Well, this sucks

OK, so I have to admit to being a full-blown romantic; I love the ideas of romantic comedies and the love of Jane Austen books. I was fully convinced as a child that my Mr. Right would be blissfully easy to find and just as easy to hold on to. And yet...and yet...real, adult, non-happy ending for sure life has reared its head to let me know that it is, in fact, hard work and not at all like the movies.

I met what I considered to be a fairly close proximity to a guy who could become Mr. Right. Tall, well read, loves to travel, likes to debate philosophy and psychology over a glass or two of wine, ta da! I had done it; I had found him. Easy to talk to, makes me laugh, just a bit dorky and awkward (much like myself!), prefers living overseas as compared to in the US, and at a crossroads in his life and prepared to travel the world until his money runs out or he finds a place he falls in love with.

All of this would be fantastically wonderful if at this crossroads, I was invited along. When I broached the topic, with my summer plans of cat-sitting in Paris, asking if he'd come and visit me, he said "we'll see." OK, so that's not a deal-breaker. A few minutes later, after discussing the volcano that had cancelled his much-anticipated flight to Europe, he burst out with a brief diatribe that sums up to: he can't wait to leave and never come back to America, he's debating skipping out on his best friend's wedding (for which he agreed to be the BEST MAN) so much is his passion for not ever coming back here, he has no personal ambition for life, he has no attachment to anything that relates to America (hello! I'm here!), he wants to completely disappear, and he sees himself becoming a monk because there is no other life he'd be suited for or interested in.

Fan-fucking-tastic. If he can skip out on his best friend's wedding, who he's known for over a decade, how much easier to skip out on a woman he's known for 6 months and only been in the same country with for 6 weeks. As much as I feel like I should have seen this coming, and how I really shouldn't have let myself fall for him, it sucks.

On another note, check out my articles at matadornetwork -
http://matadornights.com/best-10-out-of-900-brighton-pubs-english-seaside-drinking-at-its-finest/
http://matadornights.com/the-good-the-bad-and-the-beautiful-of-barbecue-in-kansas-city-mo-ks-usa/

750 Words

I have started dabbling with the website 750words.com. It comes from the idea of the artist's pages - that if you write three pages in the morning, every morning, without stopping and without thinking, then you get a chance to look into your subconscious and you get to cleanse yourself of your thoughts. It is also meant to help you do other writing and creating, by writing three pages without thought or concern, then you have more freedom to do other forms of creating - a way to combat writer's block.

Another nifty little feature of this particular website is that it analyzes your writing. And today, my writing was: introverted, negative, uncertain and thinking. I must say that it's spot on. I have to sign, or not sign, my lease today on my studio apartment. I must say that I do love my little place. I have it fixed up and decorated to my liking, and it's just me. I don't have to worry about crazy roommates, etc. But I wish that I could just pick up my apartment and move it somewhere else. I live in a city that I don't particularly like and work at a job that I don't feel passionate about. Yet, I have no idea as to what I would do if I were to leave. And I would have to figure that out in the next 36 hours, before my lease has to be extended. I have to sign a year lease, there is no month to month option or 6 month option.

I have some ideas as to what I would do over the summer, and yet, that all involves traveling and spending money. It doesn't seem particularly responsible or sensible to leave with no idea whatsoever as to what I would do. While I know that sometimes things shouldn't be planned, etc., I also know that having to move back in with my parents because I've run out of money, isn't a smart option either. So I want to be smart about things, but thinking of staying here for another year seems exhausting. But I don't have any idea of where I would want to go or what I would want to do if I left.

New Jersey, I have to quit you

Chris Christie, the round but not at all jolly new Governor of New Jersey, has decided the best course of action for the budget crisis is to cut funding to education. Over 500 school districts will have funding frozen, and higher education is facing massive multi-million dollar cuts. It seems like time to abandon ship. There is no incentive or security for any position.

The cuts will inevitably lead to higher tuition, larger classes, fewer instructors with an actual passion for their subject. And as someone who has had exposure to the level of education held by a wide variety of New Jersey students, it seems like the very last thing that the system needs is for cuts.

There are students, and not just a few of them, who cannot identify a correctly written sentence. The reading level of college students is hovering somewhere near what seems to be a 7th grade level at best. Teaching becomes more about explaining why you can’t write, “I is good at school” as a correct sentence, compared to discussing and writing about complex ideas and higher level thinking.

Granted, this is not the case for all students, but for a surprising number of them, they really can’t write at all. I don’t know how they got into college, and I find it endlessly frustrating to teach 4th grade level assignments to students who are supposed to hold at least a high school degree, which should mean they can read and write with some level of proficiency. And now, the schools will have less funding? It can only get worse.

I wonder what you intend

I wonder what you intend


It’s work exploring
why some do cry
when contrasted with the emptiness
of the dark
needing a close reading
to be a successful piece,
nicely unusual,
you try to be consistent
in simply saying
the unsubstantial opinions
of how you feel.

The art of losing isn't hard to master

Cold gel squirted onto warm white flesh. A fuzzy black and white image on the screen. Anxious and cautious excitement from first time parents at what they thought would be the first of many ob visits.

A mother’s heartbeat, even and strong. But no other. No reassuring, echoing thumpTHUMP thumpTHUMP from the baby inside. So not even a mother’s heartbeat, just a woman’s. (Does a baby that stopped growing after eight weeks still make you a mother? A bundle of cells half an inch long, but complete with fingers, wrists that bend, eyelids, a heart, though a heart that stopped beating.)

Calls were made a few weeks before. Too excited to hold in the news. A baby! The first baby! Ring the bells and fly the flags! More calls had to be made now. Oops. Just kidding. We take it back. No baby will be coming.

The aching impossibility and implausibility of life. How is it that any heart keeps beating? Why would one stop and not another?

This is my life

I am a migrant worker. At work, I am quiet and in the background. Ruffle anyone’s feelings or step on the delicate toes of the administration or full-timers, and in a few short months, I could be found out of work. Any questions to the status quo, any suggestions for change would be tantamount to handing in my resignation letter. I drift by, like a ghost in an old Victorian mansion; a presence you accept and expect, but not something that you wish to talk about or invite home for dinner. I float in the background, quietly doing what I’m told, no matter how tedious and time-consuming the tasks might be.

My paycheck arrives in time to pay for a place to live and food to eat and not much else. I don’t bother to nicely and politely I ask, “Please, could it be possible to have just a bit of health insurance so that if I get in a wreck on my hour commute, I wouldn’t be made instantly bankrupt?” I can only dream of the day of being able to afford it on my own. Pay rent or pay for health insurance. I can choose one of these. Not both.

Instead of picking apples or harvesting wheat, I am an adjunct lecturer. For anyone who doesn’t know about the job, to say that I teach writing at the college level gets an “ooohh...how amazing/interesting/fun/fulfilling.” I generally agree, because, again, I’ve become socialized to not make waves. It is easier to simply nod; far more difficult to explain the stress at hearing a class has been cancelled because of low enrollment. To hear that on average per hour (including office hours, prep time, grading, (ir)relevant administration, and commuting) I make less than a high-school babysitter or barista.

Yet if I apply to be a babysitter or barista, I am considered over-qualified and therefore unhireable. Instead, my degree in creative writing has somehow translated into teaching reluctant undergrads how to write a set of instructions for a user manual. Finding a full-time job (much less TENURE!) is just about as likely as my paying off my student loan in under 10 years. Even if I get a PhD (read more student loan), the chances are slim. The market is flooded with seemingly misguided humanities lovers who have been told/tricked into thinking that an advanced education will mean a chance at a career with more stability than a cashier job at McDonald’s or Wal-Mart.

As I was lying in bed a month ago, I had a sudden and breathtaking realization. This is my life. I am living my life as an underpaid, nearly invisible “educator” to surly and uncaring students. I have little chance of advancement and stability. Any suggestions?

Our story is the story of two guys who start at the bottom, and with a lot of hard work continue along the bottom, and finally end up at the bottom

Thank you Flight of the Conchords for being endlessly hilarious and providing me for the title of this post.

I had been so excited at the beginning of this week for the start of the semester. I had my whole schedule lined up and sorted out. I had cleaned out my desk. I was tinkering with the idea of beginning lesson planning (I lecture my students to not procrastinate, and yet...the week before classes seems the appropriate time to open the book I’ll be teaching from doesn’t it?) I attended the mandatory orientation for my class, only to discover there was a very strong possibility that the class would get cancelled. I expressed my dismay, considering it’s not as though I teach these classes for fun or because I have nothing to do with my time but because I like to pay rent and eat! I was assured by several members of staff that even on the chance that my class would get cancelled, I would get a replacement class. All would be sorted out by the end of the week. OK. Fine.

Friday morning arrives and I receive a text from a friend of mine who had been on the wait list at the same university to teach the basic freshman class. We went to grad school together, and I’m genuinely (for the most part) glad that he got work. I sent a quick email to the scheduling director after this. I figured if someone with my exact level of education and no experience at this university, actually make that no teaching experience at all, got a job, that must mean that my job was safe. Because I figured surely you wouldn’t give a job to a wait-listed staff member when you were going to cancel the class of a staff member who’d worked there for 2 years.

Apparently, I was quite misinformed. My class was cancelled; “sometimes things just work out that way.” Really. That’s what you say to me when you tell me that I won’t be able to pay rent for 4 months without having to ask my parents for a loan? I don’t see that as helpful.

So my excitement on Monday quickly made it’s way to trepidation and stress with a dash of hope and that quickly turned into frustration, annoyance and terror at not being able to pay bills. All of this anxiety for a job that I’m not quite sure that I want...yet I know for sure that I want a place to live and food to eat.

Dear John...continued...

Hollis Gillespie, a great writer, blogger and woman, wrote that memoirs/essays should be written without self-pity/bitterness. I think I'm at the in-between stage with this entry/this subject matter. Someday it will be written with more humor and less "poor me", but today isn't quite that day.

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

I just realized that I have given you the name John. Of the infamous “Dear John” letters, this one is going in reverse. It’s slightly distressing to discover that online there are a huge variety of resources to help people write their own breakup letters. Or examples of letters, including those received by Mormon missionaries. That seems particularly harsh somehow. They’re off saving the unsaved, and the mrs. is at home hooking up.

Many tips include not saying you want to be friends, because that doesn’t work. I suppose in our case, since you (who dated nearly anyone) were so adamant about not being my boyfriend, why would we not still be friends? There are even forms to fill out to get an instant Dear John letter without any effort. Though I feel it’s more of an effort to read the letter then it is to write it.

Ours was a “Dear John” (or “Dear Jane”) phone call, on a layover in one of the New York airports. I was on my way to a job interview and was so happy that I’d be somewhere that I could finally get good phone reception to talk to you along the way. That happiness ended with me slumped next to an abandoned ticket desk. There was a wide berth given to me and my tears. Travelers with their own problems, concerns and issues (will I catch the flight, will my luggage make it through, where is the bathroom) all more pressing, more immediate and much safer than mine.

It’s selfish to think that I was the saddest person in that airport, probably not even the saddest one in that terminal. Though it’s never helpful to put things in perspective at the time.

Recently, I was speaking to my brother on the phone and complaining about the apartment I was renting. The apartment, an example of the worst kind of run-down, uncared for housing foisted upon recent grads (not students technically, but still no money!). The peeling paint, a door that didn’t always lock properly, a sink that wouldn’t hold water, a toilet that wouldn’t let it go, a set of back stairs that shook precariously with every cautious movement up and down it’s rickety wooden frame. And a basement that was filled with mold, leaky pipes and a ridiculous amount of past renter’s stuff. It’s the principle, if you’re moving, you take everything with you. You don’t leave things.

I was running through my complaints about the apartment, and my brother’s response? “There are worse things in the world.” If I could have reached out and slapped him across the phone lines, I would have. Yes, I realize that there are people at war, that are starving, that have lost their families, their health, their jobs. That many people would find my house a veritable palace. But while misery may love company, it loves a commensurate amount of misery.

Dear John...(to be continued...)

I suppose that I should start by giving you a pseudonym. Let’s call you...John.

John. I have so much that I want to say to you and about you, I find myself struggling with where to begin. We really only knew each other for about six months, face to face. That was three years ago, and of all the things that I know about you, me and you and me, I know that whenever I hear your name now, whether it’s in reference to you or not, I get a flash of nausea. No, not quite nausea. Yet still a sick type of feeling. I’ve had it before when I’ve been caught in a lie or know that I have forgotten something really important.

It’s an odd sensation, a rush of heavy quicksilver in my stomach and a feeling that all the blood in my body suddenly increased in temperature by 10 degrees. Not boiling, that would be too much, but a definitely unpleasant heat. It doesn’t last as long as it did. (But frankly, since it happens at all, it lasts too long.) It makes for a touch of awkwardness in classes now if I have a student with your name. It isn’t his fault that the two of you share a name, yet I still find myself grading every student with your name a half a letter grade up to make sure that I’m not being unduly and unfairly prejudiced. (I’ll give them your name and number, so they can thank you for the boost.)

So I have this feeling, this sort of 2 second hot flash, whenever I hear or see your name. I am 26 years old. I should not be having hot flashes. And as much as I hate it, I’ve been trained, or at least my body has been trained to react to you. It’s a fight or flight, though there is no actual event to fight or flee when I hear your name. So I’m left without any sort of resolution, feeling hyperaware of my body and my self, and all because I’ve heard your name.

How does that happen? How does one word, John, make me flush with a mixture of anger and terror all topped with an acute self-consciousness. Eleanor Roosevelt said: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Apparently I sent in a form, signed and notarized, practically begging you to make me feel inferior, there’s really no other explanation for it. A wise woman and a wise statement, but I wonder, does the perpetrator have to know they are making the other one feel inferior? Is that a part of the equation? It gives a bit of absolution to the victim if the aggressor knew they were acting in a way as to make others feel inferior.

Or does that make it all the more sinister; you’ve no way of knowing how your name makes me feel, so how could any fault be attributed to you? It comes back on me. mea culpa. It is my own fault. I am the one making myself feel bad. I am the problem. I have given the consent, so it is my fault. Wasn’t that the rule in Nazi Germany and more recently at Guantanamo Bay? It is the ones in control, the ones who gave the command that are to blame. The soldiers on the ground are simply obeying orders.

To be continued...(upon request)

Noisy Neighbor

I just received a call from an assistant in the apartment complex where I live. A few weeks ago, I was woken up by pounding and furniture being moved in the apartment below me at 5am on a Saturday. As the downstairs neighbor left, I yelled at him that he was violating the lease by making so much noise at such a time. His response was, “Welcome to my world.”

I was left without words, not only because he’d already left and I would have been left talking to myself. Also, I was trying to think of the last Saturday that I’d started at 5am by hanging pictures and moving furniture, and not one example came to mind.

My response, since actually speaking to my neighbor isn’t so much successful and causes a spike in my blood pressure, was to write a letter to the landlord asking if I was indeed correct in interpreting the “quiet enjoyment” section of the lease to mean that I shouldn’t have be woken up at 5am on a Saturday.

The landlord (or an office assistant most likely) read the letter and called the neighbor to tell him of my complaint. I asked her how the conversation went; she hesitated, and I had images of him yelling about my loud behavior that he hadn’t ever complained about (he really really hates my sewing machine!).

I understand that my neighbor most likely hears much of the noise that I make, but I feel that I’m fairly lazy and that during the quiet hours of after 10pm and before 9am, I’m not doing very much. And when I use my sewing machine or when I’m hanging pictures, etc., it is always during the day where, to put it bluntly, if he doesn’t like it, he can suck it.

But now I know that he knows I complained. Which is, I suppose, the point. That I’m not going to just let him bang around and wake me up without putting up a fight (granted, my fighting consists of letter writing, but that’s a type of fighting). And I did try and talk to him about it, but to no avail. What else was I to do? Ignore it, yes, that was probably an option. Try and talk to him again? Seems pointless.

I’m hyperaware of my own actions now. I don’t want to be the pot who called the kettle black (I’m tired, I can’t think beyond cliché at this exact moment in time!), so I find myself tiptoeing around my own apartment in the middle of the day. His being loud has resulted in me being quieter.

Gym Dating

I’ve been going to the gym every other day (if not more, yay!) recently, and whenever I’m on the treadmill, I like to be able to see myself across the room in the mirror. I’m not sure what it is, I think I remember reading somewhere that if you can see yourself at the gym you work harder or burn more calories or something. All I know is that I like to watch my hair swish rhythmically in the mirror and see that as I get sore and tired, it looks that way! There’s a satisfaction in seeing a visual of my hard work (regardless that the evidence is nothing more than a sweaty face and flushed cheeks).

Between the row of treadmills are three rows of weight machines and free weight stations, so there are a number of people that wander in and out of my eye line during my workout.

Today, I realized a tall, fairly good looking guy kept glancing back at me. It took me 10 minutes, and just over a mile, to realize that it wasn’t him checking me out, so much as him trying to figure out who the girl was that kept staring at him. For as I focused on myself in the mirror, where he was lifting weights made it seem as though I was staring at him.

And that got me thinking about people who find dates at the gym. This has never crossed my mind. I always go fairly focused on what I’m doing, and as I leave, I’m most focused on getting home to get a shower. And I always assume that is the case for everyone else there.

I had one guy ask me if he could use the weight machine next to me in the circuit area. I gave him a slightly annoyed glance, and said, “Sure, no problem” with what I fear was a fairly brusque tone, thinking I have my headphones on and am trying to get in shape here, why are you bothering me? So was he trying to hit on me? My friends said yes, but I'm pretty sure they were trying to stoke the fires of my feeble ego. I was not convinced.

Does it happen? Is the gym really a place to meet people? Can you really catch someone's eye as you finish up the last few paces on the treadmill, gasping for breath, face as red as an albino after a day at the beach, sweat dripping from your elbows? Is that a sexy time?

I'm completely lacking all of the normal accoutrement that I normally employ in my siren attempts – made-up face, push-up bra, no visible sweat, an odor that leans towards middle-range perfume as compared to unwashed hippie, etc.

To be fair, my luck in love has proven about equal in and out of the gym, so it’s hard to tell if there’s really a cause and effect.

Tears

Two days ago, I made three of my students cry. This was in a class with six students, so I made 50% of my students cry. In my defense, it was for being understanding and asking them how they were doing and wanting to hear more about their hopes and their stress. (At least I hope that it was an OK reason to make them cry!) To be fair, and bless their hearts, I could probably make them cry based upon their English skills. Honestly, it hurts to read some of their assignments.

There was “Jessica”, whose mother is battling cancer and who feels that she needs to be perfect. There is “Eleanor”, who feels overwhelmed and stressed with the amount of work she has to do, and feels that she will never be able to be the student she thinks she should be. And there is “Jennifer”, who is abysmally failing math, and she has two older brothers who did well in math. She feels that if she has to succeed, and puts so much in the idea that she’ll fail and not be as good as the were, that she actually does fail.

I did my best to comfort and reassure them. I found myself saying things that I wish I could have been told. Telling Jessica that her parents already think she’s perfect, and so she doesn’t have to worry about anything. Eleanor was told that as long as she keeps working day by day, she’ll get to where she wants to be. And poor Jennifer, I asked her what she was good at that her brothers weren’t. She said she’d never thought about it.

My brothers were very good at athletics. Brother A at track and cross-country and Brother B at football. I was not, to say the least, gifted in sports. I found it absolutely appalling to have to touch someone else’s sweat, so I wasn’t good at basketball. Running just plains hurt, so cross-country and track were out. Yet I ran cross-country and track all four years of high school. I kept trying, but not with any real passion for it.

I’ve gone back to running and working out on my own, and I can run as fast, if not faster, then I did in high school. Not because I’m in any better shape, but because it’s something that’s now mine. And I’ve matured enough to know that it’s going to hurt, there’s no looking past that. But, since I’ve actively chosen to run, the hurt is OK.

When I was in college, I remember a young teacher, who must have been a PhD student doing teaching, asking me if I was OK, at a moment when I knew I was on the verge of tears. And I didn’t feel comfortable enough with myself to be able to talk about my worries.

They seemed to respond well to what I had to say; though, I hope that it wasn’t simply because I was a teacher, and they’re used to saying yes to teachers. I hope that I’ve helped them. I hope they know that my heart breaks, because I can see so much of myself in them. Scared, uncertain, yet determined.

Resistance

I've been going to the gym more often this summer. Not only do I have more free time as well as more time to kill (yes, the two are different!), I am also going to be running a 4 mile run in Central Park this weekend - the New York Road Runners Central Park Conservancy run/walk. The walk part of the name is particularly important to me. While I can average 10 minute miles for 4 miles, I always end up walking of it. Granted, that time was on a treadmill without a lot of hills (I still have to go over the route, but it's Central Park, there will be some changes in elevation!), I feel fairly confident that I'll be able to finish the 4 miles before the kid's races start an hour and a half later

There is one thing that I noticed at the gym. Some days, I just can't face running, and so I head to the stationery bikes. As I enter the settings, I must admit that I cringe a bit when I put my age at 26. Yes, in many ways, I'm still extraordinarily young, and I recognize that. But there's also a faint twinge that I'm in my late 20s. I'm not overly sensitive about my age, yet I feel as though there are things that I should have done, or should have happened by now. But that is a topic for another day.

Every time you sit down at any of the cardio machines, you have to enter a "resistance". It starts at "1" and goes up from there. At first, a lower setting is ideal; it takes time to get into the rhythm; your muscles and your breathing has to adjust. Above all, I need a rhythm, a pattern to my movement. Much of it is based off of the music I'm listening to. Ideally, the movements of my body match the beat of the music, and if it's close, but not quite the right tempo, I find it frustrating. But again, I digress.

As I get into the rhythm and begin to sweat, if the resistance goes back down to where I started, it makes the biking difficult and jerky. The wheels are spinning faster then I'm pedaling, frustrating my efforts and throwing off the rhythm and pace. There needs to be some resistance, something to work against, for the workout to keep progressing.

This is something that to keep in mind as I continue through life. Without some resistance, some friction, some difficulty, I'm not going to progress. So when it hurts (as it often does at the end of a workout as the legs begin to ache and the lungs start burning) and it seems difficult (really? there's still another mile to go?), that's actually a good sign. It means that somethng is happening, or going to happen.

A year and a day

It has been a year and a day since my mother's mother died. My grandmother. A woman my grandfather, her husband, first described as "a real peach". Last summer I was tortured by a combination of factors. And I wrote about my grandmother. This is part of what I wrote.

In the evenings, she would grow lonely and restless. She called out to anyone; demanding they come to see her right then. Right at that moment. She could feel an otherness creeping upon her as the sun began to go down. In the long afternoon hours, her Sunday afternoon feeling swelled and morphed. She became not herself. Whatever relative that happened to be on hand, that had answered her desperate call, was likely to be met with anger and frustration when they informed her that they were not there to take her home. Why would you come here and not take me home? Why do you always leave me here? In a room that is never warm enough. Where you have to push a button to use the bathroom, wait until the urge has passed and the aide instead has to get you a fresh pair of Wal-Mart brand Depends.

Family came to her in the hospital. To sit with her and to hold her hand. She leans over and asks if they are here to say goodbye. She asks if she can let go; it hurts; it hurts. It is difficult to hang on with oxygen flowing into lungs clogged with pneumonia, into a brain scarred with strokes and Parkinson’s. Each morning, the doctor arrives earlier and earlier so as to avoid the family, in particular the eldest of the two daughters. She accosted him last week, demanding to know why there were no answers, why nothing was happening. Why every time that she asked about something, all he said was that she was holding on. Was she to let go? How do you let go?

Her face and hands and hair were made beautiful in death. Before, after weeks in the hospital, months in the care center and years helping on the farm before SPF 50 and wrinkle reducing moisturizer, her hands were rough and mottled black and blue from too many sticks of the IV. Her smile sagged on one side from any number of strokes and mini-strokes. Weight was lost and then gained, cheeks and jowls sagged. Eyes were puffy from too much sleep. Hours had been spent putting in rollers at home and going to the local salon for a permanent. In the hospital, it hung straight – washed on a semi-regular basis with a shower cap placed upon her head, massaged, let to set, then removed. Another item on a to-do list of a nurse or an aide.

The doctors didn’t seem to visit much. First do no harm. There was no harm that could be done, nor any good, except for the morphine drip that increased at night when legs got restless and the mind couldn’t sleep, as it searched for the reason for holding on, for the reason that it hurt, that the last days were so unbearable. A woman who had spent her life serving others. No saint, surely, but saintly in the way of a farmer’s wife and a teacher and a mother. A quick end, a smooth end would have been deserving.

She waited. She waited until the wheat was cut. She waited until her youngest daughter had said good night. She waited until her husband was at home, sleeping in the bed they had shared. 3:00am in the morning, the quiet hour, the night before the dawn, she let go.

Her obituary fits neatly on a page. Listing those alive and those who passed before her with a summary of her hobbies. My cousin and I called her Magic Fingers as she taught as how to sew; we couldn’t fathom how fingers could make such small and even stitches as our stitches wavered across the fabric. Nora enjoyed sewing. She made outfits for five children, including underwear out of feed sacks. My mother didn’t get her first store bought dress until she was 18. She made outfits and quilts for all of her grandchildren. Do some anecdotes, some personal touches bring her any closer? Do they do any more then Nora enjoyed sewing?

When asked by the pastor for memories of their mother, her children sat silently at the table. My own mother decided, in an oddly obstinate way, that she would not say a word. She was not going to help him. She would sit there in silence and let someone else talk. My aunt, a daughter-in-law named Eileen, chimes in. Eileen and her husband who found it so difficult to get off the farm to come to Christmas celebrations even when they were only a 30 minute drive away. This is the woman who has all the memories. This is the woman who decides how my grandmother will be remembered in the pastor’s sermon.

She filled a silence, though, she filled a void that wouldn’t be filled with the ponderous, slow to speak and not ever quite able to deal with emotions children. The gap had to be filled and she did her best. More than the other daughter-in-law who began to lecture, a few days before Nora let go, my mother and her sister on the care that should have been given. Living only an hour away, as compared to the 3+ hours of all the other family members aside from Eileen, she came only at the end. She voiced her opinion only at the end when there was nothing that could be done. When her opinion was simply filling another kind of void, that space of time as they waited to see how long Nora would hold on. The space the doctor kept calling Nora’s balance beam that was narrowing by the day.

This was the daughter-in-law who practiced medicine and her husband who did the same; let’s call them Mae and Paul. Mae and Paul came on their own convenience, squeezed in between trips to Milan, Israel, China, England, New York City and San Fransisco.

They were not there to hold her hand as she called for help and asked if she had to keep holding on. They did not feed her the mashed up food the care center fed her near the end. They did not wash her hair, put on her socks, brush her hair back from her forehead, hold a cold cloth to her lip that she bit so hard in pain or with the shudders and twitches of Parkinson's she had to have stitches.

They come in as time has run out. As their opinions cannot be acted upon. As though they had all the answers and if they’d had their way, she would be fine. An unconscious presumption or unknown guilt, for whatever reason, she spent hours detailing to Miriam just how Nora’s care should have been administered. Who does that help? How does that help?

I wonder at the tale of the prodigal son. Did not the first-born son have a right to be just a wee bit annoyed? Here comes his brother, welcomed back in without a second thought. Are we expected to be so forgiving? As we forgive, we let go of that small self-satisfaction, that conviction that we are somehow, in whatever small way, better than these others. I sent letters and flowers and I held her hand; a cautious, selfish and guilty whisper inside me tells me that this makes me better than those who came only to say goodbye. If I forgive them, I am no better than them. It is good that the Word can be seen like poetry – metaphors and symbolism, able to be interpreted.

88 years of life can fit neatly onto a page and even more neatly onto a grey granite headstone. A list of her children’s names. Her husband’s name alongside hers. No extra decoration, no frills and elaboration.

Double chin

I have a fear that I'm beginning to develop a double chin and a bit of a beer gut. Well, I suppose to be technical it's a rum gut, but all the same.

I have been going to the gym about 4 times a week recently. Since the semester has ended, I find myself with more spare time, and so I've been headed to the gym more often. It is also to try and stop the widening of my waistline and the inexplicable loose skin beneath my chin.

I remember the day in high school where my friends decided to have a bra-free day. I was in absolute agony. Mostly because the bras I wore day to day added one if not two cup sizes on their own. I was terrified of showing just how flat-chested I really was. For even with my extra padded bras, I was still most definitely not Pamela Anderson.

And now, my agony over my chest is the unexplained reason that I would gain weight solely under my chin and around my hips and not on my boobs. It makes no sense. I really only go to the gym to ensure that my stomach doesn't stick out past my small cup size. I don't have a lot of room to work with, so my weeks of eating chips and drinking very quickly leads to a bit of a crisis.

I went to the gym today, lifted some weights, did some time on the elliptical and on the treadmill. I generally felt good about myself. And yet when I get home, I follow up my workout with a plateful of wavy lays dipped in ranch and a triple rum and coke. It seems...not ideal.

Guilt

I volunteer for a website that reviews books and music. I moved from simply reviewing items to be a part of requesting the items. During the schoolyear, as I'm teaching, I didn't really make time for it and I thought that now that it was summer, I'd make more requests. And so I sent off my requests, and now I've been told off for not doing things properly.


In my defense, I was never given any guidelines, but now I'm left with a stack of books sent to me that serve no purpose since they were published over 6 months ago, and therefore I could write the most insightful and witty reviews of the books, but no one would ever see them. Should I send them back? Do I keep them and just pretend it's OK that the publisher will now never get their books reviewed

And is it OK for me to be defensive because I was never told the right way to do things? That is my go to move for confrontation, and I suppose anyone's really. Our egos are such that it can be hard to take criticism. And instantly all the reasons that we're right and the other person is wrong are clear and obvious to us.

In this case, I suppose it is more of me not knowing the right way to do something. And so it's simply someone providing guidance for future efforts, and not completely a criticism. But hearing that I've done something not right, whether I should have known better or not, leaves me feeling slightly ill. As though I've finished my third plate at an all you can eat pizza buffet. Not enough to cause any actual damage, but enough to feel bad (physically or otherwise) for a day or so.

Chia Obama

Somehow this seems inexplicably wrong. It goes beyond kitsch to ridiculous and from ridiculous, the idea teeters dangerously on offensive. Was there a Chia Bush? It seems to be trivializing and mocking. Or am I being overly sensitive?

The "Happy" Obama isn't the only option. There is a "Determined" Obama with a serious expression on the clay pot face.

Can anyone be made into a Chia? It could be a commemoration or a memorial. Don't just leave flowers at a loved one's grave, order a custom Chia pet. You'll be able to honor their memory while strangers will know what your loved one looked like in life. Assuming your loved one had an orange-y clay face and green and leafy hair.

Father's Day

It's Father's Day! A day to celebrate our fathers and all that they do. I sent $10 in honor of my dad to Nothing But Nets, one of his favorite charities. The $10 will buy 1 bed net for a child in Africa, and it will help prevent the spread of Malaria. Interested? http://www.nothingbutnets.org/.

I also sent him a book by Bill Bryson, one that he had started reading while he and my mom were visiting me. I did all that I could to make my gift special, to make it enough. Any one of the things would have been fine. And really, thinking about it, a card or even an e-card and a call would have been appreciated. But I'm trying to do something special, something unique, something...enough.

Through no purposeful intent or conscious awareness, and due, I imagine, to his own upbringing, my dad (along with my mom in smaller part) created an atmosphere where perfect was the only thing truly approved.

When my brothers and I spoke about our grades in school, we were told to do our best. But if we didn't get an "A", then we weren't doing our best. I agonized in high school over a class that I

knew I'd get a "B" in. I wanted to drop the class.

I found out later that when my father was younger, he would drop college classes if he thought he wouldn't be able to get an "A" in the class. So it isn't as though the trend in the family started with him. And in many ways, I'm sure that the two of us are alike, and yet, it's not something that I feel.

It's often said that there is a special relationship between fathers and daughters, and it makes me sad to know that he and I don't have a strong or open relationship. With the burden of perfection (unconsciously perceived, if not actively created) it can be impossible to be who you truly are: someone imperfect and flawed and yet for that imperfection and for those flaws, all the more interesting and unique.

Quang Tri province in Vietnam

The Quang Tri province in central Vietnam was home to some of the fiercest and deadliest fighting during the Vietnam war. The region is near the demilitarized zone that separated North and South Vietnam. The area was fire bombed during the war and it has faced some of the heaviest bombing in history. The land was stripped of vegetation and seemingly in its place are hundreds of landmines. Once a week, now in the 21st century, someone is injured or killed from a landmine in the area.

Those who live there are a part of the ethnic minority in Vietnam and have been largely ignored. The traditional farming practices are impossible since much of the land still contains landmines and unexploded ordinance.

SalaamGarage is planning a trip in January 2010 to work with local NGOs in cleaning up the area and spreading the word through a variety of media - print, blog, film, photo, etc.

Moving and Money

My roommate is moving to New York City; it's a dream of hers. She wants to be an actress, so logically, New York City makes sense. But in a lot of ways, it's very abrupt. She's moving in a week, when the lease on our apartment ends at the end of May. And while I'm excited for her, bt's also frustrating in a way. She owns a lot of the furniture and appliances in the house, and so I have to buy all sorts of new stuff for 2 months.

Because at the end of May, I have no idea where I'm going or what I'll be doing. So maybe it is time for to have a microwave and toaster and full set of dishes for myself. But maybe I'll be moving in somewhere else.

Also, if I was getting married, I could register for all of this stuff. Why is there a penalty for wanting to set up house as someone who isn't getting married? Don't I have the right to have someone else buy all of my kitchen stuff for me?

Mostly it's an annoyance because I'm in the midst of some money problems. Probably not anything important compared to the seemingly entire and endless collapse of the economy around the world, but for me, it's pretty stressful. I spent $300 fixing a car that still has problems running, and I'll be owing money to the government. That has never happened to me before. I didn't realize I'd actually made enough money this year to have to owe any money; while I'm happy that I'm no longer living below the poverty line, I have no idea where I'm going to get the money to cover the cost.

I was considering a move to the city, or a move anywhere to a place by myself, but that would require saving up some money. It seems impossible to save while paying off the bills. Anyone else have that problem?