Why Women Should Vote

I didn't write the following story - I received an email yesterday from a friend with a link to a blog with this story. So, I looked it up on Snopes as is my habit upon receiving email stories from friends and it all checked out. So I'm doing my due diligence and passing it on to all my readers:

This is the story of our Grandmothers and Great-grandmothers; they lived only 90 years ago.


Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.

The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the vote.


And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.'They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.


They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

Thus unfolded the 'Night of Terror' on Nov. 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote.

For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food — all of it colorless slop — was infested with worms.

When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

So, refresh my memory. Some women won't vote this year because — why, exactly? We have carpool duties? We have to get to work? Our vote doesn't matter? It's raining?

Last week, I went to a sparsely attended screening of HBO's new movie 'Iron Jawed Angels.' It is a graphic depiction of the battle these women waged so that I could pull the curtain at the polling booth and have my say. I am ashamed to say I needed the reminder.

All these years later, voter registration is still my passion. But the actual act of voting had become less personal for me, more rote. Frankly, voting often felt more like an obligation than a privilege. Sometimes it was inconvenient.

My friend Wendy, who is my age and studied women's history, saw the HBO movie, too. When she stopped by my desk to talk about it, she looked angry. She was **** with herself. 'One thought kept coming back to me as I watched that movie,' she said. 'What would those women think of the way I use, or don't use, my right to vote? All of us take it for granted now, not just younger women, but those of us who did seek to learn.' The right to vote, she said, had become valuable to her 'all over again.'

HBO released the movie on video and DVD . I wish all history, social studies and government teachers would include the movie in their curriculum I want it shown on Bunco night, too, and anywhere else women gather. I realize this isn't our usual idea of socializing, but we are not voting in the numbers that we should be, and I think a little shock therapy is in order.

It is jarring to watch Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. And it is inspiring to watch the doctor refuse. Alice Paul was strong, he said, and brave. That didn't make her crazy.

The doctor admonished the men: 'Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.'

Please, if you are so inclined, pass this on to all the women you know.

We need to get out and vote and use this right that was fought so hard for by these very courageous women. Whether you vote democratic, republican or independent party - remember to vote.


History is being made.

Two Disgusting Things

My dental hygienist told me today that I have an extraordinary amount of saliva. Way more than most individuals. She showed me where my salivary glands are and said she could actually see the saliva squirting out at one point. Disgusting. But it made me feel weirdly proud at the same time. Like could I go on David Letterman with this?



Also, what's this about John McCain wanting to postpone the debate? What the mess ever. It's such a transparent plot to avoid any publicity for as long as possible. Isn't that exactly what his running mate is doing over seas, as well? They know who their base is and they know it doesn't matter what they do, they will get those votes. If they can just keep from pissing everyone else off, they might have a chance. Again - what. ever. I can't stand it. And this political piece of crap notion of suspending his campaign to go back to Washington to help solve the economic crisis? Really? It's been clear all along that he doesn't know what to do; this is obviously a ploy to take credit once the crisis is resolved...if it gets resolved. Disgusting. But, at the same time, made me feel weirdly proud that I'm not associated with such a farce.

treering

I'm averaging a post twice a month. Sad. David purchased me a couch desk deal from Rite Aid tonight for when I work on my laptop in the living room (in front of the TV) and although it looks sort of like the things I used to see when picking up my dad's medical supplies at Allied Medical, it's really quite wonderful. I can sit any way I want without my legs getting creased and hot from the heat and I don't have to balance anything. Perhaps with this, I'll have the will to live...and post more often. I doubt I'll be posting with any regularity until Lily's at least in high school.

I've been so torn lately with how much time I spend with her. I'm constantly complaining about not spending enough time but the past couple days I feel like I've actually been getting a decent amount of personal time and must say it's been a relief. I feel more relaxed and on top of things but an equal amount of guilt persists. What's that all about? My missed period?

The Cooper/Young festival was last weekend and seemed to go down well. With the exception that my husband wanted hardly anything to do with me due to the insane amount of attention he was getting and starved of, I know. His neglectful behavior was justified but it was sort of disappointing for me, nonetheless. I would never let him know that, though, for fear he would misinterpret my feelings to mean something negative directed at him and how much he deserves to finally be happy about something he's done. He totally deserves every minute of it and I couldn't be more proud and gloaty. I can't believe I actually sent an email to my entire department at work to brag about his stuff. I felt weird but couldn't resist. It's really good; look: www.treering.etsy.com. The plywood tray is my favorite:

Vote

It occurred to me, while watching Obama's acceptance speech Thursday night, how lucky our country would be if he wins the election and becomes our next president And if he's actually able to do all the things he's promising us he'll do.

I believe he will but it occurred to me just how lucky we'll actually be if it does come true. He's spent his adult life working to improve the world and he's willing to spend every waking moment for the next four years of his life to improving mine.

Barack Obama wants to help me live and raise my daughter in a good, strong and kind world and all I have to do is VOTE. It takes about an hour to get to the voting booth, stand in line and punch a button or fill in a circle and drive back home. That's it. That's all I have to do to have someone else do all the work.

My own tale from the basketcase...

Fair Booth Pics

With glowing foreheads,

the black and white film washes away our imperfections.

We look like ancient movie stars.

Or our parents.

My teeth are still a little too big and

his hair is still receding; defectively

accentuating our sincerity. We’re simply

two regular people in love

in the midst of carnie-like bliss.

Faces down in the first picture, still trying to figure out

how the booth-camera works.

The second one we’ve almost mastered it. We’re looking up

but only with astonished “I’ve just seen a UFO”

looks on our faces, or teenagers-at-the-drive-in,

watching “The Day the Earth Stood Still” in 1956.

The tip of the plastic, inflatable alien sits

just below our heads while we attempt to look natural

in the third one, and by the fourth we’ve given up

and the alien has taken over.




[Sadly, I cannot find that last picture where the alien's head is all you can see but you can imagine, surely.]

I've been inspired by sweet | salty. I feel like I've been hit by a bus or some such other awful thing. Sweet Juniper sent me there (thank you) and I have a strong, gut feeling I may never blog the same. I realize why I've been so unable to express myself on a blog before. I've been doing that thing where I emulate whoever I most admire, whether they are my voice or not. Whether or not they resemble my voice, that is. My point of view, my state of being; my intonation has mattered less than mimicking what the others were saying, and if not what they were saying, then how it was being said.

I have a tendency to put folks on pedestals, not to say it is always undeserving, but it is generally without my ability to judge at the point that it happens. I find things to admire (covet?) about people and then I block out everything I dislike until I think they are perfect and when the truth comes barreling through, I'm left in the dust. Trying to figure out what I ever liked about said person in the first place.

I do that far too often. And I think that's what I've been doing in the blogher world lately. Which is unfortunate because I wasn't sufficiently satisfied by it and could have moved on long ago, had I been paying attention.

These women I've been reading are following a pattern. For the past few months I've been reading Dooce religiously, justifying it by believing she is the leader, so to speak. Until I started noticing how disingenuous it all sounds, if you really listen to what she's writing about.

I don't want to go that route right now, though. I'm not here to in/validate Dooce's existence in the blogosphere - afterall, who am I? I'm just saying...that her personality was/is beginning to sound a little too predicatable or polished or - I do hesitate to say, however evasive that is for me to admit - marketable. I don't mean I think she's being managed by anyone outside of herself; I do mean I think she's making her own decisions. But she's managing a business and she knows what sells, so to speak. Just because you're marketing yourself doesn't make it any less ultimately contrived.

Let me get back on track here before I get too far off point.

Kate at sweet | salty has reminded me what writing is all about. It's not about the audience. It's about baring one's soul (I'm unabashedly serious). It's about taking what's inside and putting it to words telling stories, sharing ideas, documenting feeeeeelings. From your core.

That's why I was attracted to writing in the first place. I've always wanted to do that thing that great writers do for me. What happens to me when I read Raymond Carver and Joyce Carol Oates is what I'd like to do to others. The way good writers allow you in their head, in their heart, I want to invite people into mine.

It's always been difficult for me to swallow how alone we truly are here. There is no one in this world who will ever fully understand me. No one has been with me from beginning to end. I cannot accurately explain to someone my every defining moment. But I would like to try and I can only hope to come close.

I've been trying to channel this very desire for years now and I've been too distracted. But I think I'm back. After one weekend - one day, in fact - of reading about her loss, her husband, her remaining boys. I'm hooked. And inspired.

Emotions buried deep have been stirred back to life. I'm immensely grateful. I just hope I don't lose it just as quickly as it came. It does feel fleeting, as good things often do for me. Who taught me to be so skeptical, anyway?

I'm tired now, so I'm going to risk letting a night's sleep push it all back down, dark and alone. If I don't come back, it won't be from lack of desire. It will be from exhaustion, distractedness, LIFE. LIFE keeps happening to me and I'm getting further and further away from leaving it behind in words.

That's always been something I wanted to leave Lily but even in the journal I keep for her, I sound like an idiot. I come across as silly, immature and clueless. I'm so self conscious I'm not even sure I'll give it to her. If I do, what will she think? Will she think she's smarter than me? Will she feel sorry for me? Will she BE smarter than me and appreciate my thoughts and effort but know in the back of her mind that I did the best I could?

As usual, I'm trying too hard to be something I'm not. That's all I'm really trying to say. Not that Dooce is bad, not that the women I've been reading are not worthy. Just that this Kate person has opened my eyes to something I'm having a very hard time naming. I'll work on it.

Vacation!

I'm on vacation this week and even though it's only Monday, I've been able to spend a lot more time with Lily than normal. I struggle with not being in the position to stay at home with her. Sometimes I even resent my husband for getting to bond with her and make the impression on her I wish I was making. The fact that he doesn't appreciate every waking hour in her presence is more than I can even comprehend. Of course I think he's a wonderful father, if I didn't I wouldn't agree to leaving her here with him every day. I even suspect he might have more patience than I do for the most part. His desire for her to become a scientist (or do whatever makes her happy) and how he teaches her please and thank you by actually saying please and thank you, and that he takes her to lunch with his mother almost every week even though he's not accustomed to seeing his mother once a month tops, and how he shows her how to use a band saw or swing on a homemade swing from a tree, his love for her is clear. He's just not the person who wants to play with a 2 year old all day long. Every day. Forever. Crazy, I know.

Anyway, her exzema has been flaring up the past couple of days and she's been itching like crazy. She hardly slept the other night for scratching and waking us up more than a couple times while she screamed about her intense frustration. So I took her to the doctor this morning to find out what I can give her to get some relief. And to avoid scratching all the way to Wisconsin.

For some reason, she doesn't like doctors anymore. I told Dr. Best I didn't know why she was so frightened and she said it's because she's two. I hope so, otherwise I'd wonder what evil thing Lily was sensing about Dr. Best. Was it a baby sixth sense kind of thing? I hope not.

Either way, knowing that she hated Dr. Best to no end, I knew the part where she gets her ears checked and her mouth inspected weren't going to go well. This is where I prove I'm the best mother ever. I grabbed her baby cabbage patch doll and quick shoved it between Lily and the doctor, thus insisting the doctor inspect the baby's mouth and check out the baby's ears. As any good doctor would, she successfully does the probing and lays the praise on thick. "What a good job, baby...let's give the baby a big hug!" When it was Lily's turn, she took it like a freaking pro. She even handed her paci to me to hold while she stuck her tongue out with no regret (a tiny bit of hesitation, but no regret). I couldn't believe how awesome it was. And how proud I could be of such a BIG girl.

Then tonight I let her stay up way too late, we were having such a good time together. She swung on the hammock with me listening to all the outside noises in our neighborhood. We heard the wind rustling through the trees, cars pulling out of their driveways, daddy cutting wood in the shop and dogs barking. I was sincerely thinking about how I would explain the gunshot if that was the next noise. Fireworks? Thunder? The big bang...again? She acted so surprised every time there was a new sound, that big "OHHHH" face of mock surprise. Only coming from Lily, I don't think it was mocking anything. I think she was really terribly excited by each and every sound she heard. Then she scooted down to my belly where she could put her head down without her cheek sticking to my chest skin. She's funny about skin on skin, apparently.

We also went swimming today (I apologize but I can't not tell you about the bathing suit I found at the Gap today for $31 on sale from $50 when the Gap store I was in doesn't even normally carry bathing suits the only reason they had the one I found was because someone returned an online order...finding it was perfect in every way) but swimming did not put her in a good mood in spite of her refusal to get out. Every piece of dirt that made it into the water was highly distressing. I have no idea how a child of mine could have such issues with dirt. "It's diwwwwty...it's diwwwty!" Our house is not short of dirt in any way. In fact, it's a disaster most of the time, it's not like she's un-used to finding tiny pieces of dirt...oh, everywhere.

Go back and re-read that part where I pulled out the cabbage patch doll at the doctor's office as a reminder of what a good mom I am regardless of the DIRT.

Being poor is knowing exactly how much everything costs.

This makes me cry. Not because I'm poor, and not because I remember what it was like when I was this poor, but because I'm afraid that I might cry over mac and cheese again some day. The difference would be that now I have a sweet baby's life to ruin in the process, if I let that happen again.

Not to mention how difficult it is to think about all the innocent children's lives who are ruined by any number of indifferences, insensitivities, irresponsibilities, a basic lack of hope.

How am I able to turn every topic into a political one these days? Oh, yes. Because I'm in love with the idea of finally living through and being involved in revolutionary change in America. I've lived my entire life wishing I'd grown up in the 60s just so I could experience first hand people caring as deeply as I do about civil rights. It feels so good.

A Movie Review

A story by Jean Giono, The Man Who Planted Trees may be one of the best children's stories I've ever heard, although I don't know many children who would truly appreciate what was being told. My husband ordered it from Netflix the other night and we watched it long after Lily had fallen asleep. We loved it, but when we tried to play it for Lily the next day, she lost interest within 5 minutes of pushing play.

It was a pencil drawn cartoon with slightly moving parts, like, the birds would fly across an otherwise still landscape. Lines of wind would blow across a field of trees or you could see the breath come out of the man's mouth as he spoke while nothing else was moving. It took a lot of imagination, but the narrator told the story with such detail that all the spaces were filled in beautifully. I just hope we can remember to try playing it for Lily again when she's a little older and see how that goes.

The DVD also featured an interview with the author, Mr. Giono, that most certainly took place in the 70s or so in some remote hills of France. I can't remember exactly where. Since he was French, the interview was captioned and not terribly easy to follow. D lost interest pretty quickly (perhaps that's where Lily gets it from) but as a wannabe writer, I was curious to see what he had to say about his process of writing. As a side note, sometimes I think I'm more enamored by the idea of writing than the act of it, as I'm really not that good and not nearly as disciplined as a good writer must be.

Anyway, I was able to relate with at least this little bit of what he said. He said writing was much less the act of writing than all the moments that lead up to the development of a story. Writers have a story to tell because they've lived their lives and paid attention. I may not pay attention to detail, but I certainly try to live my life. I've done a lot of things that many people I know would never do.

Lately I've been struggling with this notion. The responsibility of having a child really doesn't allow me to be terribly free without considering implications or consequences involved. I've always prided myself on appreciating the experience and not not doing something because I was afraid of what might happen. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't all balls to the wall by any means, I'm just saying...what am I saying? Shit. I don't know anymore.

A Little Something or Two About Me

My husband is a woodworker and will make this clothes tree for Lily (read: me) if I have anything to do with it:



Here is a list of blogs I currently have bookmarked:

Aunty Cookie - It's probably about time I remove this one from my bookmarks because I can't remember why it's saved

print & pattern - Same as above; I can't remember much about this site and never go to it but just now when I looked at it again I thought I should go back because it looks inviting

Dooce - I discovered Dooce several years ago when I was living in Phoenix and missing Memphis. It was comforting to read about someone from home even though neither of us were still there. At that time we were both married with no children and I could relate to a lot of the stuff she talked about. I've been reading her off and on ever since. I now have a little girl almost 2 years younger than hers so it's nice to read about what I can expect for the future. Except for the fame and fortune she seems to have secured.

One Good Thing - I absolutely love Flea's perspective on life. She seems so normal and unpretentious but super intelligent and I just love how much we agree on. It's reassuring and makes me feel a little less alone.

Bitch Ph.D. - This is one of those blogs you can't help but wonder if the author's portrayal of life is as sincere as it's perceived. I mean, really, professor, mom, feminist, open marriage, I just have a hard time believing one person can exist with such a fabulously open minded and progressive life. I have no problem with her decisions, if they're for real, but I remain skeptical. Perhaps that says more about how unexciting my life is than how fake hers could be.

The Apostate - I bookmarked this one night and have never been able to dig past the first page to determine if I'll really read it. I suspect it's a little to deep for me.

Mighty Girl - I'm constantly reading about her on other blogs, I thought I'd go ahead and bookmark her.

Suburban Bliss - I don't actually have her site bookmarked, but I type it in often enough to call myself a somewhat regular visitor. I discovered her about the same time as Dooce; several years ago. But I always feel a little uncomfortable there, like she's judging me through the screen or something. I don't know, but she scares me a little. She seems kind of mean like she could hurt me, but I'm pretty wimpy, so, Melissa, if you ever read this, that's not saying much.

Thanks for learning a little something about me.

Kids These Days

My 12 year old niece kept sending me emails today. The first one was a reply to an email I sent her over a month ago congratulating her on winning some award at school. All she said was "thank you." No explanation, just a simple "thank you."

Then I got another email. According to the subject, it was "sooooo cute and funny." It contained a series of pictures of elephants kissing baby penguins and things of that nature. She was right, they were sooo cute. And funny, too. See?



But then I got an email that began like this:

"This is not sent for discussion, if you agree forward it, if you don't, fine, delete it. I don't want to know one way or the other. By me forwarding it, you know how I feel."

Well, hello to you, too. And when did you become a teenager? So aggressively, confrontationally unwilling to listen to anyone else's point of view. I don't appreciate being asked to read her (or you know, the author's) opinion without even the possibility of replying.

What's more frustrating is how much I hate these fucking emails to begin with - without the snarky intro. I hate receiving forwarded emails shoving right wing propoganda down my throat with the assumption that I'll agree. It's like being white and a white aquaintance of yours telling a racist joke with the assumption that I'll think it's funny. I don't.

I receive these emails all too often, as many of us do; from co-workers, old friends, family members, just all the time. Just a couple weeks ago I received one from my VPs admin that really burned me up. It was so inappropriately religious in a work environment that I had to bite my tongue and just delete it before I caved and "tattled." I was this close but tattling is worse then sending the stupid email in the first place.

It bothers me, too, that my first instinct is to reply and the realization that the above message was made for people like me. To cut me off at the pass. People don't like hearing my smart ass replies to their trite little emails. I know this, but I do it so they'll quit sending me their shit. But they won't quit. All they want in life is to forward weak minded bullshit and feel good about having contributed to the national discussion without thinking another moment further or actually doing anything productive.

So, I'll discuss it on my blog that no one reads a feel like at least I was able to respond in this way. I love the internet and its many venues for pent up frustration.

Oh, and by the way, of course Barack won Oregon. Duh. I wonder if Hillary feels just the tiniest bit self conscious that she's only winning the southern redneck states (I can say that as a resident of southern redneck states, even though I know it's making an assumption about people just because they're from the south).

French Cooking

The first real French thing I've ever made is Potage Parmentier, which is potato and leek soup. The Julie and Julia Project inspired me. I was not disappointed. In fact, my expectations were low to begin with because of the mere three ingredients the soup called for. How can just potatoes, leeks and cream be so amazing? The best fucking potato soup I've ever had and I would challenge anyone to disagree. It's simplicity, it's slow cooked richness, the cream topped it off for sure. I've been hooked on French cooking ever since.

The problem is how much time it takes to prepare most French meals. The French certainly know how to cook, but it almost seems like they have nothing better to do, so why not just stay in the kitchen? That's not easy with a two year old in the house. Sweet baby that she is, she's into being held and fed and paid attention to.

On occasion, though, I try. I made French potato salad with arugula, roquefort and walnuts this weekend. Unlike my midwestern mom's potato salad, it was not swimming in mayonaise. It didn't even have mayo at all. And it was served warm and ohmygod it was delicious. Not a dish to reheat so much, best immediately after it's prepared, but I'm still enjoying it the next day. I'm not a very picky eater, though. At all. It shows.

Anyway, here's the recipe. I have a subscription to Cook's Illustrated, I hope they don't mind terribly my sharing this with the internet. One of the things I love most about America's Test Kitchen is how the steps are so very specific, you really can't go wrong if you follow the instructions. They lay it all out and although the details sometimes seem a little ridiculous, I've learned from experience that I do not know better and mostly am just being lazy when trying to cut corners. For instance, this recipe requires that you take a garlic clove, skewer it, dunk it in the boiling potato water for 45 seconds, remove it and immediately put it under cold running water to stop the cooking process, then set it aside. For one garlic clove. That's strange to me and seems a bit over the top but I did it and the potato salad was perfect. I tend to enjoy those particular type of instructions. It just seems substantial and more...authentic. And we all know white people love authenticity.

French Potato Salad with Arugula, Roquefort and Walnuts

2	pounds small red potatoes (about 2-inch diameter), unpeeled, scrubbed, and cut into 1/4-inch-thick slices
2	tablespoons table salt
1	medium clove garlic , peeled and threaded on skewer
1 1/2	tablespoons champagne vinegar or white wine vinegar
2	teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4	cup olive oil
1/2	teaspoon ground black pepper
1	small shallot , minced (about 2 tablespoons)
1/2	cup walnuts , toasted and coarsely chopped
4	ounces Roquefort cheese , crumbled
1	bunch arugula , washed, dried, and torn into bite-sized pieces (about 2 1/2 cups)

1. Place potatoes, 6 cups cold tap water, and salt in large saucepan; bring to boil over high heat, then reduce heat to medium. Lower skewered garlic into simmering water and partially blanch, about 45 seconds. Immediately run garlic under cold tap water to stop cooking; remove garlic from skewer and set aside. Continue to simmer potatoes, uncovered, until tender but still firm (thin-bladed paring knife can be slipped into and out of center of potato slice with no resistance), about 5 minutes. Drain potatoes, reserving 1/4 cup cooking water. Arrange hot potatoes close together in single layer on rimmed baking sheet.

2. Press garlic through garlic press or mince by hand. Whisk garlic, reserved potato cooking water, vinegar, mustard, oil, and pepper in small bowl until combined. Drizzle dressing evenly over warm potatoes; let stand 10 minutes.

3. Toss shallot, walnuts, arugula, and Roquefort cheese in small bowl. Transfer potatoes to large serving bowl; add shallot/walnuts/arugula/Roquefort mixture and mix gently with rubber spatula to combine. Serve immediately.

Trust

Some days you just don't get along with your significant other. Right? God I hope so because my dear husband and I are just not seeing eye to eye on anything today. From how we're looking at each other to how we're talking, it's all wrong. In the midst of it all, though, we can still hug and remember why we like each other, or at least that we do like each other even if we can't recall exactly why at that moment. The problem is that moment only lasts for as long as the hug lasts and then somebody says something with a mocking tone or glances sideways in disapproval and it starts all over again.

We were practically married from the moment we started dating. Neither of us had any sort of prerequisites for what was required before we were willing to commit. You know how some women won't move in until they have a ring or some guys won't get a ring until they've had sex? Whatever. We never really considered being so restrictive. If it felt fine and we trusted each other, then why have all these false, misguided, one size fits all rules?

A Rasta man I met in San Francisco taught me that. One of the perks from a company I used to work for was that we could fly anywhere for free. We had to fly on a cargo plane and it was cold and inconvenient, somewhat, since we didn't fly into the normal part of the airport and cab drivers didn't know where to drop you off in smaller cities, but it was free and awesome and unlimited. I took advantage of it when I had the chance and one time I flew to San Francisco. It was the only time I went anywhere alone but I couldn't find anyone to go with me and I really wanted to go. While I was there, I went to Haight/Ashbury. I know, I was a big fat stereotypical hippie girl with a job (William Blake said we all contradict ourselves sometimes) but in my defense, I was also young and trying to "find myself."

So I was walking down one side of the street and this black man (I point that out because I'm white and it's noteworthy - also, I don't want to make you assume that he was black because all Rastafarian's are black) with dreads "made eyes" at me. I just kept walking with my chest all out and proud til I got to the end of the street, crossed over to the other side and turned around.

He saw me as I passed by him again and this time said hello, in so many words. I smiled and said hello back and his step synced up with mine and we started talking. It began like it always does, him all complimentary; me all coy. But then we started talking. Talking and walking and every once in a while he'd break out into song. Loud, booming Dada. His voice echoed in the streets, as crowded as they were with people everywhere. We didn't go inside anywhere, he didn't have any more money than I did. It never even came up. We eventually sat in his car when we got tired of walking. Also, he wanted to share some music with me. We talked about religion for awhile but sadly I hardly remember the details. All I remember is his sincerity, I felt his honesty and I felt I could trust this complete stranger. Completely opposite from me, a world apart on most levels, but I believed he was telling me the truth.

Towards the end of the night, he asked if he could stay with me in my hotel room. He lived in Oakland and didn't want to drive all the way back so late. I'm not completely irrational so I did resist for some time. But after much conversation about how I should trust my gut and he believed I trusted him, I let him come up to my room.

I was in a double and told him he could sleep on the other bed. He started out there but again, he was persistent. I'm somewhat of a pushover and he kept promising that he just wanted to be near me. People. I believed him. I listened to my instincts and I trusted that he was a good person and just wanted to be close to someone for a night. I was right. He didn't do a thing to me. He didn't hurt me, he didn't rape me, he didn't scare me. Nothing. And in the morning, he went home. We shared each others information in case we ever thought we'd meet up again (we never did), and we went on with our lives feeling a little more secure (at least I did) about humanity.

So anyway, I'm a person who listens to her gut, not "standards" someone made up for someone else's situation.

I should be honest about moving in with D, though. I don't know if it was timing or sincere love at first sight (I'm inclined to think timing but on occasion I'm willing to be romantic) but just two weeks after we started dating we both happened to be looking for renewing our lease or finding a new place to live. He knew of a guy who was moving and he could just take over his lease but the apartment was too big for him to take alone and he couldn't afford the rent by himself. He was persistent and I caved pretty easily. We've been together ever since. That was 9 years ago this week. We hooked up at the Memphis in May Barbecue Fest and this year we didn't even go.

YMCA

I recently joined the Y and it's sort of changing my life. Perhaps joining was a result of something else that was telling me that I needed to change my life, but it's the most concrete representation of life changing.

For the past 5 weeks I have come home from work every possible night of the week, eaten dinner, changed Lily, dropped her in the competent hands of their child care service that comes with a membership and participated in some type or another classroom fitness thing. As active as I used to be as a "young" person, I've never had to resort to classroom fitness training. In fact, I looked down my nose at such an organized misrepresentation of actual fresh air activity. But of course I would. I was young. And poor. Everything I did was physical. I waited tables or rode my bike to school or worked at the fucking hub throwing boxes. Acting like I wasn't a girl so the boys wouldn't make fun of me. Stupid, stubborn girls.

Anyway, my Y-cycle instructor last night made a statement in reference to two of our younger cyclists about how she herself didn't start participating in classes until at least her late twenties, but she was certainly in her thirties before she started taking them seriously. What is it about age that makes us want to join a class?

I'll tell you what because I'm experiencing it now and just verbalized it to my husband it couldn't have been more than a month ago. I spend a good majority of time at work with a bunch of assholes I don't care anything about and would rather roll around in cat shit than spend an extra social second with them. But I spend so much time with them that I've run all of my former friends off (that's what I tell myself anyway. the truth might be a little less active on my part) and the only people left are my family. Other than my immediate family (husband, baby) I don't particularly want to spend a hell of a lot of time with my family either. So I've been searching. I even went to church not that long ago and almost more to meet like minded people than to get anything churchy out of the event. It was a universalist church, so don't get me wrong, I'm not into find someone who shares my faith in jesus our lord and savior, but I'm looking for people like me. Should it really be that hard to find? Am I such a freak that the only person who actually wants to spend time with me and who I want to spend time with is my husband? Personally, I don't think so. In fact, I know that's not the case. The reason I spend so much time online is because the people I wish I was surrounded by are online.

Out there.

Before I start sounding too hokey, I'll get back to my point. One of the reasons I joined the gym was to find like minded individuals to spend at least the little bit of time left in my day with. And it gives D a break and it gives L the opportunity to experience other people than us. And it's served that purpose. I fucking love it. I love everything about it. I love going to classes, I love the yoga classes especially. But I even like the cycle classes because they kick my ass a little bit less every time I go.

I haven't lost any weight yet but I swear I notice a difference in my clothes and D says he can tell a difference in my muscle tone. I can't tell if he's just trying to be encouraging and to tell you the truth, I really don't care because I feel good as shit, inside and out.

Happy Mother's Day - Year 2

D and I are sitting in the kitchen listening to a bunch of old music we'd totally forgotten about until he got the i-pod and filled it up with all these old mixed CDs he's made over the years. Right now we're listening to the Alabama Sacred Heart singers (or Harp, I can't figure out which is correct - I've seen both). This really rich, crazy church music from I don't know when, the 40's, in the backwoods of the south.

When we were staying with his grandparents right after we came back from Phoenix, we would drive around North Mississippi smoking and drinking coffee all night long. Just driving all around the back streets listening to music and talking. We talked mostly about what we were going to do next with our lives. Have kids? Get real jobs? Go back to school? Buy a house?

"Are you crazy?" we'd say. "We can't afford a house! I can't even imagine wanting the responsibility of a house right now!"

Rent a house. With a yard. Call Jeff and Amie. Let's go hang out. Call Dale and Kristen. Let's get dressed up and go out. It's all we did back then. And that wasn't that long ago.

We had sex in the field in the back of his grandparent's house. D found a tic under my arm the next morning in the sunlight that was streaming through the window of the quilted guest bedroom.

This was before everything started changing. D's grandfather died a slow, painful death. His grandmother began going crazy - or it became evident that she'd been going crazy for some time and D's grandfather had been helping to hide it. Then Nick died. How did that fit into our plans? Shit. What plans? At that point, everything just went on hold, subconsciously. No thought - just stay sane. Remain stable. Don't think. For god's sake, don't feel. Don't feel at all cost or it'll strike you down next, whatever IT is.

And then we had Lily. No. Then we got pregnant 2 months after I stopped taking the pill. Things lightened up after that and they've been getting brighter ever since.

Lily has a harmonica now that she plays all the time. We give it to her when people are over in an attempt to have her entertain our guests. Something we never thought we'd do. I hate that I do it yet I cannot help myself. I so badly want people to see my sweet angel blowing with all her might into that antique harmonica. Wouldn't that be cool is she eventually learned how to play for real?

She's so interesting. I look forward to seeing what of kind stuff she's going to be into as she gets older. Will she want to listen to our music? Will she think we're cool? I hear that kids never do when they get to a certain age but if she's smart, won't she be above that childish view of what's meaningful? Will I even care either way by that time? I'll just chalk it up to a phase if she isn't into us, but I'm sure my heart will break first.

I just can't wait to teach her about being older. Grown. When we can have conversations with each other. Debate. I can give her advice. About what classes to take. Whether she should get married or not. If she should buy or rent. When she has a baby! A grandbaby! I'm going to be such a good grandmommy! I'm totally adopting that moniker for myself. I love it.