Woman in Control

Tattered Remnants: Photo Essay

2012-02-11T15:08:00.001-05:00

Tattered Remnants of Our Dark History

No Rug to Sweep It Under: Slave Shack

Photos taken on the grounds of Laura, A Creole Plantation, St. James Parish, Vacherie, LA July 2011 by Ginger Long Glynn

The idea of visiting, or touring a plantation is not one that ever appealed to me, yet when I visited my son in New Orleans in the summer of 2011, it became a consideration and then, a reality. After seeing the oil-riddled beaches along Mississippi and Alabama, a self-guided swamp tour, and a few trips, but not enough, to Café du Monde, the French Quarter, the Marigny and the Garden District, the plantation tour became a planned destination of some interest. I did, however, continue to approach this visit half-heartedly. For me, plantations symbolize slavery, not the wealth of the genteel, or the funding source of all things southern hospitality. I couldn’t help feeling it would be like visiting the homes of some officers in the Third Reich with the intent to admire their taste. I tried to find comfort somehow, and perhaps logic, or rationality in remembering the history of the wealth behind the great estates along the Hudson. I have greatly enjoyed visiting the Hudson Valley estates. These fortunes of course, were built on the backs of immigrants and the underclasses. Wealth for a few comes at a great cost to many.

I carefully chose Laura Plantation, a plantation run by 4 generations of Creole women. As I drove along the Mississippi, my eldest son read about the history of the plantation. He shared that there was a “slave cabin” on the grounds. It was clear as we got closer, there were “slave cabins” all along River Road, some inhabited, others abandoned. As I pointed these out, we grew quiet. We passed several mansions that were in disrepair and a few that had recently been renovated, soon to be added to the growing plantation tour route.

The Laura Plantation was fascinating. It was surrounded by tropical plants and vibrant flowers. It seemed more of a Caribbean inspired mansion, than it's Antebellum counterparts. I wanted to believe that it was somehow softer to slavery because women had managed and controlled it. Laura Locoul-Gore was the great granddaughter of Guillaume DuParc, a French naval veteran of the American Revolution. DuParc, commissioned the land from Thomas Jefferson, as a reward for serving the country, and for his new loyalty to the nation. He died three years after the home was constructed, leaving his wife to manage the plantation. He started with seven slaves. When his wife could no longer run it, she appointed her youngest daughter to have control. She was believed to be the most capable, not because they did not have male heirs. In the 1830's Elisabeth DuParc purchased 30 teenage girl slaves with the intention of having them impregnated. (It was as difficult to write that last statement as it is to think about it. Industrialized rape, is what it conjures.) During the 1850’s the DuParc Plantation inhabited 175 slaves for the production of sugar. The slave cabin that was photographed, was built in 1840. It was at one time, among 65 cabins built on the land. The cabins were inhabited on the grounds of the plantation until 1977.

The ancient west-African tales, Compair Lapin, better known as "Br'er Rabbit" were recorded in this cabin by Alcee Fortier, a neighbor of Laura Lacoul. Fortier later became the Dean of Foreign Languages at Tulane University and the president of the American Folklore Society. He published Louisiana Folktales. A year later his friend and colleague, Joel Chandler Harris, published Tales of Uncle Remus. (I would prefer to be writing that Alcee Fortier helped set the slaves free, but I realize my idealistic, hopeful mind-set has difficulty fully comprehending the harsh and cruel realities of humanity.)

What I saw, and could not look away from, were the muted tones reflected in the walls and floors of the rooms, which inspired the photographs. The natural light washed upon the paint-faded wood-grain of the walls. Contrasting pastels evoked beauty and tenderness, sorrow and grief, a gentle reminder of our nations darkened history. The tattered remnants of the gingham curtain, or perhaps makeshift door, remain on the door frame providing the threadbare fabric of a regions history.

The broom in the corner of the room, one of the last remaining artifacts of life here seems to convey pride and functionality. The bareness and starkness, in contrast with the main house, made it difficult to ignore. There was no rug to sweep it under, to tidy, or present a less harsh version of what it meant to be owned by another. And still there is beauty and pride emanating from these now almost bare walls and floors.

The idea of “the jumping broom” was brought to my attention in relation to the broom depicted, and the slave cabin. “Jumping the broom” is a wedding tradition originating from West Africa, meant to signify the entrance into a new life. The newly married couple joins hands and jumps over the broom, "sweeping away" former, single lives. Sweeping away enslaved lives, the broom remains.

Enjoyable Me.

2012-02-07T20:30:00.000-05:00

I am starting to enjoy me, when I am not questioning and second-guessing that same me. The me that gets impassioned, or annoyed or angered, the unenjoyable me. I might be getting closer to becoming more enjoyable to others on a more sustainable, consistent and regular basis. And not just the self-chosen, hand-picked others, which are really more of the, mutually determined select few that "get me" right out of the gate. There might be a total of 8 of this type.....in the Universe.....at any given time......or maybe across a life span or two. That number might actually be somewhat inflated. Of those eight, there are possibly/probably 3 that often need a mutual friend to translate or be back-pedaled away from a cryptic conversation or some supposed slight, or so I imagine, and occasionally have witnessed or have stumbled through or into.

I have been known to get really impassioned about certain topics. Taboo and unenjoyable topics like gender inequality, or religion, or politics. You know, those topics that you are taught not to raise in polite conversation. So, I don’t get to participate in polite conversations, much. A bit of self-sabotage, if you will, I blow it by getting impassioned about those very anointed impolite topics. I could participate, it’s just that I can’t seem to not get impassioned about some of those other topics. And people for the most part like to be polite, more so than passionate. I unfortunately, or fortunately, can’t seem to ignore the glaring gender inequalities, or ignore the misuse of religion far from it’s intended use of providing hope and goodness. Well that’s my understanding of the use for it anyway. I have a difficult time, not snickering or snarkily adding commentary about politics, especially when “values” are promulgated upon the hungry partisans and disregarded or blatantly un-adhered to in broad daylight by the very promulgaters, or politicos spouting about the evils of say, birth control and/or sexual encounters of one sort or another.

It works like this; when troubling topics come up, I have a hard time smiling pretty and swallowing hard. Big things mostly. I’m not a great avenger of all things unjust. I don’t self-righteously seek out wrong in an effort to make it “right”. I don’t have a God-complex. I have enough work to do, thank you very much. I’m not up for that job and I don't want those hours. I also have this great deal of Jesus-learning about being humble, or at least not front and center. I really don’t seek stuff out. I definitely know enough not to go looking for trouble. If I could I would avoid it at all costs.

But throw it in my face? Honestly? I am probably going to react. I have definitely reacted to a couple of things over the past few years. These reactions have been swirling around me in what appears to be an effort to apprise me of some new world order, or maybe just a flukey coincidence as I keep on trucking forward, on the way to nirvana.

React I have. If anyone wants the details send a request in the comment section or a self-addressed stamped envelop with loads of cold hard cash and I might share some gory details, but it’s highly doubtful. I like to keep things private and unless you are in that 5-8 grouping mentioned above, you aren’t really interested in my reactions or troubles for any honorable reasons.

The swirling around piece that I am certain has been a message from wherever Universe messages come from, has me thinking. It does seem to be time to evaluate and reflect upon my responses to the world and those around me. I am thinking that becoming even more enjoyable to others, may require a little more letting go and a lot more joy and elation. I have access to “Notes from the Universe” or TUT, or some interesting web-generated data-base that is manned by Mike Dooley and all things New Age and remarkably profitable. I am interested in becoming a better person after all and this site has helped me with the letting go. Now that I am no longer holding on to just so much unenjoyment, it is a lot easier to grasp joy and elation.

If you click this link http://www.tut.com/theclub/ and register and sign up or give them your cell-phone number and 3 bank account numbers you can hear from the Universe too. Well, not really, it's free. It even uses your name, like a letter from Santa for adults. It goes something like this; Hey, Ginger, everything that is happening today will make you a happy, successful wunderkind. Enjoy the day. With love and cartwheels from the Universe. It gets me looking closer at the good things that are happening, and that gives me less time to look at the not so good. I might even try to do a cartwheel, well probably not really, but maybe a high kick or two.

The mantra at tut.com is “Thoughts become things, choose wisely.” Admittedly, I have had some unpleasant thoughts about some people and I can’t say exactly for sure if they have become those thoughts permanently, or they started out that way. Leave it to suffice, the thoughts fit and these are not thoughts I want to have regularly or want to be around. I may want to proceed with caution and only choose thoughtful thoughts to think about people I like and leave the Universe to attend to or annoy the others.

Back to all the swirling around nirvana-prompting activities. The swirling seems to be informing me that I could, maybe, try to smile a little bit through the B.S. of others less fortunate, or less intact, or less kind than I. I also think the swirling might be letting me know that there are times that anger is an appropriate response and I am permitted use of that particular emotion on occasion. The swirling, or the Universe, was even good enough to uncover an emotion chart in some such conflict resolution guide that actually placed anger dead center between annoyed, frustrated, rage, and, I can’t recall the worst, or top ranking maddening behavior. It might have frightened me, being so much bigger than anger and all. I was quite pleased with the finding. I have been considering bringing the emotion chart to validate my clearly even-tempered, middle of the road, or at least, middle-charted reactive behavior to a few upcoming events. I can use a pointer to highlight how fair to middling I am in the scheme of things.

Tonight while checking out a few things from the local grocery store, the cashier rolled her eyes and snarled when I reached for a paper bag to begin bagging. This cashier was a seasoned adult, not a 16 year old with eyes rolling on auto-pilot. She had started, and was free to continue, bagging in plastic. She seemed really put off by my action. I didn’t excitedly stop her, or attempt to promulgate the necessity of saving the planet with paper bags instead of plastic. It’s not something I am impassioned about. I typically “bag”, I prefer paper. I use them for collecting my own recycled papers, everyone else is free to manage as they please. I didn’t need to defend or explain. I just smiled. I continued smiling and bagging. Smiling and bagging. My son watched. Eyes going back and forth between the darkened eyes of the cashier and the smiling eyes of his mother. He nervously snickered. We giggled on the way out to the car while I gently shrugged my shoulders. This was not an event that called for annoyance, frustration, anger, rage, or what? murder?

We have choices. Smiles and bags, paper or plastic. Enjoyable me. The cashier won’t push my list of people that "get me" up to nine, but I remain hopeful and happier and I am more often enjoyable of late. I just might reach nine before the end of the month. Cartwheels and highkicks. Smiles and bags.

The Line Forms Here

2012-01-21T18:43:00.000-05:00

I have always suffered from some great fear of filling out forms. I can’t seem to track the information or understand exactly where to put my name or address, above the first line, below the first line? I fill out forms as though my entire life will be altered if I am not 100% in agreement with whatever is being asked of me. I am convinced that there is always another option that some rigid group of form creators deliberately left off just to make my life temporarily miserable as I fill out any given form. I am a nonconformist and forms just don’t jive with this aspect of my very being. I want there to be a box that says “it depends” after just about every question. Or “maybe” or “not today” “who wants to know” and “really, who gives a _ _ _ _”. The truth is, I have never filled out a form that leaves me confident and absolutely certain or even nearly certain, frequently, often, or at times. I am pleased to note that the terms “form fear” and “formaphobia” were recently added to the well-respected and highly acclaimed Urban Dictionary.

My formaphobia is especially problematic because I have a great deal of forms to fill out. Around this time of year I become rather inundated with forms. Income taxes. College application forms, FAFSA, Financial Aid for the slew of students in the home and at school, (self included). Work related diagnostic testing forms, behavior assessment forms, conference and professional development forms. In fact, the reason I am blogging is because I am avoiding several open and incomplete forms at this very moment. I have handed in a couple of forms at work after long bouts of avoiding and hiding said forms. I have a less than appreciated tendency to circle in-between 2 choices because I just can’t agree to the choices provided.

I just reviewed a profile I created on an on-line dating site about 6 months ago that was a bit misinforming due to my form fear. I also realized that my daughter’s Financial Aid form wasn’t processed because I missed the last box of the 4^th page of the section needing my driver’s license number, that wasn't handy at the time I was filling it in. These were both filled out via on-line forms. I probably should have reviewed them a little closer. On the dating site, I kind of feel like I was misrepresenting myself and I could have missed out on all sorts of amazing and religiously diverse dreamboats due to my dysformia. In one section I thought I was sharing information about myself, but I had been inadvertantly checking off boxes about what I wanted from my potential matches.

The on-line dating sites typically ask questions like; religious affiliation, salary range, do you own a car? do you want kids? Help me out here, let’s start with the kids, I have 3. I want them. I am 48, I am not Kelly Preston, although she is also 48. I have the choice of selecting: I want kids, Undecided, or I don’t want kids. I don’t want more kids is not a choice. I would like the choice of “been there, done that” but I want it to be sweeter and more loving “I wanted them, I have them” or “I have kids, they are great”, or “I’m 48, let’s get real here, shall we?” I want the profile of any potential dreamboat to reveal if he has kids, he is taking care of them, loving them, paying for them to the best of his ability and then some, and being there for them but these questions don't get answered on this form, and that's for another forum.

I messed up big time on the religious affiliation section of my profile form. I believed I checked off Christian/Catholic, Christian/Protestant, Christian/Other and Spiritual for myself. I am not as ambivalent about my faith as it may appear on a form, it’s more that I am not as committed to one particular section of the Christian Faith. Allow me to explain, I am baptized, penanced, communioned and confirmed, Catholic. I currently or occasionally worship in a Protestant church, I am more openly spiritual with a bent on: the Universe is an amazing place full of wonder and joy that just can’t be easily explained. Oh well, I guess I am not exactly “openly” spiritual, I am rather privately spiritual? maybe not, but there isn’t a box for Religiously Curious. Not enough boxes for me to jam and slam myself into. If your interested, I like religion, it’s so fascinating to me, sometimes like the ocean, sometimes like magic beans, mostly an anthropological wonder full of hope. The snafu? I checked these off on the side of what I want for my would-be dating partner and left my side blank. As though I were some atheist or an agnostic with a fetish for Christians, any which variety of Christian.

See, this form thing gets way too complicated and I don’t want anyone misinformed. I can be rigid in my need to be clear, or clearly understood. Forms rarely, if ever are one size fits all, but neither are tube tops or uni-tards and I rarely, to never, pay any mind to them. I really need to stop over-thinking everything. I might also need to unsubscribe to the SAT Question of the Day, that I have subscribed to in order to help my son prepare for the SAT so that he may have a strong chance to get into a school that he desires to go, with forms that I will need to assist him with. He needs to declare racial identity which keeps getting more complex. I want to check off a box for Atlantic Islander, which could mean Irish, but they only offer Pacific Islander, which could still mean a diverse and varied ethnicity. Gender identity will be offering additional boxes. The parent and guardian section has several layers and permanent residence is influx for many. Adding days of the week may help a few sections, we are a rather fluid species, hard to pin down.

I am longing for the form that is handwritten on a scrap of composition notebook paper. Will you work hard in school? Check y for yes/most of the time. Are you interested in learning and growing? Check y for yes. Will you be coming to school so that you can drink heavily and game far away from your diligent mother that is paying for this experience? Check n for no. Are you full of hope and potential but maybe have not mastered every aspect of your being by the junior year of high school? Check y for yes.

As for me and the dating scene "need to know" scrap paper form: Do you think I’m cute? Check y for yes. Do you like quirky, dorks with snarky wit? Check y for yes. Do you need me to be with you every waking moment? Check n for no. OK perfect- we must be compatible enough to grab a cup of joe. OK. Check ✓ That was easy. I wonder how many religiously diverse and indifferent were turned off by my falsely checked Christian fetish? The line forms here, retakes and do-overs accepted.

Trending and Trust

2012-01-09T00:54:00.000-05:00

I am trying out all sorts of wild and crazy living on the edge with reckless abandon activities of late. You might recall, I recently wrote about eating tongue. Not that I did, or likely would, but I did talk about it-that’s surely wild! I enjoyed a fairly successful art opening with a room full of positive energy and encouraging feedback. OK, I am being painstakingly modest- the art opening was absolutely fabulous, and I am not typically one to do fabulous, not seriously anyway, but the opening was totally kick-ass. It was serious and amazing and fabulous. I also submitted a painting to a gallery, in the small urban setting of Kingston, N.Y. which was well received and generated an immediate, impassioned response. I started biking, well a little, but a start just the same and I did make it the whole 8 miles with speed and delight plastered across my wind blown face. So I did it again. I logged a few "dates" that I thought were great fun. We all have our own take on things, for me the great smile I was receiving was a fresh new start after years of forlorn sadness, and pale, strained grief. So, I might try a few more soon.

All of this living on the edge and not taking too much seriously led me to say these words out loud yesterday, “You have been doing my hair for years, I want you to do something different, I totally trust you.” I guess I thought that meant she would also know my inner most insecurities and fears, being all trust-gaining and such. This trust of a hairdresser parallels the trust in intimate relationships and the belief that when we do finally “trust” we imagine that to mean; the other bloke or broad in the inner circle of trust can read our minds and know our inner selves and inner fears. The very dark and secret part of us that we can’t quite look at directly will be understood and honored and protected. That's kind of hard to really master. But then that’s what living on the edge, all reckless is about isn’t it? Embracing the feeling that we are OK in spite of those deep dark secrets. We have very little control of very few things so why exert so much energy trying so hard to make everything just so, or just soooooooo hidden?

Something different. That’s all she needed. Well, actually, she went on a mission to find a few good magazines and hair style catalogs to choose a perfect style. She handed me one and told me to see if I could find anything. I decided not to really look. I wanted to give up and just let the “expert” decide. She was getting more and more exhilarated. She did in fact have a great idea.

Around the halfway mark, I thought of saying “OK, great you did it!” But again, I fought the urge and just decided to wait it out. I did not have long hair to begin with but when all was said and done, you could have created costume and design for 2 – 3 Planet of the Apes characters. Let’s just say my hair is, or was thick. Extremely thick and now it’s not. It’s not thick, it’s not there, or here, anymore. It’s just not.

I survived it in her smiling presence. I am a sucker for smiles it turns out. An easy mark at the end of a smile. Very easy, it seems. I don’t often enough give them, so they are typically hard to come by, but maybe I am smiling more of late, because I seem to be getting more. (I’ll have to make a mental note of that, am I smiling more? Are others smiling in happiness or something more akin to shock and fear?) I left the salon with the sinking reality that when I woke from my spritz of valium-sprayed-smile, I would be greatly and deeply traumatized and traumatizing. When I got home, my son who favors crew cuts, (which incidentally drives me crazy,) said “WHOA” in that smiling, deep, way that doesn’t really mean good or bad but it surely means DIFFERENT. I prefer good or bad when it comes to feedback, DIFFERENT is hard to pin down. I like pinning down, and smiles.

In the late 60’s the “pixie” was a hairstyle in vogue. Twiggy wore it best. Her big deep eyes distracted you from her short hair, or were made to look deeper without some big, distracting, flip, wave. Her Peter Max inspired fashions also brought your eyes away from her hair or lack of it. Florence Henderson, as Carol Brady added a little length and popularized the “shag”. In those same late 60’s my mother, frugal, efficient expert that she was, marched us downtown and had a barber cut our hair quickly and cheaply, once. I was too young to complain or grasp that this was not exactly normal girlish fanfare. The second time however, was traumatizing. To me, and more so to Mrs. Hunt, my best friend’s mother charged with taking me. She was on her way downtown and needed to take her son to get a haircut. My mother, frugal efficiency expert that she was, handed Mrs. Hunt the cost for a haircut and requested that I get mine too. Mrs. Hunt appeared a little reluctant, due to my status as a “girl”, but she was headed there anyway, and what are friends for?

So off we went. It came back to me quickly but apparently too late. Maybe it was the clippers, maybe it was the fact that I was with a different boy, not just boy brothers that did things with me out of familiar tribal ritual or the privacy of our own family oddities. Suddenly it became clear this was a “boy” hair-cutter and a “boy” haircut and now what? Was I a boy? No! I was not a boy. But from the looks of things in the barbershop mirror, you could have fooled me and probably everyone else in the universe. I was probably 5 or 6 at the time, cute - sure, but a bit on the rough and tumble side of things, skinned knees and wild abandon.

If you ask young children now the difference between boys and girls they often say, “Girls have long hair. “ I can assure you, the rules back then were even more defined. Girls had long hair, well except, Twiggy, and Carol Brady, but I don’t think they went to the barber. When I caught a glimpse of myself, I did what any traumatized girl does. I screamed. I cried a shrieking, screaming cry and tried to grasp the utter act of violation that had been committed. I could do no more. My hair, thick and long, was gone. It was not there, on my head, and could not be returned or fixed or salvaged. Worse, I felt like I was stripped of my girlness. I walked home, sulking, down trodden, several steps behind, Mrs. Hunt and her son. Knowing the neighboring “foreigner”, (I think that once meant “Italian”) girls could at least wear earrings to stake a claim toward gender clarity, didn't help. I was stuck, hairless and nationalist without the old world pleasure, or disguise of pierced ears. Sulking and down trodden with minimal nationalist expression, I tarried homeward.

I don’t hold on to many feminine pleasures or pursuits. I was not primped or pampered. Feminine mystique is not an area of expertise for me. I am not high maintenance in any stretch of the imagination, but I do like a little more hair. I have a few different quirky rules about what NOT to do to it. Of course if you don’t share these rules and you say, “I totally trust you with my hair” you have to just take it with a grain of salt, or scream bloody murder, or suffer stoically. Maybe I just need a thick, Peter Max-inspired headband or a big floppy hat for the next couple of weeks.

I went out to pick up a few things from the grocery store and the local high school teacher looked up from his cart and smiled widely, and said, “Oh, I like your new do!” Of course his hair is thick and long, and I think he was caught off guard, but he did smile. Maybe it was ok to trust someone with sharp scissors near my hair. Maybe I need to lace up my high heeled boots and twirl around in my new.... wait, according to fashionising.com I am "in". The trends for 2012: wide eyes curtained by big false lashes, bright block colors, graphic prints and colorful abstract geometric patterns, AND short, boyish hairstyles.

Maybe I will check in on Mrs. Hunt. I imagine if pressed she still has pangs of guilt about taking me to get my haircut some 43 years ago. It might please her to know, I finally outgrew it, sort of. I’m just happy to know, my hair grows quickly, in thick, waves that will soon cover my ears and hide my, I mean frame me just so!

Exposed: Achieving your values brings happiness

2011-12-31T10:23:00.001-05:00

I was recently asked about a quote I have on my FaceBook page. I have two quotes listed and I was caught off guard by the question. I also felt a bit exposed and maybe put on the spot so I did what came naturally (to me), I attempted to pretend to make light of it. I actually played possum, so to speak. It’s not a good strategy. It’s really quite dim-witted and dull, but sometimes when I am caught off guard or feel exposed, I am not so very quick on my toes, or my verbal responses. Of course putting your life, or your life’s dreams and values up on FaceBook kind of makes you fair game for being exposed, kind of like blogging, I suppose.

The quote was/is by Ayn Rand and it goes as follows:

Happiness is that state of consciousness which proceeds from the achievement of one’s values.

It’s a quote that I connect to for several reasons. Mainly, I value happiness. I firmly believe happiness is not one of these abstract concepts that needs to be lost on so many. I believe happiness is attainable, abundant and at the ready for anyone that wants it. I really like happiness a great deal in spite of my sometimes serious grimace or determined gait. Read on, because those features might be me in pursuit of happiness. Smile when you see it in me, I am getting happy or going for happiness full-on.

What do I value? What makes me happy? What comes to mind immediately, I would have to say first and foremost, my children, or the opportunity to share life with them. Not so much in the literal sense of giving life but more in the ethereal sense of providing opportunities for them to see beauty and develop wonder and see the goodness of each day. To have been able to expose them to different paths and possibilities and then allow for their lives to emerge and choose the path that works for them. I’m not saying this has been easy or even clearly in view at all times, but I think they are truly open to the world around them and feel valued. To have lived by my values to provide a chance for them to develop their own has been a worthy cause. I know it’s schmaltzy but maybe that’s another value of mine - schmaltz, in all of it’s puffed up, glittery, feel-good potential.

I value hard-work and productivity. Ambition. Drive. Accomplishment. Discipline. The concept that cutting and stacking wood to heat the hearth can fulfill all of these values sometimes as much as, or more so, than landing a high-powered position isn’t lost on me. In fact it is incredibly attractive in it’s simplicity. But I also enjoy the bigger, bolder attempts, the kind that provide regular paychecks to buy the wood that needs to be chopped and stacked and fed into the hearth of the happy home.

Individuality. Independence. Creativity. Risk-taking. These speak to confidence and drive and sometimes the chance to just push past all of the restrictive and constraining doubts that linger all around us unheeded and unduly. These are important values that provide and abundance of happiness when acted upon.

Strength. This is my big scary value that I exude and ultimately intimidate and then quiet and shamefully attempt to mask. I understand I need to temper this one but I have some more time to work on it. It’s a process, this life and this undertaking of values and this desire for happiness, at least give me that much. Strength is also evident in being able to carry on. To wake up each morning and face adversity and take it head on or push it aside to achieve some other small accomplishment or complete a basic task. For me strength is the power to be resilient and remain hopeful and expectant amidst a great deal of unhappiness in others. And the on-going idea that my strength has some ability to make someone else feel less strong? Poppy-Cosh! There is plenty of strength to go around, have at it! (Time will tell if I can temper this, or want to, or need to.)

Passion. Desire. Pleasure. Sexuality. So much taboo and taintedness, restraint and discipline associated with these values that provide deep interconnectedness or momentary thrill. The opportunity to express and feel and live is electric and vital. Why do we work so hard to devalue and demean and disparage these feelings? Another day. Can’t figure it all out here. I do know that this value has been one in need of minimizing for the conformity police and the jump to conclusion die-hards. But the secrets out: this one makes me happy, easily, and quickly, under the right circumstances, or lighting, or eagerly, smiling, kind and gentle companion. Privately and respectfully.

Faith. This value is a bit tough to truly explain to others. Faith has this negative association with religion. Religion has this negative association with rules and restrictions and restraint and conformity and discipline, which are typically values I run from, but I have a very unique relationship with religion and faith. It’s not easy to describe or explain. Well that’s not really true. It’s not easy for others to hear about because religion and faith have these really harsh and negative connotations with you know, rules and restrictions and hatred and war, even. That’s just not right though. That has nothing to do with faith. I do go to church, more than occasionally. I like the traditions, the structure and the opportunity to sit and think of something, anything, bigger and better than self and society. I also like the concept of faith as a value in saying “I have faith in you.” “I believe in you.” I have great certainty in the power and ability of others being able to carry on and succeed when they try, attempt, risk it all for some piece of happiness, really isn't that faith? I am really happy to know that I have faith in myself, in others, and have welcomed the faith others have in me.

Appreciation. Wonder. Joy. I value beauty and nature and color. The natural world. The man-made contrived. I cannot recall a day in my life that something has not captured my attention and surprised me or caught me off guard in a manner that has not left me awe struck. Each day on my way to work I drive toward the Catskill Mountains and see the interplay of sky and clouds and color. Water and mountains and trees. Fog or mist, snow, sun…color, movement, life. The play of light. The constructed invention of humans. Buildings, parks, walkways, internet, medicine, books, language.....Joy, wonder, appreciation.

Wit. Real, funny, happy, laughter causing wit. Play. Like sledding or skipping just because. Playfulness.

Humility.

Dignity.

Honesty. (Realizing that sometimes being honest about yourself leaves you exposed. So trust might have to come with honesty, hand in hand. I honestly want to have fun and take life slowly. I honestly like the idea of being available to anything that comes my way but I honestly don't operate that way as much as I would like to imagine. I am honest to a fault, when called out or asked to share my thoughts or opinion. OK, I didn't exactly share all of this when the quote on my FaceBook account was brought up, but if a follow-up question was asked I would have. Or if I knew why my FaceBook account was being heavily scrutinized or perhaps simply curiously reviewed. I am honestly, at times a big talker but still a lot of fun to be with and snarky as all get out occasionally. Honestly, I want what most of us want; love, companionship, connection, belonging and the courage to be honest about it. All a process....But I definitely value honesty and it's not always easy to come by, which makes it that much more valued.)

Balance.

I am so easily happy, see? There are so many opportunities for happiness all around us. Everyday, all ways. Ripe for the picking when you have values. And we do, all of us. We might just need to wipe them off and re-evaluate or realign ourselves to them.

And for your reading and thinking pleasure just a couple more quotes by Ayn Rand, a phenomenal woman with clearly articulated values and therefore, hopefully happiness.

“Why do they always teach us that it's easy and evil to do what we want and that we need discipline to restrain ourselves? It's the hardest thing in the world--to do what we want. And it takes the greatest kind of courage. I mean, what we really want.”
― Ayn Rand

“Love is blind, they say; sex is impervious to reason and mocks the power of all philosophers. But, in fact, a person's sexual choice is the result and sum of their fundamental convictions. Tell me what a person finds sexually attractive and I will tell you their entire philosophy of life. Show me the person they sleep with and I will tell you their valuation of themselves. No matter what corruption they're taught about the virtue of selflessness, sex is the most profoundly selfish of all acts, an act which they cannot perform for any motive but their own enjoyment - just try to think of performing it in a spirit of selfless charity! - an act which is not possible in self-abasement, only in self-exultation, only on the confidence of being desired and being worthy of desire. It is an act that forces them to stand naked in spirit, as well as in body, and accept their real ego as their standard of value. They will always be attracted to the person who reflects their deepest vision of themselves, the person whose surrender permits them to experience - or to fake - a sense of self-esteem .. Love is our response to our highest values - and can be nothing else.”
― Ayn Rand

Bon gré mal gré - C'est la vie!

2011-12-29T00:21:00.000-05:00

Just over three years ago, as I drove my daughter to college, I began a journey deep inside myself that had been long overdue. I had been on the outside of most everything for some time. It wasn’t always that way. I was once, or practically, a rebel, a warrior, a risk-taker, and devil-may-care hellcat, or so I like to imagine or claim. Not a myth of youth, so much as, a clearly defined being with personality and purpose. Sometimes a force to be reckoned with, other times a calm and quiet presence, an observer, a thinker, and just as quickly a raucous instigator challenging others to be more, or less of who they were destined to be. I was more frequently alive and lively. Realizing, almost at once, that I had been this "someone" so long ago, I started reflecting and examining and analyzing before starting to adjust and alter and maybe soon embrace or at least calmly accept.

I suppose bringing my daughter to college was symbolic as much as it was monumental and yet still, an ordinary transition in the life cycle of us simply, mortal humans. The depth of the separation caught me slightly off guard just the same. I had 3 years prior released a son out into the wild, or an esteemed college, in any event, and survived unscathed. With my daughter I saw something else. As much as I saw the richness and fullness of her life beginning, I also saw how much I had been evading and stifling that fullness in my own life.   The anticipation and expectation of greatness was tangible and all around her. Something large and possible lie ahead for my daughter, it was palpable. I saw her as ready, but vulnerable, open but inexperienced and accepting of what was to be. I had great faith in her and knew she would go far if only she wished. As she does.

This transition forced me to take a closer look at what was missing in my own life. It wasn’t hard to identify. It was me. I was missing from my own life. I wondered when and why I had given up or left. I might have mourned my “self” more than I mourned her parting. I wanted to feel whole again. I no longer was able to be the pulled and partitioned parent providing too little to too many and nothing to myself.

I started to take a closer look at my efforts at evasion. I struggled to maintain a marriage, knowing it had long ago lost its way. I was not ready to accept that it likely never had a chance, and so I was never looking directly at it.   It had been built upon deception and illusive assurances. I suppose the best way to avoid that truth was to embrace it and try to quell it. I might have tried to hug the love into it. When that failed, I became combative, and frustratingly ambiguous and finally submissive.

I can now say, sadly, I helped create this conflicting duality. This dance that offered rejection and attraction, over and over again. Repelled and rapt. This self-fulfilling prophesy that has permitted me to gloat in the reality that I cannot trust. Men. See. Again. I have been playing out a deeply rooted childhood violation, molestation, but never fully. And so it hasn’t healed. I haven’t healed.   Instead I get to “imagine” that I am in control of “it”. This harm that has festered deep within. I choose men that offer very little and then I get only that much. Expectant of little and appreciative of less. See. Again. Why would I expect more?

I am strong. I am a fighter. I am smart. I am funny. I am attractive. I am violated. And so I fight. I resist. I submit. I attract. I repel. Anxiously. Awkwardly. Uncertainly. And angrily. Because all that I am that is good didn’t protect or help or save me. And all that I am that is not so very good did not protect me or help or save me. And so I can’t trust. Me. See?

In not wanting to believe that there must be something wrong with me to have made this happen I have kept this secret tightly concealed for so very long. I believed I would not be able to convince others that I did not cause this violation to occur.   I did not stop it. I did not understand it. Instead I grew up and believed I could not trust men. Or myself...with...them.

I have developed some strong, unconventional leanings amidst some regular, ordinary thoughts and desires. I don’t always “fit”. I tried to convince myself I mostly don’t want to, or need to, or simply just can't. But I have tried only so much, and doing so, I have lost a great deal of me.   I have started realizing I am not so very different, or difficult, or dastardly.  I am resilient. I am strong. I am a fighter. I am smart. I am funny. I am attractive. I am healing. I am trying. I am deserving and desirable. I am ready to trust a little more. I am ready to expect more.

Tonight after struggling with the reality that I took a chance and tried out my dating chops and more or less failed miserably (well maybe not that much), I shared with a friend, "The worst problem is that I don’t have a clue why it didn't work out”. It didn’t take very long to reveal that that was really not the worst problem, or even entirely true. There has been this pattern over time: There is initially BIG attention and attraction directed my way that I find so intimidating and unbelievable. Rapt and repelled, curious, isn't it? I question and discard and distrust at the same time that I desperately want to eagerly accept and experience.   I send out, or keep close, unclear cues. I was even able to imagine a few of my not so appealing traits and features. I briefly attempted to develop this new interest in requesting feedback, as though if I only knew what was not working I might tamp it down and alter who I am. Still playing out the early violation. Or maybe just bide for time and explain it away. Imagine that? I’m not really interested in tamping down or submitting or giving up me. Instead, I am ready to heal and accept and maybe grow and chalk up the experience to the real possibilities that await me and smile at the kindness and gentleness that was shared, if briefly.

I am attracted to men, and no longer so afraid, ready to trust, finally, and that’s more than ok. I am complex and wizened and maybe not appealing to every man, or even a man I might find appealing. So, whether I like it or not, C’est la vie! I suppose that's the greatest lesson in being this particular woman in control. I don't get to decide or determine or alter or fix it all.   My story is still unfolding, I am ready to live fully and find out where I might lead, and follow, and just be.

Oooooh Oooooh Pick Me, Pick Me!!!

2011-12-27T11:53:00.002-05:00

In a classroom full of potentially competitive individuals, or perhaps attention seeking supplicants, the best way to gain the attention of the top dog, or teacher, is to wave your arms and shout, “Ooooh OOOH Pick Me, Pick Me!” This technique works on several counts even with the most stern and serious teacher. The chaotic fits of waving, wiggling and shouting attract attention. If the teacher does not approve or consent to this frowned-upon technique, the attention of peers is clearly noticed just the same. The teacher is sometimes left to acquiesce in the absence of any other volunteers and call upon the reckless individual. Next, the weakened teacher is often compelled to gain classroom composure by taking a moment to point out this is not the approved mode of acceptable classroom behavior, thereby further attending to the impetuous attention-seeker. The function of the behavior was to gain attention and approval, perhaps to share and display intelligence and garner respect and esteem. At the very least he or she got attention. This system of gaining attention and then approval, infrequently supports any predetermined end goal.

I am finding in the world of dating, or at the very least the world of meeting potential dating possibilities, there are similar conventions that have been poorly developed, if at all. I am unconventionally conventional with a smattering of unique and unusual and a touch of nonconformity, or maybe a bit more. I won’t be the one waving my appendages flamboyantly in order to gain a brief moment of someone else's attention. I also won’t be playing coy and attempting to set up some sort of carefully devised “test” to determine whether or not some potential contender is a real catch. So what am I to do? What’s a self-sufficient, grounded, seeker of fun and occasional companionship to do really? (Admittedly, I am still in a slightly vulnerable state post 20 year relationship status, but I am picking up speed and momentum quickly.)

As I recall, the first objective is to be picked. Then what? There seem to exist very clear guidelines of what not to do as opposed to what to do. This is problematic to me on several levels. First, I am not very good at following guidelines. This in and of itself, has landed me with some not so good partners. That concept of cutting off your nose to spite your face, has been a lesson hard earned. Secondly, I continue to stubbornly fight the notion that I must conform to some outdated, oppressive, gender-related restrictions. Here again, cutting off my nose to spite my face, I continue to attempt to approach situations and forge a life that works for me, against the grain, or the tide, or the acceptable societal rules. I believe the current courting rituals were created in the 1950’s with some slight adjustments based upon the introduction of the birth control pill. It seems we've come a long way, baby, but we haven't covered much ground.

I recently came across an article at AskMen.com that highlighted yet another perplexing formality, if you adhere to the conventional wisdom of gender-related generalizations and the stereotypical confines of current societal courting rituals. The gist of the article was warning men not to have sex on the first date. The premise being, waiting shows that the man is more likely to be considered a gentleman, waiting gives the man time to evaluate whether the “woman is crazy”, waiting creates anticipation. Waiting shows you don’t think she’s a slut. This is my all time favorite bit of conventional wisdom, it’s right up there with the warning that “some women still view sex as synonymous with coupledom” in the same article. I definitely need clarification here. If I am the so-called slut that sleeps with someone on the first date, does this also mean we are now a couple? Well, that would surely be crazy, I think. There was more about determining the crazy factor and also the issue/problem with learning too early about sexual incompatibility before a relationship can be formed and sealed. Umm, buddy, if we don’t have that certain je ne sais quoi we probably won’t be forming a deep and spiritual relationship of love and adoration. But that’s just me. I imagine it could explain all the sexless marriages out there today, the men clearly waited too long and those crazy women had the chance to, or were forced to, wait before revealing their sexless attributes after the careful evaluation process that determined they were not sluts. But we all know that isn't really the reason intimacy in marriage is on the downside. I just think we could re-evaluate how we go about all this hooking up nonsense and make some adjustments to how we determine what to do after we get through the initial first phase of being picked.

I think I might have passed an initial meeting. I was asked what I was looking for, I shared honestly. A little excitement, a little attraction and then a couple more meetings, or “dates” and ….maybe I blew it when I asked the buzz kill question: “What are you looking for (in a relationship)?” It may have translated to “Holy Schnikes! She’s going to start wanting a commitment, and then co-ordinated towels hung just so in the bathroom, and jeez, before long….(insert here whatever fear of commitment activity hits home).” I was only asking because there were smatterings of possibly charged territorial binding remarks that were starting to sound less than the light and easy connection I was seeking. Of course I didn’t just say, “Whoa, dude, this is really fun, albeit a little heavy getting through some of those I-am- a-little-vulnerable-after-ending-a-20-year-relationship-and-out-of-practice questions, but let’s not get too serious, this has been fun can’t we stay here for awhile?” (Note: I said "awhile", I dare not say "forever" another buzz kill word) Question asking in relationships, or pre-relationships is a tricky business. I did want to know what the dude was looking for, but I think it may be time for me to communicate what I want.

Here’s the short list: I want cream in my coffee. That’s a shout out to Lyle Lovett, but I do really like cream in my coffee. I like my coffee strong, with cream, or really, half and half to be precise. I want dates. Not the dried fruit, but the occasional dress-up and be seen events at a restaurant, movie, theater, or music hall of one type or another. I am just as thrilled to go hiking, picnicking, for a long walk, watch a sunset with a glass of wine or water, boating, occasionally and maybe fishing, or just lie on a beach.

A trip to Home Depot can be a turn on, but only if we mutually agree to be there together, or we mutually agree to go our separate ways to find whatever gadgets and gizmos are needed to successfully create, repair or recondition some important mechanism, or project of our own devising, or maybe each others- I don’t want to be waiting for hours, or keep someone else waiting. (On deeper thought, this may be a test, but I don't think so. I might want to know how handy the dude is, but I do really like Home Depot, and Lowes, too.) I want someone to open the car door for me, and gently close it after I get in, or out. I want to cook dinner for someone once in a while and I want to enjoy a meal cooked for me. For the record, I like good food, but I also like basic hearty stews and soups with a side of toasty, cheesy bread in the cold months and seasonal fruits, salads, seafood, and grilled meats in the warmer months. I want to hang out and watch movies, but I don’t always have the attention span, and I want that to be OK too. I want to converse, and joke and challenge and be challenged. I want to go on adventures, these might take place within a couple of feet of where I am at any time, or they might be far and wide from where I am located. I want to be able to comfortably say, "Whoa, dude, what the heck are you talking about, or slow down, or you really need to stop..." I want to quickly deal with the uncomfortable stuff head on, lightly and easily.

Oh, and I want all of this to happen without a great deal of stress. Maybe once a week, or every other week. I want my freedom and independence. A call or check-in doesn’t hurt in the early stages of maybe-this-is-working-out-for-now. I want to know that someone is thinking about me and maybe grinning sheepishly because I don’t fit so easily in any particular square peg or round circle or whatever place we are all supposed to be trying to fit into. I also want to be OK if time stretches out a bit longer and I haven’t heard anything. I want my space, literally and figuratively. I want to be busy and satisfied and engaged in my own interests. I am also up for spontaneity and wild abandon from time to time. I guess I want it all. I just don’t want it all at once from any one particular person, right now, or maybe evermore (nevermore?).

I may want to have it all on that first date and give it all and if that changes the fate of having more later, so be it. I have more to give and get and I might want something different next week. So, pick me or don’t. I have a lot going on right now. Deciding on co-ordinated towels or wondering if I might start revealing hints of crazy is not part of my AskMen.com Action Plan just yet. I want something different after all.

If AskWoman.com hasn’t been launched I have a few very good ideas……

The Culture of Dating, Desire and Dining Out

2011-12-19T23:30:00.000-05:00

Now that I have set sail into the world of potential possibilities and set my sight on just maybe, I am starting to get my sea-legs back when it comes to dating. I am trying to recall why I was not so very good at this several, three, decades ago. I am not entirely sure that it is worthwhile to spend too much time looking back. I wasn’t so good at a few things back then. Walking. Cooking. Singing. Driving a car in reverse. OK, it appears I am still not very good at these things.

Walking. I don’t fall or knock into things nearly as much and I have added hiking to my short list of physical strengths. Uphill climbing is a bit easier than the basic flat surface movement- I apparently need to be watching and stepping. I seem to be very good at walking fast. NYC walking. People move out of your way when they see you coming with speed, they confuse it with purpose, and the only purpose to walking quickly and deliberately is to get somewhere fast. If you are walking down a hall in a school, as I typically am, with what looks like speed and purpose, it typically appears to be an emergency, an attack, or a demand is soon approaching-people truly move out of my way and assume I am, maybe aimed at them? It could soften my image and reputation if they knew I was really an accident waiting to happen kind of klutz. I am not really sure I want to soften my reputation quite yet or let everyone in on my problem with movement.

Dating. I had a really difficult time following the proper sequence of events in my earlier dating experiences. I believed, or pretended, that I was able to exercise my rights as an equal partner in the race to get horizontal. I imagined that there could be a way for women to want the same thing that men wanted without getting accused of being loose or easy or numerous other unsavory terms. I attempted sophistication and intrigue with a touch of mystique. I probably spent too much time even considering any of this, the men-folk were generally thrilled that I (or anyone) was game. In doing so, I was mostly avoiding the area that was much more difficult for me to navigate. (See below.)

Speaking. It looks or sounds like my walking, but it comes from my mouth. Abrupt starts and stops. Twists, gallops, stubs and stalls. I developed a coping skill in this arena, as well. Fast-talking, loose-lipped, jokey, funny, zings and snippy little bites. Not so much the hurtful variety as much as the sardonic, sassy wit. Or so I like(d) to believe. Of course it’s not always the case but since it’s a coping strategy for me it’s been difficult to think about how my commentary might land on those around me. The trick for me has been more to get it out quickly and wittily to deflect and distract from the lag time in processing and thoughtfully producing clear and interesting, sustainable communication. I am not interested or available to “avoid” speaking to just anybody. It’s only those I am attracted to that might get the pleasure of my company before the pleasure of my communication skills. I have my standards! There is definitely a need for attraction and a few other value-added requirements that will only be disclosed at my discretion, most likely through non-verbal cues.

Maybe I can’t say I have improved a great deal in some of these areas. I will say I am more readily accepting of some of my “Areas in Need of Improvement", A.I.N.O.I. I am perhaps, just as accepting of the idea that some of my A.I.N.O.I (or lets just call it ANNOY for laughs and the sake of simplicity) are, or will be quite endearing in the minds of at least a few others in the years to come.

Walking. Gracefully at a pace that feels slower than watching paint dry or peel or whatever slow-paced painting activity there is, will need work, super-sized effort and maybe a slow walking steady-paced partner, or those big old football tackling posts for me to slam into a few, maybe hundred times.

Cooking. And of course eating, might need a cultural transplant or some sort of repressed memory replacement therapy. A recent date brought me in close contact with excellent El Salvadorian food. The ensuing conversation about food that followed gets me tongue-tied. Oh yeah, that’s because I was asked if I liked tongue or ever had tongue. I wish I could recall specifically the question about my experience with tongue. But I can’t. The mention of tongue and eating creates some primeval Irish famine reflex. Up through my DNA, the synapses immediately fail to connect because I am from a people that collectively perished rather than eat the abundance of fish and seafood surrounding the green rolling landscape. And, hey, I love a potato as much as the next Colleen but really? Refusing to eat prawns, trout, crab, seafood et al, when the blight occurred is just a little tough to mash up and digest especially to those cultures, and they are many, that eat tongue, liver, sweetbreads, tripe, brain, pig’s feet, chicken necks, sushi, and seafood. The Irish are a proud group. Some of us would rather perish than eat “beneath us”. Of course when you get close to the point of perishing you are fairly and far "beneath" a few different layers of troubles. Irish people eat food as sustenance. Period. The end. The ugly bitter end, indeed. The concept of thinking of, and eating food as a source of pleasure is a fairly new concept for us. I mean, 20-30 years new.

A recent visit home for Thanksgiving helped me recall just how much the relationship with food is supposed to be one of torment and displeasure, ummm, I mean sustenance. My darling son, Liam, with the map of Ireland all over his dear sweet face, and a gusto for eating that was indoctrinated at the Greek and Jewish-American dinner table of his best friend from Nursery School and further cultivated through the African-American cuisine served at the table of his best friend's family, recently lamented, “When I grow up and have my own home, I am doing Thanksgiving up. I mean really, I am doing it right. “ I may be recovered by then and prepared to join him. It will take a while. I would really like to enjoy “Thanksgiving done right”. In my family of origin it seems to be celebrated in a manner to suggest, “Oh you should be thankful you get anything….” It’s like a scene from Dicken’s Oliver, or Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. I am unfortunately, not well-suited to plan or prepare Thanksgiving dinner in a manner that speaks to appreciation or gratitude. I am thankful for things like yodels and toxic pink sno-balls, if pushed and on occasion. (Another coping strategy). I believe Ring-Ding Jr's are a brilliant chemically enhanced marriage of sustenance and pleasure, second only to banana moon-pies which for the record, easily, and secretly can be scoffed-down following a sustaining meal of sadness and regret. (They have a shelf-life measured in ions.)

While I work on improving my walk, my talk, my desire to share of myself with an other self, I am open to redefining eating for pleasure as opposed to sustenance. I know I will need some real work here and a gentle dinner companion. During the last 20 some odd years of my own Irish-American existence, and a couple prior, I felt quite thrilled and downright culturally daring, yes, exotic even, to have eaten hot dogs with mustard - instead of ketchup, goat cheese, Indian food-of all different regions, calamari, clams, steak prepared medium- rather than medium-well or well-done.

In the early 80’s I ate shawarma. Now what about that? 30 years ago! A wild, adventurous eater from the very earliest days of Irish dare-devil culinary appreciation and pleasure eating. I probably started the damn trend. Someone probably noted me walking kamikaze-style with a determined glance, that sometimes appears to be a scowl, heading into the middle eastern restaurant in the Village with a friend that I trusted, rather than dated. He mesmerized me with his tales of travel and adventure, I ate heartily of the unidentifiable meat product that a small she-devil served after she cursed out her husband while demanding that he slice off some meat product for my friend and I. I was dating a friend of his at the time. I might have missed the boat on that one, but I just got my sea-legs back, I am ready and open to all of this now. What kind of wine goes with tongue? I am going to need a lot, of wine….or maybe if we just call it something else, it will be easier to, ummmm, swallow?

Bruite Teanga?

Bullai fir Teanga

Tóstáil Teanga?

Leasaithe Teanga?

(Gaelic for Boiled, Well-done, Toasted, and Seasoned Tongue) I’ll have the Tóstáil Teanga with a side of boiled buuuuh-dade-uhs (that's "potato" from the homeland) and a Guinness with a-lot-of-wine chaser, please!

Singing is done, only for pleasure, no sustenance here-and it's really just my pleasure, usually my pleasure at causing the displeasure in the hearts and minds of others, or just that little old play on "wild abandon" I am toying with. Driving in reverse? Now that I have shared that out loud, I kind of need to learn how to improve. It seemed kind of silly when I pronounced it recently, as though it were some sort of disability or disease, like say, shopping or eating moon-pies excessively. I guess I could actually learn how to back-up. I have an ass-kicking parallel parking gift, driving in reverse really shouldn't be impossible. Maybe a one-time tongue-lashing might be in order, I sometimes learn best when I have my Irish-all-up and twisted in a knot.

Relinquish the Power, Step Away from the Eight-ball

2011-12-10T17:45:00.001-05:00

I’m quirky, this is by now established fact. It’s always been the case, so many of my childhood memories have a somewhat peculiar or unique edge to them. One particular memory involves me, a pool ball, and my father. (ok, honestly, it might have occurred more than once but the trauma that will be described will explain how it happened more than once, I’m sure). For all sorts of reasons that seemed unorthodox and inappropriate to my mind once I became a parent, (sure an-uptight-at-times-parent) many of my memories as a child took place in a “bar”. Actually a Legion Hall, or Catholic War Veterans Post to be precise, if that makes any difference. My father was the Commander in Chief, or Grand Poobah or whatever the head of the Catholic War Veterans Post is called. So in essence, he needed to be at the post and he wanted to have his family with him, or my mother was not going to be left home with four wild children, aged 5-9. I wasn’t actually raised in bars and bordellos, after all, I just had a progressive father, or a strong mother.

So back to my story, this early lesson in power and control and the relinquishing of power, yes, that’s the story here.

In this civic-centered outpost, there was a full bar and a juke-box and a staffed bartender, Leroy, who occasionally allowed me to squirt seltzer or reach in and get a nice cold one for Mr. So and So or Mrs. Such and Such. But mostly not, the bar area was off limits to the children, and there were usually 8 or more of us running around. We were cordoned off to the back room with the pool table and poker tables, or the front “banquet room”. (Use your imaginations, or see it just as it was; long crowded banquet tables, wooden folding chairs, ten to a table, yellow or taupe quasi-marbleized linoleum tiled floors and a dropped ceiling with an accordion partition closing off the bar area from the hall circa 1968-ish through 1972 or so-ish in Queens, New York under the Seven Train “el”. ) Dazzling. We walked around the perimeter and played games of hide and seek or begged quarters to play the Beatles (early) or The New Seekers on the juke box. Occasionally, Leroy gave me a quarter and requested a few songs, Don’t let the Sun Catch you Crying, Me and Mrs. Jones, Sunny, and Downtown were a few on Leroy’s hit parade.

I didn’t much care for the backroom. I was one of the littler ones, scrawny and scrappy. The older ones played pool. Big long sticks, held just so, with chalk and circumstance. Order and guidelines, rules I was not privy too. When I was up for it, seldomly, I would attempt to give purpose to my surroundings, but often I just got lost in following where the balls went after they were “pocketed”. I was intrigued with how they winded around through hidden chambers and long tubes. Quirky-like. Suddenly I would take on the task of getting the ball before it reached it’s final destination as though I was “helping”. Excitedly, I would reach in and grab the ball. That’s where I went wrong. I would next attempt to pull the ball out. As easy as it was to reach in and grasp the ball, it was abruptly impossible to remove the ball and my hand. My hand would get stuck, I would panic, I would scream in terror at the thought of the firemen or medics that would surely need to amputate my arm to remove me from the pool table, or the pool table from my arm. The blood-curdling scream that ensued would bring my father, immediately, but calmly towards me. He would assess the situation and evenly tell me to let go of the ball. “Ginger, let go of the ball and now just push it forward a little.” Just like that. In trusting his words, and his cool composure, I would calmly relinquish my grip and pull my red and swollen hand out. He would lift me up and kiss my hand and wipe my tears and offer another Coca-Cola or the opportunity to head home. Such a team, my dad and me. I have learned to stay away from pool tables, dreadful hand-eaters, I never learned the rules, and I am not any better at handling that stick.

I can’t help but wonder how I can use this early learning to help clarify the difference between needing to relinquish power in a symbiotic relationship based upon trust, and the resulting power struggles that entail when power is taken with force or intimidation or outright disregard. Had my father approached the situation shouting, and yanking my arm, the screaming would have stopped because I would have passed out and the blood loss would also add to the weakened vocal power. I would have never forgiven him and that would have caused all sorts of other issues, and I for one don't need any more issues. Had he played little games and teased or tickled or told jokes, I wouldn’t have been able to hear him and I would have had a difficult time understanding why he wasn’t connecting his response to my situation, it would have caused feelings of distrust and confusion, and Good Lord, it took two pool table episodes for me to catch on. I would like to imagine, I, being scrawny and scrappy and too small to play, might have alerted some of you to understand, confusion was a little bit too close to me at this premature stage in the development of my pool hall acumen.

I suppose the most important aspect that made my father and I such a great team, aside from the fact that he was my dad, duh, was that he could assess the situation immediately. Of course, in this particular situation, I viewed myself as a player in the symbiotic relationship. In my place of work when I need to call in another adult, that adult needs to immediately become an equal partner and we need to work together quickly and seamlessly, or chaos is introduced and chaos just never helps symbiosis or the management of crisis.

My father never needed to ask the other children what happened. When you work with young children (please recall young is relative and the frontal cortex is not in full gear until the age of 24 give or take a few minutes) you learn quickly that in times of stress and strife, more so then times of complete and utter calm, they are not typically articulate. Some give every detail of the way their skin is smoother than your skin before they begin to discuss where their best friend lives and then remember they have to go to the bathroom before they can answer “what happened” questions. Others begin to tell you whose fault it is and how Johnny was cheating and Michael cried when Jimmy called him a bad word before the screaming child, or knife holding child, or whatever crazed child even entered the area. They have stories, lots of stories, mostly about nothing that you are attempting to find out, and not much that would benefit the immediate situation.

When you work with children you often need to be able to assess situations quickly, instinctively. If you can’t, well, you end up behind the eight ball and you are going to be rendered hysterical and your behavior will escalate quickly. When you have a position that requires you to have a sense of authority and you don’t have control because you are clueless, you end up stuck and lost and suddenly flailing to gain control. It may seem the only way to “let go of the ball” and pull your self out is to take control from those around you. This interferes with your ability to manage situations that may now otherwise and quickly get out of control. The reality is the need for control or the sense of not having it creates stress and tension and when handling crisis situations, the first and foremost rule of thumb is to remain calm and in control.

In my job I often need to work with support staff that can’t or won’t offer support because they are not fully apprised of a situation and then they are expected to act based on my authority. (Scary, huh? A woman with authority? Clearly for some, fortunately not for all.) The fact that I am a woman comes into play in the most egregious of ways, again and again. As a woman, I am not thought to truly have authority in this rather hostile work environment. The hostility is pervasive, it is widespread and it is so entirely acculturated into the climate it is acceptable to imagine that it is not recognized. However, enough serious events have taken place to alert some to the reality of the hostility. But what the hey? Why change now or do anything proactive? Certainly, we all know how ignoring things make them go away. Things like women. I remain a woman and that won’t be changing, so I will continue to work in my job as a professional, and a woman and imagine that one day some of the men that I work with will be able to work as professionals, and men, side by side. I am that rare figure that doesn’t easily sit quietly and abide and relinquish power simply because it is perceived as a threat in the eyes of some men. I advocate, I educate, I speculate, and wait and wait. But I won't be easily ignored. I rather enjoy being a girl, a woman, a professional. And just as a reminder, I like control, which doesn't make me controlling. I am comforted by it, and if someone else is maintaining it, professionally, all the better.

This just in: "Is Ashton Already Over His Marriage?"

2011-12-05T22:11:00.001-05:00

This headline appeared on my e-mail news thread. I didn’t continue to read or look further to help the nation with yet another great quandary because, A.) I don’t care, and B.) Already? Really? Maybe the nation was just recently informed of this great and tragic marital breakdown, but generally speaking marriages don’t typically end suddenly and surprisingly, and the news threaded on the morning news, the web-based and print magazines have been keeping us all abreast of the demise of this marriage made in Technicolor, Photo-shopped, tweaked and twittered Fantasyland.

So without reading any further, I wonder what Ashton has been up to in order to garner such headlines. Out to dinner? More nude hot-tubbing with girls half his age, maybe even, say it ain’t so, girls his own age? How could he! Why wouldn’t he? Young, hot, handsome, charmingly goofy. I’ll take a side of that. Is there a time limit or expected mourning period that needs to be observed? What is it, I wonder? What should it be measured by? Who should determine this? I don’t know anyone that has gone into a divorce gleefully and delightedly. I have come out of one divorce with a spring in my step, following an extremely long period of wondering why or how and what if. I am twenty years later, currently working through another divorce and I am happy to report I am finally and excitingly enjoying a few attractive diversions. For those measuring, questioning, and tsk-tsking, it took a while to get here. Quite simply, it feels good to feel good, and boy howdy I spent much too long in feeling anything but. Can’t speak for Mr. Kutcher or the Mrs., but I imagine they didn’t just come to this.

Marriages usually end over time and by degrees. They often end in spite of one or both members continued struggles and attempts to imagine there might be some fleeting ember aglow to keep it going. Or maybe there are children they must protect or prevent from suffering any longer or harder. However, when a marriage ends it usually doesn’t take very long to realize that heavy load of sadness and despair that you have been carrying around did nothing to enhance your personality or well-being, nor did the relationship for a good chunk of time.

With some time and distance, I have started to question how much I wanted my marriage to work over the past several years versus how much I didn’t want my marriage to end. Marriage is seen as some sort of prize and victory and the alternative is having to have failed. And quite honestly, we just aren’t geared toward failure, even the worst of us. Even those of us that seem to attract it and tarry in it, are not particularly aware that we have created it or caused it. Knowing that we are failing leads many of us to try not to. We want to win, don't we? The problem is marriage does not equate to win or lose and placing these constraints on it just seems to make it a wee bit harder to manage. If it was considered to be a working partnership that was up for contract renewal with longevity bonuses in addition to wild thrill seeking fun and long spells of quiet companionship we might consider it a bit more carefully and maybe a bit less stressfully. Maybe not. I can't really talk to it. I am currently into the thrill seeking fun and quiet companionship with short term lease option.

Ending a marriage that is not working is much more of a success than remaining in a failed one. I’d wish Ashton well, and Demi too if I cared a great deal about every detail of their marriage or their divorce, but I just can’t, I have nothing left to give, what with Kris and Kim, and I barely got over Tiger and Elin. Brad and Jen…

JoePa and the Bad Old Boys Club

2011-11-12T07:51:00.001-05:00

Every so often the media gets its hands on some juicy, outrageous, and titillating news, worthy of shutting out all other news. This week, the focus is on Penn State, the raping, pimping, violating of young boys, by a man, a few men, and a timeline that is more than a little distressing.

Without getting too sanctimonious, I have a few questions and comments. It seems to me, that for all the questioning and public rhetoric and outcries over Joe Paterno’s firing, does it not seem a bit odd that he is now questioning whether he should have done more, and in the absence of hindsight, he admits he did not do enough. My question is about the timing. If you are sorry only after the results of a Grand Jury are admitted to the public, does that really mean a great deal? Well, not to me, but what the hey- he wasn’t apologizing to me. As for the fans and zealous "friends" that show their support by turning over vans, well with friends like that, I suppose you can believe that you are allowed to do anything (in Sandusky’s case), or do a whole lot of nothing (in Paterno’s case).

The public swarming, or murmuration-type frenzy that occurs is disturbing to me. With bits and pieces of information, the public, time and time again, swarms to the aide of some seemingly “innocent” bystander. Are we that starved to be part of a group that we can’t take a little bit of time to truly understand a situation? Do we not have enough meaning in our lives to step back and determine, calmly, that there are some large gaping holes in the information that we so readily react to?

There were no swarms to aide the children that were victimized. This seems to be the time that the public bows their heads, and determines they don’t know all the facts, or there isn’t anything they can do to help or stop. This is the time that victims get victimized twice. First, during the horrific acts of sexual violation, and next by the witnesses that look the other way or worse, cast aspersions.

Penn State’s stance to actively decide that Sandusky was not allowed to bring boys on campus any longer is criminal. This stance however, is not shocking or uncommon. It seems to be the fabric of bureaucracy. A well-established bylaw of the Good Old Boys Club. The Catholic Church being notorious for moving known pedophile priests to different locations, rather than taking a direct stance and enforcing policy for the intolerance of pedophiles, rapists and criminals in their ranks, is not alone in this practice. School districts quietly relocate offenders, or require “resignations” rather than directly and legally upholding policy for harassment and sexual misconduct. A variation on policy response seems also at play, "Not In My Backyard" or "Not on My Watch". Basically, the concepts appears to be: You can do it, just don't do it near me.

I wonder, if bureaucratic systems were to denounce the criminals in their ranks, is it possible that the public would feel comforted, and trusting of the leadership? Are the bureaucracies so afraid of the public response that they feel it better to continue to hide, and bury and partake in criminal activity to avoid possibly losing public support? Sadly, the public response seems to be “act first, think later” while the bureaucracies response seems to be “think of all the loopholes and respond after, and only if, the public reacts, by sacrificially throwing a few of their members under the bus or toward the rallying public in an attempt to, what, look as though they were caught with their pants down?

Of course there are other factors to ponder here as well. Fortunately, I don’t recall any large thrill-seeking mob supporting any of Warren Jeffs’ friends or colleagues. Jeffs, is the Mormon sect leader who “married” twelve sixteen-year-old girls and twelve additional girls under the age of fifteen. When we call Jeffs a husband, it is not quite as distressing as a rapist, or a pedophile. Minimal public outcry here, but no one rallying to help the perpetrators. Why not? Because it didn’t interfere with football season? It was related to someone’s religious viewpoints that we don’t entirely understand or feel is our business to weigh in on? Is it because they were girls, and girls are expected to get married and have sex with their "husbands" any old way?

The policy of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” may have been lifted from the military ranks in regards to the sexual orientation of gay service people, but it seems the nation has a long way to go regarding viewpoints, beliefs and understanding of sexual behavior that encompasses all. Don’t ask, don’t tell was alive and thriving in the boardrooms and locker rooms of Penn State. This version of don’t ask, don’t tell is in place to protect the boy’s club from having to be accountable. Don’t ask, because I don’t need to tell you. Don’t ask, because I can do whatever I want. Don’t ask, because you might not like what I am doing, but I don’t plan on stopping. It is alive and prospering in many other sectors right now.

We need to take a hard, close look at the sexual victimization of our youth, boys and girls equally. We need to have a clear understanding of “consent” and how that may fluctuate based upon age, role, and authority of the “consenting” participants. We need to speak up against violent, abhorrent sexual crimes even when it interferes with game season. We need to close shop on the boy’s club mentality that pervasively interferes with access to basic human rights for all. We may even need to provide sexual education that is comprehensive and maybe we can throw in some course work on human rights and accountability.

Super Power and Passive Resistance at Play

2011-11-01T06:17:00.003-04:00

Action figures are sooooo dumb! I mean really! I really don’t like playing with them, and there is a certain young man that I like a great deal who invites me to play whenever I stop by to visit his Mom. He believes I am visiting him and she’s just getting in the way of our fun, the way moms do, you know, get in the way of F-U-N. He is a really good action figure player. I can go through the motions and kind of pretend close enough to convincingly that I get invited back to play. He’s so good to me when we play that he even let’s me choose the action figures that I want on my team when we begin to “play”.

There’s a few odd realities that I have noticed in this “play”. First, if you are the visiting playmate, you don’t get to really make any decisions. You and your team will ultimately “lose” or die or have to get stuck or trapped or blocked from any real victory. Your twirls and kicks and weapons are not ever as good, they are defective or back fire and kill your whole team. The home-team advantage permits the home team guy to have the massive plastic fort and all the good hiding spots or the chance to, oops! forget to put the talking, mechanical, remote control transformer action figure into the mix of action figures you got to choose from.

So before long, I find myself realizing I have to just pretend I am excited or tell my pint-sized friend “I have ….. a headache tonight”? OK, are you getting this? Action hero play figures seem to be training camp for things to come. Can’t we do something about this? I mean really, am I honestly supposed to just sit/lie there and pretend I will enjoy any of this? It’s so passive! What would happen if I started really kicking things up? I try, I start to state that I have some new power and…. “No, No. No, Ginger, that’s not the way you play!” (Groooooaaaannnnnnn The story of my life, never playing the right way!) It just seems to me this play is all covered in gender role development in the most glaringly inequitable of ways.

I can’t help but feel like women – mothers can make some great inroads into the male psyche by slightly adjusting the action figure play dynamic. I try to change the rules. I try to make the decisions. I even try to be the one with the best equipment. Only to find out the guy here and elsewhere, have the bigger, better, more powerful tools time and time again. The unfair advantage. What can be tweaked and slightly altered in this play? What would permit me to level the playing field and have a shot at victory, if even, a long-shot? My direct approach got the smack down, this carries through for me in other interactions as well. The direct approach is typically not so charming and sought after.

I try to tell my friend, his mother, my observations without causing her to get really freaked out. “So, do you see the correlations between action figure play and gender roles …..in the bedroom?” I don’t know how successful I was, there was a noticeable stiffening, but I have been invited back and now I am being asked, upon entry by another young man that I like a great deal, the younger brother, “Gin-juhhhh, you wanna see my toys?” He heads up to his room and I am expected to follow. I am expected to passively admire and adore. I do, for him and his brother. But am I sending the wrong message? Do I need to feign or express, truly, I really don’t like….action figures and transformers, and all those other curious, shiny pieces that fit together and make noises and shoot sparks. OK, I guess I really do like them but I want to play with them a little deeper. I want the action figures to dialogue, and solve problems, and pick up the kids on time, while they rule the world. I want to win sometimes and come out on top and occasionally make the home team a little cautious or thoughtful and maybe on their toes because “Gin-juhhh’s in the house!”

I should probably start playing with someone my own size. Maybe I should don a cape and mask and see how that works with my dating adventures. High wasted leotards and tights? Grrrrrrrrrrwwwwlllll. Hisssssssssss. Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Why is the only girl super hero with any appeal a cat? Because cats are indirect?

A Girl Is A Gun- Fashionista or Sandinista?

2011-10-30T18:27:00.000-04:00

While visiting New Orleans this summer, I noticed a sign over a storefront on Magazine Street, that hipster's paradise and shopping mecca et. al. I wasn’t sure exactly what the sign was advertising, but I found myself reading it as though it were a fill-in-the-blank puzzler of sorts. The sign read, “A Girl Is A Gun”.

A Girl is a Gun…so you better get a license to use her?

A girl is a gun ….so watch your aim?

A girl is a gun …. don’t play with her if she’s loaded?

I looked up some NRA gun safety recommendations and also found additional tips on a blog that I have visited before and have great respect for, The Art of Manliness http://artofmanliness.com/

A girl is a gun …. wear eye and ear protection as appropriate.

A girl is a gun … ALWAYS keep your finger off the trigger until ready to shoot.

A girl is a gun …. when holding a gun, rest your finger on the trigger guard or along the side of the gun. Until you are actually ready to fire, do not touch the trigger (this seems rife with innuendo and a little suggestive).

I thought the sign might be advertising a hip new musical venue, or a support group for divorced men. Maybe the NRA headquarters for women?

It caught my eye because I have this great aversion to guns and violence and weapons of assorted-sized destruction. As such, I have somehow been raising a son that is quite attracted to guns and weapons and not exactly destruction, but maybe this particular aspect of manliness or at least power and maybe control. Some of this attraction is related to his developing sense of self. Some of it is just a “man” thing, and some may be just that very bit of nature in spite of the maternal nurturing, forewarnings and peaceful promoting ad nauseum. The banning of guns and video games certainly did not help.

So what else is a mother to do with a son that is curious about the world, intrigued with figuring things out and making things after he figures them out? She supports and attempts to redirect. She promotes science and education over violence, he continues to weave in questions and comments and explores the topic gently without seeming quite transparent.

“What would you do if I wanted to join the military?”

“I wouldn’t like it, why would I want my son to kill people or get killed?”

“What would you do if I was an engineer and worked for a corporation that made weapons or protective gear to help save soldiers?”

“Oh you mean, save soldiers from one country so they could kill someone’s sons from a different country?” Unfortunately, I do like Iron Man movies and have enjoyed a couple with this son. I sort of get the attraction. I mostly just like Robert Downey Jr.

I don’t want to be supportive of violence or weapons. I have a hard time with war. I am not completely convinced that the wars we have been fighting for the last 5 decades have been fought in the name of democracy or freedom or in defense of innocent people. I might have a very different viewpoint if the Iran-Contra scandal did not arm a few different nations only to later have our own weapons pointed back at us. If we hadn’t helped put Gaddafi in power after supporting his removal, only to somehow determine he wasn’t really reformed after-all. Osama Bin Laden and Sadam Hussein have both been on the 'friendlier' side of this nation at one time. I really might have a different opinion, if not for these strange actualities. I understand that our nation offers us great freedoms, and security, but I don’t entirely believe it is related to us sending troops to foreign nations that we have less than noble interests in. All that aside, I want to believe in idealistic and peaceful resolutions and I know this is more than a bit naïve and simplistic.

I promoted his interest in creating things. I brought him to the Maker Faire. I learned more about science and air compression. I did not initially understand that he was making a gun, exactly. This came in time. I rationalized the benign effects of marshmallow launchers and spud guns. I was impressed with his knowledge. (I am thrilled he wasn’t interested in making the atom bomb.) I supported his interest in attempting to start a science club and watched with pride as he lead a class for middle school students in the engineering of a self-designed prototype for air-compressed paint “guns” made from pvc pipes, tire tube valves, ball valves and pvc epoxy. He used these “guns” to paint on a large canvas, Jackson Pollack-style in a local Science Foundation sponsored community event.

What surprised me more than anything, however was watching the girls that signed up for his class. The girls outnumbered the boys 2:1. The girls that came to the community event were also very curious to observe. Now I am a little ashamed to point out that I was surprised at the girls behavior. As a card-carrying feminist of the most loving and sweet-natured variety, I had stereotyped the concept that girls should not be attracted to weapons or, violence. And perhaps they are not. But the girls, each one, every single one, aimed, turned the ball valve with such thrill and excitement, and launched paint clear across the field, armed and at the ready with a new taste of power. A grin across their faces that left them wanting for more was obvious and a little frightening. The boys for the most part handled the air/paint launcher with a little more seriousness and reserve. Accept for the one Rambo-type individual that will surely be charged in the future with friendly-fire, the first one downed or the victim of a self-inflicted wound, his excitement was connected to something else all together-danger, not power.

I am truly hoping that my son will look to developing his skills as an engineer and move away from the gun fixation. (The brochure that mysteriously appeared on my kitchen table advertising the ROTC Marine Corps tells me otherwise.- Can I sign a commitment with MIT for a ten year college contract, how about a mail order bride and a few other diversions?)

“The Girl is a Gun” turned out to be a trendy new fashion boutique for hipster types, and also the name of a psychedelic French Western film from 1971. Fashionista vs Sandinista? As for the girls with the guns that I recently observed, hootchy mama…watch out!

What's that prayer about remembering ....Give me the strength to know what I have the power to control or change or completely ignore and a tall glass of red wine, please?

Introducing: Agriculturina, Goddess of Simplicity and the Myth of Me

2011-10-22T19:52:00.001-04:00

I recently had a conversation with someone that described himself as “just a plain old art guy”. Plain - and – old - and – art just don't quite meld for me. I think he was being facetious. I don’t know him well enough, or much at all, to weigh in on the validity of this statement. I am convinced nonetheless; there must be much irony in this assertion. It seems this guy has had a modicum, if not quite a bit more, of success as an artist. He creates beautiful artwork, the kind that stops you, draws you in, and compels you to get close enough so that you find yourself attempting to move inside of it and become a part of it. That good, his art, truly. He seems to have a fairly large fan base from what I can tell, but that might be related to something else altogether. Plain and art just don’t usually go together, not if you are any good at the art, and he is. But maybe that’s the myth of him and who am I to say differently?

What’s most relevant about his assertion is my reaction or connection to it. I have long shared that I fancy myself “a simple, farm-woman” but I couldn’t get anyone to accept it or even consider it, briefly. It hasn't helped that I am not a farmer. I am holding on to this belief in myself, just the same. Perhaps one day I may become part of some great anthology of American heroines, or heroes (gender neutral of course) as, THE most eminent, strong and simple farm-woman.

This truth/myth started quite some time ago on a farm in western New York that I happened to co-own with a husband, long gone, as in, on to different pastures not deceased. It might have started much earlier on a farm in Lauragh, Ireland and the passing down of traits and family obligations. I fancy my grandmother, a simple, farm-woman. Not so much simple as in dull or dim witted, far from it. More in grounded, stoic, salt of the earth, no-fuss, simple, you know, the mythological variety. How I ended up on a farm in Western New York is complicated, far from simple, but relates to submitting as a wife and woman and the start of the myth of me. I went quietly, as though summoned or required. I knew the idea of owning farmland in the middle of the western part of this state was not bourn from my desires. The decision was made more from defeat than adventure. I did not want to be the one that said “no,” again. I laid down my sword and shield.

I did what any simple, farm-woman might, (not bad for a girl from Queens) I learned to live with it and made the best of it. I learned that I loved the sound of birds in the morning. I began to appreciate and value rocks each spring when the land was tilled, and suddenly fields seemed to be blooming with rocks: fossils, colorful, textured fruits of the inner earth. It was here that I began to examine and collect rocks, stopped to take notice of them and add them to my gardens. (Odd? sure, but it’s my story, not yours.) I learned to love the landscape and the rows of feed corn that a “real” farmer grew on our land. I learned that air could be fresh and clean, that a 5-mile bike ride “around the block” with my first-born strapped behind me would have him asleep before our house was out of vision. I learned that by simply looking, blue herons could be seen, stoically standing in wait. Days could be long and languid, if I so chose. I typically did not...then. I had a sweet baby girl and brought her home to this farm. I learned that I love making pies and canning cherries, sometimes while whistling poorly, but enthusiastically. I learned that being "me" was ok, and fitting me to this environment could be done, if temporarily. I learned that my fearless daughter was in fact afraid of sledding down “daffodil hill” so named by my son for the plethora of daffodils that bloomed there wildly each spring. I learned how to be a mother and continue still. I learned that a day spent chopping and stacking wood could be therapeutic, on occasion, and there is no better warmth than from a wood stove.

One thing I never learned, however, was to appreciate that water comes from the ground. I still want my water piped directly without fear of diminishing supplies due to the weather, power failures or unprimed pumps. So call me high-maintenance, or Goddess Agriculturina. Which agricultural goddess isn’t always at the mercy of water and engaged in a love-hate relationship with the elements? I have been wrestling a myth, I may as well imagine myself a goddess. I might just keep trying to wrestle. I’ve wrestled all sorts of thoughts and beliefs and run of the mill frustrations and they haven't slowed me down so far. I’ll imagine this myth to have some Greek-like philosophical importance or maybe Celtic spiritual power would be better suited. Maybe I can finally wrestle it to the “end”. Not the bloody end or anything messy like that, just the fold-it-up-neatly-and-toss-it-aside end. The myth I am wrestling with is the myth of me. My sense of self and the super-hero powers I have regretfully given to others to further determine or attempt to destroy who I am is at great odds, and a super-hero, or the mythological me may need to set things right.

It wasn’t always this way. I was once, or practically, a rebel, a warrior, a risk-taker, and devil-may-care hellcat. Not a myth, so much as, a clearly defined being. Sometimes a force to be reckoned with, other times a calm and quiet presence, an observer, a thinker, and just as quickly a raucous instigator challenging others to be more, or less of who they were. I was more frequently, just an all out good time. But that was long ago, when I didn’t care so much about the opinions of others enough to alter who I was or where I was aiming to go. More specifically, I wasn’t concerned with the opinions of those that had no real impact or importance in my life, or those that were too steeped in destruction, self-directed or otherwise.

It has been a struggle being “me” in this world that wants people to fit, to conform, to acquiesce and agree. I have some strong, unconventional leanings amidst some regular, ordinary thoughts and desires. I don’t always “fit”. I mostly don’t want to, or need to, or simply just can't. But I have tried, and doing so, I have lost a great deal of me. I have started realizing I am not so very different, or difficult, or dastardly.

In the face of adversity, I have a tendency toward directness, which can be threatening to others. I don’t like to tiptoe around issues, but knowing how directness can be so off-putting I began stifling and egg-shelling my responses to the point of submission. This worked so far as prolonging a life half-lived for far too long. I wish I had been more direct, and much earlier, or simply packed up the farm cart and headed out sooner. There has been a great deal of adversity. The myth I was fighting was related to wanting to be supportive and patient. I was each and more, but I was also angry that someone could destroy so much while denying it and blaming others. I believed I couldn't risk being blamed, I was anyway.

I was, a very long time ago, at times, a rebel. Like Andraste, fearless warrior who saved Ireland from the Romans. I went after things. I set goals and achieved them. Well maybe not quite like her, she had an unlikely helper. A special interest in the hare as a pre-GPS device. She figured out which direction to pursue and conquer after releasing her rabbit. All right scratch that, not like Andraste. I can’t help but think of Glenn Close and Fatal Attraction and we all know where her hare ended up. (That’s frequently the problem with women warriors, about 2 minutes into it, they get all intense and wound up and it’s just hard to take them seriously any more.) I suppose imagining myself as a warrior is in part myth. It seems I tend to spend more time on warrior-ing myself, or my instincts. I second-guess in spite of the clarity. I continued to set goals and achieved them, but they seemed to be done a bit more cautiously and at times constrained, respectable. I was fighting the myth of being challenging.

I am strong. I have been told this for as long as I can remember. It has been said with bravado and pride, by my father. It has been said with disbelief, and occasionally with awe, from friends or like-minded folk, and my mother. Sometimes, with annoyance, by an old boyfriend, or husband or two…sometimes shared with lament, by a particular colleague, “you don’t always have to be so strong.” I suppose I needed to figure out how to adjust and waiver and moderate my strength? Maybe I did need to be so strong, but it made my colleague and others along the way, uncomfortable, because it forced them to decide which side of the strength-fence they were sitting on. The colleague ultimately stayed on the edge, and lamented about my so-called strength. This is a great source of trouble with the myth of me, my strength being that double-edged sword that I am not permitted to wield, or whatever one does with a sword of strength that would be acceptable to others. Yet, when my strength is supported, I am often thanked for seeing something through in the face of adversity. I have been fighting the myth that being strong is bad or not feminine or acceptable for me.

This paradox, my strength, is responsible for creating a great deal of ambiguity in my ability to really honor who I was/am, not the myth of me, but me, straight on. I have been caught up so long in “fighting” me and submitting to those around me. I have lost sight or merely forgotten the truths of me. I am strong at times, but my strength is grounded and sure, and it can be very, very kind and protective and loving.

The aforementioned farm is where I played with two beautiful children forging a family of my own. Farm children? Not exactly, but they appreciate rocks and daffodils and cornhusks. This farm is where I started a new life, which ultimately brought a second husband and eventually in a less agrarian setting, a third child. After sometime, this husband also became interested in other pastures, or just disinterested altogether, not for me to say. The children have helped shape the truth of me. The three, appreciate, in varying degrees a mother that is “a simple farm-woman” with complex ideals and urban blood pumping through her veins. A mother that can sometimes be found whistling in a sundress, or overalls, or tight jeans and heels, making extraordinary pies. A mother that can chop and stack wood, create magic and sing lullaby's off key and be so full of overflowing nurturance and strength. A mother that believes in love, but also has one foot out the door, armed with a pitchfork, or a dream. Ready, all ways to deal with the course that mother nature and/or the universe determines in spite of any perceived progress and planning, or maybe simply to prompt forward or onto a different path.

The myth about me that may be grounded in truth is that I will always come out standing, if a little worn. I want for little and offer much. I wish I were a tad more like Medb (Maeve) of Ulster. She fought without a war but she won, again and again and she had quite a bit of fun along the way. Apparently terms like “man-share” were used in connection with her. And she needed seven men to satisfy her. That’s all good and fun, but now I can’t help thinking about the seven dwarfs, and well, that just doesn’t really turn me on….or fit into a myth about me. Maybe a fantasy someone else might be having about me, but who can really know what goes on in the minds of others, certainly not me, even mythical me.

Two down five to go? A possible man-share in the making? Maybe there is truly a pre-determined plan in operation here...... Whatever the reasons, I need to make the best of it. It is actually a myth that I am so glib about the outcomes of my marriages, but sitting around pathetically wondering why they haven’t lasted won’t help the crops come in and I have some pies to make.

(The plain old art guy is an artist in the Hudson Valley, he also goes by the name Chris Gonyea.)

Groupthink Doesn't Make for "Smart Marriage"

2011-10-17T21:23:00.000-04:00

I had been deeply entrenched in divorce survival boot camp. I am in hopes of closing up shop fairly soon. I never signed up for this, but I think the plan states when I am finished depleting any hope of a settlement, I can be free. Ah, what the hey, I am so over this pain and suffering nonsense, I am already quite free. If you need a visual, I hadn't been wearing camouflage, but blending in, or at least hiding-out had been a goal. At it's best or worst times the camp was not a boot camp so much as a bedroom encampment with blankets strewn with books, magazines and the trusted laptop for all of my divorce survival study guides and daily devotions that have pleaded with me to “let go” and “move on”. Legal advice, parenting advice, post-marital, pre-dating advice. How to dress younger, but not too young advice. Sometimes my room functions as a temporary command central, to set up shop for court dates or ponder the meaning of a few more wildly imagined allegations thrown my way, but otherwise it’s a peaceful retreat and maybe one day soon a playful haunt for the adventurous. Dream big, I shall.

The one bit of “advice” I hadn’t expected to come upon in my search for serenity, was advice from a group called Smart Marriages. They are, and I kid you not, “a coalition for marriages, families and couples”. A task force. That could have sounded like a good thing except that it’s really just not. I say this because I am the flag-waving, number one, crazed, fanatic for families and couples and oh, just everyone that wants to be together in love. I just love, love. And I love when people are happily loving. I honestly think marriage is a really great idea, and I think it sometimes works incredibly well, in spite of the challenges. I just don’t think it would work better for some, if a flag-waving, crazed, fanatical, political group was mandating it. Or enforcing it. This is the same type of flag-waving, fanatical, political group that is opposed to sharing the great wealth of marriage with just anyone. The cause they are standing by and the slogans they are shouting are “Make Divorce Harder”. If this did not illicit pain and suffering or the void filling silent scream so depicted by Edvard Munch, I might actually laugh or at least snicker. But instead, I will dissect and point out, so come along, secure your tent flaps and put on your flak jacket, forward marchers!

Let me just take a moment to stress that I think the diversity of groups in our nation is a bit astounding and maybe even awe-inspiring. Groups for everyone imaginable. But a group strung together with the intent to make divorce harder? Let that sink in. Groupthink it to pieces, PLEASSSSSE! If you didn’t have the same visceral reaction I did, put it on the back burner, let it simmer, or better yet, turn up the heat, wait till the contents turn that tarry black briquette and the scent of acrid toxicity streams into your nasal hairs and burns slightly. Yes, there we go, let’s make divorce harder. I so want to be picked for that committee!

Where to begin? Maybe mediation-bound couples. On a good day, mediation is a noble and worthy concept. Like special education that is inclusive and true democracy in a capitalistic society. Great concepts, but the execution and buy in, not always so easy to implement or carefully apply. When mediation works, it’s phenomenal. Everyone wins. Everyone comes out standing and gets to stay intact, for the most part. I can see how this might seem too easy. If a group feels maybe threatened by divorce and sees people leaving a marriage cordially with integrity, I could see why they would want to stop this. I suppose it could seem like those charlatans are mocking the divine principles of marriage. If the divorcing couple is this respectful of each other in divorce, you might conclude they must have been delightful in marriage. Nope, sorry, don’t let them get a divorce so easily. Make them sit in their corners with hungry lawyers and coked up in-laws cheering from the sidelines with venom and animosity for a little bit.

Remember, this group believes divorce is too easy and if people leave marriages happily or even politely, something is deeply wrong with society, isn’t it? Surely humans functioning with dignity and compassion need some help. They need to learn a thing or two about struggles and resolve. I say we send those mediation-bound couples on a mini tropical retreat. First class tickets to that relation supportive tropical haven, what’s it called? Oh yeah Gitmo! Of course. Handcuff them together and execute the marriage mandate procedure. Go a little easy; serve the water torture using imported Perrier. The plank torture can take place on bamboo or recycled teak or maybe the new soft and giving cork products. Gitmo does supply training for "humane" torture treatments, right? If these couples still want a divorce, so be it, the group was at least able to try to make it harder for them.

The group may have reached some of the kind and cordial mediation-bound couples and convinced them that staying married is a much better option than deciding to divorce prior to completely sucking the life-blood from each other but I am not really convinced. Maybe this explains those couples that we all look away from in restaurants. They sit and stare off and occasionally attempt conversation or report daily events: “ I tried to give myself CPR with the AED device today to gain a pulse, but then I remembered we were having dinner tonight and I wanted to make sure not to trigger any meaningful connection to the living” she says, while dropping her monotone voice into an inaudible murmur and sipping her third Manhattan. “I think you ….might be…… flat lin……….ing, ” he responds with drooping eyelids on his pale complexioned face, but he turns to look out the window before finishing. You know them; the “shoot me now“ couples. The litmus test. “At least we aren’t that bad”, we imagine and catch ourselves and suddenly you start a lively conversation with your partner and attempt some risqué footwork under the tablecloth.

Back to the goals of Smart Marriage, the dedication to the cause. OK, so making divorce harder. We got the tree-hugging mediators to stay in the marriage club, who’s next? Let’s go after the divorcing couple with children. Let’s make it really hard for them. Ah, first stop Family Court. Which I think in some back room meeting was determined to mean, "if you think for a minute that a family is in any way connected to court, you will suffer, your family will suffer, your family’s families will suffer for eternity if not longer". I think the marriage coalition was borne here with a pact from Satan, but that’s just me. I have actually witnessed flirting here, phone numbers exchanged, a regular match.com for the bold and brazen or wickedly sadistic. I just wasn’t feeling it here. I was busy examining the room for the AED just in case I needed to help keep myself alert or hang on to the new life that hadn't yet revealed itself. Ready? Clear! Soooo, maybe it does need to get tougher, or maybe I should have taken a closer look at the newly available and financially decimated crowd and planned for my next best thing, my loss.

Everyone knows Family Court is where custody and child support decisions get made, and disturbingly enough this is also the place that had a hand in several recent shooting rampages and some of this area’s worst crimes. What with all of the court appointed attorneys, mandated psychological exams, accusations, and restraining orders, one might think someone is actually paying attention to these horrific crimes that seem stoked in Family Court's great halls of injustice. Maybe the group isn't happy with the results and they are hoping to increase these responses, a kind of a threat, something to really think about. "Yep, I wish I would have just stayed with that peach of a man responsible for making my children orphans." is oft echoed in the after-life.

But really, it should be harder. We all know the real stories of people’s intimate lives. Chock full of crazy, but just not hard enough. Typically, divorcing parents never contemplated divorce. They arrived at the decision with great ease and lightness, I am sure. They haven't had conflict and tension and desperate sadness, and wavering hope for far too long to remember. They wake up one Sunday morning and Madge reports over the New York Times while pouring coffee for Irv, “I was thinking Irv, we have been so complacent and content, even, what say we shake things up and try out a divorce?” Irv, mulls it over, and replies, “There’s my girl! Always knowing how to bring things up a notch and keep things interesting.” He smiles those big bedroom eyes at her, and dials the lawyer. Next he decides to deny that the kids are his. He doesn’t have to pay a cent until proven otherwise. Or maybe he accuses her of mental illness. If she didn’t start out there, hah, she’s on the speed track now. The kids after all, were also living the American Dream, being carted around lovingly by their doting parents. Madge had worried for years that they had no direct contact to adversity or sadness. This will surely shake things up. Maybe she’ll take in a lover, someone her daughter's age, or get a few tattoos. Then she can throw in a few twists and turns of her own. Yeehaw! Now we’re talking. Something to live for. A reason to jump out of bed. Court dates lined up for the next 2, 3, 4 years. What were they going to do with all of that money anyway? Yeah, I guess I am nearly convinced that this group is on the right track. Gee willickers divorce should be much harder!

Admittedly, the last category of married couples that should really suffer, were once a puzzle to me. (Age is that great puzzle solver, wasted on the older.) The couples that made it 20, 30, 40 years and now decide to divorce. I once thought this so odd. I figured “you made it this long, why stop now?” I imagined they worked out most of the kinks, by this point, and they didn’t have the stress and fear and responsibility that comes with parenting. Or they didn’t care about the kinks and had developed some level of companionship, I imagined, and looked forward to, something..... Why leave now? But, I get it. I see. For some, it might be the last great hope at joy or peace or healing. It might be that all of the struggles and suffering that occurred just did not justify another second of hope, or more likely hurt. It might be due to the reality of aging that comes quick and hard for some. It just isn’t any of my business or concern how other couples get to this decision.

I think I want to form a group. It will be more about minding your own business. Taking a hard look at your own life and hopefully dedicating some thought to improving and growing. Maybe my group will have some wild good times, crazy-assed dancing would be nice, and some quiet reflective times. Maybe we will help each other through when one of our members gets a juicy taste of that chock full of craziness and uses the suffering of others to make them feel righteous or turn it into a political cause. Or for that matter, when they go after the happiness of someone else. I really don’t think I am that special, but I have to say, life is already hard. Why would any group function to make it harder?

OK don't crowd around the sign-up sheet, and whoever is doing "the bump" just stop, I didn't mean that crazy-assed.

And for the record- I think divorce craziness is an equal opportunity employer of terror, I just happen to be experiencing it as one particular woman. I also think marriage is just fine for those that are working at and enjoying one, but when it's over, let it be with grace and integrity or set up camp for an unpleasant ordeal, and remember this too shall pass.

Marital Discourse and The Time Continuum

2011-09-26T21:57:00.000-04:00

Until the beginning of the 20th century, time was believed to be independent of motion, progressing at a fixed rate in all reference frames, according to Wiki, which we all know we can’t trust for reliable references, but I have to admit sometimes I like wiki for a quiki reference fixi. And if that little bit of space-time physics isn’t enough, you can always try to make sense of this; Quantum formation has a beginning and end but by energetic space time [time quantum genes] create endless recrudescent quantum time [evolution] future quanta of continue times.

I on the other hand, am starting to observe patterns and similarities in my daily Huff Post readings, conversations with friends and occasional bits of gossip about divorcing colleagues or neighbors. I think we missed a very large correlation from physics when we were touting the concept that men were from Mars and women were from Venus a few years back (stick with Earth time for that reference). We focused on language but we missed out on time and space and the relativity of the two. We didn’t look close enough at fixed frames, motion and vernal equinoxes. OK not really, I have no clue what that all means, maybe because I am from Venus, maybe not.

I do know that women tend to be the great time keepers, date makers and schedulers of marriage and family events and activities from the mundane to the tedious to the occasional thrill, generally speaking. There are exceptions, say, like Pluto. Wives that are also mothers keep track of growth and progress like no others. Each day is spent in a seemingly endless array of tasks and jobs related to moving on to the next day. Only to begin again and say the same things and do the same things to move towards the day after that when most in their care have forgotten, or need help, or didn’t realize they would be expected to complete those same tasks again. Endless. Day into day, year into year. Each day as long as a year, or like Venus, longer. Mars however, has a day as long as Earth’s day, give or take a few nano or not, seconds. A year on Mars is almost twice as long as a year on Earth. (We’ll get back to that later.)

Put on your space suit take a sip of Tang and pay attention. So, the mother/wife and the mother-ship that she is aiming toward the future knows all about time. She plans it, she manages it, she sometimes succeeds at training it to function independent of motion. She helps the child that has not yet mastered independence, puberty, and college placement tests, and the next child, and the one after that. Everything centered around growth and movement in real time. In the end, she will have attained a massive folio to be exchanged for time retrieval, or a great load of guilt to be dispensed at her leisure. Her time. She will be free and available. Being the time-keeper, she can see this time on the horizon and she is eagerly awaiting it, but quietly under the surface. She can’t rush or force time but she gleefully anticipates what is to come. (Taking care of an over grown child that once doubled as a lover is not on her calendar for the next million years, taking on a lover is an option, but she more than likely wants the lover that has lived here all along to be on the same schedule.)

Suddenly, or so it may seem to her unsuspecting timeless partner, she no longer seems patient or has the time for his, let’s just call it nonsense, but it could be anything. Time for his friends, time for his laundry, time for his excuses for not……. She no longer desires to manage or train or keep time for anyone.

What happened? When did the rules change? The Martians, I mean men, have always had the benefit of time. They are from Mars and a year there is closer to two Earth years and approximately 3.5 years for each Venus year- no wonder we can’t see eye to eye. We aren’t even functioning in the same time period or time zone.

They’ll get to it. Sure they heard you say such and such. But you have always said such and such and then you fell asleep exhausted from that year-long day of yours on Venus. Or you stopped waiting and did it yourself. Now what’s going on? Is time like gravity? The force and pull stronger with motion, or maybe without? Those children certainly kept the little lady in motion. And please, believe with all of my love-filled heart from Venus, I know those men are in motion too. Only they are moving towards a different target or a different end point, or perhaps they are just moving slower around the same sunny center. They have been for the most part, true to that end. Women, however, reach a point in that familial orbit when they are suddenly ready to leap off of Venus and take back their worldly possessions, or at least re-stake their claim as women and launch that heavy satellite of motherhood far and away, or at least trade in the minivan. The problem is, they have always functioned as the keeper of time. They have set the rules. They have set the tone to say things over and over again in hopes that the next day someone might actually clean their rooms, really, I mean it this time or be the one to arrange for the babysitter and make dinner reservations. Now that there are no longer any babies to be sat, they want to go on a date with the man from Mars and find out just why they were so attracted to this otherwise alien creature. But the men haven’t done that job since they bought tickets for the demolition derby, or the prom, or maybe to your favorite restaurant which was really his, but you smiled and glowed that Venetian golden glow (that was really just sulphuric acid found in abundance on Venus, by the way, and not a glow at all).

So women, hang in there if you can. Set the clocks back or forward and try not to lose sight of what was once attractive. Gently tell your husband that you are running out of time to love him the way he might just need to start loving you. But give him time to catch up. And men: women don’t have the same time continuum as you. They are leap years ahead of you. According to my time-o-meter, and a few close friends, typically around the time the youngest child hits 12, give or take, start paying attention. Time moves so quickly and the best is yet to come, with or without you. That ship is sailing. That ship has never stopped. Try not to be on the boat that is sinking, because if you were paying attention, she planned ahead and has a life jacket and an exit plan and all the time in the world.

I am enjoying my life-jacketed trip around Pluto. The view is sublime, but I occasionally and fondly remember some good times between the mundane and tedious.

Summer Survival Game for Teachers and other School Employees

2011-09-03T15:58:00.001-04:00

I have 12 more days of attempting to get my son to eat mystery canned items until that first paycheck comes in. He doesn’t yet understand this is a sport. Or more realistically some sick game teachers play each year. The game of “How to pretend not getting paid all summer will work”. It actually might work if I could keep pretending until payday- but just around this time each year this big old "woe is me" routine begins. I start to conserve energy by not moving off the couch. This saves in gas money but, the spread on my bottom might cost more in a pants size upgrade. It seems somehow a biological survival instinct type response just the same: if I don’t use much energy, I won’t be hungry, if I am not hungry, I won't eat much. It will take longer for starvation to kill me off, because my body has gotten accustomed to the minimal caloric intake and metabolic output. Right?

I begin to look for food in the cupboards that have never been on my shelves. French chocolates, or Swiss chocolates. Anything chocolate. Two days ago I made soft chewy chocolate cookies, using most of my powdered dutch cocoa reserves. What can I make with stale, store brand cheese crackers? If I make them into powder can I recycle them into something glorious and delicious? Highly doubtful, since the main purpose of purchasing these crackers, seems to be to let them get stale so that I can throw them away. But not in this week’s trash, I have to save room in the last of the prepurchased dump approved bags for only the smelliest of items. I dig through the freezer imagining that the filet mignon that I never put there is under the ice-crusted, freezer-burned, mud-colored, mysterious leftovers that were going to get me through this summer of not working. Hey, maybe if I eat this strange item, the ensuing digestive problems will counterbalance the afore-mentioned bottom spread and pants size increase.

While packing for a camping trip two weeks ago, my son sternly said, “This is not the time to get rid of all your expired cans and food items!” It’s true I was foraging through my cupboards, the camping trip was a last minute plan and we needed to skedaddle to make a ferry that was a 2 1/2 hour drive away. We made due with the freeze dried Mexican Chipotle Chicken and Lime and Cilantro Chill and Rice mix (campers are not so bourgeois these days). Maybe he does understand this game, he did save those expired goods. Certainly we have entered the time for eating expired canned goods. Garbanzo beans with possibly discernible cheese cracker crusted tuna cakes will be served on Wednesday. Creamed mystery casserole on Thursday…

Of course I start to use deductive-planning-reasoning at this point. I try to imagine myself making it through without reaching this bit of desperation. If I had only gotten the small snowball in New Orleans- I would have saved 72 cents times 3 snowballs. But I would have wanted more, and then I might have spent additional money on something much more extravagant, like say, the alligator cheesecake at Jacque Imo's. I don't really know what that means, alligator being a sort of meat and cheesecake being in the dairy group. As a native New Yorker, you just don't mess with the cheesecake. I didn't need the beach chair for the oil laden beach in Mississippi. $15.00 down the tube! Oh, I probably didn’t need to get that second glass of wine last week for $11.00, but I also probably wouldn’t have laughed so hard and almost traced the musician from Ottawa’s tattoo. Almost. But a worthwhile and enjoyable memory just the same. These savings would have gotten me two more meals, and only 10 needed days of survival strategies. The three pieces of art I purchased? Absolute necessity. The car parking expense at the airport definitely could have been eliminated with better planning, or less pre-vacation anxiety and misplaced items that caused a later than expected departure time. The parking expense would have gained me 8 more meals and possibly a movie. That would have left me with 2 meals to forage for. I did ponder floatees and doggy paddling across to our campsite rather than the $20.00 per person ferry fee, but I wouldn’t have made it to the end of the jetty, and the cost for replacing water logged camping equipment would not have justified the adventurous attempt at frugality.

O. K. so, now I need to get myself back in the game. Finish Strong! Let’s see. I still have frozen falafel from a Trader Joe’s run last spring. I can probably whip up some tahini sauce from that old can of almond paste, or is that marzipan? I can use the last of my basil for pesto sauce. If I sit near the river, maybe my boat will come in, or a big old bag of money may float by from all the storm stirring.

In any event, I have re-trained myself in survival skills which are much needed to approach a new school year. I am ready for anything! Game On!

Note to self: I will not be available September 16th, I have dinner reservations and if I am lucky and my son behaves, maybe a trip to the super can-can sale at ShopRite, it's never too early to plan for survival.

Will Work for Sake Margarita, or Full Control....

2011-08-15T16:29:00.001-04:00

I have been running, sporadically, exercising determinedly and attempting to make some concerted improvements to my overall physical well-being. I live a stones throw away from the Hudson River, well maybe if you’re Roger Clemons or Lefty Grove, but you get the drift, I live close by. I sometimes switch up my run to cover a portion of the river frontage and end with some intense stair climbs on the Amtrak trestle. When I take this route and descend the stairs to make my way home, I have noticed a few unruly weeds that have been getting quite assertive at the entrance of a local restaurant.

This creates such a stir in my, what? Not my groin. Not my heart. Maybe my sense of order? Do I posses a sense of order? In gardening, only, I have a tendency towards clarity and some distinguishable degree of purpose. (We all have our crosses to bear, and I have never pretended to be anything less than quirky.) I live a life with constant disorganization and clutter in paper form all around me. My car gets to a stage of mobile anthropology unit and transporter of folderol quickly and without warning. I spend days searching for that check, or those documents, and that overdue application, they always turn up. They always get piled up and around and reshuffled and piled again. My bed becomes a balancing act of books, papers, magazines that I saw a beautiful picture in, that I can’t yet part with or utilize in some creative genius manner. (I might have tucked the check in that book….)

For these reasons, I love gardening. It gives me this sense of order and control that I am fully capable of managing. It gives me practically instant gratification, the weeding part anyway. It lets me wrestle and tug and struggle without hurting anyone else, or myself. Gardening, essentially let’s me be in charge and gives me power. This past year, I left my garden behind. I can’t describe the depth of sadness and loss this created for me. I was hard to be around this past spring, let me tell you. I fantasized about springing some of my plants and bringing them to my new home. I imagined a covert operation in the pre-dawn hours, and a nighttime rescue effort with night vision goggles and a darling basket to transport my precious seedlings to our new place of glory. I never realized any of my border crossing fantasies. It was time to let go and move on, begrudgingly and with great sadness.

I have created a garden in my new locale. The purpose seems to be cheery brightness and clashing colors of vibrancy and thrill. It conjures an image of my older two children at 3 and 5 years of age. They are dancing at an outdoor concert sponsored by Ben and Jerry’s on Cape Cod. They are dressed brightly in summer fare. They are dancing with such intense grins and speed! Speed that will send one into orbit if her older brother let’s go or loses his grip. They are spinning and twirling and shaking their heads. It made me laugh then, and still. A bit of hysteria, but not without an end. This is what my garden looks like, a bit of hysteria with an end. I have used only annuals. They may not be long lasting but they have gotten me through and are in a constant state of cheeriness. They have a very clear purpose.

So, seeing the assertive weeds after my run gets all that power-tripping juice running. I want to head over and set things straight. Show them who’s in charge. That’s right. That’s what I’m talking about. Until I see the owner in the library and I tremble and the hive thing starts happening. I can’t seem to share my great idea. And I wonder what the hell my problem is and why I don’t start engaging in some more interesting fantasies. I say hello, and leave quietly. A few weeks later, I decide to pack up a folding chair and sit and read at the water’s edge. As I start to go up the stairs, I notice the restaurant owner heading to the restaurant in the early morning and decide, “Oh what the hell, go for it, live on the wild side. ” I try hard not to sound desperate and pathetic about my displacement and phantom garden pains. I try just as hard not to insult him for letting things get, well, so unruly, and disordered. I volunteer my services, he accepts, we part ways and I venture out the next morning, with a cup of coffee and a pair of clippers.

As I am weeding and clipping, I think of another memory. In my early childhood on the mean (they were actually quite mild) streets of Woodside, Queens, I remember this woman. Old (probably 36) with quick, sharp movements, sharp determined features. She dressed in blue from head to toe. Navy blue, kind of. The navy blue only found in that polyester nylon fabric of the early 70’s. Not quite royal, not exactly navy. She has a blue turtleneck, blue stretch pants, more than likely with that sewn in seam deal, I don’t have that level of detail in my memories, ever, but if I had to guess…and she wore a headband, an inch or two thick, navy blue nylon. She used to garden, and I use the term lightly, and feed the pigeons. Pigeons! Rats of the skies, no one fed pigeons. No one who had any sense or purpose, anyway. We referred to her maybe once as the “blue lady”. She didn’t care to interact with us or smile even. Her “garden” was a dusty, clay mound encircling a tree that seemed to be suffering from sadness. Trees there, were few and far between and they lacked color. In hindsight, I would have to guess adequate cellulose was also missing.

I started wondering. Have I become that woman? Will I? I am not sure. I don’t know her story. I did have on my black stretchy running pants, and a stretchy sweatshirt. I was probably making quick, determined movements. I am sure I didn’t feed any pigeons. I am not sure what I impressed upon the restaurant owner, but this is what he gave to me; the thrill of instant gratification, a chance to wield power and control, and wrestle harmlessly, the opportunity to be in an established garden in the early morning hours. Quiet determination, that's me. I wouldn’t mind for it to convey: I am a part of a community with something to give, quirks and all. Maybe it will translate to a sake margarita on the house, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves… It wasn’t as unruly as I might have built it up to be. It looks fine now, after one power-gardening session with me. Oh Yeah, I still have it! Watch Out! I am in the house! And the garden.

Has anyone seen my clippers??? Anyone?

Keep the Faith

2011-08-14T20:35:00.007-04:00

A few years back, following a trip to Puerto Rico, I became very interested in santos; hand carved religious figures depicting saints and other religious icons. The simplicity of the carvings and vibrant colors were so attractive to me. The contrast between these Hispanic inspired relics and the religious artifacts found in most Northeastern churches was conspicuously unashamed. Us Yankee-type Catholic’s and Christian’s safely, or repress fully, relate to dark, renaissance inspired artifacts that seem to sternly direct us to bow our heads. The santos that I saw were vibrant and happy-seeming. There would be very little head bowing invoked by these. They instead inspire joy and celebration.

On an Internet quest to learn more and hopefully purchase additional santos, I stumbled upon an artist whose work resonated with me. The artist’s name is Jan Keels, a self-taught outsider artist in New Orleans. Some of her paintings at the time depicted images of the sacred heart and various collage-like paintings with phrases from psalms and proverbs, as well as lyrics from contemporary music. Her faith and spiritual connection was evident and unapologetic, as much as it was graceful and tender. Perhaps this was the attraction for me.

I have always been interested in the religious beliefs of others. How some people are loud and proud, while others are cloaked in mystery, or embarrassment. I wonder how some have no faith or lacked a faith upbringing, they seem absolutely fine. Faith and spirituality are big parts of who I am, whether I am “not currently feeling it”, participating in bible study, searching for a church that is welcoming and supportive, teaching Sunday school, or questioning the very possibility of God. I struggle daily, with the internal conflict I have created in being Irish Catholic, while worshipping in a Reformed Church. I am sure my paternal grandmother has grown tired from the undue rolling I have caused. I tell myself my father is more understanding and at peace, one day I will find out for sure. My daughter is enrolled in a Catholic University, and at times she may not be quite sure how that happened, she has ministered sermons in the Reformed Church of her upbringing. My sons are in the "currently not feeling it phase, please let me sleep in, and/or we will politely refrain from this conversation" moment in time.

My connection to the Reformed Church might also be the real attraction I have to those brightly colored santos and the artwork of Jan Keels. While Catholic Churches have cornered the market on religious icons and figurines, the Reformed Church stays true to the Reformation in that there should be no worshipping of icons. I miss them, greatly. My grade school papers that have followed me for close to ½ a century are scattered with artistic depictions of biblical proportions. I seem to have had an obsession with blood and guts in such an unlady-like fashion. My goodness! In one picture, Judas is certainly getting his due. When I came across these a few years ago, I found a bit of humor in them, as well as a bit of gruesome disturbance. As a teacher in the 21^st century, if I found similar paintings or crayon renderings, the artist would be promptly plucked out of class, suggested for neurological testing, concerned calls would be made, she would be recommended for counseling and possibly dropped into a self-contained program for the suspiciously dangerous or psychiatrically determined to be disturbed. I can’t recall what Sister Bernadette directed us to do but by the grade on the back, she was quite pleased at the outcome. Judas is hanging from a tree, and there is blood dripping all around. That might be what saved me from expulsion. I clearly did not understand that a hanging would not result in blood-oozing chaos. I only knew there should be great suffering to one that would harm Jesus. This lack of explicit teaching of suffering is implicitly the connection I have to The Reformed Church. Suffering is all around, I for one, don’t need to go out looking for it, or have it lectured at me come Sunday mornings. I want my faith supported, not lashed out with terror and fear-making.

So back to the santos and Jan Keels. I returned from my trip to Puerto Rico, which was, naturally, a mission trip that I had coordinated for the fine youth of the Reformed Church in my community. We curiously enough, worked with a leader from Catholic Charities to paint an Extended Stay Homeless Shelter, or Nursing Home for the Elderly Homeless, and spent time with the incredible people that lived there. The thing about faith is, things seem to happen for a reason and otherwise strange unrelated events, people and places interconnect. Maybe my grandmother intervened and got me serving for the Catholic Church.

Following the trip to Puerto Rico, in 2006, my search for more santos and hand-made religious-inspired art began. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans hard and the devastation was epic, and continues to be felt. My oldest son became involved with volunteer work providing camp programs for the first children that came “home” after the storm. When my santos search began, I came across the site for the gallery, Las Manos Magicas and Jan’s art stood out. The pieces that she worked on immortalized Katrina, the devastation and the hope that springs from survival is clear. It spoke of faith and beauty and “home”. I wanted to purchase a piece that would honor my son’s work there. When I first contacted this special artist, she wanted to know how I found her. We corresponded via e-mail. She extended a thank you for my son’s involvement. I purchased a symbolic piece of art. We continued to interact via e-mail a few more times and got back to our lives.

My son stayed involved and worked in New Orleans each summer that followed. When he graduated, he decided to make New Orleans his home. Two summers ago, I visited. While walking through the French Quarter at dusk, a shadow caught my eye. I was held briefly by the play of light and darkness, until I realized what it was. There is an unadorned, white marble, statue of Jesus, in a garden behind The St. Louis Cathedral on the corner of Royal Street and Orleans Street. This is known as St. Anthony's Garden. At dusk, it casts a shadow well over 50 feet long. The effect, for lack of a better word, is awesome.

From time to time over the past few years I have checked back on Jan’s work with interest in purchasing another piece. Last year, while checking, I hit an Internet snafu of sorts on her website and sent a brief e-mail to alert her. She thanked me, and wanted to know how I was. I wrote briefly about some personal going-ons, we did what any forward thinking, creative souls would do, or any old soul in the modern world for that matter, we face-book friended each other. What this meant was, my total friend count rose, I got to see her postings from time to time and when my daughter was visiting in March I got to check in with a real “local” for some suggestions.

Last month I visited New Orleans’s. I decided to break out of my typical awkwardness, reached out of my comfort zone, and shared that I would love to meet her. I also wanted to pick up a another piece of her beautiful art. A few days prior, I had been walking around the quarter snapping photos but I hadn’t posted them. The next day Jan posted photos that were strikingly similar and of the same locations. The funny thing is, they were not the ordinary, run of the mill touristy type pictures that everyone takes. They were interesting close-ups and artistically juxtaposed frames, to me it seemed a bit spiritual, for Jan, she shared it was somewhat common for her to experience what she called “parallel moments”.

When I finally met her, she was on the corner of Royal and Orleans. In that same spot that I had stood two years prior, behind St. Louis Cathedral. Interestingly, St. Louis is the patron saint of tertiaries, or “the third order”, these were lay people that did good works and by doing so promoted their faith. Jan’s artistic purity and transparent faith is somewhat in keeping with tertiaries. St. Anthony is known as the patron saint of lost things. I personally feel less lost than ever. Oh, and he's the patron saint of amputees. I’m not sure what that means in terms of the thumb and forefinger that were “lost” or amputated from the statue of Jesus, when a tree fell during Katrina. It could have been worse? It was meant to be? And stranger still, in Bay St. Louis, a town outside of New Orleans, at St. Stanislaus College, a statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was ripped from its pedestal during Hurricane Katrina. Only one hand was ever recovered. Maybe not the DaVinci Code material, but pretty curious just the same.

Jan sells her art behind St. Anthony’s Garden, across from the white marble statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, perhaps not so much in the shadow of her faith but hopefully sheltered from the storms. She has provided much to me in this art that must flow from her soul. She is as a friend should be, open and kind, with maybe a passion for living, and appreciation for what she has post Katrina, rather than all that has been lost. And that is a great find.

It is also pretty curious to me that St. Louis was a collector of relics and “holy things”. Just saying… As my father use to say, “Keep the Faith.”

Let'sJustHaveFunFirst.com

2011-08-13T11:08:00.005-04:00

Dating is perhaps the one area that I am most ill-equipped at (more of this later). I am a jumble of processing, speaking, feeling, reacting and facial expression that is hay-wired or prewired for disaster. So here I am in this new phase of my life full of hope and wonder, excited about opportunities for connecting with the men folk that find themselves in similar situations. Realizing I possess discernible physical and emotional features that come with age and experience, I still have much more to offer, and acquire. So how does a somewhat-to-extremely socially awkward individual break through? I have always struggled with the concept of permitting time and kindness to do this thoughtfully on my terms, and to just throw myself at any man that looks my way and shows the smallest interest and then hang on for dear life. Over the past couple of years I have happily removed my white knuckle grasp on a relationship of great strife. I am hoping to be able to coolly invite dating back onto my calendar soon. I don’t want to repeat mistakes. At this age that knuckle grasping is surely going to develop into arthritis like symptoms.

Having never mastered playful flirting and dating with the opposite sex earlier in my brief dating career is a real problem. Having come up through this period pre-AIDs, if just by a month or two puts me in a real quandary. We were a great deal more open, easy-going, and experimental, I believe. Not every night, but generally speaking. The rules or complete lack of rules back then, were different. Things were a great deal looser. Flirting typically ended with the option to get physical, fast. I believe myself to be a bit more equipped in this realm. (Don’t we all?) This prior looseness might have interfered with the development of these much needed interpersonal skills needed for dating. Perhaps it is just my own experience that makes the rules that much more foreboding. Maybe the rules are self-imposed and imagined. I just can’t imagine how to get past my blank-faced-to-serious faced, which is really a deer-in-headlights-trauma-faced glance of terror. Such a turn off, and so uninviting, don’tcha think?

I live in an area that is extremely family centered. That makes sense, as a mother. It made even more sense as a wife with a husband and a few kids growing up. This makes it hard to find a date, however. Of course, I, and many others, believe that we live in this traditional family centric community and only a couple of us are divorced or divorcing, single, or in one way or another nontraditional and available. The fact is many, oh so many are more than likely in the nontraditional realm then we care to admit. I don’t really know why. If others could start admitting this, I would have an easier time determining my flight plan towards or away from the men folk that are out there. Could we get t-shirts or special hats? That would certainly make life a great deal easier for me. As it stands, I can’t seem to pick up my mail, go to the hardware store, go for a run or go to the grocery store without breaking into hives because one of the men I cross paths with might be a potential good time. I told you, I am a hay-wired dating or pre-dating disaster, and I wasn’t kidding.

This brings me to the subject of computer dating programs that are currently abundant. Earlier in this journey of singledom, which is still unfortunately, legally undetermined, but moving like molasses, slowly forward, a friend shared with me her secret to man folk magic. I tried to explain I don’t really have any much magic to offer, she wouldn’t hear of it. So I paid careful attention and made some attempts, at least from the comfort of my own home. I peaked. I looked a little closer. I created a profile and I even uploaded a picture with much prompting and a tall glass with ruby red contents. Much like my earlier dating experience, I froze after that. I have a few winks, a few interesteds, and a couple or 10 e-mails that have not been responded to. I have not paid to see the e-mails and I am uncertain that I want to commit. That sums up a bigger barrier for me. I don’t want to commit. I cannot yet imagine wanting to commit ever again. I don’t want to commit but I want to have fun. I don’t want to catch any STDs either, but I want to take some time to enjoy independence and single life. I am not sure why these things seem to be somewhat exclusive. Maybe it’s the on-line dating schema, maybe it’s men. Maybe it’s men attempting to impress women or tell them what they think they want to hear.

It seems like all of the men that I have looked at or been matched to want a wife, now, but yesterday wouldn’t have been a moment too soon. They don’t even pretend that they want to go slowly or find out for sure this time around. They seem to be stating in pretty clear terms they want a warm body, stat! They want a couch mate, bed made, house mate. They don’t want to waste time with anyone that is not dedicated to that end game. For me, this is the very last thing I want. I want to learn how to date, and have fun and enjoy time in between.

I think a newer computer dating system would be useful, at least for me. Something in between the amazingly bad college roommate filters that often end in fantasized death wishes and expedite college drop-outism and the current lack of mystique with comprehensive on-line dating filters. I would prefer a dating site that allowed for a bit more wild abandon. I am in no rush. I might need help renaming the sites, but these speak to what I want: How about, we didn’t do so well last time, let’s keep this light.com. Why are we in need of a perfect match so quickly.com? Maybe just, Iamnotinarush.com. Let’sJustDoTheGrooveThingWithIntegrityUntilIamReady-

ForMore.com. Maybe that’s what Craigslist is all about, but I'm not going there.

I get that we want to try to make it work with someone more compatible than the last go round, but the reality is, compatibility is not entirely fluid or easy to pin down. Self-awareness is a bit sketchy too. Outside factors and long ingrained habits play a fairly big part. I may understand the reasons I made prior choices and I can easily avoid those types, very easily in fact. I can’t be exactly certain how things will play out, knowing I have made a couple of way out there choices, I really need time and more experience before imagining for a moment my true love has simply escaped me. I also don't want to give up thinking my one true love ended up marrying someone else.

This reality that I am pretty sure I don’t make the best choices in love gets me wondering. A new strategy is in need. Every so often my eventual ex would buy me a dress that I would never have bought for myself, and it would work. It would work really well in fact. So do I throw myself into the “I would never date anyone like that” group and see what happens? It might help alleviate the hives or it might provoke a deadly outburst. God knows, the “I am attracted to a, b, and c” has not worked. Of course the a, b, and c, that I am attracted to was presented to me in spades, but lacked truth. I might still be attracted to earlier conceived attributes if they are valid and honored. How do we tease out this reality?

This is how some of the men folk are handling it: They want someone 3 foot tall 2 inches tall to 8 foot tall. (A dear, snarky friend of mine can’t help imagining the benefits to men when considering eye, or candidly speaking, mouth level of a 3 foot woman) They want someone athletically toned, average, slender a few extra pounds to the morbidly obese. I am not sure if that is expected in one woman, although I have seen a few extra large women, with chicken-stick legs, large breasts, average sized wrists, and fearful looking biceps. These men are interested in someone that never smokes, occasionally, and is in the process of quitting. A moderate drinker, socially, or never. So when they are out on a date they drink, moderately; at home with your kids, never; with their probation officer, they are trying to quit; with their friends they are all out addicted and proud of it. It could happen. The men that I have glanced at enjoy going to museums, traveling, cooking romantic dinners, camping, they play 14 sports well, and like to go to dance clubs. They are spiritual but not religious, they like plays or opera and NASCAR, they only speak English but want to learn more languages. I must say none of them profess to like shopping, so perhaps there is a level of honesty that does exist in these profiles. It seems to me they are in want of someone, anyone. Maybe, like me, they just want to avoid the initial outbreak of hives. And dating is often spoken of with dread, like those middle school years.

After my own initial outbreak of hives, I am a lot of fun, at times. I can be adventurous and I also like to snuggle at home, sometimes. Don’t expect me to be at home all the time. I won’t be out carousing or cheating, so relax, I am extremely trustworthy. I like toxic-neon-colored petit fours, Delmonico Steak and organic mixed greens with artisanal cheeses with equal measure. I have more than a couple quirky interests and desires, all of which have the potential to be charming to some very lucky, non-clingy, big, strong* man that does not expect me to be by his side at every moment. I like to bake and cook sometimes. I am a nurturing, maternally inclined being, and I have raised my children very nicely thank you very much. (My maternal instincts only work with children.) This guy I am curious about running into, enjoys the wild thing, in a discreet and respectful capacity. He might like wilderness camping, or he might need to have the comforts of home and indoor plumbing within close proximity, no worries. He is passionate about life and thankful for that grand opportunity called living. He will be able to maintain and enjoy his interests and allow me the same. In time we might decide to share each other’s passions, but we are both unwilling to give them up to please the other at our expense. But that’s not what I need right now. I just want a date now and again.

So the on-line thing might need to wait. I am heading back to school for another degree in the near future. I am heading to Gotham for a writing and publishing course. If you are a big, strong* man and you see me and I look puzzled or nauseous, just let me know if you are interested in dating or not. Cut to the chase and cut me some slack on cortisone creams and Benadryl for those hives. My snarky friend has suggested I join a gym. She is either twisted or supportive, or both. She believes the physical workouts will help me gain confidence and feel better. I might run into a man. More likely, I will fall on top of, drop a weight on, and badly injure a man, or myself. Physical routines and work outs in front of others has to be a strong contender for the area I am most ill-equipped at. Oh, and line dancing, not good. But boy can I find fossils! And fix things. I am pretty good at electrical wiring too. I make pie to die for. A few more workouts and I might qualify for athletically toned, at this point I am somewhere between slender, average and working towards athletically toned. After an especially large piece of pie, I might be temporarily in the few extra pounds range. Once I stop worrying about how to relax and speak, I can be quite funny, and my eyes are deep and twinkling. I am working on my t-shirt and hat, look for me soon, I'm the one at the gym with hives and two left feet, but oh so cute!

*big and strong may be used to describe my mystery date’s heart, eyes, spiritedness, arms and thighs, overall physique, personality-um maybe, and/or career. Any combination of such might be carefully considered.

Driving Miss Ginger

2011-08-01T17:23:00.005-04:00

On a recent visit to stay with my oldest son, I had the lovely experience of sitting in the passenger seat. (Hold that thought; it seems to be a metaphor for this stage of motherhood, and it’s not quite as lovely as I would like.) I sat in the passenger seat; I would like to imagine I sat demurely, as a revered and respected “elder”, comparatively speaking. But that would not be accurate. Of course, I had my trusted sidekick, lets just call him “Peanut” egging me on, or at least supporting me from the back seat. The driver, the truly, or at least, at times, revered and respected first born was driving, very nicely I might add. He drove us to City Park, a beautiful park in New Orleans where we were planning to picnic so that we might enjoy the cooler evening air. Cooler evening air in New Orleans in late July means, 92° and humid as opposed to 95° and humid. In any event the New York heat wave with temperatures holding at 105° that we left behind made the hot humid weather at least seem that much more enjoyable (or not). As we drove past pedestrians, sculptures, beautiful oaks dripping with Spanish moss, cypress trees and various palms and palmettos, the driver pulled over to park.

"Peanut" and I were immediately unsettled. We didn’t understand the parking choice. There were clearly parking lots ahead in the visible distance and some that we had passed only briefly. Why park in this more isolated section? We were searching for a pavilion for our cool-er evening picnic. There was a pavilion close by, but it seemed darkened and abandoned. There were three police cars and a mounted officer across the median. Didn’t this alert the driver? We, "Peanut" and I, started wondering aloud, asking, questioning as only passengers can.

There is an art in this passenger questioning type thing. It is an art form in the best of worlds, or worst depending on where you're sitting. The passenger aspect applies to transportation as well as the journey through life. The passenger could also just as easily be accompanying someone to a grocery store, restaurant, or into the living room. It’s not nearly as much to do with driving as it is learning to take a back seat or diminished role. Or quite frankly, it is usually about the downright refusal to take a back seat or diminished role.

Said passenger starts off with some degree of unease, which closely resembles disapproval, but can easily be dismissed or denied if said passenger is an artist in this milieu. (Hah! “Milieu” isn’t that a fine piece of fanciness and frill, perfect to stress the art form idea!) The unease moves into question form: “Do you think it’s ok to park here?” In this form of questioning, the passenger gives respect to the driver. The driver must surely know what they have done, right? He, in this case, made a concerted choice to park the car in this very spot. You can’t go in strong or direct, remember you, or I, in this case, am merely the passenger. I couldn’t say, “OK, let’s just stop a moment and size up our surroundings shall we? First of all, we are in a city, an inner city, with documented high rates of crime (if not always publicly reported) and well-known, rather infamous, corrupted and miss-managed police protection that is weakly patrolling this city. Secondly, we are parked in a dark, abandoned, or at the very least fairly isolated section of a very large park. Last of all, in my 30 second checkpoint system, police activity nearby in this weakly patrolled city leads me to believe this would not be a good place to park.” I couldn’t say, “How is it that all my years of parenting has lead us to this dreadful scenario in which you are willing to risk your own life and that of your sainted and gifted mother and what about your sweet little baby brother, "Peanut"?”

The driver responds to the question that was posed, not the question that lies thickly beneath. Deadpan. Waiting for this opportunity without fully knowing it, his whole sweet life. Bingo! Expecting it and savoring it in the drollest of ways. This is a moment in life of great transformative power. This is a rite of passage of ritualistic magnitude seldom discussed in anthropologic or psychological journals. The driver must place the question squarely back in the passengers lap. If done correctly, the passenger may get what they need in the moment, but the moment is transformative. In this very moment, power shifts, the driver once dependent upon the passenger, becomes independent and capable. The action, if handled well, completes a phase of development never to be visited again. It goes like this:

“I think it would be ok to park here, there is a pavilion right there, would you feel better if we found a different spot?”

The driver can’t say: “OK, I know that you somehow believe I am incapable of growing up and possibly surviving a picnic without your years of experience and wisdom to help guide and/or control my every move but before you came here for this “visit”, I have actually functioned and survived rather nicely, thank you very much! If parking here for a 20 minute picnic is going to get your panties all bunched up in a knot and cause great levels of stress and agitation, I will surely move the car 400 yards to that safe haven of parking you alone seem to be able to see and know about and be safe in. ”

Without saying any of this the driver has made me fully aware that for all the wisdom and knowledge that I have packed into this super sized vessel called “Mom”, I no longer get to call the shots, hold the keys, or decide which way to turn and where to park. It happens in an instant. I can see clearly this very transformative moment in my own past, which sadly seems like it just happened. I can call it up and see my very parents as they visited me in a new city and knew better how to park, get to a restaurant, guide and steer me almost no more. I can recall easily a minor eye roll, a droll response, a "glad to see them, glad to see them go back home" recollection of my own.

“Peanut” on the other hand, still needs me to get him back to the airport at the end of our trip, back to his lovingly patrolled home, over to the Department of Motor Vehicles for his learner’s permit on his next day off and safely to a few more destinations before he takes me on a little picnic of sorts. So for now, he supports, he adds to my earlier commentary or questioning. He supports my wisdom. “C’mon, dude, look around, this is definitely not the best place to park. “ When we get back in the car and drive to my happy safe parking spot, I am quieted by the experience. I am wondering if I had just kept my flap shut, would I have extended this little fantasy of being “in control” a wee bit longer?

As we approach a beautiful garden with a small pond and adequate parking, I can’t help but say, “Here, we go! This is much better.” The driver remains quiet but smiles. He seems to know who’s in the driver’s seat now, finally. We get out and walk towards the water’s edge. “Peanut” stands next to the driver, pats him on the back, roughly, brotherly. He stands about an inch or two shorter with great confidence that he is still growing. Soon he will also be driving. Miss Daisy was a passenger with power. Maybe I can work on my passenger persona. See, growth never really has to end. Soon I will be driving myself anywhich way I want to go, but I will be visiting "Peanut" and his wise siblings frequently. Sometimes I might remember to control that old flap trap, but I'm not making any promises just yet. I will soon enough need to be sized with a booster seat and I practically drive with my knees touching the accelerator or the hood release. I've also never been a very good passenger, I am much more the participant.

[P.S. and of special note: The above mentioned driver drove quite spectacularly over Route 10, a massive skyway type driving nightmare that hugs and crosses the Mississippi River, meanders towards Biloxi and lead us to Alabama. He drove us calmly along the Gulf Coast and helped add three states to my travel belt, I remained mostly quiet and appreciative, I think.]

Travel Planning

2011-07-22T16:05:00.000-04:00

I have previously described my sense of staying in line based on what the neighbors would think. At that time I happened to live in a different neighborhood. Quite honestly, the neighbors, were pretty low key and laid back- I was probably more worrisome as an anxious, high-alert mother, wife and neighbor, tense and wary. The move has done me good. I have regained a great deal of my former self, as in 20 years former, and have become quite neighborly. I have since come to realize a few things of note: 1) The “neighbors” are all embroiled in their own flawed activities hoping that their neighbors aren’t paying careful attention or not really giving me a lick of attention. 2) It is our individual duty and right to do at least 1 , or perhaps 27 or so out of character activities to keep the neighbors guessing, stay in our game, or simply have something to giggle or snicker about in our later years, and 3) We need to keep in mind that we can always move and get new neighbors, so we really owe it to ourselves to find out what makes us happy, alive, fulfilled, and live in a way that is true to that vision. I personally think it’s important to be mindful of others and try not to hurt anyone in the process, but not everyone feels the same or can readily assess what behaviors are hurtful to others. For the most part, choose your activities kindly when you can. Be a bit neighborly.

Today I had to take another loooooong look at my own private NEIGHBOR Clause. Evidently, I have some residual “always where clean underwear” issues. And I have to say, that seems to correspond directly to worrying about those stinkin’ neighbors. Not just next door proximity, but community range neighbors. I realized this as I was insanely cleaning my house this morning, before going to my doctors appointment, a quick breakfast meeting with a friend and colleague to check in on the progress of a project we have undertaken, followed by a day of work, and a trip to Albany to exchange my son and car for a one way ticket back home to continue cleaning and packing. (Said son, car and daughter will be back later this evening after enjoying a very special birthday gift.) The packing is related to vacation plans. Packing will continue, sleep, and a little frenzied searching for travel type accoutrements.

So, this is how my travel plans go: months of peering through travel books, brochures and search engines that lead to hotel bookings, car rentals, restaurant recommendations, event or destination targets. This part is fun, really. I know it isn’t for everyone, but for me it builds the excitement or maybe, takes some of the stress away- by the time I get to a new destination, I can quote historical facts and make my way toward numerous historical landmarks, forts, and $restaurants. I can stay away from $$$restaurants or cross the street as I approach them, or look longingly at them and wonder. The studying is followed by the booking, and then the laundering, shopping, packing, rearranging and changing the packed items, losing itineraries, reprinting boarding passes, etc, and so on. And then the neighbor thing happens. It takes hold. My traveling companions wish they had cash money to take the train, bus or ferry far away and in a different direction from my overly planned destination.

And here lies the problem, before I travel far and wide, or go away for a weekend, I clean. Not just tidy. This is when my very best cleaning occurs. Serious company cleaning. Floors swept and mopped, baseboards scrubbed, laundry done, refrigerator cleaned out, closets organized, papers tossed, carpets vacuumed and washed if needed, and bathroom scoured. Why?

While its true that packing generally turns the house slightly upside down, it’s really only slightly turned askew from general everyday living. So, with traveling comes risk. With risk comes fear. With fear comes exaggerated actions to either release stress or attempt to gain control. The cleaning comes from the fear that if the plane goes down, the car crashes, or the hotel goes ablaze, when family, friends and two-bit neighbors come to “help” in this time of my imagined end or long term crisis, they will not see me in my dirty old bloomers, or with an unkempt home. Their impressions of me will not be soiled by dust bunnies or grime. The growing green projects in the refrigerator will not conjure images of me. The next time they see the spider webs or bathroom scum around their own bathtubs, they will remember me fondly and wish they were able to juggle life as well as I had.

If nothing else, when I return, tired, exhausted, excited, my home sweet home will be waiting for me. When I rest up, the neighbors can come right over and hear stories of my latest adventures.

The American Way-wardness of Baby Boomers: Bye-Bye American Pie

2011-07-18T22:43:00.005-04:00

Last night I went to a meeting of sorts. I am a vocal and proud Democrat, typically. But last night, I was more than that or, a great deal less. More because I was ready to take a stand. Less, well, read on. The purpose of the meeting was to reinstate “The American Dream”. I came out to support the efforts and become more vocal. After introductions and purpose was set we broke into smaller groups. I would like to imagine that I joined the “wrong” group. My group seemed to consist of one voice. This voice did not represent all members because there was little interest in allowing for all voices to be heard. Hopefully other groups were a bit more collaborative and considerate, or sadly this is what has become the very non-partisan “American Way”. We bulldoze and stampede. We have an idea and agenda and the loudest or most aggressive gets to determine what the rest of us want or need. This occurs locally, nationally and globally. The purpose of the meeting last night, however was to change all that. Or all that is wrong in America today. The purpose was to engage folk, down home sorts, grassroots style. Question, collaborate and maybe even determine what we believe to be some necessary actions or future programs to help reinstate that good old American Dream. I thought that was the purpose, that’s why I attended, I am one of these foolish hopeful types. We don’t really belong in these political venues, us foolish hopeful types.

After we broke into smaller groups, our task was to rate the most important issues and/or solutions in the following categories:

· How do we create good jobs and invest in a sustainable future for America and our kids?

· How can we stop corporations and the rich from dodging taxes?

· How do we ensure good healthcare, quality education, and a retirement

· with dignity for all?

· How do we make sure the people call the shots—and no one gets left out?

These are all meaningful and important issues. Somehow, we are missing some really important constituents in making these decisions and I can only hope that was just a shortfall of my meeting’s attendance. The cross section of this group was upward of 45. A few younger representatives were in the crowd, but I would love to see more, soon, fast.

Jerry Rubin is remembered for saying “Never trust anyone over 30”. It has never been more pertinent than it is currently. But I will be generous enough to change the age to 46. That would be the cut-off for baby boomers and older generations. Maybe trust is not the issue as much as being gravely concerned with permitting us 46 + to speak on behalf of younger generations, or to be the loudest voice, in shaping what is to come. The majority of issues, as well as solutions, have a great deal to do with the agendas of this, my, aging population. Again, I hope this is relevant to the particular group I was sitting alongside of and not the overall experience, but I kind of think it is a bit more far reaching based upon the topics of this event, a growing consensus against worker’s rights, weakening support of education, outsourcing of American jobs, tax breaks and loopholes for the wealthiest few and the American corporations that are not employing Americans, corporate buy-outs, and the limited number of newly developed jobs in this nation over the past 30 years, give or take.

The baby-boomers, a group I am somewhat ashamed, statistically, to be a part of, seem to be very adept at wanting the cake, eating it too, and wondering why anyone else thinks they should get a piece. Our parent's generation expect social security, but they don’t particularly want to pay the taxes needed to educate their grandchildren, and some truly can’t afford to. We want skilled laborers to be available to repair our endless foray of gadgets and gizmos in our homes, McMansions, weekend homes, and myriad of vehicles, but we long ago looked down upon vocational educational programs and maintaining a skilled labor force. We want safe drinking water in our faucets and recycling plants for our endless supply of plastic drinking bottles. We want organic foods in our super stores but we don’t want our fruit to have any natural bumps or bruising. We want some sort of clean and green energy, but we don’t want it in our backyards, we don’t want the wind turbines to hurt the birds or shadow our landscapes. We don’t want the drilling to impact wild-life, we don’t want the oil that is owned by others to cause us to threaten or wage war, but what else are we to do, really? We don’t want to have to support such a large military, but how will we get that oil that we would prefer not to use? We want or need or are accustomed to getting, having and keeping. Democrat, Republican, all.

One item that bothered me a great deal on one of the rating sheets was to “End the War on the War on Drugs”. Not because that particular war was never really supported with any real purpose or goal, but because I think we pulled the plug on that war a while back, and I thinke there are issues that are quite a bit more relevant to hone in on. We want to end this war on the war on drugs, (according to the rating sheets and the consensus of my group), but we don’t particularly see the purpose of equal rights and equal pay (also on the rating sheet, but not considered very important). Women’ s Rights to Health was not particularly important either. As a woman, and a mother, I think these issues are extremely important. In spite of the fact that my child bearing years are behind me, I am still concerned about allowing, yes, allowing women equal rights, equal pay and even access to healthcare about our bodies. Go figure. But that’s me, hopeful and foolish. I guess if I had to do drugs and it was legal, I wouldn’t worry about these silly little women things. If we didn’t have to work so hard to get our currently illegal recreational drugs, we wouldn’t have to worry about those inequalities. We could just numb ourselves in peace and maybe call it liberty. Ok, a pot-shot for sure (enjoy the pun).

I personally think it ridiculous that we spent as much money on the “just say no” campaigns. The fact that we continue to fill our prisons with drug users and small time dealers is a bit over the top, while drug cartels yield big power. We then refuse to offer rehabilitation programs that work after we imprison these silly little drug users. In this way we can ensure that prison jobs are justified, I guess, but even prisons are getting closed. We change and alter the criteria for possession and DWI’s and then we have to pay fees to overturn the decisions and continue the cycle of abuse. The American Dream may just be learning to put your money in the right coffers to do whatever you want. When I was growing up that was the concept called communism and I was lead to believe Russia and China were horrific for engaging in this corrupt system while pretending that everyone was equal. OK I digress, a bit. We are a wee bit idiotic about our dependency on drugs and alcohol and our way of managing this highly marketed money making dependency. But I don't think this area is first and foremost in making radical change to a system that warrants immediate change. Not even the top 3.

I don’t have all the answers, but I can say with great clarity, we, yes, us, baby boomers especially, are the very people that have embraced a style of living and being that was doomed from the start. “The American Dream” to own a home, have a job that provided a living wage, and contribute to our own retirement has long ago gone amuck. The American Dream once meant if you worked hard you got ahead. You provided for your family and you appreciated this way of life. When did we reconfigure that aspect of the American Dream? We started to want a little more , and then that was no longer enough. We tested the boundaries and pushed the limits. We needed 2 or 3 cars in the driveway. We now express anger over the current state of foreign oil dependency. It probably has nothing to do with wanting or “needing” a surplus of fuel dependent Soccer Mom transportation vehicles that could enter combat zones with some assurance of safety and go to the grocery stores with style and ease. We supersized and superimposed this lifestyle onto our children that want, need, must have more. Now that we must face the reality that we were not ever able to provide for this particular rendition, we want to be involved with creating the New American Dream by complaining about it and pointing fingers.

It seems as though we want the American Dream but we don’t want to have to pay for it. Or we feel like we paid enough and we are done. We “can’t take it with us” so we may as well have it all now. The generation before us find a little humor declaring “we are spending our children’s inheritance” proudly on bumper stickers of their gas guzzling cars on the way to their winter homes and summer cottages. Here’s a newsflash: as you are spending that money, and demanding to collect pensions, social security and medicare, your grandchildren can’t fund college or find jobs to begin working. We forgot that the American Dream once meant, everyone had the opportunity to work hard and get ahead to own a small piece of the American pie. We want a big piece. We want it all and we didn’t think about what that might come to mean.

We point our fingers at the corporations, and the politicians. We forget that we have the power to enact change. We need to stop pointing fingers and start joining our hands. Ok, that was schmaltzy, but we do need to take responsibility and then really work together toward change. It’s going to be painful. But it will be a great deal worse for those that follow if we don’t start making some radical changes now.

Years ago the NRA had a slogan: “Guns don’t kill people, People kill people” It meant guns were not responsible for murder, people were. It was a twisted way to support NRA’s goals. In the same way, Corporations are not destroying the American Dream, People are. Corporate greed is directly connected to people. People that run them, people that support them, people that benefit from the goods and services they supply. We own these corporations that are doing so well. We own them because we are the CEO’s of them and the employees of them. We own them because we purchase the goods and materials that they supply. We own them because we own the stocks and bonds that keep them operating. We own them because we vote for the politicians that protect them and provide for them and hide the legally corrupt practices that help them not pay taxes, and help them not provide new jobs, and help them with unfair trade agreements. We can change the way corporations function. We can stop purchasing some of the unnecessary goods, even briefly, to send a strong message. We can vote for politicians that are willing to work for us and we can not vote for them if they fall short. We can’t accuse these corporations and politicians of rape and then get back in bed with them time and time again. We can get into our own beds and dream big- American style, and fix these problems. We are Americans, and that once meant something of great value. If I recall, it was done by the people, for the people.

Good Night. And pleasant dreams.