Sorta Awe-tistic

Movin' Day--Update those Bookmarks!

2006-10-25T09:54:00.000-07:00

I like free things. Love 'em, actually. But, unfortunately, free usually comes with a price. And here at Blogger that price is exacted in lost posts, double posts, frequent outages and ever so slooooow uploads. (Case in point: there's a reason why there's not photo for this post. Grrr.) Sort of reminds of AOL, back in the day.

So I'm outta here. Hopefully Typepad will serve me better.

I'll keep this blog up for reference, but from here on I'll be at: http://shannaphilipson.typepad.com
For an update on Intertextual Me, see the link next to this post and hop over there for instructions. I'll be moving it to typepad next week.

Ciao, babies!

Thanks, Neil

2006-10-20T07:34:00.000-07:00

It has always been the prerogative of children and half-wits to point out that the emperor has no clothes. But the half-wit remains a half-wit, and the emperor remains an emperor.
--Neil Gaiman

Feeling cynical, a little world weary? The art been especially hard these last few days? Had a rough week at the office? Well here's ol' Neil to cheer you up.

Recently I wrote a new friend, saying that if being an overseas missionary was the holy grail of Christian careers, then writing fiction for the Christian publishing industry must be the booby prize. I was feeling cynical. So sad for me.

It's hard to have aspirations that others regard as half-witted. It's even harder to believe that somehow you're going to say something profound (like the emperor has no clothes) in the midst of your half-witted efforts. No one likes to have their faults exposed, and no one really loves the exposer. And it takes a whole lotta chutzpah, or something like a supernatural command to prompt truth saying. Remember the famous moment from Broadcast News where the big network producer takes Holly Hunter to task?
"It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room."
"No." Holly responds with the total conviction. "It's awful."

And it really is awful to think you're right--and still the emperor remains the emperor. It's also hilarious. I mean, if you can't laugh at your role as the half-wit (and look properly crazy in the process), you'll go insane.

So, uh...that's what I've been thinking.

Have a jolly weekend.

Fall Break

2006-10-19T18:46:00.000-07:00

We're on fall break here. No, this isn't in consideration for the hoards of tree-peepers who flock to Tulsa in October to see our phenomenal displays of foliage aflame (cough)...no, this is merely a break for the state educators to gather for their convention. So I'm home with the girl.

What am I up to? Let's see...

reading Simon Schama's An Embarrassment of Riches--a cultural history of 17th century Netherlands. This is for a new project--hint hint.
finishing T's flannel nightie. She can't wear pj's treated with fire retardant, and she strips off pajama pants, so I'm making her a gown out of flannel sheets we're no longer using.
picked up the quilt to pass on to Lisa's Russian friend
stickers...stickers...stickers!! T has a new passion for creating sticker stories and sticker "illustrations." Her fine motor skills just aren't up to her imagination, so she's thrilled to play with stickers for, literally, minutes at a time. This is a real break-through for us! The problem is, stickers add up $! (Even with my scrapbook store employee discount.) So if any of you have left-over Mrs. Grossman's, Stickopotumus, or such-like stickers that you're not using--email me and we'll talk turkey. I'm serious.
and I'm contemplating some cute Halloween cards. They probably won't get made.

I'm working Friday night and allllll day Saturday, so it's unlikely I'll post again until Monday. Then again, maybe I'll find something so amazingly newsworthy I can't help myself.

And finally, if you're thinking of Christmas presents already you might want to visit Global Relief's Red site and check out what they're doing. You might find a way to satisfy your consumer urges and do something good.

ciao.

Five Things You Learn In Lexington (or thereabouts)

2006-10-17T13:23:00.000-07:00

1. Lisa doesn't bite. When I read my stuff aloud I still felt more self-conscious than a shy sixth grader in C cup bra at her first school dance, but Lisa (and Sherri) were both gracious and honest about my work. By Friday night we weren't quite the wallflowers we were when we first arrived (read: heavy understatement). And by Sunday, well, we were ridiculous.

2. Writing with other writers is the bomb. I've often missed my days of doing creative things in group. When it's going well and the personalities (and egos) click, it's a rare joy to share. Not only that, but you also get to discover how genuinely wierd other people are in ways they don't usually advertise. (This is a general observation, so don't ask me for specifics on Lisa's wierdness.) But the best part is that other writers actually want to hear about that new project you've been fiddling with for six years, and like to listen in while you try to think aloud about why Truly Trueheart will finally cheat on Steve Studly even though she's had a microchip implanted in her brain to prevent her from ever prevaricating. People pay big bucks for that kind of audience. Some call it a writers' conference, some call it therapy. I got to call it 'Laughing Owl'.

3. Happy feet come with happy hearts. These are Lisa's happy feet dancing on Sunday morning. How could she not get down and boogie while we packed up? But there was more to it, at least for me. I left with a happy heart because I got to move to my own internal soundtrack while I was there. If a lullaby came on, I headed off to bed even if it popped on in the middle of the afternoon. And if I had some crazy vocalese thing going on, there were two others close at hand to harmonize with my be-bopping brain.

4. Remember to check what bee is currently buzzing in the TSA's bonnet before you pack. I don't know what I was thinking (actually not having cable means I'm not reminded about the TSA often), but yes, I packed like I usually do and the result was that I dumped about $40 worth of toiletries at the security checkpoint in Tulsa. And the Samson kids' gifts almost went with them. Jake's modeling clay got dusted for bomb residue (or whatever it is) and the girls almost got their scrapbooking gel paint confiscated. I had it gift wrapped, though, and the guards were reluctant to rip into it, perhaps because they'd already ripped into all my other carry-on luggage. So the gifts arrived safely, and the security story was a bonus for Jake.

5. Church happens between two. This is were the Samsons gather on a Sunday. Because my flight left late, they hauled me along to their church and I got a look-see at the actual Communality project. It was low key and lovely. I think the bread and the wine for communion was actually cranberry nut bread and V8 Splash, and we actually served it to one another. That part was especially touching because the 'pass the plate' communion always seems cold to me. Holding the communion and offering the blessing for another believer to receive is a sort of service, and a very holy one. Like so many other facets of contemporary church life, we've sacrificed the intimate and humble for expediency. But the simple sharing of the communion between two strangers is all you need for church.

And that's it!

Nah. Just joking. Actually there's more, there's much, much more to say. But this is just a taste of the bounty (as Sherri said) that Lisa offered us in Lexington. One of the greatest confirmations I left with was hearing that I shouldn't abandon my original vision of writing for younger readers--the middles and the YA. I've gotten off-track with my WIP, and because of this, the manuscript has been wandering like a lost soul with half a map home. But with 66k in words invested, I'm not going to dump it. So I'm putting it aside for a bit until I can find that other half map. Instead and until then, I'm starting research for another project that I've been mulling for several months now. And realistically, until T is in school full days, I haven't got the time for a job/mothering/and a writing career. I wish I had Lisa's energy, but I don't. So it'll come, in it's own sweet time it'll come.

As Bad As I Wanna Be

2006-10-17T10:52:00.001-07:00

I learned something about myself at Lisa's. Or perhaps I should say that I relearned something about myself, because I think I've had this revelation before and then forgot about it.

Back in the cabin I said something about how difficult it is to counsel teenaged girls in poverty because as females without any of the usual power chips (money, status, physical prowess) to hold down, they resort to a kind of survival mode thinking and simply pretend to agree with you until they can get what they need from you or escape your influence. In short, they adopt whatever mask you want them to wear, until you've left the audience. Drugs are bad? Yeah... That guy is bad for me? Yeah... Once she's on to your party line, she'll convincingly share that view until you're gone. The pretty little blonde with too much eye makeup has survived you, and she'll survive the next person and the next agenda. And on and on until she doesn't have an iota of a clue who she really is; she's just someone being all things to all people in order to survive.

Then I realised that girl is me.

Am I poor? Not now. I mean, not when I look at my bank account. But there was a day when I was most definitely the working poor with a "you want fries with that?" liberal arts degree. And I wasn't fashionably slumming it while Daddy dearest made the car payments and Mummy sent me brownies to encourage me while I waited for my big break. So I made do. This meant that I, like little blondie above, played the part I needed to play for each audience I faced.

I don't face housing and food survival needs now, and that's a freeing fact. But despite my middle-classness and relative stability, I still don't know who I am. Maybe it's just a woman thing. But even now I bind myself in the clothes of another's expectations. Too often it's an ill-fitting costume that still smells like the last actress who wore it. And frankly, it stinks.

If I'm going to write, I decided, I'll have to create my story from whole cloth. No more guessing at another's second-hand expectations, no more holding back for fear of offense or poor marketability. No tippy-toeing through the CBA tulips as if land mines have been hidden in its flower beds. No more dress-up games.

Which leaves me to be as bad as I wanna be.

Huzzah! you say? Well, actually not huzzah. I can blather on about drugs or drinking or sex if you want. But that doesn't get to me. On the other hand, if you'd rather I'd not blather on about those thinbgs--if that's your line of offense, then fine. It's an easy line to see and avoid, and that's nothing to me.

The lines I'm most interested in aren't easy to see, and they're damned hard to avoid. And they could hardly be contained in a set of rules. I'm talking about the subtle shifts of the human conscience, the human soul, as they play out through the day, like shadows moving across the heart. Being as bad as I want to be means watching those shadows, looking for the shifts. I also means getting in close to the human heart.

My favorite show now is Battlestar Galactica. We get this on Netflix, and now on itunes. And I'm so very hooked. I know I sound like some goofy sci-fi nerd, but I have my reasons for tooting its horn. In the very first episode Captain Adama (Edward James Olmos) laid out the basic question of story and it's the pursuit of that question that I think has resulted in some of the best storytelling on television. And the question is this: Is humanity worth saving?

To answer this question you can't go on a grand tour of the world's great glories of architecture, neither can you point to Man's great acheivements in commerce or science or art or government. To answer this question you've got to reach into the human chest and seize that 11ozs of beating muscle and inspect what's inside. We all know what's there isn't often pretty.

This picture above is from the new season. Kara Thrace (aka 'Starbuck') is a soldier and fighter pilot who long ago once brutally beat the man in the picture. He was caught as a Cylon, an enemy, and brought in for interrogation. But Kara lost her head and the interrogation turned into torture. It wasn't a gory episode, but it was ugly. Now the tables are turned. Kara is the Cylon's prisoner, for what reason we don't yet know. But if he's attempting to kill her, he seems to be killing her with kindness. A different kind of torture. Trapped, Kara plays her part to survive.

She's killed him five times. But Cylons don't die, they just resurrect into new bodies. And still her captor is kind. I suppose there'd be a straightforward Sunday school lesson there about how when we deny or 'kill' Jesus in our hearts, he still returns for us. But the Cylon, no matter how religious he is or how he believes a prophecy about Kara and him (he is and he does), is not Jesus. His motives, as much as Kara's are as shadowy as my own each day. I just don't have dining room dramas where my hubby ends up dead with chopsticks through his neck each night. So who's better here? The trapped soldier polytheistic woman who was once a torturer? Or the fanatical but patient monotheistic Cylon who believes his people (who killed billions of humans) to be morally superior?

For some, the answer to Adama's question could be answered by the accounting method: add up all the bad stuff we've done and subtract it from the good stuff. If there's anything left to the good, then we go on. But if we're left in the negative, then bring on the Cylon toasters! That would be justice, right?

But as a Christian, this question strikes me very differently. According to what I've been taught and have read, God felt that we were worth some kind of salvation. Why? In my pre-Christian mind I saw ourselves in a goodness deficit, and I didn't have to look far to confirm my view. So if were are in the hole, why pull our butts out? I mean, we did it to ourselves! I got to be as bad as I wanted to be, right? Right. Let me wallow in my own crap. That's certainly a valid kind of justice, too.

And this is the central tension of every story. Does humanity deserve to survive? When we're as bad as we wanna be, why are we offered Good? why do we seek Good? If we don't see the shadows across our own hearts and if we only see through the masks of others' expectations, we'll miss the real questions we must be asking every day.

I want to be the kind of writer who looks.

I'm back. Sort of.

2006-10-13T14:59:00.000-07:00

Came home with the throat and sinus grunge, so my priority has been to rest between intense mommying and general coming home and catching up with my life stuff. Still tired and still sick, but I'm well enough to go into work tonight. I so need the money, so it's up and at 'em for me.

By early next week I hope to post something readable. Until then...

Pumpkins

2006-10-03T20:13:00.000-07:00

Leaving you with a pretty picture and hoping it's cooler here when I return.

One More Day!

2006-10-03T18:10:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my girl's present obsession with That's Entertainment, I've had musicals on the brain all week. This is no complaint. If I had to choose between "Clang, clang goes the trolley..." and anything that comes out of Dora the Explorer's mouth, I'd take perky Judy Garland ANY day... ALL day. But it's a little odd to hear a four year old walking around the house humming "It's A Most Unusual Day."

So we're humming show tunes and it's beginning to be a bit ingrained. Tonight, while I was cooking up dinner and reviewing my plans for the Lexington trip, I thought, "Oh, it's only one more day!" Immediately the image of the French barracks pop into my mind, and suddenly I'm off into Les Miserables-land, standing atop a pile of broken tables and wine casks with the tri-color unfurled defiantly beside me. Or maybe it was just the Chardonney going into my stroganoff that caught me in a French moment. I dunno.

This all takes me back to my first year in the conservatory. We designers (and other nearly normal people) were stuffed into the dorms with all the other firsties, which meant we lived in close proximity to dozens of musical theater majors--all of which had recently graduated from their respective high schools thinking they were seriously hot sh*t on engraved silver platters. They also thought lunchtime was the right time to treat us all to their talent. Folks, it was like living on the set of Fame--day after day after day after....well, you get it.

The fundamental rule was everything was fair game for a song cue. Peas look good for once? You got "Peas, glorious peas..." and other references to Oliver. If you were lucky, and the kids were sharp that day, they'd take a theme and run with it. In this case, you'd probably get a hard-luck kid theme with at least a couple of tunes from Annie, followed by "Castle on a Cloud." Some performances were fun; some of the performances were amazing. But a steady diet of musical theater while you're trying to wolf down over-cooked penne with red sauce was enough to nearly kill my enjoyment of the art form (and pasta, for that matter).

Fortunately, by the end of the sophomore cuts most of them had either moved off campus (like me) or simply gotten too tired from the late hours and the hard work to play Fame anymore. But then, there were always new freshmen...

So we're back to songland here and I got to take a little trip down my shortish memory lane. I'm not complaining, really. And I'll miss the fun with T because I'll be gone for a few days. Instead, T will have to entertain Nana and Papa with her attempts at "breaking the ice" (T's description for the astounding Eleanor Powell/Fred Astaire tap routine to Begin the Beguine--which is danced on a highly reflective black floor that does look remarkably like ice).

However...if Lisa jumps atop the hot tub cover and begins to belt out "The Trolley Song," I may just have to steal her keys and beat a path to the airport.

The Trolley Song ["Meet Me In St. Louis" Original Cast Album Version]

Stepping out into October

2006-10-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

7 Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

8 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

9 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,

10 even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.

11 If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,"

12 even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

If I rise to giddy heights, speaking quickly, stumbling over my own lips and saying stupid things, He knows better. If I fall so far, so fast that I'm sure His hand has slipped, it hasn't. And if the darkness should ever be so black that I'm sure He cannot find me...He will.

The days are shorter; the nights are longer. None of this matters to Him. He is.

And I am stepping out into October.

Good Eatin', Local Style

2006-09-29T13:14:00.000-07:00

Even before T's diagnosis, our family was conscious of the kinds of foods we ate. Back then, though, we ate a vegetarian diet, with occasional lapses for Jack Stack BBQ and meals at friends' homes. But when we had to eliminate most forms of grain and gluten from T's diet, we went back to meat in our meals and joined the Oklahoma Food Co-op. I had read Fast Food Nation, and no way was I gonna eat just any meat! Besides, since we'd moved to a moderately rural area, we had become more aware of the struggles of small ranchers and farmers, and felt it was our reasonable duty to support local, small growers.

This past week our favorite farm was featured on the local news in a spot about buying local food as a hedge against bio-terrorism. (!) I gotta admit, bio-terrorism is really the last thing on my mind when I choose to buy local, but hey, if that's your issue, then fine. Mine is agri-bid-ness and the health costs we'll have to pay for things like FDA approved viral sprays for processed meats.

Do we buy any commercial, agri-bid-ness food? Yeah, sure. Everytime we eat out we do because there isn't a restaurant in this town that specializes in local food. And yes, we still buy many things, like frozen vegetables or my experiment with assembled food dinners, for convenience. I really tried the 100% alternative food scene, but with two very persnickity eaters in my home, I decided that a 50/50 split would save my sanity and preserve their lives. Besides, I'm really not into canning.

So check out the spot. David Lewis and his Goose Island Farm family are lovely, and it was fun to see them get a little publicity.

If this idea appeals, find yourself a farmer and pre-order that holiday turkey now. I'll bet you'll be impressed with the difference. But don't wait--someone may tag your turkey today!

Gobble-gobble!

spinning around, one foot nailed to the floor

2006-09-27T18:42:00.000-07:00

I'm always like this while I'm waiting for something I know is coming my way. I flip and flop and can't seem to settle into a particular routine. I can't get productive. Maybe I've been thrown by the change in my routine. Last weekend was so strange. I was gone at crazy hours, we didn't go to church (gasp! I know...), we didn't eat together. I was exhausted, strung out on caffeine and antihistimines, and my feet screamed at me for three days. Sometime soon I expect I'll get my 'retail legs' back and we will become accustomed to this new routine, but until then I'll continue to feel as if I'm between places, lost somewhere between here and there, spinning round and round...there I was...here I go...there I was...here I go...

Maybe if I'm concrete about it, I'll feel like I'm actually doing something. Let's begin with a list, shall we? Here's what I did in the last 24 hours:

watched a little Battlestar Galactica to catch up on the last season
cooked/washed/put up (always)
laundry (catching up from my Lost Weekend)
did a panicked and dirty housecleaning after Randy tells me assessor will visit the house in three hours(!)
took old career clothes to consignment store (who am I kidding? I haven't been a size 10 in five years, and I'm not going to return to teaching soon) This eliminated about 50lbs of clothing I've continued to haul out of storage with the ridiculous hope that I'll drop 20lbs and become stylish again.
bought a goody for a friend
read all my regular blogs...and then some.
posted about five blogs entries
found my sage and citrus candle, and the candle warmer
let my daughter decimate my sticker stock so she could decorate the ba-hooey out of my wall calendar
decided that Franklin Covey is not going to get my money this year and that I need a different planner next year
decided that the new Gymboree line is far too boring to invest one penny into
decided that my life is superficial and boring and self-involved
decided that I am superficial and boring and self-involved
visited Hobby Lobby to complete Randy's Christmas gift
slowly, slowly stitched together some more squares for T's quilt
oh...and did a little bible study. I'm on day 3; I'm supposed to have day 6 done today.

Guess I better go, huh?

Entre Acte

2006-09-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

This intermission is provided to you by the resigned and bemused rants of a woman submerged in 66K of words without a thought in her head...

Stuck In The Middle With You

Blessing

2006-09-27T11:18:00.000-07:00

"Thank you, God, for Chicka-Chicka-Boom-Boom, and nature, and Daddy and Mommy and Tesla. The en--Amen."

100% Cheez Whiz

2006-09-26T14:50:00.000-07:00

For the authentic, packaged in a pressurized tin can experience, I highly recommend That's Entertainment--the first movie. The subsequent 'movies' dug a little deeper and featured some more obscure and fascinating performances. But the first film--especially the Esther Williams segment--will blow the plastic cap off your processed cheez-whiz-o-meter!

My four year old is lovin' it.

Lisa Does a McSweeney

2006-09-26T07:21:00.000-07:00

My blog friend, Lisa Samson, has decided to take on the Advanced Placement Reading List--she just doesn't know it as such. Instead she's called it "The Year of Reading Dangerously." And it's been great to hear the thoughts of an intelligent and fun grown woman give her take on all kinds of books many of us slogged through (or have forced others to slog through) in advanced high school or regular college lit courses.

But not only is Lisa a grown-up, she's a writer. And the point of her dangerous reading has been to (re)discover what makes the great writers great. Certainly, she's decided, those qualities are not what many editors would be looking for these days.

I recommend visiting her take on Heart of Darkness--which could have been given a McSweeney title, "A CBA Editor Responds to Mr. Conrad."

Happy Reading, folks.

Head Shoulders Knees and Toes

2006-09-25T13:23:00.000-07:00

Went to the first employee crop this weekend. What fun. Once a month the new yob place locks its doors on a weekend night and lets its employees break loose. Ok, it's not like we get to roll around in the papers, but we do get to listen to our own music and get loud and eat! And oh yeah... get a little artsy-craftsy stuff done.

Here's something I did. I really wanted to celebrate my little girl. Still have to write my bit for it, but that's coming!

Freaky Friday

2006-09-21T19:52:00.000-07:00

What can I say but ya gotta see this video. It's from the same guys who brought you the treadmill artistry of "Here It Goes Again."

Ok Go.

New Stuff

2006-09-20T06:46:00.000-07:00

Since this is a blog (in part) about my artsy-fartsy ways, and you're reading it, you might be interested in some new stuff I put up at intertextual me.

Have fun. Or whatever.

Procrastinating

2006-09-15T19:18:00.000-07:00

I'm supposed to be updating my Intertextual Me blog with a book review, but I just don't wanna. (Yes, I must be at least seven years old.)

Instead I began trolling all my craft blogs and thinking about sewing projects...which lead me to thinking how my sewing machine suddenly began snapping my thread every fifteen stitches. It's mighty annoying, let me tell ya. I was in the middle of a sudden burst of energy and enthusiasm for T's quilt, when whamm-o! snap! snap! snap! the thread kept bustin'. I'll give it another go tomorrow and fiddle around some more to see if I can fix it, but frankly, the machine hasn't been serviced since 1992, so I think it's due for a little TLC. And I think it's telling me so in no uncertain terms.

Meanwhile, I have some fabric cut from an old flannel sheet of ours that bit the dust last year. It's in pieces now waiting to be transformed into a winter nightie for the girl. And then there's the denim I bought to make an A-line, all purpose skirt for the fall/winter...and then there's also the assorted, with-the-Lord-there's-always-hope-they'll-get-done Christmas projects.

And meanwhile I'm coveting angry chicken's new machine. Just look at the cool little jacket she made for her little one! She's got a link to some seriously cool patterns for kids, too. Makes me wish I could forgo eating and sleeping for about 72 hours and whip some of these babies up!

Makes me wish I had a functional machine, too...

Ah well, with the scads of money I'll be raking in at my swanky new retail job, I'll soon be able to rehabilitate my rebellious Pfaff and maybe finish the jobs I've already started.

Adventures in Missing the Point

2006-09-15T14:02:00.000-07:00

Usually this sort of title is followed by a snarky little rant on someone (else)'s cluelessness. However, today I realised that this phrase best explains my daughter's type of neuro-immune dysfunction.

Now, sequencing is hard for most of these kids. They miss out on all the typical temporal clues that other kids usually cotton on to by age four. For this reason, they also struggle with verb tense expressions. Action is usually expressed in present tense, even if it was well over two hours ago. eg: "I'm playing the computer!" spoken while she's jumping on the bed in our room. It's a little Dada-esque at our house.

As you can imagine, getting a story, even a simple explaination of what happened even two minutes ago, is not going to happen. You might get something out of her, but unless you were at the scene you couldn't say for sure when the described activity happened or in what order it happened--or (in my daughter's case) if it happened at all. I'm always amazed when I hear stories about a young child who helps the police by describing some event or person that passed, and think it's a wonder than any child can do that at all.

So this morning I got out a box of four step sequencing cards. The box says, "For ages 3 and up," so I figured we're in the right range. 4.75 years is the right time to begin for us. The cards are simple illustrations of everyday activities that require multiple steps, eg: dressing to walk in the rain, blowing out candles at a birthday party and sharing cake, making a card, etc. There are no words, but there are lots of visual clues about what happens first, second, third, fourth.

I made a poor choice with my first 'story,' but it did show me, quite obviously, T's deficit. I picked a set of pictures that show three girls taking turns crawling into a play tunnel and out the other side (see my picture, above). First of all, it was too complicated. Too many variables with the three girls, and object permanance challenges--it was just too much. But that wasn't the real problem. The real problem was the tunnel. It was a rainbow of colors, but it was missing the red band where a red band ought to be in the color spectrum. Actually, it's there; it just looks very dark orange on the cards. So while I'm trying to get T to pick the first picture, she's protesting over and over, "The red! It's gone! The red! It's gone!" She could not have cared less about those girls, or which end of the tunnel they went into. They could have crawled to China for all she cared. The red band, where red ought to be, was gone.

And this, folks, is my life. Adventures in missing the point.

Imagine trying to teach your child to fold a t-shirt, and he only wants to poke his fingers through the hold he found in the hem. Or telling your daughter to pack away the stryofoam peanuts, but she's too hung up on the fascinating shapes to even begin the task.

People think it's amazing that my girl can read, or spell, or that she knows the color spectrum by heart and the names of all of the planets. But she can't figure out what's most important in a situation when presented with visual clues. So while she's supposed to be telling me if the boy blowing out the candles or the mommy lighting the candles comes first, she's fixated on the boy in the picture who looks happy. Or his stripey socks...or whatever catches her fancy.

So sit back, close your eyes, and recall a recent situation--perhaps one with your own child--where you were trying to explain a story that illustrated a principle or a feeling or an idea, and your own beloved kept harping back on the shoes you were wearing or the earring in the other guy's ear or the fact that it happened before lunch...until you finally blow. "THAT'S NOT THE POINT!!!"

Yup. That's my life.

We're gonna work on this.

Yob

2006-09-15T11:50:00.002-07:00

I gotta yob.

I needed one, as I do not see any publishers breaking down my front door for a writing contract yet. So yeah, I'm back in the workforce, official-like. It's a part-time yob and I don't have any take-home work, so hooray for me! Don't know when I'll see my hubby much, as I will be alternately childcare hours with him. At least we'll be able to afford a babysitter when we do have an evening together.

And I'm so excited to get out and do something. Maybe I'll lose a little weight while I'm at it. {Ha!}

Wanna know where I'm working? Check out their website.

Come on by and see me if you can!

(By the way, that's Ali Edwards' great studio in the shot above. I only wish I had all that cool stuff!)

Material Comforts #1 and #2

2006-09-13T13:58:00.000-07:00

Gelato. Before I tried gelato, Ben and Jerry's SuperFudge Chunk was a close to ice cream heaven as I got. But gelato takes me thiiiiiis much closer to a divine encounter.

Had chocolate today. Ate it with a couple of dear girl friends I don't see often anymore. It was lovely. They were lovely. We nibbled away our tiny cups of heaven with our bitty pink spoons, and when we finished, we declared that it was 'good.'

The funny little girl behind the counter tried to convince us that there was no dairy in gelato. Huh? No dairy in chocolate gelato? I don't think so. (But, according to Wikipedia, this may be true with some fruit flavors.)

So often I've heard or over-heard employees/waiters/'help' earnestly and insistently tell me or someone else something that's patently false. Or at the very least, a misinformed half-truth, like the gelato claim. I think folks feel they can say whatever they want, and who's to contradict them? Certainly not me. I'm a mouse, really. But my sweet friend, with her supersweet girly voice spoke up: "I can't believe there's no dairy in there. No dairy in chocolate?!" She's the best, my supersweet friend. Why could I not have said as much? Because if I'd have said it the way I was thinking it, my thought would have snapped out of my mouth and bit the little girl on the nose. So I keep my mouth closed and no one gets hurt.

Material Comfort #1: gelato.
Material Comfort #2: an honest girl friend who speaks as if she possesses all innocence.

What was your material comfort of the day?

With the time you have...

2006-09-11T07:25:00.000-07:00

What will you do with it?

Like you, probably, I get too caught up in my "wants" and the distractions of our very affluent, consumer-driven American lifestyle. I don't have much money to do anything about it. And thank God I've got a husband who has a visceral horror of carrying debit on credit cards, or I might have indulged my micro-obsessions too often.

So each year when September 11th comes around again on the calendar, I find myself asking the question, "What's really important? What will I do with the time that's left to me on this earth?" I actually think of this often throughout the year, but the questions become more powerful, more present on this date.

As a Christian, I found Will Samson's Amos For Our Times convicting. It's easy for me to see that the poor and the marginalized need my attention and care. And too often I feel our care of these people is relagated to those in the church who 'take care of that stuff'--the semi- and believers who take on charities and missions, and leave the rest of us untouched by the ugliness often inherent in that work. It's not right to be a checkbook Christian.

But, coming back to September 11th and rereading the accounts of people who were in New York, I also wonder about my response to the wealthy. What of the rich man who died that day in the World Trade Towers? Would I, if I were a rescue worker, have thought twice about rushing in to aid him? Sure he's had his days of martini and scotch power lunches on the corporate account, his padded income that thinks nothing of the costs of everyday dry cleaning, and gym and country club memberships, of his driver and his doorman, and the two week vacation in Belize that his wife begged him for after years of deferred vacation days...so maybe he's had his fun already, got his share of the goodies already.

Would I run to rescue of the rich man in the ditch? In the burning building?

Looking up, from my little middle-class life, I see so much self-absorbtion, so much excess and yes, decadence, among the very monied class that disgusts me. And I realise that my prejudices against the wealthy are as powerfully destructive as the presumptions others have about the poor.

The government's assumption that, statistically speaking, we're among the "wealthiest" Americans makes me wonder where these feelings come from--if I'm so "wealthy" then why am I so hung up the wealthy? This game, this quasi-Marxist game of Rich Americans vs. Poor Americans, sickens me and leads others down paths of divisive obsessions about the redistribution of wealth. While I completely believe Will's take on Amos and feel that the contemporary American church will have much to answer for the questions it asks, I also think we can unwittingly nurture a contempt for "our enemy" the wealthy. And you know what scripture says about loving your enemy.

My challenge is always not to look up to wealthy and wish I were them, or to look down at the overwhelming needs of the poor and feel helpless to help them--but to eliminate my vision of the abstract and arbitrary spectrum we've created, the little spaces we occupy on the money chain. Instead I must think simply of how I must lay down my agenda and obsessions, my prejudices and preferences, so I can hear what Jesus has to say to me. I know He's trying to get through to me, but I shy away too often, say I'm busy, say I'll be right back and then He'll have my full attention.

But maybe I won't get back. Maybe I need to stop right now and listen. I don't know if this is my last day or last hour. And it is important, this time I have now, this little moment cupped in my hand. Rich man or poor woman...in small ways or large, I owe it to you to give you my best.

(photo courtesy of the Canadian Broadcasting Company)

Borekh ha-shem

2006-09-09T17:34:00.000-07:00

It's Yiddish for "Blessed be The Name."

I'm thinking about the many beautiful things in my life, things I don't take for granted, but neither do I speak about them often. I don't want to sound superstitious, but I do think I've done myself a disservice for remaining silent. I'm not a naturally bouyant person, but neither am I a total drudge. Unfortunately, I think I come off that way too often and I become the kind of person people don't warm to quickly, don't think of when they want a chat.

So I think I'll be ac-cent-u-ate the positive, at least once a week. I need to name my blessings.

Flush it away!

2006-09-08T17:25:00.000-07:00

Have I told how crazy the girl's been lately? Screaming, kicking, slamming of doors...you name it, it's been happening here.

It started badly when were were watching some video of T's colicky crying days from ever so long ago, and the four year old T began crying, too. No, I don't have a social story for that one, but I guess one will be in the wings soon. But until then, that video's out. Soon after this episode T ran outside to play and then somehow ripped some skin from her finger...

As you parents of spectrum kids know, most of our kids would promise to sit motionless (no stimming allowed!) in Grand Central Station at rush hour than perform the simple act of showing a boo-boo to Mommy. Oh yes, we had the screaming terrors which only escalated when I tried too see said boo-boo. And a band-aid wouldn't do. We had to have painter's tape wrapped around the thing because it was obviously an '11' on a 1-10 Likert scale of trauma. So I taped her hand, and gave her tissues, and re-taped her hand, and washed her face with a washcloth...and about an hour later we were both a little more sane. I still don't know what the supposedly horrific gash looks like.

The rest of the day wasn't much better...until the BMs. Yes, the BMs. Two giant poops and a night's sleep later, she was a reformed child. Mostly.

Tomorrow: T's first 'story'. Hurray!!!

September Blues

2006-09-08T10:37:00.000-07:00

September Song

September is a phantom month, incorporeal--not quite summer and not quite fall--just passing through the way a ghost does. I shiver and feel anxious. Something is there, but I can't say what. It makes me ambivalent about my time, my plans.

I'm uppity, lost. Want to drive around, want to go somewhere, do something--inaugurate my two-hours of freedom with an event of significance--but I'm not inspired by a destination. I'm just waiting. I'd only drive around in circles.

The fall clothes catalogues that arrive in my mail don't help settle me, either. The long cable-knit cardigans and the leather skirts and boots seem absurd, a vicious taunt to those of us watching thermometers that still register solidly in the high eighties. I want the summer to pack up and leave so I can clean the house (and my head), replace the sheets, and get ready for the next guests who come this time with their hats and their coats and their corduroy zip-zip-zip pants.

Even my daughter feels the slow turning and begins to anticipate what isn't here. She finds all the scarves in the closet and talks about snowball fights. Yes, honey, I would love to have a snowball fight with you. But disembowelling the living room pillows for their stuffing is as close to snow as we'll get for awhile. It's fun, but it won't make winter arrive any faster.

So I'm finishing this and returning to my other ghost, my story. That, too, seems to have lost its direction, so I've printed it up and am re-reading it straight through for some clues to its shape. Somehow, I'll get through it, or it will get through to me, and we'll step out together into October.

Back to Social Stories

2006-08-31T14:51:00.000-07:00

It's the second day T didn't want to go to school, and I think I now know why: it's the crying kids.

Because T's been in the Early Intervention program and has already been at this school for a year, I forgot that the other 15 kids in the classroom haven't. And for some it's their first time away from Mommy. I forget.

So we're back to social stories because crying kids really unnerve T. I doubt it's the noise issue (though sometimes that may be true); more likely it's because T's always had trouble with strong emotion--she simply doesn't know how to distinguish between her own emotions and those of others. (I realize some adults have this problem, too, but they have other labels for that sort of thing.)

I made one tonight, all about crying and why we cry and what to do if a school friend is crying. I'll tell you how it goes later.

Sigh. Yes, I am a writer...

Back off, or Mommy's gonna blow!

2006-08-30T11:46:00.000-07:00

Around here, we've been talking a lot about what makes us tick.

Changes are coming (and not just with the weather), and inevitably change invites new conversations about old subjects: why do I always make these choices? how did end up in this situation? why do I always believe that about myself? I thought I'd gotten past that...

With T back in school (even if it's for only a couple of hours), I'm over-ready to get back into the writing groove, and I'm finding that any little set-back or distraction from that goal frustrates me to the point of snapping. I gotta chill.

Today T is home. She flipped when I told her we were going to preschool. Don't know what's going on, but she's usually happy to go once we get there, even if she does grumble a little on the way. But this morning we went up to Barnes and Noble to look at all the "colorful books" and she got mighty mad when we couldn't bring home a book about an orchestra dog. (We're deeply back into musical instruments right now.) Her attitude regressed from bad to worse by the time we got home for lunch, and then dived directly into a black pit of brattiness after that. So...

Note to self: make home so boring in the morning that she's desperate to go to school...(only partly kidding, there, folks).

This too shall pass, I know. But raising a child--or children--who is possibly more extrovert than introvert is hard on us introverted parents. Maybe I should have T read Caring for Your Introvert, as essential reading. We could make a social story out of it. Hm....

A Rockin' Good Morning To You!

2006-08-29T07:07:00.000-07:00

As if this poor guy wasn't already in danger of overexposure on the web, I'm sticking him up here in case you missed the story. And yes, there's a backing track; and yes, he did the video and then dubbed the audio over it. For a little story and some commentary on the guitarist and his technique, check out this story NPR did yesterday. There's a cool link to a spoon slide-guitarist, too.

Have fun. T liked it so much, we watched it twice.

Huzzah! Shazam!

2006-08-26T17:56:00.000-07:00

Seek and ye shall find...

Inspired by T's discovery of my lost wedding ring, Randy decided to dig into The Chair. A word of explaination here: The Chair sits in a corner of the kitchen where it has become my favorite roosting spot for writing and web surfing--mostly because I can see a fair portion of the lower floor from it's location, and because it's mighty comfy. Randy swears I sit in it so much that it's developed what Homer Simpson once called, an "a** groove." I disagree. Ahem.

So anyway, this afternoon I was typing away in the bedroom at Randy's desk when I began to hear my hubby laughing, and laughing...and laughing so hard that he'd reached that peak of suppressed mirthful hysteria that induces tears.

I ran to the kitchen thinking T was doing something obnoxiously cute and I'd missed it. "What? What?"

Randy's butt was halfway in the air, and one arm was jammed down into a crevice of The Chair. His face was bright red, and he could barely breathe. "You ever--" he gasped and then tried again, "you ever see those clown cars--" More laughter, more tears. He pulled his arm out. "You know, when they just keep coming out?" More wheezing.

I walked over and inspected the table next to the chair. An pair of dancing insects toy, one drumstick, a comb, a knitting needle and safety stop, one universal remote--and two sets of keys lay there. "Holy Toledo."

"Look, honey! It's the set of keys I lost about a month after we moved here!"

I had looked under the cushion of that chair a dozen times. "All that was down in that crack?" Everything was filthy with hair and lint and generally unidentifiable brown goo. "Yuck."

"And your keys!" My keys, my precious keys with the remote keyless entry that costs about a hundred bucks to replace...

I didn't know whether to dance a jig or throw up.

But I'm happy now. Those Clorox wipes are a real psychological assest when I'm faced with moments of abominable domestic ick.

Shazam, huzzah and hot dang for me. I'm back in the modern world.

Bone-headed

2006-08-24T13:21:00.000-07:00

Folks, I'm not so smart sometimes.

We are still living on the surface of the sun, and for some reason I thought it'd be a br-i-ll-i-ant idea to walk T home from school today. Now you can tell me all about horsies and carriages, and how your grand-daddy walked 3 miles to school, uphill, etc. etc. That still doesn't diminish the fact that it's flippin' hot out there, and more importantly, my girl had different expectations about her return home.

Expectations and routine control our lives. It's much better than it used to be, but it's still difficult sometimes to know what is real petulance and what is perserverant/ritualistic behavior. Generally what distinguishes the two is the actual existence of a basic routine or expectation: if we usually do something a certain way, there will be hell to pay if we do it differently.

Well, I usually pick up the girl in the "blue car" but today I didn't. And about fifty yards into our walk home (with her hanging half-heartedly on my back), she began to scream for the "blue car." Like, right in my ear--it was handy. This continued all the way home, and the two of us--both sweating and sticky and angry--drew out a half dozen neighbors who happened to hear T's piercing screams. (Yeah, hi folks!) Nor did it stop when we made it safely into the air-conditioning. No. T spent the next hour being miserable and coming down from her fit. There was much throwing of tissues and demanding of wet washcloths. And as miserable and tired as we both were, I didn't fight it.

On the upside, T discovered my wedding ring at the bottom of the empty tissue box. Big smile.

skinny jeans!!

2006-08-22T13:26:00.000-07:00

get your skinny jeans here, baby!!
be the first in line!
impress your friends!
get some friends!
...oooo, you're so hot in your skinny jeans!!!

(sorry. i was at the mall today.)

Prairie Baptism

2006-08-21T10:57:00.000-07:00

Do you hear that thunder?

Look out the window: do you see the muted, black greens and greys of wet grass and stone?

Breathe in: do you smell the cool scent of rain drifting through my open window and taking up the space that was once dominated by the flat blasts of compressor charged air conditioning?

Hold lightly: do you feel the heat of my tea, smell the smokey invitation of my lapsang souchong?

Rest now: there is nothing to listen for but the sound of the refrigerator humming, no one to run to but your Lord.

Even if someone handed me a tax-free check for a million dollars, I don't think I could be happier than I am right now.

A New Start

2006-08-20T16:52:00.000-07:00

School starts again tomorrow. New classroom, new teacher, new kids. Fortunately, not a new school though--and not a new curriculum.

We'll be doing preschool again. Academics will be a snap. In fact, they're already done. Well, maybe--T has yet to consistently get that left foot/right foot thing down. But we're working on it.

The real struggle, as always, will be to convince T that anything anyone else is doing is worthy of her attention. While this can pass with her peers, it won't with a teacher. I found a good, basic social story book for preschoolers, so I will copy some and we'll be working with those to remind T what's expected of her.

I've set some goals for myself, too. Here are three:

1. Get the book finished--at least the first draft.
2. Beat my wasteful Starbucks habit and build up enough savings to

a) get to Lexington in October, and

b) buy a decent espresso maker. Not the stovetop one we live with, but a nice, shiny number that puts out the coveted caramelly crema we coffee junkies so rarely get.

3. Finish the two quilts I've begun for T.

Note--I do not have any big bible study goals here. This is an omission I've yet to fret over. At a minimum I go to crosswalk and do a daily reading. (And no, you don't have to buy anything to do it.)

Is school back in session for you? Are your eyes bright and shiny with the possibilities of a new school year? What are they?

Missing

2006-08-18T07:47:00.000-07:00

1. wedding ring
2. first set of car keys--with remote clicker
3. spare set of car keys--with Randy's remote clicker
4. two sets of blood test results for Tesla

We are hunting high and low. Tesla might be able to help us, as we know she is implicated in the loss of at least the wedding ring, but retaining memory about the placement of things in space and time is not her strength. (That's an understatement, folks.)

So if you see visions of lost things, or pray about such, please help us!

I'm back.

2006-08-17T19:55:00.000-07:00

Gotta new blog. This one's all about books. Just books.

Here's what happened.

Before I left The Furnace State, I'd sent off for a book to preview and had signed up with a fiction blog ring for the sole purpose of doing some industry (CBA industry) research. No problem. A book here, a book there, and I'm getting a better picture of the CBA world.

Seven books arrived while I was gone. My husband is amused, and grateful. He thinks this means I'll spend less at the local Barnes and Noble now. Ha.

So I will keep my promise to talk about books soon, I just won't do it here. It's time I got back to my original intent for this blog--to talk about the life in "Schmolland" and my crazy self. Perhaps I won't post as often here, but just think of it this way: now you can have two of me! (I can hear the rapturous applause from here...)

For book talk and book reviews, try Intertextual Me.
For autism/mommy/crazy talk, stay here.

And yes, it's still hotter than the sun here. 104. Yipes.

Good-bye.

2006-08-12T12:21:00.000-07:00

It is mercilessly, remorselessly, wickedly hot here--the weeds have consumed the garden, and only the peppers struggle on with any fight left in them. The asphalt asphixiates, the community pool is nothing but a tepid bathtub. The mall is packed, but my bank account is empty... And time moves as slowly as the lines on the thermometer decline.

It's the time of year where I once again wonder why, if they had a driver's license and $20 to get across the state line, anyone would choose to live here.

For this reason, I'm taking my own advice. This very afternoon I'm gonna pack the bare essentials, whatever I can fit in my overnighter, and toys for the girl, and tomorrow morning we're bustin' out of this dried-up, fried-out, wind-blown nightmare of a town--and I'm drivin' to...Kansas.

Ok. I'm going to visit my mommy. And if she's really nice, she'll take us to the mall and get T some new shoes for school, and then if she's really, really nice, she'll entertain my girl by paying our way to the zoo.

When I get back, I'll begin a series on books--CBA books, ABA books--books I read two years ago but I still think about regularly, books I read this summer and have already forgotten. With the kids back in school, and perhaps a few hours on your hands between now and the holiday mash, it's a good time to think about books again. In fact, you might find yourself reading something you never thought you'd love--all on the basis of my brilliant recommendation.

Until my return, you might enjoy a word or two from these folks:

Claudia Mair Burney is a loser. (That's my positive word for you today, Mair!) Her first book, Murder, Mayhem, and a Fine Man is out now, and Mair is again rethinking her life. Stop on by her blog to see what's going on--or rather what's comin' off!

Dave Long once again provides space for debate. This time it's on "Why Evangelicals Can't Write" or something like that. It's a good discussion and worth a bit of your time if you're invested in this argument or ever threw a CBA book across the room in annoyance. (Truthfully, back in college, we once burned a boxload of terrible ABA romance books, so the CBA has in no way monopolized this dreck.) Warning: a degree in religion/theology and/or English might be useful here--it turned into one of those discussions.

And eye-candy for quilters. No, not your grannie's kind of quilting! This is someone's Flickr file from the finest quilt show on the planet: The Houston International Quilt Show. I'm stunned by the variety and inventiveness of what's shown here. Truly, truly amazing! I have a friend who's mother used to edit a quilting mag back in Australia, and she's had the privilege to go to the quilt show several years ago with her mom. When we first started quilting together, she raved about the show to me. Now I know why. Sheesh!

That's all, folks. I'm off to a much-needed nap where I will dream of driving down Ward Parkway with a latte from Dean and Deluca, on a cool, overcast fall morning...

Ciao.

Wealth

2006-08-10T06:59:00.000-07:00

Here I go, swinging from the ridiculous to the sublime--but I have to share this post from a group of writers at a blog called The Master's Artist.

One of the regular contributors, Jeanne Damoff, has a son who was left brain damaged from a boating accident in childhood. Jeanne doesn't speak of this often at the site, but today she left a story for us that resonated with me quite powerfully today .

Too often we find ourselves thinking the old lie, that what we give away will never be found again--that somehow we will be less whatever. But Jeanne's post reminded me that what we sacrifice for those who have not is a gift that multiplies, not divides us from, our wealth.

The Talladega jones, explained

2006-08-08T18:56:00.000-07:00

A friend sent me an interesting review of Talladega Nights, which manages to both fill my month's quota for snarky and neatly encapsulates my attraction to the movie:

Indeed, I don’t like to think of Will Ferrell’s brand of comedy as a higher-brow Adam Sandler; I like to think of him as a low-brow Christopher Guest. He’s like the inebriated, macho-retard amalgamation of Eugene Levy, Fred Willard, and Michael McKean and, in that way, he appeals to the high-end of our lower brain functions, which (I think) makes it OK for the McSweeney’s crowd to get a guilt-free kick out of him.
That's it!

I know Talladega Nights will be no A Mighty Wind, but hey--if Ed Begley, Jr. can get me in tears, laughing at his Norweigan guy doing Yiddish schtick, then I'm willing to take a chance on Ferrell in a Wonderbread racing suit.

The Kind of Science I Like

2006-08-07T06:16:00.000-07:00

Forget all that silly Dan Brown stuff; this is the real thing...ok, except it lacks any revisionist dreams of a world duped by a false history of its most famous religious figure. That, and all the fuss is over a 3rd century BC Greek mathematician.

But mystery? scholarship? hidden knowledge? lost texts? forgery? and high-tech revelation? Oh yes, it's all here, folks.

So toss that cheesey, water-stained mass-market paper aside and head here for some real-life drama...

The Archimedes Palimpsest Project.

This past week scientists at the Stanford Linear Accelerator Project began to reveal a 10th century script, the earliest known copy of a treatise by Archimedes, long obscured by the writings of a 12th century monk (the palimpsest-er), and early 20th century forgers.

Of course, much happened to the book between its accquisition by a private collector in 1998 and the eventual revelations it gave up to technicians, scientists and scholars before it landed in Stanford. And, according to the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, there are several more 'books' to be plumbed. So, thankfully, the Stanford news is neither the beginning nor the end of this tale.

I love this kind of stuff. What a joy it must be to witness these words show themselves, legibly, for the first time in almost a thousand years! Thanks be to the great minds who allowed this to happen!

If you love this sort of thing, too, I highly recommend a visit to the Walters' site. Whether your interest is science, ancient texts, history or art, you'll find something inspiring in their well-designed site.

Go on, really. (And don't let my Talladega Nights interest dissuade you from my generally good taste.)

I always wondered...

2006-08-06T18:39:00.000-07:00

what kind of Christian I am, and now I know.

If you think this sounds odd, you gotta understand that I grew up Club 700. That's Pat Robertson's denomination. Apart from a few early years in a glorified country club of a church, my spiritual development until the age of 17 came from the glowing tube.

Sorry Wayne. I guess I'm an Armenian, yet. (Did I spell that correctly?) Blame it on Emmaus.

Anyway, I can sleep at ease tonight...

You scored as Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan. You are an evangelical in the Wesleyan tradition. You believe that God's grace enables you to choose to believe in him, even though you yourself are totally depraved. The gift of the Holy Spirit gives you assurance of your salvation, and he also enables you to live the life of obedience to which God has called us. You are influenced heavly by John Wesley and the Methodists.

Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan

75%

Emergent/Postmodern

68%

Neo orthodox

61%

Charismatic/Pentecostal

50%

Reformed Evangelical

46%

Roman Catholic

46%

Classical Liberal

36%

Fundamentalist

29%

Modern Liberal

A Purple Dilemma

2006-08-04T09:59:00.000-07:00

Come on...you know you want to see it.

As a little girl you thought the General Lee was cool, but Daisey Duke was dumb. Then you grew up and fell in love with that hip little pink Carmengia Molly Ringwald drove, even if you thought ol' Molly was a complete dope, too. Now, well into your thirties, you look back and realise that even though you're deeply embedded in motherhood and all it's attendent responsibilities, your heart still yearns to be behind the wheel of something rowdy, yet refined. And obviously the sensible little CRV in your garage isn't gonna cut it.

This need for speed in a sartorially satisfying package presents another dilemma, though--a more fundamental dilemma: clearly that beating purple mass within your ribcage is really the comingling of red and blue state passions. The mid-westerner in you loves the wide-open interstate and longs for a sixth gear to speed along it, but the suburban, mildly overeducated (and definately underpaid) artist in you begs for a European edge to her fun. You get annoyed at bathroom humor, but you can't pass up a chance at a snarky social commentary. You hate fart jokes, but you'd still giggle if somebody farted in church.

So do you go cringe at a bunch of thirteen year old toilet humor for the chance to bust your gut on a very funny, funny premise that pokes fun at every red state stereotype?

It's a purple dilemma.

Come on...you know you wanna.

For Naila's baby

2006-08-01T07:58:00.000-07:00

This is for a Russian woman in Kentucky who's having a baby boy. It was a simple project--and still not completed (what you see is only the quilt top)--but it took a bit longer than I had expected. A generous friend, who is also pregnant, offered to whip up a quick pattern for me. But being pregnant has done something to her ability to add, and instead of having one of her reliable plans, I had something of a small comedy on my hands.

In other words, there was much recutting of fabric, some ripping of thread, and not a little good-natured cursing before I was back on the proportionally correct path with all the right fabrics. (It was a little like chunking an entire chapter, knowing you just killed the better part of your week's free time.) But don't you just love those little bikes and cars? Everything you see has been lying in my stash bins for literally, years, so I'm feeling very virtuous about this creation. What fun to pull it all out and create this!

So. It'll be off to get sandwiched and stitched this next week. And oh yeah, it's getting a nice red flannel backing.

I love making gifts.

Construction Note:

This is based on an 8" finished block, with 1/4" seam allowances. The unfinished measurements are as follows:

The pieced block is a 4.5" square center with two borders 2.5" wide--

Top and bottom strips on the inner borders are 2.5"x 4.5"; the side strips are 2.5"x 6.5".

Top and bottom strips on the outer borders are 2.5"x 6.5"; the sides strips are 2.5" x 8.5".

The unpieced block measures 8.5"square.

Irritating Fictional Artists I Love

2006-07-29T07:12:00.000-07:00

I've been recommending The Horse's Mouth to a certain somebody for a couple of months. Right now she's reading Chesterton's take on artists. I should read Chesterton, too, but the regional library near my home hasn't any Chesterton on its fiction shelves. (It's a lovely building, but it's collection is ever so lame, and I haven't the brain cells to properly lament what that means just now.)

One of the enduring memories I have of this book is Gully Jimson's obsession with the 18th century mystical poet, William Blake. If you haven't heard of Blake, you're really missing something. For someone writing in the middle of "The Age of Reason," Blake was something of an alien among the earth-bound, but unlike the punning, dry wit of his peers, Blake's sensual imagery and wild, prophetical, metaphysical musings still inspire modern readers. His best known poem, "The Tyger" provides the image of Gully's life as an artist--inspiring, compelling, vain, dangerous, and ultimately untamable.

But if you're looking for a fun evening, watching an irritating (but loveable) artist take on his world, look no further than Alec Guiness's film adaptation of the novel.

Then read the novel. "Tyger, tyger, burning bright" will never mean the same to you again.

Gully takes on Polite Society. Gully's prank call (below). No, he's not asking if they've got Prince Albert in a can.

Doh.

2006-07-28T16:44:00.000-07:00

In the interest of full disclosure and hyper-transparency, let me introduce you to my brain. The rest of this x-ray appears to be Homer Simpson, but really, he has no brain; they just borrowed mine.

This past week I've been quietly happy about sending off the package to the lit agent. Actually seeing my first partial slide into the post office package bin was a relief. You know that kind of big college paper relief where you're not half as concerned about your grade as you are that you finished the dang thing.

And so I tripped blissfully through my week, knowing I had done good. Or at least followed through on a grand opportunity. I wasn't even expecting much. I was faithful, and it was good. That was enough.

Then last night as I lay in bed, a question came to me: did I send an self-addressed, stamped envelope with my lovely package? Because, you know, Shanna, that's Submissions 101--always include a SASE. Without it, you won't even receive a rejection letter.

If it weren't for the Tylenol Sinus PM I'd just taken, I wouldn't have slept a wink.

So the next morning, I pulled up said agent's address from my cover letter--and wouldn't ya know...I had misspelled her name on the salutation!

I fell over in a dead faint.

My husband revived me by passing a cup of kheer under my nose several times until the cardomom scent triggered my consciousness. But the shame of my cluelessness clung to me.

Then I ate the rice pudding. (I'm a practical person that way.)

Fortified by my soul food, I sent another note (this time with the SASE and the correct spelling), and decided that if my luck is in, she'll overlook my blunders--and if it isn't, then I've provided her with two handy reasons to decline any interest in me.

I'm so helpful.

Doh.

Stranger Than Fiction

2006-07-27T16:28:00.000-07:00

As most of you can guess, we don't watch many movies in movie theaters. But man, every once in awhile I see a preview for a movie that makes me wanna run to the calendar and start counting down the days until its arrival.

This is one of those films. Crazy. Can't wait. Love the cast. Linda Hunt, for goodness' sake! And, of course, I luv, luv, luv Emma Thompson--a wickedly funny, wickedly intelligent woman. Will Ferrell even looks good.

So there. It's on my calendar. November 2006 I need to find a babysitter, without fail.

Here's the trailer.

40

2006-07-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

This is where I began to do business with God, back when I didn't know much beyond the names of the four gospels, back when friends spent their days and nights wandering the mall and I spent that same time working at home for my mom, selling furniture, and wondering if I'd ever have a 'normal' teen life. Back when I thought normal really was the norm.

I didn't know anything about the faith of Bono, or Larry Mullen, or the Edge, but it didn't matter. I would cry everytime I heard the song--a soul cry of mourning, not the narcissistic self-absorbed sorrow of hormones. How long to sing this song? I wanted to know because I didn't like the words of my life, much less the tune. I could only see one side of the earthly paradox--the pain of here, the trap of finiteness. In time, I heard the transcendence, heard the joy in the midst of the sorrow...felt the soft touch of there.

This is my 40th blog on this site. Already I've been graced with much good here, and I'm so thankful for the fellow travellers I've discovered. You have all given me a touch of there.

My little gift to you today is a song. If you've never listened to U2's '40', please give it a try.

40

May you all sing a new song today.

I waited patiently for the Lord
He inclined and heard my cry
He brought me up out of the pit
Out of the miry clay

I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song

How long to sing this song
How long to sing this song
How long, how long, how long
How long to sing this song

He set my feet upon a rock
And made my footsteps firm
Many will see
Many will see and hear

I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song

How long to sing this song
How long to sing this song
How long, how long, how long
How long to sing this song

Soul Food

2006-07-25T17:50:00.000-07:00

Today when I picked up Tesla from VBS, she had a little white stick pointing out of her mouth and a sated grin on her face.

"Hi, honey! Did you have a good time?"

"A lollipop! I got a grape lollipop!" It was one of those gumball sized Tootsie Pops, now sucked down to dimensions of a raisin, and she poked it into my face with glee. "You lick, Mommy!"

Oh, yeah. Soul food for a four year old--and a divine gift, surely, because it was only the second lolly of her lifetime.

Jesus loves lollipops, too, honey.

I'm sure VBS and lollipops have brought many a young thing and the Great Sandaled One together. How can I complain? And how can she not love Jesus if he loves lollipops?

So I decided I can't get too grumpy or flustered about the sugar thing. Doesn't help anyway. You do what you can and leave the rest to God.

And if Tesla were say, eight or so, she'd probably point out my own need for sugar, my own soul food: rice pudding.

I love the stuff. Give it to me thick, in a custardy casserole hot out of the oven on a cold mid-winter's eve, or give it to me thin, in a chilled, sweet creamy soup on a hot summer's night. Call it 'pudding' or call it 'kheer', I'm your girl if you've got some to share.

White people don't have much in the way of real 'soul food' (fried chicken not withstanding), so we borrow liberally from other cultures.

Oh, we have souls; we just don't put them to work for our tastebuds. Probably has something to do the gnostic, body-despising streak we've been burdened with since, I don't know, maybe Augustine. But I didn't go to seminary, so don't quote me on this.

So we borrow. I mean, have you eaten traditional English food outside of popovers and Beef Wellington? There's a reason the unofficial dish of the British Isles is curry. A thousand years of boiled old sheeps' shanks were happily ditched when they discovered what a handful of Indian spices and a little yogurt can do. (Did you know that Jesus loves curry, too?)

And because I'm far too invested in all things sensual, I'm a sucker for a hundred thousand calories in an 8oz bowl. Worse, I'm convinced that these calories will actually make me happier. So when my brain goes a little sour, I ply it with sweet rice pudding and invite Jesus in to have a bowl.

He's been talking to me these past couple of days about money. I gotta tell you, I'm not liking the hard things he's telling me, but it's Truth. But He's really cool about it, because He finally got me around to making that pot of kheer I've been craving for a week now. Admonitions and course corrections all go down better with dessert.

Oh, my soul! Jesus loves rice pudding.

Wounded

2006-07-24T22:13:00.000-07:00

Something is wrong with Tesla, and we don't know what. Of course, she can't tell us. That would be too easy.

So we're left trying to decipher the second-hand code of her body language, the time of day, possible event triggers, food source irritants...as well as the probable influence of weather patterns, star configurations, saints' days...whatever might help us sniff out the problem. It's terribly tricky. Really.

In fact, Randy's designing a whole compiler at work to help us deduce our daughter's mental/physical state of health. When he gets it going, we're gonna make a mint off the autism community! Ha.

Until that magical day when Tesla can tell us what hurts (or Randy's compiler works), we can do nothing but sit by and let her rage like a wounded animal until she calms down long enough to let us comfort her.

My gut says it's the yeast thing again. We've been treating it all summer with pau d'arco, but what we need is a serious prescription anti-fungal, something our current ped PCP probably won't give us. In fact, I know we need a different doctor. But who?

Then there's the VBS we signed her up for this week. And you know what that means: sugary treats! (Oh lord, is this all we know to feed our kids with??)

So today they passed out cupcakes. Then another teacher remembered Tesla usually brings her own snacks. So they took the cupcake away... And Tesla did what any sane child would do if her cupcake were snatched from her: she freaked.

Now I've got another dilemma: do I let her stay in VBS, eat the sugary snacks with the rest of the kids? or do we only stay as long as my registration duties require me to be there--and then leave to go home and drive one another nuts all day??

Poor kid. Poor mom. Poor everybody.

So I think I'll rework my gluten-free cupcake recipes and see what I can come up with for our frazzled family.

It's not gonna be these. But they're pretty to look at, aren't they? They're from a Singapore baker, so you know they're teeny-tiny Hello Kitty bite-sized minatures! Ooooooooooo!

If you're a cupcake freak (and as far as food fetishes go, I guess it's not so bad...), you might want to check out this site for inspiration, or tantalization! Warning: very enabling.

I'm really still here

2006-07-20T07:47:00.000-07:00

I'm just type, type, typing away. Trying to get that partial and it's companion, the slippery synopsis, all spiffed up for the big date.

Then yesterday I read that TL Hines's partial got rejected by 80(!) agents before Dave Long found it on Tony's web site. Stuff like that can make a person's large intestine twist up in one serious knot of creative constipation.

I mean, my Lord...

And to think I started all this a year ago as an antidote to ebay browsing...and because we needed a second income! WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?

I'm so glad my god suffers fools with gladness.

Typing away,
shanna

Before the heat set in...

2006-07-16T17:03:00.000-07:00

I finally finished sewing this quilt top for a young woman and her hubby who were married last year. My lovely friend and surrogate mom, Coleen, completed it on her quilting machine and gave it a black binding. I was afraid the black trim might give it too much of a stained glass look, but the binding was very slim and the total effect was pretty snazzy.

Love this young woman. She's been a student of mine and co-laborer in youth ministery, and I wanted to give her something very special. When I apologized for the lateness of the gift, her eyes welled up with tears, and she said, "Oh that's alright. They say you have a year to give wedding presents, and today is the 364th day!"

I had honestly forgotten.

Love to you, Julianne. And that good man, Jason, too.

flat-lining

2006-07-16T16:54:00.000-07:00

I swear, I'm checking the weather channel every half hour--as if I pester it enough, this heat will go away. For those of you who live in the ultra-airconditioned deep south or wild west, I'm sure you see this behavior and sneer at my weakness. But dang! 106 today. 105 tomorrow.

My brain is flat-lining.

butterfly love

2006-07-12T12:24:00.000-07:00

1 John 4:18
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.

1Peter 4:8
Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

What love have you seen recently?

Waking Lazarus: the blog tour

2006-06-30T13:33:00.000-07:00

Author Tony Hines and I have at least one thing in common: at an early age, we were both deeply influenced by Stephen King's The Shining. For Hines, it led to a life-long interest in creepy books that eventually led to the publication of his own creepy book. But for me, it led to a life-long interest in avoiding Stephen King.

I remember it well. It was one of those nights when the mom wasn't around and I could toy with the idea of violating her 'no cable' policy. These were the early hours of the creature known as HBO, and half the neighbors had tapped into the other half's cable boxes in order to gaze on its face with adoration--for free. Back in those gentler days, HBO reserved its 'R' rated films to the evening schedule, which meant HBO was off limits after seven. We didn't even question why; we knew better.

So with one hand on the A/B buttons and one ear listening for the door, I peeked at HBO to check out what the big deal was.

By now you've probably guessed what HBO was playing. That was on channel 2B. Channel 2A was the local channel, syndication heaven, and home to Leave it to Beaver, the Andy Griffith Show, and the Brady Bunch. That was the day schedule. But by night...say after 7pm...their standards changed.

So back to young me, sitting nose to screen in front of the TV (with one hand on the A/B button, and one ear at the door), half frozen with fear of the bizarre world of the Overlook Hotel--and knowing that if things got too freaky, I could pop the cable button and in a wink arrive safely in the land of...Benny Hill.

Truly, I've never been the same since. Now everytime I hear that crazy "Hackysack" theme song from Benny Hill, my mind slips into the POV of a preschooler zipping along on his trike over the baroque carpeting of the Overlook. (See what I mean? The impression is indelible.)

Since then, with two exceptions, I've avoided all things 'scary'. (For the record, I don't do clown dolls, and I don't do velociraptors.) So I really don't know why I volunteered to read Waking Lazarus. I guess I was simply curious to read what passes as 'really scary' and 'a new direction' in CBA mystery/supernatural books.

If Hines's book is an example of what will coming our way, I think the genre will continue to improve and draw in readers like me, who just don't find battling angel scenes all that fearsome. What is much more frightening to me is the fellow next door who looks normal, but isn't.

That's why I was pretty sure Jude Allman wasn't the bad guy: he's a paranoid mess and so obviously un-normal that he had to be our hero. Jude's biggest problem is that, having built a proven track record of returning from the dead, he doesn't much want to live anymore, either. His second biggest problem is one too many men share with him: what to do with Dad; what to do with being a dad.

And that's the heart of this story. Sure there are some ugly people, some scary people doing harm to little kids in Red Lake, Montana, but why? Hines, to his credit, rarely comes out and does anything close to proselytizing but through his story he make the message very clear, anyway: to become good fathers, we've got to come to terms with the Father.

The other message is equally clear: don't diss the gift. Some common gifts, like the simple beauty of an abundant garden or a loving wife, are easily overlooked by a resentful and bitter heart; other gifts, like Jude's unnerving ability to taste death before it arrives, are so uncommon and strange, we flee from them as if a tornado was scouring the very earth behind our heels. If we should succumb to the gift, or even touch it, we fear we will be annilated by its force. So we run. And in the process we run from the nearly inscrutable God that hands us such things. We can't stand the mystery, so like Jude in his hot-wired house, we pack ourselves up and hope to lie low until we die for good.

But if summer's too hot to go this deep with a murder mystery, never fear: Hines keeps the pace lively, which should charm all those commuters stuffed in airless 737s this August. Most might find that satisfying, but for me this is where the book falls flat--and the author might not be to blame. Jude, Rachel, Kristen, and all the rest are actually interesting people, and I would have loved to know them better. But for the sake of commercial viability, we're kept moving just three beats slower than teleplay pace. Only once did I wish the pacing would pick up: Rachel's unnaturally calm behavior as they seek out Nathan had every nerve in my mother-self screaming "get a move on!" (But as I said earlier, this is a book about sons and their fathers, not little boys and their mommies.) It was problems like these that kept me from feeling the horror of the action that I know Hines would have wanted.

That said, I look forward to Hines' next book. In it, I hope we get to know Jude Allman better. It'd sure be a shame to come alive again, only to zip through our lives in one evening's read.

For Waking Lazarus, click this link.
To learn more about TL Hines, click this link.
If you want to relive The Shining, but would rather see it acted by bunnies, click here.

It isn't my fault...

2006-06-29T17:46:00.000-07:00

if you showed up today for my dazzling deconstruction of Waking Lazarus, but were rudely greeted by nothing new. (Yet another promise broken in this terrible ol' world, you say. You sigh, and move on to something more important.)

Ok. Well I just want to say that it's not my fault.

Last night we got one of those sweet fill-in-the-blank cards on our door from the friendly city public works folks: "You r_________(water) will be turned off from _______(9am) to ______(4pm) on _________(June 29th). Please excuse any inconvienence this may cause."

So this morning, as I was doing my morning blog rounds, Randy says, "What's today?"

"June 29th."

"Uhm. You might want to fill up some bottles. You won't have water all day."

We de-camped at 8:15; I returned around 6:15. I'm pooped. So TL, I'll see ya tomorrow.

(And Rach? Thank you, again. And I thank your functional plumbing.)

Dem bones, dem bones...

2006-06-28T13:04:00.000-07:00

Bones are on my mind today.

First, thanks to Paula's generousity, I'm unstuck with my synopsis and am making good progress towards a resolution! Whoo-hoo!

Paula shared a fun and helpful image she learned from Angela Hunt for developing the essense of a story--and ba-da-bing! out pops a summary.

And yes, there's a skeleton involved.

So I doodled away with my femurs and ribs and even the little coccyx bone down at the base of the spine, and the essence of the story finally took form on the page. Not that I didn't know it before, I'd just gotten myself into a real mental ker-fuffle and my brain didn't know which thought to follow.

Muchas gracias, Paula!

Skeletons (of the Dias de los Muertos variety) also charmed Brad Whittington. (I've never met Mr. Whittington, but he sounds like one heck of a guy. I mean, how can I fault a man who's willing to post a picture of himself posed with fried mystery meat on a stick?) Anyway, today marks the inauguration of Brad's first blog, Eating Fred. If you're a fan of Austin eateries, or just like Dias de los Muertos skeletons, go check out the joint he visited--or at least read about it. Also check out the Fred books, a serio-comic series about the son of a preacher-man growing up in pea-sized Fred, Texas.

(He's got a bit of that Cha look about him, doesn't he, Ro?)

And finally, looking toward the day when we will all die and go on to be something else...or maybe the same person, who didn't stay dead...I'll be chatting up Waking Lazarus tomorrow, the debut novel of TL Hines, a man who likes to stand behind trees so he can jump out and holler, "Boo."

Until then, break a leg folks!

NB: Over at Lisa Samson's blog, Brad helpfully explains the origin of this photo, and claims the mystery meat is actually coconut shrimp. He doesn't disavow any relationship to Ted, but if he reads this blog, he probably will soon.

The Art of the Pitch

2006-06-23T08:39:00.000-07:00

A few of you know that I've been working on a novel/story/thing. I really don't like to talk about it, not because I'm ashamed of the work, but because I've always indulged the stereotype of writers, like actors, as a narccisstic breed, only too happy to corner you and bore you to bits about their latest Important Work. It's a bit like getting stuck at the family reunion with your cousin who pulls out a brag book the size of a bible and proceeds to tell you in minute detail about the startling perfection of her precious angels. At least with your cousin, you're often bound by common decency and genetics to entertain her for five minutes; and if you're lucky, you have some embarassing old history on her that might stop her story dead in its inflated tracks.

So I usually just bored my closest friends when I began, but lately I've wisely dropped even that. There are many more important things in the world to discuss than whether my protag will survive her freshman year.

However, with the enthusiasm and naivete of a true neophyte writer, I pitched the story to an agent at a writing conference last fall, and--to my surprise--she asked for a sample. What this usually means is 'Send me the first fifty pages and a synopsis'. No problem, I thought. (Fool.) I'm already thirty-five pages into the thing, and it's getting great feedback--I can whip out those last twenty pages, no big deal, and revise my synopsis. It'll be done before Christmas.

Now look at the calendar. It's June. And, yup, the story is still in my hands. Caroline Coleman O'Neil gave me a great critique on the first 50. Not only did she motivate me with her encouragement, but the story is much better now. But that resulted in a major revision and rethinking of the story--another delay. Now my problem is I'm 225 pages into the story and I still haven't conquered my synopsis. I also don't have a finished story. Yes, I know where it's going, but no, it hasn't taken flight from my fingertips, in part because I'm mommying most of my days. Some of you may question the wisdom of sending the first fifty of an unfinished story, but I'm betting that a promise kept is better than a proposal hidden. Who knows? Perhaps I'll give her the best laugh she's had in years. (And you know how I value a good laugh.)

But synopses are tricky things. Mark Bertrand explained the dilemma, excellently, at Notes on Craft. In a word, it's a pitch. I used to think the idea was crass--the unlovely verbage of marketing, but after struggling with this thing for six months now, I have come to appreciate its nuances. It requires a skill that comes through hours and hours of practice--its perfect economy of expression, like graceful precision and kinetic strength in the strong arm of a pitcher, demands fluidity and accuracy in the same movement. It's all over in a moment, and TWAP! the ball nails the catcher's glove, leaving a solid impression of skill, or it's sent out into the high grass of the backfield, lost in the weeds and remembered by no one.

If you're the praying sort, or even if you have a good word to say on my behalf. Remember me as I try to finish my pitch. I'm working on the wind-up even now.

Muchas Gracias

2006-06-23T07:25:00.000-07:00

I've got a whole lot of thanking to do here.

First of all, thank you, all my lovely readers (all twelve of you!) and friends who left a comment or emailed me after my last entry. There are many kinds of community, and I'm so grateful you are all a part of mine--even if I can't reach out and poke you right now!

Claire--I'm holding you to that long lunch. How long do you think McGills will let us monopolize a booth before they kick us out?

Amy--yeah, it's hard to move outside our family routines and committments. Frankly, parenting is so exhausting, most days it's hard to imagine inviting a new challenge into our little homegrown circus. I moved from a community very much like you describe, with lovely women who supported me like your friends. But still, there were so many opportunities to reach out. I remember a pastor once telling a group of teenagers that a successful marriage lives for something outside itself; it lives to give, not to get. I know we don't do that right now, and I can feel the difference in our lives.

Kristen--Thank you for your encouragement at 2Peas. I know many moms are grateful for your help. Keep researching and advocating!!

Ro--Yeah. Community should be everyone's concern. Randy and I've also talked about this in the context of Peak Oil (Randy's new obsession). What will the daily practicalities of our lives look like when rock-bottom cheap gas runs $5 a gallon? This, according to Randy, will happen within our lifetime, and I know that in some parts of the country it's close to that price already.

***

Thanks to good ol' Rach, too. After writing my last post, I decided the next day I would suck up the gas prices, pack up Tesla, and hit the road to visit my friend and her girls. Rach is the kind of 'drop-in' friend you get when you live in a small community. Now that I live an hour away, I think twice about dropping-in, but Wednesday I made one decision, and that was to GO. We had a great time, and Tesla insisted on sleeping there--an almost unheard-of three hour monster nap! It was all quality time and quantity time--we got there at 11am and left at 7pm. Definitely worth the price of the trip. And Rach even dumped a load of rockin' good magazines into my car for some brain-free entertainment. Yee-haw!

But the most lovely surprise happened before we left for Rach's.

Hopefully I've connected with another mom here in town. We've enrolled Tesla in a social skills playgroup at her therapy clinic, and Wedsnesday was her second class. It was also the second Wednesday that Susan and I hit the local Starbucks for a drink and chat about our crazy kids. She's the kind of mom you look at and instantly know she'd be good for a chat: the funky glasses, minimal makeup, simple, hip clothing. Sharp. Turns out she's an Austin native (!), and a special ed teacher. So we had lots to share about the capital of Tejas and the rigors of getting certified to teach in Oklahoma. Mas y mas 'Yee-haws'!

She even asked for my number and called me for a kiddie playdate.

Ok. So I feel like a pitiful 13 year old--the odd one who can't get on with her 'cool' classmates--who finally finds a friend. "She called me! She called me! We can go to the mall together!!" It doesn't matter that we're just going to the sprinkler park this Saturday, it's just as cool, and it's totally free.

God Bless you, every one.
Tiny Tim.

Fringe Benefits

2006-06-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I met a woman at the pool who leads Tesla's class at church. She's the kind of person I'd like to know better. But it's hard. She was there with her two girls and a handful of nieces, cousins and grandparents, so there was little time to chat.

I watched them as Tesla and I swam our little duets together, and later, on our way home, I began to feel sad again. Sometimes I feel as if Randy and Tesla and I are stranded on a lonely island in a sea of people who are too busy and too connected to reach out to us. And I've tried, I've really tried to stretch my hand towards them.

Then I came home and found this at Lisa's blog. Amazing. Wish I could go. I like my house--for once I'm not living in a mold factory--and the neighbor reminds me of my childhood, but I'm feeling so very lost in this suburban, self-restrained, self-reliant world. Who is our community? Just we three. What are we living for? To get to the next day, the next month, the next year--past the next illness when we might have a bit more 'freedom'?

Frankly, my writing is the only spot where I stretch beyond the boundaries of my limited world. I'd say that it's an act of faith to hope that someday I'd be published, but it's not a life or death kind of faith. It won't push me outside the scope of acceptable, comfortable middle-class American Christianity. So it's not much of a stretch, barely worth noting, honestly.

I look at people whose lifestyles are on the fringe of my faith--the freaks, the missionals, the monastics, the nomads--and know that though their lives are challenging, the benefits are many--a life requiring daily faith, and the acknowledgement that cooperative community is a neccessary (NOT optional) ingredient of a healthy worship.

American middle-class churches could learn much from our neo-hippie pals, but are they? Maybe we could take a lesson from the fashion world, and realise that the seemingly outrageous 'clothing' that designers trot out each season, like the 'radical' stance of the Emergent Movement, is meant as inspiration, not prescription. Like couture, ideas get trimmed down, the expensive bits removed, and shape is simplified; what seemed so radical last fall is simply this year's wardrobe basic from Penny's.

Personally, I'd like a little Fringe on my frock. That's just my style.

the ragamuffin diva sings

2006-06-16T08:50:00.000-07:00

I'm violating my new policy of computer free friday's, but it's been a wierd week anyway, so what the heck.

One of the writers I've have the extraordinary good fortune to discover this past year is Claudia Mair Burney, the 'ragamuffin diva'. I've never met her in person, but to sit at her feet for fifteen minutes would be like coming home.

Check out Crowded House. For my part these days, I think that if sorrows were emails, my inbox would be full of spam.

Thank you, Mair, for the lift.

For more Mair, her novel, Murder, Mayhem and a Fine Man is coming out this July.

Happy Hindu Hoe-down on the Low Prairie

2006-06-14T12:12:00.000-07:00

Ok. That title is a bit misleading, but I can say with near certainty that at least 7% of us in attendance were not Hindu.

The occasion was the first birthday of David, my friend Glory's son. For the celebration, Glory and Rajeev invited the pastor and a few friends from church--and every last Southeast Asian Indian currently living in the Bartlesville area. And with Conoco-Phillips' presence in town, that accounted for many, many invitations. Last Saturday night all of us assembled in the atrium of my old church back in B'ville.

It was lovely. Gosh, I wish I could have assembled every woman in that atrium, young or old, for a group photograph because their saris were simply stunning. Such color! I wore a tunic outfit from April Cornell--asianish and modest--that suited the event, but man, I still felt like week-old hash next to the beautiful butterflies who floated around in their silks that night.

And the food! Good glory! (Good Glory!) was it heavenly. For that alone, it was worth the trip. We whities got to play 'what's in the rice?' while I explained the ingredients for raita to my pastor, who's an amateur chef.

Of course, the kids got a giant sheet cake, because food coloring and sugar means 'happiness' in any culture.

And the men documented the whole affair.

Coming back home, I thought a lot about our hopes for community. If any group of humans is likely to resemble any other group, then surely there were those in this gathering who disliked one another, held a grudge, was irritating or otherwise unpleasant. And yet we stick together by bonds of culture and need. If we are lucky, or work very hard at it, we find ourselves drawn to others by friendship and love. To find such blessing requires God logic, not man logic; for what it takes is beyond fear and frailty, beyond power or persuasion.

I think I enjoyed a taste of that blessing Saturday night.

It's a Sensory Thing

2006-06-10T10:54:00.000-07:00

I had this great post half written about my sensory thing (twisting my hair), when my fingers must have brushed exactly the wrong combination and POOF! the whole thing disappeared into the ether.

Grrr...

But my thoughts were prompted by this little half-hour of craziness last Thursday afternoon:

Tesla's been fascinated with a little birdhouse her Papa built. It's been sitting in the garage ever since we moved here a year ago, but just last week Tesla finally brought it in and insisted that we paint it.

So out came my good acrylic paints--the tempura ones were toast, and I didn't have the money to go buy more cheapo paints. (Besides, Papa's birdhouse deserves quality paint, doesn't it?) We grabbed this cute paint smock given to me by my dear friend Claire, and hit the backyard for some painting-crafty fun.

It started out well enough, as you can see. (We allow Tesla's summer backyard wardrobe to be rather casual, but she did have panties on.)

Then we had to let the birdhouse dry before we went at the roof. This is where the trouble began.

But I want to warn you: some of you will find the following photos very disturbing. If you are obsessed with tidiness, you may not want to continue.

That said...

First Tesla decided to be a 'tiger'.

But that soon became boring, so she went directly to her face and arm, declaring herself to be a 'polar bear'.

"Polar bears are white!"

Actually, the paint bottle said 'Antique White', so maybe she was an old polar bear. But I know how useless it is to make this sort of point to her. I decided I'd better cut off the face painting, instead.

No arguments there; her other leg needed painting, so that was just fine with her. This time she went for the full monty.

Now you may be wondering what I, the adult in the situation, was thinking to allow my child to cover herself in acrylic paint. I mean, at least Shirley Bassey got PAID to cover herself in goo and she nearly died of the adventure.

Well, acrylic paint in these doses probably won't kill anyone. And my girl has an absolute need to go whole hog when she's painting; since she could hold a brush her favorite canvas has been herself. So I was just indulging her sensory needs: she has to feel the whole experience, not just a taste. Moderation isn't in her vocabulary yet.

But while I was was congratulating myself for allowing this sensory exploration, I began to think about the implications of what I was teaching her. After all, she'll be in preschool next year with a new teacher, and painting one's self from head to foot isn't as cute as it might be with her special ed teacher. I began to tap my foot impatiently. Now what would I do? I checked the bird house. Still wet. Sigh. Oh well...I needed a distraction. Reasoning was not an option.

So out came the garden hose and an old washcloth. Yes....

I would love to show the aftermath, but the photographer and the subject were quite soggy (and a little bit grouchy, too) in the aftermath, so no pics.

(And the photographer painted the roof a cheery red. More pics on that later.)

In Schmolland, heaven forbid that we find a drop of liquid on our shirts, but do let us bathe ourselves with any kind of goop and we'll be just fine.

Tie One On--The Musical!

2006-06-06T05:44:00.000-07:00

Amy, who hosts Tie One On, announced July's theme apron: make an apron in the theme of your favorite musical!

What will I make??? Of course, Sweeney Todd immediately came to mind. But an apron in that theme might be a little grim for a household with a small child. (Although my girl would never ask 'What's in the meatpie, Mommy?' so I'm covered there.) Then I thought about Into the Woods, which of course, lends itself easily to all types of apron themes.

Mmmm....don't I already have enough to do? Sigh.

(thanks to www.sondheimguide.com for the pic)

Schmolland

2006-06-05T13:59:00.000-07:00

I'm not in much of a cynical mood today, but I thought I'd share this anyway. A parent on one of my autism support group sites posted it. Cracked me up! Thanks so much to the author, a mom to a boy with autism, who really knows the score.

Holland-Schmolland: The Real Story

Blueberries for Randy...and Tesla

2006-06-03T14:21:00.000-07:00

Occasionally Randy has a brilliant idea. Unfortunately this one took three years to execute.

Way back, when we first joined the Oklahoma Food Co-op, Randy got excited about heading out to a berry farm and picking our own some morning. He was living on cherished memories of a Michigan boyhood where he and his brothers roamed freely along the rural roads, picking wild blackberries, raspberries and blueberries that grew along the property lines of neighboring farms.

"Did I ever tell you how good those blueberries were back in Michigan, honey?"
"Uhm. Yes."
"Do you want me to tell you again?"
"Uhm...No."

The story didn't improve with the telling and I had heard the story many times because we see a lot of blueberries around here. This is the land of Food Restrictions, but blueberries are one of the few foods Tesla can eat to her heart's content, so we pay a LOT for blueberries, year 'round. And I hear Randy's story year 'round.

My theory is that the blueberry memory was proof of all that was right about Randy's childhood--a childhood his daughter would never experience in suburbialand--making it also a kind of personal torture for Randy. For me, childhood was more about being awkward and lonely; it something to be endured before adulthood. I was the child of suburbia and my best summer memories were about chasing the ice cream truck on our bikes after a full day swimming at the country club. Sounds posh, but I always felt a sense of open emptiness in my unstructured summer days that lacked the adventurous spirit Randy and his brothers felt. These days, Bomb-Pops and the smell of chlorine don't captivate me as well as the smell of espresso. So Randy didn't impress me with his blueberry stories. I really didn't see what the big deal was.

But today I found out.

This morning we piled in the car, complete with a trunk sized cooler, and drove an hour and a half to a farm called "Blueberry Valley" to pick a few of the fabled "blueberries off the bush" and generally get our nature-lovin' groove on. As excited as Randy was, he was concerned the blueberries might be a disappointment. "They're not Michigan blueberries," he warned me. I wasn't worried: I was imagining not paying $6 a half-pint for organic blueberries in March--or forking over $3 for 10oz. of WalMart frozen berries. Oklahoma blueberries would do.

"Blueberry Valley" was indeed in the base of a valley. We drove past some spindly-looking blueberry bushes and down the red gravel and dirt road to the open shed in the driveway. Randy said he was worried; those didn't look as nice as Michigan bushes. "Well. It's Oklahoma, honey. What did you expect?" While Tesla and I used the restroom, Randy had a friendly chat with the owner and got a few buckets. Then we were off.

I wonder sometimes what explorers feel when they first encounter a rare bird, or come upon a grove of trees, heavy with fruit and calling to their empty stomachs. I am no naturalist, nor am I starving, but Randy might as well have been both.

"Look at these berries! Look at the size of them!" he said as Tesla trotted after him. He was right: they were huge and they were everywhere! Hurray! No more Walmart blueberries!!

We spent the next hour and a half picking and picking and picking. Lord, how we picked! Actually, Randy picked and ate, and picked and ate. (Here's the happy boy.)

Tesla even got into the game and stayed with it until near the end, when a butterfly caught her attention. Then she wanted to know where the chickens where: "Let's see the chickens!" (All farms must have chickens, of course.)

We quit sometime soon after that--our buckets were full and our necks were red. The haul, after all was bagged and weighed, was 22 pounds of sweet, organic, pop-in-you-mouth-goodness blueberries. Accustomed to buying little mingy boxes of berries for outragous prices, I nearly fell over when I saw gallon bags full of the stuff. I was worth the heat and the drive, and the three year wait so that Tesla could go with us. And the best part?
For $33, we got $132 worth of Tesla's favorite freezable fruit and a bit Randy's childhood back.

Yup. Now that's a deal.

In Memoriam

2006-05-28T13:00:00.000-07:00

Graciella Maria McKenney was born and died last Wednesday, May 24th, 2006. She was the daughter of Matt and Ursula McKenney, and the grand-daughter of Wayne McKenney, my mother's husband.

Graciella's twenty week sonogram revealed that Graciella was developing without a skull--an extreme form of spinal bifida--and would not survive outside the womb, if she survived birth. Still Matt and Ursula chose to keep Graciella and to carry her to term. In spite of strong feelings against this decision from some family members, Matt and Ursula felt it was the right choice. Now Graciella has come and gone, but the memory of her and the choice her parents made will remain.

I am grateful that we live in a place that does not demand abortions, even if we can get abortion on demand. Others disagree. "Selfish" is what the pragmatists say about keeping a fetus that will not survive: it drains money and resources from other mothers, other babies who will more likely live healthy lives; it sucks at the emotions of those who live in the circle of mom/dad/baby; it's an un-necessary pain with no reward for the waiting. It's foolish.

Oh, I could play with this idea for awhile, as unpleasant as it is.

What if? I ask. What if, after careful actuarial research on the matter, Mom A and Mom B are awarded services based on their prospects for delivering healthy babies... What if Mom B got the best care and Mom A got the second best? Then what if Mom B and baby were killed by a drunk driver two days after coming home from the hospital? And Mom A had an unforseen complication in the delivery that would have been easily handled if she'd had Mom B's 'best care'? All those careful calculations couldn't plan for every possibility, could they? And yet, if the pragmatists could follow their noses, they'd end up here, in as big an emotional morass as ever.

I'm grateful that Matt and Ursula loved Graciella for as long as they could and gave her the dignity of dying at the hands of Practical Nature rather than at the hands of 'Pragmatic' Man.

Nothing is ever guaranteed, except that we are all fools about something--or someone--parents, particularly. I want my daughter to know that I was a fool for her, and I hope that when I'm gone she'll say that I loved her as best I could, for as long as I could, in my own foolish way. Thank you, Graciella, for that precious reminder. You were aptly named.

If you're the praying sort, please pray for Matt and Ursula--and Wayne.

Edited 5/31: Please pray for reconciliation and peace for the whole family, as well. Thanks.

Last Day-First Day Happys

2006-05-25T07:20:00.000-07:00

This is the last morning of preschool and the first day of our summer. And in honor of this once-a-year occasion, I am having a breakfast of mint gelatto and a macchiato at my favorite coffeehouse, Nordaggio's. (Ah, the privledges of adulthood!)

Summer doesn't usually make me happy. In fact, summer is my least favorite season, not only because the bugs and the heat drive me crazy, but because (as Garrison Keillor once said) it's the season that exposes my weaknesses: run, jump, skip or hop--I ain't good at any of 'em and summer is nothing if not about running, jumping, skipping, or hopping with unfettered joy. In short, I'm a geeky clutz who flees (gracelessly) from the words "team sports" and "sweat."

My only hope and source of summer pleasure is a pool. So this summer we've joined the neighborhood pool and I plan to spend a ton of time down there with Tesla. This makes me happy.

I hope this makes her happy, too, because we're just plain stuck with one another the whole summer long--and the pool will be one of our few outlets for killing time. After last summer, I decided signing Tesla up with a Mother's Day Out program wouldn't work: it's a pain to have to train another teacher to work with Tesla, and half the time I had to pick her up early because they didn't know what to do with her if something went wrong. Sigh. So it's just me and she this summer, baby.

But I am incredibly happy and grateful for the teacher we've had this year: Mrs. Kathy Davis. (Big hug out to you, babe!) Kathy is dually certified in special ed and early childhood, so when she approached me about putting Tesla into a regular preschool classroom instead of a special needs class, I did a little happy dance. Of course, we would!

Kathy is a pioneer in our district because this route is definately the road less travelled, but we are all more grateful for it. Not only has Tesla been able to adapt to a room full of typical sensory challenges, but she's been able to grow, academically, and develop many social skills we could have never taught her here at home all by her lonesome. She's a much happier kid and that makes parenting her that much easier and rewarding. And Kathy's had the pleasure of proving to herself and others that higher functioning kids with autism CAN work well in regular classrooms.

A couple of weeks ago I was able to stand in during a school assembly. When I did this before, months ago, Tesla spotted Randy and I and ran to us, couldn't stay still and couldn't easily orient herself to the situation (one of those typical autistic-y 'can't see the forest for the trees' modes). This time, however, Tesla sat in the middle of the line with the rest of her classmates and remained in her place. Even some squirrly boys behind her didn't get her off focus. I watched with amazement as she turned around to see what they were doing, evaluate it, and then turned around and focused back on the speaker. Holy Progress, Batman! And this week, Kathy proudly told me, Tesla got to be line leader, a job she took very seriously by pushing Kathy behind her and telling her to hold her hands behind her back. (Big puddles in my eyes, folks.) She's with us--not 100%--but she's is with us, working in our world and with our language!

So even though these are the last few minutes of my 'free time' this school year, I am so very, very happy.

A Room of My Own

2006-05-23T14:10:00.000-07:00

It wasn't until I hit 30 that this idea made sense to me. I was always on the move until then, barely surviving with enough money for a car of my own (which is absolutely necessary here in the wide-open plains), much less a ROOM of my own. But now that I'm married and got the kid, the mortgage, and the thousand sundry tasks of a middle-class chatelaine, I understand what it's all about. Yes, Virginia, I do believe I'll take that room.

A room of one's own is so much more than just a place to dump one's junk; it's the outward ideal of the inner person, and much more so than any other mode of personal expression like clothing. (The GAP and I parted ways a few years ago, and anything I'd want to wear--read will flatter my figure--I can't afford. So that's out.) Ideally, it's a cozy haven, an inspiring space, a place for me to be me when the rest of the world wants me to be them. And best of all, I wouldn't have to toss it out with last year's fashions, or if I gained ten pounds.

My room would have to be a studio. I've been working towards this ideal for some time now. After my years working in theater (not many, but the hours were long and I was a deeply impressionable lass), I know that my studio needs to be more than a little set piece tucked away in the corner of the den. My studio's got to rock. It's got to be practical and roomy, a place where I can really get my groove on. Preferably with northern light, and room for all my writing/sewing/crafting/scrapbooky-graphic arts-calligraphy needs.

Is that too much to ask? Maybe. I've claimed the spare bedroom. It does have northern light, but windows are late 60's suburban--too small and too high, like looking out a minimum security prison. But I'll work with it. We may also have to throw a couple of twin beds in there, as the room occasionally does double duty as a guest room. We'll see...

So having been inspired by the studios of great creative women, such as Alicia at Posie Gets Cosy and Ali at Ali Edwards Design, I'm finally getting My Own Room.

Last weekend I painted the walls. They're yellow. Winter is tough on me, and I needed someone around here to always have a cheery face in mid-February, so it might as well be my studio walls. Wanted a mellow lemonade yellow, but I got it wrong and didn't have time to correct my choice. Sunday I thought it looked like an overdose-on-vitamins-urine yellow. Now I don't think it's so bad.

What do you think?

The IKEA shelves are showing up this week, so Memorial Day weekend may be mostly about putting those buggers together and getting 'em in. We moved from an old house with tons of built-ins to this suburban place with no shelves, so my half my clothes and 9/10ths of my bookshave been in boxes for a year, folks. The shelves may be Scandanavian Surprise, and they may have cost me my whole summer's budget, but dang, I'm gonna have me some storage!

More to come...

Baby Got...Book?

2006-05-22T11:48:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Mark Bertrand, I now know what I'm missing.

Before I became a Christian I had no idea how many different kinds of bibles are out there: red letter, blue letter, lines in the margins, lines in the gutters, cross-references in the center or below, commentary for new believers, commentary for old believers, AMPLIFIED...the choices are myriad. (Or should I say 'legion'?) Then there's all the translations, paraphrases...the optional apocrypha...slim bound, gift bound, leather bound heritage version...

The options just boggled my mind.

Worse, imagine coming upon a well-informed fellow Christian who's got an issue with the format you're holding in your hand. (Apparently format wars sputter all over the internet; their combatants seem to be those peace-makers-in-training, bible college and seminary students.) Yes, aesthetic snobbery is alive and well in Christian circles, but often you'll find the sniffing is only over bindings.

All this, and we've yet to read a single word.

Now don't get me wrong. I love the feeling of lovely, quality leather--the suppleness of a thousand pages that flow almost organically as I thumb over them and then lay the book flat on my table. No sound of cracking, no fighting pages that pop into my face as they resist their purpose. I wish I could afford something so lovely. Until then, I'll have to get my Bible jones fix down at Mardels, and hope that the staff doesn't catch me pawing on one of their finest like some tortured soul who was never allowed the comfort of a soft pet in her childhood.

Or I could just laugh along with this video about Bible obsession.

This is for you, Mark.

Computer Free Fridays

2006-05-18T06:48:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is Family Free Friday. Yup. I'm not sure whether to dance a jig or get all teary-eyed at the idea, but tomorrow my dear Randy will pack up the girl and head to Missouri to visit his family and celebrate his niece's high school graduation. And I'm staying behind.

I've been making wishlists in my head for months now, should this kind of freedom present itself, and now I don't know where to begin...

Blair, at WiseCraft, posted this button a few months ago and invited her readers (who are mostly arty moms) to take a once a week break from the little glowing screen. After all, we DO live with other creatures in our homes, and they deserve at least as much of our time as our 'net pals. (See why she named her blog WiseCraft? Such a preceptive one, that Blair...)

So with Blair's encouragement and example, here's the current big weekend wishlist.

Stay off the computer Friday.
Paint the guest/sewing room lemony-yellow Friday.
Eat sushi w/Rach on Friday night (?)
Spend the rest of the weekend in front of little glowing screen.
Write, write, write. (see #4)
Ok, maybe take a couple of breaks and watch Battlestar Galactica from Netflix...
Write, write, write. (see#5)
Ok, maybe take a couple of breaks to sleep.
Church.

Now if I could only figure out how I wouldn't have to eat, drink, or use the toilet all weekend, I'd be totally set.

Time Waster #2

2006-05-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

You Belong in Dublin

Friendly and down to earth, you want to enjoy Europe without snobbery or pretensions.
You're the perfect person to go wild on a pub crawl... or enjoy a quiet bike ride through the old part of town.

What European City Do You Belong In?

What, Me Worry? Part Two

2006-05-16T06:47:00.000-07:00

During a visit to the mental asylum, a visitor asked the Director what the criterion was which defined whether or not a patient should be
institutionalized.

"Well," said the Director, "we fill up a bathtub, then we offer a teaspoon, a teacup and a bucket to the patient and ask him or her to empty the bathtub."

"Oh, I understand," said the visitor. "A normal person would use the bucket because it's bigger than the spoon or the teacup!"

"No." said the Director, "A normal person would pull the plug. Do you want a bed near the window?"

I want a bed near the kitchen.

What, Me Worry?

2006-05-15T06:40:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day at our church isn't about baby's breath corsages or crocheted crosses, thank goodness. Nor did we didn't get any comforting thoughts about how God loves mothers and will give them a special star in their crowns of motherly martyrdom when they arrive in heaven.

No, we got a message about worry. Ha!

And, funny, worry is all about the need to control--mostly other people--mostly our kids. The busybody mom, the guilt-trip mom, the stage-manager mom, the obsessive mom--these moms are pretty funny on the TV screen, but not in my kitchen. And certainly not in my brain. Yet I know that my thoughts often follow the path of the women who went before me, some of whom were Professional Worriers, aka Control-Freaks.

I don't want to be one of those moms. Do you? Are you, and you don't even realize it? Take a gander at the list below and see if you need to let something (or someone) go.

Ten Revelations About Your Worrylife

From Matthew 6: 25-34. It's a famous passage about worry.

v. 25 Worry is a preoccupation with physical provision at the expense of the eternal value of the inner person.
v. 26 Worry tears away and destroys the value God places on a life.
v. 27 Not only is worry worthless, it's a liability to what God wants to build in our lives (our reputations of character).
v. 28 Worry is blindness to all God has created and maintains.
v. 29 Worry limits us from experiencing God's best by focusing on man's best.
v. 30 Worry is ignoring and discarding all God has done and wants to do in my life.
v. 31 Worry is to be controlled by the present.
v. 32 Worry is a condition that reveals either trust in God or man
v. 33 Worry is a result of seeking what I want, rather than what God wants.
v. 34 Worry is the expectation of trouble.

So, moms, what's worrying you today?

Mother's Day Mail

2006-05-11T07:24:00.000-07:00

The "Tesla Doll" is leaving today for my mother's house. It should have taken me three days to create, but no, with all my interruptions, it took a week. I hope it arrives on time.

I got the idea from wee wonderfuls. Hillary is making baby prezzies for some friends, and of course I thought the idea was just wee wonderful!

My favorite bit is the addition of Tesla's favorite lovey since the age of four months--Bunny. Bunny doesn't look this nice anymore, so the image is rather idealized. But hey, that's what artistic license is all about, isn't it?

I also added a pretty long satin ribbon so she can hang it somewhere away from the curious Shelties. Hope she likes it.

Poor Tesla. She sees all these projects and gets excited and names them after her...and then they go away. In fact, poor Mommy. I get all excited about these things and make 'em and send them away. I need to make something all for US now.

Ha.

The HOV lane to Hell

2006-05-10T06:16:00.000-07:00

The worst medical care bureaucracies can offer us is a cot and a cloth in which to lie and wait for death. But is it care, or mere expediency?

I read this article and thought about our own kids in the US and elsewhere, kids with autism--thousands and thousands of them--who will probably be institutionalized for life. I am profoundly grateful that our girl will not be one of them. But then we never accepted the standard 'solutions' to her care. If left to the advice of the standard solution, we would mostly like still have a child who was still non-verbal and constantly angry.

While I'll never say that vaccinations are the cause of the increase in autism, I do stand-by the belief that the current public health policies for vaccinations favor expediency over common sense and convienence over individualized care. Some bodies can handle the onslaught of vaccinations "required" by these policies in the first two years--even the first two hours!--of a childs life. Some bodies cannot.

Look around you and listen to parents. Everywhere I meet families forever changed by autism. Most folks know nothing about treatment beyond ABA and speech/occupational therapy. They don't know that their children need healing, not simply reconditioning. And their children become part-time wards of the school system, deferring the day when the kids will become even greater challenges to our state and community governments because they are incapable of living independent lives. There are many of them out there, and no one yet knows the cost we will all pay for the expediency of public health policies.

This summer Tesla will once again participate in a two-week morning "Autism Camp" that will train teachers and other school professionals how to work with kids on the spectrum. The camp is open only to elementary aged kids (up to 5th grade) in our Tulsa school district. Last summer over 50 kids attended this camp. Tesla was three years old and (because of a state early intervention program) the youngest child there. I was thrilled the district recognized the practical need to help teachers prepare for this generation of ASD kids. But I was even angrier at the number of kids who needed that help. This should not be.

Think again whenever you can when someone presents you with a simple solution that theoretically suits millions. Expediency, folks, is the HOV lane to Hell.

Score!

2006-05-09T14:13:00.000-07:00

Well, sorta.

I powered up my 'puter this morning and toddled over to my usual blog sites...and found I'd been blogged! Or linked...or whatever they call it.

As some of you know, I've been involved in this little discussion blog on the book, The Pursuit of God, and my blog post over there got some attention.

Made me want to dig my toe into the dirt and waggle it around as I said, "Aw shucks" and blushed.

Some of you may find it interesting; for others it'll be a big yawner. I had fun looking up the portraits, though.

Cute City: Art Swap #1

2006-05-04T07:27:00.000-07:00

Here it is! My first ever art-swap contribution...and isn't it just irredeemably CUTE?

The theme was 'Hope' and we were allowed whatever medium we'd like. I chose fabric because I've got a ton going to dry-rot back in my craft room. Then I ended up with these particular fabrics because I didn't have what I wanted, but did have these. And they coordinated.

Coordination is an important cute factor. So are tiny, embroidered sugar cubes--dancing and smiling, preferably.

And of course, I designed something with my current favorite addiction, espresso. Randy makes me one every morning, and (I am ashamed to say) it gives me great hope. I count the coffee bean as one of God's blessings, a mercy to sleep-deprived parents and over-acheiver types everywhere. And thus, His mercies are new every morning.

This pillow case (with a little extra fabric as a bonus) is going out to one Abby Hogarth in New South Wales, Australia. (Tesla calls her "the Abby lady.") It's springtime here and I thought the colors would be wonderful summery fun, but ooops! it's fall in Oz, so perhaps Abby can stash it away until August rolls around.

Hope you enjoy it, Abs!

It's So Not About You

2006-04-29T19:38:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Lisa Samson, over-achiever extraordinaire, I did a little somethin' different this Saturday night: I stood out in the rain and took pictures.

Saturday morning i read that back in Lexington, Kentucky the Samson family was packing up to spend the night out in the open for a good cause--to raise awareness for the desperate situation of the children in Uganda. Lisa's blog directed us to Invisible Children's site, the organization promoting the event. Curious, I checked it out. And I discovered that, amazingly, Tulsa was hosting its own all night event.

Cool.

The Tulsa plan was for a meet-up at the famous (or infamous, depending on your perspective) Praying Hands statue at ORU, and walk the 5.5 miles down a major street to Mardel's, the mondo-big-box Christian retailer here in town.

Now this wasn't going to happen in the Philipson household for two reasons:
1. No way, no how would Tesla tolerate even one mile in a stroller, walking, on Randy's shoulders or whatever...and
2. It rained...all day. And I'm made of sugar.

Actually, for those of you who don't live in Oklahoma, this fact (that it rained, not that I'm made of suger--which most of you know is NOT true) probably qualifies as a Class B miracle. We've been under a burn ban for about six months--we're talkin' serious drought conditions. If you talk to any rancher, farmer, back-yard gardener, or little old lady who grows catnip outside her kitchen window for Princess Paws, you'll hear the strain of deep worry in their words. Drought. Dry winter. One hundred degree heat all summer ahead and plenty to burn....

And yet...for the last 48 hours we've had nuthin' but wet stuff. Hal-le-lu-jah.

So I pulled my car out into the rainy, chilly early evening, and tooled on down to the reception site, with plans to stop at the Starbucks on my way. (See how much I'm suffering for the cause?) Along the way I drove past this pack of cheerful supporters and tooted my horn for them in solidarity.

The folks at the Starbucks drive-through looked positively relieved to know the truth of the matter. "Yeah, we keep seeing all these people--hey! those guys are from my fraternity!" (waves)

Welcome to the party.

The curiousity down at Mardels was more amusing in a just plain sad kind of way. Big sedans would slow down as they left the store parking lot, and from inside the cars well manicured ladies with lots of jewelry would politely ask, "What's this about?" We'd tell them. They'd blink. "Oh." And, having no context at all for our answer, would glance back again at the kids behind us with a look of vague discomfort, and then turn, roll up the window and motor on. Not "good luck" or "God bless" or even "stay dry." Just "onward, Harold, I got a roast in the oven."

This, folks, is the common face of middle-class American Christianity: well manicured, well accessorized, and ever so vaguely discomforted. Uganda? Never heard of it.

Haven't you read your Rick Warren? The first chapter is "It's Not About You." The book's more common than a Gideon Bible and still we haven't learned its first lesson. Haven't moved past our Sunday school coffee klatch and the comfort zones of our reassuring cultural boundaries.

Ahem. So we were wet. I did have my cappuccino in hand, but I was wet along with everyone else. And it was appropriate. If this night was meant as a expression of solidarity with Uganda's children, then why not sleep out in the cold rain?

I signed in and went to roam around.

I found Patrick Fincannon (guy dressed appropriately for wet camping). Total surprise. Patrick serves in a worthy ministry called Chrysalis, which basically exists as an apprenticeship program in loving others. I served in Chrysalis for about seven years, and Patrick is a mighty positive memory of my time with the organization.

I also met this sweet girl, representin' Oklahoma Wesleyan University.

We played 'I've seen you before somewhere' until we discovered she was a freshman at the school the year I taught as an adjunct.

Then I headed off to the art table to do my bit. They were having a rough time of it with a drooping tarp, but we artistes had a ball. Fun! The girls at the front desk had taken a terrible polaroid of me and encouraged me to use it in my art. Oh dear, but no. My chicken neck was in full form and I looked washed out...

but...it wasn't about me, was it?

And so I created this.

The last bit was to write my letter, look around for any other familiar faces (John Ray was, in typical fashion, very late and so I missed him) and scoot back home to the family.

I wished I could have stayed. My heart hurt to see so few "grown-ups" at the event. (Are only youth groups and college students interested in this sort of injustice?) And I hope that if this becomes an annual event (God forbid that it would have to!), we'd see more adult people show up. Still, seeing the younger people reminded me how much I love them. How I love their enthusiasm, their idyllic dreams, their knucked-headed impulsiveness. Yes, they think the world revolves around their emotions--except when they don't. And when they step outside themselves, they are some of the most beautiful creatures I know.

Please pray for the safety of the children of Uganda, and for all the world's invisible children wherever they may be.

Book Fair!

2006-04-26T12:49:00.000-07:00

Oh, how I love the book fair!

When I was in second grade I won an art contest for the book fair and got to pick out one book, free, as a prize. Man, I thought that was just the bestest. Of course I chose a Little House book, the one that wasn't in that heavy cardboard series box. I don't think I ever read that book, but man was I happy to have won the contest. Finally I was good at something I felt was cool.

Tesla and I visted the book fair this week. She was less interested in it than the opportunity to crawl all over a tri-level carpeted club house creation in the middle of the library. Hey, she's four. What four year old wouldn't?

We brought home this cool catch:

I recommend it. Haven't gotten to the KateWinslet/Wierd Al Yankovic collaboration because we keep going back to Blues Traveler's "Dog Train," but we'll get there eventually. The Steve Lawrence/Edie Gourmet song "Boring" is a treat, too. If you don't know who these folks are, maybe ask your folks...or your folks' folks.

The other popular book title is currently The Little Pea. We read this about four times a day. Maybe more.

Little Pea has to eat candy for dinner every day of the week, and he HATES it! But for being a good boy and eating five pieces, he gets his favorite dessert: SPINACH! "Yum. Yum. Extra Yum!" Great illustrations and very fun. Tesla loves to act out Little Pea.

What four year old wouldn't?

shhh! it's a secret!

2006-04-24T07:09:00.001-07:00

I think I've found my inspiration for Randy's Father's Day gift.

Mark Bertrand links an Andy Crouch article on the virtues of wet shaving. I highly recommend it for some thought on the subject of the man's toilette and the Razor Blad Scam. (Ladies, take note: this applies to you, too.) And, (in the name of Peak Oil) we've also been making some changes around our home, so frankly, this article fits in with our Luddite leanings as well.

If it's not for you, then it's not for you. But I ask you, woman to woman:

Wouldn't you rather your man smell like almond, sandalwood, or summer sage rather than that antiseptic odor, masked by chemical fragrances, left by his canned shaving cream?

Wouldn't you rather wake to see beautiful tools that will last a lifetime and know that you weren't dumping useless, expensive plastics and unrecyclable cans into a landfill?

Wouldn't you hide the Mach3 and the silly, electric buzzing machine and the cans o' chemicals so you'd never have to return to the days of the quick and dirty shave--of half-stubble and red, ingrown hairs?

Wouldn't it be lovely to get that timeless photo of your man carefully pulling his razor over his softened and well-lathered, good-smelling face, while your little one gazes on in rapt fascination at this rite of adulthood?

Heck. Forget the kid. You'd sit on the sink yourself and watch, just to glory in the manliness of it all.

Wouldn't you?

I thought you'd agree.

Time waster #001

2006-04-20T18:59:00.000-07:00

You Are an Espresso

At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energetic

At your worst, you are: anxious and high strung

You drink coffee when: anytime you're not sleeping

Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

For those of you who are just joining us...

2006-04-19T07:40:00.000-07:00

For those of you who are just joining us...

Here's the latest on the girlie, aka 'squirrely-girl' 'monkey girl' 'goofball' and sometimes just plain 'Tesla':

Girlie is now 4.3 years old. We're seeing an immunologist next week to go over some blood tests we took not long ago and hopefully we'll get some insight to T's recurrent low-grade fevers. We know there's still a problem, but we don't know what it is.

The real problem we often face with doctors who see her is disbelief. They shake their heads, or shrug their shoulders when we say that at 19 months she was clearly 'autistic'. "Well," they say, "maybe some kids just out-grow that sort of thing."

This, from a highly trained, well-paid professional. I could get that kind of assessment, FREE, from family members, thanks.

Kids don't outgrow autistic behaviors. Their bodies may heal, their immune systems may strengthen, they may be naturally bright and respond well to their remediative therapies--but they don't "outgrow" their illness.

To insist on that conclusion also denies the efforts parents put into researching and implementing those therapies, which may be anything from simple speech therapy twice a week to a complete lifestyle rennovation that transforms every aspect of family life--from the food we put on the table (and where it comes from!) to how we shop, when/where we go to church, mow the lawn, wash the clothes...

So back to now.

T is now considered by most who see her as having PDD-NOS. This is short-hand for Pediatrician Didn't Decide-Neurologically Odd (S)Daughter. I call it 'the Noddies'. This means she doesn't qualify for the most obvious signs of autism--the lack of reciprocity in any form of communication, or lack of eye-contact, repetitive behaviors, etc. She's just obviously delayed in language and social skills, prefers interactions with adults to her peers, and has problems with sensory processing. PDD-NOS is really just a diagnostic dumping ground for kids who aren't really autistic or ADHD, just odd.

And that's odd in itself. That science, which loves precision, would have such an imprecise description of my girl.

It's frustrating, let me tell you. We love to name things, contain them with our words, but some things and most people can't be controlled like that. I can say that T is PDD-NOS, but that doesn't really describe her. I can say that she's a year and half delayed in every aspect of her development except that she's good sized and can read and count like a kid half-way through kindergarten, and she's yet to officially start preschool--but that still wouldn't describe her. But to get the help we need, we must name and describe and quantify the girl.

Last week I spoke to the supervisor of the before/after-care class at g's elementary school where she is now enrolled through a state program. I wanted T to have some extra time about three days a week, to play at school with other kids. As an extroverted kid (yes, one of my newest discoveries), and an only child, she craves attention and loves school, so I thought this'd be a great idea. And she's doing soooo well in her preschool class with all the other 'regular' kids.
But no. This is not to be. The supervisor said T would need a full-time aid, and they just didn't have one. Sorry. But she'll tell me if they get one...But there might be too many kids in the class, anyway...

I can read body language; I can read unspoken messages. This woman does not want to deal with T.

I went home a bit sad, and more than a bit frustrated. But I didn't cry like I did last spring when the play gym called and politely explained that T could not continue in the class without an aid. I was so hopeful and excited for her; we had come so far...but no.

Will we be in this place, this "I don't see what your problem is" but "I can't handle your child" place for long?

I look back over the last 2.5 years and see a lifetime of differences. We began in anger and fear, dispairing for our future with a child who could not understand language in any form and who shrieked at night and wouldn't look at us--only at videos. And yet here we are now--laughing and joking with T, watching her true personality emerge as she feels better and better, reveling in the joy of her love of learning.

We have come so far. Too far to be believed, and yet but not far enough for some.

A Hoppy Easter

2006-04-17T06:57:00.000-07:00

So I had these three wee bunnies basically done and ready for their big day last Friday. Then Saturday I called the friend who was hosting our evening Easter 'do' and discovered another couple would be along with their two kids, a girl and a boy (ages 4 and 8, respectively).

Yipes! Time for more bunnies!!!

So this wool felt project got bagged and titled, "Next Year's Peeps."

And Saturday and Sunday I whipped up a couple of more bunnies in between the general Easter prep. They became Bashful Bunny and Robo Bunny. No idea if they kids would like 'em, but Randy and I amused ourselves particularly with the creation of RoboBunny. Here's a couple of shots of the guy with all his electronic bits:

What a tail!

The 'Bender' profile shot.

Five happy bunnies in all.

Five happy kiddies in all!

Randy and I were most impressed that even JJ, the jaded eight year old, loved his bunny. Said it was the coolest. Eyes lit up and the whole shebang.

The adults enjoyed fine grilled ribs and chicken, yummy salad, 'The King's Bread', and a mountain of strawberries.

The kidlets had a twilight egg hunt, and Tesla wanted only the sparkly eggs.

It was a hoppy good Easter.

R.I.P 1982-2006

2006-04-17T06:28:00.000-07:00

It's had a long, virtuous, dedicated, but simple life, this crock pot. And now I bid it a fond farewell.

Actually, I'm the one who did it in. Got in a hurry and tried a short-cut that busted the thing.
(note to self: do not place crockpot inserts directly on a stove heating element--they will crack.)

Would have loved to post a pic of the broken vessel, but it was leaking tomato-y, viscous goo so it had to go straight away into the trash. The empty heating pan looks bleak enough though, don't you think?

I'm off to look for a new pot. Can't live without the crock.

A Wee Easter

2006-04-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

It's a Wee Bunny Easter here in the Philipson household. (Thanks Hillary at weewonderfuls.)

Here are two going out to my friend's little girls. They're not quite done, but they wanted a quick pose in the garden before they get their ribbons and tails on. (Aren't they just preeeecious?)

I realise this whole bunny thing is miles from the nails, the blood...the setting the captives free...but, come on--these girls are wee. Bunnies are for wee people; blood is for us big folk.

For those of you insist on the shedding of blood for the propitiation of our sins...maybe next year we'll have a demonstration on how to skin a real rabbit.

Just kidding, folks.

So, having decided this will be an homemade holiday, I'm off this evening to continue my Easter creations. I think I'll work on some little yellow fuzzy things.

chick ya later!