Arachnophobia

I am not generally a hater of things. I do, however, mostly hate spiders.

I had a friend back home who loved spiders and he used to say that if I knew more about spiders, I wouldn't dislike them. He said they were amazing. We ate a few hits of acid one night and I actually played with a spider. It probably was tortured by my winding it's web around my fingers while it dropped and climbed and dropped and climbed, but it felt like playing to me (silly mean giant human). It was the only time in my life I liked a spider.

So, I was bitten by a spider 7 years ago. That really did it. It was a nasty bite. It probably happened camping, but I can't be sure. I do know that the bite was on my right hip bone and I had recently begun dating my husband.

At first, it was just a red bite. I didn't really think twice about it. Over the next several days, it began to itch a lot and it became an angry shade of red. At the time, I was still driving my husband-to-be batty with my "you can't have me all the way" game, so he really wasn't seeing me naked enough to notice my swelling aggravated right hip chomp spot.

Easter was fast approaching. It was the first time I was going home to S's to meet his seven hundred thousand family members and his two sisters. I wasn't nervous. I was excited. We were blessed to have a real life love-at-first-sight you-are-the-one-for-me-forever kind of thing, so I was looking forward to reviewing the rest of the package I was in for.

Easter morning. Going to mass. S was raised Catholic. I am a Jew. Oi vey. Everyone is showering. Six showers to be taken in 2 hour's time. Four women, two men. Being the guest, I get to go first, while there is plenty of hot water to be had. I am in the shower and I am hurrying, being considerate. I wash my hip. Ouch. It is sore. I clean it and the rest of myself and I turn off the water, grab my towel and step out onto the mat.

My bite was about 6 days old at that time. It had moved on from red and swollen to black in the center with a white ring around that and general redness in the surrounding area. It was swollen. It itched and it hurt. There was a soreness that actually wrapped down around my pelvis and sort of into the place where my thigh met my crotch. Not good. I knew I needed to call the doctor, but I thought it'd clear up on it's own. I was certainly getting grossed out by the black center that had developed, but, well, I hadn't called by Easter, is the point.

I wasn't thinking of my bite. I was thinking of getting the fuck out of the bathroom fast so everyone else could get in and out. I cast a peripheral thought toward the soreness at the site, as I pat it dry, and I grabbed my undies.

As I pulled them up my thighs, my bite exploded.

I know there is some naked imagery here, but don't think for a second there was anything sexy about this scene. What came out of that bite was horror movie material. It was pushed up and out from the infection that had developed and spread all the way into my groin. The hot water (and my special lucky timing) meant that expression was meant to happen just at that very moment. What came out was yellow liquid and green semi-solid and it smelled rotten. It squirted out with urgency, then lumped out pus chunks and then just oozed and oozed. Oh my, how it smelled. It was disgusting.

I had no choice but to use the WHITE towel that belonged to my future mother-in-law to stop the mess from hitting the mat (which was the everyday bath rug, no bathmat to be found). I also couldn't refuse that what I needed to do, now that this had begun, was to express it enough to prevent further expression of vomitous smelly pus and infection in church. I was feeling a tremendous amount of pressure relieved in my groin and at the bite site, which was good. Except, I needed to get back in the shower. No question. I would also be pantyless at my first mass. I actually found that sort of funny (shame on me).

I stood and pondered. Should I call to S? Open the door? Tell everyone? Try to tell no one?

Then, knock, knock. "S, you okay? We all need to get in there babe. You done?" Oh shit.

The rest of the story is that I opened the door and invited S in briefly and I showed him the mess I had on my hands. He thought initially I'd had a terrible bout of the shits, it smelled so bad. I did re-shower. I did say I was sorry for using double the hot water and I did tell the whole family about my spider bite.

The next week, I had to have it lanced and we had to express it for the next several weeks. I was on antibiotics for 10 days and I had officially graduated from thinking spiders were just gross to hating them. It was a brown recluse spider bite and it left a scar.

I don't want to hate spiders. They follow me around. It is unbelievable. Every time I look around, there is a spider nearby. I probably eat 15 a year, instead of the average 8. I think they seek me out because of my ill will toward them. S is constantly scooping them up and taking them outside. Even he can't get over how there is always a spider somewhere near me.

Anyway, there's that.

A Break

I needed one. I burned myself out on blogging, both writing and visiting, and needed to step away for a spell.

What if we could take breaks from all kinds of things we felt burned out from? Wow. That'd be fun. Work would certainly be on that list. I bet kids and parents and friends and the telephone and the mailbox and the cat box and email and cleaning and bill paying might be on the list too.

I'm not talking about a break like vacation or holiday. Hell no. Those can become generally more stressful than regular life with all the pressures of having a good time, seeing enough, doing enough and keeping everyone happy. No, I'm talking about a break. A real one. One where you walk away for a while and it all leaves you alone.

It isn't mad, it isn't waiting for you looming overhead, it actually doesn't even care that you've been on a break. There are no consequences for stepping away. No catching up. Nope. Just a break with no obligations when you get back.

I actually think the only thing in my life that can work with is blogging. Maybe that's another reason I needed a break.

It was a nice break. Thanks for being here now that I am back.

Holy Shit

I do not post about politics. I have nothing to say that hasn't been said. I'll defer to one who has written well about it and I agree with her... Ani Difranco puts it this way in Self Evident...

under the thumb of some blue blood royal son
who stole the oval office and that phony election
i mean it don't take a weatherman to look around and see the weather
jeb said he'd deliver florida, folks and boy did he ever
and we hold these truths to be self evident:
#1 george w. bush is not president
#2 america is not a true democracy
#3 the media is not fooling me

So, check this out. It is scary, ridiculous and infuriating to me.

http://www.politicalcortex.com/story/2006/11/4/145357/908

Nothing like teaching the world how to make a nuclear bomb.

For the ladies...

I have been way short on creativity and really busy lately, so I wanted to just share this while I am away from the blogosphere.

It's an eye opener (very punny).

http://www.campaignforrealbeauty.com/

Don't forget to love you and your special beauty.

Music: Matisyahu

We are big big music lovers in the tiger household. There is always something playing, day or night. Little E is often inconsolable without music, and she's picky. It's a challenge sometimes to go to visit friends and family and have to ask that they play some music or bear our incessent singing.

Anyhow, I love over at Momma Fi's that she shares music on her blog, and my soul sister Kar and I are always swappin stuff. So, I learned how to share youtube vids, so here we go.

I had to start with Matisyahu. First reason, rap, hip-hop, r&b and reggae are my first music choices. Additionally, he inspires me the way Bob and Buju do. He makes want to better myself and helps me to be reflective. He's talented and so is his band (Roots Tonic).

I hope you enjoy.

Jimmy Kimmel show. The song is "Close My Eyes."



Another Matisyahu vid will be up for a time on the right, under The Cub.

Cindra's Word Game V

The story continues. Enter if you feel the creative urge, every Monday at Cindra's.

So, if you remember, I am the veritable booger picker who couldn't bring that homeless hippie home. Well, my hubby and I decided that unless we could come up with 1,000,000 reasons why he shouldn't stay for a while, we'd offer him refuge for at least a month or two, as long as he was polite and remembered to put the seat back down. So, in he came and here's a bit more of his story.
He is called Portland. He got that name from the few real friends he found, when he was living alone in that city many years ago. He was barely of age to be independent when his much older sister, sent him foraging for food, to wander from grocery to grocery looking for the past the sell-by date giveaways. So, point is, Portland knew his way around the streets of that city. And once you know your way around one city, you know your way around them all.
So, one day a few years ago, Portland sets up a table to sell stuff in Baltimore city. He lures his patrons in with the newest and bestest video games around (he’s currently working a tip for information about getting advance copies of the new Gears of War for Xbox 360). This business of his means his day often culminates with a seat on a crate out back of the local GameStop with a copy of GameInformer that he'll read to stay hip and then add to his collection of books and other readable material.
Portland has no clothes but the ones on his back (PU!) but he sure has a lot of reading material. Over the lonely years, his bibliophilia has extended itself to magazines and any other readable material. In fact, he has even taken to writing the wall wisdom from public bathrooms on large pieces of cardboard and adding them to the collection too! We had to ask that he try to stack his reading collection in the basement more neatly, as the corners of those pieces of cardboard especially, made for a nasty tripping hazard. He was fine with that to my face, but I did see him flippin me the bird as I walked back up the steps. I guess he thought I was being pretentious, and maybe he was right. I thought it was cool of me to not make a big deal about him bringing large dirty pieces of cardboard into the house to covet as if they were hardback copies of rare classics, but Portland thinks these cardboard copies of bathroom talk are truly treasures. What with quotes like "I predict you are taking a shit right now and sweat has broken on your brow" or "Change your luck and call Amy for..." blah blah blah", who could argue with him?

As she sleeps

cold doesn't chill her
hot doesn't make her sweat
her belly doesn't rumble
her body doesn't ache
she is in her own space
she is bathed in soft light
her forehead is brushed by careful kisses
her ears by whispers of love
she is content
she is spoiled
she is privileged
she is fortunate

Garbage

Is it wrong to put garbage in someone else's garbage can?

What are the different criterian for this decision?

I will withhold my opinions for now, so as not to taint the well.

"Talk amongst yourselves."

I might be finished

I might delete my blog. In case I do, thanks to you for visiting. No, nothing went wrong. It's not you, it's me.

See, once I get the hang of something, I don't want to do it anymore. I am a conquer and move on kind of gal. I am not sure where that comes from, but it has happened with almost everything I have ever tried. There is a sad dusty collection of things in the basement that I HAD to have, needed to learn how to do and could not live without. There are many would-have-been hobbies that absorbed all of my spare time and attention until I could do it or until I made one, or until I won one, or until I understood or until I failed. I am not proud that this is the way I am, but because these are hobbies we are talking about and there are a million things about me that need work, this particular issue just doesn't make the list of resolutions any year.

There was the time I wanted to learn to play the drums. I can play a little. Enough to fill in without fills for a band in a crunch at an open mic night.
There's the bass.
There's guitar.
Ukulele.
Bodhran.
Stand up double bass.
Flutes.
This air piano that belonged to my grandfather and his harmonica (these items are not in the dusty section).
Video games I needed to have, the account on Xbox live for 50 big ones that I needed so I could compete with the world in HALO and Splinter Cell.
The PSP I needed and promised I would play and play and play.
The games I bought for that PSP (and never finished) to prove how into it I was!
Learning to knit because I missed my grandmother, bagging it after the pot holder was done because I couldn't fix my mistakes on that blanket and lost patience with learning how. Embarrassing, really.

There is one exception.

Martial arts training began as a desire to devour each discipline until 1st or 2nd degree black belt, aniliate the tournament circuit competion and then move on. Along the way though, I fell in love with learning about warriorship and with training my mind, body and spirit. At this point, I cannot live without training. I have graduated to the desire to compete only with myself, to become the best I can be, to reach my greatest mental and physical potential. So, training always stays.

Writing is something I have to do. No choice there. The question is, do I have to put it out here on this blog? Nah. But I want to want to be a blogger still. It's just that when all I can come up with bores even me, I feel silly to waste your time.

We'll see!

Sibling Rivalry

My brother is 3 years older than me. We are friends. I was thinking and laughing today remembering some of the shitty things we did to each other growing up.

Here are the top 4 shittiest things I ever did to my brother.

4. Told my parents he didn't use any soap or shampoo in the tub to wash himself. Said he used the bubbles from the bubble bath only. Probably true.

3. Told my parents he did his homework on the bus in the morning on the way to school. True.

2. Began screaming and crying on several occasions, claiming that he hit me, when he hadn't. My dad would hit him every time he hit me, so I lied to get him hit.

1. Told my mother I caught him using her vibrator... eh, her "back massager"... on his privates when it was really that he'd caught me.

His list tops mine.

Sibling stories anyone? C'mon share!!

Missing Her

I think it's likely we all miss beautiful places we've visited. Especially when they're too far to visit frequently. The beauty of a place might be because it is beautiful or because of what we've experienced there. Maybe it is beautiful to us for a reason that we can't put our finger on but feel in our hearts.

My soul sister over at Back to Myself posted a beautiful story about missing the Swiss Alps. A place beautiful to her because it is, and because a dear friend of hers, who she is missing a lot, lives there. I think it was the way she wrote about missing her place that really made me miss mine. She writes so beautifully. Eloquent and lovely; it gets me right in the soft spots.

Well, I miss my place today. My first time to Kauai was our honeymoon and I was whole. My second time to Kauai was after my miscarriages and I was broken. Both experiences were amazing.

There is something about that island that resonates with my soul. The second time we visited, as soon as we got in our rental and began our drive north on the island, I began to cry and couldn't stop. Strange for me because I am not a cryer. I said to S that I had an overwhelming feeling of being "home". I felt like the island was welcoming me back and letting me know that she'd help me to heal. And, it was true, she did.

I love Kauai and today, I miss her.

Cindra's Word Game

My homey Cin over at Cindra Jo's is playing a word game... Check it out ova there.

I like to pick my boogers in the morning. Oh, stop. You do it too, c'mon! Everyone does. Rise and shine and oh crap, you know there's one in there that needs to be pulled.

I have to say, I am a very adept booger snagger. I know that should be embarrassing, but I don't feel embarrassed! I'd be embarrassed to wear silly pennies in my silly loafers, or of painting zebra stripes on my car (which I have seen done plenty of times...). I just don't think picking your nose is that zany. It's like brushing your hair. Well, no, it's not, but still.

I knew a homeless hippie once, who couldn't pick his nose. He was so freakin damaged all the time that when he'd get ready to go for one, his finger flops all around his nozzles and never really makes it in. He was a cool, cool dude. He wrote unintelligible poetry, but he picked the most beautiful words. You could make your own stories up, as he read to you. He also collected recyclables in a shopping cart he "borrowed" from Acme.

He lived around a storm basin in my neighborhood. He made some kind of pod for himself out of some wood he picked up behind the local True Value Hardware store and a bunch of cardboard boxes. The best though, was the little firepit he'd made from taking apart the storm basin rip rap. He'd sat the discarded driver seat of an old Volvo right in front of the circle and he called it "his leathery throne." Our homeowners association wanted to kick him out of there, so we told him one night. He said that was fine with him. He didn't expect to stay forever, only for "a kinda long period of time."

Ya know, I'd have gladly brought him into our house, and my hubby would have too, except his breathing was always labored and sometimes he had a bit of a temper, maybe just a little pissiness (not that you wouldn't too if you didn't have a place to live...) Anyway, with a wee one in the abode, there was an element of alarm in considering inviting a homeless dude to live in the basement.

I guess that's what happens. Love is definitely a need the world isn't satisfying enough these days, but with our sugary little baby angel pie at the center of our world these days, some of the kindnesses my sweetie and I used to extend have been shown the door. Now that's a little embarrassing.

Hey, wasn't this about boogers?

Love ya Momma Fiona. Hope you enjoyed!

My Tits

I am doing it, right now.
It might be messy, I don't care.
I have had it up to my tits! (oh no she di'int!)

Snap one, undone
Snap two, undone
Snap three, hold on... shoulder straps off and FREEDOM!

AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! Fuckin A!

Well, ladies? What was it?
Yup. My bra's off. Hurray!

But why, oh WHY, is this significant??

Many of we mighty women are moms (many of us aren't, but can surely grab a laugh). Maybe we breastfed, maybe we didn't. But our bazongas still filled up with the golden nectar and there was that to handle, huh?

I was not a big boobied woman. 32 B... since 18... maybe a C when I could find a barzeer that was cut small and made me feel voluptuous about my tag. I even intentionally sat one such Victoria's Secret number out on the bed with the label showing so my honey'd be impressed with my melons (like he reads my clothing labels, yeah, right, how ri-freakin-diculous would that be?)

But once I had a baby... these mommas are D's baby, no exaggerations! How tremendously exciting! How many times did I smash my tiny duo together to see what'd be like? But with these.... oh my! But, it isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Before, I had cute little pink nips. Now they're big and brown (We thought maybe I was making chocolate milk for the babe hahahahaha) and kinda look chewed on a little. Before, I could be braless and not offensive in warm weather! Not now, no ma'am, being braless isn't an option anytime!

BRA in the morning. BRA in the evening. BRA in the afternoon. BRA in bed. BRA just before a shower and BRA first thing after. BRA, BRA, BRA, BRA, BRA, BRA!!!!! My poor tits! Yearning for a breath of fresh air. An afternoon or night of freedom! If it was only the size, I could... but...

The milk. The blasted milk. Did we talk about the milk?

Yes! It is AMAZING what our bodies do. I am officially fucking amazed. Can we talk though? Please?

It drips. It shoots! It comes if I think about her. It comes if she cries. It comes if babies I DON'T EVEN KNOW cry!! It comes if I touch my gine-gine. It comes if he touches my gine-gine. GEEZ! They call it "letting down". I'm let down alright... what a party crasher that can be, huh?

Not even considering that the first 8 weeks of breastfeeding were a cracked and bleeding, pleading with God and my baby, almost giving up every hour and a half mess, it's been a lifestyle change to say the least.

Don't get me wrong, now I love breastfeeding. That time I spend with my little angel is mine and hers alone. She looks at me with her bright blue eyes and she learns me and loves me. Oh, I wouldn't trade it for anything. These days, she can even smile with the nip nip in there, and that is really something.

Yeah, I joke and call myself the milking station. I MOO out loud to see my loving hubby smile. I reflect quietly in the bathroom mirror and try to remember that pink and perky little pair. I even mourn them a little, because from talking to my mommy friends, I don't expect them back.

So, my tits and me, we needed a break.

I have to tell ya, they've been singing the songs of angels while I've written to you. They are out in all their D dang glory.

Excuse me now while I grab my bra and a new pair of pads. All this talk of the ta ta's and they're a'leakin. Well, it was great while it lasted.

Thanks.

Strap one.
Strap two.

Pad one.
Pad two.

Snap one.
Snap two.
Snap three.

Pictures of the kids

Today I watched a fly get drunk
and converse with a lizard
They were stuck behind closed doors
because there was a blizzard

Touching stories were exchanged
along with pictures of the kids
but another lizard came along
and on the fly they bid

"No! Please Sir! How could you?"
"You know so much of me!"
"Please, Mr. Lizard, let me go!"
"Back to my family."

Those lizards thought, long and hard
tummies grumbling
But in the end, they let him go
and walked off mumbling

Chocolate Love

He is so sweet
Like a piece of chocolate candy
His kisses are long and warm and wet, and full of his love
His eyes say, "I love you, I need you, you are the world to me"

He waits for me at night, for the moments we steal together
He waits for my whispers and my warm embrace
He waits again in the morning, for more of the same
It's wonderful every time

Sometimes we walk together, deep in the forest
We frolic like children
Up and down hills and into the streams
Splashing and chasing sticks

His name is Gimli. He is one of the best things that has ever happened to me in my life. I would choose him over most of my family and most of my friends, any day, anytime, anywhere. He understands me. He has been through thick and thin with me. He has brightened my darkest days, when nothing else could console me. He listens. He speaks volumes. He makes no demands and he appreciates the smallest gestures. He loves me unconditionally. I love him unconditionally too. He teaches me the most important lessons about life. He does not judge. He does not condemn.

He eats with his mouth open. He licks his balls.

He is my dog. My best little friend.

Hawaiian Sunset

How very glorious sunset can be

When it's gentle and blazing and chasing the sea

How it droops and it drips and it drops its way down

Screaming intensely; not making a sound

The City Secrets

I live in a really small city. There is a very active railroad that runs through the middle of the city. There is an intersection in the city where three roads branch off of the main street and head west, north and east. The trains stop traffic on the north and east roads, when they come through town.

You can get beyond the railroad using the west road without having to cross the tracks. This is something that only the city residents or frequent visitors know. The rest of the world sits at those wooden arms and flashing lights and waits, waits, waits.

I love to watch the traffic on the main street split when a train is coming. The blinkers of the city knowers go on immediately and the migration to the left lane begins. The faces of those not in the know look confused, peering around with furrowed brows for the cause of the right lane exodus.

As for the keepers of the city secrets, I think we all feel kinda cool as we glide unfettered around the corner, while the rest of the drivers slow to a halt, hoping the train is a short one.

Knocking it out of the park

I say, "S has to take the Bar again". I like that better than when he says, "I failed."

For the past 3 months, I've been saying if he passes, it will be a miracle. I've also been saying I wouldn't be terribly surprised if he passes, because he is an extremely intelligent guy, with a brain that spins like a top. But, let's review.

Last year, I had two miscarriages. The first one didn't happen until the start of my second trimester, after we'd heard the th-thump, th-thump, th-thump of that tiny racing heartbeat, told everyone we knew we were preggo and of course, dreamed a thousand dreams for that little life.

The first one wasn't the -"oh my gosh I am bleeding"- variety. It was the -doctor can't find the heartbeat, but don't worry, we'll do a sonogram, -oh no something's wrong but we aren't entirely sure your world is going to fall apart yet, go to this other office where they have a better machine to look and be sure, -oh yes, the fetus has died you need to have a D&E (on valentine's day) to avoid infection because it looks like it died a month ago and never came out- variety. To be iced by the infection and second emergency D&E in the hospital again three days later.

The second miscarriage was much easier. Almost as soon as we'd confirmed I was pregnant again we'd also confirmed that my hcg levels weren't increasing as expected. Next day I began bleeding and that was that.

"Don't worry, it was a 'chemical pregnancy' you will probably be able to get pregnant and carry to term no problem" says the doc. Okay, yeah, it doesn't bother us at all that you have no fucking idea why this keeps happening after the gazillion tests that all came back normal.

Try. Cry. Try. Cry. Sex becomes a timing drill and I am constantly sticking my (clean) fingers into my birthing canal to check the consistency of my juicy juice. I say, "Do you think this looks like the clear part of a raw egg? Forget it. Just get your dick out and look at my tits, honey."

Pregnant again. We go to all appointments together. Not taking any chances on not being together for events at the doctor, good ones or bad ones. Steeling our nerves, hiding our news.

It was hard. The whole thing. I hate being pregnant. I am the biggest pain in the ass pregnant wife in history. Not because I want ice cream and pickles at 3 in the morning, because I don't, but because I have panic attacks and resurfacing depression and overwhelming fear of another miscarriage and of becoming a mom. I am miserable when I am not training and I can't train because now I have "high risk" limitations on my activity. We both think this is bullshit, but aren't taking any chances, so I complain about how yoga alone isn't enough and blah blah blah.... poor S.

He was in his last year of law school. He'd graduate when I was 7 mos preggo and take the Bar three weeks after I was due. We thought that'd be hard, but we didn't know how hard. He missed classes in the last semester/last trimester a lot. He played catch up more than study up in the last month because I had appointments every week, sometimes twice a week and you know the rule, always together.

I thought I was in labor, I wasn't. I thought I was in labor again, I wasn't. I thought I was in labor for sure this time, I wasn't. "I know you should be at the library, but I've had a lot more contractions today than yesterday. Can you study here? Nevermind, go to school. I'll call you if I need you." Go ahead honey, concentrate.

I was 41 weeks pregnant and the doc wanted to induce me. "I know you need to study, but can we talk? I am so upset. I want her to come when she's ready and not be forced to be born earlier than she wants. Have you thought about this? I am thinking about not going to the hospital to be induced, are you okay with that? Nevermind, we'll talk about it later. I know you need to study." Concentrate.

I wasn't induced, E came on her own. S missed 2 more days of Bar prep classes during labor and delivery (16 more hours of catch up watching video tapes of the lectures) and another week of classes missed after that, on account of my 3rd degree laceration requiring 42 stitches from my a-hole to my v-hole, which rendered me mostly helpless.

He kept his confidence level up. He stayed positive. I asked if he could skip the Bar and take it next time. He said, "I could, but no! I think I can I think I can..."so I jumped on the choo choo train of complete insanity and sang the little engine who could song with him with fervor!

I also reminded him everyday that it didn't matter if he didn't pass. We had lots of options. I liked work and wouldn't mind going back at all. This could be a trial run. Don't worry, just do your best, all things considered. So he did his best. He did his best with 3 weeks of 2 hours of sleep a night and a seriously abbreviated prep and review process.

Friends and family looked at me like I was a cruel bitch when I said I thought it'd be a miracle if he passed. What they didn't realize was that I was protecting him from them. From their uneducated confidences, from their expressions of expectation that would make it so hard for him if he didn't pass. I had to tell it like it was because he wouldn't. I had to say, "but you don't know what he's been balancing" to help him, not hurt him. Hopefully, they'll see that now.

Really, S has passed more tests lately than ever before in his life. He's passed the test of being a patient husband to his crazy pregnant wife. He's passed the test of being a good and supportive friend to his crazy pregnant wife. He's passed the test of staying positive and determined in the face of challenges. He's passed the test of staring fear and potential emotional devastation in the face and saying, "I am excited to have a baby and I believe everything will be wonderful this time." He's passed the test of becoming a daddy and flourishing in his new role. He's fucking aced that one.

It hurts me when he hurts. I wish his disappointment was erased by looking at his beautiful little girl and believing that bringing her into the world is the only accomplishment he was really responsible for in July of this year. He is getting there. One day soon I hope he'll stop saying he failed and start saying he has to take the Bar again. In general, he's passing with flying colors. In fact, he's knocking it out of the park.

David Southwell

I am new to blogspot. I have no idea what I am doing really, but I am having a blast! Something funny happened to me today and what else but to post it here, huh?

I have only had one comment on my blog, and it was from David Southwell. It was a nice comment, it's public, so I guess you can see it too. It was about my post called Mothers.

I don't know how people find other blogs, other than randomly, and I don't know how to publicize mine (which is fine because at this point, I wouldn't want to). So I found it hysterical (and a bit embarrassing) that David Southwell was the first and only person to view and comment on my blog.

I believe that things do happen for a reason. I have been looking for a new author to love lately. I've recently had a baby, I am home from work for a spell and I am bored with what I usually read. It turns out that David Southwell writes about topics I am interested in (although conspiracy theories and organized crime aren't listed in my interests) and after reading his blog, I liked him.

So I emailed and thanked him for his visit, apologized for my poor writing skills, put in an obvious request for feedback on my work and congratulated him on recent accomplishments. I am not sure if he'll respond to me again or not, but either way, this was a cool experience for me.

(Edited 10/4/06 8:35 am, David responded to my email with a beautiful and encouraging message this morning. I was thrilled and excited to hear from him again. Big fan! Big fan! I will devour all the books I can find of his, beginning today!)

If you are looking for something new to read, check out David Southwell at English Dreaming, English Rain. (One day, I'll learn how to make this a link)

Or maybe, David, you are the only one reading!

Mothers

My grandmother is 96. My mother is 60. I just became a mother for the first time, 12 weeks and 1 day ago, at 31.

My mom and dad just "downsized". Moved out of the house they worked their whole lives to build, into the one they'll die in. It was a good move. The big house was too big and too much to handle at this stage in their lives, I guess.

One of the great heartbreaks of my life has been my parents' relationship. They have been married now for almost 40 years and they have never been compatible. They are both great people. Generosity, love of their children and kindness to acquaintances are good things they share. My mom is openly emotional and a dramatic martyr; she is also a smart woman who never believed it. My dad is macho and secretly emotional, drowning in sweat from working to keep his invincibleness alive in his own perception (because no else cares one way or another). This is a common story, I know. It just feels custom made.

My mom is not adventurous, my dad wanted to see the world. My mom isn't spontaneous, my dad wanted to pick up and go. My mom isn't a risk taker, my dad wanted a motorcycle. My dad doesn't need to be nagged, my mom was a nagger. My dad isn't healthy, my mom isn't either, but she thinks she is.

I can be mad at my dad for being a dick to my mom. I can be mad at my mom for driving my dad crazy. I am really just disappointed that they aren't happy because I love them both dearly.

But, where am I heading? Sorry. Mothers. Right.

My mother has been squashed by my father, who didn't mean it. She is angry and "fed-up" and hurt and vengeful and full of talk with no real action. She was such a fresh and beautiful woman when she was younger and I think she could be that woman again, with the right man or without him. I just don't know how to get my mother to see what I see. I am not even sure if I did open her eyes, she'd make changes. I am even less sure that this is a role I should play. But we agreed, see...

When I was 12, my mom and I agreed that we would always talk to one another and listen to one another with openness. At the time, we'd been talking about how my grandmother was aging. She was telling stories we couldn't follow and getting lots of food on her cheeks when she ate. She wasn't in touch with the world (except for baseball, which she followed like a 12 year old boy). She had lost her husband, when my mom was 19, and had never remarried or redated or resexed either, as far as I know.

There wasn't anyone there to say, "Hey babe, you're slippin here and there..." I asked my mom why she didn't do it, you know, tell my grammy where she needed to pay more attention, to stay on top of her game. She said they didn't have that kind of relationship. I said I thought that was sad and my mom said, "Let's agree not to be that way. I will always tell you what I think about you and you can always tell me what you think about me. Okay?" "Deal!" I said. I even asked if I would get in trouble for being "too big for my britches" and she said I wouldn't.

When I was 22, I told my mom she had to be careful not to let her lipstick run up the age lines above her lips onto her face. I also told her I didn't think she needed to still wear as much makeup as ten years ago. Point one taken, point two ignored.

I don't remember defined feedback events from my mom. They happen all the time to this day. Sometimes they are great suggestions, sometimes they are hurtful. Bottom line is, she has leveraged this deal a lot more than I have over the years. Reality is, she didn't need the deal, she's my mother. Tough part is, she sees a different me than the me I am, because she's my mom. She pushes buttons that are grayed out for the rest of the world, so she solicits reactions from me that are hers alone, but assumes I act that way for everyone. It's hard.

You too, right? Mothers.

Now I have become a mother. My baby is still tiny, she is 10lbs of cooing or crying unadulterated joy for me and my husby. He is the most incredible person I have ever known and he treats me (and all people) with kindness, respect and interest. I don't have the interpersonal relationship challenges my mother had when she became a mother. She was still a babe herself though, at 23. I am glad to be starting at 31, feeling good about my establishment and my partnership (albeit older than I thought I'd be) beginning this journey.

As I think ahead, I imagine I will want to make my mother's deal with my girl, too, and see how it goes. That being the case, I want to do a better job holding up my end of the deal with my mother. I guess I will have to tell my mom that sometimes she gets food on her cheeks when she's eating. I'll have to say, too, that I couldn't follow the story of the car accident she was trying to tell the other day, when she came to visit.

As a mother now myself, for some reason I feel more maternal towards my mother than I have before. I want to tell her that I want to share the relationship with her that she couldn't share with her own mother, even as we age. I want to tell my mother that I still think she should leave my father and try to rediscover the fresh and beautiful woman she used to be. It isn't that I don't like my dad, he is my hero and I am a classic "daddy's girl" for sure. It's actually the case that he'd be happier, too.

At very least, our deal stipulates that I try to help her see what I see and that I encourage her to better herself, the same way she does for me. It's just that so much time has passed now, 20 years, since we made that deal... I don't want to come off "too big for my britches."

In one of my greatest days

On our honeymoon
On her island, Kauai
Bursting with radiant energy
Looking at you

I love to look at that picture
I feel that moment still

The silver falls by horseback
The swim in your underwear
The moment you caught me
In one of my greatest days

I love that hat I wore
I am in love with you still

(this was written for my hubby, to accompany my avatar picture)

What's in a name?

I tried and tried to find an available user name and a display name I liked.

First try: Daisy

I started with a nickname given to me when I was 7 or 8, Daisy. My mom's Aunt Nettie (I never knew her real name, was it Nettie? No way) had polio as a child and was not only gnarled limbed, but speech impaired. The closest she could get was Daisy (more like Day-see, but that's just that). My dad found this very funny and somehow the family ended up calling me Daisy, for the rest of my life. I always thought it was kind of mean, but I liked having a nickname. I wonder if anyone remembers how this happened anymore.

Second try: cherry

Third: cherries

Fourth: bowlofcherries

I thought cherry, cherries or even bowlofcherries was clever, meaning that I am just one of many so-so writers, who needs to write and hopes it's good for someone else reading it, too. Isn't that sweet? All three, taken.

Fifth: Gichin

Gichin Funakoshi is the person I would choose to meet if I could pick from the great masters of martial arts. I have been studying martial arts for about 10 years and his story and his philosophy inspire me. Granted, I would trip all over myself in his presence. I can't get myself together sometimes if I admire someone too much. Gichin was taken. I kind of liked that, once the initial disappointment subsided.

Sixth: E

My 12 week old daughter's name. I didn't even type it in. I want to keep her in a bubble and protect her from the big bad world. Oh, the irony of having brought her into it.

Seventh: eggwhites

My maiden name is pronounced whites. In high school, one of my older brother's friends called him egg. I thought that was hysterical. I wished that he'd called me egg instead. My brother didn't appreciate the play on words or the coolness of the nickname, but I did. So, I tried. It was taken. A relative?

Eighth: tamingtiger

I didn't even think this through. I was just trying whatever came to mind. I tried tamingtiger on a whim, and of course, it worked. I wasn't ready, kind of blindsided me, the acceptance.

Taming the Tiger, is a basic form in Hung Gar Gung Fu. This form is used to learn and enforce basic techniques and build endurance.

I wouldn't say I am a great writer, but I am a consistent writer with glimmers of greatness. I have been writing since I was 7 or 8 (around the same time as the Daisy acquisition) and I love it, need it, really. I think that there is a chance that my unpolished prose may resonate with someone else and since I enjoy the work of so many others, I am taking the plunge and will share some of mine.

Taming the Tiger... I recognize that as I begin I need to focus on improving my basic technique (so I don't waste your time) and building my endurance (so I can stick with this in a meaningful way).

So, what's in a name? In this one, a beginning.