I have been kicked off my own other blog site. I did this myself because I already posted there once today and I take issue with multiple posts in one day. There has to be some level of restraint or I'd be dumping the contents of my brain out all over the place all the time. This site is currently one of my outs.
What I really want is to do a blog review and it might have been better to have done this on the primary site but I think the blog in question already gets a fair amount of traffic and my little push probably won't make a world of difference.
During my blog surfing this one blog kept popping up linked on other people's sites. Initially it seemed as if there was some kind of relationship between the random blogs I surfed; after all, there are interwoven blog communities all over the place. What started to catch my attention was the fact that some of these sites had absolutely nothing in common. Except for this one link.
So I went digging. I do that. I kind of felt a little stalkerish but honestly, blogs (unless locked) are in the public domain. If you're going to post you might as well accept you're going to be read. By complete strangers trying to put puzzle pieces together and figure out what's what. Like I said, I do that.
What I found was far more interesting than the possibility of an unusual blog community. What I found was a woman who's been posting since 2001 and has managed to actually make a living at it. I also discovered she no longer takes comments or publishes an email address (well, sort of). If you really want to make contact you have to mail an actual letter, with a stamp and everything. That could be a problem as I'm no longer exactly sure where the stamps are or how much is postage for a regular letter? OK, that's not entirely true, but still.
So, without further ado, here she is:
http://www.dooce.com/
Sometimes you will see her linked to somebody's site as Heather, but most times it's just Dooce.
Dooce has an entire history on this blog and she's pulling no punches. You want to read about her intestinal difficulties? I believe Poop is it's own topic. You want to read the most amazing monthly letters to her currently 44 month old daughter? Well they're filed under Leta, Daily, Newsletters, and Parenthood with the added bonus of some of the most stunning photographs I've had the good fortune to view while waiting for a database to finish doing it's business (Poop! I yell at the database. Poop now!) (I last left off on the entries concerning potty training the dog Chuck and I have a sneaking suspicion I may find more such entries when I get up to the time when Leta might reasonably be expected to use the toilet.)
I've been reading from the beginning forward. It only took me a few months worth to realize that not only did her advertising change with each page but that the majority of her footer ads are based on probable keywords in the current post.
Amazing. Well, OK, maybe not so amazing, she was, after all, a web designer of some sort prior to being fired for blogging about her workplace, but still. Amazing.
Also, a wonderful read. Go to it and enjoy. (and don't miss the about page; very enlightening)
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Making the call
This belongs on Ophelia Dreaming but it goes hand in hand with Trust Fall so here it is.
Today I called the Norwalk Police Department and stammering a bit explained that I had been rescued on Monday by a 911 operator and that I'd googled 911 to death but found no indication of how to reach any of them, other than dialing 911. I didn' t even know where they were or what government body directed them.
The woman who answered the phone started out brusk. She must take awful calls all day long, because, you see, the number I dialed belonged to the Chief (that's what's listed!). She asked me when and where and when I couldn't give a street name but could give a rough time she searched the case records until she found me. She gave me a case number but she didn't really tell me about 911. She gave me the name of the White Haired Superman but not the name of the operator.
She was starting to warm up when I kept pushing about needing to say thank you. Then she said she'd transfer me to Communications. I thought maybe I was getting PR or something and they'd at least give me a supervisor's name to contact. Someone to write to.
A man answered the phone and I told him what I wanted. I gave him the case number and he said...
that was me!
And I started to cry. I should have known that voice anywhere and having been told I fell right back into his virtual arms. I told him everything. I told him how I felt making the call and that I'd called once so many years ago when I thought I was going to die and gotten a recording saying the service was not in place. I told him how it felt when he mostly found me by GPS, he told me how the technology works and how happy he was about it. He asked me about Cletus and I told him about vaso-vagal and how it was all OK. He told me to tell her to be well and not scare Mommy like that again.
I told him he saved my sanity and that I'd never been so scared in my life.
I told him thank you and it was wonderful.
Then I talked to the woman in the Chief's office again and found out that 911 belongs to the Police Department and that they all roll up to the Chief and that sending a letter is a wonderful thing to do for them and now I have names:
Jonathan Williams - the disembodied voice who found me and held me together
Officer Mark Kucky - the White Haired Superman who caught me
Chief Harry Rillings - who will receive a letter for both.
God, that was wonderful being able to do that.
Today I called the Norwalk Police Department and stammering a bit explained that I had been rescued on Monday by a 911 operator and that I'd googled 911 to death but found no indication of how to reach any of them, other than dialing 911. I didn' t even know where they were or what government body directed them.
The woman who answered the phone started out brusk. She must take awful calls all day long, because, you see, the number I dialed belonged to the Chief (that's what's listed!). She asked me when and where and when I couldn't give a street name but could give a rough time she searched the case records until she found me. She gave me a case number but she didn't really tell me about 911. She gave me the name of the White Haired Superman but not the name of the operator.
She was starting to warm up when I kept pushing about needing to say thank you. Then she said she'd transfer me to Communications. I thought maybe I was getting PR or something and they'd at least give me a supervisor's name to contact. Someone to write to.
A man answered the phone and I told him what I wanted. I gave him the case number and he said...
that was me!
And I started to cry. I should have known that voice anywhere and having been told I fell right back into his virtual arms. I told him everything. I told him how I felt making the call and that I'd called once so many years ago when I thought I was going to die and gotten a recording saying the service was not in place. I told him how it felt when he mostly found me by GPS, he told me how the technology works and how happy he was about it. He asked me about Cletus and I told him about vaso-vagal and how it was all OK. He told me to tell her to be well and not scare Mommy like that again.
I told him he saved my sanity and that I'd never been so scared in my life.
I told him thank you and it was wonderful.
Then I talked to the woman in the Chief's office again and found out that 911 belongs to the Police Department and that they all roll up to the Chief and that sending a letter is a wonderful thing to do for them and now I have names:
Jonathan Williams - the disembodied voice who found me and held me together
Officer Mark Kucky - the White Haired Superman who caught me
Chief Harry Rillings - who will receive a letter for both.
God, that was wonderful being able to do that.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Trust Fall
You told me.
You said, Momma, I do not feel right.
You did.
You told me.
And then you showed me.
Your body convulsed,
pitched forward in an act of violent
aggression
and the ancient ones spoke through
your once pretty mouth
tearing open a portal into the bowels of hell
and you told me everything there ever was to tell.
I dialed the sacred three numbers,
pressed send
and ordered up a lifeline
dial-a-prayer, if you will.
...and wondered, will it work this time?
In a haze of white static, frantic, grasping,
breathe for you
pull you forward toward me
instructions
good
I can follow instructions
please, sir, may I have another
Pull you forward toward me
turn you
grasp you
hold you
You are no longer in the body
that lies limp, damp and heavy against me
You are no longer available to tell me any damn thing at all
Elvis has left the building
and taken you with him.
And then your eyes flutter open
Do you see me?
And you are howling like the banshees, pressed to my heart
like the night you were born.
The lifeline is still in my ear
umbilicus from some tower in Bridgeport
or Norwalk or New York City
Just where do these operators sit anyway?
In the virtual land of Donotletmego
And he did not.
The white haired superman in the blue uniform
has an open heart
which he is presently wearing on his face
as he opens the door, reaches in, touches your shoulder and pulls you
away from me
just a little bit
toward his light
and you answer him with
your name.
You know your name.
And the lifeline tells me that I have done well
and that he is going to hang up now
and I know I have been successfully
passed
from the disembodied but very present man
to the very embodied and just as present other man
and the sirens wind their way up the hill
pulling up just ahead and all these people
just like the crash cart when your sister was born
and we have landed...
... freefalling in the ultimate trust fall
for an eternity
or just a moment
into the waiting arms of our humanity.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
You said, Momma, I do not feel right.
You did.
You told me.
And then you showed me.
Your body convulsed,
pitched forward in an act of violent
aggression
and the ancient ones spoke through
your once pretty mouth
tearing open a portal into the bowels of hell
and you told me everything there ever was to tell.
I dialed the sacred three numbers,
pressed send
and ordered up a lifeline
dial-a-prayer, if you will.
...and wondered, will it work this time?
In a haze of white static, frantic, grasping,
breathe for you
pull you forward toward me
instructions
good
I can follow instructions
please, sir, may I have another
Pull you forward toward me
turn you
grasp you
hold you
You are no longer in the body
that lies limp, damp and heavy against me
You are no longer available to tell me any damn thing at all
Elvis has left the building
and taken you with him.
And then your eyes flutter open
Do you see me?
And you are howling like the banshees, pressed to my heart
like the night you were born.
The lifeline is still in my ear
umbilicus from some tower in Bridgeport
or Norwalk or New York City
Just where do these operators sit anyway?
In the virtual land of Donotletmego
And he did not.
The white haired superman in the blue uniform
has an open heart
which he is presently wearing on his face
as he opens the door, reaches in, touches your shoulder and pulls you
away from me
just a little bit
toward his light
and you answer him with
your name.
You know your name.
And the lifeline tells me that I have done well
and that he is going to hang up now
and I know I have been successfully
passed
from the disembodied but very present man
to the very embodied and just as present other man
and the sirens wind their way up the hill
pulling up just ahead and all these people
just like the crash cart when your sister was born
and we have landed...
... freefalling in the ultimate trust fall
for an eternity
or just a moment
into the waiting arms of our humanity.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
The Gate Keepers
I am just irritated. I married a Jew. Granted, I know very little about the culture so I've got to tread with caution. We cannot go judging what we do not know. Or something like that.
I'll back up a little. I LOVE church. I love church of almost any type or flavor. That's because I didn't grow up with any church at all. When I was in the sixth grade I read the fabulous and wonderful book by Judy Blume called Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret. If you missed it, I'm sorry, I don't have time to do a book review this evening, I'm supposed to be sleeping.
Ms Blume's book woke up a sleeping need or desire in me for the community or company of spiritual communion. I went to church. I went to church all over the town of Glastonbury. I ran the gamut from Catholicism all the way down the North East Protestant food chain to the Congregationalists. Later I met the Quakers and the Unitarians. Loved 'em all. Except for the Catholics, they pissed me off something awful when I got married and discussed the possible baptism of my babies, but I sure do like the ritual and pomp. Nice. Alter boys make me cry and all that (for the right reasons). I also met the raging Southern Baptists (just the African American branch, not sure if the other branches have any bearing) - Loved loved loved, them, and the Born Again Fundamentalists (ran screaming into the night). But I didn't meet many Jews. That's because they hide the Jews in Glastonbury (just ask my best friend Deeb, she's one of two, I think).
Well then I up and married one. Poor guy. He's all lapsed and everything now too. I'm not claiming fault, I'm just noticing that yet again, without a woman in the household to direct the spiritual leanings a lot of men tend to fall right off whatever wagon they're on. I wonder about that. In any event, I did what I thought I ought to do. I tied in the seasonal Jewish holidays and the Christian holidays to the Pagan passages I happen to celebrate - um, that would be Winter Solstice and The Spring Fertility Rights; I give the rest a nod if I'm in the mood.
There is an extra series of events that is very harvest oriented. The two primary fall events are Rosh Hashana (New Year) and Yom Kippur (Atonement). Rosh Hashana (Shana Tova, all) began at sunset tonight. Beloved is in Wisconsin with his Ethanol farmers. I don't believe they have many Jews in the corn fields of Wisconsin and certainly no time or space to sit in Temple and contemplate the new year tomorrow while he's glad handing the farmers (pretty sure he ought to be ashamed of himself but I try to keep that to myself, he is, after all, my guy and a pretty good guy at that).
So I was IMing him this evening as Nanny ties up the phone line between 9 PM and 1 AM on a regular basis (and I'm pretty much ok with that as I don't like to use the phone much) and I mentioned he might like to go to temple on Yom Kippur and that I would go with him. This is an all day event. I can kind of make it to about noon and then I'm out of there and looking for a bacon sandwich (Amy, if you're reading this, I do beg your pardon). But I like it. I really do. For me it's about sitting in silence (and then not so silence) of community and examining who you are, who you have been and who you believe you want to be. I find it cleansing, honest and healing.
Howeveah....
We don't belong to any particular temple. He tried and tried to find one that worked for him and after running into the Humanistic Jews of Westport (HE ran screaming) I think he gave up. I didn't ask. Mostly because I just don't think about that kind of thing very often. So now he has no temple to go to. If he wants to go he'll be expected to cough up several hundred dollars just to pass the threshold.
Several hundred dollars. Maybe more.
It isn't that we can't but how the hell do they know that? This man comes looking for a spiritual home, grasping at the roots that defined his manhood and he cannot pass go without a substantial amount of money.
It is like this in many churches but this one takes the cake.
Before you start in on me, I've heard the reasons. I've heard. I've heard enough.
It saddens me. Yahweh, say it ain't so.
I'll back up a little. I LOVE church. I love church of almost any type or flavor. That's because I didn't grow up with any church at all. When I was in the sixth grade I read the fabulous and wonderful book by Judy Blume called Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret. If you missed it, I'm sorry, I don't have time to do a book review this evening, I'm supposed to be sleeping.
Ms Blume's book woke up a sleeping need or desire in me for the community or company of spiritual communion. I went to church. I went to church all over the town of Glastonbury. I ran the gamut from Catholicism all the way down the North East Protestant food chain to the Congregationalists. Later I met the Quakers and the Unitarians. Loved 'em all. Except for the Catholics, they pissed me off something awful when I got married and discussed the possible baptism of my babies, but I sure do like the ritual and pomp. Nice. Alter boys make me cry and all that (for the right reasons). I also met the raging Southern Baptists (just the African American branch, not sure if the other branches have any bearing) - Loved loved loved, them, and the Born Again Fundamentalists (ran screaming into the night). But I didn't meet many Jews. That's because they hide the Jews in Glastonbury (just ask my best friend Deeb, she's one of two, I think).
Well then I up and married one. Poor guy. He's all lapsed and everything now too. I'm not claiming fault, I'm just noticing that yet again, without a woman in the household to direct the spiritual leanings a lot of men tend to fall right off whatever wagon they're on. I wonder about that. In any event, I did what I thought I ought to do. I tied in the seasonal Jewish holidays and the Christian holidays to the Pagan passages I happen to celebrate - um, that would be Winter Solstice and The Spring Fertility Rights; I give the rest a nod if I'm in the mood.
There is an extra series of events that is very harvest oriented. The two primary fall events are Rosh Hashana (New Year) and Yom Kippur (Atonement). Rosh Hashana (Shana Tova, all) began at sunset tonight. Beloved is in Wisconsin with his Ethanol farmers. I don't believe they have many Jews in the corn fields of Wisconsin and certainly no time or space to sit in Temple and contemplate the new year tomorrow while he's glad handing the farmers (pretty sure he ought to be ashamed of himself but I try to keep that to myself, he is, after all, my guy and a pretty good guy at that).
So I was IMing him this evening as Nanny ties up the phone line between 9 PM and 1 AM on a regular basis (and I'm pretty much ok with that as I don't like to use the phone much) and I mentioned he might like to go to temple on Yom Kippur and that I would go with him. This is an all day event. I can kind of make it to about noon and then I'm out of there and looking for a bacon sandwich (Amy, if you're reading this, I do beg your pardon). But I like it. I really do. For me it's about sitting in silence (and then not so silence) of community and examining who you are, who you have been and who you believe you want to be. I find it cleansing, honest and healing.
Howeveah....
We don't belong to any particular temple. He tried and tried to find one that worked for him and after running into the Humanistic Jews of Westport (HE ran screaming) I think he gave up. I didn't ask. Mostly because I just don't think about that kind of thing very often. So now he has no temple to go to. If he wants to go he'll be expected to cough up several hundred dollars just to pass the threshold.
Several hundred dollars. Maybe more.
It isn't that we can't but how the hell do they know that? This man comes looking for a spiritual home, grasping at the roots that defined his manhood and he cannot pass go without a substantial amount of money.
It is like this in many churches but this one takes the cake.
Before you start in on me, I've heard the reasons. I've heard. I've heard enough.
It saddens me. Yahweh, say it ain't so.
Monday, September 10, 2007
I am the fire
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.
Damn.
Life is about struggle. Don't like that, do you? No, not much.
I have always struggled. There has always been a 'what next' sooner than I was ever ready for it. Right now my life is pretty much perfect. This is a problem.
Crap.
Other than the nanny adjustment, um, there's no battle to fight. Cletus Marie's father has been more or less shamed into at least leaving her alone (plus he'll give me some money every month toward her upkeep - woohoo - I don't give a rat's ass, I didn't need him then and I don't need him now). My job is my job; I can be a corporate power house in my sleep and my boss is too cowed to give me much more than, um, what I can do. My children are children. My garden is green. The deer seem to have vanished (?). My best friend has not had a psychotic break lately. (lately) My son is living his own life and I don't freaking have to look (!!!).
Crap.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
I curled into my husband on our bed this evening and wailed (in my most dramatic fashion)...
My life is meaningless.....!!!!
(wah)
Seriously. It made him nervous. This is good. It means he knows me.
Bonzai!!!!!!
What next?
(bahahahahahahahahahah)
Damn.
Life is about struggle. Don't like that, do you? No, not much.
I have always struggled. There has always been a 'what next' sooner than I was ever ready for it. Right now my life is pretty much perfect. This is a problem.
Crap.
Other than the nanny adjustment, um, there's no battle to fight. Cletus Marie's father has been more or less shamed into at least leaving her alone (plus he'll give me some money every month toward her upkeep - woohoo - I don't give a rat's ass, I didn't need him then and I don't need him now). My job is my job; I can be a corporate power house in my sleep and my boss is too cowed to give me much more than, um, what I can do. My children are children. My garden is green. The deer seem to have vanished (?). My best friend has not had a psychotic break lately. (lately) My son is living his own life and I don't freaking have to look (!!!).
Crap.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
I curled into my husband on our bed this evening and wailed (in my most dramatic fashion)...
My life is meaningless.....!!!!
(wah)
Seriously. It made him nervous. This is good. It means he knows me.
Bonzai!!!!!!
What next?
(bahahahahahahahahahah)
Friday, September 7, 2007
For Carol
Tonight I meant to have a moment of silence for CG's mom, Carol. Not working out so silent, is it? Go ahead over to this site CG Spiritual http://contrarygoddess.wordpress.com/(I'm hoping she won't mind) and have a read from beginning to end. There isn't much there yet as she just birthed this site a little bit ago.
What you will find is a woman's journey through the passing of her mother. She, CG, had what I would call the good fortune and great good sense to be cognizant and present in the final days and hours of Carol's life. Such presence often brings to mind the love and pain, filial conflict at it's best and worst of the mother-daughter or parent-child relationship.
I am nowhere near ready to lose my parents (way too much unfinished business) and yet I am of the age where this might reasonably happen today or tomorrow or twenty years from now. My husband has lost both of his plus a sibling. It is a powerful time we have in these last years as middle aged adults (hopefully) to examine ourselves and how we came to be and our parents, in their very own light.
Hugs and fairy kisses, CG, may the stars shine clear and bright on you and yours.
What you will find is a woman's journey through the passing of her mother. She, CG, had what I would call the good fortune and great good sense to be cognizant and present in the final days and hours of Carol's life. Such presence often brings to mind the love and pain, filial conflict at it's best and worst of the mother-daughter or parent-child relationship.
I am nowhere near ready to lose my parents (way too much unfinished business) and yet I am of the age where this might reasonably happen today or tomorrow or twenty years from now. My husband has lost both of his plus a sibling. It is a powerful time we have in these last years as middle aged adults (hopefully) to examine ourselves and how we came to be and our parents, in their very own light.
Hugs and fairy kisses, CG, may the stars shine clear and bright on you and yours.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
My father
I find it almost easy to write about my mother, even the hard parts. I find it almost unbearable to write about my father. I'm not close enough to even know why.
I spend what I consider a great deal of time with my father. I spend a week with him at the beach (and now we actually share a house) and week with him in Vermont while we ski (we have a timeshare, he has his house). I spend a few days at Christmas and a few days at Labor Day (except this year) going to the NY Ren Faire in Tuxedo. Yes, we all get dressed up and we all go together.
I don't spend much time with my mother at all and yet, the heartstrings are solid and secure.
My father makes me crazy. I must be looking for the way home. Still.
I spend what I consider a great deal of time with my father. I spend a week with him at the beach (and now we actually share a house) and week with him in Vermont while we ski (we have a timeshare, he has his house). I spend a few days at Christmas and a few days at Labor Day (except this year) going to the NY Ren Faire in Tuxedo. Yes, we all get dressed up and we all go together.
I don't spend much time with my mother at all and yet, the heartstrings are solid and secure.
My father makes me crazy. I must be looking for the way home. Still.
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