tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3960281883088044062023-11-16T09:35:44.578-08:00Din MuthaGrownup.Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-82388785882588381122015-11-15T19:15:00.001-08:002015-11-15T19:26:31.538-08:00Three people.The attacks in Beirut, Paris, Kenya, et. Al. has me feeling a bit unraveled. It makes me unsettled down to my gray matter with a sense of disconnected unease.<br />
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This week seems to have ruffled the feathers of humanity. But this has always been, I'm reminded. This torment is chronic throughout humanity's history. </div>
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But this is happening <i>now</i>. </div>
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Equal parts crippling and hopeful, we the spawn of past offenses are given the torch in which we have the power to affect our environment. </div>
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Don't change the world, people. That task is insurmountable for one alone. You cannot feed every hungry mouth or inspire every person hell-bent on damaging another. </div>
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But you can help a few. </div>
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Over the last few days, I've reached out to a few acquaintances. It's nothing big, just a little note to tell them just how valuable they are to me, to their community, to the greater humanity. </div>
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If I made just three people feel better and realize just a little scrap of their worth that's good enough for me. But how others respond to me is not my concern. My hope, maybe. </div>
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Here's my request: Reach out to three people and give them your affection and respect. </div>
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That's it. Just say "thanks" or "you're valid and important" or whatever to three people. </div>
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Perhaps this might not affect the world, but it will affect <i>your </i>world and maybe someone else's. </div>
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Simple. Compassion. Value in humanity. </div>
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Sometimes that makes all the difference.<br />
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Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-6978719817182818582015-09-01T15:02:00.005-07:002015-09-01T15:03:05.791-07:00Who Can Get This Dolphin to Woody Harrelson? (Guest blog by Murial Barkley-Almer)<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><b>Who Can Get This Dolphin to Woody Harrelson? </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">Theo Ramey is one of the most potent characters of my Lake Chelan childhood. I grew up perusing the shadows of his metal shop, creatures and vehicles and other beauty coming to life through his welding hands. His voice was gruff, his horseshoe mustache unparalleled, and his heart so incredibly kind. One of the greatest gifts I ever received as a child was made by his hands: a bunk bed of metered metal scrap and tin rosettes, all painted lovingly in the shades of girlhood. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">When the fires raged through my hometown of Chelan, WA two weeks ago, I reached out to my artist communities for support. I was gathering donation “perks” (or prizes) for an Indiegogo campaign designed to raise money for those experiencing the most profound of the devastation: homes lost, forest charred, livestock, wildlife and pets displaced and injured. Almost immediately, Theo reached out. “ I have a sculpture for your cause. It’s a dolphin.” When I saw the photos, I was awed. Theo has been collecting her parts for 14 years—combing junkyards and antique store back rooms for perfectly comprised hunks of copper, brass, aluminum, and cast-iron. But when I asked for an approximate value, his answer raised my eyebrow. “Well, I was going to ask Woody Harrelson for $10,000…but I suppose that was the 'movie star' price.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">Turns out, Theo and Woody were neighbors once upon a time, working and playing in their own ways on Maui. While the two never met in person, Theo was friends with Woody’s cook and housekeeper and one day she brought Theo’s portfolio in to show her boss. When Woody marveled at the polished glory of reinvented junk, she told him, “I wish you could see the piece he is working on right now, a dolphin. It’s beautiful.” And Woody replied, “I’d love to look at it. Have him let me know when it is done.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">Fast forward 10 years, a thousand scrap metal searches, and a relocation to Western WA state: Woody, the dolphin is ready, and her name is Hoover.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">Now, I don’t know Woody Harrelson, but as far as celebrities go, I feel like we could be friends. A questioning, boundary-heaving, environmentally-minded activist with a penchant for spontaneous and silly? I’d like to have tea. And maybe it’s crazy, but I feel like he just might be the kind of person who would respond to the quirky plea of a desperate stranger. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">So:</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><b><i>Dear Woody Harrelson,</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><b><i>Rumor has it, this dolphin belongs with you. You were in the mind of the artist as he slowly collected its components. Its baby-steps toward existence occurred on a plot of land abutting yours. And when the artist donated its gleaming form to our fundraiser, he did so with your name, laughingly, upon his lips. You already have one foot in our story, and I’d love to invite you the rest of the way in. And at ‘regular people price,’ of course!</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><b><i>Washington state is on fire, Woody. You and I both know that the Earth is losing patience with our mismanagement of her resources, of *her* art. The way the West burns seems a clear indicator for change. This week, however, my grief is too great to look beyond the immediacy of this wildfire’s aftermath—the people, wildlife, and loved animals that are displaced and experiencing loss in my hometown. I don’t have much in the way of money to contribute to the rebuilding, but I’ve got my words to use, artist friends with generous hearts, and an incurable case of 'the optimistic’.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><b><i>If Hoover is your dolphin, Woody, let me know? </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><b><i>Love,</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><b><i>Chelan (and me, Murial)</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">If you would like to participate in the effort to unite “Hoover” and Woody, it’s as easy as sharing this message with your social networks in whatever way you do—help us to create a trending story so that we are able to get on the radar! If you have a connection to Woody, and are able to share my message with him directly, my heart would be so grateful, and I’d love to thank you personally in kind.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">Grow the Love: Supporting Chelan Fire Victims is a collaborative fundraising effort of the grown children of Lake Chelan, WA. Through art, storytelling, and heart-centered reciprocity, we are doing what we can to help rebuild the magic that made us! All donations above $25 are responded to with an artful “perk”—handwritten thank you letters, jewelry, visual and audio art, healing work and services! Check us out:</span><span style="color: black; font-family: helvetica,arial,sans-serif;"> </span><a href="http://bit.ly/lovechelan" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Times;">http://bit.ly/lovechelan</span></a></div>
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Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-27866488719000146282015-06-29T19:14:00.000-07:002015-06-29T19:14:35.290-07:00"Happy Accident"The words scared me. When my daughter called me just after opening our art gallery on a Sunday morning, I couldn't help but feel frightened. Accidents are forgetting to turn the lights off or leaving the water on. But in this case, we were lucky.<br />
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When I heard the news about marriage equality on Friday, the world opened up. I wanted to celebrate. And celebrate hard.<br />
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But it's difficult to show your support and celebrate in a small town. Being overtly political can have so many problems that bubble up and can make having a small-town business challenging. If people disagree, the world can shut you out, sales can dwindle, rent can't be paid, and you become just another failed business.<br />
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On Friday, I didn't really care about that.<br />
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The paint came first, then chalk. By Saturday, we had some beautiful chalk art in front of our little art gallery. Then the happy accident happened.<br />
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My daughter, Magnolia, forgot the chalk when she closed up shop. She forgot it outside.<br />
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The results were beautiful.<br />
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It's amazing what can happen when you leave yourself vulnerable.<br />
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By the next morning, the sidewalk in front of our gallery crept all the way down the street. The pavement was strewn about with love--love for equality, love for each other, love for love.<br />
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This is a precarious time: We are only six months into our gallery and 90% of galleries fail within the first year. Whether or not we survive, that's up to the art market in Lake Chelan. But we will continue to fly the flag for equality and wait to see what happens.<br />
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Let's celebrate, people. Today is a good day.<br />
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<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-21983451452310139652014-09-25T09:56:00.001-07:002014-09-25T09:56:44.251-07:00When I grow up, I want to be an old fart.I take a slice of butter just off of the top of a butter stick that went cold and hard over night. A friend took her toast with four large hunks of butter just like her eccentric father. "One for every bite."<br />
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Maybe she hadn't said eccentric, but that is how I imagined our conversation--the two of us talking about the eccentric, old creatures in our lives. My own great-grandmother once sprained her ankle falling off a ladder and, upon being told to wear some sort of compression device, spent six weeks wearing patent leather go-go boots.<br />
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The old creatures don't just butter their toast, they argue with their philodendrons, flirt with whomever they like, and schlep ten pounds of rhinestone jewelry (evenly distributed, mind you). Celebrated as odd and remembered as legend, the Old Eccentric Creatures inspire art, stories, and the occasional shudder from us not yet old/eccentric.<br />
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I want to be someone's Old Eccentric Creature. I want to become that old woman at the concert whose dancing resembles some drunken train wreck who transfixes an entire audience. I look forward to offering applause with pendulous, unbridled breasts that slap together when I dance. I want to wear more rings than I have fingers for and bright red lipstick and perfume that makes people winded or dizzy. I want to read the paper aloud to myself in the library and use the royal "we" in conversation.<br />
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In practice, I should find my inner Eccentric Old Creature.<br />
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I practice nibbling donuts in strange ways, hoping that someone would say, "oh, heavens, will you just look at that old, eccentric woman nibbling her donut in such an old, eccentric way," and then I remember that eating donuts in the bathroom, though it may be strange, will not be observed in a manner which I am comfortable with experiencing.<br />
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Unfortunately, I've met some road blocks. My grocery cashier isn't young enough to flirt with, jewelry just leaves green smudges all over, and Courtney Love already perfected red lipstick with enviable skill. It appears that giving a shit about not giving a shit is self-defeating.<br />
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Perhaps with age comes the notion that after the kids have grown and we're all sweated out from our nimble, haggard years at the grindstone, we become entitled to our fancies, our whimsies. Perhaps I've not yet perfected my butter-to-toast ratios just yet.<br />
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There's time, I guess. If I'm lucky.<br />
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Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-37198416742830899932014-07-24T15:45:00.001-07:002015-06-02T00:53:37.166-07:00My life: A timeline according to chickens. <b><i>Okay. I'm sitting down to write a blog. I am writing in my old home town in what is now my pub. Okay, my husband's pub.</i></b><br />
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<u>Right.</u><br />
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The last blog I wrote was about science fair and that whole debacle. But the <a href="http://www.dinmutha.com/2013/11/rutting-season-year-two-cat-ladys.html" target="_blank">blog before that</a> was about how I was completely preoccupied in being woefully, miserably single. However I did mention the chickens, so let's start there, shall we?<br />
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Let's.<br />
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<b>February-ish:</b> After three damned long years of campaigning, the spawn finally talked me into getting chickens. "They'll be so great!'" said the spawn. "Gross!" said the mom. I had always considered chickens as the meanies of the meat world. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicCDjWUwa1yzpdXc7VOpCQhyY_X17xlqRFaNvodWr0nP6OOeWdJDAyqSMoYDtY-Yg4k1V8okEZHRU5QRQaD7KZap5vGqsIEQSMW4RrTE32rHJc5GUd3muPe7htocBHBDp5cwId8awifk8b/s1600/Skeksis.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicCDjWUwa1yzpdXc7VOpCQhyY_X17xlqRFaNvodWr0nP6OOeWdJDAyqSMoYDtY-Yg4k1V8okEZHRU5QRQaD7KZap5vGqsIEQSMW4RrTE32rHJc5GUd3muPe7htocBHBDp5cwId8awifk8b/s1600/Skeksis.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rodents of hell: Brian Froud's skeksi alongside Turd the chicken. </td></tr>
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As a kid I remember my best friend having attack chickens which are kind of like attack dogs except smaller, winged, bipedal taloned beasts of hell--maybe rodents of hell.<br />
<br />
Purchase chickens. Eight of them. I was told that they wouldn't look like skeksis for long. SO I was told. No eggs yet.<br />
<br />
<b>March-ish:</b> I am the top cool kid, hot shot at a super-duper big-kid job. I am a kick ass person. I tell people what to do. My children tell me what to do. The scantily feathered sisters at the prehistoric sorority in my guest room tell each other what to do. They finally laid an egg. It looks like poop. Nevermind. No eggs yet.<br />
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<b>March-ish II:</b> I have now taken it upon myself to dive whole-heartedly into my chickenizing. I will never again find a mate. I will have chickens, and in them, I shall find peace.<br />
<br />
We have named the chickens. They are not dead yet. Go me. We are the proud owners of Cleopatra, Maureen, Hoodoo (who I call Laverne), Hocus, Lilith, Glinda, Beaker (my little love), and Turd. We do not like Turd. Turd, as we are told, will give us bright blue eggs.<br />
No eggs yet.<br />
<br />
<b>April-ish:</b> My singularity has made me a bitter, old cat-and-chicken woman. Download Tinder app to <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tinderty" target="_blank">recaption terrible dating site profile pics</a>. Buy terrible gin. Still no eggs.<br />
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<b>April 19th:</b> Meet guy from Tinder. Coincidentally, he lives in my old home town. Coincidentally, he is from same old home town (though I'd never met him). Coincidentally, he's a zine editor/English major/general smart ass. Coincidentally, he is hot.<br />
<br />
At first sight, I knew that I was doomed to live the rest of my life in utter joy with this man.<br />
<br />
Still no eggs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8PA5q4M3qZXXxgQ5bgMY1nydk4DWwQcxiSP-RumbiJaoRirInpGoFq2uvfeFIbepa1pElGvLazbWiskskCZkI7IYql_1cNVi506G2utR_V6AXP0-A9Kte8iIfXd2n22ill_PcYRhgDkyJ/s1600/Laverne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8PA5q4M3qZXXxgQ5bgMY1nydk4DWwQcxiSP-RumbiJaoRirInpGoFq2uvfeFIbepa1pElGvLazbWiskskCZkI7IYql_1cNVi506G2utR_V6AXP0-A9Kte8iIfXd2n22ill_PcYRhgDkyJ/s1600/Laverne.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our sexually misguided hen, Laverne. </td></tr>
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<b>May-ish:</b> I am unreasonably happy. I am the boss at an awesome job. I am the recipient of epic amounts of attention and affection. The world is becoming increasingly adorable. Cynical me wants to punch In-love me in the throat. The fella, who owns a restaurant and bar, buys me really, really good gin.<br />
<br />
I am given another chicken. Her name is Mo. She is the feathered version of Mick Jagger on psychedelics. I have nine chickens. NINE CHICKENS AND NO EGGS.<br />
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<b>June-ish:</b> My job--my awesome big-kid job--will be gone at the end of the month, I'm told. The fella asks me to marry him. I say, "duh."<br />
He shows me the video of his high school death-metal air-band. I tell him that I'll still marry him and that we all have shady pasts.<br />
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<b>June 21st:</b> Laverne is acting funny. She is gigantic and pretty and has a waddle that goes for miles. Today Laverne crowed. Not just like a small, timid little crow, but a loud pubescent holy-hell-I-have-found-my-voice-and-all-others-will-suffer-my-wrath kind of crow. Laverne is a dude chicken.<br />
<br />
A columnist from the newspaper calls me. They want to run a story about my hermaphrodite hen. I'd like to think that the story was sympathetic to my wretched rooster state; however, most people just laugh and laugh at this poultry genitalia switcheroo.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6MpzuOQQfKgJ_svCTBBcrabtb6Bvr9LzZfqbdFItK_JUgtGEsArggvuOOjU6p8bjg8LDvVq88pTLw7XQKzX9SXPszSURw3IKXV665YjKTwTJ_Jc9WDN6TIskQ8sUVOhdzXoFZrIauXbg/s1600/IMG_6654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6MpzuOQQfKgJ_svCTBBcrabtb6Bvr9LzZfqbdFItK_JUgtGEsArggvuOOjU6p8bjg8LDvVq88pTLw7XQKzX9SXPszSURw3IKXV665YjKTwTJ_Jc9WDN6TIskQ8sUVOhdzXoFZrIauXbg/s1600/IMG_6654.jpg" width="230" /></a><br />
Still no eggs.<br />
<br />
<b>July-ish:</b> I marry the fella in spite of his penchant for death metal. I am now the co-owner of a restaurant and bar. My parents take the chickens. I slowly move to my old home town. I am still slowly moving into my old home town.<br />
<br />
I went back to see my chickens.<br />
<br />
I found an egg.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-9162920858607369882014-03-26T00:41:00.000-07:002015-06-02T00:44:56.386-07:00Worst Holiday EVAR: Science Fair Eve.Harry Shearer's syndicated weekly radio show, Le Show, features an "apologies of the week" segment where he highlights the public apologies from large corporations, celebrities, politicians, etc.<br />
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Today I'm here to provide my own personal apology of the week.<br />
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I'm sorry, people, for every bitchy thing I did today. But you just don't understand what's going on: It's Science Fair Eve.<br />
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For those who have yet to shat forth the next generation of would-be hard-core procrastinators, let me tell you how it goes:<br />
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1) You receive a notice that the SCIENCE FAIR will be happening. You will receive this notice in January--at least you should have received this notice in January, but for some odd reason you will only find it when you are cleaning out the lint trap in the dryer. At this exact moment your spawn will waltz through the door after school with the infamous stress-inducing trifold poster board.<br />
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2)Your upper lip will start to sweat when you notice that the trifold poster board is completely naked.<br />
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3) You will begin mumbling in tongues like a well-traveled sailor when you are told that the completed tri-fold poster board, along with experiment and conclusion are due.....tomorrow.<br />
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<b>When</b> we sign up to take on the responsibilities of ensuring the survival of offspring, we don't typically think of the damaging effects Science Fair Eve has on the psyche. When you find out you're pregnant, you don't ever stroke your belly and hum, "I can't wait until I'm huffing rubber cement at 1:30 a.m. whilst sticking jellybeans on cardboard."<br />
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But you must. It is a right of passage. Only once you have undergone the wild ordeal of paper maché-ing a a giant pair of sunglasses that look more like a uterus will you understand the panicked horror of Science Fair Eve.<br />
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But FEAR NOT, friends. I'm not here to gripe incessantly. I'm here to offer hope. I will offer you three last-minute projects your kids can use.<br />
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<b>The flower--nature's dial-it-in project.</b> Google flower anatomy. Print, cut, and paste information on trifold. Buy a flower at the store (science fairs typically occur when everything in nature doesn't really give a shit about being all sciencey and most vegetation is dormant--at least in our neck of the woods. This furthers my theory that schools conspire to rid you of your will to live. They are also probably in cahoots with the wine dealers). Done.<br />
<b>Poster board title:</b> "Flowers are pretty, but not as pretty as my mother."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixc7gQWn6onGPnqrQnx6aJfEukvxj4tFaeg1IRO2iHeg_YIekEZHPkRoXg35I10kMhUWlUwVvVEOZm8sV9i5S-S77_xPEWEl1WrgK31_Angp-z9r7jmZheBZ6MUyYSpsWcLCkExL7WjJzc/s3200/image.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixc7gQWn6onGPnqrQnx6aJfEukvxj4tFaeg1IRO2iHeg_YIekEZHPkRoXg35I10kMhUWlUwVvVEOZm8sV9i5S-S77_xPEWEl1WrgK31_Angp-z9r7jmZheBZ6MUyYSpsWcLCkExL7WjJzc/s3200/image.png" width="320" /></a><b>Living death--whatchagot project.</b> Clean out your refrigerator. Give you child that tupperware from the back of the fridge--the one with the leftovers that are older than your first born. (NOTE: When you give the plastic death bomb to your child, get a little misty and with a shuddery voice say, "I've been saving this for you since you were born." They will have no choice but to use it. ALSO, when science fair is over, said child can throw it away at the school and NOT in your home. Win/win.) <b>Poster board title:</b> You can go with either "Mold vs. Plastic" or "The effects of parental academic negligence." Your choice.<br />
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<b>Foot funk--why the hell do little boys' feet smell so bad? </b>No, seriously, I want to know. It's messed up. For this one you can google sebaceous glands or something like that. Staple a few of the socks you found between the couch cushions to the poster board (if too tough, you may want to use nails or spritz them with water and they'll adhere themselves. Google foot odor. Bleach all areas surrounding science fair project.<br />
<b>Poster board title:</b> "My mom didn't even try this year."<br />
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Other science fair options are "how foot rubs keep me from getting grounded" or "Lightbulbs: It's Called Magic" or "Pie and it's effect on the mood."<br />
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The final option comes complete with poster board visual! Yes, this was the OMG-I-can't-believe-it's-Science-Fair-Eve scientific discovery this year. I spent an hour figuring out how to draw lattice in a word. I smell like rubber cement. My eyes want to bleed now.<br />
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But somewhere in the torrent of hormonal hysteria, mostly mine, I think we had a good time. My face is so happy it's dancing....or twitching depending on your Science Fair Eve knowledge base.<br />
<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-86598473990396630452014-03-12T22:57:00.001-07:002014-03-12T22:57:36.597-07:00Taking inventory. <div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 1em; min-height: 1em; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
I am far from any semblance of the quintessential mother/woman. If one were to be defined by their things, I'd say I'm screwed by modern-day's standards of living: Single mom, two baby daddies, trailer by the river, etc. Some days you look at your life sunny-side-down.<br />
If you ever find yourself taking inventory and your list should appear similar to the one above, you may want to just admit one thing to yourself. </div>
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"Self," you'll say, "you done Jerry'd up your life." </div>
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There's really no way to pinpoint the moment that brought me to this state of a Springer life (all right, I'm sure there is, but that would require a nostalgic exegisis and we all know how well those go, don't we?). Regardless of the reasons, I'm in it. I'm neck-deep in the midday televised squalor of humanity.<br />
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But on days when one feels particularly worn out and emotionally underwhelmed with life, it's important one takes inventory of the miracles all around you. </div>
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Here's my personal inventory:<br />
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<b>One daughter.</b> I am the proud owner of a sweet, pubescent tween who is happy to live out her days atop Mount Whateverest--::ugh::eye roll::--whilst communicating in monosyllabic grunts, sighs....or worse, Broadway show tunes. </div>
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<b>One son.</b> I never knew how expensive extracting quarters from an esophagus could be until I had this miracle of medicine. I attribute my closest emergency room friendships to him and his fearless appetite for...please, let's not give him any more ideas. </div>
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<b>One cat.</b> This cat plays guess-what-it-feels-like-to-suffocate on a nightly basis when he finds no greater joy than cleaning his delicates while sitting on my sleeping face. </div>
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<b>Three-quarters of a dog.</b> This don Juan of a dog finds joy in humping random dogs where ever he may find them. Having only three legs, my dog is always unsuccessful with his romantic interludes. These botched attempts at romance would be more entertaining if he simply avoided going for dogs that were tethered to their owners. Thanks to him, meeting new friends has never been more awkward. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, they are eight adorable sacks of childhood<br /> issues waiting to happen......</td></tr>
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<b>Eight baby chickens.</b> I don't think of them as chickens but more severe traumatic events covered in downy adorableness simply waiting to peck-the-bucket. Chickens, like goldfish or sea monkeys, are not known for their longevity. They are obnoxious, flightless pooping machines that affix themselves upon the hearts of young, tenderhearted children only to face death on a daily basis if their downy keisters are not cleaned. It is because of this eminent threat of poop death that there is a toothbrush on my counter in a jar that says "not for faces...OR FOR MOTHERS."</div>
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<b>One therapy jar.</b> Because every day there is THAT moment. Because there is only ONE bathroom. Because Mom is still learning how to mom one humiliating mistake at a time. Because sometimes we run out of toiletpaper/peanutbutter/hours in the day/patience. Because on occasion I eff things up. And because I say "fuck" instead of "eff" most of the time...This is why we have a therapy jar.<br />
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Because sometime down the line, when my children are old enough to manage themselves, they'll realize that their mother effed things up. They might want to pay someone to talk about it. That is when I will give them a wad of nickels and twenty dollar bills and I'll look them in the eye and say, "I knew this day would come."<br />
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<b>One perch. </b>Once place that I can sit and drink coffee/kombucha/gin. It's where books are read and stories are built and then written. It's the place where nighttime jitters are quelled. It's a place where both secrets and giggles are shared. It's that one sweet spot in the house where we don't worry about the things we need to do or what we don't have.<br />
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This is not the place for inventory. The joy in a quiet snuggle with a child cannot be quantified in numbers. It's where the world, no matter how Jerry'd up it may be, is just right.</div>
Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-22136488804628898512014-02-04T01:37:00.002-08:002014-02-10T00:07:15.967-08:00Coming Home.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the 2.5 years I've lived in this valley, I've done some pretty impressive things. I started a roller derby team, I designed costumes and sets for the local theatre, I produced and co-hosted fundraisers which brought in thousands of dollars. I coached a basketball team with a winning season. I assisted with art shows. I performed in Nationally-Affiliated read-outs and started moving toward my MFA. It all sounds pretty impressive, doesn't it?<br />
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Well, it means absolutely shit when your son can't read. It means nothing when your tween tells you that you're never around. It means absolutely nothing when you can't find the lost library books. It means diddly squat when it's February and you're using strings of Christmas lights as an extension cord for your laptop.<br />
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I'm tapped out. I feel like a deflated teat with nothing else to offer, and the ones who need the most support have gotten the shaft.<br />
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In my valiant effort to find validity in my own life, I've lost sight of the little beings who have needed the most validation. My children are bussed and tousled from here to there, spilling sports jerseys and homework all the while. Exciting pizza night event notices get stuffed between the seat cushions of the day and forgotten because of high-profile meetings or art events. In small towns we all take turns entertaining each other, and I simply thought I was paying my dues to the community.<br />
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But at what cost?<br />
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My son's teacher has no tolerance for him. "He's failing," she told me. "He shouldn't be in this class." The words stung. I wanted to scream and cry, but I didn't think that I was capable of doing anything about his situation. Do we let our children suffer through classes that they despise and say, "welcome to the real world, kid," or do we take them out of places that make them pouty and then slather them with personal accolades for flushing the toilet after twosies and then celebrate with cake?<br />
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This is where I found myself today--a day where I had far more insipid blogs to write.<br />
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Instead of going and taking on more community volunteer services, I cleaned my home, hoping that some semblance of order would right the wrongs I've done in the last two-and-a-half years of service. I looked at myself and wondered where the hell this social paranoia came from. Does the sweat for my community even matter when my future is not even twitching an eye on the couch in front of the computer?<br />
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"I just need a hug, Mom."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZf31JFCPvqBdfMR4RQ-ohvbx3lT2dJUs1NKfI4W-lN_MBlArivE9uOSHUxnD-GeUuy8xqitJoMPRsd_qa8S20d4DVYCWcOIBKhZECz0lF-lhg-VH4ebMj2SIytCpAM-fGUHUzP2UoE1dc/s1600/IMG_3317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZf31JFCPvqBdfMR4RQ-ohvbx3lT2dJUs1NKfI4W-lN_MBlArivE9uOSHUxnD-GeUuy8xqitJoMPRsd_qa8S20d4DVYCWcOIBKhZECz0lF-lhg-VH4ebMj2SIytCpAM-fGUHUzP2UoE1dc/s1600/IMG_3317.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>My daughter, writhing in her own hyper-hormonal skin looked up at me for help, maybe hope, or relief from the crazy dancing the Watusi through her veins.<br />
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My children have had it rough in the last two years. Their mother has tried to find distraction from a painful divorce by creating a web of support in the community. Social nesting, maybe. They lost their family units in the breakup and then they lost their mother to social obligations.<br />
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We hugged tonight. All of us hugged. We made corn dogs and toast for dinner. We did homework. Somewhere between spelling the word "again" and "there" (both spelled with a "q," mind you) I came home. I found my feet under my body and wrangled my personal fears of dealing with my divorce. Homework has a new meaning.<br />
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I cancelled all of my social obligations (save one last one coming up) and felt our family gel and hold. "The world can wait," a friend told me. She was so right.<br />
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So scoff or do what you will. I'm okay with that. I don't need any validation in this endeavor. But sometimes begin a grownup means saying "no" to all of those things that validate your self and saying "yes" to those things that fart on your lap.<br />
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<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-19133036945097634632014-01-12T00:12:00.001-08:002014-01-12T00:12:57.644-08:00Raising Readers<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">In our house, Saturday evenings mean puzzles and projects. A few weeks ago, while my daughter and I worked a particularly boring puzzle of kittens in a basket, we talked about our most recent literary projects. We trade notes.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Elizabeth could still remember the sun on her face,” I said with a Katherine Hepburnesque quiver. I asked for my daughter’s feedback. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">She rolled her eyes (a chronic issue that almost all 12 year olds contract). </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“That. Is. Boring.” Her gentle critique came in groans before she read aloud her own project’s first line. “Emily gripped the knife tightly in her pocket. She knew what she had to do.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At that moment I realized one hard fact: I am raising my own literary competition. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As parents, we strive to teach our children as well as we can given our own limitations. We play symphonies to unborn bellies full of potential. We buy them books knowing full well that they will be slathered in apple sauce and drool. We sit for tedious hours while our little ones sound out the words c-a-t, and only sometimes do we shout, “cat! CAT! For the love of god, it spells cat!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We are creating the new and thriving literary culture one book at a time. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My own parents were avid book readers. The breakfast table was always a quiet one. My siblings and I would gnash our bran flakes in the morning grog while our parents travelled through time and space over coffee. My father wanted to lead through example.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But this act was a passive one, and the examples given weren’t received. Apart from the back of the shampoo bottle, I didn’t read anything until I turned twenty. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It stands to reason: A U.S. Federal study done in 2003 showed that 1 in 7 adults were technically illiterate. But even though I could in fact read, I did not. And <a href="http://statisticbrain.com/"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">statisticbrain.com</span></a> notes that 50% of American adults cannot read above an 8th grade reading level. This is a result of a few decades full of a passive reading culture. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">However, there is hope. Reading statistics show that 56% of young people read more than 10 books a year. Literacy programs all over the U.S. and abroad reach new and emergent readers every day, and it’s all thanks to the active approach we as parents and educators toward creating a new reading culture. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My daughter read 900,000 words last year approximately--dwarfing my own reading count. She tracks her literary travels online thanks to her school’s Applied Reading software. She enters reading competitions every year through the school and the local library. And even though she doesn’t win the new bike or the backpack full of goodies, she is getting a hell of a lot out of reading. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">She can argue with a literary compendium to back her every case. Though many of her arguments are based on Frodo or Katniss, she possesses the confidence to stand her ground. She escapes from the doldrums and trials of being a tween in a pair of Travelling Pants or a Glass Elevator. She writes stories which are better than anything I’ll ever be able to pen. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> I’m not complaining (much). Our kids might very well get book deals before we do. But this just shows that we have raised them well. We are in the process of raising our children to be active readers and writers. We are raising a hungry new batch of book buyers and bookmakers. And our competition is getting better every day.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But don’t worry, friends: If we do succeed in child-rearing, then we can chip away at our novels, one word at a time, from the comfort of our famous children’s guest house. </span></div>
Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-44615836326883774692014-01-05T22:40:00.002-08:002014-02-10T00:07:27.985-08:00Lil' Louie<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So here’s the thing about Louis Braille. He was a normal kid—liked to screw off as much as the next tyke. But when he was three, Lil’ Louie stuck himself in the eye with a leather awl from his father’s shop. His eye grew infected and pretty soon t’other followed suit and he went blind. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When he grew, he got hungry. Hungry for words. So he devised a system of pregnant chads to help illuminate the literary world for him. He created silent language when it had not been available. He used a leather awl to create peaks on paper flesh. The same tool which blinded him allowed him to see the world of literature. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggUXn8RwLFYwaGrSJyL2l-sx5pvZsXoW9WoVGFBXLSYbfNuOalVEFc26QLoQN1ds1NPs9SfTBGIU9iMNVaFakQC9pXfBg708Xq4otTpXaEP7fcTFHGEQY_OiOoj6Wianbe19U3_GusRQvB/s1600/IMG_3228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggUXn8RwLFYwaGrSJyL2l-sx5pvZsXoW9WoVGFBXLSYbfNuOalVEFc26QLoQN1ds1NPs9SfTBGIU9iMNVaFakQC9pXfBg708Xq4otTpXaEP7fcTFHGEQY_OiOoj6Wianbe19U3_GusRQvB/s1600/IMG_3228.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Why do I talk about Lil’ Louie? Why is this interesting to me? I don’t know. Maybe I feel a sense of envy, a sense of hope. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I feel a sense of envy because Louis had a name for his destruction. He could hold it in his hands. I would give anything to have some tangible semblance of my own downfall. Just to be able to hold an instrument in my hands and say, “You, Thing, you are responsible for my blindness.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Lil’ Louie had an awl. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I think of Louie and his awl and I wish that I could go deep within my ear and draw out and give name to my destruction. I wish I could hold it in my hand and say “you, damn you, you did this,” and then look at it sideways and squat ways and alike and name it self doubt and self destruction and nest it within my hands and create a way to see the world in spite of its damage. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s not that easy, though. Because the ghost wriggles and flutters behind our eyes when we look in a mirror, we have proof that it exists. The sly beast only surfaces when we aren’t attentive—looking the other way in fevered distraction. It roils under our skin at three in the morning and taunts us. It blinds us and cripples our capacity to thrive. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But Lil’ Louie, he didn’t do that. He held his weapon and made beauty. He brought light to the marginalized corners of the world. He brought literature and math and life to those who were not offered the luxury of art. He brought hope. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Brings. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hope to those who have blinded themselves to the possibility of possibilities. Hope to those who are crippled by the intangible weapons within their own minds. Our destruction can bring about light. I hope. </span></div>
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Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-57105392169252823252013-12-19T22:13:00.001-08:002013-12-19T22:22:59.619-08:00RednexploitationDamn you, social media. I haven't been able to get my interweb jollies off all day because there's all of this crap about Duck Dynasty. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Fine, I'm taking the bait.</span><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">A&E, this is all your fault. You are guilty of rednexploitation. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhSAwoIY-uzTyGpKcho7n4glPHuNPzJXJEH1ZMblhDTk1Vivh3iqmO2bt9sbtsMbKFkscmzixf951VgbNlSnVYvfDiYIjnC-Bssjgk0HOUc4XLTKZEFPx1nQyoLjRbP7GazSGxCCqN3p4/s640/blogger-image-1401636095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhSAwoIY-uzTyGpKcho7n4glPHuNPzJXJEH1ZMblhDTk1Vivh3iqmO2bt9sbtsMbKFkscmzixf951VgbNlSnVYvfDiYIjnC-Bssjgk0HOUc4XLTKZEFPx1nQyoLjRbP7GazSGxCCqN3p4/s640/blogger-image-1401636095.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">What did you expect when the tv station formerly known as Arts and Entertainment got offended by its top dancing goon? Honestly, how long did you think this party would last? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I'm going to be truthful and say that I haven't watched the show but from the formula, I'm thinking a show goes like this:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">1) The boys want to go hunt. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">2) Their wives remind them that they have a gala event to support Cajun orphlins or something which requires they get all gussied up in tuxes (ruh-roh). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">3) Tense stares in kitchen/office/ammo room. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">4)Boys go huntin'. For like a minute. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">5) Guilty heart-felt convo about commitment and love. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">6) Boys show up in the Ta-da! nick of time....in cammo tuxes. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">7) Everyone wins. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXHcwwJL2A58EUjjMzfcigXKR_lC1lZi841MTo-MHlysgqxh77YC1YCOen4bQ5Aesy9jQShfxrrh8ClMzxWSFhpvb_fT8YCr__3pk0dM1WOA3cvVOJJASlc3ihwIkl9B6k_1vAz0tPxTmF/s640/blogger-image-962399457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXHcwwJL2A58EUjjMzfcigXKR_lC1lZi841MTo-MHlysgqxh77YC1YCOen4bQ5Aesy9jQShfxrrh8ClMzxWSFhpvb_fT8YCr__3pk0dM1WOA3cvVOJJASlc3ihwIkl9B6k_1vAz0tPxTmF/s640/blogger-image-962399457.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Am I even remotely close? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">When choosing a demographic to market a show to, it's important to consider where this cluster of folk settle figuratively in the American family. A&E chose that awkward backwoods cousin that the rest of the family doesn't really take seriously. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But that yokel cousin is always loads of fun after the booze gets poured and the bonfire cranks. Then everyone just watches and laughs....until (gasp) they start talking about their opinions. The rest of the family, having just been insulted, turns their rigid backs and says something about "that OTHER side of the family." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">When you buy a duck, you get the whole duck. Even the asshole. Deal with it. Unless it is dead, plucked and comes with a side dish, you shouldn't expect it to cater to your wishes. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">So I guess A&E will consider its next show with a little more tact. If you hire someone for their sawed-off, from-the-hip antics, don't expect them to be anything less. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-21927166064766342292013-12-18T00:09:00.002-08:002013-12-18T00:09:30.576-08:00Santa 2.0: The Krampus ProjectIf you suffer as I do, then you know that the threats of "The Naughty List" have worn off over year's of unfulfilled spartan Christmas trees.<br />
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Present-free Christmasses only go so far as I can take them. Christmas might be slim at my house, but it's like--well, Christmas everywhere else my spawn might travel. Grandparents, grandparents, aunts and uncles have all conspired against the parent who tries to keep their Santa-jaded children in check.<br />
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Well, friends, I come bearing a gift for you. This gift is centuries old and made of nightmares.<br />
Meet Krampus.<br />
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Krampus is Santa's bastard basement-dwelling step brother who nobody really likes to talk about. But sometimes, when the squids are being particularly ornery and neither threats of Jesus nor Santa will suffice, he's always there.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEAYj_towZiisNOFUb0V3SvlcY5iETvyRIBxQTrEyq8djZ8HFjeQx4w1d1_LKjv50cCPf8c9DupOmDygyFYFhCtCvl0MHwWqiGEqa2mzA6vVjxjvF-lgiuhkDMViOU7um7E_GxNw_WkkC/s1600/krampus-b218052029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEAYj_towZiisNOFUb0V3SvlcY5iETvyRIBxQTrEyq8djZ8HFjeQx4w1d1_LKjv50cCPf8c9DupOmDygyFYFhCtCvl0MHwWqiGEqa2mzA6vVjxjvF-lgiuhkDMViOU7um7E_GxNw_WkkC/s320/krampus-b218052029.jpg" width="305" /></a></div>
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Krampus was wrenched from the loins of pre-Christian Germanic folklore and looks like Pan after a really rough night of hanging out with Dionysus. Red-tongued, saggy-eyed and rocking the worst case of bed head imaginable, you'd think just looking at this fella would keep your kids in line. But if that doesn't work (all of these shameful video games have rid these children of visual fear!), just let them in on his seasonal gig.<br />
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Krampusnacht: The night before the feast of St. Nicholas (aka Santa), the good St. Nick and his freaky bro take a stroll. Then they knock on doors. St. Nick only pays attention to the good kids and doles out presents (emphasize this point with your own kids, will you?) where as Krampus has an eye for the bratty ones and hands out coal and ruten bundles to beat the kids.<br />
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<i>Holy shit,</i> right? Kids getting beat on Christmas?! (Technically, St. Nick's feast is on Dec. 6th in European countries, but you don't have to divulge this tidbit to your spawn.) <br />
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But wait: It gets worse. Krampus also carries a basket on his back which he stuffs the truly terrible children into and steals them away to his lair/hell (you pick, it's your threat).<br />
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If you think this is bananas, you should see all of the images of the Krampus Parade where folks strut their goat-fur hides and rusty chains and giant horns and red tongues in the street. And if you think that this Krampus figure is scary, I can only imagine how he must have looked centuries ago.<br />
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So g'head. Tell your kids this cautionary tale. Just know you may want to give them the watered-down version before freaking them the hell out. Then we'll see who's watered down at 3:30 AM. <br />
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Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-18477043627980065852013-12-10T22:48:00.002-08:002013-12-10T22:48:59.072-08:00One bitch fit later: A guide to wearing the mom pants. For the last umpteen years I've worked on getting my shit together. I've worked on being the best damned patron saint of domesticity there is only to watch my doomed ambition gather mold on the bottom of the dirty laundry pile.<br />
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And yet I still kept trying to get my shit together. <i>I'm trying</i>, I'd whine on facebook. <i>But it just doesn't seem to be happening! </i><br />
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My children join me in the gripefest at every opportunity. Whether it is a hangnail or a puzzle piece that doesn't fit or a slow internet connection, my children always seem to have a reason to whine, and quite often, these whine-worthy excuses managed to get them out of random chores.<br />
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This is where the chaos is born. From random school/project/craft/library flotsam strewn about the house like some Museum of Horrors. It's okay, I'd think. I'm getting there.<br />
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Yesterday my children--nestled within a womb of clean laundry, homework and cereal bowls on the couch--drooled at the laptop movie. I had three options for dinner. Each, in my spawns' opinion, were equally disgusting. Then there was a pinch, a punch and simultaneous wails.<br />
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<b>This is where I lost my shit. </b>This is where I had a bitch fit. It hadn't come about from the endless Glee marathon (though I don't doubt jazz hands were a contributing factor) but from the dull, lifeless and apathetic children I had birthed into this world.<br />
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There is a breaking point in some people's lives. It may come when you realize you've ben working as a barista for 12 years. It may come when you wake up on a mattress underneath a bridge. Hell, it might even come when you finally get those lyrics to that catchy-ass song you've been singing. <i>I'm talking about the awakening.</i> That sense of existential clarity. For me, it came out when I realized that my children were spoiled brats with no sense of accountability, and it was all my fault. I was passive. If I was going to get in control, I'd never do it. I had to <b><i>be</i></b> in control.<br />
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Then, in an instant, I got my shit together. I got in control. No more passive planning. Here are the new rules:<br />
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<u><b>Be accountable for your own shit. </b></u>Neither of my kids really gave a rat's patootie about their "stuff." Now their "stuff" is in their rooms. Put the hell away. There are no consequences. I did not say, "clean up your crap, or I'm throwing it away." There are options in saying that. I have relinquished my spawn of all options. "Deal with your crap." <br />
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<u><b>School days are tech free.</b></u> No tv. No Netflix. I was tired of watching my son drool in front of a tv and then freak the hell out when any little thing went wrong. No tv is my way of saying, "<i>wake the hell up, kids!</i>" Also,<b> no facebooking</b>. I wiped my daughter's phone clean of all texting and so-net apps. And just to prove that I'm not just some harsh Trunchbull of a woman, <u>I deleted the so-net apps from my phone, too.</u> Now we all have to deal with each other.<br />
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<u><b>I killed the magical house-cleaning fairy.</b> </u>I killed her hard. I'd bury her if it weren't none degrees fahrenheit outside. The house will not clean itself until one o'clock in the morning. The house will not provide fresh laundry to sit upon. The house will not do dishes. We no longer have chores because chores too often earn payment which is an option. There are no options. We have responsibilities now. There is no "if they don't get done."<br />
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<u><b>"You're welcome."</b></u> Food no longer has names like "chicken alfesto" or "cosmic pizza" or "the-most-amazing-effing-caesar-salad-ever." The food on the plate stands as the only option...apart from bedtime (note: I instagram dinner now should I need evidence in a court of law later). Food is a necessity. Good food is a luxury. Whether the kids decide my consumables are the former or the latter is up to them. Not. My. Problem.<br />
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So far, so good. As soon as the rules were uttered, my kids shaped the hell up. Maybe it was the practical application of a few clear-as-crystal swear words. Maybe it was the lack of options. Whatever the case may be, the kids took a deep breath, calmed down and dealt with the new rules. We did not watch tv tonight. We did, however, win the hell out of playing puzzle.<br />
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Maybe I'm being a mean ogre of a mom. Whatevs. I'm a mean ogre of a mom in control of my shit. <br />
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<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-8046381980926495882013-11-12T10:21:00.000-08:002013-11-12T10:38:48.014-08:00Six Little GirlsThere is a sheen of glitter coating every surface in my house. Every time I attempt to dust it away, the air is filled with disco lights twinkling everywhere. I live in my own personal snow globe. I blame the tweens.<br />
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Friday after school, an entire herd of hormone-addled little girls descended upon our meager little home. The house was so nervous it trembled under their footfalls. </div>
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Six little 11 and 12 year-old girls giggled and screamed. Six little girls went to run errands around the property when one could have gotten the job done. Six little girls shared secrets that were not for me. And still, I tried to hear them. They ran in herds through the mist in the woods, but their ruckus broke through all of it and the entire Pacific Northwest heard the tell-tale sounds of a slumber party. </div>
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Makeup and cupcakes and secrets are passed around at a breakneck pace. Glitter is applied to lips, cheeks, hair and carpets. The girls make their own pizzas and ask for wifi passwords and hug and giggle--no time for crying or whatever the hell these girls do when they aren't giggling or applying makeup. </div>
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Six little girls walk the fine line between their childhood and becoming women. </div>
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I watched them with intense curiosity. My ears strained for every hushed syllable. <i>Let them be</i>, I kept telling myself. <i>Just let them be</i>. But I simply couldn't. They are at this magical time in their lives and they want to be older--to act older and be taken seriously from the world that wants to keep them children for as long as they can. </div>
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In the world, their names and faces are just a handful out of millions in their same age category. In the world they are just statistics. But it's the statistics that keep gumming up my brain. One in three girls....</div>
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One in three girls will experience some form of sexual or physical violence in their lifetime (mostly occurring between 15 and 25). One in 14 girls will become pregnant while still in their teens. One in four girls will not graduate highschool. </div>
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I look at these bright-eyed and hopeful little girls and I think about these numbers. I don't want to see these beautiful babies as just statistics. I want to see their futures with as much optimism as the next. Just let them be our babies for a little bit longer. Just let them be wrapped up in our community with as much love as they will tolerate, and then just a little bit more.</div>
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The cacophony whirled about the house and just when I thought I might become deaf or overdose on fingernail polish fumes, my support staff arrives. Like the magi, three women walk through my door bringing hair tinsel and henna and glitter and adult conversation. </div>
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In an instant, the night took on a different purpose. These fairy Godmothers--business owners and artists and performers--began doodling on soft and young skin, creating glittery rivulets of color. They tied hair tinsel into each hormonal mane. The grown women did not whisper. We spoke loudly and with clarity and unapologetic truths. We talked about art and new projects and travels all around the world. We talked about complex relationships and identity. The little girls' ears did not have to strain, but they listened. </div>
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They listened to the experience of strong women. They listened to testimony from women who had risen from the trenches of adolescence. They listened to our dreams and our accomplishments. At least, I hope they did. </div>
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These women rescued me. They offered so much more than even the six little girls will ever know. What my friends gave the tweens was strength, caring, and example. My sisters acknowledge that it's community support that can help fend off dire statistics and came together to assist the little ones in their own personal emergence. </div>
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So maybe these little girls won't become globetrotting entrepreneurs. Maybe they won't be artists. It's not our job to tell them what to do. But in modeling the idea of a strong and independent woman, we've given them a little more of what they need in life. </div>
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For now, we can't do much for them. We can just give them love and let them be. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.libyanet.com/abeida4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.libyanet.com/abeida4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting is by Libyan artist Awad Abeida </td></tr>
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Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-37513161999781701142013-11-04T22:36:00.002-08:002013-12-05T08:21:53.706-08:00Rutting Season, Year Two: The Cat Lady's Secret Revealed. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://api.ning.com/files/1g0lPefk26jxxlHTyMICwWLRwLfVUBX89JdNRSEHfOEmAQfVDDKa6ccgg*24NTqa*UweScWatAlv4yEF*kseHCiEhTgNjBed/31315017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://api.ning.com:80/files/1g0lPefk26jxxlHTyMICwWLRwLfVUBX89JdNRSEHfOEmAQfVDDKa6ccgg*24NTqa*UweScWatAlv4yEF*kseHCiEhTgNjBed/31315017.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Last year I wrote an in-depth expose on small-town dynamics in the </span><a href="http://oursalon.ning.com/profiles/blogs/the-rutting-season-sex-and-venison" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Rutting Season</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> where I chided those feeble-minded bonobos of the valley for "hooking up" with unassuming partners. I thought that these poor, single ruralites simply failed to keep their biological tendencies in check.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Ha!" I scoffed as I walked sololy into the local watering hole this last weekend. "Just look at all of these folks trying to find a suitable bed warmer!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was supposed to walk into that bar and watch all of the woodsman figure out which single vixen would be whiskeyed away to their burley bagua. I was. But I couldn't over the din of my own personal biological clock ever-so-gently banging the gong.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the store the other day while I perused the Thai food section, my son sweetly and discretely bellowed, "</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">MOM, WHY DOES YOUR BODY WANT TO HAVE MORE BABIES?</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I almost couldn't hear him over the whoosh of humiliation throbbing in my ears. (Note: Children obviously DO hear your conversations with your mother after your second glass of wine.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The biological urge to mate and fork and knife and spoon and make babies apparently does not leave once you have shat forth the next generation as one would assume. It wells up and continues to haunt you well after you've declared you're done spawning.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Why?" I shout to my womb in my best navel-gazing pose while I jangle my gold retirement watch. "I've delivered two reasonably attractive children into this world! What more do you want from me?!" ::<i>Then shouting to the heavens</i>::"What's wrong with me?!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Oh yeah. </span></b><u><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Right.</span></b></u></i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I sat at the bar and watched the flocks of happy people making a ruckus over their beers and noticed something: There were no single people in the bar. They all came with their equally jovial counterparts. I did the math. Everybody came out even. Well, except for me. And then I took a further step back and checked out the entire valley. Out of all the single girlfriends I've made over the years, I was the last one solo. They all managed to find partners of some kind or another. Hell, it seems like everyone has either a hunk of meat in their bed or at the very least a slab of something on the side.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And now it's rutting season, but there's not much rutting going on. It just so happens to be that this one is a little slimmer than the rest.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And to make matters even more bitch-worthy, I got a call. The three-legged cat (whom I already named Emily Dickenson) has already been adopted. Yes, she slipped between my purr-starved, one-cat's-not-enough fingers. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Consoling my greedy cat-needing self, I realized that I needed to suck it up, go on without my beloved Emily Dickenson and get another damned cat.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Until I realized something terrifyingly astonishing. I will preface said epiphany with a factoid. </span><br />
<b><span style="color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></b>
<b><span style="color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My daughter recently taught me how to age a pine tree. Pine trees grow a tier of branches for every year that they survive. </span></i></span></span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It's only logical to assume that for every year a single woman survives the rutting season she acquires a new cat. So you know that crazy old lady with a brazillion cats on your street? Yup. <u>She's prolly been single a brazillion years</u>, poor thing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I think of this girl in the infancy of her crazy cat lady phase.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">She's got so much to offer the cat world.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'm at a crossroads.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> What do you do when you see the next step in your life? There are a few things that I've clarified to myself recently:1) I won't stoop to whatever's available. 2)I'll not allow myself to dive into the depths of kitten-induced euphoria because we all know that it's laced with the stench of desperation....and cat piss. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So what the hell is there left to do? What the hell do we do? (royal "we," I assume. I hope). </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We trudge the hell forward, that's what. We continue on in our pursuits of careers and child-rearing (if applicable) and supremacy over the deviant mass that is the laundry. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We stifle the biological gong with pie.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Sure, it sucks. But the options, being scant, aren't worth the sacrifice. I'll get over this rutting season new cat or no new cat.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Allz I can say is thank gawuduh for pinterest.</span><br />
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<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-21931282451878984392013-10-30T22:05:00.003-07:002013-10-30T22:08:18.827-07:00Hello Freak!I came home a little late today. I had planned to write about the best children's Halloween stories tonight and went to the bookstore where my favorite bookstore owner and I talked comic books and other nerdly things. <i>I didn't know I had a wounded little girl at home.</i><br />
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She was a little quiet. Tomorrow's Halloween, so I'd only thought she was busy thinking about her costume--she'll be going as Wednesday Addams.<br />
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Then she told me about the incident at school.<br />
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"<b>Hello Freak!</b>" was scrawled acrossed her nametag when my daughter got to class today. It's simple, but this little bullying brat-hole was unaware of what they did to my daughter.<br />
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They, the bullies of the world, don't know what they really do when they use these words. They don't know the power. They don't know that these words, words intended to hurt, actually live on throughout our lives. <i>They are burned into our selves like tattoos we do not ask to have.</i> These words grow like monsters just under our skin and attach to our vulnerable self-confidence where they become parasites, eating away at our worth.<br />
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"<b>Hello freak!</b>" are the words that bring to mind people in cages, marginalized from the rest of society. As an outspoken and often unapologetically odd grown up, I've come accustomed to these types of words and wear them with pride. But this isn't about me.<br />
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This is about an 11 year-old girl in the throes of hormoneville. Your first ride with hormones is like riding a mechanical bull in your underwear in front of the world. All you can do is simply hang on. But it becomes harder when the hot branding iron of hurtful words comes in to stab at you.<br />
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The bullying thing is sometimes too hard to bear for these kids. And what can they do to protect themselves? I do not want her to fight back. We've tried <b>"saying something nice"</b> to each bully in hopes that it would pacify them in some way. No good. Kindness is often misconstrued as weakness, from our impirical investigation.<br />
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Telling teachers does not work. They are simply too used to these words and often forget what it was like when they were that age (note: If you are a teacher who stands up to these types of words, you have my kudos. I'd love to know which class you teach and how you fix this type of thing. Seriously. I know that this is a generalization, but until I am proved wrong, this is the only logical explanation I can come up with.).<br />
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After my daughter told me how hurt she felt. "Yanno, the freaks, nerds, dweebs, and geeks are the ones who change the world," I said. "They make the impact. They affect the way others see the world, and it's because they are different, they aren't burdened by being normal."<br />
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This works a little to change her spirits. We go through the list of bullied nerds through history. Bill Gates, Neil Gaiman, Tina Fey, Ben Stein, Einstein, Wes Anderson, Tim Burton, Joss Whedon. They made today what it is because they weren't hindered by normalcy. (Plus, they're mega rich.)<br />
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We have found only one steadfast approach to these types of bullies. Whenever my daughter is told nasty things from bullies, she goes to that one place, 20 years down the road...She's running late for a flight to (my daughter says London for the 70th year anniversary ::mega nerd trump!::) so she stops by a McDonald's. There, at the counter is her bully. All her bully can say is, "would you like fries with that?"<br />
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This is how we get through our bullying. This is how we deal. It may not be the best strategy, but it is ours and this vision empowers her and gives purpose and pride to who she is, and moreso, to who she will be. My daughter sees this moment clear as today and gets back to reading a comic, smiling.<br />
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We work so incredibly hard to make our children individuals, I'd hate to have something like "Hello Freak!" get in the way of progress. And today, we won.<br />
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<i>Hurt today, fries tomorrow.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lest we forget....</td></tr>
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<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-68247760418938063492013-10-22T23:20:00.000-07:002013-10-22T23:59:07.637-07:00Body Shame: "Reduce" and the "Shrinking Woman." I received an email from a dear friends, Cinda Johnson, co-author of <i>Perfect Chaos </i>this morning. It was a link to a video that has been circulating for days but I hadn't taken the meager three minutes to watch.<br />
I watched it. Again and again.<br />
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Typically my lunch break consists of numbly drinking coffee and reaping the day's internet harvest. Today I was torn out of numbness. <i>Feel this</i>, the slam poet Lily Myers dared me. <i>Feel this</i>.<br />
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Her mother is shrinking, Lily Myers says. Her mother sneaks small bits of "calories to which she does not feel entitled to." We absorb, she says. We filter. But essentially, we feel the shame of our existence within the world and strive to make it smaller.<br />
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The mother, the woman, the person we all know from either observation or experience, feels this anguish. Over decades I watched my own Great Grandmother whittle down to a lilliputous white-haired child perched on her large reclining chair. On my Grandmother's 80th birthday, with all of her dearest friends around to celebrate, she was nearly giddy about her new pants. "There a size 8, you know." She became tiny, too.<br />
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When my Grandmother was my age, women did not diet. They "reduced."<br />
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"Just a small sliver," my mother said as we cut cake at the birthday party. Perhaps she felt as though she were not deserving of a whole piece? Or perhaps she knew that her jeans would fit better if she were more frugal with her sugar. She, too, is concerned. I don't want my mother to reduce.<br />
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My mother also wakes up at three in the morning, every morning, and worries. She worries about my children, whether they are getting through hard times at school. She worries about whether there will be enough coats to go around. She worries about the world.<br />
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But how can we fix the world? How can a single person fix every trauma and problem and end every atrocity in the world? Because there are some really terrible things going on that we have no control over and we wish we could do something to heal and alter and quell and fix.<br />
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But we can't.<br />
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There is a feeling not of hopelessness but impotence. I feel impotent. I cannot fix all the broken in the world. And in this impotence, I feel ashamed--ashamed for not being able to change the world for the better--for not having control over the state of the world.<br />
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The only thing that I truly have control over is myself and my body. And there is a shameful amount of comfort in knowing this. There is comfort in dealing with body issues.<br />
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I have sounded like my mother. I have said that I am not deserving of a full piece of cake. I have believed that coffee is an adequate substitute for nourishment. I have reduced my potential to the sole task of fitting into size 8 pants.<br />
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But I don't want my daughter to be reduced to a waifish old woman. I don't want her to see this impotent shame that lurks underneath my skin and writhes and I call it flab or cellulite or "ugh." I want her to roar. I want her to fill a room with her potential and believe, truly and completely believe, that she is capable of making changes that exist beyond her flesh. I want her action to supercede her image. I want my daughter to be large.<br />
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And so we eat. We eat and we discuss the problems that would keep us up at three in the morning. We scheme. We empower each other and build our strength and make it a contagion which seeps through school classrooms and art projects and chance meetings in the grocery store. We grow. We broaden our shoulders and flourish in spite of our Great Grandmothers and Grandmothers who tried so successfully to reduce.<br />
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In my mother, I see a cycle straining to break. She heals the world one human at a time through nursing. It was in her didactic efforts that I learned that one person can provide hope and fix the world. She is not impotent nor does she wear size 8 pants. In her I learned not to be reduced by shame.<br />
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<i>Thank you, Lily Myers, for your art and your bold, unapologetic sharing. </i><br />
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<i>To learn more about Perfect Chaos and Cinda Johnson, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/lineacinda" target="_blank">click here</a>. </i><br />
<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-4925376248343309392013-10-21T00:20:00.003-07:002013-10-21T00:20:26.185-07:00Hippy Christmas. Okanogan County, located in North Cental Washington, is not known for its glamour or turbulent history or anything interesting. Hell, the majority of the world will continue ticking away without ever knowing of its very existence. But nestled in the Tonasket highlands, far away form peering eyes, a mass of counter culture throbbed like a heartbeat this weekend.<br />
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Barter Faire celebrated its 40th year this weekend as vendors and buyers ascended the steppe. Each year the faire grows and an estimated 10.000 people from all over WA and beyond make the annual hajj. Artists, artisans, junkers and food vendors begin arriving on Thursday to set up camp and the Faire opens Friday morning. By Saturday, the hay-laced paths are teeming with semi-naked children and fairies and gypsies and steampunks and old wise shamanic hippies.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwknPN-GJhGfvXS36EDfAlRYhA7XmBxFE8eGNquXDA8-TOcF_R4T5Z9mKzlFv7hQRRFKqyOHv99LNY7inx5n83zm_YDikJh_SCXFFPtxI6uVSX8Rt5tp-E3LGXwfofCCS-ZD6ui6HNHgI/s1600/1391724_10202399969905578_1875958941_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwknPN-GJhGfvXS36EDfAlRYhA7XmBxFE8eGNquXDA8-TOcF_R4T5Z9mKzlFv7hQRRFKqyOHv99LNY7inx5n83zm_YDikJh_SCXFFPtxI6uVSX8Rt5tp-E3LGXwfofCCS-ZD6ui6HNHgI/s320/1391724_10202399969905578_1875958941_n.jpg" width="240" /></a>My daughter is a Barter Baby. Her first Barter Faire was on her due date. Me and my partner at the time had a booth and we set up, not knowing how long we would be up at the faire. She was patient, thanks for asking. We attended every BF until we moved to Alaska four years later.<br />
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After our long hiatus, I figured that everything would have changed. I was right. And wrong.<br />
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The sense of wonder never fades. Happy hippies great and smile at you from every direction. The echoed cries of "Barter Faire!" are met and passed on through the crowds. People wish you a happy Barter Faire as if it were some grand holiday. But really, it's kind of like hippy Christmas. It's where you can find anything you weren't looking for at the moment but need. Contrarily wise, if you are indeed looking for one particular item, you experience the dreaded illness of "Barter Blindness."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many hippy caravans. </td></tr>
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We found some books at a booth where the vendor was brains-deep in an art project where he assembled the random bits and tchotchkes of his bedraggled wears-blanket into a giant form that wiggled in the breeze. We asked for the books. "Whaddya got?" He asked.<br />
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This year, we hadn't brought bartering gadget or doodads or trinkets or nosh to trade. My daughter said, "you like food? How about some apples?"<br />
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The man smiled with his teeth hiding under a mass of mustache. He tipped his top hat and along with our mythology and Tolstoy we went hunting. After nearly 30 minutes of perusing the market, we realized the apples had been hidden. "Barter blindness," I told my daughter.<br />
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We gave up on our quest and settled for trading some oatmeal cookies from a bakery/taxidermy/tool shop with our goods. We found the apples in the booth next door.<br />
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But that is the way of the Barter Faire. It is an imp with a mischevious mind of its own. It will swallow friends up whole until you've nearly given up looking for them and will finally spit them out right in front of you, beaming and dripping with goodies.<br />
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The Barter Faire is a sneaky one. And there are rules:<br />
1) You will never make money at a Barter Faire. You will come out even. You will go home happy and fulfilled, but you will never roll in dough.<br />
2) You will lose yourself/whomever you are there with. You will find yourself. Your friends will find themselves. Your faith in humanity will be taken away and then restored with one breath.<br />
3) You will need to use a honey bucket. It will be unpleasant. You will only add to the unpleasantness of the honey bucket. This is commonly known as "Barter butt"--a hippy Montezuma's revenge--that is most often experienced after an indian taco. The indian taco wafts through the air and is a siren's call for your gut. It will become your undoing.<br />
4) Be weary of homemade baked goods sold at the Barter Faire. Look for the "child friendly" versions of food. Weed is a featured ingredient found in most baked goods, goo balls, pumpkin creamcheese rolls, and granola. And tinctures. And oils. And smiles.<br />
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The drug culture of the Barter Faire cannot be hidden. It is present. My daughter learned what pot smells like this weekend. It is, however, much more safe in that the security forces have made it so people do not smoke pot openly. Fortunately, as pot is now legal, the security volunteers waste much less time on pot and focus more on the other illicit drugs. They were much less apparent this year.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Fairies of Haven</td></tr>
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Of all the Barter Faires I've attended, this one felt like it was the most kid-friendly and the most safe. The focus on family (along with the name change to the Okanogan Family Faire, though nobody calls it that) truly shined through this year. Beautiful children played in Child Haven where they could take parts in crafts or talent shows or storytelling in the tipi or just frolick with all of their newly made friends.<br />
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Strategically across from the Haven was the most phenomenal booth ever: Blissful Wunders Confectionery Chocolats'. Bliss stood behind tables piled high with gorgeous truffles. He wore a top hat peppered with pins and buttons. He offered a smile along with a small, flat pure chocolate chip.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bliss, the Hippy Willy Wonka</td></tr>
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Bliss redefined how I conjure up Willy Wonka in my mind. He is no longer a tall and quirky Gene Wilder. He is big, bold and speaks like he was plucked from the Bronx. But his language is what made me realize that chocolate is magic. He talked about how he'd add lavendar to his mint truffles to create a balanced flavor. He talked about how flavors mingled with ingredients in a refined chocolate experience.<br />
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Cracking the shell of my pomegranate wine truffle was like knocking on the door to extacy. The truffle melted into my tongue and brought me more joy than I've ever experienced from food. I almost blushed at my completely hyper-sensual experience in front of this Trippy Hippy Willy Wonka. He smiled like the expression on my face was a familiar one. He raised his hands into the air and chuckled, "I ship to everywhere!"<br />
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Here is his website: <a href="http://blissfulwunders.com/">blissfulwunders.com</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXExdR2DYkWeIE_U6gFFojPN98i03t03mKKnUPLakAbS0w20fCiXd2AMTqetEgu53fvukP_TTdAWcrBHhV2QHq46Sz1QyyAuNHN-vvHNOYoCxMB-dL_H2dmcLu8L8-v7vKgIE1OKu1L2Y/s1600/944634_10202399980705848_1187332313_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXExdR2DYkWeIE_U6gFFojPN98i03t03mKKnUPLakAbS0w20fCiXd2AMTqetEgu53fvukP_TTdAWcrBHhV2QHq46Sz1QyyAuNHN-vvHNOYoCxMB-dL_H2dmcLu8L8-v7vKgIE1OKu1L2Y/s400/944634_10202399980705848_1187332313_n.jpg" width="400" /></a>Strangely, the next euphoric moments seemed to pass unnoticed. I was swallowed up by Barter Faire and spit out right in front of the main music stage where "Mighty Lions" played reggae into the dusk. We danced, my children and I, under the haze of woodfire and dust. My previous partner (aka Dad of my babies) watched us happily as he fell victim to the indian taco.<br />
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We danced, me, my daughter, and my breakdancing son. We spun and hopped and smiled together. A man, noticing my son's breakdancing (thrashing on the ground), he clapped and laughed and taught my son some more moves. I thanked the men who thanked me back.<br />
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We were connected with every person in front of the stage. But in the larger perspective, we'd become connected to all the other 10,000 weirdos, hippies, wackos and wild spirits within our proximity. We came to celebrate the union of creative people and alternative thinkers. And as the moon rose above the giant festival, we became as full as she was, shining brightly over valley. And filled with the goodwill and love for our fellow humans, we left the Barter Faire, completely filled with the spirit of Hippy Christmas.<br />
<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-60260916901671929442013-10-16T22:36:00.001-07:002013-10-16T23:07:01.974-07:00The Anatomy of a StoryBeing raised by artists isn't always easy. Especially when they are really right all the stinking time.<br />
<div>
My fiction MFA sample was done. Done as in DONE, slap a stamp on it done. It's already in some crazy esoteric prof's cold and soft fingers done. I gotta be honest: I wasn't worried at all. "I GOT this," I said, lulling myself to sleep this morning at 2. I felt really good about it. </div>
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But tonight, when I offered my story up to my father, with his paint-stained hand, his spackle-bedazzled flannel and his opened sudoku book, I was nervous. And I had every reason to be. </div>
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My father, much like John Wayne, has two facial expressions. John Wayne could play a character two ways: Hat on or hat off. My father reads my work wearing one of two faces: The first is eyebrows dancing and eyes laughing and his nose twitches ever so subtly. The other is head down, eyebrows wrinkled, mustache crumpled. There is always a pencil in his hand when he reads like this. </div>
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Tonight, I received the furrowed reading. </div>
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<i>Shituh.</i> </div>
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When he's done reading like this, he looks at me like what he is about to say will hurt. I'm sure it's a shared sensation. </div>
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"It's okay. The writing is nice, but it doesn't mean anything. What's the point?" </div>
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<i>Sunuhva. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWfTDb3BiPoqxxQXrEUvyo0RydhAF-u8USqhMVv_U6g0OfmIgj022ZZ1q-za2URu_mN12oMMB7bVIbm3Lx3L1Zmkxx7mC0e58SSZKhm_9B4o0_yO8V2YMtE_xT-GwC1jXarCbx3DljTxNJ/s640/blogger-image-558310005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWfTDb3BiPoqxxQXrEUvyo0RydhAF-u8USqhMVv_U6g0OfmIgj022ZZ1q-za2URu_mN12oMMB7bVIbm3Lx3L1Zmkxx7mC0e58SSZKhm_9B4o0_yO8V2YMtE_xT-GwC1jXarCbx3DljTxNJ/s640/blogger-image-558310005.jpg" /></a>When you write, most say "write the bones." Write the outline. But that's not enough. Your story needs tendons and ligaments and muscle and flesh. <i>And feet.</i> </div>
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I had forgotten the feet. </div>
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I had forgotten the universal truth--the sole (sorry for the stupid pun) purpose for writing or reading a story. It grounds the entire piece so that it culminates in an "aha!" moment where shit all gets tied together. It's where the reader's heart gets tangled up in our story. In the reader's mind they are running naked through the streets shouting "eureka!!" The meaning sings to you. </div>
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Yes, friends, the feet sing. </div>
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This is not my first footless rodeo. In college, I'd write these lovely little vignettes for my writing instructors. One had a chronic problem where every time I'd see him he'd ask, "but what does this mean? <i><b>What are you <u>saying</u></b></i>?" </div>
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I felt voiceless in my professor's office. How can you be a writer if you have nothing to say? </div>
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That same sensation washed across me today in front of my father. I tried not to let my disappointment show.<br />
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I took it like a man--a man that hasn't slept in days and has a tummy ache and a hangnail. </div>
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So, I'm starting back at the beginning,or rather, the ground. Starting at zero words after a month of wrangling all the wrong ones. Starting at the feet and working into bones and flesh and pulsing veins and voluptuous thighs and big pouty lips. </div>
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Here's to beginnings. Again and again. </div>
<br />Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-1513698360725022222013-10-14T23:34:00.001-07:002014-03-27T08:34:27.363-07:00It's always late.It's 11:11, and I am tired. The rewrites continue to be rewritten again and again. After a long day of work and mothering, nothing sounds better than a cup of tea, maybe a book, and bed.<br />
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But that won't happen tonight. </div>
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What happens late at night is beyond addiction. I am taking a small break from writing at the moment. And what do I do? Write a blog. </div>
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Why? WTF's the point? Why can't I just go to sleep or fall hopelessly into a tv show and watch every episode back-to-back like all the normal folk?</div>
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It's simple really: I need to make money and I also need to write. </div>
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I am fortunate enough to have a steady job. It's tedious, but what gets me through it is the dreaming. While I sort beans all day (literally, I'm a production assistant at a coffee roasting plant) I get to dream up fantastic characters and then conjure up all sorts of trouble for them. </div>
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So when I get home, after soccer and theatre and basketball and school functions, when all the world becomes soft and drowsy, I purge my mental guts out onto paper and then onto the computer. </div>
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Sleep will happen eventually. Some day I'll get the recommended daily dose. Not tonight. Even still, I am happy and hopeful. </div>
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Okay. Back to the rewrites. </div>
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Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-58131429995028025642013-10-13T00:14:00.001-07:002013-10-13T00:14:59.776-07:00Dead flies: A Love Poem.There are exactly three flies <div>Left in the Methow Valley.</div><div>One sits on your window sill. </div><div>It lounges on the dust </div><div>You've been meaning to get to. </div><div>It rises slowly and taunts </div><div>Its wings heft the couch potato--</div><div>A procrastinator. </div><div>He should be dead,</div><div>If not for the abundant food </div><div>He'd have kicked last night,</div><div>But his heart just wasn't into it. </div><div><br></div><div>The other two float in my coffee. </div><div>As the morning sunk its teeth </div><div>Deep into the day, the cup</div><div>Left abandoned in a search for socks</div><div>Which may or may not match. </div><div>They saw the tepid opportunity. </div><div>They did not choose wine--</div><div>The romantic approach.</div><div>They just looked at each other,</div><div>Shrugged, and hung heads low. </div><div>"Not another Monday," </div><div>And got the job done in no time. </div><div><br></div><div>I imagine them holding hands. </div><div>Not wanting to go it alone. </div><div>Into a cup 2/3 full of liquid muse. </div><div>We should be so lucky. To find </div><div>That worthy pairing in the world. </div><div>But really, all love aside</div><div>With the population of flies--</div><div>They were just lucky enough </div><div>To find someone</div><div>Anyone. </div><div>Good enough to share their last</div><div>Moments over a cold cup of joe. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-27142906485466156182013-10-10T22:42:00.000-07:002013-10-10T22:47:47.012-07:00Local Spectacle--Jazz Hands for Life's Mundanity.Here I am again. Blogging about me and all of that. I'm not sure whether y'all get tired of me talking about me. I do. But it doesn't really stop me, now, does it?<br>
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So, on Sunday, a few short hours after Whidbey Island MFA residency opened up their applications for non-students, I applied. In under 48 hours I was "enthusiastically ACCEPTED." Yes, it really was in all caps. Yes, the word "enthusiastically" was used. I did a little dance in my car after work. Okay, I danced a little more than I usually do, but now that I am a local spectacle I'm all right with working it whilst driving. That's what being a multitasker is all about.<br>
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I am a spectacle in this valley. There are a handful of us, and we all know eachother. We have a handshake. It resembles a wink/shake/nod/hug/kissykissy-on bof' cheeks. We are the ones who entertain the mini-masses within this little area. We play music or DJ or dance or perform standup or act or help put on fundraisers/parties/art shows. We are the ones who drag the good members of this community from their homes after a long day's toil. But yanno what? It's necessary, people.<br>
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Without the arts scene in this valley you would be B-O-R-E-D. You'd resort to watching Jersey Shore or Snarky Girls or YouTube videos of video-game-playing basement-dwellers who provide their own commentary and even have Hitchcockian convos with their imnaginary mothers a la Norman Bates (I have a daughter and she is b-o-r-e-d with me so she watches this kind of thing).<br>
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It's the art scene that drags you out of your doldrums and unruts your life. It's needed.<br>
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Tonight I damned near fell out of my dress on stage while dancing with a poor teen from the crowd. And this was after I can-canned and flipped my ruffled rump to the crowd....<br>
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As it happened, I was unaware that there would be children in the front row. PS- If you take your child to a Broadway musical review, you should probably be aware that there are only so many child-appropriate musicals in the world. To you, dear watcher-of-the-arts-with-your-spawn, I commend you. You are giving your children an early cultural education. Kudos. On the other hand, if you're offended by musicals and dancing and a little (more than this cooler season should allow) cleavage, well I'm sorry. I hadn't intended on the show being THAT expository.<br>
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But this is what we have to do. We have to show folks what being goofy is all about. And sometimes life can be boring, monotonous, mundane, or (dare I say it) a downright bummer.<br>
And then here we are--the jazz hands on life's mundanity.<br>
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I should be embarrassed to acknowledge myself as a local spectacle. But I'm not. This is what is so fun about this precious little valley has to offer: They support the quiet, the loud, the smart, the needy, the confused, the people who need an extra dancer for their piece at the last minute. We see a need in this community and we fill it in our own little ways. Mine just happens to be a bit goofier than others.<br>
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<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF33TNc71-dAVCVCyW22lQL78_SKe53JCnNQtUIxxsM81JQNagcWjjJwj6q9k5kjUFwUVT8YDPIGZAj6rokcRLzZeFjylox518ziFbdm9OzIebFOUVLQxZH2a23iNPCGO2nPz_EiyGbgkC/s640/blogger-image--741387933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF33TNc71-dAVCVCyW22lQL78_SKe53JCnNQtUIxxsM81JQNagcWjjJwj6q9k5kjUFwUVT8YDPIGZAj6rokcRLzZeFjylox518ziFbdm9OzIebFOUVLQxZH2a23iNPCGO2nPz_EiyGbgkC/s640/blogger-image--741387933.jpg"></a></div><br></div><i>Yup. We are goofy (Me and the beloved DJ Joe Pop at the KTRT benefit)</i><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-1222066110017352962013-10-01T23:33:00.002-07:002013-10-02T00:12:44.630-07:00Five Years.I was notified today that my Writing.com account celebrated its five year anniversary.<br>
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This sort of blew my mind.<br>
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Five years ago today was the first time that I had plugged into a search engine "writers' support" like I was in desperate need of a hotline that would rid me of this insatiable habit. It started with my first new computer in a strange new place (New Iberia, LA) where I was alone with my children for a good portion of time. We had no internet.<br>
So in the middle of the day, when my one year-old was sleeping and my five year-old off at school and our meager belongings were righted in their places, I wrote a title.<br>
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What Makes Magnolia Puke? <br>
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It was a game that we had chosen to play to lighten the mood after my daughter's life-long delicate stomach issues had yet to resolve themselves (five years later, she is much better, thank you).<br>
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I had no intention of moving beyond the one simple question. But later in the day, I had written another title. And then another until the page was full of the one-line statements arranged themselves in a non-sequitor poem on the blinking white screen.<br>
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I left the page alone for weeks.<br>
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Then one night, after the children were in bed I wrote my first story about Magnolia. And I laughed at the silliness of it all. I peeked through the windows because I was embarassed about clicking away on the computer with no particular agenda. If someone would have knocked on my door, told me that I would go to college for English (English?! You've GOT to be shittin' me.) and spend the majority of the next five years working on some great process of becoming a writer, I would have scoffed and choked on my Jameson Egnogg Coffee cocktail.<br>
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Not me, I would have said, tipping my head a little lower. "I'm just a mom."<br>
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"I'm just a mom" was my token excuse for years. It helped me get out of being accountable for my dreams and passions. It was the easiest way to overlook potential. But even being "just a mom" couldn't really help me overcome this storytelling compulsion. I'd write my nightly story, usually about the eccentricities I noticed in others, and tuck them away on my desktop and resume motherhood. It became my shameful indulgence. I regarded my stories in the same way one regards being a closet smoker or drug addict. But I kept going.<br>
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Within a year, I emailed my mother a story. I remember my stomach twisting in some unexplainable horror when I sent it. It was too close to who I was, and I really didn't feel comfortable with sharing that. My mother became my worst enabler (and remains so to this day). I couldn't help it. Letters to words to thoughts strung webs through my brains until there was nothing left to do but release them onto the back of a bill or an old piece of homework or my wrist. I began pulling over mid-commute to drop a few mischievious words that, though they were probably strange bedfellows, looked good together. Writing made my daughter late for school on more occasions than I'll admit.<br>
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Then on October 1st, 2008, I realized that this love affair with writing was unavoidable and needed to be dealt with. Five years ago today.<br>
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And today--tonight--I sit at a computer with notbooks stacked up to my eyeballs full of stories and thoughts. The dishes still need cleaning. The living room is a wreck. And instead of switching over the laundry, I had to stop and spill out a few extra words rambling around in my head.<br>
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Five years ago, I had an addiction. It was a fiery, fearless and whimsical idea that I could get away with writing a few stories here and there and never share them, never let anyone know what I was doing into the wee small hours of the night, never need to write another story. I could stop when I wanted.<br>
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And now I cannot stop, nor do I want to. There are many days where I write long exciting stories that make me sway and smile in my office chair. Many of these days I simply tuck the stories way into an obscure drawer safe from criticism. These are my babies who you will probably never meet. They are far too fragile and too dear to offer up to other eyes, but the eyes aren't really important. It's the sacred space of communicating the subjective world. I am witness to my beloved friends and family and strangers, and every night I bear witness to the world.<br>
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In five years, I have honored this love of stories. In five years I have grown. And maybe someday I will stop writing altogether. But what I can tell you now, friends, is that today is not the day.<br>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/AyYWpk3CqJU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-88264384103750639632013-09-24T20:59:00.001-07:002013-09-25T21:27:24.944-07:00Sisters. In all honesty, it is a wonder how either me or my sister survived our childhood. We were positively wretched to each other.<br />
Granted we did not arrive to adulthood unscathed--I still feel mentally inferior to everything on two legs while my sister probably has patches of hair still missing or perhaps she's developed an irrational fear (perhaps rational) of slugs being dropped down her swimsuit--but in thegrand scheme, we survived (and neither of us can afford therapy which is probably the reason we just chose to soldier on).<br />
But in all the terrible experiences, we had truly good moments as well.<br />
I remember how we'd spend countless car trips reenacting our favorite death scenes. Taking turns fading into eternal slumber, our eyes would roll back and flicker and with our last living breaths we'd say our labored final words.<br />
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One of us was better than the other, mind you. One of us is now a professional actress in Seattle and teaching at a schmancy art school. The other one lives in a trailer by the river and still has yet to perfect artfully playing dead...no matter how many Saturday mornings I work on it.<br />
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Over the last fifteen years the two of us have barely occupied the same room. This is not (entirely) because we dislike each other or disagree about everything and fight like sisters, but because we are just so damned busy.<br />
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But this weekend I had the blessed opportunity to visit my sister in her natural habitat: Capital Hill, Seattle, WA, also known as "civilization." Less than a block from the bustling Broadway, I took my children hither and thither with the aid of my wonderfully giving little sister.<br />
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She took us to her band practice, a punk band that covers show tunes called Argentina Weeps. They were magical. I knew (almost) every word and sang them proudly....not that anyone would know. My son, less experienced with ear-splitting punk, assumed the fetal position in his sister's lap, his hands over earplugs in ears. He puts the "feral" in "feragile." Okay, maybe that was just concocted at this moment, but you get the picture.<br />
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My sister and I went to dinner. It was perhaps the first dinner hermana a hermana in ever (literally). We caught up on our lives. And really it was more like an introduction. This was not the bratty girl who'd fall to the ground and blame me for hitting her. This was not the fresh-chested sophomore in highschool I had last lived with. This was a woman. A beautiful, and capable woman whom I am truly lucky to have as a sister. She's smart, not a smart-ass. She's graceful, not a gangly, awkward teen. She is hitting her stride, and I'm fortunate that I get to see her (even if it is just a few times a year) in action.<br />
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We met up with a girlfriend later, a girlfriend whom I haven't spent a whole lot of time with in 12 years. She is now friends with my sister. We all laughed and walked hither and thither around Capital Hill, chatting and catching up.<br />
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And in all of the glorious moments of the evening, my favorite was the walks spent giggling with one another, learning each other for the first time as grownups.Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396028188308804406.post-70053297531222037922013-09-16T22:25:00.001-07:002013-09-16T22:25:18.677-07:00The Mother Awards. I wrote my Academy award acceptance speech when I was eight. I believe that I recieved it when I performed a stirring reenactement on "Neverending Story" where I played the lead, Atreyu, while standing in a radio flyer with my sleeping dog tied to the handle.<br />
The crowd was silent--too moved for words--after my performance (the minor detail being that my audience, said pooch, was alseep). I never knew what happened to that award speech, but I imagine that the delicate words, scrawled on the even more delicate toilet paper, drifted into the ether.<br />
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We are all famous when we are eight. We come home with prizes and awards when we are children (all except for the award for sitting quietly in class which was given to the girl that is probably winning the Nobel Peace prize today).<br />
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Today, the mothers of the world take home far more interesting prizes. Just today, I was given an award. The trophy looked like a tall, slim gray angel. It was the "dirtiest soccer sock in the world" award, granted to me by my daughter. "Look what I found!" she said as she triumphantly yanked the all-but lost petrified thing out from under the car seat. "I can't believe it!"<br />
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Neither could I, because I was given a similar award not two weeks prior. On the bright side, the car smells less like death and sweat-socks now.<br />
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Another or my accumulating mother trophies is the "your child finally remembered to bring home their lunchtime tupperware award" or as I affectionately call it, "the trojan horse." This one sits on the back porch like a shining land mine. "DON'T TOUCH IT!" I screamed to a girlfriend who came by a few days ago. "It's either a trophy, or a land mine."<br />
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Just yesterday I recieved the "next person to clean the dog" award. As Rover came trodding over to me, dumb smile skidded acrossed his face, I knew there was something wrong. Being downwind of him, primed me to the honor I was about to receive.<br />
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I'm also up for the sock-matching award, the kitty-litter award and the peeling-clothes-out-of-the-bottom-of-the-hamper award.<br />
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So tonight, I gave myself a you-made-it-through-the-day award. It was not crusted with sweat or a damp shoelace knot. Oh, no. This trophy resembled a large glass that was filled with wine. Sometimes we deserve these shining moments worthy of celebration. My cat was kind enough to grant me yet another award for the day. "No, thank you," I said, nearly overwhelmed with the kudos and accolades I had already received throughout the day.<br />
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Too late. I'm already dealing with the "clean the wine off the couch" award.<br />
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Someday, I'll begin work on that speech again.Din Muthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07852350392250333317noreply@blogger.com0