Friday, January 18, 2002

Well gee, this is reassuring.

Drink me!

Which drink are you?

Monday, November 12, 2001

Swiped from numerous blogs:

*A-Age: 44
*B-Best Friend: Kim
*C-Choice of Meat: Chicken
*D-Dream Date: Date? Is that like time without any of the kids? Making out in the back of a limo after spending the day wine tasting.
*E-Exciting Adventure: Riding shotgun with Donna in the driver's seat.
*F-Favorite Food: Cheese enchiladas
*G-Greatest Accomplishment: Keeping a sense of humor and a shred of sanity.
*H-Happiest Day of your life: So far? Some day spent wandering and not doing anything in particular. I'm sure it was warm. I must have laughed a lot, too.
*I-Interests: Reading, politics, debate, dipping my toes in warm water while waiting for that cabana boy....
*J- Jack in the Box: E-coli
*K-Kool-Aid: makes some really unique hair dye colors
*L-Love: Yes.
*M-Most Valued: Compassion
*N-Name: Dee Dee
*O-Outfit you love: Skin
*P-Pizza toppings: Sundried tomatoes, mushrooms, peppers, artichoke hearts
*Q-Question Asked to you the most: "Aren't you a little old to do that?"
Answer: Nuh-uh, can too so there~~~!
*R-Radio Station: KGO AM 810 or country or classic rock or.....
*S-Sport: Horse racing
*T-Television Show: West Wing
*U-Ur favorite song(s): Songs to Aging Children
*V-Video: No, DVD.
*W-Winter: Wash your mouth out and quit saying such nasty things around me.
*X-Xylophone: The one at the symphony sounds a heck of a lot better than those kids toys.
*Y-Year born: 1956
*Z-Zodiac Sign: Sagitarrius, year of the Monkey

Monday, October 22, 2001

One of the things we really dread as parents with a kid in a parent co-op school are the bi-monthly meetings. Usually the class meeting is okay, but the school wide ones in the past have had some....uhm, unusual speakers. Like the fellow that came in to talk about emergency preparedness and ONLY covered earthquakes - while it was flooding
outside. Or the lady last year whose mother bought her a child care center at the tender age of 20 and was pushing her theory that children were wilder during rain because of negative ions in the air. After all, she read it on the net so it must be true. Fine and dandy, but those negative ions only occur in T-storms and we don't get T-storms here but once in a blue moon. The top of the heap, though, had to be the woman who came to speak on frugal living and proceeded to give out tips like, "buy your underwear at garage sales" (I am sooooooooooo not going there) and "If your kids leave milk in their cereal bowl, pour it back into the carton." Uhm, NO!!!! So it was with dread and resignation that I showed up at the last parent meeting.

I am so glad I went! The speaker was dynamic, a born storyteller and the quiz he brought with him engaged us thoroughly. He talked about 4 pretty basic personality types and each of us found our perfect niche. We ended up in hysterics as we were divided by 'color' and asked to come up with the pros and cons of the other 3 types. I haven't laughed so hard since the nights a bunch of us sat around on a porch in Arizona with mudslides, Tequiza and Dr. Pepper in hand.

So now I'm wondering What Color are YOU? Look at each grouping of 3. For the group that is most like you, put a 1 and rate on down to 4 - least like you. Report your scores back to me via email or the site and when I get enough responses, I'll give you the skinny on the colors.






_______ ...............________ .............________..................________

Sunday, September 16, 2001

A couple of weeks back I cleaned out my address books, both the email and snail mail versions and my ICQ list. I wasn't happy doing it, but felt like I needed to admit that these were of my past.

The events of the last few days make me wonder if I did the right thing. I want to know that these people are safe, that their loved ones are okay, their children coping with this hideous thing. I dreamed last night that I was online, trying to find the current address for one of these people from my past.

Marsha and I met on a parenting site where we both posted. She was sassy and clever and daring and could write - oh how she could write! I was muddling along using a dozen words to say what she could in a just one. Her love for her husband and daughters was fierce, her desire to have the very best for her family unquestioned. In my dream, I was trying to find her current address, wanting to send her something - muffins, I think - to let her know that I hoped she was well and to finally break bread with her, even if it was in almost the same cyber way we had communicated for so long. Somehow I found myself at her home - well, what was built of it anyway. They were near some mountains, with lots of trees and a glorious view and they were putting a huge addition on the front of their home. She saw me and greeted me, brought me into her kitchen which was as spotless as I had always heard it was from others. I remember the ceiling was red brick and she had a brick oven, like they do in a pizza kitchen. Her husband came home and was charming; they insisted I stay for dinner.

At that point I woke to small cold feet being pushed against my thighs.

I guess the truth is that it's easier to say you're letting go than to let someone out of your heart. Friends, I wish you well.

Friday, September 14, 2001

More than anything right now, this article from breaks my heart.

To My Baby Girl, On the Day After
By Tim Wise

I was not where I needed to be last night. Not physically, and not emotionally. My daughter is ten weeks old. And last night, and tonight as well, only her mother will be able to hold her, and kiss her goodnight, and hug her, and wipe up her spit.

I am somewhere else.

Tonight I will call home, and speak to my wife, who gave birth to that precious baby girl amidst such hope and pain. And in the background, I will hear that baby’s cry: as if she knows something is terribly wrong. Because babies can feel things that the rest of us have learned to repress.

And yet when I finally call I find her laughing, consumed with a desire to do nothing more than reach out, reach out, reach out, and bat at the soft hanging stars and moons that hang from her mobile.

I sigh a deep sigh of relief. The air escaping my lungs, and signifying recognition that 10-week-old babies do not, in fact, understand mass death. They have only begun, indeed, to understand their own life.

It is their parents, it is we, who must impose upon their innocent, naïve, and far preferable world, with the truth that one day mommy or daddy may leave for work and not come back.

It is the parents; it is we, who must impose upon their world, altering forever their smiling, drooling faces that you can only see through the bitter tears of your own disillusionment.

You cannot protect them. Cannot keep them young forever. Oh what I would give to be so young and naïve, as to require my mommy or daddy to wipe my nose and speak to me about anything but mass death.

It is their parents; it is we, who have to tell them of their nation’s talk of massive retaliation, and hunting down those responsible for mass death. And inflicting upon them some more mass death, to convince still others--once and for all--that mass death really doesn’t pay. And that our collective national dick is bigger than theirs.

And while I never expected to speak to you of such things at such a tender age, you might as well know that it is always and forever about the length and circumference of one’s national phallus.

Size, it seems, does matter, whether for missiles, or tall buildings, or the airplanes that bring them down. Their shapes (and make a note of it now for future reference), are no coincidence.

So if Osama Bin Laden is the man of the hour, then Al Haig and Hank Kissinger and their students--who, as it turns out know a little somethin’ ‘bout mass death--are apt to make sure he knows how killing is really done. Because they are hung like horses.

Killers have tutors, see, and the classes are full. How many people can they kill? Can we kill? (Kill, Kill). "Kill ‘em all, let God sort ‘em out." That’s what the bumper sticker prophets say. But God has better things to do, I figure, than to sort through the tangled mess that is both the New York financial district and also the
human condition at this late date.

I have been in those buildings, have you? I have dropped my quarter in the silver, shiny viewfinders that you could look through, and get a close up view of Greenwich Village, or the Empire State Building, or the Hudson River, or Fort Lee, New Jersey. If for some strange and largely inexplicable reason you felt the need to see Fort Lee, with the assistance of a 1000x magnification lens.

I have dropped my quarters in slots my daughter will never see, in buildings she will never enter, on observation decks that do not exist any longer, except in my mind. And I have listened as the timer counteddown the time left before the viewfinder would fade to black.

And I can imagine looking thru the viewfinder, and wondering why that plane looks so damned close.

I can imagine looking uptown as the plane came closer, and closer, and seeing Harlem, and thinking, damn: I shoulda gone to Sylvia’s Soul Food. ‘Cause Harlem, far from being the bad part of town, was one of the safest places in New York yesterday. Even terrorists know which victims count the most in America.

America, if you want safety, you’d best get your ass to the ‘hood. Get your boogie shoes to 123rd street. Move immediately into the Robert Taylor Homes, or Cabrini Green, or the lower 9th Ward in New Orleans. Do not pass go, let alone Wall Street. For there you are like sitting ducks.

And now what baby girl? Will we shed the blood of innocent babies so much like you, to demonstrate to the world how precious your life is? You had best hope not baby girl. Because if so you will never be safe. Not now, and not when you are old enough to understand, and fear, and tremble, like I am right now.

We will be signing a death warrant. If not yours, perhaps that of some other baby girl or boy. Maybe one that was being born at 8:42 this morning, while others were dying in mass death.

‘Cause what goes around, most definitely goes around, and around, and around, and around.

And all the tough talk and swagger and muscle flexing and chest thumping and pontifications that the folks who did this are cowards, cannot conceal the fact that so far there are no brave souls in the mix yet.

There is nothing brave about committing mass murder to be sure. But neither is there bravery in adding to the body count. Neither is there bravery in Senator Hatch’s testosterone-soaked diatribe about "going after the bastards," or officials saying no options are being ruled out, including nuclear weapons.

What a lesson that would teach. Like stealing the stereo of the guy who took your car to prove how much we respect private property. And then your VCR is at risk, and his watch, and your jewelry. Jewelry you could pawn on E-bay on any other day, but not tonight. ‘Cause folks are too busy bidding on chunks of the 39th floor.

So welcome to the world, dear baby girl. And sleep well tonight. And remain young for as long as you can. For one day, not so far from this day, everything will change again. As it always has.

And rivers of blood will be added to rivers of blood, all of it red and flowing downhill as blood tends to do as it seeks its own level. And mountains of bodies higher than the towers brought down on this day will be stacked: In the name of God. In the name of money. In the name of security. In the name of revenge. In the
names of people with names like Osama and George and Ariel or Allah or Jesus.

Or to satisfy our desire for real, real, reality TV. So much so, that eating rats will seem like a day at Disney.

And your alarm system will not protect you baby girl. ‘The Club’ will not protect you. The police cannot protect you. Missile defense sure as shit can’t protect you. Even I can’t protect you. And I love you more than anything or anyone in this world. So my inadequacy is profound indeed

I wish that love could protect you; not just mine but that of others. But I’m not sure how much of that is left. It is on markdown; on the sale rack; on clearance; but no buyers today.

Love is too expensive for some, even when on sale. Too costly in time, if not in money. ‘Cause although money can’t buy you love, enough money can buy lots of cruise missiles, and napalm, and mass death.

It really isn’t complicated, baby girl. Most important things aren’t. You’ll learn this. Or more to the point, you’ll learn it and then forget it, as age makes you add layers of complication to what once seemed obvious. And that complexity will be called brilliance by your culture: nuance, depth. But really it’s just mostly vapid bullshit. Sterility posing as wisdom.

In the end it comes down to just a few simple truths. And while I wish I had thought of them myself, the simple truth about these simple truths is that they’ve been said before, and better than I could, by James Baldwin, who did not write them for this purpose, though they strangely seem to fit.

First, that those who treat other people as less than human must not be surprised when the bread they have cast upon the waters comes floating back to them, poisoned.

And secondly, that even in darkness, we must remember that there is a light somewhere. One discovers the light in darkness. That is what darkness is for. And what the light illuminates is danger, and what it demands is faith...I know that sometimes we fail, and that one often feels that one cannot start over again. And yet we must. The light, the will perish without the light.

For nothing is fixed, forever and forever, it is not fixed. The earth is always shifting. The light is always changing. The sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born. And we are responsible to them, because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails. Lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. And the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us, and the light goes out.

Thursday, September 13, 2001

Hi, it's Julie. I just wanted to tell you today that I am proud to be able to share a friendship with you. We will all get through this with love and support of each other. United we stand, divided we fall. Love you Dee Dee!

Sunday, September 02, 2001

I can think of a few folks who fit the saying on the back of this shirt.
More useless facts

Is safely home again. I left it at Buck-a-Burger Thursday night and spaced out (yes, I really did) on picking it up on Friday. Thankfully the cleaning crew was at the church Saturday morning to let me in the office AND the gal who stuck it in the office was home to tell me where she hid it.

Toothbrush: Oral-B medium bristle, bright purple and black so I can find it when I put it down.

Jewelry: At the moment is just my Jeep Collins charm bracelet with my 4 angels on it. The boys love to find 'their' angel, Evan's with the slingshot behind the back and Rob's with the pants rolled up and the feet bare for catching tadpoles. I will get my wedding ring replaced someday, but it obviously isn't a big priority item.

Sunglasses: On at the moment, sun shining on me through windows on three sides of me.

Underwear: Silk bikinis from Victoria's secret.

Shoes: SAS sandals, bone today.

Nail polish: One bottle in my purse, one in dh's shaving kit, none on my nails.

Handbag: I'm using the black one I bought to take to Donna's in February. I may switch over to my Collins box bag by Vegas time.

Key chain: Two key chains - one with the Cellular company tag with the key to that #*@(%&Y#@* Toyota mom car my dh bought that we had to pick up on my birthday, the other has one of laced chains you make at camp with the keys to the Mercury SW and the house.

Favorite top: Bright orange sleeveless button up shirt.

Favorite pants: Pants? Honey, I don't plan on wearing pants until it's freezing around here. Gimme a nice comfy pair of denim shorts (or the gaudy Hilfiger Hawaiian pair that go with the shirt above).

Soap: Dove in the shower, Yardley English Lavender in the tub. General Hospital on the television.

Perfume: Hardly ever wear any. I still like Lauren or just Lavender. I would like to get my hands on the blend I wore in college, just to see how it smelled now - apricot and clove oils. Probably smelled like a ham cooking. LOL!

Song playing now: "Fountain of Sorrow" Jackson Browne

Car: See rant above. &@($^#%$#^# mom car. The moon roof is nice, though.

Tattoos: Are my favorite prize in the box of Cracker Jacks.

Piercing: One in each ear, long since closed.

Physical: I think mine was back in March or May or sometime like that???