Of Course That's A Hippo! Perception.

"Is this THE alphabet book?"

At last weeks Parent/Teacher conference my sons Kindergarten teacher told me that during every recess Julian goes to the writing table and tries to write books while the other kids play.  Aw, chip off the ole block.  His teacher told me he was particularly proud of his Alphabet Book.   When he handed it to me I felt a warm feeling for him, he hadn't told me he liked to make books.  It was a big deal for him to give it to me.   We sat on the couch together, in a familiar posture of me holding and reading, him listening.  But this time,  I was reading his letters and guessing at his pictures.  I hoped I wouldn't let him down by not understanding what he was trying to put across.  Perception is so particular.

 Apple. Nice!

Banana! Sweet.

 Ah, a little less straight forward, but I got it.  Caterpillar! Right on.

 Dinosaur! This is easy!

 Ummmm...Eagle? Yep.  Phew!

 I held my breath just a beat before I said "Frog!" Yes! Fist pump.

It got a little Rorschach for me here.  The "Go0"threw me off also.  I did not know that the second "O"  was a head.  I admit I struggled with this one.  He gave it to me..."Gorilla." OF COURSE! Forehead slap.

 H...bit of a stumper...my confidence was low due to the fail on Gorilla.  "Hog?" I asked hesitantly.  His smile went into a slit as found on a slot machine.  Dang.   "Hippo," he said, like I was an imbecile.  I was glad as long as he didn't blame himself.  "Of course that's a hippo!" I said. "Oh my gosh, anyone with a set of eyes knows that." "You didn't," Julian said.  Ah- hem.

Oh, man.  This was beyond me.  WTF.  He looked at me, staring at my eyes waiting for the answer to appear there.  Perception is so particular- and I'll add -a fickle master.  I sucked my teeth and shook my head, focus Susan.  WTF is brown and has 4 legs, a tail and a white face with a long beard? I needed to buy time. "I love what you did with the head, is that a mane?" I pointed to the white area.  "NO! That's not the head!" he shouted.  "This is the head!" He pointed to the opposite end, which then of course looked more like a head and not a kicked up leg.  I couldn't figure out the white ass. I was familiar with a pink ass.  Baboon? "I give up," I said.  He looked disappointed.  It was dawning on him that it may be the artist and not the observer.  Curtains.  "It's a jaguar, mom," he said, more quietly.  "Oh! Yes, Julian, I am not smart enough to think of an animal that special, I only think of like, dogs, cats..." T'was a tad disheartening that the idea that I was a total dolt was so easily understood.  But he straightened up his back and that was what mattered here.  Right? Kinda.   This next one was do or die.

 "Kid!" I said.  He rolled his eyes and put his neck into a reverse plank.  "Oh my gosh,  It's a Kansas City football player." But he was laughing because he knew that was  not something I would know about.  It was the grey areas that created all the tension. "Kansas City has a football team?! Just kidding."  We laughed and hugged and turned the page.

 FFFFFFF...More big blobs with four legs and white behinds...at least I knew which end was up this time..."I love the cute little head...L for Little Turtle?" He shrunk back,  his eyes never leaving my face. "That's the tail mama,"  the jig was up and we both knew it. "this one is a mane, these are eyes, it's-"  I cut him off! "A lion!" Wipe forehead with back of hand. That was close.  He remained slumped but smiled.

 Come on now...seriously? I can't remember what this one was.  I  know I squinted hard and held my breath- constipated in thought.  Dear God, please give me the answer, Rottweiler? Rabbit? Roach?  I never got it.  In case you missed it we jumped from L to R...he didn't.  They were all in the book and all looked almost exactly the same as these.   M, N, O, P, Q...R.

 Another blob.  I wanted to cry. "You get 38 guesses,"  THIRTY EIGHT!! He smiled brightly, this was fun! Looking at me then the picture, me then the picture. I was cooked after sloth, but I championed.  Squirrel.  Nope.  Snake? A snake doesn''t have legs!! Right.  So much of this picture makes sense.  Sheep.  What?!

 "A skunk," I said.  "Yep!" I seriously think it was Divine Intervention.  The pride on his face was worth every ounce of sweat.  Pretty much.

Your guess...you have 38 guesses. 

Hint: Most of the time People are not putting out what we are perceiving.  A hippo is usually not a hog.    It's a rare day where we take pause to sit and exchange and understand the different ways we see things- at any age.  

Merry Christmas. 

It was the best book I ever read.   

Pity Party-What comes before part B? Part A!

Songs: Ke$ha- Timber
           Shoop Salt-n-Pepa


It was a crowd of three that swelled to seven and thinned from there.  Karaoke,  open bar and food.  Christmas lights everywhere.

Wednesday morning the huz told me to go get me hairs did.

He had been hinting around about a karaoke surprise party for me that in the three weeks since my birthday had never materialized.  Sounded to me like this day was the big day.
"Really?" I asked. "Is tonight the night?"
"Well, how long does it last?" he asked, meaning a salon blow-out.
"I don't know, three days, four with baby powder?"
"Yeah, I'd do it today," he smiled like a rascal.

In my mind I began to prepare as if for a parade.  Me the float.  I would smile in a way that made all of my friends better for having seen it.  I'd sing songs that would bring great galls of laughter but also make them wonder if I'd ever cut a demo.  My thanks-for-coming speech would make the listeners nudge the person next them, with what's called the God nod.  A nod of emotional recognition so deep they'd felt it was delivered by The Almighty Himself.  They'd search their pockets for tissues.  Wonder why they didn't get to see me more.

As I've mentioned in the past, at present, I am not the most social butterfly in the net.  I was super social growing up and through/post college.  I'd say in the last ten years I'm more likened to being back in the cocoon.  However, being at my friends wedding a few weeks back and dancing and laughing and well, socializing with all the old crew- had me experiencing something of a  renaissance.  I liked it.  I have always loved people, that never waned.  I am a true lover of people.   The capacity of the human heart never fails me.  The power of a word, a smile, a four letter word.  Human connection makes me jolly.

So Wednesday,  7 o'clock the huz calls and says, "So you know your party's tonight right?," he sounded excited.
"I do!" I said.  I'm no dummy, if he's asking me, he's telling me.
"Well, listen I just wanted to let you know no ones coming, really, like some people are, awesome people, but none of the... like... your friends from growing up or the wedding or anything, or your sisters."
I thought that he was trying to re-surprise me-get me all un-psyched so that the surprise would be that much bigger, or well, at this point- exist.
"Oh, Okay," I said.  Pull this leg it plays Jingle Bells.
"Okay," he said, relieved.  "I just wanted you to know because I don't want you to be upset."
I could tell from his voice that he was being sincere.  Tears started running down my cheeks.
"Okay?" he asked. "You good with that? We'll have a lot of fun. It's going to be a lot of fun.  Get dressed.  I'll be there in half an hour."
"Yea, totally," I said.  I did not let him know I had tears running down my face.  I did not see how it was going to to be a lot of fun.  I didn't know what to wear to a party where no one was coming.
I texted some childhood friends who were in the area, "Danny told me about the party and that you're not coming. I'm so sad (insert sad emoji)."
I dabbed my eyes and decided applying make-up would be futile because the tears wouldn't stop coming.  I decided on clothes.  All black, all tight, all covered.
Amazing what done hair does for a person.  Even in my dour attire, my flippy lid shouted -party!  A friends mom said, "Hair is like the bed in the room, if the bed is made, the room looks clean.  If it's not made, no matter how clean,  the room looks dirty."  No truer words.  I felt better in my hot pants and shirt.  I was ready for eyes.  A swipe of mascara, some liner.  Done that.  Earrings.  All set.  I was ready to hit that karaoke machine and yell, "Timber!" Ke$ha-style.

My three sons kept coming up and around me. "Where are you going mama?!" They were not having it.  "You look gross," my oldest said.  Thanks.  "I think you look nice, mom," my middle one said, hiding his mouth behind his closed fist, shy.  "Lookatchooo!" My little one said, (Hankie), that's his new exclamation, "Lookatchoooo!!!" haha.  How could I be sad?  I checked my texts, no replies.  I should have held off on that mascara.

We walked up to the bar.  It was lit up like a Christmas tree, as festive as the parade I'd mentally prepared for.  The bit of hope I had that Danny was lying about no one coming was alive and kicking.  I made sure my hands were free to cover my ears so my hearing didn't suffer when they screamed "SURPRISE!".   The door opened...

"Hey," my friend said.  She was sitting with two others, a really nice friend of hers I'd met a couple of times and another super cutie.  "Haaaaaaapppy Birthdaaaay!"

"Hi!" I said.  Kissing them on their cheeks hello.

So it wasn't The Macy's Day parade.  It was still great.   Those who showed up on what I now know was very little notice are just the best.  My sweet huz for (dis)organizing a celebration for me made me so happy.  I am not a girl who draws crowds.  I'm an intimate dinner.  (At home, in my pajamas with two or more books by my side.)  That damn wedding got me all confused, I had momentarily lapsed into thinking I was who I used to be a decade ago.  We probably should have just walked across the street and sat down for dinner but I held them hostage there until I'd sung at least one Salt n Pepa.

Then we all yelled timberrrrrr.


This link helped!! haha - it really did:O

Your Not Lame!! Your Not Stupid!!

Song: Open- Rhye

So my birthday came and went.  I didn't drop dead.  Yawn.  I was all amped up fa nuthin'.  Fa nuffin'! A couple of friends left me some encouraging voicemails saying they knew I was bummed about turning forty but that forty was sexy (1) and the coolest women they knew were forty and over (2).  Um...it kind of reminded me of the way I felt when I opened my seven year old nephews birthday card that said, "Your not LAME!!,  Your not stupid!!" I was like, well, thanks James, I hadn't really considered either of those but thank you for letting me know I'm not.  Lame. Or... Stupid.  I think.  Eyes shut. White mans overbite.  That was my favorite card, obviously.   And James,  it's "You're", not "Your."  I must correct you, just to prove I may not be totally

stupid but that I am actually pretty lame.

As for the messages I just want to get clear as I gather they were a result of my last post.  I was not lamenting on the age of forty but the space of forty years and how fast they went.  Remember when forty years felt like a long time?  That's no longer my reality.  The reality is it's a short amount of time and that I will arrive at the next just as quickly, assuming any number of fatal fates don't meet me before then.  It was about the quiet alacrity of time.  About the wrinkles in time, not the wrinkles about my forehead.  Of course forty's sexy!!  I have a mirror.  I knows I's looks gewd y'all.  Come get it.  Just kidding (JK).  I see all of my fierce females and the more subtle seductresses.  The looks of it was never my conflict.  Of course older is cooler and wiser and deeper, but only if we ask and examine and challenge- then listen, accept and relax.   "Don't worry I think 40 is hot and most women over 40 are like the coolest women I know." Seriously? Do you know me?  Those two are in the bag ladies.   You sound like you are too.  JK.  Again I jest.  I do not mean to begrudge my well intended well wishing sisters.  I do appreciate the reaching out.  Weirdos.  Lose my number.  JK.  You're not lame!!  You're not stupid!!  JK.  No seriously, I was bummed that I missed the deadline to the book I'm trying to write, but I get that I have not past the deadline on living.  I do hear life whistling past my ears some days- as I have a conversation with my oldest son and wonder how that happened, how can he talk? He was spitting up baby formula a minute ago, every waking moment needed my attention.  He had no teeth and couldn't hold his head up just yesterday.  Today he holds his head up high, or hangs it down.  He has grown up teeth that help him articulate his own thoughts, thoughts that are different than mine, that sometimes bother me, that don't need my attending.  Did my two year old baby Henry really crawl into bed with me on Saturday morning at 5:15 and whisper in a garbled voice that could have filled Carnegie Hall, "I love (lub) you, mom."  The wave of warmth that flooded my heart in that moment, the wave of warmth I believe is love, is not something I want to end.  It is all going so fast.  That's all I meant.  That's all... and that I was terrified of losing now and then having been so caught up in now that I didn't do anything to be prepared for then. Like writing a novel that that same ear that hears the whistling of time tells me might be the one people will actually want to pay money for.

Am I the only one who has felt this way?  I know it keeps a person popular to make fun of everything and be cynical and surface and it's trendy to name drop Louise Hay and pretend that's how we are on the daily even though our pinched faces and thoughtless actions tell a story so much louder than any of our holistic forwards.  Those people have dropped away from my life.  Pretending has not been my sense of fun.  My fun is in being honest about the big questions, my effort is putting in practice the preaching but being okay with not being at the pulpit.  My brother sent me a book (and a bouquet of flowers and two cards and a gift card- so thoughtful, so generous) titled Stitches by Anne Lamott.  She writes all about this in her book.  It came by UPS in a brown envelope addressed to me.  Inside the book was inscribed to someone else, regarding the loss of something living named Kyle, signed by a name I never heard of in handwriting I didn't recognize.  I was terribly confused.  Convinced daily that I have early Alzheimers, "Danny, will you take the ashtrays out of the windows? It's freezing!"  "Ashtrays?" "Air Conditioners. Sorry." I texted my brother and told him what I received.  It turned out the book was for a friend of his, a man he calls Pinoch.  Pinoch and I ended up on the phone.  I explained my end of the confusion.  He said Pinoch was for Pinoccio, it was signed Jimminy like Crickets, they used to call each other that.  My first thoughts were that he either had a big nose or was fond of fibbing.  Luckily, my ADD behaved and I didn't express that.  Instead I said, "Oh."  'I'm so sorry for the loss of Kyle.'  'Oh, yep, he was our oldest.'  'Oldest?' (Oldest dog was what I was thinking)? "We had three and he was the oldest." "Oldest, son?" "Yep." "I'm sorry.  I am so sorry." "Nah, it's okay, I'll be by to switch the books later today." I didn't feel that the burden of the drive should land on Pinoch's shoulders but he seemed to want the drive and I could understand that.  Sometimes a guy just needs a place to land, hour to hour.  Just let me know I'll have a commitment for the next two hours so that I can get through the next two hours.  I'm not sure but that's what I imagined he needed.  Pinoch arrived with my package -clear eyed and upright.  I decided that since part of the inscription Jiminy wrote included that it was good to be back in touch, that Pinoch had lost Kyle some time ago.  I again apologized for his loss and asked after his son.  He said he died two weeks ago- to the day.  I looked into his eyes, they were not dilated, they weren't teary, or chipper, they were clear, hopeful and very blue, the color of robins eggs.  "How are you standing?" I asked. "I don't know, maybe tomorrow I won't be, but today I am."  I saw a woman in the passenger seat of his car, she was smoking and looking straight ahead, most of her profile was hidden by dark brown hair that looked like it needed a brush.  Her appearance attached a more predictable sense of reality to the words he was saying.  It was his wife.  Kyles mother.  "Well this makes the fight I had with my husband look pretty small." I said. "Yes, it does," he said.  And he laughed a true laugh from his belly that later made me cry in the wake of his humility.  I gave him a hug and thanked him.  As he was walking toward his car he said, "Oh! Happy Birthday!"

I was no longer thinking about my birthday.  I thought about how I'm glad I learned early that you never know what someone is going through but that I am still amazed at what people are going through.  Quickly after that thought, selfishly, I was no longer thinking about Pinoch's pain either.  I stole from the future, I stole a worry from time I haven't earned - way out, fifteen years from now.  What if Colbert was 23 and gone? I quickly backhanded my thought in the face.  Not on my watch, crazy Sue.  Pray for that man and his family and bless your own with appreciation.

So, the big day came and went and so did the sensation of it all coming to a close and the feeling of urgency I had to "accomplish."  It's okay.  It's still good to have those milestones, 40! It's time snapping you to attention, "It's been 40 years, didn't they go quick? They will again! Don't miss them!"  I understand that there is no such thing as missing them.  All we can ask is to try to do the best we can everyday.  I try to be careful with my spending, not to spend my time unwisely, so often I find myself just pissing it away, as my dad would say.  It's true.  I have a wild propensity to day dream.  I fault myself for that.  After reading Stitches and meeting Pinoch and reflecting on so many of the many blessings and tragedies that have come to pass in my 40 years, (because no one gets to live 40 years without at least one blessing and one tragedy.)  Really time just comes and goes and none of it matters.  Can you name the most famous person in 1904?  It wasn't that long ago.  How about 1789?  1987? You can work your whole life becoming what you think you need to be and if it's not fulfilling, that becoming, is a life pissed away.   No one will remember most, if any, of even the best of us in a hundred years time.  So do whatever you want with the time you have.   Serve, hold and let go.  Ask the questions that need answers if you can find the strength to face them.  Sometimes it's best to wait, because sometimes the pain of not knowing is hard but getting the answer is unbearable, for now.  That same answer that may destroy you today may make you burst out laughing five years from now...because your perspective on the situation will change.

good thing he's cute!

Perspective, time, rambling... As I got to the last ten lines of this I smelt a strong coffee brewing in the kitchen.  I looked up only to realize it had become dark out,  so I decided to light a fire before going to the kitchen to see what was brewing.  I did not find brewed coffee but coffee grinds- bucket loads- tossed all over the counters, the sink, in the nooks and crannies of the stove, brown finely ground grinds blanketed the floorboards.  The culprit? Our little Hank, (we have started calling Henry, Hank because he is like a tank- charging through and demolishing everything in his path).  I put him in the den with Danny, his dad and his brothers.  I went to work on the clean up.  Ten minutes into it and only half way done I hear Danny yell from the doorway of the living room, "Henry! Fire!"  I ran into the living room.   The fire was barely contained in the fireplace, the grate wide open, flames threatened to escape and engulf us.  The planks of faux marble garnishing the sides had caught fire and were on their way to the mantle.  Hank had made his way out of the den to the fireplace and threw in two large synthetic pillows and three starter logs.  He stood in front of the blaze stunned still by the festival of flames.  Danny quickly removed him and closed the gate.  Colbert yelled for us to call the fire department but we got it under control, it was all behind the gate.  I couldn't believe that here I was writing about time and forty years and blessings and tragedies when in forty seconds it could have been all gone.  Hank could have been burned.  Our whole house could have burned down with us in it, a half an hour ago.  If Danny hadn't noticed that the world around him with Hank the Tank felt eerily quiet, he would have continued to play with our older two and that minute would have changed everything.  That's what it's like.  We can't turn our backs for a minute.  I want so badly to be in the now and able to prepare for the then...but with Hank the Tank, even with Danny home and me writing a post- and just flukes, there is no preparing for the then.  There might not even be a possibility of it.

Is this stupid? Is this lame? Happy Holidays!! haha a.. Wish I had a nice wrap up but Hank is pulling the keyboard out from me asking me to take a baff wit him...

Mowing the bath water. Is there a prob with that?

Minutes before an appt he grabbed a couple jars of paint and threw them
on the floor then got on his tractor and road off

He twists his hair and pulls it down the center, Dracula/Elvis

He likes to make the sign for I LOVE YOU <3

Hank brought his toy lawnmower into the tub

Nothing Changes if Nothing Changes

Me- 39 1/2 yrs ago-
I keep my baby pic on my writing desk
As a reminder not to judge this baby- it doesn't really work.

Songs: Wake Me Up- Avicii
          Let's Stay Together- Al Green

I was just looking through some "drafts"- posts I've written in the past that have either never felt good enough or impersonal enough to publish.   It's probably the really good shit.  Sometimes I just get on and chuck thoughts only to discover that what qualifies as a journal entry doesn't necessarily need to be published for public consumption.  I don't have any secrets.  Essentially because I like the motto "if there's a name for it, it's been done" or because the bi-product of a secret is shame or because, because.  However, there are things that fall strictly into the category of "random" and "useless", so those become drafts.  You may be thinking this particular post is amongst them- but wait!

I had given myself until my birthday- one week from now- to have a first draft of my latest best seller (in my own mind) The Bitchy Beach Club.  Some days I write and I think-  YOU ARE A GD GENIUS-  and I'm happy the whole day.  Some days, like today, I actually read what I write and I think.  Oh, shit. Go find a straight jacket and a helmet- YOU NUT-  and I am sad the whole day.

But it's a blogging day.  I like the blogs.  I get to procrastinate on the novel writing.  Plus, there's so little invested! I feel like I've become all but a recluse so with the blog I get to pop out a little on the Facebooks and feel like I did my social thing.  It's usually pretty easy, and I look forward to posting.  Writing the novel is an entirely different beast.  It is a beast.  It's beyond me.  Writing the blog is like getting dressed for the day, maybe a weekend.  Writing a novel is like trying to get dressed for a whole year.  In a hundred different climates.  It's also not going well and I am going to miss my deadline.  Never a good feeling, but is anyone but me going to feel let down? No.  It's an arbitrary deadline - no one is paying me.  No one even cares but me.  I don't need to feel like a complete failure if I don't finish the book.  Things like the botched move to California, feeding my kids chicken nuggets and threatening to leave my husband take care of that.  I would normally feel embarrassed to admit those things, but we spent last weekend at a wedding with a group of couples we have known forever.  As we swayed cheek to cheek to Al Green's optimistic, "Let's Stay Together," we laughed our humps off talking about how often we try to pack our bags.  "Loving you forever, forever! Times are good or bad! Happy or sad!" Dip. Then mouthing to the upside down colored blonde head next to me, "I tried to leave four days ago." "Six!" My friend said back to me. "And I'm taking the kids!" Bahahaah!  We were laughing so hard.  That was really sweet seeing as how we were on the dance floor at a wedding?!

Anyway!  The difference with this deadline is that I'm turning forty.  FORTY.  I will be forty in a week.  I'm probably forty now- right?  If you add all the different days a birthday jumps around over the years.  I feel cranky.  I keep crying.  Then I feel fine.  I must be having seismic hormonal shifts. One second I'm happy, the next I can't believe I didn't climb Mt. Kilimanjaro...I don't even hike! Midlife crisis.  It has to be.  Actually, it could be more than half over.  I mean we're all on borrowed time, right?  I keep trying to stay in the moment and I do appreciate all that I have, a healthy family being the main thing.    But...I wanted things.  Not material things, I feel so blessed to be spared those feelings- because, because.  But I did want to accomplish creative things- a published novel was amongst them.  And as I read what I've been working so hard to create- which mind you if you can gleen from the title is not anything along the lines of a Pulitzer Prize winning epic but a freakin' 300 page chick lit rag- I saw that there is just no way I am going to tell the story of The Bitchy Beach Club the way I want to in time for the big 4-0.

It made me sick.

It made me not want to do a post.  Again.

So I went into my drafts thinking I could edit one up, put a little spit an' shine to one of the 59 entries I have in reserve (?!) and march one out.  I found one, that matched my mood- it was untitled but started with  "Some days are hard to get through.  Today is one of them.  It's 11am but for no particular reason, I just feel like it's going to be a slog.  Experience tells me this too shall pass, but...ugh. Actually,  I'm trying to fool myself. There is a particular reason..." and I go into the reason and a few more- about my family, about my life, about things I want and am not being honest about.  I realize that I am a secret to myself.   I look at the date and it was from September 2012.  Over a year ago.  I could have easily have written those words today.  Nothing much has changed.  I chose not to change those things.  So, about an hour ago- after feeling done-in by my sad literal stylings- that the things that are bringing me to Confront Forty instead of Celebrate Forty, aren't going to be made okay by having a first draft of The Bitchy Beach Club.   Being down about turning forty has nothing at all to do with whether or not I get 324 pages together.  That will be an accomplishment and a sweet one at that-to all those who do manage it- but it's so beyond the point of why I feel numb.  Beyond the point of why I haven't sent out an invitation to karaoke, or to do a small dinner or bought that ticket to Paris.

A lump in my throat forms when I think about the challenges confronting my issues will bring.  But if I'm still tortured by the same questions over a year later (and I know that these questions have been going on for well over ten), isn't it worth it?   I don't know.  After the weekend and spinning around the dance floor with all of us in the same boat, I concluded- this is just what it is- and having awesome friends for decades to laugh about life with is a pretty good deal.  We are given days and what we do with them ends up being the sum of our life; that's not new news.  The Forty milestone is just that, a checkpoint.  There's still time.  I will and the world will (although I don't know how) survive and (might even) go on to live very happy lives without a copy of The Bitchy Beach Club.  The things I have accomplished, I could not live without.  Those are the decisions I made one day that have brought me to this day, allowing me to be with the people I favor the most.  That is lucky.  So, I guess I will have to check my drafts next year.  Maybe I'll have another realization, that these questions and posts were just ways to procrastinate writing that GD GENIUS BEST SELLER.  For now, I want what I have.

Things unmeasurable on a richter.  Until my next seismic shift;D

A Delay Is Not A Denial & Other BS That Keeps Me Alive

Last weekend I was curled up in a ball in my bed all but drooling and sucking my thumb.  It seemed, my husband informed me, that California, and our move was off the table.  I felt blindsided.  I actually don't remember a big chunk of part of days following.  How could this be? Everything was in place, the house was sold, we were a week from closing- I thought.  I know I sold a bunch of stuff and packed more.  I blogged about it!  If it's in writing it must be happening.

This does not look as impressive as it felt.  Trust.

This mind you, was precipitated by a week of bodily terror.  Tuesday, I sliced my left pointer finger in a handheld Cuisinart (pink for breast cancer awareness), resulting in eight stitches. Followed by two days of 102 degree fever and chills then waking up two days after that with shingles.  Three days after that was my appointment at Winthrop Nuclear Medicine for a full-body Indium scan to figure out why I've been having daily low-grade fevers and night sweats for the past eight months.  Sexy time.

That was just my stuff.  Add three kids and a husband and families and packing and press pulse, oh wait.  Don't.  Your finger may still be in the mix.  I have nary an occasion to feel on top of my game but these last couple of weeks sure have been low scoring.

Yep.  I thought we were 5-0.  We are 0-5.  Not sure how I scored that but run with me;)

I am not at liberty to say what went wrong because I believe it's in the hands of lawyers but from what I understand it was neither of our faults-"ours" being the buyers or the sellers.   So, I can't point the finger but I can still give it -to the whole situation.  The woman who was buying our house, who I incidentally fell in love with, who incidentally was also so sure of the move she had her kids at our bus stop since the first day of school, won't look at me.  As if I had anything to do with it.  But, okay.  I can barely look at my husband.  As if he had anything to do with it.  But, okay.  Both our families have kids who were collectively adjusting to the idea of a new state, new schools, leaving their friends and cousins- they don't seem to know where to look.  Not, okay.

I need to be reminded of all the cliches and believe they are true.  "Replace fear with faith."  "A delay is not a denial".  "It's in God's hands".  "Do the next right thing, the rest will take care of itself." "Kids are resilient." "No one died." "I can't point my finger, but I can still give it." :)

It's about two weeks since I stuck my finger into the cuisinart to dislodge cookie dough that was stuck around the blade and pressed pulse at top speed.  I may not forget seeing my blood splattering machine gun style around all of my white cabinets and walls or how scared I was- in shock realizing what I was doing.   Amazingly, you don't really feel yourself being sliced at that speed, you SEE it, and then stop it.  I may not forget my kids faces as they witnessed my own skin drain of color and me having to drop to the floor so as not to faint (I'm a bloodophobe.)  But I know I will never forget that in this short amount of time the stitches are out, the finger is not fixed but mostly healed, I didn't cut bone and that it was not nearly as bad as it originally appeared.

Bringing sexy back.

I decided I wasn't going to go to the dermatologist for the shingles- it's a virus.  I'm a Google M.D.  I know everything.  I was so sick of doctors without answers plus, what could they do for a virus? Give me pain pills?  Nah.  However, it started on my wrist and had now wrapped around my torso.  It was getting worse.  Pain meds would be great! The dermatologist treated my shingles with Valtrex, an anti-viral medication.  She said no to pain pills;(!?  That very night I did not have night sweats or a fever for the first time in over eight months.  I'm not talking getting a little damp behind the neck, shake your blankies off, night sweats...I'm

talking DRENCHED, hair wet, change clothes, put down a towel, can't change sheets because kids are in the bed with you and it's twice a night anyway night sweats.  A night without that was great.

One catch, I had my Indium scan that morning.  I thought "Oh, soup! They're not going to be able to see what's wrong with me, of course the first time ever is the night before I'm lit up." *An Indium scan is where they take out your white blood cells and attach nuclear particles to them and put it back in to see where they go to fight infection- the nuclear particles light up under the scan.  I'm actually radioactive.  They gave me a card saying I was to be excused in case I was stopped near tunnels or the city.  Wild.  Anyway, I get the first part done and then the next night, no sweats again.  Shingles still itch like a monster, but...hey, not waking up twice a night like I got doused while in the middle of a dream- fair trade.  So, I look up Valtrex.  It also treats, Epstein Barr Virus (EBV).

Out of all of the major doctors I saw to rule out all of the horrible things that these symptoms could be-eccessive weight loss, night sweats, fatigue, swollen lymph nodes, (are you thinking what I was thinking? Cause I was thinking stage IV Non-Hodgkins)....only one nurse practitioner, Kathy Heatherington found evidence that I recently had EBV.  That was late June.  The trouble was none of my symptoms (except the weight loss) went away.  And all of the doctors said EBV was not the answer.  Well, she never treated me with Valtrex- thinking it was convalescing and either did they- thinking it was b.s.  I have not had a fever or a soggy sleep since.  So, that was a good answer.  A long painful way round.  But an answer with an easily treatable solution.  Herpes!! Shingles and EBV are both herpes!! I never knew I had herpes.  I guess it's not the STD kind.  Still, what a punchline.  Unsurprisingly, the Indium scan came up negative.  YAY!

With Henry at Park day after starting Valtrex

I don't know.  I haven't unpacked but we do get to go to an old friends wedding now that we'll be here- that's a silver lining.  I am still bitterly heartbroken and praying things will work out the way I want, not the way they should.  I guess what I'm trying to say is that I do have these little proofs that it somehow always does.  Botched dreams never feel good while being botched.  Technically I shouldn't even be in this house, I'm supposed to be polishing a Pulitzer next to my Oscar while standing on my star on the Walk of Fame.   OR technically, I shouldn't even have a house or a husband and kids to worry about because it's a miracle I found someone crazy enough to marry me.  Point is, I want what I want when I want it.  I work to make my wants happen.  I don't buy into the world of leaving life up to fate and signs and unicorns.  I like the idea of making my own luck.  But it never works out my way.  But it always works out.  After some time,  it's never as bad as it looks.

Our Miley impersonation

What is a safe risk?

Song: The Gambler- Kenny Rogers

* As you can tell by my Woman of The Month pieces- no one should waste their time wondering who the man in this story is-I meet people everywhere and have deep/peculiar conversations with most. :) Onward. *


After I told this man that my family and I were moving to California, he told me a story of his own.   He had saved up $500,000-had it in the bank. He had paid off the mortgage on his home and he and his wife, both 50 at the time, who were always thinking themselves of moving from New York to California, were about to do just that.  They set a date to move for a year later, when in the eleventh hour his wife was diagnosed with cancer.  The medical bills depleted their savings to a zero balance (that trusty bank account, that wonderful health insurance)- they had to refinance the house and then-cherry on top- he lost his job!  It was now five years later and he had a new job, is working his way toward a mortgage and best of all his wife is cancer free.

"So, you see? You really need to save before a move like that," he said. "We were all set and still."

His message was you can never be too careful.

I had a much different take away from his story.  What I heard was "No matter how much you save or how much you plan, God (or the universe or whatever new-age thing you believe in)  has other plans, so go forth- carpe diem!  I had not told this man what we had saved or lined up, I feel very comfortable with those things...but I can tell you it's not half a mill in the savings and owning the homestead outright.  Seems at this rate- I'd live my whole life for that to happen and then poof! Work another lifetime to get it back again?  No, thanks.  It's not that I didn't feel for him, but the logic seems so off to me.  But I am finding that my logic is off to most every relative I tell our plan too. "You're doing what? You're going where?"

I have never been a risk averse person, not really.  I have never been reckless either.  Maybe for a night or two (;) but never in life choices.  I pursued acting, but with a Masters Degree behind me so that I could teach one day... if I didn't say...win an oscar.  Turns out I didn't win an Oscar and the degree on the whole is pretty useless.   But I knew what I wanted and at the time these were my choices:

1.) Being a waitress and foraging alone with a random combination of classes at HB Studios or the like. 2.) Going to a three year intensive program where I fostered relationships and earned my MFA.
3.) Choosing to stay in a 9-5 job I knew I wasn't content with at 22 felt like a death sentance.

I knew I wasn't going with 3.).  22 was just too young to settle down.  At least it was for me.  I'm sure there are plenty who are still pushing pretty much the same papers they did at 22 at 52 and it's worked out beautifully, that wasn't my path.

I went with option 2.).   That felt like the better choice for a while.  While earning (buying:) my masters at The Actors Studio Drama School,  a teacher turned me on to Williamstown Theater Festival- that was the best summer of my life.  I'd say before I had my son to appease the responsible and moral but really Wiliamstown was the best.  Sorry First born, I know it must sound cruel but hauling 80lbs of sunscreen, stroller and pack 'n play to the beach didn't trump hanging under the Main Stage talking to Ethan Hawke about Reality Bites.  And really that was only a small part -it was months of everything theater.  I got to talk to the art department about costumes.  I wrote and had a staged reading of my first play.  I'd walk to lunch and wave to Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward while they sat on a wall eating sandwiches. Williamstown was like a dream. Did I need three years of training for what I learned in one summer at Williamstown?  Williamstown wasn't associated with The Actor's Studio Drama School and while I heard of it from my teacher there, I prolly would have found it eventually. Cost-wise that was a summer internship the equivalent of one interest payment on that "responsible" three year loan.  So, what was the safer choice? Maybe the calculated risk was actually a bigger fail- although it may look better on the outside.  I have a degree and I get to say I was in class with Bradley Cooper, (someone who was nominated for an Oscar).   Net gain? Massive student loans,  being a douche name-dropper a few times a year and memories of people I see only on Facebook.  Other than that...not sure.  Having had Williamstown, I can obviously still be a douche name-dropper without The Actors Studio, and I do so enjoy that! Ah snap,  I can be a douche even without the name dropping. Well, I will say, on a positive note- of the three choices presented then - one never comes up.  I never say, "I should have stuck with that 9-5 job.  Ever.  My feeling now is, if you're not ready to jump without a net,  don't jump.  I don't play in traffic but I live on a busy street.  You feel me?

And that brings me around to your major life choices.  When do you stop taking major risks?  I guess when you have school aged kids?  But I have friends who don't have kids and are risk averse because of their jobs?  So do you stop taking risks when you're employed for 3 years? When you have a safe job with the government? Oh wait, but they shut down.  Foiled again! Okay, maybe it's age. When you're 32? 35? 45? 28? What is it?  What does it mean to you? What should it mean to me?  I'm not looking to mess up my life, but I don't think I'm ready to live always wondering either. 

SpunkerFLY Woman of The Month - September

Song: Star Witness Neko Chase

With daughter Julia 

How we met:  Last July I was sitting on a return flight from San Francisco to New York and the woman next to me had that presence my whole being always seems hard wired to tune into.  I so didn’t want to do it.  I did not want to be the chatty Cathy in the next seat.  It was a long flight.  We could both end up cringing for hours.  I started telling myself Don’t you dare.  Mind your own business.  Read the book you bought.  Work on the book you’re supposed to be writing. None of it worked.  Myself couldn’t stop myself.  “Hi, are you a star?”  I asked.  I think.  If not those exact words, something very close.  She shook her head sweetly, demured, no.  “Do people ask you that?” I wondered. “Yes,” she nodded redeeming me. “Yes, they must! You have definite star energy. So, what is it? That you do?” I asked.  I sound more obnoxious in writing.  I hope. It was all a little more tempered.  I'm a smooth mo, yo.  I was so sure I was on to something.  She was so sweet, elegant and soft - yet underneath very much in charge.  A true pioneer.  A lady.  When she told me her story I was captivated.  I hope you will be too.  

I invited Judith to be a guest on the blog right as we were taking our bags out of the overhead bins, "Your information will help so many woman who read my blog, so many moms who have daughters," I said. "I have three sons, so..." (it doesn't concern me was my subtext). "Oh, no it effects boys as well," she said, sadly. "For sure."   

With daughter Senna 

Dear Judith,

Thank you so much for exchanging your information with me and agreeing to be our SpunkerFLY woman of the month.  I am so honored to feature you.  I've left the intro a real cliff-hanger so let's dive in.

1. How did you start?

I was 28 years old, putting myself through grad school and, to help pay for school, I was working as an assistant to an older grad student in the psych department.  We got to know each other well and ended up taking a share in a summer house in the Hamptons.  One day we were sitting on the beach and complaining that we had eaten too much the night before and that we felt fat (who hasn't done that at some point?!).  My friend Ellen confided in me that she had been throwing up as a way to get rid of the food (Ellen has spoken of this openly so i'm not divulging secrets here).  I was stunned because in those days (1980), no one had heard of eating and throwing up-- it was fascinating, disgusting, and riveting all at once.  Ellen had my attention!

Ellen told me she was fighting for recovery and that she had found and worked with a psychologist from Cornell University who had discovered that many other girls were binging and throwing up.  This psychologist-- Marlene Boskind White-- was the first person ever to notice this phenomenon and she termed it Bulimia-- the hunger of an ox.  Ellen had met with Marlene and found her work helpful.  Ellen proposed that we start something in New York City to address this new and potentially growing problem. We asked permission from Marlene to take her ideas into the city, she gave us the go ahead and through word of mouth, sure enough, we immediately found 5 women who were struggling with eating and vomiting.  This was a startling beginning for us.  Bulimia started as an extraordinary cultural secret, a grassroots disease that had just taken root at the end of the 1970's, seemingly out of no where, and we were finding that women actually were already struggling to make it go away.

At the time, I was finishing my Ph.D. and working at St. Vincent's Hospital as the director of the group therapy program for alcoholics.  With my experience with addictions and Ellen's experience with the disorder itself, we scrambled to come up with a weekend intensive group program to address the symptomatic behaviors.  We started the group with the 5 women we met and sent out a press release to the media (no email in those days!) saying that two NYC psychologists were starting a program to treat a stunningly new disorder, binging and vomiting.  A week later, a cable program picked us up, interviewed us and we were suddenly visible to a broad audience.

  

The news media of course found it fascinating that pretty girls were binging and throwing up. Once the cable show aired, there was a clamoring from other shows to pick up the story. The Today Show did a 7 minute clip of our group (with blurred pictures of the patients).  Other news shows followed as did a myriad of newspaper and magazine articles.  As a result, Ellen and I were overwhelmed with a cascade of letters and phone calls from people all over the country, many of whom were famous and visible, saying that they thought that no one else did what they did.  They wanted to know how to get help.

Ellen and I rushed to set up a Center in Manhattan to broaden our treatment reach.  We started the Bulimia Treatment Associates, hired a consortium of therapists to work with us-- and our careers took off with lightening speed.

2.  In case anyone missed it, you and Ellen started the first ever Eating Disorder clinic in NYC.  Do you ever think what if I hadn't made that choice, what would life be like if I hadn't taken the risk?

I am so incredibly grateful that I met Ellen and took the risks that I did.  I realize that had I not been financing my own way through school, I never would have been working as a research assistant and I wouldn't have met Ellen-- so this is a word of encouragement for anyone who has to work on their own to pay for school.  I can't imagine what my life would be like had it not taken the amazing turns that it did.  I feel very lucky.  But interestingly it never felt like a risk.  What we were doing was so much fun and inspiring and exciting.  Even though I worked late into the night and through weekends for years on end, it never felt as though I was working.  I think one of the most important goals with any job is to know that it's something you are passionate about doing.

3. If someone is struggling with an eating disorder--either parent or child-- what is the first step they can take to get help?  How best to approach a child?

In our book Surviving an Eating Disorder: Strategies for Family and Friends (Siegel, Brisman and Weinshel, Harper Collins, 3rd edition), we spell out step by step what to do if someone you care about is in trouble with food.

First, find a time that is calm to talk.  Let the person know what you are concerned about-- be really specific (i.e., "I saw signs of vomit in the toilet" or " you've lost a lot of weight lately and you seem worried about how you look"  or "you seem so sad lately"). Don't be blaming or angry!!  Just be factual.  Let the person know how it affects you-- maybe you are worried, maybe it is hard to talk together lately, maybe you feel you should help and you don't know what to do.  And then have a step that you'd like the person to take.  This may as gentle as just wanting to talk about it as a first step-- or you may be so worried that you want a professional to evaluate whether a problem exists. Be clear, unemotional and suggest a step that is possible to do (ie don't suggest seeing a professional if you are not prepared to set this up or go with the person the first time).

With younger kids, keep to this same format.  If you are worried that someone is eating too much, you might want to focus on health or mood instead of weight.  It's okay to tell kids that you worry that they are not eating healthfully or that they seem preoccupied with what they will eat or what they weigh. Don't ever say that you think they have gained weight or are fat-- that's just too embarrassing and shame filled.  Your child will block you out and not hear what you have to say.

In this kind of situation, be prepared to both be supportive but also set limits.  So you might want to tell your daughter or son that it's okay to have one or two desserts/snacks a day and that they can choose when the snacks will be eaten-- but that will be the limit because otherwise it's not healthy.  If you get into too deep of a tangle with your son or daughter over food, maybe it's time to get a third party in there (a therapist, nutritionist?) to broaden the discussion.  This should not be a battle but a slow moving direction toward health in which the child chooses one step he or she is able to take .

4.  Do eating disorders predominantly effect young girls?

Eating disorders can effect ANYONE-- including young boys and men.  What is important to know is that the best chance for recovery is early intervention.  If you know someone who you suspect is in trouble with food-- or if you are worried about yourself-- make sure you don't turn the other way thinking it will get better or that you are making too big a deal of it.  If you have any questions, speak with a professional about how to proceed.

5.  I noticed my middle guy, (who was always being teased that he was chubby by his older brother) at 2 years old pushing a biscuit away after I said to my husband, "these are nothing but fat" I didn't mean he or I shouldn't eat it, I was actually taking a bite, celebrating it, I guess! But I couldn't believe that he heard it and reacted by restricting himself at such an early age. I became conscious of my words around food at that moment (I'm not sure how long it lasted! But I try).  How young do you see eating disorders start in children? How do parents views of their own bodies and attitudes toward food contribute? 

We're unfortunately seeing kids as young as 8 or 9 in treatment with full blown eating disorders.  This was unheard of years ago but there is such a focus on being thin in our culture-- and these young kids are so media-savvy-- the messages travel fast.

Kids pick up tones and messages about food and weight at home too.  But parents don't create eating disorders.  The current thinking is that kids become eating disordered as a result of a complex combination of genetics, psychology and the culture.  We've seen kids with the most eating disordered parents who are fine around food.  And we've seen a lot of eating disordered kids who come from families where their parents were healthy but not overly concerned about food and weight. 

That being said, given the epidemic of eating problems in our culture, as parents it is a good idea to notice "fat talk" in the house and to be aware of the messages one is giving kids about their self-worth.  A parent's job is to set the stage for strong self worth and self-esteem so that the child can fight the messages of the culture.  Notice at home how many comments are made about bodies versus intellect or creativity.  Notice what compliments are given-- are they mostly directly at how one looks or how one acts?  And what about feelings?  Kids who develop eating disorders have a hard time knowing or regulating their feelings.  What can you do as a parent to help your child learn to sooth one's self, to express complicated feelings, to have a voice in the family about one's own needs and desires?    

We're in a food and fat obsessed culture.  Every parent is going to make a comment about food, looks and weight somehow. Helping a child know one's internal world, not just the outside appearance and actions, and helping  that child give voice to his or her own thoughts and feelings  is one of the best things a parent can do to help set the stage for a healthy kid.

Judith,  I cannot thank you enough for your thoughtful and thought provoking interview.  Thank you for helping so many people and families and souls in your lifetime.  And for flying Jetblue! You are a blessing.  You are FLY! 

Love, Susan 

If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder and would like to contact Dr. Brisman or just send her fan mail, her information is below.   

Judith Brisman, Ph.D.

Founding Director

Eating Disorder Resource Center

330 W. 58th St.  Suite 206

NY, NY  10019

212-582-2217

www.edrcnyc.com

www.drjudithbrisman.com

Spot Clean Only

Ok, so I bought these pillows at Home Goods for pennies a piece.  You can't tell by the pictures because I must have used a flash or something but the white part got dirty.  Actual dirt.  Wouldn't spot clean.  Actually I didn't try.  

 And on this one...Can you see on the bird? The bit where you might imagine a wing?  Looks like a shadow? That's poop.  I didn't have it in me to take a damp sponge to it.   I had reached my threshold of being grossed out for the day- my 7 year old wiped a booger on his arm and then my middle guy ate it. OFF OF HIS BROTHERS ARM.  NOT HIS BOOGER.  THEY WERE LAUGHING! I was gagging.

 And plus this was happening....

open, close. Open, close. Open, close. 

Open, open, open, open.

The drawers look a lot messier on camera, so does the kitchen. 

Open, open, open, open.  

CHEESE! 

 So I read the care label on the pillows.  Like I said, they didn't set me back and probably should have been tossed...but I loved the looks of 'em.  It was declared poop by my two year old- it may have been pudding.  We had pudding in the house and like I said, I really liked the pillows.  I couldn't go in for a sniff test.  When I saw Spot Clean Only I had a little chuckle.  You see, back in the day, I worked in production for a small woman's clothing company.  I'm pretty sure now they are a big company and they do a whole lotta lines- no pun intended.   Then, it was a small women's clothing company.  Most of the volume was in pants, (they invented the boot-leg pant, imagine still living in a world without a boot-leg pant? Shudder.) Ordering the care labels was the production departments job.

Let's say we sold about a thousand pants a season, just say, I don't really know.   Then say we sold about 20 skirts, 300 shirts, 30 leather jackets...the point is it was a low volume operation.  Care labels are sold in the thousands.   In order to write the care label that actually suited the proper care of each piece, (and each piece was basically custom when you're working in double digits), the production department would have had to test all of that fabric, put through so many washes, drying, steaming, or ironing- then ordered a thousand care labels for each puny style.  Can you imagine that poor suffering production department? Doing their best? Working their hearts out on stitches and hems and the right buttons and fabrics- just so the design team could get their vision to market and the sales team could fulfill their orders?! Amazing department.  AMAZING.  So busy. The production department didn't have that kind of time.  I know because my boss and I were the production department.   My boss, I'll call her Wheels, the one half of our production team- had been in the business for years.  This wasn't Wheels first spin around the track of care labels.  She 'splained me how it was going to go down.  Two care labels.  Machine Wash Cold Hang Dry Cool Iron If Needed & Dry Clean Only.   Any time we went to production we'd grab a handful of each and head up to the sweat shops.  They weren't really sweat shops but we called them that.  Wipe brow.  Anyway, with master craftsman-like precision we'd assess the proper care of each and every garment.  Silk, leather or shiny? Dry Clean Only.  Everything else? Machine Wash Cold.  You can't ruin anything with those two.  Saved us a bundle in time and labels.  We got no complaints. Voile.

I've never trusted a care label since.

Looking at my pillows -Spot Clean Only- that is an honest mans escape for a job undone.   I put my assessing skills to work.  There was a zipper and down feather insert-they were polyester.   Whoever was in charge of production was taking the safe way out. There's no way anyone tested these.  I tossed them in the wash- cold, I hung them dry.

 Poop or pudding, they're clean now!  Now, do kids come in polyester?

Have a great week! xo