Gotta Love Those Chicks

I'm a diehard Dixie Chicks fan. Have been for 10 years now. I've bought all their albums, seen them live, have the world tour dvd. But none of that prepared me for the power of the documentary "Shut Up and Sing." Yeah, I finally got to see it. The disadvantage of living in hickville is that they don't show movies like that up here. So, it's out on dvd. And Jamie and I finally rented it today. And OH MY FUCKING GOD...it's amazing.

We're all familiar with the story, at least those of us who haven't lived under a rock for the last three years are familiar with the story. How America's sweethearts went from biggest selling country group to hated media targets over 11 words that every one seems to agree with these days. So, okay, you might think what else can be added to the experience of the media frenzy. But, oh, it's so much more.

First of all, it's a beautiful demonstration of free speech in America. And media hypocrisy in America. But, more than that, it's a demonstration of togetherness and sisterhood that has been so lacking in the American awareness since this idiot president took office. It shows the fear that we, as liberals and moderates, felt when speaking out against this huge right wing conservative spin machine. And it highlights the bravery of these women, who were willing to speak out, even knowing that continuing to do so would irreparably damage their careers.

And let's face it people, it takes balls to stand next to someone who is targeted by the crazy conservatives and say, yeah, we support our friend, our sister. And to do it so publicly when their careers and some might even suggest their safety were on the line. It's not like there were large groups of people agreeing with them. We that agreed were few and far between and it sure as hell wasn't our voices that were being heard.

So, if you haven't seen it, go out and see it. If you haven't heard their latest album, which is so achingly beautiful, go buy it. Bravery like that should be rewarded.

Call Me The Crazy Rat Lady

Okay, so we went back to the pet store looking for a larger cage for our three boys. Because, of course, a cage big enough for one rat is not a cage big enough for three rats. While the pet shop didn't have any larger cages, they did have two beautiful larger siamese rats. Rats that had been pets, but were now being sold as "feeders." Now, I like snakes. I even understand that snakes need food. But, I have a hard time with the idea of feeding pets to snakes. Plus, putting a rat into a snake's cage so the snake can kill the terrified creature seems unsporting to me. Now, in the wild, the rat has the chance to escape and it's more fair. However, in a terrarium, there is no escape, so even if the snake isn't hungry the rat has no where to go until the snake decides to make the rat lunch.

But, I digress. So, of course I bought the beautiful feeder boys. And they are huge. Two handers. They have been christened Niblet and Squish. And the names are self explanatory.

So, then, off we went to the feed store which carries larger cages and we bought a large two story cage, plus accessories, then headed home to set the boys up. Well, we soon realized that the larger cage would accomodate about 4 rats comfortably and the smaller cage would house two rats comfortably. So, Jamie and I spent tonight dismantling the cages and putting them together into one monster of a cage that stands nearly five feet tall. I made a bunch of hammocks, and Jamie and I made them a lovely rope ladder. And now the rats live in lovely rattie mansion. Which is perched atop Cera's crate, because that's the only place we have for it. Cera is not entirely unhappy with the situation because it gives her a legitimate reason to lay underneath the cage and stare in hunger.

So, five rats out of "hey, let's get Cassidy a rat." Sigh...so, I'm not going to the pet store anymore...we just don't have the room.

Rats Don't Like To Be Dirty...

Okay, so the thing about furbabies is that they don't allow you to wallow in your misery for any longer than they can possibly help.

Mr. Sprinkles, Dobby and Golem were hanging out with me on the couch last night. We were having a marvelous time, they were getting attention, I had my attention diverted. And luckily the fog in my brain is dissipating a bit. (Remember to take your pills next time, nitwit!!) Anyway, Dobby and Sprinkles moved to the crook of my arm and were chilling there and I was giving Golem my undivided attention. Suddenly, Sprinkles, who is the most vocal rat I've ever had suddenly stopped chittering happily and made what I can only describe as the ratty ick sound. I look down and Dobby has poohed on my arm. Now, anyone who has ever had rats or had much experience with them knows that this happens and that it really isn't that big of a deal. However, Sprinkles, like every other rat I've ever known, objects to other rats pellets. And he had accidentally squished a pellet between his paw and my arm. Now, hard little pellets that are easy to clean up quickly lose the ick factor, but squished pellets are different. Anyway, Sprinkles was totally grossed out by the rat pooh on his little paw, so he looked at it, then reached out and wiped all the pooh on my arm...little bugger.....

Anyway, so after much icking and laughing, I put the little buggers back in their cage and discovered that I was feeling quite a bit happier.

So, while I don't know that rat pooh is the next big thing in antidepressants, little ratty ick faces go along way towards dispelling one's gloom....

Okay...So No Pictures, Yet

But, I am offering an update. Dobby, a beautiful siamese rat, slightly older than Golem and Mr. Sprinkles has joined the melee. Despite being older and larger, Dobby is taking quite a bit of rodently abuse at the paws of Mr. Sprinkles. Whenever Dobby decides to leave the safety of the hammock for a much needed bit of broccoli or oyster, (yeah, okay, my rats eat better than I do) Mr. Sprinkles sits back and watches him intently, then as Dobby prepares to retreat to the hammock with his sustenance, Sprinkles leaps out of nowhere steals the tasty bit and runs off. Even if this means dropping whatever tasty treat Sprinkles already had in his hands.

Furthermore, Mr. Sprinkles has decided that, apparently, Dobby does not groom himself often or thoroughly enough. Now, Dobby is a clean rat, and if you know anything at all about rats, you know that even the most slovenly rats spend the greater part of their day grooming themselves. But, it's not enough for Sprinkles. He's taken to jumping on Dobby's head, holding him down and grooming him thoroughly and agressively and then sauntering off nonchalantly while Dobby stares after him in bafflment.

The cats have lost interest in the rats. Whether this is because they realize the ratties are "family" or that the food in their bowls is a lot easier to get at than the rats is open to debate. Cera, on the other hand, cannot let it go. Every time she comes back in from one of her jaunts, she runs straight to Cassidy's room only to discover, to her dismay, that the damn rats are still here. When the rats are out of their cage, she sits at the foot of whomever is holding the rat and licks her lips, much the way she does while waiting for a hot dog. She looks wolfishly cute while eyeing her new "brothers" and trying to figure out how to get them in her mouth.

Alright, I'm obsessed with my animals, it's true. But, in my defense, Cass is gone at school and Jamie's at work most of the day. I spend most of my time with the furbabies.

New Additions to the Family...

We've added to the insanity!! Golem and Mr. Sprinkles, two young male rats, have decided to adopt us. The decision was met with mixed reactions from current family members. Cera, the three-legged wonder dog, is decidedly unhappy with the additions. She has spent much of her time staring hungrily at their cage and whining at them. Fat cat sisters, Thelma and Louise, are quite certain that we've gotten them tasty treats, and can't understand why we aren't letting them be eaten.

As for the human contingent, we're all quite happy with their silly rodent antics. Cassidy thinks they are the funniest, cutest little things she's ever seen. Pretty amazing, since the child refused to even hold a rat a few months ago, and now she's letting them nestle in her hair. In theory, the rats are hers, however, she's having a hard time getting me and Jamie to let go of one long enough for her to hold it.

We've spent a couple of days decorating their cage with rat friendly toys...a hammock, and tunnels and a rock...all of which were found in and around the house. I'd forgotten what fun it was to provide interesting diversions for their little rodent selves.

If I can figure it out, I'll post pictures of the menagerie, soon.

Sleep Has Eluded Me...So Here's Some Stuff That's Been On My Mind

Yeah, okay crappy title for a post, but that's what this is. It is, after all, 3:21 AM and despite all my numerous attempts to shut off my brain, it keeps on going. Sigh....

So, as mentioned in my previous post, I've been sick. Which means I've been sitting around watching movies. Nothing that would interest you, gentle reader. I've been watching brain candy, mindless fluff that requires little to no thought. For example: Phat Girlz. Yeah, okay, I know, not exactly art, but something that's been surprisingly thought provoking, especially in light of the recent developments that have led the fashion industry to consider imposing a ban on models under a BMI of 18, which is the cut off for the healthy mark.

Now, before I proceed: I want it known that I do not accept the BMI as the end all in weight advice. Mostly because this chart was developed not by nutritionists and doctors, but by health insurance companies to point out which individuals are more likely to be affected by weight related health issues. Also, the chart doesn't take into account frame size. What that means is that someone with teeny aristocratic bones is going to be told to weigh the same weight as the sturdy peasant type. Not exactly logical.

Alright, now that that's out of the way, for those of you who haven't seen it (which would encompass every reader I have, would be my guess) Phat Girlz is the fat chick's equivalent of Weird Science as far as geeks go. It's a fantasy in which all the sudden, the rules of the world are reversed (at least for these three girls) and suddenly the skinny girl is the ugly one and the fat girls are the goddesses. Basically, these girls meet a group of Nigerian doctors who, being from another culture, don't buy into the American need to starve our women to be beautiful. While it's completely unrealistic and unfairly bitter to the skinny women of the world, it makes some damn good points. Not the least of which is that not every woman is going to be a size 5. Not every woman meets that standard of beauty and we need to start addressing the way this unrealistic standard dictates the way we talk about ourselves and the way we feel about ourselves.

Okay, so before you start thinking...oh, this is just a fat girl (which I admittedly am) trying to justify why it's okay to be fat....let me post for you a portion of a recent e-mail from LQofU's best, and skinniest, friend, Erin the God (Archaeogoddess):

I'm also dismayed because I seem to be so very close to a size 10. I thought
i was a skinny stick thing. The sizes in the so-called normal sized section only
go up to a 14. The clothing industry has a very sick, narrow view of what is
normal. The normal size may go up to a 14, but it also goes down to a 2. If I
only just passed the BMI and am a size 8, that's three sizes below me that
are "normal" by clothing standards, but not by science. I just checked and I can
gain another 39 pounds before I hit "overweight". I bet if I gained those 39
pounds I wouldn't fit in "normal" sized pants.

So, it isn't just me, it isn't just the fat girls of the world who feel affronted by what's "normal" or accepted. Even my thinnest friend, the one that is constantly asked if she has an eating disorder, doesn't fit with the fashion industry's ideal of beauty. Because while the fashion industry may call "normal" sizes up to size 14, it isn't what they advertise as normal. The girls we are seen paraded on TV and in magazines are size 4, 2, or 0. Now, if Erin isn't thin enough to fit this ideal of "normal" the rest of us haven't a chance in hell.

Let me tell you something about me. At my thinnest, when I was a bulimic head case who dropped 40 pounds in a month and a half, and looked disgusting, with that alarming bobble-head effect where my head was way too large for my body, I was a size 12. I was literally killing myself to be thin and the closest I came was a 12. That's two whole sizes larger than Erin has ever been and 4 to 5 sizes larger than any model out there. What that means is that it will never be possible for me to be both healthy and "normal." And I'm not the only woman built the way that I am. And Erin's not the only woman built the way she and think of all the women in between.

And it's easy to say, just ignore it. Just accept yourself, just love yourself, blah, blah, blah... We would love to, I would love to. But women internalize this vision of beauty that is completely unattainable to us to a degree that we're never satisfied with ourselves. I've never met a woman (besides Erin) who said, "I don't want to lose any weight. I'm thin enough. I'm good enough." And even Erin, (who despite being my best friend, the other half of me in a lot of ways, still inspires that sick jealous feeling about half the time, who has been on the receiving end of ugly, bitter comments from me because I could not look at her and not see how much closer she was to "beautiful" than I was) has felt that her body wasn't good enough because she was "too thin." It's never just right, or good enough, or acceptable. There's always a betterness to strive for, and it's killing women and girls all over the world. It's sucking away our chances at happiness and self-acceptance. We can't be happy with what we see in the mirror because we're constantly being told how it's not acceptable, and what we can do to make ourselves better, prettier, thinner, younger, whatever.

Then, I look at my daughter. She's 7 fucking years old and already questions whether she's "thin enough." And she's going to have problems, she already has problems, because she's tall, and she's strong. There's hardly any fat on this child, but she's bigger than most of her female classmates, built like her Irish peasant mother, and German peasant father. She can already hit a softball farther than I ever could, she runs fast, she's athletic and healthy and so damn beautiful, and she doesn't fit in with what we think pretty little girls who are going to beautiful women should be. And there isn't a damn thing she can do about it. There are going to be boys who call her fat, or think she's too big and won't want to date her. There are going to be skinny girls who feel so insecure about themselves and call her names to make themselves feel better.

And all I can do is be one voice in her head that says, no, you are enough. You are tall enough and beautiful enough and smart enough and good enough. Not too much and not too little, but just enough. One voice, when there are hundreds booming at her everyday, on the TV on billboards, on magazine covers, on the covers of beauty products, in her classroom and on her playground that will be telling her you aren't enough, you will never be enough but buy this, or torture yourself in this way and maybe you'll get just a little closer to being enough.

So, what do we do? We can't stop wearing clothes. We can't stop looking at the world around us, the world that tells us how we aren't good enough. All we can do is try to protect ourselves and our sisters, and friends and daughters from this illness. Because it is a sickness. Looking at what you see in the mirror and trying to figure out how to make it something other than what it is sick. And how many women have died from this illness? More than we can count. I was so close to being one of those women at one time. I stood in my hallway at my parent's house while Erin screamed at me to stop killing myself, and all I could think, is why can't I look like her? That's not healthy.

I think the fashion industry's attempt to rein in the raging epidemic of "not good enough syndrome" by telling them they at least need to be healthy to walk down runways is a great start. But it isn't going to save lives, and it isn't going to make women feel better about about themselves. Not as long as we hold to only one ideal of beauty. As long as we are paying women 10,000 dollars a day to walk around and be "beautiful" there's only going to be one ideal of beauty. After all, if we're all beautiful, why does that one girl get $10,000.00 for being herself when the rest of us don't?

Beauty belongs in the eye of the beholder, not in the bank accounts of an industry.

Aargh....

Okay, so can someone explain to me why there are like 80 products out there that make it possible for 80 year old men to get hard-ons, and yet we still haven't found a cure for the common cold?

Yeah, so my darling little bundle of germs brought home germs from that germ infested wasteland also known as primary school. So, she was sick for awhile, and I felt fine, so I thought, hmmm...maybe I'm just not going to get this one. No such luck. And, of course I have to get it worse than she did, so while she was still running around like a maniac, I'm in misery on the couch, praying for either death or a mucous vacuum. (Now there's a nice mental image for ya, right? 'Cause who's going to empty that vacuum bag....yeeesh...)

Oh, and hey...no one tells you this, but if you ever get your thyroid taken out, say goodbye to all the good cold medications that make it possible for you to breathe from time to time. For some reason, anyone taking thyroid replacement therapy can't take anything with ephedrine. Good thing my meth days are over, right?

Some Thoughts on Feminism

women learn to be women
and men learn to be men
and I don't blame it all on you
but I don't want to be your friend


-Ani Difranco, Letter to a John

Okay, so call me a stereotype. Like every other pseudointellectual queer woman of my age, Ani Difranco is one of my heroes. I listen to her music nearly every day. I dissect her songs and poetry and see how it relates to my life and the world around me. I use her for inspiration in a lot of my writing. And while I don't blindly agree with everything she says, I feel indebted to her, in the same way that I feel indebted to Gloria Steinem and Andrea Dworkin, or Alice Paul and Lucy Burns.

Anyway, these lines from Letter to a John have been rolling around in my head for the last few days, lending themselves to all different interpretations of feminism. I've been thinking about what feminism means to me, and do I even know what it is anymore? As a woman who has a relationship with another woman, who is raising a female child who will someday be a woman, and as a woman who lives in a blatantly male dominated society, what are my thoughts and feelings on the feminist, and if I'm confused, how do women without my strident opinions feel?

I grew up in the 90's, a decade in which there was a huge backlash against the feminist movement. So many of the girls I knew casually in high school refused to even label themselves as feminists. (My closest friends, of course, always considered themselves feminists, even my male friends.) The term of the decade was "feminazi." As though the idea that women are people was so radical as to place it on the same level as "the Final Solution."

So many people I know believe that feminists hate and fear men. That all feminists are either openly or secretly lesbian. That if a feminist "found the right man" she'd stop complaining. I don't hate men. I do fear them. And with good reason, in my case, some might say. I've been exposed to my fair share of dominating, hurtful men. But, I've also had the wonderful good fortune to know amazingly kind and compassionate men. And I'm smart enough to know that men as a species can't be lumped into two categories, good guys and bad guys. And that's what I find frightening. That even the "good guys" the ones on "my side" aren't really on my side. They can't be. They aren't women, can't understand what it means to be a woman in this world, how it feels to fight against every idea of what "womanhood" means. That's like saying I understand what it means to be a black person because I sympathize with the fight blacks have against white oppression.

There is so little movement left in the feminist movement. We've stopped shouting and waving our flags and marching. Women are putting on "power suits" with "sensible pumps" and assuming the biggest battles are over. There are, to be sure, women talking about breaking through glass and marble ceilings. Women fighting for "equal pay" and all these things that people think of when they think of feminism.

But, I think all those things are distractions. They're beside the point. We've been lulled into complacency by the idea that because we can go out there and get jobs and live on our own, we're winning the fight. We go through life like the patriarchy isn't something that should frighten us. We assume that because our fathers and brothers and lovers and friends support our right to choose and our right to be equal that we've won the fight. But the basic issue of male domination of the entire world hasn't changed. Women are still second best at best. We're still in awe of a woman in power. Nancy Pelosi's recent ascent to speaker of the house proves that. It was met with jubilation, rather than disgust that it took so damn long. It's like the men are allowing us the leftovers of their great feast of power and we're just so damn happy to even be invited to the party that we aren't seeing that that we're basically still just sitting at the kids table.

Because even when we ascend to power, and maybe most especially when women ascend to power, they are supposed to be still be "feminine." Take Hilary Clinton for a great example. During her husband's presidency, a lot of people accused her of taking a much too powerful role. She was criticized for being "dowdy" and not wearing makeup and for wearing her sensible suits and shoes. And now, with her new and "improved" image, great hair, plenty of makeup, people are looking at her like...hmmm, a woman president? Not, hey, look at this amazingly competent democratic senator, perhaps that's the kind of leadership the White House needs. Gender is still the main identifying factor, here.

Which maybe wouldn't be such a big deal, except that along with gender come all those "traditional" gender roles. Women are softer, less aggressive. We are expected to compromise. We are the ones who have to choose between family and career. We're the ones who are criticized for working 60 hour weeks while the children are at home with nannies. A woman that has sex whenever she wants is still a slut. A woman with strong opinions is a bitch

And then I think about all the people I love most in my life, male and female. And I get it, why these people are the ones I can sit and talk with and not want to poke out my eye with a sharp stick. These are the people who don't buy into the traditional gender roles. Take, for example, my friend the Archaeogoddess, Erin C., she travels the world by herself. It simply doesn't occur to her that a "mere woman" doesn't usually travel to places like Israel or Jordan without companionship. Whereas I have another friend, a lesbian, but she still plays the traditional "girlfriend" role. Does the laundry, asks her girlfriend's opinion on everything and expects her girlfriend to pay for dinner. And while I love her, every time I talk to her about her relationship, I feel vaguely nauseated. It's a feeling of uneasiness that even lesbians can't shake the traditional gender stereotypes.

We won't have won equality until a woman runs for president, and we don't think, hey, a woman in the white house would be nice. We'll only have equality when we look at people and don't immediately say, she's a woman so she's this, or he's a man, so he's this. When we look at a political candidate and the only question is, is this person qualified? When we aren't surprised by a woman who buys her own home while still single. And yes, when women can march right alongside men into any battle that our foolish governments involve us in.

R.I.P. Denny Doherty

It's a day of mourning here in the realm of LQofU. Denny Doherty passed away today leaving only Michelle Phillips as the surviving member of The Mamas and The Papas.

The Mamas and The Papas saw their heyday long before I came into this world, and yet have been one of my favorite groups for nearly all of my life. While they lack the political or poetic genius of most of my other favorite musicians, they have never failed to bring a bit of much needed peace to my world.

As some of you may know, my daughter is named for Mama Cass, which may tell you something about the importance of this group in my life.

For Your Consideration....

I used to write alot of poetry, as some of you know. I've gotten a few requests to post some poetry here, and I'm more than willing, but I've had a really hard time writing anything new for awhile. Like since John died. I wrote one poem for him, and then it was like a switch shut off in my head. But, I miss it. Putting words together for poetry and expression rather than just being up on my soap box. I miss it almost as much as I miss him. The big difference, here, though, is that I can have my poetry back. It just takes work.

So with that in mind I've taken this half idea I had awhile back and reworked it. Something I never had to do before, but being able to write again seems worth it. So, let me know what you think...or don't...whatever....




Closer To Acceptance

i was closer to beautiful way back then
or perhaps the my mirror was more forgiving
than the one through which i am currently living
i seem to remember
that my eyes were brighter
my hair was lighter
my face was much more interesting
these days i feel like an old motel
with neon lights spelling vacancy
or is it vagrancy
flashing behind my eyes
i keep trying to answer the whys
of all the women i have been
the truths behind my countless lies
i have blamed my past
and the dna responsible for my ass
leaned heavily on self-pitying crutches
lost myself in meth induced rushes
i have laid my head down in places
along side others with huge empty spaces
where their hearts should have been
i have filled the vortex between my thighs with men
thinking they would fill me full
and ease my emptiness
but now i see that it was just more of my bullshit
that i was camouflaging my ugliness
my selfishness
and my refusal of my goddess self
i was looking in the mirror
and believing that shiny lips
and round firm tits
said something about woman i could be
that's all over now
i am learning to embrace
the plainess of my face
the lines beneath my eyes
and the circumference of my thighs
i am reconstructing my concept of beauty
learning not to care when they look right through me
i am softer now
time has worn down my edges
i've talked myself down from all those ledges
and brought myself closer to acceptance

Goddammit!!!

Sorry for the lack of posts, but I went and took a mini vacation and my computer has decided that it too shall take a vacation. And it doesn't seem to be coming back anytime soon. I hate Windows.....

Alrighty, so I'm off to go and call some small town in India and ask them to help me fix my fucking computer. Hopefully I'll be able to post tonight about the one time I called tech support and they actually helped me....otherwise I'll be back down at my mom's house in the morning telling a funny story about how I threw the damn thing out the window...sigh...

Hi...How Are You?

It's the first thing we say to each other every time we see each other. The "how are you" is just part of the greeting. You don't even think about it, right? Because the immediate answer is "I'm fine and how are you." It's so ingrained into us that even when we learn a new language it's the way we say hello. Never mind that we can't translate the answer, because here's the thing, unless the person you're greeting is a close friend or family member, you don't really want an honest answer. You're looking for the fine, the good, the okay...or perhaps a joke of some sort, but not the truth. Now, when you ask your friends and family this question, you want at least a quasi-honest answer. Maybe you don't want the full details about Aunt Marge's explosive diarrhea last week, but you want to know...oh, you're not feeling good, or you broke up with so-and-so, great now I can tell you I really never liked him.

But, what do you when the person you're talking to has a chronic illness? Now, you love this person, presumably, if you count them amongst your friends or your family members. But, you know they're sick, they're not going to say fine. They're going to give you an honest answer. Probably. Because here's the thing. People with chronic illness love that you care enough to ask, but shit, it depresses us to think about it, why should we dump it on you? Especially when you already know, because you've talked to their mother or something recently and you know they aren't doing well. Or, well, you look at them and you can tell....damn, you feel like crap right now, don't you, 'cause you look like crap, let me just tell you. But, it gets a little tiring doesn't it? I mean, you call for some small talk or to vent about your day, and you make the familiar, Hi, how are ya? And they tell you. They do not say fine. They tell you how they are, which may or may not be as bad as yesterday, but clearly is not good. And you find yourself not wanting to talk to them, because the normal is gone. You think all she thinks about is her illness, or it's always about him.

Okay, so put yourselves in our shoes. Suppose you simply aren't well, haven't been well and don't expect to be doing well anytime in the near future. What do you do when someone you love wants to know how you are? You can lie, which most frequently gets you in trouble. Because someone's going to believe you and not realize you lied just so you wouldn't have to answer that question, then when they find out later you just said fine so they'd feel okay, their feelings are going to be hurt. You can tell the truth, or some abbreviated version of it, which seems simple and straightforward, right? Try again. Because for someone with chronic illness, nothing is simple and straightforward. (For example, a good day for LQofU doesn't resemble a good day for most people. For me, any day I manage to shower, get dressed and still accomplish one other thing is a fantastic day.) So, if I say "fine" I'm thinking, "Hey, there's no eminent ER trip here, so I'm doing pretty good." But, you might be thinking I just talked to her and she said she was fine and now I hear she's really sick.

Or maybe, just maybe you're tired of the subject. Maybe you really care about someone who is sick, but you miss the good old days when you didn't spend the better part of every conversation talking about their doctors and their medications and how crappy they feel. Maybe you think to yourself, I am so tired of hearing about this I could just scream. You know what? Me too. I'm tired of being the sick girl, the one who talks about the doctors and the pills, but right now that's all there is. I'm sick, I'm going to the doctor and I'm doing my best to be a mom and a girlfriend and not succeeding very well. I'm sick of the same four walls. I'm sick of going back and forth from my bed to my couch. I'm sick of not having a life outside this illness.

So, let's just make a pact....unless we rarely talk, don't ask me how I'm feeling all the time. I'm tired of talking about it. If I don't tell you some detail of my treatment or illness you find out from someone else, don't take it personally, because it isn't personal. And if you ask me, I might not be feeling well enough to laugh the question off, I might be feeling so crappy that all you're going to get is the icky truth.

Oh, and if by chance, I happen to say fine, when you do ask me...please don't think that means I'm all better and that everything's great. That's not my reality, okay? But, if I ask how are you...I want the truth....;-)

Where, oh Where, Have the Laundry Elves Gone?

So, as usual, Christmas takes weeks to prepare, a day to (or two) to actually enjoy (if you call mind numbing exhaustion and tiny people so hopped up on sugar and excitement that they literally drive you out of your everloving mind, enjoyable) and then weeks from which to recover. There's the process of putting away newly acquired gifts...meaning, oh crap, there's enough room to put away all of Cassidy's new toys, so long as she doesn't want to actually spend any time in her bedroom. The process of removing said gifts from the completely ridiculous packaging. Did you know they sew Barbie's hair to the box? It's true. Plus, there are all these little wires attaching her and all of her accoutrement to the cardboard, and they've been taped in place and wound up...Very sadistic people, those toy packagers. Nothing like a seven year old whining in your ear while you spend 30 minutes getting a single toy out of a box. Makes me want to poke my eyes out with a sharp stick...

So, given all that...who the hell has the freaking time to do things like laundry, and dishes and vacuuming that don't simply go away because it's Christmas. If anything, Christmas actually makes the chores mushroom into tasks that seem to take eight times as long as they normally do. And my fucking animals won't stop shedding, so if I don't vacuum every three days or so, we all have to move out because you can't breathe for all the pet hair in the air...

That said...we had a very Merry Xmas here in the magical land of Laura QofU. There were ginger bread houses and presents and happy children just about everywhere you looked. Plus my whole family crowding around the latest baby (Hayley, a chubby little thing who has just learned to smile and stick her fist in her mouth) while the other children get along quite harmoniously.

Hmmm...so now it's time to take down the damn tree, put all the decorations back into storage and try to reclaim my house from the creeping laundry monster.

Weighty Thougts For Christmas Night

I've recently decided to reread books from my past. Things that were assigned reading that I either didn't do, or stuff I wanted new understanding of. Or just things I don't really remember, beyond that I had, indeed, read them.

I just finished rereading Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and Let the Circle Be Unbroken by Mildred Taylor. I read Roll of Thunder as a fifth grade reading assignment and liked it so much that I read Circle on my own. A few days ago, while on a box-hunting expedition in my aunt's basement, I discovered my cousin had them and generously agreed to loan them to me. (Thanks, Amy!)

If you're unfamiliar with the books, they tell stories about a Depression-era black family in Mississippi that is lucky enough to own their own land. It describes, in depth, the struggles involved, not only in cotton farming during the Depression, but the amazing weight skin color added to that struggle. It is directed to young readers, so while it's frightening and sad, there's a layer of protection there, too. The sexual issues between whites and blacks are hinted at broadly, but not explicitly. So, too, is the violence inherent in a book about those times spoken of in a way that makes you feel the horror, but not in the in your face, bloody way that we've become accustomed to on the evening news.

I'm not sure why this book struck such a chord in me at the age of 11. While my mother has always been left-leaning and in no way racist, her live in boyfriend at the time was a heavy handed man whose frequent use of terms like "nigger" and "coon" made it clear where he stood on the issue of racial equality. And in no way would my mother have risked his wrath in explaining to me how vulgar and destructive those terms were. I know I admired the girl who was the main character. She, like I was at the time, was poor, preferred the company of boys to girls, went about barefoot in the summer and grew up in the country, living mainly off what the land earned. I knew about spending hours in a broiling summer sun performing the unending task of weeding and feeding livestock. She reflected my life in a way that none of the other girls in books I'd read did. I certainly didn't know anything at all about the easy comfort of the lives of the Wakefield Twins, heroines of the Sweet Valley Books so popular at the time.

In rereading this book, I can see that I missed the important issue of race almost altogether. It would be impossible to not have taken note of it, but I don't think that was the main issue for me. After all, at 11 I had an education that had (for lack of a better term) white-washed such issues as racism and slavery. Certainly we discussed Martin Luther King in January every year. Though the weight of who he was and what he did was never really explained in a satisfactory manner and the U.S. government always ended up looking the good guys who ended slavery and gave blacks their equal rights. Certainly, the idea of institutionalized racism was not one that was covered in the pages of the text books I read. I knew about segregation in a vague sort of way, but certainly had no idea the danger involved for blacks defiant enough to try and cross those boundaries.

My mind has been drifting along many trains of thought, the most important one being that in a more concrete way it makes me question the value of a public education system for my daughter. They spend years teaching what amounts to junk history, only to have to unlearn it later. As a mother, I have always wanted to instill in my daugher certain virtues. And at the top of that list is a respect for other people, regardless of race or creed. But, how can you truly respect a group of people villified in the press nightly for some admittedly horrid deeds, without understanding their history? How can you respect black people given the statistics on the nightly news without knowing the background? It goes unsaid that less than two or three generations ago the murder of a black man was rarely punished. It doesn't mention that the greatest minds of several generations were extinguished, either from violence blatantly ignored by those sworn to uphold laws, or from the despair that was inevitable from such crushing oppression. It is unsaid that the damage from this assault against the blacks in this country was so extensive that recovery may not even be a possibility. We are taught as children that slavery is over, and blacks now have civil rights so now everything is okay. We are not taught that the consequences of some actions are so severe that they cannot be undone.

I've done alot of my own educating of my daughter outside of school. We've talked a great deal about religion and about the environment. We've talked about history as well, she knows names like Ruby Bridges and Rosa Parks, people I had little familiarity with at that age. So, the question becomes this: Is giving her this extra knowledge that reveals how misleading her teachers can be doing more harm than good at this age? After all, there is no reason for her to question her math and English lessons. Those are pretty much objective and follow a set of rules that doesn't really change as time goes on. However, history and social studies are so subjectively taught at this level that it not only possible to question them, but necessary to do so. The reality, of course, is that I lack a degree in education or child psychology, so I don't really know what the result of two such conflicting messages is. Will she suffer for knowing now what we have to learn later anyway? If asked to explain the role of the U.S. government in deciding civil rights and portrays the government not the hero as expected, but rather as an institution that was dragged along into the move for equality reluctantly and only by great force, will she be graded negatively for it?

As I said, weighty thoughts for the end of a day that started with the squeals of "SANTA CAME!!"

I Made It!!

As many of you predicted, I made it through the surgery alive and well. I've had more entertaining experiences in my life, and won't be signing up to do that again any time soon. But, it's done and I'm still here and (wonder of wonders) I can actually breathe without hearing the air squeak through my compressed windpipe. It's fabulous.

The surgery went well, except for the part where they couldn't find a vein to give me an IV. The anesthesiologist said he'd seen bigger veins in children. So, they ended up giving me a central line, which is a big tube in your neck through which they can administer medications and draw blood. A very disconcerting feeling, as it's done while you're still awake. But, they got all but a small portion of the damn thyroid out. They had to leave a very small part because it was entirely too close to a nerve. We will have the results of the biopsy in a week. So, keep your fingers crossed.

So, I'm (mostly) back to my level of activity presurgery already. Yesterday was a frenzy of baking assisted by the most wonderful Erin the God, or Archaeogoddess, or whatever the heck you want to call her. We spent the day up to our elbows in cookie dough and gingerbread dough. Exhausting, but fun.

Cassidy, my adorable little girl who is way too smart for my comfort, spent the weekend with her aunt and uncle in San Jose. Her uncle, who will be a father himself in a few months, got a preview of what the future holds when he took her to a holiday street fair, which in previous years was merely a set of dazzling displays of Christmas lights and Christmas scenes. This year, however, they added carnival rides. Now, most of my readers don't have seven year old children, so let me let you in on a little secret. Children cannot see carnival rides and then not go on them without thinking their lives are over. And my child, more manipulative than most, is especially good at making up reasons why she must ride the rides or her life as she knows it is over. She tried every possible ploy to get her uncle, who like the rest of us doesn't have money to just throw around on things like 30 second crappy carnival rides, to buy her tickets. Finally, she told him she was embarrassed because she was the "only kid" not riding the rides, and furthermore since he had offered to buy her a hot chocolate at the beginning of the outing, he clearly had money. I, of course, am horrified and embarassed, her uncle felt like crap, which was, of course, her ultimate goal, and Cassidy has long since forgotten the incident altogether.

Now, the thing is, everyone thinks they want smart kids. But smart kids are actually much harder to deal with than you might imagine. They are manipulative and sneaky, which all kids are to some extent, but smart kids have logic on their side as well. You can't lie to them, because they figure it out. You end up having to say "because I said so, that's why" despite the fact that this was the answer you hated most as a child. Cassidy doesn't even ask why anymore when I tell her no, she simply launches into a three to five minute speech about I should change my mind and let her do whatever it is she wants to do at that moment. And her reasons are usually valid and she presents herself very well, but you can't just give in every time a seven year old wants something. Then you end up with children that everyone for miles around wants to smack around.

So, okay, wish for smart kids or strong willed kids or independant kids. But god (or whoever) help you should you end up with a child that is all of the above.

Hmmmm...

Well, I'm about to head off to the hospital. I'm a bit nervous this morning. Not to mention tired and awfully thirsty. This nothing to drink thing sucks. I can hold off on eating, but to not even have a drink a water sucks right out loud.

On the bright side, I got the vast majority of my Christmas shopping done last night. Cass has been so good lately, and Santa is going to be very good to her. I can't help it. I always say, I'm only go to get her x amount of stuff and I always end up going way over. I know I'm totally overcompensating for my childhood and for the fact that her father is much less concerned than I am about how happy her Christmas memories are. Plus, I'm just that neurotic.

It got me to thinking, though. How on earth do people who have 5 or 6 kids do it? Because, really I don't spend tons of money, I shop for things that are on sale, but it's still a stretch every year. Thank goodness I'm not one of those nutcases who thinks it's a good idea to have a whole passel of children. I'd pull my hair out every Christmas if I had to concentrate on making 5 or 6 kids happy. As it is, I just know I'm going to lay awake on Christmas Eve going, should I have gotten her more. Will she be happy with what she finds in the morning.

I tell you, being a parent....? Not for the faint of heart.

Alright, wish me well. Though how great can a day be when the best case scenario is that I wake up later today minus a body part?

It's Beginning To Look...Well Pretty Much Like Christmas...If You Close Your Eyes and Squint

Well, we got the tree up today. And if you want to see something truly beautiful, you should see the look on a seven year old's face when the tree lights up for the first time. Silly and corny I know, but true, nonetheless. We also hung the stockings and put up a few other odds and ends, but I'm still not getting that Christmasy vibe when I look around. And I so want this taken care of by Thursday morning when I get in the car to go have surgery. Sigh...isn't it just like me to leave it to the last minute?

Okay, so I filled out the advanced directive papers tonight. Nothing like a little what to do if I'm a vegetable to fill you with Christmas joy, right? So, here's the question...at what point do you stop having a reasonable quality of life. I know I don't want to be kept alive if someone has to feed and and change me. I know that I don't want to be kept alive on life support, but where's the line...I have some responsibility to my kid to be alive for as long as possible, right? But at what level? I mean, I'm not really being alive for her if I'm unable to communicate with her. But, what if I can communicate with her, just not as a mom because I've lost that mental capability? It's sort of a sobering realization. I mean, yes, I realize that it's most likely a moot point, but it's an interesting idea to consider.

But, for the record...I hereby forbid any friend, family member or distant acquaintance to splash pictures of me as a turnip all over MSNBC should the situation arise. I refuse to be the next Terry Schiavo. If Jamie makes the decision to pull the plug, let her. If you don't I'll come back and haunt you...or something....

Cliffhangers Suck

I am no good at waiting for surprise endings. I peek ahead to the end of books, fast forward movies and have, on occasion, been known to snoop around for hidden xmas gifts. That being said, I am completely enthralled with Dexter, the Showtime show, only they just ended with one mother of a cliff hanger and now I have to wait a week to find out if the bad serial killer kills the good serial killer's sister. And how they're even connected in the first place....Sigh....

But, if you haven't been watching this show, you should start. Fascinating stuff, really.

In other news, the annual feuding over what is supposed to be a happy holiday season has been kicked off in Seattle, where instead of adding a mennorah, they took down an entire Christmas display. What the hell is that? Americans are used to seeing mennorahs during this time of year. Since candlelight plays a big part in most Christmas displays, how fucking hard is it to add a few more.

And now, you just know Pat Roberts or some other ultra right wing conservative fuck is going to bitch and moan about how the Jews are ruining Christmas. And how the liberals get mad if you say Merry Christmas instead of Happy Holidays. Like it matters. Fuck... The only people who give a shit about this is the ultra Christian fucks who think they should have the only voice in the country. I'm telling you, if Canada wasn't so goddamn cold, I'd be on my way...

Gin and Tonics...

Have become the drink of choice of L,QofU. I mention this mainly for those of you who have read the "increasingly inaptly named" Hitchhiker's Trilogy. I don't imagine that it would interest you otherwise. Unless you are properly amazed by my spelling under the influence of four said beverages. In which case, you get me more than I ever realized possible, and probably deserve a medal for years of putting up with grammatical criticism (assuming that your name isn't Craig and that I haven't badgered you to the point that you've given me full access to your own blog allowing me to correct your spelling and grammatical errors. Although, two hours and a few glasses of water later, I'm beginning to question why Craig, probably the most often on the end of my literary criticisms, as of late doesn't deserve a medal).

So, today I had my pre-op appointment at Mercy San Juan. Pretty boring, except for the part where they weighed me. First time that I can recall ever being weighed in kilos. The upshot of this (aside from the astonishingly small number that I can't ever remember seeing on a scale read out while I stood on the scale) was that I have no idea what I actually weigh, because the only metric conversion that I even vaguely remember is the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit, which clearly has no bearing here.

There was also a lovely side trip to IHOP, where I consumed enough calories to feed a small African country for at least a week. I would feel guilty about this but for the fact you don't have to count any calories in any month that contains not only your birthday, but also Christmas and New Year's Eve.

I also had a huge epiphany about my relationship with Jamie today. The main reason that we have lasted for seven (very long for her, as I am a most difficult person to live with) years is that she remains the only person who will sit up until midnight with me, playing Yahtzee and singing along with, not just listening to, my Dixie Chicks DVD.

So, here I sit, more than a little drunk, at 1:00 AM listening to Journey all alone, because even Jamie has her limits.

Okay

So, I've had this blog title for quite some time, now and knew that at some point I would have to do something with it. As usual, I procrastinated on deciding what that "something" might be for entirely too long.

I am currently reading "The Julie/Julia Project" and it has most definitely struck a chord. In fact, it made me want to jump up and start some fabulous project of my own. Reality, of course, struck me almost immediately in the form of remembering Thanksgiving, just a scant two weeks ago, when a day's worth of cooking caused me to hibernate for 3 days. Not to mention that I'm still not entirely recovered from the 30th birthday bacchanalia.

I think what I need to do, for my sanity and the sanity of those around me, is write. Which I can do quite easily.

So, henceforth this blog shall be about whatever strikes a chord in me, moves me or just makes me say "Jesus-fucking-Christ" you've got to hear this. Not just "slice of life" stuff, to quote my dear friend Craig, but stuff out there in news land, too. Anything, really. As long as it interests me enough to tell it to other people.

What you're most likely to hear about over the next two weeks, should you decide that reading what I have to say could be entertaining enough to spare me a few moments a day is my upcoming surgery to remove my thyroid gland. That surgery will take place a week from today in the wee hours of the morning. More on that later.

So, anyway, here I am, 30 years old. Unemployed. A full-time mom, and occasional cook and house cleaner, not other people's houses, just my own and just occasionally. Seems like as good a jumping off place as anything else I could come up with. So, I hereby welcome you to LQofU, a title granted me by my dearest friend, Erin the God, a title which may mean nothing to you unless you understand all about shrubberies, and kahnighits, without thinking we are talking about Monty Python, which we kinda are, but mostly aren't...so....Sit back, hold on and smile...it's going to be a bumpy ride.