Wanderlust

On the Run, Day 4

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Sun, 27 May 2012 23:50:00 +0000

“You have the gift of a brilliant internal guardian that stands ready to warn you of hazards and guide you through risky situations.” ― Gavin de Becker, The Gift of Fear

Today I spoke to a police officer. Not on any official business, just a friendly visit. Two mothers sitting across a table from each other in a kitchen far from Olathe, Kansas.

We talked about the resources available to a woman in my situation, what they could and could not offer. We talked about the complexities and the unknowns of my situation. We talked about how the police in her jurisdiction would have handled such a matter (swiftly). Every now and then she would pause to attend to her young son, whom she held in her lap.

Finally, she told me what I already knew. “No one can predict what he will do. In the end, you have to do what you need to do to protect your children.”

She also told me this. Regarding joint custody and the 50-mile restriction. “That,” she said, “is a civil issue.” She explained that if I chose not to abide by it, he would have to challenge me in court. Get a lawyer, set a court date. By which time he would likely be charged. And even if he wasn't, she said I had a strong argument for that she thought the court would respect.

“Worst case scenario, you might spend one night in jail.”

She said if she were in my shoes, she would get a gun and learn how to use it. She would learn self defense. And she would gladly trade one night in jail in exchange for her children's safety.

* * *

Since the story aired I have heard nothing. Nothing from him. Nothing from the police. What happened? I don't know.

For four days I have mulled over the question of when, or even if, I should return to Kansas.

I considered the things I felt pulling me back. The kids were due to start summer school. If I didn't go back, they would miss their classes. I needed to work. There was a dental appointment. I had to water the plants. The plants would die if I didn't water them.

A friend of mine asked me, “Do you really think he'd come after you?”

I don't know. I honestly don't know. He is not someone I can predict.

I have seen him calm and composed. I have seen him speak gently to friends. I have seen him spend days carving and polishing a toy train for his children.

I have seen him lovingly cradle a newborn, tears in his eyes. I have also seen him smash his fist down on the bed, inches from the head of that same newborn, two weeks old, because the child peed while he was changing his diaper.

I have seen him in a state of psychosis. Not often. Just once or twice. When I saw the mugshot photo in the news story, it chilled me. I hadn't seen it before. His eyes. And he's wearing what appears to be a straight jacket. He would only be wearing that if he was combatant when arrested.

I've been in the presence of his fury. The day of the assault. Except I really can't call it fury. Fury is fueled by passion and passion is hot. This was cold. I don't have a name for it. Just a darkness. But in that moment, in the presence of that darkness, I knew a fear that cut like a steel blade to the very center of me.

I have never forgotten that fear.

I respect that fear.

* * *

For a long time I was afraid of all the wrong things. I was afraid to speak, lest there be retribution. I was afraid to challenge the police, because who challenges the police? I was afraid of litigation, and more litigation. I was afraid of mounting legal fees and bankruptcy. I was afraid I wouldn't be seen or heard. I was afraid I would be seen or heard.

I was right where he wanted me to be.

But somewhere between then and now, a switch flipped. I stopped being afraid and began to feel angry. This whole situation is just so, so wrong. My family doesn't even know where I am. I didn't run to my family, nor even tell them where I was going, because I didn't want to put them at risk.

This is wrong. Full stop.

Why should I be running? I should not be the one running!

It is wrong. It is wrong. It is wrong.

I still believe that justice will take it's course. I believe he will be charged and found guilty. But I no longer live under the illusion that until that happens, that same justice system will protect me and my children. Only I can do that. For two years I sat with that illusion, waiting for someone to do something to help me. No more.

I am not afraid of telling the truth, any of it, here on this blog or anywhere else. I will tell it to you, I will tell it to the feds, I will tell it to the media, I will scream it from the rooftops if I feel that helps.

The more eyes on me, the better. The more eyes on him, the better.

I went to the media, and here is why

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Fri, 25 May 2012 22:00:00 +0000

At the time this post goes live a story is airing on Fox 4 News (link to story).

It's an investigative report looking into my ex-husbands child pornography case, specifically seeking to answer why a case of this size and breadth has sat at the local level for almost two years without action being taken.

When his criminal case opened in September, 2010, it threw my life into crisis. It compromised the safety of my family. It has been emotionally and financially devastating.

For almost two years now I have tried to communicate my fears and concerns to the proper authorities at the local, state and federal level.

I considered going to the media over a year ago, when I first wrote about why I feared my ex-husband. I knew media attention could potentially trigger a number of events, both positive and negative, and that I would have control over none of them. In any news story, the news agency has it's own angle and agenda. I have mine. The two are not completely compatible.

I was afraid that going public would anger the police. I was afraid it would incite Jim and precipitate additional violence, up to and including murder and/or suicide. I was afraid it would place me and the kids at greater risk. So I chose instead to wait. To sit quietly, to follow the rules, to let justice take it's course.

But that's not what has happened. Here is what has happened in the past twenty-one months:

The case opened in early September, 2010, following the discovery by police of over 18,000 images of child pornography on my ex-husband's computer, including videos of children engaged in sex with adults and with other children.

At the time his case opened, we were in the midst of a divorce process. The divorce was put on hold, pending the outcome of the investigation, as it bore on critical child custody decisions. With charges, I could get sole custody and permission to leave the state. With charges, I could move far away, where I would be near family and feel safe.
The investigative portion was wrapped up in December, 2010, at which point an attempt was made to transfer it to the feds. The transmission of data failed, however, and the Olathe police did not immediately try to transfer the case files again.

In May 2011, Det. Foster, stated during public testimony that they still had not transferred the case to the feds, as they had been very busy with a number of other cases. He felt the files would be transferred within two months, at the outside.
November 2011, almost a year since first attempting the transfer, Det. Foster again testified that the transfer of files had not taken place. He again stated that he felt it would happen within two months, probably less.
At this time, I was also told by the judge that absent any charges in his case, he could not continue to keep the restraining order in place. Despite the officer's testimony. Innocent until proven guilty.
Three months later, in February 2011, we were forced to conclude our divorce settlement. Eighteen months had elapsed since first filing, and the courts required resolution. His case had still not gone to the feds to be charged. As a result, I was not able to get sole custody of the kids. We now share legal joint custody.

All of this is corroborated by transcripts from hearings over the past year. Both Fox 4 News and I have copies of the transcripts.

I respect the Olathe police officers I have worked with on this case. They have always been polite and have responded to my inquiries and concerns, even if their response was not always what I hoped for. I am concerned and upset, however, that this case has sat inactive for the past 18 months. I realize they have other cases and must prioritize their work, but I believe that their lack of action has seriously compromised my family's safety and well-being.

I have accumulated $20k in legal debt litigating restraining orders and modifications to restraining orders and the breaking of restraining orders.

More importantly, I have continued to live in fear. I have had to monitor everything I do and say and write, wondering if it will trigger further violence or retribution.

This is no way to live. I will not live like this anymore. It is wrong. My children and I deserve better than this.

My hope is that public scrutiny will create an impetus for his case to move forward and hasten charges and imprisonment. It may, it may not. I have no control over the outcome. But it's all I know to do at this point. I don't have money or influence or connections. But I have two children that need to be protected. I have the truth, and if I keep telling it, maybe someone will listen.

I have done all I know to do. Let the chips fall where they may.

Note: It's my understanding my blog will not be mentioned in the media story. In the event that it is I will reiterate my comment policy. Comments and discussion are welcome and encouraged as long as they are honest, respectful and on-topic. Comments that are malicious or derogatory will be removed. Anonymous comments are discouraged.

Please know that at the time of airing, I have taken the necessary precautions to protect myself and my children.

Pray for Lydia - young girl in critical condition

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Wed, 23 May 2012 20:49:00 +0000

I've just received news of a story that is both tragic and hopeful, and I'm asking you to take just a moment to read it.

My neighbor and friend Joe shared with me today that the niece of a close family friend was in a serious accident.

A few days ago she was getting off her school bus when she was hit be a garbage truck. She sustained broken bones and a head injury, and is currently in a coma. She has remained in critical condition.

Her name is Lydia. Here is a news story about the accident. The family notes that she is showing small signs of improvement.

Joe has a vision for his friend Lydia. He envisions cards coming in from all over the world so that when she awakens from her coma she will know that she has been held in the thoughts and prayers of a large community of support. I think it's a beautiful vision and I want to do my small part to help bring it to fruition.

Here is what Lydia's family shared about her:

She loves to dance
She is an excellent student and excels in school
She just returned from a trip to Paris with her mom, where they celebrated her 13^th birthday
Her favorite color is lime green

If you'd like to send Lydia a card, here is her address:

Lydia Herrle
c/o Toronto Sick Kids Hospital
555 University Ave
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M5G 1X8

I realize a card may not feel like much when someone is in a life-threatening situation. But god willing, she will recover, and as she does, this support will be something that brings joy and light into what is a very dark passage in her life.

I've had the good fortune to experience such an outpouring of support and I cannot tell you what it blessing it was. It means more than you know. It is truly uplifting.

I am also holding her parents, James and Michelle, in my thoughts. I can't begin to imagine what they are going through right now.

James and Michelle, if you happen to read this, please know that we are sending all good thoughts to you and your daughter and will continue to hold you all in our prayers throughout the coming days and weeks.

Please, take a moment to send Lydia a card and let her know you are rooting for her.

And please share this message on your social media networks so that it will reach a wider audience. I just did a quick search on twitter and it looks like the hash tag #prayforLydia is being used. There are share buttons underneath this post.

Love to you, Lydia. Hang in there sweet girl.

Edit: please see Joe's comment below if you want a quick (and free) way to send a card from your computer. You can create a card online and it will be printed and mailed to her. I just did it, very quick and easy.

Suffer the Children

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Mon, 21 May 2012 22:49:00 +0000

Before my ex-husband came under criminal investigation, I never gave much thought to child pornography. It was something that existed out there. Outside my sphere of experience.

But now, I find myself thinking. Who are these men? And more importantly, who are the children? How do they end up in front of the lens of a camera?

I turned to the internet to look for more information. But then I stopped.

Have you ever considered the actual search terms you have to type into Google if you wanted information on pedophilia and child pornography? Think about it. And then think about whether you want to type that into your computer and see what results come up.

But I did it anyway, because I want to know. While I found a lot of information on pedophilia, I had trouble finding any good information on the children.

I found statistics on child abuse and sexual abuse. I did find a few reports that singled out child exploitation, but they dealt primarily with child trafficking and prostitution. I imagine there is a great deal of overlap here, that victims of exploitation through pornography are often victims of other forms of abuse and exploitation.

But children specifically exploited through child pornography? Who were they and where was the research on them? I don't know. I'm still looking.

I did read the following:

90% of child sexual abuse victims know the perpetrator
The vast majority of children who appear in child pornography “have not been abducted or physically forced to participate. In most cases they know the producer—it may even be their father—and are manipulated into taking part by more subtle means.” (Center for Problem-Oriented Policing).
The number of child pornography cases tried at the federal level has more than doubled in the last decade.
The cases being tried are becoming more intense, with younger victims.
Some photos are so well-known and frequently circulated that seasoned investigators recognize the children right away.
Those who are located will receive a letter from authorities whenever one of their photos turns up in a criminal investigation.
One such victim has received over 850 letters to date. She is seeking restitution in every case in which her photos were identified. (I think I cheered out loud when I read that. I hope she's successful.)

Still, I'm left with so many unanswered questions.

Honestly, I'm not sure how knowing any of this will make a difference. It may be elucidating, but it's not going to help me or anyone else in a practical sense. But I feel driven to know.

I can't get away from the sense that someone should be shedding a light on this. A really big, high intensity light that leaves no shadows.

When I try to tease it apart, it comes back to this. I am haunted by the image of that one little girl. I want to reach back in time and undo what happened to her. I want her to be safe and protected. I want her to have a voice.

I have this fantasy that I get to meet her. That they track her down and one day, I sit across a table from her and talk to her, and I am able to see for myself that she is okay.

I know this won't happen. For a hundred different reasons. But still, it won't go away. Her image, it keeps prodding me.

She is just one. There are thousands more, perhaps hundreds of thousands. I don't know who they are or where they are. They may be in prison. They may be dead. They may be married with children of their own. They may be alone, afraid to trust anyone. They may be sitting in front of a camera right now. I don't know.

But I want to know.

Who are you? Where are you?

Ten funniest pie charts

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Mon, 21 May 2012 02:11:00 +0000

Collected from around the web, and presented to you for your amusement. Because it beats the hell out of paying bills...

13 random google searches, for your pleasure

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Thu, 17 May 2012 02:56:00 +0000

Boob stories – I read those to my kids at night, too.
Cute bra – thank you
A 10-year-old is too young to pose topless, right? - Right! Ding ding ding! Please step to your right and into the nearest abyss. Next.
I need a vibrator – as does Heather/NotefromLapland. See her twitter feed.
Where are all the nuded – not here, sorry. Go back to Googled.
Naked rugby pics – actually, you are in the right place
Hot redheads – you too
Tosspot – wanker
Paint body man – If you insist. Send him over.
What's in my dance bag – Dunno. Heather's vibrator?
Why do people make things so complicated – amen, sister. If you figure it out, please share.
Mix alcohol and vicodin – tosspot
Evolution stop following me freaks – okay, sorry.

I couldn't make this stuff up.

So. What brings people to your blog?

The boundaries of the heart

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Mon, 14 May 2012 00:38:00 +0000

I expected the weight of sole parenthood to feel like a burden. But it didn't. It doesn't.

What I didn't realize was just how quickly a situation that would have seemed insurmountable before can became a new normal.

When I was married, there was always a push/pull over who would get up and do some mundane parenting chore – bathe the kids, change a diaper, enforce a time out. Neither of us had family anywhere nearby. It was just us, with the kids, all the time. It felt like so much.

Now it's just me. And it's okay. One of those conundrums of life.

There is a freshness to starting over, an infusion of hope that can smooth out the rough edges of loss. After the end of everything, there was a pause, and then I began to think in terms of beginnings. I considered what it would be like to be married again, to be a family again. I still want to get it right.

This weekend our subdivision had a neighborhood garage sale. It was an opportunity to lighten my load, so I took part. I went through every closet in our house and even ventured down to that motherload of stuff-accumulation, the basement.

Ten plastic tubs full of clothes to give away. Books and books and baby toys. Why had I held onto all that?

I've lived in this house for ten years and it always felt like a waystation. It still does. Something inside us always knows where we should or shouldn't be. I've lived here all this time, poised to go.

My son agreed to sell his toy tool bench to earn money to buy Legos. My daughter sold some naked Barbies for a dollar each. They set up a lemonade stand.

I watched them carefully arrange their wares, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind an ear or wrap a coat a bit tighter in the morning chill.

Children. You love them to the very boundaries of your heart. And then the next day you love them right over the edge.

I rigged up a bar to hang some of the clothes I was selling. Others I put out on blankets on the ground. One by one I opened up the boxes and emptied the contents.

I carried one of the tubs out to the driveway and took off the lid. It was full of my son's baby clothes. Pale blue bodysuits and onesies in little boy patterns. I still had baby clothes? I thought I had given them away long ago.

I stared at the box for a moment. I picked up a pair of overalls with a tiger on the front. I was completely unprepared for the emotion that welled up in me.

After Daniel became a toddler, I began getting rid of all the baby equipment and clothes. We were both pretty clear that we didn't want more children. I had what I had always wanted. Two kids, a boy and a girl. Completion.

I'm not sure when it was that the thought of another child crept into my heart. It entered so slyly. I'm too old to be thinking of more children. So that thought, it just sat there on the edge of my consciousness. I was hardly even aware of it. Until I opened that box.

I set the clothes out on a blanket, arranging them in neat piles, with the outfits most likely to sell front and center. The fine art of yard sale merchandizing. I smoothed out the corners of the blanket, neatened each pile.

Cars began to arrive. Strangers walked up the driveway. Hands sifted through our belongings. I sold three skirts, a framed print, a princess costume. Anna sold two Barbies. I watched the blanket full of baby clothes.

People came and went. At the end of the day we made almost two hundred dollars. Not much, but something. Everything that didn't sell, I began putting in bags to take to the local women's shelter.

I left the baby clothes until last. I began sorting through them and putting the clothes into a bag. But some of them, the ones I loved most, I held out.

I put them in a small box and placed the box in the top of a closet, tucked back in the corner. You hardly know it's there.

We went out to dinner to celebrate our sales, then I took them to Target and let them spend a portion of the earnings on a new toy each. Dan bought a Lego ambulance. Anna a locking journal. We came home and Dan set to work on his Lego. Anna and I played Yahtzee until it was time to go to bed.

I went to sleep that night in a house that was lighter. The air felt lighter. It was as if I could feel the empty spaces in the basement below. It felt like hope. That sigh of relief as you leave the confessional.

And that box. I could feel it too. Tucked away back there, in the corner. When I leave this place, I will take it with me.

Feedback from yesterday's post

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Fri, 11 May 2012 16:50:00 +0000

Yesterday I put up a post about Romney's alleged assault of a fellow student and I very quickly received a response from someone who took issue with what I had to say. Not about Romney, but my statement that integrity is a fixed trait that usually doesn't change over time. She said that statement was hurtful to her.

After re-reading what I wrote, I agreed that it sounded like a sweeping generalization and didn't properly convey what I wanted to say, so I edited it to focus on abuse, which is what I was on about. Though honestly, I'm still skeptical that integrity is something that increases much over time. That just hasn't been my observation. Am I wrong? I'd loved to be wrong about that.

I don't feel that people are incapable of change, or of healing. Far from it. I think healing is one of our primary purposes in life.

She got me to thinking more deeply about the issues of abuse and respect, and what exactly is integrity. To me, all three are connected. Hot-button issues for me, as you probably know.

I feel really, really strongly about assault and abuse. I feel really, really strongly about gay rights (or, as I like to call them, human rights).

In my mind, both are intrinsically tied to respect. Both are intrinsically issues of entitlement. Both involve oppression.

Here is what I've learned about abuse. It is not caused by poor anger management. It is not the result of a bad childhood, or of psychological or emotional problems (though all those things may be present in situations of abuse). Abuse is a problem of values, a distorted sense of right and wrong.

Abuse stems from a distorted sense of entitlement.

I believe that people who can justify carrying out targeted abuse and assault typically do not change over time. Only very, very rarely. Blame, projection and justification are hallmarks of abuse, making these people very resistant to any real change. I've read a lot of research on the subject, trying to make sense of it. It's sobering.

Oh, and something else. Assault is not a prank. Short-sheeting your sister's bed is a prank. Tying someone's shoelaces together is a prank. Disappointed with both Romney and the media for minimizing what happened.

Okay. So the woman who first wrote me. We engaged in a conversation on the topic of personal transformation and I asked her is she wanted to share some of the insights from her own experience in today's post. She did, though prefers to remain anonymous

For the record, I welcome all discussion, regardless of whether you agree with what I have to say, as long as it's communicated respectfully. (Aside to friends of ex: this does not apply to you. If you write me again I will pass your name and address to the media at the time his charges go through -- I'm sure they would love to talk with parents who support the production and distribution of child pornography.)

Kudos to you 'anon' for having the courage to write and let me know your thoughts.

Anyway, here is her story.

* * *

I am a recovering alcoholic. My father was an alcoholic. My mother was an enabler. My brother was stuck with us.

I was sexually abused by a neighborhood boy a few times and by a family friend for years. When I told my mom the first time she just sort of glossed over it. A few years after it stopped the whole can of worms exploded all over our lives. My abuser died in jail.

Not surprisingly, I had behavioral issues at a young age. I was diagnosed with PTSD. I suffered from depression and a mild form of bi-polar disorder. I always felt less than others. I was lonely and fearful. And sometimes I was angry. I felt persecuted by the other kids at my small school. I was bullied physically and verbally. When I switched to public school I was chased home and threatened on multiple occasions. It sucked.

Sometimes I would bully back. I definitely participated in bullying behavior against a few other kids in middle school. Same same for high school, but by then I was trying to be nicer. But those feelings of inferiority and pain and fear never left me, and colored the simplest interactions with those around me.
I engaged in lying. Cheating. One time in grade school I stole over $100 from other kids during a book fair and bought myself a shitload of books. Eventually I got into drugs like weed and meth. I stole from my family, I stole from stores. I kicked the drugs in my late teens and began using alcohol as my sole escape. As I got older, I began to believe that my only worth was my ass. So I gave it up left and right. I lied to my jobs about why I was late. I stole a TON of merchandise from one employer and sold it to another business for profit. I falsified time sheets, travel mileage, concessions. I have been known to sleep with multiple partners in one night. I may have even raped someone; I don't know. That night only comes to me in my nightmares.

I did some of these things before ever taking my first drink. I did some of these things while under the influence of drugs or alcohol. I did some of these things while I had no mind-altering substance in my body. My entire outlook was so skewed from my diseases and the previous events in my life it was like viewing the world through a gigantic bubble; EVERYthing was distorted. Someone reading through specific bits of what I have written above could very easily conclude I have no integrity. That I am nothing but a loser, a waste of space. Someone you wouldn't allow near your kids. Someone who belongs in jail or an institution. Someone who needs to be held accountable for their actions and punished. And had you met me during some of those years, you would have been wise to avoid me. Because while my actions were generally dictated by my untreated mental illnesses and emotional scars, they were still my actions. They had tangible effects on others around me. And at that time, I didn't f***ing care. YOUR pain was not as real as mine, so screw you. You were part of my problem.

Thankfully I am no longer that person. I acknowledge that what I did WAS WRONG. Period. No matter what was going on in my life, it does not excuse my actions. I have made amends to all the people I could contact, and written letters to those I could not reach. I have admitted every single thing I have done that was hurtful or wrong to another human being OUTLOUD to a willing listener. I have committed to never doing those things again, and to help others who are suffering wherever possible. Years of work on my emotional and spiritual well being has shown me that I never have to be that person again.

The mental illness is still there. The disease of alcoholism is still there. The fear is still there. So is the loneliness, the anger, the sadness. The inferiority complex is alive and kicking. BUT. It is so much better. I do not steal. I do not cheat. I do not lash out physically. I am now married with a small child and my number one goal is to show my child how to be decent human being. And I believe I can do so, because I have learned to be human. I have learned to have compassion. I have learned how to be honest, especially when I don't want to be. I do not have the luxury of poor or harmful behavior, because if I am not careful I may drink again. And for me, to give up sobriety could mean giving up my hard-won humanity.

* * *

Kristin here again. I'm curious, what are your thoughts on personal transformation? Do you think a person's basic character generally changes through their life? Is that even the right question to ask (how do you define basic character, anyway)? Throwing this one over to you. I'm not sure.

A bully is a bully is a bully

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Thu, 10 May 2012 15:58:00 +0000

I don't usually get political here on my blog. That almost always leads to no good.

Though this post deals with a political candidate, it's not about politics. It's about compassion and a basic grounding in humanity.

Today a story broke in the WashingtonPost that describes how Mitt Romney, while in prep (high) school, assaulted a fellow student. The student, John Lauber, was gay and the subject of merciless teasing.

When Lauber came back from Spring break, he was sporting a new bleach blond look, which Romney disapproved of. Romney allegedly shouted, "He can't look like that. That's wrong. Just look at him!"

Romney led a posse of boys to Lauber, where they fell upon him and proceeded to hold him down and cut off his hair as he cried and screamed for help.

The story is corroborated by five different students and by Lauber himself before he died in 2004. Lauber told a classmate, years later, that the incident left deep scars.

Many people say that what a politician does outside of office doesn't matter. Affairs, alcoholism, drug use, etc. What matters to them is how well they perform the duties of their office.

I disagree. Because in my opinion, the same integrity (or lack thereof) that drives their decisions in everyday life is going to drive their political decisions.

And while people do mature and change over time, people with a mindset that can justify targeted assault generally do not. I believe it's a pretty fixed character trait. If someone is willing to cross certain critical boundaries in their 20's, they will cross them later in life. They may be more discreet about it, they may dress their actions up in sheep's clothing, but they will still do it.

Because for them, those boundaries don't exist.

This is not about democrats and republicans or liberals and conservatives. It's about being a humanitarian. I'm a fiscal conservative with a liberal social agenda. I'm a democrat. I have a number of friends who are not. I respect and value those friends. Though we share different perspectives on political issues, it doesn't matter because, quite simply, they are good people. I will listen to and respect their opinions. I will never, ever respect persecution, bullying or oppression.

Yesterday, Obama became the first U.S. President to openly declare his support of gay marriage. Some claim that the statement, or the timing of the statement, was political. Some claim that the timing of the Romney story is also political. Maybe. I'm sure there is an agenda behind when and how any information on political candidates is released.

But still. He did it. The president of the United States openly spoke up for tolerance and equality.

And still. Romney did it. He assaulted a classmate because he was gay.

This post will make you (feel) smarter

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Wed, 09 May 2012 02:24:00 +0000

The other day I was driving in the car and my kids were chatting in the back seat about the solar system (as kids do). My 9-yr-old daughter piped up: “I can name the planets in order!” And then she rattled them off. “Is that right, Mommy?”

I hesitated a moment as I struggled to remember...which came first, Neptune or Uranus? Mostly, however, I wanted to know how she knew.

“Easy,” she answered. “They taught us a trick in school to help us remember. My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas."

Ah, yes. A mnemonic device.

When I was in college I studied religion. We had to memorize all the books of the Bible, in order. While I've forgotten the tricks I used to remember them all (there were several), I will never, ever, even on my deathbed at age 97, lose the ability to rattle off the Pentateuch – the first five books of the Bible: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy.

Why?

GELNAD.

A professor taught us that word as a mnemonic device. It means nothing, but for some reason I've never forgotten it. By the way, the 'A' is just thrown in there so the word is pronounceable. It doesn't matter. It still works. I realize the Pentateuch may be obvious to many, but for the unchurched amongst us...not so much. We need GELNAD.

Mnemonic devices work because they use imagery, rhyme or words to trigger memory. I can also name all 50 states, in alphabetical order, because I learned them in a song when I was nine (Fifty Nifty United States). I'm a bit in love with mnemonic devices because they make me feel smarter than I am. Especially since having children siphoned a good 20 points off my IQ.

Here are some of my favorites. Memorize a few. You'll feel instantly smarter.

Roman Numerals

I Value Xylophones Like Cows Dig Milk

I, V, X, L, C, D, M = 1, 5, 10, 50, 100, 500, 1000

Biological Classifications

King Phillip Could Only Find Green Socks
Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species

Bones in the skull

Old People From Texas Eat Spiders

occipital, parietal, frontal, temporal, ethnoid, sphenoid

The fates of the six wives of Henry VIII
Divorced, Beheaded, Died

Divorced, Beheaded, Survived

Great, now that I know how they died, what are their names?

Can't Anne Just Accept Catastrophe Calmly?

Catherine, Anne, Jane, Anne, Catherine, Catherine

(That one is mine, you're welcome.)

How to spell Rhythm

Rhythm Helps Your Two Hips Move

I wish I'd remembered this when my kids were younger. In the fog that accompanies new parenthood, I could barely remember my own name. Why didn't I just use mnemonics?

For instance, this would have been helpful:

How to get out of the garage

Keep It In YouR Pants, Bud

Key in ignition, release parking break

What to do in the morning

Will U Please Bake a Dozen Cookies? Now.

Wake up, pee, brush, drink coffee, nap

What to make for dinner

Cereal

Cereal

Too late for me. My kids are older now and I've graduated to making eggs and toast for dinner. But feel free to use these if you are a new mother.

Oh, and while whomever invented mnemonics was a true giver, the person who determined how it would be spelled was clearly a sadist.

What about you? Do you use mnemonics?

P.S. I've installed Disqus. I'm trusting that all the comments that *poof* disappeared will magically reappear at some point. Right?!

Tornado Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Mon, 07 May 2012 21:59:00 +0000

You know you're in Kansas when your blog posting is interrupted by a series of tornado sirens. That's what happened to me last night as I was getting ready to publish my post.

The storm that hit while I was out running yesterday turned out to be the edge of a large system that brought with it heavy rains, hail, flash flooding and tornadoes.

The hail hit around 6:00 and then the sirens went off about 6:30. A tornado had been sighted over our section of town, but as it touched down only briefly, no damage was done.

At 7:30 the power went out. After the all-clear, I went upstairs and looked out the window. An impressive river of water running through our yard and pouring down over our driveway. Unfortunately, my cell phone had died by that point I wasn't able to get any pictures.

There were a number of pictures of the tornado posted online today, one of which was taken just down the street from us. And no, I never saw it, because I was not standing out on my porch, but rather I was IN THE BASEMENT WITH MY KIDS.

The rest of you -- out of the gene pool!

Anyway, I collected some of the shots taken by those who should not be procreating, so you can see what springtime in Kansas looks like.

Photos from KCPT-5 website.

Gotta love a stormchaser with Instragram

So. Who's up for a visit? Anyone?

Running

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Mon, 07 May 2012 02:55:00 +0000

Several months ago I had a dream that I was running on a freeway. I was in the middle of a lane, amongst the cars, as if I were a car.

It made about as much sense as any dream, but what was significant was how I felt. I felt great. I was breathing deeply, my body was strong, I wasn't tired at all. I felt like I could run forever.

When I woke up I thought: I want to feel that.

It was several months later before I actually went for my first run. I was out of shape and my energy was low. I could only run for short sprints. Mostly, I walked.

I kept at it, though, and little by little, I began to run more and walk less. It was slow going. I had been diagnosed with anemia, and then my thyroid levels went screwy. But I worked to correct both and as my fatigue lessened, my distances grew.

I don’t know why I thought I could run. I’ve never been a runner. When I was in high school, I had surgery on my right leg – they made a clean cut through both the tibia and fibula -- and I was on crutches for six months. I still have a metal plate and screws in my leg. Ever since then, the one leg has given me trouble. It aches. It’s weaker than my left leg. It's prone to shin splints.

When I started running I didn’t think I would stick with it. I thought it would be too hard. But for some reason it was important to me to keep at it. With everything else falling down around me, I wanted something that I could succeed at, something I could overcome. And I wanted to feel what I felt in that dream.

Now I can go three to five miles at a stretch, though I still alternate between running and walking. I run three times a week. I’ve lost twenty pounds since January.

Today, my son wanted to go up to the track at the nearby school so he could play in the sandpit they use for their long jump. I readily agreed.

When we arrived he started building a castle and moat and I took off around the track. There were some dark clouds moving in and I kept an eye on them. As I circled the track I could hear a few claps of thunder.

Each time I passed the sandpit I would admire his progress. After about two miles I felt the first drops of rain. My son looked up at me when I passed, wondering if this meant the end of the castle-building fun, but I just shrugged and kept going. He smiled and kept building.

In just a few months, the two year mark would come (and probably go) on Jim’s criminal case. Still, there were no charges. I never dreamed it would drag on this long. It felt like a suspended free fall.

Time had made him more confident and he seemed to be finding more and more ways to litigate, accuse, withhold, obscure, harass. He tiptoed around the edges of the restraining order, looking for an opening.

A few more laps and the rain began to fall more steadily. I was breathing deep, but I wasn’t out of breath. My legs were tired, but I wanted to keep running. It felt good. I felt good.

As a hit the straightaway on the far side, the sky opened up. I smiled and looked up. My life was in a shambles, but in that moment, I felt free. For the briefest moment, as I ran down a track at a high school in suburban Kansas in the falling rain, I was free.

I finished my lap, gathered up my son and walked home in the rain. He danced along beside me, stopping occasionally to show me how he could catch drops in his mouth. When we got home, I stood on the driveway and stretched in the rain as he twirled around me.

The sky was growing darker and the rain falling harder, so I motioned for him to come in. He ran up to me and gave me a spontaneous hug. “Mommy, this is the best day ever.”

I laughed. Sometimes I forget the immediacy with which children live. All that matters is that very moment.

We retreated to the shelter of the garage, but neither of us really wanted to go in. For a few minutes, we just stood there, side by side, and looked out at the rain.

Some Comments on Commenting

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Wed, 02 May 2012 00:21:00 +0000

No, sorry, this isn't a post about flamers and comment etiquette (waves as everyone wanders back to Twitter).

Rather, I want to get some feedback on commenting. I am thinking of installing a third party comment system such as Disqus or Echo. I've waited 2 ½ years for Blogger to give us something decent and they haven't. Though I have heard rumors about a new Google comment system being launched soon. Have you heard that?

Anyway, curious what your thoughts are. My goal is to have a more interactive system that allows for direct replies to specific comments. My experience is that such a system creates a more engaging discussion.

Blogger's system posts comments as they come in. A lot of my comments are from overseas readers, and are posted while I am asleep. By the time I'm awake and available, the comment I want to respond to is buried deep up in the queue. If I respond, it feels like a fractured conversation.

So I'm curious, what is your favorite system? Any you really dislike? I know none are perfect (except perhaps Wordpress, but for some reason Blogger doesn't allow Wordpress plug-ins – spoilsports).

I also wanted to thank everyone who commented on my last post. I know it can be difficult to know what to say after reading something so raw and personal. I have a hard time responding to your comments on those posts, too. I'm not sure why. Maybe, like many of you confessed, I just don't know what to say.

But if you left a comment, know that you were heard and that I appreciate the support. It means a lot.

Okay, commenting systems. Which is the lesser evil? Disqus? Intense Debate? Stone tablets? If you've installed one, did it go smoothly? Are you put off by having to sign in to a system in order to comment?

What I Remember

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 03:24:00 +0000

I remember having an ultrasound when I was pregnant with my first child. I was so nervous. The technician asked us if we wanted to know the sex (we did) and then told us it was a girl. I cried. I was so happy. And he cried too. He had always wanted a girl.

I remember one day, when our daughter was just a baby, he showed me a book. The book had photographs of nudes. Some of the photos were of young women, many were of children, a few were of whole families. He admired the photographer, whom he called an artist. I remember feeling an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of my stomach. It didn't feel like art to me. I asked where he got the book. He told me his mother gave it to him.

I remember one day, when our kids were toddlers, some girls from down the street were in our backyard. Kids would often come to our yard when we were out because he liked kids and would stop what he was doing and play with them. He started giving airplane rides to the two girls, swinging them around by their feet. The older girl was wearing a dress and when he swung her it bunched down around her armpits. She was trying to pull it back up, she was telling him to stop, but he just kept swinging her. I didn’t understand why he didn't stop. Afterward, I asked him why he didn't stop. He acted like it was nothing.

I remember the internet used to go down all the time when I worked on my computer. My computer was hooked up to the computer in his home office, which was part of a complicated set up with a router and home server. I could never get into his computer to re-set it because he had everything password protected. I would just have to wait until he got home.

I remember him telling me that he didn't understand why men liked big breasts. He said he found small breasts to be much more attractive, even very small breasts.

I remember the door bell ringing and ignoring it, because I had a migraine. I assumed it was solicitors. And then it rang again and I walked downstairs and opened the door and there were three detectives standing there. One showed me his badge and said they had a search warrant.

Later, as they were searching the house, I remember one of the detectives stopping me in the hallway and telling me they would need a picture of my children. I was confused. My kids? Why would they need a picture of my kids? He paused for a long moment, and during that pause it still didn't hit me. Then he said they needed it for comparison. I felt the walls close in upon me. I nodded, and then I went into the bathroom and vomited.

I remember a domestic violence counselor telling me that I needed to go into his office, that I needed to know what was in there. I didn't want to. But I went in and stood among the pulled-out computer wires and stacks of CD's. I found a disc with his handwriting on it. I wondered why the detectives hadn't taken it.

I put the disc into my computer. There were hundreds of images on it. I opened one up. I caught my breath. It was a young girl, maybe nine. Our daughter's age. She was kneeling on some pillows. She wore makeup and a pearl necklace, but other than that she was naked. I called the lead detective and he was at the house in ten minutes.

I remember my aunt and brother flying out to help me pack up his office. Because I couldn't go back in there. Every time I thought of going in there, I felt ill. As they were packing, they kept finding more stuff. The detective came back out to the house several times. Finally, he said to set everything aside and then call him when we were done packing.

That little girl, she looked so much like my daughter. The same round face. I can still see her face. I can never un-see her face. She was just a girl. She had a mother. Where was her mother? For god's sake, she was just a little girl.

The Wild

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 19:28:00 +0000

The road to Denver is a good ten hours of steady driving. I've barely begun and already the strip malls and subdivisions are thinning out, giving way to miles of rolling field.

When I hit the open spaces my body exhales and relaxes. All the tight places in me unwind. My mind clears, the walls come down, my heart expands. I am wide awake. It's the emptiness and silence, the purity of a simple landscape. I could drive on like this forever.

I make the trip a couple of times a year. The city itself is a blur. It's all big buildings and fast cars. It's not about Denver, it's about the spaces in between.

I wonder at the irony of this, that a rich experience of nature is had by driving through it.

As I travel west, there are fewer signs of habitation. The rows of wheat and milo disappear, the distance between exits stretches out, and soon I'm on the open prairie. The Flint Hills. Just the road and miles of pale golden grass fanning out to the horizon. If I squint just right, I don't even see the road.

Herds of buffalo used to blanket the plains. They thundered across the prairie, hundreds of thousands of them, bellowing their buffalo songs and sending vast clouds of dust to the heavens. They are gone now, for the most part. Just a handful of solemn beasts circling the boundaries of their enclosures, turning their heads into the wind to catch the scent of something they almost remember.

There is an animal farm just off the highway in western Kansas. I guess you would call it a roadside attraction. As you get close, wooden signs announce, Prairie Dog Town! and 5-legged cow! I stopped there once, years ago. Why did I do that? I don't know why. As soon as I got there, I regretted it.

Nonetheless, I ventured onto the grounds. There was a large barn that had been converted into a gift shop, and outside a series of pens which held an odd assortment of domestic and wild animals. It was summer and the heat was oppressive. In one pen was a cow with a shriveled appendage protruding from it's shoulder. In another, a wild boar nosed the ground with his snout. There was no shade.

Towards the far end I walked up to a cage with a concrete floor. As I drew near, I caught my breath. Inside was a wolf. He was large, his coat a brilliant auburn with flecks of gray. When I approached, he didn't flinch.

I guessed he had been in that cage for a long time, years perhaps. The sign on the cage was weathered. It told me his name. I don't remember his name, only that it was something ridiculous. I stood there and looked at this wolf until I couldn't look at him any more. I turned and walked back to my car.

Every time I drive to Denver I pass those signs. Every time I pass them I look away.

* * *

About fifteen years ago I moved from Seattle to the Midwest. On the drive out I took a detour through Yellowstone Park. My car was crammed with books and clothes. My two cats rode shotgun. It was fall and the aspen were turning. The long grass glinted gold in the sunlight.

I took a wrong turn at some point, without realizing it, and ended up on a road that was closed to the public. I wound slowly through the park, mesmerized, wondering where all the other cars were. I realized my mistake when I came to a dead-end.

I turned my car around and headed back, only to stop after a hundred feet. A full-grown male bison had wandered onto the road and was standing in my path. I looked at him and he looked directly at me. My cat hissed.

He was huge, as big as my car. He huffed in the cool autumn air. A long spit of saliva hung from his mouth. He was the most magnificent thing I'd ever seen.

We sat there and regarded each other for several minutes and I wondered if I should be afraid. He could crush my car if the whim took him. But I wasn't afraid.

I wondered what it would be like to stand next to him and touch him. To feel the quiver of muscle beneath his skin, the expansion and release of his breath. I knew better than to go near a wild animal. But I wanted to touch him precisely because he was wild. I wanted to slip inside him for a moment, and know him from the inside out.

After a long time he turned and wandered back off the road. I sat and watched him retreat. I thought to myself, if you took that animal and placed him in a land without fences, that would be my religion.

* * *

I live in a beige house in a beige subdivision that sits on the edge of the prairie. To the east of me are more subdivisions. To the west, open fields. I straddle the boundary between civilization and the wild.

At night I sit in bed and listen to the cars go by, until it gets late, and then I listen to the crickets and the soft whoosh of bat wings. If I listen long enough, there is only the sound of the wind.

Later, when the world is asleep, I close my eyes and slip out of my body and through the window and glide low over the fields. If I wanted to, I could reach down and touch the tops of the tall grass. If I wanted to, I could shift into the earth herself and be perfectly content.

Photo credit

Goodbye, for now

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 22:41:00 +0000

I want to share two things with you today.

The first is that I am putting Wanderlust on hiatus. I’ve been on a sort of quasi-hiatus for a few months, posting only sporadically. But I’ve decided to make it official. I’m not shutting down permanently. But for the next few months there is a great deal of transition in my world – big changes -- and I need my time, energy and focus on the home front.

For those of you who are disappointed about this, don’t worry, I’ll be back before too long. For those of you who are expressing glee, steady there. Read to the end of my post.

When I was in the throes of trauma last year, I needed to write. A voice within told me to just keep writing. The engagement and phenomenal support that came from the blogging community was so healing. I could spend the rest of my life saying thank you and it would still feel inadequate.

Today, that same voice is telling me to be silent and to pull my energy in. So I’m listening and trusting.

This is exciting and scary all at once. But more exciting than scary.

Second, I want to share one important thought with you before I go. Bear with me for a moment as I give you some backstory that informs this thought and also explains the cringe-worthy color of my blog today.

As you are probably aware, the Susan G Komen Foundation, a multi-million dollar charitable foundation supporting breast cancer research and preventive education, has been in the news a lot lately. The Foundation is best known for the Race for the Cure and selling lots and lots of pink products (for the cure). They’ve raised a lot of money for worthy causes. That’s awesome.

However, they came under fire for cutting funding to Planned Parenthood, which provides breast exams for a predominantly low-income population. The maelstrom (which appears to be well documented by internal memos) is that the move was politically motivated because PP also provides abortions.

Since then journalists have been digging deeper into the organization and what they’re coming up doesn’t sit well with the public. For instance, Komen has partnered with weapons manufacturers to produce pink handguns (for the cure). For the record, firearms are the second leading cause of death by injury in the U.S. True, I googled it.

One story, however, particularly bothered me. The Foundation has aggressively sought to censor other organizations that have used the language ‘for the cure’ in their campaigns, claiming trademark infringement. They have filed lawsuits against over 100 other organizations, mostly small, local groups.

According to this article, one family, which runs kite-flying events (Kites for the Cure) to raise money for lung cancer, received a letter from Komen’s lawyers saying they owned the word ‘cure’ and to stop using it. They also reportedly told them never to use the color pink in conjunction with their fundraising.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve been involved in too many legal dealings the past two years. And maybe it’s because I’ve had my own words pulled from my blog and thrown back at me in a courtroom, in what I can only presume was an attempt to distract from the crux of the matter under litigation.

But when I read this last article about Komen, it struck me as simply ridiculous. At best.

There’s a lot I don’t know, but here is one thing I do.

Each of our lives is a dance and we get to choose its orchestration. We hear the music. We decide how to express it. Maybe our dance takes the form of a painting or a ceramic mug or, hey ho, a blog. Maybe we express it by nurturing a sick child or creating a loving marriage or getting an education. Maybe someone we love dies of lung cancer and we are inspired to start an organization to fund research into the disease so that, god willing, one day, we can save someone else from the loss we endured. Maybe we become a monk or a teacher or a financial consultant. Maybe we BLOG FOR THE CURE ™! Maybe we go silent. Maybe we turn our site pink to express our dedication to creative expression (but only for a day, because…ugh…pink).

Maybe no one else sees our dance; or they see it and they call it mediocre.

There will always be those who seek to quash our creations. I hate that, I don’t get it, but it’s true. I read it once in the Manual for Surviving Humanoid Life on Earth.

You know what? Don’t let them.

No one can tell you how to interpret the music in your soul. No one can tell you to stop expressing your creative genius – and each of us is a creative genius. No one owns you or your words or an idea or, for heaven's sake, a color. Don’t accept the boundaries that someone else might place on you.

You owe it to the world to keep on. We're waiting breathlessly to see your dance.

Me, I’m not quitting my dance. I’m simply taking it off-stage for a while.

Over and out, geniuses.

I must be mad

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 06:25:00 +0000

It started like any other Saturday (which is to say I hid under the covers when I heard the kids, wondering for the eleventy-hundredth time why they jump out of bed at 7:00 a.m. sharp on a weekend).

But all was soon to change.

I had 13 seven-year-olds descending upon my house in short order.

When my son told me he wanted to have his party at the house this year (despite my enthusiastic suggestion of a large facility with bouncy equipment), I was stumped. How do you entertain a bunch of seven-year-olds?

And why me?

Nevertheless, I put on my big girl socks and consulted google.

I came up with this: a mad scientist party.

Behold the madness....

We learned about helium

We dyed our own frosting and decorated cookies

Then we got to reach in and pick out our own bug from a gelatin brain

(sorry for poor quality - photographer was doubling as harried party mom)

Experiments were made.

Photos were taken of be-wigged and be-goggled children.

Presents were opened with glee.

Kittens were terrorized.

Unimaginable decibel levels were reached.

I praised the heavens when the last child left.

Next year... I'm totally thinking bouncy equipment.

*** huge thanks to the mom who decided to stay and help (brave soul), and especially to the mad scientist who showed up to entertain the minions - you rock ***

*** boo to the several parents who didn't RSVP, and especially the one who not only didn't RSVP, but also dropped off little brother (and ran) ***

Answers to Australia Day quiz and what the hell do you do with kale?

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 19:03:00 +0000

I know, I know. I don't blog for almost a month and then you get two posts in (technically) one day. I am nothing if not inconsistent.

It's just that when I woke up this morning I checked ~~the calendar~~ Facebook and realized it was Australia Day. Which reminded me that last year I ran an Australia Day quiz because I wanted to see how the quiz feature in google docs worked. An then I never gave you the answers. Which reminded me I hadn't logged onto google docs in exactly a year.

So, while I'm trying to figure out how to get back into google docs, let me share something with you.

Yesterday I read a book on the health benefits of whole foods and was so inspired that I went directly to the grocery store to buy a bunch of leafy green vegetable matter. I came home with, among other things, a huge bunch of kale. Really huge. It takes up half a shelf in my refrigerator.

My fit of inspiration continued. I made carrot soup to freeze, then fed the kids broccoli and fruit for dinner. I ground flax seeds. I made a spinach salad for lunch today. I put almond milk in my coffee. I am practically brimming with phytochemicals.

But back to the kale. I realized I don't have the slightest idea what to do with it.

I open the fridge and look at it and it looks back at me. I close the door, but the next time I open it, the kale is still there.

Fucker.

Please, if you have any kale suggestions, share them with me. I'm losing the staring contest.

Anyway, back to the quiz.

According to the 72 of you who took the time: Melbourne rocks harder than Sydney, you're rich with ore, Armenia is not on your short list, I have the sexiest accent (thank you), and heads up, North Korea is coming south to party.

Oh, and I'm wearing this in my next photo shoot:

I'm rather relieved, to tell you the truth, as this came in a close second:

Do you have any idea how much kale I'd have to eat before I'd wear that in public?

So, seriously. what to I do with the kale?

It scares me...

Battening down the hatches

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 06:25:00 +0000

There is a card in the tarot deck called the Wheel of Fortune. I have always been intrigued by and a bit enamored with it.

It is the wheel of Fortuna, the goddess of Fate. Around and around it turns, bringing us new experiences, opportunities, beginnings and completions -- the rise and fall of our fortunes.

As she delivers to us the fruits of the seeds we have sown, for better or for worse, she teaches us that life is never static and the future is rarely predictable.

I haven't written here in almost three weeks. I've never, in the life of my blog, gone that long without posting.

I have never been very good at writing about the mundane or the trivial when there is something big standing just behind me. I want to turn around and look at the big thing and write about what I see.

Right now, there is something big standing right behind me. Only, I can't make out just what it is.

For one, there is movement on the legal front, finally. Though I've learned not to hold my breath. And for the moment I have to hold my pen.

But it's more than that.

Today I went through the pantry and threw out all the canned food that had expired. Last week I sorted piles of school papers and old bills, shredded a jillion credit card offers. I've been hauling boxes up from the basement and getting rid of stuff I've held onto for too long -- stuff I never needed to begin with.

Anything that's no longer useful -- that's outgrown, outdated, superfluous -- I want it gone. I want my life pared down to the essentials.

I feel like I'm preparing for something, but I don't know what.

There is a voice inside me that is saying: put your house in order, gather your children close, be ready.

That sounds ominous, I know. It doesn't feel ominous. A little scary perhaps, the way the pause at the top of a roller coaster is scary, when you know the freefall is coming.

Blogging, stats, sponsors, social engagement... all of that has lots its pull for the time being. I'll come back to it, I'm sure, but for now I feel like I need to gather my energy back in and preserve it for the coming months.

One thing I do know is that I feel Fortuna's wheel turning. This sense of impending change is almost visceral. I don't know what's coming down the pike, but I'm buckling my seat belt so I'll be ready.

Can you tell which of these is worth $30 million?

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 19:24:00 +0000

I can always count on my friends to send me links to interesting stories. Today they did not disappoint.

The headline for the story is this: Colorado woman punches, rubs her buttocks against $30 million painting.

After reading the article, the burning question I was left with was, "$30 million? Seriously?"

Below are two paintings. One is the $30 million masterpiece from the Denver museum (or, as MSN puts it, 'the painting at the center of the alleged incident') and the other was done by a work colleague's 73-year-old mother-in-law, who was experimenting with a new technique.

Can you tell which is which?

Painting #1

Painting #2

Painting #3

I've included a link to the story below, but before you click on it, tell me in the comment section which one you think was valued at $30 million.

Do you know? Are you having trouble making a decision?

And while we're at it, which woman do you think is the perpetrator at the center of the alleged incident?

Woman #1

Woman #2

Um...okay. Never mind that one.

While the story was fairly thorough, I was left with several unanswered questions:

1. Whose job is it to determine the monetary value of damage caused by buttock rubbing? Is there credentialing for that?

2. Why didn't anyone tell me I was in the wrong line of work? Wish I'd read this news story before reading this. Shiznit.

3. And omg, how much would it hurt to get your throat tattooed? Damn.

Okay, here's the link to the story. How'd you do?

Oh, and for the record. I love the painting hanging in my colleague's office. I smile every time I walk by and see it.

Where the heck have you been?

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 02:28:00 +0000

Today I opened my laptop for the first time in two weeks.

I intended to take several days away from blogging over the holiday, but once I disconnected I found it hard to get back online. I realized how good it felt just to rest and relax.

Mostly, I just played with the kids, who are on their winter break. As Glow would say, we got our craft on.

Pure joy.

We made snowflakes

We painted

and decoupaged (is that a word?)

I even picked up projects I'd put down years ago

(this is a small section of a large cross-stitch of an Amish farm)

But we didn't just craft. We did a jigsaw puzzle and put together Legos and took silly videos of the kitties. We went to Denver and loved on our family there, and they loved on us.

We played in the snow

and got some cool new hats

Here's what I realized. This past year and a half has been full of so much heavy stuff. Heavy realizations, heavy responsibilities, heavy emotions. And there's more ahead.

To spend a couple of weeks playing and immersing myself in activities that were simply joyful was such a welcome relief. Writing brings me joy, too, but sometimes blogging can feel like another responsibility. Maybe you can relate?

I noticed something else, too. The more I relaxed, the more my diet improved. I began craving healthy organic food. Perhaps I could finally hear what my body has been trying to tell me all along.

I began to meditate again, something I used to do often many years ago. I took salt baths and wrote in my journal. I cleaned out files and rearranged the furniture. I bought fresh flowers.

I made a vision board

I realized something else, too.

I really missed you guys.

I'm wishing each of you a 2012 that is filled with everything your soul craves.

The unspoken

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 21:14:00 +0000

There are words inside me which never make it to the page. When I sit down to write, every thought, every sentence I might pen, is held onto for a moment and tasted, like one rolls a sour candy around in their mouth before deciding to bite.

What if there is reprisal?

This is not how I like to write.

Inside my gut, I feel the dull edges of long silent truths rock up against each other and settle back into place. More often than not, I simply close the computer.

* * *

Our divorce trial is set for February, almost two years after the process began. Two full days have been set aside by the court to deliberate the spoils and obligations of a ten year marriage.

The detectives have said they plan to offer his criminal case to the Feds by the end of January and that, in the unlikely event the Feds turn it down, the County has already agreed to prosecute. Finally, charges are imminent.

What will happen if he is charged? He will be arrested, bail will be set, he will pay it and be out of jail within days. His job of 25 years may or may not be there when he gets out, I don’t know.

But the gig will be up. The news will have hit the papers.

What this will mean for me and the children remains to be seen.

These two events, the divorce trial and the criminal charges, both so long coming, are like two visitors that have been held up in transit, finally arriving long after the dinner plates have been cleared. I see their shadows on the horizon. Sometimes I regard them and think about how their arrival will impact my life. Mostly, I just look away.

No kitty, no!

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 02:28:00 +0000

Yes, kitty, YES!

Photo bombing 101

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 02:51:00 +0000

Tonight I dressed up the kids for our annual Christmas photo to send out with our cards. I know what you're thinking. Um...Kristin, a little 11th hour, aren't we? Well, yes, we are. As usual. But I have a secret weapon under my belt this year for getting my cards out.

Do you remember when I told you about my awesome neighbors, including Joe, who mowed my lawn every week this summer? Well, Joe-the-awesome-lawn-mowing-neighbor works with an outfit called Send Out Cards that lets you design your cards online, upload a list of receipients and mail the cards out, all from the comfort of your favorite couch. Now, that's a goal that even I can achieve!

Score one me.

I was playing around on this website the other day and thought it was so cool that I told Joe that I wanted to post about it. Here's what I love:

You can either use one of their hundreds of existing cards or design your own.
If you choose to make your own you have all kind of options for creative goodness. You can choose from hundreds of background colors and textures, add any text or decorative elements you want, upload and crop photos to include, etc.
It saves your recipients so when a birthday or other occassion comes up, they're already in the system.
You can purchase postage from the website.
Best of all, they have a branch in Australia!
Oh, and if you use this service, it helps Joe in his business and keeps him flush in lawnmower fuel.

So, back to our photo session tonight.

If you've been reading Wanderlust for long you know that a talented photographer, I am not. But I managed to use a needlepoint stand as a makeshift tri-pod for my cell phone.

The first picture was photobombed by a kitten.

In each of the next three one of us ended up with our eyes closed.

Then Anna decided I should take a picture of her holding both the kittens, but at the last minute Dan came up behind her and spooked the kittens and I ended up with this:

Anna, is that a halo I see?

I tried to corral them for more photos, but Dan was insisting on doing rabbit ears behind my head and Anna was crying because the cat had scratched her shoulder when Dan spooked it. And then I noticed the tree was shaking and went over to investigate and found this:

Hmmm...I thinking maybe I have our Christmas picture.

Anyway, my cards are going out first thing Monday. Ish.

If you want to check out Send Out Cards, contact Joe.

Are you on our Christmas card list? If not, email me your addy and you can see how the final product turned out.

* Not a sponsored post. I just like Joe and anything that make my life easier.

Breathing poison

noreply@blogger.com (Wanderlust) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 22:29:00 +0000

My posting has been light of late. There has been stuff happening in the background – court hearings, namely – and I’ve struggled with whether or not I should talk about it, and if so, how much to say.

I don’t want to dwell on the criminal case. Every time I deal with it, it’s like walking into a thick, dark fog. There is an energy, a very dense and qualmy energy, which accompanies sexual and physical violence and those who participate in it.

Every time I deal with some aspect of these crimes, whether in a courtroom or in my dealings with police or my estranged husband, I have to descend into that energy again and it feels like breathing poison. When I write about this stuff, and when you read about it, we are dipping our collective thoughts into that energy. This is not what I want to share with you.

However, writing about it can be cathartic. Expression acts as a catalyst to clear and heal the places in me where this energy has settled. So I try to tease apart what needs out of my system and what is best left unsaid; what can be helpful and enlightening, and what is simply macabre. It’s a fine line.

Lately, I’ve found myself avoiding my blog and not interacting with others online. When that happens, it usually means I have something I need to get out. It’s like a blockage that needs to be cleared from my heart so that I can feel like myself again.

Today I will be sharing some of what was revealed in recent testimony. I will never reveal anything that would compromise the case, only that which has been shared in a public courtroom. Some of it is disturbing. None of it will make you feel good. You may read it if you wish or you can click away.

* * * * *

I’ve had to return to court several times in recent months. This is not the criminal trial – that investigation remains open. Rather, it’s to litigate issues regarding the children. It’s involved testimony from the forensic detective on his case, the children’s therapist and myself. Mr. X (I’m sorry, I can no longer refer to him as ‘my husband’) has refused to testify, pleading the 5^th.

It’s been sobering, infuriating, jaw-droppingly ridiculous and above all, exhausting. Here are the salient points.

I’m going with bullet points on this one. I don’t feel like telling a story.

The forensic detective revealed that an initial scan of Mr. X’s hard drive, using a program that matches images with known child pornography images, revealed 18,000 matches. (In his second testimony, a few months later, he said 14,000. I don’t know which is correct. I’m not sure it matters. Either number is beyond my comprehension.)
The forensic detective revealed that among the material confiscated from Mr. X’s office were videos of pre-pubescent children doing stripteases.
He also revealed that there were videos of adults having sex with pre-pubescent children.
In my testimony, I discussed items found in the home that suggested Mr. X was either producing or intending to produce his own pornography, including recently purchased professional-grade photographic equipment, video-making software, and a hand-drawn floorplan that showed cameras situated in several rooms, including the bedroom, as well as on a porch outside the bedroom. The floorplans did not match any residence I know of.
I revealed concerns I had regarding the children, which I will not discuss here.
During cross-examination, Mr. X’s attorney suggested that I was trying to damage Mr. X’s reputation with my writing. He lifted a couple of partial sentences out of context from separate blog posts and combined them together to support his argument.
I corrected his misstatement and responded that I shared my own personal experiences and the facts of the situation. If those facts were damaging to Mr. X’s reputation, he would have to accept accountability for that.
Mr. X is alleging that I started my blog “to profit off his court case”, despite the fact that it was clearly started before we ever decided to divorce.
Mr. X’s attorney then accused me of making a great deal of money off my blog. I had to keep from laughing here. Actually, I think I did laugh. I asked what documentation they had of me making money off my blog and he brought up the donations I sought to attend the ABC in Sydney in March. (I’m not sure what the point of this line of questioning was, honestly.)
There was more along this vein. I’ll spare you the details. I don’t think it serves any purpose other than to illustrate the machinations of a very disturbed mind.

There will be more hearings in the coming months. They are physically, emotionally and financially draining. I seem to get sick after each one.

To be quite honest, after the detective shared the evidence about the videos of adults having sex with children, something in me died. I hadn’t known about that.

I don’t know why it should shock me, considering everything else. We hold onto our illusions, don’t we, until the very end? This man, I laid beside him for nine years. He is the father of my children.

But there is more grief beneath that. Grief for the illusions I held and for the history my children will inherit.

Every night, I pray for an end to this.

All I want is an opportunity to create a new life, free of this dark and twisted energy, one where my children can flourish and we can all be safe. I think that’s the very least we deserve.

Wanderlust

On the Run, Day 4

I went to the media, and here is why

Pray for Lydia - young girl in critical condition

Lydia Herrlec/o Toronto Sick Kids Hospital555 University AveToronto, Ontario, Canada M5G 1X8

Suffer the Children

Ten funniest pie charts

13 random google searches, for your pleasure

The boundaries of the heart

Feedback from yesterday's post

A bully is a bully is a bully

This post will make you (feel) smarter

Tornado Pictures

Running

Some Comments on Commenting

What I Remember

The Wild

Goodbye, for now

I must be mad

Answers to Australia Day quiz and what the hell do you do with kale?

Battening down the hatches

Can you tell which of these is worth $30 million?

Where the heck have you been?

The unspoken

No kitty, no!

Photo bombing 101

Breathing poison

Lydia Herrle
c/o Toronto Sick Kids Hospital
555 University Ave
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M5G 1X8