June 12, 2009
Second, after more than 5 years - this blog will be closing down. The reasons are many, and I will write about them soon. I will be porting many of the archives over to a new site that we're launching so please stay tuned 
Last, and most importantly, I DO micro-post both on Facebook and Twitter and hope you'll join me there. I miss you, too...
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your FAApril 13, 2009
The paternalistic, 6-figure and car-allowanced, condescending School Board President of my friend's town is shutting down the academy for the gifted kids. Almost 60 kids are being sent into mainstream classes.
Two beloved teachers are losing their jobs, and being replaced by an administrator that will... well, not teach. But will be paid more than either of the teachers ever were.
Because of a budget shortfall? No.
Because of a better solution? No.
Will he accept corporate grants, parental assistance, or listen to the questions of the hurt and confused parents? No.
The program was put in by his predecessor and he's using the threat of the recession to shut it down.
ARG!!
I was one of those that thought having special programs for the top 3% was elitist. A luxury item.
Until I watched my little friend try to slow down his mind for "regular" first grade. And fail. And be called a problem by his teacher. And unable to socially integrate.
Dammit.
More info at Chicago Moms.
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March 31, 2009
"What is your favorite soda?"
"Have you ever..."
"Do you like Steve? Rate Steve 1-10 for cuteness."
These used to be fun. Perhaps because I didn't give up my adolescence until, hmm, last December?
I have now, however, reached my fill. Past my eyeballs and all the way to my hairline. While I am happy to read others, there is no way God or the devils could drag me to fill another one out.
Maybe it's because I'm still in recovery. Maybe it's because I get distracted by the opening licks to "Slippery When Wet". Maybe it's because there's other things to be written - bodacious, velvety words to be romanced onto a page.
Maybe it's because I never did pass those football-shaped rule-lined notes way back then.
I didn't peak in high school. Hell, I didn't even get started in high school. I ripped off my training wheels in my mid-20's. Roared up the stairs of Piper Hall with my backpack swinging off my shoulder. Jumped over a pond with God at my back and no limits before me.
We may be older now, wiser, fettered by Roth IRA's and term life insurance - but are we even remotely there yet?
I strongly suspect my life hasn't peaked. Hope so. Hope the same is true for you.
So, no. I don't know how much I like Steve. Today, I'm not even sure I like my dog. So, with your forgiveness, I'll love the you-you... but I'm done with the meme.
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March 23, 2009
Once upon a time, I was a nut for Mother Earth. I built recycling programs, and championed re-use/reduce schemes at work, and rinsed out my plastics before carefully tucking them into my green box.
Then came motherhood.
Oh, I am sooooo ashamed.
I used disposable diapers. I DID. I have a very low "ick" factor and about 5 seconds of dry heaves were all that was needed to send my arms around a massive Costco crate of Huggies.
I would wince, thinking of them piling up in landfills. But convenience and comfort and cooties won out over my better demons.
...And then came my plastics addiction.
It started simply enough. No dishwasher. Newborn. Muck. Mess. The need for cost-cutting measures.
I was carrying plastic freezer bags on me to dispose of the disposable diapers and wipes when I was out with my baby. I was chopping up salads and packing up leftovers for my husband's lunch in those little plastic containers. I was portioning out carrot sticks and teething biscuits for Bear.
With all the best intentions of cleaning everything out and re-using them, I would end up with stacks of foul-smelling baggies and incomprehensible pile of square lids and round containers. And back to the store I would go.
The bad habits followed me even into recent years, even after I had a dishwasher to help keep things clean and get several uses out of them.
I know, I know...I was saving the planet with one lo-water showerhead and bashing it with a stack of binned bags and lids.
My son recently called me one it. As his teacher, it was important to share with him the state of the environment. As his parent, I reaped that whirlwind.
"Mom!" he bellowed Saturday, tapping his foot as he looked into the cabinet stuffed with mismatched plastics.
"Um, yeah?"
"You're killing the environment! Remember that picture? Piles and piles of garbage and chemicals in the air?!"
"Yes, but -"
"Mom!! Seriously?"
"Look, it saves money for us to use-"
He raised his copper eyebrows at me and I admit it, I caved. Big strong momma bear went....mush. I imagined a mountain of odd-shaped lids and seas of baggies. *sigh*
"Why don't you help me clean this cabinet out and come up with a better system?"
"Wait a minute, you want ME to do the work of helping fix it?"
"Yes, dear. It's a little something called passing the buck. Er, sharing the responsibility."
He gave me a dirty look as he dug up a cloth bag to put the lids into. A slow smile spread across my face, as we got down to work.
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February 26, 2009
It's amazing. When you get a bit stronger, how much more you realize you have to deal with.
Forgiveness. What is it, really? What does it mean to give it - and receive it?
I tangle with the weightier concepts, the overlays of God and Jesus and women and men and trust and mess and relationships and betrayal, then all of a sudden, I am sliced to the heart with memories and this sudden heartache.
Like it won't stay in the box, the one I laid it all to rest in so long ago.
If I forgive you, and we work on getting past this, can you guarantee me it will never, ever, happen again? Can you? The question is a trap, you know. I want you to say yes. To promise yes. As I promise it to you. As I dream of Before.
But we know that what you can do once, you can do again, I can do again, and will do again. Part of my trust knows this. Lies to you. Wants everything to be all right even as it clutches its brokenness.
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February 18, 2009
What kind of show would you be? Would your home be the primary set? Or the local coffee house?
BlogHer is doing a workshop about how to re-invent a blog after the initial reason you started it - ends. I've been struggling with this for years.
I began a website when CD and I were getting married. I shudder to remember the little animation I coded, that made my dress twirl. That I didn't embed Midi music must have been the intercession of a compassionate deity. That site? Won an award.
After I got in the habit of living out loud. I sorta... didn't stop. I've journaled my whole life. This was just a new interpretation of that.
I remember the first person who ever signed my "guestbook". I had never met her in real life, yet she was interested in reading about me. And me, in her. Despite our subsequent life changes since, we remained, virtually, friends.
I began an anonymous blog in a moment of crisis. I had a great job. Challenging, rewarding. I worked from home most of the time, always engaged with room to grow, and had a great team that I loved working with.
And yet?
I was unhappy.
Because as much as I loved my career and everything it meant - I never had a single day when I went to bed thinking I had done right by my son. I told myself it was just guilt. I told myself it was the universal complaint of working parents. I reminded myself of the amazing life my son had.
And then, I cried.
We cannot reason our hearts.
I quit and took on a new life, with wide open eyes. Homeschooling, living on a shoestring, keeping house, cooking dinner, paying bills. I signed up for this woman's army and Hoo-rah, I don't need or expect it to be easy. I stand behind that decision as one of the best I've ever made.
But it's played hell with me as a writer. Hell.
When you stop being mad, and put out the fire in the living room and the marriage and fill in the hole of your life with the whole of your life, well....
Thank you for listening the past month. I know I went quiet for a few days here, but I have not been away. I have been here, re-reading. A lot of very bland, and silly posts. But a couple of goods ones, I think.
I'm not Friends. I'm not Lost. And I've never even been to Las Vegas.
But that doesn't mean that there aren't things left worth saying. Or that this writer can't write them. Here.
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February 11, 2009
It was late spring just about 15 years ago. I headed to England with $350 in my pocket, an open-return ticket, and a new journal tucked between my spare jeans and the extra underwear in my backpack.
Long story short, I ended up dating a Coldstream Guard. Who invited me, one summer evening, to a dance. I found a little black halter dress in a thrift store and twisted up my hair with an antique rhinestone clip. But like Cinderella, I had a curfew - the B&B I was living at locked its doors at midnight.
And like Cinderella, I lost track of time. I realized it with a panic. One of the more senior men, Ian, had a car and offered to drive me across London.
We raced, but not quick enough. I rang and rang, and eventually realized I was stranded.
"What will you do?" Ian asked.
"Get a hotel room," I mused. I had an emergency credit card stashed, well, somewhere. I knew I couldn't stay at the barracks, and all my contact numbers were up in my room - on the wrong side of that impassive door.
"Dressed like that? With no luggage?"
"What's my alternative?"
"I'm headed home for the weekend," he said, opening the passenger door with a smile. "You can kip with me and my family, if you like."
I nodded slowly. It was uncomfortable, accepting a ride and the offer of a place to stay from a near-stranger. He had ginger hair and a big laugh and that's about all I knew of him. I wondered if I was going to end up in the pages of the newspaper, with the headline 'Unknown Woman washes up on Thames!'
"The thing is, it's a bit of a drive," he said as we headed onto the M1.
"It's far?"
"250 miles, give or take," Ian laughed.
It was nearing dawn when we finally got to Darlington. My gut was full of butterflies. Ian had proved to be a complete gentleman on the trip. Dropping the military persona, he told me stories of how his 3 children had been born and what they were like. And especially about his wife, Susan. How she'd saved lives when they'd lived in Ireland, by noticing something 'off' about a car parked on their lane. It had turned out to be a bomb. They'd lost everything they'd owned when it had gone off, but not a soul was hurt because she'd had the presence to sound the alarm.
I wondered what she would make of her husband showing up at all hours with a blond American in a dress down to here.
I needn't have worried.
She pulled the door open with a merry smile and offered me tea. Her husband looking at her like she was a hot cross bun and he hadn't eaten in days. By the end of the weekend, it was a done deal. Like Sandra Bullock's character in 'While You Were Sleeping' - I was in love with whole family. Ian and Susan and their kids and friends. All of it: their home full of happy noises and the smell of tea cooking, the greenhouse in their back garden filled with pots of dirt and bulbs, and the barbecue where Ian liked to char three kinds of meat while chomping on a cigar. I was in love and grinning and giddy.
As Ian ushered me out on Sunday, for the long drive back to London, Susan made me promise to return. And after my long, hot London summer had ended, I did - eventually moving in with them for several months.
Even after I came back the States, we stayed as close as we could. Exchanged phone calls and Christmas cards. I have pictures of the kids growing up. Clippings, and letters tucked in a box.
When Susan left me the message the other night, I knew. You always know. It's that tone of voice, you know?
I think I was crying, even as she told me.
Leaving the Darlington F.C. game, Ian had a bad fall. He died in hospital later that night, probably of a massive heart attack. He was only 53.
He leaves behind the sweetest woman on Earth, 3 great kids, a brother, and countless mates, co-workers, and former brothers in arms - as well as a desolate dog who is still waiting for him by the door.
He was the kind of guy who wouldn't leave a soul stranded, even if it meant hauling them 250 miles. The kind of guy who would bring a stranger home to his family, and make them welcome. There are too few people like that.
And now, there is one less.
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February 09, 2009
I head down the sidewalk away from the library. A bag hanging from my hand, weighed down with a few new books that I'll probably won't find the time to read.
My car is behind me. Nestled into a parking space between two SUV's, up against the railroad tracks. And though the car keys jingle in my purse, I keep moving away. Into the night.
A gust lifts my hair, a mist sprays my face. The hems on my jeans are long and dragging; damper with each step.
I don't know where I'm headed.
An old Sting song is echoing in my mind. Memories of a time before. When I belonged to no one, and nothing. I cross over the street. The streetlight is flickering and dying. The buzzing noise entrances me for a long moment. I look up. In those thick clouds is a moon full and just as fickle. It won't stay on for me.
When I need the light, it's never there.
Breathe deep; the world smells like something from a memory.
And I'm washed clean.
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February 07, 2009
Boston, Chicago, Buffalo, Toronto, Detroit - these are the cities of hugging about the 41st-42nd degree of latitude. And having spent some time in all of them, I can say what they have in common...4 real seasons, deep cold in winter and blazing hot in summer. You get the full spectrum around here, which is somehow deeply satisfying to my soul.
One of my favorite things about this level of North is the Chinook Wind. It's like the world saying "ok, you gonna get your ass frozen off for 4 months - but we'll give you a nice day in the middle there, to keep you from going absolutely out of your freaking mind."
Although too far East to get the real snow-eater, we still get that day or two of a "false spring", of improbable warmth. A soft wind seems to sweep the snow away, bringing dripping puddles of mud and short sleeved shirts hastily dug out of the closet.
Today was it.
Bright sun, gusty breezes, pokes of green grass in February. A little miracle just at the moment when we are all so sick of winter that we want to cry.
I woke up early, with a full schedule ahead of me. They'd been promising that today was the day - and as I stepped outside around 7:45, the snow had already half melted away from the lawn.
We've been telling Bear since he turned 8 that we would change around bedrooms with him and get him some 'big kid' furniture. So, catching the sunshine in a jar, we raced over to Home Depot. Bear had to choose from the palette offered for the no-VOC paint we were using. (It comes in 65 organic pre-mixed tints) He shocked both of us by choosing an aqua color called "Summer Dragonfly" from their 'Waterscape' shade.
"Really?" we asked, our eyebrows inching up to our hairlines.
"Yes," he insisted, firmly.
You know how it is. The Chinook Wind comes blowing in, and you push open all the windows. The neighbor boys come over. You empty out the room, patch and fix the rough spots. Take down the curtains, and roll on the new paint.
Then, suddenly, everything is new. And possible...
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February 03, 2009
In 2007, I forgot to renew it on its expiration. When I went to try, I discovered that a squatter had taken the name and parked it. Meaning - they didn't want to do anything with it themselves, just re-sell it to the highest bidder.
For a $12 name, they were asking thousands. Pirates. more...
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January 30, 2009
That? Is a sheep. Yes, because I was jealous of Kate's sheep.But this is a special sheep. This particular sheep, at least its image, belongs to Tim and the whole picture is so much cooler than that snapshot.
Why a sheep? I'm glad you asked. Because it is an Icelandic sheep. And today, CD gave a presentation at Bear's co-op school (he goes one day a week with other homeschoolers.)
This is notable because a) CD has never given a presentation on his native Iceland before and b) CD is about the least likely person to ever GIVE a presentation on anything. He's incredibly shy. But a couple of years ago, he took that required "Speech" class at college and didn't suck. So he girded up his loins and... more...
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January 28, 2009
I've been spending time on Facebook lately. So, duh, what else is new? I'm still all gosh-gee-whiz about the mix of high school, corporate, real life, and online contacts all gathered in one place. It sort of feels like how the Internet used to be. Back when Gore had just pulled it out of the oven, fresh and steamy. I have a beef, though.
An itty, bitty little beef. One I am soooo feeling funny about admitting.
Here it is: I don't get the de-be-friending thing.
One day I noticed that my number of "friends" had decreased overnight. I went looking at the list, up and down, and scratched my head. I could see who wasn't there anymore - I just didn't know why.
I started writing the person an email; "did your Facebook break? You seem to have fallen off my friend list." God saved me from making an ass out of myself by taking down the Internet before I could send it. ('Cuz God does little things like that, just for me.)
By the time systems were back up, a real-life person had set me straight. "Hun," she said. "Don't send that email. People will de-friend and be-friend left and right. Lots of people will friend you just to look at your info and then drop you again. It's the way it is. If you make a fuss, you'll totally look like a dweeb."
She said that; dweeb.
I didn't believe her. So I asked an acknowledged expert in the field: an actual college student. (Yes, free-range.)
"Don't sweat it," he advised.
"I'm not sweating anything. I just want to know why."
"You don't get to know why. It's not your 'why'."
"But they dropped me!"
"Yeah, it happens."
"But they DROPPED me!"
"What are you, 12?"
So, in my expansive research I have discovered that the no-ask no-tell policy of de-Friending on Facebook is just a long-standing bit of culture. One that has given rise to some interesting behaviors. Not to get all Margaret Mead but it started making me curious.
"So, will they re-beFriend me?"
"Depends."
"On what?" I was a little outraged. This felt like when we were voting for peer advisor, back in college. It was a perked-up job, with a patina of aloofness about it. People who wanted the the job would screw themselves if ever seen actually lobbying for it.
"If you run into them at a party or something, maybe they'll send you a friend invite again. Otherwise, it's on you."
"To do what?"
"Get closer to them in real life so that they'd want to know you on FB."
Oh. God.
I am, in the words of our beloved Indy, getting too damn old for this. Which may be the point. This is a medium originally created for college campuses.
So people you don't know, friend you. And people you do? Unfriend. And in between, well, a world that sucks too much of my time and still leaves me a little curious about the why. (Or is that just me?)
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January 27, 2009
Blogs seem to fall into two groups - the anonymous, outrageous ones where people are free to be exactly what they want to be and the real, identified ones which have to be carefully edited.
This one falls somewhere in between: I mean, it started out anonymous, but I wasn't very good at it. And eventually, I dropped the curtain and had to start being careful what I said.
It didn't go well at first. I though "coming out of the closet" would make me feel more free. As it turns out, I actually felt hog-tied.
What followed has been a long ramp of learning how to write again. more...
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January 24, 2009
I may not even brush my teeth today.
As I crawl for the comfort of the bed, all I can think is.... "Nyquil, oh where art thou, Nyquil...?"
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January 16, 2009
Opinions? Ideas? Tomatoes?
Yes, I did all the code myself. And boy, are my arms tired.
I wanted more white space, and like a dozen other things, but this is what I was able to do with my limited skills. I think it is a vast improvement, but then - I'm biased. I put more time into this than into labor, giving birth!
My big worry now is... will there be anything to read? I haven't written professionally since last August. Or personally, really. Writing is a muscle; and mine has been increasingly unused for a year due to... well... OK there's no good way to say 'Brain Infection'.
I've come up with an exercise regime to get my writing back into shape: I'm going to scribe 30 posts in the next 30 days. I don't know if this will all come back to me, or some, or none.
What would really, really, with sprinkles on top help is...feedback. Comments letting me know what YOU think.
Because of the generosity of a wonderful person, I have some $25 Amazon gift certificates to give away.
ANY LEGITIMATE COMMENT IS ELIGIBLE (in other words? no spammers, 'bots, blood relatives, or 'this is a comment' comments). If you don't leave a valid email address with your comment, then you can't win on account that Amazon sends the gift certificate via email.
Be assured: I do not collect email addresses, sell them, use them, whatever. Also? Email addresses are garbled into the code of this blog so no one can scrape them (go ahead and "view page source" to see what I mean).
This is just a little splash of gratitude and fizz to thank you for your help.
Details: I'll be giving away one AMAZON gift card ($25) every Friday for the next month to a different commenter each week.
At the end of each of the next 4 weeks (a week being Friday to Thursday) - I'll pick a comment randomly (I'll post the results here). The giveaways will happen on: Jan 23, Jan 30, Feb 6, and Feb 13. The gift cards are virtual and will be immediately sent to the email address associated with the comment.
That's 25 big ol' smackeroos just for stopping by.
So, help a girl out - get some money for those "Lost" DVD's. It's that easy.
Ready?
Set?
Wait, wait... did I say thanks for your help? Because, really. THANKS.
GO!
(PS, I still have some link-cleaning and CSS edits to do but the website overhaul is mostly done. Please let me know if you find a broken link or something looks wonky. )
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January 13, 2009
The Case of the Novice Newspaper
First of all, my daily drop from my local newspaper informed me that the blizzard warning had been dropped. OK. That's gotta be good news - right?
Except: Horrible weather still predicted. Plus they spelled it 'Bizzard' - right there in the headline. Which made me briefly wonder if, as a cost-saving measure, they fired all the real reporters and hired eager high school kids instead. Then I slapped my head and realized - high school kids would actually know how to use the spell-checker.
I looked outside. The sun is blindingly bright over an inch of fresh snow. You're batting 0 for 2, Lee. (*Updated: They fixed it.) more...
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January 12, 2009
I found this old picture while cleaning up my archives. Those jeans? Are paisley.I'll give you a minute to wipe the milk out of your nose.
Almost as bad as the fact that I bought, and wore, and thought I was COOL in those terrifying pants is that I still had them in my closet in 1998.
I can remember, grudgingly, making more room for CD. He used a bureau. I hate bureaus. I like shelves and baskets. It seems all good on paper - but in reality, he's a clothes horse. The fashion encroached, and I had to make room.
And there I was, with paisley jeans in hand, thinking: I should save these. Styles always come around again.
Memo from Above: No, Virginia. Paisley jeans will not come back. Nor should they.
I was thinking about that as I've been working.
Schooling my son, figuring out how to crock pot a pot roast (because the oven's dying), and teaching myself about RSS and Digg and Slashdot and Tags vs. Keywords and meta crawling...
Paisley jeans. Will Technorati ever be like Paisley jeans? Will StumbleOn? When Kalisa and Helen and RP and Ben (both of them) and who-all-else and I all started blogging - 5 years ago, now - "social media consultant" was a made-up phrase for "spends too much time on the Internet".
I just organized 5 years' worth of mastheads. Watched as trends came and went, as my skill with photoshop matured...
For the first time in my life, my insatiable curiosity has become a little...sated. At least around the edges. My neck is sore. My brains is stuffed.
I need a good, stiff drink.
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January 11, 2009
Disturbingly, I was looking at a magazine article the other day and began imagining how it would be coded if I wanted to use the layout online.
Time to take a break. And cut back on the Dunkie's. Cuz, seriously.
Oh, and last night I saw "Zach and Miri make a porno". Can I just saw that I never, ever needed to see Jason Mewes naked? Now I need an itty bitty scrub brush for my eyeballs.
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January 09, 2009
It would be crazy to go along with this - and I wouldn't - but a) I happened to be organizing my backups and found some old (old, old) pictures of me that made me all nostalgic (although wondering why - the good ol' days weren't particularly good) and b) after seeing what she posted of herself, I couldn't help but have a bit of a laugh. A lot of a laugh. So, it's only fair.
Here's me, about 2 months before turning 13. It's the last time I'll be cute for at least a decade.
Want proof? more...
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January 03, 2009
It's a long story why.
Don't I have a program in which to build this site before uploading? Why yes, yes I do. FIVE of them.
But Pixy, Dude amongst Dudes, hosts me on Movable Type 2.something. Pixy? Is faboo. I do not complain about MT 2.prehistoric. However, my site-building programs DO. They are ungrateful bitches, every last one of them. And reward my situation by confirming code that absolutely looks different (if it works at all) once uploaded.
So...armed with a text editor and sheer chocolate-fueled will, I have been weeble-wobbling a design. This front page is the prototype of the new site. It has not yet been propagated. Comments and archives are limping behind. But the core is here. The style sheets are lovely and simple. The layout is decided.
I would give a small kingdom (say, Lichtenstein) to be able to use American Typewriter (see Title Font on background) for my titles, Costa for my subtitles, and my all-time favorite, Optima, for my text. But it turns out that even in 2009, one can not have everything.
And I? Can have even less. Simply because I don't know what I am doing. It's my own dumb fault. While smarter folk were diving into the curvy deliciousness of CSS, HTML, and Java - I was sitting cross-legged with my massive SAN boxes while the EMC-rep crooned 'This Land is Your Land' to the data center.
So this is what I have so far. I thought it would take me 3 days to upload. It's taken me 3 weeks. And I'm not all the way there yet. But I've got my "Style for Dummies" book, a bagful of Hershey Kisses, and a half-full bottle of acetaminophen.
Yeah. Hit it.
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