wordsandwich

Guaranteed to Inspire: My Life List

2010-09-26T08:43:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in my internet wanderings, I recently came across a bubbly little number who goes by Goddess Leonie. Because I obviously want to jam my inbox to the limit, I signed up for her newsletter.

Full disclosure here: I love SARK, Louise Hay, Julia Cameron and any number of other creative, uplifting women whose enthusiasm can sometimes border on the saccharine. My new friend Goddess Leonie falls swiftly into this category. If she tends to lean toward the excessive, it's in the form of excessive joy and color, and probably we could all use a little more of that.

Anyway, I finally got around to reading the latest e-letter, and this one was about lifetime goals. She inspired me (see? that's the point) to write a list of my own. Also, I like how she marked items as done and I plan to do that, too.

If you don't care about my list, I understand. But go check out Leonie. She's pretty awesome.

1. Go to Alaska
2. Go to Hawaii
3. Go to the Jaguar reserve in Belize
4. Go on an art museum tour in Berlin
5. Finish Jordan's quilt
6. Have a solo fiber art show at the EDG building
7. Finish my first novel
8. Publish a short story
9. Publish my first novel
10. Get my LMP
11. Teach BodyTalk modules 1&2
12. Make my living through my healing practice and my creative work
13. Learn Spanish
14. Do a half triathlon
15. Hike from Snoqualmie to Stevens on the PCT
16. Take the family to Yellowstone
17. Learn to make some of my own clothes
18. Learn encaustic
19. Do the second Collage Camp: West Coast version
20. Have a Massachusetts family reunion
21. Go to New Zealand
22. Fly first class
23. Go to the next BodyTalk conference
24. Buy a house
25. Walk the John Wayne trail from Ellensburg to Thorp
26. Get my MFA in creative writing (maybe)
27. Learn how to make a decent website
28. Learn how to make Vietnamese noodle soup
29. Go on a one-month road trip
30. Go on one round-the-world plane trip
31. See Bali
32. See Tokyo
33. Take the Trans-Siberian railroad
34. Write a book about conscious prosperity
35. Write an e-book about personal transformation
36. Get new carpet in our apartment
37. Build a chicken coop and install three laying hens
38. Learn to ride a horse by having my own horse
39. Meet Teesha Moore

I reserve the right to add much more to my list. Meanwhile, if you've made it this far, write your own list! Add a link in the comments and I'll totally check it out.

This Important Message

2010-09-19T09:39:00.001-07:00

Are you living a big, thrilling, transformed life? Do you wake up every morning giddy with anticipation?

If you answered NO, please stay tuned for this important message.

You are a magnificent being on a magical planet, and everything is perfect right now. You are whole, and well, and blessed beyond measure, right now. All day long gifts are shining into your life and in the night your guides visit and tell you stories. You asked to be here, and when you entered you brought a court of assistants along, just to help you live your extraordinary life, and to find a parking space.

This life is a high-impact experience and so you may have temporarily lost your connection to consciousness. It's okay; just take a deep breath and wake up again. The highest Source is waiting for you like an old friend sitting on your front porch. Just open the door.

Humankind is evolving, and you, my friend, are on the ride. Transformation is the act of leaving your luggage behind. Sometimes it takes a prayer to the God of your understanding to be willing to leave the luggage; so pray. You don't need the luggage. It's full of resentment, distrust and fear. You will be so much lighter without it that you will discover inner peace.

And don't be fooled into thinking peace is dull or monotonous. Inner peace is the fertile soil that allows for huge creativity, expansion and delight. Fear just makes a ruckus, stirs things up and is unruly. It makes lot of drama but nothing is accomplished.

So remember, right now is an incredible time to be alive. All over the globe, human beings are recognizing their spiritual Source and making some amazing changes happen because of it. You're one of these people. No matter what kind of noise is blaring in your outer life, know that you are on a sacred journey. Your task is to wake up, connect with God, and allow the Light to shine through you. It'll be easy because you left your protective coat in your luggage.

Find me on Facebook

2010-03-25T14:10:00.000-07:00

Let's face it; I'm a Facebooker.

Yes, there was lots of initial resistance but now that I'm in the swing of things, Facebook is my first home for new photo albums, witty commentary, links, events, and just about any other potentially interesting tidbit.

I'll probably post here from time to time but I'm terribly unreliable about it. If you love me, find me there. And you love me. I know you do.

At last, a simple Christmas

2009-12-23T08:36:00.000-08:00

For years I've been flirting with simplicity. It appeals to me the way a green salad with viniagrette dressing appeals to me after a week of fast food and sugar cookies. The restraint itself is a relief.

The one thing I've never been able to pull off, though, is anything close to a simple Christmas. I've written blog posts and essays that vigorously espoused doing less and buying less and refusing to guilty about it, and yet I have always failed. At the last minute, year after year, I have swept through Fred Meyer in a panic, loading up my cart with $10-and-under useless gifts, a hapless victim of social pressure.

This year is different, and I can't even take all the credit. This year no one seems to be playing. In previous years, I started off strong until the Christmas cards starting sailing in and the adorable gifts from my outer circle of friends started piling up. The drive to reciprocate overcame all sense. This year, however, I have received one Christmas card and two gifts from outside of my family. It's wonderful. I think I'm going to make a proclamation every year: send nothing! Save yourself!

Of course, we totally overdid it with the kids; we haven't managed to rein that one in yet. But the fact remains that it is December 23rd and my things-to-do list is: make a chocolate cream pie for Christmas dinner. That's it. No wrapping, no sending, no cleaning, no panicking. I'm working on a bead necklace for fun.

This has been the Christmas season without cards, endless wrapping, over-spending or guilt. An unexpected consequence? Actual peace. Actual joy.

And I wish the same to you and yours.

Halloween (poem by Jordan, age 7)

2009-11-05T15:59:00.000-08:00

Hosts

Hosts are ghosts
and lightning strokes
to brighten your eyes
to get the shys
and when something flies it's scary
and if something's hairy it will get bairy
it can't be a fairy and

if an ant will be red
then put him to bed
and if you were never fed
then you'll be dead and
I was holding a head and
when he the monster was folding skin
I was about to screech
when I heard a creek
and spiders creep

I was about to peep
when I heard a leap
and found a dead bird but
he was a turd and when I was in this house
I found my old blouse
I want my spouse
I want to be brave
I wish I were saved
now I am saved
I see my spouse.

Mayberry Halloween (pix)

2009-11-05T15:55:00.001-08:00

Why I Will Not Be Getting the Flu Shot

2009-10-03T10:24:00.000-07:00

Go ahead, gasp: but I will not, repeat not be getting the flu shot. Nor the H1N1 shot. Nor whatever next shot comes down the pike to stave off a viral illness that I or any member of my family may or may not happen to get.

In fact, I find it hard to believe that I might be the only one just a little bit stunned at the sudden urgency behind this whole flu-shot thing. Yes, I know about swine flu. In fact, I'm told that the other day 31 kids in my children's elementary school were absent with what may be swine flu. I hear it's running around the local college campus. Yet I still maintain that running off to get an injection of thimerosol loaded with a virus is probably not going to do one single thing for my health.

It troubles me that these flu shots are being made available for pregnant women, when there is mounting evidence that mercury-based thimerosol correlates with autism in children. As a mother of an autistic child, I really wouldn't dick with that. It troubles me that we're rushing to stick millions of people with a fresh-off-the-shelves vaccine that hasn't been around long enough to know potential long-term effects. It troubles me that we're vaccinating for a virus, when every eight-grader knows that viruses mutate. It troubles me that many of the people who get a flu shot seem to come down with the flu. And it troubles me that there is a growing community consensus that to refuse vaccination is irresponsible.

I'd like to suggest that there is another way to fight the flu: your immune system. Our family plan? Pro-active amounts of rest, fresh air, vitamins and fluids. I will be using the BodyTalk Access technique set liberally to keep our bodies balanced and our immune systems strong. And if any of us gets sick, then we'll ride it out. Like people do.

So if you too are refusing the flu shot, know you're not alone. There's at least one other renegade out there, taking on the virus straight-up. Vitamin C, anyone?

Facebook: Neither a Face nor a Book

2009-10-01T14:32:00.000-07:00

Last night I decided to peruse my somewhat humble Facebook friends list and take stock of my collection. Like most Facebook users, from what I can tell, my friends list is an oddball collection of actual friends--that is, people I see or talk to regularly to share a laugh; old friends who have long since fallen off the map; bona fide acquaintances; and actual strangers I wouldn't know if I hit them with my car.

How is this friendship, again? I did a little stalking on a few of my "friends". One is engaged. I only know this because of a wall comment that said "heard you're engaged!" and a status of Engaged in the sidebar. Another actually got married, here in town, and I never heard a peep. An old friend has two kids, I learned yesterday (in fairness, he just joined Facebook, not that I would have been invited to a baby shower in any case). My "friends" have moved, changed names, changed jobs and been through many life experiences, but I only know about any of it because of wall posts and profile pictures.

So Facebook is not a face. Because when you see a friend's face, you know what's happening with her--in the moment and in general. You care. You ask. You make her a handmade card and put it under her windshield wiper. You don't just hit an icon of a thumbs-up to say congratulations on the new job; you actually congratulate her.

Nor is Facebook a book. Books are, by their very nature, in-depth investigations of a subject. In a book, you really get to know what the author has spent so much time thinking about and sharing with you. Facebook is a medley collection of tidbits that make no distinction between major affairs of life ("been away from the computer dad just had a stroke") and trifles ("Joe Blow has completed 17 quizzes today. Take this quiz!").

And I won't even mention the travesty of punctuation and grammar.

I admit it's neat to hear from old friends. Facebook has allowed me to reconnect with a few people and share some nifty emails. Also, I like being able to share what's going on locally as far as events, art openings and so on. I don't think Facebook is evil or anything; I just think that it's a poor substitute for real friendship. It really doesn't matter how many little pictures you have on your list. It matters if you have honest people you can talk to about matters of common interest. Really.

Now who wants to friend me on Facebook?

48 Continental States

2009-08-17T08:32:00.000-07:00

This past week, while road-tripping with Sarah, I finally managed to complete one of the longer-term projects of my life. By swinging through the northwest corner of Nebraska (pleasantly hilly, I'm happy to report) I can now say I have been to every state in the continental U.S.

As you can see by the pictures, there's a reason I keep going out on road trips. This country kicks ass. Even in Nebraska. I just can't get over the fact that in this particular day and age, I can just hop into a car and cruise all over this incredible landscape. If you haven't gotten in your car recently and gone beyond the grocery store, then I recommend you do. There are wonders and miracles around every freakin bend. Seriously. Make sure you take your camera.

The 80/20 Rule

2009-08-04T15:22:00.000-07:00

I have been reading Tim Ferriss' high-intensity book The Four-Hour Workweek and one tidbit that has stuck with me is his exploration of the 80/20 rule.

This rule states that in any given situation, 20 percent pulls more weight than the other 80. In an average work day you'll be productive 20 percent of the time, and screw around the rest of it. Most of the benefits of an exercise program will come from 20 percent of your effort. And around the house, you can bet that 20 percent of your stuff is actually important, and the rest of it is dross.

This has me thinking. Sarah has been working on the 100 Things Project--trying to winnow her total possessions down to 100 items. Yeah, right. At rough count, I'd say I personally own one thousand items, especially counting the CDs and the books, and I'm not in a hurry to divest myself of any of them. But are they important items, or are they draining me of my life energy?

Then there's my work day, which is, to be generous, about as organized as an dyslexic file clerk on crack. I don't even have a work day. I have a schedule that I have to keep in pencil and which gets erased and re-worked until the pages wear thin. Talk about misused energy. If I count scheduling, phone calls, obsessive email-checking and financial fretting as work hours, then the 80/20 rule is holding strong. How much of my life am I frittering away again?

When I hold up this same rule to my spare time (waaaaay too much TV), my internet habits (do I really need to check Swap-Bot every day?), and my dietary choices (cheeseburger and fries vs. garden salad), I begin to see a theme.

It may be time to cut the fat, as Tim says. And not just the cheeseburgers, either.

Come to my art opening on Friday!

2009-08-04T06:36:00.000-07:00

Yes, folks, I amaze even myself. This Friday I'll be at my opening for my first art show at Skystone on 3rd & Water. Snacks, music, fabulous art! Hope you can come!

A little bit of Mayberry excitement

2009-08-02T09:33:00.001-07:00

Well, we've been suspecting for some time that our little family was moving toward being bona fide eccentric, and our suspicions have been confirmed. We are auditioning to be on the ABC show, Wife Swap.

If you haven't seen it--then first of all, you must. It's our favorite show (along with Monk and The Office). For two weeks, the wives of two different families swap places and go and live with another--radically different--family. It's always entertaining, but beyond that, it's a window into the world of other families, which I find completely irresistible.

Countless times we have looked at each other and confirmed that we should be on this show. So imagine our surprise when we got an email from the casting office saying they were looking for families who have a cleaning business. We hopped right on that express train and we've been moving at high speeds ever since.

We're still in the auditioning process, so we're not sure yet. But already it's been an eye-opener. Just interviewing our family members and taping our home interior has allowed me to look at our family through someone else's eyes. And you know what? We have a pretty awesome family.

Remind me of that the next time the dog throws up on the rug.

Maya's Birthday

2009-07-30T07:43:00.000-07:00

Decorating cupcakes

Groove time by Scotty

Pet rock painting extravaganza

Maya is 6 years old. Unbelievable.

Energy of Empowerment Workshop: Some Major Bang for the Buck

2009-05-31T21:49:00.000-07:00

We're designing this little honey to add value and power to the life of every person who attends.
We're limiting attendance to 20 people, so call or email me to get your spot!

I never finished telling you about Jordan

2009-05-30T13:52:00.001-07:00

Because I didn't want to think about it.

Yes, he has Asperger's. Or, rather, he has "symptoms which indicate a diagnosis of Asperger's"...because God forbid anyone call a spade a spade.

What this means, in a nutshell, is that he has a social disability. The social cues that come naturally to most people are muddled and hazy for him. The dexterity it takes to undertake engagements like making a new friend, deciding which line to choose in a busy store, or small-talk with a cashier is very difficult for him. It's all like a second language to him. He can learn it, piece by piece, but it's slow and awkward and frankly, too much trouble for some people to even bother with him.

I guess I never thought about the fluid way most of us can size each other up and respond in a matter of milliseconds. Body language, facial expressions and tone can speak volumes in a heartbeat. This very morning I shared a glance with another mother, also standing in line for the balloon man at the Farmer's Market, about a bratty little kid who was busy announcing that the Tooth Fairy was a ruse. "What can you do?" said my half-glance. "His mother should stuff him in a closet," said hers. Full communication, over before anyone else (hopefully) noticed. This kind of thing is out of Jordan's reach.

So there's that. But I'll tell you the truth here: I'm glad the cards are on the table. Over the years he has done and said enough odd-ball things for the adults who are close to him to know something was a little bit different. And now that we can look at the thing--now that it's been named--we've all pretty much said, so what?

Sure, we've taken some steps to give him an edge. He's in a fantastic social skills group in school. I'm very grateful to Lincoln Elementary that they have been pro-active about what he'll need throughout his grade-school years. The teachers are wonderful. And at home we're working on things like explaining ourselves clearly and using feeling words, getting him together with lots of friends, and working with him to help him be as graceful and well-rounded as possible.

But again--so what if he has Asperger's? He's who he is. We really don't even want to talk about it much. In a way it's like finding out your kid has some bad cavities, or needs glasses. Get him what he needs, guide him toward health, and let him go.

I guess Bill Gates also has "symptoms of Asperger's". As did Albert Einstein. And Benjamin Franklin. Getting the picture? Sure, Jordan's a little bit different. But so is Scott and so am I. We went through some shit, but we made it. And we hope Jordan will make it even farther.

Social Media Meltdown

2009-05-19T09:01:00.001-07:00

In the beginning was the letter. And the letter was good.

On the second day the Lord spake, and the Internet was born.

On the third day the Lord created email.

On the fourth day the website, the ad banner and eBay came to be. And the Lord smiled.

On the fifth day He created blogs.

On the sixth day the earth was peopled with Facebook, MySpace, Ning, Base Camp, Squidoo and Twitter. Profiles were filled out; groups were formed; events created; pictures uploaded; quizzes calculated; witty comments compiled; witty comments responded to; mobile text checked; mobile text responded to with smiley-face icon; friends added; acquaintances added; total strangers added; spam managed and passwords protected.

On the seventh day the Lord wanted so badly to rest. But He could not. Because he had to go post about it.

WARNING: Do not read if you already have too many distractions.

2009-04-24T11:42:00.000-07:00

Today my friendly mailman brought me an issue of K-Zine, courtesy of the April mini-zine swap on Swap-Bot. Good ol Katie was kind enough to review the website Stumbleupon.com, and I thought I'd breeze on over there and check it out. Yeah. An hour later I reluctantly dragged myself away, but only to spread the word!

With Stumbleupon, you choose what kind of websites interest you, then hone it down by liking it or not liking it (if you don't like it, the pop up text box says "not for me", which I find gracious). Immediately I was Stumbling on all kinds of interesting art, writing, political and environmental sites. Plus some wacky stuff too. Sure, some of the pages were boring (they were "not for me"), but I kept Stumbling on to lots of super-cool, totally engaging sites that I would never even have thought to look for using Google. Like the snowflake-generator site. Or the writing-prompt site that gives you a word and one minute to write using the word. Or the craft blog that has a tutorial on how to make flower prints--assuming you have time now that you'll be spending your days Stumbling.

In her mini-zine Katie writes, "Thanks a lot Blake. Now I get nothing done at work."

You'll thank me too.

2009-04-24T06:59:00.000-07:00

Yo my good friends! Come on by and visit my new site, Bodytalk-Ellensburg.com. Be amazed! Be delighted! Be stunned by the power of energy medicine! Or, you know, just come by for the fun of it.

Why You Need a Baggu

2009-04-14T12:34:00.000-07:00

Let me say right out front here that I am not a green freak. It's not that I don't love the earth; I'm frigging crazy about the earth. What I hate is fads, and it seems to be that "being green" is the most in-your-face, out-of-control fad around these days. Whew. Got that out of the way.

Still, I wasn't feeling right about plastic bags. They're stupid. You need eight of them to carry home ten bucks' worth of groceries because the handles stretch out and cut your fingers off otherwise. Then you wad them up and either save them in yet another swelling plastic bag for future recycling, or get really lazy and throw them out. Either way they seem to end up in ditches, along roadways, choking innocent geese, or flapping from tree branches, like the really obnoxious Super One bag that has adorned the 100-year-old maple tree across the street all winter.

Then there's the bizarre cashier custom of bagging every single thing you purchase while you're still fishing out your change--even things like a can of soup or already-bagged items like potatoes. And God forbid you deny this bagging opportunity (see Christine's rant). You have really gotten in the way of a cashier's good day if you don't let her bag up your soup.

Well, I'm here to piss off cashiers everywhere when I tell you, eager readers, to go right out and get yourself a Baggu. Christine hooked me up with a nice bright orange one when I visited her in February, and I love this thing. To begin with, it crushes down to the size of a tangerine, which even I with my overstuffed purse can find room for. Then when you fill it, it comfortably holds what would take two or three plastic bags, and the handles are comfortable and do not collapse down to the width of floss. It's washable. It weighs about an ounce. Because it's similar to the plastic bag design, you can even try to convince doubtful cashiers that it's just as easy to fill. They can hang the bag on the steel bag hooks and go to town.

Admittedly, I've gotten my share of dirty looks from cashiers who don't believe it's just as easy to fill my Baggu. But they can just get over it. Every time I fill my lovely orange bag instead of plastic, I feel good about myself and the planet. (Yes, I'm that easy.) And every time I listen to that plastic bag across the street snap in the wind, I just want to fondle my Baggu. There's hope. Even for a non-greeny like me.

Easter Sunday

2009-04-12T20:09:00.001-07:00

Maya's First Dance Performance

2009-04-06T09:08:00.000-07:00

Why You Must See Religulous

2009-03-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

If you expect a fair and balanced look at religion, you should not see Religulous. If you want to protect your careful shell of beliefs, look away. If, however, you've got the balls to take a square look at the role of religion in culture and politics, then put your dogma aside for 101 minutes and travel with Bill Maher down the Halls of Arbritrary Rules in the Name of God.

In this documentary, which he has created as an attempt to understand why people cling so stubbornly to religion, he visits with emissaries from the four world religions of Christianity, Judaism, Islam and Mormonism. (See: Bill getting tossed off the grounds of the Mormon Temple and forcibly removed from the Vatican.) In the process, he interviews both laymen and high rollers from each of the religious groups, and peppers the interviews with movie clips that are so hilarious you forget he's absolutely skewering these folks (see: Jesus as the awkward teen).

Here's the thrust of his message: religion is a closed box. Blindly living by the dictates of long-dead prophets discourages us from thinking creatively and using all our resources to connect with one another. Worse, as we all know, religion remains not a vehicle for peace, but war. We are literally blowing one another up for not reading the right book. It becomes justification for the wicked and an excuse for the lazy. And really, if you're going to swallow most religions whole, you'd better have a pretty deep throat.

I'll admit that even I found myself squirming--and I surrendered religion long ago. He ran up against my own set of Arbitrary Rules by not clarifying that there's a difference between religion and spirituality, and by outright denying there's a God of any kind. But even as I stiffened, I could see that this was my box he was messing with now. Mine! And if you don't like it I'll take an AK-47 to your ass!

He concludes with the very salient point that the one place religion absolutely does not belong is in politics (where it is rife). It is a prism that distorts otherwise clear thinking. This is a mirror we can look into a little more easily now that we don't have an apocalyptic fundamentalist as President, but still, it's best to stay focused. Religion by its very nature is crazy. Some folks like it and they can keep it...to themselves.

I guess it's a good thing I joined Weight Watchers

2009-02-24T08:03:00.001-08:00

By Jordan, on a nice little love note.

Suzanne & I are teaching a FREE Energy Medicine Class on February 19th...Be there!

2009-02-11T10:48:00.000-08:00

What's the deal with that kid?

2009-01-07T11:38:00.000-08:00

This Monday, when I went in to do my weekly classroom volunteering, Jordan's teacher pulled me aside before the kids came in from recess. She asked if Jordan had mentioned the Polar Express Dining Car Day. He had not mentioned the Polar Express Dining Car Day, but since he refuses to talk about school, this is not surprising. Turns out that just before the Christmas break, our dear first grade teacher had arranged a special afternoon of pretending the class was on a dining car, complete with fancy waiter--herself. To be extra fancy she used an accent.

And here's where the trouble started. Jordan does not like accents. He likes things to be as they usually are, and since Mrs H does not have an accent, that was wrong. In the midst of the celebrations, he turned himself to the wall, started his rhythmic rocking, and said, "Stop talking like that. Stop talking like that. Stop talking like that." Over and over and over.

Now, I had warned our friend Mrs H that Jordan was sometimes a little, well, off. I suppose it's a plus that it took until December before she saw what I was talking about (I told her a few times, only to be given the patient, patronizing smile pediatricians save for overweening mothers). But still. Here we are. The cat is out of the bag.

She wanted to know whether I considered that Jordan may have Aspergers Syndrome.

Considered it? Oh, I've considered it. I've considered it every time he gets stuck in one of his myriad ruts and can only fight his way out by having a first-class, full-blown tantrum. I've considered it when he screams at the top of his lungs when anyone sings "Happy Birthday"; when he burns his tongue on anything too spicy and has to fling himself on the floor and wail; when he balks at the idea of doing anything outside of his usual routine; when he spends hours thumping against the seat back in the car; or when he drops his toy on the car floor at a point when we can't stop and screams"I want my Scooby Doo van! I want my Scooby Doo Vaaaaaaaaaaaan!" for approximately forty-five minutes.

But the part that really worries me is his difficulty with social situations. For instance: last summer a few kids came by while their parents were looking at a rental next door. They were attracted to our monstrous playset in the back yard. "Hey," said the kids. "Hey," said Maya, who was four. Jordan completely ignored them until they ignored him too, and then suddenly he launched at them and said, "We have a lawn mower!" This behavior is just plain weird. That was obvious by the looks on these kids' faces.

Recently we learned that at recess, he goes out, stands by the flagpole and waits until the bell rings to go back inside. Either that, or wanders the perimeter of the grounds.

Still, it's all subtle enough that he could be characterized as an "odd child". I was an "odd child", and so was Scott, so it's a pretty easy leap to make--until he does something so unusual that it catches the attention of the school. And believe me, with 25 kids to a classroom, it is not easy to catch attention.

When his teacher brought up the Polar Express incident I felt the usual onrush of panic, guilt, and despair. It's a cocktail of emotion that makes my blood feel like it's been suddenly replaced by mercury. Over the course of Jordan's lifetime, it has been suggested many times that perhaps there is actually something wrong with him, but on Monday I decided it was time to take the tiger by the tail.

He has been seeing a school counselor to do "social group". I contacted her. She confirmed that he does display symptoms of Aspergers.

I then got in touch with the college to get him scheduled for an assessment in their clinic. The doctor in charge said their students were looking for experience; I assured him that Jordan would be an experience, all right.

I went online and skimmed enough to conclude that Jordan does, in fact, behave like a kid who has Aspergers. For those who don't know, Aspergers is like Autism Lite. In some cases, like Jordan's, it can be so Lite that you might not even notice it--for a while. But sooner or later the odd social behavior, mannerisms, focused interest on a few topics and use of highly adult language will catch someone's eye. Like his teacher's, for example.

So we're going to get him assessed. There was some discussion about the wisdom of this--we don't want to pigeonhole him, etc etc. But the fact is in today's society if you want to get any help you have to have a label, preferably one with a code that can be written on forms in triplicate.

Will he get a label? Will we get some help? Will he be able to deliberately learn skills that most of us are born knowing? Will we be able to sing "Happy Birthday" in the future without putting him in a soundproof room? Only time will tell.

2008, I bid you adieu

2008-12-31T11:22:00.000-08:00

I'm not a huge fan of New Year's Eve. Upon careful reflection, I can't remember a single NYE celebration that stands out as particularly thrilling or remarkable. It just doesn't go that way for me.

But I do enjoy counting down to midnight. That ten seconds is generally worth staying up until midnight. I like clear endings and beginnings; I like running through the proverbial race ribbon.

Tonight, as I count down from ten-nine-eight, I will be saying goodbye to a very odd year. This is the year I finally established a healing practice; published an art piece in a national magazine; created and distributed three zines (Handmade Life has hit the UK!); met Mr. Moonlight Chronicles in the flesh; and road-tripped to Glacier National Park to finally drive on the Going-to-the-Sun Road.

It's also the year we blew up the van at the side of a 101-degree road in the middle of noplace. It's the year we went bankrupt, losing our gamble at borrowing until we caught up with our businesses. It's the year I came to understand--given the time and space to do so--that I don't appear to be particularly special. I'm not a blazing comet; I'm a mom, a sometime writer, a hobby artist, a short-range traveler. Visions of greatness have faded this year.

Then again, it's also the year I started clog dancing, mostly because I noticed an opportunity as a result of working through the Artist's Way with a group of friends. And this year, I filled two art journals with interesting pieces (at least they're interesting to me), learned how to make beaded dolls and soldered charms, and dared to ride a horse again even though they terrify me.

When I look ahead to 2009, I don't know what to think. I have no particular plans. I want for nothing, really. I'm not reaching or longing for anything. I refuse to make resolutions on principle--but I don't even have a wish list.

Maybe all the time I spend with my Buddhist friends is wearing off on me. Maybe I am accidentally learning not to lunge forward or cling to the past. I seem to be just--here. Living one day at a time. One year at a time.

Turkey Day

2008-11-28T12:12:00.001-08:00

Jordan Mayberry, Filmmaker

Maya and Grandpa

Pie, Football, Sewing...A Perfect Thanksgiving

Pedro, Marco and Sam

Joanna...aka Momo

Kelley and Jan...aka Grandma

Karen and Maya working off the turkey

Flush

2008-11-26T14:13:00.001-08:00

Jordan's first comic strip. Freakin hilarious.

Admitted We Were Powerless

2008-11-24T01:14:00.000-08:00

Step One:

Admitted we were powerless over credit, that our lives had become unmanageable.

Here I substitute the well-worn AA phrase for my latest, most virulent compulsion: debt. Debt, and all the short-term, fast-track pleasure it buys.

I'm not even going to make excuses, though they are legion in my own brain. You should have seen me, scissors poised over my newest, freshest credit card, just about leaping up with the hundred good reasons to just keep the damn thing--just one more week. One more day. The things I could buy with it--to cut it up seemed heartless, stupid, and senseless--yet cut it up I did. Because I am powerless. Quite powerless indeed.

I can't say that I've reached a point in my three-hour-old recovery to yet share the levels of debt that I have attained, but believe me, it's impressive. I'm impressed because frankly, I still find myself stunned that any sensible banker (or series of bankers) would see fit to lend me this much money, the money I now owe. Predatory lending notwithstanding, what were these people thinking?

Because after all, I've been here before. In the mid 90s I endured months of phone calls from "Mr Widget at Flim-Flam Bank", red-letter notices, and even a turn in court when the ex and I were nearly evicted from our hopelessly overstuffed apartment. But eventually I got it together, only to again nearly bankrupt myself when I moved to Washington State five years later. Things were really tight then, when the interest on my credit cards was putting my balance over the limit month after month. That was when I had four cents to my name. At that point I got smart, cut up the credit cards, starting making payments and it wasn't long before our family was debt free.

So we had one credit card. For the miles. Or the points or the dollars or what-f***ing-ever. And we bought a couple of things we couldn't quite pay for. Until next month....

Okay. We know I'm an alcoholic because I do not stop at one. And in the same way, something in my brain overrides all reason when it comes to plastic money. I go insane. I lose touch.

This time I knew it was the end when hubby and I had a long, serious discussion about going bankrupt--a discussion that is still pending, mind you. But it seems wrong to me to borrow money, mostly for flim-flammery, and not pay it back. Even if paying back takes, you know, eight million years.

There's only one thing to do: step away from the plastic. And remember Step Two: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Good thing for me I have access to said Power. I'm going to need it.

School Pix

2008-11-23T19:46:00.001-08:00

The Field by Lynne McTaggart

2008-11-16T08:37:00.000-08:00

I just picked up a book that is blowing my mind.

I have been looking for some readable material that could heighten my understanding of the frontier sciences, particularly as they apply to what I see on a daily basis in my BodyTalk practice. This book is really tying up some loose ends.

For those who don't follow these things, some of the basic ideas of quantum physics and the frontier sciences are:

What we perceive as solid matter is actually an impeccably orchestrated molecular dance--energies in perpetual motion
Once an electron has connected with another electron, each will be aware of the other's activity anywhere in the universe
Our universe is a sea of wave activity, which we are always affecting and being affected by
The sea of wave activity is essentially a place (or non-place) of limitless possibility. What shifts possibility to actuality is observation.

I guess I have personally sat with these ideas for long enough that I'm used to them. (Plus, I have a history of some chemical brain-altering, which I think helped.)

But then I started doing BodyTalk, and started seeing things happen which whetted my appetite to know more. How is this happening? How can I sit down, do a little muscle testing with someone's hand, discover the communication breakdowns in his or her bodymind that need to be restored and with a little tapping, help restore it? There's no doubt it's working. It's amazing; it's seemingly miraculous, sometimes--but it's definitely working.

Then I discovered this book. I haven't even finished it yet and already I want to buy a hundred copies and pass them out. Ms McTaggart, you see, had the same questions I did, except she's an investigative reporter so she went and found the answers by extensively interviewing and pestering top scientists from all over the world.

From the prologue:

For a number of decades respected scientists in a variety of disciplines all over the world have been carrying out well-designed experiments whose results fly in the face of current biology and physics....What they have discovered is nothing less than astonishing. At our most elemental, we are not a chemical reaction, but an energetic charge. Human beings and all living things are a coalescence of energy in a field of energy connected to every other thing in the world.

Now this I had heard before, although she does put it quite succinctly and beautifully, in my opinion. But here's something I hadn't heard. In 1970, Fritz-Albert Popp discovered that for optimum health, we must maintain a constant equilibrium of light. If we don't have enough light, our cells mutate or die. If we have too much light, our cells drown. For us to be in ideal health, moreover, this light must resonate in coherence, like an orchestra. If coherence breaks down, the body breaks down.

And what does BodyTalk do? It restores coherence.

So. Thanks to the understanding reached by these scientists and the interpretations of their work by Ms. McTaggart, I begin to see that in BodyTalk, the following applies. I can "tap in" to a client's bodymind (with permission, of course) because we are connected by means of energetic fields. I'm looking for the places where coherence has been compromised, using the consistent framework I was taught. Once the breakdown has been located, the client's body is able to restore optimum coherence, simply by the power of observation.

Quantum physics at work, people.

To come across this information makes me feel like a lottery winner. I already had the ticket, but now I know how much it's worth. In theory, there is no health condition that can't be addressed through energy medicine, particularly with a well-designed system like BodyTalk (sorry to wave the BT flag so relentlessly, but I just can't help myself). We are at the beginning of a whole new definition of health.

Gets me pretty fired up. Can you tell?

Veterans Day (Or, Why There are Worse Fates than Motherhood)

2008-11-13T07:04:00.000-08:00

BodyTalk Access class...A Few Spaces Left!

2008-11-10T08:58:00.000-08:00

There are still a few seats open for this awesome class. You will learn how to fire up your brainpower, reduce your stress, improve your hydration and immune function, and balance your physical body. Seriously. This is a class you will really use.

Life. Yuck.

2008-11-10T08:18:00.000-08:00

This morning I am feeling extremely depressed.

I didn't want to get out of bed from the start. It was dark and I felt zero inclination to run around like a crazy person stuffing backpacks and skimming the refrigerator for something--anything--my daughter might consider eating for lunch. (I could have just packed a bag full of Halloween candy and spared myself considerable grief.) They have a Veteran's Day parade today so they need to wear something Patriotic but all Maya owns are clothes that are purple, pink or blue. The blue was okay. But the white and the red? Nowhere to be found. Plus I had to comment in Jordan's Reading Log (comment: "read independently"--do you like it?) and find shoes, socks, toothpaste, ponytail holders and a Sharpie pen to write on a Ziploc bag for Maya's lunch, since she seems to have lost her lunchbox. Then we had to rush out, in the near-dark, to barely catch the bus.

How in God's name did I get here? Looking ahead is like looking at the South Dakota prairie--so endless it seems to swallow me up. This is not what I wanted. I wanted to be free, to have adventures and a series of riveting experiences. Packing lunch is not a riveting experience. I promise you: it's not.

And the prairie grows yet wider when I consider all the facets of my stupid, mundane life. Yesterday I ran the dishwasher twice and still the sink is full of dishes. As usual, there is crap everywhere, that only I seem to be interested in returning to its rightful place. Soon I will have to depart from this thrilling post in order to go and clean an office space, because no life is complete without scrubbing two sets of pissy toilets. Then I have my Monday-morning volunteering in Jordan's classroom (I got roped into that one by some slick maneuvering on the part of his teacher). Then a bunch of other tedious chores.

I am so bored I could vomit. I work these weird split shifts that pretty much last all day, every day. I like my kids until they pester me one time too many and then I'm screaming and hissing (and cussing, too) because someone can't reach the toothpaste. I like my husband but most of the time we're just juggling schedules and obligations. I have no purpose. I have a life but it is not any life I planned.

Husbandry

2008-11-03T07:09:00.000-08:00

Shortly after I was married, seven years ago (and don't lecture me about the seven-year itch, either) I was told to beware the giant undersucking archetype that would transform me from a Person to a Wife. Not having been married, I answered politely. But now I see.

Similar to the way that a single human brain will trample down comfortable neural pathways and stick to them, the collective consciousness has been getting married for a long time. Women, in particular, have been handed off very much like cattle, to be properly penned and bred. We may think, here in enlightened modern America, that we're approaching things differently, but overall you'd be wrong. We mean well, and everything. But it's hard to rise above a genetic pathway that has grooved itself into a canyon.

What the hell am I talking about? you might ask. This. In my own household, it is the woman (that would be me) who is ultimately responsible for the children, the cooking, clean clothes, made beds, doctor appointments, and watering the plants. The man (you know who) can approach these tasks as a luxury. If he does them, he's doing me a favor. He does do them, but often with an off-handed joke about how I owe him for the chore. Seriously. He's not being a jerk; he's just being the Husband.

If you haven't considered this, just remember that a "husband" in the English language is someone who manages lifestock.

But I digress. In my own home, we are modern thinkers. Therefore I am busy with my own projects and our home is often in total disarray, proving for sure that I am not quite the Wife of whom the collective would approve. But lately we have reached a crossroads where my path and the path of wifedom are really beginning to diverge.

I am following my path of becoming an energy healer, you see, which requires a lot of schooling, time and money. These resources are tapping the family needs and lately it's gotten to the point where my little fling is just no longer funny. I am now lining up my ducks to go to massage school, and then graduate school. Scott has responded--perfectly reasonably when you consider he is the Husband--that all my shenanigans are getting him stressed.

Of course he's stressed. The cow is out wandering the pastures. The fence is all trampled and who will watch the calves?

Anyway. You may well ask what's in it for me, then? this marriage thing. And I will tell you the honest truth. Yesterday I was playing with my wedding ring and I became aware of what a sense of security it offers me. Being married makes me feel grounded (or fenced). It makes me feel safe, as if without it I would become untethered and wander the world without aim. As if I would float away, were it not for the anchoring ring.

I know that at least in my own marriage we both want to express equality. But I also know that down here in the marital muddy trenches, it's all messier than it might seem. The pushing and pulling between union and separation, man and woman, freedom and security is quite a tussle.

As for me, I've jumped the fences. But I still wear the bell.

Ellensburg in October

2008-10-28T11:29:00.001-07:00

Proof that Dan was in Ellensburg!

2008-10-24T08:22:00.000-07:00

Check it out.

http://moonlightchroniclesblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/issue-67_22.html

The Coolest Casual Encounter Ever

2008-10-24T07:32:00.000-07:00

The other day I was driving up Pine St on my way to do a BodyTalk session when what to my wondering eyes should appear but an old, well-loved minivan with the words "Moonlight Chronicles" printed on the rear doors.

I pulled my car over so fast I practically caused an accident. I parked across a crosswalk and jumped out. Because there can only be one Moonlight Chronicles and here was the van, in Ellensburg!

Okay, you probably haven't heard of Moonlight Chronicles, which is a small indie publication written and charmingly illustrated by Dan Price. Maybe you've heard of his book Radical Simplicity, which I highly recommend. In a nutshell, this guy is absolutely one of a kind. He wanders the earth, often on foot or travel-tricycle, sharing his observations in his zine, and when the season is right, he lives in Eastern Oregon in an evolving arrangement of ultra-simple living setups on an old horse pasture outside of town. The latest I know of is an underground dugout lined with carpet. Anyway you might think he was really strange but he's not strange; he's so regular that it has the effect of truly inspiring a common person (like me) to remember that all the trappings of "modern life" truly are optional.

Dan Price is a free man. That's a rare bird these days.

Anyhow I parked kitty-wompus across the crosswalk, jumped out and said, "Are you the Moonlight Chronicles guy?" I forgot his name in the excitement. For not only was his van parked on my street, but he was in the driver's seat with the door open, seemingly not in a hurry. (I was in a hurry. I am not as free as Dan Price.) He said indeed he was the Moonlight Chronicles guy and as I shook his hand (warm, pleasantly rough) he gave me the secure, grounded feeling of being inside by a fireplace while snow falls outside the window. Really.

I should also mention that while most people would recoil back inside the safety of their van to see the likes of me screech to the side of the road, leap out and attack with overjoy, Dan was very friendly. He rooted around his van and gave me a few copies of the Chronicles. I got his address so I could send him some Handmade Life copies. Overall he acted like we were old acquaintances who had lost each other's phone numbers. He was a gracious guy.

And that was my miracle of the month.

Blog Action: Poverty

2008-10-08T12:25:00.000-07:00

This year the good people at Blog Action Day have asked participating bloggers to comment on the global experience of poverty.

Because I try to be a diligent world citizen and because it seems like a manageable way to contribute to planetary consciousness, I thought sure, I'll write about poverty. But really, what do I know about poverty?

Oh, sure, I've been poor by American standards. Growing up we didn't have squat--ate government peanut butter out of heavy steel cans and drank powdered milk that crusted in the corners of the milk bottle. My sister and I wore hand-me-downs from the neighbors and participated in no costly activities, which ruled out everything but the Girl Scouts. We had one rusty car and we wore sweaters inside in the winter. Later, as a so-called adult, I continued to experience this level of tight finances, living with five roommates to make the rent and eating Ben's Boil-a-Bag rice for too many dinners (though I did have cigarettes).

But do we see a theme here? Even during prolonged periods of so-called destitution, I have never once missed a meal. (Some may say I could stand to miss a meal or two.) Unless I chose otherwise, I've always had a roof to curl up beneath--and clean clothes, health care, drinking water, a dentist and even, except for six months of my adult life, a car. So this is not poverty.

But there is poverty, even in America. In the nearby city of Yakima, Scott and I were once lost and drove through a bad neighborhood, where we saw--I kid you not--a fully occupied home that did not have walls. A roof, yes; no walls. That is poverty. When you get so frigging poor that spending the winter under a roof but still needing to shovel snow out of the living room seems reasonable, well, that's poor. And probably most of us that have done even a scant amount of traveling have seen some episode of our own.

I guess I'm supposed to now comment on what we're supposed to do about poverty. Because I write a blog I am obviously replete with handy suggestions on this matter. Not.

In fact, I have only one suggestion. Sometimes I even follow it myself. I think we should share. Not government to government as much as person to person. I think we should contribute to our local food banks, invite a friend to supper, give stuff away that we don't need, tithe, and give the guy at the red light in the really awful looking coat with the cardboard sign--give that guy a couple of bucks. That's what I think. It sure can't hurt anyone.

Final thought: in a documentary I saw the other night, a philosopher pointed out that in poor countries, people just do for one another. But in rich countries, we don't know what to do. But there is always something we can do, once we're looking. There's always someone with whom we can share.

Don't you think?

Oh Yeah, My Life!

2008-09-09T11:00:00.000-07:00

All morning I have been pinching myself. Could it actually be true? Do I really have school-aged children?

As one internet friend wrote to me, "Not that we don't love the little goobers, but..." Yeah. I love em, and everything, but this is frickin paradise.

This morning Scott and I waited with them at the bus stop (how Americana do you get) and then the big yellow beast rolled up and they hopped in and waved and that was that. We came back and made breakfast. For ourselves. And watched a grown-up DVD. At 8 am. And then Scott took a nap (no cleaning this morning) and I worked on Artist Way stuff and wrote for a while on a new project.

The previous list was brought to you by WFREE. To contribute to this station, send your children into the lap of public education.

But oh! in case you thought things were going to be boring now, allow me to share this little tiddy. Yesterday was the kids' first day on the bus, right? Last year we drove them all over creation. So yesterday morning they got on just fine and yesterday MIL and I wait and wait and wait for them to get home. No bus. I call the bus garage, learn all busses are held up by road construction. Oh, there's the bus--foolish mom, here. There go all the kids off the bus. But where are my kids? No kids. MIL and I hop in the truck and speed after the bus, thinking they missed their stop. No kids at next stop. From cell phone, I call bus garage again. Say my kids are still on the bus and I am behind the bus, could bus driver please tell them to get off? Oh, he says, they already got off, five blocks early. My children, mind you, do not leave the yard without an adult. I mean, come on, Jordan's only six! Now we learn they are wandering the Ellensburg streets! Lost! Probably crying! Their first day on the bus! We speed up the road to find our wanderlings. I am in a panic. They have probably already been abducted by a nice man with lollipops in his glove box. They probably forgot to look both ways and are flattened someplace. But in fact they turn out to be almost home, walking along, perfectly happy and contented. Once my heart stops pounding, I realize that in fact they are both totally delighted with this turn of events. I asked why they got off the bus where they did. "Oh," said Jordan, "we didn't mind walking." And off he went, merry as he can be, into the house for a snack. Right after I choke that bus driver ("they seemed fine", he advised the bus garage dispatcher, as I heard right over the telephone), I will stop and be amazed that in fact my school-aged children really do have it together.

So the adventures continue. And now I'll have all day long to ponder them in peace.

Eye Candy, Darling Children

2008-09-07T08:32:00.000-07:00

Eye Candy, Glacier National Park

2008-09-07T08:20:00.000-07:00

Back to the Sandwich

2008-09-06T18:03:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I tried to simplify things by moving all my chit chat into one blog, but unfortunately, it just felt weird to do that. I mean I have kind of this group of arty folks who like to look at my blogs, but really, do they need to hear my rantings and ravings? It felt strange every time I posted something personal over on Alchemy Studios.

So I'm back. Aren't you glad?

In other news, you'll have to believe me that I had all these completely awesome pictures to post, but am having major, major computer troubles. Put all my pictures on disk but now this new used laptop I'm working on won't read picture disks. So kind of stuck there. I had such eye candy too!

So, in lieu of charming pictures, I will just catch you, my beloved readers, back up with what's going on in Mayberry-land.

1. As of this Monday, when Maya starts kindergarten, I will officially be A Mother of School Aged Children. I am so fine with this...well, mostly fine. Did have a brief meltdown when Jordan just beelined out of the car on his first day with hardly a backward wave. Where's my Velcro kid and who's this self-sufficient little person?

2. Scott just enjoyed his opening night last night for his new solo art show, "Spheres." It's an excellent show. It's up in a local office here that's on the Art Walk, so various art-loving folks stopped in to see his work and were wowed, of course. He's amazing. But I can't show you a picture. Because of my computer.

3. After the van died its spectacular death, it heralded an early end to camping season. We have spent the past month and a half or so working non-stop. It's not very fun to be a mature, responsible, working adult, but it does pay the bills. And it pays for dinner at Perkins.

4. As you may have seen on Alchemy Studios, Derek died. My old boyfriend and love. He was fairly young and it was incredibly sudden, and it still makes me feel very sad to think about it. I expected to be able to keep in touch with him for a long time to come, but it just goes to show that things don't go the way I tend to plan for them. I keep trying to remind myself to enjoy the moment...even when the moment, like now, is Jordan pestering Maya and Maya shrieking that awful whiny shriek that scrapes at my eardrums and drives me bonkers. Try to enjoy it, I remind myself yet again. Life is short.

5. It's been all work and no play and it's made me a dull girl. But I'll try to catch up with some excitement and anecdotes. Come back soon and see!

The Last Wordsandwich Post

2008-04-17T23:10:00.000-07:00

I can hardly believe I'm saying it, but the time has come for me to simplify my blog life. Much as I have loved Wordsandwich, either this or Alchemy Studios had to go. And since I have the Alchemy Studios name plastered all over the web, the Sandwich shall be no more.

I will leave it up here for a while so that the pictures and whatnot will still be housed somewhere on the web. But from here on in, I will now be sharing my pictures, commentary, and sunken boat stories on my Alchemy Studios blog.

Farewell, wonderful Wordsandwich.

But hello to a richer and more complete Alchemy Studios. Come on over!

http://www.alchemy-studio.blogspot.com

Dream Come True

2008-03-25T20:24:00.000-07:00

Today I became the proud renter of my very own office space for my BodyTalk practice. It's just big enough for the massage table, a chair and a few plants, which is all I need. The room is in the historic Davidson building, a wonderful old place with bricked walls and creaking floors. I have always enjoyed being in that building--and now I have my very own space. I will even have my name on the door.

My certification test is coming up in the next few weeks, and I'm studying hard for it. But even more important in my book, I'm preparing to step in to my long-cherished dream of being an energy medicine practitioner. I've been wanting this for years and years and years.

Today, when I stood in that cozy room, with its lemon-yellow paneling and flowerbox outside the window, I felt that knee-buckling gratitude that only comes with realizing a dream. I have come home.

BodyTalk Access class in Ellensburg

2008-03-15T14:31:00.000-07:00

If you are in Ellensburg, are coming to Ellensburg, or wish you always had a great reason to visit Ellensburg, then come take this class! BodyTalk Access is empowering, fun, easy and effective. You will never again feel the same way about your health. You can make a difference in your own life and the lives of others!

What're you waiting for? Go to the BodyTalk website and look for the Ellensburg Access class on April 19th to sign up! Too tricky? Call me and I'll get you set up.

Soap Lake

2008-03-13T17:49:00.000-07:00

My dear friends, I am sorry to have abandoned you here in the cyber-space world. I know a few of your are tenacious enough to stop by every day and see if I have graced the Wordsandwich pages, but lately I have been most ungracious.

This past weekend my sister and two of our friends and I went to Soap Lake for a girls' getaway. The town itself is tiny and so close to totally abandoned it's surprising people still live there, but those who do are rallying to return it to the map. Its principal feature is the lake for which it's named, a lake of alkalinic waters whose minerals make it "more similar to space than earth", according to a brochure. Also, the waters are supposed to be healing.

Well, one thing's for sure: a girl weekend is healing. We went to dinner, soaked in mineral baths, colored in coloring books, and laughed without ceasing. Later in the night Carolyn read my Tarot cards. I let her because she does not use them to predict the future; my imagination is too powerful to mess with suggestions of the future. She does use them to highlight the present, so it was perfectly clear to me what it meant when I drew the Ten of Swords.

This card depicts a man flattened into the dirt by ten long quivering swords. I didn't have to read expert interpretations to get that image.

See, lately (and I'm not sure how long "lately" is...could be a while now) I have felt drained and over-worked, not in the labor sense, but like soil that hasn't rested and has become grainy and thin. It came to me, upon seeing that card, that I have too many competing interests haggling for my energy. Because all of these interests are legitimate and important, it's hard to draw the line. But what I realized is that for me it is imperative to carve out some privacy, some quiet, and some peace.

What I'm getting at here is that one of the things that has recently gotten the axe is blogging. I was spending hours (really!) on the computer posting, reading, commenting...whew. I have decided to keep my blogs, but I am not going to get hung up if I don't post for a while. I might. But I might not.

2008-02-18T19:33:00.000-08:00

I hate that Valentine's Day is in February. February is my most flat-lined, unsexy month. If it were up to me, married and all, I would simply forgo this silly holiday; but Husband is a romantic about holidays and we must celebrate each and every one of them.

In the past we just grabbed a hotel room somewhere and hung out, and that was cool, but this time around I have been champing at the bit for Adventure. Seemed like the time to get out of town, so we did. For the first time since the kids were born, we hit the road with nothing but a map and a change of clothes, following our noses.

Oh, such noses. We went to Seattle, saw the mummy at Ye Olde Curiosity Shop, took a ferry to Bainbridge Island; followed 101 north up along the dense forests of the Olympic Peninsula; pulled over and had ourselves a little stroll on an unnamed forest road; wandered into Sequim and shacked up in the diviest motel in all the land. In the morning we had a diner breakfast and then went to the Dungeness Spit, a super-cool wildlife refuge that cuts like a moon sliver into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It's a strip of beach about fifty yards wide at best, home to an impressive assortment of wildlife. It being the Sunday of a three-day weekend, though, it was too over-run with Homo Sapiens to show much in the way of the wild, but we did hear a funky bird that sounded like a cork popping over and over in the misty green woods. That was neat. We walked down to the beach, took touristy pictures. Then back over the Hood Canal on another ferry, stopped for this fantastic Korean food in Bellevue, and home.

There is no greater Valentine's Day gift than this one. It made me feel alive.

A lil bit o cuteness

2008-02-16T08:47:00.000-08:00

Why I moved to Washington (friends, this one's long)

2008-02-10T19:16:00.000-08:00

Over the past few days, I devoured the book Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. The book’s been around for about thirteen years, and there was even a movie made this past year about the story, but somehow it missed me until now.

A surprising number of my friends are acquainted with the tale, but for those who aren’t, I’ll recap: a young man strikes into the heart of Alaska with no money, few provisions and insufficient survival gear, in order to live out his dream of being one with the land. He starves. If he hadn’t starved, and had instead wandered out the way he came in—which he almost successfully did—his story would be confined to whichever of his drinking buddies cared to hear it. But he did starve and thus became a posthumous celebrity.

I haven’t been able to shake this story. It has somehow returned me to the interior place I myself was, ten years ago, when I crossed the country to live in a remote cabin with my two brothers.

From time to time I’ll tell people I moved to Washington to live in a cabin, and I get the idea that this conjures fleeting images of a cozy place with gingham curtains and maybe a horse grazing outside the window. Not quite. The cabin I lived in was rough, constructed by the deft hands of my brothers, covered in tarp paper. It was tight against the rain and snow, but bare inside, a man’s cabin. The décor, as such, was a collection of more than a dozen types of rifles hung from vinyl hooks. No gingham curtains here—but I was beside myself with bliss.

The cabin was deep in the Eastern Washington forest, miles into a rutted and washed-out road studded with basalt stones sharp as ax blades. The land smelled powerfully of hot pine. Douglas squirrels chattered in the trees and Stellar’s jays imitated our voices. It was a dry summer, and a fine dust rose at every step, until in a short time the land itself had worked into my skin. I had time, so much time. I studied a dog-eared Western field guide with zeal. Fireweed, penstemones, pearly everlasting; douglas squirrel, bobcat, coyote; ponderosa, alder, mountain ash.

I learned how to shoot a variety of rifles, and became a fair enough shot with a scoped .22, although I did develop a strange stance while I shoot. I learned I can’t hit a barn with a handgun. I learned to fish with a spinner, and how to walk down creekbeds and across beaver dams to find trout pools. I learned to climb cliffs of tottering talus. There were a few brushes with disaster—just enough to keep things spicy. Randy hauled me out of one river by my wader straps and Greg pushed me against a cliff just before a loose boulder cracked open my head. That kind of thing.

But mostly there was just the experience of being outside. Day in, day out. We drove the sixty-odd rutty miles once a week to restock supplies, so I won’t say this was the same experience as Chris McCandless had. But it was my experience. We hauled our water up from the creek in five-gallon water jugs. I washed my clothes in a plastic bin, heated dish water on the woodstove, learned to clean small animals, learned to make baskets from the bark of mountain ash. And after a while I grew into that place the way lichen settles into rock. It’s still inside me: the Manastash.

So when I read about Chris McCandless and his wilderness adventure, it only relights a smoldering flame within me that I hope never goes out. I, too, wished to go to the woods in order to live deliberately. And I came out different than I went in.

Caucus

2008-02-09T19:07:00.000-08:00

Okay, I am officially on board with Obama.

I attended my first caucus today. Apparently the Democratic party has arranged things so that only attending a caucus counts as a vote, so I showed up. Over the years I have cultivated an unexpected philosophy that as an American, it is my civic duty to participate in the election process. This has nothing to do with rote pledges-of-allegiance or things I learned in eighth grade; it has more to do with traveling, reading, and spending time outside of the country. I have come, over time, to respect our political system. Full of holes and human foibles as it is, it's still holding up.

If, that is, there's a candidate worth voting for. Until very recently, I despaired of that ever happening. I was a Hillary fan because I saw her speak once, and she is very bright and passionate, but even so I recognize she's a full-blooded member of the Old Order.

Then I started paying attention to Mr. Obama. This man is sharp. But more importantly, he's inspiring--and right about now, there's almost nothing we as Americans need more than to be inspired. We're so weary and jaded and disgusted with the whole political scene. We show deep seams of division among our people. Our elections come down to a fistful of votes, counted and re-counted, because we are so split on so many issues. What miracle could we hope for?

This man is a miracle. He speaks a plain yet articulate truth. He turns the onus of responsibility back on the people of America, which is where it belongs. At the same time, he has the charisma and light of a natural leader, and it is just possible we have found someone that most Americans can, at the very least, respect.

His slogan is Yes we can. We can.

The latest adventure

2008-02-08T16:27:00.001-08:00

We are obviously the height of family togetherness. I mean, we have Valentine's hanging from the ceiling and all over the doors and even on the doorknobs. The love abounds! Also, the children's glue stick addiction abounds. They are nuts for crafts.

That's the good news. Don't you like how I led off with the charm and whimsy of Valentine's made by a child's hand? I'm trying to distract myself from other recent developments.

Yesterday, I took Jordan (why is it always Jordan?) to the dentist. He was a very charming little fellow. He took the whole thing like a man, even doing a fluoride treatment and then, as a coup de grace, his very first set of X-rays. And he waited patiently for the dentist to come in and show him pictures of his bones.

Alas, those bones have not one, not two, but eight frigging cavities. Eight! What six-year-old has eight cavities? Mine. Of course. The dentist tapped the celluloid with his pen. See here, said the good tooth doctor, that's a cave-in. He actually called it a cave-in. Jordan was just happy to see his teeth.

What does this mean? I asked. I did not ask, and where's the nitrous so I can snark a big hit off that thing? It seems this means that Jordan is up for, oh, three or four visits to a special child dentist. My dentist will not handle this due to Jordan's--ahem--anxiety. This is how we term his penchant for requiring four or five nurses to get through a shot. (A shot in the arm. This is to say nothing of four shots in the gums.) The child dentist will have to size him up for herself (there's one visit right there) and for each of these adventures we must cross one of the nastiest winter passes in the state.

How much does it cost? I then asked. There was much fiddling with pencils and avoidance of the question at that point, which I took to be a discouraging sign. Turns out we're staring down about $1500 in dental work. For a kid. Oh, did I mention the cavities are on teeth that won't fall out naturally for years?

Naturally, I also had to endure the lecture about how I should just stick that floss in Jordan's mouth whether he likes it or not. These people do not know my child. I was just so damn happy that he was brushing, I didn't get all excited about the floss.

So. Back to making Valentine's and trying to forget the latest health drama in the life of my oldest child. Glue stick, anyone?

For those of you in Ellensburg...

2008-01-26T22:03:00.000-08:00

There is going to be a righteous, kick-ass, fabulous Holistic Health Fair next Saturday and really, you oughta come on by. It's going to be at Hal Holmes on February 2nd (Groundhog Day!) from 10am-2pm.

As you may have guessed, I will have a booth for BodyTalk. Plus there will be more than 20 other health practitioners doing all kinds of cool stuff, and there will be free drawings and giveaways. And admission is free!

Swing by and say hello!

Motherhood Rant

2008-01-26T21:09:00.001-08:00

Okay, it's been two weeks since I last posted to the Sandwich. The sad part is that I did not get around to relating how much fun Jordan's 6th birthday bowling party was, or how we went sledding at the Ellensburg golf course, or that I was out of town for four days again taking my second round of BodyTalk classes. All exciting stuff (to me, at least) but do they rate a post? No. Here's what rates a post.

A rant. About my damn kid. You shouldn't call your damn kid your "damn kid" because they're bound to hear about it and end up either in therapy or down at Child Services filling out forms for placement in a more suitable household. Frankly, at this point, I'm starting to think either of these approaches have merit. Since leaving my full-time job for the wonders of motherhood, I have seriously doubted my intelligence, because it turns out that this motherhood trip is often completely for the birds. At least, it is when your kid comes unhinged at the slightest provocation.

Take tonight, for instance. I'm talking of course about Jordan. I would like this to be an equal-opportunity household but Maya is still holding strong in the sweetness category. Her fits amount to running into her room and crying for two minutes. But then, ah yes, there's Jordan. Tonight it went like this: he was rough-housing with Scott; he threw a toy at Scott's face; Scott yelled and gave him a time out; when he was finished I made the mistake (really, what was I thinking?) of reminding him not to throw items in Daddy's face (or Daddy's balls, either, but that's a different post). Ladies and gents, I might as well have told him I wished he were never born. He ran from the room on rocket feet, slammed every door he could on the way to the farthest end of the house, and proceeded to howl for the next, oh, thirty minutes that I didn't love him.

Like this: Mommy doesn't love meeeeeeeeeee! Doesn't. Love. Meeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!

For half an hour. I did all the dishes and Maya fretted back and forth, reminding me that Jordan was saying I didn't love him, as if I could have missed the message. Scott went online and looked up sports. Because really, what can you do? It's not like we haven't been down this road. We've been down this f-ing road so many times my tires are bald. The mommy-doesn't-love-me line is new, but not the spontaneous, first-class meltdowns. Those aren't new at all. We've tried reasoning, calmly talking it out, giving him space, getting in his face, screaming back, reverse psychology, reward, punishment, allergy testing and prayer. To no avail. The kid is just an occasional basket case.

All of this is very draining. We had plans for the evening but by the time the child was finally settled down and had gone to bed Scott and I were like two limp washcloths. I feel completely battered. I know Jordan does too (duh) but I seem to be at a total loss to help him or me.

I don't want him to be diagnosed with anything, or medicated, or charted. I just want him to be better. Sometimes it seems like he is better, and then he loses a game of Trouble or can't remember how to spell a word and off we go again.

I'm very tired. Of this. If Child Services calls, I'll be taking a nap.

Jordan is Six Years Old

2008-01-13T09:46:00.000-08:00

According to the Birthday Boy, he is now an Older Kid. It works like this: zero-one-two-three-four-and-five-year-olds are Little Kids, but then when you hit six, you are Older. He would have liked to think he immediately became taller yesterday, too. We humored that one. He did look just a little bit taller, because now he's six.

I have to admit, six is an older kid. As I write he's sitting at the table with scissors and glue and construction paper, creating things with a minimum of assistance. For the most part, he goes through his day without much physical help, and except for when he's having some kind of emotional meltdown (like right now; I have spoken too soon; he's having issues with his Paintastic markers) he can pretty much function on his own.

So now the game changes. It's not so much about keeping him fed and clothed all day; now things are getting trickier. He needs guidance and limits more now than he needs someone to pour his milk. We have to help him work out things like social problems and fears and how to spell tricky words.

That's all right by me. I'm just impressed that we made it this far.

A hilarious link that can't be missed

2008-01-12T09:19:00.001-08:00

As you all know, I am a fan of ridiculous pictures with witty commentary. (Remember the 1970s Weight Watcher cards and the Worst Album Covers?)

Here's a contender for funniest dang pictures ever. And I haven't even checked out the mug shots yet. Take a look:

http://listoftheday.blogspot.com/2007/09/great-olan-mills-photos.html

Enjoy.

2008-01-07T23:05:00.001-08:00

This is one of those posts that I'm not sure I'll actually, well, post. At the moment I am feeling like I have been run over by a bus. Not that I've ever been run over by a bus; I'm imagining that one. I just learned I have one extra house to clean tomorrow that I didn't know I had, plus the usual assortment of gigs, and the very thought is making me so depressed I could fling myself out my second-story window. It's not so bad to clean, really, so I'm not sure what this is all about. Could be that it feels lately like it never stops. This whole ride. The kids (who have been driving me completely bananas), the house (always in a state of semi-destruction), the work (and we're looking for more). I just never feel like I have enough time to get my head together. It's one interruption after the next until bedtime, every day. Then up too early because it's dark too late and start again. I hate all of this: the chaos, the noise, the confusion, the exhaustion. I just don't feel like I can ever catch up. Worse, I know that what I need to feel caught up is about fifteen years in the future, and that is not a happy thought. Some people just bounce right along with the endless demands of life. I'm not one of those people. Today, right after I found out about my additional work load, Scott pointed out that I had today "off". I guess if you figure that getting up, getting the kids to school, taking Maya right back home after she puked all over her shoes, doing my Jazzercise hour, paying bills, cleaning the house, picking up Jordan, helping Jordan make Valentine's decorations with which he is obsessed, cooking dinner, then going to a class is having the day off, then sure, I have. Whatever. I will not launch into a husband-bash, though it's tempting just to take the heat off. I'm just weary. I hate f-ing January. I hate when it's all bright sun on an endless expanse of blind snow. That's what my life feels like: endless. Blind. And merciless.

Final Thought: 2007

2007-12-31T20:10:00.000-08:00

You go about in pity for yourself

and all along a great wind carries you across the sky

-Ojibwe saying

For the past few days I have been going about in pity for myself. It was really quite spectacular. It seems I have many, many reasons to pity myself. I have a case of strep throat that is resisting a series of antibiotics; haphazard finances; howling children already suffering from cabin fever; a home that looks like someone turned it upside down and shook it; and so on.

I was really pitying myself, though, for my abject failure to create a distinguished life. I still languish under ideas that I am somehow going to rise from the ashes of the ordinary to become someone remarkable. Don't ask me what, exactly. Just remarkable. More remarkable than the person I actually am: a mother with limited patience and energy, a wife with varying levels of enthusiasm for matrimony, a housecleaner, a hobby artist and writer.

On Saturday I was wiping down office furniture and was grim with the understanding that this is actually my life. No shooting star here, just a regular gal making a living.

So, the pity. But it happens that I have a living connection with God, and today he sent along two miracles, priority. The first was a talk with my uber-grounded friend Ann. She reminded me in her simple, quiet way that it's not important to be a shooting star; that God is just as satisfied with a humble cleaning business and reading my kids bedtime stories as he is with the lecture-circuit New Age forward-thinking healers I so admire. She told me of a woman she knows who says she starts each day aiming at a target. Wherever the arrow lands, her friend says, is where it was meant to be. This kind of thinking allows me to forgive myself for not putting away the clean laundry. My arrow just didn't make it that far.

So that was a relief. But then the next miracle, a surprise gift from my friend Danielle, who could not possibly have known that I so coveted a Lainie's Lady. And what does this lady say? You guessed it: faith.

I hope like hell I'm living my life right. But then again, I'm starting to understand I can't life life right. I can only live it.

And the Winner is....

2007-12-20T07:52:00.000-08:00

The winner of the Holiday Treasure Giveaway is Sarah.

Now she has no excuse not to celebrate Christmas!

I would have loved to have everyone win, because you are all so wonderful, but today it's all about Sarah.

Congratulations!

Christmas Giveaway

2007-12-16T11:07:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of the season (which I happen to love) I have decided to shamelessly copy Lani Kent and do a drawing for a little package of Holiday Treasures.

If you like what you see, or even if you hate what you see but you like me anyway, post a comment. Everyone who says hello will be entered into this lovely drawing. I will send out your treasures no later than Thursday, which with Priority Mail should make it darn near anywhere by Christmas.

If you live in Ellensburg, even better for me.

Say howdy and join the fun!

Return to Simple Living

2007-12-10T09:56:00.000-08:00

Oh Lord, I have been a backslider.

After several years of embracing the easy life--that is, a life unencumbered by wasteful, expensive, polluting overconsumption--I ran back into the arms of Mother Dollar. I succumbed to the temptations of living in a world where the answer to every question is "How Much?" I spent my way into comfort and solace; rewarded my long working hours by burning the paychecks earned with my long working hours; threw money at entertainment, travel, repairs, and fast food; ran up stupid amounts of debt; and generally did it all in a fog of unawareness.

I have learned this lesson before, but I guess it's coming around again.

For me, it feels good to spend money. Some people (solvent people) feel good socking cash away in mutual funds, but I love the high of browsing and buying. Whether I'm buying used books at Goodwill or a new sofa at the Home Center, I get a little buzz. I even get a buzz from paying my bills, that clean stack of envelopes with fresh stamps all ready to go. I'm mature, the bills remind me. I can stay on top of things.

But of course, I haven't stayed on top of things, and the shopping buzz doesn't even last as long as a line of cocaine (or, um, so I've been told). Truth be told, the shopping buzz is pretty well over by the time I'm negotiating the cart to the car, and when it comes to unwrapping the latest gizmo and getting rid of the eight tons of plastic and corrugated cardboard, well, the thrill is gone.

But the bills, see, are here to stay.

So yes. I had to learn this again. It's back to cutting up the credit cards, keeping spending records, and making informed choices. It's back to being money conscious. The pretend world of throw-it-all-in-the-cart-because-we're-loaded has reached its grim conclusion, which is always, always that we're not loaded. Never were.

But for a while there we were debt-free and we lived within our means. We did it once and we can do it again.

For today, my inspiration is a blog Sarah sent me called No Impact Man. It's pretty awesome. He's got me thinking about getting out my bike and that, my friends, is talkin' serious.

Jordan's Art Opening

2007-12-08T17:43:00.000-08:00

Now it all makes sense. He's not strange. He's an Artist!

Twelve elementary school kids got picked for this show (out of about 1500 kids) and weren't we Proud Mama and Papa when the notice came home for this one. Check out the write-up. Pretty flippin cool, that's what I say.

Check this out

2007-12-05T21:41:00.000-08:00

http://www.freerice.com/index.php

Kindergarten Conference

2007-12-02T08:11:00.000-08:00

This past Monday, Scott and I attended our very first parent-teacher conference. It was time to discuss Jordan's Kindergarten Progress.

I struggled in advance to shelve all of my Expectations. I have learned the hard way that having Expectations is a set-up, so I did my best to clear my mind and go in there balanced, neutral and pleasant.

So I told myself, anyhow. Unfortunately for me I'm an expert at outwitting myself so I later realized that what I honestly hoped was that Mrs. Milligan would throw confetti and then gush for twenty-five minutes at what a joy it was to teach my darling son. Nothing too heavy, just liberal use of words like "brilliant", "delightful" and "prodigy".

Instead what happened was that Scott and I were seated on miniature wooden chairs which have the effect of making you feel that you, too, are five years old. Mrs. Milligan, a veteran kindergarten teacher, refused to field off-topic questions and kept us on task, reviewing his portfolio of artwork and test scores. Then she summed things up.

Academically, it seems, our boy is quite bright. This we knew. He's reading and writing at the end-of-first grade level, and soon he'll be shunted into the Advance Reading chute, the first of many academic tracks that hopefully will land him in a well-adjusted future.

Okay, but then we get the but. But, says Mrs. Milligan, adopting her neutral veteran-kindergarten-teacher face, socially, he's not so hot. He's a little strange, in fact. He does not problem-solve well; he does not integrate into groups without someone interceding for him; he'll happily sit in the corner and mind his own business. Again, all this we knew. But the fact is, he goes beyond just being shy or quiet; he recedes inside himself to a place where no one can get in and he can't get out. Stress seems to bring this on, and when I say stress, what I mean is he can't find his coat, or some similar small problem.

Mrs. Milligan gently aimed us in the direction of considering that my son, my wonderful brilliant sweet snuggly son, might have some shades of autism. Nor is the first time it's been brought up. (I later marched myself straight to the library to research this and concluded that according to the criteria in the PDR, he does not have autism, but there are no diagnostic criteria for Strange.)

Needless to say, no confetti here. No gushing either. Scott took all of this with grace and aplomb, literally shrugging it off. "We knew all this," he said to me later.

But I did not shrug it off so easily. I took it all as a personal affront to my parenting--no, to my genetic heritage. As Scott pointed out, it's not such a mystery how he and I came up with a smart, odd, chubby child. Huh. Wonder how that happened.

So I suffered with this one for several days. And what hurts the worst is I want him to not struggle the way that I struggled as a child, because watching him as his mother is worse than it was for me as a child, wandering the edge of the playground, stuck in my over-busy head, always getting jokes too late and yanking my pants up over my chubby belly.

But there you have it. This apple has not fallen far from the tree. I guess the thing to remember is that I made it through all right (fifteen years of heavy drinking, but who's counting?) and likely he'll make it through too.

Right?

Body Talk

2007-12-02T07:52:00.000-08:00

My father-in-law accuses me of being what he calls a "gad-about". Loosely defined, a "gad-about" in his book is someone who regularly exits the Ellensburg city limits, but of course I have to go to the next level and take off for four days to distant locales. Often.

This time I'm down in my favorite city, Portland Oregon. I love Portland but I'm not here to sample the city; I'm learning a beautiful healing modality, BodyTalk. My brain is absolutely pickled with all the information but my body is about as balanced as I think it's ever been. See, we keep practicing on each other.

The essence of BodyTalk is that it's a system that pinpoints exactly what your body needs on a particular day and works on that. We use applied kinesiology (ooooh, fancy) to narrow down the choices and when your body has said Yep, that's it, we use a simple energy technique to balance the body. Simple, beautiful, cool. I love it.

Karen has come down with me for the stay. I'm grateful because inexplicably, I do not feel like being alone. Sometimes I'm desperate to be alone but not this time. We hit the Portland favorites like Powell's Books and New Renaissance Bookshop. Also Spartacus, a fully stocked "adult" store that provides tools for grown-up fun that stagger my imagination. But then, you must remember I'm from Puritan roots. You won't see the likes of Spartacus in any New England galleria, I assure you.

Anyhow, there is always more to enjoy in Portland but by six o'clock each night my brain has been fizzled. Mostly I have just gone to bed. But the city will still be here and when I get back to Ellensburg I'll be ready to start practicing towards my certification.

So be prepared to get some free, wonderful BodyTalk work! This class has been a gift and I'm going to be giving it. Maybe it'll keep me from gadding about, at least for a little while.

I love that dirty water

2007-11-26T12:02:00.000-08:00

Up there in the sky, that is. The sky is one flat plate of grim pewter clouds which may become snow or may just drizzle and freeze or may just sit up there take a long gray nap. And I love it. I really do.

See, here in Ellensburg, there is plenty of sun. I've been told there are 300 days of sun a year, and while I never thought I'd say it, I sort of get sick of sun. Sun says: get out there and be ambitious. Sun says: it's warm enough to go scoop dog poop out in the back yard before we need hip boots. Sun says: shouldn't you be hiking?

Flat, shadowy, dim days like this are a whole different ball of wax. Clouds say: take a nap. Or watch a DVD at one in the afternoon. Or spend all morning making a collage and ignoring the laundry and dishes, because who cares? It's too dark to see the mess anyhow.

When I was a child, I was the proud owner of Richard Scarry's Rainy Day Book. This deluxe edition of coloring pages, puzzles and quick stories suggested (to a purist like myself, anyway) that such pleasures were to be reserved for rainy days. Long ago, I decided that clouds counted.

So give me the low, depressing, heavy days of drizzle and fog. I love 'em. I've got 300 other days to get shit done.

In Other News

2007-11-25T10:18:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Day was pretty much a bust on my end. For the second time in six weeks, I came down with strep throat, and though I love food like my very best friend, even I could not get excited for a plate of turkey and potatoes. We had a full house downstairs at the in-laws', but almost everyone seemed to just want to take a nap, which was exactly what happened about three seconds after dinner.

Is Thanksgiving really ever much fun? I mean, besides the Best Turkey Day Ever as mentioned in a previous post, what's the kick?

Anyway, at least I was with a bunch of good folks, even if all I did want to do was lay on the couch.

Then yesterday morning we decided to join in the Ellensburg Moments to Remember. We missed the tree lighting and the chili feed, but by golly, we made it to the Kids' Christmas Parade. Said parade consisted of a gaggle of kids wearing all manner of costumes, plus the rodeo funny car, three horses in Santa hats, and two goats. Or maybe they were sheep. What the hell do I know?

We waited forty-five minutes in the Sears parking lot drinking Starbucks hot chocolate, then followed Santa in the rodeo funny car for a two-block walk. Maya was not heavily impressed. Jordan waited in the car. Was this a Moment to Remember? It's hard to say.

Gratitude

2007-11-22T09:08:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving 1991

Gratitude expands. Gloria Karpinski, an energy healer, says in her book Where Two Worlds Touch that the moment you feel grateful, a shower of light radiates out in your energy field like confetti. But even if that's too far out, we all instinctively know that gratitude feels good.

It being Thanksgiving and all, it's a good day to give a little gratitude a whirl. I have a brief list of my own:

Hoar frost and white skies on Thanksgiving day
The smell of sage stuffing
My iPod
My kind-hearted husband
A family in which I feel included and safe
Hall's Metho-Lyptus cough drops
The courage to make art
Comfortable jeans
A functioning internet connection

And that's just a start.

Another thing I'm grateful for is my history, which is colorful and complex and yields me many stories. Today I'm thinking of the Thanksgiving I shared with Cynde many long years ago, in our Montague Road apartment, along with the cat, Abraxas. The skies were slate and the trees stark, and we shoved a turkey into the tiny oven and made sticky carrots and potatoes, and served dinner on our rickety mosaic coffee table, with folded napkins and candlesticks. It was the first time I felt completely comfortable on Turkey Day, with no dressing up or behaving properly; just a tiny family who loved each other and were celebrating it with turkey and cigarettes and beer.

That was my favorite Thanksgiving Day. I treasure memories like those, cradle them in my heart.

Your Joyful Day

2007-11-21T09:51:00.000-08:00

When I left my Respectable Job a few months back, it was with the intention of putting my shoulder to the creative grindstone and seeing what might arise.

Aside from my daily play with paint, paper and glue, I have gotten down to business with the creation of The Optimist’s Quarterly. This is going to be something really cool, but honest, I can’t do it alone.

You know what would really, really rock my world? If every one of you that reads this post would consider the following question:

What was the most joyful day of your life, and why?

Post a comment, send me an email or, if you’re feeling the light shine, create a little something and send it in! You can contribute a sentence, a paragraph, an essay, a poem, a haiku, a line drawing, a collage, an art quilt, a sculpture, a few lines of music composition…need I go on?

Come join the party.

It’s gonna be good times.

Hooray! The computer is fixed!

2007-11-16T09:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, despite a three-week absence from the Sandwich, I am still here. A multitude of computer problems kept me away from my precious internet, but at last all is well in online land and you, lucky reader, get to hear about Planet Mayberry all over again.

Not that much has occurred on our little end of the earth. Jordan had his first karate class and it was not, shall we say, a big success. In fact, it was a half-hour exercise in screaming and begging to leave, which I tried to calmly ignore despite the fact that he was pulling on my shirt so hard I was afraid the nice karate people were going to get a great view of my boobs. The sensei assured me this happens all the time. "He can't do anything we haven't seen before," she asserted. This I doubted, but I continued to try to read my book, calmly, holding my shirt around the collar. Then when our half hour was up, he decided to up the ante by refusing to put his shoes and socks back on, this on a very chilly November eve. That is how Jordan's first day of karate class ended with him chasing me, barefoot and screaming, down the cold and gravel-lined sidewalk as I strode to the car, calmly wishing I could speed away and leave this banshee where he stood.

But we'll be back on Tuesday night. Remarkably, they will allow us to return.

Meanwhile, on the very same day, I took Maya for a girl date down to Yakima, where she got her nails painted by a nice Vietnamese fellow at the Angel Nails salon. He even painted tiny flowers on her thumbnails. We went clothes shopping and puttered around and generally had a very pleasant afternoon. I swear the difference between my two children was inborn--I have nothing to do with it! In fact, this morning I came across an old journal entry written when Jordan was three months old. He was cheerful and delightful and gorgeous, I reported, but he was at the time completely tearing apart his exer-saucer and throwing the pieces around. Looks like he might be destructive, I wrote. Just a little bit.

But the truth is despite their different temperaments, both my children are fiercely loving, creative, brilliant people. Stories involving Jordan tend to be more entertaining, but really, he's a wonderful kid. Just not on the first day of karate.

Meanwhile, I'm still adjusting to life without 911. I knew I'd miss it, but I have grieved it much more than I thought I would. It's very painful to suddenly not be part of such an intricate and intense web of people, and every time I see a police car or hear a siren it reminds me of what is gone. I maintain that it was time for me to go, but it still hurts like hell. I was part of something that is so critical to society--something so adrenaline-pumping and exciting that it quickens my blood just thinking about it--and to switch from that to a life of quiet housecleaning is like hitting the emergency brake on the freeway. It still has me in a spin.

But the good news is that this new life of mine really is working out well. We have enough business to do well while keeping our lives flexible. I have a lot more time now. Plus, I get to sleep like a normal person every night, not work until six in the morning. God, that was awful after a while. At the end of the month I'm going to start taking classes to get certified in Body Talk, which is a really, really cool type of energy work. Stay tuned for more on that, because to get certified I have to do fifty documented sessions, and that means you, folks!!

Scott is still working on a new series of awesome paintings that are going to make him famous. They're incredible. He has almost enough for a solo show and I'm extremely proud of him.

And that is the news! Three weeks' worth! Not too shabby, huh?

Pumpkin Carving Party

2007-10-28T17:50:00.000-07:00

How fricking wholesome are we?

Call to Artists and Writers

2007-10-21T10:03:00.001-07:00

Attention all fabulous artists, writers and creative persons!

A wonderful new publication is in the works and we need YOU!

The Optimist’s Quarterly is a journal dedicated to celebrating the beautiful, hopeful and progressive elements of our world. The premier issue is expected to be released in February of 2008, and will include gorgeous artwork, provocative essays, glad news clips and whatever else gives the editors a thrill.

For submission information and more details, please visit The Optimist's Quarterly. And don’t just click: submit! Share your unique and powerful voice and be part of this awesome project.

Hope to hear from you soon,

Robin.

Tooth Fairy Nightmares

2007-10-16T22:52:00.000-07:00

This is how I learned that Jordan lost his first baby tooth.

"Is the tooth fairy real?" he asked tonight, casually, making a little bit of last-minute conversation to postpone bedtime, or so I thought. Just a little philosophy, a little jawing between friends. Caught unawares, I hedged, "some people think the tooth fairy is real."

"Does it leave a prize under your pillow when you lose a tooth?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, tucking the kids into their blankets.

Then I looked at my son, who blanched. I began to catch on that this may not be a rhetorical question. When I inquired into his interest, I learned that indeed, he had lost his first tooth.

Now, when I say lost, I mean lost. It's somewhere in his grandmother's living room, apparently. But I suspect that he may have hidden that little sucker on purpose, because under pressure and with use of interrogation techniques it came out that Jordan is terrified of the tooth fairy. He's not partial to the idea of someone (or something) slipping under his pillow in the night, not even for a buck, which I'm told is now the going rate for a tooth. No, he's not partial to that at all. It seems that he understands the tooth fairy to be a seedy fellow who will "tap him on the head" while he's asleep before switching out the tooth for the hard cash.

Well, I wouldn't like that either.

So we had to do some last-minute negotiations. This was after I restored order for being "too happy at him" that he had lost his first tooth. (Pardon me for making note of those rites of passage; back off, Mom.) To resolve the fairy problem, I arranged to contact the tooth fairy directly and request that the funds be left on the table for him to find at breakfast. This, thankfully, was acceptable.

Is it just that we, as adults, forget how horrible and creepy things like having your teeth fall out can be? Are fabrications like the tooth fairy really just for us? Because as charming as I find that little hole in his row of white teeth (a hole he hid carefully all afternoon, mind you), he considers it a hole in his head. That will be rewarded with a midnight bonk from a bedside stranger.

Ah, to be young again. Or not.

A Prayer from Free Will Astrology

2007-10-16T09:30:00.000-07:00

I love Rob Brezsny.

Read this prayer and be blessed, and feel wild and free while you're at it.

http://www.freewillastrology.com/beauty/prayer.html

Enjoy.

Blog Action Day was YESTERDAY

2007-10-16T09:03:00.001-07:00

Dang it, I messed up.

I have this nice Blog Action Day icon on the sidebar and everything, and I was all set to post on October 15th, and then I forgot all about it, so here I am now. Better late than never...maybe.

The topic was supposed to be the environment. I signed up for this topic because I'm passionate about the environment, and when I say environment what I really mean is nature.

It's hard not to be passionate about nature. It's our nature to love nature. This very moment I'm looking out my window to the lemon-yellow boughs of the locust tree in the side yard, glowing in the midmorning light. A song bird is calling nearby. The sugar maple is touched with crimson and pumpkin at its tips against a sky of washed blue, and the air is October-clean.

That's nature, just from my open window. I have written poems and essays in a feeble attempt to process the ecstacy nature bestows upon me, just because I can't keep it to myself.

And here we are living in a time when we're collectively damaging such an incredible gift. Until extremely recently, we seemed to understand that this would be a bad idea. But somehow within this generation the Industrial Age and the Petroleum Age have peaked and collaborated to create an instant world that hands us anything we want, and we are deeply conditioned (one might say genetically conditioned) to take what the world hands us when it's available. No matter what the cost. Especially when the cost is not directly apparent.

I don't care for pessimism, mainly because it's depressing and doesn't help anything, so I won't launch into a tirade. However, I think most thinking people realize that the time is upon us to make changes, both personally and globally.

In the past year our dry, windy valley became host to an enormous wind farm. The other day, when I filled up at the Safeway fuel station, there was a sign stating the station was powered on wind energy. These kinds of changes give me real hope that on a public level, we're changing our direction. Recycling bins are everywhere, farmers markets are thriving, and millions of minds are working on the problem of how to keep humanity thriving while remaining in balance with the earth.

And it's a good thing, too. Because the earth is pretty awesome. Just look out your window.

Being Home

2007-10-13T09:53:00.000-07:00

Just about every time I would think about quitting 911, I would have this recurrent fantasy: standing at the kitchen counter, making dinner from scratch, maybe even making a pie. Not that I had ever made a pie. This was just my fantasy.

Last night, I made a pie. It was a peach pie, to be exact, using peaches picked from local orchards (not by me, but still). I also whipped up some Zoom bread in the bread machine (whole wheat bread using Zoom cereal), and made artichokes and chicken-fried steak and garlic-sauteed yellow squash. If that sounds goddamed near domestic, well, it is.

It was very, very hard to leave my 911 job. It was important and it paid well and it had awesome benefits and I liked the people and besides, someone has to answer 911. But in the end I knew it was the right thing to do, because I just wanted to go home.

And I have to report: although my kids do drive me batshit sometimes and Scott and I have had to rework our daily habits so we're not always together, this being-home thing is a big success. My kids are happy. My kitchen is clean. My laundry is still piled in the laundry baskets but you can't have everything. I have been making lots of artwork, reading good books, and we have plenty of cleaning business to keep us in the black. So things are working out.

And to celebrate, I think I'm going to go and have me a slice of pie.

Maya Zilla

2007-10-11T16:04:00.000-07:00

Christine's Movie Magic

2007-10-09T11:27:00.000-07:00

When Christine was here visiting, she made the kids' day by creating them each their very own movie poster. Needless to say, these posters are hanging in each of their rooms in places of prominence. Everyone loves to be a star.

Goin Gray

2007-10-01T07:37:00.000-07:00

Good Lord, I am only 38 years old, but there's no denying the truth.

Last month I was cleaning a bathroom with brighter lights than my own and I discovered my first trembling filament of silver hair. My denial was great. I tried to convince myself it was a single strand of sun-bleached hair left over from summertime lake loungings, but alas, it was not so.

In the past few weeks these culprits have been turning up all over my head. At present, I can account for at least 10 gray hairs, all the way from north to south.

I know, some people start getting gray hair when they're 18. But if you don't go gray until you're older, then it means you're, well, older.

I guess my days of hanging out of Trans-Am T-tops at 90 miles an hour with Bon Jovi blasting are officially behind me. That's probably okay.

Single Tasking

2007-09-28T09:14:00.000-07:00

For many, many years I was a multi-tasker. When you work in the 911 biz, there's no other way around it; you can't even get in the door until you prove you can listen, think and type all at once.

It so happened that I could listen, think and type all at once. I could even, like all successful 911 dispatchers, answer two conversations at once, listen to the telephone and the dispatch radio at once, handle a crisis on hand and prepare for the next request at once, and even have some laughs while I was doing it. But the price I paid for this talent was that I took the multi-tasking home.

I'm not alone on this one; I know that. It's perfectly common to see someone driving and talking, eating and watching TV, or having a phone conversation while sorting bills. People do it all the time. But you know what? That kind of sucks.

Since leaving the hectic world of 911, I have begun to re-discover living in a single-task world. There is really something to be said for only doing one thing at a time.

For instance, the other day I was running errands before I picked Jordan up from school. I finished a little bit early and had about ten minutes on my hands. In the past, this would have been just the chance I needed to make a few cell phone calls, sort through stuff in my purse, or find a reason to run to the store in that sliver of time. But on this day I just parked the car and sat on the playground grass to wait for him. It was a spectacular day: September-warm, rich with the smell of cut grass and turning leaves, a light breeze playing in the trees. Birds I couldn't identify called to each other from high in the elms. After a while, I laid back on the grass and enjoyed the moment completely.

That is single tasking. It's such a relief to remember it.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted...

2007-09-25T14:47:00.000-07:00

I just had that Bangles song in my head so you'll have to forgive the title of this post.

Christine has been here visiting for nearly a week. She arrived one hour after my last day at Kittcom, so things have been pretty busy around here (and I've been nowhere near my trusty computer). For the first time ever, I think, we made no plans. She just hung out and we made lots of art: collage, painting, beaded felt flowers, you name it. Oh, and she was invaluable during this first week of transition into the land of the self-employed.

Thank God for Christine. In fact, I don't think I can let her leave. She has this idea she's getting on the plane tonight but I say, this is just why I've been keeping that handy iron ball and clanking chains. I'll plunk her in the living room with ample room to reach the kitchen (to make wild mushroom raviolis, of course), and close to the dishwasher and the kids. She'll be happy, right? Sure!

Seriously, she has probably worked harder since she got here than she does in her professional capacity as Multi-Talented Computer Gal. She has played with kids, fixed socks, made sandwiches, washed dishes, read EZ Reader books and set up art supplies for children. Maya and Jordan are hopelessly in love.

Also, she is wise, lovely, talented and interesting. Basically, a total winner.

But now she's getting on the plane. I don't even have a picture of her from this visit because I am an abominable picture-taker who never removes the camera from the shelf. But trust me, she never broke a sweat, even on this working vacation.

Quittin Time

2007-09-15T12:19:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's official, I positively suck at breezy, newsy posts. That said, I feel that my devoted audience of at least a dozen people deserves to hear the latest first-hand.

I have quit my 911 job.

A big deal for sure: no more insurance, paid holidays, or regular salary. I won't be handling crises or coming home with good stories or fulfilling the emergency service needs of Kittitas County. Nor will I be hanging out with the people I've gotten to know and love over the past eight years.

But still, I must go. When it's time, it's time. For me, it is now time to move on to the Next Big Thing, which currently includes hubby and children and a cleaning business, and hopefully lots of room for creativity in there too.

The funny thing is that I first encountered Kittcom via a janitorial job. While I was in the dispatch center dumping out the trash, I was told about a job opening, and a few weeks later, there I was. Now I'm leaving to do--what?--go back to cleaning.

Only this time, it's our cleaning business. A little different.

I have my life back. My whole wide no-night-shifts life is mine again, and it feels good.

2007-09-09T16:07:00.000-07:00

Last night we had a party for my birthday. The birthday is uneventful (I'll be 38 on Tuesday; I did the math) but the party was really a fine time. I cooked up a turkey and lots of friends turned up bringing synchronistically complementary side dishes, and we all sat out in the back yard until it was dark and we lit the lanterns and the outdoor fireplace. There were fantastic conversations about politics, 9/11, meditation, Zen, and Will and Grace.

Some of my lovely presents included the fresh bouquet of flowers that Karen brought over, and the ultra-cool collaged card Pedro created. It makes me feel like I'm at arches this very moment! I love it!

There was much more wonderfulness in honor of my birthday, but no post would be complete unless I were to mention the organic, carrots-from-her-own-garden cake that Lisa made. Oh my GOD it was scrumptious. To. Die. For.

For those of you that missed it, we'll catch you at the next party. You know it's gonna rock.

Kindergarten

2007-09-08T08:41:00.000-07:00

About a week or so after my beloved first-born entered the world, I found myself calculating. My calculations may have been off because, after all, I was famished for sleep and also still recovering from an extremely complicated birth--but still, I saw that I only had to last five years before this tender, fragile, screaming human being would be turned out on his own.

Five years until kindergarten.

Well, friends, in the past week or so I have felt much like, say, the tattered exile in the desert who spies an oasis, dragging my desperate way toward the waterhole on my belly, powered only by sheer will. Also, I have been doing a lot of yelling. Because this past week was the capper, the absolute zenith of high tensions and the clash of mother and child, both of whom are ready to be done with one another, at least for a few hours each day.

Jordan conveniently learned how to use a calendar so that he could count down the days until school started (he's quite bright, you know). He announced it daily: eight days left until kindergarten, seven days left until kindergarten...I tried to hold back on counting the hours.

Scott and I attended the parent-teacher conference on Wednesday. She cautioned this small group of parents (all of us soon parting with our sweet, round, beautiful children) not to cry. It would start a chain-reaction, she said.

And what about celebrating? I wondered. Would that be in poor taste?

Grieving my iPod

2007-08-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

(In the distance, a quiet breeze blows...the gentle sound of Taps rises on the wind.)

Folks, my most favorite gadget of all time, the absolute queen of modern electronics, is dead.

It went so suddenly. I hope it didn't feel much pain.

About a week ago, I plugged it in to charge it and to upload some new tunes, and it acted a little flaky, but then it coughed and blew its nose and got itself straightened out. Then, yesterday, thinking I might throw a little Afterdark: San Franciso on there to listen to while I cleaned houses, I plugged it in and this time it was a no-go. My computer won't recognize it. It says, in fact, that it is corrupted, which is a cruel thing to say about a nice, helpful little wing-ding like my iPod. I can't restore it, either.

I spent an hour going through troubleshooting sites on the web, and finally came to the reluctant conclusion that "i" is no more.

I held my iPod like a little dead mouse for a while and grieved.

Poor thing. So innocent. Gone before its time.

Rant

2007-08-28T07:32:00.000-07:00

Do you ever get that feeling like you don't know why you're here or what in the hell you're doing? No? You have your shit together? How's that feel?

I so do not have my shit together. The more I try to get it together, the more it falls apart. It's like trying to scramble up a sand dune: the faster I run, the more I slide back down.

There was a time when my life was fairly basic. Go to work, come home, get blasted. During hangovers, spend hours smoking cigarettes and recording my angst in a journal. It was a relaxing life, really; I see that now. I suppose I saw it then, too, which is why I pretty much spent my 20s in just that fashion.

But here I am now. I'm about to turn (I think) 38. I have to keep recalculating because I don't know how old I am anymore. The other day I plucked a grey hair out of the top of my head. I saw this grey hair while cleaning someone else's bathroom sink (I keep my own bathroom light respectably dim). Between Scott and I we have five jobs and a calendar so stuffed with information that we've already moved on to September's margins.

My house is constantly a disaster. It's Promethean. Right now the refrigerator smells like something nasty and I can not locate the source. Maya thinks it's coming from the freezer but if something's rotten in the freezer then I really have issues. The van's radiator hose is still quietly dripping. The garden needs to be weeded. I have three--no, four--different art swaps coming due and I have no time to sit down and do them.

My kids will be in school next week and rather than making the most of our precious hours I'm gnawing at my knuckles waiting for the days to pass.

And yes, I'm also trying to work in exercise, friendships and--ha!--quiet time. It's just frickin ridiculous. I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that living a put-together grown-up life just can't be done. It's a scam, people. There's no way.

There's a line in The Grapes of Wrath that comes repeatedly to mind: womens is always tired. I get that line. I get it all the way.

2007-08-26T14:18:00.000-07:00

You know, I've been putting off writing this post, mainly because I've been feeling the obligation to share What I Did On My Summer Vacation.

Frankly, it's pretty boring. It's not like we hiked Kilamanjaro or did a volunteer vacation in Peru. Nope, we just went camping, exactly according to plan. There were a few hitches, like the leaky radiator hose on the van (in 100 degree temperatures) and the overwhelmed and impatient first few hours of camping, capped off by my insisting Maya did not need shoes to walk from the van to the pool and her promptly stepping on a cactus.

But other than these minor details, My Summer Vacation was me and the fam and our dogs and our trailer in not-so-remote wilderness with an electric hookup and free showers.

Maybe the best part for me was that on the last night, while tearing through piles of muddy clothes to find some simple item, I was suddenly and profoundly ready to go home. This is nearly a record for me--only one week to quench my wanderlust. So we went home and unpacked and I have been happy with my couch and four walls ever since.

For now.

Oregon

2007-08-19T14:33:00.000-07:00

And we're off!

2007-08-11T12:33:00.000-07:00

Now friends...I know that you spend every waking moment waiting for another fun-filled Mayberry adventure to be posted on the Sandwich.

This week you will be disappointed. And why? Because I plan to be two hundred thousand miles from a computer. (Actually, we'll have the computer. How else can you watch Sponge Bob on DVD?)

This week we are going camping all week long. This is a marathon of sorts, given the two kids, the two dogs, and the five jobs which have been juggled so expertly we could join Cirque de Soleil.

First we're headed off to the Oregon coast which, short of the Massachusetts woods in October, is my favorite place on earth. We found a Thousand Trails campground that's walking distance from the beach and which has a pool, which means that you can go to the ocean and go swimming, though not, in these Pacific climes, at once. (I should mention that I love the Oregon coast but it terrifies me, too...all those rip tides and weather-worn signs stuck in among the driftwood cautioning how now and again, a stripped redwood tree will spring up out of the sea and slay you.)

So we will save our live-water swimming for the next leg of the journey, Lake Easton. Ah, Lake Easton. Home away from home, lulled by the soothing rush of I 90 Eastbound. When I first went there, Scott told me to think of it like it was the sound of the ocean, and that almost did us in right there. But over the years I've learned to think of it like it was the sound of the ocean, and to enjoy the things I do really enjoy about Lake Easton, which would be the sharp piny smell, the clean icy lake, and the Mayberrys.

See, once a year all the Mayberrys get together to play games, hang out, and relax. Enough food is brought along to tip the earth on her axis. We pace ourselves between playing on the lake, walking the eighty family dogs (we all have too many dogs), and trying to recover from breakfast so that we can root around for a snack. It's a lovely, relaxing, three-day slice of paradise. Plus, it sounds like the ocean.

So all this is to say I shall not be heard from for at least a week!

And if I should be struck by a redwood ejected from the sea, it was worth it.

Sick Day

2007-08-08T07:14:00.000-07:00

You know, there are many things I enjoy about having children, but there's nothing quite so special or endearing as waking up at 12:30 in the morning to a darling 4-year-old with wild hair saying, "Mommy, I'm yucky."

Ah, yes. The simple understatements of the unpretentious child. When she said yucky, it was much like when a child will screw up his face and say I don't feel good and then will promptly barf macaroni and cheese on the carpet.

In this case yucky was a succint description for her condition, which was unpleasant. In short, a brief illness that has been working its way through our family seemed to have pounced upon her in the night, and a whole new definition of bodily fluids were worked into her hair, pajamas and bedding.

I eased her into the bathroom and removed her clothing with my fingertips. At first I wet a washcloth but quickly assessed that a washcloth was not going to do it. "Maya," I said, "you're going to have to take a bath."

"But it's night," she said.

Indeed. Which was probably why, after I removed her Pull-Ups, I did not take care to immediately place them in the proper receptacle. Which, in turn, is why my darling daughter then stepped in their contents. Thank God she was already in the bathroom.

For those out there who have not yet experienced the thrills of child rearing, what are you waiting for? How can you justify going another moment without experiences like these?

Oh, and make sure you have to be up at 5am for work. Please. You wouldn't want to cheat yourself.

2007-08-02T00:22:00.001-07:00

At last, a contender for my cherished Weight Watchers 70s Recipes has been found:

The Worst Album Covers of All Time!

Friends, this is something you simply cannot miss.

Thank you, thank you Erin for sharing this...and thank you to Steve Carter for compiling this unforgettable collection!

Simple Living

2007-07-27T09:35:00.000-07:00

The time has come to live simply--and I mean really, really simply--or to go back to working full time.

This is not as easy a choice as it may sound, which surprises even me. At one time I was such a proponent of simple living, but since then we have tasted the worldly pleasures of free spending. This is obvious because now we're tasting the worldly consequences of the burden of debt.

Once upon a time, we lived simply and paid off all of our debt, even the car. We had a sack of money saved and we were living comfortably beneath our means. But spending is an addiction like anything else and it crept back up on us, and now we're in the position of needing to work to pay for things that we have already enjoyed. This sucks.

Since I left my full time job in January, we've been employing various means to stay afloat, and have cut way back on our spending habits. But now we're out of the usual assortment of funding backups, and we still need to cut some more.

Honestly, my first reaction was to submit to the cultural demands of work-to-spend. I announced to my ever-surprising husband that I was just going to have to go back to full time, and he said, no way. He reminded me that we know how to simplify, and that the time has come.

What does this mean to us? The same thing it means to anyone: making choices. It's not the big things that do us in; it's the ten bucks here and fifty bucks there. We know how to make our coffee at home, travel cheap, have picnics instead of dinners out, and stay clear of department stores with delectable sales racks. To change these little money-mice is not to sacrifice, really; it's just to adjust our habits.

For a while there, our finances were booming. I know just how wonderful it feels to throw whatever I want into whatever cart wherever I am. Some people feel rich by saving; I feel rich by spending, and I don't think I'm alone in that. However, this feeling was a hollow, ephemeral lie. Now the truth is staring me in the face.

If I went back to full time I'd have lots of money for lots of things, and I would be stressed out and too exhausted to enjoy it, so to make myself feel better, I'd have to go out and spend some more. This is the aim of consumer culture.

On the other hand, I love my part-time, flexible life with time for the kids, the house, the garden, the art, and myself. I love being able to be outside, do things on a whim, or have whole afternoons in which I do nothing at all. Even with less money, I'm living the good life.

This is the aim of simplicity, and today I am choosing it all over again.

Lucy

2007-07-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

Because what we really needed was another dog! :)

World of We Medical Relief Foundation

2007-07-24T13:49:00.000-07:00

I'm still stuck on this one line towards the end of "Sicko", which was (slightly paraphrased), "Instead of living in a world of Me, we need to start living in a world of We."

I have been pondering this line, because it resonates with me. I strongly believe that for humankind to survive our current crises and to thrive in the future, we need to collectively abandon this individualistic drive to climb fictional ladders at the expense of other people. We need to surrender some excesses so that others who have nothing can have something. We need, in short, to share.

And since I am part of We this applies to me, too. So Scott and I talked it over, and we are going to do this:

We are going to make a donation to someone that needs help with a medical bill. I can't promise it will be a huge donation, but we're looking for someone who's strapped and needs some help.

Do you need help with a medical bill? Do you know someone who might need a hand? Do you know someone who knows someone? Please pass the word around. If there are too many stories then we will pace ourselves and help one person at a time as we financially can.

This is how we want to contribute to a World of We. Please help us to share.

Sicko

2007-07-23T00:53:00.000-07:00

Last night Scotty and I went to see Michael Moore's "Sicko". (Side note: good frickin thing we did, since on its second night in Cowboy Town there were all of five people in the theater.)

Here's the deal with Mikey. You love him or you think he's an ass. Personally, I love him...not because he's fair, not because he's balanced (he's neither) but because he speaks his mind clearly, directly and passionately. And because usually, I agree with what he has to say.

"Sicko", as you may know, is a vicious disemboweling of the corrupt HMO system that currently holds our country in its clutches. I do not speak too strongly here. We're getting fucked by the insurance companies, and they're not using lubricant--it isn't covered.

My vitriol is coming from personal experience. Currently, my lil family is happy to be paying the "low" price of $286 per month for insurance for me and the kids (Scott is covered through his job). Last month we had to take Maya to the emergency room because she had a spiking fever that was not letting up. She needed multiple tests and a huge syringe of antibiotics before they let her out of there. Charge: $600. Covered? I think not.

So now, on top of paying the premium, I'm making payments to the hospital.

But will I complain? No! Because I had a hell of a time getting this insurance in the first place! They initially denied me because my medical history included complicated pregnancies (done with that for this lifetime, I assure you) and a little maintenance dose of Lexapro for those long dark December nights. I might as well go ahead and order the cemetery plot.

In other countries, you just get help. You get antibiotics and surgery and x-rays and even dental care. You get it because you need it and because, well, you're a citizen.

Moore makes the point that we have socialized law enforcement, fire protection, schools and libraries. Why can't we have socialized medicine, too?

In all fairness, I understand that this is a complicated issue, and that there are plenty of valid counterpoints. You won't see these counterpoints in "Sicko", which is really two unmitigated hours of propaganda, but you will see plenty to make you damned mad.

Capitalism has its place. But it's not the doctor's office. If this movie does nothing else, it shines a light on something we've learned to live with, like the proverbial frogs in the pot.

It's not too late to jump.

Wandering

2007-07-17T20:37:00.000-07:00

Ah, yes; this is the reason I moved to Washington.

After reaching a fever pitch of feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, and generally ready to fling myself from the nearest bridge, my sister and I hit the road in her little black Honda.

Our plan was refined over many previous road trips, and went something like this: fill the car with gas, keep an atlas handy, steer in a general direction (this time, east) and follow our interior whims.

This time our whims led us across the dun-brown, empty rumpled hills of Washington wheat country. Dust eddies leapt from the roadsides and basalt buttes marked the landscape with their dignified, columnar shoulders. After less than hour of driving, we were out of cell range, passing through hollow-eyed towns like Starbuck and Washtucna (hell of a mocha to be had in Washtucna, though, at the espresso stand at the corner of 26 and 261).

We followed a paved wildlife road to its terminus in the quickening foothills of the Blue Mountains. Truth be told, we found we had driven five hours to be in a landscape almost indistinguishable from the canyons outside Ellensburg--but still, there was the lingering thrill of the new and untraveled.

We camped in a forest service campground at the base of a towering ridge. In the evening light the grasses at the top of the ridge were golden and gentle as a horse's mane, rippling in a broad wind. The trees creaked and sang.

This morning we were rudely awakened by overhead thunder and the first licks of a fresh rainstorm. We just got the tent packed before the rain came flinging down and we drank our morning coffee in the car, listening to raindrops the size of quarters pelting the roof.

Then we meandered back home, unwinding lovely roads past isolated farmsteads and rumbling combines in the distance.

At Saddle Mountain, we crested a ridge, and the road split the distant desert like a seam. It shimmered into the hazy western horizon, a mountain ridge only just visible. It was so uninterrupted it was nearly holy. This is what there is in the west. There is space. And with it, an irreplaceable freedom.

Maya's 4th Birthday

2007-07-15T21:29:00.000-07:00

My little girl is four years old! You can tell by the funky hat!

Her brother is happy she's four because he got presents, too!

Princess Maya Papaya.

Summertime Kidlings

2007-07-08T13:29:00.000-07:00

The Real Man List

2007-06-30T11:52:00.000-07:00

Long ago, my friend Cynde and I sat down one drunken evening and composed the Real Man List. It contained important qualifications such as these:

Hangs out of moving vehicles
Has the brain of a sixth-grader but good in bed
Plays guitar
Works with tools
Has a dog

As you can see, we were very knowledgable about what counts most in a man. And we weren't wrong (except the sixth-grade brain part, maybe).

This comes to mind out of admiring Scott's chief Real Man quality: Able to Lift Heavy Objects. He has quite a few Real Man points but the Heavy Lifting thing gets me every time. I think he really, truly won me over the day he picked me up like I was a scrap of paper (I assure you I am at least three pounds heavier than a scrap of paper). I had never before known a man who could sling me around without needing to visit a chiropractor the next afternoon. It made my heart go flitter-flutter.

The other thing that gets me is when he works in his shop, saws buzzing and dust flying, and emerges filthy and smelling like wood. Or, conversely, when he rough-houses with the kids until they shriek with unmitigated delight. Because Real Men dig their kids.

See, I'm a simple gal. I like a man to be a man; it makes me feel more like a woman. I'm all for equality of the sexes--don't get me wrong--but not for one second do I think that means that men and women are interchangeable.

Yes, I like my guy to smell like cologne, Old Spice and dirt. I like calloused hands and stained shirts. I like him to ask if his outfit looks good and to always think I look terrific, even in my bathrobe (he does). I like him to love his kids and to love me and also to totally drop everything for the NBA draft.

I don't ask for much.

Moving Day

2007-06-29T16:40:00.000-07:00

I helped with two moves yesterday. First was Rob and Sarah, finally on their way to Kentucky for good. They had their Penske box truck backed clear up into the yard and and had already done the majority of the moving by themselves. I happened along at just the right time to help load up the bookcases, mattresses, mini fridge and so forth. All of this was only minimally painful physically--but my heart is just plain broke!

Dang Louisville, anyhow.

Then I helped with Ann's move from her little house she's been in for 23 years to her new humble abode in a nearby apartment complex. As apartment complexes go, it's pretty decent. Clean, new linoleum, views of grass and a few spruce trees.

Scott and I lent her son, Sam, and his wife Christy a hand with moving. It was a fun occasion because Scott and Sam knew and liked each other in high school. I've never seen two guys gossip so easily while hauling vast pieces of furniture. Sam called Scott "the battering ram" and Christy dropped her jaw when Scott strolled out of the house hauling the recliner on his head.

The best thing about moving days is I remember how much Scott is the master of Item One on the Real Man List: Must be able to lift heavy objects.

He's a Real Man.