Being a Mother

Image: Gustav Klimt: Mother and Child, 1905

Being a mother is a big deal. Not that it shouldn't be, because it is just about the hardest thing there is to do. There are about as many kinds of mothers as there are children to parent. I'm going to be a foster mother again very soon, and that brings up all sorts of feelings. Bear with me while I sort them out in writing.

Yes, being a mother is a big deal. Our culture idolizes mothers to the point where it is generally accepted that being a parent is by default just better than not being one. It is assumed that until you have had a child, you are incapable of feeling or expressing unconditional love or deep empathy or protectiveness for other people. Women who are unable for whatever reason to give birth or choose to not have children are creatures to be pitied.

I'm pretty sure being pitied is one of the worst feelings there is. Being pitied when you have suffered a great loss such as losing a child is so dis-empowering. For as long as people pity you, you are pitiful, no?

We have pictures of Little A all over our house, reminders of when we were her proud parents. She was a beautiful daughter and adding Little J to our family will not make me stop missing her or wondering how she is doing with her family.

I have been not-a-mother yet, a foster mother, a former mother, and now a foster mother-to-be again. While being a mother (and I was that in almost every sense to Little A) taught me many things about myself, it didn't make me better than anyone else. I am proud to say that I already knew about love and empathy before she became part of our family. I am a purposeful person and examine myself and my motives on a regular basis, so there was no big a-ha moment there.

It is a little hard for me, around holidays like Mothers' Day, to not feel a little annoyed at the cult of the Mother around me. That in-club that I have both been included and excluded from. It is a rite of passage to be a parent, and it is almost like I am not considered fully a woman unless I am a frazzled mother.

But having a functioning uterus doesn't make you a woman any more than having a functioning appendix does. All sorts of people have babies that have neither the coping skills nor the interest to parent. As a foster parent, I see that side of it and just can't wrap my head around it.

I will say that I have known people who have suffered illness and loss and personal tragedy, and not one of them would trade places with me for a million dollars. I carry my loss of Little A like a piece of secret shame, even though I lost her due to no wrongdoing of my own, but to a court system that places a higher value on her biological mother's rights than to what was clearly making Little A happy and healthy. I can't tell that story out loud without being like a black raincloud that brings unwanted sadness to anyone who hears it. So most of the time I just gloss over it, or say nothing at all, even though to do so makes me feel like less of a mother, like it was all a dream that ended badly. I'm like the mother that other mothers must not touch for fear of my bad luck rubbing off. I honestly try hard not to touch pregnant women, just in case.

In a few hours I get to meet the little boy who will hopefully be my forever son one day. He is his own person and is not coming into my life to heal my hurts, but to have his own soothed. He has his own issues and cannot bear the burden of my anxiety. I have to teach him that I can be trusted to provide comfort, as if he were a newborn. Today I will start slow, like a first date, hoping for love but not letting a show of it overwhelm. I cannot merely claim him and expect him to fall into my arms in gratitude. In fact, at first, he may reject me for moving him away from his current foster mother or the even more distant figment of the woman he never sees but who gave birth to him.

Being a Mother is a big deal, but not in the ways popular culture would have you believe. It means being a whole person and showing a child how to rise above pain and still have an open heart. It means accepting a child as a person with flaws like any other. And ultimately, it means eventually saying goodbye to that child, hopefully because you have successfully raised them to adulthood and not some other, sadder reason. It means becoming an archetype in the life of another person, expanding beyond yourself into mythic proportions before you even have your morning coffee. It means dead-lifting cars and making healing food that, if you are lucky, will be remembered long after you are ash in the wind.

Dream-Goats in the Refugee House

Ok, this one was a doozy and I am going to struggle to capture it all before it fizzles out in my brain.

I was in a house, ostensibly newly living there with a huge family. It was clear from the way the front door was boarded up that we were all squatters in an abandoned area. There was barely room for the people, but there were also animals in the house. Not just dogs and cats (my dachshund Ember was also with me) but farm animals like goats and chickens that moved from the backard to the living room. The goats were female and being used for milk. Much talk was being spent on getting the guy down the street with a male goat to come over and breed his goat with ours.

There was music being made and a general atmosphere of badly funded but bohemian and somewhat nomadic existence. I was new to it and it was a bit uncomfortable for me to have no privacy and no real possessions of my own. The men sized me up for my sexual potential, but rarely talked to me.

Some younger man noticed my elk antler Inanna necklace (I own this in real life) and was talking to me about it. It was the first real conversation I had had in a while, and I ended up making out with him. Even so, it didn't really feel like a real connection, just better than most.

I spent some time in the dream taking care of a baby girl that one of the other women had. I was feeding her some mango pudding, and it was getting all over her face in a sticky mess.

Basically, it was just me and my dog in this chaotic atmosphere with goats and babies and messy overcrowded conditions. So freaking strange.

Image: http://www.spraguephoto.com/search.lasso?-token.display=&keywords=5371+Christian+women+of+Kerela,+India.&country=&category=&set=&number=&skip=0&-token.advanced_search=true&-token.showcaptions=Hide+Captions&-token.max=120

Back Off! **RANT**

Hey world! Yeah, I am talking to you! Take a big step back and give a sister some room, huh?

Here's the new rules. Consider yourself notified.

1. If you don't know me and can't be constructive, you don't have permission to yell at me like I am some kind of moron.

2. If you are both dumb AND mean, don't bother talking to me at all.

3. I am as sexy as I get at any given moment, and I am not required to be saucy for anyone's benefit but my own. If I like you and feel like being playful, then lucky you. But I am not a one dimensional creature. I have brains and stuff too.

4. I am as thin as I am getting today. I am working on being healthy. I am exercising a lot and eating pretty healthy. Maybe that means I will lose weight. Maybe not. The stress is killing me and I just need a breather from all the pressure about it.

5. I might be an earthy girl with a bawdy sense of humor, but please treat me like a lady if you want me to be nice.

Failure to comply with the above will result in immediate dismissal. That is all.

Enchanted, I'm sure.

There has got to be something sexy about confidence. Something has been going on with me in the last few years, where the most unexpected things are coming full circle. It must be the shift in the energy around me, because I am pulling in resolutions of some very old things in my life.

I am becoming. In the sense that I am making bold and deliberate strides toward my new career and, in some ways, my new self. I am making concerted attempts to shed unhealthy habits and modes of communication. It isn't easy and is sometimes painful to let go of long-held baggage. Some of it is actual objects, such as the clutter that was littering my office closet. Some of it is in the form of erroneous assumptions I have made about situations or people. I can see so clearly now that in my adolescence and young adulthood I was a very poor communicator. I hurt people without a backward glance, out of sheer carelessness most of the time. Or worse yet, out of a morbid curiosity about what would happen if I poked at the innards of another person.

Now I feel like I am going through another kind of adolescence. I am flowering into a new kind of woman and gaining confidence in many new areas. I am shedding my phobias and nervous tics to a degree. However, like adolescence the first time around, there is awkwardness in my new skin. I feel unfamiliar in the changing landscape, and don't know what the future holds. I feel at once entirely conspicuous and totally invisible. I am waiting for the world to stop spinning so fast so I can get a look at my new surroundings.

It feels enchanted, like I have fallen into a fairy ring. The world is the same but entirely other. Things are the same but not the same. Old faces are coming up in new situations, as I find myself mixing with people I have known forever in curious new ways. So I must not be the only one going through it. People around me are processing. That is the only word I can think of to describe it. We are all turning 40 and looking around and going "Whoa!" like in a Keanu Reeves movie.

It keeps coming to me. Or rather they do. People I didn't even realize I needed to be forgiven by or whom I need to forgive. Or people who I always wanted affection from, and now I am getting it in a different but somehow more satisfying way. It is strange.

Are these the first gushes of albumin-rich fluid to come out of the cosmic egg? The first pin feathers on my nascent and untested wings? It just keeps getting bigger and bigger. The vibe is like a revving up. It spurs me, even when I feel tired, to do more.

Do more? Really? I already feel like I have a jet pack strapped to my back. Just trying to control my trajectory seems unlikely. Yet here I am, pressing for more throttle, and feeling the engine leap under me. I have a map and a vague idea of where I am going, but with a million possible roads to get there.

I am grateful for the future, even if getting there is going to be hard. I have a feeling I am going to be worth knowing when I grow up again.

General Malaise

It must be the job.

Or something in the water at the job.

But I am kinda cranky.

Being at school is totally stressful, but also entirely wonderful and autonomous and fantastic. After being off work for four months, I am back at the office for a few weeks during winter break. It is annoying. That, in and of itself, should not be worthy of a blog post.

But I am crabby all the time right now. The dogs are driving me to distraction. The husband and kiddo are conspiring to make messes everytime I get things cleaned up. The Dachshund keeps jumping into the dishwasher when I am trying to load it. I feel snappish.

I need some Zen, sitting on top of a lonely peak, by myself time. I can't even be alone at home, since for some reson that labrador retriever has decided I am her servant and I think she has dementia because she asks for food two seconds after she eats. the house is decidedly not quiet with the near constant barking and whining. Grrr. That is me growling.

I wish I could say that there is at least some comic relief here in my being generally annoyed. Maybe I am having perimenopausal hormone imbalances. Fuck it, I don't know. I feel like I want to back a truck up to my house and get rid of a bunch of stuff. Either that or I need a bigger house. There just seems to be no place for all the effluvia. Even my desk is a bloody mess of papers and I would set fire to the whole thing if it weren't for the fact that SOME of those papers require action on my part. Feh.

I need a bulldozer. I'd like to lighten my load for the new year. When I was a youngster, I moved to my first apartment with only what would fit in the bed of a pickup truck. Not anymore. Last time I moved I had 53 boxes just for the kitchen.

I love my stuff and I hate my stuff. I'm drowning in it. I feel like I am complaining about being too rich or too skinny or something. I have no reason to be crabby and every reason to feel blessed. So why do I want to torch it all?

This being forty thing just might be for suckers. Midlife crisis? How cliche.

Year End Review-2008

In the spirit of year-end recaps that everyone else does this time of year, I figured I would recap the insights I had this year. 2008 generally kicked my ass, but it was also a year filled with blessings. I am looking forward to what 2009 brings.

Links are to what I think are my best posts for each month:

January: Our culture needs a god for transitions and big changes, as the Romans had Janus.

Feburary: Counting one's blessings may help redefine my definition of Success.

March: The world is a poorer place without Art.

April: Sometimes we need to make room in our lives for the Mystical.

May: I remind myself that I am trying ti be a better person and a good mother to Little A.

June: I am constantly in awe of the beauty of Nature.

July: Sometimes the exact words for how I am feeling have already been spoken.

August: Some things bear Repeating.

September: You cant get what you want unless you know what it is. Manifest it.

October: There is a lot to be learned from Animals.

November: Remember, but Absolve.

December: Whether the state recognizes it or not, I am a mom.

Well Played, Palo Alto

Image Credit: pork buns at the Three Seasons restaurant, Palo Alto

It is really strange that I have not been to Palo Alto for years, and this year I have gone to visit people there twice. I went to Gunn High School for Freshman and part of Sophomore year before moving back to Ohio. Then when I came back in 1987 I hung out with Audrey up there and dated a guy named Paul. Paul and his friends went to Paly (Palo Alto High School) a few years ahead of me. Many of my most beloved friends to this day were from that social group. Paul and I broke up after not very long, but I kept the friends, like any smart person would.

If I were a superhero, making fulfilling and lasting friendships would be my superpower. That might not seem as impressive as being bulletproof or stronger than a locomotive, but I would argue that it is a power that is useful more often. And being around my friends does make me feel pretty invincible.

Palo Alto isn't quite as I remember in some ways. It is certainly more populated with money than I remember. But then again, I was just some punk kid roaming around its streets with my punk boyfriend the last time I spent any appreciable time there. Seeing it as an adult is a little bit different. People that still live there tell me it just isn't the same. It certainly is well-manicured.

Seeing my friends is always a major treat, and I braved driving snow in the Sierras both ways to make this recent trip. I had to chain up my car and everything, which is a bit of a pain in the ass. It was totally worth it to gather together and laugh and have cocktails. I was on a lychee kick and had a couple of lychee martinis. That put the Christmas cheer in my cheeks for sure.

Of course, going to a dinner party in Palo Alto meant running into Paul, and as Fate would have it I ended up sitting across the table from him and his wife and son. It was a little awkward, but tacitly amusing. I don't think either one of us was expressley comfortable with the seating arrangements, but we got on amiably enough.

I stayed with my friend Ben while I was down there, which was much more genial than staying at a hotel, especially because he didn't mind me tinkering around in his kitchen. That is probably because he is a bachelor and relishes having a home-cooked meal or two. We had a good time, especially considering we are both sensitive people who tire of the crowd scene at roughly the same rate. When not partying, I had time to sleep in and read a book and generally relax.

I made some memories that are going to carry me through the next semester, I hope. The only thing I dislike about being in school full time is the fact that I have to turn down social invitations. School doesn't start again until January 26th, so I should be able to have some small measure of fun prior to that.

Back to Work

During the winter break from school I am obliged to work back at my old desk job. It is a small price to pay for my generous scholarship, but going back to the cube farm after four and a half months of semi-autonomy was pretty jarring.

The truth is that when I am in school, there is a sort of built in feedback system. I mean sure, there are tests and homework, but there are GRADES. Sometimes good, sometimes not so much, but at least someone is paying attention to how I am doing and giving me feedback to improve.

Going back to work, where I am reminded by my boss what a cog in the great machine I am was a real letdown yesterday. She didn't ask me how my semester was or even really welcome me back, but immediately went into the old song and dance about how our department was shortstaffed and outgunned. Nothing has changed here. I am doing a bit better today because I am back in the groove more, but yesterday dragged on and on.

I sound like a big baby here, but after getting such nice compliments from my professors and academic advisors, I felt like a snowflake: a unique and beautiful thing that is learning new things with grace. Yesterday I melted into a little puddle with the rest of the drips. It was a yucky feeling.

All this coming on the heels of my spectacular birthday cocktail party and dinner is a bit hard to swallow. I know it is just my bruised ego. But I am reinventing myself, or at least doing some major career refurbishing, so this feels like a step back, although admittedly a temporary one.

Yeah, at least I have a job to complain about. I need to be more grateful, and I really am. I will be even more grateful when school starts again. For about a minute. Then the stress of that will be a culture shock to me again.

I like school, though. I miss it already. And I will be glad to see my new friends there again.

I Disapprove-Office Holiday Party Edition

Oh man! There isn't enough free Bordeaux in the world to make me happy about being at a party with card-trick magicians, clowns, stilt-walkers, and MIMES!!!!

Ok, so Tony's company holiday party wasn't that bad, even though it did in fact contain all of the above objectionable performers. As corporate parties go, it was pretty cool, in fact, even if I did go a bit overboard on the quiche. Tony works with some pretty nice people, and I had a highly entertaining conversation with Juan's feisty Dominican wife. She's from New York and is just abrasive enough to be totally adorable and interesting to me.

But I found myself actually changing course when walking across the room a few times so I wouldn't have a run-in with the mime and the stilt-walking guy. I actually almost broke into a horror movie "running in high heels" moment to avoid that stilt guy. He creeped me out for some reason, and after my third cocktail, usually I am pretty friendly with everyone.

I am not a big fan of card and rope trick magicians, and this party had a number of them roaming about to entertain us. I am in agreement with my friend Ted, who believes that magic tricks are just fancy lies with silk handkerchiefs up the sleeves. I am such an honest person that I don't appreciate lies of any kind, least of all for my amusement.

I know, I know. What is the harm in an innocent little card trick? No, man. Fuck that. You gotta draw the line somewhere. Otherwise, the terrorists win. And by terrorists, I mean mimes.

Public Service Announcement-War Movies

Photo credit: From the movie "Flags of Our Fathers"

It is official. I never need to see another war movie. At first I was going to say that I am fed up to the gills with movies that touch on the Vietnam War. But when I thought about it some more, I think all war. Yup. I'm cooked on war movies in general.

It isn't that the violence bothers me per se, but I think it is fair to say that I never want to see "Saving Private Ryan" ever again. That movie upset me. I just think that there are so many films that do it poorly. And I just crave more original stories than those that seem to come out of that genre.

I don't have a specific thing that set me off about this, and I guess I am not really that mad, but I just threw up my hands when I saw that the movie "Across the Universe" veered in that direction. I just didn't get that movie. The music was cool (who doesn't love the Beatles?), but I was just annoyed with the story that they wound around it.

Feh.

So, that's it. I'm over the whole Vietnam Era. Yup.

That is all.

Just Because I am Obnoxious Doesn't Mean You Have To Be A BITCH About It!

If I have one major personality flaw, it is that I talk WAY too loud when nervous or excited. All those years of doing choir and theatre have given me the dubious gift of theatrical projection, perhaps in situations where being more quiet is warranted.

The funny thing is that I am sort of sensitive about it. I get upset when people give me shit about it. Maybe because they really mean it and are not playfully teasing. I don't know. But if you want to see me get pissed off in record time, give me shit about how much or how loudly I talk.

So, Colin and I went to the movies yesterday to see "Twilight" (the book is better, isn't it always?). Before the previews, we were chatting animatedly, like we generally do. Colin and I have the gift of gab together and have great, funny conversations about everything under the sun. The topic had veered onto a discussion about a friend who is very sick with a mysterious illness, and actually was a little serious.

But I guess I was talking too loud, and this woman sitting behind us kinda exploded at me. It went a little like this:

Me: So, they don't know what is wrong and they have done tests on about everything...

Colin: I hate to say this, but have they tested this person for Syphilis?

Me: Oh, I don't know if I could ask them that...


Crazy Bitch: Well, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!!!

Me: : Excuse me...

CB: You talk way to loud (hateful tone of voice and facial expression)

Me: Don't worry, I'll be quiet as a mouse during the movie.

CB: You'd better!

Me: (sarcastic, acid tone) Well, thank you so much for letting me know your concerns.

CB: (even more sarcastic and dripping with malice) You're welcome.

At this point, I notice the woman's young teenage daughter, with a face full of righteous fervor. I was just winding up to take this nutcase to school, but I saw that it was just going to get me kicked out of the theater, and it just wasn't worth it.

So I did some seething through the whole movie. I had let it go in terms of not having a major public altercation, but I was still pissed.

Why did she have to resort to totally hateful approach right off the bat? If she had approached me politely, I would have apologized sincerely and quieted down. I know I talk loud. I would have been embarrassed but not angry. I could have saved a little face, at least.

But no, she had to go nuclear as a first course. Honestly, I think that makes her the rude one. That made me defensive and bitchy. I have no patience for that. I was still mad when the movie was over and was prepared to confront her in the lobby, but they skedaddled as soon as the credits started rolling.

They are probably high-fiving at brunch today about how they bitch-slapped me. But don't piss me off, or I will probably write about it. Jerks.

I'm a sweet person, really. But I have a temper.

It is her loss. She's the one with the ugly wrinkles from frowning and the daughter who will turn out to be a judgmental bitch. I wonder how that is going to work out for her when the time comes to pick out her nursing home?

Or maybe her daughter will get syphilis. Seems her mother wants her shielded from hearing about it. I don't think purity rings guard against that, though.

My Love/Hate Relationship With Authority

Here is a sketch (sorry for the poor quality scan) of one of my high school English teachers, Mr. Ballor. As far as I know he is still teaching at Alliance High School, to the delight and consternation of his students. When I was in his class I made his life a living hell.

I really liked Mr. Ballor, but I also hated him. I had major problems with authority at the time. It could be argued that I still do. I made it a priority to annoy him, even though he was one of the coolest teachers I ever had. He ran with the bulls in Pamplona, rocked the major mustache, and was generally full of wild stories.

I think I wanted to impress him with my writing ability, but it was not to be. I took journalism from him (as well as English and Humanities) and he delivered the news to me that he didn't think I had a knack for it. He told me, in fact, that I would never make it as a journalist because I was too much of a poet. I stormed out of his class and dropped it that very afternoon. I was so hurt, and it sorta stuck with me.

I think that when I was working as a freelance writer and food stylist I actually called the school and left him a sort of "neiner neiner" message that I was, in fact, doing just fine as a journalist, thank you very much. Big deal. I never heard back.

I sometimes wonder what he would make of my writing now. I wonder what I would make of his opinion. I wonder if I would still think he was cool, considering he is still in Alliance, and I have been traveling all over.

He's just one of the many ghosts from Alliance that I will probably never see again, since I don't venture back there. Just a random thing that crosses my mind when people tell me that what I want is impossible.

I think to myself that if a "mere poet" can work at a newspaper against the stated odds, then why can't I do whatever it is that I am being told I cannot possibly do? Neiner, neiner, authority. I point my middle finger in your general direction. I would love it if I had your approval, but if I can't have it on my own terms, then I will just have to approve of myself, and the rest of you lot can get bent.

Public Service Announcement

I am turning 40 in a few weeks. New decade deserves new manifesto, I figure.

So here it is:

1. I am not interested in doing things in a conventional way.
2. I intend to live my life as a tableau for making art. Even if it is a little abstract.
3. What is important to me is making art and helping motivate others to make art. Especially if making that art will heal them in some way.
4. I don't expect the choices I make to be popular with everyone. I don't want to hurt people, but I am finished with making myself smaller for other people's comfort.
5. As always, my friends and family matter to me, and finding deeper and more fulfilling ways to spend time with each of them will be a priority.
6. Finding new ways to combine left/right brain activities for myself and others will be my hallmark.
7. Expect to hear me roar and howl. I'll still be the nice girl you know, but I have no time for allowing my fears to drive. I intend to be behind the wheel.
8. I am not interested in being told what is impossible. I am manifesting, and am prepared to be amazed at how things come to me.
9. That cosmic egg thing is working out for me. I am becoming.
10. I am emerging. So be it. Amen, hallelujah.

Me and My Shadow

Image credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mandava_harsha/1941654651/

Just an excerpt from a manuscript that will never see the light of day in its current form.

He gives me an exasperated look. “You act as if I never had any piece of your heart. Like I wasn’t there first. You never change in one respect. You try so hard to control things that are not in your sphere of influence. You would unmake God if he let you.”

“Humph.” I scoff.

“Don’t get me wrong. I love you for it. You don’t think anything is outside your grasp.”

“Are you kidding? Everything is outside my grasp. I don’t understand anything. I’m afraid of my own shadow.”

“Ah, that is where you are one hundred percent correct.” He smiles. “Your shadow is the problem. Just not like you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your shadow is a part of you. You can’t get away from it, even if you run for the rest of your life. And the bigger you are, the longer your shadow becomes.”

“I don’t want it. I hate that part of myself. I wish I could kill it or make it go away.”

“We are beings of light and shadow. We tend to repress that which we find unacceptable, even repulsive and weak about ourselves. Make no mistake; you cannot kill a part of yourself. You cannot hate your faults and still be well. I struggle with this myself, so please believe I know what I am talking about. Your shadow is as much a part of your soul as the light being is. Forget what the new-agers say about dark being negative or “bad”. I have come to believe that is crap. Those aspects of self are only in the dark because you put them there so you wouldn’t have to look at them.”

“I can’t look at the past. It is so screwed up.” I start to tremble.

“You have your work cut out for you. I’m going through the same thing, so you have my empathy. It is hard to love those aspects of ourselves.”

“I have never thought about you having to work on yourself. I always thought you were perfect.”

He shakes his head. “For me, trying to embrace and give love to my inner cynic is very hard. I don’t have very much faith in mankind.”

I agree. “I have had to learn to give love to my inner ugliness, my wrath, my pain, my fear of going crazy if I were to even dip a toe in those brackish waters.”

“Yes, now you see it!” he enthuses. “The deformed creatures swimming in that volcanic crater are what you have done to your innocence, some of your hope, the parts of you that came back burned from reaching out to the wrong people. You could go on being ashamed of them and let them drown, or you could try to wade into the surf and bring them to shore. For me, I’m finding if I clear them of debris and give them the kiss of life, I discover strength there. Your shadow has been there/done that in ways you have been ignoring. “

“I never thought of it in that way before.”

He clasps me to him, his lips the barest whisper from mine. “Your soul keeps growing regardless if you are paying attention or not. You get to choose whether that is a process you will elevate into your conscious awareness.”

“A little like you.”

“Yes, a little like me. You choose when you want to see me. You were always in control of that.”

“Were you mad when I chose not to?”

“I was upset, but I understood why you had to do that. I missed you, though.”

“I’m glad I am seeing you now.” I take up the slack in the space and kiss his luscious mouth, my heart exploding as he opens up to me all the way to the core. It makes my hair stand on end how he is still completely fluent in the language of my mouth. The feel of his hand stroking my face, the way he steadily breathes, brings every neuron in my brain to rapt attention.

When the lip lock reaches its denouement, he pulls away and lays his cheek against mine. When he speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion. “Now what do we do?”

I laugh softly realizing I am now the one who is older and wiser. “Do you hear that drumming in the distance? Let’s just dance.”

Lady, Do I Know You?

I just love how October is over so the ghosts are quieting. But now the living people want to chat.

But only the crazy ones.

I was walking across the parking lot into the grocery store. I was low on Perrier, if you must know. And this tall woman passes me, walking faster. She decides to speak, and here's how it goes.

Crazy Lady: I hope those Democrats are happy. He's just going to get assassinated.

Confused Stacie: That would be totally sad.

Crazy Lady: Sure it would, but that is what is going to happen. People have already tried twice.

Confused Stacie: Do I know you? Why are you saying this to me?

Crazy Lady: (mumbles something and throws her hands in the air and keeps walking)

Was it my clothes? I was wearing a sort of conservative looking outfit today because I was coming from a nursing conference. Why would this person look at me and figure me to be sympathetic to her tirade? Note to self: consider donating that beige skirt to charity.

I just wanted some French fizzy water, lady. Not yer damn conspiracy theory.

That is all.

Remember, But Absolve

Yum, madeleines...

Oh, sorry. I got looking at this picture and was lost in thought.

I had an interesting weekend. Not so much in outer events, but in inner ones. I was very in my head, since I was writing a research paper among other things.

I should have tried to write this yesterday, but my hands hurt from all the typing I was already doing. I'll try to do my epiphany some justice here anyway.

I was a little put out to hear that the people who tried unsuccessfully to sue me for libel actually took their appeals to the Supreme Court. Then I found out that after the high court refused to hear their case, they elected to write a "memoir" about their experience. They used everyone's real name and had some not so great things to say about me and my editor and friend, Ted. We come off as a regular Hitler and Mussolini vaudeville act, twisting mustaches and all. Feh. That made me a little dyspeptic.

I decided that on Saturday I would allow myself to have whatever feelings I wanted about it, and then I would get over it. Since giving it any more attention than that would just give these people the attention they so desperately crave, I elected to make a phone call to the legal department of the newspaper on Monday and then take no other action unless...unless I don't know what.

Then I went to the gym and had an epiphany on the elliptical trainer thingie. I really, REALLY don't want to end up like that, obsessed over and continuing to be hurt by the past and allowing things to "ruin my life".

Then I thought about the various things and people in my past I am obsessed about and continue to be hurt by. How am I different from them, after all, if I still feel bad about those things?

And then I head the thought. And it was a good one: "Those people can't hurt me, because I have all the power. I can decide whether to absolve them. That is way more potent than what they do to try to hurt me."

Something like that. It came to me in a rush of feeling, and I felt the truth in it. What if I just had compassion for the people who have tried to "ruin my life" and saw that for what it is: more about them than about me. That is just sort of sad. I can be the bigger person in that scenario without feeling like a chump.

What would happen if I could apply that feeling not only to the people who wrote the book, but to heavier hitters in my life? How about all of them? What if I just refuse to give people permission to injure me, and just felt sorry for those that try? Like, real pity?

The people that hurt me when I was just a kid are still jerks. I was not the adult, and as the child in those situations I deserved love and protection. I didn't get it. But I can absolve them and refuse to be diminished by holding on to those judgments as though they are relevant to who I am now.

Already things are happening as a result of this shift in perspective. I have been validated in my truth. This idea will work. It doesn't mean I don't learn from those experiences or remember the events. But as the one doing the absolution, the power is all in my hands. I finally get it.

So, David and Beverly (King) Pegasus, I absolve you. In trying to hurt me, you have given me a gift. In hating me, you have taught me how to love myself so I never end up like you. It is a powerful lesson, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I Just Play a Witch On T.V.

I am no sorceress, but I have been accused of witchcraft many times in my life. To be truthful, at my most experimental, I have tried only 2-3 "white" magic spells in my whole life. I would not really call myself religious in any way, and that includes Wicca. I just have my own thing going.

But I have a vibe for certain people. Spooky, kinda. Some folks, usually the bible-thumping sorts, get it in their heads all the time that I am a witch. At this point in my life, I would say that says a lot more about them than it does about me. I think it has a lot to do with the uncanny way I have of unnerving people who have something to hide. Honest, open, and loving people seem to get along great with me. I'm a cuddly sort with an earnest, philosophical nature.

Some people really, really hate me though. I'm intense and sometimes just too loud. I'm just excitable. I'm always kinda shocked when I get the full venom from people, however. Like, "who, me?"

I found out today that the people who sued me for libel and lost (could that really have been 1999?) actually appealed the case, which I was unaware of (why is that, I wonder?). They did appeal it to the Nevada State Supreme Court and lost again in 2002. Then they asked the SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES to hear them out in 2003. I need to research this and see what happened.

Clearly, this case was not heard by the court, or I would have had reporters at my door. It would have been a big deal First Amendment case about the world of restaurant reviewing. Yes, all of this vitriol was over a restaurant review. I did not enjoy my lunch and said so in my column.

They have spent quite a bit of money on fighting this thing. Years after that libel suit has become interesting cocktail party chatter for me, a story about my days as a freelance journalist, they are, as far as I can tell, laboring under the impression that I am capable of "malicious intent". Anyone who knows me even a little would find that laughable. Cynical, sure. Bitchy? Sometimes. But malice? No freaking way.

But these people hate me. They think I ruined their lives. They think I single-handedly, or with the help of complicit editors, took them down out of some kind of spite. I didn't know who they even were before they let down my palate one Friday afternoon. I was just working on a deadline and needed a place to review. If I could go back in time and go to some other restaurant that day, I would do it for several reasons.

I don't like it that someone would hate me to Supreme Court proportions. That is just a fucking trip to me. Yes, I wrote an article that caused them to have a downturn in business. It was a dramatic event for them. Ultimately, the restaurant folded. But guess what? Most restaurants DO fold. Even good ones who deserve more time sometimes can't make it. It is a tough business, and dealing with cranky critics is part if the gig. Taking those situations in stride can make all the difference.

I'm just not sure that hurling almost a decade of maledictions at an erstwhile underpaid reporter is going to undo the hurt these people feel. I think I got paid about $75-$100 plus expenses for that article.

So, that is my scary Halloween story. Apparently I am the most foul, loathsome creature to ever wriggle out from under a rock. I must be stopped, before my untenable snobbery hurts another innocent purveyor of victuals. Horrors.

Actually, I just found out that the wife of this husband/wife team has written a book about their experience. I'm guessing that they used my real name in it.

http://www.amazon.com/Restaurant-Gettin-Their-Kicks-Stompin/dp/141964467X

There. I just gave them a free plug. Anybody want to get a copy and tell me if I should sue for libel? They called me unethical and overzealous in the dust jacket copy. I wonder if the book is making enough money to cover all those legal bills?

The Chambered Nautilus

In my next life, I think I am going to be a chambered nautilus. It seems so orderly to start small and make perfectly proportionate and beautiful steps as I grow. It also seems like it would be relaxing to be an invertebrate and live in the ocean, just floating along with my other squishy friends and eating sushi and building a beautiful house that I take with me wherever I go.

Yes, school has finally turned my brain to mush, for me to basically want to be a squid with a shell who swims backwards in my next life.

After that I will be some kind of exotic bird. Then a monkey with a prehensile tail. Who's with me?