this:
Do you see her/him? George took the picture from underneath the minivan. A place kitty was obviously very familiar with. This kitten climbed up into the underbelly of our van, rode that way for 10+ miles, including my tour of the area looking for him, probably rode BACK to school in the afternoon to get Jenna, only to wind up in our garage.
Now he's run out from under the van--George almost had him but he slipped away. Folks, he doesn't look so healthy. The meows are getting fewer and farther between. We put out tuna but I'm not sure he's weaned yet. And a bowl of water. But he's just too timid.
PLEASE suggestions on how to find him in our garage which has approximately 1,000 hiding places for things as small as this. How do you woo a kitten out from hiding? All we want to do is for him to come out so we can take him to the vet. He usually answers my Meews when I talk to him. Now he's quiet.
Calling animal control in our neck of the woods is like calling Barney Fife to solve a murder. But we may have to. I don't know. Advice appreciated!!!
The noise last night kept George up til 6 this morning. He couldn't figure it out. Some noise from the garage--maybe the neighbor's cat. It was a hellish rainy night, so he cracked the garage door open thinking whatever neighborhood cat wandered in, it would find its way out when the rain stopped.
This morning on our way out to the van for school, Jenna and I stopped. We heard a meow. Oh, it's probably Rudy from next door I told her. Still, I thought, that doesn't sound like Rudy. And off we went to school.
George mentioned the cat noise to me this afternoon. I heard it too, I tell him. So we go down to the garage. Meeew, meew.
It can't be.
No way.
How?
Like this:
Do you see her/him? George took the picture from underneath the minivan. A place kitty was obviously very familiar with. This kitten climbed up into the underbelly of our van, rode that way for 10+ miles, including my tour of the area looking for him, probably rode BACK to school in the afternoon to get Jenna, only to wind up in our garage.
Now he's run out from under the van--George almost had him but he slipped away. Folks, he doesn't look so healthy. The meows are getting fewer and farther between. We put out tuna but I'm not sure he's weaned yet. And a bowl of water. But he's just too timid.
PLEASE suggestions on how to find him in our garage which has approximately 1,000 hiding places for things as small as this. How do you woo a kitten out from hiding? All we want to do is for him to come out so we can take him to the vet. He usually answers my Meews when I talk to him. Now he's quiet.
Calling animal control in our neck of the woods is like calling Barney Fife to solve a murder. But we may have to. I don't know. Advice appreciated!!!
November 04, 2002
Happy Anniversary to ME.
It almost slipped by me. This blog is a year old today. Holy cow, it flew. But then, I look back, and my archives are testimony to the very reality that November 4, 2001 was a lifetime or more ago. To my fellow blog brothers and blog sisters who've touched me deeply over the past year--thanks for inersecting with me. I've found friends and cohorts here in Blogaria that I couldn't have imagined or conjured no matter how much play dough I used.
That's you guys:
George, Chris, David and Doc. George P., Ray, AKMA + family, Andrea, Craig, Anita, Shelley, Euen, Kent, Golby, Denise, Esta, Elaine, Dean, Marek, Tom, Jonathon, Frank, Stavros, Halley, Tom S., Gary, Mary Lu, and Sharon, to name just a few.
You are all amazing. Now onto year two. Hold my hand... ready, set, jump!
That's you guys:
George, Chris, David and Doc. George P., Ray, AKMA + family, Andrea, Craig, Anita, Shelley, Euen, Kent, Golby, Denise, Esta, Elaine, Dean, Marek, Tom, Jonathon, Frank, Stavros, Halley, Tom S., Gary, Mary Lu, and Sharon, to name just a few.
You are all amazing. Now onto year two. Hold my hand... ready, set, jump!
ferrel kittens and what to do
I dropped Jenna off at school this morning and I see this itsy-bitsy-teensy-weensy kitten curled up against the curb. The parkinglot was empty except for my van and this pathetic looking grey and white splotch of a kitten. It was breathing so hard. All wet from the rain and petrified. Looking up at us like "help!"
So I got a towel out of the car, figured I'd pick it up and take it to a vet. It couldn't have been more than three weeks old. It couldn't walk so well--but it sure could scamper, which is exactly what it did when I tried to pick it up with a towel... like a low-flying bat out of hell, it used whatever energy it had left to haul ass to a grassy area on the other side of the parkinglot. I looked all over the place but couldn't find the mystery kitty.
Then I hear another soft meew meew coming from back by the dumpster. First thought--oh shit--someone's dropped a bag of kittens in the dumpster. Thank goodness, no. It wasn't that. Just beyond the dumpster there are woods--the really gross kind of woods that remain in those "in between" areas between highways and plazas. This particular area is very high traffic, but there are still some dumpy woods between the strip malls--you get the picture.
SO, I look down into this weedy wooded garbagy area, and I see what is a carbon copy of the itsy bitsy kitten all grown up (i.e. mama cat) with another little tinsy winsy black kitten sitting by her. She's obviously wild--takes one look at me with those no-owner cat eyes of terror and takes off. Little black kitty makes his way after her, tripping as he goes.
But I never did find the pathetic little parking lot kitty again. I waited around for a half hour, walked the length of the grass. Don't know where that sad thing went.
So here's the question... do I:
-blog it and forget it? leave ferrel cats be?
-take a bag of cat food when I go back this afternoon to get jenna, open it, and toss it down into the woods where they must be living to help mama cat out a little bit--meals on wheels?
-scour the woods until I find the sad little kitten and take it to the vet (and then what?)?
I know next to nothing about cats. George and I had one for several years, but she was an easy keeper and only came in to say hello, eat, or sleep. I certainly don't know anything about wild ones, except not to get bit.
Come on cat bloggers--leave me some pointers.
So I got a towel out of the car, figured I'd pick it up and take it to a vet. It couldn't have been more than three weeks old. It couldn't walk so well--but it sure could scamper, which is exactly what it did when I tried to pick it up with a towel... like a low-flying bat out of hell, it used whatever energy it had left to haul ass to a grassy area on the other side of the parkinglot. I looked all over the place but couldn't find the mystery kitty.
Then I hear another soft meew meew coming from back by the dumpster. First thought--oh shit--someone's dropped a bag of kittens in the dumpster. Thank goodness, no. It wasn't that. Just beyond the dumpster there are woods--the really gross kind of woods that remain in those "in between" areas between highways and plazas. This particular area is very high traffic, but there are still some dumpy woods between the strip malls--you get the picture.
SO, I look down into this weedy wooded garbagy area, and I see what is a carbon copy of the itsy bitsy kitten all grown up (i.e. mama cat) with another little tinsy winsy black kitten sitting by her. She's obviously wild--takes one look at me with those no-owner cat eyes of terror and takes off. Little black kitty makes his way after her, tripping as he goes.
But I never did find the pathetic little parking lot kitty again. I waited around for a half hour, walked the length of the grass. Don't know where that sad thing went.
So here's the question... do I:
-blog it and forget it? leave ferrel cats be?
-take a bag of cat food when I go back this afternoon to get jenna, open it, and toss it down into the woods where they must be living to help mama cat out a little bit--meals on wheels?
-scour the woods until I find the sad little kitten and take it to the vet (and then what?)?
I know next to nothing about cats. George and I had one for several years, but she was an easy keeper and only came in to say hello, eat, or sleep. I certainly don't know anything about wild ones, except not to get bit.
Come on cat bloggers--leave me some pointers.
November 01, 2002
fly like a Golby
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
I want to fly like an eagle
To the sea
Fly like an eagle
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like an eagle
Till I'm free
Oh, Lord, through the revolution
It appears that our friend Mike Golby, and yes, Mike, I'm left handed too, flew like an eagle and dropped like a stone. Is that really you? Feel better soon Golby--that you dared to is magnificent.
crazy reverb
Isn't that crazy
In a world full of people only some want to fly
Isn't that crazy
-seal
What is it, what is it in love in choosing to love
that makes the stars fall down then bounce high
playing jacks with the moon bounce back up into night blue black
and you say to release grief you say unlocking grief is physical
and it is with the body we grieve and so with the body we love
and I say in choosing to love we get to that place
where there is only letting go letting up and receiving
like when my brother showed me how to catch a football
you see I was only six and he told me it is about not resisting
about letting your arms and body give in to a speeding bullet
letting it take you because resisting it burns your gut so bad
rips through you and flies past and hits the ground
but when you give he told me if you give into the ball
when it first touches your skin if you welcome it softly
let it move you that is how to catch a football and
isn't that crazy isn't that a little crazy
and ambiguity in love is like that
is a friend of mine is where I live now.
....
October 30, 2002
Venturing Out
I went out into the world this week. Several times. A trivial task to some, executed without a whole lot of forethought each day as they drag sleepy eyes and asses onto the highway for the two hour commute. I used to do that. Every single day, twice a day even, at least on those days when I actually got to leave work. But that was then and and this is now. I've been working from home these last five years, and excursions to Midtown Atlanta, let alone the Publix down the road, have become more infrequent, which makes it all the more exciting when I do go out. Did I say exciting? I meant exhausting.
This week I started off by actually going into the office. Don't faint. Take a deep breath. Yes, you heard right. I went to work. (They gasp).
There's something to be said for going to work on a semi-annual basis. Mostly, you feel like a celebrity when you hit the elevator, until you realize you haven't worn pumps in four months and your feet already hurt, so you shift the backpack with the laptop inside to the other shoulder, and walk like a drunk has-been movie starlett to your cube, which you have because you work from home, and even though your position would warrant a less-than-cushy office with doors and windows, there would be mayhem if you had one since you only show up on the third new moon of each millenium.
Ah! A phone message... lemme check. Oh, just a telemarketer. How did they find me here? Oh, right, they didn't find me here.
I run into my old friends. They seem happy to see me.
"Jeneane! How are you? Haven't seen you around here in forever--how long has it been?"
"Forever," I smile.
And the inevitable question: "What brings you in today?"
I tell them the truth. "I saw the email that we were having a party at 3."
They laugh and nod. Tell me it's always loud when I come in. I love them and they love me. Humans are so interesting!
I make the rounds, full well knowing I won't get much done there and I'll have to make up the time later, at home, where I can think. But that's okay. Shooting the breeze with other adults who do what I do for a living is refreshing. I'm wanted. I get to tell lots of stories. Talk about "remember whens." I'm glad I made the trip. Except that the party got postponed until a day when the attendees of honor, hard at work at the client's site, can actually be there.
Even with the extra work waiting for me once I got home to make up for my socializing, I know I did the right thing. I remember missing my work friends as soon as I see them. We've been through a heck of a war the last five years and have lived to tell about it.
Heart doesn't die easy in tech.
My next two adventures were school field trips with Jenna's class. Talk about contact! 20 little 3-6 year olds running mostly amuck from a pumpkin patch at a local YMCA to a Native American demonstration in a huge tepee at a nearby campground. I helped supervise the kids, which mostly meant making sure they didn't escape into a parking lot or down some slick ravine, or at least if they did, that they didn't get killed. I think I did a good job. Everyone lived.
I got that good feeling--just like the one at work--being around the kids. You could tell they thought I was the cool mom. I talk to them like real people--I yell at them just like their own moms when they fight, push, or run off into the nearest nest of copperheads. I took Jenna and her best friend to and from the events in my Escape, turned Earth Wind and Fire up loud, and laughed with them as they danced in their seats...
Searching in the sky one night, while looking for the moon
I viewed a mighty light approching in a zoom
Need was there to tell someone of my discovery
Fifteen seconds later, a light appeared in front of me
To my surprise, there stood a man with age and mystery
His name was Jupiter and came to visit me
The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
Keep your eye on Jupiter, such beauty in the sky
We will wait for your return in the by & by
Keep your eye on Jupiter, memories we shall fulfill
Just to view a brighter day, and do a righteous will
Watching and considering my visual state of mind
The flower fragrance help reveal to me the sign
The sigh of love, I had confessed to live and really know
The sign of love which I had failed my fellowman to show
The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
--Maurice White, Verdine White, Larry Dunn and Philip Bailey
All of this is to say, that there is life out there beyond my Dell Latitude. Who knew? Apparently not me because I was surprised by it all. And every once in a while, I guess, I have to nudge myself to go out and participate in it. Lots of things are waiting, like tree smells and other loud people, some of them very tiny and fast moving, and even good friends that you forget you have unless you make time to stop by and say "Hey" once in a while.
This week I started off by actually going into the office. Don't faint. Take a deep breath. Yes, you heard right. I went to work. (They gasp).
There's something to be said for going to work on a semi-annual basis. Mostly, you feel like a celebrity when you hit the elevator, until you realize you haven't worn pumps in four months and your feet already hurt, so you shift the backpack with the laptop inside to the other shoulder, and walk like a drunk has-been movie starlett to your cube, which you have because you work from home, and even though your position would warrant a less-than-cushy office with doors and windows, there would be mayhem if you had one since you only show up on the third new moon of each millenium.
Ah! A phone message... lemme check. Oh, just a telemarketer. How did they find me here? Oh, right, they didn't find me here.
I run into my old friends. They seem happy to see me.
"Jeneane! How are you? Haven't seen you around here in forever--how long has it been?"
"Forever," I smile.
And the inevitable question: "What brings you in today?"
I tell them the truth. "I saw the email that we were having a party at 3."
They laugh and nod. Tell me it's always loud when I come in. I love them and they love me. Humans are so interesting!
I make the rounds, full well knowing I won't get much done there and I'll have to make up the time later, at home, where I can think. But that's okay. Shooting the breeze with other adults who do what I do for a living is refreshing. I'm wanted. I get to tell lots of stories. Talk about "remember whens." I'm glad I made the trip. Except that the party got postponed until a day when the attendees of honor, hard at work at the client's site, can actually be there.
Even with the extra work waiting for me once I got home to make up for my socializing, I know I did the right thing. I remember missing my work friends as soon as I see them. We've been through a heck of a war the last five years and have lived to tell about it.
Heart doesn't die easy in tech.
My next two adventures were school field trips with Jenna's class. Talk about contact! 20 little 3-6 year olds running mostly amuck from a pumpkin patch at a local YMCA to a Native American demonstration in a huge tepee at a nearby campground. I helped supervise the kids, which mostly meant making sure they didn't escape into a parking lot or down some slick ravine, or at least if they did, that they didn't get killed. I think I did a good job. Everyone lived.
I got that good feeling--just like the one at work--being around the kids. You could tell they thought I was the cool mom. I talk to them like real people--I yell at them just like their own moms when they fight, push, or run off into the nearest nest of copperheads. I took Jenna and her best friend to and from the events in my Escape, turned Earth Wind and Fire up loud, and laughed with them as they danced in their seats...
I viewed a mighty light approching in a zoom
Need was there to tell someone of my discovery
Fifteen seconds later, a light appeared in front of me
To my surprise, there stood a man with age and mystery
His name was Jupiter and came to visit me
The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
Keep your eye on Jupiter, such beauty in the sky
We will wait for your return in the by & by
Keep your eye on Jupiter, memories we shall fulfill
Just to view a brighter day, and do a righteous will
Watching and considering my visual state of mind
The flower fragrance help reveal to me the sign
The sigh of love, I had confessed to live and really know
The sign of love which I had failed my fellowman to show
The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
--Maurice White, Verdine White, Larry Dunn and Philip Bailey
All of this is to say, that there is life out there beyond my Dell Latitude. Who knew? Apparently not me because I was surprised by it all. And every once in a while, I guess, I have to nudge myself to go out and participate in it. Lots of things are waiting, like tree smells and other loud people, some of them very tiny and fast moving, and even good friends that you forget you have unless you make time to stop by and say "Hey" once in a while.
October 29, 2002
An anti-blogroll
What I want to add to my site is an anti-blogroll. On my very own anti-blogroll I would list all the blogs I recommend avoiding because they spew hate and meaningless muck. There must be a way to develop an anti-blog button that, when clicked, actually removes linkage to these sites rather encouraging links. hmmm... The sum total of assholes on our combined anti-blogrolls could compete daily for a spot on anti-daypop, or--for more sizzle--"daypoop."
I'd stick Gene Expressions on mine. I tripped on this blog today, but don't feel like linking to it. Instead, see the comment from someone called godless capitalist on Anil Dash's post about depression today. I'd rather give Anil the link. His post on mental illness is a good read--I heartily agree with blogging as therapy.
Even for women and people of color. ;-)
I'd stick Gene Expressions on mine. I tripped on this blog today, but don't feel like linking to it. Instead, see the comment from someone called godless capitalist on Anil Dash's post about depression today. I'd rather give Anil the link. His post on mental illness is a good read--I heartily agree with blogging as therapy.
Even for women and people of color. ;-)
Okay, I said I would...
The parts of my dream I remembered from last night were intertwined thinking vingettes. I often have those. I remember what I thought more than I remember what happened or who else was there. This particular dream montage combined thoughts of armegadeon with thoughts about thong underwear. The sense was that the end of the world was pretty near, preparations were taking place, and somehow I ended up at a woman's store looking at thong underwear, a silky red and silver pair in particular, wondering what the appeal was for women--why not just forgo underwear altogether and save on the money and comfort factors? There were some drill-down thoughts here, but they probably belong over at BlogSisters.
Interpretation for Extra credit:
World ending = Approaching end of the world.
Thong underwear = Need to buy new underwear for the whole family.
I guess the Jung fairy skipped me last night.
Tag, you're it.
Interpretation for Extra credit:
World ending = Approaching end of the world.
Thong underwear = Need to buy new underwear for the whole family.
I guess the Jung fairy skipped me last night.
Tag, you're it.
Elaine Says Meet Her in Her Dreams
Tom Dreams By Proxy--Puts Rest of Us to Shame
If you were Tom Matrullo's pillow, what would you think?
October 28, 2002
ladies and gentlemen, welcome a new blog...
Letters Never Sent. I don't know who's doing the writing, and don't want to if it would silence her, but this is pretty fricking fantastic. ahhh. new voices. makes it all worthwhile.
Dream On, Part 1: The bloggers hit the road...
Okay, some of my blogger friends bit the dream challenge. FASCINATING. Let's recap, shall we?
My post below started the ball rolling, or the dog shit car rolling, or something. And then blogdom chimed in with dreams from last night...
Turner Takes a Hike
Then Gary relates his dream from September. A snippet here: "We approached a right hand bend in the lane where someone had conveniently left a rubbish skip on the inside lane of the the bend which was causing, what was for a leafy country lane, a massively large volume of small hatchback cars all travelling at very high speed, to swerve around the skip only narrowly missing the equivalently fast oncoming traffic coming the other way round the bend. As we were on foot this presented more than a small challenge in terms of negotiating around the bend without being run over."
Frank Paynter Runs But Can't Hide
Next Frank chimes in with his fitness test dream. A snippet here: "There were some steps to ascend and some to descend. I learned all this as I ran. Other runners preceded me, some were on the course behind me. Since it was a single lane, there was a staggered start. This wasn't a competition and people were generally cordial as we met each other on the course."
Elaine Loses Car, Gains Freedom
In a comment, Elaine relates her recurring dream about losing her car: "I have recurring dreams that I park my car and can't find it. I have concluded that that my car symbolizes my freedom, my ability to be out in the world."
No Pizza for Partington, Just a Crappy Car
George P. relates his dream about being taken for a ride. A snippet: "I was heading uphill, and I needed to get over to the left. I moved left, in front of a truck, which was coming up fast. Typical. So, being a conscientious driver, I applied more gas, trying to speed up, but my car wouldn’t go any faster."
--------------------------------
Okay, is it me, or do we bloggers have a LOT of travel, car, and movement imagery in our dreams at the moment? What's this about? Amazing (to me anyway) that a car appears in everyone's dreams here, except Frank's. Both Gary and Frank are on foot, but in Gary's dream annoying hatchbacks still appear. Though Frank doesn't encounter a car, the lanes are there, the movement is there nonetheless. Only difference is that Frank IS his own vehicle. Hmmmm.
Freud? Jung? Don? Anyone?
Are we really on a journey? What happens when we all get to the red light at once? Who has the right of way?
Dr. Weinberger, we be joining...
My post below started the ball rolling, or the dog shit car rolling, or something. And then blogdom chimed in with dreams from last night...
Turner Takes a Hike
Then Gary relates his dream from September. A snippet here: "We approached a right hand bend in the lane where someone had conveniently left a rubbish skip on the inside lane of the the bend which was causing, what was for a leafy country lane, a massively large volume of small hatchback cars all travelling at very high speed, to swerve around the skip only narrowly missing the equivalently fast oncoming traffic coming the other way round the bend. As we were on foot this presented more than a small challenge in terms of negotiating around the bend without being run over."
Frank Paynter Runs But Can't Hide
Next Frank chimes in with his fitness test dream. A snippet here: "There were some steps to ascend and some to descend. I learned all this as I ran. Other runners preceded me, some were on the course behind me. Since it was a single lane, there was a staggered start. This wasn't a competition and people were generally cordial as we met each other on the course."
Elaine Loses Car, Gains Freedom
In a comment, Elaine relates her recurring dream about losing her car: "I have recurring dreams that I park my car and can't find it. I have concluded that that my car symbolizes my freedom, my ability to be out in the world."
No Pizza for Partington, Just a Crappy Car
George P. relates his dream about being taken for a ride. A snippet: "I was heading uphill, and I needed to get over to the left. I moved left, in front of a truck, which was coming up fast. Typical. So, being a conscientious driver, I applied more gas, trying to speed up, but my car wouldn’t go any faster."
--------------------------------
Okay, is it me, or do we bloggers have a LOT of travel, car, and movement imagery in our dreams at the moment? What's this about? Amazing (to me anyway) that a car appears in everyone's dreams here, except Frank's. Both Gary and Frank are on foot, but in Gary's dream annoying hatchbacks still appear. Though Frank doesn't encounter a car, the lanes are there, the movement is there nonetheless. Only difference is that Frank IS his own vehicle. Hmmmm.
Freud? Jung? Don? Anyone?
Are we really on a journey? What happens when we all get to the red light at once? Who has the right of way?
Dr. Weinberger, we be joining...
A dream motion
I have a motion to put before the fellows of the University of Blogaria. I move that we pick a week--like this one--and we blog our dreams. I am interested in seeing any correlations, permutations, variations or gyrations that our loosely joined unconsciouses are unleashing. Who's in?
I'll start. Last night I dreamed that George and I were driving through Boston, towing our pre-enjoyed-new-to-us dog shit car behind us. Which is wierd because we've never been to Boston together, I've never been there at all, we've never have towed the dog shit car anywhere, never towed any car for that matter, etc. But that's dreams for you. So I turned around and looked out the back window only to see that, while a car that looks like the dog shit car is behind us, that car slows down and turns right, and sure enough there's a driver in that car, and our once-in-tow dog shit car is nowhere to be seen. It's fallen off the hitch or something.
"OH MY GOSH--Honey, the car got lost--it's gone!" I panic. At which point George, who I'm not sure I actually see in my dream--I think he's my left shoulder--turns the car we are driving (that doesn't resemble any of our cars) around and we go through all these crowded narrow one way streets to some sort of city hall, where we alert the authorities that the car we were towing has disappeared, to which they answer, "Don't worry--I'm sure it will show up."
We never find the car in the dream.
The phone rings and I wake up.
My dream symbols represent the following (this is for extra credit):
Dog shit car = panic, unresolved issues, conflict, financial stress, dog shit smell.
Boston = land of therapy, Halley, Terrence Real, David W. I think Boston to me is representative of blogging--or of family perhaps. Connection. Connectivity. George's brother lives there as well.
Authorities = are significant in that they don't really care, i.e., Authority Figures that don't lessen my angst, don't help when I have been violated and am in need.
George = as my left shoulder without a face, I haven't seen him enough in the last six months.
Driver of the car that is not the dog shit car = The person I hope actually buys the dog shit car when we put it up for sale this week.
Stay tuned...
Anyone else dare to share?
I'll start. Last night I dreamed that George and I were driving through Boston, towing our pre-enjoyed-new-to-us dog shit car behind us. Which is wierd because we've never been to Boston together, I've never been there at all, we've never have towed the dog shit car anywhere, never towed any car for that matter, etc. But that's dreams for you. So I turned around and looked out the back window only to see that, while a car that looks like the dog shit car is behind us, that car slows down and turns right, and sure enough there's a driver in that car, and our once-in-tow dog shit car is nowhere to be seen. It's fallen off the hitch or something.
"OH MY GOSH--Honey, the car got lost--it's gone!" I panic. At which point George, who I'm not sure I actually see in my dream--I think he's my left shoulder--turns the car we are driving (that doesn't resemble any of our cars) around and we go through all these crowded narrow one way streets to some sort of city hall, where we alert the authorities that the car we were towing has disappeared, to which they answer, "Don't worry--I'm sure it will show up."
We never find the car in the dream.
The phone rings and I wake up.
My dream symbols represent the following (this is for extra credit):
Dog shit car = panic, unresolved issues, conflict, financial stress, dog shit smell.
Boston = land of therapy, Halley, Terrence Real, David W. I think Boston to me is representative of blogging--or of family perhaps. Connection. Connectivity. George's brother lives there as well.
Authorities = are significant in that they don't really care, i.e., Authority Figures that don't lessen my angst, don't help when I have been violated and am in need.
George = as my left shoulder without a face, I haven't seen him enough in the last six months.
Driver of the car that is not the dog shit car = The person I hope actually buys the dog shit car when we put it up for sale this week.
Stay tuned...
Anyone else dare to share?
anthurian's interviews
Atlanta blogger Anthurian has some good recent interviews with techy types on his blog. My favorite line, which I'm sure I'm the last to hear, but maybe not, is from Debba Doo, a free spirit and ballsy cat lover who both Mr. A. and I worked with at Ketchum. Miss Debba says, "Once you go mac, you never go back." To that, I say, you go, girl.
Mr. A., I'm sorry I never completed my interview. Tell me if there's still time, so I can procrastinate a little longer. ;-)
Mr. A., I'm sorry I never completed my interview. Tell me if there's still time, so I can procrastinate a little longer. ;-)
October 27, 2002
Me roots, me roots.
Which Triscele am I?
Number one: ponderous, reflective version:
or
Number two: evil motherfucker version:
Answer: you probably don't want to know.
"The head in the center was that of Medusa, whose hair was turned into snakes by the outraged goddess Athene. In their wisdom, the Sicilian parliament replaced the Medusa head with one that is less threatening to the innocent onlooker who, after all, should not be anticipating being turned to stone."
I think perhaps the head should have remained as it was. You can put a mink coat on an alligator, but chances are it's still gonna bite your ass off. What's so bad about threatening anyway? When you're an unassuming shoe of an island, what are you gonna do, put out the welcome mat? Let's get real. You're going to want the ability to turn your enemy to stone. Gaze upon this, mofo.
The moral of the Sicilian flag story, near as I can tell, is this: When you think of Medusa between your legs, its best to think thrice.
That's today's pop culture homeland update from allied!
or
Number two: evil motherfucker version:
Answer: you probably don't want to know.
"The head in the center was that of Medusa, whose hair was turned into snakes by the outraged goddess Athene. In their wisdom, the Sicilian parliament replaced the Medusa head with one that is less threatening to the innocent onlooker who, after all, should not be anticipating being turned to stone."
I think perhaps the head should have remained as it was. You can put a mink coat on an alligator, but chances are it's still gonna bite your ass off. What's so bad about threatening anyway? When you're an unassuming shoe of an island, what are you gonna do, put out the welcome mat? Let's get real. You're going to want the ability to turn your enemy to stone. Gaze upon this, mofo.
The moral of the Sicilian flag story, near as I can tell, is this: When you think of Medusa between your legs, its best to think thrice.
That's today's pop culture homeland update from allied!
A Long Overdue Thank You to Dr. Marek J.
I haven't talked to my mother in two months now. Our "normal" relationship ceased about four months ago. We used to talk every day. Or there abouts. Now we don't. Talk. At all. I sent her a letter explaining the reasons why I needed time, space, distance, needed her to back off. She didn't accept that, couldn't accept it really. So I sent a stronger letter. She "got" that one. Among the reasons for time away, I named alcohol, and its effects on me growing up, repercussions I'm just now beginning to understand.
I'm seeing them now because the noise of our relationship has been quieted. Noise, according to Marek J., is defined as anything that isn't "gold," the distracting hum of inner chatter that keeps us from getting to gold. There's noise, and there's gold. Gold you want. Noise is just noise. It interrupts. It is useless and counterproductive in getting to gold.
It is amazing what I've come to see, to realize, as I begin to distinguish noise from gold. Thank you Dr. Marek. Still working on it, you know.
Having spent the majority of the last six months on my own with George away, I've had the quiet that I didn't want--but definitely have needed all my life. Marek was and is right. The more we allow noise to interrupt our search for gold--maybe gold is the "True Self"--the further off the path we wander, the more we end up in prickerbushes, hurt, in pain.
In relationships, Dr Marek's theory of noise vs. gold is a pretty heavy concept. Let noise in, let it disrupt your focus, let it impact how you relate to one another, and any gold you had turns to noise, then potentially, to dust. I think we have a tendency to welcome noise sometimes, to sabbotage ourselves and our loved ones, to feed noise. Why? Why do we feed noise? Do we entertain noise in order to drown out the louder noise we've lived with all our lives? Is noise the negative introject, or at least the negative introject's handiwork? I think so. But Marek doesn't use those fancy terms. He calls it "noise."
I mention this today because the theory of noise vs. gold that Marek shared with me months ago is something I think of almost daily now. I'm sure he doesn't even know that. But when something comes at me and it feels like me undermining myself, I say, "That's just more noise. What's the gold you're looking for here?" And I try to answer. Not always sucessful, but I try. To begin to identify the negative introject as noise, to be able to identify and NAME it when it starts feeding you poison, is a powerful tool for trauma survivors on the road back.
So thanks, Dr Marek, from the Sessums. I'm sure Marek's willing to set up sessions with other Bloggers in crisis--I paid him $13.52, but that was an early bird special. I think the guy's worth at least $100.00 an hour.
Marek, hang out your shingle -- we can't afford to have you not blogging.
I'm seeing them now because the noise of our relationship has been quieted. Noise, according to Marek J., is defined as anything that isn't "gold," the distracting hum of inner chatter that keeps us from getting to gold. There's noise, and there's gold. Gold you want. Noise is just noise. It interrupts. It is useless and counterproductive in getting to gold.
It is amazing what I've come to see, to realize, as I begin to distinguish noise from gold. Thank you Dr. Marek. Still working on it, you know.
Having spent the majority of the last six months on my own with George away, I've had the quiet that I didn't want--but definitely have needed all my life. Marek was and is right. The more we allow noise to interrupt our search for gold--maybe gold is the "True Self"--the further off the path we wander, the more we end up in prickerbushes, hurt, in pain.
In relationships, Dr Marek's theory of noise vs. gold is a pretty heavy concept. Let noise in, let it disrupt your focus, let it impact how you relate to one another, and any gold you had turns to noise, then potentially, to dust. I think we have a tendency to welcome noise sometimes, to sabbotage ourselves and our loved ones, to feed noise. Why? Why do we feed noise? Do we entertain noise in order to drown out the louder noise we've lived with all our lives? Is noise the negative introject, or at least the negative introject's handiwork? I think so. But Marek doesn't use those fancy terms. He calls it "noise."
I mention this today because the theory of noise vs. gold that Marek shared with me months ago is something I think of almost daily now. I'm sure he doesn't even know that. But when something comes at me and it feels like me undermining myself, I say, "That's just more noise. What's the gold you're looking for here?" And I try to answer. Not always sucessful, but I try. To begin to identify the negative introject as noise, to be able to identify and NAME it when it starts feeding you poison, is a powerful tool for trauma survivors on the road back.
So thanks, Dr Marek, from the Sessums. I'm sure Marek's willing to set up sessions with other Bloggers in crisis--I paid him $13.52, but that was an early bird special. I think the guy's worth at least $100.00 an hour.
Marek, hang out your shingle -- we can't afford to have you not blogging.
October 23, 2002
Rising the Comments Above
You know, the comments a couple of posts back really got humming with great stuff I don't want to lose. It all started when Tom threw me into a depression by pointing me to Clay Shirkey's article on why blogging won't pay. Now Tom and I and Clay have bantered gonzoite ideas before, and maybe it's my current reflective (read depressed) state, but Clay's saying something here. Let me layout the ensuing conversation by raising the comments up a level for further exploration....
Matrullo Drops the Bomb
Tom said: "J., I know we've had some discussion with Clay Shirky about gonzo issues before. Here's his bit about blogging for dollars - it's worthy of inspiring counter-arguments."
Partington Kicks Corporations in the Ass
Then, George Partington contributes this: "The best way to get paid for blogging is to have people, not corporate entities, pay you. Corporate involvement would just corrupt this thing we got goin on, because, as RB has pointed out, despite the fact that they are comprised of people, they have no body and no heart. Let's cut out corporations and build communities. Not saying I have any answers. Just my two cents."
Mays Wants to Pay AKMA Partington's Two Cents
To which, Jonathon Mays says, "Dang, I just want to make money. Gekko type. How bout AKMA and Frank become my editors (better still, ghost writers). You could write. I could make money. Therefore, keeping everyone's integrity intact? Yes?"
Jeneane Gets Depressed, Talks Too Much
Then I chime in with my big ole mouth here: "Wow. I just read Shirkey's piece. I need to go drive around for a while before I pick up Jenna. I have seen this parallel within the music business--In Boston for example, mom and dad pay for many a college student to attend one of many very fine colleges. Too many of these kids are also amateur musicians, who will likely use their fine degrees one day to do anything but perform music for a living.
"Yet these same passionate (and some even likeable) amateurs play for free--some even pay to play. They clog up club after club, event after event, venue after venue. Some are good, some are not. Most will remain amateurs. They don't need to get paid because their real job is going to college. And they are going to college to not play music professionally one day. But to have a "career" or at least a "fallback."
"It's no secret that you have superstars in the business who make the majority of the money, most not through recordings (where the labels gobble it up) but through touring. Then you have amateurs who play for love and not money. And then you have a whole professional class in the middle who eek out sometimes okay livings from a business not set up to pay them. The world Shirkey could end up just like this. We pay to read the superstars. The up and comers and tech flashers blog for free. And what will become of us in the middle? When will we decide to put down our axes and get a day job? :-( " [i.e., end of jeneane's big mouth]
AKMA's in the House and He's Bringing His Crash
When blogosipher AKMA jumps in with an idea I really liked because it meant something for ME ME ME: "But we wouldn't accuse someone of corruption if she accepted a free Zildjian for her drum set, right?"
[to which I responded with some lame statement about send me stuff. and saying sorry to AKMA about never sending his peanut brittle, and he tells me how Margaret and the kids are doing.]
Partington Loves Courtney
Followed by that smart George Partington responding to AKMA's cymbal analogy with:
"No, not out of hand. But if the drummer's tour was sponsored by Zildjiian, and Zildjiian was part of a company that included big ol X Co. that had lots of nasty practices in the name of profit, our drummer might feel a bit compromised (not to say corrupted, the "thing" is corrupted, the person could be or not, maybe just caught in a not-so-healthy situation), not wanting to write a song about unfair labor practices, for example.
"Courtney Love had some interesting things to say about such a situation. I think it was Pepsi that sponsored one of her tours, and they pressured her to say things in favor of the product, etc. (wanting to get their money's worth). She says they acted as if they owned her and she should be grateful for it. And, she says, she took every opportunity to slam them instead, so she'd never be tempted by another, similar deal. See her rant, Courtney Love does the math, for more.
Frank, Where Have You Been All Day?
At which point Mr. Paynter chimes in with:
"Oops, gone for a full day and the whole thread morphs in a zillion directions... oh well, I like Jonathon's idea of ghost written blogs, but I don't think the business model is right. How about y'all talk to the rich and famous people you know about the new Sandhill ghostblogging service. We (me and my hand picked stable of professional ghostbloggers) will create a unique and authentic voice for you online in a blog of your own! Why waste time writing when someone who enjoys it can do it for you?!?
"And to offset ghostblogging costs, we will hook you up with an ad agency that will create a banner ad revenue stream for you! Drink Coke!!! And for the ad agency, to offset the costs of those banner ads, we will provide 'bots that harvest email addresses from comment streams so you can direct sell those people on Bose radios and organ and glandular enlargement therapies. After this little engine of commerce gets humming, we at Sandhill hope only to exert ourselves endorsing checks to deposit. Cyber Paradise."
Steve "One Pot" Splits Frank's Hairs
To which Steve responds thoughtfully:
"Re: Zildjian and Pepsi, to my mind there's a difference. If Zildjian chooses to give free cymbals to drummer x (would that it were my poor, sold-his-congas-last-week-to-buy-new-traps brother!), it's generally because drummer x is already using the product. Or because the company is developing--a la Eric Clapton--a new product specifically along the lines dictated by the sponsored 'name'. The company does so in hopes that other drummers will see drummer x actually using the product, and note its quality.
"When Pepsi or Budweiser sponsor a tour, they're doing nothing but cash in on something totally unrelated to their own product. It's no different than going to an expensive charity dinner just to have my picture taken with famous people. There's no real connection between us, but I'm implying one for purposes of my own gratification. In other words, whether or not Courtney Love drinks Pepsi means nothing to her concert; the type of guitar she plays does. One allows her to do what she does *ahem* 'better' and more easily, the other doesn't. Maybe I'm splitting hairs unnecessarily, but to me it seems more insidious to sponsor something simply to get your name attached to it gratuitously rather than because it's actually relevant."
And that's where we are. So continue, please. This is too tastey to drop off now.
Matrullo Drops the Bomb
Tom said: "J., I know we've had some discussion with Clay Shirky about gonzo issues before. Here's his bit about blogging for dollars - it's worthy of inspiring counter-arguments."
Partington Kicks Corporations in the Ass
Then, George Partington contributes this: "The best way to get paid for blogging is to have people, not corporate entities, pay you. Corporate involvement would just corrupt this thing we got goin on, because, as RB has pointed out, despite the fact that they are comprised of people, they have no body and no heart. Let's cut out corporations and build communities. Not saying I have any answers. Just my two cents."
Mays Wants to Pay AKMA Partington's Two Cents
To which, Jonathon Mays says, "Dang, I just want to make money. Gekko type. How bout AKMA and Frank become my editors (better still, ghost writers). You could write. I could make money. Therefore, keeping everyone's integrity intact? Yes?"
Jeneane Gets Depressed, Talks Too Much
Then I chime in with my big ole mouth here: "Wow. I just read Shirkey's piece. I need to go drive around for a while before I pick up Jenna. I have seen this parallel within the music business--In Boston for example, mom and dad pay for many a college student to attend one of many very fine colleges. Too many of these kids are also amateur musicians, who will likely use their fine degrees one day to do anything but perform music for a living.
"Yet these same passionate (and some even likeable) amateurs play for free--some even pay to play. They clog up club after club, event after event, venue after venue. Some are good, some are not. Most will remain amateurs. They don't need to get paid because their real job is going to college. And they are going to college to not play music professionally one day. But to have a "career" or at least a "fallback."
"It's no secret that you have superstars in the business who make the majority of the money, most not through recordings (where the labels gobble it up) but through touring. Then you have amateurs who play for love and not money. And then you have a whole professional class in the middle who eek out sometimes okay livings from a business not set up to pay them. The world Shirkey could end up just like this. We pay to read the superstars. The up and comers and tech flashers blog for free. And what will become of us in the middle? When will we decide to put down our axes and get a day job? :-( " [i.e., end of jeneane's big mouth]
AKMA's in the House and He's Bringing His Crash
When blogosipher AKMA jumps in with an idea I really liked because it meant something for ME ME ME: "But we wouldn't accuse someone of corruption if she accepted a free Zildjian for her drum set, right?"
[to which I responded with some lame statement about send me stuff. and saying sorry to AKMA about never sending his peanut brittle, and he tells me how Margaret and the kids are doing.]
Partington Loves Courtney
Followed by that smart George Partington responding to AKMA's cymbal analogy with:
"No, not out of hand. But if the drummer's tour was sponsored by Zildjiian, and Zildjiian was part of a company that included big ol X Co. that had lots of nasty practices in the name of profit, our drummer might feel a bit compromised (not to say corrupted, the "thing" is corrupted, the person could be or not, maybe just caught in a not-so-healthy situation), not wanting to write a song about unfair labor practices, for example.
"Courtney Love had some interesting things to say about such a situation. I think it was Pepsi that sponsored one of her tours, and they pressured her to say things in favor of the product, etc. (wanting to get their money's worth). She says they acted as if they owned her and she should be grateful for it. And, she says, she took every opportunity to slam them instead, so she'd never be tempted by another, similar deal. See her rant, Courtney Love does the math, for more.
Frank, Where Have You Been All Day?
At which point Mr. Paynter chimes in with:
"Oops, gone for a full day and the whole thread morphs in a zillion directions... oh well, I like Jonathon's idea of ghost written blogs, but I don't think the business model is right. How about y'all talk to the rich and famous people you know about the new Sandhill ghostblogging service. We (me and my hand picked stable of professional ghostbloggers) will create a unique and authentic voice for you online in a blog of your own! Why waste time writing when someone who enjoys it can do it for you?!?
"And to offset ghostblogging costs, we will hook you up with an ad agency that will create a banner ad revenue stream for you! Drink Coke!!! And for the ad agency, to offset the costs of those banner ads, we will provide 'bots that harvest email addresses from comment streams so you can direct sell those people on Bose radios and organ and glandular enlargement therapies. After this little engine of commerce gets humming, we at Sandhill hope only to exert ourselves endorsing checks to deposit. Cyber Paradise."
Steve "One Pot" Splits Frank's Hairs
To which Steve responds thoughtfully:
"Re: Zildjian and Pepsi, to my mind there's a difference. If Zildjian chooses to give free cymbals to drummer x (would that it were my poor, sold-his-congas-last-week-to-buy-new-traps brother!), it's generally because drummer x is already using the product. Or because the company is developing--a la Eric Clapton--a new product specifically along the lines dictated by the sponsored 'name'. The company does so in hopes that other drummers will see drummer x actually using the product, and note its quality.
"When Pepsi or Budweiser sponsor a tour, they're doing nothing but cash in on something totally unrelated to their own product. It's no different than going to an expensive charity dinner just to have my picture taken with famous people. There's no real connection between us, but I'm implying one for purposes of my own gratification. In other words, whether or not Courtney Love drinks Pepsi means nothing to her concert; the type of guitar she plays does. One allows her to do what she does *ahem* 'better' and more easily, the other doesn't. Maybe I'm splitting hairs unnecessarily, but to me it seems more insidious to sponsor something simply to get your name attached to it gratuitously rather than because it's actually relevant."
And that's where we are. So continue, please. This is too tastey to drop off now.
October 22, 2002
tuesday ramblings
Hey, stop over to allied--it's the hot place for comments this week, and boy do I love that! Many wonderful side conversations are taking place beneath this surface layer where I type shit in. Everyone should have comments (have I said that before?) They put the groove in groovy. Let's keep that up. Makea da blogger happy.
When you're done commenting here, hop over to george's blog and see what mess the sessums have gotten themselves into this time... does the word dog excrement mean anything to you?
In other news, I'm tired.
Have I mentioned that we may be headed to Florida for some sunshine at the end of the month? Anyone have tips on Clearwater Beach, please use that nifty comment link below and tell me all about it.
Did I mention I'm tired?
Besides our eventual vacation, there doesn't seem to be any good news anywhere this week. Bloggers not making money, bloggers sniping at each other, sniper shooting people left and right, the right edging closer to war, companies not wanting to spend a spare dime on anything, friends and loved ones in varying degrees of anguish. ENOUGH ALREADY!
Then it's time for Jenna to go to bed. I climb in beside her to pat her back while she settles down, drifts off. Her arm drapes over me. I hug her little bottom close and she passes out wrapped around me. I look at that sleeping face--I am so blessed. She is so sweet, so beautiful, so calm. Finally she is still. She is never still, you understand. She is motion. Motion and words. These are things to be thankful for--signs of health, signs of life. But at the end of a long day, I welcome sleep when she is still, and most of all, quiet. As animated as she is awake, she is the oposite asleep. Like a rock. Nothing disturbs her slumber except a rare (thankfully) bad dream.
She had one last night. She cried without easing up until I went into her room at 4 this morning. I held her. I passed out. She finally drifted back to sleep. In the morning she told me about the nightmare.
Daddy and I had gone to a wedding to get her a baby brother, and we didn't take her with us. She was devastated. Crestfallen. How could we?
All of this, Freud doesn't need to tell me, as a result of our "night out" on Saturday when we had the first night as a couple without her in a long, long, long time. She had a blast, went to a festival, rode ponies, had a wonderful time, mind you. I don't think she thought about us once. Well, maybe once.
But then she heard me. It was my tone I guess, since I didn't say anything in particular. I was on the phone telling my friend that we had a good time on Saturday, saw a movie, that I slept until 1:30 in the afternoon the next day.
The relief in my voice must have been evident. I now can tell you that five year olds get "tone." Even subtle "tone."
Where was I when she learned to infer?
I hear her bedroom door slam, hang up the phone, go upstairs to see exactly what the matter is, and there she is weeping in her bed. "You had fun without me! You and Daddy had fun and I wasn't there! Don't ever do that again. It hurts my feelings."
I explain about grown up time, how the movie would have been boring to her, how she had a lot more fun riding ponies than looking for used cars.
Her mind is unchanged. She has already infered that we had fun not as three, but as two. That we were capable of enjoying a moment where she was not the center of it.
How do you explain that it is a different kind of fun? That it isn't the fun fun we have as a family, it is something really boring to little people. How do you explain that you talked about her sixteen times that night? You say it. You say all that, and your child still looks at you with those big brown eyes and says, I wanna come too next time.
And you want to tell her that you want her always, to be right here, right next to you, that if you could you would put her back inside of you and keep her there, safe and sound, as long as forever and ever, that you don't want her to go six inches from your side, that it would be okay with you if the world would disappear and there was no such thing as school and there was no work and there were no responsibilities, no commitments, no money, no world at all.
If you had a say, you would lie just as you do every night, patting her back and racing her to sleep so that you could gaze at perfection forever. That if you could, you'd zip the house up with the three of you inside where no one could get in, no one could say anything hurtful to this family, no one could bring poison in, no one could break through. The sealed up house would be music and games and toys and computers, and melted cheese burritos, and lots of ice cream, forever.
You don't say these things to her though.
You don't say them to anyone.
Because if you did, people might think you're crazy.
When you're done commenting here, hop over to george's blog and see what mess the sessums have gotten themselves into this time... does the word dog excrement mean anything to you?
In other news, I'm tired.
Have I mentioned that we may be headed to Florida for some sunshine at the end of the month? Anyone have tips on Clearwater Beach, please use that nifty comment link below and tell me all about it.
Did I mention I'm tired?
Besides our eventual vacation, there doesn't seem to be any good news anywhere this week. Bloggers not making money, bloggers sniping at each other, sniper shooting people left and right, the right edging closer to war, companies not wanting to spend a spare dime on anything, friends and loved ones in varying degrees of anguish. ENOUGH ALREADY!
Then it's time for Jenna to go to bed. I climb in beside her to pat her back while she settles down, drifts off. Her arm drapes over me. I hug her little bottom close and she passes out wrapped around me. I look at that sleeping face--I am so blessed. She is so sweet, so beautiful, so calm. Finally she is still. She is never still, you understand. She is motion. Motion and words. These are things to be thankful for--signs of health, signs of life. But at the end of a long day, I welcome sleep when she is still, and most of all, quiet. As animated as she is awake, she is the oposite asleep. Like a rock. Nothing disturbs her slumber except a rare (thankfully) bad dream.
She had one last night. She cried without easing up until I went into her room at 4 this morning. I held her. I passed out. She finally drifted back to sleep. In the morning she told me about the nightmare.
Daddy and I had gone to a wedding to get her a baby brother, and we didn't take her with us. She was devastated. Crestfallen. How could we?
All of this, Freud doesn't need to tell me, as a result of our "night out" on Saturday when we had the first night as a couple without her in a long, long, long time. She had a blast, went to a festival, rode ponies, had a wonderful time, mind you. I don't think she thought about us once. Well, maybe once.
But then she heard me. It was my tone I guess, since I didn't say anything in particular. I was on the phone telling my friend that we had a good time on Saturday, saw a movie, that I slept until 1:30 in the afternoon the next day.
The relief in my voice must have been evident. I now can tell you that five year olds get "tone." Even subtle "tone."
Where was I when she learned to infer?
I hear her bedroom door slam, hang up the phone, go upstairs to see exactly what the matter is, and there she is weeping in her bed. "You had fun without me! You and Daddy had fun and I wasn't there! Don't ever do that again. It hurts my feelings."
I explain about grown up time, how the movie would have been boring to her, how she had a lot more fun riding ponies than looking for used cars.
Her mind is unchanged. She has already infered that we had fun not as three, but as two. That we were capable of enjoying a moment where she was not the center of it.
How do you explain that it is a different kind of fun? That it isn't the fun fun we have as a family, it is something really boring to little people. How do you explain that you talked about her sixteen times that night? You say it. You say all that, and your child still looks at you with those big brown eyes and says, I wanna come too next time.
And you want to tell her that you want her always, to be right here, right next to you, that if you could you would put her back inside of you and keep her there, safe and sound, as long as forever and ever, that you don't want her to go six inches from your side, that it would be okay with you if the world would disappear and there was no such thing as school and there was no work and there were no responsibilities, no commitments, no money, no world at all.
If you had a say, you would lie just as you do every night, patting her back and racing her to sleep so that you could gaze at perfection forever. That if you could, you'd zip the house up with the three of you inside where no one could get in, no one could say anything hurtful to this family, no one could bring poison in, no one could break through. The sealed up house would be music and games and toys and computers, and melted cheese burritos, and lots of ice cream, forever.
You don't say these things to her though.
You don't say them to anyone.
Because if you did, people might think you're crazy.
October 21, 2002
oh my gosh, he did it again.
AKMA took the words right out of the back of my brain and organized them just perfectly in this post about bloggers and money, and the lack thereof, and the potiential to make a few coins.
You see? We got the official word from blogging's official honest guy--NOW, LET'S GET PAID!!!
You see? We got the official word from blogging's official honest guy--NOW, LET'S GET PAID!!!
October 20, 2002
date night
We went to see Formula 51 last night, the latest Samuel Jackson flick that was pretty great, made greater by the fact that we hadn't been to an R rated move in almost two years. Lilo and Stitch can't really match action packed drug dealing, murder and mayhem. Not just a little blood and guts, but worth it. Hint: Bring your umbrella.
My sister kept Jenna over night for the first time in a couple of years. Wow. You parents know what I mean. Wow. So we didn't have to rush home. We actually got onto our street before we looked at one another and said, "Hey, we don't even really have to go home." George turned the car around and we drove to the bar in one of the plazas up the street for a nightcap. Neither of us had ever been to the place before.
And wouldn't you know it was kareokee night, with all the regulars, some very scary-to-me, way-wasted 50-somethings, the guys with polo shirts and a turtleneck sweater or two(L.L. Bean ribbed cotton maybe?), their ladies with big hair, layered makeup, and too-fake smiles. They would have been friendly enough, and they were, but it was that kind of DRUNK FRIENDLY--you know what I mean? I could have passed any one of them in the grocery store the next day and they wouldn't have remembered my face. But last night, they were so glad to have met us, leaning on our shoulders, one burly old fucker trying to massage George's shoulders after making off with his lighter, translated in the language of Wasted as, "I'm Sorry," which, if you knew George, you would know one thing--don't touch his neck.
So burly drunk guy, who apparently is a physical therapist, although I can't imagine, got a little miffed that his massage wasn't appreciated, and showed his displeasure by favoring a lean our way when his drunken sway shifted into full gear. You know, "the lean," the "I can't stand up straight so can I lean on you?" lean. Luckily, this guy had a hard time standing or sitting still, so he left us alone every ten minutes or so to check on his wife.
Mike, the official bar greeter, made sure to stop by and say hello, tell us that the place is a regular hangout for the area, that Friday nights they start early, Saturday a little later, that it's always the same people, that they love one another, swear at one another, sometimes borrow from one another--some swap wives, not Mike of course, but some, he said.
I sipped my rum and coke and wondered about their lives.
Did I mention there was kareoke?
It wasn't really the people or the lame DJ that left me with that shifted feeling. It was realizing that I'm so in between. Gone are the pre-kid days of clubs and hanging out til 3 a.m. and talking with friends over drinks after a gig. My friends are at home doing the same thing I'm usually doing: taking care of the kid, the house, the bills, the cars. that's one side of being in between. The other side of being in between is not yet being a 50-something like most of the free birds at the bar last night were. You could tell, their nests were empty; they were looking for something new, something more, some taste of something they'd lost along the way. Instead, they settle for familiar faces, vodka or gin, and someone else's husband, someone else's wife.
In other words, the movie was better than the bar.
Being able to spend the evening eye to eye with my husband, laughing and holding hands, without the constant interjection that is our love personified, Jenna, was a true gift. A regular baby sitter may just be in our future....
My sister kept Jenna over night for the first time in a couple of years. Wow. You parents know what I mean. Wow. So we didn't have to rush home. We actually got onto our street before we looked at one another and said, "Hey, we don't even really have to go home." George turned the car around and we drove to the bar in one of the plazas up the street for a nightcap. Neither of us had ever been to the place before.
And wouldn't you know it was kareokee night, with all the regulars, some very scary-to-me, way-wasted 50-somethings, the guys with polo shirts and a turtleneck sweater or two(L.L. Bean ribbed cotton maybe?), their ladies with big hair, layered makeup, and too-fake smiles. They would have been friendly enough, and they were, but it was that kind of DRUNK FRIENDLY--you know what I mean? I could have passed any one of them in the grocery store the next day and they wouldn't have remembered my face. But last night, they were so glad to have met us, leaning on our shoulders, one burly old fucker trying to massage George's shoulders after making off with his lighter, translated in the language of Wasted as, "I'm Sorry," which, if you knew George, you would know one thing--don't touch his neck.
So burly drunk guy, who apparently is a physical therapist, although I can't imagine, got a little miffed that his massage wasn't appreciated, and showed his displeasure by favoring a lean our way when his drunken sway shifted into full gear. You know, "the lean," the "I can't stand up straight so can I lean on you?" lean. Luckily, this guy had a hard time standing or sitting still, so he left us alone every ten minutes or so to check on his wife.
Mike, the official bar greeter, made sure to stop by and say hello, tell us that the place is a regular hangout for the area, that Friday nights they start early, Saturday a little later, that it's always the same people, that they love one another, swear at one another, sometimes borrow from one another--some swap wives, not Mike of course, but some, he said.
I sipped my rum and coke and wondered about their lives.
Did I mention there was kareoke?
It wasn't really the people or the lame DJ that left me with that shifted feeling. It was realizing that I'm so in between. Gone are the pre-kid days of clubs and hanging out til 3 a.m. and talking with friends over drinks after a gig. My friends are at home doing the same thing I'm usually doing: taking care of the kid, the house, the bills, the cars. that's one side of being in between. The other side of being in between is not yet being a 50-something like most of the free birds at the bar last night were. You could tell, their nests were empty; they were looking for something new, something more, some taste of something they'd lost along the way. Instead, they settle for familiar faces, vodka or gin, and someone else's husband, someone else's wife.
In other words, the movie was better than the bar.
Being able to spend the evening eye to eye with my husband, laughing and holding hands, without the constant interjection that is our love personified, Jenna, was a true gift. A regular baby sitter may just be in our future....
October 18, 2002
The Friend of Our Friend is Our Friend
Shelley clued me in on the details of stavrosthewonderchicken's friend Rick who was hurt in the Bali explosion. His condition is currently critical, and the family is encountering some serious medical expenses for his care. A trust fund has been started to help. Shelley has the details on where and how to lend a helping hand. From what I've gleaned, Rick was on holiday before starting a new chapter of his life with a new job when he was caught in the blast that killed and injured so many. Life is far too fragile.
October 16, 2002
sometimes I want to have my say without linking to you or emailing you, dammit.
Alright, this needs to be said and I'm going to say it. David and Halley need to add comment capability to their blogs, and RageBoy needs to fix his comments forthwith.
I love all of these blogs. Everyone knows that. Which is why I get so frustrated not being able to run off at the mouth instantaneously in some form of comment or discussion spot on said blogs. Sometimes I don't want to have to go back to my blog and dedicate an entire post to something you said. I just want to add my two cents. The ability to talk back, respond, vibe, chortle, as well as listen, are all vital parts of conversation, non?
I used to get on my blogging nemesis' ass about this all the time. Mike Sanders' blog was the first to frustrate me by relegating me to linking to him in order to continue the discourse. discord? I slammed him for this many times. Which means it's time I hold my blog friends up to the same standard, albiet without the personal vendetta.
Commenting, threaded discussions and the like are essential for this blogging exercise we're involved in to work. They add layers to our writing, to our conversations. They enlarge our community. A quarter of the folks on my blogroll are there as a result of someone else's comment boxes. I read their comments, say wow this person talks some interesting talk, click on their "homepage" link, spend ten minutes finding out who they are, and usually add them to my blogroll. I also get a few new visitors to this blog each day who hopped here via a comment I've left somewhere else. New friends, new twists in the conversation, new wrinkles, new ideas, spark to flame, pop pop pop, the loosely joined become tighter and more loose all at once.
Got it? Get it.
I love all of these blogs. Everyone knows that. Which is why I get so frustrated not being able to run off at the mouth instantaneously in some form of comment or discussion spot on said blogs. Sometimes I don't want to have to go back to my blog and dedicate an entire post to something you said. I just want to add my two cents. The ability to talk back, respond, vibe, chortle, as well as listen, are all vital parts of conversation, non?
I used to get on my blogging nemesis' ass about this all the time. Mike Sanders' blog was the first to frustrate me by relegating me to linking to him in order to continue the discourse. discord? I slammed him for this many times. Which means it's time I hold my blog friends up to the same standard, albiet without the personal vendetta.
Commenting, threaded discussions and the like are essential for this blogging exercise we're involved in to work. They add layers to our writing, to our conversations. They enlarge our community. A quarter of the folks on my blogroll are there as a result of someone else's comment boxes. I read their comments, say wow this person talks some interesting talk, click on their "homepage" link, spend ten minutes finding out who they are, and usually add them to my blogroll. I also get a few new visitors to this blog each day who hopped here via a comment I've left somewhere else. New friends, new twists in the conversation, new wrinkles, new ideas, spark to flame, pop pop pop, the loosely joined become tighter and more loose all at once.
Got it? Get it.
October 15, 2002
it always comes down to prepositions
about or from?
that's really the distinction.
A sometimes subtle distinction.
But a significant disinction. One that can mean the difference between personal disarray--family mayhem, lost friends, lost jobs and a host of non-specific offline maladies--and very moving writing.
that's really the distinction.
A sometimes subtle distinction.
But a significant disinction. One that can mean the difference between personal disarray--family mayhem, lost friends, lost jobs and a host of non-specific offline maladies--and very moving writing.
there ought to be a law
against this. Our dear RageBoy is off to crush all we hold dear again. Poor Gary and Fiona. I read at Frank Paynter's place that poor Gary happened upon RB's parenthood sacralidge just after returning home from a parent-to-be class. Yikes!
Sir Locke (Sherlock?) breaks some more rules with the post above his Dr. Spock abomination, in which he demonstrates the incredible talent it takes for winners of the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest to confound their readers.
Is nothing sacred to this man?
Esther? Help me out here.
Sir Locke (Sherlock?) breaks some more rules with the post above his Dr. Spock abomination, in which he demonstrates the incredible talent it takes for winners of the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest to confound their readers.
Is nothing sacred to this man?
Esther? Help me out here.
dictionary.com, add this one
Tom Matrullo has the best definition of blogs I've come across yet:
"Blogs are extensions or representations of individual selves, which enter into relations of esteem, commerce or criminality."
Don't miss his take on bloggers on the take.
I wish I were a blogger on the take.
Better than wishing I were an Oscar Mayer Weiner. Although, if Oscar Mayer wanted to sponsor this fine blog, I'd be happy to throw some weiner mobile icons on my archives page. Oh okay. I'm lying. I'd run over to the kosher Hebrew National folks jack-rabbit fast and tell them why they should sponsor me for $100 more, thereby solidifying a relationship with the sponsor whose product I always choose and sharing the good news about some really good weiners with my friends. In other words, Utopia.
Does that make me a bad blogger? Or a good weiner? Or Dave Winer?
I don't know.
"Blogs are extensions or representations of individual selves, which enter into relations of esteem, commerce or criminality."
Don't miss his take on bloggers on the take.
I wish I were a blogger on the take.
Better than wishing I were an Oscar Mayer Weiner. Although, if Oscar Mayer wanted to sponsor this fine blog, I'd be happy to throw some weiner mobile icons on my archives page. Oh okay. I'm lying. I'd run over to the kosher Hebrew National folks jack-rabbit fast and tell them why they should sponsor me for $100 more, thereby solidifying a relationship with the sponsor whose product I always choose and sharing the good news about some really good weiners with my friends. In other words, Utopia.
Does that make me a bad blogger? Or a good weiner? Or Dave Winer?
I don't know.
i have seen the hitler, and it is us
I found a link to this over on Bearman's way-worthy blog. You know, I've been reading through all the war talk and peace talk around these parts for a long while. This story floored me but good. If we are to believe the Sunday Herald about the Bush administration's blueprint for US global domination -- and there are enough quotes from the document, brainchild of the neo-conservative think-tank Project for the New American Century (PNAC), to make me believe it -- well then holy shit we really are rolling down a steep hill into obliteration.
Of all the things in the article, this one scared me most. Think of this tool in the hands of the neo-cons and wonder who exactly they might target for genocide:
"...advanced forms of biological warfare that can 'target' specific genotypes may transform biological warfare from the realm of terror to a politically useful tool."
Yes. Politically useful. I get it.
say it with me now.
politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful.
Of all the things in the article, this one scared me most. Think of this tool in the hands of the neo-cons and wonder who exactly they might target for genocide:
"...advanced forms of biological warfare that can 'target' specific genotypes may transform biological warfare from the realm of terror to a politically useful tool."
Yes. Politically useful. I get it.
say it with me now.
politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful.
October 14, 2002
Calling all small businesses...
Eeeeks. Where I come from we call this PR and smile about it. And yes, I still sleep at night.
In truth, Gonzo Marketing covers the "how blogs might make money" thing in detail. I don't think taking money from sponsors would ruin the integrity of blogs. The company we keep here in Blogaria keeps us honest enough, whether we like it or not. We sniff out coverups as fast as any conspiracy theorist. And, generally speaking, the types of sponsors we should go after should be complementary to our blogging, but not necessarily related to our blog's theme (of which, mine has no theme except death, loss, and love, so unless we're talking casket manufacturers or Fanny Farmer, I guess there's not many businesses directly related to my blog).
On the sponsors/corporate side, there's so much to gain from standing up for the great writing and significant conversations going on here it almost makes me insane that more businesses aren't doing it. There is perceived risk too. The risk of sponsoring a blog that comes out and complains about the product of the sponsorer, or, worse, falls in love with the sponsorer's fiercest competitor. But that risk is not really risky at all. Once the first wave of sponsors jumps on, they will necessarily become less paranoid about these eventualities. We're the Howard Sterns of the net. THAT we are talking among ourselves, for our sponsors, will be ultimately more important than our current pet peve or gripe of the day.
I think, small companies will be the ones to jump in with us first. They have the most to gain from bloggers. If I owned and SMB right now, I'd be looking at blogs. Bloggers are mostly suspicious of big brands. Either that, or we're already zealots with firm opinions. But the lesser knowns--that small online specialty food or gifts company, that family owned business who knits covers for golf clubs, whatever--should swoop in here with us little guys ASAP and help us turn the mofo upside down.
Either that or fuck business PERIOD. We bloggers pledge to one another. We each decide on a blog WE'RE going to sponsor every month. Every blogger adopts a code of support... like a co-op or something... and I say, I'm adopting Marek this month for $10 (or 13.52 to be exact--all the money I had in my paypal account), and next month I sponsor Tom, and so on. If each of us could support one blogger at $5 or $10 or $20 a month, we'd all end up somewhat happy, no? Am I totally wacked here?
Too tired to think about it more tonight. Later, though. Let me go find my copy of Gonzo first.
In truth, Gonzo Marketing covers the "how blogs might make money" thing in detail. I don't think taking money from sponsors would ruin the integrity of blogs. The company we keep here in Blogaria keeps us honest enough, whether we like it or not. We sniff out coverups as fast as any conspiracy theorist. And, generally speaking, the types of sponsors we should go after should be complementary to our blogging, but not necessarily related to our blog's theme (of which, mine has no theme except death, loss, and love, so unless we're talking casket manufacturers or Fanny Farmer, I guess there's not many businesses directly related to my blog).
On the sponsors/corporate side, there's so much to gain from standing up for the great writing and significant conversations going on here it almost makes me insane that more businesses aren't doing it. There is perceived risk too. The risk of sponsoring a blog that comes out and complains about the product of the sponsorer, or, worse, falls in love with the sponsorer's fiercest competitor. But that risk is not really risky at all. Once the first wave of sponsors jumps on, they will necessarily become less paranoid about these eventualities. We're the Howard Sterns of the net. THAT we are talking among ourselves, for our sponsors, will be ultimately more important than our current pet peve or gripe of the day.
I think, small companies will be the ones to jump in with us first. They have the most to gain from bloggers. If I owned and SMB right now, I'd be looking at blogs. Bloggers are mostly suspicious of big brands. Either that, or we're already zealots with firm opinions. But the lesser knowns--that small online specialty food or gifts company, that family owned business who knits covers for golf clubs, whatever--should swoop in here with us little guys ASAP and help us turn the mofo upside down.
Either that or fuck business PERIOD. We bloggers pledge to one another. We each decide on a blog WE'RE going to sponsor every month. Every blogger adopts a code of support... like a co-op or something... and I say, I'm adopting Marek this month for $10 (or 13.52 to be exact--all the money I had in my paypal account), and next month I sponsor Tom, and so on. If each of us could support one blogger at $5 or $10 or $20 a month, we'd all end up somewhat happy, no? Am I totally wacked here?
Too tired to think about it more tonight. Later, though. Let me go find my copy of Gonzo first.
October 10, 2002
Thank you one and all
From those who wrote her emails to those who sent presents, Jenna thanks you all for making her fifth blogday so special.
More Pictures Here.
More Pictures Here.
October 09, 2002
Jonathon does a garbage plate
Jonathon Mays recently enjoyed a Western New York classic dish: the Garbage Plate. Made famous at legendary Nick Tahous, a Rochester late night cult classic, the Garbage Plate can be seen eating Jonathon here.
Jonathon's on a business assignment in Rochester. And now, as if he had nothing better to do, I've sent him off on a food assignment to visit our favorite Rochester eateries (do not mistake this for "arteries," which are will be hardened by the time Jonathon finishes his assignment.) Should he choose to accept the challenge, he is to visit Mamasans (say hi to Bea from Jeneane and George Sessum in Atlanta), where he must try the fresh vegetarian spring rolls (fresh, not fried) and the chicken or vegetarian coconut noodle soop, and maybe some Pad Thai.
Then he's off to Schaller's for a burger on a hard roll (through the garden). The hot sauce in Rochester has meat in it. Don't miss it. Unless you're a vegetarian, which, I assume by your knowledge of Nick Tahous you are not. Jonathon's not done until he samples an order of mixed wings at Country Sweet. He has also been instructed to try a Rubino's sub. Or, he is so instructed now.
There are some people you could squeeze some money out of while you're there--some folks who owe George. But I don't suppose you're there to do that kind of business.
(and if you are, let us know!)
Happy Dining Jonathon!
Jonathon's on a business assignment in Rochester. And now, as if he had nothing better to do, I've sent him off on a food assignment to visit our favorite Rochester eateries (do not mistake this for "arteries," which are will be hardened by the time Jonathon finishes his assignment.) Should he choose to accept the challenge, he is to visit Mamasans (say hi to Bea from Jeneane and George Sessum in Atlanta), where he must try the fresh vegetarian spring rolls (fresh, not fried) and the chicken or vegetarian coconut noodle soop, and maybe some Pad Thai.
Then he's off to Schaller's for a burger on a hard roll (through the garden). The hot sauce in Rochester has meat in it. Don't miss it. Unless you're a vegetarian, which, I assume by your knowledge of Nick Tahous you are not. Jonathon's not done until he samples an order of mixed wings at Country Sweet. He has also been instructed to try a Rubino's sub. Or, he is so instructed now.
There are some people you could squeeze some money out of while you're there--some folks who owe George. But I don't suppose you're there to do that kind of business.
(and if you are, let us know!)
Happy Dining Jonathon!
unfamous quotations
I refer you to the Book of Gary (turner dot net). Yes, our favorite wily UK-er has done it again. Gary's latest brainchild is Unfamous Quotations (first edition) featuring the oft-underestimated and unsung wisdom of bloggers round the world. Now's your chance to contribute to history--don't miss out!
October 08, 2002
The BlogSisters Get a Facelift
Thanks to Web Doctor Andrea Roceal James, the BlogSisters team blog got a groovy face lift. Check it out, join, comment, discuss.
Nice job, Andrea--and thank you.
Nice job, Andrea--and thank you.
October 07, 2002
where I was a year ago...
what I was blogging about....
"These interconnected 'places of voice' are not the communities we see today on Amazon and in other over-designed pre-fab online subdivisions, but instead real communities, with potholes and assholes--just like real life."
"Passive yields to Active. Eyeballs to Voice."
"I'm scared about the Rageboy™ thing. Not your rageboy (no trademark here--I'm using it generically-notice the lower case), but the variation of rageboy you think we all have. How can I keep writing nice things about my coveted 'blue chip' clients--and usually 'as' one of my clients--if I admit to having a ragegirl inside of me. I can never ever acknowledge her."
"Interactive reviews… write as you read… experience the book. Does a product exist for this? Read the book in the right hand column… Record your thoughts in the left… Somehow you co-write and revise what you are reading… giving it breath beyond the paper page. Continuing the voice--adding new voices to the author's voice… Then, we can merge this co-thinking, co-speaking, and co-mingling of ideas into a creation of its own. A daughter publication. And, the cycle could start again. Think of where we would end up--so far away from, and yet I suspect so close to, the original piece."
"I am canceling my subscription to EGR--that man is a lunatic. He's got me talking all kinds of crazy."
(Oh and one of my personal favorites...)
"How about these 'guidelines,' for all of the mightier-than-thou Internet publication hacks who gave us grief over the last three years:
-Don't patronize and piss off industry professionals who work for your publication for free--providing most of the stuff your readers pay you for.
-Don't fill your publication with so many lame ads that it makes your magazine 600 pages thick and you have to start publishing it twelve times a month, you greedy fuck.
-Don't look like an idiot when no one is buying ad space anymore, you have to layoff half your staff, and your magazine is now 3 pages and comes out twice a year."
From the RGE Archives.
"These interconnected 'places of voice' are not the communities we see today on Amazon and in other over-designed pre-fab online subdivisions, but instead real communities, with potholes and assholes--just like real life."
"Passive yields to Active. Eyeballs to Voice."
"I'm scared about the Rageboy™ thing. Not your rageboy (no trademark here--I'm using it generically-notice the lower case), but the variation of rageboy you think we all have. How can I keep writing nice things about my coveted 'blue chip' clients--and usually 'as' one of my clients--if I admit to having a ragegirl inside of me. I can never ever acknowledge her."
"Interactive reviews… write as you read… experience the book. Does a product exist for this? Read the book in the right hand column… Record your thoughts in the left… Somehow you co-write and revise what you are reading… giving it breath beyond the paper page. Continuing the voice--adding new voices to the author's voice… Then, we can merge this co-thinking, co-speaking, and co-mingling of ideas into a creation of its own. A daughter publication. And, the cycle could start again. Think of where we would end up--so far away from, and yet I suspect so close to, the original piece."
"I am canceling my subscription to EGR--that man is a lunatic. He's got me talking all kinds of crazy."
(Oh and one of my personal favorites...)
"How about these 'guidelines,' for all of the mightier-than-thou Internet publication hacks who gave us grief over the last three years:
-Don't patronize and piss off industry professionals who work for your publication for free--providing most of the stuff your readers pay you for.
-Don't fill your publication with so many lame ads that it makes your magazine 600 pages thick and you have to start publishing it twelve times a month, you greedy fuck.
-Don't look like an idiot when no one is buying ad space anymore, you have to layoff half your staff, and your magazine is now 3 pages and comes out twice a year."
From the RGE Archives.
Uh-huh. I knew it.
Something told me that Tom Matrullo would become obsessed with GoogleFight. Heh. If Tom's mastery of "this vs. that" teaches us anything, it teaches us that war is hell, and small wins big. Well, you'll get my drift if you check out Tom's interesting hour (day? couple days?) on GoogleFight.
A note about fair fights--Some of you with rather not-so-unusual first and last names (cough cough--one Gary Turner comes to mind...) need to put QUOTATION MARKS around your whole name when you decide to pick on someone. It's not fair for you Turners of the world to ride on the coat tails of Ike and Tina. Not when the Sessums and Marek Js of the world have to go it alone.
And? Wanna make somethin' of it?
A note about fair fights--Some of you with rather not-so-unusual first and last names (cough cough--one Gary Turner comes to mind...) need to put QUOTATION MARKS around your whole name when you decide to pick on someone. It's not fair for you Turners of the world to ride on the coat tails of Ike and Tina. Not when the Sessums and Marek Js of the world have to go it alone.
And? Wanna make somethin' of it?
happy anniversary to me... and gonzo
one year blogging anniversary for me today. eeeeeeeeeeeee!
And mostly, happy anniversary to everyone who participated with me in the early and later days of the Reading Gonzo--Engaged team blog.
(Rumor has it that the PAPERBACK edition of the book responsible for launching the RGE blog is shipping any day now... rumor has it you ought to buy the thing if you haven't. rumor has it cousin Vito might pay you a visit if you don't. All rumors and speculation, of course.)
How d'ya like me so far? Here's to year two.
And mostly, happy anniversary to everyone who participated with me in the early and later days of the Reading Gonzo--Engaged team blog.
(Rumor has it that the PAPERBACK edition of the book responsible for launching the RGE blog is shipping any day now... rumor has it you ought to buy the thing if you haven't. rumor has it cousin Vito might pay you a visit if you don't. All rumors and speculation, of course.)
How d'ya like me so far? Here's to year two.
October 06, 2002
just when we were getting tired of hearing ourselves not saying much...
There are some amazing weblogs I've come across recently thanks to others in this circle of friends who are linking to them. I would credit my circle friends for the links, but I've been hopping around so very much tonight that I don't know how I got to where I got! Nuff said. Check these destinations out...
Resident Blog, a team weblog of women residents in their journey to becoming our docs of the future... Tired, worn out, stressed--they STILL find time to blog. Amanda has a particularly moving account of her work in the NICU and more...
"In the process of writing this I have drawn 15 ccs of spinal fluid off of an indwelling reservoir in a baby with hydrocephalus, I have been to the cesarian birth of a beautiful bellowing baby girl whose mom is trying to stay off of methamphetamines in an inpatient drug treatment. Her friend held the baby close to her face behind the curtain and her sparkling blue eyes teared up as she said "Wow." Then, I tried to intubate a tiny 1 1/2 pound baby whose O2 sats were in the 40s. I didn't make it and I handed the blade over to the senior resident who finally made it on the third try. We peeled off our gloves and our hands were all pruney from sweating. My senior's headed to bed- I'm on the first shift and there's folks over in labor and we're likely to be called any minute for some deliveries. I've got clinic tomorrow post call and have put in an 81.5 hour week by midnight tonight."
I didn't see permalinks, so scroll down and read them all--it's worth it.
Another fast rising blog of interest is The Homeless Guy, which chronicles the challenges and warmspots of a homeless weblogger in (I think) Nashville.
There's also excellent writing on HotMud.
This from there:
"He arrives. He looks good. One of the great injustices since the trouble began is that he's looked fantastic. And I don't. The pain goes straight to my face and lodges there; anyone can read it in the tension around my mouth, which is constant, and in my eyelids, which are always slightly swollen. In pain, he shines. It's inexplicable and enviable. It makes me feel ill. It makes me long for anesthetic. I pretend that my mocha contains codeine."
Nice stuff... dat's all for tonight. I'm on the hunt for more. When I get sick of hearing myself write, I always go look for new blood to add to my blogroll... widen the circle... toward one world... one peaceful world.
Resident Blog, a team weblog of women residents in their journey to becoming our docs of the future... Tired, worn out, stressed--they STILL find time to blog. Amanda has a particularly moving account of her work in the NICU and more...
"In the process of writing this I have drawn 15 ccs of spinal fluid off of an indwelling reservoir in a baby with hydrocephalus, I have been to the cesarian birth of a beautiful bellowing baby girl whose mom is trying to stay off of methamphetamines in an inpatient drug treatment. Her friend held the baby close to her face behind the curtain and her sparkling blue eyes teared up as she said "Wow." Then, I tried to intubate a tiny 1 1/2 pound baby whose O2 sats were in the 40s. I didn't make it and I handed the blade over to the senior resident who finally made it on the third try. We peeled off our gloves and our hands were all pruney from sweating. My senior's headed to bed- I'm on the first shift and there's folks over in labor and we're likely to be called any minute for some deliveries. I've got clinic tomorrow post call and have put in an 81.5 hour week by midnight tonight."
I didn't see permalinks, so scroll down and read them all--it's worth it.
Another fast rising blog of interest is The Homeless Guy, which chronicles the challenges and warmspots of a homeless weblogger in (I think) Nashville.
There's also excellent writing on HotMud.
This from there:
"He arrives. He looks good. One of the great injustices since the trouble began is that he's looked fantastic. And I don't. The pain goes straight to my face and lodges there; anyone can read it in the tension around my mouth, which is constant, and in my eyelids, which are always slightly swollen. In pain, he shines. It's inexplicable and enviable. It makes me feel ill. It makes me long for anesthetic. I pretend that my mocha contains codeine."
Nice stuff... dat's all for tonight. I'm on the hunt for more. When I get sick of hearing myself write, I always go look for new blood to add to my blogroll... widen the circle... toward one world... one peaceful world.
Down for the Count
I took an uppercut from Tom Matrullo who whooped me on Google Fights, but I KO-ed Halley Suitt in Round Two.
Thanks to Scoble for the link!
Thanks to Scoble for the link!
October 04, 2002
a rainy night in georgia, and it feels like I'm bloggin' all over the world.
Shelley's got me thinking--again. In today's post she made me feel nostalgic in a way I've never felt before. Not more or less intense than regular nostalgia, but compressed for sure.
I remember the days Shelley is writes about. They were what, six months ago? In blogland it seems like ten years ago. Jokin', jivin', jawin' on the tele, everything was upside down and sideways but somehow just right. Are we saying, "Those were the days, my friend?" Well, for now, maybe I am.
Looking back. Shared History.
Shared agony, ecstacy. hurt. laughter. With you, Shell. About those days.
When George was in Hong Kong, me here with Jenna, the telephone inviting long talks with Marek, Shelley, Halley, Gary, RB, Tom, Elaine, and crew. They helped take care of me, supported my journey into therapy and soul searching. Jenna wasn't even in pre-K yet. I was working full-time. I hadn't told my parents they were alcoholics yet. So much is different now.
The world in blogtime.
And so I go further back.
And I realize that a year ago Monday (Oct 7th) I started blogging. I signed onto blogger with Reading Gonzo--Engaged after spending a week engrossed with a review copy of Chris Locke's Gonzo Marketing. The infamous RageBoy and I had exchanged a few emails before then. But I never imagined the guy would be our daughter's Uncle when I sent him that MS Word document last October--a document in which I'd been journaling my reading of Gonzo Marketing. He wrote back and said, "This would be just right for a blog, or two, or three." I took him at his word. Still do.
For me, this is where my life among bloggers began.
Gonzo Engaged lived a pretty full life, as its archives attest to. But of late, it has waned in popularity and postings. Many of the bloggers Locke inspired, some of whom started blogging right then and there on the Gonzo team blog, are now focused on their own weblogs and team blogs, me among them.
Still, I wait. To see if Gonzo will re-ignite.
Blogs are funny that way.
So is RageBoy.
But when I look back at my first year of blogging, it seems like a lifetime ago.
Maybe that's because we're living in so many people's lives at once.
Do you think?
I remember when Gary launched the soon-to-be international phenomenon known as Blog Stickers, me saying, can I put one of those things on my blog? (Yes, I was the first.) I picked "Blog is a four letter word," bought up Gary's t-shirts and mugs, told him we'd just hit the new era of e-commerce, and shit, we kind of did, never forseeing Gary was just getting going with his insane ideas, hadn't yet experienced his Chukka Bar Incident; chalk chalking was just a glimmer in its father's eye, as was Baby Turner to be.
RageBoy was loving, then dying; now reborn. I've watched the metamorphosis, which has been incredible, and as real life as real life gets hundreds of miles away over wires.
Halley, Craig, Shelley, and now Doc, all lived in different houses. I feel like I've moved with all of them. Is that why I'm so tired? Halley, where'd you put my f-ing can opener?
Marek hadn't scared us yet with his traumatic hospital stay, Dave Winer hadn't either.
I was on Mike Sanders' blogroll and he was on mine.
The warbloggers were mere pains in the asses, not a full-fledged movement.
Blog Sisters was an idea that woke me up one night, nothing less or more, until... and then...
Elaine wasn't a grandma yet.
I hadn't met AKMA's amazing wife, Margaret.
So many things. So many things to have happened. So many things to have happened to so many of us.
And more to come.
Only one absolute: I feel blessed to be among you.
I remember the days Shelley is writes about. They were what, six months ago? In blogland it seems like ten years ago. Jokin', jivin', jawin' on the tele, everything was upside down and sideways but somehow just right. Are we saying, "Those were the days, my friend?" Well, for now, maybe I am.
Looking back. Shared History.
Shared agony, ecstacy. hurt. laughter. With you, Shell. About those days.
When George was in Hong Kong, me here with Jenna, the telephone inviting long talks with Marek, Shelley, Halley, Gary, RB, Tom, Elaine, and crew. They helped take care of me, supported my journey into therapy and soul searching. Jenna wasn't even in pre-K yet. I was working full-time. I hadn't told my parents they were alcoholics yet. So much is different now.
The world in blogtime.
And so I go further back.
And I realize that a year ago Monday (Oct 7th) I started blogging. I signed onto blogger with Reading Gonzo--Engaged after spending a week engrossed with a review copy of Chris Locke's Gonzo Marketing. The infamous RageBoy and I had exchanged a few emails before then. But I never imagined the guy would be our daughter's Uncle when I sent him that MS Word document last October--a document in which I'd been journaling my reading of Gonzo Marketing. He wrote back and said, "This would be just right for a blog, or two, or three." I took him at his word. Still do.
For me, this is where my life among bloggers began.
Gonzo Engaged lived a pretty full life, as its archives attest to. But of late, it has waned in popularity and postings. Many of the bloggers Locke inspired, some of whom started blogging right then and there on the Gonzo team blog, are now focused on their own weblogs and team blogs, me among them.
Still, I wait. To see if Gonzo will re-ignite.
Blogs are funny that way.
So is RageBoy.
But when I look back at my first year of blogging, it seems like a lifetime ago.
Maybe that's because we're living in so many people's lives at once.
Do you think?
I remember when Gary launched the soon-to-be international phenomenon known as Blog Stickers, me saying, can I put one of those things on my blog? (Yes, I was the first.) I picked "Blog is a four letter word," bought up Gary's t-shirts and mugs, told him we'd just hit the new era of e-commerce, and shit, we kind of did, never forseeing Gary was just getting going with his insane ideas, hadn't yet experienced his Chukka Bar Incident; chalk chalking was just a glimmer in its father's eye, as was Baby Turner to be.
RageBoy was loving, then dying; now reborn. I've watched the metamorphosis, which has been incredible, and as real life as real life gets hundreds of miles away over wires.
Halley, Craig, Shelley, and now Doc, all lived in different houses. I feel like I've moved with all of them. Is that why I'm so tired? Halley, where'd you put my f-ing can opener?
Marek hadn't scared us yet with his traumatic hospital stay, Dave Winer hadn't either.
I was on Mike Sanders' blogroll and he was on mine.
The warbloggers were mere pains in the asses, not a full-fledged movement.
Blog Sisters was an idea that woke me up one night, nothing less or more, until... and then...
Elaine wasn't a grandma yet.
I hadn't met AKMA's amazing wife, Margaret.
So many things. So many things to have happened. So many things to have happened to so many of us.
And more to come.
Only one absolute: I feel blessed to be among you.
September 30, 2002
I am a mouth hanging open
Well, since Uncle RageBoy posted his plea to burst Jenna's brain with a bushel of presents for her five-year-old birthday, I decided to check Jenna's wishlist to see what was going on. I was dumbfounded by the outpouring of generosity--and really cool presents--that are coming her way. I called George over to my laptop and said, "Check this out!" We were stunned. No way, George said... I said, "See, I told you these bloggers are cooler than most of the real life people we know." Which, in and of itself is a rather odd statement, but, I know you all know what I mean. What we have is a truly amazing community of love unseen, of hope untouched, all the more powerful because.
And it's not just the presents--the good wishes from those who can't or choose not to jump on amazon and one-click Jenna a gift are just as sincere and meaningful, just as special and appropriate, and we appreciate them all. Please do know that.
I sat Jenna down at the laptop before school early this morning to read her the comments from Dean, from Frank, from Shelley, from all these crazy uncles and aunts she has yet to meet.
She was all smiles and giggles, and please know that you are all becoming household names around the Sessum homestead. That *can* be a good thing.
Thank you one and all... I'll keep you posted as the packages arrive--try to get some pics of our little darling in her glory.
And it's not just the presents--the good wishes from those who can't or choose not to jump on amazon and one-click Jenna a gift are just as sincere and meaningful, just as special and appropriate, and we appreciate them all. Please do know that.
I sat Jenna down at the laptop before school early this morning to read her the comments from Dean, from Frank, from Shelley, from all these crazy uncles and aunts she has yet to meet.
She was all smiles and giggles, and please know that you are all becoming household names around the Sessum homestead. That *can* be a good thing.
Thank you one and all... I'll keep you posted as the packages arrive--try to get some pics of our little darling in her glory.
September 29, 2002
put her back inside?
Five years ago this evening, we stared at each other, a lot.
We knew that the next day we'd have a baby, with ultrasound certainty, a baby girl to be exact.
Tonight, I don't know why, and I do know why, and either way, I mourn the end of my pregnancy. It's five years later, and tonight I am grieving over the loss of those nine months as if the last four years never happened.
Although my pregnancy was filled with plenty of peril--ultrasounds to track my multitude of uterine fibroids (many bigger than "the bean" as we called her then), office trips for episodes of sudden bleeding, and my own untold doubts about my ability to mother--it was also the most blissful time in my life. For a couple, there is nothing like a first pregnancy. You have one another's complete attention (which you never have again). You watch the miracle of creation take place before your very eyes. You learn what your mate is made of. You work together to complete the most amazing human task there is.
Having been married 11 years before deciding to take the plunge into parenthood, we were pretty used to being two. I relished those 9 months knowing that I should, understanding that nothing would ever be the same again. I took five or six baths a day, read every trashy novel I could get my hands on in the tub, loved my husband attending to my every need.
It really was the best of times. And it's over.
And maybe it's me being 40 and Jenna turning 5 that has me in this place where I'm afraid--very afraid--I'll never get to do it again.
I remember saying to George, one night in my 8th month, "Think about what we're doing right now--this minute. What will it be like to have another person here with us?" I couldn't fathom it. He said, "The house adapts; we adapt. She'll just be here doing these things with us."
And so she is. And I feel so blessed I am weak from it. And I am going to sleep.... to lie next to my baby for a while. Goodnight.
We knew that the next day we'd have a baby, with ultrasound certainty, a baby girl to be exact.
Tonight, I don't know why, and I do know why, and either way, I mourn the end of my pregnancy. It's five years later, and tonight I am grieving over the loss of those nine months as if the last four years never happened.
Although my pregnancy was filled with plenty of peril--ultrasounds to track my multitude of uterine fibroids (many bigger than "the bean" as we called her then), office trips for episodes of sudden bleeding, and my own untold doubts about my ability to mother--it was also the most blissful time in my life. For a couple, there is nothing like a first pregnancy. You have one another's complete attention (which you never have again). You watch the miracle of creation take place before your very eyes. You learn what your mate is made of. You work together to complete the most amazing human task there is.
Having been married 11 years before deciding to take the plunge into parenthood, we were pretty used to being two. I relished those 9 months knowing that I should, understanding that nothing would ever be the same again. I took five or six baths a day, read every trashy novel I could get my hands on in the tub, loved my husband attending to my every need.
It really was the best of times. And it's over.
And maybe it's me being 40 and Jenna turning 5 that has me in this place where I'm afraid--very afraid--I'll never get to do it again.
I remember saying to George, one night in my 8th month, "Think about what we're doing right now--this minute. What will it be like to have another person here with us?" I couldn't fathom it. He said, "The house adapts; we adapt. She'll just be here doing these things with us."
And so she is. And I feel so blessed I am weak from it. And I am going to sleep.... to lie next to my baby for a while. Goodnight.
baby blogger's turning five tomorrow...
I remember five years ago, all the feelings of terror and wonder, knowing that the next day we would have a daughter. Scheduled c-section means you pick your baby's birthday--a weighty task not lost on me. September baby? October baby? The choice was ours, and we made it based on who we thought the best doctor for the job was. Turned out, he wasn't, but along came this beautiful spirit, powering her way into the world--she hasn't let up a day in five years. I love her so.
Jenna's Amazon Wish List
Jenna's Amazon Wish List
September 27, 2002
the big top
Pink cotton candy
on a rolled paper stick,
slick hungry fingers unwrap,
hurrying, taste sugar, melting.
Is that you? It is you.
So much so sweet
so long I've known
those eyes.
dare, I dare you.
come with me to
the big top
where carnival music
carries us back,
light hearted children
without scars,
just loose cotton shorts
that tie at the waist
tie dye tank tops
and a cool fifty cents
to burn.
Hurry, Hurry,
step right up.
don't be late
to the greatest
show on earth.
on a rolled paper stick,
slick hungry fingers unwrap,
hurrying, taste sugar, melting.
Is that you? It is you.
So much so sweet
so long I've known
those eyes.
dare, I dare you.
come with me to
the big top
where carnival music
carries us back,
light hearted children
without scars,
just loose cotton shorts
that tie at the waist
tie dye tank tops
and a cool fifty cents
to burn.
Hurry, Hurry,
step right up.
don't be late
to the greatest
show on earth.
September 24, 2002
blog therapy
cold stone sleep feathers dust damp night
lantern stove light wood appear among
man woman betrayal dance leaving coming
going esteem shame blame run faster guilt
trance eyes closed thoughts come stories
undone swirling starts....
trigger.
stop!
blog.
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is where we heal.
lantern stove light wood appear among
man woman betrayal dance leaving coming
going esteem shame blame run faster guilt
trance eyes closed thoughts come stories
undone swirling starts....
trigger.
stop!
blog.
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is where we heal.
September 22, 2002
Answer Song: Let Us Purge
Yeah, brother forgive me, Marek, I've consumed too. Consumed and watched others consume this poison culture, out there, not in here, yes in here too, skinning me raw, making me consume poison, the poison we're fed all our lives, from parents who consumed, and who consumed us, and now I am so full of emptiness, I need to consume some more until I have stuffed so much consumption so far down I feel very full of empty, and so then what do I do? I am power; I am unconsumption; I purge. I vomit sleek tall runway models and bulging musclemen from my gut, puke them on the floor, Disney soft porn drips from my lips, tastes sweet going down, bitter coming up. I shake from 4/4 rhythms in the key of C until bile bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, burns my throat on its way out, unconsuming sexy sleek brainless mindless realfakeworld people that fuck so good, drive shiny new cars that hurt my eyes. I am purging them, vomiting scrap metal and lingere onto my tile floor, a heap of consumption unconsumed, until I am empty but so full.
Thank you. That felt so good.
Thank you. That felt so good.
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