Yet again

So, I hope none of you are trying to win the laptop in the giveaway over at "Confessions of a Pioneer Woman" because I am clearly going to win it. And someday I'll have a blog that can give away a laptop on NYE, too.

OK, maybe not.

But so far so good in the pre-New Years make-over in my head.

I had planned to whip up a fancy organization system in my closet, which turned out to be much more messed-up that I had thought. Hmmmm, wonder what else is more messed up than I thought it was. Maybe, you know, my HEAD!? Probably.

Love that metaphor. The deep storage in my closet and in my head. Messed-up. But a work in progress.

It turned out that I only have one pair of serviceable socks in an entire woman-sized basket full of socks. And I also have fifty times more skirts than I thought I did. Who knew? Now all the hole filled socks are awaiting execution and the skirts are hanging, breathlessly waiting to be worn in the new year, I am ready for the launch to a tidy and organized closet. It seems that often I stood in the stuffed closet with the lament "I have nothing to weaaaarrrrr!" Now, I have some things to wear. And I know what fits. And I know that eating those french fries is really a lose-lose situation. So, I'm making progress.

Tonight we're eating dinner and then heading to our friends' house. I really am looking forward to the new year. And I'm astonished at how fast time goes. Can it really be nine years since we all celebrated the turn to 2000? Can I really be the mother of three young men? Can it really be possible to let go of the attachment I have to food? Maybe. The teenagers are all there, it really will be 2009 very soon and I keep getting older no matter HOW many of those fancy lotions I buy. Nope nope nope. So, might as well accept all true things as, well, you know. True.

I have no resolutions. I want to be real and love the people I love and stand up for the things I love and be who I mean to be. Nothing new. Just trying to come home, though I've broken my vows a thousand times, yet again, to come home.

Shameless Bribes and Kick backs

Here is my reward for regularly working out. Yes, as much as I want to be healthy and whole and happy with my weight and who I am, I am not above bribes and rewards.

Cute shower shoes. Oh yeah!

Sacred Spaces

Yesterday's speakers at church each spoke about their own sacred spaces. Of course I was enjoying the sacred space of hanging out with a group of kids downstairs playing uno and playmobil. That's the big sacred stuff for sure. But it got me thinking about my own sacred spaces.

During the family money tussles that always follow the holiday for us there was a chicken fight about who is the more frugal adult in our house. (I am.) And I got to thinking about the private spaces of our house, and the money and time and energy spent on them. We have finally given away the last piece of free furniture from our main living area. All of the things we sit on or put our coffee on are things that we bought, somehow. Maybe at the liquidation sale, but nothing was by the side of the road for free. And we painted in colors I love, and even re carpeted a small room, and put in beautiful stone floor in another. Good, grown-up, maintaining of spaces.

Not true in our bedroom. We have never had a real head board, instead just matresses on a frame, my altar is a castoff dresser, and there are three totally unmatched bookshelves. My bedside table was found out by the side of the road, granted at my friend Debb's house, but still, it was headed out. I grabbed it. No, didn't cute it up or paint it or make it "distressed" (I am distressed enough, why do I want distressed tables!!?) I just washed it up and there it sits, seven years later. Yeah.

So, here is one place that being good to myself is not about the food or the right or the wrong or the fact that the damn scale at the Y says I gained four pounds. Taking care of my self can mean making sacred spaces in my own daily life. Space for meditation, and space for good and nice things in my life. No, not fancy or fine. But good. I'm not winning any prizes for having old used things in my bedroom. And I'm not even winning any arguments ( I give too much money away to win frugal parent of the year award, I guess...whatever!). I have not been creating sacred spaces that take care of myself like I really should be.

Here's my plan. IKEA has one of their twice a year sales going on. So, I'm just going to go and pick out a little bedside table that is under $20, and get a bulb for the IKEA lamp that I have that needs one. I'll gather nice things from my altar and make a good, happy space next to my bed. It's a little start, like having only one piece of toast instead of two, and running for 15 minutes instead of 10.

Maybe it will add up.

little things sure add up

So, I did Weight Watchers last year after winning NaNoWriMo. This year on November 30th, after not-winning NaNo, I didn't do WW.

Big surprise.

But what I did do was to start trying to be clean with food and activity. And up until about the time round three of our snowstorm hit, I was doing OK. There were two solid weeks of walk on the path alternating with a cardio/weight work out at the Y for six days and then one day off. Food was OK, mostly stuff eaten to feed body hunger and not head hunger or heart hunger.

I'm still recovering from the points and core and good and bad and right and wrong that I internalized, AGAIN, last year doing ww.

In line at the grocery store on Christmas Eve, during trip number three of the day, the new O magazine caught my eye. Hey, yeah. I thought Oprah was looking a little heavier, but then I never trust my eye to be right about weight loss or gain. A friend can lose 50 pounds and I just wonder if they found a really great pair of jeans. But there was Oprah, weight loss maven, talking about how she'd fallen off the wagon, again. Oooo. Me too, me too.

Not that I believe now that there really is a wagon full of thin and beautiful and happy people who have good skin and good jobs and happy and fulfilled primary relationships and always floss their teeth. Or that I fell off that wagon. If there is one, I've never gotten the pick-up schedule down right.

When I lost the most weight, about six years ago, on the day that I hit a size 8, my husband told me he wanted a divorce. Maybe I found the reverse wagon or something. But it ripped off the belief that I had that the only reason I wasn't happy was because I was fat. I wasn't happy because I wasn't happy. Maybe I was even fat because I wasn't happy. OK, there went the wagon tipping over and rolling down the hill.

So since this past fall when I realized that points and all that program stuff had just really served to feed the beast that is my food addiction, I've been reading Geneen Roth, and Victoria Moran, and trying to feed myself with things that don't go in my mouth. In my head I call it "eating clean". I've been trying to be OK with life and OK with the love I have and to be happy without food.

After all food is the craziest addiction of all! I mean, what kind of lame high do we get off food? Not much. At least some of the psychotropics give you a break from reality. Food smacks you down again so fast, you aren't even all the way up before you're down.

Shakin' my head. What kind of crazy thing is this, anyway.

The new O magazine had this great piece about rats. No really, it talks about how rats in a nasty cage would choose to drink the morphine laced water everytime. But the rats in the rat-heaven enlcosure shunned the happy water, instead, making happy lives.

Ahhhhh! Come on, I have to be smarter than a rat! I'm old enough, wise enough, now to make a happy life, and maybe this time just hang out at a nice-happy-size "just right" for oh, I don't know. Maybe life?

Today the Solstice Storm piles of snow are starting to melt. My whole family is headed to the Y and it is their job to finish the cheesy potatoes (damn you Pioneer Woman and your amazing use of butter and cream!) and to eat or disperse the cookies. My dear husband is creating a closet haven for me out of the closet chaos I have right now, and maybe we'll even paint the bathtub alcove a lovely eggplant color this weekend.

Little things, but they can sure add up.

And if I keep feeling sane about it, why not throw a little insanity in the mix and think about training for a 5k or even a 10k. I did a 5k for my 35th birthday, 'bout time to get on to the next distance, right?

OK, now I said it outloud. Better make it true.

Reading Glasses and Driving.....

How is it that on the very same weekend my teenaged son drove in the rain, in the dark to an overnight with his youth group, AND I bought my first pair of reader glasses.

I'm 41. And it's not really old. It's just older. And when we watched old family videos lately I couldn't even believe that my oldest was 11. Now he's very nearly 17. And often he's a better driver than I am.

So when it was time to go to the Youth Group overnight last night it really made no sense for one of the older glasses-wearing-adults to drive him. He could manage. And of course he did.

But I was an absolute basket case. Absolute.

It probably didn't help that earlier in the day my minister colleague had handed me her reader glasses and told me to get over it and wear them. Oh, I could see! The print was all legible and clear and I could see! But when I took them off, well, then I COULDN'T see.

So, I figured I'd just have to swallow hard and step up and buy glasses that would let me see. So I did.

Now I'd better go to the eye doctor and get real glasses and maybe they'll even be bifocals.

**sigh**

It's a new chapter. Maybe even a whole new book of the master series. Career that follows children, and empty nesting, and retirement and grandchildren and maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.

But children grow up and learn to drive and mothers grow older and they need glasses. It doesn't matter if your eyes sting with tears. That doesn't help you see. Not at all.

Big sigh.

White Girl Goes to Camp.

Sometimes it’s a lonely existence for me in my family. Yes, I’m the mom and I get to keep my finger on everything from the laundry to lovelife to long division. But in my family I’m the only girl. My dog is a lovely old lady but she doesn’t really count.

I’m also the only white one. My husband is Korean and my kids are “Hapa”—a Hawaiian word that literally means “half” that the Asian community has claimed the way the GLBTQ community has claimed “queer”.

So, today is the Celebration Day at Korean Identity Development Society (KIDS) Camp; class presentations, big Korean food lunch and a drumming presentation. It’s funny, we moved to Seattle to be with families that look like us, and while we often see them or know them on swim teams or at school; here we’re the freaks of nature again. Almost all the parents are white, and seem to be quite a bit older than we are. If there are other KADs (Korean Adult Adoptees) they are usually married to Korean folks from Korea.

People always flinch when I tell them that my adoptee is 41.

And then they want to tell me their story about how they’re doing things right; they’re raising their adoptee just perfectly so that there will never be pain around race or an identity crisis.

Well, good. I hope they’re right, I hope that their child never has to experience the pain of questioning what it means to be Asian in a white society and I hope that they never have to stand by as the white one; part of the oppressive crushing majority that has caused so much pain to the person that they would give their life for.

I hope for them a happy life with rainbows and cotton candy. I hope these camps help. I hope knowing my dear husband and hearing his story helps these kids grow up and not have to live it.

And I hope that these parents never have to feel the pain of being the other that hurts their child.

My fingers are crossed.

White girl goes to Florida

Last night began with a nice little bit of time in schmancy lounge my husband's job buys him a membership to; the World Club in the Seattle Airport.









After my red eye flight (in first class because there was room there) and my nice layover in Minneapolis with a friend, I flew into Miami. Flying stand-by you have to be super flexible. The flight to Fort Lauderdale was just packed with folks, and the flight to Miami had a little room, so I went to Miami. I know that there is a train that takes you right to Fort Lauderdale. I know that some people don't feel comfortable on the train, but It hey, I've taken it with my kids even years ago when they were little, and it didn't bother me.

Today I got off my flight in Miami, grabbed a little lunch and headed for the bus that takes you to the Tri Rail station. It was hot, super hot and I waited with a bunch of other folks about 20 minutes in the heat for the bus. Then it was another 15 minutes for the train. No air conditioning, not even real shade. Just waiting in the heat.











Man, the train was dirty with windows smeared with grit and grime. Seemed like all the tourists went to the upper deck and the locals stayed on the lower. That felt creepy to me, so I stayed on the lower level. As we rocked and rolled down the track thru Miami you could see buildings with caved in roofs, flat roofed apartments with yards of dirt littered with old cars and old furniture. There were neighborhoods with three ramshackle churches and nothing else--kids riding their bikes down the middle of the street because there were no cars. There were no businesses, just shut up apartments that looked tired and sorry.

I felt my white privilege all over my face. And my class advantage dripped off me with the sweat.

As we went north the graffiti got neater and more creative. Things were tidy and painted, more businesses open, less warehouse for rent signs out. I could tell when we'd crossed over when there was a tall attractive wall between the train track and the life on the other side. Sure, there was still graffiti, but now it was 3-D lettering and whole landscape panels on the wall.

Then came golf courses and suburban looking neighborhoods with lots of nice cars waiting for the train gates to lift. It was like you'd crossed over from East to West Germany back when they were separated by barbed wire. There was no barbed wire here, I don't think you need it. Privilege flies you right over pretty much any fence anyone can build, and lack of privilege, well, doesn't take a fence to keep people down when no one knows where to look for the step that goes up.

After another bus and a taxi ride, I was finally at my hotel. I checked in and chatted with the desk attendant about how tired we both were. She was kind and walked me thru all the perks--managers reception with free cocktails (not for me, I'm a youth sponsor this year) free made to order breakfast, free high speed internet because we have "gold elite" status on our frequent hotel-stayer program. And when I opened the door to my suite I was blown away. I chose this place because it was one of the cheaper options, had a free breakfast and maybe I could eek out a free appetizer dinner from the nightly reception, and it would give me free internet because of the gold status. But the room blew me away. Our whole youth group could stay here. Hey, half our CHURCH could stay here!









But I can stay here because I know these things, I know to ask these things. I know to sign up for these things. And although in my early married years I painted apartments to pay rent and once even had a garage sale to pay rent, I now have the class and I've always had the color privilege that allows me to access all of this.

Wildest of all, as I sit here in extreme comfort, there was a knock on the door.... a gift for the gold member.












I hope this week helps me figure out what to do with all of this. Well, not the popcorn in the little goody bag. That I'm eatin'! But the other stuff, the other stuff.

Chasing a sunrise.

The funny thing about flying across the country in the middle of the night isn't just the weird thing of sleeping next to a total stranger. Or having your neck at that stupid crooked angle for hours. It's not even the way the air gets so dry it would crack a Seattle winter in half. I think the most bizarre thing is if you have your window peeking open, the sun rises in a blink. In the winter you can actually manage to land in the dark, but by the time the seatbelt sign is off, it's getting light enough to really see. But at the summer solstice, you start to have a glow on the horizon and then whoosh, the sun is up! It's like flying to Europe.

For me, once the sun is up, you might as well fling the screens up, serve the coffee and try to do some seat yoga because the sleeping is over.

So now I'm tired! Minneapolis looks so much more awake than I feel!

But I got some of my very favorite coffee....Caribou coffee.

And I'm waiting for one of my very best friends in the world to come pick me up for a little breakfast together, Diana of course. Then I'm back here to fly to the whole other tip of the country from where I live, Miami. And if I'm lucky Suz has figured out a way to sneak a couple of hours away from home and work so we can spend some power girl time together.

Oh, and there's the work of course! GOOD good work, I can't wait.

And seeing my son, who flew out of the same airport and will wind up in the same city, but he went thru Houston!

It's all about chasing sunrises.

Politics: John McCain’s willingness to use racial slurs against people of Asian descent

John McCain's racist remark very troubling

Thursday, March 2, 2000

By KATIE HONG
SPECIAL TO THE POST-INTELLIGENCER

.. -->Katie Hong: On his campaign bus recently, Sen. John McCain told reporters, "I hated the gooks. I will hate them as long as I live." Although McCain said he was referring only to his prison guards, there are many reasons why his use of the word "gook" is offensive and alarming.-->

On his campaign bus recently, Sen. John McCain told reporters, "I hated the gooks. I will hate them as long as I live." Although McCain said he was referring only to his prison guards, there are many reasons why his use of the word "gook" is offensive and alarming.

It is offensive because by using a racial epithet that has historically been used to demean all Asians to describe his captors, McCain failed to make a distinction between his torturers and an entire racial group.

It is alarming because a major candidate for president publicly used a racial epithet, refused to apologize for doing so and remains a legitimate contender.

Contrary to McCain's attempt to narrowly define "gook" to mean only his "sadistic" captors, this term has historically been used to describe all Asians. McCain said that "gook" was the most "polite" term he could find to describe his captors, but because it is simply a pejorative term for Asians, he insulted his captors simply by calling them "Asians" -- a clearly disturbing message. To the Asian American community, the term is akin to the racist word "nigger." A friend of mine, a white male Vietnam veteran, pointed out that veterans, especially Vietnam veterans, know how spiteful the term "gook" is. It has everything to do with labeling someone as "other," the enemy and yellow. McCain sent the message that all Asians are foreigners and remain forever the "other" and the enemy.

The perception of Asians as "foreigners" or "the other" isn't new. This sentiment is what led to passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and the Japanese American internment during World War II. The internment of Japanese Americans is now recognized as one of the worst civil rights violations in our country's history and a powerful lesson in what can happen when race alone is used as a test for loyalty or who is defined as an American.

We've made tremendous progress as a nation in overcoming racism. That is why it is so disturbing that a major candidate for the U.S. president can perpetuate the stereotype of Asians as permanent foreigners, hurtling us backward to a time and a place where such racial epithets were an acceptable part of mainstream discourse.

What makes this incident even more disturbing is how neither the media nor the other presidential candidates have highlighted that his use of a racist term is unacceptable.

Asian Americans are one of the fastest growing minority populations in the United States. And the media's choice to ignore or excuse McCain's behavior is a painful reminder that Asians remain outsiders on the back steps of national American politics.

McCain's main campaign message is inclusion. What his actions have told me, however, is that his inclusion does not include people who look like me.

I love this country just as much as McCain does, and I am committed to serving my community and my country. That is the reason I have entered a career in public service and why I am committed to making America a great country where equal opportunity and justice for everyone is a reality and not just a vision.

This is also why I am so hurt by McCain's comment: He has reminded me that despite my commitment to serving my country, there are still some people in this country who would first perceive me as the enemy.

Katie Hong is a Korean American woman who lives in Seattle and works for Washington state government.

...run

It's been a week. At a meeting tonight, someone said "How does that woman have time to blog?"

Don't. Just sometimes HAVE to!

Sometimes when things are really hard, you just have to tell someone. Maybe not someone specific. Just another human. Another person who might get it.

I wish I could write for a couple of hours every day. Like during Nanowrimo when nothing eles matters and all you want to do is write. I feel like that everyday.
But there are responsiblities. Requirements. People counting on you. You can't let them down. You have to step up.

But sometimes.

Maybe.

You just want to....take that huge step back, that leads right out the back door.

And run.

In Concert

I love Ellis in concert, and going to the concert with friends was the best. And when you walk in early and get hugged by the artist, now that's gotta be the very best. OK, except the concert was in a chocolate factory--kinda not really like Willy Wonka, well except for the circus performers at the next venue over--but with chocolate that was a real honest to god spiritual experience. No lie. The ultimate evening.
We belly laughed, and cried and giggled and ate amazing chocolate and had a lovely glass of red wine. And shared in the best music going, anywhere.
Thanks, Ellis. And thanks Jen and Melinda. The ultimate.

number 41

So, I do this weird thing. When I go to the Y, I put my stuff in the locker with the number that corresponds with my age. OK, well when I go to the West Seattle Y I put my stuff in locker 150 unless I know Roberta will be there, then I defer to wisdom and age and the woman who fed me my first Thanksgiving meal in Washington. But usually, I put my stuff in the locker that's the same number as my age. Today I opened locker number 40 and there was all this funky stuff in it--ear wax to keep pool water out, and some random swim cap. Oh yeah, I'm not 40 any more. I moved to the next locker, to number 41. And this sent me. The years go marching, it's what Sophia Lyon Fahs said, the years go marching. Yes they do. I looked just a little to my left, and there against the wall was locker number 37. There she was all cute and young with no troubles. And 38 stood next to her, a little worse for the wear, that locker has been through some stuff. And then was 39, proud of her spot but still, just barely holding it all together. And 40, oh yeah 40. Now that locker has waited, and waited, usually pretty patiently. Now here we are, locker number 41. Half way down the aisle. Finally. Here we are.

I put my clothes in the locker, changed into my work out clothes, tucked away my towel for the shower later, and slammed it shut. 41. Locker number 41.

Locker number 41.

Mother’s Day 2008

Happy Mother's Day!

Even though this day was originally a call to leave war behind (http://www.prism.net/user/fcarpenter/howe.html) I kind of think Mother's Day is a call to remember just what this whole dishes-laundry-carpool carousel we ride is all about.

Even before I had any babies, I knew that raising kids was an art, that creating a home that would be a nest to grow a family would be the biggest thing that any person could ever do, and that I; with the biology and sprit I'm equipped with as a woman, would be perfectly suited to do just that.

I'm not talking Martha Stewart perfection of obsession with the bric-brac that sometimes comes with a house. Really what I mean is that funny ju-ju you feel when you come into a home. Maybe it's the sizzle of onions and veggies that will make a long simmered soup, or maybe it's the fabric softener that goes into the washer on the rinse cycle. Maybe it's the homebaked cookies that poor Hillary Clinton will never live down. But really, I think it's the air that invites a long conversation. It's the cozy, sometimes cluttered couch that invites sitting together for some down time. It's the feeling of acceptance and time and love and hope and care that comes when someone who lives in the house has chosen, as their primary function in life, to create a home for a family.

It's nothing for a delicate soul. There are no raises. The benefits are that eventually someone might take out the garbage FOR you and maybe they'll find your commitment to them lovely. But there will be days that they wish for nothing more than for you go just get out of their way and leave them alone.

Full time employment looks pretty good when this happens.

Someone else can run that afternoon with snacks and homework and the ride home from school.

Someone else can make dinner.

Someone else can get the kids to get on the bus to just go to school, even if homework isn't all done just right.

But those drives have little moments of clear brillance that you'll miss. And those dinner prep moments have chemistry lessons and LIFE lessons that you'll miss. And if you leave for those tricky times, you can't help but MISS things. There's no way to capture all of it, unless you are just there. No other way.

I've worked full time while homeschooling three kids. It's not easy, it's not fun. But if it was what I had to do to make the days work, well then, that was the only choice. I am not willing to miss those days.

Quality time is a lie. Time is time, and it doesn't matter if you're gone for an excellent reason. You are still, to you own child, just gone.

Maybe lots of moms disagree and feel that they'll lose themselves if they are JUST home with kids (http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/362567_optin10.html).

For me, there is no greater art, nothing more important, no better way to spend my life, than with my amazing sons, doing the laundry, the dishes, driving to practice. There is nothing I'd trade for the chance, the honor, of being their mother. Nothing.

Happy Mother's Day.

Hunh?

Am I really hearing this? You know, my kids, what they say? I mean not just when they say "I need more graph paper. The sugar is gone. Can you drive me to the movie?"

But what about the things that they say without saying them, or the things they say in just in a little whisper? Or the things they say with a little sideways look that evaporates in a moment.

Yesterday I was headed into the YMCA. I was late, the day was just one road block after then next, and I really had to be to Youth Group on time. I was on my cell phone with a friend trying to figure out the details of a big event the next day. Then I saw one of my favorite families. They were down at the corner; the dad and the two older boys were talking and looking up the street. There was a mini cello case, so I'm sure it was either just before or after cello lesson for the kindergartener and they must have been waiting for mom to come swoop in and pick them up.

But the baby was up over dad's shoulder. She's about a year-and-a-half old now. I got to do her child blessing when she was a newborn, so she's pretty special to me. And across the parking lot I can tell that she sees me. I can see the look on her face "hey, that's Kari from church, hey guys we know her!" But she's still little. She can say "chip" and "no" and "more" but to say "hey guys, there's our friend Kari" is just more than she can do.

So I can see her pointing and making toddler noises. But there's too much going on, and dad and brothers just miss it. And I've got 45 minutes to do my hour long work out, so I just wave crazily to her, turn and open the door and head into the Y.

I think I miss these moments with my old, old kids sometimes. So, OK, they can say more than "chip", and the things that they have to say are way more than "hey, there's our friend over there", but it's the same kind of thing.

There are things that people who I love, my kids and even other people, there are things that they say to me, and sometimes I miss the whole thing. "Hunh?" "What?" "OK, what did you say?" Or sometimes, just nothing. Nothing.

I'm gonna try to watch for the little finger pointing, and the little moments that point, too. And I promise to try really hard to stop, and to follow where the little finger points and to listen while you or anyone else explain it to me, because really. I want to hear. I care about it. Really I do, I care.

And if I flake it out, well then, just smack me upside the head and say "duh, you WANT to hear this" "you need to hear this" "hear this"

I will. Really, I will.

Sweet and Sour

I know what I’m having for lunch today. We’re gonna go to the little Chinese place that’s by the bowling alley—not the new one down the hill we just found that has fantastic authentic food where the menu is in Chinese and they only give you chopsticks and I’m the only white person in the place. Nope, we're headed to the little hole in the wall that doesn’t even have chopsticks if you want them, and the tables are really just to sit at while you wait for your to-go order.

Because I want crappy sweet and sour “mock” chicken. I don’t want authentic. I want sweet and I want sour and I want it with high fructose corn syrup and breading and food coloring. And soy sauce that’s made in Kansas.

This morning I was in the car with my middle son. As we sat at a red light waiting he looked over at me, squinting, brows pulled tight and said “how you do?” He’s psychic, or so super sensitive and perceptive and intuitive that if he lived in a calmer society, he’d be the shaman. I looked at him. I don’t want to lie to my kids. They know when something’s up. They get it; this one especially. Telling less than the truth breaks the trust between us. So I told him.

“It’s like life just can’t be straight forward. It’s full and empty, up and down, the good with the bad. Can’t we just have the sweet or the sour? Why do they have to be all mixed together?”

This was the moment the 13-year-old came back to the surface and the shaman faded and he looked at me like I was nuts.

“I just got an email from someone I’m so deeply happy to hear from, but it’s fall-out from the guy from high school who just died.”

“Mmm” he said, and looked out the window—earbuds stuffed in his ears and the ipod so loud I can hear the “Chemical Romance” song right through his ears.

I guess I need to remember that sweet and sour go so well together. It’s the perfect thing. Yes, this man died. It is deeply sad. It’s loss. Life always swings to death, it’s what makes room for the rest of life to move on, it’s sacred and good and part of life. If none of us ever died no one would be able to take a breath here on the planet. Even the sad is good. And hearing from this lost now found person is all good—like divine sweetness. Like pineapple. It sounds like this is happening across the country from this one man’s death—old friends finding each other after years and years and years. Sweet.

I think I’ll bring my sweet and sour “chicken” home and dump super spicy thai sauce over the whole thing. Like life. Sweet; sour; and if we’re lucky— wicked spicy.

Girls on the town in the Minneapolis Deep Freeze

The people you knew years and years ago...are they still in your life? Are there people who know stories about you that you wish no one ever knew? And can you just reach over and steal a bite of their food, even if you haven't been in the same room for months and months? Old friends. Good friends.

Now, the winter where I live is dreary. The clouds hang on for weeks. It rains. We all get a little gloomy, no one wants to go for a walk in the rain. No one wants to just hang around outside. But really? We're all crazy. The flowers are blooming! It's in the 40s! And in February we start to get real spring planting moving, and the sun comes out for days and days! So what did we do?? My family made the brilliant decision to come to Minnesota for our mid-winter break. It's 11 below, the actual temperature, with a 25 below windchill. It hurts to breathe and anything exposed freezes. But we came here to see those old friends.


In fact, Suz even came from Florida because there was a chance that all five of us girls would be in one room for a day or so. Well, maybe it was more than that, but she came to cold weather so cold it's dangerous; willingly, even bought a plane ticket. We just fly standby.

So there we were, staying in downtown Minneapolis for an overnight, the five girls who share a brain. Now we're all 40--the baby of the group just climbing that milestone this month. And it was cold. The skyways were closed. But it didn't matter. We shopped--at Target. We ate at a nice restaurant, we went to a niche pub. We laughed over nothing and drank a bottle of champagne.


And then as we each leave, one by one, to go back to our lives, a little piece of me rips off again. It's like that really strong velcro that holds super tight, but when it rips apart it makes that huge noise.....rrrriiiiiiiip. And in a couple of days I'll leave too. Rrrriiiip. It makes me think that maybe, it would almost be worth it to move back here to live in the super cold to be nearer to some of these pieces of myself. But of course, when you live close together you hardly ever take a whole week to hang out with your friends. And now we have those friends that only know the stupid stories about us from the last five years who live by our new home, and that's a piece we'd have to rip off. And it's really, really cold in Minnesota. I don't want to live someplace where the very air you breathe is dangerous. Volcanoes, earthquakes...now that's a reason for danger. Air, not so much. So I'll wear goofy wool socks, and be cold inside buildings and out for a while. It's OK. I'm happy to do it--but, really, I'm not moving back.

YES WE CAN!

YES WE CAN!
So, I went to the Obama Rally today. Two of the kids went with me, I think public school has totally ruined Michael and no matter what I said this morning, he would not skip school and come with me! Peter said "He's making grades while we're making history."
I don't know if we were really making history, but being in a big arena with 20,000 people who are actually letting themselves feel hope for our country was a little exciting. For so long I've felt nothing much good about being living here in the states and what we are doing to the rest of the people of the planet through our government.
But Barak Obama says things that make me hope. Like, that americans can be counted on to do the right thing. And that if things are going to change, we all have to do hard things, and that's OK, we can do that.
Cool.
I want to live in a country that takes care of it's old and sick, and does not give tax breaks to oil companies. I don't want a president who said "I hate all gooks" and would stack that suprememe court with even more judges with shameless political agendas.
Tomorrow I'm going to my caucus and I'm speaking my mind. I know I live in a very, very red neighborhood, but I don't care. Let 'em fine me for having moss on my roof (in SEATTLE??! MOSS??! Oh my!).
And if you were there, and you got stuck in hours and hours of awful traffic like the 58 mile back up on I-5 and if you stood outside for an hour and really really wished for just a little coffee, well then we'll say together after the swearing in, "hey, maybe we made a little history there on that grey February day..."
I'll host the post election party.

Next Week

So, I caved. I subscribed to something more commercial and more mainstream than any blogger site or social networking site. It's bad.
I joined Weight Watchers.
Well, because even tho I lost almost a whole 2nd grader worth of weight years ago, when I moved back in with my husband INSTANTLY I gained a whole bunch of weight. Seriously. It was like that day, the moving truck, boxes, cleaning and bam, here's a whole bunch of clothes that don't fit anymore. And no matter what I did it didn't want to go away, even after we decided we were married and happy and we planted gardens and everything.
OK, maybe thinking that nachos are kinda sorta healthy was part of the problem. That might be it. AND that thinking that red wine and dark chocolate are healthy...that's part of it too. Ww makes you stand up and weigh in and admit that even things you eat while standing-up... count.
It was funny, I kept hearing people that I thought of as "normal" size talk about belonging to ww--some for 20 years, and I decided that this is what "normal" sized people do when they start not fitting in their clothes. So, there I sit, in the chair at the meeting, every week and I don't eat nachos and I only eat "little" bits of dark chocolate. And yes, it's working, slowly.
There's a pile of clothes on my closet floor that I can hang back up when they fit. It's shrinking. That's good. If you're like me and can actually talk yourself into believing that nachos are kinda healthy, sometimes, you might have to stop eating standing up, too.
It's OK. We'll all be fat old people on the golf course someday, but for now....hey for now, I'm off nachos, I'm planning on a "clean" closet floor soon.
And if you are one of those naturally thin people who can look at chocolate cake and think "um....I'm not really hungry" I'll try to accept you as a person next week. Promise.