Movin' on Uh-up!

Please visit me at my new home. I decided to change over to a different blogging service. Don't forget to bookmark my new URL! See you there!

Quiet

I am sitting here in the quiet of my own home. My wonderful Curt is off getting a hair cut and the Princess is napping. (Yes, at nearly 4, she still naps. And it is so good to be me!). The annoying cats are cat-napping. The soundtrack of the show my husband just got cast in is playing quietly on the stereo. It is the perfect time to write a witty and entertaining blog entry. Yet my head is as empty as the house is quiet. I have nothing in there to talk about today. How odd. I sometimes find my brain churning away and I think "oh! this would be a great subject to blog about." And now, here I sit, waiting for the snow to come, with plenty of time to write and not a single thought to put to paper. Hey, remember my talk of quilted banners that families displayed in their windows? Just a day or so after I wrote that I found one. Nearly in my own neighborhood. I was driving the Princess to school and there it was, proudly filling the front window of a small and quiet home along the road. I had planned to photograph it and post it here, but decided that might be somehow disrespectful or exploitive of their struggle. But I mentioned it to my dad. He too recalled the "gold star mothers"; a phrase coined from the banners that had turned to gold with loss. I watch that star now. I look for it each time I pass. I hope it stays constant in it's hue. I pray, for this family of strangers, that it never turns to gold.

A little reminder

Along with today's $50 million dollar inauguration, it's also an opportunity to show your displeasure with the status quo by keeping your wallet firmly closed. Please participate in Not One Damn Dime Day. If you start your day by logging on and checking out some blogs, bring your coffee instead of stopping at Dunkin Donuts, and pack a lunch. Thanks!

The Price of War

I am not talking about dollars and cents., not that that doesn't fill me with great ire. More importantly, though, I am talking about the people. American Soldiers and Iraqi civilians. And those civilians’ only “crime” was being born in the wrong country. While on vacation at my in-laws, I shared a very interesting conversation with my mother-in-law. She is so very intelligent and amazing. Her perspective is so different than mine based on her life experience and I always feel grateful and enriched when she shares some of it with me. We were talking in disgusted tones about the war in Iraq and how awful it is. How unjustified. I was speaking of one of my closest friends who lost her brother to the war. And still, I can’t make sense of it. I can’t understand how Americans can support this war or our current administration. One of the things my MIL shared how much things have changed here in America in regards to war. We now avoid seeing the horrors or war. She told me that she clearly recalls during WWII, the whole country thought about it, and faced it, and acted upon it. The women went to work. Families hung banners in their windows, blue stars for a loved one at war. Should that loved one be killed, the stars turned gold. Many homes had numerous stars. The war was everywhere. You couldn’t avoid it. There was less involvement in every home during Korea to her recollection. I don’t think the whole Vietnam debacle even needs discussion in terms of changing tides of American sentiment. Now, the media won’t even show body bags on the news. It’s just too much for our delicate American sensibilities. It’s hidden from us. The true horror of what goes on half a world away. We can lie in our beds at night and sleep peacefully because we don’t see the repulsive images of the havoc we wreak upon these other countries. Perhaps we wouldn’t be so quick to go to war if we saw war. Perhaps the violence would be more shocking if we actually saw it and had fewer violent movies to compare it to. I recall people complaining about the first scene of Saving Private Ryan as being too violent, too gory. I guess it was just too real.

Inauguration Day Silent Protest - Not One Damn Dime Day

I received this in an email last night: When President Bush is spending approximately 50 million for his inauguration it is worth the inconvenience to partake in this. Because our political leaders and our religious leaders do not have the moral courage to speak out against the war in Iraq, Inauguration Day, Thursday, January 20th, 2005 is a good time to take a stand and send a message to our corporate-run administration. Those who oppose what is : happening (in our name) in Iraq, can speak out with a 24-hour national boycott of all forms of consumer spending via "Not One Damn Dime Day." During "Not One Damn Dime Day" please don't spend money. Not one damn dime for gasoline. Not one damn dime for necessities or for impulse purchases. Not one damn dime for anything for 24 hours. On "Not One Damn Dime Day," please boycott Walmart, KMart and Target. Please don't go to the mall or the local convenience store. Please don't buy any fast food (or any groceries at all for that matter). For 24 hours, please do what you can to shut the retail economy down. The object is simple. Remind the people in power that the war in Iraq is immoral and illegal; that they are responsible for starting it and that it is their responsibility to stop it. "Not One Damn Dime Day" is to remind them, too, that they work for the people of the United States of America, not for the international corporations and K Street lobbyists who represent the corporations and funnel cash into American politics. "Not One Damn Dime Day" is about supporting the troops. The politicians put the troops in harm's way. Now 1,200 brave young Americans and (some estimate) 100,000 Iraqis have died. The politicians owe our troops a plan a way to come home. There's no rally to attend. No marching to do. No left or right wing agenda to rant about. On "Not One Damn Dime Day" you take action by doing nothing. You open your mouth by keeping your wallet closed. For 24 hours, nothing gets spent, not one damn dime, to remind our politicians and our religious leaders of their moral responsibility to end the war in Iraq and give America back to the people. It got me to thinking. Wouldn't this be something? Can you imagine if everyone on American soil refused to patronize a single retail business for that one day? Having spent many years in retail, I can not fathom having all 300 of my stores call in "$0" sales for a day. How powerful we could be, the American People! What a strong statement we could make if we all acted as one, even if for one day. I don't know who came up with this silent protest idea. But I like it. I know someone will turn around and say that we are penalizing the retailers and it isn't their fault. I guess I a would have to concede that it isn't their fault, but perhaps this is the role it is necessary for them to take in something that is so much bigger than they. The good of the many and all that. To date, two of my friends have lost members of their immediate family to this unjustified war. Their pain is palpable. I have a third friend who has already spent a year in Iraq and faces being sent back. ANYTHING I can do to make the killing end, or even just SHOW the government that I don't believe we should be there. I don't believe we had any right to go there in the first place. It is time for W to stop beating up his Daddy's bully at the cost of more than 1300 (to date) American soldiers. Our resources are spread so thin that we sent a 57 year old man, an active reservist to Kuwait. He is far from the only over-50 soldier being sent into war zones. We still have troops in Korea and Germany. Both those wars were more than 50 years ago. When exactly do we get to bring our troops home? If you agree that we should make a viable plan for bringing our troops home, PLEASE participate in this silent protest. It's time Mr. Bush realized that some of his bosses aren't happy.

Whining into the Blogosphere

I am not much of a whiner. I don’t like myself much when I do whine. However, every now and then, the stars converge and make my world painful and shitty, hence Whiney Rachel. And so on with the whine: It all began before Christmas. I will spare you the gory details. It should suffice to say that if I were a betting woman, I would’ve laid money that I was ……expecting…..in a family way…..knocked up…..Yes, that, if exposed to my HCG tainted blood, the rabbit would indeed die. To many, this would be a joyous thing. To a couple like us, well, not so much. Considering that we took my wonderful, loving husband off to the doctor and had him “fixed” (not to imply that he was broken in anyway) to avoid such a situation. My sweet partner, who had endured neither broken bones nor stitches to that point in his life, willingly underwent “the procedure”. That act itself shows our true commitment to our reproductive decision and our feeling of completeness in the family department. So needless to say, after several days of mild nausea, frequent peeing and a heightened sense of smell, it knocked me to my knees when I got into the shower on Christmas morning and the weak spray of water on my bare chest caused a pain like none other. The Pain of the Pregnant Breasts. That was when I really started to worry. Fast forward to last Tuesday. I was very grateful to see my “time of month” arrive. The weirdness had gradually subsided, and I felt sure that my period would in fact arrive at some point. There was a delightful lack of normal cramping and bloating, so it was a pleasant surprise all around. Saturday came and all was well. I was still bleeding, a bit heavier than normal, but still felt that nothing was amiss. That night while I sat innocently in a chair at my grandmother’s house, minding my own business, a terrible pain invaded my lower back. It was strikingly reminiscent of the lower back pain that used to accompany my period each month before having a child. It is not unusual for me to injure my back. It’s actually something I am sadly quite adept at. However, generally these injuries follow an actual physical movement more strenuous than raising a cup of diet coke to my lips. The pain was coming and going and really freaking me out. Shortly after dinner and birthday cake, we packed up and headed home, stopping along the way at the local CVS for a pregnancy test. The weirdness of my long period and waves of back pain made me wonder if I was experiencing an immaculate miscarriage. Alright, not so immaculate but what are the odds, really? Of course, the test was negative. However, the pain in my back still goes on. And because I am compensating for the pain in my back, my bad knee is being, well, bad. Add to that some muscle strain in my left thigh and I am feeling like I have come out on the wrong end of a drunken bar brawl. Last night I ran a bath hot enough to spread first degree burns over all of the skin I submerged in it. And I came out feeling better than before deliberately burning 60% of my body. A sad statement, no? This morning, I woke up to a hive on my bottom lip, giving a me a somewhat seductive and pouty look. It must be because I am guilty of REM sleep dreaming about consuming one of the many allergens on the “Rachel Must Not Eat” list. I think that should about do it. Ok, I'm off to find some fruit and cheese to have with my whine. . . .

Hot Diggity! Democracy IN ACTION!!!!

Please see this! Apparently Mr. Cosgrove changed his stance a bit from utterly moronic to far more reasonable! The response from those that heard of this through Maura's blog and others was terrific! WTG, Folks!

Call to Action!

During my morning perusal of blogs, I came across this and this, both of which link to this. As a woman, and one who has suffered a loss, I find this utterly appalling. During an IM conversation with one of my clever and brilliant friends, he pointed out several things. The first is that this is ALREADY a law, and the appalling section of the bill is a proposed amendment. A BILL to amend and reenact § 32.1-264 of the Code of Virginia, relating to reports of fetal deaths; penalty. The proposed amendment: When a fetal death occurs without medical attendance, it shall be the woman's responsibility to report the death to the law-enforcement agency in the jurisdiction of which the delivery occurs within 12 hours after the delivery. A violation of this section shall be punishable as a Class 1 misdemeanor. (This is what I get for merely skimming the newfound appalling legislative action; not realizing it's an amendment.) Now, this proposed amended law states that the custodian of the fetal material is the one responsible for reporting it. So, perhaps, if this horrendous amendment does become law, the women of Virginia could consider this: Should the horror of a miscarriage befall you, you have my deepest sympathy. However, perhaps you could, in the your darkest hour of grief, make the journey to the home of Mr. Cosgrove, along with your "fetal material" and deliver it directly to him, along with the requisite paperwork. If you feel strong enough, as overwrought and amped-up on pregnancy hormones as you may be, perhaps you could tell HIM your heartrending story and ask him to fill out your requisite report. I wonder if he'll be anymore comfortable and/or compassionate in hearing your tale than the members of the various Virginia law enforcement departments that might be faced with such an interview. I am sure the prospect of this fills those officers with as much horror as the amended bill evokes from me. If you simply haven't healed enough and aren't ready to talk about it within the mandated 12-hour window, feel free leave your "fetal material" on the front porch, and ring and run. I am sure Mr. Cosgrove won't mind receiving such a package since accurate record keeping is so important to him. Now, as a resident of Massachusetts and NOT Virginia, I have to wonder what I can do to help my Virginian sisters. The answer was provided by my clever friend. He read the law thoroughly and discovered a bit of an omission. Nowhere on the entire document does it state HUMAN fetal material. So here's what he came up with: If we could ban together and send this illustrious Virginia lawmaker 1000 fresh fetal pigs, and he failed to file the required reports within 12 hours (as the custodian of said "fetal material") we could put him away for 20 years under his own law. So, who's in?

Doctor = God?

I don’t understand people that regard medical doctors as “next to God”. Yes, they save lives. But they also end them. Chemotherapy is one hell of a science experiment: “We need to feed enough poison into the patient to kill the cancer, without killing the patient.” That’s really what it is. I am not saying that it isn’t a necessary treatment, or that it’s not effective in many cases. I am simply saying that it’s scary as hell. I think my disillusionment of doctors began when I was taking an EMT class. We were studying the Heimlich maneuver (a very good thing to know, BTW). We all mastered the basic what-to-do-when-someone’s-choking bit. We moved on to what you do when your choking victim is obese or in the third trimester of pregnancy, or in the “we can’t get underneath the diaphragm” group. The therapy? A compression on the sternum, just like CPR (only maybe standing up, if your victim is still conscious). OK. Got it. Now, being the forward thinking, cause and effect kind of girl I am, I raised my hand and said, “but won’t that put them into V-fib?” Essentially – won’t that make the heart STOP beating? Ready for this? The answer: “Probably. But they were going to die anyway so you have to dislodge the foreign body from the airway and then do CPR.” Well, alrighty then. The lesson here is don’t choke if your diaphragm is obstructed by a big belly, baby-full or not. Because if you thought you were close to dying while choking (which you are), you’re doubly close if there’s something between a friendly Heimlich giver and your diaphragm. The real lesson to me though, was that medicine is NOT a hard science. It’s an educated series of good guesses at what just might cure your particular ailment. And try not to have a puzzling problem, because you’ll be tested, poked, prodded, x-rayed, and MRI’ed to the point that you just want to run off into the hills and be left alone to at least, die in peace. I have a friend who has just such an ailment. She’s essentially lost function on one side of her body. She’s having a “double MRI” done this month. Now I don’t know what a “double MRI” is but I know a single is unpleasant enough. Don’t get me wrong. I do greatly appreciate medical (and other) doctors and all that they do for mankind. I just accept that the practice of medicine is more a black art than a science. It brings to mind a wonderful book I read years ago. I think it’s called “The Physician.” It’s about a young man with such great curiosity about medicine and the human body, that he violates all religious codes and started cutting open dead bodies to study them; probably the first crude autopsies ever done. It’s a wonderful read if you’ve got the time. A great movie about medical trial and error is Something the Lord Made. It’s the true story of a black man who wants nothing more than to go to medical school. He loses his savings when the local bank goes belly up and leaves his struggling black community shit out of luck. He gets a job working in a lab with a brilliant and arrogant doctor. His contribution to the doctor’s work is invaluable and he accomplishes this without ever having earned a medical degree through schooling. A few years ago, I was sitting in pre-op, waiting to be wheeled in to an emergency surgery that would save me from bleeding to death internally. (It’s a long story – but that sums it up rather nicely). While in pre-op, talking to my surgeon, I asked a question that I don’t think enough people ask. I said, “Who’s scrubbing in?” She responded with the name of a doc that I should have sued for malpractice years before (another long story). And I said “Absolutely not. That guy is coming no where fucking near me!” And he didn’t. She paged in the next ob doc on call (instead of bringing in a general surgeon), and took extra special good care of me. I recently needed some blood work done and the doctor was a bit taken aback when I said I would like “an A1C ordered, please”. Everyone preaches, “Take control of your own medical care. Educate yourself!” And I believe that to my very core. However, when you actually DO it, you be amazed at the how many doctors are surprised, some even put off. Reading blogs of infertile women really brings this to light when you see how many of them research their conditions and upon delivering their findings to their doctor, are astonished to actually have the doctor listen to, accept, and even do some research on their own for possible or new therapies. In closing, I’ll step up on a little soapbox here and say: Educate yourself. Demand that your doctor explain exactly what is wrong and each and every treatment option clearly. With all the information, YOU can take control of the decision-making process and treatment planning. Challenge them. Get a second or third opinion. And if you’re going in for surgery, make them draw a big red “X” on the part they are supposed to operate on.

Typical

I have been mulling this over since the email hit my mailbox yesterday. I know I should just be leaving it alone. I mean, a girl with only about a handful of comments shouldn't really be disparaging commentors, should she? I want more comments, not less. But I just can't help myself. One of the 59 Million felt the need to respond to my "I'm With Stupid" post. However, in typical fashion, there was not a shred of compelling argument or reasoning for our latest election. Just this: "Go W!" And to beat all, he or she posted as Anonymous. How brave. Way to stand up for your beliefs! What a shining example.......

I'm With Stupid

There is so much going on in the world today. We have recently re-elected The Resident, which frankly, I think is one of the most embarrassing things we Americans have ever accomplished as a society. I mean, in 1999, we impeached President Clinton for lying about where he put his penis. Yes, lying is wrong. Lying under oath is worse. But seriously, what impact does this action have on my life or yours? Do I really care what he does with his penis? No. He isn't MY husband. He certainly did nothing worse than his predecessors, including our beloved JFK. Fast forward to post 9/11/01. Bush spewed a barrage of lies at the American People and Congress (under oath as well), even using information that he was told by his advisors was unconfirmed and shouldn’t be used. These lies were used to compel Congress to vote to declare war on Iraq, despite the gross lack of support from the Global Community. And despite the lies coming to light, he continues to deny they are false and goes on to spin new ones. So what do we do? Do we impeach HIM? No. We re-elect him. Brilliant. I feel very certain that HIS lies have had a hell of a lot more impact on the lives of the American People. We've lost more than 1000 soldiers. One of them was the baby brother of one of my closest friends. I don't even know the current body count. I don't want to. It makes me sick. As does W. The disaster that just struck in Asia makes my blood run cold. How terrifying that this can happen. My thoughts are with those that lost or are still searching for loved ones. These are just a few examples of the issues that should be getting the attention of our political leaders, no? Now, John McCain had aspirations for the sitting in the Oval Office. I read a bit about him and thought he held some promise, depsite the fact that he is a republican. Truth be told, I would vote either party if I actually LIKED a candidate instead of just voting against the greater evil. Unfortunately, McCain's amazing lack of judgment showed through in his most recent bone-head move. Essentially, McCain threatened to waste the time of our lawmakers to deal with the issues of mandatory drug testing for Major League Baseball players if the players' union and the League couldn't come up with a more stringent policies. Gimme a fucking break, John. Thousand of our men and women are at war, homelessness is a nationwide problem, and our illustrious leader is succeeding in making our rich richer and our middle class and poor poorer. I could list another 100 problems that our elected officials continue to fail to solve here in America. By all means, major league baseball should REALLY be at the top of the queue. Keep your eyes on the ball, Scmuck! It really brings new meaning to wearing one of those "I'm with Stupid" tee shirts. Maybe I'll go walk through the halls of justice in DC wearing one and see how many politicians I can pose with for a photo op.

BMWARM Testimony

I know I have mentioned here before that I frequent several message boards. My home board began as a parenting board, but at this point, we are simply a group of friends with like-aged children. We have a few members that lurked until we shook them out of the trees. They have younger or older kids but are now part of the circle. Over the years, we have formed a club. The BMWARM club. It all began when someone posted that they were a “bad mother” because they had done something they deemed bad motherly. Perhaps it was giving a tantruming 2 year old mountain dew for breakfast. Who knows. That began the BM Club. Later on, there was a rather frustrated member who posted that she had had a conversation with someone who said “women with only one child aren’t really mothers”. Needless to say, this pisses off those of us that are raising an only child. No, we don’t have to deal with sibling rivalry, fighting, or trying to figure out who broke the lamp in the living room. No, sharing is less of an issue on a day to day basis. But are we mothers? Of course we are! We still have a little creature that we managed to keep alive through infancy. We still wash, clothe, feed, discipline, entertain, and love this little person. And we will do so until they fly from the nest. The post about this started a rather lively thread about how offensive we all found this proclamation. The next posting about a bad-mother-move changed the name of our elite club to Bad Mothers Who Aren’t Really Mothers. It’s a good club. We all visit it now and again. So now that you have the background, here’s the story (and aforementioned testimony): Curt, Thea and I spent the last two days visiting various mothers-in-law down in Miami. I am *cough cough* blessed with 3 mothers-in-law. My father-in-law’s current wife (of 30 years) is a most fabulous person. I have a wonderful friendship with her and enjoy her greatly. My husband’s biological mother (MIL #2*) is very needy emotionally and taxing to spend time with. We do, however, make the pilgrimage to Miami each visit, because it brings her so much joy to see our Princess. During this trip, we also see MIL#3*, as she lives in Miami as well. So yesterday, we set out from the “beautiful house in the forest” and made the trip south. Our first stop was at the home of friends of Curt’s bio Mom. She had worked herself into a lather with concerns that Thea wouldn’t remember her or wouldn’t like her (hello! She’s THREE!). Consequently, she emitted this tension in waves that washed over all of. I am sure Thea sensed it. After a nice lunch, and time spent playing, chatting, etc, we headed over to MIL #3’s house. She was my FIL’s second wife and raised my husband from age 8(ish) through 18. Thea fell asleep in her car seat on the way. She was still asleep when we got there so we hung out outside and watched my SIL’s twins playing while Thea slept. After an hour’s nap, I woke her and brought her in. My SIL and her family left shortly after that. We ordered in some dinner and spent the night there. This morning, we got up and after a leisurely breakfast, went to the Miami Seaquarium. We had a wonderful time watching the Dolphin show and feeding the sea lions. Thea loved it. We headed back to the house around 3:00. After relaxing there for a bit, we packed up and headed north. We hit the road around 5:00. We had all been snacking a bit and had a light lunch. Of course, Thea wasn’t hungry immediately before we left, but then declared she *was* within 20 minutes of our departure. We stopped to get gas for the car, so I took the opportunity to get some food at the little convenience store. After she had fallen asleep in the car, I got to thinking. And it struck me that I had most definitely met the BMWARM standards of mothering: For dinner, I fed my daughter an apple and some nilla wafers. In a moving car. How nice. What an exemplar meal. It is only slightly eclipsed by her lunch today of french fries, ½ a chicken strip and vanilla pudding for nutritional value. I guess it’s a good thing that pediatricians advise you to go for a nutritionally balanced week or month as opposed to day. I, of course, said out loud, “I fed my daughter an apple and nilla wafers for dinner.” I said it without much emotion; really just a flat statement of sad fact. My husband replied, “Oh, don’t beat yourself up about that.” This allowed me to quote a very great movie Keeping the Faith. I said “I’m Jewish. We don’t do self-flagellation. We plant trees.” Or something like that....it's close. And you have to love the opportunity to quote a movie. *MIL’s (mothers-in-law) are numbered by the order in which they entered MY life, not my FIL’s or my husbands. I know. Completely self-centered, but the easiest way for me to keep them clearly sorted……

The Silence of the Morning

My in-laws live in the middle of nowhere. They built a gorgeous house on 60 acres of land in central southern Florida. Their property is about 15 miles outside Sebring in Highlands County. They have "neighbors" but not in the way you or I do. At home, I can see a neighbor's house looking out the window from pretty much any room. Here, there are valances that decorate the windows, but no need for real curtains. The back of the house has a wonderful screen porch. The deck that leads off it was designed with no railing so that there is nothing to disturb the view of the woodsy backyard and the creatures that visit there. The Princess decided that 5:30 was a good time to wake up this morning. I don't know if it was a bad dream or the need to pee, but she started making noise and then took herself off to the potty. Her bed was suddenly no longer acceptable, so I brought her into ours and hoped for some more sleep. Unfortunately, my brain clicked on and there I was......Wide awake. Before 6 AM. I layed quietly and thought peaceful thoughts, but really it was a fantasy that my mind would settle back down and let my body sleep. So I got out of bed. And went out to the porch. One of my very favorite times of the day is when I wake and get up before Thea does. Even if it's only 15 minutes, it's MY time. It's time where I can sit quietly and think of whatever I want. Part of what makes this time special is that it doesn't happen every day. More often than not, my alarm clock is in the form of a 3 year old girl. So on the days that I wake before she does, and am afforded enough time for a quiet, uninterrupted cup of coffee, those 10 or 20 minutes are precious. This morning, I spent those precious minutes on the porch. It was just 6 AM and pitch black outside. The only light is what spilled through the window from the Christmas tree. Beyond the screens was utter blackness. And it was filled with life. Bushes rustled, cows mooed, a rooster crowed. Literally. There is a great deal of farmland out here. The land is flat and the sounds carry. I was hoping that the Princess would fall back to sleep and let me watch the sunrise out there. Maybe see the deer passing through, or some wild turkeys, some raccoons. No such luck. Thea emerged from the bedroom within 15 minutes or so and the day was begun. But it began with some precious time, listening to noise-filled silence of the morning.

Leaving.....on a jet plane......

Vacation, here we come! I am very excited. Tomorrow we depart for lovely, WARM, sunny Florida. And just in the nick of time. Literally. The temperature here today is 28. Tomorrow, it's not supposed to get above 20. Brrrrrrr!!!! We are spending 2 1/2 days in Disney World with my parents, who are currently vacationing down there. Friday night we will head over to my in-laws house. We'll do a trip to Miami early next week to see the rest of the in-laws, but spend most of our time at what Thea refers to as "the beautiful house in the forest". My mother and father-in-law have the most beautiful home in southern central Florida. It sits on 60 acres of land that is mostly wildlife refuge. The house was custom built and is gorgeous. Its best feature, though, is its residents. I adore my in-laws. They are two of the most wonderful people on the planet. I must admit that I was incredibly intimidated to meet them, as he's a psychiatrist and she's a psychologist. I was certain I would tick and twitch as I extended my hand and uttered my name upon first meeting and be forever classified as "the spastic one". However, they put me immediately at ease during that first meeting and have become as much parents to me as my own. I wish they lived closer so that we could spend time and share Thea with them more often. The trip is also just in the nick of time for my husband. He is very close with his father and misses him terribly in between visits. His dad came up here for a weekend in late May, so it’s been a while. My husband also battles depression. Most of the time, he does very well, but of late, it’s been very hard for him. His job is terrible and his boss is worse. To make it even more annoying, his boss is one of those people about whom you often say, “He means well, but….” His boss is in over his head and despite being a nice guy, he just really makes life difficult for my sweet husband. I think we’ve all, at one point or another had a job that we absolutely despised. And it consumes you. Every waking minute is filled with thoughts of being at, having to return to, or just having left “that awful place”. I am lucky enough that once I found my career, I fell in love with it. However, even in a position that I loved, a new boss came in and made me absolutely miserable. There was one memorable afternoon at home that was interrupted by a spectacular breakdown by yours truly, during which I stuttered out (in between hiccup crying) “I’m going to quit my job and become a waitress and go back to school, okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay????” My wonderful husband just held me and let me cry and told me I could do whatever I wanted. His job is much like that now. It makes him miserable, which makes living with him at times challenging. His propensity for depression certainly doesn’t help. Yesterday, I rescued him from work and took him to lunch. We had a long talk. He *knows* that the biggest factor in his depression is his job, but he doesn’t see a way to fix it. There’s little permanent work out there and the market is flush with cheaper, less-experienced worker-bees who are willing to take on contract positions that make their future fraught with uncertainty. As long as I am a stay-at-home mom, we can’t afford to live without the security of a permanent position. Although, in this day and age of lay-offs, the definition of “permanent” is changing, too. I told him that if I had to, I would find a full time job and go back to work. If my choice is living with him like this, or working full time, it is an easy decision. He has been told that he is going to be moved into a different department after the New Year. Please keep your fingers crossed that it happens, or there are going to have to be some big changes around here. We both agree that we don’t want Thea in daycare any more than 3 full days a week, so we’d both need the flexibility to work from home one day a week. The logistics could be very challenging, but we both refuse to compromise when it comes to our Princess.

The Laundry Continuum

I hate doing laundry. HATE it. Although, upon examination, I am not really sure what part of the process is the problem. Lugging the over-full baskets down two flights of stairs into the musty, messy, half-finished basement doesn’t seem to be it. I lug when required without much complaint. The next step: turn on washing machine, add detergent, add clothes. Not a problem. Once the washing finishes, transfer to dryer and turn on. Check. The end of the drying seems to be where I hit the wall. Many a load of laundry has lain in wait for me all sparkly clean in the dryer. It lays there, helpless, beckoning for rescue, folding, and delivery to the appropriate dresser. There you have it. It’s the folding and distribution that sucks ass in the world of Rachel. On my message boards, my username tagline reads “Great Shirker of Laundry”. Nothing is as true. Pop Quiz, kids: Did anyone notice what step I skip in the processing of laundry? Anyone? Bueller? You, there in the back, in the paisley floral polyester top. Did you say “Sorting?”. Yes. That’s it. There is most definitely NO sorting in my world. I am very clearly the established Queen of the Kamikazi load. I take on a “survival of the fittest” attitude with laundry. It all goes in together and the strongest shall emerge victorious. In truth, I rarely ruin anything. Maybe once every year or so. With that track record, I’ll happily play the odds. If there is a delicate item in there the load that requires the gentle cycle or cold water, everything accompanying it gets the same treatment. In the end, the clothes smell lovely and are clean, albeit wrinkled from their long stay in the dryer. Now, I know *someone* out there is going to tell me to be grateful that I live in the day and age of automated washing. That my poor, downtrodden foremothers had to take their three articles of clothing (that they made by hand, from the wool directly off the shorn sheep) to the river bank and beat it with rocks. Or slightly more advanced, scrub it in a tub on one of those terrible washboards that was hell on a manicure. I am sure had I lived in either of those times, I would have hated laundry even more than I do now…..if that’s really possible. What is, in my opinion, the single greatest problem with laundry? Being the task oriented person I am, I like to SEE my accomplishments. Be it a clean kitchen or sparkling bathroom or another COMPLETED project. With laundry, you can never, ever be truly caught up. Unless, of course, every member of the household is completely nude, and their beds stripped of dirty linens. And their bath towels in process as well. That brings to mind the episode of Sex and The City where Charlotte marries Harry and discovers that he spends an inordinate amount of “at home” time in the buff. To outwardly puritan Charlotte, seeing all of Hairy Harry outside the bedroom is a bit disconcerting. The proverbial shit doesn’t hit the fan however, until Harry perches the boys on Charlotte’s snow white furniture. I guess that would need to be laundered as well……. There really is no end, is there?

Anxiety and a Great Deal

I am a big ole wimp. OK. That's really only true in one aspect. The dentist. I absolutely HATE going to the dentist. I *try* to go every 6 months like a good girl, but I just can't. I can't make myself go. I know. It's horrible. I once went almost 5 years without seeing a dentist at all and wound up getting a wisdom tooth taken out at 10:30 on a Saturday night. It broke in half. That started me going regularly for a while, but then we moved back to Massachusetts and that was the end of that. We've been home almost 5 years. I think I've been to the dentist twice or three times since we got back. I just hate it. I hate the scraping, I hate the tugging and pulling, and I HATE the frigging polisher. It's like nails on a chalkboard to me. For a while now, I have been contemplating getting one of those Oral B sonic toothbrushes because they are supposed to be wonderful at removing plaque and keeping your gums healthy and all that stuff. To my way of thinking....great! Another thing to help keep me out of the dentist's chair. I know!!! It's horrible! Grow up, Rachel. Anyway, I got one of those coupons that print at the register from CVS for $20 off one of these fancy shmancy toothbrushes. Then, I noticed that they were 20% off. So I went in yesterday and bought the $119.99 toothbrush. I also picked up some extra toothbrush heads and a couple other little items. With the sale and the coupon, I saved ....drumroll please.......$53 on the purchase! So I got $150 worth of merchandise for $97. I was thrilled. And hopefully that little sucker will keep me safe from the evil dentist for a while longer...... I can see it now. My epitaph will read, "Here lies Rachel. She never paid retail." I am such a sucker for a good deal.

What do you mean there's no such thing as a dermatological emergency?

I have eczema on my hands. Bad. They get so dry and cracked that they are painful. I had several guests for dinner on Tuesday night for the first night of Hannukah and did a lot of cooking. Which means a lot of handwashing. The condition of my hands started deteriorating as soon as the weather got cold, but by the time I got dinner on the table Tuesday, they were downright horrible. My dad saw them and really pushed me about going to see a dermatologist. And he was right. So yesterday I called to make an appointment. Now, the problem with my dermatologist is that he is always booking MONTHS ahead. When I called, I was told he was booking in August. Freaking AUGUST?!?!?! I asked the secretary if there was ANY way to get in sooner. I told her my hands were so cracked and painful that I was unable to bathe my 3 year old and had to ask my husband to do it. (That was Tuesday night - just before my father really started leaning on me to go in and get seen.) Apparently this tugged the heartstrings of the secretary, 2 nurses and the doc because I got a call yesterday that they had a "cancellation" for today at 11 AM. So at 10:15 today, Thea and I packed up a coloring book, markers and a juice cup, and went off to the doctor's office. It's the first time I have been in to see this doc in 6 years. The last time I went in for treatment of my hands, I saw a different dermatologist that I really didn't like (condescending and generally stupid). We stopped on the way for a snack for Thea and a cup of coffee for Mommy and got to the office at about 10:50. I did the requisite paperwork. And we waited....... And waited....... And waited........ We FINALLY got called in to the exam room at 12:50 and the doc came into the room just after 1:00 Can you imagine? Two hours behind schedule! Thea was an absolute ANGEL the entire time. We read books. We colored. We drew pictures that we took a photos of with my sidekick and emailed them off to Grandma, Grandpa and Daddy. Once in the exam room, Mommy stole a rubber glove and blew it up into a balloon for Thea to play with. Despite the unbearable wait, Thea didn't whimper or cry. She didn't have a tantrum. She did not even complain. Not even once. She was SO good. After seeing the doc and getting a shot of steroids (that has made my left arm feel like it had a tetnus shot) and a prescription, we finally left and met my dad for lunch (at 1:40). We stopped at CVS on the way home and filled the prescription. I let her pic out a nail polish and did her fingers and toes as soon as we got home. She certainly deserved a reward for her outrageously good behavior today that made her Mommy SO proud. What an amazing child I have!

The Good Rachel, Blogs, and trolls

I started this blog because reading the blogs of other women inspired me to start writing again. I think that blogs, at first glance, could easily be deemed very self-serving. But truthfully, I would be so unhappy if any of the bloggers I read STOPPED blogging. I love hearing their stories, laughing and crying with them, and seeing their lives, families and sometimes bellies grow and change. I think these blogs are a wonderful tool of introspection for their writers and they create a community of readers all their own. *Usually* a community of support, caring, and hand-holding friendship. Recently, some judgmental asshat posted a comment on Karen's blog. Unfortunately for me, her name is Rachel. Hence "The Good Rachel". This is how I've started referring to myself on the comments sections to avoid being mistaken for this highly unpleasant woman. As a child, I didn't meet another Rachel until I was 13. Now - they're EVERYWHERE. It is so disconcerting to be walking through the mall and hear some mother, clinging desperately to the knot she's tied at the end of her rope, shrieking "RACHEL!!!!" at the top of her lungs, in some futile effort to verbally stop her running pre-schooler that is half a mile away on the concourse of the mall. After 30-odd years of conditioning to respond to my own name, hearing it screamed out in fear, fury, and desperation makes me feel, if only for an instant, terribly guilty of some heinous infraction. It always takes me a moment to realize that *I* am not the intended target of my own name echoing off the mall walls. Anyway. Trolls. When I think of trolls, I think of people that pop in and start an argument by stating the opposite viewpoint of the blogger (i.e. the red states v. the blue states), in some greatly demeaning and condescending manner. Of course, with the requisite name-calling ("you must be an idiot to believe. . . . . . ) and then they go away and return only infrequently. To call the Bad Rachel (ok - I don't really know her. How about the Mediocre Rachel?) a troll, is perhaps too kind. Because she's one of those asshats that comes in and presents her devastating message as one of care; a message that she was just duty-bound to write, out of concern for the well-being of the blogger and the blogger's future children. And she makes this judgment based on one or two blog entries. I think there needs to be a stronger word for these types of trolls. They are stealthy creatures, in that they present themselves as a caring friend that will make this tremendous sacrifice of themselves on the alter, to deliver their terribly-hard-to-hear, unwarranted, untrue and often damaging message. A true troll just comes in, calls you stupid and runs off. These "helpful" trolls are usually stupid enough to stick around and try to defend themselves under the barrage of defenses from the blogger's faithful following and friends. Amazingly, they seem to think that the blogger actually wants this sort of feedback; that the blogger puts up his or her posts because they crave judgment and criticism from ignorant people? IMO, a truly caring individual would have emailed the blogger privately to state his or her concerns. Posting them publicly on the comments section, seems to be a misguided effort to rally support for the criticism. And to post this on the blog of the very person she's attacking ......well, that's just plain dumb. So let's review. Misguided, Relatively stupid, judgmental, Caring friend (Wolf in sheep's clothing) presentation ...... hmmm......... What shall we call them?

Dipping my toes in a dangerous pool.....

What am I thinking? I live in a lovely 3 bedroom house in a lovely suburb with superb neighbors. After several mostly disastrous moves, my husband and I have decided that we are never moving again. Ever. We live in a better than average school district and were lucky enough to move into a "village" mentality neighborhood. Our neighbors watch out their windows for the well-being of the children and homes on the street. The night we moved in, my neighbor from across the street (who is now a dear friend), rang my doorbell and delivered a home made dinner with paper plates and plastic forks, etc. In the basket, there was also a list of the phone numbers of my 3 closest neighbors and the best local pizza delivery place. Needless to say, we are very happy here. However, (this is the dangerous part), I would love to add on to the house. Which is ridiculous, really. We don't NEED the room. We could really use it, yes. Thea's bedroom doesn't have a closet and is very small. The upstairs bathroom is really a closet with a toilet and sink. But can we continue to live here comfortably? Sure. But I have been thinking (fantasizing) about this for a few years. I went to lunch today with my fabulous husband, and broached the subject for the very first time. The background: We bought this house as DINKS (double income, no kids) after living in NY and paying NY rents. Fast forward five years: I am a stay-at-home-mom to an almost 4 year old. I left a significant salary, a company car, annual bonus, and stock options. We've done some serious re-arranging of the finances and are surviving on one salary. I make some play money for us by doing some part-time work waiting tables or tending bar. And my wonderful beloved said go ahead and investigate. So here I am, "investigating" and about to fuck up our delicate balance. I spoke to the bank today, the building inspector's office and emailed an architect. NOTHING is a done deal, I haven't applied for a loan, but I know what we have available based on the last house appraisal. We are just investigating. That's it......right? We don't *need* this, but I really want it. And I think my wonderful Curt does too. Crap. What the hell am I thinking?

Presenting Santa and his Jewish Elves.......

I have mentioned a little bit about my involvement in community theater. It's my home away from home. I currently serve as the President of the group and both my parents and two closest friends sit on the board of directors with me. It's my community and I love it there. It's where I met my husband and where most of my friends spend their time. Our group is not part of the town's recreation department, but we do support/participate in several of their annual functions. Tomorrow is one of those days. "Breakfast with Santa" is in the morning and the tree lighting ceremony on the common is in the evening. Very exciting, I know. Well, I am "elfing" for the breakfast. That entails getting the children onto Santa's lap, taking their pictures, printing them out, and sending them on their merry way. There are two feedings; one at 8:30 and one at 10:30. It's actually kind of fun because the little kids are often decked out in their very best and of course, on their very best behavior in front of the great and powerful, list-checking Santa. It's held at a Marriott in town. The amusing part of this, of course, is that my step-mother and I, the two senior elves are both Jewish. One of the other elves I recruited is also Jewish. Her friend is coming along to lend an elfin hand. She, however, is NOT Jewish. I am glad for that. We wouldn't want to give Santa a complex or anything.

Oooops! My bad!

A little update on the job hunt. . . . . The day after I got blown off by my interviewer, I went and met up with some friends. I was out and about until nearly 2:00 in the afternoon. I get home. No message from Zach the asshole. I wait an hour, hoping this lovely Zach will call and redeem himself. Of course, he doesn't. The draw of the HUGE coin I could potentially make there calms me enough to call at 3:00. I spend 8 minutes being bounced around from person to person and on hold until I finally get the elusive Zach on the phone. The conversation went like this: R: Hi Zach, this is Rachel XXXX. I had an appt with you yesterday at 4. Z: Oh yeah. (short silence) R: I guess your schedule changed. Z: Yeah. R: Did they tell you I had been in? Z: Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. R: Well, I was hoping we could reschedule. Z: Can you come in tomorrow? R: Well, I have to be honest. It's very hard for me to come in during the day unless it's a Friday or a Monday. If you are working volume tonight, I could come in after your dinner rush. Z: Yeah. That'd be good. After the dinner rush tonight. R: (pause) What time then? Z: 9:00. R: OK, see you then. Do you think you could *at least* have the good sense to SOUND fucking SORRY????? I am SO freaking aggravated with this guy. The only reason I am going is because of the money I could make there. Besides, if I could survive the idiotic management at Friday's, I can survive anything, right? So I go in last night (as scheduled by him) and he spent a whole 6 or 8 minutes talking to me before asking me to come back AGAIN today at 5:00. In all fairness, the restaurant was busy last night so I could understand that. BACK I go again tonight to finally talk with the idiot...I mean, hiring manager. I get there and wait about 10 minutes for him to get to me. No problem. I know it's the beginning of the dinner shift so that's ok. He finally comes over to chat with me. Fifteen minutes into the interview, he asks me what I am looking for in terms of shifts. I tell him 3 or 4 per week. He says that they ONLY hire full time and no one works only evenings. Well, did you read my frigging application? Where I specifically put down part time? Evenings only? Silly me - this is the guy who called me in for a waitressing position when I specified bartending...so the answer there would be NO. He then tells me that I would need to work 2 lunches per week. NO WAY. I have 2 days to MYSELF when Thea is at school. There is no way in hell I am working them BOTH. He then says that the only part time people they hire are the cocktails. I ask him to tell me about that position. It's perfect. Two or three nights per week from 5pm to 1am. Great. I then tell him that I have a couple upcoming commitments, including a trip out of town from Dec 15 through 26. He says he has a problem with that; that his boss would never accept a person coming in and then going right out on vacation. And he looks at me as though he thinks I am going to say "Oh! Ok. I'll cancel." That was when I lost it. L O S T IT! And said something very close to this: Well, thank you for your time. I won't waste anymore of it. Or mine! Although, that apparently is NOT a problem for you. Two weeks of my time has been wasted by you! I'm sorry but this has been very frustrating for me. You BLEW ME OFF on Tuesday and then didn't even have the common decency to APOLOGIZE. That is outrageously unprofessional. I came in again last night and you spent a whole 6 or 8 minutes with me in which you conveyed NO information and didn't even bother to see if our schedules could work together. But that would've have been EFFECTIVE interviewing and communication ...so, well THAT would be out of the question then, wouldn't it........??? I was on my feet for most of this and halfway out the door when I *think* he said "sorry you feel that way" or something like it..... So, yeah. I told him off. Still no job here. Oh, well.

You go GRRL!

Check out Grrl's news! and so cleverly disguised as just another every day post!!!! WOOHOO!!! NBHHY!!!!!!!!!

Incompetence Abounds!

Things have changed SO MUCH since I entered the workforce. It’s really astonishing to me. At age 13, I was a volunteer candy striper. Unpaid. And I took it very seriously and was always there on time and did my job to the best of my abilities. When I was a 14, I got my first real job, as a waitress. I worked in this little, hole-in-the-wall deli with a handful of shitbums that were lazy and jaded. Still, I always put forth my best effort to make my customers happy and do the work that needed to be done, despite the example of aforementioned shitbums. I got into loss prevention at 18. I worked SO hard. I took my responsibility very seriously. When the regional director walked in, my knees practically knocked together with how intimidated I was by this man, by his position, by how very important my boss’s boss was. Ten years and 4 promotions later, when I *was* the regional (all that hard work paying off I suppose), I had 17 year old kids tell me to go fuck myself four ways from Sunday. These kids have no work ethic, no morals, no respect for authority. If my daughter grows up to be one of these lazy, disrespectful sacks of shit, I may have to kill her and start over. After having my daughter and leaving my “real job”, I started working in a chain restaurant as a waitress. I picked up a bartending shift in another chain restaurant. The majority of the people I worked with in both of these places were in their early 20’s. I have never seen such laziness in my life. Ask them to do some extra side work for an upcoming store inspection, and they said “I make 2.63 per hour. I’m not making tips off cleaning. Why should I?” Had I been the manager, or in some position of authority, I would have told them because they were lucky to have their sorry, lazy, ungrateful asses employed and to get busy. So, what brings on this particular rant, you ask? I am currently unemployed. I went out and put in applications at several area restaurants, hoping for a bartending position. There is a very high end restaurant in the next town over. They called and invited me in for an interview for a waitress job. I spoke with a thickly-accented man named Zach on Friday the 19th. He asked me to come in today at 4 PM. Why I needed to wait over a week to chat with this dude escapes me, but hey, he’s the boss. I spent thanksgiving without worrying about working, so it all worked out ok. Anyway, I speak to my fabulous husband and ask him if he can please come home early from work to care for the Princess while I go out and have my interview. I dress myself, put on make up and make myself presentable for a job interview. I leave my house in plenty of time and trek on over to the high brow restaurant. I present myself at the hostess stand and tell the nice lady that I have a 4:00 appointment to see Zach. It is about 3 minutes of. So there I am, on time, feeling pretty, and employable. I am told to have a seat and she will get Zach. I sit. I wait. About 8 minutes later, a nice man in a nice suit approaches me. He says hello, sans accent. It strikes me that this is NOT Zach. I return the greeting. A brief conversation ensues in which I am told that Zach is not in today. (WHAT!?!?!) He had a last minute schedule change and had to work last night. The nice man then tells me that *he* could interview me, but since Zach has been doing all the wait-staff hiring, he doesn’t even know if they need anyone. The unspoken “so what would be the point anyway” was well taken. (Sounds like there is very effective communication going on between management here, no?) Could I come back tomorrow? Well, sure! Having my husband leave early from the job that pays our freaking mortgage each month, upending my daughter’s schedule and driving over during rush hour is not a problem in the least. For fuck’s sake! Of course, I was smiling and incredibly polite and un-put-out by this whole situation. I left with instructions to call Zach after noon tomorrow. Well for God’s sake, don’t you think Zach could’ve fucking called me before I schlepped all the way over here? In various “real jobs”, I was a store security manager, a district security manager, a regional manager and a regional director. I interviewed and hired people for more than 10 years. I can honestly say that I never stood anyone up for an interview. How difficult was that? What the fucking fuck?!?!

Well THAT was fun....

...sort of. Let's talk about sex, shall we? Anyone who tells you that their sex life returns to normal (or increases!) after Baby is either a) exaggerating (lying), b) having a torrid affair (and therefore lying to someone), c) in a new relationship without Baby's father, or d) a big fat liar. Really. If your libido was low before Baby, don't hold out hope that it will return at all after. My daughter will be 4 in March, so “after Baby” is not the 6 week “pelvic rest” period prescribed by the obstetricians of the world. Rumor has it that women hit their sexual prime at age 35. Well, I am 33 and my libido seems to be completely MIA. I had always imagined it would be a slow, gentle build of need, reaching it’s crest at the magical age of 35. In my mind, the roll down the hill from that wonderful age of 35 would be a long, leisurely descent. A sluggish tumble of declining desire that spanned the years from 35, coasting through the dry years of menopause, and petering out completely at oh, say death. A very lofty aspiration, I know. However, as I near 34, and Madame Libido continues to hide out with the infamous Groundhog, rearing it’s head only about as often as Punxsutawney Phil, the “build” isn’t what I’d hoped. I guess this dashes all delusions of a long pleasure cruise through the years that follow. Well, recently, I struck a match under my ailing libido and lured the wonderful Curt upstairs for some frolicking. The man is SO patient with me, after all. We larked about the bed having a grand old time. I wound up astride my beloved, and at the moment of …….err……”truth”, his body arched up in ecstacy. His head came up off his pillow and smashed me in the nose. Hard. Now, I know some people are into pain in the bedroom. We do not fall into this category. Talk about anti-climactic. At least it didn’t bleed…. I do think, though, that it’s still a bit out of joint. No wonder my libido lives underground with an oversized rodent.

Could this be true?

Something quite astonishing has happened. Something I thought I had lost forever seems to have turned up again. A thing that many profess to have and many others have beaten down by working retail. I worked retail for so many years that I was certain this precious thing had been trampled out of me by those horrible, menacing, cut-throat shoppers that stampede through stores every year on Black Friday. To make it more devastating, I worked in loss prevention. Well, the cheerful shoplifters and dishonest employees are few and far between. And the occasionally cheerful one is generally hyped up on PCP or some other illicit substance. The birth of my daughter precipitated my rapid departure from my position as a Regional Manager of Loss Prevention for a national retailer. There was no way I was going to be gone on overnight travel 2 or 3 nights per week even once a month, let alone the 2 or 3 weeks a month I had been doing. I left without a backwards glance, thrilled to be a stay-at-home mom for this most entrancing little creature. Am I scarred? Absolutely. I can't walk through a store without spotting a shoplifter or store detective. It's just in my bones. (And really that's a good thing, as I do plan to return to the field when my little charge goes off to first grade.) However, it now seems that after a long reprieve from working retail, my holiday cheer seems to be resurfacing. I truly thought it was gone forever. Yesterday's tree decorating escapades, which made me smile inside, sent me off shopping while Thea was at school (AKA day care) today. What fun I had! I wiped out many family gifts at BJ's and despite a full carriage, spent far less than I thought I would. I continued on my merry way, credit card at the ready, and had a terrific time walking the malls, shopping the toy stores, the department stores and everything in between. After retrieving the lovely Thea from school, we went over to a small mall to check out TJ Maxx and More. After a decidedly unsuccessful trip through there, we strolled onward. And there he was. The Great Man in Red. Sitting upon his lofty thrown. Several weeks ago, my brave girl would not even wave at the Great Man. Today, not only did she wave, she spoke, she sat, she even shared her great holiday gift wish. It was entirely too sweet, and Mommy loved every proud minute! Thea and Santa!

What a great day!

This has been such a nice day! The weather didn't really cooperate, but Thea and I had a really wonderful time today. This morning, we went to a park and played for about an hour with our friends Kim and Timmy. It was a bit cold and overcast, but lots of fun. Then we went back to their house where more friends, Diane and Ellie, came over as well. Timmy turned 4 in September, Ellie will be 3 early in December and Thea is 3 1/2. Individually, they can each be quite a handful. Together, they are either fabulous or terrifying. Today, for the most part, they were absolutely terrific. After lunch, we baked cookies that the kids decorated (and ate) with frosting. They had lots of fun and got really messy (always the sign of a successful activity). Afterwards they played (relatively) nicely for a couple hours. Things started to deteriorate rapidly as the inmates got more and more tired, so we packed it in and headed home in the POURING rain. Kim gave us a little tiny tree (24") and we brought it home. We haven't done a tree for the last few years because we have spent the holidays out of town. That will be the case again this year. However, Thea was so enamored of the decorations at Auntie Kim's house, that I thought it couldn't hurt to have a little something here. So the Jewish Mommy accepted the "Thea sized" tree and brought it home to the non-Jewish Daddy and said "Here you go, Honey". Daddy put on some Christmas music while Mommy unearthed the ornaments from the basement and made a quick trip to CVS for a short string of lights. Thea had a WONDERFUL time decorating the tree and I think Daddy did too. I posted some photos here of our little Charlie Brown Christmas Tree in process and all done. I made some yummy dinner and now we are trying to relax and watch the football game but Thea has other high maintenance ideas at the moment....... Oh well. It's just about time to swish her around the tub anyway.

Take off your coat and stay a while!

Hello?? Hello...hello.....hello....... Anybody out there? Introduce yourself and say hello! I haven't been blogging for v long at all. I did put a counter on the page to see if I really *am* talking to only myself.....and apparently I am not. Huh! Who'd a thunk? I haven't done much to publicize my blog, so to speak, but it's a bit fun to think that others might be reading and finding me as mildly amusing as I find myself. Feel free to drop me a comment or an email and say hi! Someday, I hope to have a following of folks that wait with bated breath for my next entry; that come and hit refresh to see if I've been by to drop some v witty and clever words on the page. Ha!!! We all gotta dream though, right?

The Inspiring Women

I have been reading the blogs of some amazing women. It's what spurred me to me to begin this blog and start writing again. Most of these ladies are battling infertility. This is a challenge I am so very lucky not to have faced. I conceived very easily with my daughter and, despite efforts to NOT conceive, with my ectopic. Breastfeeding AND the mini-pill is generally enough to keep you not pregnant - but apparently not in my case. With my family complete, how I wish I could give the gift of easy fertility to my friends who struggle each day, each cycle, each month. I am not sure how I found these blogs. I had followed Tertia's story on a message board and was so touched by her journey and the strength carrying her through it. When they limited access to her board, I gracefully bowed out as I am not one of the IF Sisterhood, and in reality was an interloper in the time I spent there. I had introduced a real life friend to the boards and I think it was she who gave me the link to Tertia's blog. From there, it was an easy slide into the many blogs I visit each day. Julie put together a most comprehensive list of blogs to visit. It's impossible to choose favorites among all of these clever and eloquent ladies. Check out getupgrrl, Persephone, and Julia. They all share their stories and thoughts with such candor, humor and in beautifully pleasing prose. Thanks for the inspiration, ladies!

Hairless Americana

Is it just me, or does anyone else notice how very concerned we are with body hair in this country. Women shave (or wax or whatever) their legs, underarms, bikini lines (or more), and pluck, wax or otherwise remove any facial hair other than lovely shapely eyebrows. Some women even go so far as to shave their arms. And we shan't even speak of nose or ear hair unless it resides on an 80 year-old man. Now, I am one of these American women who attempt to keep my body hair in check. Honestly though, when the cold weather blows into the northeast, I get very lax about this. I married a man who either doesn't even notice or couldn't care less. Whichever it is, I count myself lucky that my lazy shaving habits don't offend. But. There's always a but, isn't there? During the show that I just closed, I had two on-stage costume changes. Yes, you heard it right. The misogynist playwright felt it necessary for three of the characters to strip to their knickers on-stage, and made it imperative by writing in said costume changes as part of the action of the play. And she's a woman! I think we should vote her out of the sisterhood. But I digress. The point is, based on these lovely costume changes, and the intimacy of our theater, there was LOTS of shaving going on in my shower. Underarms? Check! Legs? Check! Bikini Line? (who the hell ever thought I'd have to ask THAT in preparation for a show?) Check. The show closed on Saturday night and I was looking forward to returning to my normal, hairy winter state. Not nearly as bad as Chewbacca, but definitely not my warm-weather best. All of us have bedtime garb preferences, no? Mine is none. Thank you. I hate nightgowns that get twisted up and make me feel like a trussed beast. I hate tee shirts and panties. I hate flannels unless I have the plague. I sleep au naturale, in the buff, nude, whatever you want to call it. All summer and all winter. I get too hot (not to mention static-y) with any sort of sleeping attire. This is how I am most comfortable in the land of zzzzzzzzz's. Bed should be as optimally comfortable as possible in Rachel-land. So what happens to me? I climb into bed with myself on Monday night, ready to settle in with the Carl Hiaasan novel I am reading. I get the covers arranged just so. I lay on my right side with my pillows properly fluffed. And I am not comfortable. I am horrified to find *I* am offended by my hairy state! The stubble on my legs is AWFUL! How could I have lived 33 years and never been bothered by this? How could I go through 6 months of winter each year and never address these heinous little machetes protruding so dangerously from each lower leg? It was a sad and sorry night that night. Tuesday morning, out came the trusty razor. What good is winter anyway?

It's over.

Wow. Last night was closing night. I can't believe it's over. Ten performances over 3 weekends. Eleven weeks of rehearsals. A very long rehearsal period (they're usually 6 to 8 weeks from casting to opening night). And it's all over. Already. Holy Vrap. I have very mixed emotions. I am proud of what I did up on that stage. The people that matter to me - the ones I respect for THEIR talents - were all so very complimentary of my work. My step-mother (the GODFATHER, so to speak, of our group) who directed me in countless shows as a child and teen, came up to me and said "You were wonderful. It's the best thing I have ever seen you in" . My friend and mentor, Dana, gave me such positive feedback and validated my feelings about some of the director's choices that I disagreed with. . My father...well, I told you all how he made me cry opening weekend. Rmember the show I *didn't* get cast in back in January (the one I wanted DESPERATELY)? Well, the director of that show, who is BEYOND stingy with compliments, came up to me and said "Nice Job! GOOD Work!!!!" Coming from him, that's downright friggin' effusive. A VERY talented friend was there last night and she really liked my work. So I did what I set out to do. I proved myself as a talented actress and not just a behind-the-scenes-techie. Part of me is really sad that it's over. There's this amazing bond that you form with your cast mates. Because you are up there, sometimes testing your boundaries, reaching for emotional places, and you have to REALLY trust them. To do their job as well as they can, so that, together, you can create the reality of the story. So I am sad that it's over and I won't be together with them again in the same way. But at the same time, I am a bit relieved. It's been a long (albeit fast) 3 months. And I am TIRED. I am happy to have my life back. I am thrilled that the only thing on my calendar for the next week is a cookie party and thanksgiving dinner at grandma's. I was growing tired of the show. I know it sounds crazy, but thinking about all the lines and scenes *outside* the performance, I was tired of it. I didn't want to regurgitate it all AGAIN. But once the lights came up, it was fresh all over again. The emotions true and raw. And it was fun. Last night after the show, I came home to get ready for the cast party so I didn't have to stay for strike. I was grateful for that. I helped build that room. I painted it. I helped decorate it. And I went to so many different places in that room emotionally. That room came to life around us. And we filled it with our story, our history. I really didn't want to see it torn down. For some reason, sometimes the set becomes more than just where you perform. Especially in a single set piece like this. It ALL takes place in that one room. It becomes the home of your character. And when you miss that character, you miss that "home". Consequently, strike can be hard. I was happy to not see our "home" dismantled. I just can't believe it's over. Three months of work. It's so strange. You put in so much time. Blood, sweat and tears. And all that's left after closing night are your memories and reputation. Some photos. A videotape. It was a challenging piece for me in so many ways. But I am so happy to have done it.

My Mom

I posted this on my message boards on October 20th, 2004. I wanted to post it here as well, as this is where it belonged in the first place. This is probably a blog entry for a blog that I don't have....so I am posting it here. It's long and personal....and writing it has been a bit cathartic for me...thanks for "listening" Tomorrow is the 25th anniversary of my mother's death. Twenty-five years. That's 3/4 of my life time. It seems . . .unreal that she's been gone so long. Some years the anniversary really hits me hard, some years it passes without notice. This year is a tough one. I remember her so clearly, sitting in the cozy den at the back of the house, doing needlepoint, watching Days of Our Lives, when we came home from school every day. To this day, the theme song of that show brings her to mind. Even though my grandmother watched it, too. It's my mother it brings to mind. And Annie's Song by John Denver. I think he was her favorite artist. I think of her whenever I hear it. And yes - I do like his music and his voice. Is it because he was my mother's favorite? I don't know. My mother was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor when I was 2 1/2. It took them 6 months to diagnose her. My dad says that the final diagnosis was something of a relief, even though it was terminal, because they FINALLY knew what was wrong; why she was having petit mal seizures all the time. The doctors gave her a year. Eighteen months at the outside. She lasted six years. For me and my brother, I am sure. We were 2 and 5 when she was diagnosed, 8 and 11 when she passed. It was summertime of 1979 and I was 8 years old. My friend Jennifer, who lived down the street, had a paper route. She was 2 or 3 years older than I and very mature because she had a paper route. She went on vacation with her family and entrusted ME with her paper route. I felt so responsible, so grown up. I got up one summer morning and was getting ready to go and do the paper route. One of our cats had had kittens in the guest room. They were a couple weeks old and starting to explore. I did what we always did at this point with kittens starting to wander. I took a 1x6 board (like from a brick and board bookshelf) and put it on end across the top of the stairs, so the kittens couldn't fall down the stairs. It wasn't the first litter of kittens born upstairs and it certainly the first time we put a board there. But it was the very first time that I did it on my own initiative, without anyone ASKING me to do it. I felt very proud of myself. I remember it as the very first thing I did without someone prompting me and it felt good. It felt grown up. I went off to do the paper route. As I finished the route and was at the furthest point away from home, about a 1/2 mile, I heard sirens. And I knew, just knew in my heart, that it was an ambulance for my mother. I rode straight up the street, as fast as I could, to where it intersected with my street at the other end from my house. I looked and there it was. A big white ambulance in front of my house. I dropped my bike and ran home. My mother was lying at the bottom of the stairs, right in front of the front door, surrounded by laundry. Clothes were everywhere. She was lying on her back, but her legs were bent in a funny way. Not an impossible way, just a funny way. I didn't know it then, but that was the last time she was in her own house. They took her off to the hospital where, it seemed, she spent a few months. In truth, I don't know how long she was at the hospital and when she was transferred to rehab. She had broken her back in the fall and went to rehab to learn to walk again. I remember my dad explaining it to me that way. She was supposed to come home on a Friday or Saturday, the 19th or 20th of October. Her brother and father flew in from N.C. My father's parents came in, too, from the Cape or FL, wherever they were. Everyone was there to welcome her home and to help out around the house. She took a turn for the worse sometime before she was to be discharged from rehab and got transferred back to the hospital. Her battle was lost, it was just a matter of time. On Sunday afternoon, my father and grandfather went to KFC to get dinner for everyone. I was sitting on my Grandma Abby's lap. And my heart skipped a beat. And I knew. I looked at my Grandma and said, "Mommy just died." I said it very calmly, very matter-of-fact. Because I *knew* it was true. I saw her try to figure out what to say; should she deny it and placate, knowing it was coming anyway? Should she say nothing? It was a long moment of us just looking at each other. I don't even remember what she said, because it was then that the phone rang. As my father and grandfather pulled into the driveway with dinner. The phone rang and it was her doctor, saying that she was gone. My brother and I didn't go to school that Monday. It was a very surreal time. My father was very friendly with the principal of my school (they served on some town council together) and he called him up Monday morning and told him that my mom had died. My principal told my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Hennessey. Well, apparently Mrs. Hennessey felt that her room full of 8 year olds was mature enough to understand her message..."Let's all be nice to Rachel. Her mother passed away so it would be better not to ask about her Mom. ..." or whatever the hell she said. I returned to school on Tuesday. It was a rainy, gray day so we had indoor recess. As soon as the teacher left the room, I was surrounded by all these little faces: "did your mommy really die?" "why did she die?" "what does that mean? is she ever coming back?" And I freaked. And ran. I ran all the way down the hall to the girls' room and locked myself in a stall. And wouldn't come out until my dad came into the girls' room to get me. That was the only incident at school. God damn, Mrs. Hennessey! Several days or weeks later, I don't remember when, came the day that it all became *real*. I came home from school one day and walked into the den, HER den. And I sat in her empty chair, and I started to cry. It was then that I realized that she really was never going to be there again. It had been the status quo that year because she was in the hospital from before the start of the school year. But that day it finally sank in that she was really gone. I was in therapy from before her death until well after. Maybe I was 10 or so when I stopped going. And on the whole, I think I dealt as well as any kid could. And as the time passed, I missed her less. When I became pg with Thea, it was the first time that I missed her as an adult. It was the first time in a LONG time that I missed her at all. I have a wonderful step-mother but she and I don't really have a close-close relationship. She would be there for me anytime I needed her and she would be open to really personal discussion but it's my father that has always that parent to me. It was my father that I went to when I got my first period, when I wanted to go on the pill as a teenager. When I became pg, I wanted my mother to share the experience with. I wanted to show her my belly and hand her my child. I wanted to be able to have my mother commisserate with me about the joys and miseries of pregnancy and parenting. And I miss her now because I want to share Thea with her. Here. I know my mom is watching us. I know she sees my daughter and keeps care of her. I know this. I just wish I could see her doing it....enjoying it. When I was 15 or so, I finally admitted to my father that I felt it was my fault that my mom died. I put up the board, she lost her balance after stepping over it and fell, and she never came home. I had carried it for so many years that I was certain it was true. It was then that he told what had really happened. My mother was on a medication to keep her brain from swelling because of the tumor. It depleted her calcium and made her bones brittle. Her back broke when she fell because of this med. While in rehab, her back wasn't healing properly. Some brilliant doctor looked at her chart and said 'oh! her back isn't healing because of this med. Stop the med.' He never bothered to think about why she was on it to begin with. They stopped the med, her brain swelled, she slipped into a coma and died. I know, I know. Malpractice. My father (the lawyer) never pursued it. She was going to die (relatively) soon with or without the incident. Wow, it's been a long time since I told my mother's story. Well, that's not really her story. It's MY story about her death when I was a child. My mother was 40 years old when she died. My father was a widower at 36, with two kids. My mother had a masters degree and worked as a high school guidance counselor until she had my brother. My mother's favorite expletive was "SHIT ON A SHINGLE!!!!!" My mother was a cool lady. I love you, Mom. And I miss you.

Discovered Already!

Not outside my own home, but for goodness sake! I handed my laptop to the wonderful Curt to get directions to where we are going this afternoon. (Directions are the responsibility of the person that refuses to ask them when lost.) I then walked out of the room and returned to find him reading here already! Well, since when is he searching my history. Not that I mind, but what is it with computer people?! Sheesh. Be warned, my darling - that when you piss me off it may be posted here. Since you discovered it on your own (so to speak), you'll just have to weather the storm, won't you?

My Princess

For the most part, I am a stay at home mom to a 3 1/2 year old little girl named Thea. She is the most amazing little creature on the planet. She's most definitely smarter than I am. She does some basic math, can write her name, mommy, daddy, and the complete alphabet, so if you spell it for her, she can put it on paper. Her reasoning abilities, frankly, scare the shit out of me. She's recently decided that she doesn't want to wash her hands. Consequently, when she goes potty, she asks me or my husband to do the wiping. This is because I told her that she needs to wash her hands when she wipes. Well, you'll probably hear a great deal about the amazing Thea. Her Daddy is called Curt. He is my best friend, my husband, and my soul mate (if you believe in those sorts of things.) We've been married 9 years and together nearly 14. Goodness - time does fly, doesn't it? He works full time to support us all in a career that he tolerates. He is a wonderful father and an amazing support. He's a theater geek like me. We met at the theater I was raised in. My dad met my step-mom there also. My daughter may well meet her partner there one day as well.... My princess

Blogging

I have been reading the blogs of some amazing women for the last several months. I am often in awe of them; their strength, their candor; the sharpness of their emotion, and their eloquence in expressing it. They all write so beautifully, probably because they live in exotic and amazing places where people speak in ways far more lovely than we Americans. I am not sure why I am even beginning this blog. To write? Perhaps. Writing was a favorite pastime of mine when I was younger. I was even published in an annual, award winning, high school magazine 4 years out of the 5 I was eligible. I got lazy senior year and didn't bother to submit anything...... To create a fan club? Like those of the amazing ladies that now count me among theirs? Probably a bit of that. I mean, who doesn't like a bit of a following.... To get my thoughts out? A probable candidate. To have my OWN space? Yes. I am a member of a message board where we share whatever we choose. Funny offspring stories, successes, trials, sexual frustration, whatever. Nothing is offlimits there. But there's a sort of expectation of response there. And there, it ISN'T all about me. Here it can be. It can be about whatever I want it to be. And no one HAS to answer me. Those that comment can do so because they want to or because I post something that moves them. Or simply because they think I am cool and they want to be my friend. Yeah........that's it. That's why I'm here.

About Me

My name is Rachel. I live in New England with my husband, daughter and 2 mildly annoying cats. I am a stay-at-home mom and moonlight as a bartender and waitress. I also do way too much community theater, but it's a lot of fun!