I Tank My Luky Stars

Tonight i tank my luky stars abov. I thank thos good stars dat i have this here real smart biness man to do my thankin fer me. I wdnt know wha to say without hm. i can barly type withot him tllin me how to thank or writ. i herd it's his persnality that got me all culted up an stuff. oooothankgodalmighty fer that, i kin tell you becaz without dat man i wldnt have a goo job an stuff or dis her blog or nuthin.

but lately i thank wha he's sayin bout dat woman a his is jus plain nasty. yeah nasty. usully i like nasty. but not dis. i wish i culd tell hm he shnt do that to the nice blond ladie. oooooooo but i'm so fraid o hm. i'm so fraid to tell hm wha i think bout anyting. ooooooo lawd what wd he do to me if i tell him he all nekid an stuff. oooooo.

1-720-304-8077.... ring.... ring...

hey!

hallo boss masa. hows yer throne empera boss, and can i com by and clean it fer ya?

Well sure. I just took a piss in it. wait. lemme flush. there. yeah. if you want to. Can you bring your own lysol.

ooooo sure will sir empora. whadever you say. an so ar you cold in dem mountans caus i kin bring you some aminal skins to put on kuz some pepel say yer big white ars is hangin out.

No, really. Keep them. My arse is fine. Hairy, but fine.

okay den boss. i'll be by wid da lysol to clean yer throne. but.... uh.... boss.... uh... uh...

What is it? What's up?

well.... um, i don mean no disrespec. you no boss, it's not like me to tell you whad i thank bout stuff, but i can't keep my ol mouth shut bout dis. see boss, i don like what yer writin bout femails des days. i think it's right nasty. you not goin bout thangs the rite way no more.

So?

uh. well. boss, the thang is, you gotta find nother way to xpress yerself bout this pain bein that it's been six monts and i think you got lil problem wit dis here depressin stuff. i mean, isn there anoder way, you no, you keep... well... pepel startin to wonder if yer okay. i mean those nasty wrds and pcturs... not that i wld ever tell you not to.... caus you know i'm fraid of dose reglar beatins.... but... i got an idea if you wan lisn to me.

Hey, I'm all ears. What you got?

well i thin you shld, you know, gather some powrfl minerals, make a potion.

Make a what?

You no boss, go down to dose geese by yer pond down yonder and get some fethers from them birds. Den get you some coppar pennies you find down by da noody bookstor down there by 18th, then grab you sum toilet paper, wipe undaneth the rim of da john over at the ladies sport club. Bring all dat back and start a pot boiln with some necktar of honey an sum melon seeds, and stir in the fethers an the pennies an the toilet paper. let it boil, bubble, you no, get real hot, real hot like a lady waitin in her bed late at nite time fer her man ta com home.

Okay, let me see if I got ya: geese feathers, copper pennies, toilet paper from the women's gym, nectar, melon seeds. Boil it. Hot. Very hot. And, so, what am I supposed to do with this?

OH LOR, you don no the power dis brew has. Incantations. Mojo. Voodo. Dey call it sometin else dese days. Somethn like knew age. But that shit sure do beat words an pictures fer gettin back at people been botherin you, ooooo you don no the power of it.

Hey, cultster, thanks MUCH for that. I'm heading out right now--the pond, adult bookstore, gym--gotcha. Thanks. Skip the throne cleaning this week. You gave me one valuable motherfuckin lesson. These words and pictures are for the birds. What have I been wasting my time for? I shoulda got me some knew age a long time ago.

OH no prolem boss. tanks for tellin me how to read n right all dis las year. you know without dat personality yers tellin me how to behav, i don no what I woulda been tellin pepel. ooooo thank ya so kindly fer dat. Thank ya so kindly.

No problem. Hey, want to swing by and help me pluck the geese?

Sho nuf. Sho nuf.

cameron came

welcome Cameron.

welcome, Cameron.

December 16, 2002, 03.24 GMT, 7 pounds 3 ounces.

All is well.

Congratulations to Gary and Fiona. God bless you. Peace, sleep, dreams.

fly

round my corners
shave away my edges
make me smooth
as polished stone
let me skim your skin
slip me in and out of the wind

search results I'm proud of

Yes, there are visitors who arrive here from google search results that I'm none to proud of. Anyone with a blog knows what I mean. Chin Porn is one of the tamest queries that apparently pops this blog up (thank goodness, not on the first page of results). I'm not sure what chin porn is--although I have a couple of guesses. Needless to say, I was a little jittery when the person looking for information on said subject found me.

What a pleasant surprise today was. Today I was happy to see three visitors who came here via google search results that, well, made me feel glad I could help. The winners are:

Digiorno Cooking Instructions
Norlin Streaker
and...
Negative Introject

So there. If I've helped someone cook a pizza without the cardboard, find out what Eric Norlin does at nationally televised football games, or get a handle on that little voice inside your head that says you just can't do anything right, well then I've done my job.

Search on, googlers.

Happy Birthday Grandma Dimino

I was thinking about you on the 13th, your birthday. I was going to blog something for you, but instead I've been fishing around over on this site. And with Dad's birthday tomorrow, maybe today, right in the middle, is the best place to post this.

Of all who've gone, I miss you most. I miss you in your flowered dress and black shoes, that great big house of oak and plaster, of tall ceilings and loud pianos, I miss clomping up the front steps and flipping open the mail slot so I could be the first one to smell the fresh sauce and meatballs; I miss your orange soda and hugs, me singing/you clapping. I miss my cheeks never not hurting from all the love pinches, your laugh, the way you raised your eyebrows and shook your hand with an "Eeeeee!" that said ten words with one syllable.

I miss you on the phone with me at night after the late news; I always knew you'd be up. Yours is my late night gene, and that other gene, the one that reminds me of love every time I think of you, and I think of you then with hair teased high, your long gloves, beautiful, and I think of you long after your knuckles buldged, after your body bent and your knees gave way, beautiful. Your 93 years too brief.

I saw the boat you came over on when you were just one. I wanted to put it here:



I saw your name on the ship manifest, and your mother's and brother's names. I know that your other brother died two weeks before you were born; I know he didn't make the trip. But you did.

Yours is a family of long journeys, of rough waters, of welcome arrivals and sudden departures.

And today I miss you more.

Thanks, Tom.

Tom Sugart breathes fresh air into this place. Go see this movie. Get outside yourself and inside yourself all at once. Music can do that for you. So can a story that matters. This story does.

Dare you, Dare me.

If he stopped pushing the edge, then the edge would be a lot closer in. Our words would be much safer, much less interesting, less meaningful. Does moving the line in the sand mean that you have to step across it sometimes, kick the shit out of it sometimes, erase it completely, start over, say, "what line, where?" Sure.

So? Grow.

More than anything else, he has, by example, encouraged us to give ourselves permission to risk, to be outrageous, to be kind, to show our hearts and our messy guts. Our "blood-intenstines," as Jenna would say.

Now, we're off to take the Bean to the zoo, with a heartfelt thank you to another blog of heart.

Lights Out

Okay, kids. Put the tin cans and strings away, take the flashlights out from under your pillows and hand them over, stop the giggling, and turn off that light.

It's past your bed time. Yes, I know Gary will be getting up soon. That's all well and good. He can get breakfast started. But the rest of you, get to sleep this instant!

goodnight johnboy.

will the real mike slanders please sit down

RageBoy deconstructs "the hoover" today in a post that left me breathless. If you wondered what happened between Ann and RB and Marek J., all questions are answered for those who are brave and/or talented enough to roll their own hoovers while reading.

While I'm not aligned with RB on his opinions about all his blogger relationships - I love the Crone, for example -- I second his nomination of Mike Slanders of Stop Trying as Blogger Asshole of the Year. (okay, well, I made up that nomination).

To that end, RB unveils an email forwarded by Marek, which Slanders sent trying to enlist support in a war-blogger/peace-blogger coalition to undo RB. Marek, you have my highest respect--like you didn't already--for rolling over Mike Slanders with your own hoover.

The blogsticker to the right is testimony to my particular feelings about Mr. Slanders. I tried with Mike--many of us have. Endless discussions that went nowhere because he is, generally, afraid. But when he suggested that the Blog Sisters should make the first female suicide bomber an honorary member, I said Bye Bye Mikey. Mike has apparently been getting ready to dismember RageBoy with his vintage Knife collection, but his steeley knives are no match for the beast of worst practices.

Well done, Uncle Rage, and thanks for the dedication. I couldn't be prouder.

Standing in the Shadows of Motown

If you haven't, hunt down the film Standing in the Shadows of Motown, now out in select locations--very select, as in, one theater in all of Atlanta. It's worth the drive. It's worth a lot.

These were the men responsible for the Motown sound--responsible for MORE number one hits than The Rolling Stones, Elvis, The Beatles, and the Beach Boys combined--and I bet you can't name them.



They called themselves The Funk Brothers.

Go See It. Then buy the Soundtrack.

I believe I've run out of things to say.

yikes.

in 39 weeks

this was when we named her
Bean
because the first picture
showed us
a kidney bean
a heartbeat
a mind, tiny buds
in bloom,
arms, legs, toes, fingers
a tulip unfolding

this was when I craved water
to be in it
always to climb
inside of myself and rest
with her
in a ball
jet black curls floating
in blue black,
look at all that hair
they would say.

this was when I took to the tub
five or six times a day
devoured novels one by one
soaking in them
hurried to spend time
with myself
instinct said
it is ending, then,
You will never be one,
will never be two
again.

this was when the blood first came
the doctor said
it will either keep growing
or it won't
no way to tell
and I cried on his shoulder
her father my love
and he held me
and rocked me
said shhh.
it will be okay

this was when we would sit
late into the night
and imagine tomorrows
me saying
what would we be doing
right now, this minute
with a baby between us
how would it be different
what will we do with it
him saying they fit in
all around you
that is the beauty

this was when the doctor said:
it's a miracle you made it...
all of those tumors...
so much bigger than the baby...
you must be in pain, take these pills...
let's schedule a day...
you are an enigma...

this was when I sat in the front seat
of the the silver four-door coup,
arms crossed, not budging
I don't need to do
this, I like things fine
just like they are
no reason to change
everything now
Give me a week or two
more please
because I still don't
want it to be over
and why can't anyone
see that.

this was when I surrendered
to joy
this was when all my
yesterdays stopped

float, dream,
think
what might be
is.

20 more reasons why blogsprogs is groundbreaking

Ruzz asks in the comments below for me to clarify why I think Blogsprogs is "groundbreaking."

Maybe I was waxing a little crazy at 2 a.m. when I wrote this morning's post. I hope I can clarify some of what I think is astounding about this new blog, and why it matters to blogging and humanity as a whole.

1) It's a team blog written (so far) by three men, and only men, about their unborn (so far) children. That's different.

2) It's a team blog written (so far) by three men, and only men, about the the women having their children. That's different.

3) Participating in childbirth is the most intimate experience a man can have--it is the closest he comes to the woman/feminine. It represents something of ends and beginnings and is a profound human experience. Maybe the most profound.

4) We're getting to observe the experience, and its impression on these male bloggers, in real time, or nearly, as it happens. I can't do that anywhere else unless I work on a maternity floor, and then I only get four days tops.

5) It's a blog about love. Big love. The biggest love.

6) These men all live in different parts of the world.

7) These men have never met. Yet what they are sharing will get very intimate.

8) The mothers have never met, and don't (yet) blog that I know of. We don't "know" the mothers except through the fathers' eyes. The same will be so for the babies until they're old enough to blog (or talk non-stop like mine). This is important. It is about strong reflections and how they mirror to our own lives.

9) I just saw the face of the child who's inside of a woman I never met, married to a man I never met, who live on another continent, and whom I love dearly.

10) My husband and I just spent 15 minutes talking about what an endearing name "Sausage" is.

11) Men don't generally sit, three together in a room, at their place of work, each with their respective partners in their 39th week, and talk about things like birthing balls and back pain with maybe dozens or hundreds or thousands of other people, both men and women.

12) This is a moving and intimate extension of the human experience -- these guys are blogging about as close to naked as you can get. There is huge vulnerability and risk here.

13) This is good writing.

14) This is masculine meeting feminine head on. This is creation and re-creation. The birth of a blog mirroring the birth of three human children.

15) This is men showing us their wombs.

16) Imagine the potential. Imagine three babies (so far) growing up together online, their experiences and their parents' experiences represented within a single blog. Imagine them looking back on it 10 years from now, imagine their children looking back. Imagine their children's children.

17) Imagine these babies being the first babies in a new world.

18) I believe that the men blogging on blogsprogs will relate differently to their wives and children because they are doing this.

20) I believe we will all relate differently to one another than we would have because of this.

Be patient. It won't happen over night.

More to come--or add your own in thoughts in the comment box.

Let me explain why this is so important to me.

"We'd be blog building a bridge between generations." -- Michael O'Connor Clarke


Alright. I had my dance around the living room over blogsprogs, where three blog dads-to-be are blogging their babies into being.

And now I'm back again to talk a little more about why this new blog is so important. Three men, now gathered in a blog to talk about the end of the pregnancy of the women carrying their children, about the birth of their daughters and/or sons, the beginnings of fatherhood (one first timer, two back for more), about how they are experiencing these things, right now, real time, with us. These are fathers giving us a womb-side view as they welcome their children into the world. And then, as they grow, we will see children through the eyes of their fathers.

This was the type of thing I was trying to explain in the NY Times interview. Some might think I've babbled on too long about how I didn't focus on "women," in the interview, but tried hard to talk about how blogging is changing us as human beings. As men and women yes, but as humans first. As fathers and mothers, husbands and wifes, lovers, children, parents--redefining roles, crisscrossing who we've been with who we might be, and becoming more.

This is what blogging is about. This is how men and women are changing and rearranging their core by talking about truths that were once better left at home, under the rug or in the top cupboard above the refrigerator, or in this case, discussed by women in the waiting room of the OBs office, sans husbands. Do you see how important this is, and how even more important it is that blogsprogs flowed naturally out of what these men were already writing, thinking, sharing through weblogging? Now you know why I was dancing. These are my brothers and they are talking from the heart.

RageBoy said to me last week that blogging is redefining human beings (and I think he means right down to our DNA), that our "containers don't fit anymore." Crazy? Let's wait and see.

So it's 2 a.m. and I have to go to sleep now, but what I'm saying is: It's not that these three men are or *aren't* talking tech, and it's not that women are or *aren't* talking knitting. It's about what we're doing together. Here. And how it's changing us out there. It's about what we're knitting together. We're weaving ourselves in and out of roles, in and out of love, in and out of lives, in and out of work, and we're doing it right here, together, men and women, and we're writing and picking up the phone and meeting one another and showing one another it's okay to be human.

Good night. blog on. Dads, take this with a grain of salt--no added pressure here--wouldn't want to make you any more nervous than you already are.

-Aunt Jeneane

george explores the joys of soundmen...

George Sessum knows his musical stuff. I'm telling you so not as his wife, but as someone who above all respects his playing and his ear. That's why I especially like it when he tackles the artistry and business of music on his blog. tonight's take on the gaffs of soundmen is worth a read for anyone who listens to live music and wonders. (wonders what? wonders anything at all. because if you wonder anything at all, you were probably listening.)

"Kick drums go BOOOOOOOM! and not 'blip'."
--George Sessum

THIS IS THE BEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN.

ohmygosh, ohmygosh. I'm so excited. Michael O'Connor Clarke just started BlogSprogs, a new weblog to blog the children of our blogfathers-to-be -- Tom Matrullo, Gary Turner, and Michael himself, into the world. The real world. Well, and this world too.

Blogging babies into being. This is the best idea I've seen for a team weblog. As may have noticed, I'm gushing about these dads-to-be and imagining running through the maternity ward decked out in one of gary's blogsticker t-shirts with bubble gum cigars and helium balloons, exclaiming, "I'm the dad-to-be's blogsister, who do you think I am?!" Since I can't do that (can I?) I've been haunting their comment boxes and discussion areas like some kind of a twisted baby stalker. I am just so excited that these great friends and their lovely women are sharing the births of our blognieces and blognephews with us, I could SCREAM.

baby smells. cotton caps. receiving blankets. baby-bathed hair. tiny sweaters washed in that special laundry detergent. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

bring those babies on.

and one more

a re-post from July 13th based on a request from Ray Sweatman who actually reads what I write. Holy shit, who knew? Ray writes some great poetry over at YouLiveYourLifeAsIfItsReal, which I think is the longest blog name I've ever come across.

And Dean, I hear you too. Somehow a more daunting task. But I'm almost up for it. Soon.

now...

jenna at four

she tells me,
look at that plastic bag
I see faces in it
do you see them?

she tells me,
I hear TV when it's not on
I hear it in my head
do you hear it?

she asks me,
are the bumps
on the road
giant worms
underneath?

she tells me,
I don't want a baby
when i grow up:
how do I not
have a baby?

she tells me,
five teddy bears
flew across my ceiling
in the nightime,
I wanted you
to see them
but you were sleeping.

her mood spikes
and falls with the wind
submits only
to thunder
she tells me,
oh no
I made the storms
come again.

she fills my soul
then wrecks me,
she dances
light and fierce.

two more, because Ray asked.

I hadn't read voicelessness since I wrote it back in July, in blogger, one night. Ray reminded me it was out there, somewhere. I think you could say I blocked. Forgot about it. Don't remember writing it. I remember the hurt when it was coming out, but don't remember actually writing it. Tonight as I read it, I think the words are all just right, however the heck it got here.

And in response to Ray's other request, here's the link to George at 3 a.m.

[best not to let the kids read either one of these.]
[actually, best not to let the kids on to this blog lately.]
[well, maybe ever.]

and then I had this idea

I started that journey back tonight, back through my archives, remembering what I was thinking, where I was, what things smelled like, summer nights on the porch, smoking late, big bugs and fighter jets streaking night skies.

I re-read a lot of my poetry. I didn't think it was too bad. I thought some of it was actually pretty good, and that kind of amazed me considering I composed every letter of what I wrote during the past year inside my blogger post window. No forethought. No malice.

I noticed several themes, you know, when I strung it all together. These were, in no particular order: loss, love, voice, birth, chained, untied, child, without, writing, movement, silence.

Tonight I decided to make a book of it.

You know, some of it at least.

So I made a PDF. Of my poetry. Named it "Running out of Rhyme." Turned out to be 35 pages.

I'm posting it here. For you.

Download it if you want to.

thank you,
the manglement


click me

wetting myself into existence

Do check out all the demotivators at Despair.com.

(Thanks Denise for making my day.)

i cannot function in RW

i cannot write anything but blogs
i cannot write anything but blogs
help me.
please help.
send help.
remind me why i
must continue to function in real world
getting more and more difficult
being sucked in
living inside blogs
can no longer function in real world
schwans truck came today
eating s'more ice cream
not writing what I have to
can only blog
can only blog
not good
going
going
gone

A Reggae Music, mek we chant down Babylon

s'alright

feeling mighty broke today. mighty broke. you ever get to the point where you've paid all the bills that you've decided to pay and you're feeling pretty good, and then your husband's four-night run at the club gets canceled because of the ice storm that never happened and suddenly you don't have $30 to your name, plus a car sitting in a parking lot that ought to fetch $4K except the title, which the DMV said would be here two weeks ago, isn't, and so you couldn't sell the car to the assholes at CarMax, and then you start to look at the cupboards thinking what interesting tuna-related dinner you can make tonight.

You wonder why you paid the DSL. So you can still blog. And get your news, since cable went off long ago. And so you can do the work for your day job, which is ever more important.

And then you think about your day job and ask yourself, "why am I still working part-time? I should go back to full-time." But you don't. And you're not sure you understand why, except that you don't want to because you want the other part of you--the part you've started to free through blogging--to have the time, the peace of mind, to blog and to work on that book and to be a happier mother and wife, which, when she was working 60 hours a week, she just wasn't. But still. You question your sanity.

You order food from Schwans because you know you can post-date the check by two weeks. They are great about that and their food is good too. And you unass some stuff on ebay. And you think about what equipment can be pawned. You're glad you got food for the cat and dogs when you did; you're worried that you haven't gotten the kitten to the vet yet. But you got him vitamins and Iams kitten food and look at him grow, the rest will come.

You figure you'll catch some flack for this--"you're working part time by choice and you're complaining about money? your husband's a musician/producer--you two have chosen this life. just work harder." yes, there's that.

And those comments that come or don't come don't really mean anything today, because you can feel something more important than any of this brewing and you need the time to nurture it, you need to be able to divide your brain between stifling work and this world that is blooming, and babies that are on their way, signifying new generation in blogland, so that makes it all the more important. There's an urgency. You're feeling it.

Then you think about the money you just spent to upgrade the Blog Sisters site on blogspot, and the $10 you just gave Technorati, and the $70 you give Earthlink each month, and the Blogger Pro money. You knock your hand against your head and say you'll tell work next week that you're ready to go back to full time.

And then you start this post. And you decide, not today. You still have some stuff you can sell on ebay.

.

solo

George mourns the loss of an inspiration in the passing of Bob Berg.

for crying out loud, could I focus on something?

I just looked back at my blog over the past many days (as far as you can scroll). As I did, I realized quite suddenly that I don't focus on anything in particular. In fact, I really don't know what the heck I've been talking about for the last couple of weeks. I don't remember writing about half of these posts.

This cannot be good. I've talked about, in no particular order, childbirth and children, hospitals, friends, cats and kittens, blogging, blog evolution, sleeping, AKMA, college, turtles, George, bills, death, ice storms, holiday party humor, men and women, women and blogging, bloody lips, hate, love, grief, being a parent, Jamaican vacations, catching a worm in my mouth as a kid, driving while aroused, and various other unrelated topics.

I need to find an area of expertise.

blogging babies into existence

Tom Matrullo and Gary Turner are going to be fathers any day now. Yes, that's right:

This Guy:


and This Guy:


A year ago I didn't know either of them. Now I count them among my best friends, best friends I've never met.

Having not met them, only spoken to them by phone, doesn't mean I don't know them. The more we blog the more we know. I think about Gary and Fiona, about Tom and Wendy, several times a day; pray for them. I send them all the good wishes I can muster, knowing that within a matter of days, more or less, they will be welcoming into the world their children, and I'm feeling as much an aunt-to-be this week as I've felt in a very long time.

But we're not in one another's real world. So I can't go barging onto the maternity floors waving stuffed bears with helium balloons trailing behind. Can only just wait, with everyone else who cares about them in Blogaria. Wait and bite my nails.

Some words of encouragement--Jenna was breech and I had a c-section. Something I didn't want either. If the Turner turns again, or the Matrullo fails to matriculate, though, fear not. A c-section is not the worst thing in the world. It's over quickly. No trauma for the baby. No labor pains. No special pillows to sit on afterward. If you need advice, Dads, on where to look and what to say, and where to not look and what to not say, in the event of the rather daunting task of assisting mom-to-be in the OR, email George. He handled it all very well. Something about not looking in the reflection of the window.

God bless.

prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

I've never had a kitten this little before. This kitten is becoming tame, little by little, against all his better judgment. His instincts tell him not to let go--to lie for a while on my leg, but not to relax all the way. As soon as his eyes start to close, he jerks to full alert and bites my hand. Every time. He can't override his instincts. It has been this way consistently until today.

Today he's fallen asleep on me twice. As I type this, he's sleeping on my arm, purring away. Earlier he fell asleep on my leg. I never knew how relaxing a purring kitten sleeping on your arm is. I am likely to fall right back asleep. Again. Lazy day. Sweet kitten. He's right by my cheek. I'm looking down at him, his ears splayed sideways, beyond even purring now. He's sound asleep. He finally let go.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Slept all day today. Remembering back to college days when I never had a class before 11 a.m., wrote all night long, and slept Saturdays away without a second thought. Feeling like beer, pizza, some wings. Feeling like I have a paper brewing. Feeling like writing the night away. Feeling like making spaghetti in a crock pot and sharing it with the girls in the dorm, waiting for friends to bring the pepperoni and Italian bread.

Looking at this house a mess, bills unpaid, animals and family unfed. Missing my 20s.

Happy Anniversary, AKMA

I've met a lot of priests in my life--some of the best people to have touched my life, during my high school years, happened to be priests. I also abhor many of the past and present practices of the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church, and rather decidedly ditched Catholicism in my 20s. At any rate, I know a caring person, a good dad, and an empathetic and passionate human being when I read one. AKMA is all of those. Happy 16th, AKMA. Many more to you. Christianity and Blogaria definitely need you.

(p.s., although I finally ate your peanut brittle, I changed your URL on my blogroll. am I still in good standing?)

cat's nuts roasting by an open fire

Shhhh. Somewhere Babies Are Being Born

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!

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Hunter is tired of Jenna's CDs. He prefers vinyl.

The famous Hunter John Willis

my home office, made famous in the New York Times

Spiffy, ain't it?

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.

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.

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. ;-)

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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......

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.

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.

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!

it has been asked and answered...

who invented weblogging?

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.