Wordjanitor Strikes Again

Perfectionism: The New Way

2011-12-24T18:26:00.000-08:00

I went to an event last week where they handed out candy canes with words attached to them. The words, individual to each person, served as the night's conversation topic. My word was perfectionism. My first reaction was just that I was no longer a perfectionist. Too easy.

Once upon a time, I was a perfectionist. Or, better stated, I was someone who strove to be perfect. I hadn't actually perfected perfectionism.

If I couldn't be perfect, I could try to make everything I did perfect. For example, I worked as a magazine editor. I developed a high set of production standards and a microscopic eye for detail. If there was an error, whether typo, scratched film, misaligned color plate, or some other ant's-eye-view thing, I'd find it. Would anyone else notice? Maybe 1 in 500 people. Would that person care? Maybe a 1 in 500 chance. But it gave me a sense of control where life didn't allow it. It gave me something I could fix and a change I could see.

Not to worry, if we worked together and your standards didn't match my mine, I'd just fix things for you. I could find the needles in the haystack. It was almost a game sometimes. I knew my standards were off the hook and I wasn't crazy enough to expect you to meet them. (You're welcome.)

Fast forward... Life continued to show me that perfect wasn't meant to be. I couldn't make my marriage perfect no matter how I tried. I couldn't even fix things to make him happy even when I gave up on my own idea of happy.

I learned new skills. A new job, new company, new atmosphere, and less emphasis on perfect all around. My standards were wearing me down. I did something drastic. I stopped working extra hours to get everything just right. I stopped doing your reviews and fixing your stuff. I did my job to the best of my ability, but I left it at my job. Your job was yours. If you asked for my help, I'd help you. But I didn't need to do the fine-toothed-comb scrub of your stuff to make it meet my definition of perfect.

And if your stuff didn't match my expectations, instead of viewing it as a mistake, I looked at it as "something I would have done differently." Most often, there were no repercussions for anyone. Work got easier. People got nicer. (Or I did...)

Fast forward... Life brought more examples, learning opportunities.

I brought new words into my vocabulary: acceptance, trust. I learned to accept what came my way. This is today. This is my reality. It may not be what I wanted/expected/prepared for, but it is where my life is in the present moment. I learned to trust that things would resolve in the way they should. I stopped trying to define and schedule outcomes. I started living my life instead of working it.

When I tried to define perfect, it was unattainable. I could never measure up to my own definition, nor yours. Or even truly know what yours was, only assume it was something I'd never achieve. In essence, trying to be perfect was a sure-fire prescription for the opposite: failure.

But if...
I don't try to define perfect.
I abandon the habit of setting expectations.
I resist the temptation to predict.
I refuse to measure myself against a standard.
I accept my life as it comes.
I trust that the answers will come in their own time.
I trust that the answers will come in their own form.
I let my life happen.

Then, my life is perfect.

Fire(man) on the Mountain

2011-08-26T13:44:00.000-07:00

Admittedly, I'm pretty lousy at this whole dating thing. I was pretty clueless in my 20s and now that I'm single again at "somewhere beyond 40," I'm still in the fog. I'm not used to getting "hit on," probably because it didn't happen in my earlier life. Or if it did, I didn't notice because I was shy and pretty sure anyone interested in me was outta their damn gourd.

Somewhere along the way I escaped that way of thinking and evolved into my current goofy, relatively outgoing, more social self. I ain't bucking for Julie McCoy's job on the The Love Boat, but ain't hiding behind plants, furniture, taller people, posts... I'm just me and I'm cool with who me is.

But I just don't always pick up on those pick-up cues. I'll be in the middle of a conversation and realize, "Oh, you're hitting on me. Now I get it."

So, I didn't catch on right away that the 80+ year old retired fire chief from a little Sierra foothills town was hitting on me. I was at the annual local car show taking pictures of some very cool old cars when an "older gentleman" walked through one of my pictures. No worries. It's digital. No film wasted.

He apologized for likely breaking my camera or fancy "phone thing" and then, "Oh have you seen that Chevy over there?" and "Let me show you this car" all the while talking about beer and quizzing me on whether I was local, how often I was in town, had I been into the Rubicon in a Jeep, what did I think of the Jeep Jamboree, yadda yadda yadda. I eventually asked if he wanted to see my car, where I was able to pawn him off on my dad because they had things in common -- Jeeps, fire trucks, the invention of television...!

They chatted for awhile about local guy gossip. At some point he realized that not only did I not have any beer, but I did have a chaperone. So off he went to find the other retired fire-fighters and their beer, encouraging me to come on by later in the day and say hi when I see him in town in his Jeep.

And then there was the guy who wanted to give me his spare helmet so we could go get a beer on his Harley. Strangely, I was standing about 20 feet from the beer tent at the time. But hey, he's only 60-something.

I figured it out, it's a small backwoods town. Everyone knows everyone out there. But although a frequent visitor, I'm not a local. Fresh meat, as it were. And I'm single, have a cool car, and... all my teeth. In other words, I'm a catch!

The next morning when I was leaving to go "into town" for the mail and groceries, my dad suggested I not pick up any more stray old men.

Of course, my friends have been more than supportive in their responses... For instance:

He does appear to be harmless and was probably just doing his job walking around looking for hot ashes.
You found another Dad?!?!? Or did he just finish watching that Hugh Hefner show?!?
OK, let me think; gorgeous woman, hot car, obviously you could afford to buy him a beer. Wait, isn't it supposed to be the other way around??
I think you are safe as long as you didn't give him your phone number, or tell him you would tattoo his name in the small of your back.
You didn't happen to be singing 'come on baby light my fire' when he first walked by, were you?
Are you saying that the retired fire chief was an old flame of yours?
Feel complimented that you were so nice that you probably made his day. And he hoped his night.
Maybe he thought you were a siren
You rock! Getting picked up by an 80+ year old? Priceless. = )
go for it!!!

Victim or Victor? It's a Choice

2011-07-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

I've never been one to do things the easy way. It's not that I come to an Robert Frost-ian intersection with the options of a smooth highway and a dirt path covered with rocks, snakes, and who-knows-what-else and think "Oooh, that looks fun!" But somehow or other, I often end up on the more challenging path.

True, when it comes to recreation, I'm more likely to take the dirt path and experience all of the scenery along the way. Four-lane highways get you from Point A to Point B, but life is more often in the journey, which makes two-lane back roads much more fun. Perhaps that's why I like Jeeps. I want to be prepared for the road ahead. Or I think I look bad-ass driving a bright yellow Jeep in a tank top and my hair going all medusa in the wind. I digress...
The challenging path is generally more interesting, for better or for worse.

Life's bigger challenges somehow take me off road whether I'm primed or not. The rocks don't bother me too much, but the snakes? I'm with Indiana Jones on those fanged suckers. I could put together a compelling powerpoint presentation, bullet list, or Lifetime movie of the week detailing the snakebites.

People who have known me a long time tend to ask, "Do you ever do anything the easy way?" Trust me, I'd happily erase several of the snakebites from my memory. But I'm not here to regale you with tales of woe. Just to acknowledge that they exist and they're a part of me as much as the titanium screw in my toe.

Here's the thing. I may not have chosen the road, but I can chose how I deal with the results. I can be a victim. I can wrap myself in the comfort of resentment and self pity. I can harbor anger and live in fear. I can focus on the past and wallow in it. But I don't.

Every experience is a lesson. Yes, the experience of eating an ice cream sundae and learning that they taste really good is the preferred variety of "experience = lesson." But life ain't all ice cream and cookies (dammit).

For some things, it's just a matter of moving forward. Trusting people and knowing that not every relationship meanders into negative territory. Knowing that I've made it through challenges before and I can do it again. I like to remind myself that even on the stormiest of days, even though I can't see it, the sun is still behind the clouds as bright as ever.

For other things, it's a matter of making something positive out of a trauma by using the experience to help someone else. And sometimes your own personal actions can reach far beyond your intent. My son @ is a surviving twin whose brother N died the day they were born -- 14 weeks early. That's a scar that becomes less jagged, but doesn't go away. I had the choice to be "that poor woman who lost a child" or find a way to honor my sons, @'s amazing fight and the memory of N.

I learned that prematurity and infant mortality were major issues for the March of Dimes. I participated in a walk event in 2004 and decided I might be able to make a difference if I shared my story. Public speaking was definitely not in my comfort zone, but I wanted to honor my sons. Crying in my back yard certainly wasn't going to make a difference. My first speech was at black-tie dinner in front of several hundred people. I nearly threw up, cried, and ran -- simultaneously. (If you knew me as a kid, you'd know I was the quiet one at the back of the room hoping not to get called on by the teacher.)

Several speeches, press conferences, and events later, it's no longer difficult.

I decided I could make a bigger impact if I got some people at work involved. Mind you, I'm not an executive or even a senior manager -- I'm a cube-dweller among 50,000+ employees. We started with 12 people in 2005 and now have 350+. As of this year, our corporate headquarters team has raised more than $1.3 million. My head spins when I think about it.

Last week I was invited to speak at the March of Dimes National Field Staff Meeting in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, about how I turned a personal experience into a corporate team. The speech went well. My son was on stage with me and even answered questions during the Q&A.

After the speech, people thanked me for sharing both my personal story and helping them understand how they might start corporate teams. It was fairly overwhelming. I thanked them right back. I am grateful for the opportunity to speak in such a venue. I am grateful for the opportunity to share the experience with my son. I am grateful that something I did for very personal reasons has had an impact.

The simple act of participating in the annual March for Babies walk event lets me honor my sons; it's a special day for me and @ every year. Everything that has come from that? Well, it's a miracle. But it all comes from choosing not to be a victim, choosing to find something positive in the hardest experience of my life. Sometimes that's the unpaved road that you take because you want to, but where it takes you can be amazing. I'm glad I made that choice.

Little Man with Big Questions

2011-04-13T23:29:00.000-07:00

At dinner it was all about the olives.

Do these olives taste different?
Does this olive look like a hat?
Are the green olives bigger because they have the red thing in the middle?

Before dinner @ had asked for the key to a cabinet. When I asked why, he said he wanted to see his brother's ashes. I hesitated, but I had to separate my own reaction from his request. There wasn't a reason to deny his request. It was unexpected but simple, attainable.

As we were eating ice cream sandwiches after dinner, he told me we were lucky because we have N's ashes. That N is with us. I'm honest with him. Sometimes I wonder if it's the best thing. I told him I thought we'd be luckier if N were sitting here eating an ice cream sandwich with us.

(There had been three ice cream sandwiches in the freezer. It suddenly feels like that the extra was N's sandwich.)

At bedtime it was much more serious stuff.

What happens when you die?
What does your body do?

We talked about breathing and heartbeats. @ knows all about breathing. He spent his first year tethered to an oxygen tank. He knows that the doctors couldn't make N's lungs work.

What happens next?
Is there an underworld?

I told him that people have lots of different ideas and beliefs -- heaven, hell, karma, reincarnation, nothing. He asked me which was the real answer.

(Pimentos, albeit somewhat inexplicable, are more easily explained.)

We talked about carrying N in our hearts. He told me that the nurses do too because they tried to help N breathe. And his dad. And grandpa. Uncle Dave. We agreed that everyone who loved us and was waiting for him to be born carries N in their hearts.

Satisfied, he turned to more tactical matters.

If N was alive would we go to the same school?
Would we be in the same class?
If N was alive would we have bunk beds?

Then he cried because he misses his brother.

Dressed for Success (or Mini Trump Goes to Camp)

2011-03-16T23:37:00.000-07:00

One of my newest monikers is "the mom of the kid with the tie." Because I am indeed, the mom of the kid with the tie.

Friday was free dress for @'s school. Although it's a public school, they have a uniform of navy pants and white, blue, or green polo shirts. Whereas most of the other kids took the opportunity to dress down in jeans or sweats and t-shirts, @ dressed up in a button-down shirt and clip-on tie. (A little girl in his class also opted to buck the trend and wore a nice dress. Perhaps they're soulmates...)

After school it was time to head over the hill and off to the woods for a mother-son camp adventure at the YMCA's Camp Campbell.

He had asked if it was OK to wear his tie on Friday and then during "indoor activities if it's raining." I told him he could wear what he wanted to wear, but he might want to have the other clothes for hiking and such. He packed his bag with the traditional camping standby choices of jeans, plaid flannel, and thermal shirts, but opted not to change into "camping" clothes before we left. Hi-ho, hi-ho, off to camp we go.

When I was his age, you couldn't get me in a dress for money. I wanted to fit in and I spent a lot of my energy worrying about what other people thought, hoping they wouldn't make fun of me. @ spends his energy just being @.

When we went shopping for a new shirt for Thanksgiving, he saw the Dockers shirts with the matching ties. It was love at first sight... He likes to look like "the boss."

In the car the other day he asked what "fired" meant. I wasn't quite sure what he meant until he said "People keep asking me to say 'You're fired.'" With the tie, his glasses, and a notebook he carries to draw pictures and take notes -- he looks like the boss. Some of my friends have taken to calling him Mr. Trump. Luckily, he can't fire me. At least until he's 18. Oh yeah, and @ has much better hair.

Saturday morning arrived and he emerged from his sleeping bag, got dressed, and ta da, put on his tie. He opted to wear the tie all weekend. It actually went pretty well with the hiking boots. We hiked before breakfast, threw rocks in the creek, launched arrows at the archery range, hiked before lunch, hiked after lunch, built and painted wooden boxes, played games, tie-dyed t-shirts, roasted marshmallows, and built forts in the woods. All in a tie.

Quite a few people -- other moms, kids, camp staff -- were curious about the tie, but no one made fun of him. They just considered him the best-dressed kid at camp. And me, well, I'm the mom of the kid in the tie. And that's more than ok with me.

Better Fund-Raising through Cleavage

2011-03-15T23:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time in history, I went to my first black-tie fund-raising dinner. The food was great. But I was more amazed at the dresses the women were wearing. It wasn't only the money that went into the dresses, it was the "enhancements" (so to speak) that also went into those expensive dresses.

At the time, X and I made light of things with new tag lines like "Better Fund-Raising through Cleavage" and "Boobs for Babies." Apparently the black-tie dinner demographic is shapely.

Either things have calmed down with the economy over the years or I've become a bit more accustomed to the whole black-tie environment. Anyway...

Several times a year I speak on behalf of the March of Dimes. In my role as a family ambassador, I share the story of @ and N's early birth, @'s challenges to survive, and how it has affected our lives. On Monday, I was invited to do some fund-raising speeches at a company's kick-off events.

I took the day off of work, but had to do an 8a conference call to start off the morning before heading to Milpitas to do the speeches. The whole daylight savings time-change gig got me a little off my game, so I was running a bit late and got dressed in a hurry.

When I got to the facility, I was surprised by the number of chairs set up. I'm used to conference rooms and such, but this was actually a warehouse. A warehouse with 900 chairs. Yowza. I was scheduled to do two speeches. Luckily, the warm-up was only about 400 people. The afternoon session filled the seats. (Amazing what happens when it's both a mandatory event and the raffle prizes include an iPad and a huge flat-screen TV.)

The podium microphone wasn't working properly, so the speakers had to pass a lapel mic. The company president introduced me and handed me the mic to clip on to my blouse. Which is when I looked down for a place to clip it. And standing in front of a room of 400 people, a thought went through my mind: "Huh, better fund-raising through cleavage indeed."

Word to the Wise: Consider potential microphone placement needs when selecting a presentation wardrobe.

@ and The Magic of Christmas Giving

2010-12-25T11:02:00.000-08:00

It was getting close to Christmas. All of the houses in the neighborhood had bright colorful lights along the rooflines and pretty decorated trees in the front windows. @ and his friends decided it would be really neat to go visit the North Pole. They made sure they had their warmest jackets, gloves, boots, and hats and they all went to the train station.

When they got there, they found their friend Engineer Doggie, who told them he knew the secret to finding Santa. Then the boarded the train. Once they were on the train, Engineer Doggie told them all to get in a circle and hold hands. Some of them giggled about holding hands, but Engineer Doggie told them it was an important part of the secret.

Engineer Doggie told them to close their eyes and dream of their own special snowman.
@ dreamed of a perfect round-bellied snowman with a pinecone nose, acorn eyes, and a smile made from a branch. Blue Doggie dreamed of a snowdoggie. Samba dreamed of a snowkitty (even though Samba was a dog). And Engineer Doggie dreamed of a snowman engineer with a snow train.

Then Engineer Doggie told them to dream of stars in a clear night sky. The kind of stars that sparkled like diamonds on a dark, dark blue sky. As they pictured the stars in their dreams, the stars fluttered to the ground like sparkling snowflakes.

They heard jingling bells. They excitedly opened their eyes. They were at the North Pole! The bells were jingling on the gate as a group of elves opened it and welcomed them in for a tour of Santa's village.

First they put on hardhats and safety goggles to visit the workshop. An amazing machine was making every different toy they'd ever seen or imagined. When the toys came out of the giant machine, they went on a conveyor belt into another machine that put them into boxes with wrapping paper and bows.

Next they went to the stables where a group of elves were taking care of the reindeer. They saw all of the reindeer and the harnesses that the reindeer would wear when pulling the sleigh. The elves even let them feed carrots to the baby reindeer.

Then they went to the garage to see the sleigh. It was much, much bigger than they ever imagined. The elves were polishing the sleigh and checking all of the buttons and levers to make sure everything would work perfectly for Santa to do his deliveries on Christmas.

One of the elves in charge asked @ if he wanted to sit in Santa's seat. At first @ was very shy and said no. Then he changed his mind. He was up so high! He was careful not to touch any of those buttons. There were so many!

After their tour, they stopped at a big red door with handles shaped like candy canes. Blue Doggie knocked. From inside they heard "Ho ho ho! Come in friends!" The door opened and there he was. In person. Santa. He gave each of them a hug and showed them a tray with mugs of cocoa and a big bowl of marshmallows. They floated the marshmallows in their cocoa and sat on a big comfy soft green couch.

"I'm so glad you found the magic to get here," Santa said. "Only very special friends find the magic."

He asked them what they liked best about their visit. Blue Doggie told him that he liked feeding carrots to the littlest reindeer. Samba, who always likes sweets, said the cocoa was the best. @ was quiet. He wasn't sure he should tell Santa he had been in the sleigh.

"@, what did you think of my sleigh? Do you think it's ready for my deliveries?" Santa asked.

Then @ remembered, Santa sees everything! "Yes! It's the biggest, neatest, shiniest vehicle I've ever been in. It's even bigger than a fire truck!" he said excitedly.

"I have a very special favor to ask of you," Santa said. "It's a very important job. Do you think you can help me?"

The friends looked at each other and back at Santa, nodding. They couldn't believe that Santa was asking them for their help!

"I visit all the boys and girls around the world on Christmas, but there are lots of children who don't get any other presents," said Santa. "Not every family has money for toys and new things. Can you help me take presents to these children?"

"Of course we can, Santa," said @. "We're hard workers and we'll do the job!"

"I knew I could count on you and your friends, @," said Santa.

@ was very happy that Santa had picked them for this special mission. And he was happy he got to do something special for other kids. Santa gave each of the friends a hug and showed them the secret door back to their train.

Outside the door was a wheelbarrow for @ and each of his friends, loaded with perfectly wrapped boxes like they'd seen in the factory. They rolled their wheelbarrows up the ramp of the boxcar on Engineer Doggie's train and filled it with packages.

They waved good-bye to Santa and their new friends and got back on the train. They got back into a circle and held hands. This time it didn't seem silly. Once again they dreamed of their own special snowmen, snowdoggies, snowkitties. And then they dreamed of the stars. When the stars fluttered to the ground like sparkling snowflakes, they woke up as the train was pulling into a station.

All sorts of kids were waiting at the station. @ and his friends went to the boxcar and handed out presents. As the last little boy came to the train, they handed him the last present. There were exactly enough presents for every child at the station.

They went to three more train stations. Each time they had exactly enough toys.

They were tired but excited when they got home to their own station. It was much more than their game of going to visit the North Pole and see the workshop. It was much more, even more than meeting Santa. They hadn't just seen magic. They had been a part of it.

~~~The End~~~

Junk Mail Prevention

2010-10-18T19:59:00.000-07:00

It's October. Don't ask me how that happened. I've decked the halls of my porch with spiderwebbing and orange squash things. @ was so excited to decorate the porch. Gotta love the dollar store for decorations -- he got to go hog wild and buy all sorts of nutty stuff for under ten bucks. At least I don't go broke
making my porch look as webbed as the underside of my house probably is.

That reminds me... There's a black widow living on the underside of the dog's water dish. Flip over the dish and she's sitting there in her web showing off her little red hourglass belly. The hussy.

@ and I decorated the porch last Sunday evening. He's very particular about these things. More web there, less over there. No, turn the pumpkin that way. Put the plastic spider over the doorbell and the skeletons across the doorway. Given that he can't reach most of the places he wanted decorated, he was quite the effective job foreman barking orders

When all was said and webbed, he decided that our porch was sooooooo scary that the mail carrier would be afraid to come to the mailbox. He figured that they'd have to deliver the mail to our neighbor Michelle's house and hopefully she'd be brave enough to bring it to us. Or we could go get it from her. Yes, that's what we'd do. We'd go get the mail from Michelle so she wouldn't have to get scared by our masterpiece of fright.

When I picked him up from school Monday, nearly the first thing thing he mused about in the car ride home was whether the mail was there. He was pretty sure the mail carrier had been scared off.

As we drove into the driveway, he was trying to decide whether it looked like there was mail in the mailbox. Hmm... It looked pretty undisturbed. The lid was closed. No evidence of paper sticking out. Hmm...

We got to the porch and I lifted him up to look in the mailbox.

He opened the lid, looked in, and it was EMPTY!!! Victory was his!

(And it was Columbus Day. But don't tell him that.)

He was a bit disappointed when we had mail the next day, but decided that it was OK that the mail carrier got up the courage to deliver the mail. One day of fright-induced no mail was good enough.

Of course, given the forest worth of campaign no-on-this-yes-on-that-vote-for-me-not-him/her/it mail I've had since then, I'm thinking a live jackal on the porch might not be such a bad thing.

Tornado Maintenance 101

2010-08-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

I have a picture of tornadoes on my refrigerator. Each is a different color and hovers precariously close to the ground, about to touch down. In the midst of all the swirling is a little stick figure with a small umbrella saying "Hey tornadoes, one at a time. Get in line!"

Sure, I can yell at a tornado and it will listen! Hmmm...

Last week was less than fun. Lots of different dramas emerged from various quadrants of my existence. I had some health stuff to handle;
my primary project at work is in all sorts of chaos; and most not-fun of all, someone chose to go full-on soap opera over something that I consider simple, logical, and all of those things that keep life in orderly balance.

And so there I was with my little umbrella...

I didn't yell at the tornadoes. I just dealt with them one at a time. And I didn't buy into the soap operaness of it all. I stayed present. I ignored the what-ifs, back thens, what's nexts, and the valiant attempts to engage me in some sort of battle. The tornadoes didn't go away, but they didn't touch down either. Because I stayed present, the tornadoes got in line.

A few months ago someone said something that stuck with me. (Or I read it. Or it was a talking cat in a dream. I don't remember.) The gist of it was this:

No matter what the weather, the sun is always there.

Big fat clouds, thundershowers, or tornadoes may be obscuring it at the moment, but behind that dark gloom the sun is still present, bright as ever.

On Friday night, @ and I sat on the front porch to eat dinner. I looked up and floating over the house were dozens upon dozens of tiny colorful helium balloons making their way across a perfect blue sky. @ and I stood on the front lawn and watched them silently float toward the Santa Cruz Mountains. He decided they were going to see the sun set over the ocean.

I am grateful to whoever released those balloons at that moment from that place. Ever so grateful.

I know that of all the things that happened this week, the only moment I'll actually remember is standing on the lawn on a perfect summer evening watching those cheerful balloons. Nothing else matters.

Moonlighting for Extremities

2010-08-19T23:03:00.000-07:00

I have a titanium screw in my toe. There, I've said it. It's out in the world. Judge me for it if you must.

This toe is primary digit of my left foot. Not the film My Left Foot. Mine. My actual left foot. I seem to have picked up a habit of damaging said recalcitrant foot every now and then since the first "incident" almost exactly 11 years ago in August 1999.

What happens when you damage your foot?

You go to the podiatrist.
What happens when you keep damaging your foot?
You get to know your podiatrist pretty well.
What happens when the podiatrist you now know pretty well does medical missions to Vietnam?
You find a way to help.

Bruce Lehnert in Can Tho, Vietnam

The International Extremity Project is a group of pretty amazing people headed to Can Tho, Vietnam in November for the group's sixth mission. They'll be there for about two weeks and do 40+ surgeries while they're there. They'll correct deformities that have prevented kids from having normal lives -- walking, playing, going to school. They'll change lives.

My part is simple: build a site, manage a blog, do a little editing, and a maintain a Facebook page. Oh yeah, and have great respect for these people who do oh so much more than sit behind a checkbook or a keyboard to take part in the world.

"Like" the Facebook page. Give 'em some FB love. Read the posts from the 2007 trip and see what it's all about. And stay tuned as they're getting ready for November's trip.

My screwy titanium screwed toe (say that three times fast) has given me more than an amusing x-ray. It has given me the opportunity to be a small part of a pretty amazing thing. And I'm grateful for the opportunity.

Balancing on Two Wheels

2010-07-03T20:41:00.000-07:00

Avoiding danger in the long run is no safer than outright exposure.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

- Helen Keller

I recently decided to do something for myself. Pedicures and massages are great and all that. I guess shopping does it for some girls. OK, lots of them. Maybe even legions of them, given stacks of evidence ranging from
the size of mall parking lots (7700 spaces at Valley Fair) to the number of trees massacred to create catalogs.

But I've never been too aligned to the laws of the girl pack, so to speak. A new pair of shoes just isn't going to soothe my soul. But a motorcycle might.

This week, I passed my written test for my motorcycle safety class and had some nice celebratory chocolate cake courtesy of Faultline Harley-Davidson. I took the full class and passed my skills test a couple of weeks ago. Papers in hand I'll trot on down to the DMV to get my M1 endorsement. (And heck, while we're at it, let's restore my surname to its rightful place at the start of the alphabet by dropping the weight of the one that went with the shiny ring I used to wear.)

And then, yes, I plan to buy a bike. A nice shiny Harley is the likely candidate. And then yes, I plan to ride it. Safely, sanely, and all that good stuff.

Reaction to this new adventure has been mixed. In general, women seem to think it's cool. On the other side of the gender wall, the reactions are definitely varied. Some guys think it's great, while others have hopped up on rather large soapboxes and lectured on the riff of selfishness and irresponsibility. One even decided it would be reasonable to offer up himself as a replacement if I wanted thundering power between my legs.

WTF? Did he just say that? Really?
Wait? He did.
WTF indeed?!
(Dude, next time you have an inclination to call me with such a comment? Don't!)

My dad taught me to ride his Honda Interceptor: "this is the clutch, this is the brake, this is the throttle, don't crash." I went around the block a few times. Not a good learning bike. I think first gear probably went to 110 mph. (My dad thinks I'm prone to exaggeration.)

I had a nifty little Yamaha Seca 400 for awhile in my 20s, but never learned to ride it properly. I eventually sold it and figured I had that whole thing out of my system. Ha. Ha ha ha.

But then... I spent quality time last fall on the back of a Road King (that's a bike, not a guy). And that set the hook.

Back at the start of the year when I was sick as a mutt, it seemed like the only thing I'd be riding would be my couch with all the power of a remote control in my grip. When you've hardly breached your forties and suddenly need a midday nap, it's a shock to the system. I don't sit still well.

But it was me and the couch. A lot of discomfort. Very little energy. And not much of a positive vibe from the medical community. The general reaction to my diagnosis among doctors seems to be "wow, bummer." There is no cure and there are few treatments. Nope. "Wow, bummer."

But once I had that "wow, bummer" diagnosis, I learned to adjust this, accept that, deal with the bad days, and take advantage of the good ones. And somehow in there I decided I wanted to spend more time on two wheels. For myself. Because when someone knocks you onto the couch, you decide once you get up, you ain't getting knocked down again.

So now I've taken my class and gone from "am I sure I wanna do this" to making a nice happy home in my garage for my bike to be. And if you're presenting your narrative for slide 72 of the latest greatest slide deck, my apologies when I perk my ears as something cruises by on the road outside the conference room. I'm sure that will fade when I have my own bike.

I Got a Boo-Boo

2010-05-31T13:44:00.000-07:00

I got a boo-boo on my knee.

A good friend invited me to go hiking yesterday. Yes, absolutely, ok, let's go. I didn't bother asking where, how far, and all of those details. It didn't really concern me. And who am I to turn down an excuse to be outside with trees and dirt and stuff?

So off we went to Sunol Regional Wilderness and hopped on the trail along Alameda Creek to Little Yosemite. It looked to be a pretty mellow ambling walk along a well-maintained
fire road in the grassy hills. Big oak trees along the way and all of those good things.

At some point, my friend asked if I had good balance. I ignored the not-all-that-very-distant memories of my physical therapy exercises, and reported that it was "pretty good." And thought, hmmm... Is this important?

Pick your source, but the definition of hiking is usually along the lines of

Hiking is an outdoor activity which consists of walking in natural environments, often on hiking trails.
A hike is: A long walk, usually for pleasure or exercise.

Oddly, both of these definitions center on the verb walk:

a : to move along on foot : advance by steps
b : to come or go easily or readily
c : to go on foot for exercise or pleasure

Not far into our journey, we strayed from the main trail and took a smaller trail down to the creek. Our step off the main trail was also a right turn (or was it a left turn? maybe a u-turn?) from the definition of hiking.

And that's what made the day so great. I remember hearing my friend talk about this hike with someone else and thinking, "I wish I could do that." It wasn't so much wishing I could find the spot and go, but that I could accomplish the rock-to-rock adventure up the creek to the falls. I just assumed I couldn't.

Six weeks ago I was spending a lot of time indoors, on my couch, trying to figure out what I could eat that would give me some ounce of energy without also delivering pain from actually processing the food itself. I was sleeping a lot of the day and generally getting used to "this is what it's like now."

Gradually I've been feeling better. I'm back at work, getting through my days with less discomfort, and not building my days around my couch. @ and I went on a relatively mellow little hike last weekend and it felt good. But I haven't really challenged myself.

In fact, I haven't challenged myself much in quite a long time. Plenty of challenges have recently landed on my doorstep: the health thing, a big project at work, some legal stuff, and other distractions that I haven't particularly sought out as entertainment.

Meeting challenges and seeking them out -- very different concepts.

But this was different. I was looking up a creekbed of boulders varying in size from footballs to Half Moon Bay Pumpkins to Mini Coopers. The chickenshit half of my brain balked at first. Then the other half of my brain took over when it noticed my friend happily hopping along the rocks and making his way upstream.

I watched where he went and followed. Early on, I stumbled and landed quite ungracefully with one foot in the water and the rest of me intact but somehow spread across about five different boulders. (No video exists, thankyouverymuch.) I had skinned my knee and probably obtained some bruises that would bloom the next day, but I was fine. And there was no damn way I intended to quit.

Along the way, the spelled-out version of NFW came into my head at least a dozen times. (The polite definition of which is: no feasible way.) And I'm sure I said the non-polite version out loud more than once.

Once or twice, I took the path of least resistance -- or perhaps it was technically the path of most resistance because it entailed crawling over more rocks vs. jumping over bigger gaps. I'm not fond of heights. I kept coming to spots where I would have normally turned around. But in most cases, I didn't. I made the leap of faith and foot and made it to the other side.

When I hesitated and my friend told me I could do something that seemed beyond my abilities, I listened to him rather than to the self-doubting nag in my head. And oddly enough, he was right. (Yes, that's now in writing, online, forever in the wonderful world of the Internet. I was wrong. Someone else -- a guy, no less -- was right.)

Meanwhile, I managed to scratch my way up and over rocks much taller than my own height, jump over a variety of drops from six inches to I-don't-really-wanna-know-how-far-down-that-was, and otherwise find my way up the waterfalls. Beyond the waterfalls, the creek is wide, moves slowly, and is perfect for cooling bootless feet for a nice rest.

This morning, I have scrapes, bruises, and sore muscles. And they're wonderful trophies from a most excellent day.

The Amoeba that Ate Pennsylvania

2010-05-27T21:40:00.000-07:00

Somehow or other, I've been back at work for nearly a month. Time flies when you're trying to catch your breath and remember how to tie your shoes. Within a quick blink, it was as if I'd never been gone. Except now I have this weird eating schedule and people keep asking me if I'm better now. Well, yes, better than I was before. Cured, no. But that's just how it is.

In the scheme of things, I don't consider the health thing
a big deal -- pain in the gut, yes, but it's really just food. Things could be a lot worse. But somehow people relate to the idea of not being able to eat the way they want and it seems like a big deal. Eh, it is what it is. I have my limbs, my brain (remember, proved by CAT scan), and all of that. Yeah, I do get wistful for raw veggies -- especially when @ is chomping on raw carrots -- but I'll get over it.

Remember: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's salad.

But work, now work is kind of a big fuzzy blur of activity, best described along these lines:

Now basically, the only new principal involved is that instead of power being generated by the relative motion of conductors and fluxes its produced by the modal interaction of magneto reluctance, and capacitive duractance.*

Wha huh? I don't know. Really, work is a lot like trying to figure out what in the heck that sentence actually means on whatever planet houses the aliens that might understand it. (Good thing my dad doesn't read my blog. He'd probably let me know that it's actually something quite simple in his world.)

I'm working on a project that has a wiggly amoeba-ish quality to it. But it's the amoeba that ate Pennsylvania. No microscope or petri dish required. I'm used to using the big black Sharpie pen to mark out the parameters, edges, and confines of a project -- then running it through the mill, adding a flourish or two, and making it happen. This time I have a pencil in my hand and I'm wearing out the eraser.

And I'm testing those collaboration skills. OK, I admit it right here: Collaboration is much easier when I'm in charge! This project has teams, subteams, ad hoc teams, hallway conversation teams, and cross-functional parts, pieces, and fragments. And then we have meetings, spreadsheets, tracking systems, and web-based collaborative workspaces with different tracks for the various project elements. Oh, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Kidding aside, it's an interesting project and a cool to be part of the teams, fragments, tracks, and partridges. It's an opportunity to test what I know and how I work. And it's teaching me to write in pencil, meaning not to get too attached to how things should work. Roll with the punches. Keep my yap in check and ask myself "does this matter?" before offering my ever-present two-cent opinion.

But the hardest part? I keep getting on conference calls with people who just don't know I'm funny.

* Truth be told, someone told me he'd give me a dollar if I could work something into a post from this maniacal spoof of a corporate product marketing video that is frighteningly too close to reality. But then when I started writing, well, it just fit. Check is in the mail, right Lazor?

Pot o' Gold & Wishes

2010-05-03T21:32:00.000-07:00

@ had an art project at school for which he created a pot of gold. The pot was titled "I wish everyone in the world had..." and he had labeled each coin with a different thing.

His choices

a bed
peace
books
a dog
a tent to play in
a giant excavator

Practical, altruistic, while at the same time uniquely @. Sometimes he just makes me laugh out loud.

Daddy Is Getting Married

2010-05-02T22:32:00.000-07:00

Chapter 1
About a week ago, @ was crying rather dramatically at bedtime. When I asked what was wrong, he said he was worried about me. I certainly didn't expect him to say that. I thought maybe it was because he knew I'd been sick. It wasn't.

"Mommy, you're not married. You're all by yourself. You need someone to marry you."

Wha huh? Bam, that was certainly out of the clear blue sky. Or maybe it was cloudy that day. I don't recall. Obviously the weather
wasn't the memorable part of that square on the calendar.

It was sweet and sad all at the same time. He was very serious.

But, little problem solver that he is, @ had a plan: "Mommy, tomorrow we're going to call all of your friends who are boys and ask them to marry you."

Awwww, shucks, um no...

I explained that really, I'm just fine and not everyone needs to be married to be happy and he shouldn't worry and an alphabetic perusal of the cell phone probably isn't the best method of finding a spouse anyway and... he... calmed... down...

Convinced that it wasn't necessary to allot the next afternoon to making phone calls we decided that maybe we could walk the dog, work in the garden, or watch Mythbusters instead.

(Of course, in retrospect, it might have been pretty amusing to have the phone on speaker while he made those calls. Just because who in the hell is going to expect that? So very Sleepless in Seattle with a AT&T Wireless 2010 twist.)

Chapter 2
"Mommy, Daddy's getting married. Isn't that great?"

Ah ok, so now last week's worryfest has some context. X is getting married. Cool.

Granted, it's not great hearing the news from your six-year-old son, but hey, news travels as it does.

Honestly, I think it's great news. After all, the guy was my best friend for a long time. And up until a few weeks ago, we had a great coparenting relationship with a few bumps and ruts along the way. At the moment, well, it ain't so pretty, but it is what it is.

(Yeah, I could take advantage of the situation and my stash of sarcasm and go tra la la-ing down the snark trail, but the truth of the matter is a simple two part deal: 1) It's no joking matter right now. 2) I'm honestly happy for the guy.)

I ended our marriage because I thought two happy houses would be better than one unhappy one. Our house wasn't happy anymore. X definitely didn't agree at the time. There's a laundry list of reasons that happened and there's no need for outline it here.

I wanted to be happy again. And I wanted X to be happy again. And I am happy in my life now. As is X, which is as it should be.

And @ gets the benefits of that. Which is definitely as it should be.

Walking for N

2010-04-26T12:33:00.000-07:00

This Saturday was one of @'s favorite days of the year, the annual March for Babies walk. He was six months old and still on oxygen the first time I did the walk, but he has been there every year since, making it his sixth walk and my seventh.

In @'s world, the first few years were about the balloons and the noise, then it was about being a surviving preemie, and now it's about helping babies and walking for his twin brother.

It's a tiring day for me, both physically and emotionally. It's a reminder of
losing N, but it's amazing to see so many people galvanized to make a difference and be in the midst of many people who share some part of our experience.

We joined up with the Cisco team in the morning -- all 100+ people. A team I started in my spare time six years ago is now an executive-led $260K+/year fund-raising, awareness-bringing, community-building machine. (Don't let anyone ever tell you that you can't make a difference. I did. You can.) Let it be said: I work for an amazing company.

@ and I wear stickers that say, "I walk for ______" with N's name on them. This year, someone said, "You must be N." @ very simply replied, "I'm @, N was my brother. He died. That's why we're here."

After the opening speeches, @, Luke, and I did the family loop and then took a detour. We could hear the music and see the rest of the walkers across the lake, but @ wanted a little space from the chaos. It was fun watching him toss rocks, chase driftwood, and be a normal kidlet in the middle of it all.

The nurses at the Good Samaritan NICU tent knew @'s story as soon as they heard his name. They were excited to learn that he has experienced very few of the problems doctors predicted he would encounter. He posed for proudly for a "success story" picture and we promised to send a letter to share our experience with current parents.

A video about family teams came on the giant screen next to the stage. @ migrated in that direction. By the midpoint, he had both arms in the air, pumping his fists and cheering on the families and babies on the screen in his own show of solidarity. All his own.

Later, the Cisco video came on (see bottom of post). He needed to be front-and-center where he could watch the whole thing and had me pick him up for the last part so he could cheer himself on during our speaking part.

@ decided he wanted to dance to the Burnt Factory Band. It didn't bother him that no one else was dancing, so @, Luke, and I went and danced. My grace can best be described as "remember, she's the one of fell out of the tree." And dancing with a 42-pound kid and a leashed 80-pound dog is not an easy feat, especially for someone (like me) with two left feet. It was more like six left feet and a cute kid.

On our way out, we stopped by a table where we could write letters to parents and NICU staff. He wrote his own thank-you note to the nurses.

Cat Herding, Doc Wrangling...

2010-04-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

The first signs that maybe I had the wrong gastroenterologist were sitting in the waiting room when I arrived for my first appointment. The magazines. High-end car, travel, food, and wine magazines.

As far as I'm concerned, one of the primary reasons for the existence of magazines like People, Entertainment Weekly, Us, etc., is to entertain patients who are patiently waiting for their doctors. Especially doctors who set their watches according to
different time zones (their own personal top-secret time zones.)

The absence of said magazines glaringly obvious in a doc office. Worse, the actual presence of food and wine magazines in the office of a guy who treats people with gastrointestinal issues is sadistic. Wrong. Twisted. Did I mention sadistic?

I'd been eating oatmeal 3x a day when I first got to his office. And instead of trivial b.s. about someone's newest ta-ta enhancement, I'm stared in the face by his hobbies, few of which I can afford. Or stomach. Literally. Ever tried to drink wine with severe reflux? C'mon, just go to that triple-word score Scrabble volcano (aka Eyjafjallajokull) and fix yourself a tall glass of molten lava. The physical sensation is the same. I assure you.

When I met the guy, the first thing I noticed is that he has a really nice tie. From that moment on, every time I had a negative thought about him, I added "but he has really nice ties" to the end of it. Keep things on the positive? Hell, I don't know.

Oh, and he's a positive guy. Optimistic. Some might say annoyingly cavalier. After the first visit, he took notes, handed me a scrip and sample meds, and assured me that this was oh-so-simple and these meds would have me feeling fabulous and eating like a queen before I knew it.

At my next visit, he seemed shocked that his magic pills hadn't made a darn bit of difference. So he scheduled an endoscopy, assuring me that the beauty of such a procedure is that you can get immediate answers. He made it clear that he'd talk to me after the procedure and since I'd probably be a bit loopy from the meds, he'd give my transportation all the details as well.

Imagine my surprise when I awoke to "oh, he already left." Wha huh? And my greater surprise when I called his office and was informed that they should have my biopsy results by mid-next week. Wha huh? Biopsy, he hasn't even mentioned that concept.

Thus began a weeklong mental tailspin on biopsy. Most of the time I could let it go. I'll get the information when I get it. I can't do anything without the information anyway. Yadda yadda yadda. I have honed that skill pretty sharply, but I still had my moments of "They don't do biopsies for sport."

Next follow-up: He again seemed shocked that his miraculous meds still hadn't solved world peace within my gut. As he babbled on about a few other things, I actually had to ask about the biopsy results, to which his answer was "biopsy doesn't always mean cancer" before he said all was clear.

I will admit it now. That vow of nonviolence I had to take when I bought the Prius? Damn near broke it right there. And then what, I'd be driving a damn Escalade as penance. Close call.

The fun has continued to give me plenty of blog fodder.

I've been off work for a month (Hiatus for Cape & Tights).
Been subjected to more tests (That Certain Glow).
Received more answers (Tuna Glow, Tuna Know).
Made a random visit to the ER.

He still has the deer-in-the-headlights look every time I return without saying "I just ate a steak and a bunch of jalapenos for lunch and boy do I feel fabulous." He assured me that the blood sugar swings I was experiencing where a logical combination of the gastroparesis with my diabetes. Um, I'm not diabetic. "Really, you're not? Are you sure?" Even then it took another 3 weeks to order glucose testing. (Survey says, hypoglycemia...)

Apparently he's of the school of thought that if you sit on something long enough, it will hatch into a magic bunny. He sat on my disability paperwork. One month, no bunnies. When he did send in the form (after missing the deadline and getting calls from both me and my company's HR department), he checked No as response to whether I'd been in the hospital or ER, and he forgot to include the secondary diagnosis of hypoglycemia. Uh, oops.

The latest? According to the benefits people, he corrected the ER and hypoglycemia information on the forms, and... set my return to work date at some point in 2011. Say wha?

Meanwhile I'm trying to get another doc. Got a great recommendation, but this one doesn't want to take on another doc's patient and wants me to see an even more specialized specialist. Called the uber specialist (in San Francisco) and booked his first available appointment -- which is in August. Heck, maybe I can catch a Giants game while I'm there.

Somehow, most of the time, I'm taking all of this in stride. I've adjusted to a lot of the symptoms and am getting better at figuring out how, what, and when to eat to maintain something resembling a normal day. And if you ever need a really nice tie, I know who you can ask.

Conflicting Philosophies

2010-04-21T13:57:00.001-07:00

Zeek: Damien, I'm sure you're a nice guy, but you left your sock in my house and you took my grand-daughter's innocence. Here's your sock.

*** *** ***

Damien: Sir, I just want to let you know that I consider myself a student of philosophy. Live and let live. I mean no harm to anyone.
Zeek: I am an irrational hardass with rage issues. Don't piss me off.

*** *** ***

Being a word geek, I appreciate good writing when I actually do sit still and watch TV. A pretty new show called Parenthood has some good writers...

Instinct & the Intersection of Teachable and Moment

2010-04-17T22:15:00.000-07:00

How to Explain Instinct to a Six-Year-Old

Me: If you saw a doughnut running across the yard, you would try to catch it and eat it, right?
@: Doughnuts don't run, mommy.
Me: But if doughnuts could run and you saw one in Barbara's yard?
@: I'd catch it and eat it! But mommy, you're still goofy.

Why to Explain Instinct to a Six-Year-Old
This morning, Luke followed his oh-so-doggy instinct and caught a squirrel. It was a baby squirrel. Probably a preteen in the world of squirrel years. Luke had chased the mama squirrel and lost. He turned around to find himself staring at the baby squirrel. The chase was short and fruitful.

See squirrel. See squirrel run. Chase squirrel. Catch squirrel.
Wait! What? I caught it? I've never caught anything.
What do I doooooo?
Uh oh, they're coming toward me. They look concerned.
She's yelling "house!"
Drop the squirrel!
OK, I'm going into the house. You don't have to ask me twice!
What just happened? I actually caught something other than kibble?
Whu huh?

Once I got Luke in the house, my neighbor J and I went to check on little guy. Meanwhile, mama was rightfully losing her squirrel-marbles in a tree across the street. Little guy was breathing, but not looking terribly comfortable. We went over to J's porch to give mama squirrel an opportunity to check on little guy. Mama squirrel maneuvered closer.

Neither of us could decide whether to put little guy out of his misery or give him a chance to recovery. Likewise, neither of us pictured ourselves doing squirrel resuscitation or a Kevorkian routine. After getting over the initial shock, little guy did some hopeful flopping. Or flipping. Maybe both. Mama squirrel maneuvered still closer.

We decided to give little guy time to recover, but were wary of neighborhood crows. I went back to my house, J to his. A bit later I heard a crow going bonkers. Interestingly enough, he was chasing my hawk. Both birds seemed oblivious to the unfolding squirrel drama.

Awhile later, I checked outside and saw mama squirrel near the baby, but a crow even closer. I chased off and cussed out the crow and went looking for a cardboard box. In the 3.217 minutes it took me to procure a box and towel from my garage, Barbara's cat appeared. I cussed out the cat, put the squirrel in the box with a towel and moved him to my porch.

For some reason, I decided liberal use of the f-bomb toward birds and cats would be helpful to little guy. I knew he wouldn't survive, but I didn't want to see him eviscerated on the lawn. Mama squirrel tracked my every move from directly above in the magnolia tree.

Welcome to the Intersection of Teachable and Moment
Shortly after I had set up little guy on the porch, X dropped off @. I told @ he could look in the box from a distance, but he needed to be quiet. He sat on my lap on the lawn while I explained that in the box was a baby squirrel and it would likely die.

@'s first instinct was to be simultaneously angry with Luke and sad for the squirrels. I completely understood. He was upset, but I had to explain the concept of instinct itself.

Luke's instinct was to chase.
@'s instinct was to be angry with Luke.
My instinct was to give mama squirrel a chance to see him before he died.

We were gone for most of the afternoon and when we came home, little guy was no longer moving. @ decided he was sleeping and I opted not to correct him. Once @ was safely snuggled into bed, I attended to the disposition of little guy.

I hope mama squirrel got her chance. I had a week that brought up several remembrances of grief and found myself revisiting feelings of losing N (@'s brother). And then this morning's squirrel escapades found their way into my day. To me, the hawk's visit was no coincidence. It all feels like some sort of closure on the week.

The Wisdom of Six-Year-Olds

2010-04-04T13:03:00.000-07:00

I heard an amazingly beautiful story today. I'll do my best to retell it here.

A grandmother was tucking her six-year-old grandson into bed.
The little boy, whose father had committed suicide a year prior,
asked her what death felt like.

Caught off guard, she first responded, "It probably doesn't feel like anything."

Then she explained that if you have a strong spirit,like his daddy did, she believed your spirit continued on and took another form.

The little boy thought for a moment.

"I think my dad's spirit is an apple tree. He had a really healthy body and he liked apples," he said. "But his mind wasn't healthy."

"I hope he's an apple tree and he can see the sky and feel the fresh air on his branches."

Gulp. Yeah, it brought tears to my eyes. Still does.

@ asked me yesterday what "represent" means. We talked about it and I used my hawk tattoo as an example, saying that for me it represents N, his twin.

We talked about how after he and N were born, a small hawk started spending time in the trees around my house -- showing up every once in awhile as if it were checking in, then flying away.

Always one with an answer, @ explained it to me.

The hawk comes to our house
to look for N and
when he can't find him

he flies away because he's so sad.

Gulp.

The wisdom of six-year-olds: There's no pretense. There's no "I wonder if this sounds wrong" or "What will people think if I say this out loud?" There's just the pure, clear, truth as they see it.

(And yes, six years later, the hawk still visits.)

The ER and Wizard of Wonderland

2010-04-02T10:12:00.000-07:00

I went to check out Alice in Wonderland and...
ended up a test subject for The Wizard of Oz.

After making it about 20 minutes into the movie, I started feeling relatively horrid, went home, and my fantabulous neighbor took me to the hospital. It is a bit amusing to go to the ER on April Fools' Day with your due-to-give-birth-in-two-days friend and identify yourself as the patient.

But we have good news!

A CAT scan proved I have a brain
An EKG proved I have a heart
Morphine subbed in for the field of poppies...

No answers -- ok, except that I can and I still feel icky, but I'm home chillin' on the couch. Oh, and despite the morphine, there were no flying monkeys.

Human Reply to Auto-Reply FAIL

2010-03-31T20:52:00.000-07:00

A guy I work with, but whom I've never met in person, responded to my out-of-the-office auto-reply e-mail with "Are you having a baby?"

Wha? Huh? Who in the h**...?

My first thought was to respond, "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. It's yours."

As an absolutely hilarious comedian* I saw last winter would say, "First thought wrong..."

I didn't go with the first thought. Nor did I opt for the...

2nd: see above italics
3rd: "Been there, done that. Please donate to the March of Dimes"
4th: "Have we met?"
5th: "Please be available to field calls from HR."
6th: "Please see the attached photo from my endoscopy."
7th...

*Mark Lundholm.

Pudding for a 25% Shot at Immortality

2010-03-31T09:38:00.000-07:00

It's tax season. And as they say, in this country anyway, the only sure things are death and taxes. But according to some smart folks in Sweden, maybe not. Pudding might solve one of those little problems. No, no really!

I came across an interesting article. The all-too-generic headline, "Calcium Linked to Longer Life" is essentially the "Consumable of Some Sort Linked to Longer/Shorter Life" article du jour. In this case, my attention was suckered by the deck (that stuff under the headline designed to drag you into the rest of the article):

People who get the most calcium in their diet reduce their risk of death by 25 percent, according to new research on calcium and health.

Wha? Huh? Really? Bring it on! I clicked through to the article. It gets better. The editors provide immediately accessible advice under a nice little "what you can do" heading:

"Boost your calcium intake by eating healthy food sources like low-fat dairy, spinach, kale…and pudding!"

Pudding may be the secret to everlasting life! Or it could be kale. But... It could be pudding! I wonder:

Is butterscotch pudding more or less effective than chocolate pudding?
Is there a true hierarchy based on flavors? Brands?
IS BILL COSBY IMMORTAL?
Does adding bananas to pudding enhance or diminish the health benefits?
Can you make kale pudding?

I just gotta know!

Someone please explain why are we not dancing in the streets, stopping traffic, and plastering the screens of CNN, CBS, BBC, NBC, and anyone but Fox News with this? Where is Geraldo Rivera uncovering the long covered-up coverup? Hell, where is Oprah? Or that guy who always has very scary, extremely pale toothless people fighting in their way-too-small-and-even-tackier underwear? (I'm rather proud of myself that I can't remember his name, nor do I have any urge to Google it in the name of journalistic research.)

(And another note -- anyone else think they're marketing pudding to single women? Smooth, rich, and available?)

Polar Bear in Pursuit? Just Use a BSO!

2010-03-29T21:38:00.001-07:00

Should you be chased by a polar bear down Mountain View's Castro Street while on foot, simply do a u-turn and a street fair will appear. Apparently, polar bears -- or people dressed in mangy polar bear costumes, yet still frightening when chasing you -- are easily distracted by jewelry at art & wine festivals.

But perhaps only the variety of art & wine festival that appears like a pond in the desert when you make an abrupt turnaround midstreet. I'm not sure. I've not experienced another polar bear chase -- costumed or otherwise -- nor encountered an apparition-type art & wine festival.

It was clear, however, that the jewelry (ooooh shiny, prett-ty shiny things) is what captured the attention of the bear. The BSO strategy works again.

Four more instances where Bright Shiny Objects (BSO) work well in tough situations:

Presentations that are not going well -- mention some new, obscure feature or technology and watch the eyes glitter as they quickly forget the facts you were trying to explain, -- oooh, that's neat too, what metrics, i want the bleeferblarb widget
Disagreements with romantic partners -- especially useful when it's measured by carats and you're a professional athlete who really f***ed up (literally or figuratively)
Gremlinized children who really, really, really want -- oooh, that's neat too, what candy, i want the race car
Blog posts in which you really can't explain the whole polar bear thing except to say those meds for the digestive thing seem to have some really funky side effects

I can hardly wait to see what will play out across my eyelids tonight.

Hiatus for the Cape & Tights

2010-03-24T22:07:00.000-07:00

I realized my invisible superwoman cape isn't working. I sent it to the wrong dry cleaners and they used some sort of solvent that neutralized my superpowers. That's what I get for trying to save a buck.

OK, honestly, I was never quite comfortable in the tights either. The stilettos gave me blisters. And the leotard always gave me a wedgie, which made the cape useful until I remembered it was invisible.

Why is it that superheroes always have such ridiculous wardrobes? If they're superheros, wouldn't they have the special powers to save the world in jeans, a t-shirt, and flip-flops?

Big decision. I'm taking time off to get back to healthy, feisty, and strong.

My ego tried to convince me that I could simultaneous climb Everest, juggle flaming chainsaws, work full time, keep up with @, and figure out how to live without snobbishly good dark chocolate as the fourth food group (the others were fruits & veggies, tofu, and whole grains).

Hmmm... There might be a wee bit of exaggeration there. But it sure sounds like a fairly realistic list of "mom" things at first glance.

So it's learning time. Learning to adjust to the new hobbies of my digestive system so I can get back to my normal frenetic kid-chasing, dog-walking, hill hiking, etc. self. (I think I leave the falling out of trees behind.) Or whatever the new version of my self happens to be.

And away we go -- in my comfy clothes.

Tuna Glow, Tuna Know

2010-03-18T22:07:00.000-07:00

Dead tuna do tell tales. As one friend describes it, "your stomach muscles just up and decided they didn't want to work for a living anymore." He continued on a short rant about the French and labor unions, but after 20+ years of hearing his redneck raving, I'm nearly immune.

His pre-rant phrasing pretty much covers it. The medical definition of such activity, or lack of activity, is gastroparesis. (And no, it's not caused by stress!)

Thanks to my lovely radioactive tuna sandwich experiment, not to be confused with Ken Kesey's Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (which was waaaaaay more colorful, man), I discovered that although my brain spins quickly, my gut does not.

Whee! Having answers I don't like is better than having no answers at all. After a several months of mystery starting last fall, increasing discomfort, and entertaining tests, it's now onward into the breach of figuring out the next step.

OK now, this makes sense. That makes sense. That other thing makes sense.

The acid reflux, energy zonks, progressive lack of fun. (Should I mention random drops in blood sugar often characterized by a dangerous careening visit to the Beyatch Zone? Hmmm... Maybe not.)

It seems that not being able to digest food properly tends to be problematic. Who knew? Oh, everyone. Yes, well.

It's possible that gastroenterologists spend so much time learning to spell g-a-s-t-r-o-e-n-t-e-r-o-l-o-g-i-s-t that they lose their humor. Yes, the crack about taking my gastrointestinal muscles to the gym definitely fell flat. In fact, I'm fairly sure he's questioning my sanity and planning an award-winning medical research paper on the amazing number of gastroparesis patients who are also nuts.

Lose the ability to eat or sleep and you too will find yourself looking for those marbles you've lost. Or the nuts the neighbor squirrel buried three years ago.

Weak stomach muscles are not the same as abdominals, so crunches ain't gonna solve this thing. Googler that I am, I started sniffing around for ideas about changing my diet. Some gastroenterologists in Pennsylvania with a spiffy website provided a three-step diet supposedly designed to "to reduce symptoms and maintain adequate fluids and nutrition."

It sounds really inviting. They have this great grid with columns for "recommend" and "avoid" next to different food groups (milk products, vegetables, fruits, etc.). It would have been oh-so-much easier and less cruel to the web developers to simply list what you can eat: plain saltine crackers, Gatorade, soft drinks, fat-free consomme, boullion. Oh yeah, that's gonna work. You do that for three days and then move on to Step 2.

I'm convinced that the purpose of Step 1 is to make Step 2 look good. Much like when trying to get a six-year-old to eat vegetables you offer beets, brussels sprouts, and carrots as the options. Money has it you're going to hear carrots. But if you have my kid, you'd better have the beets and sprouts on hand. Not because he likes them, but because he will call your bluff on random occasions.

Yes, Step 2 did need the ugly first step to make it shine. Dinner from the sample menu looks downright deliciously decadent: A tablespoon of peanut butter, six saltines, a half-cup of vanilla pudding, and a half-cup of grape juice.

Bring out the candlelight and violins, because I'm ready to swoon over a meal like that. SWOON I tell you. Just friggin' swoon. Or wait, maybe it's pass out from dizzyness and HUNGER.

Step 3, the long-term maintenance diet, brings the promise of plain chicken, white rice, and cooked beets. No fresh fruit, no raw vegetables, no whole grains. Have we met? I have a loving relationship with fresh fruit, a strong preference for cold crunchy veggies, and dig my nice healthy whole grains. I have to give up my uber-healthy diet to stay healthy. Explain that one. (And before you jump on the potato chip easy-cheese bandwagon, my healthy diet also did not cause this!)

This definitely calls for more research. And a really freaking good sense of humor. And anything, yes anything, other than a future of cooked beets. Blech.

P.S. Good news: I don't have to pretend to like broccoli anymore. Apparently, eating it has the potential to hospitalize me. Who knew?!

Rabid Dust Bunnies

2010-03-13T11:27:00.000-08:00

I have a very big broom. I have often used it to sweep things under the rug in the interest of maintaining a relatively calm relationship with my mother. We've pretty much always had challenges getting along.

I'm told I'm too independent. And not just from Day 1. Stubborn from Day -2, that's me.

Apparently I have been a royal pain in the hindquarters since refusing to be born prior to her 30th birthday. Willful fetus that I was, I grabbed hold of her uterus and refused to come out for an additional two days -- not just one, two. Just to spite her. (The things you learn in a shared therapy session at the age of 18.)

There were more crimes in my list. I embarrassed her. People often mistook me for a boy. I was a quiet bookish soccer-addicted tomboy instead of a gregarious perky girl. I was shy to the point of dissolving in tearful terror when expected to order ice cream.

Oh yes, and willful. I willed my breasts to grow bigger than hers at an age far earlier than she thought appropriate. (Actually it wasn't will, it was Miracle-Gro. But don't tell anyone.) I didn't do much to try to fit in. Meanwhile, I was getting good grades, playing in the band (albeit badly), and selling my share of Girl Scout cookies in my little green uniform.

I recently went through an exercise about resentments. In total, I have very few. When it comes to my mother, I admit there is a list. And resentments are definitely on my to-do list. Interestingly, hers come from things over which I had no control. Mine have to do with her inability or refusal to acknowledge any of it. I've reached out, admitting that raising an unhappy kid couldn't have been easy, etc. I've given her free passes. She won't take them.

Two of the biggest examples are related, yet happened twenty years apart. When I was 18, I was working the summer near Donner Summit and was hospitalized twice after my blood pressure started dropping so low that I would lapse into shock. I spent a day in the ER, then was admitted for another four days. She didn't come to the hospital. She had plans to go to my grandparents' cabin in the area on the weekend, so she waited rather than modify her plans, by which time I had been released.

I delivered my twin boys -- her only grandchildren -- 14 weeks early. One of my sons died the day he was born, the other spent nearly four months in intensive care. Although she now lived in Seattle, she had a boatload of free airline tickets. Yet, she waited more than a month.

Even as an adult, but especially as a mother myself, it's hard to comprehend. I'm thankful that my brother has had a significantly better relationship with her. When it comes to me, any time anything has come up in conversation, it's quickly shut down in defense. Zero acknowledgment.

When I had my biopsy a few weeks ago, I sent a note to my mom, brother, and dad. My brother replied immediately, my dad called. A few days later, my mom wrote contending that I'd made myself sick via stress. The "you did it to yourself" is a pattern. In her medical omniscience, I contracted salmonella that kept me horizontal for nearly three weeks because I didn't wash my hands after using the restroom. (Wha? Huh? How dare...) The state health department on the other hand, traced it to a truck carrying lettuce, cantaloupe, and live chickens...

I considered getting out my big broom again, but found it jammed in the closet.

I wrote back explaining that I'm less stressed now than I can ever remember. She fired back about about me being rude and how messy my house was at her last visit. I'm facing a potential cancer diagnosis and her focus is on a messy desk.

Well, without big broom in hand, the rabid dust bunnies emerged.

I finally brought up an abbreviated list of "unacknowledged things." And that list, well -- I used to joke that I was raised by wolves. Someone who knew my history corrected me, "Oh no, wolves are far more nurturing."

I didn't expect an apology or some groundbreaking shift of tectonic plates. I accept that I can't change her. Any change must come from within her for her own reasons. But I can change how I interact with her. Saying it "out loud" to her took courage, but it also freed me because it gave the truth light and air.

After the second e-mail exchange, I got one more: "Have a nice life." I wasn't surprised.

The first words that came to mind for me? "I will."

That Certain Glow

2010-03-11T11:56:00.000-08:00

"Eat the whole thing, but be careful not to touch the filling," he said very seriously as he handed me a grayish tuna sandwich.

Huh? OK, don't touch the tuna, just consume it?
That's comforting.
As was the fact he was wearing bright blue gloves.
You don't want the stuff on your hands, just in your gut? Hmm...

My breakfast was in fact a standard-issue hospital cafeteria tuna sandwich augmented with a lovely condiment of radioactive isotopes. Mmmmmm? Or Hmmmmm...

Next task, remain absolutely still on a table for two full hours while nice people in lab coats use a screen to track the glow as makes its way through my digestive tract. I have an oddly convenient ability to fall asleep during medical tests. I actually slept through most of this one, until the last 30 minutes where I was fairly convinced my upper arms were going to catch fire from the position into which they'd been forced. (Good news, no actual scorching.)

Yesterday's little snack-and-glow was the third major attempt to figure out what is going on with my recalcitrant gut. These tests are like a series of midterms, without the studying. Is it reflux with a stubborn streak to match my Taurean birthdate? Is it something entirely different? Did one of the understudies from Sigourney Weaver's Alien series take residence in my abdomen?

Live the mystery! You have to be able to laugh when one of your four major food groups is oatmeal. Maybe you don't have to but me, I choose to laugh. A lot. It's always a matter of choice:
- Dwell on the discomfort or laugh through it.
- Stress about the lack of answers or work with what information you have.
- Worry about what comes next or be present now.
- Find medical pictures on WebMD or Alien pictures on IMDB.

I learned something important when @ was in the hospital. I could try to figure out all of the potential issues every time something came up, or I could deal what was in front of me from day to day. Given his initial health issues, the list of possible scenarios, challenges, and outcomes increased exponentially on a daily basis.

I don't do math.

Once upon a time I was a contingency planner -- I assessed things, identified potential outcomes, and had a plan for each one. (Effective when planning ski trips for 100+ people, but not universally applicable.) That little habit went out the window, quickly, when my sons were born.

As I applied that same perspective of "what is in front of me right now" to more aspects of my life, my stress level dropped. The less I try to figure out, control, predict, manipulate, etc. the more things work out on their own.

So, yes indeed, I ate a radioactive sandwich yesterday in what's called a gastric emptying study. And no, I have no idea what the results showed. I'll know when I know. And with that information, the next step will present itself. Until then, I'm looking out the door at a bright shiny day, putting on my shoes, and scraping up the energy to walk to the pharmacy. Because I can :-)

Reaching Out -- For the First Time

2010-03-01T23:56:00.000-08:00

I've spent the first two months of 2010 growling at myself for picking the high-deductible medical plan, given how much time I've spent with the medical community thus far. I like rice and oatmeal as much as the next girl, but there's been precious little variety beyond that since November.

Two weeks ago my esophagus and I had a photo shoot (think internal vogue-ing on enough valium to make a horse levitate). I expected to awake to answers, not "We'll have biopsy results in ten days." The concept of biopsy threw me; it somehow wasn't a word I was expecting. But it was less the potential of what it might mean than the nebulousness of not knowing the next step.

Boy howdy the Serenity Prayer does come in handy when you're scratching for control you're just not going to get. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I knew I couldn't change the test result, but I could change how I approached it. For me, it wasn't a simple change. It was akin to bungee jumping for the first time.

I have a reputation for being "strong" through adversity. At one point after my sons were born very early, I would quietly and to myself get ticked off anytime someone told me how strong I was. Were they clueless?! I had zero interest in being strong. I crumpled when no one was looking. I cried in my car. Why did everyone think I was so strong? Why couldn't they give me a break and let me be less than strong?

I finally figured it out over tea with a friend last Friday. (Yeah, I'm 41 years old. Sometimes I'm just amazingly s-l-o-w to catch on.) People think I'm strong because I've been oh-so-careful to never show weakness. I was raised in an environment where if you had to cry, you did it alone and behind closed doors. You didn't ask for help. You never admitted you couldn't do it yourself. I got very good at masking and compartmentalizing my emotions. I've been called "cold" when in reality, I'm pretty damned emotional (on the inside...).

I always showed strong. I never asked for help. I never admitted anything other than strong.

Last week, I took a new step. I ditched the mask. It felt weird, but I used my Facebook status to ask for positive thoughts because I was getting biopsy results that day. And I was scared. I second-guessed myself about 42 times, but I left the post there. I was hoping a few people would read it and maybe toss a good thought my way before moving on to the next post. I got far more than I bargained for.

Between the original post and the follow-up that the biopsy was indeed clear (yay), I had nearly 50 messages of support. I was overwhelmed, amazed, comforted, and truly humbled. I still am. The test result itself is now a minor footnote to the day.

By reaching out and asking for help, letting down the mask of strong, and allowing my friends into the scarier part of my world, I got an amazing sense of the people in my life. And of peace. And it carried me through my day. It buoys me nearly a week later and will continue to do so for a long time.

Now I get it...

Bark Park -- @'s Eye View (Video)

2010-02-07T20:56:00.000-08:00

I gave my camera to @ at the dog park today. He took 142 pictures. We who were raised with film, have a hard time just clicking that button so freely. He has no fear of "wasting film" and takes some really cool pix.

Today he was a man on a mission -- he took a picture of every tennis ball in the big dog area. Sometimes there are only a few around, today they'd multiplied like so many mushrooms after a rainstorm. (Hmm... Kind of makes me wonder, given the recent rain, where tennis balls really come from...)

Herewith, a bit less than three minutes for your amusement. @ is especially fond of the way I did the end...

Canned music from Microsoft...

Chuck E Cheese vs. the BMW

2010-01-26T22:05:00.000-08:00

Admit it, the first image that comes to mind when you read "Chuck E Cheese vs. the BMW" has something to do with oversized rodent carnage and tire tracks. If you're over the age of eight, the BMW automatically wins in this scenario. Hands down.

As visually oriented as I am and as satisfying that image happens to be, this is a different story.

I recently described myself as a duck with one foot nailed to the floor, wearing a circular groove in the floor. I've often used the un-nailed foot to kick my own ass for making mistakes, saying the wrong thing, failing to meet my own expectations, not having the answers, losing my temper, blah blah blah.

For the last few months, I've been actively taking steps to loosen that nail.

It turns out, I've had the tool in my hands all along -- a hammer. I was just accustomed to using it to ensure that darn nail would keep my flappy foot firmly fastened. I looked more closely at that hammer, turned it around in my hands only to discover that hey, the other side of this metal thingie can be used to remove nails! Who knew?!

I realize that such a firmly fastened foot can't be removed all at once -- it's a gradual process, but I'm ok with that. On Sunday I found evidence that I have, in fact, had some success.

After meeting a friend for tea, I had to pick up @ at a birthday party. I got in my car, backed out, and cut the wheel too quickly, resulting in the sickening sound of expensive plastic against even more expensive plastic. I pulled back into my parking spot, got out and assessed my handiwork.

A year ago -- heck, even a few months ago -- back when I had to be perfect and mistakes were unacceptable, I would have unleashed a silent set of four-letter words at myself. I would have berated myself for being stupid, not paying attention, picking the expensive car to hit. I might have pretended to leave a note in case anyone was watching, but would have been too embarrassed to actually face up to the owner of the car. And then I'd beat myself up over the guilt of not leaving a note, and over the fears that prevented me from doing it. I'd stress out and hold onto that feeling for quite awhile.

Instead, I left a note with my contact info, carefully wrapped it in a plastic bag (it was raining), and went along to the evil noise/germ/chaosfarm that is Chuck E Cheese. The 45 minutes there were exponentially more painful than the 5 minutes with the scratched BMW in the parking lot.

Later that day the owner of the car called. I was prepared for an angry guy tirade, but I got an amazingly gracious woman. It was her birthday and she was out with friends. At first she thought the note was from another friend wishing her a happy birthday. Alas, not quite. Apparently, I picked the right car to hit... The insurance companies will deal with the damage -- which, thankfully, is minimal -- and life will go on.

But I'll never get those 45 minutes of my life back from Chuck E Cheese.

Watching @ Be @

2010-01-23T20:36:00.000-08:00

@ and I took Lucas to the "bark park" today. I know of few better places to take a six-year-old kidlet and an 80-pound dog who have been surrounded by various sets of four walls during a week of downpour. We spent nearly two hours among the other sun-seeking dogs and their drivers.

When we first started going to the dog park, both @ and Luke would stay close to me, with Luke eventually giving in to curiosity and dogness to venture forth and join the ranks of random pooches enjoying the park.

Today, Luke never stopped moving. He wandered, sniffed, wrassled, chased, mounted, marked, marked, marked, sniffed, lather, rinse, repeat. He gently stopped by when another dog approached @, just to be nearby. He's fun to watch with his big slobbery dog grin as he jogs to and fro.

But watching @ today was even better. He followed Luke here and there, saw dogs he wanted to meet and talked to their people, and introduced Luke to potential pals. His favorite dogs of the day were two massive Great Danes. Meanwhile, a German Shepard puppy named Bear was quite fascinated with @ and kept venturing over to visit him. When a Springer Spaniel knocked him over, @ giggled and stood up with a grin -- much to the surprise those who expected him to cry.

Ever the "worker," he took a post at the water faucet as the concierge. He greeted the dogs and their owners, making it his responsibility to keep the bowls filled. He obliged the dogs who preferred to drink right out of the spigot. He was quite serious about his role.

He generally walked around with a comfort and confidence I never knew at that age, and not for a long time past it. More than anything else, I am grateful. I am grateful to know that he has no sense of the fears I had as a kid. And yes, to know that I have not shared those fears with him and that I am part of helping him become that confident, cheerful, creative little boy.

I learn from him as he learns from me. That makes me the lucky one.

Smashing Marshmallows

2010-01-23T19:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I can do no more than quote the wee boy:

Smashing marshmallows together to make sandwiches feels like trying to make a snake barf.
-- @, 1/23/2010

'Nuf said.

Mean Ol' Bully

2010-01-10T21:53:00.000-08:00

Growing up, I was the smallest kid in class. Not cute, perky small. Just awkward -- definitely not one to fit in.

My mom used to take me and my brother to Elmer's Barber Shop so we could get haircuts at the same time. Striped barber pole out front and a guy with a waxed mustache. People always assumed I was a boy until the onset of puberty provided distinctions to the contrary. And at which time my hair went into a freakish Rosanne Rosannadanna phase that is truly best forgotten.

All of that ensured I got picked on a fair amount, but it wasn't life shattering. You're small, homely, and painfully shy. You get used to it. You also get used to fighting back or standing up to it. You do the cornered squirrel thing and show your teeth.

After the pediatrician announced that I wouldn't break five feet, three days of angry crying sparked some sort of growth spurt. My uncle helped find someone to cut my hair in a way that actually looked good. And my confidence on the soccer field helped kick my self-esteem into gear. Consequently, things mellowed.

I haven't been bullied in a long time. I ran into hyper-aggressive women on soccer fields in my twenties and have encountered random examples in my professional life.

I'd been asked to do something for an event and had prepared all week, checked in with other people, asked for advice, etc. Five minutes before we're set to go, a woman comes over to me, gets right up in my face to physically intimidate me, and quite aggressively tells me I am NOT going to do what I'd been asked to do. Zero attempt to waste time on kindness -- heck, even to introduce herself. Mind you, this was definitely not the an environment where you'd expect any such thing. But hey, challenges appear where they do!

I blinked as she stalked away -- it was a proclamation, not a conversation -- and had a nice little internal dialogue.

Huh? WTF?

I think I just got hit by a truck.
Did she just do that?
Is anyone watching? Did anyone just see that?
I worked my butt off to get ready for this.

What is her problem?
That vest is really horrid. Maybe that's her problem.

I went to check with the person who had contacted me last week. Vest lady had already blazed through -- she looked way more beat up than I felt. I wasn't going to add to her stress. I let it go, shifted gears, and went on with my other responsibilities.

Five years ago I would have gotten right up in the bully's face and told her to kiss my lily white... big toe. (The one without the titanium.) Instead, I stopped and breathed. I let it go. I found the good in it -- the person who replaced me did a good job, I'll be even better prepared next time, I got kind words from "witnesses," and the rest of the event was uneventful.

I have no clue to her motivation, but I know it had nothing to do with me. She doesn't even know me. It's her deal, her issue. I don't have to know what it is. And I don't have to set her straight. It's not my job. She'll figure it out or she won't. For her sake, I hope she finds a more peaceful way to be.

I know I'm finding mine.

Dog Cookies

2009-12-31T21:23:00.000-08:00

Ah, New Year's Eve. A night fit for profound thought. Or not... @ and I were talking about cookies. He decided I should make dog cookies for blue doggie (his constant snooze companion).

Me: Do I make them out of real dogs?

@: Dog cookies aren't made from dogs, they're made from things dogs like.

Me: But apple pies are made from apples, not things apples like.

@: Just make them out of cat poo. Dogs like cat poo, especially Butchie.

Me: Eeeeew, that sounds pretty gross.

@: But it's funny too, right?

Me: Yep, it's gross and funny.

@: Oh, and it has to be really fresh so the dogs are attracted by the smell.

It's official. I've been verbally one-upped by a six-year-old.

I Don't Need a Leaf Blower...

2009-12-30T21:20:00.000-08:00

I asked for one thing out loud this holiday season. And I got it. In fact, @ tested it out and it blew away my expectations. OK, not exactly. It blew away the leaves in my front yard. Yes, I am now the proud owner of a leaf blower.

Maybe it's the editor thing, but I make a clear distinction between the terms need and want. And that's a good thing to teach @ when he proclaims a deep abiding neeeeeeeeeeed for 17 different things in 34 minutes at Target.

Truth be told, I don't need a leaf blower. And I'd never buy it for myself. But I wanted one. I have a lot of rocks in the landscaping of my yard. It makes things easier. And while the novelty of it lasts, I have a very small, but determined gardener to "help."

Sticky Situations

2009-12-26T20:56:00.000-08:00

Things are well-fastened at my house.

An elaborate system of bungee cords connects doors to one another so that "you need to know the unlocking secret" to enter a room.

Fear of being tangled like a helpless fly prompted me to remove the ones strung between doors in the hallway. Forgetting the web in the middle of the night could leave me as bait for the dreaded bungee spider.

Various arrangements of electrical- and duct-tape striping code the orange cones I once used to coach soccer practices. The coding has something to do with guiding guests through the house vs. women in cleats around a soccer field. I've received the explanation a few times. Next time I should probably take notes.

And we just had a long series of one-page bedtime stories from The Jumbo Duct Tape Book, immediately preceded by a conversation along the lines of "No, we don't really duct tape dogs and horses." (A conversation to which Luke paid rapt attention in the hopes that the message would resonate clearly with @.) One hundred pages down, 329 to go. My eyes started crossing at page 78.

All of this is very serious business to @.

My first inclination as the "aha!" expression creeps across his face as he lunges for his tape-laden backpack is "Wait, stop, no!" But watching the scenarios unroll is fairly fascinating and I have to remind myself that as long as no dog, mom, child, or piece of furniture is harmed, it's all good fun.

Unless there really is such thing as bungee spider.
And I forget to unweb the hallway.
In which case, I'm basically screwed.

P.S. Dear Mom and Al, Thanks for the plethora of industrial-grade fastening devices now festooning my humble abode. Should the bungee spider be real -- well...

Solstice Walk

2009-12-21T20:01:00.000-08:00

smell of woodsmoke and wet leaves,

feel of brisk air and misty rain,

dark of evening masking suburbia
as i walk on the evening of solstice

There are plenty of holidays to keep everyone amused this time of year. But for me, winter solstice has the most meaning. This is the longest night. Tomorrow the nights will get shorter, the days will stretch longer bit-by-bit. It marks a turning point that doesn't have retail mania and free shipping.

The leaves have fallen, the nights are darker, and so many things are seemingly in stasis waiting for their next act. And that next act is rebirth, growth, reaching for the sun. It may look like everything is dead, brown, wilted, but there is plenty happening in preparation for the coming of spring. The rain is cleansing, removing the dust, restoring the damp to the ground.

I am not very different. This year has brought me many things. The arrival of fall marked many of them. As the leaves fell from the trees, I was uncovering aspects of myself that I had hidden or been unable to acknowledge. And walking in the rain is as much a metaphor as it is a physical sense of renewal.

I was a duck with one flat foot firmly nailed to the floor -- moving in circles. The scenery wasn't changing and I hadn't really noticed. I was too busy moving in my little circle, doing my daily deal, taking care of everything around me. Then the late summer sun glinted off that nail on that duck foot of mine. And I looked up and realized so much of the scenery was too familiar. And I looked down and saw the circular path I'd worn in the floor.

Wow.

So I've set about using new tools to pry up that nail so I can remove myself from that circular groove and move forward. Maybe not in a straight line. The best journeys are those where you can experience the scenery, stop and take the side roads, meet the characters along the way, and remove the time-bound sense of "gotta get there."

Some of these tools have surprised me -- they were always there and I just couldn't name them. I put too-specific meanings on words like spirituality and faith such that I couldn't use them. I released the words from that binding. Now, just being able to integrate those concepts and those words in a way that has meaning for me has created a new energy and a relief that I can't really describe.

I set that darn nail pretty well. I've always been thorough. Removing it is a process. But I have maps to guide me through the steps that will take me there.

Unlike before, I also know that I don't have to be little miss tough girl and do it all on my own. That admitting my own challenges takes more strength than combating them alone.

On this evening of the solstice, I have walked in the rain, smelled the woodsmoke, and found clarity in the cold air. And for me, that is celebration.

Don't Be a Turkey...

2009-11-26T08:16:00.000-08:00

Recently I received a parrot as a gift. The parrot had a bad attitude and an even worse vocabulary. Every word out of the bird's mouth was rude, obnoxious and laced with profanity.

I tried and tried to change the bird's attitude by consistently saying only polite words, playing soft music and anything else I could think of to 'clean up' the bird's vocabulary. Finally, I was fed up and I yelled at the parrot. The parrot yelled back.

I shook the parrot and the parrot got angrier and even ruder. So, in desperation, I threw up my hands, grabbed the bird and put him in the freezer.

For a few minutes the parrot squawked and kicked and screamed. Then suddenly there was total quiet. Not a peep was heard for over a minute. Fearing that I'd hurt the parrot, I quickly opened the door to the freezer.

The parrot calmly stepped out onto my outstretched arms and said "I believe I may have offended you with my rude language and actions. I'm sincerely remorseful for my inappropriate transgressions and I fully intend to do everything I can to correct my rude and unforgivable behavior."

I was stunned at the change in the bird's attitude. As I was about to ask the parrot what had made such a dramatic change in his behavior, the bird continued, "May I ask what the turkey did?"

The Toughest Question

2009-11-19T12:37:00.000-08:00

I spoke at an event at Valley Med this morning as part of a "town hall" panel about prematurity at the opening of a new NICU family support program for the hospital. Here's my speech.

I was at the grocery store on Tuesday and the checker asked me how many kids I have. It’s a pretty simple question. Innocent. Yet, it’s probably the hardest question in the world for me.

The easy answer is to say one. But the fact is that I have two sons -- I have this amazing, intelligent, goofy six-year-old sidekick who charms the socks off of people every day. And in my heart, I have his twin brother, who I held in my arms for only an hour but will always be a part of me.

I usually say I have one child because it’s somehow easier to say that out loud. But inside I always know the difference.

I went in for a regular prenatal check on a Friday afternoon and was in the hospital within an hour. I remember walking by the NICU on my way to check in and thinking that I’d rather jump from a plane than have to go in there. Parachute or not. By Wednesday, I was there.

My sons were born 14 weeks early at 26 weeks gestation. They weighed less than two pounds each. Nobie lived only an hour and @ spent 110 days in the NICU. In that time he had three surgeries plus blood transfusions, platelet transfusions, and more time on a ventilator than anyone wanted to see. I watched him turn blue and be resuscitated by doctors and nurses more than once.

As a parent you feel overwhelmed, helpless, and scared. As a mother, if you’re like me and many others I’ve met, it doesn’t matter that in 50% of cases, they don’t know what causes premature birth. As a mother, all you know is that your body failed to protect your child. And now you have to watch as other people try to protect and heal your child. Throw in some post-partum hormones and it’s one bad roller coaster.

The most important thing I learned was to let go and to take things one day at a time. Personally I would have rather learned that from a book, but I didn’t have that choice. Some of the parents drove themselves crazy doing research on all of the possible outcomes – if this happens, this might happen in two years. If and might can throw you into a tailspin pretty quickly.

I learned “today is Thursday, today went well.” Or, “last night was rough, but this morning his numbers are good.” “He peed.” Who thought weighing a tiny diaper could have such an impact on a person’s day?

I watched him have seizures and met with a neurologist who didn’t want to have to tell me that he couldn’t predict if it would happen again.

After he finally came home, @ spent another year tethered to an oxygen tank 24x7. He had at least one medical appointment every week. He had physical therapy. Later he had speech therapy and feeding therapy.

When @ was two, that same neurologist told me that when he first met us, he thought our son’s chances of a normal outcome were very low. In the next breath, he discharged us from his care because @’s exams were now normal.

@ started first grade in August. He’s very small for his age, but he’s a tough little guy. He loves school. And he is very proud of helping the March of Dimes in honor of his brother.

He has experienced far more than anyone his age should have to see. And sometimes he just amazes me. And other times, when he’s doing all of those things six-year-olds do to drive their moms crazy – I do my best to remember how lucky I am that he survived to poke the dog, or jump on my new chair, or turn the entire contents of the recycling bin into a drum set.

Prematurity Awareness Day

2009-11-17T09:42:00.000-08:00

What is scarier than standing on the edge of a cliff? Walking into a NICU for the first time.

Posts about @ and N: http://wordjanitor.blogspot.com/search/label/preemie

Ceremonial Chair

2009-11-07T11:51:00.000-08:00

I'm big on metaphors. Some might consider it an affliction. Maybe it's the lapsed writer/poet in me. Maybe it's because I consider words to be playthings. Sometimes it's definitely to make a point when people are so tied up in the context of a thing that they need to see it in an entirely different language. (I have a whole slide deck on chocolate chip cookies, pecans, and network switches...)

In the moment, I don't always know why I do what I do. Other times, I know the symbolism exactly. I live the metaphor.

The day I went to the courthouse to file the original dee-vorce papers, I next went to a park where I could look out over a big open field to the hills. I wanted to see uncluttered distance, undeveloped space leading into trees. It had to be organic, growing, uncontrolled.

After another courthouse visit, I found myself in a shoe store. Mind you, I consider shoe stores as entertaining as dental offices. But I was taking more steps. You can't do that in old shoes. Sometimes new steps pinch a bit. You have to break them in. Get used to them and get them used to you. Sometimes you get them home and they're just not right -- the key is to not revert to the comfy Ugg boots.

Yesterday I had a meeting to finish the title transfer of my house to remove x's name. I wrote the big fat buyout check awhile ago. (Actually, the bank wrote it -- hence the lack of vomit on the document itself.) It's a hunk of paperwork that didn't get done right on the first try. Now, with signatures on Monday, it's done.

On my way home, I bought a chair. A big brown comfy leather chair. A chair of the type I've been wanting for several years. And when x moved out, he bought himself a big brown comfy leather chair. There's a little-known commandment -- thou shalt not covet thy x's chair. I've broken that commandment consistently.

I have this big deal about want vs. need. I don't splurge or indulge on much. I shop at Nordstrom Rack and if it ain't on sale, it ain't coming home with me. If I get a bonus at work, I put it toward bills or extra on my car or mortgage.

But I bought the chair. It's another element of the transformation of my house into my home. It's a sturdy place to sit. It's comfortable. And I got it myself -- including the dog-leash rigging to keep the box in the not-so-giant back of the car and muscling the awkward box into the house.

I got the chair because I wanted it. Because I acknowledged that it's OK to have something I want. If we never explore what we want in life, how do we know who we are? When to turn left or right? When to pause? And if we never allow ourselves the things we want, we become static and stoic.

Having what you need means you're fed, clothed, and surviving.

Most things I want aren't material objects. I can't buy them. But I do need to reach out or take action to get them. And sometimes it takes a chair to remind me.

Ewoks Amok

2009-10-30T16:31:00.000-07:00

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

@ Defines Talent

2009-10-22T07:31:00.000-07:00

"Nate can make arm farts and Ian can make leg farts.
They're really talented.
Mom, real-sounding fart noises are hard to do."

What's a mom to do? Well @, I hope you come up with some different talents.

"Well I can make mouth farts, but that's not as hard to do. But mine sound real. See???"

Are you prepared to say "excuse me" every time you make that noise?

"phbbbt, excuse meez. phbbbt, excuse meez..."

and on, and again, and on all the way from the parking lot through the first few minutes of shopping in Trader Joes. Saved by the banana display with the animatronic monkey. Phew!

New Hobbies for Halliburton

2009-10-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

Certain degenerates at Halliburton and KBR will soon need new hobbies. Why? Victims of their previous hobbies will now be able to take legal action against them. Where once protected they're now subject to at least one rule of human decency.

A certain headline on SFGate caught my attention this morning: The Gang Rape and the Republicans

I'm not sure what nerve it touched -- is it because I'm a woman? liberal? HUMAN? But I clicked through. Mark Morford can be pretty aggressive, so I wanted to see what had raised his hackles. And oh, yeah, I get it. I read his column, looked at some more information, and yep -- I wanna hurl. Twice.

What did I learn?

Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Wait, already knew that.

Money is the root of all evil. Wait, knew that too.

There are people for whom power and money are so shiny that they've lost all sense of human decency. Wait, I'm sorry, let me correct that. It's not possible for them to have human decency -- they're no longer human.

What has me all hackling and hurling? The fact that 30 people (strangely all Republican) voted against an amendment that reads in summary:

To prohibit the use of funds for any Federal contract with Halliburton Company, KBR, Inc., any of their subsidiaries or affiliates, or any other contracting party if such contractor or a subcontractor at any tier under such contract requires that employees or independent contractors sign mandatory arbitration clauses regarding certain claims.

Hmm... Certain claims. OK, maybe Morford is adding drama. So I dug a little to find out what "certain claims" means in the text of the amendment (that thankfully passed). The definition of certain claims:

sexual assault or harassment, including assault and battery, intentional infliction of emotional distress, false imprisonment, or negligent hiring, supervision, or retention.

No, really. In context, here you go:

SA 2588. Mr. FRANKEN (for himself and Ms. Landrieu) submitted an amendment intended to be proposed by him to the bill H.R. 3326, making appropriations for the Department of Defense for the fiscal year ending September 30, 2010, and for other purposes; as follows:

On page 245, between lines 8 and 9, insert the following:
Sec. 8104. (a) None of the funds appropriated or otherwise made available by this Act may be used for any existing or new Federal contract if the contractor or a subcontractor at any tier requires that an employee or independent contractor, as a condition of employment, sign a contract that mandates that the employee or independent contractor performing work under the contract or subcontract resolve through arbitration any claim under title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 or any tort related to or arising out of sexual assault or harassment, including assault and battery, intentional infliction of emotional distress, false imprisonment, or negligent hiring, supervision, or retention.

Rather than actually commit to screen the string of invective vocabulary that ran across the tickertape readerboard of my brain, I'll stick with basic TLAs: WTF? NFW!

Now, please excuse me while I go hurl.

Flashback: Letter to Parents

2009-08-16T15:59:00.000-07:00

A search through my file cabinet for a particular piece I wrote eons ago unearthed some random amusement from past attempts to slay boredom with a pen. (Old school stuff -- I had my choice of a pen, pencil, or a typewriter, not a computer.)

circa 1987

It's April, do you know where your parents are? Do your parents know who you are? Have they forgotten you? When is the last time you received a letter that ended "... and your little brother shaved the cat last week. Be good and try not to study too hard. Love, Mom and Dad"

It has been quite awhile since my mailbox was last graced with the presence of such a letter, so I decided to write home and attempt to get to the root of the problem...

To Whom It May Confuse (Mom & Dad),

I was sitting in front of my empty mailbox, wallowing in self pity and decided that I ought to write to you. It seems to me that you do, but I sure hope that you don't, subscribe to the "out of sight out of mind" point of view. I may not be at home, but I do still exist.

Well, have you invested in stamps yet? Found the Post Office on the map? Unearthed my address from that stack of party invitations that make it so difficult to find the time to write?

You do--I should hope--remember my name. If not, I think my birth certificate is in your file cabinet. It should help to refresh your memories of my name and verify both my existence and relationship to you.

If that doesn't work, check your dresser for pictures. I'm the one wearing the white sheet and the square frisbee hat getting an empty envelope for high school graduation. They did give me a diploma after I returned the sheet. If you want to see the diploma and verify that the name matches the one on the birth certificate, check the floor of my closet.

Remember me yet?

I'm the one of threw up on your shoulder after amost every meal for the first phase of my existence.

In first grade, I kicked my "Inch-High Private Eye" lunchbox home from school until you broke down and boght me a soccer ball.

If none of the above hit any memory nerves, I'm sure this will: Those demands for outrageous sums of money that you have been receiving and paying? They are not actually ransom notes or blackmail threats. It's my tuition.

Well, I'll be watching for news from you.

Your Daughter

P.S. Please send food and money -- not necessarily in that order.

Wee Boy Quote

2009-08-14T07:48:00.001-07:00

"We don't need to bring the radio outside.
We can dance to the sounds of the birds chirping."
--@, Aug '09

Tree-Hugger Bumper Stickers

2009-08-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

Before someone throws bird poo at me... The irony that these go on CARS is not lost on me.

NICE HUMMER
Sorry about your little pee-pee.

SAVE THE WHALES!
Trade them for valuable prizes!

May the Forest be with You

Compost Happens

My Car is an Honors Student
at the EPA

COMPOST
A rind is a terrible thing to waste

SAVE THE EARTH
It's the only planet with chocolate

The one I have in my cube at work?

At least the war on the environment is going well!

Peachy Day

2009-08-09T15:51:00.000-07:00

Queen of domestic culinary skills that I am...
insert laugh track here
... I've never actually made a peach pie. Before today. And now I've made three. And I still have plans for cobblers, strudels, and other such previously unprepared pastrified peachification projects.

I'm on a mission.

My dad's peach trees went more than a little over-the-top this year. Despite thinning the fruit earlier in the season, he has three trees that quite possibly define the term prolific. The fruit on two of the trees is so ripe it can't be transported further than to the house.

So, I've picked, peeled, pitted, and pared pounds and pounds of peaches.

After pie #1 I was already bored with plain ol' peaches, so I've been experimenting... Muah ha ha ha... So far no explosions due to chemical reactions between grated ginger, peaches, and pecans.

Tomorrow... The Strudel Experiment...

Golf Tourney '09

2009-08-05T20:04:00.000-07:00

Interestingly enough, one of my previous jobs included working at golf tournaments every six months. Our company and hosted golf tournaments designed specifically for executive schmoozing at trade shows. The executive schmoozing, in itself, makes it even more amusing that it was my job to be there. At that point in my job history, I owned one suit and it was the one I interviewed in.

My role was as a magazine editor and the tournaments allowed me the opportunity to meet execs of companies we might profile. But it was mostly an escape from the fluorescent lighting and concrete floors of the convention center. And it was an opportunity to spend the day with the professional golfer hired to amuse and gladhand the execs.

The best of the bunch was David Fehrety, also known as "the sharpest wit in golf," who writes for Golf magazine and does commentary for CBS. How can you not like a guy whose tagline on his web page says "Raising potty mouth to a third-grade level"? Definitely one of the more humorous people on the planet. Classic line was one of the (clueless) execs asked him where he got his Ryder Cup bag. "Well, you have to be a pretty good golfer to be in the Ryder Cup."

These days I go to one golf tournament a year, now as a volunteer. This week was the 7th Annual W.L. Butler Construction tournament to raise money for the March of Dimes. This was my fifth year volunteering and this time @ and x came with me as "ambassadors." It's always amazing -- and gratifying -- to see that people who can, will write big checks for a good cause.

Part of our role this year was to give a speech at the dinner and auction.

Last time I gave a speech like this and X was holding @, @ peed on him.

Peanut gallery: Pee @, Pee!!!

@ and his twin brother were born 14 weeks early and weighed less than two pounds each. @'s brother lived only an hour. Today you see a wicked smart little guy about to start first grade.

After he was born, @ spent 110 days in intensive care, had heart sugery, eye surgery, and two hernias repaired. He racked up a $1.4 million hospital bill. The hospital was the most dramatic part of his journey but it was just the beginning.

@ came home on oxygen and spent his first year home leashed to an oxygen tank we named Hank. Anytime we left the house, we had to bring smaller tanks -- known as Hank Jr. -- with us. @ had a long list of doctors -- pulmnologist, urologist, neurologist, gastroenterologist, opthalmalogist...

He went through two years of weekly speech therapy before he spoke. Now, well, it's definitely not a problem. Quiet... That's the challenge now.

Until a year ago, @ couldn't eat solid food. As slowly as he was growing, his tonsils grew three times as fast and prevented him from swallowing real food. Once he had his tonsils removed, he could eat. The difference was amazing.

We put him in a private kindergarten in case he had to go through it twice. Despite the seizures at birth, the speech delays, and the predictions of the best doctors around -- @ aced kindergarten and starts first grade in two weeks.

His challenges now are harder to see, but he still has a few. The prematurity affected his growth hormones and he's much smaller than other kids his age. Because his hormone levels aren't normal, there are other potential health impacts as well. We now face a decision about daily injections to get the levels right. And let me tell you, this kid will put up with a lot, but he is definitely not fond of needles.

But thanks to an amazingly tough spirit, excellent doctors, and treatments developed through March of Dimes-funded research, @ is here today to thank you and ask for your continued support of the March of Dimes.

Field Trippin' to a Field

2009-07-19T16:32:00.000-07:00

The walls were closing in on Cubeville.
It was definitely time for a break.
I pulled @ out of his summer program and took off Friday from work.

FIELD TRIP!!!
Destination: Harley Farms Goat Dairy, Pescadero.

I figured it would be a neat experience for @ and I'd get some amusement out of it too. You know -- breathe some good coastal air, get close to some goats, learn how they make goat cheese, add an answer to the logarithmically expanding "how do they? how does it work? where does it come from?" list.

How did we do?

Breathe good coastal air: check
Get close to some goats: check
Learn how they make goat cheese: check
Add an answer to the logarithmically expanding "how do they? how does it work? where does it come from?" list: check, check, check

But really, how did it go?

@'s trip report:

"I milked a goat!!! It was so AWESOME!"

My trip report:

"I milked a goat! It was great fun!"

And, no need to brag, but according to our absolute rockstar tour guide goddess Colleen, I may in fact be a natural at goat-milking. (My dad's response was "Good thing. The news is full of your company's impending layoffs. Maybe you can get a job with the goats.")

My head is full of all sorts of factoids and new-found knowledge.

Dairy goats are like big happy, cloven-hooved puppies. Curious, friendly, gentle, and affectionate. Dare I say even a bit snuggly? Banish the image of aggressive little petting zoo monsters.
With a good business, ecological, and community-minded mind, Dee Harley has created an amazing sustainable farm that's more than just a business. (Sure, everyone likes to say that's the fact of their organization, but... sometimes it actually IS.)
The cells in goat milk are round vs. oblong cells in cow milk, which contributes something in the complexity of why lactose-intolerant goofs like me can handle goat milk and cheese vs. the moo-moo variety.
Llamas are great goat guard dogs mostly because they don't like dogs, namely the coyote form of dogs. And although Bart the llama has a funky grin, he's fabulous.
After hugging goats like crazy in a field, kids will still attempt to milk them using a single pokey finger when faced with a loaded udder.

Next step?

Convince LD he needs to adopt a couple of milk-goat retirees up in G'town.

Hmm... Or research local city ordinances...

If You Love...

2009-07-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it was, and always will be yours. If it never returns, it was never yours to begin with. If it just sits in your room, messes up your stuff, eats your food, uses your phone, takes your money, and never behaves as if you actually set it free in the first place, you either married it or gave birth to it.

I didn't write it, but gee... I dunno.

So, There Was This Tree...

2009-06-28T21:57:00.000-07:00

(I'm typing this as my dog is sleeping on my right foot, dreaming, twitching, and barking in his sleep.)

So, there was this tree. And it needed pruning. Not a very big tree, really. But apparently big enough.

And I have some killer branch chompers. So I got into the tree. And well, kinda got out of the tree. Abruptly. And since I'd already done some definite damage to the tree before gravity nudged me onto the ground, I landed somewhat tangled in some branches.

While flat on the ground, staring at the tree that ousted me and doing the mandatory self-assessment that usually follows such a test of gravity, @ walks over and looks down at me, very seriously.

@: Mama, get up. We still have work to do.
Me: Why don't we go inside and watch TV for awhile.
@: No Mama, we're not done working.
Me: Well, I need a little break to ice my leg.
@: Well OK, but we're not finished working.

Junior Taskmaster, at your service.

I had a pretty good bruise on my foot and figured I'd sprained my ankle. (Yes, in fact, I did conveniently extend the definition of ankle for this self-diagnosis. Why do you ask?)

When the "sprain" was still rather uncomfortable after three weeks, I relented and called up my podiatrist (who really oughta be on speed dial by now).

Surfer Doc: What did you do?
Me: Fell out of a tree.
Surfer Doc: No really.
Me: Yep.
Surfer Doc: Some people hire gardeners.
Me: Yep.
Surfer Doc: When did you do it?
Me: You don't want to know...
Surfer Doc: You're never going to learn, are you?
Me: Probably not.

So, x-rays taken, he gets his nifty ruler and measures the film. Then measures my leg and proves, beyond doubt, that yep -- three inches above my ankle -- that's the spot. On my left leg. Then he shows me the fracture on the film. And yes, I laugh rather hysterically. Because by now, it's funny.

My oft-therapied, scarred, and screwed left leg is now back in the lovely massive velcro boot contraption that I'm smart enough not to throw away.

A year ago this week -- I had surgery to repair my achilles tendon, on my left leg. Two years before that, surgery to remove a broken bone and fuse my big toe with a two-inch titanium screw -- on my left leg. A few years before that, a couple of other foot surgeries and a knee surgery. ALL ON MY FREAKIN' LEFT LEG.

The last thing I wanted to do was admit that the sprain was yet another bit of damage to this dang thing. Alas. So I had to call my dad to let him know I wouldn't be able to help much with work on the weekend of the fourth.

LD: Now what did you do?
Me: Well, there was this tree...

The Club

2009-06-25T22:25:00.000-07:00

I belong to a very exclusive club. It's club no one ever wants to join. I'm part of an an online group for parents who have lost infants.

I met a woman named Lisa through e-mail yesterday. She recently had preemie twins and her beautiful little girl passed away. I wrote this right before @ and N's second birthday.

For Nobie

In my mind, you are six years old
Though if you were here, you would be only two
I see you every day in my heart
You are in a meadow, at a fence
And you are happy
And you are beautiful

I probably picture you as six
Because I think you would be safe
That you would be happy
That you would be past the pain
And you would understand
That we are not with you, but you are part of us

I imagine that my uncle guides you
He shows you how to watch us
And answers your every question
Though there is no one to answer mine
He teaches you and shows you how to find us
To watch us, to know us from afar

You are connected
To everyone I’ve loved
And you are connected, to me

I can’t call it heaven
Because I don’t know what heaven is
But I know you are safe and loved
And never alone
—October 2005

Typo of the Week

2009-05-19T12:19:00.000-07:00

In a work-related e-mail no less!!!

Found a ghiradelli lava cake mix in my panty last night. Made it. Have pics for you. :-)

I think I've found the true meaning of ROFLMAO

2009-05-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

It is a paradoxical but profoundly true
and important principle of life
that the most likely way to reach a goal
is to be aiming not at that goal itself
but at some more ambitious goal beyond it.
- Arnold Toynbee

Now, to make a list...

End global warming
Enable world peace
...

Or is this just a really fancy way of explaining why when playing soccer I had sooo many OTB (over the bar) shots?

All snarky comments aside: It's food for thought indeed.

Enemies of Language

2009-04-30T16:14:00.000-07:00

The great enemy of clear language is insincerity.
When there is a gap between
one's real and one's declared aims,
one turns as it were instinctively to
long words and exhausted idioms,
like a cuttlefish spurting out ink.
--George Orwell

Ah, my new excuse for simple language. I am primarily monosyllabic because I am so damn sincere. Hmm... the long words in the previous sentence suggest I am insincere about sincerity? So much to consider and my idioms are just too tired.

Different Paces

2009-03-12T10:39:00.000-07:00

I'm the type of person who gets to the airport early, brings a book, and chills out before a flight. Right now I'm working with the people who breathlessly slide into their seats eight seconds before they close the doors at the gate.

Animal Instincts

2009-03-07T19:56:00.000-08:00

I have fun with Facebook update posts--those odd little things that have taught so many of us to refer to ourselves in the third person. Being a wordgeek, I'm entertained by finding ways to express myself in a sentence--hopefully with some humor attached. Reading them gives me a quick read on my friends--laughing, standing in line somewhere, stressed, vacationing, hospitalized. Heck, Friday I learned DaveBro was (briefly) 40 miles away at SFO instead of the usual several hundred in Texas. (Brat)

I sometimes look back at my recent posts for some sort of accounting of the week. Apparently, animals are really causing me stress lately. Wordjanitor...

is chillin' in the sunny backyard and checking e-mail for flaming chickens.
would be getting this stuff done if not for the flying monkeys throwing poo.
is just having a fine ol' time juggling rabid wolverines and herding tired cats.
laughs: "Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come."- Matt Groening

At least one person was amused by the chicken comment. Why? Check out the photo that appeared in my e-mail inbox under the subject line "Important."

Lingua Franca

2009-03-07T10:40:00.000-08:00

The common language of simple things differs greatly depending on a variety of factors, even within the same geographical area. An example:
Situation: @ burps
Response: At my house, @ follows with, "Excuse me."
At x's house, @ follows with, "That's the sign that the tank is full."
Ah, the intricacies of dialects.

New Buildings, Well, Suck...

2009-02-28T20:16:00.000-08:00

Quick, I saw some open space, stick an empty building in it! Welcome to my pet peeve. Obnoxiously rampant in San Jose -- biz occupancy rates are down, so what are we doing? Building more huge empty buildings! YAY! Open space? BOO! Knock down an empty building to build a bigger empty one! YAY!

The article by Jennifer Berry that got me all riled up and feeling green? The Greenest Building

The environmental cost of commercial construction = huge. And knocking down something just to put a new one up -- even worse. And even if the new construction is "green" -- the total environmental and economic costs are massive.

How massive? I've cribbed some nifty tidbits from the article below.

“The Pew Center on Global Climate Change estimates that 43% of carbon emissions in the United States are attributable to energy used in residential, commercial and industrial buildings, making the building sector the largest source of greenhouse gases in America. This figure does not even include the energy required to build new structures or to demolish established structures.”
“Demolishing a 50,000 square foot building creates 4,000 tons of waste… Constructing a new 50,000 square foot building releases as much carbon as driving a car 2.8 million miles.” -- Richard Moe, president for the National Trust for Historic Preservation
At current rates, one third of the existing building stock in the United States will be demolished in the next 25 years. The refuse from construction, primarily from demolition, represents approximately 25 percent of the waste added to our landfills each year.”-- The Brookings Institution
“It takes approximately 65 years for a green, energy-efficient building to recover the energy lost in demolition of an existing building even if 40 percent of the building materials from the demolition are recycled.”--Richard Moe
“Data from the U.S. Energy Information Agency indicates that structures built prior to 1920 are more energy-efficient than those built through the year 2000, when the concept of sustainability began to take hold.”
The General Services Administration estimates that the utility costs for historic buildings in its inventory are 27% less than for modern structures.
“If you are rehab-ing any building in a city, the labor costs are a lot more than the actual materials, helping provide jobs. For example, [economist Donovan] Rypkema said that if you spend more money on the labor, you’re spending more money for the economy, because the laborer will spend the money again.”-- Heather Massler, TAE

I'm going to go eat some tofu and drive my Prius around the block now...

Why I Walk

2009-02-26T21:51:00.000-08:00

This is my sixth year walking for March of Dimes. I walk, speak, and work on behalf of March of Dimes to honor my sons -- the one who has the most amazing laugh in the world and the one who is forever etched in my memory.

My sons were born at 26 weeks and weighed less than two pounds each. It was, by far, the most frightening and memorable day of my life. And it was just the beginning of months of heartbreak and fear.

@s brother died within an hour of being born. We didn't have time to grieve because we had to be strong and give @ every ounce of our strength and love to help him survive. He was in intensive care for nearly four months, had several surgeries, and spent a year on oxygen after finally coming home.

We finally felt confident to celebrate on his second birthday. It took that long just to feel confident that yes, this amazing strong fighter of a kid would get to be a kid.

@ is five. This year we celebrated his birthday with a trip to the Academy of Sciences and I decorated a cake with a construction theme. I still can't handle birthday parties -- as much as I celebrate @'s life now, his birthday is also the day my heart broke.

Why do I walk? I walk because...

I want other families to know their children's birthdays as no more than the most amazing day when that beautiful child entered their lives.
I want other families to drive past the hospital and not actually have a favorite parking space.
My son knows he was "tiny tiny" and "really sick" when he was born. And he knows that we walk together so other babies won't be born that way.
When my son did his "family booklet" for kindergarten and there was a blank line for "brothers," I couldn't let him write a zero.
My sons have each had a profound impact on my life.

They both remind me every day about what is truly important in this world. How little things can hold the greatest fascination. How what seems like a big deal most often isn't even close to nudging the needle on the big-deal meter of life.

I walk because I know that -- experiencing what we have -- no matter what comes our way, he and I can learn from it, grow through it, and use our experience to help someone else. He's five and he already believes in that. What more can I ask?

Peace, love, and laughter.

Lightbulbs at Work

2009-02-21T16:23:00.000-08:00

How many stakeholders does it take to change a lightbulb?
Can we put the lightbulb in a microsite with really neat flash stuff?

How many site strategists does it take to change a lightbulb?
Do we still need this lightbulb on the site?
What's the customer benefit of the lightbulb?
How are the metrics for the lightbulb?
What's the drive-to strategy?

How many writers does it take to change a light bulb?
What do you mean you're changing the lightbulb?
Do you know how long I worked on that lightbulb?

How many designers does it take to change a lightbulb?
Can we make it a candle? Candles are pretty.

Lying, Cheating, and Stealing

2009-02-21T16:13:00.000-08:00

May you never lie, cheat, or steal.

But if you shall lie, cheat, or steal:

.....steal a kiss
........................cheat on death
..................................................&
..................................................... lie with someone you love

Energy Credits for Stress?

2009-02-14T10:35:00.000-08:00

I had a money-saving thought: If I could convert my workday stress into electricity, I could power the house and still get a credit back from PG&E. Gas, well that's another story. But with the right diet... Wrong diet?

So far, 2009 has been the Year of Working My Tailfeathers Off. Yes, it ends in a preposition and you probably had no prior knowledge that I ever had tailfeathers. Well, no way to prove it now because they're gone baby gone. And if they have any sense, they ain't coming back.

The big admission: I have a work ethic problem.

It's not enough to get the job done. It's not enough to get the job done well. I have to figure out how to make it better. (Somehow this does not apply to cleaning my house...)

Yeah yeah. It's not actually the intensity and long hours, though they're part of the equation. And it's not just in the job I get paid to do. But in the cube-dwelling arena, I have made a habit of seeing beyond the task at hand. I'm definitely in the middle of that now with some fairly substantial projects -- they're kicking my ass, but they'll be more effective in the end. It makes my job more difficult, but more fulfilling -- because, to me anyway, I'm participating vs. doing.

I'm not in it for happy little brownie points (although I have a well-established reputation for working for high-end dark chocolate). There's plenty of superficial b.s. I can highlight if I want to get attention. I need the challenge. Once I've "been there, done that" with a particular project type, I need another level to keep up my own interest. I like to figure out new things, build the relationships between x and y, and see where it goes.

What's the root? As a writer (I use that term with hesitation), there's always an edit to be made -- a twist of a phrase, a more evocative word, a more precise verb -- to improve your work. I grew up watching my dad return things from rusty dusty abandoned pieces into cars or an airplane -- locating or building the random little part to get it just right -- because he could. As a kid I spent frustrated energy trying to fit in and meet the expectations of others, then woke to realize that I really didn't care. Fulfillment comes from flying my own kite, defining my own challenges, and looking for the next ones.

Or, with a five-year-old as my guide, I'm still asking "Why, how, why, how, why..." and answering my own questions with "why not?" and "let me figure it out."

Sleep or Fava Beans? Maybe Both

2009-01-30T20:57:00.001-08:00

I have my second sleep study tonight. Last week I put on my jammies, gathered up my blanket and pillow, drove across town and they wired me up like a giant lab rat with:

electrodes to measure my brain waves and stages of sleep (there are 3 plus REM)
movement sensors on my legs, arms, and parts of my face
a heart rate monitor
belts on my chest and tummy to measure movement when I inhale and exhale
a microphone
a nasal cannula
a second measuring something or other under my nose
an oxygen saturation probe on my finger

And then they told me to sleep. Oh, and don't forget the camera on the wall with the circle of little red lights that you can see even without your glasses. All night.

They monitor and watch, collect a ton of data, wake you up at 6a, rip off all the wires, tell you basically nothing, and send you on your way.

I did sleep off and on. I woke up whenever there was noise in the hallway -- usually to hear someone tell the guy in the room across the hall to roll over or to change out his mask. You think they'd do a better job of soundproofing a sleep clinic! The guy should probably have his own county. Maybe he does. I can't imagine neighbors, dogs, cats, goldfish, or wild animals putting up with the ruckus. Amazing!

And I can tell you exactly where the monitoring room was in proximity to my room because well, the sleep techs don't sleep at night, they talk.

This week, they'll put on a lot of the same sensors and then go through having me sleep -- or try mightily -- with a series of CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) masks to see if they prevent the apnea spells and contribute to better sleep -- actual consistent breathing, oxygenation, deeper stages of sleep, REM, etc.

I can't imagine being able to sleep with a freakin' Hannibal Lechter-esque mask on my face, but we'll see what happens. (I almost included a photo of a mask in this post, but very quickly closed the google image search results because the pix were freaking me out...)

If nothing else, I predict a craving for fava beans will strike sometime tomorrow.

A Facebook Duel of Geek Proportions

2009-01-30T20:11:00.000-08:00

A recent Facebook update by a friend read:

Alex is wondering if anyone can explain in one paragraph how to setup a simple mailto contact form on IIS 6.0 (that doesn'Alt like perl - I normally use FormMail).

So, being the snot I have grown to be, I commented back:

Kim is wondering if she has ever seen a geekier FB update than this nonsense. Please, next time just put in some unix code and dispense with the formalities of actual words.

To which, he replied:

Kim, you're right. This is for you:
01001001001000000110001101
10000101101110001001110111010000100000011000100110010101101100011010010110010101110110011001010010000001111001011011110111010100100000011000010110001101110100011101010110000101101100011011000111100100100000011011000110111101101111011010110110010101100100001000000111010001101000011010010111001100100000011101010111000000101110001000000010000001001110011011110111011100100000011101110110100001101111001001110111001100100000011101000110100001100101001000000110011101100101011001010110101100101110

To which, I replied:

OMG, CLASSIC. YOU WIN!!! Or should I say:
01001111 01001101 01000111 00101110 00100000 01000011 01001100 01000001 01010011 01010011 01001001 01000011 00101110 00100000 01011001 01001111 01010101 00100000 01010111 01001001 01001110 00100001 00100001 00100001

Why? Go here, paste the binary code (all them 0101010s up there) into the second box on the grid, hit , and then... well... you just have to laugh at me (and then perhaps, yourself...).

Are You Sleepy?

2009-01-21T09:48:00.001-08:00

Rumor has it I likely have sleep apnea. I suppose repeatedly ceasing breathing in the middle of the night is not a habit one should cultivate or continue. So off I went to a consult yesterday with a pulmonologist/sleep specialist.

Some people are just too serious. You can almost see their thought processes on a LED readerboard above their heads.

I am a doctor.
I have a form.
I am going to ask you questions on the form.
I will scrawl the answers in the appropriate spaces.
I will not deviate from this path.
Then, based on your answers, I will give you a rehearsed speech about the next steps.
I will not deviate from the script.

Want to make a doctor of this variety really uncomfortable? Use multiple-word answers.

WAIT, I have a box for yes or no.
I don't want to listen to a sentence, I wan't a monosyllabic response.

How serious was this guy? He's asking me if I'm sleepy during the day. I honest-to-goodness involuntarily yawned. In fact, I'd been yawning since I landed in this giant funky weird thronelike chair where I was seated for the inquisition.

I laughed and responded, "I suppose that should be evidence enough."

His response, "What? Are you sleepy during the day?"

Parisian Burger for Tofu Girl

2009-01-18T20:30:00.000-08:00

My (week)daily lunch travels usually take me to the building 3 cafeteria where I fill a compostable plastic container with whole grains, edamame, cucumber, tomatoes, tofu, sunflower seeds, and a bit of soy dressing. There's some variation depending on the veggie selection, but I pretty much have the same thing every day.

Yes, because I actually like it. No, really.

Every once in awhile, a coworker will catch me eating something from the animal kingdom and react with some surprise that I consume things that used to moo, bok, swim, or otherwise require chasing to catch for use as food.

So my absolute glee (yes GLEE) upon receiving an Armadillo Willy's e-mail titled "The Legend Returns" and announcing the return of the Linda's Drive-In Parisian Burger could be quite a shock to some.

E-mail marketing sometimes hits the mark. Even to a jaded web marketing chick.

You see, the Parisian Burger isn't just a burger. It's nostalgia. It's the one burger place I ever remember going with LD when I was a kid. The red and white striped awning, the walk-up counter, the bolted-down stools and chairs, the cars going by on El Camino. Freezing my a** off on one of those little metal stools while waiting for the food.

Then the sauce on the sourdough bun, requisite 2 or 3 napkins, testing the tater tots until they were cool enough to eat. Not just any sauce, not just any bun. Linda's Drive-in closed in 1984. But there are some things that you don't forget. And a Parisian Burger is one of them.

DaveBro (my leetle brother) lives in Texas now, but I forwarded him the e-mail with the addition of, "Oddly enough, this is the highlight of my day." His response was this

"that's awesome! I forgot about those. I went to Sonic burger after the gym the other night and got some tater tots. But, their burgers are nowhere near the Parisian. I loved those things! "

I posted a short note about it on my Facebook page -- more responses than anything I've posted...

OH my goodness....Life has meaning once again!!!!

Just went and had my first Parisian Burger in over 30 years!! Wow .. this is gonna be a great year!!!

Yes, I was there within 48 hours -- enjoying a Parisian burger, actually eating the tater tots, and staring down lactose tolerance while I drank a chocolate shake. Minus the cold metal stool, it was all it needed to be.

And yes, I'm going back for more. You should too...

No News is Good News

2009-01-18T19:48:00.000-08:00

Luke brought me a holiday gift this year... I had to wait to mention it, but I think it's finally safe.

I figured I should be cautious. I spent the last few weeks scouring the headlines, google news searching, and otherwise verifying that come next winter, my dog won't be responsible for going way beyond Seuss's Grinch.

When we're up in G'town visiting LD, Luke has the run of the woods. No fences, no leash. He patrols the property using the house as his base. A bird -- or for that matter, a moth -- flutters on the other side of the pond and he's off to the races to check it out. He sleeps quite well at night because he spends the days in nearly constant motion -- generally at high speed crashing through the woods, circling the pond, or traversing the driveway.

A couple of days after Christmas, while my dad and I were moving random slash piles to burn piles, Luke emerged triumphant from the woods carrying a branch. As my proud pooch approached, I noticed the branch had a funny bend in it. No, wait -- two.

This is a dog that only fetches when there's competition, so his emergence from the trees with a stick was a bit odd in itself. And then I figured it out.

That funny bend was a joint. And that other funny bend toward the end, well, another joint. Ever so proudly, my charming dog presented me with the foreleg of a deer -- hoof intact. Boy howdy was I glad I was wearing work gloves. Ditto that @ was happily amused on a stack of cut 20 yards away imagining himself floating a barge of timber down an Alaskan river.

Given the recent holiday, I figured I should watch the news. Did one of Santa's reindeer go astray? Was there a mid-air reindeer collision between Prancer and Rudolph over the Sierra foothills? Would I need an alibi for my loyal canine protector?

The news has been quiet. No investigators have shown up to scour my dad's property for remnants of a flight disaster involving missing Rangifer tarandus east of Sacramento.

I never saw the nose, so I can't verify Rudolph will be around next year, but if he's not? Well, I'm a good storyteller and this is all completely fictional.

Boy in da Snow

2008-12-26T17:14:00.000-08:00

@ has been talking about snow for weeks, ever since I told him we'd be coming up to LD's for the holiday. We drove up in the rain Christmas Eve-- he sat with a blue bucket next to him and explained how he'd use it to collect snow. Although it rained all night, temperatures didn't dive low enough to produce snow.

I considered attempting to come up with words to a new song -- I'm Dreaming of a Muddy Christmas -- but the initial disappointment of missing snow was quickly replaced with the desire to rip into presents. Like most kids promised the arrival of Santa overnight, he woke up with the energy of a guy on his fifth can of Red Bull.

After breakfast and opening presents, the rain turned to sleet. Shortly thereafter, on cue, it turned to snow. Both @ and Lucas thoroughly enjoyed it.

Dog vs. Bubble Wrap

2008-12-25T15:40:00.000-08:00

I shall defeat you, evil bubble wrap. I am the hound. You will feel my wrath.

Dangers of Partying in the Forest

2008-12-22T23:13:00.000-08:00

Stuffed deer heads on walls are bad enough,
but it's worse when they are wearing dark glasses and
have streamers in their antlers
because then you know they were enjoying themselves
at a party when they were shot. -- Ellen DeGeneres

Fifteen Days of Chrismuka

2008-12-22T23:09:00.000-08:00

From Comedy Central.com

Continuing the current trend of large-scale mergers and acquisitions, it was announced today at a press conference that Christmas and Hanukkah will merge. An industry source said that the deal had been in the works for about 1300 years.
While details were not available at press time, it is believed that the overhead cost of having twelve days of Christmas and eight days of Hanukkah was becoming prohibitive for both sides. By combining forces, we''re told, the world will be able to enjoy consistently high-quality service during the Fifteen Days of Chrismukah, as the new holiday is being called.
Massive layoffs are expected, with lords a-leaping and maids a-milking being the hardest hit. As part of the conditions of the agreement, the letters on the dreydl, currently in Hebrew, will be replaced by Latin, thus becoming unintelligible to a wider audience.
Also, instead of translating to "A great miracle happened there," the message on the dreydl will be the more generic "Miraculous stuff happens." In exchange, it is believed that Jews will be allowed to use Santa Claus and his vast merchandising resources for buying and delivering their gifts.
One of the sticking points holding up the agreement for at least three hundred years was the question of whether Jewish children could leave milk and cookies for Santa even after having eaten meat for dinner. A breakthrough came last year, when Oreos were finally declared to be Kosher. All sides appeared happy about this.
A spokesman for Christmas, Inc., declined to say whether a takeover of Kwanzaa might not be in the works as well. He merely pointed out that, were it not for the independent existence of Kwanzaa, the merger between Christmas and Chanukah might indeed be seen as an unfair cornering of the holiday market. Fortunately for all concerned, he said, Kwanzaa will help to maintain the competitive balance. He then closed the press conference by leading all present in a rousing rendition of "Oy Vey, All Ye Faithful."

Dual-Flush the Day Away...

2008-12-17T21:42:00.000-08:00

Some office mornings just don't start well. Going directly from parking lot to conference room can be a little frazzling. But having a disembodied, and very cranky, voice yell at a room full of people across two states via speakerphone?

Well, it's not pretty. At one point I considered offering to step out of the room to call Barack Obama on my cell phone to ask him to shift his presidential inauguration by a day to better align with this person's preferred schedule. However, I've been advised that "not everyone really understands when you're kidding."

When the day starts sour, you know it's going to take a bit of doing to undo the film brought on by that variety of "professionalism."

It took a field trip to another building for a lunch meeting, but I found it. Strangely, the best part of my day was an instructional sign above a new-fangled water-saving toilet. A sign over a toilet. And yes, I reallllllly wish I'd had a camera with me. And yes, I'm seriously considering driving back to said building for the sole purpose of photographing this sign.

It was that good.

Or my morning was that bad.

I'm paraphrasing, but the sign basically said this...

This is a water-saving toilet.
To eliminate liquid waste, press the green button.
To eliminate solid waste, press the silver button.
The automatic sensor will select how much water
to use based on how much time is spent in the stall.

And I learned that those automatic sensor thingies are called "flushometers." And this particular product is theSloan Valve Products ECOS Exposed Battery Operated Electronic Dual Flush Water Closet Flushometer

Why do I know that? Because Google is my friend and I just had to find the dang thing on the Web.

I wish network switch product pages were this fun to read:

If the user is present for less than one minute and leaves the sensing zone or chooses the small override button, a reduced flush initiates (1.1 gpf/4.2 Lpf) eliminating liquid and paper waste, saving 1/2 gallon of water.

If the user is present for greater than one minute and leaves the zone or chooses the large override button, the full flush initiates (1.6 gpf/6.0 Lpf) eliminating solid waste and paper.

Reduces water volume by up to 30% when a reduced flush occurs.

"Leaves the zone." Love that.

User friendly three (3) second Flush Delay.

Courtesy Flush™ Override Button.

Trademarking the term "Courtesy Flush"? Brilliance!

Flush Accuracy Controlled by CID™ Technology.

And thank goodness for accurate flushes and more trademarked technology to ensure them.

For the Love of God?

2008-12-15T21:57:00.000-08:00

"Hey, I believe in Jesus Christ and if you don't,
that's okay because you're going to fry
like a Jimmy Dean pure pork sausage."
--Pastor Ken Hutcherson, Antioch Bible Church
commenting on a protest sign posted near a nativity scene at the Washington State capitol

Wow, that's just the kind of guy you want at the pulpit.

Just Another Day at the Office

2008-11-20T20:00:00.000-08:00

Imagine if you will... It's Thursday afternoon in Cubeville.

3:17: Tra la la la. Sitting at your desk. La la la. Getting ready to leave at 3:45 for physical therapy. La la la.
3:18: A senior VP sends an e-mail to 5,000 people to announce this really great Web project -- you guessed it, the same one you'd been asked to hold until you received her approval.
3:19: Cubedwellers in earshot here a very perky, "Well, I guess that's approval!" Initiate IM search for Web developers. Uh, guys...
3:27: Compose e-mail, "Dear Boss and Boss's Boss, Imagine my surprise..."
3:35: Site is live -- warts and all.
3:45: Warts removed.
4:05: Praising existence of carpool lane on 101, consider personal budget for lavish gifts to Web developers.
4:35: Arrive at physical therapy prepared to get pummeled by 6'2" guy who has to release sciatic nerve tension by thumbs into calf and elbow into hamstrings and glutes.

Tra la la. La. LA LA LA!

From Coop to Couch

2008-11-08T16:45:00.000-08:00

I hereby declare my couch once again to be a couch.

I will sit on it. I will read. I will watch movies. I will use those fabulously soft blankets I bought for cozying up rather than serving as a helicopter deck.

My couch has, at various times during this week, been:

a helicopter
a really big rescue helicopter
a barge
a fireboat
a scuba dive boat

And, even more randomly today: a chicken coop.

@'s imagination is amazing and amusing at the same time. The detail he puts into his creations -- that he will at length explain -- is always very carefully considered. These pillows are the seats, but those pillows are the parachutes. The smaller animals are afraid, so they stay away from the doors and windows in the middle of the cabin.

We were rescuing animals yesterday. The burping cat (aka a stuffed Garfield for which he does not know the actual name but saw on television at some point) had fallen overboard and the dogs were lowering the rescuer to save him. The gray dog was to do first aid while the brown one piloted the helicopter to a hospital.

Today my entire tv room was a chicken coop and I, of course, Mama Chicken. Lucas tired of the pecking early on, but the gambit went on from about 8a to 2p when x came to pick @ up. Mac and cheese for lunch became chicken feed. Corn for lunch -- well, chickens already eat corn, dontcha know? Thankfully, with only minor encouragement to do so, he abandoned his first idea of spreading it on the carpet and pecking to eat it.

But now, blankets reclaimed, cushions replaced, and the legion of stuffed buddies returned to @'s room, the couch is mine.

@'s Presidential Vote

2008-11-04T16:23:00.000-08:00

My son has turned on me.

Last week, @'s teacher interviewed the kids about their presidential choices and put the quotes up on the bulletin board. It's a jarring sight at 7:30a to see an adorable photo of your own child next to the quote:

"I'm voting for John McCain because I like his hair. I love John McCain."

Where have I gone wrong?!

A Philanthropist Falls Away

2008-09-27T07:55:00.000-07:00

"What could be better than to hold your hand out to people who are less fortunate than you are? That's simply the way I look at it." --Paul Newman, 1925-2008

A River Runs...

2008-09-18T08:37:00.000-07:00

"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters."

- Norman MacLean

Not My Mommy

2008-09-17T17:30:00.001-07:00

Cute Overload, Indeed

2008-09-17T17:30:00.000-07:00

There's definitely something to be said for cute. Even an overload of cute. My friend Cristal like has this friend, you know. And her name is like Meg, you know. And she's really cool (Cristal too of course). Any like she -- Meg, not Cristal -- started this blog posting pix of cute little critters.

And Cuteoverload.com, well, exploded -- in a good way. How good?

The #1 selling calendar on Amazon.com
Multiple Webby awards
An appearance today on Martha Stewart

Cristal and Meg just happen to be three of the leading ladies who provide the fab three-part harmony in the Bootcuts, one fabu rad band o' fun folks. And then check Cristal and Meg singing.

All I can say is, RIGHT ON MEG!

Let's Play Pundit Flippy Floppy

2008-09-16T23:09:00.000-07:00

John Stewart's researchers rock. I love this bit.

Flamin' Amazin'

2008-09-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

Oddly enough, or not, one of our annual traditions has become going to a local car show out in the woods where LD lives. It's an interesting deal with an odd crowd.

LD usually enters a car in the show, but this year opted out -- something about energy, spiderwebs, 104 degree heat, etc.

So, this year we were spectators. My faves are usually the 32-34 Ford Fordor or Tudor hot rod restorations and I'll admit I have a thing for flame paint jobs. One of the cars this year has the most bad-a** flames I've seen to date.

The flames trail from the front with little bursts on the sides.

And then there's the trunk...

(The trunk pic is worth double clicking to see larger, trust me.)

Keep in mind, this is all free-hand work. I can't draw freehand with a pencil and a giant eraser. Whoever did this work, did it on a car -- no eraser.

@'s fave is a delivery sedan he calls the "bug car" because he likes the headlight covers.

And for the flame traditionalists among you... for runner-up in the fabu flames category we have this colorful rod.

@'s Corporate Ladder

2008-09-13T20:20:00.000-07:00

A true, bona fide, verbatim quote from @:

"Hey Mommy look -- I can put my corporate ladder wherever I want."

And the accompanying visual:

True story. 'Nuf said.

Cutbacks

2008-07-31T13:49:00.001-07:00

Due to recent budget cuts and the rising cost of electricity, gas, and oil...the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off.

We apologize for any inconvenience.

Momentary Flashback

2008-07-31T09:43:00.000-07:00

I found myself in a familiar position yesterday, surrounded by familiar sights and sounds. And calm, but not at all thrilled about it. I spent most of the day sitting in a chair next to a hospital bed while the alarm for the oxygen saturation monitor squawked at me every few minutes.

@ had his tonsils and adenoids removed yesterday. The surgery went well, but recovery turned out a bit trickier.

We started our morning with an early breakfast-free start and a drive up to Stanford. He had a great anesthesiologist who sang Thomas the Tank Engine songs to him while he drowsed out on the way to snoozeville.

The docs had initial concerns about his history of lung damage and recent croup, but everything turned out to be fine and his airways were clear. Original estimates were an hour for the surgery, with an hour or two for recovery, putting us home around 12:30 or so.

If there's one thing you learn when you have a kid in the NICU, it's that all estimates are best ignored.

@ initially had breathing trouble while coming out of anesthesia, which isn't terribly uncommon for kids with his history. But after a couple of hours his oxygen saturation rate will was still inconsistent and hovering lower than normal. We could get him into a good zone with with "humidified blow-by" (humidified oxygen + air delivered by nebulizer) but he just wasn't maintaining on "room air" (no supplemental stuff).

The doctors advised that we stay the night so that we could continue to monitor his sats and have supplemental oxygen on hand.

There were no beds available, so we hung out in recovery watching other kids come and go. Recovery a noisy, chaotic place. Waking from anesthesia is rarely fun, even when you're breathing just fine. When another little boy was crying uncontrollably, @'s first response was to say he was sad that the boy didn't have a stuffed animal buddy to help him calm down.

We saw a lot of kids who spend far more time with the medical community than we do these days. You know that when the entire post-op staff knows a kid by name and condition you're seeing a kid who has seen far too much of the inside of a hospital in his or life thus far.

During the day, @'s sat range crept up the scale closer to 100 without such low drops. Around 5p, still in the recovery room, we decided that @ was stable enough to come home. Yay!

He zonked out in the car on the way home and had a quiet night -- even eating bread. He accepted his middle of the night medicine without complaint and happily woke up this morning at 7:30 to ask to watch his favorite show: Tougher in Alaska.

Now I just gotta keep the little guy drinking his gatorade and chomping otter pops (he doesn't like ice cream -- go figure) and all will be well.

Election Year Math

2008-07-06T20:31:00.000-07:00

I can't help it. It just makes me laugh. Out loud and everything.

Bad Day for BBQs

2008-06-29T15:25:00.000-07:00

The CAL FIRE stats are pretty amazing. That's all I know. I called LD to find out where the nearest one is to where he lives since a map shows one much closer than I'd prefer it to be (probably within 10 miles). Luckily, he's a big proponent of defensible space, ponds, irrigation ditches, and oh yeah, his own fire truck...

My Left Foot

2008-06-28T19:25:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, long ago, my left foot and I had a great relationship. We walked on the beach, played soccer on the fields, swam in the ocean, hiked in the mountains... until "the incident." Like many that change relationships, this incident changed the foundation of my relationship with my left foot.

One day we went a little too far afield and met the edge of a sidewalk with all of the force you'd expect a soccer player to deliver in pursuit of a round spotted object. There was the realization of "Hmm... Gee, that hurt" followed by a bit of tenderfooting around for the next week. Ah, but it was the end of the season and tournament weekend had arrived. No visible injury, probably just bruised...

A month or so later my first visit to the podiatrist began with him staring at an x-ray while delivering a question along the lines of "See these two pieces of bone? How did they get so far apart?" He really didn't like my answer of, "Well, I thought it was just bruised, so I played a tournament and..."

I believe I heard, "I hate f.ing soccer players" uttered in a muffled sort of mutter.

Thus began what has become a long-lasting frequent-flyerish relationship with the podiatrist's office. Basically, my soccer career lasted exactly one week too long. That first injury alone begat three surgeries -- one to remove the bone that refused to fuse after three months in a walking cast, one eight months later to address the 5% change of nerve damage that resulted from the first surgery. (You'd think I'd play the lottery...)

Seven years later, the partner bone to the first decided it couldn't handle the stress of taking on the world alone and decided to break and refuse to reassemble itself. This is exactly why I know that titanium is paramagnetic and one of the few metals to successfully fuse with bone.

Some knowledge is better found in books. Or the blogs of other people.

And now, well, I'm couched and crutched again nearly ten years after the first injury. Same recalcitrant foot, but this time we've moved a little higher and damaged the Achilles tendon. No marathons for me says doctor guy.

Thursday involved repairs of torn tendon and modification of an oddly shaped calcaneus (bone), resulting in a nifty cooler with a pump that attaches to a series of tubes that surround my ankle (wherever it is in that fabulous mass of gauze, bracing, and such). Oh and the inability to bear weight for a month, leading to the ego-reducing use of a knee-scooter for some degree of mobility about the world at large. Good thing I like to laugh at myself.

The good news is that it doesn't hurt nearly as much as I anticipated -- or I'm finally taking the meds as directed instead of trying to tough things out. Running commentary from X would suggest I'm really not good at giving in to needing meds. More good news -- the doc says it went well, X and I have a friendship that means he was the one to take me to & fro the surgery and has been really great in helping, my mom has come to visit and hang out with her gimpy kid, and Luke has all sorts of attention because I can't help but sit still.

All because of my left foot.

100 Year War

2008-06-17T21:51:00.000-07:00

@ ain't available either.

Hang a Right at the Firetruck

2008-05-29T21:55:00.000-07:00

My guess is that I'm not the only parent on the planet who is a bit squirrelly about having a son learn to drive. My guess is that fear typically sets in around age 13 or so. Not me and my overachieving and amusing kid. His feet can't come close to reaching the pedals, but he can steer a tractor. Not just a little lawn tractor, but a full-size Kubota farm tractor. And that's a good thing when mama's car is parked between Point A and Point B of "Adventures in Tractor Driving 101" as taught by Grampa LD.

Strangely, I'm pretty sure LD would have sooner eaten granite gravel before putting me or my brother behind the wheel of any such vehicle when we were only barely at the midpoint between four and five years old. My how adding the "grand" prefix to parent changes things.

Note how, except to redirect a certain kid's gaze forward, LD's hand doesn't even get near the steering wheel. And how Luke wisely stays four legs and two steps ahead of the oncoming heavy machinery.

Industrial Sundae

2008-04-25T19:57:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a worker named @. He was very good at working hard and had lots of buddies who liked to help him. One day, @ decided he was a little bit hungry, so he decided to build some dessert.

First, @ used an excavator to dig a big bowl in the ground. Then he drove his tractor to the warehouse and used the scoop to get some chocolate chip cookies. He carefully brought them back to the jobsite and put them in the bowl.

Blue Doggie drove his backhoe to the ice cream factory and got a big scoop of vanilla ice cream, brought it back, and put it on the cookies. Then he went back for a big scoop of chocolate ice cream. Then he went back again for a big scoop of strawberry ice cream.

Engineer Doggie drove the tanker truck to the chocolate sauce station and filled it up the whole tank with chocolate sauce. He drove back to the jobsite and used the hose to put the chocolate sauce on top of the ice cream.

Kermit got his cement mixer and went to the dairy for some fresh milk and turned on the mixer. By the time he got to the jobsite, he had a full truck of whipped cream. @ and Blue Doggie used the chute on the truck to put the whipped cream on top of the chocolate sauce.

Then Luke drove the cherry picker to the farm and found the best cherry in the entire orchard. When Luke got back to the giant bowl, @ used the boom lift to put the cherry on the very tippy top of the sundae.

Then @ called all of his friends and his mama, daddy, Gramma Karen, Uncle Dave, Grampa Doug, and Grampa Don and told them all to bring their biggest spoons so they could help him eat his sundae. After they finished eating, they were so full that they all went and took a big nap on blankets on the grass under a big tree.

The End.

Dangers of Cheese

2008-03-03T16:58:00.000-08:00

Mock my cheese allergy all you want. his would never happen at Chuck E. Tofu.

Two moms allegedly brawl at Chuck E. Cheese in Massachusetts
By Associated Press

NATICK, Mass. - A child's birthday party at a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant was cut short after a fight broke out between two mothers.
Natick police said the mom of the 9-year-old birthday boy apparently became enraged because the other woman's son was "hogging" an arcade game.
Sgt. Paul Thompson said Catherine Aliaga, 38, and Tarsha Williams, 33, both of Boston, would be summoned into court to answer charges of simple assault and battery stemming from the scuffle.
Thompson told the MetroWest Daily News that police received a number of 911 calls about the fight Saturday night.
He said what started as a birthday celebration turned into a "birthday melee."

Visual Perspective

2008-03-01T15:27:00.000-08:00

I grew up with an appreciation for the outdoors -- tall tall trees without phone lines running through them, rivers with hoppable rocks, big warm solar-heated granite boulders, dirt paths with deer tracks, clean air. We'll never be mistaken for the Cleavers, but my family camped, backpacked a few times, took a horse-pack trip, and spent a lot of time at my grandparents' cabin near Donner Pass.

I carry a memory of a particular meadow -- we were on a backpack trip and took a day hike. I think we followed a creek that lead to a huge expanse of tall grass. I often conjure it in my mind when I need to escape. It's quite possible that the real meadow was far perfect than the memory photoshopping I've done. Part of that photo editing has included "installing" a huge flat granite rock where I can perch.

So every time I see someone flick a cigarette butt to the curb, I growl. What would happen if I offered to collect a week's worth of their butts and toss them on the living room rug? Guessing very few people would take me up on my offer.

Or when I think about the massive number of water bottles we use because they're oh-so-convenient. Why do we suddenly trust Dasani's tap more than our own? I'm not completely innocent (the buggers can be tricky to avoid), but I have a water filter in the fridge at home and use a Naglene bottle at work to fill with Building 8's finest tap vs. the ubiquitous Aquafina.

I traded my SUV for a hybrid, I recycle like crazy, use cloth grocery bags, and keep looking for more ways to retain a nice shade of green (minus the queasy feeling). I'm looking forward to mowing my long-overgrown lawn so I can put the clippings in my new compost bin! (My inner geek and I are quite happy together, thanks for asking.)

Sometimes it's hard to get perspective on what that Aquafina bottle means. A Seattle photographer named Chris Jordan has some amazing work. To me, it's pretty stunning. Statistics are easy. Look, a number! But what does that number really look like when you actually show those things you're counting out. And does your one little water bottle really make a difference? Simple math -- your one bottle is added to the equation, never subtracted.

Running the Numbers: An American Self-Portrait
"This series looks at contemporary American culture through the austere lens of statistics. Each image portrays a specific quantity of something: fifteen million sheets of office paper (five minutes of paper use); 106,000 aluminum cans (thirty seconds of can consumption) and so on.My hope is that images representing these quantities might have a different effect than the raw numbers alone, such as we find daily in articles and books. Statistics can feel abstract and anesthetizing, making it difficult to connect with and make meaning of 3.6 million SUV sales in one year, for example, or 2.3 million Americans in prison, or 410,000 paper cups used every fifteen minutes. This project visually examines these vast and bizarre measures of our society, in large intricately detailed prints assembled from thousands of smaller photographs. The underlying desire is to emphasize the role of the individual in a society that is increasingly enormous, incomprehensible, and overwhelming."

Check it out. No really. Then I dare you to look at another consumption statistic in the same way again. I dare ya!

Health & Welfare

2008-02-26T22:33:00.000-08:00

It's official. I'm tired of coughing. Or Marge is. As is probably anyone who has been within 50 yards of me since, say, two weeks ago? I'm long since past contagious, but I don't sound it. Marge sounds like hell.

I almost felt bad for the guy in the seat next to me on the flight home from Seattle. Almost. Until he unearthed a massive onion-filled tuna salad sandwich from a greasy paper bag and proceeded to eat it. And then silently but stinkily belch for the next two hours. He also felt he needed to share his newspaper at full width rather than doing a polite airplane origami. I complimented him on his sharing skills (after all, I have a four-year-old), but asked him to figure out the concept of personal space before his paper ended up in little wads seven rows up and three rows back. Actually, my phrasing was much nicer.

Gosh, I really miss those monthly flights to JFK. Wait, no I don't. Someone should do a study on how many people eat burritos the night before a nonstop cross-country flight. Honestly. The burrito consumption per capita must be off the charts.

I'm stalling. What's really on my brain? LD started radiation treatments today. Ever the engineer, he is impressed with the efficiency of their process. Coming from him, this is a high compliment. Very. One down, 39 treatments to go. Daily, with weekends off for good behavior. As the crow flies, it's not a long way, but it's mountain roads and a steep grade every day after day after day. Probably not so odd for those of us who have our daily commutes, but for someone who relishes the fact that he lives in a tiny town with wooden sidewalks and no stoplights?

Meanwhile I'm whimpering about my cough and the fact that my Achilles tendon won't behave. What six weeks ago appeared to the infamous surfing podiatrist to be an inflamed bursa is more likely tendinitis of the Achilles, which often precedes a rupture if not resolved. Nothing I want to experience. I've had enough drama for one foot. Hence, back into treatment to avoid further fun and games. And more time off the softball field. Yes, I know I'm horrid at it, but I miss being horrid at it.

Marge in Seattle

2008-02-21T21:44:00.000-08:00

I've been introducing myself as Marge on conference calls this week. I sound like a 67-year-old smoker with a two-pack-day habit. I got tired of people saying, "who is this?!" So I now have a sister. (No, I haven't actually always wanted one.)

Unfortunately Marge doesn't have the same respect for health as I do. My abs are rock solid, not from exercise, but very active coughing.

But here I am in sunny Seattle working with some of my favorite co-workers. Had I known that my lungs would have felt better as checked luggage, I wouldn't have boarded a plane. I thought the fever had been the worst of it, but I keep hearing estimates that the cough lasts six weeks, maybe just four. WHAT?!

The Seattle office is adjacent to Seattle Center and Space Needle, walking distance to the Music Experience (going next time!), strolling distance to the Seattle Art Museum sculpture garden (so cool!), and within a few blocks of all sorts of good restaurants and such.

They claim it's always rainy up here. Clear skies since I arrived. I head home tomorrow, where the weather has been icky all week. Last night's lunar eclipse was amazing in a pure dark sky above the trees off my mom's back porch. I drive my horrid little rental car (resembling an orange popsicle, but much slower) here each afternoon after my day in the big city.

Despite Marge, it has been a good trip. This trip has been a comfortable excursion, almost with its own routines and comfort zones -- something about familiar people and things to do, even in an unfamiliar place. It's not my home, but aspects of it feel like a homecoming.

@ and I will come back in the summer just for play. Hopefully we'll leave Marge at home.

Ready, Set, TWEET

2008-02-17T11:33:00.000-08:00

I haven't set foot on a track with the intent to run around it since sometime in college. Soccer fields? That's a different story. I've run around, through, across, up, and down hundreds of those gopher rut-infested grassy havens. But @ wants to run. Suddenly the track is no longer that overly prescriptive circle of monotony it once was.

Despite coming off the heels of a cold that kept me in bed all day Thursday, x and I took @ to the track on Friday after school. He wanted to race on Saturday, so I wanted to introduce him to the bounce of the all-weather surface, the concept of lanes, and the basic idea of running in circles.

Teach a four-year-old to stretch before running. It's a blast. You don't just touch your toes, you make your fingers into spiders and crawl from your knees to your toes. Deet deet deet deet. (The sound of spider toes reaching little boy toes...) We went twice around the track. He wanted to go more. I woke up at 2a with a 102 degree fever...

Saturday came. He opted out of the first race he could have run. There were more people there this week. It was overwhelming. And that was fine. But then he saw another kid run. "Hey, I'm bigger than him. I can run faster than him." So when it came time to decide whether he wanted to run the 60m, he was in. No, not just "in." IN!

We went to the infield to stretch and practice starting. I had thought they'd use a whistle instead of the starter pistol, so we practiced "Ready, set, TWEET." This was great fun. He wanted to modify it every time. "Ready, set, QUACK!" And when he counted down for x, for some reason it became "Ready, set, CHICKEN BUTT!!!" x nearly tripped over his own feet laughing out of his practice start.

I was pretty sure we couldn't get the actual meet officials to change their routine from a whistle or bang to "CHICKEN BUTT!"

He decided he wanted x at the start and me at the finish. They lined up the heats -- open and masters, high school boys, high school girls, school age. When his turn came, he put his hands on the line and got into a starting crouch in lane 1. They used the starter pistol and off he went, sharing his lane with the same little guy he watched run the 100. The two battled it out, both watching sideways as their daddies ran alongside on the infield. When he finally looked forward he saw me waiting at the finish line and completed the race actually looking forward and grinning like a Chesire Cat.

The other little guy edged him out, but it didn't matter. (Except to the other little guy who had never finished in front of another kid and was so excited to be able to say, "I beated him!!! Hey, I beated him!" Who I am I to correct the grammar of some other kid? Let alone a three year old?)

@, did you have fun? "Yeah! I ran a race!"

Damn right he did.

Trouncing the Odds

2008-02-12T23:43:00.000-08:00

Four years ago, @ had been home from the hospital for less than a month. He was 4.5 months old and maybe weighed 7 pounds. He was attached to an oxygen tank and sat monitor 24x7. (It beeped. We jumped. ) We gave him breathing treatments 3x a day. He saw at least three doctors a week. He took more meds than the average octogenarian. We had to track his feeding, meds, and diapers on a spreadsheet to ensure he got enough calories each day, that the input & output matched, etc. When he threw up, we had to estimate how many calories came back at us. The kid could puke for distance.

That was then.

On Sunday @ and I took a two-mile hike in the hills. He walked the entire way. He found deer tracks and we saw deer. He met a horse. We talked to the chickens in the 4H coop at the park. Later, I worked in the yard and he practiced running. After the hike. Keep in mind, he's not yet three feet tall. Those little legs took a lot of steps.

We had gone to a track meet to see a friend's daughter run on Saturday. At first, the concept was odd.

"Mama, why are they running?" To see how fast they can go.
"Mama, why do they want to go fast?" Err... It's a challenge.
"Mama, why does that guy have a gun?" It's not a real gun, but when it goes off, they start running.
"Mama, who is the guy with the flags?"
"Mama, what does the red flag mean?"
"Mama, what does the white flag mean?"
"Mama, where did the starter guy go?"

If there's a question to be asked, you can bet @ will ask it.

"Mama, can I do that too?"

It was an open meet with all age groups, including kids his age. He clapped at the finish of every race. He clapped when the slowest runners crossed the finish line. He insisted we buy running shoes on the way home. He's been talking about practicing on a track since Saturday. His Sunday practice included setting up a starting line and having me count down his starts. He set up cones as hurdles.

When he was born, he didn't cry. He couldn't. He was 14 weeks early. He weighed less than 2 pounds. He was on a ventilator for 2.5 months. He needed surfactant therapy. He was on the vent longer than anyone wanted him to be. His lungs were smaller than my thumbs. The x-rays were always white with fluid. The doctors weren't sure he'd survive. If he did, they predicted he'd be pretty fragile, definitely asthmatic, likely developmentally challenged, maybe vision-impaired, etc.

He's four, but the 24-month pants still fall down. He still has trouble eating. And technically his lungs are still healing from the damage the vent did just to keep him alive.

And you'd never know it. He's not asthmatic. He only uses an inhaler when he has a cold. He doesn't wheeze. He hikes. He runs. He runs. And then, he runs.

He wants to run. He wants to race. He's amazing. And he's my kid.