Okay, so here's my guess. It's a bit hard to follow, but all good conspiracy theories are. They also require some leaps of faith. But that's nothing new to you guys.
So.
SOBIG.F apparently had its genesis on a porn usenet group. (No, it's not a link to the porn. so-so-sorry.)
Okay, you're with me so far--good name: so big / porn usenet site.
Actually, good branding job by the evildoers.
So, here's my theory.
It's the Bushes.
Jenna Bush and Barbara Bush, the President's daughters.
Yes. You see, my guess is that there were some, well, interesting videos of the girls on that usenet site. REALLY interesting. And, you see, my guess is that they were doing a thing or two with a folk or two that could make Monica and Bill look like celibacy poster children.
Uh-huh.
And MY guess is the powers found out--and I mean powers, not Powers, and they planted the SOBIG.F virus to bring down the net and to make it a national emergency such that they could come and seize the computers of every man, woman, and child until government geeks can figure out how to dismantle the GIANT BIG SCREEN Bush Girls Video that's coming to a screen near you (if you still have a screen near you) this September 11th.
So, what'd you think? Has all the good earmarkings of a 21st Century conspiracy theory doesn't it?
Or so it would seeeeem... ;-)
August 23, 2003
August 22, 2003
it's just us
When I open my email, I feel if I'm shouting into a deeeep canyon, "Hello?" and I don't even get the echo back to keep me company. I get the feeling it's SOBIG.F, the mother of all bandwidth-hogging viruses. Where'd everybody go? Even the spammers are going easy on me. Have the FBI and Rumsfeld disconnected everyone but me?
Has everyone been knocked back into the real world? If so, where are we meeting and what are we supposed to bring with us?
Imagine being one of the so-called 20 computers that the virus sought out as its host. Personal computers, supposedly in people's homes here in the U.S., in Canada, and in Korea.
Imagine the knock at your door.
If you think they'd bother to knock.
*****************
"We're taking you down, missus."
"Huh?"
"Your PC--please show us where it is. We know it's here."
"Um?"
"YOUR PC--SHOW US WHERE YOUR PC IS AND NOW! JENNA BUSH CAN'T GET TO MTV.COM! BESIDES, THE GLOBAL ECONOMY DEPENDS ON IT!"
"oh. well. um. you mean I'm one of the 20? No. That can't be. All my life I've wanted to win the lottery, but this isn't the right one."
"I'm afriad we got your ticket right here Ms. Sessum."
"Oh. Dear. Well, can I back up some files--I have to get my work files off or I can't send the stuff I have due. It will only take me a couple of minutes. I have a CD burner. Look, you can watch me do it. I have to--my clients are waiting for it."
"I'm afraid not. This computer is now the property of the U.S. Government. You've been infected, and we must quarantine you to ensure this SARS, errrr, I mean SOBIG.F doesn't spread to other unsuspecting victims like yourself or to President Bush's friends in Texas... I mean, global enterprises."
"But I'm an unsuspecting victim. And I have years' worth of work files on this machine--NO PLEASE--don't GRAB it like that!!"
"Woof Woof GRRRRR!" [[ed note: plainted wail of Bando the mutt.]]
"GERRY, GRAB THE WOMAN. TAKE HER DOWN!"
"No, please, I was in the middle of a post. Please just let me finish!"
"Listen, little lady--you may think we're fooling around here, but you got the A-Rabs trying to kill us and those damn Rusians who never got over the cold war--and don't get me started on them 'AfrikanAmerikans' -- don't you see, WE HAVE ENEMIES, and THEY are knocking!"
"But I swear, I'm not the enemy. Please don't take me down--not yet--give me two more minutes! I haven't posted yet! I haven't pressed publi...."
**********
So here we are.
Here.
As the uni-directional flood of email conversation crashes into serious roadblocks this week, the voice of blogging becomes even more important. Our words haven't slowed. We don't need no stinkin' cootie shots. The Web's heart is still beating. We're its pulse. We'll keep posting.
Unless, of course, there are more than 20.
Like, say, 20,000,000.
Has everyone been knocked back into the real world? If so, where are we meeting and what are we supposed to bring with us?
Imagine being one of the so-called 20 computers that the virus sought out as its host. Personal computers, supposedly in people's homes here in the U.S., in Canada, and in Korea.
Imagine the knock at your door.
If you think they'd bother to knock.
*****************
"We're taking you down, missus."
"Huh?"
"Your PC--please show us where it is. We know it's here."
"Um?"
"YOUR PC--SHOW US WHERE YOUR PC IS AND NOW! JENNA BUSH CAN'T GET TO MTV.COM! BESIDES, THE GLOBAL ECONOMY DEPENDS ON IT!"
"oh. well. um. you mean I'm one of the 20? No. That can't be. All my life I've wanted to win the lottery, but this isn't the right one."
"I'm afriad we got your ticket right here Ms. Sessum."
"Oh. Dear. Well, can I back up some files--I have to get my work files off or I can't send the stuff I have due. It will only take me a couple of minutes. I have a CD burner. Look, you can watch me do it. I have to--my clients are waiting for it."
"I'm afraid not. This computer is now the property of the U.S. Government. You've been infected, and we must quarantine you to ensure this SARS, errrr, I mean SOBIG.F doesn't spread to other unsuspecting victims like yourself or to President Bush's friends in Texas... I mean, global enterprises."
"But I'm an unsuspecting victim. And I have years' worth of work files on this machine--NO PLEASE--don't GRAB it like that!!"
"Woof Woof GRRRRR!" [[ed note: plainted wail of Bando the mutt.]]
"GERRY, GRAB THE WOMAN. TAKE HER DOWN!"
"No, please, I was in the middle of a post. Please just let me finish!"
"Listen, little lady--you may think we're fooling around here, but you got the A-Rabs trying to kill us and those damn Rusians who never got over the cold war--and don't get me started on them 'AfrikanAmerikans' -- don't you see, WE HAVE ENEMIES, and THEY are knocking!"
"But I swear, I'm not the enemy. Please don't take me down--not yet--give me two more minutes! I haven't posted yet! I haven't pressed publi...."
**********
So here we are.
Here.
As the uni-directional flood of email conversation crashes into serious roadblocks this week, the voice of blogging becomes even more important. Our words haven't slowed. We don't need no stinkin' cootie shots. The Web's heart is still beating. We're its pulse. We'll keep posting.
Unless, of course, there are more than 20.
Like, say, 20,000,000.
home
burnt red cedar
etched with lines
paintings of insects
tunnels trace paths
across shingles
making a road home.
this house it breathes.
aches and stretches
groans harmonies to the
rumbling of night
thunder.
door knobs give way
six bulbs blown
cupboard hinges hang
just one
garage door left
to rise and fall,
seal us safely in.
what more can come undone
in the heat of the summer.
and still,
signature fingerprints
along hallways remind me
how small she was,
imprints of life
the art of time passing
quietly
strokes of white baby shoes
and strawberry-stained fingers.
there isn't much
I would change
if I could,
except maybe
everything.
etched with lines
paintings of insects
tunnels trace paths
across shingles
making a road home.
this house it breathes.
aches and stretches
groans harmonies to the
rumbling of night
thunder.
door knobs give way
six bulbs blown
cupboard hinges hang
just one
garage door left
to rise and fall,
seal us safely in.
what more can come undone
in the heat of the summer.
and still,
signature fingerprints
along hallways remind me
how small she was,
imprints of life
the art of time passing
quietly
strokes of white baby shoes
and strawberry-stained fingers.
there isn't much
I would change
if I could,
except maybe
everything.
the sky is falling
this worm, this SOBIG and it's infectious friends, are just what we don't need.
i'm on the phone with a client at a big global technology company and she mentions the emails she's been sending me today, and I say, um, no, I didn't get them. Neither did I receive a critical email from one of her colleagues. Surprisingly, my bellsouth.net is hanging in there, delivering me all the spam I don't need and then some, while my clients' networks are griding to a halt, suffering email grande mals at a rate I can hardly track.
No, I'm not alone today. But I am a little scared.
I may also be one of the few who wanted to tell this client, we have two options when email dies: instant messaging and collaborative workspaces.
This is an emergency. You do what you have to do. I wanted to tell the client with whom I'm collaborating on this particular white paper project that boasts a fast approaching deadline, "Let's go start a team blog, mark it private, and do it like that. Just for today. I can't afford e-room, but blogger's free. We can make due. When we're done, we'll kill the blog. Google won't have time to spider it--and no, I'm not sure all of the technicalities on how blogger keeps private blogs private, but why worry--it's Friday and we can delete it by end of day tomorrow. We can post back and forth, leave comments, pull in links to relevant materials, and get the job done behind the backs of those motherfucking, spamloving, email-killing viruses."
That's what I didn't say.
What I did, in reality, was to send him an invitation to Yahoo Messenger hoping that he can sign on, add me as a friend, copy text out of his sent mail, paste it into an IM for me, from which I will copy it out and paste it into our MSWord document.
That will work for the edits.
But...
Let's hope everything's up and running once I plug the changes into the layout and have to turn around the 20-page MSWord file.
'Cause that's when I get to send the invoice.
i.e., that's how I eat.
Fuck you, infectors and spammers.
i'm on the phone with a client at a big global technology company and she mentions the emails she's been sending me today, and I say, um, no, I didn't get them. Neither did I receive a critical email from one of her colleagues. Surprisingly, my bellsouth.net is hanging in there, delivering me all the spam I don't need and then some, while my clients' networks are griding to a halt, suffering email grande mals at a rate I can hardly track.
No, I'm not alone today. But I am a little scared.
I may also be one of the few who wanted to tell this client, we have two options when email dies: instant messaging and collaborative workspaces.
This is an emergency. You do what you have to do. I wanted to tell the client with whom I'm collaborating on this particular white paper project that boasts a fast approaching deadline, "Let's go start a team blog, mark it private, and do it like that. Just for today. I can't afford e-room, but blogger's free. We can make due. When we're done, we'll kill the blog. Google won't have time to spider it--and no, I'm not sure all of the technicalities on how blogger keeps private blogs private, but why worry--it's Friday and we can delete it by end of day tomorrow. We can post back and forth, leave comments, pull in links to relevant materials, and get the job done behind the backs of those motherfucking, spamloving, email-killing viruses."
That's what I didn't say.
What I did, in reality, was to send him an invitation to Yahoo Messenger hoping that he can sign on, add me as a friend, copy text out of his sent mail, paste it into an IM for me, from which I will copy it out and paste it into our MSWord document.
That will work for the edits.
But...
Let's hope everything's up and running once I plug the changes into the layout and have to turn around the 20-page MSWord file.
'Cause that's when I get to send the invoice.
i.e., that's how I eat.
Fuck you, infectors and spammers.
August 21, 2003
loving moms grow children who love effortlessly
Doc said goodbye to his Mom yesterday. He shared her last words with his readers.
It was actually just one word: Love.
Love.
Let that settle in, and consider the type of person she must have been, the way she must have lived her life, to have that message waiting on her lips as she said goodbye.
Love=one another
Love=your neighbor, your brother
Love=yourself
Love=I love you
Love=unconditionally
Love=should be enough; if not that, then what?
If you know Doc, he is testimony to his mother's life and love, her ability to show that love genuinely, unconditionally. He has shared that with us not only in his postings about his mother and his family, but through that place Doc writes from. His mother informs his voice, and she always will.
That is evidence of a life fully lived.
Blessings, Doc.
It was actually just one word: Love.
Love.
Let that settle in, and consider the type of person she must have been, the way she must have lived her life, to have that message waiting on her lips as she said goodbye.
Love=one another
Love=your neighbor, your brother
Love=yourself
Love=I love you
Love=unconditionally
Love=should be enough; if not that, then what?
If you know Doc, he is testimony to his mother's life and love, her ability to show that love genuinely, unconditionally. He has shared that with us not only in his postings about his mother and his family, but through that place Doc writes from. His mother informs his voice, and she always will.
That is evidence of a life fully lived.
Blessings, Doc.
August 20, 2003
long2days
It's been a long couple of days with Jenna sick and home from school, which, as you well know, barely got started. The good news is she has meds for a wicked right ear infection and possibly strep, but the lame-o's at the doctor's didn't swab her because her ear was bad enough that she needed antibiotics. Puss and such. ewwww!
The whole thing put me in a funk, which was made a bit funkier because the nurse practitioner, whom we saw, only RX-ed FIVE days of omnicef instead of the usual 10. Two phone calls later and I had some bullshit mumbo-jumbo non-answer about why, but the damage was done--$25 to the wallet with a likelihood of being back there next week to see a REAL doctor who knows that this particular strepmonger doesn't cure easily, and that it's worse to NOT knock it out entirely, because it comes back (what class? that's right:) stronger.
In a side note, there has to be a carrier here in this house. There just has to be. After some Web research, I've determined it's either me or Hunter. Problem is, I have to live here, so if it's me, well, WTF? But Hunter on the other hand... he's losing his balls next week anyway, and I think I've talked the vet into putting him on antibiotics in case he's the strep-spreader, since the strep culture which would tell us for certain costs $110. Upon hearing I'd have to part with a c-note I don't have, I used my cunning linguistic capabilities to convince the dear receptionist that a few bucks and a few pills won't kill me, them, or the little fucker, so let's all pretend he's the carrier and treat him as such, shall we?
So, does this mean we're making progress?
I would like to believe that. Really.
Meanwhile, Ms. Jenna is perking right up on the meds--the asthma is simmering down and she even mopped the kitchen floor for me today and LIKED it. OH YES--this is a good thing. I told her she mops like her Daddy, who is incredibly thorough and painstakingly, um, careful when he takes on a project that needs elbow grease and a bit of strategy. She got that floor cleaner than it's been in three months, and she enjoyed squeegying the mop head more than any human being should.
So, the end of a long day (or thousand) and I think we're going to try school tomorrow. Nebulizer in tow to give to the nurse with what I hope is a sigh of relief from me, and some words like: "You can do her meds today. Thank you. I love you."
I'm not sure what the school nurse might make of this declaration from me, but being that she is the first school nurse I've laid eyes on since I was in eighth grade, I'm mighty bloody happy to see her. Peace of mind, you're almost mine.
I've been wanting to blog, writing in my head and then posting. Problem is, there's no server back there in the grey matter amusement park that is my brain. So everything gets lost.
So now I'm gonna get lost and go to sleep.
or at least count sheep.
thank you.
The whole thing put me in a funk, which was made a bit funkier because the nurse practitioner, whom we saw, only RX-ed FIVE days of omnicef instead of the usual 10. Two phone calls later and I had some bullshit mumbo-jumbo non-answer about why, but the damage was done--$25 to the wallet with a likelihood of being back there next week to see a REAL doctor who knows that this particular strepmonger doesn't cure easily, and that it's worse to NOT knock it out entirely, because it comes back (what class? that's right:) stronger.
In a side note, there has to be a carrier here in this house. There just has to be. After some Web research, I've determined it's either me or Hunter. Problem is, I have to live here, so if it's me, well, WTF? But Hunter on the other hand... he's losing his balls next week anyway, and I think I've talked the vet into putting him on antibiotics in case he's the strep-spreader, since the strep culture which would tell us for certain costs $110. Upon hearing I'd have to part with a c-note I don't have, I used my cunning linguistic capabilities to convince the dear receptionist that a few bucks and a few pills won't kill me, them, or the little fucker, so let's all pretend he's the carrier and treat him as such, shall we?
So, does this mean we're making progress?
I would like to believe that. Really.
Meanwhile, Ms. Jenna is perking right up on the meds--the asthma is simmering down and she even mopped the kitchen floor for me today and LIKED it. OH YES--this is a good thing. I told her she mops like her Daddy, who is incredibly thorough and painstakingly, um, careful when he takes on a project that needs elbow grease and a bit of strategy. She got that floor cleaner than it's been in three months, and she enjoyed squeegying the mop head more than any human being should.
So, the end of a long day (or thousand) and I think we're going to try school tomorrow. Nebulizer in tow to give to the nurse with what I hope is a sigh of relief from me, and some words like: "You can do her meds today. Thank you. I love you."
I'm not sure what the school nurse might make of this declaration from me, but being that she is the first school nurse I've laid eyes on since I was in eighth grade, I'm mighty bloody happy to see her. Peace of mind, you're almost mine.
I've been wanting to blog, writing in my head and then posting. Problem is, there's no server back there in the grey matter amusement park that is my brain. So everything gets lost.
So now I'm gonna get lost and go to sleep.
or at least count sheep.
thank you.
you go, george
George has his latest column up at AllAboutJazz.
George joined AAJ's roster as a columnist last week. Here's the press release announcing the news.
I wonder who does this guy's PR?
George joined AAJ's roster as a columnist last week. Here's the press release announcing the news.
I wonder who does this guy's PR?
August 19, 2003
30 posts--i can hardly do 3
man, i've lost my juice. no lie. I had every intention to take a run at my semi-annual 30 posts in 30 minutes (30 minutes being a mile markerI've yet to hit). But look. My eyes are clcosed and Iam so tired,I can't do it tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I have so many half thoughts running through my mind as I sit here typing with eyes closed. I think, though, I'm going to let them settle with me here. They don'tmake sense outside of this dream. Not really.
kindergarten cold
can it happen that fast? we get one week and one day in and Jenna's already sick. So far a cold--no fever. We are hyperminting (lysterine) and toothbrushing and vitamining like crazy. Ireally don'twant herto miss this early. but most of all, i want that itty-bitty nose to feel awll better.
can't keep up
Things that remain undone:
cat still has his balls
bills unpaid--nearly all
garage door--springs popped
garage floor--because the springs popped, the floor now gets to hold all the shit I never know where to put.
vaccuming--what carpet? under the fur you mean?
Ford Escape unsold.
press release 1 unwritten
press release 2 unwritten
laundry not washed
laundry not dried
laundry not folded
laundry not put away
dance class not registered for
therapy appt not scheduled
Yoga tape stopped mid-way for a week
kids videos 3 days late
dusting--ha ha that's a joke. who dusts?
virus update on desktop--worm? what worm?
hug not received
dance video still unwatched--recital was in June
mandatory unemployment workshop unattended
dogs out of food
jenna out of soymilk
there's more, but I think I've done enough damage.
cat still has his balls
bills unpaid--nearly all
garage door--springs popped
garage floor--because the springs popped, the floor now gets to hold all the shit I never know where to put.
vaccuming--what carpet? under the fur you mean?
Ford Escape unsold.
press release 1 unwritten
press release 2 unwritten
laundry not washed
laundry not dried
laundry not folded
laundry not put away
dance class not registered for
therapy appt not scheduled
Yoga tape stopped mid-way for a week
kids videos 3 days late
dusting--ha ha that's a joke. who dusts?
virus update on desktop--worm? what worm?
hug not received
dance video still unwatched--recital was in June
mandatory unemployment workshop unattended
dogs out of food
jenna out of soymilk
there's more, but I think I've done enough damage.
been quiet too long
up here late nursing a stomach ache. they happen to me every now and then, these intestinal bouts of agony that I think after many years of having them are due to not drinking enough water and drinking too much caffiene--i.e. dehydrating.
so I'm sitting with my knees up and my arms in some Frankenstien like extension over the couch, onto my little Borders lap desk which sits on the piano stool in front of the couch: i.e., my office.
I decided to see if I can do 30 posts to keep my mind off of my behind, for the time being. Off we go...
so I'm sitting with my knees up and my arms in some Frankenstien like extension over the couch, onto my little Borders lap desk which sits on the piano stool in front of the couch: i.e., my office.
I decided to see if I can do 30 posts to keep my mind off of my behind, for the time being. Off we go...
August 16, 2003
Running Out of Rhyme, Book 2
Running Out of Rhyme
Book 2
Poetry by Jeneane Sessum
In case anyone thought I was serious about pulling content behind a pay-per-view model, I thought I'd make a clear stand on what I think we should be doing here by giving and receiving one another's voices.
So here's the next Running Out of Rhyme poetry collection as a PDF.
Enjoy, and if you feel like donating, know that the Sessums and our COBRA health insurance plan appreciate every penny. If you don't or can't, read on just the same. It's all goooood.
I'll put a link to the side with the other volume for easy access as this post will move along its merry way into my incredibly free archives.
when the dog bites...
when the bee stings.... when I'm feeling sad....
--------------------------
It was a surprise when I heard her yelp LOUDLY from the side of the pool. Yelp? How about scream bloody murder. Yes, sweet girl got her first bee sting today. So many firsts at five. This was yet another. Having never been stung by a bee (yes, I know, weird) even though I used to catch them with my hands and put them in jars, I didn't know exactly what the right course of action was. Luckily one of the pool dads swooped to our rescue, found the stinger, and pulled it out. Of course, it started to swell with nothing to put on it in sight.
"Tobacco" two people said in unison.
Get one of your cigarettes, soak it in water, and squeeze the juice on it. That's what they advised. Nearly everyone there had their grandpapa use the remedy. Is this a southern thing?
For the first time I was glad I still had some cigarettes. I soaked one and made a paste of ground American Spirit tobacco.
"What's that?" Jenna asked.
"Something for bee stings," I lied.
Sort of lied. Thing is, it worked. Within five minutes she said it wasn't hurting so bad. Within a half hour, besides the lump on the bottom of her foot, you wouldn't know anything had gone awry.
This is your Southern tip of the day.
If you get stung by a bee, throw some chaw on it and carry on.
--------------------------
It was a surprise when I heard her yelp LOUDLY from the side of the pool. Yelp? How about scream bloody murder. Yes, sweet girl got her first bee sting today. So many firsts at five. This was yet another. Having never been stung by a bee (yes, I know, weird) even though I used to catch them with my hands and put them in jars, I didn't know exactly what the right course of action was. Luckily one of the pool dads swooped to our rescue, found the stinger, and pulled it out. Of course, it started to swell with nothing to put on it in sight.
"Tobacco" two people said in unison.
Get one of your cigarettes, soak it in water, and squeeze the juice on it. That's what they advised. Nearly everyone there had their grandpapa use the remedy. Is this a southern thing?
For the first time I was glad I still had some cigarettes. I soaked one and made a paste of ground American Spirit tobacco.
"What's that?" Jenna asked.
"Something for bee stings," I lied.
Sort of lied. Thing is, it worked. Within five minutes she said it wasn't hurting so bad. Within a half hour, besides the lump on the bottom of her foot, you wouldn't know anything had gone awry.
This is your Southern tip of the day.
If you get stung by a bee, throw some chaw on it and carry on.
while travelling through my archives
I reconsidered today. I have decided, if you can't beat em, join em.
All bloggers will henceforth adopt the subscription model, pull our archives behind a password and charge $1 per post for downloads. We understand that the NY Times and the Times Online are right. If something's old, it is worth more. Like antiques. Content appreciates with age.
I believe.
I believe.
All bloggers will henceforth adopt the subscription model, pull our archives behind a password and charge $1 per post for downloads. We understand that the NY Times and the Times Online are right. If something's old, it is worth more. Like antiques. Content appreciates with age.
I believe.
I believe.
travelling through the archives.
a song from jenna
Uncle Daddy and the Cousin Jumpers
McWTF?
the strep diary and more strep (oh my goodness... i remember may).
JBMCSE CorpoBlogging Methodology (it was supposed to be funny.)
Uncle Daddy and the Cousin Jumpers
McWTF?
the strep diary and more strep (oh my goodness... i remember may).
JBMCSE CorpoBlogging Methodology (it was supposed to be funny.)
August 15, 2003
RageBoy's Outta Juice
If you thought Boulder, CO was immune to the dastardly effects of the North East power outage, think again. Oh dear, RageBoy has been sucked into the black hole of Panix's New York power outage. (If the links work, then that means shit's working again).
No blog (hosted on panix). No email at the old homestead (clocke@panix.com). No nothin'.
BUT, he has asked me to let the blog world know he's still alive and can be reached for sympathy, empathy, and generous monetary donations at entropygradient@earthlink.net or through that obsolete boat anchor known as the telephone (720-304-8077).
Glad to be of assistance.
'Til the next lightning strike,
--jeneane
No blog (hosted on panix). No email at the old homestead (clocke@panix.com). No nothin'.
BUT, he has asked me to let the blog world know he's still alive and can be reached for sympathy, empathy, and generous monetary donations at entropygradient@earthlink.net or through that obsolete boat anchor known as the telephone (720-304-8077).
Glad to be of assistance.
'Til the next lightning strike,
--jeneane
August 14, 2003
too much power
the power is on in georgia. i wish it weren't. at my house anyway. I wouldn't want to have to throw out food, or re-set the alarm clocks in the middle of the night, or perspire in the late evening heat. I wouldn't want to not be able to blog or to have to explain to jenna that it will be okay in a few hours.
But I could go for a nice, brief, bring-people-out-of-their-houses-with-a-bag-of-ice-and-some-beers power outage about now.
I hear the lights are coming back on. Or so President Johnson says.
But I could go for a nice, brief, bring-people-out-of-their-houses-with-a-bag-of-ice-and-some-beers power outage about now.
I hear the lights are coming back on. Or so President Johnson says.
fame in the UK
This Article from the Sunday Times Online gives a shout-out to BlogSisters and a mention of yours truly.
I would link to the actual article, rather than the 10-pound (as in money) version I paid to download (can't download individual articles--only in multiples of 10 at a minimum). However, my emails to the editor who contacted me back in June about the story went unanswered once the article appeared. So I never saw it. Never knew when it came out. And now it is, of course, in big-media fashion, behind the pay-to-play firewall.
Obviously, given context clues, my photo made it in, but I'll never know which photo since they asked for a few and since archived articles appear sans photos. Sans personality. Let's see, remove the layout and design, remove the photograph, and charge for it. Um.... okay. That's one way to do it.
If I had time, I'd launch into a rant about big media and its cluelessness as to things even beyond blogging, as in: pulling content behind the magic curtain where people--even the people who contribute to stories, people who are quoted or featured in stories--need to pay for the privilege of reading them.
But I don't have time this evening. So I won't. I'll just bask in another five seconds of fame, which in the end, cost me somewhere close to the tune of $20.
Reason 567 why we'll be here long after they go away.
I would link to the actual article, rather than the 10-pound (as in money) version I paid to download (can't download individual articles--only in multiples of 10 at a minimum). However, my emails to the editor who contacted me back in June about the story went unanswered once the article appeared. So I never saw it. Never knew when it came out. And now it is, of course, in big-media fashion, behind the pay-to-play firewall.
Obviously, given context clues, my photo made it in, but I'll never know which photo since they asked for a few and since archived articles appear sans photos. Sans personality. Let's see, remove the layout and design, remove the photograph, and charge for it. Um.... okay. That's one way to do it.
If I had time, I'd launch into a rant about big media and its cluelessness as to things even beyond blogging, as in: pulling content behind the magic curtain where people--even the people who contribute to stories, people who are quoted or featured in stories--need to pay for the privilege of reading them.
But I don't have time this evening. So I won't. I'll just bask in another five seconds of fame, which in the end, cost me somewhere close to the tune of $20.
Reason 567 why we'll be here long after they go away.
August 13, 2003
August 12, 2003
the night in me
It's been this way forever, really. No matter how little sleep I get, no matter how early I wake up (5:30 this/yesterday morning), at 10 p.m. my internal alarm goes CLANG and the night in me comes alive. It's a curse, being a night person in a daytime world.
The night is when I write, the night feeds me, the moon not the sun cuts a path just bright enough to wander through, not knowing what could jump out, what might surprise, what waits quietly inside thick midnight blue.
Midnight blue--the first color I ever chose from the crayon box. Since I was old enough to scribble, it has been my favorite. Draw bright dark circles, press hard, see how black blue can get.
As a teenager, I'd take a flashlight under the covers and write in my notebook sometime after 1 in the morning, poetry, stories, loneliness mostly.
In that bed, the orange-yellow of the flashlight painted the white cotton sheets like the sunset, bright-white paper gleamed so fresh, dying for black ink to press against it, to make love, flesh-like pulp welcoming the stain of words, giving in to voice, receiving.
In college I'd pop no-doze and crank out 20, 30, 50 pages in a night. It didn't matter. Exhaust myself for morning so waking up wouldn't hurt so bad. Night was my heart's bandage.
And then, you start to like it.
You don't mean to.
But what you find in the locusts and crickets, the air alive with deathly quiet, no birds, no singing, just stillness--it aches for voice, for words, for sound, for touch--your sound, your touch.
The night is the empty room waiting for sound, a whisper, a scream.
Dark silence is electric. It is a hand poised with a knife aimed just-so at the socket.
It's the moment before, the time that is not yet.
At night there is hope things can get better. By morning hope gives way to blazing sun, to pain that cracks the eye and welcomes tears down.
I have to take the night. I have to.
The night is in me.
The night is when I write, the night feeds me, the moon not the sun cuts a path just bright enough to wander through, not knowing what could jump out, what might surprise, what waits quietly inside thick midnight blue.
Midnight blue--the first color I ever chose from the crayon box. Since I was old enough to scribble, it has been my favorite. Draw bright dark circles, press hard, see how black blue can get.
As a teenager, I'd take a flashlight under the covers and write in my notebook sometime after 1 in the morning, poetry, stories, loneliness mostly.
In that bed, the orange-yellow of the flashlight painted the white cotton sheets like the sunset, bright-white paper gleamed so fresh, dying for black ink to press against it, to make love, flesh-like pulp welcoming the stain of words, giving in to voice, receiving.
In college I'd pop no-doze and crank out 20, 30, 50 pages in a night. It didn't matter. Exhaust myself for morning so waking up wouldn't hurt so bad. Night was my heart's bandage.
And then, you start to like it.
You don't mean to.
But what you find in the locusts and crickets, the air alive with deathly quiet, no birds, no singing, just stillness--it aches for voice, for words, for sound, for touch--your sound, your touch.
The night is the empty room waiting for sound, a whisper, a scream.
Dark silence is electric. It is a hand poised with a knife aimed just-so at the socket.
It's the moment before, the time that is not yet.
At night there is hope things can get better. By morning hope gives way to blazing sun, to pain that cracks the eye and welcomes tears down.
I have to take the night. I have to.
The night is in me.
is it bedtime yet?
today I did six errands before 11 a.m.
i also got more coffee beans.
this is what I did.
that is all.
i also got more coffee beans.
this is what I did.
that is all.
morning
apparently there is something to be said for this hour of the morning. Me, I don't see it. Things should be asleep at 6:30. All things should be restful and dreaming inside peaceful slumber. Not knocking around the kitchen hitting the right side of their heads wondering how they could have managed to run out of coffee beans.
It's dark out.
Dark = sleep.
Oh my goodness.
I am a night person. Have always been. My system is in shock. What do people DO at this hour? Even when I commuted to midtown, I couldn't do this hour. I never strolled in before 9:30. It was not possible for me. Accept me as I am. Love me in spite of my early-morning hatred.
My aunt tells me that I will learn to find something special in the beginning of a new day. That there is something incredible about watching a new day wake up.
I'm waiting.
It looks dark. Quiet. It looks like things should be sleeping.
I've seen this hour many times in my life, but most often from staying up all night. And I include in those early morning feedings of a new baby.
6:30 for me is a stop along the way of nightime. It's the end of the previous day, not the start of the next.
All things are changing. Time to go wake the kindergartener!
It's dark out.
Dark = sleep.
Oh my goodness.
I am a night person. Have always been. My system is in shock. What do people DO at this hour? Even when I commuted to midtown, I couldn't do this hour. I never strolled in before 9:30. It was not possible for me. Accept me as I am. Love me in spite of my early-morning hatred.
My aunt tells me that I will learn to find something special in the beginning of a new day. That there is something incredible about watching a new day wake up.
I'm waiting.
It looks dark. Quiet. It looks like things should be sleeping.
I've seen this hour many times in my life, but most often from staying up all night. And I include in those early morning feedings of a new baby.
6:30 for me is a stop along the way of nightime. It's the end of the previous day, not the start of the next.
All things are changing. Time to go wake the kindergartener!
August 11, 2003
August 08, 2003
kindergarten jenna
Went to see jenna's kindergarten classroom today and meet her teacher. Monday is the first day of school. OH My goodness. I really liked the teacher. She's calm (that is good with a room full of five year olds), not too young, not too old, and has a nine-year-old daughter herself. Wshew. The room is nice and loaded with learning tools, plus five computers that look rockin'. Only 15 kids in the class. Nice teacher-student ratio. Wondering if I can just go there to do my work every day. Wouldn't that be cool? Back to kindergarten I'd go. Don't mind me, I won't get in your way. I'm just going to sit over here and blog and suck my thumb and maybe take a nap.
Anyway, some of Jenna's classmates-to-be were there getting acquainted. A wonderful blend of hues and backgrounds. That is the best thing about the south. Especially this big-city south. But everywhere, really. Even the small towns; even the country. There is blending in the south that goes waaaay back. Even those who don't want to admit it know. It is much less segregated here than in the northeast and midwest--those other parts of the country I'm intimately acquainted with. That is important in our world. Jump in and experience the world of people the world over.
So the children seem great, the teacher seems great, the room is nice and cool and clean, the learning tools are top-notch, and I am breathing an unbelievable sigh of relief--until Monday. Monday our baby girl takes the first step out of this front door into the real world.
It's a tiny step for her, and a big one at the same time. For me it's a step I will never take again in this lifetime, an ending as much as a beginning, and it's as heavy as it gets. Truly.
Wish me a good cry and a strong coffee.
Wish Jenna much joy.
Anyway, some of Jenna's classmates-to-be were there getting acquainted. A wonderful blend of hues and backgrounds. That is the best thing about the south. Especially this big-city south. But everywhere, really. Even the small towns; even the country. There is blending in the south that goes waaaay back. Even those who don't want to admit it know. It is much less segregated here than in the northeast and midwest--those other parts of the country I'm intimately acquainted with. That is important in our world. Jump in and experience the world of people the world over.
So the children seem great, the teacher seems great, the room is nice and cool and clean, the learning tools are top-notch, and I am breathing an unbelievable sigh of relief--until Monday. Monday our baby girl takes the first step out of this front door into the real world.
It's a tiny step for her, and a big one at the same time. For me it's a step I will never take again in this lifetime, an ending as much as a beginning, and it's as heavy as it gets. Truly.
Wish me a good cry and a strong coffee.
Wish Jenna much joy.
the young me
So let me jump right to this. While I was out to dinner last night, I was told I look 21. Then, no, wait a minute, 14 not 41.
That would seem like a compliment to some. If not that I have been trying to look and act my age--I have an age thing going on lately--you know? An age thing. I'm not sure what that means.
I'm trying to figure out how old I am. Really. Arrested development. Or something. So I've been coming out in this more grown up way, letting the wisdom of my years show for the first time, changing the way I dress some, those tall shoes and things like that, and then I get: 21, no 14.
Shut up, Jeneane, you're saying. Find something else to complain about. We know you have plenty.
But it's all related.
After I say my thank yous, I'm sitting there FEELING 14. Why try, you know? I feel my step father ready to belittle me. That's what 14 means to me. Dinner table arguments and drama. Become invisible--that's the answer.
The thing is, at 14 I didn't look 14, I looked 21. "You blossomed early," my mother would say. I'll say.
What does it mean--certainly it's not "the look" people notice when they tell me I look young as much as what--my manerisms? my humor? the way Jenna and I crack each other up? My vulnerability? My ....?
The harder I try, the younger I get, in some respects. In others I must be 100 by now. Maybe everyone's just too kind to say, 41? I thought you were 100!
I had an aunt--Aunt Gussie--the kindest woman on the Slavic side of my family. She never married and was the coolest of the cool, accepting and ever generous. She made tons of money during her lifetime, which she always shared with the children in the form of savings bonds. Aunt Gussie grew the best tomatoes I've ever tasted in my life.
She lived with her sister and her sister's husband in Ohio. They were mean to her, mean to everyone. They were just NOT nice people. Very unhappy. I remember the belittling that went on in that house when I would visit them with my grandmother. And I would think--but why does Aunt Gussie take it? She's the smart one, she's the rich one, and she's the cool one?
I don't know why she stayed. She never seemed to let it bother her, but it must have. I don't know. There is a lot I won't ever know. What I do know is that Aunt Gussie had a big laugh and a husky voice that always made me feel warm.
She lived to be 90, and she never, not ever, ever, ever, had a wrinkle on her skin.
I am serious. No wrinkles. Not one. I can't tell you how odd it is to look upon a woman of 70 (the last time I saw her) who's skin is as smooth as a baby's. Pure. Not one line. No one ever guessed Aunt Gussie's age right.
But it was more than her skin that kept Aunt Gussie young. It was something else. It was a reverse kind of thing. The something else WAS what kept her face and skin from showing her age. What was it? What was it? What was it?
Love? Joy? Fun?
Oh you should have seen her eyes. Sparkley blue with cheeks that rose to meet them when she smiled. I'm remembering her writing this, these words are forming her face for me, her laugh. Her bending down to pick me a plumb tomato.
I forgot her voice until I started writing this. Now it's in my ears and with me. Thank you, blogging.
Hello Aunt Gussie. I'm okay. I miss you.
That would seem like a compliment to some. If not that I have been trying to look and act my age--I have an age thing going on lately--you know? An age thing. I'm not sure what that means.
I'm trying to figure out how old I am. Really. Arrested development. Or something. So I've been coming out in this more grown up way, letting the wisdom of my years show for the first time, changing the way I dress some, those tall shoes and things like that, and then I get: 21, no 14.
Shut up, Jeneane, you're saying. Find something else to complain about. We know you have plenty.
But it's all related.
After I say my thank yous, I'm sitting there FEELING 14. Why try, you know? I feel my step father ready to belittle me. That's what 14 means to me. Dinner table arguments and drama. Become invisible--that's the answer.
The thing is, at 14 I didn't look 14, I looked 21. "You blossomed early," my mother would say. I'll say.
What does it mean--certainly it's not "the look" people notice when they tell me I look young as much as what--my manerisms? my humor? the way Jenna and I crack each other up? My vulnerability? My ....?
The harder I try, the younger I get, in some respects. In others I must be 100 by now. Maybe everyone's just too kind to say, 41? I thought you were 100!
I had an aunt--Aunt Gussie--the kindest woman on the Slavic side of my family. She never married and was the coolest of the cool, accepting and ever generous. She made tons of money during her lifetime, which she always shared with the children in the form of savings bonds. Aunt Gussie grew the best tomatoes I've ever tasted in my life.
She lived with her sister and her sister's husband in Ohio. They were mean to her, mean to everyone. They were just NOT nice people. Very unhappy. I remember the belittling that went on in that house when I would visit them with my grandmother. And I would think--but why does Aunt Gussie take it? She's the smart one, she's the rich one, and she's the cool one?
I don't know why she stayed. She never seemed to let it bother her, but it must have. I don't know. There is a lot I won't ever know. What I do know is that Aunt Gussie had a big laugh and a husky voice that always made me feel warm.
She lived to be 90, and she never, not ever, ever, ever, had a wrinkle on her skin.
I am serious. No wrinkles. Not one. I can't tell you how odd it is to look upon a woman of 70 (the last time I saw her) who's skin is as smooth as a baby's. Pure. Not one line. No one ever guessed Aunt Gussie's age right.
But it was more than her skin that kept Aunt Gussie young. It was something else. It was a reverse kind of thing. The something else WAS what kept her face and skin from showing her age. What was it? What was it? What was it?
Love? Joy? Fun?
Oh you should have seen her eyes. Sparkley blue with cheeks that rose to meet them when she smiled. I'm remembering her writing this, these words are forming her face for me, her laugh. Her bending down to pick me a plumb tomato.
I forgot her voice until I started writing this. Now it's in my ears and with me. Thank you, blogging.
Hello Aunt Gussie. I'm okay. I miss you.
August 06, 2003
morning coffee with...
tablespoon of non-dairy creamer, two packets of sweet-n-low, and two sugar ants.
yes really.
Too tiny to fish them out; too expensive to waste the coffee.
Ante Latte: Coming soon to a Starbucks near you.
yes really.
Too tiny to fish them out; too expensive to waste the coffee.
Ante Latte: Coming soon to a Starbucks near you.
August 05, 2003
down
but not out.
only 5 days left til kindergarten. must go spend them the right way. what else matters.
til later... j.
only 5 days left til kindergarten. must go spend them the right way. what else matters.
til later... j.
ain't it funky now
In a low spot today, trying to ward off Jenna's cold, and gettin' funky ova hea. Been listening to this.
I like this interview with George Clinton. Dig how he describes the funk beat:
"It's hard to stay there. You don't want to stay there forever because that would be RI-DIC-U-LOUS. That would be like coming 24 hours non-stop. And every time we start getting there, we'd push it to another level to reach for. We'll never be satisfied with where we're at, so we push it a little harder."
RI-DIC-U-LOUS. uh-huh?
Loud is the only way to go, driving the most funkless automobile ever built--this conservative blue Chevy Venture Value Van, which is no way to go through town or through life. But, it has wheels and a CD player, and four speakers that beat my head with the funk.
Be thankful for whatcha got, ya'll.
I like this interview with George Clinton. Dig how he describes the funk beat:
"It's hard to stay there. You don't want to stay there forever because that would be RI-DIC-U-LOUS. That would be like coming 24 hours non-stop. And every time we start getting there, we'd push it to another level to reach for. We'll never be satisfied with where we're at, so we push it a little harder."
RI-DIC-U-LOUS. uh-huh?
Loud is the only way to go, driving the most funkless automobile ever built--this conservative blue Chevy Venture Value Van, which is no way to go through town or through life. But, it has wheels and a CD player, and four speakers that beat my head with the funk.
Be thankful for whatcha got, ya'll.
August 04, 2003
Atlantans in the House with the little bitty ants, lemme here ya say HEY! HO!
Hey!
Hey!
Ho!
Ho!
Hey hey ho!
Hey hey ho!
.....
Where the hell are these tiny fuckers coming from? All summer long, ant bait after ant bait, boric acid here, ant baits there. I've put them under the microwave, on the window sills, under the cupboards, and those teeny tiny stinking little millimeter sized sweet-eatin ants don't quit.
Is it all the water? Is it just me? I can't take them any more.
I'm beginning to think they're hatching out of me.
I see them in my sleep.
Help. Me.
Hey!
Ho!
Ho!
Hey hey ho!
Hey hey ho!
.....
Where the hell are these tiny fuckers coming from? All summer long, ant bait after ant bait, boric acid here, ant baits there. I've put them under the microwave, on the window sills, under the cupboards, and those teeny tiny stinking little millimeter sized sweet-eatin ants don't quit.
Is it all the water? Is it just me? I can't take them any more.
I'm beginning to think they're hatching out of me.
I see them in my sleep.
Help. Me.
Mental (Health) Part 62
One of the other brain rearrangement projects of the last few months has been claiming the house back from the five year old and the animals. Sure, I go two steps forward, three steps back, but it's coming along little by little.
First the living room. It wasn't. For the last five years it has been a playroom, along with the dining room, kitchen, Jenna's room, and the master bedroom. Yes, since she was mostly at home she invaded everywhere and it took a genuine effort to begin to channel her STUFF into proper places, to restore some kind of order and then look upon the destruction that had taken place under layers and layers of toys and paint and glue and sparkles and stickers and and and and.
The living room is happy now. Remainders of Jenna's Stewardship now include a small table and chair for her to work at and ONE (count em--ONE) small box of toys. The colorful bins containing what must be thousands of pieces and bits of polly pocket clothes and barbie limbs and hundreds of other important things are now in her bedroom. Her desk in her bedroom boasts a globe and a clean workspace. Her bed is in a new place--no wall needed to keep her from rolling out anymore! Next, her closet. But not too much too soon. Change should be measured in relation to the sanity it creates or destroys.
A week or so ago, I decided that the dining room should be claimed back too. It should be a place to--well--dine. Or at least eat. So more organizing and categorizing, very little tossing of anything, but much relocating. Desktop PC's should live on computer desks, CDs in CD holders, etc.
Little by little, long before I knew what I was doing, I was preparing the house for a kindergartener. A school girl. Not a hopping bopping 1, 2, 3, 4, and finally 5 year old.
I took the deck back too--or I tried to--from the dogs. I painted the deck furniture without expecting the summer of rains the likes of which I haven't seen here before. But still, they look better than they did. A sprayer attached to the hose put a dent in the Diva-Dog hair which is matted from one end of the property to the other, especially on the deck. Spider webs sprayed away. At least six layers of dirt washed away.
A tremendous feeling it is taking back the house, putting the prison guard back in charge of the inmates rather than vice versa. We needed that kind of order boost. No idea if our natural tendency to do a million things at once, or the natural tendency to be... um... scattered will catch up with us. Probably. But in the mean time, I'm going to survey the fruits of my labor, stretch out on the couch, and enjoy the lack of complete randomness.
First the living room. It wasn't. For the last five years it has been a playroom, along with the dining room, kitchen, Jenna's room, and the master bedroom. Yes, since she was mostly at home she invaded everywhere and it took a genuine effort to begin to channel her STUFF into proper places, to restore some kind of order and then look upon the destruction that had taken place under layers and layers of toys and paint and glue and sparkles and stickers and and and and.
The living room is happy now. Remainders of Jenna's Stewardship now include a small table and chair for her to work at and ONE (count em--ONE) small box of toys. The colorful bins containing what must be thousands of pieces and bits of polly pocket clothes and barbie limbs and hundreds of other important things are now in her bedroom. Her desk in her bedroom boasts a globe and a clean workspace. Her bed is in a new place--no wall needed to keep her from rolling out anymore! Next, her closet. But not too much too soon. Change should be measured in relation to the sanity it creates or destroys.
A week or so ago, I decided that the dining room should be claimed back too. It should be a place to--well--dine. Or at least eat. So more organizing and categorizing, very little tossing of anything, but much relocating. Desktop PC's should live on computer desks, CDs in CD holders, etc.
Little by little, long before I knew what I was doing, I was preparing the house for a kindergartener. A school girl. Not a hopping bopping 1, 2, 3, 4, and finally 5 year old.
I took the deck back too--or I tried to--from the dogs. I painted the deck furniture without expecting the summer of rains the likes of which I haven't seen here before. But still, they look better than they did. A sprayer attached to the hose put a dent in the Diva-Dog hair which is matted from one end of the property to the other, especially on the deck. Spider webs sprayed away. At least six layers of dirt washed away.
A tremendous feeling it is taking back the house, putting the prison guard back in charge of the inmates rather than vice versa. We needed that kind of order boost. No idea if our natural tendency to do a million things at once, or the natural tendency to be... um... scattered will catch up with us. Probably. But in the mean time, I'm going to survey the fruits of my labor, stretch out on the couch, and enjoy the lack of complete randomness.
August 03, 2003
Talking to Clothes
Six garbage bags full of clothes that haven't fit me for months (and longer) are on their way to the clothing dropbox at the gas station up the road. I tried them all. Too loose. Wow. Six bags. Who knows? Not me. It's not up to me. You can hand it over. That's the beauty.
Old friends once crumpled in the corner of the closet are now hanging on hangers, saying, Hey, where you been?
Who me? I set my mom down a little over a year ago, didn't you hear? I don't have to carry her anymore.
Oh. You thought you did?
Well, no. It's not that you know you're carrying their illness around for them. It's not conscious. It's how it works until you see that you're not doing anyone any favor by carrying that load--least of all yourself and those you love. Plus it tires you out. It took me a long time. Longer than some, not as long as others, I guess.
Well, to a silk blouse this stuff you're saying doesn't make much sense. But we're glad to see you anyway.
Glad to see you too.
Recovery in progress.
Old friends once crumpled in the corner of the closet are now hanging on hangers, saying, Hey, where you been?
Who me? I set my mom down a little over a year ago, didn't you hear? I don't have to carry her anymore.
Oh. You thought you did?
Well, no. It's not that you know you're carrying their illness around for them. It's not conscious. It's how it works until you see that you're not doing anyone any favor by carrying that load--least of all yourself and those you love. Plus it tires you out. It took me a long time. Longer than some, not as long as others, I guess.
Well, to a silk blouse this stuff you're saying doesn't make much sense. But we're glad to see you anyway.
Glad to see you too.
Recovery in progress.
out with the old, in with the even older
Clothes. They are something. Something I haven't paid attention to for a long time. It happens after you have a baby. Yah, that was five-and-three-quarters years ago, but somehow the time in between birth and kindergarten are a whirlwind that leaves a woman happy to have made it through the day. Work full time means you have "those" outfits. The kind you don't have to think about in the morning. Put on business casual and out the door. Then you start telecommuting and--Whoa. Why get dressed? Think of the ten minutes I can save by working in sweats or those silly cotton shorts all day. Trip to the grocery store? Shit--gotta run to the doctor here, prescriptions there, food here, mailbox there, school here, kinkos there. All the while without realizing you're in the same clothes you got up and threw on, or worse, the clothes you slept in.
One thing about shrinking is that it takes you deep into your closet. Out with the stuff that just hangs there, in with the clothes you forgot were hidden in the recesses of your closet. You take out an old pair of jeans, not worn in six years, put them on, and you remember what you were doing when they were new. You remember that part of your life. Barn jeans or dress jeans, interview suit from two jobs past. Are they still in style? Well, kind of. Not really. But since you can't afford to dash off for a closet of new stuff, and since shrinking is still in progress, you put on those old friends and feel pretty good about them welcoming your body back into them.
Old clothes, old lives. There was a time when.
I wear taller shoes now. Jenna made me do it. OOOOh, mama, you look nice in tall shoes. Buy those.
Oh honey, mama wears sneakers. I don't need tall shoes.
Just one pair mama. Just get these.
So I did, at the beginning of summer. There is a lot of perspective to be gained from a tall pair of shoes. Seeing the world from a vantage point that isn't your own. I think it's good for the mind. Thinking outside your height. They're not fancy pumps, which wouldn't find much use traveling to and from summer camp every day, but tall sandles that add a nice angle to the ankle and keep my feet cool.
That's the thing about clothes and shoes. Sometimes you need to dig back far into your closet, or let your kid talk you into one try at something different. To give yourself permission.
That said, off I dash again. Been in and out most of the day--a day to myself--and off I go again.
Then, to rest.
One thing about shrinking is that it takes you deep into your closet. Out with the stuff that just hangs there, in with the clothes you forgot were hidden in the recesses of your closet. You take out an old pair of jeans, not worn in six years, put them on, and you remember what you were doing when they were new. You remember that part of your life. Barn jeans or dress jeans, interview suit from two jobs past. Are they still in style? Well, kind of. Not really. But since you can't afford to dash off for a closet of new stuff, and since shrinking is still in progress, you put on those old friends and feel pretty good about them welcoming your body back into them.
Old clothes, old lives. There was a time when.
I wear taller shoes now. Jenna made me do it. OOOOh, mama, you look nice in tall shoes. Buy those.
Oh honey, mama wears sneakers. I don't need tall shoes.
Just one pair mama. Just get these.
So I did, at the beginning of summer. There is a lot of perspective to be gained from a tall pair of shoes. Seeing the world from a vantage point that isn't your own. I think it's good for the mind. Thinking outside your height. They're not fancy pumps, which wouldn't find much use traveling to and from summer camp every day, but tall sandles that add a nice angle to the ankle and keep my feet cool.
That's the thing about clothes and shoes. Sometimes you need to dig back far into your closet, or let your kid talk you into one try at something different. To give yourself permission.
That said, off I dash again. Been in and out most of the day--a day to myself--and off I go again.
Then, to rest.
oh dear
Well, I made it to the week before Kindergarten without a mention of it. Just a recognition of it. But never a direct question. Just something that was. Because it's not done in our house. Just outside the house. So it never came up. Til today.
Mama, why do you smoke? It's not good for you.
[heart stops. deep breath.]
Well, you're right, Jenna. It isn't good and Mama is working on quitting. You should never start because it is something that's very hard to stop. But I'm working on it. In the mean time, it's adult business and not anything you should worry about.
Okay. It's bad to do though.
Thank you for asking about it, sweetie.
AKA:
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Quitting must now begin in earnest. Just what I need right now. My one escape. May need to find another.
Because I Been Busted.
Mama, why do you smoke? It's not good for you.
[heart stops. deep breath.]
Well, you're right, Jenna. It isn't good and Mama is working on quitting. You should never start because it is something that's very hard to stop. But I'm working on it. In the mean time, it's adult business and not anything you should worry about.
Okay. It's bad to do though.
Thank you for asking about it, sweetie.
AKA:
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Quitting must now begin in earnest. Just what I need right now. My one escape. May need to find another.
Because I Been Busted.
August 02, 2003
water water everywhere...
Went to a pool party last night where a dozen kids went completely nuts in the water. All ages, in around up down jump land dive slide splash--simultaneously. Three weeks ago, Jenna couldn't swim. Last night she did the diving board and slide for the first time and, big surprise, loved it. I tried to remain non-wreck-like as she dashed and splashed and slid and dove nearby and sometimes insanely close to 12 other children doing the exact same thing at the exact same time.
It was choreographed by a force larger than the sum of everyone there. I think that's why no one got hurt. Somehow it was a joyous dance by children who had a lot they needed to release, and to my dismay, no one smashed heads or needed to be pulled off the bottom of the pool, although I saw so many close calls my heart hurt from jumping.
There was something cathartic in the children's free-for-all of energy release. The other parents sat non-plussed while I sauntered around the edge of the pool, not quite willing to leave Jenna to her own devices. She was the second youngest there, but among the most daring. Not surprising.
Three of the adults had brought their dogs, and two dogs were residents, so in all five dogs ran around and around the pool, two nearly taking a dip, but instead happy to lie next to the pool while the kids poured big red beer cups of water over them. I don't know how much pool water the dogs or the children drank, but when the sky had blackened, I noticed a lot less water in the pool.
The lab got the pound cake. Maggie the Old English Sheepdog got half a pizza. Soon all the cups were in the pool with the kids, none left for those of us parched enough to considering drinking diet coke right from the 1 liter bottle.
The dynamics, which I can't help be a student of, thank you blogging, were what interested me most. That and wishing my best friend had been there so I could say, "Did you see that?" "Check that out!" "You won't believe I heard her say..."
Alas. Back to the water again today, to our pool, which is usually a little bit calmer. My nerves and my soul will find repair there.
It was choreographed by a force larger than the sum of everyone there. I think that's why no one got hurt. Somehow it was a joyous dance by children who had a lot they needed to release, and to my dismay, no one smashed heads or needed to be pulled off the bottom of the pool, although I saw so many close calls my heart hurt from jumping.
There was something cathartic in the children's free-for-all of energy release. The other parents sat non-plussed while I sauntered around the edge of the pool, not quite willing to leave Jenna to her own devices. She was the second youngest there, but among the most daring. Not surprising.
Three of the adults had brought their dogs, and two dogs were residents, so in all five dogs ran around and around the pool, two nearly taking a dip, but instead happy to lie next to the pool while the kids poured big red beer cups of water over them. I don't know how much pool water the dogs or the children drank, but when the sky had blackened, I noticed a lot less water in the pool.
The lab got the pound cake. Maggie the Old English Sheepdog got half a pizza. Soon all the cups were in the pool with the kids, none left for those of us parched enough to considering drinking diet coke right from the 1 liter bottle.
The dynamics, which I can't help be a student of, thank you blogging, were what interested me most. That and wishing my best friend had been there so I could say, "Did you see that?" "Check that out!" "You won't believe I heard her say..."
Alas. Back to the water again today, to our pool, which is usually a little bit calmer. My nerves and my soul will find repair there.
that real world
Out in the real world today doing real world things with real world people having a real world life. I think because I was blogging so much, even I forgot that I have a life, and actually live it, in the parallel (though sometime less enchanting) universe known as the real world. Humans are marvelous. Empathy is marvelous. But the blog world is still my favorite.
July 31, 2003
Healing the Sicilian Within
It's really hard being half Sicilian. Especially when it's your dominant half.
{badabing}
It's just hard. It's just so hair-trigger. You've got the motherly sauce-n-hugs part, of course you do, but you have the hired gun part too. You can't help that. It's a good with the bad thing, and it's nothing to be guilty or ashamed of.
The problem is, your instinct is so sharp and pin-prick ready for a single venomous strike that it takes conscious deliberate effort, and lots of acceptance of that side of yourself, to tame, understand, and eventually heal the Sicilian Within.
I have learned that the best way to quiet her down is to pat her hand for a while and let her sit with reassurance. Shhhh. It's okay little killer self. Shhhh. Mama loves you. Be a good little hit-chick and rest your head on this pillow for a while... nuh uh, now sweet knuckles, no moving around, just relax. shhhhh. settle and rest... shhhh.
It's about loving that part of you that can dream up thousands of ways to express your Sicilian talent, and yet also has the wisdom not to.
Today, I will love my Sicilian Within.
Today, I will help another fellow man rather than ponder what kind of design tire treads would make on his back.
Today, I will offer my hand to a fellow woman rather than wondering if her wrist is thin enough to snap with a single well-placed swipe.
I am growing day by day, don't you think?
{badabing}
It's just hard. It's just so hair-trigger. You've got the motherly sauce-n-hugs part, of course you do, but you have the hired gun part too. You can't help that. It's a good with the bad thing, and it's nothing to be guilty or ashamed of.
The problem is, your instinct is so sharp and pin-prick ready for a single venomous strike that it takes conscious deliberate effort, and lots of acceptance of that side of yourself, to tame, understand, and eventually heal the Sicilian Within.
I have learned that the best way to quiet her down is to pat her hand for a while and let her sit with reassurance. Shhhh. It's okay little killer self. Shhhh. Mama loves you. Be a good little hit-chick and rest your head on this pillow for a while... nuh uh, now sweet knuckles, no moving around, just relax. shhhhh. settle and rest... shhhh.
It's about loving that part of you that can dream up thousands of ways to express your Sicilian talent, and yet also has the wisdom not to.
Today, I will love my Sicilian Within.
Today, I will help another fellow man rather than ponder what kind of design tire treads would make on his back.
Today, I will offer my hand to a fellow woman rather than wondering if her wrist is thin enough to snap with a single well-placed swipe.
I am growing day by day, don't you think?
we could make a pact or something
so, when fall comes, you know, anyone who's a blogger just lets the leaves pile up in their yards, and then by October or something, except in Florida and some other hot states, well, okay, so this isn't going to be as easy as I thought.
What I was thinking was that if we all left our leaves in our yards this fall, and appartment/townhouse dwellers, bear with me now, you could have some leaves from multi-treed bloggers like myself, really, but anyway, no, I was thinking we could all just let our fall foliage pile up in our yards and then any house you ride by, see, you'd know a blogger lives there.
Either that or a lazy person.
So, I think it could work.
you know?
What I was thinking was that if we all left our leaves in our yards this fall, and appartment/townhouse dwellers, bear with me now, you could have some leaves from multi-treed bloggers like myself, really, but anyway, no, I was thinking we could all just let our fall foliage pile up in our yards and then any house you ride by, see, you'd know a blogger lives there.
Either that or a lazy person.
So, I think it could work.
you know?
music not words loud not soft
Hello.*
*not work safe
fellow white people: do not be nervous.
President George Clinton, His Royal Magicstry of Funkadelia, is saying "Funkin," not "Fuckin."
He does, however, say "Shit" a lot.
--dedicated to shelley who's a helluva friend.
*not work safe
fellow white people: do not be nervous.
President George Clinton, His Royal Magicstry of Funkadelia, is saying "Funkin," not "Fuckin."
He does, however, say "Shit" a lot.
--dedicated to shelley who's a helluva friend.
July 25, 2003
getting off
I can't be here right now. In my blog. I have to and I can't. Too much to look at. I'm running away here. Or from here. I'm not sure, but I'm going to go for a time. Out of my own head. One day at a time.
you can't help it
You can't help it when you're pushing the race-car cart through Publix with Jenna in the front seat driving and bopping her head and you can't help it when it starts because you can't help that you can't stop your ears from hearing and you can't numb your heart to the music because you have never been able to; you can't help that they decide to play Stevie Wonder and you can't help that it isn't the musak version but instead it's the original version; you can't help but wonder who decided to play the original, and you can't help that you're under the speaker and you make a sharp turn down the bread isle because maybe you won't hear it there, but it's too late and you heard it and you thought you'd make it through the grocery store, I mean people can usually get through the grocery store, but not today.
Just as time knew to move on since the beginning
And the seasons know exactly when to change
Just as kindness knows no shame
Know through all your joy and pain
That I'll be loving you always.
-from "As" - Stevie Wonder
Just as time knew to move on since the beginning
And the seasons know exactly when to change
Just as kindness knows no shame
Know through all your joy and pain
That I'll be loving you always.
-from "As" - Stevie Wonder
sorry, but that tree was majorly depressing.
changed the photo at the left. i couldn't take those naked branches and grey skies any longer.
July 24, 2003
that little mermaid!
Jenna "graudated" from her swimming class today.
--click photo to watch jenna dive and swim!--
Two weeks ago she didn't know how to swim. Look at her go now!
Swim, baby, swim!
For my part, my hair has never been so light, my skin has never been so brown, and my heart has never been so bruised.
Being in and of the water and watching Jenna soak up good health and fresh air and friends is my solace. No asthma since swimming started. It has done wonders for her lung capacity. She can hold her breath for what seems like forever!
Two days ago she swam down to 7 feet and touched the bottom. "WOW!" she came up saying. "This is just like the ocean!"
This is what life is right now. Thinking, growing, understanding, loving, momming, sunning.... and waiting.
--click photo to watch jenna dive and swim!--
Two weeks ago she didn't know how to swim. Look at her go now!
Swim, baby, swim!
For my part, my hair has never been so light, my skin has never been so brown, and my heart has never been so bruised.
Being in and of the water and watching Jenna soak up good health and fresh air and friends is my solace. No asthma since swimming started. It has done wonders for her lung capacity. She can hold her breath for what seems like forever!
Two days ago she swam down to 7 feet and touched the bottom. "WOW!" she came up saying. "This is just like the ocean!"
This is what life is right now. Thinking, growing, understanding, loving, momming, sunning.... and waiting.
Victim People--Fearless, Tough, Eager, and Bendable!
We could make it mandatory, maybe. Everyone must own at least one victim person on whom (which?) to take out their anger, aggression, and general ill mental health.
What's great about this idea is that realworld (meatspace for those who can stand the term) people could then leave Non Victim People (like you and me) safe and unharmed. And at the same time, when that nasty boss holds back the promotion you were deserving, you can take out your aggression in a truly healthy and spiritual way, as indicated in the Victim People's functionality listing:
-Shoot me
-Drive Over Me
-Hit Me with a Shovel
-Stab me with a knife
-Drop me from a plane
-Bend every toe and finger
"You dream it up and our fearless victim people are eager and ready to perform. "
Drop me from a plane. Hmmm. I hadn't thought of that. Excuse me, I must go now and have my first cup of coffee while I ponder the possibilities.
What's great about this idea is that realworld (meatspace for those who can stand the term) people could then leave Non Victim People (like you and me) safe and unharmed. And at the same time, when that nasty boss holds back the promotion you were deserving, you can take out your aggression in a truly healthy and spiritual way, as indicated in the Victim People's functionality listing:
-Shoot me
-Drive Over Me
-Hit Me with a Shovel
-Stab me with a knife
-Drop me from a plane
-Bend every toe and finger
"You dream it up and our fearless victim people are eager and ready to perform. "
Drop me from a plane. Hmmm. I hadn't thought of that. Excuse me, I must go now and have my first cup of coffee while I ponder the possibilities.
oh yes.
I can't get enough of this site tonight.
mmmm. tastey!
And you mean for just $60, I can look like this?
Hot damn! Wherez my credit card?!
Note, the price was reduced from $60 to $65 recently. Math is not important to him. I think some of his brains leaked out.
mmmm. tastey!
And you mean for just $60, I can look like this?
Hot damn! Wherez my credit card?!
Note, the price was reduced from $60 to $65 recently. Math is not important to him. I think some of his brains leaked out.
July 23, 2003
Pool of Life
That's the thing. Voices happening all around us, too many to parse, so I consciously shut down sometimes. Today, no. Been wide open all ears. Something sharp, glazed edges of cotton clouds. It was just after a storm, today, a nasty Tennessee drop-down storm that bent the trees horizontal left, then horizontal right. In these parts, that means hit the cellar. Some limbs down, enough leaves to sing autumn songs in July.
After, I took Jenna and her friend to the pool. Why not. Storm passes, you move, huh? We were alone there for an hour. Me saying, "Hey, pretend this is our mansion! This pool is all ours--you two are movie stars!" And they strut around in their racing-back Speedos, the kind Jenna says means "I'm a professional now."
A young man and his son come, something I wouldn't have noticed, but this 20-something-year-old was so loud, so animated with his boy that I had to notice. Still, I'm not one to say more than "Hey" to folks generally--asking the open ended questions too easily results in me being stung by the human condition.
So I watch the father jubilant with the boy, throwing him around the pool, running, breaking just about every rule written on the "What's Expected" rule sheet I received when I joined. He lets the little boy jump into the deep end while he's under water and the boy just about hits the wall when he jumps in. But he doesn't hit the wall. He's okay. My heart slows down. And they come up laughing and splashing and just sucking life right into their lungs.
By now I'm in the pool. Here we are, two parents, 20 years age difference, three kids playing some version of swim tag, looking like United Nations child embassadors, Jenna and her very-peach, light-haired friend, and their new Hispanic three-year-old friend, whose name, the Dad tells us, is Ramon. Like his. Two Ramon's.
Then I don't close down. I open instead, say, "He's a cutie. I remember him. He comes here sometimes?"
I remember I'd seen the boy at the pool the previous week with another family, and I remember the woman who brought him saying she was watching the boy because his mother was sick.
Ramon tells me how his wife was pregnant and had a siezure at 30 weeks, how the doctors had to deliver his little girl very prematurely, how his baby girl weighed just 3 pounds 10 ounces, how they brought her home from the hospital yesterday, how proud he is, how well the baby is doing, now 4 pounds 11 ounces. Today he brought little Ramon to the pool so he could give him some attention. It's been so hectic at their house.
You see, when his 24-year-old wife had the siezure that led to the premature delivery of their baby, the doctors did an MRI and found that the siezure had been caused by a brain tumor. At 24 she went from unconsciousness to a c-section to brain surgery.
"They got 90 percent of the tumor, they said, so we're really hoping, we're really gonna beat this thing, you know?"
"Man. Man. You've got the energy, the attitude. I can tell."
And I wasn't just saying that.
We talked for a while. Long enough for him to tell me that the reason he and his boy had shaved their heads was because they wanted to be a team with mommy who was losing her hair to chemo. Long enough for him to tell me he had stopped drinking when this happened--that he hadn't been drinking a lot, but that he knew with stress of these events the temptation to drink hard would have been impossible to resist. So he had to quit, and did a month ago.
"I bought a punching bag and hung it in the basement. That's my place to go."
"Wow. wow. hey. Wshew. That is smart, way smart. I hear you."
I tell him that if he and his wife need little Ramon looked after, I'll watch the boy at the pool some weekdays. With the lifeguard and I both there, I'm sure he'll be safe, I say. He thanks me and tells me how kind people have been, and he holds the boy tighter.
"I appreciate it. I'll think about it. I've been so worried about him since all of this started up. I worry about every little thing that happens to him."
"I know, I would too, but you are doing so great, you two have such fun--I noticed that right away."
He smiles and throws Ramon about six feet in the air, and Ramon hangs for an instant in the sky and then splashes down hard. Soon the girls are there, "Throw me! Throw me!"
And suddenly kids are flying through the sky, one after the other, and as I lean my head back to watch them soar, I notice the edges of the clouds again.
After, I took Jenna and her friend to the pool. Why not. Storm passes, you move, huh? We were alone there for an hour. Me saying, "Hey, pretend this is our mansion! This pool is all ours--you two are movie stars!" And they strut around in their racing-back Speedos, the kind Jenna says means "I'm a professional now."
A young man and his son come, something I wouldn't have noticed, but this 20-something-year-old was so loud, so animated with his boy that I had to notice. Still, I'm not one to say more than "Hey" to folks generally--asking the open ended questions too easily results in me being stung by the human condition.
So I watch the father jubilant with the boy, throwing him around the pool, running, breaking just about every rule written on the "What's Expected" rule sheet I received when I joined. He lets the little boy jump into the deep end while he's under water and the boy just about hits the wall when he jumps in. But he doesn't hit the wall. He's okay. My heart slows down. And they come up laughing and splashing and just sucking life right into their lungs.
By now I'm in the pool. Here we are, two parents, 20 years age difference, three kids playing some version of swim tag, looking like United Nations child embassadors, Jenna and her very-peach, light-haired friend, and their new Hispanic three-year-old friend, whose name, the Dad tells us, is Ramon. Like his. Two Ramon's.
Then I don't close down. I open instead, say, "He's a cutie. I remember him. He comes here sometimes?"
I remember I'd seen the boy at the pool the previous week with another family, and I remember the woman who brought him saying she was watching the boy because his mother was sick.
Ramon tells me how his wife was pregnant and had a siezure at 30 weeks, how the doctors had to deliver his little girl very prematurely, how his baby girl weighed just 3 pounds 10 ounces, how they brought her home from the hospital yesterday, how proud he is, how well the baby is doing, now 4 pounds 11 ounces. Today he brought little Ramon to the pool so he could give him some attention. It's been so hectic at their house.
You see, when his 24-year-old wife had the siezure that led to the premature delivery of their baby, the doctors did an MRI and found that the siezure had been caused by a brain tumor. At 24 she went from unconsciousness to a c-section to brain surgery.
"They got 90 percent of the tumor, they said, so we're really hoping, we're really gonna beat this thing, you know?"
"Man. Man. You've got the energy, the attitude. I can tell."
And I wasn't just saying that.
We talked for a while. Long enough for him to tell me that the reason he and his boy had shaved their heads was because they wanted to be a team with mommy who was losing her hair to chemo. Long enough for him to tell me he had stopped drinking when this happened--that he hadn't been drinking a lot, but that he knew with stress of these events the temptation to drink hard would have been impossible to resist. So he had to quit, and did a month ago.
"I bought a punching bag and hung it in the basement. That's my place to go."
"Wow. wow. hey. Wshew. That is smart, way smart. I hear you."
I tell him that if he and his wife need little Ramon looked after, I'll watch the boy at the pool some weekdays. With the lifeguard and I both there, I'm sure he'll be safe, I say. He thanks me and tells me how kind people have been, and he holds the boy tighter.
"I appreciate it. I'll think about it. I've been so worried about him since all of this started up. I worry about every little thing that happens to him."
"I know, I would too, but you are doing so great, you two have such fun--I noticed that right away."
He smiles and throws Ramon about six feet in the air, and Ramon hangs for an instant in the sky and then splashes down hard. Soon the girls are there, "Throw me! Throw me!"
And suddenly kids are flying through the sky, one after the other, and as I lean my head back to watch them soar, I notice the edges of the clouds again.
July 22, 2003
I need a get rich quick scheme...
Anyone got a good one? Really--let me know. The furnace/AC man is coming tomorrow to begin the replacement--well the finance part of it--of the whole kit-and-kaboodle (which I thought until I was 34 was "kitten kaboodle." Apparently I wasn't alone).
What I need is a scheme, or a meme, or something.
Pork bellies? Magnets? Soybeans? Make-Up? What? Something's out there. It has to be.
What I need is a scheme, or a meme, or something.
Pork bellies? Magnets? Soybeans? Make-Up? What? Something's out there. It has to be.
Skinning a blog is fucking weird.
I've always had my blog set as my IE homepage, so when I open explorer, I go to my own blog. Used to be, when I jumped around more, and still is sometimes, that I'd hop from my blog to my favorite blogs off my own blogroll. But for the last long while my blog got so complex-looking that it began to resemble my mind, and, well, that's not a good thing. All jumbled and columnified. I couldn't keep track of what was going on anywhere but in the middle.
This is my first time with a two-column blog I think. Or at least in a long time. It's strange. When I open it, the words I see don't look like my words at all. Different font, different point-size. Different background. We really are branding ourselves--if only to ourselves--out here.
So, rebranded and newly landed, allied 2.0 begins.
This is my first time with a two-column blog I think. Or at least in a long time. It's strange. When I open it, the words I see don't look like my words at all. Different font, different point-size. Different background. We really are branding ourselves--if only to ourselves--out here.
So, rebranded and newly landed, allied 2.0 begins.
July 21, 2003
It's funny
well, not funny ha-ha, but funny odd. I took some pics of the sundrenched me today--the first time I've taken pics in a while. You know, haven't kept a secret of the fact that I've been trying to get healthier, fitter, more relaxed despite some large looming life stress. So all of that isn't the funny part. The funny part, actually (again, not funny ha-ha) is as the new me blossoms, as these burdens I've been carrying--literally--a good part of my life transform into something different (not better or worse, but different), I actually am feeling better, doing better, and I don't really recognize my new face.
The face I see looks, well, a lot like my mother's, my mother whom I haven't talked to except accidentally for a year now, have seen just a couple of times. Not just like my mother's--my father is there oh for sure, and my Aunt Penny, yes, Hi Auntie--I see you in my face too! But, wshew, how do I say this, well: I don't recognize myself. My goodness. Let me introduce myself: Jeneane, meet Jeneane.
I wrote some time ago about not having permission to be beautiful growing up. That's the thing. I don't know if she meant it, and no, not consciously she didn't, I don't think--bear with me... I'm thinking this through as I go--but when I see me now without the influence of so much that has burdened me, I say, no wonder:
It was the her in me she had to cover up. It wasn't that I looked like him.
It was the her in me.
If she could know that she is lovable, or if she could have known that, I wonder how it would have been, well, different. Again, not better or worse, but different.
My mother, she used to always say, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Yesterday I came up with a new version of that old saying. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but thank goodness it can roll a ways."
You are. You know? You are lovable. You are worthy of love and health and happiness. You are beautiful. No matter what.
We all are.
So much learning, so much to learn. Fear not. I'm on the case.
The face I see looks, well, a lot like my mother's, my mother whom I haven't talked to except accidentally for a year now, have seen just a couple of times. Not just like my mother's--my father is there oh for sure, and my Aunt Penny, yes, Hi Auntie--I see you in my face too! But, wshew, how do I say this, well: I don't recognize myself. My goodness. Let me introduce myself: Jeneane, meet Jeneane.
I wrote some time ago about not having permission to be beautiful growing up. That's the thing. I don't know if she meant it, and no, not consciously she didn't, I don't think--bear with me... I'm thinking this through as I go--but when I see me now without the influence of so much that has burdened me, I say, no wonder:
It was the her in me she had to cover up. It wasn't that I looked like him.
It was the her in me.
If she could know that she is lovable, or if she could have known that, I wonder how it would have been, well, different. Again, not better or worse, but different.
My mother, she used to always say, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Yesterday I came up with a new version of that old saying. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but thank goodness it can roll a ways."
You are. You know? You are lovable. You are worthy of love and health and happiness. You are beautiful. No matter what.
We all are.
So much learning, so much to learn. Fear not. I'm on the case.
July 20, 2003
pulled another post
it wasn't anything really -- a send off for myself for a time, of sorts. But since I pulled my first post the other day (see below), I decided to pull this last one too. Actually, it's rather liberating pulling posts. Once you start, you just can't stop. Like Pringles. Or Ruffles. Or Truffles.
I wonder if I could pull all of them? No. Okay. Not now. But maybe.
If anyone needs a post pulled, I'll be happy to do it for you. I really enjoyed the rush of power of the grand undo. I wish it were that easy to undo everything.
best be off for a time.
I wonder if I could pull all of them? No. Okay. Not now. But maybe.
If anyone needs a post pulled, I'll be happy to do it for you. I really enjoyed the rush of power of the grand undo. I wish it were that easy to undo everything.
best be off for a time.
July 17, 2003
lost boys
I was doing okay. with not being here. okay. keeping it barely together. lots to do. thought I was okay, you know, when I stepped outside my front door, and there he was at the bottom of the porch. dirty clothes, snotty nose, the saddest eyes, and yet trusting.
A big dog was following him.
"Um, hi there little guy--where's your mommy?" I look in both directions.
"mommy not heow."
"Okay." I look up and down the street. No one. Walk down the steps to talk to him.
His shoes are untied, the tongues all stuck in and crumpled around his tan feet.
"Where do you live?"
"Geawgia."
"Oh wow."
He hands me a pinecone, points to the dog and says, "for bigfoot.. lalallalal bigfoot."
I sit on the step.
"How old are you sweetie?"
Two fingers come up.
Car goes up the road, down the road. He walked here all alone, on his way to someone who'd care.
"I'm sure someone's worried about you--can you show me where you came from?"
He points up the street.
"Okay, well, we'd better go back."
He takes my hand and asks about his mama. I say, "We'll find her."
Half way down the driveway, I pick him up and hold him. "I'll carry you sweetie."
But we don't find his mother. When he points to the door where he came from, three houses up, I know immediately that the same 18-year-old girl who had no mom of her own to speak of, who's puppy I've been taking care of for two nights, is in charge of Hanzel this day.
That's what he tells me his name is, and the irony and tragedy of it bowl me over.
hanzel and gretel. him and me.
I call for her and she comes out, eventually. Someone else leaves as she opens the door. She says its her uncle.
I say, "He was at my house. He's thirsty."
Mothers know this.
"I don't know why he doesn't stay in the yard--he likes to wander around."
That's what we learn to do at two years of age when no one is there for us.
To wander. Keep looking. Fly free in chains.
To keep looking for what was never there in the first place.
Standing in one place and seeing how hurt and alone we are is facing our own annihilation. You can't do it at two. But sometime, maybe, we all do it.
I say, "Well, get him some water."
And before I hand him over, I tell him if he ever gets lost again, he can come and get me.
"Ok," he says.
She says, "Well, if anything else of mine wanders down your way--jeesh the dog and now the kid--let me know."
I say, "Get him some water. He's thirsty."
And I walk home in barefeet with the pavement burning my soles.
And I weep.
A big dog was following him.
"Um, hi there little guy--where's your mommy?" I look in both directions.
"mommy not heow."
"Okay." I look up and down the street. No one. Walk down the steps to talk to him.
His shoes are untied, the tongues all stuck in and crumpled around his tan feet.
"Where do you live?"
"Geawgia."
"Oh wow."
He hands me a pinecone, points to the dog and says, "for bigfoot.. lalallalal bigfoot."
I sit on the step.
"How old are you sweetie?"
Two fingers come up.
Car goes up the road, down the road. He walked here all alone, on his way to someone who'd care.
"I'm sure someone's worried about you--can you show me where you came from?"
He points up the street.
"Okay, well, we'd better go back."
He takes my hand and asks about his mama. I say, "We'll find her."
Half way down the driveway, I pick him up and hold him. "I'll carry you sweetie."
But we don't find his mother. When he points to the door where he came from, three houses up, I know immediately that the same 18-year-old girl who had no mom of her own to speak of, who's puppy I've been taking care of for two nights, is in charge of Hanzel this day.
That's what he tells me his name is, and the irony and tragedy of it bowl me over.
hanzel and gretel. him and me.
I call for her and she comes out, eventually. Someone else leaves as she opens the door. She says its her uncle.
I say, "He was at my house. He's thirsty."
Mothers know this.
"I don't know why he doesn't stay in the yard--he likes to wander around."
That's what we learn to do at two years of age when no one is there for us.
To wander. Keep looking. Fly free in chains.
To keep looking for what was never there in the first place.
Standing in one place and seeing how hurt and alone we are is facing our own annihilation. You can't do it at two. But sometime, maybe, we all do it.
I say, "Well, get him some water."
And before I hand him over, I tell him if he ever gets lost again, he can come and get me.
"Ok," he says.
She says, "Well, if anything else of mine wanders down your way--jeesh the dog and now the kid--let me know."
I say, "Get him some water. He's thirsty."
And I walk home in barefeet with the pavement burning my soles.
And I weep.
first time i ever pulled a post
it was supposed to be a funny post urging halley to get comments. but on second thought, it's not my place to talk about another blogger's space and what it should be or not be, and on third thought, i really don't feel funny anymore, and on fourth thought, i have been bit by the not-wanting-to-blog bug. so, time for some brain work of my own.
July 16, 2003
like i really thought...
that puppy would go away and stay away. she's back. sitting outside the front door. scratching to come in. called the owner, who's nowhere to be found. wet. scared from the thunder. a sad sack. I could put her back out in it. But she's happily chewing on Jenna's old slipper now in the hallway. what else to do? just wait. my mantra.
Awe but she's cute.
Awe but she's cute.
storm
tonight when
the rumbling came
I stood in the open,
eyes to the sky
and dared
the lightning
down.
I did that. Tonight. At Walmart. How romantic an image. Me, under the neon blue, reflecting off wet pavement. Jenna was safe in the car when the shaking started. That is what the low end does here, the thunder--it shakes everything. People, houses, china. Rumbles in for what feels like an hour.
I finished loading packages into the van, one eye on the light show above and off to the west, coming. Coming fast, strikes five miles up 92.
I closed the hatchback and stepped into the open. Stood there. For longer than you do. A lot longer. Wanting it to hit, discharge my rage, make my heart molten, take away the pain in my right side. Been hurting so long now. I don't know. A rib, something. Phantom pain. Only fire can turn coal to dust like that.
It happens, from time to time, the burning, the wanting to shock and be shocked.
It's new and I have learned to difuse it with the sunshine of the day.
But not at night, when I would spit fire to the sky and line midnight blue with veins of white.
the rumbling came
I stood in the open,
eyes to the sky
and dared
the lightning
down.
I did that. Tonight. At Walmart. How romantic an image. Me, under the neon blue, reflecting off wet pavement. Jenna was safe in the car when the shaking started. That is what the low end does here, the thunder--it shakes everything. People, houses, china. Rumbles in for what feels like an hour.
I finished loading packages into the van, one eye on the light show above and off to the west, coming. Coming fast, strikes five miles up 92.
I closed the hatchback and stepped into the open. Stood there. For longer than you do. A lot longer. Wanting it to hit, discharge my rage, make my heart molten, take away the pain in my right side. Been hurting so long now. I don't know. A rib, something. Phantom pain. Only fire can turn coal to dust like that.
It happens, from time to time, the burning, the wanting to shock and be shocked.
It's new and I have learned to difuse it with the sunshine of the day.
But not at night, when I would spit fire to the sky and line midnight blue with veins of white.
When Gary Met Annie
This is why blogging is different than any other online forum.
Taking the relationships to the streets from a place of already knowing-you-knowing-me, from the UK to Seattle, on micro wheels, over a vulnerable body, a body about to face the most vulnerable place anyone can know, but not yet knowing that, not then, but rather afterward, and yet still surrendering: I see you, I know you, I trust you not to hurt me.
Next: I don't trust me not to hurt you, but you do, don't you, and so let's laugh and play instead. Blogger joy, blogger tears. Hold my hand across the Web.
Taking the relationships to the streets from a place of already knowing-you-knowing-me, from the UK to Seattle, on micro wheels, over a vulnerable body, a body about to face the most vulnerable place anyone can know, but not yet knowing that, not then, but rather afterward, and yet still surrendering: I see you, I know you, I trust you not to hurt me.
Next: I don't trust me not to hurt you, but you do, don't you, and so let's laugh and play instead. Blogger joy, blogger tears. Hold my hand across the Web.
Great Car for Sale
2001 Ford Escape hardly driven. The benefit of buying a car from a telecommuter. Still under original warranty. Sweeet.
Figure, since I got the puppy back to its home, might be a good day to mention we have a car that also needs a home. Never can tell.
Figure, since I got the puppy back to its home, might be a good day to mention we have a car that also needs a home. Never can tell.
July 15, 2003
when i get too into myself, I'm reminded every time
Such was this evening, when I spent a half hour trying to chase this puppy out of the yard--shooo! go home. I tried to get the van out of the garage. She'd run in. I'd get out of the van and chase her out of the garage. Try to close it. She'd run in.
oh gosh you're sweet. Now go away. Can't have this. Too much going on already. So go. GO HOME!
But she wouldn't. Hasn't yet.
I went to a bunch of neighbors with her. "Oh yah, she's been around here for a couple of weeks. Friendly enough. No one knows where she came from. Might have been those people that moved out."
A walker from the next street over. Same story. "Yep, we've seen her. Doesn't seem to belong to anyone. Showed up at the Peterson's last week."
Oh great.
And Jenna.
Mommy please please she loves me!
No Jenna--there's a rule. You can't have three dogs and a cat. It's against the rules.
Surely there must be rules.
Atlanta bloggers, need a puppy? She looks to be about 12 weeks. Baby teeth. Black and brown. Smart. Skinny but seems okay. Pictures coming soon. Would sure make some kid a nice dog. Not this kid. Or this kid's kid. Can barely keep it together over here.
oye. she's in the kitchen now. staring at Hunter. Smart girl. Hasn't tried a thing except laying down and rolling over to get his attention. And Hunter, dare I say it, likes her.
Haven't tested Bando or Diva. Maybe put her out back with Bando. Give old Diva a break. Until someone can come get her and give her a good home.
Or until I lose it.
Whichever comes first.
oh gosh you're sweet. Now go away. Can't have this. Too much going on already. So go. GO HOME!
But she wouldn't. Hasn't yet.
I went to a bunch of neighbors with her. "Oh yah, she's been around here for a couple of weeks. Friendly enough. No one knows where she came from. Might have been those people that moved out."
A walker from the next street over. Same story. "Yep, we've seen her. Doesn't seem to belong to anyone. Showed up at the Peterson's last week."
Oh great.
And Jenna.
Mommy please please she loves me!
No Jenna--there's a rule. You can't have three dogs and a cat. It's against the rules.
Surely there must be rules.
Atlanta bloggers, need a puppy? She looks to be about 12 weeks. Baby teeth. Black and brown. Smart. Skinny but seems okay. Pictures coming soon. Would sure make some kid a nice dog. Not this kid. Or this kid's kid. Can barely keep it together over here.
oye. she's in the kitchen now. staring at Hunter. Smart girl. Hasn't tried a thing except laying down and rolling over to get his attention. And Hunter, dare I say it, likes her.
Haven't tested Bando or Diva. Maybe put her out back with Bando. Give old Diva a break. Until someone can come get her and give her a good home.
Or until I lose it.
Whichever comes first.
Nice People
The meeting went great. CEO/fellow writer--what could be wrong with that? Stuff in the works. I enjoy the people there. Down to earth. No sense of entitlement. Usually the case when a writer's making the decisions.
Previous to building this boutique agency, the CEO was a New Orleans musician. Seasoned. Older. Smart. Nice to talk with someone from my field, but also with a sense of the arts, in the business of business. There aren't too many who can walk that talk.
Shared tales from the biz, including my keen understanding of how to treat confidential client information, like the time I had the Cingular naming information--before Cingular had its name--and my job to write the justiciation for the name. My boss told me if I slipped up and said the word, or if anyone saw that piece of paper and leaked it, we'd be on the street. Pronto. Would be one of those career-ruining mistakes, which I've managed--barely--to avoid thus far.
It made me more nervous than usual, knowing the name-to-be of this wireless superpower, about to enter the game with a canon ball splash. Especially since Jenna's Asthma medicine at the time had the same name, spelled differently: Singulair.
Every night I'd take out her chewable pill and vow not to say the name out loud: henceforth Singulair has been known as her "asthma vitamin."
At the height of my paranioa, I took the piece of paper from my notebook, folded it in quarters, and stuffed it in my underwear drawer where it remains to this day.
I kept the secret, did fine work for them, and I still call Singulair an "asthma vitamin."
Back to today's meeting. As I said, before starting the company, after a run in the publishing business, the CEO was a professional musician (piano/keys) -- in New Orleans.
By the end of our talk I think I had him convinced that I could take over his responsibilities and that he should take the opportunity to travel with George to the Canary Islands in the fall to play some New Orleans Jazz.
His eyes lit up. "HEY! There's an idea."
I think we were only half kidding.
Had a better afternoon than morning. I'm still a crabapple though.
Previous to building this boutique agency, the CEO was a New Orleans musician. Seasoned. Older. Smart. Nice to talk with someone from my field, but also with a sense of the arts, in the business of business. There aren't too many who can walk that talk.
Shared tales from the biz, including my keen understanding of how to treat confidential client information, like the time I had the Cingular naming information--before Cingular had its name--and my job to write the justiciation for the name. My boss told me if I slipped up and said the word, or if anyone saw that piece of paper and leaked it, we'd be on the street. Pronto. Would be one of those career-ruining mistakes, which I've managed--barely--to avoid thus far.
It made me more nervous than usual, knowing the name-to-be of this wireless superpower, about to enter the game with a canon ball splash. Especially since Jenna's Asthma medicine at the time had the same name, spelled differently: Singulair.
Every night I'd take out her chewable pill and vow not to say the name out loud: henceforth Singulair has been known as her "asthma vitamin."
At the height of my paranioa, I took the piece of paper from my notebook, folded it in quarters, and stuffed it in my underwear drawer where it remains to this day.
I kept the secret, did fine work for them, and I still call Singulair an "asthma vitamin."
Back to today's meeting. As I said, before starting the company, after a run in the publishing business, the CEO was a professional musician (piano/keys) -- in New Orleans.
By the end of our talk I think I had him convinced that I could take over his responsibilities and that he should take the opportunity to travel with George to the Canary Islands in the fall to play some New Orleans Jazz.
His eyes lit up. "HEY! There's an idea."
I think we were only half kidding.
Had a better afternoon than morning. I'm still a crabapple though.
Bad bad moood.
Have a job interview today. Well, kind of. Meeting with the CEO. Already did some work for them, impressed em. That's good. They wanna talk about options. Thing is, I've been in a bad mood. Baaaad mood a risin'. I've got to turn my head around before 2:00. Gotta get on my interview suitt and channel Halley's energy--that's my only hope for not letting my badness shine through.
I got these vitamins last week. They make me evil. Figured out yesterday that they might be part of my lil problem these days. I'm saving them. From time to time I need to be evil. But on a daily basis, it kind of wears on you. I think I won't take them today. I'll take three of Jenna's gummy bear vitamins instead. yum.
It's hot and sunny--perfect pool day--and I resent having to drive downtown. I ask myself, what is wrong with you? Where's your enthusaism? Wherefore did your "what a great opportunity" thinking go?
Instead, I feel like playing hookey for the rest of my natural life. Or, maybe "from" the rest of my natural life.
Gonna run away, chase the daylight around the world. Catch me if you can.
I got these vitamins last week. They make me evil. Figured out yesterday that they might be part of my lil problem these days. I'm saving them. From time to time I need to be evil. But on a daily basis, it kind of wears on you. I think I won't take them today. I'll take three of Jenna's gummy bear vitamins instead. yum.
It's hot and sunny--perfect pool day--and I resent having to drive downtown. I ask myself, what is wrong with you? Where's your enthusaism? Wherefore did your "what a great opportunity" thinking go?
Instead, I feel like playing hookey for the rest of my natural life. Or, maybe "from" the rest of my natural life.
Gonna run away, chase the daylight around the world. Catch me if you can.
July 13, 2003
thunder-n-bugs
It's 2 a.m., regardless of what my permalink timestamp says. Gotta fix that. Should be sleeping, but been cleaning instead.
I didn't expect to see him, walking through the front door like he owned the place. Then what? Fast and fat, the size of an egg, I'm telling you! I have never seen a damn bug this big. I've lived here for nearly 10 years (has it been that long?) and this is the biggest insect I've ever ever seen, period. He's walking across MY threshold, padding across the wood floor to the kitchen, completely oblivious to me or any rules of the house, one of which is, NO STINKING ROACHES!
They call them palmetto bugs here because the idea that a roach can grow this big, well, it's the thing nightmares are made of. They can easily carry a small child away.
You probably know by now that I hate bugs. They give me the deep-down willies. Bugs ate my father's dead body, or so I assume since I never actually checked, and one day they will eat me, and I'd rather not give them a head start.
So I stay away from them. If I see one inside, I shiver, and then kill it. Zen not spoken here--bugs be gone. Things that chew on decomposing flesh and leaves and year-old pieces of food shouldn't really be afraid to die anyway.
Jenna's asleep. I have no choice. I have to kill the thing. He's moving fast now. I have to hurry. I swin open the closet door and grab one of Jenna's shoes. I chase after him. He heads down the basement stairs and I swear I saw him hold the railing on his way down.
Don't miss a step motherfucker--I've got my eye on your hairy wings.
I get half way down the basment steps, quick on his trail, and he comes to a complete stop. I wait for his backup lights to start flashing. Nothing. Now's my chance. But I'm on the step above him. A miscalculation could send me tumbling head over ass, or I could miss Mr. Thang altogether, in which case he eats me on the spot.
HELP!
No one.
I shove my toes and the ball of my foot into Jenna's shoe and raise my leg, bring the shoe down hard on his spiney back.
Now, all roaches crunch. But THIS guy, OH MAN! He didn't crunch, he rumbled--no lie--it was like surround sound. Caaaarrrruuuunnnncccchhhh-kkkkiiiirrrcccchhhh--sssslllllrrrrrccccchhhh.
I felt it in my shins.
There I am, standing one footed in the middle of the basement stairway, bearing down as hard as I can. There he is, squished under the sole of my too-small shoe.
I gotta complete.
I lift my foot up and look. I am immediately impressed by his wing-span, emphasized by his newly-gained one-dimensional status. I think about calling a farmer with a backhoe to come burry this horse-bug.
Then I figure, I've gone this far on my own; I can finish the job.
I grab a paper towel, carefully climbing down to the step below him so I can scoop up his remains. My muscles are relaxing, the worst is over. I'm considering which part of him to grab first when he MOVES! HE MOVES! I tell you, he's FLAT, and it doesn't matter, because he starts edging his gutless remains toward the edge of the step, toward ME.
AAAAHHHHH!!!
I leap down two stairs to the landing and look up.
So this is how it's all going to end. Jenna, I'm sorry. The giant bug ate me next to your drum set. Know that mommy loves you. Tell Daddy to bring some Raid home with him.
Too bewildered to think about the shoe, which is still on my foot, I grab an old amazon box heavy with packing material and I-don't-know-what-else, raise it high, and slam it down on him.
Silence.
Lift.
Ugh. Gross.
No more huntin' for that dawg.
Paper towel still in hand, bitter bile rising from my stomach, I mop him up and go to toss him in the garbage, forgetting that the kitchen garbage can is NOT under the sink because I've been using it to toss away old toys in the living room, and so he lands on the floor with a crinkle-thud, and I have to pick him up again--just what I wanted to do.
I dispose of him in all of his (I hope) deadness, take off Jenna's shoe and put it under something so I don't have to look at it, think about what the bottom must look like.
If this thunder and lightshow would ever stop, I think I'm ready to go to sleep and dream about fluffy happy clouds and bugless blue skies.
I didn't expect to see him, walking through the front door like he owned the place. Then what? Fast and fat, the size of an egg, I'm telling you! I have never seen a damn bug this big. I've lived here for nearly 10 years (has it been that long?) and this is the biggest insect I've ever ever seen, period. He's walking across MY threshold, padding across the wood floor to the kitchen, completely oblivious to me or any rules of the house, one of which is, NO STINKING ROACHES!
They call them palmetto bugs here because the idea that a roach can grow this big, well, it's the thing nightmares are made of. They can easily carry a small child away.
You probably know by now that I hate bugs. They give me the deep-down willies. Bugs ate my father's dead body, or so I assume since I never actually checked, and one day they will eat me, and I'd rather not give them a head start.
So I stay away from them. If I see one inside, I shiver, and then kill it. Zen not spoken here--bugs be gone. Things that chew on decomposing flesh and leaves and year-old pieces of food shouldn't really be afraid to die anyway.
Jenna's asleep. I have no choice. I have to kill the thing. He's moving fast now. I have to hurry. I swin open the closet door and grab one of Jenna's shoes. I chase after him. He heads down the basement stairs and I swear I saw him hold the railing on his way down.
Don't miss a step motherfucker--I've got my eye on your hairy wings.
I get half way down the basment steps, quick on his trail, and he comes to a complete stop. I wait for his backup lights to start flashing. Nothing. Now's my chance. But I'm on the step above him. A miscalculation could send me tumbling head over ass, or I could miss Mr. Thang altogether, in which case he eats me on the spot.
HELP!
No one.
I shove my toes and the ball of my foot into Jenna's shoe and raise my leg, bring the shoe down hard on his spiney back.
Now, all roaches crunch. But THIS guy, OH MAN! He didn't crunch, he rumbled--no lie--it was like surround sound. Caaaarrrruuuunnnncccchhhh-kkkkiiiirrrcccchhhh--sssslllllrrrrrccccchhhh.
I felt it in my shins.
There I am, standing one footed in the middle of the basement stairway, bearing down as hard as I can. There he is, squished under the sole of my too-small shoe.
I gotta complete.
I lift my foot up and look. I am immediately impressed by his wing-span, emphasized by his newly-gained one-dimensional status. I think about calling a farmer with a backhoe to come burry this horse-bug.
Then I figure, I've gone this far on my own; I can finish the job.
I grab a paper towel, carefully climbing down to the step below him so I can scoop up his remains. My muscles are relaxing, the worst is over. I'm considering which part of him to grab first when he MOVES! HE MOVES! I tell you, he's FLAT, and it doesn't matter, because he starts edging his gutless remains toward the edge of the step, toward ME.
AAAAHHHHH!!!
I leap down two stairs to the landing and look up.
So this is how it's all going to end. Jenna, I'm sorry. The giant bug ate me next to your drum set. Know that mommy loves you. Tell Daddy to bring some Raid home with him.
Too bewildered to think about the shoe, which is still on my foot, I grab an old amazon box heavy with packing material and I-don't-know-what-else, raise it high, and slam it down on him.
Silence.
Lift.
Ugh. Gross.
No more huntin' for that dawg.
Paper towel still in hand, bitter bile rising from my stomach, I mop him up and go to toss him in the garbage, forgetting that the kitchen garbage can is NOT under the sink because I've been using it to toss away old toys in the living room, and so he lands on the floor with a crinkle-thud, and I have to pick him up again--just what I wanted to do.
I dispose of him in all of his (I hope) deadness, take off Jenna's shoe and put it under something so I don't have to look at it, think about what the bottom must look like.
If this thunder and lightshow would ever stop, I think I'm ready to go to sleep and dream about fluffy happy clouds and bugless blue skies.
July 12, 2003
It can't be that hard.
It has to be within reach now. I know it, because today I listened to some kid's waterproof pool radio, complete with a waterproof speaker that hangs down under the water and lets you hear the music better Under than Above water. Cost=$8.00.
So whare are the waterproof laptops? I told a couple of the other parents there, if they can make one of these radios that floats on top of the water--complete with the cool hot-yellow casing so familiar in waterproof devices--then why not a waterproof laptop, complete with foam floatation around the edges, even a coffee holder, and of course a wicked anti-glare screen. Heck, I'd take a whole floatable desk while I'm at it. Or a swim up and type station. Either/or. I'm not fussy.
Right now when I bring my laptop to the pool (no connection--I'm still a tethered girl) I have to plug into an extension cord in the bathroom and sit in a shady spot so as not to melt neither me nor my laptop into a squishy heap while I work mostly in MS Word. But boy, the work I could do if I could plop my little floaty laptop in the water with me. If I had one, I could spend all day in the pool. Every waking minute. And I would.
I'm not saying we should ruin the aesthetics of pool leisure. I don't want to turn the pool into an office, another place to dissociate from what's going on around us and focus on things of the mind, rather than the body and spirit. I don't think I'm really suggesting we go that far.
But, but, but, but... come deadline time, I sure would like to have me one.
The only ones I could find on google were military-grade laptops, which I'm assuming are a fortune. They're meant more for covert operations than for sun and fun.
Anyone know of anything on the market? If anyone will, it's bloggers.
So whare are the waterproof laptops? I told a couple of the other parents there, if they can make one of these radios that floats on top of the water--complete with the cool hot-yellow casing so familiar in waterproof devices--then why not a waterproof laptop, complete with foam floatation around the edges, even a coffee holder, and of course a wicked anti-glare screen. Heck, I'd take a whole floatable desk while I'm at it. Or a swim up and type station. Either/or. I'm not fussy.
Right now when I bring my laptop to the pool (no connection--I'm still a tethered girl) I have to plug into an extension cord in the bathroom and sit in a shady spot so as not to melt neither me nor my laptop into a squishy heap while I work mostly in MS Word. But boy, the work I could do if I could plop my little floaty laptop in the water with me. If I had one, I could spend all day in the pool. Every waking minute. And I would.
I'm not saying we should ruin the aesthetics of pool leisure. I don't want to turn the pool into an office, another place to dissociate from what's going on around us and focus on things of the mind, rather than the body and spirit. I don't think I'm really suggesting we go that far.
But, but, but, but... come deadline time, I sure would like to have me one.
The only ones I could find on google were military-grade laptops, which I'm assuming are a fortune. They're meant more for covert operations than for sun and fun.
Anyone know of anything on the market? If anyone will, it's bloggers.
July 11, 2003
JennaAudio 2 - listen at your own risk.
i don't suggest you listen to this at full volume. This is evening with Jenna who has discovered the joys of audio blogging. There is a chilling shriek that could blow your speakers when the cat knocks down the gate in the dining room. If you can get past the thrill of it all, and if you haven't had four cups of coffee today, it's all kinda cute. Daddy should listen. I am happy to report it's 11 p.m. and she is asleep. That is progress. Especially after a nightmare of giant sea turtles grabbing at her toes.
audblog audio post
audblog audio post
July 10, 2003
Real pre-blog bloggers
Fuck Emerson.
If we are to make exceptions for the technology not yet being in place when tracing blogging's origins, which I don't entirely agree we should do, then lets look for voices that live a road or two off the beaten path, huh?
Why don't I entirely agree that anyone before blogging can be classified as a blogger? Because blogging is new. Story telling is old. Linkage and networks matter and make blogging different. New. That's why I think you can't plug old round pegs into new square holes.
Voice, however, is another matter. Voice, perhaps, is older than we are. What was there before us? Sound. And if you believe in God, then Voice. So if you look into the origins of blogging through voice, then I'm with you. But through American literature? I say zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
So, if we allow for early journaling as voice to fit into the genesis of blogging, then I say Griff was more our blog grandpa than Emerson and the likes of his abrasively-introspective man-heroes of American literature.
Blogging is bottom up. Blogging is the sound of the quieter voices wired with mega amps of power.
Blogging is a Navy combat artist painting and writing from a World War II destroyer ship in 1941.
Griff along with his work of art and journaling have been brought to the net by grandson Gordon Coale at Grey Matter. An artist and I think a gifted story teller born in 1890, Griff's chronicle of the war in pictures and words are moving, compelling, and something I've just begun to explore. I'm so jazzed by what I hear and see:
October 23rd, 1941
A black night. The dim shapes of the officers with their binoculars peering through the small round ports of the wheel house. Men with head-phones. The dark loom of the watch on the bridge wings. All hands at their stations, competent, alert. "She is up and down, Sir." The slight throb of the powerful engines, and we lean gray wolves steal stealthily out in single file to the secret meeting with the oncoming almost helpless flock. The black loom of the hills of Newfoundland diminish into the obscurity of the night. "Secure anchors for sea." And with the first roll of the northern ocean, we feel that sensitive, live movement known only to men who have been in "Tin Cans", the Navy's nickname for destroyers.
That, my friends, is a voice I'd put on my blogroll any day of the week.
That is a blogger armed with simply a paint brush and a pen. And voice.
And a grandson who gets it.
If we are to make exceptions for the technology not yet being in place when tracing blogging's origins, which I don't entirely agree we should do, then lets look for voices that live a road or two off the beaten path, huh?
Why don't I entirely agree that anyone before blogging can be classified as a blogger? Because blogging is new. Story telling is old. Linkage and networks matter and make blogging different. New. That's why I think you can't plug old round pegs into new square holes.
Voice, however, is another matter. Voice, perhaps, is older than we are. What was there before us? Sound. And if you believe in God, then Voice. So if you look into the origins of blogging through voice, then I'm with you. But through American literature? I say zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
So, if we allow for early journaling as voice to fit into the genesis of blogging, then I say Griff was more our blog grandpa than Emerson and the likes of his abrasively-introspective man-heroes of American literature.
Blogging is bottom up. Blogging is the sound of the quieter voices wired with mega amps of power.
Blogging is a Navy combat artist painting and writing from a World War II destroyer ship in 1941.
Griff along with his work of art and journaling have been brought to the net by grandson Gordon Coale at Grey Matter. An artist and I think a gifted story teller born in 1890, Griff's chronicle of the war in pictures and words are moving, compelling, and something I've just begun to explore. I'm so jazzed by what I hear and see:
October 23rd, 1941
A black night. The dim shapes of the officers with their binoculars peering through the small round ports of the wheel house. Men with head-phones. The dark loom of the watch on the bridge wings. All hands at their stations, competent, alert. "She is up and down, Sir." The slight throb of the powerful engines, and we lean gray wolves steal stealthily out in single file to the secret meeting with the oncoming almost helpless flock. The black loom of the hills of Newfoundland diminish into the obscurity of the night. "Secure anchors for sea." And with the first roll of the northern ocean, we feel that sensitive, live movement known only to men who have been in "Tin Cans", the Navy's nickname for destroyers.
That, my friends, is a voice I'd put on my blogroll any day of the week.
That is a blogger armed with simply a paint brush and a pen. And voice.
And a grandson who gets it.
when all else fails, go get your war on.
I hadn't seen june's edition.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Syria.
Syria who?
Seriously, would someone please tackle Donald Rumsfeld and lock his ass up until our Countries-Destroyed-to-Countries-Rebuilt ratio is closer to '1'?
You have to love this thing called the Internet, dontcha?
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Syria.
Syria who?
Seriously, would someone please tackle Donald Rumsfeld and lock his ass up until our Countries-Destroyed-to-Countries-Rebuilt ratio is closer to '1'?
You have to love this thing called the Internet, dontcha?
I hadn't seen this...
Feeling lucky? So do what Mac says here. I haven't run into this one before. Made my morning. Oh wait, it's afternoon now.
work n sun n wind n taste
Up late last night finishing work on a client web site (among other things). Up early to take Jenna to summer camp. Up and Up, seems to be the way of July.
Jenna was all jazzed about trying the new McGriddle at McDonalds--jazzed enough that we got out of the house before 10. Peppy and happy, she's wanted to taste this thing since it came out. I've been avoiding it, but decided today was as good a day as any, especially since she did so well at her swim lessons yesterday.
It's a wierd little idea, that McGriddle. She liked it. I tasted it and wondered what all that sweet pancake taste was doing mixed in with salty bacon and eggs--it's the kind of mixture I'd rather experience in my stomach than on my tongue. But the logo looks just super on the top of that pancake bread. And from the back seat, I heard, "Mmmmmmmmm!"
Home now with a killer headache from not enough sleep, guzzling coffee, and waiting for the sun to come out so I can go welcome it.
Yesterday for the first time I laid out in the sun topless on our deck. George, did you just fall off your chair? I made sure I was invisible to the peripheral world, I'll have you know. I put towels on the rails of the deck, tucked the lounge chair behind the patio set, laid down face to the sun, and undressed for the sky.
I didn't let myself worry about being "seen." One neighbor back in rehab, the other at work, the backyard neighbors painstakingly blocked from view by the towels, the deck became my own private beach. Instead of thinking about reasons why I shouldn't be nearly naked on my own deck, I thought about the sun and the way it feels to unfamiliar skin.
Healing. The smack of heat against tender, white skin. And the breeze. I didn't think about the breeze...
Sometimes when I was 17 and living at home, I'd swim topless in our pool. Only when no one was home. Only when there was no chance of my parents rolling into the driveway. I would have been woefully shamed or celebrated (no telling which) to an unbearable degree of discomfort had my little escapades been discovered.
What I remember about swimming that way at 17 is the wind, the water, and the intensity of touch so strong that it melds with taste. Skin feelings so strong you can taste them. Like that. Cool boyant water lifting and celebrating my flesh, feeling just like wild cherry popsicles taste. Slurp.
Yesterday, I laid in the sun that way for a half-hour. I was careful not to get too much sun too fast, just enough to soften the line between a deep brown tan and bleach white skin. For a minute or two, I was 17 again, swimming next to naked in our family pool.
I'm not sure I'll make a habit out of my backyard deck tanning, but it was, well, really............. nice.
Jenna was all jazzed about trying the new McGriddle at McDonalds--jazzed enough that we got out of the house before 10. Peppy and happy, she's wanted to taste this thing since it came out. I've been avoiding it, but decided today was as good a day as any, especially since she did so well at her swim lessons yesterday.
It's a wierd little idea, that McGriddle. She liked it. I tasted it and wondered what all that sweet pancake taste was doing mixed in with salty bacon and eggs--it's the kind of mixture I'd rather experience in my stomach than on my tongue. But the logo looks just super on the top of that pancake bread. And from the back seat, I heard, "Mmmmmmmmm!"
Home now with a killer headache from not enough sleep, guzzling coffee, and waiting for the sun to come out so I can go welcome it.
Yesterday for the first time I laid out in the sun topless on our deck. George, did you just fall off your chair? I made sure I was invisible to the peripheral world, I'll have you know. I put towels on the rails of the deck, tucked the lounge chair behind the patio set, laid down face to the sun, and undressed for the sky.
I didn't let myself worry about being "seen." One neighbor back in rehab, the other at work, the backyard neighbors painstakingly blocked from view by the towels, the deck became my own private beach. Instead of thinking about reasons why I shouldn't be nearly naked on my own deck, I thought about the sun and the way it feels to unfamiliar skin.
Healing. The smack of heat against tender, white skin. And the breeze. I didn't think about the breeze...
Sometimes when I was 17 and living at home, I'd swim topless in our pool. Only when no one was home. Only when there was no chance of my parents rolling into the driveway. I would have been woefully shamed or celebrated (no telling which) to an unbearable degree of discomfort had my little escapades been discovered.
What I remember about swimming that way at 17 is the wind, the water, and the intensity of touch so strong that it melds with taste. Skin feelings so strong you can taste them. Like that. Cool boyant water lifting and celebrating my flesh, feeling just like wild cherry popsicles taste. Slurp.
Yesterday, I laid in the sun that way for a half-hour. I was careful not to get too much sun too fast, just enough to soften the line between a deep brown tan and bleach white skin. For a minute or two, I was 17 again, swimming next to naked in our family pool.
I'm not sure I'll make a habit out of my backyard deck tanning, but it was, well, really............. nice.
Holy Halley!
Some caring and sharing going on at the Super Nova Conference, where Liz got to ride with Halley in an ambulance after Halley gracefully leaped a tall building (or short fence) in a single bound right onto the spiked heel of her upside-down shoe. OUCH!! Seems like everyone's okay. Holy Halley--never a dull moment.
Blogger question for Thursday
How many bloggers have you talked to by phone, how many more than once, indicate the number of bloggers you regularly speak to if you have regular blogger friends? How many bloggers do you talk to more than you do real-world friends?
How many bloggers have you met--people you knew first from blogging?
My answers....
By Phone:
Have spoken to 10 bloggers by phone. An additional 3 on IM. I speak to 5 regularly. I speak to 3 more frequently than I do real-world friends.
In Person:
Haven't met a darn one of you yet.
How many bloggers have you met--people you knew first from blogging?
My answers....
By Phone:
Have spoken to 10 bloggers by phone. An additional 3 on IM. I speak to 5 regularly. I speak to 3 more frequently than I do real-world friends.
In Person:
Haven't met a darn one of you yet.
July 09, 2003
my head is exploding, thanks to g. lawley
I told him I'd post his email for public consumption, so here it is. It's too strange, actually, for me to reply to tonight, since I have to go be a good parent now, but maybe later... For the record, this is written by someone who doesn't blog, which I agreed to post if he emailed it to me, and I think his, well, revulsion with weblogging is maybe part of the misunderstanding.
Maybe it's not possible to understand what it's like to lay it out day after day, sometimes in seconds, sometimes in lifetimes, post after post, and how that makes us---yes---care about one another in a way that does NOT exist exactly the same way in any other online forum. That's just the facts, Jack.
What Gerald reads into one post he reads that way because he's not here like bloggers are here, has not been on this journey. And it's not the same as the New Age chat room or forum--trust me on that.
So, I guess I request that those who come here either read me like a reader (I love readers), or read me like a blogger (I love bloggers), but don't read me like a reader who is trying to be a blogger but doesn't want to be because he doesn't like blogging. That's just fucked up.
There are some unwritten rules of households here, one of which is: Don't come here and shit on me unless you have someplace I can go do likewise. And yes, Gerald, you did shit on me with your rudeness.
Maybe I should take some rude liberties with what's going on in his life, as he did with mine, but I'll refrain. Mostly because I like his wife, who is a blogger. But the from the comment and the advice--I was trying to be funny, by the way--I do think Gerald has the ability to be a judgmental prick. Oh crap, let's just call it what it is: passive aggressive. But that's as far as I'll go.
So here goes, for those who are interested in hearing where G. Lawley was coming from in his comment to my "summertime" post... I thank him for taking the time to set the record straight.
Anyone want to take the time to answer--especially the "trite" comment thing--have at it. Just for the record, mostly we debate these things across blogs---that is one of those unwritten rules. No pain, no gain. That's another.
I'll try to add links in the appropriate places later... duty calls.
P.S. I'm NOT a single mom; I just play one on TV.
-------------------
I wrote my reply originally in a comment box on your blog. When I went to post it it told me there was a 2500 character limit and that my reply was somewhere in the 9000s (I can't remember the exact number. It was written for public consumption, but not having a blog (or wanting one) and not having access to anything else but email to get the word out, I did what I could.
I have no problem with you posting it in your journal space - it is just that your comments section would not take it. Was that unclear from my post?
Anyway, here follows the post. Blog the hell out of it if you care to. Please post the above comments as well as they answer your intimation that I was trying to be secret with my answer. BTW, can you increase the number of characters that your comments section will accept or do you truly only want short, trite replies to your posts?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ignoring for the time being all the personal attacks, I wonder if there is room here for a discussion that might help this single mom better cope with her current situation. I have read her posts, as well as George's, and I get it that there are literally hundreds of reasons that this is a difficult situation. I will be presumptuous and assume that these are not
being offered as excuses for not being able to deal with the issues mentioned in the original post. Therefore I will move forward.
I made the statement, "All the problems you have expressed in your post have their solutions in your actions, not the child's." I also gave a suggestion for helping the child get to sleep earlier. George informed me that this had been tried. I had no way of knowing that. Most certainly the suggestion I gave was not meant to be taken as "this is the only thing that will work". I have others, but I will not cut that cookie again.
The tenor of the replies to my comment seem to indicate that I don't have a clue as far as child raising. It was even assumed that I had never had children and that I was a school teacher (and that this was a bad thing because of previous bad experiences with teachers especially those who were mothers). So, for the sake of discussion let's say that all that is absolutely true and that my statements were absolutely false.
So now I have to modify, "All the problems you have expressed in your post have their solutions in your actions, not the child's" to read, "All the problems you have expressed in your post have their solutions in your child's actions, not your own." Does anyone really believe this?
A lot of a child's behavioral patterns are created unconsciously and in very tiny steps. The increments can be so tiny as to escape our attention until a threshold has been reached and we are appalled at what the child "has become". You provided a case in point with the telephone call/picnic basket incident.
When you made the deal with her before the call, you let her know this was very important to you. You expressed exactly what behavior you expected from her during this time. That is good. Yet when she violated that deal, what happened? She was rewarded with a picnic basket. Did she know in advance that this would be the outcome? Most likely, but if not, she certainly knows it now.
I am relatively sure (because I do not believe you to be a malevolent parent) she was disciplined after the fact and that she now understands that such behavior is unacceptable. So now she has conflicting messages and she processes these in a way she best understands at her age - I can perform the behavior and get rewarded with what I really want, but I will have to be talked to about it afterward. What, exactly, is the deterrent to re performing the behavior? I certainly don't have the answer for you in your case, because if I did it would be "cookie cutter". But I present it as my own personal viewpoint, based on my own experience, as a jumping off point for thought and discussion of the problems of child rearing.
You have a lot of sympathetic friends in this forum (I realize I am not one of them). No doubt many of them have confronted the same issues in the past and will have some suggestions that may help you. So far, none of them have
taken the time from beating up on me to make even one suggestion. Perhaps you don't want any. Perhaps you feel you can do this by yourself and it is nobody else's business (but that can't be true, can it? You did you publically journal it). From the description of your life I get from you and George it would seem to me (but only to me) that a bit of help would be welcomed. Is there some reason no one else had suggestions for getting a child to go to bed earlier?
I realize that my tone was what put everyone off. To all of you it probably crossed the border into rudeness, and upon rereading it I even think it did. But given the responses to it, rudeness seems to be the order of the day among this group. Still, I apologize for the tone.
But I think the content of what I suggested is true. And now that you and George have given me a deeper look into your troubled lives I have a hunch that what I wrote about needing to let the child know you are the parent and that if they cannot, of their own accord, exhibit decent behavior, then you will decide what is proper and implement it in an age appropriate way.
It is unfair to your business/ livelihood to have to have a misbehaving child running around while you are trying to work. That is why when you walk into a PR firm in downtown Atlanta you do not find a day care center in the center of the room. It is also unfair to your daughter to not have your attention when you are home with her. I am not pointing a finger here, I am stating the obvious, something you already know all too well. And I realize there might be multitudinous reasons why you think it has to be that way even though you hate it to death. But there are things you can do. I know some (but can't write them here as they would be "cookie cutter") your friends and relatives know some and there are scads of books with scads of suggestions - not answers - suggestions.
Even if you come back at me and say "I have tried all those, I have read all the books and nothing works. This is a special case and nothing is geared toward my situation", I refuse to believe that you have the only child on earth who cannot respond to anything that will solve your problem. That child is a genius (I believe they all have super intelligence) and
creative and highly-spirited and freedom-loving and all the rest of it. But there is a way to solve your problems. And I fully realize you are working on it every minute of every day.
If I lived near you I would offer a play date three days a week, at my house, with my two boys, ages 6 and 9 (to whom I have been a stay-at-home dad since the day the nine year old was born). That would give you some breathing room to get some work done without the distractions. That, in turn, might free you of some of the tensions that seemed to have built up in you, that your daughter perceives ever so clearly, and is learning (as she must) how to use all that to her advantage. That in turn might make the time you spend with her more fulfilling to her (at an unconscious level)
and thus she might be less given to behavior that seeks your attention in a negative way.
That is what I would do given what I am hearing you say, because I KNOW the feelings that are overwhelming you - and then some. I have tried to do part-time database programming and consulting for non-profit and for profit organizations as well as adjunct faculty teaching and teaching gifted kids in our BOCES organization while the boys are running around picking fights with each other and demanding my attention as long as I have it elsewhere.
Then add to that the trials and tribulations of being 52 years old and dealing with those energy levels and the added uncertainty of being someone who always worked to support a family and has now moved into the extremely unknown territory of full-time care giver, not knowing if I will go under or not (this is my second family - I have 26 and 24 year old daughters from a first marriage in which I had to work two 40 hour a week jobs one of which was the ever stressful firefighter/paramedic - come to think of it now, that was a 48 hour a week job. And I could certainly give you just as
many adverse aspects of my situation then as you have given me about yours, but for the sake of brevity, I will refrain) .
George, you said, "I need to vent on someone who represents the things that I dispise (sic) like prejudgement. Nothing personal..."
Vent on me all you want - it ain't me you are angry with. If you truly despise people who prejudge, then I can understand some of your anger at yourself. As you said, without knowing me, you still made this judgement: "that you have never had children or you don't understand variables in personalities, you cookie cutter". (As Rod Stewart sang in ' Every Picture Tells A Story ' - "Look how wrong you can be").
And then this, "I do feel guilty about not being at home." And, "...but according to an American court of law (and my ex-wife) the children don't need a father EXCEPT for financial purposes".
If the anger I am sensing here isn't really there, then I don't want you to vent on me anymore. But if it is the source of much of your anger, then bring it on - if it helps you (as you say it is " ...my daily therapy of shaming someone") and in turn helps your daughter, then I am here for you.
And Shelly, you wrote, "What I can't figure out about you, -g, is why you're hanging around the webloggers when, from this and other comments you've made, you obviously don't care much for any of us? "
That is presumptuous on your part. I don't know any of you enough to not care for you. I only know what you put out in PUBLIC. Weblogs are public space. I have been hanging around in virtual public spaces for a long time. I enjoy it. I have met many friends (whom I value greatly) over the years and even met my wife that way. I never realized you had to "care much" for someone to comment on what they write in public and even ASK for comments on. If you only want comments you agree with, say so up front - not on the backend. I understand you can turn off comments in some of the software.
Observer, you wrote, "Liz needs to give g a little poke... "
Liz has been at Supernova since Monday and won't return until Thursday at which time I would like to give her one as well. It has to be a little one, that's all I got.
Maybe it's not possible to understand what it's like to lay it out day after day, sometimes in seconds, sometimes in lifetimes, post after post, and how that makes us---yes---care about one another in a way that does NOT exist exactly the same way in any other online forum. That's just the facts, Jack.
What Gerald reads into one post he reads that way because he's not here like bloggers are here, has not been on this journey. And it's not the same as the New Age chat room or forum--trust me on that.
So, I guess I request that those who come here either read me like a reader (I love readers), or read me like a blogger (I love bloggers), but don't read me like a reader who is trying to be a blogger but doesn't want to be because he doesn't like blogging. That's just fucked up.
There are some unwritten rules of households here, one of which is: Don't come here and shit on me unless you have someplace I can go do likewise. And yes, Gerald, you did shit on me with your rudeness.
Maybe I should take some rude liberties with what's going on in his life, as he did with mine, but I'll refrain. Mostly because I like his wife, who is a blogger. But the from the comment and the advice--I was trying to be funny, by the way--I do think Gerald has the ability to be a judgmental prick. Oh crap, let's just call it what it is: passive aggressive. But that's as far as I'll go.
So here goes, for those who are interested in hearing where G. Lawley was coming from in his comment to my "summertime" post... I thank him for taking the time to set the record straight.
Anyone want to take the time to answer--especially the "trite" comment thing--have at it. Just for the record, mostly we debate these things across blogs---that is one of those unwritten rules. No pain, no gain. That's another.
I'll try to add links in the appropriate places later... duty calls.
P.S. I'm NOT a single mom; I just play one on TV.
-------------------
I wrote my reply originally in a comment box on your blog. When I went to post it it told me there was a 2500 character limit and that my reply was somewhere in the 9000s (I can't remember the exact number. It was written for public consumption, but not having a blog (or wanting one) and not having access to anything else but email to get the word out, I did what I could.
I have no problem with you posting it in your journal space - it is just that your comments section would not take it. Was that unclear from my post?
Anyway, here follows the post. Blog the hell out of it if you care to. Please post the above comments as well as they answer your intimation that I was trying to be secret with my answer. BTW, can you increase the number of characters that your comments section will accept or do you truly only want short, trite replies to your posts?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ignoring for the time being all the personal attacks, I wonder if there is room here for a discussion that might help this single mom better cope with her current situation. I have read her posts, as well as George's, and I get it that there are literally hundreds of reasons that this is a difficult situation. I will be presumptuous and assume that these are not
being offered as excuses for not being able to deal with the issues mentioned in the original post. Therefore I will move forward.
I made the statement, "All the problems you have expressed in your post have their solutions in your actions, not the child's." I also gave a suggestion for helping the child get to sleep earlier. George informed me that this had been tried. I had no way of knowing that. Most certainly the suggestion I gave was not meant to be taken as "this is the only thing that will work". I have others, but I will not cut that cookie again.
The tenor of the replies to my comment seem to indicate that I don't have a clue as far as child raising. It was even assumed that I had never had children and that I was a school teacher (and that this was a bad thing because of previous bad experiences with teachers especially those who were mothers). So, for the sake of discussion let's say that all that is absolutely true and that my statements were absolutely false.
So now I have to modify, "All the problems you have expressed in your post have their solutions in your actions, not the child's" to read, "All the problems you have expressed in your post have their solutions in your child's actions, not your own." Does anyone really believe this?
A lot of a child's behavioral patterns are created unconsciously and in very tiny steps. The increments can be so tiny as to escape our attention until a threshold has been reached and we are appalled at what the child "has become". You provided a case in point with the telephone call/picnic basket incident.
When you made the deal with her before the call, you let her know this was very important to you. You expressed exactly what behavior you expected from her during this time. That is good. Yet when she violated that deal, what happened? She was rewarded with a picnic basket. Did she know in advance that this would be the outcome? Most likely, but if not, she certainly knows it now.
I am relatively sure (because I do not believe you to be a malevolent parent) she was disciplined after the fact and that she now understands that such behavior is unacceptable. So now she has conflicting messages and she processes these in a way she best understands at her age - I can perform the behavior and get rewarded with what I really want, but I will have to be talked to about it afterward. What, exactly, is the deterrent to re performing the behavior? I certainly don't have the answer for you in your case, because if I did it would be "cookie cutter". But I present it as my own personal viewpoint, based on my own experience, as a jumping off point for thought and discussion of the problems of child rearing.
You have a lot of sympathetic friends in this forum (I realize I am not one of them). No doubt many of them have confronted the same issues in the past and will have some suggestions that may help you. So far, none of them have
taken the time from beating up on me to make even one suggestion. Perhaps you don't want any. Perhaps you feel you can do this by yourself and it is nobody else's business (but that can't be true, can it? You did you publically journal it). From the description of your life I get from you and George it would seem to me (but only to me) that a bit of help would be welcomed. Is there some reason no one else had suggestions for getting a child to go to bed earlier?
I realize that my tone was what put everyone off. To all of you it probably crossed the border into rudeness, and upon rereading it I even think it did. But given the responses to it, rudeness seems to be the order of the day among this group. Still, I apologize for the tone.
But I think the content of what I suggested is true. And now that you and George have given me a deeper look into your troubled lives I have a hunch that what I wrote about needing to let the child know you are the parent and that if they cannot, of their own accord, exhibit decent behavior, then you will decide what is proper and implement it in an age appropriate way.
It is unfair to your business/ livelihood to have to have a misbehaving child running around while you are trying to work. That is why when you walk into a PR firm in downtown Atlanta you do not find a day care center in the center of the room. It is also unfair to your daughter to not have your attention when you are home with her. I am not pointing a finger here, I am stating the obvious, something you already know all too well. And I realize there might be multitudinous reasons why you think it has to be that way even though you hate it to death. But there are things you can do. I know some (but can't write them here as they would be "cookie cutter") your friends and relatives know some and there are scads of books with scads of suggestions - not answers - suggestions.
Even if you come back at me and say "I have tried all those, I have read all the books and nothing works. This is a special case and nothing is geared toward my situation", I refuse to believe that you have the only child on earth who cannot respond to anything that will solve your problem. That child is a genius (I believe they all have super intelligence) and
creative and highly-spirited and freedom-loving and all the rest of it. But there is a way to solve your problems. And I fully realize you are working on it every minute of every day.
If I lived near you I would offer a play date three days a week, at my house, with my two boys, ages 6 and 9 (to whom I have been a stay-at-home dad since the day the nine year old was born). That would give you some breathing room to get some work done without the distractions. That, in turn, might free you of some of the tensions that seemed to have built up in you, that your daughter perceives ever so clearly, and is learning (as she must) how to use all that to her advantage. That in turn might make the time you spend with her more fulfilling to her (at an unconscious level)
and thus she might be less given to behavior that seeks your attention in a negative way.
That is what I would do given what I am hearing you say, because I KNOW the feelings that are overwhelming you - and then some. I have tried to do part-time database programming and consulting for non-profit and for profit organizations as well as adjunct faculty teaching and teaching gifted kids in our BOCES organization while the boys are running around picking fights with each other and demanding my attention as long as I have it elsewhere.
Then add to that the trials and tribulations of being 52 years old and dealing with those energy levels and the added uncertainty of being someone who always worked to support a family and has now moved into the extremely unknown territory of full-time care giver, not knowing if I will go under or not (this is my second family - I have 26 and 24 year old daughters from a first marriage in which I had to work two 40 hour a week jobs one of which was the ever stressful firefighter/paramedic - come to think of it now, that was a 48 hour a week job. And I could certainly give you just as
many adverse aspects of my situation then as you have given me about yours, but for the sake of brevity, I will refrain) .
George, you said, "I need to vent on someone who represents the things that I dispise (sic) like prejudgement. Nothing personal..."
Vent on me all you want - it ain't me you are angry with. If you truly despise people who prejudge, then I can understand some of your anger at yourself. As you said, without knowing me, you still made this judgement: "that you have never had children or you don't understand variables in personalities, you cookie cutter". (As Rod Stewart sang in ' Every Picture Tells A Story ' - "Look how wrong you can be").
And then this, "I do feel guilty about not being at home." And, "...but according to an American court of law (and my ex-wife) the children don't need a father EXCEPT for financial purposes".
If the anger I am sensing here isn't really there, then I don't want you to vent on me anymore. But if it is the source of much of your anger, then bring it on - if it helps you (as you say it is " ...my daily therapy of shaming someone") and in turn helps your daughter, then I am here for you.
And Shelly, you wrote, "What I can't figure out about you, -g, is why you're hanging around the webloggers when, from this and other comments you've made, you obviously don't care much for any of us? "
That is presumptuous on your part. I don't know any of you enough to not care for you. I only know what you put out in PUBLIC. Weblogs are public space. I have been hanging around in virtual public spaces for a long time. I enjoy it. I have met many friends (whom I value greatly) over the years and even met my wife that way. I never realized you had to "care much" for someone to comment on what they write in public and even ASK for comments on. If you only want comments you agree with, say so up front - not on the backend. I understand you can turn off comments in some of the software.
Observer, you wrote, "Liz needs to give g a little poke... "
Liz has been at Supernova since Monday and won't return until Thursday at which time I would like to give her one as well. It has to be a little one, that's all I got.
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