Gary and Fiona are in the home stretch. I'll be checking in all weekend. Gary, are you taking your laptop to the hospital? M-u-s-t- b-e- t-h-e-r-e w-i-t-h y-o-u t-w-o...
Meanwhile, Tom celebrates the birth of 100 newly-hatched Hawksbill turtles.
Tonight as Jenna and I wound our way down the street in the van, she followed the moon with her eyes the whole way.
She said, "Mama, I wish he would land in our back yard. I want to touch him. He looks so lonely up there."
I said, "Well, he has the stars to keep him company."
She asked, "But do they take care of him? Do they?"
There's nothing in the human experience that compares with the frayed nerves, fierce battles, infinite wonder, and enormous joy of childbirth. Except maybe the raising of those babies.
So says me.
We're cheering for you Gary!
December 07, 2002
December 06, 2002
most interesting...
Even more interesting than the information posted below on the "accessibility" issue is the realworld situation that had me ask the question. The realworld situation was that I was writing something for a client. I needed to get educated on the issue. Fast. And as I googled, I had an idea--how about asking these smart minds I blog with? So I did. And so did they give me information back.
And what does this mean? It gives me pause. Where I work, clients willingly pay to use our knowledge/research center, where skilled people have research tools at their fingertips to look up answers to any number of questions or conundrums all the live-long day. For the most part, they are generalists with powerful tools at their disposal to help them harvest knowledge across a deep, well-organized network.
What about blogging--are we so different? There are some true experts out here--experts on what I'd now hazzard a guess is every given topic under the sun. Denise knows law inside out. If she doesn't know an answer, she darn sure knows where to get it. Meg knows web design inside out. George knows music. Jennifer knows media. Even the Father of e-Commerce is sitting out there blogging art for angels. And so it goes.
After google, where do you go for information?
Why not us? Why not here?
And what does this mean? It gives me pause. Where I work, clients willingly pay to use our knowledge/research center, where skilled people have research tools at their fingertips to look up answers to any number of questions or conundrums all the live-long day. For the most part, they are generalists with powerful tools at their disposal to help them harvest knowledge across a deep, well-organized network.
What about blogging--are we so different? There are some true experts out here--experts on what I'd now hazzard a guess is every given topic under the sun. Denise knows law inside out. If she doesn't know an answer, she darn sure knows where to get it. Meg knows web design inside out. George knows music. Jennifer knows media. Even the Father of e-Commerce is sitting out there blogging art for angels. And so it goes.
After google, where do you go for information?
Why not us? Why not here?
On Online Accessibility for the Disabled
There's a whole lot going on around the issue of disabled access to online sites. On November 22, Florida's U.S. District Judge Patricia Seitz who said that the American with Disabilities Act (ADA) does NOT mandated websites/web-only businesses to be disabled-accessible because they are not considered "places of public accommodation," as defined by the ADA.
In Judge Seitz's 12-Page Opinion, she wrote, "To expand the ADA to cover 'virtual' spaces would be to create new rights without well-defined standards." She dismissed the case saying, "The plain and unambiguous language of the statute and relevant regulations does not include Internet Web sites."
More here.
Did I just hear 300,000 bloggers say, "Wshew"?
No, really. What if?
And should we be?
Granted, most of us don't sell stuff (much) from our blogs, but still--does that mean that we (or more appropriately blogger and other blog interface providers) shouldn't be concerned with how accessible our sites are to the disabled?
Although the Judge dismissed the case, she did give an admonition and a prediction in the footnote of her brief that says more than the dismissal:
"Given the number of visually impaired persons who utilize the Internet for commerce, and the significant amount of business that Southwest obtains through its Internet website, it is unfortunate that the panies have not cooperated to develop a creative solution that benefits both parties and which avoids the costs and polarizing effects of litigation. It is especially surprising that Southwest, a company which prides itself on its consumer relations, has not voluntarily seized the opportunity to employ all available technologies to expand accessibility to its website for visually impaired customers who would be an added source of revenue. That being said, in light of the rapidly developing technology at issue, and the lack of well-defined standards for bringing a virtually infinite number of Internet websites into compliance with the ADA, a precondition for taking the ADA into "virtual" space is a meaningful input from all interested parties via the legislative process. As Congress has created the statutorily defined rights under the ADA, it is the role of Congress, and not this Court, to specifically expand the ADA's definition of "public accommodation" beyond physical, concrete places of public accommodation to include 'virtual' places of public accommodation."
I gather that she is saying: 1) Online business sites have an obligation and responsibility to make their sites accessible. 2) There is money to be made from doing so. 3) (toward the end of the above quote), Congress could expand the ADA's definition of "public accomodation" into the virtual world.
David Weinberger is hipper than most of us, having recently tweeked his site for color-blind readers.
If you want to read up on the accessibility issue, here are some links:
Meg at Manderin Design has a discussion here with a point to this Computerworld article. Thanks Meg!
Macromedia's Accessibility Training page, courtesy of Mr. Tom Matrullo, who knows his micro and macro media. ;-)
And this from Tom as well.
From CNN.com Law Center, November 7th: Should Web-only businesses be required to be disabled-accessible?
In Judge Seitz's 12-Page Opinion, she wrote, "To expand the ADA to cover 'virtual' spaces would be to create new rights without well-defined standards." She dismissed the case saying, "The plain and unambiguous language of the statute and relevant regulations does not include Internet Web sites."
More here.
Did I just hear 300,000 bloggers say, "Wshew"?
No, really. What if?
And should we be?
Granted, most of us don't sell stuff (much) from our blogs, but still--does that mean that we (or more appropriately blogger and other blog interface providers) shouldn't be concerned with how accessible our sites are to the disabled?
Although the Judge dismissed the case, she did give an admonition and a prediction in the footnote of her brief that says more than the dismissal:
"Given the number of visually impaired persons who utilize the Internet for commerce, and the significant amount of business that Southwest obtains through its Internet website, it is unfortunate that the panies have not cooperated to develop a creative solution that benefits both parties and which avoids the costs and polarizing effects of litigation. It is especially surprising that Southwest, a company which prides itself on its consumer relations, has not voluntarily seized the opportunity to employ all available technologies to expand accessibility to its website for visually impaired customers who would be an added source of revenue. That being said, in light of the rapidly developing technology at issue, and the lack of well-defined standards for bringing a virtually infinite number of Internet websites into compliance with the ADA, a precondition for taking the ADA into "virtual" space is a meaningful input from all interested parties via the legislative process. As Congress has created the statutorily defined rights under the ADA, it is the role of Congress, and not this Court, to specifically expand the ADA's definition of "public accommodation" beyond physical, concrete places of public accommodation to include 'virtual' places of public accommodation."
I gather that she is saying: 1) Online business sites have an obligation and responsibility to make their sites accessible. 2) There is money to be made from doing so. 3) (toward the end of the above quote), Congress could expand the ADA's definition of "public accomodation" into the virtual world.
David Weinberger is hipper than most of us, having recently tweeked his site for color-blind readers.
If you want to read up on the accessibility issue, here are some links:
Meg at Manderin Design has a discussion here with a point to this Computerworld article. Thanks Meg!
Macromedia's Accessibility Training page, courtesy of Mr. Tom Matrullo, who knows his micro and macro media. ;-)
And this from Tom as well.
From CNN.com Law Center, November 7th: Should Web-only businesses be required to be disabled-accessible?
george is black, I mean back...
The world's most amazing multi-bassist and multi-tangentialist, King George is back from Florida and finally posting. While I can't vouch for his sanity or the subtleties of his words (cough), I can say he's at the top of RageBoy's blogroll--a mystery that only RB, George and Frank Paynter can unravel. Frank, just how badly do you want that top spot? Should I be looking for Fang outside our garage waiting to pull a sneak attack on George?
where i been
I meant to write yesterday, but things got all topsy turvy. My brother-in-law was in a car accident, and with no car, he had no way to the hospital (the cops dropped him off at home--nice, 63-year-old guy with a head and chest injury). So I spent from 10 a.m. til 5 p.m. in emergency with him. They kept him overnight. He's having a battery of heart tests. Awaiting news.
In the mean time, let me remind myself that you can't spend a day in the ER without feeling... well... without feeling.
The woman I can't get out of my head is probably 90 years old. She looked so unalive I wondered what possible tests they could be performing on her in the CT-scan room that would tell them anything.
Did she even have a pulse?
There's just no way. No way this woman was alive. But the family who stood around her acted as if she were alive. So maybe she was. She was skin stretched over bones. I never saw her open her eyes. Her head was tilted back on the gurny, arched in private pain, her mouth formed a perfect silent scream, releasing fury up to the florescent lights. Her mouth never twitched. Just strained against itself.
She was death in still life.
She reminded me immediately of the ruins of Pomepei. The living captured in time in media res--in the middle of sleep, of thought, of horrible ends. Everytime I think of the living dead woman I want to scream for her, "LET ME OUT!"
There was an older man, too, and his younger wife was with him. She wore lots of jewelry and patted his side. He couldn't find comfort, not from her, not from the nurses. He was the "difficult patient," the one who kept trying to get out of his bed, to go, he didn't know where, but to go somewhere, trying to go anywhere that might be away from his pain. He didn't seem to know where he was headed, but something on his face said he'd know it when he got there. Over and over he tried to get up. And over and over they stopped him.
Several herniated discs, I overheard them tell his wife. These were at least part of the old man's problems. "I need to go," he kept saying, "Honey, somethings wrong, somethings real wrong." And he would sit up, and they would come lay him down, and three times I grabbed the IV bag off its hanger and handed it to the woman just before he ripped the IV out of his arm. She told me thank you three times, but I just nodded, said, "I'd hate to see him have to have that put in again."
By the time I left, they had sedated him. After the security guard came to hold him in the bed, I guess they figured there was no harm in slipping him a little quiet time into his IV.
Wish I could have had a doggie bag for home.
In the mean time, let me remind myself that you can't spend a day in the ER without feeling... well... without feeling.
The woman I can't get out of my head is probably 90 years old. She looked so unalive I wondered what possible tests they could be performing on her in the CT-scan room that would tell them anything.
Did she even have a pulse?
There's just no way. No way this woman was alive. But the family who stood around her acted as if she were alive. So maybe she was. She was skin stretched over bones. I never saw her open her eyes. Her head was tilted back on the gurny, arched in private pain, her mouth formed a perfect silent scream, releasing fury up to the florescent lights. Her mouth never twitched. Just strained against itself.
She was death in still life.
She reminded me immediately of the ruins of Pomepei. The living captured in time in media res--in the middle of sleep, of thought, of horrible ends. Everytime I think of the living dead woman I want to scream for her, "LET ME OUT!"
There was an older man, too, and his younger wife was with him. She wore lots of jewelry and patted his side. He couldn't find comfort, not from her, not from the nurses. He was the "difficult patient," the one who kept trying to get out of his bed, to go, he didn't know where, but to go somewhere, trying to go anywhere that might be away from his pain. He didn't seem to know where he was headed, but something on his face said he'd know it when he got there. Over and over he tried to get up. And over and over they stopped him.
Several herniated discs, I overheard them tell his wife. These were at least part of the old man's problems. "I need to go," he kept saying, "Honey, somethings wrong, somethings real wrong." And he would sit up, and they would come lay him down, and three times I grabbed the IV bag off its hanger and handed it to the woman just before he ripped the IV out of his arm. She told me thank you three times, but I just nodded, said, "I'd hate to see him have to have that put in again."
By the time I left, they had sedated him. After the security guard came to hold him in the bed, I guess they figured there was no harm in slipping him a little quiet time into his IV.
Wish I could have had a doggie bag for home.
December 04, 2002
my head might explode
I'm not sure if it's the furvor of last week's blog-opinion frenzy, or if it's waiting for this ice-storm-or-whatever to come-like-huh?, or knowing I have deadlines and Jenna's school is closed again tomorrow because of the ice-storm-that-who-knows-if-it's-even-coming, or if it's the stress of this entire month, or is it year, or what, but my head feels like it's about to explode.
I'm ready.
I've cleaned the house, so if they come in the front door after not hearing from me for a few days, or if the noise from my skull combusting wakes the neighbors and they phone the fire department, and if they use a battering ram to burst through my door in hopes of saving me, everything's pretty well organized.
Bills are paid until the 15th. Not sure all the checks will clear--ah well. Can't get blood from an exploded head.
Jenna's clothes are out. Prescriptions are refilled.
ahhhh. feeling a little better already.
oh the vice is closing again, temples pounding, my neck feels like someone's rammed a steel rod through it.
so my day's been pretty average.
I'm ready.
I've cleaned the house, so if they come in the front door after not hearing from me for a few days, or if the noise from my skull combusting wakes the neighbors and they phone the fire department, and if they use a battering ram to burst through my door in hopes of saving me, everything's pretty well organized.
Bills are paid until the 15th. Not sure all the checks will clear--ah well. Can't get blood from an exploded head.
Jenna's clothes are out. Prescriptions are refilled.
ahhhh. feeling a little better already.
oh the vice is closing again, temples pounding, my neck feels like someone's rammed a steel rod through it.
so my day's been pretty average.
Holy Cow It's Raining!
In many parts of the country, rain is no reason for unbridled panic and maniacal behavior of the driving and shopping variety.
Those parts of the country aren't Atlanta. Too metro to be "southern" and too southern to be "metro," Atlanta's in a tizzy today, expecting some freezing rain (translated by the local news as a major ice storm), maybe, possibly, but then again maybe not, well the roads are a little wet, a couple of drops already fell, and if you look really really hard you can see your breath, and well the wind's blowing, no sun out today, so, yeh, I'm pretty sure a killer ice storm's on the way, which is why my daughter's Pre-K closed at 11 and now she's home looking out the window asking me when the ice is gonna come.
tick-tock-tick... we'll see.
Atlanta bloggers, let me know when you're home safe and sound.
Those parts of the country aren't Atlanta. Too metro to be "southern" and too southern to be "metro," Atlanta's in a tizzy today, expecting some freezing rain (translated by the local news as a major ice storm), maybe, possibly, but then again maybe not, well the roads are a little wet, a couple of drops already fell, and if you look really really hard you can see your breath, and well the wind's blowing, no sun out today, so, yeh, I'm pretty sure a killer ice storm's on the way, which is why my daughter's Pre-K closed at 11 and now she's home looking out the window asking me when the ice is gonna come.
tick-tock-tick... we'll see.
Atlanta bloggers, let me know when you're home safe and sound.
chuckle, chuckle, snort, snort
I just hopped over to Humor Columnist Madeleine Begun Kane's weblog. She posted an official Office Christmas Party Contract for husbands and wives she wrote, which was originally published in Newsday. Denise, I don't know if this will stand up in court, but it made me snort. An excerpt here:
2. Husband shall be diplomatic and refrain from saying any of the following:
a. "For a tightwad, you sure throw one hell of a bash. Just between us guys, how much did it set you back?"
b. "You promoted her just in time. She was working on her resume."
c. "So you're the fellow my Wife keeps complaining about. You seem nice enough to me."
d. "I hate these things. Don't you?" (Last year Husband said this to the President's wife.)
2. Husband shall be diplomatic and refrain from saying any of the following:
a. "For a tightwad, you sure throw one hell of a bash. Just between us guys, how much did it set you back?"
b. "You promoted her just in time. She was working on her resume."
c. "So you're the fellow my Wife keeps complaining about. You seem nice enough to me."
d. "I hate these things. Don't you?" (Last year Husband said this to the President's wife.)
December 03, 2002
Today's "Ask a Blogger" Question from Allied...
Does anyone know where I can find the latest, greatest, most up to date info on online accesibility legislation/issues/thinking? That is, what sites are, aren't, should, shouldn't are supposed to but aren't, wish they could, etc..... around making sites friendly/usable for the disabled. Legislation? Thinking? Debating? How-Tos?
Found one pretty current article here, but am betting there's a blogger or six out there talking about this stuff.
Thanks. If you leave them in the comment box, I'll push them all up into a post for anyone else who wants to learn more about this topic.
Tangent over.
And out.
Found one pretty current article here, but am betting there's a blogger or six out there talking about this stuff.
Thanks. If you leave them in the comment box, I'll push them all up into a post for anyone else who wants to learn more about this topic.
Tangent over.
And out.
Have I Told You Today How Much I Hate You?
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Bix is pondering a threatening phone call he received letting him know that some soldiers will be "coming to get him" because of some posts and comments he made over the morality/immorality of soldiering. Elaine, mother-to-bix, discusses it here.
While the particular debate wouldn't have caught my attention, the threatening phone call Bix received did. Damn terrorists. I mean nationalists. I mean terrorists. I mean nationalists. I mean...
Jeez louise the guy write's a weblog. Is that a reason to want to come and get *anyone*?
Now I'm off to put my daughter to bed. Am I allowed to say how lucky I am to be doing so without setting off anyone's "ism" alarm, igniting World War III, or inciting threats of violence?
Jeneane's phrase of the evening: Take a powder or drink the Kool-Aid.
While the particular debate wouldn't have caught my attention, the threatening phone call Bix received did. Damn terrorists. I mean nationalists. I mean terrorists. I mean nationalists. I mean...
Jeez louise the guy write's a weblog. Is that a reason to want to come and get *anyone*?
Now I'm off to put my daughter to bed. Am I allowed to say how lucky I am to be doing so without setting off anyone's "ism" alarm, igniting World War III, or inciting threats of violence?
Jeneane's phrase of the evening: Take a powder or drink the Kool-Aid.
Virtual Darwinism--Blogging Does the Extinction Two Step
I once said, more than a year ago on my first blog, that "the net is filled with potholes and assholes just like the real world."
How foretelling.
When did they open the door to this world and start letting just anybody in? (oh, jeesh, 'scuse me. that was the point of it, huh.)
The email exchanges flying around this week, and posts on girlism and sexism and feminism and selfishness -- all of the posturing that is going on -- seems like some kind of sped-up virtual Darwinism gone awry.
Are we in a battle of survival of the fittest? And what is a "fit" blogger.
Shudder.
The current mandate seems something like this: Evolve and become a big-blog media whore/gigolo who uses their blog to pander to some [insert your label here] bunch or another. Come in, come on, and argue with us. Draw the line in the sand. Rant and bitch and show how much you know.
But don't show your feelings. Don't be vulnerable. That's so unevolved.
Dat's how da dinosaurs got gone.
What will this place look like in 10 years, which is probably the equivilant of 1,000 years offline? If it evolves in the direction it seems to be going, then go turn on your TV right now. Turn to one of the aimless news channels. You'll be looking at your online future.
How fucking exciting.
If those of us who write about "more than" any one topic, any one passion, but who write passionately, decide to give up (which I've heard more than one good blogger express this week), then this place won't be any different from that place.
Great, just great.
Jeneane's phrase of the day: If you don't want to know me, then blow me.
How foretelling.
When did they open the door to this world and start letting just anybody in? (oh, jeesh, 'scuse me. that was the point of it, huh.)
The email exchanges flying around this week, and posts on girlism and sexism and feminism and selfishness -- all of the posturing that is going on -- seems like some kind of sped-up virtual Darwinism gone awry.
Are we in a battle of survival of the fittest? And what is a "fit" blogger.
Shudder.
The current mandate seems something like this: Evolve and become a big-blog media whore/gigolo who uses their blog to pander to some [insert your label here] bunch or another. Come in, come on, and argue with us. Draw the line in the sand. Rant and bitch and show how much you know.
But don't show your feelings. Don't be vulnerable. That's so unevolved.
Dat's how da dinosaurs got gone.
What will this place look like in 10 years, which is probably the equivilant of 1,000 years offline? If it evolves in the direction it seems to be going, then go turn on your TV right now. Turn to one of the aimless news channels. You'll be looking at your online future.
How fucking exciting.
If those of us who write about "more than" any one topic, any one passion, but who write passionately, decide to give up (which I've heard more than one good blogger express this week), then this place won't be any different from that place.
Great, just great.
Jeneane's phrase of the day: If you don't want to know me, then blow me.
December 02, 2002
lay down with a child
If you're wondering about the significance of girlism or feminism or sexism or racism or barbarism, if you're wondering about when the war will start or who in blogland is picking fights with whom, who's spouting silliness or who's dangerous or who means what by which comment, or who's making themselves feel better for their puny life by taking shots at an article you appeared in, or who knows what they're talking about and who doesn't. If you're wondering why you care or don't care, you need to do one simple thing.
Lay down with a child; watch them let go of the day.
Not a pet. Not a lover. A child.
Listen to her stories, to her final fury of lucid thoughts before she gives in to sleep; listen to her questions, always profound at this time of the night, about God and oceans, about life and death, about how she'll never be 90 years old.
Be quiet and listen to her. Sketch her face with your eyes as she stares out the window at the stars from the universe that is her covers. Follow her breath with your own, in and out, and wait for the moment when she releases the day.
Then rest there longer. Let her dreams climb into yours, feel the softness of her small hands, and feel so blessed for that moment, and feel sadness for anyone who hasn't experienced it, ache for anyone who has had it and lost it, and realize that sadness will one day be yours, when you don't have her night time anymore.
Touch her hair, brush her cheek gently, and kiss her softly as you rise.
And wonder how anyone makes it through the day without this waiting for them at the end of it.
Lay down with a child; watch them let go of the day.
Not a pet. Not a lover. A child.
Listen to her stories, to her final fury of lucid thoughts before she gives in to sleep; listen to her questions, always profound at this time of the night, about God and oceans, about life and death, about how she'll never be 90 years old.
Be quiet and listen to her. Sketch her face with your eyes as she stares out the window at the stars from the universe that is her covers. Follow her breath with your own, in and out, and wait for the moment when she releases the day.
Then rest there longer. Let her dreams climb into yours, feel the softness of her small hands, and feel so blessed for that moment, and feel sadness for anyone who hasn't experienced it, ache for anyone who has had it and lost it, and realize that sadness will one day be yours, when you don't have her night time anymore.
Touch her hair, brush her cheek gently, and kiss her softly as you rise.
And wonder how anyone makes it through the day without this waiting for them at the end of it.
and lastly, a friendly challenge to Halley
Regarding the post below and all the hubub over girlism, I want to pose a challenge to Halley, blog sister to blog sister.
You say "I posted it as an example of this new trend I'm seeing."
Show me more evidence. That's what I want. And I want to know about the trend from experience or recollection. Don't pull up short and tell it from a big media perspective--not from a women's magazine perspective, not the cartoon network's perspective, not from a record label's perspective.
I want to hear about you. Not about celebrities like Britney and Cybil, who are--esentially--wrapped and packaged to make you feel girly all over. Okay? Not about Cybil, or Janet, or Britney, or the Power Puff Girls.
Scratch deeper.
Write from the place that's stirring this all up in you.
I want to hear about Halley. I want you to make it Real.
Then I think maybe I'll get it.
That's all on this one for today.
You say "I posted it as an example of this new trend I'm seeing."
Show me more evidence. That's what I want. And I want to know about the trend from experience or recollection. Don't pull up short and tell it from a big media perspective--not from a women's magazine perspective, not the cartoon network's perspective, not from a record label's perspective.
I want to hear about you. Not about celebrities like Britney and Cybil, who are--esentially--wrapped and packaged to make you feel girly all over. Okay? Not about Cybil, or Janet, or Britney, or the Power Puff Girls.
Scratch deeper.
Write from the place that's stirring this all up in you.
I want to hear about Halley. I want you to make it Real.
Then I think maybe I'll get it.
That's all on this one for today.
Girlist, Feminist--No Wonder Men Are Confused.
Everyone has their own take about why Halley's Girlsim thing either troubles or intrigues them.
Halley's original post about the end of Feminism and the beginning of Girlism stirred up a lot of conversation--some rather intense--in places like THIS, THIS, and THIS.
Today Halley revisits "Girlsim" on her blog and says this:
"I also posted a comment about Cybill Shepard from More Magazine about how she screens new guys she wants to date. She used to ask how they felt about abortion (classic Feminist issue) and now she asks how often they mastrubate (classic Girlist issue). I posted it as an example of this new trend I'm seeing.
Halley's original post about the end of Feminism and the beginning of Girlism stirred up a lot of conversation--some rather intense--in places like THIS, THIS, and THIS.
Today Halley revisits "Girlsim" on her blog and says this:
"I also posted a comment about Cybill Shepard from More Magazine about how she screens new guys she wants to date. She used to ask how they felt about abortion (classic Feminist issue) and now she asks how often they mastrubate (classic Girlist issue). I posted it as an example of this new trend I'm seeing.
Girlism is about owning your own sexuality as a woman and letting men understand that it's something you like -- sex. And it's something you like on YOUR terms, not on their terms. Women don't need men to define female sexuality. We need to define it ourselves and we need to own it and then teach men how it is. It's beyond Feminism.
Feminism talked about women owning their sexuality in a lesbian context only which was cool, but created no context within which heterosexual women could own their sexuality and enjoy it with heterosexual men. That's what's changing. That's what Cybill's remark suggests. Will anyone really argue with me that the feminist version of female sexuality wasn't strident and unattractive? Girlism is about being sexy and attractive AND liberated. Some men have picked up on my Cybill Shepard post.
First, Jonathon does a great job of conveying some of my thoughts. I love when that happens.
But why not add my two cents here. Against my better judgment.
[[Disclaimer: I love Halley. I'm just seriously concerned she has been abducted by Alien Beings.]]
Here's what bothers me re: this type of "girlism." Hang with me guys (who have, in comments across blogs, leaned heavily in Halley's favor--look closely--you've been duped again.)
First of all, although I'm neither a Feminist nor a Girlist, I am a woman. As such, I can't say that I believe Halley's definition of the early women's movement as being ONLY about sexuality within a lesbian context, nor that it does much good for her to further they notion that feminism, or lesbian feminsim, sexuality is "strident and unattractive." To whom? To men? I doubt they much care.
But Halley does seem to care. She talks about it this way--and this is the bit that gives me the most pause:
"Girlism is about owning your own sexuality as a woman and letting men understand that it's something you like -- sex. And it's something you like on YOUR terms, not on their terms. Women don't need men to define female sexuality. We need to define it ourselves and we need to own it and then teach men how it is."
Unless you're having sex Cybil Shepard's way, what is this "owning" of sexuality? What is this sex as something you like on YOUR terms, not on their terms? What is this singular and one-sided description of sex?
If this is the way we all begin to look at sex, aren't we just having sex with ourselves? Where's the other person in all of this? Where's the intimacy, the love, the foreplay, the afterplay. Where is anyone but "the girl"?
And if a man needs to be taught that "you have a say," in your sexuality, if you need to "teach him" that, then what kind of man is he?
More questions than answers perhaps. But suffice it to say that I really have a problem with either side--feminist or girlist--that takes the relationship out of the equation.
A relationship, and sex, and (God forbid) love--am I the only one that sees this as a part of the deal?--involve two human beings with two human hearts and human baggage and needs and wants and desires that are complex, and sometimes they are musical and sometimes they are unworkable, sometimes they transcend and sometimes they battle one another.
It's NOT as simple as labels, and it's NOT as simple as owning our own sexuality, and it's NOT as empty headed as Cybil Idiot Shepard.
What's missing from Girlism is, in short, relationship and emotional intimacy.
As for Ms. Shepard and More Magazine, anybody who can use abortion and masturbation in the same sentence, flippantly, as a yardstick to measure men by, is someone I need to see LESS of, not More of.
more later. maybe.
You Give Her Back, Damn You!
It's quite clear. I haven't wanted to say anything until I was sure. But now I'm pretty certain. There's no other explanation really. I've fished and fished for one, reaching far back into my psyche, where I pulled out three yo-yos and some cheese curls. No matter how I look at it, there's only one answer.
Halley's been abducted by aliens!
Halley's been abducted by aliens!
November 30, 2002
easy free kitten toys
alright. I know there's a cat owner or two among you. Now that the FAME of last week is over, back to the business at hand. This little fur ball is scratching me and everything we own to shreds. He seems to be teething, which, having had puppies around, not to mention an infant, I can understand.
Why am I so suprised that kittens teethe? It makes purrfect sense after all. The little teeth have to fall out sometime. But they don't sell rawhides for kittens. Can a kitten have a dog rawhide without it killing him?
Being that I'm still garnering funds, thousands of which are sitting in a parked Isuzu looking for a new owner, to get the cat to the vet, I certainly can't be buying a kitty condo.
So what do I give this nusience that will amuse him and his NAILS and TEETH? Mostly he's knocking around Jenna's barbies, pens, and dirty kleenexes. But none of this lasts for long and he's soon climbing the speakers or my jeans.
George made him a 2 foot climbing pole by wrapping boat nylon around a ground stake very tightly. Hunter liked this at first, but now that he's bigger, he seems to understand that 100-year-old piano legs and Acoustic Research speaker cabinets are much more fun to climb. And shred.
Can I let him outside yet?
Of course not--not until shots.
Free, easy-to-make things to amuse kittens? Things they will chew and claw all to hell?
I'm all ears.
Why am I so suprised that kittens teethe? It makes purrfect sense after all. The little teeth have to fall out sometime. But they don't sell rawhides for kittens. Can a kitten have a dog rawhide without it killing him?
Being that I'm still garnering funds, thousands of which are sitting in a parked Isuzu looking for a new owner, to get the cat to the vet, I certainly can't be buying a kitty condo.
So what do I give this nusience that will amuse him and his NAILS and TEETH? Mostly he's knocking around Jenna's barbies, pens, and dirty kleenexes. But none of this lasts for long and he's soon climbing the speakers or my jeans.
George made him a 2 foot climbing pole by wrapping boat nylon around a ground stake very tightly. Hunter liked this at first, but now that he's bigger, he seems to understand that 100-year-old piano legs and Acoustic Research speaker cabinets are much more fun to climb. And shred.
Can I let him outside yet?
Of course not--not until shots.
Free, easy-to-make things to amuse kittens? Things they will chew and claw all to hell?
I'm all ears.
jenna's morning
I awake to a screaming five year old with a bloody lip.
Huh? Whahappened?
Can't remember what I was dreaming about, but it was comforting and soft, and then some foreshadow of trauma crept in (probably when I heard a thud in the other room), and then my eyes popped open.
She's walking into the bedroom, crying, "Mama, mama, I fell out of bed and cut my lip!"
Well, yes, she did. Not only did she fall out of bed for the first time, but on her way down her lip caught on the corner edge of her dresser. A nasty little cut that we bathed with a cool washcloth while we lay in bed, until it eventually stopped bleeding.
I'm half awake through most of it, once I see that she's okay, give or take, and then she tells me more.
"Someone was remote controlling me."
What? I ask.
"Someone was remote controlling me in my bed. I was in my little corner, I was just sleeping. Then someone remote controlled me, and I turned over and rolled out of my bed."
Oh, is that how it happens? Wow. I'm sorry about your bump.
And I'm laughing all under my skin as I come alive to see the day through her eyes.
And I know how it feels to think that someone is remote controlling me, too.
Huh? Whahappened?
Can't remember what I was dreaming about, but it was comforting and soft, and then some foreshadow of trauma crept in (probably when I heard a thud in the other room), and then my eyes popped open.
She's walking into the bedroom, crying, "Mama, mama, I fell out of bed and cut my lip!"
Well, yes, she did. Not only did she fall out of bed for the first time, but on her way down her lip caught on the corner edge of her dresser. A nasty little cut that we bathed with a cool washcloth while we lay in bed, until it eventually stopped bleeding.
I'm half awake through most of it, once I see that she's okay, give or take, and then she tells me more.
"Someone was remote controlling me."
What? I ask.
"Someone was remote controlling me in my bed. I was in my little corner, I was just sleeping. Then someone remote controlled me, and I turned over and rolled out of my bed."
Oh, is that how it happens? Wow. I'm sorry about your bump.
And I'm laughing all under my skin as I come alive to see the day through her eyes.
And I know how it feels to think that someone is remote controlling me, too.
November 29, 2002
what does numb feel like?
I'd really like to know. Usually I am nothing if not a bunch of charged, freyed nerve endings, tentacles for pain, sometimes laughter.
But today I've been feeling, well, numb. I'm not sure what numb is supposed to feel like. From an emotional perspective, that is. I mean, I've had novocaine. I've had an epidural. So I know what no feeling feels like.
But this is different. Let me use some words and you can tell me: squishy, not pokey, cottony, sponge-like, boxed, flat, thick, vacant, and a little gooey. Maybe I need some sleep.
But today I've been feeling, well, numb. I'm not sure what numb is supposed to feel like. From an emotional perspective, that is. I mean, I've had novocaine. I've had an epidural. So I know what no feeling feels like.
But this is different. Let me use some words and you can tell me: squishy, not pokey, cottony, sponge-like, boxed, flat, thick, vacant, and a little gooey. Maybe I need some sleep.
Ms. Magazine Picks Up Woman Blogger Topic
Ms. Musings a weblog by Ms. Magazine blogger Christine Cupaiuolo may need permalinks, but she's right on top of the story that came out in the Times yesterday on women and weblogging. She also gives Blog Sisters a nod.
Ms. Musings asks readers to contribute a list of their favorite women webloggers to the discussion. I'll show her mine if you show her yours. ;-)
Ms. Musings asks readers to contribute a list of their favorite women webloggers to the discussion. I'll show her mine if you show her yours. ;-)
November 28, 2002
not just men and women
So, you get the picture. My real feeling is that the story yet untold is the one about how the net--blogging quite specifically--is changing relationships among humans--that means men to men, men to women, women to women, women to men, individuals, couples, triples, families, just everything, and I mean everything. So, while it's interesting that women bloggers are gaining respect (audience plus linkage = reverb), what interests me is who we're becoming--who we're becoming as individuals and how we're changing within online and offline relationships.
Case in point--The entire Sessum nuclear family blogs. (and I do mean nuclear.) George, our now famous daughter and me. I am her to tell you that it has added a dimension to our relationship that is completely unique, if unnerving. (And it is.)
When your spouse is at work, talking with colleagues, hanging out with friends, generally you are removed from one another. In some ways it's a good feeling. Why? I think it's because you get to try on another voice, it's social, it's usually outside of the walls of your home, but in most cases it's separate from your family.
Enter family weblogging.
I haven't thought this through yet, but I'm writing here anyway and what else is new, but George and I read and write often simulaneously, me in the living room, him in the dining room, Jenna dancing around and when she says something amazing I open her blog and enter it, and suddenly our house is a networked coversation with eyeballs looking in.
But it's tricky. It's risky. It's about voice and sharing that voice with others in a very non-private way in close range of your spouse. It's about wondering if the web that's spinning is wrapping you in different places, or similar places, or if any of it matters in your "offline time" at all. But it does. Because our house is no longer 2400 square feet, it's hundreds of thousands or millions of square feet. And while we sit blogging maybe 10 yards apart, our conversations are spanning continents, as we watch and listen in on one another.
This is one to watch. It's not exactly on topic, but somehow it is. I just haven't quite figured it out yet.
Case in point--The entire Sessum nuclear family blogs. (and I do mean nuclear.) George, our now famous daughter and me. I am her to tell you that it has added a dimension to our relationship that is completely unique, if unnerving. (And it is.)
When your spouse is at work, talking with colleagues, hanging out with friends, generally you are removed from one another. In some ways it's a good feeling. Why? I think it's because you get to try on another voice, it's social, it's usually outside of the walls of your home, but in most cases it's separate from your family.
Enter family weblogging.
I haven't thought this through yet, but I'm writing here anyway and what else is new, but George and I read and write often simulaneously, me in the living room, him in the dining room, Jenna dancing around and when she says something amazing I open her blog and enter it, and suddenly our house is a networked coversation with eyeballs looking in.
But it's tricky. It's risky. It's about voice and sharing that voice with others in a very non-private way in close range of your spouse. It's about wondering if the web that's spinning is wrapping you in different places, or similar places, or if any of it matters in your "offline time" at all. But it does. Because our house is no longer 2400 square feet, it's hundreds of thousands or millions of square feet. And while we sit blogging maybe 10 yards apart, our conversations are spanning continents, as we watch and listen in on one another.
This is one to watch. It's not exactly on topic, but somehow it is. I just haven't quite figured it out yet.
some more of what I said (and wrote out) before the NY Times interview.
behind the scenes with my brain and thoughts... for what they're worth, some thoughts that would have obviously been too long and random for the article. But not for here. ;-)
HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT YOU'RE NOT READING A MAN POSING AS A WOMAN?
Blogging is trusting people who are speaking, trusting their voice back to you. As Chris Locke--father blogger to a bunch of us--says, the common thread is the human heart. Sure, there will be bloggers out there taking on false personas, some as experiments and some because they are trying to dupe people. Some I’m sure play with gender too, and that doesn’t bother me if it’s real to them—if it’s a real part of them speaking.
But the folks who try to dupe readers with a hidden agenda won't last long because it's obvious when someone isn't writing around their interests, their passions, their concerns. It’s either obvious or boring. If it's not real to the blogger--whether it's tech or politics or law or love--readers notice. It's too hard to sustain that in blogging. So really, bloggers have an uncanny willingness and need--braveness even--to be real.
The net is a place where we can be real, if that makes any sense. Take risks. Stake a claim. Voice an opinion. Speculate. Irritate. Titillate. You name it.
WHAT DO YOU THINK WEBLOGGING MEANS TO WOMEN?
I've come across some astounding writers in my blog travels--women who didn't know they could write, who still don't think they can write even though they're doing it every day.
The words they choose are usually inspired by genuine emotion, not by years of study in the finer workings of grammar. Their thoughts are free from corporate confines, family confines, authority structure--patriarchy if you will--often for the first time. They are expressing what's meaningful to them--from cat shit to divorce to RSS--in a way that's meaningful to them. It's incredibly energizing.
The way I look at it, we're born with voice--it's the first expression of life from a crying baby. Our young lives are often about repressing/stuffing within family, religion, institutions, patriarchy. For women at least, it seems we get this inkling of the re-emergence of voice when we separate from our family--but that's often short lived as entering institutions like college or corporate world -- and even marriage -- can trigger the dysfunctional family roles for many of us, also patriarchal roles, resulting in the suppression the repression of voice all over again.
Today the net and weblogging are helping women recover their voice. Recapture what they mean, uncover, stop hiding, reclaim their voices. Resound.
In some ways, weblogging is a "Do-over" of our childhood. Complete with a new set of blog brothers and blog sisters. As David Weinberger says, we're "writing ourselves into existence."
WHAT ABOUT MEN AND WEBLOGGING?
What’s great about blogging is that it’s not all about women or all about men. I think the interactions between men and women in Blogaria--between the women of Blog Sisters and the male and female bloggers they read and converse with--are really changing the way we relate to one another gender to gender.
We tend to become mirrors to one another—I know Elaine's life stories, some of hers mirrors mine; I know Shelley's stories and Halley's stories and Mike Golby's and Tom Matrullo's stories and Gary Turner's stories and on and on, with the mirrors to mirrors... seeing our own lives in a hundred connected lives and learning from what we see. It's so powerful. And women are making it okay for men to talk about more than tech and business--many are bearing their souls. And finding out that’s okay. And men are making it okay for women to stand on firm footing and unleash their brilliance. And finding out that's okay.
It's big.
WHAT WOMEN BLOGGERS DO YOU READ/RECOMMEND?
See the blogroll at www.blogsisters.com for a pretty comprehensive list.
-more later.... - jeneane
HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT YOU'RE NOT READING A MAN POSING AS A WOMAN?
Blogging is trusting people who are speaking, trusting their voice back to you. As Chris Locke--father blogger to a bunch of us--says, the common thread is the human heart. Sure, there will be bloggers out there taking on false personas, some as experiments and some because they are trying to dupe people. Some I’m sure play with gender too, and that doesn’t bother me if it’s real to them—if it’s a real part of them speaking.
But the folks who try to dupe readers with a hidden agenda won't last long because it's obvious when someone isn't writing around their interests, their passions, their concerns. It’s either obvious or boring. If it's not real to the blogger--whether it's tech or politics or law or love--readers notice. It's too hard to sustain that in blogging. So really, bloggers have an uncanny willingness and need--braveness even--to be real.
The net is a place where we can be real, if that makes any sense. Take risks. Stake a claim. Voice an opinion. Speculate. Irritate. Titillate. You name it.
WHAT DO YOU THINK WEBLOGGING MEANS TO WOMEN?
I've come across some astounding writers in my blog travels--women who didn't know they could write, who still don't think they can write even though they're doing it every day.
The words they choose are usually inspired by genuine emotion, not by years of study in the finer workings of grammar. Their thoughts are free from corporate confines, family confines, authority structure--patriarchy if you will--often for the first time. They are expressing what's meaningful to them--from cat shit to divorce to RSS--in a way that's meaningful to them. It's incredibly energizing.
The way I look at it, we're born with voice--it's the first expression of life from a crying baby. Our young lives are often about repressing/stuffing within family, religion, institutions, patriarchy. For women at least, it seems we get this inkling of the re-emergence of voice when we separate from our family--but that's often short lived as entering institutions like college or corporate world -- and even marriage -- can trigger the dysfunctional family roles for many of us, also patriarchal roles, resulting in the suppression the repression of voice all over again.
Today the net and weblogging are helping women recover their voice. Recapture what they mean, uncover, stop hiding, reclaim their voices. Resound.
In some ways, weblogging is a "Do-over" of our childhood. Complete with a new set of blog brothers and blog sisters. As David Weinberger says, we're "writing ourselves into existence."
WHAT ABOUT MEN AND WEBLOGGING?
What’s great about blogging is that it’s not all about women or all about men. I think the interactions between men and women in Blogaria--between the women of Blog Sisters and the male and female bloggers they read and converse with--are really changing the way we relate to one another gender to gender.
We tend to become mirrors to one another—I know Elaine's life stories, some of hers mirrors mine; I know Shelley's stories and Halley's stories and Mike Golby's and Tom Matrullo's stories and Gary Turner's stories and on and on, with the mirrors to mirrors... seeing our own lives in a hundred connected lives and learning from what we see. It's so powerful. And women are making it okay for men to talk about more than tech and business--many are bearing their souls. And finding out that’s okay. And men are making it okay for women to stand on firm footing and unleash their brilliance. And finding out that's okay.
It's big.
WHAT WOMEN BLOGGERS DO YOU READ/RECOMMEND?
See the blogroll at www.blogsisters.com for a pretty comprehensive list.
-more later.... - jeneane
Jenna and Hunter
Time for a kitty intermission.
This photo was snapped by Tami Chappell who came to our house from the Times to take our picture.
More on that later.
Papa George, get outa those Florida rays and come home soon.
This photo was snapped by Tami Chappell who came to our house from the Times to take our picture.
More on that later.
Papa George, get outa those Florida rays and come home soon.
women and weblogs
Today's New York Times Circuits section features an article on women and weblogging: Telling All Online: It's a Man's World (Isn't It?), by Lisa Guernsey. The article gives props to some (I wish more) women webloggers, including Blog Sisters. These kind of articles are always too short to convey what needs to be said, but its the first I've seen focusing on women bloggers--and it is the NY Times after all.
Can I just say I'm so excited that my kid and kitty made the news?
Can I just say I'm so excited that my kid and kitty made the news?
November 27, 2002
Sweat Idea
Ray Sweatman added a Best of the Blog roll over at his place. Ray has culled through some of his all-time favorite posts from a slew of bloggers and put them near his blogroll for safe keeping. Nice idea--especially nice as the memories of those moving posts slip from our brain to make room for all the new posts we're reading. There's a link to a poem I wrote there, which, until I read it on Ray's site, I would have never even remembered writing.
Has anyone counted up how many actual words they've spewed out over the last year? I can't imagine. When is it that we're starting ot get paid by the word around these parts? If that happens, Golby will be one rich blogger.
Has anyone counted up how many actual words they've spewed out over the last year? I can't imagine. When is it that we're starting ot get paid by the word around these parts? If that happens, Golby will be one rich blogger.
November 26, 2002
worst practices and happy hour
There's a dandy little review of Chris Locke's Gonzo Marketing book on eDesign. The reviewer, Stephanie Saulmon, does a great job of summarizing gonzo marketing and worst practices in a single paragraph. A snipet:
"As Locke sees it, the Internet has already created forums for conversations between people of shared passions and interests, so businesses should use their employees to become engaged in the market. Real stories from real people about real enthusiasm are at the heart of the Gonzo approach."
My message to management (in the most generic sense of the word): Encourage your employees to blog about what matters to them. Let them go; Read what they say; Stay out of their way; Don't freak out. Take this advice very seriously. I would not say anything to steer you wrong. Well, not this week anyway. Friday is payday.
That's today's gonzo lesson. Now, everyone get to the bar for happy hour!
"As Locke sees it, the Internet has already created forums for conversations between people of shared passions and interests, so businesses should use their employees to become engaged in the market. Real stories from real people about real enthusiasm are at the heart of the Gonzo approach."
My message to management (in the most generic sense of the word): Encourage your employees to blog about what matters to them. Let them go; Read what they say; Stay out of their way; Don't freak out. Take this advice very seriously. I would not say anything to steer you wrong. Well, not this week anyway. Friday is payday.
That's today's gonzo lesson. Now, everyone get to the bar for happy hour!
November 25, 2002
jenna is playing the piano and singing her own lyrics... sa-weeet.
little birdie come inside
gently hold your hand
we will help you from the sky
we will hug you when you cry
gently we will put you back
outside
Make sure to hold your
mommy's hand
Be gentle to your
mother
Rock-a-bye.
gently hold your hand
we will help you from the sky
we will hug you when you cry
gently we will put you back
outside
Make sure to hold your
mommy's hand
Be gentle to your
mother
Rock-a-bye.
I want a holiday
I'm missing this place. We go every year and meet friends from around the world at one of the nicest all-inclusive family resorts in the Caribbean. This past June we didn't go. George was in Hong Kong playing at the Grand Hyatt, and I was here taking care of the home base for many months. I missed him, I missed the "normality" of every day life, but when June came and went, I missed that vacation something fierce.
The relaxed feeling of FDR, knowing your children are well taken care of and having even more fun than you, the time you spend with your kids on the glass bottom boat, picnics as a family with your "vacation nanny" lending a hand--it's a rare and special thing for overworked, overwhelmed old people with children.
One of our good friends who we met on our first trip to FDR, Carly Connor Reim, has a letter to the editor here. If you want to learn more about what goes on at FDR, her letter gives lots of details. Meeting Carly, Jeff, and their son Gabriel (Jenna's betrothed) was one of the best things we took away from FDR.
It's a sweet vacation--I gotta get back there SOON. Wanna go with us? Parent bloggers, pack your bags and let's go sit by the bar with a Purple Rain.
And for all the exhibitionists out there, Hedonism III is right down the road.
The relaxed feeling of FDR, knowing your children are well taken care of and having even more fun than you, the time you spend with your kids on the glass bottom boat, picnics as a family with your "vacation nanny" lending a hand--it's a rare and special thing for overworked, overwhelmed old people with children.
One of our good friends who we met on our first trip to FDR, Carly Connor Reim, has a letter to the editor here. If you want to learn more about what goes on at FDR, her letter gives lots of details. Meeting Carly, Jeff, and their son Gabriel (Jenna's betrothed) was one of the best things we took away from FDR.
It's a sweet vacation--I gotta get back there SOON. Wanna go with us? Parent bloggers, pack your bags and let's go sit by the bar with a Purple Rain.
And for all the exhibitionists out there, Hedonism III is right down the road.
November 24, 2002
secret journey
And so she says to the one,
Fuck you, fuck you, you motherfucker.
She knows more than she should know
about the present,
like where, what, who, why,
more than she wants to know,
about today, right now,
oh yes you better believe it.
and knowing brings grinding pain and throwing up
and knotted nerves that untangle slowly, 40 years worth,
As those nerves straighten and uncurl,
each movement so sharp
death would be welcome and so smooth.
Out of nowhere, the air rushes in, up her sleeves
they billow and she is bathed in wind, the wind
replacing lies with a sweetness in knowing
that beyond all of this,
beyond now and then, later really,
the clouds will take her, embrace her.
She will wander above
untethered from the chains of caring,
And she will see herself for the first time.
She will say to them all, Go to Hell.
This is how she will forgive herself.
Fuck you, fuck you, you motherfucker.
She knows more than she should know
about the present,
like where, what, who, why,
more than she wants to know,
about today, right now,
oh yes you better believe it.
and knowing brings grinding pain and throwing up
and knotted nerves that untangle slowly, 40 years worth,
As those nerves straighten and uncurl,
each movement so sharp
death would be welcome and so smooth.
Out of nowhere, the air rushes in, up her sleeves
they billow and she is bathed in wind, the wind
replacing lies with a sweetness in knowing
that beyond all of this,
beyond now and then, later really,
the clouds will take her, embrace her.
She will wander above
untethered from the chains of caring,
And she will see herself for the first time.
She will say to them all, Go to Hell.
This is how she will forgive herself.
where'd my third person go?
Too many "I"s lately. Even I'm getting bored with myself. (there I go again--d'oh!)
I lost that place where I was writing from and not about. Off to look for it.
new experiments in self coming soon....
Thanks Dean.
I lost that place where I was writing from and not about. Off to look for it.
new experiments in self coming soon....
Thanks Dean.
the pet thread
In a super post about way more than cats, Dean Landsman tells us about Destiny--the cat and the other kind. It's a moving read.
November 23, 2002
round and round I go
I used to keep my mouth open a lot as a kid. I had tonsil and adenoid trouble until they were removed when I was 5. Until then, I was pretty much a mouth breather.
I remember one late summer evening, when I was four, I had the idea as I lay in my bed trying to sleep, that I would embark on an adventure the next day. I was always scheming up some advenure or another. They weren't really adventurous at all, but to me, they were excursions into the great unknown. I was Nancy Drew; I was a pirate; an early explorer; I was hunting for buried treasure.
I woke up the next day all set for my hike through the woods to find the buried treasure I just knew was waiting for me. Luckily, the woods were adjacent to our farm, and they weren't so much woods as they were overgrowth and pine trees, maybe an acre in all. To me, it was expansive and there was most certainly a rare find buried somewhere, beneath some tree, hidden by the previous owners whose farm had burned long ago.
My mom packed me a lunch, I put on a backpack, stuffed a planter's shovel inside, and set out to find the spot marked X.
I had hiked maybe 100 yards when the sky turned darker still. Soft rain began to fall. Under a giant pine I looked to the sky to see if I had any hope of sun.
That's when the mouth breather thing came into play. Half way up the pine, an inch worm decided to drop, down he came, landing in my mouth with a silent splat before I could close my lips. Damn sinuses!
I don't like bugs now that I'm older, but I really didn't like bugs then, and after spitting him out and screaming bloody murder, I ran all the way back to the house at full speed, backpack flailing behind me. My mother was on the porch, where I came to rest, out of breath. I informed her through my tears that I had eaten a poisonous worm.
I don't remember her reaction exactly. I do remember her asking me what color the worm was, and if I'd eaten it, and I remember telling her it fell in my mouth but I had spit it out. And I remember her smiling and trying to calm me down, telling me it wasn't poisonous because I had spit it out.
And I remember the rest of the day wondering if I had spit it ALL out, or if I would be dead by bedtime because of a stray leg or antenna. I might have eaten a little of it. I just couldn't remember. What if some had made its way down my troat? Certainly I'd be dead by bedtime.
Bedtime came and went and I survived. I'm not so afraid of worms anymore, but I am very glad I had my tonsils removed.
I remember one late summer evening, when I was four, I had the idea as I lay in my bed trying to sleep, that I would embark on an adventure the next day. I was always scheming up some advenure or another. They weren't really adventurous at all, but to me, they were excursions into the great unknown. I was Nancy Drew; I was a pirate; an early explorer; I was hunting for buried treasure.
I woke up the next day all set for my hike through the woods to find the buried treasure I just knew was waiting for me. Luckily, the woods were adjacent to our farm, and they weren't so much woods as they were overgrowth and pine trees, maybe an acre in all. To me, it was expansive and there was most certainly a rare find buried somewhere, beneath some tree, hidden by the previous owners whose farm had burned long ago.
My mom packed me a lunch, I put on a backpack, stuffed a planter's shovel inside, and set out to find the spot marked X.
I had hiked maybe 100 yards when the sky turned darker still. Soft rain began to fall. Under a giant pine I looked to the sky to see if I had any hope of sun.
That's when the mouth breather thing came into play. Half way up the pine, an inch worm decided to drop, down he came, landing in my mouth with a silent splat before I could close my lips. Damn sinuses!
I don't like bugs now that I'm older, but I really didn't like bugs then, and after spitting him out and screaming bloody murder, I ran all the way back to the house at full speed, backpack flailing behind me. My mother was on the porch, where I came to rest, out of breath. I informed her through my tears that I had eaten a poisonous worm.
I don't remember her reaction exactly. I do remember her asking me what color the worm was, and if I'd eaten it, and I remember telling her it fell in my mouth but I had spit it out. And I remember her smiling and trying to calm me down, telling me it wasn't poisonous because I had spit it out.
And I remember the rest of the day wondering if I had spit it ALL out, or if I would be dead by bedtime because of a stray leg or antenna. I might have eaten a little of it. I just couldn't remember. What if some had made its way down my troat? Certainly I'd be dead by bedtime.
Bedtime came and went and I survived. I'm not so afraid of worms anymore, but I am very glad I had my tonsils removed.
November 22, 2002
Being Dad / Being a Mom
I had a great talk with my stepsister today. She was very affirming of my progress, of the strength of my voice, which has changed in tenor and grace over the past year. That my style has evolved is evident to anyone who wanders into the archives and looks at how this blog began.
As I've begun stripping off the mask and costume I've worn for a very long time, things are changing, I'm changing. I once battled hourly with uncertainty. I fought it by imagining every possible scenario and angle, good and bad (heavy on the bad) until I was pretty well lathered up with panic. Mostly I battled it by thinking, what would my mother say/do/think/feel.
Today I'm feeling for myself, for the first time. Today I'm doing better at accepting that there's no such thing as certainty, that it is okay to accept the moment (maybe even enjoy it) without worrying about what's next. That it's okay NOT to panic over not knowing. Easier said than done, but I'm almost getting to believe all of what I just wrote.
Grief is key in my ongoing self discovery.
Grief is very real.
I don't think grief is accomplished in an instant. Sometimes, as it was for me, you find workarounds that keep you from going there for a very long time. For me at least, the process began at age 40, as I lay on the leather living room couch, and for the first time watched pieces of my childhood through my father's eyes. I saw me through his eyes, I saw my mother through my father's eyes--I distinctly felt that I was inside his skin, his skin then. He is in his grave for 34 years now. He has no skin now--he is bones and dust.
But that day, a few months ago, here in this living room, I slipped out of my mom-made body and into my father's body for what was probably five minutes. That was the day I looked out through his eyes. I was his height, I felt his flesh around me. I really was inside of him. I felt tremendous physical pain--pain that had me weeping and moaning and crying out loudly:
I feel her neck snap around, her eyes pierce me, I feel the venom land. [Do I remember this from my childhood?... maybe a dream... I'll never know.] I feel her words sting his skin/my skin. I am in that moment, the moment when my grief over my father and mother collides. I feel the sickness inside of me, I feel my middle buckle. And the wailing begins before I know it... "I'm so sorry for you Daddy... I'm so sorry for you Daddy... I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry for me..."
You should know that I never cried after my father's death. Not the day I was told at 6. Not the years that followed. Not ever.
I manufactured tears for kindergarten because I enjoyed lapping up the sympathy of concerned teachers and curious kids. I later felt guilty for this. Today I realize that I learned dramatics at a very young age.
Real grief had escaped me my whole life. I never knew what my father died of until 15 years after he died. All those years I'd been answering the question that everyone I met eventually asked (what did your dad die of?) with the last information I had (Um, a gallbladder operation). Yes, well, he did have one of those operations, in fact that's when they found the pancreatic cancer that no one ever bothered to tell me about. Not at 6. Not at 16.
I always wondered how he died from an operation six months after he had it. But then...
So as not to backtrack too far, this moment of grief wasn't an endpoint for me. It doesn't mean anything's "over with." Quite the contrary.
This is my beginning. And it is a gift.
And it is supremely important.
I've been grappling with how closely I let myself mesh--how fully I let myself engage--with my daughter. We had an amazing night tonight, she and I. We stopped for a burger on the way home. It's c-o-l-d in Atlanta tonight--must be in the 30s. We got home and got cleaned up for bed, snuggled together in our mommy/daddy bed, painted one another's nails, made funny noises with our throats and laughed until we were wheezing.
I see a hundred people when I look into her eyes. I see George, I see myself, and I see pieces of every other family member from both sides through the generations. She is so full of everyone that she is completely unique.
Let me stop the generational pain in this family now. For her.
I gazed at her a long time tonight, while we laughed and played and tried to stay warm. I'm beginning to connect with her in a new way. My own way. It's taking me a while to decipher what that is, but tonight at least, I moved a few inches closer.
onward......
As I've begun stripping off the mask and costume I've worn for a very long time, things are changing, I'm changing. I once battled hourly with uncertainty. I fought it by imagining every possible scenario and angle, good and bad (heavy on the bad) until I was pretty well lathered up with panic. Mostly I battled it by thinking, what would my mother say/do/think/feel.
Today I'm feeling for myself, for the first time. Today I'm doing better at accepting that there's no such thing as certainty, that it is okay to accept the moment (maybe even enjoy it) without worrying about what's next. That it's okay NOT to panic over not knowing. Easier said than done, but I'm almost getting to believe all of what I just wrote.
Grief is key in my ongoing self discovery.
Grief is very real.
I don't think grief is accomplished in an instant. Sometimes, as it was for me, you find workarounds that keep you from going there for a very long time. For me at least, the process began at age 40, as I lay on the leather living room couch, and for the first time watched pieces of my childhood through my father's eyes. I saw me through his eyes, I saw my mother through my father's eyes--I distinctly felt that I was inside his skin, his skin then. He is in his grave for 34 years now. He has no skin now--he is bones and dust.
But that day, a few months ago, here in this living room, I slipped out of my mom-made body and into my father's body for what was probably five minutes. That was the day I looked out through his eyes. I was his height, I felt his flesh around me. I really was inside of him. I felt tremendous physical pain--pain that had me weeping and moaning and crying out loudly:
I feel her neck snap around, her eyes pierce me, I feel the venom land. [Do I remember this from my childhood?... maybe a dream... I'll never know.] I feel her words sting his skin/my skin. I am in that moment, the moment when my grief over my father and mother collides. I feel the sickness inside of me, I feel my middle buckle. And the wailing begins before I know it... "I'm so sorry for you Daddy... I'm so sorry for you Daddy... I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry for me..."
You should know that I never cried after my father's death. Not the day I was told at 6. Not the years that followed. Not ever.
I manufactured tears for kindergarten because I enjoyed lapping up the sympathy of concerned teachers and curious kids. I later felt guilty for this. Today I realize that I learned dramatics at a very young age.
Real grief had escaped me my whole life. I never knew what my father died of until 15 years after he died. All those years I'd been answering the question that everyone I met eventually asked (what did your dad die of?) with the last information I had (Um, a gallbladder operation). Yes, well, he did have one of those operations, in fact that's when they found the pancreatic cancer that no one ever bothered to tell me about. Not at 6. Not at 16.
I always wondered how he died from an operation six months after he had it. But then...
So as not to backtrack too far, this moment of grief wasn't an endpoint for me. It doesn't mean anything's "over with." Quite the contrary.
This is my beginning. And it is a gift.
And it is supremely important.
I've been grappling with how closely I let myself mesh--how fully I let myself engage--with my daughter. We had an amazing night tonight, she and I. We stopped for a burger on the way home. It's c-o-l-d in Atlanta tonight--must be in the 30s. We got home and got cleaned up for bed, snuggled together in our mommy/daddy bed, painted one another's nails, made funny noises with our throats and laughed until we were wheezing.
I see a hundred people when I look into her eyes. I see George, I see myself, and I see pieces of every other family member from both sides through the generations. She is so full of everyone that she is completely unique.
Let me stop the generational pain in this family now. For her.
I gazed at her a long time tonight, while we laughed and played and tried to stay warm. I'm beginning to connect with her in a new way. My own way. It's taking me a while to decipher what that is, but tonight at least, I moved a few inches closer.
onward......
Driving While Aroused
A Longview, Texas woman was arrested for having 17 sex toys in her car, according to this article. If convicted, she could face two years in jail. Notice, will you, that she was stopped for suspicion of DUI. And yet, what is the news angle of this story? The fact that the woman was allegedly driving drunk and could have killed someone's child is not discussed because it's not "news." It's America. What is news is that this woman works as a distributor for Slumber Parties, which is described as Tuperware meets Victoria Secret. Apparently, that just ain't lady like in Texas, ya'll.
November 20, 2002
all about horses
The last few days I've been thinking about horses. My horses. I grew up on a farm--well, until my father died at 37 with no life insurance and we had to move--which meant I spent a lot of time around animals as a kid. A german shepherd named King. Our cats Salt and Pepper. And a handful of horses for starters.
My older sister was the horse nut, and naturally I teetered along after her, she being nine years my senior and my hero with all her trophies and ribbons. Her horse was named Angel, an albino mare with the patience of job in equine form. All beauty and spirit, she was solid as a rock and 16 hands high, which, in non-horse language, means pretty darn tall.
We lived on a three-acre farm on Atlantic Avenue in Penfield, New York, where there are still lots of open spaces. We had trails to ride, and although it was a busy road for the country (which it still was in 1966), we could ride all the way down to the Penfield town hall, which for some reason I felt compelled to look up this evening. It looks just the same to me.
There are at least a hundred stories to tell about this farm, my life lessons of life and death there. I think I'll come back to some of those. Tonight is about the horses.
HELLO CHA-CHA
After pestering my parents long enough for everyone to believe I was actually interested in horses--I was four or five--they bought me my own Pony, which I named Cha-Cha. She was a Shetland and as rank as they come. If you find a good Shetland, they're usually your trusted companion for decades. Cha-Cha wasn't one of the good ones. She was ornery and spirited and down right mean. She looked a little like this:
I sure hope Paul had better luck with his pony than I did with "Cha."
I remember the last time my mother let me ride Cha-Cha, I took one of my many dives off of her back end, but this time she was kind enough to dump me into poison ivy. I was in oatmeal baths for days. No one could handle this cranky pony. Not my sister. Not her friends. My parents finally had to hire a female Jockey from the nearby racetrack to come exercise her every couple of weeks. She was the only one who could ride Cha-Cha into the pasture and come back in the saddle.
My sister probably could have worked with Cha-Cha long enough to turn her into a fair pony. But she had her horse and didn't have much time for my silly pony. I didn't much mind. I had Bessy the Cow to pester back then.
TAKEN FOR A RIDE
I didn't get to ride the big mare, Angel, very often. She was my sisters' pride and joy, but my sister did start giving me riding lessons on Angel when I was about 4. My feet didn't even reach the stirrups--I had to put them in the loop of the stirrup leathers instead. Amazing how fearless I was back then. Life breeds that fearlessness out of us. Maybe it's a good thing.
But by 5, I could get Angel to walk, trot, and once in a great while I was allowed to canter her. Jumps were strictly off limits though. I can't tell you how hard it was pounded into my head, "Do NOT, ever ever ever, take Angel near the jumps because she likes to jump and you won't be able to stop her." The jumps were taller than I was, and looking up at them didn't give me any huge urge to take Angel over the jumps.
And then there was he day when my sister was giving me a lesson, standing in the middle of the ring with her crop. Stop and think. How must it have felt for that 14-year-old teenage horse lover girl to have such power over her bratty little sister. The stunts she used to make me do. All in the name of learning to ride. Anyway...
This day I remember well. It was cold. The ground was hard, and in the cracks and hoofprints were circles of ice, left over from the snow that had melted and froze again. I can see myself trotting along in the ring, my breath visible in front of my face. My reins were down on Angel's neck. I was riding no-handed, one of the favorite teaching methods of horse terrorists everywhere. This day I was learning how to post. I was concentrating pretty hard on "Up, Down, Up, Down" when I felt Angel start to turn. I wondered what she was doing. But I keep my arms obediently out to either side of me and focused on "Up, Down, Up, Down."
It wasn't until Angel rounded the far corner that I could see where she was headed. The jumps. THE JUMPS!
She broke into a slow canter while I fumbled for the reins. Starting to cry, I yelled to my sister for help. The amazing thing is, I wasn't afraid of going over the jumps. I was afraid disobeying what my parents and sister had told me: Do NOT take Angel over the jumps. The terror of screwing up this direct order was far deeper than the fear of Angel taking me over the jumps. I was screwing up. Big time. I was in trouble.
Little did I know.
As Angel approached the first jump and her front legs left the ground, I swear to this day, and I will swear until I can't swear anymore, my sister said, "Let Go! I'll Catch You." These words have stayed with me for 35 years and I maintain each and every letter: LET GO! I'LL CATCH YOU!
And so I did.
My sister says, to this day, that she in fact yelled, "Hold On! Hold On!"
Two distinctly different versions of the event.
I remember leaving the saddle--literally pushing myself out into mid-air so that I would clear Angel's feet. Expecting my sister to catch me in her welcoming arms.
But no one caught me.
WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN--HARD
16 hands, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. smack. crack.
The smack was my face hitting and cracking the icy-hard ground. My wind gone, my head electric. I stayed there on the ground. I don't know how long. I remember hearing Angel stop after clearing the last jump. I remember wishing I would have stayed on. I remember thinking I wasn't that afraid, why did she tell me to let go? I remember thinking, "MAAAAAAMAAAA!" Oh wait, I actually screamed that. I remember thinking I would get in trouble for taking Angel near the jumps. I remember my lip hurting very badly.
My sister lugged me all the way up to the driveway, no small distance, and put me on the hood of the car while she yelled for my mother. She was asking, "Why did you let go?" But in her mind I'm sure was panic over the repercussions of letting this happen to sweet baby Jeneane.
Off to the doctor's we raced, and to not drag this out any longer than necessary, the grand tally of my injuries were two badly blackened eyes, a smashed and bloody (but not broken!) nose, and two fat purple lips. Four days off of school. And a face in the mirror I never forgot.
As for my sister, I'm not sure what punishment was dolled out if any.
But I do know that to this day she says, "I told you to hold on!"
And I tell her, "You told me to let go!"
Angel's the only one who knew for sure, and she took that secret to her grave.
My older sister was the horse nut, and naturally I teetered along after her, she being nine years my senior and my hero with all her trophies and ribbons. Her horse was named Angel, an albino mare with the patience of job in equine form. All beauty and spirit, she was solid as a rock and 16 hands high, which, in non-horse language, means pretty darn tall.
We lived on a three-acre farm on Atlantic Avenue in Penfield, New York, where there are still lots of open spaces. We had trails to ride, and although it was a busy road for the country (which it still was in 1966), we could ride all the way down to the Penfield town hall, which for some reason I felt compelled to look up this evening. It looks just the same to me.
There are at least a hundred stories to tell about this farm, my life lessons of life and death there. I think I'll come back to some of those. Tonight is about the horses.
HELLO CHA-CHA
After pestering my parents long enough for everyone to believe I was actually interested in horses--I was four or five--they bought me my own Pony, which I named Cha-Cha. She was a Shetland and as rank as they come. If you find a good Shetland, they're usually your trusted companion for decades. Cha-Cha wasn't one of the good ones. She was ornery and spirited and down right mean. She looked a little like this:
I sure hope Paul had better luck with his pony than I did with "Cha."
I remember the last time my mother let me ride Cha-Cha, I took one of my many dives off of her back end, but this time she was kind enough to dump me into poison ivy. I was in oatmeal baths for days. No one could handle this cranky pony. Not my sister. Not her friends. My parents finally had to hire a female Jockey from the nearby racetrack to come exercise her every couple of weeks. She was the only one who could ride Cha-Cha into the pasture and come back in the saddle.
My sister probably could have worked with Cha-Cha long enough to turn her into a fair pony. But she had her horse and didn't have much time for my silly pony. I didn't much mind. I had Bessy the Cow to pester back then.
TAKEN FOR A RIDE
I didn't get to ride the big mare, Angel, very often. She was my sisters' pride and joy, but my sister did start giving me riding lessons on Angel when I was about 4. My feet didn't even reach the stirrups--I had to put them in the loop of the stirrup leathers instead. Amazing how fearless I was back then. Life breeds that fearlessness out of us. Maybe it's a good thing.
But by 5, I could get Angel to walk, trot, and once in a great while I was allowed to canter her. Jumps were strictly off limits though. I can't tell you how hard it was pounded into my head, "Do NOT, ever ever ever, take Angel near the jumps because she likes to jump and you won't be able to stop her." The jumps were taller than I was, and looking up at them didn't give me any huge urge to take Angel over the jumps.
And then there was he day when my sister was giving me a lesson, standing in the middle of the ring with her crop. Stop and think. How must it have felt for that 14-year-old teenage horse lover girl to have such power over her bratty little sister. The stunts she used to make me do. All in the name of learning to ride. Anyway...
This day I remember well. It was cold. The ground was hard, and in the cracks and hoofprints were circles of ice, left over from the snow that had melted and froze again. I can see myself trotting along in the ring, my breath visible in front of my face. My reins were down on Angel's neck. I was riding no-handed, one of the favorite teaching methods of horse terrorists everywhere. This day I was learning how to post. I was concentrating pretty hard on "Up, Down, Up, Down" when I felt Angel start to turn. I wondered what she was doing. But I keep my arms obediently out to either side of me and focused on "Up, Down, Up, Down."
It wasn't until Angel rounded the far corner that I could see where she was headed. The jumps. THE JUMPS!
She broke into a slow canter while I fumbled for the reins. Starting to cry, I yelled to my sister for help. The amazing thing is, I wasn't afraid of going over the jumps. I was afraid disobeying what my parents and sister had told me: Do NOT take Angel over the jumps. The terror of screwing up this direct order was far deeper than the fear of Angel taking me over the jumps. I was screwing up. Big time. I was in trouble.
Little did I know.
As Angel approached the first jump and her front legs left the ground, I swear to this day, and I will swear until I can't swear anymore, my sister said, "Let Go! I'll Catch You." These words have stayed with me for 35 years and I maintain each and every letter: LET GO! I'LL CATCH YOU!
And so I did.
My sister says, to this day, that she in fact yelled, "Hold On! Hold On!"
Two distinctly different versions of the event.
I remember leaving the saddle--literally pushing myself out into mid-air so that I would clear Angel's feet. Expecting my sister to catch me in her welcoming arms.
But no one caught me.
WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN--HARD
16 hands, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. smack. crack.
The smack was my face hitting and cracking the icy-hard ground. My wind gone, my head electric. I stayed there on the ground. I don't know how long. I remember hearing Angel stop after clearing the last jump. I remember wishing I would have stayed on. I remember thinking I wasn't that afraid, why did she tell me to let go? I remember thinking, "MAAAAAAMAAAA!" Oh wait, I actually screamed that. I remember thinking I would get in trouble for taking Angel near the jumps. I remember my lip hurting very badly.
My sister lugged me all the way up to the driveway, no small distance, and put me on the hood of the car while she yelled for my mother. She was asking, "Why did you let go?" But in her mind I'm sure was panic over the repercussions of letting this happen to sweet baby Jeneane.
Off to the doctor's we raced, and to not drag this out any longer than necessary, the grand tally of my injuries were two badly blackened eyes, a smashed and bloody (but not broken!) nose, and two fat purple lips. Four days off of school. And a face in the mirror I never forgot.
As for my sister, I'm not sure what punishment was dolled out if any.
But I do know that to this day she says, "I told you to hold on!"
And I tell her, "You told me to let go!"
Angel's the only one who knew for sure, and she took that secret to her grave.
November 19, 2002
consumer electronics dream
okay, I only have four minutes to write, so I'd better make it quick. In between client calls. Thinking about my dream last night. Don't you love dreaming about electronics? In my dreams, I usually invent useless devices. I wake up only to realize that no one would want a laptop that makes pizza. well, except me. The sadness of my inventive failure is palpable those mornings. I drag through the day with a big "L" on my forehead.
But last night's inventions weren't so bad. Here's what I came up with...
In the dream I had my cell phone with me. It was gold and a little wider than the Nokia I have. You know all the wasted space on the back of your cell phone where the battery pack is? Well in my dream, it wasn't wasted space; it was the face of a digital camera. Right? So you always have a digital camera with you. This combo digital camera/cell phone would be great for Atlanta, where the average Joe has a good wreck every so often. Climb out of the wreckage, call 911, flip the phone over and take a picture for your insurance company. Maybe have an automatic click capability where whenever you push 911 a flash goes off and a picture is taken. So if you're getting mugged and you call 911, the phone snaps a picture of your would-be aggressor. In this case, the cell phone becomes sort of a "black box" of the pedestrian crime scene...
enough about that one...
The next dream vignette featured, yet again, my cell phone. In my dream I was doing a client phone interview, and instead of having to use my stinking tape recorder, a little ticker tape transcription of my call was printing out from the bottom of my cell phone, like those ATM receipts. Okay, this is pretty far fetched, but why not have an easy way, when you're on the phone with some custome dis-service idiot, to capture the call on YOUR END for "training purposes"? In my dream I could, and I did it using the print out capability directly from my phone. Train on "t-h-i-s" PetSmart/PetDumb!
Gotta go back to work now. Have a phone interview to do the old-fashioned way.
Say cheese!
But last night's inventions weren't so bad. Here's what I came up with...
In the dream I had my cell phone with me. It was gold and a little wider than the Nokia I have. You know all the wasted space on the back of your cell phone where the battery pack is? Well in my dream, it wasn't wasted space; it was the face of a digital camera. Right? So you always have a digital camera with you. This combo digital camera/cell phone would be great for Atlanta, where the average Joe has a good wreck every so often. Climb out of the wreckage, call 911, flip the phone over and take a picture for your insurance company. Maybe have an automatic click capability where whenever you push 911 a flash goes off and a picture is taken. So if you're getting mugged and you call 911, the phone snaps a picture of your would-be aggressor. In this case, the cell phone becomes sort of a "black box" of the pedestrian crime scene...
enough about that one...
The next dream vignette featured, yet again, my cell phone. In my dream I was doing a client phone interview, and instead of having to use my stinking tape recorder, a little ticker tape transcription of my call was printing out from the bottom of my cell phone, like those ATM receipts. Okay, this is pretty far fetched, but why not have an easy way, when you're on the phone with some custome dis-service idiot, to capture the call on YOUR END for "training purposes"? In my dream I could, and I did it using the print out capability directly from my phone. Train on "t-h-i-s" PetSmart/PetDumb!
Gotta go back to work now. Have a phone interview to do the old-fashioned way.
Say cheese!
November 17, 2002
it has been asked and answered...
who invented weblogging?
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Well, it's good to see super blogger Al Gore on the list.
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Well, it's good to see super blogger Al Gore on the list.
warped parenting
Elaine makes an interesting comment to my post below about Jenna landing on her head on our concrete garage floor. Elaine admits that parenting never ends, nor does the fear and hurt we feel over the welfare of our children--even once they're grown. While I've always "understood" this in my head, it's a weighty thing to understand it in your heart. It's something I grapple with--really.
I was talking on the phone to my friend the other day, who is also a mother of a young child, telling her I think that I often consciously avoid engaging in the moment with my daughter. I've recognized this in myself and have begun to think about why that is. She's my life, my world, yet I (more than I would like) try to avoid being completely present when I'm with her her. I think I do this to avoid completely engulfing her.
It is difficult for me to give completely to someone whose absoulte vulnerability and purity undoes me.
I told my friend, I think that if I engaged with her all the time--if I felt the presence in the moment that I only sometimes feel--I would never let her out the front door again. I can't reconcile it. I can't reconcile letting her out into the world, which I've had to do now that she's in Pre-K, with keeping her safe in my womb, metaphorically. I can't quite get to the grey area. I'm having trouble living in the space of improvisation, of life and love. The space that lets you love without the anticipation of, the fear of, disaster. The space where you can love in spite of the possibility of danger, of death.
The surprise of my father's death for me at 6 broke my innocence in that regard, set the tone for a life that anticipates shock in order to defend against it. One therapist called this catastrophising. I thought that word fit pretty well. And while I don't actively catastrophize as much as I used to, there's still a little lock in my heart that I wish I could spring for good, that when it does unlock is like no other feeling I have, like nothing I understand. And I wish I could remove that lock and accept (even enjoy) being present in the moment more often.
Well, I'm working on it anyway.
I was talking on the phone to my friend the other day, who is also a mother of a young child, telling her I think that I often consciously avoid engaging in the moment with my daughter. I've recognized this in myself and have begun to think about why that is. She's my life, my world, yet I (more than I would like) try to avoid being completely present when I'm with her her. I think I do this to avoid completely engulfing her.
It is difficult for me to give completely to someone whose absoulte vulnerability and purity undoes me.
I told my friend, I think that if I engaged with her all the time--if I felt the presence in the moment that I only sometimes feel--I would never let her out the front door again. I can't reconcile it. I can't reconcile letting her out into the world, which I've had to do now that she's in Pre-K, with keeping her safe in my womb, metaphorically. I can't quite get to the grey area. I'm having trouble living in the space of improvisation, of life and love. The space that lets you love without the anticipation of, the fear of, disaster. The space where you can love in spite of the possibility of danger, of death.
The surprise of my father's death for me at 6 broke my innocence in that regard, set the tone for a life that anticipates shock in order to defend against it. One therapist called this catastrophising. I thought that word fit pretty well. And while I don't actively catastrophize as much as I used to, there's still a little lock in my heart that I wish I could spring for good, that when it does unlock is like no other feeling I have, like nothing I understand. And I wish I could remove that lock and accept (even enjoy) being present in the moment more often.
Well, I'm working on it anyway.
November 15, 2002
the sound
I mentioned here that the sound of Jenna's head hitting the concrete, the thwack, was a sound I remember from my younger days. In fact, confession be told, today stirred a trauma memory in me I had all but forgotten, or at least had forgotten the sound of. It's so real to me again tonight, I can't quite get it out of my head, so, I figure, I'll let it out my fingertips, here.
I was about 14, 15 maybe, at the barn where my friend kept her horse. I had been forced to give up my horse a couple months earlier when my parents decided not to pay the board for him. A whole other story. But don't let me hyperlink back too far. The farther I jump, the odder it gets. So anyway, my best friend and I were at the barn, doing what we'd done every day for years, riding and grooming, daring and laughing.
My friend decided to let her horse out in the paddock after we were done riding. He was an old thoroughbred. She'd had him for several years by then. A remarkably skitzy breed thanks to man, the thoroughbred can be a handful. Especially the ex-racehorse variety, which this gelding was. But he had age on him, and he was calm as thoroughbreds get. Mostly because he loved his owner. Very much.
I see the day so clearly now, sun shining, a cold western new york early winter day, and I see my breath in the air, I see the light rays breaking through the leaves of the trees all around us, I smell the hay, manure, wood chips, and I see her walking out into the padock with a lead line to get him.
I see him looking playful, breaking into a proud trot, she stops, hands on hips, and decides okay, boy, let's play, and the two begin a game of chase until he forgets she's not a horse and kicks up his back feet, and I see them come up and I see them thrust back and I hear them connect with her head, with her face, and I hear that thwack that echos then and doesn't stop echoing ever.
thwack. and the collapse, and the screams. those screams.
I'm closer to the main house than I am to her, so I fly to the door, but no one's home, so I fly to the long driveway, see a couple walking a dog, and scream like crazy, echoing my best friends' screams, someone help us please!
I can barely make my knees bend to take them quickly behind the barn to show them where she is. Why won't my legs work? And I take off my ski hat and do my best to keep up with them, but my legs aren't bending, they stiffen with each step, and I'm lagging behind them, but we reach her finally, and we lift her, me under one shoulder, the man of the couple under the other, and we walk her down the hilly driveway to a neighbor's house, and as we walk I see the bloody ruin that was her face, and I put my ski mask up to her face to try to stop the bleeding, and I tell her she'll be okay, just a few stitches, and she says no I don't think so, and I say it happens all the time, you'll see, the doctors will know how to fix this.
And I'm the one left to go see the horse, catch him, put him back in his stall, and take her dog home once the ambulance drives her off, and I'm the one standing inside her house when her father races in the front door after hearing there's been an accident, and I'm the one who says, "They took her to the hospital, sir," as I watch him begin to crumble and then gather himself in his race back out to the car.
She spent weeks in the hospital, with plastic surgeons rebuilding her eye sockets and nose out of new material, removing the mass of shattered bones from her nose, around her eyes, up to her forehead. They gave us the news that 1/2" difference in the landing of his kick would have meant certain blindness and perhaps death; if he'd have had his back shoes on, she would have been dead without a doubt.
I digested this.
I don't know how many surgeries she had over the next several years. A lot. Coming home from college on vacation meant going into the hospital for another surgery. I do know that when I got home from the barn the day of horror, when I told my mother what had happened, she gave me a drink. Of whiskey or something. To calm my nerves. I do know that I didn't ride for a dozen years after that. My friend did though. She loved that horse, knew it wasn't intentional, that he was playing, except that he had a 1000 pound and four hoof advantage. She has horses to this day.
The event left me with lots of emotions that never really found a home. Guilt over not running to her first; instead I ran for help. Guilt over not being able to warn her that his feet were coming. Fear of animals near my face. Wonder at how the alcohol made me feel so warm in a moment when I felt so cold inside.
I was about 14, 15 maybe, at the barn where my friend kept her horse. I had been forced to give up my horse a couple months earlier when my parents decided not to pay the board for him. A whole other story. But don't let me hyperlink back too far. The farther I jump, the odder it gets. So anyway, my best friend and I were at the barn, doing what we'd done every day for years, riding and grooming, daring and laughing.
My friend decided to let her horse out in the paddock after we were done riding. He was an old thoroughbred. She'd had him for several years by then. A remarkably skitzy breed thanks to man, the thoroughbred can be a handful. Especially the ex-racehorse variety, which this gelding was. But he had age on him, and he was calm as thoroughbreds get. Mostly because he loved his owner. Very much.
I see the day so clearly now, sun shining, a cold western new york early winter day, and I see my breath in the air, I see the light rays breaking through the leaves of the trees all around us, I smell the hay, manure, wood chips, and I see her walking out into the padock with a lead line to get him.
I see him looking playful, breaking into a proud trot, she stops, hands on hips, and decides okay, boy, let's play, and the two begin a game of chase until he forgets she's not a horse and kicks up his back feet, and I see them come up and I see them thrust back and I hear them connect with her head, with her face, and I hear that thwack that echos then and doesn't stop echoing ever.
thwack. and the collapse, and the screams. those screams.
I'm closer to the main house than I am to her, so I fly to the door, but no one's home, so I fly to the long driveway, see a couple walking a dog, and scream like crazy, echoing my best friends' screams, someone help us please!
I can barely make my knees bend to take them quickly behind the barn to show them where she is. Why won't my legs work? And I take off my ski hat and do my best to keep up with them, but my legs aren't bending, they stiffen with each step, and I'm lagging behind them, but we reach her finally, and we lift her, me under one shoulder, the man of the couple under the other, and we walk her down the hilly driveway to a neighbor's house, and as we walk I see the bloody ruin that was her face, and I put my ski mask up to her face to try to stop the bleeding, and I tell her she'll be okay, just a few stitches, and she says no I don't think so, and I say it happens all the time, you'll see, the doctors will know how to fix this.
And I'm the one left to go see the horse, catch him, put him back in his stall, and take her dog home once the ambulance drives her off, and I'm the one standing inside her house when her father races in the front door after hearing there's been an accident, and I'm the one who says, "They took her to the hospital, sir," as I watch him begin to crumble and then gather himself in his race back out to the car.
She spent weeks in the hospital, with plastic surgeons rebuilding her eye sockets and nose out of new material, removing the mass of shattered bones from her nose, around her eyes, up to her forehead. They gave us the news that 1/2" difference in the landing of his kick would have meant certain blindness and perhaps death; if he'd have had his back shoes on, she would have been dead without a doubt.
I digested this.
I don't know how many surgeries she had over the next several years. A lot. Coming home from college on vacation meant going into the hospital for another surgery. I do know that when I got home from the barn the day of horror, when I told my mother what had happened, she gave me a drink. Of whiskey or something. To calm my nerves. I do know that I didn't ride for a dozen years after that. My friend did though. She loved that horse, knew it wasn't intentional, that he was playing, except that he had a 1000 pound and four hoof advantage. She has horses to this day.
The event left me with lots of emotions that never really found a home. Guilt over not running to her first; instead I ran for help. Guilt over not being able to warn her that his feet were coming. Fear of animals near my face. Wonder at how the alcohol made me feel so warm in a moment when I felt so cold inside.
the near miss
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.
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.
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.
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