Uppercase Woman

Off into the wild blue yonder, without the internet (yikes)

Today for the first time we are off to the "cabin" in the Poconos (it's a mobile home, but whatever). We have no furniture in it--AT ALL--but we're taking the pack-n-play and an air mattress with plans to hit several thrift stores and used furniture places in an attempt to start furnishing the place. While we haven't gotten our economic stimulus check yet, we have a bit of cash on hand we can use (no, NOT your BlogHer donations. By the way, you've paid for tickets, the registration, and 2/3 of one hotel night! Woot!).

I feel like I should write some sort of lovely post that will keep you all content until I return on Friday night, because we do not yet have Internet set up there. They are coming on Friday to install the cable modem up there (no cable TV, just Internet, because one can live without television; one cannot live without the Internet). We might be able to pirate a signal up there, but I have low expectations.

If you so desire, you can follow me on Twitter which I can update via cell phone. But I must warn you--if you fall into the abyss that is Twiter, you may not come out. Because that shit is ADDICTIVE.

I would have posted yesterday but I was felled by the mother of all migraines and was unable to function. Sorry. I'm mostly better today, and am hoping to have a better day. I was going to write a nice post about important it is to take care of yourself, because that's been on my mind lately, but alas. No time.

Sorry folks. Today is not a great post day, and I will leave you without posts this week (unless we pirate a signal--oh please please please someone nearby be using unsecured wireless Internet! We leave ours unsecure for just such unlucky folks).

So, have a great week! I promise, next time I head to the mountains I will be able to post. Whew.

High School Memories

One of the major casualties of my years of drug and alcohol abuse, particularly the overdose that got me sober (my overdose was similar to a stroke), is my memories of high school. Other than my closest friends, I have a difficult time remembering any of the folks that were not a part of my immediate circle--much to the frustration of the people that remember me (since I was the only girl in school with pink hair, more remember me than you'd think). This is very frustrating, particularly when I run into someone from high school and can't remember them, even while they yell at me, "But I sat behind you in English for four years!"

But as I've healed from the years of debauchery and addiction, my brain has also healed a bit, and I can often trigger memories of people by seeing their photos from my yearbooks (sadly, I do not actually have a yearbook; I did, but some roommates of mine through out all my stuff, but that's another story. Luckily, I have Katie, who is astonishingly willing to scan images from her yearbook and email them to me).

Since I don't actually live in the town where I went to high school any more, these embarrassing incidents of my not remembering people are few and far between (but becoming a bit more common thanks to social networking websites like Myspace and Facebook). But I'm in touch with high school friends enough that still I get to hear the good gossip, and one of those juicy bits of gossip I heard a couple of years ago was about my former arch-nemesis, a football player named Americ Joslin.

Now, not everyone is lucky enough to actually HAVE a real-life arch-nemesis like I did. But, oh, I did--I really did. Americ was all the things I hated about guys in high school in the 80's: a football player, a preppy kid, rich, and worst of all, a huge fan of our President at the time, Ronald Reagan.

Needless to say, I was NOT a Reagan fan.

Americ just had it in for me. We had a huge amount of classes together, particularly the ones I actually liked and occasionally managed to attend. He would pick a fight with me every day. Seriously, every day. In Driver's Ed, he'd wax eloquently about how women are terrible drivers. In English, if I pointed out the sexism of the literature we were reading, he'd call me a dirty feminist (like I minded) and talk about how men were better anyway, so OF COURSE the readings should be sexist. Don't even get me started about classes like History or Economics.

It was bad. Our hatred of each other was rather legendary, and I am sure our teachers despised us. In a way, it was almost like having a blog troll following me around all day trying to get my goat. And being young, brash, and easy to incite, he got me going every. single. time.

By senior year we'd settled into an easy patter, and in some ways I actually grew kind of fond of Americ. It was almost better than coffee, arguing with him. It was a fun way to start my day.

A few years ago, Katie told me that he'd gotten into some trouble. He was the owner of a bar, I think, and was caught embezzling money. Plus, he stole his mother's identity and took out a big ol' mortgage in her name. Part of me was a little gleeful about it--he was always such a straight arrow--but most of me was sad. Sad that he'd landed in such a place.

Well, the story gets even worse. Last Wednesday his brother was driving him to the minimum-security prison he was supposed to serve three years in for his crimes, and right before they arrived he asked his brother to pull over so he could pray. Instead of praying, he shot himself in the head.

I find myself full of the familiar anger at Americ. I wish he could come back so I could tell him how stupid a thing to do that was. That he would have been in prison maybe 18 months, and he would have been free and clear after that to try to get better instead of, as another classmate of mine said, finding such a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I mean, his poor brother; can you imagine? God. Plus, he has (had?) a daughter.

There are always reasons to live. This was not a reason to kill yourself.

Americ isn't the first friend I've lost to suicide, not even the first one to use a gun. It makes me so fucking angry, and sad.

My heart and my prayers go out to his family. Rest in peace, Americ.

Update + Pity Party!

So, wow--struck a chord with that last post, eh?

After reading everyone's responses, yesterday we headed off to the playground determined that Tori would hold my hand while walking to the park.

YIKES.

She REALLY didn't want to. And by that I mean, screaming, crying, flinging herself down onto the sidewalk in dismay. We made it about fifteen feet. Every time she fell to the ground I'd let go of her hand/arm, and then when she tried to walk I grabbed it again. I said, quietly and firmly, "Walk? Playground? Slide? Hold hand!" Over and over and over again. Finally, after she was crying so hard she was starting to choke and puke, and flinging herself down on the concrete sidewalk hard enough to bruise, I just picked her up and brought her home, washed her face, and gave her some juice.

She was SO MAD AT ME. For HOURS after. I cannot convey to you how much this took out of us both, and how awful it was, and how horrid I felt. I can't do this every day. I simply can't.

So, we went to Tarjay, and let Tori pick out a backpack leash thing (by pick, I let her choose between the bear and the monkey--she chose the bear, which surprised me--she loves monkeys). We put it on her as a test to walk over to a nearby restaurant to eat lunch and...OH. MY. GOD.

It was heaven.

It's the first time I have felt safe walking with her in public in six months. I cannot tell you how much stress was lifted away from me, how my shoulders relaxed. People gave us looks--yes they did--and perhaps I did feel a need to announce to each one that "She's run into the street three times!" (which did cure the looks, by the way)--but MAN it was such a relief. I plan to use it often. I realize that it doesn't allow her to learn control, but you know what? SHE'S NOT EVEN TWO YET. She doesn't turn two until JUNE. She'll get there.

The other thing we are doing is playing "Freeze." We did it this morning inside and it was great fun. I plan to do play again at the park this afternoon, and keep doing it every day until it's second nature for her.

All in all, great advice and sympathy from everyone. Thank you so much. On a funny note, today when we got home from shopping and lunch, we parked in front of the house instead of in the driveway (so Charlie could take his other car out) and Tori had to walk on the sidewalk a bit. So I held her hand (she didn't have the backpack on since she can't wear it in the car seat), and when she resisted--with her usual methods of going limp, crying, and yanking at her arm--I just stood still until she stopped. And guess what? After just a few seconds, she held my hand all the way to the front door.

Maybe this won't be so hard after all. I think I hadn't realized just how often we give in to her demands rather than listen to the screaming--and that, my friends, is the ultimate problem, of course. God willing, with some hard work on our part, in a few weeks she'll be much better--and maybe she'll survive to actually see that second birthday.

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So, as I've mentioned about a gazillion times, tomorrow is my birthday. And as those of you who follow me on Twitter (Twitter updates are those things under my picture--where you post super mini blog updates--I'm totally addicted) already know, I was having quite the pity party for myself last night. See, weeks ago I decided to have a BIG PARTY. But thanks to a rather hilarious series of events, my big party has shrunk down to about, oh, six or seven people. With Sarah and her hubby and daughter as three of those people, and me and Charlie as another two.

Sigh.

One of the funny things about getting older is that you tend to winnow down your friendships, and not have a big huge group of "party buddies" that can help you ring in a big birthday. Or at least that's been true for me. Rather than have several dozen semi-friends (as I did in my youth), I've chosen to have just a handful of really close friends and work hard on those relationships. So it's not really a shock that all those people that I used to be closer to, or are local blogging buddies I see a couple times a year, or are "city" friends I don't see that often anymore don't feel any great urge to set aside time to help me celebrate a day that, to me, feels like a big deal (anyone reading this that falls in that category and suddenly feels bad--I am SO not trying to make you feel guilty here. I totally understand; I don't come to some of your things either. I know).

But that doesn't mean I don't feel a bit sad and regretful about it.*

I didn't realize I felt sad about that, but combined with the low friend turnout for the poetry reading (I sent the invitation to over 75 people; two came), and I just was feeling pretty god damned shitty last night. So I threw myself a big ol' pity party and invited some chocolate (just a tiny bit) and some cheetos. Then I watched a lot of TV that didn't help (oh, let's see; Betty had a rotten birthday on Ugly Betty, and there was a placental abruption on ER).

And then guess what happened? I got my period this morning.

Ooooooooooooh.

Pity party OVER.

*Don't feel the need to powder my ass about this. I really do feel OK today. You don't have to leave a bunch of comments about how you'd come to my party if you lived closer, cause I already totally know that you would. :) You can just say happy birthday and leave it at that.

One of Those Annoying Mothering Confessions

So, I've become a yeller.

This is the last thing I want to be. It's not like I have a family history of it either; my mom faced plenty of hurdles raising me and I have to say, I have no memories of her yelling much until I was a teenager (then, alas, said yelling was sadly deserved). But me? I yell. I yell at Tori constantly.

And I hate myself for it.

Plus, it's completely ineffective.

Even as I type this I want to explain myself, and blame Tori--blame her spirited ways (and yes, before eight million people say it, I will get that book), her challenging sheer physicality, her incredible curiosity, and her grabby grabby grabbiness (a couple of days ago she climbed up onto a dining room chair, onto the table, found the salt shaker, and salted the entire first floor. Then danced in it). I want to throw up my hands and say, "It's not my fault! I just don't know what else to do!"

But I don't want to keep doing it, and, like I said, IT DOESN'T REALLY WORK.

The underlying issue is fear, of course. Tori has now not once, not twice, but three times run into the street. She is very fast, refuses to hold our hands (she cries and lies down if we try) and when carried lunges about so strongly that both Charlie and I think we have concussions from being head butted. So if we are walking to the playground (a mere block away), we have to try to herd her to keep her out of the street. And if we come to a driveway, she sees the downhill slope and is all like WHEE! and runs right down it into the street. Honestly, I don't think it should require the full attention of two adults to walk a toddler a block.

But see, I'm doing it again, I'm explaining how it's Tori's fault, her over exuberant behavior that causes both me and Charlie to frequently exclaim "TORI! NO!" at top volume. Tori's reaction? About 50% of the time, she turns around to see what the excitement is all about.

Gah.

This whole thing is made to seem even worse by our wonderful neighbors who have a boy about six months older than Tori that Tori loves to play with.  We spend a fair amount of time either in our front yards or in their back yard. These neighbors never yell. They admonish their son gently and with love and he responds to it every single time. Even though they just had a second baby, they still never raise their voices. Admittedly, when they gently admonish Tori, she completely fucking ignores them the same way she completely fucking ignores us. 

I don't know what to do. I'm not sure I'm asking for advice here; in fact, let's just say I'm not, that instead I'd prefer sympathy and empathy. Right now advice would feel a bit too much like punishment (I'm having a sensitive day, what can I say--I just stopped taking birth control pills so my hormones are whacked and I'm turning 40 Saturday!).

I will say that whole "talk to your toddler like a Neanderthal" thing does work with Tori occasionally. Using short word combinations I know she knows and looking her dead in the eye can get her to respond (mostly "No kick Mommy!" and "Slide? Playground? Eat lunch!" that sort of thing). But even that is useless in communicating to her that if she runs into the street when a car is coming... I can't even think about it.

My options seem to be to restrict her further--like not allow her on the front lawn unless we fence it in (which NO ONE in our neighborhood does, I'm sure it would NOT go over well), put her on a damned leash, or just not go outside. I could put her in the stroller to walk the block to the park except the only thing she hates more than holding my hand is the stroller (plus, the whole point is to get her to exercise, and walking is good for her!).

Damn it. I just want my daughter to be safe, and that's why I yell, because she terrifies me with her fearlessness and bravery and curiosity.  But the yelling is just increasing MY anxiety and not improving her behavior, so it's got to go.

Man. Just tell me that this gets easier soon, OK?

Way To Feel Old

Thank you all so much for the kind wishes about the reading. I have to say, it went much better than I anticipated. Sadly, even with all my shameless self-promotion we were only able to produce an entourage of four--Sarah, of course (cause I made her come), our friend Siobhan, Kate (the young woman who replaced me at my job) and one lone blog reader (Dana, you rock!). Luckily, the way they set up the reading a whole group of people trying to eat dinner in peace were trapped into listening to us read. I will confess they actually looked like they enjoyed themselves, so it is possible they were there on purpose. Also, the magazine we read for, The Painted Bride Quarterly, seems to have about a dozen people working for it so that also helped give us warm bodies to read to. All in all, it was a good night--even if almost everyone we read to (we were very close to the University of Pennsylvania campus) was about twenty years old.

Sarah took lots of video, but the light was bad and a lot of it didn't turn out all that great, so you'll have to forgive the poor quality. I tried to improve the brightness a bit so it's kind of grainy, but it's the best I can do. Also, it was in a restaurant/bar type place so the audio is filled with clanks and bangs. Bonus: I had no idea that I stood with my arm at my side so awkwardly, and I totally messed up the last line of my poem. Oh well. Additionally, you all now have proof of how incredibly short I am: Charlie and I are both standing at the same microphone, set at the same height. Heh.

This is the first time using Flickr video, so let me know if you have any problems. Here is a poem by me called Furrows, my "signature" poem, probably the best poem I've ever written. The poem Charlie is reading is called The Message. Remember--you guys asked for this. Heh. Enjoy!

Stage Fright

Only time for a short post today. I'm madly trying to prepare myself for tonight's reading:

And yes, that was more shameless self promotion. Heh.

Truth be told, though, I am actually a nervous wreck. Thirteen or fourteen years ago, I gave readings at least once a month if not more often. Even ten years ago I read several times a year. But in the last five years I think I've read maybe three times at most. I wasn't all that worried about this reading until a Flickr friend posted some clips of the place I'm reading on his photostream which showed that the place we're performing is actually not a nice little coffee house but a club, and frankly, I am way too old and not nearly hip enough to be going to any damned clubs. So now I'm nervous and feeling sorry for myself. Heh.

For those that asked, I will bring the video camera (which makes me EVEN MORE NERVOUS) and give it to Sarah (who I have bullied into coming) and ask her to tape part of the night and then I will post it here, I promise. Probably just the poems part, though. I'm reading some blog entries, although I am not completely sure which ones yet. The ones I'm considering are here, here, and here  (I will definitely be reading the last one, I'm just not sure which of the first two I will choose). I'll also be reading something else that is not on the blog, plus a few poems. Not that any of you care. I'm just soothing myself here.

I'm sure I'll be just fine once I get started. But my tummy hurts now. Sigh. Now, what to wear...

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I know you are all wondering how I'm going to vote today. Lots of you have asked. Truth be told, I am still not 100% sure about anything EXCEPT that I will be voting. Right now, I'm about 75% in Obama's camp. Hillary has made me gag several times in the last few weeks (seriously, that "I first felt the touch of the Lord" speech made me want to throw up, not to mention the "my grandpappy taught me to shoot" bullshit), and that lying about Bosnia thing is pretty gross. But I didn't think Obama handled the attacks at the debate well (although I thought the debate was stupid, and I can hardly look at Charles Gibson now), and I have the same worries about him. But Hillary and Bill call our house about six times a day. SIX TIMES. That alone might be enough to make me vote for Obama. Plus, watching Hillary speak so easily of obliterating Iran--not because I think she'd actually do it, but because I think she'd say anything for votes--gave me chills. Also, Hillary has unleashed a slew of nasty, nasty negative ads against Obama here and they really stand out because he hasn't released a single negative ad about her--something I really respect him for (there have been a couple negative Hillary ads, but not by Obama).

But honestly, I won't know for sure what I'll do until I'm standing in the booth, holding up the line--to quote my buddy Jo. It's a tough year.  Mostly? I am just so fucking glad that today is the primary so that I don't have to see any more goddamned political ads for a while. THANK GOD.

Shocking News: My Brain In Normal!

So, finally, I heard from my doctor: my MRI results say, all evidence to the contrary, that my brain is is completely normal. There are no tumors or aneurysms (so, unlike Eli Stone on my new favorite show, George Michael won't be serenading me anytime soon) or AVM or whatnot causing my frequent migraines.

Whew.

I didn't suspect there were, but Charlie is vastly relieved (men love results), and I guess I am too. But I'm angry too. My doctor's office called to rescheduled my six-week follow up appointment because the doctor wouldn't be available on the day my appointment was originally scheduled and I found out I'd have to wait an additional six weeks to see her again. This royally ticks me off. Particularly because lately my migraine treatment plan is NOT going well.

What's not working? Well, first off, I'm still having migraines daily. Plus, there's more. The topamax that I take daily at a price tag of about $300 a month causes major tingling sensations in my arms, hands, legs and feet. Sometimes I have trouble sitting at my desk for too long because my feet "fall asleep" while I'm working. Sometimes they do it while I'm standing up at church singing with the choir. And if I sit on the couch reading with my legs tucked under me, when I stand up again, the blood flow being restored to my legs is actually painful. Plus, I'm tired all the time (which I hadn't really thought about until my friend Liana mentioned her unhappy experience with the medication and called it "dopamax"), I have trouble remembering things, I'm unenthusiastic, and worst off all, have even less of a sex drive than normal (hey, right now, my feet are starting to tingle as I type this).

The birth control pills that I thought would be the magic bullet, sadly, have not been at all helpful. In fact, they've made it worse. Instead of getting the break I usually have for starting about a week after my period ends (my migraines start the week of my period, peak the week after, and then taper off), they have continued EVERY SINGLE DAY. And worst of all, I have found a new trigger for the migraines, and it's the worst trigger ever: sunshine. Every time I time I spend any time in the sun, I get a migraine.

So, I'm not happy. When my doctor called me today about my MRI results, I told her I wanted to stop the topamax and the birth control pills. Since I am having migraines anyway, why bother taking all these damn pills? I'd rather start working on using diet and exercise and just treating the headaches rather than these ineffective preventatives.

Sigh. Maybe I should try inducing menopause. That might get rid of them.

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Anyway. In more fun news about my head, I have trashed the pink hair already. I know, I know. The truth is I realized that I didn't actually like it all that much. It was too...(wait for it) young (and here's the proof: I put some in Sarah's daughter's hair, and she looks fabulous). So I carefully perused the Manic Panic website choosing a color and picked the Vampire Red instead (it's a pretty pink-toned red). I LOVE IT. In regular light, it almost looks normal--just regular red highlights. In full sun, I look funky as all get out. I think it might be my favorite hair color I've dyed it ever in my whole life, and since I have been dying my hair since I was 12, that is fucking saying something! What do you think (more pictures here)?

In Which I Say, YOU ARE NOT HELPING

So about a gazillion of you folks emailed me this story in which a Yale student apparently artificially (or otherwise) inseminated herself for nine months and then induced abortions all in the name of art. Many claimed to be haunted by the story, as you should be, although I have to say after working for five years in an all woman art college the whole story just made me feel tired.

Hopefully by now you have all heard the follow up to the story; yes, Virginia, it was all a big fucking hoax. It was all a performance art piece to track the reactions people have to what women do with their bodies. And isn't it interesting? How people feel like she didn't have the right to do that with her body?

My initial reaction was just, oh lord have mercy, this is so NOT going to help the cause. But I find the reaction to it being a hoax very interesting; at the end of that Time piece a man saying, "Women who have suffered miscarriages and abortions don't find this amusing."

Really? Are you sure? I think perhaps he with the penis should SHUT IT. Because frankly? I think it being a hoax is actually kind of hilarious.

But overall, the whole mess is best ignored.

You want an art project to get up in arms about? Try this one. Warning: VERY DISTURBING IF YOU LOVE DOGS. Here is a petition to stop that artist from profiting from his sick work of "art."

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On a much lighter note... am I a bad person if I decide to just cut the arms and legs off my daughter's winter pajamas rather than buy her summer ones to save a little money?

Food and a Healthy at Every Size Update

So, have you heard? Sarah quit smoking. Before you get all, "Wait--Sarah smokes?" know that for many of us recovering drunks and junkies, well, the smoking can be the very last thing to go. In fact, I've been to more than one funeral (three, in fact, I can think of off the top of my head) for folks with lots of good, solid recovery who were killed by their inability to give up cigarettes (bladder cancer for one, throat cancer for another, emphysema for the last). Sarah made the decision very quietly (like she totally surprised me), and I'm very proud of her. I quit smoking myself ten years ago (St. Patrick's Day, in fact, was ten years for me) and have never regretted it, and have almost never missed smoking (except when I lost the boys; it would have been very, very nice to smoke then).

Sarah's inspired me to take another step forward in my food and healthy living journey. I've been practicing the Healthy At Any Size (HEAS) tenets, and it's been pretty amazing, I have to say. Living without feeling some form of guilt or shame--or pride, truth be told--about each bite put into my mouth has been uniquely freeing. And aside from a few incidents with the flaming hot cheetos (soooo good), I have found it easy to eat in a way that satisfies my body's need for nourishment and be healthy and self-loving at the same time. To tell the truth, even if I was rigidly dieting, I would be just as likely to eat the cheetos--and far more likely to feel like shit about it afterwords.

My weight has fluctuated a bit; I lost about eight pounds for a while, and then gained it back again (birth control pills might be playing a role here). We'll see what happens. Two other things have changed. One, I managed to get Charlie to go to the gym with me. This was a VERY. BIG. DEAL. Trust me. So that, with any luck, will be a more frequent occurrence over the next few weeks until we are hiking in the mountains more. Secondly, I've come to realize that some of the food I eat regularly doesn't make me feel very good.

I know I've told you all before that I ate a no sugar and no white flour diet for about three years. I also weighed and measured all my food during that time, down to the tenth of the ounce. I was a bit of a nut-job while doing this; if I had an extra baby carrot or accidentally ate some gravy (gravy has white flour in it, you know) I FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. So, while I lost a butt load of weight, I was crazy and miserable.

I did, however, feel great physically. I had more energy and slept better and generally had more... I don't know, just MORE. So, inspired by Sarah's not smoking, I'm going to start letting sugar and white flour slowly go from my food. I'm not going to be insane about it, and I am not going to weigh and measure everything again. I'm not going to diet.

Let me say that again; this is not about DIETING. It's about being healthy. I have to remind myself of that. So, on my birthday, I will probably have some cake. And that will be OK. But in general, what I'm going to have in the house is going to be low sugar (fifth or below on the ingredients list, with only one form of sugar total on the list) and whole grain only.

This should be interesting. For me this whole HAES is such a delicate balance; I have to say to myself, sure, OK, I really feel like I NEED the cheetos or I'm going to feel deprived. But do I need the giant bag? Will I feel satisfied if I just get the smaller bag? And then I have to stop for a moment, and just be quiet and listen to myself--really listen--and I tell you what, about 50% of the time, I don't actually need the damn cheetos (or candy bar, or whatever it is) at all. But if I decide I do, it can be the small bag, and the baked kind. It doesn't have to be the large one, ever. Well, someday it might and that will be OK. But it hasn't yet.

But learning to listen to myself when it comes to food, to tune out all the old tapes that are blasting at top volume in my head is HARD, I've got to tell you. First is the "YOU SUCK YOU FAT PIG YOU SHOULD NEVER EAT AGAIN." Then right below that one, just as loud, is "YOU ARE SO PATHETIC YOU WILL NEVER LOSE WEIGHT WHY FUCKING BOTHER EAT WHATEVER." Under that is one that just says "loserloserloserloserloserloser." There are like sixty more I have to shuffle through before I can dig deep enough to find out what I actually think and feel. Isn't that fucked up? This is what thirty years of dieting and being an American woman have given me. Sheesh.

Anyway, I'm enjoying discovering a different way to be. I still have not yet come to a place of body acceptance, and there is a not-small part of me that is hoping that I'll shake some weight off by giving up the sugar and white flour. But it's not my PRIMARY motivation.

Slow and steady progress, eh? :)

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Speaking of slow and steady, the Tip Jar is doing very well! 2/3 of the way to my plane fare! You guys rock! And will you EVER FORGIVE ME for asking around tax day? Sigh. I should have waited a couple of weeks until you all had your rebate checks. Heh.

More Things To Worry About (but trying to practice gratitude anyway)

So a woman shared this awesome meditation tool with me recently. She takes each letter of the alphabet and lists 26 things for which she is grateful, each day, one for each letter. I've been trying to do it each night as a tool to help me fall asleep (since I'm such a lousy sleeper).

It's hard. The first letter, A, is tough. What starts with A? I find that I usually end up being grateful for the abundance in my life. After spending so much time around someone that was homeless, it's pretty easy to see that I have great abundance. But besides things, I have an abundance of love and happiness in my life that I have such gratitude for--even now, as I find myself growing crankier and crankier these days thanks, I think, to the birth control pills I'm taking to relieve my migraines (which don't seem to be helping; in fact, they may be making it worse).

I have to work to recognize my abundance. I'm not sure why; maybe it's from growing up poor or maybe it's just how I'm wired, but there are really only two times I feel flush with abundance. First, when I come back from a big grocery store trip and the house if full of food (that, I'm sure, is from my childhood; seeing a full gallon of milk in a crowded fridge makes me feel safe like nothing else). Second is coming back from the library with a huge stack of books, knowing that at least for a few minutes a day for a few weeks I'll be able to bury myself in other magical worlds (I panic when I have nothing to read).

But when I started this blog a few years back I had no idea how much it would also make me feel full of abundance. I went to a baby shower on Sunday and I found myself thinking back to my own baby shower and how weird it must have been for some people to sit there and watch me open present after present from strangers on the Internet, and how incredibly moving it was that these so-called strangers took so much time to make me things and buy me things. It was so amazing.

And now it's equally amazing to see that Tip Jar filling up! Oh my god. I already have enough to pay for the (rather hefty $300) registration fee for the BlogHer conference, and am about 2/3 of the way to paying for my flight. YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST. Thank you so much!
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Now on to more typical blog fodder.

You've all heard about the vanishing bees, right? Honeybees are vanishing without a trace from 24 different states across the country. This isn't just about a national honey shortage, folks: we're talking about $14 Billion worth of crops not getting pollinated. YIKES.

But have you also heard about the missing salmon? The Chinook Salmon that run from California to Oregon to Canada have, well, vanished. Their numbers have been declining for years and now they've just up and vanished completely.

Charlie is obsessed with the giant island--TWICE THE SIZE OF TEXAS--made entirely of 3.5 million tons of plastic. PLASTIC. Here's a cheery little movie about it.  How lovely is that? This has made us MUCH more diligent with our recycling, I tell you what.

Or how about the giant chunk of ice that just broke off Antarctica? The 160 square mile one? But you know, according to certain people in the White House, THERE'S NO GLOBAL WARMING.

THIS SHIT is why I have to mutter a 26-item long gratitude list to myself to get to sleep at night. This is terrifying. Toss in to that the rising costs of oil and the way that's impacting the costs of food, and it's a wonder that anyone can sleep at night.

My state primary is happening a week from today. I'm still wavering between Obama and Clinton (Clinton is NOT winning me over lately; even with Obama's recent statement of fact gaff, he's looking more and more like a stand-up guy and she's beginning to look like a carnival act). But damn it, whoever we vote into office has GOT to begin to address this. I mean, God's sending us all kinds of burning bushes here. What's it gonna take for us to notice?

Fears, Real and Unfounded

So, 50 out of 51 people can't be wrong: I have put up the tip jar. *cringe* I'm telling myself it's ok for several reasons. One, it is almost my birthday. My 40th birthday. So, maybe I can just pretend you are all giving me a birthday present. Cause that wouldn't bother me.

Two, I've given plenty of money and gifts to bloggers I love over the years. And I will continue to do so. Whenever I can. Because, yeah, I get so much out of reading blogs--more than I do out of most novels, magazines, movies or television shows--that it is well worth it. When I send a blogger a baby shower present, I do it because it feels like we're friends--so when you guys say that to me, I get it. And after all, some of you I have been emailing for over FOUR YEARS.  So OK, I get it already.

Third, and I haven't spoken about this here because, well, it's tough to draw that line about personal vs. professional. I mean, I'll tell y'all about my uterus, no problem--but I don't really talk about the work stuff. But I'll tell you this little bit without getting into too much detail, because while only one person said it, you know another gazillion folks are thinking it: hey, dude--didn't you just go on a looooong vacation, and hey--aren't you buying a second house?

Guilty as charged. Boy, I have some deep money shame stuff--let me tell you, growing up as a poor kid, you always feel guilty either spending money or asking for it--so it's hard to not feel defensive. But yeah, we did take our first vacation since the cruise we took right after we lost the twins recently. And yeah, we decided to invest a bit of money in a mobile home in the mountains (a very, very, very small amount of money). And we did both of those things fully expecting my major freelance client to remain near full-time for the rest of the year.

Nothing official has been said about that changing. But I haven't been given as much work this last month. And I'm worried. For the last 11 months that I've been working freelance, I have applied for at least five jobs a week, worked at least five contacts a week, and sent out several queries a week.

I'm getting nowhere*.

So it has become clear to me in this last few weeks that if I want this life to continue--this life where I'm able to be home with my daughter--I need to pursue every avenue necessary to make it work. So, six months ago when we were looking at our lives and our schedules and planning things like vacations and buying mobile homes, I considered going to BlogHer and decided that this year I didn't NEED to go. Well, obviously, in the last month that's changed. That's why I've decided it's so important now. I've got to shake something loose.

My friend Julie (have you met my friend Julie? She's one of my heroes; she quit her job to write a novel--how cool is that?) recently talked about working to keep her dreams alive; she said "It feels like I'm fighting for my life."

I feel exactly the same way. OK, OK; I know that I can be a bit overly dramatic (it's why you all love me, right?) and I not trying to blackmail you into giving me money. But I felt like if I was going to ask something this huge from you, you deserve to know WHY it matters to me so much that I would ask.

Does that seem fair? I hope so. The tip jar is up there on the top right. Just click on it and follow the instructions. Or don't. I will love you either way. Should I get more than I need, I will donate any extra to the Preeclampsia Foundation, of course (unless you'd like it back--just let me know).

You all have the biggest hearts of anyone I know. I promise that if ever get to write a book and get it published, it will be dedicated to you. All of you.

*I must confess, I just tonight got one freelance lead that is so exciting that I'm squealing with glee. But I don't want to jinx it, so mums the word for now.

Friday Mash Up

Dudes, I totally SO should be working right now.

BUT.

About a million of you asked me where I found the toy laptop for Tori for only $20. Well, after searching and searching I finally found the damned link for it so here you go. Just be warned: it's a bit loud, and it's a bit repetitive. But I have to say, I've had amazing success with it. When I pull out my laptop, Tori hops into her booster seat, I open up her laptop, and she has played with it for nearly 45 minutes straight. If you have been wondering how I've been emailing in response to your comments, well, now you know. That thing is a miracle.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. I really did. And I can't even blame the migraines because they have finally settled down (and by that, I mean they are staying on a pain level of five or below on a scale of 1-10, with 10 being the worst).

But we got up this morning and took Tori to Smith Playground since the weather is still a bit nice, which was really fun for her. It was closed all winter (it just reopened April 1) and she's just so much more into playgrounds now than she was a year ago, so it was really great.

But you know when you are in a bad mom mood? When putting the pants on the baby you say, "God damn it, Tori, stop fucking kicking!" under your breath (OK, maybe I did say it out loud; call DHS). Maybe that's not the day to go to the playground.

Especially when you wear pants that make you feel like you are a) in your pajamas and b) really, really pathetic and fat. Which is stupid, because NO ONE is noticing your big fat ass when your hair is bright flaming pink! Did I tell you about the hair? About how I went and bought some Manic Panic because the pink from my hairdresser was washing out and turning white and I wanted to touch it up? So I bought a color I thought would be a bit darker, maybe more of a burgundy? And how it's totally not? It looks like this:

Believe it or not, I actually de-saturated that photo a little bit. And now every time I wash my hair it just gets BRIGHTER.

Anyhoo, it was especially NOT the day to try to go to a place in West Philly to eat lunch that I like because they have really great big salads because I totally forgot that they hate kids there. After making us stand for five minutes at our table waiting for a high chair to arrive, which was broken, we then sat at the table nearly 15 minutes without even getting water. I was so fucking pissed off. I mean, shaking with fury pissed off. We finally untied Tori from the high chair (the strap part was what was broken) and left, and as we were leaving they were all offended, like, "You didn't want to order anything?" and I said, "Yeah, we DID, 15 fucking minutes ago!" And then I very adult-like stomped off.

Gah. I forget, sometimes, that in the city there are places that are just mean to people with little kids. Especially fat, pajama-wearing, pink-haired people with little kids.

Man.

Maybe it was last night's American Idol results (***SPOILER*** seriously? Michael Johns? that was so fucking WRONG). Maybe it was the fact that it looks like they are setting it up on ER that Abby is either leaving the show, or going to let her husband keep her kid in Croatia (totally fucked up). Or maybe it's still left over fall out from Fred. Or, pleasenopleasenopleaseno, maybe it's the damned birth control pills.

But I feel pissy.

So maybe it's not the day to ask this, but I'm going to anyway.

Coral made a suggestion after my last post. I'm a little shocked at the idea, but Charlie is very enthusiastic (since he's the one that manages our money--all my feminism aside, I suck at money management) about it. I'm not sure how I feel about it. She suggested I put up a tip jar and let you guys give me money to go to BlogHer. *cringe* While it's true, if every reader gave a buck, I could totally afford to go with ease (by the way--did I tell you all that I shamelessly nominated myself to be a presenter? that would be too cool), I still feel weird. It was one thing to ask you all to give money to my church; fundraising for others is different. And I know a lot of bloggers ask for money for themselves when their families are sick or in need, and this is not like that. On the other hand, I've seen bloggers ask for the money to buy a laptop. So... I don't know. What do you think? Be honest. You know I'll love you either way. :)

Meanwhile, I'm going to try to work. Or maybe I'll just go lie down. I really am pissy.

It's 70 Degrees and Sunny! Yet, I'm a Mess

Finally. The stupid local weather people on TV have been teasing us with sunny weather for nearly two weeks and have been wrong EVERY. DAMN. DAY. But, at last, the sun is peeking out and it's warm enough that I'm wearing a skort and sandles. Yes, I said a skort. Don't mess with my skort, I love it.

I'm relieved, because I'm feeling a bit defeated. Last week it really looked like our buddy Fred had turned the corner; he found a room, he was scheduled to start a new landscaping job--things were looking great. We'd bought him a cheap cell phone (you know, one of those disposable ones) to help him find work and it, well, worked.

But then he sold the fucking phone for crack.

I'm no longer surprised, but man I was angry. Not so much at him (OK, a little at him. NO, a lot)--he has a cunning, baffling and powerful disease--but at myself for not respecting the boundaries I'd set after we got back from our trip and allowing myself to get sucked in again.

The last time I mentioned him someone posted an anonymous comment saying just "STOP ENABLING," and boy, were they right. I now have. I no longer want to have anything to do with him. Which sucks, because he was just going to begin paying us back by landscaping our yard. Heh.

__________________________________________________

You may have noticed over to the right there that instead of a cute picture of Tori there is what looks like a new ad. It is, sort of--it's an ad for ME. I made it myself in photoshop (I'm very proud) and it's to promote a couple of things, but allow me to explain.

First off, some of you may not know that Charlie and I had quite the reputation here in Philadelphia as poets. Yeah, really. For years and years we hosted poetry readings around town and read ourselves anywhere we could find a stage. We were crazy, drunken poets, and we were the SHIT. Ask anyone.

Well, after we got sober, that calmed down quite a bit. But Charlie still plugged away at it (he's been published in over 100 poetry journals and received a Pennsylvania Council of the Arts grant), and I did too, until I found blogging. You can read some of my poems here  and here is a google search that gives you some idea of the scope of Charlie's success.

But about, oh, crap--six? seven? years ago we finally stopped hosting readings and as a result have faded from the scene quite a bit. These days, when I get asked to read I just usually end up reading some of my funnier blog entries, which I actually enjoy quite a bit. Charlie still slays the audience with his poems even though he writes a lot fewer of those now.

But all this background info is just to explain that we, Charlie and I, were asked to read by the lovely editor of Painted Bride Quarterly, which is very exciting because for once people might actually show up (the last couple of readings we've given, about six people have come, half of whom we're related to). If you live in the area and would like to be some of those people, we'd love to have you.

Additionally, that same lovely lady also asked me to speak on a panel at Drexel University about this, this thing I'm doing right now: BLOGGING. I'm be speaking with an old pal, the great poet and writer CA Conrad and the writer of blog that reviews books (that I sadly can't find; when I get the link I'll come back and update). Anyone, that is also open to the public and lord knows I'd love to see some friendly faces up there because HELLO MOMMY BLOGGER BEING FED TO WOLVES. Ahem.

So. There you go. Please, please come. I'm begging you. Please.

___________________________________________________

Lastly, I'm wondering if anyone reading this is planning to go to the BlogHer convention in San Francisco in July. I really want to go. I need to go, in fact, if making this blog become a launching point to a bigger writing career is really something I want (and it is). I have no idea how I'll swing it--financially, particularly. Already, the hotel is full, so I'll have to find a different one to stay in (unless someone needs a roommate? :D ). But I want to make it happen. I'm doing research on the money dance. There must be one, cause Oprah seems to know it. Right?

22 Months

My Darling Tori Anne,

I swear this month went by faster than I thought possible. It's been a busy month, a good month, and you've changed a lot, and all in very good ways. Last month I thought I'd tear my hair out in frustration at your antics, but in the last couple of weeks something has broken through in that noggin of yours and you've gotten much easier to cope with. We've had some really good times lately and you seem to have settled back in to being home and doing things with us quite easily.

We still have a couple of disagreements: you still run at the pool, which is a no-no, and you don't come when we call, and you don't like holding our hands when we cross the street OR being picked up (apparently you prefer the third option, being mowed down by a car, but we'd rather skip that if that's OK). But over all, you can focus on activities more these days be in drawing, painting, or playing ball (the rare times we can play ball at home, when the dog is out).

We've discovered that while the YMCA closest to us doesn't have afternoon swim hours, one that shares membership privileges not too far away does and we have been taking full advantage. You love swimming, and you jump in fearlessly, and wade in up to your chin fearlessly, and will duck your head underwater fearlessly. Indeed, other adults say that word more about you than any other: fearless. Frankly, we could use you having just a touch MORE FEAR. But the swimming has been a great way to tire you out and get all of us some exercise, and we all enjoy it, although we haven't gone as much this week cause this is Mommy's migraine week. Hopefully when you are older you won't remember these horrible weeks of Mommy's migraines. With any luck they will be a dim, dim memory even for Mommy.

We've also been trying to encourage Spring's arrival by going out and hiking more. You always like the first part of the hike and will gamely walk along for about a mile or so, and then you prefer to stop and do things like ride the dog, or, oddly, comb your hair with a muddy stick. We haven't exactly figured out how to handle the last part of the hike where you no longer want to walk, or be carried, yet. We'll get there.

You are also so much more a kid now. I took you to story time at the library yesterday (where, oddly enough, I was treated no differently with the pink hair--still, no one talked to me) and you were much more interested in the games and activities and other kids than you were a few short months ago. You also finally have become interested in that tutu your Internet auntie made for you and have been wearing it and dancing about in it, which is just too adorable for words (and we won't tell her about putting it on the dog, OK?).

You are an amazing child. Yesterday I found at the store for a mere $20 a kid's laptop and in a desperate hope that if you had a toy laptop maybe, just maybe, you would leave our laptops alone, I bought it. It said it's for 3-5 year olds, but I decided not to care, and OH MY GOD you love it. It's your new favorite thing. You wanted to take it to bed last night. You'd rather play with it than eat. And I had no idea that you knew which was the number seven, and yes, you will sit and play with it while we work, which is HEAVEN.

Watching you grow up is such a joy, but it is going by so quickly already! I feel like it's spinning faster and faster and I'm already forgetting important little details that I will be so sad to not remember. You continue to push and challenge us, but you also continue to make my heart grow and grow. I am so filled with love for you sometimes I can barely breathe. You are my wonderful, fantastic, spectacular little girl. I love you, Tori Anne.

Love, Mommy

PS: I couldn't help but include some video clips this month. :)

MotherTalk Blogging Book Tour: Only Child

Today as part of MotherTalk's blogging book tours I'm reviewing the book Only Child: Writers on the Singular Joys and Solitary Sorrows of Growing Up Solo. I thought I'd be a good candidate to review this book since I am an only child, married to an only child, and the parent of an only child.

Interestingly, however, Charlie, Tori and I are actually only children technically and by default. I have three younger half-siblings that I didn't meet until I was 18 and wasn't (obviously) raised with, Charlie had an older sister that lived for only a few days (whom Tori is named after, and was a victim of thalidomide) and Tori, of course, has her two older brothers who didn't survive.

However, we all grew up alone (Tori is currently), without siblings, as the sole bearers of our parents love and mistakes.

This book is a collection of essays by writers who are also only children. Most are "true" only children, although a few are children that lost siblings. The vast majority were raised by two parents that were financially very well off. The essays seem to be split fairly evenly between those that wanted siblings and those that didn't.

I wasn't able to quite bring myself to finish the book. Why? Well, frankly, I wasn't finding myself in these stories at all. Many mentions were made of the "triangle" being one of the most stable shapes (a child and two parents) and frankly, as an only child raised by a single mother (I only found one story, the essay by Amy Richards, about being raised by a single parent), well, what does that make me family? A straight line? A pole?

While the essays are all compelling and well written, they all have a kind of similarity that didn't bear any resemblance to my life at all: the oppressive and omnipotent parents that you became overly enmeshed with. Well, my mother was too busy scraping together a living and trying to find a way for us to survive for us to become truly enmeshed (not that we didn't try).

For me, while being an only child was a major factor of my childhood, I'm not sure it was THE major defining factor. Honestly, I didn't have much in the way of toys to gloat about not having to share, you know? We were just too poor. I'm not sure that it impacted my adulthood more than the poverty did. Or not having a television did. Or not having a father did.

The one thing I remember about being an only child is having imaginary friends, friends that were with me right up until I was 12 or 13 (and not having a television probably had an influence there too). And only one essay I read mentioned imaginary friends, and that made me sad--I thought all us onlys had those.

If you were an only child raised by two parents--particularly if you were raised in New York City (this book is VERY heavy on NYC only kids), you might enjoy this book more than I did. Otherwise, I think I might skip it if your only child experience was more like mine. If I wasn't planning on donating my copy to my local library, I would hold on to it for Tori, though; I could see her getting just a tad enmeshed with us... :)

Ten Quick Points Because I'm Too Tired For A Real Post

1. Finally resolved, for sure, my insurance issue. It turns out that my previous coverage through my employer was ALSO through this same insurance company so I am covered. Whew!

2. The interview at the Mobile Home Park (NOT a trailer park, sorry Dawn) went extremely well and it appears we will be approved with no problems. Yeah! We settle on the property (we own the building, not the land--it's an odd deal) on the 17th of this month, so by May we'll have a place in the mountains to stay! I am so excited I can't believe it! Thank god for that silly check from the government...we'll be using it to hit a bunch of thrift stores to furnish it...

3. Went to see Joan Baez in concert last night with my mom. Wow, she was awesome. Especially liked this song that she performed that was written by Steve Earl (sadly, Steve Earl did not perform with her last night):

4. Tori has picked up the phrase "Hey, baby!" from somewhere. It's both alarming and hilarious. She mostly says it when she's in trouble. It cracks me up.

5. Have you all seen the latest copy of Fitness Magazine? Well go buy it, cause a certain BFF of mine is prominently featured, dudes!

6. The more I read about the government bail out of Bear-Stearns, the more pissed off I get. Fucking corporate welfare. It's fucking Chrysler all over again. Fuck everyone losing their houses! Save the CEOs!

7.  My pink hair is already disappearing. It washes out too easily. I have to go start scanning teenage message boards for the best product to use to fix it. What color should I do next? Blue? Green? Purple?

8. My head hurts. I've been taking birth control pills for six days now. When are they going to start helping? And how weird is it to be on the pill at my age?

9. I am finally going to change the design of this blog to no longer have a dark background. I can hear a lot of you applauding. :)

10. Since I can't think of anything else, how about a photo?

Scarred Hands

The Sunday after Easter is often the time, in Christian churches, when the story of doubting Thomas is told. If you are like me and are either a really shitty Christian or not a Christian at all you may not know that the phrase "doubting Thomas" comes from the story in the bible where the apostle Thomas refuses to believe that Jesus has risen from the dead until he, personally, "sees the wounds in his hands and touches the wound in his side." Naturally, as it works out, Jesus shows up yet again and the lucky bastard does get his proof and is gently admonished by Jesus who says, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe."

Of course, this is where the rest of us are. We are the ones who have not seen, whether it's Jesus or whatever form of God or God-like spirit you want to believe in. Imagine how much easier it would be to believe? It seems to me that the apostles had it rather easy, eh?

I've been a pretty strong doubting Thomas since the boys died. Worse, I've been all "Yeah, God might exist but he doesn't love ME." It's been an uphill battle changing my own mind about this the last few years. My minister on Sunday closed his sermon with a story that touched me profoundly. He told about a young boy living on the frontier with his grandmother, and how one night their house caught fire. Because it was a frontier town, there wasn't much of a fire department, so although the grandmother tried to rescue the boy on the second floor, she was overcome by smoke and perished on the first floor. The boy was upstairs yelling for help as a crowd gathered, not knowing what to do. Finally, a man in the crowd pushed his way forward and began climbing up the iron drainpipe to rescue the boy. The drainpipe, of course, was searing hot from the fire, but the man managed to get into the room, put the boy on his back, and climb back down while the crowd cheered.

After the fire burned out, and things had settled down, a town meeting was called to decide where the boy would live. The whole town came to see to the boy's fate. A farmer stepped forward, and said, "I'll take the boy; I can teach him a valuable trade!" Everyone nodded with approval. Then the town's teacher stood up and she said, "He can live with me; I'll make sure he gets a wonderful education!" More heads nodded. The town's banker stood up self-importantly and said, "I'll make sure he lives in the largest house in town!" Everyone seemed to think that was splendid.

Finally, the meeting leader asked if there was anyone else. There was a pause, and then, from the back of the room a man stood up and said, "I can't offer much. I can't teach a trade, or provide a big house or a great education. All I can offer is my love." Then he pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and showed the scars covering them and of course it was the man that had climbed the drainpipe and rescued the boy. The boy ran into his waiting arms, and the meeting was over, because the decision had been made.

...

This story was, of course, compared to Jesus. My minister compared the burns on the man's hands to the scars from Jesus being nailed to the cross. I must confess, while I remain steadfast in my refusal to fully succumb to the allure of Jesus-ness (Jesus-ocity?), I was moved. Deeply moved, and deeply humbled.

I realized that God doesn't promise us much; not big houses, not great educations, not even the rescue of our loved grandmothers that burn to death below us--or, if you will, the loss of our twin boys. But God did sacrifice something--I'm not sure what (Christianity says God sacrificed his son; interesting parallel there, no?) to bring us that love.

Oh, it's been such a long time since I could feel that so clearly.

I hope I'm telling this right. It's so hard to communicate it effectively. I've been trying to impart a tiny piece of this truth, or maybe this hope, to our friend Fred (remember Fred? the guy from my church that was working for us?) who is continuing to struggle. He's not struggling so much with his sobriety these days, but that's only because he has no money to buy drugs with.

I've been trying to explain to him the idea of pride, and the idea of humility. I've had some good lessons in humility lately, such as my unattractive reaction to the woman that attacked me last week (respond, don't react--I'll file that one away), and the gentleman that took me aside at one of my meetings and asked me to share more kindly about my husband (ack), among others. For me, my spiritual journey is a constant battle of humility and pride.

Fred's battle with pride seems unlikely, considering that he's homeless. He was kicked out of living at the church (for good reasons I won't get into here). He briefly went into a rehab, but left after a few weeks. He recently was offered a dishwashing job but had a communication issue with the boss (primarily because he doesn't have a phone and uses ours) and took that as a reason to not take the job), and actually said he was better off sitting outside on a bench than washing dishes.

I got so angry with him. When I told him to practice some humility, what he hears is he has to eat shit. When the jobs he wants won't hire him, he says to me, "Do I have a sign on my forehead?" and I think, yes, Fred, you do, you have one that says, I won't take any shit and that make bosses not want to hire you. He cannot see that the situation he's in is one of his own making and that he has to bow his head and act humbly if he wants his life to change. Even though the only time he eats is when he's here (I just found this out yesterday, and it makes my heart hurt). Even though he gets maybe five hours of sleep a night at the shelter.

He cannot see God's love. He does not see the scarred hands. All he sees is the lack of the nice house, and the good education, and the job. He only sees deprivation. He refuses to see the abundance, although it's hard to blame him--it's got to be difficult to see abundance when you only eat four or five times a week and you are living on the street.

I do not know how to give this to him. I do not know how to impart humility. I do not know how to give the gift I've been given--the ability to see past all the pain, and instead see the joy. I have been given a great gift! I have such an amazing life, and somehow, after all my railing against it, all my self-pitying bullshit, I still have God's love. What a wonder.

But no matter what I do, I cannot take Fred's face and force it into the light. I do not see good things for him right now. I do not want to withdraw my helping hand, yet I do not know how much more I can do. He sees our helping hand withdrawing and it only makes him more bitter, more sure that God has rejected him.

It's hard work, being the only tenuous connection someone has to God. Especially when you aren't sure if that is what you are actually doing; if instead, what you might be doing is helping someone continue to tread water when they should actually be swimming to shore.

But I digress. I wanted this to be a happy post about how I felt so sure that I could once again feel God's love; and it is, and I do. Oh man, I really, really do. But that makes it all the more clear that some people don't feel that same love, and that hopelessness I feel from Fred is so stark and awful I can almost not bear it.

So, I'll ask a favor of you all. Pray for him. Think good thoughts for him. Because I think the end of this road for him is coming; either he will turn toward the light or he will turn toward, well... the place that addicts and alcoholics go when they don't: jails, institutions, death. But I hope he turns.

Because MAN is this a great place to be.