Two Sides of Guilty as Hell

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I told my husband I would blog about this. There is no way that I can’t. The irony struck me in the face last night and I’m still reeling from the assault. I should start from the beginning only I can’t. I won’t. Out of loyalty, out of respect I won’t fuel the fire more than it already has been. BUT just so that I’m not another babbling idiot I will say this – my husband is dealing with more crap than he deserves. Someone in his circle of life has been accused of a crime (well, a few) and there is no way this person is innocent. Not 100%. No way in Hell. Anyway you look at the situation this guy is at fault in some way. Whether it’s 5% guilty or 100% it still spells Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. All the way in trouble and it troubles me. It’s a classic case of he said, she said, she said he did. No way to really sort it out. No way to walk away. Can’t deny, can’t ignore. Especially for kisa. He didn’t ask for this, but there it is.

So that’s one side of guilty – here’s the other. My husband received a letter from the DMV – no wait, RMV…No, I think I had it right the first time – DMV. Anyway, the Registry, Division, Department, the something of Motor Vehicles. I immediately assumed it was a registration renewal or something mundane, something ho hum. Disinterested, I turned back to shaking worcestershire sauce and montreal seasoning on the burgers…until I heard him swearing and muttering “‘not again.” Turns out the state of California thinks my husband travels across the country to treat their roadways as his own private German autobahn…and then drives home again…to New England. The RMV/DMV is revoking his license at the end of the month because someone with his same name and birthday drives like an idiot somewhere on the west coast. There are three driving offenses listed in the letter and kisa was obviously at work for every single one. There is no way he is guilty of anything mentioned in the letter. Nevertheless, here’s the kicker – he has to take time away from his already fukced up life to take care of the situation…again. Yes, this has happened before – before I met him. Kisa’s betting it’s the same wackjob who doesn’t know how to operate a moving vehicle. What are the chances?

So. Last night as I was brushing my teeth I was thinking about guilt – the obvious kind and the obviously not. Kisa operates on the fine line of There Is No Way This Is Happening To Me. Yet it is. Two sides of guilty. Drive carefully.

The Paperboy (with Spoiler)

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PaperboyDexter, Pete. The Paperboy. New York: Random House, 1995.

For the longest time I have been concentrating on books that begin with the letter ‘A’ such as About Time, Animal Dreams, and Awakening. As if getting through the A titles would be the most reasonable thing to do first. When The Paperboy by Pete Dexter showed up at my library I felt it was a sign to read it. Especially since it’s on The List and academics don’t keep books like The Paperboy around. I listen to signs.

The Paperboy is an intriguing first-person tale about two brothers working to prove the innocence of a man convicted of murdering Moat County Sheriff Thurmond Call. As Hillary Van Wetter sits on death row, looking as guilty as a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar, Jack James and his journalist brother Ward investigate the events leading up to the murder. They get help along the way from Van Wetter’s girlfriend – an apparent death row groupie – as well as other interesting characters.
All the evidence leads towards Van Wetter’s innocence until one day it doesn’t. Instead of all hell breaking loose purgatory unfolds, unwinds for the brothers, slow and sinister like a boa constrictor unfurling itself from a tree limb. Things go from bad to worse until dark becomes death. I couldn’t put it down for three days straight. Even though I saw Ward’s suicide coming the instant he wanted to know more about swimming it still took me by surprise when it finally happened. 

BookLust Twists: From Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust and More Book Lust. In Book Lust in the chapter “First Lines to Remember” Pearl draws attention to Dexter’s first line, “My brother Ward was once a famous man”‘ (p.86) and in More Book Lust in the chapter called “O Brother!” (p180).

Animal Dreams

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Animal DreamsKingsolver, Barbara. Animal Dreams. New York: HarperPerennial, 1990.

I wish I could remember the first time I read a Kingsolver novel. I know I was hooked on Atwood before Kingsolver, so there must have been something about Animal Dreams that made me think it was reminiscent of Handmaid’s Tale. I’m guessing there was something about a strong female voice, for starters, since that’s what drew me to Handmaid in the first place. It was more than that, really. If you read Handmaid outloud Offred comes alive; she’s in the room with you. Same with Codi from Animal Dreams.
Animal Dreams is, by far, my favorite Kingsolver book. I have read it countless times, passed it on to others just as many times, marked up every copy I own with bold underlining and exclamation points. It’s the book I pick up just to relive a chapter or a sentence. It’s the book I call Essential and would rush into a burning building to save.

To start from the beginning,  Animal Dreams is about a woman (around my age) who comes home to take care of her aging father. She also becomes the biology teacher at the local high school. She’s been away awhile so she’s awkward in her re-entry to hometown life. Memories stagger and stumble back into her heart and mind from time to time. She has a cool name (Cosima but goes by Codi) and a cool way of looking at the world. She adores her sister, Halimeda, and barely remembers life when her mom was alive. Her dad is crusty and unforgiving, loving and fumbling. As a result Codi is tough and sensitive. She views coming home like I do, “hoping for forgiveness for something I can’t quite apologize for.” (p12) While home she faces the complication of an old love and the tragedy of a town endangered by a poisoned water supply.

BookTwist: From Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust in the chapter “Ecofiction” (p 78). Although Pearl inaccurately calls Codi “Cosi”, I’m glad she included my favorite Kingsolver novel. 

13 Days to Glory

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13 daysTinkle, Lon. 13 Days to Glory: The Siege of the Alamo. New York: Macgraw-Hill, 1958

“Remember the Alamo!” is all that I remember from my Texas history lessons. No matter. Reading 13 Days to Glory has brought me up to speed. Tinkle wrote 13 Days based on letters and newspaper reports and gives a day by day and even hour by hour account of the siege. I now can tell you where the phrase “Remember the Alamo” originated from, the time of year (February), the weather (cold), and characters (Jim Bowie, Davey Crockett, William Travis & Santa Ana to name a few), too.

Set up as a historical novel with character thoughts and feelings, 13 days also includes photography of portraits and of course, the Alamo then and now. The picture of the Alamo church next to the San Antonio medical arts center is impressive.
The siege was incredibly brutal. Santa Ana wanted every Texan dead – no surrenders, no escapes and he got what he wanted. Every Alamo defender was killed and unceremoniously burned. But, in defense of the Mexican General, Tinkle doesn’t spend much time telling his side of the story. It’s all about about keeping the legends of the Alamo alive. It makes me want to travel to Texas just to stand beside the legendary structure and lay a hand on its stone walls.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust and the chapter called “Texas: A Lone Star State of Mind” (p233).

Where I Started

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I am sick, sick, sick of the mother question. I’m beginning to hate Mother’s Day just because it somehow gives people license to ask me that mother of all questions, “when are you having a baby?” What’s with the when and why are you asking me? Why on Mother’s Day? If it’s not in the form of a question it’s a statement, “well, when you have kids…” Like it’s a given that experience is definitely going to happen. To Me. I think the parenting question should be right up there with sex, politics and religion. Personally, if I don’t offer the information that should mean I don’t want to talk about it. In simpler terms it’s none of your business.
When faced with the When question I think of all the responses I could give. To say we’re not ready implies something shameful. Like we haven’t grown up enough to hurl ourselves into the act raising a child. Like we haven’t prepared enough and will fail the big parenting exam. We’ve been goofing off in the back row of life.
To say we can’t afford children indicates a poverty level beyond the bank account. We’re bankrupt in love for children and can only think (selfishly) of ourselves. We’re not willing to give up, to sacrifice, the luxuries of travel and concerts and good food for the sake of having a junior to call our own. At least that’s the perception if we say kids are expensive.
To say I’m afraid of the pain only results in smirks and looks of IfIDidItWhyCan’tYou? Can’t even go there with mothers who endured labor for endless hours without meds. It’s not enough to shrug and say, “I’m not you.” Shame on me.
To say we’re afraid of being bad parents implies we didn’t like our own upbringing; that somehow we’re afraid we’ll turn out just like “them” or worse yet, we’ve insulted our elders. The question that inevitably follows is, “what’s wrong with the way you were raised?” Don’t get me started.
There’s only one Shut-Them-Up answer out there. We can’t have kids. Period. I mean, how does one respond to a woman who point blank says “I’m infertile. Thanks for asking…”? The consequence of such a statement is the danger of coming across as damaged goods, a female with faulty wiring. A royal fukc up in another life. “Do not confront me with my failures…I have not forgotten them” ~ Jackson Brown.

Better not mention adoption unless you want your head bitten off.

Mark Your Calendars

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CloserI think I’ve said it before. I don’t set my vcr, time my Tivo, or race home to watch many shows as they air. In the past it was Northern Exposure and Home Front. I can still watch old episodes of NE. Quirky and classic, I loved every one. Home Front…well, it won a People’s Choice award but promptly went off the air. That should tell you something.

With the advent of only watching Tivo’ed programing I have to admit sports, news and weather are the only things I want to watch live-as-it-happens. As for all the rest, why sit through commercials when you can fast forward through most of them? I say most because I still love the car commercial about the tiny legs and big head and the sleep-aid commercial with the meth-making astronaut. We are becoming a segmented society – downloading one or two songs instead of buying the whole album, reading an article instead of subscribing to the whole journal, weeding out what’s on television by DVR…

Having said all that, TNT’s The Closer is the only drama…(read: the only program period) worth watching “live”…when it actually airs. Tivo is strictly for watching it again. And again. Late night with friends. So, mark your calendars. Season III starts June 18th. And for cleaning out Season II from your Tivo directory…the DVD goes on sale May 29th.

The Great Training Lie

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I used to tell people I trained all by myself for the LLS half marathon. All alone. While it was true that I never made it to a training session (45 minutes away), I never met my coach, and I never ran with a group of like-minded individuals to say that I trained alone is a huge lie. It’s my all-time greatest training lie. So, here for the first time I would like to publicly thank the people who pulled me through 13.1 miles exactly one year ago today.

  • My mother. Her story of losing her mom to cancer (at MY age) broke my heart and built resolve in its place. I would not have even considered the venture if it hadn’t been for her. One of my favorite “mom” stories is not only did my mother research hotels with gyms so that I could train on the road, but she diligently tried out every exercise machine in said gym to keep me company while I ran for 90 minutes. One of my favorite mother-daughter conversations came out of that training session.
  • My sister. Race day she brought her whole family to NH stand in the pouring rain while I tackled the thirteen. She has friends who run more important, full marathons yet she made me feel like my run was a big deal to her. Running was that much easier knowing she was waiting at the finish line.
  • My husband. He got donations from coworkers to help with my fund raising efforts. He stuck to my diet better than I did. He stuck to my training schedule better than I did. He became my Miyagi after I got hurt, taping my knee before every run, coming with me to PT appointments, riding along side me when I ran, all the while asking, “how does the knee feel? Talk to me.”
  • Dr. John. Even though my knee was blown, he kept saying “We’ll get you through this.” My weekly sometimes twice weekly visits with him made me feel better about how I was taking care of the patella “issue” (because as John says life is one big issue).
  • Sarah. Her endless enthusiasm for my endeavor was infectious. She remained supportive even after I showed signs of giving up. Her attitude kept me positive every literal step of the way.
  • Gregory. I asked a bunch of people for music advice. I needed driving beats that would carry me through the harder miles (okay, the hills). Greg was the only one to come through. It the end, it was his drumming I heard the loudest and loved the best.
  • Bessie & my dad. Their ghosts were the angels that sat on my shoulder, whispered to me in lucid dreams and fueled my waking imagination.
  • Ruth. Her pragmatic approach to my bellyaching was to say simply, “you can do this.” Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes, that’s all I needed.
  • Honorable mentions: Nick, Rebecca, Carolyn, George & Joanie. All of them picked up running because of me in some weird way. Rebecca and Carolyn went on to run in some pretty important races and Nick (the guy who hated running) could probably kick my butt in a distance race these days. I am proud those still running. You guys rock! My knee has crippled my ability but not my spirit and I run through your endeavors.

So, while I SAY I trained alone, really I didn’t. I had an army of support. I am proud of what I accomplished one year ago today and I have every person mentioned here to thank. Couldn’t have done it without you.

Hike For Discovery

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Grand CanyonI swear the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society comes up with a different program every six months. This time it’s “Hike for Discovery.” They call it their “new fundraising adventure program.” It’s brilliant, really. Think about it. LLS is known for training people to run marathons, bike hundreds of miles, swim across tons of water. If all that feels a little intimidating here’s something for you – hiking! Sounds simple enough, right? Walking – putting one foot in front of the other. Here’s the event they are recruiting for and you tell me: The Grand Canyon. Yes, the G R A N D C A N Y O N! October 4-8. They cleverly don’t tell you how many miles you hike per day but let this be a potential lesson: you train beforehand. That should tell you something right there. You learn hiking techniques (besides putting one foot in front of the other), you receive a year membership in the American Hiking Society. There are clinics on first aid, hydration, and trail safety. They say nothing about snake bites specifically but that’s the first thing I thought of when I saw the words “Grand Canyon”…but, forget all that – I would have failed with the hydration part alone!

I would love to do this. It sounds hard. It sounds fun. Here’s what’s holding me back – the fund raising. I don’t think I could ask my friends and family for another two grand, despite the fact someone I love dearly is battling a blood related cancer right now. I’m too chick-chick-chicken to go through that again! So, if someone else signs up for this, let me know! I’ll donate something.

Missing You

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I can feel it. It’s starting again, that dull ache called homesick. Is there no cure? This isn’t my computer, but I know the feeling. I want to be there, too. Now. Memorial Day weekend is about remembering and usually I head home for a week to forget. Forget how to drive a car. Forget how to send an email. Send how to crunch reference statistics. Forget how to be corporate. Forget how to answer the phone. Forget petty squabbles and horn-honkers. It’s when I relearn how to run over roots and rocks. Retrain my eye to soak up sunsets and search for seaglass. Remember how to breathe in salt ladden air and sweet pine. Concentrate on cracking the lobster claw, clinking the wine glass.
Not this time. Not this trip. I am missing you just a little longer this year. Homesick for another month.

When You Win

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I spent three hours sitting in a round table discussion today only we were in a giant rectangle. I was the only academic in a sea of publics and yes, it felt weird. Three hours of WhatAmIDoingHere? and IsThisAWasteOfTime? I couldn’t decide. It was like sleeping with the enemy, or more politely, seeing how the other half lives. But, all the while I felt unproductive as excuse my language.

Maybe it was the three hours wasted. Maybe it was the extra 25 minute drive to work. Maybe sunlight just reached a darkened part of my brain. I don’t know. Whatever the reason, the light came on when I got to work and I came up with a solution to a dilemma from a few weeks ago. I don’t know made me think collaboration but suddenly, there it was in front of my face – the answer to the delivery problem. I had felt like a loser all day until suddenly I won.

NARAL

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NARAL Pro-Choice America came to me in a huge envelope with “priority documents” written all over it. Looking as official as can be they spelled my name wrong. Upon opening the oversized documents the first thing I read was, “No need for women to worry about making personal, private decisions about their bodies. Do YOU want men like these deciding for all women?” and below was a picture of George W. Bush and his cronies. Supposedly, he is caught in the act of signing into the law the first-ever Federal Abortion Ban. He has a smirk on his face.
On the back of the envelope is a fake handwritten note asking me to please help protect reproductive freedom by signing the enclosed petition. I hate that fake, crayon-scrawled, made-to-look-like-my-friend, personal propaganda. They further irritated me by circling my donation bracket, as if I couldn’t decide the dollar amount for myself and could possibly make the wrong choice. Any money I chose to donate should be good enough, but no – they have to tell me what they want me to give. That set the tone for me to ignore the three pre-written petitions to Kennedy, Kerry & Neal on behalf on NARAL. I couldn’t even bear to read the four page “letter” from Nancy Keenan on the matter. NARAL tried to appeal to my sense of womanhood yet they failed to appeal to my sense of intellect. I couldn’t even figure out from the literature I received what NARAL stands for. Going to the website wasn’t that much clearer.

For more information visit NARAL here.

Buddhist Peace Fellowship

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BPFThis is what I get for subscribing to magazines such as Yoga Journal and Tricycle. I start getting literature proclaiming, “wisdom and compassion for social change.” Such is the case with the Buddhist Peace Fellowship. Sent on a baby blue trifold pamphlet, BPF outlined their vision (people from all backgrounds realizing their connection to each other and to the Earth – I’ve paraphrased it). Also included in the literature was information on BASE: Buddhist Alliance for Social Engagement, the Transformative Justice Program, the Young Adult Program, the Prison Program, and Turning Wheel (a spiritual publication). There’s information on how to get involved, how to send money, how to be in contact. The letter startsoff, “Dear Friend…” from Maia Duerr, Executive Director. How she knows I’m a friend I’ll never know, but I’m looking into it.

 For more information on the Buddhist Peace Fellowship, go here.

Together

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I’ve been thinking about relationships as of late. I think it’s because in knitting class we talked about what it means to be married and widowed at the same time. Married for life even through one half’s death. My swan of a mother is still that way, married for life despite walking through it alone.
When kisa and I took a walk today we discussed what exactly was a liveable life. We were talking about careers and work that could take us away from each other for long periods of time. I was firm in my belief that I didn’t get married to be alone. Kisa is my glass half full, my sunshine on a cloudy day, my resuscitator when I want to flat-line, my better half. I couldn’t untangle my heart from his if I tried.
A friend of mine got engaged over the weekend. I’m excited for her. (Can’t wait to see the ring!!!) After hanging up the phone Kisa and I had fun remembering our first years together – the interesting “date” at the bar, moving in together (what is this stuff???), getting engaged (one of my all time embarrassing moments), getting married…all of it including the mistakes we made, all the fun we had finding our way together. Despite all that I still think now is the happiest time of our lives.
I wish my friend well. This is only the beginning. As they say, the best is yet to come.

Capturing the Machine (For Brian)

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(photo by Monica)
Sometimes I think of circumstance as a devilish way of linking what will be. Que sera sera. Almost a year ago I lamented that I needed a road trip. I blogged & begged friends far and wide appealing to their sense of adventure, “…come join me. I want a trip to NY…” No one came. Living was too much of a commitment on the calendar on life. Yet, kisa found a willing adventurer and the adventure began.
Who knew that by introducing a coworker we would be one day making a professional video for Greg?
Rewind to July 2006. On the trip home Rob asked “now…how do you know Greg?” Was he curious because I was having a furious conversation, arms waving widely, tears barely contained? I don’t remember all that I said to Rob, nor all that I didn’t say. I know I finished with “he deserves all the best…” or something like that. Then my Knight took over with an idea. Let’s make a video. We could use the studio late night. Yeah! We could use a couple of cameras, crazy lighting and cool sound. Yes! It would be simple. Back and forth they discussed. I could only sit back and listen in amazement. I only gave birth to an emotion and watched in awe as it went on to greatness. My one and only contribution was giving it life. Such was the conversation between kisa and Rob. They incubated the plan for nearly nine long months, though. Sat on it through downsizing and corporate confusing, just waiting for the perfect moment. They had to keep me at arm’s length when I started to be too impatient. “It’ll happen. It’ll happen” became my mantra. 
April. The plan hatched into reality. I was allowed to invite one friend. Greg and Monica showed up around 9:45pm bringing Mike with them. After the kit was set up we hit an anticipated road block – the news had to be shot live. This is when we went out for coffee and I being the crazy driver I am nearly had everyone wearing their lattes. Still feeling red in the face about that one!
Once the news was finished (11:45pm) we could continue setting up. In rolled five cameras complete with operators for two of them. The other three were stationed strategically, the coolest being an overhead shot (from my last blog). To top it off we had two unexpected hands to help with setup and audio (thanks, Bob & Al!). It was an impressive night. Rob, the original plan-hatcher stayed in the director’s booth, giving direction to the cameramen (kisa & Pez on headsets) while the groupies sat ringside. Can I say I was in heaven? Selfish, selfish heaven. All I could think was “I’m getting a private Greg show! I’m the luckiest drum fanatic in the world!” I was surrounded by great friends and amazing drumming. I couldn’t have been happier. We ended the night sometime after 1:45am. I have a pic of Pez wheeling away a camera and the clock above the studio reads 1:51.54
Late this week we were able to send Greg a copy of the raw footage. My heart races watching it. I can’t wait for the finished product. When Greg decides what parts he likes Rob will edit it down. Then Greg will have a visual resume. But, we’re not done with Mr. Nash yet. Not yet. Everyone involved talked about a “next time” admitting they had not had this much fun in years. They’re talking different lighting, different camera angles, different techniques as if this time was just a practice run for the next time.

But, my mind is blown. No one needs to tell me I take things for granted. My didactic moment is this – I took this night for granted. I didn’t consider what this night might mean to anyone other than myself. Can’t wait to do it again.
Never underestimate the power of doing something for someone else. It might mean more than you’ll ever know.

Happy Birthday

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I have been thinking of you all day. You are 70 today, or you would have been if 9/21/92 didn’t mark another kind of day. Happy Birth Day. But sadday, too. Can I tell you I miss our breakfast table morning talks? There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think of something to tell you, something to ask you. Am I living this life right? Where’s the Chilton manual for that? While I question this life, I speak of you often – telling stories of navigation lessons gone awry and near disaster driving lessons. Remember when I almost put the land rover in the ditch? You live on in my fondest, most cherished memories. Just today I told the Clean Your Room Story. My audience laughed and said you were right to throw the bed through the ceiling. As usual, you were proving a point. I was a rebellious, bratty child.
You ran with me today. You were in my head as I tackled five miles. I think that’s the thing that would shock you the most, dad. I’m a runner. Me. The child with her nose in a book, inside on a beautiful sunny summer day. I still can hear you telling me to get my butt outside. I can still remember how “put out” I felt by your insistence of “get some fresh air.” You probably knew that while I begrudgingly obeyed…I brought my book with me. Anything athletic was out of the question for this book worm – slug. But, now I run.
Dad, I need your help with so many things lately. I’m in denial about a friend’s cancer. I’ve just spent three days with like-minded professionals and somehow I can’t put myself in their league. I feel like I’m in the kiddie pool when I know I can swim. I really can’t but that’s neither here nor there. I worry about so many different things to the point of heat blisters and bald spots. I get lost staring at kisa playing Guitar Hero II. It’s distracting. You would not believe this world we live in. Kids have wheels in their shoes. You would want to trip them. There’s a guy on the Internet, his name is Justin and his whole life is on the web…Dad, his whole life. Then there’s Twitter and something called Second Life. So many things I wouldn’t even know how to begin to explain to you.

But, forget all that. If you were here we’d make meatloaf and have angel food cake for dessert. Happy birthday.