Here's What I Don't Get

Everything I Really Need To Know I Learned in Maine

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 16:30:00 +0000

Okay, so this is something that I wish I didn't get. Does that still count?

Caution: Cynicism ahead. (oh, like that's something new)

So here it is. Remember, way back when, there was this hubbub about this thing called "Everything I need to know I learned in Kindergarten" (or something like that)? It was all the rage. Posters, mugs, even a book, as I recall.   Saw it posted on the back of bathroom stalls a couple of times (I mean, if that's not evidence that you've arrived, I don't know what is...that's one of my dreams, to have my writing adjacent to the Hiney-Hider logo, which you should know about because what else do you have to do while you're on the pot rather than read the logo on the stall door lock--other than text or read email on your cell phone, that is, ugh, man, is nothing sacred anymore?).   Never bought any of 'em (kind of surprising since I was a preschool director at the time), never was a particular fan, but some of it was cute (cute being one of my least favorite words of all time--right up their with "pus"--but it is the right word for this list). Honestly, I don't remember most of the things on the list, but any one of us can probably figure them out. They're about the regular stuff: sharing, making friends, listening, being fair. You get the idea.

Well, as of this weekend, I am seeing that period of time, which I think was sometime in the late 80's or early 90's (yeah, I could look up the publication date of the book, which sounds just like what I would normally do for the blog because I'm a nut for veracity, but I'm just too lazy. I've been driving all day, gimme a break) as a social marker of sorts. You know how something happens, and in retrospect, it is a historical turning point, an event that, for better or worse, marked a shift in consciousness or in social trends? Well, that's what I'm talkin' about. I am now realizing that that book (and poster and mug and accompanying hubbub) was a harbinger (I like that word). They were--for those of you who prefer sports analogy--a penalty flag to alert us of the coming shift.

There is the Victorian Age.   There is the Age of Reason. There is the Hippie (once and for all, it's' spelled "hippie", NOT "hippy", which is an adjective describing a certain endowment around the hip area, NOT people in tie-dye clothes, love beads, and long stringy hair....got that major annoyance out of my system, spelling snob that I am) Era.   There is the Disco Era.   And now this.

When I was in grad school, I took a class on creativity, which turned out not to quite be about creativity (at least in my book), but which was really interesting anyway. In that class, we talked a lot about the phenomenon of "co-incidence", which is a fancy (i.e. academic, cuz it's important to say things in grad school that no one who was not in grad school would understand, you see, gotta separate ourselves from the riffraff.) way of saying "in the right place at the right time with the right skills or talents". Well, that's what I think happened here.

That guy, I think he was a minister, came out with that list of all things that he learned in kindergarten. It's really a list of how to be a civil human being. Everyone raved, nodded, clucked knowingly. Murmurs of "that's right" and chuckles of recognition were heard in every tzotchke store in the land. And why? Because on some level, we all knew it. This was the beginning of the end.

Just for today, I'm blaming it on technology. I say just for today because I think it's right, but I might change my mind tomorrow, and I want to keep my options open. You understand.

So where did this particular rant originate, you may be asking? Where did she go? What did she see? What thoughtless oaf did she meet?   I'm glad you asked.

First, the factual answer. I went to Bar Harbor, Maine (lovely place, a few too many tzotchkes, probably sold many copies of that poster back the day, maybe adorned with lobsters and blueberries) and Acadia National Park. Never been before. Beautiful and peaceful place (although---more cynicism alert--the overwhelming degree of hubbub about it's gorgeousity leaves me wondering if folks have been to Yosemite, or Glacier, or Waipio Valley--not that it's valid to compare, but still, if you haven't been to those places, you definitely should go). Much of the park, blessedly, is without cell phone signal or (gasp) wifi.

No, people were really quite friendly. It wasn't a hotbed of people who missed civility training (or kindergarten). But it was a place where there was an overabundance of Oblivious. And Oblivious is where the whole technology thing comes in.

People walking down a crowded sidewalk staring at their cell phones or texting away kind of Oblivious.
People who sit (and sit and sit) in their car at a stop sign (probably doing something on their cell phone) while cars line up behind them kind of Oblivious.
A family of five that pulls their bikes up and parks the bikes, standing alongside them, effectively blocking a 15 foot wide walkway that is the only entry way to restrooms, for 10 minutes kind of Oblivious (humility alert: there I was, thinking "only Americans would do this", and it turned out they were German, which was an interesting, though not irrelevant twist).
A person who is finished drying her hands at the only dryer (paper towels are out) in the bathroom and chooses to stand in front of it and rearrange the contents of her purse as multiple people hover with dripping hands kind of Oblivious.

I know what you're saying. Geez, here you were in this beautiful place, and you're focused on all of the irritating parts.   The whole glass half empty kind of thing (which I don't really get, since half empty and half full seem like pretty much the same thing to me, half is half, but that's another post for another day). I hate to disappoint you, but...not really. It was really more of an observation. I'm like that. I was really struck (not irritated) at how many different languages were being spoken in the park. I was amazed at the incredible strength or determination (or both) of those who ride their bikes in this mountainous park, and watched with wonder as I drove carefully around people who cycled up steep roads alongside the crashing ocean...beautiful. I noticed that almost none of the people on a steep hike were carrying water (which made me feel better because I didn't have any.) And I noticed that there were a lot of people who were Oblivious.

Here it is: I predict that this period of time---the early part of the 21st century--will come to be known as The Oblivious Age.

You heard it here.

Now put down your smart phone and make some eye contact for a few minutes.   Just like your kindergarten teacher said.

You've Heard of Bigfoot....

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 23:39:00 +0000

I've always been gullible. And when I say always, I mean always.

I believe people. So shoot me.

But when you're the kind of person who drives miles out of your way to sit on a huge sturgeon with a saddle, or to visit the Jello Museum, or to pay your respects to the guy who came up with the idea of putting holes in donuts (as I did on this very day!), well, you're probably a bit more inclined to believe silly things.

And sometimes, just sometimes, it probably makes you a bit more inclined to be duped.

My friend who owns a small dog who convinced me that she had a herd of Great Danes can testify (among others).

What can I do. I'm like that.

[Notice to friends reading this: This is NOT, I repeat NOT, an invitation to sell me a piece of swamp land or convince me that you have alligators in your damp basement. You're on notice.]

Well, it happened again today.

I think.

Maybe not. Maybe I just wasn't looking in the right place.

See? See how persistent it is? The lingering "hey, it's possible!" has its own special force.

Lucky for me, I got a picture of the guy. Here he is.

I ask you. Doesn't that look like the kind of place where you could gain valuable information about local scenic attractions? Right! I thought so too!

So there I was, sitting in front on that very same bench, proudly displaying (and drinking) my old fashioned tiny ice cold bottle of Coke (mmmm), right within spitting distance from...well, we'll call him the POI ("person of interest"), not to be confused with the taro substance, please.

So we gets to chattin', the two of us. He asks if I'm on vacation. I tell him I'm on my way home. He asks if I've been over the new bridge (which is effin' spectacular, btw). I say yes, on the way there, and I'm just about to go over it again. He says I could go up in the observation tower. I ask him if he's done that. He says "three times". It all sounds good so far. There is a new bridge. It does have an observation tower. See? It's not like I don't check people out or anything.

Then he says that when I go over the bridge from this direction, I can see (and possibly photograph) the giant football. (do I have a sign on my forehead that says I stop at and photograph ridiculous things?) I got excited, real quick. "Where?" "Where can I best see it?" "Is there room to pull over?" "Is it possible to take a picture?" (Answers: On the other side of the bridge, look "up there". At the end of the bridge. Sure, if there's no cars behind you. Yup, if you have a red light." (See? There WAS a stoplight at the end of the bridge! And it WAS red! See? He's telling the truth!)

He says "You've heard of Bigfoot. Well, we have a Big Football." I laugh. (I still believe him)

He says that a guy came through on a motorcycle, and he told him about the giant football, and the guy on the motorcycle didn't believe him, but then he went across the bridge and he saw it and he took pictures and he came back to say that he actually saw it, even though he hadn't believed it. (See? Testimony!)

He says that he hopes more people photograph it, because one of these days, with the weather and all, it's not going to be there anymore, and it's good to have proof that it was there. I nod, thinking that's true, it's important to preserve all weirdness, and also thinking all the while that this is my big opportunity to provide a new entry for Roadside America, the website (and app!) that guides oddball travelers to...well, sturgeons and giant strawberries.

Summer 2010 - Strawberry Point, Iowa

Roadside America calls them "offbeat tourist attractions", which makes the folks there the kings and queens of euphemism, but to me, they're the gods of such things, so they can call 'em anything they want. (See? If there are giant strawberries, why would you doubt giant footballs?)

So.......across the bridge I went (though not before shaking the hand of the POI, since it is important to properly thank anyone who provides you with valuable travel information). I looked "over there" and "up there" (wishing I had asked for a bit more detail). I pulled over (there was a place). I stopped again at the red light. I looked around. Trees. Granite. Bridge. Water. View. Football????

Alas, dear readers, I fear I have been taken for a ride. (or again, maybe not, maybe I just missed it. Hey, it's POSSIBLE!).

Wait. I figured it out. Maybe the football is only visible if you go up in the observation deck of the bridge. Hmmmmmmmm. I'm going to do a little googling. (yeah, it's a verb)

Well, gosh. THERE it is. I don't know how I could have missed it. Musta been the angle. Or the treeline. Or something. Wow. Nice football.

Look for it next time you go to that part of Maine. It's big. You can't miss it. If you do, ask the guy at the Fort View Variety store, he'll tell you. Spread it around. Tell people it's real. Take it viral. Make everyone going across that bridge look for the giant football. This is America.

One more thing. Now you know. If you're ever thinking of going on a road trip with me (I love me some road trips), you now have fair warning. This is what my road trips are like, whether they are two days or two months long.

I chase goofy stuff. I believe people. And I love stories.

Don't say I never did nothin' for ya.

Just in case....

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 22:30:00 +0000

I was here. I'll be back. I don't have much of a connection, and my iPhone is older than God, so it isnt so swift for remote blogging. If I can squeak it in tonight, I will.

Hearses in South China

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 02:58:00 +0000

This is where I'm staying tonight. No. Really.

Here's how it went (more or less):

Me: "Do you have any rooms still available?"

[insert mandatory relevant Larry tone, heretofore referred to as MRLT] "For one night?"

Me: "Well, either one or two nights"

[long pause]

MRLT (but a wee bit slower and a bit more monotone): "Well, I have a room for tonight. It's late so there's not much"

Me: "I understand. So you only have a room for tonight?"

MRLT: "Well, I have a room for tonight. And...um...I have a room for tomorrow night. But no two nights. I can't switch people around"

Me: "So we could switch rooms tomorrow?"

MRLT: "I don't know"

Me: "But we could check in about that in the morning?"

MRLT: "Yeah. You can check with my brother Glenn. He'll be here from 8 until 10. Then my brother Chris will be here, and then [insert female name that I can't remember] will be here. You can ask them."

Me: "Great"

MRLT: They have [insert name of my bank] around here now?

Me: No, I just used to live in a different place.

MRLT: Yeah, well this credit card machine isn't like at McDonald's. It takes a while. The people from Europe, those ones with Ing cards and stuff, theirs seems to go faster. Yours too. Maybe because it's from a bank that's out of state."

Me: "Wow. Maybe."

There's more to tell, but I don't want to infringe on your overactive imagination. Go right ahead, take it to the next place in your mind. You're probably right.

Oh, and about the hearse thing. I don't know. I just don't know. I mean, last night, a friend asked me I was feeling morbid, and maybe this is just the karmic detritus from that conversation. Or maybe I really did watch Harold and Maude too many times (No, I'm not saying how many times. Suffice it to say I've seen it more times than you have. By a lot. Yeah, I'm sure.).

You tell me.

Why would a highly polished new-ish hearse (no casket) with Rhode Island plates be barreling along on the highway in Maine, headed north? Yeah, a real hearse.

And why, once in Maine, with said hearse left behind hours ago, would I suddenly encounter a yard (one that appears to be a makeshift auto repair yard) with three, count 'em, THREE, black hearses in front (and two stretch limos, one up on blocks, but now you're just getting picky)? What's with the hearses?

It was quite a day.

My one regret is that I didn't stop for a bite at the China Dine-ah. It's clearly the place to be (situated as it is between Paris, Norway, and Palermo). I did pirate a photo though, so that counts. Maybe next time.

I hear it's the dining spot of choice for hearse drivers, who seem to be drawn to it like moths to a flame. Go figure.

Bubbles

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 01:53:00 +0000

So, about that photo yesterday. I just want to say that I, too, was cool. I had a corn cob pipe (well, that's what it looks like in the picture, anyway). I had several actually--you know, in case I misplaced one. Don't you have multiple corn cob pipes--say, in your kitchen drawer?

They looked pretty much like this one:

I know, I know. What? You, the most vehement anti-smoker gal that anyone has ever met...you had a bevy of pipes? When? Where? Why? How?

Well, I had a mom that was a teacher at one time. Never during my lifetime, but at one time. Unless you consider someone a teacher whether they are employed as a teacher or not, which I do, which would mean that my mother was a teacher during my lifetime, and remains so to this day, which kind of negates the whole "at one time" thing, but you get my drift. And what that meant, that being-been-is-a-teacher thing, is that there were always what we'll call "materials". Things. Objects. Paraphenalia. Stuff to do stuff with. Art supplies. Toys. You name it. It wasn't all out, but it was all there, and I knew it.

So, in one of the many drawers, there were corn cob pipes. I bet they're still there. I never associated them with smoking. I barely knew that was what a pipe was for, even though my uncle, who visited sporadically, smoked a pipe, which I gotta say smelled great, not like the stench of cigarettes or cigars. I just didn't put the two things together.

No. I wasn't stupid. I was a child.

That was one of the beauties of a childhood that was genuinely a childhood, so unlike many childhoods these days--it carried with it an entirely shameless naivete. So many folks these days, when they talk about how "I had a water pistol or a toy gun, and it didn't hurt me none, I didn't grow up to shoot people, it's so ridiculous when parents these days don't let their kids play with toy guns, they've lost control of their senses, they're helicopter parents, blah blah blah". No. That's not it. In addition to an arsenal of water pistols, I had a hefty toy gun, a big green scuffed plastic toy gun (wait, I'm going to ebay right now to see if I can find one like it). It clicked when you pulled the trigger, and it had a whistle where the little doohickey that you pull back to "cock" a gun would have been located. This one is kinda close, except it was green, not blue, and it didn't say police on it, and it was scuffed, not shiny, and, like I said, mine had a whistle (I know, I said that twice, but how cool is it to have a whistle on it? I can still remember the taste of the plastic.) But still.

Yeah. Me. The rabid "don't let your kids play with guns" person. I had one. Well, actually--and now I'm a little embarassed--when i was searching for the cool green whistle gun on ebay, I found this one,

which I also apparently had. Hell, maybe i had a whole arsenal and I'm just in denial about it. Anything is possible.

Okay, so I had a whole mess o' guns (or two, anyway). But most especially that green one. I loved it, and yeah, it didn't hurt me none, I didn't grow up to shoot people or even like guns. But here's the rub: I didn't know ANYTHING about real guns. I didn't see them on TV, except in westerns, which were okay, but I didn't exactly identify with the characters. I didn't know anyone who had a gun, other than my dad's non-operational German gun in a leather holster that was a souvenir from his service in World War II, which was kept in his bedside table drawer for my entire childhood. I knew it was there, I saw it, I held it--for all intents and purposes, it was indistinguishable (other than by weight) from my green plastic toy gun with a whistle. It was an item, with a label, but it had nothing to do with bullets, nothing to do with harm, nothing to do killing...I didn't even know of such things. Under these conditions, playing with a toy pistol is a whole 'nother ball 'o wax. If you're young, and you weren't around during the 60's, you're just gonna have to believe me. We just didn't see people shooting people on TV--real people, I mean. It wasn't like that. Context is everything.

So plastic guns were for chasing people around and pretending to shoot them without any awareness of what shooting was. Candy cigarettes--which are still sold, and which I also think differently of now (there were no health warnings on cigarettes way back when)--were for pretending to smoke to look cool--they didn't turn me into a smoker, either, maybe because I had no idea that those people who were putting those white sticks up to their mouths were inhaling smoke. I thought they were props. Mine were. And corn cob pipes*? They were for blowing bubbles.

You soak 'em in some dish soap (hot tip: Dawn is best for this) and water, and then you blow bubbles to your heart's content. They're not like the kind of bubbles that float through the air (even though that's what it looks like on the youtube videos of fancy schmancy bubble pipes). They're the kind that just grow and flow and cascade over the side of the bubble pipe, landing on your red rubber toed sneakers, soaking them in soapy suds. So cool.

I bet that's what General MacArthur did on his time off.

*Given my stream of consciousness style, I want a little bit of credit for not blathering on about how i don't get how anyone would come up with the idea of turning a corn cob into a pipe anyway, because frankly, when I eat a yummy ear of corn, the last think I think about is "how could I hollow this out and stuff something inside it and smoke it". But hey, that's just me.

I Can Take A Hint

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 02:54:00 +0000

"Age wrinkles the body. Quitting wrinkles the soul."

Yeah. That's what I said. I can take a hint.

Now, I'm not saying that when I take a hint, I act on it right away or anything. I'm just saying I can take one.   Kind of like a nap, I'm thinking.

Wait. Nothing like a nap, because it is well known that I cannot take a nap. Bad analogy. Oh man, and that's even the part of the SAT that I aced.

By saying this, I don't want to imply that this is the first hint I've had, the first tug, the first nagging pointed finger in my back telling me to start blogging again. But this one, well, it's a doozy (is that how you spell doozy? doozie??).

It's not like I haven't been lonely. Or missed writing. Or reading. Or all the ridiculous reading and linking and tagging and networking that leads to blog readership which in turn leads to motivation to keep writing. Okay, I haven't missed that last one, you got me there.

It's been a long time, hasn't it. Yup. It has.

It's a common malady. I'm seeing that.   As you know, I was all gung ho there for awhile. And then it died out.   Or my life changed. Or something. As I've been considering coming back, I've meandered around the web, visiting some of the blogs that I loved and frequented during my gung ho days (which should be distinguished from my Gunga Din days, which are a completely different thing, though they do both involve a fair amount of carrying). And, well, a lot of them ain't what they used ta be. I'm pretty sad about that--they were great reading. Some have just grown sparse, bare around the edges, while others have disappeared all together. I guess what I'm saying is that I feel like I'm in some pretty damn good company (in the disappearing if not in the returning). Hey, it's a first step with that loneliness thing, right?

But this isn't about going away. It's about returning. Again.

Believe you me, I'm asking the questions. Why am I back? Why am I trying to do this again?   Why say so, rather than just starting again? Huh?

Well, first, because I can take a hint. I told you that already.

Second, because the other night, I found myself watching Julie and Julia again (on TV this time--with ads, which I do NOT recommend, which is why I only wound up watching part of it). I liked that movie. And I remembered going to see it with friends--back in the day before they had a child and could do things like see movies--and smiling and laughing knowingly at her talking about doing a blog, getting comments, having "readers", and finding a construct that would move her to write daily rather than whenever she felt like it, which is really important because, as we well know, in today's ADD world if you don't have a structure for doing something all the time, it often doesn't get done, which is what Julie knew and so she decided to work her way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I remembered how much fun it was, how much work it was, how it represented a tiny leap of faith that took place every single day, when I pressed "Publish", sending my words out into the middle of nowhere and everywhere, with trust. It was a big deal. I remember that now.

(by the way, Julie Powell's last blog post was more than year ago (unless she's moved somewhere else, I'm lazy tonight so I'm not doing much digging). So there.)

And third, because (this is a secret...shhhhh), well, I never stopped. Yeah, I know that it looks like I stopped. And I can't prove that I didn't, because there's no secret place --or worse yet, another blog, which would just be like infidelity, that would be wrong--where all the writing I did while I was stopped is located. But I did write. Every day.   Sometimes multiple times a day.   I even stayed on topic.   I wrote about the things I didn't (don't) get. The trick was in getting them to come out the tips of my fingers. Just wasn't happenin'.

So there I was, watching Julie and Julia and trying to keep track of the couple of hundred blog posts that were written in my head, or at least trying to get myself to stop writing them if I wasn't actually going to write them down, you know?, and then I got an email. Because way back when, when I needed the structure that Julie Powell had (at least in her fictional persona) I found it in Nablopomo. Write every day. For a month. Who can't do that? It's 30 days, give or take a couple. Sheesh. If I can't do that....well then. I have friends who do Nanowrimo, ferevvinsakes (and god bless 'em).

Yeah, that's who sent the email. Nablopomo. Because every month, they send a cordial little note saying what the theme for the upcoming month is, just in case you want to jump back on board (how nice of them!). You don't have to follow the theme, it's just a crutch, in case you can't figure out what to write about, in which case you can write about the theme, which always seems harder to me than writing about something else, but there ya go.

So there they were. In my mailbox. And what did they say the "theme" was for September?

"Return"

Get that.   Like I said, I can take a hint.

And so, as they say, I shall.

30 days. Returning.   I can do that.

I'm Changing My Name To Bambi and Moving to the Woods

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 06:22:00 +0000

Once, a pretty long time ago now, one of my sisters told me a joke. No, it wasn't only that time that she told a joke, but you know what I mean. Grammar is an evil taskmistress. Now, I don't remember the whole joke (don't you hate it when people say that? Don't they know how to tell a joke?), but I remember the basic punchline, and I remember she thought it was really funny. As a youngest sister with an unacknowleged idolatry for those older, I proceeded to tell it ad nauseum, laughing loudly at the end, just like she did. (As I read this, I'm thinking it must have been a LONG time ago). For the most part, people just looked at me blankly.

Note to smart asses out there: No, that doesn't always happen when I tell jokes, even though I don't really tell jokes all that often--I tell stories, and they usually go over pretty well, unless I'm kidding myself, which is entirely possible.

Occasionally, after a pregnant pause, they'd say "I don't get it". And then I'd explain. Which, as you know, is pretty much like the crawling-on-your-belly-in-the-slime of jokedom.

The joke concerned one Fifi LaRue (occupation unnamed though implied), who introduced her parents, Mr. & Mrs. LaRue. That's it. Yeah, that's it. The whole thing. Are you laughing yet? Yeah, I didn't think so. No, I'm not gonna explain it to you.

Factoid: It turns out that there are nearly 10,000 people in the United States with the last name LaRue, which means "the street" (get it?). That pretty much shoots the whole thing to hell, even if you got it in the first place, which frankly, would make you an outlier, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Now, none of that is what I wanted to talk about, but was simply what they call, in my line of work, "the lead-in". Oh. Wait. Not in my line of work. But in somebody's, I'm sure. I'm referring to the title of this post in which (if you read it) I announce that I'm changing my name to Bambi. Now there are a subset of you gentle readers who, for lack of a better expression, have your minds in the gutter. You saw that title, and you thought I was ditching the glamorous life of blog-writing, consulting, responsible parenting, and all-round child development geek to take up the womanly art of stripping. If you know me in person, I'm sure it's something you've considered suggesting to me as a career choice, but you've just been too shy to mention it. That's okay.

(Wait, I have to catch my breath. It's winter, I have rhinitis, and I cough whenever I laugh too hard)

Maybe, to you, it comes with the name. You know, like Ms. Fifi there. Well, get over yourself, I am talking about the movie. Yeah, the deer one. Specifically, I am talking about a line: "I'll do it because you want to but not because you tell me to."

I guess what I'm really trying to say is: That's me. Obnoxious, right? Aw, go ahead, I've heard it all before. Sticks and stones, all that nonsense.

See, the thing is, I'm not really one for expectations. Or rules. Or authority. Or pressure. Or being supervised or watched. You get the idea. No (since you asked), it hasn't worked out all that well. But a leopard doesn't change its spots [apologies to Kipling]. And the thing is (True Confessions....ooh), I'm not like one of those normal people who dislike authority. Nope. Such things tend to stop me dead in my tracks. It's a little like that famous line of Groucho Marx about not wanting to belong to any club that would have me as a member. Kinda.

It's not exactly a source of pride (except when it is). Admittedly, it can really screw things up. And it has. Most importantly (and most unfortunately), it even happens when the feedback is positive. If it carries expectations, I'm out. Now, before you panic, don't get me wrong. I'm highly responsible and dependable, even though it sounds paradoxical in this context. I'm loyal, capable of tremendous commitment. Maybe it's just that no one could possibly have higher expectations of me than I do (or so I'm told). Or maybe not. I just like to set my expectations myself, that's really all.

The reason I mention this here is that, as some of you know, I was writing a daily blog for quite awhile. And then I stopped (for reasons not unrelated to this post). And then, just a couple of weeks ago, I came back. I'm glad to be back. And I started getting the kindest emails and comments, reminding me that people like my writing and are glad the blog is up and going again. You'd think this would be affirming. Encouraging. Well, sure. Instead, I couldn't write. And if I tell you this, you'll all stop telling me this stuff because I've just told you that it stops me, but it's also what sustains me. Hey, I told you it was messed up.

I'm gonna figure it out.

So that's why I'm sayin'....I'm changing my name to Bambi and moving to the woods. If they have wifi there (gawd, I hope so), I'll let you know how it's going.

Oh.

Uh-oh.

Hmm.

I just found out that the line is not from Bambi at all, but rather from Mrs. Piggle Wiggle. Oh. I've always heard it in Thumper's voice. I guess I should stop that. I mean, I understand where I got confused. Bambi is about a baby deer [insert visual and auditory image of children singing as they skip through the Alps dressed in drapery] that is traumatically separated from his mother and all the cute little animals that accompany him (even though I always think he's a her, just goes to show you how unnecessary that whole gender thing is) on his romps through the forest, and Mrs. Piggle Wiggle is about an older woman who lives in an upside down house surrounded by neighborhood children and who provides parents with magical cures for their childrens' obnoxious (but perfectly developmentally appropriate--I told you I was a child development geek, I can't help it) behaviors. See? It's practically like the same story! And it wasn't a rabbit that said it, it was a bird. A parrot. Both animals! See?

Shoot. Never mind, then.

Wow. I mean....Wow.

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 00:27:00 +0000

Oh, gawd, I can't believe I'm still talking politics. This isn't like me. I'll probably be sorry. I don't know what's come over me.

It's just that it's not all that often that I come across something that really makes my head spin. I mean, by this point in life, having been out for going on thirty years now, there's just not that much that is very surprising. The arguments against equal rights are the same, basically boiling down to "if we give gay and lesbian people civil rights, then everyone's going to want them!", a sentence that makes me laugh every time. Oh, to be sure, they're still there...the "next thing you know people are going to want to marry their pets" or "children are going to be taught the mechanics of homosexual sex in public schools". I bask in their extreme absurdity, which only weakens the stance of those who oppose equality.

The one thing that may have changed, though, is the public rhetoric. You see, the other side is aware of the irony as well, and they have shifted the discourse over the year, or, more to the point, they have dressed it in a more universally acceptable vocabulary (of course, the vitriol lies beneath a thin surface, but it's awfulnice of them to coat it with frosting so it takes a wee bit longer to burn one's ears off, gosh thanks.). You know the ones. Love the sinner, hate the sin. Some of my best friends.... What people do in their own homes is their own business, I just don't think the government should sanction it.

So, every once in a while, when someone really lets loose and speaks the words that blatantly and transparently expose that this is truly about fear, and about wholly irrational fear at that, it's really quite refreshing. I'm really all for honesty, so it's all good.

In this case, I am speaking of the defendant in the Prop 8 case that hid his tails between his legs, turned, and ran today, one Hak-Shing William Tam. He's withdrawing, well, because people are being mean to him. He says that he's starting to be recognized, and that's a problem because he gets harassed--it was so much better (yeah, this is actually what he's saying) when he was basically anonymous. Poor guy. Coming out of the closet can be rough. Don't we know it. So, he's going back in. Hey, it's happened before.

But get a load of this. This is it. The big tomato.

When speaking of the reason he felt it was important that California not legalize gay marriage, he said: ""Every child, when growing up, would fantasize marrying someone of the same sex." EVERY CHILD? Wow. (I know, I just can't stop saying it). You mean there are NO children who have a natural heterosexual orientation? Wow.

I have to say, I did not know this. I did not know that underneath, everyone, everywhere, secretly wants to be gay or lesbian, and that all they need is a little permission from somewhere--anywhere--and it's a done deal. I didn't know, really! I didn't know that heterosexuality was so inherently unappealing that the slightest temptation or opening (no pun intended) would turn the tables so that the 10% (or so) would be shifted to the other foot, so to speak, with the enormous majority being queer. Wow. And again, I saw Wow. That is interesting, no?

Next time I see my mom, my sisters, my in-laws, nearly all the folks I have worked with, my neighbors, I'm gonna ask them. I mean, I'd like to put all their (and their children's!) eventual coming out dates on my calendar. Wouldn't want to miss it or anything.

Tell ya what. Some of those very same purportedly heterosexual people are reading this, right here, right now. Just so you know, my door is open. There will be a prolonged amnesty period, don't worry about it. You know what they say, admitting it is the first step. Feel free to use the comments section. I'm here for you.

Oh, and 100 points (and valuable prizes) to the man who comes out as Mr. Tam's longtime or childhood crush. I'm so excited, I can hardly contain myself. Stay tuned, more wows to come.

As the Crow Walks

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 17:54:00 +0000

Some days, you need a reminder that the fastest way isn't always (or ever) the best way, that not all who wander are lost.

Some days, metaphors just appear, right in your front yard, just to make sure you get the point. Like a personal delivery service. Kinda handy, I gotta say.

I don't know exactly why I love this so much, but I do.

En-Couraging

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 00:31:00 +0000

Mary Daly died yesterday.

This wouldn't be my blog if I didn't write about her passing, and so here I am, doing my best to ignore the internal tug that would pull this blog out (waaaay out) of the sorts of things I usually write about and into the intense tension that is radical feminism. Yup, I could go there. Quietly, I do. Most of the people I know don't know that about me, that I could happily live and breathe the air of that discussion. I choose not to, probably because I am too sensitive to withstand the fight without crumbling, which does not mean I can't or don't or won't stand up for myself.

Most people know her as the woman, the theologian, who taught Feminist Ethics at Boston College, a Jesuit institution, and was eventually fired because she would not allow men to attend her course (she did offer them separate independent study). Actually, it's a little bit (or a lot) more complicated than "she was fired" but you can read the story yourself, so I won't belabor the details, except to say that the spark that lit the flame came from the hands of two male students who enrolled in her course not out of interest or desire to learn, but expressly to challenge her policy (neither had fulfilled the course prerequisite). One of the students was backed from the start by a right-wing conservative think tank, which proceeded to sue BC. 'Nuff said. And let's not even get started on the irony therein.

I thank her for her objection (vociferous, ever, always) to the term "forcible rape", as if there is any other kind.

I thank her for the deep humor expressed in Websters' First New Intergalactic Wickedaryof the English Language. I was a young woman when it was published, and I heard her read from it at Mama Bear's Books in Oakland, California. I was transfixed. Yeah, these days we all talk about "reclaiming" words, but I had never heard anything like it. Her discussion of dis-ease, gyn/ecology, and sin-tactics made me laugh, made me wonder, made me think. They still do. I gotta dig up my copy of that book.

Oh, yes, I know that she was and will continue to be immensely controversial, that many disagree with her, that she was criticized for her omission of people of color and for her negative statements about transsexualism. She wasn't afraid of critique. I admire her courage. As she said: "...courage is like -- it's a habitus, a habit, a virtue: you get it by courageous acts. It's like you learn to swim by swimming. You learn courage by couraging."

You learn courage by couraging. Who else could have said that?

The thing that strikes me most about her writing and thought is that it embodied a movement, an era, of which I was a part. A place that no longer seems to exist, or if it does, it is deafeningly quiet. She said unpopular things, but she said what she thought. That's what fierce means to me.

You know, we joke about "political correctness". We think we've transcended it, so many of us. We think we (and our politics) are progressive, sometimes even radical, and we are happy to flash our credentials through our use of "code words", our adoption of inclusive labels that reproduce like rabbits, our marches. And while all of that is going on, we have private conversations. I've been privy to many of them. Conversations that reveal that, individually, there are many of us that have problems with things we 're not supposed to have problems with. Few of us will say it out loud. We smile, we nod, we say "absolutely", we protest for the "right things" . We'd be outcasts, within our own communities, no matter how thoughtful the analysis or commentary.

Like someone else we know, eh?

Light a fire for her. And while you're at it, light one for truth and courage, too.

"There are and will be those who think I have gone overboard. Let them rest assured that this assessment is correct, probably beyond their wildest imagination, and that I will continue to do so."

All we ever get is Gru-EL!!

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 15:24:00 +0000

No, this picture isn't what I made. I wish.

So, if I post twice in four days about food, does that make me a culinary blogger? No, I didn't think so.

My friend Jane's blog, now that's a food blog. And then, of course, there's that one that sparked that little movie about Julia Child. Oh, I think we can safely call that one a food blog too. What? You mean all of our blogs are not going to be turned into multi-million dollar films? Sure.

But today, I just feel compelled. So here goes.

So, the other night, I was feeling all ambitious-like, and I thought I'd make some thai food. In the past, I've made some killer good peanut sauce, which is important because I am one of those people who judge thai restaurants based solely on their peanut sauce, which, honestly, is really crappy about 90% of the time. I've rarely had a great one. One time, I made a great one myself, but it was through experimentation. A little of this. Taste. A little of that. Taste. It was kickass great. But of course I didn't measure anything and I don't even know what the this or that are anymore because I don't even remember which recipe I started from, which wouldn't really matter anyway since I didn't follow it. It was good though. No. It was Good.

Maybe it's that I love Asian food. A lot. And I'm really working on cooking more and saving money, so I figure I'll make it myself. Mostly, I was spurred into action a couple of weeks back (and a couple of weeks before that) when the holiday craft cooperative of which I am a member (I make jewelry) closed up for the season. Oh. I guess that was just last week. Well, whatever. It doesn't really matter because this isn't about the gallery (well, then why did you mention it Robin? Well, I'll tell you!). It's about the Chinese restaurant next door to the gallery.

On opening day of the gallery this year, which was back in early November, I had a customer who I liked a lot. She is an artist herself, making these fabulous things with eyes in them...oh, never mind, it's too hard to explain. But she was great, as was her husband. They came into the store, as did many people, while they were waiting for a table at the restaurant next door. I asked her if it was good, and she said it was pretty good, but that there was one standout item that I had to promise her I would order because it was the best one in the universe. I promised her. When it was time for me to leave the gallery that evening, I stopped in next door. And did I order what she told me to order? No. Of course not. What does she know from Chinese food? Please. So I ordered something else. It was so-so. I stepped on to the get-over-myself train just as it was leaving the station, figuring that my so-so food was punishment from the gods for breaking my promise to this anonymous customer who liked my jewelry, so she must have good taste in everything. I should have thought of that.

The next time I went in, I ordered them. I had to. I'm bold, but I don't really like to tempt fate too many times, ya know? Oh. My. God.

Thank god the gallery was open for almost two months. I was ready to trade shifts...hell, to volunteer to take shifts at the gallery even when they didn't need me...just so I could be there more often so that I could order the chicken dumplings in peanut sauce. This may have been the closest I have ever been to being a junkie. Oh. My. God. I know, I said that before. But it's now been more than a week since I have had them and I just can't be responsible for what I say anymore.

Oh. This isn't what I was going to write about. Oh, well.

Now, the location of the gallery this year is not somewhere that I typically frequent. It's not really close to home and there's just not that many reasons for going there....other reasons, I mean. And the gallery, which moves around from year to year, might not be there next year. So this is it. Me and the dumplings. We're through.

I'm just not that strong.

I figured I'd better learn how to make them. I figured out (I think), through an internet search, that they are called Hunan dumplings. Not at this place, mind you, but in general. They're kind of like the Szechuan dumplings in oil that I've had in New York, but they're in peanut sauce, which I think the ones in oil are, too, which doesn't really make any sense, but there you go. I researched, I found what sounded like a good recipe. I bought the ingredients, made the dumplings, put them in the fridge because I had to run my daughter to some activity, and they sat there for a few days because things got hectic and busy and then I was worried about the chicken and disease, so I threw them out. Yes, I know people are starving in India, but that doesn't justify salmonella.

I never even made the peanut sauce. I know, I didn't know this was going to be such a sad story either.

So, what I'm saying is that I had peanut sauce on the brain. And I thought of that other great peanut sauce I made way-back-when sometime that I also don't know how to make, and I got the great idea to make thai food for dinner. I'm actually known as a pretty decent and adventurous cook, so this isn't as out there as it sounds.

I made the peanut sauce. Not the dumpling one. The satay one. It was bad. And too spicy. I made genuine sticky rice, which turned out great with a couple of exceptions. I made a chicken in lettuce cups-larb kinda thing with basil which was yummy. I made some fried wontons for the girl, as a nod to the whole dumpling idea, and because she loves them. And I made some broccoli, because we love veggies. It was ambitious. It was so-so. But let's get back to those couple of exceptions in the sticky rice department.

Making real sticky rice like the restaurants serve is a big process. It involves a lot of soaking, steaming, and cheesecloth. I soaked too much rice, so after I filled the steamer, I still had some left over. I had read on the web that some people made their sticky rice in rice cookers, so I thought well, hey, I'll just make the rest in the rice cooker and see what happens. This is where the plot thickens, so pay attention.

I'm not going to go into the part where the cheesecloth that was hanging on the outside of the steamer basket caught on fire. Yeah. Fire. I'm not going to talk about that, except to say that it was handled so suavely that the kid in the next room never knew about it. Point for me.

The sticky rice (the sort of traditionally steamed one) was good, though it stuck like crazy to the cheesecloth, which I don't remember happening before. Did you know that little tiny threads of cheesecloth are indistinguishable on the palate from sticky rice? Now you do.

The meal was not memorable, but it was a good effort.

But I bet you're wondering, hey, Robin, how did that sticky rice in the rice cooker turn out?

Well, lemme tell ya.

In the true spirit of world community and true friendship and cooperation between nations, let me tell you that the result was a fascinating (Euphemisms R Us) blend of mochi, risotto, polenta, and congee. Mmmm. I threw it in a rubbermaid container and put it in the fridge.

Remember how, at the beginning, I said that I'm trying to cook more and save money? Yeah. I am. So I can't just be throwing out an entire pot of rice (or what was rice when it went in, anyway). I'll make something out of it! Again, to the computer. What do people do with....let's just say overcooked rice. (Oh, important detail: This is Thai Glutinous Rice. Not sushi rice. Not brown rice, not basmati rice...with the emphasis on the Glutinous, just so you know). One guy on some site said "Turn it into risotto"! It was the most palatable-sounding idea I had encountered. I know how to make risotto, I like risotto, I have all the ingredients.

Here's what happened:

And here's what it looked like coming off the spoon:

Yeah. I ate it. What's it to you?

For some unknown reason, I sang songs from Oliver all evening.

Now I just have to figure out what to do with the leftovers. Anyone?

Feel THAT Power!

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 20:06:00 +0000

I'm not sure exactly what it is about this story that I just love so much. I mean, it's not every day that I post something from CNN, that bastion of the liberal elite media, owned and run as they are by messes of Republicans. All I've got to say is: any company that would hire or retain Nancy Grace (aka Satan) has red flags flyin' all over the place. So shoot me, this one's a good piece, watch it.

Is it that, in this era of instant fixes and short memories and action films, a significant portion of a third grade class from 1990 remembered this specific time and date, and went out of their way to show up and greet their teacher?

Is it that, in this time when the promise of a good job, the promise of till-death-do-we-part, the promise that no one in this rich country will go hungry--in this time of relatively empty promises, this teacher made a class of 8 & 9-year-olds a promise, kept it clearly in his mind for twenty years, and showed up, with faith that students would appear, even when he had no actual evidence that any of them would remember?

I don't think so. I'm not certain, but I think it's about the place that genuine loving kindness plays in a child's education. While we're so busy worrying about standardized scores and international competition, while we're so busy worrying about male teachers hugging students (yes, that is still an issue), while we're concerned about the fact that kids are always texting and "just don't read or write anymore" (isn't texting writing?), we forget about the role that love and admiration and respect play. Facts are one thing. Motivation is quite another. There is no question, in watching this video, that these now-almost-30-year-olds love their teacher, and that he feels the same. Who do you have in your life that knew (and respected) you in third grade and can still reflect that pride back to you?

And I think it's about the power of a great teacher. I have wracked my brain today, and I can't think of a damn thing more powerful than an amazing teacher. That's right. Nothing.

I bet you had one. Or maybe you have one now. It doesn't have to be a school teacher, of course. It could be a mentor, a guru, someone who taught you how to live through loss, a foster parent, a mom who made you feel like you could do anything, a friend who stood by you through thick and thin, teaching you what it means to have a real friend. Teachers come in all stripes.

Which brings me...you guessed it...to something I don't get. Words. As Enemies.

As you know if you have read my blog, I'm not, in general, a big fan of traditional schooling (yes, even alternative models). I'm not a fan, in short, because I have seen very little evidence of children being encouraged to think and direct their own learning rather than to meet some sort of arbitrary standard, be it standardized or generated by one person's view of "how things should be".

In that vein, I am a big fan of unschooling. I belong to several unschooling listserves, have attended an unschooling conference, and am still convinced that it is a phenomenal, if not the best, way to grow and learn and develop. That being said, there's one thing that bugs me. Many of the people on the lists that I read thoroughly reject (avec nausea) the verb "to teach", in all its conjugations. They seem unable to separate the word from its traditional form, which, come to think of it, could be a result of their not being encouraged to think critically or reclaim words. Hmm. I mean, a word is just a word, isn't it? For example, someone once said to me that, through our actions in relationships, we "teach people how to treat us". All socio-economic-political arguments aside for a moment, it's an interesting thought to consider. Unless, of course, you jump up in alarm, scream "No! We don't teach!!!". I don't get that. Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programming. Sorry. I do that.

I have had a few great teachers.

My first grade teacher, Mrs. Corbett, taught a first/second grade "split class". Her mother used to stop by--I don't remember why, but she greeted us warmly. In that age of times tables and Little Red Book/Little Green Book/Little Blue Book readers,

there were hands-on toys galore, a dress-up area, a zither with pages of tunes that one could pick out, and a 1950's counting abacus, which I have just got to say is aesthetically stunning.
I remember them like it was yesterday. I can feel those little round plastic discs in my hands, the nice little click they made when you moved them over to the other side (come to think of it, they were probably bakelite, and would make some darn fine jewelry....hmm....note to self). I remember the freedom to get up from your desk and go use them if you needed help figuring out a math problem. We had a patio (it was California) and we built an entire airport out of wood. My assignment was to bring in tinted cellophane for the windows on the control tower. And I built a plane. Yes, with real wood and nails. Yes, I was six. I gave Mrs. Corbett mints from Chicago that my dad brought home from business trips, with his suit smelling of airplanes (which I now realize was the smell of cigarettes) and his pockets full of tiny Chiclets boxes, the kind that used to be in those marvelous little dispensers.

She made us all gifts at the end of the year. I remember that either me or my friend Dea got a special ruler, I think it was in a felt case. She took us in. She loved us.

I brought Mrs. Corbett mints every year at holiday time for years, even all through high school. Everyone I knew who had had her as a teacher at White Oaks Elementary felt similarly. I said "I want to be like her when I grow up". When I was 14, I started working with young children. Several graduate degrees and almost 40 years later, I have never had any other career. I owe that to Mrs. Corbett. And it wasn't because she taught me how to read.

There are others, to be sure. Tom Brown, my history teacher in high school, who I had the privilege to help when I was a candystriper and he was in the hospital. Shirley Eglington, who was our faculty chaperone at Yosemite Institute when I was a freshman in high school, and who treated me as a peer. Jane Welker, who helped me challenge the system to remain working with children in college and who taught me more about observation of young children than I ever imagined possible--I can't overstate the importance of that skill. And last, but far from least, Judy Singer at Harvard Graduate School of Education, who in one semester repaired 20 years of "I'm no good at math", erased forever my D in undergraduate statistics, and made me feel smart for the first time since elementary school.

And those are only the "school" teachers. There have been and continue to be many others, no less important. They are irreplaceable.

Maybe that's what it is about this video. You can see it in their faces. He was irreplaceable.
And they were irreplaceable to him as well. The power in that gift is...well, phenomenal.

Do me a favor. You know you had one. We all have at least one. My daughter may even have one this year--I can see it in her eyes. See that "Leave a Comment" section? Tell me about a teacher that changed your life. Write as much as you want.

And think about that. Making a promise for 20 years out. A day, a time. Wow.

Blowin' in the Wind

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 03:36:00 +0000

So today I found out that it isn't only my skin that has gotten loose and old, and subject to blowing every goddamn which way like it's not even attached, like it's not even mine, as it sits on my hand (just for fun, apparently) under that snarky little "Feel the Power" arrow on the evil hand dryer at Target. Yeah, I went there today, and I used that dryer. I did it for you, because I wrote about it last night, and I just kept thinking about it, and wanted to touch base with reality, have the real gale force wind blowing across my skin rather than just trying to wrap words around it. Okay, that's not true. I did it because I happened to be at Target (yeah, I know they're politically incorrect, but they're not quite as politically incorrect as WalMart, where I NEVER shop, and not quite as hey-this-is-cute-let-me-wear-it-for-two-days-before-it-falls-apart as KMart, so there). Okay, that's not really true either, because it sounds like I went there by accident, which I surely did not. Geez, this truth stuff is taxing.

The real reason I happened to subject myself to the torture of the Xlerator is that there is a powerful phenomenon that has taken root since we last spoke (or whatever it is that we do). Target keeps me regular. There. I said it. And Jamie Lee Curtis isn't even sitting on my couch (damn).

I know! I don't understand it myself. When I shop at Target, I unfailingly need to go to the bathroom while shopping. Sometimes more than once. I know, I know, this is way more than you needed to know. But hey, I'm just trying to explain why I dried my hands, give a girl a break. At least I'm not pontificating about the many things I notice in public bathrooms, though come to think of it, that's a good idea for a future post, thanks for bringing it up.

That's what you get for wondering.

Anyhow, back to what I learned today. I learned that skin ain't the only thing that blows around in this "season of life", let's call it. All kinds of things blow by, whoosh around, vanish completely while we look the other way, even disappear right in front of our eyes. Yesterday's post was one of those times.

I had it all worked out, this re-entry thing. Like I said yesterday, this coming back in is not the simplest of feats. Witty. That's the ticket. That's what I told myself. I wrote and wrote (in my head, mind you, you didn't miss anything) for several days, experimenting with my first post back. And guess what? They were ALL about the blue moon that we had last night. I posted on facebook that I was returning, and people asked me when, and I said yesterday, December 31. And the REASON I was coming back on December 31 was because there was a blue moon and there was something poetic about that "once in a blue moon" thing and the fact that I had not written here in several months, and boy howdy, I was gonna take advantage of that, you know, tie it together real pretty with a purple ribbon. I had it all written. It was witty, I tell ya. I was all ready to go, and I sat down for my first post back, and what did I write? Roy Rogers, hand dryers, relationship pitfalls, and fully shame-indoctrinated cartoon rabbits. Not a damn thing about the blue moon. Whooosh. There it went.

(I gotta say, I am thoroughly impressed with myself. Only one day back and I'm into full judgment mode again. Wow, that was so easy. And they say that it takes a while to get back into the groove. Pshaw.)

The blue moon was cool, though, wasn't it? Happening on New Year's Eve and all? Portentious, kinda. I mean, I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there. I made a blue moon cake (green cake inside, bien sur) for the occasion. Here it is, even though there's not a darn thing that's witty (or portentious) about a green cake with bluish-grey frosting. Yummy, though.

As for resolutions, well, you know that old story. No need to put undue pressure on myself (which explains why I signed up for Nablopomo, I guess, yeah?). I dunno. Become less bitter? Write every day? Find a kernel of something to write about every day that is fit for public consumption so that I can once again seat myself comfortably and happily in this blog? Figure out what I'm going to be when I grow up? Eat Froot Loops (which have fiber now, in case you haven't heard, just to tie the whole post together, doncha know) more than once a year just for the heck of it?

Sure. Those'll work.

It's going good ("it's going WELL, Robin!") so far.

Hi Ho Silver!

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 03:49:00 +0000

It's as good a time as any, this eve of a New Year, what with resolutions, new starts, and all that. So I'm figuring....what the hey, get back up on the horse and ride off into the sunset...or maybe the sunrise, since it's already dark and the sunrise will officially be that new year full of promise and resolutions and great plans and unforeseen adventures. Whatever. I'm back.

As you may notice, I have even gone so far as to sign up for Nablopomo, that little devil on my shoulder that keeps me going. I know, I know, I shouldn't be so dependent on external motivation, I should write if I want to write and not if I don't, adoring fans be damned (of course, I don't mean you), not that I don't appreciate adoring fans, 'cause man I really do, but even in my really-doing, it doesn't get me to write.

You may wonder why I left, why I've stayed away, what happened, was it the proverbial writer's block, did someone piss me off, did someone scare me, did I really have nothing to say for five months (fat chance), blah de blah. Yup.

It's been an interesting time. Every time I sat down to write, and believe me, I did, especially when thinking of my fellow bloggers with whom I had forged such warm connections, I was stuck. I was mostly stuck because, as irreverent and goofy and irrelevant as this blog may sometimes be, it's really never been about anything but the truth. My truth, that is.

Hot tip: If you are a new reader, and the hair stood up on the back of your neck when you read those words "my truth", and you're pawing your hoof in the dirt getting ready to leave me a comment about relativism and how morality is absolute, let me just say more power to you, but just fair warning, this blog is gonna piss you off pretty much every day. If you're into that, by all means feel free to stick around. Just don't say nobody warned you, k?

And the truth, at least for the past several months (I can hear you saying, Robin, you don't have to explain yourself, but I feel like I do, in the same way that it's difficult to come back when you've run away from home (not that I've ever thought of running away from home, oh, no, that doesn't sound like me at all) or re-enter a room when you have just vanished for an indeterminate amount of time. Come to think of it, that's one of the things that is most annoying to me, that has been the death of me (and some relationships)...that is, people who renew relationships and conversations as if a breach one of sort or another has not occurred. That bugs me. In the spirit of integrity, then, I feel like I gotta say. Okay?

Which is not to say that I wasn't dying to write about a gazillion things that happened, because as you know by now, there's a lot of things that I don't get. Don't think I didn't want to rant about that new hand dryer they have now at Target (and elsewhere, I'm sure) that offers you the oh-so-special reminder of our mortality (which is something you definitely want to do while in the bathroom) by blowing all that skin around that you coulda swore was attached, but you now realize otherwise. I might still write about that in the coming days, so go try it out if you haven't yet, 'cause I love them comments, they're infusions, keep 'em comin. And don't tell me you won't have something to say about them. That's just impossible.

But here's the thing. There was something in this time span that just wouldn't allow it. When my fingers get going, they pretty much say what they want to say, and as any of you who are writers know, those digits have a little independent connection of their own to the mind and heart, which is a good thing, a fine thing for journals, but not quite as swell in blogs, at least in my view.

I sat down to write. I did. And then I heard it.

So I guess what I'm saying tonight is that I'm over that now, with full awareness that that might mean that I now have nicer things to say (ya think?). Or maybe I've just decided that Thumper is full of shit. I'm not sure which one.

I figure we'll find out, right? Stick around.

Adhesives, Fasteners, and Other Tools of the Evil Empire

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 18:34:00 +0000

Lest you be concerned that I have, in my ventures into the deep world of contemplation, cogitation, and M&Ms, forgotten the true spirit and original intention of this blog, here is my offering for today:

Here's what I don't get. I don't get why they put adhesives that would stick a wing onto a 747 well enough to last a polar route flight from the west coast to Europe on the back of labels on food containers. It's not like other adhesives don't exist. We've all gotten those products where you reach for the label, grab a corner, and peel and that nice little "riiiiip" sound accompanies the easy and complete removal of the label. Niiice. And then we've probably all bought nice little salad containers (or something kind of like them) like the above where the label is just tucked inside the container--not adhered AT ALL. What a concept. You just take it out, throw it in the recycling (you do put all your paper in the recycling, right?), wash the container, and then you're all set. And then you have this. Yeah, the this in the picture. The label that will never come off. Not with that goo-gone kinda stuff (not that I love using that nastiness anyway). Not with soaking in hot water. Not with the dishwasher. The print just fades and fades and years later you've still got a thin paper coating around the outside of the container. What the hell is that adhesive they're using? And for the love of god, WHY do they use it??

Which brings me to bread ties. What's up with the bread ties? Yeah, I own those clippy things, probably a hundred of 'em. I even know how to use them. So there. But you know, you get that nice loaf of bread home, and you want to open it up and make yourself a yummy piece of toast, and you look at it, and dammit, it's got this thing on there:

I don't get that at all. Common denominator, anyone? Adhesive!!

What is with putting this kind of tie on a loaf of bread (or in this case, Portugese raisin English Muffins, ohmygodyum)? It's not even a tie. It's a little adhesive tag thing that is not possible to separate and nearly impossible to cut off, so you inevitably end up ripping the bag open just to get the tag off, so now the bag is not only not recloseable but also the contents has to be put into an entirely new bag that can be resealed for freshness. Like I've got money for ziploc bags growing on trees. Whatever happened to those little impale yourself so you need a tetanus shot paper over a little wire twist ties? Or even those stupid little plastic things that are on bread from the grocery store (I don't really get those either, but all things are relative, and they do reclose bags, if poorly, so they've earned their omission from this rant)? You'd think the person or company who made the baked goods would actually like us to get into the bag so that we could enjoy the fruits of their labor, rather than simply admiring the baked goods from the other side of a semi-impermeable barrier, no? Or maybe their only real interest is in our buying it--once we get it home, it's none of their concern ("let it rot, see if I care"). Capitalism. Sheesh.

Glad I'm back? :)

Me too.

Well.....Hi. Here, have some M's.

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:37:00 +0000

I've been away. Maybe you've noticed.

I've got a lot to say about why I've been away, why I stopped writing, what stopped me, and what I learned from it. For the moment, let's just say: A lot. Okay?

The good news (at least on my end, can't speak for you) is that this is one of those things. You know. It's like jumper cables. Once I've started again, I'm back (at least I think so, that's the way it usually works, we'll see). I hope so.

At the moment, I just have to sit and shake my head and wonder at the utter irony of what is actually bringing me back to this space, right here, right now. The thing, the huge thing, that got me to write again. Because you know, there have been a lot of close calls. It isn't like I haven't had things to write. I have. Every day. I've had a "ooh, that's a great post for today" feeling every day. But I haven't been able to get myself to get here and write. Until today. And so this day, this motivating event, carries with it some sort of heft. What is it that could move me so?

M & M's.

Yeah. Really.

Well, and a little irony, too. I love irony. Can't claim to know it had jumpstarting powers, but hey, there are plenty of mysteries remaining in the universe that elude our understanding. Can't know everything.

So. M&M's. I have always known that M&M's had some sort of deeper role to play than simply being a snacky delicious good thing that melts in your mouth not in your hand, which is not really quite true, but it was a catchy slogan. I always knew, since my childhood days in which, whenever I got my grubby hands on some M&M's, I would arrange them in little pyramids by color, which I know will prompt you to wonder if I am that anal about everything, which will prompt me to tell you that I am the least anal, like the-other-side-of-the-world-from-anal, person you have ever met, it's just that I really like to line up M&M's in little pyramids especially on the little glass table in the TV room in my parents house, and now I'm going to stop using the word anal because it's starting to really gross me out when I'm trying to focus on the deliciousness of M&Ms. I will say, though, that the brown ones are always the base of the pyramid because there's the most of those in a package, which really isn't right, but there are some things in life you can't control, and that's one of them. I will also say that when you make pyramids, you sometimes have to go back to the bag to get a few more M&Ms so that you can complete the pyramid neatly and symmetrically, which I think is kinda self-reinforcing for making M&M pyramids. I'm not sure, but I think so.

Now, mind you, this was in the days before blue M&M's. And there was even a time when there were no red M&Ms (I'm wondering if I'm making a serious faux pas capitalizing the M, when they are more lower case kinda things, but I'm in over my head now, so I'm sticking to it). And there certainly were no buy one color that you like or print your goofy little wedding logo on an M&M kind of things. There were just the regular old colors. And when they brought in blue, well, I just didn't think that was right. But, trusting in the gods as I do, I knew they must have a reason. So I didn't send them a letter or anything, even though I would have preferred purple.

And now, here we are today. July 28. And the mystery has been revealed. If you wait long enough, it always happens. I think it's called faith, although I think for most people faith and M&M's are really two different conversations. Their loss.

This morning, I was bopping around on facebook like I sometimes do, and I took a look at an article that a friend posted about the false goodness of Vitamin Water. I like Vitamin Water, especially the new 10 calorie kind, which is really 25 calories if you drink the whole bottle, which you obviously do, but still. So I read it, and basically, I thought they were going a little overboard comparing it to Coke (which I also love but very rarely drink and which, coincidentally, I used last week to get rust off my daughter's old bike). I cogitated a while on the extreme reactions of people these days to additives and artificial stuff and the return to locally grown goodness, all of which I think is important and a good thing, but is kind of a turnoff when people are hysterical about it rather than informative. And you know, one of the things people are most hysterical about are food colorings. That's why the red M&M's disappeared. Red Dye #2. And they've got a good point. There's plenty of evidence that food colorings seem to be associated with behavior issues in kids, which is really interesting and is a REALLY good reason to monitor them more carefully and, when possible, avoid them.

Which brings us to the headline I witnessed as I continued to bop around the web.

Warning: If you are an ardent animal rights advocate who cannot tolerate the idea or any images of animals used for medical research, you should probably not go on, because there's a picture and a description you really won't like. And if that scares you because you think there's gonna be terrible pictures of disfigured animals so you don't want to go on even if you aren't an AARA, don't worry. It's not that bad.

Today, my friends, we are talking about Brilliant Blue G (aka BBG), which is very similar to the food coloring compound used to color those newfangled blue M&Ms.

Come on. You knew it too. You knew that M&Ms were gonna save the world. Admit it.

So (drum roll please)...it turns out that BBG, administered promptly (it has to be given right away, it's just given by IV) after spinal cord injuries, produces a powerful and significant benefit. In rats, it restored mobility. It allowed them recover and walk again.

The only side effect is that the rats temporarily turned blue, which, if you can get past the animal research thing, is actually kinda cute and it's temporary anyway. (Would I trade turning temporarily blue for being able to walk? You betcha.)

There is currently no, I repeat NO, standard treatment available for people who arrive in an emergency room for a spinal cord injury. This one is hopefully going into clinical trials shortly. And the reason that they thought of trying it out in the first place is that BBG is similar to the coloring in blue M&M's (Ii already said that, but I thought it bore repeating) and so has been approved as safe.

How does it work? Well, of course you should read one of the articles, either the summary on CNN or, for the nerds among us, the abstract of the actual study, (and actually, if you visit the site of the journal, you'll also get to read a really cool article in the latest edition about why dinosaurs were big). It's really interesting, but just in case you don't wanna do it, here's the deal.
Because you should be informed. Yeah. You should.

So when there is a spinal cord injury, ATP (adenosine triphosphate), which is like the molecular currency of energy between cells, rushes to the site of the injury. ATP kills healthy motor cells, which makes the injury even worse. Our spinal cords have a lot of molecules called P2X7, which allows the ATP to latch on to motor cells and send messages to kill those cells (including the healthy ones). BBG (the colorant) blocks the function of P2X7, so the ATP can't find a home where it can destroy cells.

Aren't scientists cool?

(which prompts me to give a special shout out to my friend and chorus sister Emily, who is both a scientist--see above--and who also sorts M&Ms by color, thereby offering indisputable proof of said coolness)

Damn. Now I gotta go out and get some M&Ms and a Vitamin Water. See? That's why I haven't been writing. Blogging makes you fat.

The Wormhole Called Starbucks

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 18:38:00 +0000

Ya know, it's not every day that you discover a portal to a parallel universe.

In Starbucks, no less. I had to fight off four guys in black suits and military IDs just to let you know, but that's how devoted I am to you, the readers of this blog. You're welcome.

Here it is.

I know, it looks harmless. Just a simple chair. But here's a tip. Don't sit there. Unless you're really up for some kind of adventure. I mean, I can't testify, I didn't try it. I'm not sittin' there. But I am a witness, so I wouldn't advise it. Just sayin'.

So here's what happened. There I was, all set up to work for a couple of hours at one of my many local Starbucks. No, I don't drink Starbucks coffee. But I have largely succumbed to the fact that they are everywhere, and they have free wifi and comfortable chairs, so I found something I like there (though I still haven't found a single food, including desserts--to which I am generally favorably inclined--that I find appealing) and sometimes I camp out there to work. They don't throw you out, and I can carry a card so if I can't, er, find any money, I'm all set for awhile and that's enough for me.

Today I went to the Starbucks with the notoriously stupid parking lot. It's the only one like it. I don't get it, but it was nearby. It was a beautiful day today--it's about time, so I thought about sitting outside, but the only seating outside was taken, and I had a lot of loose papers to deal with, so inside it was.

I was lucky to snag one of the Comfy Chairs (despite being unwilling to confess to heresy by three counts: thought, word, deed or action), and I settled in for a bit of work. And here's where it gets interesting.

In the two hours that I spent in the aforementioned Comfy Chair, a series of six people (including two Starbucks employees) came and sat in the other, adjacent, Comfy Chair. Apparently, this other chair (not mine, thank god) is a portal to the netherworld. Because three of the six people who sat in it (in a row, mind you) proceeded to talk extensively to themselves. Or more likely, to some invisible beings, because they were not mumbling, they were taking turns, laughing, definitely carrying on a conversation.

Now, as you and I know, our assessment of people talking to themselves has been altered significantly by the proliferation of those tiny little phone headsets that people can wear almost invisibly. Don't' tell me you know don't know what I mean. You remember how it used to be. You'd be walking down the sidewalk, and you'd see someone approaching, talking away, and you would think okay, that person is hearing voices, and you'd have whatever response you had to encountering people who hear voices--hopefully, compassion, and frankly, sometimes evasion or discomfort. Well, that's out the window now, because now everyone and their brother talks out loud to themselves. It seems like a good thing, actually--puts people with associated disabilities in a more normative position. But there's no doubt about it, we're getting used to it. I'm willing to wager that once or twice, you have looked to see if they have a little wire running down their shoulder. Come on, admit it. I sure have.

So when this happened once, then twice, then three times in a row, especially with the degree of animation and turn-taking present in the conversations, I presumed that they were simply on the phone. And then it turned out that none of them were.

I've been trying to figure this out (not that there's anything wrong with it, it just defies statistics, and I'm interested in those kinda things). Maybe there is a group home or a treatment program that is located very nearby that Starbucks, and maybe their clientele prefer the comfy chairs. I know I do. Maybe that's it. Maybe there was some kinda energy over in my part of the store. It's been known to happen before. For now, in the absence of information, I'm just going with the most likely explanation: a wormhole.

And besides, they were playing Hawaiian music. It was coming out of a speaker right above my head. I ask you, who does that in Boston? When I went to ask the ever-helpful manager what it was, he said "Oh, the playlist is in the back somewhere, but I can't find it" (was he looking?). I asked "Well, is this the playlist playing in all Starbucks stores (thinking I could just look it up online)?" His reply? "If they have the same player as we do, then yeah, but I don't know.". Very helpful. Now, is that the aloha spirit?

I tell ya, there's something weird going on here.

Glimmers

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 13:45:00 +0000

The littlest things make me cry.

I used to think that was a weakness, a negative trait. I would look it up on the web (hint: don't do that) and see the dire reports of people who were experience severe depressions or blossoming menopause (pick me! pick me!) or best of all, discussion threads in which someone expresses concern that they cry at the littlest things, and a reasonable share of respondents see fit to give their sage advice, which is something along the lines of "you need to toughen up". Bullshit.

I don't do that anymore.

See? There is evidence that I do, in fact, learn from experience.

Now, when I say I don't do that anymore, it doesn't mean I don't surf around the web, searching for the malady du jour that I might possibly have. I'm human, after all. I mean that I don't take it quite as seriously as I might once have, which, as Martha Stewart says, is a Good Thing.

I've been thinking the last couple of days about Boston, about the fact that I have lived here for a staggering fifteen years (bet those people to whom I said "I'll be right back!" are wondering where I am), about the fact that it is a very difficult place, at least for someone from California--or at least for this person from California--to make a new "home", about the deep and nearly constant offense taken by friends who are from New England when I try to talk about that difficulty (because I like to talk things through, dontcha know), about which parts I can identify as home and which parts, sadly, will never bear that title. And I've come to a realization. I think that Boston (and by Boston I mean the whole area around Boston, maybe the whole northeast, maybe New England, you get the idea) is like a bad relationship. And like any bad relationship, sometimes it takes a while to figure out that you're in one.

Here's what I'm thinking.

This morning, I dropped my daughter at drama camp (channel it....channel it...), walked to Harvard Square, and walked in the front doors of Gutman Library, at Harvard Graduate School of Education. I came here to work for the day, as I do many days when I have time. It's my alma mater, it's a very quiet and sparsely populated library (especially in the summer) and the resources are plentiful. It also has exactly what I need to complete the project that is launching my independent business. Another Good Thing.

To get into Gutman, you have to show some sort of ID. I show my alumni card. Except at the moment, I don't know where it is (this is a recurring problem), so I was asked to step over to the desk and sign in. No prob. The guy at the desk misunderstood what I wanted, thought I was wanting to check out a book (maybe later), and tried to look me up in the computer. After I spelled my last name four times (it's okay, I'm used to it), I was able to clarify that I just wanted to sign in. We both laughed. He said well, if you do want to check out books later, just come by, I can look up your card number. I smiled and said "thanks so much", because you know, people aren't always this helpful these days. And then he said, "Oh, no problem. This is your home."

That's when I cried.

No, not in front of him, and not a blubbering dab-your-nose kind of cry, just a vigorous tearing up on my way to the bathroom.

It made me think about so many things, and in such a short time. When I moved to Boston from Honolulu, it was to attend this very graduate school, study in this very library, live among this community. This is my first home here. He's right, in a way, although he didn't know.

It made me think about how none of us really know, on a daily basis, the little things that we do that touch another's heart. This man has no idea that I have not felt at home in fifteen years, and that on this day, his comment made me feel grounded and welcomed and calm and happy. He didn't say much. But, of course, he did. It's great support for that whole practicing random kindness thing.

It made me think about my decision to leave this particular school to pursue a more advanced degree elsewhere, which I did not end up finishing. While I do not have regrets, this is a subject that is unsettled in my core, and it forced me to recognize once again the extent to which, despite its downsides (and there are definitely downsides), I felt real community here, which in turn makes me wonder whether there is or should be a way to fit this place back into my life.

And it made me think about that whole "bad relationship" thing that has been swirling in my head for a few days now (you know, the time that I haven't been writing). It goes like this:

Note: To my New England friends who are tired of my "complaining" about this stuff, I have two bits of advice. First, you could stop here. Just click on that little button up there in the corner. Easy. The second alternative is to breathe deep, and seriously consider the notion of reading about a relative newcomer's experience and see it as just that, their experience. How 'bout it?

In a healthy, good, loving, relationship, when one person feels as if they are not getting what they need, when they feel as if their partner's priorities consistently lie elsewhere, when they feel excluded or overlooked or simply would like to be included more often, when they feel a need for connection, they say so. And in a healthy, good, loving, relationship, the partner listens. They take it in, with any luck they express either sympathy or empathy, and they move toward solution. They might ask a question like "What do you think would help you to feel more included?", listen to the response, and then gauge whether any of those actions might be something they could integrate and use. They might ask what they could do differently. They might assure the other that it was not their intention to offend, and try to pay more attention to these dynamics to see if the other person might in fact have a point. They might take direct action, and make some plans so that they will have some uninterrupted time together now and again. They might do almost anything. But hopefully, they do something that acknowledges and validates and addresses the concerns that have been expressed. Yes, of course, it might also indicate that the person who is feeling badly is more sensitive that most, or has difficulty in some situations--that can be lovingly acknowledged as well. That's what a good relationship looks like to me, anyway.

What I'm saying is that community is the same thing. A big relationship. Similar dynamics. Similar needs for communication. Similar processes.

And what I'm saying is that my experience is, about 90 percent of the time, when I talk about these things with people here in Boston--yes, for fifteen years now--the responses I get back fall into one of a few categories. The first, we can call "Maybe you should move back where you came from"--pretty self-explanatory. The second is something along the lines of "Clearly you aren't able or willing to try to fit in here--maybe you should change." (which of course, is true--all relationships require mutual effort--though it does imply that effort and/or change has not been made). The third is "Yeah, I've heard other people say that/Yeah, I've spent time in California and you're right it's really different/Yeah, I know it can be a difficult place to break in", which is lovely and thoughtful and is also the beginning, middle, and end of their interest. And the fourth, my personal favorite, is basically (not in these exact words, at least most of the time) "Shut up, stop complaining, it's great here, this is the best place I've ever lived, if you can't see that you're a loser". Yeah. I'm not kidding.

For fifteen years, I have tried to make sense of that quartet of responses, and particularly why they bother me so much.

And just this week, I have realized that I have been operating for all this time like we had a good relationship here, like the other half of this relationship wants to be in this relationship. This is a valuable piece of information. I get it now.

And yes, I'm "going back where I come from" one of these days. At the present time, it's not in the plans. Life is complicated.

I am reading this and realizing that it sounds as if I am saying that, for fifteen years, I have been miserable. It sounds like I am saying that I don't have friends, I don't like my neighborhood, I don't have people and activities and places that I really enjoy, I don't go out. None of that is true. Life is good. Really. This is not about unhappiness. I don't talk (and write) about this repeatedly to complain. It's about trying to make sense of the water in which I live and breathe--I talk about it and write about it because, well, I often don't get it. I talk and write because I struggle. I talk and write to figure things out. I'm like that.

It's really not as black and white as it might appear. It's not about mutual exclusivity. It is possible, in my world view, to have all of these good things, and to also wish that you lived in a place where when you had a singing performance, all of your friends would attend because well, they're your friends, rather than deciding if they have time or like that kind of music. It is possible, from over here, to be basically content and happy with your life, and to also wish that people just dropped by or wanted to just hang out. It is possible to have a full and rich life, and to also wish to have more friends who are not so heavily scheduled and obligated. It is possible to feel happy walking on a sunny day, and also wish that people would smile back.

So, I guess what I'm saying is that I'm beginning to get it. It's about time.

Although, I will admit, there is one thing that I will never get. And no, I'm not the only one to notice it--far from it. I will never get the concept of "I have enough friends". Not having time for more. Rationing. The adult version of "cliques" where attendance must be limited to that particular subgroup. I don't get that--I thought that was over in high school.

Oh, and I don't get the family thing at all either (I know. I said one thing. It happens.). But I'm from California, so that explains that. That was easy.

So you can see how the glimmers make me cry.

"This is your home".

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

It was enough for today. More than enough.

More on Words

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 13:45:00 +0000

Yesterday, I wrote about words being too restrictive. About their inadequacy to communicate what we mean in the deepest sense.

Today, I want to talk about the flipside.

It seems to me that the whole mess is made ever more complicated by the power that words hold. The power that we give them. The right words in the right moment are priceless. The wrong words in the wrong moment can be devastating. Which brings me to something I don't get.

For one thing, I don't get the primacy of the physical body. As if it isn't commanded, engineered, and operated by the same organ (which I have to say we don't seem to know anything about, even as we know more about it than ever before) as everything else. Losing control of motor function in one's hand, for example, is really not all that different from losing word retrieval; yet, the former evokes sympathy and the latter, ribbing. Does that make sense to you?

Stick with me. This does have something to do with words. I promise.

Some years ago...well, a whole lot of years ago...at a time when I was struggling, someone said to me "Isn't it amazing? If you are physically sick, people send you cards, they bring food, they mow your lawn, they send flowers and cards. And if you are emotionally sick, people stay away from you.". So maybe there's an evolutionary purpose for somaticism after all, huh? I really don't get it.

Which brings me, albeit in a roundabout way, to my point (as Ellen Degeneres says, I do have one). I've been waging a bit of a campaign for years now, but I have to admit, it's been a little lonely.

It began with a professional (and yeah,okay, a bit personal) passion of mine, and the subject of much of my graduate work. Invisible children. No, not the Virginia Bruce or Claude Rains or even Ralph Ellison kind of invisible. Children who are not noticed, not mentioned, passed over. They're everywhere. Any teacher could tell you about them, as much as we don't like to admit it--when you get to the end of your day, there is always at least one child that you just can't say what they were doing, and sometimes whether they were even there. I know, it sounds sad. But it's true. Maybe it's a malady, maybe it's a strategy, maybe it's something else altogether. Whatever it is, it's not the only kind of invisibility.

There's invisibility in being different. In being gay. Or lesbian. Or gender nonconformist. Or being a child of divorcing parents. There's invisiblity in being shy. Or out of touch with the current media or electronic culture. And yes, there's that kind too. And by "that kind", I mean whatever kind you're thinking of. Yup.

But none of those are what I mean. (see what I mean about words?)

My interest is, and has always been, in children whose experience is overshadowed by the experience of others around them, most markedly those who are bystanders to violence and trauma. I am painfully aware of their absence, not only because of the lack of humanity in their invisibility, but also because of the way in which their omission translates into a nearly complete inattentiveness to their unique needs.

But the first step is in words. In changing words. In respecting the validity of other types of pain or violence other than physical. And the first step in making that happen is in changing our language. Words. Words. Words.

Like I said, sometimes it gets lonely. And sometimes I get tired. And sometimes I think I am the only person in the world who notices this stuff--or objects to it. And then I forget about it for a while. Because I have the privilege of doing that. I am both grateful and sorry that that happens. Fortunately (and yes, I mean fortunately), I can never stay out of touch with it for that long, because just when i get lackadaisical, it happens again. Like yesterday.

Perhaps you read the story of Byrd and Melanie Billings in the news yesterday. This is them, with their twelve children:

In case you didn't read about it, I'll give you the Reader's Digest version. Byrd and Melanie lived in Pensacola, Florida. They had 16 children, 12 of them adopted, six with Downs Syndrome, others with drug exposure and sexual abuse histories. On Thursday, both parents were shot and killed in their home, apparently as a result of a home invasion that occurred in the evening. News reports vary, but there were at least eight [possibly sleeping) children in the home at the time of the murders. Now, I'm not making any assumption about the murders--there is a lot of speculation swirling. It doesn't really matter. What I am objecting to are the following news reports:

"The children, who ranged in age from infant to about 11 years old, were unharmed"

Sgt. Ted Roy, Escambia County Police spokesman, CNN

"Eight children were in the home at the time of the shooting, but none were harmed"

Pensacola News Journal

"eight of the Billing's children were home at the time fortunately none of them were hurt"

WEAR-TV, Pensacola

(and just to put the requisite icing on the cake, the spokesperson from the chronically scandal-laden Department of Children and Families says that that DCF "will, in a little bit of time, after the shock is over, reach out to the caregivers of these children and offer them what we call post-adoptive services". Ah. After the shock is over. I see. Florida. Ain't it grand?

So, here's my question. Would it kill us--all of us, including the media--to put the word "physically" in front of the word "harmed" or "hurt"? Of course they were harmed. Of course they were hurt. Probably irreparably, especially for some of them. They just didn't sustain physical injuries.

Sure, you can say "Oh, we know that they mean that they weren't physically hurt". Well, sure we do. Just like the archetypal dismissal of feminist objections, "Oh, when we say men, we mean women too!". Yeah. Sure you do.

You can say "that's just nitpicking." But words are powerful. And knowing what they mean doesn't make it okay. We demand that people are careful with other words that hurt. Why not these?

It's one word, folks. Just one lousy word. "Physically". That's it. How much would it take for us to relearn how we say and write about events like this? We have taught ourselves to say "firefighters" instead of firemen. We have taught ourselves (well, a lot of us anyway) to use the word "disability" rather than handicap. We have taught ourselves to say "African American" rather than any one of the myriad of labels that have been used to describe the people of color whose ancestors are from Africa (which is kinda all of us, but that's a whole 'nother discussion). We do learn. We do change. Can't we train ourselves to put that word in there?

The primacy of physical well-being over emotional, spiritual, mental well-being has reached the end of its useful life. Let's put it to bed. With one small word. Could anything be easier?

Words Fail

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 03:47:00 +0000

I am not sure how to explain what has happened the last couple of days. I have been struggling to write here. It's not about time. I've had time. I haven't even been willing to begin.

I would love to say, I have thought of saying, that I haven't had words, I haven't been able to coalesce my meandering into collections of letters and spaces. But that isn't really true. I've had a hundred phrases, and nearly as many opening sentences. Still, they have not found their way to this space, this screen.

I am only just beginning to figure this out. So I am being patient with myself as I write, and I hope you will be similarly patient as you read. We'll figure it out somehow.

I think what I want to say--because if there's anything I know for sure, it's that I'm not sure--is that I am beginning to understand my attraction to visual art over writing (at least in a historical sense). Because it is odd to have as your primary tool something that limits your expression by its very use. In this case, of course, I'm talking about words.

The reason I have not written down even one of those openings is that the minute that I write it down, it's wrong. Not wrong, like judgment, but wrong like not what i mean. Words, words themselves, really the sole medium of this craft, feel as if they are intrinsically limiting. Worse yet, in many cases, words are braggarts, showing off their solidity as if they know what they mean, and so should we. But I don't. Do you?

So I've been thinking about what is behind this phase, this place. And, ironically, I think it came from a comment that I got, or maybe even a couple of comments. If you are one of the people who left them, I fear that you are going to think that I took them wrong. Please trust that I didn't, I don't take them wrong. It is that I am discovering that I am uncomfortable being named, and that revelation has led me into wondering if I am uncomfortable with all naming, which, in the end, means discomfort with words themselves.

I am a writer. It was in the comments. I wrote a response asking why it is so hard to identify as such. And that was the end of words.

It came in being led, once again, to the words and writing of Mary Daly, and her insistence that words be altered to more accurately reflect a unique frame of mind. I remember listening to her read at Mama Bear's bookstore in Oakland, hearing for the first time a new language, a refusal to use words as if we all know what they mean.

It came in identifying my blog as a "women's" blog or a "feminist" blog, neither of which I doubt, but somehow once I named it as such, I felt limited and restrained, as if I can no longer write about cupcakes, which I fully intend to do. And in that restraint--you guessed it--nothing. No words.

You know the old routine. You go to a party, or you meet someone new, and they ask "What do you do?". Some of us hate that, some of us don't mind, some of us don't really care--but they ask and they will continue to ask, so there it is. I have never had an answer to that question. I notice that other people do. I am a lawyer. I am a teacher. I am a doctor. I am in retail. I am a social worker. I am a mom. I build houses. I am an accountant. People have answers. I have never had an answer. I stumble around, I try to describe what I do for my work, for my life. And in the end, after making myself and the other uncomfortable trying to fish around for words and descriptions that fit, I usually give up, and change the subject. Because, really, what do I say?

Do I say I'm an artist? When I do, people ask me what medium, and then I'm stuck again.

Do I say I'm a writer? No. I don't. I am a writer. But that's not what I "do".

Do I say I'm a consultant? Now there's a word that doesn't mean anything at all. A few weeks ago, I met a woman and we exchanged small talk. We discovered that we both work from home, we are both "consultants". She introduced herself as a computer consultant. I nodded. I introduced myself as a child development consultant. She looked confused and laughed a little and asked what that could be. See?

Do I say I don't do anything, that I prefer being to doing? Yeah, I could. But it's not exactly well suited for small talk at the PTA dinner.

And then there's the thing about what sort of blog this is. What I write about. People ask me that too (not to mention the nearly constant requirement to "label" blogs when they are submitted for inclusion in blogrolls or other sites.) People want to know what kind of blog, they ask "what kind of things do you write about?" I don't have an answer for that either. Not because I don't know--I do. But because the minute I answer, there is something lost. There is a piece of me, of my writing, of my experience, that is made invisible by that descriptor. I am reluctant to offer up a word that introduces limitations, in any form.

I suppose it is true as well for visual art, too. One is bound by the limitations and properties of oil paint, for example, or by wood, or clay. I think the difference is that, at least in my experience, there is rarely an assumption by the viewer that they know precisely the artist's ideas, their intentions, what they are "saying". In writing, people think they know. When I write the word "feminism", people think they know what I mean--or they use their own definitions as they read. If I sculpt feminism, people will gaze, they will wonder, they will circle, they will be confused, they will walk right past, they will ask me about it, ask me about my intentions, about the piece, often in an open-ended way. While the medium may limit the sculpture, the product stands on its own, subject to a potentially less arrogant interpretation. Few would tell me I used the wrong brush stroke, that that brush stroke didn't communicate clearly what I was trying to say. Not so in writing. We think we know. We all know what I mean when I write "women". No. We don't.

Let's just say I don't care for that.

And yet words are what we have.

Collections of words and spaces. Such a poor approximation of sensation.

And that, my friends, is where I've been.

Still here....

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 21:29:00 +0000

sit tight, I'm catchin' up!

Help Me, I Can't Shut Up

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 02:12:00 +0000

Sometimes, kids are more important than blogs. Today was (is) one of those days. Sorry, folks. Oh. Wait. No, I'm not.

In the spirit of the sentiment, I direct you to today's post by the wonderful wordsmith and plucky provocateur, Heather, aka The Queen of Shake-Shake. I read it. I cried. I saved it. I printed it. I read it again. I might just frame it.

I was tempted to make this the day that I joined Wordless Wednesdays, a pretty cool idea, but one which somehow makes me feel like I'm cheating, which is completely insane, but there it is. It's a nice place to visit, but I don't think I'm ready to live there. On top of that, Wordless Wednesdays is every day now, which seems wonderful for photographers, but outside of that, I don't get it, which I suppose makes it excellent fodder for this blog, which is purportedly about the things I don't get, except sometimes it isn't, and anyhow, even though I don't have much time to write today, there are bigger things I don't get than how Wordless Wednesday can happen on a Thursday. Like for instance, I don't get what I find so appealing about run-on sentences. I don't get why I'm writing right now, when I just told you that I don't have any time and I am really not writing today because I filled it with other important things. I don't get why 71% of Republicans say they would be inclined to vote for Sarah Palin for President, and why that number went up after her resignation. I don't get why, on a science show on TV tonight, when parents were sending their three year old into surgery, they told her that some people were going to come take her away. Lovely. I don't get so many things about people's views and responses to Michael Jackson and his death. So, you can see that wondering why Saturday is Wednesday and why people want to post photographs every day is pretty low on my list.

But if I had joined Wordless Wednesday today, which I didn't, I would have posted this video. Which I suppose wouldn't have qualified because it isn't wordless. See how bad I am at following directions? I broke the rules before I even joined. I would post the video because this is the song that I "got" today. I haven't heard it or thought of it or sung it in at least ten years. I've had it all day. It's one of the more oblique ones, by a long shot, so I still don't have a clue where it came from, why I got it, or what the message is. But it's there, and there's a debt to the muse that requires me to come clean about the songs as they arrive. So here you go. If you have any idea what it means, feel free to clue me in. Oh, and for the young'uns among us: That's a 45.

Oh. I wrote anyway. Oh, well.

Sylvia Knows Best

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 14:56:00 +0000

Funny how things happen. This morning, I was reading an article on Time magazine's website about women processing (well, they call it "eating", but clearly that's just to get people to tune in, since we don't say that we "eat" our vitamins, and we're talking about capsules here) their babies' placentas for consumption (for the health benefits they apparently confer--duh, don't click if you don't want to read about it). Now before you run to the bathroom to throw up, let me just say that that's not what this post is about*. Breathe easy, my friend. The hard part is over.

And the rant is just beginning.

First, the backstory.

A few weeks back, around Father's Day, I happened upon an article on msnbc about how fathers who are stepping up to share or take primary responsibility for parenting feel invisible, about how they are ignored, especially when their wives are present, or made to feel like "babysitters" and not taken seriously. Fair enough. More power to 'em.

I began to read. I read the blog (great blog, btw) that the article referenced. I read the comments and the discussion on the topic on msnbc. And I left a comment, highlighting the one variable that seemed to be missing in the list of "why this happens"--namely, the numbers of fathers who perpetuate the division of responsibility, who find child care demeaning, who use the words "babysittting" in regard to their own participation, and even the significant, if minority, population that is blatantly advocating a return to so-called "traditional" values in which the father is the breadwinner and the mother is, well, the mother. What I was trying to say was that, as often happens, these men are barking up the wrong tree. If they want things to change in society and in how people regard them, their wives and the sympathetic supportive community of other stay-at-home dads are not where that sort of change is to be found. If they are looking to change the expectations of a patriarchal system, they need to go straight to the source: the men (the majority of men) who perpetuate this view, and they need to call the mainstream media on their gaffes whenever, wherever, every ever.

I know. Who am I to tell them what they "need" to do?

I'm me. This is my blog.

Backstory firmly in hand, we now return to the fount of knowledge and insight that is known as Time magazine.

Now, like any website worth its salt, there were links on the placenta article page to other things that might just be of interest to new moms or new dads, because after all, who else would read this article other than crunchy holistic kind of folks who can potentially really appreciate the inclusion of an article of this type in the mainstream media. Like me.

In this case...being that it's 2009 and all...two of the more prominent links were to iPhone apps for new moms and for dads. Ooh! I have (and love) an iPhone! I have (and love) a child! I have (and love) a career that involves gathering resources for parents as they navigate their way through the early days of parenthood! Ooh! I'm checking this out!

This is where it gets nasty. Grab the Tums. I'll wait.

You back? Great. Let's go.

First, let's talk the iPhone apps for Moms. The 10 of them. Or 7. Or 13. Or something. Girls aren't good at math anyway, right? Oh, I suppose I should explain, because I notice these things, and that's why I get paid the big bucks--to share them with you. Here we go. The link says: "See the top 10 iPhone applications for new moms". Yes. In red. When you get there, the title of the article is "Seven Iphone Apps for New Moms" (I mean, who's gonna notice the sudden disappearance of three apps when you can't even find your car keys?). And then, you read them. And each one of the seven pages highlighting apps (well, except for one of them, just to mix things up a little) discusses TWO apps. So actually, the article highlights 13 apps for new moms. I guess.

Now, you can look for yourself, but I don't want to take any chances, so here are the 13 apps that they highlight as best for new moms:

Babycam – makes cutesy noises so that your baby will smile for pictures (since s/he sure isn't going to smile for YOU.
Quad Camera – takes 4 pictures of your kid at once (make the most of every moment with your child, and you know how we moms love a bargain)
Scribble – drawing progam to “keep toddlers busy on long car rides” (I think giving your toddler your iphone is a dandy idea...it's important to keep technology well greased)
Bug Squash – where you tap the touch screen to smash bugs to get points (and get them started on violence against small helpless creatures as early as possible)
Nursing Tracker – anal retentive recordkeeping of nursing (because, as we all know, the more tense you are, the better it is for your milk supply)
Diaper Tracker – stats on when your baby’s diaper was changed (because if there's anything more fun than changing diapers, it's recording the qualities of every poop)
Lose it – to lose weight after birth –keeps track of food and exercise (obviously the first order of business)
I Fitness – exercise instructions (more of the same, blah, blah)
Big Oven – recipes (because, while you may not be pregnant anymore, you are still, with any luck, barefoot and in the kitchen)
4 Ingredients – recipes (in case the thousands of recipes in the aforementioned app aren't sufficient, and to give you another thing to browse through, now that you are a new parent and have scads of free time on your hands)
Asleep kids – lullabies for naptime (because research has shown that babies always prefer electronic music rather than a parent's voice, and besides, when your baby is napping, you don't need your iphone anyway, so just leave it in their crib! But don't forget to put it on airplane mode, because if a call comes in, there goes the lullaby!)
Whitenoise – whitenoise macine for naptime (because, again, you don't need your phone)
Toddler Cards – flash cards (because it's never too early to start poor parenting practices--and with this one, hey, you don't even need to hold the cards!)

That's thirteen. No. I don't have judgments at all. At All. Got that?

Ding! Ding! Ding-a-ling! (that's your cue to start salivating). This is where it gets good.

Not to be outdone, and recognizing that hey, this is the new millenium, and being a dad is a whole new thing, Time was kind enough to also review the "Ten Best iPhone Apps For Dad". No, no need to rush over there and read the article. I've taken the time to summarize them here for you. You're welcome. Here they are. The 10 best iPhone apps for dads. Yes, there are ten of them. On the link, on the article, and in actuality. 10. Because boys are good at math, remember?

Oobgolf – tracks golf scores and analyzes trends in scores
iHandyCarpenter – level, protractor, 3 other tools (set against a manly wood grain background)
Gas Cubby – to track gas mileage and vehicle upkeep
Grill Guide – digital ruler to measure the thickness of a steak (!) and check cooking times
Family Guy – clips from Family Guy show, which the description refers to as “TV’s most dysfunctional animated dad around”
Trapster – to avoid police speed traps
Hundred Pushups – exercise program
5800+ drink and cocktail recipes – speaks for itself
FanFinder – to find the closest sports bar
Things – a to do list organizer

No, there's no snide commentary next to these. They don't need it.

Many years back, there was a Sylvia cartoon (it was also the title of one of her books) that I really loved (I love most of them, but this one was choice). In the cartoon, Sylvia is, as ever, sitting and watching TV. The commentator on TV is saying "Over the past ten years, men have increased their participation in household tasks...by six minutes". And Sylvia, sage that she is, is saying "Mercy, it's the Revolution and I'm in my bathrobe.". I couldn't possibly say it any better.

Come to think of it, maybe the photo apps for new moms are a good idea. That way, when dad arrives at the sports bar from the golf course, right after he high-fives his buddies for so cleverly speeding and yet avoiding a ticket and just before he coaches the bartender on how to mix this cool new drink he found on his iPhone, he can view four pictures of his kids all at once. Given how busy he is grilling, doing carpentry, changing his oil, and exercising, it may be the only time he sees them (and before you lambast or correct me for implying that this is how dads spend their time, best you direct your comments direct to the source: letters@time.com).

Yeah. Things have changed.

*with the exception of sharing one choice quote. In the article, the "placenta lady" tells the new dad that these pills might even be good to save to help ease menopause (discomforts about which I can speak with some authority). His quote: "[she] did not understand that when Cassandra's looks fade in her 50s, there's no way I'm putting up with this crap". I'm cutting him a break and not raising holy hell as I know he's a humorous writer, and most of what he writes is said in jest (or in sarcasm or a similar handy tool). But somehow, this one line just didn't seem quite as funny as the rest (except to men, I would guess). Yeah, I know. Angry feminist. Deal with it.

On Being A Bundle

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 20:08:00 +0000

Just call me Fanny Dooley. I'm not providing a link because I just found out that when you google "Fanny Dooley", the hits give you the secret. Right there. In public. Now what kind of fun is that? I am going to trust your integrity (and your familiarity with one PBS show that shall remain nameless). I mean, I'm not exactly Fanny Dooley, but it's pretty damn close. I'm like a walking contradiction, albeit occasionally humorous. Nice t' meet you.

I use that reference mostly because I'm trying to avoid that whole "there's two sides to every coin" thing, because you know...duh. Of course there are two sides to every coin. What's yer point? Same goes for that double edged sword thing, although that one might not quite hold up as well, 'cause I think there are single edged swords, so that would indeed make a double edged sword a unique item, but I don't have any swords, and I don't ever plan on having any swords so what does it have to do with me anyway?

See, here's the thing. I am an anarchist who is a stickler about following rules. I don't believe in authority but want to be in charge. I am a teacher who doesn't really believe in education. I have been known to model the opposite of what I'm demanding. I could go on. I won't. You get the idea.

Some years ago, I was on a camping trip in Yellowstone. At that time--and maybe now too, I didn't notice when I was there two years ago, I must be slacking off--when you came into the park through one of the entrance gates, they handed you a whole packet of stuff along with your park map and activities brochure. In this packet there is a flyer about the behavior of animals (I know, because I looked through the whole packet, and read it all). You know, don't chase them, don't taunt them, don't feed them, and no matter what you do, DO NOT WALK NEAR BISON BECAUSE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN GORED. Have you ever been to Yellowstone? Well, then you know that there are people all over the park doing every damn one of those things all the time. Not me. I read every darn slip of paper they give me, and I follow the rules. All of 'em. Even when they're inconvenient (i.e. not washing pans where the debris could draw bears...even more duh, but still rampant).

And then, on the other hand, I do not succeed well in typical work environments because, dammit, there is someone there called a Supervisor, and, irony of all ironies, they tell you what to do. I'll have none of that. I'm not keen on doing what I'm told. Pretty much ever. Though I am kinda big on my daughter doing what she is told. You're getting the picture here, I can see that.

You might wonder how this came up on this lovely day. Well, I'll tell you. Bike helmets.

First of all, in Massachusetts, it is a law that anyone under 16 is required to wear a helmet when riding a bike or scooter, or while rollberblading. That seems like a good thing, especially given the data on accidents. Having been hit once by a car as a child, right down at the corner of my block, I have an additional visceral reaction to that whole deal.

The kicker is that in my neighborhood, in a relatively affluent suburb of Boston, NONE of the kids wear helmets. And they're all outside riding every day, up and down, up and down. And while I remain strict about it, I will freely admit that I am thoroughly pissed off that my daughter is in the position of being the "odd man out" (once again), and seen as as the one with the "strict" or overprotective mom, which, if you knew the kids in my neighborhood--and their parents---and me---you would find pretty funny. So why don't parents demand that their kids wear helmets? It seems like such a no-brainer (accidental pun but I'm keepin' it). Huh?

I'm thinking on all these words...maybe I'm a bundle instead..as in a bundle of contradictions. That sounds pretty good, kinda reminiscent of a soft blanket. And yeah, it has two sides. Just like pretty much everything else. I'll take it.

Art Can't Hurt You

noreply@blogger.com (Robin) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 18:10:00 +0000

First off, I wanna say that there are definitely up sides--big up sides--to having a child who is, deep in her heart (as well as in the tips of her fingers) an artist. I'm pretty clear about that.

There is the vision, the "different" way of looking at things. There are the philosophical conversations about the world that appear out of nowhere, out of noticing that a bird flies at an angle that she may not have seen before. There is the way in which any afternoon, any ride in the car, any wait in a restaurant, can become an engaging and productive activity. There are the hour long conversations that can take place between a red pencil and a blue pencil about the difference in their life experiences, or about one of their sisters, a green pencil, and her recent antics. There is the amazing privilege of displaying wonderful works of art in our home. There is the absolute wonder at hearing detailed and unprompted descriptions of the color and texture of that man's socks, you know, the man we met for fifteen minutes six years ago.

And then, on the flipside, there's boobs. Yeah, breast kinda boobs, the ones of age--not stupid people kinda boobs. And weight. And proportion. And flaws. And truth. And beauty.

I have a wonderful t-shirt that I wear to art fairs and the like. It says all kinds of good stuff, like "good art doesn't match your sofa" and "Art: Break the Rules." The other thing it says is "Art Won't Hurt You". I've always loved that one. Today, I'm repeating it, like a mantra.

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter had to do a self-portrait for an end of the year picture collage for her teacher. As these things will do, the activity expanded. She drew a self-portrait. I drew a self-portrait. We photographed ourselves and printed them out and did self-portraits from the photos. And we did portraits of one another.

Some of the readers of this blog know me "in real life". But some of you don't, and maybe you've been wondering what I look like.

This is me.

The hair is dead on. The decolletage, maybe not so much.

I am honored.