The two-year-old and I just look at her, the child in puzzlement and me with growing anger. For it’s not my daughter who’s being spoken to like this in the intimate apparel section of Macys. No, this baby talk is being directed towards my 76-year-old, wheelchair-bound mother, who tries to mouth “Thank you” graciously while this stranger chatters at her in a loud voice as if she is both deaf and a moron.

My mother is neither. She has amazing hearing and a mind still sharp enough to whip my butt at Scrabble, if only she had the energy these days. My mother is also skeletal, unable to control her motorized wheelchair with enough accuracy for me to let her loose in a store, and lacks the breath and control over her lips to be able to verbalize in a way that most people understand.

It’s a sorry state she’s in, but that doesn’t give strangers the right to assume she’s less than she is. After all, as I learned as a journalist, “assume and you make an ass out of u and me.”

I wish I could say this was the first time, or even the fifth, that this had happened. My mom, who holds an educational doctorate in psychology from Rutgers, has been enduring misconceptions for years as her abilty to speak has gone from a drawl to a slur to “Mom, can you spell it for me?” Her bright mind is trapped in a body that fails it in almost every way. Even her ability to type or tap is gone.

I get that the woman in the store was trying on some level to be kind to my mom, to brighten her day in some manner. At least she didn’t do what the Irish nun visiting Florida did last December. She talked to me about Mom as if she was not sitting right there. I extricated us as soon as I could.

Oh, that the “kindness” didn’t feel so much like being stabbed by pins. Doesn’t hurt that much, but get pricked enough times and you start to bleed. If it feels like this to me, what must it feel like to Mom?

Making assumptions about people by how they look, even based on our past experiences, robs us of opportunities for genuine interaction. How much richer my mother’s life would be if people didn’t assume her mentality based on her disabilities.

Before becoming involved with my Darling Husband, I had never really thought about the amount of work that goes into creating a game. Now, of course, it’s dinner conversation for this professor’s wife. For more than two years, I’ve been listening to the intricacies of advising the team working on Prom Week. I’ve heard of their story struggles, their technical struggles, their late night coding sessions to get a workable demo. It’s been inspiring and awe-inducing. The people behind Prom Week are some smart, smart people.

What amazes me the most is the fact that this team built this game while also doing work as teacher’s assistants, taking full class loads and writing their Masters and PhD dissertations. Granted, the research Prom Week represents (you can read the papers here) does count as classwork, but for many, Prom Week is a labor of love.

It’s a fun game, but what’s truly spectacular about it is what’s under the hood. Please, take a minute to check it out. These guys deserve it.

Prom Week:
“Delve into all the adolescent angst, drama, and scheming of the week before a high school prom in this online game, which uses a sophisticated artificial intelligence system to enable players to shape the social lives of 18 hapless high school students. Find dates for them, break up and make up, forge new friendships, make enemies — it’s up to you to determine whether the Prom will be a magical wonderland of disco ball lights or a nightmare of existential crises!”

Until it became the anniversary of our relationship, I actually loathed this day of drippy candy hearts and generic red flowers. My worst V-Day — and I had a variety to choose from — was when I was stood up for a blind date on the Queen Mary. Bright side, there was an Indiana Jones convention happening on another floor. Attractive men dressed as Herr Jones, whip and all, mingled with women in 1940s-era dresses. Surreal, but true.

Anywhoo, over the 20-or-so years I’ve known my DH, certain songs have become associated with him, with us. One of my most cherished memories is of slow dancing — me at 16, him at 17 — in the living room of his home. He was the first person I knew to have a CD player with a multiple CD changer. Among the cuts by Sting and Tracey Chapman was this tune: “Something So Right” by Paul Simon. I remember the feel of his arms, the warmth of the room, the beauty of the fall sunlight streaming through the window. It was the day after our first, perfect, leaving-you-lighter-than-air kiss. “Something goes wrong, I’m the first to admit it. First to admit it, last one to know. Something goes right, it’s likely to lose me, apt to confuse me ’cause it’s such an unusual sight. I swear I can’t, can’t get used to something so right….” It would be more than 15 years until, as friends, we would dance to this in the living room of my one-bedroom apartment. It would be the start of me and him having an idea of becoming us.

Before that happened, though, there were the years when friendship was all we had. Back then, I would hear Gretchen Peter’s “Bus to St. Cloud” (usually sung by Trisha Yearwood) and think of all the things that could have been. The first time I heard this song was post-college. Gretchen Peter was at the Key West Songwriting Festival and I interviewed her for the Key West Citizen. I had sent my DH a letter laying my heart on the line. He kindly called and, well, broke it. Not on purpose. He did it gently and honorably, but it hurt. He was in a committed relationship to someone else. We parted the conversation as friends, and I put my love and hopes for a life with him in a box and locked it away. “And it’s strange, but it’s true, you just slipped out of view like a face in the crowd on a bus to St. Cloud….” I did such a good job of throwing away the key that when my DH did finally make a romantic move, it didn’t occur to me that he was trying to reach beyond what we had been for years.

Which is how we arrive at The Commodore’s “Brick House.” I know that it doesn’t seem like the most romantic of songs, but for me it conjures up a Valentine’s Day in 2004, when I joined my DH for his college reunion dinner/dance. I had been at an Orange County Romance Writers of America meeting and knew he was in town. Forgetting it was V-Day (I know, you’d think with the RWA meeting, I would remember, but it was about writing craft, not love stories), I called him and left a message asking if he would like to go to dinner. He answered right as I was going home. The rubber chicken reunion dinner set me back about $75. Best money I ever spent. “Brick House” was among the songs the DJ played on the dance floor that night. Something about flirting with him during that song… well one thing led to another. “She’s mighty, mighty, letting it all hang out….” What I can say, gentle reader. That song still makes me happy and makes me blush.

You would think having known someone for almost two decades (now, more than) would mean there would be few surprises. How could I have missed that my DH is as big a fan of the Muppets as I am! “Moving Right Along” was the second song played at the reception to our Muppet-themed wedding. “We’re movin’ right along. Footloose and fancy free. Getting there is half the fun, come share it with me. Movin’ right along. We’ll learn to share the load. We don’t need a map to keep this show on the road….” He’s Kermie. I’m more Fozzie (Wocka, Wocka.) Please do not insert the Miss Piggy jokes. I have my hi-ya on stand by. This is a song about two friends who decide to go on an adventure together. What’s love (and now parenthood) other than a grand adventure!

The song we danced our first dance to at our wedding was Johnny Hartman’s rendition of “I’m Glad There is You.” When my DH and I crossed that line from being friends to being lovers, from being single to being partners, it felt like coming home. Every day, I try to tell him how very lucky I feel that we’re together. “I’m so glad you married me,” I tell him. He says the same to me. This year marks our 8th “together” anniversary and our sixth (in May) wedding anniversary. Next week, our greatest collaboration, the Z-baby, will turn 3. I love him more with every passing year. “In this world where many, many play at love, and hardly any stay in love, I’m glad there is you. More than ever, I’m glad there is you….”

Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey.

I like kale. Two years ago, I had never tried it. Then I discovered that sauteeing dinosaur kale (which looks like a reptile’s hide) with garlic for a few minutes made a yummy, easy vegetable side dish. Call me a convert.

However, there seems to be a contingent of people who think kale is, well, terrible. They dismiss kale the way I used to hate brussel sprouts, before I had ever eaten one that was not overcooked. My husband hates sweet potatoes in the same manner. His grandmother used to torture his grandfather by making food taste bad. One of her specialties was sweet potato casserole with extra marshmallows, not done in a good way. He refuses to try a yam or sweet potato to this day.

Which lead me to thinking about how sometimes what you like or don’t like is in the preparation. And that lead me to thinking about giving things a chance, even when we’re sure we won’t like it. Which lead me to thinking about the books I missed out on because I didn’t think I’d like them. Or because they were “good” for me. Like broccoli. Not so fond of broccoli.

Last year, my book club read The Girls by Lori Lansens. I was sure I would hate it. It’s about twins. I hate twin books (especially since I am one.) It’s told in first person. I usually hate first-person books. It’s literary with a gimmick. I’m not fond of gimmicky literature. Then I read it. It’s a beautifully written tale that takes the reader to unexpected places. It’s a well-prepared dish.

I often skip over certain titles when looking for a book to read because they contain elements I have seen work less well in other books. Like angels and fairies. Not fond of angel books or fairy books. Then I read Cassandra Clare’s City of Bones.. Another well-prepared meal.

Of course if after the first bite or sentence, the dish/book is bad, I still feel free to spit it out. Or return it to the library. Or just stop reading.

I guess all that I’m saying is give kale a chance.

“Friend” is defined by my dictionary app as “a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically exclusive of sexual or family relations.” Just who you consider a friend versus an acquaintance hinges on how you define the word “know,” I suppose.

Friendship has been on my mind this week as I’ve started to venture back out into the world of social media. In the past seven days, I’ve started using Twitter in earnest, been checking in on Facebook and learned how to use RSS to follow blogs from my smartphone. The reasons for getting social are varied, but mostly it comes down to this: I’m trying to create a tribe to call my own.

I find myself caring about people I’ve never met, cheering on strangers whose voices I will probably never hear, worrying about their health and welfare. Now, this is not to say I don’t have friends. I have friends. They’re amazing, thoughtful and supportive. They’re also mainly more than 300 miles away. Life took us in different directions, and since I moved to Santa Cruz and had a kid, well, keeping in touch has been piecemeal. Many of them are on social media, and by not following, posting or reading I’ve been missing out on their lives.

They’re definitely part of my tribe. I care about them and they care about me, if only — mostly — from a distance. But there’s the other part of the tribe I’m still trying to find. Trying to define that part is difficult, because like the definition the Supreme Court gave to art, you know it when you see it. What it comes down to, though, is connection. I’m trying to connect.

The digital age makes it both easier and a little, well, weird. I find myself caring about people I’ve never met, cheering on strangers whose voices I will probably never hear, worrying about their health and welfare. Sometimes I wonder if they do the same. It’s very different than going to a coffee shop with your girlfriends, and yet in some ways it serves the same need.

When the world goes to hell in a handbasket (or a Trader Joe’s reusable bag), the humanity I find online in places like Bettyverse or Twitter remind me that we’re all in this together. That we’re all ultimately part of one tribe, no matter our differences.

I guess that’s the capital “F” Friend in me coming out. If Quakerism had a catechism, it would be “There’s that of God in everyone.” My belief in a capital “G” God might be shaky, but my sense of a shared spirit is not.

My mother and me.

Every night, before she goes to sleep, my daughter chooses a new name for herself. Tonight she was baby humpback whale. I was momma whale. She’s been baby turtle, baby table, baby monster, baby dragonfly and many many more. And I’ve been mommy each of those. Daddy also gets a part in this game, though she usually wants me to be the one to hold her hand as sleep comes. Most every night, I say to her, as I close her door, “Goodnight, baby whale-monster-kitty-thing. I love you.” And she responds “Goodnight momma whale-monster-kitty-thing. I love you too.” And I smile, and wish these days could last forever.

Today was my mother’s birthday. She turned 76. We weren’t sure she would make it to this age. My mom, Barbara Mahal, is now older than my father ever got to be. Five years older than my friend Anne was before she passed. Twenty-six years older than my friend Stan Allison was when we lost him.

Mom is in what is probably the last six months of her life. That makes me sad, yet I find myself grateful too. Grateful that we’ve had the time to cut the tangled yarn and start fresh, grateful that her mentality is still there even though her body is fading, grateful that she seems to be facing life with a measure of happiness every day, instead of gloom.

Mom and I have a complicated past too entwined with needs and disabilities, with heartaches and disappointments, with anger and suffering to put in any simple terms. But through it all, one thing has been very clear.

I love you, momma whale.

Happy birthday.

Z-baby grew to Z-toddler. Compete with sentences like “No mom, not Martha Squeaks. Martha Speaks!” Silly mommy. Tall girl. Apple of her parents’ eyes.

Celebrated 5th wedding anniversary with the Darling Husband. In San Fran. Saw Tony Bennett live, in concert. The man can sing. Ate at Hubert Keller’s restaurant. The man can cook. Stayed in a romantic hotel. The man can…. better left to the imagination. Left Z-toddler with Nana. Had a wonderful time.

Went on a Zen retreat with my bestie Mary. Sat in stillness. Did a walking meditation. Got away for a while.

Helped open the Center for Games and Playable Media. A lot of games people came. A fair amount of press came. The results were a solid start. Go #ifog.

Nephew was born. Healthy. Saw him, my niece, and their parents (love you , sis) in New Jersey. Celebrated Halloween in June for the darling niece’s birthday party. Made lots of cupcakes and my first watermelon jack-o-lantern. Fun!

Went to Europe with my Uncle J. Learned never to go to Europe with my Uncle J. Saw Vivaldi performed in Venice. Walked ruins in Rome. Basked in the light of the stained glass windows of Sainte-Chapelle. Have good memories despite. Found my favorite color of red lipstick via a Parisian shop. Glamour at last. Missed 20th high school reunion due to trip. CVHS still rules.

Spent most of the fall sick with this and that. Only to find underlying cause partly Vitamin D lackage. Easy fix.

Started work on the book, now books, again. Took class from Lani Diane Rich. Started getting back into writing gear. Hopeful for the future.

Spent Thanksgiving sick at home. Then had a party 2 days later. Used Grandma K’s china. Big success.

Found out my mom is not long for this world. Spent Christmas with her in Florida. Bittersweet.

There were ups. There were downs. There were circular paths. Lots of travel. Lots of laughter. A smattering of tears.

A year in my life… a year of my life. Goodbye 2011. Thanks for the memories.

Photo Credit: Sainte-Chapelle by JK Mahal.