** This is the end of the thesis I wrote about White privilege and my journey as a Teacher and Parent. I've been thinking about my experience in Canada - especially around race, culture and issues of language ( a huge issue in Quebec. I suspect you'll see that in a while****
I should have noticed the signs that something had occurred. Emily began verbally identifying herself as a “black girl” to her father and myself. She began to express that she wished she were “white and have straight hair like you, Mama”. When talking about a play date at a friends house, Emily told the little girls mother, “But you’ll have a black girl in your house”, looking for a reaction.
Each of these things rippled uncomfortably across my awareness. It was nearly a week later that I finally pieced together the puzzle. As we lay in bed reading together, the light bulb made a blinding flash in my head. “Did someone at school say something to you about being black?” I asked her. I waited for her answer, knowing that with all my professional and personal work, I was woefully unready for her response.
The answer, of course, was yes. Another little girl had told Emily that “She was black and had no friends, but that Alexander is black and he has lots of friends”. Emily took this to mean that it was undesirable to be a black girl and her expressions of desire to be “white like Mom” began.
With all my professional and personal preparation, my first instinct was to wrap her in my arms and cry. However, I didn’t do that. What I did do was call her father into the bedroom and explain the situation so we could have a family conversation about being black, being white and being bi-racial. In order to offer Emily some strategies to handle these situations, we talked at length about truth. Was it true she is black? Yes. Was it true that she has no friends? No. Was it true that Alexander is black? No, he is of South American heritage and has very dark skin, but is not black. Does he also have friends? Yes.
After Emily was settled into bed, Terrance and I talked at length about what to do. Should I speak with the teachers? While Terrance did not think this was necessary, I could not allow this to pass without comment. For Terrance, his reluctance sprang not from a desire to keep this issue quiet, but from the knowledge of the resistance that we would face. He, after all, has dealt with being black in New England for twenty years.
Simultaneously, I could feel my deep gut embarrassment at having to address this issue with these teachers and other parents. Polite white people do not discuss racist remarks. My entire socialization as a liberal White woman demanded that I look away from this incident as distasteful, or simply the words of a child who didn’t know better. As in the other arenas, these were well-educated people whom I liked and respected. How could I walk in and tell these white people that racism is in their midst! Why didn’t they already know it?
I quickly realized that as Emily’s mother and a White person who is committed to the work of Anti-Bias, my socialized embarrassment could not stop me from doing what the situation demanded. For Emily’s sake, I needed to be proactive and address the issue of these remarks to the teachers. I needed Emily to see that her White mother would never be embarrassed to defend and protect her, regardless of my own internal discomfort.
The next morning, I called the teacher aside and explained what I had learned. She was appropriately horrified. What should she do? Should she have a group meeting? Should she call the other child’s parents? Her panic indicated that she too had never thought through having to deal with the issue of racism in this private school setting.
I began to talk with her about what I knew about children and racism. I brought her resources I copied from the book Beyond Heroes and Holiday’s. I asked her to be prepared to support Emily in conversations about race. I explained to her that being black in a White dominant culture was apparent to all the children and it was natural for them to notice and discuss it.
However, it was when I began to talk about the privileges of being white in New Hampshire that I realized that I had never talked to her, or many other white people about this issue. Polite white people don’t point out racism to other polite white people, especially those in the upper middle class. Polite white mothers don’t tell the teacher that the other children are saying hurtful remarks. Polite white mothers don’t notice such things.
I don’t think that the teacher fully understood what I was saying, but she was willing to listen. The Head of School and the teachers met, and planned a course of action to respond to this issue with both the children and families. While not yet fully resolved, I am satisfied with the way the school is beginning their journey.
Some parents are avoiding me now; some are overextending themselves to be friendly. White guilt is a funny thing. One little girl involved in the incident told Emily that if she didn’t stop telling me about the things she was saying, the little girl would get kicked out of school. Emily promptly told me this when I picked her up that afternoon. Working through my discomfort has offered my daughter the strength to actively begin her own journey in the work of anti-bias.
It has become clear to me through this experience and this journey into Anti-Bias curriculum that part of the important work that I am called to do is being that White person who talks about the impolite issues of race and culture. It occurs to me that for some White people that I may be the first White person to call attention to the elephant of racism in the room.
Invisible = White
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
*** I started my TA position in Multicultural education today. I had forgotten how much I love this topic, but it came rushing back today as we started simply talking about some of the words and meanings.
This was from the first part of a thesis I wrote for my Master's degree. As I have said before this was a very, very long exploration from several angles - teacher, parent, citizen, wife and mother. This piece is about white privilege and learning to "see" that I had benefited in my culture simply from being white. I thought it was a good day to re-publish this piece, in honor of my journey beginning again.****
As an Early Childhood educator, I recognized the importance of this work on behalf of the children and families we serve. Without an exploration of our internal bias and recognition of the privileges that come from being white in a white society, how can we hope to welcome all families and children into the classroom? If, as a White college educated woman, I cannot recognize and be aware of the advantage that I am automatically granted as a member of the dominant culture, how can I truly advocate for all families and children? How can these families feel welcomed in a classroom in which I teach?
My mother-in-law in Detroit will often tell me that white people are crazy. I used to assume this was a kind of funny endearment. When I asked my husband about this, his response was “White People are crazy. She means it”. I have come to understand the meaning of this phrase, not as an endearment, but as an extremely serious statement.
I am fortunate. I am the white member of a black family from Detroit. They love me as a member of their family and I am afforded a unique view into a family from a race and culture other than my own. They view my questions and inquiries about these obvious issues with patience and love. The white culture in which I was raised did not openly address these topics and I am asking things to find out. I want to know because they are my family too, and because I am the mother of a bi-racial daughter, who will have to navigate these unsteady racial waters in ways that I never was required to think about.
When my mother in law says this phrase “White people are crazy” this is what she means. White People are the dominant culture in the United States. They are the holders of nearly all the political, social and economic power in our society. They design and control our government, our schools, and our legal system. White people control most of the media outlets – radio, television, and newspaper and book publishers. White people have designed a total system that grants them implicit favors and privileges as they navigate these systems. Yet, they blatantly, as a group, deny this. White people point to a select few of other racial heritage that have been successful as examples of the equality and fair treatment afforded to all Americans. White people will tell you how all of that discrimination “stuff” was in the past, that they had nothing to do with that. Most of the White people who say these things truly believe them. However, for American persons of other non-white heritage, this is a glaring un-truth. To co-opt a phrase from a twelve-step group – The elephant is in the room and only the white people can’t see it.
For my mother in law and husband, the refusal to “see” on the part of white people makes them crazy and untrustworthy. Terrance’s wife, her daughter in law and mother of her granddaughter is one of these white people. I am a white person and admit that I spent most of my life not seeing the elephant.
For my journey into the issues of anti-bias curriculum, the beginning came with my relationship with my husband. While there had been no overt statements of racial or other bias in my family, I was taken aback by the vehemence of my mother’s reaction when I announced my relationship with Terrance. The stream of racist and hateful language that flowed from my mother shocked and horrified me. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that if I was to go out with him that day, I could find another place to live and finance the rest of my college education. The threat was unveiled and clear. Walk away from the black man, or walk away from your comfortable life.
In those moments, I made a decision that would influence the rest of my life. I uncovered my mother as racist. I consciously walked away from the privileges of my white family. This action solidified my emerging sense that issues of race and culture were to be a crucial part of my personal and professional life. However, my liberal education and background was shaken to the core. My white liberal Democratic people were not supposed to react like this when confronted with issues of race. I was ashamed and embarrassed that my family behaved this way.
When I discovered the Anti Bias Curriculum shortly after my graduation from college in 1992, I felt as if it were a professional revelation. This was what I had been looking for! While the topic of “multi-cultural education” was broached during my teacher education at the University of Vermont, it was not a central part of the education of emerging teachers. Preparing white teachers in Vermont did not seem to necessitate the discussion of issues of race and culture in society. We were, on the whole, upper middle class white students, preparing to teach white students.
During this time, I was also falling in love with a man not of my racial heritage. I was experiencing, for the first time, the obviousness of race in an all white environment. Walking into restaurants or stores, I noticed other white people noticing us. My invisibility in my culture, of which I had never been aware, was no longer afforded to me when I walked beside Terrance. I had crossed over a line that I previously did not know existed.
With time, my assimilation into a dual cultural role became as second nature. I stopped noticing because life consumed my attention. A career, a marriage and then a new baby shifted my focus from issues of race and culture to those of every day life. Occasionally, I would be jolted from complacence into thinking about this uncomfortable topic. From the elderly white woman who approached me with my infant daughter inquiring when I “got” her to the white father who loudly inquired to me why the child care center was closed for Civil Rights Day when there were no black people here; these incidents were always unexpected and left me speechless. I had forgotten that as a white woman, without my husband nearby, I visibly re-integrated back into the dominant white culture. This invisibility seemed a tacit permission, allowing other white people to say things in my presence that they would not dare speak of with my husband at my side.
As an educator, I had done a fair amount of exploration into the topic of Anti-Bias curriculum while teaching in my own classrooms. In pursuing accreditation by the National Association for the Education of Young Children, it was a criterion to be integrated into the mission and philosophy of the child care center. As the director of this center, I led the conversations of this topic in order to infuse everything we planned with an awareness of the messages we were sending to all families. As a mother of a bi-racial infant daughter, I became more aware of the urgency of the message of Anti-Bias curriculum on the part of the families we served.
These were not always pleasant conversations with teachers or parents. I was accused of being Anti-Christian, Racist, a promoter of Homosexuality, and even told I was a person looking to psychologically damage young children by removing holidays from our center curriculum. I preserved. My personal agenda to make that child care center a place of welcome and support for all families and children became a consuming work. Those staff that did not agree with my vision of anti-bias curriculum eventually left and I found others who shared a similar vision and were willing to commit to it.
Our NAEYC validation visit was scheduled on Halloween of 1999. The validator remarked that she had never seen such a calm, peaceful child care center on Halloween in her career. There were no costumes or candy. There were no excluded children due to religious beliefs. While not perfection, we were living much closer to the intent of Louise Derman Sparks work in Anti Bias Curriculum. We were not standing on the traditions of “we’ve always done it this way”, but rather examining the motives behind our traditions. We asked, “Is this good for children and families?” and let the answers guide our curriculum and policies.
This was from the first part of a thesis I wrote for my Master's degree. As I have said before this was a very, very long exploration from several angles - teacher, parent, citizen, wife and mother. This piece is about white privilege and learning to "see" that I had benefited in my culture simply from being white. I thought it was a good day to re-publish this piece, in honor of my journey beginning again.****
As an Early Childhood educator, I recognized the importance of this work on behalf of the children and families we serve. Without an exploration of our internal bias and recognition of the privileges that come from being white in a white society, how can we hope to welcome all families and children into the classroom? If, as a White college educated woman, I cannot recognize and be aware of the advantage that I am automatically granted as a member of the dominant culture, how can I truly advocate for all families and children? How can these families feel welcomed in a classroom in which I teach?
My mother-in-law in Detroit will often tell me that white people are crazy. I used to assume this was a kind of funny endearment. When I asked my husband about this, his response was “White People are crazy. She means it”. I have come to understand the meaning of this phrase, not as an endearment, but as an extremely serious statement.
I am fortunate. I am the white member of a black family from Detroit. They love me as a member of their family and I am afforded a unique view into a family from a race and culture other than my own. They view my questions and inquiries about these obvious issues with patience and love. The white culture in which I was raised did not openly address these topics and I am asking things to find out. I want to know because they are my family too, and because I am the mother of a bi-racial daughter, who will have to navigate these unsteady racial waters in ways that I never was required to think about.
When my mother in law says this phrase “White people are crazy” this is what she means. White People are the dominant culture in the United States. They are the holders of nearly all the political, social and economic power in our society. They design and control our government, our schools, and our legal system. White people control most of the media outlets – radio, television, and newspaper and book publishers. White people have designed a total system that grants them implicit favors and privileges as they navigate these systems. Yet, they blatantly, as a group, deny this. White people point to a select few of other racial heritage that have been successful as examples of the equality and fair treatment afforded to all Americans. White people will tell you how all of that discrimination “stuff” was in the past, that they had nothing to do with that. Most of the White people who say these things truly believe them. However, for American persons of other non-white heritage, this is a glaring un-truth. To co-opt a phrase from a twelve-step group – The elephant is in the room and only the white people can’t see it.
For my mother in law and husband, the refusal to “see” on the part of white people makes them crazy and untrustworthy. Terrance’s wife, her daughter in law and mother of her granddaughter is one of these white people. I am a white person and admit that I spent most of my life not seeing the elephant.
For my journey into the issues of anti-bias curriculum, the beginning came with my relationship with my husband. While there had been no overt statements of racial or other bias in my family, I was taken aback by the vehemence of my mother’s reaction when I announced my relationship with Terrance. The stream of racist and hateful language that flowed from my mother shocked and horrified me. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that if I was to go out with him that day, I could find another place to live and finance the rest of my college education. The threat was unveiled and clear. Walk away from the black man, or walk away from your comfortable life.
In those moments, I made a decision that would influence the rest of my life. I uncovered my mother as racist. I consciously walked away from the privileges of my white family. This action solidified my emerging sense that issues of race and culture were to be a crucial part of my personal and professional life. However, my liberal education and background was shaken to the core. My white liberal Democratic people were not supposed to react like this when confronted with issues of race. I was ashamed and embarrassed that my family behaved this way.
When I discovered the Anti Bias Curriculum shortly after my graduation from college in 1992, I felt as if it were a professional revelation. This was what I had been looking for! While the topic of “multi-cultural education” was broached during my teacher education at the University of Vermont, it was not a central part of the education of emerging teachers. Preparing white teachers in Vermont did not seem to necessitate the discussion of issues of race and culture in society. We were, on the whole, upper middle class white students, preparing to teach white students.
During this time, I was also falling in love with a man not of my racial heritage. I was experiencing, for the first time, the obviousness of race in an all white environment. Walking into restaurants or stores, I noticed other white people noticing us. My invisibility in my culture, of which I had never been aware, was no longer afforded to me when I walked beside Terrance. I had crossed over a line that I previously did not know existed.
With time, my assimilation into a dual cultural role became as second nature. I stopped noticing because life consumed my attention. A career, a marriage and then a new baby shifted my focus from issues of race and culture to those of every day life. Occasionally, I would be jolted from complacence into thinking about this uncomfortable topic. From the elderly white woman who approached me with my infant daughter inquiring when I “got” her to the white father who loudly inquired to me why the child care center was closed for Civil Rights Day when there were no black people here; these incidents were always unexpected and left me speechless. I had forgotten that as a white woman, without my husband nearby, I visibly re-integrated back into the dominant white culture. This invisibility seemed a tacit permission, allowing other white people to say things in my presence that they would not dare speak of with my husband at my side.
As an educator, I had done a fair amount of exploration into the topic of Anti-Bias curriculum while teaching in my own classrooms. In pursuing accreditation by the National Association for the Education of Young Children, it was a criterion to be integrated into the mission and philosophy of the child care center. As the director of this center, I led the conversations of this topic in order to infuse everything we planned with an awareness of the messages we were sending to all families. As a mother of a bi-racial infant daughter, I became more aware of the urgency of the message of Anti-Bias curriculum on the part of the families we served.
These were not always pleasant conversations with teachers or parents. I was accused of being Anti-Christian, Racist, a promoter of Homosexuality, and even told I was a person looking to psychologically damage young children by removing holidays from our center curriculum. I preserved. My personal agenda to make that child care center a place of welcome and support for all families and children became a consuming work. Those staff that did not agree with my vision of anti-bias curriculum eventually left and I found others who shared a similar vision and were willing to commit to it.
Our NAEYC validation visit was scheduled on Halloween of 1999. The validator remarked that she had never seen such a calm, peaceful child care center on Halloween in her career. There were no costumes or candy. There were no excluded children due to religious beliefs. While not perfection, we were living much closer to the intent of Louise Derman Sparks work in Anti Bias Curriculum. We were not standing on the traditions of “we’ve always done it this way”, but rather examining the motives behind our traditions. We asked, “Is this good for children and families?” and let the answers guide our curriculum and policies.
"Black Bear, Black Bear What do YOU see?"
Monday, August 27, 2007
My brain is filled with odd, trivial and at times useless information. My penchant for watching the History, Discovery, Learning, and National Geographic channels has rolled itself into the seething mass of facts, information and bizarre ability to recall information that is my brain.
Seriously. From song lyrics to the mating habits of Pandas. It all rolls around in there, waiting to be plucked out with absolute authority at the right time.
Sometimes I seem preternaturally smart. Others? Freakishly quirky.
Several years ago, I was helping to "facilitate" a intensive, week long graduate seminar. The person I was helping asked if I would grab her piece of cheesecake before we walked back to the hotel. It was late and we had finished prepping for the following morning.
I grabbed her cheesecake and we started to walk back.
Now, understand that this seminar was being held at a lovely resort in New Hampshire. A resort in the wilderness. With Bears. Lots and Lots of Bears.
Dee and I were walking with one of the Instructors. Chatting. Laughing. General Merriment.
When I spotted something moving. Over there to the left. Hmmph. Kind of looks like a big dog. Lots of dogs here at the resorts with their families.
I continue to walk, holding my friends slice of cheesecake. The "dog" continues to walk towards us.
I say, "Hey.....Is that a bear?". I stop walking to get a better look. I then, in my best helpful Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom voice, say this: "If it is a bear, we should stay very still so they ignore us and keep moving."
I may have heard this on a "surviving a bear attack" segment on Discovery channel. I may have also forgotten that I was holding a piece of cheesecake.
I freeze per the helpful Discovery channel instructions.
I glance behind me to see Dee and the Instructor running back to the conference center. I then realize I am holding a delicious piece of cheesecake and that the "dog" IS, in fact, a black bear. Walking towards me. Snuffling with intent.
Having committed to my tactic of "freezing to make the bear believe I wasn't there", I remained in place. Frozen. Cake in hand.
The bear continues to approach. Snuffling. He glances at me, swinging his black bear head over to the right to look at me and the cake. While I would like to believe that it was my quick thinking that made the bear decide I was not worth mauling, I suspect that this bear was fat and happy from the garbage left around the resort. My body, ample as it may be and topped with a slice of cheesecake, was no contest when faced with the gourmet haul this bear was gorging on every night.
But let it be known. My friend HAD her piece of cheesecake that night. And I had a martini. A very strong martini.
Seriously. From song lyrics to the mating habits of Pandas. It all rolls around in there, waiting to be plucked out with absolute authority at the right time.
Sometimes I seem preternaturally smart. Others? Freakishly quirky.
Several years ago, I was helping to "facilitate" a intensive, week long graduate seminar. The person I was helping asked if I would grab her piece of cheesecake before we walked back to the hotel. It was late and we had finished prepping for the following morning.
I grabbed her cheesecake and we started to walk back.
Now, understand that this seminar was being held at a lovely resort in New Hampshire. A resort in the wilderness. With Bears. Lots and Lots of Bears.
Dee and I were walking with one of the Instructors. Chatting. Laughing. General Merriment.
When I spotted something moving. Over there to the left. Hmmph. Kind of looks like a big dog. Lots of dogs here at the resorts with their families.
I continue to walk, holding my friends slice of cheesecake. The "dog" continues to walk towards us.
I say, "Hey.....Is that a bear?". I stop walking to get a better look. I then, in my best helpful Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom voice, say this: "If it is a bear, we should stay very still so they ignore us and keep moving."
I may have heard this on a "surviving a bear attack" segment on Discovery channel. I may have also forgotten that I was holding a piece of cheesecake.
I freeze per the helpful Discovery channel instructions.
I glance behind me to see Dee and the Instructor running back to the conference center. I then realize I am holding a delicious piece of cheesecake and that the "dog" IS, in fact, a black bear. Walking towards me. Snuffling with intent.
Having committed to my tactic of "freezing to make the bear believe I wasn't there", I remained in place. Frozen. Cake in hand.
The bear continues to approach. Snuffling. He glances at me, swinging his black bear head over to the right to look at me and the cake. While I would like to believe that it was my quick thinking that made the bear decide I was not worth mauling, I suspect that this bear was fat and happy from the garbage left around the resort. My body, ample as it may be and topped with a slice of cheesecake, was no contest when faced with the gourmet haul this bear was gorging on every night.
But let it be known. My friend HAD her piece of cheesecake that night. And I had a martini. A very strong martini.
Pit(s) of Despair
Saturday, August 25, 2007
I noticed something about a year and a half ago.
My deodorant stops working.
I mean - STOPS working. I sweat. I smell.
At first, I assumed it was some kind of hormonal change that came with turning 36.
Lady Speed Stick had to be put aside. It was not doing the job. I moved to Degree, which seemed to help a little more. Then IT stopped working. I went back to Lady Speed Stick, thinking the 6 month break would have renewed it's potency.
Nope.
After a few weeks of realizing that I was sweating like a 17 year old Dawn waiting for her period, I went back to the store and began READING bottles. I needed the Highest level of sweaty and/or smelliness protection legally available in Canada.
Secret (for women) seems to be doing the job at the moment. At least I don't SMELL as bad as I did before. Or maybe I do and my hermit, misanthrope ways simply prevent other people from being consumed by my funk.
I fear, however, more hormonal changes approaching with the Big M - and let's face it - I ain't smearing Teen Spirit on my pits.
So my bloggy friends - are you all finding this same "issue" as we rapidly approach our collective 40's?
Oh, and for the record - the bullshit about the cramps being better AFTER I had a baby? I think not.
My deodorant stops working.
I mean - STOPS working. I sweat. I smell.
At first, I assumed it was some kind of hormonal change that came with turning 36.
Lady Speed Stick had to be put aside. It was not doing the job. I moved to Degree, which seemed to help a little more. Then IT stopped working. I went back to Lady Speed Stick, thinking the 6 month break would have renewed it's potency.
Nope.
After a few weeks of realizing that I was sweating like a 17 year old Dawn waiting for her period, I went back to the store and began READING bottles. I needed the Highest level of sweaty and/or smelliness protection legally available in Canada.
Secret (for women) seems to be doing the job at the moment. At least I don't SMELL as bad as I did before. Or maybe I do and my hermit, misanthrope ways simply prevent other people from being consumed by my funk.
I fear, however, more hormonal changes approaching with the Big M - and let's face it - I ain't smearing Teen Spirit on my pits.
So my bloggy friends - are you all finding this same "issue" as we rapidly approach our collective 40's?
Oh, and for the record - the bullshit about the cramps being better AFTER I had a baby? I think not.
Gnome Technology
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Seriously, you guys slay me.
From here on out I will pretend that I am writing about Gnome technology.
You know, wheelbarrows and rakes and other gnome innovations.
"XXX has been leading the industry in gnome innovation. Through partnerships with Pixies, Inc, XXX has created several exciting new products for use in the gnome home and office"
Now I will just have to control my giggling every time I am in a meeting.
Cause the other day, this phrase was used...
"Instantaneous penetration"
and I thought I was going to fall out of my chair.
From here on out I will pretend that I am writing about Gnome technology.
You know, wheelbarrows and rakes and other gnome innovations.
"XXX has been leading the industry in gnome innovation. Through partnerships with Pixies, Inc, XXX has created several exciting new products for use in the gnome home and office"
Now I will just have to control my giggling every time I am in a meeting.
Cause the other day, this phrase was used...
"Instantaneous penetration"
and I thought I was going to fall out of my chair.
Flotsam
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Ever been thrown onto something so foreign that you had a hard time figuring out whether you were up or down?
I mean - aside from parenting?
I took a new job last week. A job not in my field. A job that I need, because I have got to get some income flowing into my bank (or banque) account. A job writing about Genomes. And how they can be used to create personalized medicine.
Has that sunk in?
Me either.
I am drowning in this place. A world of acronyms and things that I do not understand and am not sure I want to understand. I read reports, I read articles, I read charts and still, I feel confused. People ask me questions about what I want or what I need and all I can do is stare at them, mustering my best "pretend you know what they are talking about face". My saving grace? Five years in government allows me to bullshit well enough to get by until I can get some kind of bearings in the terminology.
I was asked today - "Do you have enough to work on?" Um. Yeah. In fact, I can feel my brain shutting down, a defensive mechanism for when I am overloaded with information.
It is hard for me to sort out if it is the job itself - or if it is the return to a regular job schedule, from which I have been on hiatus since June 2006. I came to enjoy my meandering, extremely broke, existence. However, I have liked getting up and coming to work - my sleep schedule seems to have snapped right back to regular hours, and it is nice to talk with the people in this office.
(Dawn whispering to self - "Interactions with humans is good, interactions with humans is good!")
Plus, since no one was beating down my door to employ me as a free lance observer of life, the money will come in handy as Em goes back to school and we get walloped with the associated fees.
Sigh. It is time for me to go back. I will catch up with you all soon.
I mean - aside from parenting?
I took a new job last week. A job not in my field. A job that I need, because I have got to get some income flowing into my bank (or banque) account. A job writing about Genomes. And how they can be used to create personalized medicine.
Has that sunk in?
Me either.
I am drowning in this place. A world of acronyms and things that I do not understand and am not sure I want to understand. I read reports, I read articles, I read charts and still, I feel confused. People ask me questions about what I want or what I need and all I can do is stare at them, mustering my best "pretend you know what they are talking about face". My saving grace? Five years in government allows me to bullshit well enough to get by until I can get some kind of bearings in the terminology.
I was asked today - "Do you have enough to work on?" Um. Yeah. In fact, I can feel my brain shutting down, a defensive mechanism for when I am overloaded with information.
It is hard for me to sort out if it is the job itself - or if it is the return to a regular job schedule, from which I have been on hiatus since June 2006. I came to enjoy my meandering, extremely broke, existence. However, I have liked getting up and coming to work - my sleep schedule seems to have snapped right back to regular hours, and it is nice to talk with the people in this office.
(Dawn whispering to self - "Interactions with humans is good, interactions with humans is good!")
Plus, since no one was beating down my door to employ me as a free lance observer of life, the money will come in handy as Em goes back to school and we get walloped with the associated fees.
Sigh. It is time for me to go back. I will catch up with you all soon.
Meditations on a Theme
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Dear Period:
You psyched me out this month, I'll hand it to you. That little "cramping and spotting on Thursday night only to disappear until she had forgotten about me Sunday afternoon and was in Vermont" trick was new. I fell for it.
*************************************************************************************
Dear Tampax:
I bought your "jumbo" box of assorted tampons today. Two things. First Kudos on coming down in price. I think these boxes were like 15 bucks when I first started my "cycle" 25 years ago. Of course, now that I think about it, you are probably using chemical soaked faux cotton from China....so I need to STOP thinking about it before I get all freaked out. Second, come close Tampax. I see here in this box many of the Super version, and some of the Regular...but whats this here? Lite? Lite tampons?
Tampax, Tampax, Tampax. I am 37 years old. I have borne a child. What am I supposed to do with these "lite" tampons? Tie three of them together and make a Super? Construct a house for Playmobil people from them? No adult woman needs these tampons. If you believe that we do, then your marketing and research people must be fired immediately. Actually, I think they must not sell, so you trick us into buying them when we buy the Jumbo boxes. Crafty bastards.
*************************************************************************************
Dear Always Overnight Pads:
Stop changing your damn packaging design. I finally found what I am pretty sure are the ones I buy, only to find that you have changed what the pad looks like. But that didn't bother me as much as removing the backing and finding that the wings portion of your product has ADDITIONAL backing to remove. It is not a Present. I do not need twelve layers to unwrap. This is clearly not the moment to spring design changes on me.
*************************************************************************************
Dear New Job I start tomorrow:
I will try to be very medicated (Hurrah! Advil Liquigels and Prozac) and have ingested as much coffee as I can hold before arriving on your proverbial doorstep. The fact that you have booked me into meetings/lectures kind of scares me, as this is not my primary field of expertise. In fact, I would say that this lies about 286 degrees away from my primary field of expertise. However, I am willing to give it the old broke graduate student try. I only hope that I do not break down and cry due to the reasons stated above. If I feel so inclined, I plan on poking myself in the eye in order to fake an injury which would require tears.
You psyched me out this month, I'll hand it to you. That little "cramping and spotting on Thursday night only to disappear until she had forgotten about me Sunday afternoon and was in Vermont" trick was new. I fell for it.
*************************************************************************************
Dear Tampax:
I bought your "jumbo" box of assorted tampons today. Two things. First Kudos on coming down in price. I think these boxes were like 15 bucks when I first started my "cycle" 25 years ago. Of course, now that I think about it, you are probably using chemical soaked faux cotton from China....so I need to STOP thinking about it before I get all freaked out. Second, come close Tampax. I see here in this box many of the Super version, and some of the Regular...but whats this here? Lite? Lite tampons?
Tampax, Tampax, Tampax. I am 37 years old. I have borne a child. What am I supposed to do with these "lite" tampons? Tie three of them together and make a Super? Construct a house for Playmobil people from them? No adult woman needs these tampons. If you believe that we do, then your marketing and research people must be fired immediately. Actually, I think they must not sell, so you trick us into buying them when we buy the Jumbo boxes. Crafty bastards.
*************************************************************************************
Dear Always Overnight Pads:
Stop changing your damn packaging design. I finally found what I am pretty sure are the ones I buy, only to find that you have changed what the pad looks like. But that didn't bother me as much as removing the backing and finding that the wings portion of your product has ADDITIONAL backing to remove. It is not a Present. I do not need twelve layers to unwrap. This is clearly not the moment to spring design changes on me.
*************************************************************************************
Dear New Job I start tomorrow:
I will try to be very medicated (Hurrah! Advil Liquigels and Prozac) and have ingested as much coffee as I can hold before arriving on your proverbial doorstep. The fact that you have booked me into meetings/lectures kind of scares me, as this is not my primary field of expertise. In fact, I would say that this lies about 286 degrees away from my primary field of expertise. However, I am willing to give it the old broke graduate student try. I only hope that I do not break down and cry due to the reasons stated above. If I feel so inclined, I plan on poking myself in the eye in order to fake an injury which would require tears.
I pity the fool
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Montreal QC-
In a shocking follow up to our earlier feature, the Metal stairs granted a never before given interview.
Although rather demure in appearance, the Stairs clearly pack more of a punch than one might expect.
"I pity the fool who attempts to step down my treacherous passageways without first answering my questions...", the Stairs exclaimed. "Why, you should have seen her - Talking away on the phone, shucking corn - pretending like I wasn't even good enough to be under her feet!"
The Stairs followed with this tidbit of gossip, "Speaking of feet, she often paints her toes out here right on me. Let me tell you. Her feet aren't as special as she would like people to believe!"
Asked about the rumors that Metal Stairs had been seen canoodleing with a certain Walmart metal carriage corral, the Stairs had no comment. "Who I canoodle with is none of your damn business", said the Stairs menacingly.
The tell tale corn husks still littering the ground around the bottom, the Stairs expressed no regret for the six pack of whoop ass that it opened on the unsuspecting Dawn.
"She deserved it.", the Stairs sneered.
When reached for comment, Dawn spoke in guarded terms about the Stairs. "No, I haven't spent any time on the back porch area since. And Yes, I am still requiring the Advil Liquigels upon my awakening in the morning. The bruises are fading, but good lord. I don't heal as fast as I used to."
When asked about the alleged "questions" asked by the Stairs prior to her fall, Dawn looked up thoughtfully. "I think it was something about the air speed velocity of a Laden African Swallow...but I didn't know the answer."
In a shocking follow up to our earlier feature, the Metal stairs granted a never before given interview.
Although rather demure in appearance, the Stairs clearly pack more of a punch than one might expect.
"I pity the fool who attempts to step down my treacherous passageways without first answering my questions...", the Stairs exclaimed. "Why, you should have seen her - Talking away on the phone, shucking corn - pretending like I wasn't even good enough to be under her feet!"
The Stairs followed with this tidbit of gossip, "Speaking of feet, she often paints her toes out here right on me. Let me tell you. Her feet aren't as special as she would like people to believe!"
Asked about the rumors that Metal Stairs had been seen canoodleing with a certain Walmart metal carriage corral, the Stairs had no comment. "Who I canoodle with is none of your damn business", said the Stairs menacingly.
The tell tale corn husks still littering the ground around the bottom, the Stairs expressed no regret for the six pack of whoop ass that it opened on the unsuspecting Dawn.
"She deserved it.", the Stairs sneered.
When reached for comment, Dawn spoke in guarded terms about the Stairs. "No, I haven't spent any time on the back porch area since. And Yes, I am still requiring the Advil Liquigels upon my awakening in the morning. The bruises are fading, but good lord. I don't heal as fast as I used to."
When asked about the alleged "questions" asked by the Stairs prior to her fall, Dawn looked up thoughtfully. "I think it was something about the air speed velocity of a Laden African Swallow...but I didn't know the answer."
Dawn Vs Stairs
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Montreal,QC. -
In a stunning display of lack of coordination yesterday, Dawn was handed a crushing defeat in her long time rivalry with the back stairs.
Witnesses tell Balefulregards that Dawn seemed to be simply minding her own business, shucking sweet corn on the back steps yesterday when the unthinkable happened.
" I was talking with her on the phone, and heard her walk back into the house, place the now denuded corn on the counter and walk back out to gather the bag with the corn droppings when there was let loose an other worldly scream", the elusive other Mrs Baker is quoted as saying.
"I kept saying, "Dawn? Dawn?" when I heard a voice say "I'M OK", the witness continued. "It was clear, however, that she was NOT Ok as her voice had that funny clearly injured quality to it." Ruling out the assumption that her spouse pushed her down the stairs the other Mrs Baker continued, "Then I heard Terrance Yell out the window, "What happened?" to which Dawn yelled back "I fell down the stairs!!"
It was at this point that the other Mrs Baker grew solemn. "Then he made the mistake of saying "How did you do that?".I could tell that really pissed her off cause she began to yell at him that she didn't know and that she thought she was really hurt and to come help her! Then, I heard a voice say "I'll call you back..." and the line went dead."
Witnesses in the home tell Balefulregards that Dawn then crawled back up the metal stairs, into the kitchen and lay face down on the floor, sobbing. Phrases overheard included "I can't feel my arm", "I think I broke something" and "Imreallyreallyhurtdonttouchmejesuschristimeanitdonttouchme".
Following a gingerly administered exam, Terrance determined that Dawn did not break her arm, but did bruise the hell out of several parts of her body. He then pulled her to an upright position and led his hysterically crying wife to the bedroom where he applied a sack of ice to her elbow and offered her copious amounts of Advil.
Reached for comment today, Dawn expressed admiration for the sneak attack methods applied by the metal stairs in their overwhelming defeat of her dignity and physical well being. "I can barely fucking move", said Dawn through her haze of Advil. "And this massive bruise highlights my arm fat to perfection. It is as if you CAN'T look away from my fat, bruised arm. I hurt muscles I was unaware of possessing. I salute you, metal stairs."
A rematch is not expected anytime soon.
In a stunning display of lack of coordination yesterday, Dawn was handed a crushing defeat in her long time rivalry with the back stairs.
Witnesses tell Balefulregards that Dawn seemed to be simply minding her own business, shucking sweet corn on the back steps yesterday when the unthinkable happened.
" I was talking with her on the phone, and heard her walk back into the house, place the now denuded corn on the counter and walk back out to gather the bag with the corn droppings when there was let loose an other worldly scream", the elusive other Mrs Baker is quoted as saying.
"I kept saying, "Dawn? Dawn?" when I heard a voice say "I'M OK", the witness continued. "It was clear, however, that she was NOT Ok as her voice had that funny clearly injured quality to it." Ruling out the assumption that her spouse pushed her down the stairs the other Mrs Baker continued, "Then I heard Terrance Yell out the window, "What happened?" to which Dawn yelled back "I fell down the stairs!!"
It was at this point that the other Mrs Baker grew solemn. "Then he made the mistake of saying "How did you do that?".I could tell that really pissed her off cause she began to yell at him that she didn't know and that she thought she was really hurt and to come help her! Then, I heard a voice say "I'll call you back..." and the line went dead."
Witnesses in the home tell Balefulregards that Dawn then crawled back up the metal stairs, into the kitchen and lay face down on the floor, sobbing. Phrases overheard included "I can't feel my arm", "I think I broke something" and "Imreallyreallyhurtdonttouchmejesuschristimeanitdonttouchme".
Following a gingerly administered exam, Terrance determined that Dawn did not break her arm, but did bruise the hell out of several parts of her body. He then pulled her to an upright position and led his hysterically crying wife to the bedroom where he applied a sack of ice to her elbow and offered her copious amounts of Advil.
Reached for comment today, Dawn expressed admiration for the sneak attack methods applied by the metal stairs in their overwhelming defeat of her dignity and physical well being. "I can barely fucking move", said Dawn through her haze of Advil. "And this massive bruise highlights my arm fat to perfection. It is as if you CAN'T look away from my fat, bruised arm. I hurt muscles I was unaware of possessing. I salute you, metal stairs."
A rematch is not expected anytime soon.
Diametrically Opposed
Monday, August 06, 2007
Me: "Its so weird to have cool air blowing in the window - and RAIN!"
Terrance: "I don't know if it's weird..."
Me: "It is if you consider how hot it was just a few days ago."
Terrance: "I don't know if it was SO hot...."
Me: "Are you kidding!?!? It was like the devils ball sack!"
Terrance: (loooooong pause) "Um ....Ok."
Terrance: "I don't know if it's weird..."
Me: "It is if you consider how hot it was just a few days ago."
Terrance: "I don't know if it was SO hot...."
Me: "Are you kidding!?!? It was like the devils ball sack!"
Terrance: (loooooong pause) "Um ....Ok."
My people
Friday, August 03, 2007
I have never suggested than I have come from anything than very humble beginnings.
I was born in West Virginia. You can all insert the banjo music right now and be done with it. Yes- Wheeling, West Virginia is my birth place.
My father was one of five kids, and my mom was one of four. They were neighbors of a sort, my grandparents, as they lived on farms which were near each other. Maybe a ten or fifteen minute walk. They both still live in those houses in the Ohio Valley.
My mom's family was middle class. My Grandfather, after the world war, became a meat cutter at a local grocery store. My Gramma gave up her brief career as a congressional secretary to raise her family.
My father's family were farmers. Of German heritage, they remained farmers until the kids grew up and moved away. Some of my fondest hot summer memories are of ponies and plum trees, cicadas and garter snakes under cucumber leaves. It was no big deal for the grandchildren to disappear into the woods for the whole day only to reappear to get sleeping stuff and disappear back into the woods surrounding the fallow fields. There was hunting and eating of what was brought back. There is a rather "infamous" story of my mother's attempt to barbecue squirrels my father shot during a rather lean time. Let's just say that even the dogs refused to eat them.
My parents married the October before I made my debut in April 1970. They were eighteen, which was more common in 1969 than it might be today. My father had enlisted in the Marines during the height of the Vietnam war and departed after the wedding and my mother stayed in nursing school despite my father's vehement disapproval. She had to double up on her coursework, squeezing three years into two, as the school made an exception for her stay. Only unmarried, not pregnant ladies were to be educated - and she was now both Married and quite pregnant. The nuns, I am sure, were appalled.
Of the children in my fathers family, there were 18 grandchildren produced. This may be a low number, as I suspect there are a few more floating around the valley and parts unknown who may bear a striking resemblance to my father and uncles. The Rouse's are not known for their lack of fertility. In fact, nearly all of my cousins had their first baby during their teen years. Most dropped out of high school. Some got their GED's. Some did not.
My grandmother Rouse once told me that my brother and I went through high school so "quickly". She was not being ironic. She was of old time valley stock, and still used the word "colored" to describe my now husband. To her, it was a wonder than Donnie and I seemed to go forward without falling into the pitfalls of teen pregnancy and early marriage. My subsequent college career must have seemed other-worldly to them, for both Donnie and I went to and finished undergraduate degrees. To my knowledge, this is something that the other members of my family did not do.
Anyone who has been in the Ohio Valley knows that this is one of the faces of poverty. Deep, generational poverty wrapped in coal mining and the decline of the steel industry. These are people who worked hard for their living - brutally hard, that is if they could find work. My mothers brothers, who came of age in the mid 70's, ended up being caught in a cycle of closing steel mills and foundries. I am not sure than either of them ended up ever finding meaningful long term work.
Work in the foundries was hard. I recall going to pickup my father after a late night shift with my mother. He worked there between enlistments in the Marine Corps and my most pressing memory of the foundry was the front of the building.
It was open to the night air. I always imagined that Hell looked like the inside of the building, as you could see the red hot metal being poured into the molds. The cauldron would tip and the molten metal would pour out. My father would tell stories of men being burned by the metal, or otherwise injured and I worried for him until I would see him emerge ~ Sooty, sweaty and smelling like hot liquid steel.
Work in the coal mines was not much better, and my aunt took a job as one of the only female coal miners in her company. It was not a profession that took kindly to the intrusion of women into what was considered a mans job, but it was by far the best paying job around.
When I began working with families in poverty in New Hampshire, I realized that these people were MY people. The people that I helped straighten out issues in their assistance cases, making sure their child care providers got paid - or that they had the correct information regarding their re-application dates, or what they needed to provide to determine eligibility - They were my family.
I did not feel better than they, nor did I feel that they needed to be punished for being poor. I understood them. I understood the histories, the dramas, the cycle of being caught in something bigger than yourself, for that is the story of my own family. I treated the clients with respect and equity, never allowing them to be abusive or threatening and reminding them that screaming or swearing at me would not get the problems solved. My co-workers would tell me how calm I was on the phone, even on the face of some very difficult phone calls.
Perhaps this is why I have always been attracted to the underdog causes. I mean Early Childhood Education? The year I was accepted to Columbia for my Master's degree I earned a whopping 13,000 for the whole YEAR. That was with a B.S. in education, working 40 plus hours per week.
Perhaps this is why I have often considered myself a translator between two very different worlds that exist in American society, and why I have never been afraid people who are living in poverty.
For I am no different, deep down. I am from the same type of background and family. My life, however, took a different path and I was given a skill set which allows me to navigate the waters of academia and bureaucracies.
So even with a Bachelor's degree, a Master's degree and a PhD in progress, I am no different.
Those people are my people.
I was born in West Virginia. You can all insert the banjo music right now and be done with it. Yes- Wheeling, West Virginia is my birth place.
My father was one of five kids, and my mom was one of four. They were neighbors of a sort, my grandparents, as they lived on farms which were near each other. Maybe a ten or fifteen minute walk. They both still live in those houses in the Ohio Valley.
My mom's family was middle class. My Grandfather, after the world war, became a meat cutter at a local grocery store. My Gramma gave up her brief career as a congressional secretary to raise her family.
My father's family were farmers. Of German heritage, they remained farmers until the kids grew up and moved away. Some of my fondest hot summer memories are of ponies and plum trees, cicadas and garter snakes under cucumber leaves. It was no big deal for the grandchildren to disappear into the woods for the whole day only to reappear to get sleeping stuff and disappear back into the woods surrounding the fallow fields. There was hunting and eating of what was brought back. There is a rather "infamous" story of my mother's attempt to barbecue squirrels my father shot during a rather lean time. Let's just say that even the dogs refused to eat them.
My parents married the October before I made my debut in April 1970. They were eighteen, which was more common in 1969 than it might be today. My father had enlisted in the Marines during the height of the Vietnam war and departed after the wedding and my mother stayed in nursing school despite my father's vehement disapproval. She had to double up on her coursework, squeezing three years into two, as the school made an exception for her stay. Only unmarried, not pregnant ladies were to be educated - and she was now both Married and quite pregnant. The nuns, I am sure, were appalled.
Of the children in my fathers family, there were 18 grandchildren produced. This may be a low number, as I suspect there are a few more floating around the valley and parts unknown who may bear a striking resemblance to my father and uncles. The Rouse's are not known for their lack of fertility. In fact, nearly all of my cousins had their first baby during their teen years. Most dropped out of high school. Some got their GED's. Some did not.
My grandmother Rouse once told me that my brother and I went through high school so "quickly". She was not being ironic. She was of old time valley stock, and still used the word "colored" to describe my now husband. To her, it was a wonder than Donnie and I seemed to go forward without falling into the pitfalls of teen pregnancy and early marriage. My subsequent college career must have seemed other-worldly to them, for both Donnie and I went to and finished undergraduate degrees. To my knowledge, this is something that the other members of my family did not do.
Anyone who has been in the Ohio Valley knows that this is one of the faces of poverty. Deep, generational poverty wrapped in coal mining and the decline of the steel industry. These are people who worked hard for their living - brutally hard, that is if they could find work. My mothers brothers, who came of age in the mid 70's, ended up being caught in a cycle of closing steel mills and foundries. I am not sure than either of them ended up ever finding meaningful long term work.
Work in the foundries was hard. I recall going to pickup my father after a late night shift with my mother. He worked there between enlistments in the Marine Corps and my most pressing memory of the foundry was the front of the building.
It was open to the night air. I always imagined that Hell looked like the inside of the building, as you could see the red hot metal being poured into the molds. The cauldron would tip and the molten metal would pour out. My father would tell stories of men being burned by the metal, or otherwise injured and I worried for him until I would see him emerge ~ Sooty, sweaty and smelling like hot liquid steel.
Work in the coal mines was not much better, and my aunt took a job as one of the only female coal miners in her company. It was not a profession that took kindly to the intrusion of women into what was considered a mans job, but it was by far the best paying job around.
When I began working with families in poverty in New Hampshire, I realized that these people were MY people. The people that I helped straighten out issues in their assistance cases, making sure their child care providers got paid - or that they had the correct information regarding their re-application dates, or what they needed to provide to determine eligibility - They were my family.
I did not feel better than they, nor did I feel that they needed to be punished for being poor. I understood them. I understood the histories, the dramas, the cycle of being caught in something bigger than yourself, for that is the story of my own family. I treated the clients with respect and equity, never allowing them to be abusive or threatening and reminding them that screaming or swearing at me would not get the problems solved. My co-workers would tell me how calm I was on the phone, even on the face of some very difficult phone calls.
Perhaps this is why I have always been attracted to the underdog causes. I mean Early Childhood Education? The year I was accepted to Columbia for my Master's degree I earned a whopping 13,000 for the whole YEAR. That was with a B.S. in education, working 40 plus hours per week.
Perhaps this is why I have often considered myself a translator between two very different worlds that exist in American society, and why I have never been afraid people who are living in poverty.
For I am no different, deep down. I am from the same type of background and family. My life, however, took a different path and I was given a skill set which allows me to navigate the waters of academia and bureaucracies.
So even with a Bachelor's degree, a Master's degree and a PhD in progress, I am no different.
Those people are my people.
Promiscious Luggage
My luggage has arrived.
Well, not really - I had to drive to the airport in Montreal and pick it up, since they couldn't deliver it because it had no customs paper declaring it to be safe to enter Quebec.
And those "Bliss" travel bottles I swiped from the W? Could be used to start some kind of in country revolution.
I am not really sure where my bag has been. We parted in Chicago at 4:45 a.m.on Sunday.
I know exactly what I had in my bag. I mean, after all - I did not let anyone else pack my bag. I KNOW THE RULES FCC!!!
So to open your bag and find this? Something you know for SURE you did not pack?
And to furthermore find it inside your open shoe box?
If one of my shoes becomes an unwed mother, you and I are going to have big problems, United Airlines. Not to mention the STD tests I am going t have to take them to the clinic to get.
Jesus. You let you luggage out of your sight for five days, and it goes whorin' it up through god knows where with satchels and clutches. I am sure some of those damn backpacks and duffel's were involved - those scraggly "back pack through Europe" types?
Such smooth talkers....
Well, not really - I had to drive to the airport in Montreal and pick it up, since they couldn't deliver it because it had no customs paper declaring it to be safe to enter Quebec.
And those "Bliss" travel bottles I swiped from the W? Could be used to start some kind of in country revolution.
I am not really sure where my bag has been. We parted in Chicago at 4:45 a.m.on Sunday.
I know exactly what I had in my bag. I mean, after all - I did not let anyone else pack my bag. I KNOW THE RULES FCC!!!
So to open your bag and find this? Something you know for SURE you did not pack?
And to furthermore find it inside your open shoe box?
If one of my shoes becomes an unwed mother, you and I are going to have big problems, United Airlines. Not to mention the STD tests I am going t have to take them to the clinic to get.
Jesus. You let you luggage out of your sight for five days, and it goes whorin' it up through god knows where with satchels and clutches. I am sure some of those damn backpacks and duffel's were involved - those scraggly "back pack through Europe" types?
Such smooth talkers....
Mea Culpa, Schick
Thursday, August 02, 2007
I looked down my nose at you.
I thought I was far too good for you.
I ran around with the high end, pricey gang.
I wrapped myself in my environmentally conscious rationale.
But, I have to admit. When the shit hit the fan, and my luggage was/is lost from Sunday until Thursday, you really came through for me.
I love you pink, disposable razor.
I thought I was far too good for you.
I ran around with the high end, pricey gang.
I wrapped myself in my environmentally conscious rationale.
But, I have to admit. When the shit hit the fan, and my luggage was/is lost from Sunday until Thursday, you really came through for me.
I love you pink, disposable razor.
Odd Girl Still Out
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Despite the feeling by some present at this years BlogHer, it did feel different for me this year.
Perhaps it was my year long foray into the year of the deep dark mental illness - you know - the unpretty side of being crazy that made me more sensitive to the feeling that I just didn't belong anymore.
Since I got home, I have been sitting with these feelings. Trying to wrestle out what is my stuff, what I perceived, what I felt. Why did I just feel so sad after being at BlogHer?
What I am coming to realize is that Blogging is a business. I don't say that with scorn in any way, as I am earning a very modest amount from my collection of blogs and contracts. This money allows me to buy some of the things I need without asking Terrance for cash, and gives me some of the freedom I lost when I gave up not only my employment, but my ability to seek jobs freely. I am an American in Canada on a student visa. I am not allowed to work, except in very specific places ( like on campus).
Having taken a year in which I wrapped myself in a bubble and struggled through the murky waters of my brain, I failed to watch what was going on in the outside Blog-o-sphere. The world has noticed that there is money to be made here, writers of considerable talent who can talk about more than how cute their child(ren) may be on any given day.
While I slumbered in my medicated cocoon, things changed. My beloved hobby is now a business and I am forced to view myself and others through these new eyes. I am a business. As such, there is an element of competition and self promotion that leaves me feeling like academia is right for me. At least that game, the one of professors and teaching assistantships - getting co-authoring credit on academic writing, I know how to play.
This other game? The one of cocktail parties and social networking? I suck at this. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable. My anxiety levels rise and I get silent...or start to drink to calm myself...which means I get goofy and decidedly UNSMOOTH.
I see others for whom this seems easy and wish I knew the secret. I feel jealous at their ease, the way in which others are drawn to them. On one hand, I want to know how to get invited to the reindeer games. I want what will also horrify me and make me deeply unsettled ~ I want admiration, I want the cooing, the squealing, the fussing over and being best beloved of people.
I wish I knew the secret. But I don't. I haven't figured it out in 37 years and I doubt the grand epiphany will occur any time soon.
Blogging has grown up and I remain hoping that the other blogging ~ the one I fell in love with ~ will return to hold my hand and tell me that it still loves me.
But you can never go back.
Perhaps it was my year long foray into the year of the deep dark mental illness - you know - the unpretty side of being crazy that made me more sensitive to the feeling that I just didn't belong anymore.
Since I got home, I have been sitting with these feelings. Trying to wrestle out what is my stuff, what I perceived, what I felt. Why did I just feel so sad after being at BlogHer?
What I am coming to realize is that Blogging is a business. I don't say that with scorn in any way, as I am earning a very modest amount from my collection of blogs and contracts. This money allows me to buy some of the things I need without asking Terrance for cash, and gives me some of the freedom I lost when I gave up not only my employment, but my ability to seek jobs freely. I am an American in Canada on a student visa. I am not allowed to work, except in very specific places ( like on campus).
Having taken a year in which I wrapped myself in a bubble and struggled through the murky waters of my brain, I failed to watch what was going on in the outside Blog-o-sphere. The world has noticed that there is money to be made here, writers of considerable talent who can talk about more than how cute their child(ren) may be on any given day.
While I slumbered in my medicated cocoon, things changed. My beloved hobby is now a business and I am forced to view myself and others through these new eyes. I am a business. As such, there is an element of competition and self promotion that leaves me feeling like academia is right for me. At least that game, the one of professors and teaching assistantships - getting co-authoring credit on academic writing, I know how to play.
This other game? The one of cocktail parties and social networking? I suck at this. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable. My anxiety levels rise and I get silent...or start to drink to calm myself...which means I get goofy and decidedly UNSMOOTH.
I see others for whom this seems easy and wish I knew the secret. I feel jealous at their ease, the way in which others are drawn to them. On one hand, I want to know how to get invited to the reindeer games. I want what will also horrify me and make me deeply unsettled ~ I want admiration, I want the cooing, the squealing, the fussing over and being best beloved of people.
I wish I knew the secret. But I don't. I haven't figured it out in 37 years and I doubt the grand epiphany will occur any time soon.
Blogging has grown up and I remain hoping that the other blogging ~ the one I fell in love with ~ will return to hold my hand and tell me that it still loves me.
But you can never go back.
Not just baleful - BALEFUL
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday I rose at 3:40 am. I arrived via taxi to O'Hare airport at 4:40 a.m. I took a flight from Chicago to Washington-Dulles. I arrived at 8:30 a.m.
And then I spent the next 16 hours at Dulles.
Was it the 2 hours on the tarmac in the plane who shut off the AC to "conserve fuel"?( which BTW airline - not reassuring to the passengers to imply that your fuel levels might be in question)
Nah.
Was it the recall to our gate as I reached the FRONT of customer service at 2:45 p.m., with an implication that we were about to re board and fly away instead of be canceled as my gut told me we were about to be?
Hell, nah.
Was it the security sirens that would go off when employees would incorrectly swipe their cards and go through doors - followed with no one in particular being concerned as the sirens continued to go off for upwards of 45 minutes - in which time I could have chased down airplanes by foot?
Nah, a little Advil helped with the bleeding ear drums and temporary hearing loss.
Was it the 2 hours I stood in line at Customer service while moving 15 feet before giving up due to extreme hunger after my flight was "officially" canceled at 6 p.m.?
(I am not exaggerating when I say this line was EASILY a mile plus long...)
Nope.
Gate attendant who didn't want to guarantee my bags would get to me in Montreal cause that is, you know - International....?
Heck, no.
It was the gates changes - 4 - in rapid succession at 11 p.m. It was like Lord of the Fly Lemmings meets Dawn of the Dead Zombies as 200 people - young, old, infirm RAN from Gate C27.....to Gate C11 to Gate C4....and then back to Gate C11 - all jockeying for position in line, often reaching the front of the line at one gate before being told they could no longer be served at that gate - only to find that faster people had attained the front of the line at the new gate, and then running back down the hall when the gate changed again.....
It was the decline of Western civilization encapsulated in the microcosm of Terminal C at Washington-Dulles airport. I half expected to see Piggy being eaten in the corner of the room. In fact, I can't guarantee that didn't happen later in the evening....
And then I spent the next 16 hours at Dulles.
Was it the 2 hours on the tarmac in the plane who shut off the AC to "conserve fuel"?( which BTW airline - not reassuring to the passengers to imply that your fuel levels might be in question)
Nah.
Was it the recall to our gate as I reached the FRONT of customer service at 2:45 p.m., with an implication that we were about to re board and fly away instead of be canceled as my gut told me we were about to be?
Hell, nah.
Was it the security sirens that would go off when employees would incorrectly swipe their cards and go through doors - followed with no one in particular being concerned as the sirens continued to go off for upwards of 45 minutes - in which time I could have chased down airplanes by foot?
Nah, a little Advil helped with the bleeding ear drums and temporary hearing loss.
Was it the 2 hours I stood in line at Customer service while moving 15 feet before giving up due to extreme hunger after my flight was "officially" canceled at 6 p.m.?
(I am not exaggerating when I say this line was EASILY a mile plus long...)
Nope.
Gate attendant who didn't want to guarantee my bags would get to me in Montreal cause that is, you know - International....?
Heck, no.
It was the gates changes - 4 - in rapid succession at 11 p.m. It was like Lord of the Fly Lemmings meets Dawn of the Dead Zombies as 200 people - young, old, infirm RAN from Gate C27.....to Gate C11 to Gate C4....and then back to Gate C11 - all jockeying for position in line, often reaching the front of the line at one gate before being told they could no longer be served at that gate - only to find that faster people had attained the front of the line at the new gate, and then running back down the hall when the gate changed again.....
It was the decline of Western civilization encapsulated in the microcosm of Terminal C at Washington-Dulles airport. I half expected to see Piggy being eaten in the corner of the room. In fact, I can't guarantee that didn't happen later in the evening....
If I didn't know better....
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
I would think that Terrance was positively joyful at my leaving for BlogHer....
Hey!
Maybe Vlad will interview other Bloggers? Hmmmmmm......
Hey!
Maybe Vlad will interview other Bloggers? Hmmmmmm......
Dear Pituitary Gland:
Monday, July 23, 2007
I would like you to cease and desist the hormone responsible for sending these odd black hairs to grow in undesired places.
I'm not kidding.
Baleful Regards,
Dawn
I'm not kidding.
Baleful Regards,
Dawn
BlogThis
Friday, July 20, 2007
Ah, Sarah, Ah, Mocha...so smart.
Now here is a secret....I am not nervous about BlogHer this year. Last year? Oh hell yes. This year? Meh, not so much.
Not because I am all THAT, but shit people. I had a major freaking meltdown over the past year. I lost my fucking mind. Literally. And I told you all about it!
(I think we can all sleep better knowing that I too did not sign the "no swearing" clause. I don't even have a "no swearing" clause in front of my child so why the fuck would I do it for anyone else?)
It isn't as if I am not awed by my bloggy crushes either. I still would love to just give Heather a big hug and tell her that she will get through all of it instead of simply staring at her from across the room...and I practically tripped over myself trying to get Eden to laugh at something I said last year while buying her t-shirts ....
But as I said to Nancy in an email recently.... I got nothing to prove. Zippo. Nada. Nothing. You all know I am weird and quirky and prone to disappearing at odd times. I may drink too much and tell off color stories ( Hey Izzy, You laughed so hard at my "You are 40 years old, Don't tell me you don't know the difference between my ass and my cooch! last year - How brave of you to be my room mate this year!)
I may stay up until the sun rises and see Sasquatch with you.
Sue has a great post about the nervousness around BlogHer and how unfounded it is. Honestly. I will be so glad to see friends from last year, and friends I have yet to meet.
Everything will be just fine.
So without further ado, here is my 10 second intro....
* I am the person you want on your team for trivial pursuit type games. I store VAST amounts of obscure, useless information in my brain.
* I am actually licensed to teach K-6
* I own more pajama sets than one person really should...Both winter sets and summers sets. I love quirky pajamas, as they are my main clothing at home. I would walk around in my pajamas all the time if I could.
* The whole "grunge rock" thing missed me entirely. Although I was in my third year of college, I just didn't get it - at all.
* I go fucking bugshit over good coconut cake.
* I own most of the Harry Potter books ( hardcover) in both their American and British release versions. Which are in fact slightly different.
It isn't the moving objects, it's the ones that stay still
Friday, July 13, 2007
I think he may be trying to kill me.
Of course, in his view - I may deserve it. I did, After all, manage to hit an immovable object AGAIN with the car. The only car that is currently running. Since his car is in the shop. Again.
All right, all right. I have a bit of a "history" with hitting immovable objects. Starting on the first day that I had my now older new car. I backed it directly into my old car. Denting it. Nothing too major but you know the whole "can't have nothing nice" speech? Um, yeah. I got that speech. And the dent buffed out.
The car is a Concorde - 2000. It is Massive. A boat of a car that I did not choose, but which I accepted as graciously as I could. This thing is like driving the automotive equivalent of an aircraft carrier - Long in a funny way with a tail end that sticks WAY the hell out.
While is was okay to drive in New Hampshire, it is an unholy terror to drive in Montreal. The size alone makes parking ( nearly all parallel) nigh unto impossible. Add in the capricious whims of Montreal drivers, and the roads which have been actually compared to those of a third world country (Really, they have) and it is honestly a bit of a minor miracle that I haven't hit MORE things.
Dying to know what I hit aren't you?
The corral for shopping carriages, in the Walmart parking lot.
I will pause as you laugh, snort and otherwise picture me hitting this thing...and looking genuinely surprised. Especially as I was pulling into not ONE, but TWO open parking spaces!!! It did not help that an elderly gentleman of African ( as in FROM Africa) then came over and began what I believe was empathizing, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. I am pretty sure the "F" word was used - out loud. At least twice.
There was much crying and rending of hair and gnashing of teeth as I placed the phone call home. I began my greeting with " You are going to scream at me, but I am asking you to keep that to a minimum...all right?" It went downhill from there.
Then I - like anyone in a similar situation - took to my bed for nearly a day. Very Stuart Smalley-esque.
So, of course, I am suspicious of his suggestion I take shower during the lightening storm this morning. I tell him of my family and our long oral tradition warning against the showering of people during natural ( or unnatural) electrical events.
He denounces my old fashioned white people beliefs. I then invite him to go ahead and shower first. He declines.
My victory, although silent, is confirmed.
Of course, in his view - I may deserve it. I did, After all, manage to hit an immovable object AGAIN with the car. The only car that is currently running. Since his car is in the shop. Again.
All right, all right. I have a bit of a "history" with hitting immovable objects. Starting on the first day that I had my now older new car. I backed it directly into my old car. Denting it. Nothing too major but you know the whole "can't have nothing nice" speech? Um, yeah. I got that speech. And the dent buffed out.
The car is a Concorde - 2000. It is Massive. A boat of a car that I did not choose, but which I accepted as graciously as I could. This thing is like driving the automotive equivalent of an aircraft carrier - Long in a funny way with a tail end that sticks WAY the hell out.
While is was okay to drive in New Hampshire, it is an unholy terror to drive in Montreal. The size alone makes parking ( nearly all parallel) nigh unto impossible. Add in the capricious whims of Montreal drivers, and the roads which have been actually compared to those of a third world country (Really, they have) and it is honestly a bit of a minor miracle that I haven't hit MORE things.
Dying to know what I hit aren't you?
The corral for shopping carriages, in the Walmart parking lot.
I will pause as you laugh, snort and otherwise picture me hitting this thing...and looking genuinely surprised. Especially as I was pulling into not ONE, but TWO open parking spaces!!! It did not help that an elderly gentleman of African ( as in FROM Africa) then came over and began what I believe was empathizing, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. I am pretty sure the "F" word was used - out loud. At least twice.
There was much crying and rending of hair and gnashing of teeth as I placed the phone call home. I began my greeting with " You are going to scream at me, but I am asking you to keep that to a minimum...all right?" It went downhill from there.
Then I - like anyone in a similar situation - took to my bed for nearly a day. Very Stuart Smalley-esque.
So, of course, I am suspicious of his suggestion I take shower during the lightening storm this morning. I tell him of my family and our long oral tradition warning against the showering of people during natural ( or unnatural) electrical events.
He denounces my old fashioned white people beliefs. I then invite him to go ahead and shower first. He declines.
My victory, although silent, is confirmed.
What's That Tingle?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Note to self:
If you have rubbed your husbands back with "odorless" Ben Gay and you THINK you have thoroughly washed your hands..
Stop.
Wait an hour or so before you wash your face.
You'd think I had learned this lesson before...
If you have rubbed your husbands back with "odorless" Ben Gay and you THINK you have thoroughly washed your hands..
Stop.
Wait an hour or so before you wash your face.
You'd think I had learned this lesson before...
Father of mine
Sunday, July 08, 2007
The last time I saw my father, I was 13 years old.
He was supposed to pick my brother and I up at my mother's house in Vermont. He was late and I was impatient becuase I had turned down a friends boy-girl party to wait for him.
It had been at least 2 years since our last visitation at that point. My mother had a brand new baby with the man she would later marry. My brother was not quite ten.
While I remembered what he looked like, I also didn't. I mean...the eyes of an eleven year old girl recall her father being huge. Massive. All Encompassing. Larger than life.
My father was a Marine, by choice. He enlisted during Vietnam. This added a layer of toughness that was unmistakable. I was drilled with the Marine corp code. Always faithful. First ones in, last ones out. The shotgun was put in my hands when I was six and he laughed when the recoil knocked me down. When I began to cry, he called me a baby and demanded that I get back up and do it again. This is similar, apparently to the way he taught me to not touch medicine. He held it out to me, offering. As I reached out to take it, he smacked my hand. After several attempts, I gave up, hand stinging. Lesson learned and noted.
These memories are tempered with the moments when he was a tender and loving father. I recall after my brother was born, he came home, got me dressed, painted my nails, took me to dinner and a movie. He told me that he loved me and that I was his daughter, his first child.
This is the same man who, in a fit of rage, shot my dogs to death one winter night because they were barking. My mother had to clean the bloody snow up before I woke up. I was told that Candy and Karen had run away. Or after telling me that I had been a naughty girl, hid all of the Christmas presents as I napped. I woke up to find everything gone. Santa, I was informed, had changed his mind and taken everything back. I was five.
Some of my ability to closely observe people came from living with him. His moods needed to be monitored closely. I learned to read him. I learned how to stay quiet and watch. I never moved first, but planned my counter move in response to the first move of his whims. For instance, you never woke him up by approaching him by the side of his body - always from the top, near his head. He tended to punch as he woke up, and I had gotten socked in the gut enough to know better.
I wonder sometimes what he looks like now, and have occasionally pondered making the drive back to the Ohio valley where I was born to see for myself. I am no longer a little girl seeing him as a demi-god. Was he tall, or is that just how I remember him? I remember that he had black hair and brown eyes. My brother resembles him, and yet doesn't. My brother has a sense of humor, a tenderness about him that my father never exuded.
I doubt that he remembers the same things that I remember. I suspect that years of drug and alcohol use have dulled his memories. I tend to wonder if he would even recognize me if I walked out into the driveway of my grandparents house. I struggle with the line between bravery and fear. Am I brave enough to open the light of reality onto him, bright rays chasing out the foggy images I hold from more than twenty years ago? Or does it speak of more bravery to walk away from this man, shutting and bolting the door, then bricking the wall so that he and his kind never reach out to my daughter?
Would seeing him as a 57 year old man make me pity him - the logic and reality of all these years of therapy to undo his carnage showing me that he is a damaged human being who could neither help nor understand the impact of his actions? That he is a frightened abused little boy?
When I first started my therapy when I was 18, I tried for a year to understand. To be compassionate. To tell myself that my parents did the best with what they had. I was trying to absolve and forgive before I had even unveiled the litany of wrongs. Imagine my relief when my therapist told me that I didn't have to forgive him. That the things I had experienced, the abuses of my trust in a parent, the abuses of my body, the abuses of my mental and physical well being - well. They were unforgivable.
That is how I began to heal. I didn't have to forgive. I didn't have to be the bigger person.
And now...Well, I sometimes dream of him. I dream of my grandmothers house. I dream that he sees me pulling into the driveway and that I walk in to find him. Sometimes we talk in these dreams, but more often we don't. I sometimes wake from these dreams to wonder what his reaction to me today would be. I envision my brother and I walking in to that house, side by side. His children - we who look so familiar and yet are not at all known to him.
I fear that by humanizing him, by actually seeing him in the flesh,I would have to forgive him. I would see a man. A human man. I would realize that I am far stronger than he could have ever imagined and that his hold over me was too long mythologized in my creation story. I would see that rather than being God, he was just a bit player with a few random lines. I would see that he, in fact, did not cast me from an imaginary Eden...but that I walked out of the gates of my own free will free from any vestiges of sin.
He was supposed to pick my brother and I up at my mother's house in Vermont. He was late and I was impatient becuase I had turned down a friends boy-girl party to wait for him.
It had been at least 2 years since our last visitation at that point. My mother had a brand new baby with the man she would later marry. My brother was not quite ten.
While I remembered what he looked like, I also didn't. I mean...the eyes of an eleven year old girl recall her father being huge. Massive. All Encompassing. Larger than life.
My father was a Marine, by choice. He enlisted during Vietnam. This added a layer of toughness that was unmistakable. I was drilled with the Marine corp code. Always faithful. First ones in, last ones out. The shotgun was put in my hands when I was six and he laughed when the recoil knocked me down. When I began to cry, he called me a baby and demanded that I get back up and do it again. This is similar, apparently to the way he taught me to not touch medicine. He held it out to me, offering. As I reached out to take it, he smacked my hand. After several attempts, I gave up, hand stinging. Lesson learned and noted.
These memories are tempered with the moments when he was a tender and loving father. I recall after my brother was born, he came home, got me dressed, painted my nails, took me to dinner and a movie. He told me that he loved me and that I was his daughter, his first child.
This is the same man who, in a fit of rage, shot my dogs to death one winter night because they were barking. My mother had to clean the bloody snow up before I woke up. I was told that Candy and Karen had run away. Or after telling me that I had been a naughty girl, hid all of the Christmas presents as I napped. I woke up to find everything gone. Santa, I was informed, had changed his mind and taken everything back. I was five.
Some of my ability to closely observe people came from living with him. His moods needed to be monitored closely. I learned to read him. I learned how to stay quiet and watch. I never moved first, but planned my counter move in response to the first move of his whims. For instance, you never woke him up by approaching him by the side of his body - always from the top, near his head. He tended to punch as he woke up, and I had gotten socked in the gut enough to know better.
I wonder sometimes what he looks like now, and have occasionally pondered making the drive back to the Ohio valley where I was born to see for myself. I am no longer a little girl seeing him as a demi-god. Was he tall, or is that just how I remember him? I remember that he had black hair and brown eyes. My brother resembles him, and yet doesn't. My brother has a sense of humor, a tenderness about him that my father never exuded.
I doubt that he remembers the same things that I remember. I suspect that years of drug and alcohol use have dulled his memories. I tend to wonder if he would even recognize me if I walked out into the driveway of my grandparents house. I struggle with the line between bravery and fear. Am I brave enough to open the light of reality onto him, bright rays chasing out the foggy images I hold from more than twenty years ago? Or does it speak of more bravery to walk away from this man, shutting and bolting the door, then bricking the wall so that he and his kind never reach out to my daughter?
Would seeing him as a 57 year old man make me pity him - the logic and reality of all these years of therapy to undo his carnage showing me that he is a damaged human being who could neither help nor understand the impact of his actions? That he is a frightened abused little boy?
When I first started my therapy when I was 18, I tried for a year to understand. To be compassionate. To tell myself that my parents did the best with what they had. I was trying to absolve and forgive before I had even unveiled the litany of wrongs. Imagine my relief when my therapist told me that I didn't have to forgive him. That the things I had experienced, the abuses of my trust in a parent, the abuses of my body, the abuses of my mental and physical well being - well. They were unforgivable.
That is how I began to heal. I didn't have to forgive. I didn't have to be the bigger person.
And now...Well, I sometimes dream of him. I dream of my grandmothers house. I dream that he sees me pulling into the driveway and that I walk in to find him. Sometimes we talk in these dreams, but more often we don't. I sometimes wake from these dreams to wonder what his reaction to me today would be. I envision my brother and I walking in to that house, side by side. His children - we who look so familiar and yet are not at all known to him.
I fear that by humanizing him, by actually seeing him in the flesh,I would have to forgive him. I would see a man. A human man. I would realize that I am far stronger than he could have ever imagined and that his hold over me was too long mythologized in my creation story. I would see that rather than being God, he was just a bit player with a few random lines. I would see that he, in fact, did not cast me from an imaginary Eden...but that I walked out of the gates of my own free will free from any vestiges of sin.
My baby is a serial killer
Friday, July 06, 2007
A Blog Called Malice!
Haha. See what I did there? Used the last post title and changed it a smidge?
Sorry. I need to make the little jokes.
I started this post as an email to the DSS group. I still may send it out to them, I haven't yet decided.
It's True Wife.
I am conflicted.
It is as if My baby has grown into something I don't like anymore. However, like all the best co-dependent relationships - I still NEED it. It is - somewhat sadly - how I am making a majority of my income right now.
And it is about to go onto Lifetime's web site. Excerpts only, but with links back.
So - the other day, a confession comes in regarding another confession. In it, there is an implication that I made negative comments about the poster. Then it called the site ugly.
So first, I got mad - cause that is what I do. I mean, I assure you - if I wanted to talk trash, I would do it. How dare this person insinuate that I was bashing her. ME!?! Hah! I am the least bashy person ev-ah. Unless you are taking too long at the ATM. And even then, I temper it with humor. I mean, it's MY issue, really.
And then I realized that Yes. The site is ugly - sometimes. But it is also beautiful, sometimes. I mean, a few confessions ago there was one about a woman who was diagnosed with Herpes while pregnant and she was very angry with her husband - accusing him of cheating.
The comments that came in were the essence of what I love about TWC. It was a virtual hand hold. A "Yes, this may be true, but there are lots of other things to consider..." and sharing of personal information and stories. No one absolved him of the possibility that he had given her this virus, but at the same time there was compassion and information and humanity shared.
THAT is what I have always loved about TWC. That is why I have refused to censor the confessions, even if I find something personally sketchy. I mean, who am I - really? Just a chick writing on the internet. I have ideas. I sometimes follow through on those ideas. I sometimes hate my life. I sometimes love my life. I have had enough life experience to know that things aren't always what they seem and that the most damage I have done to myself was during times when I was pretending to be something, someone that I am not.
And now? I feel like one of my kids has become the John Wayne Gacy of blogs. Ugly. And I don't like it.
And I don't know what to do.
Haha. See what I did there? Used the last post title and changed it a smidge?
Sorry. I need to make the little jokes.
I started this post as an email to the DSS group. I still may send it out to them, I haven't yet decided.
It's True Wife.
I am conflicted.
It is as if My baby has grown into something I don't like anymore. However, like all the best co-dependent relationships - I still NEED it. It is - somewhat sadly - how I am making a majority of my income right now.
And it is about to go onto Lifetime's web site. Excerpts only, but with links back.
So - the other day, a confession comes in regarding another confession. In it, there is an implication that I made negative comments about the poster. Then it called the site ugly.
So first, I got mad - cause that is what I do. I mean, I assure you - if I wanted to talk trash, I would do it. How dare this person insinuate that I was bashing her. ME!?! Hah! I am the least bashy person ev-ah. Unless you are taking too long at the ATM. And even then, I temper it with humor. I mean, it's MY issue, really.
And then I realized that Yes. The site is ugly - sometimes. But it is also beautiful, sometimes. I mean, a few confessions ago there was one about a woman who was diagnosed with Herpes while pregnant and she was very angry with her husband - accusing him of cheating.
The comments that came in were the essence of what I love about TWC. It was a virtual hand hold. A "Yes, this may be true, but there are lots of other things to consider..." and sharing of personal information and stories. No one absolved him of the possibility that he had given her this virus, but at the same time there was compassion and information and humanity shared.
THAT is what I have always loved about TWC. That is why I have refused to censor the confessions, even if I find something personally sketchy. I mean, who am I - really? Just a chick writing on the internet. I have ideas. I sometimes follow through on those ideas. I sometimes hate my life. I sometimes love my life. I have had enough life experience to know that things aren't always what they seem and that the most damage I have done to myself was during times when I was pretending to be something, someone that I am not.
And now? I feel like one of my kids has become the John Wayne Gacy of blogs. Ugly. And I don't like it.
And I don't know what to do.
Town called Malice
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Well, maybe not a whole TOWN....maybe just the thought of my high school reunion. High school reunion called malice...
(I dare you to make a fucking musical out of THAT, Disney)
Nancy recently was talking about her upcoming High School Reunion. Year 20. How she dreads it, even though I don't think she is going. This spun my mind to thinking about MY high School reunion and how it is next year. Also year 20.
Now, at year 10 - 1998 - I was 3 months post delivery of Emily. I had a shiny new baby. I had a still somewhat shiny newish husband. I had a decent job in my field. I had been published. I felt pretty damn good. I looked all right, for having monstrous nursing boobs.
In addition, I had no alcohol tolerance. Two glasses of wine and I can only recall snippets of the evening. Suffice it to say that at one point, I do recall saying "So, too bad I wasn't voted most likely to marry the only black guy in Vermont..."
Not long after, I think Terrance cut me off.
After reading Nancy's post, I was in the car with Terrance. I was telling him about her feelings - and by extrapolation - MY feelings.
This is when I announced my real intentions.
"I plan on going to my high school reunion to show how AWESOME I am!"
This got his attention. He stopped ignoring me and perked up. "What?", he said.
"Me..... AWESOME...... I plan on going to my 20th year reunion to show how AWESOME I turned out... Suck on that Be-iotches!"
He frowned at me.
Now, it has been long agreed upon in my house that Terrance IS the better person. More responsible. Kinder. Polite. Selfless.
Not me. I am the person to yell "Suck on that, be-iotches" at people. If I could peel out and splatter mud on them, I think I would.
"Dawn. First of all, what do you have to be so boastful about being awesome? and secondly - you plan on going back and telling people that you have been holding some sort of grudge for 20 years and you hope their lives suck? Really? I can't believe that you are so petty."
I turned and stared at him. About 70% of the time, I back down at this speech. I mean, it IS petty. I should be far more adult than this.
But, like the scorpion on the back of the frog.....I can't help it. It's my nature.
On this day, I rose to the challenge.
"I have an awesome internet Empire. I will be 3/4ths of the way to my PhD. I may not be skinny but I fucking rock. I mean - my shoes ALONE! I live in Montreal for Christ sakes! I'm smart and funny and I win at life! I know it's petty, but I don't care. I have these people etched in my MIND. I know their names. I have a mental list!!!"
He sighs, deeply. He has never understood this need of mine. However, his is the ignorance of being one of the popular kids. He was liked by everybody. His high school life was smooth and uneventful.
I, on the other hand, mentally took down names. There are people I would like to corner in a dimly lit room and lord my awesome-ness over them. Of course, in thinking about this I wonder....Am I on someone's mental list? Was I the person someone else marked down as wanting to have a talk with - 20 years later?
So, while the many-years-in-therapy-adult in me knows I should mingle and be gracious and warm, for these people have stories I did not know, reasons for why they did things they may have done, life experiences which may have damaged and scarred them...the 18 year old has some names on a list and she has had 20 years to perfect her proof of why she is better. Smarter. Funnier.
Better.
(I dare you to make a fucking musical out of THAT, Disney)
Nancy recently was talking about her upcoming High School Reunion. Year 20. How she dreads it, even though I don't think she is going. This spun my mind to thinking about MY high School reunion and how it is next year. Also year 20.
Now, at year 10 - 1998 - I was 3 months post delivery of Emily. I had a shiny new baby. I had a still somewhat shiny newish husband. I had a decent job in my field. I had been published. I felt pretty damn good. I looked all right, for having monstrous nursing boobs.
In addition, I had no alcohol tolerance. Two glasses of wine and I can only recall snippets of the evening. Suffice it to say that at one point, I do recall saying "So, too bad I wasn't voted most likely to marry the only black guy in Vermont..."
Not long after, I think Terrance cut me off.
After reading Nancy's post, I was in the car with Terrance. I was telling him about her feelings - and by extrapolation - MY feelings.
This is when I announced my real intentions.
"I plan on going to my high school reunion to show how AWESOME I am!"
This got his attention. He stopped ignoring me and perked up. "What?", he said.
"Me..... AWESOME...... I plan on going to my 20th year reunion to show how AWESOME I turned out... Suck on that Be-iotches!"
He frowned at me.
Now, it has been long agreed upon in my house that Terrance IS the better person. More responsible. Kinder. Polite. Selfless.
Not me. I am the person to yell "Suck on that, be-iotches" at people. If I could peel out and splatter mud on them, I think I would.
"Dawn. First of all, what do you have to be so boastful about being awesome? and secondly - you plan on going back and telling people that you have been holding some sort of grudge for 20 years and you hope their lives suck? Really? I can't believe that you are so petty."
I turned and stared at him. About 70% of the time, I back down at this speech. I mean, it IS petty. I should be far more adult than this.
But, like the scorpion on the back of the frog.....I can't help it. It's my nature.
On this day, I rose to the challenge.
"I have an awesome internet Empire. I will be 3/4ths of the way to my PhD. I may not be skinny but I fucking rock. I mean - my shoes ALONE! I live in Montreal for Christ sakes! I'm smart and funny and I win at life! I know it's petty, but I don't care. I have these people etched in my MIND. I know their names. I have a mental list!!!"
He sighs, deeply. He has never understood this need of mine. However, his is the ignorance of being one of the popular kids. He was liked by everybody. His high school life was smooth and uneventful.
I, on the other hand, mentally took down names. There are people I would like to corner in a dimly lit room and lord my awesome-ness over them. Of course, in thinking about this I wonder....Am I on someone's mental list? Was I the person someone else marked down as wanting to have a talk with - 20 years later?
So, while the many-years-in-therapy-adult in me knows I should mingle and be gracious and warm, for these people have stories I did not know, reasons for why they did things they may have done, life experiences which may have damaged and scarred them...the 18 year old has some names on a list and she has had 20 years to perfect her proof of why she is better. Smarter. Funnier.
Better.
Spider of Damocles
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Apparently you didn't get the memo that I passed out to all spiders upon moving here a year ago.
The rule is very firm. I tolerate you, in your shower corner perch....and you are not to come down anywhere near me as I shower. This rule has been observed without incident for many years with many of your friends and relations.
I do not kill you. I do not throw hot water at you. I do not scream.
You, in return - STAY PUT. We can maintain human eye to anrachnid compound eye contact at all times, just to make sure that the rules are being obeyed. A De-spiderized zone, if you will.
Imagine my consternation upon turning and finding you at about nose level as I showered this morning. All right, it was very early afternoon, but who are you - my mother? I was in the shower for crying out loud. I had already done a load of laundry and washed the dishes. What is it to you when I get myself into the shower? Geesh.
At any rate, upon turning after my initial "wet down", There you were.
I maintained my agreed upon silence. I spoke to you in a fairly calm voice, given the situation. I directed a gentle puff of air in your direction. As if to say "Hey, Spider. Hustle it back up to the corner. You have no business here."
Apparently, in your spider handbook, this was an invitation to descend a little further. No. No and No again. This is not part of our agreement. When I am IN the shower, naked and wet....
{and hey spider, thanks for all the pervs THIS search term will bring to my blog. It is bad enough that the labia picture, Brazilian wax wanting, meth addicted shiv making shankers peruse my thoughts. Now this. Lets give them a treat. Anal! Donkey! Elves! Foot job! }
You are to maintain the agreed upon distance from me. There is no "hey, maybe this is the time to check out which shampoo she is choosing today" moment for you. Shit - check it out all you want when I am not in the shower. Take a swim in it. I don't care - but not when I am in there.
I next moved to the actual Verbal commands.
"DUDE! WHAT THE FUCK? GET BACK UP ONTO THE CEILING!!" as I puffed vigorously in your now wildly swinging spider body direction.
Still no affirmative response from you. Maybe you are dead?
I stopped puffing and moved back under the water. I waited.
And you unfurled yourself, did a little spidery about face and looked at me.
"Please", I said. "Don't make me kill you - just get back up where you belong and we will be fine. I realize the irony that I have about a billion times the size on you and yet I am the one huddled in fear. It must be very empowering, but PLEASE, Go." *
and the spider hesitated.
And crawled back up onto the ceiling.
Where instead of going to the corner, he/she SAT on the ceiling directly above my head. Not moving for the rest of the shower. Reveling in his/her victory as the flabby and pale human hastily finished showering and fled.
* Sadly, Yes. I did have an actual conversation with the spider. I wish I made these things up...but I don't.
The rule is very firm. I tolerate you, in your shower corner perch....and you are not to come down anywhere near me as I shower. This rule has been observed without incident for many years with many of your friends and relations.
I do not kill you. I do not throw hot water at you. I do not scream.
You, in return - STAY PUT. We can maintain human eye to anrachnid compound eye contact at all times, just to make sure that the rules are being obeyed. A De-spiderized zone, if you will.
Imagine my consternation upon turning and finding you at about nose level as I showered this morning. All right, it was very early afternoon, but who are you - my mother? I was in the shower for crying out loud. I had already done a load of laundry and washed the dishes. What is it to you when I get myself into the shower? Geesh.
At any rate, upon turning after my initial "wet down", There you were.
I maintained my agreed upon silence. I spoke to you in a fairly calm voice, given the situation. I directed a gentle puff of air in your direction. As if to say "Hey, Spider. Hustle it back up to the corner. You have no business here."
Apparently, in your spider handbook, this was an invitation to descend a little further. No. No and No again. This is not part of our agreement. When I am IN the shower, naked and wet....
{and hey spider, thanks for all the pervs THIS search term will bring to my blog. It is bad enough that the labia picture, Brazilian wax wanting, meth addicted shiv making shankers peruse my thoughts. Now this. Lets give them a treat. Anal! Donkey! Elves! Foot job! }
You are to maintain the agreed upon distance from me. There is no "hey, maybe this is the time to check out which shampoo she is choosing today" moment for you. Shit - check it out all you want when I am not in the shower. Take a swim in it. I don't care - but not when I am in there.
I next moved to the actual Verbal commands.
"DUDE! WHAT THE FUCK? GET BACK UP ONTO THE CEILING!!" as I puffed vigorously in your now wildly swinging spider body direction.
Still no affirmative response from you. Maybe you are dead?
I stopped puffing and moved back under the water. I waited.
And you unfurled yourself, did a little spidery about face and looked at me.
"Please", I said. "Don't make me kill you - just get back up where you belong and we will be fine. I realize the irony that I have about a billion times the size on you and yet I am the one huddled in fear. It must be very empowering, but PLEASE, Go." *
and the spider hesitated.
And crawled back up onto the ceiling.
Where instead of going to the corner, he/she SAT on the ceiling directly above my head. Not moving for the rest of the shower. Reveling in his/her victory as the flabby and pale human hastily finished showering and fled.
* Sadly, Yes. I did have an actual conversation with the spider. I wish I made these things up...but I don't.
Dear New Hampshire:
Monday, July 02, 2007
It has been a year since we broke up. Leaving you was far harder than I ever imagined and I almost dropped everything and came back to you, although I must admit that at a year out there are things that I don't miss so much.
I do not miss NASCAR. I know, who would have thought! I do not long for Jeff Gordon life size cutouts greeting me at the grocery store. I do not miss the massive stickers which covered the backs of trucks. I do not wish to gaze upon various jackets, t-shirts, hats or other pieces of "clothing" which bear various logos and numbers. Montreal is remarkably NASCAR free. Hockey? Hell yes, but even that seems somehow tamer than the whole NASCAR thing. Did you hear that? Montreal Hockey fans seem LESS rabid that New Hampshire NASCAR fans.
I do, however, miss Dunkin Donuts with a passion which is re-ignited every time I cross the border. I know exactly where the closest Dunkin Donuts is in Vermont. I drive there and get my coffee. Ordered exactly how I know how to order coffee. And it tastes perfect. How do you do that Dunkin Donuts? Is there crystal meth in your coffee? I practically overdosed during the weekend of my brothers wedding in Boston. Emily kept commenting on happy I looked with my massive iced coffee plastic cup. When I get back to Montreal, I tell tales in my local Second Cup of the wonder of the American iced coffee. You can feel the polite Canadian barista's trying to not tell me to shut the fuck up as I go On and On about the beauty and wonder of the Dunkin Donut coffee. But they don't. Cause they are Canadian. And Canadians are generally very polite people. Even when they are telling me that they already know I am American...they do it Politely.
I do not miss politics. The never ending political conversation with the undeniable conservative bent that IS New Hampshire. I do not miss debates. I do not miss the
phone calls polling me on who I plan on supporting. I do not miss being an obvious Democrat in a Republican state. You know what? There are DAYS that go by that I don't see a picture of GW Bush. And I don't miss that AT ALL.
I do not miss your lack of fashion. I know, I am the kettle calling the pot ebony. I am not a fashionable woman, and yet DAMN! WHO KNEW that there was a world of clothing and style and Man-grooming out there that was not covered by LL Bean and Gap.
I do miss, however, your relatively cheap gasoline. When I last got gas down the road it was $1.14 A LITER. Calculate that you damn users of the standard English pounds and measures. Yeah. I also miss Fahrenheit. This Celsius stuff still messes me up. Because I am a lame American, I have a program on my computer which converts Celsius to Fahrenheit. Oh and on the topic of gasoline....Someone needs to have a word with the Quebecois about the etiquette of a gas station. It's all willy nilly here.
So, New Hampshire, like a boyfriend who was great in bed - but terrible everywhere else? I save you for my fond daydreamy times, knowing that the break up was the best thing I could have done. Hard but needed.
It wasn't you, I swear. It's me.
I do not miss NASCAR. I know, who would have thought! I do not long for Jeff Gordon life size cutouts greeting me at the grocery store. I do not miss the massive stickers which covered the backs of trucks. I do not wish to gaze upon various jackets, t-shirts, hats or other pieces of "clothing" which bear various logos and numbers. Montreal is remarkably NASCAR free. Hockey? Hell yes, but even that seems somehow tamer than the whole NASCAR thing. Did you hear that? Montreal Hockey fans seem LESS rabid that New Hampshire NASCAR fans.
I do, however, miss Dunkin Donuts with a passion which is re-ignited every time I cross the border. I know exactly where the closest Dunkin Donuts is in Vermont. I drive there and get my coffee. Ordered exactly how I know how to order coffee. And it tastes perfect. How do you do that Dunkin Donuts? Is there crystal meth in your coffee? I practically overdosed during the weekend of my brothers wedding in Boston. Emily kept commenting on happy I looked with my massive iced coffee plastic cup. When I get back to Montreal, I tell tales in my local Second Cup of the wonder of the American iced coffee. You can feel the polite Canadian barista's trying to not tell me to shut the fuck up as I go On and On about the beauty and wonder of the Dunkin Donut coffee. But they don't. Cause they are Canadian. And Canadians are generally very polite people. Even when they are telling me that they already know I am American...they do it Politely.
I do not miss politics. The never ending political conversation with the undeniable conservative bent that IS New Hampshire. I do not miss debates. I do not miss the
phone calls polling me on who I plan on supporting. I do not miss being an obvious Democrat in a Republican state. You know what? There are DAYS that go by that I don't see a picture of GW Bush. And I don't miss that AT ALL.
I do not miss your lack of fashion. I know, I am the kettle calling the pot ebony. I am not a fashionable woman, and yet DAMN! WHO KNEW that there was a world of clothing and style and Man-grooming out there that was not covered by LL Bean and Gap.
I do miss, however, your relatively cheap gasoline. When I last got gas down the road it was $1.14 A LITER. Calculate that you damn users of the standard English pounds and measures. Yeah. I also miss Fahrenheit. This Celsius stuff still messes me up. Because I am a lame American, I have a program on my computer which converts Celsius to Fahrenheit. Oh and on the topic of gasoline....Someone needs to have a word with the Quebecois about the etiquette of a gas station. It's all willy nilly here.
So, New Hampshire, like a boyfriend who was great in bed - but terrible everywhere else? I save you for my fond daydreamy times, knowing that the break up was the best thing I could have done. Hard but needed.
It wasn't you, I swear. It's me.
Mini Me
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Me: (In car, driving to get sandwiches)
"So - when I get you a new Daddy - what kind do you want him to be?"
Em (Pauses, looks thoughtfully at the ceiling):
"Nice - he should cook and clean. Buy me things. And have a sense of humor."
Me:
"Yeah. This one has no sense of humor. Sorry about that."
Em:
"Its all right. The next one will."
"So - when I get you a new Daddy - what kind do you want him to be?"
Em (Pauses, looks thoughtfully at the ceiling):
"Nice - he should cook and clean. Buy me things. And have a sense of humor."
Me:
"Yeah. This one has no sense of humor. Sorry about that."
Em:
"Its all right. The next one will."
Friday Fun....with La Chatte
Friday, June 29, 2007
Oh, I see you there, laying on the bed with that damn camera, waiting for me to look at you.
Let's get something straight. You shave me in February. FEBRUARY IN MONTREAL! What the fuck is wrong with you? Who shaves a cat in FEBRUARY in freaking Montreal?
My fur FINALLY starts to grow back and I look like a deranged rat for two months. Do you know what the other cats say to me? Do you hear the birds mocking me? It is bad enough that I have a stump tail. Oh, Never mind, you silly whore.
Then, with half a fur coat in place, the heat SOARS to 33 C in Montreal. I am left trying to spread my now no longer naked ass as long as possible to try to cool off.
Not that this is any concern of yours, since you routinely mess with me as I try to sleep. Why did you think I would enjoy a fan being directed at me? I ask again, What the fuck is wrong with you?
You know where the irony really kicks in? You adopted me about a year ago. I have now suckered you into buying the organic cat food with the "human quality" ingredients...most of which I refuse to eat. I continue to piss on the stuff of the man, to whom I show my devotion by leaving my love juices on his prized possessions. Yeah, I hear him sputtering about this being the "last time" but I have him by the balls. He will never get rid of me as long as that kid is around...and by my count, she has at least ten more years here - so I am golden.
I'm watching you, bitch. Don't leave any of your beloved shoes on the ground, cause I got something special planned for them. Then we'll see who is funny.
Time to find a new hiding place
Thursday, June 28, 2007
When your newly 9 year old daughter pulls your Rabbit vibrator out of the drawer you THOUGHT you had carefully concealed it in...and says:
"MOM! WHAT'S THIS COOL LOOKING THING?"
Try not to scream.
"MOM! WHAT'S THIS COOL LOOKING THING?"
Try not to scream.
What I found in my kitchen
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Do you know what that is? Neither did I.
Apparently my husband has wrapped all the fruit in newspaper.
To which I can only shrug and say, "If you insist...."
My husband is weird.
Last Syrah
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
After drinking too much wine on Saturday night, I found myself in the requisite pose.
At which point I thought:
"I really need to clean this toilet"
Nothing like too much wine to point out your shitty housekeeping skillz.
At which point I thought:
"I really need to clean this toilet"
Nothing like too much wine to point out your shitty housekeeping skillz.
Not your typical mom
Sunday, June 24, 2007
A few weeks ago, I was walking Emily to school.
She was listing her usual litany of complaints. Who she liked. Who she didn't. You know, the usual walking to school conversation.
I reminded her that she needed to go into the after school program, as I had to work in the afternoon.
This prompted a new wave of whining.
"But I don't LIKE to go to the after school....Nobody LIKES me..."
Now, perhaps other Moms might try to puzzle out the who and whys of this statement.
Me? What pearl of wisdom did I have?
"Why not? Did you kill a hobo?"
This shocks my daughter into nervous laughter.
"Kick a puppy? drown a baby bird?"
Her laughter now cascades out of her. Full on belly laughs.
"MAMA! I didn't kill a hobo!"
"Then I guess you can't be all that bad then."
And with that, we held hands and finished the walk to school.
She was listing her usual litany of complaints. Who she liked. Who she didn't. You know, the usual walking to school conversation.
I reminded her that she needed to go into the after school program, as I had to work in the afternoon.
This prompted a new wave of whining.
"But I don't LIKE to go to the after school....Nobody LIKES me..."
Now, perhaps other Moms might try to puzzle out the who and whys of this statement.
Me? What pearl of wisdom did I have?
"Why not? Did you kill a hobo?"
This shocks my daughter into nervous laughter.
"Kick a puppy? drown a baby bird?"
Her laughter now cascades out of her. Full on belly laughs.
"MAMA! I didn't kill a hobo!"
"Then I guess you can't be all that bad then."
And with that, we held hands and finished the walk to school.
This just in....
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Hey Catherine, I might need to catch a ride on the Toronto Party van...
Banque-ing the Monkey
Friday, June 22, 2007
After nearly a year of research, I can safely conclude that Canada is NOT America. It is not in any way, shape or form American-esque. Quebec, in particular, is NOT American, and is barely Canadian some days – depending on who you ask.
As an American, this has been a year of adjustment for me. Sure, I lived on a lake in New England without street lights and a septic tank for that past 14 years. One has to assume that there will be some “Transition” time from New Hampshire, with all its rural glory to Montreal(!!!). Home of Club Super Sexe! And Arcade Fire! And Hockey! And lots of other things that are spoken in French that I do not understand! Oui!!
There are, however, more subtle things that I have noticed.
Banking.
Yep, you read that correctly. Banking in this country? I am still trying to wrap my head around the banking system. Of course it took me six months before I could open a Canadian bank account, since we had to make sure that my mighty 205 Canadian dollars a week I earned as a TA was not being funneled to a terrorist organization of my choice elsewhere.
And Canada? Has like 5 banks. Which is fine, but the difference between American ATM debit cards and the Canadian “Interac” system is vast. For the first two months, I continued to insist that my American Debit card WAS a Debit card, even though it has a VISA symbol on it. Cause it's connected to my American checking account. Which is not how they do it here. Debit's are Interac and Visa's are Visa's.
So, now that I have a Canadian bank account in which to deposit Canadian cheques and an American bank account in which to deposit American checks, I can further observe the banking system in Quebec.
The main thing I noticed? People use ATM's to do their BANKING. I don't mean "getting 20 bucks out of the ATM" banking, but their BANKING. Major, long term, complicated transactions. Which, as an American, perplexes me. That is what the teller is for. But OH NO. The twelve extra steps into the open bank and up to the teller would rob the Canadian of the opportunity to do their money laundering here, at the ATM. And much like the people who would get to the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru and begin to order bagels with one side toasted with butter, and the other side un-toasted with honey, and a cup of coffee, but with half milk and half cream....I resist the urge to grab the person and scream "THIS IS NOT WHAT THE ATM IS FOR!!!! YOU GET MONEY OUT AND LEAVE!!!"
After a year, I have made some peace with this. I mean, what can I do? Beat the person up? I just make sure my ipod is fully charged before stepping into the ATM line.
However, the other day, I saw something that was...comical. I mean. I started to laugh. Out loud.
I stepped into the line. An elderly gentlemen seemed to be close to completing his transaction. Or at least that is what he wanted me to think. A young woman got into line behind me. This seemed to be the cue for the elderly dude to lose all consciousness of the 20th century. He began pressing buttons and staring at the machine...then reading something, then more button pressing, then more reading.... A door opened and closed. Envelopes were retrieved from mysterious places.
The young woman behind me started making noises of irritation. And then there was more beeping, and more button pushing. I started to laugh. The ATM whirred and seemed to be finishing....BUT NO! There was more banking to be done! It was like a SNL skit that doesn't end, my own personal bottles of beer on the wall. Sung by an out of tune, possibly out of touch with reality elderly gentleman. Who kind of smelled. And we all know how I love to be in enclosed spaces with smelly people.
And, I shit you not, this went on for 20 - TWENTY- minutes. This man stood there and fiddled with the ATM for 20 minutes!!! I have had sex, decent sex, in which both parties were satisfied in LESS time than this mans banking ordeal.
He finally finished. Or at least I thought he had. The machine spit his card out and I forced myself to not grab him by the shoulders and throw him out of the foyer, his ATM card bouncing off his head as I flung it in his general direction.
With the timing of a comedic genius, he lingered. I was mid step towards the ATM. He turned back to face the ATM, checking once again that whatever magical entity was speaking through the machine to him had concluded it's manifesto. I stepped back, embarrassed to be caught trying to bum rush the ATM. Only once I was safely back to the wall, did he turn and S-L-O-W-L-Y walked out the door.
You win, old smelly dude. You win.
As an American, this has been a year of adjustment for me. Sure, I lived on a lake in New England without street lights and a septic tank for that past 14 years. One has to assume that there will be some “Transition” time from New Hampshire, with all its rural glory to Montreal(!!!). Home of Club Super Sexe! And Arcade Fire! And Hockey! And lots of other things that are spoken in French that I do not understand! Oui!!
There are, however, more subtle things that I have noticed.
Banking.
Yep, you read that correctly. Banking in this country? I am still trying to wrap my head around the banking system. Of course it took me six months before I could open a Canadian bank account, since we had to make sure that my mighty 205 Canadian dollars a week I earned as a TA was not being funneled to a terrorist organization of my choice elsewhere.
And Canada? Has like 5 banks. Which is fine, but the difference between American ATM debit cards and the Canadian “Interac” system is vast. For the first two months, I continued to insist that my American Debit card WAS a Debit card, even though it has a VISA symbol on it. Cause it's connected to my American checking account. Which is not how they do it here. Debit's are Interac and Visa's are Visa's.
So, now that I have a Canadian bank account in which to deposit Canadian cheques and an American bank account in which to deposit American checks, I can further observe the banking system in Quebec.
The main thing I noticed? People use ATM's to do their BANKING. I don't mean "getting 20 bucks out of the ATM" banking, but their BANKING. Major, long term, complicated transactions. Which, as an American, perplexes me. That is what the teller is for. But OH NO. The twelve extra steps into the open bank and up to the teller would rob the Canadian of the opportunity to do their money laundering here, at the ATM. And much like the people who would get to the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru and begin to order bagels with one side toasted with butter, and the other side un-toasted with honey, and a cup of coffee, but with half milk and half cream....I resist the urge to grab the person and scream "THIS IS NOT WHAT THE ATM IS FOR!!!! YOU GET MONEY OUT AND LEAVE!!!"
After a year, I have made some peace with this. I mean, what can I do? Beat the person up? I just make sure my ipod is fully charged before stepping into the ATM line.
However, the other day, I saw something that was...comical. I mean. I started to laugh. Out loud.
I stepped into the line. An elderly gentlemen seemed to be close to completing his transaction. Or at least that is what he wanted me to think. A young woman got into line behind me. This seemed to be the cue for the elderly dude to lose all consciousness of the 20th century. He began pressing buttons and staring at the machine...then reading something, then more button pressing, then more reading.... A door opened and closed. Envelopes were retrieved from mysterious places.
The young woman behind me started making noises of irritation. And then there was more beeping, and more button pushing. I started to laugh. The ATM whirred and seemed to be finishing....BUT NO! There was more banking to be done! It was like a SNL skit that doesn't end, my own personal bottles of beer on the wall. Sung by an out of tune, possibly out of touch with reality elderly gentleman. Who kind of smelled. And we all know how I love to be in enclosed spaces with smelly people.
And, I shit you not, this went on for 20 - TWENTY- minutes. This man stood there and fiddled with the ATM for 20 minutes!!! I have had sex, decent sex, in which both parties were satisfied in LESS time than this mans banking ordeal.
He finally finished. Or at least I thought he had. The machine spit his card out and I forced myself to not grab him by the shoulders and throw him out of the foyer, his ATM card bouncing off his head as I flung it in his general direction.
With the timing of a comedic genius, he lingered. I was mid step towards the ATM. He turned back to face the ATM, checking once again that whatever magical entity was speaking through the machine to him had concluded it's manifesto. I stepped back, embarrassed to be caught trying to bum rush the ATM. Only once I was safely back to the wall, did he turn and S-L-O-W-L-Y walked out the door.
You win, old smelly dude. You win.
Social Pill Bug
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
My husband and child are social creatures. They are attractive and bubbly. They are bright and energetic. They feed off the social energy of a crowd.
Me? I'm that pale, startled looking beetle under the rock. The one who takes off like a bat out of hell when you flip the rock over, trying desperately to find cover. You can practically hear the beetle screaming in a little beetle voice "AAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
Aside from the obvious question of how two such different social styles met, courted and married (Thanks, Alcohol!) this has made our "friendships" as a couple and later as a family difficult.
Recently, Terrance has acquired some friends. I mean, I guess they are my friends too, and goodness knows they are nice people. I like spending time with them. But.... Well. They like to get together much more than I can handle.
This puts Terrance in the awkward position of trying to explain his weird vaguely anti-social wife, who never shows up for anything and doesn't answer the phone...or return phone calls. This, not surprisingly, makes him mad. At me.
For people without this intrinsic discomfort, I suppose it is an impossible thing to understand. NOT like being with people? What's not to like? I mean, you sit there. You talk. You socialize. You have some wine. In fact, I announced to this very group that I needed a great deal of time to recover after each time I am with a group. However announcing this to people who have no idea what you are talking about is like me announcing that I gave birth through my nose. Impossible!
However, I have done something now - twice - that I am both vaguely ashamed of doing, and at the same time wildly defensive about needing to do.
The first time I did it, I blamed the wine. I was tired and just wanted to go home. I git up from the table, gathered Emily and left. I said goodbye to no one. I left, fleeing to the quiet dark of my house, my rock. Terrance must have been told that I did this, for he asked me and I denied it. I was sure I had said goodbye to somebody, hadn't I?
Then last week, I did it again. I am, however, sure that I said I was going home to get Emily's stuff, as she was sleeping over her friends house. Then, the group of parents and kids met me at my door and after I packed her bag and handed her off, I knew I should have gone back to the party...but I couldn't. I mean, I KNEW I should. But I didn't.
The next day Terrance was quite upset. "You snuck off again without saying goodbye Dawn! You are a grown woman! You can't do that!"
I defended myself, knowing what he said was true. I had no real excuse, except that I couldn't go back. I had used up all my social energy in the two hours I had been there. I had nothing left to offer.
I needed to crawl under my rock and recover from the hopped up adrenaline of being with other people. My new skin is still a little fragile.
Me? I'm that pale, startled looking beetle under the rock. The one who takes off like a bat out of hell when you flip the rock over, trying desperately to find cover. You can practically hear the beetle screaming in a little beetle voice "AAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
Aside from the obvious question of how two such different social styles met, courted and married (Thanks, Alcohol!) this has made our "friendships" as a couple and later as a family difficult.
Recently, Terrance has acquired some friends. I mean, I guess they are my friends too, and goodness knows they are nice people. I like spending time with them. But.... Well. They like to get together much more than I can handle.
This puts Terrance in the awkward position of trying to explain his weird vaguely anti-social wife, who never shows up for anything and doesn't answer the phone...or return phone calls. This, not surprisingly, makes him mad. At me.
For people without this intrinsic discomfort, I suppose it is an impossible thing to understand. NOT like being with people? What's not to like? I mean, you sit there. You talk. You socialize. You have some wine. In fact, I announced to this very group that I needed a great deal of time to recover after each time I am with a group. However announcing this to people who have no idea what you are talking about is like me announcing that I gave birth through my nose. Impossible!
However, I have done something now - twice - that I am both vaguely ashamed of doing, and at the same time wildly defensive about needing to do.
The first time I did it, I blamed the wine. I was tired and just wanted to go home. I git up from the table, gathered Emily and left. I said goodbye to no one. I left, fleeing to the quiet dark of my house, my rock. Terrance must have been told that I did this, for he asked me and I denied it. I was sure I had said goodbye to somebody, hadn't I?
Then last week, I did it again. I am, however, sure that I said I was going home to get Emily's stuff, as she was sleeping over her friends house. Then, the group of parents and kids met me at my door and after I packed her bag and handed her off, I knew I should have gone back to the party...but I couldn't. I mean, I KNEW I should. But I didn't.
The next day Terrance was quite upset. "You snuck off again without saying goodbye Dawn! You are a grown woman! You can't do that!"
I defended myself, knowing what he said was true. I had no real excuse, except that I couldn't go back. I had used up all my social energy in the two hours I had been there. I had nothing left to offer.
I needed to crawl under my rock and recover from the hopped up adrenaline of being with other people. My new skin is still a little fragile.
Can I have a definition?
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Does blogging empower women?
Well, I suppose that depends on what you mean.
And, as any university academic will tell you, the definition is everything. And, of course, who is doing the defining.
Empowering is one of those terms like my beloved "developmentally appropriate education". It gets easily hijacked and bastardized into something it never was intended to mean. It becomes a tool of condescension, or an excuse for mediocrity. The "Up with People" of terminology, if you will.
If by "empowering" you mean giving a wide variety of women ( and people) a voice with which to speak about the topics on their mind, then Yes. Blogging is clearly empowering. I marvel at the people I have come to know through this medium. People who I had no other earthly reason to encounter, but whom I can not imagine as parts and pieces of my life.
If by "empowering" you mean unleashing a forum in which strangers can attack other people's words, beliefs or thoughts, sending vitriol through the anonymity of the internet - then....yeah, not so good. I love being called a bitch by strangers, or getting the suggestion that my daughter will grow up to be a useless waste of space, just like me. Wow. Very evolved. Very brave.
In the end, I can only define for myself what is "empowered".
Would I be the same person were it not for blogging? Roughly, yes. I think so. My core personality hasn't changed through the act of blogging. It has, however, showed me that I am not as alone as I thought. In the difficulties of marriage or mothering. In my wacky sense of humor and sense of the absurd. In the depths of depression.
As a blogger, I am part of a community. I am not alone.
and that is how I define empowered.
Well, I suppose that depends on what you mean.
And, as any university academic will tell you, the definition is everything. And, of course, who is doing the defining.
Empowering is one of those terms like my beloved "developmentally appropriate education". It gets easily hijacked and bastardized into something it never was intended to mean. It becomes a tool of condescension, or an excuse for mediocrity. The "Up with People" of terminology, if you will.
If by "empowering" you mean giving a wide variety of women ( and people) a voice with which to speak about the topics on their mind, then Yes. Blogging is clearly empowering. I marvel at the people I have come to know through this medium. People who I had no other earthly reason to encounter, but whom I can not imagine as parts and pieces of my life.
If by "empowering" you mean unleashing a forum in which strangers can attack other people's words, beliefs or thoughts, sending vitriol through the anonymity of the internet - then....yeah, not so good. I love being called a bitch by strangers, or getting the suggestion that my daughter will grow up to be a useless waste of space, just like me. Wow. Very evolved. Very brave.
In the end, I can only define for myself what is "empowered".
Would I be the same person were it not for blogging? Roughly, yes. I think so. My core personality hasn't changed through the act of blogging. It has, however, showed me that I am not as alone as I thought. In the difficulties of marriage or mothering. In my wacky sense of humor and sense of the absurd. In the depths of depression.
As a blogger, I am part of a community. I am not alone.
and that is how I define empowered.
Necrotic
I had a very, very weird dream the other night.
My christ, I am turning into the blog in which I drone on and on about my exciting dreams. What's next? Recipes? Prayer circles? T shirts proclaiming my love for baby jee-sus?
I won't tell you the whole of the bizarre dream except this part. The prominent word of this dream was "Necrotic" - and I said it at least a dozen times IN the dream. During the dream, it seemed perfectly rational that I not only know the word, but was using it in what turned out to be the correct context.
However, upon waking I thought:
1: Where the fuck did I pick up this word?
2: What the fuck was I dreaming about that for?
In the spirit of Feral's Toe post, the weak of stomach should stop reading.
The essence of the dream was that There was bump on my left hand - index finger. I began scratching at it absentmindedly in the dream. As I scratched, the skin peeled away to reveal a long piece of plastic which had become trapped under my skin. It almost looked as if I had left a piece of saran wrap on my finger and it was pale blue and drowned looking.
As I pulled it away, I realized that my whole hand was like this under my skin. Blue-ish. Moist. Necrotic. Which I repeated again and again.
Necrotic. It was almost a comforting word, and I kept saying it over and over in my dream as I peeled the skin from my hand.
Now, I don't dream frequently, but when I do, it is almost always my unconscious smacking me. An old therapist once told me that my dreams were the most archetypal he had ever encountered. Having sat with this one for a few days I think that I am coming to terms with my past year.
I quite literally felt dead inside. Yeah, the skin on the outside was functioning. Everything looked ok - but inside? Nothing going on. Flat lined. Call it depression, call it whatever you want. I took a year long vacation from my life, but not to a sunny island. Nope. I went to the Isle of Shitalot, where I was beaten by humorless albino monks and forced to eat old tuna noodle wiggle. With canned peas. Shudder
Within the past week, it is as if a switch has clicked. I am thinking in stories again. Writing is FLOWING out of me. I want to read blogs. I want to re-design mine.
And with all things necrotic, you have to peel it away before the healthy skin can take it's place. My old skin is shedding.
My christ, I am turning into the blog in which I drone on and on about my exciting dreams. What's next? Recipes? Prayer circles? T shirts proclaiming my love for baby jee-sus?
I won't tell you the whole of the bizarre dream except this part. The prominent word of this dream was "Necrotic" - and I said it at least a dozen times IN the dream. During the dream, it seemed perfectly rational that I not only know the word, but was using it in what turned out to be the correct context.
However, upon waking I thought:
1: Where the fuck did I pick up this word?
2: What the fuck was I dreaming about that for?
In the spirit of Feral's Toe post, the weak of stomach should stop reading.
The essence of the dream was that There was bump on my left hand - index finger. I began scratching at it absentmindedly in the dream. As I scratched, the skin peeled away to reveal a long piece of plastic which had become trapped under my skin. It almost looked as if I had left a piece of saran wrap on my finger and it was pale blue and drowned looking.
As I pulled it away, I realized that my whole hand was like this under my skin. Blue-ish. Moist. Necrotic. Which I repeated again and again.
Necrotic. It was almost a comforting word, and I kept saying it over and over in my dream as I peeled the skin from my hand.
Now, I don't dream frequently, but when I do, it is almost always my unconscious smacking me. An old therapist once told me that my dreams were the most archetypal he had ever encountered. Having sat with this one for a few days I think that I am coming to terms with my past year.
I quite literally felt dead inside. Yeah, the skin on the outside was functioning. Everything looked ok - but inside? Nothing going on. Flat lined. Call it depression, call it whatever you want. I took a year long vacation from my life, but not to a sunny island. Nope. I went to the Isle of Shitalot, where I was beaten by humorless albino monks and forced to eat old tuna noodle wiggle. With canned peas. Shudder
Within the past week, it is as if a switch has clicked. I am thinking in stories again. Writing is FLOWING out of me. I want to read blogs. I want to re-design mine.
And with all things necrotic, you have to peel it away before the healthy skin can take it's place. My old skin is shedding.
Separated at Birth?
Monday, June 18, 2007
So, I was cleaning the house the other afternoon...
Yeah, I know - it already sounds like the set up to a bad joke in which the punch line is Michael Jackson.
Anyway, I was cleaning the house and I looked over and saw this. I was immediately consumed with a fit of giggles and ran to get my camera to preserve this bit of comedic wonder.
What was it? you ask yourself....
My first thought? So This was Galileo's name for his penis?
I know. I am a 13 year old boy trapped in a 37 year old woman's body.
Then I read this on Sarah's site. And I laughed harder - cause Cock soup is funny. And SPICY cock soup is funnier. What's the spice I wonder? Is that a Latino Cock soup? Perhaps it is the serrano pepper?
And I totally see why Sarah and I spend so much Time on Desperately...
P.S. Yeah, I am fiddling with the blog. I realized in a blaze of whatever that I have had the same design for over a year and well, that was just WRONG....so I am dusting off my piteous skillz and trying to make this bitch a little livelier. Of course, after spending what felt like a fucking eternity trying to get my blogroll back, I failed to press "save changes"..... So, after some expresso tomorrow I will try again. XO
Yeah, I know - it already sounds like the set up to a bad joke in which the punch line is Michael Jackson.
Anyway, I was cleaning the house and I looked over and saw this. I was immediately consumed with a fit of giggles and ran to get my camera to preserve this bit of comedic wonder.
What was it? you ask yourself....
My first thought? So This was Galileo's name for his penis?
I know. I am a 13 year old boy trapped in a 37 year old woman's body.
Then I read this on Sarah's site. And I laughed harder - cause Cock soup is funny. And SPICY cock soup is funnier. What's the spice I wonder? Is that a Latino Cock soup? Perhaps it is the serrano pepper?
And I totally see why Sarah and I spend so much Time on Desperately...
P.S. Yeah, I am fiddling with the blog. I realized in a blaze of whatever that I have had the same design for over a year and well, that was just WRONG....so I am dusting off my piteous skillz and trying to make this bitch a little livelier. Of course, after spending what felt like a fucking eternity trying to get my blogroll back, I failed to press "save changes"..... So, after some expresso tomorrow I will try again. XO
Gnomes gone wild
Saturday, June 16, 2007
With the kidnapping of the gnome known to his compatriots as "Jerry Falwell" for his rigid right wing views on gnome life style, the other gnomes felt free to let their inner selves out.
After an emergency call to the Fairy Frog Father, the make over was complete....
Sven and Gregor donned pink sparkley hats, opposite coordinating shirt and pants and kicking, "cruelty free" boots
While Augustus went for his own, intensely individual look.
They have poppers in their jerkins, and are ready for some hot gnome on gnome love.
After an emergency call to the Fairy Frog Father, the make over was complete....
Sven and Gregor donned pink sparkley hats, opposite coordinating shirt and pants and kicking, "cruelty free" boots
While Augustus went for his own, intensely individual look.
They have poppers in their jerkins, and are ready for some hot gnome on gnome love.
To BlogHer or not to BlogHer
Thursday, June 07, 2007
So, I have been thinking about whether or not I am going to Blogher this year, and frankly - I'm torn.
So, let me just throw this out there. Who is going? and is anyone looking for a room mate if I can get my shit together and get there?
Partially this is for selfish "Dawn wants to sit with friends and drink and laugh" reasons - partially for networking. Not a huge deal, but I sold a smidge of syndication for quotes of TWC to Lifetime, and they will feature it on their home page with links back to my site, which should drive the hell out of my numbers for BlogHer Ad revenue.
As my blog(s) are my only source of revenue right now, I admit it. I'm am whorin' it up for the cash.
So, let's here it. Who is in? And TB - no more BlogHer for you, at least not this year. Look what one Sasquatch sighting did...you were pregnant right after.
So, let me just throw this out there. Who is going? and is anyone looking for a room mate if I can get my shit together and get there?
Partially this is for selfish "Dawn wants to sit with friends and drink and laugh" reasons - partially for networking. Not a huge deal, but I sold a smidge of syndication for quotes of TWC to Lifetime, and they will feature it on their home page with links back to my site, which should drive the hell out of my numbers for BlogHer Ad revenue.
As my blog(s) are my only source of revenue right now, I admit it. I'm am whorin' it up for the cash.
So, let's here it. Who is in? And TB - no more BlogHer for you, at least not this year. Look what one Sasquatch sighting did...you were pregnant right after.
Hi.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Why hello there, friend(s).
Remember me?
I know - I've been in and out for the past couple of months. On a good week I manage two posts. On bad weeks I managed...maybe one. My visiting habits dwindled to almost nothing - and I felt badly about this. Really badly. Of course, then I became overwhelmed with how much I have missed with you and that I will never catch up and that led to anxiety attacks...well you kind of get the idea.
You may have called. You may have emailed or even sent a letter. I most likely didn't respond, as I rarely answer my phone and have been known to even avoid my email so as to not have to interact with other humans. It wasn't you - and I say that in an authentic manner. I'm not trying to break up with you in a nice restaurant, or the college dining hall ( as an aside, was it Only at UVM that a majority of breakups occurred at the Dining Hall? It became a sport - Spot the pissed off dumped partner...)
But I digress. Which is what I do often. But you knew that.
I guess what I wanted to say is that I know you've been watching - even if you haven't commented. I know you all check in with me - make sure nothing major seems to be going down, as I maneuver in my holding pattern with life.
I am, on the whole, WAY better. The manic episodes have not recurred since I ditched the Wellbutrin, and I can say with certainty that this particular medication was NOT for me. I am one of those minuscule percents who have a very definite and strong reaction to it, as it nearly immediately sends me into a full fledged mania.
Of course, the root issue was the move. The root issue was my giving up my identity professionally. The root issue was my sense of my loss of freedom financially and loss of status. This set the stage for much bigger demons to make their debut. And I found they not only debuted, but they kicked the asses of every other player on the stage until they were allowed to rampage around alone - pulling down the velvet drapes and setting them on fire.
OF course, I am less afraid of my crazy since my postpartum depression. Every episode that I manage without planning to kill my child seems a step up from the darkest days of that depression. No, this last one was targeting me, and me alone. There were things you all didn't know - the episode where I hadn't eaten for at least three days, and ended up with strep throat, crying hysterically in the doctors office, thinking I was dying. Terrance was away and without him to watch me - telling me to eat, I simply failed to eat. Or drink much of anything. This was confounded by my throat closing up with the infection and becoming dehydrated. I lay on the table, sobbing, embarrassed, trying to explain that I was at the tail end of a manic episode, and sure that they were going to stick me in some kind of institution. The "special" doctor came to assess me - taking down all the names of the therapists treating me.
There are other things that I am not sure I will ever be able to talk about. Who knows. Maybe someday.
The good thing that I learned is that I am creative and able to keep my professional life on a somewhat even keel - getting A's in all 4 courses I took during this year, while being gripped by an ungodly writers block. I wish that on no one, for when my desire to write dried up - my lack of stories - the discontinuation of the running commentary that narrates my life inside my head - that is when I knew something very dark was happening.
I have learned that depression is not something that one "gets over" - like the strep throat. It is something that I manage. It is something that sometimes overtakes me and kicks the everlovin' shit out of me. I both hate it, and have learned to be fond of it in a way I never expected. I learn a vast amount about myself in retrospect - regardless of the fact that I may be hiding my head under the quilt the whole time and insisting that everyone go away.
I can't promise that I will suddenly re-appear on your blogs - although it is one of my goals to start reading again faithfully. Not out of obligation, but because I ENJOYED it, them, you. I can't promise much of anything except that I am working to get myself back in balance, and that I am almost there. I am laughing again. I have made some peace with my husband. I am a mother to my daughter. My writing is becoming smoother and feels less forced to the Dawn inside my head.
I am sweeping away the ashes of the velvet drapes. I am tidying up the stage for the next performance. I think you'll like the next incarnation - at least I hope you will.
Remember me?
I know - I've been in and out for the past couple of months. On a good week I manage two posts. On bad weeks I managed...maybe one. My visiting habits dwindled to almost nothing - and I felt badly about this. Really badly. Of course, then I became overwhelmed with how much I have missed with you and that I will never catch up and that led to anxiety attacks...well you kind of get the idea.
You may have called. You may have emailed or even sent a letter. I most likely didn't respond, as I rarely answer my phone and have been known to even avoid my email so as to not have to interact with other humans. It wasn't you - and I say that in an authentic manner. I'm not trying to break up with you in a nice restaurant, or the college dining hall ( as an aside, was it Only at UVM that a majority of breakups occurred at the Dining Hall? It became a sport - Spot the pissed off dumped partner...)
But I digress. Which is what I do often. But you knew that.
I guess what I wanted to say is that I know you've been watching - even if you haven't commented. I know you all check in with me - make sure nothing major seems to be going down, as I maneuver in my holding pattern with life.
I am, on the whole, WAY better. The manic episodes have not recurred since I ditched the Wellbutrin, and I can say with certainty that this particular medication was NOT for me. I am one of those minuscule percents who have a very definite and strong reaction to it, as it nearly immediately sends me into a full fledged mania.
Of course, the root issue was the move. The root issue was my giving up my identity professionally. The root issue was my sense of my loss of freedom financially and loss of status. This set the stage for much bigger demons to make their debut. And I found they not only debuted, but they kicked the asses of every other player on the stage until they were allowed to rampage around alone - pulling down the velvet drapes and setting them on fire.
OF course, I am less afraid of my crazy since my postpartum depression. Every episode that I manage without planning to kill my child seems a step up from the darkest days of that depression. No, this last one was targeting me, and me alone. There were things you all didn't know - the episode where I hadn't eaten for at least three days, and ended up with strep throat, crying hysterically in the doctors office, thinking I was dying. Terrance was away and without him to watch me - telling me to eat, I simply failed to eat. Or drink much of anything. This was confounded by my throat closing up with the infection and becoming dehydrated. I lay on the table, sobbing, embarrassed, trying to explain that I was at the tail end of a manic episode, and sure that they were going to stick me in some kind of institution. The "special" doctor came to assess me - taking down all the names of the therapists treating me.
There are other things that I am not sure I will ever be able to talk about. Who knows. Maybe someday.
The good thing that I learned is that I am creative and able to keep my professional life on a somewhat even keel - getting A's in all 4 courses I took during this year, while being gripped by an ungodly writers block. I wish that on no one, for when my desire to write dried up - my lack of stories - the discontinuation of the running commentary that narrates my life inside my head - that is when I knew something very dark was happening.
I have learned that depression is not something that one "gets over" - like the strep throat. It is something that I manage. It is something that sometimes overtakes me and kicks the everlovin' shit out of me. I both hate it, and have learned to be fond of it in a way I never expected. I learn a vast amount about myself in retrospect - regardless of the fact that I may be hiding my head under the quilt the whole time and insisting that everyone go away.
I can't promise that I will suddenly re-appear on your blogs - although it is one of my goals to start reading again faithfully. Not out of obligation, but because I ENJOYED it, them, you. I can't promise much of anything except that I am working to get myself back in balance, and that I am almost there. I am laughing again. I have made some peace with my husband. I am a mother to my daughter. My writing is becoming smoother and feels less forced to the Dawn inside my head.
I am sweeping away the ashes of the velvet drapes. I am tidying up the stage for the next performance. I think you'll like the next incarnation - at least I hope you will.
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