Liz's Blah Blah Blog

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away

2011-08-29T19:55:00.004-05:00

As some of you know, I've had a string of terrible, horrible, no good very bad days this summer. Divorce does not exactly elevate the psyche. Somehow, bad follows bad, with worse not far behind. At the end of a week, it'll seem like we've clearly reached the apex, the zenith, the acme of badness. Then something else goes wrong.

These stories will mostly be funny some day. Some of them were even funny the next day. Or when I told them to some of you. :-) Not so much funny ha-ha to live through, though.

So Annie and Jonathan took a train to Ann Arbor this week. They met their dad and spent the weekend visiting with Grapes. Had a Grape family reunion, in fact. First one without me. Not that I was feeling sorry for myself. No, no.

Actually, I enjoyed the peace and quiet. It was quiet. And peaceful. Until my phone made that noise it makes when one of my children is texting me. It was Jonathan. "Apparently Annie left her laptop on the train." Oh my, said I.

I received no further news for hours. Being a trained glass half-full girl, I assumed that it must have turned up. Ha. Annie was simply avoiding telling me, as she was busy berating herself and was afraid I'd do it, too. No mom berating occurred, as she was clearly covering that base all by herself. Poor kid.

Many calls were made to Amtrak. No luck.

Carl dropped the kids off Sunday afternoon. Jon came running in, needing to use the facilities. Apparently his laptop was necessary equipment for this event. Why, I don't know. Why is a cell phone needed in the bathroom, such that it can (and will) fall in the toilet, as has happened at least twice in our family?

Anywho, J was grabbing and pulling and fumbling with his laptop when SMASH, down it crashed onto the ceramic tile floor. Oh my, said I. The screen was oh so nicely cracked, both horizontally and vertically.

Two laptops in one weekend? Really? Isn't that a bit over the top, even for this summer and my family? Apparently not. Apparently I underestimated our capacity for wretched events. OK. We're all full up now. Stop it. God. Karma. Fate. Bad luck. Just stop it. Now.

OK. here's the good news: we did NOT experience Hurricane Irene. My basement was dry all weekend, thank you very much. And for the pollyanna glass half-full record, Jon's hard drive, which seemed glitchy after the fall, seems fine now. The screen hasn't fallen apart yet, nor have the colors bled out or done whatever colors do when they leave a computer screen, never to work again.

And here's the even better news. Someone found Annie's laptop. And did not steal it. And Amtrak has it. And is sending it to Ann Arbor so that Annie can drive to Michigan and pick it up tomorrow. And I don't have to buy a new Mac Powerbook or whatever flavor machine she currently drives.

So the Lord giventh and the Lord taketh away. But Amtrak rocks. :-)

Sue your mom

2011-08-28T14:52:00.004-05:00

No, that's not a fat-fingered typing error. Nor is it a partial sentence lacking pertinent punctuation and a verb. For your amusement and edification, I present today's lawsuit. Yes, that's right, two adult children sued their mother for bad mothering, which caused emotional distress to the tune of $50,000.

This wicked mother did such horrible things as arguing with her daughter over the cost of party dresses and harassing same child by calling at midnight on Homecoming to tell her to come home! The boy child received a boorish birthday card accusing him of being "different from all the rest." Gasp. It also had no money in it.

Oh my. Think of the possibilities. I could sue my mom for the extreme distress she caused me by throwing away my big red and blue stuffed cat while I was away at college. And what about that time she made me stay at the table and finish the bologna and jelly sandwich I specifically requested then refused to eat? Clearly, that was damaging. Not a bite of bologna has passed my lips since.

Alas, the lawsuit was dismissed by a sane Illinois appeals court. Ruling in favor of the children "could potentially open the floodgates to subject family child rearing to . . . . excessive judicial scrutiny and interference." You think?

The lawsuit is bad enough. But we know that all manner of ridiculous cases clog up court dockets each and every day. What I found disappointing about this situation was the identity of the adult children's attorney: their father, ex-husband of the subject of the suit.

Again, it's not surprising that ex-spouses would seek to beat up on one another. But here's the kicker in their father's behavior. He said he tried to convince his children not to bring the case. So, I'm a parent, my kids want to sue my ex, want ME to be their attorney, and I don't think it's a good idea. But I do it anyway?

Grow a spine, Daddy. Yes, as our children grow, we step back and let them make their own mistakes. Certainly, the parent involved couldn't keep his children from filing suit, nor should he have tried to do so. But it was definitely NOT Daddy's job to assist them in making that mistake by providing them free legal services.

Some parents do horrible, unspeakable things to their children. At the very least, ridiculous suits like this make a mockery of those crimes by attempting to put a price tag on the disappointments we all face when our parents turn out to be imperfect human beings. And having a co-parent aid and abet this behavior adds salt to the wound.

I wonder if somewhere in the piles of legal papers about this case, someone might have suggested counseling for all of those involved. If nothing else, it sure would've saved a forest of trees.

How

2011-03-13T18:08:00.002-05:00

While walking the dog today, my iPod shuffled onto this sweet little song: How Could Anyone? It had been years since I'd heard it. But it grabbed me by the throat (isn't that what Bruce said this morning?) in that way songs sometimes do, remembering. Sislisters, I know y'all remember the retreat I'm thinking about. One of those rare moments where I was, indeed, convinced that I deserved to be treated as though I were beautiful, even if I wasn't.

Then the song grabbed me around that jaded thinking part. (Sorry, not sure in which anatomical part this resides. The bile duct?) And I thought, "Oh my God, could I be any sappier?" Could that song be any more insipid? Isn't this an example of a whole era of parenting gone wrong. Everyone is beautiful. Everyone is smart. Everyone deserves a ribbon, a medal, a trophy. You can do anything you want to do.

And somehow we're left with children who believe the world owes them, big time. Entitled and full of expectations, they have no sense of who they actually are. Then they show up on "American Idol," with auditions that make some of us cringe but attitudes that are cringe-worthy for most of us: "How can you not see how wonderful I am, you loser judges?"

Then my jaded thinking part was sidetracked while the dog almost pulled me down while chasing down a squirrel. After wondering how a 40lb dog could almost pull down a very large woman, I wandered back to a snippet of conversation among friends this morning about the things people sometimes say. "Oh, you're going to wear THAT color?" "Oh, that's the quilt you just finished? It looks, um, nice," or the ever-popular opaque review "Well, THAT was something."

Sometimes, we need to hear hard truths. Sometimes, we need to hear love. As friends and lovers, children and mothers, how do we know when we should say what? Does what we say matter as much as how we say it, or what kind of a place we say it from? I dunno. It seems like I get this wrong more often than I'd like, putting my foot in it when I don't mean to be mean, when I mean to be anything but mean.

What I do know: there is a world of difference between assuring children that they are fabulous in every way (which is something they usually know isn't true, anyway) and assuring them that YOU think they are fabulous because of every little silly thing that you love about them. And isn't that latter truth far kinder than a fake cheerleader assurance that they're number one? Particularly when they're not?

And there is never a time when anyone needs to be told they are ugly, stupid or worthless. Rare are the times when a truth that will hurt cannot be told in a gentle way, or a gentler time. So, if you see me out on roller skis this spring, be sure to tell me to tell me how fit I look in my workout pants, rather than noting that I look like a porker in my too-tight workout tights, ok?

I'm not sure which part of the anatomy (throat versus bile duct) won this round . . . .

Liz

Mommy goes to college?

2011-03-07T21:15:00.003-06:00

So we've all heard about it by now, the post-lecture sex toy lesson at Northwestern University. Was this demonstration valuable as an educational tool (pun intended?) Guess that depends on how you define "valuable." Was it worth the price paid for it ($0.00, as it wasn't officially part of a class?) Yes, about that, I'd guess.

Feel free to argue about the legitimacy of a course of study entitled Human Sexuality, but it is an academic field at most universities. As such, it seems reasonable to me that this course would include a lively and graphic discussion of sex toys. But I can't imagine that it was necessary to give a live demonstration for the professor to make any particular point on the need for--or use of--sex toys.

Most courses and professors manage to make their points without demonstration, as much as hands-on learning is valued in the earlier grades.

Would it be possible for me to write this without double entendres? Apparently not. :-)

The Professor involved doesn't seem to be making the argument that it was necessary, though. In an alarming display of common sense that is sometimes absent from post-secondary academia, the demonstration occurred after the class ended and attendance was entirely voluntary.

So it wasn't necessary and it wasn't valuable. Clearly, I must be up in arms about it and want to protest as a concerned mother? Nope. Sex is an adult topic, one legitimately studied in post-secondary education. Northwestern University is an institution where adults are educated. And as a tuition-paying parent, I'm ok with treating my progeny as adults.

While Mommy and Daddy may be paying tuition for educating these adults, they are no longer in charge of the education their children receive. Having parents show up to protest their children being exposed to such depraved lessons seems fairly out of touch with reality to me.

The reality is this: when your child leaves for college, you are no longer in charge of them or their experiences. If you ever were. If they choose to take a course on Human Sexuality, and then they voluntarily stay after class to watch a demonstration they've been told will be graphic, and they don't leave if/when it becomes very graphic, then the resulting experience is theirs to deal with.

If a student was offended or made uncomfortable or felt strongly that this particular event was a waste of their valuable academic time, then it falls on the student to say so--not the parent.

If I am disappointed about anything regarding this scenario, it is the apparent absence of discussion by female students concerning orgasm achieved with a modified sawzall, sexual roles, or a broader discussion of S&M and women (and whether the use of such a toy is S&M.) Those discussions might seem more than academic.

Perhaps those discussions are, in fact, happening. But we and the media seem far more interested in discussing how offended we are rather than stepping back to see whether any learning might actually be taking place from the experience.

Sometimes reading the news makes my head hurt. Guess I should go back to bed (no secret meaning there--I'm sick!)
Liz

Trivial pursuits

2011-02-12T10:57:00.004-06:00

Reading The Christian Century this week and was otherwise intrigued and in accordance with Expect a Whirlwind, a commentary on worship. But there was this:

We Americans are involved in two bloody wars, have a rapacious petroleum habit and are near Depression levels of unemployment, but prayers of confession often bemoan banal, relatively low-cost, middle-class transgressions such as "busyness" or "letting our minds wander from You." Reportedly, Martin Luther's confessor became so frustrated when Luther was confessing "puppy sins" that he shouted at Luther, "Go kill your father or something. Then we'll have a sin to talk about!"

What is wrong with corporate prayer addressing sins large and small? Clearly, some sins are more serious than others, either in scope or depth. Deaths of thousands in the Middle East wars is a horrible, horrible waste of humanity. Petroleum dependence seems likely to destroy the planet. Yet, is it not also a small waste of humanity to spend a life in perpetual busyness, time spent with little meaningful purpose that benefits others or self?

I am not familiar with exactly what "puppy sin" Luther was confessing. But waste seems more than a puppy sin to me. Wasting your time in busyness that profits no one rather than spending it in contemplation or play or volunteering seems like something worth praying over and for, even if no one is dying from it.

And diverted attention from God seems a crying shame. It means I'm more engaged in me, me, ME and what I want than in the people and world around me and our needs. Paying attention to what is worth our attention, getting busy doing what really needs to be done--is there anything more important than that? Isn't it this very kind of attention that can lead many of us to actually doing something about those big, more important evils?

I wonder if God might not be just as offended by the "banal" sins of everyday life than by our collective large sins. Whether we spend our 24/7 eking out a day to day subsistence, lolling in the lap of luxury, or some place muddling in the middle, what we do--or don't do--matters. And briefly focusing on that in corporate prayer seems a worthy use of time rather than a trivial pursuit.

Liz

What I've forgotten

2011-01-09T11:03:00.003-06:00

A book review caught my eye this morning during the daily infusion of caffeine via Black Mountain Pine tea. Reviewing the "The Memory Palace" it briefly explained the eponymous concept: "a mental technique by which scholars could build an imaginary palace to keep their memories safe, creating a visual image for everything they wanted to recall and creating a particular place for the image inside the mental palace."

Relying on my source for all things sciencey, Wiki explained further that it is a "general designation for mnemonic techniques that rely on memorized spatial relationships to establish, order and recollect memorial content."

Memory is intriguing. My husband has an astounding memory. And, whether learned or inborn, he has techniques that assist him in doing so. He can often remember where he was and/or what he was doing on particular dates, citing music heard, people seen or places visited. I'll have to ask him more about how this works for him, if it's a visual process for him. If I can remember to do so . . . .

Memory is intriguing to me in part because mine is so, um, spotty. During law school, I achieved straight Cs initially because I had never learned how to study. I did, though, discover that I could memorize then recall my course outlines verbatim during exams. Coupled with a crash course in thinking and analysis, this (as you might imagine) improved my grades greatly.

Since I could actually see the outline in my head, I suspect this is similar to a memory palace or the method of loci. One word led to another and so I could see them all. For about 72 hours. Unfortunately, it faded after that--as does almost everything else that I try to remember. Each day, I forgot more than the rest of you all remember. Really. I don't even know what I don't remember.

I was at a funeral yesterday and a woman approached, smiling warmly. "Liz, don't you remember me?" Um, nope. Not a clue. Even after she explained who she was/is, discussed how we watched our children play together in the church nursery for several years and that we worked on a church committee together, I still don't really remember her. Her son's name rings a faint bell.

After gazing at her for a few minutes, I thought she looked familiar. But was that simply because I had gotten used to see her for a few moments, or because I was remembering her? Her son's name seemed familiar. I almost thought I could picture him playing with Annie. But was that because I really could recall that image or because I wanted to?

Perhaps I don't have a poor memory. Perhaps I am simply just not confident enough to believe in what I think I remember. Maybe memory is all about the confidence to believe in what you think and experience and then store.

And what I wonder about memory palaces is related to that: how do we really know that what we've constructed was/is real? If the memory is constructed, whether consciously or unconsciously through technique, how do we know that it is representative of what actually occurred?

Consider the ubiquitous experience of siblings memories and how they differ. Assuming good will and intent, why don't we remember the same thing? Yes, of course, we are different people viewing events through different lenses and so, by our very nature, events will be remembered differently because they ARE different for each of us. But aren't there certain parts of any event that clearly happened? How do we decide what those are?

What part of memories are real? If I don't remember something, did it really happen?

Perhaps I've had too much caffeine . . . .

Liz ;-)

Really?

2011-01-04T09:59:00.003-06:00

"I don't want to." Really, Carol? This is the measured way you communicate to your voters, explaining why you do or do not want to share your financial information with them? Really? I don't take issue with the decision to share or not share. I don't even take issue with the flip-flop. Intelligent people reevaluate their decisions. But I ponder the maturity of an individual who in the complete non-heated repartee of early election gab is unable to come up with a reasoned response.

As I was reading the Trib this week--paper, in my hands, away from a screen, dinosaur that I am--the word "maturity" came to mind a number of times relative to the Chicago mayoral race. Looking at the field, now narrowed, of African-American candidates, I began to question the maturity of black leaders. Is this the best they can offer?

Don't worry. I get smarter. Really--courtesy of a self-delivered NCIS Gibbs head-smack. Um, Liz? This lack of maturity, this meager offering of leadership, is hardly limited to black politicians. Consider the last Illinois governor's race. Hell, consider almost every race held in the state of Illinois in the past 20 years. Are those fielded the best the leaders of Illinois, regardless of their race or ethnicity, can offer in the way of mature, pragmatic and compassionate leadership?

Don't worry. I don't have the time nor inclination to list all of our loser leaders. But I do have just enough time to deliver a head-smack to Dennis Bryne, who did not get any smarter. He managed to write 700 plus words casting aspersions on black political leadership, questioning only THEIR maturity, rather than casting a broader net over all self-serving politicians and their self-serving decisions. Really, Dennis?

Don't worry. I do see the possible irony of which he speaks, African-Americans making race-based choices. But doesn't he see the correlating irony of the race-based choice he's chosen to write about? Really, Dennis? He acknowledges it, but manages to focus only on black leadership, in the end. Which possible explains away the "irony" of continued race-based politics. Really.

Liz

how things happen

2010-12-10T16:39:00.003-06:00

I have sometimes wondered if travel by flying has fundamentally changed our experience of moving from place to place. OK. That's sounds ridiculously duh when I state it so. Let me explain. Travel used to take time. The farther we'd move away from our home, the longer it would take to reach our destination.

The time was sometimes arduous. At the very least, it was tedious. But it provided a buffer. We could do little while traveling but attend to the journey--one foot in front of the other, or even miles zipping past the car window--and the changes the journey augured.

But with flying, poof, we move from here to there. In a day, we can move from relative middle class economic stability in America to the least of these, lowest caste beyond poor of India. We can move from our own cozy homes that are run just as we like and rejoin our families of origin, in which we have no control whatsoever. We can move from desert heat to clammy rain forest to bracing mountains to prairie dust--and back again by the next sunset.

With flight, there is little time to prepare ourselves for the change. And that must change the very nature of travel, of experiencing newness and wonders and change. But perhaps that's not such a different approach to life as I think it seems.

Sometimes life moves at warp speed. It always has. Much faster than we are ready for changes to take place, they happen in an instant. Choices are made, words are said, breath ceases, lives changed.

Today, a wonderful woman died. I wasn't fortunate enough to know her well, but she was a gifted teacher, thoughtful and funny mother and grandmother, beloved wife. All persons in one, gone in a matter of short months. There was precious little time for those who love her to prepare for her passing. Because that's how life is, sometimes. Sometimes, we walk through it, with all due deliberate speed. And sometimes it is taken from us, flying past so fast that we cannot conceive of how it could have happened. Yet it already has.

Peace to those for whom the journey has been all too short. Grace for those who are still here. Love to all.

Liz

Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T21:21:00.003-06:00

Wrote a piece about gratitude for mistakes this morning while I was supposed to be attending to the sermon. I carefully folded the scribbled-on bulletin and filed it in my purse for later, continued musings. And now I can't find it. Hate it when that happens. Wasted 30 minutes looking for it. I'm not good at letting things go.

Here's the place where I compose a lithe, possibly poetic sentence or two about letting go and mistakes and gratitude. Except there simply is not one lithe phrase left in my head this evening. after a lovely but long day of receiving and giving Thanks, complete with the obligatory groaning table surrounded by loved ones.

It was a homely and homey meal, spectacular only in its absolute lack of meticulous timing on my part. I'm a scatterbrained soul, ready to leap off any trail, squirrel-like, after a shiny bauble. Thus I usually deconstruct the feast into a chart so I don't lose track of anything.

I usually lose track of something anyways. This could involve burning, or forgetting in the microwave, or just plain for getting to make something. You'll be surprised to hear that it often involves a green vegetable. But not today. No chart, yet the food arrived on the table all of a warm, yummy piece at just the right moment--even the green beans.

If I wasn't so tired, this is another place where I'd string together something coherent about past meals not being any less sweeter for my mistakes, how amusing some of them turned out to be, how much I learned from each one. And maybe some bon mot about how the mistakes weren't nearly as important as having people I love around the table.

Then maybe I'd curve around to talk about how most of the people I love are full of mistakes and, for the most part, learning from them. Mistakes make them interesting. People who live mistake-free aren't really living. They are focused on making it through each tiny moment without screwing up. Such a narrow and small way to live.

Which explains why I find myself living that way oh so often? Now, if I weren't floating on an l-tryptophan sleepwave, enhanced by a semi-sweet dry Riesling, I'd explore the irony of admiring others for living, nay thriving, through mistakes yet continuing to live in the "please God, let me not screw up and if I do so I will hate myself forever" mode.

But I am tired. And, instead of scrabbling for words, I'm going to play a few rounds of Scrabble and go to sleep, grateful for dear friends, family, forgiveness, mistakes, and pumpkin pie.

Liz

black shoes and brown puddles

2010-11-09T08:46:00.005-06:00

I got up this morning to a lovely fall day: beautiful blue skies delicately decorated with a still-healthy smattering of yellow leaves, sun shining through them. While I'm worshiping out my window, my eyes are caught by a discordant color. Brown. Brown puddles.

Brown puddles do not belong in this picture. Brown puddles particularly do not belong on my kitchen floor. My brain refuses to process brown puddles.

OK. Denial is short-lived; it's not my usual coping mechanism and it definitely doesn't remove brown puddles. So let's move to self-pity: really, God? Really?

First, C has a violent intestinal virus (think bodily fluids here and I'll spare you the details.) Then he has an intestinal blockage (ditto) and has to hang in the hospital.

Back at the ranch, I wake up to find yet another large man in gray making retching noises at the bathroom door. Momentarily dislocated from reality, I wonder if my husband walked home from the hospital in the middle of the night.

Nope. This would be J experiencing the aforementioned violent intestinal virus. Bodily fluids were extant. On beige carpet. I needed to clean immediately and be at the hospital to hear a doctor's report at the same time. I cried. It didn't help.

You know how people always say, "If you need help, just call. Anytime! Anything!" No one really ever expects that you actually WILL call them. For the most part, people just say this to be nice, don't they? And certainly no one really ever expects that you actually will call them for help with cleaning up bodily fluids before breakfast.

But your best friends will do this for you. And you will--absolutely--do this for them. I am blessed with a number of these friends. Thanks to T, I got to the hospital on time with an undamaged beige carpet.

A few days pass. Many other things pass, of the type we are not describing in detail. And then I wake up to brown puddles all over the house. No men in gray were involved, only a little furry puppy pie who apparently had a rough night.

I did not call T to help me with this third round of bodily fluids. I'm sure she's pleased.

But, really, God. Did my dog need to excrete brown puddles all over my cute relatively new and expensive black shoes? Really? Does leather recover from extended contact with brown puddles?

All are now healthy. Good fortune is duly noted and experienced as blessings. But I'm still a little bent out of shape over the cute shoes.

Liz

You are not welcome here

2010-10-10T14:34:00.003-05:00

I hung out with a bunch of teenage boys this morning. No, I'm not aspiring to cougar status, nor have I returned to the Sunday School classroom. I was a ringer ringer (tee-hee) in our currently all-male youth bell choir.

Much fun was had, as the music was hard and the young men amusing. (Don't even think about it. Just keep reading.) It's a touch embarrassing for a 48 yr old bossy mom with a music degree to need a 15 yr old to count for her. But the guys were kind. At least to the moms. :-)

If the only challenging event of the morning had been the ringing, I'd have left a happy camper and gone off to my usual Sunday afternoon ritual of lunch, newspapers, and nap. Instead, I have 6 tabs up on the computer screen full of denominational venom, pain 40 to 50 years in the making.

We didn't ring at "home" today. We rang at a different church, one that by denomination has a "close communion" aka all are NOT welcomed at the communion table.

Google tells me many things about this practice in the Missouri Synod Lutheran flavor (LCMS) as well as in other denominations. The official LCMS stance is that they DON'T close their communion table to all those who are not LCMS. Rather, they say that "not only are members of other Lutheran churches with whom we are in altar and pulpit fellowship invited to commune with us, but also that in certain extraordinary cases of pastoral care and in emergencies members of churches not in fellowship with us may be given Communion."

You knew there was a "but", didn't you? LCMS is not in "altar and pulpit fellowship" with the ELCA (the other major Lutheran denomination.) For all practical purposes, you can't take communion at a LCMS church unless you are LCMS or the pastor assesses you as worthy.

If you long to read 64 pages of explanations and justifications as to how that works and why that's not offensive to God, please do so. Despite (or maybe because of) those 64 pages, closed communion is very offensive to me.

By the way, the whole "close" versus "closed" thing? That's not a typo. Apparently those who close their communion tables prefer to call it a "close" table, as in it being a near or intimate for them, rather than "closed" table, as in we don't want you to be intimate with us.

Sorry, folks. Taking away the "d" may make you feel better and sound inclusive, but it's weak window dressing when you're on the outside looking in. And apparently I am the last Lutheran on earth to actually experience this divide, to worship at a service where I was not welcomed with literal open arms to the communion table.

I've always thought closed communion was an icky practice, but the ick factor was academic. No longer. Sitting through a closed communion was a slow, sharp, repeating kick in the gut. Sitting there, watching everyone else file up and be welcomed, knowing that I would not receive that welcome?

I couldn't blink the tears away, couldn't sing them away, couldn't sing at all, for a while. Knowing that I was not welcome, knowing that these people, this church as part of a denominational body professes that they have the obligation to refuse to serve me was profoundly alienating.

Yes, I know. Welcome to the real world, Lizabeth, the world where differences are so focused upon that they obliterate all we have in common. A place where differences in race or color or sexual attraction or theology closes our hearts exactly when and where we most need them opened.

And, somehow, I think the academic arguments about theology are perhaps the most pernicious, the most unfaithful acts of all. Over and over and over, we use words and beliefs to cut ourselves off from one another. Is that really the only available path faith can lead us down? Can't we do better than this?

Liz

Beginnings

2010-09-21T17:15:00.003-05:00

Today, a new baby came home next door. Pat has a beautiful grandchild, Emily a splendid son: Ryan. I was outside, grilling chicken as they arrived. So I grabbed a quick peak at the little guy. He is perfect, just as his daddy described him.

Emily and I reminisced about a warm June day 18 years ago, when she met the newborn that I brought home: Annie Eleanor Grapentine. My beautiful daughter, who is now all grown up and, yes, off to college this month (St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota.)

It seems such an incredibly short time ago that I carried my second child into our home. Actually, I think Carl must have done so, as we have photographic evidence of same. We'd only been on Ridgeland Avenue a week, having determined we needed an entire new home in which to welcome our tiny girl.

OK. She wasn't all that tiny. At 9lbs, 15 ounces, Jonathan proclaimed her "Queen of the Babies" during her brief visit to the nursery. But, compared to her big brother, all 4.5 years of him, she seemed rather delicate and fragile to us.

Of course she was. And wasn't. As all babies, and children and adults are. And aren't.

Delicate and strong, all at once, she was loved, oh so very loved, from her first breath. And she still is, even as she is now 400 miles away in a new place.

There were some hard times in the beginning, in her babyhood. The Midrash says all beginnings are hard. Beginning to be is hard. Bright lights and cold and wet and colic and words. Beginning to be a parent is hard. Confusion and crying and deciphering and sleeplessness. All of these things baby Ryan and his mommy have to navigate, along with first smiles, rolling over, laughter, words, walking and, 18 years later, leaving.

Leaving for college, beginning to be a grownup is a hard beginning, too. Homesickness and loneliness and independence and new, new, new. There will be compensations, I keep promising her: deep conversations, deep friendships, outlandish fun, freedom. But in the beginning, new is hard for most of us.

This is new for me, too. Annie, our youngest, is the first to leave the nest. It's hard, letting her go, the not knowing and the missing. There are compensations, people promise me. And, yes, though I miss her terribly I am enjoying the slower pace of a 3 person family, with less schlepping and cooking!

But there is only one compensation worth watching your child go: knowing that she has moved to a lovely campus full of kind and thoughtful people who are supporting her as she grows into the kind, smart, funny, beautiful young woman she is and will be. :-)

Liz

Tools of the trade

2010-08-09T19:25:00.002-05:00

Every trade has them, appropriate tools. And using the right tool can make a difference between a job half done and a job well done. Last week, while cleaning up after The Flood of 2010, I wiled away the hours using the wrong tools for a job. And, indeed it did takes hours longer than it might have, had I used the appropriate tools for the job.

And I am sure there are appropriate tools for the job of cutting out sections of mildewed dry wall and peg board. Maybe I even have them in my not so voluminous tool collection. Consider the reciprocating saw. It probably would have done the trick in half an hour, not half a day. But use of same required me to understand what was on the inside of the wall before cutting through it.

I wasn't really sure what WAS in the wall, if anything. Big pieces of wood? Studs? Are those the same things? Electrical wires? Mice? The vision of sawing through little mice, possibly severing their cute little whiskers or amputating their furry little tails, was more than I could bear.

Utility knife? Nope. When I use that weapon, I am immediately seized by haunting images of the damn thing slipping and cutting open my hand or leg or arm or stomach. This isn't as unlikely as you might think, given my track record.

So, lacking knowledge and imagination (or perhaps having too much of the latter), I used a hammer and a pry bar to chisel horizontally across the peg board and dry wall. With the peg board, it was a bit like a connect the dots kind of game, with the holes keeping my cutting line straight. It worked. But it took a long time. And my hands still ache from the process.

Since then, I've become a little obsessed with finding the right tool for the job. Unfortunately, we are the proud owners of two sets of monthly tuition payments. So my obsession exists mostly online and in my head. But I did have a chance to peruse a variety of tools at Bed, Bath and Beyond today. And I learned something new about tools: they can be evil.

Let us take, for example, the magnifying mirror. On the surface (pun intended) it seems a perfectly suited tool for its task: allowing middle-aged women to see their faces clearly when they can no longer depend on their eyes to do so. Being a middle-aged woman (assuming I live to 97), it seemed time for me to bring such an item home.

I thought, perhaps, that the general public might appreciate it if I could actually see what they see, should they ever actually look at me. Maybe that seems vain in a woman of a certain age, as we are known to be invisible. Perhaps *I* am invisible. But that chin hair is like a lighthouse beacon across the water. And so the mirror.

Oh my. I had no idea. 15 times magnification is a hideous sight. I have craters for pores. Skin that looked attractively rosy is revealed as W.C. Fields' nose surface. The circles under my eyes are vast puffy brown/blue pillows, practically obscuring my vision. Tiny fine lines become mile-long cracks in the surface of a dry planet Mars. And the hair. Well, we just won't discuss the hair.

Clearly, there is an evolutionary reason that we lose our close vision as we age. And clearly it is evil to try to counteract that by purchasing tools to bypass the aging process. I have learned from the error of my ways. Feel free to tell me (privately, of course) if there is something horrible on my face. Because there is no way in hell I am ever going to look at it that closely again. :-)

Liz

nature-lovery

2010-08-05T21:50:00.003-05:00

Hiking is rarely a part of my life, particularly since I gave up geocaching. I've had some lovely treks in the mountains of Arizona, though, and knew a quick trip up the mountains of New Mexico would be cool.

It would clearly be a solo venture. Me, I'm as surefooted as a mountain goat, but Carl finds the rocks in our parking place a footfall challenge. Once I was here in the mountains, company or not, I knew I needed to get to know them more closely.

Oh, barf. That sounds so "I am one with nature" of me. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I have a friend who loudly proclaims she's no nature lover. She is mistaken, I suspect. She has a keen eye for beauty in any form. And what is a lover of nature if not one possessed of that sensibility?

So, whether I'm a nature lover, beauty appreciator, or simply compelled to do something, Tuesday was my hiking (not dancing) day. Perfect weather. The climate in Santa Fe is really nigh unto perfect. 50 and 60s in the am and the pm. Midday, the high is in the low 80s. It was warm, climbing. Bu the steady breeze was lovely.

I took a cab out to the Randall Davey Audubon Center. Figured I like birds, and the paths were described as "easy." Easy at 7500 feet in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains? Perhaps I took that a bit too literally, as a flat lander who sometimes finds the air heady west of Ridgeland.

Heading out on Bear Canyon Trail, it was disconcerting to start my walk to the accompaniment of chain saws and spanglish. Someone building something. Made tracks as fast as I could to escape the noise. Son it was behind me. All I could hear were my footfalls, birds calling and that breeze humming in the pine trees.

Santa Fe is both brown and green, reminding me of a more craggy altitudinous version of Traverse City and environs. Sand and pinon pine and juniper plus lots of boulders.

Can you believe that today was the first time that I had the following realization: Hmm, that must be why they call it "Boulder, Colorado?" Sigh, not usually know for my perspicacity. Thank goodness I know some big words, instead.

Hummingbirds and some kind of tiny lizard were abundant. No bears, though. I am on a mission to see a bear. There were signs in the Center warning visitors to mind their garbage, lest they attract bears.

I am dying to attract bears. (Insert joke here, folks.) I've made my family pull over countless times up north, particularly during our times on the Keweenaw Peninsula, sure I had spotted a bear. The most embarrasing incident was one involving an extremely unlifelike cardboard version of a black bear. Sigh.

With or without bears, Bear Canyon Trail ended all too quickly and I bravely continued to follow the "unmaintained, primitive" trail. I know just enough about hiking unknown trails to know my ignorance needs to be respected. So I continued up the mountain only until the conveniently and picturesquely piled cairns became sparse then turned around. Not at the top, unfortunately. But this was definitely a journey activity rather than a goal-oriented destination trip.

And a lovely journey it was. Odd, being alone for 3 hours and never feeling alone. Why is that so, not feeling alone when I was in the middle of nowhere with no one? In the Middle of Oak Park, I sometimes feel wild with loneliness. But in the wild, my own company is enough.

Though a bear would be a welcomed addition. From a distance.

Liz

Santa Fe

2010-08-02T16:37:00.002-05:00

Chamber music belongs in spaces and places with lots of blue sky. Like Santa Fe. It's never been my cup of tea. I thought it was boring: Violins and more violins, scratchy strings, will they never cease? After a electric concert last night, I may be a convert. Chamber music is intimate and crisp. People playing together. Looking at each other. Smiling, nodding, exchanging secret and knowing glances. Relationships.

What is it about travel that wakes me up? When I am away from home, every book on the shelf of that fascinating little independent bookstore is calling my name. I become infatuated with ideas and niches of knowledge that might otherwise bore me to tears in my routine life. That life often doesn't seem able to contain theories of cognition, Jung, or analysis of the Supreme Court in the same way I seem to be able to find space for them away from home.

I"m sitting in the Plaza on a park bench, surrounded by families walking, leathered old men in cowboy hats, grungy hippies, rich retired folk, and a healthy smattering of odd men (and women) out.

I am alone and I like it. Carl and I had lunch at my favorite place, The Blue Corn Cafe. I cheated and had yummy corn chowder. After a joint long visit to that fascinating little independent bookstore (Collected Works), CJ went home to sit on the balcony and read, while I wandered the streets.

Next time, the bookstore comes LAST on the wander, as I had to lug a 15 lb tome entitled "Women's Letters: America from the Revolutionary War to the Present" all over town that I absolutely HAD to have. Will it seem as compelling to me when I get it back to Oak Park?

Sometimes it seems that my thirst for knowledge is drowned in Oak Park, inundated by life's effluvium, aka all the crap I have to know to run the family life. But much of that is about to change, with Annie heading off to college in a month. Who knows how I'll change with it.

"Women's Letters" will probably still intrigue me after I've lugged it home. Sounds a lot like chamber music to me: relationships and connection and history. Thoughts to explore that are both new and connected to what was.

Liz

Wild Kingdom

2010-07-07T00:30:00.002-05:00

So Annie and I are up in Minnesota again, staying at the abode of Ann and Paul. Ann and Paul are lovely hosts who have welcomed us into their home numerous times. Ann and Paul have seven girls who have also welcomed us into their home numerous times. Among these seven girls, three are human, two are canine, one is feline. And one is the Feline Devil Incarnate.

Her name is Lilith. I am not making this up, really, it is her name. As you may know, Lilith is a name rich in evil and deviltry. Wikipedia tells me that it translates to "female night being/demon." This is an uncannily apt moniker for this beast.

Lilith bites. Without warning or provocation. She loves to creep up to people, pretending to be a normal cat, purring and rubbing. One thinks, "Oh, look. How sweet. A normal mentally healthy cat who wants to be petted." One says, "Kitty, kitty, kitty" and she comes and rubs against one, as cats do when they want attention of the petting variety. One pets Lilith. One might even get to stroke her several times. Then, out of the blue, without provocation or explanation, CHOMP. Her true nature becomes apparent.

She bites the hand that feeds her. She bites her family. She bites their friends. She bites her cat sister, Rosie. She bites the dogs, for crying out loud.

Have I mentioned that she bites? I knew this before last night, but rediscovered it in new and less than endearing circumstances last night. Last night I slept with the Feline Devil Incarnate.

When I climbed into bed, I saw her peering at me from amongst the many pillows. Apparently I'm sleeping in her favorite lair. I knew that it would be prudent to remove her as soon as possible. But even approaching her with the cooing, sing-song "Here kitty, kitty, kitty" was apparently akin to ringing the bell at the beginning of a boxing match.

Lilith began swatting and hissing. I am not normally afraid of cats. But I am afraid of female night beings/demons who swat and hiss and bite. So I protected myself, as any intelligent woman would, with a pillow. Holding it before me like a shield, I tried to push her off the bed toward the door. Now, a normal cat would turn tail and run at this point. But not Lilith. She attacked the pillow.

I withdrew to reconsider my tactics. She ran under the bed. I decided to accept this action as a truce and went to sleep. I forgot that truces must be mutually acknowledged. Lilith did not call a truce. She was biding her time. Waiting until I was unconscious and vulnerable. Daring to annoy her by moving my fingers under the sheets, which she promptly pounced on and bit.

This is not on my recommended list of ways to be awakened at night. It's even lower than the "Mom, I just threw up on the carpeting" announcement, although possibly slightly higher than the adult male elbow bashing into the soundly sleeping nose. Again, I did what any sensible woman would do when awakened under such circumstances: I defended myself with a pillow. And we both went back to sleep.

I would've been happy to sleep through the rest of the night. I was even willing to share my bed with her in uneasy peace, if she'd just kept her freaking fangs away from my tender, delicate skin. But, no. She waited until I was out cold and started stalking my toes.

My toes are part of my climate control system. I'm too hot? My toes peak out from under the covers, catching the breeze from the ever-present fan. I'm too hot? My toes hide under the covers, possibly straying onto the male side of the bed if seeking extra warmth.

It being a summer night and my being a 48 year old woman, it is quite natural that my toes were lollygagging in the breeze, a perfect target for the evil fanged demon. Again, I am unconscious. I am wriggling my toes in blissful unawareness. Then CHOMP, she bites me into wakefulness.

By this time, it's 5:30am. Serious measures must be taken. I must sleep, heat be damned. So, once again I turned to the pillows. I piled all six of them on top of me and hid until the alarm went off.

Tonight, I'm locking my door. Surely she can't bite through THAT!

Liz

New news being similar to old news . . . .

2010-07-03T20:32:00.004-05:00

The BP Deepwater Horizon oil spill is going to spread to the Atlantic Ocean soon. Nice. BP and Mother Nature will work in ironic tandem to spread the wealth so that Europeans, too, can enjoy the fruits of our collective idiocy in continuing to drill baby drill.

While BP struggles to cap the leak in the Gulf, it seem to be having a fair amount of success in capping the press account's of the same. Yes, there are articles every day. But the astounding lack of outrage continues to be outrageous. What more can Rachel Maddow do? Her coverage has been fantastic, putting the major networks to shame.

Elena Kagan should feel no shame, however. Wow! What a fabulous job she did in her hearings this week. Yes, I would have liked to hear her opinions. But I'd rather have her be confirmed. We need her to offset that wacky Sam Alito and his tea bagger friends.

Why? The case regarding the moratorium on deep water drilling in the Gulf, which is moving quickly through the courts, will probably soon come up before the Court. I'd prefer it Kagan hear it, too, given the Court's tea bagger tendencies where the "aggressors become the aggrieved."

And what's with Clarence Thomas' wife jumping on the bagger bandwagon? Apparently legal but ick, ick, ick: the spouse of a sitting Supreme Court Justice founds a conservative lobbying group that will issue score cards for individuals in Congress. Isn't there something in legal ethics about avoiding even the appearance of impropriety?

Liz

Journey/Destination; Process/Product

2010-04-01T00:33:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, in an astounding outbreak of shakiness, I laid waste to half a dozen eggs, as well as two terracotta plant pots. I might not have felt quite so hangdog about this if I had been making scrambled eggs, say, or baking a cake. But I was making a meatloaf which required one little egg yolk.

As the family cook of over 25 years, my egg-cracking experience is substantial. Prodigious, even. And I regularly separate out the whites from the yolk by the crack and semi-sieve method. To wit: crack the egg in half, then pour the yolk back and forth, allowing the white to escape during transfer. On occasion, a yolk has been known to stray into the garbage mid-pour. A yolk. One.

But yesterday's fiasco was yolk after yolk, sliding out onto the floor, the garbage, the sink. At one point, there were four bright yellow and highly abstract splotches artfully displayed on my kitchen floor, like preschool finger painting projects. Yikes. I was determined, persevered, and ultimately was successful, but at the cost of 8 eggs in all.

Was the meatloaf worth eight eggs? I doubt it. I use the Joy of Cooking recipe, apparently to little good effect, as said meatloaf does not quite measure up to the Holy Grail aka my mother-in-law's meatloaf. And, though I like a good meatloaf, I'm not sure any meatloaf is intended to be worth the expenditure of eight eggs.

For me, it is usually difficult to perform a cost/benefit analysis. It seems a bit like questioning the value of the journey. I am certain that my meatloaf was not yummy enough to actually be valued eight eggs worthy. But the exercise of cracking and slipping and failing and smiling and doubting and wondering and finishing? It was interesting. And I like interesting.

There is certainly always something interesting going on in the T-G household. Usually, something has veered from the norm. Sometimes mundanely so, other times in spectacular fashion. Does my preference for interesting translate into an explanation for why I seem to lead such a messy life?

Maybe.

Or am I simply messy by nature? Careless or shaky, failing or not quite adequate, moving without grace from muddle to mistake.

Maybe.

I'm writing this from church, where I sit beneath the bell balcony. The sanctuary is bathed in twilight colors, the windows quietly glorious. Usually I'm upstairs, ringing, but not so much right now. :-)

In an hour, my friends--the ringers--have made good progress, from muddle to adequate to music. But I enjoyed the journey of the hour--listening to them laugh, screw-up, go quiet, take apart, laugh some more--far more than the final musical destination. How convenient for me, since my life tends to be process and journey, rather than product and destination.

Maybe I'm not alone in that. :-)

etg

speaking of disjointed and cranky

2010-03-29T23:20:00.005-05:00

I was told there would be no math. I was also told that I could go back to "work" within two weeks after surgery. Please explain to me how I can effectively carry out my duties as house manager when I cannot carry heavy objects nor lift my arms over my head? Hello? Grocery bags? Rakes and spring cleaning? Laundry baskets that need to go up and down the stairs? Do these baskets have wings at your house? Do your dogs walk themselves?

Speaking of math, my house contains a puzzle geometry has yet to solve: how do you fold sheets without lifting your arms over your head?

Speaking of puzzles, there are three young adult-ish people in my house who produced three dramatic incidents in an hour. I think a truce has been called. Now there are three bags of jelly beans sitting on the kitchen counter, unopened, calling my name. What problems in my world would NOT be solved by three bags of jelly beans? If there are any, perhaps a chaser of Peeps and a soupcon of chocolate bunny would clean up any loose ends . . . .

And speaking of small things, why is the font on either of my monitors so small that I have to tip my head up in a useless attempt to view said screens from the very bottoms of my progressive reading glasses? Thank goodness the evil Google empire lets me adjust the font on this page. I don't give a rip what information they are storing up about me as long as I can read my email without getting a stiff neck.

Harumph.

Liz

Two Medium Length Things

2010-03-25T12:12:00.005-05:00

Thing One. In real life, you can't take things back. In our minds and hearts and memories, we edit freely, changing history as we meant it to be, have learned it ought to have been, or wished it were. Nothing changes what we have done, or what we have left undone.

Life changes, though. People change, thoughts evolve. If we're lucky, understanding grows and deepens. The lens through which we--and others--view our actions or inactions is constantly shifting, growing more acute, or less interested or seeing with a different perspective than it did a few short years before.

Still what's done is done. Scurry as we might, we can't control what happens next and next and next. This helplessness gets scary, at times. Oh, ok. All of the time. I'd really like to come up with some pithy aphorism right here, demonstrating that I know where to place all of these f*&^%$ growth experiences, how to manage them, how to live through them.

Surprise. Not so much. My goal is continued breathing, intentionally with loving kindness toward all. Most moments, just breathing is a worthy accomplishment.

Thing Two. Two parts of my anatomy have recently been declared "pink and sensate." This would be a positive thing, as operated-on breasts go. Yes, I did have breast reduction surgery last week. Didn't anticipate how much it would hurt to have stuff removed.

I think I had this vision of simple liposuction with a tiny Dirt Devil. Zip, zip, suck, suck, tidy little hem all around, maybe some darts for shaping--viola! Instead, we're talking 4 hours of sharp implements making a 12 inch long slice across. Ouch--and I wasn't even present for the occasion. Sort of.

As if I needed further daily proof that people are different, there are those stellar constitutions that apparently rise from such surgery already healed. Upon arriving home, they wrangle chubby toddlers through endless mall halls and take power walks, with arms akimbo, pumping away any errant cellulite that may have crept in during the two days they gave up exercise for this minor procedure.

Then, there's the rest of us. We provide hours of endless amusement for our family and friends, saying absolutely ridiculous things, completely and hopefully endearingly out of touch with reality from the results of anesthesia and pain meds. When one asks about this 94 plus hours post surgery, caring co-conspiritors who have fed and kept one from harm's way exchange knowing grins and say little.

Is it post-operative paranoia to fear that they might be writing a book?

We, the proud, the possessors of constitutions of custard, 10 days post op are still a bit wobbly. We have rejected actions like folding sheets for now, abdicated responsibility for carrying laundry baskets downstairs to those without modified mammary glands. We have not even seen our favorite toddler in 10 days, let alone cared for one.

As for that arms-akimbo power walk? Tehra and I took the Maggie puppy-pie for a walk yesterday. Block and a half, with Tehra womanhandling the pooch, it became clear that

my healthy but sore pink sensate parts were willing to go for a very short and slow stroll. Think escorting great grandma down the block and back. Gingerly. With her walker. Maybe I should get one of those, with a festive bag to carry my kleenex and water bottle.
I'm going to have to heed my doctor's orders (possibly a first) regarding exercise. The rather adorable Dr. V (sorry, hon--he's got a beard) says no roller skiing for another 4 weeks, lest I fall and injure the previously mentioned parts. After my brief adventure, I am pretty happy with these new parts and inclined to listen for once.
Maggie may sense my emotional and physical needs post-op, staying constantly by my side, gently nudging me. But put her on a leash and she doesn't give a crap about how I feel, she just wants to run. :-) Atta girl!

From the couch,
etg

National Condom Week!

2010-02-21T20:50:00.006-06:00

Today is the last day of National Condom Week. Let's celebrate, shall we? A new study indicates that poor fit may explain why men refuse to wear condoms? Oh, please. The researchers note that "Men and their female sex partners may benefit from public health efforts designed to promote the improved fit of condoms." Ooo. Sounds serious.

The article goes on to discuss the very real concerns of unwanted pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases being transmitted by guys suffering from such "poor fit."

Maybe the problem is in the male head. So to speak. It appears that it's not so much that condoms don't fit men, it's that men won't buy condoms that actually fit. They won't buy small condoms, for instance. Apparently, they would rather put their partners at risk for STDs and pregnancies rather than admit to a smaller member.

In fact, my own in-depth research indicates that condom makers don't even produce small or medium condoms. This afternoon's grocery expedition (had to lay in supplies before the HUGE WINTER STORM arrives, trapping us without bananas, chocolate or the latest People Magazine) included a 6 minute visit to the condom aisle.

Being ancient and venerable, I felt that it was possible for me to conduct such extensive research, lingering in that aisle for a while without fear of embarrassment. Unless, of course, my children read my blog, in which case they will be embarrassed. Perhaps I'll give them a prophylactic warning to save them such grief.

The result of this research? The only available sizes were large, extra large and humongous.

OK. I'm lying about the humongous ones. But my lie is perhaps closer to reality than the inflationary rate of untruths that abound regarding the size of male members and their accoutrements. What is it about this appendage that inspires so much self-aggrandizement? What would be so horrible about buying a medium-sized condom? Could that possibly be worse than gonorrhea?

Inquiring minds want to know. Don't protect me from the knowledge, as my knowledge of condoms is shockingly limited. Personal intimate experience with them goes no further than seeing them pulled with a flourish from the occasional boyfriend's wallet in a weak attempt to persuade me that I could emerge baby-free from a quick roll in the hay by using a dried-out rubber that had bounced around in a guy's pocket since he was 13.

Again, I say: oh, please. This sales pitch is much better. The Center for Biological Diversity gave away condoms on Valentine's Day, saying it was promoting condom use to curtail explosive human population growth, which threatens other species world-wide.

Covering further related items, I won't shield you from the news that New York is running a condom wrapper design contest. Nor will I protect you from the knowledge that Vancouver has distributed 100,000 condoms at its Olympic Village, thus providing approximately 14 condoms for each athlete, coach, and official.

You are now safe from further tortuous attempts at wordplay: today's blog is finished. :-)

Spoiler alert: I don't walk on water

2010-02-15T12:07:00.003-06:00

This may come as a shock to most of you, particularly my friends and family. I discovered today that I do not walk on water. At least, not successfully. It's not that I thought I could. I'd hoped merely that walking on ice would suffice to keep me dry.

Ice. Suffice. Poetry oozes from my every pore.

Is it possible to digress from a topic even before one has started? If so, clearly I have. The latest fun activity in my life is snowshoeing. My dad has been traipsing around the woods in a pair this winter and decided to bring me in on the fun. When we're up north, we let the dogs run and romp. They have more fun in a 30 minute outing than most humans have in a lifetime: play bow, answering bow; then gamboling through the banks of snow, throwing themselves into a full-bore, top-speed run through the woodsy obstacle course.

With my usual good intentions, I'd posited the notion that I could do the same down here in the flatlands of Illinois with my puppy-pie. But good intentions aren't usually enough to get me out in the woods alone. I prefer my adventures with company. I've never had a Illinois outdoor companion--or any outdoorsy friend, beyond my dad. For years, I harbored a fantasy that one day Carl would surprise me with a trip to Banff, where we would frolic together in the Canadian Rockies, skiing, snowshoeing, schussing . . . .

The audible snort that you heard was Carl, for whom this trip would be a nightmare of possibly epic proportions. Sorry, dear.

So my snowshoes were gathering dust in the basement for a few weeks when a friend happened to mention that she loved to snowshoe. One thing led to another and, yippie, we've been out three times in the past few weeks! It's much fun, tromping around in a semi-lost fashion. Snowshoeing off-path feels a bit like being a little kid out in the rain, stomping through puddles. Maybe I've spent too much of my life on the beaten path, because I'm really craving that off-road stuff right now.

Today, off-road meant wandering where our fancy drew us. In my case, this meant looking for trouble. Had a hankering to cross the river. All the forest preserves around us are set on the Des Plaines River. Wouldn't it be cool to cross it? On a log or something? Just the thought makes me feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder, fording the wild creek in the covered wagon with Jack the dog swimming along side.

Most adults are a bit more, um, cautious. They do not think things like this. Or, if they think them, they have the good sense not to announce it. And they certainly have the good sense to not try it.

And I am nothing if not a cautious adult. I did not suggest fording the Des Plaines on my snowshoes. It is, after all, running water that has not frozen. But there are lovely adorable little creeks running off the river that just cry for someone to skip across them on snowshoes and winding waterways littered with really nifty crossing timbers that carry invisible placards that whisper "You're not too old to scamper and have fun."

My friend, J, was wary. But I forged ahead, taking a step out onto a log. An icy log. In my snowshoes. J suggested caution. I took off my snowshoes. J suggested perhaps another route might be the wisest course of action. Surprisingly, I listened to J. We ranged the banks of the little creek, seeking a small frozen patch on which to cross.

Finally we settled on a likely place. Possibly 5 feet across, it looked quite solid, and clearly very shallow. Brave soul that I am, I went first. And promptly went through the ice, thus discovering that I cannot, alas, walk on water.

A menopausal pause followed, during which I flailed my hand around in the really cold water and mud, trying to pull my snowshoe out of the muck. I couldn't even see the damn thing. Where was it? Hell, I couldn't even get my shoe unsucked from the black ooze, let alone the missing snowshoe. Panic sets in. It will be so embarrassing to have to tell my dad that I lost the shoe in the mud.

Then I look to my right. I note a snowshoe. Looking to my left, I see that the other snowshoe is in my hand that is not flailing in the mucky water. A moment passes, similar to the moment that happens almost daily where I look for my reading glasses only to discover them on the top of my head: I had forgotten that I was holding the snowshoes, having taken them off during the aborted wet slippery log crossing.

Laughter ensues. Boot is successfully wrenched from the muck. J loans me some dry gloves. After triage, we determine that I am fit for further activity. We then had a lovely meander. And, for the record, we stayed far from the water, having no further need for adventure or affirmation of my mere mortal status. Today, anyways. I offer no guarantees regarding future adventures. :-)

Liz

Captain Underpants is my Avatar

2010-01-06T09:17:00.004-06:00

Following in the footsteps of Gwen, I will now attempt to blog in the New Year.

Attempt #1. Discuss the movie "Avatar." As usual, I can't discuss the actual contents of the movie because I haven't seen it. I only see movies related to music, musical events, or George Clooney. But a commentary in the Trib today caught my eye. Apparently "Avatar" is being criticized in conservative circles for being "pro-environment." "Cameron's giddy embrace of a primitive people who live in harmony with their land is the kind of anti-technology, pro-environment dramaturgy that sets off alarms."

Smell the gears grinding in my lazy brain? This is all about global warming. Global warming equals pro-environment/anti-technology equals bad to the conservative right. Labels are so freaking reductive and ultimately useless. How can it be bad to be concerned about and want to support the environment?

Living in a Twitter-led, headline-informed world makes me tired. Does that make me anti-technology, too? Nah. I want more, and I want everyone else to want more, too. Let's stop reducing every issue to sound bites that obfuscate and have meaningful discussion. No, we won't sound as cool as my favorite politicians did on "The West Wing." But we might make some progress toward agreement to actually accomplish something positive for this little orb we inhabit.

Attempt #2. Has Bush left the building yet? I thought he had. But our response to terrorism continues to be placating our fear by appearing to keep us safer through further reductions of civil liberties rather than fixing what went wrong: using the intelligence we have to stop terrorist before they get near planes with exploding shoes or underwear.

Human ingenuity will continue to be stretched by such efforts. Why not focus on better methods of intelligence sharing and implementing rather than challenging terrorist to find new ways to blow things up that will not be detected by our most advanced machines and technology? I am disappointed that the current administration is, while definitely trying to upgrade intelligence methods, still stooping to easy crowd-placating answers that bring us no closer to ending our manipulation by terrorists.

Do you suppose terrorists were inspired to use underwear as a weapon by the children's books starring superhero Captain Underpants? Perhaps we should ban those books . . . .

Liz

Considering a life of crime

2009-09-29T18:30:00.002-05:00

Yes, today I have been considering a life of crime. I take complete responsibility for even entertaining such a notion. Clearly, I'm a step up from the average criminal, though: I am willing to take responsibility for my actions rather than blaming someone else for causing me to be a bad person, which then caused me to consider being a criminal.

Here's what happened. I drove Annie to school this morning. As we simultaneously open the car doors, a rank odor permeated the garage. "Ewww. Mom. What is that?" My weenie little heart sinks. The likewise weenie little brain recollects that I had gone grocery shopping yesterday. Liz's weenie brain plus grocery purchases in the past 24 hours sometimes equals a rank odor, signifying groceries left to fester in the trunk.

Now, was this completely my weenie brain's fault? Well, that depends on your perspective. Bringing in groceries is a family affair. All hands on deck. I call to alert the family that I am on my way and expect to be met at the garage with willing hearts and strong shoulders.

Stop laughing. It actually happens fairly often.

Yesterday was no different than other grocery days. I called. Carl answered. Jonathan came and helped. I tend to leave return trips to the car to my helpers while I unpack the treasures. I tell my family that this is because I know where everything goes. The truth is that this subterfuge allows me time to hide anything really good from the voracious young man who eats us out of house and home.

Thus occupied with hiding the candy corn, I didn't notice that Jonathan didn't bring in the bag that had $50 worth of meat in it, leaving it to overnight in the 50 degree car producing the morning rankness. Now, wouldn't it be easy for me to blame Jonathan for this? He did, after all, leave the meat in the car. As much as I'd like to foist responsibility onto his broad shoulders so that his dad will be ticked at him instead of me for wasting that much money, it really wasn't his fault.

In my infinite wisdom, I'd stuck them inside the refrigerator bag in the trunk. Wanted to protect that meat as I was going to make a money-saving Walgreens stop. But I didn't close the refrigerator bag, and it looked empty. Nor did I tell Jonathan to check the bag, as I don't usually use it so he would have no reason to check it.

Hence the stinky morning encounter. After I dropped Annie off, I retrieved the expensive smelly bag and stuck it in the fridge. In a flight of fancy, I emailed my feminist moms list, pleading with them to reveal a hitherto unknown method for saving meat that has gone bad. No such luck.

But before I tossed the smelly bag, I entertained my criminal thought. I noticed that I still had the grocery store receipt. And the weenie brain was suddenly ablaze with a money-saving notion: I could take the meat back and claim it was bad, not mentioning the fact that the meat had spent the night at 50+ degrees.

I confess that I considered this criminal act for at least 15 seconds. In my defense, it was a lot of meat. Two huge pork tenderloins and a roast beast. No matter that the pork tenderloins were BOGO (bet you didn't know that I speak fluent frugal housewife) so I'd only paid $30 for $50 worth of meat.

More importantly, my occasional forgetfulness is legend in this house. I am known to search for my glasses and find them on my head. Or Annie's face. Which is in front of my own face. It was to save face that I considered crime: I hate adding to my own legend.

After due consideration (ok, it might have been 30 seconds), I firmly carried the stinky meat out to the garbage can and tossed it. Aren't you proud of me? Not only did I reject a life of crime; I'm sure that by tomorrow morning I will have made at least one city varmint a very happy--and full--creature.

Liz

near verbatim brain sloshing at a Sunday afternoon organ recital

2009-09-20T20:42:00.005-05:00

Is there significance in the following detail noted during the aforementioned recital, held at a local church? Jesus looms over us, and the altar, barefoot. OK, it is possible that he wears sandals, though clearly not Berkis. Either way, we can see his toes. And from my pew, it is very clear that Jesus' 2nd toes are longer than his big toes.

Is this a universally recognized physical trait on His part of which I was previously unaware? Is it one indigenous to the LCMS? The particular LCMS church in which I heard said organ recital? Is it a Da Vinci Code signal of some kind, uniting all long 2nd toed people to some kind of ancient bloodline of Christ?

And why must Jesus so often look so pale and wan? There is not word one mentioned in the New Testament to indicate ill health on his part. Is this a Victorian left-over, indicating that the frail of body are somehow closer to heaven? I prefer my deities healthy and robust, thank you very much.

And what's with the curtain behind the altar? Is this a dorsal curtain like the one we have at Grace? This version makes me distinctly uncomfortable. There's plenty of space between the curtain and the back of the altar area (sorry, I'm sure there is a proper name for this but I don't know it.) The Wizard of Oz comes to mind. I fear some smart-mouthed pipsqueak is going to dart from behind the curtain to announce that the altar before us is all smoke and mirrors.

This reminds me of a recent Thursday morning discussion of whether or not the virgin birth is essential to one's belief in Jesus as divine. Must Jesus be all human and all divine? Though I can understand these questions as theologically fundamental, I can also drift into hearing them as just so much how many angels fit (let alone dance) on the tip of a pin.

The word "construct" comes to mind, probably due to the interesting Sunday school class this morning, full of discussion of Freud, Jung, symbolism, money/religion/faith and media. The leader was extremely facile, the topic intriguing. Yet after floating a bit in the wordy bubble of that 35 minutes, I was left with the following thought: this was perhaps the first time I'd heard the word "turd" meaningfully uttered in a classroom that wasn't full of diapered toddlers.

Our organist is playing Langlais now. The first great organist I knew studied with Langlais. She was an artist. An temperamental artiste. The choir surrounded her in the organ loft each Sunday. And we had to sit very, very quietly. No movement. Breathing was optional during the prelude. You did NOT want to be the person who distracted Great Organist.

I think this was the era during which I became addicted to all and sundry forms of hard candy during concerts or quiet, lengthy services. As long as I have hard candy in my mouth, I will not disgrace myself by coughing excessively while listening to the panoply of musical offerings we attend on a regular basis.

Though I do not fear this organist's temperament, still I very quietly suck on Lifesavers while he moves through his program and my mind finally shuts up. Finally, all was blissful silence, save organist and organ working together through the glorious Bach St. Anne Fugue. As is often my wont, I have moved from blasphemy to worship, all in the space of an hour and my cranium.

Liz

It hurts, damn it!

2009-08-19T15:27:00.003-05:00

Pain and I are not friends. I neither court nor seek it. For example, I am not a runner, though I used to play at being one. But running never felt good. That "runner's high" so bandied about by others? Never knew it, never met it, never even caught a glimpse of it. After 5 years of running 4 to 5 days a week, the best I could say of the experience was "I'm so glad it's over."

Even my discomfort tolerance is low. I was the kid who whined incessantly on our cross country ski weekends: Are we done yet? How much farther? I've got blisters on my feet. I need a drink. And that whole old husbands tale about women having amnesia regarding the pain of childbirth? Ha, I remember pretty clearly how hard both of my labors were! I point all this out lest someone accuse me of being a masochist because, these past few days, I seem incapable of not injuring myself.

Incident #1. The One Where I Cut My Finger With The Electric Hedge Trimmers.

If you drive by our house, you can see exactly where I stopped cutting my bushes and started cutting my finger. I was two thirds of the way through the job, just starting on the last and biggest of the bushes in front of our house. Careful was my middle name throughout this process, as I didn't want to cut the extension cord yet again and so have to practice my splicing technique.

In fact, I was just congratulating myself on having successfully avoided this operation when I absentmindedly reached down to the base of the trimmer. While it was on. It became apparent within moments that I would not be able to finish trimming the bush, as I was too busy swearing while decorating the front porch with avant-garde red splotchies. 6 stitches and a few days later, my right index finger is back in business.

Incident #2. The One Where I Apparently Ripped A Toenail Off.

Not much to tell about this because I don't know what happened. Yesterday, I noticed more of those avant-garde red splotchies on my kitchen tile. Upon further investigation, I determined that I was in pain and had only 9 toenails left. No further clues how or where or why this occured.

Incident #3. The One Where I Fell While Roller Skiing.

Falling happens. It really is inevitable. You are, say, 5'7" from the ground. At some point you are going to meet the ground in rather quick and involuntary fashion, traversing that 5'7" in short order. Some of us are destined to traverse said (or even greater) distances on a regular basis. Rocks happen. Cracks happen. The Grand Canyon of Oak Park happens. And you fall.

Some of us who exercise on roller skis, traipsing down alleys and city streets find that there is no soft way to traverse this inevitable vertical distance. Me, for instance.Try as I might, there is no good way to fall down that does not involve road rash, gravel in your skin, pain, and more of that avant-garde red splotchy stuff.

This morning, while skiing in my alley, I traveled that very 5'7" vertical distance. And, yes, acquired all of the aforementioned accoutrements of such travel.

Today, Jan and Tehra respectfully requested unless I DO enjoy pain, I should spend the rest of my day applying neosporin, taking a nap and avoiding the use of power tools until further notice.

I'm off to the couch. :-)

Liz

A few things

2009-06-08T21:52:00.002-05:00

Thing One. Today, SCOTUS refused to hear an appeal of the Army's "Don't ask, don't tell" policy on gay soldiers. That sucks, though perhaps a different phrase would be a more appropriate condemnation. More disturbing, though, is that the government filed briefs in support of the policy.

That would be the Government as in the Obama Administration. As in my President who promised me he'd drop this ridiculous policy. Why is Obama dragging his feet on this? Why wasn't this a no-brainer rubber-stamp kind of action to satisfy the liberal masses?

I'm not expecting Obama to do anything about gay civil unions right now. Why should he? The states are, one by one, taking care of this for him at the moment. But, in a United States where gays can marry legally, the notion that they must adhere to a "don't ask, don't tell" policy is ludicrous. Come on, Obama.

Thing Two: this op-ed piece. Someone who knows a heck of a lot more about higher public education than I ever will thinks that the path to improving same includes actions like high pressure tactics to curb truancy, and advertising like crazy to encourage public college enrollment.

I read this piece through several times. And I cannot grasp the logic in the argument that spending beaucoup bucks to encourage college enrollment is going to improve the quality of higher education. Having more people attend college won't make the education they receive there any better.

And encouraging truants to mend their errant ways is a fine idea. But, again, having more children attend and graduate from high school will not in any way improve the quality of higher education they could receive in college. Could it be that the author is confusing the notion that the winner of the advertising wars is usually the best product available?

Perhaps we should encourage public post-secondary institutions to focus on improving the education students receive in the institutions, rather than simply trying to persuade people to attend. Maybe we should send the author back for a remedial logic course, too.

Last thing. Stanley Fish's blog has an interesting discussion today of Obama's allegedly changing use of personal pronouns. I haven't paid enough attention to render an opinion on whether he's right or not. I do know that the dichotomy between Obama's avoidance of "I" and Hillary Clinton's consistent use of same during the campaign was persuasive rhetoric on its face.

I'll have to think more about what kind of pronoun use I expect from my President. :-)

Liz

worship and attention

2009-06-06T23:07:00.004-05:00

A friend sent me this speech, highlighting the following passage:

"In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of God or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it J.C. or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive."

Go read it; it's short. I read it. I liked it. A bunch. In some passages of big blaring prose, Wallace gave us a sliver of what unattended life is (hell on earth) and what the attempt to give attention to life can be (somewhere between better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick and heaven.)

He attempts to divorce the discussion from religion or morals or dogma, though for the life of me I can't figure out why. I admit to complete ignorance of his writing which, upon remediation, will probably fix that. But, like most of life, its strands cannot so neatly be separated out or excluded by such labels.

My buddhist sensibilities (or go with desert monastic thought, if it suits you) heard Wallace's words as a logical follow up to "Regard all dharmas as dreams"; all of life and thought is fleeting, a bubble in the wind. All is meant to be seen completely, touched gently, and released, so we are ready to attend to the next moment and the next.

Of course, all these words of attending to now and thinking beyond myself led me to, um, lose myself in my head, examining and thinking instead of being right here right now. When my brain starts to think that it's thinking, reveling in both my words and others, overheating is inevitable. I move from rummaging in my brain for words to ransacking books. I knew that there were complimentary pieces, words that I'd read and tried to store up, that will match up with Wallace's words like parts of a jigsaw puzzle.

I started remembering Scott Russell Sanders and his sense of rootedness in place as part of a spirit-filled life. Reread a bit of Kathleen Norris' meditation on daily chores as potential joyful worship in "The Quotidian Mysteries."

I couldn't quite find the passage I was seeking in one of Pema Chodron's books on buddhism and compassion. Somehow, I ended up in a Barbara Brown Taylor book, reading "(b)e kind, wrote Philo of Alexandria," for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle."

And so, an hour later, I found myself at the kitchen table, the table hidden under books and my head buried in words. Don't get me wrong. Books are good. Words are good. Thinking is good. For me, though, they are a sure path to the very unconscious living of which Wallace speaks. Lost in my words, I start to think my thoughts are important, something to worship. But they're not.

When I bushwhack my way out of my head, my thoughts, what I think of others' thoughts, I'm left with this: Every moment I can choose to pay attention, and to what I will pay attention. Attention is akin to worship. Where my treasure is, there is my heart also. And to what do I pay attention and treasure this evening? I am embarrassed to say and would rather hide in my words and books.

Maybe tomorrow I will make different choices.

Liz

Goodbye Girlfriends!

2009-05-22T14:29:00.002-05:00

It's been a busy few weeks, so it takes a traumatic event to make me post. And this morning was full of trauma.

OK. Yes. I know. It's not cancer. Nobody lost a job. (Well, except Kathy and Judy.) But geez. Kathy and Judy have been holding down the fort at WGN 720 on your AM dial from 9a to noon for 20 years. I've been listening to them for most of that time--as soon as Carl is off the air, of course. :-)

The Girlfriends will be sorely missed. They surrounded me with adult conversation when I was home with two little munchkins. They made me laugh loud and long on many, many occasions. They made me cry a few times, too. What am I supposed to do at the end of next summer, when I send my girl off to college? There will be no "Letting Go" show for all of us parents to cry with on our rides home.

Being a long-time fan was a great education for me. Helped me understand why people approach us at concerts asking how our children are or if Carl's minding his diet after his heart attack. I didn't realize how connected I could feel to people I do not really know--nor how much I would miss them when they are no longer on the air.

Kathy and Judy's liberal political bent was, of course, nice to hear on an otherwise moderate to conservative station. But what I enjoyed most was the feeling that I had a few friends over every morning to talk over today's news and general life stuff. Goodbye Girlfriends.

And goodbye WGN radio. Putting Gary Meier on in the afternoons was bad. But canceling Kathy and Judy removes them from my pre-sets. I'll still hang with the Cubs and Pat and Ron. But if I want talk, I'll look elsewhere.

We all know where to go when we want music, yes? :-)

Liz

Frenchified musings

2009-05-08T10:58:00.005-05:00

I'm always pleased and satisfied to read an explanation of my own behavior writ large in a headline. Apparently I'm fat and tired because I'm an American. Yet another study has made the astounding discovery that the French spend more time eating and sleeping than us, yet we are the wider for our short-shrifting of these two horizontal pleasure sites.

I've been pondering the differences between the French and myself, trying to account for my unseemly behavior. If I merely spoke French, perhaps that would help. I'd speak more slowly. Well, truly I would speak rarely, as my French is terrible and my accent is worse. And if I spoke less, maybe I would sleep more. If I slept more, perhaps my rested self would eat more slowly, thus taking in less food in more time.

But if I spoke French, then I'd have to BE French. Or at least pretend to be. And French women wear very insensible shoes, upon which they totter. I'm not good at tottering. Or teetering. Neither of which are similar to Twittering, which I also do not do. Perhaps I need to wear those insensible French shoes to the dinner table, as they would also encourage me to sit for a long period of time--seeing as how I can't stand up in them.

The French eye roll? That I can do. The shrug? I'm there. And, really, the sleep part would be awfully easy to take on. Yes, I'd do it, pull on my big girl panties and take those 9 hours of sleep as painful medicine. But when would I tackle my big life accomplishments, like the NYTimes Thursday puzzle or the Trib's Friday sudoku, or blog about important politic issues of our times, like studies that waste thousands of dollars telling us that which we already know? Which is more pleasurable, sleep or these things?

The hardest part would be the slow eating. For years and years, I've made family dinner time a priority, as a good rule-following mother should. Slapped those home-cooked meals down on the table at 5:30, gathered the family together for quality food, quality time, and quality conversations. Doesn't that sound conducive to slow eating? Harumph. Not so much.

Why? The boys argue with regularity about any possible topic, as fathers and young men are apt to do. The teenage girl reacts with predictable dramatic flair to the annoying male things that her father and brother are apt to do.

Further, the whole family is so comfortable in their knowledge of my love that they feel free to critique the previously mentioned quality food that I prepare. Well, I am not interested in their critiques. Not one bit. I make the food; you eat the food; you are grateful for the food or you cook it yourself.

None of these behaviors (including my own) seem to lend themselves to quiet family bonding moments. No one is hanging around the dinner table for hours at a time. Rather, I find that I react to these behaviors by eating as much food as I can as quickly as I can. This definitely doesn't fit into the French plan of eat little for a long time. I love my family but I do not want to sit at the table with them for a long time at this stage of our family life together. So shoot me.

Rather than resort to violence (against my family or self-inflicted), I've encouraged a whole new line of behaviors, including reading at the table, grazing, and studiously avoiding eye contact while eating, the better to bypass those pesky social interactions between family members. I find myself feeling more French every meal, as arguments, furious silence or ear plugging are replaced by blissful long moments of shared quiet over good reading material.

Pass the croissants, s'il te plait. :-)

Liz

H1N1/Heinie/Swine-y Flu

2009-05-03T20:53:00.003-05:00

My obligatory swine flu post seasoned with a dollop of questionable logic.

Swine flu in River Forest? There are wild animals in Thatcher Woods, notable the ever-present carnivorous teenager. Coyotes have been sighted, as well as fox. Lions, tigers and bears, oh my, will probably be next. Is it any wonder that I am becoming convinced there are wild swine running loose in Thatcher Woods? Ergo, River Forest will be the epicenter of the Illinois flu outbreak.

Annie has swine flu? She was recently in Mexico. She even received a possible tainted tattoo there. She is now sick with a respiratory ailment which is triggering asthma problems. Ergo, Annie has swine flu.

Swine flu will kill us all? 1918 saw a horrible flu epidemic. It killed millions. The world is exactly the same as it was then. Ergo, swine flu will kill us all.

The swine flu scare is a crock? Swine flu was a crock in 1976. We had millions of vaccines and the only people who got sick were those who were vaccinated. Whenever we prepare for some big possible epidemical (new word) outbreak, nothing bad happens. Think bird flu. Ergo, the swine flu scare is a crock.

There are swine living in Oak Park and we are all at risk of swine flu--run!? True story: Jonathan looked out the back window today and yelled, "Mom, oh my gosh, there's a pig at the back gate!" Thinking that perhaps he was sleeping walking and talking, I meandered down the stairs to look. He was quite coherent, and insisted that an animal of porcine lineage just walked down our alley. "Hooves, mom, it had hooves."

A mad moment occurred while we threw around that possibility. Then Annie yelled down from her room (where Maggie dog had been barking like crazy at the unidentified possibly porcine beast), "Jonathan, it's a dog. It was black with fur!"

Oh. Never mind. As Annie wisely noted, "Aren't there village ordinances about having pigs as pets? Who would walk down the alley with a pig?"

Flu of any kind is not a good thing. It kills people, particularly the very young and very old and those with poor immune systems and chronic illnesses, So wash your hands, don't lick desks at school, and for crying out loud, don't leave the house if you have flu symptoms because you might give it to me.

Liz

Things I don't want to read about at breakfast

2009-04-25T10:02:00.004-05:00

Well, one thing, actually. Headlines that nauseate me: "Family claims Chicago police officer beat autistic teenager." The story below the headline doesn't settle my stomach. Moderately autistic 16 year old was standing on the street, approached by police, then he walked away. Police (allegedly) chased him into a restaurant and bash him on the head while he yelled, "I'm a special boy!"

There may be all sorts of extenuating circumstances with which this story will be re-told in such a way that the police action seems--or is--excusable. As the parent of an autistic young man, whatever extenuating circumstances may exist do not make me feel a whit better.

One of the earliest things we taught Jonathan (our 21 year old son who is fairly high functioning) was if approached by police, he needed to immediately identify himself as autistic. People with autism don't like to make eye contact. They get nervous in new situations. Their behavior is often, um, odd. These are not social skill deficits that police willingly ignore, as they mimic what a person under suspicion might do.

Hence the need to educate both people with autism to identify themselves as such and to educate police about what autism might look like. The irony here is that the Chicago Police Department has been doing exactly this week, according to the Trib article. With the Easter Seals, they held an Autism Safety Awareness night , complete with 6 page training memo for all officers and index cards with tips on working with autistic people.

So the young man in question did what he was supposed to do: identified himself as special. The cops have been doing what they are supposed to do: educate the force about a community they serve. And still an autistic person receives a blow to the head needing 7 staples to close.

The family is considering a civil suit and wants the officers involved fired. I understand. I'd imagine that if the officers had pursued this young man, waited that split second necessary to discover what in the heck he meant by saying he was a "special boy", and not whacked him on the head, everyone would be happier right now.

I also understand that there isn't always a split second available. That decisions are sometimes made in a quarter second. And that those decisions can mean life or death for the officers involved. Officers make judgments and make mistakes; they are human.

Officers are enjoined to "Serve and Protect", though. That certainly entails a special obligation to protect those who are most in need of it--those with disabilities. Perhaps a split second of listening to this young man's family--who surrounded both him and the police while the officers were smacking him--yelling that he was a "special boy" with "special needs" might have been enough to change the scenario completely.

I don't want dead officers. I don't want autistic teenagers to have their heads bashed by police. I want to eat my breakfast in peace. Alas, I don't always get what I want.

Liz

The Librarian

2009-04-20T17:14:00.003-05:00

Dawn Tideman, my favorite librarian, died last month. And I'm really feeling the loss.

As long as I've lived in Oak Park (23 years), I've been a regular patron of the Oak Park Public Library. When we lived on the south side of Oak Park, Jonathan and I took weekly walks to the Maze Branch. He loved the little house inside the children's section. I loved that it was small. I liked seeing the same faces each week. It was great to be able to see Jonathan in the little house and check out the new books area at the same time.

When we moved north to Ridgeland, we were all excited to note that we were a block away from Dole, the other branch library. There is nothing better than having a library in your neighborhood. Proximity makes it so easy to be a voracious reader. Bored? Go get a book. For free.

Over the years, I've gotten to know the librarians there. Dawn and I both enjoyed mysteries. We'd often discuss new authors, new books, beloved favorites. She helped me homeschool my boy. She knew my children by name. And she kept an eye out for Jonathan during his many visits, making me feel comfortable letting him visit alone.

Knowing the librarians by name--and having them know my name--is such a cozy thing. Oak Park may be a big village (50,000+) but it still feels darn small when you see people you know everywhere you go. Yeah, yeah. Cheers and all that. But my branch library is part of what makes Oak Park my home.

So I was very sad to hear that Dawn had passed away after a brief illness. The first time I visited Dole after learning, I was able to have a long conversation with my other favorite librarian, Robin. She told me the long version of the story. We consoled each other. It was reassuring.

It was not reassuring, however, to visit Dole the following week to find that I knew none of the librarians. I'd noticed recently that there were less familiar faces staff the place but had not put together what was going on. A letter to the editor in the Wednesday Journal last week clued me in. Apparently OPPL has a management policy that the entire library staff will rotate through all of the library's locations.

May I just say ick, ick and triple ick? I'm sure there must be some reason behind this policy. But it is such bad community relations that I'm astounded it came to pass. Hello? Don't you all (you library management types and you OPPL board types) know why we Oak Parkers have fought so hard to keep our branches open? We like the branch experience. We like little. We like cozy. We like the Cheers-like atmosphere where everybody knows your name.

Let me put this bluntly: having librarians with whom I have a relationship makes it far more likely that I will vote yes on any library funding bill. I know these people. I know what they do. I know how good they are at what they do. And I want them to keep doing what they do. So I will support them--and the library.

It's hard enough for a neighborhood like that surrounding the Dole Branch to absorb the loss of a long-time and well-loved librarian. Don't make me lose my connection to all of my Dole librarians.

Liz

Fair Weather Fan

2009-04-13T13:47:00.002-05:00

Hi, my name is Elizabeth Thompson Grapentine and I am a fair weather fan. I use this phrase in both a metaphorical and literal sense.

Today is the Chicago Cubs Opening Day. The Cubs would be one of Chicago's baseball teams, in case you don't find baseball as riveting as my husband does. I used to find baseball riveting, too. When I was 11 or 12, I came up with my own scoring chart. I'd regularly sit on a Saturday afternoon watching the Tigers get creamed by someone, noting each hit and lousy pitch.

Hank Aaron, while not a Tiger, was my hero. The chase for 715 in 1973-74 was incredible. I remember bouncing up and down, thinking I was going to explode every single time he came up to bat. Learned all about racism those two summers, too. How would a little white girl from rural Michigan know that the color of Henry Aaron's skin would be enough to make his pursuit of Babe Ruth worth threatening his life? The enormity of both the racism and the record were hard to fathom. Still are, I guess.

And I was an avid fan during the magic year of 1984, when the Tigers went all the way to win the World Series. Carl and I were married that summer. Our first full day of married life was spent at Tiger Stadium. The Tigers won 35 out of the first 40 games (yes, I had to look up the exact stats, but I was in the ballpark . . . ), held first place for the entire season, and stomped on the Padres to win it all. Ahhh.

Years later, baseball has grown less riveting. I've often thought this is due to my husband's total devotion to the game. Perhaps I needed to take the opposite course to achieve harmony and yin/yangedness in our home. Or maybe my brain is too full of children to devote sufficient gray matter to the game of summer. Either way, I no longer live and die by my baseball team's win/loss record and have thus become a metaphorical fair weather fan.

Baseball is my comfortable companion. I listen to the Ron and Pat Show, otherwise known as the Cubs on the radio, most every day. I was, indeed, a VERY regular listener last year, during that almost This is the Year year. But I paid little heed to the standings while on vacation in Michigan, thus again demonstrating my fair weatherness. I only pay attention when it's convenient for me.

Which might explain why today I am also a literal fair weather fan. Carl is off attending his 70 billionth opening day in a row (Tigers + Cubs and no, I don't remember the real stat.) I don't attend opening day because it's usually a. cold and b. rainy. But this year I thought it might be fun to do so. How bad could it be?

The weather god, Tom Skilling, told me it was going to be bad. Unseasonably cool and rainy. "Raw." Did I mention windy? Blech. I'm not made of sugar, don't melt in the rain. But I get hives when I am cold. I hate wet feet. And there's not much worse than sitting down on a wet seat for two plus hours.

Carl retrieved the ticket from my purse this morning and took it with him, hoping to sell it to some more dedicated fan. Some fan who was more deserving of such largesse. Some fan who hasn't yet discovered that the best seat at Wrigley Field is the dry and warm papasan in my kitchen, where I can eat cheap popcorn, pop a pilsner, and listen to Pat and Ron describe the game.

My name is Elizabeth Thompson Grapentine and I am a fair weather fan. Go Cubs!

The Talk, Spring Break, Freaking Out and the Dangers of Post Googling

2009-04-09T21:29:00.003-05:00

My children are 21 and 16. So, generally speaking, we've had many versions of The Talk. The Talk about sex. The Talk about drinking. The Talk about Personal Safety. And I started writing this entry thinking I would be talking about yet another funny parenting moment. But I've managed to rile myself up enough, upon reflection, to think that I ended up writing about yet another bad parenting moment.

Bad Mom: apparently, I missed giving my daughter The Talk about Traveling in Dangerous Foreign Countries last week before she left for a cruise to Mexico with her high school band and orchestra. Here are some items and some situations that a Good Mom would've covered:

Mexico's drinking age is 18. But it's not enforced with any great regularity in the resort towns. Who knew? She was offered alcohol wherever she went. And the cruise ship was none too stringent in the dispensing department, either. She had the first sip of a number of beverages before realizing that they were not alcohol-free.

Had I known (investigated, been told, checked into the topic, not been an idiot), I would have had The Talk about drinking in foreign countries around young handsome strangers who might attempt to insinuate themselves into her good graces (at the very least) while alcohol held her helpless and witless. Apparently none did so, nor is she terribly interested in drinking right now.

So I got a pass on my bad parenting because I have a good kid who is also lucky. She wasn't so lucky about another item I should have covered. Knowing Annie was headed to Mexico we, of course, talked about not drinking the water. Only drink bottled stuff. (That might have been a logical time to insert something about alcohol, mightn't it? Oh well.) But further health issues did not occur to me. She's smart. She has common sense.

What was I thinking? She's a teenager. And, when the opportunity presented itself for her to get henna tattoos, she jumped. Hey, she's gotten them at birthday parties in Oak Park.

In the US. Where little girls buy kits and decorate each other at birthday parties. And the "tattoos" are temporary and usually produced with chemicals approved by the FDA.

When Annie showed off the one she acquired in Mexico, it was immediately clear to me that this particular henna tattoo was neither temporary nor produced with chemicals approved by the FDA. It bore a striking resemblance to the more industrial strength tattoo a sailor might display on a Popeye bicep.

It turns out that one of my Talks should have been about the dangers of getting body art in foreign countries. In Mexico, for instance, tourists are often offered "black henna" tattoos. But there is no such thing as black henna. Instead, this is a multisyllabic artificial substance added to henna that the FDA specifically bans from direct application to the skin. Nice.

Not only is it permanent but the substance (p-Phenylenediamine) is known to cause allergic reactions including lifelong sensitivity issues. And were I the type of mother who easily freaks out which, clearly, I am not, this page might cause me to lose several nights of sleep.

Instead, I am looking at the tattoo about 20 times a day, making sure that her hip hasn't turned red with hives or infection or other possible issues. This is probably a plus, as I didn't already have enough to worry about with her other medical issues. Oh, did I mention exposure to this crap can worsen asthma? Can you tell I'm starting to freak a bit?

Wait, there's more. More I should have talked about. I didn't know I needed to tell her that street vendors would literally place joints in her hand: "Would you like a joint? $3 please." Or that crack cocaine was offered to her regularly as a side purchase with any beverage.

I could go on. But aren't I starting to sound like Bill O'Reilly and Fox News, neither of which can stop talking about how dangerous Mexico is? I thought so, too. So in the middle of writing all this, I started googling around, reading stuff about Mexico and travel and drugs and stuff.

You might think that I should have done this before my daughter went to Mexico. Good parents probably did, particularly with Mexico in the news of late. Well, I did read some articles in the Trib. And they assuaged my general fears. Drug lord and pirates were not visiting Annie's ports of call. So I figured she was peachy keen and did not follow through with protective googling.

If I had, I would have discovered all sorts of interesting stuff published by our government. It is no longer run by people who watch Fox News, which makes me feel as though I might be able to rely on the information presented. And said information did not make me feel one bit better about having allowed my daughter to visit Mexico without numerous The Talks.

Here's a reassuring squib, sure to make you want to send your teen down for a charming spring break trip: "Kidnapping, including the kidnapping of non-Mexicans, continues at alarming rates. So-called express kidnappings, an attempt to get quick cash in exchange for the release of an individual, have occurred in almost all the large cities in Mexico and appear to target not only the wealthy, but also the middle class."

Or how about this paragraph, clearly designed to enhance Mexico as a spring break destination? "Crime in Cancun, Acapulco, and Other Resort Areas: There have been a significant number of rapes reported in Cancun and other resort areas. Many of these have occurred at night or in the early morning. Attacks have also occurred on deserted beaches and in hotel rooms."

Perhaps The Talk wouldn't have been enough. Probably we needed The Seminar. In addition, I'm now thinking that a personal bodyguard with experience in nursing who just might have been carrying a handgun (currently outlawed in Oak Park, sort of) was called for.

But no. Instead, I gave her a smaller case talk: be safe, stay in groups and please have fun. And she followed my instructions to a T. She not only survived the trip, but she thrived. So, as usual, Annie has made it through yet another Bad Mom moment with nary a scratch.

Well, except for the toxic tattoo. I wonder if it's also radioactive . . . . Off to google more.

Liz

Tease

2009-04-06T12:37:00.003-05:00

There is snow on the ground. It's covering the almost-sprung daffodils. But it's almost melted and the forsythia is blooming. The wind was biting during the postprandial dog sashay. But the grass is greening up nicely.

Spring is such a tease. I don't care. It is coming. Even if it's flurrying right or if it snows on Easter, I know it's coming. And that's a good thing, since I'm living with two annoying spring teasers at the moment, both recently home from warm climes. "Oh, snorkeling in the Gulf of Mexico was SO much fun!" "The Cubs won at Hohokam Park." "I decided to come home because there was a cloud in the sky yesterday."

Such bad manners, flaunting their fun in my face while I stayed here to walk the dog and mind the manchild. Who raised these people? Oh. Never mind.

I continue to avoid writing about politics. In fact, I continue to avoid the topic altogether. Obama is in office. Each step he takes seem calculated to do the best good for the most people. Which seems to make him somewhat unpopular. Each decision thus far has not made this liberal happy. Which seems to me to be a good thing.

I'm think that compromise on all sides is the most likely answer to the various messes left on our plates at the moment. If clinging to ideology would have ended the war in Iraq or or our economic crisis, the pundits would have been elected King and/or Queen long ago. Life is rarely that easy.

Me? I'd far rather have every solution clearly labeled "right" and "wrong". Mercury in vaccinations has definitely caused autism in every child currently so labeled. Eating hot dogs will kill you in 7.4 years if you eat more than 2 a day. Republicans are bad people and Democrats are good people.

I'm particularly annoyed that my last statement isn't true. Life would be SO much simpler if I didn't know a number of intelligent, caring, responsible and fun individuals who are, in fact, certifiably Republican.

I'm full of "seems" and "if only" about our nation right now. If only I could review each decision Obama makes with a quick checkmark: right or wrong. If only the various approaches to the war and the economy had one among them that called out to me, "I'm unequivocally the best choice--pick me, pick me!" If only those things were true, it would be much easier to write about government and politics right now.

Obama was absolutely the right choice for President. A moose would have been a better choice than McCain/Palin. So that was easy to write about. This economic stuff, about which I understand so little that it all seems a bit like astrology to me---hokum, bunk, think positive--doesn't lend itself to pointed rhetoric or even pondering for me. It all makes me want to keep my mouth shut, my fingers crossed, and my prayers coming.

Because the economic mess doesn't seem much akin to spring to me. Despite its teasing ways, I do *know* that spring is coming. It will come. It always does. How to achieve a secure and financially sound setting for all of us? I don't think there's a whole lot of data on that. Just a lot of tease and surmise.

Liz

Less the fool me

2009-04-01T09:06:00.002-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, a miraculous event occurred this morning at 8:40 am. After I drove the man child down to the bus, I returned to my snug home and plopped in front of the computer to enjoy my first email check-in of the morning. I check my email approximately 47 times daily. Yes, I know . . . .

I use Google mail as a reader for all my mail accounts. I could now spend an entire paragraph trying to explain what I mean by that last sentence, for those who have no idea what I'm talking about. But I'm not going to. If you want to understand more about this strange place called the interweb, cyber net, space thingy, ask a teenager. I'm just along for the ride.

So I'm looking at my email. Google has a line up top screaming "New! Gmail autopilot" Naturally, being a sucker for exclamation points, I clicked. It described this really cool new service Gmail is providing that will automatically answer your email with responses that are carefully calibrated to your style and manner of writing.

The page starts out "As more and more everyday communication takes place over email, lots of people have complained about how hard it is to read and respond to every message. This is because they actually read and respond to all their messages." It then goes on to show how Gmail Autopilot would respond to the ubiquitous Nigerian money opportunity.

When I finished that paragraph, I was so, so excited. For the first time in known memory, I got an April Fools Joke before someone told me it was April Fools! Unless you know me, you have no idea how momentous this is. I appear to be slightly gullible. I swallow most everything--hook, line and sinker.

Remember George Plimpton's great Sports Illustrated article on "The Curious Case of Sid Finch"? The first clue that it was a hoax might have been, for those savvy readers, that the issue in which it resided was published on April 1st, 1985. That factoid did not permeate the dentine of my mind, apparently.

Others might have perked their ears up over sentences like "Sidd Finch pitched wearing one work boot and one bare foot" or perhaps "This guy says to me, 'I have learned the art of the pitch. . .' Some odd phrase like that, delivered in a singsong voice, like a chant, kind of what you hear in a Chinese restaurant if there are some Chinese in there."

But noooo. I read the whole article and was fascinated and so excited for the future of baseball!

I began to enthusiastically discuss Sidd with my baseball-minded husband. He is either more jaded or less easily duped, because he looked at me slack-jawed then burst into raucous laughter, the likes of which I have yet to live down.

So you might well imagine my elation this morning on figuring out, for once, prior to the dupe-age. Worry not, my friends. I'm sure I will continue to provide you with years and years of gullible laughter. But, at least today, the joke's not on me. :-)

At least not THAT one.

Liz

Earth Hour 2009

2009-03-29T10:42:00.003-05:00

We celebrated Earth Hour in our usual idiosyncratic meander last night. Carl was in Michigan, Annie in Atlanta. I pulled the plug on everything I could think of except, of course, those plugs attached to clocks. I didn't touch those after a careful weighing of the following concerns: my desire to save the world v. my desire to live without hearing my husband complain about having to reset every clock in our home.

What, you think I could do the resetting? Well, I could. But the Master and Announcer of Time (truly, it is important for a radio guy) would probably redo the whole effort as my version of exact does not necessarily coincide with his version.

But I digress.

I pulled numerous plugs, lit a few candles, poured a rather large glass of Riesling, and grabbed a book to read by candlelight. Having just finished a good mystery (Among the Mad by Jacqueline Winspear), it seemed fitting to start on "Little House in the Ozarks: a Laura Ingalls Wilder sampler."

The warm, fluttery candlelight was lovely, though the necessity of same was mostly pretense. The streetlights of Oak Park provide sufficient illumination to read the contractual fine-print on a mortgage.

In the meantime, in my Home of Compromise, Jonathan sat in the den: lights out, candle lit, television on, computer humming, keyboard clicking, iTunes gurgling. Jonathan enjoyed his version of Earth Hour, too. He acquiesced to a time of relative silence (no iTunes, no tv, heavy on the keyboard clicking) and commented positively on the ambiance of candlelight.

Jon isn't big on silence, though. His chatter filled in the quiet spaces quite quickly. The few moments of total silence were deep, fluffy feather mattresses, into which I sank with no little joy. Why are we so compelled to fill our days with sound?

Speaking of chatter, I enjoyed skipping around cyberspace this evening, reading the pros and cons of observing this Earth Hour. Arguments of this nature grow predictable: process versus product. Some believe we save next to no energy by this effort, as (if I understand this correctly) electricity is produced pre-need so what is not used is wasted. Others were equally certain that the effort would save energy overall because the process was thought-provoking, provoking some to permanent action rather than simple thought.

Me, I don't like empty gestures. But I'm rarely convinced that gestures are empty. And I do like dark and peace and quiet, the occasional reminder to not spend the remaining energy we have profligately, and honoring the notion that one person can make a difference. Particularly when you add 1 + 1+ 1 . . . .

Liz

Loss

2009-03-28T14:37:00.002-05:00

Are we ever ready to lose our mothers? Can we ever be prepared to sing at their funerals? I suppose there are those mothers who are nightmares unto themselves. You'd think some children--grown adult children--would be pleased to suffer them no more. But death casting the relationship into stone may be the ultimate slap in the face: this relationship can never improve. The death of mom would be the death of hope.

There are those mothers for whom death is a sweet release. We've watched them suffer, body and soul, sometimes for years. We feel petty letting our grief color our relief for them. Grief permeates our porous boundaries easily and bleeds one emotion into the next.

And there are those moms who were simply women who did their best, loved us with all their might, and now are gone.

I think that no one is ever ready to say good-bye to their mom.

This afternoon, our choir sang for, among others, an 18 year old who was saying good-bye to her mother. Our pastor gave a lovely and meaningful sermon, truly, though my full eyes prevented me from retaining a single word of solace. Except this: that those who go before us (there are lots of euphemisms for dying, aren't there?) are with us at the communion table, just beyond our reach, but still sharing the meal.

Maybe everyone else is able to be a grown up about this. But I struggle with it, the notion that those I love being with me but not being with me is good enough, is balm enough. I suppose it may be balm enough, when I am able to be open about how wounded I am.

On the days when I am selfish and angry, I suspect that thinking of anyone I love and miss (let alone my mom) being an arm's reach away beyond the veil, just on the other side of the communion table, in the ether surrounding me yet I can't quite see or hear her, well, it won't be enough. It will not meet my need for a mother. And I will be broken.

Maybe this is why we can't ready ourselves to lose our mothers: our complex relationships with them stripped bare are mostly about us. Because that's how baby's relationship with her mother should be, focused on the little one. We grow, change, mature. Sometimes we become our mothers, taking over parental roles. Yet the genesis of our relationship continues to define it: we were helpless and she was everything.

There were few dry eyes today. We are all someone's child. Many of us are someone's parent. For most of us, the loss hits home. And we are not ready yet.

Liz

Do it right

2009-02-17T18:12:00.005-06:00

I baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies today. I always use the Toll House Recipe; lots of sugar, lots of fat, lots of chocolate. The cookies turned out just fine. How can you go wrong with such splendidly sinful ingredients? But last week, I baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies, too. And they were superlative. Puffy, not flat and spread. Ecru, not tan. Why? Why was one different from the next?

I followed the same recipe. I used the same ingredients. Baked them in the same oven at the same temperature for the same amount of time. I was even one more batch experienced at baking when I made this week's batch. Wouldn't all of that auger for a return to glory, the perfect cookie?

It occurs to me that raising children can seem analogous. It would appear that the same ingredients are involved: same genes, same womb, same family. Yet the results vary widely. But we know why that is, don't we? The ingredients aren't exactly the same. There's no generally accepted "right" recipe for raising fine individuals. And, though siblings are similar, they are not chemically and structurally identically.

For that matter, neither are we--the parents. Who can claim to be the same person s/he was three years ago? Experiences change us. The mess of neurons and chemicals otherwise known as our brain changes, dependent on our physical and emotional health (or is it vice versa?) Occasionally, even we change us. The variables in the equation are endless and almost unknowable.

Some days I find myself acting as though life is a game: success is simply a matter of making the right moves. If I carefully consider my actions and motivations, if I take into account all of the variables involved, the reactions others might have, the location of the sun, what kind of sleep all involved got . . . . If I carefully consider these variables, shouldn't I be able to control the outcome?

The notion that I cannot do so is unacceptable to most of us. Oh, we God-fearing folk talk a good talk about knowing that all good things come to us through grace rather than through our own humble yet noble actions. Lutherans pay obeisance to the notion of freedom gained through the gospel, not law. Last time I checked, though, we are only human and constantly beset by the concept of our own importance looming largest on the stage of life. Obeisance can be a meaningless gesture when placed beside the star of the show.

If we give in to this strange idea that we have little control over how life turns out, what then? Well, it seems damn scary to me. It means that there may not be a heck of a lot of difference between me and the homeless man who often hangs out at the corner of Harlem and the Eisenhower. What if he followed the rules, too, and never added too much flour? What if he went to the right schools, had parents who loved and cared for him? What if he worked hard and helped those less fortunate than he during his good years?

There is something hard and stony in us that rejects this. Most of us, after a few glasses of wine, will confess that we can't abide the thought that we are not, somehow, somewhat in charge of our own destiny. Seems like the admission leaves us flying on the trapeze without a net. Yet how else can we view life? It is patently obvious that we are NOT large and in charge.

Well, ok, maybe I am large . . . . :-)

But I'm definitely not in charge of anything. I can't even make a perfect cookie, let alone a perfect child or a perfect me. And today, that definitely leaves me uncomfortable. I know the comforting answer of my faith. I know grace. But what about the man hanging out at the corner of Harlem and the Eisenhower? Where is his grace? Why is he hungry and cold while I am not?

Sometimes, I think we seek comforting answers at the expense of those who need comfort.

Liz

somewhat disjointed musings

2008-12-15T13:42:00.003-06:00

It's been a hard few months in our family. We've moved to a time of life where the stories aren't always mine to tell, though my emotional immersion in the tale has been complete.

Many people I know and love are having hard times. Going through life's inevitable challenges with children, jobs, illness, or poverty of pocketbook and spirit. And I reject the idea of diminishing others' suffering by doing the contrast and compare X is worse off than Y: X's pain is greater than Y's pain. How can Y have the nerve to complain, given all that X is going through?

Pain is pain. Suffering is suffering. And, though the doctors have devised a numeric scale to help rank physical pain and suffering to treat it, that scale is by definition subjective. There is no objective way to rank pain and suffering. And, emotionally, there is no way to "treat" it. No magic wands exist. It can't be fixed.

Yes, there is therapy, talk and behavioral. Love. Meds. Grace. Not necessarily in that order. But I don't think that any of those things actually fixes what is broken in us, makes us whole and new. We are, at best, mended. The pain and suffering will ebb, maybe go away. But it forever breaks us.

Through this hard time, I've been watching "Band of Brothers" while flailing away on my elliptical. I confess to having known next to nothing about the battles of WWII. The incongruity of watching often frozen men being blown to bits while playing at physical stress in the comfort of my home has not escaped me. Their battles against physical pain, moral choices, and emotional suffering are far from my world, however challenging it has been and however much I reject ranking suffering.

The movie catalogs the range of their suffering, from times when the soldiers acted as less than the situation demanded and to when they were larger than all the challenges they were up against. As is inherent in war, there were daily opportunities to chose or disdain a courageous response to that suffering. Even in cowardice and fear, there were heroes, day in and day out.

Juxtaposing these men and their reaction to suffering with all the suffering I see around me in my middle-class life might seem, well, a bit over the top. Sometimes there are only certain kinds of pain experienced by certain people that garner respect. But I see heroic acts by many of these people, too.

I know. Some think we are too quick to proclaim people "heroes". Post 9/11 it seemed like everyone who lived through 9/11 was a hero. It seemed to somehow diminish the designation by suggesting that merely living through horror was brave. But does using the word hero with regularity diminish it?

I've always defined courage to my children as being afraid of something and choosing to it anyway. Some might say that our quieter acts of bravery aren't really choices, that we often have no choice but to go on. But that's not really true. We could always choose NOT to go on.

Choose not to get up in the middle of the night and tend to the crying baby while exhausted and crying ourselves. Choose not to risk being in a relationship where we might be hurt. Choose not to get up and go to employment that rewards little and pays even less. Choose not to get up at all.

Just because you do not view it as a choice doesn't mean you haven't made one. And that very choice to get up, to respond, to do what we ought, to live sometimes seems the most base act of courage exercised.

I am lucky. Lucky to know so many who struggle and yet make the brave choices, large and small. Lucky to see who among us would be heroes. I wish I could do more than see. Wish I could help, fix, stop the brokenness from happening in the first place. But I see you. I name you in the quiet of this moment. And I know you for who you are, even when you cannot see your own courage.

Liz

Victory

2008-11-05T08:22:00.002-06:00

I feel like I've been holding my breath for weeks, waiting, wondering, worrying. But now I can breathe. Full deep breaths, in and out.

The power of the Obama/Biden/Democratic victory awes me. I have, just for a moment, moved from a place of cynicism to a place of possibilities. Ideals and values that many of us hold dear--economic justice, peace, affordable health care, caring for the environment, education, to name a few--have a chance to become working policy rather than airy uplifting words.

Don't get me wrong. Cynicism hasn't been routed. It's merely on hold. People will continue to be people, with all of the faults and foibles inherent in us. Selfish greed didn't flee the US in a panic when a majority of the states went Blue. Money will continue to be the currency of power and control. And power will continue to corrupt.

It's not that I think that people are going to change. But I think that we can change--and that alone can change the world. Baby steps. It is possible, just possible, that these leaders we've elected could lead us to make some small change for good on our sweet earth. And that possibility, however faint, is enough to fill me with joy and hope.

Obama has been criticized from the beginning for being only about words. Pretty words that meant nothing, flung around for effect. And words can be worth little more than the paper on which they are printed (or the screen from which they emanate.) Mostly, though, words are incredibly potent. Full of potential, they lead, condemn, inspire, or elucidate.

Words inspire action. Words demand action. And, ultimately, words command action. The Code of Hamurrabi. The Hippocratic Oath. The Declaration of Independence. The Emancipation Proclaimation. Sometimes, they carry the weight of law. And sometimes, merely the heavy freight of expectation. Even when not heeded, when ignored, when ridiculed, when empty, words matter.

Obama's words have already changed the face of our nation. If he comes to completely disappoint my bleeding liberal heart in the next four years, I will still be proud. We chose him, in part, because of his words and lofty aspirations. And that choice is change. For the first time, a person of color will lead our nation. And he will lead with a mandate to change what the US has been into what we, the people, can be.

We the people could not have made our concerns any clearly, our words any plainer: no more. No more war. No more corporate greed, nor personal financial aggrandizement at the price of thousands of jobs. No more devil's bargains of bankruptcy for healthcare. No more lies.

No more.

Obama's words lead countless people to action. Scratch that. Millions of countable people. Voters turned out in record numbers. And they didn't just vote. They called. They rang door bells. They gave and gave and gave. Having risen to the challenge of Obama's lofty rhetoric, they changed. We changed. And this gives me hope that maybe, together, we can change our world. Even just a little bit.

Liz

Debate blog

2008-10-07T21:21:00.002-05:00

Really. I think I need a laptop again so that I can live blog during all the debates. I'm sure that my unvarnished viewpoints, opinions, and pontifications would be well worth the expense. :-)

Debate 2 is almost over. I've been very happy with Obama's performance. He's solid and articulate. He did a great job of explaining several areas (like the bailout): not too wonky, not too simplistic, and not condescending. He answered the questions asked, as well as put out his talking points. And I don't think he once babbled.

McCain babbled, however. American workers are great importers and exporters? Couldn't believe he actually talked about the need for a "cool head" in the office. Uh huh, that's one of the many reasons we can't possibly elect you. You've shown us your "cool head" on numerous flash-point occasions. And you've demonstrated your keen judgment by choosing Palin as your partner in crime.

Obama's response was quite neat. Bomb bomb Iran. 'Nuf said.

Most of McCain's ripostes didn't stick. In this incredibly partisan time, McCain's harping on his ability to work both sides of the aisle doesn't ring terribly likely to me. Constant tax back and forth wasn't terribly convincing. Obama made good points near the beginning about who is really tax and spend these days, and when our giant deficit began. Hint: not under a Democratic president.

End thought. Obama did a great job connecting his plans and the issues to concrete concerns that even Joe Six Pack might have.

Off to hear pundits attempt punditry.

Liz

Money, money, money

2008-10-02T16:44:00.001-05:00

A few days ago, I attempted a short-term education on the whole bank/mortgage/bailout situation. I listened to a wgnradio.com special on the topic, chock full of experts (economist, financial adviser, financial writer, senator). Read my news magazines carefully, as well as my totally trashed--redesigned--Chicago Trib. And I've spent time reading various and assorted online sources.

My learned conclusion? The situation sucks, isn't likely to get better soon, and the bailout is no magic wand. Yet it appears that some sort of bailout needs to occur. Not to save Wall Street but to save us.

The very thought leaves a nasty taste in most of our mouths. Why should we taxpayers spend any money buying bad assets from banks and financial institutions who used poor judgment picking up the assets in the first place? The answer appears to be that helping them helps us.

If banks go under and the average Josephine can't invest, get mortgages or borrow money, then Josephine takes the hit. The theory goes that, inn the absence of a bailout, the markets continue to slide down, leading retirement assets and housing values on their own slide. Thus, Josephine taking the hit as a taxpayer is the lesser of two evils to keep the financial situation afloat.

But why $700 billion? It's literally a random number the treasury threw out. Why not start smaller? Why not an intermediate plan, to tide us over until the election is passed and a new regime can take over?

The answer I've heard is that the financial markets need "shock and awe", a big number thrown at the problem to bring back confidence. In other words, it's all one big confidence game. It's not that the bailout will solve the problem; it's that They (who is "they", exactly?) will feel more confidence in the entire financial system if the bailout occurs.

Um. Yeah. Sure. Solid and reasoned comeback. Being a financial naif, I need a bit more tangible evidence to back spending a whopping $700 billion, more evidence that it "might" solve a problem of "confidence".

Or maybe I'd feel more inclined to spend $700 billion if I was getting something in return. I, being the Josephine. If you are going to spend my money buying up bad assets, then I want some regulation of this industry. Big regulation. This big smash-up wasn't exactly unexpected. Economists have been making dire predictions regarding the results of adjustable rate mortgages for some time. But business was busy raking in money and didn't want to listen.

I think it's time to make them listen: listening and obeying common sense regulations on spending and lending as a condition of receiving the bailout. Both Obama and McCain oppose much of this, stating we need to solve the economic crisis now and worry about "punishment" later. The current Senate plan has continued tax breaks for average Josephine, as well as increased FDIC coverage. Do you know a lot of average Josephines for whom the increased FDIC coverage is going to make a big difference? Are many of those folks suffering foreclosures sitting on bank accounts with $250,000? Didn't think so.

Which brings us to another important add-on to the bailout: the ability to bankruptcy courts to insist banks renegotiate interest rates rather than foreclose. Currently, that avenue is not available. Banks have a strong interest in not sharing that power. But this is a provision that could save a lot of average Josephines

(are we getting tired of that yet? at least I didn't call her Josephine six pack)

their homes. But neither House nor Senate has seen fit to include this provision yet, though the House bill contains interesting provisions like one exempting children's wooden arrows from excise taxes, in an attempt to buy votes. Wish they'd include this one to buy some of ours.

So, The Liz Thompson Grapentine Economic Bailout aka Cleaning Up The Finance Industry's Crap Bill would be a short-term, much smaller funded bill with far-reaching industry regulation and some immediate foreclosure assistance. Will it solve the problem? Well, I can give you as much of a guarantee as our leaders have given us. I don't know. But we've got to do something.

Until we have a magic fix, I am paying attention to the following advice:

Don't panic: leave your money in the bank where it's covered by FDIC
Don't panic: if you have a decently diversified retirement portfolio and aren't retiring next month, leave your 401 K alone, for heaven's sake.
Don't panic: but if you're not cash-rich, be more careful with your spending, as you won't be able to rely on the free flow of credit to you as you may have been able to in the past.

Off to ready myself for the VP Debates. Need to download those Bingo cards!
Liz

Shortly: The Debate

2008-09-27T18:32:00.003-05:00

First, true confessions. I didn't actually see the debate. I was busy with a birthday party and a concert. I saw parts of it, read parts of it, watched and listened to quite a bit of analysis of it. But I didn't see it start to finish. Which I really don't think should keep me from expressing an opinion about it.

After all, thousands of people call talk radio every day to discuss topics that they have no personal knowledge of. They complain about the derelict morality in a movie they haven't seen, disrespect religions about which they know nothing, and pontificate about the economy when their home budget is non-existent, a sieve through which their money pours into credit card payments.

So I see no reason why I can't join the multitudes and express myself on a topic of which I really don't have enough information to comment reliably.

McCain lost the part where he couldn't pronounce "Mahmoud Ahmadinejad." The President ought to be able to pronounce the name of the Iranian president.

McCain lost the part where he said, "I know the veterans. I know them well. And I know that they know that I'll take care of them. And I've been proud of their support and their recognition of my service to the veterans. And I love them. And I'll take care of them. And they know that I'll take care of them." Numerous pundits have pointed out the obvious here: Republicans in general and McCain in particular has been anything but friendly toward our veterans, continuously taking away vet healthcare funding.

Obama won the part where he stayed calm, focused and presidential. McCain lost the part where he made flip comments. Obama won the part where he actually attempted to look his opponent in the eye. McCain lost the part where he acted like a jerk and refused to look at or address Obama.

No, McCain didn't blow the campaign in one swell foop. But he did himself no favors last night.

Off to visit with a friend and eat apples. :-)

Liz

Helping the wealthy

2008-09-26T14:07:00.003-05:00

Barrington High School got itself a lovely, state-of-the-art stadium, complete with $143,000 giant video display. How does this annoy me? Let me count the ways.

Screens. Everywhere we go, there are screens screaming at us, begging us to watch them. They must play siren songs or something as they irresistibly draw our eyes to them, away from our meal companions, away from the reality in front of us.

Yes, I admit it. I strictly limited screen time when my children were young. There is something about the gaping-mouthed, slack-jawed look of children parked in front of the tube that I find intensely annoying. I think it's the continuous out of body experience children who simply view the world have. I want my children to actively participate in and experience the world, not simply watch it go by, spectating life away. I want the same for myself. Stop distracting us from living, already!

Then there's the jumbotron cost of such pricey items. Barrington's big screen was apparently paid for by booster fundraising--none of your tax dollars are at work there. Yet it still feels obscene to me, knowing that schools 25 miles to the east are operating with 3 textbooks per classroom yet we (the middle class to the rich) feel so entitled to the best that we pass up the opportunity to purchase textbooks for those who need them to give our already satiated children too much.

Me? I'd like to ban boosterism. It allows non-educators to set standards for educational settings. Alternatively, I'd restructure the tax system so that each district receives exactly the same amount of education funding across the board. The children in Illinois would all have textbooks, though they might be a year or two out of date. Then, when the wealthier districts among us try to raise money privately to purchase the newest textbooks--or a big stadium--they'd have to tithe to a windfall fund that is meted out to all those districts unfortunate enough to have no booster/private funding.

Speaking of windfalls, I am so not on the bailout bandwagon. Clueless on such things, I am. But I know enough to pay attention to those wiser than me. And when 150 economists sign a petition opposing the plan, that gives me pause. (There's a nice summary here of insightful thoughts regarding the bailout.)

Bush rushed us into a war. We should not rush into yet another expensive quagmire. And we should not condone throwing money at the rich. If we have money to give away, let's triple the amount the UN poverty summit has committed to helping the poor. Don't give more to those who have the most.

Liz

Oh shush

2008-09-23T10:29:00.004-05:00

Look. I know I'm supposed to be writing. I like writing. It brings me great joy. It is a flow activity that makes me forget to eat, on occasion. But it's blog or exercise in my life right now. And, generally speaking, I'm choosing exercise.

But not today. Today, at 8:01am, I officially topped off with righteous indignation at conservatives who've suddenly embraced feminism, the absolute right to privacy in the issue of choice, and the Palin-McCain Lying, Manipulating Campaign.

There is little point in assessing Palin as a VP candidate at this point. It's all been said by pundits far savvier than I. And, while it would be easy fun to point out why she is woefully qualified, how much real fun can it be to shoot fish in a barrel? And, right now, nitpicking over every stupid thing Palin says feels counter productive, akin to having the same argument in a marriage over and over where you immediately tune out your partner because you've heard this one before.

Not that we ever do that, dear. :-) And not that I might not choose to nitpick in the future. But not today.

Palin, for better or worse, is the partner of McCain's choosing. It is a choice that says volumes about what he believes are his substantive weaknesses that would be addressed by adding Palin to the ticket. It is a choice which leads us back to the more salient issue: John McCain.

John McCain is where the buck stops. He's the one who made this ridiculous choice. He's the source of the lies and manipulations. He's the one in charge. The one that wants to be in charge. The one we really ought to be focusing our righteous indignation on.

Let's call the Republicans and their chosen leaders out on the issues, even the issues of their own making and choosing. Look at their twisted take on elitism: education makes one incapable of understanding "real people", but money creates no such veil. The average Joe is more able to connect with a politician who has 12 cars and 7 houses than one who has a few degrees and one mortgage?

Or, horrors, let's look at substantive issues at stake in the campaign. The war. The economy. The potential replacements on the Supreme Court. Let's take the time to dissect the views, the records, and the stands Obama and McCain have taken on these issues, determine what they believe, then determine what WE believe and vote based on that.

Digressing to Palin for a minute to make this point. I am the mother of a special needs child. Republicans want me to feel understood by Palin, to feel a symbiotic connection with her because we are both mothers of special needs children. I am supposed to instinctively trust that another mother will do right by these children.

Um. Not so much. Republicans have a nasty record of not supporting legislation that funds programming, education or health care for this vulnerable group of citizens. Why in the world would I trust Sarah Palin or John McCain to help me secure my son's future because of some touchy-feely notion that "we mothers understand each other"?

Yes, we all have feelings. Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . . But I'm not voting based on my feelings. And I hope you don't, either. I hope your vote will not be swayed either by pretty words or pretty pictures. Determine which candidate's substantive positions and records most closely mirror your own opinions and values. And vote accordingly.

Rustily yours,
Liz

Bits and Bobs

2008-07-07T19:27:00.005-05:00

In case I had yet to figure out that 46 is way middle aged, a not-so-young adult friend kindly assisted me to this conclusion on Sunday.

We were discussing exercise and weight loss. I bemoaned the established fact that I exercise quite regularly and vigorously yet do not lose any weight. Not-so-young adult friend threw this bombshell into the mix: her mom says the same thing, but notes that exercise is keeping her from gaining weight.

Her mom? She's comparing me to her MOM?? Not-so-young adult friend is an adult. I am an adult. I ask her how old she is. I perform simple math. I determine that I, in fact, could easily be her mom. I've passed the stage of "well, I could be her mom if I'd given birth when I was 13, which was technically a possibility." Oh my goodness gracious. I have reached a new stage of Old.

Yet I'm never too old to enjoy fireworks on the 4th of July. Usually, T, J and I--along with various friends and family that vary from year to year--hit a prime spot on the grass near the softball fields. T and family are in Gotland. So I called some friends and we threw together a last minute potluck bbq. Much fun, as we enjoy this smart, funny family. Then some of us ran down to the fireworks at the last moment.

Ooo. Ahhh. We make fun of the collective sighs and swells of the crowd reacting to each display. But, truly, these dazzling sparks high in the sky are among life's ephemeral pleasures. Can't hold on to them. Can't recreate them. And they serve absolutely no useful purpose that I can see. Worse, now I'm told they're toxic. Don't care. Those fleeting moments of joy are the best of all.

Speaking of fleeting moments of joy, it's always a pleasure when the opposing candidate says or does really ridiculous things, statements or actions that need no explicating, no parsing to prove their idiocy. Daily dose of Ridiculocity from John McCain on ways he will balance the budget when he is President

"The McCain administration would reserve all savings from victory in the Iraq and Afghanistan operations in the fight against Islamic extremists for reducing the deficit."

Republicans and Democrats have both been busy parsing this week, as Obama's "new" stance on Iraq has been assessed. To Chandlerize, could there BE any less news that this "make news" topic? McCain is committed on winning the war in Iraq. Obama is committed to getting us out of Iraq. Obama has admitted that he will continue to assess the situation on how, precisely, to do that as he learns more.

Shocking revelation: a politician who is willing to adapt and change his position based on new information. Far more shocking revelation: Republicans are suspect of such an approach--and so are those anti-Obama factions out there. This is spin, folks. Call me when Obama jumps on the Bush wagon to bomb Iran, wants to stimulate the economy by taxing the poor and giving rich breaks, or backs discriminating against gays.

Liz

Patriotic Meanderings

2008-07-04T15:20:00.003-05:00

That is today's topic, ladies and gents, being the 4th of July and all. Naturally, I turn to Websters, which tells me that patriotism is "love for or devotion to one's country". How do you love or devote yourself to your country? Doesn't seem like adorning yourself with a flag pin nor your home with a flag gets much below the surface, bringing you closer to love or devotion.

Symbolism so often substitutes for people or action. That's nothing new. Crosses have been decorations for houses or adornment of the body, even among those who have little interest in following Christ's footsteps. I can buying this year's Old Navy 4th of July t-shirt and feel or seem to love my country, when in truth I am merely celebrating yet another day off work by joining in the collective fun of the 4th.

Symbols invite both great reverence and contempt. Defacing a symbol of another's country or religion is felt deeply, almost as scarring the soul rather than a mere physical pox on symbolic part of who that person is. Symbols, particularly those which have come to stand for principles or principalities, become inseparable from that for which they stand.

Familiar turn of phrase there. :-) And one that helps me remember why symbols become so much more than symbols. "I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation (under God), indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." It is not only the nation which becomes indivisible when we pledge to both cloth and country, hence the scarring.

For all that, it is hard for me to regard symbols or the use of them as patriotic. Their use seems much more akin to nationalism, which Websters helpfully defines as "loyalty and devotion to a nation; especially : a sense of consciousness exalting one nation above all others and placing primary emphasis on promotion of its culture and interests as opposed to those of other nations or supranational groups."

You know. "God Bless America, land that I love . . ." rather than "God Bless the Whole World--No Exceptions." The extreme is Nazism. In a melting pot like the good ole US of A, patriotism seems far more appropriate than the artificial elevation of one nation over another.

And nationalism seems very boy-centric. Competitive. I am better than you. Which, when you consider that it's often boys--who are barely men--bleeding and thinking they are defending both a symbol and a nation with that blood, makes sense. Even if I don't agree with it.

Me? I think it's patriotic to know the history of our nation, to let that history inform and inspire our love and devotion to each other and this nation. It's patriotic to vote each and every time, to care enough not only to complain about what's wrong with our country but to try to make it right. Yet it's patriotic to complain, too. Loudly and clearly, enunciating in excruciating detail what is not right that needs to be made right in America.

Patriotism isn't mere devotion to a government. It's love of the land. This land (could be a song in that). From my urban, tree-filled tiny backyard in Oak Park, Illinois to the pale vistas of the Sonoran desert to the rugged Rockies to each and every beloved place in between. I am absolutely devoted to this land, my land (I'm sure there's a song in that), both because of its beauty, past and present, and because of the grand history seeped into every nook and cranny. History that fars exceeds a single form of government or the breadth of human knowledge.

I love my country so I revere its past, rabble-rouse in its present, and eagerly anticipate its future, whatever form it might take. Preferably led by Democrats. ;-)

Liz

My boy

2008-07-03T19:40:00.005-05:00

So. The continuing saga of Jonathan, manchild with Asperger's Syndrome, well, it continues. Being the mom of a 20 year old with somewhat unusual needs requires a constant rejiggering (that's the professional parenting term) of expectations on both of our parts. I expect him to take on new responsibilities. And he expects me to stop that immediately, as it rocks his boat.

I persist. He presents perfectly logical reasons why he should NOT have to entertain such a heavy life load. For example, this year I've insisted that Jon call the doctor's office each month in a timely fashion to get a refill on his prescriptions (a controlled substance that must be filled monthly with a paper scrip). This requires

1. that he notice he is getting low on meds

2. that he notice he is getting low on meds without actually being out of them

3. that he notice he is getting low on meds without actually being out of them on a weekday
so that the doctor's office is available to write the prescription

4. that he notice he is getting low on meds without actually being out of them on a weekday so that the doctor's office is available to write the prescription and actually call the doctor's office.

5. that he notice he is getting low on meds without actually being out of them on a weekday so that the doctor's office is available to write the prescription and actually call the doctor's office then commandeer a ride from a driving relative to pick up said prescription.

Do you realize that most of our life tasks can be summed up in such an onerous fashion, that life inevitable breaks down into many little pieces, the leaving out of any of which will cause the wreck and ruin of the whole? OK. Perhaps wreck and ruin is too strong. How about makes life more difficult?

Jon has managed this new responsibility with success. He has also not noticed he was out of meds until he was out of meds, run out of meds on a Friday afternoon, called for a prescription then forgotten to pick it up before the weekend, and just plain forgotten to pick the prescription up, period.

The road to successful assumption of responsibility is littered with failure. Sometimes he learns from the failure, sometimes not. The first two years of college have abundantly demonstrated this maxim. The latest interesting incident involves his admission and now lack thereof, to the University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC).

Do you remember how you had to tell your college or university of choice that you accepted their acceptance of you? At UIC, it's called filing the Intent to Enroll form. It was Jonathan's responsiblity. I bugged him but did not peer over his shoulder. At some point, he said he filed it. Fast forward a few months. Somehow, he did not file it and is now no longer extended admission.

Argh for everyone. Jon is no different than the rest of us, in that when he fails he believes he is a failure. It's awfully hard to view failure, mistakes, pain as steps to success. Together, though, we called UIC admissions and ask for info. There is an ever so slight chance that he may be readmitted. He has had to petition for same, with an explanation as to why he didn't file the form.

This was Jonathan's responsibility. Writing it was a way for him to redeem the mistake, even if the petition is not granted. His petition follows:

"I am petitioning to have my (late) Intent to Enroll form accepted despite the June 1st deadline. I apologize profusely for my blunder; it is my belief that I somehow became confused in the process of setting up my UIC Connect account, and forgot to furnish the necessary form. Slip-ups of this sort are, unfortunately, a roughly annual occurrence for me; I suffer from a neurological condition known as Asperger's Syndrome.

Possibly due to prenatal mercury exposure, my brain differs slightly from that of most people; my intellect and capacity for information storage is vastly increased, but I have trouble with cognitive control (also known as "executive functions") and interpersonal relations. In other words, if I were a mad scientist, I could build a doomsday device that harnessed the principles of quantum entanglement to teleport entire cities into space, but odds are I'd leave the plutonium in my other coat and alienate the minions by bursting into evil laughter at the least appropriate times.

It is my contention that this disorder is both the cause of my current problems and an asset that will prove invaluable to me as an aspiring academic once I have overcome the negative aspects thereof, and I believe that all involved would benefit greatly by allowing me to enroll here. Thank you for your consideration."

Vintage Jonathan. Exaggeration, honesty, humor, and the facts, all rolled up in his inimitable writing style. In spite of his "neurological condition", it seems like he might be a good catch. :-) Hope UIC agrees.

Liz

What's done is done

2008-06-29T16:14:00.002-05:00

Annie decided last week, at age 16, to get her ears pierced. This was a bit of a surprise, as she'd never expressed much interest in said activity to date. But one of her BFFs (that would be Best Friends Forever, for those not conversant in teen speak) was recently asking for a belly button piercing. Annie asked for one, too.

Um. No.

Then she called while out on one of her many outings and said that she and another one of her BFFs were getting their ears pierced.

No um necessary. Yes. Sure. Why not?

And so she did. There was some discussion about her using an old pair of my earrings for said event. I never got around to telling her that I didn't think she could do that. Being very, very old, I remember having my ears pierced with earring posts that were pointy and sharpy and ouchy--the better to punch the hole, my dear. So I figured that she couldn't use any of my earrings, which do not possess pointy-ness. But I forgot to tell her that in the rush of her coming and going.

There's a lot of those comings and goings with teenagers. Have you noticed that? Makes my head spin sometimes. I honestly forget sometimes whether she's here or gone!

Off she went, and back here she came, with pierced ears courtesy of the earring gun. Looked cute. She was happy. I was happy.

Several days passed. I noticed that my diamond stud earrings were missing. I'm sure you know where this is going, even though I surely didn't at the time. I searched high and low for them, even taking apart the vacuum and attempting to mine the dirt inside for gems. No luck. Asked the kids if they remembered seeing them anywhere. No such luck.

I figured my earrings were gone. I'd probably left them on the dresser and they'd gotten swept off. Or I took them off while traveling and didn't remember to put them back on the next morning in some hotel room. I was sad. These were much coveted earrings, a present from my dear husband. But what's done is done.

I stopped searching and sat down to finish my work. Annie appeared. She smiled. She pointed to her earrings. Her shiny sparkly earrings? MY diamond earrings! She had borrowed them, thinking they were the earrings SHE had bought for me long ago. The very inexpensive, though sweet, fake not even zirconium diamond set. I smiled. I did a happy dance. We decided she would keep them in until she's allowed to remove them. Laughter ensued. What's done is done.

Not the end of the story, though. Annie worked down at Taste yesterday--paid employment, yea! Afterwards, she and a buddy met up with some friends for a beach frolic. Do you know where this is going yet? Fast forward a few hours to Annie standing in front of the mirror, ready to admire my earrings against her newly acquired tan. My earring. There's only one earring in one earring. The other is gone. Gone.

I found another pair for her. She bravely repierced the ear from which the earring went missing. She said, "I'm sorry, Mommy." What's done is done. How could I be angry with her? She didn't do anything wrong. Mistakes happen. Accidents happen. And spending time and emotion fussing over what is done isn't worth it anymore.

Now I have a daughter with adorable pierced ears. And a single diamond to remind me of, what? Whatever lesson I'd like to have learned from this. What's done is done. And whether that's due to a mistake or a bad decision or evil or something wrong or a simple accident, well, the why of it might not be all that important. We move on.

Liz

Shoot

2008-06-28T18:45:00.004-05:00

My son thinks that perhaps, instead of seeking a career as a psychologist, he would like to become a munitions manufacturer or designer. He's always been fascinated with weapons. And, with the latest SCOTUS decision, there's bound to be an increased demand for same.

Yes, I refer to the now old news that SCOTUS reads the Second Amendment without the benefit of a proper background in grammar, as it does not pay much attention to punctuation, apparently. Justice Scalia, writing for 5-4 majority that struck down a gun control law, opined that the Second Amendment gives individuals a right to own guns apart from militia use.

The Second Amendment reads: "A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." Apparently the majority of SCOTUS does not believe that the commas in the previous sentence have any meaning for us.

I find this reading so very odd, coming from conservatives as it does. We Liberals are so often accused of reading more into the word of law than is apparent at first blush. Yet this seems more of the same. The framework of the argument at that time had nothing to do with the right of individuals to keep guns in their homes to protect themselves from criminals. Our Founders were concerned with the right of The People to protect themselves from governmental tyranny with a well-armed militia of, yes, The People.

In the alternative, I'm happy to join in with the Trib editorial board (boy, that sentence doesn't come out of my mouth terribly often) in calling for a repeal of the Second Amendment . The board acknowledged in the very next sentence that such an action was highly unlikely and bemoaned the loss of the conversation about whether or not guns should be banned, saying that such a decision should not be taken from the people.

So The People and the people are free to own guns to protect themselves. But no one is free to legislate further protection by eliminating guns altogether. It's a flip-flop topic, I guess. Those who usually argue for broader individual rights are left longing for legislation to take away those rights. And those who usually argue for legislation over court fiat are darn happy with the fiat.

Interesting.

Hoped to write about several other items of note. But there is a party on my block this evening. Live band, covering Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" among many others. Ha. I identified a song from the 70s--and you thought I was out of touch with the culture of my times. The band sounds decent. The vocalists, not so much. I can't concentrate when people sing out of tune!

Off to watch "John Adams" and avoid loud neighboring sounds.

Liz

Abscessive Thoughts

2008-06-17T21:05:00.004-05:00

No, that's not a misspelling. Though I have often been labeled "obsessive", today I feel quite abscessive. My brain feels vaguely cesspool-esque, if not empty then full of unsavory elements that don't belong there. I'm worrying about my youngest, whose anxiety and depression is preventing her from partaking in and enjoying usual teen activities. In the process of helping her cope with this, sleep has been an elusive state.

Additionally, I am the proud possessor of an abscess. Not actually in my brain, of course. It's located a bit lower, south of my nose and north of my upper lip: the land of dentition. I am not happy. It hurts. It is full of stuff that is, indeed, unsavory. And it will require a root canal and antibiotics to repair.

I am also hurt. Betrayed, even. I am a very faithful slave to my teeth. Brusha, brusha, brusha. Big-time flosser. 6 month viits. I'm certain that I'm on my hygienist's top ten queens of dental care list, should she have one. And everything that I've read on dental abscesses seems to imply that such things occur only in mouths that are not given tender loving care.

Life is unfair like that. I take care of my teeth and this is the thanks I get? I ask about flood insurance, am assured I'm not on a flood plain and don't need it, and then Iowa turns into one big pond? I learn how to read and then George Bush says he might write a book?

Sometimes, though, life surprises us. Finally, after 50+ years together, California decides to legally recognize and sanction your union. John Edwards says he might consider being veep after all. Unhappily, you have to switch doctors and it turns out the new one is highly regarded by friends and family.

Once, I was a dyed in the wool pessimist. There was never any question in my mind that the glass was half-empty. And I sometimes secretly wondered if it might be poisoned. After years of living life and experiencing its unfairness and surprises, somehow I've slipped over to the optimist side.

My glasses definitely don't tend toward rose-colored. And I do occasionally catastrophize (if it's not a word, it ought to be). For example, when I discovered the bump in my mouth, I did spend ten minutes researching mouth cancer before I reined myself in and put my money on an infection.

Mostly, though, I never stop thinking bad things might change or good things might stay the same for a while. I find this to be a sensible way of life for me. I don't spend much time in lala land, imagining wonderful things that will never happen. I don't spend too much time in ohgabogah land, fearing horrible things that will never happen. I know that both good and bad will come. And go. And I hang my hat on that ebb and flow. Even if it isn't always fair or even-steven or even right.

Who would've thought that change would ever sound good to me?

Liz

Noticing

2008-06-13T21:07:00.004-05:00

We've had a number of hop and grabs lately in Oak Park (otherwise known as bike robberies). Our local police force has been working overtime to catch the young whippersnappers who are victimizing other young whippersnappers. Apparently, most of the criminal whippersnappers are from over the border in Chicago.

One of the Chicago teens approached an Oak Park rider, grabbed her bike and said, "I need this more than you." I was really struck by this sentence, and haven't been able to get it out of my head all day.

I found myself tossing various scenarios around all day long, trying to explain why the thief said this. Why did he bother to say anything, other than an expletive deleted? Did he fancy himself striking a blow for poor everywhere, doing a Robin Hood redistribution kind of act? Was he so demoralized by his plight of poverty that he struck out without caring for the consequences to the girl who was, in all likelihood, scared stiff? Was he no more than a garden-variety budding criminal, stealing what he could where he could because he could?

I noticed that I assumed he was poor, since he said he "needed" the bike. Are the poor truly more often criminals than the rich? Are they caught more often? Do we assume that the poor have less moral compunction when opportunity comes their way?

I noticed that my image of him was a young man of color. Beyond the obvious, which is that Austin--our border Chicago area--is 90% African American, does this mean I assume criminals are more likely to be black? Do I assume a lack of values that is somehow transmuted with skin color?

It's 9:30p now, and my mind has grown tired of the tossing. Somehow, hearing this one sentence fleshed out a character for me. In the end, the character I grew to know better was my own.

Liz

Things

2008-06-11T17:54:00.002-05:00

Thing One. I'm riding my bike this summer. Oh, every summer I dutifully resolve to ride my bike more often. I have a green friend (that should probably be a friend who is green, but I enjoy the visual) who rides extensively, and who has encouraged me to join her. And every summer I ride some, to great acclaim. You'd think I was personally saving the earth, given the enthusiastic response to seeing me on my bike.

In large part, I believe the response is guilt-driven. "Oh, I should be riding my bike like you are." We all know that we "should". But it doesn't seem very convenient or we have various excuses or we just plain don't like to arrive at meetings all sweaty with hat hair.

I'm with you. Of course, because I'm a woman of a certain age, I arrive conveniently sweaty no matter how fast I ride. I can hot flash on demand as well as when I'd least like to. :-) So arriving in a state of dishabille as I try to cool down is common for me, bike or not.

But I suffer guilt pangs. And, worse, I suffer pocketbook pangs. Do the math. One income. Four people. College tuition. Oak Park prices for food and gas. The guilt pangs made me ride every few weeks. The pocketbook pangs, well, I find them infinitely more motivating.

If you're interested in joining me, there's a great article here about making riding on a regular basis more practical.

Thing Two. About my pocketbook. Actually, I don't carry a pocketbook. At least, I don't think I do. I carry a kind of wallet thingy. And about my wallet thingy. It's slimmer than I'd like it to be these days. Why? Because the oil companies have made a half a trillion in profits since Bush came into office. In addition, US tax payers are supplementing that profit with tax breaks to the tune of $17 million a year.

The US is hardly alone in paying through the nose for gas. We've been quite lucky compared to Europe, where gas has been routinely $8 to $9 a gallon for years. And many conservationists feel the only way to get average Joe American to cut back on their oil consumption is by these very types of prohibitive costs. But it ticks me off to make my wallet slimmer while oil companies profit in such record amounts assisted by our tax dollars.

So how what's with Senate Republicans refusing to approve the proposed windfall tax profit and ending the tax breaks? It is amazing that intelligent people can actually suggest without snickering at this point that the solution to the oil crisis is increased domestic production rather than less corporate profits and reduced consumption. Republicans must think we're really stupid.

Are we really stupid?

On that note . . . .
Liz

Wandering through wondering about that Veep . . . .

2008-06-10T16:50:00.002-05:00

Democratic Veep, of course. There is no one of redemptive value on the GOP side who will fix THAT ticket. Not that I'm biased or anything. Oh, no.

I'd actually prefer we spend the time between now and the convention comparing Obama to McCain. More amusing, less divisive. And the likelihood that either Obama or McCain will choose someone who will be a major influence in the White House is small. Neither of them needs a Cheney. But Big Media has dictated otherwise and prefers to inflame and incite further rivalry among Democrats by focusing on VP. I'll play along, mostly because I enjoy reading character studies. (Obviously, I need to get out more.)

Character dictates I remove Hillary Clinton from my list of acceptable candidates before I consider anyone else. Yes, primary candidates always beat up on one another. No crime there. But Clinton drew a line in the sand over which Obama should not cross: her infamous statements clearly implying that McCain would be a better president than Obama. Why would Obama hand McCain such a weapon?

And, even if the latest Vanity Fair article is bullhockey, no sane presidential candidate would want to run with Bill flitting about in the wings. Loose cannons sink ships even more quickly than do loose lips.

Even ignoring these two fatal flaws, Clinton has never fully stepped away from her vote for the war. Obama needs someone who has been against the war from the beginning or who clearly and firmly rejects any previous stance for the war. He is too clearly an anti-war candidate, in stark contrast to McCain, to take on Hillary's baggage in this area.

So who sounds like a good match? Edwards would be my obvious choice, though he's apparently rejected the role out of hand. Bummer. I think my top candidates at this point would be Chris Dodd and Brian Schweitzer and maybe Kathleen Sebelius.

I'll give you one good reason for each before I run off to watch Countdown.

1. Chris Dodd was one of the few who had the guts to vote against funding the surge in 2007.

2. Brian Schweitzer has been the very model of a modern major green governor, pushing heavily for requiring alternative energy sources.

3. Kathleen Sebelius could be a great leader in health care reform, given her experience in doing so in Kansas and her ability to work both sides of the aisle.

More tomorrow,
Liz

Back in the saddle?

2008-06-07T19:36:00.002-05:00

I've been told by several friends, in no uncertain terms, that I need to start writing again. Though not having a huge people-pleasing complex, I would like to comply. Yet summer has never been my best writing season. No routine. Too much progeny in the immediate area. Halcyon days and gently rustling evenings. All pull me away from the computer.

And, really, can you blame me? Even in its current motley state, my back yard is invitingly verdant. It's been storming on and off all day, leaving the trees and hostas a rich green that only early summer wears. Who wants to stare at fonts and words and think when you can daydream and drift or even enjoy being fully present? Not I, said the little red hen.

But a bit of discipline is good for me. So here I am, typing instead of reading or gazing or knitting. Carl is watching a music video--and you know I don't mean VH1, right? I think it's Elisabeth Schwarzkopf. He is reveling in a bit of extra time now that our new Cantor has arrived, freeing him from church work somewhat.

Jon is, unsurprisingly, playing a video game. He plays altogether too many of them for my tastes. At 20, I don't choose to exercise much control over that any more. He needs to find his own path. I am, however, putting him to work in the house this summer. He (and Annie) will be cooking one dinner per week, in addition to doing a couple of loads of laundry a week. Responsibility and pitching in are good things.

Annie is on a date. In a car. That she drove. With a boy in it. It's a whole new world, having a 16 year old who became a licensed driver just today. She is thrilled to have a license, which is sweet to see, as she's had a pretty lousy spring. I hope she will have a relaxing summer that renews her spirit and fills her with a bit of joy.

Speaking of a renewed spirit, I find my obsession with politics newly piqued due to Clinton's speech today. It's about time the Hillary I used to admire showed up. She convincingly both pledged her full support to Obama and pleaded with her supporters to do so. She argued forcefully for a united party of Democrats to fight for feminism, universal health care, and an end to the war.

Clinton said, "Life is too short, time is too precious, and the stakes are too high to dwell on what might have been. We have to work together for what still can be. And that is why I will work my heart out to make sure that Senator Obama is our next President and I hope and pray that all of you will join me in that effort."

For all we might have kidded ourselves in the heat of the primary battles, John McCain is no choice at all for those who care about civil rights and liberties, the lives of Americans and Iraqis, and the health and welfare of the poor and middle class of our country. Can we fix what is wrong with the US? Yes, we can.

Have a lovely evening,
Liz

That's entertainment

2008-04-09T11:36:00.004-05:00

I believe in consistently challenging my mental hygiene. Striving toward managing bigger and more overwhelming events that otherwise tax my varied and minor psychological ailments is, I feel, a good thing. I am not a masochist. I simply think pushing the envelope can be a growth experience.

If it doesn't make me throw up.

I am anxiety-prone. Anxiety-riven, if truth be told. But I hate being bound by it, so I regularly do things that push all of my buttons. For example, I really don't like it when a person says no when I ask her/him to have lunch or get together. I immediately leap to the possibly illogical conclusion that said person despises me, finds my company onerous, and would prefer that I absent myself from Illinois for the rest of my life.

As opposed to said person simply being unavailable for lunch on that particular day. For example.

So, instead of never asking any one to do anything with me for fear of rejection, I ask people to lunch regularly, thus allowing myself to regularly practice both accepting and not assuming that the rejector is actually rejecting me rather than my lunch invitation.

Think growth experiences.

In this spirit, I am stretching myself this year by having joined a supper shuffle at church. Supper shuffles are rotating monthly meals hosted by a different couple each month. We're in a parents of teens shuffle, adding extra interest for those of us who find this parenting experience challenging.

It's been lots of fun, getting to know people better and sharing in good food and conversation. So you might wonder why I am dreading our turn at hosting. Which would bring us back to my anxiety-riven self, part two: My cooking is not good enough. My home is not good enough. My witty repartee is not good enough.

No, I do not consciously think these thoughts. I like my cooking, most of the time. I like my home, too. And witty repartee is highly overrated; listening is the key to good conversation. My mind runs more along the lines of "But they live in a freaking mansion and I have a dropped ceiling kitchen with cupboards painted an outlandish dark plum that was supposed to be whimsical and ended up looking, um, odd."

We are also missing the accouterments of entertaining. You know, all the right dishes and spoons and forks and glasses. Do you have any idea how many different kinds of beverageware options alone there are in the world? In my version of a nice home, none of those options are plastic drinking vessels scavenged from Michigan Stadium and Wrigley Field.

In a nice home, people have a dining room table. In the dining room. While we do having a dining room, it's really part of our living room and we use it as such, filled with another couch, stereo equipment, piano and 2000+ CDs.

We dine in the kitchen. Which I have a vague sense is simply not good manners. I think maybe only breakfast is to be eaten in the kitchen--in the breakfast nook, naturally. Served by a bright-eyed hostess in a retro apron. Or maybe an intimate lunch, served on the island, with slices of cucumber and crustless sandwiches.

I could go on and on. In fact, I have. The point, as you've no doubt determined, is that I am focusing on the stuff instead of the people. And I am focusing on me instead of them. The judging is going on solely inside of my cerebellum, not from any of these lovely people.

I enjoy each and every person who will be arriving Sunday evening. If I stop looking at my purple cabinets (or, better still, remember what joy they brought me when I recklessly colored outside the lines) and consciously vanquish the worry about being or doing the right thing, then I can be free to cherish the company of interesting people saying interesting things at a very interesting time in my life.

In yoga class, we are to make an "intention" for our practice on that day. I believe I will take up the above sentence as my Sunday afternoon intention.

I'll let you know how it goes. :-)

Liz

4000

2008-03-29T18:14:00.003-05:00

Everyone thought it was spring today. As I roller-skied around the neighborhood, folks were bringing out greying Adirondack chairs, throwing grass seed on sad and sorry lawns, briskly raking and cleaning and preparing for the season still to come.

With their minds clearly reaching even farther afield, Annie and Kathryn went shopping downtown. A brought home filmy summer camis and several pairs of teeny, tiny white shorts. I gave tacit approval to the wardrobe additions once I saw them modeled, as the more important body parts will actually be covered, once spring temperatures arrive.

Hope springs eternal in the White House, too. As we hit 4000 US deaths this week, George W. opined that "the outcome of the war will merit the sacrifice". That's a standard justification in war, that the ends justify the means. Helps mothers and fathers at 2am when they lie awake in the dark, fearing their children died for no good reason.

Or maybe that's simply what Bush wants to believe so he won't feel guilt over sacrificing other people's children. After all, deciding to sacrifice young men and women is hard work. Cheney let us know that this week, how burdensome this whole war thing has been for Bush.

"Well, it obviously brings home, I think for a lot of people, the cost that's involved in the global war on terror in Iraq and Afghanistan. It places a special burden, obviously, on the families. We recognize, I think -- it's a reminder of the extent to which we're blessed with families who have sacrificed as they have. The President carries the biggest burden, obviously; he's the one who has to make the decision to commit young Americans."

Obviously. It's much harder for Bush, who goes home each evening to the White House, eats his catered meal, then is regaled with plans for his daughter's upcoming wedding, rather than the father of a fallen soldier, who will plan no wedding. Ever.

Cheney went on:

"But we are fortunate to have the group of men and women, the all-volunteer force, who voluntarily put on the uniform and go in harm's way for the rest of us. You wish nobody ever lost their life, but unfortunately it's one of those things that go with living in the world we live in. Sometimes you have to commit military force, and when you do, there are casualties."

Good thing he emphasized the voluntary aspect of service. Takes away a bit of Bush's burden, since those soldiers had a choice about serving in the war. Well, except all those who signed on to the National Guard, not knowing they would be called to a war overseas. Nor those who have ended up being called to duty three times longer than they originally signed up for. Nor those who actually believed what their recruiters told them, that they'd never end up in Iraq or Afghanistan.

But for everyone else? Hey, Vice President Cheney wants you to know that it's really not Bush's fault that you were killed. You shouldn't have signed up to serve in the first place. You should have known that George Bush would declare war by lying, then keep lying so soldier would keep dying.

I'll move away from sarcasm and irony for a moment. Clearly, if you believe in war as a solution, then it has to be acceptable that people will die to solve seemingly intractable differences. Though a pacifist by nature, I'm not willing to completely discard war as a solution. Hitler wouldn't have left Europe alone through diplomacy.

But it should be the last choice, rather than the first. And it should be entered into honestly, with eyes wide open by all parties. 4000 plus soldiers deserved to make a this choice based on facts, not governmental fiction. They were denied that right. And they died.

Now that we've passed a milestone number, the war will recede back into low level media coverage. Covered or not, more US soldiers will die. Then there are the totally non-voluntary 82,000 to 90,000 Iraqi civilian deaths that have occurred since the war began, which have received little US coverage from day one. They will continue, too.

On the other side of the world, the rest of us will prepare for spring. Rake our gardens. Kick back in the evenings and watch a bit of fluff on the tube. Plan for summer fun, warm breezes whisking away any thoughts of far away deaths, voluntary or not, in Iraq.

Liz

Someone resurrect me, please

2008-03-23T15:12:00.004-05:00

Today really started with yesterday, a day during which I was so sensitive that were a person to breathe on me, I might experience it as complete and utter rejection. Since such an occasion did happen, I did all my mandatory zen Yoda stuff that I do during such occasions, which occur at cyclically spaced intervals. I breathe, I remind myself that nothing has changed other than my hormones, I step back and notice: "Ah, look. How interesting that I am experiencing total desolation because someone breathed on me. Isn't it wonderful that emotions are mere fleeting thoughts floating across the windshield of my brain?"

Then I distracted myself by eating an entire bag of jelly beans. Hey, who needed them more at that particular moment, me or my children? The horrible feelings went away, as they always do. Funny how feelings are that way.

Thus restored for the rest of the day, and with a short night of sleep under my belt (teenagers), we move to this morning. That would be Easter Sunday morning (as opposed to Easter Tuesday, I guess.) We had two services this morning, so Carl and I were up early, playing shower tag-team. I hear his shower go off and I dive in. To a bracing cold shower. Now, I consider rising in the morning a tribulation to bear rather than a joy. The only things that make it palatable are oatmeal and a warm shower.

I was not pleased.

OK. I continue breathing. Hardly the end of the world. Besides, it's a lovely Easter morning. The sun is shining, glistening off the sweetly scented, um, snow. Trot downstairs to try to make my hair look presentable. Today actually started several days ago, when I got my hair cut in a new and gloriously different style than ever before.

The women around me seem to like it, having proclaimed it "cute". My husband? As usual, he probably couldn't win no matter what he said. I believe his words were something like, "Well, it looks better than it did before you got it cut. But not as good as it used to look." Me? I think I'm still shell-shocked from the notion of having to apply "product" on a regular basis to release my inner curliness.

But I digress. Back to Easter Sunday morning. I apply said product, toss my graying locks around, and run into the kitchen to wolf down my oatmeal. Open the frig to grab my ground flax to toss on said oatmeal (hey, I don't eat vegetables so I have to do something right in the dietary department). Then I hear a rolling sound.

Rolling sounds early in the morning are rarely a positive portent. I look up. I look down. I watch a bottle of wine make that slow-motion fall off of the top of the refrigerator (hence the initial rolling sound to the edge of it) and take a step back just in time to avoid being christened.

A lovely bottle of blush something or another, all over my kitchen floor. Ceramic tile makes an exceptionally fine bottle breaker, should you ever to need smash a bottle or glass of any kind.

What to do, what to do. We must leave in 5 minutes. There is no time for simultaneous eating and cleaning. So I shovel in the oatmeal, grab an old bath towel, corral the wandering wine to a small area of the kitchen floor. Swish the broom about a bit to get the worst of the glass into a small pile. Toss the broom on top of the whole mess to signal to the still-sleeping teens, "Do not step here. Broken glass. Consider cleaning it up."

Ha.

We head to church. It occurs to me in the car that I did not let the dog out. She's still upstairs, sleeping with Annie. That's ok. Two teenagers can surely take care of a dog.

Life chaos suspends for 3 plus hours of worship, broken up by a brunch break. Lovely brass choir and timpani augmented the Senior Choir (so senior that we have a self-named soprano AARP row), Children's Choir and Adult Bell Choir for both services. I shifted between ringing and singing. What joy. :-)

Perhaps Gwen will blog about the service or the sermon or Easter or Good Friday. I had several lofty thoughts during each service, all of which are now lost in the ether. All that is left is the Schalk/Brokering "Thine The Amen", during the singing of which I alternately beatifically grinned and wept. After two such services I'm left with no theological or spiritual thoughts, save joy and exhaustion.

Because of said joy and exhaustion, I don't usually cook after church festival days. (Actually, I don't cook after church on any day, but that's another story.) We rarely do the big holiday meal, as it's just the four of us (family is all far away). Just as we've developed the Christmas Eve Chinese Dinner, our dining plans have also devolved into an Easter Chinese Lunch.

Very good. Very yummy. And I didn't lift a finger, other than to feed myself. Carl and I debriefed the services, Annie tried hard not to sing Handel's Hallelujah Chorus from The Messiah, Jonathan listened to music and played the curmudgeon.

During this sweet interlude, it occurred to me to ask if the children let the dog out. Nope. Nope. It is now 2:15pm. Maggie has been crossing her legs since 11:30p last night. This does not bode well for the cleanliness of our home. I spend the short ride home imagining the lengthy clean up that such a long crossing of dog legs could entail. Then I remember the rolling wine and feared a mixing of the christening events.

Jon hit the house first, and went looking for the little girl dog. Moments later, she dashed out the door, pupils dilated like a druggie. Not only was she crossing her legs for 15 hours, but she somehow locked herself into the Schafer Memorial Closet in Annie's room.

Those of you who are long time friends will well remember the story of Schafer locked in this closet during a thunderstorm and the pandemonium that ensued. Think small closet, what happens to the bowels of those who are terrified, a dog with the world's largest snout trying to dig his way out of said small, poop-filled closet and the resulting mess.

Perhaps because it was Easter, perhaps because the sun was shining or because some distant deity simply decided to take pity on us, Maggie's time in the closet was apparently not quite as traumatic. She clawed holes in the walls and door, but left no mark or bodily substance behind in her attempts to free herself.

We calmed the poor pup. I cleaned up the wine and broken glass. I put together Easter baskets for the still-clamoring 15 and 20 year olds, one of whom doesn't even celebrate Easter. I recorded this weighty description. And now I will repair to the den, where I will bury my head in the Sunday paper, possibly emit a small and polite snore, and mend my sanity.

Liz

Trifecta sprinkled with sarcasm

2008-03-19T14:24:00.003-05:00

You'll be surprised to hear (not) that I was completely bowled over by Senator Barack Obama's speech on race and hope yesterday. I believe that it could be a pivotal moment in our history, when a person of courage spoke words that many of us (black and white) have said privately to an entire nation, and where a person of vision asked us to acknowledge our feelings and motivations and move beyond them.

A good politician would have worked to bury the Wright issue as quickly and quietly as possible. A good politician would have completely dumped Wright and not looked back. But a good person is able to see beyond black and white issues, inhabiting the gray area of not dumping those who have meaning in our lives, even when what they say hurts or offends us.

I am truly honored to be supporting Obama. No sarcasm intended here. :-)

Speaking of honor, isn't wonderful the way our President has honored the 5th anniversary of the War in Iraq by declaring it (once again) a victory? Not. In Fantasy Land, where George W. Bush lives, not only have we reigned victorious, but the world has become a safer place because of that victory. Mm hmm.

In addition, Bush claims that the costs of this war are being "exaggerated". I'm not clear why anyone would need to exaggerate the costs of this war. $504, 899,000,000. As of 2:44pm Central Standard Time. See? No exaggeration necessary.

Isn't it a bit difficult to remember that we are actually at war? Have you noticed the drastic reduction in network news coverage of same? It's not just your imagination. Only 3% of the media's coverage of news was related to the war in Iraq. If you'd like to sign an open letter protesting this paucity and asking for me, try here.

And speaking of coverage, recent news reports have ballyhooed a reduction in birth rates for teens. But don't mistake that for good use of coverage, er, condoms by those same teens. A quarter of teen girls in the US have an STD. That means, for those of us who are deficient in the fraction department, one girl out of the four currently planning a sleepover at your house this Friday night has one.

Of course, I'm sure it's not my daughter. Nor your daughter. But it has to be someone's daughter. A whole lot of someone's daughters. So, on the off chance that maybe your daughter might tell someone else's daughter to use condoms, consider mentioning it to yours. Might also want to mention that tin foil isn't a good condom substitute. Or that girls can get STDs from oral sex.

Or, here's a novel thought: if you're the father of a son, consider telling him that real men insist on protecting the women they love--or even like.

Liz

Coming

2008-03-17T17:08:00.004-05:00

I love my daughter. And I enjoy listening to her practice her chosen instruments (trumpet and piano). But I do not find the practicing of said instruments to be conducive to writing.

This is because I am easily distracted. Except when I'm really engaged in something. Then I'm impossible to move off topic. Imagine the joy I must be to live with. :-)

And the joy of living is a bit slim around here lately. Not that things are dreadful or anything. But Carl has been off work for over a week now, with that nasty virus everyone has. It's hard for a person to work in radio when they can't talk. Anxiety continues to stalk the girl child. Man child is doing just fine, though, thank you very much.

I am grateful for such small favors these days. The extended days, with sunshine on occasion peaking through the bare branches until past 6:30 some evenings. A good night of light and medium conversation, complete with sliced cucumbers and apple pie ala mode. The blessedly simple addition of the new computer to our already-extant home network.

Mostly I'm grateful because spring is coming. It is coming, even though there is--even as I type--snow gently falling outside. The certainty that a moist loamy scent will be detectable when the thermometer creeps to 45 and then 50. The little spiky greens that are, even now, poking through the still chilled earth will come forth with some fresh spring color. And the sun will shine and shine, until we tire of it and wish for a rainy day cloudburst.

Those certainties, that's what lures me to and through the end of winter. And, though Easter is certainly too early this year, it coincides quite nicely with my current longing for renewal and resurrection. Holy Week is now, though spring often feels like each successive week is holy, as I watch buds and leaves and flowers and children burst from their hiding places, having grown and changed, yet still essentially the same.

Even as I bemoan its foot-dragging, I love how spring doesn't happen all at once. Even when the weather doesn't cooperate, even if we have a Midwest spring that moves from 0 to 100mph, skipping the 50 and 60 degree temps entirely and moving into the 70s with abandon, spring still emulates fog, moving on little cat feet.

Blink your eyes and you'll miss each tiny step. Foolishly wish yourself straight into spring proper and you'll miss all of the gray-skied slow beauty of this season, its slow constancy that reassures as it progresses. It will come. It may be fleeting, it may pass you by in the blink of an eye, an overnight of rain and a sudden swath of green grass. But it will come.

Liz

Friday's Feast - 7 March 2008

2008-03-07T16:42:00.002-06:00

Appetizer

If you could be any current celebrity for one whole week, who would you want to be?

Not a one. The whole concept of celebrity repulses me. People who are famous for being famous, valued for being known by vast quantities of people rather than for who they are, or even what they do? I am annoyed enough by a society that values only what we do (or don't do) for a living, let alone the vapidity of our celebrity-struck world.

I know, I know: Liz, tell us what you REALLY think.

Soup

On a scale of 1-10 (with 10 being highest), how much do you enjoy talking on the phone?

7.5. I like talking to people whom I know well on the phone. Making the phone call? That would be a 1.25. I'm absolutely terrible at calling others, even those I love dearly. The only people I am able to call without angst are my parents.

Salad

Name a charitable organization to which you have donated (or would like to).

Heifer Project. Fabulously wonderful organization that donates animals to poor families around the world, aiding them in achieving sustainable independent livelihoods.

Main Course

What is a food you like so much you could eat it every single day for a month?

Mashed potatoes. Or popcorn. Both with tons of butter. I'm salivating, as I forgot to eat lunch today. And, I assure you, *that* doesn't happen very often.

Dessert

Have you or anyone in your family had the flu this year?

Nope. Wish Annie had. At least it would have run its course by this time and she'd be healthy again. Instead, we've had the World's Longest-Lived Virus invading our household for weeks, having run through both Jon and Annie. Nothing like a little mucus production to make your life interesting.

On that tasteful note . . . .

Liz

Simmer

2008-03-05T15:10:00.005-06:00

How many blogs have I posted out here that have come to fruition (or would that be "have been produced through vegetation?") while making a stew? It does seem that preparing stews somehow provides me with enough time to cogitate up something to share.

There's danger in my wandering down pathways of interest before I am before a keyboard. I tend to leave my best writing amongst the potato peelings. Even if I can remember what I've been thinking, by the time I get back to the computer, the spiciness seems to have been left in the Dutch Oven to simmer, leaving me with a bland, half-concoction to toss up here.

So I often try to stop my brain from writing while I'm slicing and dicing. There's definitely a difference between my thinking mode and my composing mode. But it's hard to stop. And sometimes, it's just too late. I've moved to composition mode and the words are just going to come out and I ought to move fast and find a bucket because it's all going to splat out, whether I get it written down (typed in) or not.

And so it happened this afternoon. I was handling a knife, and thinking about the precision with which Hillary Clinton was using her words in the past few weeks. And I was angry. The words came tumbling out. I will attempt to replicate them, below. But know that they were much better over the kitchen sink.

I have a number of friends who are thrilled beyond words that they may soon elect a woman President. While I will surely vote for Clinton should she beat Obama, I will do it with no love lost. I had this naive idea that when I, at long last, was in a position to elect a female as President, it would be someone, um, better. Better than politics. Better than negative campaigning. Better than all's fair in love and war.

But Hillary Clinton is not better. Exhibit A: “I think you’ll be able to imagine many things Senator McCain will be able to say — he’s never been the president, but he will put forth his lifetime of experience. I will put forth my lifetime of experience. Senator Obama will put forth a speech he made in 2002.”

I think I'm supposed to view this is as savvy politicking. A woman triumphing in a traditional male arena. Showcasing her strengths compared to his supposed weaknesses. I don't.

I view it as a person lowering herself to demeaning tactics to win at all costs. Apparently, winning is the most important value for Senator Clinton. It's more important to put down her immediate opponent, and make it appear as though she values conservative Republican Senator McCain's experience over Senator Obama's Democratic values.

What is she thinking? What is her staff thinking? The personal attacks that these candidates have exchanged is bad enough. But to then veer into positive comparisons of a conservative Republican candidate over a candidate from her own party whose stances are, generally speaking, virtually the same as her own? Just a bit of cutting off her nose to spite her face, don't you think?

Clinton is proving herself a master. She's managed to take a huge strength--being an intelligent and charismatic communicator--and turn it into a negative for Obama. Good thing none of Bill Clinton's Democratic primary opponents didn't choose to do the same. We'd have missed out on 8 years of prosperity and Democratic leadership.

I'm hoping that, in the coming weeks, Clinton will have gained some experience herself. That she'll come to realize that attacking her colleague and possible running mate rather than the Republican nominee is foolish and short-sighted. Unless she apologizes for doing so (and how likely is that, given her complete inability to admit she was wrong for supporting the Iraq war?) my support will be tepid at best.

Liz

Something to say

2008-03-03T21:53:00.002-06:00

I'm still operating in frazzled mode. But you needn't miss me. Go read Gwen's blog instead. She's a far better writer than I, and just posted on a topic near and dear to me.

I'll be back tomorrow, if I manage to put the newest computer together, rework our network, and get us back up and running without blowing anything up. :-)

Liz

Friday's Feast - 22 February 2008

2008-02-22T18:18:00.002-06:00

Appetizer

Have you ever played a practical joke on anyone? If so, what did you do and who was your victim?

I'm not particularly big on practical jokes, though I'm friends with those who are. I can't even think of one that I've seen others do, though I know I've seen many. This is why I'm not big on jokes, practical or otherwise. You have to be able to remember them!

Soup

What do your salt and pepper shakers look like?

We have a single salt and pepper implement. We received it as a wedding gift from a somewhat famous musician type, of whom I always found the gift mildly emblematic. It's vaguely phallic shaped, and one grabs hold of the top (if you don't want to think circumcised, think mushroom head) and gives a good crank to dispense pepper, or simply shakes to dispense salt.

Salad

Where is the next place you plan to visit (on vacation or business)?

Island Lake, Illinois. Annie and I are going to join T and her daughter for a day or two of rest, relaxation and revelry at T's parent's place. We may also take a quick trip up to Rochester to visit Ann and company, as we are needing our Allen fix.

Main Course

What kind of lotion or cream do you use to keep your hands from getting too dry?

I use several different kinds. I have Avalon Organics Lavender Hand & Body Lotion next to the kitchen sink and in my purse. Very rich and it smells heavenly. I keep a tin of shea butter next to my bed, which is fabulous for really dry skin. And I have some basic Vaseline Intensive Care in the bathroom for after shower applications.

Funny. I am rarely uncomfortable with what I reveal out here in cyberspace. But telling you all what kinds of lotion I makes me feel a bit squeamish. What's that all about?

Dessert

Make up a dessert, tell us its ingredients, and give it a name.

Chocolate Chip Peppermints: Stick a small handful of chocolate chips into the oven for just long enough to make them vaguely smushy. Smush them together. Put them on top of a peppermint candy. Eat.

I think I might need to try that right now.

Liz

Wanted : Curmudgeon

2008-02-20T13:57:00.004-06:00

Oh. Wait. I've found one. Me, still too busy, cranky and disgruntled. And the news of the week is all making me crankier. Is the world going to hell in a handbasket? Do I simply disagree with the issues at hand? Feel free to guess.

Did you see and/or hear this interview of an Obama surrogate by Chris Matthews? Argh. The outline of the interview is Matthews asked surrogate to name some of Obama's legislative accomplishments. Surrogate was unable to answer the question.

Plays right in to the continuing Clinton effort to cast Obama as like a all-talk no-action light-weight. There were so many possible answers to this question, from the truthful "I'm an idiot and I don't know" to the also truthful "Well, we all know the Democrats have done NOTHING in the Senate or House in the past year but kiss the collective Republican rear end" to the still truthful "Obama is a freshman Senator who has had little time to accomplish anything, particularly given the little support any liberal agenda would receive from his fellow Democrats and viperous Republican colleagues".

It's sad that the Obama campaign sent out someone so supremely unprepared for the very likely question. It's amusing that, following the interview, Keith Olbermann asked Matthews the very same question, to which Matthews also had no reply. Don't ask questions if you don't know the answers.

This headline rolled by on my RSS feeder: Israeli MP blames quakes on gays. Yep, I sure believe that God is up there, rocking our little ball of dirt because She's ticked off that Israel has decriminalized private sexual activity.

If you believe in God and thump that Bible or Torah with confidence, please read it carefully enough and with heart open so you can see that She has better things to do than send earthquakes our way over something so insignificant. Now, if He were making us shake, rattle, and roll because we let children starve to death or because we torture people for political gain or because we are ravaging the beautiful ball on which we live, that maybe I could believe. But sexual activity between two loving adults rocks only the bed they are in, in my humble opinion.

Oh. You wanted me to go back and address the substance of the shot that Obama has none and is simply airy fairy speechifying? My reply would be a question: Was Martin Luther King Jr. merely all talk and no action? Action does not take place in a vacuum. Action must be prompted by something. Words can lead to action. Inspiring words usually do lead to action, in the right time and place. Increasingly, I believe that now is the right time and place.

Do I believe that Obama will accomplish all he's promised to do? No, because no presidential candidate ever does. They don't rule by fiat. They need a cooperative legislative branch to move forward with their agenda, such as Bush has this past year. But I do believe that Obama has the intellect, moxie, and inspirational message (in addition to his legal, legislative, and organizing experiences) to push us to push forward. Changes won't happen in this nation until WE hold our representatives accountable for what we want to have happen but doesn't.

With Obama leading the way, I am filled with the possibility that if he is unable to remove US from Iraq, he will rally us to remove our representatives from office until there are sufficient votes to support the majority public will to do so.

Finally, if you doubt the Presidential campaign outcome matters, I point out (again) that the Supreme Court matters, and its composition matters, and its composition is darn conservative at the moment. Witness the FISA and Katrina/insurance company rulings to know some of what is at stake here.

Liz

Dissatisfaction

2008-02-18T20:50:00.003-06:00

I am antsy and cranky and dissatisfied. I have a multitude to-dos on the to-do list, but I can't settle on any of them. My appetite for politics has suddenly dwindled to a precious few moments of web-perusing each afternoon. My enthusiasm is kaput.

Exercise? The same. I can't ski outside because there's snow. Oh, the irony. So I'm stuck on my Nordic Trak. But we moved the downstairs VCR upstairs, to replace the broken one upstairs, and now I have no way to tape and view something to watch while skiing. I'm reduced to watching MSNBC and listening to WGN at the same time. Which I'm not finding terribly fulfilling, since my political glee is nil and they repeat the same info over and over and over again.

I think I should go back to yoga, as it would be good for my back and soul, not necessarily in that order. But I look at the list of classes at my local yoga place and dither about, coming up with reasons not to try this one or that one.

Strength training sounds good. Love feeling strong and using non-motorized machines. And it's good for the bones, which is important to consider when you're 46 and related to women with holey bones. So I bought some weights. Which now reside in the closet of the tandem.

It's boring, lifting weights at home.

Perhaps I should join a club. Speaking with a friend on Saturday, her enthusiasm for her particular club knows no bounds. I could get up at 6a and have a different kind of workout each day. Plus I'd get to play with the machines. Did I mention I like the weight machines?

It costs money, working out at a club. And we're already paying for one membership that's not being used. Our checkbook cringes at the possibility of paying for a second one.

Ideas flit into my head, ideal for either blogging or writing. But they fly out again, usually before I can get to the computer. I'm left with ghostly thoughts that are even more unsatisfying than no ideas at all.

I wish I'd been able to get away and ski at the beginning of February, per the usual plan. Being snowed in definitely put a crimp in my psyche. I needed a bit of space and I didn't get it. And now I'm petulant and self-centered and a bit snappish.

I, i, i. Me, me, me. I have a friend with a dying father. A brother with a dead puppy. You'd think I could find something positive to think about, given the abundance and good fortune in my life. But, nooooo.

Off to sulk and be mad at myself.

Liz

Context

2008-02-14T16:25:00.003-06:00

I find myself refraining from writing about religious or spiritual matters lately. Cowardice, apparently, would be my culprit. Sometimes, I worry about what my uber-liberal non-Christian friends will think of my odd spiritual journey. Other times, I worry about what my uber-liberal (or not so liberal) Christian/Lutheran/Baptist/UCC friends will think of my odd spiritual journey.

It occurred to me this morning that I really have no control over what anyone thinks of me--oo, original thought--and so it would be better to simply be myself, in all my odd glory and splendor, and let the chips fall where they may.

Not that I have anything particularly earth-shattering about which to write in the religious/spiritual department today. But I was thinking about some conversations in my Bible study this morning. We were looking at the story of Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 19), particularly "the sin of Sodom" as it is explained by other passages of scripture.

Now, admit it. Didn't you think the sin of Sodom was homosexuality? Certain the Christian Right would tell you so. As would probably the Christian Middle! Well, if you look at the context and at the other Biblical passages that speak of the sin in question (Isaiah 1:10-18; Jeremiah 23:14, Ezekiel 16:49), it sure seems that the salient sins are gang rape and being inhospitable to strangers (by wanting to gang rape them), as well as their general sins of hypocrisy and adultery and general not straightening up and flying right.

Me? I was hoping the sin of Sodom was offering girls up in place of guys for gang rape (Genesis 19:8). Girls, as we all know, ranked pretty low in the social hierarchy of those times. Better, apparently, to offer up your virgin daughters for gang rape than risk not protecting male traveling strangers. This sort of perverse world view often makes for pretty horrific and angering reading sometimes, as one peruses the Old Testament. Downright depressing, it was this morning.

And you can't make most of that more palatable by looking at the context, as you can with the whole sin of Sodom. Can you? Is it ok because we know that those were different times when women were considered chattel? And if it was a different time, am I supposed to be less angry because it was acceptable under their cultural mores?
Is it a waste of anger when it changes nothing, when the sin is past? Or is the sin not exactly past, given the continued misuse of women all over the world?

Context provides background and explanation. It doesn't provide expiation, though, nor is it always exculpatory. Sometimes, sin is just plain wrong, no matter what the context.

I'm wandering, I think. My mind is on a potentially long meeting tonight. Perhaps context will prove useful there, and no sins will be committed. :-)

Liz

2008-02-09T18:31:00.000-06:00

Ack. It's been over a week since I last wrote. Shouldn't surprise me, as I look back over last week's calendar. But it's really all the things that aren't on my calendar that fill my days to overflowing, wiping out all opportunities to write.

Who knew it would take up so much time to shovel and shovel and crack ice and shovel more? That it would take 45 minutes to break up the boxes that my new dishes came in? Or that I would make three (3) aborted trips to Whole Foods before I managed to have a completed shopping list from which to work?

Time management. All the books on time management talk about priorities, putting first things first, not wasting your time on what's not important to you. I attempt to do that. So I had lunch with my daughter (a weekly event), listened to my son talk of the girl who might like him, went to a concert with my husband, and visited with several friends during the course of the week.

What they leave out of those time management books, though, is that something has to give. Because something has to give! I had to do laundry, cook, walk the dog, take kids to the doctor, dentist, piano lesson, trumpet lesson, school . . . . And all those unexpected items that came up, such as shoveling and breaking boxes down and rearranging the dishes to fit the new dishes in the cupboards and finding storage for the old dishes? They had to happen, too.

This week, blogging gave. Which is hard for me, as writing gives me so much. When I sit down and form coherent thoughts from the mush that routinely inhabits my cranium, it reminds me that I do have something to say, something worth being said and listened to. And if it is true for me, it is probably true for others--which then prods me to listen to them, too.

Even without that blogging reminder, I did have a very fruitful week of listening to others. I learned that bridges can be repaired, new friends bring joy even when they are in pain, being a mom hurts sometimes, no matter how old your kids are, hospitality is hard work if the work is not shared, and that we never really know all of someone.

Perhaps I wasn't too busy to blog this week because I had too much going on. Maybe I was just too busy listening. And can you ever be too busy listening?

Liz

Friday's Feast - 1 February 2008

2008-02-01T16:50:00.000-06:00

Appetizer
What is your favorite kind of cereal?

Quaker Oatmeal Peaches and Cream. I've eaten oatmeal for breakfast virtually every morning for over 30 years. I love warm food in the morning. The original flavor was apples and cinnamon, but peaches and cream is much better. I've tried switching to heartier non-instant oatmeal. But, honestly, the amount of sugar that I must pour on to make it palatable seems hardly worth the while.

This is probably why I don't drink coffee. When visiting friends in the mornings, I have been known to simply take the sugar and dump liberally, rather than bother with dainty spoons. It is the only way I can tolerate the stuff.

Soup
When was the last time you purchased something for your home, what was it, and in which room did it go?

Light bulb! Didn't think I would remember such a thing, but I do. I purchased new towels for Annie and myself from Bean. The boys have relatively new towels that were monogrammed to avoid contamination, er, cross-usage. So we girls felt was should also have something new and luxurious. Best of all? All of them have been free with Bean coupons from the Bean Visa card. ;-)

Salad
What is the funniest commercial you’ve ever seen?

Main Course
Make up a name for a company by using a spice and an animal (example: Cinnamon Monkey).

The Cayenne Coyote. It's a little Indian-Asian-Mexican fusion restaurant in Santa Fe. Avant-garde without the avant-garde tiny servings. I'm pretty sure it's going to show up in the Michelin ratings soon.

Dessert
Fill in the blank: I haven’t ______ since ______.

I haven't been geocaching since December of 2005. And sometimes I miss it. It was fun traipsing around Chicagoland, finding stuff and learning about the area.

Liz

Quick Debate Note

2008-01-31T22:05:00.000-06:00

CJ and I watched the 127th Democratic debate tonight. Exaggeration alert. Apparently it was the 17 debate. It just seems like we've seen so many more, I guess. This one felt particularly important for me to watch, as I've now got to choose between Clinton and Obama.

You'll notice I haven't blogged about Edwards quitting. Here goes: I'm very disappointed. I thought he'd follow through on his promise to remain in the race until the convention to continue to push his agenda. Whatever his reason for quitting, it is a loss for the Democrats as he continued to shape our discussions and elevate the campaign. No word yet on whether Elizabeth Edwards' health issues have worsened. Hope not.

Tonight's debate seemed decent. Substantive. Awfully darn civil, of course. What was THAT about? Must have both taken the temperature of the country after last week's rancor and decided that attack politics weren't going over terribly well for either of them. Hillary's retort regarding having too many Clintons and Bushs in the office (it will take another Clinton to clean up after another Bush) was a zinger. Barack got off a good line when he attacked Romney's business acumen by questioning how good a businessman could he possibly be after losing so much money in the campaign.

Policy differences between the two remain few. I still agree with Hillary about the need for mandatory universal health care. See here for my argument on why this is so. But she is too hawkish for me. Still can't apologize for voting for the war in Iraq. And she's sounding positively predator when she discusses Iran, too.

The economy may be the issue of the moment. But the war is absolutely a driving force behind our economic woes. And it will continue to drive us into the ground, both economically and personally, if we don't elect someone who will end this war as soon as possible. And I believe Barack Obama will do that.

I'm hoping that Edwards will endorse him soon. If not, I've still made my decision.

Liz

Hyperbole: The Sequel

2008-01-29T20:49:00.000-06:00

Yes, this evening Annie was the proud recipient of her driving permit. The school distributes these at a parent and teen driver meeting. The purpose of this meeting is to scare the bleep out of both the parent and the driver. It succeeded, at least in this household.

First the new superintendent, Attila (truly), spewed out a bunch of facts, such as 99% of teens die while driving a motor vehicle, 99.9% of teens will drive like maniacs, so just sell your soul to the devil now to pay for both the horrible talk therapy you'll need to recover from this experience and the physical therapy those few children who survive will need.

Maybe he wasn't quite that hyperbolic. Perhaps that's just left over from the previous blog. I think the superintendent really said something like the vast majority of teens have at least 2 accidents in the first three years of driving and driving is the biggest killer of teens.

This was after the lovely film clips that were showing while we all walked into the auditorium of kids who had been in teen car accidents: a girl who could no longer smile, a stomach-wrenching shot of a compound leg fracture before it had been set, and a severely brain damaged young man.

The content of the meeting was actually pretty decent. I thought there was a fair amount of practical advice. And it was good to know that we (parent, teachers, and student driver) are all going to work together to help teach our kids to drive. Some of the practical advice was a bit too graphically practical for my taste, though. For example, he recommended keeping a parent's hand on the wheel for the first few weeks, while the other hand rests lightly on the parking brake.

While the teen is driving.

Because we don't have a brake on our side of the car.

So I guess he's thinking that we're going to need a brake on the passenger side of the car.

Annie the Anxious really didn't need any of this sobering stuff, though perhaps others did. She asked, upon leaving school, what she was supposed to do when (not if) she has a panic attack while driving. We immediately agreed upon the following course of action: pull over and stop driving. I then reassured her that virtually everyone learns how to drive, even the most anxious of people, and few of them have panic attacks while at the wheel.

Kidding aside, I think she really will be a fine driver. I guess I think it would've been nice if she could've started out not terrified before she even sets foot on an accelerator or brake, though.

Liz

Hyperbole

2008-01-29T16:00:00.001-06:00

It's about to happen. The Biggest Weather Event Ever. A Winter Storm is Approaching. Danger, danger, warning Will Robinson! My husband called to tell me he'd been announcing "potentially life-threatening conditions" in his weather reports this morning. Geez-o-pete. Might it be possible for us to get a grip on our societal obsession with all things weather-related? Or more globally, all things hyperbole?

Yes, a nasty storm is on the horizon. Potentially. They call it weather prediction for a reason, though. Weather predicting, as happens with so much else in life, is an imperfect science--closer to an art, to my eye. When dealing with such inexactitudes, the large scale capital letter italicized media reactions seem a touch overblown.

So does the NOW--New York State press release castigating Senator Edward Kennedy for endorsing Obama over Clinton. Ouch for us feminists. It's a betrayal of women to choose Obama, a male candidate with impeccable feminist credentials, over Clinton? This statement seems to confuse being a feminist with creating knee-jerk requirements that any woman should prevail in this race simply because she's a woman.

Apparently the national NOW organization agrees, having quickly released a statement recommitting itself to Clinton but making nice to Kennedy and backing away from NOW-NYS's intemperate and unreasoned reaction.

Girlfriends, I want a woman in the White House as much as the next feminist. But not enough that I'll vote for any woman. And not enough that I'll vote for a woman that if I feel she will make a lesser president than the other candidates presented.

I continue to support Edwards. But I am waffling at this point. I'm not convinced at this point that he'll have enough delegates to bring him some influence at the Convention, which would be my main reason for voting for him. I am undecided between Clinton and Obama, but heavily leaning toward Obama.

Here is today's good reason why I might support Obama: I think Obama could be a true bridge between the gay and African-American communities, possibly bringing black liberals more in line with mainstream liberal opinion supporting gay rights.

While I'm deciding, I'm going to attempt to avoid hyperbole, as well as avoid driving in The World's Most Horrible Storm Ever this evening.

Liz

Looks

2008-01-28T18:21:00.000-06:00

I have often been shallow for the past year or so. I am worried about how I look, how much I weigh, whether my clothes make me look even more matronly than I already am, and whether I fit in regarding said issues. It's very annoying, and I feel like a weenie preteen for admitting it.

In a small epiphany this weekend, I determined the cause for this look-focus: my new church. To be more truthful, it's my reaction to Grace. Our church is in a upper class town (though not necessarily chock full of rich people). And it is high church. Nothing like our old church, where casual was di rigour, and my black jeans passed for dressy. People dress for church, and they dress well. Some dress very well. Very well indeed.

So I knew when I switched over that I'd have to acquire a more suitable wardrobe. Hence the beginnings of the focus on looks. When you have to buy clothes, you must, of necessity, actually look at the clothes you are buying. Worse, you have to look at them in a mirror. On you.

When I do that, I notice that I am no longer 30 and 135lbs. And I am ashamed to say that I am still struggling to accept that. I'm fine with being 46. 46 is a good age. I'm happy and healthy. I exercise vigorously and regularly. I'm even healthy given my weight, which I recently announced at a dinner party but will not regale you with here, thank goodness.

I could even accept the weight number, as a numerical figure. But I can't accept the figure I have received from my weight. And society is not helping me one single bit.

Example one. I am told that some expert on Oprah recently told us that your nipple (girls only) should be situated between your elbow and your shoulder. The friend who told me this then joked that she didn't mean it should be attached to your arm, it was merely a height indicator.

Well, hell. Too bad Oprah's expert isn't pushing for the latter because I could easily do so. Then my arms could help hold up those girls. If my nipples were actually located between my elbows and my shoulders, I would absolutely have the 50s cone shape going on, and my breasts would probably be classified as Weapons of Mass Destruction.

As is, they are only destroying my back and the lines of my clothing. I could easily wear shirts two sizes smaller if it weren't for the previously darned useful, still occasionally enjoyable but mostly in the way appendages. Instead, I'm reduced (sic) to wearing tent-like shirts.

In my previous before-I-was-overweight life, I depended on khakis and oxfords, neatly tucked in. Not so much now. Don't like tucking things in. It takes up precious space in my always tight waistband. And a tucked shirt covers nothing. No jelly belly, for instance. At least my gray hair prevents me from being asked if the belly is a boy or a girl.

So I dither in front of the closet weekly, looking to disguise the jelly belly and the girls. This past Sunday, I asked myself (as always), "What can I wear that won't make me look 40 lbs overweight?" Then, in a head-smacking moment, I realized that there was NOTHING I could wear that wouldn't make me look 40lbs overweight. Because I am 40lbs overweight. Not even a really good corset of rib-breaking quality would rein my middle regions in enough to pass for that 30 year old woman.

That notion was a bit freeing. Nothing is going to make me look thin. So I should simply wear what I want, right? Not so fast. I still have to dress up a bit more. So then the quality of the clothing, the type of clothing, comes into play. I believe I've blogged in the past about not having the right shoes. You know, pointy shoes.

Pointy shoes are, according to Stacy and Clinton on "What Not To Wear" which I watched for a second time this weekend, wonderful for making you look slimmer. Something about extending the line. Also, they told me (well, not actually me, but a young version of me who preferred to wear athletic clothes all the time) that your pants should be as wide as the widest portion of your leg, so as not to cling to fatness and emphasize the same. Maybe I truly could find nice clothes that would be flattering and make me look, well, better. Or more like those who look so good.

Pointy shoes would make me feel like I fit in, I sometimes think. Nice business work clothes would make me feel like I fit in, I sometimes think. Perhaps an array of purses, all carrying a fully loaded makeup bag would help.

How did I digress into this mess of caring about what others look like instead of who I am? It's not like anyone has ever (by look or word) suggested that I am not toeing the line at my new church when I wear my more casual but not blue jean look and no pointy shoes. But I look around and I focus on the few who look quite lovely and sophisticated and feel that I should be doing the same.

Yet I never have been lovely and sophisticated. I've always been me, a person who has never been particularly fashion-forward and who regularly spills things, usually at nice gatherings. Pricey clothes never last long with me in them. I forget I'm wearing an expensive blouse, wander down to the basement and paint is magically attracted to my right sleeve. Or I find the only nail sticking out on the entire baseboard and it leaps out and snags my wool pants.

Sometimes, I think I want to be something I'm not. But when I get right down to brass tacks, I realize that I still wouldn't feel like I fit in, even if I wore nice business clothes and pointy shoes and weighed 40 lbs less. That feeling like I fit in has far more to do with getting to know the insides of the people than focusing on their outsides. And it has even more to do with me and my insides than any part of them.

Fudge. Why is growing up such an ongoing process?

Liz

Friday's Feast - 25 January 2008

2008-01-25T14:23:00.000-06:00

Thought I'd try this again. We'll see if I stick with it.

Appetizer
How many times per day do you usually laugh?

Probably 5 to 10 times a day. Twice as much if I take Maggie to the dog park. I find dogs at play to be incredibly amusing. There's amazing abandon involved. Even the posturing is for fun.

Soup
What do your sunglasses look like?

I have no idea. I believe the lenses are dark. In fact, I believe the frames are dark, too. I have a distant memory of the frames being somewhat angular. Rare is the day that they are actually seated on the bridge of my nose. I usually forget I own them. Wonder if wearing reading glasses most of the day this winter will change that?

Salad
You win a free trip to anywhere on your continent, but you have to travel by train. Where do you go?

Go west, middle-aged woman. I would so enjoy seeing the wide expanses of the West, both north and south. I'd go north first, hitting the Rockies, the high plains, Montana (birthplace of my Grandma S), all the way out to the coast. Then I'd head back home through the south, hitting all the beauty that way.

I'd read. I'd get off and sight-see. I'd drink it all in. Ahh.

Main Course
Name one thing you consider a great quality about living in your town/city.

When my children were little, it was definitely the high volume of parks. I'd say that most homes are no more than 4 blocks from a great park with room to run around and play.

Now, I'm very grateful for the abundant trees in this very urban village. Makes living here palatable for me, being able to gaze into my back yard and see my wide sturdy cottonwood, anchored on Ridgeland Avenue as it probably has since the house was built 100 years before. I love knowing that it was here in Oak Park when my grandparents lived here.

Dessert
If the sky could be another color, what color do you think would look best?

Palest sunset pink with a hint of yellow. All the time. Gorgeous and flattering to old people, too. ;-)

Liz

Diversity Training

2008-01-23T16:24:00.000-06:00

Interesting study on the efficacy of diversity training on promoting diversity in the workplace came out this week. The study looked at 31 years of data from over 800 workplaces. It found that after diversity training, the number of females and minorities in management positions actually declined (ranging from 7.5% fewer women to 12% fewer black men).

The researchers believe that these programs fail for two reasons. First, diversity training that is mandatory, imposed by a company, seems to bring a backlash with it. Second, many of the programs were not specific to the needs of each specific business and the issues it might have or skills it might need to improve to retain a more diverse employee base.

Why do I care about this study, you might ask, as it doesn't seem particularly relevant to my life as currently led? Well, I'm curious about things. Many, many things. And something I've always been curious about is diversity training in many different areas of life and the effect it has on those involved.

The idea behind diversity training is to achieve heightened awarenesses of our biases, as well as a heightened appreciation of the benefits of a diverse population in whatever area of life we are receiving that training. After going through this kind of training myself in several areas of life (church, volunteer organizations) and watching people react to it, well, I'm not really surprised to hear this study's findings.

It just seems to make those who are already wearing their biases on their sleeves cranky. Experiencing an attitude epiphany toward women or African Americans (or whomever their own nasty little secret hatred runs to) is rarely due to outside influences. Personal experiences change people's minds.

And what's the point, again, beyond being aware of biases and aware of positives? Yes, awareness is often the first step in making changes. But it is also usually the last step. Witness my relationship with food: Yep, I'm eating too much. I know it. Now pass me the popcorn, please.

It makes sense to me that successful sensitivity/diversity training would need to be specific. Why are we having this training? Is it because someone simply thinks it's a fine idea because it will look good? Is it because someone has accused the business or group involved of being racially insensitive? Is there truly a need?

If so, answer the need, ASAP. Ditch the generalized stuff and address the specific issue at hand.

Me, I'm more interested in improving things. And awareness seems a long few steps aware from improvement. Why not have training that is very task or group specific? An HR person who agreed with the study's findings said, "Programs that work focus on the business advantages that come with diversity of thought, and that requires having people with diverse backgrounds."

So figure out why expanding the diversity of your workplace would increase the bottom line, and act accordingly. Determine why helping your congregation and staff become racially sensitive would increase the number of African Americans who feel welcome to worship with you and address the situation. Or, if you'd prefer to be a little less business-like in your worship, assess what would Jesus do if his neighbors felt unwelcome at his temple.

But don't do it because it looks good. Do it if, and because, it is good. For everyone.

Liz

Brain Freeze

2008-01-20T15:38:00.000-06:00

My brain is a bit too chilled for any biting analysis today. Yeehaw, it is cold in these here parts. And I'm not speaking of the outdoor parts (-4 in my back yard this morning), but rather of the indoor parts (57 in my kitchen this morning). That's what happens when you convert a porch into a kitchen and expect one heating duct to suffice for such a large space.

Speaking of space, my trust little space heater (safely operated, of course) is keeping me company so that I can make a few concise and salient observations before my fingers fall off.

My disappointment in John Edwards' performance in the last two primaries knows no bounds. Realistically, he has no shot at the office. But I had hoped he could continue to shape the agenda of the Democrats and possibly have some pull come convention-time with the ability to throw some delegates to either Clinton or Obama. That plan is not looking terribly grand at the moment.

Nor does the Montana superintendent who canceled a speech on global warming by Nobel-prize winning scientist Steve Running because some in the community thought that the speech would be "anti-agricultural". I refuse to believe that our agrarian brethren (sistren?) would, as a group, be so short-sighted as to believe that global warming should not be discussed because of its potential economic impact on the farming community.

Though, clearly, many believe it is not only acceptable but desirable to artificially shape community discussion. Hence the complete disappearance of John Edwards in media coverage after the Iowa caucuses. Edwards came in second, remember? Yet, during the following week, he received only 7% of the candidate campaign coverage, which was less than 1/5 of Clinton's coverage and less than 1/4 of Obama's coverage.

I've heard the arguments: Edwards didn't have enough money for the long haul, his race wasn't historic like Clinton and Obama. But shouldn't the press be reporting the story as it occurred? Iowa said "Pay attention to John Edwards." The media said "No, don't bother. He won't win later." Seems wrong to me.

Something that seems right to me would be the notion that possibly plastics (or the chemicals in them) are making me fat. Which would let me off the hook for eating too much and moving too little.

Lastly, a reminder of why the Presidential elections are so important: The Supreme Court. Justice Antonin Scalia, placed on the Supreme Court by Republican Ronald Reagan, proclaimed that there is "no painless requirement" in the Constitution regarding executions or punishments. Which part of Constitutional Law do you think he missed at Harvard Law School? Oh, the part where the Constitution says no cruel and unusual punishment?

Liz

Juno

2008-01-16T21:32:00.000-06:00

Have you heard about the indie movie "Juno"? All the teenage girls I know (including the one with whom I live) love it. Roger Ebert loved it, too. It's the sweet, sassy, heartbreaking story of a girl who decides to have sex with her best friend, gets pregnant, then decides to carry the baby and give to an adopting couple.

"Juno" is creating a rumble of controversy among women and mother of teens. Does it glorify teen pregnancy by having a wise-cracking cool kid carry a baby and seem ok at the end? Is the film anti-abortion because Juno decides not to have one, or pro-choice because Juno considers it? Shouldn't Juno be more, um, chastened by her experiences?

I've asked my girl a couple of times what she thinks of the movie. I also asked her to read Katha Pollitt's op piece in The Nation. Pollitt definitely falls into the category of thinking "Juno" glamorized teen pregnancy by having it (and the eponymous star) be so cool.

Annie scoffed at both Pollitt's opinion and the piece. She doesn't think the movie makes being pregnant seem cool in the least, though she loves the character Juno. Nor did she think the movie encouraged girls to take charge, have sex, and manage a pregnancy. "That never occurred to me."

I think Juno is appealing to her (and her friends) because Juno is funny and independent, yet sobbed in her hospital bed after giving birth and giving her baby up. She took responsibility for her actions, but didn't pretend to be a grownup about it all. She stayed who she was throughout this life-changing event, which is a very hard thing for girls to do.

Me? I sobbed through the second half of the movie, as Juno watches grownups fall apart and tries to hold it together. As she gives birth. As she cries, then moves on. Was she chastened enough? What, did she need to wear a scarlet B on her t-shirt the rest of her teen life and give sermons on having learned her lesson? She was a thoughtful character who obviously felt deeply about doing the right thing for this baby who came through her life and left it. Can there be any doubt that it changed yet, yet left her still a kid?

Soundtrack is fun, too, if you like funky-twangy.

Liz

Train wrecks and other magnetic events

2008-01-15T21:16:00.000-06:00

Carl and I watched "American Idol" this evening. We watched a bit last year, bonding with A over it. Half way through the show, A disappeared. After a while, we glanced at one another, silently wondering what in the heck we were still doing, watching the trashy show flashing on the screen. Hence the magnetic event reference.

The first weeks of American Idol are astoundingly awful. There's this dichotomy happening. One is appalled at the often blatantly cruelty exhibited by the judges: making fun of contestants, shrieking with laughter at their voices and appearances, and a general attitude of base ridicule. Some of the contestant's faces reflected such genuine hurt that it was painful to watch.

Why is it acceptable, nay profitable, for important (sic) people to treat peons disrespectfully? Oh. Never mind. That's what the corporate world teaches us daily. People are not important; money is important. And those most likely to make money are those we would not make fun of: attractive, normal folks with some talent.

On the other hand, at least as the show is edited, many of the contestants were truly awful--unattractive, sometimes odd people with little or no talent. And, more offensively, many of those auditioning were deeply offended by not being chosen. There's an entitlement attitude rampant among those auditioning, an attitude that says, "Well, of course I'm talented enough to be a star. You are nuts to think otherwise."

One of the least palatable segments of the show is the post-interview, where we get to watch one rejected contestant after another proclaim just how wrong the judges were, usually an opinion liberally sprinkled with bleepable language.

Is this all the fault of pop psychology: always find something to praise about your child, don't ever discourage them, and let them know they are the center of your world? Or is it that children are lifted up as being central but reality shows them otherwise: if I'm so important, why do my parents come home from work 45 minutes before bedtime, try to buy me off, or don't care enough to make rules and stick with them?

Maybe it's none of the above, and there's nothing deep about it. Maybe society is going to hell in the proverbial handbasket and there's not a damn thing we can do about it. It would certainly seem so, after watching two hours of that dreck.

The election continues to be a magnetic event aka train wreck for me. But, of late, I'm fear I have nothing new to say on the topic. I'm glad that Hillary and Barack toned down the racial rhetoric today. Or maybe that's just an easy out for this white liberal.

I guess the only other election news is, gasp, while I'm still behind John Edwards and his campaign platform, his smile is starting to wear on me. The fake one. I know, I know. They all have fake smiles. It's their job, to smile constantly. Except when they are to look compassionate. Or fiery. Or parental. It's all an act. But I don't like catching them at it. And John is such a movie star that it looks particularly bad, somehow, when he flashes his fakey grin with the pearly whites.

Ah, deep substantive election analysis. I know that's why you stopped by.

Liz :-)

Results and what they mean part 1

2008-01-08T21:37:00.000-06:00

Arrived home from my first Board of Ed function to hear New Hampshire declared for Hillary in a very tight race. Yet again, so many are surprised--and eager to draw conclusions from what has happened. Clinton was inevitable. Then Obama was inevitable. What does it all mean?

What is all means is we've only just begun. It is not time yet to draw conclusions. Did Clinton win because of a sudden massive rush of women supporting her against the bad mean men? Did Obama win in Iowa because his message of change resonated with those new participants who showed up in droves? We always want answer, permanent solutions that will not change, even in this sea of the Change election.

Probably we'll have to wait a little longer, be a bit more patient, to have our answers. We'll have to live with a little bit of uncertainty to achieve the change all seem to want (though clearly we don't all want the same change!). Perhaps, instead of trying to nail down what's happening, we could simply watch it happen and participate in the process instead of constantly trying to prognosticate.

The process is, as always, just as important as the end product. I'm off to savor a beer and watch those who will not heed my advice and prognosticate and pontificate to earn their keep. ;-)

Liz

Different strokes

2008-01-08T15:11:00.000-06:00

I was having lunch with a friend today. We were talking about different types of people. She is one of those folks who have constant calendarizing occurring in their brain: what's coming next? am I doing what I'm supposed to? is X doing what she's supposed to? I am not one of those folks.

I am the one who forgot our last lunch because I neglected to put it in my electronic calendar aka Palm Pilot. I have an electronic calendar because my brain calendar is non-functional. Think of my mind as a slippery brain on which biological memory post-it notes simply do not stick. The note, which cannot adhere to such an unforgiving surface, flutters to the ground as I move to the next interesting thing--and is completely forgotten.

And merely entering a date into my electronic calendar is not sufficient. Oh, no. Unless it is, at a minimum, weekly recurring event, I will forget it if all I've done is put it on my calendar. I must put it on my calendar. I must check my calendar numerous times each day. I must activate the alarm on my calendar, so that I do not forget at the last moment if I become engaged in something else.

If it's a highly unusual event, not part of my regular life, I must plaster numerous areas of my house with paper post-it notes. Those who know me know this. They have been known to ask me, "Did you put up a post-it to remember X?" It's good when people know you.

Why is all this true? What is wrong with me? I'm not faulty, just differently abled. I am always right here, right now. I am never thinking about the next hour, minute, day. I am here--and completely lost in here! Want to talk to me while I'm reading a book? My family jokes about the delay factor involved in gaining my attention: "Mom." Pause and count to 5. "Huh?" Wait another 5 seconds for good measure, to make sure I have fully emerged from whatever world I was in while reading.

Beef stew has been on the menu for three weeks running now. Today is the first time in those three weeks that I've actually made it. Why? Because beef stew needs to be started around 2pm. And I don't usually cook dinner at 2pm. So I have to REMEMBER to start the stew at 2pm on the day planned, which I managed to forget to do two weeks running.

I'm usually busy doing something else at 2pm. And, unless I plaster a post-it on the back door or set an alarm, I will inevitably be so involved in whatever I am doing at 2pm that I will forget to start cooking. Admittedly, I've been a bit lazy these past two weeks, it being holiday time and all. So my usual admirable coping skills (involving the post-it and/or the alarm) were not in use. I was reading, instead.

We ate out a bit more than usual the past two weeks. :-)

Now, please note that I do not use my differently abled-ness as an excuse for living a disordered life. I am a responsible adult. I am rarely late. If I volunteer for an organization, you can count on me to do what I've volunteered to do. I pick my children up at the correct times (most of the time). That is because I have done what truly responsible adults do who have slippery brains: invented coping mechanisms to bypass the slippery brain problem.

Visualize it as wrapping my brain in velcro each morning. As long as I remember throughout the day to check my calendar regularly, enter new calendar or to-do items into my calendar, and use the post-it system faithfully, I can run a functioning house because I stick to it. Pun intended. I stick to the system because I can't handle the guilt feelings that result when I do not stick to it.

So, once again we see that guilt has its uses.

My friend T is a calendarizing gal, as well. She often wishes she was more of a lost in the moment, slow down and smell the flowers type. I suppose there must be coping mechanisms to help those folks, too. Maybe you could calendarize losing yourself once at week at 7:45p . . . ?

Liz :-)

PS. Please note that I am assiduously avoiding all election conversation for today to avoid boring you, fair readers. I'm sure there'll be something interesting to discuss tomorrow!

Primarily

2008-01-07T18:43:00.000-06:00

What do you think about Senator Clinton's tears and the surrounding brouhaha? Of course, because she's clearly such a hardened woman, we must ask if they were faked or genuine. After watching the video several times I, in my official role as arbiter of all truth, declare that Hillary's tears were, indeed, real.

Had it been Bill . . . we all know how well he cries, off the cuff or on cue. But all accounts suggest that Hillary doesn't do crying. She's never struck me as much of an actress, nor easily emotive. The emotions seemed genuine, though I doubt the impetus was the topic at hand during the meeting. Every liberal commentator has declared her sky is falling, she's a goner. Who wouldn't cry, given how much she's put into this? But, yes, again it's all about her (per yesterday's blog).

John-Boy, aka my candidate, said something foolish in response when asked for comment: "I think what we need in a commander-in-chief is strength and resolve, and presidential campaigns are tough business, but being president of the United States is also tough business." Ack. Apparently Elizabeth toned him down later and he was able to sound a bit more sympathetic.

While Obama gets points for not jumping all over Hillary's tears, he's still in negative territory with me today. His NH campaign chair has served as a state pharmaceutical lobbyist (he has also lobbied in many other areas). Seems like poor judgment to me. It's hard for me to take him seriously as an advocate for health care reform if he's hired a pharmaceutical lobbyist to help run his campaign.

As I read through the blog and comments from whence this info came, the conversation between comments was very interesting. I guess the blogger who posted this info is a former Republican and alleged Hillary shill. I guess that's supposed to make me ignore the information (though it appears to be entirely factual, according to other sources). I guess I think that's short-sighted.

If it is the new inevitability, that Obama will be our candidate, it behooves us to vet said candidate well before he comes up against McHuckaRom. We really don't want to wait and let the Republicans do the dirty work for us. Democrats know what that's like--and it ain't pretty. Let's make sure we know what we're getting with each of these candidates. Giving Obama a pass because he's the first "inevitable" African-American candidate is a very poor idea, certainly not one that the Republicans will embrace.

John Kass, a Chicago Tribune columnist, keeps taking pot shots at Obama. I agree with very little that Kass says, generally speaking. But he knows dirty politics. And I am still uncomfortable with his continued intimations that Obama and Chicago politics are cozy. I would be thrilled to be convinced that it's just Kass. Feel free to do so.

Liz

One more thing

2008-01-06T15:35:00.001-06:00

And can I just say that this whole "vertical" hook that Huckabee is using drives me nuts? It's almost as offensive as the not-so-well-hidden crosses in his ads. If you're going to run on your Christianity, then stop playing games and do it. Don't use these game-playing rhetorical stunts that let all of us Christians know we're part of the in crowd, while not so subtly excluding the secular world. And don't hide your cross, either. Either use it or lose it, Pastor Huckabee.

The Republican side of the debate was quite dispiriting. I disagree so strongly with virtually all of the stances these men take that it was hard for me to watch. I did enjoy seeing Romney look bad, though.

Liz

Post Debate Thoughts

2008-01-06T15:05:00.000-06:00

This latest round of debates was interesting. I confess to having watched a number of them, while simultaneously knitting, reading books, or finishing puzzles. But last night was the most informative yet, given the winnowed number of Democratic participants. We really got to hear what Obama, Edwards, Clinton and Richardson had to say--and how they said it.

It was striking, how annoyed we all were (all four of us were watching at various points of the evening) with Clinton. I kept wondering if I held her to a differing standard, harsher, because she's a woman. The constant self-references were distracting. It seemed like the message was Me, rather than here are the thoughts and policies which I support.

Her best moment of the evening? Easily the point when she said, quite honestly, it seemed, that it hurt her feelings that people didn't like her as much as Obama, then dryly noted that she would go on. It was a glimpse inside, just a peek of who she really is beyond the performing I will not be a shrill woman on stage Hillary.

Obama was good. Smooth. On-message. He focused on his message, did his inspiring JFK thing. As he said, words are important. Hope works miracles when paired with action. And he definitely makes me believe miracles are possible if we act.

If we're comparing Kennedys, though, I'm still idolizing Bobby--and comparing John Edwards to him brings me no disappointment. Edwards radiated populist fire last night in classic late-era Bobby Kennedy fashion. He brought us back to his message again and again: economic fairness and the tyranny of the super-rich.

Yes, I know that both Kennedy and Edwards were/are among those wealthy few. I don't think this dilutes their message one iota. Edwards is using his wealth to focus us on the injustices of the US economic system. He's the only one who's been preaching to the middle class throughout the campaign. Now, when suddenly this week the economy is the issue, Obama and Clinton are jumping on the bandwagon. But Edwards has been playing my song all along.

They are all Democrats. In the end, I'd vote for any of them. They all play my song, in essence and in point of most facts. Obama makes my heart sing, but I don't always know what he plans to do or why. Clinton makes me annoyed that I agree with her, even as I'm tapping my foot to her tune. And Edwards? He's not as lyrical as Obama, as stone-cold poised as Clinton. But I know exactly who he's singing for and why. Which is why he continues to get my vote, though he has no money to buy it and may well be out of it by the time I get to vote.

Liz

Energizer

2008-01-04T13:36:00.000-06:00

I admit to becoming really excited by the Iowa Caucus last night! There's no sign of inevitability in these races, boys and girls, and that's good news for everyone. We have no need of dynasties in these United States. We have no need for bought elections, where money is King, and no need for the notion that we have no choice but to bow in obeisance to that King.

I put my cynicism aside for a few days. I really thought that money would buy those caucus results for Clinton and Romney. Those fat wallets felt like steamrollers, set to squash their puny opponents. But, for all our complaints this week about Iowans having too much influence, they proved their worth. They looked beyond money and ads and power, listened to the candidates, and chose accordingly.

Huckabee surely can't be a surprise winner in Iowa. The large evangelical vote was a no brainer for him. And his folksy appeal was designed to win in the Midwest and the Bible Belt. It's hard for me to imagine him making headway in the East, though.

Obama's speech was very presidential and inspiring. All of the Democratic candidates talk about change, but he talks best. Can he walk the walk? I still don't know. Interesting story about that (a positive one) here. I thought Edwards' speech was great, too. It was a good distillation of what he's all about. I'm still a strong Edwards supporter, and was thrilled that he edged out Clinton. Clinton's speech was, by contrast to the others, annoyingly all about me, me, me, rather than we.

I agree with those who think Edwards has shaped this campaign for the better, forcing Clinton and Obama to get specific about health and poverty. And, given the hope coming out of Iowa in the form of thousands more Democrats excited about participating in this election, I'm not willing to give up my hope that Edwards can--at the very least--keep shaping this election for the better.

On to New Hampshire.

Liz

Under the bridge and over the dam

2008-01-03T18:18:00.000-06:00

Time flies when you're having fun away from the keyboard. My kids and I spent the past week up at my parent's place in Elk Rapids, aka The Winter Wonderland. The woods were lovely, dark and deep. The bay was shivery gray, with enough ice for Annie and the Maggie-pup to romp out several hundred feet.

And the snow, ah, the snow. Dad and I had some very nice skis on the busy Vasa trail. As my daughter would say, "It was a frickin' freeway out there." There were an astounding amount of people out enjoying the snow. We particularly enjoyed the woman who, in a rather Frenchified accent asked us, "Why do you sometimes do like zee duck and sometimes go straight when you ski?"

Which would be a way of asking "Why do some people skate ski and other ski classic?" The answer is because some of us are middle-aged slackers who have thighs of jelly and some of us are frenetic fitness fanatics who enjoy torturing themselves on a regular basis. As someone who turned 46 this week, I fall into the former category, naturally.

And my thighs of jelly take me to gorgeous vistas on the ski trail just fine, thank you very much, even if I am a bit slower than those skaters in their skin-tight lycra outfits and flashy yellow ski boots. The slower the ski, the more you see--you see?

Carl was in a cooler clime, too. Florida is experiencing a bit of a cold snap, so all those Midwesterners who headed down to bowl games in FL were shivering in their flip flops. But CJ was a happy camper, with Michigan bringing home a surprising victory for Lloyd Carr's final game.

And now we're all back at home, slowly making our way through the lovely Christmas mess we hastily left behind last week. At the same time, we're celebrating our January birthdays, Jonathan and I. He's the first, I'm the second. Today is already the third, and we're still working on the first!

Numbers are odd, even when they're even. Jon is 20 now, no more a teen, as he has loudly proclaimed over and over this week. He's lording it over Annie, our only teen now. Which is odd.

Odder still is my being 46. It's one of those numbers that has struck me as "old". Not early 40s, 46 is firmly ensconced in middle age. Jelly thighs, gray hair, and a memory like a sieve are all features of this middle-agedness. I mostly don't mind. And I don't feel old. But the number is bothering me this week.

I remind myself: better to be 46 than the alternative. This is a helpful perspective to take on many issues. My reality may be less than perfect. But the alternatives often are no more appealing. Call it "settling" or call it "embracing what you have rather than longing for what you don't/can't have". Either way, I find that perspective bracing and affirming.

Doesn't mean I'm not still dreaming dreams. But, at 46, I know that dreams don't always come true. They will languish indefinitely if I do nothing beyond dreaming. And, even if I work hard and am lucky, I will probably still be in this particular reality. Inhabiting a slightly dilapidated Queen Anne bungalow on Ridgeland Ave, with my interesting family, living a life I could not (would not? I don't know) have dreamed of 24 years ago, unwilling to let go of it for any other dream or reality.

Time flies. We don't. Today, that's ok with me.

Liz

Christmas Eve

2007-12-24T19:46:00.001-06:00

It's been a slightly different Christmas eve than I'd planned. Funny, how plans often happen that way. Even the most orderly day often bends to the will or whim of others--or the poor planning of the self.

I didn't get to either of the Children's Christmas Eve Services this night. I am blue about it. I love the rich sweetness of watching the children's faces lit by candlelight while they sing gently, all the while knowing the blood, sweat and tears that went on behind the scenes to achieve such serenity. It makes their gift better, knowing how hard they (and all the adults involved) worked.

I love watching them making memories that will last forever. I know grownups in their 50s who still talk with genuine yet wry affection of their years of service in "The Cross", formed by children and their candles. My daughter insists, now two years away from Grace, on attending both services with a myriad of friends. They parse each and every detail of the service, which is rarely as good as when they were involved.

Carols are added, taken away. Different groups of children perform different songs that last year. Yet much of the core music remains the same for years and years, such that Kindergarteners often have very little to memorize 9 years later as they sing in their last service as Eighth Graders.

Children sing solos, quavering or strong and clear. Bells ring, usually far more gloriously than the Adult Bell choir is able to manage, arrayed in our feeble middle-agedness. Even the little Pre-Ks participate, memorize songs, sit still, take it all in.

There are those who feel this is a foolish tradition in this time of No Child Left Behind. The preparation for these services takes many hours of classroom time during December. Perhaps the time would be better spent memorizing times tables than memorizing Christmas carols. How can we send children up to the local high school where they must compete against others from the rich town schools where high math skills are honed and most of the children end up in the top math honors course, rather than the middle where most of our children go?

Dare I say that I think my daughter's time was exceedingly well-spent in those three Decembers she spent at Grace? I can certainly reel off a plethora of academic skills learned in choral performance (improvement in reading comprehension, working with symbols, math skills, problem solving, the importance of listening and following directions, to name a few).

Just as important to me are other skills learned that, while not strictly academic, are absolutely central in successful lives (be those lives academic, business or personal): cooperation, self-discipline, hard work, service to others, and the joy of a job well-done. Hokey? Absolutely. Essential? Completely.

I think these Christmas Eve services are ideally suited to teach such skills. But there's an added bonus. These services aren't all about us, or all about the children, or all about what they are learning while participating in them. These services are a gift. They are worship. They are about God coming into this world as a small child. Or children. With voices of angels that, for a short time, stop asking for presents and, instead, give one.

Liz

No flow

2007-12-21T14:11:00.000-06:00

It's hard to find time to write in the midst of holiday prep. Not that I've done much holiday prep. But I've had very good intentions that seem to be taking up an inordinate amount of time. I believe, but cannot confirm, that Carl and I will go choose a Christmas tree in a few short moments.

That is the plan.

Of course, we have planned on numerous other occasions to do so, without success. And it's been on my own to-do list for weeks. Without success. In December, I feel such a sense of accomplishment when I slog through the molasses of holiday life to finish even the smallest of tasks. Good thing molasses is sweet. Sort of.

I do love Advent and Christmas. I love the waiting part, even though I'm not particularly adept at waiting. In fact, I'm darn lousy at it. While I have learned patience at the knees of master teachers (my children, who have required my continuous acquisition of patience for almost 20 years now), unless I have to be patient, I am not.

Waiting for the bar exam results, again almost 20 years ago now, was actually agony spread across weeks. Even though I knew the results wouldn't be coming until October or so, each day I woke thinking "Today could be the day!" Even while working, part of my mind would be on that day's mail arrival. Even the evening wasn't a relief, as I'd just start to think about the next day's mail.

Perhaps I'm a bit of an obsessive person.

Anyway, back to waiting. I enjoy some parts of it. I love anticipation. That sort of shivery excitement that's not just all fun, but requires you to give something in return. An emotional investment of some sort, or thoughtful thinking.

Would that be as opposed to unthoughtful thinking?

OK. True confessions. It's now several hours later. We do, indeed, have a tree dripping in the front porch. And, while I'm pleased that the waiting for tree is over, I am not pleased that I had to interrupt writing to make it so. I am terrible at making a seamless transition back into whatever it was that I was saying. Because of that, I have to announce that I've been gone and come back. Otherwise, it feels to me like I'm not telling the truth, somehow. And I'm sure that readers will be able to tell, even if I don't.

But, by the time I've done that, it's impossible for me to get back to where I was. Anticipating. Enjoying something that's hard. Sigh. It's gone now. And none of this is what I'd planned on writing about, which would be that little Drudge Report on the NYTimes holding back on a negative McCain story. Maybe tomorrow.

Flow is such an interesting concept. Some people are so accomplished at starting and stopping that they do not mind interruptions. Others of us need oceans of time to float our rafts of thought down. If deprived, the output becomes a bit bumpy for all concerned.

I'm done now. The ride's a bit too bumpy for me. We'll try again tomorrow.

Liz :-)

Hurry Up!

2007-12-11T16:51:00.000-06:00

There's a new genetic study out that indicates human evolution may be speeding up. I find this reassuring for a number of reasons. Most important? I'm sure that our DNA will quickly figure out how patently unfair it is that middle-aged women grow fat for no discernible reason while middle-aged men get another 10 years to pack it in before they pack it on.

Running a close second, I am pleased that we humans will evolve quickly because George Bush and his minions might be run out town before sundown, as surely our high tolerance for Republican rigidity, duplicity and just plain stupidity will be among the first traits phased out by the process.

If not, we may have to put up with op-ed writers like David Brooks for the rest of his natural born life, God help us. Bush Boy Brooks thinks the war is over--or will be by the election. It is impossible to determine from his columns what, exactly, informs him to hold this opinion. But shaping the news to fit his views allows him to craft a whole new world out there in electionland.

The surge worked? Americans don't care about the war because polls show they aren't as concerned about terrorism as they were post-9/11? Voters are more concerned about domestic issues because it is now, effectively, a post war election? Huckabee is a "pragmatic gubernatorial Republican"? And my favorite line " The world still has its problems, but it no longer seems to be building toward some larger crisis."

Everything's all better now, folks. No more causes for concern. Bush has handled the world just fine for the past 7 years, and now he's ready to turn it over to a domestic wizard like Mike Huckabee. Here's a guy so on the ball that the day after the National Intelligence Estimate was released, he merrily confessed to knowing nothing about it. In his sermons, he preached that Adam and Eve were real live people. And he believes that history proves that gay marriage will be the end of civilization.

The end of civilization? No, hon. The end of civilization approaches not because of gay marriage but because a proud nation like the US has stooped to not only torturing prisoners with obscene tools like a waterboard, but hiding its illegal activities by erasing the evidence of same.

Civilization is far more likely to be truly in danger when governments believe that the ends justify the means. Civilization truly suffers when governments believe that they are above the law, be that law of its own country or international law. Civilization is truly threatened when citizens can no longer rely on their government to respect and uphold values central to our nation, such as protecting human rights.

The surge didn't work. The war is far, far from over, by any estimate. The latest Gallup poll show that the war continues to be the top issue of concern for Americans. And a candidate who doesn't even follow the news of the day cannot possibly be called "pragmatic". But other than those small details, David Brooks was completely accurate.

Evolution can't come soon enough.

Liz

Friday's Feast - 7 December 2007

2007-12-07T15:27:00.000-06:00

Appetizer
What was the last game you purchased?

No earthly idea. Probably the card game "Flux". Annie and I like card games. We like games, generally speaking. But it's very hard to persuade anyone else in the house to play with us. Jonathan's usually busy playing with a screen somewhere, and Carl's just too busy.

Thank goodness for family vacations. We can almost always persuade my dad and my nieces to play cards with us. Even Uncle Dave played at Thanksgiving.

Soup
Name something in which you don’t believe.

I don't believe that Jesus is the only pathway to some sort of positive afterlife, or even a positive during-life. I believe that there are many paths to God.

Salad
If you could choose a celebrity to be your boss, who would you pick?

Hmm. Eye candy or supposed personality? I would certainly enjoy looking at George Clooney, though I'm not sure how much work I would get done staring at him. The whole keeping pigs as pets thing I might find a bit daunting, though. George would provide the added bonus of sharing my political views.

Main Course
What was a lesson you had to learn the hard way?

The truth will, in fact, set you free. Because lying is always a short-term solution that screws things up in the end. And every person in your life deserves the truth delivered with good intent. Except when someone thinks they look really spiffy in that shirt that you think makes them look 30lbs overweight and they didn't ask for your opinion. Then keep your mouth shut.

Dessert
Describe your idea of the perfect relaxation room.

There are so many possibilities. A room I actually frequent on occasion which is darn relaxing is my massage therapist's room. I see her a few times a year (I really need to find someone who doesn't work 300 miles from Oak Park) and I love her place. Soft lighting, good smells, suns all over her walls, massage muzak--and the best massages on the planet. The relaxation lasts a long time.

Otherwise, I'd choose a room facing water, surrounding on most sides by trees and hills. Mountains would be good, too. But water is a must. West-facing is ideal, for viewing sunsets. Big comfy chairs for knitting or reading, commensurate light to meet those same needs. A fireplace is always good--and a cool breeze (artificial or real) during the summer would be most wonderful. Uncluttered decor. The external view and possibilities for grand internal views are the most important parts of the relaxation room, for me.

Liz

Several Items of Interest

2007-12-05T12:44:00.000-06:00

Thing 1. In case you don't think universal health care is an issue whose time has come. Over 40 million people skip or skimp on health care each year in the US because they can't afford it. The CDC report contains other scary statistics such as only 1/3 of children living below the poverty line in 2005 didn't visit a dentist. 19 million adults were unable to purchase needed prescription medication. And we call this a civilized country.

Thing 1a. And any successful universal health care package needs to mandate participation, per my candidate John Edwards' plan. If I've digested my information properly, that's because insurance coverage is only affordable if it is insuring both low and high risk categories. If you don't mandate insurance participation, then the low risk folks will opt out, leaving insurance to cover only those with high risk. High risk costs more. And that cost will be spread out over those less people who cost more.

If everyone must pay, then it is more likely that everyone can afford it and then everyone can be covered. If you are a nerdy type who'd like to explore this much further than I am capable of doing, go here. Please note that Obama's universal health plan does NOT mandate participation.

Thing 2. The President is planning to veto the latest energy bill poised to pass in the House. Why? Because it will hurt Big Business and cost them money. The bill includes plans to raise taxes on oil companies (currently enjoying record profits for a number of years now) and to require 15% usage of renewable energy sources throughout the country by 2020 (in 13 years!).

Bush and his cronies can't abide these reasonable and sensible measures as paths toward less costly oil and less use overall. They also can't stand the notion of raising fuel efficiency in cars by 40% by 2020. Funny thing, that fuel efficiency issue. Has technology moved so slowly since 1985 that fuel efficiency simply could not have been improved over these past 20 plus years? Because CAFE set the standard that year of 27.5 MPG and it hasn't been changed since.

As we've noted in the past, my friends, it's all about money. And lots of it.

Thing 3. Think voting isn't important? None of the issues really affect you? Think again, women of child-bearing age. Did you know that both Romney and Huckabee's positions appear to support a ban on birth control and other contraception? Any politician who supports life as beginning at conception rather than implantation is most likely saying that they do not support birth control. And these are the two candidates most likely to win the Republican nomination.

I do not feel it is Chicken Little-ness of me to announce: the sky is falling, the sky is falling!

Liz

Snowy Evening

2007-12-04T18:41:00.000-06:00

It's beautiful outside this evening. Snow thickly falling, quiet, quiet. I love the juxtaposition of snow at night, the bright and the dark. When I grew up in Michigan, where stars not only existed but were seen on a regular basis, a crisp evening with sparkling stars overhead and snowy swirling and twinkling below was a foretaste of heaven. The occasional moonlight ski was a treat to be savored.

There were moonlit morning skis, too. I remember getting up early with my dad to ski before he went to work. This must have been when I was home as an adult, finishing my second year of law school while Carl was working in Chicago. Being anything but a morning person, dragging myself out of bed for early am workouts has never been my thing. But having company while skiing is far more enjoyable than my solitary daily jaunts on the concrete paths of Oak Park.

So I'd climb out of bed, mumbling and shivering, emulating my years of teenage gruffness and complaining about being cold and tired. And we'd drive over to local recreation area. Proud Lake or Kensington Park were the usual haunts, though my memories of morning-dark skis are all at Proud Lake.

Proud Lake had those stands of pines one often sees, set straight as soldiers for row after row. I think I remember that those were often planted during the Depression by Civilian Conservation Corps workers. I've skied in those kinds of stands throughout Michigan with great delight. But it was deep and dark in those woods on those mornings, even with a strong moon shining on us. I was always a bit spooked by them, and happy to be back into the less thickly wooded deciduous forest areas.

There were animals about and, if we had time and inclination, we'd stoop to decipher the prints. Deer, of course, though deer were far less plentiful at that time. Rabbits and mice and other more esoteric wildlife, like foxes, were often noted. My favorite denizens of the woods had no footprints: the owls. Sometimes heard, rarely seen, always suspected.

The snow wasn't usually great on those jaunts. This was mid 1980s, not the huge snow dumps of the 70s. I remember many slippery skis with ice-riven tracks. And I remember more than a few sticky skis with long stretches of tracks caked with mud. But the company was pleasant, and the ambiance most lovely, even on the coldest or iciest or muddiest of morns.

I miss those skis. :-)

Liz

Friday's Feast - 30 November 2007

2007-11-30T08:54:00.000-06:00

Appetizer
What is your favorite carnival/amusement park ride?

I grow old. I used to love rides. Couldn't get enough of them. Rollercoasters were my friends. I even took my bridesmaids to Cedar Point right before my wedding as a last fling. Now getting dizzy makes me queasy. :-/ I have to be fairly judicious in my choice of rides, keeping it short and sweet. You will still find me in a Tilt-a-Whirl if caught visiting Kiddieland. But once or twice, rather than for hours at a time.

Soup
How do you react in uncomfortable social situations?

Well, first I get red. Very red. Even if I'm simply IN a social situation, I tend to flush. My husband says it's attractive. I feel a bit Rudolph-esque. Sometimes I will get completely quiet and move into observation mode. This is my preferred approach, as it keeps me out of trouble and lets me focus on others. I join in when compelled and not before.

Sometimes I succumb to feeling that I must participate. This would be the "that's what good girls do in social situations" response. This is not the preferred approach, as I tend to lose the connections between folks and start interrupting. Ugh. And I will often blurt something dopey, like sharing my weight with a dinner party. It really is best to be yourself, you know?

Salad
On a scale of 1-10 with 10 being highest, how much do you enjoy discussing deep, philosophical topics?

Ooo. 10. But I've tended to go after these discussions like a lawyer (wonder why?), which I'm told does not always make me a fun discussion partner. I tend to cut to the meat of an issue earlier on, finding the weakness in others points of view. So I've worked hard over the years at doing so, making my point, then shutting up to allow for other viewpoints.

Main Course
Did you get a flu shot this year? If not, do you plan to?

Nope and nope. I'm not in a risk category. What doesn't kill me will make me stronger. And I don't like injections of mercury.

Dessert
Approximately how many hours per week do you spend watching television?

Depends on how many of the shows that I enjoy are on during a given week. I probably average an hour a day, particularly if I'm watching Countdown with Keith Olbermann regularly with Carl. So that makes 7 hours a week. Sometimes, though, on the weekend I will vegetate in front of the TV if my family is out and I'm in. So make it 8 hours a week to keep me honest.

Liz

What really counts

2007-11-29T15:44:00.000-06:00

I was reading a blog entry recently about the Presidential election. The writer posited the notion that what really counts in assessing candidates is not experience but character. He then listed various presidents and rated them successes or failures and noted how character played a part in those successes and failures.

I'd like to agree with him. I'd like to believe that what is most important is what is in a person's heart and mind and how they live that out. But I don't think that I do agree. I can think of many people of fine character who would not make good presidents. Jimmy Carter was/is a man of impeccable character. In his years after the presidency, he has demonstrated that again and again (Habitat, continued work for peace in the Middle East, to name a few places).

But he wasn't much to write home about as the leader of the free world. He accomplished little in his four years. He was perceived as a failure in arenas in which he was actually successful, such as ultimately bringing home those kidnapped in Iran
alive. In fact, I think his inability to manage the Iran Hostage Crisis, to persuade the US that peaceful means were the best option for bringing the hostages home alive, demonstrates much of what was wrong with his administration. They didn't play the game very well.

Maybe character would be a be-all-and-end-all if government wasn't political, wasn't a game that must be played. But it is. And, while I hope the candidates of my choice do have fine upstanding characters and do share my values, that's not what I'm assessing to guide my decisions.

John Edwards is my candidate for President in the Democratic primaries. I feel almost sheepish saying so. As an Oak Park Democrat, I'm sure I'm supposed to be voting for Obama. And I did support him, at first. But I've found him to be a bit milquetoasty. The message of hope is a fragile strand on which to swing my heavy hopes and dreams for this next administration.

John Edwards is emphasizing the domestic issues I feel are most important: universal health care, economic fairplay for the poor and middle class, and supporting workers. He is emphasizing these issues instead of focusing on the power ploys playing out in the Middle East. I don't believe he would be an isolationist President. But I believe he would focus on righting our own wrongs before he runs off and tries to right someone else's wrongs.

The blog to which I referred earlier lauded Edwards for his character, as demonstrated by these domestic emphases and in part due to the loss of his son. Maybe character can be tied that closely to a political agenda. But I don't necessarily think so. We've had plenty of presidents who had fine agendas yet possessed characters less shining (JFK, FDR, to name a few).

And I don't even agree with a major decision that I'm sure is supposed to demonstrate sacrificial character: the collective decision of Elizabeth and John Edwards to run for President while knowing Elizabeth has a terminal illness. My opinion, had they asked, is that those little munchkins of theirs deserve to have a mom around who is focused on them more than anyone possibly can be on the campaign trail, since she's not going to be around for all that long, in all likelihood.

But they didn't ask me. And whatever character they are, or aren't, demonstrating in making that decision has little to do with why I would, or wouldn't, vote for them. Him. I care about the domestic decisions that John Edwards would make that would affect my country, not his family. And I think he'd make the right ones.

Vote for John Edwards. And give him a little bit of money, if you've got any lying around. Because he's going to need it to get any farther than Iowa.

Liz

I've got a brand new pair of roller skates

2007-11-28T17:04:00.000-06:00

Well, not really. But I do have a brand new mixer. Christmas gift from Mom and Dad after watching me prepare food with my previous mixer. Now, I really think my old mixer was just fine. I bought it at a garage sale for $5. I think it was shortly after we got married, which would make it . . . (brief pause here while I attempt to perform the cognitive gymnastics known as mental math) . . . 23 years old.

When I was 23 years old, I was in peak physical condition. Looking good. No kids yet, lots of exercise, didn't really worry about what I ate. My mixer did look a bit the worse for wear at 23, though. The beaters were all bent out of shape. I tended to insert the spatula into them frequently. And the power cord displayed the colorful assortment of wires that, apparently, are supposed to be kept inside. Did you know that sparks come out of those exposed wires sometimes?

The reason I bought this particular mixer was because it was the exact same model my mom had through my growing up years. It was homey and familiar. It didn't scare me, and it didn't do a million slice and dice activities. It simply mixed stuff up. I prefer simplicity in my household appliance. Particularly motorized ones.

I'm a bit afraid of motors, truth be told. Once, my dad tried to teach me how to ride some type of small motorized thingie. It was either a snowmobile or a motor bike--can't remember which. Dad? Anyway, I distinctly remember my vocal emissions while attempt to drive: I'd squeal loudly each and every time I accelerated. And my accelerations were rather, um, jerky. And so I progressed around the trails up behind our house. Vrroom. Jerk. Squeal. Vrroom. Jerk. Squeal.

Back from the digression. You can see why I felt like my mixer was just fine. My mom disagreed and offered to purchase a new one for me for my Christmas present. Guess I wasn't quite as attached to that ole mixer as I thought, because I jumped right on that bandwagon.

We perused the Target website, sizing up the mixer competition. Oh my. There was definitely another reason I had clung so vociferously to my old mixed. Those new-fangled jaws of power cost a bundle! Fortunately, I wasn't paying. I told my mom to pick whatever she wanted to get for me. I reserved the right to choose the color.

It arrived yesterday, but I was in the midst of bookcase mania so chose to leave it boxed. But now it sits, in all its colorful glory (Cobalt Blue) on my counter: the KitchenAid Artisan. Wow! I made Banana Muffins this afternoon in it. My butter and sugar have never been so creamed. I did have a little Lucy-esque accident with the flour. But the kitchen's all cleaned up again . . . .

Perhaps I'll take up bread baking, now that I have a dough hook. Lemon Meringue pies, anyone? There's a sausage stuffing attachment available, as well as many others. I foresee a whole new world of cooking for me.

Or maybe I'll just make better Banana Muffins and skip the rest. :-)

Liz

A brief and shining ventilation

2007-11-27T19:40:00.000-06:00

There are so many more important things going on than this. Obviously. But that's never stopped me before from complaining about the mundane annoyances of life.

The topic is bookcases. Two of them. Two of them that will replace the one I had before. The one I had before fell apart. This was not surprising, as it had fallen apart numerous times during the past 15 years. Usually, I put it back together with my handy assortment of tools. I have glued, nailed, crammed and jammed the thing into usable shelving many times.

Alas, it was not to be this time. Out of nowhere came the sound of wood crunching. Well, particle board crunching. When a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make any sound? When a book case falls apart in the music room and no one is there, it definitely DOES make a sound. Crunch was heard both near and far.

Various locking screws and nuts no longer screw or nut. So it was time for a new bookcase. Unfortunately, I could not find a suitable bookcase of the same size. So I had to spend twice as much and buy two bookcases. I would've preferred to move us into mission style furniture at this point. But, as we have no other mission style furniture, and no plans to purchase any new furniture for the next 10 years (while children are receiving their higher educations), I opted for very plain danish modern ish.

We picked them up over Thanksgiving weekend. After much discussion, we collectively decided that we needed to drive two SUVs to pick up two bookcases. Just in case they didn't fit into one. We trekked out on Friday. Black Friday, to be exact. The furniture store is located 30 minutes from our house. Somehow, 30 minutes seemed quite far to my dad. Why? I don't know. He lives in Michigan where you have to drive 30 minutes to get ANYWHERE.

But I digress. We easily collected the two bookcases in one, yes, one SUV and drove on back from the hinterlands to Oak Park. I thought my brother, Dave, might feel compelled to put them together while he was visiting. He's one of those guys who has a hard time sitting still. Always likes to have a project handy. But, after he repaired two of my kitchen cupboards, he didn't seem inclined to tackle the bookcases. Bless his heart. He left them for me.

I managed to avoid the task for 24 hours. But now I am working on them. I think putting furniture together (or any project that requires scanning wordless directions) is tantamount to giving birth. Once you've put something together, you forget how painful it is. You forget that it's akin to smacking your skull endlessly on the floor for several hours.

I hold the single page of instructions in stronger light. With my glasses on. So that I might see if the sketches delineate precisely which way is UP on each piece of wood. Decoding images is not my strong point. After knitting for many years, I still can't look at a piece of knitting and tell you how many rows I've knitting because I don't exactly recognize the difference between one row and two.

I imagine that's a learning disability. But in our academic world, word decoding is far more important than image decoding. I didn't learn I had this problem until I hit geometry in 10th grade. After scraping by with a C, I promptly forgot this challenge until I got married and started putting things together. Furniture. Bikes. Children's toys. Somehow, I became the designated put-ter togetherer.

I have developed coping mechanisms to help me decipher the wordless sketches manufacturers seem compelled to supply me with. I stare at them, mostly. For a long time. It's sort of similar to "measure twice, cut once". Look a million times, put together once. I've tried it the other way. I usually end up taking things apart several times. Or smashing them with a hammer, trying to MAKE them fit together.

And why is it that wordless sketches are the chosen instructions of manufacturers? Do they assume that a large part of their consumer audience is illiterate? Or do they think it's simply easier to follow a diagram rather than a wordy paragraph.

Obviously, I prefer a wordy, if precise, paragraph. :-)

Off to bang and smash. I mean carefully assemble.

Liz

Ralph

2007-11-16T19:26:00.000-06:00

There is a virulent stomach bug attacking Oak Parkers this month. Everyone's talking about it, as mass illness of this nature tends to bring out the small town in people. And everyone has a story about who caught it, what horrible havoc it wrecked on them, and who the "Typhoid Mary" is in their crowd.

I listened with distant sympathy, initially. I don't get sick. Yes, I have been struggled with anemia for several years now. But I don't get sick. I get sick seldom enough that it is News in my family when it occurs. It is a badge of honor. It is will power.

So, as I watched the men of the family come down with the bug, I again felt sympathy, of course. And a certain secret sense of superiority, as I knew I wasn't going to be suffering as they were. And suffering they were, and did. Looked nasty. Appeared to involve worshiping the porcelain god, moaning, and a great deal of restless sleeping. Thank goodness I wouldn't be subjected to such indignities.

Two days after Jon finished tossing his cookies, the mighty fell. Well, I didn't actually fall. I was sitting at Thursday AM Bible study, kvetching about how annoyingly unfair the Old Testament God seems to be, when I noticed that my stomach and surrounding environs ached. Being a bit weight-fixated at the moment, I decided that my jeans were too tight. Wrenching myself of the daydream about yelling at God over the unfairness of being 45, a daily exerciser, and overweight, I ignored said ache.

Drove home. Felt worse. Couldn't ignore it. Do you know why one salivates so excessively before, during and after regurgitation? To protect teeth enamel, Wikipedia tells me. I've always wondered about this. Finally looked it up 36 hours after the couldn't ignore it segment of pre-illness.

And it was a rather ignominious 36 hours. It is so annoying to lose an imagined superiority in such a stunning uncomfortable fashion. The last time I ached this much was after skiing a 50k race in my 30s with little preparation. Since I don't believe in getting sick, I can't actually remember the last time I had to invoke vomit euphemisms in the first person.

Parenthetically speaking, I remember making lists of those euphemisms during long Y swim meets with my friends. We'd sit and lick our fingers, full of red dry Jello mix (for energy!), and toss out vile descriptive words and phrases with glee. Young people don't mind talking about the V word because they have short memories. They don't remember how awful it is to actually do the V word.

But I digress. :-)

There is nothing like a stomach virus to give you a new and enhanced appreciation for the incredible variety and strength of said viruses. Each person seems to suffer in their own unique way. Jonathan slept for 15 hours the first day, which is often his response to illness. Carl didn't have the luxury of quite so much sleep, but was pleased to become ill on a non-football, non-Bach Cantata weekend.

Sleep was not happening for me, as I hurt too much. I finally gave in and took a Tylenol Plus Other Drugs That Knock You Out, and surrendered to a blissful sleep. Woke up various times to text with Annie about who was driving her where and when, and to pet the Maggie dog, keeping me warm during my feverish ups and downs. Carl felt sorry enough for me that he didn't even complain about the dog being on his side of the bed.

I am better today. No technicolor emissions. Not much food, either. One of this viruses cunning symptoms is its ability to restrict food intake to small, bland and boring for some days after it surfaces. I rose from the couch this evening to bake some cupcakes. Don't ask why. After a few licks of the batter, why I had only eaten yogurt and a few crackers became quite obvious. Hmm. Back to crackers for another day, I think.

Annie has yet to contract the disease. She's off at a party this evening (a birthday party for a 16 year old in Chicago hotel??) then sleeping over at the virus-free home of another friend. Either she'll avoid it all by being away, or she'll come home exhausted and my humbling experience with virology won't be over quite yet.

Back to the couch to finish reading another Henning Mankell mystery. (Thanks, J!)

Liz

Pray Tell

2007-11-14T14:14:00.000-06:00

What is with public prayer and elected officials lately? Two recent news items make mockery of prayer as a spiritual exercise. There is the stupid law recently passed in Illinois requiring a moment of silence each morning, thus legislating a time for payer that is already protected by law. And we've got Governor Sonny Perdue leading his assembled masses in prayer for rain. Yes, rain. In drought-stricken, water-wasting Georgia, they are resorting to praying for the heavens to open and water to fall.

There are so many things wrong with this activity. I scarcely know where to begin. Practically speaking, a public prayer assembly would be the very last action I'd want my governor to take in a drought. I want him to be staying up nights with conservation officials months in advance of the current crisis, when it is clear that a drought is happening, to determine how to head it off.

But that wasn't Governor Perdue's approach. Lake Lanier, Atlanta's drinking fountain, has been withering away all summer. Yet, "(a)ll summer, more than a year after the drought began, fountains blithely sprayed, football fields were watered, prisoners got two showers a day and Coca-Cola’s bottling plants chugged along at full strength. In early October, on an 81-degree day, an outdoor theme park began to manufacture what was intended to be a 1.2-million gallon mountain of snow."

The state didn't manage to take significant action until late September when it finally banned outdoor water use. I have no window into how God might work. But I highly doubt She'd be terribly inclined to dump rainwater at the request of such foolish, wasteful people. No God would be that stupid.

Which brings me to the spiritual aspects of such an exercise: God as Keeper of the candy store door. What an immature approach to faith, asking for God to supply our wants when we have the means to meet our needs. And there's the age-old question of if God did answer prayers in this way, why would She choose to "answer" Governor Perdue's prayer but not the prayers of those in similarly waterless Tennessee? Save woman X from breast cancer but not woman Y? What, Tennessee is full of sinner, and woman Y full of sin so their collective prayers are not worthy?

The concept of prayer as a way of asking for stuff, even big important stuff, eludes me, in spite of its Biblical presence. I can't reconcile a loving Creator with a God who would capriciously answer some prayers and not others. I don't believe that those whose prayers aren't answered are deemed unworthy. I don't believe that prayers are answered by God at all.

Prayer is a fragile thread that connects me to something far More than myself. It weaves community among those who share it. It's an unending conversation in a language I can only begin to understand, with Someone I'll never see and am not always quite sure is there.

Do I bring my concerns, petty and large into the conversation? Sure. I'm so human that I can't help be focused on me, Me, ME! But I have no expectation of the fairy wand wave, the key magically unlocking the door to the candy store, the slate of my poor behavior wiped clean with no effort on my part. My faint hope is that between the skills I was created with and the talents you were given, maybe together we can figure it all out.

Where is God in all of that? God is in the part of me that patiently listens to you when you complain a little too long about that thing that bugs you about your husband. God is in the part of you that unbegrudgingly offers to get out of bed early to take my son to school when my car is dead. On a much larger scaler, God is in those environmentalists who've been bugging Governor Perdue for months now to DO something about the water shortage.

What's the point of praying when you aren't listening for the answer, Governor Perdue?

Liz

Headache

2007-11-13T14:23:00.000-06:00

My head hurts. Why? So many possible reasons.

1. The addictive power of sugar. When you give rats a choice between sugar and cocaine, even the rats who are already hooked on cocaine will choose, yes, sugar. This seems patently unfair. What's the deal here, God? Why not make broccoli addictive? Or no salt Saltines? Noooo. You created a world in which that which is bad for you is damn good. Nice.

2. Intentional injections of hazardous materials as part of health care. In spite of the known toxicity of mercury, manufacturers continue to put it in flu vaccines at levels exceeding 4 times the daily limit for adults. Thimerosal, already banned from children's vaccines even though the US and the vaccine industry insist it causes no harm is the form of mercury included in these vaccines. It was banned as a "precautionary" measure due to protests by thousands of parents of autistic children who claim it either caused or exacerbated their children's condition.

Is there any good reason for humans to ingest mercury? "Certainly it would be good to have no mercury exposure at all," said Jeanne Santoli, deputy director of immunization services division for the CDC. "But there's no conclusive scientific evidence that the amount of mercury one might get from a flu shot is linked with any neurological development outcome that's negative."

Why do I not find that particularly comforting? The EPA (not exactly a high functioning protector these days) says that mercury turns liquid into hazardous waste at 200 parts per billion. Drinking water is supposed to have no more than 2 parts per billion. The flu vaccine has 50,000 parts per billion.

The flu is bad. But we shouldn't be forced to choose between having the flu or injecting ourselves with toxic chemicals.

3. My family is paying $20,200 for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Yours, too, if you're a US tax-paying consuming family of 4. Now, the Democrats are apparently the ones who have come up with these figures. Naturally, that makes them suspect in some circles. But let's say that number is off by (oh no, I'm going to attempt math here) 25%. I wouldn't be much happier with my family paying around $15,000 a year for those wars.

And that figure doesn't include the loss of life in Iraq and Afghanistan, Iraqi, Afghani, and American. Can't put a price tag on those expenses. But apparently it's worth it to both a majority of the Democrats and Republicans in our Congress, as they keep voting to fund the wars, at our expense, our children's expense, and at the expense of security in the Middle East.

And I haven't even begun to consider Bush's veto of a bill to fund health, education, and labor programs. Too expensive and too full of pork, he says. We can pay for silencers for Blackwater operatives, fund loser wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, threaten war in Iran, but can't fund health and education? No wonder I have a headache.

Liz