A letter to Paul from Sarah

My dear Paul.

Yes, I see you a few rows over there with a fancy grave marker. People dressed in the attire of our "day" wander in and out of this graveyard all day, pointing you out. Some people leave you flowers. Nearly all of them point small devices at your grave, stopping for a few extra moments.

And where am I? Your beloved wife. Woman who bore you 8 children? Yes, count them. 8.
Nearly four rows over...buried next to your father. Who, forgive me for saying so, is a miserable grave companion.

On this day of days Paul, let me remind you of just who did the work of revolution in this fair city. Was it you and your friends? Oh, perhaps as recorded in the poems and histories of the events. But we both know who it was. The wives. The wives who spun and sewed the clothing. The wives who cooked and served meals and drink for children, friends and co-conspirators until late into the night. While your friend Sam Adams gets a huge statue down the road, we know who the real brewers were, right? Women.

We gardened, we harvested, we preserved and slaughtered the animals. We made soap, washed, quilted, stuffed beds with straw. When you came home at all hours of the night, I made sure you had food to eat, and a warm home in which to enter. I nursed and cared for 8 babies...until I died not long after our youngest was born.

Who stitched wounds, bandaged cuts, and wrapped the dead after the massacre and battles? Women. Who brewed that tea that you all eventually went crazy over for being too expensive? Who then served it to you in the silver mugs that you crafted? Yes. Me and the other wives.

Paul,my love, I am not saying that you and the other "founding patriots" of the day don't deserve recognition for your commitment to an idea that a society could be different. I am merely suggesting that the visitors to this grave yard do as Abigail Adams later exhorted her husband John - to "remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors."

Yes Paul. I watch you from over here. I watch the stream of people wander by you, struck silent by you - the midnight rider ( by the by, I thought that poem was pure hilarity - I know I was dead when it all occurred, and I felt for your second wife, Rachel...You galloping off into the night, with ten children at home. The poor woman was sure that you would be hanged before the sun came up.)

This woman stops at my grave. She peers at the name engraved on the stone. She brushes mud off the letters, as the damp spring ground sucks at her boots. She walks back over the sign near your grave and reads. She comes back, kneels close and points one of those devices at my stone. She stays awhile. She leans close, and in that terrible accent the people here have acquired, she whispers "Thank you, Sarah".

Yes Paul. She thanked me. She thanked me for weaving the fabric of the country with my body and my work. She thanked me for feeding and cooking and bearing new citizens. She whispered that it is not an act of heroics, or lofty speeches that make a patriot, but the unending toil that is life.

Indeed, Paul. That is what patriotism is - it is stoicism in the face of endless work. It is doing what is needed, not for acclaim, but because without that labor, life as we know it would halt. It is seeing your giant grave over there, and living with the knowledge that without me, without all of the wives, the American Revolution would have gone nowhere.

Happy Independence Day Paul Revere.

Your Consort,
Sarah

Ildith

But I must.

You must not look back.

You told me this as you walked away. I must not look back.

How was it ever so easy for you to abandon everything we built?

Do not look back, you said.

I hesitate. Images of promises, of comfort built by love between us, by stolen moments giggling in bed while the street cleaner moves past the open window.....

I consider what my life will be if I leave as you demand.

You told me once that you could close your mind, walk away and cast out those with whom you are done. I never believed that would include me. Yet, this is what your dictate means.

Leave. Do not look back. You will be punished if you look back. 

Punishment. What more could there be? You are asking me, a person who trusts so rarely to turn my back on the trust I gave to you. To leave. To walk away from everything, as if nothing mattered, as if none of the words were real.

It is over. Walk away. Do not look back. For your own sake, don't look back.



I walk on. I shield my eyes, placing my hands up to cover them. A physical reminder to not. look. back.   It becomes a mantra: Do not look back, do not look back, there is nothing there for you, do not look back.


Yet...we both know I must. It is  my nature.

My feet stop. I pivot on my right heel and turn my body first, my body in slow motion as my eyes finally behold the destruction. The disintegration of everything. The ruin I sensed, but could not see. The undoing that I had to witness to understand.

I am frozen. I do not mind the wind as it disassembles me, carrying bits of my flesh to parts unknown. My dismantling brings relief as I untangle from the confusion of promises I never expected to be broken. A rabbit licks my ankle, attracted to the salty taste.

You said to not look back. We both know that I couldn't do that.

Shamhat

Further proof that I was born in the wrong era.

I would have made a most excellent courtesan.

Essence

I have been on an inquisition for a new perfume.

I am a funny creature,  for smells and what people smell like are intimately important to me.  I imprint to smell.

My own perfume choices are carefully considered. I have had phases through my life in which I use perfume to become something or someone.  I know, instantly, if a scent is not going to work for me. I lean in towards people and try to smell them without seeming creepy or cannibalistic.

One of the ways Terrance snared me was his exquisite scent the night we meet. Not overwhelming like most of the boys in 1990, smelling of Polo or Drakkar...but close, sophisticated. Something different. He smelled.....right.

This choosing is taking time. I have to sample a number of scents before I can decide. I have to consider what season I will be wearing them, and what they remind me of when they linger on my skin.

I try a new fragrance and ask Terrance to smell them. He hates this. He refuses to place his nose to my proffered forearm. Emily, however, is always willing to engage in this exercise with me. She, too, is a creature for whom smells are part of how we engage with the world. In fact she still, daily, wraps her arms around me and inhales my scent. I am mother to her. I am strength and security and unconditional love.  Whatever my faults and misgivings, I am her olfactory rock of Gibraltar.

My decants arrive and I place them in the bathroom to be sampled. I choose one each day and test it on my skin. Some fade quickly, others spark something in my memory causing me to reject them. This happens with jasmine heavy fragrances  I don't care for those, although I can't tell you exactly why. I find them cloying and overpowering.

Some require second and third wearings before I can get a sense of who these perfumes are and of what they speak. Lutens Filles des Berlin is one of these. I like it, but do I want to commit to it? Do I want this scent to wrap it's tendrils around a specific part of my being?

Some are instantly obvious. Commes des Garcons Red Carnation intertwined itself around me from the moment I opened the decant. I walked into the hallway and Emily said "THAT IS AWESOME!" She recognized it as a smell that belonged on me immediately. Peppery, with bright carnation overlayed with a musky rose and cloves...Oh, the cloves.

Others, like Creed's White Flowers or Spring Flowers are lovely but are too delicate for me. I am not delicate. I have never been, nor will ever be delicate.

With others I have high hopes that are never realized after wearing the scent for the day. Lutens  Daim Blonde, Tubereuse Criminelle, Vitriol D'Oeillet and  A La Nuit all get the "meh, not for me" and are relegated to the sample box.

Others, like Lutens Silver Iris Mist make me stop and wonder. What is this on my skin? Why do I like this despite not knowing how I feel about it?

I wanted to love Etat Libre d'Orange's Putain des Palaces. I mean the name alone made me want to love this scent. Alas. It did not wear well on me and gave me a headache. Like this, Tilda Swinton however gave me the same sense of not knowing how I felt about it. I ordered a larger sample so as to wear it in a variety of settings, getting a sense for how the scent lives on my skin.

I am like a feral child, sniffing and circling on the scents I like. Discarding some, moving others to a second wearing I keep circling back, sniffing, snuffling, inhaling all the smells.  I exhale, hard, through my nose - clearing it of memories.

In my continual becoming, I seek that which belongs to me while not yet knowing.

Happy Fluevog Day!

It's true.



I still have fabulous fvcking ankles.




43, bitches!!

My Closet

It is the end of the academic semester and I have survived a full year as a Professor. I have also very recently had a birthday, turning 43 years of age.

In the final weeks of school with the stresses of teaching, getting students ready for their presentations, grading papers, seeing student teachers and meeting with their cooperative teachers some things have been placed waaaaayyyyy to the side.

One of those things? My closet.

By Friday it was so bad that I took what I needed and fled, slamming the door behind me in an effort to unsee the horror that had manifested.

I fell to sleep last night at 8:30 p.m., sleeping through until 11:00 a.m.. As Terrance asked me what my plans for today included I said:

"Clean the rabbit litter. Straighten my bathroom. Put away the massive stack of clean clothes and all the things on the floor. Maybe grade some things. But not the closet. The closet is too much for me to bear, at the moment."

As I worked through my Saturday list, the closet began to make its presence known. It was going to be impossible to put away the clothes and clean up the shoes on the floor unless I entered the closet. I had 12 pairs of shoes that needed to be put... inside the closet. There were skirts and shirts and dresses that all belonged...in the closet.

Damn it. I was going to have to address the closet.

See that pile on the floor? Um, Yeah. That is a pile of shoes.
A giant pile of shoes.
Also, some hats that have fallen, a multitude of discarded scarves and some bags that held summer clothes that I raided when we had a two warm days last week.

See the shoes? I should feel shame, but I can't. Aren't they lovely? Even all jumbled up in that hot mess?

Left side of closet is dresses. Right is skirts and blouses.

As is clear, the system has gone to hell. Shirts are mixing in with dresses, sweaters are flung all about and next years Christmas cards have been haphazardly shoved in a sweater space.

My careful attention to shoe boxes is no longer in evidence.
Things have reached crisis stage.

About an hour later, we have some movement. Most of the shoes have been returned ( lovingly) to their appropriate boxes.
I am crooning soft songs, promising to never treat them that way again.

"Shhh, shoes. Mama will never treat you like that again...until next end of semester."











Coco comes in to investigate. She approves of my progress.
I move to quickly pick up the purses she will begin to chew.

After nearly four solid hours, Order is restored.

Hats are back on the wall where they belong. Shoes have been returned ( except for the brown crocodile ones that are in the car) and all garments have been re-organized with their peers.








I step back and gaze over my kingdom. I turn to Emily and say: "Your mother has a hell of a lot of clothes. And Hats. And Purses."

Emily looks up from her Kindle, nods and returns to her reading.

"The thing about that squirrel is..."

I had a meeting at the coffee shop across from the University this week to discuss a collaboration on a grant.

I arrived early, so I was marking some papers while sipping my cup of coffee.

The other other people in the coffee shop were four elderly gentlemen. They could not have been younger than 75. They were having their coffee and conversation.

I settled in to read papers, the final leg of the journey of marking the research papers of my largest class.

The oldest gentleman was talking the loudest, but it was soothing talk. They were discussing what birds they had seen at their feeders when Elder says this:

"The thing about that squirrel is....(he pauses). He had a really fat ass!"

Now, I burst out in full laugh. I mean, truly. I couldn't hold it in.

I've not encountered swearing in the artful way to which I had grown accustomed. I, it shocks none of you, am a potty mouth. I swear constantly. A lively and descriptive swear can really bring a thought home.

People here in Wisconsin? Not so much with the swearing.

I look up, laughing. The elderly man see me and begins to apologize. I tell him that it is not a worry, it wasn't the swear but the noun that surprised me.  A fat assed squirrel.

They gentlemen quiet down for a moment. I return to marking. The gentleman begin to rustle as they gather their coats.

It was at this moment, just as the Eldest was getting up to leave that he makes the most extraordinary statement I have yet to hear in La Crosse Wisconsin:

"I'll tell you what...I was over at that Java Vino the other night and there was more puss than you could shake a stick at! I mean every woman in La Crosse was in that place drinking wine with her girlfriends! Wall to wall women!"

And with that, he bid his comrades adieu.

It was all I could do to keep from hugging him as he left while expressing my adoration of his salty language.

Fat assed squirrels. And Puss. They make the rockin' world go round.

Kegel Ninja

Emily: What is up with those commercials?

Me: The transvaginal mesh commercials? Yeah, they are kind of terrifying. (I am reading student papers)

Emily: Why on earth would you get something like that?

Me: My guess is that is has to do with issues once you have a baby and your pelvic floor goes to hell.

Emily: WHAT?

Me: (Putting aside papers) Well, yeah. Once you have a baby you really need to be doing your Kegels to make sure that everything stays in place...and your bladder and uterus don't need to be meshed into place.

Emily: Kegels?

Me: You know what Kegels are...right?

Emily: No, Mom. I don't.

Me: Well, they are kind of like....pushups for your vagina.

Emily: You're kidding me.....right?

Me: No. I am serious.

Emily: (laughing) How do you do them?

Me: Well - you know when you are peeing and you can squeeze  to stop your urine? That's how you do a Kegel. You don't know when other people are doing them, you just do them whenever.

Emily: Do YOU do these?

Me: Oh yeah, honey. I do them all the time. I'm doing them right now and you have no idea. There is no way I am having my bladder and vagina fall out as I am walking down the street.

Emily: This is horrifying. Stop it.

Me: What? Doing Kegels? No. I just did ten more.  You'll never know. I'll be driving you home and doing Kegels.  Pushups for my vagina!

Emily: You are scarring me for life.

Me: That's my job!

Am I doing Kegels? You'll never know......

Rabbits Disapprove of Giving Rabbits for Easter

We are a family who has House Rabbits. 

I'll give you a moment to compose yourself as you laugh and wipe away tears. 

Yes. House Rabbits. Free Roam, litter trained, spayed and neutered House Rabbits. Kind of like Cats, with longer ears and the whole vegetarian vibe going for them.

I never planned on being a House Rabbit parent.  No sir. I was fine with La Chatte, a neighborhood cat who adopted us upon our moving into HER home. I mean, it wasn't as if we were going anywhere, and she seemed nice enough. I was however, a little shocked. People just move away and LEAVE their pets? Really!?

I later came to find that in Montreal, it is a huge problem - especially on the July 1 - Moving Day. Shelters around the city begin to be flooded with animals of all sorts whose owners decided that , Meh - just not worth the trouble to move the animal. 

Now, there is a pet store in our local Mall, which shall remain nameless. Every time we are in the mall, Emily Begs to go and see the animals. Lizards, Birds, Rabbits, Guinea Pigs, Rats, Ferrets...all the way up through $1200 purebred dogs. And I hate it. I hate the whole thing.  I watch children beg and plead for the cute animals...and sometimes they go home with them. 

But what happens after that?  Let me tell you what happens after that Twelve dollar baby bunny is no longer "cute" or "convenient" or "fun".

Jackson is our male gray chinchilla rabbit, with lovely long silky ears. He was most likely adopted as a baby bunny around Easter last year. He was, no doubt, very sweet and cute and fuzzy. He was also, most likely, well behaved and easy to manage.

When they found Jackson ( and another male rabbit) they figured that the two boys had been in the now empty, locked apartment for 2 weeks. They were both undernourished, but managed to stay alive. Maybe the previous owner had left the rest of the bag of pellets out for them. In fact, that is the only way I can figure they were able to not starve to death. Jackson was taken to the SPCA where he was examined, and when he was healthy enough, put up for adoption. His path and ours intersected as we were looking for a guy to bond with our female rabbit. 

We were interviewed, and gave our Exotics Vet name and number as a reference. We got a call, came back and met Jackson and agreed to foster him for a couple of months, to see if he and Coco bonded as well as free up a space in the shelter for another rabbit in Jackson's situation. His neuter was scheduled for the coming Friday and we planned to pick him up after the procedure. 

Of course, Jackson's experience with humans had not been stellar up to this point. It took him some time to relax and heal. It took longer for him to get used to eating a proper rabbit diet of mostly greens instead of pellets designed for Meat Rabbits. He did, however, fall in love with Coco ( who had been rescued after living in a dark basement in a small cage for 2 years). By October, we had gone back to the SPCA and made the fostering into an official adoption. He had a forever family.

Loki, our current Feline Family member is also an SPCA abandon. Never Neutered. Never immunized. When we adopted him he was already infected with Feline Rhino, a viral infection which stays with the cat for life if infected. His already damaged nose ( kicked in the face? His front teeth were also broken) is now forever really messed up. He can't smell most things due to the after effects of the virus.

What do all these stories have in common? Abandoned Animals. Discarded when the novelty wore off. Animals who became teenagers after being cute puppies or bunnies or kitties and their humans just couldn't be bothered.  

For we in the House Rabbit family, Easter is a terrifying time. I know that people will buy bunnies from pet stores, only to turn them "loose" by summer when their hormones kick in and they become rebellious, sexually frustrated teen Buns - like a smaller, furry motorcycle gang with the ability to rapidly reproduce.

What happens to those rabbits? Well, what would happen to you if we stripped you naked and set you in the middle of the Amazon?  A majority become dinner for larger prey. A few ( very,very few) make it until the cold, or people or cars kill them. Some go on Craigslist where some people may "adopt " them, not knowing anything about the intensive care and feeding that rabbits require, only to be given away again, or set "free". Some become food for peoples pet snakes.

So, do me a favor. Research. Consider. Think. If you choose to bring ANY pet home, are you willing and able to provide care, medical attention, nutrition, and social interaction/exercise that this Pet deserves? 

Just because a pet is small, doesn't mean it doesn't need to be seen by a Vet who is knowledgeable about their species. In the case of Coco and Jackson, they see an Exotics vet for yearly checkups and the occasional in between visit for possible ear infections/teeth/sore hocks issues.  When Coco was so ill with Bloat this winter, it was 500 bucks for a 4 day illness. When Jackson was seen a month ago for Stasis - a condition which can worsen and kill a rabbit - it was 170 dollars for a visit AND all of the medication, special food and fluids. Not to mention I had the supreme honor of having to force feed a rabbit with a syringe.

Yes, they were both spayed and neutered, and it wasn't cheap. Yes, they eat a very small amount of pellets, but the majority of their diet is fresh greens - about 8 cups a day for the two of them. And the Hay I buy in bulk from a local farm. They eat a 4 pound bag a week. Oh - and you can't just "leave them alone" when you go on vacation - Rabbits need to be boarded or otherwise cared for in your absence. More $$.

Rabbits need a minimum of 3 uncaged hours per day - more if they can, and in the case of Coco and Jackson, free roam, 24/7. Less leads to muscle issues , as well as gut immobility. They are grazers and built to be moving. Being confined in a tiny cage does not serve their body well.

Which leads me to rabbit proofing - thick plastic cables to encase the cords, small gates to keep them from the bigger things and hundreds of dollars of replaced cables when we forget.

In the words of my vet, who examined Jackson after we had adopted him and after hearing the story of how he had been found in the locked apartment:

"There is a special place in hell for assholes like that."

I sure hope so.

Don't be one of those people.

Want to research more on the care of House Rabbits?

House Rabbit Society is an excellent place to start.

A personal favorite: Binky Bunny Forum. This is my "rabbit" home and these folks have kindly taught me nearly everything I know. Jackson and Coco stories are on there, including their bonding story. I also  LOVE the store and my rabbits adore the Maze Haven, Tunnel and every other product!

Sacre Bleck!

This morning Emily was discussing a post she saw on Facebook referencing Easter.

As you know, we are not a religious sort of family. Now what you may not know is that both Terrance and I were raised as Catholics. I took a detour into the Anglican church during high school, but still considered myself raised as a Catholic. Our choice to not immerse our offspring in Catholicism and religion in general was quite intentional.

Terrance: Was she talking about Good Friday?

Emily: I don't know!

Dawn: It could be she meant Good Friday...

Terrance: All I remember was that we couldn't go outside between noon and 4 because that was when
Jesus died...

Dawn: What?!? How on earth does anyone know the precise time Jesus died?  What would have happened if you had gone outside?

Terrance: Oh, and those stations!

Emily: Stations?

Dawn: Oh, yeah, the Stations of the cross. I hated those.

Terrance: Yeah, they freaked me out. I once came across an outdoor version in college. Scared the shit out of me. What were they? Reclamations?

Dawn: Acts of Reparation, Terrance. What would you be reclaiming?

Terrance: What was that time of day called? When Jesus was dying?

Dawn: The passion.

(Emily listening, horrified and amazed)

Emily: So, you had to do something?

Dawn: Yes. You have to go to each station and pray.

Terrance: Now you have to look it up. Go look it up and tell us what you find out.

(This is the price to be paid when both parents are PhD's.  Look it up! Look it up!)


Emily (Later): I looked them up....

Dawn: And?

Emily: They were horrifying. Like stop action animation.......but FAR WORSE and creepier!

Dawn: That is an excellent analogy. Hey Terrance, you could take her to services this week while she is on Spring break.

Terrance: Yeah, I suppose I could. There is Good Friday.

Dawn: And Maundy Thursday.

Emily: WHAT?!?! What is so Good about dying on a Friday? Why is that Good?

Dawn: Of course that only comes after Headache Monday.

Emily:  (silence)

Dawn: Then there is Groin Pull Tuesday

Emily: (silence with smile)

Dawn: Then comes Stomach-ache Wednesday. Jesus had a terrible week.

Emily begins to full on belly laugh.

I love my kid.

ETA: Later, we were walking to the movie theatre and Emily leans is to say:
"It sounds like Jesus had the type of week that Daddy has every week..."

That's my girl.

Desiderata

I write stories in my head as I fall to sleep. I do not know if others do this, but this soothes me. Helping me make sense of the day and ordering the toys I have not put away, I add pieces and bits to the stories until I finally blink out for the evening.

It may be my need for some kind of order, some kind of understanding of why things happen or why people act and react in the manner that they do that drives this habit. Perhaps it is borne of my years of observing children, puzzling through the how and why of their actions to catch fleeting glimpses of the wonder inside their heads. Perhaps I am just a storyteller.

***

I do not think I am beautiful. I do not say this to elicit responses of "On NO, Dawn, you ARE", but to simply frame my understanding of myself. My attractiveness is rarely considered by me. I will dress in a manner that pleases me,  for I am attracted to a certain look, a certain feminine sureness. I like high heels. I like dresses. I like jewelry and I (finally) love makeup. Yet, I am oblivious of how I appear to others.

My appearance is never something that I consider static. I dress for a part and those parts are divided by where I am. I can be "Professional Dawn", which has morphed into "Professor Dawn".  I can be "Not at work" Dawn. Those people are not the same and don't really look the same. "Not at work" Dawn wears her quirky tshirts and funky flat shoes. She wears about the same amount of eyeshadow.

(I had a couple of nights of work time in my Creative Arts class. I arrived in my yoga pants, a Red Riding Hood wearing a wolfskin tshirt and my black sneakers with rainbow skulls. One of my students was startled. She told me she almost didn't recognize me.)

I am not married to man who makes much comment or notice of my appearance. He does not tell me I am beautiful, or attractive. I do know that he wishes, frequently, that I would tone down certain parts of myself. That's not happening any time soon, so I continue to wear patterned fishnet stockings and bright eye shadow. If a person flirts with me, I rarely understand it is happening at the moment. It is only in the reconstruction of my day before I fall to sleep that a glimmer of "ohhhhh" may take place.

I often wonder what it would be like to be with a partner who "gets" me in the way that Terrance does not. Terrance does not think I am funny, nor finds the things I find funny to be humorous. Terrance is not impressed by my outfits. Terrance thinks my newfound love of eyeshadow is ridiculous. He quietly seethes at my shoe collection. He does not like my music nor the shows that I like to watch.

My plan to choose a partner and not a friend as a spouse has exceeded my expectations.

***

While cleaning the bathroom, I note how much hair I seem to shed. It is quite obviously mine; long and brown. As I clean, I find more and more.  

I begin to wonder how I can lose that much hair and still remain with the ridiculously thick and unruly amount on my head. 

***

The rabbits are noticing spring. Jackson makes humming noises as he hops around. This usually means that he feels romantic, despite his neutered state. He has decided to reconstruct his cardboard house and spends hours ripping and shredding cardboard. 

Coco is more taciturn, preferring to figure out how to knock the barrier down and make her escape down the hall. She is showing her age a bit more, but rejoices when she makes her break. 

I hear squeaky bunny snores as I drift off, weaving the stories of my day in my head.

Acceptance II

Yes. There was a post that was here with a similar title.

While I rarely take posts down, that one felt too close to my bone. Perhaps it is because I am getting older, or perhaps it is because that inevitable ending belongs to another person as much as it belongs to me.

Within all of my writing here I have always tried to assert that this is my version of the story. I am never blameless.

Acceptance of the way things are is a difficult concept. My nature is not to accept anything, but to push forward, onward. It is that nature which has fueled my survival.

Being in this emotional place, this in between - Not happy and not entirely unhappy - is like being on a raft in a lake of no consequence. I neither win nor lose. I simply am.

Yet there remains some small voice that emerges saying "There is more. There is different than this." It is that voice which I instinctively heed. Other times, such as now, I stifle it. The discontent it breeds does not serve me well.

I must learn to sit on my raft and be content for now. My stasis is not unhealthy to the position which benefits the majority of my family.

I must accept that.

This is what happens when you live with a teacher/geek

Conversation #1

Terrance (on phone): Um, there is a strange charge on our house acct...

Dawn (in her office): Hmmm?

Terrance: Yeah. It is for 199.99 and is National Geographic?

Dawn: Yeah. That's me. I ordered one of those Genealogy kits for myself. You know, the one I asked for in 2007 as a birthday present? I went ahead and bought it for myself with some of my tax refund money.

Terrance: (pause) Oh. Ok.

Several Days Later

Terrance (on phone): HEY! There is a crazy charge on our acct?!?!?! It is some children's store in NYC and it is for nearly 500 dollars?!?!?

Dawn (in her office): Oh, yeah. That is me. Shit. I thought I put that on my checking card. I must have used the house card by mistake. I'll transfer the money over in a second.

Terrance: Are you sure that this is yours? Someone could have cloned my card when I was in the city last week!!! It's a place called Kaaaa-miiissshhh??

Dawn: No, it's me.  It's Kamishibai. Remember those cards I have for storytelling? The ones from Japan? I ordered the stage and some more story cards for my class. I want them to do some Japanese style storytelling.

Terrance: I don't know what you are talking about.

Dawn: Never mind. I will move the money over right now.

Terrance: It was 500 dollars!!!

Dawn: Yes. I am buying it out of my refund cheque. 

Terrance: But it was you, right?

Dawn: Yes. It was me. The money has been transferred now. 

Terrance: Because I was going to start canceling the bank cards...

Dawn: No need. Everything is fine.

Gorey Love

Happy Birthday to a person who brings me much baleful joy.

HVD 2013

Nothing says Valentine's Day like Bright pink lipstick.

And a upcycled cat beret.

The thing that can not be mentioned

The thing that can not be mentioned lives just outside my eye line. I can almost see it, if I turn my head quickly.

However, like all things that can not be mentioned, it flees if looked at directly.

There are times in which I realize that I have almost forgotten about the thing that can not be mentioned.

It emerges from shadows before I drift off to sleep, sidling up to my bedside and whispering to me.  I lift from my descent into sleep just long enough to recognize this old friend, this love long departed, before I close my eyes and try to return to sleep.

It never quite works, of course. The thing that can not be mentioned has settled in next to me. I struggle to find a comfortable spot in my bed, while the thing that can not be mentioned shifts and moves with my contortions.  I sleep, sweaty and restless. I wake with my head where my feet should be and my sheets twisted around my body.

I go to work. I laugh. I take pleasure in my work.  I come home and indulge the rabbits, giggle with my daughter.

Later, the thing that can not be mentioned will return. Emerging from the gloaming; slinking, skulking, stealing up in to my bed to curl around me once again.

I sigh.

My lips part and I exhale.

"I miss you."

I close my eyes to the thing that can not be mentioned, rolling over to gather my pillows in my arms. I pretend it is not there and seek my peace where I can find it.

Second First Day

My second semester begins tomorrow and I am nervous.

I wonder about these new groups of students I will share space with, wondering about their personalities and if they will like me...or rather if they will trust me enough to listen to whatever it is I am going to share with them.

I fidget as I work on syllabuses. Striking some things, writing others, struggling between too much rigidity on the syllabus and too much wide open space. They need structure, but I need flexibility to observe them and work on some parts while skimming over others.

I've not yet decided in what costume I will adorn myself. That is, after all, part of the role I play.

I have created my stage in my classroom. I hope they are soothed and inspired by the environment, as it soothes and inspires me.



At the end of term last year I found a card in my box.

"Dear Professor Rouse,

Your class was never dreadful because you are a splendid instructor."


This is the mantra I will use as I face my next group of students.

Teaching Lab

A few days after Christmas, I began a transformation of my teaching space. I enlisted Emily into a sort of captive teen servitude as I began to deconstruct the teaching lab.

It was not a simple cleaning. Twenty years worth of materials needed to be sorted and cleaned. Any person who has walked into the classroom of another knows exactly of what I speak. Cabinets had to be excavated. Paints washed and combined. Items labeled and placed in the correct places.

The custodians were kind, but clearly wondered why the new professor was spending her break in the school, working 2-7 hours a day cleaning materials.  They patiently hauled bucket after bucket of trash away.

Some tasks were easy, but mundane. Pulling out all the broken bits of crayons, peeling off papers on what can be used to melt and recreate, discarding others I suspect are toxic.

I test markers, I open glue sticks to make sure they are usable  I wash and refill glue bottles.

I have been collecting baskets and bowls since September when I knew that I was going to begin this transformation. I visit the local Salvation Army and Goodwill frequently, looking for treasures. I want no plastic containers; choosing old wooden bowls, small glass containers and sturdy natural baskets to be my medium.

It takes nearly three weeks of cleaning and arranging before I am content.  On Tuesday, I tell my colleagues that I am satisfied.

A somewhat cluttered teaching lab is now something more; a place for students to see what we are talking about when we discuss aesthetics and functionality.

This re-imagined space pleases me. I will be adding a light table and beautiful new instruments in the coming weeks (hurrah for grants). I am creating lists of materials that we need in the Resource Library ( A whole OTHER photo essay as I purge that particular room) and still looking for lamps and other ways to soften and change the lighting. I am not a fan of fluorescent light and don't like for children or adults to be surrounded by it.

This is where I teach.

Subversive Tights

There is nothing better than subversive tights, worn on a Sunday afternoon:

Except for, of course, subversive pink eyeshadow and hot pink lip tar.

Scarred

You can still see the scar under my right eye. Look closely. It lies in the crease of my cheek, running from the corner of my eye downwards.

I acquired this scar when I was three and sat on our sleeping dog. The dog, named Dog, was startled and bit me in the face. I recall the panic in the voice of my mother. I recall my father being incredibly angry. I have no doubt that the injury looked horrific - bloody, close to my eye,  pieces of my flesh laid open.

Like all wounds, it healed.

Most people do not even notice that I have such a scar. The placement folds naturally in my cheek and I wear glasses.

I show my scars to you. I have no ulterior motive.

I, like every other adult on the earth, am flawed.  The difference is that I don't fear my flaws. I don't obscure them or gloss over them.

Imperfect Uncertainty.

White Light

Some days you have to wear your Gorillaz Converse with sparkley tights and go to the movies.

Doors Closed

I spend a great deal of time trying to puzzle through my relationship with Terrance.

On nights like this, when he has called me a selfish and miserable bitch and I follow him to tell him that he has my full attention and what does he need which causes him to tell me through clenched teeth and bulging veins to leave him alone, I wonder why I stay married, why we stay married.

I do not claim to be innocent. I ignored him as he comes moaning into my bedroom, seeking my attention. This is because he does this constantly. He moans, he groans. He tells me that he thinks his chapped lips mean that he has cancer, or that his stomach ache is an ulcer. He interrupts what I am doing to make me look at the cut on his foot, or ask me to put a band-aid on it. While moaning.

This drives me fucking crazy.

Then he stands in front of the television. Like a three year old.

I do not give him the attention he craves so he, like a toddler, amps up his requests for attention.  Then, like a toddler, he storms and rails against me. Unlike a toddler, he knows my soft underbelly and rarely holds back.

He uses the words I use to describe my mother: Narcissistic, self involved, selfish. Why does he fucking put up with me?

The truth is that I don't know.

The other truth is that since 1991 I have been building my walls against his disapproving anger. I insulate against the punishment, the disappointment, the litany of words that describe what I am not for him.

I have deadened my reactions to him because the alternate would be to live on tenterhooks. This state of being is not conducive to attempting any kind of normalcy.

The other mind fuck is that I can no longer tell you if it is him, or if it is me or if it is neither. I have no grasp of what is real in this relationship. I do not trust what I see nor what I feel. I certainly don't trust the person who has told me that I am neurotic and have low self esteem for 21 years. I recently asked him to introduce me to the person he thinks he is married to since I have no idea who this person might be. She doesn't look like the person I know internally.

Goodness knows that the person he presents to the world in no way resembles the man with whom I live.

So many of these doors are closed and I have no energy or desire to open them.

Doctorem

Something arrived in the mail last week.


I am not yet ready to write about the murders of children in Connecticut. Suffice it to say that I have cried more than I can quite understand. Emily has been comforting me as I weep. I do not like for her to be my comfort, for it is not her job in the world. That is my job in her world. Yet, those events broke something in me. Perhaps it is because I have loved and taught children just like those children. Perhaps it is because I am now teaching young teachers, just like those teachers.

All I know is that I continue to cry, even now writing this.

Chip off the old Baleful

The drive home tonight after I pick Emily up after school:

Emily: "Eli asked me if I knew the reason we celebrate Christmas and I said "I dunno - gifts? Trees? Family?" and he said "NO! We celebrate the birth of our savior, Jesus Christ!" so I just shrugged and said..."Uhhhhh......OK."

Me: "Was Eli upset?"

Emily: "Yeah, he was getting all stressed about it. Then I started to giggle and he asked me what I thought was so funny so I told him "Easter." That is when he asked me if I knew what Easter was all about then proclaimed "Our savior rising from the Dead!" That is when I said "Do you know what my Mom and I call it?" and he asked me what, so I told him."

Me: "Oh, no......"

Emily: "Zombie Jesus. I thought his head was going to explode he was so angry. I asked Eli if Zombie Jesus needed to eat braaaaiiiiinnnnnssssss and he just didn't think it was funny at all."


Me: "I'm not sure you are going to be invited over to have pizza at Eli's house anymore."

Incorrigible

I had been watching the men working on the lot across from my office for quite a while. There was a house there that suddenly one August day .....was not.

I thought not much more about it. These things, houses and people, come and go. One is best served to not resist the flow of the tide, but rather observe and remember.

I settle into the flow of my days, of classes and students, of new names and faces. I settle Emily into her new routines and smile to myself as she begins to socially blossom. My smart ass sense of humor flows directly through my daughter. This does my heart proud.

By the beginning of December the work men come back to the lot across the street.

I am getting tired, although I dearly love my job and the students.

Later that night, I am leaving my late class. The sun has already set and it is getting cold. I walk towards the parking lot.

I watched the men pour the concrete that day. The tug of longing to stick my finger in the rough, cold cement and make my mark surges up, a remnant of childhood.

I look around. Surely, no one will stop a professor on the way back to her car. It will just look like I dropped something and bent down to retrieve the errant object.  My finger touches the concrete. Still damp and rougher than sandpaper.

D.................R............................

My giggle erupts after I finish, snap the picture and walk elegantly back to my car.

I remain incorrigible.

Midlife

Therapist: So how are you feeling?

Me: Fine.

Therapist: Are you happy?

Me: Happy? What do you mean?

Therapist: Happy. Are you happy?

Me: I don't know. I'm not unhappy.  I don't know if I have ever been happy though.

Therapist: Would you say that you are depressed?

Me: No. I'm not depressed. I know depressed, this isn't depressed.

Therapist: Have you considered the mood stabilizers?

Me: Yes...And No. I read up on them and the side effects are unacceptable. The Pristiq is doing fine at controlling the depression. I'm not adding a mood stabilizer that might make things far worse. Maybe I am just not meant to be happy in the way other people think of happy.

************

What is happy, my internet friends? Where does satisfaction with some of your life become enough? When does one stop looking for or expecting something that is not meant for you, by virtue of brain chemistry? When does the desire for that something spill over into the unobtainable which keeps you chasing the elusive desire that it might be just over there...just beyond that house, around the corner?

I'm not talking about giving up, but acceptance of how it is?

Is this the midlife crisis? Trying to figure out how to reach some kind equilibrium?

Wistful

I've mentioned that I really like my job, haven't I? I do. I like teaching and I like the students. I like poking at their brains and hopefully making them think beyond what they know now or what they might assume.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. The students are kind and respectful. If I have failed them - as I surely have on some days - they seem to forgive me. Emily visited one class and told me that I am goofy even as a Professor. Utterly NOT shocking, that news.

We are heading for Thanksgiving break and I am glad. I need the break, even the two day break. There is reading to do and lessons to plan. While I am teaching the same three course next term, there are tweaks to make and readings to change. I scan, I make lists, I try to respond to emails promptly.

I tell them that I scaffold.

Inside of me, the mist still remains. In the few quiet times, my tendency towards melancholy returns. I struggle with this part of my being.

I understand with pinpoint precision why I allow work to overtake my life. In work I am engaged. A busy brain means no room for the other parts, the doubts and the sadness.

I wait for that part of me to fade, to return to some hibernation so I can live inside the pleasure of my work, my vocation. 

Sigh of relief

We voted in our new home, Wisconsin.

I like to think we helped to tip the balance.

Emily asked me to wake her when the election was called. I just shook her gently and whispered that President Obama had been re-elected. She sighed, "Oh good" , and rolled over and went back to sleep.

Yes, my love. We can both sleep easier tonight.

Skin Flick

Several months ago I made mention that I was now wearing makeup daily.

What I failed to mention was my habitual obsessive need to encompass as much knowledge as humanly possible about all things "makeup" since I had shown an interest in the topic.

In those short months, I have developed a stunning amount of knowledge about makeup and skin care. I actually stunned a Sephora sales girl recently as I waxed poetic about the different types of BB creams, and why I preferred the one I was currently using...although I was interested in trying out a different line once this tube I have runs out.

I went from a makeup zero...to a makeup hero in several short weeks.

Of course, I took care of my skin in a cursory way. I washed with the cleanser that my esthetician told me to use, and followed with the toner/moisturizer. I wore sunblock. I added eye cream when I turned 40.

Now? Oh. I have a regime. Care to hear about it? Good, because I want to share.

I've kept my G.M. Collin organique cleanser and moisturizer. It reminds me of Montreal, but I have to have it shipped here. Thank goodness for the internet, I say.

What I have changed is this: Ole Henricksen Truth Serum, day and night. Ole Henricksen ultimate eye lift gel (night only) and Ole Henricksen  invigorating night gel.

This stuff is magic. Pricey - but magic. The products don't smell overpowering and the results are fairly solid. The eye gel was the first part of the line that sold me, with the truth serum and night gel following quickly. Although Terrance says he can't tell any difference and that I am ridiculous for purchasing this, I don't care. My skin looks smoother, my pores are smaller and I think I am looking pretty good. At a faculty function recently, I said something about being 42 and a much younger faculty seemed genuinely shocked at my age.

Then again, it could have been the t shirt and rocket dog skull sneakers.

As for BB creams, primers and eye shadow primer - I am all Too Faced, baby. Again - the stuff works for me. I tried the urban decay primers and ....meh. Not right for my skin. Didn't feel right.

I most likely will try to Dr Jart's BB cream at some point once I get my hands on a decent sample size to give it a few days run. I use an air brush to apply my BB cream, to which I add the tiniest dot of Kat Von D foundation. I do mean the tiniest dot, because the description isn't kidding when it notes that this stuff can and will cover tattoos. On the other hand, it adds a seriously beautiful finish to your skin.

I don't dig Kat Von D, overall, but her makeup is pretty kick ass. I have three of her Tattoo Liners and prefer them to my other liquid liners. Yes, you read that correctly, I only use liquid liner now.

While I do have some Urban decay eyeshadow and will absolutely agree that this is pretty great eyeshadow, my real eye shadow obsession is Concrete Minerals. I am embarrassed to admit that I keep a spreadsheet of which colors I have, including the ones I picked up as limited edition releases.  I was super nervous about using loose mineral eye shadow - However now that I have converted, I can't imagine going back to "regular" eye shadow. Same with liquid liner - I simply can't imagine using a pencil anymore.

Want to guess how many I have? Huh? Huh?
Ok. I have (whisper)....35.

Yes. I wear red eye shadow to work. Lime green, orange - Yes. I wear them all. Fierce heels need fierce eye shadow.

Lipsticks are still being tried and worked through. A friend has spoken highly of the OCC Lip Tar  and I will most likely make a couple of choices to try out in the next month or so. I have a multitude of handmade lip tints and stains that I use as I prefer the staying power of the stains to a lipstick and can not bear to have anything drying on my lips. I layer a balm, then lip tint in layers until the right color is achieved.

So how long does it take to get a PhD? Six years. How long does it take me to learn 40 years worth of makeup and skin care knowledge? 2 months.


*No promotional consideration was received for the mention of these products. No free stuff at all. I bought all this stuff with my own cash. Being the contrary bitch that I am, I most likely would have hated anything I had received for free - being suspicious of companies that want to "influence" me.

*Stop crying, JB, I know how proud you are. 

Except some things, which mean everything

I found a new massage therapist this week.

The timing was perfect, as are all of these discoveries when I open myself to seeing them. I was achy and sore, my hips were hurting and the miserable twinge in my  left knee had begun to flare.

The knee is a pain I have known before. It flares when I feel powerless, as I seem to hold some kind of energy in an injury I incurred on the night of my 40th birthday party. It wasn't a fear of getting older, of course, but the dawning realization that I had no control over my world and was losing love.

I had tried to ignore the hip and knee pains, telling myself that I was just getting used to wearing heels all the time again. This body is different now. This body pushes back harder when I try to ignore it. This body begins to rob me of sleep.

Sleep is the delicate fulcrum on which my sanity balances. Mess with that and you get my attention quickly.

This massage therapist is not like my beloved Sandra in Montreal. He is a big guy, maybe 270 pounds. I believe he was a biker or may still be one. He has old tats and piercings. He may be the age of my father. Yet, he is good. He warns me that he applies pretty deep pressure and to tell him if I start to hurt.

Hah! You've got no idea what I can take, buddy.

His hands are very different, very big. Yet I still feel the tingle of energy leaping up when he begins. He works on my legs and knee first.

With Sandra, I could feel the energy moving from her hands into my skin. It was a direct transfer. James doesn't transfer as much energy in to me, as he does push my energy around. He knocks down barriers in my body, brushing them out of the way.

As always, I lay on the table listening to my inner reactions, breathing through any discomfort.

Once again, my grief surges through me. This fucking grief that I can't seem to shed surges back every time. My inability to understand why people that I love abandon me, or to adequately defend myself so that I am not in a place to need to understand never fails to push its way to the forefront. My anger at my feelings of dissatisfaction re-emerge, asking me what exactly am I looking for and do I really believe that anything better lies beyond the horizon?

After the massage is finished, he says to me: Your aura is dark.

Yes. I know. 

Flabbergasted

The way to make my spouse lose his ability to speak?

My daughter: "What's the KKK?"


Yes folks, someone has dropped the race ball...and that someone isn't me. Now, to be fair...we lived outside of the US between her years of 7 and 14. Canada has a very different history when it comes to race. We didn't have the same sort of conversations because the context was so very different.

Moving back to the state has reminded us that there are some areas in which our child has no deoth of knowledge.

Terrance reacted out of fear yesterday, driving Emily to tears and me to exasperation. He tried to explain that there are people who will hate her for her skin color, and she said "But I'm not black, I'm biracial..."

And his head exploded again.

Later, I tried to explain that to some people her skin color designates her as only black. That those people can't imagine the concept of people being more than one thing at the same time. I tried to find the words to explain that her father wants to protect her and that part of that protection is for her to identify as black.  I had to explain the history of the more favorable treatment of light skinned black people, and the idea of trying to "pass" as white.

At all of these things I feel inadequate. Terrance is angry at Emily' lack of knowledge...yet he does not move to fill in the gaps, opting to lecture me about our failures as parents. When he paused for breath mid-lecture, I interjected: "It is as if you are asking me to teach her what it is to have a penis. I can't do that. I am not qualified to do that. I don't have that base of experience. The best I can do is to tell her what I think  it may be like to have a penis, which isn't the same."

I can't tell her what it is to be black.