Making It Up

I love plants but they just don't love me back. As I child I was conned by my green-thumbed mother. She would line all the windowsills in the the kitchen and dining room with little yoghurt cups. Into each of these yoghurt cups she would put water and a leaf. In weeks the leaves would start sprouting roots and then she would transfer these rooted leaves into cups of dirt. Out of these dirt-filled cups would sprout real plants which would then flower. From a leaf to a flower without breaking a sweat. Often, as she headed to work, she would take one, or several, of these plants to hand over to a coworker. She made it look so easy that I thought there was nothing to it.

Silly me, I never wondered why she needed to take the plants in to work to give to other people if making them grow was so easy. A disastrous experience with high school biology put me off learning anything about plants and yet, having grown up surrounded by green life, I feel incomplete (dare I say, half alive) without greenery around me. And yet I live in New York City. Is that what one could call irony?

My first encounters with rearing plants ended in pots of soil, haunted by the plant that had lived a very short life in the pot. I tried the things that I had read - fertilizer, moving the plant around the apartment to try different lighting situations, varying the watering schedule - but to no avail. The plants just died. Finally, I resorted to begging and that has given me some success. I adopt them, like they are my children, I try to give them pretty names (mostly because my biology rebellion has led me to not know what anything's official name is) and I try to make my love keep them alive.

I still have my little fire that I got back in 2006, on a visit to the Bronx Zoo. All I can say is that, at times when the plant was struggling and barely a leaf in the pot and the only thing that brought her back from the edge was my singing and desperate entreaties for her to just hold on a little longer. She must like something about me because she has stuck around and she has convinced others to stick around with me.

But let me tell you about when my mother came to visit. She would putter around my green space, aka the corner in my apartment where plants don't die, and, by the time she left a month later, my plants were the most robust they have ever been. I mean, I have never seen so much green in my space. Not only that, one plant was growing out of its pot and she took leaves from the plant and replanted them in another pot. Over a year later, those leaves are still a plant. After she left, I tried the same thing and those leaves were dead within a fortnight.

I have asked how she does it and she shrugs as though it's nothing. She looks at a plant and it blooms. I look over and the plant smells my fear.

You're Still There?

The other day I went to the store down the street to buy a loaf of bread. I like to buy bread that has been baked using only wheat, water, yeast and a little salt - you know the classic bread ingredients. I am not interested in "enriched" bread or bread that is modified so that it will last for 6 weeks, in the summer heat, without any mould. I mean, really, do I want to eat what mould won't dare go near?

The challenge though, with preservative-free bread, is that one has to be sure that the bread is as fresh as possible going in. Crazy as it seems, the bread with the least ingredients is the bread that costs the most and, after paying all that money, it is rather painful to get home and discover that the mould got to the bread first. In this summer humidity, the risk of this is quite high.

So, I went into the store and picked up a bag of bread. I could not find a date on it so, at the checkout counter I said to the checkout lady, "I couldn't find a date on the bread, do you know if it was baked today?"
Lady:"Yes, it is sliced."
Me: "I don't mind about that, I just wanted to be sure that it was baked today."
Lady:"Most of our customers like to buy the bread already sliced so we slice it for them."
Me:"Yes, but I am trying so find out if I can find a date for when it was baked."
Lady: "We have bread that has not been sliced if that is what you want but our customers like the bead sliced."
Me: "Oh, okay, thank you."

I picked up the bread and left quickly. My brain was sending panic signals; there was not much more it could take. How many more times can it be in a place that just doesn't make sense? I'm guessing, there is only so much I can put it through before it calls it quits.

Brooklyn, We Go Hard!

 

It was quite the journey to get to this point - the point where I ran the Brooklyn Half Marathon, back in May. I travelled back in time, through my archives to the first time I didn't run in Miami. Many things have changed and a lot has remained the same. I had a day when I had a post race photo that was not a nightmare to behold. It is funny because it is one of the most difficult races I have ever run (the hills of San Francisco will do that to you) and yet somehow the photos make me look as though I was having the best time ever.

I was very excited about running the Brooklyn Half - Brooklyn is where I live and Brooklyn is where I love. I wanted to run it last year but found myself in hospital, with a tube up my nose, during the race registration. I came out to find that the race was full and I was going to miss it. This year, I checked the website like I had OCD and, I was not alone. Once the race opened, the website crashed often because it was overwhelmed by the masses that tried to register for the race. Apparently there are many who opt to experience Brooklyn through blood, sweat and tears.

As I mentioned, there are things that have changed and things that have remained the same:

1. 13.1 miles is still a long way to run. Heck, 5 kilometres is a long way to run. Whether I run 100 metres or 13.1 miles I am exhausted at the end of it. How does that make sense?
2. It doesn't matter how many porta-potties there are, they will always come with super long lines and will always gross me out. I mean, seriously, who thought it would be smart to put the urinal right where your face goes if you need to use the toilet?
3. I ALWAYS need to pee before a race. It doesn't matter how many times I go before I leave home, I need to go just before the race starts. Sometimes more than once. It is probably because the gods know how much I hate the porta-potties and they need a good early morning laugh.
4.  My knees are more amenable about running. Thank you knees. On the other hand, my hips and feet are considering a mutiny.
5. Post race cocktails rock. Did I ever tell you about the beer I got as I crossed the finish line at the Chicago Marathon? Best idea ever, race planners, and an idea that needs to make the rounds.
6. I still have not run New York and now, due to the adventures with a scalpel that happened in my belly in June, it is very likely that I will not get to run New York this year. I am still trying to come to terms with that. Yes, I am trying to come to terms with the fact that I won't get to struggle while running 26.2 hilly miles. What is wrong with me?
7. It doesn't matter how much skin you cover with bodyglide, chafing will still find a way to make an appearance. Between your toes, right where your bra goes or under your arms, it will find that one spot that you missed.
8. As unexciting as talking about running seems, even while you are doing it, you will find yourself doing it. 
9. I love to run when I travel. I make it a point to get out and go for a run whenever I am some place new. I am going slowly enough that I can see things and yet quickly enough that I get to cover a decent amount of ground.
10. It doesn't happen all the time but, sometimes, I have a moment when everything is right - my stride feels good, whatever is playing on my iPod is lifting my spirits, the weather is perfect, the air is being kind to my lungs and the scenery is engaging. It is the best feeling ever and, anyone who sees me at that moment must think either that running is amazing or that I must be insane. Well, the nervous smiles they give me implies "insane".

It was a beautiful and sunny day, the kind of day that is perfect for a picnic and can be a killer for running. But no matter, we were running Brooklyn (even as I type I yell Brooklyn! in my head)! It was beautiful. It was awesome. To be able to run down streets that are normally congested with people rushing nowhere is a feeling I am yet to tire of. To run through the various neighbourhoods and have the people I live with out cheering me on is heartwarming. To finish on the Coney Island boardwalk, with the Atlantic Ocean stretching out into infinity is something I want to do again. Oh yes, and I managed to run my fastest time ever and, if you are going to do that, isn't it best to do it at home? So, yes Brooklyn, I did go hard. But I am also glad I have a year to psych myself up for this again.

Faux Ne M'Inquiete Pas

The other day, as I made my way to work in my belted dress, I realised that I have changed quite a bit in 15 years, maybe longer.
15 years ago I would have steered clear of belts as they would merely highlight how high-waisted I am and I would be afraid of looking as though my belt was trying to help hold my boobs up. 15 years ago.
15 years ago, heck 5 years ago, I did not wear shorts. The reason for this was that I felt that shorts did not do my chicken legs any favours. Because they split my legs, people would be able to judge my legs separately and realise that they were not as substantial as they appeared in a skirt.
15 years ago, the plan, when getting dressed, was to minimise my flaws. Stay away from anything that makes me look like the short-waisted, skinny-legged, flat-butted (did I mention my dorky stick-like ankles?) person that I am. That was my strategy - a strategy supported by women's magazines that appear to be geared to make every body type a liability.

Now I find, more and more, I see something and I think - isn't that lovely, let me try it on. I put it on and think - to hell with the rules, I am going to make this work. It's great because I live for the day when I become someone who makes it into one of Dodo's blog posts.
Look out red lipstick, mismatched clothing and outrageous hair, here I come! And I'm loving it all!!

Zoocosis!

My daily commute involves rushing up and down stairways that are never wide enough and then crowding into a train car that is always too hot (and stinky) or too cold. On lucky days I get a seat but what is guaranteed is that I and my fellow commuters are too close together. It does not make for polite society.

At times the train jerks to a stop and, after a few moments, the train's intercom crackles to life. On the rare occasions that one can actually make out the words said by the conductor (do they do that on purpose?) one gets a message that must have been scripted by someone who lives in a civil society where each person has at least a square mile of personal space. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have been delayed but will be moving shortly. Thank you for your patience." Patience? Where are we? Not even in the movies are New Yorkers on a train patient. People are busy trying not to kick, bite or punch that person who is digging their elbow into them or that kid that is kicking them in the thigh. There is that standing person who is leaning their butt into your seated face. Oh someone just spilt illegal coffee on someone else and now an argument is going on and it's not even 9 am.

It would make more sense to beg - please try not to maul each other. Finally, after years of this, an actual subway rider got a hold of the message and made a change. Now we get, "we apologise for any inconvenience caused." Of course they don't mean that - if they did we would get a more spacious commute - but at least we are being given free rein to pinch that kicking kid.

Huh? What?

I ended up spending seven nights in hospital and, during that time, I managed to work my way through a lot of reading material. This is how the reading material worked. When I prepared to go to the hospital, I packed my New Yorker magazines, a book about a programme to introduce black students to Holy Cross University, back in the '60s and other reading material that involved long paragraphs and marmalade words.

I woke up from surgery to find myself connected to an IV that supplied me with an on demand stream of pain medication. The morning following my surgery, I reached for a New Yorker and found that the words would not stay still on the page and that, after staring at the page for about ten minutes, I was still on the first sentence of a story and that sentence made no sense.  It was then that I realised that the pain medication also rendered my brain rather diminished. I had lost the ability to even pretend to be deep. Lucky for me, I have friends who had foreseen my diminished state. They arrived with piles of celebrity rags - full of pictures and very few and very short words. I was able to spend my days sitting in a chair, bathed in sunlight from the massive window in my room, paging through magazine after magazine. I was asked to wonder "who wore it best" and challenged to "get that bikini bod" even though I do not have millions of dollars and trainers at my beck and call. Even with my half functioning brain, I was sure that my brain got even smaller.

During the week I was sitting around, it was two days before I was even allowed to drink a sip of water. I then spent another three days being given only clear liquids to consume. Toward the end of my stay I graduated to mashed potato and dry grilled fish (party time!). It was not so terrible as pain in my stomach kept my appetite at bay. I was also staying in a ward for people with stomach issues so there was very little food going around and none of it was appetising.

Half way through my stay I received a visitor. She sat down to chat and said, "I brought you something to read," and pulled out a magazine. I looked at the cover "FOOD & WINE". How did that happen? Was she walking around the bookstore wondering - hmmm... what do you give the person who cannot eat or drink most things? Oh, I know, the dream of food. Show her the life she cannot have. I mean, she has been paging through a bunch of magazines where people are in dresses that cost her annual salary so this is along the same lines, right? Right?

Pass Me the Fruit... Juice

My path to greatness and eating more real food involves a whole lot of walking and a whole lot of walking ends up involving coming across a lot of strangers. I also come across way more than my share of dog poop and pee and find myself wondering which season is worse for dog poop. Is it summer, when it hangs out, steaming and and stinking up the block, or is it winter, when you have no idea it is under the snow until your foot is right in the middle of it? It is a question I have not yet answered.

Today, as I walked along the street I watched the traffic light turning from amber to red and then heard a car honking loudly. I looked to my left to see a yellow cab speeding toward and then right through the intersection, yep, right past the red light.

My lesson for today: apparently it is okay if you break the rules of the road, as long as you honk loud and long first.

The Beast of the Belly!!!!

As time ticks on, we started with my bear days and that was supposed to be the end of it. The doctor at the time was so sure about that, until they went in and found something untoward. So that led to a cycle of getting an MRI, waiting nervously for the results, leaving relieved and then getting another MRI. It was going on for a bit without any changes so, after a year of this, I went to a results-receiving appointment fully expecting to be told I did not need to come back so often. No such luck. They had found something and it needed to come out.

So another person with a knife got to have his way with my belly. Recovery was a lot more difficult that I expected; apparently when someone cuts into your stomach muscle and leaves a hole, covered by mesh, it can take forever to be okay. So I now have an interesting numb half-belly (or is that half-numb belly?) among other oddities. It does make for great parlour tricks - I can prick myself and it will kinda tickle (and yes, still bleed!).

I carried on, working my way back to a better me. I carried on, working my way to loving the new, different me. I worked my way back to a stronger me. And then, one day I woke up with a stomach ache that earned me a tube. It was a special tube. A man who somehow convinced me that it wouldn't hurt (I blame the morphine) threaded a tube through my nose and ran it all they way down into my belly. And there the tube stayed for days. And again, I conquered it.

Oh but the relapses. It seems my stomach gets tired sometimes and stops working as it should. I can't blame it - it has been through a lot. That said, it gets challenging when the mere act of eating can lead to an emergency room visit. So, the time has come again - they're going into the belly again. Oh yes. There may be smoke, probably mirrors too. After all that, I shall arise and be able to face a salad without fear.

And, as always, I'll be back!!!!

Do Me

My days are sucked up by things that suck up days. I have moments when I think, I should stop and read my favourite blogs; I like to do that. Often I am on the train, on my way to work, or I am sitting at work, trying to make a spreadsheet happen, and I decide that I shall do it "later". I tell myself that I shall get to it once the numbers work or once I have settled down and responded to the emails and gone through the inbox on my desk. And later never happens. I should know this by now - later never happens.

This morning, faced by the mountains of work that accumulate while one is away from the office for a few days, I decided to stop by my favourite blogs BEFORE anything else got in the way. I stopped by this super post from Prettylyf. I realised that I had commented on this before but today I read it again and gave myself a mental finger wagging. What have I been doing to feel pretty, inside and out? Do I even remember anymore, what makes me feel pretty? So this is my mission - I must make the list. Then I must do the list. And always I must respect, revere and redo the list. Innovate, elevate and celebrate!

Because, seriously, you can't be sucking time doing only things that suck!

Boom

When I was a kid, I was entranced by the image of the British policeman, with his domed hat and baton - no gun in sight. He always was a he and always looked like a person you could deal with, even when he was trying to wallop you with his baton. He was a character who could be written into children's stories, being wise, being silly, giving advice or giving chase. Good cop or bad cop, he was always a human cop.

Things are not so child-friendly in USA. Even traffic police have guns. The only ones that do not have guns are the police in training. But the guns don't stop there - everyone and their grandpa wants to be a gun toting army of one. It is all a little unsettling for a person who grew up on Enid Blyton, but many do not share my view, evidently. The theory is that if you have a gun, no one can hurt you because you will always be the one to pull your gun first in order to protect yourself. Because everyone claims that the gun they have is for self defence and yet there are shootings, what seems like, every day. How would that happen if everyone was protecting themselves?

Over the last 4 months, 8 policemen have been shot in New York City. New York has pretty serious gun laws but, as we do not have a wall and moat surrounding our city, people tend to bring guns in from out of state. All 8 policemen were shot using guns that were legally bought outside New York. The 8 policemen are significant, to me, because they are the one group of people who have guns on them all the time and have actually been trained to use them. And somehow, miraculously, when being shot upon, sometimes they get hit and hurt. You would start to think that these gun things are seriously dangerous and that, despite one's best efforts, sometimes someone else will shoot you, even if you have a gun. And, mind-blowing as this idea might be, you may start thinking that if efforts were made to keep guns out of everyone's hands, fewer people might get shot.

Crazy, huh?

Just the Two of Us

You would think that, as long as I have been alive, I should know that life is full of surprises. With all those surprises life is bursting out the seams with, I should know that a few are bound to come my way. All too often, I forget.

Last week my aunt called me to tell me that the wee one was heading to Zimbabwe to live for a while. Oh, and he was leaving in a week. From the way I felt about not being able to see or at least chat with him at least once a week, I knew that this was an unbelievably difficult and painful decision for her. The wee one is sunshine. I could say he is cute and charming and funny and fun and kind and well-behaved and sweet and clever and I would still have hundreds more words to describe him. Even after going through the list (if it ever came to an end) I may still not be able to properly convey how having him in my life, in our lives, affects us. He opens our eyes and our hearts in new and unimagined ways; he makes us want to go out and explore and imagine and enjoy the world; he never fails to surprise us. And now he was off to take his sunshine to our family in Zimbabwe. Lucky them.

So, last week, I got to see him and his mom quite often but Friday came way too soon for us. Off we were to the airport, with lots of bags and a heavy sadness to boot. As we were waiting for the airline attendant to check in all the luggage, the wee one and I decided to play around with the camera and silly faces. He really is just the best thing ever.

Is this what Shakespeare meant when he spoke of the "sweet sorrow" of parting? I knew that he will have an incredibly time in Zimbabwe - what with all the space he will have to run around and all the family he will have to play with - but I am sad that he had to go so far away.

My Own Darn Band!

I am sure I have mentioned before that I, pretty regularly, take a 6:30 a.m. yoga class. I was there this morning and so was another woman, who chose to set up right behind me. I was given the most fascinating vantage point - as I looked in the mirror, there she was. And, just in case I missed her, she wore a bright pink top. What a show I was rewarded to. I had an idea that things might get interesting when she insisted on controlling the window that the teacher tried to close. But how interesting? I had no idea.

Class started and, as we began our breathing exercises, she began adjusting the many necklaces that she was wearing. When she was done with that, I thought she might join us. No. She clasped her hands together and proceeded to look around the room. Next set? Same thing. We then moved on to the preliminary stretches and by "we" I mean everyone but her. She looked more like she was getting ready for the 100 metre dash, as she exhaled loudly and spent a couple of seconds reaching up in the air. Then she sat.

And so the class continued. At times she would rise as though to join us but she would instead do whatever she felt like doing. I wondered if perhaps she was hard of hearing but wouldn't she notice that everyone else was doing something different? When she sat, she would sit cross-legged for a few seconds, appearing as though she was about to meditate, her fingers in that meditative thumb-forefinger thing. But that would last, at most, ten seconds and she would be fidgeting again. The hair, the jewellery, the bright pink top. Anything but what was going on in class.

The teacher was lost for words. At first she tried to offer suggestions to improve the pose but, once she realised that our pink lady was doing her own thing, she gave up and let it go. Finally, towards the end of class as the groans became especially loud, the teacher suggested that the student leave since she appeared to be studying. The pink lady graciously declined the offer and groaned her way to the very end.

I want to say, thank you Pink Lady. Thank you for almost completely taking my mind off the usually very trying class. Instead of thinking about how I could take a nap mid-pose, I was was absolutely baffled. Now only were you marching to a different drummer, you had a whole darn band playing some crazy free form tunes! And to that I say - Cheers!

Well, Let Me Tell You!

I am a regular working stiff. My Monday to Friday is made up of my spending around fifty hours in the office, another eight or so commuting to and from work and, let's say about thirty hours sleeping. All this means that I spend more time with my coworkers than with anyone else in my existence. That's a lot of interaction and leads to various questions about what lines are appropriate to cross in these here relationships.

And as I sit wondering where those lines should be, my coworkers happily dance across them and pull me over with them. I, for instance, know way more about their body functions than anyone who is not their proctologist or gastroenterologist should. There is the coworker who likes to come by to share how much better she feels because she just moved her bowels. She sighs contentedly, while I make a mental note to avoid the bathroom for the next 20 or so minutes. I guess she is being servicey. Others share their stories of post hot-wings intestinal activities. At least the tales entertain, though I feel sorry for the now traumatised third parties who were caught in the crossfire.

From all I know about what is going on with these folk, you would think that I worked in a medical office as some kind of inner-body experience therapist. Hmmm... perhaps it is a niche career calling my name. But then again, that really does sound, literally, like a crappy job.

No Friends

I came across the story related to the photo above and I still can't figure out who is the person with no friends - is it the model on the cover of the magazine or the editors who let this happen? They say "there's one born every minute" with respect to fools, but it was when I saw this that I realised that with all the fools that have been born, it is more and more likely that a bunch of them will end up in one room with not one thinking person to say  - STOP IT NOW!

Someone thought it would be a good idea to create and image with a pale-skinned model surrounded by dark-skinned models. That was a bit silly but could have been taken in many ways. However, the fools decided to take any ambiguity out of the equation by putting the caption at the bottom of the screen "Stepping Out of the Shadows". Oh, so that's what those dark things are... shadows. And when she was asked, the model insisted that this was merely about coming of age (because we have all stepped out from among dark shadow-women when coming of age) and that everything was okay because the models were not all black folk - some were Filipinas who had been painted black. So you see, it's all okay. And for those of you wanting to say otherwise, you tell me what your shadows looked like when you stepped out of them at your coming-of-age moment.

The Skip They Do...

Double dutch? That's my dream! Ever since I was a preteen, I have wanted to learn how to. I first knew of it through a Malcolm McLaren song, aptly titled "Double Dutch." I fell in love at first sight. It looked like so much fun. I would jump away and try little tricks, imagining two friends spinning the ropes around and around. In my mind I was a champ! It was so much fund and, from that moment on, I dreamt of learning how to double dutch with actual ropes.

Last year, Hidef and I went to New Orleans for Jazz Fest and one of the features was a children's tent. I noticed on the agenda - Double Dutch! "Do you think they'll let the audience jump?" I asked Hidef, barely able to contain my excitement. There was only one way to find out. We headed to the tent, at the appointed time, and I sat on the grass, along with children a fraction of my age. What a fun show it was - a mix of teens and preteens turned their ropes and performed routines for us. I was clapping and yelling the whole time. The show ended and the jumping troupe announced that audience members were welcome to come up and try jumping the ropes. They did not have to ask me twice. I hesitated for a second only because I did not want to take space from little kids but, even though I was towards the back of the line, I got my turn. Do you see me? I was glowing for the rest of the week just from the few seconds I was able to successfully double dutch.

If I have a resolution for this year and every other year to come it is to do this as often as I can! The skip I do's the double dutch, that's me dancing!

Celebrate Good Times, Come On!

I do realise that, at this point, almost everyone would consider us quite firmly in 2012. It is the beginning of March tomorrow, after all. You know what else I realise? I realise that this is my space, my spot, my domain and so I can live in the past if that is my wish. Right now that is my wish. I feel that I did not give 2011 the sendoff and recognition it deserves.

We have New Year pomp and circumstance and it is all about making resolutions about all the things you must do in the new year to be bigger, better, faster (or in the age of the eternal diet perhaps I should say smaller?) And yet, we do not take the time to say farewell to the year past and to look at the glorious things that happened in that year. Don't folk get tired of picking at themselves, seeking what is wrong and what they need to improve on? It's time to look and love!

2011! Thank you!

• I went to New Orleans Jazz Fest. It was New Orleans so the food was delicious. It was Jazz Fest, in New Orleans, so the music was glorious. To cap it all off, Hidef proposed and that was just perfect!
• I survived a 5-day stay in the hospital. Granted, I did miss our Super Bowl party but I did get to see what an emergency room looks like in real life. The nurses were wonderful and did right by me.
• I went to Austin, Texas, and ran a in a 5 km race. I came second in my age group! Whenever I run in New York, even when I run faster than I ran in Texas, I am lucky to place in the top 50 in my age group. So, yeah, I was pretty pleased to do that well without having to trip anyone up.
• I went to Niagara Falls. I had not been in Canada since I was 6 years old and had never been to Niagara Falls. I cheered my friends on as they ran a most scenic race.
• I renewed my relationship with my incredible 3 year old cousin and his mom. What a light that has brought into our world. He is smart and funny and helps me see the world in new ways. Bonus - he calls me Big Pandave. The looks we get when we're out and about are priceless.
• My brother graduated college! My mother came to visit and I spent a summer surrounded by family from far and wide. I have three siblings and none of us live in the same state. My sister lives in a different country on a different continent. My cousins are spread out far and wide. To have a family moment is something that really cannot be put into words. Naturally, there are moments when you want to strangle them but who better to strangle than family? They understand. Oh and my family is growing too - I now have extra family via Hidef and that's welcome too.
• I smiled, a lot. Smiling and laughing are really awesome and infectious and, if you are going to resolve to do something, that's a good thing to resolve to do.
• Oh and dancing. Always with the dancing. Have you ever danced the second line in New Orleans? Have you ever rocked out in your home, when it's just you and inhibitions have been shown out? Have you ever just danced and danced and danced? I did and I did it often. And I still wished I could do it more. Music and dancing are things I can't live without.
• I fell off the wagon several times but I always came back to my writing.

There are so many other incredible and amazing things that happened. I ran races, I hung out with friends, I travelled with Hidef and went to new and old places and spaces. I fought my fear of heights and walked over boulders. I never conquered my fear of rodents but, so far, they have not given me a heart attack. Oh I see them trying, running across my path and staring at me without fear. And I can't lie, I tell myself I shall react better but I just yell and flea. Maybe one day I'll be brave. But for now I give a water toast to 2011 (I am at work so the glass of wine will have to wait) and I say - 2011 I lived you!

I am amazing and I love super and I resolve only to keep on being me!! Look out 2012, I'm ready for you now.

Like A Cancer Grow...

Oh man! What a long time it has been. And for that, I received my just desserts. So, I am going through a transition in my little world and I am discovering that transition leads to a lot of bellybutton-watching behaviour. When I hang out with my friends and, during the dullest of moments, conversation drifts to workplace conditions, everyone I know declares that I need a new job. It is not a surprise to me - even after we get past the whole "boss smoking in an office where windows are locked" thing, there are many reasons that making a move may be wise. A big one, I am discovering is the soul-crushing nature of a less than ideal workplace. None of this is helped by a totally sluggish job market. So...

I have often found myself wanting to write, because I love to write and because I can't draw to save my life. Yet, I am either too emotionally and physically drained or I fear my posts will be full of bitterness and darkness. But now that I've written that, what is wrong with a little bitterness and darkness? It is the full spectrum of emotions that make this world an interesting place. Now I know. Always the tiredness though. Oh to speak of it, I would need a divan and corseted gown. I would need to swoon on it and groan "Alas" as I sank into the the massive cushions laid, just so, on the divan. "Oh, woe is me!" I would proclaim and the world would buckle at the weight of my distress.

For my lengthy silence, the gods sent true silence upon me. On the afternoon of 2 January, my throat began to tickle. I sucked on lozenges and drank water. I gargled with salt and drank more water. On 3 January I woke up to find the frog had firmly lodged itself in my throat. I sounded like Eartha Kitt's less talented cousin. It got worse for a few days and then it started to get better. I thought of writing but produced nothing. A friend told me that my rasping non-voice was a sign that I was holding things in and needed to let them out. I needed to write everything I felt out, she ordered me. I agreed heartily and yet wrote nothing.

The gods struck again, this time silencing me completely. I was whispering. Whispering. For a week. Any attempt to vocalise resulted in breathless coughing fits. I could not call my mother for sympathy, for I could not be heard on the phone. When people spoke to me that week, they all shouted. I kept wanting to say - I can't talk but my hearing is just fine - but they could not hear me... even when I shouted. Is that irony?

As my voice crept back, "The Sound of Silence" kept playing in my head. A few days ago, as I was in the shower, I sang the song (with mixed results as my voice still lacks range) and as I sang the line,
Fools, said I you do not know,
Silence like a cancer grow

I saw that I had forgotten this and was allowing the cancer of silence to grow in me. So, I must crawl out of this dark echo chamber of silence. I must do right by the gods and use my voice. Look out world - it's about to get loud in here!

My Day Declared

It's official!  It was my day, though I am happy to share it.  What an incredible day.  I woke up to this awesome poster (references to my racing number tags that I have to pin to my shirt) and a text from my sister.  It only got better. 

I forget, sometimes, so it was a great time to remember what an amazing life I have lived and still live.  I have friends and family from all over the world and incredible experiences to show for it all.  I come across a song and I remember a joke, a dance, a cry or all three.  I read a birthday message and I laugh because I remember something from years ago - a slang word shared among friends, a show we snuck into without permission or a heartbreak that I just knew then I could never get over.

Every day the there are more experiences, more laughs, more music and more love.  Isn't life just grand.  Even when it gets dark and infuriating and you just can't believe the idiots (who put them in charge and how did that happen), I am just pleased as punch that I get the day to remember that there are stupendous people out there - and some of them are in my life!

Trapped!

I find myself locked in a room with four other people, at least as many calculators and eye-damaging screens. I find myself in a room of technology yet, strangely, no Internet. I find myself in this room, clinging to one tiny hope - they tell me freedom will come on Friday.

Off The Hook!

I have been telling you of the adventures that the wee one and I had between somewhere in Virginia and Brooklyn, where we ended up.  But none of this happened in a vacuum and, though I live to have a life like an ABBA song or moments like I'm in The Sound of Music, the real deal is not as glamourous.  First of all, driving is very exhausting.  The adrenalin that came about from hearing the news of my aunt and the wee one and then rushing out to Virginia kept me going for a while, but when I lay down for the night, I was done!  All this time though, my phone kept ringing - it was the police, then the medical folk, then someone from social services (about the wee one), then friends of my aunt, then family.  What it was, was never ending.  I was getting questions I could not answer, requests for information I was hazy about, and advice, some of which was helpful and a lot of which I had no intention of following.

On Wednesday morning, when the wee one awoke in Virginia (in a home that was unknown to him) I picked him up and gave him a hug and then I continued to hold him as I chatted with the aunt from Virginia we were staying with.  As we chatted, I noticed a squeaking sound coming from the wee one.  I looked at him, curiously, as I tried to figure out what was going on.

"He's grinding his teeth," my aunt said.

"What?"  It was the sound of nails on a blackboard, how could this be coming from this little person? 

"Yes, he has been grinding them since we picked him up."

The sound was so painful to hear.  Still not quite believing it, I put my fingers against his cheeks and I could feel his teeth moving away.  A trick from my yoga class, for relaxing a clenched jaw, came to me.  "Wee One?"  He looked at me. "Open your mouth like this."  He opened his mouth wide for me.  "Okay, we need to keep doing this, alright?"  He looked at me but, for a bit, the grinding stopped.  It became a thing we did often.  Whenever we came across people he did not know, the grinding would begin.  I would just say his name and open my mouth; he would follow suit and the grinding would cease.  This was the biggest indicator of the level of stress that he was under - most of the time he was quiet and obedient.  If he didn't grind his teeth, you could almost con yourself into believing that he was unaffected by everything that was going on. 

To keep up with the phone calls and the various things that I needed to do, I found the notebook above.  I put everyone's phone number in it, even the ones I knew by heart.  Under duress, the brain goes absolutely blank and in moments that are already panicked, trying to recall it all often results in more blank brain.  The cycle would go thus - the phone would ring and it would be, say, the hospital with an update on my aunt and questions about future plans.  I would take notes and tell them what I could.  Then, with the receiver still warm, the phone would ring again and it would be family with questions - Ask her this or ask them that.  I would tell them what I knew, remind them that my aunt was very ill and we needed to do what we could without stressing her out any more than she probably was already.  We had a woman who was sick and needed to get better and we had a mother who was worried about her son and feeling terrible for not being there for him.  It was our job to make sure that she knew that she had people and all she needed to focus on was recovering.  Also, we had a hospital that took their patient's right to privacy very seriously and wished to keep me informed without violating that right.  I can't say this enough times - all the people from Virginia were incredibly understanding, helpful and friendly.  When I felt overwhelmed, they had calming words of advice.  When I felt useless, they let me know that I was doing okay.  When I was afraid of the outcome of all of this, they assured me that everything would be okay.  To leave my aunt behind in a strange place, alone, was a hugely difficult thing for me to do.  And my feelings were nothing compared to what I imagine she must have felt.  She was sick, and alone and had no idea what was going on and when and how it would all end.  And through it all there was the wee one. 

Everything that was going on had him fleeing into a shell of quiet.  He did not speak much most of the time - driving back to Brooklyn, it took a few hours before he was relaxed, smiling and reading route signs.  But his teeth grinding was a painful indicator and at other times, he would look really angry.  It's funny, but you could almost actually see the dark clouds above his head when a wave of anger came over him.  I couldn't blame him, for he was taking everything incredibly well.  I was impressed that he very rarely showed anger and mostly that anger came in missiles being thrown at people he believed I was going to leave him with.  Boy does he have a great arm!  Perhaps a future in baseball awaits him.  All of that said, the ride back to Brooklyn involved no tantrums, only a little teeth grinding and a whole lot of adorable big eyes and chipmunk cheeks!  You take one look at that face and you just have to hug him!